A/N: Brief mention of vomit in this chapter.
Chapter 28 – September 1916 - No one has ever known that you tried to do the right thing
It wasn't a bell this time, but he wasn't sure if this banging sound wasn't worse. He wasn't even sure if it was coming from downstairs at the door or if it was still inside his head. He didn't know how long he'd been out either, but he did know he was getting a little aggravated at being abruptly woken up by every manner of cacophony. Speaking of which -
"I'm not going away, Henry!"
Bill. Of course it would be Bill.
Henry groaned and rubbed his eyes, which cleared to find a splatter of still-fresh vomit across his Persian-style rug. He groaned again.
Pushing himself off the seat, he grabbed a linen napkin from the bar to throw over the mess, Bill continuing his relentless assault on the oak barrier all the while. As Henry stood motionless, staring blearily down at the poorly concealed pile, he came to two unwelcome realizations: one, he was somehow still alive, and two, Bill really was not going to go away. He let his body fill with a heavy sigh, then descended to face his inquisition.
Yet another flaw of Bill's, Henry thought ruefully when he opened the door: he didn't block nearly enough of the sun.
He squinted and blinked into the judge's face, managing a low grunt before stepping back to let him in. Bill seemed surprised to be granted entry without a fight, but was too smart to question it. He peered sourly back at Henry for a moment, then shoved a pill and a cup of water into his hands.
Henry stared down at them. "You walk around with these?" he said, cocking an eyebrow.
"Thought you could use them," Bill answered. He sniffed the air ostentatiously, making a show of confirming he was right. Without waiting for a further invitation, he walked past Henry and up the stairs. Henry rolled his eyes and downed the pill before following him.
When Henry reached the landing, Bill was in the midst of examining the room, still in disarray. Henry stubbornly offered no explanation for the state of it, and Bill stubbornly did not ask.
Already sick of this silence tactic, Henry cut to the chase. "Well, Sheriff, I appreciate you coming by to play nurse, but… I don't know where she is."
The other man nodded. "I had hoped you might, but that's not actually why I'm here."
"To what do I owe the pleasure then?"
"First I find that company letter in your office and now all of a sudden Noah's in the middle…" Bill started, his gruff investigator voice returning. "What gives, Henry?"
"Not sure I know what you mean," Henry said, knowing perfectly well what he meant.
"Why didn't you ever say anything?"
Henry shrugged. "What difference would it have made?"
"What diff – ?" Bill sputtered. If Henry weren't so miserable, he might have enjoyed it. "The difference is we could have done a real investigation! We could have had a real shot at that trial - you included! Jesus, Henry… You know I could hit you with a charge for concealing evidence?"
When this got no response, Bill huffed. "I need you to talk to me, Henry. I can't understand why you would bury all of this when you could have exonerated yourself, or at least taken less of the blame."
"Because whatever Noah did or didn't do, it was a direct result of all the things I did or didn't do," Henry said, his tone calm and even. "And I made it out alive and he didn't, so I'll be the one paying for it."
"Paying for it with everything? Your career, your reputation, the rest of your life?"
"If that's what it takes."
Bill shook his head, completely unable to make sense of this.
"I don't buy it, Henry. You had solid proof of notice to the company. We would have had your testimony – "
"Who was going to believe my testimony?" Henry almost laughed.
"You didn't even try!"
"Look, they needed someone to pin it on, and it was better that it was me."
"Instead of a dead guy?"
Henry slammed the glass down onto the bar. "Damn it, Bill, for once in your life can you just leave it alone?" he barked. "Whatever I screwed up, that's mine to live with. It doesn't matter if you understand it or not, because it's done. We don't get to go back and fix things. So just get that through that stubborn goddamn head of yours, alright? It's done. It's over."
Bill stepped back, stunned, while Henry's own words hit him like a gut punch. It was over. There were no more possibilities for how this could go. He had told her, and she had left, and now he was in the claws of a nightmare he had been outrunning for years, wrecked and alone.
"…You did this for… Abigail?" Bill said, the pieces falling into place behind his furrowed brows. "Henry, I've always known you cared for her, but… even back then? So much that you were willing to keep quiet while you lost everything?"
Too tired now, Henry allowed a fraction of the truth to cloud his eyes.
"I'd already lost anything that mattered."
He dragged his leg forward toward his chair, desperate to get out from under Bill's gaze. It didn't work. The judge's disbelieving stare followed him as he fell back against the cushion. Now in the seat opposite him, Bill's mouth twisted, hesitation playing out on his face. A clock on the mantel marked the time while Bill resolved himself, finally speaking with a rare gentleness.
"Did you know she was in love with you?"
