Suddenly Wyatt needed to go back to work. Needed to get out of that sickroom, and away from everything he’d just told Doc.
“I should let you rest,” he said, standing. “Can I get you anything before I go?”
“Thank you, no.” Doc’s eyes opened. “Wait! Been meanin’ to ask … How much’s the rent on that cottage of yours?”
“Eight bucks a month. Me ’n’ Morg were splitting it, but—” He didn’t know what to say.
“You need your privacy now,” Doc supplied, eyes closing again.
“Morg, too. He and that girl Lou took the house next door.”
“Who’s the landlord?”
“George Hoover.”
“Well, ask ’bout the other one … that’s almost finished, will you?”
Wyatt promised he would, and Doc mumbled something about them being neighbors soon, and reminded Wyatt to brush his teeth, but by then he was barely awake.
The rest of the night was mostly uneventful. Wyatt made his report to Fat Larry at dawn and trudged home, the three-shift duty over at last.
Mattie Blaylock was asleep, but when he crawled into bed, she woke up and put her arms around his neck.
“Aw, hell,” he said wearily, and got up out of bed again.
“What’s the matter, Wyatt?” Mattie asked anxiously. “I do something wrong?”
“Forgot to brush my teeth,” he said.
When Kate got back from Bessie’s in the morning, Doc was scabby and pale under his bruises, but he was sitting at the table, practicing with a deck: split, square, pivot.
She looked at him, brows up.
“A heavenly sleep … did suddenly steep … in balm my bosom’s pain,” he recited.
Kate took off her hat and tossed it on the bureau before lifting the half-empty bottle at his elbow.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, putting some strength behind his voice. “Sore is all.”
The basin in the corner was filled with sodden handkerchiefs. Most were stained pink. The ones at the bottom of the pile were darker.
“Temporary,” he told her. “I hit the ground hard. Bound to be some minor blood vessels torn.”
“McCarty told you to stay in bed,” she reminded him.
“Trust not the physician! His antidotes are poison, and he slays! Tom McCarty doesn’t know one damn thing about tuberculosis that I didn’t tell him my own self.” He cut the cards and showed her the nine of clubs. “How much have I got in that carpetbag of yours?”
“Six hundred and change.” She sat on the bed to unbutton her shoes.
“Does that count what I won on Dick yesterday?”
She nodded. “But not what I just made.”
They had sworn off fear, but the fall was sobering. Last night, when the bleeding was worst, they’d agreed that she should keep her earnings separate. It was a matter of pride for Doc, and he wanted her to save something. Just in case.
“We can shave forty-eight dollars a month off expenses if we rent a house instead of livin’ here,” he said. Divvy, tumble, riffle … “I don’t suppose you can cook.”
Pulling off a shoe, she looked up. “You had slaves. We had servants.”
“Fair enough.”
Riffle, arch, release … He cut again, right-handed. Nine of diamonds.
“Grier,” he said after a time, watching her undress.
“Not worth it. Word is the family’s cut him off—” Doc was staring. “D’accord,” she said with a shrug. “When?”
“Get me some easy work first. I’d like to take four thousand into the room.”
“Scared money don’t win,” she agreed, arranging pillows against the headboard. She climbed into the bed and laid her head back. “What’ve you got against Grier anyway?”
“It’s a family matter.”
“Don’t be mysterious with me. It’s tedious. He get some cousin pregnant?”
“Oh, nothin’ so melodramatic. The captain’s family is the front half of Grier and Cook Carriage Company, up in Connecticut. My father ordered a buggy from them, just before the war. I helped pick it out. Model Number Thirty-three … Had a lever for raisin’ and lowerin’ the top from the inside. One hundred and sixty dollars. Cash. Paid in advance.” Hands now lax in his lap, he looked out the window. “The war broke out before the buggy was delivered. Grier and Cook started makin’ gun carriages for the Northern army.”
“Smart move,” Kate remarked. “There’s money, and then there’s money.”
“I imagine they did well for themselves.” Shuffling again, he cut left-handed. Nine of hearts. “Anyway, Eli Grier was stationed in Atlanta during the occupation. My mother—You have to understand: Sherman’s men stole whatever wasn’t nailed down or red-hot, and they wrecked the rest. Took a Yankee dollar to buy a few damn radishes in those days, and nobody had hard currency anyway. We were all hungry, but Mamma was just wastin’ to nothin’.”
“A hundred and sixty federal dollars would have been a fortune.”
“Indeed, but my father wasn’t willin’ to swallow his pride and ask for the money back,” Doc said, voice soft with unattenuated bitterness. “Probably had his second wife all picked out by then … So Uncle John went to Captain Grier to ask if our family’s payment might be refunded. Grier promised he would arrange for the money to be returned.”
“And it wasn’t.”
“Not a penny.” There was a long silence before Doc said, “He forgot all about it, most likely. A man with a bad conscience would have remembered my uncle’s name.”
Your mother would have died anyway, Kate thought, but she wasn’t going to say so. She watched the cards dance in his hands. When he cut the deck again, she cried, “Wait! Nine of spades?”
He showed her the card. She laughed, low and cynical.
“And I thought you didn’t cheat!”
“I don’t!” There was a sly, crooked smile. “But I could.”
“Anybody but me sees you do that, you’ll get yourself shot again,” she warned. “Bring me a drink, will you?”
He set the deck aside, poured, and stood carefully. “Nectar for Calypso,” he said, handing her the glass. “We are a little short on ambrosia just now.”
She sat up in bed, and slugged the bourbon down, closing her eyes to feel the liquor’s warmth and forget about the night. Doc slid in behind her and began to rub her neck. She leaned forward, bracing against the mattress, surrendering to the sensation as he worked his way down her back.
“Sternocleidomastoideus … splenius … rhomboidei, major and minor,” he said, thumbs pressing. “Has anyone ever told you what a lovely trapezius you have?”
She snorted. “We’re lucky Texans take off their spurs.”
“Barbarians, to a man … These latissimi dorsi are unquestionably the most beautiful I have ever laid eyes on.”
She smiled, eyes closed. “You’re mad.”
“That’s the rumor … Sweet Jesus! Just look at you!” he murmured. “Round and soft as a ripe peach … Lie back.”
“Mon dieu,” she whispered after a time. “C’est merveilleux!”
“My hand skills have always been considered exemplary.”
She giggled.
“I can stop if you’re too tired,” he offered.
“Stop, and I’ll shoot you myself.”
“I wonder what the odds are,” he mused. The numbers seemed to come to him from nowhere. “Eight to five,” he decided. “Against.”
“Against what?”
“Me dyin’ of consumption ’fore another bullet finds me.”
She twisted around and looked at him, eyes serious. “Don’t talk like that, Doc.”
“No hope, no fear,” he said with a grin, kissing her with each word. “And I am not … dead … yet.”
Chinaman’s Chance
Every Wednesday, Jau Dong-Sing went to the post office in Wright’s General Outfitting to mail a letter and a few dollars to his father in Kwantung. Since arriving in San Francisco back in 1859, Dong-Sing had written each week. He nearly always sent money, too.
In the beginning, he hoped to elicit a reply. My health is good but I am lonely, he wrote. I yearn for news of home. Though he would not have said as much, Dong-Sing desired to be acknowledged for his contributions to his family’s well-being. He also wished to be reassured that the money he sent had not been stolen during its long journey from America to his family’s village in China.