"You gonna choose sumthin', little lady?"
Rachel turned to find the apothecary staring down at her over metal rimmed glasses as he hovered from a ladder propped against a wall brimming with cubbyholes filled with all manner of bottles and beakers. He was a severe looking man, whose face looked like it had drawn one too many nights under the kerosene lamp, puffy eyes squinting through a less than perfect lens.
She had seen him climb the ladder but had walked past, not ready to address him for the items that she needed; wandered around to soak in the mystic atmosphere of the shop. She had only ever seen one other place like this; back home in Texas, and as a museum, restored for the sake of tourists who swarmed through looking
for a piece of history to purchase. It too had a plenitude of cubbyholes and ancient stained bottles, faded labels with odd and amusing spelling. And none of the rancid smell of blackened wood had penetrated the camphor-and-absinthe tinged air in here, as it had in just about every other building.
"Miss?" He insisted once again, slumping down the ladder a step or two, seeming put out by the fact that she was there. "Miss, I'm closing up shop here, so whatever you need, you tell me now."
"Oh! Yes...of course," Rachel stammered. It was getting awfully dim as the setting sun fell lower and lower. "I need some iodine and bandages. A few other items on this list..."
He took the list, frowned, looked at her, and frowned deeper.
"Who you needing all of this for?"
Rachel stared at him for a few minutes, weighing the desire to snap back at him with the necessity of telling him why she wanted to stock up. How closely did he work with Herod?
"Because the man who helped kill Herod is in need of assistance and I cant find the doctor," she replied, firmly, staring back at him, daring him to make a further issue of it. For all she knew, this man helped ferret illicit goods through to supplement his income...such as it was. Drug runners in every century, it seemed.
The man's expression changed in a flash. He practically leapt off the ladder to fill her order.
"So you're the one been sequestering him?" He chatted as though they had been old friends, beetling his way down the long aisle behind the counter, pulling out various items to plunk down for her inspection. "He was like lightening! Id never seen such quick work! He's not been injured, has he?" He queried, fastening another stern eye in her direction. "'Cause, little lady, if he's got any gun-shot wounds they need tending and you don't look like you might have had much experience with that," he concluded.
"No, no," she argued to dissuade him. "No gun shots, thank goodness. Just his wrists. And dehydration. And minor scrapes...broken bones..." she trailed off. "But I fixed those. I do know how to set bones, sir. Now, how much for all of this?"
He smiled broadly at her and waved off the bank note she extended. "On the house, miss. I figure there's a world of payment due that young man... now, that woman who was with him. You got an idea where she went?"
No, and frankly my dear, I don't give a damn was what ran through Rachel's head, but she put on her most sorrowful look and shook her head. "'Fraid not. Thank you!"
"You need any more salve and solutions, let me know. Ol' Doc considered my supply the best in Arizona."
"You wouldn't have happened to see him, have you? I really could use his advice on a few things," Rachel asked, stopped by her curiosity.
"Can't say that I have. He's been a might secretive these last few years. No telling if he's done retired or given up the ghost. Wish I knew, too. Best horseshoe partner in town."
Before she could hurry away, the door to the apothecary opened and two men came shuffling in, covered in desert dust, boots scraping the floorboards, expressions hooded with the arrogance of bullies who were used to no resistance. Neither one took their hats off. They wore dusters and chaps as if they had been out on the range, gunbelts heavy with their weapons. One had a handle-bar moustache that would have been rather handsome if it were not stained with chaw. The other had dark hair and thin moustache that he must have groomed a thousand times a day to coax into existence. Rachel needed just a whiff of their sweat and grime to know that her previous hunch had merit : Herod's men were not entirely vanquished.
They took their time passing her as they walked in. It took every nerve of pride for her to stare back at them, feeling as if she were going to have to ask the apothecary if he had a scrubbing pad to use when she got back to the saloon. They made her feel as dirty as they looked.
The apothecary, however, was feeling a bit defiant though, as if knowing that Cort was going to be all right gave him some strength to do what he could never do when Herod was alive. He leaned against the counter, dressed in a customary nonchalance, watching the two rogues amble in, sizing up the situation. An old medicine man and a girl. They sneered and smacked their lips as they faced the apothecary.
"You go on, now," the apothecary said lightly to her. "I got business to attend."
Rachel hesitated, wondering if she should run to her hiding place and get her own brand of weapons as back-up. She hated feeling helping without the technology she was used to having available. Then, with a shrug, she left.
