Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

June 23, 1870

I can't even put into words how comforting it is to simply wake up in the same place. It's sort of silly, really. But as I began to drowse in the rocking chair beside Mister Blaine's bed last night, I couldn't help but be afraid of where I might have woken up.

It's kind of a weird thing to be afraid of. Who doesn't know where they're going to wake up? It's a different sort of fear from simply not recognizing where you've woken up. You knew where you were last night, even if you don't immediately remember.

But being afraid to fall asleep because you don't know where—or when—you'll wake up is a whole different ball game.

I still haven't decided why this is happening to me. I don't know if it's something that's still just happening in my head. It feels too real for that. The rocking chair beneath me is hard. I can smell the blood-and-sweat scent coming off Mister Blaine. The sunlight beginning to creep across the floor is too crisp.

Dreams aren't like this. Or at least the ones I have aren't.

So it's not a dream. And if it's not a dream, does that mean it's real life?

But Mister Blaine is beginning to stir. I need to look at his wound and change the bandages. I need to check for gangrene and fever. He needs to eat and drink something.

All this does is make me realize that I remember being Gaëlle as much as I remember being Abby.

That isn't very comforting.

                                                                                       ~~*~~

The whole day just seemed to slip away from me. Between tending to Mister Blaine and seeing to the everyday needs of the ranch, I simply lost track of time. The sun slipped below the clouds just moments ago.

The sun's not the only thing that slipped away.

It took a while before either of us realized Mister Taggart had left. When I'd gone into the barn to feed and water the stock late this afternoon, his horse and rig had disappeared with barely a trace. Any tracks he might have left were wiped out by the afternoon thunderstorm that had swept in from the north.

When I had run into the house, drenched to the skin, Blaine hadn't seemed terribly surprised by my news. My own surprise must have shown on my face because he sat up a little straighter in the bed. "Clay and me worked the same outfit south of here. We made our drive and were both headed north. That's why we were travelin' together."

My confusion about his indifference cleared. So they hadn't been partners. Just acquaintances.

Mister Blaine began to edge toward the side of the bed, face going white with the pain and I rushed forward to stop him, planting my hands on his broad shoulders. He froze and stared up at me, his breath shaking.

Again, that same sense of familiarity swept through me.

I blinked down at him and snatched my hands away, knowing how inappropriate it was to touch him with such familiarity. As soon as I pulled away, he took another shuddering breath and heaved himself up. I skittered back when I suddenly found my nose barely an inch from his chest.

He hadn't seemed so very tall when Taggart had dragged him in here.

Limping slightly, he edged toward the end of the bed, reaching for the gunbelt hung on the bedpost. 

"What are you doing, Mister Blaine?" I asked quietly, folding my hands in front of me.

Blaine slung the belt around his hips and for the first time I noticed how low he wore that gun. No cowboy wore his gun like that. Slowly, he buckled the belt, then looked up at me. His eyes were shuttered, his face curiously still.

He touched his tongue to his cracked lips. "It wasn't Indians that shot me."

I swallowed hard and waited for him to keep talking.

He reached for the black, flat-brimmed hat resting on the chest and tugged it low over his eyes, casting a sinister shadow over his face. "Thank you," he said softly, "for what you did."

When he went to move around me, I ducked into his path, making him pull up short. His mouth was a hard line and I could see the sweat beginning to bead on his brow. This was a man with salt, but even the hardest men can be worn down by injury.

"You still need rest, Mister Blaine," I reminded him.

"Dan," he said. "Please?"

I hesitated for the barest moment, then gave a short nod. "You need to rest, Dan. If you don't, that wound will bust open as soon as you try to throw a saddle. You'll start bleeding again."

A smile twitched his mouth. "If I stay, trouble will come that ain't yours. You've done enough." Again, he tried to edge past me, but I stopped him.

Even now, sitting here in front of the fire writing, I can't say why I didn't want to let him go. All I knew was that I didn't want to think about what it would look like, him riding away in the dark.

"Please, Dan," I whispered, and his breath caught. "Stay."

He stared down at me for a long time. I don't know what it is he saw, but whatever it was had him taking his hat back off. Running a hand through his black curls, he gave me a grim look. "They won't care that I'm alone," he warned me. "That'll just make it easier on them."

I finally looked down. "You can leave in the morning, if you feel you must."

Dan didn't answer and when I couldn't take the silence anymore I turned toward the door and asked if he was hungry. We ate supper in silence, but it wasn't like with Taggart.

He's sleeping again now. Dozing in front of the fire. His gun still sits on his hip and I can't help but wonder what happened—why he and Taggart were running to begin with. Why he thinks the trouble will chase him here.

What will happen if it does?