Setting: OW
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fanfiction based on the CBS television series, The Magnificent Seven. It is in no way intended to infringe on the copyrights of CBS, MGM, The Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp., or anyone else who may have legal rights to the characters, settings or song references. I don't own the characters. This story is strictly for entertainment. No monetary gain will be made from anything contained in this story.
Another sunset.
Exhausted, he sighed heavily, shifted his weight on the small bench behind the kitchen and stretched out his legs. He sipped at the coffee and wondered what day it was. Tuesday? Friday? He'd lost track. Somehow, when the hours bled into each other so quickly, the dates became blurry. It seemed liked forever since he'd slept a whole night through. His green eyes drifted towards the road and lingered a moment. He longed to see a gray horse with a mustached rider.
Steak and whiskey.
"Damn..." he muttered, rubbing his abdomen. He'd give a month's pay for a hot bath, a thick steak and a bottle of good whiskey. A soft bed would follow and sleeping for three full days.
He had no idea he'd miss Moses this much. Being the sole caretaker to his weak friend had taken him to a place he'd never visited, endless tasks that built up with increasing and annoying frequency. His own needs neglected, Chris used all his time cooking, cleaning and getting the herbs while Vin was napping, hoping that he returned in time to assist the younger man to the makeshift chamber pot. He'd found a broken chair and busted out the inside. He had a chamber pot underneath it and so far, it was working well. But today in the midst of cleaning the linens, putting a stew together and mixing Vin's tea, he'd dozed off outside. Too late, he'd heard his weak friend's call. His eyes moved to the damp bedding hanging on the rope strung across the yard. Worse yet was the awful look on Vin's face when he had to take the soiled bedding away.
He shifted his weight again, wincing and rubbing his lower back. Vin wasn't a heavy man but lifting him constantly had taken a toll. Every inch of him ached, especially his shoulders and lower back. He scrubbed a hand across his stubbled face and sniffed disdainfully at the odor that was surrounding him. He imagined a pack of skunks didn't smell as bad. A stifled cry from the house and a series of coughs drew him to his feet. With a last longing glance to the horizon, he headed for the door, his voice haggard and colored with fatigue.
"I'm coming, Vin."
It was late and a thick, inky blackness cloaked the room. He blinked and sat up, grabbing the window sill and hissing as the room flew around. Something woke him. His eyes adjusted to the night and from the makeshift bed he rested upon, he took a small tour. Twice, he passed the doorway into the room where Chris lay sleeping. Then a series of thumps and groans drew his blurry gaze back. The only light was an eerie silver beam that rested on the blond's twisted features.
"Chris?" He eyed the distance between them and tried to move his legs. Chris worked on them three times a day, rubbing them and moving them. With the blond's help, he could stand and lean against Chris, but only with the other man's full support was he able to walk a few steps. Of course, it took all his breath away and that made him angry. But it was a start.
The body on the floor began to thrash and he turned on his side, biting back a cry of pain. Slowly, he began to inch his legs across the bed so that he could attempt to turn and drop them over the edge.
It was the same dream. Jeff Mason stood leering at him over Vin's battered and bloody body. With every sick laugh, a kick to the fallen man caused his inert friend to cry out. Finally, Vin lifted his head and hand, reaching for him. Pleading with his eyes....
"Chris!" Vin called out, worried about the thrashing body on the floor.
"No... No... Vin! You sick son-of-a -bitch, Mason!" Chris panted. "I'll kill you for what you did to him."
"Aw, hell!" Vin choked on the guilt that rose in his chest. "CHRIS, WAKE UP!" He tugged his legs over the side and panicked when the room turned upside down. "CHRIS! CHRISSS!"
Still half-asleep, he stumbled to his feet, grabbing the gun that hung from the bedpost. He staggered forward, seeking the cause of his misery. Mason was close; he could smell him. He heard Vin screaming his name and headed that way.
"No!" Vin screamed, seeing the wavering body and shaky gun arm. "No call fer that, it's jest me...Chris? Can ya hear me?" He grabbed the sweaty blond's left forearm to keep himself from falling. Dizzy and sick, he collapsed forward, hitting the slick bare chest.
"Vin?" Chris blinked and shook the cobwebs from his head. The dream dissolved, the room reappeared but the echo of Mason's sick laugh still remained. He tucked the gun in his waistband and eased Vin upright. "You okay?"
