When Henry Came Home (38 page)

             
"How is he?"

             
Covey shrugged. "I hear Doc had to take a few fingers off; hand might come, too, less he's real lucky."

             
Henry made a small noise in acknowledgement. He glanced down and then out at Covey's horse in the yard. "There's room in the barn if you want to cool him some," he said. "You c'n come on into the house when you're done."

             
The other man grunted slightly, not understanding, then turned and saw the horse. "Oh. Sure," he said, and let his legs jog quickly down the steps. He whistled a sharp, quick note, and the beast's head rose. "Good girl," he muttered softly.

              "So?" Mary peeked around the corner of the doorway and looked around; seeing, as she knew already, that the visitor was gone, she stepped in.

             
"He wanted to trade a bridge for a ten percent share of his ranch."

             
"And?" She moved forward with soft, dance-like steps.

             
He put out an arm and she came closer, brushing the inside skin with her fingers. "And I said yes." His hand closed around her arm, loose, and he looked up. "If the worst happens, it will be hard, but nothing we can't get back up from." He leaned forward a little, feeling her grip tighten as he stood, then lax again. He cleared his throat softly and the stifled a small cough.

             
"Everything will work out fine," she announced, confident.

             
"I hope so." He went into the hall, and she followed him to the bedroom.

             
"When does building start?"

             
"Soon's I get the drawings finished—it'll mean a few trips out to his place, maybe overnight." He went to the chest of drawers in the corner, a solid piece of pine that had belonged to his grandfather and then to he and John since they had been born.

             
"All right," said Mary, amiable, sitting on the end of their bed and letting her feet dangle. She frowned suddenly. "Hen, what're you doin'?"

             
He leaned over a little and opened the second drawer up, digging around for a moment in the back and feeling the cool, dead weight as his hand touched what he sought. It was a hot day, but the heaviness sent a chill up his spine, just for a moment. He pulled, then pulled harder, though careful, a little surprised that he had not remembered how much it weighed.

             
"Hen..." murmured Mary, watching with round eyes as he pulled out the long black rifle.

             
He held it upended, tightly around the long barrel, his knuckles white. It was heavy, and he didn't know if it was merely his weakness or something else. He hiked it up a little and caught it closer to the trigger, then brought it over to the bed and set it down, making sure the barrel pointed away from Mary. He stood again to go fetch the shots, but for a moment his eyes went out of focus and his head pulsed, as it often did when the weather was hot and he was tired. He sat down, weak, on the edge of the bed.

             
"Hen, are you all right?"

             
Coughing slightly, he nodded and pointed back to the chest of drawers. "Could you—get the box of—in the bottom drawer."

             
"But Hen, why?" she asked, standing anyway and moving across the room.

             
"Forget sometimes—" he said, his voice almost a whisper now, the force gone out of it. "In peacetime—never really peace. I forgot—get lazy..."

             
She bent, losing her arm in the drawer as it slid around the bottom. "But there's no war, hardly ever any disputes." She pulled out a small, heavy box and handed it to him.

             
He took the small block but didn't open it, merely setting it on his lap. As he spoke, he looked down at it. "Still—dangerous land out here. Maybe nothing—ever happen—but we'll be ready." He frowned in concentration.

             
Mary mulled this over for a minute or two. "All right," she said at last.

             
Henry blinked, and had trouble getting his eyelids open again.

             
"You're tired," she said, taking the box of ammunition from his lap. She set it aside on the floor by one wall, then came back and removed the gun to the same place.

             
"Keep—pointed away—" he said, and let out a long sigh.

             
"I am." She returned again, this time to lace her fingers under his ankles and heave his legs up onto the bed, spreading her legs as she bent to accommodate her swollen belly.

             
"Thank you," he murmured as she began to remove his shoes. A short while later, he felt the cool waft of air that meant she was fanning him gently.

              In the morning, Henry spread his drawing things out over his desk, clearing a large space in the middle for the paper and pinning it down at the edges with a few objects so it wouldn't roll back up. He studied the empty page for a while and let his hand drift up to move this way and then that, tracing invisible lines experimentally.

             
Mary came through a time or two, once to set a glass of water on the edge of his desk, but was quiet and didn't speak, wishing not to disturb him. He was focused, and didn't seem to see her.

             
After a while, staring at the page, he fumbled for a pencil and began to draw. He frowned, thoughtful, never quite satisfied with what actually came out on the page. It was a matter of resignation and acceptance to him, drawing, and of humbleness as well. If he struggled too much in the details, in getting it out exactly as he had planned, he knew that it would strain, shatter and evaporate before his eyes. Instead he silenced the corrective thoughts and let the imperfections remain.

             
At noontime, Mary ventured a little through the doorway, a plate in hand. She made no effort to silence the noises of her feet, but he didn't seem to notice. "Hen," she whispered, "lunch..." Still, he did not look up, and after waiting a few minutes more, she returned to the kitchen.

             
An hour later, she looked back in. His face was a little peaked, and his brow deeply furrowed. Silently, she moved to the desk, standing on the other side. With a quick, sudden hand, she reached down and plucked the pencil from his fingers, knowing from experience that, had she gained his attention any other way, startled, his hand would have skewed a long, blunt line across the paper.

