Isabelle Wright was genuinely fond of Wilfred, a winning child with a streak of appealing sadness under his resolve not to be a bother to anyone. In addition, of course, every moment she spent caring for the Eberhardt children did double duty, for it rubbed her father’s face in what she considered his callous exploitation of the German farmers in the area. On the other hand, if Belle had known just how sick she was going to get, she might have asked her mother to take care of Wilfred. Not that it would have changed anything. If Belle hadn’t caught the cold from Wil, she’d have gotten it from one of her own brothers, or from a customer in the store, or from somebody at church.
Being out on the open prairie for twelve weeks at a time was hardship enough without adding a sore throat, a thick head, and a dripping nose to the exercise, so it was a mercy that Alexander von Angensperg was out in the countryside while the cold was making the rounds. Most Dodge Citians were over the illness when he got back to town.
Alex was hoping to see Wyatt Earp before heading toward Wichita on the northern arc of the circuit, but when the little huddle of wooden buildings came into sight, he realized that for all its ugly, violent, noisy crudity, Dodge City had come to represent to him agreeable company and convivial conversation. Approaching the place now felt strangely like a homecoming.
He tied Alphonsus to the hitching rail in front of Dodge House, thinking to see Doc in his office between patients, but before he could go inside, he heard boots clomping along the boardwalk and a familiar voice behind him.
“Staying longer this time?” Morgan Earp called genially.
“Today only, I fear,” Alexander told him, accustomed now to the way Americans omitted conversational hors d’oeuvres. “Is Wyatt back from Topeka, or have I missed him once again?”
“You caught him dead to rights this time!” Morg jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the jail. “He’s just finishing the reports with Fat Larry—There he is! Hey, Wyatt, wait up! Look who’s here!”
Jogging across the street, Morgan came to rest beside his brother and turned back toward the priest, grinning happily. “See, Alex? I told you people mix us up all the time!”
And indeed they were very like in appearance. Fair, square-jawed, broad-shouldered, and lean, with hardly a hair of separation in their height. Their differences, Alexander noted, were all in their bearing. Where Morgan was amiable and open, Wyatt seemed guarded, though not unfriendly.
After a few awkward remarks about Johnnie Sanders, he and Wyatt found themselves with nothing more to say. It was Morgan who suggested that the three of them go visit Doc, who was not in his office after all. “He’s been poorly,” Morg explained, leading the way toward a short side street lined with a few small, neat houses set on fenced-in patches of bare ground.
“But—he looked so well when I saw him last!” Alexander said uneasily.
“Just a cold,” said Wyatt.
“Yeah, bad one’s been going around,” added Morg. “That’s my house, right there, and that’s Wyatt’s—”
“They’re not ours,” Wyatt said.
“We rent,” Morg admitted easily. He gestured toward the third of five small frame dwellings. “That’s where Doc and Kate live.” Taking Wyatt’s point, he added, “They rent, too.”
Jau Dong-Sing was stepping out onto the front porch with Kate, and with the door open, they could hear Doc’s ugly, hacking cough.
“It’s like that night and day,” Morg told Alex quietly. “I don’t know how Kate stands it!”
“All she has to do is listen,” Wyatt said. “It’s Doc who’s sick.”
“You Doc’s guest!” China Joe cried, recognizing Alex. “Where you stay? You want bath? I bring plenty hot water. Doc, he very no good, but I bring more medicine, fix his chi!”
“That shit’s disgusting,” Kate muttered, not caring that China Joe was standing right next to her. “I can’t even stay in the house when Doc drinks it.” Red-eyed with sleeplessness, she glared at Alexander. “He ain’t dying! He don’t need no priest!”
“It’s just a social call,” Morg told her. “Alex is leaving for Wichita again, and—”
“Kate, you look exhausted,” Alexander said softly. “This is not a good time for a visit. We’ll let you and Doc get some rest—”
“Too late now!”
The voice was hoarse but cheerful. Still tying the narrow belt of a silk robe around a waist as slender as a girl’s, Doc appeared in the doorway, his smile fading when he saw the open shock on von Angensperg’s face.
“You make a sobering mirror, sir,” he said, but he waved off Kate’s worry and the priest’s concern, insisting that he was fine, just a little slow to get back on his feet. Thanking Mr. Jau for his concern and bidding him a good day, Doc urged the others to come on in and keep him company for a spell, and asked if anyone would like tea, or something stronger.
He sat down in a corner chair, breathless and white, while Kate sullenly did the honors, but perked up considerably as the conversation became livelier, for visitors always cheered him.
“I do believe I am hungry,” he announced with some surprise. “First time in days! You see, darlin’?” he asked Kate, as though reminding her of some point he’d made before. “Why don’t y’all go on over to Delmonico’s for steak and eggs?” he suggested. “I’ll make myself decent and meet you there directly.”
Kate didn’t argue, but it was obvious that she wanted to. Doc told her he was tired to death of being in bed and declared that it would do him a world of good to get out of the house, then shooed them all out so he could dress.
Hobbling into the restaurant nearly an hour later, he explained his limp away, saying that bed rest had aggravated an old injury. He sat down heavily, looking exhausted, but called, “Miss Nora—?”
Then the coughing fit took over.
Around the restaurant, strangers’ mouths twisted in disgust at the sound. The cough had changed, Alexander realized. It was deeper, wetter. Morgan looked away, wincing, and Kate raised her eyebrows as if to say, “See? I told you so.” Presently, Nora appeared with a tray bearing Doc’s usual tea and honey, along with a bottle of bourbon. Instead of a shot glass, however, she supplied Doc with a tumbler, and this he filled halfway.
With a silent, steady effort, he got it down in something under a minute, his face losing some of the tension that became noticeable only when it eased off, right before their eyes.
“Doc,” Wyatt asked uneasily, “when did you start drinking that much?”
“Wyatt, I’m not drinkin’ more,” Doc assured him with that crooked smile of his. “I’m just pourin’ less.”
“I fear you have overtaxed yourself to come here,” Alexander suggested, for Kate had asked them to help her keep Doc from overdoing it, and they all knew he would, given half a chance.
“You should be in bed,” Morgan agreed, and not just to make Kate happier, either; but then their meals arrived at the table.
Doc talked more than he ate, and listened more than he talked, although his brief comments were good-humored and amusing. Sitting slightly behind him, Kate was silent and didn’t touch her food. As soon as she thought Doc was too tired to balk, she made a signal to the priest. Alexander stood with an excuse about needing to get on the road before noon.
Doc waved to Nora and asked her to put the bill on his tab. Wyatt insisted on paying his own way, and so did Morgan. They were still working out who owed what when Isabelle Wright came into the restaurant and walked straight to their table.
All the men stood, even Doc, who would have made an honest effort to rise from his deathbed for a lady. Belle looked peaked, her nose red and raw. She only managed to say good morning to everyone, including “Mrs. Holliday,” before her face took on an inward, wary, weary look and she dug quickly in her little purse for a crumpled handkerchief edged with tatting. The rattling cough came from deep within her narrow chest.