"Me?" Vin gasped, thinking on the troubled calls he'd heard the other man issue in his sleep. He nodded his head once and the other man moved, turning the lamp on.
He eyed the haggard body and studied every feature. Chris had lost weight; his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Dark circles surrounded them over a face too gaunt and a body painted with total and utter exhaustion. How long had Chris been caring for him? His fuzzy head couldn't get the number. He'd taken care of his every need without any consideration for his own body. Vin's gut burned with shame and guilt and he dipped his face a bit.
"I'm sorry..." Vin managed, taking a mug of water Chris offered.
"You got shot, not your fault. You got taken and left for dead, not your fault. You're laid up, not your fault," Chris hissed, too tired to care that his tone was too sharp. "Look, Vin, I got no time for your hound dog eyes. It happened, we're dealing with it...move on." He took the empty mug and his eyes shifted to the potty chair.
"No," Vin replied softly. He moved back to hitch his legs up and gritted his teeth. Pain ripped through his back and chest. "I can... do... it... I... can..." he protested weakly in a losing effort. Without a word, the other man lifted his legs onto the bed and fixed the tangled sheets.
Chris's sharp words didn't linger long, rather the true words he'd heard the blond utter in his sleep revisited. Especially painful and worrisome was the vow to kill. He knew without a doubt Chris intended to do just that. He wasn't blind; he saw the restlessless, the slight tilt of the head towards the horizon and the clenched fists. There was the set of his jaw when he was irritated and wouldn't talk, the endless parade of cheroots, but it was the eyes that told the truth. Somewhere in those tired green eyes was the Larabee glint. That worried him.
Now, hearing his fears confirmed, it began to eat away at him. As much as he wanted Mason to pay for his crimes, he wanted the law to serve that bone. The thought of Chris gunning Mason down and being strung up for murder brought a chill to him. So deep was the fear, he shivered outright.
"You need anything else?"
Chris waited until the head shook no and turned the lamp back down. He moved to his own bed, throwing his body down and feigning sleep. He knew Vin was watching him. He waited a long time until the uneven, ragged breaths turned to soft snores. Then he got up, grabbed his shirt and tugged it on. He found the end of the last bottle of whiskey and headed outside. With any luck, in a few days, Buck would arrive. Then he'd be on the road to justice. Every bone and nerve screaming for relief, he took a seat and toasted his pledge with a swig of courage.
"Hold up, Buck."
Wilmington was in the lead on his horse. Josiah was driving the wagon toting the two recovering men and some food and supplies. He eyed the large man who reined the team in and climbed down. By the time Josiah was at the back of the wagon, Buck was easing himself off his horse.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm fine," Nathan protested, but his fisted hands and clenched jaw told a different story.
"Nathan, I can't give you anymore laudanum."
"...ain't... askin'..." Nathan managed, then his body convulsed.
"Hey!" Buck jumped onto the wagon and knelt by Nathan, grabbing him just in time. "Thanks, Kid, you okay?" he asked of the youth who'd handed him a towel for the other man to vomit in.
"Yeah, how much longer?" J.D. asked, his own body aching from the constant movement.
Buck tossed the towel over the side and eyed Josiah who was now checking the road ahead. He cleaned Nathan up and got some water into him. Then he turned the small pillow over to the dry side.
"Sorry, Buck, who'd have guessed?" Nathan apologized for his system's intolerance to the painkiller.
"That's okay, Nate. I owe you. Hell, you'll be old and gray before you get paid back." He turned to the other patient. J.D. was sitting up, resting against some flour sacks filled with sand and covered by a blanket. He poured a mug of water and handed it to youth whose face was damp. The hazel eyes were clouded in pain.
"I'm fine," J.D. answered the worried look. "Really, Buck."
Josiah appeared by the side of the wagon. He took his hat off and wiped his brow. He nodded to the youngest who was keeping a brave face.
"Well, we can't stop here. There's no shade and no water. I know it's asking a lot," he gazed at Nathan who was nearly green from the motion and the side effects of the drug, "but we gotta push through at least three more hours. There's a creek by Devil's Fork. Lots of trees. We can camp there."
"Three hours ain't so much," Dunne managed.
"You ain't throwin' up." Buck poured more water and dropped two drops of the pain-killing drug into it. "You didn't have any this morning. Go on now..."
