Page 2 of My Darling Clementine

“I sold my tools, animals, and claim the day I received your letter about Dad’s illness, Mr. Burdock, and left the day after. Twelve weeks of traveling by horseback, stagecoach, and train, worrying about Dad and how I’d find him when I arrived, well it took a toll. When I stepped down to the platform, and he wasn’t there,” she tugged the bottom of her vest down, “I knew only one thing would have kept him from meeting me at that train, or sending someone to do it for him if he were too sick.”

She looked him in the eye. “After I found a bar, downed a few shots, and cleaned a man’s face with my fist, I took a room in a hotel. First thing, I spent a couple of hours soaking in a proper hot bath, washing off ground in layers of prospector grime. I never feel clean washing in rivers full of snow run-off.” She shivered and laughed. “I figure a quarter ounce of gold dust sifted down to the bottom of the tub.”

Mr. Burdock reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. “It’s quite an unusual life you’re living.” He poured and handed her one.

She accepted the aged whiskey, sniffing to appreciate the fumes. “I’ve had my ups and downs,” Clem acknowledged. “When I was wrinkled as a raisin, I went back down to the saloon and bought a bottle of Scotch for dinner.” She sipped and smiled. “Not half as fine as this,” raising her glass in salute, “and then I crawled into a feather bed for the first time in three years. That, by itself, was an event. I lay there, drank half the bottle, remembered times long past, and slept like the proverbial log, no longer worried if I’d get here in time to say goodbye, or how to make amends.” She shrugged. “That chance was buried with him.”

She sipped from the glass. “I woke, ate some fried eggs to kill my headache, then pulled out my only suit and walked over here thinking about how to introduce myself.”

The older man laughed and grinned. “My law clerk didn’t expect to see a ghost this afternoon, Mr. Dennison.”

“I appreciate your tactful handling of the situation, Mr. Burdock. How will you ensure his discretion?”

The lawyer chuckled. “Henry’s a smart lad who knows which side his bread is buttered on. His future as an attorney depends upon discretion. Keeping our clients secrets is a large part of our business. We keep many besides yours, … excuse me, your father’s.”

“I’m glad of that, at least.” She glared at the attorney. “I didn’t expect you to know me by this name, understand my situation, or have my particulars. I didn’t know what to expect, really.”

“No,” he nodded with sympathy, swirling the brown liquid in his glass while watching her. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

“When I staked my claim in California, I sent my father a letter telling him I changed my name to Clem and won’t answer to anything else. He sent me an answer I waited almost six months for.” She pulled the worn letter from the wallet in her coat breast pocket. “It’s ten words long. ‘Dear Clem, you are who you choose to be, Dad.’ Those were the last words I ever had from him.” She re-folded the letter and returned it to her wallet. “Decent words, anyway.”

Mr. Burdock nodded. “There are several things I need to make clear to you before we proceed.”

An hour later, they both leaned back in leather wing chairs in Mr. Burdock’s office. “Once you’ve decided upon the disposition of the household items, I will proceed with the sale of the house.”

“Call the junkman, open the doors and let people take what they want, or burn the whole place down, I don’t care.” Clem’s heart ached, her head hurt, and she wanted a beer bottle to suck on so her lower lip would quit its damned quivering. “There’s nothing of his I want.”

Burdock nodded. “I understand, but hope you’ll reconsider.” Sitting back down, he took a minute to light a cigar, then offered her one. “You’re speaking from the emotions of the moment and although I’m not your attorney of record, I recommend you not make any rash decisions.” He struck a match and held it for her. “You’re hurt. Give yourself time to come to terms with the news.” He shrugged. “It is not all bad.”

Clem considered his words as she copied his short inhalations and puffing exhalations until her first cigar lit. She’d smoked hand-rolled cigarettes in California; the smoothness of the southern tobacco blend was a pleasant surprise.

“Will you become my ‘attorney of record’, Mr. Burdock?” she asked, tipping her head back and blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling, something that always soothed her. She shot her eyes at him, looking him over. “You already know my secret and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Burdock’s eyes narrowed at the implication, his voice firm. “Whether you are my client or not, Mr. Dennison, no one in my office has any need to ever revisit Tom’s files, which have already been relegated to a locked basement in my home. Your father’s secrets have gone with him to the grave.” His blunt words made his client’s orphaned sole survivor flinch.

“Ah, forgive me.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Tom was my friend, as well as client. I miss him.”

“I beg your pardon,” Clem ran the hand holding the cigar through her wavy hair, scratching her head. “I mean no offense. I’m still … confused by all this.” She tried to smile. “I do hope you’ll be my lawyer, Mr. Burdock.” Puffing another smoke ring, she nodded. “I need someone to look after my ongoing interests here in Boston now, and to help connect my California bank to transfer funds.”

With a genuine smile, she leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “I need discrete legal representation, and it would appear you are the best man for the job.”

“I’m happy to do so, Mr. Dennison.” Burdock shook her hand with a warm squeeze.

Since he did not, for the first time, put an inflection on her title, it eased her into saying, “Then, as my attorney of record, please call me Clem.”

He smiled, stroking his trim mustache. “Your father called me James,” he answered.

“What would you rather be called?” Clem laughed. “I can tell by the way you said it.”

Mr. Burdock laughed. “I prefer Jim.”

“Then Jim it is.” She shook her head. “I was always Clementine, or Clementine Lorelei when he was angry.” Her mouth twisted in wry amusement. “It was quite a mouthful to get out. He was as stubborn as they come with names; always using the full Christian moniker.” Her voice roughened. “And that was just one way he could be stubborn.”

A surprising twinkle developed in the attorney’s eye. “With everyone but one.” He grinned. “Please come for dinner tonight at my house, Clem. There’s someone I want you to meet, one of your father’s friends.”

After agreeing to meet Jim at seven o’clock at the address he provided, Clem returned to the saloon near the train station. Someone had been in her room; a small leaf left wedged in the door lay crushed by her feet. She unlocked the door and threw it open hard to slam against the wall, assuring herself no one lurked behind it. Hands curling into fists, she strode into the room, stared into each corner, under the table, and beneath the bed. She even peered into the cold bathwater from the night before, finding only her own eyes staring back at her. Lighting the kerosene lamp, Clem searched the room again, this time finding a note that had fallen beside the bed asking if she wanted fresh water.

Reassured she was alone, she shut the door and locked it, removed the key, and hung her hat on the doorknob to cover the keyhole. She pulled her bags from under the bed and went through them.