

Moo!

Copyright © 2013 by Kim Crux

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in online, newspaper, magazine, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

Published in Canada by Tungsten Books

www.tungstenbooks.ca

Cover design: Ryan Trefz

First Edition, 2013

ISBN: 978-0-9920515-0-1
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For Paco, who spurred me on.
I.

Nelle slept hard. The wind swept low, walloped the earth; it swatted at the fabric draped over the stiff curve of her spine and hissed through the skeletal branches of the half-dead piñon above her, and still she slept. Despite the cold, gritty sand that stuck to her skin, sure to provide her with a complimentary exfoliation whether she wanted one or not, she was gone. Out. Even a neurotic whinny from her not-so-trusty, Industrial Revolution-coloured pinto, aptly called Pinto, could not penetrate her dense tangle of exhausted dreams. She was up to her crown in sleep. Drowning in sleep. A thrashing, burgeoning hunger sent up warning shots in her belly, but she slept on and on with arrant, possibly foolish, abandon. The desert moon, gleaming overhead like a giant polished spoon, did not disturb her, could not stir her alphabet soup of zzzzzz's. Nor did the pervasive scent of juniper that rode in on the careening currents of crisp air. The woman slept. She slept in spite of everything.

A dust-ridden mess of russet hair clung to her salty, unwashed neck. It was sultry, boho desert chic, or so she liked to reassure herself. A gray, woolen blanket smelling strongly of sweaty horse, of course, had slunk its way around her shoulders. Her head rested at an awkward, bound-to-be-a-crick-in-the-neck angle on the less bumpy of her two saddlebags, which, if you're interested in such sundries, contained a clean but infinitely wrinkled dress of indigo poplin; a white eyeleted petticoat; a bedraggled volume of Liz Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese;_ one bar of stinging lye soap; and a smug little tin of forty-four .44 caliber bullets. The other held her dwindling food stores, some matches, and a small, dent-riddled pot.

As usual, she slept on her left side, her knees bent and curled in towards her torso. She took deep, prolonged breaths, and with each heavy exhale her entire body seemed to settle a little further down into the dirt. While the loose suede gauchos she wore were perfectly comfortable for riding, they were hardly effective in keeping the nagging nighttime chill from creeping up her legs, so she sighed once, a burdensome "tra" without the airy, devil-may-care "la la", and instinctively pulled her knees in even closer to her chest in an unconscious attempt to stave off the nipping air. In spite of this adjustment however, her right hand did not move; it remained where it was, resting firmly on the faded, but sturdy leather of her low-slung belt, inches from the 1858 Remington revolver fastened in the holster just below her hipbone.

The gun was no novelty. Of course, it was only natural for a woman conked out alone in the middle of the desert to have some kind of weapon. But this wasn't a musket etched with daisies, complete with matching gilt ramrod accessory. Nor was it an old hand-me-down rifle that had spent decades mounted on two wooden pegs above the front door. It wasn't something she'd picked up on impulse because it was on sale and might come in handy. The revolver was a well-maintained and exacting piece, if not the flashiest or newest of models. And she knew how to use it. Generally. The evidence of this was plain, provided that one actually bothered to seek out a shredded orange bandanna pinned to a particularly distressed ceiba tree down south.

Night became thicker, went from gazpacho to gravy, and even the shifty horse Pinto dropped apprehensively down in the dust to rest. In daytime, if one bothered to strain one's eyes and peer intently downward, the makings of a village could be seen in the crispy, tinder-dry valley below. But now, the few remaining whimpers of light seeping from its dying cook fires and handful of oil lamps slowly fizzled or winked out, giving way to the black-cloaked silhouettes of heavy night. No, not vampires, damn it, but rather, the elongated shadows of tree branches or the intense black blotch of a desert fox moving along against a backdrop of slightly diluted, run-of-the-mill blackness.

Nelle slept on. The landscape commenced its nightly nocturne. Actually, no. This was the desert after all, where a diffuse madness rose with the heat shimmer and infected the expanse. It was more of a slapdash mazurka than a nocturne if one bothered to look beyond the moon-glazed surface. On both the hillsides and in the valley, scheming coyotes wrestled in the dirt while others whooped on the sidelines; still others hid beneath the mesquite plotting their next big caper, occasionally leaping at some indistinguishable or imagined prey running low in the grass, mostly just for kicks. An elderly coral snake did a slow, indolent belly shuffle past Nelle's well-worn Cordovan boots, pausing briefly to wonder just what the senorita's horse thought of such footwear. Trees elbowed each other with chafed limbs. Two arguing javelinas went cursing through the sand, skirting the small village and dragging their signature stink behind them. Shadows jittered in the wind.

She had galloped out of Guanajuato rather abruptly and now, almost two months later, was camped on a hillside in the Barrancas del Cobre. Sometime after midnight when nothing much was happening, unless you counted an insomniac roadrunner reading the last rites to a lizard down in a spread of agave, a lone man rode quietly into the subdued valley settlement below her camp. He was a short man, but so incredibly lean that at first glance, he gave the impression of being tall. His face couldn't hold any sort of emotion for more than a minute or two. Expressions appeared and then drained from him like flour through a sifting screen. He wore ragged gray pants and a denim work shirt. His nose cast a sharp shadow and his lips were barely detectable. A filthy kerchief dangled from his neck, and beneath the brim of his dusty, limp Stetson hid gray eyes specked with red, thanks to a significant dose of whiskey, and red hair specked with gray. His pistol hung low on a wilted strip of leather. If one were forced to sum him up succinctly, one might simply observe that he looked precisely the way a rattlesnake sounds.

He dismounted and led his horse to the only stable in the settlement. Banging on the door for a solid minute, he finally managed to rouse a teenager who came wandering sleepily up to him from around back of the building. Upon inquiry, this dozy muchacho grunted and told him in rapid-fire Spanish that he was not in the livery business and then bid him an unenthusiastic "buenas noches." In his halting Spanglish, Whiskey Eyes argued, wheedled and whined, but the young man kept on shaking his head and eventually turned to leave and go back to his bed. So Whiskey Eyes, not left with much choice, dug into his pockets and produced several silver coins. He called to the lad and waited while Muchacho considered this new development.

"No," said Muchacho. "I told you, I don't board horses or people."

A few more coins made their way from pocket to palm, and again Whiskey Eyes waited.

"Bien," said Muchacho, embracing his entrepreneurial spirit and taking up the money. "You and the horse can stay here for the night."

"I am ever so grateful to you," murmured Whiskey Eyes sarcastically.

Flinging open the stable door, Muchacho told him he could pick whatever spot was available and help himself to some hay, and then quickly, silently took his leave.

Barracked inside were a loopy donkey and a stubby ox, and virtually no hay. The donkey kept bursting out into long, spasmodic fits of raucous laughter. So, as Whiskey Eyes turned in on a pile of burlap sacks, bone-tired from his long day of drunk riding, he pulled out the bottle he kept next to his heart and reassured himself with a series of rapid gulps.

"It'll all be okay," he told himself, speaking aloud. "Don't fret, man. Take a deep breath and relax. You are worth it. You've been tracking that woman for days. Never mind the stupid ass over there. Just go to your place of serenity... Yes, that's right, you are a feather, blowing in the wind..."

A few hours passed. Despite his exhaustion, Whiskey Eyes was still wide-awake. He was not a feather blowing in the wind. He was on edge. "I will not gun down the donkey, I will not gun down the donkey, I will not gun down the donkey..." he muttered, over and over.

He thought of the woman again. He had first spotted her riding along the outskirts of Durango. It was very unusual to see a white woman traveling alone. Or to see a white woman at all, down here in Mexico. And she was obviously savvy to that fact, since she did not venture into the City, and moved steadily and quickly, but not so quickly as to attract attention or hinder caution. There, near Durango, he had watched her from a distance as she had bought fresh tamales from a quiet little stand, and then had made her way, nibbling at one, past the sun-bleached cathedral and into the long, brown desert grass, meandering on in a northerly direction. She had been wearing a fine pair of gauchos and a vivid red blouse that made his eyeballs ache. She had smiled at the tamale woman, or was it at the large handful of coins she had picked through in order to find just the right combination to pay for her meal?

He had tracked her in a half-assed way, catching up with her every few days or so, in between hangovers. Tracking was the one thing his father had taught him to do. And at the age of thirty-three, Whiskey Eyes had done enough tracking over the years that now he did it without thinking. Whatever he was fixated on, he followed, whether he intended to or not. And right now, he was fixated on the white woman crossing the desert. He wondered what such a woman could be up to, riding solo through the wilderness like that, staying off the main trails, sleeping in the desert, packing a gun. She was on a mission. No doubt about it. She hadn't just gotten desperately lost while out berry picking. It was all very strange. Of course, he knew he would have to rob her eventually, once she'd satisfied his curiosity, on one of the days when he was feeling good about himself and up to it. She probably would have _something_ he wanted. And even if she didn't prove wealthy, he could at least have her. It had been far, far too long since he'd felt the succulent flesh of a woman's thighs against his bony pelvis. Yippee ki yea! It was a win-win situation.

Nelle scrambled to life as the sun swept its first eager tendrils up over the eastern horizon. With one hand, she ran her fingers through her hair and with the other, checked for the hunting knife hidden at her thigh. She cinched her saddlebags back around her horse's midriff and threw the blanket around his neck. Finagling a low fire amongst a small cluster of rocks, she rubbed her hands together and waited for the pot of water to boil. By the time the sun had crested the horizon and yellowed up the place, she had finished her tea, downed three cold empanadas, flung herself into the saddle, and gone. The rest had done her good. Energized, she was alert and in high spirits. In a matter of days, she would be at la frontera, and back in America.

It hadn't been easy, this trip. Once, she'd almost turned back after spending too many hours riding against a stinging dust storm and wondering what she really expected to be any different about this unknown place she was heading to. She'd had a decent existence in Mexico with kind-hearted Beth. The two had been close since becoming step-cousins years earlier, but in Guanajuato, they'd become like sisters. What was she giving it all up for? But she'd fought through the storm, the questioning, and then an enormous cloud of sand flies, not to mention the accumulating fatigue of spending day after day in the relentless desert sun. She'd realized what it was she was moving towards. She wanted a life of her own making. She wanted to give way to the woman inside her and just see what happened, without expectation. She needed a private space and the time to focus on that. And now she was getting close.

Whiskey Eyes awoke much later, and in a much less pleasant manner, with a very angry campesino standing over him and the nose of an old Brown Bess poking at his sallow cheeks.

"Who are you, and why are you in my stable?" growled the unshaven farmer, nudging his musket even further forward, so much so that it would end up leaving an imprint on Whiskey Eyes' cheek when it was finally withdrawn.

"I, I mean, yo boardo here aqui con mi horso, err, caballo, in your livery, er, hígado, no wait, librea. That's it – librea. Librea aqui," explained the thundering head of the young man.

There was a long pause as the campesino attempted to digest the jumbled hybrid of languages.

"I'm not in the liver or livery business," the man finally replied, "so you'd best pay me for the hay your greedy horse ate, and get out."

"But I already pay your son," faltered the undignified man in the nest of burlap.

"I have no son," was the farmer's quick reply, "Only six damn, indecent daughters, endlessly cavorting and carrying on..."

"Si. He here last night!" grumbled Whiskey Eyes, in fractured español.

"Nope."

"Si. Maybe he help with cavorting?"

"Give me the money and get out!!" said the campesino, suddenly a lot angrier.

"Well, I give him all the money I had."

Sweet Bess nuzzled right up to Whiskey's grubby temple, and the voice behind her said, "Pull out your pockets. I want to see."

Considering the nudging firearm, Whiskey obeyed and pulled his pockets inside out. Two single réal coins rolled forth. The campesino snatched them up.

"Liar," he growled, and stepped over to Whiskey's horse, beginning to rifle through the man's saddlebags.

Upon initial inspection, he found no other money, and not wanting to spend too much time fumbling around in this turista's dirty underwear, he gave up and commanded him to go.

As much as Whiskey Eyes wanted to stay and get a taste of some of that "cavorting", there was the unavoidable fact of a gun pointed at him, so he found it prudent to get himself gone, as the old man advised. He walked over and untethered his unimpressed horse. A few moments later, he staggered out of the stable and into the head-splitting light of midday, emitting the most guttural of groans.

To his horse, he sputtered, "Can't you walk more quietly, you prima donna?"

Mercedes, a svelte, fast, and somewhat sassy dame of a horse, shook her head and smiled, but Sam, for Whiskey Eyes was not how he preferred to be known, was busy covering his eyes in an effort to quell the stampede in his head and didn't glimpse this small demonstration of impertinence. Finally, after undergoing five or six minutes of erratic convulsions while leaning against his horse for balance and waiting for the sunspots to clear from his eyes, he fumbled for his canteen and took a long swig of his last resort - A-1, old-school, right-as-rain, Acme agua. Afterwards, he felt well enough to hoist himself onto Mercedes' back. Now that he was down to an exciting diet of water, he figured he'd better catch up to that woman straight away in order to garner a little breakfast money. It didn't matter now what she was up to or how inhibited he felt; he was hungry and had the beginnings of the whiskey, whiskey shakes.

Riding out of the village, Sam kept his eyes downcast. Whenever he lifted his head, dizziness descended upon him, so he simply pointed his horse north and spurred her forward. He knew the woman rider had been heading north for days. Clearly, she was making for the border, probably Arizona, if she continued on the line she was taking. His horse knew the way. He would have to make sure to finish things before she crossed. With his history, there was no way he could take a chance and cross into that nest of scorpions. There were too many folks back in America just itching for him to show up, and if he couldn't pay up, he knew there'd be a shake up and he'd end up boots up under a saguaro in some particularly dried up corner of the Sonora.

About four o'clock in the afternoon, following a slim trail through the canyons, the pickled bandito came nodding by a thick clump of prickly Desert Spoon. His downcast eyes caught sight of several brilliant red threads wrapped around the spines of the tall silver green leaves. Immediately, he thought of the red blouse, and was encouraged. And he was correct in his suspicions. Nelle had been there several hours earlier. She'd lingered there for a moment as she sipped a little from her canteen and rested Pinto. Just as she had finished putting the stopper back in place, an exuberant cactus mouse had run across the path. This had been too much for the delicate constitution of a tired Pinto, and the horse had gone up in arms. Consequently, as much as she'd resisted, Nelle had gone down for a brief and scratchy swim in the Desert Spoon, tearing a small hole in her blouse as she'd clambered for freedom.

By nightfall, Nelle felt incredibly burnt out. She was certain the blisters on her ass had doubled in size from such a long day of steady, monotonous riding. She didn't want to stop where she was, but she was too tired to go any further, and the sky was steadily darkening. She'd been moving through a strange filled with massive stone specters that leered at her in the shadows. She knew it was place called the Valley of the Monks, but she didn't like it one bit, at least not in the twilight when everything looked askew and ominous. She didn't feel tranquil, zenned out, or instantly and inexplicably unattached to her material possessions, as she'd half expected she might in a place so named. In fact, she felt very, very lonely. Throughout her trip, there had been moments of loneliness, moments when she wished she could simply hear the familiar sounds of the Guanajuato market, moments when she wished she could talk with Beth, but she'd managed those times. And she prided herself at being able to entertain herself for long periods of time with only her own thoughts. But here, in this odd place, she felt almost overwhelmed by her aloneness, and her smallness. What did any of her efforts in life matter? What did it matter where she ended up? It all seemed so pointless to her just then. One fought and struggled and searched to survive, and then fought, struggled, and searched some more in order to get a little bit beyond basic survival, and in the vast continuum of existence, it meant nothing. And in the end, one was always, always alone.

Eventually, her immense fatigue won out over her immense loneliness, and she and Pinto collapsed for the night in a dusty clearing between two huge boulders. No matter where she was, Nelle always preferred to sleep with something solid at her back.

Sam rode late into the evening. As the last dregs of alcohol left his body, his disposition went from foul to something far worse than foul. Abhorrent? Despicable? Nefarious? He was hell bent on finding that woman, and soon. His stomach gnawed on itself; his throat ached for a drink of something that would go down kicking rather than limp quietly down his gullet. But he knew he must be close. He had to be. She couldn't have gotten any further. His instincts told him he must have passed her somehow. There had been no signs of her for the last little while - no fresh horse tracks, no more threads, nothing. So, in the Valley of the Monks, he unrolled his dirty blanket on a grassy hill and set his horse to munching greenery amongst the towering rocks. And as he settled onto the earth, he looked up at the stars and contemplated. He didn't wonder how many there were, or what exactly the stars were made of. He didn't consider the size of the universe or marvel at the mystery of it all. He didn't wonder if there was someone on one of those stars looking back at him, or wonder what his place was in such expansive, unexplained beauty. Nor did he consider his smallness beneath such a magnificent sky. No, he tough-talked the stars.

"Yeah, you twinkle now," he snarled, "for tomorrow it'll be my pistol that twinkles. And may God bless the guy who gets his own."

He snored.

She snoozed fitfully, dreaming over and over again an old dream she used have as a teenager in New York. In the dream, she was running on foot, trying to escape a man who rode on horseback, and whose face was never revealed. She ran downhill towards a valley bottom, rushing through a maze of blue spruce, the sound of hoof beats coming closer and closer. Sweat slipped down her face, from forehead to chin. Her ankles burned from the constant exertion and chafing, awkward steps in stiff, brand new riding boots. But she kept sprinting, her blood pumping almost as loudly as the hoof beats behind her. Ahead, a small mountain stream wandered through the valley. As Nelle came to its edge, she felt the presence of the rider pressing down upon her, and she knew she had no time to spare in picking her way across the creek. So she simply leapt, hoping to clear the stony watercourse in one bound. It was no use, though. It was never any use. Her toe got caught in a cluster of gossiping stones and she went down. She didn't go to pieces, but she shrieked as her right leg twisted and something inside it popped. She tried to get up as the horse behind her reached the water's edge. She couldn't. Instead, she started crawling her way up the riverbank. And that's when it always happened. First, a sharp crack would split the air, and then the bullet would hit her just below the right shoulder blade. She would scream and fall to the ground, sliding back into the water. The pain would bloom across her whole body. She would gasp with the intensity of it and her stomach would sink in sheer terror. Looking up, she would see him, the gunman on his horse, his face obscured by the bright pulse of the sun. And lying in the chill, rushing water, she would look back down and watch her blood run red into the silver sheen rippling all around her.

All through the night, Nelle dreamt this same dream. And each time the crimson poured out from her body and into the water, she would jolt awake and find herself cold with perspiration and fraught with distress. She tried to remain awake, but kept slipping into sleep, her weary body pulling her back. And so, while the ocotillo wistfully waved in the night air, and a family of band-tailed pigeons talked softly to the moonlight, Nelle was curled up tightly, sleeping sporadically, the whole of her seized up with trepidation.

When the sun sent up its first timid feelers of light, it found her waiting with eyes wide open.

Looking down into the canyon from his post on the grassy knoll, Sam was eager to get things underway. He knew she was around somewhere. She couldn't have gotten any further, unless she'd ridden late into the night like him. And he doubted it. It didn't fit her pattern. So he scanned the vista below and decided to wait. Watch and wait, at least until he was awake enough to move on.

Hunger and thirst gnawed at him, but his mood was light. He'd slept soundly, and he felt that perhaps his day had come. Maybe the woman was rich. Perhaps he'd found his meal ticket. After all, hadn't he suffered enough? It was time for him to get his. Maybe karma would look the other way. Maybe she deserved it, and he was an agent of karma. Oh yeah. That's right.

Breathing deeply, he assured himself, "Today's your day. You will take on this woman and take whatever it is she has. Think positive; success is around the corner. Keep your clarity and stay motivated. Animate your intention. Sam, _you_ are the man."

The self-defeating thoughts of the day before were gone. He was cocksure and driven. He peered down into the rocky valley again, and in final preparation, invoked his power animal. For a moment, he was an armoured barracuda on the prowl, swimming in a whiskey pond, scarfing down all the shiny, unassuming fish smaller than himself. It was an ego day for Whiskey Eyes, and I guess we should give him some credit for not choosing a cliché power animal like an eagle or a wolf, or an eagle riding on a wolf's shoulders with tongues of silver lightning licking a black background.

So Sam's eyes bore down on Nelle as she rode northward, bleary-eyed and jumpy, through the Valley of the Monks. When he saw her, he quickly clapped a hand over his own mouth in order to prevent any exclamations of joy, and then slipped quietly onto Mercedes' back. Carefully, the horse tiptoed along the hillside after Nelle, keeping a safe distance above the main trail. As he followed his target, Sam kept searching for an opportunity, an easy way to get the job done. He always did that first; he looked for an easy way. But here, no simple solution presented itself, other than sniping at her from where he was, and that just seemed to him to be a tad disgraceful. Robbing a lady was one thing, but shooting her in the back displayed a remarkable lack of confidence and zero finesse. And most importantly, it would eliminate any opportunity for a feisty little meet n' greet down there in the dust. Still, he had to do something soon. After all, the sun was roaring steadily upwards, and the hotter it got, the shittier he'd feel.

"You can do this," he psyched himself, "Look out lady, here comes the ba-ba-ba-barracuda."

He and Mercedes began the descent into the canyon.

Up ahead, the path curved slightly to the east. There were more of the huge thumb-like protrusions of rock over that way, and Sam carefully turned Mercedes, slipping between the upright rocks and deftly steering her towards the spot where the trail turned. As he guided his horse, he kept his eyes on the woman. He noted the top quality of her saddle, if not her horse, and couldn't help but contemplate the fine price it would fetch. And so what if that was a gun on her hip! He'd never met a woman who could hit more than the empty air with a bullet.

For some time, Nelle had felt as though she was being watched. She told herself she was just feeling paranoid because of her restless night. After all, she'd seen no sign of anyone for quite some time. Best to concentrate on real dangers, like rattlesnakes, she advised herself. All the same, she continued to feel disconcerted, and kept her head low and her eyes open.

Flicking the reins, Sam urged his horse to a trot as he passed down the slope. If he timed it right, he would make it through the rocks and reach the bend in the trail just before she did. He could intercept her there. Beyond that point, the path grew straighter and less rocky, so it made sense to him to slip in front of her and block her way onward. Eagerly, he leaned forward, sensing that this shrewdness of his would soon mean money for whiskey. He hadn't been this excited over a hold-up in months.

However, when Sam cleared the section of boulders, he saw, to his dismay, that the woman was nearing the interception point and was still ahead of him. Frustration getting the better of him, he flicked Mercedes hard with the reins and she accelerated again. He slipped a hand onto his gun and waited tensely for the moment when they would overtake the woman. He could do this just fine, he reminded himself. This way, it would be just a bit more dramatic. And, he admitted, a bit more work.

Mercedes made up some ground and she and Sam were almost to the trail when unexpectedly, one of her feet came down hard on a rough chunk of stone hidden in a clump of grass. The horse's shoe struck the rock at an odd angle and there was a clank \- a very definite clank, at impact. Sam cursed the horse in his mind, hoping the woman hadn't heard it, but an instant later he knew she had. It hadn't been a particularly loud clank, but it had been enough for an alert Nelle, who'd immediately looked up and over her left shoulder towards the origin of the sound. And sure enough, peering past her horse's flank, she spotted him coming her way. She saw that he wasn't wasting time and his gun was drawn, and she knew there was no conceivable way that that could mean anything good.

"Goddamn it," she breathed, as she kicked her heels into Pinto's cushiony flanks. Her horse was not used to such language, or rather to the tone behind it, and it gave him pause until Nelle planted another hearty kick into his side, at which point he decided to respond to her apparent urgency and leapt into locomotion.

The chase was barely on, and then it was off. Whiskey Eyes didn't much feel like a cross-country epic on such a sweltering, depressingly sober morning, so he cocked his pistol and sent a hot little .41 caliber out exploring. It went whizzing neatly past Nelle's raised eyebrows. And if a mouse could scare the bejesus out of ol' Pinto, you can bet that this was just about enough to cause the poor horse to make a permanent career out of chasing his own tail. He swayed and careened and stood up on end, did a two-step and bowed, and hapless Nelle went for her second overland flight in the span of two days. She didn't land daintily, but when another bullet went singing past her skinned arm, she thought it would be best to lick her wounds a little later.

"Oh, argh," she rasped, as she crawled and slithered her way towards a nearby lump of granite.

Barely sheltered behind the rock, she pulled out her Remington. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears. She really needed to sit down and mull things over, but there was no time.

"My first shootout," she muttered savagely to herself. "What a milestone!"

Peeking out from behind her post, Nelle took aim just as she'd practiced many times before. She managed to send off a sprightly melody of her own in the direction of the stranger. It was a miss, and the stranger replied in kind as he jumped from his horse and dove towards a thick stand of goatbush. Nelle's core shook with fear, but her body moved automatically as she fired off another shot into the bush. No dice, for a shot pinged off her rocky barricade in response.

Seconds passed. She knew she couldn't go on winging shots willy-nilly. Her extra bullets were in her saddlebag with Pinto. She had to have a plan if she was going to get away from whoever this was. Clenching her hand around the Remington, she tried to clear away the white patches of terror from her paralyzed mind. She could not die, not now. And to survive, she had to focus. No curling up in the fetal position. No panicked headlong charge. No sleeping on it and deciding in the morning. "Think," she commanded herself, breathing heavily. And she obeyed.

Leaning out from behind the rock, Nelle could no longer see the man but she spotted some of the brush moving, so she fired again, and heard the subsequent snapping of branches. A few seconds later, he shot back, and even though he missed, Nelle let out a bloodcurdling cry and kept her revolver silent in her hands.

She waited.

"This will work," she assured herself under her breath, as she crouched in trepidation.

Her face was hot. Her eyes darted this way and that.

"Well, I must've nailed her," said Sam to the barrel cactus nearest him.

He waited for a few minutes before edging cautiously out from behind the brush. Nothing happened. Slowly, he crept towards Nelle's hiding place, pausing often to listen. Nelle leaned against her rock, gun at the ready. Just when she thought she could no longer bear the agony of waiting or the strain on her calves, she heard the clinking sound of his spurs as he moved still nearer. Finally, she heard his panting breath. Her heart rattled its increasing displeasure. She steadied her hand. The clinking grew even louder. It was almost right next to her.

_Now, now, now,_ signaled her mind to her body, and she sprang out from behind the boulder, firing a shot straight at the centre of the dark form in front of her. Instantaneously, she heard the bang and saw the sickening, abrupt lurch of his body. She watched as he righted himself and an appalling blotch of red began to engulf his shirt pocket. The stranger looked down at his bleeding chest, his mouth a circle of amazement, and then over at her. Immobilized, she just stood there. Moments passed. Intolerable, agonizing moments. Her revolver became heavy in her hand and she stayed still, unable to stop staring as the bright red stain reached his belt, as the man wobbled but did not fall. She saw him place both hands on his pistol, and even yet, she could not move.

His hands unsteady, the man fired. The shot grazed her arm, and only then, as the sudden stinging sensation moved across the limb, did she emerge from her horrified trance. Automatically, she raised her gun and fired at the man again, a trickle of blood beginning to drip from her elbow.

The second shot tunneled into his hip and again the man wavered, before falling to the ground with a strangled cry. She watched his knees buckle, his torso sway until it gave way to gravity, and finally his right temple impact the dry earth. Disoriented, she wondered if there were any bullets left in the man's gun. She'd forgotten to count. How long had this been going on? How long ago had she leapt out from behind the boulder and fired at him? Weren't people supposed to die right off when you shot them in the chest? For a moment, she looked off into the throng of boulders and the sparse patches of brown grass. Exhausted, she felt as if she'd been standing there for days. She looked back in front of her just in time to see the man, a gnarled, angry smile on his face and blood oozing out from between his teeth, slowly lift his gun. Shaking her head at him, she hesitated a moment, but he continued laboriously moving his left hand towards the hammer, so she wasted no more time and shot the thing right out of his hands. Enough was enough, she thought, with a pleading look to the horizon.

Strolling over to him, she kicked the gun out of reach. She looked down at the stranger, his eyes dilated and glaring up at her, his skin pale and dotted with perspiration. It would not be long now before he died, she realized. And even though she felt as if she'd been standing there for ages waiting for it all to be over with, she was still dumbfounded, looking down at this thin man not much older than herself, a man in physical shock and about to leave life because of her. She could still hear the singular pop of the first shot and see the blood begin to spill from his pectoral.

"But, I...I...I...kkkillled yyyyou," he choked plaintively, gulping at the air futilely as blood cascaded into his lungs.

"Au contraire" said the woman standing over him, not without a pang of regret.

"You bitch," he hissed back.

The stranger resembled a fish dragged in on a line, dazed by the sudden cruelty of life, sides heaving, sucking at the air desperately. The man even flopped a few times, and from these pitiful throes, little billows of powdery dust arose from around the outline of his body.

"You goddamn witch of a bitch," he wheezed, relentless even as he lay dying. Blood dribbled from his lips. "Bitch, bitch, bitch," he snarled.

Nelle looked away for a moment, aghast at the gruesome scenario in which she found herself. She reminded herself that this man was no victim. He had attacked her, had tried to kill her. And now he was cursing her for defending herself.

"Thanks for bringing me back to the keynote theme of this encounter. It's really validating being reminded of how much of a dick you are. I mean, I can feel my biorhythms stabilizing as we talk this thing out."

He shut up after that.

Standing in the arid heat of the canyon, her eyes squinting beneath the barrage of sun, Nelle watched resigned as her attacker slipped into the Final Frontier which, just to be clear, is death and not outer space. She wondered detachedly what it was that made blood turn brown. A stalking wind swept through the tufts of grass and then moved on. Before long, the stranger's eyes took on that stoned look of wonder that signaled death had set in for keeps. She knew the look. She'd seen it before.

Calling to her horse and at the same time, moving adroitly towards him, she eventually coaxed him out from his rather poor hiding place behind a tall, asparagus-like stalk of yucca. Reaching into her saddlebag, she found the tin of bullets and carefully reloaded her Remington. As she did so, she considered further the man going to mush nearby. What had he ultimately intended to do? This stranger couldn't have been one of _his_ crew. No. He was too ragged and not crafty enough, and most importantly, he was alone. _He_ had no idea where she was, and would never have sent a lone man to fix things up the way he wanted. She scanned the valley, double-checking. Nope, this had been just an ordinary hold-up or horsejacking. The man must have figured she was an easy target. But somehow, she'd managed to make it through her first firefight just fine.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," she said optimistically to her sketchy horse, before dropping to her knees and vomiting into the prickly pear.
II.

Picking at the peeling skin on her sunburned nose and wiping the desert grit from her parched lips, Nelle crossed into Arizona Territory at Blackwater, an appropriately named, but much-frequented watering hole, seeing as how it was the only watering hole within a span of thirty miles or so. Not keen on making the acquaintance of any more banditos, she did not linger there for long. Beyond thirsty, she forced herself to choke down some of the questionable water, mysterious black floaties and all, while Pinto sniffed suspiciously at the rusted trough she had kindly filled a few minutes earlier. Page seven of _Cowboys For Dummies_ indicates that you must always see to your horse's needs before your own, and Nelle had done just that. But Pinto clearly wasn't reciprocating with the unerring devotion and gratefulness befitting an equine comrade. In fact, Nelle thought the eye rolling and snorting was a bit much.

"Oh, give it up!" she snapped. "Don't be such a finicky diva!"

The horse turned his nose up at her and looked away, offended by her harshness. Nelle sighed. She knew she was overreacting. After all, Pinto had been her only companion for miles and miles and miles. No matter how moody he could sometimes be, she would be in insufferable straits without him, and likely lonely enough to fire shots if the next person she encountered rode by without so much as a mannerly wave.

"I'm sorry, Pinto. I'm still a little shaky from that gunfight back there."

Pinto gave her a conciliatory look, and then both horse and rider put their heads down and grimaced through chewy gulps of the grimy liquid, emitting gagging sounds of a most striking quality. Somehow, they both managed to swallow enough to stave off a blazing, unromantic death by dehydration. Afterwards, Nelle hesitated for a moment before ponying up and doing what she had to do. Groaning, she filled her canteens with the cloudy water.

Despite the lackluster refreshments and the absence of a Welcome Wagon, Nelle was as delighted as a Mexican ghost on the Day of the Dead. She'd made it back to America! Sure, there were still dangers ahead, but she had covered a good deal of country and managed to avoid trouble so far, with the brief but disturbing exception of Whiskey Eyes. So she was proud of herself. She winked at Pinto, who remained steadfastly unimpressed by the general state of affairs, and after loosening her stiff muscles with a series of leg lifts and forward lunges, she climbed back atop the animal's back and set out once more.

Even as she celebrated her arrival, she was already thinking about the ride to Tucson. She knew this was remote country - the kind of remote country typically represented by tumbleweed blowing across an endless expanse amidst strange, macho whistling sounds. If she lingered long in such a place, an antihero was bound to appear, with a heap of trouble trailing behind. Plus, she was desperate to get to the respite of a cushy bed and to devour a meal that consisted of something more than a handful of found objects being boiled in a pot and dumped onto the cold rubber of stale tortillas. She had also heard that this was Apache country, and that these days the Apache were hardly enthused about the influx of ill-mannered prospectors and other riff raff into their territory. And while she really couldn't blame them for the current breakdown in diplomacy, she didn't exactly want to run into any of them, no matter how lonely she was. Too many mistakes had been made, and she did not want to get pulled into that fray, if she could help it.

Heading north as usual, she kept a sharp eye on her surroundings. Still very edgy over her recent encounter with the man now interred in an abandoned, oversized coyote den, she kept her right hand on the familiar protection strapped to her hip. And as she rode, she made sure to check behind every cactus for short, dishwater-coloured men with twitchy pistols or eyes dashed with red lightning. At one moment, an old, rotten saguaro happened to keel over from utter exhaustion at the precise time she meandered past, and thanks to her vigilance, or rather, paranoia, the sagging succulent received an impromptu, bullet-festooned send-off into the hereafter. The encounter left Nelle quivering for the next three miles. The more distance she could put between herself and the Valley of the Monks, the better she would feel.

Her horse's case of B.O. reaching noxious levels, and her own body emanating rather pungent effluvia, Nelle carried on through the Sonora. She tried to ignore the swelling throng of flies tailing her and attempted to put aside the persistent mental image of a man lying bloody and motionless on the ground, and instead, focused on searching for signs of potable water amongst the cholla and mesquite. Not surprisingly, all she happened upon, as the miles accumulated and her canteens slowly emptied, was a cantankerous rattlesnake requiring immediate evasive maneuvers, and the occasional dry creek bed. But seeing no better option, she kept on progressing north towards the Dragoon Mountains, a known sticky spot for close encounters with extremely pissed-off Indians.

By sunset, Nelle had begun rationing her water. Each time she attempted to swallow, her throat chafed her, and as the last traces of the sun melted into the blackness, her worry over finding water began to overtake her post-shooting stress disorder. Poor Pinto was starting to crackle rather than simply walk along. But it was dark, and there was nothing she could do until the sun came back around.

Finding no better place, she curled up next to a mess of cinquefoil and succumbed to her exhaustion, losing herself in sleep until she was stirred awake by a sagacious scorpion making its way up the inner seam of her gauchos. She spent the rest of the wee hours dreaming of starched cotton sheets, dancing various imagined critters out of her drawers, fretting for a drink, and still hoping to obscure from her mind the bulging eyes and outraged expression of the dead man now far behind her.

The next day was brutal. With the first blue streaks of morning light, Nelle rose and took several desperate gulps from her canteen. Then she poured the remaining water into her cooking pot, and let Pinto slurp it up. She didn't bother with breakfast. She couldn't bring herself to look at the hoary chimichangas at the bottom of her stores bag, and everything else (beans) required water for boiling.

She saw no one all day as she and the horse made their way steadily northward. Nor did she find any water, and with each plodding step, Pinto seemed to sink a little lower to the ground. Nelle tried hard to maintain her watchfulness, but dust kept blowing into her eyes. Blinking only left scratch marks on her dry corneas, so she eventually let her head drop down onto her chest in the hopes of some relief, while anxiety burrowed deeper into her mind and her skin began to resemble the saddle beneath her.

When the Dragoons came into her sights late on that second afternoon in America, Nelle searched again for a passable spot to spend the night, a place with any hint of water – solid, liquid, or vapor. But she found nothing remotely aquatic in the ocean of dust. And as the sun dropped low, she dejectedly took out her knife and lopped several pads off of one of the countless mounds of prickly pear. Peeling off their spiny outer layers, she put a piece in her mouth and gave the other to Pinto. She sucked the vague moisture from the pulpy flesh, but it was barely enough to make the effort of swallowing worthwhile, and it did nothing to stave off the mounting concern in her restless mind. A draggy, depressed Pinto simply let his own spongy mouthful drop to the ground.

While twilight submitted languorously to the dark body of dusk, Nelle's shoulders grew tight with stress, and she began to feel truly frightened. She kept scanning the increasingly grainy horizon for any hopeful sign. A part of her sensed herself becoming less coherent. And she often glimpsed down at Pinto's drooping head. Yet she knew it would be useless to stop. There was no point in resting until they absolutely had to, because if they stopped before finding water, they might not be able to get going again. But soon, soon she would have to get down and walk in order to preserve the poor creature for as long as possible. They moved more slowly, and all the while, Nelle kept her eyes on the descending night.

Finally, in the distance, she spotted something. A building. Her heart tripped over itself in excitement. Her salivary glands ached and twanged in her mouth. Anxiously, she spurred the tuckered Pinto on and headed towards the huge, dusty barn-like structure. Blinking hard, she peered past the granules of sand gathered on her eyelids in search of a corresponding inbuilding.

Apparently, there was only the one sizable hunk of a structure. Nothing else. There was no tool shed or paint-stripped, windblown farmhouse. There was nothing but this strange and out-of-place monolith. Still, Nelle rode closer. She had no other choice. And as she approached, she noticed a dim light streaking out of the dust-beaten windowpanes. Jubilation filled her being. _Well criminy jickets and hurrah, someone is actually in there,_ she thought, as she cautiously clip-clopped her horse up to the entrance.

A sign above the door indicated the place was dubbed _The O.K. Corral._

"I am okay with the 'O.K.' so long as it has water, AND nobody tries to kill me," she murmured as she dismounted, simultaneously rejoicing and becoming nervous. Arduously, she walked across the porch, shrugged off her trepidation, and rapped firmly on the door.

From behind the door, she could hear footsteps and laughter, and from further off, the muffled sound of water swishing. Or was it just her imagination that was swishing?

"Kind of unusual," she commented to the door.

Perturbed, but ever so thirsty, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited. The sounds continued and no one came to the door, so she knocked again. This time, after a few moments, the door opened a crack, and a blond, clean-shaven, young man peered out at her, his eyebrows raised. He was tanned, fit, and probably in his mid-twenties; and he wasn't wearing a shirt.

Nelle said hello. It came out something like "Mmmmmm...."

For a split second, she wondered if she was seeing things. After all, this man was no stereotypical desert rat. For starters, his well-defined pectorals were hairless, and so squeaky clean that they gleamed, even in the shadows. It was almost as if they cast their own light, like fireflies. He had a carefully sculpted goatee, his light hair had been recently trimmed, and there was not a speck of dirt or hard living on him.

_As much as I appreciate the scenery, this does not bode well,_ she thought. _Am I hallucinating? This has got to be some kind of mirage._

"Lady, you are rank," cracked the immaculate, chiseled man.

Relief washed over her. Nelle wished it were water. Still, any illusions of a mirage had been shattered by the stranger's comment, and she was grateful for it.

"Tell me something I don't know," she retorted, for once the relief had passed, she'd begun to feel a little crushed by his directness.

"Relax, sourpuss. What in the blazes are you doing here? Here? In this blanched-out, deep-fried place?"

"I'm just passing through - heading north. My horse and I need a drink, badly!"

"Rough day on the range, eh?" replied the man, leaning up against the doorframe.

"Do you have any water, and food?" asked Nelle, her voice scratchy and distressed. "Please, can you help me out?"

She felt dizzy for a moment, like she was going to keel over. But Nelle wasn't the swooning kind. She didn't believe in it. So she stepped back and reached for the porch railing, focusing her eyes intently on a particular knot of wood on one of the wooden slats underfoot. She couldn't lose control of herself. Not only was it cliché for a woman to hit the floor, but also it was downright dangerous, especially in such an unfamiliar locale. She didn't know what this place was, and its vibe was just plain unusual. Odd. And she hadn't yet been able to put her finger on just what it was that gave her this feeling. In a way, she was actually surprised she hadn't been greeted through a small peephole by a hooded guard demanding a password.

"I'll be right back," said the man, as he closed the door.

Thirst clawed at Nelle's throat while she waited. To steady herself, she kept her hand on the porch rail and her eyes low; whenever she looked up, the desert seemed to initiate an erratic session of jumping jacks. She knew that she and Pinto were in serious trouble if this figuratively mouthwatering, bare-chested fellow refused to help out. And she was strongly disinclined to pull out the Remington for a little water. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. Presently, she wasn't sure she had the strength to convincingly wield the revolver. She didn't need a fracas; she needed a frappe and a fricassee. Fast.

He came back. Begrudgingly, he opened the door.

"I can't really turn you away," he stated plainly, "There's nothing around for miles, but a scorched skeleton or two. Generally, we prefer to keep our privacy, but I can't very well send you out to a leathery demise in the wilderness. You're the most unsaturated person I've ever seen. Reptilian, really..."

"Um... Thank you so much," replied Nelle hesitantly, rifling through her mind for some kind of acerbic retort, and coming up with nada. After all, she was exceedingly appreciative that he wasn't turning her away, and what could she say about the glowing skin on his flawless figure? So she just smiled a lopsided, fatigued smile, and moved her hand about her neck, unconsciously checking for scales and spines.

"Take your horse around back. There's a stable there, with hay and water. Cram him in wherever there's room. I'll wait for you here," he went on.

"You are very kind," said Nelle, as she yanked on the reins and half towed Pinto, who by now was so exhausted he was scooting around using mostly his front legs. Eventually, they made it around back.

The building was L-shaped. The main area, whatever it housed, seemed to be behind the door upon which Nelle had knocked. Branching off from the main section of the colossal building was a smaller arm, which she promptly found out housed a row of stables. Inside, there were a dozen or so individual stalls, and several storage rooms containing typical horse fodder and an unusual hodgepodge of saddlery. In fact, it appeared that some of the bridles, leashes, saddles, and whatnot weren't fit for horses at all. Mountain goats maybe, or ponies with delicate bone structure.

After peeking into seven stalls, and discovering that most had been double-parked, she was gladdened to find the eighth empty and wasted no time in haphazardly peeling the saddle off of wobbly Pinto for the night, and leaving it where it fell in the corner of the stall. Careless with fatigue, she hurled several armloads of hay at her horse's feet, along with an open pouch containing a few oats. Then, without dallying, she grabbed a large bucket from the storage room and wandered bowleggedly outside to find the water pump. It was only a few meters past the end of the building, and when she reached it, Nelle dropped down on her knees and purposefully began to pump. And when the water, after much vigorous pumping, finally came gushing from the pipe, she, in a shameful deviation from the The Code, dunked her head beneath the flowing water and gulped urgently for a few moments _before_ she schlepped back to Stall Eight with the burdensome bucket brimming. Upon her arrival, Pinto grunted, and then began slurping the water up with obvious relish.

"You're welcome," she said, "and try to slow down. I've never seen a horse barf and I'd like to keep it that way... But I know _full well_ your delight," she added giddily, in a disgusting turn of events.

"Har, har, har," groaned the uncharged charger, shaking his head as she gathered up her saddlebags and hobbled back towards the water pump for another massive swig of liquid salvation.

Afterwards, Nelle, fatigued but in a triumphant stupor, went back around to the front door of the O.K. Corral. She was ready for a rest. She knew that she'd pushed things to the limit and was not taking her good fortune for granted. Whatever this place was, it had probably saved her life.

Trying the main door, she found it locked. Not surprised, she knocked for a third time. Lock, knock, and knick-knack paddy-whack, the shirtless stud came back. This time he opened the door a little wider.

"Alright," he said, "As I mentioned before, we're a private bunch. We can certainly get you a bath and some food, but we'd like to keep this place off the map... Do you understand?"

"No problem," she replied, wondering just what sort of shady, clandestine activities were going on behind the door. She pictured a fancy printing press down in the cellar, sheets of pristine counterfeit bills shooting exuberantly out of one end. She saw more shirtless men polishing an arsenal of guns. She visualized the President, bound and gagged in a storeroom, with a circle of men playing seven-card stud at a smoky table just outside the door. She contemplated the possibility that the biggest, baddest names in bank robbery were holding a sarsaparilla-soaked "how-to" seminar in the building.

Finally, after she reassured him several times that the O.K. Corral would not exist tomorrow when she rode off, he let her in. As he did so, the bare-chested man finally introduced himself.

"I'm Ares Knight," he said, solemnly.

"Sure, sure, Ares, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm Artemis Dei," Nelle said, with a sarcastic smirk. _Who does this guy think he is kidding?_

Ares seemed a little bruised by this. "Hey, my parents named me Melvin. Give me a break," he protested.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know..." she said, stifling a laugh. "Ares, you can call me Nelle. Just plain 'Nelle.' No 'y' to speak of."

"Fair enough."

There were placatory smiles, and then Nelle followed Ares inside, relieved that no permanent damage had been done. It had been months since she'd spoken to anyone for more than a cursory inquiry or post-shooting retort, and she preferred not to alienate the first person she might have a real conversation with.

Considering this was the middle of the crusty desert, the O.K. Corral had a surprising and inordinate amount of oomph. Immediately inside and to the right, there was a long narrow cloakroom neatly lined with a plethora of doffed riding jackets and gun belts. Beyond that was a kind of sitting area with some chairs and a pair of round tables made of dark wood, freshly buffed. A large, well-dressed man sat at each table, one bowed indifferently over the steam rising from his mug of coffee, the other pausing to look up at her from his game of solitaire. At least it looked like solitaire, though Nelle was a little confused by the King under his thumb, which, if her eyes did not deceive her, was not clutching a sword. The man's eyes widened a little when he spotted her, but then he shrugged and looked back down at the cards, paying no more attention to her or Ares.

Behind the two tables was a wall with a huge arched door, which gave off a pervading aura of significance. _Behind that door is where things happen in this joint,_ Nelle observed _._ She could hear water boiling and swishing, floorboards creaking, bottles clinking together, as well as intermittent masculine grunting, sighing, and occasional laughter.

"Sounds like quite the pool party going on in there. Is there ice cream cake afterwards?" she remarked.

Ares didn't reply. However, his pace instantly quickened as he led her down an exceedingly long, narrow hallway to the left of the mysterious door. As they neared the end of the hallway, he finally spoke again.

"Avert your eyes," he commanded.

"Why?"

On principle, Nelle was not one to take orders blindly or often. Ares did not explain further, so she decided to ignore his instruction. If he couldn't give her a good reason, why should she obey him? Besides, she'd found his forceful tone repulsive. She hated feeling controlled.

They passed by a small open parlour, and before Ares could reiterate his directive, Nelle looked over and caught sight of two gaunt, spindly cowhands, probably still shy of twenty, amorously intertwined on the chesterfield. They moved slowly and languorously, as if there was no reason in the world to hurry along, as if they did not need to avoid detection. To her, they looked like two twiggy mantises crawling over one another on a tree trunk.

Ares glanced over at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

"Well, cowboys do need be proficient at knot-tying," she said, with a slight grin.

Ares hiccoughed, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it abruptly. His pace slowed a little, and as he led her past several luxurious rooms, he decided not to take issue with her when she briefly peeked into them on her way by.

Nelle was again surprised when she saw that the first room was draped in gold-threaded silk and painted with hieroglyphics. A tall vase of peacock feathers had been set against one wall. _How can all this finery be out here in the middle of nowhere?_ she wondered. _And what was the point of it all?_ The second room appeared to be a bedroom. In it, there was an imposing stone fireplace, a lineup of animal heads on the wall, and an eerie mélange of skins on the low-lying bed.

"Some kind of caveman motif," she mused, as they passed.

"You'll stay down here at the end of the hall. I'll have Johnny fill the tub and bring in a tray of food and something to drink," said Ares.

"Okay, thanks," said Nelle, still somewhat confused.

He opened the door to the little room. Considering the other rooms she had glimpsed, it seemed a bit anti-climactic. There was no massive fireplace or gold foil or polished walnut furniture. But given her circumstances, she was certainly not one to complain. This room would be her most comfortable accommodation in months. There was a plain cot in one corner, with a gray chenille coverlet. A cast iron pedestal tub was set in the other corner, and there were thick, white towels piled neatly on the nearby chair.

She dropped her saddlebags onto the floor beside the bed. She was still trying to figure the place out. It wasn't a house. It wasn't simply a desolate livery, despite its name. It wasn't a supply store or trading post. It wasn't army-related.

"What is this place?" she finally asked Ares as she brushed some of the dust from her gauchos.

"It's the O.K. Corral, of course... You'd best just sink into that tub, eat, and rest," he instructed. "You must be craving a sleep in a proper bed, anyway." He sighed, clearly uncomfortable with her as she peeked inquisitively back out into the hall.

"I know the name of the place, Ares. It's carved above the door. I want to know what this place is? I mean, what are you doing out here in the desert?"

"Nelle, as charming as you are..." He coughed, and she rolled her eyes. "I think it'd be best if you just tucked in and didn't go wandering around. Since you're so keen on knowing, the O.K. Corral is a _men's_ gathering place, a wilderness playground for the pecker... or the ultra-hygienic man."

"Oh, a _dude_ dude ranch," she said, slapping her hand to her forehead.

"Upstairs, there are more rooms, and I guess you've probably cottoned on to the location of the bathhouse and sauna... Anyhow, we try to keep things peaceful around here, and it's just that, well, some of these men won't know what to make of a woman skirting around their affairs, even if she is fairly laid back about these things. Might make them jumpy, a bit uncomfortable. Some of them even have truly unfortunate wives waiting at home by the hearth, so they sure don't want any stories floating around. That's why, darlin', I'm asking you to lay low. You're just plain bad for business," he explained.

"Fair enough," she replied, smiling over Ares discomfort at being forced to be so blunt. "You've been good enough to grant me a place to stay, along with food and water, and I'm greatly indebted to you. I'll stay quietly stashed in here, if it helps things. You'll forget I'm even around. And you're right, I _am_ pretty sleepy."

"Good," said Ares, visibly relieved. "If you need it, there is an outhouse around back. It's a shorter distance to walk if you go out the window."

"Oh, fine," she groaned, plunking herself down on the edge of the bed.

"Thank you very much," she said to the blatantly indifferent kid who came bearing bucket after bucket of steaming hot water to the tub, while she sipped cool water and waited for the moment when she could strip down and drop into that glorious, cleansing water.

He'd said his name was Johnny Ringo, and that name she could believe. He didn't say much else, though he didn't seem to mind hauling the water for her. He looked maybe sixteen or seventeen. His hair was dark and scruffy, but his face was clear and his features sharp. There was something surly in his expression, a certain rebellious contempt that coloured his face and soured his lips. _That look is going to get him into trouble sooner than later,_ thought Nelle, _especially if he keeps on hanging out here_. But there was something sad in his look, too, something wearied and wistful, she observed.

Once the tub was full, Johnny told her to "hang on and let the scalding water cool a little" and that he'd "be back with some eats." He went on to say that Ares had emphasized she was still very thirsty, and so, he needed to know if she would prefer whiskey or ale with her supper?

"Vodka," she replied sarcastically, and he nodded blandly, as if it were completely normal to receive a request for a Russian libation out on the sun-bleached Arizona frontier.

Half an hour later, Nelle was up to her chin in the steaming water. Besides her head, only her hands remained above the surface. In one hand was a rapidly diminishing stack of sliced cucumbers, and in the other was a perspiring glass of Pyotr Smirnov's finest водка, also rapidly diminishing. Hopping around in her stomach were several bowlfuls of rabbit stew and pile of cornbread. Just now, she was hoping that drinking the vodka would calm the rabbits down enough so that she could get on with the purification and wash her hair. A doubtful theory, she knew, but she couldn't help herself. Already, there was a layer of sediment at the bottom of the tub from the vigorous scrubbing she'd given her body. Her skin was pink and gleaming. She took a couple more nips of the chilled alcohol and waited.

When her toes were so wrinkled that they looked like sauerkraut, the rabbits unanimously decided to stage a circus in her belly, complete with knife-throwing and daring leaps through flaming hoops, so she decided that she'd better get the shampooing over with before things progressed to all out digestive anarchy. Nelle had at it, but considering the bouncing bunnies, it took a little longer than she expected. Eventually though, sometime close to midnight, she'd lathered long enough to commence rinsing, and when she finished, she crawled florid and exhausted from the tepid bath. And without further ado, she passed out in a cloud of gray chenille.

Despite her stomach and the noise of the place, Nelle slept a weighty, fogged and lengthy slumber. Around 6:00 a.m., the sun edged a few flaming appendages up over the horizon, and five hours later, it had managed to haul itself up and over the Dragoons to blast a gleaming, golden fist through her window. It was that direct blast of yellow that finally woke the sprawled, cement-coloured woman with a jolt.

"Aarrrgh," she groaned, as the vicious rays pummeled her shrieking head. She felt the ultra-violent light suffocating her and smelled the spent vodka seeping from her pores, hating herself. Like a slug, she inched to the side of the bed furthest from the direct onslaught of that stalking, distressing light. But all too soon, the yellow tentacles were lashing her body once again.

"Pfffft," she gasped, as daylight's grip tightened around her raspy throat. How she regretted her dehydrated indulgence in vodka! How stupid she had been! It had only been a few drinks, but she felt like a mustang had kicked her in the face.

She tried to stand, reaching towards the jug of water on the nightstand. But as she did so, it morphed into three identical jugs and she found herself falling helplessly backwards onto the bed. Before she passed out for a second time, there emerged a passing thought that this was no ordinary hangover. Something wasn't quite right. It was all too much.

Awaking again at noon, Nelle lay very still in the damp, sweaty sheets while the sun browbeat her and her eyeballs twitched in their sandpaper sockets. When the urge to puke had passed, and her insides had settled to a mild, steady quivering, she sat up slowly on the side of the bed and this time, successfully reached for the water. Once she had downed several glasses of the beautiful liquid, she began to take stock of her surroundings, her very, very messy surroundings. Her ransacked surroundings.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph on a cow-licked donkey!" she exclaimed, looking at the mess on the floor. "I knew it. That wasn't just refined potato juice in my glass last night! Damn it, somebody drugged me!"

The contents of her saddlebags were strewn all over the room. Every pocket in them had been opened, every compartment rifled through. Even her book of poetry had been leafed through and lay spread open, spine up, on the floor. As quickly as a dopey, hung over, saddle sore woman could, Nelle got down on her hands and knees and incrementally collected her meager pile of possessions. Sure enough, all her loose cash was gone. Her heart beating wildly, she quickly and woozily searched for her bodice, growing increasingly frantic. A moment later, she spied it peeking out from under her pillow, and relieved, her heart rate began the long plummet back down to normal. There was enough cash sewn in there to take her from a B-cup to a C-cup. In other words, she wasn't penniless. She still had enough dough to eke out a meager existence until she settled down somewhere and got a job.

But despite not being completely stripped of her means, oh, she was mightily galled, so much so that the lovers' quarrel and the makeup sex going on in the room above her did not amuse her, even though they seemed to be occurring simultaneously. Any other time she might find it impossible not to laugh. Just now, she was far too mad. Fuming, she harrumphed at the moaned "Oh, the farmer and the cowman must be friends," and the alternately purred and hollered "Why, you dirty scoundrel."

"Cowboys," she muttered, rolling her eyes as the ceiling thumped and groaned. She fumbled shakily with the bodice, and then gave up, leaving it undone and hanging loosely from her shoulders. Then she slowly stood, trying not to get lost in the static cloud of dizziness. Wrapping herself in the bed sheet, she made for the open window, straddled one leg over the ledge, and promptly fell out of the O.K. Corral.

She was okay, thanks to the fact that Ares had had the forethought to have her stay on the first floor if he was going to require her to use the window as a private entrance. Her pupils shrinking away from the brightness, Nelle stumbled to the outhouse, hiked up the sheet, and had a few moments of quiet time before she moved awkwardly along to Stall No. Eight, where Pinto was chewing absentmindedly on a long piece of straw and desperately pretending he had nowhere to go. At least the animal was still there.

When she climbed back up through the window, she found Ares standing in the room with a tray of food. In spite of her time-out in the privy, she was still in a very black mood and it showed.

"Good Morning, Sunshine."

She gave him a vile look.

"Hardly," she retorted. "Your little Ringo laced my vodka with sedatives and cleaned me out! You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"What?!" ejaculated Ares, though he didn't sound surprised enough.

"Yup. Where is that pouty-faced miscreant?"

"Shit... I thought he was done. We had a big, heart-to-heart about this... He swore he wouldn't do it anymore."

"You mean he's done this before?"

"Unfortunately, yes. He's a troubled young man. But I've been trying to get him to talk through his feelings instead of acting out."

"Oh, Ares! Just find the twerp and get my cash back, alright!?"

"If only it were that easy. You see, when he does this, he disappears for a while... Usually bolts to Tijuana where he blows it all on whores and tequila... I know, I know, pretty peculiar stuff, but the kid's had a hard life... A runaway, you know."

"And let me guess, nobody's seen hide nor hair of him this morning?"

"Right. That's why you're only getting your breakfast now."

"Shit. That was almost my entire savings, Ares!"

"Sorry, darlin'. I really thought he was gonna go straight."

Nelle was too enraged to speak. Ares' flippant concern only aggravated her further. He could've at least told her to stash her cash somewhere or be on the lookout for the kid. Sensing her exasperation, Ares thought it best to leave her the tray of scrambled eggs, toast and tea and get out.

While the Earl Grey civilized her body and the eggs brightened up her pavement pallor, she was still fuming by mid-afternoon as she dressed and gathered up her things. That kid had taken off with her entire financial cushion. And Ares had made excuses for him! Now she would have to live like a miser if she was going to make it till September. The thought depressed her, but she knew there was nothing left to do but leave. Ringo was either long gone or Ares was in on it, too.

When she was done eating, Ares knocked on her door and apologetically offered her enough food stores to make it to Arizona.

"I've searched everywhere, but considering Johnny's M.O., I'm certain he's long gone," he lamented.

A short time later, she was sitting atop longsuffering Pinto and heading towards Tucson with a full canteen, steak sandwiches in her saddlebag, and a resigned frown hanging on her face. At least she was clean and not human jerky in the sand somewhere, she kept reminding herself. She knew she had Ares to thank for that, and she _had_ begrudgingly thanked him when she'd left the Corral, though she was still seeing red and couldn't quite forgive him for not warning her about the thieving punk.

In the coming months though, as she scraped together meals from the most basic stores, and at other times skipped them altogether, thanks to her involuntary funding of the Mexican sex trade, it satisfied her to inform anyone and everyone she encountered about the O.K. Corral – its whereabouts and its commercial offerings. Right or wrong, she would let Ares and the rest of his gang have a little fun warding off an onslaught of Bible thumpers and slighted wives.

Now, after leaving Ares behind, Nelle was tromping along through the mesquite once more. She was sick of the damn desert. She wanted a cool breeze on her sunburned body. She wanted a lake. She knew she was going to be a sight, and not the good kind, when she finally arrived in Tucson at the Board of Education office. Hopefully, the suntanned skin and the streaks of fire and brimstone in her hair would not seriously interfere with her chances at snagging a teaching position somewhere in the west. Usually, those trustee types preferred daisy-white, demure young slips barely out of school themselves to teach their own prized young ones. But in some areas, that brand of teacher wasn't so easy to come by and since Nelle was willing to go almost anywhere, she figured she'd manage something. Besides, she'd iron out her petticoat and give her most rousing, etiquette-laced interview. She had to. Once summer passed, she'd be in dire straits in terms of cash.

She wondered if it was just like riding a horse. Teaching, that is. It had been almost four years since she'd last ranted on about the ingenuity of the Declaration of Independence, all hail Benji, or had choked through cloud of chalk dust, or made anyone spell radicchio or ranunculaceous. And may a swift strike of lightning deliver her if anyone asked her what f(x) was! But so long as there wasn't a disproportionate number of tattling, little pipsqueaks or sullen boys who envisioned themselves men, she figured she would be okay. She could handle it. And if the class was the right kind, she might even like it!

The Santa Rita Mountains were all that separated her from Tucson, and the next day she and Pinto began picking their way up and over them. It was a slow go. Both horse and rider were rather downtrodden – so very tired of the endless trail that stretched north, sick of looking at disheveled manzanita, sick of coughing up dust devils, sick of dodging disgruntled scorpions and snakes, and sick of the cheerful busybody roadrunners powering across their path. And, they were lonely. All the two wanted was to settle down for a while, to stay put somewhere soothing and cool, a place where they could look beyond each other for companionship, and where they would not be baked au gratin, especially now that it was April, and the sun was in no mood to mince rays. Nelle, feeling sorry for the horse, promised him a cornucopia of apples and carrots when they arrived at their eventual destination, wherever and whenever that was, even if she had to steal them.

However, as they ascended into the mountains, a subtle change swept over the weary pair. A marauding breeze dipped down and swirled through the trees around them. It swished briskly down over the woman and her drooping horse and its freshness soothed them both. Along the trail, Indian paintbrush appeared, bright explosions of colour in a world of taupe, ecru, and sallow green. Higher up, in the shadow of Mount Wrightson, a vermilion flycatcher, which Nelle pointed out to Pinto as "a zippy red bird", was startled by their presence and burst hotly out of the brush. Nelle grinned. Her eyes throbbed in her head from looking at it. Things didn't seem quite so bad after all. And in the invigorating aura of the mountains, she noticed too, that the four-legged basket case had picked up his stride, slightly.

They climbed up a saddle in the range, keeping Wrightson at their right. Taking their time to savour the smooth coolness of the air and stopping to snack – Nelle munched from her stash of fried yucca crisps and Pinto crunched away trailside on some of the raw stuff - it was three hours before they reached the top of the ridge. Up there, the wind was more than bracing; it was abusive. It went straight through Nelle's threadbare blouse and beat her skin red. It tore at Pinto's mane and tail, making nests of split ends. It battered the forest so hard that the pines took on the appearance of weeping willows. Still, Nelle dismounted, and using an unamused Pinto as a windbreak, she made her way forward to a large hump of a boulder. There, she clawed her way to the top and flailing, stood slowly up to take in the view, gripping an overhanging tree branch to prevent the wind from launching her towards the bottom section of the sprawling vista before her. After steadying herself, she let the wind whip her eyeballs red as she peered eagerly down at the plain far below.

"Yahoooo! Yes, yes, yes!" she whooped when her eyes first honed in on the shapes in the distance and she understood what she was looking at.

Far off, she could make out the adobe mounds, gravel streets, and dirty wood framing that made up the town of Tucson. She could see miniature riders on miniature horses, cruising up and down the ribbon of a main street. She could spot miniature wagons rolling towards the town, and others leaving. And there were the miniature false fronts of the miniature stores. Straining her eyes, she even spied a very miniature dog chasing a so-miniature-it-was-invisible cat past a row of miniature horses lined up in front of what could only be a miniature saloon. She began to trill another long "yahoooooo!" and looked back towards Pinto to see if he might make it a choir with a whinny of his own, but what she saw then caused the "hoooooo" to die in her throat and her mouth to clamp shut. Astounded, she stood stock still, still holding tight to the tree branch.

A not-so-miniature Indian was standing five feet to her left.

In spite of the hammering wind, Nelle remained stationary. She only looked at him, looking at her.

He was about her age, she figured, and was wearing long buckskin pants and a battered U.S. Cavalry jacket. That was it. No shirt. No hat. He was short and spare, with the exception of a small potbelly pillowing out over his leather belt. Instead of the long, dark hair rustling wildly in the lashing wind, which is what Nelle had expected should she ever happen to encounter an Indian man, his hair had been trimmed into a vibrant shag, which the wind had fanned out behind his ears. Surprisingly, there was also a telescope fastened to his belt.

Standing there, being batted by the wind, her upraised arm growing numb from her elbow to her fingertips as it clung to the tree branch, Nelle was completely flabbergasted. Any illusions she had had of how an Indian should look had been blown right out of her head.

The man was still staring directly at her.

_What should I do?_ she wondered, nervously. He wasn't moving. Her body tense and tired from resisting the pressing wind, she weighed her options while giving him back a dose of the ol' steely eye. If she could somehow get down from her rock with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of efficiency, she might then saunter towards her horse, making to leave whilst looking über casual and humming a quiet tune, but would that be perceived as incredibly rude? She could run her hand through her hair and let it fall inadvertently to the gun at her hip, but she might not be unintentional enough and then she'd infer that she assumed him malevolent, and that could actually create a scene, which was risky, since she wasn't so sure she felt that way. Besides, he had a rifle in his hands. She could, once down from her rock, back slowly into the trees, then run away, but then it would be fairly obvious that she was very, very afraid, and maybe he'd decide to gun her down out of annoyance, or to kindly provide her with a solid reason for her fear. No, it was just no good. Plus, she owed Pinto better than to abandon him at this point.

She stood there, boots planted firmly on the rock. And waited. And waited. After five minutes or so, she decided she couldn't take it anymore. The wind was merciless. Her eyes were tearing and her skin was raw. She edged across her boulder in the direction of the man, and quickly, without taking her eyes off of him, she dropped to a crouching position and then slowly and carefully began sliding down towards the dirt. In a few seconds she was back on the ground brushing the hair from her eyes and still staring back at the Indian. She spoke.

"How," she ventured tentatively, hoping to dispel the air of accumulated uncertainty.

"I am a Weminuche Ute," the man replied authoritatively.

"Oh?"

"We do not say 'How.'"

"Oh."

"Nor do we have 'powwows', 'papooses', or 'squaws.'"

"Oh."

"I do not carry 'wampum' or a 'tomahawk.'"

"Oh."

"I do not live in a 'wigwam' or a 'teepee.'"

"Oh."

"And if you call me 'kemosabe', I will kill you."

"O...kay... What's that?"

"A Potawatomi word for "sidekick."

"Ah... Okay. Gotcha," Nelle replied, her voice faint and uneasy.

She looked down, embarrassed. This had not been a good start to things. She understood what he meant. _That was a faux pas and a half,_ she thought grimly. _Now what?_

Of course, she had known that the basic "how" was a long, long, long, blindfolded, left-handed shot in the dark. But it was all she had, all she had been able to come up with. And she had had to speak. Something had to break the tension. How was she to know he spoke English? And which was more insulting, to try speaking English or Spanish, the languages she knew, or to grasp at the one or two Native words she knew. Feeling rather apprehensive about what might happen next, Nelle cursed herself silently and wished fervently she had just kept her mouth shut and smiled, since she really had zero knowledge of any Native language. Not only had she wrecked the staring contest, she'd bungled any chance at a good first impression. And she'd been really hoping that a good first impression might allow her to go on her merry way unimpeded.

"Sorry, I only speak English, tongue of the Imperial Overlords, and Spanish, language of your jolly, heart-warming conquistador," she said wryly, in a ditch effort, to the man still standing a few feet from her.

That got his attention. Once again, he was peering intently at her. His eyes flickered. Nelle chewed the side of her lip. For a moment, he didn't reply. Then the flesh of his cheeks bunched up and a smile began crawling across his face. A second later, he broke into a laugh - a short, amused chortle that soon evolved into a hearty, roll-the-head-back belly laugh.

"Well, at least you tell it like it is," he said, still chuckling. Nelle laughed too, a little at herself, but mostly out of sheer relief. And by the time they finished laughing, they were both ready to try again.

"Hello."

"Hola," he said, toying with her.

"Could you tell me how a Weminuche Ute greets someone?"

He nodded. "Certainly. We say, 'Mique.'"

"Mique, then."

"Mique."

"Aren't you a little far from home? I thought the Ute lived further north."

"We do. I have been on the road, and am heading home now."

"To Utah Territory?"

"Hell no! There are Mormons there! No, I'm going to Colorado."

"I see," she said.

The man looked at Nelle, with her disheveled hair, her faded blouse, and her gun belt. He considered the Remington for a good minute. Then he looked over at Pinto, who was scratching himself against a wincing young pine. He noted Nelle's weather-beaten saddlebags as they hung there from the horse's flea-bitten flanks. The poor horse did not normally have fleas. Nelle saw to that. But he'd picked them up at the O.K. Corral and she hadn't had a chance to clean him up yet. She was hoping the liveryman in Tucson would volunteer for the job.

"And how long have you and that thing over there been traveling?"

"'That thing over there' is a little overwrought because we've been wandering through the desert for several months. There better be some fine oats in Tucson or that animal is going to turn into the Fourth Horse of the Apocalypse."

"Huh?"

"Never mind... I'm Nelle, by the way... Where's your horse?"

"At my camp, just on the other side of that slope. I have pine nuts there, and a wild turkey I nabbed earlier. Shall I scalp you or will you join me for a meal?"

"Well, when you put it like that, I'll take the latter, thank you...."

"I am Saguache. For some reason, white people tend to call me Sal."

"Yeah, they do that sort of thing a lot. Thank you, Saguache."

His camp was in a sheltered hollow. He had led the way and Nelle had jerked a reluctant Pinto along, following Saguache to the quiet spot in the trees. There, he had built a fire, and she had stood watching him roast the oily flesh of the wild turkey. Now, he sat and she stood nearby, both devouring it, grease running down their fingers. It had been one obese bird.

"You can sit down, you know."

"I think I prefer to stand for now," she responded.

"Ah... You know, I can whip up a pretty good liniment for saddle sores. If you like, I could prepare some and rub it on your..."

Nelle was already shaking her head no.

"You speak English exceptionally well, but your pickup lines could use a little work... How is it that you speak English so well, anyway?"

Saguache waited until he was done chewing before answering.

"A few years back, my older brother left to go fight the Navajos with Carson. When he came back, he knew some English. He could even read a little. He taught me how. And now I read all the time. I think I am a quick learner..."

"War, what is it good for?" she breathed. "Apparently, learning the Queen's English," she answered herself.

They polished off half the bird before giving up, and then lingered calmly in front of the fire silently digesting and wondering about each other.

Twilight began to spread its dark, feathery wings. Shadows crept closer to the two figures beside the flames. Nelle thought she ought to leave, head down into Tucson before it got too late. But she didn't. She found she didn't really want to. Instead, she sat down on her blanket. The warmth of the fire surged over her, lulled her; she was moody and mellow all at once. She peered into the flames and reflected on the future, Saguache, and bits of everything.

He sat there too, with much the same mindset. The tops of the surrounding pine trees rustled and murmured in the wind. A few crickets stretched themselves, chirping out the kinks in their joints. And as the minutes passed and the first of the stars tiptoed out overhead, more crickets joined in, and soon the air was filled with their manic calisthenics.

"So, what are you doing in the hills of Tucson with a swaybacked horse and a gun that doesn't look like it was made for deer hunting?" Saguache asked, over the pulsing sounds of the insects.

"Oh, same as you," she said.

"Low-level reconnaissance?"

"Uh.... Okay, no. No! Not that. Just traveling. What's this reconnaissance you speak of?"

"It's nothing."

"Sure. Sure."

They lapsed into silence once again. Saguache looked over at her. Nelle was examining his face too, searching for more clues and trying not to show him that she was bursting with curiosity. She wondered if she ought to be worried and adopted a vague look of consternation. Her eyes flashed. Orange flames reflected on deep brown.

"I was just scouting out the western territories. Taking a tour. You know, making memories, experiencing other cultures, meeting new people, and all that shit."

"I see. Well, how very cosmopolitan!"

"Exactly."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, but I won't be buying anything from that hefty pile of hooey you're peddling... What were you really traveling for?"

He hesitated, but then figured, _why not?_ He could tell she wasn't the type of woman to throw her hands up to her face and run to the sheriff screaming, "The Lord guide thy gun, you servant of civilization, for I've spotted an Injun!" If she was, she wouldn't be sitting there with him, and she certainly wouldn't be riding around solo and toting around a revolver. This woman was...something else. Plus, what did it matter anymore?

"I've been getting a general idea of just how many white folk are in the region," he explained earnestly.

Nelle stiffened, just a little. "Are you fixing for a war?"

"It doesn't look that way."

"Too many white people?"

"Yeah."

"How many Weminuche are there in Colorado Territory?"

"I'd guess about five hundred, give or take. All in the southwest, slowly being backed into a corner."

"Yep, waaaayy too many white people... What will you all do, then?"

"Likely nothing. Really, we're pretty much screwed. I guess we'll try to lay low as long as possible. Then maybe, in order to avoid starvation, we'll accept some partisan land deals that will be voided within a year. After that, we'll probably commence starving for real and then get marched out to a desolate, uninhabitable corner of the desert and left to 'subsist,' as the white men like to say when they mean 'desist' entirely. Oh, and maybe some of us will refuse and opt for the quick slaughter. You know, the regular menu of options."

Nelle closed her eyes. She could see it all happening in her mind, and she felt sick with disgust. Only days ago, she'd watched one man, a no-good man, die, and it had been awful. She visualized five hundred decent people, many of them women and children, all writhing in the dust like Whiskey Eyes. She sighed. She wished what Saguache said wasn't true. But she knew that was exactly the way it would be.

"I wish we could...oh, just...you know...stop fighting long enough to realize we all suffer alike and it makes absolutely no sense to turn on each other," she said, feeling powerless.

"Yeah, that'd be nice...and aw shucks...we could all join hands and have a big powwow of universal love. Me and Andrew Jackson could go skipping together through the columbines while the sun dapples the trees with gold and the deer graze idyllically in the meadow. What a treat!"

Saguache laughed bitterly. Nelle looked bleakly into the dirt.

"Do you think people will ever stop killing each other?" she asked.

"It's highly unlikely. The bulk of men would have to realize that there is no one king, one law, one god, one truth, or one way. Do you think they're up for that?"

"No. For most, the prospect of that is even more frightening than committing murder."

She sighed again, a long, resigned and burdensome sigh.

"And there you have it," declared Saguache.

"So what will you do?"

"The only choice available is which brand of death I'd like, a quick bullet or a period of waiting before a protracted, less predictable period of death. I don't know what the rest of my people will do, but I intend to eat, drink, and be merry, as you folks say, until my pending demise. We're all going to die sooner or later, in my case likely sooner than later, and there's no point in denying it. I figure I ought to enjoy every minute I can.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flask. Gingerly, he unscrewed the top, ensuring none of the liquor spilled in the process.

"Whiskey?" he offered.

Nelle declined. Considering how depressing the conversation was, she _was_ tempted. But after her experience at the O.K. Corral, she was feeling pretty wary of any sort of booze.

"But how can you be so resigned to your own death? Aren't you angry? Afraid?" she asked, still feeling dejected over Saguache's dark prospects.

"Fear serves no purpose in matters one cannot control. It's a tool, only. When it's useless, you must give it up."

"Yes, yes. But it's so easy to say and so hard to do."

"When you are forced to accept, you accept. My anger has mostly come and gone. I am just another man in a world of men. What difference does it make if I die? The earth will go on pretty much the same whether I'm here or not... Somehow, that comforts me. And eventually, the men that destroy the Weminuche will find out that their methods ultimately bring self-destruction... I can't deny that images of that time also comfort me."

Saguache chuckled softly, took another swig from his flask, then stood and walked over to build up the fire. Nelle grabbed her blanket from Pinto's cargo and pulled it snug around her shoulders. The black wings of a bat darted past. The moon was a silver shard sliding across the sky.

To lighten her melancholy, he asked her about her journey, about Mexico, about the size of the Sonora. She told him willingly – conjured for him the brilliant houses of Guanajuato, the endless forest of saguaro and sand, the searing waves of heat, and finally, even the bandito on the trail.

"No wonder you're not feeling the drink and be merry part," he said, "though you did fine with the eating, I'll admit. Killing a man tends to suck the joy right out of things for a while."

"It doesn't sit well, even though he was trying to kill me."

"I don't imagine it ever does, for anyone with a basic joie de vivre."

"You speak French, too?"

"No. Whatever gave you that idea?" inquired Saguache, with a perplexed look crossing his features.

"Never mind. It's not important."

"So the pistol is for wannabe thieves, then?" Saguache asked, returning to the topic at hand.

"Mostly."

"Well, all things considered, I think I'll pass on robbing you tonight."

"Much obliged."

"What else is it for?"

"What?"

"Your Remington. You said it was 'mostly' for roadside assistance."

"Well, there is a particular man, not a bandit specifically... But I think if he ever manages to track me down, it will likely come to an either-him-or-me scenario, and I'm hoping to hell this gun will ensure that I end up wearing the white hat."

"Huh?"

"I come out alive."

"But why? Why is he after you?"

"He is used to getting his way in everything."

"And he wants something from you?"

"Exactly."

"What?"

"I'm not in the most splendiferous of moods, Saguache, and it isn't a happy tale, so I'd rather leave it for now."

"Sure... But won't the school board be a little perturbed if you show up to the schoolhouse wearing a gun belt?"

"Yep. I'm gonna have to be discreet about that."

Again he stirred the glowing coals, and then he asked her where she wanted to teach school.

"Not sure. Somewhere here in the West, I guess. I don't care for the East much, except for the libraries. And I don't think I can handle anymore of the blazing desert. I need to be in a place where the mornings are sometimes chilly, where there are trees and mountains and grass, and plenty of water – water within easy grasp. And in winter, snowflakes floating lazily down..."

"A place where the deer and the antelope play?" suggested Saguache.

Nelle grinned. "Sure, but could you throw in some owls and squirrels and a bear or two?"

Saguache didn't say anything. Nelle grew sleepy as she listened to the wind coil and unwind in the treetops. The blue, yellow, and orange flickering of the coals coaxed her into a relaxed, unfocused haze. Her breathing became deeper, calmer. Her right hand moved away from her hip, settling on her knees. Her thoughts drifted upwards with the smoke.

"You should go to Colorado. Northern Colorado. Everything you want is there... Plus the ratio of men to women is something like 4:1, so you'll have plenty of opportunities to get laid, which always makes for a pleasant stay," Saguache declared abruptly, sometime later.

Nelle nodded, dozing.

When she awoke the next morning, he had already gone. Or almost. As Nelle wiped her groggy eyes, she saw him leading his horse away from the camp.

"Goodbye," she called.

Saguache turned and grinned. "Damn it. I was hoping to disappear in the mist before you awoke, like an Indian guru should, but unfortunately, I like sleeping way too much."

"Wrong kind of Indian anyway. You can't be a guru," Nelle laughed.

"Rules, rules, rules. I'm too old to be a 'brave' and you know how I feel about 'kemosabe.' I don't have the connections to be a chief, so I'm really only left with the contemplative wise man option. How about sage or shaman?"

"Oh, please," she groaned, rolling her eyes.

"Medicine Man of the Soul?"

"Goodbye, Saguache."

"Goodbye," he smiled, and disappeared into the trees, since it was 11:00 a.m. and any morning mist had been burned off by the sun long before.

A day later, she was sitting in front of a portly officer of the Western Territories Board of Education. She had stowed her pistol in a newly purchased leather book bag, pinned up her hair, and ironed out the eyelet petticoat and indigo poplin. She had also pressed her palms against the faint lines in her forehead, to no avail. Now the man in front of her looked up from examining her wrinkled Teaching Certificate.

"We have several positions for the fall, in Arizona Territory and elsewhere."

Without blinking, Nelle asked, "Do you have anything available in Colorado Territory?"
III.

Boulder City was not a city. It was more of a shantytown on the up-and-up. A smattering of lean-tos and shacks, along with the occasional humble, but nevertheless full-fledged house, crouched inconspicuously in the valley beneath the serrated profile of the Flatirons. The streets were heavy dust, which when subjected to a serious downpour, became an unnavigable, boot-sucking brown sludge, believed to have taken a handful of small pets and at least one unsuspecting toddler in recent years. A main street, unavoidably dubbed Main Street, knifed straight through the assembly as if it meant business, on a strict NNE trajectory. This road however, dead-ended 500 feet past the Yet Another Saloon, and you had to travel Benno Albrecht's fence line west for a half-mile in order to hook up with the actual "main trail" that went North to Montana Territory and beyond into Rupert's Land, which, according to Lou Smythe at the Merry Millinery & Masonry Supply, was a dark place run by a faceless mega-corporation.

Along this street were the expected businesses of a frontier town – livery, barbershop, post office, seamstress service, butcher shop, bank, sheriff's office, smithy, undertaker, and coffee/doughnut shop. There were also two general stores, the _Ware and Wear_ and the _Nickel or Three,_ which were situated directly across from each other and were fiercely competitive. If _Ware and Wear_ had a sale on shovels, the _Nickel or Three_ immediately implemented one on shovels _and_ picks. If one had muslin prints at 85 cents a yard, the other knocked its price down to 84 cents. The next day, the 85-cent muslin would be 83 cents, and then two days later, the 84-cent muslin would drop to 82 cents, until both stores had dropped prices down to bare cost value. Consequently, it was a wonder that either store stayed open at all. If it weren't for Boulder City's newest arrivals, who didn't know to wait until a sale war had reached its nadir, and the miners and out-of-towners, who had to stock up on a variety of goods in a single trip, whether they were items involved in latest promotional flap or not, there would've been no general store to speak of in the City.

The recently built schoolhouse was located on Walnut Street, which jutted off Main Street near the centre of town. Nelle was hardly surprised. In her few years of teaching, it hadn't taken her very long to realize that 69.9 percent of schools in America were located on streets named Walnut, regardless of whether walnut trees were part of the local indigenous fauna. Certainly, there weren't any walnut trees hanging about this schoolhouse. At least it was a relatively new building, she reminded herself, not like that half-rotten one in Nulle Part, Illinois. When she'd peeled off the boards that had been haphazardly nailed across its front door, three ducks had come shuffling out of the semi-aquatic interior.

Operations at Boulder City's school also seemed pretty standard. Nelle had wandered in at the end of June on the last day of classes, just to observe. She had taken a seat at the empty desk in the far left corner. Miss Ash, who looked every bit her name, had nodded at her from the already battered birchwood desk at the front of the room and continued her lecture on hygiene. And after counting the students, which totaled twenty-three, and noticing that the fresh new bookshelves, still smelling of pine, were completely empty, Nelle had leaned back and tried hard not to look out the window and daydream. At the end of the day, after the students had run gleefully out of the bright gray building, brimming with knowledge about how a clean body and orderly home could bring them closer to God, Nelle had walked up to the wan woman as she gathered up her satchel and sweater.

"I'm Nelle Ford, the new teacher."

"I figured as much. Good luck in Boulder City... I'm getting the heck out of this cesspool."

She'd marched towards the front door.

"Wait a minute," Nelle had called. "What do you mean...cesspool?"

But the prim, surprisingly sprightly woman had already gone, and Nelle had shrugged her shoulders indifferently. It was June after all, and all pretty typical.

The following day, Miss Ash had gotten on the stage east.

So typical.

It was mid-July now. The grass in the valley had taken on the complexion of shed rattlesnake skins. The streams were whispering soberly now instead of guffawing at everything, no longer drunk on their own jokes. Purple thistles lined the roadside; Boulder City was a "Communities in Bloom" Champion, after all. Day after day, the sky was an unwavering blue. Prairie dogs and shifty miners with pockets full of rocks seemed to multiply before Nelle's very eyes in the town's hot dusty streets. _Gopher Nugget City would've been more fitting,_ Nelle thought to herself, as the mid-afternoon heat grew thick like honey and the town ground to a lethargic standstill.

At first, she had found it stifling. "I just can't escape the damn desert," she'd confided unparticularly to a particular bottle of particularly bad red wine. Upon arriving, she had spent the first few weeks in a sultry boardinghouse run by a widow who called herself Betsy Western, thinking it would be best to take up residence near the school. At first, it had been nice to have someone cook for her, but after a week, she'd realized that Bet Western's dinner menu was a three-day rotation of butter bean casserole, unsalted goulash, and chili con carne misteriosa, and the novelty had worn off almost instantaneously. The incident with the sloshed silver miner had sealed her departure.

One sweltering night in June, the grizzled man had crawled into her open window, totally soused, loosened his trousers, and slid into bed with her. Jolted awake by the hairy potbelly suddenly pressing against her back, she and the Remington, which had been resting comfortably under her pillow, had escorted the stranger back out the window without delay, while Nelle's extremities had tingled with alarm and her heart went so fast that it had almost tripped over it's own ticking.

_Commute be damned,_ she'd decided after the ordeal, as she'd scraped traces of silver dust from the bed sheets.

The following day, she'd used most of her remaining cash to lease a small cabin on Skillet Mesa, comfortably situated above the town, yet still beneath the Flatiron Mountains. After she'd settled in and some time had passed, allowing her to recover from the trauma of the bed-in, she was almost grateful to the woolly miner for startling her into the hills as they were a breezy respite from the stagnant heat of the valley bottom.

The cabin wasn't worth much to anyone besides Nelle. It was a one-room affair made of sap-oozing pine logs. There was a sitting area and kitchen towards the front. The sitting area consisted of one rocking chair with a single rocker, positioned a few feet before a small fireplace. Sure, the chair didn't rock at all, but at least it allowed for lopsided repose. The kitchen had a cast-iron stove and a cupboard containing three pots, various utensils, and a set of clay dishes, minus the plates. A few feet from the stove, there was also an oblong wooden table covered in candle wax, with two small benches. It was perfect for a half-starved family of four, or two buxom dairymaids. The sleeping area contained a saggy single bed, three wall hooks, and a round mirror. There was a tiny west-facing window in the kitchen and a larger south-facing one in the sitting area. As for Pinto – yes, he was still alive - he took over the small shed that was next door to the outhouse around back.

