He’d worried when his father had left that he’d have no outlet through which to share his gift—and he smiled as he glanced up at the framed newspaper advertisement that hung over his desk. Jackson Undertaker Services. Nobody kinder in town. It had taken his father mere months before he’d opened a small funeral parlor in Tombstone on his arrival. He’d never understood quite why his father had chosen Tombstone—he’d only heard tales of its gunfights and fires. He’d begged his father to stay with him in New York in the apartment he’d purchased, but finally gave up, vowing to his father that he’d visit as soon as he could.
He’d made that promise four years ago. Now, he only hoped he’d make it in time.
Chapter 3
Sage rubbed the back of her neck and hung her head. The rhythmic snores of Mr. Jackson had almost lulled her to sleep and she stood, stretching her arms over her head.
She’d spent the better part of a week here in this room, she and Mrs. Baxter taking turns keeping Mr. Jackson comfortable. The doctor had been in and out several times, smiling and offering assistance. And each time, Sage hoped that this would be what would ease Mr. Jackson’s discomfort and set him on the road to recovery, but so far, that hadn’t been the case. He hadn’t been all that sick to begin with, and in the beginning had shown signs of recovery quickly—but it had been all downhill recently.
The whistle from the mine signaling a change of shifts joined the mournful moan of the train arriving, and she pulled back the red velvet curtains a tad, peering down the street. The hustle and bustle of Allen Street never stopped, and buckboards and horses jockeyed for passage as the town came to life with the start of a new day.
She turned back toward Mr. Jackson and smiled as Mrs. Baxter entered the room with a silver tray, a flowered porcelain tea set rattling as she set it on the small table beside Mr. Jackson.
“He’s still sleeping?” she whispered as they both peered down at the patient, his eyes closed and his face pale.
“Yes. He’s been sleeping for a few hours now,” Sage said as she placed a cool, wet cloth on his forehead. “I think the fever has broken, though. The tonic the doctor brought last night must be working.”
Mrs. Baxter clucked softly as she poured a cup of tea and handed it to Sage. “I’m not convinced that any of those pills do any good at all. Look at his color. He’s the color of ash, my dear. Clearly, you can see that.”
Sage sighed as she sipped her tea then set it aside. Mrs. Baxter was right. The fever may have broken, but Mr. Jackson didn’t look a single bit better.
They both took a step forward when Mr. Jackson stirred, his eyes fluttering and then closing again as he turned away from the sunlight streaming through the window. Sage hurried to the window, drawing the velvet drapes closed as Mrs. Baxter struck a match and lit the lantern on the bedside.
His eyes fluttering open once more, Mr. Jackson reached for Sage’s hand and she gripped it lightly, his thin, fragile fingers in hers.
“Thank you for your time, my dear. I am most grateful,” he said quietly as he nodded at her and turned to Mrs. Baxter with a smile. “And you, madam. Such a great comfort. Thank you.”
Mrs. Baxter’s eyes brimmed with tears as she nodded. “If I am a comfort at all, Mr. Jackson, I learned from you,” she said, swiping hastily at her cheek.
“And Clint?” Mr. Jackson asked, his eyes fluttering closed.
Mrs. Baxter glanced quickly at Sage, her eyes widening. “I’ve written, sir. I know you asked me not to, but I—”
He released Sage’s hand and reached out toward Mrs. Baxter. “I knew you would, Vera. Thank you.”
She leaned toward him and squeezed his hand. “I expect him any day now, sir. He wired he’s on his way. Please, sir, hang on best you can. He’d love to see you. Such a fine boy, and he’d sure be sorry if—”
Sage took a step back as Mr. Jackson began to snore softly. She leaned toward Mrs. Baxter and said, “It’s best for him to sleep, I think. I’ll be on my way for a bit, but please send for me if you need me. For anything at all.”
Mrs. Baxter pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes, nodding at Sage. She blew her nose loudly and then stopped suddenly, checking to see if she’d woken Mr. Jackson. Sighing, she turned to Sage.
