This is a two story structure with the Doctor's office being downstairs, and the main residence upstairs.


This message was last edited by the GM at 02:04, Fri 26 July 2013.

The young woman came awake, moaning softly.  As she tried to open her eyes, she remembered many days such as this, where she tried to wake, even ate at times, but fell into dark sleep again, remembering little or nothing.  Her arm ached... it was in a sling.  The walls did not look right... it was not her home.

Oh God, she had no home.  It was gone.  With all of them.

She reached for her locket, then very carefully sat up, grateful that her head no longer ached, that she seemed fully awake.  She saw a few beds around her... was she in a doctor's office?  A boarding house?  She remembered a man and woman... the woman was very kind... and another, a familiar face...

"Hello?  Is anyone about?  Hello?" called out Rebecca, wondering if she were strong enough to stand...

"I wouldn't do that if I were you", Dr. Ramsey McQueen's deep voice rumbled from the shadows.  He'd just checked on her, found her asleep, and then had gone to the back cabinet where he'd hidden a bottle of whiskey, and set about arguing with himself over whether he would have a drink or not.  He wanted one, badly, but he'd promised Clem he would try this time, really try; he did not want to screw up this time.

The girl's voice roused him from his internal debate over the whiskey; he stepped away from the cabinet, leaving the doors closed, for now.

He walked over to the bed where the injured girl was struggling to get up, put his large hands on her shoulders, and firmly, yet gently, pushed her back down onto the bed.

"Blood poisoning in that arm of yours, infection.  I was able to save it and get it set, but you'll need a day or two more of bed rest.  The salve on that arm needs to be changed later on.  We'll clean it with mineral spirits and change the bandages too.  For now, I've given you some syrup with Essence of Nightshade in it - it'll dull the pain, but it make you woozy as hell.  Unless you want to fall over and break that other arm, I suggest you remain in bed for the moment.  Can you understand what I'm saying to you?"

The teen girl pushed against his hands, determinedly.  "I... let me sit up.  I'm... I'm not sick, I tell ye," she protested, slipping momentarily into her father's home accent.  Her very long hair hung about her like a blanket as she tried to sit up.

She paused looking at him in surprise.  "Aye, I understand.  Dear Lord, where am I?  Who are you?"

Her hand clutched at his arm, her pale eyes staring into his own, as if she was trying to find her answers inside him...

When she fought against him he relented, only enough to allow her to sit up in bed - but he pulled up a chair and sat close beside her, in case she decided to go waltzing across the floor and spoil all his good work.  And it was good work, too, he'd been right as rain that day, no shakes or dry mouth.

He looked at her for a moment - the accent, the eyes, and above all the freckles, Ramsey could spot a son or daughter of the Auld Sod from a mile away; he had his own Scottish freckles come out when he'd been in the sun too long.  Most Scotts he knew stayed east, in the hill country of Kentucky and Tennessee, and western Virginia - but the Irish liked to move further west, through the Territories and into California.  He wondered if she were part of a group going out that far.

"I'm Dr. McQueen, Dr. Ramsey most call me.  Or just Doc sometimes.  You're in my office.  Troopers brought you in a few weeks ago. You've been in a coma, Young Lady. It could be days before I can truly evaluate the extent of your head injuries. You had a really bad fever, and your arm was busted up but good.  My wife and I have been tending you ever since.  You're in the town of Escondido: do you know where that is?  Do you remember your name?  Do you remember anything at all that happened to you?"

If she could remember things then there was a good chance the fever hadn't done any permanent damage to her brain, which was good.  Besides, there would be others who would have questions for her, so it would be best to get them out of the way now.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:13, Tue 23 July 2013.

The young woman blinked, frowning slightly, raising her good hand to her head.  "Its... its all so blurry.  I feel as if I have been asleep for a very long time.  Awful nightmares.  I don't remember..."

She took a deep breath.  The room was spinning a bit, but she focused on the Doctor's face.  "My... my name is Rebecca.  Rebecca O'Dell.  Did you say Escondido?  I... I don't know where that is."

Tears came to her eyes.  "I wish I knew where... where... where..." she whispered, trying not to cry.

