Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change -- Winter
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson

Part 3 -- March

Sunday, March 3, 1872

Trisha pulled her nightgown off over her head and tossed it onto the bed before quickly stepping into her drawers. Church services began in about 90 minutes, and she wanted to get there early, to bask in the praise for the dance the night before. As she reached for her camisole, she looked over to see how Kaitlin was doing.

"Trisha," Kaitlin said loudly, pointing, "what the devil is that on your chest?"

Trisha looked down at herself. "What? I don't see anything."

"Don't play that game with me. There, on your left... breast."

"It-it's just a bruise."

"You know very well what it is. You gave me more than one love bite when you were Patrick. What I want to know is how it got... who did it?"

"Last night, Rhys Godwyn, he... he kissed me."

"He did more than that, I'd say.” Kaitlin looked closely at the discoloration. She stepped over to Trisha and touched the shorter woman's breast about three inches above the bruise. "Your neckline only came down to here. You must have -- oh, Trisha, you-you didn't take your dress off, did you?"

"No, it was too cool to do that.” She blushed. "I-I just unbuttoned it.” Should she tell what else had happened, what she and Rhys had done? "D-down to my waist... almost."

"Whatever possessed you to do that?"

"I... Liam's been teasing me about being his 'little sister', so I've been flirting with men -- just to annoy him, of course. And I-I danced with some of them, and they -- and Rhys gave me spiked drinks. Then when he... kissed me, it felt so good that I --"

"Acted very foolishly.” Kaitlin pointed a scolding finger. "I don't know what we're going to do."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that a couple of months ago, you didn't want to admit that you _were_ a woman. Now, you're acting like a silly, young flirt, letting men kiss you -- and do a good _more_ deal than kiss you, judging from that mark. Is that the sort of woman you've decided to be? More important, is that the sort of woman you think Emma should be?"

"Emma?" Trisha paled at the thought. "But she's just a girl."

"She'd old enough to have already kissed a boy; last Christmas, remember? That was a one-time thing -- I hope, but it may not be, not if she follows the example _you're_ setting. Do you want that?"

Trisha shook her head. "No, you-you're right, Kaitlin. I-I'll do better. For Emma _and_ for myself."

* * * * *

"Thaddeus, please... please wake up," Martha Yingling called, shaking her husband.

The reverend sat up. "What... what is it, my dear?” He yawned, stretched his arms, and shook his head to scatter the last bit of sleep.

"I-I just checked the boys' room. Stephan wasn't there. His bed... it wasn't slept in."

"I'm sure that he's fine. Why, I wouldn't be surprised to find him downstairs having something to eat."

"He isn't; I looked. I looked all through the house.” She sobbed once. "Wha-What if he's hurt somewhere, maybe even..." Her voice trailed off, not wanting to even think what she had almost said.

Yingling took her hand in his, patting it, as he spoke, to comfort her. "Now, now, Martha," he said calmly. "I'm certain that he's all right."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I trust in the Lord.” He looked sternly into her worried eyes. "Just as _you_ must trust in me."

"Still... couldn't you -- in church today -- couldn't you ask the congregation to... be on the lookout for him, maybe even to form a --"

"I shall do no such thing. It would say that I have no faith in our Savior. Worse, it would say that I cannot control my own son. A congregation must believe, believe with all their hearts, in their shepherd. If they do not, how can he ever hope to lead them along the Lord's path?"

"But Stephan?"

"Is fine, Martha.” He rose, still holding her hand. "Pray with me now. Pray that he will overcome his stubborn denial of the Lord's will. Pray, perhaps, that we will see him at the church.” He shook his head. "No, I... _he_ would not want the congregation to see him after he had spent the night in the woods. Pray, and I have no doubt that he will be waiting for us here when we return home after the service."

Martha bowed her head so that her brow was resting on his chest. "I will.” She closed her eyes in prayer, mostly for her missing son, but also that her husband wouldn't notice her tears, her _doubting_ tears, running down her face and onto his nightshirt.

* * * * *

From her own seat near the door -- the better to watch everyone else -- Cecelia Ritter watched Trisha, Kaitlin, and Emma walking into the schoolroom. Trisha stood by the aisle while the other two took their usual seats. Then she walked to the front to join the other members of the Board.

"Will you look at that?" Cecelia whispered to Lavinia Mackecknie. "Bold as brass, that Trisha O'Hanlan."

Lavinia raised an eyebrow. "I know what you mean, my dear. Last night she was cavorting -- dancing and who knows what else -- with a dozen men, at least, and this morning, she walks in looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth."

"Oh, she did more than just dance, if you ask me," Cecelia continued. "I do believe that she went off somewhere with one of those men, that man -- a Mr. Godwyn, I think his name is. I saw the two of them walking back from where Dwight Albertson had set up the gate.” She paused for effect. "And they were holding hands."

Mrs. Mackecknie looked thoughtful. "This Mr. Godwyn, was he a... a tall, barrel-chested man with curly black hair?"

"Yes, yes, I believe he was. Do you know him?"

"I do; I do indeed. He drives a wagon for my husband's freight company, a very common, very coarse fellow.” She frowned at her memory of the man.

"Merciful Heavens, you don't suppose that she...” Cecelia managed to look both shocked and, somehow, pleased at the same time.

Lavinia clicked her tongue. "Disgraceful, just disgraceful. And Kaitlin is hardly any better. She spent the whole time dancing with her brother-in-law. Her brother-in-law, no less."

"It's not as though she had a _husband_ to dance with, and the brother does look very much the way Trisha _used_ _to_."

"Even so, she is still a married woman -- of sorts -- and with a young daughter, no less. She really shouldn't be throwing herself at the man -- any man.” She glanced towards the front of the room and saw the reverend standing up and walking over to the makeshift altar. "We'll have to talk about this later, Cecelia. Services are about to start."

* * * * *

Reverend Yingling looked out over his congregation. "Before we conclude this morning's service, I find that there is an announcement I must make.” He saw his wife smile hopefully, and he gave a quick shake of his head, telling her, 'not _that_ announcement, not about Stephan.'

Martha Yingling's smile faded, and she sank back in her seat without a visible protest.

"A few weeks ago," the reverend continued, "a member of our Board proposed that this congregation sponsor a dance as a way of starting the collection of money for possible improvements to our church. There were many, and I will admit to having been one of them, who had doubts that such a dance was possible in the short time they suggested."

"I am happy -- most happy -- to say now that I, that all those doubters were wrong. Like the Widow of Zarephath, who fed Elijah during the famine, the ladies of this congregation produced their own miracles of food and, also, of decorations and music and everything else necessary -- most especially, their own charming selves -- to have made last night's dance such a delight."

"I will not ask Dwight Albertson whether or not we -- the church -- made a profit for I am most certain that we did."

Albertson raised a hand, and Yingling motioned for him to interrupt. "I agree that we made money, and I'll have the exact figures for the next Board meeting."

"Thank you, Dwight," the reverend continued. "I know that we also profited by coming together on this project as well as by the enjoyment of sharing an evening together. And so, I will ask Dwight and all of the ladies -- and gentlemen -- of this congregation who made last night possible to stand."

Trisha and Dwight stood up from their chairs as members of the Board. Then Kaitlin and the members of the Food and Decoration Committees stood. "You, too, children," Nancy Osbourne called out to those of her students who had come to the services that morning. "After all, you made all those decorations."

"Milo, stand up... You, too, George," Albertson added, explaining. "These men are the ones who sold tickets and watched the gate."

Yingling nodded. "And now, let us thank them all with a round of applause.” He began to clap, and the rest of the congregation, including many of those who were standing, joined in.

Horace Styron and the other Board members were cheering as much as anyone else in the room. 'No one can say that the reverend didn't thank Trisha,' Styron told himself, 'but he didn't give her any special credit, either.'

* * * * *

Monday, March 4, 1872

Nancy Osbourne looked down at her attendance sheet then up at her class. "Ruth... Matthew Yingling, can either of you tell me where your brother, Stephan, is this morning?"

Ruth, as the older of the two, stood up. "Miss Osbourne, Mama said to tell you that Stephan wouldn't be in today.” She blinked, trying very hard not to cry. "And for a few more days... maybe."

"I do hope that he's not sick." Nancy said, marking an "A" for absent next to Stephan's name.

Matthew answered for his sister and himself. "So do we, Miss Osbourne. So do we."

* * * * *

"You just stand like you did yesterday, Jane.” Ethan Thomas was at his easel, watching Jane pose in a robe over her camisole and drawers.

She shifted her position, moving closer to the left of the chair. "Like this?” She lifted her right hand atop the back of the chair and angled her body slightly.

"Yes, raise your left arm... yes, just like that. Perfect; hold still please.” He began painting.

"How long do I gotta stand like this?"

"The whole time today and for most of the future sessions. Since I am working on your figure, just now, rather than your face, you may speak to me so long as you hold the pose."

"What should I talk about?"

"I don't know.” He thought for a moment. "Why don't you tell me how you and your sister came to Eerie?"

"I didn't come t'Eerie with Laura. I didn't even know her back then."

"I fail to understand. How is it that you could not know your sister?"

"We wasn't sisters back then. We was...” She stopped, remembering the warnings she'd gotten about telling people the truth. "You know already 'bout Shamus potion, don't you?"

'Potion?' he thought, then shrugged, curious for what had to be a good story. "Oh, yes, he... ahh, he told me about it himself."

"Good, 'cause I ain't supposed t'talk about it to folks that don't know. Me 'n Toby Hess was up near Flagstaff, looking for gold and finding rock. We heard that they was digging gold up in chunks over in the Superstition Mountains.” She smiled ironically. "They're always digging it up in chunks... _over_ _there_. We came down here and filed a couple of claims about an hour's hard ride north of here."

"I should think that gold prospecting would have been difficult work for a pair of young ladies such as yourself."

"I thought you knew 'bout the potion. We was _men_. It was hard; that's why I ain't doing it now, but we was up there the better part of a year."

He looked askance. Had he heard her correctly -- that she had been a _man_ in the recent past? What she was telling him _couldn't_ be true, but he had grown familiar with the peculiar way that Jane talked. She had expressed her incredible statement in a way that led him to think that she herself believed it to be true. "If that's the case, how did you and Laura come to be sisters?"

"Me 'n Toby come into town t'exchange... for supplies.” She wasn't going to tell him about the gold they'd found. "And we seen a sign that Shamus had a bunch of pretty gals at his place, and there was gonna be a dance.” She giggled. "Them girls sure was pretty, and I thought Laura was the prettiest of the whole lot."

"So you and Toby..."

"Toby, he liked Jessie as much as I liked Laura. Only Shamus got mad at us and wouldn't let us see 'em. Toby said that we should take 'em up t'our claims for a while. Toby took Jessie to the cabin we had on one claim -- we'd work each claim for a few days, then switch off -- and I took Laura to the other one."

She suddenly frowned and shifted her body.

"Jane, please... your arms back as they were.” Ethan watched her take the pose again. "You were saying..."

"Sorry, I don't like remembering what happened next. Jessie 'n Toby had some kinda fight. She k-killed him, but a jury said it was a accident. The posse that came after Laura and Jessie brought me back for a trial. _That_ jury said I was guilty. The Judge, he told me, I could go t'prison for years 'n years _or_ I could drink the potion."

"I drunk it.” She shrugged. "And here I am."

"And how did that make Laura your sister?"

"That there potion changes a man so he looks just like the prettiest gal he ever seen. For me, that was Laura. After I drank the stuff, I was her spit 'n image. That sort of made us sisters, didn't it?"

"And how did Laura feel about you, a man, being changed into her sister?"

"It didn't bother her none. After all, she used t'be a man herself."

Ethan lurched. "What?"

Jane frowned at him. "I thought Shamus told you all 'bout the potion."

"No -- no, he didn't.” He tried to keep the disbelief out of his voice. "Not in any detail. He didn't mention...who exactly was changed. He was respecting their privacy, I suppose."

"Ya see, Will Hanks and his gang road into town t'kill the sheriff. Shamus give 'em all his potion, and the Judge made 'em work in the saloon."

His fist clenched around his brush. "Will... Will Hanks? You mean Wilma...?"

"Yep, in fact, she got two doses of potion and wound up working over at Lady Cerise's cat house. Two doses make a man too much of a woman, I reckon."

"And the others in the gang, what happened to them?"

"They's still all working for Shamus. You already know about Laura. Jessie -- she's Wilma's sister -- she sings, Bridget runs her poker game, and I work with Maggie in the kitchen."

"Those... those women were all men -- outlaws?"

"They was. They ain't no more.” She giggled. "Laura's even gonna have a baby in June."

Ethan shook his head. "That's quite a story."

Jane pouted. "You don't think it's true, do you?"

"I-I'll be honest, Jane, I'm not certain that I do. I -- ah -- half thought that Shamus was just having a joke with me when he mentioned the potion.” He paused for a moment, resolving to investigate further. "For whatever it might be worth, a part of me hopes that it is true. The world can always use more women as beautiful as yourself."

* * * * *

Stephan Yingling looked hopefully at his friends. "I gotta ask one of you t'do me a favor."

"What do you need?" Ysabel asked.

"You remember that note I was gonna leave for my folks?” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from a book on the table where they were all sitting, inside the hill in Fort Secret. "I stuck it in that book and brought it with me by accident. I-I just found it today."

"No wonder Ruth and Matthew were acting so scared today in school," Emma realized. "Your folks don't have any notion of what happened to you."

"They gotta think you're hurt -- maybe dead even," Yully added. He reached for the note. "I'll take it over to 'em."

Ysabel looked hurt. "Why you?"

"'Cause I'm gonna say that he give it t'me -- if anybody asks. I'm the one he's most likely to trust, us being best friends and all."

"What're you gonna say?” Stephan asked. "They're gonna have all kinda questions, especially my Pa."

Yully thought for a moment. "I'm gonna say that you give it to me in school... Friday, but you -- you asked me t'wait a while before I gave it to them. _And_ I'll say that I don't know where you are."

"You just be careful," Stephan warned. "Pa's awful good about getting the truth outta people."

"Don't you worry none, Stephan. I'll promise you right now; I ain't gonna tell your pa a thing -- my pa neither."

* * * * *

"Oooh, that feels good!” Laura leaned back on her elbows on the bed. She and Amy Talbot were in Laura's old bedroom in the Saloon for their monthly pregnancy check-up. Both women wore only their opened camisoles and drawers, and Edith Lonnigan, their midwife, was gently rubbing a creamy white lotion onto Laura's gravid belly.

Edith smiled as she continued. "I would imagine so. I'll give you the bottle, and you can do it every day or so."

"Better yet," Amy Talbot added, "have Arsenio do it.” She winked.

Edith cocked her head as if considering the idea. "Just make certain that he does a thorough job and doesn't get... distracted. This lotion doesn't just help with your dry and itchy skin. If you use it for the rest of your pregnancy, it will reduce any stretch marks you might get."

"Str-stretch marks?” Laura looked down nervously at her stomach.

Amy nodded. "Your body's stretching to make room for the baby. That can leave marks on your stomach or legs to show how it stretched.” She pointed at a slightly darker line across her own stomach. "I used that same lotion, and it helped me.” She giggled. "Dan helped, and we only got a _little_ distracted."

"Did you both have a good time at the dance?" Mrs. Lonnigan asked, trying to change the subject.

Amy smiled. "I know I did. Dan's a good dancer, but we don't get many chances to go out. Paul and Tor took over for the whole evening, so he could stay with me.” She sighed. "I just got tired a bit quicker than I'd have liked, so we couldn't dance very much."

"I'm used to dancing -- working here for Shamus every week, like I do," Laura added. "It was just nice to be able to dance every dance with Arsenio instead of taking tickets and trading partners every dance.” She looked at the midwife. "How about you, Edith? I know I saw you there with Davy Kitchner."

Now Edith smiled. "Yes, Davy came down from his claim early Saturday afternoon, so he could take me. He's not a bad dancer, either."

"I hope he wasn't too tired when he rode all that way back into the mountains after the dance," Laura teased.

Edith refused to take the bait. "No, he found a place to stay the night here in town -- and we'll say no more on _that_ subject; thank you very much."

"Of course not." Laura bit her tongue. "I'm just glad that you both enjoyed yourselves Saturday night.” She didn't giggle, but Amy did. When Edith joined her, all three women gave in to a hearty laugh.

The older woman shook her head. "Now that we've all had such a good chuckle, I think this session is over, and you both can get dressed. Laura... Amelia, your weights seem fine. Laura, you can expect to be gaining about a pound a week for the time being. Amy, about half that for you."

"We'll see you next month then," Laura replied, buttoning her camisole. Amy mumbled something in agreement.

Edith screwed the cap back on the lotion bottle and set it down on the table next to Laura's reticule. "Unless either of you have any questions -- or problems, heaven forbid. Then you come see me _at_ _once_."

* * * * *

Herve walked into the parlor. "Mr. Thomas, my Lady," he announced.

"Ethan," Lady Cerise said, rising from her chair. "What brings you here this lovely evening, business... or pleasure?"

The painter kissed her hand. "Good evening, Cerise. Both, first, I came to report that I am making suitable progress on the painting of Miss Hanks, and that I am in the process of securing a pair of new commissions with the Ortega family. They wish me to do a portrait of a daughter for her 15th birthday and another of the family patriarch in celebration of his 70th birthday."

"I have the... acquaintance of several of the men in that family. They are extravagant, but they demand -- and reward -- quality."

He chuckled. "And they shall receive nothing less. As to my second reason for being here," he looked around the room. Mae, Beatriz, and Wilma were watching his conversation with Cerise. "My Lady," he continued, "part of our agreement was that I might avail myself of your... flowers. I should like to do so this evening, if I may."

"But of course. My ladies are at your disposal."

"I am an artist, Cerise. I do not 'dispose' of such beauty; I luxuriate in it.”

The three women sat up and posed, all offering themselves to this handsome, cultured man. 'Finally,' Wilma told herself.

"My dear..." He stepped over to Beatriz and offered her his hand. "...would you do me the honor of joining me in an evening of mutual, sensual delight."

Beatriz stood and took his hand in hers. "That would be my pleasure, Ethan," she answered.

"_Our_ pleasure," Ethan corrected her, and they began walking towards the stairs.

Wilma watched them in amazement. 'He... he picked Beatriz.'

Ethan could almost feel the heat of Wilma Hanks' eyes burning into the side of his face. He glanced back at the beautiful young woman, who was sitting there wearing black lace. Seeing his favorite model again, feeling his desire for her rise, made it doubly hard to give credence to Jane's wild story.

Wilma smiled. She was mistaking the meaning of the intense look he was giving her. She thought that if she could whisk the painter away from Beatriz when they were actually at the foot of the steps, what a sweet twist of the knife that would be.

"Good evening, Wilma," Ethan said, as he and Beatriz passed by her chair. "You really should not stare at people with your mouth so open. It is most uncomely."

Beatriz giggled and rested her head on his shoulder. "Si, most uncomely.”

* * * * *

"And up ten cents.” Liam O'Hanlan tossed a coin onto the small pile already on the table.

Joe Kramer raised a curious eyebrow. "I'll see that dime and raise another.” He added the coins to the pot. "That was sure some dance over at the schoolhouse on Saturday," he said by way of conversation.

"That it was," Mort Boyer added. He had folded in the last round and was waiting for a new hand. "You must've enjoyed it, Liam. I seen you dance every dance with that pretty sister-in-law o'yours."

Liam frowned. "What about it? Kaitlin likes to dance."

"There was a lot of other women there that liked t'dance. Why wasn't you dancing with any of them?"

"Mostly, because those women were dancing with the men who brought them, their husbands or their beaus. You know as well as I that men around here outnumber women three or four to one."

Bridget tossed a quarter on the table. "Raise fifteen cents.” She studied Liam's face. "Let me guess; your sister-in-law came with _her_ husband. Only, Kaitlin couldn't exactly dance with Trisha, could she?” She looked sharply at the men as if daring them to comment on the potion both she and Trisha had taken, or on the changes it had caused.

"No, she couldn't," Kramer replied. "Trisha was dancing, though. With men, and it seemed t'me like she was dancing every dance, too.” She'd even danced once with him, though he wasn't about to say that.

Fred Norman shook his head. "Not every dance.” He laughed. "I seen her and that muleskinner... Godwyn come walking back from someplace 'bout an hour before the dance ended. I don't know where they was -- or what they was doing -- but they was holding hands and grinning t'beat the band."

Liam looked daggers at the man. "What're you saying, Fred?"

"I think..." Bridget gently put her hand on Liam's arm. "...that he's saying he wants this pot, and he's willing to try and get you off your game if that'll help him win it.” She turned to Fred. "Isn't that right?"

"You... ahh, caught me, Bridget. Sure, Liam, that's-that's all I'm trying to do."

* * * * *

"My dear," Ethan said, kissing Beatriz's cheek, "might I ask you something?” They were in her bed, recovering from a most pleasurable romp just minutes before.

Beatriz sighed, almost a purr, delighting in the warm glow of recent sex. "After what we have just done -- and will do again, I hope....” Her hand reached down. He wasn't recovered yet, but he was getting there. "After that, you can ask me anything."

"Thank you.” His hand stroked her right breast, pausing a moment to play with her nipple. "I, too, have every expectation of savoring another moment of sensual bliss with you this night. Before that, however, I have a question for you. I have heard a most... unlikely tale regarding your... associate, Miss Hanks --” His question trailed off. After seeing Wilma in the flesh again, he felt foolish bringing up the subject. He had to be careful not to let on to Beatriz what it was that he heard from Jane. He didn't want all the girls at Lady Cerise's laughing at him.

Beatriz' mood soured at once. "Wilma? What did you hear?” Nothing good, she hoped.

"A truly bizarre story about how she -- and her sister -- came to this town.” Beatriz didn't like Wilma, he knew, and she was likely to reveal everything scandalous that she might know about her. At the same time, he hardly considered Jane the most reliable of sources.

But the woman's reply was oddly cautious. "They came," she began, "from a bottle in Shamus O'Toole's saloon, they came."

He affected to smile. "What, you mean like a djinn from one of those tales of THE THOUSAND AND ONE ARABIAN NIGHTS?"

"No, it was not gin. If you have heard that Shamus O'Toole is some sort of a brujo -- a witch -- you should believe it. They were men -- brothers -- Will and Jesse Hanks. They came to Eerie to kill the sheriff, but a potion O'Toole gave them changed them into women."

Ethan blinked in astonishment. Jane and Beatriz couldn't possibly be cooperating on a hoax. And if they weren't, what they were saying might possibly be true. "Amazing," he muttered.

He wasn't sure why, but it all seemed sexually intriguing somehow. From what he knew about the girls at Shamus' saloon, they were not shy, although certainly not as sexually bold as Wilma. He found himself wondering what sex with one of these "potion women" would be like.

"Is there _anything_ else you wish to me to tell you about her?" Beatriz asked.

He could hear the anger in her voice and felt her body moving away from him. "It was merely idle curiosity," he replied quickly. "How could I possibly be interested in any other woman when I am here with you?"

He pulled her back to him and kissed her -- very hard on the mouth -- while he ran a rough fingertip over her nipple. She felt his manhood against her thigh, and it was more than ready.

They didn't talk again for some time, and when they did, it was most pointedly _not_ about Wilma.

But that didn't mean that Ethan wasn't thinking -- and thinking most intently -- about the sultry brunette who had such an interesting past.

* * * * *

Yully climbed up the tree trunk until he was about twenty feet from the ground. He stepped out onto a thick branch and began to inch his way towards the nearby house, his house. A smaller branch extended out from the trunk a few feet above the one he stood on, and he used that smaller branch as a sort of handrail.

By the dim light of the lamp on his dresser, he could see that the window was half-opened, as he'd left it. When he reached the side of the house, he pushed it up. He stepped up from the branch to the windowsill then down into his bedroom.

He was lowering the window back into place, when he heard a voice behind him. "'Bout time you got back," his brother Agamemnon, "Aggie", whispered, sitting up in his own bed.

"Yeah," his other brother, Nestor, added from his bed. "Where've you been?"

Yully whirled around as they spoke. The three boys were alone. "You tell Ma and Pa I went out?"

"Nope," Aggie replied, "but we will if you don't tell us what's going on."

Yully sat down on his bed and untied his shoes. "I-I can't. I promised Stephan Yingling I wouldn't tell.” He pulled off the shoes and quietly set them down beside the bed.

"When'd you see him?” Nestor asked. "Matt told Miss Osbourne this morning that he was home sick."

Yully shrugged. "It's complicated, and I can't tell you any more.” When he saw their faces, he added. "I promised -- look, if I say I'll ask him if I can tell you, will you both promise not t'tell Ma or Pa I went out -- or anything else?"

The two other boys leaned over and whispered between their beds. Yully used the time to slide his suspenders from his shoulders and wriggle out of his pants. He'd worn his nightshirt underneath.

"Okay," Aggie finally said, "but we'd better get more than a 'I can't tell you' for an answer, or we will tell."

* * * * *

Tuesday, March 5, 1872

"Mamma, Mamma!" Rachel Yingling burst into her parents' bedroom. "Look what _I_ found."

Her twin sister, Rebecca was right behind her. "What _we_ found. It's a letter from Stephan."

"Bring it here," their father ordered, sitting up. He glanced over at the mahogany clock ticking away on the bed stand. It was almost 7 AM. The twins were usually the first two up in the morning and were supposed to go downstairs to set the table for breakfast.

Martha took the paper from the girls and handed it to her husband. "What does it say? Where is he? Is... is he all right?"

"In a moment, we shall both know.” Yingling opened the paper and began reading aloud.

"Mother," the reverend looked over at his wife. "Please, _please_ do not worry about me. I am fine, safe and sound."

Martha let loose a heavy sigh. "Thank the lord. But where --"

Yingling continued reading.

` "Father, you told me to take more time to think about
` becoming a minister. I _have_ thought about it, and
` I don't want to be one. How about _you_ thinking
` about me becoming a soldier because that's what _I_
` want to be."

The reverend frowned, but he continued reading.

` "You think about that for a while, and I'll be home in
` a few days to talk to you about it.

` "I love you both.
` Stephan."

Yingling crumpled the note in his hand. "Where did you find this?"

"It was on the floor by the front door," Rebecca answered. "I... we went downstairs, and it was just lying there."

Rachel smiled. "So _I_ brung it up."

"_Brought_ it up," Martha Yingling corrected, hugging her daughters. "Thank you -- the both of you.” She sighed with relief, but didn't let go. "He's alive and safe and... and he must be close by, to be leaving notes like this."

The reverend snorted. "Safe for the moment -- thank the Lord -- but he will not be so safe when I get my hands on him."

"Thad," Martha gasped, "what are you saying?"

He held up the crumpled paper. "Didn't you hear? To question me -- to question his predestined role as a minister -- to issue ultimatums. I will not tolerate such actions, Martha. He has gone too far."

'Just so he comes back,' Martha thought. 'Please.'

* * * * *

"Mr. Dwight Albertson, the church's treasurer, would not reveal the exact amount, saying that he wished to first make it known at the Wednesday night meeting of the church board.” It was early afternoon, and Trisha was reading the article on the dance in the newspaper, while the store was empty of customers. "He did say," she continued, "that, between the sale of tickets and of refreshments, the profit was a respectable one."

She put the paper down and looked across at Liam, who was finishing a late lunch. "You hear that, a 'respectable' profit. Sounds like that dance idea worked out just fine."

"For some people, anyway," Liam answered sourly.

"What's the matter with you? I thought you enjoyed yourself."

"I did. I just didn't enjoy getting raked over the coals about it at the poker game last night."

"What do you mean? Who was giving you a hard time?"

"Almost everybody. Some folks noticed that Kaitlin and I danced every dance."

Trisha's eyes widened. _She_ hadn't noticed. "Every dance? Why?"

"Because she loves to dance, but she can't go off with every man who asks her. She's a married woman. Not like --” He looked hard at Trisha. "But it's perfectly respectable for her to dance with me. At least I thought it was."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, she's a good dancer, as I'm sure you remember. And, after the hard time she's had since... lately, it was nice to see that pretty smile of hers again.”

"That 'pretty smile' line sounds like you're taking more than a brotherly interest in Kaitlin."

"Maybe I am. That's what they kept saying at the game last night, anyway."

"Is it true?"

"Is it true that you went off into the woods with -- what's his name -- with Rhys Godwyn?"

"Who says I did?"

"Right now, _I'm_ saying it. Did you?"

"We just walked around a little bit.” She was hardly ready to tell anyone what _had_ happened.

"Is that _all_ you did? I'm told you were holding hands and smiling when you came back. That sounds like more than walking to me."

"You're just trying to change the subject. What -- _exactly_ -- is your interest in my wife?"

"What _exactly_ is your interest in Rhys Godwyn?"

"Nothing... I... we walked.” She glared at her brother. "Just like I'm doing, _right_ _now_.” Without another word, she turned and left the store.

* * * * *

"Hey, Arnie, c'mere," Quint Parnell gestured to the boy.

Arnie walked over to where Parnell was sitting, nursing a beer. He set the tray of dirty glasses he was carrying down on the table. "What can I do for you, Mr. Parnell?"

"Quint... please, and sit. I feel like I still owe you something for all that ruckus me 'n Bill Hersh caused."

The boy spun a chair around and sat down, leaning his arms over the back of it. "I'd say that if you two owe anybody, you owe Bridget. She was the one you tried to rob."

"You're right, and I am gonna pay her too. The thing is, though, I sort of need your help t'do it?"

"My help? What do you mean?"

"We found some color up at our mine -- not a lot, but it's a start. We're bringing in some ore tomorrow so the assay office can tell us how rich that color is."

"Congratulations, but why do you need my help?"

"We... ah, had a few drinks to celebrate, and my fool of a partner, Bill, broke his damn arm. He can ride well enough, but he ain't worth spit for carrying a saddlebag of ore... or using a pistol if there's any trouble."

"Trouble? Why don't you just talk to the Sheriff?"

"You never know who you can trust, and this is as close to being rich as we ever got. We're more'n a little on edge about this. Besides, having a Sheriff for a helper is kinda, well, showy."

He took a drink of beer before continuing. "What we was thinking was to meet up with you here, then walk with the horses to the assay office. You'd help us get the saddlebags with the ore inside and wait while we cash it in."

"I work for Seá±or O'Toole. He won't like me skipping out to help you."

"It won't take that long.” He chuckled. "Be a man about it. Besides, there's a ten dollar gold piece in it for you."

"Ten dollars?"

"When we cash in the ore. Plus, we're gonna come back here and give Bridget enough money to buy herself a pretty new dress. You think that'll square it with her?"

Arnie smiled. "It should.” He liked the idea of helping Bridget get a new dress. And that ten dollars would more than pay for that shot for his colt, which gave him an idea. "I… ah, I have a pistol. Do you want me to bring it with me?"

"A pistol.” Parnell considered the idea, then frowned. "No, I don't want it to look like we needed an armed guard. That'd be as showy as if we had the sheriff coming with us. I think we'll be fine with this.” He patted his own holstered revolver. "But thanks for the offer… Arnoldo. I knew you was the right one to help us."

"Okay... Quint.” He reached across the table to shake the other man's hand. "You got yourself a helper.”

* * * * *

"Norma... Norma Jeane.” Trisha heard a man's voice, but she ignored it and kept walking towards her house.

The man suddenly stepped in front of her. "What's the matter, Norma Jeane? Didn't you hear me?"

"I..." Trisha looked closely at the stranger... the _handsome_ stranger. "Do I know you?"

"I'm Ethan... Ethan Thomas. We met out in San Francisco last year. Johnny Hyde had me paint your portrait for the Silver Fox Salon.”

Trisha shook her head. "I'm not her."

"Of course, you are. What are doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"I told you; I'm not this Norma Jeane person you know. I just look like her."

"No one could look that much like...” He remembered the story Jane and Beatriz had told him the day before. Before their night was over, Beatriz had mentioned a father and son who had gotten a taste of Shamus' potion accidentally. Beatriz had spitefully said that she had heard that the father now looked like a blond hussy who should be working at a place like Cerise's. 'Maybe she wasn't crazy, after all,' he thought.

He watched the blonde's face as he asked, "Are you one of those 'potion women' I've heard about?"

Trisha blinked, surprised that this stranger should know about the town's most important secret. Her first instinct was to deny it, but what was the point? "Yes," she said, sounding a little sad. "Yes, I am. Now, if you'll excuse me...” She started to walk past him.

Everywhere he turned, unrelated people confirmed that Jane's mad story was true! "Wait. I-I'd like to talk to you, if I may.” He had wanted to learn more about this strange phenomenon, but as soon as the words were out, he realized that he wanted to do more than just talk. This woman was as beautiful as Norma Jeane, and, as a former male, she would know far more about how to pleasure a man than any born woman ever could. He was sure of that.

"I've no time for idle gawkers, thank you very much.” She started walking.

"Do you have time to see a portrait of the woman you resemble? I made a smaller copy of that one I mentioned -- because... because she was the most beautiful subject I had ever painted. I have it over at my studio."

Trisha stopped and looked back. She hadn't seen a picture of Norma Jeane, the _real_ Norma Jeane, since Kaitlin had asked Patrick to throw away the cigar card all those years ago. And she was curious. She took another look at the stranger. He was impeccably dressed, clean-shaven, well spoken, and intelligent-seeming. Perhaps he was a true gentleman. "All right," she said hesitantly, then walked back to where he was standing. "If it's not too far."

* * * * *

"Did you get my note to my parents okay?" Stephan asked as soon as Yully stood up inside Fort Secret.

The other boy nodded. "I slipped it under your front door last night, but there's a problem. Nestor and Aggie were waiting for me when I got back to my room -- I used that tree by my window t'get out, so my folks wouldn't catch me so late."

"Did they snitch on you?” Emma had just come in from the tunnel.

Yully shook his head. "Nope -- not yet, anyway. I told 'em it was a secret, that I'd promised Stephan that I wouldn't tell nobody."

"You shouldn't have used my name."

The other boy shrugged. "What choice did I have? I didn't tell 'em anything else, but I promised that I'd ask you -- all of you, but they don't know that -- what else I _could_ say? They want something, or they _will_ snitch."

By now, Ysabel and Tomas were inside as well. "You gonna tell 'em about the Fort?" the boy asked.

"I'd like to," Yully answered. "I've been feeling kinds guilty about them not knowing."

Stephan looked thoughtful. "I'd like to tell Matt, too, but Pa hates for us to keep secrets from him. I'd be afraid he'd try to weasel it out of him or me."

"Maybe when this is over," Ysabel said, "we can talk about who else we want to tell. For now, let's keep it a secret -- if we can."

Emma had an idea. "For now, why don't you just tell your brothers that Stephan's had a fight with his pa and run away for a while. You can't say where he is 'cause... 'cause he didn't tell you where he was going."

"But I _know_ where he is," Yully protested.

Stephan laughed. "Yeah, but _I_ didn't tell you. Emma did. She's the one that said I should hole up in here."

"That just might work.” Yully considered the notion. "It is the truth... sort of. I was gonna tell 'em you gave me that note _before_ you left, anyway, if I need to.” He beamed. "Yeah, that's... that's the ticket."

* * * * *

Trisha took another sip of the madeira, her second glass. "You're staring at me again, Ethan.” She smiled, still feeling a bit shy, as she said it, even with the relaxing warmth of the liquor spreading through her.

"Am I?” He chuckled. "I am sorry. It's just that I cannot get over the apparent resemblance between Norma Jeane and yourself."

"Our 'apparent resemblance'?” She looked over at the portrait, which was propped against a chair a few feet from where she and Ethan were sitting in his second floor studio. "_I_ think we're identical. That's what the potion does."

"It's difficult to be _absolutely_ certain. I can see the match your facial features readily enough, but Norma Jeane's costume leaves no secrets about her body, while your own form is all but concealed beneath those clothes."

Norma Jeane Baker, the woman in the painting, the woman the potion had transformed Patrick O'Hanlan into the twin of, wore a violet-colored corset, a pair of white silk drawers that barely stretched below her hips, and long, violet stockings. A bright red garter, trimmed with small roses, circled the stocking on her right leg at mid-thigh.

Trisha was in a cornflower blue, floor-length skirt, with a petticoat beneath, and a matching blouse trimmed with darker blue lace at her high collar and her cuffs. Under the blouse, she wore both camisole and corset.

"That sounds like an attempt to get me out of my clothes.” Her eyebrow went up, half in curiosity, half in amusement. And -- just maybe -- another half in sexual interest.

"Only to better ascertain the degree of similarity between the two of you. I am, after all, a portraitist, a trained student of the human form."

She giggled. "Somehow, I doubt that."

"I assure you," he made a king's X, crossing a finger over his heart. "My sole interest is to better understand the remarkable similarity between yourself and Norma Jeane Baker.”

She considered his words -- and took another sip of madeira, finishing it -- before speaking. "If that's all..." she stood up, swaying just a little from the alcohol. "...I suppose that I can cooperate. I'm a little... curious about that myself."

"As am I."

She began to unbutton her blouse, then noticed him watching her -- watching _so_ very closely. "Please... don't look," she asked, her face a rosy blush.

"As you wish, Trisha.” He folded his arms across his chest and turned his back to her.

Trisha undid her blouse and draped it over the back of the chair she'd been sitting on. She glanced over and smiled to see that he was still looking away. Her hands fumbled a bit as they undid the three buttons that held her skirt tight to her waist. She pulled at the skirt, loosening it, so that it slid down easily over her hips. Stepping out of it, she laid it over her blouse. A few moments later, her petticoat joined the pile of clothing.

"I-I'm... ready.” Her unease was obvious in her voice. Her hands fidgeted at her sides. She wore a dark blue corset over a white camisole, white drawers, and striped blue and yellow stockings.

Ethan turned around. He studied her for a bit, then beamed. "You are easily as beautiful as Norma Jeane.” He walked towards her, then circled around behind her. "I do wonder, though, at how far the resemblance extends."

"What do you mean?” She could almost feel his eyes on her body.

"For example, do you react as she would when I do this?” He suddenly kissed the side of her neck.

Trisha whimpered, her entire body reacting to the delightful tremor that ran though it. Before she could think, Ethan spun her around. "Or this.” He pulled her to him and pressed his lips to hers.

She raised her arms to push him away. Her hands pressed against his chest -- his broad, masculine chest -- then they moved away as her arms reached out to encircled him. Her nipples tightened at the touch of his body against her own. She moaned, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding into her mouth, playing with hers.

At the same time, his hands reached down to firmly grasp her buttocks. He kneaded them, and it was like the stoking of a fire in her loins. The need, the hunger in her, grew stronger, and her arms tightened around him. 'I-I shouldn't d-do this,' she thought, but the urgency that his hands and his kiss were building in her drove away any thought of stopping.

The kiss ended. She gazed at him through half-closed eyes and sighed.

"Exactly the same," he told her, a grin on his lips. "Shall we continue?”

She smiled weakly, any reluctance she might have had overcome by her arousal. "Y-yes.” Her arms moved down, her fingers worked at the hooks of her corset. She looked down, not wanting to see his eyes. The corset slipped from her nervous fingers and fell to the floor.

"So _very_ lovely," he said and leaned in to kiss her forehead.

She squirmed at the compliment -- and the kiss.

He moved closer and began unbuttoning her camisole. In what seemed like a moment, it was undone. His hands moved the two halves apart, baring her breasts.

He leaned in and took a hard, raspberry nipple into his mouth. His tongue ran across it, and the rough texture on her skin was almost more than she could bear. Her body quivered at the intensity of the sensations. The craving in her grew even stronger. Her loins were warm -- no, _hot_ -- and wet and, oh, so empty. Her knees could no longer support her.

He lifted her in his arm as she fell and carried her to a nearby bed. 'As easy as lifting a sack of feed,' she thought and giggled.

After he set her down, he laid a trail of kisses from between her breasts down to her navel. When his tongue swirled into it, she gave a surprised, "Eeep!"

He slid his feet almost effortlessly out of his boots. "Be with you in a minute," he told her, as he undid the buttons of his trousers. They fell to the ground, and he stepped out of them as well.

Trisha's eyes widened at the size of the bulge in his drawers. And a quake of anticipation in her privates made her feel even more ready. She rubbed her legs together, trying to answer her need.

'I don't care what Jane and Beatriz said,' Ethan told himself. 'How could she ever have been male? She's one of the most physically responsive women I've ever encountered.' He opened the top three buttons of his linen shirt and yanked it off over his head, even more eager for what was about to happen.

His broad chest was a mass of curls, the same dark brown as his mustache and beard. Trisha beamed at him. She giggled again and reached down to play with the bow of her drawers. After her encounters with Enoch and Rhys, she was able to admit to herself how the beauty of a male body could draw her in.

His hands went to his own drawers. He tugged at one end of the cord that held them on. It released his loosened garment, and they slid down his legs. His male tool sprang out to attention at the vision of loveliness before him.

She gasped at the size of him, but the sight made her feel her own need all the more. She quickly had her own drawers off, lying on the floor beside the bed. "I-I'm ready," she told him. On impulse, she tried to pose as she thought Norma Jeane would.

He climbed onto the bed and over her. His legs were between hers, and his arms were bent to support his weight.

"Have you done this before?" he asked her.

"What kind of question is that?" she asked, offended by the idea that he might think she was easy.

Her evasive reply had given him all the answer he needed. Ethan moved down and eased himself into her moist slit.

"Mmmm," she sighed, as he entered her. He let her savor his hugeness for a brief moment, and then began to thrust, filling her, the sensations overwhelming her. Her arms circled around him, drawing him closer. Her legs wrapped around his waist, trapping him. She applied force, trying to pull as much of him inside her as possible.

Trisha's head rolled back, her eyes closed, as wave after wave of pleasure swept over her. "Yes... yes," she gasped. A last great surge coursed through her, lifting her up, up, up until it shattered into fragments of exquisite delight.

"YES!" she screamed as her body writhed.

He wasn't done. He shifted, so that his legs were under hers, and pulled them both into a sitting position. She was on his lap now, his maleness still within her. He kissed her deeply as he resumed his back and forth movement.

She accepted him hesitantly, her body tense, until she could contain herself no more and gasped, breaking the kiss. Trisha stared at him with half-closed eyes. Her hips moved to match him. The world shrank down, so that all she knew was the pleasure of their joining. At last, the building intensity of it could no longer be contained within her. She clawed at his back as her body exploded again with rapture.

He shuddered and let loose a small groan. His essence shot into her, setting her off a third time. They held still in their joint ecstasy for an instant. Then he released her, and they both sank down onto the bed.

"That... that was _nice_," Trisha said at last. She could feel him soften. His manhood shrank down and slid out of her. She twisted her body so that she was next to him and gently kissed his shoulder. "Thank you."

Her kissed her back. "You are more than welcome. And may I say that, while your resemblance to Norma Jeane is very strong, much of what you just did, what we just shared, _Trisha_, was your own delectable self."

"You -- you were with Norma Jeane?"

He smiled. "A gentleman never tells."

"Just tell me," she coaxed, her eyes sly with near laughter, "which of us is better?"

"Let me just say that each of you was --"

"Bam! Bam!"

They both jumped at the sound of the heavy knock at the front door. "Stay here," Ethan said. He climbed out of the bed and reached for a clean cloth from a stack on a nearby worktable. He wiped his loins hurriedly before stepping into his pants. He pulled them up, buttoned them quickly, and sat back down to put on his shoes.

Instead of his shirt, he grabbed for a nearby, paint-spattered tunic and donned it as he scrambled down the stairs. "I'm coming," he yelled in answer.

'And I'd better be _going_,' Trisha told herself, as she watched him run. "I told Kaitlin I'd behave, and two days later, here I am... _not_ behaving.” She sighed and promised herself to do "much, much better.” She looked around and saw a pitcher of water and a few more clean cloths on the worktable. She went over to it and began to tidy herself up.

* * * * *

Ethan opened the door. "May I help you?"

"I would hope so.” A woman in a dark green dress, her graying, brownish hair done in a tight bun, walked past him into the room. "My name is Ritter, Mrs. Cecelia Ritter. Are you the painter... Thomas, yes, Mr. Thomas? Are you him?"

Ethan bowed. "I am he, Mrs. Ritter. How may I be of service?"

"I was thinking of a painting, a family painting, my husband and myself -- with our children, perhaps, if that wouldn't be too expensive."

Ethan heard a sound from upstairs. He saw Mrs. Ritter tense and look up, and he recognized the curiosity in her expression. "Mrs. Ritter... Cecelia, if I may," he said quickly, flashing her his most charming smile. "I should be delighted to discuss your commissioning a portrait of yourself and your family. However, I have a... subject upstairs whose time to pose is limited. May I have the honor and pleasure of calling upon you at your home at some time later this afternoon?"

"I have some errands to run.” She tried to hide her interest in whoever was posing -- if that's what they were doing. "My address is 29 Maple Street. That's left out your door, right at the corner, and left again at the next corner.” She gestured as she spoke. "We're the fourth house on the right, the one with the green shutters. Would 4 PM be all right?”

"It would, indeed.” He bowed and took her hand. "Until 4.” He gently kissed her hand and, while she was too flustered to object, led her back to the still opened door. "Good day... Cecelia."

The matron giggled at the sound of her name and walked away. She stopped twice to look back over her shoulder and giggled again.

* * * * *

Trisha was waiting near the top of the stairs, buttoning her blouse. "I assume from your clothing that we will not be continuing," Ethan said unhappily.

"I don't think so.” She stepped over and gently kissed his cheek. "You're a sweet man, Ethan, and I... it was something I needed, but we're not gonna be 'continuing' today or... ever, I think."

He slowly ran a finger along her cheek. "'Ever' is a very long time."

"No," she answered, trying to ignore the very real attraction she felt -- _and_ the desire he was so expertly stirring in her. "I have resp-responsibilities... and... and a family.” In desperation, she added, "please."

He took his hand away. "Very well. Though I shall reserve the right to hope that you will change your mind."

"Thank you." She gave a deep sigh of relief.

They walked down, hand in hand. She stood off to the side, while he looked outside. "The coast, as they say, is clear," he told her.

He tried to kiss her again as she walked past him. "Thank you, but, no thank you," she answered, dodging his attempt and scurrying out the door.

* * * * *

Wednesday, March 6, 1872

"Emma!" Tommy Carson yelled and threw the ball in a high arc. She caught it on the run and ran toward the goal, a tree some 30 feet away.

There were only two boys from the other team in front of her, Jorge Ybaá±es and Bert McLeod. Jorge ran straight at her. She waited until he was close, then shifted to his left and circled past him. 'Now, where's Bert?' she thought.

She found out the hard way, when Bert grabbed her by the waist. Jorge was on her a moment later, pulling at her right arm, the one holding the ball. She tried to twist free, but two other boys were trying for the ball now. Their legs tangled as they struggled, and the five of them fell to the ground.

Hands scrambled for the ball. Emma tried to tuck it under her. If she still had it when they all finally stood up, her team would still have it, and they'd be _so_ _much_ closer to the goal.

Then a hand reached for something else.

She felt someone's fingers touch her breast. And it was no accident. The fingers were moving, cupping her breast through the material of her dress and camisole. A warm, pleasant feeling ran through her. She gasped in surprise.

And almost let go of the ball.

