Josiah 'Doc' Scurlock

Ever since Katherine had sprinted out of bed on Thursday night, Doc has been sleeping alone, and spending more time upstairs than he usually did.

Katherine was around on Friday - he knew that much because Beaut's been gone from the stables for periods of the day and back at night - but she didn't come upstairs at the end of the day. He left the stables for his staff to attend to on Saturday afternoon, claiming a need to get some paperwork done.

And in all reality, he has gotten a good deal of paperwork done. He spent a few hours going over the stock record and copying things into a fresh ledger, working out how to organize the list, and taking care of numbers and figures for costs and staff salary. Bar could have done it for him, but he doesn't mind the work.

It's late, now. There are sketches of barns and floorplans littering his desk, those small peach seedlings in his windowsill have grown a bit the last few days, thanks to a hint of a nudge they got, showing their familiar sawtooth shaped leaves starting to form. The lamps are turned down low, but he's not sleeping, sitting on his couch in the near-dark with a glass of whiskey sweating on the coffee table.

He's sketching on a notepad, lines and dimensions, occasionally sipping from that glass.

[ooc: after this]

When he opens the door to his bedroom, room twenty-five, he glances first to the bed and then at the floor, not wanting to trip over anything in the dark. He kicks a pair of boots out of the way as he crosses the open space, shifting her weight in his arms so that he can draw back the blankets and sheets. He moves her so that she's sitting on the edge of the bed, then kneels down to start unlacing her boots.

They're still caked with mud, so it takes him a minute or two.

He glances up at her.

"Do you want to get changed or just sleep?"

He figures she'll go for the latter.

The following Sunday's church service in Heyser went along in a manner that was relatively similar to the week prior - the parishioners gawked, the pastor gave Samuel looks before (and after) the sermon, Katherine glared at anyone and everyone who dared to stare and the boys sat side-by-side in that pew not giving a damn.

(Jay still wanted to hurt Crocker's boys, but since they'd stayed away from the Barlow property, he didn't have the same urges as he'd had the week before.)

He hadn't really been paying attention to the date, even though that was one of the reasons he'd headed to Green Lake instead of heading further west out of Wichita. He'd been so wrapped up in the week's worth of work he hadn't been keeping track. With his shoulder still healing, he kept to chores that weren't all that labor intensive.

Katherine seemed to keep closer to the house, too.



After the service broke up, the boys milled outside before they all headed into town. Samuel needed supplies, and the rest of them split up. Someone to fetch the post, another to check the stores, Jay wanted more cigarettes (even though he'd been smoking less than he had in years, the last few weeks). It was a quiet Sunday morning.

For the time being, anyway.

He sleeps well enough, curled on his side (after he manages to fall asleep, of course, nerves in his belly twisting at him for a while after the drink and conversation) and wakes with the first sounds of someone moving around the bunkhouse.

It's Jim.

Doc gives the older hand a few minutes of head start before he hauls himself out of bed and begins getting ready for the day. He notices that Jim, and the rest of the boys, all wear their guns, so once he's dressed himself, he settles his at his hip.

It's not dawn, yet, not by a longshot, when he makes his way over to the stables and barn in order to check on his horse - and see if Jim wants a hand in getting things taken care of. Might as well offer, after all.

"Hey, Jim...don't forget t'mind your hat," he mentions, quietly, as he enters the barn. His own is hanging around his neck by the cord, where he'll keep it out of reach of the horse as best he can. "You need a hand with anything?"

It's been more than a few days since the last time Doc actually spoke to Katherine - and the way that they left each other has been biting at his insides, even through the battle and everything else that's gone on since the night he came back in half-frozen to death. Since then, he's gotten the sneaking feeling that she's trying to avoid him. He doesn't quite blame her, though, given the conversation and everything that happened that night - but that doesn't mean that not talking to her isn't driving him nuts.

The morning that Doc makes his way down the stables is cold. There's a fine layer of snow pack on the ground, and his boots crunch against the icy covering as he makes his way out. Normally, on Wednesdays, he sleeps in and doesn't make his way down to the stables until the afternoon.

Not today.

Part of it (him being up so early and headed down the path) is the fact that he hasn't been sleeping very well, and that he wants to work to get his mind off things. Part of it is the fact that he's hoping to catch her.

They need to talk - he knows that much.

He's wearing the lined flannel jacket, thick pants, and boots, with his scarf around his neck and a knit hat pulled own on his head, covering the messy swatch of blond hair. His hands are tucked deep into his pockets, fingers curled into fists inside wool-lined leather gloves. As he nears the stables, he wonders just what it is he's going to say if she is here, this morning.

Doc's thinking on that when he rounds the corner and ducks into the side door, entering the barn.

She's standing a distance away, brushing down a horse - Duncan - and both of them look as if they've been out for awhile in the weather. There's a ruddy bite to her skin from the cold, and a good lather of sweat on the horse's skin, which she's working on.

He nods his head. "Mornin'."

He greets her, simply, as he moves to his desk to pull off his hat.

After the birthday party to end all birthday parties (or at least, a good amount of rum, and fireworks, and singing, and s'mores, and more rum) out back, Doc eventually stumbles his way back inside. The cask of rum makes it as far as the Bar, who agrees to hang onto it until Doc can get someone to help him carry it upstairs.

Doc has enough troubles with the stairs on his own, but he makes it eventually.