“Thank you, Miss Archer. He and I—well, I’ve been keeping his house for so many years, I just don’t know what I’m going to do without him. He’s one of the finest men I’ve ever met. His passing will be a big loss for the world.”
Sage wrapped her arms around the older woman, holding her tightly before she left. In the beginning, it had been hard for her to spend time with Mr. Jackson, the memories of her mother’s death a few years prior still fresh in her mind. But now, all she wanted was to comfort these people, help put her mind at ease—if she only knew how.
She closed the door softly and reached for her coat. She’d been up all night but didn’t feel a bit tired. She wrapped her scarf around her and thought she might stop by the mercantile and see how Suzanne and Sadie were faring, or maybe stop by the schoolhouse and say hello to her sister, Meg. She felt the need to see friends or family—it was so quiet here in the house, and just waiting for Mr. Jackson to pass—well, she wanted to be out with people for a moment.
As she passed through the kitchen toward the front of the house, she stopped at the tall, green velvet curtains that reached up to the high ceiling, closing off a doorway into what Sage knew was the funeral parlor. She hadn’t been in that room since her mother died, and her heart pitched at the memory. Mr. Jackson had been a Godsend during her mother’s illness, and her mother had spent many hours toward the end in Mr. Jackson’s company. They’d even planned her funeral service together, down to the kinds of flowers that Katie Archer wanted to be surrounded by in her final hour.
She glanced at the closed door to the main house and reached her finger out, pulling back the heavy curtain and poking her head through. She was greeted with the faint scent of rose water, and as she peered into the dark room she could only make out the chairs and candles in her memory.
“Boo,” whispered a voice behind her, and she lurched forward, spilling completely into the parlor. She spun on her heel, heat bursting in her cheeks as she righted herself. She looked down, straightening her skirts as she tried to catch her breath. She looked up, and she lost her breath again as she looked straight into the deep, brown eyes of a man she’d not met before, his smile stretching from ear to ear.
“Boo?” she asked as she tugged at her vest and straightened her hat. She’d been startled plenty of times by her brother and sisters, but who in their right mind would do such a thing in a funeral parlor, of all places?
“Yes, boo,” the man said as he reached out his hand toward her. She glanced at it quickly before placing her hand in his. He tugged her from the threshold but drew the drapes wide and crossed into the room. He opened the curtains on the window facing Allen Street and looked around for a moment, smiling as he walked back toward her.
He bowed slightly toward her, and she took a deep breath and pulled on her gloves, annoyed at his response. “I think a little more decorum would be in order in a funeral parlor, don’t you?”
He hadn’t stopped smiling and he gestured toward the room. “Maybe in an ordinary funeral parlor, but not in this one. My father has always been able to find joy and humor in any situation, even in funeral parlors. And this, I see, is no different than the ones I grew up in.”
Sage had begun to cross toward the front door but stopped in mid-stride. “Your father?”
“Yes, my father,” he said as he approached her, his eyes twinkling. He extended his hand once more and bowed as she took it. “I am Clint Jackson.”
“Oh,” she said, her hand on her chest. She’d spent many hours with Mr. Jackson, and with all she’d heard about his son, she’d expected something entirely different. He’d told her he was a good student, hard worker, very dedicated to his medical studies, never socialized and—well, she’d pictured him a
s quite stuffy. Boring, even. This man, his eyes dancing with humor, seemed anything but boring. Or stuffy.
She studied him a bit longer as he walked about the room, running his finger along the carved, wooden chairs set up for a memorial service and the ornate candle holders next to the table where the coffins usually rested. His eyes were quick, and he seemed to notice every nuance in the room. His smile was peaceful, his eyes soft, and he seemed very much at home in a room that would make most people squirm. It certainly did make her feel that way.
“And you are?” he asked as he circled back to the arched door.
She blinked quickly as she met his gaze. His brown eyes seemed to reach through her, a depth in them she’d not noticed before in one so young.