"Stop that!" she screamed. "Stop that right now!"

The hand -- whose ever hand it was -- pulled away. The other hands stopped reaching for the ball. She felt the boys shift off her and stand up. Hector Ybaá±es, her own team's captain, helped her to her feet. She was still holding the ball.

"What'd you yell like that for?" Hector asked.

Emma flushed. "I... I, uhh, got tired of rolling around in the dirt," she answered quickly. She was hardly about to give the real reason. "Nobody else was gonna stop 'em, so I did."

"There's still time left," Tommy Carson said. "Let's get moving.” The two teams formed a circle around Emma. She faked a toss to Yully, then passed the ball to Hector. He ran for the goal, with both teams in pursuit.

She glanced down quickly at her chest as she ran. 'Better talk to Ma about this tonight,' she told herself.

* * * * *

"You ask.” Matthew Yingling pushed his sister, Ruth, the last step over to where Yully, Emma, Ysabel, and Tomas were eating lunch.

Yully looked up from his turkey sandwich. "One of you better ask fast," he told the pair. "There ain't much time left till class starts again."

"We been telling everybody that Stephan's home sick." Ruth fidgeted with her hands as she spoke. "He ain't, but I think you already knew that, you being his best friend.”

Yully tried to look surprised. "He ain't sick? That's news to me."

"Nobody's supposed t'know.” Matthew replied. "My Pa's furious. He's been calling down the wrath of G-d on him for running away. Ma's real frightened."

Ruth's eyes glistened. "We all are. If you know anything, anything at all, please, please tell."

Yully shook his head. "I-I can't help you. I-I'm sorry."

Tomas was sitting across from Yully. "What is your papa cursing Stephan for? That does not sound like the good priest everyone says your father is.”

"What's it to you, Tomas?" the Yingling boy asked. "He ain't your 'priest', and Stephan _is_ our brother."

"He's also _our_ friend," Ysabel chimed in. Emma nodded in agreement. She'd been oddly quiet all through lunch.

Ruth's jaw dropped. "You know; you _all_ know where he is, don't you?"

"I never said that," Ysabel answered quickly.

Matthew looked angry. "What's the matter? Did all of you promise him not to tell anybody where he was?"

"Who says we promised him anything?" Ysabel said just as quickly as before.

"I don't care who did or didn't promise what," Matthew said, trying not to lose his temper. "I just want to know where my brother is."

"And that he's all right," Ruth added.

Yully sighed. "I don't think he wants to be found just yet -- wherever he is. He's real mad about your Pa trying to make him be a preacher."

"I'm not sure that I wanna be one, either," Matthew admitted, "but I _know_ that I wouldn't wanna scare Ma like he's doing. Seems like she's crying all the time.” Ruth agreed, looking almost ready to cry herself.

Ysabel took Ruth's hand. "I do not think that he likes scaring your mama, either, but he thinks that your papa did not give him a choice."

"You're not saying anything, then.” Ruth shook her head. "Not any of you, are you?”

"I just told you," Yully stood up, gathering the remains of his lunch back into his pail, "I -- none of us -- can help you."

* * * * *

Arnie was gathering up dishes left by customers who'd been at the Free Lunch when he saw Quint Parnell walk in. He waved, and the older man walked over. "You ready to go?" the man asked.

"Sure am.” Arnie set the tray of dirty dishes down on the nearest table. He untied his apron and draped it over the tray.

Dolores was taking a beer over to one of the player's in Bridget's poker game. "Tell Shamus I'll be back as soon as I can," Arnie called to her.

"Where are you going?" she asked, but her cousin and Parnell were already walking out the door.

* * * * *

Bill Hersh was mounted on a dappled mare at the hitching post outside the Saloon. His right arm was in an improvised sling, and an overstuffed saddlebag was tied to his horse's saddle. "Hello, kid," he said by way of greeting.

"Let's go.” Parnell untied the reins of a brown horse from the hitching post. "You 'n me'll walk," he told Arnie. The boy fell in next to him, while Hersh, still on horseback, followed.

Arnie frowned. Was this all that they needed him for? To walk with them a couple hundred feet? He'd have thought that they'd need him more up in the foothills, where outlaws might lurk. The "work" was not worth more than a dollar. Would they really pay him ten?

* * * * *

The assay office was two blocks down, past the freight office and the bank. Parnell tied his horse to the post. Hersh tossed him the reins, and he tied the other man's horse, as well.

Hersh dismounted awkwardly. He stood next to his horse, while Parnell removed the saddlebag. "Want me to hold that?" Arnie asked.

"I got it," Hersh said, and Parnell handed him the bag.

Arnie shrugged. "Then I'll get the door. He walked over and opened the office door, holding it as the two men walked it.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?” Egbert Fields stood just inside the doorway. He was a heavyset, white-haired man wearing a brown jacket with the small badge that identified him as a guard. The jacket was open, so his twin pistols could be clearly seen.

Fields looked closely at the three men as they walked in. "Your weapons, please."

Parnell had the only pistol. He handed it to Fields handle first, and the guard set it down on a chair behind him.

The office looked like a bank lobby. It was mostly empty, except for a few sturdy chairs. At the back, a closed-in area was set up like a teller's cage, with a solid, oak door at the side, and bars from the ceiling down to the top of the desk. Lucian Stone was sitting on a high stool behind the desk, waiting.

Parnell shook his head. "We got it.” He walked over to Lucian. "We found some color in our claim, and we came in so you could tell us just how good it was."

"How much do you have for me to test?" Lucian began setting up a scale.

Parnell pulled a small bag from his pocket. "This for a start.” He tossed it up in the air, but when he caught it, the bag fell apart. Pebbles scattered across the floor, attracting everyone's eyes.

Except for Hersh. His right arm snaked out of the sling and into the saddlebag. He came out with a pistol that he pushed against Field's side. "Hold it right there," he told the guard.

"Get his pistol, Arnie," Parnell ordered. "And give it to me."

Arnie stared at the men. "I... What are you doing, Mr. Parnell?"

"I'm... _We're_ robbing this place, just like we all planned," the other answered. "You ain't getting cold feet now, are you?"

The boy shook his head. "I'm not a part of this."

"You are now." Hersh laughed. "Now get the man's pistol like Quint told you."

Arnie obeyed, not knowing what else to do. "Sorry," he said, as he took the weapon from the guard and handed it to Parnell. “Mentiroso…liar!” he shouted at the man. "You told me my pistol would be 'showy'. If I had it now, I'd…I'd show you… I'd stop this right now.”

“Shut up, you little bastard," Parnell ordered. "You...” He pointed the revolver at Lucian. "...give me all the money."

Lucian reached for his wallet. "The money in that safe," Parnell ordered, pointing at the large safe built into the wall behind the assay desk.

"There's no money in there. I write checks for the gold I get, and men take them over to the bank to get cashed.” He chuckled. "There's no gold in there, either. I shipped out the last ore I collected to the Denver Mint on the Monday stage. Nobody's brought in any ore since then."

Hersh went read in the face. "What! You're lying."

"I'd let you check the safe if we had the time," Lucian answered, "but I hit the alarm to call the Sheriff as soon as you drew that firearm. He should be here any time now."

Hersh growled. "You son of a bitch!” He fired at Lucian, who ducked down behind the wall.

"There's a steel plate in this wall," Lucian told them. They heard a loud "click" behind them. "And I just locked the door. You might as well sit down and wait for Dan Talbot to get here.”

Fields saw how distracted the men were and grabbed for Hersh's pistol. The pair struggled, but Fields eventually pulled it free. "Drop it," he ordered Parnell. The would-be thief made a face and tossed his own weapon to the floor. "Just sit yourselves down, gents," the guard ordered. "Those chairs are a lot more comfortable than the cell you're all headed for."

"They-they tricked me," Arnie said ruefully. "I was just trying to…” He glared at Parnell and Hersh and took a seat a few feet away from the pair. "If I'd had my pistol --"

Lucian stood up. "Save your story for the Sheriff, son.” He brushed some dust from his pants. "And the trial."

* * * * *

"How do I look, Martha?" Reverend Yingling asked, walking out of his study.

His wife looked at him for a moment before breaking into a smile. "Handsome... as always. Except... let me fix your tie.” She walked over and began working on the knot of his necktie. "Thad, I-I was thinking."

"Yes, my dear?"

She worked on his tie as she talked. "Now that we know that Stephan is hiding somewhere nearby, couldn't you..."

"Ask for help at the Board meeting tonight? We have been through this, Martha, and more than once. I will not be embarrassed in front of my congregation, especially by a son with the temerity to give me an ultimatum.” He shook his head angrily. "No, I will not do it.”

"Hold still. And that's not what I'm saying. If he's nearby, he may be with some of his friends. I thought that you should talk to Ulysses Stone; he and Stephan are best friends. Perhaps he can tell us something.” She finished with his tie and stepped back. "Done."

"An interesting notion, ask the Stone boy. I'd have to tell his parents -- his father, at least -- but, yes, I like the idea. I... we shall both go over there tomorrow.” He looked at his pocket watch. "But now, I've a meeting to get to."

He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Martha."

* * * * *

"Can I talk to you, Mama?" Emma wiped the last of the dinner dishes and put it in the drying rack next to the sink.

Kaitlin closed the door on the cold box. "What is it, Emma? You've been on edge about something all evening.” She glanced around. "Something that you didn't want to talk to Trisha about, I think."

"No, ma'am. I remember the way she acted last time, at Christmas, when I... when Yully... kissed me."

"Did he kiss you again?" her mother asked. 'And what did you think about it this time?' she deliberately _didn't_ ask that second question.

"It wasn't Yully. I-I don't know who it was that... that touched me.” She looked down, ashamed at what had happened.

"Touched you?” Kaitlin took her daughter in her arms. "Tell me, from the start, what happened."

"We-we were playing ball. I was in the clear, and Tommy Carson threw it to me. And...” Slowly, in fits and starts, Emma told her mother what had happened. "I felt... a-a hand on... on my left...” She gently touched herself.

Kaitlin pretended not to notice. "What did you do?"

"I yelled for him -- whoever it was -- to stop.” She sighed. "And he did.” She chuckled nervously. "I guess the rest figgered I meant stop fighting for the ball 'cause that stopped, too."

"And what did you think about being... touched?"

"It... I don't know. It felt kinda good, but I -- _no_, I didn't like it.” She seemed to have just decided.

"You could always stop playing ball with the boys, then they wouldn't be --"

"Stop? No, not after fighting so hard to get t'play."

"Then I'm afraid that it will happen again.” She thought for a moment. "Take off your dress."

"Mama?” What did _that_ have to do with anything? "This ain't what I was wearing."

"I know. That dress was filthy from your... from the game. Please just take this one off."

Emma shrugged and unbuttoned the dress before pulling it off over her head.

Kaitlin looked at her daughter for a moment. Emma wasn't wearing her corset. She seldom did, except when she was having her monthlies, and her breasts were more sensitive.

"The petticoat, too," Kaitlin ordered. Emma obeyed and soon stood before her mother in just her camisole and drawers. "Now, arms out from your sides and turn around once, slowly," Kaitlin told her.

As her daughter did what she was told to, Kaitlin studied Emma's figure. Her camisole had grown tighter across her chest than it had been when she had... changed, and her nipples were clearly visible now pushing out the material. Emma's hips looked a bit wider, as well, and her drawers didn't stretch quite as far down her leg.

"You, my girl, are blossoming," she told Emma. "Getting to be more of a girl," she explained. "I think it's time to visit Silverman's to see about some new under things.” She waited a moment before adding, "And I also think that it's time for you to get your first full-time corset."

"Full-time?" Emma whined. "I don't need to wear no corset full-time."

"Yes, you do, Emma. You're big enough now -- on top -- to need the support."

* * * * *

"Next item of Old Business," Horace Styron began, "is the report on last Saturday's dance.” He waited a beat. "Well, we had one, and I think most of you were there. You all have a good time?"

Joel Keenan stood up. "Quit the yapping, Horace. How'd we make out, Dwight?"

"Pretty good," Dwight Albertson answered, reading from a ledger. "We sold 73 tickets, that's $146 income. We made another $33.50 selling refreshments. Total expenses were $12.42, and most of that was for the band."

He put down the book. "Thanks again to the gracious ladies, who donated all that delicious food and to Roscoe Unger, who not only gave the dance all that free advertising in his paper, but who also gave us the materials for decorations.” He rose and began to clap his hands, and the rest of those in the room soon joined in.

"That gives us a profit of $167.08," he concluded when the applause had ended, "a very auspicious start to the Building Fund."

"Or whatever we use it for," Styron added, taking control of the meeting again. He waited to see if anyone -- especially Trisha -- responded. When no one did, he asked, "Is there any other Old Business?"

Judge Humphreys looked around. "There doesn't seem to be, not for now, at least."

"Then on to New Business," Horace waited a moment, then continued. "I've received a petition signed by the necessary five members of the congregation...” He glanced over at Clyde Ritter and took an envelope from inside his jacket. "...calling for the removal of Trisha O'Hanlan --"

Trisha leapt to her feet. "What the... the heck are you trying to pull, Horace?” She grabbed for the envelope. "Let me see that."

"I will.” He waved the envelope just out of her reach. "As soon as you sit down. This petition calls for your removal based on your scandalous behavior at the dance."

"What 'scandalous behavior' are you talking about?"

"You know very well, Trisha. Don't make me repeat it in the presence of the Reverend and the ladies here at the meeting.” Horace smiled triumphantly.

Milt Quinlan raised a hand. "Excuse me, Horace. I'm not familiar with any improper behavior on Trisha's part, but I am familiar with the church bylaws."

"Then you know that the members have the right to ask the members to vote to kick somebody off the board. Everybody in this room know that; we voted on Trisha here in January."

"That is correct. Article Eight, Section Five, of the bylaws allows the members to be polled on the fitness of a Board member. _However_, Article Eight, Section Six, says that there can't be a second polling on that same Board member for six months. We didn't want any one faction playing political games, trying something like this month after month after month."

"Six months? That doesn't seem fair."

The Judge stared at Styron. "You thought it was fair two years ago when you introduced this bylaw. If the petitioners want, they can re-introduce their motion at the May meeting. I say move on."

"Agreed," Rupert Warrick interrupted. "It's getting late, Horace. Is there anything else to talk about, or can we all go home?"

* * * * *

Thursday, March 7, 1872

"So there ye are."

Arnie spin around and looked through the bars of his cell. "Seá±or Shamus!"

"Aye," Shamus said. "When folks came in, jabbering about the robbery or murder or whatever happened at the assay office, I was hoping that ye wasn't a part of it.” He shook his head. "But ye was."

"Me Molly went over t'be seeing yuir mother last night. She was worried sick with grief and trying t'work up the courage to be coming over t'see the Sheriff. Molly told her I'd come do it for her, but I waited till now, so ye'd have more time t'be thinking about the mess ye got yuirself into."

Shamus leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I never been so disappointed in someone in me whole life. What happened yesterday?"

"Parnell, the man that --"

"I know, that tried t'cheat at Bridget's poker game. Ye was one of the ones that stopped him and his partner.” He sighed and shook his head. "And yesterday, ye was helping the pair of them rob the assay office."

"No! They -- they tricked me."

"Why was ye there with them in the first place?"

"Parnell, he said that the other one -- Hersh -- his arm was broken. They needed help to get some ore --"

"And ye believed that story?"

"I-I did not think. Parnell offered to pay me ten dollars."

"And why didn't ye tell him that ye had a job? If ye _had_ t'be working for him, why didn't ye ask me if ye could be going off with him for a wee bit?"

"I did not think --"

"No, lad, ye didn't. Ye thought that ye knew better, just like ye been thinking that ye could be stealing drinks when I told ye not to."

"I have not...” Arnie looked away from Shamus. "Not since you caught me."

"That's hardly a good excuse, Arnie. I talked to Milt Quinlan after me Molly came back from yuir house. He said that he thought he could show that ye wasn't a part of thuir scheme. Especially with what Lucian Stone said about ye wishing for yuir gun, so ye could be stopping them two."

"Th-thank you, Shamus."

"Ye're welcome, Arnie, but ye should know that it's the last help ye'll be getting from me."

"Seá±or?"

"The trial'll be held in the Saloon. Come see me when it's over, so we can be settling up.” Shamus paused a beat. "I've tried and tried to give you a good chance, but it ain't working. And neither are ye -- at least, not for me anymore."

* * * * *

"Hola, Carmen," Ramon said, walking up to where she was sitting by the entrance to the bathhouse. "Can I talk to you for a bit?"

Carmen put down her darning. "Si, no one is in the baths just now. What is so important to bring you over this time of day?"

"This.” He held up an envelope. "We -- you and I -- just got a letter from Gregorio.” He opened the envelope, took out a folded sheet of paper, and began to read.

` "To my dear brother and sister, greetings.

` Abner Slocum has invited me to participate in a very
` high stakes poker game in Eerie on Saturday, the 16th,
` and I have accepted. I will arrive on Thursday and
` leave on Monday."

Carmen cocked an eyebrow. "It must be a _very_ big game if he is riding all the way here to play."

"It is. It costs $1,000 to buy a place at the table.” He continued reading.

` "I trust that you have gotten over this foolishness
` about that Sanchez woman, Ramon. If not, I wish to
` speak to you about it again."

Ramon scowled. "Foolishness."

"Our brother is the fool, Ramon. We both know that.” She smiled. "We have known it for years, you and I."

He read on.

` "According to Abner's invitation, she will be working
` the entire game, 24 hours, to provide food whenever
` a player wishes something. Is this what you want,
` Ramon, a drudge who will not even stay home to care
` for her own children? You are a de Aguilar and your
` wife -- when you _do_ marry -- should be above
` such things."

"Above such things?" Ramon was angry now. "Who does he think he is to say that about Margarita?"

"I thought we had settled that," Carmen answered. "He is a fool, and we will do our best to make him realize that when he arrives on the 14th.” She paused a moment. "And if he does not, then he will not get invited to your wedding."

* * * * *

"You move the ten of clubs over there," R.J. pointed to one of the set of cards on the table in front of Bridget, "you'll have a queen-high straight."

Bridget looked up at him. "What... oh, thanks, R.J."

"What's the matter, Bridget? It isn't like you to miss something that easy."

She frowned. "That damn poker game. I'm still trying to decide if I want to take Slocum's offer."

"That one's almost as easy as the ten of clubs. You should take it and be the dealer for him."

"Why do you say that?” She sounded more annoyed than curious.

"First off, and I hate to say it, you don't have the money to buy in."

"No -- damn it! -- I don't.” She made a sour face. "I-I tried everything -- everything I was willing to do, anyway, and I couldn't raise the $1,000 Slocum's asking."

"Then being dealer is the best way to watch the game. You'll actually be at the table. You can even talk to the players -- some.” He waited a beat. "You've been saying for weeks how much you wanted to meet Henry Clay Hooker."

"I still do. It took real guts to do what he did with Cochise, not to mention the stories about that ranch of his.” She sighed. "It just won't be the same as playing against him.”

"I suppose it's not, but does that matter?"

"Damn right it does. I enjoy playing poker with my regulars, but to measure my skill against people like Hooker, that's something any professional player'd give his eyeteeth for, especially for these stakes.”

"Is that how you think of yourself, as a professional poker player?"

"It's what I am.” She studied R.J.'s face. "What do you think of me as?"

"As a woman, of course, a beautiful woman who's supporting herself, for now, by her skill at cards."

"For now?"

"Well... yes. You're gonna settle down and get married eventually -- to me, I have every hope."

She looked at him. This was the first time that the word "marriage" had crossed his lips.

"And..." she asked slowly.

"And a man expects his wife to _be_ his wife. He supports her, not the other way around."

"Thank you for clarifying that, R.J.” She tried to keep the anger out of her voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to the game. If I'm going to support myself -- for now, at least -- with my skill at cards, then I'd best work on honing those skills."

Bridget moved the ten of clubs, but she put it with two other tens and a pair of threes to form a full house.

* * * * *

"Ma... Pa, the preacher's here," Agamemnon "Aggie" Stone yelled from near the front door.

Phillipia Stone bustled out of the kitchen and into the parlor. "Aggie, how many times have I told you not to yell like that?” She opened the door for them. "Reverend... and Martha, do come in."

"Thank you," Martha replied as she and her husband walked past Phillipia and into the parlor.

Phillipia gestured towards a green horsehair settee. "Please, sit down. Can I get you some coffee or lemonade?"

"No, thank you," Yingling replied, taking a seat. "May we speak to your son, Ulysses?"

Lucian Stone walked in, putting on his jacket as he did. "Yully's upstairs, doing homework.” He looked at his youngest son. "Speaking of which, young man, didn't Miss Osbourne give you some homework, too?"

The boy nodded his head. "Yes, sir, spelling words and some fractions."

"Then you had best get upstairs to do it. And you can tell your brother to come down when you do."

Aggie walked slowly towards the steps. "Yes, sir," he muttered.

"While we're waiting," Lucian said, "what exactly do you need to see Yully for?"

Yingling fidgeted a moment. "My-my son, Stephan, threw a... spiteful fit a few days ago when we were discussing his future. He ran away and is hiding somewhere. I've no doubt that he will come to his senses, admit his error, and return. However, Martha...” He took his wife's hand in his own. "Well, you know how mothers worry. It occurred to me that your Ulysses is Stephan's best friend and might have some idea where the boy might be."

"I didn't know Stephan was missing," Lucian replied. "I'd be glad to help you look for him; I don't think there's a father in town who wouldn't help."

The reverend shook his head. "I am here to offer help to my flock, not to seek theirs -- especially not because of some foolishness on the part of my son.” He paused and looked over at Martha. "The important thing is that we find out where he is."

"I'm sure that Yully will tell us when we ask," Phillipia said.

Yingling glowered. "Ask? He is your son; his obedience should be complete and immediate."

"If you don't mind my saying so," Lucian said softly, "that doesn't exactly seem to be the way it is with you and Stephan just now."

The reverend's voice was calm, as if brooking no possible opposition. "A minor aberration that I intend to address when he returns.” He took a breath. "Let me speak to your boy. Perhaps, I may find the way to... persuade him."

"You wanted to see me, Pa?” Yully chose that moment to come into the parlor. He tried to hide his concern when he saw the Reverend.

Lucian put his arm on his son's shoulder. "The Reverend has a few questions for you, Yully. I want you to answer him."

"Where is my son, Ulysses Stone?" the minister demanded.

"I-I can't say, sir," Yully told him nervously. "I'm... I'm very sorry."

The reverend pointed an angry finger at him. "Why are you lying to me, boy?" he stormed, "Don't you know that you are putting your soul into eternal jeopardy by denying the truth of this matter to a minister of our Lord."

"Don't you think you're coming on a little strong, Reverend?" Lucian told the other man.

Martha's eyes glistened, as she spoke. "Please, Yully, tell us. I... _we_ need to know where Stephan is."

"Do I _have_ to answer, Pa?” The boy sounded unsure. "I... I sorta promised."

"Yes, by Thunder, _answer_," Yingling ordered.

Lucian spoke slowly in response. "He asked _me_, Reverend.” He turned to his son. "Yes, Ulysses, I'm afraid that you do, whatever you may have promised your friend, Stephan."

"Please," Martha added. "I need him to be home... safe."

Yully hesitated. "Can I think about it a little... overnight maybe?"

"Overnight!" the cleric thundered. "Tell us now. What is your problem?"

Phillipia took her son's hand. "The problem is that he's caught between breaking a promise to his best friend and obeying his parents."

"Obedience... obedience is always the answer.” Yingling shrugged. "The choice is a simple one."

Lucian shook his head. "The choice is always a simple one when somebody else has to make it.” Lucian pulled out his pocket watch. "It's almost 8 PM. Perhaps we _should_ give the boy the time he's asked for and wait until tomorrow."

"What purpose on earth would that serve?" the reverend asked sternly.

"Well, I don't know. Maybe there's _someone_ he has to talk to first.” Lucian's eyes tilted upward, an expectant look on his face.

Yingling stared frowningly at the boy, but he saw the reason in Lucian's advice. "We will wait," he said, glowering at Yully, "but I will expect you to answer _all_ my questions.” He paused a moment. "And no lies."

Yully shook his head. "N-no, sir."

"We will return at..." the reverend decided to be gracious. "...9. That will give Phillipia time to get the other children off to school."

Yully thought quickly. 'But not time for me t'warn Stephen -- or the others. I sure won't get a chance to sneak out tonight.' He took a breath and asked. "I-I'm not gonna have much of a chance t'think about it tonight -- not if I have to sleep. Can you... wait till after school?"

"Impossible!" Yingling argued. "What do you have to think about? Between right and wrong there is no choice."

Martha was horrified. "Why must we wait? Can't we talk to you in the morning... please?"

"Martha, I understand your concerns.” Lucian glanced at the minister and his wife, then at Yully. There was more to this on both sides than he could guess. "But I suspect that this will take some time, and I'd just as soon that the boy not miss a day at school."

"We'll head home then," Yingling said, stifling his anger, "but we'll be back about 4, as you ask.” He took Martha's hand and led her to the door. "Good night to you both. And to you as well, Ulysses."

* * * * *

Ethan swirled his snifter and took a long sip of peach brandy. "Are you familiar with a Mrs. Cecelia Ritter?" he asked Cerise. The two of them were sitting in her office.

"I know the woman. She is disagreeable... argumentative, but most susceptible to flattery -- especially about herself."

He chuckled. "I noticed.” He took another sip. "She is also interested in art, or so she says. Mrs. Ritter has asked that I create a portrait of her and her husband."

"You do not believe that her interest is genuine?"

He shrugged. "Genuine or not, she is paying, so I will do the painting."

"You are as much a whore as any of my ladies," she said with a low, sultry chuckle.

"When did I ever say that I wasn't? I just wonder how much of her interest is in my painting and how much is in my subjects, my other subjects, that is?”

"She is an influence in this town, mon ami. Be careful.” Cerise sipped her own brandy. "And keep me appraised of what happens."

"I shall.” He finished the last of his brandy and stood up. "And now, if you will excuse me, the night is young, and your ladies are lovely.” He bowed his head and turned to leave

Cerise nodded with a bemused smile. "But, of course."

Wilma was waiting as he walked out into the hallway. "Well, hi, there, Ethan," Wilma said brightly. "Daisy said you was here.” She glanced at the door behind him. "You and Cerise talking about me?"

"No, there were other matters for us to discuss."

"You couldn't prove it by me. We ain't talked no how while I been posing for you this week. You keep looking at me like you're thinking 'bout something, but you never say what.” She leaned in close and ran her hand across her chest.

"You're here now, though.” She kissed his cheek. "We got all night, so there'll be time for talking, too."

He could smell her perfume, and he felt himself grow harder. Sex with Trisha had been outstanding, and Wilma was much more experienced in the arts of pleasing a man. Still, he wanted her on _his_terms. He had decided that the one of them who could wait the longest would be the winner in the end.

"Yes, I do have all night," he answered, "but I rather doubt that I will be taking time away from Beatriz to speak with you."

* * * * *

"I hear that you had some trouble at the meeting last night," Kaitlin said, buttoning her nightgown.

Trisha arched her eyebrow. "Who told you that?"

"I was at the market today. Lavinia Mckecknie and Cecelia Ritter were talking about forcing you off the board. Cecelia was saying how Milt Quinlan got you out of trouble for now on some sort of technicality, but they'd be ready in May. Ready for what?"

"You remember that petition Ritter and Styron filed last December to get me off the board?"

Kaitlin nodded. "They wanted the congregation to vote on whether or not you should stay on the board after you turned into a woman. You won that vote. How can they bring it up again?"

"They filed a new petition, one that says I shouldn't stay on the Board because of how I acted at the dance."

"At the dance?” Kaitlin looked daggers at Trisha. "What _did_ you do?"

"I... I danced with a lot of different men. I drank some punch that had alcohol in it. And I let Rhys Godwin -- well, you saw what I let him do.” She still wasn't going to admit everything, not even to Kaitlin.

"Cecelia and Lavinia saw something, too, it seems.” She shook her head. "I warned you about that."

"I didn't do anything more than walk around holding Rhys' hand."

"Which, evidently, was enough to start rumors, and rumors are all some people need to believe the worst about you."

"You're right," Trisha admitted ruefully. "It was enough to give them the excuse to write up that petition."

"So when is the meeting to vote on it?"

"Not for a while. Milt told them that the bylaws say that a second petition like that can't be filed for six months after the first. That's what they meant by waiting till May. That'll be six months."

"And they'll have all that time to spread the rumors, to make you seem even worse than you are."

"What do you mean 'worse'? What did I do that was so bad?"

"What did you do? You bared your breasts to a man -- a man you hardly knew -- and let him leave a love bite on one of them.” She closed her eyes and sighed. "That's not something any _respectable_ woman would do."

Trisha looked down, not wanting to meet Kaitlin's eyes. "So what can I do about it? I don't want to quit the board, and I, especially, don't want Styron to get me kicked off it."

"What _we_ do is act as if all the rumors are the lies that they _should_ be."

"That they _are_!"

"Perhaps they are, but that won't stop them from being repeated, repeated until everyone in town has heard them.” She took a breath. "Until _Emma_ hears them."

"Emma... no, I don't want her to get hurt."

"You should have thought about that before you did... whatever you did with Godwin. All we can do now is pretend that it didn't happen _and_ make sure that it never happens again. Agreed?"

"Agreed... never again. I promise."

"Let's just hope that's a promise you can keep."

* * * * *

Friday, March 8, 1872

"Stephan's pa came by my house last night," Yully announced at lunch. He waited to see the reactions of his friends.

Ysabel frowned. "Ruth -- or Matthew -- we should have known one of them'd say something to their pa."

"He said it was his idea," Yully told them. "He asked 'cause he knew Stephan and me was best friends."

"You didn't tell 'em where he was, did you?" Emma asked.

Yully shook his head. "I didn't -- not then, but I'm gonna have to. The reverend was yelling at me t'beat the band. My Ma and Pa stood up for me, but they wanted me to tell."

"But you did not," Tomas said. "Good."

Yully sighed. "I asked for some time to think it over, but, when they come over today at 4, I'm not gonna have a choice."

"But if you tell, that's the end of Fort Secret.” Emma sounded frantic. "The reverend won't let it be after Stephan hid there. They'll burn it up or dig it out or something."

Ysabel had a thought. "Maybe there is a choice. What if Stephan was not hiding there when you talked to his parents?"

"Where would he go?" Emma asked. "How could he stay hidden?"

Ysabel smiled slyly. "He could go to Yully's house. If his father comes and pulls him from the Fort, like a rabbit from his hole, then the father wins."

"But if he shows up at Yully's," Emma finished the thought, "like it was the plan all along, then he wins -- or it's a draw, at least. Yeah, I like it!"

Yully smiled. "So do I. I'll go home after school and wait for 'em to show up. You three run like the dickens over to the Fort. Tell him the plan and help him to get packed up and over to my place by 4."

When the others agreed, Yully added, "and make sure he gets there by himself. Him and me're already in trouble, but they don't know -- they're not for sure, anyway -- that any of you had anything t'do with it."

* * * * *

Shamus followed Jane into the kitchen. "What is it ye wanted --” He saw Teresa Diaz standing by the worktable, which was piled high with paper-wrapped bundles. "Now, I know what ye wanted. Good afternoon, Teresa."

"Good afternoon, Seá±or Shamus," the woman answered hesitantly.

Maggie took Jane's and walked towards the door. "We will leave you two alone to talk."

"How come?" Jane asked, as she let the cook lead her away.

"I will explain -- outside."

Shamus pointed to a chair. "Please, sit down, Teresa."

"No, I... I want to stand," she replied, then shook her head. "No, I will sit. I will... I will get down on my knees and beg. Please... please, give my Arnoldo another chance."

"I gave him another chance when I took him back. And I gave him still more chances since then. But after what happened at the assay office...."

"But the jury said that he was not guilty -- that those two men lie to him. Then they lie about him, pretended that he was part of their gang."

"Aye, and who was it but meself that hired Milt Quinlan to be helping him?

"Then you know that he is a good boy."

"He is. But he'll never be a good _man_ till he learns t'be thinking about what he does and about the consequences that can come if he's acting wrong.” He sighed, not liking what he was going to say. "Arnie lies. I caught him stealing from me, drinks _and_ money. I know he didn't plan to rob Lucian Stone. I also know that he didn't think out what they was asking him t'do, and he left me in the lurch when he went off with them men."

"You are not going to give Arnoldo another chance then?” She tried to hold back the tears.

"If he can show me that he's changed, that I can be trusting him, I'll be happy t'be hiring him back. Till then..." he voice trailed off. "I'm sorry."

"So am I.” She forced herself to stand. "Thank you, at least, for listening.” Head down, she walked slowly out the kitchen door.

* * * * *

Teresa walked out into the yard behind the Saloon. She took the handle of the cart she used for deliveries and, eyes full of tears, pulled it to the alley that led back to the street.

She was still crying softly when she stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk that ran along the storefronts. As she dragged her cart onto it, one of the rear wheels wedged into a crack between two boards. "Maldita sea! (Damn it!)," she cursed, yanking at the cart handle. "Aflá³jate, rueda estáºpida! (Come loose, you stupid wheel!") She was almost glad to have something else to focus her anger on besides her Arnoldo.

The wheel came free, catching her by surprise. She wasn't braced and stumbled back into the street.

Directly into the path of a freight wagon.

The driver reined in his horses as quickly as he could and threw the brake. He jumped down from his seat and saw that she was still breathing. "Thank the good Lord for that," he said, wiping his brow. Then he saw the unnatural angle of her right arm and right leg. "Shit!" he muttered, "they's broken for sure.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and began to yell for somebody to fetch Doc Upshaw.

* * * * *

Lucian Stone was waiting on the porch when Yully arrived home. "I thought you might want some... support when you talk to the Reverend," he explained.

"Ain't folks gonna be mad that you closed the assay office?" Yully asked.

The man shook his head. "Maybe, but after what happened Wednesday, I think they'll understand.” He took a breath. "The important thing is that _you_ understand. Are you ready to tell the Yinglings where their son is?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"I know that it's hard, that you promised him you wouldn't tell, but you saw how unhappy his mother was.” He frowned. "And how mad his father was."

"He _was_ mad, wasn't he?"

"He was worried about his boy. He just had his own way of showing it.” Lucian put his arm around his son's shoulders. "Whatever you think, he is Stephan's father. You promised to tell him where his son is, and I expect you to keep that promise."

"I-I didn't promise. I said I'd think about it."

"And have you?"

"I have."

"You'd better have decided because here they come.” He pointed, and Yully turned to see the reverend and his wife walking towards him.

Yingling hurried over to where Yully was standing. "Have you decided to end this foolishness and tell me where Stephan is?” He had asked his question even before his wife reached them.

"Yes...” Yully looked scared for a moment, then suddenly smiled. "Yes, sir, I have.” He pointed behind them. "He's right over there."

The man looked daggers at Yully. "What sort of trick are trying now?"

"I don't think he's trying anything, Reverend," Lucian answered. "Look behind you."

The other man turned. Stephan was walking towards them, carrying his school bag and the bundle of his clothes. "Hi, Pa... Ma."

"Stephan!” Martha ran over and fell to her knees, hugging her son. "Thank Heavens, you're back.” She kissed his cheek and pulled him even closer. Tears ran down her face and onto the boy's shirt. "I was so worried."

Stephan looked embarrassed. "Ma, I'm fine. Please. Lemme go.” He squirmed in his mother's arms.

"Indeed, let him go, Martha," Yingling ordered. "We have much to discuss when we get home, young man."

Martha clutched her son to her. "Yes, you do, but not today. Today, he goes home, gets some food into him, and goes to bed."

"Very well," the man agreed. "Rest today, my son. You will have need of all your energy tomorrow when we discuss your actions... and your punishment."

* * * * *

Maggie smiled to see Ramon coming into her kitchen. "What brings you here, this evening?" she asked, her voice low.

"This, for a start.” He stepped over and took her in his arms. She reached her arms around him, and their lips met in a tender kiss. Lupe giggled, while Ernesto just looked away. Jane made a point of stirring the sauce that was bubbling away on the stove.

When they finally broke the kiss, Ramon took her hand. "I'm afraid that I have some news about my brother, Gregorio."

"Is he still against the wedding?"

"He is. He will be coming in next Thursday to be a part of that poker game Abner Slocum is running. While he is here for the game, he plans to talk me out of marrying you.”

"He-he does?"

He saw the look on her face and chuckled. "Do not worry, my Love. He has a better chance of talking the sun out of rising in the East."

"That much?” She smiled and gently stoked her hand against his face.

Ramon put his hand over hers. "In the meantime, I will be talking to him _into_ accepting our marriage. He can be happy for us, or... or he does not get to kiss the bride at the ceremony."

"And that would be a terrible thing."

"Gregorio may have a different opinion, but I think that not being able to kiss you would, indeed, be a very terrible thing.” He held her face in his hands. "And I do not plan to wait until our wedding day to do so again.” Their lips met in another kiss, while Jane made sure that nothing else in the kitchen overheated.

* * * * *

Dr. Hiram Upshaw walked out of the small infirmary that was a part of his office. Mrs. Lonnigan was just behind him. As his nurse, she had helped with the treatment. Also, for the sake of propriety, he wouldn't tend to a female patient without a second woman present.

"How is Mama?" Arnie asked as soon as he saw the doctor. He'd been sitting in the waiting room with Dolores, his sisters, and his younger brother.

Upshaw gave a wane smile. "She's sleeping now, thanks to the laudanum I gave her for the pain. I'm afraid that she'll need to stay here for five or six days, maybe a week. She's badly bruised and has suffered fractures in both her right arm and right leg. They'll be in a cast for six weeks, at least, so she'll need a lot of help at home."

"She will have it," Dolores replied. "I will talk to Shamus, but I am certain that he will give me the time off. He is a good man, and he will understand."

The doctor nodded. "Yes, he is, and if he doesn't understand, I'm quite sure that Molly will explain it to him."

"No," Arnie said suddenly, "I will take care of the house."

Dolores gave a bitter laugh. "You? If you knew how to take care of _anything_, you would still have a job, and Teresa would be out delivering laundry."

"I said that _I_ would do it.” Arnie stiffened in anger. "I am the man of the house, and you are just a guest."

Dolores glared back at him. "No, you are the _boy_ of the house. Your mother asked me to stay because --” She glanced uneasily at the doctor and nurse. "Well, that is family business. For now, run along while I take the _other_ children home."

"You cannot talk like that to me, Dolores."

"I just did, and I will do so again when you need it. Now, go."

Upshaw stepped between them. "I'm going to ask you all to leave before your shouting wakes up my patient. Take these children home, please, Dolores. If you -- any of you -- want to see Teresa, you can come back around 6."

"I... we will," Dolores answered, "and I will bring supper and nightwear for her."

Arnie made a sour face. "She will bring. She will bring. You think you can take care of everything, don't you -- cousin?"

Dolores refused to say anything more until they were alone on the boardwalk. Then she turned indignantly on the boy. "Your mother pleaded with me to stay in Eerie longer because she could not talk any sense into you. She hoped that I could do better. It seems I have fared no better with you than she did, but when it comes to caring for a household and tending to the injured, I think I can take care of things better than you, Arnoldo. Of course, you can help if you wish to."

He staggered back a step, struck by what she had revealed, but her harsh words only made his own anger redouble. "No, I do not believe that I do.” He turned and stormed across the street.

* * * * *

"Good evening, Kaitlin," Liam said, walking into the house. "Trisha... and you, too, Emma."

Emma was setting the table, "Hi, Uncle Liam.” She studied him for a moment. "What've you got behind your back?"

"Very good, Emma.” He moved his arm to reveal a small bouquet of flowers. "These are for your mama."

Kaitlin walked over to Liam. "And just why did you bring me flowers this particular Friday?"

"Partly because I should bring something to thank you for dinner.” He handed her the flowers. "And partly to thank you for the delightful time I had at the dance last Saturday."

Trisha had been sitting at the table, reading a magazine. She rose and walked over. "And did you bring me or Emma flowers, too?" she asked sourly.

"Now what sort of a man brings flowers to his sister... or his niece," Liam replied, "except on their birthdays?"

Trisha wasn't satisfied. "What sort of a man brings flowers to his brother's wife, except on _her_ birthday?"

"Well, much as I know you hate to be reminded of it, you and Kaitlin won't be married for much longer."

"You still haven't answered my question, Liam.”

"No, I haven't. I'm the sort of man who brings a lady flowers to thank her for the good time he had dancing with her -- and who hopes to do so again."

Kaitlin looked at the expressions on the pair. "Enough about the flowers, please. I'll take them as thanks for dinner, if you don't mind, Liam. Speaking of which, I believe it's all but ready. Why don't you help Trisha to her seat at the dinner table, while Emma and I fetch the food?"

"Certainly.” Liam offered Trisha his arm. She made a point of refusing, but she did let him help her with her chair.

Kaitlin watched them, as she transferred the baked chicken from the cooking tray to a serving plate. 'Dinner's going to be a chore tonight,' she warned herself.

* * * * *

Saturday, March 9, 1872

Jane walked back in from the kitchen to rejoin the others, who were cleaning up after the Saloon had closed for the night. "There's somebody sleeping on that bench in the yard. I seen him when I was coming back from the necessary."

"We can't be having our customers sleeping it off in the yard," Shamus said. "I'll be sending the lout home.” He started for the kitchen.

Molly put a hand on his arm. "I'll go, Love. The poor man may not have a place t'be going home to."

Molly walked through the kitchen and out into the yard. The bench was set back and couldn't be seen from the back steps. She rounded the corner and found... "Arnie, what are ye doing out here this time of night?"

"Seá±ora Molly.” Arnie sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"Why aren't ye home, lad?"

"I... I cannot go home after what I did to my mother. Dolores speaks to me as if I am worth nothing, and the little ones must be angry with me, too.” He looked away from the woman. "Seá±or Shamus was right to fire me. I-I just had nowhere else to go. I am thinking of leaving Eerie forever.” He stood up slowly. "I will find another place to sleep if you wish."

"Aye, ye'll find another place. Ye'll go inside, and after ye've had a good night's sleep, we'll see what we can do about setting things right between you and yuir family.” She took his arm and led him into the building.

* * * * *

Arnie batted at his pillow. "I still cannot sleep," he said in disgust. He'd refused the bed Molly had offered and was sleeping on an improvised bedroll on the floor near the bar. He sat up and shook his head.

It had been a mistake to stay in the barroom. All those bottles on the shelves tempted him. In his state of mind, he could think of only two things, his injured mother and the liquor that would deaden the thoughts that tortured his conscience.

"Maybe... yes, a drink to help me sleep.” He threw back his blanket and started to stand. Just as he got to his feet, the image of his mother lying unconscious on the street came to him.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No... No! Mama is hurt -- she almost died because of me... because I-I drank and I stole... from Shamus and... worse -- almost. I cannot -- no, I _will_ _not_ take a drink now.” He climbed back into his bedroll, feeling surprisingly proud of himself.

But sleep didn't come. A half hour, an hour later, he didn't know how long, he was still awake. "There must be _something_," he told himself.

Twice more he thought about taking -- stealing -- a drink. He couldn't. His mother's face contorted in pain, Molly's sad eyes when she found him in her yard this very evening, even Dolores' anger, he saw them all in his mind, and he just couldn't take a drink.

But try as he might to sleep, he kept hearing Dolores' cruel words, telling him that he was nothing but trouble and that his mother had needed her to stay and help with him. Now he knew what a low opinion his cousin had held of him all this time, and how little his own mother had trusted him.

Then another memory came to him, a cowboy, a man he did not know, just back from a drive and drinking far too much. The man's voice grew loud, too loud. He grabbed at Jane, and she'd almost dropped the beer she was taking to someone. He made comments that disrupted Bridget's poker game. He ignored Shamus' warnings to behave.

Finally, Shamus offered him a free beer, "if ye'll be sitting down quietly whilst ye drink it," the barman had asked. The man happily agreed. He drank about half in one long gulp. Then he gave a sad smile and fell forward, snoring softly.

"Thank ye, Michael Finn," Shamus had said. When Arnie asked what he meant, he explained, "Michael Finn? 'Tis the name for a little something I put in his drink. Makes a man sleep like a wee babe, it does.” He'd held up a small bottle that he kept under the bar.

The man woke up in a jail cell and was fined $5 for his rowdy behavior.

"That is what I need," he whispered, "something to make me 'sleep like a wee babe.' I think Shamus would not mind if I had some of that.”

Molly had left him a small lamp in case he had to find the necessary during the night. It was under a chair a few feet from his bedroll. He reached over and turned up the wick, making the lamp burn much brighter. Then he stood up and carried it with him behind the bar.

Arnie spent a few minutes moving liquor bottles -- and resisting the temptation to drink -- before he found the smaller bottle of "Michael Finn.” The bottle didn't look exactly as he remembered; he'd forgotten about the chain connecting the metal top to the bottle, but what else could it be?

He poured a bit of the greenish liquid into a glass and added some soda water. He even put a dime on the bar to pay for it. Then he walked back to his bedroll. He turned the wick down and stowed the lantern, sat down on the bedroll, and drank. It had an odd, metallic taste.

He expected to be asleep almost at once, but nothing happened. "Was I wrong?" he wondered. "But if it was not 'Michael Finn', wh-what w-was it?” He felt a sharp pain run through him and realized what else it might have been. "No... no! Not poison.” He yanked out the blessed cross Dolores had given him and stared at the figure on it. "Virgencita... Lady of Guadeloupe, pl-please do... do not l-let me have... have t-taken poison -- AAARRRRGH!” His words ended with a loud scream of pain that echoed through the empty room.

He collapsed down onto the bedroll, too weak to move, every muscle aching. As he lay there, his clothes seemed to be growing -- no, he realized; he was getting smaller. He could feel a weight on his chest, and something was tickling his ears and the back of his neck.

As he fought the pain, he began to feel dizzy, distracted. Something, something he needed to know, was missing. He stared straight ahead, as if waiting for someone -- for the Lady of Guadeloupe, perhaps, or, please, no! the Angel of Death -- to tell him what to do.

* * * * *

Arnie blinked and shook his head. "I-I am alive! Gracias... Gracias, Virgencita.” He started at the odd sound of his voice and remembered. He looked down at his body. His shirt was far to big; his hands were lost in the sleeves, but he could see the way _something_ was pushing out the front.

He managed to grab the shirt fabric and pulled it away from him. When he looked down the opening at his collar, he could see two breasts, round and perky, the nipples extended from the excitement of his -- of _her_ transformation.

"No, Madonna, please, no.” Her hand reached down to her crotch. Nothing! The fabric, loose as it was, lay flat. There was nothing in the space between her legs, where her maleness had been. "A girl.” Horrified tears filled her eyes. "I... I am a girl."

She screamed in abject despair.

* * * * *

"What the hell was that?" Shamus asked, sitting up in bed.

Molly was out of bed at the sound of the scream. "Arnie!” She threw on her robe and started for the door. Shamus was right behind her, his nightshirt flapping.

Shamus and Molly came running down the stairs, looking around for Arnie. They stopped a few feet away from someone on the floor and stared.

