Three days had come and gone, three uneventful days. At that time, Clara forgot about the 'Doc ordeal' and began feeling her sanity settle into a pool of stagnant detachment with the lack of stimulus. There were only so many books to read, conversions with Mama, and sewing to pass the time before a sense of cabin fever took hold. She began to feel trapped, akin to a bird within a cage. No matter how patiently Clara waited, her mother hadn't suggested that her daughter may fancy wandering around town or extending invitations to the Earps' wives to have tea. The latter was more understandable; Mama would never have guests over while staying in a boarding house. Katrina Grady was far too proud. It was becoming unbearable. So much so that Clara had decided on the third morning to address her mother openly concerning it.
A bold decision, but Clara had knocked upon Mama's door before she had even left for morning coffee. "Mama," Clara gently rapped the back of her hand on the wood. "I was hoping I would speak with you for a moment."
From the other side of the door, all Clara could hear was silence. She began to wonder if her mother had even risen out of bed. Quickly she crossed the hall and went down the first few steps of the staircase leading to the communal dining table. Across the way from the oak slab sat a grand clock. 6:30 A.M., it read. No, Mama should have well been up by then. She turned, climbing back up the stairs. As Clara reapproached her mother's door, she heard the soft click of the lock. Gently the door cracked open. Mama was in her nightgown and dressing robe.
"Clara darling, is everything all right?"
Her daughter cocked an eyebrow in bewilderment. The primary reason for her early call fell by the wayside. "I could ask the same of you, Mama. It is not like you to still be in your night clothes at this hour."
Mrs. Grady sighed, opening the door to her room wider and ushering Clara inside.
Her daughter was right. It was contradictory for her to be unkept after six o'clock. Katrina had always been a stickler for schedules. The daily one was not an exception to the rules. Perhaps she had, much the same as Clara, been feeling stationary as of late. She gracefully sank into the chair of her boudoir. Staring into the mirror of the vanity table, her daughter quietly stepped up behind her.
"May I?" Clara gestured toward her mother's hairbrush on top of the toilet table.
Mama nodded and passed it to her daughter, who carefully removed the ribbon from her mother's hair and unwove the long plait. Gold and silver strands cascaded down Mama's back. Clara carefully used the boar bristle brush to smooth out the waves. She glanced at her mother as she did so, feeling all manner of guilt for the initial reason for her visit. Clara noticed Mama's wistful eyes lingering on a photo on the table of a boy in a Confederate uniform. It was her eldest brother, William. He was only fourteen.
Clara swallowed a lump at the back of her throat, suppressing her tears. "It's okay to miss him, Mama."
"Please, don't." Katrina reached forward, pulling the framed photograph facedown. That was the end of that particular conversion.
In silence, Clara finished styling her mother's hair, pushing the painful memory of William from her mind. Now more than ever, the Grady women needed a fresh start. They needed to take in air. Albeit if it was dry and dusty, and hot.
"Perhaps we should take lunch with Daddy today? He was always fond of those sandwiches you'd have made for him. And I'm sure he's been missing some proper sweet tea." Clara was leaning in now, her cheek pressed against Mama's as they stared at one another in the mirror.
After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Mama nodded. Clara's joy sprawled across her face. There was no containing her smiles.
Mama tapped her cheek with her finger. Her daughter gave her a soft peck before being dismissed for breakfast.
.
.
Before Luncheon had arrived, Mama and Clara had packed a comely midday meal. Potato sandwiches (which Mama read about in one of her magazines) were assembled, as well as Daddy's favorite pepper and onion. Each sandwich was wrapped in a serviette and placed in a basket. The women had struggled to find sides that would be easy to carry to the Sheriff's office, so they compromised by packing four bright red apples. One for each of the men. It would all go down nicely with a cold glass of Mama's famous sweet tea, which she made with love. Once everything had been bundled up securely (Except for the jug of sweet tea, which Mama said Clara should carry), they thanked the cook for allowing them to use the kitchen and made their way to visit Mr. Grady and the Earp brothers.
