July 4th, 1881 - Midmorning
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"What do you mean Thomas is missing?" Katrina gasped at her husband.
"I didn't say he was missing, Kat. I said he isn't in town."
Clara huffed a sigh, watching as Mama snapped open her fan and began cooling herself down with frenzied swoops.
"Well, if he isn't in town and you don't know where he went, I'd call that missing, Douglas."
Daddy rubbed his temple, flustered with his wife. He had forgotten in the six years they'd been apart how worrisome (perhaps even bothersome) his wife could become. And it had only taken a matter of seconds.
"Woman, I came to tell you I'm fixing to find out. Hell, he could be out with other youngsters his age. A lot of them are probably camping down by the river. Thomas isn't a boy anymore, Kat. At some point, you're going to have to realize that."
Katrina became rigid in her movements, stepping squarely up to her husband and arriving just at his chest. Never being a tall woman, Daddy liked to say Mama was akin to a small dog. That is to say, there may not have been much to Kat, but she knew how to bark and bite.
She smacked his shoulder with her fan. "Don't you dare lecture me about such things, Douglas Grady! Don't you dare! Unless you've forgotten what happened the last time we went down this road."
Clara sat up from the chaise in their parlor room, lounging, listening to her parents argue. In front of her. The air in the room turned dark as her Daddy's face became ashen gray. In those few moments, a volcano of pain lying dormant for all those years in darkness erupted out of its metaphorical vessel. Neither of her parents had ever discussed the loss of their eldest son. They simply carried the weight of it in their ways, together but separately. However, it had been clear from the beginning to both their surviving children that Mama had blamed Daddy for William's death. After all, it had been her father that agreed if not pushed William to enlist near the end. Mama just opened a can of worms. And Clara wasn't sure her mother would ever be able to put them back. Her heart began to race.
Douglas looked over at Clara, his expression sorrowful and wounded. She'd never seen him cry before; he looked as though he just might. Blinking sporadically, he cleared his throat, addressing his wife again. "It's hardly the same situation. I understand how you must feel, Kat. I do."
An audible gasp left Clara's lungs as she witnessed her mother slap her father. It seemed Mrs. Grady was finding a new pastime.
"Mama!" She shrieked in a scolding tone.
"Quiet, Clara," Her Daddy ordered. "Your Mama felt the need to do that. So go on then, Katrina. If it will make you feel better about it all."
Katrina started to sob. "Don't you give me that! It wasn't his war-it was yours-he was just a boy. But you pushed him. You put a rifle in his hands and sent him out to die. And then you had the God-damn nerve to leave me with two young children. Left me to pursue other ventures."
Clara stared in unabashed horror. She had never in all her years seen Mama, the epitome of southern style and class, become unhinged. From Katrina's screaming with tears to the very language she used, her daughter felt this might be the coming of the end of days. Hell had most certainly frozen over. Unsure what to do, to stay sat on the chaise or to leave the room altogether, Clara desperately wanted to disappear.
"Is that what you think I did?" Mr. Grady whispered.
Mama pressed her palm to her forehead, furious. "You lost the war, turned right back around, and served six years for the blue coats. Yankees. Yankees who killed our son. Do you have any idea what that did to me? What you up and leaving did to Thomas?"
"What did it do to you?! Do you honestly think I had a choice, Katrina? What it did to you, please, woman. Someone has to take the blame, I suppose, though. So blame me, Kat. Blame away." Daddy walked to the door leading to the foyer, obviously done with the conversation. "I'll find Thomas. When I do, I'll send him home. You can be the one to explain to him that as a grown man, he still has to answer to his mother."
Before he left, he glanced at Clara once more. His daughter looked lost and confused. He left.
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The rest of that afternoon, Clara mostly kept to herself. She had previously debated telling her mother she had an inkling of where her older brother might be. Or the very least, what he might have been up to; ultimately, the decision was to keep her lips sealed. If she had an opportunity that evening, away from Mama, Clara would try to discern where her taciturn sibling had ventured off. Until then, it was best not to upset Mama anymore than she already was. All she had done was mope around the house like a specter. It was most mood-dampening. Unable to take any more of the sighing or Mama's other depressive displays, Clara did the only thing she could think of to snap her mother out of it. She offered herself as a sacrificial lamb, requesting Mother dress and make her up for the evening. Although it didn't erase the melancholy, Mrs. Grady at least took up her daughter's offer.
