I tried really hard not to laugh at his obvious posing. "Oh really? Awfully generous of you."
Garrison didn't snort, quite—he just exhaled sudden-like. When I slid a look at him, he met it in a moment of mutual amusement...before confusion and then an awkward disapproval reclaimed his expression.
Benj just grinned, and turned to the Boss himself. "Jacob, you'll be relieved to know that the boys what drew to go first made it back in one piece. Now, Seth did get hisself roughed up a little. Sadly, none of the rest of us noticed he'd found trouble 'til it was too late to do nothin' 'bout it but carry him back. I do apologize for being remiss in my watch." His eyes twinkled.
Did he mean they didn't help bigoted Seth on purpose? What really surprised me was the resulting flicker of humor in Garrison's eyes as the two men shared a knowing gaze. "Dangerous town," the Boss drawled. Like he condoned it!
"That it is," agreed Benj, pretending not to notice how I was looking from him to Garrison and back. "Just as well we're only spendin' two nights here or we'd all go to the blazes. And speakin' of two nights...."
Garrison glared at him.
"Now you can't tell me you won't be back with those beeves by sunset," Benj challenged.
"So will you," the Boss drawled sternly, with as much assurance as he would mention the sun rising. "No swappin' allowed."
Benj made a tsk-tsk sound, but seemed to be taking the order well. "Has anyone other than me ever told you that you're no durned fun whatsoever? Can't say as I'm lookin' forward to spendin' the rest of my life in Wyoming with you."
Garrison took a sip of coffee, unfazed. "You seen the girl," he pointed out, an obvious dismissal.
I wanted to correct him—woman—but even more so I didn't want Benj to leave so fast, whether it was his turn to stay with the herd or not. I relaxed when he—Benj—said, "Now that was one reason I came lookin' for you, Jacob. Hold yer horses while I clear some of the dust outta my mouth, and I'll tell you the rest."
The waitress collected Garrison's and my dinner plates, then brought us dessert plates with a slice of chocolate cake on each. That's how long Benj took to clear out the dust. I tried a bite of the cake, and it was sooo good, I closed my eyes to savor it. But it tasted fattening, too, so I pushed my slice over to Benj, to buy him a little more time.
He nearly blinded me with his grin, and dug in.
Garrison sighed.
Luckily for Garrison, Benj couldn't stay quiet for that long. "The other reason I came to find the two of you," he finally explained, blue eyes sparkling as if with a secret, "is because I played a little Pinkerton last night."
"Is that a card game?" I asked, and he laughed. Even Garrison looked amused, though he had the wisdom to not let it reach his mouth. Funny, how Benj's amusement at my expense didn't annoy me half as much as the Boss's.
"No, Lillabit, though I did some of that too. What I meant to say was, I did me a little investigatin'. Now I didn't want to give away too much of your circumstances, bein' as that's no one's business but your own. But I figured I could ask a few questions vague-like, and see what I could find out."
"No one at Rath's heard tell of a missin' girl," Garrison pointed out, prickly. He'd played Pinkerton too.
Benj pointed a cakey fork at him. "So I've heard, but unlike you, I was wilier than to ask about a missin' gal. What I did was, I got myself over to the Long Branch where, sure 'nough, Wyatt Earp was dealin' faro."
Wyatt Earp? Again, my stomach sank, and not in a pleasant way. "I know that name," I whispered. "But I thought he was a marshal."
Brow wrinkling in confusion, Benj glanced from me to Garrison.
Garrison said, "Thinks she's an outlaw," and Benj laughed, relieved. So much for being taken seriously.
I glared at both of them. "You two may think it's funny, but there is such a thing as white-collar crime. I don't have to be good at riding or shooting in order to have embezzled money or...or cheated old men out of their life savings." Or been a high-class prostitute? Think of something else. "Why else would I know about marshals in some Kansas town? And I do. Even without a memory, I knew Mr. Earp's first name should be Wyatt."
Benj looked intrigued. Garrison looked skeptical. Neither looked worried.
"And you mentioned the marshal who was killed earlier this year," I pointed out, turning on the Boss. "You said his name was Masterson, right?"
He nodded.