Nelle scrubbed the cabin from top-to-bottom until the smell of vinegar dominated everything within a ten-foot radius of the place. She had Pinto lug sacks of cornmeal, sugar, flour, and granola up the craggy hill, despite the resigned look of martyrdom he gave her every time she made a move for her saddle. She purchased a cookbook called, _Quick and Easy Carbs for the Pioneer, or How I Survived the Winter on Nothing But Johnny Cake_. She added a scarlet ensemble to her wardrobe, thereby doubling her dress collection. After that, she found she had just enough money for a stamp, and that was all. So she posted a letter to Mexico, hoping that by Christmas or maybe Cinco de Mayo, the old gang might know that she'd made it.

Now she was officially broke. Until her first month's teacher's salary was paid out, she'd have to make due with what she had. But it was summer, and it was beautiful at her cabin, so she didn't mind so much. Up in the meadow, bumblebees rubbed themselves seductively against plump globe mallow. An elephantine crow rattled down on the cabin roof each morning, waking Nelle each day with its inspired, ethereal squawking. Once, a wolf went skipping past the cabin, playfully chasing after a loping fawn out on its morning jog. And every day, when the sun was highest, Nelle wandered over to the rocky creek that rushed through the grove of aspen and took an energizing skinny dip in the cool water. Then she'd slide back into the gauchos and flimsy red blouse and go riding, or sometimes lay out in the grass, jotting occasional things in her journal while snacking on a flapjack.

Despite her discovery of a rogue patch of wild rhubarb in a nearby valley and the subsequent hasty addition of fried rhubarb to a monotonous diet that consisted primarily of various forms of fried dough (polenta, pancake, crepe, tortilla, etc), Nelle lost another five pounds over the summer, though she did manage to stave off scurvy. She cut a rather angular profile, and was becoming a touch concerned that she might accidentally impale herself on her own elbow one day, if she wasn't careful.

That all changed when she met Anisette Mead.

Anisette, she'd found out, was her nearest neighbour to the southwest. She had settled in the burbs of Boulder City seven years before, with her husband Elvis. A brilliant, up-and-coming gunfighter tragically forced into an early retirement by tuberculosis, Elvis had been advised by his doctor to get to a drier climate if he valued his life. So, they had hied on out of Louisiana and hadn't stopped until they'd reached Boulder. There, they'd set up a hobby farm, complete with a small dairy, and everything had gone rather well until Elvis kicked the bucket some 11 months later when his appendix exploded.

Nelle had gone riding past their yawning yellow house one typical sun-drenched afternoon in early August, and Anisette had waved her into the yard, where she'd been methodically whipping the milk fat in her butter churn, her loose purple sleeves flapping in the breeze. A few moments later, Nelle had followed her eagerly into the house for what Anisette called "a sip of java and nip of sugar."

The house had appeared to be a rather standard, boxy farmhouse, but once inside, Nelle had discovered it was anything but normal. The front door opened to a hallway covered in parakeet wallpaper and draped with paper lanterns. The smell of incense clung to everything. Anisette had ushered her into the parlor, and had told her to make herself comfortable while she went "off to the kitchen to for a few fixings," so Nelle had sat down on one of the enormous pillows, which appeared to be the only available seating, and had taken it all in.

The walls were draped in an eye-numbing array of beaded fabric curtains. On the west wall opposite the window, was a large oval mirror framed by a glass mosaic depicting the phases of the moon. Much of the floor was covered in luxe, silk pillows in a mishmash of colours, perfect for lazing upon or lounging against. There was a stack of poetry books in one corner, a large glass chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling, and a low table displaying coloured bottles of mysterious liqueurs over by the window. It was like some kind of exotic, sultan's tent, except for the windowsill, which, in a pronounced departure from the specific ambiance of the room, displayed miniature porcelain figurines of Pan, Thor, and Neptune, as well as an 1847 Walker Colt revolver.

Nelle had just concluded that Thor was the most attractive of the three figures, when she'd gasped aloud. Out from the kitchen had come wafting the warm smell of bread and butter and...cinnamon! Her belly had cried out, and she'd been grateful no one was around to hear its pitiful pleas. And as the scent of the cinnamon intensified, her mind had drifted off to Mexico in a bout of nostalgia. She'd felt she would die if she did not taste a little of it. Pan had smirked, and she'd refused to look at him further, lest she smash his smug face in her hunger.

Shortly thereafter, Anisette had sashayed into the room carrying a tray laden with an urn of hot coffee, two cups and saucers, and a plate loaded with steaming-fresh cinnamon buns and chilled Napoleon pastries. Nelle had nearly wept at the sight of the raisins drowning in icing atop the cinnamon buns. And when she'd peered at the vanilla custard oozing out from below the Napoleons' pastry roofs, which were drizzled with strawberry fondant, she'd barely managed to stop the sudden flow of saliva from pouring out of her mouth.

Wading daintily through the pillows, Anisette had set the tray down on the floor in front of Nelle. Then she'd taken hold of a large turquoise cushion, pulled it to her lower back, and sat down on it cross-legged to face her guest.

"Help yourself," she'd instructed.

As she'd delivered one of the cinnamon buns to her plate, Nelle's hands had trembled. She'd taken a sip of her coffee, which had been so gloriously thick with milk, it was almost a latté, and then she'd wholeheartedly devoured the resplendent dessert. She had been vaguely aware that she was making a pig out of herself and that her hostess was looking wide-eyed at her. But the warm buttery sweetness was too much, and she hadn't been able to stop. She'd finished it faster than the time it had taken Anisette to stir a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee.

"So, Miss Schoolteacher, tell me how it is you decided to come to Colorado Territory."

"Well, I met an Indian who seemed to think it was an easy place for a girl to get some action, so here I am," Nelle had said coyly.

"You came to the right place then, I reckon. There are all sorts of desperados around these parts," Anisette had replied, jumping right into the game, her eyes full of mischief.

They'd laughed. And as Nelle had taken on the Napoleon that Anisette had passed to her next, she'd asked about the little farm and Anisette had told her all about her former home in Louisiana, the wobbly wagon trip west with Elvis, and his subsequent demise soon after they'd settled in Boulder.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Nelle had said, charitably.

"Thanks... It's alright... I mean, in a way I am glad, for his sake, that he didn't hang on and suffer for years. There wasn't a whole lot he could do around here – we had to hire hands, and I know he hated that. Besides, it seemed like after he stopped the gun fighting, he just wasn't the same. It was his passion. When he had to stop, it was as if part of his soul died, you know?"

"Umm... yeah. One of those 'follow your bliss' scenarios gone horribly wrong."

Anisette had passed over a second cinnamon bun before going on. "Well, you'll have your hands full here, I'll guarantee you that. There's a couple of loonies on the school board that should keep you fully entertained, as well as on your toes."

They'd talked on, and by the time Nelle had slipped a fork into her second Napoleon, she'd begun to feel a little groggy. But there had been actual vanilla bean in the custard, and plenty of fluff and flake to the pastry, and so she'd succumbed to richness of the incredible mille-feuille, refusing to stop, though it had been against her better judgment. One thing was certain; Anisette Mead was one heck of baker.

As she'd chewed, Nelle had begun to feel increasingly odd. Disoriented, yet serene. Euphoria had washed over her, through her. She'd felt weightless, as if she was floating, like the curls of incense smoke drifting up towards the ceiling. Suddenly, she'd opened her eyes, not having realized they were closed, and had found that she was in fact hovering above herself and the pastries, which had been bathed in a bright translucent light.

_Not again,_ she'd thought. _This is ridiculous._ _I was just drugged this spring... Exactly what kind of confection was that?_

Nelle had looked down on herself. She'd felt so satisfied, so strangely at peace. The light had seemed to grow brighter, radiating out from the tray in all directions. Despite the fact she'd been looking down on her body, she had sensed it surging with energy. She'd thought she could feel the blood splashing through her veins, invigorating her organs.

_Still, it can't be a good thing – detaching oneself from one's body like this,_ she'd contemplated. _Maybe the dessert was laced with opium and I am about to watch myself be robbed again, this time by a Louisiana not-so-goodwife._ But curiously, the woman sitting across from her hadn't appeared to notice anything unusual. _Plus, I'm feeling pretty coherent. Sure, I'm blissful, and seemingly quite buoyant, but I don't see a perma-grin down there, or suddenly feel like there's nothing wrong with the world after all,_ she'd considered.

"This is unbelievable," Nelle had murmured.

"Go towards the light," Anisette had replied nonchalantly.

Not knowing what else she should do, Nelle had obeyed, slicing her fork into the dessert for yet another bite. As she did so, she'd found herself, all of herself, back at the table.

"What did you just say?"

"So, you think it's alright?"

Anisette had gestured towards the pastry.

"Oh... Yes... An empyrean experience, really," Nelle had said, feeling a little confused.

"It's been that long, huh?"

"What?"

"Since you've had refined sugar."

Nelle had smiled at her. "Yeah, that long."

They got along famously. Nelle was invited to visit the next week, and then the next week after that, and so on. The two would loll on the large cushions and talk for several hours at a time, sometimes over gooseberry or currant muffins (never bran), other times over tea and buttermilk biscuits, or fruit and éclairs. Nelle wasn't exactly the type to lay out her entire history for anyone, but she did tell Anisette about her time in Mexico, as well as a few experiences from her childhood, and was happy to jaw away on books, current events, and obviously, the food. She was exceedingly grateful, both for the friendship and the fine repasts, which Anisette plied upon her. In return, she tried to help out around the little farm. Though Anisette had a hired man to keep the barn, fencing, and animals in order, she herself milked the handful of cows early in the morning, churned butter almost daily, and did the household chores. By mid-afternoon, she was often tired, so Nelle, after any particular visit, would usually take up the hoe, and with her renewed strength, or rather, sugar high, she would weed a portion of Anisette's large garden before returning to her cabin, and Anisette, in turn, would nap.

Towards the end of August, when the grass had become liced with gnawing grasshoppers, Nelle donned the eyelet petticoat, slipped into the indigo dress, pinned up her sun-bleached hair with two handmade hairpins, slid the Remington into her book bag as usual, and rode down into town for her first official meeting with the Boulder City School Board. Her face and arms were heavily tanned, her form narrow but no longer lacking in curves, now that she had begun recovering from the pre-Anisette lean times. Pinto still hissed at her whenever she saddled him up, but really, he was almost fat now, so it was all purely for the dramatics.

When she got to the schoolhouse, she tethered the plump equine securely to the little white fence in front. Then she pulled the strap of the book bag up over her shoulder and marched straight up the front stairs, taking them two at a time. She knew that the board was inside waiting for her, probably watching her through the window, so she simply took hold of the door handle, swung it open, and stepped boldly into the room.

Inside, she was immediately met by four men and one dour-looking woman, all of them standing directly in front of her. She took a deep breath and smiled at the rotund man stationed nearest to her, and he took that as a sign he should speak.

"I'm Battenbrighton Chesterfield, Esquire, school board chairman. You must be Nelly Ford?"

She flinched when she heard the "y" dangling off her name like that, and took another deep breath, trying to temper her annoyance.

"Hullo Bat... It's Nelle actually, like 'hell.'"

Definitely not tempered enough.

"Oh... Nelle then. And you may call me... not 'Bat.' Sir Chesterfield would be more appropriate, I'd say."

"You just did say. And how long have you lived in Bouldershire, sire?" Chesterfield didn't blink.

"About ten years, Miss Ford... This is Granger Dyck. He is Boulder's telegraph operator, and a key figure in our town as leader of the _Boulder Bitter on Bitters (Etc.)_ , our local temperance union."

"Good afternoon, Miss," said the rangy, goggle-eyed man in pilled gray trousers. "I have a son in second year," he continued.

"How lovely," Nelle said, considerately.

"I hope that as a teacher and example to the children, you are a teetotaller, ma'am?"

"I am... from time to time."

He smiled quickly; then frowned.

The woman stepped forward.

"I am Mrs. Charles Dunn, voting member and secretary of the school board," she said, her lips tight, her face drawn.

Nelle always hated when women introduced themselves as the feminine version of their husbands, abdicating their own names and eliminating yet another trace of themselves.

Mrs. Charles Dunn was still speaking.

"I expect you to uphold the highest standards," she declared. "When I was a teacher, back before I married Mr. Dunn, I always kept strict discipline. It was the same with my two sons. Spare the rod and spoil the child," said the henna-haired hemi-centarian, whose sons, incidentally, were now a syphilis-laden ivory hunter in India, and a machete-wielding San Francisco pimp, respectively. Or perhaps I have that backwards.

Nelle slowly nodded.

The third man, one Larry Dime, smiled, actually smiled at her, as he held out his hand and introduced himself. He was pleasantly handsome with his trimmed nut-brown hair, long, but lightweight, canvas jacket, and five-gallon hat. Immediately, Nelle could sense he was a good-natured fellow, and not a complete tool like the others. She was encouraged.

"I have two daughters in Grade One, and a son coming up behind them."

"I look forward to meeting them."

Finally, a tall, severe-faced man with graying hair and a clenched jaw came brooding forth from the front of the classroom where he'd been standing, indifferently gazing at the blank blackboard.

"Sheldon Musgrave, at your service."

"And what grades are your children in, Mr. Musgrave?"

"I don't have children. But I am head elder at the Boulder church and I have a vested interest in seeing our community's children educated in an upstanding and moral environment. And in that way, they are all my children, and I aim to look out for my children, to ensure they are provided with a decent, virtuous place of learning."

"Uh. Huh. Well, how... charitable of you. But, I'd say you've got nothing to worry about," she said. "I'll paint the walls with virtue."

He made no reply. Mrs. Dunn handed her a stack of books.

"I trust you are fully familiar with the curriculum?"

"Absolutely," responded Nelle, wondering just exactly what kind of hogwash was enclosed in _The Puritans' Guide to No Frills Penmanship and Other Life Skills._

"And here are the Teacher's Rules," said Mr. Musgrave, handing her a lengthy listing.

"You mean these are things that are not permitted in my classroom?"

"No, they're rules governing _your_ conduct."

"Oh, well then, I guess I'd better read the fine print."

"Yes," replied Mr. Musgrave, "and we'll be expecting to see you in church on Sundays from now until June. Weather permitting, of course."

"Of course," she replied caustically.

"I will drop in to observe your teaching at least once per term," said the mighty balding head of Sir Chesterfield.

"And I will inform you of any decisions the board undertakes regarding your performance and provide vocational guidance, when deemed necessary," piped Mrs. Dunn.

Mr. Dyck stood mutely, nodding along to everything that was said and mindlessly tapping his index and third fingers against his pant leg.

"Thank you for coming to teach in Boulder," said the amicable Larry Dime, consequently preventing Nelle from marching out of the school that instant and going straight to the saloon to inquire about a possible job opening. "We are much obliged."

"You're welcome."

And with that the mighty board, with the exception of Mr. Dime, filed out of the schoolhouse with a quick succession of nods and handshakes, forming a rather sourpussed, lackluster parade.

As they left, Nelle looked down at a random rule on the tedious list in her hand.

"Rule 14: No fraternizing with young men at the doughnut shop," she read aloud, astounded.

Mr. Dime chuckled.

"Yeah, apparently that's been a problem in the past," he explained.

"Well, to be honest, I _can_ picture the venerable Miss Ash acting the floozy over a honey cruller. Tsk...tsk..."

"Yes, she _was_ a terrible flirt, that woman. We had to keep a close eye on her. Not at all like you, I'm sure. You give off a real pristine aura of purity, like a lamb dipped in lye."

He winked.

"That's me," she laughed, before returning to her list. "Rule 6: No wearing of bright colours," she read on. "Now that's just a tad of overkill don't you think?"

"Yeah. I think the Board will look the other way on some of those if you manage to prove your salt and teach the kids something. I wouldn't worry about following every rule all the time."

"Mr. Dime..."

"Larry..."

"Larry, then. Do you think I could get away with attending church just on the major holidays?"

"Nope. That one's not negotiable, I'm afraid. I'm surprised they didn't string you up for not attending all summer. But then, I guess we really needed a teacher..."

Nelle wasn't especially fond of church. In fact, she'd been fully agnosticated for some time. But back in her first years as a schoolteacher, she'd discovered that it was prudent not to publicize this fact and to attend occasionally. Otherwise, people would begin to scrutinize her a little too closely. They would look on her as an outsider or a snob, and then they'd begin to find fault. And suddenly, there could be buzz about the length of her skirt or the ease with which she sat astride her horse or maybe some rumours of orgiastic romps in the forest at solstice time, and once that happened, she would only be hair's breadth away from the community deciding to barbeque the heathen out of her at the next block party.

Still, she hadn't liked the commanding tone in that uptight Mustygrave's voice, and her impulse was to rebel.

"It's not so bad – church," Larry was saying. "I mean, you'll meet plenty of folks, make friends, and get to know the parents. I know my wife Sarah is eager to meet the woman whose going to be imparting the Three R's to her young daughters."

Nelle sighed quietly, giving in.

"You're quite right, Larry. I'll be there. But no one, no one, is going to sucker me into teaching Sunday school on top of regular school.

"No, no one's gonna make you do that..."

"But Rule 12 says..."

"You can't be serious... I was certainly not properly briefed on the latest revisions to this list!"

He paused, exasperated.

"Don't worry, Millie Bower is pretty attached to her position as Sunday School teacher."

"She'd better be," she muttered, though with less vehemence, since she had become distracted by something outside.

Through the open doorway, Nelle could see and hear the obnoxious Pinto kicking impatiently at the schoolyard fence. She could also see a man - a tall, hard-bodied cowboy, leaning casually against her horse's flank and nodding sympathetically. His disheveled coffee-coloured hair was pulled back and tied with a strip of leather, a few wayward strands framing his dirt-streaked forehead and his pleasing mouth. His arms – and Nelle always noticed a man's arms (Chesterfield's being bulbous and reminiscent of beefsteak tomatoes, Musgrave's like bumblebee legs, Dyck's resembling hinged chopsticks, and Larry's like bowling pins, or so they seemed behind the draping of his sleeves) – were just the right kind, athletic with tightly compacted, not gratuitous, muscle, and a moderate broadness at the shoulder that steered clear of all neck territory and did not completely detract from the sinewy, streamlined forearms. Those arms were like magnets to her, and she made herself look away from them. _Resisting those officially usurps my ongoing attempts at resisting the force of gravity,_ thought Nelle, who'd always been secretly intent on learning to levitate, sooner or later. He wore a hat tilted slightly to the left, a mostly-buttoned, parchment-toned shirt, tanned leather chaps, and a pistol on his right hip.

Okay, there were no chaps. The chaps bit did not happen. Nelle fervently _wished_ he was wearing chaps, but really, they were just run-of-the-mill work pants.

"Caramba!" she exclaimed, continuing to peer out at the stranger.

"Huh?"

Mr. Dime was still standing there.

"Oh, Larry... Uh, do you know that man out there, the one in conference with my horse?"

He turned towards the doorway and squinted.

"That's my brother - half-brother actually, Arden Wilder. Don't worry, he's not loony or anything. He just likes to pull that horse whisperer shit for a laugh. He's waiting for me to join him. We've been rounding up a few strays. Now we have to go and figure out exactly where they've been getting out."

"Ah," she replied.

Pinto was still kicking the fence impatiently and Mr. Wilder had now joined him, so Mr. Dime tipped his five-gallon and offered his arm to walk her out. She accepted, and they headed out of the schoolhouse and through the shady schoolyard. As she neared her horse, the blue-eyed vaquero looked up at her and promptly stopped kicking the fence.

Nelle could've sworn those slate blue eyes brightened for a moment when they first looked up.

"Ma'am," he said, assuming a confidential tone, "Your horse is suffering from a serious bout of low self esteem, which is further complicated by paranoid episodes and general malaise.

"Blarney," said she, swallowing her amusement.

Larry cleared his throat, awkwardly.

"Arden, this is the new schoolteacher, Miss Nelle Ford."

"Yeah, I gathered... How do you do, Miss Ford?"

"Quite fine actually, apparently in contrast to my horse."

"Yes, you really ought to encourage him a little, provide him a little entertainment, find him a mare..."

"Christ, Arden!" interrupted poor Larry Dime, rolling his eyes.

But Arden Wilder was not the type to be reined in. Nelle could tell from looking at him. He looked right back at her, so she permitted her eyes to veer off towards the cumulous pileup above town for a few seconds. Then she casually looked over at him again, and her gaze traveled the solid lines of his jaw, meandered along the byways of his suntanned neck and exposed collarbone, idled for a while at the rugged shoulders, stalled once or twice at the spot where the sleeve grew tight around his upper arm, and sped downward until she was compelled, out of a basic propriety, to conduct a U-turn at his belt.

"It's alright, Larry," she said, after completing her tour of the local terrain. "Clearly, Mr. Wilder has fallen victim to Pinto's Woe-Is-Me-The-World-Is-Against-Me-Now-Give-Me-A-Carrot Act. And he's not the first chump either, as you can plainly see. Whenever we come to town, that animal channels his thespian tendencies, hangs his head, and cries a river to the first sap that crosses his path. At home, he's sprawled beneath the cool shade of a poplar reading the paper and snubbing any creature that saunters by. He thinks that because he hoofed it through the barrens of Mexico without ending up at the taxidermist's, he deserves some kind of medal and an early retirement. I have to keep reminding him just exactly _who_ it was that waited on him, protected him from banditos, coaxed him out of the foliage every time he had a bad dream, and didn't leave him at the taxidermy! He's got a real chip on his shoulder – thinks he's some kind of Tennessee Stud!

But I guess you're right about one thing, Mr. Wilder. He _is_ a paranoid one – climbs the stable walls at the first whimper of a coyote."

Mr. Wilder seemed vaguely surprised, but started to laugh. Larry joined him, relieved that Arden had shut up and grateful this new teacher had a sense of humour, in contrast with some of the others.

Although she felt hot, exceedingly hot, Nelle smiled pleasantly. She was standing just out of range of the shade and the sun was beating harshly down on her. Beads of sweat began forming on her forehead, and she started to feel self-conscious since she could still feel Wilder's eyes on her. He was still looking... Still looking...

She felt her breath catch in her throat, and instantly she knew she had to get out of there. For her, Mr. Arden Wilder was bad news. Hot bad news, but bad news nonetheless.

"Well, gentlemen, I'll leave you to your work."

"Good day, Miss Ford," said Larry.

Mr. Wilder only nodded.

She heaved the book bag, now filled with actual books rather than just her gun, up onto her saddle and quickly jumped up herself. After five sharp jabs of her heels, Pinto finally took off, and she roared out of town, away towards the breezy hills without a backward glance.

Larry and Arden stood there for a moment without saying anything.

"Some little dame! She's got quite the lip on her, eh?" said Larry.

"It's not just the lips," muttered Arden.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

They walked towards their horses, which were patiently swishing their tails at flies over by the school's woodpile.

"You're going to have your hands full keeping Musgrave and Dunn from raking her over the coals," commented Arden.

"Probably, but at least she has some gumption about her. I think it's likely she'll hold up longer than the others..."

"Mmm...hmm..." replied Arden, distractedly.

"Plus, she's pretty, Arden," hinted Larry.

There was no answer.

Neither said anything more. Larry knew when to let things lie. Besides, Arden had become inordinately intrigued by the blasé horizon as he swung up onto his impatient bay.

Larry flung himself up onto his own horse and looked over at his half-brother, a man ten years younger, and so different from him. Sometimes, he really struggled to understand what was going on in the man's mind. Just now, he watched Arden gather up the reins and noticed with surprise the way his eyes faintly darted towards Skillet Mesa before returning to the western horizon.

"I can't believe it," Larry muttered to himself, beginning to chuckle.

Arden didn't hear his words, but understood Larry's thinking all the same. He flicked the reins and the young bay took off. It was a few minutes before Larry caught up to him along the Albrecht Traverse.

"Oh, come on, Arden. You've been out riding fences for so long now. It'd be good for you to settle down..."

Arden looked over at his brother, his eyes flashing an unspoken warning. Larry's smirk drooped, and then fell away. He decided he'd better keep quiet for a while. Nevertheless, Arden's glare couldn't prevent him from deliberating on the matter, and so, as he rode, he continued thinking about the new teacher and about just how touchy his brother was being.

_Well, well, well._ _He must really be taken with her,_ thought Larry.

Later in the afternoon, Nelle sat quietly in her un-rocking chair amongst the tall grass in front of her cabin. To calm her mind, she took out the list of Teacher's Rules from the book bag at her ankles. She made herself read it over.

Rules for Boulder City Teachers 1867 Edition

  1. Women Teachers Must Always Wear A Sturdy Corset and At Least Two Petticoats ( _Hmmm... It seems clean drawers every day is not enough,_ she thought.)

  2. Keep School Orderly and Clean at All Times ( _Reasonable..._ )

  3. Teachers are Expected to Be Home By 9:00 P.M. Nightly, Unless Attending a School Function ( _Joy. A twenty-nine year old woman with a curfew. Yeah, that's going to happen._ )

  4. Teachers Are Expected to Fill Water Bucket Each Morning and Start Stove Prior to Classes, When Weather Dictates ( _Fair enough._ )

  5. Marriage is Not Permitted While Under Teaching Contract ( _No danger of that_.)

  6. No Wearing of Bright Colours (She visualized the flaming red number with a smile.)

  7. No Loitering at the Barber Shop ( _If I try really hard, I think I can comply._ )

  8. No Smoking is Permitted, Ever ( _No problem. I'll just chew,_ she thought sarcastically).

  9. Teachers Are Required to Attend Church Regularly ( _Yeah. Yeah. Yeah._ )

  10. No Hair-Dying Allowed ( _Uh. Okay._ )

  11. Women Teachers are Not Permitted to Go Gadding About in Carriages with Single Men at Any Time ( _No problem. I always ride!_ )

  12. Women Teachers Will Be Expected to Assist with Teaching Church Sunday School ( _Fat chance._ )

  13. No Saloon Visits Permitted ( _And I was gonna moonlight as an "entertainer." Damn._ )

  14. No Fraternizing with Young Men at the Doughnut Shop ( _What am I? Fifteen?_ )

  15. No Card Playing or Other Gambling Permitted ( _Not in public, anyhow.)_

As long as Larry was right about there being some flexibility in this tedious list, she figured she'd be okay. She'd have to be discreet about a few things, but that was always the way. It would be fine, so long as she didn't have to teach Sunday School, that is! She'd go to church and she'd teach the curriculum, but there was no way she was going to be coaxed into working for free on the weekend or more importantly, be put in charge of filling those young minds with visions of bears mauling Elijah's juvenile taunters, of people dropping dead after propping up the Ark of the Covenant and cities falling to pieces at the hand of God after some magical trumpet-blowing. She would have no part in invoking images of New Testament demon possession, Satan and Jesus dueling in the wilderness, or the creatures of Revelation. It just wasn't going to happen. She knew all about the imaginations of children.

Nelle put down the directives and looked at the sunburnt grass. Despite her effort to focus on school matters, her mind kept drifting back to the one thing she didn't want to think about: Arden Wilder. She couldn't help but be fascinated by a man who nonchalantly psychoanalyzed her horse! Besides, he was, well, just plain hot. She could still feel his overpowering blue eyes sliding across her form. But she knew she had to get him out of her mind. After all, it would be entirely foolish for her to become involved with anyone. She could not permit herself such extravagant carelessness. Suddenly tired, she closed her eyes. There he was again – that provocative hint of a smile, the dark tangled hair, those compelling eyes... And who was he, anyway?

She sat there in the off kilter un-rocker, growing increasingly annoyed with her undeterred mind until the sun began licking at the horizon. Despite the creeping darkness, it was still so annoyingly hot. Becoming increasingly restless, she rose to her feet and began pacing the ground in front of her chair until the sun set in a great explosion of pastels. Agitated as she was, Nelle knew she had no hope of falling asleep. She needed to move, to do something in order to break away from this vexing and totally useless preoccupation.

Decisively, she marched to the shed and saddled up a startled Pinto. Carefully, she emptied the textbooks from her book bag, checking to see that the Remington was still tucked inside and the extra bullets still secreted in the side pocket. Then, fastening its strap securely around the saddle horn, she hopped up onto Pinto's back and steered him out and through the trees towards Anisette's.

"Well, well, well... I was just thinking about you," said Anisette, as she swung open the door, grabbed Nelle's hand and led her inside towards the parlour.

Nelle gaped at Anisette. Her hair was freshly washed and the long dark curls hung damp around her shoulders, rather than being coiled atop her head, as usual. She wore a white, silk nightgown that clung to her curvaceous form. A teardrop-shaped opal hung from a silver chain around her neck. Her eyes glimmered.

"You look very ooh la la," uttered Nelle, conscious of her wrinkled dress and her faded boots clonking inelegantly on the hardwood.

Anisette said nothing, but smiled enigmatically.

All of a sudden, Nelle felt somewhat tentative. Silently, she followed her friend into the parlour. All but a few of the parlour's cushions had been piled in a corner. A dozen candles had been lit and placed haphazardly around the room, so the place was infused with a golden glow and shadows were dancing on the ceiling.

Anisette led her to the few remaining pillows in the centre of the room.

"I'll be back," she said, and disappeared.

_Exactly why, I wonder, was Anisette just thinking of me?_ Nelle asked herself idly. _I've never seen her quite like this._

She pulled off her boots and stretched out, belly down, on one of the cushions still in the centre of the room. An open book had been placed on the floor, spine up, and so she reached over and flipped it over, pulling the nearest candlestick closer. _Goblin Market._ It had been years since she'd read any Rossetti.

She began to read.

She didn't hear Anisette return. She was too absorbed in the lines:

" _Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices_

Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,

Goblin pulp and goblin dew.

Eat me, drink me, love me;"

And then:

" _Shaking with aguish fear, and pain_

She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth."

_Man-oh-man, I need to get laid,_ she thought to herself. _Hey, wait a minute..._

"Quite the poem, huh?"

Anisette passed her a glass of wine and sat down beside her. Her voice had been unusually soft. Mellifluous.

"Yeah. I don't remember it being so...so..." said Nelle.

Anisette winked slyly. She knew all about it. Again, Nelle was speechless. _Hey, wait a minute..._ she thought. Then she shrugged. After all, it was quite likely Anisette had been drinking before she'd arrived. And it was a sultry night. The alcohol was probably affecting her, because she was acting far different than normal. She seemed especially casual, generous in her gestures, and she moved more smoothly, more lightly than on the other occasions Nelle had been with her.

They both sipped their wine quietly. The air seemed electric.

Not able to stay still for long, Nelle stood up and walked to the window. She still could not shake the restlessness that had come over her that afternoon, nor Arden Wilder's face from her mind. She glanced nervously at the curved blade of the moon. Looking down at Pan and his wicked grin, then at Elvis' Colt, she raised her glass and gulped down what remained of her wine. Reflexively, her hand traveled down to that spot on her hip, though her gun was still stowed over in the book bag. She shuffled her feet and gazed out into the darkness.

From her position outstretched on the pillows, Anisette watched Nelle. To her, Nelle was the one who seemed to be acting unusual. She seemed more guarded, more jumpy than usual, and altogether distracted.

"What are you thinking of?" she asked, remaining at her spot on the floor, nearest the wine.

Nelle turned her head and looked again at the river of black hair.

"You don't want to know."

"Sure I do. That's why I asked. Come on."

"Just sex."

"Oh, interesting! Got anyone in mind?"

"I wish," Nelle lied.

"There's more than that, Nelle. I can tell."

"No."

"Yes, there is, and whatever it is, it's complicated. You seem far off. Maybe you're dreaming of something?"

"No. Nothing. Dreaming wastes real life, I find."

She turned her face back to the window to hide her expression. She wondered if it was true, if she was dreaming. All she knew was that she wanted to feel free; she wanted to feel like she could give in to an impulse without going over all its implications in detail, all its potential, tangential consequences. She wanted to let go, and she couldn't. She couldn't. And knowing this, she felt very separate from everything. And everyone.

After a time, Anisette spoke again. She still wasn't convinced. Nelle wasn't just horny. Something more had gotten her all stirred up.

"Have you ever been married, Nelle?" she probed.

"Heck, no."

"But why not?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

Anisette let that one pass. Nelle shifted from one foot to the other, scanning the night sky. Though her speech had been measured, she felt uneasy and anxious - like the first tiny, quivering bubbles rising lightly to the water's surface in a kettle about to boil.

"Do you think you'll ever go domestic? You know, the full deal – husband, kids, Labrador retriever, and washboard hands?"

There was a pause this time.

"Nope. I doubt I'm that kind of woman. I'd feel fenced in, although I might be able to commit to the dog part, at some point."

The room grew darker. Nelle did not seem eager to talk on, so Anisette gave up the conversation, and instead, stood up and began floating from candle to candle, extinguishing the small flames.

"Hmmm... Well, drink up. You're edgy tonight. Let's go for a walk," she said.

Anisette went for a sweater and shoes. Acquiescing, Nelle tugged her boots back on. She was about to leave the dim room, when she turned around purposefully, her forehead slightly pinched, and walked back to the book bag she'd tossed idly on the floor. Pulling out her gun belt, she wrapped it around her hips, buckled it, and slid the revolver into the holster. On this night, she had begun to feel that she ought not to get too comfortable in Boulder City. She had to maintain her watchfulness. And she knew that even though Anisette didn't understand everything about her, she could trust the woman. Then she straightened her dress, extinguished the lone remaining candle, and walked through the Hall of Parakeets and out into the balmy night.

A moment later, Anisette joined her. Her shimmery eyes were immediately drawn to the gun at Nelle's right side, but she said nothing. She wove her arm around her friend's and together, they began treading wordlessly through the grass. Anisette had been married to a gunfighter after all. She knew well enough not to ask certain questions, and Nelle noted and appreciated this restraint.

The next morning, after a breakfast of oatmeal saturated with brown sugar, and mint tea, Nelle meandered home much less flustered, though she really couldn't say why, especially since she hated oatmeal. Maybe it had something to do with Anisette's unquestioning acceptance of her, with the fact that her friend had required no explanations as they'd walked late into the night along the fences of Anisette's farm; she wasn't sure. But when she got home, she found she was able to calmly haul the textbooks out onto the "lawn" and coax herself through them, making teaching plans and napping in the soporific sunlight when her eyes grew weary. It was all she did for three days.

On Sunday, she washed her hair, pulled on the red dress, and coaxed a lazy Pinto down into the valley, tethering him to the hitching post in front of the Boulder City _Sheep of Christ_ Church. Nelle had pleaded with Anisette to come suffer with her, but Anisette had flatly refused.

"Sorry, babe. I can't do it. If I thought God might show up, I'd chance it, but as it is... Plus, ever since Reverend Grimmel's wife died, he's been eying me in _that_ way. _Poor, lost Anisette,_ he's thinking, _innocent maiden corrupted by the world_. _I could save her. If only I could show her the Sword of Righteousness..."_

"Ah yes," Nelle had sighed, "The evangosexual prowling for his fallen angel. Very irksome, indeed."

So she went alone.

She slipped into one of the middle rows, nodding politely at Dyck and Musgrave when they walked in. It was nothing new. Stand up for the hymn. Down to the knees for the prayer. Lean back looking contemplative for the sermon. Amen. Amen. Benediction.

On the way out, she met the Reverend, a clammy-handed Yankee Doodle with a polished demeanor and a friendly party voice. She noticed how, while he shook the hand of a bent old woman, his eyes wandered over to the red tint on the cheeks of the rumpled young siren who had been whispering all service to a young man in the back row. _Anisette certainly has him pegged,_ she thought.

"Well, Miss Ford, what did you think of the service," he asked, after introductions had been made.

"Lovely," said Nelle, "Very encouraging."

"I'm so pleased to hear it. I must say I am impressed by your faith."

Unbeknownst to Nelle, whose mind had taken flight the minute her ass had hit the pew, the day's booming message had covered, in vivid colours, the rigors and torments awaiting the wicked in hell. After all, it was - as the Reverend preferred to think of it - Righteous Round Up TimeTM. Since coming West, he'd gleefully kicked off every autumn with this doozy. It always worked wonders.

In the churchyard, she caught sight of Larry Dime and waved pleasantly. He came over to her with his wife, Sarah, a blonde, kindly woman not five years older than her. She also met Carrie and Cherry, the two waifs half-hiding behind her. Then others came along, and she became lost in a barrage of handshakes and names soon forgotten. After a time, it was Sarah who came back and rescued her from the remaining curious folk that surrounded her.

"You looked a little cornered."

"Yes. I don't know how I'm going to remember all these faces and names."

"You will. In a month, you'll feel like you know all there is to know. I'm sorry, I should've thought of this earlier... I'd like to have you for lunch, but I've already got a houseful coming, and you look a little crowded as it is... However, if you'd like, you can join us..."

"That's fine, really. Another time," Nelle said, relieved. She was progressing quickly to social overload, and looking forward to retreating to the Mesa.

"Another Sunday, then."

"Alright. Thank you Sarah."

Sarah Dime smiled her soft smile and bid her goodbye, and Nelle took the opportunity to make a casual dash for her horse.

Just as she was placing her left foot into her left stirrup and her hand onto the saddle horn to mount a dozing Pinto, she looked up to see Arden Wilder riding over to the Dime wagon, which had been pulled up to the front of the church. She watched him as he smiled at the girls and said something to the littlest Dime _(Is it Jack or Johnny?_ she wondered _)_ that set him off laughing, before nudging the bay forward alongside the front seat, where Larry was waiting patiently for Sarah to finish making the rounds.

She would just slip off quietly now, Nelle told herself, as she settled into the saddle. She would git' and on the way home, she'd focus on nothing other than what to cook for lunch. Adjusting the book bag so that it's strap fit crosswise over her chest, she pulled the reins tight and turned towards the road, her eyes glued to the Mesa.

He saw her then, as he was leaned over his horse in conversation with his brother. Her dress was the colour of a poppy in full, violent bloom – hard to miss. Her hair was tied back with a simple red ribbon and the brilliance of the sun brought out its faint auburn undertones. He wondered what she was thinking about with such a relentlessly stubborn look on her face. _She'd look like a force-not-to-be-reckoned-with if it weren't for that meatball she's riding_ , he mused. But as her lazy mount began to move, he couldn't help but notice that because she rode astride, her wide skirt had been pulled tight around her legs, and if one looked, and one _did_ look, one could trace the svelte contours of the thigh hidden beneath the fabric.

Arden decided to chance a reckoning.

"Uh, I'm gonna hit the road now," he muttered to his brother, who was mid-sentence in a lengthy paragraph on the beyond shitty job that the blacksmith's son, Jonesy, had done shoeing his club-footed mare.

He moved to intercept her.

"Afternoon, Miss Ford," he said to her as he rode up alongside.

"Oh, Mr. Wilder. Hello."

There he was, damn it! She'd nearly escaped the place without an encounter, but now he was smiling over at her. And blast it all to hell; it was such an intriguing smile!

"May I see you home?" he asked.

Gathering her composure, she gazed down the road and out onto the grasslands, squinting under the bright light. Her chest felt heavy, hurt.

"No," she replied, "but you can watch me go." Stone cold.

Mrs. Charles Dunn, passing by in a carriage with her sod of a husband, overheard this exchange and felt dully heartened. _Maybe this new schoolteacher isn't such a Philistine after all,_ she mused.
IV.

It was a Friday afternoon and Nelle sat at the monstrous oak desk listening to Penny Harlow and Susannah Hay read aloud from the 2nd Reader. Or half-listening. While part of her was nodding along to Susie's singsong narration, the rest of her was peering out of the classroom window at the wincing yellow leaves of an alder as they were pummeled by the merciless downpour, and wondering whether or not to give Jake Connelly the strap.

School had been in session now for nearly two months. After the first two days, she had managed to learn all twenty-one of the students' names, and after a week, she realized it _was_ just like riding a horse and her old 'marmish methods came back to her, though there were some days when it grated her to be stuck in the classroom. But for the most part, she got along well enough, with small exceptions, such as the unfortunate incident involving a surreptitiously placed pool of water on her desk chair and the unannounced visit from Mr. Musgrave. During said visit, he had delivered a passionate oration not on social decency, as she'd desperately hoped when he'd opened his mouth and uttered the word "moral health", but on the _in_ decency of self-gratification. In the wake of his lecture, she'd been left with a handful of hooting, snickering teenagers and a slew of confused, curious munchkins asking her exactly what you had to hit for it to be considered "self-abuse," and could girls do it, and is that why Jenny's dad has such hairy hands, and so on. She'd cursed that son-of-a-bitch Musgrave for a week afterwards. He'd done it out of malevolence, she believed. He'd intended to make things awkward for her. The man was pious but he was not stupid, and she knew he hadn't liked her from the very first.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Dunn left her alone. Nelle had expected ferocious pop quizzes on the curriculum and routine scolding on her attire, but the woman had simply let her be. She didn't understand it but she wasn't going to question the Fates on the matter, in case they changed their minds. Every Sunday after church, Mrs. Dunn shook her hand stiffly and asked if all was well. And every Sunday, Nelle answered "yes" and Mrs. Dunn said "good," and that was that.

The Chesterfield showed up one afternoon, but didn't stay long. The older children were writing compositions and the younger were practicing their letters, so it was a quiet period and he quickly grew bored and excused himself. Mr. Dime was pleased because Cherry and Carrie were already sounding out entire paragraphs; he had no complaints. Dyck was still an unknown. She had a vague feeling the jumpy fellow was half-scared of her and half-suspicious of her. But so far, he had only skittered around on the periphery of things, once venturing to send a temperance tract to her through his even jitterier young son.

And now Halloween was less than a week away. If it weren't for Jake Connelly, she felt she might be able to relax a little. Unfortunately, she had to take care of the matter fast. Anisette was having some kind of masquerade backyard corn-roast hootenanny extravaganza on All Hallows Night and Nelle needed to be able to focus on other things by then, but the Jake situation was hanging over her like a stinkin' cloud of manure gas.

She couldn't figure it out. He was only sixteen, but seemed hell bent on a career as that-unobtrusive-evil-guy-who-delightedly-releases-the-trap-door-at-hangings, if he somehow managed to avoid committing a felony immediately after turning eighteen, that is. Cold and utterly vicious, he was certainly no gentleman with his classmates, coolly deriding and intimidating them whenever the opportunity arose, but mostly, it was at her that he directed his scorn and negativity. And we're not talking typical adolescent arrogance or general malignant malaise over the sudden discovery of the pervasive hypocrisy of society here. Oh no. It was biting, overpowering contempt, the kind that can make a dancing cobra slump down into the dirt and hang up its mortal coil for good. And the angst, oh the angst, it was far beyond angst as fashion (Yes, Ma, even my cowboy boots and belt buckle must be black) and definitely beyond angst as juvenile muse (I must sit beneath a dead tree with dark circles under my eyes, pen in hand, writing poems that rhyme "cry" with "lie" and "pain" with "imperialist wagon train," I must!). It was plain old hate mixed with resentment and peppered with anxiety. The worst part of it was that his poisonous, disrespectful attitude, if not checked soon, could go viral on her, and Nelle was not enough of a masochist to deem a classroom full of sullen, riot prone twerps a good time. Her stamina was not what it used to be.

Just that morning during her weekly spelling bee, Nelle had asked him to come to the blackboard to write and define _maleficence._

"No," he'd spat, though she knew he was quite capable of handling the word.

"Come. At least give it a try."

"I said no."

Then he'd actually spat.

"Jake, this kind of rude behaviour is unacceptable! You are to stay after school today. I want you to learn firsthand about maleficence!"

And then, sure enough, when she'd asked Minnie Coulter to spell it instead, the girl piped up, "If Jake doesn't have to, why should I?"

Corporal punishment was not one of Nelle's usual methods. She didn't like the idea of using any kind of violence on children ever, but particularly not when they were big enough to fight back and just waiting for the provocation to do so. But this morning, she had practically yelled at the kid, and there he now sat, smug and unmoved. She knew without a doubt he wouldn't be staying after school. She was amazed, really, that he happened to still be sitting there right now, even if he was whittling something obscene with his pocket knife.

Susannah and Penny looked at her expectantly. She nodded approvingly and gestured for them to sit down. Then she called up Tommy Hay and Will Henderson. And once more, there was the sweet smarmy spiel on how God made the birds that sing in the trees, God made the fish that swim in the seas, God made the sun and the cooling breeze, God made you and God made me. She could feel her brain cells dying in swathes, like they were being herded over a buffalo jump.

No, she wouldn't give him the strap, she decided, as the gray sky continued with its outburst and the iambic recitations continued. She doubted it would do much, anyway. He might laugh it off, or worse. The kid was sixteen after all, and far from a Lilliputian. Things could go horribly awry. Best to take no chances, especially since she wasn't ethically sold on the whole teacher-smacking-children thing, though she hardly thought a time-out chair or the line-writing could ever work as punishment unless backed up by the threat of _something_ more substantial. Other than capital punishment, which admittedly, held a momentary appeal, she really could see no other option but to ride out and speak to the boy's father. Hopefully, that would do the trick, though often in matters such as this, she'd found that penultimate levels of student disrespect were usually the result of a hereditary condition.

Having made her decision, Nelle dismissed her two little readers and commenced the history lesson. History was her favourite thing to teach because it was the easiest. Subjects like math were the most difficult because she had to dole out different problems to each grade and shimmy back and forth between concepts as she helped the students. And actually remember how to solve the problems. History was simple. Everyone just had to shut up and listen to her. Then there was a quiet time when each grade had to answer its own composition question on the material she'd presented. Plus, she prided herself on finding obscure and weird details with which to liven up the day's lesson. She always got a laugh out of the children's reaction when she told them that the Greek playwright Aeschylus died when an eagle dropped a turtle on his head. The smaller children inevitably cracked up, and the older ones weren't sure whether they were being duped. She also told them about the strict Sakoku law that locked up Japan for several centuries, and the bizarre custom of foot binding in China. Sometimes though, this practice worked against her. One day, she'd told them how a monk invented champagne. That one had filtered back to Musgrave, and she'd endured an unpleasant reprimand from him, with Dyck in tow, on the importance of "not sanctioning the use of the unholy spirits." It would've been quite amusing actually, had they no say in her job security.

But the best thing about history class was that it was the final class of the day. After that, the rugrats meandered home and she was free to while away the remaining afternoon and evening as she liked. And today, because it was Friday, she had the whole weekend. Often, weekends involved the growing stack of books in her cabin, a hike up to the hot springs she'd discovered in the hills northeast of town, the simmering of a vegetable stew on her small stove, a ride over to Anisette's, or all of the above.

Anisette had proven to be one complicated woman. She was a very interesting person, but also an incredibly maddening one. Nelle still didn't have her figured out, and though she didn't like to acknowledge the fact, she'd invested quite a bit of time trying.

In the first few months of their acquaintance, they had spent many an hour together. Besides imbibing an assortment of aperitifs from Anisette's tower of mysterious glass bottles and indulging in plenty of fresh pastries, the two had also gone on a midnight picnic, had swam naked on several afternoons in a deep, river pool beneath a particularly progressive willow, had laughingly read aloud to each other sections of a beyond raunchy, European 'penny dreadful', and had conversed away entire afternoons sprawled on the silk parlour cushions. They'd become quite close. Then there had been that night after Nelle's first school board meeting, when she'd walked with a mellower, languid, and more sensual Anisette.

"Watch out for Anisette," Sarah Dime had quietly advised, back in September. "She is lovely, but capricious. I know, she is rather beguiling, but..." she'd trailed off.

Nelle had looked at her, waiting for her to continue, but she'd pulled her lips tight and looked down at the floor, as if she were wondering whether she'd said too much. For a second, Nelle's mind had flitted again to the agitated night after she'd met Arden, when Anisette had seemed just a little different than usual.

Normally, Nelle might have pushed for more information. After all, The Trailing Off was one of her worst conversational pet peeves (the others being: the infamous Double Negative, pickup lines involving the weather, and faux swearing, as in "Well, shoot! Dadburn it, you durn arse!" – _If you're that pissed at the motherfucking bastard, you ought to have the goddamned cojones to say that shit straight out_ , Nelle always maintained). But The Trailing Off was just plain bad, because there was almost always something rather unpleasant lurking beyond those three dots.

But Sarah Dime was that classically idealized type of woman, firmly ensconced on the left side of the slash in the Madonna/whore dichotomy. She was the kind of woman that has been slouching, sleep deprived and bored, but endlessly perky, on her pedestal for centuries - the wholesome, aproned helpmate who quietly abandons her own desires whilst seeing to the needs of others, who believes everyone is good at heart, except perhaps herself, who carries around enough guilt to crush Atlas. And while Nelle was certainly not that kind of woman, she'd been around enough of them to know that if she pressed Sarah to say more, Sarah wouldn't talk; she'd only feel bad for what she'd already said. The conversation was closed.

Contemplating Sarah's sincere, down-to-earth nature and Anisette's flamboyant, liberal ways, Nelle had chalked up Sarah's warning to a the contrast in their personalities. But now, she wondered about it.

Sometime in mid-September, she had gone swishing through the brittle, dried grass to Anisette's to see if she could convince her to go riding. As she'd walked up to the door, she'd heard Anisette singing to herself inside, and when she'd knocked, the singing had stopped, but no one had come to the door. She'd shrugged it off, thinking Anisette was busy or simply not in the mood for a visitor. But a week later, she'd tried again, and the same thing had happened, only this time, out of the corner of her eye, she'd glimpsed Anisette briefly peek down from an upstairs window.

She hadn't known what to make of it, but she'd grown far more perplexed soon afterwards, when arriving home from school one day, she'd found a beautifully scripted envelope from Anisette pinned to the front door. The woman had written in silver ink under waxen seal, to ask her why she'd stopped coming by. It drove Nelle batty trying to figure it out. _This is more than a touch of overkill,_ she thought to herself as she carefully refolded the parchment paper and retied the blue ribbon around it. She couldn't comprehend it. Anisette had gone to all that effort and then made sure to come deliver her message during school hours when she knew for certain no one would be around.

Finally, only a few weeks ago, Nelle had gotten up her nerve and returned to the little farmhouse. Truth be told, she'd really been missing the strange, whimsical woman who always smelled of incense and cinnamon. However, when she'd arrived, she'd found a little soiree in full swing. Anisette had come to the door dressed in a burgundy gown, looking a combination of sophisticated and sheepish. She'd hesitated before inviting Nelle into the Parakeet Hall, but once Nelle had stepped inside, she'd been able to hear the voices of Anisette's guests coming from the dining room.

"I'm just having a little dinner party."

"I'm sorry, I've caught you at a bad time."

"No, no," said Anisette, blushing deeply, "Why don't you join us?"

Nelle had almost begun to consider it.

But then, a man's voice had called to Anisette from the dining room.

"Damn, Anisette, this jambalaya is jambamazing!"

There had been murmurs of agreement.

Though the butchering of an adjective always made Nelle a little heartsick, it was the jambalaya part that had caused her to flee the place. It hadn't been more than a month since she had been talking cooking with Anisette, and Anisette had raved on about Cajun cuisine. She'd said it was criminal that Nelle hadn't tasted the exquisite taste jamboree that is jambalaya or the distinct, spicy flavour of gumbo, and that she'd have to have her come partake the next time she prepared one of her Louisianan feasts.

"Why, you Cajun coquette!" Nelle had snapped before marching out the front door and riding off.

After that, Nelle had stopped going to visit her vacillating neighbour. But the whole thing bugged her to no end. What was going on? Had she inadvertently offended Anisette? Had she made a mistake in wearing her revolver that night? Or was all this erratic behaviour some kind of game? Normally, she had little tolerance for such antics. They reminded her of her time in finishing school, an awkward, insecure period she preferred to keep buried far in the back of the bottom drawer in the filing cabinet of her memory. Back then, in _that place_ , someone had always been snubbing someone. She'd never been able to learn the rules for such histrionics; her modus operandi in such situations was to simply back away slowly. And as a result of her refusal to engage, she had consequently been labeled as a snob and subjected to the most vicious snubbings of them all. After all, a snob was someone everybody could hate, the equal-opportunity unifier of pariahs and the popular.

However, Nelle found she couldn't simply back away from Anisette. She tried, but her mind would not cooperate. Truthfully, she deeply cared for the woman and was more than a little hurt at being cast aside. She kept wondering what the hell had happened. She knew that Anisette had dozens of friends and certainly, it was possible that the woman had gotten bored spending so much time with her. But then why had she written the elaborate note? And then sent an invitation to her Halloween party?

One thing was certain, Nelle was going to that party, and she was going to get an answer. She was through with speculation. _Enough is enough,_ she'd decided.

Soon she was closing up her history textbook and dismissing the students. _Well, we made it through the Black Death unscathed,_ she reflected brightly. But then she frowned, for she noticed that Jake must have bolted out while she'd been clearing her desk.

_Well, it's decided now for sure_. _I'm taking a field trip over to the Connelly place._ She shook her head, trying to clear it like her desk, and stood up to help the younger children gather their sweaters and lunch pails.

Sarah Dime came by to pick up the twins, with young Jack in tow. Their ranch was too far out of town for the girls to walk home. There were a few families like that, though most of the children lived in or around town, no more than a mile or two from the schoolhouse. After exchanging pleasantries with Sarah, the last of the stragglers filed out, and Nelle began straightening up the room. The sky had ceased its sniveling, so she opened up the windows and grabbed the broom from the corner, starting to sweep as the cool outside air came flowing in.

Fully absorbed in finding a strategy for her impending conversation with Mr. Connelly, she didn't notice Arden Wilder standing against the doorframe, watching her.

"Miss Ford, you certainly don't look satisfied with the general state of affairs."

Nelle started. Her heart thumped Y-I-P-E-! in Morse Code. Immediately, she let go of the broom and her right hand jerked reactively down to her hip, though her gun was not there. She spun around to face him as the broom hit the floor.

"Holy Shii...take... Jeez...ebel!" she gasped.

"You sure are jumpy! I didn't mean to startle you," he said, laughing.

Inwardly, Nelle was raging at herself. She'd seriously let her guard down and she knew it. Stupid! Stupid! She could feel her hand shaking as she slid it down her outer thigh, touching the handle of the knife hidden there beneath her skirts.

Outwardly, she smiled professionally.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Wilder?" Her voice still shook a little.

"I was checking to see if Cherry and Carrie were still around. Sarah wasn't sure if she'd be able to pick them up today."

"Yes, she was here. They've left."

"Alright. Thanks."

"Sure."

Hesitating, he looked down momentarily and eyed the sizable pile of dust and clumps of dry mud she'd swept up. Shaking his head, he looked up again and into her face.

"All that's from one day?"

"Uh huh."

He let out a low whistle.

"You forget, Mr. Wilder. They're not like us. Not like us at all. They're different. They don't try to avoid the muck. Some of them even revel in it... They actually play in it," she said gravely, though her eyes were merry. She couldn't help herself. Part of her felt bad about dismissing him so harshly that first Sunday after church.

"Barbarians, all of them... So, what's the problem?"

"There's no problem." It was one thing to be a little more polite, but Nelle sure wasn't going to let Arden get mixed up in her affairs. She could handle herself just fine.

"You're a liar. One does not look so sternly at a few clods of dirt unless one has some kind of difficulty to work out or one is afflicted with a flaming grime phobia à la Madame Ash. And while you do seem rather uptight, I have trouble believing your vendetta is quite so monotonous as to be merely miffed at mire."

Nelle balked at being called a liar. Fleetingly, she scanned his face; his eyes were bright and amused, his lips half-smiling. Once again, her body surged with heat. Her knees were still wobbly from the alliteration. It was certainly not any man who could come up with "merely miffed at mire" off the cuff like that. No, this was clearly a man of wide-ranging skill. He was authentic. A little wild and unpredictable, yes, but quality _._ She knew she liked him too much. And she knew she had to be very, very careful. Part of her wanted him to hate her because it would make things so much simpler. But the other part cringed at the idea of him thinking ill of her. Nevertheless, she resolved she would not tell him anything.

"Mr. Wilder, where is the Connelly place from here?"

So much for the not-telling-him-anything resolution. But, it couldn't do any harm asking for directions, she assured herself. She had to find out from someone.

Nelle leaned over and picked up the broom. _Dangerous territory, my dear,_ she berated herself.

Arden didn't reply right away. But Nelle looked over at him and saw, before he spoke, that he'd figured it out.

"That Connelly kid is giving you a hard time, huh?"

She didn't answer.

"Well, I don't think you ought to go over there."

"Why not?" asked Nelle, curiosity creeping into her voice.

"That boy's father is no champion of women, that's for sure... Best to stay away from him."

Nelle forgot to be aloof.

"I have to go. The kid is out of control. Something has to be done before he stages a full-scale mutiny," she said, frustration seeping from her voice.

"Trust me, Miss Ford, you'll get no help from old Connelly. Likely, he won't even hear your case."

"Well, I'll make him."

Arden snickered. But Nelle gave him such a venomous look of disdain that he abruptly stopped, his face reddening, and glanced in the direction of the window.

With a series of short, violent strokes, Nelle swept the pile of dust and dried mud into the dustpan, and carried it over to the window. Reaching out into the cool air, she tossed the dirt onto the grass. Lingering at the sill, her head protruding out of the window, she took in several draws of the sweet, rain-scented air. Then she considered the fact that her stance was likely providing Arden with a prominent panorama of her ass, and quickly pulled her head and torso back into the schoolroom.

She turned towards the door, where he remained standing, taking in the panorama.

"Well, Mr. Wilder, I need to get going," she said, noisily jerking the window shut. "I'll get directions from someone else."

Arden shuffled his feet, hesitating. Nelle moved about the room closing the other windows and straightening desks. Then she walked to her desk and picked up her book bag, slinging the strap over her right shoulder. She looked up at Arden, waiting for him to leave the school so she could lock up.

"I really don't think you should go."

Simultaneously annoyed by his persistence and aroused by his protectiveness, Nelle moved her hands to her hips and stepped over to him.

"Thank you for your opinion, Mr. Wilder, but I don't see that I have any other option if I am to maintain order in this establishment."

"I can talk to Connelly."

"Hell no, you won't! This is my responsibility and I am quite capable of handling it. I'm not some eighteen year old rookie!"

"That's for sure!"

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Arden decided quite prudently to redirect the conversation. "Miss Ford, you don't know Connelly," he emphasized.

"And you don't know me, Mr. Wilder," she snapped.

He was clearly irritated. The lines of his jaw were clenched. His back was straight, his shoulders wide and confrontational. He glared at Nelle, and she glowered right back. He couldn't believe she was so stubborn. She couldn't believe he was so stubborn. For several moments, they were both too turned on to speak.

"I'm going with you," he finally said.

"That's not necessary."

"You'll need someone to show you the way. It's not an easy place to find."

Nelle considered this.

"Fine," she said. "But I'll handle Connelly without your interference, alright?"

"You're too stubborn for your own good, Miss Ford!"

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"It's a tacit agreement."

"Okay, then."

He stepped outside and made for his horse. Nelle paused to lock the door behind her and then walked around to Pinto, who was picketed behind the schoolhouse. She adjusted the saddle and then hauled herself up. Pinto was pleasant enough until she steered him southward behind Arden instead of towards the Mesa. At that point, the horse looked back at her and snorted his disgust.

"I hear you, my rusty steed. I'm not happy about it either."

Arden slowed up until she, on a stomping, petulant Pinto, caught up alongside him. Together, they rode down Main Street without a word.

On the outskirts of town, Arden veered off the main road and onto a little used wagon trail. The trail was so faint that Nelle would've missed it if he hadn't pointed it out. She followed him through the long grass, and as the trail grew narrower, into the forested hills southwest of Boulder City. Flaming aspen were interspersed amongst the spruce and fir trees. The scent of decay intensified as the horses shuffled down the path, stirring up and stepping on the crunchy, fallen leaves. There was no wind. Everything was still, except for the sound of lingering rainwater dripping from the trees, and the breath and footsteps of the horses.

The freshness and quiet of the outdoors had a calming effect on them both. Nelle smiled a little half-smile and let her shoulders slacken as she took in the loamy scent of the forest and felt its dampness on her skin. She loved the smell of autumn. She always had. Arden too, grew relaxed as the cool air washed over him. Presently, he laughed and called back to Nelle.

"What's a shiitake, anyway?"

"For your information, it's actually an Oriental mushroom."

"Nah?"

"Yup."

"Well, well, well..." he chuckled.

Ten minutes later, they arrived in a grassy clearing littered with empty whisky bottles and an assortment of spare wagon wheels. _Great,_ thought both of them simultaneously. To their left was a dilapidated, moldy cabin that had clearly decided the time was ripe for a return to the bosom of Mother Earth. Farther off to the right stood a no frills, but sturdy enough stable.

They dismounted.

"Voila," said Arden, his forehead creasing as he looked over at the cabin.

"Thank you... You can wait for me here."

"I'll come with you."

"Tacit agreement, Mr. Wilder. Remember?"

Arden didn't say anything. Instead, he marched over to a ragged box elder with an exaggerated aura of boredom. He leaned against the thick trunk, put his hands behind his head, and made a show of looking unconcernedly up at the sky, hoping to hell that if old Connelly was around, he was nowhere within arms reach of a loaded firearm. As soon as Nelle turned, he straightened up and fixed his gaze on her form and the cabin directly ahead of her.

Quickly, Nelle waded through the long grass, stepping carefully over half-hidden debris and still wondering exactly what she'd say to this Mr. Connelly when she met him. She hated playing things so loosely. She liked to have a plan, a solid, step-by-step plan, for such confrontations. But halfway to the cabin, she began to hear strange rustling sounds coming from the stable, so she turned and began striding towards it, instead.

Growing increasingly nervous, her pace slowed and she approached the open door apprehensively. The scuffling sounds were louder, and she could hear a man grunting from exertion. That could only mean... well, there were two possibilities, and neither of them was very inviting, to say the least. If she had been alone, she probably would've slipped back into the trees to consider things for a moment, to nail down a bit more of a plan, but there was no way she was going to lose face in front of Arden, so she kept on walking towards the entrance.

The sounds grew louder still, and clearer. Much more distinct. On one hand, Nelle was relieved. She knew those sounds - the thwack and thud and clamor of a brawl. On the other hand, she hated to consider the possibilities on just who was getting whacked. And now, there was no way she could abort things. Like it or not, now that she knew what was happening, she was involved. She had to find out if it was, to make sure it wasn't...

She dropped her hand into her book bag and taking a deep breath, stepped into the dim stable.

Even with her suspicions, she wasn't fully prepared for what she saw. Jake was on the floor, cowering against the rear wall, his shirt torn and covered in straw, his forehead bloody. He was panting and wheezing. His right hand was clenched, his left pressed against his belly. The left side of his lower lip was swollen. As soon as he noticed her standing there, his eyes widened with alarm.

Mr. Connelly stood in the middle of the stable, his back to her. He was a tall man, but more importantly, he was also a thick man. His shirt was wet with perspiration. The flesh at the back of his neck was red. His fists were clamped closed and Nelle could see the veins in his forearms pulsing there beside his hips. She couldn't tell whether he was drunk or not, but she hated him either way.

Without thinking, she pulled out the Remington and trained it on the middle of his spine.

"Mr. Connelly," she said, wondering curiously what she was going to do next, her heart suddenly picking up the pace.

Surprised, the large man swung around to face her.

"Who the hell are...?"

He stopped bellowing and emitted a low gasp when he saw the pistol pointed at his chest. His mouth hung open and he took a step back, holding his hands out in front of him as he attempted to digest this sudden shift in dynamics.

"I'm Nelle Ford – the new schoolteacher."

Considering that she still had no idea what she was going to do next, Nelle was shocked by the eerie calmness in her own voice.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" growled Mr. Connelly.

"You're supposed to say, 'Pleased to make your acquaintance,'" Nelle heard herself purr.

"Why you... you..." he growled.

Now that the man had gotten over his initial surprise, his ire was returning. Bulging eyes glared down at her. He crossed his arms and squared his jaw. But there was something in the way his eyes darted over to the Remington, and the way the colour had stolen from his face that told Nelle he was not so at ease with the turn of events. To him, she was an unknown entity. Evidently, he suspected she wouldn't actually use the gun, but something in him wasn't totally certain. It was clear to her that if she was going to do something, she'd better do it right then.

She stepped towards him, keeping the gun steady. As she did so, she caught sight of Jake, still hunched against the far wall. He had an anxious look of disbelief on his face, and as she moved, he began to slowly shake his head from side to side, looking her in the eye as he did.

"Mr. Connelly, your son deserves far better than to be beaten up and thrown around because you refuse to exercise reasonable control over your emotions... Far better."

"Why don't you mind your own business, you interfering little nobody?"

"Mr. Connelly, my students are my business. Especially when their fathers are weak, tyrannical sons of bitches."

"What's that now?" he snarled, half enraged, half stunned.

She adjusted the gun in her hands and held his gaze as she stepped even closer until he was just a few feet away from her. In the background she could see Jake's head – the shaking growing more rapid. Her edge in the situation, besides the gun, obviously, was the element of surprise, and she was losing that edge fast. She had to move more quickly.

"If you ever hit your son again, I'll kill you. It's as simple as that."

The head shaking stopped suddenly.

Evidently, her encounter with Whiskey Eyes had affected her more than she realized because as she stood there giving this ogre the evil eye, she noticed she was much more sure of herself when it came to handling the Remington, and though her insides were gelatin, her hands were not.

"Even if you know how to fire that thing, you wouldn't do it."

Nelle paused. She considered this. She looked at the bruise emerging under Jake's left eye. Then, for a second, her mind darted elsewhere, and any doubt entering her mind was gone. She was certain of what she could do, what she would do. There were some things one had an obligation not to tolerate.

"Gamble if you like, Connelly," she said coldly. "But remember, I am a single woman free of responsibility to anyone other than myself. My parents and brother are dead. I have no children, no attachments whatsoever. I don't even have a dog... So I've got absolutely no issues with follow through, and no qualms about letting the meek inherit the earth."

He said nothing, and Nelle knew he wasn't so sure about her anymore. _The dog bit was good stuff,_ she thought to herself.

Keeping up her momentum, she reiterated, before her nerve could dwindle. "See Nelle. See Nelle's gun. Shitty shitty bang bang!"

Speechless, Connelly raised a hand to the back of his neck and shook his head. She knew he believed her now. She could see in his eyes that he was convinced. And why shouldn't he be? It was the truth, after all.

Lowering the gun, she turned away from him, walking towards the door. Before leaving the stable, she slipped the Remington back into her book bag, and then stepped out into the porridgy afternoon light. For an instant, she considered pulling her revolver and jumping back into the stable yelling "Boo," just for effect, but after a second, she decided against it. _Too much_ , she told herself. So she began walking back across the clearing through the tall grass, hoping that her trembling knees were adequately concealed by her fluttering skirts.

As she crossed, returning to Arden and the horses, she caught a glimpse of Jake as he slipped deftly into the forest. She wondered briefly if she ought to chase after him, but something told her not to. She knew very well that she wouldn't find him, even if she searched. In the stable, she had done what she felt she had to do, despite Jake's reaction. Now, she only hoped that in doing so, she hadn't caused any more problems for him or made him feel any more awkward or uncomfortable in an incredibly awkward and uncomfortable situation. She had no idea how he would take her sudden appearance in his personal life.

When he saw her coming, Arden straightened up from his hastily reassumed reclined position against the tree. He walked over to the horses and gathered the reins, moving to meet her. He looked at her quizzically as she walked up to him and waited for her to say something. But she revealed nothing. So he gave into his curiosity, breaking the silence as he passed her the reins to her horse.

"What happened?"

"He was in the stable. I spoke to him."

"And?"

"He listened." There was no point in mentioning her six-cylinder ally, Nelle decided.

Arden was more than a little surprised; he was flabbergasted. He'd expected old Connelly to come out hollering and chase Nelle off the place, or worse. In fact, he'd been sure there'd be some kind of uproar, and had kept his hand close to his gun as soon as Nelle had turned her back. Connelly was so ornery, especially towards the ladies, ever since his wife had walked out on him ten years back. There was no way the man would've sat back and chitchatted with this Miss Ford over his son's behavioural challenges and mathematical prowess! No, none of this made any sense. But she'd disappeared into that stable for some time, and he hadn't heard any hollering at all, and some minutes later, she'd emerged just as coolly as she'd gone in.

Nelle climbed lithely onto her horse and turned back towards the forest path that had brought them to the Connelly place. She adjusted the book bag she carried, and gathered the reins. _Apparently,_ _this woman does not go anywhere without a small library,_ thought Arden. He climbed up into the saddle and called to her.

"I know a shortcut to the Mesa from here, if you want to bypass town."

He expected her to say something curt and send him on his way, now that she no longer needed him to navigate back.

"Very well," she replied, distracted.

Again, Arden was surprised. Something had happened in that stable after all, he realized. He stole a closer look at her. Indeed, Nelle's face had lost some of its vibrant glow. Her eyes were focused and angry. _Well, extra angry,_ he thought ruefully. She bit the corner of her lip and looked towards the north, fervently scanning the trees, the fading grass, the morbid sky.

Without a word, he led her past the slumping cabin and into the forest. Once again, they rode silently along in single file. The air was cooler now, and Arden's horse pawed and snorted, eager to move faster, while Pinto pawed and snorted his displeasure over the additional exercise. A few chickadees twanged in the brush as they passed by, but mostly there was just the sound of the horses moving and the gentle rustle of falling leaves. They rode for fifteen minutes before the trees thinned and then gave way to the grassy range of the valley. Off to her right, Nelle could already see the buildings of Boulder. Arden was right; this route would get her home faster.

Soon, they had crossed the valley and were ascending into the pine and spruce-covered hills once again. The rush of adrenaline Nelle had felt at the Connelly's was long gone and she was plumb worn out. She was eager to get home, though she knew she'd have to invite Arden in for a bit of fuel before sending him off, considering how far out of his way he'd gone for her. Certainly, there _was_ a part of her that wanted to invite him in, but she dismissed it, preferring to consider it an obligation. And hating the idea of being indebted to him, she decided she'd have to cook something relatively impressive – kill the fatted calf, to even things out. Methodically, she took a mental inventory of her cupboards and then considered the available options. Considering her limited stores, there was going to have to be some real creativity involved if she was going to come up with anything more than a baked potato.

"Mr. Wilder, how long have you lived here?"

"Fourteen years... And feel free to call me Arden," he added, pleased that she was not shunning all conversation, and that whatever had happened back at Connelly's had not made her entirely indifferent to his presence.

"Alright, Arden."

He was looking at her expectantly.

"You may call me Miss Ford," she clarified, hiding her smile at the slightly rankled look that passed over his face.

"Ever been to Mexico, Arden?"

"Nope."

_Tacos it is_ , she thought.

The trail narrowed and grew considerably steeper as they began climbing up to the Mesa. Nelle had never come this way before, so she paid close attention to her surroundings in case she wished to use the route again. Definitely craggier and more rugged than the meandering ascent she customarily took home from town, this path was a repetition of short switchbacks that zigzagged sharply through a sprinkling of wiry pines clinging fast to the ginger-toned rock.

With Arden still leading, they moved up the steep trail. Nelle kept a close eye on Pinto's feet and a tight hold on the reins. She edged the animal closer to the rocky walls on her left. Any misstep could result in a nasty tumble down the slope at her right, and with Pinto's flighty, rebellious tendencies, she was not taking any chances. Truth be told, she felt a little cornered in such a place. This wasn't a spot that allowed for a quick sprint or a hasty retreat, and Nelle generally preferred to maintain several escape options in any circumstance. Uneasy, she watched Arden as he traveled along in front of her and she tried to incite Pinto to move a little faster so that the distance between them did not increase.

Pinto ignored her. And a few moments later, he seemed to ignore her much harder. Somewhat baffled, Nelle then noticed that the horse's breathing was becoming progressively more rapid. Instinctively, she opened the leather flap of her book bag, though she told herself the huffing and puffing was probably just because this climb was a cardiovascular nightmare for her flabby equine. But then she felt his body tense beneath her, and she knew something wasn't right. She opened her mouth to call to Arden, to question or caution him - she wasn't sure, and that was when she saw it.

Up ahead, atop the tall rock ledge at their left, was the sleek, brawny frame of a full-grown cougar. It crouched there menacingly, some fifteen feet above the trail, its muscles coiled and taut, preparing to leap. Her mouth hanging open, Nelle seized the Remington from her bag as she struggled to form the words to warn Arden. But before a sound could escape her, the cat vaulted into the air, claws extended and teeth brandished in soundless flight.

Wide-eyed and breathless, Nelle fired.

When she took the shot, Pinto reared up and went berserk. The bullet nailed the cougar in the right shoulder as it plummeted through the air towards Arden, and the animal instantly pulled its outstretched legs into its body, abandoning the attack as it hit the ground just short of Arden's horse. Letting out a shrill, infuriated growl, it contorted its body on the stony trail, wrenching its head around to face her and the direction from which its pain had come. Blood began flowing from its wound.

At the sound of the shot, Arden, possibly more surprised than the cougar itself, had sprung from his horse straight away, diving towards the ground. He hit the uneven path only seconds after the seething, injured cougar did and then helplessly watched as Nelle spun around wildly on the back of a bucking, careening Pinto repeatedly hollering "Whoa" and "Holy cats!" and his own horse disappeared further down the trail.

When he spotted the Remington in the dust just a few feet from where Nelle was fighting her hysterical horse, he understood what had occurred. Shoving himself to his feet, he looked for something he could do to help the situation, while Nelle, unable to keep herself on an unhinged, kicking Pinto any longer, pitched back over the horse's rump. She landed ungracefully but intact on the hard earth between Pinto and the cougar. Arden bounded forward in an attempt to grab the horse's reins and pull him out of range of where she was now sprawled, but Pinto thrashed and reared unpredictably. And to avoid getting a mouthful of her horse's feet, Nelle was forced to act swiftly, covering her head, pulling in her limbs and rolling herself away, closer to the motionless cougar. Again, Arden ran forward and tried for the reins, but Pinto, now realizing he was free of his load, darted out of reach and galloped off.

At first, Arden was relieved. The old stallion was no longer an _immediate_ threat to Nelle. But then he turned back around. He was just in time to watch the growling cat, so near to her, suddenly extend its right leg and drag its claws across her left thigh. He heard her scream then, and lurched towards her as she clumsily began crawling away from the hissing animal, her eyes awash with pain.

As he moved, he pulled his own gun and paused long enough to unload three shots into the torso of the suffering creature. Then he crouched down, grabbed Nelle about the waist, and moved her still further from the cougar.

Once a safe distance away, he looked once more at the cat to make sure it was certifiably, definitely, fully dead. Then he put his gun down, and breathing heavily from both the sudden exertion and the residual alarm coursing through his veins, he turned his attention to the woman lying beside him.

"Nelle?"

His voice was tense.

Stretched out, with Arden's arm still half-wrapped around her, Nelle heard him and slowly pushed herself up onto her elbow. Groaning, she raised the opposite hand to her forehead.

"Are you alright?"

She moved to rise, and gently, hesitantly, he helped her up into a sitting position.

"I see streaky stars, blurry rainbows, and cheeping birds."

"Uh huh. Is that pretty normal for you?" inquired Arden, thankful she was able to move and talk.

She rolled her eyes at him and almost managed to laugh. But her thigh was burning like it had just met a hot brand, and instead, she choked out a smothered yelp.

"What about you?"

"Fine, thanks to you. If it wasn't for your quick shooting, I might be on my way up to that Big Ponderosa in the Sky," he said soberly, contemplating the revolver that lay conspicuously on the trail some ten feet back.

A wave of vertigo surged over Nelle. Everything seemed hazy and dim, though she knew it was still afternoon. A shiver clambered up her spine. Her leg throbbed. She tried to focus on Arden's face, but considering the way the greater Boulder area began spinning faster and faster around her whenever she lifted her head, she abandoned the effort and scrutinized the dirt at her fingertips, waiting for the merry-go-round to stop, or at least slow down a little.

They sat quietly for a moment, leaning against one another, catching their breaths. Nelle kept her hands firmly planted on the earth. She tried closing her eyes only to open up them right back up again when she found that the blackness just made her feel more off balance and the pain in her leg seem more intense.

"I can't believe this! My insubordinate coward of a horse!" she muttered.

Arden didn't say anything. He was scrutinizing the torn skirt, wet with blood, clinging to her left thigh.

She shivered again and asked him to get the shawl from her bag.

Behind them, the ground was littered with the contents of her bag. Arden gathered up a notebook, a rather battered apple, the disheveled copy of _Sonnets from the Portuguese,_ several new, fine-bound novels, and finally, a black shawl. Then he walked onto the trail and picked up the Remington, examining it as he went back to where Nelle was sitting, her arms resting on her raised right knee, her head in her arms.

He bent and placed everything except the shawl onto the ground beside them. Then he slid the garment lightly over her shoulders, wrapping it around her. And she let him do it, much to his surprise. And unease.

"Thank you." She said it a little too quietly, he thought, as she lifted her jumbled head.

"How do you feel?"

"Overstimulated."

"And your leg?"

She looked down at the blood oozing from the sticky fabric. But she hadn't needed to look to know that it wasn't pretty.

It hurt. It hurt enough that she was gritting her teeth, that her breath got caught in her chest and her stomach recoiled when she focused on it. The pain seared across her entire thigh. It trounced her. She wondered shakily what should happen next. Too much had already happened. So far, this day had been totally out of control. And as its events began swirling through her already spinning mind, she fought back the urge to drop her head back down cry a little. She had to get a grip.

She said nothing. She only looked at him.

Nodding grimly, he stood up and called to his horse, which had strayed further up the trail. It came slowly (and _obediently,_ Nelle noted, ruefully) plodding back from around the bend. Arden went and grabbed its reins, fastening them to a spindly pine that leaned feebly over a wider section of the trail not far from where Nelle was hunched. Then he removed his canteen from his saddlebag and walked back to her.

"I'm going to try and clean it up a bit. Then we'll ride out and see if the doctor can't get you stitched up," he said, kneeling down in front of her.

"Okay."

Though her mind was fogged with pain, Nelle's heart was uneasy. As beleaguered as she felt, she knew she still needed to be careful. She could not get too familiar with Arden, no matter what her feelings were. Things could not go beyond a neighbourly cordiality. Right now she needed his help, and she would accept it, but that was all.

The throbbing in her leg grew stronger and she attempted to steady her breath. And then, then there was his hand sliding along her shin, matter-of-factly pushing her skirt higher and higher, petticoat and all. For a moment, she forgot to breathe entirely. His hands felt warm against her chilled skin. His touch was light. Her body ached in at least three different ways.

She tensed involuntarily when he reached the point above her knee where the cloth began to cling to her leg, sticky with blood. Immediately, Arden dropped the fabric and looked at her anxiously, his few remaining hunger pangs quelled by the faint, but distinct odor of the blood. It was undeniably nasty - a decoupage of blood and shredded fabric coagulated around her thigh. Deciding it would be better to get it over with, Nelle smiled to reassure him, and then took hold of the cloth herself. It was always easier dealing with one's own blood than someone else's, anyhow.

Resolutely, she shut her eyes and yanked the wet skirt rapidly and steadily up off of the wound, exposing her left leg almost to the hip. When it was done, she exhaled audibly and leaned back to rest on her elbows, surveying the scene. It certainly wasn't any prettier now. In fact, Nelle's own stomach attempted to stage a small coup, though she managed to thwart the violence by staring fixedly at the top button of Arden's shirt for a moment or two.

"You wear short shorts!" exclaimed Arden awkwardly, greatly relieved he would not have to cut away or somehow remove long bloomers, stockings or other etceteras.

"I like short shorts," replied an indignant Nelle, her eyes still locked on his shirt-button.

Grinning briefly, he looked more closely at her leg and tried not to grimace. He'd known it was going to be bad, considering her demeanor, but he was still startled by the sight of it. Four deep gashes extended down from just below the crease of her left hip to her lower thigh, inches above her kneecap. Blood still oozed out from the lacerated flesh, dripping vivid red over coagulated brown down the sides of her leg and gathering beneath it to form a rust-coloured stain on the stony ground. Her whole upper leg was a gory mess. He thought he'd better get her back to the house right away.

Reaching for the canteen, he spoke, so as to distract both of them.

"So, what were you doing down in Mexico, anyway?"

"Oh you know... Flirting, working on my tan, and drinking cerveza," she retorted, not really wanting to get into the story or to offend him.

"Yeah. That sounds about right."

Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she saw the merriment in his face.

But then he uncapped his canteen and began to pour a small stream of the cool water over her ripped skin. Immediately, Nelle gasped and blanched. Thinking it best to just get it over with, Arden did not stop, though his body tensed involuntarily and the amusement dropped from his face when he heard her. He continued to flood the raw, open wounds with water, rinsing the layers of blood from her thigh. However, he did note the paleness of her face and decided he'd better resume the conversation.

"And what do you think of Boulder so far?"

"Arghhhhh..." she groaned, attempting a grin but effecting a grimace. When she'd opened her mouth, she had really hoped for something more profound, but her mind was far too taken up with her tired, shrieking body to get into the spirit of things. She knew he was trying to divert her attention, but just then it seemed that even _he_ was not enough of a distraction.

"Uh huh. That does pretty much sum it up," he said, smiling good-naturedly, though his eyes were troubled. "Now, can you bend your knee and pull your thigh up off the ground?"

She did as he asked and set to wiping off the back of her leg as he stood up and walked over to his horse. A few seconds later, he returned with a dark green shirt in his hand.

"It's clean, I promise," he assured her, unsheathing the hunting knife he'd also fetched from his saddlebag, and cutting through the seam. He began tearing it into wide strips, which he then used to loosely bandage her leg. He did it as quickly as possible, because the colour was still draining out of her face.

The afternoon began to wane, the sky shifting from gunmetal gray to smoky charcoal. With a prickly voice, Nelle called repeatedly to Pinto, but they saw and heard nothing of him. Arden advised her to give it up and brought his horse over to her. Then, stifling a whimper, Nelle let him pull her to standing and in one swift move, she jammed her foot into the stirrup and scrambled onto the horse's back, her leg pulsing with pain, her head growing murky for a few seconds while Arden slid into the saddle in front of her. She was spent – more exhausted than she'd felt in months. She only wanted to rest, now that they were leaving this place, leaving the still, solitary body of the cougar outstretched on the trail behind them.

Nelle permitted her head to hang down and her body to slouch against his.

At a flick of the reins, Arden's horse lurched forward in its eagerness to move on. A fragile, inattentive Nelle nearly tumbled right back down to the ground.

"You might want to hang on, you know."

She slid her arms around Arden's chest, setting her hands firmly on his ribcage. Momentarily, he pressed his free hand against each of hers to make sure she was secure before he started out once again. An awkward heat found its way into her cheeks, and she was grateful he couldn't see her face. Not that Arden would've noticed. He was too busy berating himself for enjoying the moment when the woman was in such obvious discomfort.

They went back the way they'd come, down the sloping switchbacks and into the valley. For a time, they went without speaking, but when Arden turned the bay and began moving west up the valley, rather than east towards town, and Nelle gave no protest, he grew worried, though her hands still pressed tightly against his chest. In an effort to assuage his disquiet, he spoke to her since he could not see her face, which still rested against the spot between his shoulder blades.

"Well, I admit it. My initial analysis of your horse was dead wrong. I see now that the Ford Pinto is an undeniably impertinent, shiftless brute with little regard for his mistress and her transportation needs."

Nelle didn't respond, which Arden took as a bad sign. But he tried again.

"I mean, if I were you, I'd implement some strict discipline."

Adjusting her hands, and lifting her head from Arden's spine, feeling clumsy and witless, Nelle replied, her voice tired but not wooden.

"Oh, he's not all bad. He can't help being yellow-bellied and high-strung. It's his nature."

"Well, if he had any regard at all, he would have sidled sheepishly out from behind a boulder or bramble and joined up with us by now. It's pathetic, really."

"At least his name isn't Hermes," she retorted.

"Hey _, I_ set my standards high from day one."

"Or perhaps you just have a rather high opinion of yourself," she replied with a snicker.

Arden chuckled, gazing out at the darkening sky. There was still some spunk in her yet. She would be fine.

Hidden in a thick stand of tall, heady pines, beneath an angular cliff of coppery rock, was Arden's cabin. It wasn't at all like the rough-hewn, slap-a-dash cabin Nelle lived in, and it wasn't even comparable to that mossy, decaying lump of Connelly's. It was something else entirely. Whereas Connelly's cabin was the horsefly of cabins, and Nelle's the mule, Arden's was the purebred Clydesdale of cabins. From the dense slab of a door, on which had been hand-carved a single strand of ivy, to the rows of broad, uniform logs that formed the walls, to the smooth, polished railing that bordered the curved front porch, one knew without a doubt that it was the work of a craftsman. Aching and dispirited as she was, Nelle still found herself impressed when they silently rode up to it.

Bruised, bleeding, and stiff, Nelle limped to the door alongside Arden. She tried to affect a swagger, or at very least, an elegant stride or an indifferent amble, but it was no use. It was a limp and it came off as a limp. But it had been a helluva hell of a day and Nelle decided she just didn't care that she couldn't pull off a nonchalant hero's walk. Besides, the wind was blowing the wrong way. Her hair was whipping at her face.

Arden had offered to carry her and had received a resolute "no" for his troubles, though she did accept his proffered arm, feeling that for the time being, her left leg was almost as unreliable as her horse. Now, as the sun was wrestled down by the night, he opened the door and ushered her inside.

For a short time, Nelle forgot her pain as she looked about the spacious living room that made up the bulk of the cabin. A fieldstone fireplace took up a good portion of the wall to her left and was the obvious focal point of the space. Two wide windows on either side of the door drew in what twilight filtered through the silhouetted pines. A heavy oak desk sat beneath the window at the right. In front of the fireplace was burgundy divan, along with a finely crafted Carver chair. And at the back of the room was a door, which Nelle assumed led to the kitchen, considering that a solid, rectangular table with a straight-backed chair at either end was stationed just outside it. Above the kitchen, close to the eaves, was an open loft on which one could see an unadorned raft of a bed, crouched close to the floor. It was unmade; Nelle could see the white sheets hanging down from the mattress. A ladder leading up to the bedroom, if one could call it that, angled down to the floor a few feet to the right of the kitchen door. There was a window up there too, she noticed, looking out towards the west. She took it all in, admiring the understated and precisely constructed home.

