Dinner went off without much fuss. It was quiet, mostly, with a sparing conversation about the weather, current affairs, and daily goings on in the town. Everyone seemed well enough, howbeit Clara could not put her finger on the strange way Wyatt seemed to be acting. Three times that night, he brought up the topic of moving on for the better–the reason he brought his family out that way, to begin with. To build a better life. The irony with all of its paradoxical natures wasn't lost on her.
Given the opportunity to lead the chat near the end, Clara found herself struggling. Pushing the back of her fork against a lump of potatoes and peas, her lips were pressed into a thin line, barely poised. Biting the proverbial bullet, she dove right into it.
"I delivered some books to Ms. Santee, the schoolmistress, this afternoon. She's extended the offer of a position at the school, which I am inclined to accept."
A deafening silence fell upon the dining table following. Clara dared not to look up from her plate, opting to remain with her eyes downcast against her companions boring theirs into her. She knew why. Her sudden change of heart in rejoining society made her a perfect candidate for contradiction. Hearing Mattie begin clearing the dinner plates, Clara jumped at the opportunity to help. She'd have taken anything to get away from being sat there.
"Well, I think that's a mighty fine idea, Clara." Mrs. Earp smiled behind an opium-fueled head. "Very brave thing of you to do. I'm not so sure I'd be able to, not knowing who that awful man was, who did those things to you and everything. He could be walking around town, free, for all we know."
Clara froze for a fraction of a second, her mind reeling with the sudden barrage of images of Ringo. She had been that good afternoon too, until that point. Steeling herself, Clara tried to smile, her brows furrowing in disdain and discomfort. It was the one thing that had happened to her that only the closest of her friends knew of. Still, there was an unknown distrust of Mattie, probably misplaced on Clara's part.
"Mattie—." Wyatt tilted his head, embarrassed and disappointed in his wife's callous comment.
"No, Mattie's not wrong." Clara smiled behind a pair of pale, insipidly bare eyes. "It can be unnerving, the not knowing."
The shared look between Doc and Wyatt was unmistakable. Neither one believed her; it was written all over their faces.
After dinner had been cleared from the table, the menfolk went outdoors, waiting for Clara to finish the cleanup with Mattie before she and Doc left for home.
The temperature had dropped, the coolness of the desert enveloping the sleepy town. Neither man said much, only because there was nothing much to be said. Wyatt puffed away on a cigar; Doc on his cigarette. It wasn't long before Clara was out of doors, waiting patiently to take her leave with John Henry.
A few hushed words passed in farewell between them, the content too low for Clara to make out. Nevertheless, she stood by patiently, waiting.
What Clara didn't hear was probably for the best. Johnny Ringo was the heavy after-dinner topic discussion betwixt Holliday and Earp. Both of them are now completely aware of the Cowboy's deeds. Without Clara's admission to Ringo's crime, there was not much either of them could do to bring him to justice.
Just give her time to come out with the truth. That was Wyatt's advice. Sadly, he didn't know Clara as well as Doc, who was aware of Clara's ability to keep secrets until they inevitably blew up in her face. To that, Doc's friend put a hand on his hip, puffing away on a cigar. The other burning question was whispered, would Doc pop the question to Clara?
Now, Wyatt didn't go shoving his nose into others' personal lives, but this was different. Doc was a close friend, and Clara, well, hell, at that point, Clara was kin. He said. Wyatt reckoned someone ought to give a blessing of sorts. She was a good girl who had been through too much to be denied that small token of kinship.
Doc didn't say much regarding that, but the wheels in his head began to turn. If Clara, by some stroke of luck, would take his hand, then under the law, he could avenge her without much dispute. Legalities aside, the trouble he might find in hindsight hardly mattered. The night Clara screamed his name in her nightmares, Johnny was marked for death in Doc's book.
Noticing the young woman standing a few paces back, he prompted her over to say goodbye.
After, Doc placed his hat upon his head, offering his arm to Clara, who took it.