Ten minutes later, they were ready to go again. Buck shifted in his saddle, leaning over the pommel.
"This is gonna take forever. We're not making much progess."
"We don't have any choice," Josiah replied, slapping the reins.
"Supper's almost done," Chris said, eyeing Vin's somber profile. He put the lid on the pot and walked across the room. "You ready?"
"Yeah," Vin whispered, trying to hide from Chris. Somehow, the older man always knew when he was avoiding something. He knew Chris was exhausted. He slipped his hands over the other man's shoulder and slid down. Chris had found some old long johns in the doctor's chest of drawers and at least he was now covered. He concentrated hard on his tiny steps, not realizing he was wheezing so heavily. By the time they reached the rocker, he was damp and gasping. He closed his eyes, trying to stem the rising tide of nausea. He heard the door slam and sucked in air greedily. He shivered and swallowed hard. He prayed that this new feeling, the sickness and chills that had started that afternoon, wasn't something new simmering inside.
"Vin?" Chris eyed the shakes and frowned.
"Jest wore out a bit." He took the mug. "Thanks. I'll be fine."
Vin sat back in the rocker, letting the setting sun warm his face. Try as he might to convince himself, he was losing that battle. Something was wrong. He felt sick. He was hot one minute and cold the next. He looked over when Chris reappeared with a mug of coffee. Again, he saw those bleary green eyes flick to the horizon. It was as good a time as any to bring it up.
"Chris?"
Larabee sighed, put his coffee down and started to approach, his face painted in so many shades of fatigue it was painful.
"No, I don't need ya, jest sit a spell, 'kay?"
Chris narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then noted the slim fingers playing with the frayed edges of the sheet... He was surprised that the damn thing didn't fall apart, Vin fretted on it so much. The blue eyes were darting around and he knew the younger man was worried about something.
"Got a bug up your ass?"
"I been ponderin' on somethin'," Vin agreed.
"I can see that," Chris nodded to the frayed sheet.
"I'm worried about ya."
"I'm just tired, Vin, it's not fatal," he dismissed with a grain of irritation.
"No, but gettin' strung up is," Vin leveled with a hard stare. He saw the eyes narrow suspiciously and then roll in a combination of disgust and anger. The body moved away, turning from his view. He studied the muscles rippling on Larabee's back. He saw the left hand fist and unfist twice.
"It's not your call," Chris finally spoke in a brutally icy tone that clearly stated his annoyance. Vin Tanner had no right to invade his dreams, his innermost thoughts and desires. Furthermore, he'd made a vow that day by the river. He intended to keep it. Jeff Mason was going to pay.
"The hell it ain't," Vin argued back. "Yer aimin' on killin' Mason. I hear ya at night..." That got the body to turn around.
Chris whipped around and both fists came up defensively. He scowled and raged, kicking the post on the porch. He was a man who did not like to lose control ever. That in his few moments of sleep, his own body betrayed him angered him.
"I gotta hunt him down, Vin," Chris snapped. "It's not just for you. He's killed other people, robbed other towns, stole things, did damage. And that's just the ones we know about."
"I look like a fool t'ya?" Vin shot back. "That bloodlust yer totin's got m'name on it. Don't lie t'me! Ya think I ain't pissed at that bastard fer what he done? Iffen his boys didn't pluck me from town, Nathan and J.D. wouldn't be hurt. Ya think I don't want to gut him from his balls t'his throat fer what he's doin' t'ya?"
"Me?" Chris backed up, taking every hackle on his neck with him. "This isn't about me."
"The hell it ain't!" Vin shouted and the whole porch started to spin. "Shit... Goddammit...!" He closed his eyes and leaned forward as far as his healing insides would allow. He begged and pleaded for the awful waves of nausea rising from within to pass. He tried not to shiver too much. He felt a blanket eased around his shoulders and a strong hand rubbing his back.
"It's chilly outside, maybe we should go in?" Chris suggested, keeping his hand in place, feeling the tremors.
"Naw, it'll pass. I like it out here. I got worked up is all." He licked his dry lips. "Scare up some water?"
"Hold on." Chris went into the house, unaware that behind his back, the younger man was gagging and trying not to vomit.
By the time he heard the approaching footsteps, Vin was steady again. He wiped his face on the sheet and took several breaths. He looked up when the door opened and saw the pause. The tired green eyes were studying him closely.