"His first name was Bat, wasn't it?"
Benj sat back on his chair, impressed. It would have been a dramatic moment if Garrison hadn't looked me square in the eye and said, "Ed."
Oh. I was truly stunned...and somehow relieved. "His name was Ed Masterson?"
Garrison nodded. "And Earp's just deputy marshal. Deals faro and monte at night." He eyed Benj. "And talks."
Could it be I had the wrong people, after all?
Benj said, "Don't Ed's brother Bill go by the name Bat? He's sheriff of Ford County." So maybe I didn't. This was getting way too confusing, and I wished he'd tell us what he'd found out from Wyatt Earp...but I was too scared to hear it to ask on my own.
Luckily, Garrison asked for me. "So what's the bounty for turnin' her in?"
What? I glared at him. To my amazement, he smiled directly at me.
Him.
Jacob Garrison.
Smiled.
At me.
It was an awkward, just-having-some-fun smile, not one of his amazing transformation grins, though it vanished just as fast. But he couldn't take it back, and I had no idea how to react to it. Especially since we were sitting a lot closer than we had been.
Neither did I know how to react when he nudged his cake plate in my direction, by way of apology.
Benj said, "I fear me and you just weren't cut out to be bounty hunters, Jacob. No price on her head that I heard of, anyhow." So, relieved, I took a bite of Garrison's cake. His tasted as good as mine had. "But as I believe I already mentioned, I wasn't askin' 'bout Lillabit specifically. Instead, I asked Earp what he'd make of findin' someone lost on the prairie with no knowledge of how he got there." He paused dramatically, knowing we were waiting for his next words and savoring the audience. "And he said, 'I'd take him over to Doc McCarty's and make a pair of 'em.'"
It took a minute to sink in. "There's someone else?" I croaked.
"Greenhorn, no more'n thirty years alive, found crawlin' along the prairie by bone pickers 'bout four days back. Dang near dead of thirst, and broke his leg bad besides. Unlike our darlin' Lillabit, seems he weren't quite dressed decent when they found him, neither."
I didn't dare look at Garrison, but sensed his stillness beside me as he tried not to react to that—so he hadn't even told Benj that I was naked when he found me?
Benj added, "Apparently this feller has soft hands and fine teeth," and that pretty much cinched it.
"I've got to go see him," I decided, putting down my fork, Garrison's fork, with a trembling hand. I knew that if I asked Benj, he'd gladly escort me—otherwise he was on herd duty for the rest of the layover, right? And Benj was such good company. He'd put me at ease almost immediately, this afternoon. He'd learned about this man at Doctor McCarty's for me.
So when I said, "I've got to go see him now," why did I look at the Boss?
Whatever compelled me to do it, Garrison nodded his okay, and that was that. He laid several coins on the table—could it really have been fifty cents per dinner?—and stood. Benj scooped the last few mouthfuls of cake as he rose too. We walked out together, Garrison holding the door open this time.
Benj kept his hat off long enough to say, "I do wish you luck, darlin'."
I caught his free hand, the one without a hat in it, and I kissed him on the cheek. His cheek was smooth shaven and he smelled clean and soapy, like maybe part of his time in Dodge had been spent at the tonsorial parlor. "Thank you," I whispered into his ear, wishing I could put the depths of my gratitude into those two words. For a moment, as we leaned apart, I thought maybe I had.
Th
en he squeezed my hand, let go, and lightened the moment by winking at me. "Anytime, ma'am. Anytime at all." And he put on his hat, thumbed the brim, and headed jauntily off down the wooden sidewalk.
When I glanced over at the Boss, he was holding his hat in both hands and scowling. But the scowl didn't have any threat to it. In fact, for once I wasn't sure it was aimed at me at all. I think I'd just caught him in some sort of unhappy thought.
He took a deep breath and said, stiffly, "He'd be glad to walk you, if you lean that way."
But I'd made my decision. Benj was more fun to be with, and would definitely make a better companion in the long run. But this wasn't the long run, and to be completely honest, by now I felt safest with Garrison.
I cocked my head at him, wrinkled my nose, and said, "And here I thought you finished what you started."
