Firefly by Linda Hilton

or so it would completely dry up, but tonight it sufficed.  By the time he had rinsed the last of Winnie's home-made soap from his body, he ached and shivered.  But he felt clean, and revitalized.  He brushed droplets of icy water from the hair on his chest and then shook his head like a dog.
    He found towels enough to dry his skin and hair, then walked through the house to the stairs, stopping in the parlor to take the lamp with him.  He couldn't remember if there was one in the closed second bedroom upstairs.
    There was, on the table beside the bed, but the wick looked old and frayed and the oil was nearly gone, so he set the lamp he had brought beside it and then walked to the wardrobe.  He didn't look at the bed.  He knew it was shrouded in sheets, the folds dark with the accumulated dust of six years.
    The dark walnut wardrobe was carved in an intricate pattern reminiscent of Old Spain.  The key in the lock turned easily.  The tarnished silver hinges swung with only a slight squeak.  Morgan stood for a moment and stared at the empty half of the wardrobe, letting the memories fill him.  The party dresses, the apricot satin ball gown she had worn the night of their engagement party, the blouses she had so lovingly stitched and embroidered and tucked.  And that nightgown of layer after layer of lace.  All were gone now, though he could see them as if they still hung neatly just after she had put everything away.
    His own shirts and trousers hung on his side, as dull and unexciting as Amy's had been bright and gay.  Of course, there was that pair of red suspenders she had bought him for Christmas one year.  He opened the single shallow drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe and found them, along with a pair of gold cufflinks and a mismated pair of socks.
    He took down a white shirt, dingy even in this poor light. He'd have Winnie wash it for him in the morning, and with a pair of black trousers and a coat, he'd be a long way toward looking respectable again.  If they fit.  He drew on the shirt, liking the feel of crisp linen after how many years of chambray and threadbare flannel.  He had lost a little weight since he last wore this shirt, but that was better than gaining a paunch.  He tried on the pants with a bit of hope that they, too, would fit reasonably well.
    "I'll need to pull in my belt a notch or two to hold them up," he laughed in the empty room, "but I'll be damned if I'll wear those red suspenders!"
    The sheets on his bed smelled of sweat and stale whisky, but he blew out the lamp and collapsed on them.  He would get word to Winnie in the morning that he wanted the house cleaned thoroughly along with his laundry.
    He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.  So many plans, so many things to do.  Tomorrow he would have to wire Denver or Santa Fe for medical supplies, and find some books to get caught up on the last six years' medical advances. No sense being as out of date as Horace always had been.
    But before that, he had some shopping to do.  New boots and a decent hat were first on the list.  Then a trip to the barbershop for a haircut and shave.  When he stopped at the haberdashery for the hat, he'd ask Mr. Farnum about alterations to his present wardrobe.  It would be a while before Morgan could afford new clothes, but these would suffice for a while if they were taken in.
    If he was going to let the Hollstrom girl make a doctor out of him again, he might just as well look the part.
    *   *   *
    For the first few hours of that restless night, Julie lay on her bed and dutifully tried to sleep.  But too many thoughts rampaged through her head, all shouting and fighting for supremacy.  Before there was even a hint of grey in the sky, she had left the wrinkled sheets to stand by the window and face the black western sky with its spangled stars already paling around the moon.
    She remembered how joyful Mrs. Baxter had looked in her exhaustion when the ordeal was over and she