When she found her voice, she said, “Sage. Sage Archer. I work with the doctor, and have been assisting Mrs. Baxter care for your father.”
His eyes softened even more, although she’d not thought that possible. He reached for her hand again and took it gently.
“Then I owe you a debt of gratitude, Miss Archer. Thank you for caring for my father. He’s very dear to me, and I am profoundly relieved to find he has been in such good hands.”
He bent forward and kissed her hand, and she cocked her head. Her parents had taught everyone in the family proper manners, but here in Tombstone, with the town full mostly of miners and cowboys, they weren’t often followed. He clearly was not from around here.
“You’re quite welcome,” she said. “Your father is quite dear to me, as well. Such a kind man. I’m so very glad that you were able to be here. Your father will be pleased and Mrs. Baxter—well—”
“Ecstatic, no doubt,” he said with a smile. “Would you be so gracious as to point me in the proper direction? They’re sending my trunk from the stage, but I’d like to see my father now, if I might.”
Sage started toward the door, but as she reached for the latch, she stopped. Family reunions like this, especially at such delicate times, were difficult, and she imagined they’d want their privacy.
She opened the door and pointed down the hall to the right. “Just two doors on the left. You can’t miss it,” she said. She needn’t have bothered—she turned away just as Mrs. Baxter squealed and ran down the hall, wrapping her arms around the younger Mr. Jackson even as she wiped away her tears.
Chapter 4
Sage latched the door quietly as she stepped back from the Jacksons’ reunion. She knew first-hand how difficult it was to lose a parent, and although this man seemed happy enough, she knew from experience that he had a long road ahead. She stepped out onto the street, inhaling deeply of the crisp morning air. Even in the desert, winter was brisk, with winds sweeping from the hills that blew right through a person. She knotted her scarf and pulled her hat down over her forehead as she looked up and down the street, wondering who she might visit with before heading home for some sleep.
“How is Mr. Jackson today?” Dr. Folsom asked as his shiny, black leather boots thudded on the boardwalk. He strode toward her, a dark brown bottle of tonic in his hand. He pushed his bowler hat up on his forehead as he frowned down at her. He was a good foot taller than she was, and she tilted her head back to meet his eyes. She always found him handsome in an odd sort of way—even if her sisters disagreed.
Sage bit her tongue, wanting to mention that he had missed a fine supper with her family but thinking better of it. She was certain it had been a medical emergency, and she was in no position to expect anything from him.
“Not well, Dr. Folsom. He had a rough night, but finally fell asleep. He is in a great deal of pain, I’m afraid.”
“To be expected, my dear. To be expected,” he said as he brushed past her and reached for the door of the funeral parlor.
“Doctor,” she said, reaching for the latch at the same time. “His son has only just come to town. I left to give them some privacy.”
He pulled his hand from the door and stepped back, frowning down at her. “His son?” he asked as he placed the tonic in his pocket.
“Yes, his son from New York. A medical student, apparently. They haven’t seen each other in quite some time. So, I thought that they might have a bit of a reunion, as it were, and I left them to it. Mr. Jackson can certainly have a conversation, and—”
“Yes, yes, yes, I understand,” he said, interrupting her. “A medical student, you say?”
“That’s what Mr. Jackson told me. I didn’t discuss it with his son.”
He squinted down at her. “You met him, did you?”
Sage frowned in return. She’d been working with the doctor for quite some time, and she’d not known him to be curious about the family circumstances of his patients. It was always right down to business with him, trying to help them medically.
“I did. He seems pleasant enough,” she said, her cheeks heating as she recalled how he’d startled and teased her.
“Hm,” he said as he rubbed his chin and glanced at the door. “I suppose I can come back at another time.” He looked up and down the street. “I have some other pills to deliver, as it is. Mrs. Booth is expecting me to bring her husband’s new batch. I’ll go meet with her.”
