A Fragment of Something
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
I had this idea of a scene. This was a definite gargoyle, something that had to be written.
Only I don’t know what came before or after. As an experiment, I’m posting it that way. You tell me what happened. I may even write out the best notion.
And list the person(s) whose idea(s) I use as co-author(s).
A Fragment of Something
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
* * * * *
I was just outside of the range when the – call it a bomb, I don’t know what it really was – went off. I was lucky.
Theo wasn’t. The blast hit him close up. He staggered back. His clothes were shredded rags hanging on him. He’d thrown his arm up to shield his face, his eyes. His sweatshirt was a few strips, blackened by the effect. His pants were just as bad.
He leaned against a wall, stunned by the thing.
Then he began to change. He got smaller. I saw his head move against the bricks until it was maybe six inches lower to the ground. He was thinner, too. I could see it on the arm in front of his face. And on his chest. Theo was a jock. He ran; he lifted weights. He was all muscle.
Was all muscle.
That was gone. He was skinny, now skinnier than me. The same with his legs. They were like matchsticks compared to what they had been. His pants – what was left of them – were so big on him now that they slipped down some, and he had to grab them, hold them with one hand, so they wouldn’t fall off. Even his face got thinner. It was like something was sucking the muscle out of him.
Then he saw me. “Jeff,” he yelled. “Stay back. I don’t know what happened, but I…” He shook his head. “Something’s going on in- inside me.” His voice cracked, like he was a kid.
I wanted to go to him – to help him; honest I did, but I was scared, scared that whatever was happening to him might happen to me, too. So I stayed back like he said and watched.
He moaned in that higher voice of his. “Hurts… it hurts. It – I said stay away, Jeff.” He sounded like a kid now. His voice was scratchy. And it was getting higher still.
The muscle started to come back. He had some meat on those bones of his again. But different meat. He seemed to be getting curves, a girl’s curves, in his legs. ZZ-Top sort of legs.
He didn’t have to hold up his pants anymore. His hips got so wide, they couldn’t fall down. He let go and started grabbing at his crotch, real frantic like, for a minute or so. When he stopped, he looked over at me with the most scared expression I ever saw on his face. Joe boxed. He skied. He wasn’t afraid of nothing.
Till now. Like I said, he was looking straight at me. He was scared. Then he looked like he wanted to cry. “It’s… gone,” he said in a soft voice; just loud enough for me to hear.
I didn’t know; not for sure. Hell, I didn’t want to know what was gone. I had a pretty good idea, though, but I hoped I was wrong.
I don’t think I was, because now his arms were more supple. His fingers looked longer, thinner. I could see pushing out front of the ruined scraps of his sweatshirt. Tits; they couldn’t be anything else. His nipples got bigger; they poked out, too, and I could see the mounds growing on his chest.
He must’ve felt them. He stared down at them. His hands shot to where they were. It seemed like he was trying to push them back in. But then his movements changed. G-dammit, he was rubbing them! He moaned again. His voice was definitely a girl’s now.
And his face was changing. His nose shrank some, and his lips got fuller. The way his was standing, with his mouth like that, it was almost like he wanted me to kiss him. His hair was growing as I watched, over his ears and down around his shoulders. It got lighter as it got longer. By the time it stopped, his dark brown hair was a golden blonde.
He moaned again. Should I call him a he? She certainly didn’t look like one. Anyway, she moaned. She got a funny sort of smile on her face, and she sort of slid down till she was lying on the ground on her back. I got a look at her ass; nice and round. She was packing.
She moaned some more and spread her legs wide apart. “No,” she shouted. “Please… please, no.” Her arms were flailing around. Her head rocked back and forth. She tried to talk some more, but all she could do was gasp. “Oh… Oh… N-No...”
It sure looked like somebody or something was fucking her. Her legs jerked some, and her hips began to move. Her moans changed. “No… no-n-n-yes… Yes... Yes… Oh, G-d, Yes!” Her back was arched, and her hips were bucking. “YEESSSSS!” she screamed.
She collapsed on the ground. Panting like she’d just run ten miles; gasping. I watched her breasts moving as she caught her breath, and, dammit, I got a hard-on.
“Jeff?” She rolled over on her side and looked towards me again. She was smiling now, a… a hungry sort of smile. “You can over now. I’m… done.”
“What do you mean ‘done’, Theo?”
She giggled. It was low and sexy, and I got even harder. “I’m a girl now; inside and out. Body and mind, too, I guess.” Her head shifted. She wasn’t looking at my face any more. She was staring at that tent in my pants. “Mmmm, especially in my body.”
“Help me up, please.” She offered a delicate hand. Then she giggled again. “Unless you want to do me right here.”
I took her hand and pulled her to her feet. She pressed close to me. Very close. I could feel her tits pushing against my chest; feel her groin rubbing – rubbing hard against my crotch. What the hell. “No,” I told her, “let’s go back to my place. Only plans have changed. I don’t think we’ll be watching those porn videos I downloaded.”
“We won’t.”
“Nope; we’ll be making our own.”
“Goody!” She threw her arms up around my shoulders and kissed me. Her tongue slithered into my mouth and started dueling with my own. And she was doing that “rubbing her new pussy against my hard-on” thing that was really getting to me.
It was fun, but after a minute or three I made her stop. My bed beat the hell out of the street as a spot for trying out that new pussy of hers. I had other plans for her tongue, too, once we got someplace where I could take my own pants off.
This is the second of three stories about Magee’s, a neighborhood bar with a most unusual owner. When Jim and Don decide to steal a valuable display item, they find out just how unusual.
This story is a .pdf file -- which has been attached, sorry -- to allow for the experimental formatting. Story #3 gets posted after I see at least three comments.
And, in response to someone's question, Magee's is not an open universe. Sorry.
Attachment | Size |
---|---|
A Night at Magee-s Face the Music.pdf | 106.26 KB |
On a truly rotten day, Paul Jeffers makes a wish that changes everything for the better.
A Simple Wish
By Ellie Dauber
It was a lovely warm summer afternoon, so Paul Jeffers decided to walk through the park.
He didn't feel like going home anyway. There was nobody waiting for him. Besides, sitting at home would only remind him that he'd just been fired.
Again.
He'd tried to make a go of the job, but things had just seemed to work against him. They always did. At forty-one, he was a man without friends or prospects. "People just don't seem to take to me," he thought.
Paul saw a stray dog walking up ahead of him. It seemed friendly, so he leaned over and made a motion towards it. "Here, boy," he said. The dog walked a few feet towards him. Then it stopped and sniffed the air in his direction. It growled and ran off. "Even dogs," he thought.
He sat on a nearby bench and pulled a folded newspaper out of his jacket pocket. Paul thought he might as well get a start on finding a new job. Then he realized that he'd tossed away the classified section at lunch time. Just an hour or so before his boss had called him into the office and fired him. He left the paper on the bench and moved on.
Paul turned down a narrow path that he didn't recognize. "Must have put it in when they planted all those trees last year," he thought. The path was quiet and cool, bordered by trees on both sides. It ended after a couple blocks at an old brick well. A "Wishing Well" according to the sign perched on top. Under those words was a notice that all money tossed in the well went to the city's orphanage.
Paul thought he could manage a quarter for a good cause. First, he thought about wishing for a new job. Then he realized that what he really wanted was a life. He thought about the friends, the family he didn't have, and he wished that he could have them. Even if he was such a loser that he didn't really deserve anybody.
"I wish," he said, "I wish that there was a woman out there who would love me for myself.” He tossed in a coin.
His quarter was the 10,000th coin, tossed in for a good cause with an unselfish wish. The powers that rule over such things decided to grant the wish, although not exactly as Paul might expect.
As soon as the coin hit the water, Paul felt himself beginning to change. He grew smaller losing almost a foot in height and all of the excess weight that he'd put on since college. His body grew almost hairless. He was slim as muscle was replaced with sleek curves. Two breasts grew out from his chest, going in minutes from non-existent to 36-B. His hips widened and his ass curved. His masculine "pride" shrank down and changed into a woman's genitals.
Paul's hair grew down to his shoulders, going from sandy brown to a blonde with reddish highlights. His chin narrowed and his nose grew smaller. His lips were fuller though, and his eyebrows thinned to a pair of narrow arcs. His hands and feet grew smaller, while his fingernails added an extra half inch.
Now his clothes changed. His shoes became a pair of low heels, while his socks climbed up his leg to join as a pair of pantyhose. His slacks fused together into a skirt that stopped just above the knee. The tailoring of his jacket changed to a lady's business suit, and his shirt and tie became a silk blouse and brightly colored scarf. His jockey shorts and T-shirt transformed into a Victoria's Secret bra and panty set. His wristwatch was now a woman's watch with a matching silver and turquoise bracelet on the other wrist.
Make-up, expertly done, appeared on his face. His ears were now pierced, with a pair of ear rings that matched the bracelet hanging from them. His nails were polished a dark red.
Paul's mind changed as much as his body. He had the knowledge now of how to carry himself as a woman, to walk, talk, and act as if he had always been one. He had new memories now, too. He knew that he had been Paul Jeffers. But now he also remembered Paula Jeffers, a twenty-five year old sales representative with the same company, the same job, in fact, that Paul had just been fired from. Only Paula was on her way up, not out. She was known for her ability to get people to like her, both her co-workers and her customers, and it was the general opinion that she was firmly on the executive track and likely to be a Vice President within five years.
The difference was not the change in gender or in age. Paul had wished for a woman who truly loved him for himself. He was now that woman. The man he had been, filled with self-loathing, no longer existed. That was the real wish, and it had been granted. Paula was happy with who she was. She enjoyed her life and saw every day as a new opportunity.
It made all the difference.
FINIS
Two Simple Wishes
by Ellie Dauber (c) 2000.
This story is set in the same universe as my story "A Simple Wish." Is it a new universe? No, unless I write a few more such stories.
As you can see from the copyright, this was written some time ago. It's a gargoyle written as a rest and while I was working on "A Punk's Story." Sometimes, when I'm stuck in working out one story, I get the idea for another and use that as a sort of mental refresher. Other times, a new story idea gets stuck in my mind, and I can't get back to the piece I was working on until I write the newer one.
This is the tale of two childhood friends who drifted apart after the boy got a lot luckier in the lottery pool that is puberty than his female friend. The boy's father manipulates them but together, but it does manage to work out.
Two Simple Wishes
by Ellie Dauber (c) 2000
"Oh, Reg, this park is so romantic." Kathy Thomason looked up at her escort, Reg Harman, and sighed. She'd had a crush on Reg since they were in grade school together. They'd been friends back then, but he'd all but ignored her in the years since.
Then, out of nowhere, he'd called and invited her to join him for a picnic in the park. She had other plans; a term paper for Honors English was due in three days, but that could wait. Anything could wait if she was going on a picnic with Reg.
She smiled and leaned on his arm. He was almost a foot taller than her own 5 foot 4 frame, and most of it was muscle. Reg wasn't very smart, but he was a three-letter man: football, basketball, and track, and among the most popular boys in school. 'Among the most handsome, too,' she thought.
Kathy, on the other hand, had few friends. Smart girls didn't, unless they had a fashion sense, or were pretty, or had learned how to hide their brains inside their bras. Her family had money, but she wasn't about to buy herself any friends. The cost -- the real cost -- was much too high.
"Let's go down this way," Reg said, turning down a narrow trail Kathy didn't recognize. 'That was close,' he thought. He's seen a couple of guys from school up ahead. The last thing that he wanted was to be seen with "Stick" Thomason. She wasn't really a bad kid, but he didn't want anybody to think he was desperate enough to actually be interested in her.
"Stick" was a skinny runt, with the figure of a twelve-year old. She still wore her hair in braids, for Pete's sake, and she dressed like something from one of those 50s sitcoms they showed on Nick At Night. He was only doing this for his dad.
* * * * *
Jared Harman was trying to leverage a major loan from the Citizen's Commerce Bank, Andrew Thomason President. Thomason wasn't as eager to make the loan as Harman would have liked. So Harman tried to "schmooze" by reminding Thomason how long their families had been friends.
"That's right," Mr. Thomason said. "Why your son and my daughter used to be great friends."
"I'm sure that they still are," Mr. Harman said. "Why my Reg was just talking about your Kar... Kathy just the other day."
"Really? I don't remember her mentioning him for some time now."
"Yes, well, umm, Reg was saying that he hadn't seen your Kathy in a while, and that he was thinking about taking her out to catch up on old times."
"I think that she'd like that. You tell him to call over the weekend. We have a meeting next Thursday. They can catch up on old times, and we can finalize that loan." Nothing more was said, but the implication was real: no date, no loan."
It took two days of arguing for Harman to get Reg to agree to the date. Reg was sympathetic to his father's problem, but date "The Stick"? He'd be a laughing stock if anybody saw them together.
Eventually, Reg was willing to risk being a laughing stock. He changed his mind the minute his father put the plane ticket to Vail and the faxed hotel and ski lift reservations on the table. Visions of a Christmas break with deep powder slopes by day and snow bunnies in a hot tub at night made him a lot more receptive to his father's point of view.
* * * * *
Reg looked around as they walked down the path, Kathy still on his arm. "I don't remember ever seeing this trail, Kathy. Do you?"
She looked around. "No, and we played in this park all the time when we were kids. Remember?"
"Yeah, I do." He felt a little guilty about how he must be leading her on. "Maybe they put it in last year, when they planted all those trees."
"I guess. So tell me, Reg, why did you actually call me up and invite me on this picnic?"
"I, umm, I just thought I -- I mean, umm, we could catch up on old times."
"Right, and I'm going to be homecoming queen next fall. C'mon, for the sake of our old friendship, please tell me the truth."
"That is the truth. Honest.
"Say 'Honest, Pocohontest', and I'll believe you, Reg." It was a game they had made up when they were seven. It meant that they were absolutely telling the truth to one another as best friends.
Reg had been thinking about sailing down the slope at Vail. Now he felt like he'd hit a tree at 80 miles an hour. Okay, she wasn't popular, and she wasn't much to look at, but "The Stick" -- Kathy -- had been his best friend once. "I -- Kathy, I can't. My dad put me up to it. He's trying to cut a deal with your dad's bank, and your dad made it a condition of the loan."
"My dad -- My dad had to b-bribe someb-body to g-get me a d-date?" She was sobbing. "Am I... Am I really th-that h-horrible?"
"No, it's just -- well, you're not exactly the sort of girl I usually date. Look, I'm sorry. If you want, I'll take you home right now."
"No, no. I'm okay, I guess. I knew this date wasn't on the level, but I wanted so badly to be like all the other girls, even if it was rigged. Could we at least be friends?"
"I guess so, and I am sorry that I hurt you."
They walked further down the path, neither saying a word. It was quiet. There was no one else around, and they could barely hear the noises from the rest of the park. The path curved a bit, then ended at an old brick well. Most of the path was thickly bordered with trees on both sides, but there was a small clearing with a table near the well.
Reg put the picnic basket, he was carrying, on the table and began to unpack it, while Kathy wandered over to look at the well. "Hey, Reg," she called over, "it's a wishing well."
Reg walked over to her. "Yeah; the sign says any money tossed in goes to the city orphanage. I hear they're trying to raise some money right now to buy sports equipment for the kids." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of quarters.
"Sounds like a good cause to me," Kathy said. She opened her purse and took out some change. "What'll we wish for?"
"Shh! Don't tell or the wish won't be granted."
They both closed their eyes and tossed the money into the old brick well.
'I wish Kathy was sexier,' Reg thought, still feeling guilty for what he had done to her.
"I wish Reg could really love me for myself," Kathy thought, "the way I love him."
* * * * *
An unselfish wish from a selfish boy and a wish for a requiting of unrequited love, the Powers that Ruled the Well chose to grant the wishes, but in their own way.
Kathy felt and odd tingle and looked down and saw that she was growing taller, more muscular. There was hair on her now tanned arms and legs. Her shoulders grew broader. Her small A-cup breasts flattened out into hard pectoral muscles. Her waist thickened, and she lost the soft feminine curve to her hips. The muscles corded on her legs. She looked down and saw something else, something growing pushing out her panties, pushing out the front of her dress. Her -- no, his erection, if he'd measured it, was over eight inches long.
Kathy now had a square manly jaw with just a trace of stubble. His nose was a bit larger, and his eyebrows had grown bushy. The mousy brown hair that had hung down to her shoulders was now a mass of dark brown hair in a razor cut that made him look even more rugged.
Her clothes had merely altered in size to fit his new body, but now they began to change. Sandals lost their heels and thickened into a pair of cross-trainers. His dress stretched down to his ankles before it separated to become a pair of boy's jeans. His cotton panties grew a slit as they transformed into a pair of boxers. His blouse reworked itself into a masculine cut, while the now-unnecessary bra became an undershirt. His earrings popped out of his ears and disappeared even as the piercings healed shut with no scar. Finally, the small amount of make-up he still wore faded as if it were erased.
Kathy Thomason had never been born. Keith Thomason stood where she had been a few minutes before, flexing his new muscles and reveling in the feeling of strength it gave him.
Reg Harman felt a fluttering in his stomach. Gosh, Keith was a real hunk. He shuddered at the thought, fearing that the magic that had changed the girl had somehow made him gay.
There was suddenly a tingling in his fingers that seemed to spread out rapidly through Reg's body. He looked down at his hands as they shrank in size, becoming small and delicate with long tapering fingers. Fingers whose nails grew a half-inch as a layer of pale pink polish appeared on them.
The hair dropped off his arms even as they became more slender, losing muscle mass that was vanishing or changing to a layer of fat. His entire body was thinner. He was shorter, too; much shorter. He actually had to look up at Keith now.
He felt a pressure on his chest, and when he looked down, he saw two mounds slowly inflate. His nipples, erect from his fear at the transformation, were now atop two tiny bumps beneath his T-shirt. That shirt was pushed out as C-cup breasts formed underneath. His waist grew narrow as his hips widened. His new figure stretched out his jeans as the curves of a woman formed.
Slender hands darted into his jeans and found his erection. Then they felt it slowly seem to melt away at his touch. In a moment, there was nothing left but a very sensitive vertical slit.
His face narrowed as his -- no, her -- jaw shrank. Her nose shrank, as well, gaining a pert upturn. Her eyebrows narrowed to thin trails of hair. Her own light brown hair grew longer now and curlier, with blonde highlights appearing as it became a mass of tight curls that reached just below her neck. The earrings that Kathy had worn now graced Reg’s newly pierced earlobes.
Her undershirt shrank down into a satiny bra that gave welcome support to her breasts, while her T-shirt changed from dark blue to a light pink. The collar widened a bit as a lacy trim appeared. Her jeans fused together and rose quickly up her legs to become a red skirt that stopped well above the knee. The briefs underneath reformed into a panty that matched her new bra. Her well-tanned legs needed no stockings, so her socks disappeared as her sneakers changed into a pair of strap sandals with a one-inch heel.
Rachel Harman knew, as Keith did, who they had been, but their old lives seemed unimportant now. It was as if they were the lives of two other people whom they had read about in some book.
Rachel smiled as she watched her boyfriend, Keith, stare at her pretty body. She felt her nipples tingling and she posed for him, turning this way and that, trying to look pretty, to look seductive.
Keith was the prize of the school, fullback on the football team, captain of the swim team, and, with it all, he had the fifth highest average in their class. She was junior class captain of the cheerleaders. They'd been friends since kindergarten and had been dating for more than two years.
And now his father was giving her dad the loan that was needed to expand their family business. Rachel was sure the project would be a big success. There'd be more than enough money for the big wedding they were planning for the week after they graduated. 'True love,' she thought. 'We were made for each other. He's everything I could ever wish for.'
I am Lito.
I am a berdache, man-woman shaman of the Sioux. I walk by night along the roadside in answer to a crow-summons from my clan chief. I am wanted at the clan home on the Black Mountains Reservation to the west. This is a tale from my journey.
I see lights, a pick-up truck, coming up behind me. I take a step farther from the road to hide in the darkness. It is too late. They have seen me. Most people would simply drive by. I sense that they decide to have some "fun" with me.
I can feel their minds. A sour emptiness eats at their souls. I know that I look like a man in woman's blouse and jeans. Men like these would call me "faggot." Men like these dragged a white "faggot" to his death behind their truck. I do not want to think what they would do to an "Injun faggot."
I draw the magics into me. I have done this so many, many times. My body shifts without protest. Maleness vanishes. It is a woman that now stands in their headlights. I am proud of my woman's body. My breasts are high and firm. My waist is narrow. My hips are rounded, the sort that could birth a score of babies.
The men see me clearly in their headlights now. The hate for anything different from themselves remains. But the desire to humiliate me has become a harsh, animal lust.
They pretend politeness and concern. It is cold. They have a heater in their truck. They have whiskey, too, to warm me from the inside. I say that I do not need their warmth. I do not need the whiskey to warm my body and numb my mind. I thank them and walk on. They become more insistent. How odd it is, that they speak of dangers on the road. It is they who are the danger.
When I refuse, I am forced into the truck. I do not struggle very hard. They expect some struggle. They enjoy what they see as my helplessness.
They have had their chance. I lay quietly and draw in the magic as they drive.
The truck pulls off the highway and onto a gravel road. There are not as many lines of magic here, but they pulse stronger away from the fumes of the highway. The truck pulls into a driveway and stops next to a small, darkened house. My captors are brothers. This is their home.
Two hundred years ago -- two hundred winters, my grandfather would have said -- this was all a sea of high grass. A great herd of buffalo, as many as the stars in the sky, roamed this prairie sea. I feel the last remnants of their shaggy spirits. One of the brothers throws me over a shoulder and carries me into the house.
I blink as the lights go on. The house is one large room. I see chairs, a couch, and an old TV. The kitchen is in one corner. The beds -- and when I look at them, the brothers laugh -- are in another.. The room is a midden, a garbage heap. It reeks of spoiled food and sweat and urine.
The brothers are little better. They are tall men, with muscles going to fat. Their dark brown hair is long and uncombed. They have not shaved or bathed in some time. The one who carried me tried to kiss me when he set me down. His breath smelled of garlic and worse.
"Now for some fun," that one says. He is Marlon, the older brother. The other is Dwayne. Marlon yanks off my jacket and tosses it on the couch. His greasy fingers pull at the buttons on my flannel blouse. Buttons pop as it rips open. I started this journey as a male. I wear nothing beneath the blouse. Marlon laughs. His hands roughly knead my breasts like a woman making bread.
"Please do not do this," I say. They do not deserve this last chance. I offer it out of charity.
"Don't be like that, babe," Dwayne says. "You'll like us once you get to know us." I have read their minds. I know them better than they know themselves. There is little to like.
I am wanted elsewhere. I cannot tarry with these men. "If I do what you want, will you let me go?" The bait is tossed.
They both agree. It is a lie. They have visions of keeping me through the winter. I will be sex slave and house servant for them. I have visions, too. Mine have power.
"Promise?" I ask. They raise their hands and make the "king's X" with a finger over their hearts. They have no hearts.
I nod my head. I pretend to be shy. I am like the prairie grass. It bends to the ground before the north wind. When the north wind is gone, the grass remains. My woman's feet are smaller than when I am a man. My boots come off easily. My socks are still in them.
The brothers smile when I unsnap my jeans. I slide them past my hips and let go. They fall to the ground. I step out of them. I am a berdache. My underwear is a pink, cotton panty. Dwayne giggles.
I walk towards the beds. My hips roll as I walk. "Who's first?" I ask.
"First born, first screw," Marlon says.
"Fuck that," Dwayne says. "Why should I get sloppy seconds?" The men glare at each other. Let them fight. Let them kill each other if they want. It would be simpler.
"Toss for it?" Marlon says. Dwayne nods. Marlon takes a coin from a pocket and tosses it into the air. "Call."
A coin, now I am truly angry. I push down my wasted pride.
"Tails," Dwayne says hopefully. The coin lands head up in Marlon's hand. "Fuck!" Dwayne says. That was what the coin decided. I laugh at the joke of it. The brothers do not understand my laughter.
"That there's my bed," Marlon says, pointing. I walk over and sit on the edge. Marlon kicks off his shoes and wriggles out of his own jeans. He sits down next to me. Dwayne sits on his own bed a few feet away.
Marlon grabs me by the shoulders. He pulls me to him. He kisses me. I gag from his breath. His tongue slides into my open mouth. Now I want his whiskey. It would kill the taste.
He finishes the kiss. He moves downward. He rubs his rough tongue across my left breast. He sucks my nipple. I feel his hand on my other breast. He squeezes it as if to see whether it is ripe. I distract myself by gathering in the magic for what I will do.
The groping stops. "I'm ready," he says. He pants like a pony. He pushes me back onto the bed. A hand grabs the waistband of my panty and pulls. The material rips away. I am naked. "Get yourself ready for some good lovin', Injun gal," Marlon shouts.
I am ready.
I release the magic. It flows into both men. It sucks up every bit of their maleness. Then it returns to me. I am male, very male. I am more than six feet tall. My muscles are the hard muscles of a warrior, not the softness of a berdache. My male organ is erect, thick, and very long.
They cannot move. It is a part of the magic. They are small now. Their faces are soft and pretty. Their new figures are lush with female curves. The arousal that they felt as men is still upon them. The room smells of female musk.
I push Marlon down onto the bed. He is wet and loose. I have no trouble entering him. There is fear and surprise in his eyes. I pump away. He screams and screams. The screams become moans of delight. He is moving with me now. His body trembles and bucks with orgasm after orgasm. My own pleasure builds. I grunt. My essence shoots into him.
I climb off of Marlon. He is weak from the exertion and from the pleasure. I touch his forehead. He cannot move.
I walk over to Dwayne. My warclub sways at my groin. I am hard again. He stands. In a trance, he removes his clothes. He lies back down on his bed. I climb atop him. He gets his "sloppy seconds." He screams in delight as his brother did.
Small magics clean me and repair my panty. I resume my normal form and dress. It is late. I am in a hurry. I leave their truck. They will still need it.
Marlon and Dwayne are now Marla and Dana. They are submissive women. Their aggression left them when their maleness left them. They will crave sex with men as others crave liquor or drugs. No one will mind that the brothers are gone and these two now live at the farm. The sisters will be most welcome at the bars, the pool halls, and the truck stops along the highway. They can never say who they were. They will make the long nights more tolerable for many, many men.
Marla and Dana will have much more respect for my Native American brethren. They will have more respect, as well, for the non-heterosexuals they encounter.
It is a small teaching, but it is an effective one.
That is what I do.
I am Lito, I am a berdache.
Tales of Elsbeth: Two Lessons Taught
by Ellie Dauber © 1999
Another old story of mine, the second adventure of Elsbeth Lange, introducing her husband Daniel Two Knives. Elsbeth teaches a lesson about life to a meddlesome religious zealot, and the two of them teach a lesson about sexuality to a rather boorish man.
Tales of Elsbeth: Two Lessons Taught
by Ellie Dauber © 1999
Elsbeth Lange parked her car in a reserved lot about a half block from the entrance to the Baghdad Casino and Resort Hotel in Reno, Nevada. She put the small placard that qualified her to park there on the car's mirror, took her purse from the seat, and got out of the car. She stayed on the shadier side of the street as she walked towards the casino entrance. The temperature was in the upper 90s. Even her cotton blouse and denim skirt were more than she would have preferred to be wearing in this heat.
A woman was standing in the shade just across the street from the casino entrance shouting at the passers-by through an electronic bullhorn.
"Repent, Sinners. Gambling is a sin, and the wages of sin are death." She turned and looked directly at Elsbeth. "Sister, yes, you in that denim dress, do not go into that evil place. Give up your wicked ways and return to the path of righteousness."
A man passing near Elsbeth said, "I think she's talking to you, Honey." He put his hand gently on her arm. "Of course, if you don't want to give up your wicked ways, my name's Hank, and I'd like to buy you a drink at the bar inside the casino."
Elsbeth shook her arm, dislodging the man's hand. She didn't mind him, so much. Actually, he was kind of cute, and he'd been a lot less grabby than some men were. In fact, when she shook her arm, he'd recognized the refusal, smiled slightly, tipped his hat, and walked away.
She did object to being singled out by this busybody. Public speech was a right, but so was the right to privacy. She decided to force the issue a little and walked over to the woman, who put down her bullhorn when she saw Elsbeth approach.
Elsbeth judged her to be in her late 30s. She was short and a bit on the chunky side. Her hair was a dull black color and pulled up on her head in a bun. She had on almost no make-up and was dressed in a mouse-brown dress, hose with a run in the right leg, and brown flats.
The woman smiled at Elsbeth and reached into a straw bag that hung by a cord from her shoulder. "Sister," she said, pulling out some papers. "I am so glad that you have chosen to heed my words. These tracts -- "
"I didn't come over to take any tracts," Elsbeth said. "If you want to stand on a corner and embarrass yourself, that's your right. But you have no right to single me or anybody else out for your self-righteous nonsense. Please don't do it anymore."
"'No right'! Oh, Sister, how little you know. I am of the Chosen of the Lord, sent here to denounce evil and lead Sinners like you to a better way. You should be joyful that I have taken an interest in your life and deemed you worthy to be saved."
"Who are you to judge me?"
"I am of the 'Chosen', but I can see that you are not." She picked up her bullhorn and began again. "My friends, do not be like this poor deluded woman. Reject the evil that surrounds us in this place. Those who do not seek the Light will be like this woman, this… harlot, condemned to dwell forever in the darkness."
"Harlot," Elsbeth said. Her eyes narrowed to slits and her fists clenched for a moment. She gestured quickly, casting a minor aversion spell on herself and the woman. They were still visible, but people would just feel compelled to look in another direction. It was almost as effective as an Invisibility spell but a lot less disruptive.
That done, she made a second gesture that froze the woman in place. She could speak, but she had no ability to move. "Now, why are you making such a big deal out of all this?"