But it was the books that left her speechless. To her right, the entire west wall had been made into bookshelves. And they were full! _There might be four hundred books there,_ she marveled. Except for the libraries in a few upmarket townhouses back in New York, she'd never seen such an extensive personal collection of books. She was amazed. Had Arden read all of these? She shuffled awkwardly over to them, pain rushing up her leg, while Arden lit the lamp on the desk and glanced surreptitiously over at her awed face. Proudly, he walked up and stood beside her, crossing his arms and looking with satisfaction at the shelves.

Nelle was busy scanning the titles. It was her habit to do so whenever she went into anyone's house for the first time and discovered the bookshelf. However, this was overwhelming. Imagine all these books at one's fingertips! Longfellow, Marlowe, Dumas, Keats, Goethe, Coleridge, Defoe, Swift, Audubon, Dickens, Hugo, Melville, Thackeray, and of course, significant amounts of Shakespeare... Even the Brontës were there. Enviously, she reached towards his copy of Jane Eyre, but stopped herself when she noticed that her hand was caked with blood from her leg. Arden saw it, too.

"You can borrow any you like, but right now I think you should sit down," he said, reminded of why she was there, in his house. She took his arm again without a word, and he led her over to the chair by the fireplace. Pain nagging at her, she sighed heavily as she sat down, and then leaned back and closed her eyes. Arden knew her leg had to be hurting her, but he had found her interest in his library reassuring, not to mention flattering. He brought her a glass of water, which she took and drank, smiling wanly in appreciation.

"How's the head now?"

She opened her eyes.

"Royally concussed, but getting less cloudy. Only thirty percent chance of precipitation."

"I'm glad. I'm going to get a fresh horse from the barn and head to town for the doctor," he said.

"Okay."

"Just rest easy."

"Okay."

Arden buttoned his coat and went out. A few minutes later, Nelle could hear his horse galloping off, its hoof beats fading into the distance. Adjusting a cushion at the small of her back, she closed her eyes once more and let her mind wander. She tried to ignore her relentlessly shrieking leg and thought again of Jake Connelly, wondering if he would show up at school on Monday. She really hoped so. What if she'd made things even more complicated for him? And what about Arden? Now that he knew about her gun, would he put two and two together and realize, to one extent or another, just what had gone down in that stable? And if he did, would he tell his brother? As pleasant a man as Larry Dime was, he was also a fairly traditional man, and she was pretty sure he wouldn't approve if he found out. If that happened, there'd be trouble.

There was nothing she could do about it, she insisted to her niggling mind. Not about any of it. Especially right now while she was oozing to death in front of Arden's fireplace. Alright, not death, but anemia, at least. One thing was certain, she decided. No matter what, she would not beg Arden to keep her gun a secret. That much was clear to her. She did not beg. And as far as old man Connelly went, she knew she could handle him, so long as she kept her revolver close. And just where was the Remington anyhow?

Flipping her eyelids open, she glanced around the cabin - the snug, welcoming hideaway, until she spied her book bag on the floor beside the door, where Arden must have placed it. Then she dragged her rebelling body up out of the chair and hobbled slowly over to retrieve it. Once she had it in her hand, she took a long slow breath before turning to carry it back and sink down into the chair once more. Feeling around in the bag, she found the gun, removed it and placed it on her lap. Then she unfastened one of the bag's leather side pockets, the only one that had managed to stay fastened during her afternoon flight, pulled out the box of bullets, and removed one. Once the gun had been reloaded, she placed it back in its narrow slot inside her bag, and placed the bag on the floor beside her, next to her right boot. That done, she leaned back once more and she waited.

It was completely dark outside when Nelle heard the sound of hoof beats again, this time approaching in double-time. Worn out, she'd been drifting between sleep and consciousness, not being able to fully give way to sleep because of the ongoing bursts of pain moving up and down her thigh. Nor could she ignore her building dread over the inevitable legion of stitches that would be necessary to close up her leg.

Doc Monday was all business. He didn't even say hello. He simply walked into the cabin behind Arden, speedily introduced himself, indicated that he'd been advised of the situation, and sent Arden off to get some clean towels. All Nelle could do was nod. Then the gray-haired, spectacled little man edged over to the washstand beside the kitchen door, and still speaking, soaped up and rinsed his hands. _Usually doctors are in a rush, but this scuttling little man takes the cake,_ Nelle thought to herself, still rubbing her eyes.

"I've only got an hour or so before I have to head back to the Carter place. Mrs. Carter has started her labour. You're lucky it's her first one, or I might not have been able to come out tonight at all."

"Thanks for coming, Doc," said Nelle.

They set out towels on the divan and obeying the doctor's instructions, she moved onto it and extended her injured leg. Arden lit several oil lamps and set them down close by, before backing off to loiter beside his desk. Then curmudgeonly Monday peeled away what remained of the green shirt from Nelle's thigh. When he saw the four long gashes, he groaned with impatience, which pleased her none, and then commanded Arden to get the lady a drink, which pleased her some and reigned in her impulse to have Arden throw the man out so she could bleed in peace.

"Hurts?" he asked, surveying the lacerations more closely.

"There is a twinge of unpleasantness about it."

Opening a small cabinet beside his desk, Arden reached inside and pulled out two glass tumblers, and several bottles.

"Scotch, rye, or sherry?" he asked her.

"I'll take the Scotch, please."

_That figures,_ he thought, smiling to himself as he reached further back into the cabinet for his imported, 15-year-old single malt.

He poured a generous amount into the first glass and not wanting to further ruffle the doctor, hurriedly brought it over to her. Then he walked back to his desk at a more leisurely pace and poured himself an equally generous amount.

As Nelle took a few nips from the glass, the doctor mixed up some kind of ointment with water, and began to flush out the gashes in her leg using a large metal syringe. It burned plenty but she managed to keep still, though her hand gripped the glass tightly. She was much more unsettled over what was to happen next.

She watched suspiciously as the doctor threaded the needle.

"Brace yourself. Keep still," he said, without looking up or giving her much time to prepare.

Arden, over beside his desk, flinched himself as he watched Nelle's shoulders jerk up towards her neck and the dreadful gray colour spill back across her face. When the doctor had finished the first stitch, Nelle, while keeping her leg perfectly stationary, went ahead and completely drained the Scotch from her glass before he put in the next. Then she chewed on her tongue to keep the cuss words in her head from escaping out her mouth, opening it only to squeak a pitiful "thanks" when Arden came over to her and without saying a thing, poured her another few fingers of the liquor.

Suturing up her leg at a feverish pitch, the doctor kept his head down and paid no attention to Arden, who brought in several loads of firewood and proceeded to light a fire in the cool room or to Nelle, who grimaced and sipped from her glass as he worked. Having rapidly downed what equated to four or five shots of Scotch on an empty stomach, she was no longer feeling the same sharp, biting pain that's she'd felt with the initial stitches. Now, there were duller, stinging pangs, combined with a general aura of queasiness. She kept still, even when Arden allowed his hand to move gently across her shoulders as he passed by on his way from the fireplace back to his desk.

For a while, the doctor worked in near silence. There was only the sound of the fire as it sizzled and sputtered, enveloping the dry wood. But when he was half way through the third row of stitches, Arden spoke.

"You're not British, by any chance?" he asked Nelle, from his spot at the desk.

She looked back at him, confused.

"My father was... mostly. Why?"

"Because that was one heck of an understatement earlier. 'A twinge of unpleasantness...' sounds like you got a paper cut."

She managed a full-on smile.

"Well, I didn't want to sound like an Alas-Poor-World, Out-Out-Brief-Candle, Play-Me-A-Requiem, I've-Been-Vanquished prima-donna."

"Please, if it relieves you at all, go right ahead and let out a lament."

Wincing, she straightened up a little, and the doctor harrumphed his annoyance before continuing on with his task. She wasn't really feeling so bad just then, but she decided to play along anyway. What she did feel was a warm appreciation for Arden's kindness, and she simply wanted him to know she was doing better and he could relax. Or so she told herself. Plus, it might actually help the time to pass.

"Very well, I shall." she said resolutely, taking a deep breath.

"Ow, Ow, damn spot! Claws like daggers enter my thighs... One touch of nature makes the whole world spin... Oh, oh, here's the rub: something is most definitely rotten in the state of Nelle," she groaned, mostly sarcastically, and a little proudly. And - we will be honest for Nelle - flirtatiously.

"Bravo.... Never was a tale of more woe," he said, walking over to stand next to the divan, but careful not to block the doctor's light.

And he was impressed. He was sure no one else he knew could have rattled off such a list, even if he or she was uninjured and standing in the English plays section of a library. It was one thing for Boulder City to have a schoolteacher who knew her classic literature. But a Shakespeare-spouting, gun-slinging lone educator who'd come riding mysteriously out of the Sonora on a sulky horse was quite another thing!

"Well, I am glad to find that the schoolteacher knows her Macbeth and Hamlet and uh... Troilus & Cressida?"

Nelle's smile broadened and she nodded slowly, surprise momentarily displacing what remained of the discomfort written on her face. _So he has read all of those,_ she thought, with a look towards the bookcase. She sat quietly marveling at the cowboy in front of her, who apparently was a lot more than what met the eye, and there was already a lot of appeal just in what met the eye. _I am a mouse under the paw of Fate,_ she thought, a tad melodramatically, especially since she was thinking only of Arden and not the torn leg the doctor was quilting back together.

"Well-plagiarized," complimented Arden.

Their eyes met only briefly, but long enough. Arden's expression grew more intense; Nelle's eyes grew more luminous for a moment. Then Monday tugged gently on the thread as he finished stitching line three and she flinched as the resultant stinging sensation traveled her nervous system, while a sympathetic Arden dropped his gaze back down to her injured leg and the doctor's handiwork. Nelle pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

Inwardly, she admonished herself for letting the alcohol loosen her up a little too much. She had been far too flippant with Arden just then. Here was a kind-hearted, easygoing, entertaining man, and if she didn't keep her distance, things would only end with him getting hurt, or possibly even killed. If only she had handled this on her own! But could she really have? Probably not. Still, things had happened. There had been sideways glances and outright humid looks, and far too much concern for her at Connelly's and again, here. She shivered. She knew she ought to give him the brush off as soon as Monday was gone, make it clear that she was not interested in any way. It was the right choice, the honourable thing, even if he never understood. It would also be much easier, in the long run.

But she felt so depleted. Hadn't the day been crazy enough already? She didn't relish the thought of creating any kind of scene tonight. She didn't have the energy. Surely she was entitled to put off her safety-barrier–do-not-cross conversation for another day? A cougar mauling had to be good for a little procrastination, at the very least. _Yes, another day,_ she told herself. _Another day, I will tell him how it has to be._

"Earlier, you said your father was mostly British. What did you mean 'mostly'?" asked Arden, interrupting her thoughts.

"I'm pretty sure a Spanish barmaid slipped into the lineage somewhere."

"Ah... And what about your mother?" he pressed.

"My mother had a bourgeois Muscovite background and fancied herself to be a tsarina."

"That explains a few things."

"And what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" demanded Nelle, though not as hotly as she might've ordinarily done.

"You see," he replied with a laugh.

She didn't want to smile, but she couldn't help it.

When the doctor finished, over an hour later, there were 47 stitches in Nelle's thigh. He quickly bid them goodbye, barely hesitating over their thanks, and marched out the door with Arden, who, once the door was shut, paid him quietly, and thanked the curt doctor again as he rolled his eyes and rushed off to the Carters'.

Nelle was sprawled on her side, her head on her arm, gazing listlessly into the fire when he stepped back inside. Truth be told, she was afraid to move. _She looks pretty green around the gills,_ thought Arden, as he closed the door. Without disturbing her, he walked calmly towards the kitchen. As he passed by her, he noticed with curiosity that she'd moved her book bag from where he'd placed it at the door to a new resting place beside the divan, well within her reach _. This woman certainly doesn't like taking chances,_ he thought _. But what could have a schoolteacher so spooked? It doesn't make any sense._

He brought her some peppermint tea, which she accepted with such blatant, forlorn gratitude that he almost forgot himself and moved to sweep the hair from her face. But he caught himself in time. He knew very well that if he tried it, she'd be gone without ado or adieu.

"How do you feel about scrambled eggs and toast?" he asked instead.

"What time is it?" she groaned.

"Just after nine."

Quickly, she straightened up. It was getting late. But as she looked over at Arden to politely take her leave, she discovered that there were three of him looking expectantly over at her. She gently eased herself back down into a reclined position on the divan and closed her eyes.

"Okay," she agreed, "I'm game for the eggs and toast."

Twenty minutes later, Arden came out of the kitchen bearing two steaming plates.

"Don't bother moving," he said, when he saw Nelle sit up, "You can eat right there by the fire. I will, too."

He came over to her and passed her a plate. Then he sat down in the chair next to the divan. Nelle took up her fork and cautiously nibbled at the eggs. To her hungry, Scotch-wobbly stomach, they tasted incredibly good. And after the first few bites settled, warm in her belly, she began to feel much less shaky.

"Mmmm... You put chives and tomatoes in the eggs! And lots of black pepper!"

"Don't sound so surprised. What do you take me for, some kind of cretin?"

She tasted the toast.

"Sorry. I mean... Uh, you also bake a mean loaf of bread, Arden."

"Okay, okay, so Sarah made the bread. And the jam."

Nelle laughed at that, and Arden joined her.

They finished the rest of their meal in silence, both of them feeling drained of energy.

After they finished, Arden brought around a spare horse and saw her home. They went the long way this time – Nelle's regular route, but skirted town. Neither was in the mood for any inquisitive looks or sideways glances. Arriving at the Mesa, they found Pinto lounging coolly against his shed, as if nothing had happened. Arden swore at him, and the horse put on his best slighted look and went around back of the shed to pout, while Arden helped Nelle inside.

In the cabin, Nelle lit the small lamp on the kitchen table and threw down her bag on one of the benches while Arden went and started a small fire in the fireplace, which now seemed inconceivably itty-bitty to her, after her loll in front of his. She leaned against the table as he scanned the room. Then he looked over at her washed-out face.

"That is the saddest rocking chair I have ever seen," he said, gesturing towards it.

"I know," she said.

He picked it up, and with some effort, he broke it in two and then into four and deposited the pieces into the flames.

Nelle thought this was more than a little presumptuous. Sure, it had been a shitty chair but it was the only one she had.

"I'll make you a decent one. Goodnight, Nelle."

"Uh... Goodnight."

He walked out, just like that.

She stood for a moment longer, watching her chair burn. _Well, at least he didn't scrutinize the bed,_ she thought. _It's in worse shape than the chair!_ Then she took out her Remington, edged over to the bed, and crumpled into it, arranging herself in a calculated S position between its lumps and potholes _._ In seconds, she was asleep.

Sarah Dime never found out why Arden didn't wear the green shirt she'd made him for his birthday, but in future years, when it came to his birthday shirts, she always stuck to basic black.
V.

All through the next week, Nelle moved slowly and haltingly about her duties like a hardened Pony Express rider on a hiking vacation, taking it easy on her bruised and sore body. After a few days, the general stiffness left her body, though her left thigh was still very tender and painful to the touch. She was careful not to lean forward against the children's desks or bend her knees too quickly to pick up a dropped slate or a piece of chalk. When the children and townsfolk asked what had happened, she simply told them she'd been thrown from her horse. They didn't press for more information. They'd seen her horse in action.

On Monday morning, a subdued Jake Connelly had wandered in with the other students. After extensive weekend deliberations as she'd recuperated alone in her cabin, Nelle had come to the conclusion that the best plan of action was to pretend that nothing at all had happened, unless Jake chose to bring up the matter. And Jake hadn't brought it up, though it had clearly had an effect on him. The first few days he'd refused to even look at her, but once he'd realized that she was not interested in coaxing him to talk, coddling him, or giving him singular looks of fretful pity, and in fact, was treating him pretty much the same as before, he'd begun to loosen up. But he'd stopped antagonizing her. In fact, all week he'd given her no problems whatsoever. And on Thursday afternoon, while she'd been giving a science lesson to the third and fourth graders, she'd noticed him watching her from his desk in the back row, a bemused, but not disagreeable look on his face. So far, things had turned out better than she'd hoped.

As the days had passed, Nelle had expected Arden to show up somewhere, at the school or the Mesa, or maybe just to come riding up alongside her. While she hadn't planned for it to happen, it could not be denied that a certain rapport had developed between them over the course of last Friday's events. So she was surprised that after their escapade, she had seen nothing of him. She'd figured he'd at least check in on her to see how she was recovering. Sure, sure, it wasn't a gunshot wound or an amputation, but a legion of stitches was not a scabbed knee either. And she _had_ likely saved him from being clobbered by a wild animal!

Had she offended him? Maybe now that he'd seen her dirty, bloody and discomposed, he'd lost interest. But no, she couldn't really believe that. He wasn't shallow. Possibly he was just busy. Or he'd simply decided to back off for a while. Maybe her mercurial coldness had actually worked. Or maybe the Remington had scared him off. Some men were like that – couldn't take a woman that was _too_ independent, though it was hard to imagine Arden was such a man. Of course, she wanted him to leave her alone. That was the plan. No entanglements. All the same, she couldn't help but feel a little rejected. Didn't he care how she was getting on?

Although she chided herself for it, the longer the week stretched without so much as a sighting of the cowpuncher, the more she thought of him. She could see him so clearly in her mind - his intent but curious eyes, his wry mouth, the leather chaps... _Enough with the chaps, Nelle,_ she scolded herself. _There are no goddamn chaps!_ He was just so attractive, and so caring, she reminded herself, attempting to lend an air of legitimacy to a severe case of lust. _Had he even paid the doctor?_ she suddenly wondered. And what of all those books? She knew she ought to be relieved that he'd made himself scarce, whatever it was that had warded him off. She knew very well. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.

And now it was Friday again, the first of November. Even though the day before had been officially Halloween, Anisette had scheduled her masquerade party for this night in the interests of a more spectacular weekend bash, or as she'd put it, "so people can get as smashed as they please." Nelle had not seen Anisette since the Jambalaya Upset, but she was ready for the event. She'd known from beforehand that Anisette planned to dress up as an angel, white feathery wings and all. And consequently, during one of her provocative moods, she had made some preparations herself.

As much as she loathed sewing, Nelle had, with her most recent and very welcome paycheck, procured some lush black velvet along with several new dresses. With the velvet, she had fashioned herself a short, wispy black cape. Then she had taken her now well-worn red dress and shredded up the skirt, so that her black petticoat would peek through. Painstakingly, she'd added a few embellishments, such as the pointed tail she'd made from red felt and stiff wire, and scraps of orange crepe reminiscent of flames. She'd taken the pitchfork from Pinto's shed and dipped the fork end in red paint. And to crown it all off, taking inspiration from some of the more hair-raising masks she'd seen in Mexico, she'd fashioned a fearsome papier mâché mask, complete with protruding horns, long pointed noise, and fat, unfurling tongue. That part hadn't been easy. Even though she was quite adept at mâché, thanks to her time in finishing school, where she'd also learned the critical life skills of macramé, decoupage, and collage, it had taken three tries to make the tongue. But when she'd finally painted the finishing touches on the mask, she was certain it had been worth it.

Of course, Nelle knew that if old man Musgrave or Lady Charles got wind of this, there would be repercussions of some sort. But she didn't care. She was determined that the Devil was going to go riding into Anisette's little party. And was going to get some answers.

She wasn't the only one who was after an explanation. All through the week, as Arden had gone about his usual duties, he'd thought about Nelle. He'd thought about the insolent tilt of her chin, the constraint with which she handled herself and others, and the way she rode that sloth animal unaccompanied about the countryside, never stepping foot in a wagon. He'd gone over the incident with the cougar repeatedly. With her first shot, she had struck the animal as it hurtled downward. That was not normal female behaviour, at least not in his experience. And then, after the cat had mauled her leg, she'd been so collected. Sure, she'd been unsteady with the pain and even a little vulnerable afterwards, but she had been calm. If that hadn't freaked her out, then what could? After all, it was obvious in the way she automatically monitored her surroundings almost constantly, the way she'd jumped when he'd surprised her at the school, and now, with the revelation of the revolver she carried everywhere, that there was most definitely something. _What was she really doing in Mexico?_ he'd wondered. _Who taught her to fire that revolver? And more importantly, why?_

No matter how many times he'd gone over his encounters with her, he hadn't been able to piece it together. All week, he'd stayed away from her, keeping close to his work and contemplating. He'd told no one what had happened, not even Larry. And just before the weekend, he'd decided he needed to see her again. He had no idea how she felt about him. Perhaps her frostiness would be back, now that her injury was mending. But he would chance her dismay. He needed to know more, and he was certain there was more.

That evening, alone in her cabin, Nelle got her wicked on. First, she had a nap because she was feeling rather whipped, and ultimately she was going for that tarty, mischievous Evil rather than the overworked, disillusioned, and desperate kind. Then, a couple hours after sunset, she got up and commenced to dress. She stood in front of the wavy mirror – nothing in her cabin was straight or even, and twisted her hair up into a spiky, poisonous-looking coiffure. She spent a rather long time looking at her waffling reflection as she lined her eyes with kohl. Then she added the final touches to her costume. Carefully, she unwound the pointed tail and fastened the ties of the wispy, black cape. Finally, she picked up the garish mask and carefully fitted it to her face, tying its ribbons tightly behind her head. Then she slung the book bag over her shoulder, grabbed the waiting pitchfork, took a deep breath, and tramped brazenly out the door and into the cool, invigorating night.

As the last few weeks had passed, a good deal of annoyance towards Anisette had been steadily building up in Nelle, but as she rode towards the Mead place, a certain excitement came over her, temporarily displacing much of the accumulated aggravation. As she traveled down from the Mesa, she could see the glow of a mountainous bonfire blazing away in the valley. And as she drew nearer to the Mead homestead, she couldn't help but be delighted by the strings of Anisette's trademark paper lanterns strewn across the yard, playing colour, light and shadow against each other.

When she arrived at the wagon track leading up to the house, she saw a motley collection of characters clustered here and there around the fire, and she heard strains of music and echoes of laughter. Anisette had piled a table high with refreshments and Nelle could see a big cauldron of punch on another table. She couldn't help but smile to herself as she rode up to the celebration. The last time she'd been at any sort of party had been back in Mexico. There, it had seemed that every week offered a new festivity - a saint to honour, a birthday, a first communion, somebody's death... Mexico really knew how to party! But it seemed like a lifetime had passed since then.

Trotting in on her fat horse, grotesque mask gleaming in the firelight, Nelle cut a truly bizarre profile as she made her way to join the party. As she approached, several of the partygoers - a cat, a fortuneteller and a harlequin, turned and gaped. Clearly, her mask was a success, she noted proudly. And behind the mask, Nelle felt oddly relaxed – bold, and yet somehow protected. Considering this, and the cumbersome pitchfork she was hauling around, she decided to chance things for one night and leave her book bag on the saddle.

Pulling up beside the hitching rail, she leashed Pinto securely to it and edged towards the mass of costumed partygoers clustered near the bonfire. She said hello to a princess and a witch, who turned out to be Sally Thomas, proprietor of the doughnut shop, and Lillian Dale, the new, startlingly young, midlife-crisis wife of the fifty-something owner of the _Ware and Wear._ They were a little standoffish until Nelle peeked out from under her mask, but once her identity had been revealed, they were friendly enough.

It wasn't long before Nelle spied Anisette, who did look every bit the ethereal angel in a delicate white dress with silver trim, and the feathery wings and satin gloves. Seeing her again, Nelle knew she wanted to sort things out with her friend. She didn't want to feel begrudging any longer, so she headed in Anisette's direction, unconsciously scanning the disguised faces and costumed bodies for Arden's form. Not knowing if she would have a better chance to speak with the hostess, Nelle thought she'd better try to address things right away. She would be as discreet as possible. Maybe Anisette had a legitimate explanation for her strange behaviour in recent weeks and things would turn out fine. And then, with the matter resolved, she could just relax and enjoy the party. At this point, she knew she'd be relieved just to express herself and was anxious to get it over with.

On her way, she met two ghosts, Ann and Victor Lamont, a young couple she'd seen at church a few times. And after a few polite words, she moved on, only to be intercepted by a young, eager-eyed convict wearing a tin star. As he spoke, she monitored the woman in white out of the corner of her eye.

"Well, you sure look like the kind of evil that makes me want to grab my..."

"Watch it, Buster."

"...rosary."

"Right," she replied, watching the angel in the periphery slip onto the plank platform that had been set up as a makeshift dance floor. She heard someone strike up a fiddle. And then others moved in to dance. For the time being, it looked like Nelle had missed her chance. Disappointed as she was, she was not going to march onto the dance floor and make a scene right at the centre of things.

"I'm Flint Westwood, the new sheriff," said the clean-cut man with the inquiring brown eyes.

"Well, that explains the badge on your stripes. I'm Nelle Ford." She peeked out from behind her mask.

He tipped the nonexistent hat on his head. She held out her pitchfork.

"I thought it'd be real ironic," he said, gazing down at the tin star on his chest, which Nelle was certain he spit-shined every morning.

"Yeah, it's a real humdinger of a juxtaposition," she replied drolly. "What happened to the old sheriff, anyway?" _This guy can't be a day over twenty-five,_ she mused.

"Bit the dust."

"Oh."

"Yep. It was the chicken pox that got him."

"What!?"

"Yup. Helluva way to go."

"I see," said Nelle. She didn't.

"Say, do you think you'd indulge a fellow and agree to a dance?"

_Why not?_ she thought. The guy seemed a little wet behind the ears, but decent enough, though she wondered how long it would take for him to become the steely-eyed, cold-blooded mess more befitting to the role of lawman. Besides, Anisette was otherwise engaged; she was still dancing.

"Sure," she replied.

They wandered towards the dance floor. Nelle leaned her pitchfork against the refreshments table and then, when the next waltz began, the two stepped out and joined the other dancers. The devil and the convict held their own on the dance floor, and the more they danced, the more Nelle began to get the idea that the young man was not so green and fresh-from-the-farm as she'd first suspected, since he was able to speak charmingly and casually check out every woman on the dance floor whilst dancing with her. She noticed the way his eyes paused on the angel at the center of things. _Hmmmm...,_ she thought.

"I'm glad I can come to Mrs. Mead's shindigs, now," he said. "Before, when I was barely a deputy, well, I had to decline on account of Elvis. Couldn't be fraternizing with the competition. But now, well, I don't have to remain on the outskirts of things."

From the way he hesitated slightly over "Mrs. Mead, " it occurred to Nelle that he probably wasn't so used to calling her by her surname. And she was willing to bet good money that he _had_ been beyond the "outskirts." In fact, as the man talked, she realized that his was the voice that had called out from the dining room that night, the Jambalaya Night. She'd wondered why it had seemed familiar to her. Now she knew.

_Strange,_ she thought, and hmmm _..._ ed some more.

They danced another round. Then Nelle had to stop. With the exercise, her heart was beating faster, causing her healing leg to pulse uncomfortably. And the more she moved, the more the discomfort progressed to outright pain. She briefly explained to Flint that she was nursing an injury after a fall from her horse and didn't feel up to dancing anymore, so he offered her his arm and they walked over to the bonfire for some roasted corn.

Nelle had just lifted her mask and taken a bite of the sweet, hot corn, dripping with butter, when Flint pointed towards the barn.

"Well, it looks like this party just got twice as evil," he said.

Nelle looked out to where he'd gestured and spotted Arden dismounting from his tall bay. When she saw him, her heart lunged against her skin, and she smiled an almost imperceptible smile. She was genuinely surprised, though perhaps she shouldn't have been. After all, Anisette had probably invited half the town. But there he was, complete with black suit, long black cloak, and the tips of actual horns sticking up from his cowboy hat. As a crowning touch, he'd brought along a rather awful-looking scythe. _Touché,_ Nelle thought, pleased despite herself.

"I never expected to see Arden Wilder show up here," stated Flint, observing that almost imperceptible smile.

"Oh, why's that?" asked Nelle, trying not to sound too interested.

"He usually doesn't come to these types of gatherings. You know, since the whole Mattress Melissa debacle..." he said, snickering in a way that made her bridle.

"Mattress Melissa?" She couldn't help herself.

Flint took a bite of his corn before answering, chewing slowly and observing her carefully by way of a series of split-second sideways glances.

"I'm surprised you haven't already heard about it. But maybe it's finally becoming old news..."

He paused to gauge her interest. The slight arch of her eyebrow told him all he needed to know.

"I guess it'd be about five or six years back that Mr. Wilder over there fell for a gorgeous, spirited lass named Melissa Neville. The woman could make anyone laugh, and she had these blue eyes that just popped right out at you and this blonde hair that was just incredible..." he went on.

Again, Flint looked over at Nelle, who, now seemingly engrossed in her roasted corn, was quietly asking herself why it always, always had to be the blondes. Flint knew he came off as a bit of a greenhorn, but he was no moron; he was getting the strong sense that this was more than a polite interest.

_Hmmm...,_ he thought, as she nodded for him to continue.

"Anyhow, she and Arden were a hot item and everyone figured that a wedding was on the horizon. Until a sweet-talking, traveling salesman named Mick Burke came rolling into town, that is. Now, Mick was a good-looking, savvy fellow, and when he spied Miss Melissa one day in town, he was smitten and set his intents on a score. And so, in the same polished way he somehow convinced the habitants of Boulder City to buy out his entire mattress stock (mattresses were his specialty, you see... ha ha), he convinced Melissa he could give her the world, that it was only a matter of time before he would be rolling in wealth. Evidently, the Wild Dime ranch wasn't doing so well back then, and Mick played on that, gave her all kinds of pretty things, and promised her even more. And Melissa, who'd come up out of poverty and had no designs on going back to it as a poor rancher's wife, fell right onto his mattress, so to speak."

Nelle didn't like where this story was going; Flint could tell. And though he was enjoying observing her uncomfortable and unconvincing indifference, he'd just caught sight of Anisette again, who was no longer dancing, but rather, glancing over in his direction. So he quickly moved to the denouement.

"The short of it is that Melissa ran off with Mick the Mattress Man. A few months later, she showed up in Boulder City once again, back at her mother's, penitent and alone. I think Ani, er, Mrs. Mead tried to help her out a little. True to the storybook ending, she was knocked-up, too. Girls who'd been jealous of her had a good time with the whole thing. It was sad really. She tried to make it up to Wilder, but I guess that's pretty hard on a man. Apparently, it wasn't the cheating or the impending bastard child so much as it was the fact that she'd trusted an unknown, honey-tongued rogue of a mattress salesman with her security over him. Since then, well, he hasn't really taken a serious liking to any woman, at least as far as I know."

This time, he raised an eyebrow and looked over at her, but she made no reply, so he hungrily finished his corn, and then looked over his shoulder in the direction of where he'd last seen Anisette. Nelle sensed his restlessness, but did not notice the angel had stopped dancing.

"It was nice to meet you, Flint," she said, after a moment had passed. "I'm afraid my leg isn't up to any more dancing, so please feel free to find another partner, if you're interested in kicking up your heels some more. I don't mind."

Smiling at her gratefully, Flint offered a few more niceties and then took his leave. Nelle wandered over to the punch bowl to retrieve her pitchfork, still pondering what he'd just told her about Arden.

_How much of that is true?_ she wondered. _It would certainly explain why Arden instantly backed off after spending an afternoon with me. Although that could just as easily be explained by my inconsistent shifting between civil Miss Ford and Nutso Nelle whenever I am in his presence._ She pulled her mask back down over her face and after pausing for a few friendly words with Meg Owen, a jovial gal who worked in the tailor's shop, she hobbled away from the horde of merry-making partygoers. She had to find a place to sit down and rest her leg. When she'd arrived, she'd been itching to kick up her heels, but now her body was telling her she'd been an overeager fool. There were still physical reparations to be made, and she needed to take it slow. In the background, she could see Anisette, now dancing with a satisfied-looking Flint. It was becoming less and less likely that she'd even speak to Anisette tonight, Nelle realized, though with the story of Mattress Melissa to mull over, she did not care quite so much.

Leaning slightly on her pitchfork, she walked stiffly into the barn, which was welcomingly warm and smelled comfortingly of fresh hay. Peeling the mask from her face, she took a deep breath, relishing the stillness of the barn. It felt good to be alone for a moment. Spotting the ladder to the hayloft, she moved over to it, pausing before climbing bumblingly up. Once in the loft, she edged between the high piles of fodder stored under the rafters until she came to the square loading bay at the front of the loft. Its cross-buck doors had been swung wide open, and peering out, she could see the forms of the dancers swirling around the lantern-lit dance floor. And further on, outlandish figures mingled around the bonfire. The moon reclined lazily, eying the festival with mild interest.

Deciding to join the moon, Nelle stretched herself out on some straw, her legs resting on the floor in front of her and her back pressing against one of the open doors, so that she could look over her shoulder and still see the partygoers in the yard. The pain in her leg began to subside and she felt cozy and sated. Shrugging resignedly at the white blur of an angel in the distance, she crossed her arms and leaned further back.

Drowsy, she ruminated there in the hay, drifting closer and closer to oblivion. For a while, her mind rambled back to Mexico and she thought wistfully of Beth, and of Beth's imp of a son, Diego. And at some point, with eyes half-open, taking in the nearby revelry, the amused winking sky, the sound of the wind slinking through the dry grass, and the whisper of frost in the air, Nelle realized that even though she missed her cousin and her little family, she genuinely liked it in Colorado. And she was fairly sure this realization came to her before she noted the tall man in the dark cloak coming towards the barn. Fairly sure.

Arden had spotted her just as she'd slipped inside the barn. He'd recognized the red dress. Then he'd quickly made the rounds, stopping only to help Mark Felding build up the bonfire and to tip his hat courteously at the hostess, who was still whirling around the dance floor, all the while keeping a casual surveillance on the barn. And now he stole quietly towards its entrance.

Rubbing her eyes, Nelle sat up. As she'd dozed, her spiky hairdo had gone from sea urchin to sea cucumber, and so she speedily pulled the hairpins out of her hair and swept the whole mess back behind her shoulders, hoping for a semblance of insouciant repose. She could hear him climbing the ladder as she brushed bits of chaff from her shoulders.

"Hail Princess of Darkness," he said, nodding briefly in the mottled blackness.

"Hello, Mephistopheles."

"Ah, _Faust_. That's a strange one, isn't it?"

"Yes, indeed. It beats Marlowe's _Dr. Faustus_ in its complexity and phantasmagoria, but the ending is a little chicken-livered."

Arden laughed. "Yes, more poetic, more compelling, more consoling, and definitely chicken-livered."

Nelle was sitting on one side of the triangle of moonlight that angled in through the loft doorway. Arden's eyes struggled in the darkness and he stumbled once as he tried to maneuver through the well-stocked storage space to where she sat. She heard him and edged into the light to make way. He got a good look at her then, before she backed into the shadowed space beyond the far side of the opening. He could tell she'd been napping because of the nest of straw imprinted on her right cheek. Her hair was a mess too, though he much preferred it that way, he admitted to himself. She had lined her eyes, which made them look bigger, but also afraid, somehow. He liked her better without it.

"Tired after a hard day of unleashing unspeakable evil on the planet?" he inquired.

"Yeah."

He sat down on the floor where she had been. His face was obscured in the darkness. Only his boots stretched into the stream of light. Glancing down at the black leather, Nelle wished fervently and futilely that her heart would not react as if a moose was charging her every time she was near the man. She needed to be tougher around him; already, she felt she'd been unfair. Part of her wished she'd never met him. Another part hated that part. And then she just wished, with everything in her, that the past had been different. How much simpler things would be! Then she wouldn't have to worry like this. She could just be in a barn with Arden, and wholly enjoy it.

Turning her head, she leaned into the light and looked frowningly out into the night.

Relaxed in the shadows, Arden watched her. He knew she couldn't see his face, so he let his gaze wander over her. She looked beautiful but agitated, as usual. He wondered what was bothering her. Of course, he sensed he was part of it somehow, but how much of it really had to do with him? She seemed to enjoy his company and yet resist it. Why? She was a grown woman. An unattached woman. It made no sense at all. He knew there was something else. And if he was going to have any chance at finding out what it was, he would have to move cautiously. If he pushed her, he would get nowhere. So as much as he wanted to know what was going on, he realized suddenly that he could not demand to know. He couldn't even ask her. He had to wait for her to tell him of her own volition.

_Tread lightly, Arden, tread lightly..."_ he reminded himself, as he watched her scan the party in the distance.

When she turned back, she found him looking straight into her eyes. He'd changed positions, so that his body too, was partially in the span of light, and closer to hers. It startled her, the force with which he looked at her. _He's just as turned on as I am,_ she realized, looking right back at him. But, pulled into the arresting depths of those eyes, she saw there was more. Plenty more. She detected a touch of wariness, and suddenly, she had no doubt that the story of Melissa Neville was true, at least the core of it, if not the exact details. She found confusion there, and questions, and again, his blatant but restrained desire. And at that moment, she knew that he wanted her to see it, and her breathing grew shallower, faster, and her body was instantly aflame with enough heat to incinerate Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. But then there was a tinge of something else, something that disturbed her. _Not love, not love, not love,_ she pleaded to herself. _There can be no falling in love. Period._

The likelihood of her spontaneous combustion was reduced by her rising panic. _What if I hurt him?_ _What if it's too late not to hurt him?_ And then she panicked even more because it seemed odd to her that she should be obsessing quite so much about hurting him. _This is fast getting out of hand,_ she thought. And then she totally panicked when she considered what Arden might have discerned from looking into _her_ eyes.

She reached for the pitchfork.

_Beat it!_ commanded her mind.

_Tell him everything. He'll understand,_ implored her heart.

_Please, just one kiss! I beg thee. Is that so wrong?_ shrieked her unquenched body.

_Yeah, right. As if there is such a thing as 'just one kiss.' Stop dilly-dallying,_ went the mind again. _Be professional, direct. It's best for him._

_Maybe you can escape it all. Maybe you can run away together,_ contested her reckless heart.

_Just put your hands on me and take me to the floor,_ blazed her body.

"How's your thigh?"

"What?" muttered Nelle, shaking her muddled head and using the pitchfork to help pull herself up.

"You know, that sumptuous bit of flesh and bone beneath your left hip?"

The temperature in the barn promptly increased by fifteen degrees.

"Uh... It's getting better."

"Good," he said.

_Was that an earnest "good" or a provocative "good" or a simply polite "good?"_ Nelle wondered. And in the meantime, Arden had stood up and moved towards her. His face was inches from hers. _Provocative "good",_ she answered herself, stressed. She knew what could happen. She felt it in every cell of her body. Yet, she did not move. Her brain and her body and her heart were still in the throes of their bloodiest battle. And there were those devastating eyes, the contours of his jaw, his curious smile. She wanted to move closer, but she knew she couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't... "Nelle..."

"Yeah?"

He lifted his hand; then dropped it. She noticed.

"Let's go for a ride."

"It's probably midnight," she protested. Feebly.

"Prime time for committing the Devil's handiwork. A midnight ride, Nelle, to the Styx and back again?"

Nelle looked down. Inside, she was all Wild-Bill-Hickok-and-Dave-Tutt-Walking-10-Paces-Back-From-Each-Other-At-High-Noon, but outside, she played it light.

"Get behind me Satan," she jested.

Arden looked down. Inside, he was all Billy-the-Kid-and-the-Regulators-Against-the-Seven-Rivers-Warriors-on-a-Bad-Monday-On-the-Range, but outside, he played it light.

"Sounds wicked," he countered, playfully.

Nelle blushed, though she would never have admitted it. All the heat in her body drew in towards her core, burned below her belly. She felt that at any moment, her knees might turn in their resignation, and she would melt down into the hay that littered the floor. And she almost hoped it would happen, just for the release.

"Nelle..." he coaxed.

Sensing her hesitation, he reached out again, and this time, he touched her cheek softly, letting his fingers slide back into her hair. All at once, he was no longer interested in procuring her backstory. It suddenly seemed of the least importance. His fingers wandered to her lips. They were hot to the touch. Soft and pliant. Impatient. He heard her breath catch in her throat, and saw her eyes shut, her body arch subtly, and he was about to pull her in close, when unexpectedly, she recoiled.

"I'm sorry, Arden. I want to... the Styx, I mean... But, I can't..."

And then she ran for it. Somehow, a volatile draw had been achieved between the body, the heart, and the mind.

Clumsily, she grabbed the pitchfork, hurling it down the ladder ahead of her. Then down she went, rushing out of the barn and into the open air, ignoring her complaining leg. She had to get away from him, she knew, or she would give in. If she went to her horse, she knew that by the time she persuaded Pinto to move, Arden might be right beside her. If she went to the bonfire, she would have to talk genially to any number of Boulderites, and she knew she couldn't. She didn't have it in her. Her thigh ached and she could barely think. So she ran towards the house, Anisette's house, and simply rushed in. Once inside, she came to a standstill. She stopped, rested her back against the wall, and simply slid down to the floor. Then she dropped her head onto her bent knees and closed her eyes. She needed to try and think. She had to get it together.

Outside at the refreshments table, Anisette noticed that all of her pumpkin cookies had been devoured, so she grabbed her silver tray and made for the house, where there were more waiting in the kitchen. She smiled to herself. She couldn't help but love a party, especially when she was the one throwing it.

Upon opening her front door, she spotted Nelle hunched there against a crowd of gawking, two-dimensional parrots. She vacillated momentarily before going in. But it was her own house after all, and she wasn't going to pussyfoot on out like some kind of cat burglar. Quietly, she stepped inside, leaving the door ajar behind her. She was only going to be a minute. She had to get back with the cookies.

A rather disappointed Arden had stood quietly in the hayloft for a good minute after Nelle had dashed off. He could still see the struggle in her eyes, her parted lips, her resentful, set jaw... He knew it was genuine. And yet, part of him was angry. He'd turned, looking out into the night through the open loft doors, and had watched frustrated, as she'd hurried into the farmhouse.

_It would be one thing if she felt nothing, but she said herself, she wanted to,_ he thought, perplexed. _Why not, then?_ he wondered. _I've got to find out..._ Once again, the image of her revolver lying on the trail came back to him.

"Nelle, are you alright?" asked Anisette.

Nelle had heard her come in. She'd recognized the trip-trap of Anisette's footsteps. But she hadn't looked up until just then.

"Sure, I'm hellagood."

Anisette bent, put the tray down on the floor, and walked over to her.

"That seems suitable for a she-devil," she joked. But Nelle wasn't amused.

"I've missed you," tried Anisette once more.

"Don't even start with that tripe again, Ani!" Nelle rolled her eyes.

"It's true."

"Yeah, sure. That makes perfect sense. That's why you hide when I come around. You make a big deal about having me to a Cajun dinner party; then don't invite me when you actually put one on. You write me pretty little notes and sneak them to my door when you know I'm off working... Forgive me if I don't exactly believe you!"

Making to leave, Nelle pushed herself back up the wall. She was furious. And addled enough already. She didn't need this.

"Wait, Nelle!"

Anisette was more than a little surprised. She'd never seen Nelle so completely riled.

"What do you want?" demanded Nelle.

"I'm sorry, Nelle. It's so, so... I don't even... I mean, it's... You wouldn't..."

"Uh huh."

Nelle spun on her heel and stepped towards the open door, which seemed to her to be crying out for a slamming. Well, she would appease it! It was time to split, to get out into the waiting, solitary night. It had been hard enough with Arden, and now there was this. It was obvious she wasn't going to get a straight answer about what had been going on. But now Anisette was coming towards her. She had an odd, pained look on her face, and grabbed her arm with ferocity. Ignoring her, Nelle kept on, pulling herself towards the door. However, she was stopped dead in her tracks when Anisette yanked her violently back and clutching her arm tightly, leaned right in and kissed her full on the mouth.

At first, Nelle was too stunned to respond. She couldn't believe it. She didn't think. She didn't move. She didn't anything. _#@ &*?! This is no friendly peck,_ she told herself. It was slow and tentative, but nevertheless, hot on her lips and all lusted up. She didn't know quite what to do. But then, as she breathed in the sweet, spicy smell of the body before her, she felt an uncanny, new tenderness for the woman, a momentary inexplicable harmony. It hit her like a flash of light. Besides, it wasn't as if she was sexually frustrated at all. And so, just like that, she went for it. She kissed back, tongue and all.

Which was interesting, since Arden had come over to the house in search of Nelle, and arriving quietly at the open door, had witnessed the whole thing.

They didn't see him, or hear the anvil drop mysteriously down from the sky and flatten him where he stood.

Flabbergasted, Arden left immediately and rode for an indistinct eight miles before he realized he was on the fast track to Colorado City rather than on the way home to his cabin. Beyond rattled, he could not get the image of the two women out of his mind. Anisette had been gripping Nelle's forearm tightly enough that her wrist and hand were pasty white. Her face had been flushed, her eyes closed. And Nelle, Nelle's head had been tilted slightly back and away from him, so that he could see the smooth, enticing curve of her throat. Anisette had moved in closer, pressing up against Nelle's body, and Nelle had just gone ahead and kissed her back languorously.

"What the devil..." he asked Hermes.

Hermes made no reply.

"It should've been me!"

The longer Arden thought about it the more exasperated he became. It wasn't simply that Nelle was some kind of sapphic manifestation. No way. He knew that much. He'd seen the way her body had responded to his touch. He'd looked into those eyes and seen the hunger. He knew now for certain that there was an undeniable intensity between this woman and himself. Yet, why, why, why had she refused him but kissed Anisette? Anisette!

"Well, fuck me!" he announced, as the scene reeled through his mind again and again.

He didn't sleep that night. And neither did Nelle, for that matter. At least, not much. After a few minutes, Anisette had stopped kissing her, and with a kittenish grin, had taken her hand and led her incredulous and still mute, to the bedroom. Intrigued and very stunned, Nelle had again gone along with it. Anisette had kissed her once more, and then gestured to her white confection of a bed.

"Have a rest," she'd said, before she'd turned and left, returning to the hall for her silver tray, and five minutes later, carrying out another four dozen pumpkin cookies and rejoining the party.

Now, Nelle was an almost-thirty-year-old woman. And she hadn't exactly been saving herself for marriage. Almost ten years earlier, she had realized that that was no way to live, especially since marriage was not one of the primary things on her mind. So she'd thrown her virginity out the window one solitary afternoon after she'd turned twenty, and the glazier's attractive son had happened by to see about a broken pane in the carriage house. Ever since then, she had engaged in a select number of careful, and usually brief, liaisons. She'd generally preferred it that way, knowing that overdoing it would only up her chances at becoming an executive producer in Nelle, The Sequel, a role she was prepared to handle, but preferred to prevent.

Still, she'd learned a few tricks or two in her lifetime. In fact, she was secretly a little proud of her sexual repertoire. But boys and girls, as you may remember learning in Sunday School, pride goeth before a fall, and that night after the party was over and all the lanterns had gone out, Nelle was appropriately humbled when a very naked Anisette straddled her beneath the lavender-scented sheets and proceeded to leisurely and audaciously strip her of that ego. So let that be a lesson to you.

The next morning, while Arden was slamming back coffee and preparing to go out and do whatever the hell it is that ranchers do (you can only mend fences and brand things so much, right?), Nelle was demurely nibbling French toast in Anisette's bed and thinking what a difference a day makes.

"I mean, why can't two friends be sensual without trying to define things, without making it 'complicated?'" Anisette was saying to her, which reminded Nelle of a similar discussion she'd had once in Aguascalientes, only that conversation had involved "tres amigos" and was much more protracted.

For a moment, Nelle was lost in a fog of memories. Then she realized that Anisette was still speaking.

"I think it's perfectly normal for two women who enjoy each other's company to just be natural together. I know, you and I both, we like a good, solid man who knows exactly how to treat a woman. But that's no reason we can't have a relaxed, open friendship. It's not that I'm, you know, _that_ kind of woman or anything."

"It wouldn't matter to me if you were, Ani."

"I know. But the truth is, I'm not. Not at all."

Smiling inwardly, Nelle nodded along innocently, thinking back to the moans that had escaped Ani's lips not seven hours earlier. They seemed to her to be precisely the type of moans of _that_ kind of woman. But she was not about to argue with the woman who had just made her French toast and done _those_ things to her, no matter how atypical she thought their feminine "friendship" was. Plus, when Anisette said it that way - so convinced, part of Nelle almost believed it, perhaps because she knew that in that moment, Anisette did believe it.

"Still, I wouldn't advertise. Know what I mean? Some folks wouldn't get it," Anisette added.

"Uh. Yeah," agreed Nelle, thinking of the school board in all its dour glory.

They slept all Saturday.

Abruptly deciding that he needed to check the fence line of the north pasture, which conveniently bordered the Mead farm, Arden rode up past the little house. He made sure to keep Hermes in the thickest patches of the frost-tipped, browning grass, where the horse's hooves would make no sound, and tried hard not to feel like some kind of stalker. The fence was in fine order of course, but he did happen to notice, with much chagrin, that Nelle's lump of a horse was still there, stationed in exactly the same spot as it had been when he'd withdrawn from the party. He left quickly, feeling increasingly hurt as a whole new series of images bombarded his still-whirling mind.

After that, he went over to Larry's and the two men worked side-by-side all day, barely speaking, which was usual. Nevertheless, something had changed in their working dynamic, because later that evening, when the children had gone to bed and Larry and Sarah sat quietly together by the fire, Larry looked up from the paper and said to his wife, "Something's really gotten to Arden."

As Arden's mind continued showing perpetual re-runs of the Ford-Mead kissing scene, weeks quietly passed and the days grew shorter and the nights nippier. Soon enough, Nelle was cursing the frosty mornings each time her toes hit the floor of her drafty cabin. Any remaining thoughts of the desert were now rose-tinged and framed by, what appeared to be, the welcoming arms of saguaros, their heads bursting into delicate bloom, the accompanying spines and dirt softened by the lens of romance. And when she was shivering, even her sweaty, waterless sojourn just north of the border did not seem to have been so bad. Still, she was glad to be where she was, for the most part. She was doing well in Boulder City, and it had certainly proven to be an interesting little town. She had found herself a delightful friend. She had managed to recall her teaching skills, to positive effect. And though there were four silvery scars extending down her left thigh, her injuries from the confrontation with the cougar had completely healed and she felt strong again.

But she had not seen Arden in over a month, not since the night of Anisette's party, except once, from a distance, as he'd walked into the post office. However, that hadn't stopped her from thinking of him. In fact, thinking about Arden had become a nasty little habit with her, one that was proving hard to kick. Regretful that she'd thrown him for a loop by letting things get even as far as they did, she'd resolved to let go, to leave him be no matter what, even if she was still rocking back and forth on her own ass whenever she warmed herself in front of the fireplace. But her heart was unwilling, and even though the man was clearly disenchanted with her, she spent each night, even the ones at Anisette's, drifting to sleep imagining just what would happen if he reached out for her again and she didn't pull away. She could not let it go. Again and again, her mind returned to him.

Ani could sense _what_ was going on with Nelle, but she didn't know _who._ And she didn't ask. On the night of the masquerade party, when she'd peeled off the Devil's dress, she'd stared, taken aback by the four, elongated rows of stitches climbing up Nelle's thigh, and Nelle, upon being pressed, had given her a clipped version of the story, sans Arden, and then had obstinately refused to spend any more time on the matter. But Anisette discerned that there was more to it, as there had been several glaring gaps in the recounted events and Nelle had been borderline abusive in her stubborn, abbreviated telling of them. Plus, there was the way Nelle tossed and turned sometimes at night, sighing in the darkness when she thought Ani was asleep. So while Anisette was left in the dark as to the identity of the man, she did not doubt it was a man. Nelle was too hot and bothered for it to be anything else. But Ani respected her friend and didn't pry. She kept her eyes and ears wide open, but she didn't pry, and Nelle was especially grateful for it, because she sensed that Ani knew, and considering her friend's personality, she knew the woman must be itching for the juicy details. Not that there really were any, Nelle noted regretfully.

She also knew that Anisette had her own private liaisons going on. Flint was most definitely a young, pretty boy, but _she_ certainly didn't find anything special about him. He was playful and light as air, and Nelle preferred her men more earthy, challenging yet steadfast. Evidently though, Anisette didn't share her opinion, because Nelle often spotted his horse staring dully into the grass outside the Mead barn. And whenever she did spot his horse, she always turned and went back the way she came. And she never pried either. And Ani knew, and was grateful in turn.

Nelle had learned too, not to stop in at Anisette's house more than once or twice a week. Even though Ani supposedly felt that it was completely reasonable and normal for two women to 'be natural' together, it had become evident to Nelle that she didn't fully or consistently believe it because there were some afternoons when winter seemed to have stopped by a little early and the atmosphere became icy and unpredictable. And on those visits, Nelle would excuse herself rather quickly and bolt home to sit by the fire, not returning again until Anisette dropped by or left a note marked with red sealing wax pinned to her front door, coaxing her back. And often, when they were together, they behaved exactly as any amicable pair of friends might. It was only sometimes, when Anisette felt especially free, that they would find themselves embracing in the large, white-curtained bed, occasionally pausing to wonder just what had happened that they should find themselves there, but not getting up.

For Nelle, the times they did spend wrapped up in each other were a hazy, sensual exploration – unfamiliar rites in a foreign land. Anisette had some kind of otherworldly allure, an intangible something that she just couldn't put her finger on. Certainly Nelle was turned-on, but she wasn't so much aroused as bewitched by the long dark hair, the lunar eyes, and the increasingly unfathomable fact that this fanciful, quirky woman had once been married to a gunfighter. She had a feeling it was different for Anisette, though. Anisette wasn't "exploring". Oh, no. She was fucking. And she wasn't in any foreign land, either. There was no question about it. Even Christina Rossetti would've agreed. Sometimes this worried Nelle a little, but not enough for her to put a stop to things. After all, Flint was in the picture, too. And if she tried to rearrange their "friendship" into a simple friendship without the quotes, considering Anisette's erratic comfort levels with the "friendship," maybe there wouldn't be any friendship at all. Nelle valued the friendship and enjoyed "the friendship," so she decided it was worth it to take her chances and keep on.

School, at least, seemed to be progressing smoothly for the time being. Jake Connelly had given her no more troubles. In fact, he'd been outright polite to her on a few occasions. And now she was preparing the children for a little Christmas Pageant she planned to put on before the end of the term. Accordingly, there was an aura of excitement and lightheartedness amongst her students as they got ready for the holidays.

In January, Nelle planned to begin tutoring sixteen-year-old Ellen Bailey, the oldest girl in her class, for the Teacher's Examination. She had mixed feelings about this because there was a part of her that suspected she just might be training her own replacement. Really, Ellen was the ideal candidate. Firstly, she was young and fresh; in other words, she could be manipulated and look sweet about it at the same time. Secondly, she had spent most of her life in Boulder, so everyone knew her. And her father was the local miller, which helped her chances quite a bit more than if he'd been the local pothole-filler. The girl was obedient, modest, and reserved, - any school board's dream. Plus, she was smart as a whip. _It may not be next year, but I can see it coming,_ thought Nelle.

It was on a Saturday morning in early December that the first heavy snow thunked down on Boulder City, plastering everything with damp white. During the night, the temperature dropped significantly below freezing, and Nelle was exceedingly relieved that it was not Sunday so she could stay curled up lazily in bed under her pile of blankets for as long as she liked. Even after she replenished the dwindling fire, it was still frigid in her cabin, so she reached for a book, pulled the covers up to her ears and tried to escape into the text. She shivered and read until noon, when starvation, combined with the knowledge that she'd about reached the thermal peak of the day, finally forced her to get up. Wearing men's flannel pajamas, and wrapped in a shawl with three pairs of wool socks on her feet, she lit the stove and commenced a hasty preparation of some huevos rancheros and potato pancakes. While they cooked, she took out some wine and mulled it on the warm stove. Then she served herself up and took her bowl and mug over to the fire, where she knelt down, her back to the flames, and took up her fork to lay waste to the ova and tubers.

Just then, there was a sudden knocking at her door. Not a gentle tapping or staccato rapping, but a serious, assertive knocking. Jolted by the abrupt sounds, Nelle nearly threw her fork into the flames, but she caught herself and speedily set the dish and utensils down, before rising and creeping towards the table, where her Remington was hiding innocuously in her book bag, as usual. No one ever came up to her cabin, except for Anisette, and Anisette did not knock like that. Her knock was more like a drum roll. Plus, on such a cold day, there was no way Ani would've ventured out.

The knocking came again - the same firm, insistent sound. Nelle dropped her shawl. _Who can it be?_ she wondered, not moving. Here she was standing in her pajamas, her house whimpering with cold and hardly fit for guests, and the sweet smell of wine and spices in the air. _What if it's Dyck or Musgrave?_ she thought, with alarm. _Or what if... But no,_ he _wouldn't knock, you idiot,_ she reminded herself, relief overtaking her momentary paranoia.

Standing motionless beside the stove, she did what anyone might do. Barely breathing, she pretended no one was home. But the person outside did not give up, knocking a third time, heavier still. Nelle contemplated going to the window, but once there, she would have to scratch through the layer of frost in order to see out, and by that time, the visitor would easily spot her moving behind the glass, so she decided against it.

Then, from the outside, the door was rattled and unlatched.

With the wind blasting past his shoulders, Arden burst into the little cabin to find a shivering, glaring Nelle standing in front of him with her revolver pointed squarely at the centre of his chest.

As soon as she saw it was him, she let her hands fall to her sides, and as subtly as possible, which was not subtle at all, she placed the Remington onto the bench beside her right knee, sighing heavily with relief.

"Jesus, Nelle! Who were you expecting?"

"I dunno," she said, her body shaking with cold, and perhaps nerves, "A really aggressive Bible salesman?"

He tried not to smile.

"I finally brought you a new rocking chair," he said, glancing sheepishly at the steaming bowl on the floor by the fire. "It's just outside. I can get it now, if you like?"

"Thanks, Arden. In a minute. Warm yourself, first. It's barking cold out there!" she said awkwardly, gesturing to the fire while trying not draw attention to her unkempt appearance. She dashed towards the fireplace and lifted her dishes from the floor, placing them onto the table.

"Barking?!"

"Yeah. Can't you hear that ferocious wind thwacking its tail against the eaves and howling after the missing moon?"

Again, she gestured towards the warmest spot in the drafty little cabin.

Arden nodded appreciatively and stepped over to the fire, crouching down in front of it. It was then that it occurred to him that she wasn't yet dressed. She was nonchalantly standing there beside the stove wearing men's pajamas, her ruddied-up brown hair draped over her shoulders, as if nothing was unusual.

"Hungry?" she asked.

"No, thanks."

"Mulled wine?" she offered.

"Uh... Sure."

She noted his hesitation.

Sipping from her own mug, she walked over to him, proffering a second mug that smelled strongly of cinnamon and nutmeg. Clearly chilled herself, she knelt down and remained beside him at the fire, saying nothing, both her hands wrapped around the warm cup. He couldn't blame her. This little shack she called a cabin had been dubiously weatherproofed. Even inside, near the door and window where it was coldest, he'd been able to see his own breath.

But then he glanced over at her, so close to him. He couldn't help but notice the smoothness of the skin at her throat and collarbone, the small dot of a mole on her neck, just below her left ear, and the way the nipples of her small, firm breasts pressed faintly, but insistently against the flannel of her pajamas. His body tensed; he craved her. And in that moment, he hated her for it. He hated her because he recognized the scent of incense in her hair, because of the red in her cheeks, because she used the word "barking" to describe the winter, because of the way she nipped at that lower lip when she was thinking, and mostly because she wouldn't even give him a chance.

Self-conscious, Nelle was silently wishing she hadn't been quite so sloth about getting up that morning. If she hadn't been such a slacker, she'd be washed and dressed by now, and could have avoided appearing as some kind of slovenly animal, although she wasn't trying to attract the man, she had to remind herself. Still, she hadn't even brushed her hair. _It really doesn't matter,_ her mind insisted, the rest of her remaining wholly unconvinced. And here, here was Arden, freshly shaved, his hair pulled back neatly, giving off that distinct smell of soap and clean, scrubbed man. And she'd started things off so nicely by pulling her gun on him! She bit the corner of her lip and tried to think of something else, as the silence grew uncomfortable.

Brusquely, Arden stood and swallowed the last of the warm wine in gulps. He walked towards the door, slamming the mug onto the table as he passed. A surprised Nelle rapidly straightened up, looking as if some delicate bit of skin had been suddenly set upon by a wayward spark from the roaring fire behind her. But before she could say anything, he'd gone out the door, jerking it closed behind him. Bemused and undeniably disappointed, she picked her shawl up off of the floor and wrapped it around herself, wondering what had just happened, and what she should do next.

Presently, Arden barged back inside carrying the rocking chair. He set it down in front of the fireplace.

"There you go," he said simply, his face white, almost angry.

She looked down at it. He'd made it himself, she could see. It was perfect – the dark wood, polished smooth, the sturdy back carved with the same strands of ivy that graced his front door.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, running her hand along the smooth edges.

Arden softened, a little. Nelle sat down in the chair and sighed pleasantly, rocking it a little.

"Thank you, Arden," she said genuinely. It was one of the best gifts she'd ever received.

"You're welcome," was the gruff reply.

Then things turned again. She looked up at Arden with an earnest, contented smile, and he decided that it was all too much; he couldn't take it a second longer. He had to get out of there. He'd finished what he came to do. He was done with her!

Purposefully, he began striding towards the door.

"Wait," said an unsettled Nelle.

"What?"

"It's cold. You came all this way. Are you sure you don't want to sit and get a little warmer before going back?"

He looked into her eyes.

"It's not exactly warm in here," he sneered, pointedly.

Stung, Nelle dropped her eyes and peered down at her socks. _I hate wool socks! They're itchy and ugly and stupid,_ she thought. _Sure, they're warm, but they make your feet feel slimy. That marine, primordial, squid-slippery kind of nasty... And why do they always have to be fucking gray with red stripes?! Why?!_

Normally, it took a lot - usually very serious physical pain - to draw a tear out of Nelle, but standing there with Arden, she realized she was getting dangerously close to breaking down. She wanted so badly for him to understand, but she didn't dare involve him. She _had_ to let him go.

She kept her eyes down until she could get her hay fever in check.

"It's true. It isn't. It's quite drafty, in fact," she agreed, frostily.

"Well, I suppose you have your ways of warming up," he scoffed.

It took a few seconds before she understood. Then she shrank back from him. _He knows,_ she realized. _He knows about Ani._

"Yes, I do indeed! I keep an exceptionally large collection of wool socks," she retorted, ignoring the implications of his statement, her voice now sharp and cutting.

Fury flooded through her. She didn't know or care if she had any right to be angry; she just was. She knew she'd hurt his feelings by pushing him away, but she hadn't meant to, and here he was, trying to hurt her. Intending to hurt her. Blast it all to hell! Couldn't he see that she did care for him? Couldn't he see that it wasn't easy for her, either? After all, she was only trying to protect him. It was for him that she had kept her distance. Couldn't he see that she wasn't in love with Ani? That she was in love with him?

Damn it.

There it was.

She was in love with him.

It was a moot point, she told herself. It was irrelevant. It didn't change the course of things. She'd think about it later. After all, it didn't mean she wasn't still pissed at him. Nothing had changed.

She set her jaw and finally looked up, directly into his scornful eyes. Immediately, Arden knew that he'd landed a significant blow. At first he was a little pleased, but the longer she looked at him, the more he was filled with regret. After all, he knew very well he wasn't done with her. There was no way in hell he was done with her. And this didn't help his chances any. He'd wanted to see her contrite, maybe a little ashamed. But she wasn't, not at all. Surprised? Yes. But certainly not penitent. Miserable? Maybe a little. Enraged? Definitely. Overwhelmed? Strangely, yes. Hurt?

Shit.

He couldn't say he hadn't wanted to hurt her. But now that he was staring at the aftermath, he began to feel sorry he'd been so quick with the lip. She actually looked pretty torn up. And now, he fervently wished he'd asked her the why of the matter before crossing her. Instead, he stood there looking at her clenched jaw and her defiant, red, watery eyes.

Determined not to let him have the pleasure of seeing her falter, Nelle would not look away from him. She glued her eyes to his pupils and would not let them go. It didn't matter what he saw in them. She didn't care. It didn't matter if his shoulders drooped and a look of remorse crept across his face. She would not look away.

Now Arden didn't want to leave at all. But he knew that at this point, he had no other option. Dismayed, he tore his eyes away from hers, slowly opened the door and stepped out into the bitter winter, closing the door gently behind him. On his ride home, there were no more visions of she and his neighbour together. Instead, there were only those savage, dejected eyes.

After he closed the door, Nelle walked slowly over to the rocking chair. She threw another log on the fire, and then she sank into the chair and let it do what it was designed to do. She rocked until the darkness swelled around her, until it drowned her.

Then she rose serenely, walked across her cabin and smashed all the bowls in the kitchen.

VI.

The week before Christmas, Nelle held the much-rehearsed Pageant. The night before the production, she and Ellen decorated the schoolroom with fragrant, fresh pine boughs and an abundance of red ribbon. There was certainly no originality about the decor, but then, they weren't going for originality. They were trying to please a crowd and cover up the stale smells of wet boots and puberty. Several of the older boys had hauled her sturdy desk aside, pushing it beneath one of the side windows, so that the front of the room was clear. A swath of black fabric was hung to cover the blackboard, and then dotted with yellow tissue stars made by the children. Late into the night, Nelle polished the hardwood floor until it shone like the sweat on Lucifer's forehead. She draped a tablecloth over her desk so it would be ready for the cake and cookies that Anisette had whipped up. Nelle had wanted to do the baking herself, but while the stove in her cabin functioned normally, the little shelf that made her stove's fiery belly into an "oven" was missing altogether, thus rendering anything other than incineration an impossibility. So Ani had stepped in.

It went off rather well in the end, and Nelle was both relieved and proud. Of course, it was not without a hitch or two, but the few mistakes that did occur were almost fortuitous – the kind of innocent, cutesy-wootsy slip-ups that made everyone go soft like molasses and murmur "aw, shucks." Young Tommy Hay, who was so painfully shy that it hurt a little just to watch him, had excitedly uttered, in his brief portion of the narration, "And whoa, the angel of the Lord came upon them," which relieved the nervous tension and garnered quite a few laughs. Nelle was delighted with him because even after his minor flub, he'd managed to stumble through the next few lines without help, and in rehearsal, he'd often gotten so flustered that he'd needed regular prompting. Then later, Meghan Thompson, a girl who could misplace anything, lost her angel wings, and Jesse Henderson felt compelled to loudly command her to "Get them wings back on, Meg!" The audience was amused, especially since Jesse sounded exactly like his bossy old man, Johnny-Boy Henderson. Poor Meghan had turned a flaming shade of red, but she'd quickly retrieved her lost appendages and maneuvered to the back of the choir line to reassemble.

Everyone had done his or her part, even Jake Connelly, who'd flatly refused to take part in the nativity scene, but had offered instead to read a brief section of Dickens' _A Christmas Carol._ Looking out from the sidelines towards her audience, she had seen Musgrave's face sour a little when Jake began his oration, but everyone else seemed pleasantly surprised by both Jake and the break from tradition. Still, no one was more pleased than the beaming Nelle, herself.

Arden had been there. He'd come walking in, along with Larry and Sarah, to watch the twins do their bit as shepherdesses. He'd remained in the back against the wall, while Sarah and Larry sat down on one of the desk benches alongside the other parents. His eyes had flitted back and forth between Cherry and Carrie, and their teacher, who was standing at the front, in the left corner, ready to cue the forgetful and guide the nervous. She'd been wearing a new dress – intense Prussian blue, which in the soft light had made her lips seem very red.

Old man Connelly had been the surprise of the event. Just as the program had started, he'd barged noisily into the proceedings. Everyone had turned and stared. There were a few gasps and stifled, shocked murmurs. After all, he'd not been to any kind of community event in years. In fact, he barely came to town at all. Upon seeing him, Nelle herself had stiffened noticeably, and Arden, who'd been watching her, had turned and spotted him there at the entrance, momentarily cursing himself for leaving his gun outside. But then Nelle, along with the audience, recovered herself. Noting that he did not appear to be carrying a weapon, she smiled and pointed to a seat, and he'd politely sat down whilst the program continued on. He'd stayed until the Pageant was done, applauding loudly with the other parents, and then he'd bolted, not staying to speak to anyone or indulge in the refreshments, much to everyone's relief, especially his own.

Arden hadn't lingered either. As soon as it was over, he'd quietly sidled to the door, though unlike Connelly, he had stopped to speak civilly to a few acquaintances along the way. At the door, while he was buttoning his coat, he caught Nelle studying him from where she stood at the refreshments table waist deep in students. He smiled at her, and a trace of hope flickered across her face. For barely a second, her face shone almost as brightly as the floor. And then he went out.

After that, Nelle had cheerfully worked the room, even managing earnest cordiality with the uptight Musgrave and the fatuous Bat Chesterfield. She moved amongst the energetic students with ease, passed out cake, assured the concerned parents that their children were doing fine in school, and wished the indifferent parents a Happy Christmas, until the crowd began to dwindle, the last of the cake was gone, and she was left standing beside a pile of crumbs and Mrs. Charles Dunn, who congratulated her roughly on the success of the Pageant and helped her sweep up.

"You've done fine this term," she said as she swept, "But you need watch the company you keep... Ms. Mead is practically a pagan. She never comes to church, and her husband was a gunfighter, you know? Not exactly the best influence..."

Nelle didn't answer. She hated the woman's judgmental tone. They straightened the room in silence, and when it was time to lock up, they bid each other clipped holiday greetings and parted quietly and quickly.

"And tidings of great joy to you, too!" Nelle muttered angrily, once alone.

Anisette had invited her over for both Christmas and New Year's Eve, and Nelle had agreed to Christmas but declined New Year's Eve on account of Flint. She knew he was going to be at Ani's that night, and though she had no particular problem with Flint, she did not deign to let any drunken revelry devolve into a four a.m. ménage a trois involving the lawman. Especially since she was supposed to go to dinner at the Dimes' on the first day of 1868. So while she was spending New Year's Eve alone, she certainly wasn't going to let some judgmental old lady ruin her Christmas plans.

And she didn't.

On Christmas day, Nelle pulled on one of her new dresses - a navy blue number- and every petticoat she owned, before grabbing her bag, her gift for Anisette, and marching out into the knee-deep snow that now covered the Mesa. Then she snowplowed Pinto on down to the little farm and joined the cozy winter fiesta that Anisette had planned.

It was an intimate group, but there were still enough people for it to feel like a true festivity. After all, this was Anisette, and she was someone who liked to celebrate. She _was_ a celebration - the belle of the ball, the honey of the hive. So, along with Nelle, there was Phil Joubert - one of Ani's distant cousins who'd come over from Reno for the occasion, the genial Meg Owen of the tailor shop, who got on well with anyone, and Sly O'Connell, Ani's ranch hand, who fancied himself a bit of a tough guy, but was really a tender-hearted farm kid from Kansas City. Flint was at his mother's.

Anisette had whacked, plucked, stripped, stuffed, and dressed a goose for the occasion and the table was piled high with delectable indulgences. The wine flowed and the house glowed with warmth as the snow floated lazily down and the mixed n' matched group made merry. Nelle enjoyed herself fully, though she noticed that Ani wasn't so eagerly partaking in the wine as usual, and almost seemed a little absent-minded. She did not seem at all unhappy though, so Nelle didn't worry. In fact, she seemed happier than ever.

In the evening, they gathered around the fire and no, they didn't sing Christmas carols. They played poker. Five card draw, and later, five card stud. They all put in five dollars and after four hours, Nelle surprised them all by walking away twenty dollars richer. When Nelle played poker, she either won big or lost big. There was never any in-between. If she was too drunk, she was too loose, and lost it all fast. If she wasn't intoxicated enough, she'd be too conservative and the others would bleed it out of her. It would take all night, but she'd walk away with nothing. But if she was lucky, she could hit it just right and walk the line. And Christmas night was one of those nights; she was in that perfect, slightly inebriated mode where her level of daring was just right to win, and she cleaned up. She'd figured Ani would make for stiff competition, but luckily the hostess had been the second one out after smiling mysteriously and going all in on a pair of eights.

When it was all over and Nelle rode back to the Mesa that night, warm with wine and laden with a full belly, she found she was greatly satisfied with her Christmas, despite passing thoughts of Mexico, and Arden. Anisette had given her a new book to read and a half-batch of homemade fudge. Thus equipped, she was now eager to spend the next few days alone - without the banter of children or potential run-ins with members of the school board or inquiring parents or, well, anyone. She would make the trip up to the hot springs one day, she decided. The rest of the time, she would curl up in her rocking chair to read and write and be lazy. She would wear her pajamas all day long, but this time she'd bar the door beforehand.

And she did just that. The cabin wasn't so cold now that the accumulated snow had banked up against the outer walls, providing added insulation. The horse blankets she had tacked up all along the inside walls also helped deter drafts. So sitting there before the fire, her toes almost touching the grate, Nelle was quite toasty. She napped, cooked up pots of hearty soup, rocked idly while the snow fell outside, and attempted, for the sixth time, to make it through the Canterbury Tales, without success. She wrote a letter to Beth, though she had no idea when or how she would get it to Guanajuato, since she couldn't rely on the post. Judging by the lack of response to her first letter, it seemed unlikely that it had ever made it to its destination. Still, it felt good to write it, and to scribble in her notebook and daydream. Comfortable and uninterrupted, she forgot much of the world beyond the walls of her cabin and enjoyed a mellow, happy communion with herself.

However, she did not forget about what had happened with Arden and what she had realized that day. How could she? It was stuck there inside her, and that was where it had to stay.

On New Year's Eve, she saddled up a surprisingly enthusiastic Pinto - who'd at first been gleeful over not being bothered for several days, but then had grown concerned that he was going to be trapped in the shed forever - and rode the five miles to the hot springs. It took some time, as Pinto had to wade through the snow, but not as long as it might have, as the beast, in his zeal over not being abandoned, was actually somewhat cooperative.

The forest was quiet like only a snow-covered forest can be. The afternoon sun filtered through the dark branches of the pines and a cloud of steam rose from the rocky pool. Swiftly, Nelle peeled off her clothes, throwing them over a tree branch before sliding her shivering body into the hot water with a gratified sigh. She crouched submerged, with only her head above the water, until her toes and fingertips began to resemble sauerkraut. She thought of Anisette and her airy elusiveness on Christmas Day. She didn't understand it. However, she no longer worried over the woman's moods. Now, if Ani kept the same mood for say, a month, then she might get anxious.

Of course, she thought of Arden. But she'd resigned herself to thinking of him. Given in. Simply thinking about him couldn't do any harm, she'd decided. She had to permit herself at least that much. Sure, she was still good and annoyed with him over his fit of spite when he'd come to her cabin, but she couldn't hate him. She would have to go against her whole inner being to hate him. And against her body. So she thought about him indulgently whenever she damn well felt like it. Even right there, veiled in steam, with only the sound of the water trickling through the rocks, she thought of him. She thought of him with her hands and her tilted hips and her parted lips. She thought of him until her eyes closed and her body succumbed with a second gratified sigh and a voyeuristic squirrel went tittering up into the branches, causing her heart to beat faster than a baby bird's until the shock of the intrusion wore off.

After a sufficient time of afterglow, she rose and dressed quickly, forgoing bodice and knickers altogether, her body radiant with warmth, and rode home just ahead of the approaching darkness. Serene and sleepy, she swayed in the saddle as Pinto picked his way back through the snowdrifts. Just before emerging from the trees onto the flat Mesa, she heard the whirring of wings and looked up to see a heart-faced barn owl glide smoothly up above the trees and out into the open sky, becoming nothing more than a simple black smudge on the indigo twilight. For once, Pinto did not spook, and Nelle patted him on the shoulder appreciatively.

When she emerged from Pinto's shed, having fed and watered the bean-coloured beast for the night, she was startled to discover Arden himself sitting on her doorstep. _What is_ he _doing here?_ she wondered, her senses immediately abuzz. All of sudden, she wished to high heaven she'd bothered to properly assemble herself. She couldn't retreat back to the shed to hastily pull herself together, as he'd clearly seen her. Barring the door no longer seemed a worthwhile strategy since they were both on the same side of it. She had no choice; she'd just have to keep her coat on the whole time. She gathered her arms about her and put on a smile as she came near.

"Been for a soak?" he asked, standing to meet her as she approached her door.

She looked quizzically at him. _How does he know?_ she wondered, her face growing red with embarrassment.

"You actually look a little _relaxed._ Plus, your hair - the bottom four inches of it are frozen," he answered her unspoken question.

The burn in her cheeks subsided.

"Ah... Yes. I thought it would be an agreeable way to begin my New Year's festivities."

"And what else do you have in mind for the evening?"

"This and that, over a bottle of red that I've been saving."

"In other words, you intend to get drunk and do very little of anything."

His eyes were jovial, so she did not take offense.

"Pretty much."

"If I said I brought champagne, would it get me in the door?"

Of course, with or without any champagne, she wanted to swing her door wide open, pull him inside, and bar the door after all. There was something about the way he was wearing his hat, pulled low over the eyes, something about the way he challenged her with the wary smile of his, that coaxed her to relent, but she would not. She could not. She had to be strong, stay firm. Besides, she was still angry with him. He'd been a complete ass towards her, even if he had brought her a rocking chair.

Reading her eyes, Arden took a step closer to where she stood with her hand on the door handle.

"I know. I _was_ rude to you last time. Consider it a peace offering," he urged, motioning to the canvas bag on the step, which evidently contained the champagne.

She delayed answering.

"How long have you been waiting?" she asked.

"About a half-hour."

"You must be freezing?"

"I'm alright."

Finally, looking away from those arresting blues, she got to the point.

"Arden, come in and warm up. Then go. I can't have you here long. I'm sorry. That's the way it has to be."

She had never spoken so directly, so curtly to him, except for that first time, when he'd offered to escort her home from church. But she felt she had no choice. He said nothing, but when she opened the door he walked in after her.

Once inside, she dropped her bag by the door, walked over to the rocking chair and removed the blanket draped over the back and the stack of books resting on the seat. Arden noted with pride that the chair was obviously being well used.

"Sit," she said, once done. She was fighting hard not to ask him if he'd read any of those same books, and not to pour the champagne, and not to look at him.

Keeping her coat on, she moved to the fireplace, stirring up the still-hot coals and reaching for kindling with which to build a fire.

"Let me."

"No," she commanded sharply.

So he sat down in the chair he'd made for her and watched her as she knelt and persuaded the small curling flames to reach upward and engulf the dry tinder. She moved adroitly, without thinking, having built thousands of fires before, and he appreciated the casual way she moved, the unconscious way she pushed her hair back away from her face, the way she leaned in to blow gently on the smoldering embers, the ease with which she hefted a cut log onto the blazing kindling. Her face was flushed and her loose hair shone in the firelight.

Coming up to the Mesa, Arden had decided that he wouldn't press her; he would trust that she had her reasons for the way in which she dealt with him. But now as he watched her, he decided he couldn't. He couldn't let her push him away when she clearly had some feeling for him. He had to know more. He needed an explanation after all.

"You look flushed. Aren't you going to take off your coat?"

Nelle's face reddened even more. She _was_ warm. Even though it was winter, it wasn't an especially cold day, so the cabin wasn't particularly chilly, and the warmth from the hot springs still radiated from her core. She couldn't keep it on forever. And maybe he wouldn't notice, anyway.

"I guess so," she said, turning away from him and walking towards the kitchen as she unfastened the buttons. _Here we go again,_ she thought. _First, my draggy pajamas, and now this!_

Arden adjusted the angle of the chair so he could see her when he spoke to her. He had things to say, and he knew he was already running short on time.

As she turned back towards him, he noticed she was wearing a simple red dress he hadn't seen before. He liked its clean lines. He liked the way it hugged her waist, and her unassuming, but nevertheless shapely form, which seemed a little more curvy than usual. He liked how it matched the brilliant glow in her cheeks.

"Nelle, I need to know why."

She straightened, startled. His tone-of-voice was clear; she knew what he meant. She knew what was coming next.

"Don't," she pleaded.

"I need a reason... Surely you aren't afraid of the school board finding out or some such thing?"

She laughed at that. It was a cold laugh, with not a drop of mirth in it. And he didn't like it at all.

"If you want me to go, I'll go. But I need to know why you won't even give a man a chance, when clearly... clearly, you're not... averse to me."

Agitated now, she walked over to the stove. She bent and struck a match to start up a fire inside. Then she noisily clanged a pot onto the top. Sensing she would cool, Arden waited.

"Are you hungry? I can heat some borscht, though you'll have to eat it from a cup," she said suddenly, abruptly.

"Huh?"

"Yeah, no bowls... They were the unfortunate casualties of your last visit."

Her voice was hard. She felt incredibly foolish. Even as she'd changed the subject, she'd been disgusted with herself.

"Oh. I see."

Confused but undeterred, he stood up and turned towards the stove. She had a ladle in her hands and a half-cross, half-apologetic look on her face. Slowly, he walked towards her.

"I just need to understand," he explained again, conflicted yet insistent.

Inside, Nelle was committing a minimum of three of the Seven Deadly Sins, not to mention still ruing her slothfulness, which works out to mean, that at that moment, she was in plain bad shape. It was so easy to be resolute when he wasn't around. But when he was right there coming towards her, with that oh-it-ain't-over-yet look in his eyes, she became a jumble of misfiring synapses and heat migration, and was barely able to think or respond or do anything with the flipping ladle that was gripped absurdly tight in her right hand.

"It isn't safe for you, Arden. I shouldn't have let you in at all," she admitted, in a strained voice.

He wasn't sure whether she was speaking metaphorically or specifically about his visit that very evening, but it didn't matter.

Except for the fire and a candle on the table, the cabin was entirely dark. His footsteps creaked loudly on the hardwood floor.

"What if I am willing to take my chances?"

He was still moving towards her. Automatically, she took a few steps back, closer to the door.

"You don't know what you're up against," she breathed.

"I don't care what I am up against."

Arden meant it. In one sense. In the other sense, well, it was obvious he cared quite a lot.

Determined, he reached out and set his hand on her waist, letting it glide slowly down to her hip. Her body didn't give, but it didn't resist either. His other hand went to her neck, pressed gently, exploring the curvature of her throat. He felt the heat emanating from her body, heard her quiet, jagged breaths, and as he moved closer still, detected the faint scents of pine and wood smoke emanating from her hair.

His mouth found her neck and he kissed her there, heavily, adamantly, until her body slackened, edging ever so slightly towards his, and the faint suggestion of a moan escaped her lips. It was all the sign he needed to move up to her mouth, and he kissed her hard, devouring the hot, full flesh of her lips. Abruptly, the ladle clattered to the floor as Nelle reached for him, running her hands along his chest, his arms, his shoulders, kissing him back with the same uncontained longing. When Nelle murmured again, he couldn't resist; still kissing her, he took hold of her wrists and maneuvered her up against the door, pinning her hands against it with his own, pressing the length of his body against hers, hips on hips, chest on chest, greedy mouth on greedy mouth.

It was a kiss like the braking locomotive on a runaway train; there were sparks flying from the tracks, wheels screaming against the rails, smoke and steam roaring up into the air, whistles shrieking, and the force of several hundred thousand pounds of iron and steel behind it. It was the kind of kiss that caused Adam to stick it to God, slink off into the tares and thistles and endure enmity and heel-bruisings to make it with foxy little Eve on the cursed ground. It was like an explosive, so-good-it-hurts kiss between two ragged, pent-up ranch hands after months of being alone together herding sheep in the foothills. It was a kiss that stabbed hate in the back while it was sleeping. It was a kiss... Damn, it was good.

The minutes passed. One. Two. Five. Ten.

Nelle had known she needed to stop it before it even started, but her body had had other ideas. When he'd kissed her neck, she'd opened her mouth to call him off and a slight moan had slithered out instead. And now, now she was breathing rapidly, inhaling and exhaling in sync with the rise and fall of his chest against hers, tasting his mouth with her tongue. She felt like butter sliding across a hot frying pan. She knew she needed to stop things now. _Now, Nelle!_ she insisted to herself, her lips becoming more obsessed with his body by the second, her knees beginning to bend, her back inching lower and lower towards the ground, and Arden moving with her, burning with her, clasping her more tightly. _Now, Nelle! Goddammit, now, woman!_

With more regret than she'd ever felt about anything, Nelle gathered the last of her waning willpower and thrust Arden off of her. He stumbled back towards the table, a bemused expression on his face, his eyes rabid with want.

"You should go," she said softly and with evident remorse, her face scarlet, her breathing loud.

As supremely frustrated as Arden was, he had to admit that once again, he wasn't totally surprised. Okay, not surprised at all. But still, it took everything in him not to seize her by the arm and pull her back to him. She was infuriatingly volatile. How could she just matter-of-factly unravel her tongue from his and show him the door?! He didn't know whether to persist or to give up. Yet again, he felt so fraught with disappointment, so charged with lust, so taken for a fool that he couldn't help but become irritated. This time, however, he contained his annoyance. He appealed to her instead.

"What is it? What is it that makes this so terrible? What can possibly be so bad about it? There's no one here. There's nothing to stop us."

"Please go," she said, bleakly.

"Why?"

"I refuse to play with your life, Arden!"

"Jesus, Nelle! My life? Tell me... Is it a particularly brutal V.D.? What?!"

"Well, no, not exactly."

"Then what the hell are you talking about? Don't you think a man ought to be given the facts to decide for himself? You're telling me that this is somehow a perilous activity?"

"Pretty much. And if anything happened... I couldn't have that on my shoulders. I just couldn't."

"The kiss of doom, Nelle? Don't you think you're flattering yourself just a little?"

"Oh... Fuck you, Arden!"

Arden's hands were shaking, his eyes ablaze. He tried to stay calm. Tried.

"Why do you have to be so goddamned melodramatic all the time?!"