They started, of course, with the choice of dress. Mama rummaged through a series of trunks, pulling yards of colorful fabrics from where they had been resting. Anything red, white, or blue had been tossed aside into a discard pile on the bed. It would have been gaudy to match the decorations in town. She explained. After colors had been sorted, came the decision of what style was appropriate. Mostly, the formal attire owned by Clara had all been ball gowns. A distant reminder of a very different world from the one they were now a part of. Those dresses were an ever-present shadow that wept a sonnet of what would become a bygone era. They told the ballad of the fall of an empire. Without a word, both women tucked those particular frocks back into a small trunk. Clara carefully slid it under her bed.
"I'm not sure I own anything appropriate." She declared with a sigh.
Thinking for a moment, her mother snapped her fingers. "I'll be only a moment. Wait here."
Clara pursed her lips and sat on the bed, waiting for her mother to return. When she had, Mama was carrying something special.
"It might be a bit old-fashioned, but with the right accessories and hairdo, it will be quite comely." She held up the garment for her daughter to see.
A delicate evening gown in the pretty shade of lilac draped over Mama's arm. It was light cotton trimmed with cream-colored silk around the ruffled layers with a matching bodice. Mama explained it wore off the shoulder, but Clara could borrow one of her shawls to keep her from getting cold later in the evening. Mother helped her daughter dress, from the bustles to stocking ties and buttoned boots.
Afterward, she styled Clara's hair. Waterfall curls elegantly piled atop her crown, pinned with a comb made of silver. Finishing touches were added, such as dabs of her mother's favorite perfume and her very own pearls around Clara's neck. Stepping back from her daughter, Mama smiled.
"You look beautiful."
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, it began to sink in. Soon enough, Doc and Wyatt, along with Mrs. Earp, would be at her door. Clara, who was dealing with racing thoughts of her parents' argument and her missing brother, was still forced to consider the implications of the cruel play she had delivered upon Doc. It had been festering in her thoughts for the entire week. To say she felt horrid about it all would have been a downplay of her emotions. Clara didn't know if she could face any of them because of what she had done. She voiced her guilty conscience to her mother.
"Unfortunately, Clara, you've made this bed and thus have to sleep in it. I would go so far as to assume if he discerned your intentions with the book, he'd not have mentioned it to others. You might consider yourself lucky to apologize to him in a private setting, of sorts. It is up to you to make it right."
Mama paused briefly as if deep in thought. "He's a sick man. Do try to remember that."
Clara felt her stomach churn.
Like a death knell, her companions for that evening arrived at the door.
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Pleasantries had been exchanged, mingled with brief banter regarding that night's weather. As usual, Wyatt tipped his hat to Mama and offered Clara a hello. Doc appeared quite well that evening. There was a bit of color to his face coupled with a hardy disposition. He wore black trousers on the bottom and a white linen shirt on top. Against the stark brightness of his top, he paired with it a silken vest, patterned paisley in all deeply rich crimsons and velvet black. Clara thought she very well might have been overthinking the entire situation, but his choice of dress could have been a nod to her prank. As he extended his hand for hers, she felt ill.
"You are a vision, my dear." His words were sincere as he raised her dainty hand to his lips.
The brush of his mustache and the softness of his mouth against her knuckles incited a racing heartbeat.
"Thank you, sir." She managed to squeak out. He was so charming, so handsome.
With a time set for Clara to be home, she stepped out the door but not before taking Doc's arm. She could just make out the delightful scent of his cologne, which shamefully had her thoughts venturing to less-than-Christian musings.
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Tombstone was a different world that night. Families with children paraded the streets, little ones chasing their hoops and sprinting with sparklers. Jovial laughter echoed through the restaurants and saloons, most catering to one of the days of the year when regular folk could wander about without fear of fouler men. There were songs of patriotism carried on a soft breeze, and in the background, the clanking of glasses and the clattering of plates took one back to fonder times and memories. It had almost been enough to calm Clara's anxious mind. It had almost been enough to push the gnawing emotions from that day away.
To no one's surprise, that evening, Wyatt and Doc had chosen to spend dinner at the Oriental. Other than it being in part owned by the Earps and Mr. Grady, the men had thought it would be a treat for Clara, who had never indulged in Chinese cuisine. Such excitement only added to over-exhausted emotions, however. As Wyatt helped his wife Mattie into the establishment, Clara cleared her throat and requested a moment with Doc alone outside.
