Today was not a good day to die. Neither was tomorrow actually. His entire body shook and his teeth chattered; yet he felt hot at the same time. John splashed cool water on his heated face from the basin in the hotel room. His stomach grumbled, the hunger almost unbearable. He should have asked about a room on the first floor. Just the thought of navigating the stairs to the first floor for breakfast made him feel sicker.

The second grumble motivated him, but his leg throbbing in response assured him that it would indeed be a torturous experience to descend. He looked at his reflection the mirror; his cheeks were hollowed, eyes glassy with purple circles underneath.

When was the last time he'd eaten? He pressed his lips together to keep from crying out when he moved back toward the bed and sat upon it, and a piercing ache throbbed deep into his leg muscle. In the two days since leaving Mae, his leg pain had worsened considerably. Once again the sense of dread enveloped him. Somehow he'd survive just long enough to find his child.

He said a prayer of thanks when a knock at the door sounded. "Please come in." His voice quivered slightly. A woman, who he recognized as the innkeeper's wife, slipped inside. She looked upon him and her mouth fell open, her eyebrows shooting high. It confirmed his belief. He must not look at all well.

"Would you like something to eat Mister McClain?" The woman asked. "We haven't seen you in a couple of days, so I thought it was best to check on you check and ensure all was well."

John sank further onto the bed, his shoulders leaning on the headboard. "Thank you ma'am, I'm obliged. I have been ill and not able to leave the room. Certainly would appreciate something to eat and perhaps some coffee."

"You seem to be running a fever. I can call Doctor Kennedy. You don't look well at all Mr. McClain." The rotund woman moved closer peering down at him with brows cinched together and placed the back of her hand against his jawline. "Mister McClain, you are very warm. I think you have a high fever. Let me send a boy to fetch the doctor right away."

"No, I thank you, but please don't call the doctor. I will go see him once I take care of some business. I'll be fine." He attempted to hide a shiver, yet she saw it by the thinning of her lips.

"Well all right, I'll see about getting you something to eat Mister McClain, but you should consider getting seen." She studied him with a scowl for a moment. "I'll bring you something for the fever."

The promise of food gave him energy. After she left, John got up and hobbled to the window to look down to the main street, which ran through the center of Hastings. On the street below, people moved about. A cart piled high with bales of hay passed, the driver reining back his horse when a man ran across the street waving at him to stop. The man caught up with the wagon, and after paying for it, he pulled a large bale of hay from the back of the wagon and tottered with it toward the stables. Two men on horseback pulled up at the saloon across from the hotel. Deep in conversation, they went inside. A trio of woman hurried past, their arms filled with parcels. From the looks of it, it was late in the morning.

Mae would like this town.

He caught sight of a woman exiting a doorway and leaned over the railing to wave at the women. Dressmaker was etched on the shingle over her head. Mae could live here with him. He shoved away from the window and almost collapsed from the pain the movement caused. "Damn it." With gritted teeth, he moved back to the bed. It was best he get Mae out of his head, stop thinking about her. Even if he survived this injury, there was no telling where he'd end up. Regardless of her lifestyle, Mae was used to a pampered secure life, which he could never provide, not if he continued to be sick or worse.

John shook his head at the direction of his thoughts, yet the picture of them together refused to dissipate.

* * *

In the late afternoon, through sheer willpower, John was able to get dressed and ride from town to the general area where he'd been told Carla and the outlaw lived.

Thanks to the medication the woman back at the hotel had given him, John was able to ride without passing out from the pain. The fever had lessened, but the dizziness and aches, remained, although a bit dulled.

Several hours later, John grimaced while dismounting in a clearing, a short distance away from a shack with a lean-to tacked to its side. The drooping structure housed a thin horse. The wretched beast turned in his direction, its dull eyes taking him in.

John eyed the dilapidated cabin, attempting to determine if anyone was inside. How anyone could live in such deplorable conditions puzzled him. It seemed deserted, although with only one window, it was hard to see into the darkened interior.

With his eyes on the structure, John pulled Lasitor forward and maintained a good distance. Unsure if approaching was safe, he hesitated beside the horse. Just as he went to move closer, the fluttering at the edges of a tattered curtain told of someone watching him. John raised his hand toward the window, and the curtain fell back into place.

Moments later, the front door opened just enough for a thin tall women to squeeze through and close it firmly behind.

Carla? John remained where he stood, protected by the horse's rump. Once he ensured she was unarmed, he limped away from the horse the reins tight in his fist.

All sharp angles, with her bony arms swinging as she approached, John considered how strange it was he'd thought himself in love with her at one time. Now with a new perspective, he questioned those old feelings. Her harsh appearance coupled with the angry tightness of her lips changed what at one time was an attractive woman. The passing of years and her lifestyle had definitely changed her. Not been kind to her.

Dressed in dull brown skirts, she held the sturdy fabric up from the ground and neared him. Shrewd eyes met his and darted to his injured leg. "I thought you were dead. How did you find me?"

