Depression.

[ikissdhimbck]

'Kate?'










Her fever grew worse.

Every morning and evening she would go down to the stream and wash both her wounds. She knew moving water was better than still, so she saved what she stored in the house for days when she was especially ill.

The cold water would make her thigh shake, and for long stretches she would have to sit on the bank and wait for the stiffness to pass from her joints. But keeping the wounds clean never seemed to be enough. The skin around the graze on her shoulder grew inflamed, splotchy, and red.

Infection.

She sat in the middle of the kitchen floor one morning, breathing hard with her hand around the neck of a brandy bottle. It was all Doc had, save for a bit of whiskey she'd drink later. The liquor burned her sensitive flesh so bad that it left her in tears, but it wasn't in her to lay down and die.

By some grace, her symptoms never grew worse, though she spent much of the first few months of winter in Colorado sick with one ailment or another.

'Kate?'

The washroom never miraculously transformed back into a bar. The Landlord had given her exactly what she wanted.

'Kate, are you—?'

She spent most of her mobile days out at his grave site. Sometimes she would linger there all day, talking to herself or singing, mostly crying or sleeping. But on cold days when she couldn't leave the relative warmth of the cabin, she would spend her hours exploring. She carefully picked clothes from his closet and drawers, pressing them to her face to catch the subtle scent he'd left behind. She pulled out his winter flannels and wool gloves, airing out the acerbic smell of pine before wrapping herself up in them.

She would close her eyes, keeping her arms snug around her middle, and she could imagine him with his chin on her shoulder, warming her with his embrace. They would sway together, silent and content.

But she would eventually have to open her eyes.


The papers had been right where he told her they would be, along with a bit of money: in a box, under his bed. His will named her as the sole beneficiary of his estate, giving her full right to every deed, title, and possession he kept. He had signed his whole life away to a woman he hadn't seen in ten years, and couldn't know if he'd ever see again.

It was a battle to keep her tears from smudging the ink.


She lost weight, and grew weak.

When the snow came, she was ill-prepared for it.








'Kate?'


She awakes one morning, shivering and clammy. Her hair is sticking to her neck and temples. She feels disoriented, squinting into the gray light of dawn.

"Doc?"

She can't make out his features for the veil of sweat in her eyes, but the familiar scent of fresh tilled dirt and sweet summer wind puts her almost instantly at ease.

"Sam?"


Is somethin' wrong, Miss Katherine?


"Oh, Sam. I lost him," she murmurs, burrowing deeper in the quilts.


You're lookin' mighty peaked.


"I'm not supposed t'be here."


Time's an awful cruel mistress, Miss Kate. Sometimes we lose the things we want the most, and linger on lost.


His weight settling on the edge of the bed, he tenderly combs his fingers through her hair.

"I don't wanna do it anymore."


You got strength yet. I can see the green life in you.


She opens her eyes and stares across the room, remembering those words as if they come from a different life, so long ago.

"What do I do?"


You keep movin'. You keep fightin'. But first, you gotta eat somma my onions, gather up your strength.


She laughs to hear the smile in his voice, blindly reaching out her hand.

He gently takes it in his.

"I think I lost my faith."

He smooths her hair back, and kisses her hand.


I can fix that.





It's the end of January when she runs out of firewood. It's been five months since the day she and Doc tumbled through his door, and she has yet to venture off his property. She's running out of food, for both herself and his horse. But really, she's lucky the provisions have lasted her this long.

She walks with a limp through the snow to get to the barn, where she breaks the shell of ice on the horse's water trough and fills a bucket with the last little bit of grain. She compensates with a little more hay than she would normally give him, but that, too, is almost spent.

They won't survive through the end of the winter.

The sky has been overcast every day of this past week, but tonight she's lucky enough to see the sun just before it sets. Hauling herself to the roof of the cabin, muscles weak and trembling, she marks the horizon as it sinks.

West.

She can't see far through the wood, despite her vantage point, but she stays there until darkness falls. Eyes on the sky, she picks out familiar constellations.

North. South. East.

There's light to the east.



















Denver.

.