Chapter Thirty-Six
Open, Henry commanded.
His eyelashes fluttered, then went still again.
Open your eyes.
He tried again, but his eyelids seemed absurdly heavy, as though someone had laid weights across them while he slept.
Yet he forced himself to keep going, even though it hurt.
It wasn’t merely the brightness of the room, but the sharpness pressing painfully into eyes that had forgotten what sunlight looked like. He blinked several times, but his vision remained blurred around the edges, shapes swimming together before slowly separating into familiar lines and shadows.
He was aware of how dry his mouth felt, dry enough to hurt.
His tongue seemed thick and rough against the roof of his mouth, and when he swallowed, his throat burned unpleasantly.
Even breathing felt strange. His chest rose and fell heavily, sluggishly, as though his body had forgotten the simple rhythm of it and was now remembering, piece by piece.
The mattress pressed against muscles that ached with a deep stiffness he’d never known before, not the honest soreness that followed long days of ranch work, but rather a hollowness. His limbs felt weak and distant, as though they belonged to someone else entirely.
I need to get up.
But the thought remained just that as he stared up at the ceiling above him, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Heavy timber beams crossed overhead.
He frowned.
Somewhere nearby, a fly buzzed lazily against a windowpane, throwing itself over and over against the glass with an irritating persistence before drifting away again. Outside, insects hummed in the grass, and from farther off came the soft rustle of leaves moving beneath a warm prairie breeze.
He was in his bedroom.
The realization came slowly, pushing through a strange haze that seemed to cling stubbornly to his thoughts.
His eyes moved around the room carefully.
The washstand stood where it always had beside the wall. His boots sat near the door, one tipped over as though someone had kicked it aside carelessly. The old dresser stood beside the door, and his hat rested on top beside a stack of folded shirts.
A quiet wave of relief moved through him before confusion immediately followed.
His brow furrowed.
How did I get here?
He tried to pull at the loose edges of memory, but his thoughts felt strangely slow, as though his mind had become buried beneath layers of fog.
Beside the bed sat a small table.
Henry’s eyes settled on it.
A Bible rested there, worn at the corners and lying open with a ribbon marking a page somewhere near the middle.
Beside it sat a small vase filled with wildflowers; yellow daisies and purple clover leaned gently against one another, some of their petals beginning to curl slightly at the edges in the summer heat.
Henry stared at them for a moment and then, slowly, wincing at the stiffness that seemed to have settled into every part of his body, he shifted slightly and leaned toward them.
Even that small movement felt strangely difficult.
His muscles protested immediately. Still, he moved closer, breathing in the scent of crushed grass and wildflowers warmed by the afternoon sun.
Then, a deep pull across his chest and shoulder caught him off guard, and he froze. His hand moved toward the bandages beneath his shirt as the ache spread sharply through him.
And suddenly, the memories crashed into him.
The kitchen flooded back into his mind with startling clarity. Morning sunlight spilling across the floorboards. Ruth standing there with her hands slightly raised, her face pale with fear. Beatrice crying, her hand trembling around the revolver.
He remembered seeing her finger tighten and the deafening crack of gunfire. The violent force slamming into him and the terrible heat that had exploded through his shoulder.
His breathing had quickened without him realizing it, his pulse suddenly pounding hard against his ribs.
Going to Dr. Turner’s house was the last thing he remembered. After that, nothing.
Henry lay back again before lifting up the sheet that covered him and looking down. But he couldn’t see anything but the fresh white bandage across his chest.
He dropped the sheet and closed his eyes for a moment.
He was so tired.
But just then, as sleep threatened to take hold of him again, he heard laughter.
The sound drifted faintly upward from downstairs, mingling with the creak of floorboards and the distant clatter of dishes.
Then, voices—two of them—light and warm, and his heart skipped a beat.
Suddenly, none of the pain mattered, nor the exhaustion.
He pushed himself up immediately, and instantly regretted it.
Pain tore through his shoulder so violently that the room tilted around him.
Henry gritted his teeth and grabbed the edge of the mattress hard enough for his knuckles to whiten.
Dark spots burst briefly across his vision.
Henry sat there, breathing carefully, one hand pressed against the mattress while dizziness continued to drift unpleasantly through him. Every sensible thought in his head told him he should stay exactly where he was.