The hammering was slowing down now and people were milling about, talking with ease as the sun turned everything a purplish red as the shadows of the buildings lengthened. Rachel hurried across the street to race up the steps of the saloon, thinking about the tray of food she was going to take up to the room, hoping this time, he had slept off the fever...
"He's awake!" Horace called to her as she started climbing the stairs. "But you'd better knock first 'fore goin' in...I just took up his bath water. And I'll send up some more soup."
Nodding, Rachel climbed the rest of the way, suddenly feeling her heart flutter. She'd been watching him fight the fever so long now...what was he going to say now that he was lucid? What was he going to say about her?
Cort had lain there awhile longer, his eyes closed, trying to gather the pieces of himself together enough to use the bathwater before it grew cold. He felt very weak still and took it slowly, slowly as he painfully drew himself into a sitting position. He just sat there for a few minutes before he found the energy to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
Damn, but Horace had put the basin about as far from the bed as possible! The open plank floor stretched like some vast prairie between him and it. Biting down on his lower lip, he stood, wobbled, and grabbed the bedpost for support.
"Come on, Cort," he urged himself. "Cleanliness is next to godliness, so they say, and that may be all that's left to you." He smiled wryly, looking at the basin, remembering his baptismal font.
Putting one foot carefully in front of the other, he crossed the floor. He found he had to support himself by leaning on his left hand even to remain standing by the small table.
That left his bandaged right hand to wash with. He looked at it, shaking his head.
"Now how do we manage this?"
Forcing his left hand off the table, he grabbed for the sponge. His knees gave out and he toppled sideways, taking the table, basin, and towels with him.
Rachel wasn't certain what she was expecting to find as she topped the stairs and made her way down the long corridor to the room where Cort was cloistered. A whore at the opposite end called out to her in merriment, but she hardly heard a word, so focused was she on the sound of her heart in her throat. He was awake, he was awake...
Horace said he was awake, but then she had thought so too when he was under the spell of the fever. Still, if Horace felt it was good enough to leave washwater in there for him and bring some soup, maybe things had changed.
She was just reaching up to knock on the door when she heard a crash and a cry of pain, followed by a growl of frustration. Without thinking, she twisted the doorknob and burst in, ready to find Cort still in a fevered pitch, fighting with the bedsheets...anything but what she actually found.
It was actually less tragic than it looked as she rushed to throw down the package from the apothecary. The sight of the bare-chested priest sprawled out on the floor, bedside table toppled, basin tumped over, water everywhere would have been laughable had it not been for the pain on Cort's face and utter weakness he exhibited in trying to right himself. He was trying to navigate the spill with his one useable hand when he caught sight of her and froze. He stared at her in amazement, as if she were an inexplicable phenomenon.
Rachel shoved aside any embarrassment she felt for the moment to rush to his side, picking up the spilled basin, trying to soak up the water with the towels Horace had left, taking Cort by the arms to help him sit up with his back against the side rail of the bed.
"Are you hurt? Are you okay?" she kept repeating, flummoxed beyond words that he was trying to navigate without help, that she hadnt been here to tell him not to try. Finally, he was resting against the bed, trying to stave off her protests of concern, as weak as a kitten, soaked clear through.
"My goodness, Cort, what were you thinking?" she finally scolded, as she put the bedside table aright. "I dont want to have to set more bones in place!"
He let her help him. He wasn't strong enough not to let her help him. She was talking to him, worried, flustered, scolding all mixed together. He didn't say a thing. For one reason, his head was spinning and the room had a definite tilt to the left. For another, he was trying to decide if he'd hit his head when he fell and was back in the river with the floating green.
When the room righted itself a bit, not completely, but a bit, he gasped hoarsely, "Green!" and stared at her rather wide-eyed.
He'd split his lower lip somewhat when he'd impacted the planks, unable as he was to brace his fall with his hands. He tasted the blood in his mouth but was too occupied with the sight of the woman to do anything about it. The spinning was making him nauseous now, on top of everything else, and he began to go a bit grey in the face.
Still...he stared at her...and repeated his one word, this time more as a question. "Green?"
Rachel pressed a not-quite-so damp towel against his lip, steeling herself to remain calm at the sight of so much blood. He kept watching her, seeming to be a bit more lucid now, but the only word he managed to say to her was a color and for the moment, for the life of her, she couldnt think what he was refering to...which made her even more frustrated because it seemed he was having such a hard time.
No, no. Don't let emotion rule the day here, she told herself and sat back to take stock of him.