The woman's eyes showed panic. She probably would have soiled herself if the spell allowed her body to do so. Instead she spoke in a low, almost emotionless voice. "Gambling, drink, sex. They're all evil. That's what my Mamma taught me, and that's Pastor Brooks says. He's smart. He knows.
Nobody likes me but Pastor Brooks, now that Mamma's dead. He says that he expects great things of me. He sent me here to test me. I want to prove myself to him, to show how much I love him and love the Lord."
Elsbeth's anger gave way to a great pity. This poor thing had no life except for some manipulative pastor. She deserved to be taught a lesson, but she deserved a chance to see how much fun life could be. Elsbeth's magic, being nature based, was more limited in such an urban place. She couldn't reweave reality, as she had done in the dessert, but she could transform body and mind. She gathered her energies and cast a spell. A ball of green force, purest Earth Mother magic, flew from her hands the short distance to the other woman's body. It flowed into her like a mist and began its work.
The woman saw the magic enter her body. Felt it flow to every part of her.
She said, "Help me, Pastor, help me" over and over until the magic reached her mind, and she was unable to continue.
Her hair turned thick and lustrous. The bun undid itself, and her hair settled about her neck in thick curls. Her face, her entire body grew thinner and younger. She looked to be barely in her 20s now. Her cheekbones became visible as the extra fat left her face. Her features hadn't looked bad before, but now there was a hint of definite beauty. Her eyebrows thinned, and her lips became fuller. She wore a bright red lipstick now and blusher on her cheeks. Mascara appeared on her lashes, and a gray eye shadow that made her now deep blue eyes look bigger and more mysterious. Long pearl earrings dangled down from each ear.
Her body became slender and firm, supple beneath the dress that shrank to fit her. Then the dress was pushed out again as her breasts and hips grew outward, giving her a decidedly feminine set of curves. The sleeves of her dress shortened, and then disappeared. The neckline grew lower to reveal much of her new 36-C breasts. They looked bigger on her short frame. The dress grew tight against her body hugging her new curves. The hem crept up past her calves, her knees, almost to her thighs, and changed color from mouse-brown to a golden yellow.
Her hands were more slender, her fingers a bit longer. Her nails were long and shaped, painted the same bright red as her lips. There was a pair of gold bracelets on her left wrist and a matching lady's watch on the right.
Her hose stopped sagging and changed to a smoky gray. The run on the one leg healed itself. Her flats grew a four inch spiked heel and changed color to match her dress. The straw purse became a small leather clutch, also in the same shade of yellow, and hanging from her shoulder by a thin leather strap. There was no room in that purse for any tracts, if they had still existed.
Elsbeth looked into the woman's eyes. There was still a sense of panic there, but there was something else as well. A curiosity about what had happened to her, and why she felt so good. "What's your name, dear?"
Elsbeth asked.
"Lizzy. Lizzy Mae Schultz."
"Hear me now, Lizzy. You are now Liz -- Liz Schuster. You can answer only to that name, now. If anyone asks, you work as a secretary in Los Angeles.”
“You can tell no one who you were or what I did to you. You came to Reno for a week's vacation; to have fun. You want to have fun. You want to have fun and meet men. You like men, and they like you. You will know who you are and what you have become, but it will not worry you."
Elsbeth reached into her own purse and pulled out her wallet. She concentrated for a moment and $500 transported from her wall safe at home to the wallet in her hand. It was a spell that she used often -- usually for shopping. She took out the money and handed it to Liz. "Here's enough money for the week. You will get a room and buy clothes; frilly, sexy clothes like you are wearing now. You like such clothes. You want to wear them. You want to have a good time wearing them. You know that men like to see you wearing such clothes, and you want to wear them for men to look at.”
“We will meet back here one week from today." She looked at her watch. "At 5: 30 PM. If you wish at that time, I will restore you to the way you were."
Elsbeth removed the aversion spell from Liz. In its place she put a nature spell that would protect her from disease or pregnancy. "Now go and see how much fun there is to life," she commanded.
Liz smiled and began walking towards the casino. She seemed shaky in her new heels for a moment, but that quickly passed. Elsbeth noted that, as Liz gained confidence in walking, she put more and more of a feminine strut into the walk. Her hips and ass began to sway with each step. There was little chance that she would lack for masculine attention or for male partners to have "fun" with in the week ahead. Whether she chose to change back or not after seeing how her life could be, would be Liz's own free choice, and Elsbeth would accept either decision.
Elsbeth wondered for a moment what the choice would be. She'd know in a week, and that was enough. She removed the last of the aversion spell from herself and followed Liz at a distance into the casino.
Daniel surprised her by actually being earlier. He was waiting for her just inside the doorway.
Elsbeth had met Daniel Two Knives about a month after she moved to Nevada.
At the Summer Solstice, they'd both been drawn to the same energy node, a narrow ridge about ten miles from the house that she'd rented. She'd been sitting on a rock watching the sunrise when she'd heard a noise a short distance away. She turned, pulling in the gathered power. The best way to store and shape the energy was to be "skyclad", nude. But a beautiful naked woman alone on a hill was just asking for trouble, and she was instantly ready to defend herself.
She saw a man only a few feet away. ‘How had he managed to sneak up on her?’ she thought. Then she sensed that he had come to gather power just as she had. She also saw that he was an American Indian, his long black hair held by the headband of a Navaho shaman. She knew that she was safe, since any attack on her would violate his religion and take away whatever power he might have as a medicine man.
Her appraisal went from the magical to the female. The man was about six-five and muscular, without an ounce of fat. He had the square jaw and chiseled features that looked out from the old photographs of the great war chiefs of one hundred years ago. He was slim and well muscled, with an athlete's body, but not muscle bound. His fingers were long and looked supple. He had a narrow waist and long, muscular legs. She also saw that he was appraising her at the same time. He was also nude, and his “appreciation” of Elsbeth was both visible and impressive.
"You come here often," he asked with a wide grin.
"Just moved here from New England. I think we're both here for the same thing, to gather the force that comes at the moment of solstice. I'm a Wiccan; Elsbeth Lange." She put out her hand and shook his.
"The owl told me there was somebody new in the neighborhood. He didn't say how pretty she was. Owls never give you the important information. I'm Daniel, Daniel Two Knives. Welcome. If you promise to practice, I'll let you try to pronounce the Navaho version someday."
"Daniel's fine."
Their courtship, begun at the Summer Solstice, ended three months later with a wedding at the Autumn Equinox. They married on the ridge where they met in a ceremony conducted by his uncle, the tribal president, and her great aunt, head of the grand coven. They had a civil ceremony in Reno on their honeymoon. Daniel was also Dr. Daniel Two Knives, M.D. Part of his practice was being one of the on-call physicians for one of the casinos, which gave the happy couple a week in one of the smaller bridal suites at a good discount off the regular rate.
This was their two-year anniversary. Daniel was on-call that evening, so he couldn't come home to celebrate. But he did have the run of the hotel.
They planned on a quiet supper, maybe a show, and then a lively at-length re-consummation of their marital vows. All, hopefully, not interrupted by any sort of medical emergency.
So far, things had gone well. The meal was excellent, steak, potatoes, and an excellent wine for two. Elsbeth told Daniel about the policeman. [See my story “The Ticket.”] "He must have really gotten you upset," Daniel said. "You seldom can summon the power to actually warp reality."
"I really hadn't meant to. I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Make him act like the sort of bimbo he thought women were. But I could tell that I'd gone beyond that even as I cast the spell."
"Is it permanent?"
"The changes are, more so than the reality shift, anyway. In a few hours, the police will notice that they've got a missing trooper on their hands, and Stella won't be employed as a showgirl any more. She'll probably even remember who she used to be."
"Will she remember that it was you that changed her?"
"No, I don't think so. And she'll be compelled to continue to act like a bimbo. She'll be working as a showgirl or a waitress in no time; maybe doing a little hooking on the side. And all the time wondering what happened to her, and why she can't stop acting the way she is."
"Forever?"
"No. It should wear off in about a month. I sort of wish I could hear the explanation that Stan Kowalzak gives when he shows up at the station house the first day."
The dinner show started with the flourish of a trumpet before she could tell him about Liz Schuster. A comedian named "Happy" Daye came out. His act involved his dressing up as a woman. It was mostly a steal of a steal from an old Milton Berle routine, but it wasn't too bad. Elsbeth and Daniel laughed more than a few times while they finished their after dinner coffee.
In the middle of the routine there was a loud "You stink!" from two tables way.
Elsbeth turned to see a slightly chunky man in his late thirties. He was overdressed in a tuxedo and didn't look too happy about it. He had also clearly had more alcohol than he needed. He spent the next couple of minutes shouting out insults at the comic, most on the level of "Fag", and "What kind of fairy gets up on stage in a dress?"
The maitre d' finally quieted him down by threatening to have him thrown out. He lowered his voice, but Elsbeth and Daniel -- having better hearing than most -- had to suffer through his mutterings for the rest of the act.
"I have an idea," Daniel finally said. "You know what a berdache is, don't you?"
"Sure, it's a man -- usually a shaman -- who dresses – who thinks like a woman."
"Let's see about turning this guy into a… reverse berdache."
"You mean a woman who -- oh, Daniel, can you do it without him noticing?"
"I think so." Daniel reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch folded over and tied with white rawhide. He loosened the straps and unfolded it on the table. He took out a small packet of gray paper and poured a silvery dust onto his hand. He closed his eyes and chanted softly for a moment, then raised his hand near his mouth and blew it in the direction of the drunk two tables away.
A moment later, the man suddenly jerked in his chair. Daniel and Elsbeth half closed their eyes and focused on the man's aura. It was pulsing green with gold specks, the sign of a healthy male. The specks were a bit off color from the effects of the alcohol on his system. In one spot near his chest, there was a bluish ooze that was gradually sinking into the aura.
This was the transformation dust being absorbed into his body. The blueness disappeared in a few moments. Then gradually, the aura changed from green to orange. There was no visible change, but they knew that the man was now completely female.
Elsbeth tried to visualize what had happened as the spell took effect.
Part of the spell was that no one be able to tell that there was any difference. The included the victim him -- now herself. She had felt no changes in her body, and she wouldn't know that anything was different until she took off her clothes.
Her hair was long enough that it could be styled as either a man or a woman, so there was no change there. Her face did seem to be a little thinner, but it was hard to tell from that distance.
The tux still fit perfectly. As her body slimmed and breasts developed, her t-shirt must have changed into one of those padded muscle men shirts, with the padding of the shirt expanding to perfectly match the loss in body size. The man she had been hadn't looked very much at home in a tux, so she probably would just write off the discomfort of the padding as the demands of the tux.
There was probably padding around her waist, too, the discomfort hidden by the tightness of the cumberbun. Elsbeth wondered if she still had on boxers, or if those had become a pair of woman's panties. The biggest surprise would come when she reached in for her penis and found a padded sock.
The shoes were probably padded, too, so they wouldn't slip off the smaller woman's feet. They also probably had lifts for height.
He -- now she -- was still talking loud enough for Elsbeth and Daniel to hear. It was a bit of surprise that her voice didn't change. Some women do have fairly husky voices. Others can fake a deeper voice, if they try. She probably now was subconsciously forcing herself to talk in the male range.
She leaned over and kissed Daniel lightly on the cheek. "My compliments, sir, on a successful bit of magic and on your wicked sense of humor. Do you think we'll get to know what happens when she notices the changes?"
"That should be part of the fun," Daniel said. "I'm physician on-call here at the hotel tonight, remember. I think that a woman dressed in a man's tux and screaming hysterically that she's really a man is the sort of thing that I'll get beeped for."
He signaled for his check and initialed it. Since he was on-call, the meal would be free. He did leave a tip for the waiter. Then he stood up and took Elsbeth's hand. "Until then, Tony Bennett's performing in the Main Room. Care to see the show?"
Elsbeth nodded as she stood up, and they headed to listen to one of her favorite singers. At one point during the show, she saw the new Liz Schuster sitting at a table holding hands with a rather handsome man in a sequined Western shirt. Liz definitely seemed to be enjoying herself. When Elsbeth looked in that direction a bit later, the table was empty. Elsbeth smiled knowingly.
Daniel kept a small room in the casino's hotel for the couple nights each week that he had to stay in town. Since his office was nearby, and he doubled as one of the casino's on-call doctors, the room was permanently reserved in his name at no charge for his on-call nights. Elsbeth and Daniel were on their way back to the room after the show, when his beeper buzzed. He looked at it for a moment as they got into the "staff" elevator. "Medical emergency on fifteen. Do you want to come along, or do you want to go back to the room and wait for me?"
Elsbeth smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "You're sweet, but I'd like to come along, if I may. That way, I'll know how long you'll be, and how much time I'll have to get ready."
Daniel reached over and pressed the button for fifteen. Then he set down the small medical bag he always carried when on duty and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her towards him. "You were born ready," he said. "That's one of the many things I love about you." He kissed her, a long, meaningful kiss.
Elsbeth would have liked to take the matter a little -- hell, a lot further. But the doors opened on fifteen. Duty called. Daniel strode down the hall to 1523 while Elsbeth tried to keep up. Matt Asner from the hotel's night security was waiting at the door. Asner was a burly man in his fifties, who'd joined hotel security after twenty years on the police. He ran his fingers, thick as cigars, through his closely cropped red hair in relief when he saw them approach.
"Got this crazy call about ten minutes ago. Voice sounded like a man's one minute, a woman's the next, screaming that she'd been hoodooed. I came up to check. What I saw -- well, I called down and had them beep whatever doc was on call tonight. I'm glad it's you, and that Elsbeth's with you. This may call for a woman's touch." He unlocked the door and let the three of them into the room, then closed it behind them.
A figure was sitting on the bed crying softly, the drunk from the restaurant. The tuxedo jacket and tie were casually tossed over a chair, her shirt was ripped open revealing the padding beneath. The padding went halfway down both arms. Past the end of the muscle shirt, her arms were slender and hairless. The shirt was torn open, revealing a pair of 34-B breasts.
Her pants were down around her ankles. Elsbeth had guessed correctly. She was wearing a pair of lacy, lavender, French cut panties. There was a balled up gym sock next to her on the bed.
"Ma'am," Daniel said innocently. "I'm Dr. Two Knives. What seems to be the problem?"
The new woman looked up. "That's what's the matter. I'm not a 'Ma'am'.
I'm a man. My name is Ray Martinsohn. Somehow tonight -- somehow, I changed into this."
"I'm not sure that I understand. Are you saying that somebody waved his magic wand and turned a man into a girl. Ma'am, this is the Twentieth Century."
Elsbeth covered her mouth to suppress a laugh. Daniel was using the same poker face that made him a fairly steady winner in the local medical society game most Thursday nights.
"I know that, but it's true. Look at my wallet over there." She pointed to a wallet and key case on the desk near the door. "My ID says I'm Ray Martinsohn, a married man from Phoenix with a wife and a kid. I'm here for a regional sales conference of Ajax Electronics."
Asner picked up the wallet and looked inside. It's Mr. Martinsohn's ID alright, and that's the name the Front Desk gave me for this room. You look a lot like him, too."
"I am him, dammit!"
"Look, lady. I'm not sure what's going on here, but men aren't women -- thank heavens. I'm beginning to think that this might be a police matter, maybe even a government matter. The ID for Ajax shows some kind of military security clearance."
"I'm a Senior Project Engineer. A couple of the things that I work on are for the Army. I'm here to talk to some of the sales staff about trying to sell de-classified technology to the private sector."
"Maybe so. But military security is something that I don't mess with. I'd like Doc Two Knives here to check you out. Then we'll call see if we can't get this straightened out. You'd better get dressed when the doc's finished. You may be going out."
Martinsohn paled. Daniel turned to Matt, "Would you mind waiting in the hall while I examine my patient in private?" Matt nodded and left the room. "Ms. Martinsohn -- "
"I'm not a Ms!"
"All right, Mr. Martinsohn, this is my wife, Elsbeth. She's a trained nurse who'll assist me. Would you please undress down to your -- um -- underwear?"
Martinsohn stood up. Her pants were already at her ankles. She stepped out of them, leaving her shoes behind as well. She took off the remnants of her shirt, and then struggled with the torn muscle shirt beneath. In a moment, she sat back down on the bed, a rather attractive woman in her early 30s wearing only her panties and a pair of men's socks.
Daniel made a quick gesture and Martinsohn's eyes glazed over. She stared into space in a deep trance. Daniel turned to Elsbeth. "I hadn't figured on this security nonsense. The spell has about forty hours left to run.
Any suggestions?"
"Ask if anybody here in town knows him."
"Hear me, Ray Martinsohn," Daniel said, "and answer truly and completely.
Is there anyone whom you are to meet tomorrow who knows you?"
"No," Martinsohn said in a low voice empty of any emotion. "I was only recently promoted. I've mostly worked in the labs or with other engineers.
No one from sales knows me, and all of the engineers at the meeting are from other projects."
"In that case, Ms. Martinsohn, this is your big debut." Daniel said.
"Elsbeth, hon, can you handle the ID and clothes, while I do the reprogramming?"
"Okay," Elsbeth said. She walked over and picked up the wallet. "What's her new name?"
"Make it easy. R-A-Y to R-A-E, short for Rachel."
Daniel turned back to Martinsohn. "Hear me now, Ray Martinsohn. You will stand and walk over to the mirror." The woman stood and slowly walked over to the mirrored door to the bathroom.
"What do you see in the mirror?"
"A woman."
"That is you standing in the mirror." Martinsohn shook her head in denial, but Daniel continued. "You know that you are truly a man, but you now have the body of a woman. You are now Rachel Martinsohn, "Rae" for short. That is the only name that you will answer to. You will be compelled at all times to act and to react entirely as a woman would. Your male self will stay within you. He will know all that is happening, but he will be unable to control your actions in any way."
Daniel turned away from Martinsohn. "Are the clothes ready, Hon?" he asked Elsbeth. She nodded. It had taken only a few minutes to change Martinsohn's wardrobe from masculine to feminine attire. He hadn't been a very sharp dresser as a male, though, and Elsbeth had taken the liberty of glamorizing several outfits as they transformed. She'd also created a purse and a small assortment of make-ups for the new woman to wear. Martinsohn's identification, including the security pass had also been changed to reflect her new status.
"When I awaken you, you will have no memory of Elsbeth and I other than as the doctor and his wife who came to your room when the hotel man called.
You will explain that you had dressed as a man because you were not confident enough to meet the people that you are in town to speak to as a woman. But you had an anxiety attack, and began screaming at yourself.
You'll apologize to us and to Mr. Asner."
"Can she hear me," Elsbeth asked.
"If I tell her to." He paused a moment. "Ray -- or Rae -- Martinsohn, you can hear the voice of my wife, and you will obey her as you would me."
"After we've left, you will be compelled to put on stockings and make-up.
Then you will put on this dress." She showed a rather revealing evening dress to Martinsohn; then draped it over the back of a chair. It had been a pair of work slacks and a short sleeve shirt, but they had been transformed into a deep purples sleeveless dress cut low in the front and short enough that it would stop a good four inches above Martinsohn's knees.
"You will go down to the Lounge and listen to the band for at least an hour. If anyone speaks to you, you will react as any young woman out for the evening would. That will include reacting to a man as if you were the attractive, heterosexual young woman you appear to be." She smiled and tossed Daniel Martinsohn's last piece of male clothing, a cotton t-shirt.
As he caught it, the shirt transformed, changing color to become a matching bra to Martinsohn's lavender panties. Then she tossed him an old white, flannel bathrobe, which changed into a yellow and rather pretty dressing gown.
"Now put on the clothing that the man is holding."
Martinsohn took the bra and put it on as if he had been wearing such garments for years. He wrapped the dressing gown around him, pulling it tight at his slender waist.
Daniel and Elsbeth smiled at one another. The spell was a short one.
Martinsohn and all his clothes would revert back to normal in about 40 hours. But in the meantime, he would understand the compulsion some people have to act as if they were of the opposite sex. If nothing else, it would serve him right for disturbing their dinner. Just to add to the humiliation, Martinsohn would transform back about an hour before any of his clothes did. He would most likely be far away from the safety of his hotel room when it happened, and he'd have to get back as best he could in a woman's clothing.
"Elsbeth, go get a glass of water," Daniel said. Then he turned back to Martinsohn. "Sit on the bed." Martinsohn did. "Take the glass of water.
As you begin to drink, you will awaken. You will not remember that she and I did this to you. You will not remember our commands, though you will continue to obey them. You will know who you really are, but you will feel perfectly comfortable in the form of a woman."
Elsbeth returned and handed Martinsohn the glass. As he began to drink, his eyes flicked and consciousness returned.
"Are you feeling better now, dear?" Elsbeth asked.
Ray Martinsohn took a swallow as new memories sped into his mind. Somehow he'd become a woman. He'd panicked and raised such a fuss that the hotel had called this man, this doctor. He was feeling better now, and he found that he didn't want to tell them what had happened.
"Yes," he smiled shyly. "I'm kind of embarrassed about all this. I'm supposed to be meeting with a bunch of male engineers and some military types tomorrow -- my first time representing the company to people like that. I was so nervous that I got the crazy idea that if I dressed like a man, I'd do a better job. I even registered under a man's name."
"It's all right," Elsbeth said sympathetically. "We all get nervous and do dumb things once in a while. It's the way we are."
"Well, this was abusing the privilege. When I got a look at how dumb my 'disguise' was I just freaked, and somebody called the front desk, and they man they sent up called you. They're not going to throw me out, are they?"
"No," Daniel said. "I'll talk to Dan Asner, the hotel security man. There's a lot worse things happened in this place. There shouldn't be any problem." He turned to close his bag and gave Elsbeth a conspiratorial wink. "Would you like me to give you something to help you sleep?"
Martinsohn thought about the offer for a moment. He'd surprised himself by coming up with such a convincing lie. The doctor and his wife actually believed him! His first thought was to take something. Maybe after a good night's sleep, he'd wake up as a man again.
But gradually that thought was overtaken by another. He looked like a beautiful woman. He wanted to see what it would be like to act like one.
He wanted to show off this new body in public and see how people reacted; see if anyone could possibly guess who he really was. "No, thank you. I'm feeling much better. I think I'd like to go downstairs, maybe listen to some music before I go to bed."
"All right then," Daniel said. "I'm on call all night. If you do decide that you need something, ask the front desk to page me." Daniel took Elsbeth by the arm and they walked to the hotel room door.
"Thank you again, Dr. Two Knives, Mrs. Two Knives. I'm sure I'll be fine."
Martinsohn could barely contain himself until they left. He saw the dress and he wanted to wear it. He knew somehow that there was a pair of matching shoes in the closet. He heard voices outside the door, the doctor talking to the hotel man. Then he heard the sound of footsteps disappearing down the hall.
Ray -- now Rae Martinsohn knew that he must be crazy. He should have been begging the doctor to help him turn back into a man. Instead, he'd lied to get rid of the doctor and his wife, so that he could go downstairs and enjoy the evening as a woman. The more he fought the impulse, the stronger it seemed to become.
Fingers trembling, he sat on the bed and pulled the carefully pulled a pair of pantyhose over his shapely new legs. The sensation of the sheer nylon against his leg excited him. He stood and took of the dressing gown. He wriggled into the dress, smoothing it down around his hips. He discovered that he liked the way it clung to his hips and how it made his legs seem to go on forever.
There were cosmetics on the table near his purse -- his purse; where had that come from? Martinsohn expertly applied lipstick and blusher. He smoothed in a purplish eye shadow that went well with the color of the dress and made his eyes look deep and inviting. Mascara thickened and curled his lashes.
There was a matching pair of shoes in the closet. They had three inch heels, and Martinsohn hesitated uncertain that he could manage such things. He put them on and took and experimental step, ready to catch himself if he fell.
It seemed almost natural, as easy as walking in flats. Better yet, he thought to himself, they make me walk in a more feminine manner, hips swaying invitingly. He actually giggled at the thought.
Ray Martinsohn made one last try at fighting the impulse. It was a halfhearted effort at best. Tonight he was Rae, and she wanted to have some fun. She put her key in her purse and headed out the door. It was a good thing that Ray Martinsohn had left a wake-up call at the front desk as soon as he got back from dinner and before he discovered the transformation that had occurred. About half an hour after Rae went downstairs, she would be dancing with a building contractor from New Mexico, and the call would take them both by surprise the next morning.
Daniel and Elsbeth went back to their own room to continue their anniversary celebration. They joined hands and cast a general spell of protection about the hotel. There were no accidents or serious illness in the hotel for the eight hours that the spell was in effect. Normally, they preferred to let life seek its own way, but they had very serious plans for what they wanted to take place that night. Distractions are, well, distracting.
* * * * *
Postscript
Liz Schuster is now working as a secretary/receptionist for an insurance company in Los Angeles. She is seriously dating the Assistance District Manager. And a couple of the salesmen and a stockbroker that she met at a party.
Rae Martinsohn returned to her masculine form in the middle of the shopping mall on the second floor of the hotel/resort complex. Ray narrowly avoided arrest, since his clothes did not revert until an hour after he did. He gave the scarf and earrings that he had just bought to his wife, Nora.
Their sex life is much better now. Ray knows a good deal more about how to physically please a woman, though he swears that he has never slept with any woman other than Nora. He's also gotten into the occasional role playing, including some transgender role playing, during sex.
The End
Aftermath
By Ellie Dauber © 2015
This story is based on a Lorna Samuels caption. Thanks, Lorna, for this one and for all your great work. This story first appeared (and can still be found) in the “Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes Mixed Tape.” I’m posting it separately, with Jenny North’s permission. There was no mention of the story in any of the reviews of that Mixed Tape, and I’d like to see what people thought of it. I thank Jenny for the opportunity to be part of her Mixed Tape and for her encouragement in letting me post it separately.
, * * * * *
Madam Souzcha gave Dennis a potion to help fool his buddy, Jim's, parents into thinking that Jim had a serious girl friend. But now that Jim's parents have left, she doesn't seem to be in any hurry to change Denise back.
* * * * *
Jim Thompkins sighed, as he turned the key to his apartment. ‘It would’ve been great,’ he thought, ‘but hardly fair.’ Then, as he came through the door, he saw Denise – Denise! – sitting on the couch, as if waiting for him.
“What… What the hell are you doing here?” He asked in surprise.
She looked up at the sound of his voice. “I live here, remember?”
“Yeah, but why… I mean… my folks left hours ago. Their plane’s somewhere over Kansas by now. You don’t have to be a girl for their sake, anymore.”
“It’s not for their sake, you bastard, it’s for yours.”
“Mine? What are you talking about? Didn’t Madame Souzcha --”
“No, Madame Souzcha didn’t.” She stood up and posed, gesturing with her right arm. “See!”
He took time to look and to enjoy looking. Denise was five foot seven of feminine curves, proudly displayed in a white summer dress spotted with big blue flowers. The dress was short enough to show plenty of leg, given delicious curve by the two-inch white heels she wore. It hugged her wide hips and narrow waist, and its low-cut sweetheart neckline showed the curve of her pert, pouty breasts. Above was a face framed by long, goleden blonde hair, with the full, kissable lips and deep, green eyes. “I see.” He tried hard not to smile, tried to look concerned. “What happened, and why is it my fault?”
“I headed to Souzcha’s place as soon as your folks’ plane took off. I told her they’d left, and that it was time for the elixir to turn me back into a man.”
“And…”
“And she said, ‘Venn you ask for stuff to turn you into girl to meet your friend’s family...” Denise was doing a not too bad imitation of the old woman’s Eastern European accent. “…Madame Souzcha look into crystal ball. You be happier as pretty girl. Your friend fall in love with you. He marry you, and you make sveet babies. Is good life, so I make strong potion – you never can change back.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know – you think I don’t know. I argued with her for over an hour. She said she was doing me – doing us both a big favor, and she’d never turn me back. She said…” Denise’s voice broke. “She said you were already in love with me.” She suddenly glared at him. “Are you… in love with me?”
"I… I don’t know. You’re a beautiful, very sexy woman. But you’re really Dennis Stahler, my best friend. Only… only Denny’s a guy. We’ve played on the same league basketball team, gone rock climbing… chased and bedded women together. I’m straight – we’re both straight; how can I be in love with you?”
She took a step towards him. “Prove it, then. Kiss me.”
“Are you crazy, Denny? I can’t kiss you.”
“Sure you can. You kissed me often enough when your folks were watching.”
“That was for them… pretending, and I don’t think either of us really liked it.” He had liked it -- a little – but he was hardly going to admit that he had.
“Then we won’t like it now. And we can go tell that crazy old bat that we didn’t like it, and she has to change me back.”
“Okay,” he said, feeling uncertain and not a little embarrassed. “How do we do it?”
“Hell, Jim, just do it!” She posed in place; her arms braced stiff against her sides, her lips in an exaggerated pucker.
He leaned forward, and his lips barely brushed against hers. “How was that?”
“Lousy. Hell, if you kissed real girls like that, you’d still be a virgin.
The insult stung. “Oh, yeah.” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him. Before she could protest, he took her head in his hands and kissed her fiercely.
“O-oh,” was all she could say as their lips met. A delicious warmth seemed to flow into her, flow through her. She was lit up from within. She knew, instinctively, that Jim was the source of these exquisite feelings, and she pressed up close to him, wanting more… please! more.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked when they broke the kiss. She blushed and shook her head, a shy smile curving those oh, so inviting lips.
“And this one will be even better.” He kissed her again.
The feelings came back. Stronger. Her breasts tingled, her nipples grew stiff, begging to be touched. And the feelings in her… her pussy were just as… intense.
Their arms moved, their hands exploring the contours of each other’s bodies. And they both knew, in that instant, that they didn’t want to be feeling this, to be touching the other’s clothing. They wanted to know what it was like for their naked bodies to be moving against each other, for him to be plunging into her.