Henry stared off into the fireplace, settling his attention on a tiny edge of Abigail's notepaper that had somehow escaped the pyre. The question had been so clearly unavoidable and yet he had refused to answer it honestly to himself for seven years. Funny that he should finally give the answer to a man who had twice been his romantic rival. That perhaps that was precisely what made him the right person to hear it.
"Unfortunately, I did."
"Unfortunately?" the response came back, too quickly.
Henry rubbed his hands over his weary face. What else was there to say? Had he known that the most perfect woman he had ever met wanted to be with him and yet he couldn't do a single thing about it? Had he known that, even if he had done anything about it, it would have caused her nothing but ruin and resentment and shame? And had he known, as he stood there helplessly, unable to save her husband and son from death inside his own coal mine, that he was never going to hear her say it?
Yes. Unfortunately.
Bill was still waiting for an answer. Henry turned back, his graying brows heavy on his face.
"Knowing never did me any good."
Bill looked at him, his eyes flickering with something remarkably similar to sympathy. Eventually he nodded, ready to take his leave with the curt tilt of his head. Wanting nothing more than to get lost inside the fire and the ticking clock until it all became a blur again, Henry breathlessly awaited the departure, not even getting up to see him out.
Which is maybe why Bill thought better of it, his feet rooted to the spot for a few seconds more. Henry's gaze was reluctantly drawn back up to the other man as he lingered there, his body a stiff contrast to the unexpectedly compassionate expression he wore.
"Henry, I know that I'm responsible for a lot of the hell you've been through," he said gruffly. "I've got my feelings about the company and what happened, and when I'm doing my job, I don't hold back. I came after you hard, and I don't know that I can honestly say I wouldn't do it again. But I also understand how it feels to watch good men die. It's not something I would wish on anyone."
Henry swallowed down the twinge of memory that pulled at him. Not trusting himself to speak, he simply nodded, his mouth tight. Bill returned it, a little more deeply this time, almost respectful.
"I'll see you, Henry," he said, leaving Henry alone again.
ooo
Despite his best efforts to ignore it, his stomach continued to loudly protest its emptiness, finally driving Henry back outside toward supper's end. It had taken him most of the meal time to decide whether it would be wiser to go to the café or to the saloon, with the rest of it spent in serious consideration of opening the dusty can of corn in his pantry and calling it a day.
The bell rang to signal his arrival, the jarring sound of it nearly sending him back out again. Elizabeth was too quick, however, already calling his name.
"Henry! Please, come sit."
He turned with a partial scowl, reluctantly softening only when he saw Elizabeth's worn-down eyes and stain-covered apron. He allowed her to lead him to an empty table in the middle of the café, though he had wanted nothing more than to flatten himself against the wall in the corner.
"You covering?" he asked, immediately regretting the question.
"Clara needed some time," she said, filling his water glass from the pitcher she'd had in hand. "I wasn't sure the café should open at all, but Bill thought it might be better to draw people here than let conversation run wild in the saloon."
"Is he –"
"He's already left for the night. He and Nathan are discussing where to go from here." She waited for Henry's reaction to this, but he only murmured in acknowledgment. Between Abigail's leaving and the unthinkable pain he'd caused her, the explosion replaying in his head all morning, and awaiting the public fallout of an emotional affair he had never even managed to fully contend with privately, he had barely found the space to confront the possibility of a re-opened mine investigation.
Elizabeth took advantage of his contemplative silence to sit down, speaking in earnest. "I'm really glad you came in, Henry. I couldn't make it over to you, but I've been worried. I can't imagine how this is all affecting you."
Henry spun the water glass in his hand, not meeting her eye. Even though he'd determined at this point that the café was empty, and had been preparing himself for hours for the possibility that Bill would have already spread the news of his confession, all of this attention and concern was still a lot for him to take. Maybe it would have been easier to hide in a crowd.
"I appreciate the concern, Elizabeth. Honestly, I do. And in the same respect, I know it was difficult to be the bearer of that news this morning. It was a tough spot you were put in."
"The worst of it will be tomorrow at school," she said, "talking to the children. I don't know if I can make them understand without explaining more than I'd like."
"Hmm," he frowned. "Don't know that I can be much help there. But I imagine just having your reassurance is going to mean a lot to them."
"Do you think so?"
"It always does to me."
Elizabeth allowed a small grateful smile to cross her lips, though the troubled waters in her eyes persisted.
"Henry, do you have any idea where she might be?"
He had been thinking about this as the day wore on and the edge wore off. One possibility kept coming back to him, but he didn't think it was enough to go on. He also didn't know whether it was even a good idea for anyone to set off in pursuit of someone who was still so raw, consumed with a horrible regret whose shape he knew all too well. Ultimately he felt too protective of what Abigail was going through to offer her up, even to her friends.