But he was being led by his heart, not his head.
Slowly, Henry tried to stand up, but the floor tilted beneath him so sharply he had to grip the bedpost to keep from falling straight onto his face.
“Lord …” he muttered.
His stomach lurched unpleasantly, so he sat down again, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
Apparently, two weeks in bed turned a man into an old drunk.
Good to know.
With considerable effort—and more muttered cursing than he cared to admit—Henry managed to stand, but his legs felt weak beneath him.
He gritted his teeth.
He’d spent his entire life working. Riding. Lifting feed sacks and fixing fences and hauling lumber.
His body had always done what he told it to do. Now, it felt unreliable and foreign.
Still gripping the bedpost, Henry shuffled slowly toward the chest of drawers and managed to pull on a pair of trousers one-handed while trying not to collapse in the process.
It was an embarrassing ordeal, and he was quite relieved no one was there to witness it.
Twice, he nearly lost his balance entirely. Once, he actually sat down on the floor rather abruptly and remained there, glaring at the dresser as though it had somehow betrayed him personally.
By the time he’d finished, sweat dampened his forehead, despite the warm breeze drifting through the room.
He paused at the bedroom door.
The voices still floated upward from downstairs, and his heart gave a hard thud.
Slowly, he stepped into the hallway.
The journey to the stairs felt longer than he remembered. By the time he reached them, he was gasping for air.
Henry stared downward as the staircase stared back.
He narrowed his eyes.
The staircase had never looked particularly dangerous before. Now, it seemed almost insulting. Still, there was no turning back. Slowly, he gripped the railing and started downward.
The first few steps weren’t terrible. By the middle of the staircase, his legs had begun shaking, and by the bottom, black spots had started creeping into the corners of his vision again.
He stopped for a moment at the last step, breathing carefully, while the dizziness settled and then, finally, he looked up.
The kitchen sat just down the hall. A light breeze moved down the hallway, carrying with it the familiar scent of bread and flour and something sweet baking in the oven.
Henry’s chest tightened unexpectedly as he moved slowly toward the doorway and stepped inside.
For a moment, he simply stood there watching Ruth and Clara baking at the kitchen table together.
Both of them wore aprons dusted with flour, and both had somehow managed to get as much of it on themselves as on the food.
Clara had a streak of white across one cheek and another in her curls, while flour dusted the front of Ruth’s dress and clung to the loose strands of hair escaping around her face.
Scout sat beneath the table, looking up with complete devotion, his tail sweeping hopefully across the floorboards while he waited for scraps to fall.
The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows and turned the floating flour in the air into tiny golden clouds.
It all was so ordinary, yet it was as if he were staring at the greatest masterpiece ever painted.
It was Clara who looked up first, and her eyes widened. “Henry!”
His name rang through the kitchen as Clara launched herself toward him.
“Whoa?—?”
Henry barely had time to brace himself before she collided with him and nearly sent them both tumbling backward.
Pain flared sharply through his shoulder, but he hardly felt it, because Clara had both arms wrapped around him so tightly, he thought she might actually squeeze the breath from his lungs.
Henry laughed weakly and winced at the same time. “Easy there, sweetheart.”
Then, he looked up at Ruth, the mixing bowl in her arms forgotten, and the color in her face had drained. She looked exactly like someone seeing a ghost, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Henry swallowed, then managed a weak smile. “Well …” His voice came out rough from disuse. “I hope supper isn’t always this difficult to get around here.”
Ruth’s expression crumpled instantly as tears filled her eyes.
Henry’s smile disappeared immediately. “Hey, it’s okay?—?”
But she was already moving, crossing the room in seconds before throwing her arms around him.
Henry stumbled backward and caught himself against the doorway with his good arm. With his other arm, he held her as tightly as he could, and he felt the wetness of her tears against his shoulder.
“Hey,” he soothed. “It’s okay.”
But Ruth kept weeping, and it was clear to Henry that, up until that moment, she had been holding back for far too long. Trying to be strong for Clara and the ranch. But now, she could let go. So he didn’t try to stop or quiet her.
Instead, Henry closed his eyes and buried his face against her hair.
***
The morning air still carried a little coolness, despite the promise of heat later in the day.