A pretty, young girl, her dark hair down around her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face, stared up at them. From the girl's place on the bed roll and her clothes, Molly at once guessed what had happened. "Oh, Arnie, what in heavens name have ye done t'yuirself?" Molly cried.

"Me potion?” Shamus looked over to the bar for a moment before turning back to face the girl. Arnie had left the bottle in plain site; no hiding this drink. "Now why in the name of all the saints did ye take me potion?"

Tears ran down Arnie's cheeks. "I-I wanted... I could not sleep. I did not... not know...” Her voice broke into sobs.

"Shamus! What were ye thinking of, keeping that dangerous stuff here in the barroom? I told ye t'be putting that foul brew away upstairs where it'd be safe."

The barman shook his weary head and slumped into a stool. "Thuir was so little left of the batch I brewed up for Laura's sister, and I wanted it t'be handy in case of another emergency like the O'Hanlon's.” He gave a tired sigh. "I never thought anybody'd be searching under me bar for it."

Molly shook her head in exasperation. She then knelt down next to the newly minted girl and took her into her arms. She rocked the sobbing young woman back and forth, patting her head and cooing, as if to a small child. After a bit, she glanced over at Shamus. "Ye might as well go back t'bed, Love. I'm thinking that I'll be here for a good long while."

* * * * *

Jane all but dragged Dolores into the Saloon. "Please," she protested. "I have so much to do, the house, the business. I do not have time to talk to Shamus and Molly."

"Molly says otherwise," Jane told her. "She says you _need_ to talk to her this morning.” She pointed to the stairs. "She's up in their rooms. Now get going."

Dolores shrugged and started for the stairs. "I will go, but only so I can get this -- whatever it is -- over with.” She walked up to the second floor, then down the hall to the door to Shamus and Molly's small apartment. "Hello," she called, knocking on the pine panel.

"Dolores," Molly said, opening the door. "Come on in. How are ye this morning, and how's Teresa? Have ye seen her yet today?"

"Si, I was over at the doctor's when Jane found me. She is sleeping mostly, thanks to the pain medicine he gave her. He told me that she had a good night, and there do not seem to be any problems."

"Any _more_ problems, ye mean.” Molly had an odd smile on her face. "And how are things at home?"

"Very hectic. The children are doing well enough, but I do not know how Teresa ran her business. Arnoldo did, but we... he got very stubborn. We... quarreled, and I have not seen him since yesterday. I-I need him, or there will be trouble. If we cannot serve her customers, we will have no money except what I earn here. And I will have to quit. Without Arnoldo to help, all my time for many weeks must go to caring for Teresa and the younger children."

"Ye're willing t'be giving him another chance, then?"

"What happened is in the past. I... Teresa, we need him."

"Ye'd best be sitting down, then."

Dolores slowly took a seat on the settee. "Is this about Arnoldo? Is he all right? Did something happen to him? He-he did not do something..."

"He did.” Dolores turned at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. A pretty girl of about 16 walked in from the bedroom. She wore an oversized man's shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a pair of men's workpants pulled in tight at her waist and with the overlong cuffs rolled up past her ankles. "_I_ did. H-Hola, Cousin.” Arnie was trying to be brave, but it was hard, very hard.

"Cousin -- ah?” Dolores stared at the girl. There was nothing in her face that she recognized. Then she remembered where she was, and all those stories about what had happened at the Eerie Saloon. "Arnoldo? What... the potion?”

The girl nodded sadly. “Si, the potion; I…” Her voice trailed off.

She sat there open-mouthed, trying to find words to speak. "Why... How did you come to drink it?”

"It was a mistake!" Arnie insisted. "I thought it was something to help me sleep.” She looked embarrassed -- disgusted -- at what she had done. "I felt so bad about what I did to Mama."

Dolores lifted a hand to her forehead and sighed. "What you did was foolish, but -- Dios Mio -- Arnoldo, what is going to become of you?” She glanced at Molly and Shamus, her eyes still full of amazement. "Seá±or Shamus... Seá±ora Molly... Is there anything...?"

Molly could only shake her head. Shamus shrugged contritely. "I'm right sorry for what this'll do t'yuir family, Dolores. I first mixed up that potion when I was a wee lad, and I've never been able t'be figuring out how t'make one that works in the other direction."

Arnie's face was a grimace of pain. "People will laugh. They will think I deserve it for what I did, and for what happened to Mama."

Dolores sat quietly, drawing in deep breaths to steady herself. "This may have some meaning, but I do not know what that meaning is. You did badly, Arnoldo, and something bad has happened to you in return. Are you sick or in pain?"

"No. I felt weak at first, but now that has passed."

"Are you going to come home?"

Dismay crossed the girl's lovely features. "I do not think I can bear to let people see me this way. Maybe we could pretend I am a cousin from another pueblo, and that Arnie has run away."

"That is foolish, Arnoldo. Some people will laugh, perhaps, but some will feel sorry. Others will respect you, if they see that you are brave. You must come home as soon as possible and help me with the younger children and the business. If we lose our livelihood we shall have to shame our family name by taking charity."

The younger female seemed to think about that as she stared down at the rug, not wanting to meet her kinswoman's eyes.

Dolores stepped forward and took her cousin's hand.

"Everything has been made harder now. I-I am sorry," Arnie said slowly.

Dolores shook her head. "We both were very upset before, you and I, because we both love Teresa. Now come, you can apologize to her, but, first, we must get you into some decent clothes."

Arnie looked at her in horror, wondering what she might mean by that.

* * * * *

"If you've quite finished with your breakfast, Stephan," Thaddeus Yingling told his son, you will join me in my study."

Stephan sighed and took a last bite of his toast. "Yes, sir.” He stood up and followed his father out of the kitchen and into the study.

"Close the door.” Yingling sat down behind his desk.

Stephen shut the door and went to sit opposite the reverend. "I did not give you permission to sit," the man told him. Stephen stood erect, mentally bracing himself.

"Now, boy, explain yourself. How dare you defy me, running off like that?"

"Sir, I don't want to defy you."

"Then you have decided to accept my will and become a minister. Good. If you have come to see the error of your ways, then the events of the past week have almost been worth it."

"No, sir. I... why do I _have_ to be a minister?"

"Because you are my son. All the Yingling men are ministers. It is the role our Lord has prepared for us."

"But... sir, I've thought... I've prayed for a sign, something to show me that I had the calling. I got... I got nothing, except that I was more and more sure that it _wasn't_ what I wanted to be... what I was _supposed_ to be."

"You still have this foolish notion that you should be a soldier?"

"It-it ain't a foolish notion. It's what I want."

"It is not what I want."

"You got what you want. You're a minister and a good one. Why can't I want to be something else?"

"Because I you are destined to follow in my footsteps."

"Sir, while I was... gone, did you even consider that I might do something else with my life?"

"Why should I?"

"Because that was why I was gone. I wanted to show you how serious I was."

"Serious? I do not believe that you were thinking of anything but your own selfish wants?"

"I thought about that Terrence you set for me. I-I finished the translation.” The book is up in my room. Shall I go get it?"

"Later.” Yingling stood up. "Just now you will receive the punishment that you so richly deserve for your actions.” As he walked around the desk, Stephan saw the dark leather strap in his hands. The boy trembled and began to unbutton his pants.

* * * * *

Dolores walked into the main room of the Diaz house. Constanza was doing the breakfast dishes, while Enrique was sitting at a table sorting a pile of clothing into several smaller piles. "Where is Ysabel?" Dolores asked.

"Out in the yard, hanging up clothes," Enrique replied. Then he noticed a girl peeking in from the front door. "Who is that?"

Dolores took the stranger by the arm and pulled her into the room. "Go call your sister, first."

"Okay.” The boy ran to the back door and yelled out into the yard.

Moments later, Ysabel came in. "Hola, Dolores," she said. "How is Mama?"

"Your mother is fine -- so the doctor says. She is still sleeping, but we can go see her in the afternoon.” She took a breath. "All five of us."

"Five?" Ysabel asked. "Will Arnoldo come, too? Do you know where he is?"

The girl by the door sighed and looked down at the floor. "I-I am right here, Sister."

"Arnoldo?" the three youngsters said the name as one. They looked back and forth between the newcomer and Dolores.

"It was the potion, Shamus' damned potion," Arnie explained. "I thought it was something else, and I-I drank it. It -- now look at me.” She averted her face and held her arms out as if to display her new body.

Ysabel's eyes grew wide. "Like... like Emma. You are a girl now. Forever?"

Arnie nodded. "Si, just like your friend. Forever.” She collapsed down into a chair and began to cry. "For-forever."

"Do not cry," Ysabel said quickly. She hurried over to hug her new sister. "We still love you."

Dolores joined her, as did Constanza and Enrique. They all hugged and whispered words of encouragement to Arnoldo.

"And we will help you to get along," Dolores told her, finally, "just as you will help us."

Arnie looked up at them. "Help you? What can I do?"

"The laundry business," her cousin answered. "You know it so much better than the others, and you can do the picking up and delivery of the clothes. Your mama will be in the doctor's ward for a week, and it will be many more weeks before she can walk all around town."

Arnie wiped at her eyes. "I don't want to go out where I can be seen. Can you not do all that?"

"Me?" Dolores asked incredulously. "I will be taking care of the house, Arnoldo, and tending to your mother -- something that _I_ know how to do.” She smiled. "Besides, I am still working for Shamus. If you do the laundry work, I will not even have to ask for time off. But I must ask Shamus to let me work at times that shall permit me to be with the children when you cannot be.”

Arnie made a face. "Si, we will need all the money we can get to pay for Mama's bills.” She sighed. "I will do what I must."

"I know you will," Dolores said with a nod, "because the Diaz family produces hard-working, brave men."

Then Enrique suddenly asked, "Hey, does this mean that _I_ am now the man of the house?"

* * * * *

Jessie was sitting at a corner table, trying to work out the chords to a new song. She heard a noise and looked up to see Ramon.

"Excuse me, Jessie," he said, "but you just got a letter.” Silverman's store did double duty as Eerie's municipal post office.

Jessie reached for the letter. "Thanks, Ramon, but you didn't have to bring it over yourself.”

"Things are not too busy at the store just now, so I thought I...” He looked around hopefully.

Jessie smiled. "She's in the kitchen with Jane, working on today's 'Free Lunch' about now.” The singer watched him hurry off to see Maggie.

"Now, who'd be writing me...” She looked at the letter. "Hanna Tyler, we'll I'll be... I wonder what she wants.” She opened the envelope and began to read.

` "Jessie,

` Gil Parker and me are getting married on Sunday,
` June 16, and you better be here for it. You did
` promise, after all. Well, you _sort_ _of_ promised.
` Mama says you can come a day or two early to help with
` wedding -- or just visit -- if you like.

` You can be my maid of honor, too, if you want. (Or
` matron of honor, if you and that handsome Mr. Grant
` did something _permanent_.) What I'd really love,
` though, is for you to sing. Do you know 'Here Comes
` the Bride' from something called LOHENGRIN? It'd be
` so wonderful if you sang that during the ceremony.

` Please say that you'll come -- please, _please_, PLEASE!

` All my Love
` (except what I have for Gil, or course),

` Hanna”

Jessie folded the letter and used it to mark the page in her songbook. "Three or four days on the trail each way just to go to a one-day wedding," she thought aloud. "That's a lot of pay I wouldn't be earning, too. Of course, that'd mean three or four _nights_ on the trail each way with Paul. Mmmm, that'd surely make the trip worthwhile.” She couldn't forget that it had been the trip back from Hanna's home, as Paul's prisoner, that had made all the difference between them.

* * * * *

Emma unbuttoned her blouse and hung it on a nearby hook on the dressing room wall. All she wore underneath was her camisole. She nervously undid its buttons and hung it over her blouse. "R-ready, I guess."

Well..." Rachel said, studying the young girl. "Taller, she isn't, but on top, maybe.” The older woman took the tape measure off her shoulders and draped it around Emma just above her breasts.

She looked at the tape, then at a small notebook. "Same as last time, 27 inches.” Now, she draped it, so that it went across Emma's breasts, right over the nipples.

"That tickles," Emma squirmed.

Kaitlin looked over from the stool she was sitting on. "You just hold still till Mrs. Silverman is finished.” Emma nodded and tried not to move.

"You were right," Rachel told Kaitlin. "Twenty-eight, she was, now... just a smidgen under 29. Big enough, I think."

Kaitlin nodded in agreement. "I think so, too. A new corset -- no, two, so she can switch off, and both with removable pads."

"Switch off?" Emma asked. "What do you mean, Ma?"

"What I mean, Emma, that you _need_ to be wearing a corset every day from now on. You're getting too... too big now not to."

"Aww, Ma... not every day.” Emma whined, as she slipped back into her camisole.

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing, you're growing up so pretty, just like your mama," Rachel told her. "And we got such nice ones, and in all sorts of colors for you to pick from."

Emma crossed her arms in front. "Who cares what I wear?"

"Yully might care," her mother answered. "You'll look... and feel prettier in a new, better-fitting corset.” She smiled. "Boys notice that."

Emma gave a shy smile and looked away. "He... they do?” She felt a warmth rush across her face. Yes, they did. When she was still Elmer, she had heard how the older boys sometimes talked about how the older girls, Ysabel, Penny, even Lallie and Hermione, looked. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt... just to see at what you have."

* * * * *

Sunday, March 10, 1872

“I will not do it,” Arnie insisted. “I would not wear woman’s clothes yesterday, and I will not do it today.”

Dolores folded her arms and scowled at her newly transformed cousin. “Si, Arnoldo, you will.” They were alone in Teresa’s room. Arnie had spent the night there, rather than sleep in her old room with her brother -- or with Dolores and her sisters.

“Why should I?” Arnie frowned back.

“Because, today we are going to visit your mother -- which you _also_ would not do yesterday. _Then_ we are going to Mass to pray for her. Do you not want to pray for your mother?”

“Of course, I do.” The anger flowed out of her, and she looked down at the floor. Then her defiance rallied. “But I can pray for her from right here.”

“Si,” Dolores conceded reluctantly, “but she still wants to see you.” She paused a beat. “Not only that, but I think that she wants to forgive her _idiota_ of a son for what he did.”

Arnie started. “Her son? Then she does not know what happened to me?”

“No, that is something for _you_ to tell her.”

The younger girl sighed. “You are right, it is. But must I tell her so soon?”

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes,” she whispered, then quickly added, “but not for me. She... how will... she... how can she take the terrible news so soon after being hurt?”

“Your mama is a strong woman. And she will want to know.”

“Because she is so sick, and because what has happened, will be such a great shock, I must _not_ show myself to her in a dress. I must make myself look as much like the son she knew as possible, until she has had time to accept what has changed. After she has, I will do what I must to make her feel better.” Then the girl’s look became stern again. “What Mama most needs is not for you to say.”

Dolores frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are right. But I know without Teresa saying it, she would not want you to go to church looking so strange.”

“No,” Arnie began. “But I will not go to church today. I am not ready to be seen like this in so public a place.”

“Arnie!”

“Mother used to complain how little Papa went to Mass. Are you saying my father is not in Heaven because he could not go to church every Sunday?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then after you and the children have returned from services, we shall go to see mother.”

Dolores shook her head. Considering Arnoldo’s state of mind, it would be a mistake to provoke a family row at this time. Everyone was under too great a strain. For her unfortunate cousin’s own good, she needed to be guided out of her state of shame and grief as quickly as possible, but Dolores knew that she could not drive the boy -- the girl -- into a calm acceptance of G-d’s will with a harangue.

* * * * *

Jessie sat quietly in bed next to Paul, while he read Hanna’s letter. “Can we go?” she asked as soon as he was finished. “Can we?”

“You’re talking about taking off almost two weeks. That’s a lot of time. A lot of money, too. I don’t think Shamus’ll pay you for not being here to sing. I _know_ Dan won’t pay me if I take that much time off.”

Jessie pouted. “Well, if you don’t think I’m worth it...” She let the words trail off.

“I never said that. We certainly enjoyed ourselves coming back here from the Tyler’s -- that last night anyway.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “And I’ve got a feeling --” He stopped abruptly as her hand stroked his thigh. “A _very_ _good_ feeling -- that we’d enjoy ourselves even more on this trip.”

“I think I can _guarantee_ that we would.” Her voice was a sultry purr.

“Well, then... you ask Shamus about going, and I’ll talk to Dan, and we’ll see what they say. Okay?”

“Fine by me. Let’s just wait a while before we do.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what do you think we should do while we wait?”

“Oh, I got an idea or two.” She giggled and ran a finger along the length of his cock. “Seems like you got a idea, too, a real _big_ idea.” She giggled again. “I like it when you get _ideas_ like that.”

* * * * *

Dolores peeked through the half-opened door to Doc Upshaw’s small infirmary. “Teresa,” she whispered, “are you awake?”

“Dolores,” came the answer, almost like a moan, “is that you?”

The younger woman walked in, “Si, how are you feeling today?”

Teresa’s head was propped up on a pillow. Both the top and bottom ends of her bed were raised. Her right arm and right leg were in casts, elevated even higher by a system of weights and pulleys. “Not too bad... lonely. Are the children here with you?”
“The doctor said that you were not ready for so many visitors all at once. I will bring the others by later, one at a time, but first...” She stopped, not certain what to say next.

“First? Who -- what is first? What is wrong, Dolores?” Her voice, still weak, became strangled. Teresa recovered her breath and asked, “What are you not telling me?”

Arnie closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath before stepping into the room. “She is not telling you about me... Mama.”

“Mama?” Teresa stared at the stranger for a moment. Then her eyes widened. “You!”

“Yes, Mama.”

Teresa cringed, though her casts and suspension hardly allowed her to move at all.

“Santa Maria!” the injured woman exclaimed.

Dolores’ expression changed, too, and she turned in surprise to take a good look at her cousin.

Arnie didn’t notice, but shook her head vigorously at her mother’s reaction. “No, Mama. It is me, Arnie, your…son. It was the…potion.”

“Wha...?” Her eyes widened, as she realized who this stranger was. “Arnoldo?” The girl nodded. “No, it cannot be.” Teresa tried to shake her head, but her sore neck made her wince with pain. “The Judge, he--he said that you would not be punished.”

Arnie looked away, not able to meet her mother’s eyes. “He did not punish me. I-I did this to myself. By mistake,” she quickly added.

“Why? What would make you…” Her voice wavered. “...do _that_?”

“I-I was... ashamed. I ran away. Seá±ora Molly let me sleep in the bar. But I...I could not sleep. I-I took something that -- that I thought would help, would _make_ me sleep.” She gave a wry chuckle. “It did not help. No, it... the potion changed me into... _this_.” She gestured at herself with one hand, looking down, unable to meet her mother’s eyes.

Teresa reached out with her left arm. “Oh, Arnoldo!” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Mama!” Arnie staggered to the bed and knelt down beside it. Now she, too, was crying.

Teresa stroked her son’s -- her new daughter’s -- head. “You will see. It will... _we_ will be all right. The face you have been given. It must be a…very good sign.”

Arnie looked up, red-eyed and confused.

“W-What about my face?”

“Dulcito,” said Dolores from behind her, “you have the face and form of Our Lady of Guadalupe from that medallion I gave you."

Arnie made the sign of the cross. “Dios mio!”

* * * * *

Jessie and Paul walked down the steps to the saloon arm in arm. “I’ll see you later,” he told her.

“You better,” Jessie said, moving in closer to him. “And here’s something t’make sure of it.” She put her arms around him and kissed him deeply.

Paul pulled her even closer, and she felt her body pressing against his. When they finally parted, he smiled and said, “Count on it -- if that’s what I can expect.” He kissed her again, on the forehead this time, and headed towards the exit.

Jessie stood, watching him until he passed through the swinging doors. She sighed and walked over to take a seat at the bar.

“A good morning to ye, Jessie,” Shamus greeted her. “What’s left of it. Jane should be bringing out the Free Lunch in a just wee bit.”

“Thanks, Shamus. I did sort of... uh, work up an appetite.” Jessie felt her cheeks warm in a blush, as she spoke. “While I’m waiting, can I ask you something?”

“I don’t see why not -- unless ye’re asking for a raise.”

“The opposite -- sort of. I was wondering about taking some time off.”

“And might I be asking why ye need it?”

Jessie took Hanna’s letter out of the small pocket in her gray skirt. “I told you about them folks I met when I-I... ran off.”

“When ye tried t’escape, ye mean. Aye, some farmers, the... the Tylers, ye said. Ye saved the mother’s life, as I recall.”

“I did. And I got to know them pretty good. The daughter -- Hanna -- she’s getting married in June. Here’s her letter.” She handed it to him. “She wants me t’come. In fact, she wants me _t’sing_ at the wedding.”

Shamus skimmed over the letter. “Ye and that ‘handsome Mr. Grant’, I see. How long do the two of ye figure t’be gone?”

“Four days each way, and a couple more for the wedding, about a week and a half, I’d say, two weeks on the outside.”

Shamus’ expression soured. “I don’t like ye being away that long, and I’m thinking that Dan Talbot ain’t gonna be happy about Paul going.” He took a breath, watching her reaction. “But then, I’m also thinking of the grand time we’ll be having here the night ye come back. Besides, me Molly’d probably read me the riot act if I was t’be saying no.” He slammed the top of the bar. “All right, ye can go. In fact, I’ll even be giving ye a bottle of whisky for toasting the happy couple.”

“Thanks, Shamus.” She reached across the bar and hugged him.

Shamus broke free. “We’ll be having none of that or Molly’ll _really_ be reading me the riot act.”

* * * * *

Trisha studied the vase of flowers on the table. “I think these are ready to be thrown away.” She pulled the flowers from the vase and started towards the garbage can near the sink.

“What are you doing, Trisha?” Kaitlin asked. “Those flowers aren’t wilted yet.”

Trisha’s expression soured. “They didn’t look so good to me.”

“They didn’t look good to you the day Liam brought them, did they?”

“No... no, they didn’t. What right has he got to be giving flowers to my wife?”

“He was just being polite, that’s all.” She sighed. “Besides, we really aren’t man and wife any more, are we?”

“I-I still like to think that we are.”

“Do you? Were you thinking of me when you let that man maul you at the dance last week?”

“That was... I-I was drunk. I told you that.”

“And I believed you. I still do, but you can’t be jealous of Liam’s attentions towards me --”

“Who says I can’t?”

“I do. Trisha, we aren’t... what we used to be. Men are paying attention to you, too, even if you don’t like it.”

Trisha looked down at the floor, unable to meet Kaitlin’s eyes. Lord help her, she did like men’s attentions, especially when those attentions turned physical. She could hardly tell Kaitlin that. She still had trouble believing it herself.

“I know, but it seems so -- no, I don’t like it.”

“Maybe you don’t, but you’ve got to accept your new... _our_ new lives.”

“I’ll try, but I-I just can’t, not this fast, and, certainly I can’t accept Liam bringing you flowers for no reason.”

* * * * *

Monday, March 11, 1872

Yully ran over to where Emma was standing. She was leaning over, her hands braced on her legs, panting. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m... fine... thanks...” She straightened up. “Just a... little out of... breath.” She took a gulp of air. “Bert’s gotten... faster. I must’ve chased him... ha-halfway down the field and back before I-I knocked the ball away.”

Yully looked at her closely. She looked -- he wasn’t sure -- different somehow, but it was a _nice_ difference. “I guess so,” he told her, “but Jorge’s got the ball now, so let’s go.” He took one last look at Emma before running towards Jorge Ybaá±ez, the captain of the team he and Emma were on this week. A _very_ nice difference.

‘He _noticed_!’ Emma thought. She smiled as she chased after Yully. ‘That’s worth not being able to breath -- and besides, I can always loosen my new corset for the game tomorrow.'

* * * * *

Arnie pulled the laundry cart through the grass to the back door of the Gomez house. She looked through the stack of bundled clothes and found the four for Lucinda Gomez. Balancing carefully with the bundles, she stepped onto the porch and knocked on the back door.

“Si, who is there?” Lucinda stared through the window at the young woman on her porch.

Arnie wore her old, boy’s clothes, a brown shirt with rolled-up sleeves, so her hands were free, and jeans that had to be tied at the waist to keep from slipping far down on her now wider hips. “Your laundry, Seá±ora Gomez... from Teresa Diaz.”

“Where is Teresa, and who are you?” Lucinda asked, standing in the open doorway.

“Ma -- uh... she was hurt, a broken arm and leg. I am helping out until she is better.”

“Hurt, eh?” Lucinda frowned. “No doubt her no-good son, Arnoldo, had something to do with that. People do talk.”

Arnie wanted to argue, but -- she knew in her heart -- it _had_ been her fault. “In a way...”

“Well, at least, she has you -- whoever you are -- to help. What do I owe her for my laundry?”

Arnie looked at her order sheet. “Three dollars even, seá±ora.”

The older woman counted out the money and handed it to Arnie, who handed her the bundles in exchange. “Gracias, seá±ora.”

“And this is to be cleaned.” She stepped back into the house for a moment before returning with a burlap sack stuffed with clothes. “Can you have these back on Friday?”

Arnie put the sack in her cart. “Si, they will be done and back to you when you ask.” She wrote “Lucinda Gomez” and “Friday” on a tag and pinned it to the sack.

“Gracias, and please tell Teresa that I hope she is better very, very soon.”

Arnie nodded. “I will.” She turned and started walking towards the next house on her list.

“Oh, seá±orita,” Lucidna Gomez suddenly called.

“Yes, seá±ora?”

“Why are you dressed that way?” She smiled. “Certimente, it cannot be because you have no clean clothes at home.”

“No, seá±ora,” Arnie replied with a forced grin, but didn’t say anything more.

The girl continued on her way. The Gomez house had been her fourth stop. Each customer had paid for their laundry, and _each_ had given her more clothes to be cleaned. ‘And none of them guessed who I was,’ she recalled with relief as she drew the cart along, down the street behind her.

* * * * *

“So, Stephan,” Yully asked, taking a bite of his sandwich, “How’d your folks take t’you hiding out for a week?”

Stephan looked at his friends sitting around the table and sighed. “Ma kept crying and hugging me. She went on and on ‘bout how scared she was and how much she missed me and how glad she was that I came back.”

“And your pa, how’d he take it?”

Stephan grimaced, as if in pain. “He wupped the tar out of me Saturday morning. I couldn’t sit down without it hurting till supper last night.”

“How terrible.” Ysabel was sitting next to Stephan. She gently put her hand on his arm.

“He’s more set than ever on me being a preacher.” Stephan took a breath. “And he all but ordered me not to be friends with Yully any more. If he knew how you all helped me, he’d probably have pulled me outta school.”

Yully chuckled. “That’d be a reason _to_ tell him.”

“And be home with him all day? _No_, thank you.”

“What are you gonna do?” Emma asked. “You ain’t gonna give in and _be_ a preacher, are you?”

“Not if I can help it. I’ll... I’ll think of something.” He tried to smile. “Or maybe one of you’ll think of something for me.”

Ysabel sighed. “I hope so, but do not count on me -- not for now, anyway.”

“Si,” Tomas said. “My Mama heard about your Mama getting hurt. She wanted me to ask if she could do anything to help out. I want to help, too, if I can.”

Yully nodded. “We all do.”

“Just ask,” Stephan added. He patted her hand.

The girl smiled, her eyes glistening. “Th-thank you. It -- so much has happened to me -- to my family.”

“Yeah, my Pa told us ‘bout how those men tricked your brother into helping them try to rob his office. Arnoldo’s lucky that he isn’t in jail with them.”

Ysabel looked down at the table. “Maybe... maybe she is not so lucky.”

“She?” Emma echoed.

Ysabel looked up, dismayed at her slip of the tongue. After a moment’s hesitation, she opened her lips to make denial, but nothing came out of them.

“You don’t mean she drank that stuff — ?”.

“I should not talk about it. Arnoldo would not like it.”

“What happened?” asked Tomas.

“It is a Diaz family matter,” Ysabel answered. “It is not for me to say.”

“Ysabel,” Emma began slowly, “do you _really_ mean that Arnie is a…she?”

“I….” Ysabel began, then seemed to shrink into herself. “Si, she drank the same _stuff_ that you drank, Emma.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?” asked Yully.

Ysabel grimaced and answered slowly. “The potion. He thought it was something else. It was dark. He was worried and sleepy, I think, and could not see the bottle clearly. He -- it... it is complicated, but, yes, he is now a girl.”

“What’s he -- she -- gonna do?” Yully asked.

“He--_She_ is going to run Mama’s laundry business till Mama is well again. After that…” She shrugged. “I do not know.”

“I…I guess she’s not going to be turning back again. We know that much.”

“Stephan!” exclaimed Emma.

“Sorry.”
Ysabel’s expression soured. “No... she will not turn back. Right now, she is just -- mira, I did not mean to tell you about her. Can you -- all of you -- promise not to tell anybody else about this? Please?”

“‘Course, you can,” Yully replied. He raised his right hand. “We promise... Don’t we...” He stared down the others, who all quickly raised their hands. “...We _all_ promise not to say anything about what happened to Arnie.”

The rest of the group all repeated Yully’s words. “Till Ysabel says we can,” he added.

“Till Ysabel says we can.” No one spoke after that. While they ate their lunch, they were all thinking, especially Stephan.
* * * * *

“This seat taken?” Cap asked.

The players at the table all looked to Bridget. “Take a chair,” she answered coldly. “We’ll deal you in for the next hand.”

“Thanks.” He sat down to watch the hand in play.

Joe Kramer bet a quarter. Jerry Domingez matched that and added twenty-five cents more. Bridget folded. Stu Gallagher was already out. Joe and Jerry fought over the pot for another round before Jerry won it with three 7s.

“Five card stud,” Stu Gallagher announced, gathering up the cards. “Ante up, everybody. You, too, Cap.” He shuffled the deck. Everyone, Cap included, put in a dime and Stu began to deal.

A few rounds later, Cap won a hand with just a pair of 8s, successfully bluffing Bridget, who held two pair, 9s over 4s. “Typical,” she muttered, pushing the pot to him.

“Can I ask you to do something for me, Bridget?” Cap asked.

Bridget frowned. “What?”

“Call it, heads or tails.” He suddenly flipped a quarter into the air.

Taken by surprise, Bridget blurted out, “H-Heads.” The coin landed, showing a full-figured, seated Liberty.

“Heads it is,” Cap announced. “You win. I have to buy you dinner tomorrow night.”

“What? We never had any such bet.”

“Then why’d you call out ‘heads’ like you did?” He grinned. “You aren’t going to make a welcher out of me, are you?”

“But --”

“Oh, go ahead and say yes,” Joe told her, “so we can get back to the game.” The other players nodded in agreement.

Bridget sighed. “All right, _Mr._ _Lewis_, but may I say that you are the most exasperating man I have ever known.”

“Thank you,” Cap answered with a nod of his head. He grinned, adding a quick wink. “I try.”

* * * * *

Nestor Stone unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over a chair. “Stephan Yingling was in school today.”

“What about it?” his older brother, Yully, asked, wriggling into his nightshirt.

Their younger brother, Aggie, chimed in. “You ask him about that big secret of yours? You said you would.”

“I... uh, no,” Yully stammered. “I... ah, I didn’t get a chance to. I-I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“You better,” Nestor said firmly, “or we tell Ma and Pa you been using that tree t’sneak outta here at night.”

Yully frowned. “I said I will, and I will. But it’s a _big_ secret, and he may wanna think about it for a day or two.” He didn’t like the idea of telling the others that they might have to give up the secret of their underground fort.

“Thursday,” Nestor answered. “You got till Thursday night.”

And Aggie completed the thought. “Or Friday morning, we tell.”

“Thursday,” Yully agreed, hoping that the others would go along.

* * * * *

Tuesday, March 12, 1872

“Jessie?” Evan called from his studio as he heard someone on the stairs.

Jessie reached the top step and looked over to where he was sitting, eating something. “The same, and ready to pose.”

“You must excuse me,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “My last session went a bit long, and I wanted to have some lunch before our session.” Jessie saw the remnants of a chicken leg and an apple on his plate, as he stood up.

Jessie shrugged and walked over to the chair she was sitting in for her portrait. “That’s all right. I’ve had t’rush more’n one meal in my life.”

“May I at least offer you a glass of this Madeira by way of an apology? I was quite surprised to find such a fine vintage at Ortega’s store. It is an excellent year.”

“A bit early in the day for drinking, ain’t it?”

Ethan looked closely at Jessie. It was almost too much to believe that this delicious little blonde had ever been the vicious _male_ criminal she was purported to have been. Still, after Trisha, he was convinced. And curious about what bedding this one would be like.

“One doesn’t _drink_ Madeira. One sips it, allows it to... linger on the tongue, to flow down to the stomach like a gentle caress, and to feel the exquisite warmth it conveys throughout the body.” He spoke softly, trying to describe something more than the partaking of a fine liquor.

“Ahh... thanks, but no thanks. I’m just here t’get my picture painted.” She didn’t think he was just talking about wine.

“And it shall be painted, Jessie.” He smiled oddly at her. “You shall receive my finest... attention.” He gestured with his right hand towards a nearby chair. “Now, please sit down and pick up your guitar.”

Jessie smoothed her dress, the tight blue one that she often performed in. It was cut too low for a chemise and displayed the whiteness of her shoulders and the rounded tops of her breasts. She took her seat and picked up her guitar, as if to play.

“No, no,” Ethan said, shaking his head. “Your hands, you were holding them differently during the last session.”

She moved her hands. “Like this?”

“No, more like... let me show you.” He came around behind her. “You held the hand a bit lower, more... between your legs. That allowed for a better view of your enticing bosom. And your hands...” He reached around to move her hands. As he did, he moved forward.

Jessie felt the warmth of his body pressed against hers. She shivered as his breath flowed across her bare skin.

Just as Enoch Ryland’s breath had done.

“That’s it!” She stood up abruptly.

Ethan was truly surprised. “Jessie, what... whatever is the matter?”

“What’s the matter? Ethan, you been trying t’get into my drawers since the first time I came over here. Mostly it was little jokes, and I could let ‘em pass. But today... today, you’re going too far.”

He decided on a tactical -- a tactful -- retreat for the moment. “I fear that you have misunderstood me, Jessie. You are, indeed, a beautiful woman, but I was merely trying to compliment you with a bit of harmless flirtation.” He gave her his most charming smile. The hunt was clearly ended this day, but it might yet be _properly_ concluded. These “potion girls” were a treat worth pursuing.

“Maybe you think they’re harmless, but I don’t,” Jessie continued. “I got a man, Paul Grant, the deputy sheriff -- yeah, the _deputy_ _sheriff_ -- and I get all the... compliments I need from him.”

He’d seen the deputy, a formidable-looking former cowhand. It was a threat worth considering. “Then he is a most fortunate gentleman.”

She smiled tightly. “He is, and I’m lucky t’have him.” She waited a beat. “All I’m here for is so you can do a picture of me for Shamus. You try anything -- _anything_ -- and that’s over. I’ll tell Shamus he can forget about his picture, and I’ll tell him why. That’ll probably kill the picture you’re doing of Laura and Jane, too.”

“No, I’ll... I’ll behave.” No sex, no matter how good _or_ how unique, was worth the loss of a commission. And “The Fates” painting, he’d wanted to do it for years. “I promise.”

“You better. ‘Cause I’d tell Paul, too. Then there won’t be no more problems. He’ll shoot your damned pecker off.”

Ethan used a yardstick as a prop -- and stood several feet away -- to show Jessie how to hold her hands. He managed to work on the portrait, but only on background. He found it hard to paint living detail when his hands were shaking so much.

* * * * *

“We got a problem,” Yully announced. As usual, the five friends were eating lunch together at a picnic table on the school grounds. “My brothers wanna know where Stephan was hiding. If I don’t tell them, they’ll tell my folks about my sneaking out last week.”

Stephan looked alarmed. “And you’d have t’tell them why -- and where. Last thing we need is for grown-ups to find out about the Fort.” He paused a beat. “Maybe we don’t have to tell ‘em the truth about where I was hiding. We could say I was hiding in -- I don’t know -- in some abandoned cabin or something. “

“That might work.” Tomas said. “There are more than enough empty cabins around here.”

Yully shook his head. “I don’t like the idea of lying to them. What if they want to see the cabin?”

“Can’t we just pick one and say that was it?” Emma asked.

Yully Shrugged. “Problem with that is, those cabin’s are out in the open. Wouldn’t somebody have seen Stephan and asked what he was doing there?”

“Maybe your brothers won’t think of that.” Emma said.

“Can’t be sure they won’t,” Yully answered sarcastically. “My brothers ain’t as dumb as they look, and they’d be sure t’tell my folks if they thought I’d lied to ‘em.”

Stephan looked like he’d just sucked a lemon. “You’re right, I think we have to tell them the truth, just to be safe.”

“Says the minister’s son,” Emma replied. “But even if we do, can we trust your brothers not to tell?”

“I think we can,” Yully replied, “Nestor, at least. Aggie’s kind of little yet.”

Emma thought for a moment. “How about we make it worth their while to keep quiet; how about, we let them join the club?”

Yully chuckled. “Oh, sure. Is there anybody else you wanna tell?”

“How about your sister?” Emma suggested. “I’d kind of like Penny to know, maybe even have her join up with us, too.”

“Si,” Ysabel said. “It would be nice to have another girl in the club, especially if we are going to let in more boys.”

Stephan groaned. “Anybody else any of you want?”

“Maybe your brother or sister, Stephan,” Yully suggested.

The other boy shook his head. “Matt’s too young. He’d be sure to tell Pa. And Ruth’d be even worse. She can’t keep a secret about anything.”

“If we’re gonna bring in more girls,” Emma said, “how about Ysabel’s sister, Constanza?”

The other lass sighed. “No, she... she is too young, I think.”

“She is _my_ age, Ysabel,” Tomas objected. “Do you think _I_ am too young?”

Ysabel held up her hands in surrender. “No, of course not. I-I am just not sure that she can keep a secret.” She took a breath, then quickly added, “Like Ruth Yingling.”

“Let’s just say nobody younger than Tomas or Constanza,” Stephan suggested.

Yully considered the idea. “That’d let in Nestor, he’s Tomas’ age -- and Penny -- but not Aggie. Lemme think about that.”

“How long till your brothers snitch on you?” Emma asked.

Yully sighed. “I gotta tell ‘em by Thursday night.”

“Okay,” Emma declared. “We’ll _all_ think about ‘em, about everybody we said, and we’ll vote at lunch on Thursday.”

“Done!” Stephan answered cheerfully, glad that things seemed resolved, and the others agreed.

* * * * *

“Must we do this?” Clyde Ritter asked, using a full-length wall mirror to tie his tie.

Cecelia Ritter gave her husband an angry look. “Yes, you must. You’re a pillar of this community, Clyde, successful merchant, civic leader, and soon-to-be member of the church board.”

The couple was in a side parlor off from Ethan Thomas’ second floor studio. He’d cleared it out for use as a changing room for his subjects. Only two chairs, the mirror, and an armoire, used to store clothes worn while posing, remained.

“Once we get Trisha O’Hanlan kicked off it, that is.” He slipped on his suit jacket.

She nodded. “Yes, and that happy day should come in May, just about the time this Thomas fellow finishes our portrait. We can have it hung as part of the celebration.” She stood up and bushed the front of her dress. “How do I look?”

“Uh... good, I suppose.” He posed near the mirror. “How about me?”

She studied him, looking for any flaws in his appearance. “Your tie isn’t centered, and that cowlick in your hair is still there.”

“How about now?” He shifted the knot on the tie. That done, he licked his palm and used it to push down his hair in the back. “Okay?”

“It’ll have to do.” She hustled out the door, with her husband close behind.

Ethan was waiting, standing next to an easel a few feet from the window. “Please have a seat, Mrs. Ritter.” He pointed to a heavy wooden chair nearby.

“Cecilia... please.” She walked over, smoothed he dress behind her, and sat in the chair.

Ethan smiled. “Cecelia.” He paused a beat. “And you, Mr. Ritter -- I know, you said to call you, Clyde -- Clyde, would you stand please behind her?”

“Directly behind her or to the side?” Clyde asked.

The painter shrugged. “Whichever way you think is best. This is _your_ portrait, after all.” As he spoke, he casually ran his finger across the bridge of his nose.

“The right then,” the other man replied. He took his place behind and just to the right of the chair. “And should I put my hand on her shoulder?” He raised his hand and ran a finger across his own nose before setting it gently on his wife’s shoulder.

Cecelia smiled and touched his hand with her own. “Is this all right?”

“It’s quite lovely,” Ethan answered, “but a rather awkward pose. It hides your figure and distracts somewhat from your face. Moreover, I believe that it would be uncomfortable for you to hold it there for as long as would be needed for the portrait. Might I suggest that you hold your hands together on your lap?”

She lowered her hand. “I suppose that would do.” She placed her hands as Ethan had directed.

Her husband smiled. “The very picture -- as they say -- of a dutiful wife.” His smile was more in response to the recognition that had passed between the two men than in posing with his wife. He hardly wanted Ethan to give any sign that they had met before. As patrons of _La_ _Parisienne_.

* * * * *

Dolores looked around. It was late afternoon, and the saloon was almost empty. Even Bridget was gone. She was upstairs, changing for the evening _and_ for dinner with Cap. “No one is thirsty just now,” she told herself and sat down on a stool.

“How’s Arnie taking to being a girl?” R.J. asked from behind the bar.

She sighed. “Not too well.”

R.J. nodded. "I’ve seen it all before. But I also saw Jessie giving Shamus a hug a couple days ago, just as sweet and natural as can be. And she used to be a man a lot rougher and tougher than poor Arnie ever was. She was teaching Arnie how to shoot, a while back. Maybe she can help her learn how to be a girl."

“Arnie has moved into Teresa’s bedroom. She says that she will not sleep with her sisters and me, and I will not let her sleep in the room with her brother.” She sighed. “I do not know what she will do when Teresa is well enough to come home from the doctor’s.”

R.J. considered the problem for a moment. “Why not let her stay where she is?”

“Sleep with her mother?”

“Teresa’s gonna need help for a while, what with a busted arm and leg. You’re over here -- part time, at least. Arnie’s the natural one to do it.”

“What do you mean ‘the natural one’?”

“A mother gets laid up, who’s the one that helps out? The oldest daughter, that’s who.”

“But Arnie is not... oh, _yes_, she is the oldest daughter now, isn’t she?”

“She surely is -- now. And maybe, just maybe, taking care of Teresa’ll get her used to the idea that she _is_ a girl. Like I said, I’ve seen it all before, and getting used to the idea is the best thing for her, believe me.”

“But would she do it?”

“I’ll bet she would, especially if you remind her that she’s the reason Teresa needs her help in the first place.”

“Si, she admits that the accident was her fault. I will tell her that taking care of Teresa would be the best way for her to apologize.”

“She’ll want to do that, I think, and helping Teresa may teach her something about what’s expected of a girl.”

“A wonderful idea.” She impulsively leaned across the bar and kissed R.J. on the cheek. “Thank you.”

His face reddened. “You’re -- you’re more than welcome.” He looked around quickly. “And you’re welcome to thank me like that anytime you like. Just don’t let Bridget see you do it.”

* * * * *

Cap walked over to Bridget’s table. “You ready?” he asked her.

“Don’t I look ready?” she answered sourly. It was early. Her daytime game had broken up about a half-hour before, and none of her evening regulars had come in yet.

Cap watched her slowly rise to her feet. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, the roll of hair tied with two lacy, green ribbons. He smiled to see that she was wearing the earrings he had given her. Her dress was the same green as her hair ribbons, trimmed with lace at the bodice and cuffs. It was cut tight to accent her generous bosom and her narrow waist.

“You look beautiful,” he told her, “as always.” He offered her his hand. She stood up but didn’t take it. They walked through Shamus’ office into the yard.

Laura was waiting by the table. “Good evening, I’m your waitress tonight.” She put the menus down on their plates. “I’ll just give you a few minutes to decide,” she told them and quickly left.

Cap helped Bridget into her chair, then took his own across from her.

“Okay, Cap,” Bridget said, “you got me here. Now, what’d you want to talk about?”

“Look, Bridget, you have every right in the world to be mad at my uncle -- truth to tell, I’m mad at him, too, for the way he’s acted towards you. I’ve told him and told him how wrong he is, but he’s as stubborn as --”

“As I am? Don’t you think I’ve got a right to be stubborn after the way he’s acted?”

“Yes, and I was going to say that he’s as stubborn as _ever_.” He sighed. “Can you _please_ give me a chance to say what I want?”

“All right, what’s so important that you had to trick me into having dinner with you tonight?”

“This.” He pulled a small booklet from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it onto her plate.

She looked at it closely. “Your bankbook? I-I don’t understand.”

“Do you still want to play in my uncle’s game on Saturday?”

“You know I do. Only, I don’t have the -- wait a minute, Cap. We talked about this a long time ago. If I wouldn’t take a loan from you to open my own game, I’m sure as hell not taking a _bigger_ loan to get into that game your uncle’s running.”

Laura gave a warning “cough” as she walked towards them. “You two ready to order?”

“Hide it,” Cap whispered, gesturing towards the bankbook. Bridget nodded and slipped it onto her lap and out of sight.

Cap ordered for them both, baked chicken in a spicy sauce and mixed vegetables. He also asked for the bottle of wine that he’d had Shamus put aside. Laura wrote it down, took their menus, and left for the kitchen.

As soon as Laura was out of sight, Bridget handed the bankbook back to Cap. “So, thank you very much, sir, but no, thank you.”

“You took money from my uncle -- a grubstake -- to start your game. That’s exactly what I’m offering you now, a grubstake.”

“What do you mean?”

“A partnership; _I_ supply the cash to get you into the game, and _you_ supply the skill to win us a lot more cash -- especially my uncle’s, I hope.” He grinned when he mentioned his uncle. “And we’ll split the winnings 50-50.”

“Right, 50-50, plus I have to pay back my stake to you.”

“No, I’ll take that back as a part of my split.”

“Why? Why are you offering me a deal like this? How do I know that you and your uncle aren’t up to something?”

“My uncle be hanged,” he countered, letting the anger seep into his voice for just a moment before he continued. “Bridget, I, Cap -- Matthew... Matthew Harriman Lewis -- I... trust you...” He reached over and took her hand in his. “...very _very_ much. I know how much this game means to you, and I want you to play. Please believe that.”

He grinned again, though he didn’t let go of her hand. “_And_ I trust your skill enough to _know_ that, if you _could_ get into the game, you’d be a big winner.”

Bridget sighed. It seemed as if a great load had just fallen from her shoulders, even if she didn’t know exactly why. “Let me think about your offer for a day or so. _Please_. This is such a generous offer, and I --”

“Take a day. Take all the time you want, up till the game starts on Saturday, anyway.”

She smiled, almost in spite of herself. ‘Either he’s telling the truth,’ she told herself, ‘or he’s gotten a lot better at bluffing.’ Maybe she should accept the offer, going along but watching for any traps Abner Slocum might set in her path. In the meantime, Cap needed some sort of answer.

“Thank you, Cap,” she answered, "whichever way I decide. You’re a good man -- and a good friend -- and I’m sorry to have been so out of sorts with you for so long.”

“You were angry, and rightly so.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, smiling when she didn’t pull it away. “I’m just glad that you aren’t angry any more, at least, not at me.”

