Whatever deep hounding emotions followed Clara out of the Oriental were replaced subsequently and wholly with a guilty plunge into the depths of passivity. Her frantic running with tears pooled turned like a key in her heart, instantly without warning. Clara heaved with one breath, then straightened herself, encased in that passivity, allowing it to bore her back to the hotel where she sat on the bed, emotionlessly staring at the door. And while she sat brooding on the edge of the bed frame, it came into her mind to empty her heart of all emotion for this place that made her thus. What would it be like to taste the cool spring of freedom truly?
Now, Clara did not take it into her mind to begrudge Doc, Morgan or even Ringo for that matter. In fact, it was difficult to begrudge and yet easy to disdain everything and nothing all at once. If Clara was genuinely angered by anything, it was the sheer audacity she had for believing happiness that might have found her and made her whole again. There the passivity was lingering over the room like a spectral phantom, whispering that wondering either way was of no use and there was no use, for her life held no meaning now and probably never had to begin with. Ringo, Doc, and the whole of Tombstone only brought that fact to light sooner rather than later. Had she the courage to dwell on John Henry for longer than a fleeting moment, Clara might have realised where passivity had conquered her heart, commiseration enveloped his own.
*
From the outside looking in, Doc Holliday was far from any thought of his young fiance. If one could listen to the voice inside instead, it would have told a very different story. John Henry's mind bent on Clara, all his thoughts consumed by her and the more he thought, the more he pitied. Pity became admiration, and slowly over many a drunken hour, admiration became commiseration, and slowly love filled his breast once again. What anger could he harbour for his darling, Clara? Internal inebriated deliberation on the issue of Clara's virtue made a few things clearer- 'Oh, the irony in that!' he thought to himself- That if she had truly consented, which she may very well have to begin with- consensual carnal activity doesn't leave a woman in a state in which Wyatt found Clara. Of all things, she is still a child in so many ways, especially understanding the legality of rape or at least, forced copulation after withdrawing consent. And after all of that, he had sent her away. Doc had sent her away, his ego bruised with the thought of being cuckolded (of which he had no right) and bitterly choked on the very notion that any other might have known Clara the way he had. Doc had been wrong. He had been utterly wrong, and he would drink himself into a deep stupor before admitting to his friends or love that he had been so. Those long hours turned into days. Unable to stop himself from drinking or playing poker, it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to his vices. So be it.
*
While confined to the boarding home, Clara heard on the wind that Virgil had put a hold on the carrying or use of weapons in town, which seemed an action taken far too late for any progress to truly be made. The Cowboys still ran the inner workings of Tombstone and despite Earp's good intentions, Clara seriously doubted that much would change, let alone that anyone would adhere to that new law. It was like trying to eradicate the Devil from the churches; Good could not live much less thrive without the presence of evil, and their little mining town was thickly laden with it. Those who were smart had already begun making the arrangements to leave, most making their way to California if luck found them. Others simply took the trains back north to try their luck in the slums of the bigger cities. Not Clara. Clara was bound to this place like the shadow of a grave. If anyone in town had missed her, even the schoolmistress and children, there was no word saying so. She had been left to her stagnant musings, silently praying (if one could call it that) that Doc might stumble through the door to their lodgings. Clara ached in an indescribable way to see him again. For it wasn't only the creeping news of the town that she worried over, but the newfound sickness that seemed to confine her to bed-coming and going at all odd hours.
Luck would have it that thirty-eight hours after their last encounter, Doc had abused his body to the point of purging blood. Wyatt and Morgan had barely knocked on the door, haphazardly carrying Holliday's limp body to the bed. Something had changed between them all-unspoken but visible through the body language. There perhaps was blame, though it belonged to no one in particular. For a fleeting moment, Clara was worried they might have seen a change in her, the notion cast out as soon as it popped into her mind. Quiet words passed between them. Wyatt asked Clara to look after Doc; she agreed. After the Doctor had visited, condemning Holliday's way of life and giving a less-than-optimistic prognosis, they all shuffled out of the stuffy room, leaving Clara Grady alone with a man she no longer knew if she loved or admired. One could have said the same of John Henry. Yet for the indecipherable feelings they shared, Clara still nursed Doc and read from her collection of Poe, which seemed this time to fit the dampness of his lungs and the dryness of her eyes.
Doc didn't speak but watched her intensely behind fading green eyes, which answered Clara's questions for clarity on their fragile existence. Mockingly they krawed 'Nevermore' and for the first time, she truly understood what it was to be utterly alone as Mr Poe might have been. What a torture it was to live a life so barren that it might only be expressed through utter darkness and despair. Finally, perhaps on the third day of bedrest, they spoke. Neither one of them shed a tear but expressed remorse for their behaviour. It was a strained conversation as if the timing would never be right, for what both knew lay before them. The tension might have been cut with a knife.
"You appear to be as ill as me," Doc finally wheezed.
Clara reached over to a basin and wet a cloth, wringing it out before placing it upon his placid brow. She sighed, breathing deeply through her nose and out her mouth. "I've been feeling rather woozy lately, though nothing a cup of tea hasn't settled. You should be more concerned about yourself- behaving like a rambunctious youth."
Doc removed her hand from his temple and held her wrist delicately, a visage of remorse and irritants showing. "Do not chastise me, Clara. I've made my peace with you regarding my antics. It would appear I am not as strong-suited as you would have believed me to be."
There it was; as close to an admission as Clara would receive from him.
"That simply isn't good enough." She said dryly. "We've all but forgotten common sense, it appears-not only on your part but mine."
John Henry swallowed hard, exhaling a humourless laugh. "I cannot subject you to this," he admitted again. "I think we both know what should follow this latest escapade."
Clara felt her head beginning to spin. She thought she might vomit. When she didn't answer, he continued, breathily.
"When I am well enough, I will see you sent to Valdosta. Your inheritance will follow you, under the care of my uncle, who will find you a proper living there. It is time to put childish fantasy behind-for both of us-you cannot stay in Tombstone, and I cannot leave."
She knew what he meant; it was Ringo. John Henry wouldn't leave that place until Johnny Ringo was dead, and even then his only friends in the world still resided in Tombstone. Doc would never leave Wyatt or Morgan, not even for her. Hell, he was doing it all for her in his mind, and Clara could not argue with that.
"If you think that is the wisest course of action-." Clara paused, placing the damp cloth back into the basin. Her hand rested on her abdomen. "Though, I need to tell you something of importance..."
Before Clara had the chance to confess to her recently discovered condition, the reason for her nausea in recent days, was a loud pounding like a stampede wrapped against their door. Five men came in at Doc's request. Their faces were ashen with worry.
"The Clantons and McLaurys are gunnin' for y'all Doc- they plan on lighting up the street with lead!"
Clara continued to sit on the edge of the bed, knowing that nothing she said would stop Holliday from coming to the rescue of his brothers. She watched on as Doc dressed himself, draping the same coat over himself as the one he cradled in his hand the day they met. He kissed her forehead and followed the men out of the hotel, leaving Clara in that darkened room to dwell on the news they'd been bombarded with.
As quiet crept back over the space, Clara's stomach flipped. She barely made it to the chamberpot to empty the contents of her belly, which still sat as heavy as her heart.
--
A/N:
I know it has been so long. I apologise for that! I also know this is a short chapter but my computer crashed and I literally lost everything, so this is actually a rewrite and a bit shorter than I wanted. I wish I could confirm that this story will have the happy ending we all want, but time will tell, won't it? One day, I'll go back and rewrite the whole story. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it as always. I can't wait to see what y'all have in store for yours! Cheers loves! Xx