"I'm fine...jest been a long day I reckon." He held out a wavering hand and took the water.
"You sure?" Chris asked, sensing something still lurking underneath.
The shaggy head dipped and Vin took a small sip, then put the mug down. He offered his hand and waited.
"I want yer word, ya won't kill him."
"No." Chris stared at the hand and shook his head. "You know I can't do that, Vin."
"What he done," he paused, tapping his chest, "I know ya felt ripped up inside. Boots on the other foot, I'da felt m'guts on fire iffen he stole ya away."
"If it happened to me," Chris relayed of the Texan's outstanding tracking ability, "he'd be dead by now. We wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Ya done yer best. Hell, ya think I'm blind? It ain't written in every line on yer face?" Vin tried. "Chris?" He waited until the dirty blond head came up. He stared hard at that haggard face and felt such a swell of emotion that it nearly choked him. "Bottom line," he rasped, swallowing hard. "Ya mean more t'me than..." He sighed and swallowed again, shaking his head a bit. "It ain't worth some star jockey tossin' a noose up. Let the law handle it. He's wanted now, he won't get far."
"Far?" Chris snorted. "He's ass deep in Mexican whores by now."
He turned away then, thinking on Vin's request. Could he give up the hunt? Would the leering face in his dreams ever fade? Would the deep violation he felt ever be sated? The image of Vin, near naked and shivering in a cave, unnerved him. When Jeff Mason stole Vin from that riverbank, it was personal. A soft drawl brought his head up.
"Word."
His lips started to form the instant reply, but he couldn't. He saw the arm offered and his own arm nearly jumped with a life of its own. It was a motion that happened automatically, without his conscious thought. He'd die for Vin Tanner, without question, but breaking a vow? What of the vow he'd made to himself? Wasn't that important? Could he let it go? Let the law handle it? The dragon inside tossed its scaly head and unleashed a fiery wave of protest. Mason's laughter echoed in his head.
"Word," Vin repeated, seeing the inner battle the other man was waging in his red-rimmed eyes. "Ya give it over or we got nothin' left." He saw the head snap up and a question appear. "No, ya don't think I'll do it? Try me! I thought we had somethin'," he tapped his fist to his chest. "Ya can't honor me, respect me, we're done," he decided, even though the thought of leaving Chris was too painful to contemplate. But seeing his body swaying on the gallows was a far worse fate. He knew the man; he knew once he set those hot eyes on Jeff Mason that the Colt would come up and fire before he could even think.
Chris didn't reply; he went into the house. He dished out two bowls of chicken stew and some biscuits. He left Vin's on the table outside, taking his own back inside. He did the dishes, got Vin's medicine ready and prepared his tea. He helped the younger man inside without speaking, getting him settled into his bed. He left the tea and went outside, desperate for a cheroot. He thought on not only Vin's words on the porch earlier but on everything they'd shared since that day Fate took him to that dusty town. Back inside, he pulled the small book of poems from his breast pocket and under the dim lamp light, he re-read every one. He knew without question, Vin meant what he said. The scales of justice reappeared and he lingered on the balance.
He could find Mason and not kill him. That wouldn't be breaking his word to Vin. Tanner's fears were based on his gunning the animal down. He read Hero's Heart once more and every word assaulted him. Taking a deep breath, he made his decision, finally breaking the silence that surrounded the house for hours.
"Vin?"
"Yeah?"
"Word."
The long sigh of relief caressed his soul and wrapped around his heart. He would keep it there, stoking it and kindling it to keep his cold heart warm. On that fatal day, and he knew it would come, when he caught up with Mason, he would need it then. It would take all of that and more to quell the urge to rip that bastard's heart out with his bare hands. But losing Vin was something Chris couldn't accept. Much later, when he returned to the house for the last time that evening, he paused by the bed and saw the fine features relaxed in sleep.
"I found it, Vin," he noted of the 'hero's heart' the tracker sought in his beautiful heart song. "It's right here." He tapped the sleeping man's chest.
NOTE: For anyone who has ever been the sole caretaker of a invalid, you know just how rough it is. Some nights are endless and strung together with getting by on a couple hours of sleep takes a harsh toll. Even the most staid person cracks. I did this for several years and worked full time. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. And I lived in a modern world with hot showers, airconditiong, microwaves and a telephone.
