“The druggist didn’t know you had the habit.”
“What habit is that?” Ben stood, hands clenched.
LeBeau rolled his eyes. “I recognize opium withdrawal when I see it.”
“I bet you never spent a day in a prison camp.”
“It doesn’t take a prison camp to get hooked on laudanum. Fine ladies in the wealthiest plantations in Texas and Louisiana manage it without ever entering the army.” LeBeau pulled a bottle from his bag. “I served as a regimental doctor in the Fifth Texas Infantry, part of Hood’s Brigade. I put our men back together the best I could after Northern factory boys tore them up.”
“I never spent a day in a factory in my life.”
LeBeau’s lips twitched as if he would respond. Instead, he held up the bottle. “Quinine.”
“I don’t have malaria.”
“Recent practice has shown that it can assist with inflammation and ailments of the intestines, as well.” He pickedup another bottle and shook it. “Or you could try an antimony pill. Metallic. Guaranteed to purge.”
Ben reached for the quinine, ready for this conversation to be finished. His joints throbbed and so did his head. “How much do I owe you?”
“I’m doing this as a favor for Miss Scott.”
“Don’t do her any favors on my account.”
“Pay me when you’ve recovered enough to head back to Yankeedom.”
Ben pressed his lips together. He wasn’t about to spell out his intentions to this interloper. “Will do.”
LeBeau snapped his bag shut. “I’ll have to return to Dallas in a couple of days. I’m only in Weatherford one week a month.” He pivoted and scanned Ben with a measuring gaze. “Should I leave a bottle of laudanum with Miss Scott in case you have need?”
If he had need? He had a roaring need as ferocious as a half-starved lion. “Don’t leave anything like that on this property.”
LeBeau shrugged. “Admirable. I wanted to make the offer. Many men would like to be free of the habit, but in the long run, most find themselves so deeply entrenched, they relinquish the attempt and content themselves with keeping their doses to a minimum.”
The man had no clue to the ravages of the demon medicine if he believed there could ever be contentment. “I’m not one of those men, Dr. LeBeau.” Ben leaned heavily against the bunk post. If he didn’t sit soon, his legs were going to collapse. “Thank you for the quinine. I assume you know how to find your way back to your horse.”
LeBeau shook his head and smothered a quick quirk of a smile as his eyes crinkled. Amused. “Have it your way. I wish you the best of luck. If you have further need of me, have Miss Scott send a message.”
How amused would he be if Ben shoved a fist in his face? “I’ll have no further need.” He’d let his stomach turn inside out before he called for this man.
He would show Dr. Arthur LeBeau and Miss Cora Scott that they didn’t know anything about him.
An orange glow lit the eastern horizon above the tree line as Cora lugged the full bucket from the well. She’d left the chickens and the pig to Charlie this morning. Sooner or later, she’d have to speak with Ben. For a whole week, she’d allowed Charlie to be the go-between, carrying Ben’s meals up to him and visiting. And she’d sat alone in the kitchen picking over her food, miserable and missing Jeb while shutting the door on her only living connection to him.
How had Jeb come to be best friends with a man who was like Pa? Jeb had tolerated Pa’s weaknesses about as well as he would swallowing saltwater. Would Jeb have come back a different person if he’d lived to return home from war?
A few times, she’d glimpsed Ben on the way to or from the well or outhouse. At the height of his illness, he’d hobbled or dragged along so much that she’d worried the day would come when he couldn’t get down the stairs, but he’d been walking straighter, surer, the last couple of days. But how much strength did a man need before he was ready to get on a stagecoach to begin a two- or three-week journey?
A chickadee fluttered to a landing on the corral gate and lifted its beak for a staccato note. Thrilled to greet the morning or lonesome for its fellow feathered companion?
Water sloshed on Cora’s hem as she set the bucket down by the stable door and inserted a key into the padlock. The maindoor was padlocked on the outside, and the side door on the inside—a precaution started by her father and uncle years ago and followed by many of the outlying neighbors in order to protect their horses from Indian raids. Who knew if it was still necessary? But she wasn’t taking any chances.
The lock clicked. She stuffed the key back into her pocket and reached for the latch?—
The door swung open. Ben.
Her knees wobbled. He wore a clean shirt and trousers. Though still a tad on the pale side, his face had lost its yellow pallor. For the first time since he’d sat at her table and told her he’d rescued her from Mr. Coffin, his dark-brown hair was combed, and his beard was neatly trimmed to a light covering.
“Y-you’re up?” Why did she stutter?
