Catherine gently wiped the beads of sweat from Joseph's forehead, his complexion slowly showing signs of improvement though still too pale for comfort. You stood at the threshold of the room, peering in through the open door, torn between the urge to enter and the awareness that it wasn't your place to do so. The doctor, summoned by Billy, packed away his stethoscope in a worn leather case before rising to his feet, signaling Billy to join him for a discussion.
"He's running a high fever," the doctor pronounced, anyone could tell that from a mere touch of Joseph's skin. "And it's worsening, prepare yourself."
"What do you mean by that?" Billy's voice rose, his worry and frustration obvious. Catherine cast a concerned glance in his direction, her voice soft but commanding as she uttered his name, urging him to regain his composure. "Surely there's something you can prescribe, some form of medicine?" Billy persisted, ignoring Catherine, his tone a mix of desperation and anger.
"I'm sorry," the doctor replied with a shake of his head, attempting to leave the room.
But Billy, seized by a sudden surge of emotion, grabbed the doctor's arm, causing his suitcase to tumble to the floor. "What kind of doctor are you?" he demanded, his grip tight with frustration. The doctor's eyes widened momentarily at the unexpected forcefulness before he composed himself, gently shaking off Billy's grasp.
"I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker," he retorted, his tone firm yet tinged with sympathy. "There's little more we can do here beyond prayer." Retrieving his suitcase, he continued, "There is, however, another option, albeit neither cheap nor certain."
"What is it?" Catherine interjected; her voice filled with desperation. "I'll do anything."
"In this small town, options are limited," the doctor explained. "But there's a newly opened sanatorium in Albuquerque. It may offer him a chance."
"What's the cost?" Billy asked.
"Three hundred dollars for admission," the doctor replied solemnly. "The sooner he's admitted, the better. I can arrange for it tomorrow, but the funds must be provided by morning."
Suddenly, a loud noise diverted your attention to the front door, where a middle-aged man stumbled in and collapsed onto the floor. His disheveled appearance, unkempt hair and beard, and the overpowering stench of alcohol filled the room.
Ignoring the disruption, Catherine turned to the doctor. "We'll have the money for you by tomorrow," she assured him. With a nod of acknowledgment, the doctor hastily made his exit, stepping over the man sprawled on the floor. You couldn't help but stare at the man, his gaze locking with yours before you quickly looked away.
"Who's she?" the man slurred drunkenly.
"None of your business," Billy retorted, stepping protectively in front of you.
The man chuckled. "Rude bastard. You talk to your old man like that?"
Catherine approached and helped the man to his feet. "She's helping out at the restaurant. She's staying with us. Take her to her room, Billy." Billy nodded, taking your hand, and leading you out of the room.
"Great, another mouth to feed," the man grumbled as you were escorted away. "Because we have money to spare," he added sarcastically.
Billy guided you to your room, a small space furnished with just a single bed and a dresser. You sat down on the bed as Billy closed the door, then awkwardly perched himself on top of the dresser. The cramped quarters barely allowed room for both the bed and the dresser, with drawers barely able to open fully.
"Sorry, I'll stay with you for a while. I don't want to go outside," Billy explained, his gaze fixed on you as he leaned back against the dresser.
You nodded in understanding. "Your father, I'm guessing?" you ventured.
"Stepfather," he corrected with a hint of bitterness. "Antrim. Barely even a father. All he does is drink, gamble, and cheat." His words resonated with you, stirring memories of your own troubled parental figure.
"I see," you replied, not knowing what else to talk about considering the gravity of the night's events. Billy sighed heavily and looked down, his fingers pinching his knuckles with increasing frequency and intensity, leaving dark red marks that threatened to bruise. You noticed him biting his lips, drawing blood and felt a pang of concern. Unable to bear watching him harm himself, you rose to your feet, gently placing your hand over his and cupping his chin with your other hand. "Stop it now," you urged firmly, giving his hands a tight squeeze. "Joseph will be okay."