He held my gaze for a long moment, long enough for me to hear a wagon rumble past behind me and to think that his gray eyes really were nice, clear and steady—when they weren't antagonizing me anyway. He swallowed, hard. Then he put on his hat, which threw his eyes into shadow, and he nodded and offered his arm.
Something inside me still found the gesture waaay too formal, but I took his solid arm anyway, and it felt natural, and safe.
And he walked me through the carnival of Dodge City to the City Drug Store, from which operated Dr. Thomas L. McCarty, and whatever revelations awaited me there.
Chapter 13 - Everett
Next stop on our walking tour of Dodge City....
Maybe it was because I felt so nervous about what waited for me at the doctor's that I took such interest in the single block that lay between Beatty and Kelley's Restaurant and the City Drug Store. Of the six buildings comprising that block, four were saloons: the Opera House, the Alhambra, the Alamo, and the Long Branch, which sounded particularly familiar, and not just because Benj had gotten his inside information there. They actually looked like nice businesses—what I could see of them around the body of my stolid escort—and I even heard orchestra music, nice orchestra music, i.e. Bach, drifting out of the Long Branch.
"Isn't the gentleman supposed to walk on the street side?" I asked Garrison, after about my third attempt to peek.
"Not in this town," he drawled firmly.
So I looked across the street, which must be almost a hundred yards wide, railroad track included. Still, I could read most of the signs. Great Western Hotel. Lone Star Saloon. Lady Gay. Commique Theater....
I did a double take. "Is that what the soldiers called the Commie-Cue?"
Garrison stopped, scowled at me, and switched sides.
But by then we were almost to the last building on the block, a two-story general store called, surprise surprise, Charles Rath and Company. Two men sitting outside Rath's nodded politely and said, "Garrison," and, "Heard you was in town." But they were staring at me.
"Craig," Garrison greeted. "Landers." And we kept on walking. If he was so well known at this general store—well-known enough to get mail delivered here—why had he taken me to the smaller one run by Morris Collar?
For the same reason he isn't introducing you, Lillabit, whispered something ugly in me. The more he was seen with me, the more damage I could do to his reputation, right?
I told myself that maybe it was because Rath's didn't have a dressmaker like Mrs. Staunton to help me out. Still, the thought didn't do much to bolster my confidence as we crossed Bridge Street—in this skirt, it was a lucky thing I did have someone to help me off of and onto the raised sidewalks—and arrived at The City Drug Store.
Doctor McCarty's store was twice as large as Morris Collar's, and most of the added size came in width. Like the restaurant, it surprised me with its elegance—high ceilings, dark wood counters, brass-trimmed, curved glass showcases of merchandise, and even artwork for sale on the walls, wherever there weren't rows and rows of medicines and toiletries. Tins of Imperial Granum Wheat Food, different brands of bottled "bitters," packages of Cuticura Anti-Pain Plaster, and even boxes of something called Dr. John Bull's Vegetable Worm Destroyer crowded the shelves.
Two fashionably dressed women who stood by a table in the middle of the store, examining wares, eyed our entrance. In the back corner of the store, a boy lounged against a counter, wearing pants that only came down to his knees, where they fastened over high socks.
I definitely had that out-of-place, double-exposure dizziness thing happening again, food or no food, and held a little tighter than necessary to Garrison's arm. He paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the shadowy interior of the store, then led me to a white-haired gentleman and offered his hand. "Jacob Garrison."
"Didn't you bring a snakebit cowboy in a few years back?" asked Doc McCarty, accepting the handshake a tad formally. The doctor's white moustache kind of sprayed out off of his upper lip, like an upside-down fan, in contrast to a kind of small tuft of a goatee that, for some reason, made me think of something a snowman would wear—I really was going insane, wasn't I?
Garrison nodded at the shared memory—of snakebite, that is.
"Hello," I greeted on my own, offering my own hand. "I'm—"
It almost came out! My name flickered up against my mind, touched my tongue like a forgotten taste—and then faded again. But not as far. It hadn't gone far at all. "I'm looking for someone," I continued, after a moment's stumble. "A man who was found on the prairie, with a broken leg. I think I might know him."
