Chapter Text
Phil Burbank was unwell. And exhausted. He had spent too much precious energy putting on his best suit and trying to hunt down the boy to give him his rope. The rope he'd spent all night finishing. Where the hell was the kid anyway? In the end, Phil had no choice but to give up and set the goddamn thing on the ground before he collapsed.
Now he was bouncing along in his brother George's car, feeling sicker by the second. His right hand wavered between searing pain and complete numbness. Phil wondered if he would pass out, but the jostling of the car and his brother's periodic words kept him awake.
"Stay with me, Phil. I'm trying to get you to the doctor as fast as I can."
Phil figured he must not have been fully conscious for the entire ride because they seemed to reach Herndon sooner than he expected. George honked his horn several times as they pulled up outside the doctor's office, and two men hurried out, one dark-haired and the other blonde. Phil's feeble attempts to reject help out of the car were ignored, as he was all but carried into the building. There were some brief introductions between his brother and the two other men, both doctors. Phil vaguely recognized one as Dr. Wilcox, but he was too out of it to catch the other's name. George was sent out of the room. The two doctors began assessing his injured hand, not wishing to lose any time.
"What do you think?" Dr. Wilcox asked the other who was inspecting the wound closely.
"This is infected. Extremely so." There was something out of place about the man's way of speaking, but Phil couldn't put his finger on it. The man continued, "Do you happen to know what line of work he's in?"
Phil opened his mouth to speak, but Dr. Wilcox answered first. "He and his brother are ranchers."
"I'm a cowboy," Phil corrected him, crossly.
"If that's the case sir, we really must determine if you have any other lacerations or wounds on the rest of your body that might be infected, too."
"It's only the hand!" Phil spat out. But his anger cost him dearly; he could feel his mind begin to swim.
"Better safe than sorry, Mr. Burbank," came the man's pragmatic response. The doctors began undressing Phil, who could only sit there as limp and mute as a rag doll. He seemed to fall asleep, but happened to fade back into consciousness in time to witness the blonde man crouching down to pick up a discolored white cloth that had fallen out of the breast pocket of Phil's suit jacket. The doctor peered at it curiously, rubbing a thumb across the embroidered letters. BH. Phil grew anxious.
"Now, be careful with that Doc. It's important to me."
The man turned to him and saw the fear and anguish in Phil's eyes. He nodded solemnly, folding the cloth with care and setting it on top of Phil's other clothing that had been placed on the counter. The doctors continued with their inspection and Phil shut his eyes and tried to fight off delirium.
"He's rather dirty," Phil heard the doctor with the strange accent mention.
"Comes with the territory. Ranching can be dusty, dirty work," Dr. Wilcox responded.
"I suppose so. Still..."
Phil, even in his catatonic state, was filled with shame and fury at the man's words. If I knew I'd be dying in the middle of a doctor's office today, I would've bathed, your Majesty, he wanted to say, but was too weak to get the words out. It was determined a bath was in order, and before Phil knew what was happening, he was suffering the humiliation of being walked naked into another room where a young woman filled a tub. With diligence, the doctors got him into the bath and set to scrubbing him clean. To Phil's dismay, the young woman stayed and acted as a scribe as the two doctors cataloged and detailed every bump and bruise on his body, although they were the most worried about his right hand. Phil teetered on the edge of consciousness as they conversed, and when he could focus, he started to place the strange man's accent. It sounded English.
"Where'd you find this limey, Wilcox?" It was a genuine question, although Phil realized it came out sounding like an insult, a challenge even.
"Mr. Burbank, I'm a bit busy at the moment saving your life to rise to your bait. I suggest you not waste your last remaining strength trying to provoke myself or Dr. Wilcox. It is best you stay quiet."
Phil nodded his head in agreement. Perhaps with his life hanging in the balance as it was, he ought to take the man's suggestion. Phil's head began to feel hot with fever as his body shivered in the water. He felt woozy and could only follow snippets of the men's conversation now.