His hair was limp, having been through every level of dishevelment in the last week. His handsome features were quickly disappearing under thick stubble well on its way to becoming a short beard...doesnt look half bad at that was the sneaky thought that made Rachel bite her tongue to keep her hormones from reacting. His bare shoulders and chest showed scars and bruises and abuse that she could only imagine, but it was the fine layer of hair on his chest that distracted her...he really needed a sponge bath...soup...food...that's why he's so weak...
He lifted his uninjured hand and touched her skirt, his eyes meeting hers for a moment. Green. She almost began laughing as comprehension dawned. He was remembering when she first showed up.
She cupped his cheek with her hand and got him to look directly at her.
"Don't move! Do you hear me?" she enunciated. "Or I'll have a big fat midwife with a penchant for slapping around cuties like you come in and give you a full bath...FULL bath, okay?...and she's not as modest as you. Don't think I won't do it, either, because I'm fully aware of how weak you are...got it, Preacher?" She commanded, hoping through all the vapors clouding his vision he would get the hint that one, she was real, and two, she meant business.
The slightest smile jacked up the left corner of his mouth.
"Yes, Ma'am," he said.
He'd decided she was real. He didn't know who she was, but she was definitely real. Only a real woman could be that...bossy.
When she stood to go get whatever it was she thought she needed to get, he looked up the green length of her and murmured, "Thanks." Then he closed his eyes again, trying hard not to throw up on her shoes. He figured that might not be...polite...or something.
He heard her footsteps cross the floor toward the door and leaned his head back more fully against the side of the bed. He wanted desperately to get up, not to be sitting there like a cast-off sack of flour when she returned. Pushing a little with his heels, he managed to get his bottom off the floor a good, oh, inch or so. He sighed. He was stuck. Flour sack it would have to be.
She was gone several minutes and, as worn as he was in combination with the earlier dose of medicine, he fell asleep just sitting there. His head slid slowly toward his right shoulder, hair falling over his face.
Well, thank goodness! Rachel thought as she rose to survey the situation. His brief 'thank you' contained a distinct amount of relief and recognition, which spoke volumes for his recovery. He seems to be coming out of it a bit more now. That's good. But...looks like I'm going to have to do a sponge bath right there at the side of his bed.
With his head back against the rail, breathing with slow concentration, he looked as if he were fighting off either pain or nausea and would probably not respond well to being moved again.
She stepped out into the hallway again and almost missed Horace going down the stairs once more. She called out to him and motioned for a private conversation with the barkeep, trying to speak softly enough so her voice didnt carry into other rooms.
"I'm going to need another basin of washwater," she whispered. Horace's great eyebrows knit together with concern. "He tried to get up too soon and knocked over the bedside table. He's just too weak right now and is going to need our help. I'm afraid I'm gonna...gonna..." she trailed off, feeling her cheeks get hot as she tried to relay the message, but Horace's expression took on a wise look as he waited for her to finish the sentence.
"I need a sponge, some more towels, and a fresh change of linens," Rachel rattled off, wishing Horace didnt look so much like an all-too-knowing owl.
"I'll help you. Anything else?" His voice was neutral.
"Maybe a bed-shirt? Something to keep him warm at night? Just...more towels and hot water..."
Horace smiled and nodded, giving her a conspiratorial wink, and turned to leave. He paused, though,
remembering something that he was concerned with.
"Miss Rachel, there's been some folks askin' about him and I told them, he's restin' up, but there's a town in a world of hurt out there, and rumor has it he's been made marshal. Is that true?"
It took a few seconds for Rachel to realize her mouth was standing open in surprise. The last 48 hours she had been so intent on getting Cort on the road to recovery and various little frustrations that she had completely forgotten the badge. And a town that needed order.
"I don't know. You told them he's been under a fever and all, right?"
"Yes, ma'am, but there's folk moving in from the outskirts that heard about Herod, and they mean to
find out what's gonna take his place. Plus, not all of Herod's men are so willing to give up. Some's got the idea they need to pick up where he left off. There's already been trouble down at the apothecary."
"What?" Rachel felt her heart go cold.
"That's right. The apothecary. Clem Schooster got shot. They already taking his body down there laying
out with Herod and them, ready to be buried tomorrow." Horace looked at her momentarily, regretful at
having to share that information.
Rachel had to lean against the wall to keep from falling because Horace's words took the legs right out
from under her. Not that she was surprised by the trouble...she'd had the feeling...and Terry had warned
her, not everyone is going to act like all their problems are solved. But the criminal elements were already making her move, and the one man they could look to for some semblance of law was bed-ridden. And those two men in the store as she left...she had just been there!
