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came for you this morning.” Abner Kellerman stood framed by the
doorway.
    “I
don’t know anybody who’d be sending me any messages.”
    “It’s
from your mother.” The doctor crossed the room and held out an envelope.
    “Put it
on the table.”
    Damn,
but he’d sure as hell misjudged Hattie Mae Richards. His lovely little nurse
had lied to him, had struck a bargain, and then gone right ahead and posted the
letter against his wishes.
    Now he
had a reply from his mother, the first word he’d heard from her in months. He
had no reason to read it. He could guess what it said.
    Sober
up.
    Come
home.
    He had
no desire to do either.
    Of
course, at the moment, he was sober, indeed, and had no choice but to stay that
way for a while. Once he got out of that damned bed and away from the
hospital—Dr. Kellerman, his wife, and that lying, conniving Hattie Mae
Richards—he meant to head straight for the Red Mule. He’d talk Jake Walker into
loaning him a buck or two for a stake, and maybe he’d have better luck at the
poker table now than in the past.
    Or
maybe he could step out in front of another freight wagon. Next time, he’d make
sure it was a bigger one, a faster one.
    Hell,
why didn’t he just go jump off a cliff? He’d seen a man put an end to his life
that way. Now, he cringed as thoughts of the past crowded into his head. He
pushed the memories away and resolved not to let them in again.
    “ You going to read that letter, Willie?”
    He
glared up at the doctor. “Nope.”
    “Why
not?”
    “Don’t
feel up to it.”
    “You
feel up to talking?”
    “What’s
there to talk about?”
    Although
not intended as such, the words must have sounded like an invitation. The
doctor’s slow footsteps thudded through the room as he pulled a chair close to
the bed.
    Hattie’s
chair.
    Willie
nearly spoke up to tell Kellerman he couldn’t sit there, but then he remembered
Hattie’s guile. They were all in it together, all conspiring against him. He
should have figured it out sooner.
    Dr.
Kellerman cleared his throat. He had a somber expression on his face. Willie
didn’t like the way the man looked at him, but, truth be told, he didn’t like
much about Dr. Kellerman to begin with, despite the fact the man had saved his
life…or, more to the point, because the damned doctor had kept him alive.
    The
only thing worse than a drunkard, he’d once heard, was a reformed drunkard. Men
who’d sobered up, or got on the wagon as they called it, were always the ones who shouted the loudest about the evils
of drink and the dangers of inebriation, the ones who believed that their
personal victories gave them the right to tell other people how to live. Willie
had no interest in hearing any of the doctor’s lectures.
    Abner
Kellerman settled into the chair, leaned forward with hands on his knees, and
stared right into Willie’s eyes. “We could talk about your leg, I suppose, or
we could discuss the reasons why you were hell-bent on doing away with
yourself.”
    Willie
stiffened. “It was an accident. I’d had too much to drink.” Jesus,
Joseph, and Mary. The man had him pegged. He’d meant for it to at least look like an accident.
    “Yes,
yes, so you say.” He shook his head. “Denial doesn’t solve anything, and right
now, I don’t think you understand the seriousness of your condition. I’m not
talking about your leg, by the way. That will heal, in time. I’m talking about
your problems with drink.”
    “I
don’t have a problem with it. I know my limits.”
    “I know
how it is. I’ve been where you are.”
    Willie
closed his eyes. “Right now, my only problem is that I’m stuck here in this
damned bed. How long am I going to be here?”
    “That’s
up to you, Willie.”
    “Fine. Get me my clothes, hand me my
bill, and let me get the hell out of here.” Too weak to stand or even sit up,
he could only make a few feeble movements. “Damn it.” He fell back against the
pillow. “For real, Doc, how long am