"His hair's pretty tangled in spots. Think we should shave it?" Phil heard with alarm.
"No," replied the English doctor, "It's unlikely he has a head wound. He or his brother would have mentioned it. Why not snip off some of the worst parts but let the poor man keep his hair and beard." Phil felt relief, and he wondered if the doctor had sensed his distress.
Later he heard, "Should we stitch up his hand?"
"Too late for that, the damage has been done unfortunately. We’ll keep it open and let the infection drain, try some antiseptic, and hope for the best."
Phil wasn't exactly enheartened by these words, but he had little time to contemplate it as darkness overcame him.
—
Phil woke to the sound of a mortar and pestle. Grind, grind, grind, pause. Grind, grind, grind, pause. His head hurt mightily, but he sensed he was lying in a soft bed in a loose nightshirt. His right arm felt like a hot, numb brick, which couldn't be a good sign. A smell reached his nostrils that hazily reminded him of home, and more specifically of his sister-in-law Rose. With a great deal of effort Phil opened his eyelids. His gaze swept around the room: small, whitewashed, perfunctory, with a bed, a basin, a chest of drawers and little else. His eyes finally alighted on the limey doctor dropping orange flowers into a mortar.
"Whatcha cookin' up there, Doc?"
The doctor startled for a moment, perhaps unaware that his patient had woken up. He turned to look at Phil with big, inquisitive, dark eyes.
"A poultice for you. Marigolds." The doctor returned to grinding up more flowers. He didn’t look happy with the consistency and added some powder from a jar sitting next to the basin. Phil's foggy brain finally made a connection: the pungent orange flowers were the same kind that Rose had planted outside the ranch house. But for a poultice? This doctor has strange notions.
"Poultices are only good for lame horses, Doctor..." Phil trailed off. It occurred to him that he didn’t know the man's name. The doctor stopped and turned to his patient once again. A smile spread across his face, lighting it up.
"Watson. John Watson. I'd shake your hand, Mr. Burbank, but yours seems to be out of commission for the time being.” Even in his sorry state, Phil chuckled at the doctor’s gallows’ humor.
“The poultice will help with that, we hope. Good for lame horses and lame men.” The doctor continued to work the pestle.
“Dr. John,” Phil mused, his memory chugging through the fog, “The boy’s father was a Dr. John, too. But he’s dead now. Hanged himself. The father, not the boy.”
“My condolences to you and Dr. John's family. Why don't you call me Dr. Watson to keep from getting confused, hm? And while I have you awake..." The doctor carried a black leather medical bag over to Phil’s bedside table, pulled open the bag, and extracted a small glass bottle. Phil watched as the man set the bottle down to pour a glass of water from a pitcher. He then uncorked the bottle and shook out two pills.
“What are those?" Phill asked, eying the small white lumps suspiciously.
"Bayer's aspirin. It will help with the fever and the swelling. You have to swallow them whole, hence the water. Do you need help?"
Phil struggled to sit up in bed, and was embarrassed to see how badly even his good hand shook as he reached for the pills.
"I'll hold the water for you," the doctor insisted, taking Phil's weakness completely in stride. He held the water to Phil's lips, and Phil drank, swallowing the pills, then drank more and more as if the water could quench the fire blazing both in his head and creeping up his arm. When he was done, his head fell back onto the pillow and he closed his eyes with pain and fatigue. He heard the grinding resume.
"Why marigolds?" Phil asked. The doctor took a few more seconds with the pestle before responding.
"Marigolds are a natural antiseptic."
"How do you figure that, Doc?" Phil caught and corrected himself, "Dr. Watson?"
"I learned it from the Indians in the Southwest and Northern Mexico. They have been using marigolds medicinally for hundreds of years."
"Huh, fancy that," Phil smirked, but he couldn't help keeping the curiosity out of his voice.
"I pick up lots of interesting tidbits on my travels, Mr. Burbank," Dr. Watson explained with a small grin, "It's one of the advantages of being a traveling doctor. Picking up the tricks of the trade from one part of the world, and spreading that knowledge to help save lives in other parts. Now, let's take a look at that hand, shall we?"