Without another word, they ended the kiss and, holding hands, hurried to his bed.
* * * * *
The morning sunlight breaking through a set of shuttered blinds woke Jim up. He was in bed, nude, his happily also nude fiancé, Denise, sleeping next to him, her head resting on his chest. The “fiancé” part had happened after their second bout of lovemaking, and her gleeful “Yes!” had led to their third. He shifted, kissing her forehead in fond memory.
“Mmm, good morning,” she said, waking up. She looked up at him, and then down to their naked bodies. “I guess we won’t be going to Madame Souzcha’s after all. She gave him a happy, sated smile.
He smiled back and began to play with her left nipple. “Sure we will – but later – I want -- I think that we both want -- to thank her.”
Altered Fates: The Birthing
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2007
A short interlude that I’m posting in honor of the PBS series Wolf Hall about Thomas Cromwell, the chief minister to Henry VIII.
* * * * *
"Tansie," Alyson Palmer yelled. "Get Her Majesty some more spiced wine."
"Yes'm." Tansie Nutter ran over to pour the wine. She was outwardly obedient to the midwife, but her thoughts were far different. 'Her Majesty... the king's slut'd be more like it. It ain't fair that she's having such an easy time of it, when the queen wore herself out like she done. All them pregnancies and only one wee girl that lives.'
She brought over the cup and handed it to Alyson. "Here, Your Majesty." Alyson held the cup to the woman's mouth, and she leaned forward to drink. "Just a sip at a time," Alyson added.
The pregnant queen's eyes were clenched almost shut from the pain of childbirth. She was covered with sweat that matted her auburn hair to her head. "A sip," she repeated. She took barely a mouthful and let it trickle slowly down her throat. She had barely finished when another contraction hit. She screamed in pain and sank back onto the bed.
"He's coming," the midwife announced. "I can see the top of his head; red hair, just like his father."
Ten years of miscarriages, still births, and infant deaths had soured the king on his wife. When a woman some years his junior, vital, very sexual, and willing had come to the court, His Majesty had moved Heaven and Hell to divorce the queen and take a new wife. He'd managed, but there were many, like Tansie, who objected.
The new queen had gotten pregnant almost as soon as they exchanged vows, and all the doctors -- and the mystics -- consulted had foreseen that the baby would be a boy.
"Push," Myrtle FitzRoy, one of the ladies-in-waiting, ordered.
The queen moaned and pushed. "His head's out," Alyson announced. "Shoulders... arms... hips -- he's a chubby little fellow... he's out."
She caught the baby in a small, blue and gold blanket. Myrtle used a silver dagger to cut his cord. "Tansie," Alyson said, "clean the baby off." She held the child up so the servant girl could take him."
"Yes'm." Tansie carried the child over to a prepared table in a corner of the room. She set it down and looked back over her shoulder. The women -- there were no males in the room except for the newborn --were giving their full attention to his mother.
Myrtle was congratulating her on delivering a boy. "I knew the doctors were right. The King will be so pleased."
"Aye," another woman said. "On your first try, ye did the old queen one better. That's a fine son, you've given him."
Tansie smiled. "Not for long, m'lady," she whispered to herself. She reached into a pocket in her apron and pulled out a cloth packet. She opened the packet and a brass disk, and a pink baby's stocking fell silently onto the blanket next to the infant. Tansie used the cloth to pick up the disk. She laid it, and the stocking, on the newborn's stomach.
The baby blinked. Tansie used a second cloth and scented water to clean off the blood and the froth from his mother's womb. As she did, she was careful not to disturb the disk, which had a small cherub on it. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the baby's male parts, nothing very large to begin with, began to shrink. They grew smaller and smaller until they sank down into the child's groin. All that remained was a narrow, hairless, female slit.
Tansie quickly hid the cloth, disk, and stocking back in her apron. "My lady," she called. "Could you come take a look?"
"Is something wrong?" Alyson and the others hurried over.
Tansie nodded. "It ain't a boy." She tried very hard not to smile.
"What do you mean?" Alyson asked. "Of course it..." She put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, my Lord. It... it is a girl."
"How can that be?" Myrtle asked incredulously.
Tansie shrugged. "It... is."
"Is something the matter with my son?" The queen called over from her bed.
Alyson wrapped the baby in a blanket and walked back to the bed. "She... she's fine, Your Majesty, a healthy baby girl."
"But you said it was a boy." The queen was confused. And angry.
Myrtle offered an answer. "Sometimes, Your Majesty, we see what we want to see, not what is truly there."
"At least she's healthy," Alyson went on. "That and your easy labor are good signs. You can have another... a dozen more, and they, I am sure, will be boys."
"Not if I have anything to say 'bout it," Tansie whispered, well out of earshot.
* * * * *
The king made no secret of his disappointment. "She should have been a boy," was his response when he was told of the baby's gender. Even the queen agreed.
Still they made the best of it. Thirty days after her birth, the new princess was christened. Her father, King Henry, the eighth of that name to rule England, named her after his own mother, Elizabeth.
* * * * *
Author's Note: This story was inspired by an excellent biography, Elizabeth: The Struggle for the Throne by David Starkey. The facts of the story are real. Henry was married to Catherine of Aragon for a decade. She became pregnant a number of times, but Mary was the only one who survived. Henry VIII was desperate for a male heir to shore up the Tudor dynasty. He split with the Roman Catholic Church to divorce Catherine and marry Anne Bolyn. Many people of all classes objected to these events. They had one healthy child, Elizabeth. Anne became pregnant again, but miscarried. The baby was a boy. Before she could become pregnant again, she flirted with many, many men as a way of proving her allure to the king. Henry had her executed for adultery.
This is a VERY dark Altered Fates tale. It contains obscenity, the rape of two girls (males transformed by the Medallion), and the ravings of a very sick mind. (Not me, the narrator, and no wisecracks, please, about not being able to tell the difference.)
This was an experiment; a thought piece to see what would happen if a truly nasty man found the Medallion and decided to use it for his own purposes.
Altered Fates: The Boss
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 1999
I have not always hated Don Kuzak.
When we were both salesman, I almost liked him. Almost. We each had our separate client lists. Since the company frowned on in-house raiding, we didn’t bother one another very often. I do admit to being galled by his success. He’d come to the company fresh out of college, and, in five years, he’d become the top salesman. I, on the other hand, had been with the company almost fifteen years. My accounts were good, usually well above the quotas, but I was one of three or four salesmen who took turns making the most sales in a given month.
Kuzak beat the bunch of us most of the time. Worst of all, he was so ingratiating about it. He called it dumb luck, even as he beat us month after month. With his boyish grin, he actually got the others to accept it. Even to like him.
I began to hate him.
Then Jack Markham retired. Jack had been head of Sales for as long as I’d worked for the company. He was a very good salesman in his own right, but, as an administrator, he had to keep a smaller customer list. He was no competition. I’d heard rumors of his leaving about a year before his actual retirement, and I decided that I wanted his job.
We’d been casual friends for years, but I decided to play up to the man. I managed to accidentally run into him at a school play his son was in and complimented him on how well the boy was in a minor role. When he couldn’t get his car started one rainy afternoon, I gave him a lift home. (Too bad, the spark plug wire had snapped, wasn’t it?) At the same time, I put a little extra effort into my accounts. I never beat Kuzak’s monthly total, but I came close. I might have felt bad about it, but I knew -- even if they all denied it -- that the others were trying to do the same sort of thing.
About a week before he left, we all threw Jack a retirement party. Everybody in the office came, even old man Brooks, the C.E.O. I had been talking to some of Jack’s clients -- no sense letting anybody else get a chance at them -- so I invited them, too. I just asked them not to say that it was me who told them about the party.
As the party was winding down, Brooks called for everyone to be quiet. Said he had to make a couple of announcements. He called Jack up and made a long, stupid speech about what a good man Jack was and how sorry the company was to lose him. Then he gave Jack a plaque that named him “Salesman Emeritus” and a check that represented an extra one percent commission on all his sales for the past six months. It came to a couple thousand dollars. I didn’t know that Jack’s accounts were that good.
Jack smiled and held up the check for everybody to see. He said how happy he’d been with the company and how sorry he was to be retiring. Then he asked Brooks if he could make the other announcement. Brooks nodded. Jack said how much he loved the company, and how he wanted to leave the Sales Department in good hands. He talked about the merits of every salesman in the office, even the ones who were barely making quota. I was one of the last he mentioned, and I was glad to hear all the nice things he had to say. They were all true, of course.
Then he started to talk about Don Kuzak. He said how Don had gotten and held the record for top sales. He also told us that the reorganization of records that he’d put into effect about two months before had been Don’s idea. That reorganization had been troublesome to learn, even if it did eventually cut each salesman’s record keeping time by a third. He mentioned a few other changes that had gone through in the past two years, and he said that they were all Don’s ideas.
I knew what was coming. I gritted my teeth and tried to wish it away, but I still heard it. “That’s why, with Mr. Brooks’ permission, I’m happy to announce that Don Kuzak is my replacement as head of Sales.” Then all those stupid sheep at the party began to clap. Don came up and shook Jack’s hand, and the two of them walked away with Mr. Brooks to talk in Jack’s office.
Jack and Don came back a few minutes later, and Jack began introducing Don to all his clients, including the ones that I’d invited to the party and that I’d been working on for the last few weeks. Don gave them each his card and promised to get back to them in a day or two. In the end, I only got about a third of them. Don got the rest.
After he settled into Jack’s office, Don gave up about half of his account list. He spread them out over the entire sales staff saying that he wanted to be fair. I got a few crumbs, of course. Don said that they were good accounts, but I knew better. I didn’t waste my time talking to them, and, sure enough, they all went to other salesmen. A few even dropped us completely. Don had the gall to yell at me for losing those accounts. He asked why I’d let other guys on the staff take over some of the accounts he’d given me.
I told him that I was busy servicing my regular accounts. Maybe my sales the last couple months had dropped some, but I was still well above quota and didn’t need him hassling me.
He had the nerve to ask if something was the matter, if I was having any sort of problem, and if there was anything he could do to help. “You can die,” I thought. Aloud, I said that things were just a little rough at the moment, but I expected to be okay. I actually had to thank him for offering, so he wouldn’t suspect what I really thought of him. It was humiliating, but I knew that I had to do it. I couldn’t have him on his guard, couldn’t have him watching me.
*****
I found the Medallion of Zulo about a week later at a flea market. I’d gone looking for old cassette tapes. I collect tapes of artists of the 70s and 80s. There wasn’t anything really interesting at the few dealers selling tapes, so I decided to just look around. Sometimes, somebody will just rent a table to sell off junk from their attic or wherever, and they’ll have a tape or two among the stuff. Usually, they don’t know the value of what they have, and I’ve gotten some real bargains that way.
I saw the Medallion in a box with a bunch of junk jewelry. I’d heard about it for years. It has its own section on several of the urban legends web sites. Anyway, I recognized it at once; a gaudy looking brass disk with a picture of what I’d call a fairy inside a border of writing that I couldn’t read. Hell, the writing almost looked like it was just a mass of squiggles engraved to fill up the rest of the disk. Maybe it was, just some old artist’s idea of what Summarian or Urdu, or whatever fool language it was supposed to be looked like.
I had to buy it. Just like the legends said, it was cheap, $1.75. If it didn’t work, I was out next to nothing. I stopped at a table selling kid’s clothes and bought jeans, a sweatshirt, a T-shirt, and undershorts for a boy about twelve years old. I told the woman that I had a nephew coming for a visit and I wanted to have a set of spare clothes in case his mother didn’t pack enough. She sold me a pair of sneakers, too. I gave her all of $5. If the Medallion did work, I’d need them.
It worked!
I got home and locked my apartment door. I went into my bedroom and tossed the boy’s clothes on the bed. Then I put the chain that went with the Medallion around my neck and touched it to the boy’s jeans. My hand tingled when I did. The tingling spread through my body. A few minutes later, I noticed that my clothes were beginning to feel big on me. I undressed and walked over to the mirror on my bedroom door.
It was like watching one of those special effects on TV, only this was live. I got smaller and thinner. The belly I’d gotten from too many years as a couch potato vanished. My hair darkened from sandy brown to jet black and began to curl. My skin seemed to be getting a little darker, too. My eyes changed from hazel to brown, and my face got thinner with a longer, misshapen (probably broken) nose and a slightly pointy chin. I continued shrinking, growing younger. In a half hour, the reflection in the mirror showed a skinny boy about twelve years old of obvious Mediterranean ancestry instead of the middle aged Swede I normally saw.
I let out a whoop, surprised at my new voice. Whoever had worn the clothes last hadn’t quite finished going through puberty. My voice cracked a couple times. I remembered when I really was that age and how -- more than once -- I’d been mistaken for my late mother when I answered the phone.
I walked over to the bed and got dressed. I looked at my clock radio. It was about 2:15. I wouldn’t be able to use the Medallion to change back until well after Midnight. I went into the living room, stretched out on the sofa, and watched an afternoon of college football.
About 6, I grew hungry. I didn’t feel like cooking, so I called the local pizzeria. They didn’t recognize my voice and called back to confirm. When Eddie, their regular deliveryman came with the pizza, he didn’t recognize me. He almost wouldn’t give me the beer that I’d ordered! Fortunately, I’d been smart enough to order a Coke, also. I said the beer was for my uncle (my real self) and paid him. I even gave him a tip, something I don’t often do, because I was so happy that the Medallion worked.
I ate about a third of the pizza and put the rest away for later. Normally, I eat more, but for the time being, I had a smaller stomach. I also noticed that the beer tasted bitter to me. My new body just wasn’t used to alcohol. The beer hit me harder, too. A lot harder. I lie down on the sofa and fell asleep.
I awoke about a three in the morning. I went back into the bedroom and stripped off my clothes. This was the final test. I put the Medallion back on and touched it to the adult slacks that I’d put on the day before. I felt the tingling again, and, in a half hour, I was back in my original body.
Don Kuzak was mine!
*****
I spent the rest of the weekend plotting my revenge.
There were so many possibilities. I could turn him into an infant or an old man, even an animal. I decided that I wanted to humiliate him, to not be punished for what I did, and to make some money at the same time. It took a while for the idea to come to me -- genius is never fast, but when it did, I knew that this was what I wanted.
I drove to Carver College the next weekend. It was about fifty miles away, and the football team was playing out of state, so I knew the campus would be somewhat deserted. I wandered around, waiting for just the right person. After about an hour, I saw him, a big brute of a man, about 6 foot two and well muscled, wearing a Carver T shirt.
“Excuse me,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder.
He looked down at me. “Yeah, what d’you want, mister?”
“Your shirt; my son’s a big Carver fan. He was in a car accident, and his Carver shirt was wrecked. I promised to get him another one, but the college store is closed.”
“Gee, that’s too bad.”
“I’ll give you $20 for your shirt.” The bastard smiled. He thought he had me over a barrel. In a way, he did, but I was willing to go a lot higher than the $35 I eventually paid for a $15 shirt. He didn’t know that. He also didn’t know that in a week or two, the FBI would be asking him a lot of questions about a crime that he didn’t commit. I hoped that he wouldn’t be lucky enough to have a good alibi.
About half way back home from Carver, I stopped at a large mall. I bought two packages of panties, a couple blouses, and a pair of girl’s jeans at a teen shop. I bought an extra large man’s sweat suit and a set of men’s sandals at another store. I made several purchases at the hardware store, chains, padlocks and such. Finally, I managed to buy an insulin kit at the pharmacy.
My mother had died about two years before, of a number of problems, including diabetes. I’d had to give her injections sometimes, and I still had her prescriptions among her papers. It was open ended, and this pharmacist didn’t know she was dead. I told him we were traveling, and I’d just discovered that I hadn’t packed a kit in case she needed it. I paid him extra, saying that I didn’t want the doctor to know that I’d been so careless. The fool took the extra $50 and sold me the kit. The kit came with a set of seven syringes.
Sunday, I used the Medallion and the T shirt to change into a double for that stupid jock. I drove out into the country and rented a hunting cabin about twenty miles from town for the rest of the season. It was perfect, nice and secluded with no way to tell where you were without walking a couple miles down a dirt road. I told the owner that I was going to be bringing my fiancé up now and again, so she could try her hand at country living. That got me a promise from the old goat who owned the place that nobody would bother us. I picked up some supplies and headed back to town. I also picked up a couple changes of clothes for this new body I was borrowing.
Now I was ready.
*****
I had some sales calls to make the next Friday afternoon, meetings with a few of my regular customers and a cold call on one new possibility. Normally, if the meetings ran long, I wouldn’t go back to the office afterward. It was standard practice.
I made the meetings with my regulars. The cold call was a fake. I used the Medallion to change into the jock Tuesday evening and left a phone message for myself on the office voice mail asking for a meeting on Friday at a fake address. I did the same to a few of the others in the office using different addresses for each one. If anybody investigated, the most likely conclusion was that someone wanted to get us all out of the office.
I drove home and turned myself into the jock. I changed into his sweat suit and drove back to the office. All the gear I needed was already in a suitcase in my trunk. It was about 5:30, and, as I’d expected, Don was the only one there. The little suck-up liked to be the last one out at the end of the day. I locked the front door, so no one could surprise me, and went into his office. I drew a gun and told him to keep quiet. Then I had him sit still while I tied him to his chair.
Once he was tied down, I took the syringe from the suitcase and injected him with 25 CCS of a narcotic that the doctors had prescribed for my mother in the last days of her illness. I got the stuff the same way I got the insulin kit, another stop at another pharmacy outside of town. That doctor’s open ended prescription and a few dollars slipped to a pharmacist had gotten me all I’d need.
As soon as Don was asleep, I put the Medallion around his neck and touched it with the teenage girl’s panties. It was amazing to watch the changes as he shrank down within his male clothes. His brown hair grew out down past his shoulders, while his face softened and grew feminine. The five o’clock shadow that any man would have at the end of the day disappeared. His hands grew thin and the nails lengthened. Even though his clothes were much too big, I could see breasts pushing out the front of his shirt.
In a half hour the change was finished. Since no one had every worn the clothes before, Don now had the body he would have had if he had been born a female. Only it was her body as it would have been in her teens, instead of as an adult. Actually, much as I hated to admit it, the little S.O.B. looked rather cute.
I checked to see if he was still unconscious from the drug. He was. I untied him, catching him as he slumped over in the chair. Then I undressed him, and put his male clothes in the suitcase. He definitely made a pretty girl. Her breasts were small but firm, the waist narrow, and the hips wide. He had long legs with a feminine curve that would look good in heels. The most amazing thing for me was that his male “equipment” was gone, replaced by the familiar female slit surrounded by a small mass of fuzzy brown hair.
I put his legs into the panties and pulled them up around his waist. Then I stuck his arms through the sleeves of a blouse and pulled it down over his head. His new breasts pushed out the front of the blouse, and I could see the nipples against the pattern of the fabric. I pulled the pair of jeans up onto his legs and buttoned them. He certainly had a narrow waist, now.
The shoes took a little time. I’d had to guess at the size, and they were a little small at first. But he still had the Medallion around his neck. When touched the Medallion to the shoes, his feet shrank down a size, and the shoes fit perfectly.
I took the Medallion off Don and put it, the syringe kit, and the rope back in the suitcase. Then I pinned the ransom note to his chair. I’d pasted the note together a few nights before, while I was in the jock’s body. His would be the only fingerprints on it. I hope the smug bastard put that $35 he got for that T-shirt to good use. He wasn’t going to be enjoying things for some time.
I picked up Don and half threw him over my shoulder. Between his new, smaller body and the jock’s strength, I could manage him one handed. I picked up the suitcase and headed out the door. In five minutes, we were on our way. Don was sleeping soundly in the back seat. I stopped about a mile from the office and used a pay phone to report a robbery at the office. Another bit of evidence against the jock, since the police now had his voice on tape, a voice that sounded nothing like my own, I should add. I circled back past the office about twenty minutes later. There were two police cars in the parking lot.
I made it to the cabin without any trouble. The dose I gave Don was going to last him a couple of hours more at least, but I wanted to be ready for the surprise when he -- or should I say she, now -- woke up. I took her in and laid her down on the bed. I took off her shoes and pants. I fastened a leather cuff to her each ankle and wrist, using a small but sturdy lock to hold the cuff in place. Then I attached a chain to the cuff on her right ankle. The other end of the chain was attached to the bed frame. Just to slow her down, I used another chain on the cuff around her left wrist.
If I took off the wrist cuff, she could get out of bed to walk around or go to the small bathroom, but that was all. The window in the room was just beyond the reach of the chain. A shutter across the bottom kept her from seeing -- or being seen by -- anyone walking nearby. The door to the main room was also beyond reach. In fact, after I rearranged some of the furniture, there was nothing really within reach of the chain.
With the wrist cuff on, she’d be stuck in the bed. It would be a last resort to threaten her with, if I wanted to put a little extra fear into her.
I went into the main room and nuked myself some supper. After I ate, I took a folding chair into the bedroom and waited for the fun to start.
I didn’t have too long to wait. She woke up about ten minutes after I sat down.
“Who are you, and what the hell did you do to me,” she asked, opening her eyes. She tried to move her arms and felt the cuff around her wrist. “What the hell? Why am I chained?”
I smiled. “I didn’t want you over reacting,” I said. “As to who I am, call me Bob. As to what I did, take a close look for yourself.”
She looked down and stared at her new body. “Breasts! I I’ve got breasts!”
“Of course you do, Ms. Kuzak. All girls do.”
“Girls, but I’m not a girl.”
“No? Take a good look at yourself. Touch your tits. See how good it feels. Then you can reach down and see how wet it makes your new pussy. Yes, you’ve got one of those, too.”
“This -- this is impossible.”
“Not really Donna. Yes, that’s your name for the time being. I won’t tell you how I did it, but I will tell you why. I’ve kidnapped you, and I’m holding you for ransom. Cooperate and when the money comes, you get your old body back. Try anything funny, and you go back to Vartex Corporation as a teenage girl.”
“You’re crazy. Why kidnap me?”
“Why not? The police know you’ve been kidnapped, so does the press. I don’t like Vartex, and the company will look real bad if it doesn’t pay a measly 100 thousand to get back one of its people. If it does pay, well, I can always use the money for even more mischief.”
“They’ll come looking for me.”
“That’s right. They’ll come looking for a man in his late twenties. Why should they be interested in a girl in her teens? And in case you think otherwise, my appearance is as real -- or as unreal as your own. I’ll be changing myself back later whatever happens to you.”
Don thought about that for a minute. She had no way changing back if she didn’t cooperate. She looked down at her pretty new body and frowned. “Can you at least untie my wrists?”
“Later -- maybe. In the meantime, here’s something else to think about.” I reached down and began to play with her breasts, kneading them like dough.
“No, stop it! Let me alone!” She tried to bat away my hand, but I was too strong for her and kept on playing with her breasts.
“I just wanted to prove that what you see is real... Donna.”
I stuck a finger out and started playing with her nipples. I could see from the expression on her face that I was getting to her. My ex-wife used to say that I had a definite talent for foreplay. She said it was one of the few things she really liked about me. It must not have been enough since we were only married a couple years before the bitch divorced me. It took some doing on the part of my lawyer -- he charged me enough for it -- but he managed to prove she’d been fooling around, and I got out without any alimony payment.
Don was still telling me to stop, but her voice was getting funny, kind of breathy. She was shaking her head and twisting her body to try to get away from me. At least, it seemed like she wanted to get away. I decided that I’d had enough fun. “Think about that for a while, Donna.” I headed for the door, but I turned back towards her just before I went out. “We’ll have time for all sorts of fun.” I turned out the light and shut the door behind me.
*****
A few hours later, I was asleep on the couch in the living room. It wasn’t as comfortable as the bed would have been, but I wanted Don alone in that back room. Besides, the couch was wide and fairly comfortable. Suddenly, Don woke me up; she was screaming for help.
I ran into the bedroom and turned on the light. We both blinked at its sudden brightness. “There’s no use shouting. There’s nobody around but me to hear.”
“I need to be unchained.”
“Why should I do that?”
“I just need to...” She hesitated a moment. “Please.”
“Why should I?”
“I have... I have to go to the bathroom.”
I’d suspected as much. That was why I’d chained her; so she’d have to ask to go. The squirming around would remind her of the changes to her body, and having to ask would remind her who was in charge. I smiled and watched her.
It would have been tempting to just make her pee in the bed. I’d read someplace that the technique was used to break spies. It would certainly humiliate her. But it would also smell, and I’d -- no, she’d -- have to change the bed linen. Serve her right, too. But I had other plans.
I went into the other room and took the keys from where I’d hidden them. I went back in and told her to lie face down on the bed. She flopped over. That put her arm across her back, since the chain wasn’t long enough to hold it any other way. I unlocked the chain from the cuff and fastened it to the bed frame for later. I stood up and stepped back from the bed.
“Okay, you can go.”
“What about the chain on my ankle?”
“What about it? It’s long enough that you can reach the john. It stays on.”
She started to argue, but the need to pee was getting stronger. Girls aren’t built to hold it like guys are. She glared at me then headed to the bathroom.
“Remember to sit down,” I said as she went in.
She glared again, but then she reached down to her panties. Then she stopped. “Hey, there’s no door. What about some privacy?”
“What about it? Why do you want it, Ms Kuzak?”
“Damn you to hell,” she said. She pulled down the panties and sat on the pot. I noticed that she was holding her hands demurely on her lap as if trying to hide her new “equipment”. I just leaned back against the door frame and watched.
After a minute or so, she seemed to be finished and started to stand up. “Don’t forget to wipe,” I said. “You wouldn’t want it to get all smelly.” She glared at me again, but she wadded up some paper and delicately wiped at her crotch. She stood up, pulled the panties quickly back up, and headed back towards the bed.
As she walked past me, I reached down and stroked her butt with a finger. She jumped about a foot and turned to slap me. I was ready for her and grabbed her hand. I put my other arm around her waist and pulled her towards me. She opened her mouth to say something, and I French kissed her. I felt her breasts against my chest, and it felt like the nipples were pushing out. That got me a little hot, and I ground my erect penis against the front of her panties.
She panicked and pushed herself away from me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Kissing a pretty girl.”
“I’m not a girl, dammit! I’m a man.”
“Reach down and feel around for your prick, Donna. Find it, and I’ll believe you’re a man.”
“Bastard!”
“And you’re a bitch. A guy would have tried to slug me when I grabbed his bottom. You tried to slap me. Slapping is how a girl reacts. Think about that for a while.” I waited till she made it to the bed, then turned out the light and left. I didn’t bother to put the chain back on her wrist. She couldn’t get away, and thinking about how she’d just behaved, what she’d just done would keep her too busy and too confused to try anything.
I lay back on the couch and threw the cover over myself. In the dark, I thought I could hear Don talking softly to herself. Then I realized that she was crying softly, trying not to let me hear. I fell asleep on that happy thought.
*****
I woke up about 8 the next morning. Don was still sleeping when I looked in on her. She was sprawled across the bed with her T-shirt half way up to her breasts and her legs spread wide apart. It was quite sexy, actually, and I felt myself getting a bit aroused. I crept into the room and quickly reattached the chain to the cuff on her left wrist. Then as she was waking up, I fastened chains to the cuffs around her other wrist and her left ankle.
She awoke to find herself spread eagle on the bed with me staring down at her. “Good morning, Ms Kuzak.”
“Good morning, Bastard!”
“Now is that any way to act?”
“What do you expect after doing this to me?”
“Actually, I was thinking of doing a lot more to you.” I reached down with one hand and began to rub her breast in a slow pattern that always drove my slut of an ex-wife crazy. As I rubbed, I reached out with a finger and began to play with her nipple.
“Stop that, you perverted S.O.B.” She began to struggle on the bed. The chains gave her some movement, but not a lot. I was able to keep on working at her breast.
“Maybe this will help.” I ran the index finger of the other hand slowly up her thigh, gently touching the skin with my nail. I could see goose bumps forming on her flesh.
“Stop it,” she screamed, struggling harder. Her breathing was getting irregular.
My finger reached her groin. I moved my nail slowly along the material of the panty, outlining shape of her vaginal lips. Her voice rose in pitch, and she began to have trouble with the words. I switched breasts, doing to her left breast what I had done to the right. I could feel her nipple getting larger, standing up from her breast. The material of her panty began to moisten.
“Isn’t this fun, Donna? Are you enjoying yourself, or should I stop?”
“Stop... stop... oh, please... uh... stop.”
I ignored her and moved aside the fabric of the panty. Then I began rubbing my finger against her bare skin, paying special attention to her clitoris. Her hips began to move to match the motion of my fingers. She was just making vague sounds now, rather than speaking words.
“I said, do you want me to stop?”
“Stop... stop... ohh... no, don’t stop... don’t stop!”
I plunged my fingers into her, caressing the tissues of her female core. Then I pulled them out. Her hips rose as if trying to keep me inside. I felt her muscles contract as well. I pushed my fingers back in, then out, falling into a steady rhythm. Her hips rose and fell to match them. Then she suddenly froze, her hips raised up in the air. Her eyes opened wide, and she let out a yell of pure female pleasure.
She began to buck and writhe on the bed. I pulled my hand away. She stopped moving and looked up at me. Her hair was snarled, her body drenched with sweat.
“What... what’s the matter? Why did you stop?”
“Oh, I was just wondering how Don Kuzak was enjoying his first female orgasm.” I smiled and walked out of the room. “Think about that for a bit, Donny boy.”
I washed my hands and began fixing myself breakfast to an accompaniment of female profanity from the bedroom. While I ate, the cursing settled into crying, as the realization set in. Don Kuzak had always thought of himself as a stud. I’d spend many dull hours listening to him regaling the office with stories of this or that female conquest and pretending, like the other toadies, to be impressed. Now, in that bedroom, Don Kuzak had been treated like a female, and, worst of all to his own puny ego, he’d responded like one. He’d actually begged to have his new body played with!