Nelle stopped just short of slapping him and thereby avoided proving his point. Instead, she clamped her mouth shut and glared at him. She saw then his shaking hands and felt dread bubble up in her belly.

"Nelle, you've got to tell me!"

Nelle wouldn't. She would not let him get involved. It could only lead to more entanglement, to him getting hurt, or worse. And she'd already botched things up enough. She could see that. She wouldn't tell him. She couldn't.

She flung the door open, and the icy winter air came sweeping into the little cabin.

"Go."

"Damn it! No!"

"Arden, go!"

"Nelle, a man has a right..."

She was aching. She was tired. She was sick at heart and angry with herself. She couldn't take this any longer.

"Get out," she ordered.

"Very well," he said. "If you throw me out, I won't be back," he snapped.

"Fine."

And so he walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.

After reliving the moments she'd just spent crushed against the cabin door, and then scolding herself for the next two hours for having let them happen, Nelle decided she had to do something or she would go mad. She had to get out. She simply could not sit in her cabin alone, rocking in that chair – his chair, for a moment longer. So she went to the only place she could go – Anisette's. She'd forgotten that it was still New Year's Eve, that Flint would be there, and that the night was supposed to be a celebration. If anyone asked her, she would've been hard pressed to identify the hour or the day.

When she arrived at the door, Ani took one look at her and pulled her inside.

"Happy New... Fuck. You're not even wearing a proper coat, Nelle!"

Nelle looked down. Over her dress, she was wearing only her shawl. She had the book bag, at least.

"Happy New Fuck, indeed!" Nelle cracked, frowning.

Anisette was casually dressed, her hair down, her feet bare. Hurriedly, she hauled the shivering Nelle inside, pulling her down the hall to the parlour. After depositing the unusually passive woman on some cushions in one corner of the room, she disappeared for a moment to grab a blanket from the linen closet. Marching straight back, she wasted no time in throwing the blanket over Nelle and then stretched out alongside her friend. Propping herself up on her elbow and resting her head on her hand, she tugged the blanket up over Nelle's legs, and then took a good, long look at her friend.

Nelle sighed, allowing her body to sink into the pillows. Ani leaned closer so she could see Nelle's face, and then she began to lightly stroke her hair. She smiled gently when she felt the woman's body slacken further at the touch of her hand, and then she eyed her more closely, searching for clues as to her friend's agitated state. There were no outward signs, but she knew all the same.

"It's that cad Wilder, isn't it?"

"He's not a cad!"

"I knew it."

Before she could say anything more, Flint breezed into the room, still buttoning his shirt. He smiled broadly when he saw the two of them lying there together.

"God, I would like to lay you both down on a bed of clover," he declared, oblivious to the mood of the room.

Nelle jolted upright.

"Real original, Flint. Real original," she snipped.

Ani stifled a laugh.

"He's the cad!" Nelle muttered.

Anisette laughed out loud this time. Then suddenly, Nelle realized it was still New Year's Eve, despite her latest fracas with Arden.

"I'm sorry... I forgot what day it was. I didn't mean to disturb you," she said to Anisette.

"No worries. It doesn't matter," Ani reassured her.

Anisette looked up at Flint.

"Flint, since you're up, bring me the brandy. Then beat it for a while, would you?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, his eyes still twinkling.

Without further comment, the man did just as she asked. Nelle had to admire him for that, though after he left, she still couldn't help but ask Anisette why she kept him around.

"Sure, he's handsome enough, but..."

"Oh, come on, you know he's alright... It's because he goes when I want him to go. He stays when I want him to stay. Because he's not looking to get hitched and have me pack roast beef sandwiches and heart-shaped jam cookies in a little tin pail for his ride downtown to the office; because he's not set on my devotion or my entire future; and because he's exactly the opposite of what I experienced with Elvis... Gunfighters may be sexy, but they are so high maintenance, you know, with the cryptic brooding, late-night pacing, solitary drinking, using aloofness as an emotional barrier, and all that. Flint is playful. He's straightforward," she said, firmly.

Nelle gave her a conceding nod. She could understand that. Young Flint was not someone she'd pick, but he was okay. He cared about Ani. She'd give him that.

"Plus, he does some dynamite things with his..."

But Nelle had already clamped her hands to her ears with a long groan. When Anisette's mouth stopped moving, she slowly lowered them.

"Wait a minute, does he know about, well, about our uh, 'friendship?'"

"Of course he knows about our friendship, Nelle. You're around alot, he's around alot... It's pretty hard to miss."

"No, I mean, slow down and add the quotes, Ani - our 'friendship.'"

"Oh, _that._ I haven't told him anything, but I think he suspects, or maybe just hopes."

"Great."

They lay there for a while in silence. Then, without warning, Anisette's body stiffened and she sat straight up and looked over at Nelle.

"Does Arden know?"

Nelle sighed, and said nothing.

"Nelle, honey, you're making me nervous."

"He knows. I didn't tell him, but he knows."

"You mean he suspects, like Flint."

"No, no. He knows. Oh, does he ever know!"

"Oh, great!"

"I think it's okay, Ani. He's not the type to round up any angry mobs armed with pitchforks or drag us to the confessional before our carefully orchestrated untimely deaths."

"I know that, Nelle. But it's private, and he could tell someone who might want to." Her voice was high and strained.

"Don't worry, Anisette! With the mobs and pitchforks, I was only speaking semi-literally."

"Semi-literal is literal enough for me. This is serious!"

"He won't tell."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he's known for a while and he hasn't told anyone yet, even though he's been irked at me for weeks, with the exception of a few 30 second and one minute intervals. Oh, and one ten minute interlude..."

Anisette paused. Then sighed forbearingly.

"Well...okay," she finally said, taking a sip from the brandy bottle and leaning back into the pillows once more. After a moment, she passed the bottle to Nelle, who took a couple of appreciative gulps before passing it back.

Nelle began to feel calmer with them both beside her.

"So what has Arden Wilder gone and done to you, my lovely?"

"Why are you in such a good mood?"

"Well, as you know, Flint was just here and as I mentioned..."

"No, ack! I mean, lately... in general."

"Don't try and change the subject. I asked you about Arden first."

"How did you know it was him?"

"At first I didn't know, but then, well, it was just a gut feeling, I guess. I've seen him in town a few times lately. And the way he was eying the schoolhouse, well, let's just say you're lucky it didn't burn down."

This was partially true, but her "gut feeling" had been heavily supplemented by Flint's own "eagle-eyed investigative" or "just plain snoopy" observations of Nelle (depending on whether they were being referenced by him or Anisette) some time ago at the Halloween party, both when he'd imparted the tale of Mattress Melissa and when the devil in question had shown up at the fête. And even if she'd called them "just plain snoopy," Anisette had made Flint cough up every detail.

"Criminy! Is it that obvious?"

"Probably not to most."

This relieved Nelle a little.

"So, there you go evading my questions again. What'd he do tonight?"

"He came up to the Mesa. He kissed me."

"Egad! The brute! He didn't!? Good God!"

Though she'd tried to distract herself enough to stave off the brunt of it, the entire frustrating, gut-wrenching mess of her evening with Arden came flooding back to Nelle. It was no use. Emotion overwhelmed her.

"Don't mock me, Ani," Nelle choked.

Alarm coursed through Anisette's veins. Before her very eyes, the determined, levelheaded Nelle was fighting to restrain what looked like...tears. They welled dangerously. Then there was a trickle, and then two trickles. And then two rushing streams that built to great rapids of grief. Uncertain of what else to do, Anisette kept stroking her friend's hair, wondering what to say, wondering just how bad a kiss could be?

At one point or another in everyone's life, things go to shit. There's no escaping it. There is a time when we all kick a fence hard enough to fracture a toe, or bawl until we can no longer breathe through our noses because of snot buildup, or repeatedly pistol-whip our own heads to make the pain go away. It often happens before the vow for revenge or the jaw-clenching perseverance or the jaded ride to the next town. It happens to us - the rock-bottom brou-ha-ha. And just then, with Anisette looking on, confounded and anxious, it was happening to Nelle.

"I'm sorry, Nelle," Anisette whispered.

This seemed to have the opposite effect that Anisette had intended, for as soon as she spoke the words, Nelle rolled onto her side and began to weep in awkward, turbulent spasms. An astounded Anisette sat up and put her hand on Nelle's shoulder, unsure what to make of the storm of grief soaking her pillows.

"I should've kept far away from Arden from day one," she gasped, before dissolving again.

Out in the hallway, Flint tiptoed past on the way to the bedroom, having forgotten his badge. Hearing the commotion in the other room, he stopped abruptly beside the parlour door, listened closely for a moment, and raised an eyebrow. Then he quickly moved on. He figured he'd heard enough to warrant a visit to Arden Wilder, and maybe to punch him in the head. How he hated to hear a woman cry like that!

When the clock was ten minutes closer to midnight, Nelle had exhausted her astonished tear ducts, and lay embarrassed and defeated in the dark room. She turned and looked out towards the stars that were peeking through the window. She wiped her face with her sleeve and began to compose herself. Finally, taking another swig of the brandy, she turned back to Ani, who was staring at her apprehensively.

"Sorry, Ani."

"It's okay, Nelle. I just don't understand what happened. I can't imagine, but, I mean, do I need to send Flint the Sheriff over to see him?"

"No. No. No! It's nothing like that. Please, don't!"

"Then what? What is it, Nelle?"

At this point, Nelle was starting to feel déjà vu kick in, and tension invaded her body once more. Though she wanted to tell Anisette everything, and she might be able to tell her some things, she knew she had to be sensible. She didn't think that Ani was in any danger, not unless she placed herself directly into it... But Ani might, on her behalf. If she told Ani everything, she might, and if she told her nothing, she might. And Nelle couldn't have that. Either way, Anisette wouldn't really know what she was getting into... Nelle had to fix that. She cared too much for this warmhearted woman to let anything happen.

"Anisette, I need you to promise me something."

"What is it?"

"Someday, a man may come looking for me. If that happens, I need you to promise not to get involved in any way. Just back off for a while... Back off until I say it's okay... _And_ keep Flint out of it, if you can," she added.

"Why? What's this man after, Nelle? Wait, is that why you have the revolver?" she asked, nervousness in her voice.

Nelle looked into Anisette's confused eyes.

"Ani, please, just promise me. If you promise me this, you and I can keep on... Things should be okay... Nothing should happen."

Anisette was silent for a minute. Briefly, she wondered if the schoolteacher had done something illegal, if it was the law that was after her. But that didn't sit right with her. She couldn't believe it. Nelle would've told her if it was that way, she knew.

She had to agree, she decided. Otherwise, Nelle would withdraw from her. She could sense it. This was something very important. _Is this what happened with Arden?_ she wondered, with sudden clarity. _He refused to promise her?_

"I promise you Nelle, if that is what you need."

"Thank you, Ani," she breathed. "And please don't speak of this to anyone."

Bit by bit, Nelle's body began to relax again.

"Just one thing, Nelle... What does he look like, this man?"

Sitting up, Nelle took another swallow of the liquor.

"I trust you'll be able to recognize unadulterated asshole when you see it... Plus, he won't come alone," she hissed bitterly.

They lay in the dark parlour for another hour or so. Anisette listened to Nelle's breathing grow softer, more rhythmic. She felt a little sorry for Arden then, thinking of how exasperating a choice it must have been for him. But even more, she worried over Nelle, wondering why anyone would come hunting for her. Only time would tell whether or not she'd just lied to the woman.

Flint came in at midnight. After leaving Nelle's, Arden had ridden up to the hot springs himself, to literally burn off some steam, and had not been at home when Flint dropped by. So Flint returned, not any wiser as to recent events, but glad to see that the tears had stopped. He planted a genial smack on both Nelle and Anisette's cheeks, wishing them a "Joyeaux Nouveau Year," which made Ani groan. After that, Nelle took her leave. Having spent the evening with Anisette, she somehow felt better about everything, and returning to her cabin no longer seemed so daunting. Besides, she had noticed the way Flint was hovering near to Anisette, hungry for a real New Year's kiss, and after her mêlée with Arden, she was in no mood to be around lovers. She beat it before the boots began knocking again.

Late the next morning, Nelle dragged herself out of bed. She had the puffy-faced, red-eyed, beset look of an albino priest emerging from an all-night exorcism. Splashing palmfuls of ice water onto her face, she began to ready herself for her dinner with the Dimes. A building sense of foreboding filled her as she considered the possibility that Arden might also be there. It hadn't occurred to her earlier, but now it seemed a likelihood. It was New Year's Day, after all. Sarah, as considerate as she was, would certainly have invited him to the holiday meal. But would he actually come? Did he know that she had been invited?

Attempting to pacify her anxious mind and her rebellious body, she downed several cups of raspberry tea as she moved about the cabin. It helped her stomach a little, but her mind hurtled on. She placed the index finger and thumb of her right hand on either side of her nose and pushed upwards, hoping to allay the pressure gathered in the space above her eyes.

When she'd come to Colorado, she'd known she might well be forced to deal with what she'd left behind when she'd gone down to Mexico. She'd known the risks. But she hadn't figured on this. She hadn't expected to care for someone. It had been years since she'd felt strongly for any man, and back then, it had been different. She wasn't prepared for this. Sure, there was enough lust between her and Arden to coax the Brazilian jungle up to Colorado, but how was it that she could _care_ so intensely? Really, she didn't even know that much about him. He was a willful, book-reading cowboy who named his horses after Greek gods and had a pronounced intolerance for shoddy furniture. That pretty much summed up all she knew. So how could she be in love with him?

The last time – the only other time – she'd been in love was eight years earlier, when she was twenty-one. While taking a literature course at the university back in New York, she'd met Silas Townsend, a third-year law student. She'd been eating her lunch on the lawn in front of the library when he'd simply walked up and sat down presumptuously next to her, biting into his own apple with a flourish and giving her an irresistible smile. Throughout the duration of her course, they had met for lunch every day, sometimes spending two or three hours wandering the grounds before parting. They had talked about everything, or nearly everything, and Nelle had slowly fallen in love with him, and he with her. When the course had finished, Nelle had found as many excuses as she could to sneak away from the house and meet up with him. She'd loved the way he was so idealistic, so rife with energy, so keyed up about making a mark on the world, and yet had such a slow, seductive touch. They had made love a few times, which was risky, but not so risky, Nelle had thought naively, believing they'd just marry should the oven timer go on. It had lasted eight months. Then, instead of proposing to her as she'd thought he might, he'd surprised her by abruptly announcing, without any warning and with an almost insulting fervor, that he was going south to fight in the War. Abandoning her for the battlefields, his sense of righteous self-denial intact, he'd promptly gotten himself killed by a Confederate somewhere in the hills of Virginia. And that had been that.

_It would never have worked with him and I,_ Nelle knew now. _His delusions of grandeur would've done me in. Not to mention the episodes of condescension._ Still, the memory of him was something she held close. He'd loved her as best as he'd been able, and he'd pushed her to be more of herself by simply finding her interesting. Since then, there had been various encounters with various men, but he'd been her first love, her only love, until now.

For a few years after that, she had been caught in a state of grief, because soon after Silas had taken a bayonet to the belly, her mother had finally succumbed to consumption. While she'd never been particularly close to her mother, it had been horrible to watch her body slowly give out, horrible to see her so terrified of death, and horrible to lose the only remaining member of her family. And then, things had gone from bad to worse.

Deciding on the vivid blue dress she'd worn to the Pageant, Nelle dressed carefully. She twisted her hair up and pinned it into a formal knot. Thinking of the past pacified her somewhat. After all, she'd made it through much tougher times than a potentially uncomfortable dinner party involving a bitter, grouchy Arden Wilder. No one was dying or newly dead just now, and so long as that didn't change, she could handle things. Plus, there was still a chance he might not be there.

Outside, the midday sun glittered brightly on the layer of crusted snow that covered the entire landscape. The slow ride down to the Wild Dime Ranch further pacified her frayed nerves. It wasn't a bitterly cold day, and the sun felt warm on her back as Pinto half-skated across the valley. Fleetingly, she wondered what would happen, where she would end up if she just kept on riding. But when she'd arrived in Boulder City, she'd sworn she would not run. Relocate for work, if necessary, but no escaping reality, no slipping away from complications. She was strong. Now was the time to face what fate had to throw at her, the good and the bad, and to slay the demons of the past. It was 1868. She did not know what the year would bring, but she was convinced it was going to be a decisive one.

Larry came out to meet her as she drew near to the boxy Dime farmhouse.

"Welcome back to the Wild Dime Ranch, a.k.a. The Bar Circle Gets the Square."

"Hi Larry. Geez, your cattle must hate you!"

He laughed.

"Yeah, but we don't get many rustlers. It's hard to camouflage that mark."

"I see... I still don't know why anyone hasn't done the plain old smiley face. You'd think that'd be a popular one. Also, the arrow-through-the-heart..." she said, as she climbed down from the saddle.

"You'd think," agreed Larry, jovially.

He took Pinto's reins from her hand and then leaned closer to her.

"I thought I'd give you a heads up that the Reverend's inside, along with Arden, who's a little ticked at you."

Nelle was floored. She hadn't thought Arden would be so insensitive as to proclaim his contempt for her to, well, anyone.

"He said so?"

"Nah. I knew he planned to see you last night. He's been foul all day, and then early this afternoon, when we were brushing out Spot and Dot, I told him you were coming and he threw the curry comb across the barn. So I kind of put it together... Go easy on him, Nelle. You know, he really does like you... Has since day one," he declared, scanning her face for some kind of sign, an indication of how she might feel towards his brother.

Nelle gave no such sign. It took a lot of effort, but her face remained blank as a snowman's sans carrot, pipe, and row of pebbles.

"Thank you for the warning."

Slightly disappointed, Larry told her he would put Pinto in the barn and meet her inside. She nodded and made for the front door. Before knocking, she hesitated just long enough to smooth her dress and sigh with self-pity.

Luckily, it was Cherry who let her in. And the little girl - the more talkative of the Dime twins - wasted no time in beginning to tell her what she'd been up to over the holidays, from the construction of the banshee snowwoman out back to the grape-coloured mittens she'd gotten from St. Nicholas, all before Nelle even stepped into the living room. And with an encouraging question or two from her teacher, the child kept on, orbiting Nelle's skirts while she shook hands and smiled at the Reverend; while she embraced Sarah, who came out from the kitchen rolling her eyes good-naturedly behind her daughter's back; and while she nodded coolly at Arden, who sat scowling at her beside the fire, a sleeping Jack in his lap.

Carrie came out from the kitchen, and egged on by her more outgoing sister, sat down on the couch by the window at Nelle's other hip and proceeded to provide a detailed commentary on the fox she'd seen crossing the frozen river the day before. Nelle looked everywhere but at Arden, and Arden himself didn't say a word. But the more he watched his nieces speaking so eagerly to their teacher, and the teacher indulging them, the more his anger was tempered. Larry soon came in and engaged the Reverend in light conversation, and Sarah went back and forth from the kitchen, flowing between conversations and refusing any offers of assistance. Everything went fine, and Nelle breathed more lightly as the time passed. And then they all sat down for the meal.

Sequestered in the dining room with the other four adults, the children having been given their dinner in the warmth of the kitchen, Arden and the Reverend both stationed directly across from her in a seating plan forged by Satan himself, Nelle began to feel a little uncomfortable. Not only was Arden avoiding any eye contact with her, but also, the Reverend was frequently attempting eye contact with her. And Sarah and Larry sat at the ends of the table sharing those not-so-secret _meaningful glances_ that married couples love to smugly bandy back and forth.

Sarah had prepared a meat-and-potatoes feast, and before they dug in, Larry toasted the New Year and of course, his wife, and the Reverend prayed an affected prayer over the food. Then they put their best forks forward and got on with it. Reverend Grimmel started things by asking everyone what they were looking forward to in the New Year, which was only hair's breadth less cliché than asking the gathered what they were thankful for on Thanksgiving, and equally as boring.

Larry responded first, saying he was keen to whisk Sarah away for a quick trip to San Francisco that summer, sans the kids. Sarah agreed with him, but qualified it by saying she would also enjoy watching her children grow and change throughout the year, so that no one would think she was somehow negligent, and added that she wanted to expand her flower garden come spring. The Reverend nodded absently before chiming in with the stock answer that he was hoping to win a few stray souls back to the flock (Nelle wondered if Anisette was one of the chosen) and noted, with a little more thought, that he also wanted to try his hand at fly-fishing.

"What about you, Arden?" prompted Larry.

"I'm with you. I'm thinking it'd be good to get away, maybe for a while. Probably soon. Tomorrow, maybe."

"What?!" Sarah exclaimed.

"Don't worry, I'll be back when things get busy in the spring."

"Where?" asked Sarah.

"I don't know yet."

"Are you sure Arden? I mean, you never mentioned this before," asked Larry.

"I know. But I think it would be good to see some of the countryside."

"It's the middle of winter, Arden!" said Sarah.

"It's fine. I own a heavy coat."

There was just enough edge in his voice to silence any further inquiries.

Nelle perused her mashed potatoes for flecks of garlic. She felt her ire flaring up again, and a new ache rising in her chest. She didn't want to believe him, but she knew he would go. He would go and there wasn't anything she could do.

"What about you Miss Ford?" asked the Reverend.

"Oh. Uh..."

He'd caught her off guard. They all looked at her.

Feeling her appetite shrink away, she set down her fork. Prior to Arden's announcement, she had been trying to come up with something appropriate to say. But she hadn't, and now, put on the spot, she decided to just tell the truth. Looking up at the Reverend so she wouldn't have to look into Arden's eyes, she paused for a moment longer before speaking.

"I was thinking about this on the way down. I have no idea what I'm looking forward to in 1868. I just know it's going to be one of those years. Maybe it's just because I'm turning thirty, but I feel something coming. Something powerful. And I'm ready, come what may."

She hoped the last line was true. She thought she was ready. She believed she was ready. But was she? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an inquisitive look cross Arden's face. Everyone else looked mildly confused.

"Maybe you'll finally get married this year," suggested Grimmel.

_That was a rookie mistake, Reverend,_ thought Arden, watching the thunderclouds form on Nelle's visage.

"No. No. I'm quite sure that isn't it," said Nelle, with an exaggerated air of serenity.

"Oh, don't give up hope, Miss Ford," Grimmel blundered on.

_Ouch! That must smart,_ thought Arden, grinning.

_This day is going from mere bad-side-of-the-bed to all out sadistic,_ thought Nelle.

"Reverend, it's not a matter of hope. It's a matter of preference. And I prefer to remain unmarried."

He laughed. He laughed right in her face. Everybody seemed a little stunned. Nelle, herself, was verging on livid.

"You're telling me, Miss Ford, that if someone like myself, or Arden here, proposed to you right now, you wouldn't grab the opportunity, if not for love, at least for security and companionship?"

"Yes, surely you would jump at such a lucky break!" quipped Arden.

Everyone at the table, except perhaps the Reverend, could sense Nelle's patience evaporating and a certain acrimony begin to swarm the place. Already, it seemed noticeably darker there in the dining room. Arden was almost enjoying himself, though he half-wished Grimmel had left _his_ name out of it. He didn't really want himself lumped in the same category as this man. Sarah looked uncomfortably at her husband, who shrugged his shoulders slightly and took another bite of his coleslaw.

"That's right, Reverend," said Nelle, ignoring Arden. "I would refuse."

"And if you were in love with one of us?"

"I would still refuse," Nelle said resolutely, without pause.

"Let me get this straight. You wouldn't even marry for love?" he inquired incredulously.

"No." She was unfaltering.

This surprised everyone at the table, even Arden, though perhaps to a lesser degree.

"But why?" asked Sarah, timidly. "What's wrong with getting married?"

"Nothing's wrong with it Sarah, if that's what you want. I just happen to know that I am not cut out for it."

Normally, Nelle would've probably avoided the topic of her independence in order to preserve her livelihood, and thus, her independence itself. But in this case, she was feeling downright ornery and didn't care about sidestepping the truth or pacifying anyone's unease, regardless of the consequences. She was only angry – angry that Arden was planning to take off, just like that; angry that the Reverend was so presumptuous and rude; angry that she had to sit there across from a snide, merciless Arden; angry that her life had been so messed up by one man who was who-knows-where... Angry, angry, angry... And she was fully aware that with each moment that passed, she was moving carelessly and dangerously towards outright defiance.

"How do you know that? How can you be so sure?" asked Sarah.

"Because, for one thing, I'm certain I could never promise blind and permanent allegiance to anyone, ever."

"But that isn't what marriage is about," piped Larry.

"Of course it is, for both parties, but especially the woman. You have to promise "obedience" explicitly?"

"Yes, but Larry would never ask me to do anything wrong or not in my best interests."

"Of course not, but you gave him the power to decide what your best interests are. And for..."

"It's God's way, Miss Ford," interrupted the Reverend. "And it makes sense. A man is the head of the household. In order to maintain the stability of the home, someone has to have final say when there is an issue to be resolved. And in a marriage built on love, there is nothing to fear."

"So if God had reversed it, and made men obey their wives, you would gladly do it?"

"God didn't ask men to submit to their wives. That's just the point. Women are to obey their husbands and their husbands must answer to God. That is the sacred triangle of marriage."

Nelle fumed. _This guy is a rhetorical idiot,_ she thought.

"Well, I for one am not interested in that particular ménage-a-trois! People change. Good men, when faced with the rigors of life, sometimes morph into drunks, abusers, or cheats, and I have never seen God step in to mop up the vomit, pull the wife and child clear of the beating, or drop off a casserole when times got tough."

The Reverend's eyes bugged out. Larry cleared his throat in a kind warning. Grimmel opened his mouth to speak.

"You're getting emotional, Miss Ford," he said, nostrils flaring. "You're speaking in extremes. God helps through us, his followers. The good that we bring forth is Him working. Of course, when a man fails in his duty and becomes an abuser..." he trailed off.

"The last time I checked, Reverend Grimmel, there was no asterisk on the word 'obey' in the marriage vows linking to a footnoted caveat saying 'not applicable under extreme conditions.' And maybe the good _you_ do is an act of God, but the good I do is all me – my decision."

Arden was now looking at her with growing fascination. In contrast, Sarah's face was very red and anxious. Larry was looking ahead to all the trouble this would bring to the schoolteacher if she didn't shut up soon.

The Reverend jumped in again.

"Nelle, if I may. Sometimes the Lord's methods aren't easy to understand, but that's His nature. He works in mysterious ways," he said condescendingly.

"Ah, the classic back-against-the-wall justification. We've come to the 'mysterious ways' excuse, and so quickly! Well then, let's leave that one at that. Even if I were to accept that weak, no, that non-argument, I'm still not interested in marriage. I'm not saying it's wrong for other folks, but it's wrong for me. People are changing all the time. It may not be dramatic, but it is ongoing, and for me, I just can't leap that far into the unknown and swear to tow the line through all the metamorphoses until myself or the dude is dead. It's too risky. It's like walking into a saloon without a gun. I don't take my commitments lightly. And an indefinite commitment scares the bejesus out of me! I could never stay with anyone who I no longer respected, who no longer cared for me, or who just got boring. That's just the way I am. I cannot relinquish my own independence. Whatever _I_ think is right is what I do.

And that's not the only issue. The fact is that when people get married, they take on the roles of 'husband' and 'wife.' These roles are laden with centuries of changing connotations and accumulated expectations and I think I would find it hard not to lose myself in the role of 'wife.' I would find it a limiting, bulky yoke, and that is not what it is supposed to be. I don't want to be defined as "the wife of so-and-so." I want to be defined as "Nelle." I don't want to be expected to do or be an ambiguous list of things because I am a 'wife.' And I think no matter how much people fight it, they inevitably are swallowed, to some degree or another, by the label. Some people are prepared to do that, to face that, to inevitably give up parts of themselves in that way for the sake of their marriage or family. I am not. I couldn't handle it. I want the freedom to be myself, and to have all my expectations and responsibilities defined in a conscious, up-front way. And the right man for me will understand that, will respect that, and will be averse to unconditional loyalty from any woman. And he will understand that while I can be a partner, I cannot be a 'wife.'"

Well, she had really done it now, Nelle knew. But part of her felt good. Purged. She had been honest. She had not danced around her truth.

The Reverend gawked, but did not speak. Larry's eyes were silently tracing the embroidery on the tablecloth. Sarah kept turning the stem of her empty glass around and around in hand. The room became so quiet they could hear next week's snowstorm whirring towards them.

Truly surprised by what had just occurred, Arden felt a sudden blast of pride surge through his veins. Of course, he'd known at first sight that Nelle had a mind of her own, but this, this was insubordinate, it was inflammatory, it was thick with sass, and admittedly somewhat shortsighted. Most importantly, it was the truth. He knew it. And with each awkward second that passed, he felt more and more of his resentment towards her slip away. He even found himself agreeing with her. It did seem to him that marriage was, on the whole, a rather big gamble. Certainly, other people were entitled to take it, in the name of security or romance or the God du jour, but he couldn't see why Nelle or anyone else ought to, if she or they were not inclined. And she had a point. If he truly loved someone, why bind her to him? Wasn't it much more flattering and infinitely more gratifying to be with someone as a result of a daily choice rather than a daily assumption? He could understand why Nelle had made such a decision. He could understand her desire to maintain absolute control over her own decisions and to preserve that autonomy. And even more, he understood her contempt for the Reverend and any others who condemned her choice, or worse, pitied her for it. _I'm the one who loves her, and I don't expect her to marry me, so why should it matter to anyone else?_ he thought. _Besides, she's only speaking for herself; she's not trying to imply that others ought to do or feel the same as she does._

He thought on, growing more agitated with each moment. He had the urge to smack that patronizing tone right out of the Reverend. He wanted to see the man cower. How dare he be so unrefined, so self-satisfied when he was so inconceivably vacuous! _I know this is the western frontier and all, but does the East really have to ship us out so many substandard hand-me-downs,_ he wondered, glaring at the man, who did, in fact, hail from Pennsylvania. And then there were Sarah and Larry. He knew they meant well, but did they have to be so infernally traditional all the time? Just because they had stayed safely in the center of the path of convention, and it had worked out for them, didn't mean that they needed to be so pleased with themselves. Or assume that it would work for everyone else.

Arden paused then. It occurred to him something more was going on if he was getting so annoyed with his inadvertently wholesome relatives. They were just being themselves. It hadn't really bothered him much before and it shouldn't be bothering him now. Of course, the Reverend was another matter. _He_ was a genuine pinhead! Still, Arden was puzzled. He felt so raw, so vaguely exposed. And way too caught up in a dinner conversation! He tried to slow his mind down, to unclench the hand that was wrapped tightly around the edge of the chair he was sitting on. And finally, he began to rewind the internal dialogue, and there, amongst the refuse of his unspoken diatribe, he found it.

Damn.

He loved her.

It was true. Though he knew virtually nothing about her past or circumstances, he loved her. Any other woman would be a pale reminiscence, a bleak substitute for the real thing, a housecat instead of a lynx, a big stick instead of a rifle, weak, watery tea instead of heavy, black java. And even if it gave him hellish heartburn from time-to-time, there was no doubt about it; he was a coffee-drinking man.

He loved her. And of course, it was just _after_ flippantly declaring that he was leaving town that he'd figured it out. Of course.

The group ate in silence for a while. Then the Reverend broke the tension and asked Larry some questions about keeping hens, since he'd always wanted to set up his own coop, but had never done so. They talked on and Nelle let her mind fade out. She just wanted to go home and rest. She hated sitting across from the judgmental Reverend and the spiteful Arden. Oh, how she had wanted to reach over and slug Arden when he'd chimed in with his comment about "jumping" at the chance to get married!

But it wasn't over yet. When Sarah brought out the dessert – apple pie, of course – out of sheer politeness she asked the Reverend what he would be preaching about at church the upcoming Sunday.

"Why, I am glad you asked, Sarah. In fact, I'm planning to speak on faith and obedience to God."

He paused, throwing a patronizing look in Nelle's direction.

"You might do well to listen attentively, Miss Ford. The story of Abraham and Isaac is a truly beautiful illustration of absolute trust in God's divine ways.

Nelle thought it best to keep her mouth closed this time. If she said anything now, she'd really, really be sabotaging herself. Plus, she'd already made everyone uncomfortable enough. She was a guest, after all, and there was no sense making her hosts squirm any more than was necessary. Besides, no good could come from speaking to such a narrow-minded dolt.

Nobody said anything. Unused to being challenged, and more than a little resentful that the schoolteacher hadn't been enthralled with his religious aura, the minister took advantage of the silence to antagonize her further.

"What? Do you have a problem with Abraham, too?" he asked.

Again, Nelle did not reply, though she bridled at the hostile tone.

Everyone waited. Larry was beginning to think that the Reverend was a little out-of-line being so pushy. Sarah's face took on a deeper ruddiness. Arden wondered how long it would be until Nelle broke and unleashed a diatribe on the man. He could see her teetering, her jaw locked, her eyes ablaze, a single thread of polite restraint holding her back. And the Reverend was twanging away on that string like a flamenco guitar player.

And he kept on.

"Surely, Miss Ford, you agree that Abraham makes a fine example of what true faith is?!"

"Fine, indeed," interjected Larry, hoping to ward off the insistent Reverend.

It was useless, however. Grimmel was staring undeterred at the schoolteacher, waiting for her answer.

The string broke. Nelle had had it. She had been driven to her most witchiest of flavours. Daintily finishing the last bite of her pie, she looked up. When she finished swallowing, she finally replied.

"If you must know, I think Abraham is a fine example of auténtico loco. He dings that little bell at the top of the Wacko-meter."

Larry almost choked on his water. The Reverend turned a fascinating shade of purple. Arden crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. Sarah rushed away for more pie.

"Why, what you're saying is practically blasphemy! Really, explain yourself," demanded Grimmel, in a white rage.

"Don't get upset with me, Reverend. You're the one who insisted on knowing my opinion... Honestly, I think that any man who is prepared to unquestioningly murder his own son because a voice told him to needs to be slapped into one of those backwards jackets and thrown in the asylum!"

Arden laughed out loud.

"I'm glad you are finding this as preposterous as I, Arden!" exclaimed the Reverend.

Incredulous, Arden stared at the clueless man.

"It is _not_ preposterous," defended Nelle. Each word was dipped in poison. She hated the Reverend, so eager to chastise. She hated him, and she hated his whole kind. There was no understanding in such people. There was no openness to anything unknown, or even to the possibility of the unknown. She didn't know how they got that way - totally closed off to the mystery. She knew she ought not to indulge this man. Doing so would get her nowhere and only make her angrier. She ought to button her lip and call it a day, no matter how he provoked her. But she couldn't. She couldn't just smile and make nice. Not when he looked at her with such scorn. Not when the face beside his held a similar look of distaste. Not when fury was gnawing at her from the inside.

"Oh?" said Grimmel, as scathingly as you could say a one-word question.

"So, you'd just hand Larry a knife, Reverend, if he popped by and told you that God commanded him to filet young Jack?"

Her voice was wild. She went on before he answered.

"I mean, I hardly think we should be holding up Abraham as some hero. In such a gruesome scenario, his mindless obedience strikes me as more than a little disturbing."

"I never considered it in that light," muttered Sarah, thinking of her son, before clamping her mouth shut and depositing the teapot and another pie on the table.

The Reverend didn't say anything for a moment. They could all tell he didn't appreciate being opposed, or even questioned. His face had taken on a rather pinched appearance. His hands were folded on the table, folded like iron after a blacksmith has finished with it. Every fiber of his being was focused on teaching this woman a lesson.

"You can't compare those times with the modern day. God worked differently back then. He was a jealous God. He had to be, in order to speak to the culture of that age."

"Oh Reverend, I expected more than that. After all, didn't you preach two weekends ago about the unchanging nature of God? And if God's methodology _has_ changed, surely you wouldn't want to spend a bunch of time holding up Abraham as an obsolete example!

However, you might consider speaking on whether or not it was in fact, actually God that commanded Abraham to slaughter junior."

"What?!" said the flummoxed Grimmel.

"Well, the Bible touts the eternal nature of God's laws, and here we have some magical voice commanding Abraham to break one. Shouldn't that cast some doubt on things? Would God really be so hypocritical? We are supposed to evaluate presumed men of God by testing their words against the law, but Yahweh himself is subject to a free pass? And of course Abe, Father of the Year, doesn't even bother to pose a few wee inquiries. Would it really have been so faithless to ask, 'Say "God," what's up with asking me to kill the freckle-faced whippersnapper when clearly you've been against familial murder in the past – you know, with the whole Cain slaying Abel debacle?"

"So, you, you think there's nothing to be learned about faith from Abraham?"

Nelle was trembling. It surprised her to realize it. Sure, she had trembled before – when she'd been frightened or cold or grief-stricken, but never out of sheer rage.

"Nope. Abraham was a bona fide ass. And God too, if he was actually involved! I mean, even though Isaac didn't get whacked in the end, I hardly think it amounted to a happy ending. Just think of the complex the little nipper must've had for the rest of his life!" she proclaimed loudly, her eyes scorching, before slouching back in her chair and falling silent.

Everyone was astonished. Larry and Sarah sat there, half-frozen, unsure of what they ought to do as host and hostess. Under the spurning gaze of the schoolteacher, the Reverend's right eye began to twitch. Arden was awash with pride for the woman. He was swimming in it. And he could barely contain his merriment at watching the arrogant Reverend get trounced.

"Why you, you..."

"Yes, Reverend, I quite agree with Miss Ford that addressing that issue would make a very interesting sermon," interrupted Arden, feeling that Grimmel, if unimpeded, would take the conversation to a more base level. "I might actually come to church for that one."

Upon hearing Arden's agreement, Nelle did a double take. But she didn't have much time to think about it because just then, the Reverend pushed back his chair and stood up, angrily dropping his fork onto the table linen.

"Well, I don't know about you," he said, glancing at Sarah and Larry, "but I can't sit here and listen to such profane mockery of God's holy ways."

It appeared that the Reverend was going to storm out.

"My dear, sooner or later God'll cut you down," he said, with a befuddled Larry following him towards the door.

"That'll be nice; it might be easier to communicate when we're on the same level!" she snapped.

_Yeowch. That'd be the knockdown blow,_ thought Arden, pleased.

Sarah followed her husband to the front door, where they offered awkward goodbyes to the ruffled Reverend, trying to mollify his temper. In the meantime, Arden and Nelle were left face-to-face at the dining table.

"You really gave him a dose," said Arden.

"I know," she said, a little defensively.

_Wait! Why the hell is he being so cordial?_ Nelle wondered.

"No doubt, there will be repercussions," he went on, seriously.

"I know that, too."

"Considering how priggish and strait-laced Dunn and Musgrave are, you could even get the boot, depending on how Grimmel presents things."

"Uh huh. But he picked the wrong day to trifle with me, Arden! The wrong year! 1868's been entirely rotten so far, and he was downright intolerable."

"I know," he said gently.

Nelle bit the edge of her lip.

"Are you really leaving?"

"Yeah. I think I'd better. 1868's been entirely rotten for me as well."

Even though he wanted to, Arden refused to change his mind now. He'd made a big announcement that he was leaving, so leave he would. And perhaps if he left, things would be easier when he came back. _Not likely,_ he thought, _but one can always hope that pigs fly over a frozen hell on their winter migration during the Month of Sundays._

Nelle didn't reply. The calm had gone from his voice.

She left soon after that, carefully telling Larry and Sarah that she hoped she hadn't caused too much discomfort, but not apologizing.
VII.

The following Sunday, Nelle went to church as usual, though this time, more than any other, she was tempted to hang herself on one of the naked elm trees along the Albrecht Traverse just so she wouldn't have to go. She knew that it was highly unlikely the Reverend had kept his righteous indignation to himself over the previous few days. But she had no idea just what kind of fallout would result. And she really preferred not to find out.

Nevertheless, she glided into a pew. And on time, too. Right away, upon unwrapping her scarf and setting down her mittens, she began to detect frosty gusts of air coming from the frontline pew of the Charles Dunns'. Glancing over at Musgrave during the opening hymn, she sensed that his whole row was experiencing the onset of an Ice Age. Dyck was absent, and Nelle counted her blessings for that. Larry looked a little worried. Chesterfield was seated a few rows behind her, so she wasn't sure about him. Still, she felt she ought to go outside to warm up.

_Well, this is just peachy keen delightful,_ thought Nelle. _But I still don't regret it._

It was true. She wasn't just telling herself so out of defiance. On the ride home from Larry and Sarah's, she'd become increasingly troubled as the worst of her ire passed and the events of the previous twenty-four hours ran through her mind. She'd gone through everything once more, dissecting her actions and her comments. She'd wrestled with feelings of guilt over creating an upset in the Dimes' home, especially since they had been so kind and generous to her. Certainly, she should be free to state her opinion. Yet knowing that it would vex the Reverend, and that most folk would be alienated by it, part of her had questioned whether she could have done a better job of keeping her attitude in check? And then there was, of course, the matter of Arden, who was planning to skip town for who knew how long? Over the course of the afternoon, he'd gone from belligerent brute to borderline apologist to detached dissident. And she knew that she could've done better by him. Perhaps it was a good thing he was going, though she did not like to think of being in Boulder without the chance of running into him, of seeing him, even from afar.

When she'd arrived back at her ramshackle abode, she'd tucked Pinto in for the night and gone inside, feeling conflicted and uneasy. Sitting in her rocking chair before the fire, she'd picked up several books and placed them back down without reading more than a line or two. She'd brushed her hair and she'd rocked. Finally, her head had slumped down onto her chest, and she'd fallen into an awkward sleep.

She'd dreamed.

It had been the same dream she'd had in Mexico – in the Valley of the Monks, and long before that in New York. Again she'd run frantically through the forest, away from the rider bearing down upon her. She'd run and run and run until the stream loomed before her and she'd fallen into the bitingly cold water and heard the sound of the inevitable shot.

Awakening with a jolt, Nelle had risen abruptly and bundled herself up. Still early evening, she'd pulled on her coat, slung on the gun-belt and burst out into the moonlit night. She'd paced the Mesa for hours, flattening it further, though considering it was called _Skillet_ Mesa, it hardly needed it. Still, she'd moved unconsciously back and forth, packing down the snow with her ragged Cordovan boots. She'd thought through the dream, as she had a thousand times before, trying to hold onto the details. She'd wondered if she'd seen the river somewhere else besides the dream and felt that perhaps she had, though the dream was already growing murkier in her mind and she couldn't be certain.

After, she'd revisited her conversation with the Reverend. She'd decided that she'd done nothing to deliberately aggravate him until he'd lashed out at her. She'd confirmed to herself that she'd spoken her opinions and need not to apologize for them. If they made others uncomfortable, there was nothing she could do about it. They were all adults, and should be able to handle it. Dialogue made people stronger.

And then she'd done what she'd needed to do for some time. She'd confronted her feelings for Arden with a critical eye. She knew she'd let him become more involved with her than was ideal, and while she accepted she'd done as best as a horny human could, she knew she bore some responsibility to him. To whatever degree, he did care for her. That was certain. So whether or not she wished to be entangled with him, she was. And because of that, as she'd paced in the darkness, she'd asked herself whether he was right, whether he was entitled to know more, to decide for himself whether or not he could be involved with her. She didn't want to hurt him, but at this point she wondered if not telling him would hurt him more, especially if something did happen to her.

A short time before the witching hour, it had occurred to her that she could not trust her heart or her mind. In the gritty fields of love, one had to go with the gut, rather than the sterile confines of the logical mind or the hysterical leanings of the heart. Love was about instinct. And with that revelation, she'd suddenly known exactly what to do.

She would go to him. She'd tell Arden her terms for any sort of relationship between them to exist. She'd tell him precisely what she needed and what the risks were and he could decide whether or not to accept her conditions. It wouldn't be easy or straightforward. Nelle didn't think Arden would find either option, once fully explained, to be to his liking, and she knew that if he didn't play by her rules, she would have to promptly leave Boulder City.

At midnight, she'd hitched up Pinto, who'd randomly bucked his displeasure at being wakened all the way down from the Mesa. She'd ridden across the valley to Arden's place. The lights had been out, but she'd knocked anyway. No one had come. She'd tried the door. Locked. Then she'd wandered, disappointed, to the barn. Peeking inside, she'd found it empty. All the animals had been moved, probably to Larry's, she guessed. That meant that Arden had gone. Already.

And now she sat gloomily in church. She wished she'd at least had the chance to say goodbye to him. But tomorrow, school would start up again, and perhaps the distraction of it would do her good.

With a stoic demeanor, the Reverend Grimmel stood and began his sermon. He had not veered from his plans, for soon enough, Nelle heard mention of Abraham as "a shining example of obedient trust in God." She tried hard to contain her disgust, and at least half-listen, but her mind refused to comply. Soon, she was making lesson plans for the week, plotting out her lectures and assignments for the different grade levels. She was halfway through organizing Wednesday when the church door lurched open, and in tramped old man Connelly.

An amazed Grimmel hesitated for a moment, and the entire congregation turned and stared at Connelly, who was not known to have ever attended church during the entire span of his sojourn at Boulder City. Seemingly oblivious, Connelly scanned the group until he spotted the vacant spot beside Nelle, and then began walking down the short aisle towards her. Grimmel cleared his throat and again began preaching.

Nelle had turned with the rest of the audience and had seen him coming. She didn't know just how alarmed she ought to be, but she wasn't taking any chances. As he slipped into her pew, she slid her hand into the book bag at her right hip. She turned to look at him as he sat down at her left, making no secret of the location of her right hand. But strangely, the freshly-shaven man only nodded and smiled at her as he settled into the pew.

Throughout the rest of the service, Nelle did not remove her fingers from the Remington, though she conducted numerous glances at the man beside her and at no time did he seem focused on anything other than the service itself. Once again, he didn't seem to be carrying a firearm, nor did he seem to be menacing her in any direct way. Nelle felt a hundred eyes upon her pew, but her own bounced sideways and then to the pulpit, back and forth over and over again. She still was not listening.

When church was finally over, everyone bundled up and filed outside into the chilly winter air, including Connelly. Even as she put on her wraps, Nelle's hands did not stray far from her gun. She could not understand what the man was up to.

On her way out, Musgrave intercepted her.

"Miss Ford, it is the Lord's Day, so I'd rather not get into anything just now, but I'd like to inform you that you are expected at a special meeting of the board on Thursday afternoon after school has been dismissed."

Unsurprised, she smiled and nodded, and Musgrave muttered an uncomfortable goodbye. It was going to be a long week with that meeting hanging over her head, but there was no way Musgrave was going to know she was nervous.

Once outside, Nelle was ready to blitz on home, but before she could get to Pinto, Connelly walked up to her. Her finger on the trigger, she was ready to pull out the Remington the second she could no longer see his hands. But he made a point of keeping his hands distinctly folded in front of him the entire time he was with her.

"Good day, Miss Ford," he said, awkwardly but not unpleasantly.

"Mr. Connelly, hello," she said, cautiously.

"Don't worry, Miss, I'm not gonna belt you."

"I'm grateful, Mr. Connelly."

She did not remove her hand from the weapon.

"Well, I guess you're surprised to see me here."

"Yeah. A bit."

The man ran his hand back through his neatly combed gray hair. Nervously, he shuffled his feet, kicking at the snow.

"I wanted to come tell you I haven't roughed up Jake since you came 'round."

"Gee, I'm sorry I don't have a giant gold belt buckle or a trophy handy!"

Connelly winced, looking embarrassed and out-of-place. The foot shuffling grew more intense. Nelle couldn't believe it. The man actually appeared penitent, remorseful.

"Miss... Ford, I just came to tell you, you did right by Jake. I mean, you were right to put me in my place... I've been, well, I've been hard on my boy..."

"I'm glad you see it that way, Mr. Connelly."

"Well, I just came to tell you that. I guess you know it, but you're one helluva, I mean, you're the right kind of schoolteacher for this place."

"I'm glad someone thinks so, Mr. Connelly," she said, beginning to relax.

He put on his hat, tipped it ever so slightly, and turned to leave. But then he stopped and swung back around to face her.

"Say, do the school authorities know you're carrying around a loaded..."

Nelle quickly interrupted.

"No, Mr. Connelly, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Sure, sure." He winked conspiratorially, tipped his hat again, and walked off towards his horse.

Flabbergasted, Nelle walked dazed to where Pinto was standing, unamused.

"Well, that was interesting," she commented to the horse as she gathered up the reins. But before she could manage to climb into the saddle and make a swift escape, she heard Larry's voice behind her.

"Nelle, wait!"

She turned around as Larry walked up to her.

What'd Connelly want with you? I mean, is everything alright?"

"Fine, Larry, but thanks for asking."

Poor Dime still had a worried look on his face, so she elaborated.

"Don't look so concerned, Larry. Back in the fall, I was having some disciplinary problems with young Jake, so I stopped by the Connelly place and offered my uh...recommendations...to Mr. Connelly as to the matter of his son..."

"You 'stopped by'?" said Larry, incredulous.

"Yes... Anyhow, Mr. Connelly just came to update me on his progress with Jake."

"Oh."

Nelle was pleased - pleased with Arden because Larry clearly knew nothing about the situation.

Larry let it go, since Nelle was not volunteering any further information. That was one thing he'd noticed about her – she kept her own council and sidestepped gossip like the plague. Instead of pushing her to reveal more, he stepped closer and changed the subject.

"Nelle, you are aware that your reckoning is scheduled for Thursday afternoon, right?"

"Yep."

"Oh. So, what do you have in mind to quell the bloodthirsty mob?"

"Nothing."

"Oh? That seems to be a rather unusual approach."

After returning from Arden's empty cabin in the wee hours of day two of 1868, Nelle hadn't simply turned in. She'd sat and thought some more until the sun launched itself up over the horizon for the second time that year. She'd figured that the Reverend would ensure to use the Dime luncheon to raise hell with the school board. And she'd again combed through those New Year's Day conversations carefully in her mind and had decided that she stood by everything she'd said, and was even glad she'd said it. And if she'd made people uncomfortable, there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She'd realized, in the grand scheme of things, that the whole affair was ultimately nothing. She could handle whatever resulted. It was a small predicament, and really, how much did it matter what the board did? Even if they fired her, she'd figure out something new to do – find a new school in a new place or a new job right in Boulder. She'd manage. She always had. What's more, it had occurred to her that Mrs. Charles Dunn was probably the only certified replacement for her on hand, at least until Ellen finished her exams in June, and it didn't seem likely that Mrs. Dunn would be coaxed into working again. And even more buoyed by that thought, she'd decided she wouldn't be backing down. She was who she was. They could take it or leave it.

And now she looked at Larry, who was peering curiously at her, and she spoke.

"Larry, I'm a good teacher. I do my job well. I look out for the children and do my best to help them become discerning, thoughtful, and capable individuals. I don't need to defend myself. Frankly, I've done nothing wrong. I've expressed a few of my opinions in adult company. That is all."

Larry figured she was right, though he hated to admit it. After all, he'd certainly been caught off guard by her strong aversion to the marital institution. The fact that she was rankled by the Abraham story didn't really bother him. That was theological. But marriage, that was ethical, and just plain good sense.

Besides, Larry had been with the school board the day before, and he knew how appalled they were by her marked departure from standard community values, even if it seemed to be only in one or two areas. Like him, Dunn, Musgrave, Dyck, and Chesterfield were all much more alarmed by the teacher's stance on marriage than her doubts about the Old Testament deity. But unlike Larry, they all wanted to can her for it. Of course, the Reverend hadn't helped matters at all, not only reporting to the school board, but also attending its subsequent discussion on the matter and hurling all kinds of Bible verses around like it was Armageddon or something.

"Nelle, do you see how it's rather hard for folks like Dunn and Musgrave, and even myself, to understand how you could be so adamantly resistant to the institution of marriage? Can you see why we'd have a problem with it?"

"No, Larry, because my views don't hurt anyone and because I don't promote or proselytize them in the classroom. I fulfill my duties. I always encourage the children to think for themselves, rather than to simply follow suit, and I do not give my opinion unless expressly asked. Furthermore, I stick to the ooey, gooey, I-heart-Jesus-and-Uncle-Sam-bonny-bluebird-happy-chimneysweep-my-body-is-a-temple rigmarole that the board has selected as curriculum. That should be satisfactory."

She had a point. He knew it. Even if he was uncomfortable with one of her viewpoints, she was a good teacher. His daughters were coming along quite nicely in all their subjects, he reminded himself. And even if she'd been rough on Arden somehow, he really didn't want to see her lose her job. Grimmel had done some serious damage and now Larry had only four days to undo it. Or at least minimize it.

"Well, I guess I'll see you on Thursday," he said to her.

Nelle nodded.

There was a moment's silence; then Larry changed the subject again.

"You know," he declared, "Arden's left."

"I know."

This took him a little by surprise. He squelched the smile before it became more than a twitch.

"You know?"

"Yeah, I know. I went by his cabin."

Once again, she gave no further explanation.

They parted ways, and Nelle finally mounted her snapping toad of a horse and headed for home. Larry walked slowly to his wagon and waiting family. He wondered just exactly what had transpired between his brother and Miss Ford. And should he mention to Arden that Nelle had been out looking for him?

That afternoon, Nelle rode out to Ani's. She knew Flint had gone to Colorado Springs on some kind of sheriff's business for a few days, so she hoped it would be a good time to visit her friend and to take her mind off her regrets about Arden.

She was not disappointed.

When she arrived, she found Ani standing near the barn and puking into a snow bank.

"Are you alright, Ani?"

"Fine, fine." Ani smiled good-naturedly, almost happily, before heaving once again.

"Criminy, Ani, nobody should look that delighted with retching unless they've got a bun in the oven," Nelle joked as she dismounted.

"True."

Nelle stopped dead in her tracks.

"Holy Shizen Mother... Ani, you're..."

"Yup, knocked up."

"Well, I don't know why I'm surprised, what, I mean, with all the..."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Ani, are you okay? You've really upped the ante!"

"Sure, babe. I'm over the moon. I mean, I wanted this to happen. It never happened with Elvis, so I didn't know if it could happen, but I hoped. I've always hoped."

"In that case, I'm so happy for you! Congratulations!"

She waited while the woman finished evacuating her stomach contents, and then embraced her. After standing there for another ten minutes without experiencing any further physical eruptions, Anisette invited her into the house. They walked quietly towards the door. For a moment, Nelle had forgotten about everything except for Ani's news.

"What about Flint?" she asked.

"Oh, he's pretty pleased with himself, which really surprises me. I thought he'd panic if it actually happened."

"But, I mean, is he wanting to change your arrangement?"

"No. I was straight with him from the beginning. No shacking up and no wedding, if this were to happen. I'm the one who's wanted a baby, and I've got the means, so he's off the hook. I'll be the parent, and he can be Uncle Flint or Mr. Westwood or That-Man-That-Tucks-Mommy-In. It's up to him. But the thing is, he's really excited, so I'm not sure what's going to happen. Maybe he'll be Pops after all."

"Wow! Wow! Wow!"

"I know," laughed Ani.

"That explains why you were extra holly jolly at Christmas!"

Ani laughed again as she set the kettle on the stove. The two sat down in the kitchen, and after Nelle's inquiries on Anisette's health, and a generic discussion on the pros and cons of boys vs. girls, Ani turned serious for a moment.

"How are things going with Arden?"

Nelle's face lost its lighthearted fervor and she looked down at her hands.

"Arden's gone."

"What? When? Where?"

"He left New Year's Day, I guess. I don't know where," she said dejectedly.

"Oh, Nelle."

"I know, I know."

After they finished their tea, they sprawled out in the parlour and talked quietly for a while. Nelle told her about the disastrous dinner at the Dimes, and between rather sporadic and urgent expeditions to the Great Outdoors, Ani talked more about the impending rugrat. Eventually, they lapsed into silence, and since kissing was emphatically out of the question, they interlocked their hands and gazed up towards the ceiling. Lying there, they both sensed that it was the end of something, _that something,_ and that a new future was pressing down on them. And it wasn't just for Ani, but for Nelle, too. A vague trepidation and tentative optimism descended on them. Intuitively, they knew that things would be different from then on and that there was nothing they could do to change that fact, so they just lay there in each other's reassuring presence.

Despite the fact that classes crawled by and the days seemed to be endless waves of monotonous gray, Thursday afternoon came all too soon. And feeling like there was an eel circling in her belly, Nelle sat at her desk grading compositions and awaited the arrival of the board.

Across the valley, Anisette was waiting until the worst of the sickness passed so that she could ride out to the Dimes', find out where Arden was at, and then go have a word with him. Ever since she'd met Nelle, she'd endured her friend's guardedness without saying much of anything - she hadn't known what she could say - but on New Year's Eve, when Nelle had ambiguously referred to some man coming after her, she'd wondered if she should say something to somebody. And she'd continued to reflect on the matter. She didn't want anything to happen to Nelle just because she had not acted. At first, she'd thought Arden must have refused to make the same promise she'd made. But then Arden had left. And when she'd found out about that, it had occurred to her that there was no way he would've gone if he'd known that Nelle was in some kind of danger. So for her friend's sake, Anisette had made her decision. She knew she had to mention her concerns to Arden, promise or no promise. If anyone could get the truth out of Ms. Nelle Ford, it would be him. And the truth, it seemed, was of some importance.

The Boulder City School Board came in en masse, a united front embarking on the offensive. Nelle rose from her chair and greeted the group. Then she sat down on a corner of her desk, crossed her arms, and looked down at them as they settled stiffly onto the benches of the children's desks. If they were going to fire her, she was at least going to make sure they were uncomfortable doing it.

"Miss Ford, we are gathered here to..." began Mr. Chesterfield.

"Oh Battenbrighton, you're not performing a marriage," scolded Lady Charles Dunn.

"To get to the point, Miss Ford, the school board is gravely concerned about your moral character," said Musgrave.

"Very concerned," reiterated Dyck.

Larry only reddened.

"Oh, and why is that?" inquired Nelle, sweetly.

"Well, you see, the Reverend has informed us of some...disturbing...points of view you apparently hold, points of view that are anti-community, anti-God, and anti-American!" explained Musgrave, tersely.

"I see. Well, we all know that the Reverend gets a little bent out of shape whenever a single woman resists his powers of uh...sanctification."

Nobody said anything in reply. They all knew _that_ was true.

Musgrave continued on.

"Then, Miss Ford, do you deny that you don't believe in marriage?"

"If you must know, though I don't see how it's any of your business, I don't believe marriage is the right thing for me, Mr. Musgrave. I've got no problem with anyone else getting married. I don't presume to know what other people ought to do."

"Why do you deign marriage as inappropriate for yourself? It's good enough for the rest of us," inquired Mrs. Dunn.

"That is private and irrelevant to this meeting, don't you think?"

"But marriage is the foundation of the family, and families are the foundation of a community. Take away marriage and our whole society goes up in flames. You are supposed to be an example, and this, this stance is regressive and immoral. It shakes that foundation and opens up the community to a storm of iniquity," went on Musgrave.

"Oh, please! I hardly think I have that much power, but I'm flattered that you've found it necessary to whip out the apocalyptic phraseology. Still, what you say is only popular opinion. There's no proof of any of it. But, hmmm... I guess this could explain why I've never seen a nun in this town."

"That's different," muttered Dyck.

There was more awkward silence. They were getting nowhere on the marriage issue, Musgrave decided, so he changed the subject.

"Miss Ford, we are also concerned with your close affiliation with Anisette Mead. She is of questionable character and demonstrates a rather loose attitude to religious matters," he said. "I am afraid we must ask you to discontinue your association with the woman."

Nelle was irate. No doubt Dunn had a hand in this one. These people weren't merely overstepping boundaries; they were stomping on them. Stomping on them in ten-pound galoshes, with spurs.

"No," she said simply.

"Excuse me?" said Dunn.

"I said, no."

"You can't just refuse to do what the school board asks you to do, Miss Ford," argued Chesterfield.

"Yes I can, Bat, when it does not involve school matters... If someone wishes to speak of a deficiency in my teaching or some other item pertinent to the operation of this institution, by all means, go ahead..."

There was silence again. Nelle chewed on her tongue to keep the urge to rant in check.

"Miss Ford, I'm afraid your morality has everything to do with the running of this school. You are responsible to avoid every appearance of impropriety and to behave according to the conventions of our community," commanded Musgrave sternly.

"Mr. Musgrave, assorted members of the board, I have done my job to the best of my ability. I teach the curriculum, I keep strict discipline in my classroom, and I believe you'll find that the students are all progressing rather well. What's more, I treat them respectfully and politely, and allow them to develop and hold their own opinions. I expected you might do the same for me, but seeing as how you are not interested in upholding my freedom of religion or freedom of speech, why don't you just get on with things and tell me what you're going to do about it, because I am not willing to cater to your whims when it comes to my beliefs and personal life!"

In a way, Nelle thought it best that she was so incensed. When she was angry, she was less prone to be coaxed into an unsavoury compromise.

Dyck, vying for his own morsel of control, added his two cents.

"Miss Ford, just so you know, you're not the perfect instructor. I feel it is my duty to inform you that several parents have expressed their concerns to me about your teaching methods."

"Who?" asked Larry, exasperated.

"I'd prefer to keep that confidential."

"That's because you can't come up with anyone, unless you count the constantly grumbling Mrs. Headley, who, since her Grade Four son started Grade 1 six years ago, has criticized every teacher to darken the door of Boulder's schoolhouse! I, myself, am very satisfied with Cherry and Carrie's education under Miss Ford and I think you'll find other parents that heartily agree."

Nelle beamed at Larry.

"Who?" demanded Dyck, in turn.

"Well, Vince Connelly for one. And that should certainly testify to Miss Ford's skill as a teacher, considering that man's rather vehement viewpoint on women in general."

Larry had trumped them all with that. They all undertook a moment of silence to remember poor Miss Allen, who, two years prior, had braved a trip out to the Connelly place on account of Jake's misbehavior, and been chased off the place by Old Man Connelly and his singing bullwhip. _Had Miss Ford been responsible for Vince Connelly's sudden appearance in town, both at the Christmas Pageant and now church?_ they wondered collectively. Dyck, who always kept a keen eye on those who'd fallen off the wagon, had recently noted that Connelly had not come into town to buy liquor in ages, and pondered this again as he sat there in the schoolroom.

It was a while before anyone spoke.

Finally, since Musgrave, the obvious ringleader in this parley, was sulking over the fact that Nelle would not simply bow to his authority, Chesterfield took it upon himself to speak.

"Miss Ford, you are to consider this meeting an official warning. If you refuse to improve and conduct yourself with the higher sense of morality befitting to a young, single schoolteacher, we, the school board, will be forced to consider hiring someone more... more _compliant_ for next year."

Chesterfield folded his hands in his lap and looked at Nelle with a feigned look of congenial diplomacy on his florid face.

"Come now, Mr. Chesterfield. Do you think I am so oblivious as to not have noticed the way the majority of you pause to give each other approving little nods of interest whenever young, demure Ellen Bailey passes under your noses? It seems quite clear to me that you've already decided on someone more _compliant_ for next year."

Chesterfield's face reached new heights of rubescence. Lady Dunn pursed her lips and examined the veins in her hands.

"Well, gentlemen and Lady Charles, it seems to me that I don't stand a chance with you people no matter what I do. Of course, that is to be expected in a place that has had six different teachers in the last five years... Well, I'll clear out for Ellen, if that's what you want. I don't intend to stick it out where my hard work is not appreciated. But before Miss Bo Peep can lead your sheep, she still has to pass the Teacher's Examinations. And for that she needs me. Now, if you come mewling to me whenever I express an opinion in private company or associate with someone who ruffles your thrice-petticoated Victorian mores, I'm afraid it's going to be very hard for me to stay focused on my professional duties. It would really be a shame if all this hoopla over my personal affairs interfered with my teaching."

"Is that a threat, Miss Ford?" growled Musgrave.

"Not at all. I believe you were the ones that threatened me... A suggestion, rather."

"A suggestion?" inquired Chesterfield.

"Yes, a suggestion. I am suggesting that you each worry about your own morality rather than mine, and that you come to me only with legitimate concerns about the operation of the school, my teaching methods, parental complaints, and the like."

"But Miss Ford, you are to be an example..."

"Oh Mr. Chesterfield, I'm not going to start robbing stagecoaches or anything."

"But you're telling us to exempt..."

"I'm simply telling you that if you are uncomfortable with the petty details of my personal life, just close your eyes and think of England!"

Musgrave was white with anger, but said nothing. Nobody said anything. The schoolteacher had called their bluff. They were stuck with her, obstinate and unrelenting, for the rest of the school year. Eventually they all filed out in silence.

After that, for all the Reverend's ire, the school board left her alone, for the most part. Of course, Nelle kept on tutoring Ellen, as she had planned all along. There had never been any question of that; no matter how the school board had behaved, she would not have altered Ellen's education. She was not the kind of woman to shirk her responsibilities, or to unfairly drag children into adult frays. Plus, she liked the girl, in spite of her annoying tendency to agree with anything she, or any other adult, said. After all, there was still time yet for Ellen to find her backbone.

As winter wore on, Jake Connelly quietly continued his transformation. He was still quite aloof from the other children, but then, he was the oldest in the room and couldn't be expected to get excited over a game of marbles or the making of snow angels. However, he no longer bullied any of his classmates and he did his assignments with some consistency, though there was still opportunity for improvement. And ever since Nelle had gotten him to help Ellen each afternoon with her math - the one potential snafu to her upcoming, illustrious teaching career, she'd noticed a certain air of confidence about him, not to mention a certain wistfulness in his face when he was not sitting beside Ellen working polynomials.

Most importantly, in Nelle's opinion, he'd taken a liking to reading. Nelle had gotten into the habit of placing her own books, once read, onto a shelf in the schoolroom so the older children might borrow them. And she'd noticed that at one time or another, Jake had removed each of them for a period of days. Quietly delighted, Nelle said nothing, but she did ensure that the supply of literature never dwindled and there was always something new and interesting on the shelf.

Old Man Connelly kept showing up at church and on the third Sunday, Nelle removed her hand from the book bag, though his presence still left her unsettled. He would sit unfazed in the spot at her left, and she would speculate on whether he'd actually changed or whether this was some sort of elaborate ruse to exact reprisal over her autumn visit. A couple times, she even scrunched herself into the Dime family pew to avoid the sheer stress of him. But he kept coming, and after every service, he would walk over to her, wherever she happened to be standing, and wish her a good afternoon. And each time he did, she was less on edge and more inclined to believe that he was being sincere.

Every night, as Nelle slumped into her saggy bed, she wondered where Arden was and what he was doing. Mostly, she'd try to reach him with her mind, to send him telepathic messages through the darkness. Of course, she doubted they were getting through, considering she couldn't even manage to levitate away from the lumpiness of her mattress, and she'd been trying that for months. But still, she kept on, with both the attempts at telepathy and levitation. Neither Larry nor Sarah had mentioned Arden since he'd left. Even Anisette had left the matter untouched, and had probably done so out of sensitivity and consideration for her, but nevertheless, it caused Nelle to miss him even more. Trying to have a little faith in the Fates, she sometimes insisted to herself that perhaps his leaving had been exactly what needed to happen. Time and time again, she told herself to accept it.

But it was useless. Each afternoon after dismissing her class, as she rode down walnutless Walnut Street and up out of town, she kept her eyes peeled in case he'd returned. Briefly, she'd even thought about writing him a letter, but there was no way she was going to ask Larry where Arden had gone. Plus, Arden would probably be back before any letter could reach him. She hoped.

It didn't help that she wasn't sleeping. In January, she'd begun having her chase nightmare with increased regularity, once, sometimes twice a week. And now, almost two months into 1868, she was having it every night, and she figured she knew what that meant. She could sense something. Hence, each morning, instead of her simple cup of black tea, she had to make a cauldron of thick, muddy coffee to get going, particularly on Sundays. Nevertheless, she managed to keep up with her work, including tutoring Ellen, albeit sometimes with a little less patience than before. And in some ways, she became even more guarded; now, when she went around back to the outhouse, she took her Remington.

By the time the doleful days of February drew to an end, the seaweed hue had left Anisette's face and had been replaced by an equally outlandish salmon flush. And with her puking days for the most part behind her, she ventured apprehensively over to the Dimes' on a windy, but mild Tuesday afternoon, when Nelle was certain to be tied to the blackboard and thus unable to intercept or dissuade her even by accident.

Really, it was a shame how long it had been since she'd last spoken to Sarah Dime. The nearer Anisette got to the Bar Circle Gets the Square, the more nervous she felt. When she arrived, she stared at the pair of little black boots beside the front door for a good, long moment before getting up the gumption to knock. Finally, she forced herself to reach out and make contact with the polished wood. Sarah came to the door with a dishtowel in her hands.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Anisette Mead, benevolent patron of jilting, cold-hearted strumpets!"

Okay, maybe it wasn't a shame. Anisette hadn't known it was possible for sunny Sarah Dime to be this biting. She almost turned and fled, but then reminded herself that this was not just for her. It was for Nelle, too. And maybe Arden.

"Sarah. Hi. Can I come in?"

"I guess."

Sarah opened the door a little wider and showed Anisette in without comment. Anisette followed her into the parlour, thinking that the old adage was a bunch of bullshit and time did not heal all wounds.

"Tea?" offered Sarah, coldly.

Anisette nodded and Sarah disappeared from the room. A few minutes later, she returned carrying a tray complete with rose-patterned teapot and matching cups and saucers. Sarah poured and passed her one of the china cups. Surprised, Anisette smiled, amused that she'd been deemed worthy of the good china in spite of everything. And encouraged.

After the how-are-you?-I-am-fine routine was completed, Sarah wasted no time.

"So what brings you here, Anisette?"

"I just thought I'd stop in and see my neighbour."

"It's been years since you dropped by. I don't think Jack was even born the last time you stopped in."

"I know. I've been thinking, I'd like to put the past behind us, Sarah. The whole thing really got out of hand."

"Yes, I guess it did." Sarah sighed and began stirring the milk into her tea, rattling the spoon against the bone china with a worrisome intensity. "I still don't understand how you could've taken Melissa's side, though. You and Elvis were his friends!"

"I wasn't trying to cause Arden any more pain, Sarah. Really!"

"You were hauling her to dinner at your place every couple of days and fussing over her non-stop! And to top it off, you pushed him to take her back after the way she hurt him! You had no right!"

"I know I went too far. It's just that the girl was dying inside, and I hated to see it! I wanted things to be a little easier for her, that's all. Arden's a strong man. I knew he'd recover. But her, well..."

"It was her own fault and nobody else's."

"Yes, that's true. But you must believe me, I never meant to hurt him, only to help her."

"Well, I do know you're a well-intentioned woman. I, I can't deny that... I wonder what became of her after she went east?"

"When Mrs. Neville left, she told me she'd passed on. I don't know the circumstances, but I know she never quite recovered from... things."

"Oh."

Sarah sat numbly for a few moments. She sipped her tea quietly. She'd disliked Melissa from the very first, but had hated her with a venomous hate after she'd ditched Arden for Mick. She'd figured the woman had been cold-hearted and calculating, not merely stupid, and had never really given a damn for Arden. But now, she wondered. And certainly, she'd never wished Melissa dead.

"Does Arden know?" she asked.

"Not as far as I know. I never saw any reason for telling him," said Anisette, smiling half-heartedly at the woman across from her.

That was enough for Sarah. Right there, just like that, Sarah forgave Anisette. Of course, deep down inside, a part of her known that Anisette hadn't _meant_ any harm to Arden, but it was this fact, the fact that she'd been discreet about Melissa's death, that allowed her to let the whole thing go. When it came to her family's welfare, Sarah could hold a grudge for a long time, but this grudge had weighed on her. The whole affair had been such a sad story. She wanted to leave it all behind. And Anisette had just given her a reason to.

"I agree with you, Anisette," she said smiling back at her neighbour. "Let's put the past behind us."

After that, with the worst over with, they got caught up, talking for some time about the progress of the Dime Ranch and Mead Dairy, Sarah's children, and of course, as farming and ranching folk are wont to do, the weather. No country conversation is complete without the cursory lament against the current ornery season. It is a social imperative that someone comment on how it's drier/wetter/colder/hotter/windier than it ought to be, and that someone, in turn, shake his or her head and reply that he or she has never seen a spring/summer/fall/winter like this one in all his or her years. And if there happens to be a third party in said conversation, he or she must repeatedly interject, "It just ain't right," at various intervals, with a "tsk...tsk..." here and "tsk...tsk..." there.

As they talked, Sarah took a closer look at Anisette. She felt the widow looked different, somehow. It wasn't aging - even if the women hadn't visited each other in years, they saw each other routinely enough while going about their business and attending community events that they did not notice the accumulation of time on each other's faces to any great degree. It wasn't a new hairstyle. Sarah peeked at Anisette's face again and quickly eyed the woman's body, pausing for a millisecond at her mid-section, and pondering.

Finally, Anisette got around to the main reason for her visit. She knew she still had to proceed cautiously if she was going to get anywhere, so she eased into it.

"So Sarah, where is Arden these days?"

"Oh, he thought he'd get away for a while. He's working out-of-town."

"Yes, I know. But where?"

"At a ranch southeast of here."

"I see... I think I may ride out and speak to him."

"About what?" asked Sarah, leaning forward, her curiosity piqued.

"Well, about Nelle," replied Anisette, a little sheepishly. She had hoped she wouldn't have to lay down all her cards, but it appeared inevitable.

"Anisette!"

"I know, I know. You think I ought to leave it alone. I've tried to tell myself that, but I can't. I'm worried that she's in some kind of trouble. Something serious. She won't tell me what's going on, but she might tell him. Sometimes she can be so goddamned obstinate. I just want to talk to him. He might be able to help her."

Sarah considered this, but remained unconvinced.

"I don't think it's a good idea. Let Arden handle his own affairs. And Nelle, too! They're both responsible adults. I think they'd appreciate it more if we didn't interfere in their lives... Besides, it's a long ride to Hays City."

Anisette blinked.

"Hays City!?! Why, you made it sound like he was just down in Denver or maybe Pueblo. I can't ride all the way to Kansas! I got woozy just riding over here!"

Sarah raised an eyebrow and hastily stole another look at Anisette's belly. Anisette kept talking.

"I'll send a letter then!"

"You can't. He's moving all the time – riding trail."

"Damn it! I've got to do something."

"Anisette Mead, I think you ought to mind your own business, but if you're so bent on talking to him, surely you can wait two and a half months more?"

"I don't know. She's not right. I mean, she's jumpier than usual, she's stopped coming around as much, and whenever I do see her, she looks downright haggard. I'm not sure how long I can just wait and see... What if something happens? Maybe I can get someone else to take a message..."

Again, Sarah deliberated. Like her husband, she liked Miss Ford in spite of herself. She didn't understand the woman or even know exactly why she liked her, though she was certainly a sufficient teacher for Cherry and Carrie, but she knew she liked her. Maybe it was just because she found Nelle interesting. After all, the schoolteacher had made completely different choices than she had. She had traveled, she had lived and worked in a handful of places, and she lived alone, with no one to answer to. Of course, she did not want anything bad to happen to Nelle. But she especially didn't want anything bad to happen for Arden, and in her hesitation, it was him she was thinking of.

Anisette sat patiently. She sensed Sarah's increasing uncertainty. And so she waited as the afternoon ticked on.

"Anisette, what makes you so sure about this? Arden was rather riled when he left..." Sarah said, after getting up and pouring them both a second cup of tea.

"I can just tell. Something is seriously wrong," she replied, avoiding explicit mention of what had been spoken of on New Year's Eve.

"Besides, you and I both know that those two stubborn, stubborn... Well, they're not just hot for each other, it's obvious they really lo... care for each other, so..." she rambled on.

"Anisette, you were going to say 'love'! Don't shake your head at me! You think they're in love! You think they're in love?" Sarah interrupted, almost giddy with excitement.

Anisette rolled her eyes.

"Come on, Sarah. She's got Arden so torn up that he's up and gotten the hell out of Dodge!"

"Yeah, of course. But what about Nelle? Do you think that she's... Really?"

"Have you not seen her lately? I thought she sits near you in church? Haven't you seen the dark circles under her eyes? The dismal glances at the horizon? She's a wreck!"

"But I thought you said she's in some kind of trouble. Maybe it's just that. It doesn't necessarily mean that she misses Arden."

"Nah. But Sly's been telling me how, at least once a week, she goes riding southwest across my pasture without stopping in to say hi."

"And there's nothing that way except..."

"Exactly. Arden's place."

Sarah grinned. This put everything in a whole new perspective.

"So, you see, I can't just do nothing. I mean, something serious _is_ going on with her, and considering how things are, I think, as peeved as Arden is now, he'd be way more upset with _us_ if we knew something was going down with her but didn't tell him."

That almost clinched it for Sarah. Almost. A shadow of guilt stole across her face and she nearly nodded, but then thoughts of the past returned and she refused to be convinced. Unless there was something definite to report to him, it seemed best to leave Arden to his own affairs.

"You may be on to something Anisette, but I think we should give it a little time. Maybe it's not as serious as you think. Maybe you're getting caught up in all the emotion of things. I mean, Anisette, you seem a little..."

Disappointed, and yet amused, Anisette watched propriety duke it out with curiosity on Sarah's face.

"Go on, say it."

Savouring Sarah's hesitant, confused eagerness, Anisette smiled.

"You seem a little, uh, in the family way... Or maybe it's just the way the light is coming through the window on an angle, or..."

"Yes, I do seem, don't I?" Anisette winked.

"Oh, Anisette. Really?!"

"Yep."

Stunned, Sarah now stared delightedly at Anisette's belly, forgetting that the proper thing to do might be to look askance or offer a stiff, indignant "congratulations," considering that Anisette had technically been conducting herself in a way unbefitting her own social mores.

"I can't believe it!" she murmured, grinning widely, despite her theoretical disapproval of premarital hanky-panky.

"I don't know why everyone is so surprised," said Anisette. "Most of Boulder City knows I've been bedding Flint pretty regularly of late!"

Sarah blushed, but ignored the comment. She knew Anisette was trying to provoke her a little. Plus, there was nothing that softened Sarah more than a baby, or one in the offing.

"Well, sit back Anisette. Take it easy. Tell me, how far along are you?"

With that, Anisette had joined the Ma Club and had suddenly become privy to a whole new, exclusive world that involved meticulous discussions of baby barf and gratuitous use of the word "cute." The two women talked for another long while before getting back around to the previous subject at hand. As the baby was to be born in summer, Sarah dictated a list of all the little things a woman could do to feel less sweaty and gross while pregnant in the heat. She talked at length about diapers and the best fabrics for baby clothes, and Anisette almost fell asleep listening to the thrilled yammering. However, she jolted to attention when the topic shifted over to labour itself, and soon she raised her hand to stop the discourse.

"Okay, okay. Enough blood and guts for one day, Sarah! If you must prepare me, you're gonna have to break it to me gently, though at this point, I'm thinking it'd be better just to go in blind, you know – like a boy to war... Besides, the problem remains – what to do about Nelle?"

"If you had something more concrete, Anisette, then I could see... But you remember how things were. As much as I'd sometimes like to, I don't think it's wise for me to go tampering with Arden's life. You, neither!"

"So you won't help me at all?"

"I, well, I think we should just keep an eye on things..."

"Will you tell me the name of the outfit he's working for?"

"No."

_Wow. After the baby bonding, I didn't think she'd be this tough,_ thought Anisette, half-admiringly and half-dismayed. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't be mad at Arden's sister-in-law. She knew that Sarah's present reluctance was not because of past grudges, but was a result of her caring deeply for Arden, and she could not resent such sentiment. Nevertheless, she remained convinced that she was in the right, and that somehow, she should get in touch with Arden. _Oh well, I still have one more option,_ she thought hopefully, as she prepared to leave.

"And don't even think of bringing this up with Larry," Sarah warned, sweetly but firmly, as they walked to the door. "He's even more hands off than me when it comes to Arden... And besides, he won't tell you anything without talking to me first."

_Damn, damn, damn,_ thought Anisette.
VIII.

When February finally ended, Nelle was relieved. She loathed February. It was a dirty, soggy noodle of a month that managed to stretch on and on, while somehow maintaining an official status as the shortest month of the year. It was a month of gray skies and gray, grit-covered snow. It was bleak. It was monochromatic. It was drab, its only hint of colour coming by way of the handful of red paper hearts that drifted around her classroom on St. Valentines Day.

March, however, had a whiff of hope about it. It was still winter, of course, but something in the wind began to imply the possibility of something other than winter. And for Nelle, the winter had grown tedious, the swathes of snow and gray only heightening her restlessness and intensifying her uneasy loneliness for Arden. She was ready for spring, and change. Fatigue still hounded her, though she'd grown used to repeatedly dreaming of gunshots in the same way one gets used to eating macaroni at every meal when one's only option is elbow-shaped starch.

Not wanting to complicate matters for next year, the school board tentatively and begrudgingly left her to her own devices and school went on as usual. This was probably a good thing for Nelle, despite her weariness, as it kept the days churning past and prevented her mind from settling too long on any one concern. Even so, she was becoming almost reclusive outside of the classroom, preferring not to linger long in crowds or spend any more time than was essential in town. Inside the schoolhouse, she often paused to peer out the window, or confirm that her book bag was in the bottom drawer of her desk, and always, as she rode here and there, her eyes flitted across the horizon and her ears were attuned to the abnormal, waiting.

Now that Anisette was pregnant, Nelle found herself staying further away from the Mead homestead. It wasn't that she didn't want to see Ani. More than ever, she craved the company of her friend, but she felt her demons coming for her, and with a child involved, it seemed wrong to expose Anisette to even the remote possibility of collateral violence. So she kept her visits occasional and brief, though it pained her that Dunn and Musgrave, once the gossip had filtered back to them, exhibited looks of triumph whenever they happened to cross her path.

However, there was one sparkling pinch of bright atop Nelle's hefty serving of paranoid monotony. "Yak the Dog with a Capital D", a.k.a. Yak, had arrived at Nelle's doorstep one night at the end of February when Boulder City was in the throes of one of its last ice-spitting blizzards of the season. Hearing the clawing and whining at her door, Nelle had crawled out of bed and answered the door, revolver in hand, to find the massive hobo of a dog, his long hair encrusted with ice and snow, looking like a cross between a musk ox and a buffalo and begging for shelter. There was a bone-chilling wind about the place, so, since the dog seemed friendly and was not foaming at the mouth, she had let him in. For the rest of the night, the animal had slept quietly before the fire, and in the morning when Nelle let him out again, he'd refused to venture far from her door. So she'd fed him, cleaned him up a little, named him, yes, Yak, and let him stay.

Yak had proven to be a good-natured and fairly clever behemoth of a mutt. At first, he'd tried to follow Nelle to school in the morning, so upon leaving for town, she'd locked him in Pinto's shed. After a few days of that, he'd learned to stay put unless she called him to come along. For the most part, he ran wild atop the Mesa, but usually didn't venture too far from the cabin. And if Nelle was around, he stayed near his beloved meal ticket, and every night, she let him sleep curled in gigantic lump before the tiny fireplace.

To her pleasure, he didn't bark a lot. Small, yippy lapdogs were annoying, like mosquitoes, but big, barky lapdogs were far more excruciating, like horseflies, in Nelle's opinion. So, lucky for Yak, he kept his yap shut, unless something alive other than Nelle or Pinto happened to venture near. When that happened, his long, floppy banana-leaf ears would extend towards the heavens and his head would tilt ever so slightly. Then there'd be a low, gravelly growl that Nelle would feel reverberating in the floorboards beneath her toes, followed by a leap towards the door and a barrage of great, dense woofs that continued on until the visiting party left the area or Yak was allowed out to conduct his snuffling investigations.

Pinto kept his head high and at first, did not deign to associate with the mongrel. But since Yak did not mount a single attack against the arrogant equine, in spite of the fact that he could've probably taken the horse down if motivated, they managed to reach a delicate accord, and whenever Nelle went meandering about the countryside, she took them both along. She'd loved the dog from day one, not just because he was a galumphing weirdo of a hairball, but also because he was a no-fail, scrap-eating security guard and afforded her a little extra sleep and relaxation.

By the time the ides of March went marching past, the highly esteemed Ellen Bailey was progressing quite nicely in her preparations for the upcoming teacher examinations. Jake had certainly been responsible for much of her improvement in math, as well as a certain illumination in her usual dogged comportment. Lately, he had taken to walking Ellen home, and since her parents, along with the school board, had been rendered apoplectic and utterly speechless by the unlikely pairing, he'd kept on, without interruption. The first time that he'd taken up her books and escorted her down Walnut Street, Nelle had quietly closed the school door, and leaning on the broom, had laughed and laughed and laughed whilst imagining Musgrave's withered look of surprise.

And over at the Bar Circle Gets the Square, Sarah and Anisette conferred often, mostly about Anisette's blossoming beltline. Baby fever gripped them and they were together talking colic and nappies so often that sometimes, when Nelle wandered over to Ani's on one of her less frequent visits, she found no one there. The schoolteacher didn't grow too concerned, however, since at other times she passed by and spotted Flint's horse stationed in front of the house, as usual. And anyway, she had bigger worries for the time being.

Always, at one point, in all of Sarah and Anisette's visits, Anisette would delicately bring the conversation around to the subject of Nelle. She had not given up on the matter. Nelle was still acting increasingly distracted, still wearing shadows under her eyes, and still keeping her interactions sparing. But Sarah could not be prevailed upon. Sometimes, she vacillated, it's true, but always she returned to the same emphatic conclusion; she needed something more – specific proof, details, hard evidence. And Anisette could give her none. So as the days passed, Anisette continued to fret, and both women scrutinized Nelle when they could.