When Ramsey stepped away from the cabinet Clementine exhaled a soft breath through even white teeth; even as she continued to watch her husband surreptitiously from beneath the fringe of lashes that hid the anxiety clouding her sky-blue eyes. She hated herself for distrusting him and hated him for having given her reason; and she wondered at her failure to adjust to the vows that she had made and the life that she had sworn, a life in which nothing had proven to be as she had expected.

Not yet the efficient nurse that Ramsey expected her to be, Clementine busied herself preparing cool compresses; and when she heard the frightened voice call out she hurried to assist. "Hush child, there is nothing to fear,” Clementine soothed softly as she settled on the edge of the cot and began to gently clear the tangled veil of hair from the young woman’s face. “I am Clementine McQueen and this is Doc Ramsey. You are in Escondido, Texas in my husband's hospital. You are safe with us, no one will hurt you here.”

“She is lucid, Ramsey . . . at last,” Clementine murmured,  turning her smile upon her husband as she met his gaze. “Unlucky as she is, she has you to thank for her life. Somehow, it will come out all right, Ramsey . . ." If Clementine meant something more than the soft promise that she breathed as she brushed a caress to the short spiky stubble of her husband's cheek, her meaning remained unspoken.

"My... my head still hurts..." she whispered, missing anything between the good doctor and his wife, but relaxing with the touch to her hair.  "I remember being... I was afraid... so afraid..."  Her hand moved to tighten on the doctor's arm.

"I was... was it Indians?  People shouting... screams... fire... oh... oh..."

She looked for a moment as if she might panic her eyes looking into the distance at something only she could see.

He wondered how long she'd been there, and if she'd seen him at the cabinet...and wondered what she was thinking.  He felt ashamed, even though he'd not taken a drop - although in his mind's eye he'd poured shot after shot, until it was gone.

No!  He'd not gone on that kind of bender, not since...

He did steal a shot of whiskey from time to time; of that he was guilty.  It calmed his nerves, stopped his hands shaking, and quieted the tempest in his head.  At least for a while.  The trouble was stopping at just one shot.  So far he'd managed that...so far.

He hated himself that he was weak, and he hated that his wife saw it in him.  But mostly he was just full of sorrow: they both deserved for him to be better.  They both needed it.  He let his wife's touch caress his cheek, then looked down to their young charge, hopeful that no one saw the haunted look he felt in his eyes.

"The pain...should only be temporary.  It comes and goes, you'll find.  If it gets too much my wife will administer some more syrup to you.  Try not to get too excited.  Rest.  Sleep.  Your body needs to repair itself, and your mind too.  Whatever happened out on that prairie it can leave a scar inside as bad as any outside on your arm."

He looked up at his wife with a sorrowful expression as he continued: "Those type of scars take a long time to mend, and sometimes they never fully do."

He gently removed the young lady's hand from his arm and tried to place it back under her covers.  Then he turned back to his wife.

"I should go tell the Marshall that she's awake.  He may have some questions for her.  I'll just be a short piece.  If her head or arm frets her...well, you know where the syrup is."

He turned and went to his desk, grabbed his hat, put it on, and returned, his body facing the exit.

"I'll just be gone a short piece", he reassured her, feeling like the dog caught in the hen house looking for an egg.

Then he turned and made for the door.

---> To The Streets of Escondido
This message was last edited by the player at 02:50, Thu 25 July 2013.

The teen reached out with her hand, then replaced it.  She looked at Clementine, reaching up to wipe her tears.  "I'm hatin' this, ye know?  Like Mama said, a body needs to be knowin' her own mind.  I... I can't find mine..." she exclaimed her mother's Irish lilt coming out as she looked up.  She sat back on the bed, reaching to pull her straggly looking hair and pull on it, trying to smooth it to the front.  "I just don't feel good," she whispered.

“With time and patience and a little bit of luck and with love to bind the broken bits. . .” Clementine murmured her agreement as she sought to console Rebecca; but in her heart Clementine cried for Ramsey and she prayed a silent prayer that she would find a way to lift the sorrow that burdened her husband’s soul so that she might make him whole once more, “I expect that we can help mend these broken wings and teach this little dove to fly again.”

Her eyes, which had been following him, flashed for an instant before Clementine lowered her gaze to hide her emotion. “Ramsey,” she called to her husband as he made his way to the door, “you’ve had nothing to eat the night long. Return quickly and I shall make you a proper Boston breakfast . . .  please, my dear.” But he was gone before she could elicit a promise from him. Clementine’s gaze remained upon the door, and for a long moment she yearned to be on the other side with nothing and no one expecting her to do or to be; and then the long moment passed.