"Do they know who did it?"
"Folks got some suspicions, but no one is equipped to go after them. Supposedly took off into the desert. But they'll be back." Horace predicted with grim assurance.
"They were connected to Herod, weren't they?"
Herod looked at her sharply for a moment and then nodded.
"He needs at least one more day, Horace. I...I came to visit the Doc, but I couldn’t find him and I arrived just in time to see what happened. I knew if I didn’t do something quick, Cort would be in worse shape than he is now. They treated him pretty rough, didn’t they?" Rachel stammered, hoping the little lie on the spot would be enough to satisfy the curiosity that was obviously building up. She kind of figured Horace wouldn't ask too many questions, but he could be instrumental in deflecting others not so willing to wait. "Getting him cleaned up will be part of that. And the poor man hasnt had anythng to eat in some time, so thats another reason why he's weak. But I can't do this by myself."
Horace was already halfway to the stairwell as she said this, smiling and waving her off.
"Don't you worry, miss. I got you covered."
Rachel leaned against a wall to collect her thoughts, trying to reformulate plans that were already completely off course. If someone didn’t come forward with an official position, it would become a free-for-all and yet another Herod take charge. And the townspeople knew Cort was still around. They'd come looking for him, expecting a man ready for more battle, like the man they saw in the street, rifles blazing, fury in his eyes, a devil unleashed...
There's no way, no way, not right now!
She bolted back to Cort's room, frantic for a new plan. The original one of quick triage and packing off into the desert for her rendevous point had been ditched
entirely by the collapse to shock and subsequent fever. And she was way past due for a check in with
Terry.
Oh, he's gonna be pissed, she thought.
She left the door open, knowing Horace would return, frantically picking up any stray items around the
room, piling the wet towels where Horace could take them down to be washed. From her stachel, shoved into the corner with other innocuous items thrown against it to deflect curiosity, she pulled out the two
bottles she had used in her first ministrations, then opened her bag from the apothecary (poor Clem! she mourned) and set those items out as well. When all was established for her easy reach, she turned to look at her patient (make that victim! Rachel noted with a perverse giggle) to determine how she would proceed.
Cort's chin had fallen to his chest, having succumbed to sleep once more; snoring, even, his breathing now more even. She bent down to look at his wrists. Spots of blood had oozed through the bandages, which was expected, and the finger splints appeared to be in good stead, but she was going to have to rebandage before all was said and done. That would have to remain to the last.
Horace returned with another large basin of steaming water; Katie followed with the towels. She grinned
slightly at Rachel when seeing Cort without a shirt and Rachel found herself grinning back, but the three
of them quickly set to work.
Rachel poured the viscous clear soap into the water and she and Horace began dipping their rags into the basin and used them to wipe down each arm, his chest, his neck, his face. Cort woke up once, took them all in, and then submitted like a child once more, not even protesting when Horace leaned him forward to wipe down his back. When that was done, Rachel bade Horace and Katie turn the man around until he was laid out flat upon the floor. Rachel rolled up some of the used towels to prop up under his neck so that his hair fell into the shallow basin she had filled with water as well. Quickly, and without much explanation, she wet his hair and began rubbing in more of the liquid soap, while Horace and Katie looked on in fascination.
She paused a moment to smile at them.
"You've not seen a head full of soap before?" she asked, meaning it as a teasing jest, but they had
something else on their minds.
"You just act like you've done this sort of thing all the time," Katie said, her eyes wide as if she were a bit weirded out by the sight of a woman washing a man's head.
"Yeah, well," Rachel balked, trying to think of the easiest and non-anachronistic way of explaining the
training she had recieved before coming to Redemption. "I used to volunteer in a hospital, you know...and the doctors had this weird idea that if you kept the body and hair clean, it would help them heal faster."
Cort mumbled something and Rachel looked down at him, wondering how awake he was, but gave a shrug and
asked, "Horace, you wouldn't happen to know if you can get the barber to come in and shave him, do you?"
He'd half-awakened, finding himself the center of what seemed to him to be some vast herd of humankind all intent on skinning him alive and drowning him at the same time. He wished they would make up their minds which method to use and just stick to it. He didn't care. One would serve as well as another, he figured.
He wondered vaguely what the road to hell was actually paved with. Would probably be finding out shortly. He focused blearily for a second on Horace and mumbled, "Sure not pearls," then floated off
into the grey where he came upon himself as a little boy in a large tub of cold water, being scrubbed by his grandmother.