Henry shook his head. "She didn't say anything."
Elizabeth's brows tightened further and her lips pursed. Henry recognized the unspoken worry etched into her face – the same worry that had compelled his rigid body into flight that morning. He laid his hand out on the table, pulling her attention firmly to him.
"Elizabeth, Abigail would never leave Cody. Don't give that another moment's thought. And she is a fierce woman, capable of more strength than even you have seen. The same determination that she hates in herself right now is going to be exactly what gets her through this and brings her back."
"I suppose… But what then, Henry? What would she be coming back to? It will be awful, everyone will blame her for – " Elizabeth stopped, her shoulders sagging with recognition. "Oh. Oh, Henry…"
"Oh, now, stop that," he said, waving her off. "That's in the past for me, Elizabeth. I was no stranger to being looked upon as a criminal before all of that anyhow."
The look she gave him was the same one she usually gave him when he withdrew into self-deprecation – a mix of both relief and pity.
"Most people were kind today," she conceded. "But a few were saying things I did not think I would ever hear in Hope Valley. Terrible things. In her own café! I can only imagine what was happening elsewhere," she averted her eyes, reddening at the thought of vulgarities being whispered about her dearest friend. While not so delicate about the sentiments themselves, the mere mention of them possibly being directed toward Abigail made Henry seethe.
Elizabeth was biting her lip and rocking a bit, seemingly in a battle with herself about all that had been said. "It's this admission of infidelity mostly," she finally admitted. "Even I can't quite wrap my head around it. She always spoke so fondly of Noah."
"And not a word of that was a lie. She loved Noah, very much, and don't let anyone ever tell you different. Whatever feelings she may have had for someone else, she was a good woman – she is a good woman – and her family meant the world to her. If Abigail had had any clue what was going on with the mine, she would have blocked the entrance herself before she let Noah or Peter set another foot inside. Above anything and anyone else, she loved them, I promise you that."
He had snapped the words out with a charged vehemence, and he realized quickly that he was fighting Elizabeth in place of all the others he couldn't yet face. He backed away again abruptly, regretting his second outburst that day, toward a far less deserving target.
"I apologize – " he started.
"No, Henry, you're right. I'm sorry. It was awful of me to doubt. My head isn't on straight today."
He tapped his fingers on the table, a rueful smile on his lips. "Well, that makes two of us."
The embarrassment began to wane and a moment of silence passed between them, their gazes fixed on his water glass.
"Henry?" she asked, her voice soft.
He fought the urge to sigh. He knew the question that was brewing behind her pursed lips, and he didn't know how he would answer it. A lifetime of loss and the whole of the past day still hadn't given him the strength to truly lay himself bare.
"You were the one who told her what happened that morning, weren't you? You're the only one who could still know."
He muttered in acknowledgment, still holding his breath.
"Why? Why now?" she asked.
This was not the question he was expecting. It was, however, one he had been helplessly ruminating on all day, to no satisfying conclusion. He shrugged.
"Some misguided notion of honesty, I suppose. She asked me to dance with her and I…" He trailed off, struggling with the memory. "There was a tenderness there that cut me to the quick. Something happened, a shift inside me… I knew I couldn't lie to her anymore." He shook his head, doubts rising to the surface now that was explaining it all out loud. "I think now that maybe it was selfish. All I ended up doing was passing my burden onto her, in service of some future that never existed."
"No, I understand why you did it," Elizabeth said, surprising him once more. "I'd want to know anything there was to know about Jack's accident, even if it was terrible to hear. And it's really not Abigail's fault what happened. Everyone is still in shock and reliving their grief, but she couldn't have known."
It startled him – and shamed him – how thankful he was to hear someone else say it.
"I agree. And I hope she realizes that one day."
Elizabeth laid her hand over his, still stretched between them. "I hope you do too, Henry."
The gesture touched him, even as his body tightened and twisted away from being seen up close.
"I'll let you finish up here," he said. He extracted his hand for leverage as he lifted himself from the chair, his desire for food abandoned.
Elizabeth shot up with him. "Wait, Henry."
He puffed out a breath, uncomfortable yet unwilling to offend her. She furrowed her brow and went to the back, silently constructing a plate and wrapping it for him. His shoulders fell when he realized she had anticipated him again, and he gratefully accepted the offering. With a nod, he began to take his leave, then paused at the door.
"Elizabeth?"
"Yes, Henry?"
"Thank you. For not asking me."
She melted into another soft smile. "You're welcome, Henry. And for what it's worth? I believe that future can still exist."