Chris isn't that fortunate...he's in a tiny cabin in a remote area and all alone . I know where he is cause I've been there and it is Hell at times, when your last nerve is fried and you're so exhausted your numb.
So keep that in mind as our tale continues.
No.
No.
Please!
No!
He beseeched with all he had but they came again, ripping waves of burning pain throughout his abdomen. He was on his side and curled up, biting his lip to stem the cry of pain. The rumble and gurgle told him his efforts were fruitless. What little food and liquids that he'd managed to get inside were now coming out one end or the other, leaving a burning path on his tender skin. The fever left him very disoriented and too weak to fight.
"...No... God... No..."
"Vin?"
Chris scrambled up from the floor where he'd been sleeping and fell twice getting to the bed. He had extra padding underneath the sick Texan and he leaned over and gripped the weak, flailing hand. He sighed and shook his head, wondering how the fevered man had any fight left at all.
"...God... make it stop... hurts..."
"I know, Vin, I'm sorry." Chris held on tighter, wishing he could do more. "Ride it out... I'm right here..."
Finally, the rigid body went limp with a last rattled breath and Chris dropped his head. He took two breaths himself and stood up, letting Vin's hand drop. He eyed the pot on the stove and trudged across the floor. It was the same trip he'd made for what seemed like hundreds of times over the last four days.
Whatever had gotten hold of the recovering man had gotten him good. The fever wasn't high, just enough to make him weak and confused, but it never left. Nor did the chills that caused the Texan's teeth to chatter and the lean body to tremble. The vomiting seemed to have slowed up but the diarrhea was painful and frequent. Vin was so weak, he could barely get fluids inside. Worse yet were the fading pleas that the semi-conscious man was unaware he was muttering. The choked cries begging for relief from the burning pain were breaking his heart. Often during the worst of it, tears ran down the gaunt man's face. That, coupled with the raspy, barely audible voice crying out in agony, almost did him in.
He poured warm water into a basin and carried it to the table. He pulled the sheet back, gently untangled the curled limbs and rolled Vin a little further over. He pulled out the soiled padding, tossing it on the floor. He cleaned Vin up again and ignored the cries of pain that slipped between the delirious man's lips. Two blue eyes cracked open a slit and the hand floundered.
"...don't... hurt... me... more... please... risss..."
"Vin, I..." He shook his head, unable to offer any words of comfort. He had no cream left to soothe the raw area, only crushed up aloe plants. He applied a little and placed a clean folded-up cloth under his backside, then rolled him back. "Jesus..." Chris looked away then, not as much for the agony on the younger man's face but the twin tears than ran down either cheek. His own breath came in shudders, trying to control his emotions. He'd not slept other than brief cat naps in what seemed like forever and his nerves were fried. He felt so helpless that he couldn't offer more. He'd never felt so totally inadequate. A tiny tap on his arm drew his head back.
"...ya okay...?"
Somewhere in the midst of the pain and hot mud that resided in his aching head, the sight of the raw emotion on Larabee's face was too much to bear. Guilt oozed inside his fever-wracked body. He'd lost track of how long he'd been sick; his one constant was that the blond man never left him. But that cost was adding up, written in every haggard line on the shadowed face. Chris looked awful and he wondered how his best friend was still standing.
Chris scrubbed a hand across his stubbled face and let out a long breath. He lifted Vin's head and guided a mug there. The fevered face turned away.
"You have to drink, Vin. Eventually it'll stay put. You don't and you're done."
"Seems like a waste'o'time... gonna come flyin' out the other end..."
"Maybe this time..." Chris offered. "For me, Vin?"
The lips parted and he got the whole mug of water inside. He put the mug down and grabbed a pillow, placing it under the damp head. The eyes were dulled and nearly out of fight. That worried him a bit. He crossed the room and poured a mug of broth with some rice inside.
"Vin, you need to drink this..."
"...done drank... done... all done..."
"No, I got broth." Chris stood over the body, wincing as the head turned away.
"...why ya doin' this t'me..." Vin accused, needing someone to lash out at.
"'Cause I give a damn!"
Chris's lethal growl didn't leave room for argument, He lifted Vin and moved the mug towards the pressed line of his mouth. The gunslinger was tired and his headache was cresting again. He'd not eaten all day, the place was a mess and it smelled. His bones ached and at times, he had a hard time maneuvering around the house. What he didn't have time for was a tantrum. "Dammit, Vin, I'm tired! I gotta sleep too."