He had a nice smile, and she hoped, wistfully, that what he was telling her _was_ true.

* * * * *

Wednesday, March 13, 1872

Ethan studied the play of light on the curves of Jane’s body. ‘Lovely,’ he thought, applying a bit of darker red to shade one portion of her arm. “You told me about being transformed into a woman, Jane, but you never stated how you felt about _being_ a woman.”

Jane grimaced and blinked. “I-I didn’t like it, not at first. After I served my time for kidnapping Laura, I went back up to my claim with Davy -- Davy Kitchner as my new partner. Him and me was dead sure that we was gonna find that color in the rock.”

“Davy Kitchner? Then, he was your first... friend?”

“First? No, him ‘n Toby ‘n me was friends up in Colo...” her voice trailed off as she realized what Ethan meant. “Oh, oh, no. It-it wasn’t like that. In fact, I made him my partner ‘cause he _didn’t_ make me feel all girly.”

“But something occurred up there -- at your claim, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah, Ozzie Pratt come up t’try ‘n steal my claim. He was gonna shoot me ‘n Davy unless I signed half over t’him. He wanted me as part of the deal, too. Davy grabbed his gun and told me t’run.” Her expression soured. “Ozzie shot him in the leg and come after me.”

“Astounding. Might I assume that you somehow eluded this Mr. Pratt?”

“Sorta. Milt Quinlan was worried about for me. He come up with some other folks, and they was waiting outside. When I run out, they pulled me away, and, when Ozzie come out, Milt...” She giggled. “...he decked Ozzie with one punch.”

Ethan tried to hide his surprise. “One punch?”

“Uh huh. Then he tells me he don’t want me t’stay up on that mountain, and, when I asked him why, he...” She gave him a dreamy smile. “...kissed me. He’s a _good_ kisser.” She sighed. “And _that’s_ when I decided that I liked being a gal... if I could be Milt’s gal.”

Ethan had noticed Quinlan talking with Jane at the Saloon, but he’d never given much thought to the type of relationship that they might have. The man obviously had feelings for Jane, and, more important, he was both capable and willing to commit violence in her behalf.

“That’s quite a story.” Ethan wasn’t afraid of a fight, but he wasn’t about to go looking for one. ‘There are other fish in the sea,’ he told himself, ‘and more than a few are easily landed. Scratch the lovely Jane from the list.’

After Jane had left, he considered his other possibilities for sexual liaison. “Those ‘potion girls’ are a special treat,” he thought aloud, “a local delicacy that cries out to be savored.” He chuckled wryly to himself. “Too bad so many of them are already on someone else’s plate. Jessie has that deputy she threatened me with, and Jane dotes on her lawyer.”

“Who were the others?” he reflected. “Oh, yes, Bridget -- like a luscious, strawberry meringue. Unhappily, that barman -- R.J. -- is always hovering about, trying for a taste. I don’t believe he’s partaken of the wench, as yet, but they both know that he’s well ahead of me in line.”

The mention of food made him contemplate … “Maggie. What was it Omar Khyam said about how similar are the delights of the feast table and the bed? No matter, the sweet tamale is one of those ‘all business’ types. And so is that sturdy young man she is engaged to -- engaged _with_, quite likely, and she would be unwilling to consider a brief assignation with another.”

“Now Trisha, she was hardly ‘all business’ and, despite her denials, a woman happily bedded once is likely to be willing to be bedded again.” He chuckled again. “Except I don’t even know her last name, let alone where I might find her. I can hardly go looking for her, but if I do encounter her, I shall most certainly endeavor to take advantage of the opportunity for another coupling.”

He sighed. “Which brings me back to Wilma -- wanton, willing Wilma. Ah, but she wants sex on _her_ terms, and that will hardly do. A little more curing time, like a sweet Easter ham, is needed, and she will be a feast well worth waiting for.”
“If only Laura weren’t with child... _and_ husband,” he considered as a final notion, “a threesome with identical twins like her and Jane might almost be worth all the risks.”

* * * * *

“What’s the damage?” Mike Schmidt asked.

Trisha looked at the order slip she’d filled out. “Two fifty-pound bags of timothy and a bottle of the sorghum treatment.” She hit the register for each item, as she spoke. “That’ll be...” She hit the total key. “$11.35.”

The man handed her a $20 double eagle. When she gave him his change, she added, “Thanks for your business, and you have a good day.”

“You, too.” He hefted one of the sacks over his shoulder and headed for the door.

Milt Quinlan had been standing near the counter. “May I speak to you for a moment, Trisha?”

“Sure, Milt. What can I do for you?”

“I came in to remind you about Friday.”

“Friday? What’s...?” Her eyes widened, and her expression changed from a storekeeper’s friendliness to one of total dismay. “Oh... yeah, the -- the... divorce.” She spoke softly, as if not wanting to hear herself say the word. “That’s when the time’s up, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid that it is.” He gently put his hand on her arm. “Can you and Kaitlin be at the Judge’s chambers -- his office, that is -- at 4 PM?”

“Could... could we make it... earlier? The store can get awful... awful...” She felt her eyes fill with tears. She shook her head, fighting down what she was feeling. The end of her marriage had always been _sometime_ off in the future. Now it was coming in just a few days.

She tried to continue. “...awful b-busy late on Fridays, the-the weekend, you kn-know.” She sighed. “Be-besides, I’d... I’d j-just as soon get it... get it d-done and...” She took a deep breath. “...done and over with.”

“I understand. Is 11 AM better?” When she nodded, he continued. “Fine. I’ll meet you there.” He paused a beat. “And Trisha...”

“Yes?”

“I’m very sorry.” He handed her his handkerchief.

She dabbed at her eyes. “That makes three of us.”

* * * * *

“Don’t you go taking the last of that chicken.”

Jessie set her fork down next to the meat tray on the “Free Lunch” table and turned around. “Wilma, what’re you doing here?”

“I could say that I come in here t’see you, little sister, but, truth to tell, I just finished a session posing for Ethan, and I thought I’d stop by and have some of Maggie’s cooking for lunch.” She stabbed a couple of slices of the chicken with a fork and moved them onto her own plate. “I gotta admit, I worked up an appetite posing.”

“Mmm,” Jessie said wryly, “I’ll just bet you did.” She giggled. “I’ll bet you n’him both did.”

Wilma cocked an eyebrow. “What’re you saying, Jess?”

“He was trying real hard t’get into my pants -- at least till I threatened t’sic Paul on him. I just figured he done the same t’you, and we both know that you ain’t one t’say, ‘no’ to doing such things.”

Wilma forced herself not to react. ‘Jessie, too, that dirty, no-good...’ She managed a happy smile. “Well, you figured right, Jess.” She decided to bluff. “You want details?”

“N-no, thanks.” Jessie blushed. “How you been... otherwise?”

“Happy.” She _was_ happy -- if only because Jessie had changed the subject.

* * * * *

Red Tully walked into the Saloon and over to the table where Bridget and R.J. were finishing lunch.

“Hey, Red,” R.J. said. “What brings you in here this time of day?”

Bridget took a quick sip of lemonade to clear her mouth. “If you’re looking for a poker game, I’ll be ready to play in about five minutes.”

“Not exactly,” the wrangler replied. “I come into town to pick up some gear Mr. Slocum ordered from Styron’s hardware. When he told me to come get it, he said I should check with you about that poker game on Saturday. You gonna be his dealer, like he asked?”

Bridget took another, longer sip, stalling for time. “I, ah... I haven’t decided yet. Tell him... tell him, I’m sorry, and I’ll give him my answer, umm... tomorrow. I-I promise.”

“I’ll tell him.” Red said with a shrug, “but he ain’t gonna be too happy about having t’wait.” He glanced over to the bar.

Shamus was on duty. He looked back at Red and raised an empty beer stein, as if asking a question.

“Might as well take advantage,” Red nodded back. “See you,” he told the pair. He turned and started walking. Shamus was putting the now-full stein down on the bar by the time Red reached it.

R.J. watched Red for a moment, then turned back to Bridget. “Why didn’t you just tell him you were going to be the dealer instead of making him wait one more day?”

“After all the grief Abner Slocum’s given me, he can wait one more day,” Bridget answered. “Besides, I haven’t decided for sure that I will be his dealer.”

“Of course, you will. Why’re you even thinking about it?”

“Because I...” She had decided not to tell him about Cap’s offer. “...I may want to do something else.”

R.J. shook his head. “Just like a woman. What else could you want to do? If you aren’t the dealer, you aren’t going to take the night off and go to bed early. You’ll still be down here watching the game.”

“I’d like to be down here _playing_ in the game.”

“Too bad, but you can’t. It’s kind of a shame.”

“Well, thank you, at least, for that.”

“You’re welcome. I’m really sorry you can’t. It might’ve helped.”

“Helped? Helped what?”

“Helped get the idea of being a professional poker player out of your system. You play in a game like that -- even if you don’t win — and you’ve got nothing left to prove.” He grinned. “You can settle down with a certain assistant barman of my acquaintance.”

“Or not,” she said firmly, putting on her best poker face. “On the meantime, I think I’ll set up my game now.” She rose and walked slowly over to the southeast-corner table she used for poker.

R.J. watched her leave. ‘Still upset about not being able to play,’ he thought. ‘I don’t blame her, but I do like the little extra... _something_ it puts into her walk when she’s angry.’

* * * * *

Liam glanced over to the counter. Trisha sat behind it, gazing down at the floor, looking miserable, as she had since she’d talked to Milt Quinlan. ‘Gotta do something about her,’ he thought. He considered the situation for a moment, then spoke. “Trisha, we aren’t too busy right now. Why don’t you head over to Wells Fargo to check on that shipment of seed catalogs, we’ve been expecting?”

“Wha... catalogs?” Slowly, she realized what he was asking. “Oh, ahhh... sure. I’ll... I’ll go check.” She stood up and walked out the door and onto the wooden sidewalk.

She’d gone perhaps fifty yards, head down, as if counting boards, when she heard a voice in front of her. “Why, a very good afternoon to you, Miss O’Hanlan.”

“Who?” She looked up to see the broad smile of Ethan Thomas. A small shiver ran through her, her body remembering what they had done the last time they were together. “G-Good afternoon, Eth... Mr. Thomas.”

“It certainly is now. I was just making my way to purchase some turpentine at Styron’s hardware. Would you care to accompany me? After that errand, we could adjourn back to my studio to resume that delightful conversation we were having the other day.” He smiled and offered her his arm.

It wasn’t _conversation_ he was offering. She felt a tremble of anticipation. Her nipples grew tight against the soft muslin of her camisole. ‘Sex would be _so_ nice,’ she thought. ‘To feel good... happy for even just a little while; to not have to think about Kaitlin and the divorce, it’s just what -- _he’s_ just what I --’

Then she remembered.

“No! No, thank you, Mr. Thomas. I’m on an errand for my own business --”

“Oh, and what business is that? Perhaps I could call on you there at the end of the day. We could have a bit of dinner, perhaps, then adjourn to my studio for a lengthier… _discussion_.”

The warmth, the tingling in her breasts was matched by a warmth -- and an emptiness -- between her legs. “Say, ‘yes’, her body urged. ‘Kaitlin will never know.’ She answered herself at once, even if she did hate the answer she had to give. ‘Maybe Kaitlin won’t, but _I_ will.’

“I’m afraid not, Ethan. I promised... I promised many things.” Including the promise she had made to Kaitlin that she would behave. For Emma’s sake as much as her own. And there was the small matter of keeping her chair on the church board.

He smiled. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps, but I think not.” She hurried off, head-down again. As she walked, she tried not to think of his smile. Or his manly chest, covered with short brown curls, and how those curls had felt against her bare skin. Or the way his throbbing manhood had --

‘No, Trisha,’ she scolded herself, ‘don’t you _dare_ think about that.’

She walked so fast that she also missed seeing Cecelia Ritter, who had watched the exchange from inside the door of Ortega’s grocery. “That seemed polite enough,” Cecelia whispered softly, “but Mr. Thomas is such a handsome man. I wonder where he knows her from?”

* * * * *

Thursday, March 14, 1872

“Okay,” Yully said, trying to sound official. “Now that we ate, it’s time t’consider the new recruits for Fort Secret.”

Emma raised a confused eyebrow. “Recruits?”

“Si,” Ysabel answered. “It’s Thursday, we’re gonna decide who we tell about the Fort.”

The other girl nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. I-I guess I got other things on my mind?”

“Something wrong?” Yully asked.

“Nothing you can help with.” Emma sighed. “Nothing _I_ can help with. Let’s... let’s just decide about the Fort.”

Ysabel gently put her hand on Emma’s arm. “Are you sure?”

“It’s... it’s my folks -- I-I can’t explain it more than that.”

“If you ever do want to talk about it,” Ysabel told her,” I am here.”

“We all are,” Tomas added.

Emma tried to smile. “Thanks. That does help.” She took a breath. “But we’d better get going on those names before lunch break is over. Who’s first?”

“Let’s do all of Yully’s,” Stephan said. “They’re most of the names, anyway.”

Yully frowned. “If it bothers you, Stephan, that Nestor, Aggie, and Penny are all possibilities, we could put up Ruth and Matthew.”
“I wish,” Stephan answered. “I wish. But I still think Matthew’s too young, and I _know_ that Pa would worm the secret outta Ruth in no time flat.”

Tomas stiffened. “Just so you do not think that I am also ‘too young’.”

“I... _We_ trust you, Tomas,” Yully said, “and I think we can trust Nestor --”

“And my sister, Constanza,” Ysabel added.

“Her, too,” Yully continued. “But I go along with Stephan that we shouldn’t let in anybody younger than you.”

“What about your brother, Aggie?” Emma asked. “You said he’d tell your folks if you didn’t let him in.”

Yully shook his head. “I think I can handle Aggie, especially with Nestor helping.”

“And Penny,” Ysabel declared. “She can help, too.”

Yully laughed. “And Penny.” He considered what they’d been saying. “Sounds t’me like it’s settled. We got three new members, Nestor, Penny, and Constanza. Everybody agree?” The others nodded.

“Let’s do it,” Emma said. “I don’t think we can get many more into the Fort at one time, anyway.”

“I think I’ll tell Aggie that.” Yully said. “It’s as good a reason as any for having an age limit.”

“You tell them what you want,” Ysabel replied. “I will tell that to Constanza, as well.”

Miss Osbourne chose that moment to step out onto the schoolhouse steps and ring the bell to signal the start of afternoon classes.

“Just in time,” Stephan said, packing away his lunch pail, “and Saturday morning, we’ll bring the three of ‘em to the Fort.”

* * * * *

A lone horseman rode up to the hitching post in front of Abner Slocum’s ranch house. Before he could dismount, two hounds raced towards him from the porch, barking as they ran. They stopped a few feet from the man’s horse, but continued to bark. “Shhh,” the man whispered to his horse, leaning down to pat its shoulder.

“Blue... Smokey, stop that!” Cap Lewis yelled, hurrying down the steps. “This man’s a friend.” He walked over and shook the rider’s hand. “Welcome to the Triple A Ranch, Colonel Hooker.”

The hounds backed off, and the man slowly dismounted. “Thanks, uhh, Cap, isn’t it?” The younger man nodded, and the older man looked about. “Is Abner around anyplace?”

“Right here, Colonel.” Slocum walked out to greet his guest. “Glad you could make it.”

Hooker laughed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Poker games with stakes like that don’t come down the pike every day.” He was a tall, muscular man with dark brown hair, graying around his ears; a square jaw; and high forehead.

“No, they surely don’t,” Slocum replied. He turned to Cap. “Matthew, would you please put the Colonel’s horse in a stall? Tell whoever’s in the barn to brush it down and make sure it’s got fresh fodder and plenty of water.”

Cap looked around, then pointed to man standing near the barn. “Couldn’t Carl do it, Uncle? I was about to head into town for you.”

“That errand?” When Cap nodded, Slocum called out to his employee. “Carl, could you come over here?”

The man hurried over. “What’s up, Mr. Slocom?”

“Carl, this is Colonel Henry C. Hooker, who you may have heard of. Colonel, this is Carl Osbourne, one of my best hands.” The rancher waited while the two men shook hands before he continued. “Carl, would you please take the Colonel’s horse over to the barn and see that he’s taken care of, _well_ taken care of?”

The cowboy took the reins from the Colonel’s hand. “Yes, sir. I’ll make sure that he gets brushed down; I’ll see he gets some oats and fresh water, too.”

“That’ll be fine. Thank you, Carl.” Hooker unclipped his saddlebags and threw them over his shoulder.

The ranch hand studied his boss’ face. “When I’m done, I’d like t’come back and talk to Mr. Hooker… if I can.” Glancing toward the visitor, he said, “I _have_ heard a lot about you, Colonel, and I’d like to hear more, if I get the chance.” He touched his hat and started for the barn, the horse walking slowly after him.

“Don’t you have enough chores to keep you busy, Carl?”

The cowhand grinned back over his shoulder. “Aw, now, Mr. Slocum, sir, you wouldn’t want t’deny ‘one of your best hands’ the chance to talk to a man like Colonel Hooker, would you?”

“No, I suppose I wouldn’t,” Slocum answered, chuckling. “I would like those chores done, though.”

Carl nodded. “And they will be. How ‘bout I come over after dinner t’talk.”

“That’s fine with me, if Abner here doesn’t mind,” Hooker answered.

Slocum shrugged. “It’s nice to be asked about something. You can come over then if you want. Right now, the first of those chores you’re trying to avoid is caring to the colonel’s horse. Why don’t you get started with that?”

“Right away.” Carl took the reins and led the mount towards the barn. “Just like the ‘best hand’ you said I am.”

Cap’s own horse was at the hitching post. He unhitched it and mounted quickly. “Now that you’ve settled things with Carl, I’m heading out, too. I’ll see you both in a bit.”

“See you later, then,” Slocum replied. Cap rode off, and his uncle turned to his guest. “Shall we head into the house?”

“Beats standing out here in the sun,” the Colonel answered. “Do I have time to clean up some before dinner?”

“You do -- more than enough time for a nice long soak, if you want,” Slocum answered. “I’ll take you upstairs right now.” The two men walked towards the house. The dogs, now quiet, trailed after them.

Slocum picked up the thread of the conversation. “I knew you couldn’t pass up my invitation, not after I sent the details of the game.”

“I always was a gambler, Abner.” He chuckled. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I got the money to buy my Sierra Bonita Ranch?”

“Can’t say that you have. You win it in some poker game, maybe?”

“Nothing that easy. I wrangled 500 turkeys -- a-yep, I said _turkeys_ -- across the Sierras from California to Carson City, me and a drover named Philo Webster.”

“Turkeys,” Abner let out a horselaugh. “Now that’s a story _I_ want to hear.”

“You will, but it’ll cost you. A bath first, to get rid of this trail dust, then you can ply me with some of that Madeira you mentioned in your letter.”

* * * * *

“Okay,” Ysabel asked, “What is the next problem?”

Emma read from her 8th grade math book, “Raymond is packing boxes for shipping. He can pack a large box in 10 minutes and a small box in 4 minutes. He needs to pack 10 large boxes and 20 small boxes. If 2.5 hours remain before closing time, will Raymond have time to finish the work before closing time if he works without stopping?”

“So,” Ysabel questioned her, “what do we need to know?”

“We gotta figure out how long it’ll take him to pack those boxes, right?”

“Si, start with the large boxes.”

“Okay, for the 10 large boxes it’s 10 times 10 minutes, 100 minutes.”

“And for the small boxes?”

“Those small boxes’ll take 20 times 4 minutes. That’s 80 minutes. And 100 plus 80 is 180 minutes, 3 hours.” Emma thought for a moment. “He can’t do it in time. _Now_ I understand.”

Ysabel looked at the small clock ticking over on a corner of her dresser. “I think we have time to do one more problem before supper.” Ysabel was invited to join Emma, Trisha, and Kaitlin for dinner, a reward for helping her friend catch up in mathematics. “But,” she said slowly, “we can study after the meal. I would rather take the time now to see your new corset.”

“My corset? I didn’t think you noticed I was wearing a corset.”

“I did.” She giggled. “More important, I think Yully noticed, too.”

“Now why should I care -- do you really think he did?”

“I think all the boys did, the older ones, at least. They’ve been gawking at you all week.”

Now Emma giggled. “Well, I do kinda have better posture in it.” She began to unbutton her blouse.

“It’s not your _posture_ the boys are looking at.” Both girls giggled now.

“Just so Yully’s one of them that’re looking.” Emma had finished with her buttons. She unbuttoned her blouse, pulled it out from her skirt, and set it carefully on her bed. Her corset was canary yellow, almost the same color as the ribbons she wore on the ends of her two hair braids.

Ysabel considered for a moment, while Emma posed, trying to look grown up. “Very pretty. It looks good on you.”

“Thanks. It was you that got me wearing yellow so much. I got another one just like it in pink. Ma don’t want me t’be wearing the same corset to school every day.”

“My Mama is the same way.” Ysabel studied her friend’s expression. “Do you mind wearing such garments?”

“I-I wasn’t too happy about it, but Ma said I needed one... for my...” She looked down at her breasts. “Then she reminded me about what the boys’d think and, well, it seemed like a good idea.”

“Si, I do not mind wearing mine so much, either; not when I see Stephan looking at me.” She giggled, and Emma joined in. They were still giggling and talking about the boys when Kaitlin called them down for supper.

* * * * *

“You’re going to have to teach me that Maverick solitaire game one of these days,” Cap told Bridget.

Bridget looked up from the cards spread across her table. “I can teach it to you now, if you like.” She glanced around the room -- just to be sure. “There doesn’t seem to be anybody here looking to play poker.”

“Later, maybe,” he said. “Right now, I’m looking for an answer.”

“An answer? What’s the question?”

“Two questions, actually, but only one answer between them. Whose offer are you taking for the game on Saturday, mine or Uncle Abner’s?”

She put on her best poker face. “Whose... mmm... I think... maybe...” She had to smile, seeing the confused look on his face. “Yours.” She offered him her hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

“If you like.” He shook her hand, then grinned, “but I’d rather seal our agreement with a kiss.” He was still holding her hand.

She smiled back. “Let’s keep things on a business basis for right now.”

“I mean business.” He leered at her for a moment, then raised her hand to his lips.

Bridget felt a warm, happy tingle run through her as he kissed it. “I’m sure you do.”

“I’ll prove that I do if you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night.” Before she could answer, he added, “By the way, how much money do you need?”

His abrupt change of subject startled her. “How... how much?”

“Yes, can you afford to put in anything towards that $1,000, or would you like me to loan you...” He hurried to correct himself. “...to _grubstake_ you for the full amount?”

“I-I can put in $250 -- more if I really need to.”

He shook his head. “No, whatever you’re comfortable with.” He took a quick look at his pocket watch. “Now that I have your answer, I have to get back to the ranch.”

“You’d best hurry then.” She looked over to Shamus’ wall clock. It was 3:27.

“I can’t go yet; not till you say if you’ll have supper with me tomorrow.” He winked.

She couldn’t help smiling. “Yes... now get going already!” She watched him leave and kept her smile until he was through the swinging doors of the Saloon.

* * * * *

Nestor Stone shifted his chair around, so he was facing his brother, Yully. “It’s Thursday night.”

“It’s still more like Thursday afternoon,” Yully answered, putting down his pencil. “But I know what I promised.”

Agamemnon Stone, their younger brother “Aggie,” turned his own chair around. “So... you gonna tell us where you went?”

“I am,” Yully said, “but I wanna tell Penny, too. Aggie, would you go get her?”

“Why should I? She don’t know nothing ‘bout what happened.”

Yully leaned back in his chair. “She’s _gonna_ know.”

“Go get her, Aggie,” Nestor told the other boy. “And make sure Ma ‘n’ Pa don’t hear you.”

Aggie rose to his feet. “I’ll go, but this better be good.” He hurried out the door, returning quickly with their sister.

“What’s going on?” Penny asked.

Yully stood and leaned back against his desk. “B’fore I say anything, I want you all t’promise not to tell anybody what I do say.”

“Anybody?” the girl asked. “Even Ma and Pa?”

“_Especially_ Ma ‘n’ Pa -- no grown-ups.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You promise -- cross your hearts and hope t’die?”

The three siblings looked at each other. “We promise,” Nestor said. Aggie and Penny agreed. They all raised their right hands. “Cross our hearts...” they each traced an “X” over their hearts with a finger. “...and hope t’die.”

“Good,” Yully told them. He stepped over to the open window. “Penny, ‘bout a week ago, I snuck out this window at night to see Stephan Yingling, while he was hiding out from his folks. Aggie and Nestor caught me coming back in, and I had t’promise I’d explain what I was doing.”

Penny raised her hand. “How’d you get down from the window?”

“See them branches?” Yully pointed out the window to the tall tree nearby. “The lower one’ll hold my weight, and I can use the other one like a hand rail.”

The girl considered what he’d said. “I see, that’ll get you to the tree. From there to the ground is easy.”

“T’heck with the tree,” Aggie said impatiently. “Where’d you go?”

Yully sighed, knowing what was ahead for him. “To the -- me and Stephan and -- and some others built ourselves a secret... clubhouse in the woods west of here. That’s where Stephan hid out all them days.”

“Can we see it?” Aggie asked eagerly. “Better yet, can we join the club?”

“Well... see the thing is... we -- the club -- got a rule. There ain’t a lotta room in the... uhh, clubhouse, so y’gotta be in fifth grade or older t’join.” He sighed again. “Penny ‘n’ Nestor can join, but you can’t. Not yet, anyway.”

“That ain’t fair!” the boy yelled. “I’ll... I’ll tell. You see if I don’t.”

Penny shook her head. “You did promise, Aggie. You can’t go back on your word just ‘cause you didn’t get your way.”

“Look, you tell, and the grown-ups’re gonna break up the club. They’ll prob’bly wreck the clubhouse, too. Then it won’t be around when you _are_ old enough.”

“But that’s two whole years!”

Their sister counted off on her fingers. “It’s March; school’s over in a couple months. You’ve only got... June... July... August... 18 months, a year and a half, till you’re in fifth grade.” She smiled. “Unless Miss Osbourne holds you back a year. You aren’t doing too good in arithmetic or history.”

“I got a “B” on my last history quiz,” the boy said defensively.

“Good for you,” Penny said, “and Yully and me’ll _help_ you keep up your grades in both subjects -- if you keep your promise.”

Aggie knew when he was licked. “All right, all right, I won’t tell. For now, anyway.”

* * * * *

“You ready for tomorrow?” Trisha asked nervously. The two were alone in the parlor. Emma was upstairs reading.

Kaitlin looked up from the sock she was darning. “Not really.” She gave a wistful sigh. “Are you?”

“It-it’s all happening so fast.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s happening... what’s going to happen. None of it.”

“We move on, I guess.”

The former husband frowned. “Seems to me like you already have... with my own brother, no less.”

“I might say the same thing about you and... and... whoever it was that you bared your breasts for at the dance.”

“I told you; I was drunk.”

“You’ve used that excuse before.”

“I _was_ drunk. And -- whatever I did -- it won’t happen again.”

“It had better not. I don’t mind you disgracing yourself. If you act like a trollop, you deserve whatever happens, but I will _not_ have you disgracing our daughter.”

“I said that I wouldn’t.” She pointed an accusatory figure. “Can you say the same about you and Liam?”

“I-I can.” Kaitlin felt tears forming in her eyes. “Oh, Trisha, this... this is our last night as...” She shrugged. “...as whatever we are now. Do we have to fight about such things?”

“It’s just that tomorrow we go in and sign some paper and our marriage is... gone. I hate that. I’ve lost you, Kaitlin, and that’s really more than I can bear.”

“We’ll just have to bear it together, whatever comes.” She stood and the two rushed together. They hugged each other, tears running down their cheeks, hugging like the sisters they had become.

* * * * *

“Sorry I’m late, Uncle Abner,” Cap said, bustling into the dining room. “‘Evening, Colonel.”

Slocum looked up from his dinner. “We’ve only just started, Matthew. Have a seat.” He waited for his nephew to sit down. “What did she say?”

“She won’t be dealer. Sorry, Uncle.”

“I think she decided days ago and kept me waiting, so I’d have a hard time finding someone else.” He took a sip of wine. “Damn!”

Hooker had sat quietly, watching the exchange. “Problem, Abner?”

“There’s a woman in town -- she runs the poker game at one of the saloons, and I asked her to be dealer for the game on Saturday. She _finally_ got around to telling Matthew here that she wasn’t going to take the job.” He snorted. “I might have known she’d pull something like this.”

Cap was serving himself some roast. “That’s hardly fair, Uncle. She has a right not to want the job, and she knows that you don’t like her.”

“That’s hardly the point,” Slocum argued. “She should have said yes or no a week ago -- or more. Who am I going to get at the last minute? I need a dealer, and I can’t ask just anybody to do it. It has to be someone reputable -- and someone who knows how to play poker, reasonably well, at least.”

Cap thought for a moment. “How about Carl Osbourne? He’s one of Bridget’s regular players, and, to hear him tell it, he’s not too bad.”

“Carl is the man who took care of your horse, this afternoon, Colonel,” Slocum explained. “The one who wanted to talk to you.”

The Colonel frowned. “I remember him. I’m sure he’s a fine man, Abner, but I don’t care for the idea that the dealer in this game be the employee of one of the players. I don’t think the other players would like it, either. Son…” he asked Cap. “…can you suggest somebody a bit more… independent?”

Cap pursed his chin “Dwight Albertson, then? He’s the president of the bank, and he’s been out here to play poker more than once. And happily taken Uncle Abner’s money when he could.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Slocum replied. “Colonel, would you object to my banker being the dealer?”

The Colonel laughed. “He’s my banker, too, actually. I had my own bank wire him a letter of credit. I wasn’t about to _carry_ all that money with me on the ride over here.” He pursed his chin for a moment. “I’d say he’ll do fine.”

“Great,” Cap said, “I’ll ride into town tomorrow myself and ask him.”

* * * * *

Friday, March 15, 1872

Obie Wynn looked up from his paperwork when he heard the outer door to the office open. “G’morning, ladies.”

“Morning, anyway,” Kaitlin replied. “We’re the O’Hanlans. Milt Quinlan is supposed to be meeting us here.” She looked around. The three of them were the only ones in the room.

Obie nodded, standing up. “He’s already here, Missus O’Hanlan... Miz O’Hanlan.” He was a short man, pale with a mop of dull, brown hair. The only notable thing about him was his thick Kentucky accent. “Him ‘n’ the Judge are waiting for ya in chambers -- that’s the Judge’s office.” He picked up a folder and tucked it under his arm. “Y’all follow me, please.”

“Yer Honor,” he called, knocking on a door in the wall behind them. “The O’Hanlans’re here.” He opened the door and walked through. Kaitlin and Trisha scurried in after him.

The Judge was sitting behind a large, wooden desk. Milt was seated in a nearby chair. Both men got to their feet as the women entered.

“Hello, ladies,” the Judge greeted them. “I won’t say, ‘Good day,’ because that hardly applies.” He motioned towards a couch set back against the wall. “Please do have a seat.”

“Thanks, Judge,” Trisha said, trying to keep her voice even. She and Kaitlin both took a place on the couch. Trisha was wearing a dark navy-colored blouse and matching skirt. Kaitlin was in a black dress. Mourning clothes.

Obie handed the Judge his folder. “The extra copies you wanted.” That done, he walked over to lean against a high, wooden bookcase filled with volumes labeled “Arizona Territorial Code.”

“Very well,” the Judge said, opening the folder and began. “Trisha, you have not responded to Kaitlin’s charge of incompatibility within the allotted time. She has, therefore, had Milt file a request for an expedited decision. Before I grant that request, is there _anything_, anything at all, that you would like to say on your own behalf or on behalf of your marriage?”

Trisha looked down at the floor. “N-No, Your Hon-Honor,” she said in a soft voice that was almost a whisper. “I guess there’s... there’s nothing as in-incompatible as two... two women being m-married.” She gave a deep sigh. “Let’s -- uhhh -- let’s j-just get it over... over with.” Her voice broke, as she tried very hard not to cry.

“‘Twere best it were done quickly,” Milt responded, then he added. “Macbeth, Act I, scene 7.”

The Judge agreed with the sentiment. “Yes,” he continued, looking at another paper. “The assets seem fairly divided. Have you paid Liam for his share of your business, Trisha?”

“She has,” Kaitlin answered. “Liam asked me to give you this.” She took a folded paper from her reticule and handed it to the Judge.

“Paid in full, and it confirms the transfer.” The Judge set the paper down on his desk. “Joint custody for your daughter, and I see that you’ll still both be living in your house.”

Trisha looked up. “K-Kaitlin’s house. I’m giving -- she can have it, her and Emma deserve a good place to live.”

“That’s quite commendable, Trisha.” The Judge dipped his pen in the inkwell on his desk. “Since everything seems settled, I hereby declare that the marriage between Trisha -- nee Patrick -- O’Hanlan and Kaitlin McNeil O’Hanlan is hereby annulled and held void, and that they are divorced.” He signed and dated three sheets of paper. “Milt, will you sign as witness?”

Milt took the quill from the Judge and quickly signed the three copies of the order. “That does it.” He carefully blotted the papers and handed them to Obie.

The clerk took a notary’s seal from his pocket and clamped it down on each sheet. “I’ll keep this one,” he told the women. “These other two are yours.” He handed one copy to each woman.

“It’s _done_ then?” Kaitlin asked.

Milt shrugged. “I’m sorry to say that it is, and may I be the first to offer my condolences.”

* * * * *

Wilma stretched her body, her sensuous movements pushing aside the sheet that was partly covering her middle.

“Please, Wilma” Ethan scolded. “We’ve only a bit of time remaining in this session.”

She pouted. “I am sorry, Ethan. I just got tired of just staying still. It ain’t exactly what I’m used to doing in bed.”

“Am I now supposed to ask what it is that you do... do in bed?”

“Mmm, you could ask, _or_ you could just come over here and let me _show_ you.”

“Wilma, you are -- so I’ve been told -- a most willing and most talented bedmate.”

“You got that right, and I’m more than willing t’show you my talents.”

“I expect that you are. I also expect that you are of the opinion that coitus, the act of physical love, is the most sensual, the most intimate experience that a man and a woman may share.”

“You’re damned right it is, especially when _I’m_ one of the ones doing it.”

“No, I’m afraid you’re in error on that point.”

“You know something better? If you do... show me.” She spoke the last two words, slowly and in her most sultry tones.

“I most certainly know something more intimate, and I have been endeavoring to show it to you -- I _was_ doing so -- when you moved.”

“Painting? You mean painting me is more intimate than... than...”

“Indeed.” He waited a moment before continuing. “Now would you please resume your pose, so we might do... might share more of the experience before your time for this session ends?”

* * * * *

Carmen was sitting on the porch of the bathhouse, reading a book, while Felipe napped in his crib. “Excuse me, Seá±ora,” a voice behind her said, “I am looking for my sister. She is a scrawny little girl in pigtails.”

Carmen stood up and spun around. “I was never scrawny, Gregorio.” She laughed and gave her brother a hug.

“Yes, you were, but you grew out of it.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You even grew out of wearing those silly pigtails... eventually”

“They were _not_ silly, but such things are for young girls, not a married women with two children.”

Gregorio looked around. “Speaking of your sons, where is Jose?”

“In the barber shop.”

“Spending time with his father, bueno. The ties of our family continue to grow strong -- as it should be.”

“Thank you.” She looked at the pocket watch tied to her apron. “Have you had lunch yet? I can go home with you and make something.”

“I already stowed my bag at the house. I just came by to tell you that I had arrived. I will be meeting... friends. I will have something to eat with them, I expect.”

Carmen nodded. The friends were probably the women at _La_ _Parisienne_. That was his business, so long as he said nothing in front of her son. “Will we see you for supper, then?”

“Probably... yes. It will be good to have a quiet meal with _family_ the night before the card game. And -- afterwards -- Ramon and I can have a talk.”

“Gregorio, must you?”

“We will just talk. But if I _do_ change his mind, then so much the better.”

* * * * *

Bridget was sitting at her poker table, finishing up the smoked fish from the “Free Lunch” table, when she heard a voice behind her.

“I thought you’d still be eating,” Cap said, stepping into her line of sight. “May I join you?” He held a plate with a small pickle and a few slices of leftover chicken in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

She made a gesture towards the chair opposite her. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” He set the food down on the table and took a seat. “I have something for you, and I didn’t want to wait until tonight.” He looked around the room. Satisfied that no one was watching, he pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. “Be careful; don’t let anybody see this.”

She moved the envelope next to her plate and opened it without lifting it off the table. “Cap,” she said in amazement, “I thought we would go over to the bank together to get the money.”

“What, and spoil the surprise?”

“Surprise? I don’t understand.”

“If we went over together, somebody -- if not Dwight Albertson, himself -- would tell Uncle Abner ahead of time. This way, we get to see the look on his face when you sit down, ready to play.”

Bridget chuckled and quickly transferred the envelope into the cash box on the chair next to her. “That will be something to see, won’t it?”

“It surely will.” He grinned mischievously.

She reached over and put her hand on his. “Thanks, Cap. Thanks so _very_ much.”

“You’re more than welcome, Bridget, and I look forward to thanking _you_ on Sunday, when there’s a whole lot more in there.”

* * * * *

Wilma froze in place as someone stepped behind her and quickly placed his hands over her eyes. “Guess who.”

“Ethan... Geraldo... Jimmy... Sebastian…” She shivered as the man leaned over and gently kissed the side of her neck. “Mmm...” She moved back to press herself against his body. “You gonna say who you are, so I can kiss you back?”

The hands moved away. “I was just saying, ‘hello’, my lively one. You wrote to me about how good you were with helloes.”

“Gregorio!” Wilma spun around. “Sebastian said...” She stopped, not wanting to say that Sebastian Ortega had inspired the letter she’d written.

Gregorio frowned. “What did Sebastian say?”

“He--he said that he told you who I... I used t’be, him and Ramon. I wrote t’remind you how much fun we had, so’s you wouldn’t be thinking about such things.” Sebastian had admitted telling Gregorio the truth, but Wilma hadn’t worried about it. Until now, that is.

The tall man stepped back to look at her. She was wearing a sea green corset that lifted her breasts, making them look even larger. Besides that, her silky white drawers clung to her lush hips and rounded thighs. If she had ever been the dangerous, _male_ criminal she had admitted to having been, there was no sign of that hombre in the sensual, wanton female that stood before him. He smiled, even as he felt himself harden.

“Whatever you were, you are my lively one, now. I fear that I cannot accept your invitation for the night of pleasure you promised --”

She pouted. “You can’t?”

“I am in town to play in that poker game you may have heard about.”

“I heard, but that game don’t start until noon tomorrow.”

“Hardly enough time to recover from such a night with you.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “But I do intend to spend my afternoon here... with you.”

“Well, then, let’s get upstairs, Gregorio, and I’ll show you some better places for you t`kiss.”

“To kiss? Yes, that will be a good... start.”

* * * * *

“An excellent meal, Martha.” Rev. Yingling pushed himself back from the table. “Stephan, please follow me to my office.”

Stephan looked up from his brown betty dessert. “Sir, it’s my turn to clear the table.”

“Change with...” He thought for a moment. “...Ruth for tonight. I’m sure she won’t mind. Will you, daughter?”

Ruth startled. “Uhh, no, father. I-I’ll be glad to do it.”

“Fine.” He dismissed his daughter without another word. “Come, Stephan. Now.”

The boy put his fork down in the half-finished, dark apple pudding. ‘So much for dessert,’ he thought. He stood up and followed his father out of the kitchen.

“How are you coming with the translation of Virgil’s fourth Eclogue?” Yingling asked, once they were in his study, and he was seated behind his desk.

“Almost finished, sir.”

“And what do you think of it?”

Stephan shrugged. “It’s nice enough, I suppose... all the references to Roman myths.”

“You do not see the Christian themes, the birth of the boy who will usher in a new age. That is a most obvious prophecy of our Lord, Jesus.”

“I suppose.”

“One does not ‘suppose,’ Yingling stated with a rumbling resonance, ‘you _know_. A minister knows what is the truth, and uses that knowledge to lead his flock to that truth.”

“Sir... please. I’ll do the translations, but I-I really don’t want to be --”

The reverend stood up and leaned his weight forward upon his desktop. “You will _be_ a minister. I have seen it ordained, and you must stop denying your future.” He rose to his feet and pointed a finger at the boy. “It is a most grievous sin to deny the word of our Lord.” He had thundered the words in the deep, bass voice he used for his best “Fire and Brimstone” sermons.

Stephan blanched and took a step back. “Father, please, I --”

“You what? Do you accept the fate our blessed Savior has planned for you? Because if you do not...” He let his voice trail off to let the boy consider for himself the alternative, in this world and the next, to obeying Holy Will.

The boy took a breath and straightened up. “No, sir. I don’t... I don’t believe that I was made to be a minister, and that it would be a sin to be forced to be what I’m not.”

“Very pretty words, boy. You’ve a gift for rhetoric, it seems. Which only proves my point. You will be what I say you will be, and there is nothing you can do to prevent your ordination.”

“Yes... yes, there is, sir. Here in Eerie, there is something I can do.” He braced himself for what he was about to say. “I-I can take that potion Mr. O’Toole makes, the stuff he gave to Emma. A girl can’t be no minister.”
Yingling sat back down and shook his head, as if Stephan were a much younger child whom he had observed being naughty. “Don’t talk foolishly, boy. You say you want to be a soldier, so I know that you do not hold your manhood _that_ cheaply.”

“No, sir, but I want my freedom, too. If I gotta give up the one for the other, I-I will.” He studied the incredulous look on his father’s face. “But I don’t wanna do it, sir.” He sighed. “Please don’t make me.”

The two stared at each other, neither saying a word. Finally, the youth spoke. “I-I’m gonna go now, sir, and help Ruth and Ma clean up after dinner.” When the reverend didn’t answer, Stephan quietly left for the kitchen.

* * * * *

“You know, Gregorio,” Ramon began, “Margarita and I are getting married in two weeks, the Sunday after Easter.” The two brothers were sitting in the main room of Whit and Carmen’s guesthouse.

Gregorio took a sip of after-dinner brandy. “Si, I know.” He didn’t sound pleased at the prospect.

“Will you be there?”

“Do you _want_ me to be there?”

“You are my brother. Of course, I do... if you are there to share the happiness of that day.”

“And if I do not share that happiness, if I think that you should not be marrying this... this person, do you still want me there?”

“Her name is Margarita. I love her, and I _am_ marrying her. Why can you not accept that?”

“Why can _you_ not accept that she is not worthy of marrying you?”

“Worthy? Margarita is a beautiful, caring woman. She has survived terrible things, and she has become a better person, a better woman, for it. I only hope that _I_ am worthy of her.”

“You are a de Aguilar, a blueblood, while she is a peasant -- a changling peasant, no less. Of course, you are worthy.”

“I do not care about her bloodline, or her past. I care about her, the woman she is now, a proud, confident, loving woman, and I intend to make that woman my wife.”

“You should care. You have a responsibility to yourself and to your family as a de Aguilar. You -- and your wife -- must live up to that responsibility.”

“That--that is ridiculous. This is the United States, and it is 1872. We do not live in the Spain of El Cid, and we should not behave as if we did.”

“There is still --”

“There is the love that Margarita and I share. That is what concerns me -- all that concerns me. And, if this _were_ the Spain of our ancestors, Margarita would be more than worthy to be the Lady of the Manor.”

“That is not true, and you know it.”

“I know _her_, and I know what she is capable of. And I know that, in two weeks, she will be my wife. You can be there to watch, to share the day with the family you think so much of, or you can stay away. But I swear to you, my brother, swear on the graves of our mother and father, that we will be married.”

* * * * *

Saturday, March 16, 1872

“Are we there yet?” Nestor Stone whined. He was walking down a wooded trail just outside of town, following his older brother, Yully, and his sister, Penny.

Yully slowed and looked back at Nestor. “That’s the third time you asked. I’ll tell you and Penny both when we’re there, okay?” As he spoke, Yully glanced back along the trail. If their younger brother, Aggie, was following them, the boy was better at tracking and hiding than Yully gave him credit for.

They walked on a few more minutes before stopping by the side of a hill. “_Now_, we’re there.” He sat down, just off the trail, by some brush. “We just gotta wait for the others.”

“Not too long, I hope.” Penny looked for a clean spot before sitting down beside him.

Nestor looked around. “If we’re ‘there’, then where’s the clubhouse you told us about?”

“Real close,” Yully told him. “See if you can find it.”

The younger boy scanned the landscape closely. “On top of the hill?”

“Nope,” Yully answered. “You wanna guess, Penny?”

She shook her head. “That’s where I was gonna guess. I’ll wait.”

“I won’t,” Nestor said stubbornly. “I’m gonna climb up and take a look.” Without waiting for a response, he started climbing the hill.

Penny stood up. “Don’t climb too far. Looks like somebody’s coming.” She pointed down the way they had come. “It’s Stephan.” She turned to her brother. “You gonna tell us now?”

“He ain’t the only one we’re waiting for.” Yully pointed in the other direction. Emma O’Hanlan and Ysabel Diaz were walking their way. Ysabel waved, as she came closer.

“Is that Constanza Diaz and Tomas Rivera with them?” Penny asked. “Are they new members, too?”

“Constanza is,” Yully said. “Tomas is a member already.”

The others came over to where Yully was sitting. “Everybody ready?” Emma asked.

“Before we do anything else,” Yully began. “Penny, Nestor, and Constanza, you gotta promise t’never tell anybody else what we’re gonna show you.” He rose to his feet. “You three raise your right hands.”

Nestor frowned. “We already done this on Thursday.”

“You promised _me_ in Thursday,” Yully replied. “Now the three of you are gonna promise all of us.”

“All for one; one for all,” Emma added, “like in that Musketeers book Miss Osbourne read to us.”

Nestor raised his hand. “I’ll swear t’that. Am I a member now?”

“Not quite, but you others gotta swear, too.” Stephan waited for the two girls to swear never to tell. When they had, he nodded to Yully. “I guess we can show ‘em now.”

Yully reached down his collar and pulled out a loop of cord with a small brass key. He leaned back behind the bush he was sitting near. The others couldn’t see what he was doing, but they heard the click of a lock opening. When the boy sat erect, they could see a door opening into the side of the hill.

“Well, I’ll be a... a danged red Injun chief,” Nestor swore.

Yully took a candle out from behind the door and lit it. “Here, Tomas,” he called, tossing the boy the lock. Then he knelt down and crawled into the opening. “Nestor, you follow me,” he called back from inside the hill.

“I-I’m coming.” The younger boy looked nervous for a moment before he started into the tunnel.

Stephan went in after the boy. “Don’t stop. I’m next.”

“Penny, you and Constanza go in next,” Emma said. “Hike up your skirts some, when you go in. You’re gonna have to crawl, and it’ll be easier that way. Ysabel and I’ll be right behind you.”

Halfway up the tunnel, Constanza heard a lock click. “Wh-what was that?” she asked in a quivering whisper.

“Tomas locked us in,” Emma explained. “It’s safer that way. The lock’s on this side of the door, so don’t worry.”