It was going to be easier than I thought. And a lot more fun.
*****
It went on like that for the next couple of days.
I kept Don chained most of the time, only unchaining her to go to the bathroom. Since my borrowed jock’s body was a lot bigger than her new one, I had little trouble forcing her back onto the bed and re chaining her.
She only rebelled once and tried to fight me. She wound up on the floor on her back with her legs spread apart, and me lying on top of her. I was holding both her wrists in my left hand. I reached down with my right and touched her breast. “As long as we’re in this position,” I said with a lecherous smile, “we might as well enjoy ourselves.”
“No,” she screamed, her eyes getting very big. She struggled but couldn’t break free.
“Then, will you behave yourself and get onto the bed?”
“Do you promise not to do anything besides hook up the chains?”
“I promise.” I let go of her wrists and quickly stood up.
She got up slowly, head bowed in defeat. As she sat down on the bed, she said, “Remember, you promised. You won’t try anything else.”
“I promise.” I attached the chain to her two wrist cuffs. “I won’t do anything else; just chain you down.” While I was attaching it to the other ankle cuff, I grinned and added, “This time.”
She struggled against the chains, but it was too late. As I left the room, she began to cry.
I was having such fun!
*****
I won’t say that I wasn’t tempted. I was in the body of a healthy male, about twenty years old. Don was a rather pretty girl of about sixteen with a full set of very feminine curves. She was chained to a bed wearing only a T-shirt and panties, while I used various techniques to bring her to orgasm. I was “doing” her two or three times a day; and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to leaving the room almost every time with a raging hard on.
Why didn’t I just give in and rape her? Because I could. And because she knew that I could. And most of all, because I wanted her to think about the fact that I could. Watching her think about it, worry about it, was part of the fun.
So was listening to the radio.
The story got out almost immediately. I’d deliberately not told the police to keep the media out of the case. Since they had no way of finding me, I wasn’t particularly worried. And the news coverage would let me know what was happening.
The closest they got was tracking down that jock whose body I’d “borrowed”. It was the lead item on the news on the second day. Luckily for him, he had an airtight alibi. He was in some late class that let out at 5:30 that day. I’d called the cops to get them to the office just before 6 PM. There was just no way he could have gotten to the office in time to kidnap Kuzak. Of course, he couldn’t explain how his fingerprints got on the note or on the furniture in the office. Still, he had almost thirty eyewitnesses, all of whom knew him, and one of whom was described as “a highly respected academic”, a man who swore that the jock was fifty miles at the time. “A highly respected academic”, ha! Some geek teacher is more like it, but it was an alibi.
The last item on the news that night was a story by a new reporter, Mike Mellish.
There was no Mike Mellish. His name was the signal that the police were willing to go along with my instructions on how to get me the ransom money. The instructions were part of the ransom note that I’d left when I took Kuzak.
*****
I waited until a couple of hours after dinner.
I walked into the bedroom and stood over Kuzak. “Well, it looks like they’ve decided that you’re worth $100,000. I’ll be picking the money up tomorrow.”
“You’ll never get away with it.”
“Who’s going to identify me? Who’s going to identify you, for that matter, if I decide not to change you back?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Sure, I would. Once I have the money, why should I even come back for you? I can just tell them where to find you and go back to my own life. They’ll rescue you, but you get to stay younger and a lot prettier than you were before.”
“No, please. Change me back before you go for the money.”
“Nope, you’re my last bargaining chip. If I get caught, I can trade changing you back for my freedom.” I paused for a second. “Unless you’ve decided that you like being a girl.”
“Like it; in a pig’s eye!”
“Gee, you’ve seemed to enjoy it enough when I did this.” I reached down and began to play with her nipple.
“Get away from me, you bastard!”
“Or this.” I started cupping her other breast. I could feel her body beginning to react in spite of itself. I slid one finer slowly around her breast, then down to her stomach, touching her only with the pressure of my nail. I spent a little time circling around her navel, before I continued on down to her groin.
Kuzak started off cursing at me, but when I didn’t stop, her body began to react. She began to beg me not to go any further. Some girls never learned. I enjoyed hearing her beg.
I kept it up using a couple of tricks I knew, until Kuzak’s hips were jerking about, and her panties were definitely moist. I, in the meantime, had gotten hard as nails. I took my hands away. She looked up and saw me unbuckling my pants. “You wouldn’t,” she said, her eyes getting wide as panic began to set in.
“Sure I would.” I let my pants fall to the floor. My borrowed prick was pushing out my shorts. From the way she looked at it, it must have looked two feet long. I reached over and grabbed at her panties. One quick yank and they ripped apart. I tossed them across the room.
Kuzak was naked from the waist down. She tried to move her legs together to block access, but the chains were too short. I leaned over her and began rubbing her nipple between the thumb and finger of my left hand. My right hand slid along her upper thigh, the fingers barely touching her flesh, just enough to tickle.
Her breathing was getting more ragged now. My hand moved to her groin. Now I was tickling her nether lips. I could see them moving a little in response. I saw a trickle of moisture leaking out between them. She was more than ready.
I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself between her legs. She was screaming now. “No, no!” and “Rape!” No one could hear her, though, and the screams just added to my fun.
I yanked down my shorts and took hold of my prick. Then I leaned forward and guided myself in. She tried to squirm away, so I just lay down on top of her, pinning her with my weight. My, but she was ready, all nice and wet. I slid right in.
I pushed in as far as I could, then out, then back in. I set up a nice steady rhythm. She was fighting me, but she was fighting her body, too. Her hips began to rise as I pulled out.
She didn’t want to, maybe she didn’t even realize that she was doing it, but in a moment, she was matching me stroke for stroke. Her legs moved up, trying to wrap around me. The chains wouldn’t let them, but she tried as best she could.
She was still yelling, but now it was mostly moans. Her arms were flailing. Then she grabbed onto the bedposts and held on for dear life. Suddenly her head shot up and she kissed me. Ha!
Don Kuzak, macho stud, kissed me for raping him. She must have realized what she’d done because she tried to pull her head away. I reached my arm around her and pulled her head back near mine. She started to say something. I kissed her again and stuck my tongue into her mouth. She fought for a minute. Then she surrendered and let me have my fun.
I was still pumping away. This kid’s body was young and strong, but it couldn’t last forever. I felt something build inside of me. The feeling got better and better, and then it seemed to shoot out of my prick like liquid fire. I froze, arching my back and pulling my mouth away from hers.
That must have set her off, too. She screamed and began to claw at my back. Her hips bucked wildly. Then she just went limp and collapsed back onto the bed with me on top of her.
I felt my prick began to soften. It felt great just laying there on top of her. She was probably enjoying it, too, and that was reason enough to stop. I let myself slide out of her body and climbed off the bed. Her breathing was still deep, but it was a lot more regular. She looked at me kind of glassy eyed with a sort of lopsided smile on her face. She had definitely enjoyed it.
“You’re a damn good fuck, Don, I said. She stopped smiling at the reminder of who she truly was. I decided to really rub it in. “How are you at sucking cock?”
I felt that I already knew the answer. That was how, figuratively if not literally, he had stolen the job that I should have had. Now I wanted to see if I was right.
“No,” she said. “No way am I going to do something like that.”
“Oh, sure you will. After what we just did, it’s not that big a deal.” I paused to give her another chance to think about what we just had done. “Besides, you do want to be changed back, don’t you?”
“You said that you'd change me back after you got your damn money.”
“And you believed me? Oh, Donny. I’ll decide when -- and if -- I’ll change you back. How you behave now may well affect that decision. So, let’s just see how cooperative you can be.”
I propped up the pillow behind her head and climbed back on the bed. My lower legs were on both sides of her, my knees just below her armpits.
“No,” she said, shaking her head back and forth.
I grabbed her hair close by the scalp and yanked. That got her attention. “Yes, you will, Bitch! Now get started or I get a lot rougher.”
I leaned forward, and she raised her head. Her mouth was only a few inches away from my prick when I yanked her hair again. “And if you try anything funny -- like biting, for instance -- I’m leaving. Nobody else knows where you are, and I may not tell anyone either. So be very careful. A woman chained to a bed -- half naked in a deserted cabin -- with the door wide open. Why anything could happen to her.”
Kuzak’s eyes opened wide. She stared into mine trying to see if I was serious. Her mouth opened in horror trying to say something. Then she looked down to see my prick just inches from her mouth. “You... you aren’t serious about this?”
“The hell I’m not.”
“But, I can’t. I’m a man.”
I leaned back and grabbed one of her breasts. “This doesn’t feel like a man”. My hand moved down from her breasts, past her stomach to her groin. I rubbed a finger around the edges of her pussy. “And this certainly doesn’t.”
“But...”
I slapped her face. “But nothing; get started.”
She leaned her head forward and very tentatively touched the tip of my prick with her lips. She pulled her head back a little. “I don’t... I don’t know what to do.” She was crying. This was definitely going to be fun.
“Listen, Bitch! Did you ever had a blow job, back when you were a man?”
“Yes? A few times, in fact.”
“You remember what you liked the girl -- I assume it was a girl -- what you liked them doing to you?”
“Yes, I-I guess I do?”
“Then you’re going to do that same stuff to me?”
She leaned her head forward again and gently kissed the tip. She stuck out her tongue and ran it around the underside, moving down towards my balls. She slid her tongue along them, and then took them into her mouth and sucked them. After which, she moved back up my prick with her tongue.
She was very good, and I was hard as a rock. The fact that she had a look of pure revulsion on her face the entire time only added to my pleasure. She was crying, too. Tears were running down her cheeks and onto me the whole time.
When she reached the tip again, she opened her mouth and slowly took me into her. As my prick slid in, she licked at it with her tongue. She managed to get me all the way in, moving down in, until her nose was pressed up against my groin. Then she began to draw back. It was too much, and I hunched forward. She matched my rhythm. To encourage her, I reached down and began to play with her nipples. She began to moan. I was literally fucking her face.
It was fun, but nothing lasts forever. I let loose with a great spout of cum. “Swallow it,” I yelled. “Swallow it all.”
She tried. I could feel her sucking at me, trying to keep in all the sperm. She got most of it, though a little did dribble out. I felt myself getting limp and pulled out. She shut her mouth at once, desperate not to let any leak out. She had a panicky look in her idea, uncertain what I would do next.
“Now lick it clean,” I said. I wanted the humiliation to continue. Besides, I was feeling a little shaky from that powerful cumming and wanted to rest for a minute.
She shook her head “No!”, so I slapped her again. She whimpered and began to lick. When she was done, I climbed off.
“Please,” she said. “Could I have a glass of water?”
“What’s the matter, Bitch? Don’t you like the taste?”
“No -- I mean -- I’m just thirsty after all that.”
“Get used to it,” I said. I turned out the light and left the room.
She cried for quite a while.
*****
I came back into the room a few hours later. It was almost Midnight. I’d waited until her crying had stopped, and I could hear snoring. I stood by the bed and watched her for a few moments just to make sure she was asleep.
It was quite a fetching picture: this nubile young woman lying there, her legs apart displaying that juicy pussy, her breasts peeking out from beneath the mostly unbuttoned shirt. I felt myself get hard again. It was tempting to wake her for a repeat performance, but I was on a very tight schedule.
I rubbed an alcohol swab against her hip. She stirred a little from the sensation of contact. I quickly took the plastic protector off the syringe and jabbed it into her. Her eyelids fluttered, and she moved in reaction to the sudden pain. But the narcotic was a fast acting one. Her breathing became regular. She would sleep for about eight hours from this drug.
I went back into the other room and took two suitcases out of the closet. I opened the one that I had used at the office on Friday and took out the Medallion. I put it on the table, and closed the suitcase. From the other suitcase, I took the young boy’s shirt and laid it down next to the Medallion. I put the Medallion around my neck and picked up the shirt, touching it to the Medallion. I felt a tingling in my hand almost immediately. Within the half hour, I had once again become that twelve year old.
I stripped out of my now oversized clothing and dressed in his undershorts and T-shirt. It was late, just past Midnight now. I lay down on the couch and went to sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.
*****
I got up about 7:30. I was disoriented for a moment, until I remembered that I was now in the body of a twelve year old. The room looked much bigger, and, I must admit, I felt nervous for the first time since I had begun to take my revenge.
I refilled the syringe and quietly opened the door to Kuzak’s room. I had to be careful now. She was chained, but she was still bigger and possibly stronger than I was in this form. She was just as naked and just as exposed as she’d been the night before, but now I found that I wasn’t aroused. At least, not physically. Evidently the boy whose form I was wearing hadn’t gone through puberty yet. I could appreciate her body intellectually, but my body wasn’t able to respond to what I saw.
Luck goes with those who prepare. She was still asleep. I injected her a second time. Combined with the drugs already in her system, there was now enough in her to keep her out until 3 PM, possibly later. I expected to be back well before then. My plan was to keep her sedated until I could use the Medallion to change back to the jock. With luck, she’d never realize that she’d lost a whole day. It would be a lot easier than trying to manage her in either of the forms that I would have that day.
I went back to the other room and ate breakfast. I listened to the radio for a while, and then dressed in the boy’s clothes. Just after the 11 o’clock news, I got the Medallion from the suitcase and put it around my neck, tucking it between my sweatshirt and my T-shirt. I also took a second pair of girl’s panties from the suitcase. I stuck them in a small plastic bag and put them in my pocket. I already had a pocket knife and some ribbon in the pocket.
Now I was ready. I went out to my rented car. I had to adjust the seat so my feet could reach the pedals. I’d lost over a foot in height with the change of bodies. But I was ready. I started the car and drove carefully towards town.
The money was supposed to be waiting in a gym bag stuffed into a trash can in Hudson Park. I told them to put it in the third can near the baseball field. The area was fairly opened, so I could see if anybody was waiting. At least, that’s what they probably thought. Actually, it was because it would be natural for a young boy to be hanging out there. I expected the location to be watched, but they wouldn’t be expecting a twelve year old.
I was almost to the park when I heard a siren behind me. The police! This was the one weak spot in my plan. I was far too young to be driving in this body, but I hadn’t wanted to go as the jock. They had his picture.
I pulled over, hoping that he would pass me. He didn’t. He pulled over in front of me. Well, maybe I could brazen it out. Kids do go joyriding on occasion.
Two officers got out of the car. Something was the matter. I fought the urge to try to run. The taller man came over to the driver’s window, while the other stood a few feet away looking like he wanted an excuse to draw his gun.
“Please step out of the car, umm, sir.”
This was definitely more than a ticket. “Is something the matter, officer?”
“How old are you, son?”
I decided to try for innocence, “Umm, ah, sixteen, sir.”
“A very young sixteen, I’d say.”
“Do you know who owns this car?”
“It’s my Dad’s.”
“Son, this is a rental car. There’s a tag that says so on the license plate. More important, it’s been identified as the car involved in a major crime.”
“What!”
“Can you tell me where you got it?”
“I, umm, took it ” I was in deep trouble. If I said anything they would probably take me to wherever I said I’d found the car. I could probably expect to be held for several hours, while they tried to contact my parents. What they’d do after they found out that I didn’t have parents -- or any other record as a twelve year old -- was anybody’s guess.
I decided to make a run for it, hoping I could get a head start if I could take them by surprise. I dodged between the cop and the car and ran as fast as I could. The two cops chased after me.
The body I was using was young and fairly fast, but they were faster with their longer legs and adult endurance. I ducked through a hedge that they were too big to manage. I was in a semi-residential neighborhood near the park, row homes and some light industry. I ran across a parking lot towards an open door in a warehouse. I ducked inside and closed the door behind me.
I was in a room filled with rows and rows of shipping crates. There was nobody around. It was time for a change. I pulled off my sweatshirt and tossed it into a covered trash can.
I saw the sign for a women’s bathroom. I ran towards it. As I did, I stuck my hand in my pocket and pulled out the girl’s panties. I rubbed them frantically against the Medallion, and then I jammed them back into my pocket. My body was tingling by the time I was in the bathroom. I went into one of the two stalls, pulled down my jeans, and sat down.
The two cops knocked on the door about ten minutes after I had gotten into the stall. When there was no answer, they came in. They saw my legs under the stall door. “Police officers; excuse me, ma’am, but have you seen or heard anybody else come in here?”
The moment of truth. “No, officer.” It was a risk, but I had to answer. Luck was still with me. I’d changed enough that my voice didn’t sound at all like the boy I had been. “Now would you please just leave?”
“Sorry to have bothered you.” I heard the door shut behind me. I let out a breath and sat back to watch the rest of the change.
It was not fun watching. Yes, I grew taller, going from twelve to sixteen, but I was growing up into a girl’s body. I watched breasts blossom on my chest, while my hips widened, and my legs grew long and shapely. What was between those legs shrank away, even as my balls disappeared and a slit opened to absorb my new clitoris.
I expected my skin to lighten from the boy’s Mediterranean tones to the paleness of my Swedish ancestors. It didn’t, which surprised me. My hair was a lot longer than it was when I was the boy, but I was still in his body -- sort of. It was the body that he would have had if he had been born a girl sixteen years before.
During the last of the changes, I took the other things from my pocket. The ribbon went around my hair, holding it in a crude pony tail. The knife cut the jeans off just above the knees. I switched the girl’s panties for the boy’s undershorts. The panties fit me perfectly. They had reshaped me to fit them, and the boy’s shorts were far too tight for my now girlish figure.
I got out of the stall as soon as the tingling stopped. I looked at myself in the mirror. I still looked a lot like him, but my face was softer with a rounder chin and smaller nose. My figure, I had to admit was also pretty good; better than Kuzak’s. The only uncomfortable part was the way my nipples felt rubbing against the fabric of my T-shirt. I reminded myself of the way the young Sofia Loren looked in that movie she made about the statue of the dolphin.
I stuck the boy’s shorts and the bottoms of my jeans way down in among the papers in a trash can. The knife went back into my pocket. I smiled at the girl in the mirror and fixed the hair ribbon. Then I headed out the door.
I looked around. The cops were long gone, but I heard somebody yell something. I froze in my tracks, and began to slowly walk towards the warehouse door. I didn’t want to look suspicious by running away.
I felt somebody grab my arm and turned. It was a security cop for the warehouse, a tall muscular man about forty. He looked mad. “I’ve told you kids I didn’t want you coming in here. Come with me.” He dragged me by the arm to a small office. “Get inside and no lip.”
I didn’t really have a choice. I’m not sure that I could have stood up to him in the jock’s body. What chance did I have as a slip of a girl? I went inside. He followed me in, and then turned and locked the door behind me. There were a couple of folder chairs near a desk covered with papers. He motioned for me to sit. I took the one closest to where I was standing.
“Okay, I’m calling your parents. What’s their number?”
What could I say? If I made up a number, he’d try it and know I was faking. “I... umm... they don’t live around here.”
“Oh, a runaway. All right then.” He dialed a number. “Hello, Children’s Services. This is Jack McCall at the Kendrick Warehouses, 527 Oak Street. I’ve got a girl here about 16. She says she’s a runaway. Can you -- you’ll send a car. Okay, I’ll see you in about a half an hour.”
He sat down in the chair opposite me. “You know, I’ve got a daughter about 12 at home. She’s a pretty thing like you. I’d be at my wits end if she ran off. Do you want to call your folks while we wait?”
“No.” This idiot thought he was doing me a favor. If he’d just leave, I could get out. Even if I had to walk back to the cabin, it would be better than this nonsense.
“You sure? I’ll bet they’ll be glad to hear from you.”
I decided to say what he expected to hear. “I have nothing to say to them.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Sarah.” It was my Mother’s name. The first one I could think of.
“Sarah. That’s a pretty name. Sarah what?”
I was beginning to get mad. ‘Leave me alone, you imbecile,’ I thought. Aloud, I said, “Sarah, just Sarah, okay?”
“Okay, Sarah Just Sarah.” He moved the chair over behind the desk and opened a log book. He looked up and the clock for a minute and began writing. Just what I needed, now there would be a record of this whole stupid experience. I slumped down in the chair and tried to decide what to do next.
About a half hour later the phone rang. “McCall; yeah, I called her. I found a kid over here in Warehouse 3. Send her on back.”
A few minutes later, a rather nondescript looking woman in a brown coat knocked on the office door. “Mr. McCall,” she said through the door, “I’m Judy Hemmings from Children’s Services.
He walked over and unlocked the door. “Hello, Ms. Hemmings.” He pointed to me. “This is Sarah Just Sarah.”
The Hemmings woman smiled. “Hello, Sarah, I’m Judy Hemmings. Would you like to come with me?”
“Not really.”
“Well, actually, you don’t have much of a choice.” She took my wrist. I tried to pull free, but I couldn’t. She didn’t look very big, but she seemed to be as strong as McCall. Or maybe it was me that was so weak. I shrugged and stood up.
“Here’s my card, Mr. McCall. I’ll be speaking to you later. Right now, I just want to get Sarah to Drexler Hall.”
Drexler Hall! I was being put in the County Juvenile Home!
I was definitely stuck, thanks to Bozo the Guard. The Hemmings bitch lead me out to her car and had me get in the back seat. I didn’t realize, until she shut the door, that there were no handles on the inside. There was a sheet of Plexiglas between the front and back seats. I was trapped.
I sat in silence, while she got in and started the car. “Would you like to tell me your last name, Sarah?” she asked. “We’ll find it out eventually, you know.”
“No.” I’d decided that I’d need some sort of reason for not cooperating. “They don’t want to hear from me anyway.” I figured getting a little sympathy wouldn’t hurt. She’d never guess the real reason, that I was an adult male changed by the Medallion I was wearing. With luck, I’d be out of there as soon as I could use it to swap bodies with someone else.
“Suit yourself. Ah, here we are.” The car slowed, and then turned up a driveway.
I’d driven past Drexler Hall any number of times. It was three or four old brick buildings inside a high wrought iron fence. A few years ago, they put barbed wire on the top of the fence. I don’t think it was to keep people from sneaking in. It didn’t look any more inviting from the inside.
Hemmings pulled up in front of one of the buildings, a weathered old brick two story with the words “Administration” on a sign by the steps. She opened the back door and led me into the building, still holding my arm. We walked down a hall to an office with her name on the door.
We went in. I sat in a chair, while she went behind the desk and took out a form. I could see the words “Intake Interview Form” at the top. Time to lie.
“Name?” she asked.
“Sarah.”
“Full name?”
“Sarah.”
“Sarah Doe, for the time being. Okay, Sarah, how old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Date of Birth?”
I gave my own birthday, doing the subtraction mentally for the year, “May 9, 1997.”
“Place of birth you wouldn’t want to tell me that, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Now was the time to try for some sympathy. “Look, ma’am, I’m sorry, but if I tell you who I am, you’ll send me back. I -- I don’t want to -- I won’t go back.”
Hemmings reached across the desk and patted me on the arm. “Okay, you don’t have to tell if you don’t want to, but it would help if you could at least be a little less suspicious of everyone.”
“I’ll try. What else do you want to ask?” It had worked. I faked a brave little smile.
“There’s really not that much more.” She made a few entries; height, eye color, that sort of thing. “Now we take you down to hall to Dr. Desai for a physical.”
Dr. Desai turned out to be a small Asian woman in a white lab coat. We went into a doctor’s examining room attached to her office. She pointed to a curtained off area in a corner of the room. “Please to go behind and remove clothing. Leave panty on for now.”
I stripped, draping my jeans on a stool. It still seemed strange to be seeing this girl’s body instead of my own. I was a little turned on by it, and I wouldn’t have mind playing with myself a little. ‘Maybe later,’ I thought. I noticed that my nipples were getting erect. I hoped that Desai would think it was from the cold. I mean, who gets turned on by their own body?
Hemmings talked to Desai while I was behind the counter. She spoke in a low voice, but I could still hear most of it. “This one’s a runaway,” she said. “Look for signs of abuse, but be careful. She’s got an attitude about something.”
‘Of course I have an attitude, you stupid bitch,’ I thought. My plan’s ruined and I’ve got to get back to the cabin and figure out what to do next.’ I was just about to go out when I remembered the Medallion. For all I knew, Desai might recognize it. I quickly hid it in a pocket of my jeans.
Desai gave me a fairly complete physical. She even put me up on a set of stirrups for a gynecologic exam. That was an experience! To actually feel something entering my body like that. She smiled during that part. “I see you are still virgin. Congratulations.”
I was getting dressed when she reached through the curtain and handed me a white plastic bag, a towel, and a bar of some kind of purple soap. “Flea bites,” she explained. “You take shower, while we do clothes. Put them in that bag when you strip for shower.”
Fleas! I must have been bitten during the night after I changed into the Italian kid. That bastard of a landlord didn’t say anything when I rented the cottage. I wondered why the bites hadn’t disappeared when I changed into Sarah. Then I realized that the Medallion hadn’t changed me to look like somebody else, just turned me from a 12 year old boy to his 16 year old counterpart. Since I had sort of kept the same body, it hadn’t healed the bites that were already there.
Desai called Hemmings while I’d gotten dressed, and she came for me just as I walked out from behind the curtain. “Find anything?”
“No bruises, no sign of sexual molesting. Some flea bites, though. I give her disinfectant soap for shower.”
“Fleas, eh? From home or from where you were staying? Never mind, you probably wouldn’t tell me either way, would you?”
“No, ma’am, I wouldn’t.” I was actually beginning to like this woman. No, I think that I had just figured out how best to manipulate her.
She took me down the hall to a set of doors that connected this building to the others. “I’ve got you signed in as Sarah Doe. You’ll stay here for a while till I figure out what to do with you.” We went through another set of doors under a sign labeled “Dormitory”. It was just about empty.
Hemmings saw me looking around. “The kids are still in school. That’s over in the West Wing. I’ve got you in a room on the third floor. You’ll meet your roommate later. For now, you can take that shower Dr. Desai wants you to take. Then we’ll see about some clothes.”
We headed to an elevator and rode up to the third floor. Hemmings led me to a communal bathroom that was a lot like the one in my college dorm: a row of sinks along two walls, a set of stalls, and, through a wide doorway, a smaller room with a rack for towels along one wall and shower nozzles on the other three. I thought something was missing, but then I realized that there were no urinals. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘this definitely the girl’s bathroom.’
Hemmings sat down on a long bench outside the shower room. “Strip down and get into the shower,” she said. Once again I found myself taking off my clothes in the presence of a woman. This time, there was no privacy curtain. I might have been a piece of meat, though, as far as Hemmings was concerned. She picked up the clothes as I took them off and put them in the bag.
When I handed her the jeans, she felt some extra weight. She reached into the pocket and pulled out the knife and the Medallion. “What are these?”
“The, umm, the knife’s for protection. I took it when I left home.”
“And this necklace?”
“It’s...” I could hardly tell her what it really was. I thought fast. “It was my Mom’s. It’s not worth much, but it’s all I have of hers.”
“Well, you can’t wear it in the shower. We have a rule here about newcomer’s personal belongings anyway.” She took a second, smaller bag from a pocket of her jacket. “I’ll keep these for you while you’re here. You’ll get them back in a month.” She put the knife and the Medallion into the bag. “If you’re here that long.”
In a way, I was relieved. If she’d put them in with the clothes, she might have done something that turned her into my double. That would be impossible to explain. But the prospect of having to stay here for a month, as a girl no less was not something to look forward to. I shrugged my shoulders, took that purple soap, Dr. Desai had given me, and headed into the shower.
Whatever the soap was, it lathered up great. It felt strange to be soaping the curves of that new female body of mine. Everything felt so soft. There were curves where there’d always been angularity. And some of the places, well, they were just so sensitive. I think I could have spent days just rubbing that lather onto and into my breasts.
Hemmings yelled something. “Don’t forget your hair. I’ll be right back.”
I couldn’t forget my hair. It was heavy with the water and pulling on my scalp. I worked up a second lather and rubbed it into my hair, making sure to work it in well. While I rinsed, tilting my head back and feeling the soapy water run down my hair and onto my back, I went back to working on my breasts again. I felt a warmth spread out into my breasts. It seemed to head straight down to my groin. I reached down with one hand and began rubbing along the edges of my new pussy. It felt absolutely wonderful.
I was just about to stick a finger up into my pussy, when I heard Hemmings again. “Hey, are you done in there yet?” I pulled my hands away from myself in embarrassment.
“Almost,” I yelled back. Thank Heavens she hadn’t looked in. I ran my fingers through my hair to make sure that the last of the soap was out of it. I turned and let the shower wash the lather from my front. The spray felt so good on my tender breasts that I was sorry to stop. I turned the water off slowly, letting it run cold for a few seconds.
As I came out of the shower room, Hemmings handed me a towel. “Dry yourself, then put this on,” she said, pointing to a white cotton bathrobe lying on the bench. I patted, rather than rubbed, myself dry the way I remembered my ex-wife doing it. I could understand why now. A woman’s skin was a lot more tender than a man’s. I put on the bathrobe. Hemmings handed me another towel. I wondered why for a minute, then suddenly knew what it was for, and wrapped it around my hair.
Hemmings picked up a bag from the bench, and we walked down the hall to a bedroom. Again, it was dorm standard: two beds along the side walls and a couple of desks by a window. There was a low dresser and a wrack for hanging clothes near each bed. The bed on the left side had a couple of blankets and a set of sheets and a pillow piled on it. The bed on the right was made. There were a couple of posters on the wall over that bed, rock stars, I guessed, and what looked like a couple of personal mementos on the desk next to it.
“You can make your bed as soon as you’re dressed,” Hemmings said. Your roommate should be coming up from classes in about a half hour.” She tossed the bag onto the bed.
I opened the bag expecting to find the clothes that I’d been wearing. Wrong! I pulled out a white cotton bra. What the hell? I turned and looked at Hemmings.
