Chapter 30 – Early November 1916 - I figure that's a gift
Someone was shouting at him. He thought he had answered, but the voice kept on calling his name. Would you stop that?! he tried again.
After a few seconds he realized that he was on the floor. Not his floor. His had a much nicer rug. This was a floor covered in boxes. Oh - Bouchard's office. Bouchard. That's who was yelling.
"… Faith if he isn't there!"
"No," Henry mumbled. Bouchard's eyes snapped back to him, which he took as a sign he had successfully spoken this time.
"Henry! Are you alright?"
"Did I pass out?"
"I don't know, but you weren't responding."
"Well, I'm responding now, so help me up," Henry grunted.
"Henry, you collapsed. We need to get someone."
"No," he said as forcefully as he could. "No Faith," he gasped as he struggled to a sitting position. "No Carson."
Lucas was next to him, still on his knees where he had been bent over Henry's regrettably complaisant form. Henry looked over at him and blinked. Expensive trousers, he noted. He used to buy expensive trousers too.
"You're not well," Lucas was saying. "You need a doctor."
"I need you to call your chef back and tell him to stand down."
Lucas looked at him, hesitating. Henry sighed, his head still heavy and tired.
"Bouchard, just leave me whatever dignity I can still walk out of here with. Can you do that?"
Lucas sighed back sympathetically and ran a hand through his hair. Dark hair. Henry used to have dark hair too, he mused.
"Fine," Lucas said, offering his hand. Henry gripped it hard and started to stand when Lucas stopped him. "But promise me you'll go see Carson soon and get checked out."
"Yes, yes, fine," Henry lied. He was pretty sure Lucas didn't believe him, but he helped him up anyway. Henry stumbled to his feet, steadying himself on one of those damned boxes. Lucas waited to make sure he was secure, then stepped out to catch Gustave. Henry imagined Lucas would have to follow the chef all the way out to the infirmary by now, and he braced himself for the whole lot of them returning and fussing over him, wishing his old bum legs weren't still shaking so he could run. It was a stroke of rare luck (or a testament to how little urgency Gustave felt for Henry's health; he wasn't sure which) that when Lucas came back into the office, he was by himself. Henry calmed at this, giving thanks for small favors. Now that he'd been able to catch his breath and the immediate worry had passed, he looked at the other man and grimaced.
"I apologize… for what I said. The parts I remember. As well as the parts I don't, most likely."
"Well.. given the apparent state of things, I won't take it personally. I accept your apology."
Henry grunted again, a noise of gratitude this time.
"Listen, Henry," Lucas continued tentatively, "I know we're not friends exactly. But if I can help you, or if you need to talk… well, I don't have a lot of other friends here, seeing as I've only been around for all of five minutes," he grinned.
Henry smirked. He might actually like this kid. Even though he was a smart aleck.
"Well, I appreciate that," Henry said, and meant it. He spotted his hat on the desk and grabbed it, trying to hide the tremor of his hand as he settled it back on his head. "And if you've got a couple hundred dollars to invest, company'd appreciate that too."
It was Lucas' turn to smirk. "I see you've recovered."
"I'll come back in the morning," Henry said, tipping his hat. "We'll talk."
Henry used to be a smart aleck too.
ooo
Once Henry had gotten out of sight of the saloon, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the fog and unsteadiness he was still feeling. That was the second time now. He'd dismissed the circumstances of that first attack, after Elizabeth had read Abigail's letter. His body had been flooded with nothing but alcohol and adrenaline, his brain overwhelmed by the memories and fallout of his confession. But now it had happened again, and he hadn't been drinking, and he hadn't been thinking about the mine.
He remembered a whirl of conflicting emotions right before he had lost consciousness. He'd been afraid and yet not afraid. He hadn't thought he was dying, not exactly – it felt as though he were simply falling away. It was almost peaceful. And he had hoped in that moment that he would be going to wherever she was.
The odd melancholy of his thoughts travelled with him all the way to the cabin. An icy sheen glistened on the cobwebs that hung in the corner of the front door. He had been here a few times since September, once making himself scarce via a concocted business trip, but he hadn't bothered much with the upkeep.
A stagnant layer of damp air greeted him as he let himself inside, the place still only lightly furnished. He had always intended the cabin as a refuge, sparse and calm, free from the reminders of his daily anxieties and fears. But, he thought ruefully as he reached for the little cloth doll on the mantelpiece, this had also been the only place he could hide those things away.
He remembered those early days, back when Noah was still alive, when his thoughts would wander in spite of himself, imagining what might happen if he ever brought Abigail here. He would picture them strolling through the dense woods, laughter coming easily as it always seemed to do between them. It would usually be daylight in his imaginings; daylight was safer, somehow, more innocent. She'd have her hair down, the way she had that time he'd found her on the river path, and his jacket would be open and loose, his hands dug almost shyly into his pockets as he smiled at whatever quick bon mot she had returned to his teasing. He'd nod up ahead to show her the way, and her eyes would brighten as they stepped closer to the hidden retreat, taking in the possibility of it. She'd stand behind him, patiently waiting while he opened the door, but when he stepped inside she wouldn't follow. Instead he would turn back and meet her eyes, and they would share a look that said everything they could never say out loud. His hand would reach back out to her and the corner of her mouth would twitch to fight down a mischievous smile. And then, ever so slowly, knowing full well how she was making his heart pound with anticipation, she would lift one hand up, all dainty lines and obliging grace, and she would place it softly into his…
He forced the image away. He had not often dared to let himself go beyond the doorstep.
