Doc - Mary Doria Russell [119]
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