The last Sunday in March began a little off, progressed to full-fledged bizarreness, and then ended with a slump, like a bad case of vertigo. "Blech!" said the sky that morning, as it unloaded a bricolage of sleet, rain, and cat-sized clumps of heavy snow, and "blech!" said Nelle as she pinned up her hair for church and peered out the window. At the last minute, she forced herself to venture out, wearing coat and hat, with book bag in hand. Like most everyone else, she arrived at church in a rumpled, damp state, and slid into the pew beside Old Man Connelly, who had actually beaten her there. He nodded his usual nod at her as she rubbed her hands together in a vain effort to warm them. Enough time had passed so that she was actually beginning to accept that he meant her no harm and really had come to appreciate her efforts as a teacher. She still kept the book bag beside her, but she no longer felt any inclination to slide her hand inside when he was near.

When the Reverend stood up to make the appeal for the offering, Nelle thought she detected a dash more venom than usual in his gaze as he scanned the congregation and momentarily locked his eyes on her. Still, she was taken by surprise when, just as she was beginning to retreat into the ever-entertaining corridors of her own mind, she suddenly heard him mention her name in his pre-sermon announcements.

"So, it is my privilege to announce that our own dear, talented Ellen Bailey won the "Best Teacher in the West" Essay Contest with her skilled and kind-hearted composition about the talented Miss Ford," the Reverend was saying. He paused then, attempting to cover his scoff with a cough.

Nelle, sitting paralyzed in the pew, her full attention now centered squarely on the pulpit, dispensed with breathing for the time being, and waited, anxious to hear the rest of it. Meanwhile, the colour in her face began initiating emergency evacuation.

The Revered hated to continue, but through gritted teeth, he went on.

"Miss Bailey's fine essay was awarded honourary publication in the illustrious New York Times and has garnered a twenty-five dollar contest reward. It is to be reprinted in our own Boulder City Bulletin for your reading pleasure. Ellen, you've put our fair little city on the map. Congratulations to you! And Miss Ford," he added, with all the enthusiasm of a man about to give up a tooth to the barbershop.

The congregation oohed and aahed, issuing a muted applause befitting the Lord's Day. And they all glanced back and forth from the girl to her teacher.

All of the colour that had fled Nelle's face had since taken up residence in Ellen's. The girl was beaming - radiant with pride, subsequent guilt over being proud, and vague feelings of embarrassment. When the clapping stopped, she looked over at her teacher and immediately her smile wilted, drooped, and fell limply to the floor as she surveyed the pale, alarmed look of surprise on the woman's face. It wasn't quite what she had been hoping for.

Very quickly, Nelle recovered herself and realized that Ellen, along with most of the congregation, was looking directly at her. Not wanting to take away from Ellen's moment in the spotlight, she quickly molded her face into a makeshift smile. It was somewhat overdone, much like a clown's or a used mule salesman's, but it would have to suffice, and from Ellen's look of relieved happiness, it apparently did. With her maxi-grin in place, the moment passed by without further awkwardness, and the Reverend zealously dove into his sermon.

Sarah, however, knew Nelle well enough to discern that all was, in fact, not well in Nelleville. Throughout the sermon, she kept an observant eye fastened on the schoolteacher, noting the nervous way she fiddled with the flap on her book bag, the new look of distress in her eyes, and the lines that kept erupting on her forehead. Right then, she seemed stricken, anguished even. _I've got to talk to Anisette,_ she thought to herself. _Something just happened. I'm not sure what, but something. She's so upset, she's barely holding it together._ "

When church let out, the chilled, clammy congregation made its way to saddles, wagons, carriages, and lunch. On the way out, a disheveled Nelle made sure to stop and speak to Ellen. Distracted as she was, she congratulated the girl heartily on her success, thanked her for such an honour, and spoke all the right words over and over again until Ellen grew pleased and content. The girl had indeed done her proud and deserved to be congratulated, to be made much of, and to be acknowledged for her hard work. _If only her hard work hadn't focused on me and the Boulder City School,_ thought Nelle, her mind whirling. But still, she was flattered. She'd worked hard with Ellen and the girl's kindness was sweet. Partly, she was thankful. But mostly, she was afraid.

Though Sarah tried inviting her for lunch, Nelle knew she needed to be alone and made the requisite excuses so that she could escape to the cabin and the undemanding company of Yak. She had to be able to meet her own mind unimpeded.

Before she could ride off though, there was Vince Connelly waiting beside her horse, hat in hand, ready to wish her his customary "good afternoon" and ask how Jake was doing in school. He did just that, and though Nelle was consumed with distraction over the matter of Ellen's essay, she offered him a "good afternoon" in kind, and assured him of Jake's progress, all while trying to maintain her composure, digest the morning's events, and not look too desperate to get going.

Afterwards, making up for the lost time, she lurched into action. She had to get home. And fast. Her head was throbbing, her heart jumping erratically in her chest. She had to be alone and think. Quickly, she jumped into the saddle and sped towards the silence of her cabin and her waiting rocking chair.

When her plan to glean more information by having Nelle to dinner had failed, Sarah had not milled around socializing as she normally did after church. Instead, she'd rushed the children to the wagon and requested that Larry hurry on home. "I have to see Anisette," she'd explained. He'd been happy to oblige, no explanation needed, especially on such a dreary, wet day. Upon arriving home, she went with basic sloppy joes, to the annoyance of the entire Dime family, then got in the wagon that Larry had left idling out front, and drove straight to the Mead farm.

She was thankful to find _only_ Anisette at home.

"What's happened?" asked Anisette, once she'd settled down with Sarah and a plate of pastries in the parlour. She knew something was afoot.

"I'm not exactly sure."

"Well, there must be something to bring you here on a Sunday right after church."

"Yes, it's just, well, it's Nelle. I think you're right after all. Today, in church, she looked..."

"Yes?"  
"Distraught."

"Do you mean ragged from stress, or acutely upset?"

"She was really upset, but she was trying to hide it. It just got worse as the service went on."

"You're sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. I wouldn't have come here right away like this if I weren't sure... I tried inviting her out to our place, but she kept making excuses..."

"Was she like that when she first arrived at church or did something bring it on?"

"When she came in, she looked tired but that's all... It must have had to do with that announcement."

"Keep talking, Sarah."

So Sarah explained to her about Ellen winning the essay contest. Anisette took in the information and then spoke.

"Now he can find her here," she blurted, suddenly cognizant.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Well, uh, if Nelle's upset about Ellen's essay, it's probably because it's been published in the Times, and now anyone interested in finding her will know exactly where to look. Someone must be after her," Anisette replied, hoping to cover her slip.

"And you think it's a man?"

"Just a guess, if she's that upset. What do _you_ think is more probable?"

"Hmmm... Yes, I see. Anisette, we should send a message to Arden!"

"Yeah. Yeah, we should. I'm glad you thought of it."

"Anisette!!"

"He's still in Kansas?"

"A far as I know... Do you think Flint would go?"

"Until he gets a new deputy, he's tied to Boulder City. He can't go anywhere."

"What happened to Deputy Franks?"

"Got kicked by a heifer – broke his leg."

"Oh. Tough luck. What if we send Sly?"

"His sister's coming out here for a visit – arriving in three days. I can't send him away now. He only sees her maybe once every two years. Besides, it'd be much easier for me to go than him, with all the extra stuff I'm relying on him to do around here these days," she said, unconsciously sliding a hand across her belly in that same slow way all pregnant women do.

"You definitely can't go."

"Well, someone's got to."

"No, Anisette, that's definitely off the table! You're on stork watch. Just because you're not puking at the moment does not mean you're in the clear. Really, the exciting physical mayhem has only just begun. And at the best of times, it's downright dangerous for anyone, especially a woman, to ride..."

"Relax, already! As much as I want to help Nelle, I wouldn't actually consider it. I was only wishing... And say 'pregnant', Sarah! If you can intersperse your birthing descriptions with 'cascading globules of blood', you can certainly drop the euphemisms!"

The first part wasn't wholly accurate. There was a point earlier on when she had considered it, however fleetingly, as she'd tried to fall asleep one night after yet another trip to the outhouse. But on that night, she'd realized that more than anything else, she wanted this baby, and even if she actually had some energy to travel, there was no way she would go, even for Nelle. She would not increase the risks to the child.

"Okay then, you mood-swinging _pregnant_ woman!" a blushing Sarah exclaimed, after sighing with genuine relief.

She leaned back in her chair to think some more.

"It seems that our only option is to send Larry. You could write a letter to Arden, and then we'd get Larry to take it to him," she said, after finishing up the profiterole Anisette proffered.

"Do you think Larry would agree to such a thing?"

"No, not at first. But I'll convince him."

"Really?! You think you could?"

"Just you watch, Anisette Mead. I know you think I'm some passive little wife, but trust me, I have my ways of convincing Larry."

Anisette eyed her. There was a touch of bitterness in Sarah's voice. But Anisette held back, swallowing her own snappish reply. After all, some things took a while to heal, and Sarah – now that she was convinced, was truly giving her all to try and get word to Arden. _Let it go,_ she told herself. Then she smiled wickedly.

"Why Sarah, I bet you do," she purred.

Sarah blushed again, but smiled, too.

They agreed that Anisette would write Arden a brief, direct letter, and that Larry, as soon as he could be coaxed into doing so, would take it to Kansas. And then, because Sarah thought she should start working on Larry right away, _and_ because she wanted to make a pie to assuage her guilt over the sloppy joes, they parted ways, agreeing to speak again the next day.

With the plan finalized, a gratified Anisette wasted no time in doing her part. That night, after Flint conked out beside her, she pulled out her stationery and wrote the letter. Of course, she meant to be brief and direct, but was only moderately successful. After all, this was Anisette, and she had to add at least a few flourishes.

_Damn you, Arden Wilder!_ it began.

I know Nelle's a bit of a handful, but was it really necessary to flee all the way to Kansas? We're really missing you around here! And by "we", I mean "she." So, as much fun as you must be having wrestling longhorns and rounding up straw, I think you ought to seriously consider coming home soon.

I know you dig the gal. Going A.W.O.L like that kind of proved it! I guess that's why I'm writing.

I'm pretty sure she's in some kind of trouble. I don't know exactly what it's about, but I think someone's after her. At first, there was this one vague and somewhat testy reference to a "pure, unadulterated asshole" finding her, which made me nervous, since she wasn't in a fit of pique over you at the moment. It didn't help that she refused to tell me anything more. I meant to speak to you about it some time ago, but you took off so fast, I didn't have a chance.

_Then she started acting even more on edge. And now, Sarah says she became really upset in church today, seemingly over a contest-winning essay E. Bailey wrote about her, which was published in the_ _New York Times_ _. This just makes me more certain she's been trying to keep a low profile._

I'm sending this because I feel you ought to know. After all, she might need help, and seeing as how you're just about as stubborn as she is, I figure you're the only one who has half a chance in wrangling the truth out of her, figuratively speaking, of course.

_And while I don't pretend to know exactly how she feels about_ you, _I will say that she seems quite taken with the vistas surrounding your cabin, since she meanders past there at least once a week._

_Please kindly consider my advice_ and get your ass back here now _!_

Sincerely,

Anisette Mead

P.S. I would've tried to come see you, myself, but I'm happily in another kind of "trouble" and it seems best for the little mini-Mead if I don't rush across half the country.

P.P.S. If you do come back and mention this to Nelle, please try to leave my name out of it, as I might be stretching the limits of a vague, drunken promise I made to the lady during the holidays. Something about keeping my mouth shut...

P.P.P.S. Re: P.P.S.: Please know that I'm only testing the elasticity of my word because I am concerned for Nelle's safety.

Throughout the evening, Nelle remained collapsed in her rocking chair, her body drained and her mind focused on Ellen's essay. Would Lacy see the article in the _Times_? Had he already seen it? Was he on his way to Boulder City? She rocked on. Yak wandered over to her and placed his head on her knee, and she stopped and patted his mangy, but empathetic head for a moment or two. She would not run, she reminded herself. She would not run. She would not run...

She knew what was coming. She could see it clearly in her mind. It was time she got it over with. No more wondering. No more hiding. No more running. Lacy would come. He or someone he knew would've read the article, and he would come. Soon. It was time for her to face him. And it would mean liberation, of one kind or another. She'd had enough of the tense waiting and the years of avoiding him. She could not get any stronger. Now was the time. Now was everything. Now was all she had.

It was time to set aside the fear. It was useless. The fear had served its purpose. It was obsolete.

Resolve filled her up.

Two days later, Larry set out for Kansas and after eleven chilly, but thankfully uneventful days, he tracked Arden down in an encampment on the plains, where he and about a dozen other cowboys were rounding up cattle bound for shipment east. It hadn't been so easy for Sarah to persuade Larry to leave the Bar Circle Gets the Square. After all, it was hardly a quick jaunt to Hays City and Larry hated to part from his wife for any length of time. Plus, he was busy enough on the ranch, being short-handed without his brother. But Sarah had asked him so prettily, and what's more, she'd backed up the asking with a guilt-infused appeal to his sense of duty by repeatedly invoking him to "think of Arden," had volunteered Sly O'Connell to chip in around the ranch (much to the surprised chagrin of Anisette's reedy, young hand), and had artfully implied that as concerned as she was over the matter, she might be too distracted to cook anything but oatmeal until the letter was delivered into Arden's hands.

And so, sheepish and disconcerted words of greeting out of the way, Larry stood before his half-brother, feeling some combination of sweaty, sore and sorely manipulated.

"You're sure everything's okay? I mean, nothing's gone wrong with the ranch or you or Sarah, or the kids?" asked Arden.

Larry shook his head.

"Not as far as I know."

"Well, it's a long way to come for a cup of joe, Larry, not that I'm not glad to see you! You must've come here for something important?"

"I have a letter from Anisette Mead," he said simply, reaching his hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out the document.

"Anisette? What the...? And you came all the way here for..."

Arden was really confused now.

"Sarah made me, I mean, advised me to bring it. It's about Nelle. Anisette's convinced she's in some kind of trouble, and she thinks it's some kind of heavy..."

Not waiting to hear the rest of it, Arden snatched the letter from Larry's hands and stalked off into the grass.

"And that's that," Larry muttered to no one in particular, as he peeled the saddle off his threadbare horse. The horse shrugged and sank down to the ground to rest.

"I know it's been rough on you," said Larry, addressing the animal this time, "but you can see for yourself the man's in love. And considering the parties involved, it's safe to assume that Cupid needs all the assistance we can muster. Sometimes the service of love requires extraordinary action."

"Moo!" said the horse, closing his eyes.

"Exactly," replied Larry.

An hour later, as the buttery yolk of sunset oozed across the horizon, Arden stole placidly back into the camp. Larry, stretched out beneath his blanket, opened one eye and peered up at him as he attempted to wipe the dust from his face with an even dustier sleeve.

"All right," Arden declared. "It's settled. We'll leave first thing in the morning."

Larry's horse scowled in its sleep.

The Sunday following the announcement about Ellen's essay, Nelle woke up with a sore throat and she took full advantage in using it as an excuse not to go to church. Throughout the week, she nursed a cold, and outside of teaching, she spent all of her time at home attempting to rest and trying to avoid thinking of anything beyond the walls of her cabin. She fought hard to hang onto the resolve of the previous week, but in truth, though she still refused to entertain any thoughts of running away, she was miserable and strung out. Often, while she sat curled up by the fire, she'd hear some out-of-the-ordinary sound and rush to the window, thinking someone was about the place, though Yak remained unconcerned. She'd reach for the Remington if the roof creaked or the wind picked up suddenly, and then sink back into the rocking chair, her heart thundering away, when she realized it was nothing.

She wondered if it would happen before Arden got back. If only she had been able to speak to him before he left! If only he knew how she truly felt! She just wanted to see him, to look him in the eyes and make him know.

The following weekend, when she finally found out that Larry had gone off to visit him, she only grew more restless. At first, she wished she'd known he was going beforehand; she might have sent a letter. But then she acknowledged that a letter just wouldn't have cut it, anyway. Still, she worried what such a visit meant. _Is Arden going to stay away longer?_ she wondered, ill at heart. It didn't make sense that Larry would make such a trip if Arden was going to be home in a few months, anyway. Maybe Arden had met with some trouble. Maybe he was hurt. Sarah had told her nothing other than that Larry had gone to see him, but she'd seemed so concerned. Why? It was all too much to think about.

Between her building anxiety over Lacy coming to find her, and her more recent fears regarding Arden's wellbeing, Nelle was an out-and-out wreck by the time the next Sunday rolled around. Beside her in the pew, Connelly noticed that she seemed to have taken on a raccoon-like appearance. From the pulpit, the Reverend speculated that maybe his sermon on Salome was getting to her. While exiting church, Lady Dunn wondered if the schoolteacher had not yet gotten over her cold.

At the school, Nelle kept up a semblance of composure. She lectured on the War of 1812, listened to the young ones read about robins and daffodils, drew isosceles triangles on the blackboard, and remembered to conduct the weekly spelling bee. But always, in the afternoons as she headed home, she would be flooded with thoughts of Arden and fears about the future. Again and again, as she rode, ate dinner, and sat with Yak in the cabin, she would go through her options and always come to the same resolution; she must face Lacy once and for all. The time was right and she must accept her fate, she knew. And then she'd worry less for a while, breathing deeply and resting until the fear returned and she went through everything once more. And always, she tried to convince herself that it was probably right that Arden was gone. It was probably for the best, because at least he was out of the way... Certainly, Sarah would've told her if something was wrong... But reason could not quell her yearning.

And the yearning gnawed at her. The goddamn relentless yearning...

Pinto did not protest as much as one might've expected when she strapped on her gun belt, saddled him up and hauled him back out of the shed late one mid-week afternoon. Like a child who senses that one more grating whine will send his hapless parent leaping headlong over the edge - any available edge, so Pinto sensed that Nelle was not in a mood to tolerate any emotional outbursts. In fact, considering the hardened look on the lady's face, Pinto was awash with a rare golden moment of gratefulness that she did not often wear spurs. He was particularly appreciative that she was not wearing them now. Yak growled at the wind and galloped in stride beside horse and rider as they made their way down into the valley.

Nelle told herself she was just going out riding as she flew along the Mead fence line, that she just had to get out into the open air, to get off the Mesa. But she knew exactly where she was going. After all, there was nothing past Anisette's for miles, other than the cabin with the ivy-etched door and the curved porch. Usually, though Nelle hated to acknowledge that there indeed was a _usually,_ she just slowed down and rode slowly into the pine grove past Arden's place. She'd glance at the closed door and the dark windows, hoping for a sign that he'd returned, before riding out through the trees and straight west through the valley pastures, looping back up towards her cabin or further northeast to the hot springs. This time, she knew without a doubt, thanks to the laconic update Sarah had given her after school that very afternoon, that Arden wouldn't be there. But even if she couldn't see him or speak to him, there was something comforting about the place, and she felt that just riding by might help to mollify her. Besides, at some point he would be there again, and she would tell him everything, once and for all. Whenever she ventured past his cabin, she felt assured of this, that he would come back, and that it was the right thing for her to do.

Now, riding on towards Arden's place, Nelle calculated how much time she might have before Lacy arrived. At least a month, she decided, after stopping to consider the distance he had to travel. Even if he took the train part of the way, she had at least a month. Maybe as much as two or three. That didn't leave her much time, but she'd make it close to the end of the school year, at least. And Ellen would be ready for exams in June. She would be able to take over the school next year.

The three of them sped through the fields – Nelle crouched on Pinto's back, leaning into the wind, Pinto panting, surprised at how fast he could go with his oat belly swaying beneath him, and Yak loping on ahead, then doubling back, like a precocious baby mammoth. It was the cusp of spring; they could smell it in the peaty, hospitable air. They could feel it in their bones, which were no longer achy with cold. And they could see it in the first eruptions of new grass and the sodden patches of bare ground. Especially Nelle, who all of sudden realized with panic, that she was riding much, much too fast into a particularly mucky low point in the Wild Dime's southwest field.

Forcefully, but steadily, so as not to frighten the jumpy horse, she pulled back hard on Pinto's reins. At the same time, she crooned "whoa" repeatedly, trying not to betray her alarm as they rushed forward into the deep mud. But it was no use. They had been moving too fast, and she had not been paying enough attention. Even though he'd hit the brakes and tried to veer away, Pinto's legs plunged into the thick, pulling mire. The momentum at which he hit the mud, combined with its viscous, boggy quality sent him, abruptly demobilized, plowing into the ground in an awkward, twisted somersault. Nelle, of course, was detached from the saddle and violently launched headlong in an arcing flight that landed her in the sludge a few yards clear of her horse.

Groaning and still dizzy from her spill, Nelle slowly extracted her arms, which were buried in the cold muck up to her elbows. Then she cautiously proceeded to stand, while the wet mud oozed into the tops of her boots. With her filthy hands, she swept the clumps of slop from the shoulders and breast of her jacket. Thankfully, she hadn't planted her face in the gunk. _At least I'm not having to spit and sneeze this slime out,_ she consoled herself.

Then she heard it. A soft, doleful whinny. For a moment, Nelle was confused. Pinto never let out soft, doleful whinnies. That wasn't his style. He generally kicked things when he was sad. But then she heard it again, and she realized it wasn't a soft, doleful whinny at all; it was a soft, _distressed_ whinny. Her stomach dropped and the cold sweat of panic greased her forehead. As fast as she was able, she turned towards the direction of the sound.

It _was_ Pinto. He was lying on his side, out of breath and wheezing audibly, his right legs hidden beneath the muck. But immediately, it was his rear left leg that grabbed her attention, and as Nelle tramped her way over to him, it became clear to her that something was very, very wrong with it. Finally, when she was standing next to him, she realized that it was the horrible angle of it. Horses legs just didn't do _that._ And then, with a wave of nausea, she saw that there was bone poking through the skin of the leg, just below the knee.

"Oh, Pinto," she said plaintively, and the poor horse whinnied again.

Trying not to think about what she would have to do next, she walked up to her long-time yellow-bellied but loyal equine amigo, marveling at how calm he was just then. Regret filled her as she bent down and began stroking the soft, gray-flecked hair between his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should've been paying more attention. I knew this was a bad spot... I'm so sorry, Pinto."

She didn't linger long. Pinto's breathing was increasingly rapid, as was his heartbeat, she noticed, when she patted his neck. He was in pain. There was no point in waiting.

With some effort, Nelle stood up. Her hand dropped to her revolver, spattered with mud in its holster at her hip. She was grateful she'd worn it. If it had been in the book bag as usual, she might be hunting in the mud for it right then. And she had no time to waste.

She pulled out the Remington, aimed, and immediately fired two point blank shots into Pinto's head before she could lose her nerve. Looking away, she listened as his breathing sputtered and then stopped altogether. She choked on a sob, swallowing it down, and glanced at the blood that had begun seeping from her horse's head. And then she trudged beleaguered out of the mire and onto firmer ground, where Yak was patiently waiting. Alone with her dog, she knelt down on the soil and began to sob. She felt so incredibly stupid, and so very tired of trying to be strong.

Fifteen minutes later, she raised her puffy face up off of the ground, much to Yak's comfort, and achingly pushed herself to standing. Still bewildered, and only half-believing what had just happened, she wandered distractedly towards Arden's place, taking over a quarter hour to walk the half-mile.

With Yak at her side, she plodded dazed into the abandoned yard, unconsciously examining the place for signs of life and finding none. The windows were still dark, the door still shut, and the barn still closed up and silent. She sighed and made her way up the steps to the front door. Standing there, she reached out and traced the smooth trail of ivy with her fingertips.

The days were still short, and the sky had already begun to darken, limping towards a sunset destined to resemble nothing more than a shrunken, slate blue overcoat that had been left on the line too long. Nelle turned back towards the yard, leaning her head against the door. It was barely 6:00 p.m., but there and then, she felt overcome with exhaustion. Ever since the Reverend's announcement, her mind had been reeling like a dislodged silo or luckless bovine during a Grade A tornado. And worse, now she'd gone and killed Pinto. And it wasn't over yet, she knew, thinking about how little time stood between her and a likely showdown with Lacy. She called Yak to her and he came, his long, pom-pommed tail pummeling the unsuspecting air. He sniffed twice before sitting down at her feet like an enormous discarded mop head. And Nelle, laden with fatigue and with grief, slumped back against the door, and slid slowly down to the porch floor beside her dog.

Ignoring the threadbare, decrepit coattails of the underwhelming sunset, Nelle closed her eyes. Full of regret, she was unable clear her mind of a macabre image of Pinto lying dead in the muck, bloating up until his body was pinching his own head. She cursed herself aloud for not riding defensively and felt sick to her stomach. If she'd been paying attention, she could've easily bypassed that known sticky spot in the southwest field instead of charging into it like a hotheaded rookie. But it was too late. The deed was done. She'd gone and committed manslaughter against her own horse.

Overcome by it all, Nelle fell asleep there on Arden's porch. And for once, she didn't dream. She slept soundly while the hours of evening piled up and the hints of spring in the air were replaced by crisp remembrances of winter. Even when her body began to shiver beneath her muddied coat, she did not wake up. Yak, all the while, remained crouched at her knees, resting but alert, one eye open, one banana leaf ear upright and ready to receive any noises transmitted from approaching unidentified objects. And just after midnight, the ear twitched, having indeed honed in on the sounds of such an object in the vicinity. And while his mistress slept on, the dog jerked up onto its haunches and began sniffing the air methodically.

Arden had arrived home with Larry late that afternoon while Sarah was returning from school with the children. Weary, but relieved to be back, he'd greeted his sister-in-law and the rest of the family, and had eaten the dinner set before him. Then, as soon as he could politely do so, he'd excused himself and gone riding up to the Mesa in search of Nelle. Finding her cabin empty, he'd waited several hours, but she had not come home. Wondering if she was at Anisette's, he'd finally headed down into the valley. He'd peeked into the Mead barn, but there had been no sign of Nelle's horse, though Flint's had been there. And since it was late, he'd decided not to knock. He'd have to track her down tomorrow, he decided. He could catch her at the schoolhouse in the afternoon. Still, he wondered. _Where can she be, out so late on a Wednesday night, when she has to teach tomorrow?_

As he neared his cabin, Arden spotted the dark mound that was Pinto's corpse, harshly lit by the sober moon, and he had his answer. A quick survey of the scene told him exactly what had happened. Without wasting any time, he rode the rest of the way back to his cabin, resisting the urge to make his worn out horse gallop the short distance. Moments later, he dismounted, and leading his horse through the grove of pines, he emerged in the yard and saw her there on his doorstep, crouched down beside what appeared to be a tattered pile of hooked rugs.

_What if she's hurt?_ he thought, beginning to run towards the door.

He realized he was mistaken about the pile of rugs when it suddenly snarled, jumped up, and began to charge him. The animal, barreling towards him at an alarming speed, sent out a few ponderous, primeval woofs that caused Arden and his horse to falter momentarily. But before the gigantic dog could leap upon them, a stern yell came from the porch.

"Yak! No!"

And with that, the colossal fur ball instantly stiffened, turned abruptly back towards the cabin, and begrudgingly retreated. And relief surged over Arden; Nelle was okay.

Leaving his horse at the water trough, Arden strolled up to his porch where a chilled, groggy, and very dirty Nelle was coming around and the living shag pile was eying him suspiciously from its position at her side. He reached her just as she managed to stand up and weakly place a hand on her revolver.

"Arden!?"

The hand moved away from the gun.

"Hello Nelle..."

"Hi," she replied feebly.

"I see you've seriously upped your security system."

"Yeah."

"What is it, exactly?"

"Well, the veterinary papers indicated he's a Great Snafflehound, descended from the woolly mammoth and the angora camel, but to be honest, I don't think he's an authentic purebred. There's got to be some yeti and horse blanket in the mix, too."

"Ah yes, the Snafflehound, a particularly rare, but dignified canine breed."

"Indeed."

"Nelle..."

"Yeah?"

"Are you alright?"

Arden moved closer to the door so he could see her face. Her eyes were red, but shining brightly, her cheeks very white. She was shivering and looked more dejected than he'd ever seen her.

Nelle couldn't believe it. Arden was actually home, standing right there in front of her. At first, when Yak had gone charging out towards the tall figure emerging from the night, her heart had made a break for it. But then, as he came still closer, she hadn't been so sure it was actually him because she had spotted the faint, but unmistakable silhouette of the chaps he was wearing, and alas, she'd never seen Arden in chaps. But then, as she'd stood and wiped the sleep from her eyes, he'd come near enough for her to make out his face, and bless the Fates, it had been him! And here she was on his porch, horseless, bleary-eyed, and encrusted with mud in the middle of the night. A complete mess. Oh, but she was overjoyed to see him!

"Nelle, are you alright?" Arden asked again, a little more urgently.

She looked into his eyes, and this time she didn't take them for granted.

"You're wearing chaps!" she declared, incredulous.

"Uh, yeah. I was riding through some brushy country earlier."

"Mmmm... hmmm..."

"That doesn't exactly answer my question."

"Well, it hasn't exactly been a day for the scrapbook so far," she murmured, sadness evident in her voice, "but you suddenly showing up is certainly salvaging it. And those chaps... They're, they're... Niiiiiice!" she went on, more brightly.

Floored, Arden looked into the dark, earnest eyes.

"So you're glad to see me?"

"Oh, hell yes!"

This was not what Arden had been expecting. Where was torn, divided, resistant Nelle? _Just go with it, Arden. Go with it!_ he told himself.

"I've missed you, Nelle," he said, feeling already that the grueling pace of the trip home had been worth it.

She placed a hand on his arm and moved closer to him.

Arden was even more dumbfounded by this gesture, but sensibly, he didn't pause to consider it. Immediately, he slid his arms around her, and they stood there in the dark for some time, saying nothing. _I must remember to wear chaps a hell of a lot more often,_ he thought.

"My saddle horse has died, and I am sick inside," she finally said, still in his arms.

"I know," he said, visualizing the forlorn fat lump out on the prairie and pulling her closer.

He wanted to stay there like that for hours, without moving, but he felt her shivering against him. During his time on the Kansas trail, Arden had had plenty of time to mull things over, and he'd spent a fair portion of that time mulling Nelle. He'd learned a thing or two, in thinking on his previous times with the schoolteacher. And now, as he stood there, he knew that asking her to come in would likely be met with refusal. So, with one arm still around her, he deftly fished a key out of his back pocket, unlocked the door, and simply edged her inside. The dog, he was careful to leave on the porch.

Of course, Nelle was not exactly in the same frame of mind as during their previous encounters, either. And while Arden was congratulating himself on stealthily maneuvering her into the cabin, Nelle was congratulating herself on permitting him to maneuver her inside, and feeling rather grateful not only for the fact that he was happy to see her, but also that she was now engrossed in watching him, in his leathers, start a fire in the stone fireplace. She was not so cold or so aggrieved to pass up the opportunity. Who knew when it would come around again?

Fire and lamps lit, Arden again turned to face her where she stood, just inside the door.

"Come sit by the fire. You're still shaking."

"I shouldn't. I'm encrusted in mud. I don't want to mess things up," she replied, thinking not just of the mud.

He paused, his face growing serious, as if preparing to say something important, but then he seemed to change his mind, and smiled.

"Alright. Baths next. At least _stand_ by the fire in the meantime."

He disappeared into the kitchen before she could protest.

Nelle slowly removed her boots, socks and coat and left them in a muddy pile by the door. Carefully, she rolled up the bottoms of her petticoats and skirt, bunching the fabric in her hands in order to avoid leaving a trail of dirt clods on the cabin floor, and then tiptoed barelegged to the fire. After sleeping so long on the porch, she was chilled through and desperate for the warmth of the fire.

Standing beside the building flames, she wondered how she ought to start the conversation, the looming discussion. It had to be done soon, she knew. But she couldn't do it tonight after everything that had happened and Arden likely burnt out from traveling. Still, she could not stand there for much longer with that cowboy in the next room and not get into some sort of mischief. And there had to be a parley before any kind of rodeo happened.

Surprisingly, the warmth from the fire did not make her sleepy. Instead, as her shivering waned and then stopped altogether, she was reminded of Pinto's cold body out in the muck, and with the day's events rushing back to her, she felt awake and morose once more. Her skirts pinched between her knees, she hugged her arms tightly to herself and stared into the flames, feeling sad, guilty, and apprehensive.

Arden came out of the kitchen just then and caught the look on her face before it turned into a weak smile.

"Well, it's not every night that I emerge from my kitchen at two in the morning to find a lovely, albeit incredibly filthy, barelegged, and well-armed woman standing before my fireplace," he said lightly.

Nelle dropped her skirts. There was the audible sound of dried dirt clods hitting the hardwood.

"It's two in the morning?!"

"Yeah, give or take a few minutes."

"Arden, I should go. You must be tired from your trip. I have to teach school tomorrow. I had no idea I'd slept so long. No wonder I was frozen."

"I'm boiling water for our baths... I think you should consider staying. Your lips still have a disturbing bluish tinge."

"I shouldn't," she replied, hesitantly, as he walked towards her.

"Nelle, it's a long way to walk. Hermes has been worked to the edge, I'm afraid, and all my other horses are still at Larry's. I think you should stay. I'll sleep down here by the fire; you can have the bed. In the morning, we'll see about getting you another horse."

Nelle had indeed forgotten that she was in fact, half-stranded there, with Pinto dead and a trip home likely to take several hours on foot. And now, considering the added walk to school, she knew it was futile to think of leaving. By the time she'd arrive home, she'd have to start the walk to town.

"Alright," she agreed, "and thank you, Arden."

Again, Arden didn't know what to make of things. He took a step closer to her. She did not back away. The deep brown eyes, the sheen of her hair – the clean bits, at least, the curvature of her neck, the full lips, they were all the same, but she, she was different. There was less severity and more tenderness. And it wasn't merely because her horse had just bit it and she was feeling temporarily vulnerable. No, there was a definite change. Instead of an unfocused agitation, there was an earnest, if temporarily worn thin, determination. But there was also a quiet, resigned foreboding. Realizing this, and thinking of Anisette's letter, Arden became alarmed.

"Nelle, you're not dying, are you?"

Wide-eyed, Nelle jerked her eyes away from the fire and up to his face.

"Not any faster than you," she replied, surprised.

Sighing with relief, he looked away from her and into the flames. They stood side-by-side, almost touching, feeling the heat build in the room. It wasn't long before the bluish tint had left Nelle's lips and been replaced by their usual red luster, Arden noticed. And Nelle, warm now, was wondering how salty Arden's skin might taste if she just happened to have her mouth on it. Still, they stood there, breathing, waiting, as the fire roared.

"That last pot of bath water is probably boiling by now."

"Probably," agreed Nelle, nodding.

"You're the dirtier one. You can go first."

"Thanks," she said, without moving.

"There's a towel for you in the kitchen beside the washtub... I'll go find something clean for you to put on afterwards," he said, not moving either.

"That'd be great."

They stood silently. The hot fire crackled and popped.

"Okay, then," said Arden, gruffly.

"Okay."

Nelle turned slowly towards the kitchen. As she moved forward, away from the fire, her forearm grazed his slightly, and instinctively, as the resultant surge of desire blazed through her body, she looked up and glanced into his eyes. The restrained fervor she saw brought the heat into her cheeks and she paused mid-stride. She craved him more than ever. And she didn't care if he knew it.

Arden knew. Her eyes were just as revealing as his, and he could hear her breathing becoming jagged like the last time. It was all the confirmation he needed.

He turned and slid his right hand across her left wrist, still smeared with dried mud. Slowly, gently, the hand traveled up the soft skin of her forearm to the dirt-specked elbow. It skimmed over the soft fabric of her dress' sleeve, inching towards her face. When his palm pressed more insistently on her shoulder, and his fingers began flirting with the nape of her neck, she gave in and closed her eyes, biting her lower lip in her habitual way. When Arden saw this, he tightened his grip and slipped his other arm around her waist. She smiled just then, her eyes still closed.

"I don't know how I stayed away so long," he muttered, as his mouth went for those red lips.

He kissed her hard. He kissed her with everything in him. Because it was his way of telling her what he'd figured out some time before, back at that awkward New Year's lunch, because he'd been missing her for weeks and months, because the opportunity might not come again, he kissed her voraciously. And she kissed back with the kind of intensity that made the bed, and even the floor, suddenly seem too far away. Her hands moved about his shoulders, traveled the path of his spine, pressed emphatically against the leather covering his hips and then edged further back. And when she crushed the heat of her body against his, he had to fight the strong impulse to extract her from her muddy dress with one swift, firm motion.

The water boiled in the kitchen.

Her lips on his neck, Nelle did discover the faint taste of salt but forgot it immediately when Arden peeled back the fabric of her dress, exposing her shoulder, and kissing its hot flesh. She stopped then, and dizzily took hold of his arms, her skin tingling, her mind a primordial tableau, her breathing fast and heavy. She ran her fingers through his tangled hair, gently persuading his mouth to part from her skin. When he looked up and into her face, he understood, and the entreating look vanished from his face. Catching his breath, he stepped back and took hold of her hands.

"I guess we've got things to talk about before I go all bounty-hunter on you," he said, grinning.

"Yeah."

"Go have your bath, and then I'll have mine. We'll talk after."

"There's _a lot_ to discuss, Arden. You must be exhausted. I have to get up in a few hours to teach. It'll have to wait till later, after school."

He considered this.

"How many sick days have you taken so far?"

"Well, none."

"After an apparent fall, the liquidation of Pinto, and hours stranded in the elements, I think, Nelle, that it would be a sensible precaution for you take a sick day."

"Well..."

"Clearly, you're in a very fragile state."

"I am not!"

"You see, this strained temperament proves it. Plus, you look awfully flushed."

"A moment ago, you were checking my temperature with your tongue! What do you expect?"

He laughed.

"I'm afraid you're in denial... It's more serious than I thought. Hell, you look like you could swoon at any minute."

"For your information, that's my begrudging shut-up-and-let-me-think face! And furthermore, Mr. Wilder, I do not swoon! Beware the woman who swoons. She is either consumptive, or she's deceptive – in other words, her corset's too tight for the truth."

He was grinning widely now. He knew there'd be no school that Thursday.

"Just go get into that tub before I have to check your temperature again."

"I'll do that, as this conversation is starting to read much like a story I happened upon once in an English periodical."

"Uh huh. And what was the name of the periodical?"

"I have to go have a bath now."

It was four in the morning by the time they'd both washed and gotten ready to finally sleep. Arden was true to his word, and after sweeping up Nelle's trail of mud, he laid some blankets and pillows down in front of the fireplace and let Nelle have the bed. Watching her climb the ladder to the loft, her damp hair draped loosely over the blanket she'd already wrapped around herself, he had to fight the urge to climb up after her, but his resolve prevailed, and he did not venture near. And Nelle, she sank into the big bed with a luxuriating sigh. For once, she did not feel like she was resting on a beaver dam riddled with gopher holes, and the sheets, they smelled faintly like Arden, she noticed contentedly before drifting off.

Though he was spent, Arden, unlike Nelle, did not fall asleep right away. Despite the flirty banter, and a kiss he did not have to fight for, or perhaps because of it, he was uneasy. He hadn't liked the flat tone of her voice when she'd mentioned their impending discussion. Or the bitter, rueful look she'd had for an instant when he'd first emerged from the kitchen to suggest she take a bath. Then there was what Sarah had confirmed to him earlier that evening – that Nelle had been really upset by that announcement about a student's essay. He knew Anisette was right. The woman asleep in his bed was in trouble. And whatever it was, it had probably been there all along, although now it was worse.

Arden slept fitfully until light began toying with the horizon. Then, rising quietly, he slipped out to the barn and got his horse, who refused to look at him after being granted far less than his usual eight hours of shut-eye. On his way out of the cabin, the galumphing canine had jumped to life, but Arden had given him a quick scratch behind the ears, and Yak, pleased by the attention and sensing no trouble afoot, had not bothered to bark. He remained on the front step as Arden rode away and dawn slunk across the brown grass.

Larry was already up doing chores when Arden arrived at the Bar Circle Gets the Square headquarters. Wanting to get back before Nelle awoke, Arden wasted no time unsaddling the zonked Hermes and guiding him into the barn. Then he asked Larry to post a notice on the school door that classes were cancelled for the day.

Leaning on his pitchfork, Larry asked him, "What's happened, Arden?"

So Arden quickly apprised him of the situation, telling him about Pinto and about finding her stranded in the middle of the night.

"You found her on your doorstep, Arden?! No wonder you're in a hurry to get back." exclaimed Larry, slyly.

"And you shut up about it, Larry. No telling anyone."

"But... Sarah?"

"No. She'll tell Anisette and Anisette will let slip to Flint, and Flint, he's one of the worst gossips in all of Boulder City. No way, Larry! I had enough of that with Melissa. Please, not a word. I need to find out what's going on, and for that, I need no interference. No one prying, judging, or whispering. You know the way Nelle is!"

"No, you tell me," demanded Larry, smirking. It had been so long since he'd seen his brother this way. It gave him pleasure to see Arden so intent on Nelle. And even more pleasure to know that indeed, despite her previous indications of indifference, she must actually feel strongly for him, considering she'd ended up on his doorstep and was now asleep in his bed. Perhaps someday soon there would be nieces and nephews for his children to play with. But he was getting ahead of himself now.

"Larry, she's volatile... and sensitive... and armed. Please, Larry!"

"Armed?!"

Arden gave him another look.

"Yeah, yeah," said Larry, clearly amused. Arden sighed, looking up from the saddle he'd been buckling onto a fresh horse, realizing he'd been toyed with.

"You're some brother," he said, not without a touch of fondness.

A few minutes later, with a bundle of miscellaneous foodstuffs Sarah had put together, he left for home. And Nelle.

Home.

She was standing on the porch with a cup of coffee in her hands, blankets still wrapped around her and Yak crouched at her hip, when he rode into the yard on old Poseidon, leading Mnemosyne and Spot behind him. Spot was Larry's horse.

"I hope you slept all right," he said.

"So far, yes. But I've been worried about school."

"No need. Larry's going to post a sign on the door before nine."

"Oh. I'm obliged to you for asking him, Arden," she said, tension lifting from her shoulders.

"Not at all."

He took the horses to the barn, and when he returned to the porch, she was still standing there looking dozy and startlingly relaxed.

"Coffee," she offered, when he tramped up to the door.

"Nah. More sleep."

She nodded lazily and they went back inside. Quickly, he put Sarah's food hamper in the kitchen and made his way back to the spot beside the fireplace. Nelle was heading up the ladder to the loft once more, but this time, before she reached the top rung, she turned to him as he adjusted the pile of blankets.

"Come sleep in your bed. I heard you rustling around this morning. It can't be comfortable there," she said frankly, gesturing to the floor.

The same combination of pleasure and alarm that had come over him when she'd first gone up to bed early that morning now came back to him. This was too good to be true. What was happening?

He climbed the ladder after her, and shrugging his jacket to the floor, he slipped beneath the covers. Nelle lay down too, her back to him. She knew that if she turned to look at him, she'd want to move a little closer to him, and then she'd want just a little taste of him, and then, then she'd want to consume him. Sun streamed through the small window and drenched her in warmth, and still as she was, she grew heavy-eyed again and soon began to stray into sleep. Staring at the sunlight on her skin, Arden refused to move for the same reasons as she, and quietly wondering what she would tell him later, he too, succumbed to his fatigue.

At noon, Arden awoke to find the bed empty and the mouthwatering smell of eggs and cornbread wafting up from the kitchen. _There is nothing better than starting the day like this – smelling breakfast while you're still in bed,_ he thought. Slowly, he sat up on the edge of the bed, buttoned his shirt, and ran his fingers through his hair. Eagerly, but not without a flash of apprehension, he made his way down the ladder to find Nelle.

She was standing in the kitchen wrapped in a sheet, nibbling a forkful of egg from the skillet.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, when she saw him standing in the doorway. "I undertook a small raid on your food hamper."

"Not at all," he said, filling the kettle with water to make fresh coffee. "I'm glad."

Conflicted, part of him was just pleased she was still there, no matter what might happen later. But the other part was tense and anxious. The longer she moved about his cabin, with her vague looks of acceptance and her gentle, almost apologetic smiles, the more unnerved he became. And of course, there was also the fact that she was wearing a sheet and smelled of peppermint soap, and her coppery brown hair, freshly clean, hung down past her bare shoulders. If ever he wished she could be her normal, ornery but less somber self, it was now. Okay, not too ornery, or she wouldn't be standing there, but...

While she carried the breakfast to the table, Arden went up to the loft and found her an old shirt to wear. At least then, the sheet could function as a skirt, instead of a toga. Of course, togas were infinitely better than old shirts and floor-length bedding, especially for a man with a noted fascination with the Greek deities, but when there was no chance of the toga coming off, it seemed to him that the best thing was to do away with the torturous distraction.

They ate in silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but a purposeful one. They wasted no time in eating. Now that they were rested and the afternoon lay vacant before them, they both knew the time had come for talk, for explanations, for decisions. Especially Nelle.

"Thank you for breakfast. Let's just stash the dishes in the kitchen and worry about them later," Arden said, when they were finished.

Nodding, Nelle retreated to the kitchen with their plates, and Arden followed, handing her the shirt he had found for her.

"I'll wait out there," he said, gesturing towards the front room.

When she emerged, having donned not only the shirt, but also her gun belt, he was standing by the fireplace, waiting. The gun belt did nothing to temper his concern.

"It's a long story, Arden. Sit down."

He obeyed, and she took up residence in the chair beside him, gathering her sheet-furled legs up to her chin and circling her flannel-covered arms around them. Arden peered at her curiously, uneasily.

"It's not easy for me to talk about all this, Arden. But when you were gone, I got to thinking that maybe you were right on New Year's Eve when you said you had a right to know what was going on. It wasn't my intent to get involved with you at all, in any way. In fact, it was my specific intent to _not_ get involved with you. But when one's intent does not correspond with one's wants, there are difficulties."

She grinned weakly, before continuing.

"So I'll tell you everything, and when I'm done, I need you to make a decision as to how you will proceed."

"Okay," he agreed, his eyes locked on her serious, troubled face.

She took one long, deep breath, holding it for a moment before allowing herself to exhale. And then she began.

"As you already know, I spent my teenage years in New York City. I moved there from Upper Canada with my mother after my father died. Upon arrival, she married a man named Edgar Baines, a man who, when he was wooing her back in Canada, gave off a rather pungent aroma of money... My mother, who'd previously married my father while he was stationed in London, supposing she'd have an elegant life in high society, only to be uprooted to a modest and isolated existence in Canada, found Mr. Baines' wealthy effluvia endearing. And the more the man waxed lyrical about the grand luxuries and social excitement he could provide her in New York, the more starry-eyed she became.

In the end, it was all a bunch of lyrical wax. The man certainly gave off the pretense of money and when appearance or appetite required, spent it like he had an unlimited supply, but in reality, he was constantly teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. My mother quickly realized her mistake, but not before he'd taken most of what my father had left her."

"She got exactly what she deserved," Arden said savagely. Of course, Nelle understood why.

"Yes, and she paid for her mistake until she died...

Baines was a real son-of-a-bitch. A cold brute. I can't tell you how much I hated those years. Instead of my good-natured, outdoors-loving father, instead of the smells of moss and forest, instead of summertime picnics with the neighbours, there was the smell of coal, and of rotten garbage rising from the gutters, there was finishing school, and there was that controlling, hateful Baines.

As time went on, my mother retreated more and more into herself. On top of that, Baines seemed to hate me more and more as it became clear that my mother would not be providing him with an offspring of his own. If it hadn't been for the library, and for Marguerite Joubert, I'd have gone mad. When he was around, I was not permitted to leave the house. As soon as I completed finishing school, he fired the cook and the maid and I took over where they left off. Occasionally, when he was out, I'd sneak off to the library or to the shops, but those times were few as I could only manage it if I knew both when he was leaving _and_ returning, and usually he came and went without advising my mother or I of anything.

Marguerite Joubert and her brother Pierre lived next door. Pierre was a painter and Marguerite was also an artist of sorts, designing lavish dresses on a custom basis. She often smuggled me books and sometimes a new hat or scarf or some such indulgence as we talked over the garden fence. She was a wonderful friend. And Pierre too, was kind, the odd time that I did see him.

When I was nineteen, I realized that my mother was dying. No doctor came, but I knew it was consumption; she had all the typical signs. And she went downhill fast. She had no will to fight. But before she died, she did something wonderful for me. Somehow, somewhere where Baines couldn't reach it, she had squirreled away what was left from my father's estate. It wasn't much money, but she arranged it so that I could take some literature courses at the women's university. And she even fixed it with a lawyer so that Baines would receive a monthly stipend only if he allowed me to stay on after she died _and_ allowed me to attend the classes. Since my days at finishing school, she'd known I'd wanted to study something more than posture, etiquette and how to be an entertaining wife. Setting that all up was the most thoughtful thing my mother ever did for me, and I'll never forget it."

Arden was tempted to ask her just what the recipe was for an "entertaining wife" but the look on Nelle's face remained focused and grave, so he thought better of it.

"She died soon after I turned twenty," continued Nelle, and now Arden was especially glad he'd kept his mouth shut.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you," she said, before barreling on with her story. Nelle worried that if she stopped, she'd have trouble getting started again. Up until this point, she hadn't told the whole story to anyone but Beth.

"That fall, I began attending the classes," she continued. "It was an exciting, invigorating period, despite the recent loss of my mother. I knew she'd wanted me to be happy, and I was, then. For half the day, I was gone from that house, reading, studying, talking with other students, sitting in cafes, or wandering through the park. I knew it wouldn't last forever, so while I enjoyed every moment, I also made sure to apply for a teacher's license so I'd have a way out of New York as soon as I was done.

For over a year, I concentrated on my education. And each afternoon, I cooked the evening meal and tended to the house. Baines came and went according to his own schedule. He owned an import-export business, though I never could understand exactly what type of goods he dealt with. I was sure that whatever he was up to, it was probably not legit, so the less I knew about it, the better. We barely spoke during that entire year. Occasionally, he would have some 'associate' or another over for a dinner and I would have to play hostess, something I loathed doing, but all in all, he left me begrudgingly to my studies because he wanted the stipend from mother's lawyer."

Nelle sighed then, a long expansive sigh.

"Shortly after I turned twenty-one, something happened.

Of all the shady individuals that darkened Baines' door, one of the worst had to be Cade Lacy. At first, when he came around, his name meant nothing to me. But he gave off a vicious air, and whenever he was at the house, I disappeared into my room and stayed there unless Baines called on me to serve refreshments or fetch another bottle of whiskey. Later, I realized that this was the notorious Cade Lacy I'd read about on the pages of the Herald. Like Baines, he had some kind of import business, but unlike Baines, he'd turned his business into a happy little empire because he was not afraid to pay off the necessary authorities or commission the Daybreak Boys to take action on his East River competitors. Somehow, he always managed to keep his hands clean, but his name carried clout in Five Points, and Arden, the only way you get clout in the Five Points is by killing.

He came around more and more often. It alarmed me to realize that Baines had dared enter some kind of business arrangement with the man. Knowing the way money ran through Baines' fingers, I knew it couldn't end well for him.

Things worsened when Lacy began bringing his son along. Byrne Lacy was arrogant, cold, and had the same cruel manner as his father, but to the power of two. The first time I saw him, I hated him, but even more, I hated the way he looked at me. Whenever he came along, Baines invariably had me prepare a more formal spread and play hostess, something I dreaded more and more as time went on. Baines assumed I knew nothing more about his 'business partner' than what he'd told me, and I let him continue to think so. But sometimes, when I was in the kitchen, I could hear Cade Lacy and Baines arguing in the study, and I knew that it was just a matter of time before things went to hell for Baines, and that I had to get out of there. I thought about it, and it seemed to me that it would be alright if I stayed until the spring and completed my second year of study. After that, I would leave. I just didn't think things would go bad quite so fast, and I didn't think I would get so dragged into the mess... If I'd known..."

Nelle stopped for a moment. Arden stood up and stirred the coals of the small fire in front of them. Then he turned back to her. She had leaned back in her chair and was staring intently at the flickering flames. She didn't look back at him. Her eyes were far away.

He frowned.

"Go on," he urged.

"One afternoon, just after Christmas, the Lacys showed up unannounced. Baines called me from my room, clearly agitated, and told me to fix some sandwiches and drinks and bring them to the study. Quickly, I went and arranged a tray to take in to the men. When I took it to the study, the door was closed, but I could hear Baines pleading with the two. Cade Lacy was not a yelling man, and it was hard to make out what he said, but I heard the words 'five thousand' and 'three months ago' and more of Baines' protests, which is what I had expected would happen, only not so soon. But then I was startled - I heard Byrne mention _my_ name. After that, the conversation grew too quiet for me to hear. I stepped back and waited for half-a-minute, trying to gather my wits. When I knocked and the door opened, I delivered the tray as if nothing had happened and made a quick exit.

They left a few minutes later without touching the food. There was no pretense of a social call.

After overhearing my name like that, I was worried. I went straight out to the garden, even though it was winter. I zigzagged amongst the clumps of bayberry hoping that Marguerite was at home and would catch sight of me. I wanted her to come out and speak with me. I needed advice.

She didn't come.

The next day, I arrived home from classes to find the Lacys again at the house. To my knowledge, they had never arrived at such an early hour. As soon as I walked in the door, a cowed Baines rushed over to me with Cade Lacy at his side.

'Byrne is waiting for you in the parlour. Go in and speak to him,' Baines commanded.

'What?... Why?' I asked.

He didn't answer. He just grabbed me by the arm and pretty much shoved me into the parlour, clicking the door shut behind me.

When the door closed, Byrne turned from the window to face me. Again, he had that awful, smug smile on his face.

'You're fetching enough,' he said, as he walked up to me.

I didn't say anything.

'We're getting married,' he announced, just like that. 'The wedding is this Saturday.'

I was astonished.

'What?! You?! Me?!' I blurted.

'That's right. It's all arranged. Clear your schedule for Saturday,' he said, matter-of-factly.

I stood there staring into his conceited face, utterly appalled. I hated spending five minutes in the presence of this man and he was baldly declaring such a thing. He didn't even bother to ask, not that it would have made a difference. This guy was a criminal, all of his sway and means gained from coercion, bribery, and violence, if not by his own doing, than that of his father's. I wanted nothing to do with him. I was so stunned that I just stood there stupidly. I didn't move or speak until he made a move for me. When he came closer, I recovered myself.

I simply told him 'no'.

'What?!' he replied. He sounded a little surprised, but I don't know how he could've been.

'Thank you for the offer, but I must decline,' I reiterated.

'It is all settled, Nelly,' he insisted.

He didn't even know my name, Arden!

He told me he was going to open a men's hosiery boutique and I could work there until the kids started coming.

I couldn't help it. I laughed out loud. I mean, it was so absurd. What woman would marry a virtual stranger upon command?! And on top of that, he expected me to help launder his money!

'You're disgusting,' I said.

It was a mistake. As soon as it was out of my mouth, I knew. His face instantly changed. Before I knew what was happening, he'd grabbed my arms and forced them down to my sides.

'I won't do it. I can't,' I insisted. Several times I repeated myself.

'It's done,' he said, malice creeping into his tone. Then he loosened one hand and began sliding it upwards.

I couldn't take those sleazy hands on me! I had to get out of there. I twisted my arm, trying to shake his grip, but he just grabbed hold more tightly. I hollered for Baines, but no one came. Byrne wouldn't let go. I started to really fight him. I kicked at him, clawed and elbowed, but he just laughed at me. He was stronger, and the more I struggled, the more he seemed to enjoy it. Finally, he threw me down on the couch and crushed his hands around my throat."

His face white with rage, Arden was sitting upright, his hands gripping his thighs and his gaze on Nelle. She had wrapped her arms around herself and sat staring numbly into the fire, vacantly focused on the red embers. He wondered what he ought to do just then. Should he reach over and put a hand on her shoulder, or would doing that only make it even harder for her to go on with the story? Before he could decide, Nelle continued on.

"Every time I tried to move, he'd tighten his grip. I was dizzy and frightened... But there was an oil lamp on the table beside the couch and I thought if I could just reach back far enough...

My lungs were screaming for air and I knew it was only a matter of moments before I'd pass out. Desperate, I thrust my arms back and sent my knee into his gut, and his hold on me loosened for a moment, long enough for me to get a solid hold on the lamp.

It's strange. Even though I was so muddled and scared, I remember it all so clearly – the sounds, the movements, and the way the cool metal of the lamp felt smooth and foreign to my fingers... I brought it down hard on his head, so hard that the glass part shattered. He let go of me and fell to the floor. Quickly, I pushed myself up, and though my head was instantly wallpapered with vertigo, I made a break for the door. I wasn't fast enough. He caught me by the arm just as I put my hand on the door handle.

Incensed, he spun me around and threw me up against the wall. Again, I tried to fight him off, but it was no use.

I stopped cold when I saw the knife...

Casually, as if he'd done it a hundred times before, he dragged the blade lightly across my collarbone, leaving behind a faint strand of tiny, red beads. He smiled at me condescendingly, but there was pure spite in his eyes. I was petrified. I didn't know what to do.

I was so naïve back then. I wonder what would've happened if I'd just nodded along to whatever he said. What if I'd just played it cool? Would he have left me alone long enough for me to get out of the place and disappear? Maybe. But I didn't. I was trying to be polite, and honest. I don't know that I expected him to go away with an 'as you wish,' but I certainly never thought...

'You and I will be married next Saturday as planned,' he told me, the knife still in his hand. 'It's all arranged. You see, little pet, your stepfather owes us a hell of a lot of money and we've been generous enough to make some allowances, even though he's failed several times to live up to our agreements. And now, now we've given him one last chance. I've even been kind enough to convince my father to consider certain assets in lieu of cash,' he said."

Pausing, Nelle shuddered. She didn't tell Arden the rest of it. "See you at City Hall in four days. You will be a wife to me," Byrne had snarled, "and if you love any other, I promise you, I will kill the man you love the most."

Nelle had believed the threat. And as she glanced over at Arden, she still believed it. More than ever. He could not get hurt, she reminded herself. She could explain things to him, but she had to keep her resolve.

"Please, go on," prompted Arden.

'Well, again I refused," Nelle explained. She was leaning forward now, repeatedly clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap.

"Then... He... Even as I watched it happen, I couldn't believe it... He stabbed me! Right in the chest, coolly and calmly... Just did it... The knife – it went in and went out; he did it with all the feeling of someone buttering toast. Right here between these two ribs. I'll never forget the look in his eyes, or the way the pain spilled across my body. I felt so powerless... I...

After that, things became more jumbled. He let me go then, and strode out of the room. I sank to the floor. I was confused and couldn't get my breath... Everything was blurry. I'm fairly sure I crawled towards the door. I didn't understand why no one came. I wasn't thinking right. My chest was throbbing. I remember, I worried that cold water wouldn't be enough to get such a large stain out of my dress..."

Arden stood up abruptly, so abruptly that Nelle stopped speaking. He wanted to hear the rest of her story and yet he didn't, because he was already so enraged. _How could this man have done such a thing?_ Never before had revenge been so genuinely tempting to him. Sure, there had been a few fleeting thoughts about Mattress Mick long, long ago, but he'd never really, truly felt _compelled_ like this. If this Byrne Lacy ever crossed his path... Livid, he ran his hands through his hair and began pacing the floor in front of the fireplace.

"Damn it" he growled. "No wonder you took to carrying a gun!"

Looking at Nelle, he saw her straighten up to shake the trembling out of her shoulders and square her jaw. She'd nodded briefly when he'd mentioned the gun, but didn't look at him.

"At some point, I crawled into the hallway," Nelle went on, "I heard Baines and the Lacys at the front door."

"'Call a doctor, Baines,' I heard Byrne say, so nonchalantly. 'It's not a lethal cut, provided someone gets here this afternoon to stop the bleeding... I want her in satisfactory condition for the wedding Saturday... And Baines, make sure she doesn't get cold feet!' he went on.

And then they left, I think, because there was only Baines standing over me. My hands were wet with my own blood. I looked up at him and begged for help. But he looked askance, and after a moment, he stepped over to me, seized me by the arms and dragged me upstairs to my bedroom. He pushed me inside and left me on the floor, careful to take out his keys and lock the door from the outside so I couldn't leave.

I had to get out of there and I knew I had to hurry. I kept coughing blood and I couldn't seem to get enough air. I tried to think of ways to sneak away, but my mind was nebulous and the pain distracting. All I kept thinking was that I should try to get over to Marguerite and Pierre's.

Since the door was locked and I had no key, there was only one way out – my window. I had no choice. I had to do it. Trying to staunch the bleeding, I wrapped my torso tightly with a shawl, and then I pushed open the window and crawled out onto the roof. It was a long way down to the ground, and I had no way to get there. However, the roof's eaves were barely a foot away from the Jouberts'. Slowly, I inched in the direction of their house. When I got to the edge of our roof, I wrenched a clump of moss from the shingles and hurled it at the window of Pierre's studio. Then I found a small bit of chimney brick and threw that, too.

I waited there on my hands and knees, gasping and out of options.

Pierre heard it. He came to the window and as soon as he saw me, he shoved it open. Once he got out onto his own roof, he dragged me across the narrow span between the two houses, and then immediately pulled me into his studio. I knew I was safe then, and the last thing I remember was him carrying me down the stairs and calling for Marguerite."

Nelle stopped again, closing her eyes and leaning back in her chair. She looked spent. Arden stopped pacing and stood facing her.

"And they took care of you?" he asked, still angry, his mouth tight, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes, they were so incredibly good to me, Arden. They took me to a hospital and then put me on a train to a friend's, where I stayed until I was strong enough to make my way west. I can never repay that kindness," she replied, without opening her eyes.

Arden didn't know what to say. He couldn't comprehend this at all – this Byrne Lacy, Nelle's step-father Baines, knifing someone for refusing marriage, locking an injured woman in a room – none of it. He didn't understand it, but he _was_ beginning to have some clarity as to why Nelle was the way she was. Obviously, that kind of experience could make a person somewhat paranoid, aloof, guarded, jumpy, solitary, unpredictable, volatile, tenacious, fiercely independent, and armed.

Consumed with feeling for Nelle, he began pacing again. He wanted to do something; he needed to do something, something to make them _know_ , make them really get what they'd done to her.

"I'm glad you're alright, Nelle. So glad," he said, with startling vehemence.

"There's more," she said quietly, her eyes still closed.

Arden knew.

"I started teaching school after that. I was a year in Galena, Illinois and then a year in tiny Nulle Part. I was going to stay a second year there, but he found out where I was – Byrne Lacy, I mean.

It was summer and I was standing in the General Store when I happened to look up and saw him through the window. He was riding down the street with three other men towards the house where I boarded. I didn't delay. I knew it was no coincidence. I went straight out to my horse and rode out of town in the opposite direction, and I never went back."

Arden stopped pacing. All of a sudden, he knew exactly where this was going.

"I was nearly two years in Des Moines, when, one afternoon while I was marking compositions after school, one of my older students, Cassie Bloom, a sweet but shrewd girl, came running back into the schoolyard. She said she'd seen five snarly Yankees just outside the train station and they'd been asking for directions to the schoolhouse, so she thought it might be a good idea to come tell me about it. Heartsick, I asked her if there seemed to be a leader in charge of the group and she said yes and sure enough, gave me a description of Byrne. Quickly, I thanked her and sent her on her way; I didn't want her to get caught up in anything. Then I gathered up my books and sweater, unsure whether to return to the house I was renting so I could pack a few things or whether to leave straightaway. Before I could make up my mind, I heard horses. I looked out the window, and though he was far off, I recognized him. It was Byrne alright, and a handful of other men. With no choice – I had no horse with me – I hurried to lock the door and windows. Hiding myself beneath an old blanket and the contents of the lost-and-found, I waited.

From my hiding place, I heard them rattling the door and walking around the school. They waited a while, and then I heard them talking loudly in the yard. They agreed to head over to my house next.

'She can't get away again,' I heard him say.

But I did. After I was sure they were gone, I walked all the way to the next town. With what money I had in my purse, I got a horse from the livery and bought some food, and without looking back, I made for Mexico... If I ever run into Gord Jones of the Westport Landing Livery, I guess I'm in some trouble."

"That's where you got the Pinto?"

"Uh huh."

"I guess that's a little more mileage than you paid for!"

"Yup," said Nelle, almost smiling.

"And you were there in Mexico until you came to Boulder City?" asked Arden, an intent look on his face.

"Yeah, with my step-cousin. She married the son of a Mexican diplomat and lives in Guanajuato."

"And you think he'll come for you here?"

Nodding, Nelle looked down at the hardwood floor. She hated thinking of Lacy, but even more, she hated talking about him. It made the man more real, closer somehow, and she fought to resist the dread bubbling up in her belly.

"Nelle?"

"Yes?"

"How long has it been since Iowa?"

"Four and a half years."

"Are you sure he hasn't given up? I mean, that's quite some time."

"He'll come as soon as he gets wind of Ellen's composition in the Times – she won an essay contest, you know, and it mentions me by name. The Reverend announced it at church several weeks back, and of course, that was the first I'd heard of it. In fact, I would be surprised if Lacy wasn't on his way already."

"How can you be so certain?"

"I just know, Arden."

Arden paced some more. All he knew was he wanted to relieve Nelle from this stress, and if the man came, he'd relish taking him down. He could do it. He was sure of it. This Byrne might be good with a knife, but he was handy with a gun, and he knew this part of the country better than almost anyone. Besides, he was in love with Nelle. He would do almost anything to unburden her and make her safe, now more than ever; he'd glimpsed the passionate, slightly kooky woman lurking just below the appealing, but watchful and controlled surface, and he wanted her unleashed. He knew she was gynomite, and he so wanted to see her lit!

When he looked over at her again, Arden found Nelle studying him. She looked even more anxious than before, and she was peering at him closely, as if searching for a sign. To reassure her, he smiled gently, and this time, he walked over to her without hesitating and slid a hand across her shoulder, trying to smooth out the tension gathered there.

"Try not to worry, Nelle... You know you won't be facing this alone."

He felt the knots in her shoulder tighten, which was not exactly what he'd been hoping for.

"But Arden, that's what I need – to face this alone."

Now it was Arden's turn to grow more anxious. Dense knots formed in his shoulders where no knots had been.

"What?"

She looked at him wretchedly, like a 4-H girl leading her beribboned pet Hereford fresh from the county fair straight on to the market.

"I'm asking you to promise me that when Byrne comes, you'll let _me_ deal with him. I can't have any kind of interference, period. When he comes, you let me go. Even if he takes me away from here, I don't want you coming after me. Just let me go."

"What?! No... Nelle, that's absurd!"

"I'm serious. Please!"

"You can't ask me to do that!"

Arden's grip had tightened on her shoulder. He looked her in the eyes - those sad, determined, dark eyes. Gently, she peeled his hand away with her own hand and slowly stood up, turning in the direction of his bewildered expression.

"Arden, if you care for me..." she tried again.

"I love you, Nelle! That's why this is preposterous. You can't expect me to just leave you to face such a man alone! Especially since you're so certain he's coming!"

For a moment, Nelle's face softened.

"You love me?"

"Yes! So you see, I can't just stand by and let some obsessive maniac haul you off by force, or worse, kill you. I can't do it!"

"He's not necessarily going to do either, you know. I'm not some wobbly waif whose entire defense system consists of high-pitched caterwauls and precision fainting."

Exasperated, he renewed his march in front of the fireplace and rolled his eyes at her. He couldn't believe she was asking him _not_ to help her. It was ridiculous! Why did she have to be so fucking stubborn?

"You don't have to do everything by yourself, you know?" he snapped.

"I know. But this, this I have to."

"No. You don't!"

"Yes, Arden. I do."

"Why?"

"Because you're... Just because," she said, half-commanding, half-imploring, and thinking of Byrne's promise. She couldn't let him kill Arden. She couldn't! And she knew he would do it if he found out about Arden and what he meant to her. He would find the will and the guile to do it. He would do it just to see her suffer, to crush her, and for the power he'd gain. She was sure of it. And she couldn't live with herself if that happened. This whole thing had had nothing to do with Arden.

"You're being unfair," Arden said, walking to the door, jerking it open, and slamming it shut behind him.

Nelle knew he'd be back. After all, this was his house, so he didn't really have anywhere else to go stomping home to. Grimly, she waited. She crossed her arms and stood by the fire.

As Arden heaved fresh hay into the horses' stalls, he grew increasingly frustrated. How could he agree _not_ to help Nelle? How could he let her face this violent lunatic by herself? What kind of man would vow to let the one he loves go alone into harm's way? What was he supposed to do, wait around knitting her socks and blowing wishes into dandelion puffs? This was what Anisette had been referring to in her letter, he realized. But she hadn't been given the full story. Only he had.

He knew then with certainty that Nelle loved him, too. The realization warmed him through. Though she was stubbornly committed to dealing with Byrne on her own, she'd told him the whole painful story, and she'd done it because she didn't want to give him up, didn't want to leave him, because if he promised, she'd take him at his word and she wouldn't have to go. And he knew she would go if he didn't. She was that obstinate.

He would let her confront her demons alone, he decided. He had to. If she was that resolute, he would just have to trust her, accept her decision, and be there for her when it was all over. Loving her was no easy thing, but he didn't exactly have a choice in that either. The love was just there. He couldn't turn his back on it.

Not calm, but somewhat settled and resigned, he made his way back to the cabin. _I can do this,_ he told himself. Sidestepping Yak's eager, thomping tail, Arden gave a purposeful push on the door handle and walked inside.

Still standing in the same spot, her face red, her eyes fixed on the fire, Nelle did not look up as he closed the door and made his way to the washbasin next to the kitchen. After rinsing his hands, he reached for the towel and looked back at her perfectly stationary form.

"Alright, Nelle. I promise."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Her head jerked left to look at him and her arms uncrossed and dropped loosely to her sides. Intense relief, surprise, appreciation, and happiness met, mingled, and did a confused and messy little quadrille across her face. Rather pleasantly unnerved, as the whole effect was not unlike an "orgasm face", Arden paused, distracted by his sudden contemplation of Nelle in a whole other context.

"Oh, thank you, Arden," said Nelle, interrupting his reverie.

"Just tell me if you change your mind. I want to help you, Nelle. I'd rather not have you do this alone. Please."

"Okay," she said, smiling brightly with luminous eyes and almost skipping towards him. "Okay."

Before she could take hold of his shirt collar and pull him to her, Arden already had his arms around her. He drew her in close, and dove in a twist-tilt pike position towards that voluptuous, ready mouth, with clean impact and zero splash. His hands in her hair, he kissed those lips again and again until nothing else mattered at all.

Her flesh blazing and her lips raw, Nelle moved her hands deftly along the seam of Arden's shirt, unbuttoning it top to bottom with a purposeful vigor, and then she slid her hands beneath the cotton, seeking his bare skin. He sighed heavily and pulled her closer when her fingertips grazed his collarbone, and as they inched further down, pressing more urgently against his chest and the rigid muscles of his abdomen, he seized her up in his arms. He heard the telltale sign of her breath catching in her throat as he made for her neck, his hands gripping her hips as she wrapped her arms and legs around him.

They moved blindly, desperately, he stumbling backward, his face in her hair as her body moved against his. They made it part way to the loft ladder, but when a corner of the sheet around her waist got caught underfoot and the entire piece of fabric was subsequently tugged off her body, Arden found his hands pressing against her smooth, warm, and very bare lower half, so he gently set her down on the most convenient corner of the kitchen table. He had to touch all of her skin, right then, right there. He went for her lips again and soon her throat, and then, coaxing the oversized flannel shirt down, he kissed her shoulders. Releasing several buttons and sliding the fabric still further down, he kissed the hot skin between her breasts and then the firm, round breasts themselves. He let his fingers travel the length of her spine until he felt it arch involuntarily, and heard her murmur his name as she melted down onto the table.

Vehemently, Nelle tugged him down to her and pressed her naked breast against his own, her hands moving to his hips, unfastening more buttons, a buckle, and pushing away the leather and coarse fabric, before venturing lower still. And Arden, his body moving with hers and his breath just as ragged, gently maneuvered himself between her knees and felt the softness of her inner thighs greet his exposed hips. Flooded with desire, it occurred to him fleetingly that he must completely yield to this concordance of their bodies, the atavistic currents of sensation, for such a moment might never happen again. And then there were no more thoughts.

At some point, the gun belt – Nelle's remaining attire, was dropped to the floor. Not too long after, Arden glimpsed her actual "orgasm face."

An hour later, Nelle was sitting on the edge of the table, still all tingly and still all naked, her dangling legs swaying as she gazed contentedly at the dull patch of gray beyond the window pane. Arden, also naked, with the exception of his boots and chaps, which he'd donned again only to tease her, was sitting on one of the dining chairs, his legs propped up on another, his arms folded behind his head. Idly, he watched Nelle, her cheeks still tinted red, her lips slightly swollen, her face more radiant than he'd ever seen it, and that sleek womanly body sitting sweetly before him.

"You know, it seems to me that there've been some fine things laid upon this table, but nothing remotely as fine as this," he said playfully, standing up and moving in closer.

"Seconds?" she queried, a gleam in her eye.

Arden raised an eyebrow. He did not reply; he simply cleared her off the table and together, the two hastily made for the loft ladder. _If this woman manages to do away with her demons, I see I'm going to have a helluva hard time getting any work done around here,_ he mused.

After several encores, they slept.

When Nelle awoke, just before dark, she found herself alone in the vast, cushy bed. Satiated, she yawned, leisurely got up and wandered down to the kitchen, where she found Arden constructing a sandwich.

"Want half?" he offered, when he saw her naked body float through the door.

She nodded.

Standing there in the kitchen, they ate quietly, glancing covertly at one another, still a little shell-shocked over everything that had just transpired between them.

"I should go," Nelle said, when they had finished.

"Why don't you just stay here?"

"Arden, I can't."

"You mean you won't," he said, his voice tinged with momentary bitterness.

"That's right," she said, deflated but firm.

"And you won't until you have it out with Lacy?"

"Right," she agreed, looking suddenly worn and dejected.

Seeing her like that, Arden couldn't stay annoyed any longer. He knew she was convinced that this was the only way, and right then he swore to himself he would respect her decision. He had made up his mind and he would stick to it. If he loved her, and love her he did, he would have to let her go, let her be her persistent, sovereign self, because while those very aspects of her personality certainly tried him with regards to the Lacy matter, they were also what had attracted him to her in the first place, though the full, sassy mouth and copper-streaked hair had also played an undeniable role. Ultimately, he would support her for who she was because he wanted her to keep on being Nelle Ford, whether or not it eventually drove him crazy.

"You can take the black mare - Mnemosyne. As of now, she's yours. I've got your saddle in the barn – picked it up this morning," he said kindly.

"Mnemosyne?!"

"Uh, yeah."

"And has she nine offspring named Calliope and Polyhymnia and Erato and...?"

"No, only two – Buckwheat and Stripey."

"Uh, huh. Larry's?"

"How'd you guess?"

"The black mare.... She _is_ a beautiful horse, Arden, but I can't take her."

"Why not?"

"It's far too generous of you. She's too much. Now that I think of it, she's probably one of your best."

"That's why I want you to have her, Nelle. You need a _decent_ horse, and I know you. Out of kindness or nostalgia for Pinto, you'll go spend a quarter on a passive-aggressive, toothless nag with leg spasms and chronic grippe and instead of the horse, it'll be you getting shipped to the glue factory. The way I see it, you've already been jostled around enough by poor Pinto, and with what you're facing now, Nelle, I'm going to see that you have a damn good, reliable ride. At least allow me that much... Please."

Nelle considered this for a moment and then smiled.

"Okay, Arden. You're probably right... Thank you."

"You're most welcome."

Nelle grinned wider.

"Of course, I'll have to rename her."

"What!?"

"Something less dramatic - like Alero or El Camino, or maybe even Toronado!"

"You wouldn't!"

"Yeah, you're right. Toronado is a bit over-the-top!"

"Nelle!!"

She dissolved into laughter.

Mnemosyne was a silent, stealthy, and smooth-moving horse. Nelle had never ridden such a creature in all her life. She smiled to herself as the exuberant Yak ran ahead and the dark horse bore her home.

IX.

On a non-descript day in early May, spring came riding into town on a moist west wind and set up camp in the valley. Within days, the ground had taken on the appearance of a deluxe garden salad, which was a welcome change from the soggy toast look it had been sporting since the dirty crusts of snow began to dissolve in a proliferation of mud and wet sock aromas earlier in the season.

Since their single day of extravagant honesty and the resultant sexual extravaganza, Nelle and Arden had met each other only briefly, and cautiously. If Arden had had his way, he would have not only seen her every day, he would have had her move in with him. But of course Arden generally didn't have his way when it came to Nelle, except for that one recent Monday evening when he'd met her riding down from the springs, her skin flushed, her eyes shamelessly roaming across his body, and he'd dismounted, unable to merely speak a few words before moving on; she'd let him pull her down from Mnemosyne, peel the damp indigo dress from her body and make love to her there in the vivid green grass, her body shivering against his, his mouth pressing against the goose bumps rising on her skin, several bemused prairie dogs looking on.

She wanted it that way – distant. Focused as she was on what she believed was the imminent arrival of Lacy, she told Arden she needed time alone. Of course, it was more complicated than that, for while she needed _some_ time to herself, she would've preferred to spend part of each day with Arden. But it was too risky, and so when it came to the man she loved, she made herself scarce.

It was the same with others, namely Anisette and Flint, but to some degree, Larry and Sarah as well. They weren't exactly under the same threat as Arden, but Nelle wasn't taking any chances. Other than at school, she was rarely seen in town, and when she was seen, she was alone, unless one counted Yak and Mnemosyne. The school board took this as further evidence of her acquiescence and decided to continue with its pro-active approach of letting sleeping dogs lie. Nelle didn't worry much about it either way. Her mind was on other things. She had bigger fish to fry. Of course, Anisette was rather perplexed. She'd hoped that Arden's return would settle things for her friend, but it seemed to her that, in many ways, Nelle had become more withdrawn and distracted since he'd returned. Instinctively, she was starting to realize that whatever was happening, it was only the beginning. So part of her was more ill at ease than a cat on a hot tin roof. Maybe Nelle was just taking time to get her ducks in a row, she tried to reassure herself. Maybe she was just considering things before going public with Arden. But her gut told her otherwise. She wondered about all the silence. Had Arden, at least, managed to ferret out the truth?

Arden's feelings on the matter could not be summed up by an animal idiom. A general sense of helplessness pervaded his daily life. It gnawed at him. It clouded everything he did. The waiting, the not knowing, it consumed him. Every morning when he awoke, his first thought was to wonder if Nelle was okay, and it drove him mad that he couldn't just ride by her place and find out. But she'd made her feelings clear on the matter; she'd insisted on discretion and space. It had been part of the deal. He didn't like it or fully understand it, but given his circumstances, he figured he'd just go ahead and try to accept it.

Keeping the chalk to the blackboard, Nelle pushed on with her teaching. For the most part, the daily lessons passed uneventfully and served to prevent her from becoming consumed by nervous paranoia. Now confident in Ellen's ability to pass the upcoming certification exams, she did decide to cut back on the after-school tutoring and instead, spend her extra time up on the Mesa engaged in target practice with the Remington, riding her pensive, black horse further and further into the foothills, and picking burrs and the odd eagle's nest out of Yak's fur.

Through it all, Nelle only increased her watchfulness and redoubled her determination to finish things, to finally sever herself from the tight hold of the past, one way or another, so that she could move forward with her own life, and with Arden, in relative peace. As time went on, she felt the moment getting closer and the suspense building, the clock ticking louder and louder. And as the days passed, each morning when she awoke, she felt more ready than the last. Opening up to Arden had helped her. Knowing his feelings for her and trusting his promise, she was comforted, more prepared.

Poor Sarah grew more frustrated by the day. Thanks to Larry's loyalty to his brother, she had no idea that Arden and Nelle had even spoken, let alone that he'd found her on his doorstep the night he'd arrived home. Though clearly something was afoot with Nelle, Sarah had come to the disappointing conclusion that her efforts to bring Arden back to aid the vexed schoolteacher had come to naught. She told herself it had all been a gamble anyway, and that it served her right for interfering, but deep down she was rather rankled about the whole thing. She didn't let on however, except once during a visit with Anisette, when she'd made a vague barbed comment before returning to the tireless topic of the bread rising in Anisette's oven. Anisette had not responded. She hadn't seen Nelle lately and was equally in the dark in terms of what had happened between her friend and Arden since Arden's return, but she was not as convinced as Sarah that nothing had happened. So Sarah kept her own counsel for a time, seethingly wondering if Nelle had any idea of the trouble Arden, she, Anisette, and Larry had gone to for her.

After weeks of silent fuming, Sarah finally decided she had to find out, whether it was her business or not. Arden didn't appear to have made any headway with the woman. It was a long shot, but maybe she could, for his sake. He'd come all the way back from Kansas to help Nelle, and now he was sullenly drowning himself in work on the Bar Circle Gets the Square and returning to his empty cabin every night exhausted and alone. It was hardly the outcome she'd hoped for, and most certainly not the outcome he must've hoped for in returning to Boulder City early. Of course, he'd remained tight-lipped about the whole affair, and since Larry didn't seem too concerned about his brother's happiness at the moment, and Anisette was preoccupied with important baby preparations, such as stitching gold sheriff's stars on fresh, white nappies, she would have to deal with things herself. After weeks of stewing, she was irked enough to go through with it.

On a Saturday afternoon towards the end of May, Sarah pulled on her old dress boots and put a pair of new, unworn riding boots into a basket, along with some raisin cookies. Then she saddled Stripey and galloped up to the lopsided cabin on the Mesa before she could change her mind.

She gaped when she happened upon Nelle kneeling in the long grass, cleaning a gun.

"I, uh, what on earth are you doing, Nelle?!"

Since she'd seen Sarah coming, Nelle did not start. In the seconds leading up to their meeting, she had momentarily considered stowing the Remington somewhere in the foliage, but then she'd hesitated, realizing that nowadays she cared more to have the gun with her than to hide the truth, and she'd simply continued working.

"Cleaning my revolver," she replied bluntly.

There was an audible gasp. Nelle smiled inwardly.

"But, but..."

"It's okay, Sarah. I know how to use it. You're not in any danger."

"I wasn't... Uh, what... I mean... Uh... Cookie?"

Nelle gave her a quizzical look. Sarah gestured to the basket on her arm.

"Sure, let's go inside. I think I have something that'll go well with them."

Inside, Sarah sat down on one of the benches and placed her basket on the table, removing the tin of raisin cookies. Yak jumped up onto the bench across from her and stayed there, peering inquiringly across the table at the startled guest until Nelle shooed him down. Sarah wondered if this was how he sat most of the time when there were no guests in the house. Reaching into a cupboard, Nelle removed a bottle of schnapps, and from a nearby shelf, two glasses. Then she joined an increasingly restless-looking Sarah at the table. The Remington had resumed its position at her hip.

"Well, what can I do for you, Sarah?" she asked, filling the glasses.

"I, I have these new boots that Larry got me on his trip east. They're just a bit too tight. I thought you might like to have them, if they fit."

Pulling them from the basket, she passed them over to Nelle and then took a gulp from her glass, stifling a cough before taking another sip of the strong pear-flavoured liquor.

Sliding her feet into the stiff, black leather boots, Nelle traipsed awkwardly around the room.

"Well, they need to be broken in some, but they fit fine. Thank you, Sarah."

"You're welcome," she replied, taking another sip of her schnapps. She tended to hate beer, whisky, and even wine, but she liked this drink. She'd never had it before.

Grabbing a cookie and settling back on the bench, Nelle looked hard at the woman sitting across from her.

"Now that that's over with, what's really on your mind?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you could've given me those boots tomorrow at church, so you must've come up here for something else."

Reducing her schnapps to half of what it was, Sarah took a deep breath, and then it all came streaming out.

"I thought you and Arden might... And now he's working himself to death, hardly taking time to eat. Can't you resolve your differences? Isn't there any hope of things working out? I mean, he came back early because he thought you might need him, but I guess he was wrong. I guess I was wrong. Next to Larry, he's the finest man in this valley and you just don't give a damn about him or what he might feel for you."

Worked up, she paused to emit a terse, forceful sigh and take another swig from her glass before continuing. Nelle watched her closely, but said nothing.

"You're just too happy to sit up here in this shack polishing your pistol and being all anti-marriage and questioning the existence of God or whatever the hell else you do with your free time!"

"Read books, frolic with Satan, make cornbread..." said Nelle, serenely.

"And now you're mocking me! Really, Nelle, you're selfish. You don't seem to give a hoot for the people who care about you! From what I've seen, you've stopped visiting Anisette, you haughtily drag yourself to church, and you refuse to give Arden the time of day! What's going on with you? I didn't think you were so cold."

_This is starting to sting a little,_ thought Nelle, draining her glass, and decanting another generous serving of alcohol for each of them. _Get a little liquor in this woman and her true thoughts just come pouring out._

"I didn't know you felt this way."

"Well, I do, Nelle! I just don't understand you. Clearly, Arden means something to you and yet, you've ignored him completely."

"Not completely," protested Nelle. But Sarah was warmed up now, and she wasn't done quite yet. She felt angry, a little out-of-control, and very protective of her brother-in-law. She wanted answers.

"Clearly, he's suffering because of you, Nelle. And you may not be aware, but this is not his first experience with a heartless b...."

Covering her mouth, Sarah stopped herself, but not in time.

"Isn't it fascinating how "heartless" is the most common adjective used in conjunction with "bitch? At least when applied to a woman," mused Nelle, an icy edge in her voice. She had to admit, she was truly taken aback by happy homemaker Sarah Dime.

There was silence for a time. Sarah felt lightheaded, surprised and more than a little ashamed she'd gone so far. She hadn't realized just how angry she'd become, how it had been building inside her, how badly she wanted something to come of her, Larry, and Anisette's efforts to bring Arden back.

Still astonished by Sarah's berating words, Nelle sat quietly. After a few minutes of contemplation, she felt like telling her guest to get out and go back to her cross-stitch or pie-baking or meddling or whatever the hell it was that _she_ did, but she held her tongue and merely took a few more pulls of the schnapps. Unlike Sarah, apparently, the alcohol relaxed Nelle, made her more tolerant and far less uptight, and in the increasingly uncomfortable silence, she remembered the many kindnesses the woman had done her and decided not to throw her out. Instead, when her temper had cooled a little more, she spoke.