"The doctor sat down gingerly on the bed and took Phil's injured right hand in his lap. With expert care he unwrapped it, frowning slightly at what lay beneath. Phil couldn't blame him: the hand looked swollen, purple, and gnarly.
"Not good?"
"Not as good as I would like," Dr. Watson admitted with a sigh.
"What's your diagnosis, sir?" Phil questioned, swallowing a lump in his throat. The doctor took strips of white cloth and another small bottle out of his medical bag, this one amber and filled with liquid.
"I believe this is an anthrax infection, Mr. Burbank."
Phil's heart seized up and then lurched into motion again, pumping dread through his body: his worst fear brought to life. He had taken great pains to avoid the evils of anthrax in his profession, and it had come to get him in the end, nonetheless.
"Not possible, Doc," Phil retorted, "Me and my crew are vigilant in our handling of sick livestock and hides..."
"It lives in the soil; it is all around," offered the doctor. But Phil shook his head in violent protest, which only aggravated his headache. He screwed his eyes shut and laid his head back down with a groan.
"It may not have been you or your crew's doing, Mr. Burbank. Perhaps someone else you do business with doesn't adhere to the same strict precautions and protocols as you do," Dr. Watson suggested calmly, "Perhaps it was someone not properly trained."
Phil's eyes flew open. The doctor, however, continued with his work, pouring the liquid from the small bottle onto a strip of cloth.
"It certainly didn’t help that you neither bothered to wash out your cut nor bandage it when it happened,” the doctor grumbled, “All we can do now is treat it. This…” Dr. Watson shook the small amber bottle. “Is a stronger antiseptic than the flowers. I am going to put it directly on your cut. It may sting a bit, Mr. Burbank."
But Phil did not feel anything, nor was he paying any more attention to the doctor’s words. He was too deep into his thoughts. There was someone not properly trained. Someone who had given him rawhide, and Phil had not even questioned where the hide had come from. “I wanted to be like you.” Someone who, despite his inexperience with ranching, had ample knowledge of the range and severity of diseases that could kill a man. Someone who Phil had assumed was all softness, despite the fact Phil had witnessed said person kill a rabbit swiftly, handily, and without emotion. "My father used to worry I wasn't kind enough... that I was too strong." Someone who Phil had manipulated and treated most cruelly—him and his mother. Someone who had every reason to exact revenge on Phil.
Stupid, Stupid, STUPID! Phil could not believe how utterly blind he had been.
"Are you still with us, Mr. Burbank?"
Phil snapped out of his daze and turned his head towards the sound of his name. Dr. Watson was washing up in the basin. Phil looked down at his right hand, firmly wrapped in layers of white cloth.
"I've added the poultice and dressed your wound. We will keep it like that overnight, and check it again in the morning."
Phil gave a good sniff and said, "Well Doc, between the bath you gave me and the flowers, you have me smelling better than I have in decades."
To Phil's surprise, the doctor let out a chuckle. Phil's chest swelled with pride in making a man like this laugh, even in a dire situation such as this. The two men grew solemn once again.
"What happens now?" Phil asked, his voice wavering.
"You rest, Mr. Burbank. Dr. Wilcox or myself will be checking on you throughout the day and night. Nurse Patty will be by later this evening to administer more aspirin and see if we can get some broth into you. I imagine you might not be feeling up to eating any more than that."
Phil shook his head no; he had no appetite at all. Dr. Watson nodded towards the pitcher of water on the bedside table.
"Drink water when you can, and there's a bedpan below if you'll be needing it." The doctor began packing up his medical equipment. Panic rose in Phil's chest.
"Am I going to die, Dr. Watson?"
The doctor paused and turned to look at him. Phil studied the man's open, honest face. Phil could see he was the type of fella who wouldn't pull any punches.