“We’re still disinfecting the clothes you came in. You’ll get them back tomorrow. For now, I got some stuff out of stock. I think you’re a little too, umm, developed to go without a bra.”
I dumped the rest of the clothes out onto the bed. It was all girls’ clothes: cotton panties, a pair of jeans, a pale blue blouse with short scalloped sleeves and a wide neckline, socks, and sneakers; very pretty and very feminine. I picked the bra up again, and tried to remember how my ex had put one of these damned things on. Oh, yes, I remembered.
I took off the robe and laid it on the unmade bed. Then I picked up the bra again and put my arms through the straps and reached around to find the two ends. I pulled these back behind me slowly, so my breasts more or less settled into the cups. I fumbled a little with the hooks, but, after a moment, I was able to close them. I reached into the cups and moved my breasts around a little to get them more comfortable. I had to admit that the support felt nice.
I held the panties out in front of me and stepped into it, one leg at a time. As I pulled it up around my hips, I couldn’t help noticing how different the material felt from my usual cotton shorts. ‘Hell,’ I thought. ‘Who worried about how their underwear felt?’ This girl stuff was getting to me.
It was easy finishing getting dressed. Jeans and a shirt, socks and sneakers, they’re all the same regardless of what sex they were designed for. After I dressed, Hemmings actually helped me to make the bed. I think she was trying to be a “pal”, so I would trust her. She was a fool, like most people, and I had no real trouble toying with her.
We were just finishing the bed, when I heard a voice behind me. “Hi, they told me I was getting a new roommate.”
I turned. The speaker was a girl about 16, my current age. She was tall and a bit on the skinny side, except from her breasts which looked enormous. She was Hispanic, with long, straight brown hair that hung down almost to her waist. She was dressed very much as I was, in a pair of jeans and a blouse, but she had blue earrings in the shape of an owl, and, I noticed, a bracelet on her wrist.
“I’m Angie Garcia,” she said. She put down the book bag she was carrying and stuck out her hand in greeting.
“I’m Sarah, umm, Sarah Doe.” I shook her hand. She seemed like a friendly enough sort, but I was going to have to be careful.
“I’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted,” Hemmings said. She walked out, shutting the door behind her.
Angie ran over and locked the door. Then she pulled a pocket radio out of a desk drawer and turned it on. It was set to one of the local rock stations, with the volume cranked up a bit.
“Sometimes she listens at the door,” Angie said. “Now, what are you here for?”
“Runaway.” This girl was starting to have possibilities.
“That all? Really all?”
“No, actually, I kidnapped somebody.”
“Right, and I’m here for busting into Fort Knox.”
“Let’s leave it at 'runaway' for now, okay? Why does she listen at the door?”
“Because she wants to help us; at least, that’s what she says if somebody catches her. Look, it’s actually not too bad a place here. Nobody really comes down hard unless you ask for it. There’re a few dangerous kids to watch out for, boys and girls, but once you get the feel of it, things ain’t too bad.”
“Yeah, that’s why there a fence with barbed wire.”
“I didn’t say it was perfect. Are you really a runaway?”
“Yeah.” I decided to be noncommittal about details. “Things just got, well, too much, so I left. They caught me in a warehouse downtown.”
“I’m in for shoplifting. My old man freaked and said they could throw away the key, so I wound up here for the next year.”
“Just two dangerous criminals, I guess.”
“Looks that way.”
Suddenly I had a friend. Whether I wanted one or not; I was stuck with Angie. We talked a while longer. She had a boy friend, one who showed up once in a while to visit. I said I didn’t want anybody to know where I was, and that I didn’t have a boy friend, anyway. Angie said her friend, Tink, had a friend who had just broken up with his girl over something. She didn’t know what. If I wanted, Tink could bring Joey along the next time he came. I was stupid enough to go along with the idea, if only to get her off the subject.
*****
Tink showed up about three days later. He was a tall and lanky boy of 18 with straight black hair that he wore long, down past his shoulders. With his dark complexion, he looked almost Indian. Joey was shorter, but much more muscular. His hair was also black but much curlier. He looked more Italian than Hispanic.
It occurred to me that, if I could get the Medallion before their next visit, I could leave Drexler Hall as Joey. Of course, that meant that I’d have to get him someplace alone for the time it took us to exchange bodies. But the way he was looking at my new body that didn’t seem like it would be too hard to do.
Since it was a nice day, they let the kids and their visitors roam free on the grounds. Angie led the three of us to a wooded section not too close to the buildings. We talked for a while, but then she took Tink by the hand and walked with him into some bushes. I could hear giggling and the bushes began to rustle.
I was alone with Joey, and suddenly I didn’t feel very safe. He looked at me and smiled -- no, he leered. “Let’s go find our own bushes.”
I was right. This was definitely trouble. “Not so fast, Joey; I just met you.”
“So? You want it. All girls do. They just lie and say that they don’t to mess with a guy’s head.”
It was like hearing my old self talk. I’d always known that was true of women. Only now, I was a woman, and I didn’t want “it”. I was in trouble. I wanted him to come back but I certainly didn’t want to have sex with this arrogant little Spick.
“Maybe we do,” I said, “but, please, not so soon. I want to get to know you a little first.” I started to leave. “Let’s go back to the building and talk.”
“Games!” He said and grabbed my arm. “I’m tired of girls like you playing games.”
I tried to pull free, but he was much too strong. I called to Angie and Tink for help, but they were too busy making their own noises to hear me. Joey walked further into the woods, dragging me behind.
We walked about twenty yards. Joey found a clump of bushes near the base of a small hill. There was a small area with some thick grass between the bushes and the hill. He yanked my wrist, and I stumbled forward, falling onto the grass. Joey was right down on top of me, pinning me with the weight of his body. I pushed and wriggled trying to get him off, but he was too strong and too heavy.
“Keep it up,” he said with a laugh. “I like it when a girl puts up a fight.” He slid down so his one knee was between my legs.
He brought his head down and kissed me on the mouth. I clenched my jaw to keep my lips shut and reached around to pound at his back. He broke the kiss and grabbed my wrists, holding them both in one large hand. He pushed them back over the top of my head so hard that my arms hurt. With his free hand, he grabbed the collar of the blouse that I was wearing. One yank and buttons went flying. The blouse was opened down almost to my waist. He reached in and began to paw at my breasts, grabbing first one then the other.
I began to scream every nasty name I could think of. He pulled his hand away from my chest and slapped me. “Listen, Bitch. I’m fucking you. You can lay back and help me to enjoy it, or you can get hurt. Either way it’s happening.” He slapped me again, “So shut up.” I stopped yelling, seeing no point in getting him any madder.
He kissed me again on the lips, but I still managed to keep my mouth shut. Then he began kissing his way down my neck and towards my breasts. When he got that far, he started to suck my left breast, while he rubbed the right one, tweaking at my nipple with a finger. In spite of the anger I was feeling, he began to get to me. I felt my nipples becoming hard and erect. There was a warmth down at my groin.
I tried to fight it, but the old male tricks: thinking of baseball statistics and doing math problems in my head, didn’t work. The feelings grew as little jolts of pleasure flashed between my breasts and my pussy. Joey kept playing with my breasts, switching his mouth from the left one to the right after I while. I felt my panties begin to get wet from the lubrication I was leaking. I felt something else, too. It was long and hard and inside Joey’s pants pushing up against me.
Joey must have sensed how ready I was. I felt his hand move down and grab the bottom of my skirt. He raised his hips and pulled it up around my waist. His hand shot under it and groped for my pussy. He ran his finger along the edge of my vagina through the moistened material. I squirmed and spread my legs without thinking. He grabbed the material and yanked again. The fragile material tore apart, and he reached up and waved it above his head like a flag of triumph.
He tossed the ruined panty away and reached down to fumble with his jeans, pulling at the belt and the zipper. He got them loose and yanked them down, taking his shorts with them.
Suddenly I felt something moving against my bare leg. It was Joey moving his prick around trying to find my pussy. I tried to move. He yanked my arms sharply and yelled, “Don’t move, Bitch.” At that moment, I felt his prick against my pussy lips. I froze in absolute fear, and it slid in a little. Joey pushed. I felt something tear inside me.
“Damn!” Joey said, “A virgin pussy.” He began to pump in earnest. I felt some pain, but that was quickly overshadowed by the incredible sensations of pleasure he was causing. I tried to resist, but it it was incredible. I wanted to tell him to stop, but the words stuck in my throat. I moaned, and my body began to match his motions, his rhythm.
Suddenly he stopped, and I felt something spurt into me. My body reacted. I lost all control, shaking violently with my own -- my female -- orgasm. I yanked my wrists free, but instead of trying to push him away, I wrapped my arms around him, trying to pull him in closer. He began to pump into me again, but less intensely. In a moment, I began to feel him going soft inside me.
He rolled off, his prick sliding out of me. He lay on his back, panting and trying to catch his breath. “You’re one good fuck, Baby.”
My body wanted to lay there in the hopes that he would continue to give it pleasure. Only now my mind was back in control. This dumb Spic had just raped me! I rolled away from him and got up as quickly as I could. He tried to grab my ankle and pull me back down, but I was too quick, too cunning. I dodged his hand and kicked as hard as I could, aiming straight for his nuts!
He let loose a howl and curled up in a ball. I turned and ran back to the building.
I must have been quite a sight, running towards the building, my blouse ripped open, my hair a mass of tangles and grass, Joey’s cum dripping down my leg. A couple of people grabbed me and took me straight to Dr. Desai’s office. As we hurried towards the doctor’s office, I blurted out what had happened. Somebody, a couple of people, ran back towards the woods.
Desai had me strip at once. She wasn’t surprised to see that my panties were missing. After a quick look for bruises, she had me get into those stirrups again. “The police will need a sample” was all the explanation she gave. She had done an exam when I first came, so she knew I was -- I had been -- a virgin.
She checked for any damage, but beyond loss of virginity under very bad circumstances, I seemed to be okay. There wasn’t much damage to the rest of me either, those both my shoulders hurt for a while from the way Joey had held my arms above my head. Desai gave me some pills to calm me down and told me to come back in a few days for a follow up check.
Angie came in with some clothes. She looked like she’d been crying. “Sarah,” she said. “I-I’m so sorry. Tink and I didn’t know. Joey split up with his girl a few weeks again. He told Tink that they’d just decided not to see each other anymore. It turns out that he tried to rape her. She said that she wouldn’t tell anybody if he swore to leave her alone. She moved out to the West Coast just to get away from him.”
“And you thought he’d be just my type.”
“Sarah, I swear that Tink and I didn’t know.” She began to sniffle. “If it makes you feel any better, they’re not going to let Tink come out to see me anymore.” Now she was crying. “Sarah, I love him. We were going to get married when I got out of here. I’ll be seventeen then, and we can do it legal.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better. You can’t see him for a few weeks is supposed to make up for me being raped.”
“Sarah, I’m-I’m sorry.” She turned away, her face red, her eyes full of tears and ran from the room. I tried not to smile. It was what she deserved.
“I guess you’ll be moving.” I turned. Hemmings had come in from Desai’s office. “I don’t think you and Angie will be rooming together after this.
*****
Hemmings found me a single room on the same floor and helped me move the clothes and such that I had. Angie came to my new room a couple nights later and tried to apologize. Who cared? I just wanted to get that Medallion at the end of the month and get out of that place.
*****
I went back to Desai’s for her checkup that Thursday. She looked me over for any bruises, and then had me get back onto the table and into those stirrups. “I understand that you and Angie are still not talking,” she said while she poked around inside of me. It was annoying, but it distracted me, at least, from the weirdness of having to go through another gynecologic exam.
“Do you blame me?”
“Yes. Angie is not to blame. She had no way of knowing what that boy was like.”
“If she didn’t know him, how could she go off and leave me with him?”
“Because she is young and in love, and that can make one very foolish.”
“Who cares? Can we change the subject?”
“No matter, I am done for now.” She moved away from the table and put something into a container on a counter. “I may wish to talk to you tomorrow, though.”
“You’ll know where to find me.” I climbed off the table and got dressed. Classes were over for the day, so I headed back to my new room to kill time until dinner.”
*****
The next day, while I was in class, a message came over the PA system for me to report to Hemmings’ office immediately. Desai was waiting when I got there.
“Please sit down, Sarah.” Hemmings said. She shifted into her professional “concerned adult” mode, smiling gently as she pointed to a chair. “Dr. Desai has some news that you need to hear.”
‘Bad news,” I thought. I sat down, carefully sliding my hand below my skirt so it wouldn’t wrinkle and trying to look innocent and demure. Had they somehow found out who I really was?
“There is no easy way to tell this, Sarah,” Desai began. “When you were in my office yesterday, I did a pregnancy test. It just came back, and the results were positive.”
“Pregnant! No, I can’t be.”
“I can do a second test, but I am sure that the results will be the same.”
“Can... can we do something... get rid of it?”
“Not while you’re a ward of the county,” Hemmings said. “The county commissioners have a long standing policy of not paying for abortions.”
“How do your parents feel,” Desai said. “If you called them, they could take you home and do whatever they think is right for you.”
My parents? My parents were dead. Sarah’s had never existed because she didn’t really exist. “I don’t want to go home. I-I can’t”
“Not even for this?” Hemmings asked. “Sarah, whatever happened, you need them now. Please tell us how to get in touch with them.”
“No! Can I go now? I have a lot to think about.”
“Yes, I understand. Go think about it, and come back if -- when -- you change your mind.”
I left. Hemmings and Desai couldn’t understand. I knew enough about the Medallion to know that it didn’t work on a pregnant female. I was going to be Sarah for at least nine more months.
*****
That was over three years ago.
They decided not to give me my stuff back until after I had the baby. The knife was the reason. They thought I might use it on myself or on Angie. I wouldn’t have, of course. At least, I wouldn’t have used it on myself.
Angie and I did get to be friends again when she helped me in the last months of the pregnancy. I had my daughter, and I gave her up for adoption. When I went back to the Home afterwards, I discovered that Angie had moved all my stuff back into her room. She managed to get my stuff from the safe, too. But the Medallion wasn’t in the package with the rest. It had gotten lost somehow. I spent a month searching for it before I finally gave up. I was going to be Sarah Doe for the rest of my life.
While I was pregnant, I found out how they rescued Kuzak.
The cops searched the car and found the lease for the cabin right where I’d left it, in the glove compartment. A squad of state police headed for the cabin and found her as I’d left her, half naked and chained to the bed.
They didn’t believe her story at first. Who would? Fortunately for her, I’d used the Medallion to change her into what she would have been if she’d been born a girl. That meant that she had Don Kuzak’s fingerprints. They had to believe fingerprints.
Since I disappeared the same day as Kuzak was kidnapped, the police have figured out that I -- my real self -- was involved. Even if I found the Medallion, I can’t go back to my old life. Since Sarah is the female counterpart of the boy whose shirt I bought, I have his fingerprints. I hope that he’s behaving himself. I was fingerprinted shortly after I first came to Drexler.
The company gave Kuzak the $100,000 that should have been mine plus another $250,000 for what she’d gone through. She used some of the money to go back to school, since Vartex couldn’t have a person with the body of a 16 year old working for it.
She came back about two months ago with a master’s degree in business from Wharton. Those bastards gave her a district manager’s job at the main office. She pulls down something like $145,000 per year. I hear that she’s dating the son of one of the senior Vice Presidents.
Me, I’ve got a high school diploma from Drexler Hall. My grades were good -- they should have been; I was cum laude in college. Only there was no money to send Sarah to college. I took some computer courses at Drexler and spent a year at a business school, working as a waitress to cover my tuition. I managed to get a job in the personnel office at Vartex. That’s how I could find out about what happened to Kuzak after she was rescued. I make $375 a week.
I’ve more or less adjusted to being a female, but after Joey, I’m terrified at the thought of being intimate with anyone male or female. Fortunately, I have very few friends, so the subject seldom comes up.
I have not always hated Don Kuzak.
But I do now.
He ruined my life.
Corinne Lassiter promised her husband, Ed, sex like he'd never experienced it before. She kept her promise but not at all in the way Ed expected.
Altered Fates: The Husband
By Ellie Dauber
Most evenings, Edward Lassiter relaxed for about an hour after dinner listening to late 60s rock in the library of his home in the San Gabriel Mountains while he read financial journals. "The ultimate mixed media," he called it.
The Lassiters were "Old California money." Great-great-great grandfather Barton had been part of the Leland Stanford syndicate that first brought the Eastern railroads to the state. Edward had invested his own inheritance in real estate, building upscale developments in and around "Silicon Valley." He'd diversified in the late-90s, going into urban renovation and some urban archeology projects. He'd even built some low-cost housing.
The result was enough money to let him go into semi-retirement at age 35. He still kept his hand in, but the day-to-day work was done by his chief operating officer, a younger cousin. Edward trusted him completely, but he also checked the books twice a year.
Edward was working his way through the latest issue of _Barrons_, when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Corinne, his wife, standing behind the chair he was in. She had an odd look on her face, nerves perhaps. Her bright red hair, which she'd worn up at dinner, hung loose framing her face and pooling around her shoulders.
Edward took of his earphone. "Something bothering you, Corinne?" She'd been very distant lately, and he didn't know why. Perhaps this was the night that she'd explain the tension that had grown between them.
She smiled and leaned over to kiss his forehead. He felt her firm breasts pushed against the back of his head. "I just wanted to see if you were up for a little kinky fun, Edward." She ran her hand sensuously down his chest, continuing on to touch his crouch. "Mmm, you are _up_ -- at least you're getting there."
Edward sprang to his feet. It had been a long time since she'd been this playful. "You blame me? You come in and do that..." He stopped and let his eyes feast on the sight before him. Corinne had let down her hair figuratively as well. Instead of the slightly conservative dress she normally wore, Corinne was in a purple teddy that he'd never seen on her before. It hugged her lush curves, revealing more than it could ever have concealed. A built-in bra pushed up her C-cup breasts, making them look at least one size larger. The teddy and matching high heels and garter, well up on her right thigh, were all she wore.
"If I wasn't _up_ for it, I am now," he said. Edward took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. Then, without breaking the kiss, he picked her up. She sighed and happily let him carry her to their bed.
Edward laid Corinne gently on the four-poster, and hurriedly began taking off his own clothes. His tie first, then his shirt, a button ripping loose from the silk as he did. He kicked off his shoes; one flew halfway across the room, barely missing a full-length antique mirror in an ornately carved wooden frame.
"Careful there, lover," Corinne said in a husky voice. She had rolled over on her side and was leaning on her elbow as she watched Edward struggle with his clothes. "We got that mirror last summer in Florence, remember."
"I remember," Edward said, walking over to it, "and I remember _why_ we got it." The mirror's frame was on wooden rollers. He pushed the mirror a few feet, positioning it, so that it reflected Corinne on the bed. "Not quite effective as mounting one on the ceiling, but a lot more classy."
Corinne sat up and began pulling at his belt. "The hell with class. I didn't come in here for a lesson in interior decorating." The belt came loose. She let it fall, dragging his slacks down with it towards the floor. "Better, much, much better." She looked at the lump in his shorts and smiled
Edward stepped out of his pants in one quick movement, kicking them away from the bed. "I'd say the same about you, Corinne. You look good enough to eat in that outfit... And I think I will."
He sat on the bed next to her, and pulled her up to him. Their lips met again. His tongue brushed against her lips, and they parted. His tongue met hers within her mouth, as they kissed.
At the same time, his left hand reached down to her breast. He gently rubbed the silk of the teddy against her rigid nipple. He tweaked it with his fingers, then "spiderwalked" his fingers, their tips gently touching her skin as they moved across her breast. She moaned at the sensation, and arched her back slightly. The motion pushed more of her breast against his fingertips.
He moved his hands to her shoulders and slid the thin straps of her teddy over her shoulders and down her arms. The top of the teddy fell, exposing her breasts. Corinne shivered slightly as her breasts felt the cool air.
Edward broke the kiss.
His hand went back to caress her breast, sliding the tip of his finger across the nipple. At the same time, he kissed her gently on the lips. Then he moved downward, kissing her jaw, her neck, her shoulders. On downward, until his lips closed around her other nipple.
Corinne shivered again as she felt his rough tongue against her nipple. The feelings he was stirring up were sending jolts of pleasure through her body, but especially to her groin. She felt herself grow warm and more than a little wet. The muscles of her vagina alternately loosening and tightening in anticipation.
Her hand reached down to touch his penis. She felt it twitch as she ran a finger along the cloth that covered it. He was more than ready. She raised her arms and pushed against his shoulders as hard as she could, separating them on the bed.
"What... what's the matter?" Edward asked. "Do... do you want to stop?"
Corinne smiled mysteriously. "I don't, but I didn't invite you here for an evening of straight sex..." She touched his penis again through his shorts. "...As much fun as that might be. I said 'kinky', remember?"
He grinned. "I remember. What exactly did you have in mind?"
"This," she said. She reached into the drawer of the bed table and pulled out an odd looking bronze-colored medallion on a narrow chain. As she put the chain around her neck, Edward noticed that it looked rather cheaply made, costume jewelry, no doubt. There was some sort of figure, an angel or a cherub on the front of it.
He waited for her to do -- to get -- something else, but she just sat on the bed as if _she_ were waiting for something. The medallion hung between her breasts. The bronze color looked interesting against her tanned skin, but... "Is that it?" he asked. "I don't see what's so kinky about that cheap... about that thing."
"Oh, believe me, Edward, it will make all the difference. Tonight, we'll experience sex as we never have before." She lurched forward, throwing her arms around him.
Edward felt the cool metal of the medallion pushed against his chest by Corinne's breasts. There had been a sort of static electric shock when it touched him, but he didn't think much about it. Something else was pressed against his chest, Corinne's two firm breasts. He had 120 pounds of very sexy woman in his arms to take his mind off such mundane things as a cheap medallion.
They continued kissing and fondling each other. Edward began to notice an odd sensation spreading through his body. It was sort of like the feeling a person got when his foot had gone to sleep. As he was kissing Corrine, it suddenly seemed as if they were shifting on the bed, that he was sinking down into the mattress, while she was rising somehow.
He broke the kiss. "What the..." Something very strange was happening. Corinne was taller than he was. Her hair barely covered her ears now, and it was growing shorter as he watched. It was changing color, too; the red was darkening to a chestnut brown.
"Something wrong, Edward?" Her voice was deeper -- tenor, almost baritone. Her face was changing, too. Her eyebrows were changing color and growing bushier. Her jaw was squarer, more like a man's.
He looked down. Her body was losing its delightful curves. Her breasts were shrinking away. Her chest was broader, now, and... and there was hair growing on it! Her arms had hair, too, and they looked more and more muscular.
"Corinne, what's happening to you?" He was so startled that he never noticed how much higher in pitch his own voice was.
Corinne stood and began to wriggle out of the teddy. It was getting tight on her larger, more angular body. "Nothing worse than what's happening to you." She smiled and looked down at him.
Edward took the hint and looked down at his own body. It was smaller and much thinner. All his body hair was gone. His chest looked puffy, and his -- Good Lord! -- his penis was shrinking away even as he stared at it. His balls were getting smaller, too. His hips, when he looked at them, seemed to be getting wider, and his now hairless legs seemed to be developing a feminine curve. He shook his head, feeling his hair move against his neck. "I... I don't under--" He stopped. His voice was past tenor, well up in the alto range.
"We're swapping bodies, dear," Corinne said. She held up the medallion. "This thing's magic -- from Africa, so they say. When I put it on, and we both touched it, the magic started."
"Impossible!" But he realized that he was speaking in Corinne's voice. Looking at her was like watching one of those movie morphs. She grew more and more like him by the minute. "We're... we're not going to be stuck like this... are we?"
"Heavens, no," Corinne said with whatever the male equivalent of a giggle was. "After twelve hours, we can use the thing to switch back."
Twelve hours! Edward looked down. The puffiness on his chest had become a pair of breasts. They weren't very large, but they were even now swelling up to Corinne's 36-Cs. The nipples were erect and -- he touched them gently -- _very_ sensitive. He leaned forward to look past them. His balls were... gone, and his penis -- barely an inch long now -- was sinking down into a patch of red curls.
He touched there, too. The anatomy was still in progress, but the opening was forming. He moved a finger inside, wincing as a now longer fingernail touched something. He shivered and said in a soft whisper, "I... I'm a girl."
"You sure are," Corinne said, "and a damned sexy one, feeling yourself up like that." Her voice was his own deep baritone.
Edward looked over and saw himself... _her_self. Corinne was leering as she... as _he_ stood there stroking his aroused penis.
"You... you wouldn't." Edward inched back on the bed.
Corinne put the medallion in a drawer of her... his make-up table and climbed onto the bed beside his transformed husband. "We came in here for some kinky sex, remember. You tell me what could be kinkier than this?"
"Now wait a m... mrmph." The rest of Edward's words were cut shot as Corinne pulled his husband close and kissed her deeply. Edward reacted instinctively, putting her arms around his neck. Corinne continued the kiss, but his hands reached down to lift and massage Edward's butt cheeks.
The sensations seemed to go directly to Edward's new breasts -- her nipples tightened and became erect -- and her new pussy, which grew warmer... and a little wet. Edward moaned and pulled herself closer to Corinne.
Corinne knew exactly what to do to his own former body. He ran a fingernail along the lips the rimmed Edward's vagina. His other hand spiderwalked across her breast, while his thumb roughly stroked the tip of her erect nipple. Edward shuddered, and Corinne could feel the muscles of his husband's new vagina moving in anticipation. He could smell the feminine juices of her arousal.
He slipped a finger into Edward's vagina and began stroking her clitoris. As he did, he began to slide a second finger slowly in and out.
Edward gasped at the sensations running through her body. She leaned back trying to support herself with her arms. At the same time, almost without her being aware of it, she spread her legs farther apart,
"I guess you like that," Corinne teased her newly-female husband.
"Uhh... huhn." Edward was breathing hard. She smiled, a thin sheen of sweat on her cheeks and forehead, her eyes unfocused.
Corinne added a second finger to the in-out motion. Edward's hips began to move, matching the rhythm. She was leaning back further, trembling as if her arms no longer had the strength to hold her body upright.
Corinne leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips. Then she pushed firmly on Edward's shoulder. The transformed male didn't resist and fell backwards onto the bed.
"Now the _real_ fun starts." Corinne leaned forward, positioning his body over Edward's. He reached down and found his new penis -- no, his _cock_. It felt warm and as hard as iron to his touch. He carefully guided it, so the tip was pushing against Edward's vagi -- no, her _pussy_. He teased her, rubbing the head of it along... along her cuntlips. Then Corinne suddenly thrust his hips forward, roughly pushing his cock into her.
Edward screamed in surprise at the penetration.
Corinne was atop her and trapping her body with his own. He pushed his cock forward until his hips pushed against her own. Then he pulled back. He moved slowly, so that the sensations Edward felt were prolonged and intensified.
Edward had started to resist. She tried to raise her arms to push Corinne away. But her vagina was pulsing with sexual energy, shooting out bolts of pleasure to every part of her body. Her resistance melted away, as did the strength in her arms. Instead, they moved of their own accord around Corinne's neck. Her legs rose to encircle his hips. Both movements were intended at pulling Corinne closer, begging him with her own body to continue.
Corinne felt something building inside him, inside his cock. He kept pumping away at Edward overwhelmed by his own sensations. Suddenly it... broke. He felt what seemed like a gallon of liquid shoot from him into Edward.
Edward felt Corinne cumming inside her. The sensation seemed to lift her to new heights of her own. She screamed and arched her back. Her fingers began to claw at Corinne. It suddenly felt as if she were exploding, every nerve of her, as she gave way to her own orgasm.
Corinne kept the in-out motion going for a while, but he felt himself growing soft. He kissed Edward on the forehead and rolled off of her. His cock -- now it just felt like... like a penis again -- slid out of her. He shifted, so that his arm was under her head.
"Oh, Lord, Edward, you were wonderful," he said, as he began gently caressing her. Corinne knew her old body, know how important the snuggling and touching _after_ sex was. "Thank you."
Edward moved closer. She rested her head on his chest. She could feel his heart beat just as she could feel her own breathing. "Thank you," she said with a slight giggle, happy now to take the female role. "The pleasure was all... was half mine."
They lay there silently for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts and enjoying the gentle pleasures still in their bodies.
Then Corinne suddenly sat up. "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink after that."
"Just like a man," Edward said, smiling at her joke. "Get me something, too, would you please."
Corinne climbed out of bed. He turned back towards Edward and bowed. "As you wish, my lady." He walked over to a small wet bar in a corner of the room, a seldom-used luxury. "Scotch all right?"
"I suppose." Edward sat up on the bed and watched. She noticed that Corinne had a nice, tight, male ass. 'I shouldn't think such things -- should I," she asked herself. 'Well, after what we just did, I suppose a bit of thinking like a woman is to be expected."
She smiled as Corinne came back to the bed and handed her a drink. She looked down and noticed that he was at "half-mast" already.
Edward drank the scotch in one quick gulp. She knew from the way Corinne was smiling that he knew what she had been looking at. Round two wasn't far off.
Or was it. The room suddenly swayed before Edward. She dropped the empty glass onto the bed. "I... I feel... dizzy. What...?"
Corinne blinked a few times, shook her head, and carefully sat down next to Edward. "Must be the magic and... and the scotch." He put an arm around Edward's shoulder. "C-couldn't be the... the sex."
Edward's eyes were half-closed. She shook her head once and collapsed back onto the bed. Corinne sat quietly and watched Edward for a while until her breathing became soft and regular.
Corinne smiled and picked up Edward's glass. There was still a little grit, residue from the drug, in the glass. "Lucky she didn't notice." Corinne put the glass down and moved Edward farther onto the bed. He arranged her body into a spread-eagle position and used stockings to tie her wrists and ankles to the bedposts.
He stood and walked back towards the make-up table where the Medallion was stored. "On to phase two."
