Doc - Mary Doria Russell [157]
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.
Doc pulled out a chair for her and poured a little bourbon. “Miss Isabelle,” he said with quiet commiseration, “I do believe we are sufferin’ from the same malady!” Alexander looked up sharply, but Doc said merely, “You have some congestion left over from that wretched cold.”
Eyes watering, Belle nodded silently and sipped from the glass he’d pressed into her hand. Although she grimaced at the liquor’s taste, its warmth worked quickly, and her chest felt remarkably better. “A little bronchitis,” she said then, smiling wanly. “I just can’t seem to shake it!”
Doc’s face went slack: something about what she had just said … Alexander watched, waiting for the blow to land. When it did, Doc blinked once before he returned his gaze to the girl and produced a mild smile.
Unaware of his effort, Belle was still talking. “I imagine we both got the cold from Wilfred,” she said, “but everyone’s been coughing and sneezing.” She looked at the priest then. “I heard you were back in town, sir. I wanted you to know that I went through the accounts after your visit, and I found Johnnie’s money. He booked five thousand, two hundred and fifty-seven dollars over six months. He withdrew two thousand just before he died. That leaves a little over thirty-two hundred dollars. The cash is still in Daddy’s safe,” she said bitterly. “He probably expected to keep it.”
Wyatt’s mouth had dropped. Morgan’s face was alight. Doc coughed, eyes bright over the cotton cloth in his hand.
Before any of them could say a word, Belle continued, “If you’ll give me an address, sir, I’ll send a wire transfer to St. Francis, but I don’t want the money to go to that pope person—”
Suddenly silent, she held her face still. The others, even Kate, waited respectfully while Isabelle Wright fought tears, for she had spent many hours studying columns of numbers in Johnnie’s terrible handwriting and had stopped often to recall his unexpected remarks, his interesting ideas and wry observations. Ten days spent in bed with a bad cold and a good book had made Belle newly aware of what a good friend Johnnie Sanders had been and of how often she still wished that the two of them could share something notable she’d just read.
Eyes brimming, Belle raised her head and straightened her back. “I think that you should use Johnnie’s money to build a library for