“Saw a few of those myself,” said Ben. “So did Doc, here—from the other side of the surgical table. He had to stitch up what was left of them brave boys on the field.”
Gabriel drained his cup, wishing the contents had been some of that fine bourbon he had sampled earlier. Mayhap he might be able to persuade his host to part with the bottle. “Memories I try never to hearken on. Best to not haul ’em up outa the dark past, y’ know.”
“Huh,” Paul, absorbing all this, said pensively. “And I was here in Turnabout the whole time, livin’ a quiet life, just fendin’ off cattle rustlers and chicken thieves.”
Ben snorted. “Tryin’ to keep both factions in town separated, more like. Seems there wasn’t a single place anywhere left untouched by the War.”
“Don’t be so goldarned modest, my friend,” the doctor protested. “There was that outlaw ring you broke up about six years ago, chased the gang clear into Oklahoma and Arkansas. Oh, sure,” his soft chuckle lightened the gravity of this moment, “you may be tryin’ to hide your light under a bushel, Sheriff Winslow. But folks round here were bustin’ their buttons with pride.”
With a self-deprecating shrug, Paul gave his bride-to-be a tender half-smile, patted her hand, and settled back once more.
The women had remained, for the most part, silent during the exchange which centered mainly on male experiences and male flashbacks. Other than an occasional murmur of sympathy, or a little muffled whimper of distress, or a sigh, they simply concentrated on what was being said. These were the men in their lives, who deserved this time of sharing, without interruption.
“So you mustered out okay, once the surrender was signed?” Ben, intent upon every word, was leaning forward, forearms draped across his muscular thighs.
“Had to recover for a while, first. Some other wounds to contend with.” His expression, as he glanced up, wore a distant look, as if he had had to be recalled from somewhere far away. The smoky hills of Virginia, perhaps, or the wooded mountains of Tennessee. “Might I trouble you for another cup of tea, ma’am?”
“Of course you may!” Rising, Camellia checked. “Oh, but the pot is empty. Letty, come with me, please, and help; we’ll brew more. And surely we must have some cookies or fruit bread around, if Gabe hasn’t cleaned out the cupboards.”
He watched her with amusement as she swished away. “I am so relieved that you can use me as a target for your questionable sense of humor,” he called. “At least then you’re not naggin’ after poor Ben, here.”
The ten minutes or so spent rounding up refills and extras gave the group a needed respite from the recital’s emotional gravity. The parlor’s occupants were subdued, other than a casual remark now and then from the doctor, or the clink of a cup against its saucer.
Somewhere outside, a hunting owl had decided to voice a long hoot-hoot, as its great white wings unfurled against the night sky. Various sounds intruded,
to some extent: a few late-blooming crickets had decided to sing their songs, and some little frogs out near their pond added to the chorus. It could not have been a more pleasant early October evening, sending soft errant breezes scented by ripened apples and cut grass into a room filled, not by pleasure, but by uncertainty and suspense.
“There. A fresh pot of tea,” said Camellia, returning to tend to her family. “And I did actually find a container of oatmeal cookies that Gabe apparently overlooked.”
“I think I need somethin’ stronger than tea, this time around,” muttered Ben. He rose, retrieved the bottle still lying upon the rug which had broken its fall, and handed out glasses. “Pour,” he directed Paul. His attention swung back to Reese, with concern. “Were you hurt bad?”
The young man, looking unutterably weary, had been leaning back with eyes closed. “Arm. Leg. Nothin’ that wouldn’t heal, after a while. Left some scars.” With this statement, he did not glance Letitia’s way. Perhaps he did not dare.
Silence for just a moment, then Ben asked, “You told me, when we parted, that you were goin’ to California, wanted to leave all this b’hind.”
“I did. I traveled across the country, stayed in San Francisco a while, worked at a general store there. Not long. Tried the telegraph office. Not long there, either. Couldn’t get settled, seemed like, so I moved on.”
“Ahuh. I came here. Looked around a bit, and approved of what I saw, so I stayed.”
“You built up a good business with the mercantile,” put in Paul, as support.
“And this house,” was Gabe’s contribution. “Got to be a model citizen, in fact,” he added, with a twinkle. “Took over the town as mayor.”
Ben, shifting position to sling one ankle across the other thigh, drew a small smile. “So speaks my fan club.”
“Good to have,” said Reese. “Funny, how we ended up so different: you, all staid and steady and respectable; me, driftin’ from place to place like a gypsy.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Camellia firmly told him. “Here, with all of us.”
The sweep of her free hand included those in the room, closely attending with eyes and ears. Few inquiries or remarks were being made; this was a matter between the brothers, separated by circumstances for nearly six years and doing their best to reunite.
After a sip or two from his bourbon, Ben wondered about Reese’s next landing place.
“Landin’ place? Oh. Well, I couldn’t go much further west without catchin’ a boat somewheres, so I wandered back east again. Stopped in a little place called Birdsong, down in New Mexico Territory, and managed a stage station. Trouble is, some factions were still fightin’ the War, so I lit out after a while.”
“Where to next?”
The sheriff and the doctor could have informed their friend of all this past history, since they had already collected and discussed the particulars in some detail. Wisely, both held their tongues.