* * * * *
'Someone's playing with my breasts,' Edward thought as she slowly regained consciousness.
Breasts? The memory rushed back to Edward: that Medallion, the swap of bodies between him and Corinne, and the sex, the incredible sex she'd had with her own body afterwards.
Whatever had made her pass out was gone, although her body still felt... odd. But now Corinne was heating things up again. She smiled and opened her eyes. She saw Corinne -- Edward now -- sitting on the bed next to her, one hand reaching down to play with her nipple. "Hallo," she said in a half-whisper.
Corinne grinned, or was _leer_ the better word, back at her. "Good morning. Ready for some more fun?"
Edward felt a warmth in her cheeks. She... she was blushing. "Si," she said softly. "That would be _muy_ nice."
Something sounded odd about the way she was talking, but before she had a chance to think about it, Corinne leaned over and kissed her. At the same time, his fingers began to knead at her breast. She was totally distracted as she felt the warmth of her arousal spread down from her breasts to her groin, then out through her entire body.
Corinne lifted his head and kissed the tip of Edward's nose, then moved on to gently kiss her eyelids. All the while, Edward felt his hands on her breasts. Corinne moved down now, kissing Edward's cheek, her jawline. He stopped to suck and lick at a point near the base of her neck.
'He's giving me a hickey,' Edward thought. 'How romá¡ntico.' She giggled almost like a young girl.
Corinne shifted again. He kissed her lightly on the lips, then gently pushed Edward back, so she was lying down on the bed. He sucked her breast for a bit, rubbing his rough tongue across her nipple, before he moved on downward.
Corinne kissed Edward's tummy, then ran his tongue along the rim of her navel. Edward shivered in anticipation, wondering what was next. She felt oddly passive, willing to wait for whatever Corinne wanted to do.
She didn't have to wait long. Corinne's head was inches from her vagina. Corinne pursed his lips and gently blew a stream of air that moved along Edward's vaginal lips.
Edward let out a high-pitched moan and shivered at the sensations. Her body trembled as she felt his tongue slide into her. It moved slowly, lapping at her inner flesh. When it found her new clitoris, Corinne's tongue flicked it back and forth.
Edward's entire body was trembling now. She clenched at the bed coverings. "Si, si, now, madre de dios, now!"
Corinne sat up on the bed. He grabbed Edward's legs and threw them over his shoulders. Then he guided his cock to her throbbing pussy and thrust in. Hard.
Edward screamed at the force of the invasion of her pussy. She did nothing to stop it or break free. Her cries turned to moans of pleasure and Corinne moved quickly in and out.
Edward pounded at the bed with clenched fists. Her head rocked back and forth, and her body was covered with sweat. She felt the sexual energy growing within her. It broke all at once, flooding her body with intense pleasure. She arched her back and screamed. Her fingers unclenched, and she raked the bed coverings with her nails.
Corinne kept pumping. Then his eyes suddenly opened wide and he froze in mid stroke. He lifted his head and let out a howl from the force of his own orgasm.
He began to pump into Edward again, but his movements slowed as he grew flaccid. After a few moments, he leaned back with a tired smile on his face. His soft penis pulled out of Edward, and he let her legs fall from his shoulders.
Edward lay still on the bed, overwhelmed by the feelings that were still running through her body. "Oh, seá±ior..." Something about what she said didn't sound right. She looked down at herself and saw for the first time that things were... different.
Her body seemed a bit plumper than Corinne's had been. Her skin was darker, almost a coppery color, and her hair -- the hair at her groin had somehow gone from red to black.
" ¿Qué...?" She said. Then her eyes grew wide as she realized that she was speaking Spanish, a language she... Edward didn't know.
"Confused?" a familiar voice asked.
Edward turned and saw... "Corinne? ¿Cá³mo?... How?"
Corinne was back in her own, female body. She worn a yellow, flowered dress, her red hair arranged tastefully so that it framed her face and flowed down to her shoulders. She tossed the male Edward a robe, the old Edward's favorite. He climbed off the bed and quickly put it on. It fit him perfectly.
Corinne walked over to the bed and gently stroked the female Edward's head. "Poor, confused Edward," she said, a wry smile on her lips. "Only _he's_ Edward now." She pointed to the man in Edward's body, a man who was standing beside Corinne now, holding her hand and grinning.
"I got tired of being treated as just another one of your properties, Edward, and I went looking for somebody else to play with. Julio, here, was more than willing to take your place. First in your bed, and now he's going to be taking over your life."
"Julio," Edward said. "But he... he is the gardner."
"Yes, Julio _was_, but now he's Edward Lassiter, the owner of this house and my husband." She held up the Medallion. "I used this on the both of you. It gave him your shape and a much better grasp of English." She giggled. "Thanks to an 'Extra Large' condom it gave him something better for me to grasp, too. And I used it on you to give you that lovely body and Spanish accent."
"You... you change me back now... ramera... bitch!" Edward was furious. She wanted to jump up and beat the hell out of the pair of them, but something seemed to be holding her back. She felt as if it would be wrong... improper.
"Having mixed feelings?" Corinne laughed. "The Medallion can give the behavior patterns of a one person to another, if he -- or she, in your case -- holds it for a while. A cousin of Julio's -- a very timid housemaid of a cousin, I should add -- supplied the clothes that changed you into her double. Thanks to the drug I put in your scotch, you held them for almost five hours after you changed the second time."
"I... I will tell. They will make you change me back."
"Not very likely, my dear," the new Edward said. "Who'll believe you. Edward Lassiter? I'm right here with a loving wife to back up my story. You..." he laughed as he spoke, "...you are... Inez, our crazy maid, an undocumented alien worker except for the green card we've arranged."
"No," Edward... Inez said. "Es imposible."
"No, Inez," Corinne said. "It is _very_ possible. You do what we say, or you get a one-way trip back to Guatemala."
Inez sat on the bed, tears running down her cheeks as she realized that she didn't seem to have any choice. Not only that, something inside her head was telling her that it was right to obey the rich seá±or and seá±ora. "What is it that you want me to do?"
Corinne handed her a small towel. "I've been thinking for a while that we need some live-in help. You're it." She smiled, the smile of a cat playing with a mouse. "You know where the servants' rooms are over the garage. You'll have the first one on the left. Take a bath once you get there; you smell like a cat in heat. There's clothes, including a maid's uniform, in the room. I'll expect you downstairs in an hour to go over your duties. Understand?"
Inez fought the submissive feelings that were controlling her. She wanted to tell Corinne and Juli... Edward just what they could do with the whole idea. She couldn't. "Si, seá±ora," she said, her head bowed. Then she ran from the room, so they wouldn't see her crying.
Edward watched Inez's bare ass wiggle as she ran down the hall.
Corinne watched him watching her. "She may be pretty, _Edward_, but you just remember who's in charge here."
Edward stepped closer and took her in his arms. "I am only human, Corinne. I can't help but look." He smiled, delighted with his ability to speak such perfect English.
"Just as long as that's _all_ you do."
"It will be. However much I may _look_ at other women, my _wife_ is the only woman I will ever love." He pulled her close and kissed her. "And we have almost an hour before you have to meet her downstairs."
"Mmm, sounds nice. Just don't going trying any of that rough stuff you pulled on Inez." She looked him oddly for a moment. "Why'd you act like that anyway?" She stroked the side of his face with her palm. "You're usually a much more gentle lover."
"You told me that the magic would make her act more submissive if people bossed her around, acted mean and ordered her about. I thought that having sex with her like I did would be the same sort of thing."
"It seems to have worked." Corinne let out a laugh. "Did you see the way she ran out the room in tears?"
"Such treatment is the only way to handle a servant." He kissed her hand. "You... you are a lady."
"As long as that's settled." Corinne smiled and began to unbutton her blouse.
'It is settled,' Edward thought. 'I am Edward Lassiter now, with the money to send for my wife, my love, my Serafina. As soon as she joins me from our home down in Guatamala, _she_ will be Corinne Lassiter, a rich Americano woman, and we will have _two_ Latina maids.'
Want to comment but don't want to open an account?
Anyone can log in as Guest Reader -- password topshelf to leave a comment.
This is the sequel to "Altered Fates: The Husband". Julio, the gardener, has become the new Edward Lassiter, attentive and virile, while the original Edward is now a submissive maid. Corinne Lassiter thought that she had the perfect life. But the new Edward -- and the Medallion of Zulo -- had other ideas.
Altered Fates: The Wife
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2003
"Santiago Airlines Flight 2 is now arriving at Gate A. Santiago Airlines Flight 2 from Guatemala City and Mexico City now arriving at Gate A." The amplified voice echoed through the small rural airport.
Edward Lassiter ran towards the gate. A large man, dressed in the new blue and gold Federal Airline Security Agency uniform, stopped him at the outer glass door. "I'm sorry, sir," the guard said. "You'll have to wait until the passengers have cleared customs."
"But... my wife," Edward blurted in Spanish.
The guard stared at Edward, who was dressed in an Armani suit that looked like it cost more than the guard's car. The wife of this rich Anglo was coming into the country on this broken down, backwater airline? It didn't make any sense. He shrugged. What did? "I'm sorry, sir," he said, switching to Spanish, "but since September 11..." He let the rest go unsaid and gestured to a row of chairs along the wall. "You might as well sit, seá±or. It can take a half an hour, sometimes longer, before they come out."
Edward sighed. "I have waited this long." He took a seat and was soon joined by several other people, most of whom kept staring at the norte-americano sitting with them. 'If you only knew,' he thought, smiling wryly. 'Two weeks ago, I was a... peasant just like all of you. Now, thanks to that medallion and a _very_ trusting woman, I have a rich, rich life. All I need is..."
A tall, athletic-looking woman came though the glass door. She was dressed in a simple blue dress, which complimented her coppery skin, even as it clung to her lush figure. It was cut low to show off her pillowy breasts. Her thick black hair framed her face and hung straight down to the small of her back. Her legs had a delightfully feminine curve to them, even in the one-inch heeled sandals she was wearing.
"Serafina," Edward shouted her name as he stood and ran towards her.
She frowned as the strange man approached her. She stepped back and held up her hand to keep him away, she asked, "Do I know you, seá±or?" she asked in Spanish.
"I am..." How to explain? "Your husband, Julio, seá±ora, he... he asked me to meet your flight." He spoke Spanish; Serafina didn't speak a word of English.
Serafina smiled, and it seemed to Edward as if the entire building was lit by that smile. "Julio... my Julio? Where is he? Is he all right?"
Edward tensed. He could barely keep from taking her in his arms. She was hardly a prudish woman, but she would never accept such behavior from a man she had just met. 'Soon,' he promised himself.
"He is fine," he told her, "and closer, much closer than you could believe."
"There is already so much I do not believe. Long letters that say nothing, then a letter that comes in the middle of the night. 'Come now... bring only what you must,' it says, but there is a ticket, and I am here. It all seems impossible."
"And yet, you came."
"He is my husband." She said it as if it the fact explained everything. For her, it did.
"Let me take that," Edward said, pointing to the cardboard suitcase she was carrying. She nodded, and he took it gently from her. "My car is this way."
He led her through the small airport and out to the parking lot. A slate gray Mercedes was parked near the door. It straddled the space divider, so that it took up two parking spaces. "You did not park very well," Serafina chided him, as he opened the trunk and put her suitcase inside.
"Look around you." He gestured broadly. "This car costs more than any other five cars in this parking lot. I parked this way to protect it." He slammed the trunk lid closed for emphasis.
Edward walked over and opened the front passenger door. He watched her dress rise up as she slid in, exposing her long, supple legs. She frowned again, but before she could say anything, he shut the door.
"Just take me to Julio," Serafina said as he climbed in behind the wheel. She crossed her arms under her high, proud breasts and leaned back in the seat. Her eyes closed, signaling the end of the conversation.
"I suppose it is just as well," Edward said as he drove out of the airport lot.
* * * * *
"Mi Paloma... my dove, wake up; we are here," Edward said, guiding the car towards the curb.
Serafina felt the car come to a stop as he spoke. She frowned in anger. "Paloma" was Julio's pet name for her. "I call you 'Paloma'," Julio had said, "because you coo so sweetly when we make love." Who was this man to call her by that name?
She sat up in her seat and looked around. They were parked in front of a small cottage with the number 207 painted on the door. It was one of a row of near identical cottages on the block. The yard of this one was full of tall grass that badly needed cutting. A narrow concrete walkway led to the cottage. "Where are we?" she asked.
"This is where... Julio lives."
"Is he there... inside?" She could hardly contain herself. She jumped out of the car and ran up the walk. She pulled at the door. Locked.
"Hurry, hurry ," she yelled. Edward smiled at her eagerness. He brought her suitcase with him to the door. He used a key to unlock it, then stood aside as Serafina ran into the cottage.
"Julio! Julio!" she called. When there was no answer, she looked around. The cottage was as he had described it. A large room with very little furniture: an overstuffed yellow sofa and a plain wooden table with two chairs. A small TV sat on the table. The window behind the sofa had a pale green curtain.
There was a kitchenette along the back wall: a stove, a sink with a few dishes and a pan waiting to be cleaned, and an old refrigerator whose motor was running too loudly. A second, pale green curtain covered the smaller window above the sink. A large color map of Guatemala hung on one wall, the village she and Julio had lived in was circled in red.
The fourth wall had two doors. The cross she had gotten Father Martin to bless and then given him for luck hung on the wall between them. The one on the right, the bathroom door, was partly opened; she could see part of the sink.
Serafina walked over and opened the other. The bedroom was small, with a single curtained window on the back wall. She saw an unpainted wooden dresser, the top drawer open and a shirtsleeve dangling out. A pair of pants were folded over a chair. The bed was covered by a green and blue blanket. It was empty.
The man... Edward was standing in the doorway watching her. He had an odd smile on his face.
"When do you think Julio will be here?" She wasn't comfortable being alone in the house, especially in the bedroom, with this stranger. So what if he had a key; she didn't know him. Julio had never mentioned such a man. She brushed past him and walked back into the living room.
"Very, very soon," he said. He walked over to the table and took something, a plastic bag, from his pocket. He opened the seal and let the contents, a white cloth, fall onto the table. Then he took of his jacket and carefully draped it over one of the chairs.
A blue work shirt was hanging on a hook on the back door. The man put it onto the table. "Now watch this, mi Paloma."
Serafina bristled. Again, the name that he had no right to use. She held back from saying anything. She would wait for Julio and tell him.
The man smiled and moved slowly, as if he were performing some miraculous feat. All he did was to lift the cloth, a handkerchief, by a corner. A brass necklace fell out, landing on the table. There was some kind of medallion attached. It had an image -- an angel, perhaps -- on one side. Serafina's father had been a tinker, and, to her practiced eye, the thing looked very poorly made.
The man put the necklace on. "Yes, Julio will be here in just moments." He smiled as he picked up the shirt and touched it to the medallion.
"Are you all right, seá±or?" Was he mad? He just stood there holding the shirt and staring at her. Then she noticed something. His brown hair... it was growing darker, straighter. His skin was changing, too, becoming a coppery color much like her own. His jaw was becoming more square in shape, and there... there was a thin mustache growing under his nose.
"Madre de Dios!" She crossed herself and turned to run. "Diabolo... devil!"
"No, Serafina... please!" His voice was different, more familiar. He sounded a bit like...
"Julio? Como... how... how is this possible?"
He... Julio took off the medallion. "Magic, mi Paloma. I put this on and touch it to a piece of clothing, and I become the person who last wore that clothing." He held it in his hand a moment longer, before he put it down.
Yes, he was looking more and more like her Julio with every breath. The shirt he wore stretched as Julio's broader shoulders and more muscular arms formed beneath it. He slowly unbuttoned it. He almost had to _peel_ it off; it had become that tight. He tossed it on the floor. He wore no undershirt.
Serafina saw a dark blur appear on his upper right arm. As she watched, it came into focus to become the tattoo of her name. Julio had gotten the tattoo on a trip to the city when he was sixteen.
Julio saw her looking at the tattoo. "Now, do you believe me?"
"Si, I-I must believe the proof of my own eyes, but I do not understand. Why did you do this? Why did you become this other man?"
"Corinne... Mrs. Lassiter paid me to do it. She is the wife of the man I... was. She became angry with him. She turned him into a woman, a maid. That is why I asked you to send me one of your cousin, Inez' uniforms. Edward Lassiter is now the double of Inez."
"That is _him_. Why did _you_ change?"
"Mr. Lassiter is a business man. He had to be seen, had to do things for his company. Mrs. Lassiter could not do take on his body. She hated him too much. Besides, there were times when they _both_ had to be seen. So she hired me."
"But I sent you Inez's dress weeks ago. Have you been this... this... Edward all that time?"
"Si, I have been Edward Lassiter for almost two weeks. After the Medallion changes a person, it will not work again on him for twelve hours. It was easier to be Edward all the time."
"All the time?" Her eyes narrowed. "Even in private? Have you slept with this Mrs. Lassiter?"
"I will not lie, mi Paloma. I have. They have servants. There would be talk if they suddenly stopped sharing a bed. Let me say one thing, though."
"What? Are you going to tell me that it was all right?"
"I will say _two_ things, then. First, I was not growing rich working as a gardener. Just look at where... at how I lived. " He motioned in the air with his arm to show his displeasure with the cottage. "Mrs. Lassiter's money is the reason -- the only reason -- that I could bring you here to me."
"And the other?"
"When I slept with Corinne Lassiter, I was having sex, nothing more. When I sleep with you, we have always been... making love." He smiled. "Besides, _I_ did not sleep with Corinne. Her husband did. I just happened to be in his body at the time."
Serafina chuckled at the absurdity of the argument. "You 'just happened to be in his body'. Does she mean nothing to you then?"
"She is only a means to an end, a tool, nothing more." He took a step closer.
"This 'means to an end'; to what end, seá±or?"
"To this end." He took her in his arms. "To be here... with you."
Serafina resisted for a moment, still angry at his infidelity, but it had been over two years since she had seen her husband. She had not been with -- had not even _thought_ of being with any other man. Her hands reached up around his neck. She thrilled at the touch of their bodies.
Their lips met in a passionate kiss. Serafina moaned slightly and opened her mouth just a bit. Julio's tongue darted in to play with her own. She felt him pull her close, felt her breasts pushed up against his bare chest. Her arms tightened around his neck.
Without ending the kiss, Julio lifted Serafina in his arms. He kicked the door opened and walked into the bedroom. Serafina giggled at being carried and at the kick to the door. Edward put her gently down onto the bed and stood back to stare at her.
"Is something wrong?" She asked.
"No, I have just dreamed of you for so long; imagined you here... in my bed."
Serafina reached behind herself to unbutton her dress. "How odd," she said, a lascivious smile on her lips. "I have dreamed of just the same thing." She stood up. The dress was unbuttoned most of the way down her back. She pushed the straps from the shoulders. They fell, taking the top of the dress with them. Except for a thin, lacy blue bra that was really too small for her, Serafina was nude to the waist.
She smiled and gently pulled the dress past her wide hips. It fell to the floor, pooling around her. All she wore from the waist down were a pair of matching blue cotton panties and her sandals. She stepped out of the dress and out of her sandals at the same time and posed for Julio, watching him smile back in delight. Then her eyes traced down his muscular body. "Madre de Dios!" She crossed herself. "You... you look... bigger than I remember."
He grinned as he unzipped his pants. They fell away. He was wearing green boxers, boxers that seemed impossibly tight from his erection. "I am, mi Paloma. Mrs. Lassiter used the medallion to..."
He stopped, as he saw her expression change, her eyes grow wide. Was it fear, fear of the magic or just of his new size? He'd measured it once, just after he'd changed, at 11 inches erect. "Do not be afraid, mi Paloma, please. I... I promise that I will be gentle with you, very gentle."
Now she grinned and took a step towards him. Serafina reached down and ran a finger over the fabric that covered what she was beginning to think of as "El Monstro." She yanked the boxers down, freeing it. It stood full erect, pointing up at her, and she giggled at the sight. "It has been so long." She giggled again. "And now you... _you_ are so long. I do not need 'gentle.' Just take me."
As if to show her need, she reached behind her back and unclasped her bra. In a single motion, she freed herself and tossed it to the floor. She bent over then and yanked at Julio's boxers, pulling them down past his knees. They fell to his ankles. As he stepped out of them, she did the same to her own panties. In a moment, they were both naked.
"Now... now we are ready." There was a huskiness in her voice. She laid back down on the bed, sliding over to make room for him.
He climbed on the bed and lay on his side facing her, bracing himself on one arm. He reached over with the other and put his hand behind her head. He pulled her close and kissed her. He felt her arms around him, pulling him closer, while her hands explored the muscles of his back.
He reached down now and began to slide a fingernail slowly across her breast. When he touched her nipple, he began to pluck it like a guitar string. She moaned, and the motions of her hands became more frantic. Her mouth opened wide, allowing his tongue to enter and play with hers.
He rolled her onto her back and began to use both hands on her breasts, caressing, kneading them. He pushed himself away from her and shifted down. His tongue darted in and out of her navel. He could smell her arousal. He ran his tongue along her labia, tasting her juices and making her moan even more. Her body writhed, her arms pounded the bed. He felt one hand grab his hair, her fingers twisting it into knots.
His tongue slid in between her lips and explored. It found her clitoris and began the same sort of plucking motion his finger had done.
"Si... si... muy..." her moans grew louder. Suddenly, she let out a sharp, high pitched scream. Her back arched and her entire body shook as her orgasm ran its course through her. When it ended -- much too soon for her -- she lay almost motionless on the bed. Her breathing was slow and deep, and her body glistened from sweat. There was a glazed look in her eyes and a most happy, sated smile on her face.
"Did you like that?" Julio couldn't help but grin as she nodded her head enthusiastically. "Then you will surely love this." He positioned himself over her, letting his erection rub against her leg.
She reached out and gently wrapped her fingers around him. "We shall see." She guided it to her. She felt its head touching her lips and took her hand away. "Now," she said.
He pushed in, slowly, very slowly. Her eyes grew wide at the sensations. "So big... ai, so _very_ big."
He was as far in as he could be; she felt his groin pushing against hers. He moved his hips then and began an equally slow withdrawal. She raised he own hips, trying to match his motion, to keep him inside her. He stopped for a heartbeat, then began moving quickly in and out.
It seemed to Serafina that he was pumping pure sexual energy to every part of her body. Her arms flailed in the air. She clawed at his back, trying to pull him to her. Her hips rocked, matching his own rhythm. "Ai... ai... ai...," she gasped. Her eyes closed. Her head rocked back and forth.
Her body stiffened and arched as the flood of a second orgasm hit her. She screamed, a long, high piecing wail. Her body rocked so violently that she almost threw them both off the bed.
Julio kept going. He was biting her now, tiny nips that left a trail of small red marks down her throat and across her breasts. Serafina's orgasm had barely subsided, when she felt another building inside her.
It hit like the spring flood roaring down from the mountains and sweeping her away. Her eyes opened wide as she screamed again. Her body was pulsing and writhing from the sexual electricity that ran through it.
She looked up at Julio through half-glazed eyes, her body glistening from her own sweat. He smiled back at her, his own eyes wild as a jungle animal. Then he froze suddenly in mid-stroke. He raised his head and... howled. Serafina felt a flood of liquid shoot into her. Julio's essence set her off one last time. Their voices joined in a single triumphant yell as he pumped more frantically than ever into her.
But as he continued to pump, she could fee him growing smaller and softer within her. Finally, even he realized that it was over. He pulled out of her with a low grunt and rolled over onto his back next to her. 'Just like a man,' Serafina thought.
To her surprise, he reached an arm under her back and around her hip. He pulled her closer, so she could put her head on his chest. "You were wonderful," he said, raising his head to kiss her lightly on the cheek."
'Perhaps his time with this Mrs. Lassiter was not all for the bad,' she thought. They cuddled for a while before they both fell into a deep, sated sleep.
* * * * *
"Mrs. Lassiter to see you, Mr. Dietrick."
"Thanks, Meghan. Ask her to come right in. Oh... and, Meghan, hold all calls while we're meeting, please." Matt Dietrick, Chief Operating Officer of Lassiter Enterprises, clicked off the intercom on his desk. Matt had the same family good looks as his cousin Edward: curly, chestnut brown hair, rugged, masculine features, and a slender, athletic body. "Now to see if it worked," he said, as he leaned back in his overstuffed chair.
Corinne Lassiter came in a moment later. She wore a sleeveless green dress that hugged her lush body and complimented her long, auburn hair. She was a very desirable woman, and Matt had thought about sleeping with her more than once. He hadn't.
Matt had no problem with having sex with his cousin's wife. He just didn't like the idea of sleeping with a "business partner."
The cute little chica that came in with Corinne was another story, though. She was short, with jet black hair done up in two braids that hung down to her breasts. Her dress was obviously a maid's uniform, dark blue with white collar and cuffs. It was loose, so she could work in it, but not loose enough to hide the curves underneath. Her legs were long, and Matt was sorry that her flat work shoes didn't show them off better.
She walked in slowly, two steps behind Corinne. She was nervous, her dark eyes looking around franticly for some way to escape. The phrase "virgin sacrifice" came to Matt almost immediately.
He wanted her.
He stood up and walked around the desk. "Hello, Corrine." He took her hand and gave her the perfunctory kiss that passed for a greeting. "I don't believe that I know your friend here."
Corinne smiled and kissed him back, just as quickly and with as little meaning. "This is Inez, my new live-in maid." She turned to the young woman. "Say hello to Mr. Dietrick, Inez -- and do it the way I told you to."
The Latina nodded. "Si, seá±ora." She curtsied. "Hola, Mr. Dietrick."
"A pleasure to meet you, Inez," Matt said. The girl was most certainly Corinne's latest "toy", which suggested some _very_ interesting possibilities.
"Oh, you aren't meeting her, Matt," Corinne said. "You've known her for years. It's just that she looked quite different when you two were playing tennis at the house last month."
Matt's eyes widened. "Edward?" He laughed. "I must say, Eddie, you clean up very well. That medallion certainly does good work." He leered openly at his transformed cousin.
"Say 'thank you', Inez," Corinne said firmly.
Inez had a pained looked on her face for just a moment, then she bowed her head and said in a low voice, "Th-thank you, Ma--"
"Inez!" Corinne interrupted. "I will not tolerate such uncalled for familiarity between my cousin and a _servant_ such as yourself."
Inez' face reddened. She trembled, as if she were fighting something. "I... I am sorry, seá±ora."
"Perfectly all right," Matt said. He took Inez' hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. "Perhaps sometime we can get together -- just the two of us, of course -- and get _very_ familiar."
"Seá±or!" Inez looked like a deer that was suddenly in someone's headlights.
"Why, Matt, I think that's a wonderful idea," Corinne said with a wicked laugh. "I only came in to tell you to get those papers ready, the ones we discussed a few weeks ago. Inez and I are down here for some shopping. Why don't you drive up to the house with the papers Thursday morning? Inez has the day off, and I _know_ that she has no other plans. You two can spend the whole day together." She paused, just a moment, for effect. "Won't that be nice, Inez?"
"No... no... I... please, seá±ora. Do not make me do this."
"What's the matter, Inez?" Corinne asked. "It can't be shyness. You two have known each other since you were children. You're no virgin either, so it can't be that."
"Maybe she's just not much of a party person." Matt was enjoying watching his cousin squirm.
"She certainly wasn't when she was Edward." Corinne shook her head. "If I'd known what a stodgy workaholic he really was, I'd have never let you play matchmaker for us."
"To tell the truth," Matt said. "I was hoping that you'd get him away from that, distract him enough so I could run the business _my_ way. It did work for a while. The first few months you two were married, he hardly checked in with the office at all."
"Those were fun time." Corrine smiled at the memory. "But then he got all serious again. He actually called off our trip to Spain because of that dumb inspection you failed."
"Those building inspectors almost ruined us when they found that substandard... Oh, the hell with it. We... I fixed it, but Ed had gotten real interested in the business again." He looked hard at Inez. "Only he's not around to be interested in such things now, and I'm sure that I can find a whole bunch of new interests for Inez here."
"I'm sure that you can," Corinne said, "and the new Edward isn't interested either -- not in the business, that is. _I'm_ his main interest."
"Just so he signs those papers on Thursday. Then _he'll_ be the silent partner. You two will get more than enough money to keep yourselves amused, and Lassiter Enterprises will be mine."
"No poor little cousin sucking up to the rich relatives anymore, huhn."
"Damn straight. I'll be the rich relative, and Ed... Inez can do the... sucking."
They were talking as if Inez wasn't even there. She trembled with an inner rage. The small part of her that was still Edward Lassiter wanted to yell, to scream, to beat the living shit out of the pair of them.
But _something_ kept repeating, "No, you are Inez now, a poor peasant girl, nothing more. You must not, you can not do anything to these people. They are your masters and you must accept and obey."
* * * * *
"Mr. Pizza."
Julio opened the door. He was wearing his boxers and a faded green robe. A round-faced Latino boy, barely sixteen and dressed in a red and blue uniform looked up at him. "You Mr. Ramirez?" Julio nodded. "That'll be $12.47 for the pizza and coke."
Julio handed him a five and a ten. "Keep the change, kid."
The boy handed him the food. "Thanks, sir, and thanks for calling Mr. Pizza."
Julio closed the door and carried the food over to the table, putting it in the middle. He'd put out plates, cups, and napkins after he phoned in the order.
"Mmmm, something smells good." Serafina was standing in the bedroom doorway, posing for him. She wore one of his work shirts, unbuttoned so he could see the curve of her breasts, and her blue panties.
"I... I had ordered some dinner, but it can wait." He took a step towards her. He could already feel himself growing hard at the sight of her.
She smiled and walked over to the table. As she passed him, she gently ran her fingers across his bare chest. "I think that we need to build up our strength first. Besides, I have not eaten since I left Guatemala."
