"You don't wanna die," mumbled Harry, failing to meet Doc Mulreedy's glare.
"No you idiot. I don't wanna die. Repeat that."
"I don't wanna die," he said. He stood slumped in front of Doc Mulreedy, shirt dirty, pants desperately needing a wash, and boots caked in mud.
"Now get the fuck outta here. The next time you're in here, and you haven't taken your pills, then I swear to God in High Heaven. I swear to my God, your God, the Asian God, the Indian God, every God, that I will kick your ass."
"Yes sir," said Harry. He nodded and walked out of the office.
Doc Mulreedy watched him walk through the parking lot, get in his truck and drive off. "He ain't gonna take the pills," he mumbled. He looked into the waiting room and his eyes settled on Margaret Muldridge. He knew she wasn't coming in for anything real. She was a hypochondriac and in this town he might as well be a part time psychiatrist.
He waved her back, trying to think up of something nice to say to assuage her that everything was ok. He hadn't noticed her in the waiting room when he was talking to Harry, so she would probably ask to be on the same pills he refused to take.
He nodded at Lilith as he waved Margaret into an exam room. "You findin' everything ok?" he asked, staring at the folder in her hands suspiciously.
"Yeah," she replied. "Just lookin' at Harry's file."
"Alright," said Doc Mulreedy, proceeding into the exam room and closing the door behind him.
When she was sure he wasn't going to come back out, she put Harry's folder down and returned to her father's. She looked at his charts, his vitals, what medication he was on, and shifted through the piles of past visits. Doc Mulreedy refused to use computer records, making her fantasize she was a spy in the 1960s. She continued to scan the pages, trying to figure out if the cancer was real. She was actually surprised as to how thorough and consistent the visits were. Her father may have become more diligent about doctor’s visits since she had left. Or Doc Mulreedy had become more adamant.
She flipped to another section and saw the diagnoses, the letters from doctors, the compilation of tests completed and their findings. All of it was real. It finally sunk in: her father was dying. She sat back down in the receptionist's chair, the folder on her lap. She closed it and slid it across the table, not wanting to be near it anymore.
A death sentence could be commuted. This was death itself, staring at her. Staring at them both. How could her father look at it so calmly?
Doc Mulreedy opened the exam door, flinging his nitrile gloves into the trash. "Marge, just please. Remember that everything is fine down there, up here, across from there, and most importantly, up and around from wherever. You are the absolute picture of health." He took out another cigarette, congratulating himself on finishing her questions and examination in less time than usual, and lit it. He had already finished a pack today, and it seemed like it was going to be a two pack day. Mulreedy, he reminded himself, it is important for your health, to quit smoking.
He waved her out and then his eyes landed on the Holliday files that were on the table, and the youngest Holliday that sat in the receptionist's chair. Her face had fallen past the river of Styx. She looked like she could see her father's dead face, here and now. "What'd you do that for?" he whispered, taking the file and putting it back on the wall with the others. "There was no reason to do that."
"He told me about it a couple days ago," she mumbled. "Didn't believe him."
"Sport, I can promise you he wants you back on ranch. But he wouldn't say things for that outcome. Goddamnit Lilith. What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I dunno if I wanna be here," she blurted out. She looked up at him, his wrinkled face, skin turning to leather, the deep crevices of a life lived, and didn't know if she could take his offer to take over the practice.
"So I guess you're telling me no?" he asked.
"I didn't say that," she replied.
"You said you didn't wanna be here. This town, your dying father, the ranch? I get all that right?"
"Look. I dunno anything, alright. Everyone keeps asking me things, and I dunno anything."
Doc Mulreedy leaned against the wall of files, contemplating what to say. It had been a stressful few days and he hadn't realized the sort of toll it would take on her. "You takin' care of yourself?" he asked.
"I dunno what that means," she said, chuckling. "I can tell you the bones in your hand though."