Walking homeward bound, the calling voice of Wyatt caused a moment's pause as Doc turned to face him.
"Hey, Doc," A hand raised to wave goodbye. "Good luck!"
Holliday tipped his hat. Clara observed the odd interaction with confused curiosity.
.
.
Back at the boarding house, Doc and Clara settled themselves in for the night. Respectively in their own thoughts, miles away from what the other was thinking, they found a sort of common ground that wasn't unusual for them. Johny Henry would retire his boots, sitting comfortably in an armchair, while Clara would sit in her dressing gown, tied up at the writing desk. Minimal conversing often passed between them before they retired to bed.
Clara found comfort in having Doc near her, despite her apprehension for the opposite sex. It wasn't such a sinful notion anymore to Clara, sharing a bed with him, unwed. Then again, John Henry was never untoward with Clara, regularly finding a restless sleep above the sheets while his darling slept. Still, the defamatory practice, in all of its shame, was never far from her mind. If Mama or Daddy could see her now... oh, how far she had fallen from grace. Clara should have been mortified.
She glanced up at the corner of the room, where the spider's web had been, mulling over everything that happened, as she had every night, like clockwork. When it all came crashing down like waves on the shoreline, she let herself be carried away with it, dragged down to the murky depths of fonder memories. It was in this place where she found a haven, nestled closely between contentment and surrealism. Clara replaced the pain and the grief with fancy and admiration for the pull of daring to be loved. She reminisced the emotion of being held, kissed, and adored for the first time. It was an untouchable recollection that nothing could spoil.
Doc sighed, suppressing a mild cough. He breathed steadily, a newfound life given to him when he decided to keep a healthier lifestyle. Clara turned around in her chair to observe him, where their eyes met and held. She intended to press the matter regarding the school.
"I would very much like to accept the offered position, Doc." Her voice teetered between statement and inquiry, laced with uncertainty about how to proceed in such a conversation with him.
John Henry's mouth pulled into a sheepish smirk. "By all means, darlin', accept it. If that is your wish."
Clara's brow furrowed, her lips pressed as she nibbled at them. She thought for certain he would still be cross with her. "You're positive you don't mind?"
She was brushing her hair now, eyes downcast at the floorboards, emanating the same sadness that never ventured far these days.
From outside their room, the scuffling of a drunk entering their own interrupted the silence. In the aftermath, Doc sat forward, focused on Clara's hands as they combed through the ends of her hair draped over her slender shoulders.
"Your happiness is all I want. As difficult, brazen, and adamant as you can be... I would see thrive."
Tears brimmed, threatening to spill over. Clara shook her head, tearing her gaze from the floor back to his. "I'll never understand your patience regarding me, but I'm thankful for it. I'm aware of how difficult I can be. Mama always said I was errant."
Stretching out, Doc began to undo his tie, releasing the stress of the day with it. Carefully, he removed his vest and sat back, his shirt unbuttoned by three, leaving him partially bared open. Clara's eyes pulled to Doc, examining him. His chest rose and fell with a warm and inviting display of blond hair, stopping around the beginning of his sculpted clavicle. Lean shoulders squared even in exhaustion. He noticed Clara, staring unashamedly at him, though he didn't tease her for it. It was welcomed, for all the times she could hardly look at him in the past month.
"The world is a terribly false place, in which you are something very real. That is why you are so conflicted in your ways."
His words were whispered calmly while his mind reeled with the banter he shared with Wyatt earlier that day. Doc could feel the weight of his mother's ring in his pocket. It was the heaviest thing he could ever recall carrying. Heavier perhaps than the frantically beating heart in his chest. Emotions ran rampant as a wayward herd coursing through his veins, rendering Holliday incapable of reading Clara. Years of gambling, picking up tells, and knowing when to call, left him.
"What are you thinking about, sitting there?" He asked.
A pink hue blushed under her skin, over the bridge of her nose, and across her cheeks. Clara cleared her throat, beginning to brush her hair again with more fervor.
"I abhor when you ask those things." She huffed at him.