"I am sorry. I did not realize, did not think to ask. I could have stopped for something on the way from the airport."
She shook her head. "I was being taken to my husband, who I had not seen in over two years. I had other things on my mind besides... food." She sat down.
"And now, mi Paloma?"
"The fires of one appetite are sated... for now. It is time to deal with another." She opened the box. "I see that you remembered my favorite."
"Si, ground beef, peppers, and extra cheese." He took a slice, put it in a plate, and handed it to her. "I wanted everything today to be to your liking."
Serafina raised an eyebrow and smiled wickedly at him. "So far today, everything has been very much to my liking."
Before Julio had gone north to make his fortune, their custom had been to talk of minor matters over the evening meal. They revived the custom, now. Serafina told him what had happened to family and friends since her last letter a few weeks before. She had sent Inez' uniform along with that same letter. Julio spoke of a few friends he had made. He realized as he spoke that he hadn't talked to any of them since the change. How could he? They knew Julio, the gardener, not Mr. Lassiter, his employer. He missed them, though maybe not as much as he might have expected.
Finally, they both caught themselves staring at the last slice. Julio took a plastic knife and cut it in two. He let Serafina pick her piece first, taking what she left. He took a bite, then had a swallow of soda.
"So," Serafina said. "What happens now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you stay Mr. Lassiter? If so, what am I to do? Do I live here as his... as _your_ mistress? I am your wife. I have a right to expect better than that."
"Of course, you do, mi Paloma. You will not live here. You will live with me on the--"
"A live-in mistress, oh _that_ is much better. Do I get to be your maid, too?"
"No. You get to be _Mrs._ Lassiter."
"What!"
"If the Medallion can make me him, it can transform you into her."
"And she gets to be the mistress, or do you have some fantasy about twins that you never spoke of to me before?"
"No, no, nothing like that. She... they will become us."
"They will agree to this? They will let us be them; let us live in their house and spend their money?"
"I think Mr. Lassiter will. He hates being Inez -- that is what Mrs. Lassiter calls him. He will trade his real life to get his manhood back. Besides, I think that the idea of making his wife become the wife of a poor man will appeal to his sense of justice."
"And how will this happen?"
"Mrs. Lassiter and Inez are in Los Angeles today. Tomorrow, we will go to the house and wait for them to return. I will speak to Inez then."
"And if she... he... she does not take your offer?"
Julio shrugged. "I hope that he will. I like the man, and he was always fair and honest with me. But if he will not accept what I offer him... well, the Lassiters have a large house. Two maids could do the work easier than one."
"You do not mean..."
"Si, if the husband can be a maid, so can the wife." He sighed. "But, I do hope that it will not come to that."
"I hope so, as well. In your letters, he always sounded like a good man, even if she did not." She paused a beat; not sure that she liked the second idea. "Well, we shall see tomorrow." She took a last bite of pizza and stood up.
"Is something wrong?" He stood as well.
"No, my husband. It is just that, now that my appetite for food is dealt with, I find that the other appetite returns." She took his hand and led him back to the bedroom.
* * * * *
"Inez, come over here." Corinne stood next to a display of silk panties in _Selkies_, an upscale lingerie store.
"Sir, seá±ora." Inez walked over. She was carrying a lilac colored negligee that Corinne had already decided on for herself.
"What do you think of these?" Corinne held up a pair of rose colored panties, the front and back attached by a narrow strap and with ornate lace embroidery across the narrow front.
"They are very nice, seá±ora. I am sure that Seá±or Lassiter would enjoy seeing you in such clothes." It galled her to address her wife as a superior; even more, she hated calling that upstart bastard of a gardener by her own real name. But the magic forced her to behave as the obedient servant she appeared to be.
"I'm sure he would," Corinne said, "but I'm talking about buying these for you to wear on your... date Thursday with Matt."
"M-me? Oh, no, seá±ora, please no."
"Oh, but I insist. Matt seemed so taken with you, and I _do_ want him to have a good time. In fact, I think that this very pair will do." She reached for a swatch of pink on a nearby shelf. "And here's the bra to go with it." She held up the brassiere by the shoulder straps for Inez to see.
The bra was a match of the panties, a rose-colored demi-bra with fine lace embroidered swirls and small roses on both cups. There was just one problem.
"Seá±ora, that one, it is much too big for me." She hesitantly touched her 36 C-cup breasts.
Oh, it is now," Corinne said. "But after you put it on, and we use the Medallion..." She watched Inez eyes widen in panic. "Matt's always been a breast man, bless his raunchy little heart, and you showing up with a pair of 40-DDs should just make his day."
"Please, do not do this to me now, Cor... Seá±ora Lassiter." Oh, Lord, don't let her get mad for my calling her that. She will do even worse.
Corinne didn't seem to notice, or, maybe she decided that what she was already doing was more than enough. "I won't. I can't do it _now_. I left the Medallion back at the house. You'll just have to wait; it'll give you something to think about on the _long_ trip home tomorrow morning."
* * * * *
Serafina's eyes fluttered open. She raised her head and looked at the clock on the bedstead. 'Just after 5 AM,' she thought. 'Same as back home.' She smiled, feeling Julio's body next to hers. 'No, this is my home now.' She closed her eyes and snuggled up against him and tried to go back to sleep.
It was no use. 'All my life, I get up this early, she finally decided. 'I cannot break the habit in one night.' She sighed and sat up, being careful not to wake Julio. 'After all, he needs his rest.' She giggled softly. 'So does el Monstro.'
She went to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. A bath seemed too luxurious a way to start the day, and the noise of a shower might wake Julio. She ran warm water in the sink and used a washcloth to clean herself. Her breasts were still a bit tender, and she winced at the feel of the rough cloth. Her pubic mound was tender, as well, and it was sticky from the dried juices, hers and Julio's. She moved the washcloth slowly, enjoying the sensations, until her hips began to move in a match to her motions.
She tossed the washcloth in the sink. "Mmm," she whispered, "Perhaps it is time that I _did_ wake Julio." She shook her head as she patted herself dry. "No, I will let him sleep a bit longer. We will want to eat... after." She was with Julio again, and she want to take on the role of housewife as well as lover.
She walked into the main room. The empty pizza box and the dirty paper plates and cups were still on the table. She tossed them all into a small trash can by the back door. She shivered at a draft from the door. The man... Edward's jacket was draped over a chair. She put it on. It was much too big, coming down almost to her knees. She had to roll up the sleeves to see her fingers.
There was some soda left in the bottle. "Better to put this in the fridge." She put the bottle on the rack on the door and looked around inside to see what she might use to make a breakfast. There was milk, but it had a slight sourness that said it was beginning to turn. "Best to use it now." She also found three, no, four usable eggs and two apples. She could whip the eggs and milk together, slice the fruit, and put them back in fridge until needed. "Now if there is only coffee."
There was a coffeepot, mercifully empty and clean, on the stove, but no sign of the coffee. "In the shelf above the sink, maybe?" As she opened a cupboard drawer, Serafina's eye caught a glint of metal, the medallion -- it had fallen into the sink.
Without thinking, she fished it out, grabbing the closest part, the disk itself, and put it on. She felt a sort of tingle when the metal touched the jacket, but she ignored it. She was too busy thinking about the breakfast she was going to make and, even more, about how she and Julio were going to work up the appetite for it.
The can of coffee was in the second cupboard. She reached for it and saw a strange hand coming out of the sleeve of the jacket she wore. The hand was pale, almost pink by comparison to her normal coloring. It was larger, as well, with shorter, thicker fingers, a man's hand.
Trembling, she pulled the medallion from her pocket. "What have you..." The voice she heard wasn't her own. It was a masculine tenor that seemed to be getting even deeper as she spoke. The realization that she was changing was the final shock. She fell to the floor in a faint. Her hand still held the medallion, which now lay atop a jacket that was becoming a much better fit.
* * * * *
The radio alarm clock went off at 7:20. Julio reached out for Serafina. Nothing. He opened his eyes and sat up. Was it a dream? No, he could see the impression her head had left on the pillow and the way she had thrown the blanket aside to climb out the other side of the bed.
He slid around and stood up. His bathrobe was on the floor where he had thrown it. So were his boxers and the work shirt Serafina had worn. Her panties were a few feet away from the rest. He grabbed the robe and put it on, smiling as her remembered what they had done after supper. There was no sign of Serafina herself there in the bedroom.
He glanced out into the main room; still no sign of her. He gently opened the bathroom door. "Serafina?" There was no reply, and he didn't see her when he looked in.
'Where is she?" he thought. He took a second, much better look in the main room. A foot was visible on the floor by the table. It seemed like the person was lying down, but the table and chairs blocked the view.
"Are you hiding from me," he said as he walked towards the table. There was still time for some special fun before they had to leave for the Lassiter house, even counting the time for him to change back. As he reached the table, he got a clear look.
A very male Edward Lassiter, naked except for his jacket, lay seemingly unconscious on the floor.
He was holding the Medallion in his left hand.
"Serafina," Julio screamed. He grabbed a paper cup and filled it with water. Then he knelt down and splashed some in the unconscious man's face.
Edward moaned, and his eyes fluttered opened. "Oh, man, what happened to me?"
"Serafina, you... how is it that you can speak English?"
"Of course, I can... wait!" Edward put a hand to his forehead. "I don't speak English." He said the words in perfect English with only a very slight trace of an accent. "I... I am speaking English. I... the Medallion." He looked down at his body and screamed. "No, no, I cannot be a man." He began to pull himself to his feet.
"You can, mi Paloma," Julio said wryly in much more heavily accented English. "The evidence is... well, it is obvious." He pointed down at Edward's manhood which was almost pointing back up at him.
Edward looked down. Somehow, the sight of his new male member gave him a sense of confidence. "I-I suppose I am." Being a man -- for just a while -- might not be such a bad thing after all.
"Here, drink this and tell me what happened."
Edward took the cup and swallowed some water. He sounded calmer than Julio would have expected. "I came in the kitchen to make some breakfast. It was cold, so I put on the jacket. I saw the Medallion in the sink. I was afraid that it might get lost, so I put it on." He paused and took another sip. "I must have set off the magic because I began to change. Then, I got scared and fainted... just like a silly woman."
"Like a woman? Mi Paloma, you _are_ a woman."
"Not right now," he said. It was interesting being a man, and it was even beginning to feel natural.
"Si, and that is a problem. It will be hours before we can change you back. How can there be two Edward Lassiters?"
"Perhaps... perhaps you should stay Julio for a while."
"Hmmm, perhaps. I will think about this." He sat down at the table.
"I'll think about it, too."
"You have other things to think about... our breakfast for instance."
Edward stiffened. Just because Julio had been Serafina's husband, it didn't give the peasant the right to order _him_ around. "Just a minute. I'd like to go put on some more clothes. It's cold in just this jacket.
"All right, but hurry back. I am hungry." He watched Edward walk into the bedroom. It was hardly the same as watching the sway of Serafina's ass as she walked. 'Now how can I sneak her into the place when she looks like Edward?' He thought.
Julio tried a few ideas, but none seemed likely to work. Could he teach her enough to be believed as Edward Lassiter?
Edward came out of the bedroom wearing a clean pair of boxers and the work shirt Serafina had worn the day before. He carried something behind his back in left hand. He stopped next to the table. "Julio, you're so concerned about the Medallion, why don't you take it?" He leaned over and put the chain of the Medallion around his neck.
Before Julio could say anything, Edward yelled, "think fast." He waited until Julio looked up then dropped something onto the Medallion. It stayed there for a moment; then fell free.
Julio caught it without thinking. As he did, he felt an odd tingle run through his body. Slowly, knowing what he would see, he looked down at what he had caught, Serafina's panties. "Do you know what have you done!"
"I've solved your problem, Julio. You must have had a way to get me... to get Edward and Serafina into the Lassiter's house. You couldn't use it with two Edwards, could you? Well, now you have -- or you will have Edward and Serafina.
"But..." Julio could feel himself growing smaller. The fabric of the now oversized robe tickled his hairless, more sensitive skin. "Que... what have you done this to me?" His voice was higher now, and his accent was getting stronger. Was he going to lose his English?
"Because _I_ wanted to. You had not right to order me around... _Serafina_." Edward could see her breasts expanding, pushing out the front of her robe. One nipple was even peeking out at him. He wondered what it would be like to play with it. He was getting hard... down there, and he was enjoying the feeling of it. A small voice in the back of his mind began to whisper about the wonderful possibilities of having sex as a man.
The transformation was almost complete. Julio -- no, Serafina. 'Keep it straight,' his mind told him. '_You_ are Edward, and _she_ is Serafina.'
The new woman adjusted her robe and retied it, ignoring the vaguely pleasant feel of the rough cloth against her nipples. She couldn't quite ignore the sight of Sera... of Edward's erection tenting his boxers. Somehow, it made her feel a tingle in her breasts. It was a soft, warm feeling that seemed to spread down to her crotch.
"We had better get dressed," she said, trying to get her mind off the messages her new body was sending.
Edward bowed and made a gesture towards the bedroom. "After you, my dear."
Serafina walked towards the bedroom door. She could hear Edward a few steps behind her. As she got to the door, she looked back at him. One glance at his face, and she knew that being in the bedroom with him, even worse, taking off her robes while he was there, would not be a good idea.
She slipped inside the room and quickly locked it behind her. Then she took off the Medallion and tossed it and the panties onto the bed.
"What..." She heard him through the door. "Serafina, what are you doing? Why did you lock the door?"
"I... I wanted privacy when I get dressed." It was the truth.
"Privacy? Why you little... What makes you think that you even know how to dress as a woman?" His voice was louder now and even more arrogant. He pounded on the door twice to emphasize his words.
"Maybe not, but I have got plenty of time to learn." She stepped away from the door and slipped out of the robe. Serafina's bra was on the floor near her foot. She picked it up and, without thinking put it on. As she caught the clasp behind her, she realized what she'd done. "Madre de Dios." She said, crossing herself.
She picked up Sera... _her_ panties. She stepped into them and pulled them up around her waist, marveling at the feel of the cool cotton against her skin. It was so different, especially the sensation of the panty lying flat against her woman's crotch. She reached inside the panty and ran a finger against her new labia, shivering at how good it felt. She wanted to explore further, but her mind told her that it was wrong. 'I am a man,' she thought as if trying to convince herself of the idea.
She reluctantly pulled her hand out and looked around for her dress. She found it and quickly stepped into it. She pulled it up onto her body and reached behind to button it. It didn't surprise her that she had no more trouble with the dress than with the bra.
Her sandals were under the dress. She wasn't sure that she could walk in shoes with a heel, even the low heel that these had. She stepped into them and took a step. She expected to fall, but she didn't. She walked as naturally in them as Julio had ever walked in a pair of man's shoes. She did notice that she walked with a more feminine stride, her hips swiveling as she walked.
Something seemed to be missing. She wondered for a moment before she realized that she was looking for her purse. Her purse? How much had that Medallion changed her? She sighed. The purse was in the main room. "I have to go out sometime," she said, reaching for the knob.
Edward was waiting by the door. He smiled -- no, leered. "You look very beautiful, my dear. Perhaps we could go back in there." He let the suggestion hang in the air.
Serafina shook her head. "I do not think so." Her accent was heavy, but she still had English.
"Maybe later?" He said hopefully. "You'll be that way till early this evening, you know."
Serafina thought about how feminine she had already begun to act. She shook her head, maybe a little too quickly. "I do not think so." Better to change the subject. "I will make breakfast, and we will go to the Lassiters. There is work to be done before Corinne comes back this evening."
* * * * *
"A penny for your thoughts, Inez." Corinne said. They were in the limo Corinne had hired for the trip to L.A. The privacy window was up. The limo driver couldn't hear a word either of them said.
Inez sat at the far edge of the seat from Corinne. She was staring out the window, silently watching the scenery speed by as they headed home. "Is... is nothing, seá±ora."
"Oh, you must be thinking of something." She pursed her chin. "I know! I'll bet you're all excited about your big date with Matt tomorrow."
Inez shuddered. "I... am I really going to have to... to... please, seá±ora, do not make me do that."
"Why, of course, you're going out with Matt. Why do you think I..." She stopped as a thought occurred to her.
"Seá±ora, is something wrong? Have you maybe changed your mind, no?"
"My mind is made up," she said firmly. "I just happened to think that after we... fix your breasts--"
"Please, I-I do not want such enormous breasts as you would give me. I... I will go out with Matt. Just do not change me any more."
Corinne began to enjoy Inez's protests. "As I was saying, after we _fix_ your breasts, you won't be able to fit into that uniform of yours anymore." She giggled. "You'll be much too... top heavy. You'll need some blouses, too, I expect, but we can manage on that score." She leaned forward and pressed the intercom button.
"Yes, Ms. Lassiter," the driver said.
"Pritchart, take the exit when we get to Wind Gap." She looked at her watch. "It should be almost 2 PM by then. We can all have some lunch. And then I want to do a little shopping. Estelle Snyder told me about a shop there that sells the sweetest old-fashioned uniforms; all of them hand-sewn in... Mexico, I think she said." She looked at Inez, imagining how her former husband would look with the 40-DD breasts the Medallion would be giving him. "Inez here is going to be needing some new uniforms _very_ soon."
* * * * *
After they had breakfast, Edward grudgingly did the dishes. "Even being a man doesn't get me out of doing house work," he said with a small smile.
Then, Serafina spent well over two hours coaching Edward on the details of his life. "Now, this is Corinne," she said at one point, pulling a picture from Edward's wallet.
Edward took the picture, a photo of a very attractive redhead in a rather skimpy emerald bikini. Edward studied the photo. 'Not bad,' he thought. 'Not bad at all.' He had expected to be jealous. This was the woman who had been sleeping with her... with his husband. A part of him was, but he also felt a heat in his loins. He wondered what it would be like to sleep with her.
He looked over at Serafina, who was watching him closely, and wondered again what it would be like to sleep with _her_. 'Either is possible,' he thought, delighted at his prospects.
Serafina felt a pang of jealousy as he studied the picture. It puzzled her. Was it because he might want to sleep with Corinne, the woman _she_ had been sleeping with and whom she might sleep with again once she was a man again? Or because -- Madre de Dios, please, no -- because _she_ wanted to sleep with him.
* * * * *
Serafina described the people that they were likely to see: the groundskeepers that had been hired after Julio "disappeared," neighbors, other servants who might be in the house.
"You know what Inez looks like."
"Of course, from what you told me, she's the twin of my cousin in Guatemala." He smiled. picturing his cousin. Inez was shorter than Serafina and had a more slender figure, but she was still a damned pretty woman. He felt himself get hard again. Damn, didn't that man-thing of his ever get tired?
"All right, the last of the servants is the cook, Odetta. She is a negra... a Black woman, short and stocky, about 50, I think."
"Fine... fine... Odetta. I'll remember her; I'll remember them all." He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. "Can we go now?"
"I suppose we will have to. Madre de Dios, can you drive the Lassiter's car?"
"I drove a truck back... home." He frowned. The village in Guatemala didn't quite seem like home now. "Of course I can drive my car."
"Then let us go. Already it is after 1." She looked at the clock. "At this time of day, it will take us close to an hour to get to the house."
"Then I'll certainly be meeting Odetta when we get there. I'll have her prepare a late lunch for us.
"There is a Mexican restaurant about halfway to the house from here. The food is muy delicioso, even if it is not quite what we ate back home. Could we not have lunch there?" She was hungry. She was also still nervous and needed some more time to steel herself for what might happen at the house.
Edward bowed. "Delighted to, my dear." He bowed low and took her hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it gently.
"What are you doing?" Serafina quickly pulled her hand away. It wasn't right for him to kiss her like that. Besides, the tingling sensation she felt when he had kissed her was dangerously pleasant.
"Let us go, then." She picked up her purse. It was heavier with the weight of the Medallion in it. Whatever happened, _she_ was going to be the one holding the damned thing.
* * * * *
"Not so fast," Serafina all but screamed. "Madre de Dios, not so fast."
"You've been complaining about my driving the whole way here." It was presumptuous of her.
"You have been driving like a loco -- turn here." She pointed to a small driveway opening off to the right. Edward took the turn on two wheels. The car grounded and sped the two blocks up the hill to the house. "I... you usually park there in the garage, over there not too far from the door." She didn't want to point in case anyone was looking.
"Then that's where I'll park." Edward skidded into the usual parking place. "The car handles like a dream," he said, as he turned off the engine. As he did, an automatic switch shut the garage door behind them.
"And you drive like a nightmare." She couldn't wait to change back. It would be a long time before he... she drove a car again; at least, while she... he was a passenger in it.
Edward stepped out of the car and walked around to help her out. He opened the door and offered his hand. As he did, he glanced down. The bumpy, high-speed ride had caused her dress to hike up, exposing her legs well up on her thighs.
She saw him looking down. She frowned and pulled at her dress. "Did you get a good view, seá±or?" she asked as she stepped out.
"Why, yes, I did," he smiled. "Thank you."
They walked through a door in a corner of the garage and stepped into the foyer just inside the front door of the house. Edward stopped for a moment just to stare. This was all his as far as the world knew. "Amazing," he said, smiling very broadly.
"Stop staring," Serafina warned in a whisper. "Edward Lassiter _knows_ what his house looks like."
"Mr. Lassiter." Edward and Serafina both turned. The speaker was a Black woman wearing a dark blue dress covered with a broad white apron.
Edward took a chance. "Odetta, I... ah... I didn't hear you come in."
"Seems like you walked in on me." She looked critically at Serafina. "The both of you did."
"Yes. This... this is Serafina. She... ah... she may be joining the staff. I'm showing her around the house just now."
"Will she be staying for dinner?" Odetta had no doubt just _what_ Edward and the pretty young woman would be doing until dinner.
"Yes, I expect she will." He stopped, as a nasty thought occurred to him. "Is... is Mrs. Lassiter here?"
Odetta smiled. She was right; Mr. Edward was planning to do "the nasty" with this little chica. "No, sir. She still down in L.A. as far as I know. I don't espect her home till tomorrow maybe."
"All right, then," Edward said. "I'll tell you what. I don't know how long we'll be... working upstairs. Why don't you just throw together something that can keep warm, and we'll serve ourselves when we come down."
"Umm hmmm," Odetta said. "There'll be roast beef, gravy, and potatoes waiting in the dining room. Is that okay?"
Edward looked quickly at Serafina who nodded her head.
She was surprised at how well Edward was doing; impressed, too. It felt oddly comforting to have him taking care of her like that, even if having dinner set out like that had been her idea.
"Sounds perfect," Edward said. "After you put out the food, you can just head home. We'll put the dishes in the dish washer for you."
"Thank you, sir," Odetta said. Lassiter must be thinking with his johnson; he usually wasn't this considerate. She wasn't about to argue with the prospect of getting home to her own family hours earlier than usual. Besides, if she sliced the roast for them, she could take some it home with her.
She just hoped he didn't get caught. Mrs. Lassiter was as nasty as she was pretty, and she was one of the prettiest women Odetta had ever seen. She shrugged and headed back to her kitchen.
* * * * *
"You handled Odetta very well," Serafina said, as they walked up the stairs.
"Thank you," Edward said. "I just did as you suggested."
They reached the top. Serafina started down the hall to the right. "The master bedroom is down this way."
Edward let her get a half-step ahead of him. The sight of her body swaying excited him. If she would just cooperate, they could have a very pleasant time waiting till the Medallion would work on them again.
Serafina could almost feel Edward's eyes on her body as she walked. She wasn't sure how good an idea this was, but the master bedroom was the room in the house where they were least likely to be disturbed. They could watch TV and wait until the twelve hours was over, and the Medallion would work on them again.
Edward stepped around her as they reached the door. "After you, mi Paloma," he said, opening it wide.
She ignored the leer he gave her and walked in. "Let's put the Medallion where it's safe."
She walked over to Corinne's make-up table, while Edward looked at the room. "This bedroom is bigger than your house," he said.
Serafina nodded, as she put the Medallion in the drawer. She straightened up and walked over to the bed, picking up the TV remote. She pointed it at a large screen built into a wall. "We get over cien... a hundred channels on la televisiá³n; almost fifty more are movie channels." She sat on the bed and motioned for him to sit on a nearby chair. "What shall we watch?"
He sat down, but it was on the bed next to her. "I don't know, but I'm sure that the view -- of the screen, I mean -- will be better from here." He gently took the remote from her. "Let's just see what's on."
Edward turned the set on and began to surf through the channels. "News... no; business report... definitely no; cartoons... worse." He stopped at one channel, but it turned out to be a soap opera. The third -- no, the fourth movie channel was showing a very pretty blonde unbuttoning her dress. All she wore under it was a thong panty. The woman turned and a dark-haired man, naked to the waist, took her in his arms. Edward felt a tightness in his pants. He smiled, savoring the feeling. "This looks interesting."
Serafina could hear the suggestion -- the _leer_ -- in his voice. She was tempted; she had to admit it to herself. The part of her that was still Julio was attracted to the blonde. The rest of her was... intrigued. The man was now kissing the woman, even as he fondled her breast. Serafina's own breasts began to tingle, and she wondered... "N-no, that is...is _not_ what we will watch," she said as firmly as she could.
Edward chuckled and hit the remote again. ESPN2 was just two clicks down. They were showing an international football match, the Honduran national team against an Italian team. Julio had been on his village team from the time he was old enough to play on it until he left for the States. He'd gotten his tattoo when the team went to play in the regional championships. Serafina had been the co-captain of her school's varsity team. They both leaned back against the headboard to watch.
It was a good game. The lead went back and forth three times. Late in the second half, the Italian team managed to score twice. It was in the lead now and looked to be the winner.
All through the game, Edward had taken advantage of the excitement. He brushed against Serafina when he moved, sometimes quickly touching her breast or thigh. When she raised a hand to root on a player, he took her hand to root with her. And he moved closer to her on the bed, so that their hips touched.
Now a Honduran player rushed the ball downcourt. An Italian tackled him, but in his haste, he kicked the Honduran. The fouled player made a successful free kick, and the game was tied.
Serafina shook her hands in excitement as she cheered the Hondurans. "Calm yourself," Edward said, putting his arm around her waist. "The game isn't over yet." Serafina stopped yelling. Edward took his hand away, but not before he had gently squeezed her thigh.
Both teams pressed hard. The ball stayed down near the Honduran goal. Edward and Serafina strained to see what would happen. Edward was holding her hand again. She noticed, but she told herself that she was too interested in the game to pull away. A part of her liked the feeling of his holding her hand.
The goalie made three amazing saves. He kicked the ball far downfield with the last one. One of the Hondurans captured it. The team made a rush for the Italian goal, passing the ball between them as they ran. Edward and Serafina leaned forward, and Edward put his arm back around Serafina's waist.
Serafina's eyes glanced down towards his arm. It felt... natural for it to be there. She went back to watching the game without saying anything.
A Honduran player feinted right and kicked the ball high and to the left. A teammate stopped it with his chest. When it fell, he kicked it directly past the goalie's head and into the net. Score! The crowd went wild.
"We won!" Serafina yelled. Edward waved his arms and yelled the cheer from his old school team. They embraced, almost without thinking and kissed.
"This... this is wrong," Serafina said, breaking the kiss. She didn't sound very sure of what she was saying.
"Says who?" Edward kissed her again. Hard. He was determined now, and he knew Serafina's body intimately -- it had been his own, after all, until this morning. He started kissing her neck, gently taking love nips between kisses. At the same time, one hand reached down and began to knead her breast.
Serafina's arms lifted. She pushed at Edward's chest for a bit, trying to push him away. Then her arms lifted further and wrapped themselves around his neck. She shifted her body and began to kiss him.
Edward's hands quickly went behind her back. He unbuttoned her dress down to her waist. Then one hand reached in and began working on the clasp on her bra. When it opened, he gently pushed the straps of her dress down off her shoulders.
Serafina smiled shyly as she reached back to take off her bra. She knew what was happening. The Julio part of her was screaming not to do it, but she felt so good, so filled with pleasure and excitement and curiosity. And pleasure.
Yes, yes, she was really a man, but the man making love to her was really a woman, and her wife besides.
She tossed the bra away and began to unbutton Edward's shirt. She almost pulled it off him. Her hands reached out and touched him, running her fingers over his muscled back. She felt her breasts flatten against his chest. His hair tickled her nipples as they rubbed against it.
"The touching like this is fun," Edward said, "but there's much more we can try... mi paloma." He stood up and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. He guided her dress down past her hips. "This is my best dress, and I don't want it ruined." He chuckled at the way that sounded as he said it. Then his eyes grew wide as it fell to the floor.
"You are so beautiful," he said. It was true. This was his old body, but it seemed as if he was seeing for the first time. The curve of the bosom, the wide hips, they... excited him as they never had before. 'You are a man, now,' he thought. 'This is how a _man_ feels when he looks at a woman, a woman that he _wants_. A woman that he _will_ have sex with.'
Serafina stepped out of the dress. She left it on the floor, as she posed, one hand on her hip, in just her panties and sandals. The male voice in the back of her mind was getting softer and softer. It felt right to be doing this, even if she knew that it shouldn't.
Edward grinned in anticipation. 'Imagine Julio... no, this wasn't Julio. This was a woman, a beautiful woman, whom he loved very much. _His_ woman.' The thought surprised him, even as he realized that it was true.
Edward's hands tore at his pants. His fumbling hands undid his belt and opened the clasp. He pulled at his pants, taking his boxers down with them. They bunched at his knees.
Serafina giggled at the sight of Edward almost falling as he pushed his pants lower. He tried to step out of the mess. One leg came out; the other caught the trouser leg, pulling it inside out. Edward cursed and threw the pants against a wall. He stood there, his face red, wearing only his socks. His erection pointed almost straight up, or so it seemed to him. It was almost purple and felt like it weighed 20 pounds.