Her palms were sweaty. Her mouth was dry.
"Sir," She began, unsure how to articulate her apology. "I- I have given much thought, in recent days, to my behavior towards you. For my transgressions, I am ashamed. If you could one day find a way to forgive me, I would be greatly indebted to you. Especially seeing as you have shown me nothing but kindness."
Holliday's jaw locked. His eyes were gentle for all their fire as he studied her body language. Years of gambling successfully had rendered him unreadable. It was an undeniable poker face. Doc inched closer, a slender hand snaking around Clara's back. Being the gentleman he was, John Henry never touched her waist, though his person was closer. His lips were mere inches away from her ear.
"Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made." He pulled away, winking with a small corner of his mouth, pulling into a smile. "Mum's the word, Miss Clara, and I will ask you cordially only once, never to mention it again."
The arm which wasn't close to her opened wide, ushering her inside.
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Having no idea what to order, Mattie suggested that Clara try a dish called Lo Mein. Mrs. Earp enjoyed some sort of buns, steamed and filled with minced pork, which smelled heavenly. Bao buns, Wyatt explained. He had ordered a heaping plate of assorted dumplings served with fragrant chili oil. Doc ate a bowl of fried rice, and all of them enjoyed a delicious cup of green tea. It was unlike any food Clara had ever eaten. When asked if her dish agreed with her, she gave numerous praises. Clara even poked fun at herself, making jests of how her attempts at using chopsticks were their best, ungraceful. When they had finished their meals, the men called for their alcohol. Even Mattie and Clara enjoyed a nip.
Banter came quite freely as time passed. Talk drifted from subject to subject; Clara found engagement easy. There were no formal rules or etiquette to adhere to, which was new and thrilling. For the first time in moving to Tombstone, young Miss Grady felt a sense of belonging in their company. Even Doc proved her letter true, as he was full of delight.
"Wyatt tells me you're quite the accomplished reader." Mattie smiled, reaching into her handbag, dabbing her finger into a bottle, and brushing its contents against her lips.
Clara shook her head, laughing. "I would hardly use the term accomplished, ma'am-."
"Don't be so modest." Doc put out his cigarette, leaning into the table. "Though her tastes are an acquired one. There is a recurring theme to most."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Clara defended herself hotly.
An uncomfortable reticence fell upon the table. Both Wyatt and his wife studied the pair.
"Oh, come now darlin', you most assuredly do. You are a sycophant for the gothic poets and their adolescent need to express emotions unbridled."
"Doc..." Wyatt tried to reel his friend in. This night wasn't supposed to go down this road.
Rigidly, Clara placed her napkin on the table, trying to remember her mother's advice. "Mr. Holliday, I hardly find that a fair thing to say-."
"Fair is it, you say? I'd pain to know what your basis for comparison is."
"All right, come on now. I think that's enough." Wyatt laid his arm on the table, begging Doc with his blue eyes to stop egging Clara on.
Doc raised his brows at Clara. Between the two, it was made clear. Clara wasn't half as clever had she had thought. "Quite."
Clara felt her eyes sting with the prickling of tears. The events of the day had led to this one moment. All of the emotions, the worry, and the regret fell squarely in her lap at an inopportune moment. To those at the table, her crying would appear as a display. Nothing short of childish conduct. She took in a shaky breath. There was just enough time to excuse herself for some air. Turning down Mattie's offer to come with her, Clara stood in haste. Wyatt and Doc rose as she left. As soon as Clara made the boardwalk outside, the floodgates opened.
Hot tears stained her cheeks as she rounded the corner of the Oriental. Attempts to cry silently had evaded her. Clara cursed herself for lack of self-control. Why had she lost it in the first place? It wasn't Doc's words. Not really. That day had been hell from the start. And she deserved his gibes. Painfully, there was no denying it. It was the fight between her parents as the root cause. Witnessing that had done a number on her, especially Mama's display. Subsequently, guilt followed. A bitter war raged within her chest. Should she have told Daddy and Mama what she knew about Thomas? Would that have halted their feud? It probably would it have added fuel to the fire. Clara swung her arms as she walked, calming herself. She stopped at the end of the boardwalk, placing one hand on her stomach. Gunshots went off in the distance. She peered out before her into the growing darkness.