Tombstone was in a whirl of activity, far surpassing the usual hustle and bustle of previous days. The Fourth of July was fast approaching. That very weekend. The townsfolk were busy preparing for that year's festivities. Everywhere Clara looked, red, white, and blue shone in stark contrast against the beige and burnt desert landscape. A few hours ago, she felt she couldn't breathe, stifled inside the boarding house. Now out in the open with such excitement felt like freedom. As they walked the length of the storefronts, Clara saw Wyatt step out of the Oriental. She called out to him.
"Mr. Earp!" Her arm shot up into the air, waving madly with a colossal grin painted on her face.
Mama sighed. Katrina didn't have it within her to pull her daughter up into formal fashion. Besides, they were already acquainted.
"Mama and I made some lunch for y'all," Clara explained, gesturing to the jug of tea and basket. "I hope you're hungry. There isn't anything like Mama's famous sandwiches and sweet tea."
Katrina cocked her head ever so slightly at Clara as Wyatt approached them, whispering under her breath, "A little civility, please, Clara."
Her daughter ignored her, rolling her eyes.
"Well, I'll be. That was mighty kind of you, Miss Clara—Mrs. Grady. Shall we all walk the rest of the way together?" Wyatt held out his arm for Mama, who nodded a thank you.
Clara walked beside Mama, making small talk with Wyatt. The walk was short but enjoyable. It was nice to converse with someone else for a change.
.
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Inside the Sheriff's office, Mama, Daddy, Clara, Wyatt, and Wyatt's brothers (introduced as Virgil and Morgan) all ate lunch. Despite the quaint space, the company suited Clara. Her melancholy melted away with the easy-flowing conversions between them. Still, she couldn't help but notice she hadn't seen her brother. When she questioned Thomas' whereabouts, Daddy told her he didn't know. So she left it alone.
"Any news on when those ruffians might be leaving town?" Mama followed up with a question of her own. She poured the men some more tea and took a sip of her own.
Clara's ears pricked up as she took the last bite of her sandwich. "Ruffians?"
Morgan sighed, sitting forward in his chair. Having just met him that afternoon, Clara took to him very well. He reminded her of William or at least what William might have been like if he had survived the war. They would have been the same age.
"I believe your Ma is talking about The Cowboys. Is that right, ma'am?"
Katrina nodded, waiting for a response to her question.
"You needn't worry about them." Douglas Grady patted his wife's hand. "We've got it handled, Kat."
Now that might have been fine and well enough an explanation for most. Clara, on the other hand, was not swayed. "Who are the Cowboys—?"
Daddy stood up from his chair that moment. He placed his hat back on his head. "Baby girl," he looked down at his daughter. "How would you like to run to the post office for me? I haven't been to check the mail recently. Waiting on this book—."
"Which book?"
Clara's direct nature made for chuckles from the Earp brothers.
Mr. Grady's diversion with literature had done the trick; Clara was off the subject of Cowboys and onto another.
"Some novel, I can't remember the name. Written by a Shelley Mary or Mary Shelley—."
The young woman jumped up, her eyes shining as if she might cry. "Mary Shelley's, The Modern Prometheus?"
"Never heard of her." Virgil cracked in jest.
Clara was lost when it came to his humor. "Oh, she's brilliant. When Mary Shelley wrote her first copy of Frankenstein, she was only eighteen." She turned toward Mama and Daddy. "Thank you, Daddy—sir. Mama, may I go see if it's arrived?"
Mama gave Daddy that cold stare for buying Clara yet another book she deemed unfit for a young woman but, in the end, consented to let her leave.
Mrs. Grady mentioned how she wished her child opened the bible as frequently as she did her nonsensical fiction. Out the door Clara went, leaving the older adults to watch as she crossed the street. Daddy called out for her to slow down, chuckling to himself.
"Thanks again for the feed, Mrs. Grady," Wyatt said. His brothers also threw in their gratitude.
Mama said it was her pleasure. She gave her daughter due credit for the idea.
"Clara seems like a fine young lady. Full of fire." Virgil offered Mama.
"Young is a very apt word to describe my daughter," Katrina tried to smile. "I only pray to the good Lord above that the fire doesn't land her into a heap of trouble one day."
.
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Her grey eyes glistened when the post had delivered into her hands. The book was among the other parcels. Clara knew she shouldn't have been so eager to open her gift right then and there, but compulsion overtook her. Practically ripping away at the brown wrapping, her fingertips grasped the novel. It was more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. Inside the cover was a detailed illustration. Clara stopped at the book cover and shamefully pocketed the paper waste and other letters. She thanked the man behind the counter and strolled out into the open.