"You came home for peace, not for answers, am I gettin' that right?"
"I dunno anything Doc."
"Yeah. There's only one answer to your quandaries kid."
"What's that?"
"You gotta go live. Make some choices. Stay. Don't stay. Take the practice. Don't take the practice. Just do something, ya get me?"
She stared at the floor and the myriad patchwork of cigarette burns, accumulated from the years that he'd occupied the office. He hadn't cared to fix the office, spending most of his energy on the people. "My father is dying," she said with finality.
"And he wouldn't want you here to watch him die, either. You know your father better than anyone."
She chuckled at the thought. If her father thought she was staying because he was dying, he would probably drive her to Boston himself. It would bug him to consider that someone was in the house, watching and waiting for him to just not wake up one day. "That's a good point," she replied. "A guy came to the ranch today. Wanted to buy the entire place."
"Oh yeah? Tell yer father about this?"
"Nope. Got a date thought."
"There ya go. Sounds like you're living. Dating a wealthy man I suspect."
"Yeah, something like that."
"What's he do?"
She looked at Doc Mulreedy. "Computers," she said.
"Well fuck. Don't need fuckin' computers. Don't need him. Why can't you find a cool guy? Ya know an honest guy. Not someone who makes money off fuckin' electrons?" Doc Mulreedy took the empty pack of cigarettes, crumpled it, and threw it at Lilith. "Your father is a good man. But he doesn't need a nursemaid. And he's already got a Doctor. Damn good one too."
"Yeah."
"Go live."
She got up from the chair, gave Doc Mulreedy a hug and walked out to her truck. She wasn't sure what she was gonna do, but she at least knew one thing. Her father may not want anyone around to watch him die, but she sure as hell wanted to spend more time with him. They never had the best relationship, ya know maybe it was time to try and fix that. Before it was too late.
He'd never sell the ranch and move to Boston with her though. Maybe she could find a creative solution to this problem, perhaps figuring out a way to whisk them both to Paris. She chuckled. Her father had never been to Paris. But then again, she probably couldn't imagine a cowboy in Paris, let alone a 70 year old one.
CHAPTER TWO
"So what're you telling me?" asked Clark, looking at Tad Smith, the public defender that was assigned to his case. Tad had driven from Helena to meet him and take a look over the case details. They sat in a conference room in the Sheriff's office. It was the only place, besides Sheriff Holt's personal office, where they could have some privacy. Currently, Clark was the only prisoner being held in the jail, which afforded him some leeway and time alone.
There hadn't been much news after Sheriff Holt had found the evidence at his house. Tad had taken a few days to come out to meet him, mostly because of his backlog of clients. But, all in all, he had come prepared to ask Clark the harder questions about alibis and what had actually happened.
He had listened to Clark's side of the story, listening to Clark recount his rather boring life of going to work and going home to a frozen dinner. Rinse and repeat, day in day out. When asked about his romance and love life, Clark had been truthful and told him about his feelings and short fling with Lilith, but he was sure to also remind himself, and Tad, that ultimately he was an adult and knew that it wasn't serious. Even if he wanted it to be serious, even if he wanted to be holding her right then and
there, rather than looking at Tad's droopy face and cheap suit.
Even if it was a crush, it was a crush that was taking up a lot of his thoughts and time. And he had, had plenty of time to think about things, from fantasizing about what sort of date he wanted to take Lilith on, to deciding that it was time to save up for a new truck. Being in jail had given him the ability to find and ponder every detail of his life and endeavor to fix them all.
"I'm telling you that the case is thin, but plausible, at this point," said Tad, flipping through his binder. "I'm saying, I've seen thinner cases that I've led to an indictment, especially if anyone found out about your feelings for Lilith Holliday. They could connect it to your actions with your sister."
"That's completely preposterous," said Clark. "I can't believe that at all. What jury would take that as causation?"