Constanza crawled forward. “Oh, my,” she exclaimed as she came into a large room. Penny and Nestor were already standing, looking about the place.

“Welcome t’Fort Secret,” Yully said proudly, taking a seat at the head of the table. “I told you we was close to it.” He chuckled and winked at Nestor.

* * * * *

“Now remember,” Maggie said, as she walked towards Carmen’s house with Ernesto and Lupe, “you two will behave yourself, and I will see you tomorrow afternoon.”

Her children answered in unison. “Yes, Mama.”

“Can’t we spend the day in the kitchen at Grampa Shamus’s with you?” Lupe asked.

“Si,” Ernesto added, “we will behave.”

Maggie shook her head. “I know that you will -- for Aunt Carmen. I will be too busy all the rest of the day and through the night to watch you, and I will not have the time to bring you over here.” They reached the door, and she knocked.

“Margarita,” Carmen said, opening the door, “and Lupe and Ernesto, too, welcome. Come in.” She stepped back as they ran past her into the house.

Carmen pointed towards the garden. “Felipe is that way,” she called.

“Thank you, Aunt Carmen,” Ernesto shouted back over his shoulder. Then he added, “Hey, what are _you_ doing here?”

Maggie hurried in to see her son confronting Gregorio. “I might ask you that, seá±or,” the man answered. “This is my home... my sister’s home, now.”

“The ‘seá±or’ and his sister will be spending the weekend here,” Maggie answered, “while I am working at restaurant, serving you and the others playing poker.” She turned to Ernesto. “You and Lupe go find Felipe.”

“Si, mama,” her children said as they ran off.

Gregorio nodded. “So you will be serving me at the game. That is most fitting.”

“I will be serving food to all the players. That is my business.” She took a breath. “Just as herding cattle is your business.”

“Business, si, a servant’s business, and hardly the proper role for the wife of my brother.”

“Ramon has no problem with my business.”

“My brother is a boy who does not realize what he is doing. I still have hopes of correcting that.”

“Your brother is a man, a _fine_ man. I love him very much. I wish that you could see that, but I think that _you_ are the one who is still the spoiled little boy. Well, try to behave yourself, _boy_, and if you do, I will feed you.” She turned and walked away.

Carmen met her at the door. “Do not let him bother you, Margarita. Ramon loves you far to much to ever listen to our idiota older brother.”

“I hope so,” Maggie told her. “And thank you.” She hurried out. She had to be at the restaurant. Besides, if she was nervous about what Gregorio had said, she was not about to let him see it.

* * * * *

Bridget stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked about the room. The game wasn’t due to start for a couple of hours yet, and already the Saloon was filling up. A dozen men, or more, were sitting at tables or standing at the bar, drinking some but, mostly, talking. Abner Slocum was sitting with a tall, dark-haired man she’d never seen before at a table marked “Players Only.” Cap, she also noticed, was sitting at the next table talking to the stranger.

She took a deep breath, saying, “Here goes nothing.” Feeling as ready as she’d ever be, she strode over to the table. The conversations stopped, and she could feel every eye in the place following her as she walked.

“Miss Kelly,” Slocum said in greeting as both men came to their feet. Cap also rose, giving her a smile and a wink.

Slocum did the introductions. “Miss Bridget Kelly, may I introduce Col. Henry Clay Hooker, a man you may have heard of. Colonel, this is Miss Kelly, who runs the poker game at this saloon. I had asked her to serve as dealer for our game, but, for some reason, she has declined.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Kelly.” Hooker gave her a genial smile and offered her his hand. “I’m sorry that you won’t be a part of the game.”

Slocum gave her a sour look. “If you’ve changed your mind, it’s too late. I’ve asked Dwight Albertson to be dealer. He agreed, and I have no intention of replacing him.”

“Oh, I’ve no problem with Dwight being dealer,” Bridget replied, “and, thank you, Colonel, I will be a part of the game.”

She opened her reticule and pulled out a thick bundle of money. “I believe the buy-in is $1,000, Mr. Slocum.” She handed him the cash. “You can count it -- _if_ you don’t trust me.” The smile on her face would have melted butter.

Hooker’s eyes darted from Bridget to Slocum’s face, now contorted in a nasty glare. “I do believe,” he said wryly, “ that this game just got a whole lot more interesting.”

* * * * *

A heavyset, prosperous-looking man walked into the Saloon. His eyes darted around the room. He smiled and walked over to the “Players Only” table. After shaking hands with Slocum, he took a seat across from Hooker.

“Jessie, would ye be going over t’get Cap for me?” Shamus asked.

Jessie had been sitting by the bar, waiting for the game to start. “Sure, Shamus.” She stood and went over to Cap, whispering in his ear. Both returned to the bar a moment later.

“What do you want, Shamus?” Cap said.

“The man who just came in -- who is he?”

“He’s one of the players -- name’s Sam Hughes. He deals in grain and beef down in Tucson.”

“I thought so. That ain’t all the man deals in.” Shamus mumbled something more. Cap and Jessie recognized it as Cheyenne, the language the barman used for profanity. “D’ye think yuir uncle’d mind much if I threw that...” He cursed again. “...outta me Saloon?”

Jessie gasped. “Are you crazy, Shamus? Slocum’d leave, too, and he’d take his precious poker game with him. You want all these people to do their drinking at some other saloon? It ain’t like you t’want to throw all that business away.”

“Aye, it’d be a whole lotta money I’d be losing,” the Irishman agreed, “but ye know, it’d almost -- _almost_ -- be worth it.”

Molly had seen the look on her husband’s face and hurried over. “What’s the matter, Love? Ye look like ye’d seen a ghost.”

“That’s the problem, Molly. It ain’t a ghost. He’s still alive and well, more’s the pity -- and the shame of it.” He pointed at the new man. “That thuir’s Sam Hughes, the man whut supplied the rifles for the...” He spat on the sawdust floor. “...the killing of all them people at Camp Grant.”

“And he’s one of the players in my uncle’s game,” Cap added with disgust. “Shamus and the rest of you -- the rest of _us_ -- have to be polite to him.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Shamus’s face suddenly broke into an almost gleeful smile. “Och, I’ll be polite. I’ll be giving him some of me _special_ stock.” He knelt down and reached under the bar.

The others heard the clink of bottles, as he searched for something. After a couple minutes, he stood. “Damn! Hell and damnation.” He continued in very angry Cheyenne.

“What’s the matter, Love?” Molly gently put her hand on his arm.

Shamus has a sour look on his face. “Arnie, he -- she -- drank the last of me potion. I was gonna brew some more. I’ve decided it’d be good t’be having some in case of emergencies, like that O’Hanlan boy.”

“Ye can always be making more. There’s no one hurt and needing it now.”

“Aye, but it takes a day, and I have t’be watching while it cooks. Hughes’ll be long gone before I can make some for him.”

Cap looked alarmed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Ye always was saying t’me that ye wouldn’t be giving any t’a body unless the Judge told ye to.” Molly was as appalled as Cap now. “Or if they was badly hurt.”

Shamus nodded. “Aye, but _I’m_ hurting bad just now, and them women and children him and his friends killed, they’re beyond hurting. And a judge, a jury and a jury, no less, said that it was all right what he done, that he shouldn’t be punished for it.” He looked daggers at Hughes.

“And ye’d be judge and jury by yuirself, wouldn’t ye?”

“Only you don’t have that potion of yours, do you?” Jessie was surprised. This was a side of the man she never seen. It was also a touchy subject for her, because it reminded her that Shamus had once made her a target of his potion. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. “Shamus, did you ever use that potion on someone just because you hated him?”

The barman ignored her question for a moment and stared at the floor, anger mixed with disgust at his missed opportunity. “I never hated anybody that much, but if I had it now -- och -- there’d be no more Sam Hughes.” He let out a nasty chuckle. “But, after two doses of me potion, thuir’d be another carpet girl selling her wares cheap in the alleys of Tucson. Aye, it’d be no more than the black-hearted...” He spoke a word in Cheyenne. “...deserves, and them poor women and children might be resting a wee bit easier in the afterlife.”

“He deserves it,” Molly told him, putting her arm around him, “and he’ll surely pay for what he done -- in this life or the next. But ain’t ye always said that ye’re a barman, not a judge?” Shamus nodded, and she went on. “Then ye’ll be serving the man, the same as anyone else. The same as them fools that came in here t’gloat about the Camp Grant jury letting them killers go free a few months back. Ye’ll take his money, not his manhood, and let the good Lord up in Heaven see to that evil man’s fate.”

Shamus managed a very small smile. “That’s why I love ye, Molly, me darling. Ye’re not only the prettiest lass I ever laid me eyes on, ye’re the finest soul I ever found in this here world.” He kissed her hand.

“True, every last word of it.” Molly laughed and pecked his cheek.

* * * * *

“I’ll see your $40 and raise you another $40.” Bridget tossed the chips onto the pile.

Hughes shook his head and put his cards face down on the table. “Too rich for me. I’m out.”

“It is to me, then.” Gregorio glanced down at his cards. His eyes shifted, and he studied Bridget’s expression. She caught him looking and gave him back a nasty smile.

He sighed and set down his cards. “All I have is two pairs, queens and 7s. The pot is yours, seá±orita.”

“Why thanks, Gregorio.” Bridget smiled. “That’s very nice of you, seeing as all _I_ have is this pair of 9s.” She showed him her hand, then raked in the chips.

Gregorio laughed in spite of himself. “A pair of 9s! My congratulations on a _muy_ good bluff.” His eyes narrowed. “I see that I will have to be watching your play more closely from now on.”

“Same here,” Hughes said, leering at Bridget, as he gathered in the cards for the next hand. “Not that the little lady isn’t worth watching all by herself.”

* * * * *

“You know something better than sex?” she had asked.

“I do, and I’m doing it right now,” he had replied.

The exchange between Ethan Thomas and herself kept echoing through Wilma’s thoughts.

‘What the hell could be better’n sex?’ she asked herself. ‘And _painting_, how can that be what he was talking about?’ She shook her head.

‘How can he even know what’s better? We ain’t even been together -- or is painting that much --?’

“Wilma!” Cerise interrupted. “We have gentlemen callers, and you sit there as if your mind were a thousand miles away.”

Wilma blinked. She was in the parlor at _La_ _Parisienne_ with Rosalyn and Mae, in her “working clothes,” and two men, drummers from the look of them, were staring at her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, forming her mouth into a pout. “I was _so_ lonely, and I was thinking about how much I _needed_ some company, some handsome fellas like yourselves.”

The men smiled. “Likewise, missy.” The taller of the pair offered her his hand. “I’m Leander Trent.”

“Wilma Hanks.” She took it and rose slowly, sensuously, to her feet. “And I am so very happy to meet you, Leander.”

They started for the steps, with Mae and the other man just behind them. ‘I’ll just give Leander my full attention for a while,’ Wilma told herself, ‘and think about Ethan later.’

* * * * *

“That’s $60 to you, Abner,” Hooker said, tossing his chips on the table.

Slocum looked at his cards, a flush, the 3, 4, 8, 10, and queen of clubs, one damned good hand. Then he looked down at his chips. He was low, too low on chips to cover the raise. Or to do much more than ante up the next round. He looked at his cards again and shook his head in disgruntlement.

“Need some help, Mr. Slocum?” Bridget had folded after the first raise. She didn’t have anything, and Slocum and Hooker were clearly fighting for the hand. But she did have chips, lots of them.

He looked over at her. “What exactly do you have in mind, Miss Kelly? This is a table stakes game.”

“That’s right, and these chips are _my_ table stakes. You want to borrow some of them -- just for this one hand, of course?”

“And, if I do, what do you expect in return?”

“You’ve been mad at me for some time now. I loan you the money, you listen to what _really_ happened at Adobe Wells.”

“You want to stop the game to tell me some sort of story?”
“No, I want you to listen -- after the game -- to the truth of what happened that day -- during and _after_ the battle.”

“Hell, Abner,” Hooker interrupted, “either take her loan or fold. I came here to play poker, not to listen to the two of you wrangle over something that happened back during the Civil War.”

Slocum frowned. “Very well, I’ll take the chips -- and we’ll see what happens after the game.”

“He’ll see that raise, Col. Hooker.” Bridget smiled and pushed a stack of chips across the table to Slocum.

* * * * *

Sunday, March 17, 1872

Dwight Albertson glanced up at the clock as he raked in the cards for the next hand. "It's seven minutes till noon, gentlemen, which is when this game is supposed to end. Do you want to stop now, or are you all in for one more hand?"

"Best ask Miz Kelly,” Sam Hughes said with an angry snort. "Seems like she's got most of the chips."

Bridget smiled. About half of the chips in the game were stacked in front of her. "I'm willing to play if you gentlemen are up for it."

"I most certainly am _up_ for it, Miz Kelly," Hughes answered, "but we can talk about _that_ after the game." It was the sort of lecherous comment he'd been making -- and Bridget had been ignoring -- all night long.

Gregorio looked daggers at the man. "Seá±or Hughes, show some respect." He thought for a moment. "I do not have as many chips as Seá±orita Kelly..." He gestured at the much smaller stack in from of him, "...but I will play one more hand." He picked up a $10 chip, the ante, and tossed it onto the table. Slocum and Hooker added their own chips to the pot.

"Then we play." The crowd, gathered to watch the end of the high-stakes game, broke into a round of applause. Albertson gathered the cards into a deck, shuffled twice, and offered it to Bridget for the cut.

She decided to show off for once. She lifted the deck in the fingers of her left hand, forming a sort of cup. Half the cards slid down into that cup, standing on their sides. A simple manipulation and the top half of the deck fell down in front of them. "Here you are, Dwight." She was almost grinning as she handed the cards, now properly cut, back to the banker-turned-dealer.

"Nicely done, Miss Kelly,” he responded. "Thank you for the... Ah, entertainment." He shuffled the deck one last time and dealt cards to the five players.

Bridget and Hughes anted up, and the game began. Gregorio and Hooker both checked. "Bet $20," Slocum said. Hughes passed, tossing down his cards.

Bridget looked at her hand, a pair of 9s, a pair of jacks, and a king, not a bad hand, but not a great one, either. She was about to raise Slocum another $10, when she saw him playing with his chips, his "tell" for a good hand. "I'll just see that." She decided to wait and see what the draw got her. "For now."

Gregorio and Hooker called. Gregorio took two cards; Hooker, three. Slocum kept his hand. Bridget took only took one. And got a third 9.

"Your bet, Gregorio,” she said.

"Never throw the good money after the bad," Gregorio grumbled, his Mexican accent stronger than usual as he tossed down his cards.

"Fifty dollars,” Hooker said. "Just to keep things interesting."

"By all means, let's keep things interesting,” Slocum said. "Your fifty and... Fifty more, I think."

Bridget hesitated. She was clearly the winner for the night. Should she fight for the hand or let one of them have it? 'Give in on the last hand?' she scolded herself. 'Hell no!' "See that,” she said with a chuckle and added, "And raise another hundred." She tossed out the chips.

"Damnation!" Slocum frowned before he matched her bet.

Hooker put down the necessary chips without a word. "Call." He showed his cards, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10. "A real pretty straight, ain't it? What've you two got?"

"Full house,” Slocum answered cheerily. "7s over 3s. Beat that, Miss Kelly, if you can."

Bridget pouted and laid down her cards one by one. "All I've is jack... Jack... 9... 9... And -- oh, my! Another 9." She broke into a grin. "I do believe a 9-high full boat does beat your 7-high one, Mr. Slocum." Her smile was even broader as she raked in the last pot of the game.

* * * * *

The crowd in the churchyard parted to let Teresa's wheelchair through. Arnie pushed her forward, so she could get a better view.

The branches used in church that morning as part of the Palm Sunday mass had been stacked in a heap. Father de Castro sprinkled a bit of oil over them before applying the torch. The crowd cheered as the fronds burst into flame.

"Can you see all right, Mama?" Arnie asked. It was still a bit cool, and she shifted the shawl over her mother's shoulders. "Are you comfortable there?"

Teresa reached up to touch her daughter's hand with her own. "I am fine, Arnoldo. Thank you for helping me to be here today."

Pablo had been watching the pair. He'd grown up in the pueblo that had become Eerie when the gringos came. He knew almost everyone -- almost all of the Mexicans, at least -- but he had no idea whom the appealing young woman hovering around Teresa Diaz like a bee around a blossom was.

'A sister to their cousin, Dolores?' he thought. 'No, Dolores is from Mexico City. Someone coming from there to help Seá±ora Diaz would still be traveling.'

He was standing close enough to hear parts of the exchange. Mama? Arnoldo? How could that be possible? Then again, this was Eerie, where that barman, O'Toole, had the potion. O'Toole was the man Arnoldo worked for; he was the man who had given that potion to the outlaws. Pablo looked around. Ramon de Aguilar was standing with that pretty fiancée of his -- the restaurant owner who had been one of those outlaws. Father de Castro had done the third reading of the banns announcing their upcoming marriage during the Mass. Arnoldo was nowhere to be seen, but this seá±orita was. 'Yes, it just might be possible,' he thought, 'and I know just how to test it.'

"Arnoldo,” he said in a clear voice. "Arnoldo Diaz, look over here."

The girl turned towards him. "What do you want, _Pablito_?" Then she realized what she had done. "You bastard!" Her hands curled into fists, as she stepped forward.

"Stop!" The priest's firm tones rang out. "Stop this right now." He hurried over from where he had been watching the fire. "You,” he pointed to Pablo, "go home. You have caused enough trouble this day."

When the boy hesitated, Father de Castro pointed to the gate. "_Now_, Pablo." There was anger in his voice. The boy lowered his head and walked slowly towards the gate.

But, as he walked, Pablo began to chuckle softly. Behind him, people in the crowd were whispering to one another. Some were staring and pointing at Arnie. "That'll teach him,” he muttered to himself. "I may have gotten chased out, but now everybody knows what happened to him. He'll _never_ live it down."

"Are you truly Arnoldo Diaz?" the friar asked Arnie in a much gentler voice, studying the young girl's face.

Arnie sighed and lowered his head in embarrassment. "Si, Padre."

"Will you stay and help me collect the ashes for next year?" de Castro asked. "Then you and your family and I can talk."

The ashes from the burning palm branches were saved for use in the next year's Ash Wednesday service. It was an honor to be asked to assist. The priest's acceptance was a clear message to the crowd.

"Si... Si, Padre," Arnie replied, as a feeling of relief washed over her. "I will be most happy to help you."

* * * * *

"Ready to cash in, gents... Miss Kelly?" Dwight Albertson asked. "I had Shamus bring me the cash box." He hefted a large, padlocked, metal box onto the table. With more ceremony than was necessary, he produced the key from his shirt pocket and opened the box. "If you'll just line up one at a time and give me your chips."

Sam Hughes glared at Bridget. "Why don't you pay off the men? Then _she_..." He almost growled the word. "...can just take what's left." He shook his head. "Never shoulda let the bitch --"

"That is enough, seá±or." Gregorio's firm voice cut the other man off. "You have been rude and disrespectful to the seá±orita throughout the game. You are also a very bad poker player. She -- on the other hand -- is a lady, one you will apologize to. _Inmediatamente_ -- now!"

Hughes looked at the other men. "You gonna let him talk to me like that?"

"He ain't saying anything, I ain't been thinking myself," Col. Hooker answered. Slocum agreed.

The angry man tossed his chips at Albertson, who quickly gathered them up. "Cash me out then. It'll be a long time before I come back to this one-horse, garbage heap of a town _or_ play poker with any of you."

"Ye're not coming back?" Shamus was still standing next to Dwight, and he couldn't resist the insult. "Now that'd be the best news I heard this whole long night."

The banker counted out Hughes' money. "250... 260... $270." He'd lost over $700 from his $1,000 buy-in, most of it to Bridget.

"Thank you, _Mr._ Slocum; thank you _all_ for a lovely time." Hughes snatched the money from Dwight's hand and stormed out.

Hooker was next in line. While Albertson totaled his chips, Bridget walked over to Gregorio. "Thank you for standing up for me like that,” she told him, speaking softly.

"You are one of the best poker players I have ever seen -- and a most charming lady. You did not deserve such uncivil behavior." He gave a quick bow and smiled at her.

She smiled back. "Thank you for the compliment on my skill, Gregorio, but I'm not a lady."

"You most certainly are."

"No, I'm not. At least, I wasn't born a lady." She looked straight in his eye, as she spoke. "I'm a potion girl, just like my friend and _your_ future sister-in-law, Margarita Sanchez."

* * * * *

Father de Castro held the door to his office, while Arnie carefully guided Teresa's wheelchair into the room. She positioned her mother to face the desk and took a chair next to her. Dolores, Ysabel, Constanza, and Enrique followed them into the room and sat down on other chairs behind them.

"Thank you for your help, Arnoldo," the priest said, closing the door. He took his seat behind his desk. He opened a drawer and put away the sack of ashes. Then he sat up and looked closely at Arnie. "Now, tell me, what happened?"

Arnie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "You saw, Padre. He called me by name, and I -- like a fool -- answered him. Now he -- now _everyone_ --"

"No, no." The man raised his hand to stop her. "What I meant was how did you become a girl? I know that the Jefe -- Judge Humphreys -- did not order it. I was there, at your... trial."

Arnie looked as if she had just drunk vinegar. In a soft, embarrassed voice, she told the story: her guilt for causing her mother's accident; the fight with Dolores; and how she had run away, only to find refuge with Molly at the Saloon. "My shame... I-I could not sleep, and when I tried to find something to help..." She choked on the words. "...I found the potion instead."

"And it changed you." He finished the story for her.

Now Dolores spoke up. "The irony is who she changed into." She pointed at Arnie. "Show him."

"It is foolish." Arnie hesitated. Then, when Dolores and her mother both insisted, she reluctantly took the medallion out from beneath her dress. She lifted the cord over her shoulders and handed it to Father de Castro. "They say that I look like _her_."

"From the Church of Guadalupe Hidalgo," the priest said, examining the medallion. "I have seen them before." He held it up, glancing back and forth from the image to Arnie.

Finally, he handed it back to its owner. "You are right, Dolores... Teresa. The resemblance is remarkable. I believe that it is a sign."

"A sign?" Arnie laughed. "Of what, that I do not deserve to be a man? No, this is a punishment for my sins."

The priest shook his head. "No, Arnoldo,” he said in a gentle tone. "I believe that it is a sign. The Virgincita has interceded for you. Because of her, our Lord has granted you a second chance."

* * * * *

Slocum hadn't "won" much more than Hughes. Bridget waited while Albertson cashed out his chips, $390. "Mr. Slocum,” she said softly, "would you care to come over to my table and talk while the others are cashing out. That way, you and the Colonel can get back to your ranch that much the quicker."

"Want to gloat over your winnings, Miss Kelly?" the rancher replied. "You did remarkably well, though that little demonstration you gave before the last hand makes me wonder how much _skill_ had to do with your success."

Bridget frowned. Doing that one-handed cut had been a mistake, but there was no way to take it back. "I was just showing off a bit,” she answered. "I played this game honestly, like I always do." She tried to get things back on course. "I just wanted to have that little talk you agreed to."

"Young woman, I doubt that there is anything you can say that I would have any interest in hearing."

Cap was close enough to hear. "Uncle, Abner,” he bristled. "You promised her that you'd listen to her side of what happened at Adobe Wells."

"I have no need to hear whatever lies she might have concocted."

"That's not fair. You gave your word to her."

"Matthew, _you_ need to stop thinking with your Johnson." He stood up. "I see that Henry has cashed out. We'll talk about this at the house."

"No, we'll stay here, and you'll listen to her."

"No, I most definitely will not." He started for the door but stopped when he realized that Cap wasn't walking with him. "I'm leaving, Matthew."

"Good day, then. _I'm_ staying here..." He stepped next to Bridget. "...waiting for _you_ to keep your word."

"Don't hold your breath." Slocum turned and stormed out the door. Colonel Hooker hurried out behind him.

Cap tried to smile. "I won't." He looked at Bridget. "He's a stubborn man, you know."

Bridget kissed him gently on the cheek. "I think it runs in the family, but thank you."

"You're more than welcome." He scratched his head. "But now I need a place to stay until Uncle Abner comes to his senses."

Shamus smiled. "I'll be more than happy t'be renting ye a room, Cap. In fact, I've one available just down the hall from Bridget's."

"That'll do nicely Shamus." He winked at Bridget. "I've been wanting to sleep next to her for some time now."

Bridget felt a strong blush run across her face. Her breast tingled, the nipples stiffening against the soft muslin of her camisole, and she felt a pleasant warmth down between her legs. "Cap!" she said, looking shocked.

What shocked her most was how intriguing the idea of sleeping next to Cap Lewis _without_ a wall between them seemed.

* * * * *

Monday, March 18, 1872

Gregorio sat up from tying his shoes. Wilma was standing by her dresser, cleaning herself with water from a small basin. He smiled at the sight of the nude woman, gently gliding the damp cloth across her breasts and down the curve of her stomach. It rekindled the memory of what the two of them had done during the night. Several times.

"Wilma,” he said, carefully framing his words, "do you know Bridget... Bridget Kelly, the woman I was playing poker with?"

Wilma chuckled. "Do I know Bridget? Hellfire, I've known her for years, since we was in the Orphans' Home together, back in Texas."

"When you were a boy?"

"Yeah, you know 'bout that, do you?" She sounded concerned. She dipped the cloth in the basin and carefully wiped at her privates.

"I do."

"Well, you must not mind; least ways, it didn't seem t'bother you none last night." Wilma sighed and added, "Or this morning." She put the cloth down in the basin and began to pat herself dry with a towel.

"Whatever you may have been, you are my 'lively one', now, and _all_ woman."

"Mmm, and you're _all_ man. Shame you can't stay a while and show me again just how much of a man."

He stepped over to her and kissed the side of her neck. "A shame, indeed, but I must return to my ranch." He kissed her again on the neck and felt her shiver. "But I will be back to see you again."

"You better." She pressed herself against him, so that the curve of her bare ass pressed against his groin. "And bring _that_ with you." She reached back and brushed her hand against the erection tenting his pants.

He reached around and slid a finger across her female slit. "I will. If _this_ is waiting for me."

She trembled at his touch. "It will be."

"Good." He waited a beat. "Let me ask one other thing, though. When you and Bridget were at that home in Texas, was she... Was she Bridget?"

Wilma went to her pile of clothes. "Nope, Brian... Brian Geoffrey Kelly, that was _his_ name back then. He got to be Bridget the same time -- same way I got to be Wilma." She looked at his expression as she stepped into her drawers. "That don't make a difference, does it -- 'bout us, I mean."

"As I have said, you are my 'lively one', Wilma." He kissed her hand. "And you always will be, but about other things, _other_ _people_, yes, it may just make a difference."

He still held her hand. "I will wait until you are dressed. Then we will walk down together. We will walk _slowly_ so that you can be with me, just that much longer, before I take my leave."

* * * * *

Martina Lopez came out the backdoor of her house as Arnie pulled the laundry wagon up to her porch. "Hola, Seá±ora Lopez," Arnie greeted her.

"Buenos dias." The woman studied the girl's appearance. "Are you _really_ Arnoldo Diaz?"

Arnie looked down at the ground. It was the third time she'd been asked. "Si, I am... him."

"_Adjetivo... And now you are a pretty young woman." She chuckled. "Even in that grubby men's clothing."

"What is wrong with my clothes?"

"You are dressed like a man. You even walk like one."

"I _am_ a man." She glanced down at her body, then tapped her forehead with her finger. "In here, at least."

The seá±ora gave her a knowing look. "Oh, si, just like Margarita Sanchez is still a man, though her _fiancée_ thinks otherwise."

"That is her, not me." Arnie knew just how much of a woman Maggie had become. 'Such a thing could _never_ happen to me.' She pushed the thought from her mind.

Martina shrugged. "Perhaps. Who can know what will come to pass? It is just hard to believe -- even after I hear you say it -- that you are Arnoldo. You do not look at all like him."

“That is part of the magic. The new…woman, she… she does not look like the man she was." She had decided not to tell _anyone_ that she looked like the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

"Just so you do not act like the boy you were!"

"I will not act like a woman."

"Then act like a _man_, if you can. Just so you learn from what has happened, and you do not act like the foolish boy that you were."

The words stung. "Let me act like a delivery man, then." Arnie pulled a large package, tied with green string from the pile in the wagon. "Here is your laundry. You owe my mama..." She glanced at the package. "...two dollars, forty-five cents."

The woman took a small purse from a pocket in her purse and counted out the money. "Wait a moment," she said, as she traded the money for her laundry and stepped back through her door. "I have some more."

She returned with a bag stuffed with clothes.

Arnie wrote her name on a slip of paper and pinned it to the bag. "Thank you, seá±ora." She handed part of the slip to Martina and put the bag in the wagon.

The word were still echoing in her head, 'foolish boy', as she headed for the next house.

* * * * *
Cap knocked hard on the door. "Bridget..." He knocked again. "Bridget, are you all right?"

"Cap? Is that you?" Her voice sounded drowsy. "What's the matter?"

He tried the doorknob. Locked. "It's almost 1 o'clock. Are you coming down for lunch?"

"One o'clock!" The door swung opened. "I _never_ sleep that late."

Cap smiled and drank in the sight before him. Bridget stood in the doorway, wearing only her drawers and camisole, the top three buttons opened, showing the tops of her breasts. Her hair was undone, and flowed down around her shoulders.

"You... Ah, must still be tired from all the poker you played yesterday." He watched her yawn, sensuously stretching her body and arms like a cat. "You barely napped after the big game before you were downstairs again playing cards."

"The game." She rubbed her eyes, still only half awake, still forgetting how she was dressed. "I know we split the winnings, but I never _really_ thanked you for that 'grubstake' of yours."

Cap looked at her. There was something that he wasn't used to in her expression. Was it that look in her eyes -- shy, but somehow eager? Or was it in the odd curl at the ends of her mouth that made it so beautiful?

"Y-You thanked me in your own way," Cap stammered after a moment's hesitation.

"Maybe I…I just need…to thank you… again."

Cap felt his heart beating in his chest. Now those eyes of hers definitely _did_ become shy, but the shyness seemed to be mixed with edginess. It was like she wanted something, but wasn't sure what she wanted. Unexpectedly, perhaps for her, too, she stepped closer. Cap sucked in a breath of surprise.

She had come up very close, but still had not touched him. "D-Don't you _want_ to dress?" he finally asked, with her standing with her nose only inches from his and gazing intently into his face.

At the question, Bridget glanced down at herself. She realized that she had never before been so undressed in front of any man except Doc Upshaw. Her cheeks colored and slightly puckered. Cap had always liked the way they did that when she was thinking hard.

"Do you…really want me to dress, or do you want…to talk some first?" Did she _want_ to get dressed? Why did she _like_ the way things were, where she was, the way she looked?

Cap hesitated again, but not because he needed to think about the answer. "No….I mean, I'd like to talk, but don't…do anything you don't want to do."

She smiled. He was giving her the permission that she hadn't known she had wanted to hear.

The smile on the love bow of her lips became larger and more firmly set. She lifted her arms and slid them like silk ribbons around his neck. Cap smiled, his eyes telling her, "This is right, Bridget. This feels is _so_ right."

She kept looking into those hazel irises of his, trying to find doubt in him, trying to find anything at all that she could use to frighten herself away, -- anything at all to keep her from being honest with this man. Nothing that she could use was to be found; everything written into Cap's face welcomed her, encouraged her. She shivered. His glance had the intensity of a prospector who had been looking for color all his days… and finally discovered it, there, in front of him.

Bridget gritted her teeth, as if she was about to make a broad jump between two cliffs. All at once, her hold on his neck became a strong one. Her face came in close, and she kissed him so quickly that he lurched in surprise.

But Cap, as he lurched, grasped her warm flanks just as firmly as she was holding on to him. He recovered from his start swiftly; he had wanted this for too long to be daunted now. He drew her into a close embrace without breaking the kiss. In fact, Cap made the kiss harder, much hungrier. Bridget gave a little wince, as if it were too hard, too hungry.

But she didn't draw back; instead she moaned in pleasure. The gambler felt the tip of his tongue trying to find a way between her lips. She was taken aback -- not because she didn't want to let it in, but because she instinctively knew that she must act quickly, or else it would be frightened away.

Mother Nature, not any plan of the rational mind, caused Bridget to relax her lips and part her teeth, allowing his tongue to slip in and tickle hers. Then, as she pressed her body flush against Cap, the rub of his clothing on her bare skin reminded her, again, of how little she was wearing and of what might happen. "I'm... I'm sorry." She broke the kiss and stepped back into her room.

"And here I thought you were a gambler," Cap teased.

She looked up. A challenge. How was it that Cap could always speak to her in her own language, like no one else could? It was one of those things -- those endearing things -- about him that… That what? Made her feel what?

Oh, what a mighty leap she would have to make if she were to say that word. And if she did say it, could she ever again find her way back to her own side, to the other side of the abyss that once had made her feel safe? Would the thing she found on the far side terrify her? Or, by making the leap, would she have committed herself to remain on that other side, sharing it with him, come what may? Was she brave enough, was she even physically able, to whisper that huge and impossible word, even into the secrecy of her own mind?"

"Maybe I…should be." She squared her shoulders and took his hand in hers. Not sure of what else to do, she placed it on her right breast.

For Cap, it was like walking across a woolen rug and touching a lamp. His little smile widened. He saw her "raise" by gently kneading the breast that she had so kindly offered him. Then he raised the ante, repeating the action with his other hand on her left breast.

Bridget's senses reeled as the exquisite feelings flowed from his fingers into her breasts and on to almost every part of her body. The warmth, the longing that Cap was arousing in her, overrode the caution that she had always shown, before, when her clear mind and hard will had held all the high cards.

And now the object of that longing stood before her. She raised -- she _had_ _to_ raise, by reaching out and unbuttoning his shirt. It made her feel like she was in the middle of her leap, over the bottomless chasm.

Cap paused just long enough in the massaging of her breasts to slip first one arm then the other out of the shirt. It dangled down from his waist.

Excitement pricked his hair roots. This was quite a poker hand. Cap raised again. His fingers moved to the buttons of her camisole, opening each, one by one, with a sort of dramatic flourish. Bridget giggled, remembering Wilma's words. It did feel good to have a man undress her.

But not in the hall. She set her hand on his, holding it against her bosom, and took another step backwards into her room. When he followed her in, she told him, "Close the door."

"Done." He kicked the door shut behind him. As it closed, he leaned forward, lightly grasped her by an upper arm, and kissed her left breast, leaning in, to take the nipple into his mouth. He suckled at it, and Bridget trembled from the intensity of his carnal aggression.

'Am I a woman?' she asked herself. 'Am I now really a woman?'

'And what does it mean to be a woman?'

As if of its own will, her finger ran along the front of his trousers, finding a reassurance, somehow, in the firmness -- and the size -- of his manhood. Her hands worked the buttons, opening his pants, and yanked them down past his hips. When she released them, they settled to the floor.

Bridget stared at his erection, tenting his drawers. She whimpered and closed her eyes, surrendering to the -- the what? -- the _need_ that was growing in her, filling her to bursting.

Cap knelt and yanked off his shoes. He pulled Bridget to him and pressed his lips against her navel. He blew a puff of air into it, making a flatulent noise. She giggled and squirmed against him. He began kissing his way down her belly, taking small nips now and then. He could hear her moan and smelled the sweetness of her arousal.

"Ooooh... Ohh... Caaaap." Bridget swayed, unsteady on her legs. He stood, taking her in his arms. They kissed again, as he carried her to the bed.

'Don't think logically about this,' Bridget whispered to herself. 'Let it happen; let it come naturally. Be good for him.'

She looked up at him from the bed, a dazed smile on her face and her arms raised, bidding him to come to her. A sense of relief and elation and desire, all three together, rushed through her. She'd been unsure for so long: Cap? R.J.? Neither? Now she knew. Cap had supported her, loved her, even against his uncle and benefactor. She wanted to share her life -- and her body -- with him. The future was too hard to see. She would let whatever was meant to happen, happen.

He untied the knot on her drawers and managed to slide them down below her hips. He moved them further down her legs, caressing the flesh within them as he did. Her body _thrummed_ excitedly at his touch.

Bridget, trembling, blinked into the intensity of his face. This was so strange; it should warn her to stop, but…

He climbed up onto the bed and positioned himself between her legs. His drawers were off. She was getting wet. Her body understood what it must do and she realized that it was ready for him. He gently guided his member into her.

She yipped as he entered her. There was a moment of pain, of tearing, then he penetrated her, very deeply. He gave her several seconds to get used to the sensation, and then began to thrust. Bridget gasped at his first, hesitant moves, which soon became an onslaught. Her hips, her body, were passive things for the first minute, and then they began to move to match him. The friction warmed her inside, like a desert sun dawning on a cold desert morning.

This wasn’t like making love when she was a man, but her body knew what to do, and it _gloried_ in the doing.

As her dazzlement eased, she sensed something stirring deep within her. No sooner had it shown itself than it was out of control. No, it was in control of _her_. Higher and higher and higher it rose, stronger and stronger and stronger was its power over -- not just her will, but over her every instinct. It peaked. It was a power suffusing her, and now it pulled her trigger. She screamed in ecstasy, her hips arching, and she clutched him as if famished for his body.

He stopped for a moment, holding her firmly as she writhed in orgasm. Cap was still hard; he knew he could keep on pleasing her. He shifted, raising her legs up over his shoulders, and drove into her again.

"What... Cap... Ohh..." Anything else she might have said was silenced by her moans of bliss. She was dazed, lost, and she never wanted this moment to end.

But end it did. He suddenly froze, then howled as his juices spurted into her. She experienced it with a cry of disbelief -- the disbelief that her sensation-filled body was welcoming it. Then they both sank down onto the bed exhausted.

When they had caught their breaths, she kissed him, tiny pecks all over his face. He caressed her body, listening to her breathing change from excited pants of a woman in rapture, to the even steadiness of the afterglow. He took her head in his hands and kissed her hard on the lips. She responded, and again wrapped him in her arms.

When they finally broke the kiss, he grinned at her. "I guess we've worked up enough of an appetite to go down to for lunch now."

Her eyes were dewy; she could only stare into his face with a weary, sated smile.

* * * * *

"What are ye doing in here, boy?" Shamus stormed over to the young boy who'd just come into his Saloon.

Stephan Yingling looked up at the angry man. "Please, sir, are... Are you Mr. O'Toole?"

"Aye, I'm Shamus O'Toole. Now who are ye, and what's a wee lad like ye doing here? Ye must know that I won't be serving ye anything t'drink."

"I know that, sir. I just -- I wanted to ask about that magic potion of yours."

"Me potion? What concern is it of yuirs?"

"A friend of mine, Emma -- she used to be Elmer -- she took it last year."

Shamus looked closely at the boy. "And ye've got feelings for her, I'm thinking."

"Feelings... No, not-not like that. She's a friend, that's all. Besides, she likes Yully Stone, I think."

"What are ye asking then?"

Before the boy could answer, Laura came bustling over. "Stephan... Stephan Yingling, what are you doing in here?"

"Mrs. Caulder, I-I didn't think that you'd --"

Shamus scowled. "Yingling? Is the reverend yuir father?"

"He is," Laura answered. "Stephan, I think you'd best leave."

"Y-Yes'm." The boy hurried out through the swinging doors.

Shamus looked at Laura. "Ye and Arsino belong to that church. Do ye have any idea what the preacher's boy was doing in me saloon?"

"None." She shrugged. "Maybe he was just curious about the place."

"Curious about something, I'm thinking. I wonder if he'll be coming back. I surely don't need any grief from that father o'his."

* * * * *

Bridget took a bite of fried chicken. "Cap, I want to thank you again for treating me to this supper." They were sitting at one of Maggie's tables, speaking softly, so no one could hear their conversation.

"And I want to thank you again for treating _me_ this afternoon." He smiled.

She looked down at her plate. "I-I want to talk to you about that."

"What's the matter?"

"I hadn't planned... I didn't want... Oh, hell, I don't know how to say this without hurting you."

"You weren't ready, were you?"

She shook her head. "No... No, I wasn't. I like you very much -- maybe even love you." She stopped, realizing again that she _did_ love him. "But I -- no, I wasn't ready for... for what happened." She sniffled and sounded ready to cry. "I'm so sorry."

To Bridget, Brian — her male self -- seemed so far away, and she needed, more than ever, his steady hand to guide her. Why couldn't she just be physically a woman, and not have to feel the way they did? The emotions that were churning inside her were so assertive, so turbulent.

She fought, she fought so hard, to ignore them, to be detached and logical, like she managed to be at the card table.

But these emotions were like the rush of warm floodwater, an irresistible force that managed to over-roll everything. Brian's clear thinking couldn't reach her lips through such turmoil. Everything came out the wrong way. Here she was, saying words to Cap that might make him think that she was putting all the blame on him.

Cap was talking. She struggled to give him her attention.

"I'm sorry, too," he was saying. The young rancher took her hand in his own. "Sorry that I rushed you into something you didn't want."

She looked up at him, her eyes glistening. "That's the problem, I-I did want it, sort of. I'm just not ready for what it means."

"I wanted it, too. I'd like to do it again, but, if you're not ready, then... Then we wait until you are."

"Do you mean that?"

"Bridget, I want you -- I _love_ you, but it won't work unless you want me, too. Until you do..." He sighed theatrically. "...I'll just have to wait. And hope and pray and worry and dream and --"

She couldn't help but giggle. "All right, all right. I get the idea."

"There's that beautiful smile that'll make all that hoping and praying worth waiting for." He paused a beat. "Now eat your supper. I'm not as rich as you are that I can afford to waste the cost of a meal."

* * * * *

Tuesday, March 19, 1872

Wilma shifted on the bed where she was posing. "Mmmm, Ethan," she purred, "Can I ask you a question?"

"As long as you return to the pose, you may."

She shifted back into position, stretching out invitingly on the sheet, her nude body displayed for him to paint. "I been thinking about what you said last week, about how _painting_ me was better than _having_ me right here, right now on this bed."

"Yes, I did say that. What we're doing right now _is_ more intimate."

"Not for me it ain't." She frowned. "I know you like having sex. You 'n Beatriz been at it since that first night you come to the House."

"I'm not painting a picture of Beatriz."

"And you ain't taking me to bed. How about if she and I switch off? You paint her for a while and have your _fun_ with me."

"You're not listening, Wilma. I am having fun with you. Having you here, as my model, is far more pleasurable for me than any mere carnal romp might be."

"Not for me, it ain't."

"Patience, my dear Miss Hanks, and it will be."

* * * * *

Cap looked across the table to Bridget who was still moving cards. "What's your best hand?"

"Four of a kind," she said, moving a last card into place. "Nines." She showed him the five poker hands she'd arranged as part of their double Maverick solitaire game. The highest hand had four 9s and the 6 of hearts.

Cap nodded in appreciation. "Not bad, not bad at all, but this one's better." He turned one of his five hands around and grinned. "Straight flush, 3 to 7 of diamonds."

"Damnation!" She pouted. "You're getting too good at this game."

"There're a _lot_ of games I'm good at."

She wasn't ready for this sort of suggestive talk. "Cap... Please."

"Well, I am, checkers... Cribbage... Twenty-one... Craps. Uncle Abner -- you should excuse the name -- even taught me how to play chess."

Bridget giggled. "Oooh, you!"

"'Scuse me, Seá±or Lewis..." Angel Montiero had walked up to the table. "...can I talk to you for a moment?"

Bridget stood up. "I'll just leave you men to talk."

"No," Cap said, "you can stay. This won't take very long." He turned to the cowhand. "My uncle sent you, didn't he?"

"Si -- yes, sir." Angel held his hat in his hands, and now he fidgeted with it, as he spoke. "He sent me into town for the paper and for some supplies he ordered. But he also said that I should ask you when you were coming back to the ranch."

Cap's expression soured. "You tell him I want to know when _he's_ coming here to have that talk with Bridget like he promised."

"Please, I-I do not want to get in the middle of you two." He began to crumple his hat.

Cap put his hand on the other man's shoulder. "It's all right, Angel. You just tell him what I said. He's too mad at me to get angry at you for repeating what I said."

"Yes," Bridget added. "Besides, you'll just be giving him Cap's answer."

The Mexican nodded. "Very well, I will tell him what you said." He started to leave.

"Hold it, Angel," Cap told him. "_I've_ got a question for you before you go -- two questions, actually."

"Two, seá±or?"

"Yes, the first is, how has my uncle been acting the last couple days?"

"He is angry... _muy_ angry -- at you, I suppose. He does not say so, but everyone knows this. He is like a bull in a pen, snorting and stomping his hoof at anyone who comes close." He took a breath. "What is your second question?"

"An easier one, I think. Can I buy you a beer before you head back?"

* * * * *

Martha Yingling burst into her husband's office. "Thad, I-I must talk with you. Stephan..." Her voice trailed off as she tried to hold back her tears.

"Martha, what... Is it?" He stood and hurried to her side, taking her in his arms.

"I-I was at Ortega's market. I wanted to get some... Some nice chicken for supper. I was at the meat counter, and I heard Lavinia Mackechnie behind me. She was talking to another woman, talking loudly so everyone could hear what she was saying."

"And what _exactly_ was she saying."

"That she saw Stephan -- our Stephan -- going into that-that place, the saloon, O'Toole's place."

Yingling remembered his son's threat. "What! Not O'Toole's. He-he couldn't."

"She said that she stayed to watch -- she's just the sort that would stay to watch, and he was in there for a good ten or fifteen minutes. I-I couldn't believe my ears."

"Nor I. Did you challenge her words?"

"I suppose that I should have, but I-I couldn't. I rushed straight back here -- didn't even take the time to buy the bird. I'll have to-to go back for it."

"First things first." He glanced at his pocket watch. "Stephan should be home from school by now. Let us go find him and ascertain the truth of Lavinia's claims."

She sobbed. "I did; I went straight up to his room." She sobbed. "He didn't... He _wouldn't_ deny a word of it. And... And when I asked him why he would do such a thing, he-he said that I should ask you. Why...? Why should I -- what is going on that he should say that? And in such a _cold_, angry voice? Thad, please, please tell me what is going on between the two of you."

"It will be all right, Martha." He fumbled in his pocket for a moment till he found his handkerchief. He used it to carefully dab at his wife's eyes. "You need not worry yourself. I know the problem, and I shall make _very_ certain that nothing seriously comes of it."

* * * * *

"Damn!" Trisha threw the newspaper down to the ground. "Damn all it to Hell!"

Kaitlin looked up from her sewing. "What's the matter?" She glanced upstairs. Emma's door was closed, so her daughter -- who was in her room studying with her friend Ysabel -- wasn't likely to have heard the profanity.

"The paper, Roscoe printed that we just got divorced."

"Didn't he have to? I mean, with the other legal announcements?"

"I-I suppose. It's just... Seeing it there in black and white..." She closed her eyes, a pained look on her face.

Kaitlin put down the blouse she was working on and walked over to where Trisha was sitting. "I know." She put her hand on Trisha's shoulder. "I don't like it either."

"I-I hate this... Hate being a woman." She sighed. "I just hate it."

"Hate it or love it, you'll be one for the rest of your life. You'll... _we'll_ just have to live with it." She waited a beat. "You don't seem to hate _everything_ about being a woman?"