             
He looked up, blinking, and smiled distantly. His right hand clenched and unclenched, and he blinked again, returning finally. "What is it?" he asked.

             
"It's well after noon; you need to eat." She put one hand on her back and one on her stomach.

             
He looked vaguely puzzled for a moment, gauging himself against the hour. "Yes—" he said, "I am hungry."

             
She smiled. "You should be. But you'll have to eat it cold, I'm afraid."

             
"It's hot enough out I welcome it."

             
Mary went back into the kitchen and brought out his meal. He ate, sitting back and holding the plate away from the drawing in case he spilled. Mary scooted up on the edge of his desk, gazing at his sketch. There was a central figure, then several smaller surrounding pictures from different angles. "It's wonderful," she said.

             
"Well—something to go from. When I go out I'll match things up, change a little." He pointed to a large beam on the bridge, with a support. "This—I'm not sure about." He stopped suddenly, still, and his left hand moved unconsciously to set the plate on the edge of the desk. He glanced at the rifle in the corner, propped up against the wall. "Do—do you hear it?" One hand gripped the arm of his chair, and the other felt for his cane.

             
Mary looked behind herself, at the window. "Someone coming, you mean?" She listened, then got up and went to the single-pane glass. "Oh—it's Doc." Doc's rig was easy to spot from a distance; he had finally gotten a large, black carriage, enclosed, and used it at all times. He found it both striking and useful for transporting ailing patients when needed, which, as a rather softhearted man, was oftener than he liked.

             
"Oh," said Henry. "Well—I'll get up anyhow."

             
Doc was fast in coming, but Henry wandered around the front room for a time while his horses strained over the widely sloping plain. When the carriage pulled up out front, Henry went out onto the porch and Mary emerged, joining him at his side. Doc was just getting down from the carriage, grunting and wheezing a little and carrying the little black case that never left his side. His head was completely bald now, bright red in the sun. He turned, grinning tightly and squinting through his spectacles.

             
"Well, howdy, folks," he said, shaking hands quickly with Henry and standing on tiptoe as he bowed and kissed Mary's hand. She smiled, withdrawing her arm slowly to rest on her stomach, rubbing lightly. In the shade, he grinned genuinely. "Sure glad to see you in such conditions, ma'am," he said, chuckling. "Sure glad."

             
"Thank you, Doc," she returned politely, flushing a little.

             
He turned to Henry and sobered. He looked between them for a moment, worrying his long, unkempt mustache with a thumb and index finger. "Came by," he said. "Thought you folks'd maybe wanna know—that man, from the Dry Water." He paused, looking between them again, apologetically. "Well, he died, last night. Infection. Wasn't nothin' nobody could do."

             
"Oh," Mary let out softly, a hand going to her mouth. The other slipped into Henry's. He glanced at her, fleetingly, then at the ground and out to the plain.

             
"Way I see it," said Doc, talking quicker now to fill in the silence, "wasn't nothin' you coulda done, neither. Other way around, that purty girl'd be just as dead as him."

             
Henry blinked and looked down at him. "I know," he said. "Thank—thank you for coming."

             
"No thanks needed, son, none 't all. S' on my way out south anyhow, do a few rounds." He glanced back and forth, nervous, as was his habit. "Anyhow, while I'm out here—no harm in a quick checkup?"

             
The question was addressed to Henry, and he looked over at his wife. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly and she nodded a little without knowing it. "No—no harm," he said, distant, looking at her.

             
Doc rubbed his hands together. "Well—we'll do it inside," he said.

             
Henry led them into the house.

             
"Can I get you something cool to drink, Doc?" asked Mary.

             
As if suddenly conscious of the effects of the sun, Doc took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow, touching the top of his head tenderly. "Thank you ma'am, I'd 'preciate just some plain, clear water." He nodded briskly and followed Henry into the bedroom. "Just sit—yes, the bed's fine." Doc grabbed the chair next to the bed, pulling it out so that when he sat he faced his patient. He set his black bag on his lap and suddenly the hurried nervousness was gone, replaced by an easy, personable manner, as if he had all the time in the world. "How goes life?" he asked loosely, picking carefully through his bag. "Shirt off—yes." He glanced up to see Henry unbuttoning his collar.

             
"Well," replied Henry, in answer to the question.

             
"Lookin' forward to the little one?"

             
His answer was immediate. "Yes."

             
Doc finally located his stethoscope and heaved to his feet, reaching around Henry's back and under the unbuttoned shirt. In all their meetings, Henry had never removed his shirt entirely, and Doc didn't question the practice. "Breathe in," he said.

             
Henry took a breath.

             
"All the way, son, all the way."

             
He took another breath, deeply, and dissolved into a series of short coughs. Doc stepped back, holding the end of the stethoscope.

             
"Sorry, son," he said, making a motion to rest a hand upon his shoulder, but drawing back before he touched. "I 'pologize, but just one more time." This time, he pressed the little conical end to the front of his chest. Henry hesitated a moment, then breathed in again, catching himself with only a few soft sputters. "Good, good," muttered Doc. He sat back down, and the stethoscope disappeared back into the bag. Doc's hand joined it, rummaging around blindly as he directed half his attention to the patient. "They're saying you made quite a shot," he said, his voice plain and without challenge.