18

Upon his return to Jeremiah's room, Shepard hesitated before opening the door. He heard no coughing, and the continued lack of it became far more worrying than the painful hacking had been.

Did it mean he'd be met by the news that Jeremiah's condition had worsened? The thought made him sick to his stomach. He'd grown to care for the old man in the past two weeks, despite everything that should have set him against doing so, and viewed him as a friend.

He settled his hand atop the brass knob, but before he could even think of turning it, the door swung open to reveal Hazel.

Her face was free of tears, which Shepard took as a good sign, though a frown creased her brow.

He stepped into the room, his gaze fastened on the still form in the bed. "How is he?"

Hazel closed the door and turned to watch him, "Much the same considering you weren't gone more than fifteen minutes." She stood beside him and folded her arms across her chest.

Shepard grunted. "It felt much longer."

He glanced at Hazel out of the corner of his left eye and tried to determine if she'd caught sight of his minor altercation with Thomas. Hazel's eyes were narrowed in a look of disapproval, but her lips twitched as if trying to hold back a smile.

"I brought something for you," he said, hoping to distract her if she was indeed displeased with him.

He held out the tin box and watched in rapt fascination as Hazel yanked it out of his hand and blushed to her hairline. Now he really wanted to know what was inside.

"Did you open it?" She asked, her voice trembling slightly as she hid it behind her back.

Shepard crossed his arms over his chest and braced his feet wide, "No." He paused for effect, then added, "But I was going to."

Hazel swallowed. "Before or after you pushed Thomas through the wall?"

"Before." Shepard grinned as the scene replayed within his mind, "And I didn't push him; he fell."

"That's not what it looked like from here," she said with an arched brow.

"I'll have you know," Shepard murmured as he advanced on her, smiling when she retreated until he'd backed her into a corner. "I barely touched him."

Hazel let out an unladylike snort and did her best to act unaffected by his nearness.

Shepard nodded and braced his hands on either side of her, trapping her in place. "He attempted to steal that treasure chest right out of my hands and then sucker-punched me when he couldn't."

Her eyes narrowed as she studied his jaw. After a moment's quiet reflection, she met his gaze, "There's not a mark on you."

"Yup," Shepard chuckled, "he's not very strong, your Thomas."

Hazel let out another snort and rolled her eyes. "He isn't my Thomas, and you know it. And in any event," she grumbled, looking thoroughly disgruntled and adorable at the same time, "that doesn't explain how he ended up falling through the wall."

Shepard leaned down until their noses almost touched. "Firstly, there was no wall, which is the only reason he fell. If there'd been a wall, he wouldn't have lost his balance and fallen outside after I gave him a pat on the cheek."

"A pat on the cheek?"

"Exactly," Shepard murmured with a lopsided grin, "you know, a simple little tap as a way of saying, 'valiant effort, better luck next time.'"

Hazel laughed and shook her head. "All because you wouldn't let him have my box?"

"Yes. Finders keepers," He rested his forehead against hers and twirled the end of her braid in his right hand. "Did you miss me?"

She looked at him, somewhat cross-eyed due to his closeness, and wondered if he realized the true magnitude of his question. He no doubt meant it in the present tense, but within her heart and mind, it somehow managed to encompass the past six years as a whole. "You were gone for all of seventeen minutes."

He winked, "You said earlier it was fifteen. I believe that's a yes, Jonesy."

"Or I'm terrible at telling time, or I rounded down because those two minutes were so insignificant."

Shepard smiled. "Admit it; you missed me."

She stared at him, her heart pounding a furious beat against her ribs and her stomach doing somersaults. She had missed him for the entire seventeen and a half minutes he'd been gone.

It hadn't mattered that she could see him through the window. If anything, it made her want him back beside her as soon as possible—a fact which didn't bode well to her emotional wellbeing once Shepard finished his business in Sheridan and left.

"Since you missed me," he whispered, his lips brushing against hers with each word, torturing her, "does that mean I get to see inside the box?"

Hazel swallowed, finding it difficult to focus on anything when he was so temptingly close, teasing her with featherlight kisses. But the threat of dying from mortification if she revealed the contents of the tin box proved to be just what she needed to maintain a relatively clear head. "It's only paper."

Shepard's eyes narrowed as he pulled back slightly to see her better. Since he'd already believed it to be paper, he wasn't surprised to have Hazel confirm his suspicions. The interesting bit lay in what was on the paper she so desperately didn't want him to see.

Love letters, perhaps? Considering he'd never written her after leaving San Luis, if they were love letters, they most assuredly weren't from him, and he had no desire at all to read them.

"I should check on Jeremiah," she said softly, nudging Shepard's left shoulder until he stepped aside. "Thank you... for bringing this to me." She set the tin on the washstand and quickly cleaned the soot from her hands, hoping she hadn't ruined her dress in her efforts at keeping the box out of sight.

Without another word, Hazel resumed her vigil at Jeremiah's bedside.