"What do you mean?"

"You seem to enjoy the attention of men. You enjoyed one man's attention enough to let him mark your body."

"I told you -- more than once -- I was _drunk_." She frowned. "And you don't seem to have any problems with Liam's attentions to you."

"Should I have a problem?"

"Damned right you should you're my..." Her voice trailed off as she stared down at the floor.

"You're wife? No, Trisha, I'm not; not anymore." She put a hand on the other woman's shoulder. "We're... Friends, sisters, almost, but that's _all_ we are; all we can ever be."

"And I'm supposed to be happy that Liam is -- is... courting you?"

"Am I supposed to be happy that you're walking off into the night with strange men to do who-knows-what?"

Trisha reached up and put her hand over Kaitlin's. "I guess -- maybe -- neither of us is supposed to be happy."

* * * * *

Yingling moved his black knight out onto the board. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, Aaron?"

"Ask," Aaron Silverman replied, as he studied the chessboard. "You're going to lose, so you might as well get something out of tonight's game."

The reverend ignored the comment about the game. "You're a member of the town council, aren't you?"

"You know I am. Didn't you help me get there?" He moved his own knight out and turned over the small hourglass they used to time their moves.

"You make it sound like I campaigned for you. I never did that."

"What you did do was almost as good. You got up the Sunday before the election and said that you saw nothing wrong in voting for a man of -- what was it? -- oh, yeah, of my 'religious persuasion.' More than one person told me that you saying that was what got them to vote for me."

"If I trust you not to cheat at chess, I trust you enough to let you on the council." He shifted his queen back two spaces. "I fear, though, that you're not going to win this game as easily as you won that election." He turned the hourglass.

Aaron studied the board. "We'll see soon enough who's gonna win, but, nu, what do you want to know about the council?"

"I was just wondering what sort of agreement Mr. O'Toole has with you as regards that potion of his?"

"Relationship... What a fancy-shmancy word you're saying. It's his to do with what he wants. The town council, we don't get involved." He looked closely at the reverend. "You asked me a question, so I'll ask you one. Why do you want to know about it all of a sudden?"

"It just occurred to me that people might require a temperate hand in control of something that powerful."

"I don't know from 'temperate.' Shamus is a mensch; people trust him." He advanced a pawn one square, and overturned the hourglass. "There."

Yingling made a face. "I'm not certain that he _can_ be trusted, considering the sort of business that he's in, preying on human weakness." He paused a moment. "And there have been accidents, the O'Hanlans and that Mexican boy I just heard about."

"Emma O'Hanlan was no accident. Dead she'd have been without that potion. And, from what I heard, it was Trisha's own idea to take some. We got a saying, 'what's on a fool's mind is on his tongue', and that's exactly what happened to Trisha. You can't blame it on Shamus."

"Perhaps not, but it was his carelessness that let that Mexican boy get a hold of the potion just a short while ago." He moved his knight to defend the black queen. "Your move."

"Arnie Diaz... Yes, my Rachel told me about him just the other day. With everything else that happened to that family..." He made a sympathetic click of his tongue. "It's like they say, if things don't get better, they may get worse."

"They seem to have done so in that case. What's more, I have reason to believe that another person, a woman, took a dose of the potion."

"A woman -- oy! What happened to her?"

"My knowledge of that case is rather vague. I do know that, when she left Eerie, she appeared much changed in character from the woman she had been when she arrived. Moreover, I was told by a reasonably valid source that is was because she had ingested some of Mr. O'Toole's brew."

"_That_ I didn't know about." He moved his own knight to the square next to the black one and turned the timer over.

"Yes, and from what I had observed previously of the lady in question, I very much doubt that she took the potion deliberately and with O'Toole's tacit approval. That potion has been used five times: on the Hanks gang, on Miss Steinmetz..." As he listed each times, Yingling stuck out a finger. "...on the O'Hanlon's, on Mrs. -- on the lady I mentioned, and on the Diaz boy. Three of those five times, someone took it by accident. That hardly speaks well of O'Toole's ability to safeguard that concoction of his."

"You're talking like you already got a better idea."

"As a matter of fact, I have two good ideas. Here's the first." He moved his queen, so that it was next to the knight. "The other is that the council should appoint a small group to watch over the potion in a safer..." He turned over the hourglass. "...more ethical manner."

"More _ethical_; I don't suppose you have any suggestions for _who_ should be on this group of yours."

Yingling grinned. "Well... Now that you mention it."

* * * * *

Wednesday, March 20, 1872

"Damn, that stew of Maggie's sure smells good," Laura muttered.

Jane set the fresh pot of stewed meat with chili peppers down on the "Free Lunch" Table. "It is good; I had me some in the kitchen. You just go help yourself. I'll be bringing out some fresh cornbread t'go with it in a minute."

"I can have some of the bread and, maybe, some sliced cheese, but that stew's much too spicy for me. I'll have indigestion -- heartburn, too, probably -- if I eat it."

"It never bothered you before. I seen you eat it lot's of times."

Laura gently rubbed her rounded belly. "It doesn't bother me, but it does bother him -- or her. Mrs. Lonnigan says it's normal for somebody as far as along as me." She sighed and sat down. "I'll just have to wait until the baby comes to have some."

"Well, since you're eating for two, why don't I just go get something that you and the little one can both enjoy?" She bustled off to the kitchen, coming back with the cornbread and a few slices of ham leftover from the previous night's dinner.

* * * * *

"Here she comes," Hermione told Lallie. It was recess, and they were standing at the foot of the schoolhouse steps, blocking the way.

Emma hurried down, anxious to get over to the ball game. "'Scuse me,” she said trying to get by.

"No," Hermione replied matter-of-factly. "There's no excuse for you, Emma O'Hanlan."

Emma turned to face Hermione. "What're you saying, Hermione?"

"She said that there's no excuse for somebody like you." Lallie repeated the insult. "You say that you're still a boy, but you dress like a girl... Right down to your... _undergarments_."

Emma glowered at the girl. "My corset, you mean, don't you?"

"And you play with the boys," Hermione picked up the refrain. "Running around, chasing them, touching them, and letting them _touch_ you, touch you in places where a boy shouldn't touch a girl."

Lallie chimed in. "You're no better than your... Trisha."

"And my papa's getting her kicked off the church board for what she done at the dance," Hermione jeered.

Emma raised her arm, threatening the other girls. "You take that back"

"Why? It's true, isn't it?" Hermione stood firm. "The pair of you are just common --"

Without thinking, Emma slapped Hermione's face. "Liar!"

"How dare you?" Hermione rubbed her cheek.

Emma looked daggers at her. "I'm glad I did it. I'll do it again if you keep talking like that."

"Witch!" Hermione reached out to grab Emma.

Emma braced, then pulled at Hermione's arm. The two girls grappled back and forth. Hermione stumbled and pulled them both to the ground. The two girls rolled on the ground as a crowd gathered around them.

"Watching them two is more fun than playing ball," Clyde chuckled.

Yully was about to agree when he saw Miss Osbourne walk out onto the porch. "Yeah, but it looks like it's over. And so is recess, at least for your sister and Emma."

* * * * *

"May I speak with you a moment, Horace?" Reverend Yingling stood at the counter of Styron's Hardware and Mining Equipment Store.

Styron glanced around the premises. The only customers were a pair of miners who one of his clerks was waiting on. "Certainly, Reverend; can we speak out here, or do you want to go into my office?"

"I would prefer the privacy of your office, if you don't mind."

"Of course not." Styron led the other man to his office, shutting the door firmly once they were both inside. "Now then, what can I do for you?"

"That potion, the one Shamus O'Toole gave to Patrick O'Hanlan, what do you think of it?"

"I can't say as I like it. Sure, it saved us from the Hanks gang, but it seems to me that it's caused nothing of trouble since then."

"And how much of that trouble would you say is because O'Toole is the one in charge of it?"

"It's hard to say. Seems to me that something so powerful shouldn't be in the hands of a Mick bartender."

"And why, precisely, do you say that?"

"The man's not responsible. Hell, as like as not, he's drunk himself. And the Irish are a wild people. It's only a matter of time before he uses that potion of his out of spite."

"I believe that he already has."

"Why do you say that?"

"A few weeks ago, a Mrs. Elizabeth Taft, the sister of Laura Caulder, came to town to retrieve the body of her brother -- the man that Mrs. Caulder had been before imbibing a dose of O'Toole's foul brew. I spoke to her when she first came to town, and she impressed me as a good, Christian woman."

Yingling shook his head and sighed before continuing. "I encountered her again just as she and her husband were leaving on the stage to Utah. She appeared to have become almost as libertine in her habits as that Wilma Hanks woman is reputed to be. That other woman, the one who looks like Mrs. Caulder, blurted out that Mrs. Taft had taken -- or _been_ _given_ -- a dose of the potion."

"What are you saying?"

"I cannot help but wonder how she came to take it. Was it accidental or was she asking questions that O'Toole didn't want to answer, and so he gave her some of that potion to quiet her inquiries. Perhaps she didn't realize that she was drinking it, or he even _forced_ her to drink it."

"That's a serious charge to make, Reverend."

"I am serious. I cannot prove that O'Toole did what I'm saying he did, but I do think that he _could_ do it. And I consider such a situation to be untenable."

"We can't stop him from making the stuff."

"Perhaps not, but I feel that, if he does make any more of it, he should not retain control of it any longer than necessary. Others must be appointed to that task."

"Who should be then, the town council?"

"No, those men are far too friendly towards Mr. O'Toole. Besides the potion is a moral issue, not a political one."

"Moral -- as in 'church', I expect -- _our_ church, naturally. We can't trust them Mex mackerel-snappers." He chuckled and put out his hand. "Okay, Reverend, you can count me in on whatever you've got in mind."

Yingling shook Styron's hand and smiled a very satisfied grin. "I thought I might."

* * * * *

"Good afternoon. Miss Sanchez." Enoch Ryland greeted Maggie with a broad smile, when she walked into his tailor shop. "Are you here for the fitting for your wedding gown?"

His smile narrowed when Laura and Carmen followed her through the door. "We are," Laura answered.

"There's no reason for all of you to be here for the fitting, is there?" he asked. By way of explanation, he added, "There's not a lot of room in the back of the store."

"Laura is my madrone, my wedding godmother," Maggie answered. "It is her job to help me with the wedding, and Carmen -- she will be my sister-in-law, so when she asked to come along --"

Carmen shrugged. "I couldn't wait until Maggie's wedding to see the gown."

'Bad enough they were all here for the measuring,' Ryland thought sourly, a bland smile still on his face. 'Get any of them alone, and we could have some real fun. The three of them together, and all I can do is fit the damned dress.' Aloud he said, "Well, then, let's go back and see how it fits."

He led them to the back of the store. "The dress is in there." He pointed to the curtained-off dressing room. "Let me know when you're ready... Or if you need any help with it."

"I'm sure we can manage between the three of us," Laura told him, following the other two behind the curtain.

The dress was on a hanger placed on a rack with several other items. It was in the empire style, sleeveless with a low bodice and tight down to the waist, where it flowed out into a full skirt. As was the custom, it was made from the white silk and the lace trim Ramon had given Maggie at their betrothal ceremony. "It... It is beautiful," Maggie said, staring at the gown.

"It surely is," Laura agreed.

Carmen nodded. "Almost as pretty as the bride herself. Ramon will love seeing you in it on your wedding day."

"Almost as much as he'll love seeing you out of it on your wedding night," Laura said with a giggle.

Maggie blushed. "Laura!" She was carefully unbuttoning her dress. "To say something like that." She slid it off her shoulders and wriggled out of it.

"You tell me you aren't thinking of such things -- not even a little," Laura teased, "and I'll stop."

Carmen picked up Maggie's dress and draped it over a chair. "Besides, it is natural for a bride to think of her life with her husband-to-be."

"Si," Maggie said. "I-I am thinking of such things -- just a little." Her face, her entire body felt warm as a pleasant tingle ran through her.

Laura took the gown off its hanger and held it up. "Lift your arms,” she told Maggie. Maggie raised her arms; Laura, and Carmen helped her into it. Once her arms and head were visible, they let it slip down onto her. It bunched up at her waist, and they maneuvered it down over her petticoat.

"Está¡ maravilloso... So beautiful," Carmen gushed.

Laura agreed. "We're ready for the fitting, and with the three of us here, Maggie's gown is the only thing Enoch'll be able to work on."

* * * * *

Kaitlin was peeling potatoes for supper, when Emma came in. "Hello, dear, how was school today?"

"Not too good," Emma all but whispered. "Miz Osbourne gimme a note for you to sign." She handed her mother a folded sheet of paper.

Kaitlin opened the note and read it quickly. "Emma! Why ever were you fighting with Hermione Ritter?"

"Hermione started it."

"Perhaps she did, but that isn't the question I asked you, is it?"

"N-no, ma'am." She took a breath. "Hermione... She said... She said Trisha and me weren't no good."

"What did she mean that you were 'no good'?"

"She-she said that I liked boys too much, that I liked 'em to... to touch_ me, touch me in places where boys ain't supposed t'touch girls." She spoke fast, blurting the words. "I-I don't let boys touch me like that, mama, honest I don't."

Kaitlin reflected back over the last few months, since Elmer had taken the potion to save his life by becoming Emma. 'So _many_ changes,' she thought. Aloud, she asked. "Do you like boys?"

Emma blushed. "Yes," she giggled. "I do. I just don't want 'em pawing at me like I was some kinda animal."

"And that's just the proper attitude for a young lady to have." Kaitlin waited to see if Emma would react to being called a "young lady.''

Emma didn't react at all. "Yes'm," she answered and continued with the story. "Hermione said the same about Trisha -- Mama, did Trisha do something wrong at the church dance?"

"She did dance with some of the men." The woman sighed. She'd been expecting that Emma would hear the gossip. Trust Cecelia Ritter's daughter to be the one who would inform her daughter. "And she... walked a bit with one of them -- holding hands. That's all."

At least, it was she would tell Emma. A young girl had no reason to know about things like love bites, let alone that her transformed father had gotten one. "That's _all_ Trisha did."

"That don't sound too bad," Emma considered what she'd just heard. "That can't kick her off the church board for something like that, can they? Hermione said they would"

"They're going to try." She smiled and took Emma's hand, "but I don't think that they will." She waited a beat. "Of course, _now_ they have one more thing to use against her."

"What's that, Mama?"

Kaitlin looked sternly at Emma. "Her daughter gets into fights."

"Oh -- ooh, Mama, what've I done?"

"You let Hermione Ritter goad you into a fight. You can't be hitting her." She winked. "No matter how much she may deserve it."

Emma traced a "king's X" over her heart. "I won't fight with Hermione no more. No matter how much she _does_ deserve it."

* * * * *

Thursday, March 21, 1872

Arnie used her back to push open Teresa's bedroom door. "Wake up, Mama. Breakfast is re -- Mama, what are you doing?"

"I-I am getting out of th-this bed." Teresa Diaz was half-standing, pulling herself to her feet using her good left arm and the bedpost. "I have a house -- and children -- and a _business_ -- to take care of."

It was what she'd been repeating since the day she came home. "Mama," Arnie answered, hurriedly setting down the breakfast tray on the dresser. "The doctor said that you must rest this week."

"Bah! What does he know?"

"He knows that your arm and leg are broken -- and that they will not heal if you do not rest."

"But if I rest, then who will take care of the house and all of you? Who will run my business, so we can pay the _learned_ doctor's bill?"

"Dolores is helping with the house and the little ones. _I_ will see to the laundry business -- I have been working at it since the day after... the day you were hurt." 'The day I changed,' but she wouldn't say that.

"You? You who would not work before?" She stopped to consider her thoughts. "For a few days, _maybe_, but can you run my business for six weeks?"

"I can. I have to, don't I?" She looked away from Teresa and straightened her back. "It is only right that I take over the business, so your bones have time to heal. That is what a man... a _son_ does for his mother."

She regarded her new daughter intently. Arnie was trying _so_ hard to help. It would be hurtful to remind her that she wasn't always expected to do as a man does -- not anymore. She carefully lowered herself back into the bed. "Very well, I will wait -- for a while, at least, before I go back to work."

* * * * *

"G'morning, Maggie," Jane greeted the other woman who had just walked into the kitchen. "How you feeling today?"

Maggie pulled out a chair and sat down. "Anxious; my wedding gets closer and closer. Can we talk for a few minutes before we start with the cooking?"

"Sure." Jane pulled out a second chair. "What d'you wanna talk about?"

"My wedding, of course, and the restaurant."

"Of course, it being only 'bout ten days till you get hitched. I bet you're planning some real special food for the party."

"I-I am, but that is not what I want to talk to you about."

"It ain't?"

"No... Not now, anyway." She took a breath. "You know that Ramon and I are going on a honeymoon. We will be..." She felt herself blush. "...away for three days."

"And three nights." Jane giggled. "Sure, I know that."

"But there is a problem. I cannot afford to close down the restaurant for three days... And three nights."

"I didn't think of that. What're you gonna do? You ain't gonna call off the honeymoon are you?"

"No, I plan -- I _hope_ to leave someone else in charge, someone I trust who can run the place for me."

"You ask Molly t'do it yet? You think Shamus'll mind that she ain't working for him for them three days?"

"I am not asking Molly. I am asking you."

"Me? But I... I -- "

"You know my recipes, and you are a good cook, Jane, and maybe even a better baker than I am,"

Jane shook her head, "Ain't nobody better 'n you."

"Then as good as me. Will you do it?"

"But I don't know how -- you're always saying that there's more t'running the restaurant than cooking, stuff like buying the food and planning the meals. I don't know none of that."

"You know some of it, I think, and -- if you say yes -- I can teach you enough to take care of things. It is only for three days, after all."

"You sure I can do it?"

"Si, I do. And Molly will help, I have already asked; so will Laura... And Dolores, too."

"I-I still don't know if I can do it."

"If you will not do it, if you will not even try, then I cannot go away with Ramon. You do not want me to disappoint him, do you?"

"Maggie, I don't think you're ever gonna disappoint Ramon." She sighed and steadied herself as if she were about to step in front of a firing squad. "All right," she finally said, "I-I'll do it. It'll be my wedding present to you, I guess."

* * * * *

Carl Osbourne walked into the saloon. He stood just inside the doors and looked around. Cap was sitting with Bridget at her table. He stood up when he saw Osbourne come in and hurried over to the man.

"You came from my uncle, I expect," Cap said by way of greeting. "What's he say this time?"

The tall cowhand shifted uncomfortably. "He wants to know when you're coming home. He said -- these're _his_ words -- you should 'have the little trollop and be done with her.' I'm sorry, Cap, but that's what he said."

"That sounds like him," Cap said with a wry laugh. "He can get awful stuffy when he's angry. Besides, I know that your sister, the school marm's, the word-wrangler in your family. You limit yourself to wrangling my uncle's cattle."

"That's the truth of it. I never was interested in book learning like she was." He took a breath. "So, you ready to go home?"

"Aren't you going to ask if I've had the 'little trollop', Carl?"

"First off, Bridget ain't a trollop; she's a lady. Second, that's your business not mine." He chuckled. "And third, if I did ask, you'd probably kick my ass for asking."

Now Cap laughed. "Right on all three." He put a friendly arm across the other's shoulder. "Now, before I send you back to Uncle Abner with the bad news that I'm staying put till _he_ comes in, let me buy you a beer to make the ride back a bit more pleasant."

* * * * *

"Well, now, little lady," Rhys Godwyn greeted Trisha with a warm smile. "I was hoping I'd find you here."

Trisha caught herself smiling back. "Mr. Godwyn... Rhys, what're you doing here?"

"I got a crate for you'n your brother," he answered. "Maybe, after I get it stowed, you'n me can go someplace and pick up where we left off at that dance."

Liam came over to the freighter. "Pick up what, Mr. Godwyn? What, _exactly_, have you been doing with my sister?"

"Seems t'me that's b'tween me'n your sister." Godwyn looked daggers at Liam.

Liam glared back at him. "Not always. Sometimes she needs me to protect her interests."

"Please." Trisha stepped in between the two men. "We danced together, then we took a walk, and he... He _kissed_ me." She looked quickly at Rhys and back at her brother. "That's-that's _all_ that happened... That's all, I-I promise."

Godwyn nodded. "Sure... Sure, that's all we did." He grinned. "I was just hoping we could do... What we done there at that dance again -- kiss, I mean."

"_Whatever_ the two of you did," Liam sounded doubtful, "it was enough for people to start gossiping. For now, sir, why don't you just bring in the crate?"

The freighter looked relieved. "Sure... Sure, Mr. O'Hanlan. And after that..."

"After that..." Trisha replied. "After that, you... You can go on to your next delivery." She wanted to go with Rhys; her body certainly did, anyhow, based on the way it was tingling in anticipation. But Liam had reminded her of the political trouble she was in, thanks to Cecelia Ritter's talk about her and Rhys.

'The very last thing I need,' she told herself ruefully, 'is to be seen with that tall... handsome... so _very_ male freighter.'

* * * * *

"Milt, Milt," Jane called out happily as she hurried over to him near the swinging doors of the saloon. "Guess what happened t'me."

He pulled her to him and gave her a gentle kiss. "Something good, I would say," he said, breaking the kiss, "judging from how excited you are."

"Bridget's going on a honeymoon."

"People usually do after they get married. She didn't ask you to go along with her, did she?"

"You're teasing me." She gave his wrist an affectionate slap. "I'm staying right here -- I'm gonna be running the restaurant while she's gone. I get to plan the meals, do the cooking... _everything_."

"Well, congratulations, then. I'll be sure to come over for supper and to see how you're doing." He suddenly frowned. "There's just one thing, though."

"What's that?"

"If you're going to be running the restaurant, then you'll be too busy to have dinner with me."

"Sure, I will. You can come out t'the kitchen and eat with me there; just like Ernesto and Lupe eat with Maggie every night." She blushed and looked down shyly. "It's more... private out there."

* * * * *

"What's troubling ye, R.J.?" Shamus asked, walking over to his assistant's place behind the bar.

R.J. pointed across the saloon to Bridget's poker table. Bridget and Cap were sitting there, playing that odd kind of solitaire they both knew. Cap must have just said something to her because Shamus saw her laugh and playfully slap the man's arm.

"I've lost her, Shamus," the other barman said in a cheerless voice.

Shamus put his hand lightly on R.J.'s shoulder. "Ye never really had her, did ye now?"

"No... No, I guess I didn't. But I thought -- I hoped that I did."

"Aye, lad. But ye didn't. And now that ye've heard yuirself say it, ye know 'tis true, and ye can start t'be getting over the hurt ye're feeling about it."

R.J. sighed in resignation. "I know it's true, Shamus. I just don't _like_ _ knowing that it's true."

"Aye, and ye probably never will, not entirely. But, in time, ye'll accept it, being the good man that ye are. Ye may even come t'be happy for them, someday."

"Maybe." He managed the beginning of a smile. "But I don't think it'll be a someday any day soon."

* * * * *

Friday, March 22, 1872

Rhys Godwyn stepped up to the counter. "I hear you got something for me, Trisha."

"I surely do," Trisha answered softly. "Come with me, please." She rose from her stool and walked towards the office. As she walked, she caught herself putting an extra sway into her hips. She knew that he was watching, and she hoped that he liked what he saw.

He did. He was smiling broadly as they entered the office. "Now,” he said, closing the door behind them, "show me what you got."

"Mmm, certainly." Why was she acting like such a flirt? She turned around to face him. "What the --?"

Rhys was leaning against the door. His shirt and pants had vanished. He wore only a gray pair of drawers, drawers that were tenting at the crotch.

"Oh... Oh, my." Trisha's eyes were drawn to that tenting like a moth to a flame. A delicious shiver ran through her. She felt her nipples tighten and push out against the stiff muslin lining of her -- no, her corset lining felt softer, more like... Satin.

She looked down. Her blouse and skirt had gone to wherever Rhys' clothing went. So had her camisole and petticoat! All she wore was a satiny violet corset, a pair of silky white drawers that hardly reached below her hips, and violet stockings. A bright red garter, trimmed with small roses, rode high up on her thigh. These were most definitely _not_ what she'd been wearing.

But they seemed right, somehow.

Without thinking, she posed for him, right hand on her hip, right leg slightly forward. "Do you like what you see, honey?" Her voice was low and sultry, full of sexual promise.

"Li'l darling,” he replied, leering at her, "you are most surely worth what I paid for you."

She shook her head. Paid for her? She was suddenly aware of her surroundings. This wasn't the office of O'Hanlan Feed & Grain. The walls were covered with a blue velvet wallpaper that looked purple in the red light -- red light?

She glanced back over her shoulder. The office furniture, desk, chairs, file cabinet were gone. In their place was a four-poster feather bed, its blanket pulled back. The office windows were gone. The only illumination was from a lamp on a nearby table. Someone had thrown a red silk handkerchief over it, tinting the light a bright scarlet.

Trisha realized that she was in a bedroom, a _cathouse_ bedroom. She remembered that she had wanted to do this, but couldn't remember exactly when or how she had taken the job.

The newest cathouse girl in Eerie, Arizona smiled as she saw how her outfit was exciting Rhys.

"I... I want you," she told him huskily. "Want you in me... Right now." She took a step forward into his embrace, let him pull her close, to kiss her savagely. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the exquisite warmth building inside her and hungrily rubbing her loins against him.

Like the whore she was.

He touched her half-bare breasts, and she smiled at the pleasure that his touch bought her. What a beautiful word that was when applied to herself, "whore."

"Nooo!" Trisha sat up and blinked her eyes. She was in bed, her own bed, with -- with Kaitlin, thank Heaven! -- no man anywhere in sight.

Kaitlin was looking at her. "Trisha, what's the matter?"

"A dream," she answered, catching her breath. "A _horrible_ dream." She was trembling, cold with sweat and fear. And the worst part of it was remembering how vivid it had been, how much she had enjoyed what she had been doing and how much her body had _wanted_ what had seemed about to happen.

The two women settled down again. Kaitlin was soon making sleeping sounds. Trisha wanted to get back to sleep to, at first to help her forget the dream, but before she drifted off, she realized that the dream might come back, perhaps at the point where it had left off.

* * * * *

"And I think we're done for today." Ethan Thomas set his brush and pallet down on a table near where he'd been standing.

Cecelia Ritter took a breath and relaxed in her chair. "At last. I never realized how hard it is just to keep in one pose for a time."

"Perhaps you'll remember that the next time you discipline one of the children for not sitting still,” her husband said.

She stood up. "_That_ is an entirely different matter." She paused a moment before asking Ethan, "Do you mind if I walk around a bit to get the stiffness out?"

"Go right ahead," the artist answered, "the both of you. I'm told that it can be a help in restoring one's circulation after a sitting."

The couple began to stroll about the studio, looking at the paintings set on several other easels. "Why do you have two -- no, three -- Laura Caulders in this painting?" Cecelia wondered.

"Ah, my 'Three Fates'." Ethan leaned back against the table, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "That is a painting I have wished to do for some time. It's from the Greek myths, you know, the three sisters who are supposed to control our fates. I wanted to have the three aspects, vir -- innocent, mother, and wise woman, resemble one another. That would be problematic with only one model. When I met Mrs. Caulder and her sister, I knew I had a means to do it properly."

Mrs. Ritter made a face. "I suppose... If one wishes that sort of a painting." She made a sour face as she examined the portrait of Jessie. "You seem to be spending a great deal of time painting those... women from Mr. O'Toole's saloon."

"He does, indeed." Clyde Ritter was looking under the cloth Ethan had used to cover the painting of Wilma. He saw his wife glancing his way and quickly dropped the cover. "Shameless." He shook his head and made a disapproving noise. "Totally shameless." He turned away and started walking, hoping Cecelia wouldn't notice the smile on his face -- or the bulge in his trousers.

Ethan walked over and turned the easel, so that the covered portrait faced the wall. "I am but a humble artisan working on commission. It is not for me to judge my subjects, only to capture their likeness with my skill."

"You do it pretty good," Clyde observed. "Is this Benita Ortega?" He pointed at the painting of a young Mexican girl in a long white dress.

The artist nodded. "It is. Her... quinceanos, her fifteenth birthday celebration, is in Late April, and I have been commissioned to do her portrait. I am also doing a portrait of her grandfather."

"Really." The other man glanced around the studio. "I don't see any picture here of old Juan Ortega."

"My venerable subject is rather infirm. I must travel to his home to capture his likeness."

Cecelia looked surprised. "That's rather a long way out of town, isn't it?"

"It is indeed, but he is an interesting subject. The body is frail, but his mind is quite sharp." And the payment for his trouble was _very_ good, but he wasn't about to tell the Ritters anything of that sort.

Now Cecelia was curious. "How is the old gentleman? Who's caring for him? Does it look like he's still running things out there, or has his family pushed him aside?"

"My dear Cecelia, I fear that all I know regarding Juan Ortega and his family is that they have commissioned my skills as an artist to paint his portrait."

Her husband looked at his pocket watch. "It's getting late, Cecelia. I have to get back to the store, and I'm sure that Mr. Thomas has other people coming in to pose."

"I do, alas." He bowed low. "If not, we might continue this delightful conversation." He was too skilled at flattery for either of them to hear his sarcasm.

"Why don't you come over for dinner tonight?" Cecelia offered brightly. Then she shook her head. "No... There's no time for tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps."

"I fear that I have other commitments for the next few days." Ethan tried to look disappointed. She was a meddling nuisance, but she and her husband were paying well for his efforts. Besides, a woman with her heft probably was a good cook. "Perhaps, next week?"

"Yes -- yes," she said eagerly. "Monday... At 6 PM, is that all right?"

"It is, indeed." He offered her his arm. "Now, may I accompany you to the door." To himself, he added, 'and _out_.'

* * * * *

"Where have you been?" Dolores asked as Arnie pushed the laundry wagon into the house.

Arnie was surprised by her briskness. "I was working -- the laundry." She made a sweeping gesture towards the cart.

"You should have been home sooner. Church starts soon, and you are not dressed."

"I-I thought to wear these clothes, maybe... maybe with a jacket."

"No, Arnoldo. To go to church, especially on Holy Friday, you will wear a dress."

The younger girl raised her pretty chin. "I will not!"

"You most certainly will. You will be pushing your mother's wheelchair in the processional. Everyone will be there, and you will not disgrace her -- or yourself -- by wearing _those_ clothes."

"You wore a dress before,” she continued. “Why do you make such a fuss about it this time?"

"I wore it then for Mama's sake, but it was the worst experience of my life. Thanks to Pablo, everyone was staring at me!"

"Arnoldo." Teresa's voice came from the half-opened door to her bedroom, stopping their quarrel. "Can you come in here and help me?"

Arnie sighed and looked over at the door. "Si, Mama." She turned back to face Dolores. "We will finish this later."

"I am afraid that I need help getting dressed," Teresa told Arnie as the latter entered the bedroom. The older woman was sitting on her bed, when Arnie walked in. She wore a dark green skirt, flared out by the petticoat beneath, her camisole, and a green corset. Her blouse was on the seat of her wheelchair.

She looked closely at her daughter. "As do you, it would seem."

"You want me to wear a dress, too, don't you?"

"I do. First, though, help me with the blouse."

Arnie picked up the blouse. She held it up behind Teresa, so the woman could slide her left arm into it. Then she shifted around to Teresa's right. She unbuttoned the end of the loose sleeve.

The two worked together, gently sliding Teresa's arm out of the sling. Teresa held her broken arm while Arnie carefully slid the sleeve over her plaster cast. She moved the blouse up her mother's arm until she had it on. They then retied the sling around her lower arm.

"Done," Arnie told her, while she buttoned the front of the blouse.

Teresa looked down at herself for a moment. "Thank you, Arnoldo. Now you must hurry into your own dress."

"Do I have to?"

"You do. Arnoldo, I know that this must be hard, that your pride is so much like your father's. But people will stare longer and more often at you if you do not look neat and carry your fate with dignity. You do not want them to do that, do you?"

Arnie knew she'd lost the argument. If it was a matter of family dignity, it was hard to refuse. "Si, Mama. For _you_, I..." She sighed and began unbuttoning her shirt. "...I will wear a dress."

She took off the shirt and tossed it onto a chair. After an argument with Teresa the first day, she'd taken to wearing a camisole and corset underneath. She sat down on the bed next to Teresa and pulled off her boots. Then she stood and wriggled out of her jeans.

"Where is the dress?" she asked, looking around. Arnie also wore a pair of woman's drawers. She wouldn't admit to her mother -- or to herself -- how much better the softer fabric felt against her more sensitive skin.

Teresa had put away all of her male underclothes, for the day when Enrique grew into them. The drawers and the camisole weren't so bad, but she still absolutely hated wearing a corset. It was a thing for women!

"On the chair," Teresa replied, "but you are not ready for it yet. The petticoat goes on first."

"_Mama_!"

"The dress will not fit well without one. It is too loose. You don't want those people to stare, do you?"

Arnie's face soured. "I suppose that I will have to treat church differently than most other places."

"You do." Teresa watched her daughter step into the petticoat and pull it up to her waist. 'Arnoldo looks _so_ pretty,' she thought. 'I must help her to see that. The time will come that she will be grateful that the Virgin saw fit to bless her with her own heavenly image.'

Arnie buttoned the garment tightly at her waist. "Now, can I put on the… dress?"

"You may. Remember to slip it on over your head, as I showed you." The girl did as her mother directed. The dress, a dark indigo color, slid down her arms and onto her body. It was large on her -- it belonged to Teresa, after all -- but it fit well enough. There was no disputing the attractiveness of the young girl who was wearing it.

Teresa nodded her approval. "Bueno, now help me into the wheelchair, so we can get to church in time."

* * * * *

"You ready to lock up?" Liam asked, looking around the store.

Trisha shrugged and started walking towards the door. "I am. It's been a long day." When she reached it, she turned the sign in the window around, so that the word "Closed" faced the street.

"Hold up," her brother said, hurrying to her side.

"Where're you going in such a hurry?"

"With you. It's Friday, remember. I'm having dinner at your place, same as every other Friday." He waited a moment. "I just have to stop off at Ortega's first."

"How come?"

"I wanted to pick up some flowers... to thank Kaitlin for supper."

"I hope that's what they're for. The way you keep bringing her stuff, it almost looks like you're courting her."

Liam gave her an odd smile. "Who says I'm not?"

* * * * *

"Thank you for coming to church with me, R.J." Dolores and the barman were on their way back to the Saloon.

R.J. Touched the brim of his hat, as if to tip it. "My pleasure, ma'am," he said wryly. "I was thinking about heading over -- I don't get there too often, and we'll be pretty busy this weekend. Besides, you looked kind of like you could use the company."

"Thank you; I-I did need company."

"Well, you certainly had it in the church tonight. I don't know when I've seen a processional line so long."

"That is the custom on Viernes Santo... Holy Friday; that and the Altar de Delores --"

"An altar just for you, what's that about?"

"It means the altar of sorrow." She sighed and looked down at the street. "That is what my name means... Sorrow. It is a fitting name."

"Now why do you say that?"

"I came back to Eerie to forget my sorrow because Ximon... Down in Mexico City, he married somebody else. Then..." Her voice broke. "...then I see Ramon, my first love, only he-he --"

"Is gonna marry Maggie. I'm sorry, Dolores." He patted her hand.

"You are not without your own sorrows, are you? I have been watching Bridget; she and Cap..." She didn't finish the sentence.

They stood there for a moment, just staring at each other. "Maybe... Maybe," R.J. said softly, "we can share each other's sorrow." He put his hands on each side of her face to steady her. Slowly, he moved closer until their lips met.

* * * * *

Saturday, March 23, 1872

Abner Slocum stomped over to the table where Bridget and Cap were sitting, playing cards. "Have you come to your senses, yet, Matthew, or are you still thinking with your Johnson?"

"Hello, Uncle," Cap replied calmly. "Have _you_ come to keep your promise to Bridget?"

The rancher looked daggers at Bridget. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a while, Miss Kelly? Perhaps my nephew will be more willing to see reason without your presence."

"She might as well stay," Cap said. "I'm not going anyplace until you hear her out."

If it were possible, Slocum looked even madder. "Does she really mean so much to you, Matthew?" he asked,

Cap nodded. "She does, Uncle Abner. And you _did_ promise."

"And you, Miss Kelly, now that you've turned my nephew against me, are you going to use him to force me to keep that promise?"

Bridget shook her head. "No, Mr. Slocum, I'm not. I've decided that I don't care to."

"You admit that the story is true, then?"

"I admit nothing of the sort. It isn't true, but even if it were, why bother, since you're too mean-spirited to care what I say?" She took Cap's hand. "And as for your nephew, if anything's turned him against you, it's your own narrow-minded behavior."

Slocum studied her expression. "You're wrong about me, Miss Kelly... Bridget. I'd like to think that I'm a fair-minded man. I just don't think you can say anything that could ever justify your behavior during the war." He pulled a chair out and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go ahead, tell me the story you've been so all-fired up about. A lot of people try to weasel out of the things that they've done in the past. I’ve heard it all. But I’ll listen to what you have to say. I want, more than you know, to be able to believe that I've been wrong about you."

"And if I can't, maybe it might make a real difference if you'd just admit to what the truth is and make me believe you're sorry for it. You're one hell of a poker player, Miss Kelly, but if you're bluffing on this one, I'll know it."

* * * * *

Wednesday, July 30, 1862

"Any sign of the blue bellies, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Forry Stafford asked the man standing before him. Stafford was a slender man with a mass of curly, light brown hair and a narrow mustache perched between his upper lip and slightly reddened nose.

Sergeant Will Hanks shook his head. "Yes, sir. They're coming up fast. The main body's about a mile off." The sergeant was a taller, solidly built soldier with black hair and a square-jawed, sullen face.

"That close?" Stafford stepped forward, so that he was standing at the top of the low hill that he and his men were hidden behind. "Let's see if I can spot them." He lifted his binoculars up to his eyes.

"You shouldn't do that, sir," Corporal Brian Kelly warned. Kelly was as tall as the sergeant, a barrel-chested man with reddish-brown hair and a ruddy complexion.

"And why not?" the lieutenant snapped back.

"'Cause, even if they're too far off to see you standing up there against the sky, they're still gonna spot the glint of them binoculars," Hanks explained. "Some of 'em are pretty good shots, and, if any of 'em _are_ close enough, they're sure t'go for a target like that."

"What!" The officer practically jumped down behind the hill. It took a moment for him to wipe the look of fear from his face. “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Sergeant. I had no intention of staying up there long enough to be seen, let enough long enough for some blue-bellied Yankee to take a shot at me.”

"Sorry, sir." Hanks kept a straight face, though he could see his friend, who was standing off to the side of the officer, biting his lip to keep from laughing. To himself, he added, 'Losing you'd be no great loss, an improvement, even, but if they knew where you was, they'd figure me and the boys was out here with you.'

"Well... Try not to let it happen again." Stafford leaned in close as he spoke, and the sergeant could smell the whiskey on his breath.

"No, sir." Hanks took a half step back. "We'd better go take our places with the men." Both soldiers saluted.

"With your permission," Kelly added.

"Yes... Yes, you go ahead. I'll stay here for now and, ah... observe."

"Very good, sir," Will replied stiffly. The pair turned and walked down the hill.

"Damn rotten deal, if you ask me," Kelly spat once they were far enough away. "He's up there _observing_, nice and safe out of the line of fire, while we get to stop a whole column of blue bellies."

"Not the _whole_ column. They move in pieces, so there ain't more people at a spring than it has water for." He gave a sour laugh. "You ever hear how they tamed the first longhorn cattle?"

The corporal wiped the sweat from his forehead. "What's that got t'do with anything?"

"Them steers was too dangerous t'handle. They kept 'em away from water for three or four days. After that, they was easy to rope and brand."

"And we're supposed to do that to all those feds? It's hot enough, but I still think the lieutenant ain't the only one that's been drinking if they're going to use our platoon to stop a whole company of Billy Yanks."

"We're supposed t'try. Like you always say, we ante up and play the cards we get."

"Let's just hope we don't fold _all_ our cards." He took a breath. "Good luck, Will,"

"Same t'you." The two men toasted each other with from their canteens and took a quick drink of water. Because they knew they were going into deadly action again, they shook hands, grasping each other by the forearm like the brothers they almost were, before they separated. "Now get moving; I'll see you after this is all over."

"I hope so."

Kelly headed off to the right, while Hanks moved left, each to his own section of men, half of the platoon that Stafford commanded.

* * * * *

Will Hanks crouched behind the cover of the hilltop watching a band of five "Billy Yanks" walking down the trail below, towards the spring at Adobe Wells. "That's it, boys," he whispered, "you just keep coming."

"What's going on, Sergeant?" came a voice from behind him, a loud voice.

Hanks spun around. Stafford had decided to join his men after all. "Sir, please be quiet. They'll hear you."

"Hear me? What's the matter with you? Why aren't you shooting at them?"

"We don't want to do that yet, Lieutenant."

"The hell we don't." Stafford drew his sword. "Both sections," he shouted, "fire... Fire at will." Then he blew the "open fire" signal on his whistle to make certain the other section of men heard him.

Caleb Harris was crouched next to Hanks. "What d'we do, Sarge?"

"Don't ask him, private," the lieutenant stormed. "_I_ gave an order, and I expect it to be obeyed."

Shots rang out from both sides of the ridge. Three of the five soldiers on the trail below ran, one holding his arm as he ran. The other two lay dead. Hank's platoon kept firing until the survivors were out of sight.

"Good work, men," Stafford gloated.

Hanks shook his head. "Not really, _sir_. We should've let 'em pass."

"Let them get to the water? We were ordered to stop those men."

"We was ordered to stop the whole column. Them men was skirmishers sent ahead to draw fire. Now the blue bellies know where we are. They can probably make a good guess how many of us're here."

"Let them come. We drove them off once; we can do it again." The officer pulled a silvered flask from his jacket pocket. "Here's to the finest platoon in the Confederate Army." He raised the flask in salute and took a long drink from it.

Nothing happened for a few minutes. Then the rebel unit saw the skirmishers coming back, this time in strength. They stopped just out of range of the Confederate rifles, forming up into two lines across the road.

"Wha... What are they d-doing?" Stafford's voice was heavy with alcohol.

The sergeant frowned. "They're waiting for some --"

"Blam, blam!" These shots came from out behind them.

"What?" Stafford shook his head, trying to clear it. "How... Who..."

Hanks cocked his head and listened for a moment. "They're coming from the west; trying to trap us here." He heard other shots, farther off, from across the ridge. "Flanking both sections, I think."

"The trail, head for it now!" Stafford began running.

Hanks chased after him. "Stop it, you danged fool. You're running right for them skirmishers."

"No, we gotta..." The lieutenant looked confused. "Draw up into a circle, men -- no, turn and fire on -- no... We're... We're trapped."

"The hell we are." The sergeant looked back to his men. "We can move back along the line of the hill. Then we --"

The other man straightened up as best he could. "I-I'm in charge here, Hanks. _I'll_ give the orders. You... You j-just shut up and do what I tell you, just like your no-good pappy did back home."

"Now get a white handkerchief..." He blinked as if staring into the sun. "...and make a flag, so we can surrender." With a heavy sigh, he added. "I hear they treat captured officers fairly well."

"Sorry, _sir_, but you're in no condition t'be giving any orders." Without warning, Will left fly a right cross to Stafford's chin. The blow caught the lieutenant by surprise, and he crumpled to the ground.

Hanks sighed. "Let's see if I can get us outta this with our skins in one piece." He searched the unconscious man until he found his whistle. He sounded the signal for a retreat, then hefted the man over one shoulder. "Best t'take you with us -- even if you are a waste of space. There's just too many witnesses to just leave you here for the Johnny Yanks t’find the way I'd like to."

"Which way, Sarge?" The men were clustered around him. He pointed the way and headed back along the ridge, the way they had come, blowing the whistle twice on the way to give Brian Kelly directions to lead his own detachment.

* * * * *

Will Hanks watched the men in their platoon stagger past him into camp. Both sections had made it back with minimal casualties. "Good work, boys," he lied. "Rest up; you've earned it." That part was true. He'd managed to keep them calm, and they'd all gotten away clean.

"Can't believe we slipped the noose," Brian Kelly said, walking over. "How'd that fool Stafford ever get to be an officer?"

Hanks spat. "His daddy bought it for him, just like he's been doing for Forry's whole worthless life."

"He's not too bad when he's sober. You or me can usually talk him into doing the right thing, so he doesn't go off half-cocked and get us all killed, but when he's got a snootful..." The corporal's voice trailed off.

"Maybe it's time we did something about that." He'd set the unconscious officer down when they'd reached the camp. Now he headed for the man's tent.

Kelly walked along with him. "What've you got in mind, Will?"

"Man can't get drunk, if he ain't got nothing t'drink." He stopped outside the large wall tent that Stafford shared with Willard Maitland, the first lieutenant of their company.

The tent flaps were down. Hanks knocked on the tent pole. "Sir, are you in there?" When no one answered, the two men slipped into the tent. Stafford's name was on a chest at the foot of the bunk on the right.

"Hunt around for liquor bottles. I'll check this." He knelt down by the trunk. It was locked, but he used his penknife to open the lock. There was nothing in the top compartment, but when he raised it out, he found, "Whiskey... Three bottles." He lifted one out. "Good stuff, too, Tennessee store-bought."

He still had his knapsack, and he stuffed the bottles inside. "You find anything?"

"Fourth bottle," Kelly answered, "half-full. The rest's probably in his flask -- or his belly." He held the bottle up for Hanks to see.

"Let's take it and get going. The quartermaster's not due with supplies for a couple of weeks. He'll be sober for that long, at least."

They heard the tent flap move and turned around. "What are you men doing?" Lieutenant Maitland was standing just inside the tent. His pistol was drawn and pointed at the pair.

"Stealing from me." Forry stepped into the tent. "It wasn't bad enough that they almost got all of us killed when the two of them panicked and disobeyed my orders. The enemy attacked us without warning and with overwhelming force, and I barely got us out alive." He drew his own Colt pistol. "No thanks to these two, thieves... drunkards, the pair of them."

"That's a damned lie!" Hanks took a step forward.

Maitland shook his head. "Take another step, Sergeant, and you'll save the captain the trouble of a courts marshal."

"You men have had it," Stafford said, a triumphant sneer curling his lips. "If anyone had been killed, I'd be asking for the death sentence for you both. As it is, the least you can expect is a dishonorable discharge. More likely, you'll spend some time in prison." He gave a nasty laugh. "You should be used to that, Hanks. It can’t be much worse than that orphanage my pa stuck you in."

* * * * *

Saturday, March 23, 1872

"And that's what happened." Bridget sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Almost every man in the platoon backed up our version of the facts. The problem was that they were -- we all were -- a ragtag batch of enlisted men. Stafford was an officer. So were his father and grandfather. Hell, it turned out that his daddy went to school with our regimental commander."

Cap took her hand in his. "Wasn't there any evidence for your side?"

"They knew Stafford drank, drank a lot, but so did some of the other officers. It all boiled down to his word -- his and two suck-ups that he'd promised our stripes to -- against Will's word and mine." She sighed again. "They gave _him_ the benefit of the doubt. They probably thought they were doing us a favor when they didn't hang us outright. "

Slocum frowned. "There was no mention of anyone testifying for you in the records I was sent, just what Stafford and those others, the two privates and the lieutenant said."