"Why?" she asked. "Why is it so important to you that Arden and I end up hitching our wagons to the same star?"

"It's just that you make him happy, and Larry and I want very much to see him happy," she quickly replied.

"Obviously, it isn't just that. You're far too invested in this, Sarah. That may be part of it, but there must be something else too, for you. Besides, one could just as easily argue that I make Arden unhappy and that he'd be better off if I'd never come to Boulder City at all."

Noticing there was a hint of pain in Nelle's voice when she spoke Arden's name, Sarah was overcome with a stomach-churning remorse for the severity with which she'd ambushed the woman. What had gotten into her? Surely, she couldn't entirely blame the alcohol, although she suddenly realized she had downed plenty in a rather short period of time. But that was unlike her, too. Nelle must be right, she figured. _There must be more to it than Arden's happiness,_ she considered.

Eying her closely, Nelle waited for her to answer.

"I guess I think you ought to settle down, Nelle. I think it'd be good for you. You've spent quite a few years roaming around, I gather, and it seems to be that by now you should be thinking of putting down roots, having a home, a family... You can't just keep riding all over the countryside singing oh-da-do-da-day, firing guns, reading books and teaching a little bit of school. You're not a girl anymore! You have to be responsible, be serious, think of the future...

A woman needs a family. I'm sure you'd get used to being married, especially to Arden. I really do. It'd be wonderful to have more babies around the ranch. And you would be an exceptional mother, I can tell. I've got everything you would need for a child and I could help you set up a garden and we could all eat together on Sundays and Jack and Cherry and Carrie would have cousins to play with, and you and I, we'd be sisters. I could show you how to make the best preserves and you could tell me about Mexico and New York and the other places you've lived.

It's the right thing, Nelle. It's the practical thing. You'd be doing something meaningful with your life, and..."

"You think what I do now is meaningless?" Nelle interrupted.

Reddening, Sarah backtracked.

"No, that's not what I meant, Nelle. Only, I just don't understand what it is you do with yourself. Besides teaching. Of course, teaching is noble profession, but even that, in the long term..."

"I see."

And Nelle did see. In the midst of Sarah's persistent, almost desperate urging, she had come to understand what this was all about. It had happened before. Sometimes, it seemed, people who had not digressed from the path set out before them and who then found themselves unhappy or merely uneasy with the results, were compelled to herd the defiant whimsical stray back onto the main trail. It usually wasn't deliberate. They did it, she'd decided, out of fear or uncertainty or disappointment. It provided an excuse not to have to veer from the track themselves, not to risk the unfamiliar brambles, pitfalls, and joys of the unknown in search of what might be missing.

She knew now that Sarah was a little dissatisfied, or at least unsure of her chosen lot.

As if in confirmation, Sarah let out a long, burdensome sigh.

"Sarah, just because I don't have babies or a husband or a big ol' home spread doesn't mean I'm doing nothing with my life or that I need to change it. I love and I learn like everyone else, and I am creative in different ways. I write. I teach, and I do it well. There's so much richness in life, so much mystery; I hardly think it's a waste of time to drink it in, to explore it with the senses, and to seek to bloom in it as an individual, despite its tragedies and darker side. To me, a life is not made worthy by a series of weddings, births, and deaths written in the back of a moldy old Bible. It's the stuff in between that matters most to me – the everyday things. This is the way I want it, you know...

And if I should decide to settle down with someone, I will do so in my own time and on my own terms. I am not interested in doing things because someone else has decided they are the natural order. I am only intent on doing them if _I_ am intent on doing them. Period.

Criminy, Sarah, if I am honest about it, I must admit I am truly tired of people thinking less of my life because it has not involved rearing children. Besides, what do they think I do all goddamn day? And what's more, it's plain insulting when people assume that because I'm not yoked to some man for all eternity that I must conduct a pitiful, loveless, sexless existence. I am utterly sick of it! I've lived an interesting life. In fact, it gets more interesting by the day," Nelle finished wryly.

With her eyes in her lap, Sarah was feeling more and more guilty over her earlier words. She took another swallow of the liquor to dull the weighty feeling in her belly. She fought to hold back tears of regret, and of, of... something else.

"I'm sorry, Nelle. It was not right of me to call you 'cold' or 'heartless' or the first letter of 'bitch.' You are not those things and I know it. I don't know why I spoke that way. I _was_ frustrated, but I don't know why I went that far. I shouldn't have gone that far! And of course, you have every right to live the way you wish. It's just, well... I don't know... I've been pushy. I don't know why. I guess I was just attached to a certain outcome. I wanted things a certain way. And not just for Arden, for myself. I don't understand. It's not like me to behave like this."

"It's okay," said Nelle, a little tired. "More medicine?" she offered, gesturing to the half-emptied bottle. Sarah nodded sheepishly.

So the two women got loaded. An hour later, they were sitting in the same spot rocking with laughter over Sarah's description of poor, confused Cherry when she burst in on her and Larry late one night and found them naked and "otherwise engaged," as Sarah put it.

"Oh my," laughed Nelle, clutching her belly and gasping for breath. "What did you do?"

"I told her I had a splinter in my thigh and daddy was trying to get it out."

"And was she satisfied?"

"No," Sarah giggled, "she wanted to know why we had no clothes on and I told her that I took my nightgown off so her daddy could get at the splinter, but I felt a little silly about it, so he took his clothes off too, to make me feel better."

"And she bought it?"

"Yeah," she said, giggling again. Sarah couldn't remember a time when she'd been so intoxicated. She worried that she was making a fool out of herself, but at the same time felt intense relief at finding an accord with Nelle after the tension of their earlier discussion.

They sat quietly for a while after that, red-cheeked and shiny-eyed as the afternoon wore on. The rawness from their earlier conversation, combined with the effects of the alcohol, had coaxed out a new honesty between the two very different women, and they both felt the change as the friction that began the afternoon evaporated. Neither woman had ever been so angry with the other, but also, neither woman had enjoyed the other's company as much as she'd enjoyed it on this day. The bluntness with which they had each spoken had somehow renewed them both.

"What time is it?" asked Sarah, startled by the low angle of the sun as it roared through the pane of Nelle's window, making her head ache.

"I'd guess about 5:30," ventured Nelle.

"I should go. Larry will be getting anxious. I have to make supper."

Sarah stood up, then swayed and wobbled backward. Leaping up, Nelle grabbed her by the arm and steadied her.

"You can't go yet. You're in no condition to go anywhere. Here, let's get you to the rocking chair. I'll bring you a glass of water. We need to dilute that 40 proof blood charging through your veins or Larry will have my hide," she said lightheartedly.

Once she'd guided Sarah to the chair, she returned to the kitchen, poured a tall glass of water and carried it to the fireplace. After handing it to Sarah, she sat down cross-legged on the floor beside Yak and patted his big, ragamuffin head.

Smoothing her hand over the arms of the rocking chair and peering at the bits of ivy carved into the headrest, Sarah recognized the handiwork. She smiled.

"He made this for you?"

"Yeah," answered Nelle, grinning softly as she scratched Yak's chin.

"It's beautiful!"

"Yes, it is."

Surprised by the sudden tenderness in Nelle's voice, and noticing the way her shoulders sank slightly in her agreement, Sarah realized that Nelle did care deeply for Arden, whatever was happening. She was sure of it, and though she didn't understand what was going on between the two, a kind, sympathetic warmth flooded her being.

She rocked a little, as her head cleared and more than just concentrated schnapps began flowing through her hydrated veins.

"I think I felt like maybe I was missing out," she abruptly muttered.

"What?"

"Earlier, when I was upset with you. I think that was part of it. I mean, what if, by getting married so young, living in the same area for most of my life, and having three kids, who I do love very much, of course, what if I am missing out? I've never done anything extraordinary, never traveled very far, never been alone..."

"We all wonder about the other side, Sarah."

"Do you think so?"

"Undoubtedly... I certainly do."

"Really?"

"Of course. For me, it's the family part. How could I not wonder if I've made the right decisions, when so many have told me that one cannot know love until one has a child or that a woman is not truly a woman unless she has a family? There are always doubts."

"Yeah, I guess there is a fair bit of pressure on us," Sarah said.

"You know it. The one that gets me is when people tell me I'm 'selfish', as if reproduction demonstrates a kind of selfless generosity towards the earth. It's a biological urge, the unavoidable result of a lot of sex - not something to get on a high horse about! Plus, it's not as if we need more people, with the way we've spilled into this country and given the Indians the old heave-ho."

"I see what you mean," replied Sarah. "I won't add any more pressure... But it helps me to know, too, that I'm not the only one who sometimes wonders about what her life has become."

"No. You're not. Everything is a trade-off, so I think it's a natural thing to wonder, so we can reevaluate and ensure we're still working at or going after what we want most... And, thanks, Sarah, for understanding."

Soon, Sarah was sober enough to make her way home and she left much more tranquil than she'd arrived. As soon as she'd gone, Nelle went back into the cabin, fixed herself a quick sandwich and then saddled up Mnemosyne. She knew she probably shouldn't take a chance going to Arden's, but tonight it seemed imperative, and though she argued with herself, she rode down towards the little place in the pines. She couldn't help it. Sarah's words had not left her unaffected.

She knocked hard on the ivy-strewn door.

"Come in," she heard.

Leaving Yak on the front porch, she slipped inside. Arden was at his desk with a book, and looked at her, surprised.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, suddenly alert.

She nodded.

"Then what is it? You haven't been here since..."

"I came to tell you it's almost 8:00 p.m."

"Huh?"

"Some people seem to think I don't give you the time of day."

"Ah," he said, smiling, not aware of the specifics, but gaining a general idea of things and feeling relieved she was fine.

"How are you, Arden?"

"The same. And you?" he asked hesitantly.

"The same."

He got up from the desk and went over to her. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone and Nelle cast a hard, longing look at his chest, which did not go unnoticed. When her eyes made it back to his face, she found him grinning knowingly at her.

"I'm sorry," she said, as he took her hand and led her to the fireplace.

"For what?" he asked, as he sat down in the chair, leaving her the cushier divan, though she did not sit.

"That it has to be this way."

"I know."

Standing there, she peered down at him. His forehead was dusty, his neck already tanned, his hair tangled from working in the wind, and his face, tired.

"Long day?" she asked.

He nodded.

"What were you reading just now?"

"Plato."

Nelle shook her head.

"Hey, it's a heck of a lot better than that _Sonnets from the Portuguese_ you're always toting around!"

"What's wrong with Browning?"

"You know, I'm actually shocked you can stomach, let alone like her weepy, simpering, I-am-not-worthy-to-be-your-footstool supposed love poems. She goes on and on about how this chap is like a perfect king and she's merely a part of him and nothing on her own. Such insecure whining! That kind of woman could never get enough validation. She's practically begging this poor sap to say he loves her again and again. And she's not satisfied with that. No, she's got to know, too, that he'll miss her when she's dead. It's exhausting! And the death fetish doesn't stop there...

Then there's that bit where she prates on about how this darling of hers shouldn't love her for her smile, her look, her ways or her endearing crying habit. He's supposed to love her 'for love's sake only.' It's ridiculous! The whole reason one loves someone is for his or her ways, looks, smiles, and habits! That's what makes a person who he or she is! Otherwise, we'd just love anyone. And it doesn't work that way. We are prisoners of love, not commanders."

Unexpectedly, when Arden finished his little rant, he found Nelle smiling merrily.

"I agree with you completely," she pronounced.

Arden blinked, surprised.

"Then why carry that book around?"

"It's good as a little test."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, in the past, I found it a good method of discerning a man's true perception of women."

"And if he passed, you might let him get a little closer to you?"

"Exactly."

"You are one very particular and sly woman," he said, a slow smile forming at the corner of his mouth. "So I passed the test?"

"I never felt the need to test you, but yeah..."

Her mouth still grinning, but with serious eyes, Nelle reached out and slid her fingertips down the side of Arden's jaw. He made no move, but a look of intensity flashed into his eyes and his hands tightened imperceptibly around the chair's arms. He watched her leisurely bend her right knee and slide it into place at his left hip. She did the same thing with the opposite knee on the opposite side, and then he felt her body sinking onto his lap. Once settled, she placed her hands on his, before letting them roam slowly up to his shoulders. When he lunged towards her, she leaned back and made him wait. Gradually, she returned and kissed him gently, biting lightly at his lips. He kissed her back fervidly, but she held him off with her tender, unhurried pace for as long as she could stand it. Finally, her cheeks burning, everything in her teeming with anticipation, she pulled away.

"Arden, you ought to know that you are the finest man I've ever crossed paths with... Just so you realize..."

He exhaled sharply.

"Nelle!"

It was a thank you, a command, a request, an "I love you", and a plea for mercy all rolled into one word.

"Prisoners of love..." she murmured, to no one in particular.

He put his hands around her waist and pulled her in tight against him, and this time, she kissed him hard, drowned herself in his ardor, and over the next half-hour, the two remained in that chair, wrangling and writhing in the silence.

Arden found he was not as tired as he'd thought. And after peacefully sitting there for a time, body buzzing in the afterglow, a rumpled Nelle curled up against him, he bent and kissed her shoulders, and then her neck, slowly, determinedly, until the cinders flared up and the fire blazed again. And then he took her up to the loft and together they stopped, dropped, and rolled until that fire was good and out.

Pleased to have her safe in his bed, if only for one night, it was a very long time before Arden fell asleep. Instead, he lay quietly, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, and as time wore on, the sounds of the night, alert for anything unusual, but hearing nothing out of the ordinary. Eventually, his mind gave in to his body and he fell asleep, one arm draped over the warm skin of Nelle's back.

Nelle was dreaming. In the previous months, since Arden had returned, the frequency of her gunshot-to-the-back-in-the-middle-of-the-river dream had waned, and it had been some time since she'd last watched her own blood run into water. But now, asleep in Arden's bed, she found herself in a different, but similarly bloody dream. She was standing knee deep in sepia-toned grass, a static sky looming overhead, silence pervading the air, and an unbroken prairie surging against the sheen of the horizon. There was a sinister tension creeping about.

"This is some shitty verisimilitude," Nelle commented to the motionless air.

She surveyed the grainy, yellowed surroundings. There weren't just amber waves of grain. There were amber trees and an amber sun, and beneath her, her own amber legs extending out from beneath a loose, amber shirt of Arden's.

While she stood there feeling like she should be somewhere else, everything flickered and disappeared into arrant darkness for an instant, before returning exactly as it was. It happened not once, but three times, only on the third time, she looked ahead and saw Anisette standing a few wagon-lengths away from her. Anisette was staring down at the grass, so Nelle called out to her. But she didn't look up. She didn't seem to hear anything. Suddenly, inexplicably, she began screaming shrill, horrified screams. She lurched nonsensically about on her tiptoes, her eyes still glued to the ground.

Nelle looked down and saw. An ague slid through her body.

The grass wasn't amber anymore. Blood seemed to be rising out of the roots, turning the base of each blade scarlet. She felt twitchy, that she would drown in Anisette's screaming. She tried wretchedly to run to her friend, but her legs were leaden and no matter how she tried, she couldn't raise her head. The grass was too mesmerizing. The longer she watched it, the higher the plane of redness became, till just the very tips of the grass remained amber. Moments later, she was standing in a tract of glistening gore.

Then there was a shot, a single crack hurtling across the plain. A breath of pure silence followed, and then...

"He's been shot," Anisette wailed, dropping to her knees. "He's been shot!"

Finally, Nelle found she could raise her head. She saw Anisette bent over a figure in the grass, but she couldn't see who it was. Urgently, she leapt towards her friend. Her limbs moved clumsily, in slow motion, and her calves were streaked with blood as she churned through the grass.

"Ani, I'm coming. Who is it?!"

In the unvarying brightness of the sun, Anisette began to undulate and then fade. A panicked, sweaty Nelle reached for her, but she still seemed so far away.

"Get help!" shrieked Anisette.

Nelle's legs were covered in blood now. Though the grass only reached her knees, she saw that she was saturated to her waist. She felt weak, like she wanted to retch.

"Wait, Ani! I'm coming. Who is it?! Wait!"

"Nelle, wake up! Nelle!" came a distant voice, reverberating through the yellow.

Someone was shaking her.

"Wake up."

She sat bolt upright in the bed, her heart beating erratically, her breathing jarred and rapid. Now that she was awake, Arden leaned back and propped himself up on an elbow, looking inquisitively at her.

"You were thrashing around. Must've been some nightmare?"

"Shut up," she snapped, concentrating hard, trying to gather up the disintegrating shreds of her dream. Though he begrudged her manner, Arden obeyed. For several minutes, neither of them even moved.

"Three days," she repeated to herself after her recapitulation. "It's three days. Three flickers means three days, I think."

Regretting her sharpness, she edged over to Arden. When she touched him, the tension vanished from his body and he pulled her closer so that they lay sandwiched against each other.

"It was one of my dreams. But this one was different."

"What do you mean?"

"Usually, it's the same dream, a dream I've had off and on over the years. This time, it was one of _those_ dreams, but it was different."

"I still don't understand. What do you mean 'those dreams?'"

"The ones that seem to portend something, maybe emphasize something... The important ones, the ones with an aura of significance."

"Oh... And you say you have recurring dreams?"

"Yes, that's what I meant. Only one, and it isn't pretty. But tonight there was a new dream."

"Yes?"

"I was standing on an inert prairie. Everything flickered and disappeared three times, and when I looked out on the land after the third time Anisette was there. She was some distance away from me and became upset when the grass around us turned red – root to tip, like it had been watered with blood. She was screaming, just screaming and screaming. Then there was a shot. Ani was bending over someone hollering he'd been shot. I tried to get to her, tried to see who it was, but I couldn't..."

"It just sounds like a gruesome nightmare to me."

"But it wasn't. It's a warning. I think it means three days, three days and then I have to face him. And... Oh, Arden, I can't let anyone get shot!"

Arden was wide-awake now.

"Nelle, it was just a dream. It's just a manifestation of your fears. It's doesn't necessarily mean anything."

As he said it, Arden wondered exactly who he was trying to reassure. He didn't normally believe in this stuff – dreams that consisted of more than mental refuse, of omens, auspicious birthdays, reading the future... But this was Nelle, not some flaky, incense-soaked, blame-it-on-planetary-alignment card-turner. And if she, who was certainly kooky, but not at all airy or flippant, and in fact was pretty damn serious when it came to survival, if she was saying her dream was important, well, it called things into question.

"It does! Just because a sparkle-drenched, soothsaying fairy didn't appear to tell me that after the yellow orb bobs thrice, a malicious lowlife known to me will materialize, doesn't mean it's not a forewarning. It does mean something," she insisted.

"Sparkle-drenched?! Thrice!? Nelle, I was just wondering how you can be so certain?"

"I just know."

Arden bristled. He looked away towards the window and the thin shaving of a moon beyond. He hated what his gut was telling him. He hated that he believed her. _If Lacy shows up, I don't think I can just stand aside_ , he thought _. I can't let her get hurt. Why did I promise? Why did I promise?_

Sometimes, I hate that I love her!

Nelle felt oddly calm. Serene, almost. Soon, it would all be over. There would finally be a resolution.

His face was mostly concealed by the darkness, but Nelle sensed Arden's disquiet as it poured out from his being and wafted towards the ceiling in a thick brooding cloud.

"It's alright, Arden."

"Jesus, Nelle! It isn't! It isn't at all."

"It is," she breathed. "It is," she soothed again, pulling him back down to the mattress. He could not go back on his promise. Not now! It would break everything. Especially her. "It is... It is... It is..." she kept on, and when he started to deny it again, she kissed him. She kissed him until there was no fight left in him. She kissed him until her jaw ached and her lips were chapped. And then she dropped her head down onto the pillow next to him.

For the remainder of the night, they both lay there quietly staring at the ceiling, imagining the other to be asleep. When the sun spilled across the horizon in a molten lake of gold, Arden, without moving, whispered to Nelle that he loved her. Thinking she was asleep, he was surprised when she rolled over to him, tangled in the sheets, and answered back.

"And I love you, Arden Wilder."

Smiling, he came to life and, untangling her from the sheets so he could feel her skin and her heart pressed against his own, he repaid her for all her kisses. _Don't think of tomorrow,_ he told himself. _Don't think about anything other than now. Now is all you have. It's everything. Everything. Don't waste it, don't waste it..._

When the pooling sunlight reached the middle of the bedpost, they finally rose and waded through it, climbing down from the loft. Arden went out to tend to the horses and Nelle meandered into the kitchen.

She slipped out the back door while he was washing up. By the time he stepped into the kitchen and found the warm plate of apple pancakes and her note beside it, she'd saddled her horse and stepped into the stirrups. He ran out the front door just in time to see Mnemosyne's glossy black ass disappearing into the distance, Yak's pom-pom tail leading the way. It was no use to go after her, he knew.

Slowly, disappointedly, Arden made his way back into the kitchen, where he picked up her note and opened the folded page.

Arden,

If the Fates allow it, I swear I'll come back to you. When I do, be wearing chaps.

N.

Grinning briefly, Arden refolded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. And then, though some part of his logical mind knew very well that it was not a brilliant move, he went ahead and punched the cast iron stove. The pain of it was enough to distract him from the worst of that other pain, and even later, when he realized he could no longer hold a hammer or even unlatch the door in his usual way, he figured it had been worth it.

When he didn't show up at the Dime Sunday Dinner, Larry came around. He found Arden sitting distracted on the porch steps, his swollen right fist cradled on his lap. Larry approached tentatively, as Arden's face looked like a universal symbol for "Do Not Disturb" and he was gazing fiercely towards the Mesa, ignoring him completely.

Nelle had skipped church that morning. Somehow, it had seemed way more important to dispatch bullets over and over again into the same tin can until it disintegrated into a small pile of metal shavings than to bother with the chronically speechless, aggravatingly aloof God. Plus, she didn't want to see anyone. She didn't want to hear any nattering niceties or an unnecessarily loud sermon coming from an ominous black suit. She wished she didn't have to teach school the next day, but that couldn't be helped. At least she had one day to be alone.

Sarah had been a bit uneasy when Nelle hadn't pinched herself into a pew as usual, but she'd grown even more worried when Arden hadn't shown up for the afternoon meal as he always did on Sundays. Convinced it wasn't something good that kept the two from their respective commitments, she'd summoned Larry to go check on Arden.

Now, he stood uncomfortably before his brother, who was still paying no attention to his presence.

"Arden?"

There was no answer, so Larry pulled up the collar of his long spring coat and slid his hands awkwardly into his pockets.

"Arden!" he tried again.

"What?!"

_This is not a very good start,_ thought Larry, now certain something was really wrong.

"Is everything alright here?" he peeped.

"Yep, just super delightful!"

"It doesn't seem super delightful."

"No?!" snarled Arden.

"No."

"Well, those are some astute powers of intuition, Larry! How about super fucking Yankee Doodle dandy delightful, then!?!!"

Larry was losing his patience. After all, he'd done nothing to deserve this kind of treatment.

"Well, fuck you and your horse, too, Arden! I didn't come here to stand around and get raged at! I came here to make sure things were okay. I'll see you later, then," he said, turning away from his brother and beginning to the walk back to the water trough where his horse waited.

"It's Nelle," Arden announced, in a checked tone.

"Well, now we're getting somewhere. What seems to be the problem?" asked Larry, turning and walking back towards Arden.

"Nay, not 'seems.' Tis!"

"Alright, what _'tis_ the problem?" Larry asked gratingly, fervently wishing he was already back at home playing checkers with Sarah.

"She's in trouble."

Larry suddenly perked up. This wasn't so bad \- a technical snafu from a contemporary moral standpoint, but it could be dealt with, and since when did Arden care for contemporary morals anyhow? This was hardly earth-shattering news. It happened all the time. Unless...

"Yours, of course?" he asked, casually.

"What?"

"Or is it that she's against motherhood, too?" Larry asked, a touch sardonically. "Because if that's the case, I can see your concern. You'll really have your hands full," he went on lightly.

"What?! No, no, Larry! Come on! It's not that. Not _that_ trouble. Real trouble," Arden said, exasperation seeping from his voice.

"Well, what about her then?"

"She's the most relentlessly stubborn woman I've ever known."

"Yes, well, that's not exactly front page news. We've known that since day one."

"Yeah, thanks Larry, for pointing that out. I feel a whole lot better now. You can get home to your checkers and popcorn. The fluffy rainbows and frolicking buffalo are back and all is right with the world, so don't let me keep you."

"Easy, Arden! Jeez, I was only trying to help."

"Well, I don't need to be chided."

"I was only trying to lighten things up."

"They don't need to be lightened. This is serious!"

Arden kept staring off in the direction of the Mesa. Larry looked down at his feet, kicking at the moist dirt and wondering whether it would be best to push on with the conversation or just get out with his head still intact. But then, unexpectedly, Arden finally confessed his trials to his brother.

"Lair, it's just that this time I'm worried her stubbornness is going to get her killed."

"What?!"

"I wish I was exaggerating, Larry, but I'm pretty sure about this," he said.

"I don't understand."

"If anything, I'm probably downplaying it because, knowing her, _she_ probably downplayed it," ignoring Larry's comment and ploughing on.

"What?! Whatever it is, we've got to help her."

"That's where the stubbornness comes in. She wants to handle things on her own."

" _You've_ still got to help her, at least."

"Can't," replied a beset Arden, who'd obviously been over this a hundred times.

"What?!"

"I think you said that already."

"What I meant to say was, 'why?!'"

"Because I promised her. I swore not to."

"What?!" Larry was becoming very confused.

"Again, Larry. That's the stubbornness I'm talking about."

"But why the hell would you go and do that? I mean, why make such a ridiculous promise?"

"So I wouldn't lose her."

"Oh."

There was silence as Larry contemplated this. He was greatly confused by a lot of things, he admitted to himself. But one thing he knew for sure; Arden was so totally in love with Nelle that he was completely at her mercy. He wasn't sure how he felt about this revelation. He'd never seen his brother quite like this before. _Did she feel the same as he did? If she did, then why wouldn't she let him help her?_

He clapped a hand down on Arden's shoulder.

"Maybe I could be of help, somehow..."

"No! No, it's no use. I'm not even sure if I was supposed to tell you as much as I just did. She doesn't want it. I'm telling you. You've seen the way she's withdrawn from everyone. She's hell bent on doing this her own way."

"We at least have to tell the sheriff."

"Larry! What good's he gonna do turning the entire town into a shambolic mob of a posse because he can't keep his mouth shut? That'll just end up with Nelle becoming enraged, particularly with me, I might add, and some of the overzealous deputized getting shot or kicked by a horse or killed off by sunstroke. Larry, there's no point. Flint's a fine sheriff for dealing with shoplifters and stolen cows and cracking down on the saloon fights, and I admit, he's getting better with a gun every day, but he doesn't have the tact or the shrewdness to deal with this. He'd have no idea what he'd be dealing with and he'd be too tempted by a glorious, full-steam charge of an approach, which is most definitely the wrong approach."

"And what exactly is he dealing with?"

"Professionals."

"What?!"

"Yup. And Larry, though I _am_ sorry about being such an ass earlier, I will punch you if you say 'What?!' like that one more time."

"You mean bounty hunters?" asked Larry, not commenting on Arden's warning, but totally bypassing all words beginning with W for the time being.

"Of sorts, I guess," answered Arden, wearily.

"Is she wan... er... uh... being hunted by the law?"

"No."

"Then these gunslingers wa... are after?"

"Actually, I'm told they're more into knives, at least the main guy, though probably they know their way around firearms as well."

"Arden, we have to do something!"

"No, we don't. I promised her, and I intend to keep that promise. And I'm trusting you to keep in confidence what I've just told you."

"We can't just stand by and do nothing!"

"I've been over it a hundred times, Larry. I love her. Don't you see? I promised her exactly that - that I'd stand by and do nothing. I won't betray her. If she can't depend on me to keep my word in this, then how can she depend on me in anything? That's how she'll see it, too. If I do something, I'll lose her for sure and if I do nothing, I might lose her, but I might not."

"So you'll let her go to her death before you break your promise?"

Arden didn't answer. He couldn't answer. It was too much to consider it, though already he knew the answer and it sickened him. Larry read the silence, and he too, knew.

"I hardly think that's love. If she loves you, she'll understand why you had to break it, Arden! She'll understand that you couldn't just stand by and let something happen to her."

"No, Larry, the thing is – she won't. You're thinking on it with the way Sarah might feel or act. Nelle is different, and she wants to handle this on her own. She's certain of it. If I interfered, even to her benefit, it would break us; it would break us for sure. If she came out alive, she would walk away from me for good. I have to trust her. She has to make her own choices, and she was adamant about this one. It took long enough just to get her to open up and tell me what's been going on. Do you think if I go against my own word she will ever trust me again?"

"Still, Arden, a man has a duty to protect his own!"

"No, a man has a duty to respect his own!"

"You'll regret this!"

"True. Whatever choice, there is regret. But I won't do it. I won't break faith with her. I'd regret that most."

"And what if she's killed?"

"Larry, I can only do what I think is right," Arden insisted, misery evident in his voice.

Larry stared at his brother in disbelief. If Sarah had tied him to a promise that might prove detrimental to her, he'd break that promise in a heartbeat to prevent her suffering, to protect her from pain, to keep her safe. He didn't feel it was wrong to discard such a promise. He considered it his right, his obligation even, to keep his loved ones out of harm's way, whatever the cost."

"I don't understand you at all, Arden! How can you just sit there? How can you live with yourself?"

"It's not easy! I'm doing what I believe is right. I'm doing it because I love her."

"The right thing to do is take care of her."

"That's what I'd like to do, brother. Believe me! But I can't. I can't do it," he insisted, desperation in his tone.

"Did you ever stop to think that she only made you promise in order to protect you? She's trying to protect you and you won't lift a finger to save her! She's probably in pretty deep and you're stuck on words. Words, words, words!"

"It's no use speculating, Larry. What's done is done, and I won't dishonour her by breaking my word."

Larry swore and kicked the porch step. Arden didn't move, didn't unfasten his gaze from the Mesa.

"Fine, go play your hand, you big-talkin' man!" Larry hollered, as he turned and began walking towards his horse. This time, there was no stopping him, and he took off without a backward glance.

That night, Arden didn't sleep. Every time he drifted off he had his own visions of Nelle, and he would jerk awake with her screams still echoing in his ears and Larry's words haunting him. Over and over again, he went over his conversations with Nelle and his own convictions, and always he came to the same conclusion. He had to let her fight this fight alone.

Larry didn't sleep either. Completely befuddled by his brother, he could not grasp how the man could stand by like this, regardless of any promise. These types of things were promise-breakers. Arden was the only one who knew what was going on. Surely he was obliged to help, even if Nelle didn't want help. Since he loved the woman, helping her became a responsibility. And if she didn't want help, well, sometimes you have to help save people from themselves. Tomorrow, he would talk to the sheriff, he decided, despite his brother having forbid him to do so.

Nelle slept. In spite of the humpy, holey mattress, she slept soundly. In spite of Yak's traitorous snoring and the spring thunderstorm pinging away on the cabin's tin roof, she slept. Even the prospect of impending danger did not steal a wink from her. Sure it had taken a little while for her to drift off, partly because she'd been trying to figure out if her dream meant three nights including the very night she'd had the dream, or three additional nights. She'd settled that most likely it meant three additional nights, since the dream had occurred in the morning hours. Thus, she'd figured sometime on Wednesday it could happen.

The other thing that had prevented her from drifting off for a while was Arden. It hurt her to think of him suffering in any way, and she knew he must be suffering because of his promise. But he had made it knowingly, she'd reminded herself. And then she'd recalled Lacy's promise and knew it would hurt far worse if anything happened to Arden, and so, reassured about her decision, she'd curled up into a seriffed "S" on the stable portions of her mattress, allowed her fatigue to overtake her, and had promptly fallen asleep. And she stayed that way until morning.

After finishing his chores on Monday morning, Larry hied on down to the sheriff's office to find that of course, the sheriff was not in yet. The sheriff, in fact, was still lying naked in Anisette's bed, and so, deducing the same, Larry rode out to Mead farm. After spotting Flint's horse peeking out of the barn, he pounded loudly on the front door.

Fifteen minutes later, he sat drinking coffee and watching Flint devour bacon and eggs and apple strudel at Anisette's kitchen table.

"So, let me get this straight," Flint said, "You got me out of bed to tell me that Nelle is in some kind of trouble, something we've all suspected for a while now. And when I ask for details, you tell me that some dudes with knives are after her, _you think_ , and that you have no idea when, where, how, or why. And I'm also not supposed to tell anyone. Is that it?"

"Pretty much."

"And what would you have me do?"

"Go talk to her as the sheriff. Insist she tell you. Invoke the law."

Flint burst out laughing and rolled his eyes.

"Do you not know this woman? Have you not met our intractable little schoolmarm? If she'd wanted to tell me about it, she would've. And since she hasn't, I'm assuming that getting anything out of her will be a lot harder than trying to pry open a clam with my tongue, which for me might not be as hard as for some, but is still near impossible, nonetheless. Would you agree with that assessment, Larry?"

"Oh, you are _way_ too cheeky in the morning, Flint!" interjected Anisette, as she refilled Larry's coffee.

He winked at her salaciously. Larry was beginning to wish he hadn't come.

"What of it, Larry?" asked Flint, again.

"Uh, I guess that's a fair assessment. Sorta. Yeah."

"Of course, if you really think I ought to go wave my gold star under her nose, I'll do it, even if it does mean I'm totally screwing up Arden's chances with the lady."

"Wait. Uh, maybe don't," said Larry, sheepishly.

"Well, if I had something solid to go on, any kind of sure detail, I'd be willing to open a full-on investigation, but as it is, I think it'd be best to finish the delicious breakfast my pregnant paramour has prepared – inadvertent alliteration – yeah! - and then mosey on downtown to keep an eye on things."

"Can't you make Arden tell you what he knows, or at least, do _something_? You know, isn't this some kind of obstruction of justice?"

"Nope. And just the thought of talking to him again evokes the mighty clam. Those two really are perfect for each other."

"So you're going to do nothing?" asked an exasperated Larry.

"No, not quite. I'll be keeping an artful watch on the schoolhouse as I've done every day since Anisette first told me to back in January. I'd ride by her place too, on a random check, but unfortunately that mutt of hers would send up the alarm and I'd be found out, so I don't dare. And if you truly think politely asking Arden will get me anywhere, I'm more than willing to try, but I just thought since he didn't even tell you..."

Silently, Larry took a sip of his coffee and steadied his antsy legs. He was mad, but he knew the sheriff had a point. Still, was everyone just going to stand by and let Nelle face whoever these people were, all on her own?

"I mean, if I actually see something fishy going on," Flint continued, "something, you know, good and blatantly awry, don't worry, I'll bring out the cannons and the most dazzling posse you've ever seen."

"Good God, Flint!"

"Oh come on, Larry! You know I'll do my best."

"Yeah, I guess so. I'm just so damn infuriated by Arden! I don't understand that man."

"Try not to understand the love lives of others. It's best not to open that can of worms. I mean, whenever Anisette and I start trying to decipher what the hell goes on in other people's relationships, we just throw up our hands and thank our lucky stars for the soundness of our own."

Larry wanted to roll his eyes, but he kept them firmly attached to the fourth row of parrots glaring down at him from the wall out in the hallway. It was time to leave, even if he was still plain fed up, or perhaps _because_ he was still plain fed up!

"Shouldn't you already be in town Flint? You know, keeping watch on things instead of sleeping late? It's Monday morning, not Independence Day!" he fumed.

"Actually, Larry, it's the holidays and nights when I've got to be most active. My research clearly indicates that hardly any crimes are committed on a Monday morning, other than by Jimmy Gordon, who will shoplift any time of day, so I see it as a good opportunity to catch up on my rest after dealing with the late night brawls, the lonesome cowboys in the bushes behind the Janssen place, and the other, more literal kind of "I'll-show-you-my-pistol-if-you-show-me-yours hoopla of the weekend."

"Oh... Research?"

"I'm not quite as shiftless or naive as you might think, Dime."

There was nothing left for Larry to do but leave. It was quite true, what Flint said. He had not given the sheriff enough credit. In fact, he realized now he'd really underestimated Flint. Probably everyone had. From their conversation, it was apparent that Westwood didn't spend _all_ of his time in Anisette's bed. And while it seemed as if hardly any time had passed since he had started out as a novice lawman, Flint had obviously already learned a thing or two since taking the job. He still came off as a loose-lipped greenhorn, but Larry wondered just how much of that was an act. Whatever the case, Larry suspected the man hadn't merely been sitting in that sheriff's office playing cards or writing citations for improperly tarped wagons.

As for the purpose of his visit, Larry knew that there was nothing more that Flint could really do. He knew Nelle wouldn't appreciate _his_ own interference. Okay, that was an understatement. Nelle would be offended by his interference. The only thing Larry could do was pressure Arden, and Arden had already made it clear that he wasn't feeling particularly disposed to indulge any of his efforts at persuasion.

Discouraged, he went home.

As much as Nelle wanted Monday to drag by like a Monday should, the day was a bastion of efficiency and productivity, as if to flout her. When she wrote on the board, the chalk did not break into eight pieces that left white trails of dust across her skirts on their way down to the floor. When she told her two seventh-graders to quit passing notes, they actually quit passing notes. In English class, when she decided the older students ought to give impromptu speeches, Jake Connelly astonished her and everyone else, except maybe Ellen, with a detailed chronicle on the history of whaling, the research for which had apparently been inspired by a recent reading of Moby Dick. Incredibly fascinated, the children, particularly the boys, spent a good hour raising their hands with questions after Jake had completed his narrative. He had patiently answered each of them. In all her years of teaching and well, just general living, Nelle had never managed to get used to the excitement garnered in young men at the idea or prospect of killing something, or to the enthusiasm paid to the many modes of killing something. But the speech and the questions and discussions that ensued were of an educational nature and so Nelle let them go on. This made for a rather rapid passing of the afternoon, and much sooner than she would've liked, she found herself standing alone in the classroom peering out the window at the last stragglers as they disappeared homeward, sweaters tied around their waists and empty lunch buckets swinging in time to their liberated strides.

Tuesday was much the same, except that after dismissing the children, a pervasive sense of sadness overtook her. She wasn't sure exactly why. After all, it wasn't as if she'd taught there forever and was facing separation from a bunch of shiny-eyed, apple-cheeked cherubs who she religiously adored. It wasn't as if she found teaching a beloved and consuming profession. It was okay, and she was good at it, but it wasn't her "calling" or anything like that. It was an honest job. Nor was Nelle particularly worried or concerned for the school itself. It would get along fine without her. Lady Dunn or Ellen, even without a teacher's license, could carry it through what remained of June. Still, Nelle took care to organize her desk, wipe the windows, and to sweep the floor more fastidiously than she usually did. And when she was done, she walked slowly to the door, turned and surveyed the room, her eyes hesitating over the desk of the Dime twins, Ellen's seat by the window, and Jake's station in the back row. She stepped out the door and slammed it soundly when she realized she was edging towards a cheesy, head-tilted-towards-the-clouds-in-pensive-mode bout of nostalgia.

_Get a grip; you haven't been here long enough to hearken back to the good old days. Plus, it's not as if your time in this place has been all auld lang syne and parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,_ she told herself, and she climbed into the saddle.

"Hi yo, Mnemosyne! Away!" she commanded, and the horse lurched straight into a gallop, skipping first, second, and third gear entirely.

_Goodbye Boulder City institution of learning,_ she thought, ducking low in the saddle as her horse roared homeward. As she flew down the road, she wondered how Arden was holding up. He was always there in the back of her mind, and it made her chest ache with loneliness, not just because of their present separation, but also because the void of the unknown was pressing on her, pulling at her, consuming her, and she had no choice but to be swallowed up by it, whether it tore her from him or not.

Of course, she was back to school the next morning, as usual, at 9:00 a.m.
X.

When it finally happened, it went down rather fast. All Wednesday morning, Nelle had paced up and down the aisles of her classroom, pausing to inspect the little ones' handwriting exercises and the older children's English compositions and book reports. She'd kept everyone doing busy work since she hadn't had the heart or the focus to deliver a grammar lecture or a science experiment. She'd known she probably wouldn't be able to differentiate between "laying down in bed" and "lying down in bed" at that point, and that she ought not to go near any kind of chemical.

Pacing constantly, she'd quietly worked the children until noon. A few times, she'd noticed Jake eying her curiously, but she hadn't been able to stop moving. The pacing had been the only thing keeping her from giving in to the suspense, the nervous waiting, and had prevented her from manically dumping over and alphabetically rearranging the contents of the bookshelves, belting out a jittery version of _Que Sera, Sera_ , or marching over to the saloon at recess _._ Finally, the morning had passed and Nelle had released the children at lunchtime for a touch of sun and temperate air, and more importantly, a break from the burgeoning pins-and-needles ambiance. She had sunk down into her desk chair, but had kept her eyes on the strip of road visible through the west windows. She had not eaten. She had not touched the book bag sitting on top of her desk.

Just after she managed to herd the children back indoors to commence the math class she'd put off from earlier that morning, and just as she was thinking that algebra right after lunch was a punishment fit only for criminals of the worst kind and certainly not small children, a shot rang out. There was the lone bang of a single shot and then nothing more. Instantaneously, Nelle's body stiffened and she stopped mid-stride in the front of the room. The children, sensing her anxiety go from palpable to pressurized, and knowing instinctively that a single gunshot in the middle of town on a blasé Wednesday afternoon did not portend a fiesta or a dead gopher, sat still and waited, their eyes glued to the waxen-faced woman standing tall in the front of the room.

"Teacher, I thought I heard a shot," ventured a shaky-voiced Tommy Hay.

Recovering herself, Nelle managed a grim smile.

"No, that was just a weasel popping," she declared, with a wink.

Some of the children laughed, albeit nervously, but Nelle kept her smile on and slowly the alarm in the room began to dissolve and give way to vague confusion and then, tentative low-grade tension, as before. Effecting a methodical pace, she attempted to get things in order, pulling out the sheet of math problems she needed to write on the board. As she reached for the chalk, she noticed that Jake Connelly had risen from his desk and was standing at the window nearest to it, squinting fixedly out towards town. She didn't bother to scold him for getting up as she normally would have done. Instead, she let him continue standing there while she turned and wrote out the simple problems for the lower grades, and then began the long, cluttered numerical and lettered strands for the upper grades.

When she finished amassing the equations on the blackboard, she turned back towards the class. Jake was still at the back window and he gave her a pointed, urgent look. Quickly, she instructed the children to begin working the first problem applicable to their grade and then she walked purposefully to the back of the room, where Jake was standing, his arms folded, his eyes on the road.

"Know them fellas?" he whispered to her when she reached him, gesturing towards the five men that were now tying their horses to the hitching rail in front of the schoolyard.

Even though she was fairly certain of what she'd see, Nelle still felt her blood momentarily stop flowing, her spine shrivel up, and her skin begin to perspire an ice cold fear-based concoction with a smoky nose of nutmeg, scorched earth, and metal filings, definite salty undertones, and subtle notes of ammonia and black pepper.

And there he was. Byrne Lacy.

He was noticeably older than the last time she'd seen him, not quite five years ago, and the cool, arrogant look of contempt that she remembered had been cultivated into a look of authoritative and calculated loathing. He still had the same thick dun hair, but now there was a wiry, flat-toned moustache pinched between his nose and the lines of his mouth. If she hadn't been so scared, she might have laughed. In all of her thirty years, Nelle had not yet seen a man whose appearance was actually improved by farming a fringe of hair over his upper lip, and Lacy was no exception.

Paralyzed with terror, Nelle kept staring. Still looking healthy and tough, his medium frame dense with muscle, Lacy, flanked by two men on each side, began strolling towards the school. A swift tilt of his jaw betrayed a glaring impatience and his gaze seemed to slice through the school door like a machete through bean curd. He was a man who was used to making commands, a man accustomed to being angry, and it showed in every step.

Then, gripping the windowsill tightly, Nelle croaked. She meant to swallow, in order to help allay the wildness of her breathing, but it came out as a definite croak. Jake looked closely at her face, worried.

"I don't think this is good. There are five more. They rode around back... What should we do?"

Lacy was nearing the door. She had to think fast. She forced herself to make a move, to do _something._

" _We_ won't do anything. _I'll_ deal with them, Jake. And only me," she said, in a hoarse whisper. "Whatever happens, I'm making it your job to keep things calm and get the little ones home afterwards... You and Ellen... The younger ones – get them home. Alright?"

Jake looked at her wide-eyed face with trepidation. He hesitated to agree simply because he didn't think it right to agree to anything when he didn't know what on earth was happening. Besides, he'd discerned that these dudes weren't the friendly type.

But there was no time for hesitation so Nelle, in trying to clear her throat pointedly, croaked again.

"Alright?" she asked, the urgent warbled sound stunning Jake into agreement.

"Alright," he hissed back through gritted teeth, just as the door swung open.

That morning, Arden had risen from his bed earlier than usual. Throughout the night, as he'd perused the knots in the ceiling, he'd kept telling himself that Nelle might be wrong and Wednesday might be like any other day. After all, it had just been a dream. There had been no sign of this Lacy guy or any notable newbies in town - just a few of the usual passing prospectors, and that was it. Certainly, if he'd come, someone would've seen him and his men. They, like any others, would need food and supplies from town. But nobody had seen anything.

Still, despite his reasonable arguments, Arden had not been able to convince himself. He knew Nelle. He trusted her. And if she said the dream meant something, well, he just couldn't write it off, no matter how much he continued to argue with himself. Either way, though, he couldn't do a damn thing. So, red-eyed and oozing with curses, he'd slid out of bed and down the ladder and had set to making an enormous kettle of coffee.

When it was ready, he'd poured himself a mug of the stiff black brew, stomped out onto the porch, still in his pajamas, and had watched the sun snake up into the sky. The morning had dragged on and he had not moved, except to replenish his cup when it grew cold or empty. He'd refused to work at all until noon. He'd just sat, watching the sky and glancing compulsively at the Mesa. Finally, he'd thrown on some clothes and gone fleetingly to the barn to feed and water the animals. That was it. Once done, he'd resumed his post on the porch and he'd waited, cultivating an ulcer with the continuous stream of coffee.

In town, just after the stroke of twelve, ten men had come riding nonchalantly down Main Street. Nobody had known where they'd come from, since the day was warm and they'd appeared fresh and unfettered by dust, sweat, wind, and the general rumpledness that afflicted humans riding trail for any length of time. About half the men appeared to be rough-looking cowboy types, but the others were wearing dark suits and hats. There was no effort to blend in, no pulling on some dirty canvas pants and hauling an empty gold-pan to the saloon to slyly listen to the gossip and gather intelligence on the place. And it became altogether clear that these men didn't give a rat's ass about Boulder City, except for the location of the schoolhouse. And it was even more evident that they did not perceive Boulder City to be any kind of threat to their operations.

Deputy Clancy, the latest in a long line of Boulder City deputies, had been leaning idly against the outside wall of the sheriff's office watching the morning pass when the men rode into town. Before heading out into the street for a meet-and-greet, he'd hollered back at Flint, who'd been inside oiling the squeaky jail cell doors.

"Hey Flint," he'd yelled, "come have a look at this Yankee Doodle parade trotting down Main."

Upon hearing him, Flint had perked up immediately and bolted towards the door. As soon as he'd caught sight of the gang, he'd known they were trouble. And with Larry's words from the weekend still fresh in his mind, he'd figured that these hombres, even if they weren't brandishing knives at this point, probably had something to do with Nelle. He'd developed an immediate aversion to the shiny, matching Beaumont-Adams revolvers half of them wore on their hips, as well as to varied arsenal toted in by the others. Even if Larry had said nothing to him, he would not have missed the menacing element of this crew. It had definitely given both law-enforcement officials pause.

Flint had recovered himself in time to intercept them in the road. He'd ambled out in front of the riders and waited, his hand on his gun belt, until they stopped in front of him. A more hesitant Clancy had still been edging out towards the middle of Main.

"May I help you?" Flint had asked, his eyes trained on the man with the hard gray eyes and the expensive black boots. A few passersby had stopped amidst their errands and general loitering to gaze at the men in the middle of the street. Clancy had signaled to them to stay back and then had backed up some, himself.

"Why, that's very kind of you, sheriff. We would appreciate it if you could give us directions to the schoolhouse, sir."

That had been all the confirmation Flint needed.

"I'm sorry," he'd replied. "I can't do that."

"And why?" the man had asked, sneering.

Flint had played it cool.

"Recess is over. The children are studying now. It would not be wise to disturb them."

"Well, it sure is above and beyond the call of duty for you to be so concerned about the education of children, but I must impress upon you that I am on urgent business and cannot be detained. Surely you can advise me, given the circumstances."

"Afraid not. Like I said, recess is over."

"You're not serious," the man had said. He hadn't feigned incredulousness. It had been more of a declaration he'd made as he'd slowly dismounted from his glossy, unscuffed saddle.

"I am," Flint had replied as he'd nonchalantly unsheathed his .44 Colt Revolver – the 1860 Lawman Edition, complete with an all steel frame and simulated ivory grips. Beside the office door, he'd glimpsed Clancy backing him up with a rifle.

The stern-eyed man had actually laughed, laughed out loud, as his nine cohorts had simultaneously drawn their own revolvers.

_Okay, okay,_ Flint had thought. _These guys don't just_ look _serious. They're a synchronized gunning team. I don't think you can bluff your way past nine guns to then take on this dude in the middle. Plan B... Plan B... What... is... Plan B?_ he'd contemplated, as the handful of onlookers had increased to about three handfuls, or a portly baker's dozen.

"Alright, folks. Move along," he'd declared in a firm voice, "there's nothing to see here."

Nobody had moved.

"Somebody better give us directions to the school. I'm in no mood to dally, people, no mood at all! Go three blinks past the smithy, a gentle right, maybe a left turn by the three-wheeled wagon, wherever the fuck it is... Somebody better tell me... now!"

Nobody had moved.

"People! Move along!" Flint had insisted, worried that his next move, whatever it was, might trigger someone's trigger.

Nobody had moved.

"Alright, folks. Have it your way... Nobody move!" the mustachioed man at the centre of the group had said. He had been the only one still without his gun drawn, and as he'd said this, he'd finally proceeded to leisurely slide it out of its holster. "I want an answer and you're all staying right where you are until I get one!"

But, somebody had moved.

And before Flint had realized just what had happened, his ears had been ringing, a bullet had become lodged in his chest, and the bronchi and the bronchioles of his left lung had begun clambering for air like a jittery peccary with a python's lips around its ass. He had also found himself dancing cheek-to-cheek with the hard, dusty roadway, and in attempting to lick his dry lips, he'd dragged a teaspoon of sand into his gasping mouth.

What _had_ happened was that when one of the gawkers had twitched, one of the gangsters had flinched in response, and then a jumpy Clancy had instinctively fired his rifle from his station at the office door, and unfortunately for Flint, had nailed the sheriff full on in the chest. He couldn't have done any better if he'd been aiming for the shiny clip-on star.

At first Clancy had been amazed that it had been the sheriff and not him that had gone down in the shootout, considering the unsettlingly abbreviated biographies of many of the assistants to Boulder City's finest. But then, something had occurred to him. He could only remember hearing one shot being fired, and he knew _he'd_ fired, so how had the sheriff come to be lying there in the street, shot?

_Oh,_ Clancy had thought. _Oh, no._

Appalled, Clancy had shrunk further back, his hands shaking as they clasped his lowered rifle. The small crowd had become utterly silent, equally appalled by the perplexing actions of the deputy. Nobody had moved after that, but after a few minutes of watching the sheriff hunched over his own blood puddle and imagining fifteen or twenty matching puddles, including an expanding lake of his own blood, Bat Chesterfield, without misstep, had uttered precise directions to the schoolhouse from his position on the steps of the Wear n' Ware, complete with such useful information as the colour of the door, the number of windows, and the grand views it afforded of the Flatirons.

Once he'd done so, a black boot had gone into a stirrup and the leader of the band of riders was on his horse and speeding towards the school with his men following after him, guns still at the ready, finally allowing the townsfolk to move about and scratch their itches once more. Some people had looked with gratefulness upon school board chairman Chesterfield, and still others had looked on him with fresh horror as they'd suddenly imagined twenty-five or thirty little red puddles. A few wild-eyed mothers had begun running panicked towards Walnut Street. Most of the bystanders however, had gaped at Clancy, still stunned by what he'd just done. As he'd stood in the doorway of the sheriff's office, Clancy had dropped his rifle to the floor and clutched his arms to his body, staring appalled at the scene before him.

"Wait!" Westwood had gargled, as he'd spotted the women rushing off towards the school. His left lung had been in a scourge of pain. Surprisingly, his eyes had become terribly bloodshot. One wouldn't have thought he'd have had the blood to spare. And yes, Flint had become angrier than he'd ever been in his life.

"Clancy," he'd gasped, blood and sand oozing from the corners of his mouth. "Clancy!"

Clancy's shadow had sidled out from beneath the doorframe of the sheriff's office, and his body had slowly followed.

"Will someone help get me out of the goddamned road?" Flint had gurgled. He hadn't known whether he was more enraged about the bullet in his body, the man who had just shot him, or the idiots that had been standing around looking like, well, idiots.

Hesitantly, Clancy had slunk over to him.

"I'll get you to Monday."

Flint had gritted his teeth.

"Not you! You're the fucking deputy! And you're the one that shot me! Take the keys to the rifle rack from my pocket and arm these wide-mouthed masons and farmers and storekeepers and liverymen, and posse on down to that school in a hurry... And Clancy, these sons-of-bitches are pros, and they're likely only after Ford, so don't go and start a shoot-out in the school, alright?! Play it cool and careful, not like what you just did, damn it! No little Jimmies or Susies with holes in their jeans, okay?"

There had been an uncertain nod as Clancy had reached into Flint's pocket and grabbed the keys.

"Got 'em?"

Clancy had nodded again, this time more rapidly, but he still had not moved. Flint had cursed his red shirt and groaned as the pain rushed over him. Briefly, his mind had drifted and he'd wished he was still in bed with his rotund Ani, but then, seeing that Clancy was still peering down at him, he'd growled, causing a big red bubble to break free from his lips.

"Go, Clancy! Go! What the hell are you still doing here? Go!"

"I'm sorry I shot you, boss. I really didn't mean it," a red-faced Clancy had muttered.

"I know, I know. If you meant it Clancy, you'd be dead by now! Now go!"

Finally, Clancy had gone, yelling to the men in the street to come grab a rifle if they weren't already packing something. Too nervous to argue, since Clancy had picked up his own rifle once again, a half-dozen men had followed. Then Meg Owen had pushed her way into the street and gone over to Flint, beginning to drag him to his feet. Granger Dyck had stepped in to help her, mostly because he had had no desire to join the posse and become embroiled in a showdown with those men and therefore had needed to look busy pronto. The two of them had dragged a weak and lily-white Flint towards the doctor's place several blocks down.

A few minutes later, Lacy and four of his men had begun walking up to the school door, which was painted red, just as Chesterfield had described. Jake and Nelle had seen them coming from the window. The other five men had gone back and spread out across the perimeter of the schoolyard, keeping watch. There had really been no need, for at that particular moment, Clancy had still been fumbling with the key to the rifle rack in the sheriff's office, and several townsfolk had held off the few frantic mothers who'd bolted in the direction of the school.

Riveted to the hardwood with an all-consuming dread, Nelle was unable to take any kind of action until she lost sight of Byrne's face as he neared the entrance to the building. Then she finally moved. Sprinting towards her desk and the book bag, ignoring the children's bewildered stupefied expressions, she was halfway across the room when the door swung open. In came a man she did not recognize - generously-built and finely dressed with stolid, muddy eyes and a jagged scar that extended from behind his ear to somewhere beneath his collar.

"Stop right there," he commanded.

Considering the man had his hand on the holster of his gleaming Beaumont-Adams, Nelle obeyed. It seemed her only choice, since her Remington was still five desks away and demurely buried in her book bag.

She stood frozen in the centre of the room. A second man edged quietly onto the scene. He was taller and thinner than the first man, and though he was dressed in more modest attire and held a pistol that looked almost antique, he had the forbidding aura of a cottonmouth slithering across black water. Placidly, he slipped between the desks to stand somewhere behind her.

Confused, and now very frightened, the children sat mutely, looking this way and that. Jake had a frustrated look of teenage resentment on his face. Torn as he was between what he'd agreed to do and what he felt compelled to do, he could not help feeling powerless. He stole a quick look at Ellen, whose face was turning the colour of tomatillo salsa, and somehow it reassured him; it steadied the urge to throw himself into the impending fray. He had a duty and he would fulfill it. He couldn't do something rash – he didn't even know what he would do - and leave only Ellen to take care of these kids should something go wrong. He had to help her. He would help her.

And then Byrne Lacy strolled into the school with two more men behind him. He didn't inch or sidle or march. He sauntered straight in, unconcerned and unhurried, his arms loose at his sides, his eyes high and flashing with purpose. And when he caught sight of Nelle, paralyzed in the centre of the room, a smug and appraising grin writhed across his face and he seemed energized and taller than he actually was, whereas she seemed to wither before everyone's eyes.

"Well, well, well... Look who I found," he said, his voice poison and syrup.

Terrified her legs would give way, Nelle locked her knees, clenching her entire body against gravity and its enticements, and she raised her eyes to look Lacy in the face. In the years that had gone by since her initial encounter with him, Lacy had become something larger than life – more of a malevolent force standing on the wreckage of her past and laughing than a man. That is not to say that she'd overestimated him. No. After all, here he was, just as she'd expected, and he certainly seemed as threatening as she'd foreseen. She sensed it in the callous, bitter gaze, in the agile, ready hands, in the wry rancor of his lips, and in his calculated movements. Even the floorboards seemed to groan pitifully under the exacting, but forceful pressure of his footsteps. His mere presence seemed to bully the earth beneath him. And Nelle, who had relived every moment she'd spent in his presence countless times over the years, did not respond at all as the children, the town, the cows in Albrecht's field, the sun, and the entire milky way, appeared to recoil from the man. In her heart, she was beyond frantic. There was only one thing that she was relieved about; Arden was nowhere near. Or was he? And there had been a shot!

Suddenly, Nelle felt desperate, woozy.

One of the men who had come in after Lacy now slammed the door closed. So overwhelmed by the consuming presence of the man who'd come across the country to find her, Nelle had not noticed either of them until now. One was a non-descript fellow of average everything who wore his suit like it was a banana peel, constantly shrugging and shuffling his feet. The other was a young man, perhaps still in his late teens, and he nervously walked to the blackboard area behind her desk, crossed his arms, and surveyed the room. Wearing ragged, mismatched clothes, he was a thin, hungry-looking lad with a sulky mouth and resentful eyes. He seemed unused to carrying a gun, judging from the way he kept checking to make sure it was still there, in his holster. He also looked very, very familiar to Nelle.

"There was a shot," Nelle breathed, to no one in particular.

"So there was," agreed Lacy, with a smirk, taking a step towards her. Automatically, Nelle took a step back in response. "I shot the sheriff," he explained, "and I swear it wasn't self defense."

"Flint? Oh, no? You shot Flint? No, no, no..." she breathed. Thinking of Anisette, she was immediately heartsick, but at the same time, awash with quivering relief that it hadn't been Arden.

Lacy began to laugh caustically.

"You did not," countered the lad at the blackboard. "It was friendly fire that took him down."

Lacy stopped laughing mid-guffaw. The big, slick-looking man standing at the back of the classroom shook his head at the young man. There was something familiar in that kid's voice, too, Nelle realized.

"Shut up, Ringo. Shut your face or I'll cut out your tongue, marinate it, and turn it into a shish kebab," declared Lacy, in an even, composed tone.

Ringo had no idea what a shish kebab was, but he did shut his face, which was now engrossed in orchestrating the most glowering of glowers, and to all present, did not appear to be easily shut. And right then, Nelle registered exactly who this sharp-featured, surly kid was – the tequila loving, money grabbing, O.K. Corral denizen himself! Johnny Ringo! If she hadn't been so preoccupied with the pressing, all-absorbing threat of Lacy, she would have marched up to him and slapped his face until it gleamed pink like a candy-apple. But as it was, she didn't dare move. _I don't think he recognizes me,_ she thought briefly.

Realizing once again that the room was still filled with shaking, whimpering and agape children, Nelle gathered her wits about her. If she could at least get to her book bag, to her Remington, she might be able to... to... do something. Her mind was so incredibly blank, much blanker than those early days in Mexico when she'd been too tired to contemplate anything beyond the moment, blanker than the first time Arden kissed her, blank, blank, blank. And she had to think of something fast. Things couldn't go on as they were just now. She had to do something. The children couldn't take much more of this, she knew.

"What do you want?" she demanded, surprised at the curtness of her own voice.

"You know exactly what I want. I've come for what I'm owed."

Nelle shuddered. Lacy took another step towards her. Observing her - the knot of thick hair, the lean frame with its soft curves, the fretful mouth, Lacy smirked. Finally, he would get what was coming to him. Finally, he would be able to get on with things. Inadvertently, Nelle took a step sideways towards her desk.

"Give it up," she said. "It'll never happen, Lacy. Never!"

Calmly, she took another step, which this time was entirely deliberate. He scoffed at her.

"There are five guns in the room that beg to differ, Miss Ford."

Looking around, Nelle noticed that Cherry Dime had started to cry and little Will Henderson was sweating so profusely that he was moments away from slipping right out of his desk. Jake was still standing at the rear window, gripping the edge of the frame, peering right at her, right into her. For everyone's sake, she knew she had to get out of the place posthaste, and she edged a little nearer to her desk.

"But why? You don't need to do this," she pleaded, taking another step.

Byrne Lacy studied her for a moment.

"Yes, I do. And you know it. You and I have unfinished business, and nobody, _nobody,_ just walks away from me."

"Oh, that's original. What're you going to do next? Growl that you're bad like Jesse James?"

Again, there was his coarse laughter.

"Quite the mouth on you now, quite the mouth... A mouth like that'll get you into trouble fast," he commented coldly, his lips tight.

"Go to hell!" she said emphatically, but with control. She had now reached her desk, her fingertips sliding deftly along its smooth, wooden grain. She didn't know why she was being so brash, considering she didn't have a clear plan. She had only one gun, and there were five others. Of course, if she had it she might be able to incapacitate the scrawny Ringo behind her, which would undeniably give her some pleasure, and maybe take out the one at the rear left of the room, or she could make an attempt on Lacy right then and there, but either way, the others would step in before she could take them all down. Nevertheless, she might try if it weren't for the children. But the children _were_ there – the goggle-eyed, scared children, and if she started a firefight in the classroom, at the very least, one of them would likely get hurt. She knew she'd have to go willingly, at least as far as the door. There were too many guns to try something inside. Still, it would be nice to stow her Remington somewhere on her person, if she could manage it.

"My, my! What anger! You've really picked up some unattractive habits, my dear."

"Please, just go," asked Nelle, trying to buy some time.

Slowly, with one hand, Nelle untucked the back of her white blouse from the waistline of her plain navy skirt. She glanced nervously back at surly Johnny Ringo, who luckily was eyeing Jake, still standing in the same spot at the back of the room.

Angry now, Lacy was getting impatient.

"We've been over this! And I've waited too long, gone to way too much trouble..." he fumed.

It was now or never. Nelle had to act while the kid was still looking away. She slid her right hand back, gently pulling open the flap of the book bag.

"Go to hell," she said again, smiling sarcastically.

"You don't understand," he said. "I need this," he cried, in a stunning and abrupt shift in temperament.

Everyone stared, aghast. Even Nelle faltered for a moment, as she slid her hand into her bag. For a second, Lacy had sounded wretched, unrestrained. None of his men had seen him like this, and Nelle certainly didn't know what to make of it.

But then, suddenly, a flash of recognition at what Nelle was up to crossed Lacy's face, and pure, undaunted rage coursed through him once again. Even as she fumbled with the book bag, she knew she was in trouble. He flew at her. He flew at her like a vampire bat to a snoring goat. And his entourage drew their guns and moved in on them both.

"Why you conniving witch!" Lacy seethed, as he grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down against the desk. "You're a fool to even think you have a chance at getting away this time! You're a stupid, stupid woman," he snarled, as she fought to keep his hands off of her.

His fury fueled by her resistance, he punched her in the jaw so hard that Nelle saw the entire solar system spin past her as her head cranked to the right from the impact. She fell back on the desk, her head making an audible clunk on the hard wood, her cheek already beginning to balloon, and a sharp pain climbing up her neck. And in an instant, he was leaning over her, and though she, unsteady and floundering, attempted to push him away, he succeeded in instantly subduing her when he slid his hands around her throat. The feeling was all too familiar, and she felt the same helplessness all over again, the same panic as years before.

In the scuffle, Nelle's book bag had fallen to the floor. A few more of the children had burst into tears, and Jake's face had turned to marble. Through the haze of her own mind, Nelle could hear the awful sound of Meghan Thompson hyperventilating – the ragged gulps of air and the subsequent erratic bursts of her exhales. With her own lungs straining for air, fighting to bypass the tight grip of Lacy's rough hands as her vision diminished to two long tunnels, she sympathized with the poor girl. And as her mind became increasingly smoky and dark, her lungs lunging against her chest, she heard only that sound – Meghan's staccato wheezing, over and over.

"Fielding, look in that bag there!"

The robust man stationed near the door lumbered over to the desk and bent down, quickly retrieving the Remington, which he passed over to Lacy. Removing a hand from Nelle's neck, he took the revolver, while she gasped and sputtered in her efforts to replenish her body with oxygen and clear the blackness from her mind. As her vision came back to her, she found herself looking down the barrel of her own gun.

"Please, not here," she croaked. "Outside," she begged. "The children..."

Now Lacy was pleased. He would have his way. She wasn't fighting. She was begging. His face stretched into a long, derisive smile.

"Very well," he said, edging back onto the floor and yanking her to standing, his fingernails digging into her arm. For a second, Nelle's field of vision went all speckled, but she managed to pull herself back and keep from slumping to the ground. She focused on taking in as much air as she could and tried not to think about the fact that her gun was trained at point-blank range on her own head.

"Very well," he said again. And then, with another sickening grin, he passed the gun back to Fielding, who kept it pointed at her. But before Nelle could begin to feel even a little relieved, Lacy took hold of her right forearm, one of his hands on her elbow and the other one encircling her wrist, and with all the force he could muster, he jerked it down and smashed it against the edge of her great desk.

A faint but crisp snap could be heard throughout the room in the milliseconds before she screamed. With her throbbing jaw and her lungs still having spasms, she hadn't seen it coming, even as she'd felt her arm being thrust downward. She'd expected to be shot more than she'd expected to have her arm broken in front of all her students. She hadn't had the chance to prepare herself, to swallow her scream.

"That'll teach you not to try anything more!" he said, letting go of her.

Nelle was swimming in pain. She fought to keep the rotating room upright, and when Lacy let go of her, she dropped to one knee and took hold of her injured right arm with her left hand, pressing it close to her body. She heard herself gasping aloud and far, far away, in the corner of the room, she saw Ellen Bailey tumble to the floor in a dead faint, and then Jake start and then quickly stop in his tracks when the twerp Johnny Ringo changed position so that his gun was now pointing right at the lad.

"Please, can you get your men out of here?" she pleaded to Lacy, her blurred eyes on the mass of terrorized students. "Please. I'll go with you."

"Now that's more like it," he said, yanking her to her feet. He nodded sharply at his men. "Okay, let's ride," he said, dragging a tottering Nelle towards the door. Fielding and the other gunman nearest to the door led the way, with Ringo and the other suited-up thug taking up the rear, their pistols the last things to leave the room. On the way, Fielding made sure to take up Nelle's Remington once again, lest that red-faced hotshot kid standing in back of the room get any ideas. The door slammed shut as the last of the group exited the building.

Outside, the other five men moved in from their stations around the school, one of them leading Nelle's horse, all of them keeping watch on the road as Fielding and Lacy shoved Nelle up onto Mnemosyne's back and bound her hands together and then, in a fine demonstration of thoroughness, tied them to the saddle horn. When Nelle tried to raise her head, her neck cried "uncle," so she let it drop back down, her chin pressed against her collarbone. Her only goal was to stay conscious and to get away from the school. Yes, she knew that it wasn't smart to let them take her from Crime Scene One to Crime Scene Two, but the children had seen enough. Besides, she had no concept of what she ought to do next. The dung beetle of her unconscious was having a heck of a time pushing even a crappy idea into the forefront of her mind.

Around her, ten men mounted their horses, including Lacy, who'd grabbed her horse's reins and tied them to his saddle. Several of the men who had kept watch outside the school now eyed Nelle with curiosity and even amusement, as the marks on her neck began to resemble smashed plums and her cheek continued to swell. Though her head was down, she tried to discern what little she could about each of them. But the pain in her arm was nagging her and everything she looked at had developed a fuzzy aura, so she got no further than realizing that only about half of these men were easterners; two of the ones that had stayed outside, and probably the dull-looking one that had stood nearest the back of the room, as well as the kid, Ringo, were merely hired guns, picked up along the way. This was a small comfort to Nelle. Not all of them were longtime men of Lacy's. They were likely hardened gunslingers, but they weren't necessarily unerringly loyal. And then, out of the corner of her eye, Nelle noticed the young Ringo making quick, peculiar sideways glances in her direction and she was encouraged. He looked puzzled. He looked unsure. He looked like a little bit of hope.

Clancy and his twitterpated posse made a right turn off of Main Street and came within firing range of the schoolhouse just as Lacy and his men began to ride off with Nelle in tow. Fielding, a paunchy, balding gunslinger named Thoms, and the lanky suit who'd constantly been shifting his stance back in the school, and who the other two simply called "Rod," doubled back, pistols drawn and at the ready, to face the reticent deputy and his six companions from their position amongst a grove of aspen along the roadside.

Upon spotting the men, and more importantly, their raised guns, Benno Albrecht jumped down from his horse and dove into the ditch, where he raised his rifle, searching for a good shot at the men in the trees. Several others promptly joined him. Clancy, still astride his horse, spoke in a high-pitched, urgent tone.

"Don't shoot," he commanded.

"Vaat?!" inquired Benno, incredulous.

"No shooting. We can't afford to have one of the children get hit."

"No cheeldren here. Ve shoot," Benno insisted, practical man that he was.

"Even so, one of them could run out into the crossfire. I said, no shooting," instructed a twitchy Clancy, so absolutely terrified of what else might happen should he raise his rifle once more, that he forgot to consider what might happen if he didn't.

"Look," insisted Benno, still crouched in the ditch, but gesturing towards Lacy's men. "Look! Trees, a leetil grass, mebbee nice daizee or two, and BIG GROUP OF BAD MEN WHO TAKE ZE TEACHER WITH FORCE! No cheeldren! All in ze school steel. Ve shoot now!"

Several "yeahs" and "yahs" and one "It's time to kick some ass," could be heard in agreement, as two more of Clancy's men jumped down into the ditch, leaving Clancy the only posse member still on his horse.

"No, damn it! Safety first!! And who knows? Maybe we're making a mistake. Maybe Miss Ford wants to travel with those guys."

"I don't know many women who enjoy being manhandled, tied up and hauled off like that," put in Jimmy Cleland, twenty-something philosopher king and an apprentice in saddle-making and assorted leather craft. "I won't say none, but certainly not many, and judging by the look on the teacher's face and the odd angle at which her right arm was resting, I'd say she ain't one of them."

"So, ve shoot?" piped Benno.

"We shoot," agreed Jimmy.

"No, no, no!" exclaimed Clancy, his face growing increasingly florid as his opposition grew more determined. "If we don't shoot, they won't shoot," he asserted.

In the trees, Rod, Thoms, and Fielding were growing impatient, still in the saddle and wanting to catch up with Lacy and the others rather than linger pointlessly in the forest.

"Nothing's happening, let's beat it," said Fielding.

"You know, I really hate the way that deputy is pinking up like a salmon in a frying pan. It disgusts me," declared Rod.

"You always did hate fish," chuckled Fielding. "Catch up with us," he said with a smile. He looked over at Thoms, who was one of the hired guns, not part of the New York crew, and gestured in a northeastern direction, indicating they'd go on and catch up with Lacy. They turned their horses, and staying half-concealed in the trees, they left the quiet posse communing in the ditch.

Rod, however, looked down at the fine handle on his luxe Beaumont-Adams, running his thumb along the shiny, etched metal. Then he sniggered. He sure was fond of the precise little pistol Lacy had outfitted him with. Back in New York, he'd just used whatever weapon he'd stolen most recently. But this, this was not pre-owned. It had been his from day one. Stylish, well crafted, accurate, and all _his._ He liked that. He liked that a lot.

Crouched down in his saddle to get a clear view of the red rube of a deputy, he lifted his piece, noting with pleasure the way the sun glinted off its polished barrel, the way its weight felt so evenly distributed in his hand, and the way it looked so glamourous extended from his sinuous, muscular forearm. And then, then he went ahead and tried it out.

He fired a single shot, which hit Clancy squarely in the heart and sent him plummeting from his horse. But before Rod had time to grin or blow the smoke from the barrel of his pet pistol, before Clancy even hit the ground, in fact, a poised, reflexive Benno finally took the opportunity to shoot and sent a bullet burrowing into the coils of Rod's intestines. Then the rest of the posse, following Benno's lead, unleashed a hail of shots at the now rapidly receding and fairly obscured profiles of Thoms and Fielding. With all their shooting, however, they only managed to nick Thoms' arm. The riders were too far away, and though they were rather surprised that Rod appeared to have gone down, they did not circle back for him, and so the posse stopped firing, not wanting to waste any additional bullets.

"Should we go after them?" asked Cleland.

"Ve need more men," declared Benno. "And zen, ve go after."

Three of the men attended to Clancy's still-warm body, covering it with a horse blanket and dragging it into the ditch where the children wouldn't see it. All the red was gone from his face. Even his freckles seemed to be fading.

Benno cautiously climbed out of the ditch and advanced slowly into the thicket. The Beaumont-Adams was easy to spot, glittering in the grass, some ten feet from where Rod had keeled off of his horse and now lay, squirming around in his own blood and digestive juices, his head rolled back, his spine locked in an arch of agony. Taking one look at the man and noticing the way he'd clawed at his belly, desperate to stop the fire lodged inside, thereby exposing his shredded jejunum, Benno cocked the chic little pistol and without a second's hesitation, put the man out of his misery. Then he marched back to the posse, motioned to Cleland, and the two men walked over to the schoolhouse to check on the children.

At the sound of the first gunshot, Jake had ordered all the children under their desks, and that was how Benno and Cleland found them, still crouched and waiting. Jake was bending over a queasy, but now conscious Ellen, fanning cool air over her face with a slate. He stood up and went to meet the two men when they entered.

"Did you get Miss Ford back?" asked Jake. "Is she alright? Is everything alright?"

"Whoa there, Jake," said Cleland.

"All ze kiddies, zey alright?"

"Yes. Miss Ford said... She said to make sure they get home okay. Is it safe? Where is she?"

Each man in the posse delivered a few children home. Considering what they had just experienced, the children remained surprisingly collected and agreeable, only a few of them snuffling or shaking as they were guided outside. Benno figured this was due to Jake, who was obviously a clear-thinking boy.

Jake escorted Ellen home, as well as most of the Grade Two class. Benno walked with him a while in order to glean the whole story of what had actually gone on in the classroom before the gang of gunmen had extricated Nelle from the place. Then he rode hard to catch up with Blake Miller, who was on his way to deliver the Dime twins to their mother. Larry and that brother of his ought to both join the posse, Benno resolved. He would speak with Larry right away.

When they arrived at the ranch, Sarah came running out of the roomy farmhouse with Jack at her heels and two bright yellow oven mitts still on her hands. A look of confused dread had parked itself on her face, its core situated directly between her eyebrows.

"Larry!" she shrieked, looking briefly towards the barn before reaching for her daughters, who were wrapped around each other behind Blake's saddle. Blake turned and lowered the girls down to their mother, one-at-a-time, who in turn deposited them on the ground and immediately began inspecting them for injuries.

"What's happened? Why are you home at this hour? Are you feeling okay, Cherry? Mary, are you alright? You look pale. Are you sick?"

Both girls were quiet and clung to their mother, so Benno took it upon himself to explain, while patting the neck of his breathless horse.

"Zere ver men who come, take ze teacher from school. No cheeldren hurt. But, zey are scared."

"Oh, my heavens! Oh, good Lord! Are you sure you're okay, girls?"

They nodded, still clinging to her.

"And what about Nelle? Please tell me she's not hurt!"

"The cheeldren, zey are fine," Benno repeated, giving her a pointed look.

Sarah's face grew white.

"Jackie, run to the barn and get your father," she told her son.

The boy looked up at her and decided that this was no time for protest. He galloped away as fast as his short legs could carry him.

Within seconds, Larry emerged from the barn, a look of concern on his face and Jack rushing along beside him, three strides to his one.

"Benno, Blake," he greeted them, as soon as they were in earshot.

"Larry," they replied, nodding cordially.

"Lair, something's happened to Nelle. I'm taking the children inside," declared a shaken, but not completely surprised, Sarah. "You gentlemen are welcome to come in for some coffee."

The men thanked her but remained standing where they were. Sarah gave Jack her oven mitts to carry as she swept both of her daughters towards the front door.

"What is it?" asked Larry anxiously.

Benno waited until the door latched shut behind Sarah before answering.

"Ten men come, snatch ze teacher. Deputy kaput. Sheriff vas shot, too."

"Dead?" asked Larry, appalled.

"No, Clancy got jumpy and shot the sheriff by accident when these thugs clopped into town. Quite an awful scene, really! Flint was still alive when we left for the school. They were dragging him off to the doctor. The posse got to the school just as these bastards starting riding off with the teacher. A couple of them doubled back to hold us off. Clancy hesitated, wouldn't let us fire. Then he was shot right out of his saddle," explained Blake.

"Yah. Ees so," confirmed Benno.

"So Nelle, er, Miss Ford is gone? And what about all the other children?"

"All the children are fine," said Blake. "Apparently, Jake Connelly had all the kids duck down under their desks during the shooting. He kept them all pretty calm, even though the men apparently roughed her up pretty good before lighting off with her."

Larry let out a long sigh and began rubbing his temples with his right hand as he digested this information. He was feeling so many things all at once – relief that his children were unharmed, fear for Nelle, pity for Anisette, and a sinking dread at facing Arden with this.

"We have to move fast," he said.

"Yah."

"Has anyone told Anisette about this?"

"Mrs. Mead? I don't think so," said Blake.

"Okay. I think we need a proper posse, I mean, a real one."

"Zat's 'zactly right," agreed Benno heartily. "You get Arden and ve meet at ze sheriff's office. Blake and me, ve get other men."

"I wouldn't hold out for Arden," said Larry, with a tinge of derision, though at the same time, he also felt intense sympathy for his brother. "But I'll try. And I will stop by Anisette's and tell her about Flint, as much as I hate to do it."

"Okay."

"Okay."

And the three men parted. No one considered a cup of coffee.

When Larry returned to the house, Sarah had managed to get all three children into their beds for an impromptu nap. She was standing in the centre of the kitchen when Larry found her, staring vaguely out the window with a dishtowel limp in her hands.

"Ten men came and took Nelle," he said, in response to her questioning eyes. "Flint's been shot. Clancy is dead. All the children are fine, just shaken up. I guess they stormed into the school and threw her around a little before hauling her off."

"Yes, Cherry said some of them were wearing fancy clothes and that one of them was very angry and tried to choke the poor woman. Then he smashed her arm hard against the desk and after that, she went with them. She said they all had guns... I can't believe my babies had to watch that! No wonder they're so frightened... I knew something was coming. But who were they, Larry?"

"I don't know. I guess nobody knows. Well, maybe Arden, but..."

Sarah's eyes began to water. Larry put his arms around her and held her close. Both of them were worried, but immensely grateful that the children were safe. They leaned against one another, resting for a moment in the comfort of each other's presence. Then Larry explained to her, in a reassuring tone, that he was heading to Anisette's and Arden's and then joining the posse, and though he didn't think anything would happen at the Bar Circle Gets the Square, she should lock the door, keep the children inside and the rifle handy.

Buoyed by her husband's gentle, confident manner, Sarah straightened up, brushed her skirts smooth, and promptly began making him a steak sandwich. At least, if he was going to be riding off after criminals, he should not be hungry. Larry went and saddled Sport; then he went into his study and retrieved his pistol, extra ammunition, and the rifle for Sarah.

Five minutes later, he was riding towards Arden's, eating a colossal sandwich.

Lacy was not pleased about Rod's demise or the shooting of the deputy. When Fielding told him the news, he took his horsewhip to a pine sapling and lashed away until there was nothing left except for a sorry splinter poking up from the dusty, rocky ground and a myriad "son-of-a-bitches" still echoing over the hills and through the woods. Then he sent Fielding and Thoms looping back to the Mesa to set fire to Nelle's cabin. They needed to provide a distraction for the posse, as now, with the deputy dead, the group would be much more determined to track them down. He made sure Nelle heard his instructions to the men, so that as an added bonus for this extra effort, she would end up feeling further severed from her life. Nelle understood this, and when she heard him speaking to the two men, she said nothing and made no sign as to what she felt.

But it did leave her feeling dismayed. While it didn't matter much to her about the cabin or her few things, she was gravely worried they'd shoot Yak. The mutt was so protective that even if she wasn't there, he was likely to tear into anything that smelled like trouble.

They rode all afternoon. Despite the fact that the right side of her face was blushing purple and was so swollen that her nostril whistled a merry melody every time she exhaled, and despite the fact that her right arm made crickety-crack sounds that sent hot nauseating pains through her nervous system, Nelle remained alert. She was aware that they had traveled steadily towards the northeast for an hour – give or take, before banking back west, and that Fielding and Thoms had caught up and rejoined the group just before suppertime. As they rode, Lacy made sure to keep his horse near hers and his hand near his gun, and from time-to-time, he'd leer at her, but say nothing.

Evening came. Lacy and his men rode on with Nelle in their midst, slouched over her saddle and resolving unsuccessfully not to notice the pain spreading across her limbs. Before darkness settled in, half the men, with Fielding leading, veered away from the rest of them, galloping straight north towards Inter-overland Trail 25, evidently making a false path in case an adept posse had been assembled and dispatched from Boulder. Byrne Lacy and the four others, including the youth Ringo, kept a tight circle around Nelle as they steered their horses into a narrow, but fast-flowing creek and slowly continued on in a northwesterly direction while the cold water surged up over the horses' knees and the air grew damp and chilled as the sun retreated for its regular constitutional. They rode arduously onward through the creek's rushing waters for a while. A lucky band of horseflies descended upon the group and Nelle, who was dressed in short sleeves with her hands still tied to the saddle and therefore unable to slap at the loud, buzzing pests with their miniature chainsaw mouths, got the worst of it. She cursed quietly whenever the insects hacked off little bits of her flesh. And it wasn't just the bugs that plagued her. The creek's edges were overgrown with dwarf willow and young cottonwood, and repeatedly, despite her efforts to duck low in the saddle since she could not shield herself, her face and arms were slapped by extended branches, her hair pulled by hanging, clawing twigs, and once, her mouth suddenly stuffed with a proliferation of freshly unfurled, smooth green leaves.

She was growing very tired. She wondered where they were taking her. So far, Byrne had cast her many a sneering, satisfied look, but he had said very little since their initial confrontation in the schoolhouse. Because of Fielding's deep, resonant voice, Nelle had heard the news of the deputy's death and Rod's tit-for-tat demise, but Lacy had shushed him after that and she'd been unable to find out anything more about what had happened in town, what was to happen to her or whether Byrne was acting in league with his father or Baines, or whether he was acting alone.

_At least my nose isn't broken,_ thought Nelle, trying to buoy her own spirits. _My,_ _aren't you vain,_ she then scolded herself. _At least Arden is far away from this._ She pictured him sitting at his desk, a book open in front of him and a cup of coffee, still steaming, at his right hand. _He promised he wouldn't come after me. I can count on that. I can trust him._ She was reassured by the image of him and by the thought of his promise, and for a little while a sense of peace came over her. But soon enough, doubts began to niggle at her. _What if, when he finds out about Flint and_ _the deputy, someone asks him to join a posse? Flint's down. What if that is enough to make him change his mind?_ Nelle's heart thumped harder and her face grew hot with the sudden rush of fear. _Arden, don't come,_ she pleaded silently. _Don't come. Byrne will figure it out, that you care, that you love me. He'll see it in your face and he'll kill you just to watch me suffer. He said he would do it. Don't come. Don't come. Don't come,_ she repeated in her head, over and over again like a mantra. _Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it..._

And then: _I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you..._ On and on into the night, so she wouldn't fall asleep, she kept on, still imagining Arden at his desk, with cup-after-cup of coffee.

While they were still sloshing upstream, Ringo's horse threw a shoe and started to limp. As the young man began to fall behind on the poor stumbling animal, Lacy turned and looked back at him.

"You'll have to get off that broken down beast. You're slowing us down. Ride on Ford's horse, in back of her. Your horse will manage better without having to tote around the weight of you. Plus, you can keep an eye on Ford and make sure she doesn't try anything. You can switch to a new mount at... our first destination."

Ringo nodded, despite a certain look of hesitation and a vague confusion in his eyes. A few seconds later, he gave his horse a swift kick in the flank and it lurched forward, surprised, so that it was nearly alongside Mnemosyne. At that instant, Ringo adroitly swept his left leg over the saddle and slipped it into the right stirrup, letting his right leg dangle alongside. Then, with impressive grace, he lunged towards Mnemosyne's rump. Somehow, he managed to finagle a grip on Nelle's saddle, pulling himself towards her in mid-air. But Mnemosyne reared up, having been spooked by the sudden weight thrown against her, and the unfortunate Ringo went flailing backwards into the water. Nelle pressed her legs into the stirrups and kept her left hand tight around the saddle horn, somehow maintaining her position, though not without a sharp cry of pain when the ropes around her wrists tugged at her broken arm. And after dispensing with Ringo, Mnemosyne did not rear again and continued to plod through the water, though she was visibly disgruntled, tossing her head and twitching her ears.