"Came close. I spoke to your sister. She told me you were here," he replied looking past her to the house. The curtain moved again, but he could not make out who looked out.

"Teresa could never keep her mouth shut. I shouldn't have said anything." Carla glanced over her shoulder toward the shack and back to him. "You should leave or this time you may not live John."

"I can't do that," John replied. "Is the child really mine?"

"Of course he is," Carla spat.

"He?" John swallowed at the news. "Look Carla, I didn't come all this way to argue with you. I want to meet my son and ensure he's taken care of. I promise not to interfere with your life. Be reasonable, I have a right to know my son. Allow me to see him."

"A right!" She backed up and put her hands up, fingers curled. "You never came back, never tried to see him for over three years. I sent word."

"To my parents, who didn't tell me after you refused to allow them to come and see about you nor did you accept their invitation to live with them." She rolled her eyes and John blew out a breath to keep from losing his temper with her. "I was away, assigned to a remote location. There was no way for me to come and see about you. When I did come, I got shot."

"It doesn't matter anymore. I've made a life for myself and Wesley. We don't need you. I tried to keep my husband from shooting you. You startled him."

Wesley. He'd not heard much more than that. John held back from rushing past her and going into the dwelling. He'd come so close, and the possibility of meeting his child made it hard to now shove the woman out of his way and see if she spoke the truth. "Let's just cease this nonsense. Let me meet my boy and I'll be on my way."

Carla seemed to soften until once again she looked toward the house. "Look, please just go John. My -- my husband will shoot you if he finds you here. You're lucky he's out back hunting right now."

"I want to see my son." He repeated not moving.

Nervous hands twisted the fabric of her skirts. "What for? We're not staying here long anyhow."

"I'm not going to stop coming after you until I see him." John stated not sure how he'd manage to keep his word, yet he would.

"You calling the law on him?" She was obviously not speaking of Wesley.

"No, I don't plan to."

She took a step away. John touched her arm, stopping the woman from leaving, and her eyes snapped to his hand. "Look, I'm staying in the hotel in town. Can you bring him? I won't bother you afterwards. I promise you. "

"Maybe...yeah, I suppose I can do that." She hesitated for a moment, as if meaning to say something else and then continued to walk to the house her shoulder's stiff.

Without any choice, he returned to town.

"Mister McClain," the doctor tapped at the syringe and leaned in to inject him in the thigh. "I'm afraid it can't be put off much longer. You must make a decision very soon. If not, you will die. If it were up to me, I'd take care of it today."

"You don't mince words, do you Doc?" John winced at the medicine pushing into his muscle. "There is something I must take care of. It should only be a matter of days. And please call me John."

The doctor met his gaze with a scowl. "It's your life, your decision. It may already be too late. I will come back and see you tomorrow." He uncapped a bottle and held up a dropper. "Lift your tongue."

John swallowed the bitter medication. "I'll have a decision to you tomorrow then. Can I ride today?"

"You shouldn't have ridden as much as you already have. If you can walk down the stairs, which I doubt, then you can ride." The doctor smiled, his eyes full of kindness. "John, be reasonable, you can barely sit. I'll see you tomorrow."

He remained in bed and closed his eyes, hearing the doctor's footsteps move toward the doorway. "Thanks doc."

The door closed and opened again, followed by more shuffling. It didn't matter to him at this point who entered. He kept his eyes closed while attempting to absorb the fact that in a day or two his life would be altered forever.

"John." Carla's voice penetrated the fogginess the medication brought.

His eyes flew open, and he struggled to sit, biting back the searing pain shooting up to his hip. Carla stood beside the door. Just behind her a child peered at him, his body hidden by her skirts.

"I didn't expect you would really come." John pulled the blankets over his bare legs and waited for her to speak.

"After your visit yesterday, my husband and I had a long discussion. We decided our life was hard enough without a child along. We have plans, big plans. Like going further west…well, Bart wants a try at the gold you know?" She wringed her hands and wiped them on her skirt. "You see it's for the best if Wesley lives with you. Just don't call the law on us."

John looked to the boy who studied him with concentration far too intense for such a young child. "What are you saying Carla?"

"You're his father; you can raise him." She pulled the boy around to her front. Dark haired with serious eyes, the three year old held a small bundle and looked up at his mother with expectancy.

Oddly, Carla didn't look at the child, her unfocused eyes on him instead. "Wesley, this is your father. Stay and be a good boy." Chin jacked up, Carla rounded the boy and rushed out, the door closing firmly behind her.

The boy's bottom lip quivered, and John braced himself for the wailing that would surely follow. Instead the child took a shaky breath, scratched at his head and sat on the floor. With his elbow on his leg and chin cupped in his hand, the child sighed again. "I hungry." The boy's serious eyes shifted to him.

"Great," John groaned and looked up at the ceiling. "What am I going to do now?"