He twisted a bit, trying not to let her get behind his ears. When she turned to get another bar of soap, he was off and running across the yard, two dogs hot on his heels as he headed around the barn. He smiled sloppily, remembering the hay he'd taken refuge under and how it'd stuck all over his wet body.
His eyes opened slightly again just as the green person leaned near his face. "Hay," he said and grinned.
Then he was sitting under a waterfall, letting it splash down atop his hair. He turned his head this way and that, enjoying the coolness of it in the warm afternoon. Suddenly giant fireants began pouring down
amid the waters, biting his wrists, his hands, his face.
"No," he cried, trying to swat them away. He began to wave his arms violently, swatting at them, intersecting Rachel's pitcher of rinse water just as she lowered it toward his hair. His left forearm impacted it, knocking it out of her hand, sending it crashing to the floor where it split in three sections, sending its contents into her lap and his face. He awoke with a jolt, sitting upright, the top of his head clouting her chin.
Rachel looked up at Horace and handed him the pitcher; or rather the handle of the pitcher, with a great big heaving sigh of weariness. The fragments lay in her lap with the rest of the water soaking her skirts and petticoats.
"Just...dump the whole pot on both of us, okay? It can't be any worse than it is now." She rubbed her chin, her eyes smarting from the impact of his head as it grazed her chin and sent her backwards on her rump. Cort, sitting full up again, looked at his hands as if there were bugs on them.
She got to her knees, feeling what little patience she had maintained over the last couple of days slip away with the water between the floorboards. She had just narrowly missed biting off the tip of her tongue, her teeth scraping together instead. She used a finger to rub over her teeth and make sure none had chipped. The pain from the blow quickly became the precursor to a very bad headache.
I am SO going to make you pay, Preacher.
Katie, however, did not make matters better. She was on the other side of the bed, trying very hard to keep her belly laughs to a mild roar, but not succeeding very well. She leaned on the bed, clutching it helplessly, almost out of breath from laughing so hard, gasping until the first sounds rang out, and then she coudn't stop. Horace had a look on his face like he wished he'd had a camera...but of
course, in the 1880s, Rachel thought, it was probably a good thing the Polaroid Instamatic hadn’t been
invented yet. He took the pitcher and turned to leave for more water, turning once in the doorway to give way at last to a deep throated chuckle.
Cort had no idea of the daggers from Rachel's eyes being flung into his back. He sat with hair dripping,
blinking away water droplets, staring at Katie helplessly, and slumped in about as dejected a posture
as he could uphold. Rachel had half a mind to just leave him there.
You're getting to be more trouble than you're worth, she fumed as she got to her feet, debating whether or not she should finish the job. It was when Cort began trying to pull off the bandages from his wrists that Rachel regained some sense of
medical concern. Forgetting her soaking skirts, she flung herself down to him to stop him from ripping
open the wounds again.
"If you've had enough of your shenanigans, Mr. Im-Too-Sexy-For-A-Gun, you can just wait til you've gotten back into bed before you concern yourself with that," she told him sharply. He turned, turning clear green eyes up to hers and she faltered, unable to stop the wrench his poor face gave her heart. He looked so pitiful. "I'll be taking care of that as soon as possible," she finished with a stammer.
Cort listened, absorbed the words, and then nodded, seeming to understand that Rachel was not in a good mood. He lay his hands down, the right one trembling slightly from pain, and hung his head. Rachel got the distinct feeling he was beginning to get tired, or getting tired of being sick.
Katie, calmed by now, finished up the sheets and folded them back. Rachel used the rest of the towels to wipe up the mess (again!) and tried to wet-towel out the remainder of the soap from the back of his head. Fortunately, the first pour of water had rinsed away the majority of the shampoo. It will just have to do for now.
His pants however, had not escaped the floodwaters.
Oh, maaaaaaan! Rachel . Fine. Just fine. I can fix that.
Cort chose that moment to go back to sleep. He half fell, half crawled into her lap of soggy skirts, apparently indifferent to their lack of dryness, and curled his arms around her legs, his wet head nestled among the green folds of calico. This sent Katie into another pealing round of laughter. Rachel felt like she was going to cry.
Horace hurried in eagerly, as if he wanted to see more of the tragic consequences of making a half-comatose gunslinger priest take a sponge bath. He hid his disappointment well when he saw that Cort had taken Rachel for a bed.
That disappointment did not hide long, though, as Rachel smiled up at him and said "You put the long-johns on him, Horace. I'm leaving.”