"What the hell is your problem, kid?" Lacy barked, after the lad had righted himself in the midst of the rushing creek, pulling at an overhanging bough for stability. "Hasn't anyone told you not to change horses in mid-stream?"

The other men were laughing heartily at the young man, who stood dripping and shaking the water out of his ears, but Lacy remained stern, charged with anger over the unnecessary delay.

"Of course, but I thought they were speaking metaphorically," ventured Ringo feebly, pushing back his sopping black hair.

Despite the fact that Ringo's maneuver had failed, it made an impression on Nelle. Evidently, he was a light-footed and innovative lad. And on top of that, he'd just casually and correctly dropped the word "metaphorically" into a conversation. Clearly, Johnny wasn't just a dope-handy horny brat with financial management issues. It seemed he was quite multifaceted.

As soon as he managed to wade his way over to a miffed Mnemosyne and her careworn captive rider, Ringo propelled his soggy self up onto the horse, driving his wet chest up against Nelle's already chilled spine, and thrusting her forward in the saddle, so that her arms were jammed against the saddle horn and she groaned in pain, favouring her right arm.

"I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't mean to hurt you," Ringo said gruffly, but possibly sincerely.

"Yeah, sure!" Nelle muttered.

Her sore body begging for a reprieve from the constant jostling, Nelle was not at all interested in making an effort at conversation with the young man who'd made her first months in Boulder City so challenging, and who'd just played a role in her capture. She could find out about his facets another time.

"Shut up, Johnny! Let's get going!" ordered Lacy. "We'll get out of the water as soon as there's an opening in this brush."

Nelle straightened herself in the saddle. For lack of a better place to put his hands, Johnny Ringo sheepishly slid his hands around Nelle's waist and locked them in place. He could feel her body shivering against his own shaking flesh. He didn't realize she was trembling with rage too, and not just cold.

"I'm sorry I'm making you so chilled and wet," he said, in a much quieter voice.

"It's not the cold so much. It's more, you know, having your compadre there beat me up and break my arm," she replied, coolly.

"I, uh, um..." murmured the hot-cheeked, increasingly ill-at-ease young gun.

"What? Is it no longer enough for you to simply drug women and pilfer their limited resources when they need them most? Not enough thrill, anymore? Not enough spice or pizzazz for you, so now you've decided to add a little violence, kidnapping, and arson to the mix?! Is that it?!" Nelle growled, her voice low.

Behind her, Johnny's eyes widened and he leaned his head forward and out to the side to get a better look at her profile.

"It's... It's you, from the Corral!? Last year?!"

"I told you to shut up, Johnny!" Byrne called back.

Lacy and the others started moving, and Nelle's horse, still tethered to Lacy's saddle, was forced to do the same.

"You look different now. Better, I mean, well, er, except for the swelling..." said Johnny, more quietly, his lips near her ear, so that no one else would hear.

"Well, I'm sure most of your victims look like shit when they've been heavily drugged after exerting themselves for days in the wilderness," hissed Nelle.

Ringo reddened.

"Hey, I didn't mean you any serious harm. I, just, well, had to get away from the Corral for a little while. I mean, Ares was really good to me, but..."

"Yeah, yeah, booze and hookers. Go fuck yourself! He told me your terrible sob story. And I ain't buyin' it... How many other travelers did you clean out, huh?" she whispered back savagely.

"Aw, come on. Not so many. No other women; no others came around. You've got to understand, I had to get out of there from time-to-time. Don't you see? Ares is like family to me, and I know I've got problems, but gawd, he can't seem to get that I'm not like the rest of them at the Corral! He thinks if I really try hard, talk things through, and make some kind of promise to myself, I can put my mind to it and be happy there. He just doesn't understand! I don't belong there and there's no use denying it. I've tried enough times, for Ares' sake. I want to him to be happy, for all he's done for me. But I get restless, desperate... Besides, now I really can't go back. I don't know how it happened, but the word is out and that place is hopping. Mayhem! Cowboys everywhere. It's madness! I mean, with the way things are going, a whole town's going to spring up around the place... But honestly, I didn't mean you any harm."

"Oh, please! Save it. And what about now?! What do you call this!?" she said, gesturing with her chin towards her broken arm, her tied hands.

Johnny's face bloomed a new, even brighter shade of red, as the horses' feet splashed noisily through the rushing, deepening waters of the creek and Lacy looked back at him to ensure he'd indeed shut up.

Soon there was a break in the foliage and the group of sodden horses and edgy riders moved up onto the bank. Before they left the muddy incline and the din of the clamorous, rushing water, Johnny again put his lips to Nelle's ear.

"I'll see if I can help you with your arm once we make camp," he said, in an undertone, before looking away with casual indifference.

Nelle gave him a cautious nod, but inside, she warmed a little to the young man. Somehow, things didn't seem so tremendously bleak.

The moon was coy, showing half of its face. Out beyond the creek bed and above the rocky ground of the valley that the group now looked upon, the air was heady with the scent of a nubile spring rushing headlong into summer, so intensely alive and fresh and green. With tired eyes, Nelle peered up at the sky and the somnambulant stars. She had never been very good at remembering the constellations. Just now, the only thing she recognized flying overhead was The Big Dipper. _I wouldn't mind throwing a few pots and pans around too,_ she thought, frustrated and aching, her eyes narrowing in on the back of Byrne's head.

Under the light of the stars and the refracting slice of moon, they kept on riding. Despite the chill collecting in her bones, thanks to the cooler night air at this higher elevation and the soaked, shivering body of Johnny Ringo, still pressed against her, and despite the continuing pangs in her arm, Nelle dozed in short intermittent bursts. She knew that as long as they were moving, she was safer. What worried her was what would happen once they stopped. So she let herself rest a bit while she could, as the endless clomping of Mnemosyne's hooves lulled her and a now pensive Johnny supported her body and began to wonder just exactly what he'd gotten himself into. So far, to him, _all this_ hardly seemed like a cut-and-dried robbery.

Steadily, the six horses climbed higher. They were in some kind of a canyon now, Nelle noticed at one point, after jerking her nodding head back to upright yet again. And as far as she could make out, judging from the sky, they were still moving in the same direction. Though she couldn't see very far, she could smell the endless miles of pine and spruce in the air. Johnny continued to shiver behind her, siphoning off all of her remaining body heat, apparently in return for keeping her propped up as she dozed. Nelle wasn't sure it was a fair trade.

Sometime after midnight, one of the men turned to Lacy and said, "See, here it is," and pointed to a small trail that veered off to the north and had been marked by a small cairn.

Lacy nodded, and the group turned onto the small trail, riding single file through the pines. "Leave the rocks, Michaels," he yelled back at the pockmarked, middle-aged man who closed their ranks at the back of the line. "Fielding will take care of them when he catches up," Lacy went on.

Michaels harrumphed in apparent agreement, for he left the cairn alone as he passed.

Steep and narrow, the new trail made the tired horses work even harder and joggled their riders. Nelle found herself quickly and unexpectedly alert as she struggled to stabilize herself with her one good arm. Even when Ringo leaned forward and straightened his arms to prevent her from pitching back and forth, she found it took a great amount of effort to maintain her position without allowing any pressure on her right arm. The increased movement chafed her wrists, and occasionally, no matter how hard she tried to avoid it, she would slip forward and her forearms would be momentarily jammed against the saddle, eliciting sharp gasps of pain or a scalding "bloody hell" as she righted herself and tried not to succumb to the wave of hot static that roared to life behind her eyeballs. Her only comfort was that whenever this happened, she'd feel Johnny's body wince a little in response.

In the span of years that had been her life, Nelle had done her fair share of riding the high country, of standing atop a formidable mountain or butte and gazing exhilarated into the valley or canyon far below. When she'd happened upon a spider in her abode, she'd always been inclined to open the door and invite it to continue its business outside, rather than to squash it, no matter how big or hairy it was. Snakes were fine enough if they didn't rattle. Furthermore, as long as she had the chance to prepare, she never minded speaking in public or meeting new people. She'd always been on fairly good terms with the number thirteen, and she was comfortable enough spending great swathes of time alone. Thunderstorms thrilled her. And when she was doubled-over in some kind of pain, she had absolutely no qualms about sending for a doctor.

But show her a cave or a dark tunnel or some other portal into the bowels of the earth, and then expect her to go into it? No. Absolutely not. She couldn't do it. That was her bane, her phobia, her Achilles heel, the thing that made her dance-monkey-dance in desperation. She would feel the beads of sweat rising along her hairline, the stricture of invisible hands around her trachea, and hear the sound of short, yappy breaths coming from her own mouth.

Thus, when the gang of riders came to a full stop in front of an abandoned mine shaft high in the hills, Nelle was overcome with quiet panic. Her body went stiff like a five million year old petrified fossil of a board, her fingernails carved half-moons into her saddle leather, and her brain said "fuck you" and curled up in a quivering mass at the very back of her head.

"Camp sweet camp," said Byrne, pleased with himself. He had no inkling of Nelle's claustrophobia; he was just congratulating himself on a smooth operation. No one had followed them. Nelle had been "obtained" as he'd instructed. Somehow, this time, she hadn't seen him coming, hadn't been able to slip through his fingers. Now, finally, he would have what he needed to finish things with his father. Finally, he would be able to stand on his own and get on with his life. He had a right to that. A right! And the best was yet to come.

"Good work, men," he went on. "We'll stay here tonight, as planned. Tomorrow, phase two... Ringo, get her down from that horse, take her into the mine and tie her up. Retie her hands – behind her this time, tie her ankles too... And make sure those knots are good and tight. Got it?"

Johnny nodded. He didn't venture to talk as he was still so chilled his teeth were clattering around in his head. The wind that had come up as they'd neared the mine had not helped matters any. Slowly, he slid down from the black horse. The wind felt even more biting without the residual warmth of Nelle's body squashed against his chest. As he walked around to unfasten the horse's reins from Lacy's saddle, he was sure he heard his knees creak at least once. _I'm only eighteen years old. I didn't aim to come along on this caper just to get rheumatism and a case of pneumonia. Tomorrow, that preacher man in Ward better be ready to do his song and dance because I mean to get my take, and then I'm out of here_ , he told himself, hugging his arms close to his body and leaning against the warmth of the horse's flank for a moment.

He didn't idle long. Lacy gave him an authoritative, impatient look so he turned and with stiff, uncooperative hands, he incrementally loosened the knotted ropes around Nelle's wrists. When finally he was through fumbling with the ropes and her hands were released, he quickly stepped back and snatched his sidearm.

"Alright, come down from there. Nice and slow-like... No funny business..."

Nelle would've scoffed, but just then, as she stared over at the entrance to the mine, she was otherwise engaged with feeling like a cornered animal.

"Funny business?" she said vacantly. "I think I misplaced my sense of humour right around the time you bullies barged into the school and waved your guns around in front of a bunch of whimpering kids..."

"Watch yourself!" he said angrily, though he perceived the rising fright in her voice and spotted the wildness in her eyes.

She ignored him. Right then, it was taking every ounce of focus and fortitude for her to calmly peel herself off of her saddle and make her way down to the ground.

When her toes touched the earth, her left knee promptly gave out from a combination of soreness, cold, and fatigue, and she fell forward onto the pebbled ground. Johnny almost reached out to help her, but then stopped himself. Lacy was still talking to the other men, just a few feet away. Sighing, Nelle pushed herself back onto her feet and then pressed her left arm against her right thigh to propel herself upright to standing. As she did so, her hand grazed the knife that she'd strapped into place above her knee that morning, just as she'd done most mornings since leaving Mexico. It had become such a habit with her, hidden there beneath her petticoat, that throughout the ride up to the mine, she hadn't even thought of it. She hadn't remembered it at all, until now. Realizing she had it - _something_ useful, was a comfort to her, even as she looked up and into the black maw of the mine and felt all of her bones fuse together, her mouth go dry, and her lungs ball up into little red fists.

"Let's go," commanded Johnny.

She didn't move. She couldn't move.

"I said, let's go!" Lacy was watching them, so Johnny cuffed her on the head to add an additional exclamation point.

"That was nice. Thanks, thanks for that..." said Nelle, in a squeaky voice, as she rubbed her forehead and forced herself to take a few slow steps towards the Black Orifice of Death now looming before her.

"Keep moving, bitch," said Johnny, a little too loudly. Byrne, in conversation with one of the other men, stopped mid-sentence and looked hard at him but said nothing. Johnny prodded Nelle's ribs with his pistol.

"Why do birds suddenly appear every time I get whacked in the head?" she asked him in a cloying, but resentful voice, still dragging her feet. But then, she realized that Byrne had turned and was now looking directly at her and instantaneously, her wobbly strides became elephantine. The last thing she needed, at this point, was for him to come and help tie her up. Not only would his knots be a whole lot tighter, but also, she knew he'd get a thrill out of the whole procedure. Her stomach convulsed and her lungs cowered in fear against her kidneys. Still, she tremblingly pushed ahead towards the gaping, well, gap. _Why didn't I ditch Boulder back when I had the chance?_ she asked herself, agonized. Of course, she didn't really mean it. She knew why. She hoped _he_ was safe and well.

Inside, there was the smell of thick dust, stale, dry wood and the acrid musk of her own distress. Just your average mine smells, really. For a few seconds, Nelle raised her shaking hand to her head, dizzy from peering into the pitch black beyond the entrance. Then she looked out at the stars in an attempt to curb her raspy, turbulent breathing. She tried to ignore the low ceiling and rocky walls that surrounded her on three sides, barely discernable in the darkness, even at the mouth of the shaft. Whenever she looked closely at them, they seemed to be breathing, slowly moving in and out, waiting, waiting to swallow her up. She could feel the sweat dribbling down the back of her neck. And when, from somewhere deep in the tunnel, there came a shuffling, flapping sound, Nelle jumped. She veered uncontrollably towards Johnny, clawing at his body, and began to hyperventilate.

Hastily, Ringo extracted Nelle's fingernails from his chest, but not without feeling concern for the gasping, verging-on-hysterical woman beside him. He was starting to feel pretty rotten about this whole thing and couldn't wait to get his take so he could get on out of Colorado.

"It's probably just a bat or two. Don't worry," he said. "Don't worry."

"Oh. Oh. Oh, good," she panted, sarcasm rising like steam from her body. "Encamped in total darkness on a bed of guano with an audience of rabies-infested rodents standing by. It's every girl's dream! I'm so relieved. Thanks Johnny, thanks for everything. You're so comforting."

He felt bad and he tried not to laugh. After all, she was still breathing in great, forced gulps and shaking so hard he could feel the reverberations in the air around him. Even so, a chuckle escaped his lips. He couldn't help it. After all, it was just a cave to him. He couldn't understand being afraid of a few tiny bats.

"Yeah, go ahead and laugh. You're a bastard, you know... Have you ever watched a bat stroll along the ground, its nasty little wings dragging along? It's the most evil thing I've ever seen....And I've seen men die! Yeah, yeah, laugh! What a jolly hoot! After all, you're not going to be forced to crouch here in the dark all tied up without even the ability to swat at the vermin. How befitting an up-and-comer outlaw! Burn in hell, Johnny!"

He stopped laughing.

"Sit down here," he said, harshly.

It took a moment for Nelle to lower her battered body to the ground, but soon, too soon, her behind was stationed on the cold, rocky floor of the mine and Ringo was tying her ankles together with rope he'd grabbed from his saddlebags. She said nothing, her mind still skittish from being forced inside the very earth, her breath still rapid, her heart rattling away. But she watched him. She squinted in the darkness, a very faint stream of moonlight diluting the blackness at the mine's entrance, and she watched the young man as he coiled the rope around her legs and then knotted it several times over. His shoulders and back were eaten by the darkness, but she could just make out the whiteness of his face and the outline of his hands and she kept her eyes on them. And when he looked up, ready to move on and commence re-binding her hands, he caught her looking intently at him and his face soured with shame.

He had her lean forward so he could retie them behind her back as Lacy had instructed. The left arm wrapped easily enough, but when he very gingerly guided her right forearm back to rest on her ribs, he felt the bone shift beneath her skin and he realized it wasn't just cracked, but rather, broken clean through. There was a whimper and his stomach went barrel jumping.

"I'm sorry. I've got nothing to splint it with," he said, earnestly.

Nelle did not reply. What was there to say?

He tied her wrists very loosely. If Lacy had seen it, he would've probably broken Ringo's arm as well, but all the same, Johnny had limits. In his short career, before Lacy and his crew had picked him up on one of his rides of shame following a southern foray – it was Laredo that time, Johnny had robbed numerous callers at the O.K. Corral, had played a supporting role in one bank robbery, had pillaged a couple of stagecoaches, had held-up a liquor store, again as a sidekick, and had shot a man in the knee in self-defense, if, that is, one can call it that when one is getting fired upon while escaping from such scenes of misdeed. But Johnny had never roughed up women. It didn't sit right with him to do so. He didn't even rob them, except for that one time, and again now. And currently, he was having a hard time tolerating the way this schoolteacher was being treated. Also, it didn't help his conscience any that it was the same woman he'd robbed once already. The whole thing was hard to put up with. Even for a couple hundred bucks.

He left her there, just inside the mine, pale and quiet.

At first, Nelle didn't move. She was too terrified. Instead, she listened to her own quaky breathing and for any further rustling sounds or squeaks or rumbles from deeper in the mine, and after hearing none, she forced herself to elongate each breath. After a while, she was breathing almost normally, and her heart was no longer attempting connection with the Boulder City telegraph. Over and over again, she reminded herself that she was okay because she could still see the sky and breathe fresh air. As long as she could see a way out of the mine, she had to fight the paranoia. She was not trapped yet. She would not scream. Even if they _were_ breathing, the walls had not closed in on her. _Watch the sky,_ she told herself, _and think._

For a time, Nelle did just that, and then, turning her head to the left, she bent her head down and nipped at her blouse, bunching a mouthful of the fabric in between her teeth. Biting down on it, she leaned forward and forced herself to begin to work her arms free, step-by-step. She fumbled at Johnny's measly knots with her left hand, and whenever she bumped or placed pressure on her right arm, she would bite down harder and try to contain the pain, the cloth muffling any groans that did escape her mouth.

Moments later, thanks to laxness of the knots, Nelle's arms were free. After gently placing her right hand in her lap, she immediately reached with her left for the knife hidden beneath her skirts. As she did so, she heard more riders arriving outside. Fielding and his group must have caught up to them. She could hear laughter, but couldn't make out what the men were saying. Quickly, she cut away the ropes that bound her ankles and kicked them to the side. Then she pulled her legs into her body and pushed herself to her feet, careful not to touch the wall of the tunnel. But before she could decide what she ought to do next, a figure approached the entrance of the mine, blocking her view of the stars.

It was Lacy, of course. She recognized his form.

Instantly, Nelle shifted her left hand - still clutching the knife, behind her back. And then, seeing no other option, she readjusted her feet and firmed her stance, refusing to retreat further into the mine and lose sight of the outside.

"Well, I see that Ringo is seriously inept when it comes to following instructions."

Nelle said nothing in return. She was busy trying to prevent the cavern from spinning. Byrne stepped closer still. She could feel his breath on her face. She heard him move, and then there was his hand sliding about her neck. She forced herself to remain still.

"Your pulse is all aflutter, my dear."

"Please give it up, Byrne! I've had enough of this... You don't have to do this... Please, Byrne! It's not listed anywhere in my _Top 100 Things To Do Afore I Die_."

"Yes, I do have to do this. You and I, we're going to do as I planned long ago. You will marry me, and then I'll finally have the money. It'll be done. I'll finally show him... You will not flout me! You're owed to me! Get that through your head! You're owed to me!"

"Wait. What money?" Nelle asked. Her voice was meek. She felt vexed with herself for the watered-down sounds coming from her mouth and befuddled by Lacy's raving.

"Ah, you still don't understand... You see, Baines made a promise. He said he'd pay us back. And when he couldn't come up with the cash, I was kind enough to accept an alternate arrangement. I took that on _my_ shoulders. You and your inheritance come to me. That was the deal!"

"What inheritance? There is no inheritance... Trust me, I've got nothing. You want to see? I can get you a bank statement! Seriously, nothing..." she protested.

"That's where you're wrong. Your father left you an amount to be turned over to you upon your marriage," he explained.

"No, Baines took everything. He spent what my mother had."

Lacy shook his head.

"Baines couldn't get at this. It's with a lawyer up in Canada, waiting for me. And I'm going need you to help me collect it."

"If I do, will you let me go?"

Byrne sighed in mock exasperation.

"You still don't get it. You're part of the deal, remember? And I've grown rather fond of you..."

He fingered the buttons of her blouse, savouring her apparent fear, and attempted, in the very poor light, to inspect the fingerprints he'd left on her neck back at the school. He was unsuccessful, and after a moment of silent contemplation, he tightened his grip on her and threw her roughly against the cold, hard wall, pressing himself against her hips. Then he paused, found a button about halfway up her blouse, and nonchalantly unbuttoned it.

Against the wall, Nelle tightened her left hand around the handle of her knife. She felt her heartbeat reverberating in her head. And yet, she hesitated. She was terrified. She half-wished the walls _would_ swallow her up, at this point. Fully aware that she was severely wanting as far as agility with a knife, especially when it came to her left hand, she knew she needed an opening, the right opportunity, if she was going to use it at all. But somehow, she was going to have to do something. And very, very, very soon, she decided, when he reached for a second button on her blouse.

"Don't do this, Byrne!" she implored, squirming, the roughness of the rock tearing at her back.

He laughed, and again shoved his body against hers, and then another button was undone. Her aching body begged for an end to the punishment.

"You have no right."

"I told you before... Do you know how long I've waited for this? You've pushed me to the limit... You won't turn me into some joke! You won't!"

With that, he dispensed with the unbuttoning and opted for the more expedient method of simply ripping her shirt open. With her bodice exposed to his clammy hands, Nelle felt her belly churn, bile rise in her throat, and the core of her body suddenly grow very cold. And when he thrust his hips against hers, pawed at the straps of her bodice, and began pressing his unrelenting hands against her flesh, she stood stoic and calm, realizing that she was unexpectedly, strangely lucid, despite being afraid. There was a new clarity. She understood that if she died, and it looked like she would, since she was certainly not going to let this nastiness go on for much longer or graduate to The Nasty, she would simply die, and that was all. Yes, Arden and a few friends would be upset for a while, but the world would go on just the same without her, and that was comforting somehow. It would all be here – chaotic and mangled and growing and beautiful. It wouldn't all disappear. Only she would be gone. The thought gave her strength, and in that moment, she felt she'd passed through the terror of facing this arrogant, sadistic man and now there was no fear left.

Instead, she felt very, very angry. She was more furious than she'd ever been about anything. And it wasn't a hot, fleeting rage. It was an icy, needling force that took hold of everything inside her and hardened it. It filled her, permeated the blood in her veins, the knuckles in her hands, the whites of her eyes.

"Stop it," she said, in an odd, detached voice.

Lacy didn't.

"I hate you," she said, through her clenched jaw. And then, with all the strength in her right leg, she abruptly jammed her knee into his groin.

Upon impact, he grunted loudly and instantaneously dropped to his knees, groaning in pain.

"Fuck you," he gasped. "Fuck you. You shouldn't have done that, goddamn it! I'll make you so penitent you'll..."

She ran for it. She had no idea what she was doing or where she was going, but she was going. She moved. Nevertheless, achy and bruised as she was, it wasn't fast enough, and Lacy, still crouched and cursing in supreme discomfort, reached out and managed to snatch up a fistful of her skirts and wrench her backward hard, so hard that Nelle had to fight to maintain her balance. And by the time she steadied herself, so had Lacy, and he wrapped his hands around her ankles, jerking her towards him. This time, she went down.

Incensed, he tackled her. Her right arm useless, Nelle attempted to writhe away from him, but the man was strong and frothing with wrath over the crushing sensation radiating outward from his balls across his entire body. Gripping her shoulders, he flung himself on top of her and elbowed her hard in the ribs to suppress her. She screamed then, a shrill, eerie caterwaul that did not sound at all like her own voice, and heard it echoing away somewhere deep in the veins of the earth.

"Go ahead, scream," he whispered excitedly. "No one will come."

Someone did come briefly, Nelle noticed, when the entrance to the mine was momentarily darkened once again by the silhouette of a man. But whoever it was, he saw fit to carry on, and she realized numbly that she was indeed entirely alone in her struggle. Byrne's face hovered over hers, panting from exertion and pain. A snarl escaped his lips when she tried to displace him by kicking frenetically with her legs and wriggling her shoulders. When that didn't work, she spat in his face. Of course, that did not go over well, and as he wiped the spit from his face onto her torn blouse, she felt the cool night air on her ankles, her knees, and then her thighs, as he wrenched her skirts up. She was so angry she spat at him again.

"Go to hell," she gnashed.

He slugged her one across her already swollen face. For a moment, there were stars inside the mine as well out. But when Byrne raised the weight of his body off of her torso to fumble with his clothing in the dark, Nelle knew there was not a second to lose. Concentrating hard, she lifted her inert left hand, which she'd been holding clenched against her left side, and she swung awkwardly at his middle until she struck skin, and then swiftly drove the knife into his flesh as far as it would go.

Lacy yelped with pain and surprise and rolled off of her. She tried to keep hold of the knife, still buried in the muscles at his right hip, but it was lodged deeply in his flesh and she lost her grip as he pulled away. Her mind racing, she quickly loosened her skirts from beneath Byrne's moaning body and started crawling away from the wounded man. _You've got to run,_ she told herself, using the wall to push herself to her feet.

She heard movement, and more grunting.

"Oh, you're... You're quite... Quite the little charmer..." he hissed, between gasps of pain, as he rose to his knees.

Context, in this case, vaporized any chirping canaries.

Now that she was several feet away from him, Nelle could no longer see Lacy. But she could hear him attempting to stand up - a rustling and the clink of a spur. Likewise, he could hear her as she crept towards the mine's entrance and the waiting night.

"Damn you!" he yelled, unsheathing his gun and blindly firing two shots towards the sounds of her movement.

He missed, of course. Nelle took a chance and made a break for the door. She leapt out into the fresh, chill night air, and right into the robust arms of one of Lacy's men, the one they called Thoms. For a few seconds, she kicked him and hit at his chest with her left hand, but then she realized that Fielding and Ringo were standing right behind him and she knew it was pointless. She was going back into the mine whether she liked it or not.

"Go see about Byrne," said Thoms to Fielding, throwing her to the ground and pulling out his pistol. He then addressed Johnny.

"Didn't you tie her up?"

"I sure did. Feet and hands, just like Lacy said."

"Well, you did a shit job, Sonny, if she could still break free with that broken arm and all."

Nelle lay there on the ground, while Thoms stood there, gun in hand, waiting for Fielding to return. It would be stupid to try anything now, she knew. _Will I ever get out of here?_ she wondered helplessly. Her jaw was taking on new proportions, thanks to the second beating it had received, and her entire body throbbed anew with fresh pain. Exhausted from being so continuously on edge, she was desperate for respite.

Ringo gaped at her, and all at once, she became conscious of the torn blouse hanging from her shoulders, the broken strap of her bodice, and the bright red stain on her stomach from Lacy's rendezvous with her knife. Her entire face pulsating, she didn't even notice the trickle of blood running down her chin from a cut on her lower lip. Nor did she realize how visibly bruised her neck had become. But Johnny took stock of all these things and said nothing.

Fielding emerged from the mine supporting a bloodied, seething Lacy, the knife no longer protruding from his abdomen. When he saw Nelle on the ground with Thoms standing over her, he pulled out his own gun and aimed. But Fielding reached out and pointedly lowered it. He had his own stake in this and couldn't let Lacy ruin it.

"Wait until you've got the cash, Byrne. You're this close. You'll regret it if you don't wait."

Byrne nodded and then looked down at Nelle again, narrowing his eyes.

"Watch yourself, or I'll do it! I mean it! I'll watch the light fade out of your eyes," he snapped. And then he leaned over her and spat at her this time, his gob of phlegm landing squarely on her forehead. Ringo started and looked away, disgusted. Thankfully, nobody noticed.

But Lacy wasn't done. Still standing over her, watching her wipe the spit from her face with the back of her hand, he spoke to Fielding.

"In the morning, I want you to double back. There will be a Boulder City posse out first thing, I'm sure, if there isn't one moving already. You'll have to find it, since it'll take those men a while to track us here, not just because of all the work you men did earlier tonight, but also, because that dead town has got to be pretty rusty when it comes to organizing a posse, let alone trailing anyone, especially with the sheriff _and_ deputy busy getting to know Mother Earth," he said with a churlish laugh.

"I want you to take one of the men and the two of you go find that posse," he continued, "and I want you to kill that long-haired, ranching son-of-a-bitch she's hot for – the one that young cowboy back in K.C. mentioned when he was rambling on over yet another straight flush. Wilder, I think, is his name. He's bound to be riding with them. I want you to stake things out and figure out which one is him. Then go find yourself a prime vantage point and snipe him! I want him to look up, only to discover a bullet burrowing between his eyebrows. I want you to watch him keel over and hit the ground, his head bouncing once before settling lifeless in the dust. And if he so much as twitches, I want you to shoot him again and again until he stops. I want his blood to run until he is completely emptied of it. Got that?"

Nelle choked back a cry. A searing terror ripped through her body. She hadn't expected this. Her shoulders began to convulse. She became aware of an influx of saliva in her mouth, but she refused to be sick. She would not give Lacy the satisfaction, though this had taken her entirely by surprise. She'd thought she'd kept Arden out of harm's way. But somehow, despite all her efforts to keep him at arms length, to disassociate his life from hers, she had failed. Lacy knew about him just the same. Somehow, he'd figured it out. And what if Arden _was_ coming? What if he'd joined the posse? _Please, Arden, don't come!_ she implored silently.

"That's right. I know," laughed Byrne, though pain broadcast itself across his hip and groin when he did so. "I know. And long ago, I told you this would happen. If you had just cooperated... But no, you always have to give me trouble..."

With a spiteful look, he walked away, still leaning on Fielding. Visualizing Arden being shot dead, Nelle lay paralyzed with dread, clamping her teeth tightly together in order to hold back a groundswell of emotion.

"Alright, you crafty bitch. Let's get a move on," said Thoms, hauling Nelle roughly to her feet by her left forearm.

They went back into the mine, Thoms dragging an obviously despondent Nelle and Ringo trudging along after them. Once inside, Thoms retrieved the discarded ropes and even though he'd seen the offending knife in Fielding's hand, he decided to give Nelle a thorough pat-down before tying her up once more. Nelle hardly noticed his hands roaming across her body. Johnny loitered nearby.

"Now," said Thoms to Ringo, "watch closely."

He reached out for the rope and began tying Nelle up once more; he cinched it so tightly around her ankles that she could feel the blood flow to her feet diminishing. Then he forcibly rolled her onto her side, wrested both arms back and bound them so that she could not move her wrists without the rope cutting into her flesh, while tears came to her eyes from the agony of it.

"You see, _that's_ how it's done."

"I see," replied Ringo, gazing in the darkness at the eerie patch of white that was Nelle's face.

They left her there. Desolate and utterly spent, Nelle felt her body begin to tremble and then give in, becoming turbulently racked with sobs as she wept over a threatened Arden, the unknown condition of Flint, in sympathy for Anisette, and of course, for her miserable self. After a time, her fit of grief gradually abated. Tired and tied up as she was, she was suddenly reminded of how, when she was a little girl, after overhearing her father mention the suspicious disappearance of a girl in the next town, she'd decided that the most important thing, if she ever happened to be kidnapped, would be not to cry. She would most likely be bound and gagged, and if she cried, her nasal passages would become blocked and she would have no way to breathe. And now, her tears still wet on her face, she seriously wondered if she'd been a somewhat intuitive child or just an incredibly paranoid one. She pondered this until she was able to take in long drags of air through her nostrils, and then she promptly fell into a deep sleep, her cheek pressed against the dusty, coarse rock of the mine floor, her skin still shivering against its cold.

She slept as if in a coma. Thoms, who'd been designated to keep watch at the entrance, looked in on her a few times during the night, and found her curled on the ground, unmoving and breathing laboriously, oblivious to his presence.
XI.

Nelle had been gone and Clancy, dead, for just about two hours, when Larry, finishing his last mouthful of steak and lettuce, arrived at his brother's cabin. Though it was mid-afternoon, Arden was still hunched on the porch steps, dedicated to the task of searing a hole in his belly with caffeine. He did not move when his brother came riding up, but his face darkened considerably.

"I don't have much time," Larry began. "Flint's been shot, the deputy's spending the rest of his career draped in a sheet, and Nelle's been nabbed – right out of the school, by a bunch of strangers."

Arden's body stiffened and his head jerked up to look his brother squarely in the eye, but he said nothing.

"I'm going over to the Mead Farm to get Anisette and take her to Flint. Benno's rounding up a posse and I aim to be a part of it. Are you coming or not?"

Still silent, Arden dropped his head into his hands and began rubbing his temples with his thumbs. Larry watched his brother's shoulders heave a few times, and feeling increasingly unsettled, he began to regret devouring, in its entirety, the colossal sandwich Sarah had crammed into a handkerchief for him. In all his days, he had never seen Arden look so miserable.

"I'll take Ani to town," Arden finally said, in a faint, distressed voice. "You do what you need to do. I can't go with you," he went on, his voice cracking.

"Are you sure?" Larry asked him gently.

Arden looked up and nodded, his eyes red and dangerously watery, but his jaw set. Without another word, Larry took his leave. At a loss as to what else to do, he was eager to get going and escape the pained expression on Arden's face. It had never been easy for Larry to deliver bad news. Usually, when hard times struck, he preferred to put his head down and keep his mouth shut until they were over. And just now, even though he did not understand or even condone his brother's actions, he felt momentarily obliged to him, for while he hated to see despair creep into anyone's eyes and the grim lines of anxiety fracture anyone's features, he especially hated it to see it happen to a woman's face, a pregnant woman's face.

A mission before him, Arden wasted no time. He saddled up Hermes, but then decided that the wagon would be more appropriate for Anisette's elaborate figure, so he hauled the leather off of Hermes and hitched up a working team, itching for some action, to the buckboard. He moved steadily and decisively, not allowing his mind to rest on the news he'd just been given, or to think of Nelle gone. Now that he knew it had happened, he had to keep busy. He had to move and talk and work and do whatever it took not to think of her, not to wonder where she was or what was happening to her, because if he did think of it, he'd be charging after her in an instant, and then he would be guaranteed to lose her.

All the way to the Mead Farm, Arden focused on what he was going to say to Flint's de facto partner. He felt half-crazed, knowing so little about what had happened. Despite his resolve, he couldn't help but go back to wondering where Nelle had been taken, if she had her gun, if she'd gotten hurt, or, or.... No, he couldn't think it. And even though he was honouring his promise to her, his chest was heavy with guilt as the wagon rattled on, because no matter what the agreement was, no matter how he cut it, she was in trouble and he was doing absolutely nothing about it.

Still in a daze, he arrived at Anisette's front door. In a way, despite the grimness of his task, he was glad for the distraction. Jittery and anguished, he needed the comfort of someone, anyone, the solace of not being left alone with his own mind.

When Anisette swung open the door, she took one look at him and instantly, instinctively, seemed to know that something had gone wrong and that Flint was in dire straits. She brushed the hair out of her face and looked Arden hard in the eye, her waterlogged hands shaking.

"Where is he?" she gulped, before Arden had a chance to even bid her "Afternoon."

"In town," he said deliberately, his arms ready to catch her in case her body decided to substitute latitude for longitude. Watching the tension engulf her already distended face, he felt his own grief rising up and spoke quickly.

"I have my wagon."

"It's really bad, isn't it?"

"Apparently."

"I'll just pull the stew off the stove and grab my shawl," she said calmly, her face gray.

"Let me come in. I'll take care of the stove. You just find the shawl and Ani, get your gun." He knew it was probably overkill, but one couldn't be too careful. It was unlikely that any of the men that had taken Nelle were still around, but if they were, two guns were better than one.

Her eyes briefly jumped to his and then she swung the door wide open, turned and hurried down the hall towards her bedroom. Moments later, he came out of the kitchen to find her waiting at the open door, her shawl over one arm, Elvis' old Walker Colt in the opposite hand. Cumbersomely, she made her way towards the wagon, looking resigned and alarmed all at once, which in effect gave her face a strange resemblance to shredded wheat. Arden helped her into the wagon seat, and as they started out, she leaned her head onto his shoulder and closed her eyes.

She didn't ask for any details, so he didn't give any. To Arden, it seemed that she preferred not to know. And, in fact, he was right. Anisette had long ago realized that, like beauty, the horror was also in the details. Once she knew about Flint's condition, she would find out more of the story. But until then, she knew enough. And besides, what was there to do or say? All along, she'd known of the risks involved in taking up with a sheriff. She wasn't naïve. So she simply waited.

Anisette kept her eyes closed throughout the trip, except for a brief moment when she peered off towards town and asked Arden if he could hurry the horses, a request to which he immediately complied. Arden also noticed, as they sped towards Boulder, that from time-to-time she'd have little spells, which consisted of a sequence of queer, short little breaths. He worried about the effects that such high levels of anxiety could have on a woman in her state, but decided there was very little he could do other than keep the horses at high pace and the wagon as steady as possible. Through it all, she kept quiet. And Arden too, had no words to say. He was just glad to have her there beside him to keep him occupied and prevent him from dwelling too much on himself, and Nelle _._

When they arrived at the edge of town, he was relieved. Despite his precautionary instruction regarding Anisette's gun, no one had bothered them on the road. In fact, everything had appeared altogether normal. The prairie dogs whistled at them, a few young grasshoppers popped and crackled along the roadside, and the wind rattled the tops of the trees.

However, once in town, he noticed the crowd of people gossiping in front of the Nickel or Three, and then a more somber group of men mounting up in front of the sheriff's office. If any of these folks caught sight of him, he knew he'd be subjected to a barrage of uncomfortable and impertinent questions. So he ducked his head low as he turned the wagon from Main onto Marshall, pleased that he'd greased the axels not a week earlier. _Please, don't sneeze old Zeus! Please don't,_ he willed silently to the aged equine with particularly asthmatic tendencies. Thankfully, Zeus didn't sneeze, and no one spotted the buckboard as it completed its wide right turn and rushed two more blocks to the small treatment office of Doc Monday.

With Arden's assistance, Anisette stepped slowly down from the wagon, her eyes half-closed with apprehension or sadness. She let him lead her up the three steps and into the clinic. They didn't bother to knock. They knew Flint would be there. There was nowhere else the townsfolk could've taken him.

"Doc!" Arden called out, from the empty sitting room.

Monday emerged from a back room, pushing open its swinging door with his hip, his arms forward, elbows bent, and his hands raised to the open air, covered in blood. It was enough to compel Anisette to sit swiftly down on the wicker couch directly behind her. The sun streamed through the window behind her head, and the contrast of the genial brilliance made her shadowed, anxious face seem even grayer.

"I've managed to take the bullet out," announced the doctor, without enthusiasm. "It was a challenge, not my usual wart removal or distemper, I'll tell you that. Bullet clipped the lung, which is not ideal. I did my best to fix him up, just finished some stitchery, in fact. He lost a lot of blood. I mean, we'll have to wait and see over the next few days. If he makes it through to the weekend, I'd say his chances are good," he went on.

"Oh. So he _was_ shot. I figured. Please, please, can I see him?" Anisette asked, still digesting what the doctor had said.

"He's out cold."

"I still want to see him. I _need_ to see him."

"Wait. Let me clean him up a bit," said Monday, disappearing back through the swinging door before she could protest.

She wouldn't have protested. While he'd been speaking, her breathing went rapid again and her hands tightened on the wicker, hard enough that Arden heard it cracking from the doorway where he still stood. He abruptly turned to look at her.

"Ani, are you okay?"

She looked back at him sharply and he felt his soul begin to wither and curl up around the edges.

"Oh, sure. I'm fine. Flint's draped over the operating table halfway to achieving corpsehood and I'm all fruitful and multiplying and, oh fuck it all, here it comes again..."

Her face scrunched up and her breathing increased. She took long pulls of air and kept her eyes closed, rocking a little and demolishing a bit more wicker with her fingertips. A minute or so later, she raised her head, the skin around her eyes uncrinkled and she resumed a more regular repose.

"Uh, you aren't due for at least a few weeks, right?" Arden asked nervously.

"Evidently, there's some new discourse happening with regards to the nailing down of a date."

"Jesus!"

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of something like Mica or Crystal, or maybe Absinthe or Sambuca, you know, to continue the rock or liquor theme."

Though he was becoming more and more concerned about her, Arden smiled wanly, and Anisette let escape a tiny laugh.

"Should I get the Doc, Ani?"

"No, let him deal with Flint. There's time yet."

After a few moments of close scrutiny, during which there was no more rapid panting, Arden cautiously edged over to the couch. Once he'd considered whether it would hold both he and her, he sat down on the edge, leaned back, and put a hand on her shoulder.

It was as if he'd touched a trigger.

Luckily, it was not the baby. However, the succinct choking sound of a partially suppressed cough/sob hybrid burst out from her lips. Hearing the odd, emotive explosion, Arden immediately jerked his head to the left and found himself facing the contorted, multi-hued face of an overwhelmed Anisette.

"He's still alive. He's here, alive," she gasped, as if suddenly grasping the fact for the first time. "He's not dead. That's something. Oh, Flint..."

Arden watched closely as the fear and the relief swarmed each other and battled for territory on her no longer gray, but pinked up face. He wanted desperately to tell her that it would all turn out okay in the end, that God didn't let bad things happen to good people, or that Fate was on her side; he wanted to give her _something_ to cling to. But for him to deliver such flawed, but encouraging bullshit, at least part of him would have to believe it. And clearly, very clearly, since he'd just referenced these adages as "tripe" in his own mind, there was no part of him that did believe. He'd been in enough sad scenarios to know that saying it would all come out okay in the end didn't make it so. He'd also seen plenty of bad things happen to good people. Take, for example, the time a few winters ago, when Reg Dobbin's toddler had slipped outside without notice one night and had frozen to death. Or his own father, who'd came home one afternoon tied to a pack horse like a sack of grain, face down, bottom up, and cranium dripping, after being shot in the back of the head by a hunter in a case of mistaken identity. He could still see his mother's face crumple and her eyes go blank as she looked up from the clothesline to spot the county marshal leading that horse. He would never forget it. And Fate? She was an enchanting acquaintance but a fickle mistress. No, there was no way Arden could do it. He couldn't cross his fingers and blurt out something just for comfort's sake and then hope to hell luck wouldn't make a liar out of him.

Gently, he slid his good hand along the back of Anisette's shoulder and over to her neck, beginning to rub away the tension that had accumulated there. Though she did not cry aloud, tears began to fall down her cheeks, dropping off of her chin and dampening the fabric covering her former lap. She looked over at him, trying to smile and pull herself together.

"You're one strong woman, Anisette Mead," Arden said simply, which made him feel like an insufferable fool when the tears ran all the more.

A few minutes later, she sighed heavily and wiped her face with her sleeve, having spent her tears. Arden was still absently rubbing the back of her neck, but she could see that his mind was elsewhere, and that he too, was suffering.

"What about you? You alright?" she asked him.

"Oh, don't worry about me."

"What about your hand, there? What happened?"

He looked down at it. It was still swollen and black with bruises.

"Had it out with the kitchen stove."

"Hmmm... They get like that from time-to-time. Impertinent, I mean..."

"Yeah."

"You going to need to get a new one?"

"Nope."

"Didn't think so," she said, laughing a little as she peered more closely at his hand.

He grinned feebly, a touch of humour in his eyes.

Another contraction came rolling along, and again Anisette huffed and puffed and waited for it to blow over. Unquestionably, though it was still hours in the offing, the Mead-Westwood progeny was preparing to make a break for it. Early or not, it was happening. Flint's unexpected run-in with Clancy's bullet had been the straw that broke the cervix's spongy back. Arden reached down and took her hand until the pain passed. In return, an appreciative Anisette tried very hard not to cut off the blood circulation to his fingertips.

When it was over, she looked up at him again, her eyes clear and alert, though framed with fatigue.

"Who shot him?"

"Larry told me it was the deputy. Some men came looking for Nelle. Somehow, Clancy ended up firing in the wrong direction. You know high tightly wound he could get."

" _Could_ get? You mean he's a goner?"

"Yeah. I believe the men that took Nelle shot him down." Arden's voice sounded worn.

"You mean they got to her? Took her? I didn't think, I mean... It's so sudden. I knew there was someone after her. I knew it. But just like that? Done? Gone?"

Her voice was forlorn now. Arden only nodded and looked away, sick at heart.

"You're not going after her?"

"No."

"She made you promise not to, didn't she?"

Arden exhaled gratingly. He did not want to go over the whole thing again. He didn't want to be berated or guilted or told what he ought to be doing. Not again. Not here. Intensely agitated, he drew his good hand away from Anisette's neck and placed it on the back of the couch behind her shoulders, squeezing and releasing the top edge of the furnishing. There was the sound of more disintegrating wicker.

"Arden?"

"Yeah, she did."

"Figures. Don't get me wrong, but that woman is too damn stubborn. Sometimes, stupidly so. I guess you were sort of backed into a corner. I mean, it wouldn't have been an easy choice either way."

She said it with an understanding smile, which was enough to disarm him. The added tension that had surged through his body as soon as she'd asked about Nelle now sloughed off his shoulders, slid down his torso, and pooled on the floor beneath him in much the same way that Anisette's water unexpectedly broke, leaking onto the floor and draining down between its wooden slats, but more slowly and metaphorically.

They both looked towards the door that the doctor had gone through. Anisette had another contraction, one that made her eyes water with sudden, grievous misgivings about the whole reproductive process. And when the worst of it was over, Arden stood up and marched into the treatment room.

He found Monday mopping up the blood. Literally. Flint was still on the treatment table, a blanket over him, and a pillow under his dusty head. Arden wasted no time in checking for the rise and fall of his chest. Yes, Flint was still breathing, though he certainly looked like he'd gone and painted the town red, using himself.

"She can come in," said the doctor, as he sopped up the last of the red smears from the floor.

"I'll tell her... And could you maybe get out the baby tongs, swaddling clothes, and fuzzy whatnots, 'cause that child of hers seems determined to get out while the getting's good?"

Unflappable Monday only grunted his assent and wandered out of the room to prepare a room for Anisette. Arden retreated to the sitting room to tell her she could see Flint. After hauling her to her feet, he kept a firm hold on her arm, just in case, as she waddled trepidatiously into the room where an exceptionally pasty Flint was still glowing prostrate on the treatment table.

When she saw him, Anisette didn't opt for a face-full of floor, as Arden expected. Instead, she whimpered once. Then she flared her nostrils and sucked in half the air in the room, and with it, every ounce of fortitude in the vicinity, and at least one disoriented fruit fly. And with that, she moved purposefully to the edge of the table, bent over the spectral face and kissed it. Slowly, Arden backed out of the room and waited outside of the swinging door until he heard her sad murmuring give way to urgent yowls of pain. At that point, both he and the doctor simultaneously burst into the room from two separate doors and expediently ushered Anisette to the bed in the adjacent room.

Dreading going home, or finding himself alone once more, Arden gladly stayed with Ani as the day darkened and her child inched its way towards freedom. He sat by the bed and talked to her in a low voice, keeping his eyes locked on her face while the doctor routinely came and went, checking on her progress every half hour, and then every fifteen minutes or so. Seemingly composed, he rambled on when the contractions doubled and then tripled in frequency and ferocity, and when the sweat and the tears poured from Ani's face, he reassured her. He told her how proud of her Flint would be. He rambled about Nelle. He reminded her that soon she'd see the baby's face. He talked on and on through the hours, and when it was all over, he realized he wasn't even sure of what he'd said.

When the cursing phase set in, the doctor decided to set up camp between her feet, and Arden asked if he ought to leave. The doctor nodded, but amidst the rain of unassigned, shrieking curses, Anisette doled a few out to the doctor, specifically, and indicated, somewhere in the blue streak, that Arden should stay. Must stay. So he did. And sometime around four in the morning, he was still mumbling semi-coherent encouragement to her when the doctor placed a slippery, squalling seven-pound Mica James Mead Westwood on her chest and she collapsed into a grateful, astounded, and fatigued fit of uncontrollable weeping.

She cried for a long time. In fact, she outlasted Mica, who raged when the doctor cleaned him up, but instantly became mellow and compliant when Anisette slipped him beneath the covers and gave him his first breakfast.

"He's perfect," she cooed, after her tears had dried and she'd handed the baby over to Arden for a closer look.

He nodded and looked down at the baby. The little one definitely had Flint's wry lower lip and Anisette's delicate chin. However, he was still unclear as to which parent the kid resembled overall.

"Someday, you'll thank me for convincing your mother not to name you Sambuca, little man."

It was true. In the course of Anisette's labour, Arden had persuaded her that a kid legally named Sambuca Mead was destined to become an uptight, Bible-thumping temperance man half out of spite and half out of irony, and that the name Mica would promote a more balanced existence and wouldn't exclude him from holding public office or owning a winery or becoming a pundit, if that's what struck his fancy. And Mica would in fact thank him some seven years later when, due to a serious misconception springing from his discovery that there existed something called a "catfish", he would stubbornly insist on an immediate fishing trip and end up going out with Arden, the only one able to take him; his father would be away at a sheriffs' convention at Lake Tahoe and his mother adamantly "off fish for another three months, at least." After the predictable anti-climax of the outing, Arden would end up telling the boy the story of his birth in order to distract him and his bruised imagination.

Arden excused himself and went to check on Flint while the doctor cleaned up Anisette. When he arrived at Flint's side, Flint was still sporting a disturbing pallor and his body was still inert, but something was different. Carefully, Arden looked him over. He was still breathing, thankfully. He eyes were still closed. He was still bandaged across the chest and draped with a bulky, wool blanket. But there, there it was. At some point during the night, he'd moved his hands. Before, they'd been outstretched at his sides. Now, they loosely covered his ears.

Taking it as a good omen, Arden laughed out loud.

"Get used to it, Flint. That kid is going to be your alarm clock for the next couple of years!"

Flint did not deign to reply.

After a while, the doctor came in and told him that Anisette and Mica were conked out, and that he ought to go back to his cabin and get some sleep. He went on to say that afterwards, Arden should return with some of Anisette's things, and some extra blankets and nappies and clothes for the baby. Technically, it was framed as a suggestion, but the doctor opened the treatment room door for him as he spoke, so Arden didn't bother to argue.

Trying not to begrudge the man, Arden took his leave. As tired as he was, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep much, and the idea of being left alone to his thoughts still perturbed him. Already, as he roused his dozing team and got into the wagon, he could not help but stop and wonder where Nelle might be just then, and if she was even alive. Snapping the reins, he set the bleary-eyed horses plodding towards home, and then, beneath the indifferent winking of the stars, he hung his head and tried not to think of anything. A half-hour later, he was in his barn, dozily tending to the horses, speaking mindlessly to them as he tossed them some feed and hung up the harnesses. And when he'd finished and gone in, he didn't climb up to his bed. Instead, he made another cauldron of coffee. Pouring himself a full mug, he settled himself once more on his front steps and watched the sun begin to rise.

The posse had been at it all night. They'd gotten a late start of it. Before they'd even managed to get organized, Jimmy Cleland had spotted smoke rising from the Skillet so he, Larry, and Benno had U-turned and gone back west, only to discover a smoldering pile of charcoal where Nelle's cabin had stood.

"A distraction," Larry had called out. "It's meant to be a distraction... We've got to hurry back," he'd continued urgently, and the three had beat it right back to town.

After they'd collected the other volunteers and waited while canteens were filled and guns loaded, Benno had finally led the dozen men into the hills beyond the schoolhouse where they'd begun following the gang's trail.

For a while, the going had been easy. The obvious trail had beelined straight northeast and they had simply followed the string of hoof prints. But then it had suddenly curved westward and that was where the tracking had gotten confusing. It had been nightfall by then, and it had become increasingly more difficult to discern which way Nelle and her abductors had gone, even under a partial moon and a clear sky, because the trail they followed had also become less defined. A couple of times, they'd followed false zigzagging paths before realizing they'd been tricked off course, and then, having backtracked once again, they'd resumed their search for signs and marks indicating which way the majority of the gang might have taken. But after a while, the path had just seemed to go dead. It had been one in the morning before John Henderson had discovered a knotted cluster of Nelle's long red-brown hair entangled on a willow branch overhanging the nearby creek and they'd finally realized that the group had actually marched their horses through the fast-flowing water and straight up the creek.

With the way the men in the posse had pushed their horses, going back and forth over the hills and countryside all evening long, they'd known it was unwise to force their fatigued mounts onward after the abductors in the dead of night, even with John's heartening discovery. Going on in the dark, especially against the cold, murky volumes of spring run-off swelling the banks of the creek, would only risk injury to the horses and themselves. They needed to be able to pick their way through the rising water carefully, avoiding tricky spots. They needed to be able to see. And with the thick foliage that stretched out along its banks over the water itself, it was impossible.

So while Anisette was attempting to add another branch to her family tree, the posse was regretfully agreeing to turn back, knowing that the men they pursued were likely long gone, and they'd probably lost any chance of catching up with them when they'd had such a late start. Still, they decided to regroup in the morning at the sheriff's office once they'd had some sleep, in order to determine what to do next.

"There's really only one place they could've been heading by moving straight west up that canyon," muttered Old Man Connelly, who'd ridden wordlessly along with the posse all night, and now disappointedly turned his horse homeward along with the others. "No doubt about it. They've gone to Ward."

"Good Lord, not Ward," blurted Cleland. "We're S.O.L. if they've gone to Ward!"

"Vy? Tomorrow, ve vire ze sheriff of Vard. He vill help us, shorely."

"Benno, the sheriff of Ward is a potter. I don't think he even owns a gun. He's got his pottery wheel set up in the jail cell and he makes dishes to sell at the Farmer's Market. He's that guy that seems like everyone's grandpa. In contrast to everyone else in Ward, he'll invite you in for cup of coffee, ask about your sister's lumbago, and see if you're up for a game of pinochle. His approach to crime is to assume people have the maturity to work things out themselves, and to occasionally give an offender a stiff talking-to, when all else fails. This usually works out fine, since hardly anything ever happens in Ward and because of the nature of its residents. The folks that live there – mostly artists, as well as a few conspiracy theorists and prospectors, live there specifically because they feel quality of life is found in keeping to themselves. Reserved doesn't cover it. They don't care for outsiders at all. Besides, there aren't a lot of laws there to enforce anyway. The consensus there seems to be that The Ten Commandments could be cut down to three. Ward is its own place, and it attracts the person who is, well, certainly, definitely, unadulteratedly his own person.

While I do admit that the wife and I do enjoy a trip up there to check out this one guy's yard art – he makes lawn ornaments from wagon wheels, I think it'd be a pretty challenging place for a person in some kind of trouble, such as our schoolteacher," explained Cleland.

"Sheet!"

"Exactly."

Nevertheless, there was nothing to do but return home, and hope for better luck the following day.

When Larry arrived back at the house, he had to bang the first few bars of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" on the front door several times before Sarah let him in. And even then, she opened the door just wide enough so that the muzzle of the rifle could slide through and greet him.

"I guess I don't have to worry about you letting any strangers in the house."

Lowering the rifle, she swung the door wide and eagerly pulled him inside.

"Thank heavens you're back! I was worried. It won't be long and the sun will be coming up!"

"I know. I'm sorry... Please take me to bed."

She nodded and they went upstairs. Once he'd crawled beneath the covers with his wife curled up beside him, he wearily explained what had happened, and how it looked as if the gunmen had taken Nelle to Ward.

"Ward?"

"It seems so."

"Strange..."

"Yeah."

"How is Arden taking it?"

Larry shrugged.

"He doesn't know."

"What? He didn't go with you, after all? I thought he would. I thought when it came down to the wire..."

"Nope. He refused. The last I saw of him was when I left for town to join Benno and the others. He did offer to tell Anisette about Flint, and I agreed, since there was no convincing him about Nelle. Besides, I really didn't want to see the look on that poor woman's face. I think he meant to head over to her place right away."

"Oh. So by now your brother is probably sitting at his cabin stewing by himself."

"It's likely. Serves him right, though!"

"You don't mean that."

"I guess I don't. I'll stop in on my way to town in the morning and see how he's holding up."

They fell asleep just as the sun began to rise and a hell-bent Johnny Ringo slid a hand over Nelle's mouth to keep her from screaming.

"Wake up," Johnny whispered. "Wake up, Miss."

With a lurch, Nelle came to life. Groggy and uncomprehending, but instantly afraid, she began to thrash frantically about, despite the fact that her body was incredibly stiff and her wrists and ankles still tightly bound.

"Mrrraraaahhh," she murmured, shaking her head in an attempt to free her mouth from his grasp.

"Easy. Easy. I won't hurt you. Just be quiet because Thoms is keeping watch outside," whispered Johnny, slowly releasing his hand.

"What do you want?" she hissed.

"To help you get out of here," he whispered, pulling a small knife from his belt and beginning to saw at the ropes holding her ankles.

He was being honest. For most of the night, Johnny had lain awake in the biting air feeling increasingly conflicted about his part in this whole exploit. He needed money badly, and there was a lot of it in this for him, if he could just stick it out. But the abusive treatment this schoolteacher was being subjected to was hard for him to take. He hadn't known it would be this way. He'd been told it would be a tidy little kidnapping and after they'd gotten the money, that'd be it – they'd go their separate ways. Maybe they hadn't said specifically that they were going to let her go, but he'd assumed. And now, now it didn't look like there'd be much left of her to let go, if things continued on as they'd been going.

The matter had nagged at him as he'd flopped from side to side beneath his blanket. He'd wondered why Lacy was so violent with her. And why, why did she have to be the same woman he'd robbed once already? It seemed so merciless to go after the same person twice, especially since she'd done nothing to him. It didn't help either that when she smiled, she kind of reminded him of his sister, who he hadn't seen since he was a kid. And what if Lacy went all the way and killed her?

Eventually, he'd decided he couldn't keep on with it. If she died, it would weigh on him. It didn't seem worth that sweet bundle of cash. No, no, it wasn't worth it. He had to do something to help her.

And now, as Nelle caught her breath and stretched out her unbound feet, she looked at him incredulously, curiously, but prudently said nothing at all.

Leaning onto his elbow, Johnny began cutting away the ropes around Nelle's wrists.

"You've gotta get out of here before we get to Ward!" he whispered.

"Ward?"

"Yeah, it's up the canyon a ways. He'll try to get that marriage certificate, I guess, and then, well..."

"Yeah," she agreed quickly, as her hands sprang free.

He pulled her to her feet. Painfully, she rotated her ankles, one at a time, stretched her calves, and tested the range of motion in her neck.

"Come on," he whispered, "you've got no time to waste."

He grabbed hold of her left wrist and pulled her deeper into the mine.

Nelle balked.

"The door's the other way," she said, jerking him back.

"And Thoms is right outside it... You've got to trust me. There's another way – a ventilation shaft. That's how I got in here... Now, come on..."

For a second, she hesitated. After all, she really didn't savour the idea of going _deeper_ into the bowels of the earth. But what other chance did she have? She knew what awaited her if she didn't get away. And with her broken arm, there wasn't a lot she could do to stop Lacy, even if she somehow managed to separate him from his entire gang.

She went with him. Ringo, one hand still holding onto her, used his other hand to feel along the wall and travel back further into the blackness. The darker it became, the more rattled Nelle's breathing became and the more her heart flapped against her ribcage, but she kept on going, and Johnny squeezed her shoulder a couple of times to reassure her. The tunnel curved and they slowly crept back about a hundred yards before they saw the pillar of light pouring down from the ceiling and a rickety ladder at the centre of it.

Nelle had never been so relieved, and both she and Johnny quickened their steps so that they soon stood at the base of the ladder.

"I'll go up first and make sure it's all clear. You follow," he instructed. She nodded. A few seconds later, Ringo dropped his hand down and she took it. And then, then she was up and out of the musty, awful mine and surrounded by the early morning light. It was a few moments before Nelle's eyes adjusted to the glare coming off the horizon, even though it was behind her.

They were crouched in a nest of boulders and shrubs. Beyond the rocks, in the creeping light of dawn, they could see Lacy's camp – a few men hunched over a small fire, others sipping steaming coffee, and still others tending the horses. Nelle could just make out Lacy, reclined against a pile of saddlebags. From her vantage point, it was impossible to tell how severely she had wounded him.

"You'd better get going quick," said Johnny. "I don't think it'll take too long for them to discover you're gone. You'll have to go on foot; it's too risky to try and get you a horse."

"Which way, do you think?"

"I dunno. This country is new to me. But when Lacy finds you missing, he'll probably assume you're heading back to Boulder, so I'd eliminate that option, I think."

Nelle nodded in agreement.

"What'll you do? Are you going back to them?"

"I guess I'd better. It'll buy you more time. I'll creep over to that patch of trees and come out of there nice and obvious-like. I'll try and keep them away from the mine as long as possible."

"What if they ask what you were doing in the trees over there?"

"I'll tell them I got the runs," he said lightly. "Now, you best go. Now!"

"Thank you, Johnny! Thank you for this! Be careful!"

"Same goes for you, Miss! Now get going!"

She gave him a brief smile. Then, decisively, she turned around and began crawling, slowly and tediously, with her one good arm, towards the east, careful to stay in line with the rocks behind her, so that no one in the camp would catch sight of her. She moved with as much precision as she could muster, trying to ignore her throbbing face, the tender bruises splotched across her skin, and the chill morning air. She was careful not to jostle any loose scree, and though her progress was agonizingly slow and her hard-thumping heart felt ready to bust into bits, she skirted the side of the hill, traveling the entire way down on her knees or crouched low and out of view. And when she finally made it far enough around the hill so that she could no longer be seen from anywhere in the vicinity of the camp, she rose up and began to run, painfully, and with every ounce of her energy, down the hill towards the protective cover of a swath of forest she'd never seen before. Though her boots chafed her and her head ached, she ran hard, and she only stopped to catch her breath when she was fully surrounded by green.

Panting heavily, she rested against the trunk of a pine, trying to listen for the sounds of someone following her over the sound of her blood rushing through her head. Paranoid and circumspect, she was immediately alert to the sound of a pinecone hitting the ground - its gentle thud against the soil and the subsequent cackling of a squirrel overhead. But she did not hear the sound of horses or of men. She tried to think. She had no idea where to go. She only knew that if she went towards the east, she was moving away from Boulder, away from Ward, where Lacy planned to take her, and hopefully out-of-range of the inevitable search that would take place when he discovered her gone. Dizzy from a combination of hunger and exertion, she began hiking towards the rising sun. She ran in spurts, and then took long strides when she was forced to walk due to fatigue or the thickness of the vegetation. At one point, she heard the sound of a shot far off in the distance, and she stopped, frozen, to wonder if a bullet had found its way into Ringo's young body, or Arden's brain, or... And then she put her head down and plowed on, refusing to think of it any longer.

At a quarter past eight, Larry awoke in a foul mood, having had less than half of his normal rest. Sarah had not only kept the children home from school, but she'd not allowed them to venture outside, so, much to his chagrin, they were down in the kitchen squealing and squawking while she prepared a late breakfast. As he tugged his pants on and rubbed his red eyes, making them even redder, he tried to calm his nerves so that he wouldn't be tempted to throw shrill little Jack into his bedroom once he got downstairs.

After a sobering breakfast of boiled bran in a pan with jam, during which Cherry, Carrie, and Jack made gagging sounds interspersed with giggles until he gave them a blistering look with his swollen, bloodshot eyes, Larry humped out to the barn and saddled his horse, preparing to head to town once again. He decided he had to make time for a detour, no matter if it was somehow already almost nine, and headed first to Arden's cabin.

As he made his way through the familiar stand of pines, Larry looked towards the door of his brother's house. _At least he's not still stationed on the front step,_ Larry thought to himself, wondering if Arden was inside. It was then that he spotted a stranger. The man was riding off, out beyond the barn, with his back to Larry. He was a husky man dressed in dark clothes. Silently, Larry watched him until he disappeared into the brush. Then he quickly made for the door.

"Arden, are you in there?" he called, as he rapped loudly on the door.

No one came. Larry tried the door and found it unlocked.

"Arden," he called again, as he poked his head inside. But again, no one answered.

Quickly, he scanned the front room. Everything was in order, except for the floor. Arden was the cleanest living bachelor he knew, and would never have left the place in such a condition. Or rather, he never would have gotten it into such a condition in the first place. Everywhere Larry looked, there were black, muddy boot prints on the hardwood. They crisscrossed the room, disappeared into the kitchen, circled the writing desk, and passed by the fireplace. There was even some mud slopped on the first four rungs of the loft ladder. Without venturing any further into the cabin, Larry bent down and touched the cruddy footprint nearest to him. The mud was still wet. Fresh. It had to have been the man he'd just seen riding away. He wished he'd gotten a better look at him.

Without wasting any more time, he rode hastily on in the direction of the Mead Farm. Maybe Arden was there looking in on Anisette. If not, he'd probably be in town with her, visiting Flint. Larry hurried Spot along. When he made it to the wagon track that curved onto Anisette's property, he spotted another man leading a hitched team out of the yard. Squinting, Larry realized it was Arden himself, and clucked his tongue at his horse to giddy it up.

"Looking in on Ani?" Larry asked, as soon as he was in earshot, dispensing with greetings altogether.

"Nah, Ani's still in town. I came to feed the animals and pick up a few things for her... The odd thing is, when I rode up, there were two men nosing around the place - one rather brawny, the other, on the skinny side – both of them well dressed. I hollered at them, but they were too far off to hear.

"Arden, were they wearing suits?!"

"Yeah, looked like they were heading for a funeral. I went into the house and they'd definitely been inside."

"Wait a minute! Sarah said... Arden, there was a man at your place, too! Maybe the same as one of the men you saw here – beefy and on a red roan. He was riding off as I came up to your door. He really messed up your floor and... Do you know what this could mean?!"

"No. What the..."

"Just listen. The girls told Sarah that the some of the men who took Nelle were all dressed up fancy. And if they're back here sniffing around your place and Ani's, you know what that means. She may have given them the slip! It could be she's gotten away!"

"Hey, that makes sense," said Arden, his eyes instantly brightening. "Maybe you're right. God, I hope you're right. I hope she's alright, not stranded somewhere, hurt...

"Let her come home, let her come home," he begged the horizon.

He turned away from Larry for a moment and collected his thoughts. When he turned back to him, his expression was noticeably less dismal.

"Well, I guess I'll take these things to Anisette and the baby."

"Baby?"

"Oh yeah, tell Sarah that Ani has brought forth her firstborn – a son."

"Well, I'll be damned. Sarah is going to be beside herself... Ani's okay?"

"Yeah."

"Flint?"

"Still in the woods."

Larry nodded, pressing his lips tightly together. Slowly, he turned his horse around.

"I'm heading to town to see what the posse's up to."

Casting a regretful look towards the Mesa, Arden turned again to face his brother.

"Larry?"

"Yeah?"

"Find her."

Larry didn't answer. He turned away, slapped his horse's flank, and charged off towards town, leaving Arden standing in the tall, rustling grass alongside Anisette's driveway. In the quiet of her empty farm, the valley seemed suddenly very forlorn and empty. Nelle had only been gone for a day, but he felt as if months had passed. Jittery from fatigue, a near constant influx of caffeine, and a generalized store of nervous energy, he could see an indefinite stretch of anxious, wondering moments before him. How long could he last not knowing, not doing anything? In one single day, his mind had been bombarded by a continuous onslaught of images of Nelle in distress or dying alone somewhere. If it hadn't been for the distraction of Anisette, he'd already have broken and gone riding into the hills, searching.

There was hope, he reminded himself. Especially now, with what Larry had told him. Maybe she had gotten away. Maybe she wasn't hurt, as he'd imagined. Maybe she'd actually make it back soon. Maybe the posse would find her. If she'd escaped Lacy, there was hope. He had to focus on that, use it to get him through another day.

For a moment, he imagined her already back at his cabin, asleep in the bed. He could see her clearly, rolled onto her left side, her face half-mashed into the pillow, her right knee bent up towards her chin, her left leg long and straight, like an egret or a crane that had simply keeled over mid-wade. While she slept, he envisioned himself in the kitchen stirring up a quick batch of applesauce pancakes, heavy on the cinnamon, boiling water for coffee, and feeling happy, happy to just be there, with her.

Pain needled Arden's heart and jerked him from the fantasy.

"This is stupid," he said aloud, and headed to his wagon, his hand on his chest.

Then, as he started wheeling back towards Boulder, he wondered how these thugs knew to check his place, if indeed they were looking for Nelle. It was one thing to check Anisette's farm, as it was the one closest to the Mesa, but why had they gone to his? Had they forced Nelle to tell them about him? Or had they tracked her in that direction? The chance was slim, but he had to go home and check. Without delay, he halted the horses, swiftly re-directed them, and began rolling towards his cabin.

Fifteen minutes later, he disappointedly walked from his cabin back to the barn, where the horses were patiently waiting. He'd rushed through the few rooms that made up his home, searching for any sign of her and finding none. Then he'd paced the pine grove and the perimeter of the main yard, again coming up with nothing. He'd checked the barn and then gone back into the cabin and had been about to clean up the mud, when he'd suddenly changed his mind.

While the team rested further, he saddled up Hermes, made sure the pistol at his hip was fully loaded, and then galloped off towards the Mesa, careful to keep his eyes open for anything unusual, and any indication that Nelle was in the vicinity. Along the way, he warned himself not to be too optimistic, but even so, he blinked several times when he arrived to find that Nelle's cabin had been replaced by a large black dot. After he got over the shock of it, he circled the spot, looking for anything to salvage, but all the trappings of Nelle's existence had gone up like a pyre.

The thought that Lacy or his handlers had done this deliberately outraged Arden. There was nothing left. Not only had they taken her, but they'd also destroyed all evidence of her. She had vanished. Everything was gone. It was almost as if she had never been there at all.

Disheartened, Arden retreated to his saddlebags and unearthed a canteen of lukewarm coffee, which he downed despite the fuss his belly put up. He tried not to become too fixated on the fact that her cabin had been destroyed. What mattered was her, after all, and she may have gotten away from them, he reminded himself.

As he turned to leave, he noticed, in one corner of the black dot, large canine paw prints that could only belong to Yak. _The dog must be alive,_ he thought. _Even that is something._ He called and he called, but no mammoth-dog appeared. Still, as he rode back home and then resumed his wagon trip back to town, he was buoyed by the probability that Yak had come through the fire unscathed and the prospect that Larry might yet find Nelle alive.

It was mid-morning when Larry got to town, and upon arriving, he proceeded immediately to the sheriff's office. A smaller conglomeration of horses and men were assembled outside. Though the sun was high in the sky, some of the men from the day before had not shown up yet. A few others had begged off, citing fence posts to repair or the suddenly pressing need to file their hens' beaks or leash a perambulating turkey, Benno reported, when Larry found him inside the office loading a small arsenal.

"Where did you get all these?" asked Larry, examining the revolver closest to him on the desk.

"Oh, I have zem lying 'round."

"I see."

Larry told him the story of the strangers prowling around Arden and Anisette's places, and of his suspicion that Nelle may have managed to escape her captors.

"Good. Ve leave in five minutes."

"Good. Any word on Flint?"

"Jimmy checked. Steel live."

"Good."

"Arden not here again?"

Agitated, Larry didn't reply. Carefully, he put down the gun, turned, and walked out the open door.

"Not here," Benno answered himself.

Within five minutes, the posse left. There were seven men, compared to the eleven volunteers of the previous night. Benno had distributed the extra weapons, and by the time he'd finished, every man had a rifle and at least a pistol for each hip, if not an extra strapped somewhere on his saddlery. The average worked out to 3.4444444.... firearms per man, though no one actually stopped to calculate it.

Up at Lacy's camp, Thoms had once again gone into the mine to check on Nelle not fifteen minutes after Ringo had helped her sneak away. Lacy had become white with rage when he was subsequently informed that she had disappeared from her spot. His first instinct had been to blame young Ringo, but the kid had been nowhere near the mine since the stabbing incident. And when they'd found out she was missing, he'd been the furthest one from it, off in the brush with the shits. So he'd let into Thoms, who'd been guarding the mine almost all night. But Thoms had insisted that he'd been awake the entire time, that no one other than he had gone in or out, and that he hadn't heard anything suspicious. And when Lacy had threatened him with "consequences," Thoms had just about punched him in the abdomen, right where his oozing wound was situated. He'd stopped himself in time, but not before Byrne had realized what he'd intended. Lacy had not retaliated, however. Thoms was not a longtime associate, but rather, a hired gun he'd picked up outside of Carson City. He was probably the best of the outlaws he'd taken on along the way. The last thing Lacy needed, in his condition, was a mutiny. He wanted to finish this business with Nelle once and for all, and already, there had been a snag in the plan. He needed these men. And pragmatic Thoms was a particularly useful ally, especially now that there were problems. He would help keep the other men in line so they could get things done without unnecessary delay or distraction. He'd also decided that if the man had been adamant enough to come to blows, he'd probably been telling the truth. And so, he'd let it go.

Speedily, the men had conducted a search of the mine. Both because of the increasing light filtering into the mine, now that it was day, and the fact that Ringo had made sure he was the one to "search" the narrow byway that contained the ventilation shaft, Nelle's escape route had remained undetected. The men regrouped a short time later in the muted morning light at the front of the entrance.

"The question is, how did she come to break free of those ropes piled neatly just inside?" Lacy had snapped.

"Hey, I tied those ropes good and tight," Thoms had defended.

"He did," the kid had agreed.

"Obviously, they were cut, you fucking dimwit."

"I frisked her, good and thorough," Thoms had said.

"He did."

"Shut the fuck up!" Lacy had roared at the kid. "Did you check her boots?" he'd asked Thoms.

"No."

"And there you have it. You're all a bunch of goddamn incompetent tools! Have I not told you how fucking important this is? You think this is a little joke? Do you not want your payout?" he'd screamed at them all.

There had been a disgruntled chorus of concern over that, and general assent that yes, they did want their cash. They'd better get their cash.

"Well then, you'd best move out! She's gone and we have to find her fast!" Lacy had growled. "She can't have gotten very far, beaten up and without a horse. Fan out, men! Fan out!"

They fanned. They fanned furiously. But they fanned mostly in the direction of Boulder City, thinking, as Ringo had posited to Nelle, that she'd be heading towards known civilization. Lacy elected to wait at camp for Fielding and Mulligan to return from their earlier assignment. He needed some time to clean up his wound, which, though the knife had been removed, did not feel like it had been. And considering that Nelle had somehow escaped him yet again, he wanted to hear the news that at least her lover had been snuffed out. He needed a little something to brighten his day. So far, everything seemed to have gone wrong.

It had been a lucky break for him to meet up with Sly O'Connell over a gambling table in Kansas City not two weeks earlier. Sly had gone out that way for a little vacation before Anisette's baby came, knowing that in the time following the birth, he'd have a good share of extra chores. In fact, he was still there now. Unfortunately, Sly had never quite lived up to his self-appointed nickname and though he was a reliable, honest, and kind-hearted young man, he wasn't always the most savvy. And furthermore, whenever he was winning at poker, he got really chatty. It hadn't taken long for Byrne to cotton on to this fact, and once he'd heard that the youth hailed from Boulder City, he had made sure that Sly had kept on winning all night. Thus, through some casual direction of the conversation, he had learned all about the sleepy mining town, including information on where Nelle lived, the significance of one Mr. Arden Wilder, and so on. After slowly bleeding thirty-five dollars into Sly's hands, Lacy had gotten enough information to render further research unnecessary.

The sun had long ago steamed the frost off of the grass and was starting to lean low in the sky when Fielding and Mulligan, another of the easterners, had finally returned to camp, weary from their fast ride back.

"So?" Lacy inquired, as soon as they were in earshot. After he'd washed his wound, he'd paced the camp for hours, waiting for them to arrive.

Fielding immediately shook his head.

"I'd like to be able to tell you Byrne, that that rancher is now fertilizer for his own garden, but honestly, we couldn't find him anywhere. We went by way of the lady's former cabin and saw no sign that anyone had been there, except maybe some kind of heavyset wolf, judging by the paw prints. Then we hurried on down to where you figured that man's place was. I had a good look through the house and barn, but there was no one there. We checked the nearest farm to it as well, but no one was home there, either."

"That's right," added Mulligan. "And even though there were tracks - probably from yesterday judging by the looks of them, we didn't spot a posse out and about this morning. No one at all."

Lacy didn't say anything, but he carefully drew himself up onto his ready horse. He was too irate to speak. He simply gestured for them to follow, and they knew better than to argue or ask questions. He would tell them something once he simmered down.

Low in a valley awash with trees, Nelle had felt the sun grow hot overhead, and only then had she stopped to drink feverishly from a small stream, before re-lacing the stiff black boots she'd received from Sarah and pushing on, the blisters on her heels soaking her socks with watery blood. She kept moving. She knew if she stopped, it'd be hell to get going again, and she needed distance, much, much more distance between her and Lacy.

A few times, several of Lacy's riders came quite close to her, but they never spotted her, nor she them, as she pushed on through the forest. Byrne had instructed them to stay off of the main trails in case a posse was out, so they didn't run into Benno or Larry or any of the others slowly and painstakingly making their way to standoffish Ward while watching for signs of Nelle in case she _had_ gotten away. Ringo and Michaels had been assigned to hide out and watch the road in case someone else came upon Nelle first and tried to help her home.

When the posse arrived at Ward, Jimmy Cleland offered to step into the sheriff's office and find out what there was to find out. Benno volunteered to go with him but Jimmy declined, knowing that if Benno came along, the potential for shots being fired would drastically increase. Instead, Benno went with the others, who had agreed to maintain a low, but watchful profile at the edge of town. The men knew very well that if indeed Nelle and the gang were there, they really ought not go marching in a line straight downtown.

After leaving his horse with the rest of the posse, Jimmy cautiously made his way up the main street of Ward. It had been built on a slope and therefore caused him to feel a little trifled with by gravity as he humped along towards his destination. While he walked, scanning the buildings for something that looked like the sheriff's office, he encountered only a few Wardites as they passed by on their regular business, whatever that was. The first man he met, dressed in a brown suit and carrying a dead rabbit, completely ignored Cleland when he tipped his hat. A second man, bedraggled in paint-spattered overalls, crossed to the opposite side of the street and walked casually on when he spied Jimmy. A third man kept his hands in the pockets of his damp jacket and his hat pulled low as he shuffled past. A velvet-clad saloon girl blew him a kiss from a balcony where two men were already engaged in a highly competitive game of Find-The-Thimble. Jimmy was no prude, and he smilingly lifted his hat plenty high in response, grateful that _someone_ in the town was amicable enough. Finally, as he neared the end of the strip mall that was the main street, without finding the jail or any sort of lawman's office, he spotted a listless teenager leaning against the front wall of a hot dog shop. Quickly, he made his way towards the young man.

Surprisingly, the lean, shaggy-haired kid did not develop the sudden urge to rush inside for hot dog number four when Jimmy approached him.

"Say, do you happen to know where the sheriff's office is? I know there's one around here somewhere. I thought it was in this block," said Jimmy.

"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't."

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd think hard, kid. I need to know."

"What for?"

"For the benefit of a lady."

The teen lifted his head and looked him in the face.

"'The benefit of lady?' What are you, some kind of knight? Uh, just so you know, the Age of Chivalry is back that way about five or six hundred years," he said, gesturing towards the east.

After a few seconds of quiet contemplation, Jimmy reached out and clapped a hand down hard on the scruff of the kid's neck.

"That's fine, real fine son. Funny stuff. You're a fucking ray of light! Now, can you help me out or not?!!"

"Okay, okay. Just stop pressing down on my neck, already! I've got sciatica!"

"You do not."

"Let go and I'll tell you."

Cleland let go.

The kid kicked at the boardwalk and shrugged his shoulders a few times.

"The sheriff's studio is kind of hard to find," he said.

"Great. Will _you_ show me the way, Sunshine?"

"I might be able to remember the way for a buck."

"Yeah, I thought so. Let's go."

Still slouching somehow, the kid began loping along in swift, slinky steps, and Jimmy half ran to keep up with him. They snaked through several back alleys to arrive on a nameless street, which they crossed, before cutting across a vacant lot full of rusty, retired wagons and carriages, weaving through a colony of dilapidated shacks and emerging at the front steps of the building right across the street from the hot dog shop.

"Oh, of course" muttered an absolutely infuriated Jimmy. "You, you varmint!"

"I'll take that buck now."

"Like hell you will."

The teen burst out laughing then, and when Cleland made a move towards him, he pulled his hood up over his head and took off, still chuckling.

As the kid disappeared down one of the backstreets, Cleland had to admit that he should have known. After all, he'd been here once before. But still, the place looked so very different.

He studied the building more closely. He'd never been to a sheriff's office that had long johns drying on a line out front or that had clay gnomes for doorstops. Yes, there was a gold star painted over the door, but _on_ the door there was also a framed sign done in crochet indicating, "Home is Where the Heart Is." The last time he'd been here there had been a few handcrafted coffee mugs and vases on display for sale in the window, but not all this.

He rapped hard on the door. His knocking caused the crocheted sign to wobble precariously, but he paid no mind. There had been enough delay. If the posse was forced to wait much longer, it would likely come into town looking for him.

A moment later, the door was swung open wide, and Cleland found himself staring at a woman. A petite, doe-eyed, denim-clad young woman.

"I, uh, um, I'm looking for the sheriff."

Her chocolatey curls bobbed up and down.

"You're at the right place. I'm the acting sheriff of Ward."

"You?"

"Yeah. Duke hasn't been feeling so well lately, so he put me in charge of things," she said, pointing at the shiny star pinned to her breast. "I'm his granddaughter, Louisa."

"Well, hello, Louisa. I'm Jimmy Cleland."

"Wait, don't tell me... Oh yeah, I remember now... Making out with the wife and her purse got snatched... Am I right?"

She was right. It had been two years prior that he'd met Sheriff Duke, right after someone slipped off with Kate's bag while he and her were engrossed in a sexy little picnic just outside of the mountain town.

"Hey, how did you..."

"Oh, just reading through the files. I hate to say it, but it doesn't look like we've got any leads on that one."

"Well, you're certainly taking the job seriously. Wow! I, uh, I mean, does anyone around here give you any trouble about it, I mean, you being so obviously a woman and all that?"

"Not much. A few here and there that don't take me seriously, but I'm putting in my time in at the shooting range and soon there'll be a stop to that. Besides, this is Ward, Mr. Cleland, and so there's not a lot of competition in terms of people willing to take on a law enforcement role. Grandpa Duke knows how to handle things and he's been giving me tips."

"I see. Well, I came here about a woman."

"Mmmm... Hmmmm..."

"Hey, don't look at me like that!"

"Did she lose her handbag, too?"

"No, it's not like that! It's not that at all. Just tell me, have you seen anything unusual in town, like maybe a pack of unfamiliar dudes toting around a captive brunette? Or maybe just a bunch of strangers showing up sometime in the last twenty-four hours?"

"Holy Cow! You folks have some serious problems down there in that valley!"

"Can you just tell me yes or no?" he asked, becoming exasperated.

"Well, no, nothing unusual, and I certainly haven't seen any strangers about, other than you. We don't get a lot of strangers here."

"Okay, well, the lady is Boulder City's schoolteacher and she's been taken against her will. We'd like to get her back, so if you see anything odd, will you send a wire to Boulder."

"Sure thing, handsome."

Cleland melted at that, and instead of turning on his heel and testily leaving, as he had been preparing to do, he waffled long enough to take another look at those shiny, dark brown curls. Then he took a deep breath, tipped his hat regretfully, and got the heck away as fast as he could.

When he got back to the posse, he found the men restless and arguing over whether to go look for him. As he neared, they grew silent, looking expectantly towards him for any kind of news.

"So?" asked Benno, wiping his face absently.

"Nothing."

"Sheet."

"Nothing at all?" asked Larry.

"No." Jimmy was careful not to elaborate on his encounter with the new sheriff.

"Double sheet."

"Yeah."

It was late. There was nothing more they could do that day, so they set up camp outside of Ward. Nobody had voted to stay in town. They agreed that they'd split up the next day to cover more ground. Ford had to be somewhere between Ward and home. Admittedly, there was a fairly long stretch of east and west between Boulder City and Ward. But still, they could not give up. Not yet. Larry was especially insistent about it as the dispirited troupe unrolled their blankets around the campfire.

Blindly pushing east, Nelle had stopped for water twice more when opportunity had afforded it. Very late in the afternoon, she'd finally allowed herself to splint her arm with a smooth stick and a few strips of cloth torn from what remained of her blouse. And then, with the sun at her back, she'd trudged on again, no longer capable of running, until twilight burst onto the scene and she was forced to seek shelter in a hollow beneath the branches of a fallen spruce tree.

It didn't matter that the soil was damp or that an owl screeched in the distance, Nelle slept. It was a heady, hulking sleep – a sleep that took hold of her and held her down. There was absolutely nothing she could do to resist. She was powerless. The muscles in her arms and legs twitched erratically; her sunburnt shoulders blossomed with blisters; and a dragonfly motored and thrashed with sickening desperation, trapped beneath a mass of her tangled hair; and she could do nothing.

When darkness finally superseded the last dregs of light, Lacy and his men gathered again at their camp at the mine. Other than a sighting of the posse as it moved towards Ward, no one had anything to report, which further enraged Byrne to the point that he was ready to go rampaging through the bush, despite the cloud cover and resulting impenetrable pitch-coloured night. However, his groin was throbbing, or rather, the injury in his groin was throbbing, and it ultimately dissuaded him from pressing on like a fool. Instead, he crouched by the small fire and intermittently cursed each and every man in the camp, and then finally, Nelle.