He flinched then, bitten by his own guilt. The mouth opened and the troubled blue eyes skirted over him as the ill man drank. He wanted to look away; the lack of fire there was painful. Finally, the mug was empty. He laid his friend down and pulled the last clean sheet up over him. He tried to give the slim shoulder a pat but the body turned away from him.
Vin turned away from his touch. That small motion hurt, more than he was prepared for.
"Vin, I'm... sorry..." he offered, but the eyes slid closed. "Dammit..."
He went outside and collapsed in the rocker. How could things have gotten so bad so quickly? Vin was too ill to leave alone. A trip to town was out of the question, but supplies were low and the cough he'd picked up made him fear for them both. That hacking cough, coupled with a pounding headache and the ache in his bones, was becoming a serious worry. The dishes were dirty and piled up; the kindling was low and the house was a mess. His own clothes were filthy and soiled. He cast an eye at the pile of dirty linens that needed to be done wondering when did it all slip away. How long had Vin been sick? Three days? Five days? Time was a blurry plane between soiled sheets, rank odor and the filthy mess. Chris coughed hard and shook his head. He'd never realized that being the sole caretaker of an invalid was a nearly crippling experience.
He was at the end of his rope. His nerves were fried; his health was failing and there was nearly nothing left.
"Where the hell are you, Buck?" he rasped to the night sky, then rested his aching head against the back of the rocker.
It came again.
Somewhere in the hot pool of tar his body was being burned in, the pain ripped through his bowels. He cried out, holding on desperately. His weak hands gripped the edge of the bed and he forced his eyes open.
Darkness.
It was night. His fevered state left no margin for time or hours, only day or night. Light or darkness. The awful stench of his own body rose, fighting with the rank odor that permeated the house. He gagged and gagged violently, causing a rippling pain to explode in his healing body.
"...no... God... no..." he begged to no avail. Then the burning path began to troop through his bowels like soldiers on a forced march. The gurgling and rumbling brought the pain cresting again. "Chris... Chris...?" he called out weakly, holding on for all he was worth. Just a few more moments, he only needed his friend to get him to the potty chair. "Chris... please... hur...ry... Chr...Chr...issss....?" He hissed in agony as the soldiers used knives to slash his tender gut. "...No... no...." He fought back weakly, his fingers slipping. "CHRIS!"
Too late.
The eruption and pain that ensued drove him to produce a strangulated scream. It burned like fire and he panted, gritting his teeth and rolling his eyes. Where was Chris? The longer he lay there, the more the raw skinned burned. He tried calling out but couldn't find his voice. Exhausted, he shut his eyes, trying to catch his breath.
"Chr...is...?" he whispered. "Chris... are ya?"
He lost track of time, the troublesome fever causing him to doze for awhile. But the fire in his backside was brutal and as the first light of day stabbed through the window, he tried again. He needed relief. Maybe if he sat up and turned on his side?
Maybe.
Maybe.
Grunting and huffing with all he had, the weak man fought his fevered body and lost. His efforts only produced more pain, stabbing through his head and torso, but he had to try. So he began rolling and rocking, back and forth, trying to work up a rhythm. Maybe if he caused the motion, he could grab for the window.
"Shit!" he hissed when he missed. His hand hit the table instead which caused a stack of dishes to clatter to the floor.
The weak Larabee radar failed to hear the cries for help, but the loud sound of tin plates and mugs hitting the floor didn't miss. Chris's whole body jerked and twitched and for a few minutes, he blinked in utter confusion. Then the dark blue of the new morning sky hit his eyes. He sat forward and winced, grabbing his throbbing head . He felt sure somehow an ax was stuck in his skull. For several moments, he remained hunched over, shivering and coughing violently.
"Chris?" Vin rasped, hearing the awful hacking. He frowned then, his fevered brain racing to find something of a timeline. How long had Chris been sick? How much had his own illness caused the other man to suffer? He knew the blond was ignoring his own needs to tend to him. He tried to move again, to take the searing pain away. The rough fabric tore into the raw flesh beneath him, causing him to cry out.
"Vin!"
Chris jumped up too fast and the porch tilted. His head was howling like a rabid wolf with large yellow fangs ravaging his skull. He shot through the door and stumbled, hitting his elbow hard. Cursing, he wove unsteadily to the bed, his nose telling him the news first. Well beyond the end of his endurance, Larabee's fried nerves were in overdrive.
