His insistence was bothersome, his tone unbearable. Andrew raised his attention from the dainty curlicues sewn on the tablecloth to Preston's almost comical face. He believes he owns me. He has since the beginning.
"Preston, I apologize for giving you no notice of my need to close the clinic. But there's been a...situation I have had to deal with personally, of an urgent nature, and I simply could not deal with the usual clientele, the same complaints, the minor fatigues, when this more pressing matter was at my feet."
"My boy, there is no more pressing matter than this hotel, than the people who pay your salary, who expect you there. I have had countless complaints from guests who have found your door shaded and locked, and you nowhere to be found. A woman, just this morning, told me of catching you at the clinic yesterday. She mentioned a persistent headache, sleeplessness. And she told me you threw some bottle of tonic at her and told her it would surely improve. Andrew, I can't have that. As a doctor, I'm sure you know better as well."
Preston put his hands on the table, so close to Andrew's own, gathered and locked together at the thumbs.
"I own this hotel, Andrew. I don't need to remind you of that. And as your employer, I demand that you reopen the clinic. You're here, aren't you? Ordering a civilized dinner? I don't see any crisis at your feet. You're alone, and without excuses. I don't accept that."
Lodge held onto the back of the chair as he stood, straightening the unnot iceably wrinkled tails of his gentleman's jacket.
"So finish your meal, Andrew. Freshen up. You look horrible. I'll be by the clinic in the morning to check in on you. I expect to see you there."
Again, speaking to him while his eyes were everywhere else, scanning the g athered ladies, the assembled gentlemen, to put on that show of self-importance, the air of a man who had bought and bartered his way into power. But was that true power at all?
Andrew, hating himself for having to plead with a man so immune to suffering, so callused to pain, pushed his chair back gently, calling out Preston's name with a dignity he no longer possessed. The bare shout attracted the attention of some of the guests, who sipped their evening coffee with eyes searching out intrigue and gossip. Andrew only smiled, acting as the doctor they all knew, they all trusted.
Preston smiled as well, turning his head at the sound of his name called so impolitely across the crowded dining room. The doctor and the proprietor smiled at one another, neither grin validated by the feelings in their respective chests. Lodge crossed back over, sidestepping the dainty purses and chair-hung black jackets of the gentlemen in the room. Cigar smoke hung over his face as he passed through, an angry vision in the pioneer setting.
Muttering, Preston began, talking through the tight spaces between his polished teeth. His smile never wavered.
"Andrew, I will not have -"
Dr. Cook interrupted, placing a cold hand on the man's forearm. His jacket was scratchy to the touch. Imported wool. How...dignifying.
"Preston, it's Colleen."
Three words. Heavy understanding. Preston leaned in closer, the smile so suddenly wiped from his face. Colleen was the daughter of the town doctor, a woman who so often spoke for the town council. For political reasons, if for no other, it was proper for him to display some controlled concern.
"What do you mean? Has something happened to her, Andrew?"
The explanation was private, the events of two nights before no one's business but he and Colleen. Andrew stepped to the side of the truthful explanation, and gave Preston less than what he wanted, but enough to satisfy the proper upbringing that still held sway in the man's heart.
"Preston, I can't tell you anything. But she's here, and I have to be with her. I have to give her my time. There's nothing more important to me right now than her. Don't ask me to choose between Colleen and this hotel clinic. You know to which side of the line I'll step."
Andrew's voice was firm, his resolve steady. He would leave now, if Preston so demanded. He would carry Colleen to town, to the homestead, anywhere that promised them safe haven, if his makeshift home was stolen from underneath him. But Lodge's eyes spoke to an experience with hardship that he kept well concealed. He only nodded his understanding, beginning to back away from Andrew.
"I'll make some arrangements with the customers. I'll see to it the ir...concerns are taken care of."
Preston was reluctant, but he did not force an ultimatum onto the young doctor. For that, Andrew was thankful. But it hung in the air still, and he knew one day it would fall onto one or the other of their mouths. It was a precarious position, and not enough to hold him. It was nowhere he wanted to call home.