"I'm not going to lie, Mr. Burbank, It doesn't look good. But I've seen people with worse cases than yours recover. Even though I am a man of science, I am fully aware that miracles can happen."
Phil nodded, resigned to his fate. God would have no miracles reserved for a sinner such as himself.
"Have faith, Mr. Burbank." The doctor quietly left.
—
The couple sat stiffly in chairs in Dr. Wilcox's office. Rose shot an anxious look towards her husband George. He patted her hand in comfort. They jumped to their feet at the sound of the door squeaking open as Dr. Watson entered the room.
"How nice to see you again, Mr. Burbank!" Dr. Watson exclaimed, offering cordial handshakes, "And you must be Mrs. Burbank. I'm Dr. John Watson. A pleasure to meet you ma'am." They settled back into the chairs, Dr. Watson sitting behind Dr. Wilcox's desk.
"As Dr. Wilcox likely informed you, it's been a very long week. But your brother Phil is out of immediate danger, at least physically-speaking." The couple let out a nervous sigh of relief and clasped each other's hands. Dr. Watson couldn't help noticing they didn't look quite as elated as he would have expected.
"What do you mean by physically-speaking?" George asked with concern.
Dr. Watson cleared his throat before proceeding. "His body is recovering from the infection remarkably well. Your brother has a very strong constitution; however, please know it could be several months for him to make a full recovery. And a patient needs to be in a good frame of mind for this to happen, and your brother... well, his spirits seem very low."
Dr. Watson watched closely as Mr. and Mrs. Burbank gave each other knowing looks. It was George who at last spoke. "My brother Phil has never been one to be carefree and high-spirited, Dr. Watson." Rose Burbank cast her eyes to the ground and nodded slowly.
"He's the type who'll command other people's respect, but he's always had what you'd call a 'harsh way' about him too... I hate to speak so poorly of the ill," George added, fidgeting in his seat.
"Not at all, Mr. Burbank," Dr. Watson said to put him at ease, "It is good for me to understand his temperament. Now, Dr. Wilcox and I have been discussing it, and we feel it would serve Phil best if he stayed here in town for the next few weeks so that we can keep an eye on him during his convalescence." The Burbanks shot meaningful glances towards one another again.
"My brother Phil might be staying in town longer than that," George stated. He gave no sign that he would elaborate, and John Watson wondered at this man of so few words.
"We've brought his personal effects in the car," Mrs. Burbank added.
"Well then," the doctor stammered, not knowing quite what to make of the situation, "This brings me to my next point... your brother may need some activity, some mental stimulation as they say, to occupy his time during his recovery. What does he do for leisure?"
Rose and George looked lost at how to respond.
"My brother is... was... heavily involved with the everyday going-ons at our ranch. He worked hard, didn't have much time for leisure."
Dr. Watson didn't want to seem insistent, but he had his reasons for pressing them. "Was there anything at all? Reading? Writing? Drawing?"
Rose looked pleadingly at her husband. George squirmed in his chair and said, "He does woodworking. Likes to make miniatures of furniture and suchlike." Rose, relieved, seconded this with a nod.
"Hmm, he won't have the dexterity in his right hand for that, at least not for a while. Anything else? A music aficionado, perhaps?"
Mrs. Burbank gave a gasp and George turned his sad eyes to her. She sat up straight. "Phil Burbank is a very talented banjo player," she said, her voice quavering, "Extremely talented."
Dr. Watson smiled brightly. "Well, that's wonder—"
"His banjo has been destroyed," George interjected.
"Oh my," muttered Dr. Watson.
"I smashed it," Rose Burbank admitted. There was a strength in her voice that the doctor hadn't noticed before. Dr. Watson sat very still, waiting.
"He would... tease me when I tried to practice some melodies on our piano. He'd play the song flawlessly on his banjo whenever I fumbled." The words brought her pain, but she spoke them anyway. "When George drove his sick brother here to you... I... I took the banjo from Phil's room, brought it down to the yard, and smashed it into a million pieces with a hammer. I'd been drinking..." Her words petered out. She leaned on her husband for support, covered her face with her hand, and let out a sob.