Initially, she had planned on going straight home. Yet, as she walked the length of the storefronts, her attention became drawn to the commotion within a saloon. Despite her better judgment or perhaps lack thereof, Clara pushed through a pair of swinging doors and dared to peer inside. What she saw had enticed her feet to venture in further.
Rugged men sat around gambling tables. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the scent of gunpowder. Not one of them went without carrying a pistol or a crimson slash about their waists. A fellow sat at the piano playing poorly. Clara wasn't sure if it was from his lack of skill or the drink. Shouts broke out at a table as soiled doves made rounds with cigars and whisky. No one had paid her any mind since she had entered. That is until Clara spotted Thomas amongst the gathering of hooligans and shouted his name from across the room. You could have heard a pin drop.
"Clara?" Thomas whispered incredulously. "What are you doing here?"
She scoffed. "I could ask the same of you—."
A few men stood from the table and moseyed their way over to her, causing the young woman to guard herself. They appeared wolf-like and made her feel like a lamb. Thomas watched on carefully, trying to rise to meet his sister. Another man pushed him back into his chair by the shoulder. Thomas didn't resist.
One of the two who approached Clara gave her a wide, sly grin.
"Who is This?" He eyed her up and down.
She straightened her posture and furrowed her brow at the man. "Clara Grady."
He laughed wickedly. "Grady? As in Sheriff Grady? Well, shit Tommy, you never said you had a sister! A real pretty one at that."
Clara hissed, "I beg your pardon—."
Thomas pushed the hand from his shoulder and stood up. "Leave her alone, Curly. Just let her go."
Brother and sister shared a heated glare. Clara took a step back from them, clutching her book tightly over her chest. The tension in the room grew to a head before miraculously dissipating as Curly laughed again, reaching forward and tucking a thumb under Clara's chin. She wrenched away from his touch.
"Yeah, alright," Curly smirked. "Of course, The Cowboys'll escort her back home. It's only the gentlemanly thing to do."
When Thomas attempted to step forward a second time, Curly (who Clara surmised was the leader of who she now knew was the Cowboys) pointed a finger of warning at him. "Not you, Tommy. Now, what's that look for; you trust us, don't you?"
Thomas shrugged his shoulders and nodded.
Clara could almost spit; she was so angry with him.
"Ringo! Get your ass over here. Be a gentleman and escort Miss Grady back home, now."
Clara's skin crawled as the man named Ringo stepped out of the crowd. What kind of mess had Thomas gotten himself into with this lot?
.
.
Regrettably, the decision to enter the saloon came with repercussions. Presently, being escorted down the boardwalk by a man who wouldn't stop staring down at Clara. Almost as if she were something to be studied. His sharp eyes caused her to blush when she met his flagrant gaze. He was much taller than herself, thankfully, shielding her from the brutal Arizona sun. The gun on his hip left no guesswork: he was not a man to trifle. There was something to him... something sinister and alluring.
As they walked, he didn't speak. Not a single word left his mouth. Clara reckoned that he didn't need to say anything, though. His demeanor and scrutinizing inspection did all the talking. The air around Ringo was cool and calm, despite Clara knowing well enough he was a dangerous man. She didn't feel he'd hurt or harm her in any way. Maybe that's what made him so precarious.
Ringo stole another side-eyed look. He noticed Clara inspecting him. "What are you looking at?"
The words fell from his mouth with a coy, almost playful nature. When Clara snapped her eyes back to the ground, she could have sworn he snickered. Now she just had to know. How did Thomas get in cahoots with men like Ringo and the Cowboys? As she opened her mouth to interrogate him, Clara was interrupted. It was a voice she had hoped never to hear again. Her face burned with remembered embarrassment.
"Miss Clara," Doc Holliday had just finished at the barbershop. He stood from his chair on the porch of the establishment and wandered toward the two of them. "Whatever would your poor mama say, espying you entertaining such objectionable company?"
"Go to hell, Holliday." Ringo sneered.
The corner of Doc's mouth fought off a smirk. He was now across the porch, leaning against a beam post. Pulling out a flask, he took a quick nip of its contents. "All in due time, Johnny. You will be a good fellow and tell Old Scratch to keep the fires burning for me, won't you?"