Andrew reclaimed his seat, watched his employer making the proper rounds t hroughout the room, kissing ladies' cheeks and shaking men's hands, being the businessman he was born to be. It made him tired, just imagining the will to uphold a lie, a polite but nevertheless entirely unfounded lie. Life was not a play. Preston was a square actor, stuck onto a round stage, where the edges were not so black and white. It made Andrew pity the man, that he still had that lesson of himself to learn.
The waiter was quick to bring his eggs and toast, and a steaming cup of coffee on Preston's handpicked fine china. The saucer was chipped underneath, Andrew noticed, as he held the coffee in his right hand and explored the table with his left. He kept his nose in the coffee cup, anxious to escape the grating smell of cigar smoke coming from all sides. The brew was fresh, scalding on his tongue. Andrew savored the quick pain, wanting to torment himself, to drive himself mad. He did not know what she had felt, what she had been thinking. His mind, likewise, strayed to every point of his thought, from one extreme of the spectrum to the other, searching out a rationalization, an explanation, a way of telling himself that everything would be alright.
A well-dressed string quartet set up in a unused corner of the room, as they did every Friday night, and began to pour forth mournful strains of Mozart. How good the music was. How surely it promised that things would be better, given time. Music, even in Boston, even in the most dire of moments, had done that to him, made him doubt the evil glint of the world's eye. It was a spell, the power of notes and young genius, to captivate the world into being a better place. And somewhere, there lay a young woman to whom life had proven this spell was mere faerie glamour. He had had enough.
Leaving a few sips of coffee in liberty at the bottom of the cup, Andrew stood and walked quickly to the door. He captured little notice, all eyes turned to the fine instruments playing fine music for fine ears. He closed the door loudly behind him.
Andrew chose to walk on the hard dirt to the side of the hotel porch, mingling his footprints with those of the horses, the guests, the wandering souls who had ventured there for rest. Funny how this place had turned into such a lion's den for him, when there were smiles and polite memories passed around so freely to others. He stuck his hands in his pockets, loving the fabric's tightness around his fingers, his cold knuckles, his trimmed nails. It made him feel held, cared for. How hard it was, to give her his all, only to see her still so distant, so unable, or perhaps so unwilling, to come back. It made him want to give up. And that was not an option.
The night was unseasonably warm, the coolness of the past few days suddenly dissipated. Andrew looked up to the sky, admiring the clarity of the stars, their luminous glow from so many miles distant. Though he felt his worries swirling unseen above him, around him, he caught one after another winking at him, the eyes of God's angels, always on him. Did they look on her as well?
Andrew wished his angels on his precious Colleen. He saw her smile in the gently swaying branches, bare in the night, saw her big, constantly inquiring eyes mirrored in the concealed deer hiding back in the underbrush. She was love, and love was nature, and nature was God. But God and nature had failed her. In turn, they had failed him.
So he turned his eyes down, shunning all the world. Dinner had done little to settle him. He had been away from her too long. And the time had given him an opportunity to think, though he had figured out nothing. He supposed there was little to be done. Colleen had been raped. The words were vicious, razor-edged truth, but he had to admit it to keep it from wounding him. Andrew could only love her. He couldn't promise himself that she would come back to him, but he would approach the task with as much vigor as was left him. Now, all he longed for was to crawl back into the bed beside her, to claim some much-needed rest. There was still some shadow clinging of his former fears of impropriety, but the man in love dismissed them. She needed closeness that was right in its motives, a touch that was tender. He needed to erase with his soft hands what had been done with the other man's vicious ones. He would hold her until she came back to him, just keep his arms tightly about her. It would be sweet occupation.
Andrew was careful to step lightly on the wooden slats of the hotel's wr aparound porch as he neared his room. An anxious smile crossed his lips, like a little boy about to go somewhere forbidden.