The doctor took my hand—but only briefly, and he didn't shake it. Still, he had kind, bright eyes. "That would be Everett," he concurred. "Is the man you're looking for named Everett?"
The name sounded familiar. But… so had Wyatt Earp's.
"Any reason she can't find out?" Garrison's presence felt like a wall beside me—I was protected on one whole side. I knew I had to stop thinking like that. Being alone tomorrow wouldn't be any easier for it. But in this unfamiliar setting, how could I not cling to what I knew?
The doctor considered him a moment, then puffed his mouth and released an ambiguous breath. "I don't see why not. He's on the mend, except for...well, you'll see." He led us to the back of the store, under a fancy archway, around a pot-bellied stove—there went that dizziness again—and he opened a door to a shadowy back room with a narrow bed.
And we heard tired singing: "...take me out to the crowd...."
"He's disoriented," murmured the doc, by way of apology. "The break was bad; he won't ever use that leg normally again. But this isn't the fever anymore, nor do I believe it to be the medication. I hope for your sake, miss, that he isn't—"
But I ignored him to slowly step into the room, straining my ears to catch his weak words. Peanuts. Cracker Jacks. I knew this song. Yes, I'd known "Camptown Races" and "Yellow Rose of Texas," too, but something about this song seemed particularly significant.
"...'cause it's root, root root for the home team. If we don't win it's a shame. 'Cause it's one, two, three strikes you're out—"
I joined softly with the chorus: "at the old ball game."
And a man on a cot sat up a little to squint at me.
He was fully dressed—of course the doctor wouldn't have brought me back here, otherwise. But he didn't look good, and matched the thick, heavy smells of the hot summertime room. He was sweaty—not hard-work sweat, like the cowboys, but a rancid, sick sweat. His skin peeled from severe sunburn, which must have made the stubble on his cheeks doubly hurt. His dark eyes were bright, either from pain or fever...or maybe from that bottle on the floor beside the bed. His leg had been splinted with two boards, and tightly wrapped. I saw a fly crawling on the bandaging.
And despite all this, I could tell that his haircut, close and neat, was a work of understated art.
Did I recognize him...or was the pounding of my heart just from the tension of the moment, and from that song—why did that song seem so familiar?
"Come closer," he said. "I lost my contacts."
I stepped closer, still peripherally aware of the Boss at my
back.
"Well," rasped the man on the cot. "Get a load of you! Ever fashion-conscious, aren't we?"
"You know me." I'd meant the words as a question, but they came out more of a desperate statement.
"Your point being...?" he prompted, kind of smarmy. Everett, the doc had said his name was. Was that his real name, the name by which I'd known him, or was it a temporary name someone had given him, like Lillabit? How much did he know?
"Are we friends?" I asked, wary.
"Friends?" He rolled his eyes. "Now she wants to be friends. Could've been friends before, but nooo! First she has to ruin my goddamned life, and now she wants to be friends. But do you know what? I don't even hold it against you. That's how nice a guy I am. I'm going so crazy in this pre-historic hellhole, I'm even glad to see you." He jabbed a finger in my general direction and smiled wearily. And smarmily.
"We'll come back when he's sober," drawled Garrison, and put pressure on my arm as if to lead me out, but this time I couldn't do what he wanted. I tugged free and took another step closer, both fascinated and repelled. He knew me. This man, Everett, knew me!
"What's my name?" I demanded. Of all the questions, that had become the most important. Once I had a name, maybe everything else would fall into place.
"You don't know?" he probed, weak but amused.
I shook my head.
"She doesn't know." He sniggered. "Got a memory access problem, do we? Dumped some information in transit? Searching for a signal? That's rich!"
That's rich. My throat suddenly tightened with an unpleasant memory. What, you think you're too good for me? That's rich. A man's unwelcome hand on my bare thigh. Me, stumbling back from a face—one that could have peeled away and whiskered out into this. A snapping sound, the heel of my pump broken. Damn. $85 pair of shoes, too.
I recoiled from the nauseating sensation of memories that some deep, instinctive part of me still didn't want to experience. Apparently I recoiled physically, too—right back into Garrison, who caught my elbow.
OverTime 1 - Searching (Time Travel) Page 19
