Chapter Thirty-Six #2
Henry sat in an old wooden rocking chair on the front porch with a blanket stretched over his legs and a cup of coffee warming his hand.
The sun had only recently climbed above the horizon, bathing the ranch in pale gold light and long shadows.
Dew still clung to the grass around the yard, sparkling whenever the breeze stirred it.
From the barn came familiar sounds that Henry hadn’t realized he’d missed until now—the shuffle of hooves against straw, the clank of buckets, men’s voices drifting back and forth as chores began for the day.
He’d missed this.
Beside him, George leaned back in a second rocker with his boots propped against the porch rail and his hat tipped low over his eyes. He looked perfectly comfortable, holding his own cup of coffee in both hands as though he intended to remain there all morning.
Henry glanced sideways at him. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” he said after a moment.
George didn’t even open his eyes. “Nope.”
Henry frowned. “I don’t need minding.”
That got one eye to open. “I ain’t here to mind you,” George said. “Can’t a man enjoy a cup of coffee in peace?”
Henry gestured vaguely with his coffee cup. “Well, I ain’t paying you to sit on my porch and drink coffee.”
George snorted. “Well, while you’ve spent the past fortnight catching up on your beauty sleep, I’ve been bustin’ my butt, keepin’ this place going.” He raised his mug and took a sip.
Henry narrowed his eyes. “I feel fine.”
George looked over slowly, raising one brow. “That right?”
Henry sighed. “Well … Mostly fine.”
George grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
Henry muttered beneath his breath and took another drink of coffee.
“Look,” George said. “Ruth spent two weeks pacing holes through the floorboards and threatening anyone who breathed at you wrong.” He took a sip of coffee. “She told me to keep an eye on you, and if I let you do anything foolish, she’ll skin me alive.”
Henry chuckled despite his annoyance while George smiled quietly into his cup.
“She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Henry said, shaking his head.
“That she is,” George agreed. “I reckon that Shakespeare fella had her pinned when he said, though she be but little, she is fierce!”
Henry stared at George, his mouth hanging open.
“What?” George said smugly.
Before Henry could reply, he heard approaching hoofbeats, and both men turned to see Dr. Turner riding through the gate astride a chestnut horse, his medical bag strapped securely behind the saddle.
“George?”
“Hey, don’t look at me,” George said, raising his hand in defense. “Ruth had Tom deliver a message before breakfast this morning.”
Henry shook his head but said nothing as Dr. Turner rode up to the porch.
“Well, now,” he said as he swung down, landing with a light thud. “Look who decided to join the living.”
Henry smiled faintly.
Dr. Turner climbed the porch steps and shook his head. “I’ll admit I had my doubts.”
“Glad to exceed expectations,” Henry said dryly.
The doctor chuckled and set his worn leather bag down beside the rocker, then immediately got to work, pulling his spectacles lower on his nose as he leaned closer. “Let’s have a look at you, then.”
Henry sighed heavily. “I’m fine, Doc,” he said.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
George huffed a dry chuckle, and Henry shot him a look.
Dr. Turner gently pulled back the blanket covering Henry’s lap and moved the bandages aside enough to inspect the wound beneath.
Henry hissed through his teeth.
“Still tender?” the doctor asked.
Henry looked at him flatly.
Dr. Turner examined the healing wound carefully, his fingers practiced and steady as he checked for heat around the edges, pressing lightly along the surrounding skin.
“Mhmm …” the doctor mused.
“What does that mean?” Henry asked suspiciously.
“It means be quiet while I think.” After several moments, he straightened slightly and placed two fingers against Henry’s wrist, silently counting while watching his face.
“Any dizziness?”
Henry hesitated as George looked over. “A little,” he admitted
George snorted.
Dr. Turner glanced over his spectacles. “A little?”
Henry shifted uncomfortably. “The stairs tried to kill me this morning.”
George barked a laugh, and the doctor sighed deeply.
“Any pain when breathing?”
Henry took a careful breath. His shoulder immediately protested. “A bit.”
“Any pressure on your chest?”
Henry shook his head.
“Blurry vision?”
Henry paused. “When I first woke, but it passed.”
“Headaches?”
“Not worth writing home over.”
Dr. Turner nodded absently. “And your appetite?”
Henry looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen. The truth was that he hadn’t had much of an appetite since waking up. He just hadn’t felt hungry
Dr. Turner sighed and folded his arms. “Henry, your body has spent two weeks trying to keep you alive.”
Henry said nothing as the doctor continued more gently.
“You lost a dangerous amount of blood. Then, your body had to survive the wound itself.” He gestured toward Henry’s shoulder. “Now, it’s trying to mend what was damaged.”
Henry looked down at the bandages.
Dr. Turner pulled his spectacles off and rubbed them absently with a handkerchief. “It’s not uncommon after fever or injury for a man to lose his appetite. Your body’s worn itself nearly to exhaustion. But whether you’re hungry or not makes little difference.”
Henry looked up.
“You still need food.” He pointed toward Henry’s chest. “You need bread, eggs, broth, and red meat, if Ruth can get it into you. Plenty of water too.” Dr. Turner leaned forward. “You’ve got to build yourself back up again, son. Build blood. Build strength.”
Henry exhaled. “All right, Doc,” he said. “Understood.”
“Good,” Dr. Turner said, sitting back. “Now, can you move your fingers?”
Henry flexed his hand.
“Good.”