"I abhor the brushing of the subject from the table."
Pink turned beet-red, licking her lips with flustering frustration. Clara gingerly placed her hairbrush on the desk. When she looked at Doc, his coy smile made her laugh. A thousand butterflies turned over in her stomach.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she averted her eyes. "I was... thinking about The Birdcage–that night at the theatre."
Seeing her a bothered mess, Doc found himself cooling. Pulling out a cigarette, he struck a match and lit it. "Which part in particular?"
Clara clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "You know very well when."
A pop of his jaw released his drag. "When I kissed you?"
"... Yes."
She was finding it hard to breathe. For all the times she found John Henry irritating or simply dashing beyond reproach, there had been others in a company, if not far behind. Now, they were alone, she in her nightclothes and Doc partially dressed. It was a different kind of fear. A longing. Somehow time bent her backward, able only to recall how happy she was in his company.
"Clara, I would discuss something of great importance with you. If you feel up to it."
Without the faintest idea, she nodded, pulling her dressing gown closer to her body. Doc put out his cigarette, stood up, and extended his hand so she might sit closer to him, moving their spot to the end of the bed. Clara appeared terrified, shivering despite the comfortable temperature, so Doc kissed her knuckles before wrapping his hands over hers and placing them on his thigh.
"I have very few friends in this world, Clara," He began. "Wyatt is one of them. I had spoken with him at length today regarding many matters, which led inevitably to you."
Her chest was heaving with deep breaths as she listened closely.
"My intentions perhaps are of the selfish sort as charity is not my strong suit. I'm dying. There is no disputing that. Even so, I'm inclined to spend the remainder of my days with you properly."
Clara's eyes became the size of saucers, her head turning in disbelief in lue of Doc's words. Her ears burned. Though there were a thousand things she wished to say, nothing surfaced.
Doc swallowed hard, cursing himself for losing his composure. He never admitted to it; he was just as frightened as Clara.
"Don't you say anything you don't mean, John Henry Holliday." Clara finally spoke. Her eyes welled with tears. For the first time in a very long time, without pain.
He smiled, his head tilting to one side, looking up at her with a face akin to a sheepish schoolboy. "Who could ever accuse me of being the quintessential type?"
She giggled with anxiousness.
"Forget the past, Clara. Marry me. And I'll take care of you, darlin'."
Bursting into a display of tears, Clara sobbed. She sobbed, looking down now at the ring that had been pulled from Doc's pocket. She shook her head from side to side, unable to produce let alone articulate a single sentence.
John Henry sighed with a frown, hanging his head. "Well, now I've gone and made you upset."
Laughter began to erupt from the young woman, who covered her mouth. Holliday grimaced, feeling as though he was being made to look a fool. Just as he opened his mouth to defend himself, Clara shouted.
"Yes!"
His head shot up, startled by her outburst.
"Yes, Doc. Yes, I'll marry you."
It all happened so fast; his steady hand holding hers, slipping his mother's ring onto her finger. John Henry coughed as his heart caught in his throat, seeing the only woman he ever loved besides his departed mother wearing that ring. He sighed, a heavy weight lifting and another slumping down upon his shoulders. Doc was elated and yet mortified by what he had just done.
Falling back onto the bed, he caused Clara to gasp. She crawled up next to him, her jeweled hand pressed to his clammy cheek.
"Doc, are you all right?"
"Right as the rain, darlin'." He grasped her hand, breathing heavily.
Examining Clara's ring with love-stricken eyes once more, Doc smiled, musing aloud, "Well, isn't that a daisy."
Clara grinned as John Henry pulled her close, kissing her cheek.
A/N: I had to split this chapter into parts, it simply got away from me. I shall leave you with some romance and fluff, as we all know in this story, it doesn't usually last very long.
Just promise me y'all won't hate me when I post the second half. Haha.
I am feeling much better this time around, and want to thank you for your kind words and support. <3
All my love to you, darlings. Until next time, I hope you enjoyed it! Cheers! Xx