"Chris, I called ya..." Vin tried, seeing the enraged face. "I held on... I tried... I did..."
His protests were muffled when he was roughly turned on his side and thrust at the window.
"Goddammit, Vin!" the burned-out blond roared. "I got no clean sheets left!"
He yanked the sheet back and saw the caked mess clinging to the red skin and the large amount ground into the sheets as well. He eyed the sink overflowing with dirty dishes and the grime and filth on the floors. The air reeked of body odor and waste and sickness. Chris kicked the wall in frustration and anything in his path that was not nailed down felt his wrath.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
Vin's shoulders jumped with every livid utterance. For the first time since he'd opened his eyes, he felt shamed. Totally and utterly gutted of his pride, he lay naked and shivering. The only thought that entered his weak, fevered mind was that he should have died. The humiliation choked him more than the stench did and at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and shut out the awful weight that descended. He didn't stop the tears of pain and shame that came as the door slammed closed behind the other man.
"What's going on here?"
Vin couldn't see from where his face was shoved against the wall, but he knew that voice. Somewhere in his addled brain, a picture of a white-haired man appeared. His numbed senses felt a brief tingle of hope, knowing that Chris would have help now. Someone was here to care for his friend.
Chris swiveled from where he stood on the porch when the homeowner appeared. He blinked through a red fog and wondered what had happened. His numb brain couldn't decide what to do. He tried to form the doctor's name but coughed severely instead. The porch tilted again and he went down hard.
Shocked, Thomas Murdoch turned from where he stood on the porch steps and made his way to the blond man's side. The change was startling. Gone was the lean, confident caretaker he'd seen when he left. This dazed man at his feet was gaunt from weight loss and illness. Dark circles rimmed sleep-deprived eyes that were merely red and angry slits. The unshaven face was days from a razor and the smell steaming off him could cause a bear to keel over. He laid a hand on the haggard man's face and frowned.
"How long have you been ill?"
"Huh?" Chris blinked, sitting up and grabbing the porch rail. He jerked away from the healer's hand and scowled. "I'm not..." He coughed again. "...sick. Vin... Vin..." He paused then, gasping for air and seeing a picture that hurt worse than the headache he bore. He'd lashed out in unwarranted fury at the one person whose life he valued above all others. "Aw, shit... Vin..."
"No!" The doctor put both hands up, preventing movement. "You stay here. It's obvious you're ill. He's not as strong as you. You can't cough on him anymore," he leveled. "He has diarrhea?" he asked, having heard the awful tirade that occurred. The head dipped once. "Bad?" Again, the head nodded.
"I didn't mean... it... I... didn't hear him..." Chris babbled, running a shaky hand through his greasy hair. "...there wasn't any more sheets. I guess... I forgot... didn't... mean it. I gotta tell him."
"You stay here. I'll be back," he warned, lifting and guiding the shaken man to the rocker. He entered the house and rocked back on his heels. It was cluttered with dirty dishes, clothes and soiled linens. Bugs and mice ran over the stacks of dirty dishes. He saw one sniffing at the leg of the injured man and shoved his hand at it, sending it to the floor. "My God...!"
He winced at the open, raw, red wounds on the young man's backside. He moved forward, placing a hand on the flushed face.
"You're burning up," he fretted, his hand moving to the exposed throat. The blue eyes were slits and the lips were moving. He leaned over, hearing the small words, nearly fractured and broken.
"...m'sorry... m'sorry... m'sorry..."
"It's alright, son," he soothed, moving the damp locks of hair from the tortured face. He waved a hand in front of the unblinking half-mast eyes and frowned. "Son, can you hear me?" He shook the shivering man's shoulder and the eyes blinked. "I'm going to clean you up first. I'm Doctor Murdoch. I've got medicine that will help you. You have to fight, understand?" Not getting a reply, he stripped the bed and dropped the linens to the floor. He made a quick mental assessment of what had to be done and set to work.
Forty minutes later, the room was almost habitable again. He'd opened all the windows and the back door, flooding the room with much needed fresh air. Two large tubs were filled with water out back. One held the soiled linens, the other the dirty dishes. A large basin of hot, soapy water sat on a clean, tiny table next to the incoherent patient. The young man was still on his side and never moved while he was gently cleansed. At the first application of the soothing cream, a tiny sigh slipped out.