By four a.m., the clouds had passed and the moon gleamed brightly again. Lacy, sleeping spasmodically, noticed this and again dispatched an immeasurably thrilled Ringo and Michaels to ride out and watch the trail back to Boulder and to report any news back to him. Then he leaned back and tried to sleep.

He didn't sleep well, and at first light, Byrne rose up from his bedroll and promptly doubled over. Sharp pains reverberated out from the wound near his hip, and dispersed across his entire body. The part of the gash exposed to the air burned most. Seething, he scowled his way through a cup of coffee and a gnaw of jerky, and then promised himself that this would be the day he would get Nelle Ford back. He would get her back and he would make her pay for this suffering, and for making him traverse the country to end up in this unrefined backwater of civilization. _I guess I should've sprang for a medic as well,_ he thought wryly, as another hot pang radiated across his hip.

Ever since he'd let Nelle slip through his fingers back in New York, he hadn't been able to rest. His whole life had been on hold. She had been his way out and he had bungled it. And he'd wanted out so badly. He'd needed it. It had been _his_ task to get Baines to pay up – his first big job. Before that, he'd been his father's lackey, mostly a personal messenger and a bit of extra muscle, when that was necessary. But the Baines situation had been made his responsibility and the money in it was to be his own. He'd had plans for it. He'd hated being dependent on his father, having his father in control of every aspect of his life – who he interacted with, where he went, and what he did. He'd had plans. He'd get out of the business, go his own way. The hosiery shop was a good idea. There was a need for that sort of thing. He'd do alright, settle down and have a family. That was all he'd wanted – all he still wanted - a simple life. His father had laughed at him, just rolled his head back and laughed when he'd told him. "You're too used to all this," he'd said, gesturing to the custom furniture in his office, the expensive liquor in their glasses, and the billfold of cash open on his desk. "You need me."

Byrne had known differently. Known it. And when Baines couldn't pay, he'd accepted the arrangement for Ford's inheritance, and the woman herself. It would still work out for him, he'd decided. She was a pretty enough young thing, and she could work hard, he'd ascertained, judging by the food she'd prepared and the orderliness of Baines' house. She'd be a decent wife. And he'd have the money! He'd have his way out! He'd do it, and no one would stop him!

He'd played it calm, assertive. He'd played it like he'd always played it when he wanted to get things done. After all, he _had_ learned a thing or two from his father over the years. He'd known what worked. You couldn't show any weakness. You had to take a strong tone. And he'd done it. He'd done it well.

But she'd laughed at him, too. And then things had gotten out of hand. And after, she'd disappeared.

Twice before, when Byrne had actually managed to track her down, she'd again slipped away before he could get to her. He'd been so close, but somehow in the last moments, she'd eluded him. And each time it had happened, he'd become more obsessed with finding her and finally succeeding with his plans. In the interim periods, he'd forced himself to work for his father, feeling increasingly humiliated and enraged as he went about implementing the man's will, but he'd kept on searching for her. He'd been relentless. He'd focused all his energy, used all his connections to find her.

And now it was all happening again. But it couldn't! It couldn't! He had to find her. He had to get her back. It had taken a long time to find her this time, far too long. She could not escape him. He had wasted too many years on her not to be successful. This was it. She was the one thing that stopping him from living his life, from proving to his father that he didn't need him, that he wasn't just another minion under the man's thumb. No, the bitch would not ruin it all for him! He needed to get her back! He would get her back! That very day!

Lacy sent his remaining men out in pairs, to the north, to the west, and to the south, and he, solo, pointed his horse east.

"Are you sure it's a good idea to ride by yourself with that wound?" asked one of the men.

"It's only a scratch," he replied savagely, so savagely that no one dared to respond. "We meet back here at nightfall," he continued. "If any of you find her, do whatever it takes to get her back here, short of killing her. I need her alive. Do you understand?"

They all nodded solemnly and then signaled their horses to move out. A few seconds later, all that remained of their camp was some tamped down earth, campfire ashes, and a half-dozen steaming piles of horseshit.

Away from his men, Byrne stopped at the nearest stream and bent down, unbuttoning and peeling back the front of his trouser to expose the injured side of his groin. Blood had coagulated around the edges of the deep gash, and the skin around it was red and slightly swollen. He probed it gently, groaning at the resulting waves of stinging pain. Cupping his hands, he repeatedly splashed cold water across the cut, the coolness of the water soothing the heat percolating there. Then he stood up, buttoned his pants, and with a new determination, got back on his horse and pushed east. Everything in him willed her to be in his path. Everything in him visualized her just in front of him. He was headed in the right direction. He had to be.

Though he rode hard for several hours without sighting a single human, Byrne was not discouraged. His pants chafed his wound vilely and he grimaced and groaned often, but was in no way dissuaded. Carrying on, he checked every creek and stream he encountered. She would need water to keep going, after all. And if she were near water, she wouldn't necessarily hear him coming. He liked that idea, the idea of sneaking up on her, maybe throwing a rope around her neck and dragging her back to him just as she tried once more to run. The image pleased him, though he knew he was no cowboy and would, in actuality, have to rely on his knife and pistol to subjugate her, rather than his non-existent roping skills. Still, the image of it carried him for another hour or so, until he hit pay dirt.

The sun had roared high into the sky and cast a searing light over the small rivulet where Byrne stopped to salve his wound, once again. As he doused his burning flesh with water, the glare of the sun on the surface of the little brook intensified and he was forced to turn his head away towards the shade. It was there, beside a brackish little puddle separate from the tiny stream, that he spied it. Sitting on top of thick brown mud was a white button. A pristine white button. He moved in for a closer look, and then, instantly, his mind was alive. He peered carefully into the trees and bushes spread out around him. The shredded rag of a blouse she'd been wearing – it was white! She had to have been there. It had to have been her!

With a new sense of urgency, Byrne jerked his slurping horse away from the water, lunged up into the saddle, and slapped the animal into action. Methodically, he moved through the trees, searching for a footprint, a broken branch, or a bit of fabric that might show him which way she'd gone. He was almost giddy. This time, he would get it done. Nothing would stop him.

When Nelle awoke, slowly scraping her eyelids open, the sun was glaring at her through her canopy of half-dead spruce branches, and two woodpeckers were conducting a duel high above in the branches of a pine tree overhead.

Inside her head, two pterodactyls were also conducting a duel of their very own.

After observing the high sun and the birds knocking beaks overhead, and all at once becoming cognizant to the fact that it was already nearing midday, Nelle sprang up to a sitting position in the little hollow beneath the fallen tree. Her vision was clouded with yellow sparks as the blood rushed from her head, and she was driven to lay her head back onto the soil once more, just for a moment. As the dizziness cleared, she glowered back at the hard gaze of the sun and silently reprimanded herself for sleeping so long. By sleeping so late, she knew she'd lost any kind of head start advantage she might have gained the day before. Byrne or one of his men could even be watching her right then.

She frowned and sat up gradually this time, before crawling out into the open. Just moving the distance of a few feet, her entire body rebelled with pain. Gingerly, she tried to stand up, only to fall back down onto her knees, stunned by the shooting pangs in her feet and shins. If only she'd worn her old boots, she wished. But it was no use wishing. At least she'd had the sense not to remove them in the night. She was certain her feet would've been too swollen for her to get them back on.

Pressing her splinted arm close to her ribs, planting her feet, and taking a deep breath, she forced herself to try and stand once more. Seconds later, she found herself upright, her body in agony. She coughed raggedly, spitting blood onto the ground. Getting thrown around had taken its toll on her. It wasn't just a matter of sore muscles from the extensive travel on foot. Her insides felt bruised. Soreness permeated her body.

She took a step, which brought tears to her eyes. _Keep going. It'll get easier,_ she assured herself. _The stiffness will wear off, at least._ Again, she put a foot forward, and again. Pushing the hair back out of her face, her left hand discovered a glob of sap, which must have fallen on her in her sleep, gluing a clump of her hair into a permanently matted rat's nest. Nelle sighed and kept moving, every step an effort.

Undeterred from her eastward trajectory, she hiked gradually up a forested ridge, stopping often to rest. As far as she could see, pine and spruce covered the land. She continued her slow trudge, aware that she was already growing unbelievably sleepy, though she'd only just wakened. She stumbled often, and her mind felt increasingly muddled. When finally she reached the highest point on the ridge, she looked down at the next valley, seemingly identical to the one she'd just left, with the same trees and rocky outcroppings, the same bantering crows and scolding squirrels, and she paused. A feeling of intense uneasiness overtook her.

Even though she had never been there before, had never stood in that spot before, it was all very familiar. Sickeningly, eerily familiar. Her anxiety building, Nelle knew that she should know why she felt this way. But her mind only became more uncooperative as she stood there in the stillness, trying to navigate through the turbid pool of her memory. She grew increasingly frustrated, feeling that the significance of the place was just out of her grasp, even though she was concentrating hard. She should know this place. She did know this place. But how?

Exasperated and exhausted, Nelle closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. She didn't dare sit down and rest. Her feet were a scourge of blisters in her stiff boots, her socks wet from the fluids that seeped from them. If she set herself down now, she knew she would not be getting back up anytime soon. And she had to keep going. She had to keep going.

She unclenched her eyelids and lifted her head. The sun blared persistently down. She could sense the line of exposed skin at the part of her hair as it began to burn. The bare skin above her breasts and at the front of her already pink shoulders, which her torn blouse no longer covered, also felt hot. Nausea bloomed in her belly and she fought hard to restrain her body, acid rising in her throat. Light streamed down, brighter than before, almost white, and Nelle found that she could no longer see anything in the periphery; she had tunnel vision. Her mind flitted back to Arden. Was he okay?

"Go," she instructed herself.

Examining the slope before her, she determined the path of least resistance and began her descent. Again, she clutched her broken arm against her tender ribs. Again, she pushed her sticky nest of hair behind her tight, heavy shoulders. Again, she laboriously lifted her right foot and planted it on the ground in front of the other. And as she pressed her sole into the dust, preparing to take another step, she heard the faint neighing of a horse.

Even in her broken, befuddled state, Nelle knew that it was highly irregular that a footstep should sound like that, and she stopped to consider. Her ears alerted, she stood stationary and listened intently. For a moment, she heard nothing but the swish of a light wind in the greenery. But then, far off, seemingly from the other side of the ridge she'd just climbed, she heard it – the sound of displaced rocks clattering against hard ground. And instantly, she knew it really had been a horse she'd heard, and her heart began hammering away at her all over again.

Without further scrutiny of the situation, Nelle bolted. Painfully, clumsily, and half-blinded, she forced herself to run. Downward, batting branches away from her face and tripping over clumps of grass, she desperately propelled herself, and in between the sharp bursts of pain, she was still haunted by the feeling that she'd forgotten something really, really important.

At the top of the ridge, Byrne Lacy stopped to wipe the excess of sweat from his forehead and adjust himself in the saddle, hoping to find a position that would be less likely to send the vibrations from his horse's footsteps directly to his progressively hotter and more swollen laceration. As he did so, he casually looked down into the next valley, scanning from one side to the other, checking for any kind of sign. Since the button, he had not seen anything to indicate Nelle's path, and he didn't see anything now. Or did he?

His gaze jumped back to a blur of white he'd caught just out of the corner of his left eye. There was nothing there now. Had it been a trick of the sunlight or had he caught a glimpse of something else, like the fluttering of a white blouse? He flicked the reins hard against his horse's shoulders and took off.

Charging down the hill, Byrne's anticipation grew. He knew she was near. He sensed it. There _had_ been movement in the trees. He was sure of it. And now, as he approached the valley bottom and spied her barreling forward without looking back, the tatters of her white blouse streaming behind her, he smiled jubilantly. Yes, the time had come.

Hearing the hoof beats becoming louder and swifter behind her, Nelle didn't dare look back. She knew it had to be him. Perspiration poured from her skin, dripped down her neck, and her abraded ankles and heels screamed at her to stop. She didn't. She couldn't. Her body seemed to be acting of its own accord, driving her onward in an instinctive compulsion to simply survive. Her blood thundered through her body. The smell of dry needles rose from underfoot and the sound of the pursuing horse's taxed breath grew louder and became indistinct from her own. And still, though her odds right then really stank, she kept running.

When she saw the stream appear ahead at the valley bottom, she still did not stop. She couldn't, with his horse practically breathing down her neck. But something nagged at her, something important, and as she flew on, she wished she could freeze everything, including herself in mid-air, just long enough to figure out what it was. But if God was there at the time, He certainly didn't reveal himself unto her by granting her wish, or really, doing much of anything, so she had to content herself with her own devices, which by now, were virtually nil.

She did however, finally look back. The stream was only about fifty yards away when she glanced behind her. The glare of the sun was blocking his face, but from the way he carried himself in the saddle, and from his elaborate attire, she knew without a doubt it was Lacy. He was about the same distance from her as the stony little stream. She had to make it across the stream...

And then she realized. It was her dream! Everything around her was familiar – the lines of the treetops extending into the valley, the heavy bars of sunlight, the hazy reflection of light on the trilling, clear water, and the round stones at the water's edge. She'd seen it all before. And now, as she careened recklessly towards the stream's edge, her muscles coiling up and preparing to spring, she knew that the one thing she must not do was what she was innately compelled to do. She knew how that ended.

Behind her on his horse, Byrne was still grinning. She was barely more than five feet ahead of him now. He quickly appraised her wavy mess of hair, the way it tumbled down her shoulders and the way it stuck to her damp, red face. Delightedly, he imagined reaching over, when he got close enough, and grabbing hold of her by that hair. He could easily do it. He would easily do it. Impatient, he freed his right hand and leaned forward and low in the saddle, but immediately regretted it as pain from his groin radiated across his body. It cleared the smirk right off his face and bathed his forehead in sweat. Automatically, instantaneously, he straightened up, but even so, he could feel the hot fluids begin to ooze from his freshly opened wound, and the pain, though somewhat lessened, permeating his flesh like poison. And it enraged him all over again. It fueled his resentment and intensified his loathing. It took hold of him.

As Nelle came to the water's edge, he jerked his pistol from the holster below his right hip.

"Stop! Enough!" he called, in a commanding, harsh voice.

She did not jump, though it took all her will to restrain herself. Nor did she turn back to look at him, which of course, only served to anger him further. Rather, after passing several small shrubs and rushing down the shallow bank, she slid her right boot into the water, and finding a foothold, abruptly dropped down onto her knees, letting the water surge to the tops of her thighs.

That was when he fired.

Instantaneously, the flesh below her ribs began to sting. It smarted. It burned enough that she almost let out a shrill yelp. But it didn't _really_ hurt. The bullet had merely grazed the skin at her waist, sending out a fine spray of blood, but causing no impairing damage like a bullet in the shoulder would surely have done.

She ducked low, letting the water carry her slowly away from him as she'd intended before he'd shot at her. But the stream was not deep enough or flowing fast enough to conveniently sweep her away and out of danger. In fact, the water grew even shallower mere yards downstream and she bobbed and bumped and then, inched along, very soon coming to a full stop in a bed of fine, polished gravel. With one good arm, there had been only so much she could do to try and force herself along. However, the icy coldness of the water helped to clear her head and invigorate her flagging body, and for the first time in many hours, she felt awake and hyper-aware.

Cursing, Byrne dismounted. He strode woodenly alongside the gurgling water, rapidly gaining on Nelle once again. His face was iron, his eyes dark with contempt. How he wanted to end this madness! How he wanted to finally be free! It was all her fault that he was here under the ravaging sun. His body felt leaden, encumbered by years of frustrating denial and bitter emptiness. Transferring his gun to his left hand, he readied his right, manically opening and closing his fist, and he forced himself to increase his pace.

Beneath the water, Nelle's functional hand found a jagged, apple-sized rock and her fingers closed over it. Despite the torn skin below her ribs, she forced herself to focus, to listen to the sound of his noisy footsteps on the stony bank behind her.

As soon as he was near enough, Lacy reached out, and in one sweeping motion, snatched up a fistful of her trailing hair. He yanked her up to her feet.

"I said, enough!" he seethed, as she flailed, searching for balance.

She found it. And as Byrne forcibly spun her around to face him, still gripping her hair, she gathered all her remaining energy, lifted her left arm and watched as it arced with an ungainly but startlingly forceful momentum towards his temple.

When the rock, with her hand still clenched tightly around it, hit the side of his head, there was a nauseating wet scrunching sound that made Nelle think of iceberg lettuce and how when you want to de-core it, you slam it down hard on a countertop, and after that, the thick white stalk can effortlessly be plucked right out. She could see it happening in her mind. She could see herself doing it, making salad at the counter in her cabin, the cabin that no longer existed. She could see it. And her fingers clung to the rock like there was only her and it left in the universe.

Upon impact, Byrne staggered sideways, his mouth frozen in a disbelieving "O", his eyes fighting not to pull down the blinds, and his body teetering. An explosion of pain spread across his skull like lightning, and something deep inside him trembled and then broke in the squall. Sickened by the blood draining from the spot next to his eyebrow, Nelle finally, involuntarily dropped the rock. A second later, he began to fall, and as he did so, she reached over and easily took the gun right out of his hand.

He hit the ground, his body settling in a black heap, his eyes closing. Stupefied, Nelle stood silently and waited, but he made no move, and his face grew whiter as the pool of blood thickened beside his head. _It's over,_ she told herself, incredulous, her body beginning to quake uncontrollably. _A single caveman-style wallop to the head with a rock and it's all over? Just like that?_

Wearier than she had ever felt in her entire life, Nelle couldn't bear to look at Byrne Lacy a moment longer. She heaved, but there was nothing inside her to vomit up. She was extremely weak and had almost nothing left. Dropping to her knees, she tucked the gun into the back of her waistband and began a one-armed crawl back to the stream, her throat prickly with thirst.

Of course, Byrne rallied. They always rally when your back is turned. Luckily for Nelle, however, he was too anguished to scheme or strategize. Groaning, he simply clawed at a juniper until he found his grip, and then pulled himself to standing.

Nelle turned back, still on her knees.

He glowered at her, his head still streaming blood, his teeth bared.

"Biiiiiiiiiittttttccccccchhhhhhhh," he snarled, taking an unsteady step forward. _I've been here before,_ thought Nelle, as she painstakingly, gracelessly stood up.

She watched him pull the knife from his pocket, hatred in his eyes.

But then, without warning, his face contorted into an expression of grief, of utter misery. His shoulders sagged, his eyes grew childlike and pleading, his lips twisted with despair.

"You can't do this to me," he cried out.

"What!?"

"I needed this... You... You laughed at me... Like him, you laughed..."

"Huh?"

"All I wanted was...my chance, my shop..." he screamed, begged.

The knife in his hand was shaking. Blood ran down his neck. There were tears in his eyes.

"God, that was all... My own life... My own simple plans... You laughed," he shrieked, sobbed.

Aghast, Nelle just stared.

"After all, they shouldn't always have to be fucking gray with red stripes!"

Her stomach dropped. She choked on the breath in her throat. Her eyes grew very wide.
XII.

Finally, despondent and resigned, Byrne had careened halfheartedly towards her, still wielding the knife, and it had ended just as can be expected when someone with a knife runs at someone with a gun. When he'd advanced near enough for a left-handed shot not to miss, which for Nelle was point blank range, she'd fired two shots. The first had hit him just above his navel and the second had taken the high road and zinged right through his heart.

He'd crumpled on the ground, inches from her, and she'd sat down dazed before him, gun at the ready, until his last breath had sputtered out of him and the knife had dropped from his fist.

It hadn't taken long.

Afterwards, she'd continued to sit there for some time, gazing blankly into the trees. She'd felt bewildered and empty as Lacy's blood had seeped into the prattling stream.

_It's over,_ she'd told herself.

But sometimes, words mean nothing.

Now, possibly hours later, Nelle was tremendously weak and yearning for rest. The gunshots had sent Lacy's horse fleeing into the trees, and beyond a mustered "whoa", there'd been nothing she'd been able to do to stop it. Eyes darting left to right, occasionally stopping cold on the lifeless body in front of her, which had already become a person-of-interest to an authoritative crow lurking in the skies overhead, she crawled clumsily forward until the man's body was beside her, then just behind her, and then somewhere back in the periphery over her right shoulder. Only then did she make her way back to the water, where, cupping her hands, she drank mouthful after mouthful of the clear, shimmering liquid, slowly slaking the oppressive thirst that had possessed her. She wanted to lie down right there and stare languidly into the blueness of the sky until her eyes fluttered shut and she fell into a deep sleep, but she didn't dare. She didn't know how Byrne's men would take it if they found him just downstream, beginning to bloat up to double-size in the sun with a crow on his shoulder screaming, "Mine!" and her, sunbathing merely meters away. Nor did she know how long it took for a body to really start in on the putrefaction process, especially when there was a simmering sun beaming down on it, or how long it would be before the more intimidating carnivores emerged from the lumber for a carrion freebie. And she wasn't going to find out. She had to get to shelter.

Pushing herself to seated, she stretched out her legs and let her feet, which felt as if they would rupture the restricting leather at any moment, sink into the current, boots and all. Her body ached all over. Her right arm was useless. Looking at the bruises on her skin evoked an eggplant patch. Her stomach seemed to be digesting her own blood, and she had to turn her head to see what was beside her. Yet, the pain was different than before. It didn't seem to dominate her as it had earlier, sending caustic telegrams back and forth across the lines of her nervous system. Of course, she still sensed its presence. But now it seemed far off, a persistent niggling somewhere in the distance. Numbness, like a vapor, invaded her body and began wandering towards her mind. It was time to move.

Gradually, Nelle dragged her feet from the water and in one abrupt maneuver, thrust herself up to a shaky standing position. Then there were a few recuperative breaths, after which she tested the theoretical possibility of walking with an actual step. There was pain, groan-inducing pain climbing up her ankle, but the urgency of her situation convinced her to ignore it and attempt to take another step.

Dizziness returned as she continued trudging upriver. About five hundred yards ahead of her, a cluster of fledgling willow trees stretched down from the hillside, almost to the water's edge, and Nelle chose the tallest of the saplings as her focal point, so that when she was compelled to submit to the thickening atmospheric pressure in her head, she resisted, and instead memorized each thin arm of the tree, each tip of twig and flutter of tiny leaf, and she kept on.

It took her nearly an hour to reach the thicket, and then another fifteen minutes to edge up the hillside to that tree. It was as far as she could go, and when she got there, she collapsed beside it, her body hidden and shaded by the dense little pocket of trees. Cool air swirled over her hot skin and for an instant, she listened entranced to the swishing of the breeze in the leaves. Then there was a weighted sigh of utter depletion, and then nothing, for Nelle, who was not the fainting kind, had "passed out."

Sometime later, two nearby robins engaged in lilting pillow talk, and then the sun did the same old teasing dance down to the horizon, leaving its gold and pink-streaked underthings in a fluffy pile on stage after disappearing beneath the curtain. Nelle, still unconscious, did not stir once. She didn't notice the pale green catkins that fell from the swaying trees, littering the ground around her, nor feel them occasionally land on her boots, torso, or once, the salty surface of her cheek. The curious scrutiny of several chatty sparrows did not register. And when a thick mist descended over the ground, dampening her flimsy clothes, and her body vibrated with shivering, she was altogether unaware. She was deep in the fog of her own fatigue, oblivious to everything outside of herself.

At dusk, Larry, with Jimmy Cleland and Old Man Connelly, rode back into town, sore, hungry, and discouraged. Early that day, as planned, the volunteers had split into two groups. They'd decided that if the men of either group were to find the gang, they would try to discern whether Nelle was still being held or if she'd gotten away. Ideally, they would find that Nelle had escaped and they wouldn't even need to face a conflict with the gang; they'd just keep searching for any sign of the schoolteacher. If she was still in the hands of the strangers, they'd send someone back to rendezvous with the others and lead them to the location of the gang, so that together, they could try to free her. Unless, of course, there was a way to stealthily extricate her immediately, in which case it would be done and then they would fire a three-shot signal to the second group.

Larry and his partners had ridden the byways southeast of Ward and west of Boulder City all afternoon without so much as spotting a footprint or a bootlace that might have belonged to the schoolteacher. Nor had they sighted any strangers about. _What am I going to say to Arden?_ Larry now asked himself. But before he could think of anything, he and the two others saw that the rest of the posse had beaten them back to town and were now gathered out front of the sheriff's office. And as they drew nearer, they noticed there were extra men with them – extra men with their hands tied behind their backs.

Larry hurried his horse.

"Run, Spot, run!" he urged.

His two companions rallied their own spent horses and the three trotted up to the office just as Benno and the others were ushering the prisoners inside.

"What happened?" Jimmy asked Jake Connelly, who'd been waiting in town for his father to come back, and who now lingered on the office's steps.

"Mr. Albrecht, Mr. Henderson, and Mr. Bower rounded up those two keeping watch on the I-25."

"What about Nelle, er, Miss Ford?"

Jake shook his head.

"No," he said dismally. "But Mr. Albrecht motivated those two to do some talking and they say they don't know where she is. She got away from them yesterday morning. The guy that hired them is still chasing after her. That's all we know."

Larry nodded.

"Thanks, kid," said Jimmy.

They made for the door and Old Man Connelly gestured to his son to follow. Inside, Benno was slamming the door to the jail cell. It didn't squeak at all, but clanged loudly as it latched into place. Benno turned the key to lock it, and all the men on the outside looked in on a pale Ringo and a scowling Michaels. Clearly, they'd had their time to question the two because some of them were already moving to leave, muttering goodbyes to each other and agreeing to head out again in the next day. Moments later, only the latecomers, as well as Benno and Jake, remained standing in front of the cell.

Unloading three weapons from his person, Benno noisily sat down at the battered desk in the centre of the office. After hesitating a second or two, he lifted his boots up onto the desk, crossed his right ankle over his left, leaned back in the chair, and put his hands behind his head. Larry looked at him quizzically, but he didn't hurry to answer. He gazed matter-of-factly at the two men standing bemused behind the bars. After pointedly considering them for a moment, he turned his gaze back to Larry and the others.

"Ve catch zem vatching ze trail to Vard, behind large rock. Ve vere coming from ze northeast, through ze trees. Snuck in from ze behind. Zey say Ford probably steel live but zey don't know vere she is. She escaped, as you thought, Dime."

Larry nodded slightly.

"Did they put up much of a fight?" asked Jimmy.

"Nah. Zey have no time. Too surprised. Very vindy and zey not hear us."

Jimmy grunted and walked over to the cell for a closer look at the two men. The older one, narrow in the shoulders and hips, but sturdy enough in the limbs, had an unruly mess of brown hair crawling towards the back of his head, tobacco stains on his teeth, a pitted frowning face, and appeared to be passing through middle-age at breakneck speed. The second man, barely into his manhood at all, sat on the cell cot and stared abashedly at the water bucket on the floor across from him. His hair verged on black, though his eyes were a bright green, and he was skinnier than some of the dogs Cleland had seen on his last trip down to Chihuahua. And from the way he acted, it was obvious he hadn't been in jail before.

"Were either of you two prowling around the Mead Farm and the Bar Circle Gets the Square yesterday morning?" inquired Larry.

Michaels refused to look at him. Ringo stared blankly.

"The tall yellow farmhouse, and the cabin in the pines on the big ranch just west of town," he explained.

"No, it was probably Fielding and Mulligan," said the young one, resignedly. The other guy kept on frowning.

"You von't get a sing from that one," said Benno, pointing at Michaels. "He's got ze personality of a curtain rod. And ze demeanor. Only ze younger one yaps."

"Ah," said Cleland.

It was true. Since the moment Michaels had turned away from his surveillance of the trail to find three rifles trained on him and Ringo, the only word he'd muttered was "Shit." All the way back to Boulder City, he'd sat sullen while the men had interrogated Ringo, who, in contrast, had spilled his guts as soon as he'd come face-to-face with the disgruntled men of the posse.

Perhaps if Ringo had simply gone and robbed a bank, he wouldn't have been so ready to give information to his captors, but his growing unease over having participated in an exploit that involved violent kidnapping, attempted robbery, and the battery of a woman, contributed to his verbosity. And luckily for him, Michaels was just another hired gun, rather than one of Lacy's longtime gangster cronies. If it had been Fielding with him, say, or even the eager, quiet Mulligan who stayed on the edge of things and kept his eye on all of them, Ringo would've been a pile of bloodied mash clogging up the floor drain in the corner of the cell for being so communicative. But Michaels knew that ending up in jail pretty much cancelled any chance of a paycheck from the foul-tempered Yankee brute that had hired him on, so he didn't give a kid's kazoo what Ringo did. However, the young man's blatant insecurity did give him the willies, so he did his best to simply ignore Johnny altogether.

Now it was Connelly's turn. Jake's, not his father's. Flushed and agitated, he walked up to the cell and looked in at Michaels, briefly, and then at Ringo, who was not much older than him. He stared at the young man as jumbled, angry, and confused thoughts smoldered in his mind. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, not knowing where to start. Ringo's face began to burn with shame as he weathered the critical, embittered, and unrelenting gaze of the kid on the other side of the bars. Finally, after trying futilely to find some words to convey the immensity of his feelings, Jake gave up without uttering a word. Frustrated, he turned away, and together with his father, walked towards the door.

"Tomorrow, we'll find her," Old Man Connelly said resolutely, as they walked out into the night.

Larry wasn't so sure.

"Do we know which way she went?" he asked Benno.

"Nah. Zis guy Ringo here says zey don't know. Some men look in each direction."

"Is she on foot?" Cleland asked Ringo.

"Yeah, we think so. She didn't take a horse when she snuck away."

"Well, one thing's for sure. We'll have to wait till morning to go out looking again. Can't see any better than a mole in the dirt with this thick fog dropping down on us. Likelier than not, it'll be raining soon, too."

"Agreed," said Larry. "But the longer we go without finding, well, I mean..."

"Yah. Ve know," replied Benno gravely.

"Let's get a really early start tomorrow," suggested Cleland.

Benno nodded.

"Yah. Ve already agree."

Cleland bid the two men goodbye and left. A weary Larry made to follow, but Benno stopped him to ask that he take a small detour on his way back to the Bar Circle Gets the Square. Benno wanted his wife, Marta, notified that he'd be spending the night in town watching the prisoners.

Outside, Arden had just left the doctor's office, where Flint was holding fast and Anisette was in a post-birthing oblivion, the only thing breaking through her cooing, adoring worship of Baby Mica being word of Flint's progress. He'd been running errands for her, and had gone out to her place to tend to the stock and just check on things, considering there had been those strangers about on the previous morning. He'd done so gratefully, knowing that if he'd been at home, he wouldn't have found the motivation to do his regular summer chores on the ranch, and he would've have sat on his porch and worried constantly over Nelle.

Presently though, he had no more distractions, no list of tasks, and so his mind was focused on her as he coaxed his horses to wheel him homeward. He wondered where she was right then? Somehow, he felt she could not be dead. He believed he would know somehow, if it happened. Perhaps it was just self-delusion, but he couldn't consider that she might be gone. She was still alive. She must be.

But it had been two and a half days with no word, he reminded himself. His mind wobbled and whined like a ghost. His overwrought heart no longer pumped his blood; it chewed it. When he was not buried in work, he questioned himself incessantly as to whether Larry was right, even though his answer always came out the same. He couldn't do it. He'd promised her. But still, there had to be something he could do to help her. Even if he couldn't join the search, he had to find a way to bring her back.

He didn't have much time to mull it over, because just as he began to steer the wagon northish onto Main Street, he glanced over his right shoulder at the sheriff's office and felt his body electrify. There, standing in the streak of light pouring out of the office window, was the tall, sleek form of Mnemosyne. Could it be? Had they found her? He was about to leap out of the moving wagon, then stopped abruptly. _But if they found her, Larry would've told me,_ he thought, _unless..._ And then his body went cold. _No, no, it can't be!_

Turning the wagon around, he sped over to the office. He threw the reins over the hitching post as he leapt down from the wagon seat, and he barged into the building.

As soon as he stepped inside, he found himself face-to-face with his older brother.

"Oh... Arden!" Larry exclaimed.

Arden pushed past him. His face was set with tension and his eyes darted back and forth across the small room.

"Where is she? I saw her horse out front. Did you find her? Please don't tell me she's..."

"No, no Arden. We don't know that," interrupted Larry, watching Arden press his hands to the side of his head, and then run his fingers through his hair in desperation.

"We're going out again tomorrow morning. We'll keep trying."

Clenching back his emotion, Arden strode pointedly past the desk to the back wall. After a moment of staring dazedly at his own shaking hands, he closed his eyes and just stood there, leaning back against the bricks. He stayed like that for some time, attempting to bring himself down from afflicted instability to a mildly functional level of being. _It's been too long and they haven't found her._ _How likely is it they'll find her tomorrow? Alive?_

His head pounded and his chest felt volcanic. Having taken the news of Nelle's capture and disappearance calmly, kept his promise not to go after her, and stoically weathered the last few days without giving in to the stress of waiting around helplessly, he was close to collapse. Of course, it didn't help that he wasn't sleeping and his diet over the last forty-eight hours had consisted of only one item somewhere in the very tip of the food pyramid – coffee. Something had to happen. He couldn't keep on like this. They had to find her tomorrow. They had to.

Brusquely, he turned around to look at Larry, who was still eying him anxiously from his position near the doorway. Poor Larry had never seen Arden so on the edge and he had no idea what he ought to do.

Still in the dark as to why the heck Wilder was not on the posse when he was obviously embroiled with the schoolteacher, Benno figured it was prudent to avoid all unsolicited commentary.

"Where did you find the horse?" Arden asked Larry, in a subdued voice.

"Ze kid vas riding it," Benno informed him.

"What kid?"

"Ze young one in ze cell. Ve caught ze two today. Zey look for her, too."

When he'd entered the office, Arden had barely noticed the two men in the cell. They'd registered as mere shadows. He'd been entirely focused on Nelle and the appearance of Mnemosyne to be concerned with them. Now, he walked slowly over to the cell for a closer look.

On the cot against the far wall was a man with dirty teeth and a messy widow's peak. He scowled in his sleep and clearly was not "Ze Kid" that Benno had referred to. Arden shifted his gaze to the other prisoner sitting on his haunches against the wall. The young man had his elbows on his knees and his head tilted enough so that he could peer out beyond the bars at the big desk where Benno sat, and at the place where Arden now stood, anxiety gnarling his shoulders.

"What were you doing with her horse?" Arden inquired in a smooth, glassy voice, though the muscles in his neck were taut and his blue eyes took on a granite tone.

"My horse went lame," Ringo replied feebly.

"Oh, well then..."

Leery of what might happen next, Larry moved nervously towards his brother. There was something in Arden's voice that perturbed him deeply.

"I, I, dddiddn't mmmean for any harm to come to her, sir."

Arden cleared his throat loudly.

"So harm _has_ come to her?"

"Uh, yeah. Some."

"But she's not dead?"

"Not that I know of. She got away from us yesterday."

"Tell me exactly what is wrong with her," Arden commanded, his hands gripping the bars, his voice cool and authoritative.

There was no reply. Johnny surveyed the floorboards.

"Tell me!"

"Okay, okay. She definitely has a broken arm... And she seemed to have some trouble walking, though I couldn't tell you if it's just boot chafe or something else. I know Lacy was really knocking her around in the mine before she knifed him... Her ribs probably aren't in the best shape. And of course, there are some bruises and cuts and stuff."

Arden's gaze drifted up to the ceiling and his hands tightened around the bars. He sighed heavily, but it was not a sigh of release. It was sigh of containment. Very, very irate, he wanted to throttle both this kid and the indifferent slab of meat asleep on the bed. But he also wanted to know. Know everything.

"Stuff?" he asked, his voice sharp.

"Well, I'm not a doctor or anything, but you know, stings and cuts and scratches from riding through the brush all tied up," explained Johnny.

Arden closed his eyes for a moment. Larry stepped over to him, worried.

"Let's go, Arden. There's no point in tormenting yourself with this," he said gently.

"I need to know, Larry!" Arden yelled, all at once. "I need to know everything!"

Larry backed off rather quickly after that. Benno looked only a little taken aback. Michaels snoozed on, or pretended to. And Ringo, despite being behind bars, shrank further back against the wall.

"What's your name, kid?" asked Arden, his voice strained.

"Ringo. Johnny Ringo."

"Alright, Johnny. When did she escape you and the rest of Lacy's men?"

"We went over all this already. I told them about the mine, about everything. I mean, do we have to do it again?"

Appraising his huddled stance and the intriguing colour of his face, Arden knew that Ringo wasn't exactly comfortable talking about this. Possibly, he was even a little regretful. And the kid deserved it. _He ought to be regretful. He ought to be uncomfortable,_ Arden thought. _He ought to sweat and suffer, and maybe even die for his part in this, depending what else comes to light._ His eyes narrowed as he continued peering into the apprehensive face of Johnny Ringo.

"Yes, Johnny, we do have to do it again. And we'll do it again and again and again, until I am satisfied I know everything there is to know. And once I am satisfied, I will decide what I need to do about it. The sooner you talk, the better it'll go for you. You see, that woman you and your classy buddies assaulted and hauled off, she's, well, she's...important to me!"

"Fine. Whatever."

"So I am entitled to the facts. All the facts. Now."

Johnny shivered, nodded rapidly, and began.

"Yesterday morning, at sunrise, er, after sunrise, we discovered she was gone."

"At or after sunrise?"

"After."

"What time?"

"I don't know."

"Who discovered she was gone?"

"Thoms. He was supposed to be on watch."

"Who's Thoms?"

"A big guy Lacy picked up somewhere out east."

"What about you? You don't sound like you're from out east."

"I was hired on, too, but only just before the job."

" _The job!?!"_

Ringo realized he'd blundered. It was a moment before Arden continued with his questioning.

And what about him?" Arden asked, gesturing towards Michaels.

"Same as me."

It went on like that for a while, with Arden repeating the same questions over and over again, sifting for information, for anything that might help the search and bring Nelle back to him. He couldn't go after her, but he could do this. He could ensure that any useful facts were dredged from this kid's brain.

Unconcerned now, Benno kept one eye closed and one eye on the proceedings at hand. Larry was eager to get home to Sarah and his bed, but was hesitant to leave Arden, so he stood on in his spot by the door, hat in hand. Unlike Benno, he was troubled by Arden's obsessive round of questioning, by the flags of misery in his eyes, and by the edginess in his movements. He reminded Larry of a parched prairie waiting for a single spark.

As the hour wore long, the incessant questions left Johnny feeling increasingly sapped of energy. His answers grew more and more clipped, and his voice betrayed his impatience. But Arden persisted. Over and over again, he asked about what they'd done to Nelle, about the mine, about Lacy's men, about the stabbing, and about how they'd found Nelle gone. He pushed Ringo until the kid's fatigue and irritation peaked and he finally blurted out, "I've already told you everything. Can't I rest now? I'm fucking tired," to which Arden replied, "I wonder how _she_ fucking feels?"

That shut him up. Johnny's face burned, the heat spreading to his ears. He dropped his head to his chest and counted the buttons on his shirt. He wished to God he'd never gotten mixed up in this operation. The image of her brown eyes, wide with fear and streaked with red from pain or lack of sleep, had already been haunting him, and came to him again with Arden's comment. _Realistically,_ _how far could she have actually made it? Surely, one of the men has found her by now._

The thought nagged at him. At some point, the idea of her being recaptured by Lacy had become entirely intolerable to him. He was hungry and tired, and yet, he realized now that he would not be able to really eat or enjoy a restful sleep until he, too, knew that she was safe. Fleetingly, he thought again of his sister, who had run off when he was only ten, never to be seen or heard of again. If alive, she would now be about the same age as this schoolteacher. Guilt churned in his guts and his body felt drained of strength. This was too much. It was not what he'd signed up for. Robbery was one thing, but what if she died out there? What if Lacy had found her? And even if he hadn't, if she didn't get to safety soon, how long did she really have?

Arden was thinking the same thing. It was constantly in his mind. Vaguely, he realized he could hear the sound of rain on the dusty ground outside, though he had no idea how long it had been falling. He looked again at Johnny's red face, his evasive eyes, and his slouched shoulders. There had to be something. There had to be.

"Ringo, isn't there anything else you can tell me? Some little detail? Anything at all that you might know about and haven't shared in our little tête-à-tête here tonight? I'm giving you this one last chance to tell me, this one chance. And if something happens to Nelle Ford and I find out that you _did_ hold out on me tonight, I will hold you personally responsible, and whatever happens to her will happen to you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," ventured Johnny, his voice wavering a little.

In a way, Johnny was almost a little relieved. Whether he told this man which way Nelle went and Lacy found out, or whether he didn't and this man found out, he knew he was plain S.O.L. And somehow, that made his decision easier. If he was pretty much screwed no matter what, he would help her and endeavor to put right his participation in this whole, stupid mess.

"She left at sunrise yesterday. I snuck into the mine through a ventilation shaft and helped her get out the same way. She went straight east from there. That's all I know," he announced in one long breath that tumbled from his mouth.

"What?" exclaimed Larry.

"What?!" cried Arden.

"Vat?" asked Benno genuinely, having been jolted from his snooze.

"It's true," insisted Johnny. "I'm sorry I didn't say so before," he went on, his voice faltering. "She left at sunrise and she was moving east. She knew the first place Lacy would look was back here."

"Did she say she was going to stay on an eastward path?"

"Not exactly. She only set out that way, but for navigation's sake, I'd guess she kept on going in that direction. I mean, she seemed a little hazy. It would've been easiest for her to use the sun for orientation."

"I hope you're right," said Larry. "At least now we've got something to go on. Now that we know about the mine and which way she was heading, we have a starting point for tomorrow. Benno, you go home and get a proper rest. I will too, that is if you can stay and keep an eye on these two, Arden? You can see what else you can drag out of this kid."

Arden assented with a nod and Larry kept on.

"Benno, I'll meet you here at first light. We ought to get going as soon as possible. Arden can fill the others in on where we're headed as they arrive," he stated bluntly.

Albrecht didn't speak a negative or an affirmative, but by the way he was rapidly gathering up his assortment of weapons, the two men knew he was in agreement. Two minutes later, he was out the door and on the way home to his wife. Larry was right behind him. As he left the office, he paused in the doorway and turned back to Arden.

"You alright with this?"

"Yeah. It beats the hell out of sitting at home waiting."

"Good," he replied, and was gone.

His shoulders rigid, Arden paced to the centre of the room and sat down in the desk chair. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his fingers against the sides of his skull, just above the eyebrows. Then he opened his eyes once more and looked back at the two men in the cell. Ringo was staring at him, still sitting against the cell wall, his face eaten by remorse, his slender body stooped over. When he found Arden looking back at him, he opened his lips to speak.

"So, she's your sweetheart?" he asked.

Arden looked away from him and gave no answer.

"Sir?"

Irritated now, Arden gave Johnny a scornful look and the kid's cheeks ripened like tomatoes.

"Listen Ringo! You and I, we're not going to do this. We're not going to each lean up against one side of the bars and embark on a manly reminiscence of our lady loves. I'm not going to listen to you get all nostalgic about some blushing farmer's daughter who let you slide a hand under her chemise or some barmaid who permitted you a sloppy, fermented kiss, and then have you put that up side-by-side against what I've got. It's not happening, sonny! We won't end up strolling out of here together as comrades, arms propped on each other's shoulders as we stumble to the saloon for a mutual hangdog toast to life's inherent woes, no matter how tight you scrunch up your eyes or how many twinkling stars you wish upon. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah," replied Ringo, in a rueful tone. "Then I'm just wondering, if she _is_ your woman, why you weren't out looking for her with those other men?"

Arden's body stiffened in the chair and in an instant, he was on his feet, walking to the cell. He wanted to hit young Ringo. Hard. He wanted to bury his hand in the young man's concave stomach. He wanted to hear him groan and drop dormant to the floor. The keys to the cell door jangled in his hand as he approached and an uneasy Johnny drew back further along the wall.

Before the key was in its slot, Arden stopped. Quickly, he took a step back from the cell. He knew he couldn't do it. Not then. Not out of frustration and spite. Not when he was angry over so much more than Ringo's comment. After all, if this kid was telling the truth, he may have in fact, helped Nelle, even prevented some suffering. He needed to wait. He needed to know where she was and if she was alright. He needed to hear her voice. God, he needed to hear her voice.

"You need to shut up now," he said, casting a cold eye on the young man. I don't want to hear a word from you unless it is something useful, something that can help us find her. Otherwise, keep your lips firmly pressed in a horizontal position."

"Yeah, shut up Dingle," growled Michaels suddenly, as he shifted positions on the cot.

Both Ringo and Arden started when they heard his barking voice.

"It's not Dingle. It's Ringo!" hissed Johnny, before remembering he was supposed to be keeping his mouth shut.

Micheals said nothing more and Arden turned and went back to the desk, leaving Ringo and his pursed lips alone. Eventually, the young man dozed off, still leaning against the cell wall, his head sagging down towards his left shoulder. He jolted awake often, righting his drooping head, only to have it slowly tilt back down as fatigue overtook him once again. Micheals, of course, didn't merely doze or even sleep. He slumbered through the night.

Awake, Arden listened to the rain drumming on the roof, and sometime after midnight, the sound of a lone horse splooshing by. He pictured Nelle curled up beneath a tree or a rocky ledge, damp hair splayed out beneath her, her broken arm tucked tight against her body. He could see the dirt on her clothes, the clotted blood in the cuts on her arms, and the chafed skin of her ankles. Gritting his teeth, he closed his sunken, bloodshot eyes. Never before had he felt like such a captive, so restricted, so ineffectual. Entirely powerless. His chest was so heavy that it hurt to breathe. The one person he would fight for the most, he could not fight for at all.

He waited. While the rain saturated everything permeable and the mist slunk through the grass, while the two men breathed across the room, while the flame leapt and cowered on the wick of the oil lamp, he waited for the sun to rise. Once, he heard the doleful soughing of coyotes, which must have been very near, since their cries penetrated the persistent droning of the rain. And around four a.m., when he walked over to the basin in the corner of the room and splashed water on his face, the rain stopped all of a sudden, and an unsettling hush spread over the town.

Light began seeping up from the horizon and instead of a wall of black outside the window, Arden saw the cobalt haze fading into a gold-streaked lapis lazuli. As the town awakened, he began to hear doors slamming, dogs barking, and the occasional wagon lunging through the mud. When the sky began to mellow into an uninspired wan gray, he heard a horse snort and then footsteps outside the door. It was Larry, looking like something the dingy sky had spat down to earth. His boots left red-brown imprints on the floor.

"Damn, Arden, you look wrecked."

"Thanks. You look good, too."

"No sign of Benno yet?"

"No."

"And how's the babysitting?"

"Uneventful."

"Good."

Larry walked over for a closer inspection of his brother. He didn't like Arden's monotone answers or the dark shadows under his eyes. Things were really getting to him. _Has he eaten anything at all since she's been gone?_ he wondered. _He certainly hasn't shaved._

"You know, that antelope-sized dog of hers is curled up under your wagon?"

"What?" asked Arden, suddenly animated.

"Yep. Mnemosyne's still standing next to it, looking waterlogged and aggrieved, by the way, and the dog somehow must have sniffed her out. Looking for Nelle too, I suppose..."

Arden strode to the door, opened it, and looked out. Sure enough, crouched under his wagon was Yak, looking especially yakkity and bedraggled. Seeing Arden, the dog slapped the ground with his tail a few times, but did not get up. Arden did not call him. However, he smiled faintly before pushing the door shut and turning back to Larry.

Ten minutes later, Benno slopped in. Unlike the other two men, he seemed full of vigor and had streaks of pink in his cheeks, rather than his eyeballs. There aren't very many fifty-seven year old men who can truthfully state that they are in their prime, but if Benno had been the sort to discuss such things, _he_ could've said it, and no one would've disputed it.

"Sorry for ze lateness. Stopped at ze schoolhäus, put sign on ze door – no school teel further notice."

"Oh? Did the school board tell you to do that?" asked Larry, genuinely curious, despite the fact that he was on the board.

"Nah. Marta. School board only post notes saying 'No School Today.' Ze kiddies and ze folks come every day to see if school eez open again. Marta says it's a vaste of time for zem and vaste of good feet or horse to alvays check."

"Ah. Good idea."

"Ve go now. Out and east from ze Rusted Donkey Mine."

"Yes," Larry agreed. "It may be a bit of a slow go, with the road sucking on us like a mouth on wet noodles, so we best get going."

They went out, leaving Arden alone again with his two sacked out prisoners.

Beneath the herd of juvenile willows with their gangly, shrugging limbs, Nelle stirred. Or rather, she attempted to stir. Somehow, she had not wakened once while the torrents of skin-numbing raindrops battered the branches overhead and to a lesser degree, her own dirty flesh. Her body had quivered with cold and had been pelted with catkins, tender new leaves and water, and none of it had disturbed her deep immersion in sleep. She couldn't remember any dreams or any sounds, only the dense black cavern of her own exhaustion. And now, she grimaced at the pain that clambered up her leg when she wiggled her toes. As far as movement went, she knew it wasn't going to be a red-letter day.

Picturing the dispatched Lacy, she wondered if his body was still where she'd left it or if an animal had dragged it away or if the stream had swelled with the rain and carried it off. She knew she never wanted to see it again. And even more, she knew that she really needed to find her way back to Boulder City. She would have to move southwest, away from the stream and this grove of trees, keeping the valley behind her. But first, she had to get up.

Mewling to the trees, she turned over and pushed herself up onto her knees. She was so close to fainting that she saw the gruel-coloured sky start to flicker. However, she snapped her eyes shut and managed to prevent the event by breathing deeply until the disconcerting funnel clouds diminished and scattered from her head. Then, gripping the narrow stalk of the nearest sapling, she dragged herself up in one awkward, moan-inducing motion. As she reached her full height, still gripping the tree so as not to travel back from whence she'd come, she could feel multiple blisters on her feet bursting and fluids saturating her scratchy, polluted socks. Again, she closed her eyes and waited for the pain to be diluted by the passing seconds.

Eventually, she opened her eyes again and scanned the sky until she found the slightly luminous patch of gray that blanketed the sun. She situated herself so that it she had to look back over her left shoulder to see it, and prepared to move on. _It'll get easier once you're walking,_ she promised herself. Then she forced herself to begin moving forward. She took a step. Sharp, jarring pangs spasmed up her shins and set up camp in her knees. Her hips ached. Her stomach saw red. She struggled through it all and took another step, which again caused severe, biting reverberations in her joints, her middle, and her head. But with the next she expected it, and it _was_ a little easier because of that.

The morning air was refreshing and deceptively serene. A thin, wailing wraith of a wind glided through the treetops, leaving the ground untouched. When Nelle emerged from the thicket, a patch of grass extended out in front of her, its long, wet blades further dampening her filthy skirts. She climbed the sloping hill before her, barely noticing these things, though she did appreciate that the sun was obscured, since the sides of her neck and the tender skin above her breasts had been seared a glowing red the day before.

Every step she took was a deliberate action to bring herself closer to home, and to Arden.

Arden was still in the sheriff's office. He glanced incessantly at Ringo, his lips a grim line. Johnny was sullen and awake now, his body bent forward as he sat on the single chair in the cell. Michaels stirred but didn't rise from the cot. Jake Connelly and his father were also there, along with Cleland, Henderson, his neighbour John Bower, and unexpectedly, Granger Dyck and Charles Dunn. The latter was still licking his wounds from the henpecking that had gotten him there.

"Saw the notice on the school door," muttered Granger, when he'd arrived. "Guess you haven't gotten her back yet?"

"Thought we should come help out," put in Charles, at Dyck's heels.

"Way to stay up on current affairs," Arden had scoffed, declining to look at the jumpy Dyck altogether.

Arden told them all that Benno and Larry had already left and gave them the information that the kid Ringo had told him. Then Henderson hurried them all towards the door.

"Why aren't you out hunting for her, yourself, Wilder?" asked Dyck, feeling cross and a little vengeful over having to rise so early.

"I've got my reasons. Mind your own business and then you won't be minding mine!"

Dyck didn't ask anything more. Meekly, he followed Mr. Lady Dunn and the others out into the moist morning.

In the three hours Nelle had been walking, she had trudged a mere mile, though about half of it _had_ been on an upward incline. Now, as the cloud-cloaked sun skulked high overhead, Nelle, all at once, stopped. She could hear the sound of hoof beats far behind her, and then intermittent snatches of men yelling excitedly.

Again, renewed terror surged through her body and instinctively, she was compelled to run. She had to find a way, find it within herself to move, fast. She could not be caught now. Her mind was a dark swamp of stagnant fear, primal impulse, and overwhelming loneliness. From somewhere in the back of her throat, she bleated a short, muffled cry of frustration, and tapping her last reserves of strength, she forced herself to begin running down the steep, rugged slope before her. Her feet bleeding, her eyes darting erratically across her narrowed path of vision, she let her legs go. Faster and faster she hurtled, descending the sandy downslope of the bluff, kicking through brambles and scattering rocks as she went, with gravity riding her back.

It had to be Lacy's men. They had found him, and now they would assume she couldn't be far off. How many would come after her? Would it just be Fielding? Or all the men from the east? What would they do with her if they caught her? Would they kill her? Now that there was no guarantee of a paycheck, the hired guns wouldn't make much of an effort. There was that consolation, at least.

These thoughts swirled through her befuddled, tired mind and she found it hard to hang onto any single one of them. It didn't occur to her that there still might be a posse out searching for her. It seemed, rather, that she'd been running for weeks, and anyone who may have been searching for her would've long ago given up. She was all alone, she knew. She had only herself. So, with spinning head and weakened, rampaging body, she charged on.

About ten feet from it, she suddenly saw the ledge and the empty air beyond, but by then it was too late. Drained and yet frantic, Nelle had let her downward momentum propel her headlong towards the bottom of the slope. Her heavy, swollen feet making deep imprints in the sand as she flopped them down, her hair streaming behind her, her skirts catching on thorns, and her good arm flapping awkwardly for tenuous balance, she had careened on. When the sharp drop-off appeared before her, she desperately tried to slow herself in time, but her legs were locked in their reckless propulsion and though she reached out, there was nothing for her to grab onto. Automatically, she leaned away from the precipice, vainly pressing her heels into the loose pebbles and sand as she slid towards it, and then went over.

As cliffs go, it barely qualified as legitimate since it was only about a twenty-foot drop. But at the bottom were more rocks, and for Nelle, already hurt, it was an unequivocal, honest-to-goodness, authentic cliff. Her feet hit the ground first, slowing her fall a little, and then her knees gave out and she began to fall backwards. A second later, her head struck the exposed strata of granite with a misleadingly quiet whump.

A harsh, unyielding pain immediately invaded new places in her body. Stunned by what had just happened, Nelle opened her mouth and tried to speak, to cry out to someone, to moan. Her lips moved, but the only sound she heard was a half-strangled gulp. Her body quaked in its suffering, but what she found most distressing, most terrifying, was this apparent inability to speak. Alarmed, she tried again to cry out, and once more, she heard nothing but a hollow gasp. Again and again she tried, as the sky above her buzzed louder and louder and began to vibrate with ever-increasing entropy until finally, everything went black and silent, and she lay motionless on the hard ground.

It had been Benno and Larry that had come upon the pulpy body of Byrne Lacy. They'd dragged the corpse out of a puddle, wrapped it in a blanket, and tied it onto the back of Benno's horse in behind the saddle. They'd debated leaving it where they'd found it to go on searching for Nelle, but Larry had felt strongly that they ought not let the body become further ravaged by scavengers. He was a stickler about things like that. Already, some crows had come by for a few exploratory pecks, and in the mud, the men had seen the footprints of a coyote, though there were no obvious bite marks on the body.

"Vell, zees man been shot two times and beat in ze head. If zee schoolteacher did zee deed, it eez good sign she may be fine."

"It's tough to say what happened. But you're right, there is hope."

"Yah. I hope she smash ze rock to his skull. Eet mean she steel strong."

"My, you have a way with words, Benno," Larry had replied, as they'd cinched the ropes around the body.

The two had been unaware of Thoms as he'd ridden into the valley, spotted them, and quietly put his horse in reverse until he was back in the cover of some trees. He'd watched them load up Byrne's body and begin heading south towards Boulder City. He had not tried to intercept them. Why bother? Lacy was dead. He would ride back to the other men and tell them, he'd figured. They each could decide what they wanted to do. As for him, he'd determined he was fed up with this whole venture. From start to obviously, the finish, things had not gone according to plan. And even before finding out Lacy was dead, he'd begun to have some serious doubts that the tenacious little schoolteacher could really be worth so many thousands of dollars. It just didn't seem possible. He'd been to her cabin. It was skid row, without the row. A shanty. In fact, he had been glad to see it burn, simply because he'd found it offensive to his aesthetic sensibilities.

He'd find the others and make sure they were informed, but he, himself, was done. He'd only come on this ill-begotten escapade because he'd worked with Fielding years earlier, and the man had saved his neck a few times. He'd owed him, and Fielding had owed Lacy. So he'd found himself halfway across the country backing up a man who seemed entirely consumed with the need to dole out revenge on some nobody schoolteacher. And now Byrne was sipping from a hot mug of molten lava somewhere down in hell. Thoms had snickered, even though he'd admired the man's persistence.

In their hopes of spotting Nelle, Benno and Larry chose an alternate route for their return trip to Boulder City. When they finally veered back onto the main trail, they spied a group of riders approaching. Recognizing it as the rest of the posse, they giddied on up.

Jake Connelly, who'd come along with his father that day, went extra white when he saw the wrapped corpse strapped behind Benno, and was immeasurably grateful and swallowing back emotion when Benno drew nearer and he realized they were the boots of a man sticking out from under the blanket.

Cleland was the first to speak to the two men.

"Who's the dead guy?"

"Ze leader of ze men zat take ze teacher."

"What? Really?"

"I wasn't there when they rode into town and Flint got shot, but Benno is certain. Weren't you there, too, Cleland?"

"I saw the gang ride past when I was at the livery. It was obvious which one was leading the pack."

"Then take a look."

"Sure thing."

Cleland took a sprightly leap down from his horse. He walked over to Benno's ride and peeled back the blanket from the dangling head. When he saw the bloodied, swollen face, his happy-go-lucky demeanor disappeared for a moment and his expression grew sober, along with everyone else's. Quickly, he averted his eyes and dropped the blanket back down over the dead man's face.

"Yeah, that's the guy," he muttered. "No doubt about it. Even though he's puffed up like a pig with colic, he's got those same sulky lips and the dime-novel moustache."

"We've got to keep searching for Miss Ford," said Larry. "Benno's got tracking skills we can really use, so if someone else would take the body down to the undertaker's..."

Nobody spoke up, so Larry volunteered Charles Dunn, who consented begrudgingly. The man was not good with a gun and hated riding, so, though he did not want that _thing_ tied behind him or to ride back alone, he did like the idea of speedily bringing his "contribution" to this "community service" to a close. The men began moving the body and Benno thanked him politely for taking a load off.

As the other men readied themselves to continue the search, Larry was imagining how relieved Arden would be to know that this man was dead. His brother was in rough shape. Hopefully, the news would be enough to keep Arden from coming down with a touch of insanity. And the sooner he knew, the better.

"Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"You're light, and a fast rider. Will you ride back to town as fast as you can and let my brother Arden know what's happened? It's important. He should still be at the jail."

"Yes, sir," agreed Jake, turning his horse around.

"Stick to the main trail and you'll be fine. Be careful," said Mr. Connelly.

And the kid was gone.

Pushing his horse to the limit, it still took Jake over an hour and a half to get back to Boulder City, and when he arrived he wasted no time in going straight to the sheriff's office. He burst through the door and strode to the desk, where a startled Arden straightened up from a tired slouch, his sunken eyes betraying his anxiety.

"Mr. Wilder. They, uh, your brother said, uh, your brother and Mr. Albrecht, they..."

"Easy, Jake. Did something happen?" Arden asked, jumping to his feet.

Jake nodded.

"They found the leader of the group that took Miss Ford!"

"What?!"

Again, Jake nodded excitedly.

"Dead," he added, for clarification.

Arden's jaw dropped and he looked at the kid again for confirmation, which he received. His hands were shaking as he pushed his hair from his face and rubbed his creased forehead with his palms. His mouth was upturned in a startled smile of wonder. For a second, Jake thought the man might drop to his knees from surprise, but Arden recovered himself.

"Where?"

"Watery Creek, east of the Rusted Donkey."

"How?"

"Two gunshots and a blow to the head, they said."

"Oh." _Could she have done it? With a broken arm? Had they struggled and then she'd somehow gotten a hold of his gun? Was it possible?_

Arden looked pleadingly out the open door at the drab gray sky. He couldn't believe it. Lacy dead? Just like that? He hoped to hell it _had_ been her. It would mean she was alive. There was still hope.

And then, as if prodded by a hot branding iron, he jumped to his feet. He'd suddenly realized. If Byrne Lacy was dead, he was free to go after her! His promise to Nelle was void. Maybe it wasn't too late and he could help her yet. Relief and purpose flooded his body. He could find her. He would find her.

"Good man, Jake!" he said gruffly, patting the kid heartily on the shoulder. "Will you guard the prisoners for me for a while? They're pretty docile, just don't let them out for anything."

Jake, pleased to be referred to as a man and to be offered such a vital task, relative to the other recent jobs he'd completed in town – clearing Main Street of manure and taking on a paper route, gladly obliged.

"Where are you going, Mr. Wilder?" he asked.

Picking up the glass of water on the desk, Arden drained it of its contents.

"To find her and bring her home," he announced, before heading determinedly out the door.

Jake smiled as he sat down at the desk. He looked over and studied the two loafing prisoners, who ignored him, and he thought of Ellen.

"Alright, Yak, we're leaving," Arden told the dog as he adjusted Mnemosyne's saddle. "Don't be stubborn like you were this morning with Larry. This time it's you and I and Mnemosyne, so turn your sniffer on and look alive."

With a newfound enthusiasm, Arden threw himself up on Mnemosyne's back, and a moment later he was riding down Main, with Yak exuberantly taking the lead, running far ahead and then doubling back, as they headed out of town towards the gratingly-named Watery Creek.

By the time he arrived at the offshoot trail to the Rusted Donkey, it was late afternoon. Early on, he'd met a terse Charles Dunn hearsing the corpse back to town. He'd stopped him briefly, asking to take a look at the body. Dunn had thought he was a morbid halfwit but had consented, knowing that Arden would look regardless. Puzzled, he'd watched the man peel back the blanket and wondered why it had taken him this long to join the hunt for the schoolteacher, when everybody and their horse knew he was sparking her. Arden had inspected the bloated face for a moment, any reaction unreadable to the unfortunate courier, and then he'd pulled down the blanket once more. After nodding his thanks, he'd gotten back on his horse and left, a resolved look on his face and the dog galumphing along ahead of him.

As Arden turned off the main trail in the direction of the Rusted Donkey, he glimpsed two men, unknown to him, disappear around a bend on the I-25, still visible over his shoulder. He wondered if he should go after them, but decided no. The most important thing was Nelle, and clearly they did not have her. Yak was already ahead of him, sniffing on an eastward trajectory, so he maneuvered Mnemosyne through the trees to catch up.

He found the mine. And after twenty minutes of ferreting around on foot, he discovered the airshaft that Ringo had mentioned, hidden amongst the boulders and brush. A momentary look of satisfaction crossed his face.

"At least that kid wasn't lying," he said to the circling canine.

The dog nodded and then went on with his inspection of the area.

Before long, the trio continued eastward towards Watery Creek. They had gone nearly three miles when the dog let out a high-pitched yelp and erratically flung himself towards the south, snuffling loudly. Arden's heart leapt. Though he'd known there were no guarantees, especially considering the rain they'd had during the night, he'd been hoping this would happen ever since they'd started out. The dog had caught a scent. But was it the right scent? After all, they hadn't made it to Watery Creek yet, and that was where Lacy had been found. Still, Arden jumped down from Mnemosyne's back and followed the dog on foot, looking for some kind of sign that they were moving in the right direction. The dog's tail heartily batted the air in encouragement.

About thirty yards east, as they began to descend towards a valley bottom, Arden spotted half of a footprint in a bare patch of damp earth. It was too short and narrow to be from a man's boot and it was pointing southward. Considering the depth and the detail of the print, he reckoned it had been made after the rain. His body nearly exploded with joy, and he had to remind himself not to get too excited. Still, he made a dash for the waiting horse, mounted up and rushed straight back to the fretfully waiting Yak.

"Okay, Yak, lead on!" Arden hollered, as he approached the dog.

Even though he had no inkling as to what the man was saying, the dog obeyed. Snapping at the dimming sky, he continued his snuffling inquiries eastward. Arden faithfully followed the dog's meandering lines as the gray light went grayer and the shifting air temperature compelled him to button the three top buttons on his shirt. From time-to-time, he stopped and called out Nelle's name, and then sat intently, listening for any kind of signal. He had seen no more footprints, but a few times he had noticed broken twigs drooping from a bush or a dislodged bunch of grass, so he remained optimistic about the accuracy of Yak's giant schnozz.

Larry, Benno, and Vince Connelly had searched all afternoon long in the area immediately surrounding the spot where Lacy's body had been found, but there were no signs of anyone else having been there at all. Apparently, the rain had washed away any footprints or evidence of the confrontation. There had been nothing to indicate that Nelle had even been involved in the skirmish that left Lacy dead. Still, they'd spread out and scoured the area looking for her, calling her name and watching for anyone else who might be looking for her. In fact, Benno had come within a hundred yards of the injured, unconscious woman and not known it. And now it was twilight and the discouraged, worn out men cut back towards the I-25 to rendezvous with the rest of the posse, and to find out whether the others had met better luck in their investigations further north.

As he began the ride homeward after another fruitless day, Larry wondered how Arden had taken the news of Lacy's death. He'd hoped that maybe they'd run into him on the trail somewhere, but they'd seen no one all afternoon. Reminding himself that he really did not know the extent of Arden's agreement with Nelle, he sighed and let his head bob along to the gait of his horse, thankful he was heading home to a sympathetic Sarah. He tried not to think of what might have happened to Nelle or where she might be. It had already been three and a half days, and he knew there probably wasn't much chance if they didn't find her within the first week. He tried not to think of what might happen to Arden if she was not found, or if she was found dead.

It wasn't long before Henderson, Bower, Cleland and Dyck caught up with them at the meeting point. They had not encountered Nelle or any sign of her either, but they had come upon another rider wearing a dirty, but still shiny, black suit. He was with them now, as they had immediately decided to bring him back to town for questioning. Fielding had not spoken to them since they'd taken his gun. He was merely biding his time until the odds were in his favour and he could break away from the men. In his time, he'd even managed to escape from prison, so he wasn't too concerned. As a result, the men knew nothing more about where Miss Ford might be and were rather grim about the lack of progress in finding her. Except for Granger Dyck, that is, who could not contain his glee at having "captured a villain." While the men rode the rest of the way back to town, wasted and let down, he whistled "Oh, My Darling" over and over again until even the peaceable Larry felt like causing him to be lost and gone forever, somewhere in a cavern in a canyon, perhaps.

Darkness snuck up on Arden, intent as he was on following Yak. Suddenly, he found he could no longer see the dog ahead of him, and when he was in the trees, he could barely make out the ground beneath him. The clouds hung thick in the sky, and on a shrubby plateau, he was forced to stop altogether. He hollered at the dog to heel as he climbed down from the saddle and settled himself on a clump of foxtail to rest, letting Mnemosyne wander freely and pick at whatever greenery had fought through adversity to exist amongst the rocky slabs.

"Nellllllllllllllllllllllllle!" he yelled, out into the freshness of night, listening for any response to come back at him from the blackness. Hearing nothing besides the fussing breeze, he edged himself forward, leaned back, and placed his head on the foxtail, examining the sky as Yak came bounding back into the clearing, impatient, slobbery, and with breath that preceded him by a good two meters.

Several hours passed. The wind blew itself into a lather and slowly began sweeping the clouds from the sky. The longer Arden watched, the more often he spotted a strip of moon exposing itself through the holes in the clouds. He kept listening and watching while the horse munched and the dog observed the horse munch with a look of contemplative longing in his eyes.

"Go on, you can take her," urged Arden, goading the dog.

The dog ignored him.

A melancholy coyote bayed from somewhere down in the next valley and the hair on Yak's back stiffened. He cocked his head and growled deeply, but stayed where he was. Arden kept his eyes on the moon with its shroud of rags, waiting for enough light to allow him to go on. He hoped he would be moving again, in an hour or two, and with Yak's help, he would find Nelle. There was no other option. He wasn't going home without her.

It had been three days since she'd disappeared, and day four was mere minutes away. If it had been her that knocked off Lacy, she couldn't be too far from Watery Creek. And she'd be heading towards Boulder. It made the most sense. Yak had to be on to something. She must be close by. And he knew he had to find her soon. With each moment that passed, it was becoming increasingly urgent. There would be no waiting until dawn. It had been too long, too long already.

In his mind, he pictured her as he often did, all fired up on New Year's Eve, her eyes burning and her damp hair stuck to her neck. He remembered that brief expression of surprise as her lust had waved the white flag and he'd finally kissed her against her cabin door, before being hastily thrown out. Smiling, he recalled how livid he'd been riding home that night. Hermes had actually shuddered when he'd gotten into the saddle. Arden had been so confounded, so distracted by his own frustration that when he'd arrived home, he'd nearly stabled the horse in the house and retired to the barn.

And now, what would Nelle be like without the constant, consuming fear that Lacy might find her again? The man hadn't gotten her, but he had possessed her. And now he was dead. Just like that. Gone. She was free. What would she do without him holding her back? Who would she be without him holding her back? A kook3? A connoisseur of relaxation? Would she act more impulsively? Would she be more driven? Would she still carry a revolver? Would she conduct herself with greater abandon? In _everything?_

He couldn't wait to find out. And not just about that last bit.

Just before midnight, the clouds became sparse enough so that the light from the stars and the rheumy moon allowed him to faintly make out Mnemosyne, now grazing some 50 feet from him. That was good enough for him, he decided, as he made his way to the horse, who gave him an unmistakable look of ennui. Yak eagerly powered on ahead of him, despite the fact that he'd been snoring only thirty seconds earlier.

As he steered Mnemosyne across the plateau, Arden wished he'd come more prepared. In his urgency to leave town and join the search, he hadn't bothered to grab any supplies, other than his gun belt. Thinking of Nelle, who might be seriously injured, he wished he had some blankets, food, a jacket, a canteen, and even some bandages. Chaps would've been good too, he thought, remembering her note with faint amusement. Instead, he was empty-handed. Well, except for the dog, which, he reminded himself, was certainly something. Despite the fierce wind that dispersed the scent and made tracking difficult for the animal, a few times sending him chasing false leads, Yak still led on. Without the dog, he'd have had no idea which way to go. The creature was helping him greatly right now, once more blazing a path through the trees and leading him down towards yet another green, forested valley. Every few minutes, Arden stopped, called, and listened while anxiety and anticipation battled for control of his stomach.

Opening her eyes, Nelle looked up at the dark sky and quickly shut them again, the light of the moon seeming to blister her corneas. Overcome by an intense, omnipotent, omnipresent pain, she took a deep, controlled breath, and the agony from doing so almost made her pass out again. _You thought you were experiencing pain before, but you were wrong,_ she thought to herself. _This is pain. That was an adverse reaction._

After a significant interval of rest, during which she listened to the peeved wind stalk and then jump on the unsuspecting trees, she attempted to move the toes of her outstretched right leg, which again, nearly sent her eyeballs rolling backward to join in the game of marbles already underway somewhere near the back of her skull. She couldn't tell if her toes actually responded or if she merely imagined they did. However, her fingers did move, and this was somewhat encouraging. She knew for sure because she watched them move, albeit with blurred vision. She then tried to lift her head, but quickly aborted the attempt since the movement caused her to feel like her spine was being slowly uprooted from her body. Considering the unnatural posture of her left leg, she figured it was probably broken, and in order to simply remain conscious, Nelle decided not to attempt moving again, at least for a while. At this point, the first order of business was to gather her senses and stay awake. It was hardly the best plan for avoiding pain, but from a survival standpoint, she felt compelled to do it.

The cold slab of rock pressed against the skin of her back, driving stiffness into her joints. Loose stones and gravel dug into the spaces between her back ribs. Her sternum ached with every shallow breath. Though she had not eaten in days, her stomach went homicidal whenever she thought of food, even applesauce or chicken broth. And in her middle, on the left side of her spine, she could feel that there was something... something very... not right.

In order to calm herself, Nelle began singing _The Farmer in the Dell_ in her head, but when she couldn't remember what the cheese took, she grew upset. Instead, she tried to count to a hundred, but the numbers became increasingly elusive and jumbled and she only became more distraught, realizing in one of the more coherent sectors of her mind, that she was definitely a goner if she couldn't gather the strength to move. Despondent, she didn't bother with _The Cat Came Back,_ though something had reminded her of it. Rather, she tried to lift her head once more, only to let it drop back against the rock. Tears surged up, spilled down the sides of her cheeks and pooled on the ground beside her ears. She coughed several times and noticed the salty, metallic taste of her own blood in her mouth. To finally be rid of Lacy, only to die herself after hours or even days of being helplessly sprawled out alone on this rigid, granite platform, seemed far too cruel. She'd freed herself, and she'd found a man she loved; now she would linger just long enough to be fully cognizant of how much she was losing, and then she'd be forced to promptly give it all up. Because of the grandiose fucked-upness of life, she was going to miss out on the grandiose fucked-upness of life. It wasn't even ironic. It was just so, so stupid. _That's what happens when you start believing in Fate,_ she scolded herself. _It's fine to believe in the possibility of Fate, but if you go all the way, she'll stab you in the back to teach you a lesson._

Nelle struggled again to move, and then sobbed all the more over the futility of it. Of everything. Lying there, she wondered if she had made a mistake in asking Arden to keep out of her interaction with Lacy. And it wasn't because she wanted him to come and find her now. No, something about it truly bothered her. In the beginning, with Arden, she had fought against herself to try and prevent him from caring, and thus getting hurt. She'd acted with love to prevent love, which of course, was folly, but honourable folly. And then, when she'd finally opened up to him, she'd still insisted he stay out of any debacle with Lacy. She'd thought she was doing it for him, because it was unfair of her to have him involved in any affair of hers that might get him injured or killed. She'd told herself it wasn't right, that she'd never forgive herself if something happened to him, and then she'd acted to keep him safe. Why then, did it pester her so? Why, especially when her actions probably _had_ protected him, considering Lacy's order to shoot him?

Her head protesting, Nelle kept wondering. She was confused, and the pain in her middle was becoming more overwhelming, more insistent than any of the other pains. She didn't want to think. She wanted calm, and rest, and Arden. And maybe a bucket of ether.

She believed Arden was safe. She sensed it. He would not have broken his word, she truly believed now, as she lay in the darkness. And just then, she realized. She realized why her actions towards Arden troubled her. The reason she felt uneasy about her decision was that, in her efforts to prevent any harm from coming to him, she'd, in effect, assumed she knew what was best for his life. With the Lacy situation, she'd determined how he should live his life. She'd decided his life was not worth risking for her own, and that had not been her decision to make. Yes, she'd presented a choice, but ultimately, it was a lose-lose choice, a choice that put him in a corner and didn't really allow him to decide what her life was worth to him, or how he would make use of his life. Rather than fear for his life, she'd caused Arden to fear for hers and insisted he do nothing about it. She'd wanted to save him, but she'd been unfair. So, so unfair. She wished she could tell him so.

Her mind drifted, darted, swooped, and floated higher and higher on an ever longer, thinner string. Pain swarmed her body, disorienting her further. The swish of the wind in the trees seemed very far off. The stars, now visible between the remaining clumps of thinning clouds, seemed to have grown yellow fur. She knew she was becoming more delirious when, at one moment, far, far in the distance, she thought she heard the echo of a man's voice. _You're certifiably mixed up now,_ she congratulated herself, but even as she did, in her mind she saw Arden. She told herself he could not be searching for her. He would not be coming to her. He didn't know that she believed she'd made a mistake. He was unaware that Lacy was dead and that he was free of his promise. And even if he did somehow know, he would not to where to look for her, and he would definitely not be hunting for her in the middle of the night. It would be foolish, even dangerous.

Still, he was there in her mind. She felt his closeness. And she saw him. She saw his bold blue eyes lingering on her face. She saw his lips break into a smile. He reached out and gently took her hand, sandwiching it between his own. Playfully, he spoke.

"Come live with me and be my love," he said, teasingly invoking Marlowe's poem, which she'd once declared as "irksome candy" in a conversation with him.

"Only if we can dispense with the belt of straw and the kirtle of myrtle and throw in a lot more pleasure-proving," she declared. Her voice sounded remote and unfamiliar. She wondered if she had spoken aloud.

"I think we can arrange that," he said, laugh lines breaking out around his eyes, his hands warming her cold one.

But it was not real, and most of her knew it. _Don't torture yourself. There's no point to this,_ she advised herself, to no avail. _At least you know he really loves you, and he knows the truth of what you feel for him. He knows that. You are rich in love. You have that, Nelle. You have that. Some people never find themselves mangled at the bottoms of cliffs, but some people never know what it is to be entirely loved, either. You are entirely loved, Nelle._

She lay quietly for a time, not that she had much choice, mind you. Utterly depleted, she listened to the tidal wind as it thrust itself down the hill and into the treetops in great, stormy blasts. The dregs of her tears dried on her face and a powerful thirst came over her. Her mind continued to play chicken with itself, and at one point, she could see her father, long dead, looking curiously down at her, but he soon dissolved, and no matter how she tried, she could not remember the details of his face or the expression on it, and the image never returned, no matter how hard she tried to recall it.

This panicked her. What if she could not remember Arden's face?

She tried. Grateful consolation rushed through her. She could still see him. She still knew the texture of his wavy hair, the curve of his jaw, and the way, when she kissed him, his eyes became fiercely bright just before closing. She kept him there, in the front of her mind, and focused on him. As long as she could still picture his face...

Another great swell of wind passed over her, fighting its way through the trees, and in the silence that was left in its wake, there it was again. She heard it. And this time, she knew it was not in her mind. The sound was closer. It _was_ a man's voice. A familiar man's voice. He was calling her by name.

She gasped. Inside her, renewed hope instantly lit a fire and poured kerosene on it. Her flagging energy was roused. Nelle knew she had one chance. She'd been given one chance and this was it!

In one final burst of physical exertion, she lifted her rebelling head several inches, inclined it in the direction the voice had come from, and heard herself scream, "Heeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrre!" before falling back and losing her grip on consciousness once again. This time, she had found her voice. The shock resulting from her injuries had not permanently disabled her voice.

From where he stood, a quarter mile from her, Arden did not hear her yell. Another blustering surge of wind had begun to beat at the trees all around him, and all he heard was the sound of the trees swatting back at it. Yak, however, did hear her. Instantaneously, one ear unfurled to standing, and one paw paused in mid-air. And then, letting out a wild shriek of a bark, he veered hard to the right, and with a rapid-fire succession of equally excited yelps, he galloped through the trees.

Arden, thinking Yak's methodical sniffing had been interrupted by an insomniac chipmunk or the heady musk of a badger, called to the dog to come back. But Yak refused to comply; he simply turned up the volume on his barking and continued on. And for lack of a better plan, Arden obliged the dog and followed him, weaving Mnemosyne through the trees as he tried to keep up, all the while listening for the frenetic barking.

Moments later, he jumped down from his horse and ran the final steps to where she lay awkwardly arranged on the hard ground, Yak whining beside her.

"Good dog," Arden muttered absently, lowering his head to her face to see if she was still breathing.

"Oh...," he choked. "Really good dog."

"Nelle," he said unsteadily, sweeping the tangled hair from her face. "Nelle."

Even in the darkness, Arden could see that her face was swollen and her neck was a disturbing patchwork of bruises. Leaning away from her so that the moonlight could fall directly on her body, he saw that her chest was half-bare and sunburnt, the front of her bodice was stained with blood, and the sleeves of her blouse had been removed and now served to keep a splint fastened to her right arm. Her leg was surely broken, and likely that was not all, considering the rocky ledge she was sprawled upon and the unnatural way she was sprawled. There were small cuts on her face, arms, shoulders, – anywhere the skin was exposed. Dried blood was crusted on her lips.

He didn't know what to do. He was afraid to move her lest he break something else. She looked too pale. He hoped it was just a trick of the moonlight.

"Nelle," he tried again, squeezing her hand this time.

Finally, she stirred, her eyes millimetering open. His face was blurry, but Nelle knew without a doubt that it was really Arden, and in an instant, her eyes told him that she recognized him, that she loved him, and that she was hurting even more than he'd expected.

"I need to get you to some help," he whispered hoarsely, still holding her hand.

Nelle coughed startlingly. There was blood on her lips. Fresh, crimson blood, Arden saw. At once, his heart seemed too heavy for his own body, like any movement would leave him breathless and exhausted of strength.

"You found me," she murmured weakly, in a throaty voice slathered with blood.

"Yak did, really... Nelle, can you move at all?"

Painstakingly, she lifted her good arm up off of the ground and reached towards Arden's face, sliding her hand across his jaw before letting it drop back down again. Then, agonizingly, she raised her head several inches above the rock before her eyes began to roll precariously backward and she was forced to abandon the effort. Arden slipped a hand beneath her head, cushioning it, and leaned in towards her, his face above hers.

"That's fine, Nelle," he said, a quaver in his voice.

"It is not... and you know it," she declared wanly, before being ravaged by another fit of coughing, this time longer, and more severe.

"Oh, hell! Damn it! Damn it!...Damn!" he groaned, frustrated. He wondered whether he should leave her and go for the doctor, rather than take her back on Mnemosyne. He hated to think of leaving her only moments after finding her, but it seemed his only option. Returning with her on horseback was a bad idea, considering how much she was already suffering. At least he could leave Yak with her.

"That about describes it," whispered Nelle, tears welling in her eyes.

"Oh, Nelle... I've got to go and get you some help," he said, tears rushing into his own eyes.

"Arden, I was wrong..." she said, pausing to breathe. "I shouldn't have... made you promise. I thought... I was... saving you... but it's your life... not mine. I just... couldn't stand... the idea of him harming you. But I... had no right... to dictate how... you lived... your life, I mean... to determine... the risks... you should... or should not... have taken. I'm sorry, Arden..." she panted, drained from the effort of speaking.

"Don't talk too much, Nelle," he whispered, wiping the paste of dirt, blood, and tears from her cheeks. "It's okay. It really is. Your intentions were born of love. And we're here together now. It's okay. In fact, it was extraordinarily brave of you, in a way, to go it alone."

"And extraordinarily... respectful... and honourable... of you... to keep... your word... Thank you," she murmured, faintly.

Again, Nelle lifted her hand, this time to touch his shoulder, but surprisingly, she missed, and her hand fell back to the ground. Arden was alarmed.

"Nelle, can you see me alright?"

"You... have... an... impressive... aureole," she gasped. "I know... you're good... but not... that... kind... of good."

Arden tried to smile.

"Nelle, listen. I'm going to leave Yak with you and go for the doctor. I've got to get you out of here," he said, restraining the bulk of his rising panic.

She shook her head no and tried move closer to him, groaning from the pain. Tenderly, he touched her shoulders and her neck. They were damp and remarkably cool to the touch.

"I'll come back as fast as I can."

She nodded feebly, but her eyes were wide and unsettling.

He bent his head lower and kissed her cracked, salty lips. She clung to him then, with her good arm and her remaining strength, and when he pulled his mouth from hers, he heard a smothered sob escape from her throat. He knew then. Some small part of him knew. But he ignored it. He had to try. He had to try.

"I love you, Nelle," he told her, in a low, fervent tone.

"And... I love... you... When you... get back... will you... just stay... with me... for a while?"

"Woman, a throng of stampeding aurochs could not drag me away from you," he announced, trying to buoy her spirits, as he unbuttoned his shirt and the cold air pounced on his bare skin.

"Aurochs?" she queried faintly, as Arden gingerly tucked the shirt around her upper body.

"Ancient mega cows. I was trying to avoid the wild horses cliché," he replied lightly, before quickly kissing her forehead for good measure, and then throwing himself back onto Mnemosyne and urging her into an instant trot towards the I-25 and town, while fear pulled at his throat and chest like an unfurled cape dragging behind him in the wind.

Yak whimpered once and crept closer to her, so that his head lay on the rocks near her hand. Again, Nelle heard the sound of the wind, but this time it was punctuated by her increasingly sharp gasps for breath. For a little while, she studied the plush yellow nest of stars above her, but she soon found herself growing dizzy, and so she closed her eyes again. She had tried not to show Arden how much it hurt, but now that he was gone, she couldn't help letting a few moans escape with her breaths. Everything seemed hazy and indistinct, even the pain. Everything hurt. Sounds and light and aching mingled together in her mind and as Arden, having reached the main trail, roared onward to Boulder City, she passed out once more.

She slept. Nelle slept in spite of everything. Though an array of rocky shards persisted in covering her back with a tableau of divots, she slept uninterrupted. An enormous fleshy tongue licked the salt from her forearm in great, wet swathes, and she did not waken. The fact that Arden was now standing in the open doorway of Doc Monday's office, yelling for the doctor to come get on his horse had no effect on her devastated being. She slept soundly on while blood made a fjord out of her stomach, while her hands and feet went numb and gave the cold shoulder to the rest of her body. Certainly, the swollen mosquito that flew drunkenly off after an undisturbed sojourn on her neck did not disturb her. Nothing interfered – not the familiar smell on the black shirt that fluttered lightly at her shoulders, not the fleeting image of a blue-eyed man in a horned cowboy hat speaking softly of a midnight ride to the Styx, though it somehow left a smile on her face. Nothing could penetrate the depth of her sleep.

She slept. She slept for good.

Kim Crux is one of a mass of primates in Calgary, Canada.

She writes for the rush.
