Between the Raindrops

A Little Unsteady

"Another?" Milford Weaver asked.

Arthur nodded. "Sure."

The bartender freely poured. Upstairs, the Blackwater Saloon's gentleman's club was full to collapsing, the boastful voices and footfalls carrying, muted, through the floor. High stakes tables and top-shelf liquor lured in what accounted for Blackwater's socially mobile, and Ms. Howard, the waitress, ran herself near ragged trying to keep up with their thirsts. In the corner a pair of talented colored fellas played the keys and fiddle, hitting the upbeat chords of 'Forty Drops' like they wrote it.

Mr. Weaver set down the ounce and Arthur took up the glass of bourbon, tapping it once before tipping it back in a gulp, and the liquor burned the cuts inside his mouth. He had intended to drown his sorrows. Until a pair of young studs, full of piss and vinegar, decided to harass poor Ms. Howard that is.

Damn idiots.

All they had to do was quiet down. Keep their paws to themselves and apologize to the lady. But they had different ideas. Cursed him for an old man and opted instead for a proper beating. Given his foul mood, Arthur obliged them. Hell, he'd have obliged them regardless of his miserable love life.

Now, back inside, in the loud and smoky air, Arthur sat at the bar, hunched in and feeling sorry. Already the bruises began to set in, the tell-tale stinging of split skin. Nothing compared to... whatever was going on inside him. He had a heart, for certain, unable to deny the damn thing when it ached so.

Weaver lifted the bottle of 10-year-old Blood Eyes in offering, raising his dark silvery brows in a wheedling way. Arthur pushed his glass forward with a nod. "Why not?"

How many shots would it take? To forget this stupid, foolish endeavor? To drown out false hope? Emma said she needed time to think... What was there to think about? They all left. Only this time she had been wronged. His preference to crime had precluded him before he even knew who Emelia was. Christ Almighty... what a fool he had been. You'd think thirty-six years was plenty of time to learn a thing or two about empty promises and pipe dreams.

Mr. Weaver filled the glass again, and Arthur pulled it close. Pinched the ounce glass between his thumb and two fingers and lifted it to his lips.

"I'm fairly certain you'll find no cure there."

Arthur choked on the bourbon.

"Emma," he gasped. Coughing and sputtering on the burning liquid. To his feet like a shot and reeling toward the sound of that soft, breathy voice. Emelia stood there, beautiful in the dim lights of the Blackwater Saloon. Dressed fine. In that bright sunny skirt of hers and one of them fitted-shirtwaists of fine white silk and lace. Arthur belatedly removed his hat in a swift, embarrassed gesture.

"Mr. Morgan!" she cried. Her dark brows slanted upward, eyes wide. "What happened to you?"

Arthur blinked, so thrilled to see her he did not right catch her meaning and then remembered. His brow and jaw still ached something fierce and he braced for the beratement of his character that would be forthcoming. He pulled the hat back down on his head and dropped his gaze to her hem. "Aw... it weren't nothin'."

"You're bleeding," Emelia said, her voice laced with concern. A feather soft touch to his shoulder was all it took to guide Arthur, albeit clumsily, back into his seat. Emelia snatched his hat and Arthur balked, suddenly feeling exposed beneath her eyes. This would not help endear him...

"He got into a scuffle," Mr. Weaver explained as she inspected the cut above Arthur's eye, and the outlaw threw his gaze toward the tiled ceiling, too shamed to look her in the eye. Damn nosy bartender. "Some drunks were houndin' Ms. Howard. Downright disagreeable, it was."