Somehow, you felt it in your heart that he would be, despite not being particularly spiritual. The best course of action, you reasoned, was to remain positive and speak positivity into existence.
Billy met your gaze, searching your eyes for answers, uncertain of why you seemed so convinced. He looked away, his voice unsteady as he replied, "Yeah, I know."
"Do you?" you pressed, attempting to catch his eye as he avoided your gaze. As you reached out to touch his face, urging him to face you, Billy shook his head and grasped your hands. You resisted, but Billy's strength prevailed, leading to a brief struggle. In the midst of it, a sudden push from Billy combined with your lack of footing caused you to stumble backward. Instinctively reaching out to Billy for support, you grabbed his shirt, inadvertently pulling him down with you onto the bed, the wooden frame creaking under the weight of both of you.
You winced in pain, "ow, you alright?" You asked. Billy remained silent, still lying above you. You considered asking him to move but stopped yourself when you felt his back trembling. You lay there realizing how cruel you were, a man has his pride and yet you tried to damage it. He didn't want to cry in front of you.
You gently stroked his back, feeling uncertain of how to comfort him. Words escaped you, but perhaps your presence was enough.
Eventually, his trembling subsided, and he rolled off you, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't look," he muttered.
"I won't," you whispered back, lying on your back and staring up at the wooden ceiling. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, you could feel Billy's warmth beside you, a silent reassurance during uncertainty.
"I wanted to be a cowboy since I was young," Billy confessed.
"Really?" You couldn't help but smile at the image of a young Billy with big dreams. You, too, had harbored dreams of being a cowboy, alongside fantasies of pirates and knights.
"Yeah. They're strong. I thought I could protect and take care of my mother and brother if I was one. And I could go anywhere, leave this town, go wherever my heart desired." He let out a heavy sigh. "Turns out, I'm not cut out for it."
"What do you mean?" You asked, curious, about what was required to be a cowboy. Wasn't it just a lifestyle?
"Matthew was looking to hire a cowboy for his ranch," Billy explained, mentioning a name that sounded familiar to you. "There've been big cow theft problems, and he needed people to protect his herd. Earlier today, I tried, but I didn't pass his test. They laughed at me." The name Matthew rang a bell; you recalled hearing people discuss him on your first day in town. That must have been the reason why Billy wasn't in a good mood. "I'm just not suited for it. I don't know if I'm suited for anything. I can't find a job. All I'm good at is gambling and shooting. I'm on track to become like my stepfather."
You understood the weight of Billy's words all too well. You'd heard similar sentiments from friends, and Jackie had even once confided in you about feeling useless after failing to complete college. There were nights when you, too, found yourself consumed by existential doubt, pondering your purpose in life.
"You're not him, Billy. You're caring and kind, you're a good person," you reassured him, gently taking hold of his hand and rubbing your thumb against his palm. You both lay there, staring at the ceiling, the sounds of rain beginning to provide a backdrop to your conversation. "It will always work out," you said, a saying you'd long embraced. Despite facing skepticism from others, you firmly believed in it. Every setback you'd encountered had eventually passed. What was the use in worrying when you could use that time to try and change the outcome? Sometimes, though, things were simply inevitable. "Matthew missed out. You will find something you're good at and enjoy. I'm sure of it."
Billy laughed at your positivity, "what are you, a fortune teller? You sound so sure," he teased.
"I'm something even more powerful," you replied, "I'm a witch. I can tell the future, manipulate minds, and travel through time." The words rolled off your tongue, though there was truth in one of them.
"I wish you were," he chuckled softly, the sound blending with the patter of rain against the windowpane. "It will always work out," he repeated, his voice a comforting murmur in the quiet room. For his sake, you wished that the saying would hold true for him as much as it did for you.
As you lay there, enveloped by the gentle rhythm of the rain and the steady sounds of Billy's breathing, you felt the wave of tiredness fall over you. With a gentle sigh, you closed your eyes, surrendering to it.