Sage watched after him as he hurried off toward the home of Mr. Booth. He’d been injured in a mine accident and the doctor had been certain that he’d heal quickly, but so far he hadn’t. She knew it weighed heavily on his mind and heart, and she turned again toward the mercantile as he disappeared around the corner.
Sage wondered how the Jacksons were doing, and smiled as she thought of Mr. Jackson and the joy he must be feeling at being reunited with his son. Her head down as she traversed the boardwalk on Allen Street, she was oblivious to the commotion of the early morning. She gasped as she bumped against someone coming the opposite direction.
“I’m so sorry,” she said as she looked up and smiled at Mrs. Allen, her sister Meg’s mother-in-law. The charming lady was most elegant, even first thing in the morning. Her black hair was piled artfully on her head and pearl earrings dangled gracefully as she cocked her head and her clear, blue eyes met Sage’s.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
“I’m just a little tired, Mrs. Allen. I’ve been up with Mr. Jackson this past night.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Allen said, her gloved hand on her cheek. “The dear man—is he all right?”
Mrs. Allen hadn’t been in Tombstone for too awful long, maybe a year or so after she’d come from New York, but even she cared deeply for the beloved undertaker. In his time in Tombstone, in addition to assisting the bereaved, he’d volunteered at school ice cream socials, helped out at the new library in his spare time and was a frequent visitor to the theater.
“I’m afraid he’s not doing particularly well, no.”
Mrs. Allen cocked her head and tugged at her ear. She looked down the boardwalk toward the funeral parlor. “That’s frightful. Is there anything I can do to be helpful?” she asked. “He’s quite a wonderful person, and I’ve enjoyed getting to know him. He loves the theater, and I know that he’s always first in line when Sam and Meg perform.”
Sage’s heart tugged. Yes, he was a very kind person, and he would be greatly missed.
“His son has just arrived from New York. Maybe you know him? Clint Jackson?”
Mrs. Jackson laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Oh, if I knew everyone in New York, my dear, I’d be quite exhausted. I do hear, though, that he is in medical school.”
“Yes, I do believe he is. He’s with Mr. Jackson now, but if you’d care to inquire with Mrs. Baxter, they may be grateful for someone to sit with him after a bit.”
“I will certainly do that, my dear. Thank you for informing me. I want to do anything I can to be of assistance,” she said as she nodded and continued down the boardwalk.
Sage had never known talking to people to be so tiring, and she tugged her hat on more tightly against the cold. She stifled a yawn and shook her head for a moment as waves of exhaustion lapped at her. The scent of coffee pulled
her toward the mercantile and she stepped down from the boardwalk.
“Whoa, Missy, hold up there,” shouted the driver of a buckboard as he swerved to miss her. She’d had her eyes trained on the door of the mercantile and hadn’t even thought to check what might be barreling down Allen Street.
“That was a close one,” said a familiar voice as she felt a tug on her elbow. She turned and looked straight into the concerned eyes of her father. Relief flooded her—she must have been more tired than she thought—and she threw her arms around her father’s neck, the prickly wool of his suit coat comforting on her cold cheek.
“Papa,” she said softly into his collar. Sage was fond of Mrs. Allen, and the coffee had smelled divine, but she began to think that maybe she’d had plenty of conversation for one morning—she was more tired than she’d thought—and she suddenly itched for the comfort of her bed.
Beau Archer tightened his arms around his daughter as tears trickled down her cheeks. He pulled away and handed her a handkerchief, leaning forward to meet her eyes.
“You haven’t slept, have you, little one?” He waited while she dabbed at her eyes, fatigue tugging at her bones. She wasn’t ordinarily weepy—it must be the lack of sleep.
“No, Papa, I haven’t. Mr. Jackson is doing poorly, and the doctor asked me to sit with him. Mrs. Baxter needed some sleep, and I—”
“The doctor asked you to?” he asked as he frowned. “Was the doctor not available?”
Sage sniffled and dabbed at her nose. She held the handkerchief out toward her father, who held up his hands.
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