Kate Elder lay on the bed next to her lover, her arm circling his chest and her gaze fixed upon his face. With the gentlest touch she traced the line of his jaw with one well-manicured finger and unbidden, a single tear formed, trailing down her pale cheek. Kate knew this was the last bed she and Doc would ever share. John Henry Holliday was dying.

This time, no matter how hard she tried, Kate could not deny that fact. He’d ridden the stage to Glenwood Springs, Colorado alone, to do final battle against the pernicious illness that had made life for the last fifteen years a living hell on earth. He sent for her only when he knew the war to be lost. Kate dropped everything and came on the run.

She buried her head into his bony shoulder and allowed the grief to pour forth, her tears silent and bitter. Doc Holliday was all of thirty-six years old. They’d been together, on and off, for nearly ten years, through thick and thin, flush and broke, good times and bad, in sickness and health, and now…

Kate dried her tears, looking at her lover with clear eyes. At nearly six feet tall he couldn’t possibly weigh more than 120 pounds. His thick wavy hair, no longer a soft pale blond, was now prematurely silver as was the heavy mustache he’d worn ever since she’d known him, indeed, since he was old enough to grow it. He told her it was to cover the scar above his lip, the surgery scar which marked the repair his uncle, Doctor John Holliday, had done to repair a cleft palate when John was an infant.

Doc’s eyes, closed now in a sleep just shy of a coma, were deeply sunken, though in those few moments when he was awake and aware, they glowed with inner intensity, with life and light and intelligence.

His high cheekbones were impossibly pronounced, making Kate shiver, as his resemblance to a skull was undeniable.

Doc roused a bit, opening his eyes, and Kate smiled at him. To her joy, he smiled back, a warm smile, a loving smile. She reached out and brushed his cheek gently. “I missed you,” she said, bending low to press her lips to his. He’d told her not to kiss him, not any more. He worried she might catch the disease in this, its final, its most devastating form. Kate shook her head. “If I haven’t caught it yet, Doc, honey,” she’d replied flippantly, “I doubt it’ll catch up to me this late in the game.” He soon gave up trying to dissuade her. Kate was nothing if not headstrong and it was obvious her lover still enjoyed the touch of her lips to his, the feel of her hand against his cheek, the warm press of her body against his. He sighed softly.

There was the sound of throat clearing and Kate glanced up. Wyatt Earp stood in the doorway, hat in hand, a slump to the broad shoulders, a frown on his lips. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.

Kate rose from the bed, straightened her skirt and tucked a stray lock of dark hair back into place. “Doc and I were just reminiscing,” she said.

Leaning over Holliday, she again kissed him tenderly on the lips. “You’ve got company, honey.”

Walking past Wyatt, she looked him in the eye, hoping he read the message in her straightforward gaze. He won’t last the night. Earp indeed got the message as he nodded slightly, his own expression one of profound sadness. Kate knew exactly how he felt.

Wyatt sat in the chair next to Doc’s bed, hitching it closer. If his friend wanted to speak, Earp wanted to hear the words without difficulty, though in the past week or so, Holliday hardly had the strength to breathe, let alone converse.

But to his surprise, Doc did speak, the words clear if not loud. “I’d like a drink, Wyatt.” Holliday lifted a single finger from the top of the bedclothes, indicating the whiskey bottle on the nightstand.

“Sure, sure, Doc.” Wyatt poured out a healthy amount into the water glass and with a hand behind Holliday’s head; he held the whiskey to Doc’s lips. The dying man drank the contents, pausing several times to take a breath before emptying the glass. Wyatt rested Doc’s head back on the pillow.

Outside the door, Kate paced nervously, smoking one cigarette after another, pausing every so often to peek into the sickroom. She heard Doc’s voice, muted, his words halting, and Wyatt’s, their conversation mostly one-sided due to Holliday’s weakness. Wyatt seemed to be coaxing Doc to talk and although Kate strained to catch the words, they were lost to her. She knew there were some things in Doc’s life to which she hadn’t been privy and most of those things revolved around Wyatt Earp. Oddly though, at this point in her life, and Doc’s, that didn’t seem to bother her any more.

“Kate? Kate?” The tone of Wyatt’s voice caused her to crush out her smoke and rush into Doc’s room.

Wyatt’s face had gone pale and there were unshed tears in the blue eyes. He clasped one of Doc’s hands in his.

Kate sat on the opposite side of the bed and took her lover’s other hand. The long, sensitive fingers curled about hers and Doc turned his head slightly to look at her. There was a smile on his lips. Suddenly, he raised his head slightly and gazed down at the foot of his bed. The covers had pulled up, revealing his bare feet. He chuckled softly. “This is funny,” he said.

John Henry Holliday, DDS, died in a room at The Hotel Glenwood on November 8th, 1887. He lies buried in a hilltop grave somewhere in the Linwood Cemetery overlooking the town of Glenwood Springs. It’s a pretty place, there are trees and deer roam freely, but it is not Holliday’s beloved Georgia.

END