Ringo muttered, which Clara thought had been something to the effect of 'to hell with this,' before storming off to the saloon, offering her one unreadable visage, standing alone near the street. It was clear enough that it wasn't just Clara who found Holliday disagreeable. And that piqued her interest in the Cowboy. If only to know the reason for Ringo's dislike of the man. Doc coughed, stealing Clara from her thoughts.
She looked up at him from where she stood, then marched up the stairs of the barber. He'd taken another drink.
"Is there ever a day, Mr. Holliday, when you haven't begun drinking before the noon hour?" Clara's tone was sharp. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She couldn't quite grasp the reason why.
He smiled widely at Clara then, without reluctance. "Only in the most unfortunate of circumstances. Though I digress, darlin'. You may find it more beneficial to your well-being to take proper care of whom you choose to charm with your presence. Johnny Ringo is the wrong sort."
Doc's words left her face flush. What he implied—Clara seen in Ringo's company—was not lost on her. She averted her gaze from him and smoothed out her dress with a free hand. The other grasped her book.
"With all due respect, I can tell the wrong sort for myself—."
"Undoubtedly." His response was quick and laced with sarcasm as another cough attempted to take hold. Doc stifled it as best he could. "Though I speculate you thrive on controversy, the same as your dear older brother... Oh, Miss Clara, don't look as though you're perplexed. After all, conflict follows wrongdoings as sure as flies follow the herd."
Clara bore daggers at him, displaying her wounded pride plainly on her features. "How rich in fraud your words are, John Henry. Speaking of wrongdoings to a young lady— Meanwhile, you drink, gamble, and cheat. I've heard the talk from folks. Perhaps it will be your soul keeping the fires warm for Ringo."
Doc swayed a bit, straightening himself after leaning on the beam post. He stepped forward, his eyes scanning Clara's, almost as though he were searching for her tell. After a time in bated silence, he raised his index finger, wagging it at her. He was sickly, sweaty, and ashen.
"My hypocrisy only goes so far. I contend I was only looking out for your well-being and reputation. A simple thank you would have sufficed." From inside his gold embroidered vest, Doc pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
Clara hated how his eyes had fallen upon her and never faltered, even as he took a deep pull from his smoke. However, she would be lying if she said she wasn't thankful. The ordeal with Thomas, the Cowboys, and Ringo had left her shaken. Clara knew Doc was right.
They shared a connection, observing one another in momentary silence. Whatever appreciation Clara had for Doc's intervention with Ringo, it was made clear. Holliday's green eyes twinkled when he saw Clara's cheeks flush.
"What literature have we decided on today?" He motioned at the book in her hand, seamlessly changing the subject of conversation while partially stumbling back to his chair.
Doc took a seat. Patting the chair next to his with a quick hand, he bade Clara join him. She approached him but refused his offer, still cross with him for embarrassing her upon her arrival in Tombstone. Clara was not one to easily let go of her wounded pride.
"I thought you had a particular gift for discerning the titles of books from where they lay safely in the arms of their owners."
Holiday cracked another smile at her in his drunkenness, thoroughly enjoying her spitfire nature. Which in turn only infuriated the young woman.
As he opened his mouth to deliver a no doubt quick, clever quip, Mrs. Grady called out to her daughter from a few storefronts down. Clara had taken too long retrieving the post, and Mama had grown worried something had happened. Once she saw her daughter in the company of John Henry, however, the fear subsided. Katrina waited for her daughter to say her goodbyes, expecting Clara to make for the boarding house promptly.
"Well, Miss Clara," Doc kicked one leg over the other, resting his hands in his lap. "You best be moving along. Your Mama's calling you."
The way he said those words irked Clara. As if she were a child in need of adhering to every little thing said. As if she had to listen to him. She was young, yes, but a grown woman all the same. Turning on her heels, she left the bothersome consumptive where he sat. Clara noted he began whistling a tune as she walked away, completely unbothered by her abrupt and rude departure.
Little did she know that Doc was all but unbothered by her. In fact, he thought her quick tongue, soft features, and tenacious eyes were rather intriguing and pretty... once you got past her charming abrasive nature. He still had to wonder though, why had she been in the company of Johnny Ringo?