But his smile fell. The door to his room was ajar. Something was wrong. Andrew had wounded visions of Colleen, once more bleeding, once again hurt. Running to the door, his breath coming rapidly, he feared pushing open the door and finding her limp body strewn across the floor, or in his bed, the covers thrown haphazardly. God, he should never have left her. Why did he allow himself to believe his room offered any safety? Once again, he had failed. Please, no. Please.
His hand shot out from his body, impacting with the door and throwing it back violently against the wall, the brass hinges dully squeaking. There was no one in the room. Beads of sweat dripped into his eyes, and Andrew felt his body burning with fear, chilling him to his core. He heard himself crying out. Colleen. Colleen. She did not answer.
Andrew threw a quick look around the room. The bed was perfectly made, the dresser arranged neatly, Colleen's bloodied clothes from two nights before folded by the wooden foot of the bed. He moaned, heard the guttural utterance dancing heavily into the empty room. The saddened walls shot the sound back to his ears. There was no evidence of violence, but that did not register. Andrew was quick to believe the men had returned and taken her, to use her again at their will. It was improbable, but so had been the past few days. Life had turned on its axis, and Andrew felt himself spinning out of control. He had to find her. His feet pulled him outside, as he shocked his heart with visions of her helpless somewhere, calling for him, pleading for him to save her. He had to get to her.
An hour later, the night found the young doctor on the verge of hysteria, helplessness constricting his body. His legs itched for action, for movement towards her, but something held him where he was. Andrew felt he'd crossed from edge to edge of the forest, without finding even a scrap of proof that she'd passed that way, captive or not. Desperation began to set in.
The woods were possessed of an ethereal quality, like some dream world of his best imaginings. He bent over, catching his escaping breath. Andrew kept his hands on his knees, and reached out for her, his heart singing her name. Colleen. Colleen, answer me.
An owl cried in the distance. It was a soft sound, brushing its hands over his cold flesh with the tenderness of down. He listened, heard the sound again, and picked up his agitated feet to follow. The doctor ignored the pulsing of rough branches against his bare forearms. He had rolled his sleeves up long before, all pretense of decorum vanished. His shined shoes tangled in the oftentimes dense underbrush, and Andrew began to believe that the forest itself was determined to keep him from her.
And then the black leaves parted. Moonlight washed over him with the warmth of a July lake. Colleen was there. God, she was there.
His heart quickened, and he felt happiness untouched. She was a vision, her cinnamon hair well-brushed, flowing down her back. The moonlight shadowed her bruises, gave her skin a faerie paleness. She was beautiful. Andrew recognized one of his nightshirts hanging loosely over her frame, her weak legs folded beneath her. She sat back, knees and toes touching the ground. He saw her face expressionless, her hands toying with something on the path.
Andrew could not hold it back any longer, this ecstasy at finding her safe when his imaginings had led him to all variety of horrid conclusions. He ran to her, sliding on his knees in the dirt, raising a late-night cloud. Andrew put his arms around her, pulling her close.
"Colleen, thank God. I didn't know what had happened, and the door was ajar, and..."
The frenzied speech died out quickly. Her body wasn't responding to his touch.
Andrew pulled away.
"Colleen?"
The word questioned. He looked down, following his beloved's eyes to the ground. In her hands were bits of dirt-covered gauze. Andrew notice what he had missed in his hurry. Dr. Mike's black medical bag lay near the side of the road, lighter in its lightlessness for the coating of earthen smoke that clung tenaciously to it. There were rolls of bandage unraveled, sticking up awkwardly as branches tried to poke through them. They looked like they were grimacing, scowling. A horrid reminder of that night. A horrid reminder.
The battered young woman fiddled with the bits of gauze in her hands, and Andrew saw the spidery crumbs of earth strung through the weaving. Andrew held her by the wrists, lifting her hands to his lips. The young doctor kissed her palms, kissed her clean nails, wondering at the vacant look in her eyes.
"Andrew, I...I'm sorry."
