Doc’s eyes brightened. “Do go on.”
“To keep her honor, she...she lied about me, our love. Said her husband came upon me violating her, and I grabbed my gun and shot him dead in jealous rage.” His throat strained. “And that’s when I left Alberta and my alias behind. With Mounties breathing down my back.”
“Oh, love is such a coil, indeed. We had squabbled, Kate and I—she sometimes used my name as her husband, and my...enemies took advantage of her agitation. They plied her with drink and induced her to misspeak—she swore I’d had my hand in a stagecoach robbery, which hence led to my arrest. By the bye, love hurts.”
“That, it does.” Bronx ached anew.
Doc coughed again, but not as long this time. “Oh, how I wish the outcome of life had differed. Back in Georgia, my disease conspired against me. I refused to let my lady love, my Melanie, marry a corpse, as I was declared soon to die. So, instead of a wedding veil, she took the garb of a nun. Imagine the irony. The Lord healing me enough to live to this age of mine, while she became a bride of Christ.” His tone, soft to start, turned sad.
Bronx chewed the inside of his left cheek, wishing he wasn’t seeing a preacher man’s widow.
“Well, now.” Doc laughed again, loud. “We certainly are a melancholy pair. More bourbon, friend?”
“I best see about a job and a horse. Thanks kindly for the drink. And the conversation.”
“I hope we meet up again before my departure, kindred spirits as we be. But then...” Doc snapped his fingers, and his grin grew. “Why not join me on my travels? A dead man could surely resurrect himself and hide his past in such a throbbing metropolis as Denver.”
Tempting. Being ruled dead was not a possibility Bronx had considered when choosing Leadville.
“Thanks, kindly. I’ll give it some thought.”
“Well, don’t think too long or settle in too deep. I leave next Thursday. Six days’ time.”
With a salute, Bronx headed out into the late afternoon, fortified by drink, by meeting a successful outlaw, and torn to let Bronx Sanderson remain dead. Denver might be an opportunity. Lost in thought, he stumbled over a bundle of trash outside the May Clothing Store. The citizenry of Leadville bustled on by like bound together as one.
Apparently human, the miserable bundle sat up, belched in Bronx’s face with a murky cough much like Doc Holliday. No drink on his breath, else Bronx might not have bothered with another’s private stupor.
“What...can I do to help?” Bronx asked the sad bag of flesh. He wasn’t much known for charity, but a helping hand wasn’t all that tough to give. Suddenly, he knew the answer, what to do. Where to go. He just didn’t quite know the exact place it was located.
Lila’s mission. She’d know what to do with both a sick man and a lost soul.
He pulled up the bundle. “Here, take my arm.”
“You got my whole gratitude.” The man’s grimy hand wiped a watering eye. “Clemmons Dykstra is my name. My strength is past due. Take me to Gethsemane.”
“Gethsemane? Sounds like the Bible.”
“It’s a warm little place run by a kindly lady with a big heart. She’ll take me in. Miz Lila Brewster. I’ll direct ya.”
For some fool reason, Bronx’s spirit lighted up, just hearing the name. But Clemmons Dykstra’s sick old eyes brightened with what Bronx read as a flash of love.
Chapter Four
“Mr. Sanderson, what brings you here?” Shock rattled Lila so much she dripped a ladle of stew well past its target of a chipped white bowl. What was he doing here? Bronx Sanderson was the last person she’d expected to see at Gethsemane. But there he was, Mr. Dykstra planted against his side. Ah, Mr. Dykstra, a sad soul who needed help and shelter more often than most. Injured, he didn’t find much work, and a recent ague had gone worse.
“What’s happened?” She was behind the table and too far afield to check the sick man’s cheek for fever. Odd thoughts scattered through her head. Was the place tidy? What would Bronx Sanderson in his fine suit think of Emmett’s unfinished dream?
“Howdy, Miz Lila.” Bronx bent his head and touched his brim. His gaze darted around the humble one-room structure, landed on the table that had once been a barn door. Stew from Miss Frieda’s still steamed, and day-old bread needed slicing. He nodded and Lila relaxed. “He needs to warm himself. I found him collapsed in the street. The Avenue. But it weren’t the drink.”
“I know that.” Even with her racing heart, she managed a smile. Both newcomers smiled back. “He hurt himself badly at the Pittsburg last year.” As a result, Clemmons rarely had cash to hire even the cheapest bunkhouse where working men laid their heads after a long day. Which is how she and Clemmons had met.