Guilt and fear had paralyzed him then, and it did so now. Nearly seven years had drifted by and yet he was still here in this cabin, haunted by the past and unable to see the next step. And now, thirty minutes from having collapsed in Bouchard's office, he wondered how many steps he even still had left in front of him.
A small bedroom was tucked just behind the wall. He navigated the corner unsteadily and collapsed onto the brown bed covering, a thin layer of dust shaking free from under his weight. Forgetting the day's responsibilities, the bleeding books, the narrowed stares, and every letter that had crossed his hands, he clutched the doll and let soundless tears fall into its threads.
ooo
The sun was setting when he finally made his way back to town, with one long overdue stop still to make. He paused outside the door and took a deep breath, knowing the bell would give him away as soon as he entered. In the last second before he let himself into the shop, he lifted his hat from his head and pressed it against his chest.
Ned's eyes flicked up from the floor at the sound. The broom in his hand stopped mid-sweep. Henry tilted his head forward in greeting. Ned offered no warm welcome in return, but Henry hadn't exactly expected a round of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow." He shut the door behind him while Ned resumed his tidying.
"Lucas and Mike came around asking about you. Told them I hadn't seen you in here in quite some time."
"Hrm," Henry gave another sheepish nod. "Well, I left them both a bit abruptly today. Guess they were concerned."
"Should they be concerned?"
Henry's mouth twisted. "Not sure I know how to answer that."
Ned let the bristles scrape to a stop against the floor, finally meeting Henry's eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said. "About Abigail."
Henry shook again slightly in acknowledgment. The plainspoken sentiment felt like a treasure among the wasteland of pitying looks and tiptoed conversations. Me too, he wanted to say, but another surge of tears threatened at his eyes, making him swallow back the words.
Ned shot a glance past the counter to where Fiona sat at the switchboard trying not to look at them. Leaning the broom against a shelf, he waved Henry to the doors at the opposite end, settling them into another little storage space that held two chairs and the telegraph.
Ned took two bottled ales from the shelf, cracking them on a bottle opener welded to the side. He shrugged as he passed one to Henry. "Cold enough, given the weather." He moved to one of the chairs and Henry followed into the other, the two of them sitting and sipping for a long minute in companionable silence.
"I'm sorry too," he admitted, his voice croaking with the effort. "For making myself scarce."
"I can't imagine it was too enjoyable being out and about," Ned conceded. "I heard more than my share just standing in here."
Henry tried to quell his anger at the thought of what kinds of things Ned might have heard – what Ned might even have encouraged had it been about some other topic about some other people.
"Yes, well… I try not to pay it any mind. But that's easier said than done," He took another rough tip at the bottle, letting the bitter ale roll around his mouth as he stewed on it all. "I take the most issue with myself though. That woman has spoken out for me so many times. Far more than I deserved. And here I am, getting the chance to give that back to her, and what have I done besides save my own skin?"
Ned frowned beside him, perhaps judging him or perhaps feeling similarly silenced because of all he had been privy to.
"Do you think that's what she would think of you? If she were here?"
Grief stabbed at Henry's heart, a dull familiar ache now. "She's always been a kinder soul than most," he said, not letting himself think about it. "As have you. Perhaps not a surprise that I couldn't face you either then."
"Henry."
"No – let me pay my bills here, Ned. Your friendship means a lot to me, and I haven't held up my end of that deal. Between all manner of sins I should never have burdened you with and everything about that day that I kept from you…"
"Henry, stop," Ned cut him off again with a shake of his head, "I understand why you couldn't tell me what happened. Why you chose to hold on to it the way that you did."
The somber tone of his voice told Henry he did know, that he recognized that no other force or loyalty on earth could have surmounted Henry's desire to protect Abigail.
"You do not need to apologize for that. Not to me," Ned continued. "And as for burdens, Henry, I took them all upon myself. You never told me anything about your feelings back then either, if you recall. I was just observant."
Henry snorted humourlessly. "You mean you saw my obvious foolishness?"
"I saw someone who needed a friend," Ned answered.
Henry felt his eyes shining again. His lips parted, trying hard to push his affection past the dam that always stopped him.
"Thanks for always keeping it between us, Ned." His voice wavered, gruff and quiet. "Even when I became a man no one could have respected. Even when I turned my back on this town."
Ned smiled kindly. "Even when you didn't make the railroad pay any taxes," he added.
Henry couldn't help but laugh. "Especially when I didn't make the railroad pay any taxes," he said. He wiped tears from his eyes, unsure which emotion they stemmed from at this point. That there was someone who could still sit by his side in spite of everything… well, he would never have imagined it.
Ned took another sip of his drink, letting his grin fade into the bottleneck. "You were grieving in your own way," he finally said, looking down to rest the ale in his lap. "I may only own a little frontier store, but I'm a stubborn old businessman, same as you are. We both hate feeling powerless. And when what you have no power over is being able to hold on to the person you love…" – Ned paused, and Henry knew he was remembering his own wife – "well, it rips you open inside. All you are is fight and fear until some days you don't even recognize yourself."
Yes, it always did come back to fear, didn't it? But unlike Ned, he recognized himself in it quite well. His whole life, everything had felt like a battle for survival. Each day he woke up already pulled taut, shield and sword at the ready. How heavy they had become, in his passing years.
"I'm sorry, friend. I should have been better."
Ned shrugged. "Should have. Can still. She isn't gone yet, Henry."