Her voice was so timid, and she had just begun to focus on him, instead of looking through his excited form. Tears slid into his eyes. She was so lost.
Slipping off of his knees, Andrew pulled her closer, resting his chin on the top of her head. He kept his voice firm, while his cheeks were littered with spots of his agony.
"Colleen, you have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all."
Andrew pulled his face away, lifting her face with two fingers underneath her chin. She had begun to cry herself. He repeated himself.
"You have nothing to be sorry for."
He only held her, the late hours creeping up on them, as it seemed they were the only two people on earth. A fragile dream, for if there had been any truth in it, Andrew would have not had this crushing need to protect her. Colleen's eyes were closed against his chest, the bits of gauze fallen back to the road where they had been dirtied, where she had been dirtied. This was the spot.
Unconsciously, his grip on her loosened ever so slightly. Andrew's eyes pored over the inches, the feet of tough earth surrounding them. Where had it happened, when Colleen's maidenhood had bowed behind a falling curtain? Did he want to know? The relaxing of his arms spoke the query his lips were forbidden to voice.
"By the tree."
How tender her voice, the polite melody of a woman mute given back a loud throat. He looked down at her, amazed at the welling of tears in her eyes.
She raised her right arm, brushing his chest with a chaste allure as she did so. The nightshirt hung down heavily from her arm, giving it the look of hearty weight, belying nothing of the fragility that had overtaken the young woman. He followed her finger, and saw a thick tree, its bark lighter than its companions, its base bare. It was incredible. Not for its size, or for its deeply rooted strength, but in its plainness. Simply a tree, no grander or fuller or better than the others. And yet she would never forget it, of all the oaks and maples Colleen had seen in her life. It saddened him, that one spot of earth would horrify her forever. Of course, it was man that had destroyed its sanctity. Always men. Andrew was ashamed to sit there, before an attractive world, as he was. A man.
Colleen began to stand. The doctor remained on the ground, watching her rising with silent admiration. Once she reached her full height, her knees buckled beneath her, and Colleen fell on him, crying out. He caught her, his muscles springing to action with instinct he had gained since she'd come. He heard her cry out. It was a raw scream of diamond frustration, birthed from the coal of her violation.
She felt herself falling, feeling her unexcused legs refusing to hold her up. It was wrong, this night, this time that her mind was spending victimized. Her spirit curled into the fetal position within her, and there was such refusal pounding in each of her veins. She refused to sit there, the memory killing her time and time again.
Andrew held her, but she could not stay in his arms, a damsel in distress. The scream was her own blinding shove against what they had done to her.
Colleen put her full weight on her pale legs, from what seemed a great distance stabbed by pain that welled in her very core. She would face it, face their shadows there.
Putting her hands on the tree as she had done two nights before, the young woman saw herself laid low, an obscured predator thieving his way into her life.
"WHY, GOD? WHY?"
Andrew watched this white-robed goddess begging on her knees to a face turned away. His hands itched to hold her. His heart screamed to shield her from the cold night. But the young doctor knew he was no part of this redemption of Colleen's soul. As much as it pained Andrew, and as much as he knew he could not survive without her, he had to let this happen. She would survive. Or not. But his mind, his heart, were here unwanted, unnecessary. It was the woman, her demons, the night.
He watched. His clothed knees embracing a comfortable patch of dirt, Andrew only watched, as Colleen held the bark of the tree in her hands, wrapped herself around it and cried with tortured howls.
Defeated, an hour or so later, Colleen stood and walked back to him. Her face was swollen, her chestnut eyes larger than life with her own shed suffering. His nightshirt was spotted with dirt, markings of the underbrush. She stood over him, gargantuan as he sat on his knees.
"Colleen?" Andrew was afraid. He'd witnessed the very gears of her spirit turning that night, and could not help doubting she had purged her past, and him, from her life.
She put her hands in his tousled hair, and an unexpectedly frigid breeze found itself around them. Colleen smoothed his light brown locks, and smiled. She smiled.