Murdoch gave the shoulder a squeeze and then left to rummage around his bedroom. High in the closet, he tugged on an old box and brought it down. He pulled out his late wife's linen tablecloths and brought them back into the room. After placing a folded one beneath the eerily silent man, he gently rolled him back and covered him with another. He rolled a third one into a log shape and lifted the damp head, gently resting it there. A hand rose, tapping his arm, and he grasped it. The eyes were wide now and seeping gratitude.
"Thank... thank..."
"It's my job, son, and you're welcome. I'm sorry you've suffered so, but this is one battle I won't lose. It'll take a good fight, but we've got the right ammunition now. Okay?" He saw the head bob and took a cloth floating in the now cool water and wrung it out. He bathed the fevered face and left the rag on his forehead. Then he crossed the room and poured some simmering water over the herbs in the mug. He moved back, lifting the head and saw the eyebrows furrow. "Trust me, I won't hurt you. This will help. I'm going to make some soup, and if you don't eat, you'll die."
"...couldn't be much worse..."
"Stop that," he crossed, guiding the mug to the open lips. "That won't help you..." He saw the eyes float to the profile through the window. "...or him."
"M'fault... I done that..." Vin argued weakly. He saw the doctor then writing on some paper.
"He needs lots of rest and food. He'll get that in town. With these," he held up the folded notes, "I'll get that ammunition we spoke of. The worst is over... Vin?" he recalled and saw the head nod.
"Doc?"
"Yes?" He crossed the room and saw the eyes fighting hard to stay open. "Rest now, son. I'm not leaving. You're safe."
"Fa...fa...fa...vor..."
"Sure. What?"
"Wire... in town..." Vin pressed, fading fast. One image came to mind and he reached out, needing it desperately.
"Vin?" Murdoch listened to the short but very heartfelt words and then the tangled head lolled. He tapped the stilled face and frowned, not liking the fever or the horrible weakness. He had his work cut out for him.
He went outside and paused, eyeing the young man dozing in the rocker. He tapped a shoulder and two bleary eyes reluctantly opened.
For a few moments, Chris tried to find the jagged pieces of the puzzle. He then tried hard to put those pieces together. He stared at the older man's eyes and narrowed his own. A face appeared, two lost blues eyes clouded in shame.
"Vin?" he croaked, swallowing hard. His trembling hand betrayed him.
"He's not good, but with the right medicine and a little luck, he'll beat it. He's very weak and rundown. It's critical I get fluids inside him and get them to stay. I'll need your help for that."
"Anything!" Chris vowed hoarsely, horribly ashamed of what he'd done.
"First, I need you to deliver these to town." He held out the envelopes. "It's urgent I get clean linens, sheets, herbs and medicine from Henry Lee. He runs the bathhouse and laundry. It's at the edge of town. I've explained the urgency. He'll send his son out immediately with what I need. Second, you give this note to James in the General Store. He'll coordinate with the restaurant at the hotel and fill a wagon with soup, food and other supplies." He hesitated, seeing the guilt rise. "Third, and most importantly, you get a room at the hotel."
"No!" Chris denied but was cut off immediately.
"It's not up for discussion. You're sick. If you stay here, you could infect him and kill him. You get a hot bath, shave and a good hot meal. You take this," he pulled out a green bottle, "for your cough. I don't want to see you back here until you've rested, lost that fever and cough, and you're well again. He's not going anywhere for quite some time. He'll be here when you return."
Chris stood then, all the fight gone from his ailing body. He peered in the open doorway at Vin lying all too still on the bed. He heard his harsh edict bouncing off every wall, stopping only when it penetrated his gut like a flying bullet.
"I'm sorry, Vin. I didn't mean it..."
"He can't hear you, he's asleep," Murdoch answered, gripping the filthy-shirted shoulder. "But he knows. He's very worried about you. And right now, he can't afford to worry about anything but getting well himself. Do I make myself clear? If I tell him you're resting and recovering, he'll rest and recover. I'm sorry, Mister Larabee, but it's a long ride to town and I need those things."
"Yeah..." Chris turned away, his eyes scorched so much that he was nearly blinded. He took the envelopes, packed his things, found his horse and with a heavy heart, he left.
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