"What are you smiling about?" the handsome man asked as he held the young woman close against his bare chest. He lightly ran his forefinger over her full, curved lips as her sky-blue eyes looked up at him.
"Oh, I was remembering what Doc said about me looking like a 'filly in a field of flowers.' What a sweet man!"
"In a field of buttercups, not flowers, Darlin.' And I agree, and wish I'd thought of it myself." His voice was deep and warm as he tilted up her chin and lightly kissed the tip of her nose.
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The short, stocky, well-dressed man with the hard, dark eyes swirled the sharp whiskey in his mouth as he watched the lovely red-haired woman laughing with the big U.S. Marshal.
"Wonder what that's like? To laugh with someone in humor and not hate? I've seen that expression on both their faces and in their eyes before when my parents were alive. Love. Love? What exactly IS that?" he mused in genuine bafflement. Pouring more whiskey from the half-empty bottle, he raised the small glass to his lips, but paused before sipping.
"I want to know. I NEED to know!" The deeply intelligent, scholarly man set down the glass and intently studied the young beautiful couple with the unmistakable deep connection. Luther Watson Hawkins had studied medicine long and hard back East as a young man, and now at age forty, continued assiduously to study the latest scientific periodicals. But he never had practiced as a doctor, and had only sought out increasing his medical knowledge in his ceaseless quest to find the source of tender human feelings, of which he had none. His lifelong puzzlement increasingly ate at him and drove his desire for knowledge.
"I think it is time for another case study," Hawkins murmured, running his right forefinger with the carefully manicured nail thoughtfully over the neatly trimmed dark brown mustache above his pursed lips. Narrowing his glittering black eyes, he stared at Matt and Kitty, organizing his thoughts and plans. "Yes, that is what is needed. Scientific investigation. Documentation. Maybe this time my dissections will show me what I have long searched for. Everything has a physical explanation!" He proudly thought of his locked trunk full of chronologically stored research case files. And of the other locked box, carefully concealed. But then the usual dark cloud of frustrated disappointment descended again. "Maybe this time I will find the answer," he thought, picking up his glass and taking a large swig of the biting liquid.
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"Matt? Do you know that man? The short, neatly dressed one with the mustache over by the door? I swear he keeps staring at you…me…or US!" Kitty spoke in a low voice, her hand on Matt's forearm as she swiftly darted her eyes towards the stranger then back again. She watched her companion raise his beer mug and while taking a small swallow, shift his sharp eyes towards the man then back again as he lowered the glass to the table.
"No. I've never seen him before, Kitty, but there sure is something familiar about him somehow. He's probably like most others new to town in wanting to check out 'The U.S. Marshal.' More than likely he's a back-East-dude, judging from that nicely tailored three-piece suit he's wearing."
"You know best, Matt, but he gives me the heebie jeebies! I'll be glad when he heads back to wherever he came from." Shaking her head a little, she glanced back over towards the man's table, and her eyes opened wide. "He's gone! Like a shadow…"
"That's what you wanted, isn't it?" Matt smiled, looking over at the empty table. Seeing her concerned face, he added, "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye out for him. And speaking of that, I'd better get going on my last rounds tonight." Pushing back his chair, he stood up, adjusted his gun belt, and looked down into those luminous eyes looking up at him. "I'll be back soon," he said in a warm, low tone.
"See you later, Matt," the lovely young red-haired woman said as she watched his long-legged, graceful walk out into the night. The lingering warmth she felt slid away into a cold dread as she spotted the odd stranger leaning against the lamp post across the street through the swinging bat wing doors. His eyes bore into hers as he slowly tipped his tan bowler hat before walking off into the darkness. Rubbing her bare arms briskly from a sudden, uneasy chill, Kitty turned away and headed up the stairs to her room.
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Luther W. Hawkins also went up to his small rented room in the building across the back alley from Kitty's room. It had taken much persuasion, false charm, and his Doctor of Medicine diploma to convince the reluctant resident to move out five days ago. The deal still had hung in the air until Hawkins finally reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a fine leather wallet, and produced two hundred dollars in crisp new bills. The old man's mouth had dropped open in astonishment before he greedily grabbed the bills, quickly packed a small valise, and left the shabby room. After a thorough cleaning by a hired woman, the room now held only a neat, narrow bed, a small dresser with a water pitcher and bowl on the top, and a large roll top desk near a bookshelf heavy with thick medical volumes. A beautifully crafted wooden chest on the floor held twenty-two handwritten research journals, each bound in smooth leather, a number embossed on the cover. A bronze padlock secured the trunk's hasp, and the matching bronze key hung from Hawkins's watch fob. Under the bed were a large, leather, fully-stocked medical bag, and the latest microscope in a wooden case, awaiting use, alongside another locked, rectangular wooden box.
"The Marshal should be back soon," he said to himself, glancing at his large, ornate gold pocket watch. Sitting down in the swivel chair in front of the desk, he picked up fine silver binoculars and his latest journal, and scooted the chair over to the window facing Kitty's. He had not lit the oil lamp upon entering the room, having learned that the light from the streetlamp across from the saloon provided sufficient light for his keen eyes to make his way around his small room. Now he focused the small, expensive binoculars across the alley, watching the motions of the young woman as she sat brushing her long red hair at her dressing table. A tireless researcher, Hawkins used the faint light coming in the window to note the time and his observations in the newest leather bound journal. When Matt came into Kitty's room twenty minutes later, Hawkins duly noted the time and put the journal down to intently focus his attention on the young couple. A skilled lip reader, switching his binocular assisted vision from one face to the other, the voyeur was able to jot down most of what was said, except when frustrated by his subjects turning their heads away or putting them close together.
"Hmmm…she certainly perks up when that big man touches her or even speaks those words I can't seem to make out," he muttered with a frown, gently sucking on the end of his pen. "I need to find the cause of that flushing of her skin, and the softening of that hard man's face when he looks at her." Taking the pen from his mouth, Hawkins looked upward with half-closed eyes as he thought, then with a satisfied smile, he quickly wrote out a long paragraph. He put the pen down on his desk, carefully aligned it with the edge of the blotter, then opened the nearby wooden chest and slid journal number twenty-three into its designated place. Before closing and locking the chest, he ran a finger over the spines of the other journals, then sat back with a sigh, glancing at the rectangular locked wooden box under his bed. It was metal lined and its precious contents were nestled in ice wrapped in burlap bags.
"Maybe this latest research case will finally show me the physiological causes and effects when two humans supposedly love each other," he thought, determined to finally have a journal with a successful outcome.
With one last glance over at the window of the now dark room across the alley, he tried to imagine the physical interactions of his latest two subjects. Shaking his head in uncomprehending disgust, he undressed, neatly hung up his clothes, and carefully slid into his narrow bed.
To be continued.