"It's alright, Mrs. Burbank, it's completely alright," Dr. Watson reassured her.
"My brother has a mean streak, you see," George explained with difficulty, "And he has turned it on my wife and her son, without me noticing." George's gaze fell to the ground in shame—shame for inadvertently subjecting his wife to such tyranny, or shame for being too blind to see any of the signs of abuse, Dr. Watson didn't know for sure. All he could tell was that the Burbanks clan was one helluva unhappy family and he wasn't sure how he was going to go about helping any of them out.
"Please pardon us. We've been through a lot," Mr. Burbank said, "But you mentioned reading... and well, my brother went to college on the East Coast. Studied the classics. I reckon he did a lot of reading then. I don't know what he did with all his books though. They seemed to have disappeared."
Dr. Watson clasped his hands together in satisfaction. "That's at least something to work with. I'll see if there's some books in town I can borrow for your brother."
"You don't need to do that. I'd hate to have you go to so much trouble," George said anxiously.
"It's not a problem, Mr. Burbank. And I happen to know of a bookseller over in Great Falls who has a surprisingly robust collection, if you are interested in trekking over there. I know it's aways."
George looked at his wife who nodded to him in encouragement.
"Not a problem, Dr. Watson. I'll go next week."
"I could write you a list of titles and authors, would that be helpful?"
"We'd be much obliged, Doctor," Rose interjected.
"We can't thank you enough for all you've done to help Phil." George's voice cracked at the words. For all the evident animosity that flowed between this couple and his patient Phil, Dr. Watson could see there was still some brotherly compassion there too.
"It's what I do," Dr. Watson said with a reassuring smile.
—
It was about time one of the doctors came to check on him, and Phil was growing impatient. He couldn't help hoping it would be the short English gent. Phil hated that he had a preference. Even though Dr. Wilcox was an upstanding citizen of Herndon and all, that other doctor—the one with the sandy hair and sunny disposition—was frankly a much better conversationalist. While Dr. Wilcox wordlessly took his temperature, changed his dressings, and grunted sagely at all of Phil's complaints, at least Dr. Watson talked. "The fact that you feel well enough to voice your complaints is proof that you are improving, Mr. Burbank," the man had said on more than one occasion. Even if it was all horseshit, even if Phil was half-dead, it was still soothing to hear.
Phil heard promising footsteps approach the door. There was a light knock.
"Mr. Burbank, may I enter?"
"Yep," Phil called out. Dr. Watson entered, beaming a smile. Always with a smile, that one. Phil tried hard not to smile back.
"How are you feeling today, Mr. Burbank?"
"A little better than I was."
"That's good to hear. Let me take a look." Dr. Watson approached and placed a cool hand on Phil's forehead.
"You do feel a little less hot than before. You've been drinking your liquids?"
"Yes sir, I have."
"Good. Good. Let's see that hand."
Phil watched as the doctor carefully unwrapped his bandaged hand, poked and prodded, holding it this way and that in the sunlight coming through the window.
"Not bad. Improving. Can you move your fingers?" Dr. Watson asked. Phil tried to no avail.
"I believe that's a no, Doc."
"All in good time." The doctor washed and dried Phil's hand. He pulled ointment and fresh bandages out of his black bag.
"I come bearing news, Mr. Burbank," the doctor said as he tended to the injured hand.
"And what's that, pray tell?"
"You are doing well enough that you're getting evicted," the Watson fella announced in a cheery voice, "We're moving you to the boarding house on Baker Street."
"You've got to be kidding me. When the hell am I going home, Doc?" groused Phil. The doctor stayed on task, dressing the wound, the consummate professional. Phil's blustering never seemed to rattle the man.