"That's no surprise. Nobody likes to walk into trouble, and Will and I were seen as a couple of troublemakers. We got the boot, dishonorable discharge in a big ceremony. They made it sound like _we_ were the only reason the Yankees got through to Fort Carson. That didn't make us very popular with the troops -- except for the ones who’d been with us --_or_ with the locals. We barely got out of there with our skins in one piece."

She closed her eyes and looked down at the table. "Will said the hell with it. If they were gonna treat us like scum, then he'd act like scum. I didn't feel like arguing with him about it. An angry mob'll show you who your friends are, especially when the local sheriff's part of the mob. The only reason I'm here to talk about it is that Will and I were watching each other's back when that mob came looking for us."

Jessie had seen Slocum come in, and she'd been listening from a distance. Now she stepped up to the table. "That's pretty much the way Will... Wilma tells it. I can repeat what she told me or, if you want, I can go get her t'tell it herself."

"Don't bother, Miss Hanks," Slocum cut her off.

Cap glared at his uncle. "After all that, you still don't believe her?"

"What's the point? I admit it's possible." He sighed. "I know that some army officers are damned fussy about taking care of their own kind, and the enlisted men be damned. One thing I can say about you, Bridget, is that I've never caught you being dishonorable. That's something that counts in your favor."

"And --?" Bridget asked slowly, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"And I'll have to try out these new boots for a while and see if they pinch. We'll talk again later."

* * * * *

"Away with you, Father of Lies!" Father de Castro cried out, raising his arm. The bronze cross in his right hand glistened, reflecting the light of the bonfires.

Miguel Fernandez used a long, thin candle to light the fuse and hurriedly stepped away. The flame sputtered along the fuse, up the side of the platform to the red figure positioned on it. With a loud "Bam!" the paper mache Satan exploded into a mass of colored fire to the cheers of the crowd gathered in the churchyard.

"Marvelosa," Teresa cheered from her wheelchair. Ysabel and Constanza stood next to her, pointing at the colors and making approving noises.

Enrique clapped his hands. "Which one is next, which one is next?"

"The Seven Mortal Sins, I think." Teresa pointed to a set of smaller figures grouped together. As if to agree, the first of them, a very fat man representing Gluttony, suddenly sprang into flames, the others followed, a few seconds apart, each bursting into a different shade.

As the next figure, a demon dressed as an Apache, went off, Arnie leaned down. "Are you all right, Mama?" She spoke loudly, to be heard over the cheers of the crowd.

"Si,” she replied, "but a little thirsty. If you would not mind..."

"Lemonade for everyone." Arnie headed for a table near the church door, where some women were selling refreshments. She asked for six drinks, putting a half-dollar on the table. Sylvia Rivera arranged the cups in a small tray. "And your change," she said and put two dimes in the tray.

Arnie picked up the tray. "Gracias." She turned and started back. She'd gone about ten feet when Pablo Escobar stepped in front of her.

"Going somewhere, Arnol_da_?" he jeered.

"What do you want, Pablito?"

"We saw you struggling with that _heavy_ tray, we and thought we should help you." Juan Ybaá±ez and Fernando Hidalgo pushed in next to him. Juan was a short, stocky boy, while Fernando was taller, with a scraggly first beard.

"I'm fine." She tried to step around them, but one of the boys moved to block her.

Juan grabbed for the tray. "Do not be so ungrateful, little girl."

"I am sure that she appreciates our help," Pablo said. "After all, she is only a weak... little... girl." He laughed. "Aren't you, Arnolda?"

Fernando leered. "But such a pretty one -- eh, muchacha?"

"You flatter her, 'Nando," Pablo told him. "Still, I am sure that she just _loves_ having three _men_ like us paying her such attention."

Juan held the tray tightly. "Maybe she will want to reward us for our help." He raised an eyebrow. "With a kiss, maybe."

"Si, a kiss... A kiss." The three boys chanted. "Kiss me, puta."

Arnie let go of the tray, not caring what happened to it. "Go away, you sons of bitches!"

"You would be the bitch," Pablo mocked her. "Now, about that kiss..."

Arnie's right hand closed into a tight fist. She swung at him. He dodged, catching her arm and pulling her close. "Mustn't hit." He reached around with his other hand and groped her ass.

"What is going on here?" Father de Castro stood only a few feet away, his hands on his hips, and a scowl on his face.

Pablo stepped back. "N-nothing, Padre."

"Nothing, indeed." The priest looked at Juan who was still holding the tray. "Give that back to Arnoldo."

The boy hurriedly complied. "Here, Arnol_dita_. We were just playing a game. You-you know that."

"A nice game, you-you..." She couldn't call him what she wanted, not with the padre standing there.

De Castro looked at the four of them. "Not as nice as it might have been. Arnol_do_, you take those drinks to your family. The boys will stay with me." He glared at the trio. "They have just volunteered to clean up the churchyard after the fireworks. Haven't you, boys?"

"Si,” the three answered unhappily. The yard had to be spotless for the Easter morning service. They would be working for hours.

* * * * *

Bridget studied the hand Stu Gallagher had just dealt her. ‘Not too bad,’ she decided. ‘3 of clubs, 5 and 7 of diamonds, 8 of clubs, and 8 of hearts; it has _some_ possibilities.’ Aloud, she said, “Check’ and watched the other players react as the game unfolded.

“Me, too,” Fred Nolan said, leaning back in his chair.

Cap was next. “In for a quarter.” He smiled and winked at Bridget as he tossed the coin onto the table. It wasn’t one of his tells. It was…

‘The way he smiled when we…’ she realized. A warmth run through her. Her nipples crinkled and pushed against her camisole. The warm feeling seemed to settle down into her loins, and she felt a soft, joyful tingle of anticipation.

Gallagher glanced down at his cards. “I’ll just see that.” He slid a quarter out onto the table from the small pile of coins in front of him. “How many cards d’you want, Bridget?’

“One… three… two cards. No… yes… two.” She threw down the 3 and the 5.

Stu chuckled. “You sure?” When she nodded, he dealt the cards.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, picking up the cards Stu dealt her, the 5 and 9 of spades. “Fold,” she said a moment later.

Cap won the hand with a bluff and a pair of 6s. “I should’ve stayed in,” Bridget said regretfully. If she couldn't block out the distraction she felt from just seeing Cap smile at her, she might as well call it a night. But how to do that?

She thought back to her time as brian at _The _Ginger_ House_, the New Orleans brothel Brian, Will, and Jesse had lived in for over a month. Brian and, sometimes, Will had played poker with the ladies of the House between sessions in their beds. One girl, Yvette, liked to tease both the men, rubbing her cards suggestively across her body and moaning, pretending arousal.

To herself, she added. ‘If I could shut out Yvette’s antics, I can do the same with Cap. And I’d better, or I can never play poker with him again.’ She gathered in the cards and began shuffling. “Let’s try another round of five card draw.”

* * * * *

Sunday, March 24, 1872

“Let us pray,” Reverend Yingling, said, continuing with his Easter Sunday sermon, “that, on this glorious Easter morning, we, too, can find a new birth in the salvation of His own Resurrection. For, to share in the re-birth of our Lord is to be changed into a being of light and joy. Such change is the very hope -- the _only_ hope for our immortal souls.”

“And yet, not all change is for the good, and we must be aware also of the danger of change, of those who would offer what they claim is change for the good. For while it may seem that the change they offer is for the good -- over time, we may find that it is not, that they, themselves, are not the agent of the good that they claim to be.”

“And if this is so -- it may be for the best that we take control of that change _and_ of that which is the proximate agent of that change. It is but a tool, neither good nor ill, just a tool. And whether that tool is a force for good or ill will be determined by who it is that wields the tool.”

“We must become the masters of such tools, as we must strive to become masters of ourselves to better know the way of our Lord and to follow in his path.”

“And let us say, ‘Amen.’”

* * * * *

Cap walked over to Bridget’s table. “I’m ready to go.”

“I-I know,” she answered. She’d been playing Maverick solitaire, hoping it would keep her mind off _other_ matters. Now she looked up at him. “You -- you can’t stay here forever.”

He sat down next to her. “No, I can’t, much as I’d like to.”

“I’m just glad that you worked things out with your uncle.”

“Bridget, _you_ worked things out with my uncle. You told him the truth about Adobe Wells, and I think he believes you. He’s willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, at least.”

“That’s something, anyway. I didn’t like him being mad at me. I’m beholden to him for loaning me the money to run my game.” She sighed. “I’m beholden to you, too, for getting him to listen.”

Cap took her hand. “My pleasure… and _I’m_ beholden and a lot more to you, too, for… for certain things.”

“Please, Cap, I-I’d rather we didn’t talk about _that_.”

“I know.” He glanced over at the clock on the wall. “There’s just one last thing I have to do before I head back to the ranch.” He rose to his feet.

“What?” She stood up to say goodbye.

“This.” He pulled her to him. He felt her small lurch of resistance, before she quieted. He looked down into her eyes, so close to his. She didn't smile, but her arms rose up around his shoulders. Bridget was staring at him, unsure of what was going to happen next -- of what she _wanted_ to happen next. Their faces slowly drew closer and closer until their lips met.

She felt his embrace tighten about her, drawing her even closer. She sighed, parting her lips to invite his tongue in. Her eyes closed, as she luxuriated in the warmth flowing through her, the pleasure of his body pressed against hers. His tongue slid in to play with hers, even as she felt him harden -- down there -- as something else sought entrance to her body.

No, she couldn’t do _that_, even though she wanted so much to be with him. She sighed, passion and surrender mixed with regret, and held on to the kiss as long as she could.

“Now that was something to keep me happy all the way home.” Cap grinned, as they finally broke the kiss.

Bridget was finally smiling, too. “And there’ll be another one waiting for you when you come back.”

“In that case, I’ll be back as soon as I can get away.” He kissed her cheek. “See you real soon.” He tipped his hat and slowly walked towards the exit.

“You better.” She stood there, just smiling, until he went through the swinging doors.

* * * * *

“Oh, what a glorious day,” Teresa said as Arnie pushed her wheelchair into her house.

Enrique ran in after them. “Si, Mama. I love pumpkin empanadas.” He licked a small bit of filling off his fingers.

“Is that all Domingo de Gloria means to you?” Ysabel scolded. “Pumpkin empanadas?”

Enrique glared at his sister. “All it means to you is that dress you are wearing.”

“Stop it, the both of you,” Teresa ordered. “I like pumpkin empanandas, too, Ysabel, _and_ I like wearing my prettiest dress. What we must remember is why the empanadas are there and why we are all wearing our best clothes -- to celebrate the rebirth of our Lord on this day, that by his death He redeemed us all. I want you both to remember that.”

The two children nodded, speaking softly, “Si, Mama.”

“Good.” Teresa smiled. “We will change our clothes, then Dolores and I will make something to eat. After all those empanadas -- pumpkin _and_ meat -- at the church, you all should not be very hungry.” She thought for a moment. “And I do not think we need to do much work the rest of the afternoon. We can just relax and enjoy the day.”

Ysabel frowned. “Do we have to change, Mama? I like this dress, and I do not get to wear it very often.”

“You just want to show it off for _Stephan_,” Enrique teased.

Ysabel’s frown became a scowl. “I do not.”

“Do, too.”

Teresa broke in. “Stop it, the both of you, and go change.”

Ysabel pouted and started for her room. “Yes, Mama.” Teresa watched her. It was sweet that her oldest daughter had her first crush. But with an Anglo, a _Protestant_ Anglo, the son of the minister, no less, that could be serious trouble.

“Good,” Arnie said. “I hate my dress. I want to put some pants on.”

Now Dolores spoke up. “You wear pants when you are doing the deliveries, Arnold. Since you will not be doing that, why do you not just change into another dress or, maybe, a skirt and blouse?”

“Because I hate those clothes,” Arnie spat the words. “I do not want to wear them. They just make things worse.”

Dolores raised an eyebrow. “How are they worse?”

“You were at the church yesterday. You heard Pablo and the others, heard how they talked to me.”

“They said nothing today.”

“That is because Father de Castro warned them not to. I saw him talking to them as we came to the church this morning. He stopped them today because he was there. He will not always be there. If I dress like a girl —”

“You are a girl.”

“No, I _look_ like a girl. Inside...” She tapped her finger against the side of her head. “…Inside, I am a boy. I wear my pants to show that, and to show that I want to be treated like a boy. If I wear dresses, it tells Pablo… and Juan… and Fernando… and everybody else that I want to be treated like a girl.” She stood stubbornly, hands balled into fists. “I will not do that.”

Dolores winced at his display of emotion. “But, Arnoldo, what you do not see is --”

“I see everything, and I see it more clearly than -- than anyone else.” Arnie started walking for the bedroom she shared with Teresa. “I’m going to get out of this _estulto_ dress and into a pair of pants -- _boy’s_ pants -- and a shirt.”

* * * * *

“Wilma!” Bridget called out from her poker table. “Over here.”

Wilma walked over slowly, swinging her hips and smiling, putting on a show for the men in the room. “I hear you won a whole bunch of money the other day,” she said, as she sat down opposite her old friend. “I came t’see if it was true.”

“You must be real curious,” Bridget answered wryly. “It only took you a week to walk over here to find out.”

“I also heard that Cap Lewis was staying here -- some kinda fight with his uncle, and I figured you two wouldn’t want t’be disturbed.”

“How very kind. To answer your question, I was the big winner in Slocum’s game, about $2,700 --”

Wilma whistled. “Now _that’s_ high stakes poker. Where’d you get the money from t’buy in?”

“Cap, he… he grubstaked me.”

Wilma giggled. “I’ll just bet he did.”

“Wilma! He _loaned_ me the money, and I gave him half my winnings. That’s all it was.”

“If that’s _all_ it was, Bridget Kelly, then I’m… I’m sorry for you.”

“Wilma, can’t you ever think of anything but men?”

“Ain’t nothing else worth thinking about. If you had half the sense G-d gave a moose, you ‘n’ Cap woulda done something about it while he was staying here.” She looked closely at the gambler. “Or did ya, and you just ain’t telling me?”

“And if I… we did?”

“If?” She looked intently into Bridget's face and laughed. “Oh, you done it, gal. I can tell. You got the eyes of a woman in love. Or is that a bitch in heat? How was he? Go on, tell me, you wicked woman! What’d you think of it? Come on, I want details.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Bridget squirmed under Wilma’s insistent stare. “Well, almost nothing.”

“I knew it. I knew it. Tell me. Was it part of the deal you cut with him?”

Bridget now met her companion's stare indignantly. “Wilma, even you should know better than that! We did do it one time and, yes… yes, I _loved_ it, and _that’s_ all I’m going to say on the subject.”

“Like hell. When’re you and Cap gonna _get_ _together_ again?”

“He’ll be in on Sunday. He always comes in on the end of the month to get my payment to his uncle.”

“That ain’t all he’ll be wanting.” She chuckled heartily.

Bridget sighed. “Maybe so, but all he’ll get is Slocum’s money. I-I’m not ready for a… a…”

“Lover? Why the hell not, ‘specially when you love him, too?”

“For one thing, I’d never be able to play poker with him.”

“Bridget, you ain’t just crazy for poker, you’re just _plain_ crazy.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

* * * * *

Trisha sighed and snuggled back in her chair. “There’s nothing like a nice, quiet afternoon at home.”

“I’m enjoying it, too,” Kaitlin said. “There hasn’t been much quiet in our lives lately. Has there?”

“Not much. Today was nice, though. I didn’t even mind having Liam over for that ham you made.”

“Why should you mind Liam coming over? He is your brother, after all.”

“He didn’t come over here as my brother. He came over to see you.”

“Don’t be absurd. He came to see all of us, to share Easter with his family.”

“Kaitlin, we both know that he’s courting you. I think even Emma knows. She kept watching the pair of you all through the meal.”

“Were you watching us, too?”

“As a matter of fact, I was, and I didn’t like what I saw. He was flirting with you all through dinner, and you… you were flirting back, curling your hair around your finger, giggling. It was terrible.”

“It’s terrible that a man is paying attention to me? Well, I like that.”

“I know you do, but I-I don’t. You shouldn’t… shouldn’t… you shouldn’t act like that in front of Emma. She’s an impressionable young girl.”

“You’ve hardly been setting a good example.”

“Don’t change the subject. Are you going to stop encouraging Liam’s attentions?”

“I don’t believe I will. He’s a very attractive man, just the type I like, the type I _used_ to be married to.”

“That’s not fair!”

“This whole thing isn’t fair. If I had my choice, I’d still be married _to_ _Patrick_, but that isn’t possible, is it? We’re both _unmarried_ women, now, and attractive ones at that.” She patted her hair. “Men notice that. Yes, I’m sorry for what happened to you -- to us -- but I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life mourning for what we had.”

“So you are going to encourage Liam.”

“I’m going to move forward with my life. Slowly and behaving properly. Liam is your brother and Emma’s uncle. He’ll always be a part of our lives -- of _my_ life. He seems to want to change what part he plays, and, frankly, I’m flattered by his attentions. Beyond that… we’ll see.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t get a vote. When you were courting me, my sister, Ida, didn’t think much of you.”

“She didn’t?”

“No, she didn’t. And, just think, if I’d listened to her, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

* * * * *

Monday, March 25, 1872

Jessie walked over to Bridget’s poker table and sat down. “That surely was one bodacious kiss goodbye, you ‘n’ Cap shared yesterday.”

“I-I didn’t think anyone noticed.” Bridget felt the warmth of a blush flow through her cheeks. “There weren’t many people around.”

Maybe not, but them that were they, they -- _we_ was watching.” Jessie looked closely at her friend while she spoke. It was fun teasing somebody else, rather than being teased. “‘Specially, R.J.,” she added.

“I-I… how’d he take it?”

“I don’t think he was too happy about it. He knowed it was finally settled, and that you chose Cap instead o’him.”

Bridget looked down at the table. “Yes… yes, I did.” She gave a deep sigh. “I just hope I didn’t hurt him too much.”

“He’s hurting all right, but I think he’ll get over it.” She waited a moment for effect. “Dolores is helping him.”

“Dolores… and R.J.? I hadn’t noticed those two getting close.”

“You ain’t been noticing much of anything the last few days. Even your poker game’s fallen off some.” Jessie chuckled. “You ‘n’ Cap musta really gone to it.”

“Jessie! You’re talking foolishness!”

“It ain’t foolish -- not if you do it right.” She giggled. “And with the right man.”

“I don’t know _what_ you’re implying.”

“Sure, you do. You just don’t want to admit it. Say… you got enough protection? I can get you some British riding coats for you from Wilma if you want. Better yet, you can ask her yourself.”

“P-protection?” Her eyes went wide. “British… British coats, I… no, no, we didn’t…” Her voice trailed off before she realized what she had just admitted to Jessie.

“You didn’t? Lordy, Bridget, you’re more of a gambler than I took you for.” She giggled again. “Or do you _wanna_ have Cap’s baby.”

“His… his baby?” The lady card smith shook her head frantically. “I -- no, no I don’t.” She turned her eyes upward. “Please, _please_, no.”

“Seems t’me, you better have a long talk with Molly -- and pretty soon, too. It ain't good, having something important like that on your mind. You’ll be counting every last one of the days till your monthlies come -- _if_ they come.” Jessie put her hand gently on Bridget’s shoulder. “And I’ll get some of them riding coats from Wilma for when you ‘n’ Cap have another go. If you ain’t pregnant, there’s no sense in taking any more chances.”

* * * * *

Maggie led Jane over to the butcher’s counter in Ortega’s Market. “Buenos dá­as, Seá±or Ruiz,” she greeted him. Ruiz was a portly man with a round face hiding behind an oversized handlebar mustache. He wore a large, white apron over a matching, long smock.

“Buenos dá­as, Seá±orita Sanchez,” he said, “what can I do for you this morning?”

Maggie pulled Jane up to the counter. “You know that I am getting married this Sunday, don’t you?”

“I can hardly help you with that,” he said with a chuckle, “but I will be in church to see it happen and to wish you well.”

Maggie continued. "Thank you. This is Jane Steinmetz; she will be running my restaurant, while I am on my honeymoon."

“I cannot help you with _that_, either.” He laughed. “But I can show you these chickens; I butchered them myself this morning.” He pointed to a long tray of chickens atop a layer of ice. A second tray of chicken parts was set next to them, all under a glass cover to keep in the cold.

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “This morning? Some maybe, but not all, I think.”

“Indeed, all of them, this very morning.”

Maggie turned to Jane. “All right, Jane. Jorge has shown you all this chicken, what do you do?”

“Since nobody’s gonna order a whole chicken, I look at the parts. I was thinking… chicken mole, people like that. I need breasts for that. I buy the whole breasts and cut ‘em myself; it’s cheaper that way. Am I right?”

Maggie tried not to show what she thought. “Do you think you are right?”

“I _am_ right,” Jane said decisively. “Mr. Ruiz, you slide back that glass so’s I can get a better look at them chicken breasts.”

Ruiz did as she asked. She turned several pieces over to look at the color of the meat, even lifting a couple of pieces to check for an odor. “That one’s been here a while,” she noted, putting one piece back.

“On my word, they all are fresh.” Ruiz argued.

Jane shook her head. “You like it so much, you keep it.” She pointed at other pieces. I’ll take this one… and this… and…”

“Si, si, Seá±orita Steinmetz.” The man took the selected pieces, six in all, and wrapped them in a piece of white butcher paper. “These are good choices, you made.”

Jane smiled. “I know, but thanks.”

“She is sure of herself, this one,” he told Maggie.

Jane nodded. “I gotta be. Look who I gotta please.” She pointed to Maggie. “Now what do you got in the way of chuck steak?”

* * * * *

“Hi. Bridget,” Milo Nash called out from his teller’s window. “What brings you into the bank today?”

Bridget smiled back at him. “Money, the same as everybody else.” She glanced about. “Is Dwight Albertson around?”

“Just a minute, and I’ll go get him.” Milo slid a wooden “Closed” sign across his window, and walked back to a closed office door. “Mr. Albertson,” he said as he knocked. “Somebody’s here to see you.”

The door opened almost at once. “Who is it?” He glanced over Milo's shoulder. “Bridget… Miss Kelly, please do come in.” The teller started back to his window. Albertson stepped back from the door, opening it wide for her.

“'Bridget’s' fine.” She walked in, letting him close it behind her. “Seems t’me that sitting across the poker table from somebody for twenty-four hours is good enough reason for us to call each other by our first names.”

He walked around behind his desk, while she took a chair opposite him. “Bridget, it is then.” He sat down. “Now, what can I do for you today, _Bridget_?”

“I wanted to talk to you about all the money I won in that game.”

“I suspected that was the reason.” He smiled his best banker’s smile. “I hope that you’re not planning to move it.”

“Matter of fact, I am --- oh, don’t worry, Dwight, I don’t want to move it out of your bank. I just thought that I could do more with it than just let it sit there till I want to spend it.”

“You can, indeed.” He paused a beat. “You… ah, you know about the investment program I’ve set up for Jane Steinmetz, don’t you?”

“A little. I hear Jane complain sometimes about not having the money at hand, but Milt always tells her that you’re using it to make her rich.”

“I’m certainly trying to -- and I’ll be happy to try to do the same for you, _if_ you’re interested.”

“That’s what I came here for.” She reached into her reticule and fished out her bankbook. “Let’s see… with what I won so far this month, and after I paid Cap Lewis his share, I’ve got -- oh, my -- I’ve got just over $2,200 in my account.” She beamed in amazement, just realizing how much she had won.

“And how much of that are we talking about?”

“Mmm,” she considered her situation. “I need some for my game and to pay Shamus -- and I plan to pay off the last of what I owe Abner Slocum. I’d say… $1,000… no, $1,500. Is that enough?”

“More than enough.” He opened a drawer and took out a folder. “May I see your bankbook? I’ll need your account number.”

She handed him her bankbook. He took a form from the folder and copied her name and her bank number into the proper spaces. “Do you want the Saloon listed as your address?” She nodded. He added the Saloon’s name and address; then wrote in a few more numbers and handed it to her, along with her bankbook. “Read this carefully and sign it -- if it’s all right with you, that is.”

“It is,” she told him after a quick read -- she’d played enough poker with the banker to trust him. She signed it and handed it back. “Now you get busy, Dwight, and make me rich.”

* * * * *

“You mind if I take a break and have some lunch?” Liam asked.

Trisha looked around. “Nobody’s around right now to wait on; go ahead.”

“Thanks.” He took his lunch pail out from under the counter. “You want to join me?”

“I’ll wait, just in case somebody does come in.”

“Okay.” He took the lid off the pail and pulled out a thick sandwich wrapped in paper. “I made a sandwich from some of that leftover ham Kaitlin gave me yesterday.” He took a bite. “Mmm, that woman can surely cook.”

“I’m so glad that you like her cooking,” Trisha said coldly. “Is that why you were so attentive to her yesterday, for her cooking?”

“That’s one reason, one of many.”

“Such as?”

“Trisha, you know her better than anyone -- you should anyway. She’s a fine figure of a woman, sweet, kind, a real lady.”

“Not if she’s letting you sniff around her so soon after we got that damned divorce.”

“And what were you letting Rhys Godwyn do to you _before_ you got that divorce?”

“Nothing… nothing!”

“Cecilia Ritter seems to think you did something. So do enough other people that you may get thrown off the church board. There goes your building fund and all your other plans. Why don’t you think about _that_ some, and stop worrying about my courting Kaitlin.”

“You admit it, then. You are courting her.”

“I’ll admit it, if you’ll admit to whatever you and Godwyn were doing.” He paused for a moment. “Hell, let’s just call a truce for now, at least for long enough for me to eat lunch in peace?”

* * * * *

“Mmm,” Laura purred, “that feels nice.”

Arsenio smiled as he rubbed the ointment onto her belly. “Glad to be of service, ma’am.” His smile shifted to a leer. “Anything else I can do for you while I’m down this way?”

“I think you’ve done enough,” she answered sliding a finger along her gravid belly. “But thanks for the offer.” She’d lifted her nightgown to give him access to her stomach and thighs. Now she let it slide down over her. “Oh, Lord, I must look horrible.”

“I think you look wonderful.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for that lie, but I know otherwise.” She looked down at herself. “I must’ve put on twenty pounds. I’m… I’m big as a house.”

“And twice as beautiful. Now get to bed. You -- the _two_ of you -- need your sleep.”

“As if I _can_ sleep, with this watermelon resting on my bladder. I’ll be up and down five times before morning.”

“_That’s_ why you sleep on the side closest to the privy.”

“Very funny. I probably won’t get much sleep anyway.”

“Is something the matter?”

“A lot of things; I worry about the baby, how much weight I’m putting on…” She sighed. “…Maggie’s wedding.”

“What are you worried about Maggie’s wedding for?”

“We’re -- you and me -- we’re the… the godparents or something.”

“From what Ramon’s been telling me, all that means is that we’re part of the ceremony, like we did when they got -- what’d they call it -- betrothed a few weeks ago.”

“That’s right. Maggie said we have to stand with them for the ceremony… up there, in front of everybody.”

“So?”

“So, I’m a house… a whale… a _mountain_. I look like hell, and, in a week, I have to stand there and let half the people in this town stare at me and…” Her voice trailed off. “…and laugh at me.”

“First of all, they’re going to be staring at Maggie. That’s part of the job of being the bride. The only one staring at you will be me, and I _know_ how beautiful you are.”

“But I don’t have anything to wear.” She stared down at the floor, not certain how that sounded. “Nothing good enough to wear to a wedding at least.”

“If that isn’t just like a — tomorrow, you and I are going over to Silverman’s and buy you the prettiest wrap Rachel has.” He put his hand under her chin. “I like the way you look in those wraps you wear.”

“You do?”

“I do, especially when you’re taking them off. It’s like unwrapping a Christmas present, and having you, Laura Meehan Caulder, as my wife -— and as the mother-to-be of my child -- is the best present any man could ever have.”

Laura blinked back her tears, as her lips curled into a smile. “You, Arsenio Caulder, are a damned liar, and I do so love you for it.”

They didn’t speak after that. The kiss they shared said everything that they needed to say.

* * * * *

Tuesday, March 26, 1872

“You know, Lallie,” Hermione said snidely, walking towards the schoolhouse at the end of recess, “sometimes I wonder if Emma O’Hanlan really _is_ a girl.”

Lallie took her cue. “I know what you mean. She has to use that corset to give herself any sort of a figure.” Both girls were deliberately speaking loud enough that Emma, who was coming in from playing ball, could hear.

“I think she overdoes it with that corset, but it does make the boys look. I suppose she -- or is it _he_ likes that.”

“It must be that potion. Look at how common her _father_ dresses now.”

“My mother says the woman has given up on staying on the church board. She’s just dressing to attract a man… or two.”

Emma grabbed Hermione by the arm. “You can stop talking like that right now, Hermione.”

“You saw,” Hermione screamed, pulling her arm away. “You all saw it. Emma hit me, and for no reason, no reason at all.”

Penny Stone stepped forward. “We all saw… and heard. I’d say that Emma was acting more like a lady than the pair of you, trying to stir things up, talking the way you were.”

“How dare you?” the Ritter girl asked indignantly, glaring at Penny.

Penny glared back. “‘Cause Emma’s my friend, a good friend, and I’ve had it with you and Lallie talking like that about her. And _I_ might not be so much of a lady.” She grabbed for Hermione’s arm, but the other girl dodged and hurried into the school. Lallie ran in just after her.

“You wouldn’t really hurt Hermione ‘cause of me?” Emma asked.

Penny smiled. “Probably not, but she doesn’t have to know that.” She laughed. Ysabel had rushed over when she saw the trouble begin, and the three girls linked arms and walked into the schoolhouse.

* * * * *

“From time to time, this paper receives letters of comment. We are printing the following letter not because we agree with it, but because we believe that it will be of interest to you, the readers of the Eerie edition of the _Tucson_ _Citizen_.”

“Dear Editor:”

“A powerful agent, one capable of totally transforming the destiny
of a human being, is under the sole control of Shamus O’Toole.
While some may hold Mr. O’Toole in high regard, he is hardly a
man of blameless reputation, nor is he an elected official who
has been entrusted with the great power of that agent by the
will of the people. He is the owner and operator of a saloon,
an establishment that exists to cater to human weakness:
alcohol, gambling, and lascivious behavior.”

“This situation must not be allowed to continue. Mr. O’Toole
must cease the creation of any more of that agent, and any
existing stock must be given over to more responsible hands.
It must be under the control of those whom the people of Eerie
deem worth of the great trust that the possession of this
agent demands.”

(signed) Isaias

* * * * *

Arnie looked down the sidewalk ahead of her. Ritter’s Livery Stables, where Pablo Escobar worked, was just ahead. Should she cross the street just to avoid him? ‘The hell with that,’ she thought. ‘Let _him_ stay inside to avoid me.’

Still, there was no point tempting fate, and she _did_ have a wagon full of laundry to deliver. She walked faster, pulling the wagon behind her, as she walked past Ritter’s.

“For shame, Arnol_da_,” a voice called out behind her.

Arnie turned to see Pablo step out onto the wooden sidewalk. “Go away, Pablito,” she answered. Then she swore under her breath, as Fernando Hidalgo joined Pablo.

“But why?” Pablo answered smoothly. “I was just meant that it is a shame for such a pretty girl to dress as a boy. Isn’t that right, Fernando?”

The other boy agreed. “Si, in those baggy clothes, I cannot see those big tetas of hers.” He laughed and cupped his hands in front of his chest. “They just beg to be seen… and touched.” He closed and opened his fingers, as if squeezing.

“Or that waist of hers, so narrow,” Pablo continued. “It makes a man -- a _real_ man -- want to put his arm around it, to pull her close, so he can kiss those sweet, full lips of hers.”

Arnie glared at the pair. “You both can go to hell,” she spat. “Real men…? Ha, not you, Pablito. Not you either, ‘Nando, you can barely grow a beard.”

“I want to see your beard,” Pablo answered. “The one down there.” He pointed down, below her waist. “I want to see it, to… taste it… and to grab on to that big ass of your and…” He leered and pumped his hips forward and back.

“There you two are.” Clyde Ritter came out of his business. He looked at the two boys, then at Arnie. “Ain’t you got better things to do than flirt with my help, Missie?” He pointed down the street. “Go on, get outta here.” He took a breath. “And the two of you get back to work.”

The boys hurried back into the store. Ritter following them before Arnie could answer. She growled in frustration and started walking again.

* * * * *

“How’s it coming, Ethan?” Jane asked, leaning forward in her chair.

The painter frowned. “Please sit back, Jane, and hold your head up.” When she did as told, he continued. “Thank you.” He worked on the piece for a moment before his reply. “In answer to your question, _it_ is going relatively well. You -- the young you -- will be completed shortly, and I am far along on completing the initial work, at least, on you, the elder.”

“The ‘old’ me? What do you mean?”

“There are three figures in this painting: a young girl that is whom you have been posing for, a pregnant woman --”

“That’d be Laura. Who’s gonna be the other one?”

“You are -- just now. _That_ is why you are sitting in the chair rather than standing beside it, as you had been doing.”

“That’s right, but I still don’t get why.”

“The third figure is the ‘wise woman’, she is the older and wiser aspect.”

“You mean you’re painting me as a old lady?”

“As an _older_ woman, matronly, rather. How does the song go -- ‘silver stands among the gold’. A more dignified expression -- please hold your hands still -- and hairstyle, that sort of thing.”

“Can I see? I wanna see it.”

Ethan sighed. “I suppose it is the only way I can get you to remain still for the remainder of the session. Very well, come over, but only a quick look.” He stepped back when she walked over.

“Can’t tell too much, it’s mostly just a outline. Is it really gonna look like me -- like I will when I’m older ‘n’ Molly?”

“As much as the other two figures look like you and Laura do now.”

“That one sure does look like me. The other one -- Laura’s belly is just about that big.” She shrugged. “I guess it will.”

“I’m so glad that you agree. Now would you please take your seat again?”

Jane walked back to the chair and sat down, positioning her hands as he had directed. “What’re you gonna do with that painting when it’s done?”

“I intend to ship it back east. I have a number of works in storage at the Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia. When I return, I -- a few friends of mine -- will sponsor me in a showing of those works. With any luck, it will be purchased by someone for a suitable sum of money.”

“How much money?”

“Quite a bit, I should think. My work has been very well received in the past.”

“Maybe I’ll buy it, save you all that time and trouble.”

“I hardly think that you would have the resources.”

“I got money, more money than you think. I ain’t sure yet, but maybe, just maybe, I _will_ buy it.”

* * * * *

“How’s the work coming?” Cap asked Red Tully.

Red and Joe Ortlieb were working on a section of corral fencing. “Not too bad,” Red told him. “We should be finished in a day or so.”

“No sense in hurrying,” Joe added.

Red winked at Joe. “I don’t know. Mr. Lewis here might _want_ us t’hurry.”

“Why do you say that, Red?” Cap asked.

Now Red shrugged. “Well, now, we heard Mr. Slocum say he wanted you to catch up on the work you missed. If I had somebody like Bridget waiting for me in town, I’d sure be hurrying t’get back to her.”

“You got that right,” Joe added. “I’ll bet you two found lot’s ways t’kill time while you was living at the Saloon.”

Red chuckled. “Living, eating, and _sleeping_ at the Saloon.”

“Are you implying something?” Cap squared his shoulders and took a step forward.

Joe gave way. “No, sir, we was just kidding ‘round some. That’s all.”

“I wasn’t kidding,” Red answered. “If I had somebody as pretty as Bridget Kelly, I sure as hell wouldn’t be wasting my time talking to two saddle bums like Joe and me any more than I had to.”

Cap frowned. He didn’t want to take on the two of them at once, no matter how angry he was. Besides, he knew how his uncle felt about him fighting with the help. “You got one thing right, Red. I’ve got a lot better things to do than talk to you two ‘saddle bums.’ Now get busy on that damned fence.”

Cap stormed off. He didn’t know what made him madder: the fact that the men were teasing him about Bridget or the fact that they were right about how much he wanted to see her again.

* * * * *

Sebastian Ortega poured himself a brandy and sank back in his chair. “So, Ramon,” he asked, “are you enjoying your last few days of freedom before your wedding?”

“Enjoying?” Ramon replied, “Not so much enjoying as anticipating… _counting_ the days until my wedding.”

Sebastian leaned forward and swirled the brandy, watching it coat the sides of his glass. “Spoken like a man hopelessly in love.” He laughed and brought the snifter close, so as to savor the bouquet.

“And if I am, what is so wrong with that?”

“Nothing, my friend; I suppose that I am even happy for you.”

“Thank you for that overwhelming endorsement.”

“I said that I was happy for you. I just hope you will have time once in a while to have an old friend over here to talk — and share some of your brandy, of course.”

“You will always be welcome,” Ramon said, reaching for his own brandy. “It just won’t be here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Margarita loves her house, and it is much better suited for a family than this place, so we will be living there.”

“But this is your home. You grew up here, so did you father… and his father.”

“And his father, too. I know. But this building is the guesthouse. I grew up in the main building, Carmen’s home, hers and Whit’s and their children. My home is with my wife and her -- _our_ children. That is not here.”

“Are you certain that you want to give this place up?”

“I am not giving it up, and I am moving to a better place, to my life with Margarita. You will always be welcome.” He laughed. “And I am taking at least some of my brandy with me, so you will be able to drink it, just as you are doing now.”

* * * * *

Wednesday, March 27, 1872

Arnie lifted the first two packages of clean laundry up onto the Ritters’ raised back porch. She picked up the third and climbed the flight of stairs to the deck. She carefully stepped in front of the two packages on the floor and knocked on the back door.

“Just a minute,” a female voice called from inside. Then it added, “Please see who that is, dear.”

The door opened. “Well… hello.” A tall, burly dark-haired young man greeted Arnie, even as his eyes roamed up and down her body. “I knew that coming home for lunch today was a good idea, but I never thought that it would be _this_ good.”

“Laundry for Seá±ora Ritter.” Arnie tried to smile. She’d known -- and disliked -- Winthorp Ritter since they were in school together, but she certainly didn’t want him to recognize her, not as she was now.

The boy kept smiling and stepped aside, still holding the door so she could enter. “Bring it in,” he told her, adding, “please,” almost at once.

“Si, seá±or.” Arnie walked in and set her package down on the kitchen table. She could almost feel Winthorp’s eyes on her, especially when she went back for the second package, bending at the waist to pick it up.

She set the package next to the first and turned to go for the last one, only to see the boy standing in the doorway holding it. “I wanted to give you a hand,” he told her smoothly.

“Which package is which?” Cecelia Ritter asked, walking over from the sink. “Do you know?”

“They are numbered,” Arnie answered. “Number one is men’s clothes… and boys. Number two is ladies’ clothes and the tablecloth you gave us. Number three is sheets, pillowcases, and towels.”

The boy leered at her. “I’ll bet you’re particularly good with sheets.” His leer faded when he saw his mother’s expression sour.

“We do good work with all the laundry.” She deliberately ignored his suggestive remark, looking at the bill that was pinned to package three. “You owe us $6.88.”

Mrs. Ritter frowned. “My coin purse is in the parlor. Do you have any money, Winthorp?”

“Certainly, Mother.” He took a $10 gold eagle coin from his pocket and placed it in Arnie’s outstretched hand. “My _pleasure_.” He slid a finger across her palm, sending shivers up her arm.

Arnie pulled her hand away and glanced around, more anxious than ever to leave. “Do you have anything to be cleaned?” she asked as she counted out the change.

“Right there.” Cecelia pointed to a large muslin bag set next to a chair. “I’d like to have it back on Saturday.”

The girl took a tag from her shirt pocket. She wrote, “Ritter -- Saturday” on the tag and pinned it to the bag. “Thank you, seá±ora.”

“Let me get the door for you,” Winthorp said, opening it wide.

Arnie put the bag up over her shoulder and started out the door. “Saturday… gracias.”

“You’re entirely welcome,” Winthorp answered. As she walked past him, he spoke again, in a softer voice this time. “And may I say, _Arnoldo_, that Mr. O’Toole’s potion has made a vast improvement in you.”

Her eyes went wide. He knew! Hell, _everybody_ knew; why not Winthorp, damn him? Before she could say anything, he chuckled and patted her rump. “A _vast_ improvement.” He gave a hearty laugh and closed the door after her.

* * * * *

“Penny for your thoughts, Dolores,” R.J. said, walking over to the barstool she was sitting on.

Dolores turned. “What did you say?”

“I asked what you were thinking about. You’ve been sitting there for quite a while just sort of staring into space.”

“To tell the truth, I was thinking about many things.”

“Like what?”

“Arnoldo, for one thing.”

“Yeah, how’s he -- excuse me -- she doing? I saw Molly talking to her the other day.” He gave a soft laugh. “I see she’s still wearing pants.”

“Si, she refuses to wear dresses, even when Teresa and I argue with her, except for wearing them to church. She spends most of the time working for the laundry, delivering and picking up clothes. That is probably what she was doing when you saw her. The rest of the time, she helps to take care of Teresa.”

“How _is_ Teresa?”

“She is getting better, but it will still be weeks before she can start doing the deliveries again.”

“Then what happens to Arnie? She won’t have anything to do?”

“I do not know.” She sighed. “I wish she could get her job here back.”

R.J. thought for a moment. “Maybe she can. Bring her around once Teresa’s on her feet. I’ll talk to Shamus.”

“You are a good friend to her, R.J., thank you.”

“I’m not just doing it for Arnie.”

“You are not.”

“Nope, you’ve been moping around since he got fired, and I don’t like that.” He reached over and lifted her chin with his hand. “I’d much rather see that pretty smile of yours.”

“Really?”

“Yep, I rather see those lips of yours curled up in a smile.” He paused a moment. “‘Course, there’s something more I like about your lips.”

“What is that?”

“This.” He moved in close and kissed her. His kiss was gentle at first, but it grew in intensity, especially when she started to kiss him back.

* * * * *

Molly walked over to Bridget’s table and pulled out a chair. “Do ye mind if I take a seat here for a while?”

“Help yourself,” Bridget said, gesturing at the chair.

The older woman seated herself and then reached down and pulled a large, straw basket up onto her lap. “Could ye be helping me a bit with me knitting?”

“I-I guess. What can I do?”

“Hold yuir hands out in front of ye, about a foot apart and palms facing… aye, that’s fine. Now ye just hold still like that.” Molly took a ball of thick yellow yarn out of the basket and began wrapping it around Bridget’s hands.

Molly worked with the yarn for several minutes before asking, “Now then, Bridget, what is it that’s been bothering ye so much these last few days?”

“Nothing… nothing really.” She looked down at the yarn and frowned. “Nothing worth you trapping me like this, anyways.”

“I’m thinking thuir is… _and_ I’m thinking that it has something t’do with ye and Cap Lewis.” She studied Bridget’s expression for a moment before she continued. “And ye might as well be telling me. Ye may be a lot better with the cards than I am, but I’m the most stubborn woman ye ever met, and we _both_ know it.”

“And if I don’t want to tell you anything?”

“Then we’ll be seeing how well ye play poker with that thuir yarn draped around yuir hands.” She sighed. “I know it ain’t exactly chains I just wrapped ye in, but I also know that thuir’s something just as heavy as chains weighing on yuir mind, Bridget. Why don’t ye be telling me what it is? Maybe I can help.”

Bridget shook her head. “You can’t help me; nobody can. Hell, I don’t even know if I _need_ help.”

“What are ye saying?”

“I-I’m… Cap and me… when he was staying here, we…” Her voice trailed off, and she stared down at the table.

“Ye was in bed with him, wasn’t ye?” She gently patted Bridget on the head. “Ye two love each other; thuir’s no shame in what ye did.”

“No, but there may be a… I-I… we didn’t use any protection. I may be… pregnant.” That last word had come out in the tiniest of whispers.

“Aye, but ye may not be neither. Ye won’t be knowing for…” Molly counted out the days in her head. “…about a week and a half, when yuir monthlies is due. I’ll not be telling ye not to worry. Ye will; ye’re only human. But I will be telling ye that, if ye are going t’be having a baby, ye ain’t in it alone. I’ll be thuir for ye.”

Looking not into the older woman's eyes, but at the yarn, Bridget said in a very low voice, “Thanks, Molly. I sort of knew I could count on you.”

“Ye _both_ can be counting on me.”

“Both?”

“Aye, ye’ll be telling Cap the next time ye see him -- ye better, or I will. He’s a good man -- as if I’m telling ye anything ye don’t know -- and I’ve no doubt that he’ll be standing with ye, whatever happens.”

* * * * *

Kirby Pinter looked up from at the sound of the bell over his door. “Afternoon, Jessie. What can I do for you?”

“I need t’find a song,” she answered. “You ever hear tell of one called 'Here Comes the Bride' from something -- an opera, I think it is -- called LOHENGRIN?”

“I’ve heard of it, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have a copy.”

“Damn, a… a friend of mine is getting married, and she asked me t’sing it at her wedding.”

“Nothing like cutting it close. Maggie’s getting married this Sunday. I do wish I could help you, but…” His voice trailed off, as he held up his hands and shrugged.

“It ain’t Maggie. It’s somebody from… from outta town.” She wasn’t about to admit how she’d met Hanna Tyler when she was trying to escape Eerie all those months ago.

Kirby didn’t ask. “In that case, if you’ve got some time, I may be able to help, after all.” When Jessie nodded, he went on. “An old friend of mine has a bookstore in St. Louis. I could send him a letter, ask if he can find a copy. You need the words _and_ the music, right?”

“Yeah, both, that’d be great, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll get the letter out on tomorrow’s stage. If he can find the book -- and I’m pretty sure that he can -- he can send it here with the bill.”

“Just so’s it ain’t too dear. I’m not rich, ya’ know.”

The bookseller chuckled. “I’ll tell him that, too. You should have the song inside of a month… six weeks at most.”

“That’ll be great, thanks.”

“You really want to thank me, you be sure to sing ‘Old Dog Tray’ the next time I come in for your show. It’s my favorite song.”

“Kirby, you get me that song in time, and you’ll be one of _my_ favorites, too, and I’ll be more’n happy t’sing ‘Tray’ for you.”

* * * * *

“More roast beef, Ethan?” Cecelia Ritter asked. “Or sweet potatoes, or succotash?” Ethan Thomas had joined the Ritters and was sitting with them at their dining room table.

Thomas leaned back in his chair and held up a hand. “No, please. That second serving was more than enough.”

“I’m so glad that you liked it. I do hope that you have room for some of my cherry cobbler.”

“Cherry… well, I suppose I could find _some_ room.”

Cecelia stood up and walked into the kitchen. She came back in carrying the cobbler. “Here we are.” She set the dessert on a sideboard and began putting slices into separate dishes.

“You were telling us about some of the other paintings you were working on,” Clyde, Senior, prompted his guest.

“Ah, yes. In addition to yourselves, the Ortega family has commissioned portraits of Juan Ortega, the head of that family, and his granddaughter, Benita. Mr. Lyman, the tobacconist, asked for a portrait for his shop. He wishes to be painted as if he were a cigar store Indian, an amusing and rather original notion. I initially journeyed here to Eerie at the behest of Madam…”

Ethan stopped. ‘There are two children at the table,’ he thought, ‘and the older son was perhaps sixteen. My hosts would hardly appreciate my discussing Cerise and her ladies.’ He took a different tack. “Is there any particular work you wished to ask about?”