He's pretty damn sloshed, and holding a still hot and melty s'more on a paper plate. He smells like woodsmoke, with a hint of saltwater, and a splash of alcohol, his skin flushed and red from both the booze and the cold outside.

But he finds her door just fine, and knocks on it.

(Who knows what time it is.)

"Darlin', s'Doc. Open the door. I got somethin' fer you 'fore I git my ass t'bed, but s'not like I can give it t'you with the door closed." This is said to the door. "Promise I ain't here t'steal y'way, though might like that. Like that lots, achsually, but ain't t'day. Fall off m'damn horse and be left sittin' in the dust," he laughs. "S'quick, swear t'God. Y'jus gotta open door."

He's humming under his breath while he waits, leaning on the door (and the doorframe) to keep his balance. If the damn hallway would just stop spinning...

[after this]

When they make their way into the bar, Doc's grateful for the heated interior as a contrast to the cold air that's outside. After a few hours, it gets to the point where you just want to get warm no matter what you're doing or how important it is, which is why they've come inside with their lunch.

His arm is still around her shoulders as he glances down at her. "You want to change first, or just camp out by the fire and get warm that way? I can get drinks from Bar."

After taking care of his morning chores and the conversation that came with it, Doc leads Katherine up to his room, box of donuts and two cups carefully held in his hands.

Once he's opened the door and they've stepped inside, the first thing she'll notice is that he's changed the layout of the room a bit, and his bed has been shoved up against the wall, his desk moved closer to the door. There's a new couch by the windows, with an end table that wasn't there before as well.

"Figured if I was gonna be livin' here I might as well make it less like a hotel room," he offers, by way of explanation, as he closes the door behind them with his foot, but doesn't bother to lock it.

There are books stacked on the desk, but not poetry or literature. History of Medieval England, for one. Several medical texts. There's an empty glass (and half empty bottle of Laphroaig) sitting on the desk as well. Scattered pages of notes. Half finished poems. Nothing but scratched sketches from a bored and frustrated writer's hand.

His bed is roughly made (sheets and blankets pulled up but not tucked in) and there are several other books on the side where another person would sleep. A hard bound selection of Keats is tucked in with a leather bound journal or two.

She'll see, tacked to the wall between the bed and desk, a piece of paper with the poem Jack quoted to him at a Happy Hour a few weeks ago, handwritten in black ink.

On the dresser, there are still the two folded paper cranes, one pink and one brown, but a third, a bright orange (like canned peaches) has joined them. The cask in the corner is covered with a towel, sword and bow and rifle leaning against the wall. There are coat hooks on the wall beside the door -- that black duster, as well as his tan one, and a woolen cloak, hooded and green, that is suitable for hiding among the trees and leaves of Sherwood hang on the pegs.

The footlocker at the end of the bed is covered in cloth, and that sword (not the practice blade, but a finer, sharper weapon) is resting on it, polishing cloth beside it.

Doc crosses the room to the couch and coffeetable, and sets the contents of his hands down on the surface before he leans over to shove one of the windows open, pulling the curtains over it to allow for the morning breeze.

"Sorry 'bout the mess," he offers, before he motions for her to sit while he pulls his coat off, the flannel jacket ending up on the end of the bed.

She'll also notice the end of his bed is missing something familiar.

(His gunbelt is nowhere to be seen.)

It's really not all that horrible, but it's more 'lived in' than she's seen it before.

After returning from Green Lake the night before, Doc had a promise to keep to Miss Katherine in regards to the stables and taking her out riding for a proper tour of the grounds. And even with the immediate exit blocked by strange plants and vines, he'd gone out early to take care of the cleaning, feeding, and general work that he'd missed over the last few days before slipping back in for breakfast and to have a waitrat deliver a note upstairs to her room while he got changed into more riding-appropriate clothes.

The note (which she'll find along with the clothes Bar has most likely helpfully left for her upstairs -- don't ask how the rat got in to leave it, these things just happen) says simply that he'll be out in the stables after she's had breakfast and is ready, but not to rush, and to avoid angering the strange plants and she'll be just fine walking through.

So when she does wander outside, she'll catch him singing if she's quiet walking into the stables. It's a more modern song, but one that he heard while in the bar one day and it caught his interest and he's heard it enough that he's got a little bit of it memorized.

"Well Maggie was my true love, the only kiss I knew
I’d meet her at the oak tree in the cool evening dew
Where we would walk beside the levee, our fingers intertwined
While the crimson moon gazed through the needles of the pines

We’d lay beside each other, staring at the sky
Listenin’ to the whistlin’ of the train blowin’ by..."

That's all he knows, so he trails off towards the middle of the verse.

She'll find that he's in one of the store rooms gathering up the tack they'll need for two horses, and there's a few papers pinned to the wall near the door with his handwriting on them, notes and lists of feed and supplies, reminders, that sort of thing.

There really isn't a specific layout to the place, but every time Doc's been up here, it's been a little different. He passes it off to Bar trying to keep things interesting. This time there are long rows of shelves, full of books. Some are sorted by date published. Others, by subject. Some shelves are mixed in all together. There are stacks around on end tables and next to chairs and desks. There is a comfortable couch or two, somewhere. Ladders to reach high. It always changes and there's a few too many corners and nooks to really make it work from a layout standpoint, but it's quiet and full of anything someone could want to look for to read.

Doc opens the door and steps in, then glances at Kate.

"I promise, I ain't never..." a chuckle, at himself. "I haven't ever," he corrects "Been lost in here."