"Dr. Wilcox and I have decided we need to keep you near so we can oversee your continued recuperation. You aren't out of the woods, yet, I'm afraid, Mr. Burbank." Dr. Watson's tone was strict, not wishing to give his patient too much hope. But then it turned rosy. "Now, the boarding house owner, Mrs. Hudson, runs a very fine establishment. I should know, it's where I always stay when I'm in the region. The indoor bath is especially nice, I recommend it."
Phil wondered why the man had to live in a boarding house, but then remembered that Dr. Watson called himself a traveling doctor. Probably knows every boarding house from here to the Mexico border, Phil thought, but decided he didn't like the sound of living in such an establishment himself any longer than necessary.
"And just how long will I be staying at the boarding house?"
The doctor's eyes shot up to Phil's, then his brow furrowed as he returned to his bandaging. "I believe your brother will come by to speak to you about that soon… It could be for some time, though."
Phil eyed the doctor with suspicion. The man knew something but wasn't letting on. This didn’t bode well, and Phil was smart enough to put two and two together.
"So, I'm being banished? Is that it?!" Phil spat out. Dr. Watson only let out a small sigh.
"Exiled from my home?! Left to rot in this dusty town with nobody I know and nothin' to do—"
"I assure you that the town isn't that bad. Loads of friendly folks," the doctor interjected.
"Ha!" Phil scoffed, "I can't abide by being made to be idle, Doc. I'll either die of boredom or off myself because of it."
This got the doctor's attention. His dark eyes met Phil's bright ones. Phil was surprised to discover they were an incredible shade of deep, deep blue flecked with gold.
"We're going to try to keep that from happening, Mr. Burbank. But the person who will be required to work the hardest to prevent a tragedy such as that from occurring will need to be you yourself." The doctor maintained eye contact long past comfortable. When he at last looked away, Phil welcomed the respite from the doctor's scrutiny. Dr. Watson completed the bandaging and put his supplies back into his medical bag. There seemed to be something on his mind.
"I mentioned that your brother is in town, but I told him you might need another day of rest before he visits you."
This gave Phil pause. It occurred to him that the doctor was shielding him, or at least giving Phil the chance to mull over his pitiful future before George arrived with his bad news. Dr. Watson's actions were a mercy; but Phil couldn't make out why the man would bother. Nonetheless, Phil knew he ought to show his gratitude.
"Thank you, Dr. Watson, I'm much obliged."
John Watson smiled to himself, thinking how the Burbank brothers, despite how utterly different they were, were still raised with the same manners and sense of propriety.
"It's nothing, Mr. Burbank."
—
George came to visit the next day as Dr. Watson had predicted. He had come alone, without his wife, and his pronouncements were as severe as Phil feared: Phil was not allowed to live under the same roof as his wife Rose or her son Peter ever again. Phil had already decided if he ever laid eyes on Pete Gordon again it would be too soon, but the prospect of never living on the ranch again was almost too much to bear. His brother seemed to read his mind.
"I'm not saying you can't ever come back to the ranch. Phil. It's your home too after all. But we'll have to come up with some different living arrangements," George said in his customary gentle manner. Phil nodded in agreement. George might be the younger and the weaker of the two of them, but Phil knew George's word was gospel. Phil saw that whatever he had to say wouldn't matter one iota to George. Hadn't it always been that way? Whenever Phil would ramble on about the good ol' days, George would barely listen. Even when Phil went on one of his loud and lengthy rants, George would quietly cut him off with some big decree, leaving Phil speechless and powerless. Every damn time.
And so, it was decided: Phil would not come home. George would send word when he and the misses were going to be gone so that Phil could come home for short visits. They would decide in a couple of months what their long-term plan would be for Phil's lodging. Until then, George explained, his belongings would be brought to the Baker Street boarding house. Phil would make a life here in Herndon.
"It’s as simple as that," George concluded.
Phil didn't think any of it was as simple as it seemed, but he kept his mouth shut. There was nothing else to say, really. Phil was at a loss. "Loss" encompassed the entirety of his rotten little life, in fact. Loss of home, loss of family, loss of purpose. It was nearly as bad as losing one's life. If not worse.