Shepard emptied the dirty washbasin and filled the pitcher with clean water, resuming his duties in fetching ice when needed without being asked. All discussion over the mysterious contents of the tin box ceased.

The rest of the day passed in silence other than murmured remarks on the mountain view as the sunset—paltry attempts at pretending Jeremiah's condition wasn't growing worse.

Over the next four days, his fever grew steadily worse without any sign of breaking. Their routine of attempting to bring Jeremiah's fever down remained the same, resulting in endless trips to retrieve fresh bowls of ice until Harris declared he could spare no more. Doctor Graham paid several visits; each prognosis no more helpful or hopeful than the last.

Admitting he was at a complete loss on what more to do, the doctor retrieved a vial of amber liquid from his battered brown bag and set it on the bedside table.

"Give him two drops of this in a glass of water every four hours. If it doesn't ease the fever's grip, I fear nothing will." He snapped his bag closed, his gaze darting between Hazel and Shepard when he quietly asked, "He told me he has a wife and family in Colorado."

Hazel and Shepard nodded.

"Have you sent word of his condition?"

Shepard shook his head and clenched his jaw tight.

"We," Hazel cleared her throat and blinked against a rush of tears before continuing, "we didn't wish to cause alarm." She licked her lips and struggled to keep her emotions in check as she said, "I'll send a telegram tomorrow."

Doc Graham shook his balding head, "Now."

"Now?" Shepard growled, standing with feet braced as though ready for a fight, and his hands clenched in tight fists.

He wanted to hit something, hit it hard enough to bleed, and ease the heavy ache settling around his heart. But the rational part of Shepard's mind whispered Graham didn't deserve it, and Thomas wasn't around, so there was no immediate relief for all the pent-up rage and anxiety threatening to consume him.

Doctor Graham nodded, looking completely unfazed, standing up to an angry man more than twice his size. "Tomorrow may be too late." Then, with one last meaningful look between Shepard and Hazel, he grabbed his bag and left.

Hazel watched in silence as Shepard all but slammed the door shut.

"We'll wait, Jonesy," Shepard rasped, his voice noticeably strained, "Jeremiah will pull through, you'll see."

When the clock struck the hour of seven on the morning of the fifth day, Hazel awoke from the wingback chair she'd spent the past several nights sleeping in and found Shepard quietly mopping Jeremiah's brow.

It was a sight she found endearing and troubling. "How is he?"

Shepard plunged the cloth back into the water bowl, wrung out the excess, and resumed bathing Jeremiah's face, neck, and upper chest. "No worse..."

He heaved a sigh and tossed the rag at the bowl, but it missed and fell to the floor. Shepard stared at it for several silent moments without moving to pick it up, "But no better either."

Hazel stood, biting back a groan and rubbing the ache settled low in her back. She'd worn the same yellow dress since the day they'd kissed. There'd been no time to think of changing what with looking after Jeremiah, and it showed in the disheveled state of her gown.

She stretched and found herself staring at her blackened tin sitting where she'd left it on the washstand. Its secrets and the worry of having them revealed seemed insignificant now.

After quickly tidying her appearance as best she could, she refreshed the water in the bowl and retrieved the wet cloth on the floor, replacing it with another clean square of muslin. When the clock chimed at half-past seven, and Shepard still hadn't moved, Hazel stared at him and quietly asked, "Have you eaten?"

"No," Shepard shook his head, leaning his elbows on his knees, his shoulders slumping forward in defeat.

He couldn't remember a time he'd felt so worn out in both mind and body, and the scattered short naps he'd taken between tending to Jeremiah had only seemed to make it worse.

"Did you rest?"

"A little here and there," Shepard murmured, rubbing his brow and looking exhausted.

"I'll get us something to eat," Hazel said over her shoulder as she took hold of the brass doorknob, expecting him to give his usual warning to be careful or insist on doing it himself. But he didn't.

She waited long enough to see Shepard give a slight nod before leaving and returned in short order with two plates of eggs, sausages, and fried potatoes. They picked at the food in silence and ate sparingly.

Once they'd finished, Shepard stacked the plates and utensils and watched Hazel administer more of the medicine.

Brushing wet gray hair off Jeremiah's forehead, Hazel straightened the sheets across his middle as she said, "It might be best if one of us sent word to Bertie...."

"Why?"

"You heard what Doctor Graham said," she murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed as she wrung out the fresh cloth. "And because she deserves to know. If it were me..." she snapped her mouth closed and blinked against the gathering tears before stating, "I'd want to know."

Shepard stared at the dirty plates in his hands, tempted to throw them and watch them shatter. "What good will it do? If he's..." he stopped, unable to say the word 'dying.'

It formed on his tongue. His mind counted out the syllables and visualized the shape of each letter. But his lips clamped shut, refusing to allow it freedom.

Clearing his throat, Shepard said instead, "She won't get here in time to save him."

