Doc

him look dignified, you could see how bony and young Doc was, besides being banged up from the fall. Still, bad as he looked, and coughing about every third word, the dentist was eager to tell Wyatt about the race, explaining about the lope out to the field to avoid a forfeit, and saying how well Dick did, despite having some of the race wrung out of him before he got to the track.

“How was he in the pack?” Wyatt asked. “He snap at anybody?”

“No, sir. All business. Hadn’t been for that damned dog—I should have you press charges against the greyhound—”

Doc cursed for a while, coughing, and getting fed up with the interruptions. When the handkerchief was soggy, he tossed it into a basin on the floor. “Move those over closer, will you?” he asked, motioning toward a pile of clean cloths, but then he went right back to the race.

This was why Kate didn’t want any visitors, Wyatt realized. Doc couldn’t help himself. If there was somebody around, he’d talk. When he talked, he got cranked up. That brought on the cough, and then those things in his chest would rip. The boy’s eyes were watering now, but still shining in the moonlight as he told about the finish.

All heart, Wyatt thought.

“I swear: two more strides, we’d’ve taken the lead,” Doc was saying. “Didn’t use a quirt on him, either—” The coughing got really bad this time, and when it was done, Doc looked exhausted. “Not supposed to talk,” he reminded himself, whispering again. “He’s a wonderful horse, Wyatt. I’m sorry we didn’t do better for you.”

“Hell, Doc. Wasn’t your fault.”

“He had a lot left at the end. You thought about longer races?”

“Well, not for him …”

Maybe it was the darkness. Maybe it was because Doc admired Dick and showed it, so open and boyish like that. Partly it was just to shut Doc up before he made himself cough again. Whatever the reasons, Wyatt found himself telling about the morning he first saw that mare Roxana, and how he once hoped to breed her to Dick.

Doc lay back to listen. Sure enough, the cough quieted. After a time, he shut his eyes, but his face was alight while Wyatt talked about the colts he’d expected from the pair. Milers, quick to break, like Dick, but with Roxana’s stamina to go distance at speed. Caught up, Wyatt went on to tell about how he thought of quitting the law because he kept getting laid off anyways, no matter how hard he worked, and about how he wanted to buy a piece of land and raise fine horses, but the mare’s owner wanted two grand. Even dealing faro part-time, Wyatt was never gonna put that kind of cash together, so who was he fooling?

Doc’s smile had faded by then, and Wyatt figured he was probably asleep, which is why, without really meaning to, he started to tell Doc about that deal with Johnnie Sanders. It was a way to get the matter off his chest somehow, without anybody really knowing. Except Doc was still listening, not sleeping, and he already knew what Wyatt was going to say, the way Morg so often did.

“That’s why you staked him,” Doc said softly. “You were goin’ to buy Roxana.”

“I didn’t mean for Johnnie—I never would have—”

“Not your fault,” Doc said. After a while he added, “I’d’ve done the same.”

It didn’t occur to Wyatt to ask that night if Doc meant he’d have staked Johnnie same as Wyatt, or played for Wyatt same as Johnnie.

Suddenly Wyatt needed to go back to work. Needed to get out of that sickroom, and away from everything he’d just told Doc.

“I should let you rest,” he said, standing. “Can I get you anything before I go?”

“Thank you, no.” Doc’s eyes opened. “Wait! Been meanin’ to ask … How much’s the rent on that cottage of yours?”

“Eight bucks a month. Me ’n’ Morg were splitting it, but—” He didn’t know what to say.

“You need your privacy now,” Doc supplied, eyes closing again.

“Morg, too. He and that girl Lou took the house next door.”

“Who’s the landlord?”

“George Hoover.”

“Well, ask ’bout the other one … that’s almost finished, will you?”

Wyatt promised he would, and Doc mumbled something about them being neighbors soon, and reminded Wyatt to brush his teeth, but by then he was barely awake.

The rest of the night was mostly uneventful. Wyatt made his report to Fat Larry at dawn and trudged home, the three-shift duty over at last.

Mattie Blaylock was asleep, but when he crawled into bed, she woke up and put her arms around his neck.

“Aw, hell,” he said wearily, and got up out of bed again.

“What’s the matter, Wyatt?” Mattie asked anxiously. “I do something wrong?”

“Forgot to brush my teeth,” he said.

When Kate got back from Bessie’s in the morning, Doc was scabby and pale under his bruises, but he was sitting at the table, practicing with a deck: split, square, pivot.

She looked at him, brows up.

“A heavenly sleep … did suddenly steep … in balm my bosom’s pain,” he recited.

Kate took off her hat and tossed it on the bureau before lifting the half-empty bottle at his elbow.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, putting some strength behind his voice. “Sore is all.”

The basin in the corner was filled with sodden handkerchiefs. Most were stained pink. The ones at the bottom of the pile were darker.

“Temporary,” he told her. “I hit the ground hard. Bound to be some minor blood vessels torn.”

“McCarty told you to stay in bed,” she reminded him.

“Trust not the physician! His antidotes are poison, and he slays! Tom McCarty doesn’t know one damn thing about tuberculosis that I didn’t tell him my own self.” He cut the cards and showed her the nine of clubs. “How much have I got in that carpetbag of yours?”

“Six hundred and change.” She sat on the bed to unbutton her shoes.

“Does that count what I won on Dick yesterday?”

She nodded. “But not what I just made.”

They had sworn off fear, but the fall was sobering. Last night, when the bleeding was worst, they’d agreed that she should keep her earnings separate. It was a matter of pride for Doc, and he wanted her to save something. Just in case.

“We can shave forty-eight dollars a month off expenses if we rent a house instead of livin’ here,” he said. Divvy, tumble, riffle … “I don’t suppose you can cook.”

Pulling off a shoe, she looked up. “You had slaves. We had servants.”

“Fair enough.”

Riffle, arch, release … He cut again, right-handed. Nine of diamonds.

“Grier,” he said after a time, watching her undress.

“Not worth it. Word is the family’s cut him off—” Doc was staring. “D’accord,” she said with a shrug. “When?”

“Get me some easy work first. I’d like to take four thousand into the room.”

“Scared money don’t win,” she agreed, arranging pillows against the headboard. She climbed into the bed and laid her head back. “What’ve you got against Grier anyway?”

“It’s a family matter.”

“Don’t be mysterious with me. It’s tedious. He get some cousin pregnant?”

“Oh, nothin’ so melodramatic. The captain’s family is the front half of Grier and Cook Carriage Company, up in Connecticut. My father ordered a buggy from them, just before the war. I helped pick it out. Model Number Thirty-three … Had a lever for raisin’ and lowerin’ the top from the inside. One hundred and sixty dollars. Cash. Paid in advance.” Hands now lax in his lap, he looked out the window. “The war broke out before the buggy was delivered. Grier and Cook started makin’ gun carriages for the Northern army.”

“Smart move,” Kate remarked. “There’s money, and then there’s money.”

“I imagine they did well for themselves.” Shuffling again, he cut left-handed. Nine of hearts. “Anyway, Eli