Near the corral, a group of none other than the Cowboys was carrying on in all their rowdiness. Six shooters rang off in quick succession, startling many stabled horses. Profanities spewed from liquored mouths as inebriated feet barely held up their reeking bodies. One man was propped against the side of the stables with an apple on his head. A few of the others were attempting to shoot it off. One of them Clara recognized as Curly Bill. Much to her pained heart, Thomas was there as well. They must have recently gotten back to town, having been God knows where. Seeing her sibling carrying on behaving the way he was, drove his sister to act. Pulling her shawl tightly to her body, she marched on over with caution thrown to the wind. When she approached Thomas, the foulness of his drunken odor was enough to burn her nose hairs. Apparently, as the Grady women did now, she hit him. Hard.
"THOMAS GRADY! Where have you been!?"
"You do that again, C-Clara, and you'll regret it." He slurred.
His sister scrunched her nose in disgust. "Not as much as you'll be, regretting when I tell Mama about you. Thomas, she's worried sick!"
Waving her off in a huff, Thomas stumbled over to an awning. His sister followed suit. He ignored Clara's attempts at conversation. Instead, he was laughing and making light with his new friends. Only when she tried to turn him around by his shoulder did he notice her again.
"Go home, Clara." He warned. "I ain't sticking up for you again."
"I'm not going anywhere, Thomas. Not until you explain to me why in the world you're doing this! Come home, please."
Finding a half-drunk bottle, the young man picked it up and lifted it to his lips. His brown eyes were bloodshot. "I ain't got no home under his roof. That son-of-bitch."
Clara's face contorted in bewilderment. She tore the bottle from her brother's hands and tossed it to the ground.
"Hey-!"
"You mean Daddy? Thomas, whatever is going on, we can figure it out."
The elder sibling stared at his sister with the Devil in his eyes. He pinned her to the support beam of the awning. "Ain't nothing to figure out, you hear? He left us, Clara-all of us. So I'm leaving him."
Frightened out of her wits, Clara stared in shock. He wasn't making any sense. She told him so.
"He's been done with us since he left us to bury Will. Your Daddy Clara has moved on, hiding his crimes with that badge of his."
Frazzled, she pushed his hands off of her person. They were starting to draw the attention of the others. She had to try to diffuse the situation. "What about Mama, Thomas? If she knew half of what you're doing would break her heart."
Thomas scoffed, running a hand through his greasy blond hair. "I'm doing this for Mama."
"Thomas-."
"NO CLARA, you don't get it! When's the last time he's been home? Do you know why? He's stepped out. Holed up in a room in that fucking saloon with a whore named Kate."
Clara's eyes became saucers. "You stop that kind of talk, Thomas. I don't believe you."
"Yeah, he hides it well, doesn't he? Good ol' Sheriff Grady rolled into town and took another man's wife. Not giving two shits that his own knows it, either."
She raised her hand to strike him again, though Thomas caught her by the wrist.
"I warned you. Don't. Do. That. Again." He flung her away off the step violently. "Now go on! Get!"
Clara glared at her brother vehemently, the tears returning in full force. She ran away from the Cowboys as fast as her legs could carry her.
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Clara sat alone on the same chair Doc had outside the barbershop. What a night it had turned out to be, she thought. What a wickedly, awful, disdainful night. Her eyes hurt from crying so much; her skin was sticky from sweat. There was no comprehending the things Thomas had relayed to her, and Clara desperately wanted to dismiss it all. She couldn't, however. Not when things hadn't been right since they'd arrived.
Daddy hadn't shared a room with Mama in the boarding house, coming to think of it, and besides that morning, he hadn't been home except to help move in the furniture. Naively, Clara assumed he had been kept busy with work. Realized now, it had been the only excuse her mind could conjure to explain her father's absence. Oh, her poor Mama! And Clara had been behaving so poorly lately...
The resounding noise of spurs on dirt pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up.
Meandering down the street in the moonlight was a familiar tall, lean figure. Clara remembered him escorting her down the same path he now took. Johnny Ringo. He must have come from that saloon, she reasoned.
Clara stared at him carefully as he walked. Standing from her chair, she approached the railing near the beam post.
Guardingly, the Cowboy's head snapped up with the feeling of being watched.