"I love you, Andrew Cook. I need you."
He kept his eyes locked with hers, feeling as a figure on one side of the horizon, seeing his dream, a miracle, solidifying on the other. She put her hands, fingertip to fingertip, beneath his chin, and raised him up before her.
"How I do need you..."
Colleen leaned towards him, moving her lips almost healthily, forgetting the cuts and bruises. She kissed him. The stars took to illuminating themselves with his happiness. Without him, the best way, Colleen had decided to return. She had come home to his arms. Sadness and Grief sulked off into the hell from which they had come, arm in arm, and Andrew led Colleen away.
The morning found them side by side in the bed, warm, together, in a virginal embrace that would have excited envy in the purest of hearts. Colleen lay with her eyes open, loving the feel of Andrew's arms about her chest. There was no felicity equal. His breath came regularly, and his eyes seemed to smile beneath their veined lids. Andrew dreamed, but kept his secrets. And, though it was resplendent still with pain that was the consequence of healing, Colleen faced the morning with her head high. As long as he would stand beside her, she would fear nothing. She was guarded in his heart now, something for which she had so longed, and there was no other safety she would accept.
Kissing his cheek with only a breath of her embered passion, Colleen withdrew herself from the bed, her legs stronger in their weakness. In the dresser mirror, Colleen watched herself crossing the floor, her feet chilled on the wooden slats. This room, this hotel, was only a step above the purgatory that had claimed her for days. But that was the most important thing - she was above it now. She reined victorious over the hurt and the anger. God had answered her. Without words, without understanding, Colleen knew she had been seen the night before, prostrate before Destiny, her very essence stripped bare before an unseen almighty. He had answered her.
Colleen had come to understand that nothing, indeed, had been stolen from her, three nights before. She was the same woman, with the same dreams, the same fanciful imaginings in the still-dark of morning. She had allowed herself to venture that the touch of all men brought agony, and now chastised herself for allowing her mind such liberties. Andrew's touch was the very polished brow of happiness. He could never degenerate into the filth who had harmed her. And she had nothing to fear. Her body had been taken, yes, but not her spirit, not her soul, the well of untasted love she harbored within herself. No, those were the things barred from thievery, open only when she chose to offer them. When love asked for them.
Across from her, in the temporary room, surrounded by walls that modestly boasted his triumphs, lay that love, as unassuming a heart as she would ever know. For him, because of him, Colleen would hold the hand of Happiness and step into the daylight again. He would be by her side. No coward who hid his face in the cloak of night would take that future from her. How could her strength permit it?
The sleeping doctor began to stir. Colleen quickly combed her hair, pleased it fell into a comfortable conformity instead of relishing the bloody tangle it had become. She stole a glance in the reflecting glass and saw, beneath the topcoat of wine bruises and bloodied lips, her own Colorado beauty fighting to breathe, like a rose in an unweeded garden. A smile no longer threatened to shatter her face, so Colleen let one forth proudly. There I am. And there he is.
Careful to mind her fragilities, Colleen knelt beside the bed and took Andrew's hand in her own, kissing it gently. He opened his eyes with a flamboyant yawn, and she saw the playful flash in his eyes.
"Good morning," she said, her voice full of freshly unwrapped mirth.
Andrew touched a hand to her face, sitting up and swinging his calves over the side of the wooden bed. He took up his own hand, held by hers, and put it on his chest, over his heart. Colleen could sense each beat, felt the increasing rapidity as Andrew slid down onto the floor beside her.
"I love you, Colleen." He barely whispered the words, and smiled.
"I'm ready, Andrew."
His eyes were questioning.
"I'm ready to go back out there. I'm ready to smile again. I'm ready for the sun, and the seasons, and the wind. I'm ready because you're here."
Colleen leaned to him, and they kissed with unabashed urgency. They had found one another. The day had begun anew. Her hand still across his heart, she understood Fate. He was before her. She had been saved. The End