"A dumb one. The most available kind of jury," replied Tad. He wore thick glasses that he took off his face. "I'm not a public defender because I like this job. I do it because it's good experience to hopefully land me a better gig somewhere else Clark. I want to win these things. Ya get me?"
"Yeah, I understand."
"So. I've filed motions with the judge to make sure that we can at least send you home or something. They can't keep you in here without putting you in front of a judge soon, anyway. I'll just get that ball rolling, alright?"
"Sounds good. Am I gonna be confined to my house?"
Tad smiled as he got up and collected his things. "I'll do what I can. But you might have to cook that lady of yours dinner at your place, rather than taking her out. And she might have to bring the ingredients. And the wine." He scratched his head. "I'll do what I can."
He nodded and moved to leave the conference room, but then he stopped. "Just a curious question, if you don't mind Clark?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you have any enemies around these parts?"
"What?"
"Well, we don't know who planted the diary and the wallet in your house, right? I trust you on that information. So, if I get you outta here, do you think someone might come after you out there?"
"Well, I dunno Tad."
"Clark, I would feel really fuckin' bad if you ended up dead in your house after I negotiated freedom without bail," replied Tad, chuckling.
"Yeah, I'll try and get a buddy to stay with me or something," replied Clark, not knowing if he even had any buddies to call upon.
"Well, more than one body ain't a good thing either. I'll ask Sheriff Holt about this," said Tad. "I dunno why I thought about that just now, but it's fitting, ya know? This is a mighty odd situation we got going on here." He nodded again and left the conference room, leaving Clark alone with his thoughts, and waiting for a deputy to take him back to the jail cell.
It was a strange situation. Who would want to frame him for the murder? Who would want him out of the picture?
Altogether it was odd because he had only moved into town a few months ago. He had no connection to the town, to the people, and although he was grateful to the Hollidays, he wasn't indebted to them in any significant way. He was just a ranch hand with a troubled past. He was just a regular guy.
Who would want to frame a regular guy? His mind reeled at the possibility it was connected to Lilith in some way. Maybe someone didn't like that he was getting close to Lilith? No, that wasn't right, it had just happened, it wasn't going on for that long. Maybe someone thought he was also apart of Ricky's thieving? That was more plausible. Maybe, he thought, it was all just a coincidence.
He shook his head. One thing was for sure, things would get a lot worse before they got better. That's just how these things worked. He just hoped that maybe, just maybe, Lilith was thinking of him just as much as he was thinking of her.
~~~
Lilith had returned home, unsure what to do with herself. The conversation with Doc Mulreedy had been enlightening and horrible. Her feelings were conflicted, they were morose and yet relieved. She knew that Doc Mulreedy was right about one thing, her father would hate if she stayed to wait and watch him die. It would freak him out, and that was honestly appropriate for a man of his stature, of his nature, and of his utmost independence. He had cared for the property more than for family incarnate. His life had been spent in service to birthright, not in service to his children.
She sat in the kitchen, pondering this newest revelation of her father. The letter from Boston was still on the counter, ripped open and read, and yet a reminder that there was life, so much life, outside this place. She grabbed it and read it again, relishing in the acceptance and the validation of her life and hard work in this way.
Being with Clark, his hands over her, was another form of acceptance that she had adored and remembered, wanting more. But this was different, especially considering that her father was dying. It was odd that the two men in her life were linked to the ranch, as if the ranch itself was telling her to stay.
Her mind ran back to a memory before she had started medical school. She had arrived in sunny Southern California and immediately began moving in to her new apartment in downtown Los Angeles. She loved her building, as well as her new neighbors that she talked to. It had been an office building that had been turned into apartments, and that feeling of occupying a space that was once a workplace was interesting and not foreign. It had reminded her of the ranch in a lot of ways.
She had walked downstairs, turned a corner and found herself walking along the infamous Skid Row. Homeless citizens crowded the sidewalk, some huddled together, others chatting, or hidden behind plastic shrouds made from garbage or grocery bags.