“And what of you, Miss Rebecca O’Dell?” Clementine’s lilting voice filled the room as she smiled down at her charge. “You may hide behind your hair if it pleases you, but if your mama were here I think that she would tell you that hiding has never made woe be gone.  Talking about what happened to you will bring your mind back, little Becky . . . and when you are ready for talking I’ll be right here to listen while I dry your tears.”

"I'm not hidin' behind my hair," she responded, annoyed.  "I've been abed and Mama wouldn't have said..."  Her eyes widened, and then tears began in earnest, driven by the woman's very soft lyrical tones.

"Oh dear Mama... she's... she's dead, isn't she?  And Papa.  Oh, I saw him fall, shot through.  Oh God above, they're all dead, aren't they?  Mama.  Papa.  Bobby.  Mr. Wilkins.  Mrs. Wilkins.  Oh my Good Lord, all dead..."  She began to cry in earnest, trying to reach for Clementine with both arms, even as one hurt and wouldn't move.  Her whole life and family had vanished...

"O, Danny boy..." she tried to sing, remembering a song her mother sang when Becky was upset, the memory coming to her.  But then, she simply collapsed in tears, her life to her, gone, gone to tears...
This message was last edited by the player at 14:44, Thu 25 July 2013.

“. . . the pipes, the pipes are calling,  from glen to glen, and down the mountain side  . . .”

Clementine gently rocked Rebecca in her arms, holding the sobbing, grief-stricken girl with a mother’s sweet tenderness as her soft, lilting voice sang the poignant melody. It was not the lullaby that Clementine had crooned to the stillborn babe that she had buried on the plains during the harsh journey west, yet she hoped that the heartrending piece would bring comfort to the anguished child in her arms.

“You cry for as long as you must, sweetheart, and when your tears are spent I will help you to begin again.” Clementine whispered as she gently clasped Rebecca to her breast and laid a kiss upon her tousled head.

“. . . for I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow; oh child o’mine, oh child o’mine, I love you so . . .”

Clementine's notes quietly faded away as the door opened and as she turned to look the pale morning light that streamed through the paned window lit upon Clementine's golden hair and her own tear-stained face was revealed.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:04, Thu 25 July 2013.

Rebecca cried her heart out, the words both comforting her as well as making her cry harder.  Her mind was so very confused.  She remembered the collapsing wagon, the fires, the red-faced men with guns.  In her mind, she had obviously lost everyone and anyone she had ever known.  She was alone.  So very alone.  And so she let Clementine hold her, holding her breaking heart.

She whispered the last words... "I love you so..."  Her eyes were closed, she did not know the door had opened.

---> From Streets

Well I'll be damned... is that singing I hear?  Can't quite make it out... "Danny Boy" maybe?  I know Becky's mother used to sing that from time to time, but that doesn't sound like Becky's voice?

Cyrus followed close behind Ramsey into the room and he couldn't quite help but admire the sunlit golden radiance of Clementine's beautiful hair.  And not for the first time since he began paying regular visits to check in on Becky, Cyrus found himself scolding himself for unbidden "impure thoughts".  That's another man's wife you're thinking about damn it!  And not just any man but a good man and a good doctor.  You owe him, likely more than you'll ever be able to repay him... so keep your eyes to yourself and for God's sake keep your thoughts to yourself or better yet get some new damn thoughts!

But Cyrus silent admiration and his subsequent self reproach were cut short when he noticed with alarm that there were tears in Clementine's eyes and drying upon her cheeks.

With a worried glance towards Ramsey, Cyrus cautiously stepped further into the room and lightly coughed to politely announce their presence before he said in a concerned tone, "Beggin' your pardon ma'am, Mrs. McQueen, but are you feelin' alright?  And young Miss O'Dell, who you're holdin', is she feelin' alright?

I mean... I don't mean to pry but if you both would prefer I come back at a later time, well I don't wish to intrude."

Womenfolk... sometimes there's just no understandin' them or what goes on in their minds.

I sure hope Doc and I haven't stumbled into something not meant for prying eyes, though ladies are known to be prone to spillin' their emotions out for all ta see and wearin' their pretty little hearts out on their sleeves.