Silence, and then Hazel whispered, "I'll go to the post office when you get back."

Knowing she was right but unable to speak past the lump clogging his throat, Shepard quietly left the room with a heavy heart.

His mind was in a fog. His body moved without any thought or direction, propelled by the need to escape the room where his friend lay dying.

He didn't remember leaving the saloon or what he'd done with the dirty dishes. It wasn't until a cacophony of saws slicing through wood and hammers against nails bombarded him when he walked through the backdoor of The Ruffled Feather that he realized he hadn't returned to Jeremiah's room as planned.

Francis greeted him with a cheery smile that slipped from his face as he patted Shepard on his shoulder before carrying several boards upstairs. The sympathetic pat was all the motivation Shepard needed—that and hearing Thomas barking directions to the men rebuilding Hazel's bedroom wall.

Picking up a hammer and pouch of nails from Hazel's work table, he took the stairs two at a time and went to work on helping fix the roof. The day wore on with the sun sporadically bursting through clouds to beat down on Shepard's shoulders.

After nailing the last shingle in place, he stood to admire his handiwork and heard labored breathing and the creaking of the ladder behind him.

"You've done a skilled job," Thomas panted, stepping onto the roof. He plunked his hands on his hips and stared at the shingles, nodding his head.

It didn't escape Shepard's notice that Thomas remained within easy reach of the ladder and at a safe distance from him. Maybe it meant the man had grown some sense over the past few days.

In no mood to make idle chatter and knowing he ought to get back to give Hazel a break from tending to Jeremiah, Shepard grunted.

Thomas cast a glance behind and grabbed hold of the ladder, hurrying down the rungs at a speed that made it tremble and threaten to send him crashing to the ground.

Shepard was tempted to assist gravity.

But instead, he found himself steadying it and waiting until Thomas was well clear before descending himself. Once he was safely on solid ground with only two slivers embedded in his right palm, he returned the hammer and pouch of remaining nails where he'd found them.

Thomas cleared his throat from where he stood, blocking the backdoor. "I suppose I should thank you for the work you've done in helping us fix up Miss Isadora's shop."

Shepard stared at him. "I'm doing it for her, not you."

"All the same," Thomas grumbled, planting his hands on his narrow hips. "Now, I don't know what's going on between the two of you-"

"That's because it's none of your business."

"But you should know," Thomas doggedly continued, "I plan on marrying her if she'll have me."

Shepard threw back his head and laughed; he couldn't help it. "What makes you believe she'll have you when she's rejected you five times already?"

Thomas scowled, "Some need a little more persuasion than others. And anyhow, women like her can't be too picky."

"Oh, really?"

Thomas nodded and lifted his chin to a belligerent angle, clearly picking up on the dangerous tone of Shepard's voice but was either too stubborn or too stupid to move out of harm's way.

"And what exactly do you mean by 'women like her,' Josephine?" Shepard approached the smaller man and didn't stop until they stood toe to toe, forcing Thomas to tip his head back to meet Shepard's furious gaze.

"Y-you're old friends," Thomas weakly replied with a shrug of his shoulders, "you know what I mean."

"Explain it to me like I'm a child," Shepard whispered, his tone dripping with venom and the threat of barely restrained violence.

Swallowing convulsively, Thomas took a step back but proved his stupidity by opening his mouth and saying, "I-I just meant to say, i-it don't bother me none her being a wh-"

Shepard didn't let him finish; hearing Thomas pronounce the beginning sound of the word was all he needed. He punched him square in the face and shoved him against the wall, "What were you going to call her?"

If the man had any sense, he'd keep his mouth shut.

But, as though to prove he was more dimwitted than Shepard already believed him to be, Thomas cradled the left side of his face and spit blood on the floor as he cast a wary but defiant glare and said, "A whore."

"That's what I thought," Shepard growled, delivering a heavy blow to Thomas's gut that doubled him over and left him gasping and dry heaving. "Say it again."

A weak mewl escaped Thomas as he shook his head and released a wild swing that Shepard easily dodged and countered with a sharp uppercut. The force of the blow knocked Thomas to the ground, cradling his broken and bleeding nose.

Grabbing Thomas by the collar of his shirt in both hands, Shepard hoisted him up to his tiptoes and slammed the curly-haired idiot against the outside wall hard enough to rattle his teeth.

Once he knew he had his attention, Shepard leaned in close and hissed, "I'm only gonna say this once, Josephine, so you better listen close. You dare call Miss Jones a whore again, and you'll be sipping on soup from your bed for the rest of the year. You hear me?"

Thomas nodded with stark panic in his gaze.

Shepard clenched his jaw so tight it was a wonder he didn't crack his molars. Then, with one last shove against the wall, hard enough to knock the air from Thomas' lungs but not incapacitate him, Shepard abruptly released his hold and stepped away, grunting in satisfaction when Thomas collapsed to his knees.

"One last thing."