She decided that it was important to explore more of her new surroundings, so she had walked down the street when a man popped his head out of a plastic shroud. He wore a heavy jacket, holding out his hand. She didn't take it.
"Ma'am, could you spare some change?" he said, looking at her imploringly. He had sharp brown eyes, hollow cheeks, and a toothy smile that was missing more than a few teeth. The rest were yellowed and dirty. His hair, where present, was patchy and knotted.
She fished into her pockets for some change, seeing the life in his eyes. She placed the coins carefully in his hand, trying not to touch him. But, instead of taking the coins neatly, his other hand darted out and grabbed her wrist. "What the fuck dude," she cried out.
"Hold on. You gotta listen to me," he had said. "I know you're young girl, you're younger than I can even tell. But I gotta tell you something, something that you gotta take to heart."
"Let me go," she said, trying to yank her wrist away, but instead writhing in pain against his hard and fast grip. No one on the street seemed to be paying her plight any attention.
"You gotta understand," he said. "I need to tell you. You're gonna have some crazy life shit ahead of you. And you need to tell yourself as you're going through it, that, girl, tell yourself, not to choose comfort over hardship. Take the harder path, that's the one that deserves you. Not the one you deserve, but the path that deserves you. Ya get me?"
"Please, sir," she said. "Please, just let me go. You're hurting me."
His head moved in small circles, his eyes trying to bore their way into her skull. "You don't understand, but you will." He let go of her hand, snapping his other hand shut around the coins, and receded into his shroud. He pushed his legs inside and then there was nothing more to be seen of him.
Lilith looked around her, surprised that no one seemed to even care to see what had just happened. "Fuck," she whispered and immediately wove her way back to her apartment.
The days and weeks after that experience had melded together and she had forgotten what that man had said, because it didn't involve fingers, toes, livers, or common diseases.
But now, waiting on her father to return from whatever errand or oversight role he was currently involved in, all she wanted was to see if this was what the homeless man had been referring to. Was staying here, at home, the hardship that deserved her? Was she meant to overcome her father's impending deat
h and not run away to Boston? It's not like that fellowship was a cakewalk. It would be difficult and challenging, and coming back for her father's funeral would be horribly difficult too.
Her eyes welled up, tears about to burst forth just from thinking, considering the possibility of her father's death. Doc Mulreedy didn't know what the prognosis was, how much time was left, or even if it would ultimately claim her father's life. He could die of something completely unrelated, like a heart attack or a stroke. She cursed under her breath, knowing this was not an appropriate strain of thought.
The kitchen was empty, her father wasn't home, and all she wanted was to sink into Clark's arms and forget her world, her father's impending situation, and Boston. Maybe she could even get married before her entire life exploded. She put her head into her arms and closed her eyes.
The backfire of a truck woke her up a few moments later, announcing her father’s arrival. She saw him exit his truck and walk into the house, stomping his boots inside the door, as was his wont. She went up to him and gave him a hug, relishing the moment.
~~~
Pistol sat in hard wooden chair in what had been Kenny Kent's office. But Kenny's things were gone, mostly packed into boxes along the back wall. He moved in the hard chair, his feet sending up billows of dust into the air, highlighted by the few dirty windows that dimly let in light. He had thought he was going to be interviewed by Kenny. He knew Kenny. They had grown up together and Pistol had thought he was one of the few people he knew he could lean on, but Pistol hadn't been prepared to learn that Kenny's family had fallen on hard times.
One of the other ranch hands had told him that after Kenny's father had died, the ranch had been put up for sale by Kenny's older sister. It had been quickly snatched by a mining, development, and energy conglomerate known as Diamondback Properties LLC. They had installed their own manager and Kenny had chosen to skip town with his half of the money, rather than be relegated to working on whatever mining or other projects Diamondback had lined up.
Keeping Our Home (Holliday Book 2) Page 2