“Well,” Cecelia began, handing him a bowl filled with the cobbler. “I saw a picture of Mrs. O’Toole, from the…” She made a sour face. “…saloon. I really don’t know the woman. What is she like?”

Ethan had seen Cecelia prowl through his studio, studying all the works in progress. “Molly? She is a charming woman, quite vivacious, and with a good, if slightly bawdy sense of humor.”

“Indeed, does she talk much while she poses?”

“I suspect that, for her, talking and breathing are very much of the same order. However she doesn’t prattle as some woman do — not yourself, of course, Cecelia.”

Clyde’s eyes went upward for an instant in reaction. Then he rejoined the conversation. “Does she talk much about her husband... ah, Shamus, or what sort of things happen in that saloon of theirs?”

‘And _that_,’ the painter told himself, ‘is the true reason for my invitation and this sumptuous — by their standards, at least — meal.’

“So far as I am able to discern,” he began, “Molly is very much in love with Mr. O’Toole, and he, apparently, reciprocates. She’s described him as hiding a very tender heart beneath a somewhat stern exterior. I was particularly amused by her tale that, having been raised for a time by the Cheyenne, he uses their language for profanity.”

“That’s all?” Mr. Ritter asked.

“She’s told me a few stories about things that have happened in her husband’s establishment, but I should say that these reflect more upon the persons involved than the O’Tooles.”

He took a forkful of dessert. “Delicious… as good as any I’ve had in all my travels. My compliments, Cecelia.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” she gushed. “But I’m sure you’ve had better dessert than my humble efforts.”

He grabbed her comment and ran with it. “Well, there was a dark chocolate and cherry cake I had in Denver, perhaps a year ago, Black Forest cake, I believed they called it. There was some sort of celebration going on, and I had been summoned…”

He continued to talk about his time in Denver, despite the Ritters best efforts to derail him, to get him talking about the O’Tooles and some of his other current subjects, until it was time to leave.

* * * * *

“Coffee, gentlemen… Trisha?” Kaitlin asked.

Trisha shook her head. “I’m fine, just now. Why don’t you leave the pot?” The Judge and Milt Quinlan agreed.

“Very well.” Kaitlin set the blue enameled coffee pot down on a wooden trivet. The cups, spoons, and sugar bowl were beside it on the table. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“You’re welcome to stay if you’d like,” Judge Humphreys told her.

Kaitlin smiled. “Thank you, Your Honor, but I have work to do upstairs.” She took off her apron, draping it over a chair, and headed for the steps.

“I appreciate your coming, Milt,” the Judge began. “I know that you don’t like to get involved in church politics.”

“As the parliamentarian, I really shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be impartial.” He chuckled. “On the other hand, as a human being, I can’t help but have a point of view.”

Judge Humphreys laughed. “Spoken like a lawyer. Speaking as a human being, what do you think Trisha’s chances are of staying on the board?”

“Oh, she’s off the Board,” Milt said calmly. “It’s just a question of when.”

Trisha stiffened. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Quinlan.”

“I’m sorry to be so blunt, Trisha. I think you’re being railroaded with this vote in May. I think you’ll win, and I hope you do. The problem is that there’s another vote in September, the annual Board election.”

The Judge nodded. “Of course, I’m up for re-election, too.” He stopped for a moment. “I see your point, Milt. Trisha can’t run, can she?”

“I’m afraid, not,” the lawyer answered. “The by-laws say only men can be elected to the Board.”

Trisha pouted. “But I won the vote to stay on the Board; why can’t I run in September?”

“Because, to do that, you’d have to get the by-laws changed,” Humphreys explained. “That’s a lot harder.”

Milt’s face soured. “It takes two months. You make a motion at one meeting and vote on it at the next. I don’t think you could get away with starting on that until after the vote in May. That would mean the final vote would be in July, at the earliest.”

“And a July vote would be very close to the election,” Trisha agreed sadly. “It would be hard.”

The Judge poured himself a coffee. “The May vote will tell, I think. Some people may not vote to expel you because you’ve only got a few months to serve. Nothing much happens during the summer; they might figure you wouldn’t have a chance to do any harm.”

“Maybe I could show that I’m doing _good_, that I deserve to be on the Board,” she suggested. “A lotta people’d think that it was only fair that I get a chance to run again.”

Humphreys took a sip of coffee and considered her point. “That’s probably a good idea. I don’t know about holding another dance; that would remind people of what happened — what Cecelia is _saying_ happened. Besides, you don’t want to come off as a one-trick pony. Let’s see if we can come up with something else, something we can be ready with as soon as that May vote is over.”

* * * * *

Thursday, March 28, 1872

Rory Halpert knocked on the half-opened door to his employer’s office. “Excuse me, Mr. Stafford, but there’s a Mr. Dunne here to see you.”

“Dunne?” Forry Stafford looked up from that day’s issue of the Austin _Democratic_ _Statesman_. “The name’s not familiar. Did he say what he wanted?”

Halpert shook his head. “No, sir. All he told me was that he was from the Office of Veterans’ Affairs. He came to see you about a week after you left for Europe. Whatever he wants must be important. He’s come in several times while you were away.”

“Send him in.” Stafford dismissed the clerk with a wave of his hand. He didn’t know what the man wanted, but looked forward to the diversion from actually having to work at his father’s business dealings.

A thin, balding man limped into the office. “Mr. Stafford?” he asked in a high, reedy voice. “I’m Phileas Dunne.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Dunne, and tell me what brings you here.”

The man carefully closed the door before he took a chair. “I… uh, I’m a record clerk in the State Office of Veterans’ Affairs.”

“One of those ‘red tape boys’, then.”

Dunne gave a weak chuckle. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid I am. Anyway, last December, Mr. Bailey -- he’s my boss, the head of the office -- he asked me to look up the record of a Brian Geoffrey Kelly. It took me a while to find Mr. Kelly’s records. You have no idea of the complex filing system that the department —”

“I’m sure this is all very interesting, Mr. Dunne, but please get back to Kelly and Mr. Bailey, if you would.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I tend to get sidetracked when I’m telling a story. It’s a bad habit. My mother says--”

“_Brian_ _Kelly_, Mr. Dunne.”

“Oh… oh, yes. Mr. Bailey said that we had a request for the military record of Mr. Kelly. He asked me to prepare a summary report. I asked whom the report was for; it can make a difference on what gets mentioned. He just told me to include everything, and that, when I was done, I should mail it to somebody out in the Arizona Territory. I thought _that_ was rather odd, but he’s the boss, and I’m just a poor…” He emphasized the word “poor”. “…state employee. I do what I’m told.”

“And you finished this report _and_ mailed it out.”

“Yes, sir. Like I said, I’m just a _poor_ state employee.”

Stafford could almost see the man sticking out his hand, and he wondered what this was going to cost him. “But what did you come to tell me, exactly?”

“It's just this, sir. You were Mr. Kelly's -- Corporal Kelly’s commanding officer. You brought the charges against him and a Sergeant Hanks, and they both said that _you_ were guilty of cowardly behavior and being drunk on duty.” He gave Forry a none-too-subtle smile. “The military commission accepted your word… of course, but I thought that you should know that someone was asking about a matter you were _involved_ in.”

“I appreciate your concern.” Stafford stood, and the other man did the same. “And I’d like to reward such concern.” He took his wallet from an inside pocket of his jacket, took out a $50 bill, and handed it to the clerk.

“I… ah, thank you, Mr. Stafford, but I was kind of hoping for a more _gracious_ sign of your appreciation. That trial was a serious matter, and I’m just a --”

“Just a poor state employee, yes, I know. Would another $50 be enough?”

“Make it $200 in all, sir, and I’ll be so overwhelmed by your gratitude, I’d be leaving a copy of my report -- and the address I sent the report to -- right here on your desk.”

Stafford frowned but handed him the money. “And there’ll be no more said to anyone on this?”

“Not a word.”

* * * * *

Laura and Carmen stood at the door of Maggie’s house, both holding covered wooden boxes. Carmen was fumbling for a key and finally set her box down and began to rummage through her reticule.

“How’d you get the key to Maggie’s place?” Laura asked, as Carmen opened her friend’s door.

Carmen picked up the box she’d been carrying and stepped through the doorway. “I’ve had it for months. Margarita gave it to me, in case I ever need to get something for Ernesto or Lupe when I am watching them on Saturday nights.”

“Good thing, too; I don’t think we could’ve gotten it from her without giving everything away.” Laura followed her into the house. “This is supposed to be a surprise, right?”

“Si, can you manage that box all right, Laura?”

“No problem.” Laura set her own box down on a chair. “So what do we do, now that we’re in?”

“First, we put the candles and flowers by the Santo.” Carmen pointed to a table against one wall of the parlor. A carved wooden crucifix hung on the wall above. The only thing on the table itself was a colored picture of a peasant woman set in a tooled wooden frame.

Laura pointed at the picture. “Who’s that?”

“The Virgin of Guadalupe, the mother of Christ. The picture shows her as she appeared many years ago on the hill of Tepeyac near Mexico City.” Carmen set down her box and took out two silver candlesticks. She put one on each side of the picture.

“I've seen that face before, I think,” said Laura. Then she shrugged. “Those are beautiful candlesticks.”

“Gracias, they are a wedding gift of sorts. My great-grandfather had them made for my great-grandmother as an anniversary present.” Carmen took a long pair of white candles from the box and carefully set one in each candlestick.

She stepped back and looked at the table. “Perfect; now for the flowers.” She picked one last item, a low silver and turquoise bowl, from the box and set it down in front of the picture.

“Here’s the flowers.” Laura opened her own box, took out a package of flowers, roses with ferns, and tied with a length of twine. She handed the flowers to Carmen.

Carmen untied the flowers and began to arrange them in the bowl. “While I do this, why do you not put out the other things?”

“That sounds like a plan.” Laura took out a few doves cut from colored paper and began walking around the room, setting them down. The doves came in pairs, pink and pale blue, with Maggie and Ramon’s names written on them in a gold-colored ink. She placed them on the table, on the tops of chairs, and on the mantelpiece. Other pairs went on the post at the foot of the stairs and atop the hall mirror.

There was a long chain of pink, blue, and white paper rings in the box. Laura wound it between the rails of the banister that led up to the second floor. She set another pair of doves at the top of the stairs, and hung a few more on pictures hanging on the walls. The last few pairs were scattered around Maggie’s bedroom, with one pair tied high up on each of the four posts of her bed.

“All done,” Laura announced as she walked back into the living room. She sat down to watch Carmen finish with the flowers. “It’s pretty, but ain’t it kind of early to do all this decorating?”

Carmen kept working while she answered. “The custom is to do it some days, sometimes even weeks, before the wedding. Besides, these will help put Margarita in a wedding mood.”

“Have you seen the way she’s been smiling all week? She’s already in the mood, and then some.”

Carmen giggled. “I have seen her, and you are right.” She glanced down into the box Laura had brought. “There are still a few doves left. Do you want some for your house?”

“My house, why would I want them?”

“As I said before, to put Margarita in a wedding mood. After all, she will be spending the night before the wedding with you and Arsenio, remember?”

“I remember. Nobody told us that was a part of what being the padrino and madrina meant.”

“If you knew, would you have backed out?”

“No, I just didn’t think there was that much to it.”

* * * * *

Milt walked over to the table where Jane was sitting, waiting to see if anyone wanted a drink. “Hello, Jane.” He kissed her gently on the cheek before sitting down next to her. “What’ve you been up to today?”

“Not much.” She kissed him back. “I was just sitting here thinking ‘bout that painting of Laura and me.”

Milt nodded. “The painting, when do I get to see it?”

“Pretty soon, it’s almost done. But don’t you worry ‘bout that. You may get to see a lot of it.”

“Really? I thought you said Mr. Thomas was shipping it east. Did somebody in town decide to buy it?”

“Somebody might.” She giggled. “Me.”

‘Damnation,’ he thought. ‘She’s still thinking about buying that painting.’ Aloud, he asked, “Are you sure? From what I understand, his work is fairly expensive.”

“I got money — lots of it — over at the bank. I’ll just get some from Dwight Albertson.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Leave your money with Dwight. He told me you’re doing fairly well.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why’re you talking t’Dwight about _my_ money?”

“Do you remember those papers you signed last week? Dwight was buying shares of railroad stock for you. He needed an affidavit — that was one of the papers -- so he asked me to write one up for you. I asked him how well your investments were doing.”

“You still worried I ain’t gonna have the money t’pay you?”

“Of course not, I was just concerned about how you were doing.”

“You must not think I got the brains t’manage my own money.” She studied his face. “You’re the only one who thinks like that. Maggie trusts me enough t’ask me t’run her place while she’s on her honeymoon. She trusts me with her business, but you… you don’t think I can run m’own.” She stood up. “Maybe you should just mind _your_ business.”

Milt stared, uncertain what to say. “I-I didn’t mean anything.”

“Yes… yes, you did. You’re smarter than me, _Mr._ Quinlan. I know it. That’s why you’re my lawyer. Maybe that’s all you are t’me.”

She turned her back to him and walked away before he could answer.

* * * * *

“He ain’t here, Bridget,” Sam Braddock said.

Bridget realized that she’d been looking around the room instead of paying attention to the poker game she was playing. “Who — what do you mean, Sam?”

“Cap’s still out at his uncle’s ranch,” Jerry Domingez answered her.

Bridget felt a flush run across her cheeks. “He is… I mean, so what if he is?” She smiled at the men around the table. “I like the company I’m in right now.”

“Of course, you do,” Stu Gallagher told her. “And we like being here with you. We all just know that, if you weren’t playing poker, you’d probably prefer to be with him than with any of us.”

She smiled. “Possibly, but right now, I’m playing poker. I’m-I’m sorry if I was distracted for a moment this one time.”

“More like once or twice a night,” Sam replied, “every night this week, but we don’t mind.”

Sam laughed. “Hell no, the way some of us play poker, it’s the only chance we got to win a hand.”

* * * * *

“Identical,” Ethan said, an appreciative tone in his voice. “You are just the same as she.”

Trisha blinked. She was in his studio. The portrait of Norma Jean was only a few feet away. She glanced down at herself. She was standing there in the same pose as the woman in the portrait, one leg slightly forward, her hand resting on her hip. “Oh, my Lord,” she gasped.

And she was dressed as Norma Jean was, a satiny violet corset, short — much too short — white drawers, and matching violet stockings. A blood red garter circled her bare, right thigh.

“You _are_ Norma Jean,” he said smoothly, “come to life _and_ to my arms.” He pulled her to him. His arms encircled her, and he pressed his lips hard against hers.

Trisha tried to banish the warmth that surged through her. Her nipples grew stiff, pushing against the lining of her corset. A fire grew in her loins. Despite herself, she rubbed her body against his… his nakedness. ‘Submit,’ her body told her. ‘You want this; you _need_ this.”

“Let her be,” a firm, male voice ordered from behind her.

Ethan’s hold on her tightened. “Like hell! She’s mine. Her body is mine. That’s how she wants to be.”

“No!” Trisha somehow managed to push him away. “I’m — I’m my own woman.”

The painter stumbled back, and — suddenly — he was gone.

“That’s right, Trisha,” the voice said. “You’re your own woman; which is to say, you’re _my_ woman.”

She turned to see… “P-Patrick?” Her male self, Patrick O’Hanlan, stood before her, just as she remembered, in his Sunday best, brown suit.

“I’m the one you want, Trisha, the one you’ve always wanted.” She blinked. When she focused again, he was still there. Only now, he was wearing the work shirt and pants he usually wore at the store. “The very first time you pleasured yourself as a woman, it was my name you called.”

She shook her head in confusion. “This-this isn’t possible.”

“Anything’s possible,” he answered with a laugh, “in a dream.”

“Then, this isn’t real.”

“It’s as real as you want. You’re real. I’m real. This…” He was naked! He lifted his member, his long… thick… erect… pulsing… member in one hand. “…this is _very_ real. If you want it to be.”

“I-I do.”

"I wanted you so much when I first saw you on that cigar card. And, at last, here you are, with me. I thought I could guess what kind of girl you were just from the way you posed and dressed. Every fiber of knew that you'd turn out to be exactly the kind of girl that you are."

She gasped. She… _they_ were now on a bed. He was atop her, and she could feel him sliding into her warm, wet, and very empty cleft.

Every part of her seemed to be aglow, filling her with a rapture unlike anything she had known as a man. Her arms flailed about before he grabbed her wrists, forcing them back, down along the sides of the bed.

She moaned and writhed with sheer pleasure as he kept thrusting into her. She was a leaf caught in one of those tornado storms they had in Kansas, his every movement lifting her higher and higher towards the clouds, with no control, no sense of _anything_ -- except for his manhood plunging in and out of her.

Then, the dam broke. She was flooded with the blissful wave of intense sensation that washed away whatever mooring in the real world she still possessed.

She screamed, opening her eyes wide. Her wild motions set him off, and she felt him spurting into her.

The next thing she knew, he was leaning down and kissing her hard on the mouth. She tried to move her arms up and around him, but he was still holding her wrists.

Then, as she watched, he seemed to fade. He was sinking down into her body, becoming a part of her. ‘I’ll be here for you,’ she heard his voice in her mind, ‘a part of you, now and forever.’

The lush feelings he’d aroused in her settled down to, becoming like the feel of warmed honey in her veins. She smiled and drifted off as the dream faded away.

* * * * *

Friday, March 29, 1872

Arnie pulled the laundry wagon up to the front door of the white one-story house. The Ellsworth house had been vacant for some time, but now she could see that someone had moved in.

She took a breath and knocked. A slender, brown-haired woman in a gray dress opened the door. “Yes, may I help you?”

“Hello, ma’am, and welcome to Eerie,” Arnie said, trying to smile. “My name is Arnie Diaz. My family has a laundry business, and I thought that you might be interested.”

The women stepped back, allowing Arnie to walk through. “Yes, I had heard that there was a laundry in town. Do come in… Annie, was it?”

“Si… yes, ma’am.” Arnie didn’t want to correct the woman. It might start a line of questions that she really didn’t want to answer. “Here is our price list.” She handed the other woman the paper.

“Thank you. My name is Mrs. Spaulding.” She looked at the sheet. “These prices seem fair, but price isn’t everything. I’d… My late husband, the Captain, always said to look before I leapt. “I’ll just get some few things for you to clean. If I like your work, well, the three of us wear a lot of clothes. She pointed to a nearby chair. “Please… sit down, and I’ll be right back.” She bustled off before Arnie had a chance to sit.

Arnie looked around. She was in a large day room that was both parlor and kitchen, the two separated by a dining table with four chairs. A long horsehair sofa and three matching chairs were clustered near a fireplace along one wall. Mrs. Spaulding had disappeared through a door at the far end of the room.

“Mother, did I hear someone come in?” A second door in the far wall opened. A tall young man backed into the room, pulling something. A wheelchair. When he turned, Arnie saw that a girl about her own age was sitting in it, a blanket covering her legs. “Oh, hello,” the man said with slight surprise.

Arnie nodded. “Hello.”

“I suppose introductions are in order,” the man replied. He walked towards Arnie, pushing the chair before him. “I’m Hedley Spaulding, and this is my sister, Clara. I expect that you’ve already met our mother.”

“I’m Arnie Diaz. My family does laundry, and I --”

The young man grinned. “I’ll have to get my clothes dirty more often, if it’ll bring you over to get them.”

“Stop that, Hedley,” the girl chided. “I do hope you will come over, Arnie. Since I got sick, I can't go out very much; you're the first girl my own age that I've met in Eerie. It would be so nice to have someone to talk to.” She gave a slight cough into a lace handkerchief and sighed.

“Not that she was much of a gadabout before,” Hedley teased. “Say, is that how a lot of girls dress this far West?”

Arnie wasn’t sure how she should answer. “I-I do not know. Some.”

“I read about a girl like that in a magazine,” said Clara. “She pretended to be a man and joined the army during the war….”

“Ah, Annie, I see you’ve met my children.” Mrs. Spaulding came into the room. She was holding a small cloth sack.

Clara smiled shyly. “Please say you’ll come back to visit… Annie.”

“Of course, she’ll be back,” Mrs. Spaulding answered. “She’ll be bringing back these clothes once they’re clean. The two of you can visit while I inspect her work.” She paused a beat. “Can you have them back on Tuesday?”

Arnie took a small label from her pocket and wrote “Spaulding -- Tuesday” on it before pinning it to the sack. “I will have them back then, and I am sure that you will be happy with how clean we shall make them.”

“Clara has had a hard time of it lately. It would be wonderful if you and -- and her -- became friends,” said Hedley, his bright eyes boldly engaging Arnie's. The latter squirmed imperceptibly and tried to smile.

* * * * *

Nancy Osbourne stood at her desk and picked up a small stack of papers. “Children, I have the results for the arithmetic tests that you all took on Wednesday.” She walked over to the first row of seats and began to hand out the tests. “Most of you did very well, I’m happy to say.”

“Emma,” she said when she came to the girl’s desk. “I’d like to talk to you about your test after class.”

Hermione Ritter raised her hand. “Did Emma fail, Miss Osbourne?”

“As a matter of fact, Hermione, Emma did much better than you did.” The teacher handed Hermione her own results. “And why I wish to talk to Emma is none of your concern.”

* * * * *

Colonel Jack Stafford closed the folder and tossed it down onto his desk. “This could be trouble, Forry. What do you think this -- what was the man’s name again?”

Stafford was an older version of his son. The curly brown hair had grayed, and it started much higher on his forehead. And while his hairline had moved back, his stomach, softened by years of easy living, had grown noticeably larger.

“Slocum… Abner Slocum,” Forry Stafford answered. “He’s a rancher out in some god-forsaken part of the Arizona Territory. I don’t know what he wants the information about Kelly for; neither did Dunne.”

“Ah, yes, the opportunistic Mr. Dunne. If he deals with other requests the way he did this one, I suspect that he won’t be ‘a poor state employee’ very long.”

“Not necessarily, sir. When he left the office, I suggested that he celebrate our transaction at Madame Timsons’ establishment. I even offered to let him mention my name there.”

“I’m sure that he did. Desiree’s house is far above what he’s probably used to.”

“Yes, _unfortunately_, he seems to have gotten into some sort of fight as he was leaving. He was severely beaten and robbed.” Forry gave a scornful laugh. “He’s expected to be in the hospital for some time.”

“Terrible… terrible.” Stafford, senior, said sounding almost sympathetic. “You get your money back?”

“About $150 of it. He’d spent some, and I had to pay the men who beat him.”

“That’s not too bad. So, what are you going to do about this Slocum?”

“I thought that I’d better go out and see what the man’s interest is in Corporal Brian Kelly. What happened with Kelly and Hanks in ’62 was a can of worms I never want to see opened again.”

“Don’t go off half-cocked and do anything foolish. Don’t go alone, either. This Slocum will have allies, the hands at his ranch, at least.”

“I’m not planning to. I’m taking Leeland Saunders and Dell Cooper with me. They testified for me at the court martial, so they’ve got as much to lose as I do, if Slocum makes any trouble.”

“Saunders is out at the ranch,” Forry continued. “I expect him here in a couple of days. We’ll leave then and take the stagecoach out to a town near Slocum’s ranch.”

“You know anything about this Slocum, anything you can use?”

“I asked some men I know, Larry Page and Sergey Brin, Jimmy Wales and Larry Sanger, about him. The four of them have contacts all over the west; seems like, between them, they know about everybody and everything. Even so, there wasn’t much. Slocum’s from Arkansas. He raised cattle for the Confederate Army; moved to Arizona after the War. He’s got a fair-sized spread out there, sells to the Army and the Indian Agency. The nearest stagecoach station to his ranch is a town called -- are you ready for this? -- Eerie.”

“Not the strangest name I ever heard. There’s a place up in California gold country called Sally’s Tits.”

Forry laughed. “I’d rather be going to Sally’s Tits than to someplace called Eerie, but I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“No, you don’t, but I’m sure that you’ll find somebody’s tits of interest out there. Have a good trip, son.” He rose and offered the younger man his hand. “And watch yourself, this Slocum sounds like he might amount to something out on his home ground. He'd have to, to get Bailey over at the Veteran's Office to do him a favor.”

“Thank you, sir.” He shook his father’s hand firmly. It was as close to a display of affection as the two ever showed. “And don’t you worry; no man can argue with a bullet, if it comes down to that.”

* * * * *

“Hey, Laura,” Jane said, trying to sound cheerful, “what d’you think of that painting you ‘n’ me is posing for.”

Laura thought for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s been… interesting, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking ‘bout that painting and what’s gonna happen when it’s finished.”

“Ethan said he was shipping it east. We’ll probably never see it again.” She sighed. “It might have been fun to take the baby…” She patted her belly. “…and say, ‘there you are, inside of Mommy.’ But that can’t ever happen.”

“Maybe it will. Maybe… maybe it’ll stay right here in Eerie.”

“Jane, you’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?” This was what Milt had been worrying about all those weeks ago. ‘Looks like a job for big sister Laura,’ she told herself.

“If you mean, am I gonna buy it myself, yeah, I think I am.”

“Can you afford it? Maggie doesn’t pay you a lot.”

“I don’t need her pay. I got money in the bank, lots of money. I’ll just take some of that.”

“Are you sure, Jane? I mean, isn’t it better to keep that money in the bank and let Dwight invest it?”

“It’s my money. Why can’t I use some of it t’buy something I want?”

“Are you sure that you want it that much? I’ve never known you to be that interested in art.”

“Now you’re saying I’m too dumb t’buy it.” She looked angry.

Laura knew from experience just how stubborn Jane could get. “No, I’m just saying that it’s a lot of money, and you should take your time to be _sure_, absolutely sure, before you do anything.”

“That’s my big sister,” Jane answered, “always looking out for me. Not like some people I could mention.”

“Who?” Laura asked. She could think of only two possibilities, Milt or Shamus — no, three. She might have asked Maggie.

“I ain’t saying, but I will do like you say ‘n’ take my time before I buy the thing.”

* * * * *

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Ysabel asked. The school day had ended, and most of the class was hurrying out.

Emma shook her head. “Thanks, but if you stay in here, it’ll give Hermione a reason t’stay.”

“I will wait for you outside then.” Ysabel picked up her books and her lunch pail and started for the door.

Hermione was sitting at her desk, pretending to be busy packing her books. When Ysabel passed by, she whispered to Hermione, “Miss Osbourne said it was ‘none of your concern’, Hermione. Go home.”

“Says you,” Hermione whispered back. She looked towards Miss Osbourne, hoping for permission to remain.

Instead, the teacher met her eyes and pointed to the door. Hermione pouted, but she picked up her books and followed Ysabel out.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Emma asked nervously, not waiting until she saw Hermione leave.

Miss Osbourne smiled, wanting to put the girl at ease. “There’s nothing wrong, Emma. You’ve been doing very well the last few months. Your reading is almost at eighth grade level, and your arithmetic, as the test I handed back to day showed, is above eighth grade. If you wish, you may graduate with Ysabel Diaz, Yully, Stone, and the other eighth graders this June.”

“But-but I’m in fifth grade.”

“Elmer was in fifth grade -- and doing rather well. When you… changed, you became older. And thanks to hard work -- and with Ysabel Diaz’ help -- you caught up with your new grade level. You can be very proud.”

“What happens if I graduate?”

“What do you want to happen? What do you want to be when you grow -- when you’re an adult?”

“I want to be an engineer.”

“I don’t believe that any railroad would hire a woman to drive one of their trains.”

“Not that kind of engineer. I want to _plan_ railroads -- where the tracks go, build roads, that sort of thing.”

“I believe that they call that ‘civil engineering’, but I don’t know if a woman could get hired to do it.” She saw the disappointment on Emma’s face and suddenly had an idea. “I do think that surveying would probably be a very good skill for a would-be civil engineer to have.”

“Yeah, I guess it would. Why?”

“Because Jubal Cates, who is a surveyor, asked me if I could recommend one of my eighth graders or a recent graduate to work for him.”

“I know him. He’s on the church board with Trisha.”

“If you were going to graduate, you could try for that job. If you liked the work, and he liked you, you might even become his apprentice. How does that sound?”

“Like I better talk to my folks about graduating -- _and_ about getting that job from Mr. Cates.” Emma laughed, adding to herself. ‘And won’t Hermione just _hate_ that.’

* * * * *

Saturday, March 30, 1872

“Looks like you got company,” Joe Kramer said, pointing to the swinging doors of the Saloon. Cap Lewis was standing there, looking over at Bridget, a broad smile on his face, and a saddlebag draped over his shoulder.

Bridget glanced down at her cards. Damn, she had a good fighting hand, two pair, queens over nines. She sighed. “I fold, gentlemen.” She set her cards on the table and stood up. Trying not to walk _too_ fast, she hurried over to Cap.

“Hey, Bri--” Cap stopped talking as Bridget pressed her lips to his. Her arms reached up around his shoulders, while his wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. She moaned, and his tongue snaked into her mouth to tangle with hers.

Finally, they had to break the kiss. Bridget smiled, enjoying the tingling feeling it had roused in her body. “So… um, what brings you in here?”

“You answered that question already,” Cap answered, touching her lips with his fingertip. “Besides, Maggie and Ramon invited me to the wedding, _and_ it’s the end of the month, so I came for Uncle Abner’s money.”

He had to mention Abner Slocum. Damn, it spoiled the mood. “The money isn’t due till tomorrow.”

“I know, but I expect to be too busy celebrating with you tomorrow to collect it.”

“I hadn’t expected you in till tomorrow. I have your check up in my room. I’ll go get it.”

“You head on up. I want to see if I can rent a room for the night.” He kissed her again.

“I… We talked about that, Cap. Much as I want to — and I do — I can’t, not yet anyway. Please try to understand.” She glanced away, not wanting to look him in the eye.

“I’ll try, but it’ll be har -- well, it won’t be easy.” He took her chin in his hand and gently raised her head so she was looking at him. “You better keep kissing me like you just did, so I keep trying.”

“I can do that.”

And she did.

* * * * *

Kaitlin looked across the table at her daughter. “How did your talk with Miss Osbourne go, Emma?”

“My… my talk? Ma, how’d you know we talked?”

Her mother gave her a sly smile. “Because she talked to me first; I just… Trisha and I just wanted to give you a little time to think about it before _we_ talked.” She waited a moment before she added. “We’re both very proud of how well you’ve done in school.”

“So,” Trisha added, “what do you say? Are you ready to graduate?”

Emma looked down at the table, uncertain of how she felt. “I-I think so. I guess so… if Miss Osbourne thinks I am.”

“Do you think you are?” Kaitlin asked. “It’s a big step.”

“I… yes, I am. I guess.” Emma felt her stomach churn.

Trisha slapped her daughter on the back. “Great. You can start working in the store on weekends now, and when school ends, you’ll be ready to come in full time.”

“Do-do I have to work in the Feed and Grain?”

Trisha looked surprised. “Of course, what else would you do?”

“I was kind of thinking… Miss Osbourne said Mr. Cates was looking to train somebody up as a surveyor. I’d sorta like t’try that.”

“A surveyor? Where did you get that idea?”

“When I was Elmer, I wanted to be an engineer, to plan bridges and roads and like that. Only they don’t have lady engineers. They do — at least, I think they do — have lady surveyors. That’d be almost as good.”

Trisha pouted. “You sound like you have it all planned out, you and Nancy Osbourne.”

“No, ma’am,” Emma answered. “But I never said I wanted to work in the store. I’ve been saying I wanted to be an engineer for a long time.”

Trisha frowned. “Little boys say all sorts of fool things. There’s nothing wrong with running a store. The Feed and Grain put a roof over your head and clothes on your back all your life.”

“I ain’t saying there’s anything wrong with it — not for you and Uncle Liam. I just don’t think it’s what I want t’do with my life.”

“You’re too young to be deciding what you want to do with your life.”

Kaitlin stepped in. “She was old enough when you thought she was going to work in the store. Agreeing with you isn’t always a sign of maturity.”

“That isn’t fair.” Trisha sighed. “I-I just always thought that she’d be working with me.”

Kaitlin nodded. “And she still may be. We don’t know for a fact that Jubal Cates will hire her.” She took the other woman’s hand in her own. “But we do owe it to her to let her try. Okay… for me.”

Trisha nodded reluctantly. “For you.”

* * * * *

“I don’t know why I had t’close the restaurant tonight,” Shamus grumbled.

Molly came over to tie his tie. “It ain’t closed, Love, ‘tis sold out, Sebastian and Whit and Carmen hired it for a private party... for Maggie and Ramon.”

“I still don’t understand why they want t’be holding the big party the night _before_ the wedding when every _civilized_ person knows that the party should be coming _afterwards_.”

“Not everybody, I’m thinking. Sebastian told me that the Mexican custom is t’be giving the bride’s family — which is us — a feast the night before the wedding. And that’s what they’re doing here, even if it is the bride that cooked the food.” She finished the knot and stepped back. “Ah, ‘tis a good-looking man I’m married to.”

“Not half as good-looking as the beauty that married me.” His arms went around her, pulling her close, kissing her deeply. She closed her eyes to better savor the moment, as her right arm went up around his shoulder.

When they finally broke the kiss, she smiled, her face flushed. “Ye’ve quite a way about ye, Shamus O’Toole.”

“There’s more where that came from, Molly, Love, and we’ll have t’be doing something about it this night, I’m thinking.” He laughed. “But now we’d best be going down t’supper.”

“Aye, ye old goat, but only because I know that the whole lot of ‘em is waiting for us downstairs.”

* * * * *

“Good evening, Jane.” Milt smiled hopefully as he spoke.

She looked down to see the ticket in his hand. “Oh, so now you wanna dance with me.” She frowned at him. “You think I’m smart enough?”

“Jane, I never said that you weren’t smart.”

“The hell you didn’t. You worried for quite a while ‘bout being seen with a dummy like me.”

“Jane, please, it wasn’t about you. I-I was embarrassed by Jessie singing that song about me. That’s all it was; I give you my word.”

“Your word. You’re a lawyer ‘n’ real good with _your_ _words_, ain’t you?”

“Are you saying that you don’t believe me?”

“I’m saying I ain’t sure about you. Oh, hell, I don’t gotta trust you t’dance with you. Gimme the damned ticket, and let’s get it over with.”

* * * * *

Ramon leaned back and took a sip of madiera. “So, Gregorio, are you going to try one last time to stop me from marrying Margarita tomorrow?”

“No,” the other man answered. “I am convinced that it is a suitable match.” He puffed on his cigar, a smug look on his face.

Ramon gave his brother a satisfied grin. “Finally; what did Margarita finally do to convince you?”

“Nothing; it was her former fellow bandito, Bridget, who convinced me.”

“Bridget? How did she do that?”

“By the way she acted at the poker game. I never doubted that she was a lady. She has a way about her that demands respect. And I wasn't just reacting to her beauty, though I can hardly deny I appreciate that, as well. No, the woman has the bearing of a Grandee.”

Ramon chuckled. “Si, that is Bridget.”

“When she told me that she was also a potion girl, I was astounded. And I realized that if this woman — this lady — was such a person, then I understood that your Margarita could be one as well.”

Ramon chuckled. “It's good that Margarita is a potion girl. It has taken your mind off the fact that she is not from one of the great families.”

Gregorio shook his head. “Our first great ancestor was a groom in the stables of Juan Bautista de Anza before he became a conquistador under de Anza. Margarita at least works with clean hands. She runs a café and I am thinking that she may make a good match for a shopkeeper.”

Ramon struggled against scowling; his brother had turned his own argument back against him. It had always rankled Gregorio that his younger brother hadn't chosen to play his “proper role”, a ranchero working their family’s land.

“Anyway,” the older De Aguilar continued, “every day I am learning that this is a land where shopkeepers thrive more than hidalgos. It is not like it was in our father's day.”

“Gregorio…” Ramon began uncertainly, but his companion gave him no chance to speak.

“And I can very plainly see that I have already lost my argument. If I do not make peace with Margarita, the family will go on with her and without me. There is no satisfaction in fomenting such a quarrel. I therefore will seek no dispute with Margarita from this day forward, not unless I discover that she has used my brother ill.”

Ramon gave an uncertain smile. “I am inclined to believe you, my brother,” he replied in slow measure, “and I am overjoyed that you feel that way.”

“I do, and I will tell Margarita the same in the morning.”

“After all the grief and worry you put her through, I think that you must use more than words to tell her.”

Gregario took a long drag from his cigar. “Ah, women — What did Cervantes say? — ‘They always make too much of what is little.’ Very well, what do you have in mind?”

* * * * *

“And this is the bedroom,” Laura said, opening the door. “You and I will be sleeping in here, while Arsenio takes the couch.”

Maggie walked into the room. “I am sorry to chase him out onto the couch for tonight.”

“It’s not the first time he’s slept there.” Laura followed her in and shut the door behind them. “He doesn’t mind… not too much anyway. Besides,” she said with a giggle, “I’ll make it up to him tomorrow night.”

“Laura!” Maggie looked down, feeling embarrassed. Her fingers trembled as she began to unbutton her blouse.

“You won’t be doing anything different tomorrow night from what I’ll be doing, sleeping with my husband. Only I don’t know how much sleep you — either of us — will be getting.”

“I am not sure that I want to think of such things.”

“That’s bull, Maggie, and we both know it. You’ve been thinking about it since you two got together, maybe even before that. C’mon, fess up.”

Now it was Maggie who giggled. “All right, I admit it. I cannot help but wonder what it will be like to have… relations with a man.”

“Speaking from experience…” Laura sighed, a smile on her lips and her eyes half-closed from the memories. “…it’s wonderful, as good as it was when I was a man — maybe even better.”

“But what it is like… what do I do?”

“You want details like that, maybe you should be spending the night with Wilma instead of me. Do what comes natural, what feels right -- and, believe me, it’ll feel _real_ right. You try and please him, _and_ you help him try and please you.”

“It sounds so hard… hard to do, I mean.”

Laura giggled again. “Maggie, I know where you're coming from. Don’t worry, though. The way you and Ramon love each other, that’ll be the easiest part of being married.”

“The easy part? What is the hard part?”

“The hard part is the everyday stuff in between the fun times in bed. When Carmen told me that you were supposed to spend the night before your wedding with your madrina and padrino — me and Arsenio — so we could give you advice about being married, I tried to figure out something I could tell you, especially with you having been married before.”

The two women had been undressing as they spoke. Maggie’s eyes grew wide when Laura unbuttoned her camisole revealing her swollen stomach, but she didn’t say anything.

“And did you?” the bride-to-be asked, slipping into her nightgown.

“I did. I told you how to have the most fun in bed already. Like I said, that’s the easy part. The hard part is what you do every day. Marriage is about being there for each other.” Laura donned her own nightgown.

“You're going to have quarrels; lots of them. It can't be helped. Two people can't think the same about everything, every day. But when you quarrel, don't get mean and spiteful. Don't treat your mate like your enemy. He isn't. And then there's something you should never do, even though it's the first thing you'll think about.”

“What is that?”

“You should know. You were married.”

“I learned much in marriage, but I don't know which of a thousand things I know that you are talking about.”

“I mean, don't try to get one up on your husband in a quarrel by shutting him out of the bedroom. When you're angry, you most need love and comfort. Leave the anger in the other parts of the house. When you hurt someone who loves you, you hurt yourself, too.”

Maggie sighed. “Si. There were nights that Lupe would brace a chair against the bedroom door to keep me out. Once it was a quarrel over something as silly as the family goat.”

Her companion nodded. “Maybe having been a husband yourself will make you a better wife. Your husband’s your partner, your best friend, as well as your lover. You work just as hard as you can at the first two. You be there for him, and he’ll be there for you, loving and sweet.” She paused a beat. “And hard when you want him to be.”

“Why do you keep making jokes about having sex?”

“‘Cause having fun with sex — and marriage in general -- is the best way to do it. You remember that, too.”

* * * * *

Sunday, March 31, 1872

Arsenio knocked on the bedroom door. “The carriage is here, ladies.”

“We’ll be right out,” Laura called from inside. A moment later, the door opened, and Laura walked through. She wore a dark blue wrap trimmed with a light blue edging. Her petticoat, the same light blue as the edging, was clearly visible through the opening at the front of her wrap.

Arsenio whistled. “Laura, you are beyond a doubt the prettiest --”

Maggie came in. “Is my veil on right?” Her long, white satin gown hugged her voluptuous figure. She was fidgeting with a thin silver crown attached to a long, lacy veil that flowed out along her back almost reaching her waist. In front, it came down to just below her eyes.

Laura took Arsenio’s arm. “You were saying?”

“The prettiest _married_ woman in town,” he told her with a smile, offering his right arm to her.

Laura chuckled. “Good answer.” She took his right arm, and Maggie took the other.

“Ah, me,” Arsenio teased, “here I am stuck with the two prettiest women in the territory. Life is sweet.”

Laura leaned in and kissed his cheek. “So are you. Shall we go?”

“Si,” Maggie replied. “This is one time I do not want to be even a little bit late.”

They walked out into the street in front of the house. A black landau carriage, the finest in Ritter’s livery, was waiting for them. Ramon stood next to it, holding the door.

“That’s kind of a funny shirt Ramon’s wearing,” Laura said. “Why isn’t he in a suit, and what’re those things on it?” The shirt was white linen, with four buttoned pockets and two vertical rows of pleats. A duck was embroidered in red, blue, and silver thread on each pocket.

Maggie smiled. “That is a guayabera, a wedding shirt. It is the traditional shirt for a man to wear. The ducks on the pockets are symbols of a happy marriage.” She sighed. “And he looks so handsome in it.”

“Good morning, Margarita, you look lovely.” Ramon stepped forward to take her hand.

She blushed and gave him a shy smile, as he helped her up the step and into the carriage. Arsenio assisted Laura, then climbed in himself. The landau had facing seats. Ramon got in and sat down next to Maggie facing forward, with Laura and Arsenio opposite them.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Maggie’s expression soured. She had just noticed that Gregorio was the driver.

He turned around. “And why should I not be here? My little brother is getting married today.”

“A marriage you did all that you could to prevent?” she answered sourly.

“And failed… which was the will of the Lord.” He crossed himself.

Maggie's suspicious eyes were on him, but she made no reply.

“All my life,” he continued, “I have tried to look out for Ramon, to keep him out of trouble. I have always wanted only the best for him.” He took a breath. “I have come, very late, to see that _you_, Margarita, are what he needs most. You are a woman of spirit, a lady of the first water, and a kind, loving, and forgiving — I hope — soul.”

He saw the doubt that still continued in Maggie's eyes and he knew that he must do more yet to charm her.

Gregorio jumped down from the carriage and knelt, one knee down on the ground. “Margarita Sanchez, will you do me the deep and abiding honor of becoming my sister-in-law?”

“Why are you doing this?” Maggie asked, trying to find the trap he must be setting.

Ramon leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Because he has agreed to our marriage, but I told him that he must be gracious to you if he wants us both to forgive him for the way he acted.”

“Yes, then,” Maggie said resignedly, “if his words are sincere, my forgiveness will be sincere also.” She felt Ramon’s arm around her waist, pulling her close. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Gregorio stood up and wiped the dust from his pants. “Have I abased myself enough, brother?”

“No, but it was a good start,” Ramon said with a laugh. “Now get up here and drive us to the church.”

* * * * *

The ceremony took place on the church lawn. Maggie and Ramon stood together before Father de Castro. Lupe was to the left of Maggie, wearing a white dress in the same pattern as her mother and holding a bouquet of blue and white flowers. Ernesto was on Ramon’s right. His shirt was a match for Ramon’s. He held the blue satin pillow with the two silver and turquoise rings that Ramon had given to Maggie at their betrothal.

“The coins, please,” the priest said.

Arsenio stood behind Ramon. He stepped forward and handed de Castro a small brass box in the shape of a carriage, even to four attached wheels. “Right here.”

“Thank you.” The padre opened the box and made the sign of the cross over the thirteen gold coins inside.

Ramon took the box and poured the coins into Maggie's cupped hands, placing the box on top. “These, a symbol of all my worldly goods, I pass on to you.”

“I accept them,” Maggie said, “as a sign of your trust and your love.” She carefully replaced the coins in the box and handed it back to Arsenio.

Ramon took the rings from Ernesto and handed one to Maggie. She put it on his finger, and he put the other on hers.

“Stand still now,” Laura whispered. She took a long rope of braided flowers and arranged it in a figure eight around the bride and groom’s necks.

De Castro held up a large wooden cross. First Ramon, then Maggie kissed it. The priest made the sign of a cross over the pair and declared. “I now declare that Ramon and Maggie are man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Ramon cupped Maggie’s head in his hands and touched his lips to hers. She sighed and returned the kiss. A small band of Mexican musicians began to play a sprightly version of “The Wedding March”, but the newly married couple was far too busy to listen.

* * * * *

“First dance, everyone,” Gregorio yelled. The crowd formed a heart around Ramon and Maggie, as the band began a sprightly tune.

Maggie smiled. “It seems that we are always dancing.”

Ramon's eyes shone. “The best times in my life have always been — and always will be — when you are in my arms.”

* * * * *

“Can you believe all this spicy food?” Laura asked Arsenio. “The rice, the beans, even the chicken tortillas are all as hot as anything Maggie ever cooked.”

Arsenio shrugged. “It’s good, though, and that — what’d they call it — sangria helps cool the mouth.”

“Just don’t drink too much. I’ll need you to walk me home.”

“You getting drunk?”

“I don’t dare, not with the baby. I can’t even eat too much because of the spices.”

“Then watch out for the wedding cake. Jane told me it’s a fruitcake soaked in rum.”

“No wonder everybody’s so happy at a Mexican wedding, what with all the alcohol.”

“They’re happy because weddings are a happy thing.” He kissed her cheek. “Mine certainly was.”

She kissed him back. “Mmm, so was mine.”

* * * * *

“Well, Molly, Love,” Shamus said with an air of satisfaction, “we’ve come to the end of yet another part of the tale.”

Molly smiled back at her husband. “Aye, and quite a full part it was, too, with all them new people and so many things happening.”

“A few things got finished and more got started. ‘Tis no wonder it takes so long for Ellie and Chris t’be spinning their yarn.”

“And now they get thuir reward. They get t’be seeing what all them readers think of thuir work. At least, I hope they do. Getting feedback from the readers, that’s the only sort of pay they get for all thuir hard work on these stories.”

“And they’ve more work ahead o’them, what with all that happens in the next part. With that poltroon Forry Stafford coming t’town, and what that--that… _minister_ does.” Shamus said “minister” as if it were an insult. “‘Tis dark times, they’ll be writing about.”

“Aye, but happy times, too, like Laura’s baby, and… and don’t ye be starting t’tell spoilers, Shamus O’Toole,” Molly scolded.

“Mollie, Love, I’ve far better things t’be doing then spoiling the story.” He kissed her cheek. “And why don’t ye and me be doing it, while the readers finish thuir reading and write all them comments t’Ellie and Chris.”

With a final wink to the readers, Shamus took Molly by the hand and led her up to their room.

The End — For Now