"Evening," He offered, intent on walking past her.
Something clawed inside of Clara, and before she knew what she was doing, she called out to him. "Wait..."
Groaning, he stopped and turned around. "What do you want?"
She motioned to the chairs. "I... I could use the company if you're not in a hurry anywhere."
Clara knew it was the wrong thing to do. She didn't know him, and he didn't know her. And they were all alone. One might observe she didn't rightly care that night, however. Nothing had gone to plan, and she was too exhausted to fear anything or anyone.
"I'd rather not if it's all the same."
Her voice cracked with the threat of tears. "Please, Mr. Ringo. I know it's not proper, but I-well, I-." Clara's voice broke off in pain.
"Aw, Jesus fucking Christ," Johnny cursed, climbing the step and sitting down. "Look, if you got something to say, say it."
It was clear he wasn't interested in conversing in depth. So Clara got straight to the point. "Thomas-Tommy-how long has he been part of your... a member of the Cowboys?"
Ringo shrugged his shoulders and furrowed his brow, ready to stand up. "I don't fucking know. I don't keep a record."
She lifted her hand, begging him not to leave. "Wait-please, wait. What about Sheriff Grady? Do you know if it's true he's...if he's associated with any of the prostitutes in town?"
Johnny's face pulled into a grimace, wondering what kind of question that was. Why in the hell was this random girl, completely alone, asking him about that? Then it hit him. He squinted over at her, finally recognizing who she was.
"Yeah. That's old news." That was all he said.
How many people knew about this? Was Clara the only one not privy to it? She felt her entire world collapsing around her. She tried to stifle her tears.
"Look, if you're going to keep doing that, I'm leaving."
"I'm fine." She shot back.
He stood up, stretching, rolling his eyes at her. "Yeah, you really look it."
That made her laugh at her stupidity for the tears. "What does Johnny Ringo care?"
"I don't."
Clara pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. She had one more burning question to ask of him, though fear coiled in her belly at the prospect of voicing it. Biting the inside of her cheek and taking a deep breath, the words fell from her lips. "Do you know who the woman is? This prostitute, I mean."
"Big Nose Kate," He didn't even hesitate. "Most popular whore in town. She came up from New Mexico with that prick Holliday. Then when the new sheriff came rolling into town, well...She took to him like a fly to shit."
A ton of bricks fell on Clara. She tried to breathe but found herself gasping for air. Either Clara's father was having an affair with Doc's woman, or Thomas was gravely mistaken. Was that why John Henry had been so adamant in his invitation toward her? To somehow use her to get to her father? Good Lord, she didn't want to believe it. Could she? Surely Mama didn't know the half of it. Mrs. Grady would never have agreed to that evening if she'd been privy. And Wyatt? Why hadn't he said something? The disgrace knew no bounds.
"Excuse me."
Clara stumbled from the step, leaving Ringo there, and wandered like a lost soul back to the Oriental. Her heart was in shambles. She wanted answers. She would start with the two men who had brought her into town. Because if John Henry Holliday wanted to play at Foolish Games, she'd have no part in it.
A/N: I had no intention of posting another chapter so soon, but when creativity sparks, I cannot be stopped. As I've said before, when I wrote the first chapter of this Fanfiction, I had no idea where I was going with it. Now I'm confident where I'm taking it with no small part due to all of your wonderful feedback. Let me say, things are about to get juicy. I promise you, without giving too much away, Doc is not using Clara. But honestly, could you blame her for thinking that? And I daresay Wyatt wouldn't keep his mouth shut if that were the case. I know, I might lose a few readers with this chapter-it does end with a 'what the actual fuck' vibe. Let's be honest, I'm okay with that. And it's okay if it isn't your cup of tea. I'm thankful you've read this far with me, but critiques and feedback are always welcome.
I had promised a bit of fluff, but the writing Gods deemed that Doc got his little bite back at Clara. Fear not; they will make up... eventually. This is a slow burn with a few side plots going on. It will all come together, pinky promise.
Thank you for your votes. Overnight it went from #255 in western to #55. That is amazing! You guys are great. Keep it up! (Please. haha)
Again, thank you, everyone! Now, I've been staring at this screen for far too long, and there is an armchair and a cup of tea calling my name. Until next time, I hope you enjoyed it. Cheers. Xx