Edward remembered an old joke about a king whose erection could lift an anvil. How did the punchline go? Oh, yes: "Children cheered; women swooned, and the band played... 'God Save the Queen'."
Serafina lay down on the bed. She raised a hip and slid her panty down past her hips, past her knees. She bent one knee and lifted her leg out of the panty. It just hung there on her other ankle until she kicked it off with a quick jerk of the leg. "I think we are ready for more than touching," she said.
"For _much_ more," Edward said. He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge just long enough to pull off his socks. He lay next to her and put his arms around her, pulling her close. They kissed.
Serafina ran her tongue across Edward's lips in invitation. She opened her own mouth slightly, as his tongue followed hers. As they kissed, they pulled each other close, and their hands caressed each other's bodies.
Edward broke the kiss. He nuzzled and kissed Serafina's throat before moving on to her breast. He suckled at her breast, even as his fingers played with her other nipple. Serafina moaned with pleasure, as Edward knew she would. He switched breasts and began to suck again.
His free hand moved downward, his fingernail tracing a line on her skin. He played at her navel for a moment, making her shudder -- and giggle -- at the sensation of it. He continued down, then, until he reached her pubic region.
He kneaded it, and she shivered. Her hips began to match his actions. He ran his nail across his nether lips, then, suddenly, pushed a finger inside. She shivered again, and gasped in surprise. She was loose and wet and very ready.
Edward shifted on the bed, so that he was between her legs. He took his member in one hand and pressed it against the slit between her legs.
Serafina was breathing hard. She knew what she was feeling down there. Was she ready to do something so... _female_? "Yes!" She almost hissed the word. She braced herself as she felt him slide into her.
Edward lay atop her. She felt him moving in and out. It seemed like a great engine filling her with an incredible sexual energy. Waves of pleasure radiated out from her groin to every part of her body. Even her hair seemed to be tingling.
As Edward pumped he was kissing her, nipping at her breasts. Suddenly, he stopped in mid-stroke. His eyes narrowed as he screamed out. Serafina felt a rush of liquid flood into her womb. The sensation set off her own orgasm. She shuddered and bucked and clawed at the bedspread with her fingers.
* * * * *
"Mmm," Corinne said, sniffing at the air as she walked in the front door. "Smells like Odetta was expecting us, Inez. Go tell her we're hone, and she should be ready to serve dinner in..." She looked at her watch. "... about 15 minutes."
"Si, seá±ora," Inez said. She pit down the packages she was carrying and hurried off towards the kitchen.
She came back almost at once. "Odetta is not here, seá±ora. The food is in the warmers. She leave this note, too." She handed Corinne a scrap of paper.
"Mr. Lassiter," Corinne read aloud. "'_Mr._ Lassiter', that means he's around here someplace. Mr. Lassiter, supper is in these chafing dishes. I put up coffee in case you didn't want wine. There's dessert, ice cream cake, in the freezer. Hope you and your friend enjoy it. See you tomorrow, Odetta."
Corinne's eyebrows narrowed. "'Friend'? What sort of... he wouldn't _dare_!" She ran for the stairs. Not knowing what else to do, Inez grabbed for the packages and hurried after her.
Corinne took the stairs two at a time, muttering under her breath. "He'd damned well better not have... _nobody_ pulls something like that on Corrine DePeau Lassiter... after all I've done for that little greaser..." She ran down the hall, then stopped at the door to the master bedroom. She took a breath and threw the door opened.
Edward and Serafina were asleep. They were naked; Serafina's head rested on Edward's chest.
"Why that dirty..." Corinne said in a still breathless whisper. "How would he like it if I..." A though occurred to her. That Medallion was supposed to be able to swap bodies. It might be... interesting to be a man, especially with Edward in _her_ body. Not to mention that little slut in bed with him; she looked like she'd be lots of fun. And Inez... yes, doing him... her would be really sweet. Maybe she'd even do Odetta after the Medallion knocked a few pounds and a few years off her.
Corinne smiled and tiptoed over to the dressing table where she'd left the Medallion. She pulled out the drawer a little too quickly. Bottles and jars clinked together. Something even fell on the floor with a thud. "Damn!" she said loudly.
The couple in her bed woke up. "Corinne," Serafina said, sitting up.
Edward rubbed his eyes. "Mrs. Lassiter."
Corinne grabbed the Medallion and put it on. "Yes, you Spic bastard. How dare you bring another woman to _my_ house... to _my_ bed? Let's see how you like it when _you're_ the woman." She took a step towards the bed, holding the Medallion in one hand.
"No!" Serafina said. "You will not hurt her." She launched herself from the bed and grabbed for the Medallion.
"No!" Corinne screamed as the tingle went through her. "This can't happen to me. Not to _me_!" She sank to her knees in defeat even as her hair began to lengthen and grow darker. "I'm... I'm Corinne Lassiter!"
"Not for the next twelve hours, you are not," Serafina said triumphantly. Her hair was shorter now, with reddish streaks. Her coppery skin was lightening to Corinne's peaches and cream. Serafina grabbed a couple of Edward's ties from the rack in the closet and used them to bind Corinne's wrists behind her back. She put a third one in her mouth as a gag.
"That'll hold her for now," Edward said, as he stood up. "But what do we do after that, when she can use the Medallion to change back?"
Inez only been a few steps behind Corinne, and she had watched most of what happened from the doorway. The magic made her obedient to Corinne and Edward, but they were at odds now. Corinne wasn't even Corinne anymore -- not that the other woman was... yet. For the first time since her own transformation, Inez felt almost free to speak her mind.
"May _I_ make a suggestion?" she asked softly. Edward nodded, curious. Inez took the new maid's uniform, that Corinne had just bought, out of its package. Being careful not to touch either the Medallion or its chain, she tied the uniform's sleeves around Corinne's neck and twisted it around, so that the uniform itself hung down the front. It covered -- it lay directly on -- the Medallion. "That should make her muy... much easier to deal with."
Corinne's eyes grew wide with fear. She shook her head "No," and tried to speak, though only garbled sounds came through the improvised gag.
"I like it," Edward said, feeling much relieved. "Inez, why don't you join us downstairs for dinner. We'll just leave Cori... excuse me, _Serafina_. We'll just leave her up here to... think about the error of her ways."
Inez smiled. "Thank you, seá±or, but I would suggest that you and... Corinne..." She pointed to the woman who had been Serafina. "... might want to dress before you go downstairs.
* * * * *
They came back to the bedroom about an hour later. Serafina was still tied up. She lay on the floor, exhausted from trying to get free. Or, at least, to separate the Medallion and the uniform. Nothing had worked.
Edward and Inez helped Serafina to her feet. Corinne, dressed in only a bathrobe and panties sat on the bed and watched. "Nothing like a taste of your own medicine, is there?" Edward asked.
Serafina's eye widened in horror. She shook her head and tried to speak.
"Not so easy, is it?" Corinne asked.
"She will do better without the gag," Inez said. She reached up and untied the gag. "Now, what do you have to say for yourself, _chica_?"
"Inglés!" The woman screamed. "Yo no entenda inglés!" She put her head in her hands and began to cry.
"She can't understand English anymore," Corinne said. "Oh, this _is_ rich."
"I will take her back to her room in the servants' wing," Inez said, switching to Spanish. She will need a good night's sleep before she starts cleaning the house tomorrow."
She took Serafina by the arm. The newly transformed woman offered no resistance and let herself be led away, still sobbing softly.
"Good night... buenas noches, Serafina," Edward and Corinne said, almost in unison.
Instinctively, Serafina curtsied and bowed her head. "Buenas noches, seá±or... seá±ora." When she realized what she had just done and said, she began to cry loudly again and tried to run from the room.
Inez still held her arm. Tightly, so she couldn't run. "Do not be ashamed, little one. There is no shame in showing respect for your... superiors."
* * * * *
Matt Dietrick smiled broadly when he saw who was opening the front door. "Good morning, Inez. Are Edward and Corinne up and about yet?"
"S-si, Seá±or Dietrick. They are having breakfast on the patio." She frowned, clearly unhappy to see him.
"Fine, I'll just head out there." He picked up his briefcase and started walking through the foyer. Inez fell in next to him. Edward turned his head and looked her over as they walked. "I see that you're in your uniform. I thought you had today off."
Inez's relatively plain, blue-black uniform and sensible shoes were a contrast to the off-white Izod shirt and light brown Dockers Matt wore.
"I have some things that I must do first, seá±or. I will be changing muy pronto... very soon."
"Good, because we have a date today, you and I, remember?"
"Oh, I remember, seá±or. I remember." She had an odd sort of look in her eyes.
"Now, don't be angry, Inez. I know that you didn't like the idea when Corinne first suggested it, but I promise you that we'll have all sorts of fun." He put his arm around her waist, as if to show the sort of fun he had in mind.
"_Please_, seá±or. I am working now." She took a step ahead of him. He stayed behind as they walked on, watching the sway of her hips. She stopped at a sliding screen door that lead back outside. "Seá±or Dietrick," She announced.
"Have him come out, Inez," Edward called. "You come out, too."
"I'm right here, Edward." Matt slid the door open and walked out onto the patio. "Good morning."
Edward and Corinne were seated at a white, wrought iron table, just finishing breakfast. They were both in fluffy, blue robes that were wrapped tightly enough that Matt couldn't tell what, if anything, they had on underneath. A maid that Matt had never seen before was pouring Corinne a cup of coffee.
Matt studied the new maid for a moment. She was tall, with high cheekbones, coppery skin, and straight black hair. A Latina with a lot of Indian blood, he guessed. She wore a uniform that looked like something out of the 30s, high collar, hem far down below her knee. There was even a small, starched white apron. Still, the uniform could hardly hide the lush curves underneath: pillowy breasts, narrow waist, and wide, childbearing hips.
He wasn't about to blow off the date with Inez, but this woman was definitely going onto his "To Do" list.
Edward looked up from his coffee and saw Matt's obvious... interest. He frowned for a moment. 'You'd think I insulted him,' Matt thought.
"Before you try anything with Serafina here, you'd better brush up on your Spanish. She doesn't speak a word of English."
"Hey, I speak pretty good Spanish," Matt said. He looked at... Serafina again. She seemed to be trying to understand what was being said. She also seemed to be very unhappy about something.
Corinne took a sip of coffee. Then, in Spanish much better than Matt thought she had, she said, "Serafina, take the dishes and all, everything but the coffee back to the kitchen. Oh, and stay out there and help Odetta." Serafina hesitated. "_Ahora_... _now_!" Corinne added firmly.
Si, S-seá±ora," Serafina said meekly. She curtsied and began to load the remains of the breakfast onto a serving cart. Her hands trembled slightly as she worked. As soon as she finished, she curtsied again and wheeled it around towards the kitchen.
"Can I offer you some coffee?" Edward asked, lifting the pot.
Matt sat down, putting his briefcase near him on the table. "Please. Black with two sugar." He opened the case and took out a manila folder. "Here's the papers. You just sign this, _Edward_, and Inez and I will be on our way." He put the folder on the table halfway between himself and Edward.
Edward looked at the folder. He opened it and lifted out three stapled sets of papers. "These papers give you control of the company, right?"
"Just like Corinne and I discussed; in fact, you'll both have to sign it. You stay on as a figurehead. You get the same share of the money, but _I_ make all the decisions."
"Maybe we should have somebody else look at it first," Corinne said. "Just to make sure that we're not being cheated."
Matt's eyebrows narrowed. "I thought we trusted each other. What's going on here anyway?"
"Just being careful," Edward said with a broad smile. "Inez, why don't you sit down here next to Matt. After all, considering who you were originally, I think that this involves you as much as any of us."
Inez nodded and took the chair next to Matt. She smiled at him, almost as if she had some secret, and began to unbutton her uniform's blouse.
Matt watched her for a moment, happily noticing that she wasn't wearing a bra. She did have some kind of necklace on under her blouse, though. 'I'll be sure to get a good look at it later,' he thought.
He turned and looked Edward straight in the eye. "What the hell are you two trying to pull? Do you think you -- Ow!" He felt an odd jolt, like a big spark, against his bare arm.
He looked to see what had happened. Inez was holding his arm back against the chair in a way that gave him very little leverage to move it away. In her other hand, she was holding something, a part of the necklace that was still wore, against his arm.
His eyes went wide a heartbeat later, when he recognized what it was. "The Medallion! No!"
Matt struggled, but it was hard to pull free. Edward walked around and grabbed his wrist, being careful, of course, not to touch the Medallion or Inez.
Matt finally threw himself off the chair and onto the ground. The chair fell over behind him. He put out his arms to help him stand. His hands were smaller, with longer, slimmer fingers. His arms seemed thinner, too, and not as strong. His skin was darkening, and the hair on his arms was vanishing even as he looked.
Edward put the chair back on its legs. "Let me help you up," he said, as he reached down and lifted a smaller Matt back onto the chair. Corinne handed Edward some rope. Edward looped it two or three times around Matt's waist and the chair, then tied it off behind the chair and out of Matt's reach.
"You wanted to go as soon as I changed," Inez said. Her voice was deeper now, and it seemed to have less of an accent. "I don't think that this was the change you had in mind." She took the blouse from her uniform and draped it around Matt's neck. "I'm not sure if this part will work. We'll see when I get back." She turned and hurried into the house.
"Corinne," Matt moaned. "We had a deal. You... you cannot do this thing to me." His voice was higher now, and _he_ was the one with the accent. He groaned and looked down at his body.
He was slimmer now. Shorter, too, judging from the way his slacks were pooling at his ankles. His shoes felt impossibly loose. He felt a tightness in his chest, and as he looked, he saw two round shapes growing out beneath it.
Matt was disgusted at the thought of having breasts. Then he remembered what else he was going to have. His pants felt tight against his hip and ass. His ass... it felt like it was getting bigger.
The ropes kept his hands from reaching into his pants. He could feel a "sparky" sensation in his groin. It was kind of like the way your arms feels after it's gone to sleep and now the circulation is starting to flow back into it. The feeling seemed to be fading away. When it was gone, he knew that his maleness was gone with it.
Matt shook his... no, her head. She felt her longer hair move against her neck. "Why did you do this to me... Julio... Corinne?" It took Matt a moment of mental struggle to call them by their first names.
"I'm not the Corinne you made a deal with," Corinne said. "_That_ Corinne is in the kitchen now helping Odetta."
"Serafina?" Matt said. "Seá±ora, Corinne is Serafina?"
"She sure is," a familiar voice said from behind Matt. "Just like you're Inez."
Matt strained to see. She saw... she saw her old body standing next to Edward wearing an identical blue robe.
The man smiled and walked around so that Matt could get a better view. "And just like _I'm_ Matt Dietrick."
"No, no!" It was too much for Matt's, now Inez', new female emotions. She lowered her head and began to sob softly.
Corinne came around and untied her. "I think that we need to get you and Matt into the proper clothes." She stood Inez up and guided her into the house.
The new Matt picked up the papers and looked through them briefly. "He... she..." He laughed. "I guess it's _I_ did a good job. These papers do just what he said. Ed Lassiter more or less retires to the job of Board Chair with a fancy title and no responsibilities. Matt Dietrick will be CEO, running things however he wants to run them."
"And this is what you want?" Edward said.
"DO you think you can run the company, cousin Edward?"
Edward shook his head no. "I don't think so. I was raised to be a wife and mother. I'm finding a lot of new things that I can do." He paused and looked down at his male body, especially down _there_, and remembered the pleasures he had shared with the new Corinne. "But I don't think that I've got the interest or the talent to run your company."
"And I do," Matt said. "I'm a workaholic; I always was. But now, thanks to Corinne -- _my_ Corrine -- I'm a younger and wiser man. I can do 24/7 for Lassiter and still have myself a real life."
"Then I'll sign the papers," Edward said. "My husband came here to be a servant of the rich, idle Americans, and now she and I get to _be_ rich, idle Americans." He took a pen from a pocket of the robe and signed all three copies. Thanks to the magic, the signature was exactly as Edward Lassiter's signature had always been.
"I'll sign, too," Corinne said from the doorway. She walked out, followed by Inez, the new Inez, now dressed in her maid's uniform and walking an obedient step behind her.
"I would like to swap bodies with Edward, though," Corinne said. "After all, I was the husband originally."
"Edward and I talked about that last night," Matt said. "She thought that she wanted to be a man for a little while, just to see what it was like, and for you to be the woman."
"What?" Corinne said, looking up from signing the papers. "For how long?"
"A few days," Edward said with a laugh. "My... time of the month is due in three or four days. Maybe you will be more sympathetic about it, if _you_ suffer through it once." She paused. "Besides, what you did to this man was wrong. A short punishment is only fair."
Corinne put the papers back in the folder and handed it to Matt. "Somehow, I don't think that I have a choice in this." She sighed. "Very well, but not more than ten days."
"Agreed," Matt said. "I'll bring the Medallion back a week from Saturday. I'll even take you two out to dinner after you've changed as a sort of 'Welcome Back to Your Own Gender' party, okay?"
"Why do you have to take the Medallion?" Corinne said suspiciously.
"Because I think I may still have a bit of an accent to get rid of, and because you don't leave a key around a jail where the prisoners can find it -- and I'm thinking of Serafina and Inez, not either of you."
He _was_ thinking of them, of course, and they all knew it, but Edward and Corinne appreciated his tact in denying the fact.
"Well..." Matt said, "since I don't think that I'll be spending the day with your charming maid, I think I'm going to head back to the office and turn these papers over to our lawyers."
"Your clothes are all in the living room," Corinne said. "You can chan... put them on in there."
"Fine," Matt said. "I'll see you both a week Saturday." He put the papers in the briefcase and walked away.
Corinne sat in a chair and sighed. "A week, no ten more days like this, and a period, no less."
Edward pulled a chair around and sat next to her. "It is only fair." He put a hand on her arm and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "And I am sure that we can find ways to make the time pass pleasurably.
* * * * *
Matt was very happy to discover that his new identity included a lime green BMW. He sped along listening to CDs -- the old Matt had shared his love of late 60s rock -- it was one of the few things that they had in common. Life was wonderful, and he was enjoying the ride as he hadn't in... it seemed like years. He decided to take the day off after all. The papers would wait until tomorrow.
He stopped for lunch at a small winery with an on-site restaurant. He only sampled the wine, since he was driving, but he ordered several bottles to take back to Matt's... to his condo.
While he was finishing the meal, an old, dark gray van pulled up next to him in the parking lot. Two men, dressed in black slacks and shirts, hopped out from the back. They opened Matt's car and then the trunk with professional skill, not leaving a mark.
The Medallion was in the briefcase, wrapped in a towel. One of the men quickly unwrapped the Medallion and put it in a red and green silk bag. The other contents of the briefcase were dumped on the floor of the trunk, along with the towel. A toolbox, worth about $75, was also taken. It looked like just an ordinary robbery.
The Medallion, safe in the silken bag and guarded by members of the Brotherhood of Zulo, was over twenty miles away by the time Matt left the restaurant.
Matt discovered his loss that night. He spent over an hour searching the trunk of the car before he called Edward and Corinne. He was amazed at the amount of Spanish profanity he learned during the course of that phone call.
Edward and Corinne fretted and fumed about what had happened to them for several weeks. By then, they had a new problem. Neither of them had given any thought to "protection". Corinne was pregnant.
After Edward Lassiter, Jr. was born, his parents had their home landscaped, and a formal garden and a small, artificial lake put in. One of the workers was attracted by the Lassiter's shy, old-fashioned maid. They were married for over a year, when Serafina became pregnant with her first child. She still worked as the Lassiter's maid once the baby was old enough. The same was true after her three other children were born. Corinne and Edward are godparents to all four of the children.
Inez saved her money as best she could for several years. The Lassiters had to pay her. Matt even used a few connections to arrange green cards and all the proper documents for Inez and Serafina. Inez quit to open her own home cleaning service. She has thirty people working for her now, and she's dating one of her customers, a Latino contractor.
Matt expanded the business, enjoying the challenge of working hands on again. He met and married a lady lawyer two years ago. They're expecting their first child in June.
The whereabouts of the Medallion -- and the Brotherhood -- are unknown.
Want to comment but don't want to open an account?
Anyone can log in as Guest Reader -- password topshelf to leave a comment.
At the Prom
Ellie Dauber
Jerry Nicholas wants to prank his high school's prom despite his best friend, Fred Paxton's, request that he behave. Jerry gave his friend his word -- sort of -- but where there's a will AND a Fairy Godmother, there's a way
At the Prom
Ellie Dauber
"Jerry, I want to talk to you."
Jerry Nicholas turned at the sound of his name. He saw Fred Paxton coming towards him, cutting quickly and carefully through the hallway traffic.
"What is it, Fred? I'm hungry, and we've only got thirty five minutes for lunch."
"I just wanted to warn you. Jack Andresky heard you talking about the mixer yesterday."
"So?"
"So, Jack still remembers some of the stunts you pulled last year. He's chairman of the Sophomore Mixer, and he doesn't want it messed up."
"Again, so?"
"So? So, he told me to warn you that if anything happens, he and his friends on the football team are going to be looking for you. And it won't be to shake your hand."
"Right, like I'm afraid of those goons.” He was. Jack and his friends could do serious damage, and they didn't have the brains of a tree toad between them. But he wasn't going to let Fred know that he was scared.
Fred paused for a moment. "Look, Jerry, I'm your friend. Hell, we've known each other since kindergarten, and I've gone along with more than a few of your hair-brained stunts. Only now I'm class Treasurer. I don't want to have to use what little money we've got to pay for any damages you do. Will you promise me that you won't wreck the mixer?"
Jerry thought for a moment. He owed Fred for more than one favor, and he'd worked hard to get the guy elected Treasurer. It really wouldn't look good to have Fred paying for what he was planning. Still -- not all the stuff that he had planned would do permanent damage.
"Okay," he said, raising his hand as if taking an oath. "I promise that I will cause no serious damage at the mixer tonight."
"No damage, period."
"You, sir, are a spoilsport of the first order. ‘…that I will cause no damage period at the mixer tonight.’"
"I'm not sure if that covers everything, but I think I'll take what I can get."
"It doesn't. But it's all you're going to get. I reserve the right to have a little fun, even if I have taken you off the hook for any of the class' money."
"Yeah, I'll remind you of that when I visit you in the hospital. Jack and his band of merry men aren't worried about monetary damages. They're worried about you doing something to ruin their chances of scoring with whoever they're bringing to the dance."
"Relax, man. I can handle those guys, and still have some fun. Now let's go see if there's anything edible in the cafeteria today."
*****
That afternoon found Jerry sitting on his bed going over his list of the booby traps and other tricks he'd planned for the mixer. 'Damn that Fred,' he thought. 'And damn me for promising him.' Some of the stuff, like the flour bomb over the dance floor, might still work. Flour wasn't really "damage", it would just be a mess to clean out of everybody's clothes. It was just a question of how far he was going to go to keep his word to his oldest friend. The trick was to figure out ways to disrupt the mixer without doing any damage.
He knew that Frank had been telling the truth about Jack Andresky, though.
*****
Jerry's locker was near the main inside entrance to the gym, and he had walked past the entrance to get the books for his last two classes. Stan Hellinger and Marty Groves, two varsity linemen, were standing near the door. It looked like they were just hanging out by the gym. But when they saw him, they had shifted position, like cops or guards suddenly coming on duty.
Stan had stayed near the door, but Marty had walked over to Jerry. He was a good five inches taller and must have had thirty pounds - all of it muscle - on Jerry. "Can I help you with something, Nicholas" he said. Clint Eastwood had used the same tone in that movie, when he said, "Make my day."
"Yeah, would you mind getting out of my way. I've got to get some stuff from my locker over there.” He pointed down the hall. When Marty turned to look, Jerry bolted around him and headed straight for the locker.
Marty walked over to the open locker, while Jerry was switching books. "Me and Stan heard somebody was gonna try something at the mixer. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Nicholas?"
"I don't think so."
"Good. Cause half the team's gonna be taking shifts watching the place. We see some little turd like you doing anything suspicious - Wham!” He threw a punch that deliberately missed Jerry's head by just inches. The locker door swung back from the impact and slammed into the front of the next locker over."
"I'll remember that, Marty."
"See that you do.” Marty turned and walked back towards the entrance and his friend.
*****
It had happened over two hours ago. Jerry was still shaking. Partly, it was the fear of what Marty and the others might do if they caught him. But partly it was also anger at the way that jock asshole had threatened him
Promise be damned. There was no way he was going to let them get away with that. The trick was getting in and pulling off whatever stunt he was going to do without Andresky or any of the others catching him.
It takes some kind of disguise or something. But what? And could he afford it --- whatever "it" was. He'd been trying to think of something even as he paired down the list of possible tricks and booby traps.
"I wish," he said aloud, "I just wish that there was a way to walk into that dance and not be recognized.” He looked out his window and saw the full moon rising above the trees. Heck,' he thought, while I'm at it, I may as wish that I get to set off at least one prank, and that the jocks don't hassle me about anything afterwards.'
Suddenly it seemed as if a shaft of moonlight was shining straight into his bedroom. Then the shaft of light disappeared leaving only a glowing circle on the bedroom floor. The circle glowed silver for a moment, then the glow changed to a blue color. A wavy blue shape seemed to rise out of the floor. As Jerry stared, too scared to move, it wavered, shimmering as it changed shape and became more solid. The colors flowed in the air, then settled down and turned into a short, silver-haired woman in a long blue gown. She had smallish butterfly like wings on her back, and she was holding what looked like -- no, it couldn't be -- a magic wand.
"What the? What are you, lady?"
The woman smiled. It was a smile Jerry recognized. He got it three or four times a year from his Great Aunt Ruth. Aunt Ruth thought he was still six and treated him that way. Worst of all, when he tried to explain that, no, he was fifteen; she gave him that smile and pinched his cheek. "Isn't that cute," she'd say. "Little Jerry thinks he's all grown up."
The woman looked kind of like Aunt Ruth, too, only not as old. She was in her fifties or sixties. No wrinkles but kind of plump. "Look at me, Jerry," she said. "What else can I be but a Fairy Godmother? I've come here to grant a wish."
"Sure, like in Cinderella."
"Oh, I always loved that girl. And she was so grateful after that nice Prince married her. I'm glad that they're still telling that story."
"Oh, so you've come to help me get into the ball - I mean, the mixer, and to not meet those handsome princes on the football team.” Jerry said the word "princes" carefully, as if he wanted to pronounce the letters "ce" more like a "k."
"Something like that, my dear?"
"My dear? Hey, wait a minute. You're not going to turn me into a girl are you?"
"You want to get in unrecognized. If they're looking for a boy, they won't notice a girl."
"No way, lady! They won't notice me as a black guy or an adult, either. Turn me into one of those. I'll go in disguised as a male teacher, or you can keep your dumb wish."
The Fairy Godmother scowled. "Just because I wear fairy wings doesn't mean I'm a pushover, Jerry. I'll transform you the way I want. Once a wish is made, it's up to me to decide how to grant it."
"Then I cancel my wish."
"Oh, very well. How about a compromise?"
"What did you have in mind."
"Neither of us decide what you get turned into. Hold out your palm."
When Jerry did so, she tapped it slightly with the tip of her wand. A coin about the size of a half dollar appeared in his hand. "That coin," she said "was minted by Theodacer, second Duke of Naples, in honor of his marriage to his child bride, Alcuin, in 538."
Jerry looked at the coin. It was an old Roman gold piece. He recognized it as such because he and Fred (of all people) were avid coin collector, and both had several Roman coins in their collections. One side showed the face of a man in his thirties, the other a girl about his own age. There was some sort of Latin inscription around the images on each side.
"Flip the coin in the air," the woman said. If it lands with the Theodacer side up, I'll change you into a thirty year old Black man. If the other side comes up, you get to be a girl your own age. Agreed?"
Jerry didn't like the odds, but it seemed to be about as fair a deal as he was going to get. Besides, he still wasn't convinced that this wasn't some kind of trick. "Agreed."
He held the coin up between finger and thumb and looked at it closely. It didn't seem to be a trick coin, but he was hardly an expert, even with his love of pranks. Such things always seemed more like cheats. 'Here goes nothing,' he thought. He flipped the coin with his thumb and watched it spin over and over as it flew through the air. It seemed to be going in slow motion, like something in a movie. He was also trying to keep an eye on the Old Lady just to make sure she didn't try anything.
He held out his palm, and the coin landed squarely in the middle of it. The girl -- what did the Old Lady say her name was, Allison, no, that wasn't it -- stared up at him. "Tail," he said making a lame joke. Damn! If this old lady was telling the truth, he was about to become a girl.
He felt the coin get warm in his hand. Then the warmth seemed to sink down out of the coin and into his hand. It spread out through his hand to his fingertips. His hand became smaller. His fingers grew long and slender, and his nails grew out about a half inch. The warmth moved rapidly up his arm. He saw the hair on his arm fall out as his arm grew thin. Then it seemed to smooth out as if an extra layer of fat was forming.
He was wearing a shirt, so he couldn't tell at first what was happening as the warmth reached his shoulder then spread down into his chest and stomach. Then he noticed that the shirt seemed to be growing on him. No, he realized, his body was shrinking. He looked down to see a shirt that was now much to big for him. Then he saw a movement under the shirt. Two small bulges appeared under the shirt, bulges that grew larger as he watched in horror, until two female breasts were pushing the shirt well out in front of him. The nipples, erect with fear, could be seen through the fabric.
The warmth moved over to his other shoulder and down his arm. Well, he'd watched that already, but it was also spreading up his neck. It reached his chin and spread out through his head. "Tickles," he said aloud, hearing his voice come out not as his usual tenor, but as a high alto, a girl's voice. He felt movement on his face, felt the muscles under his skin moving to new places. His scalp began to tingle, and he felt his hair grow longer. It slid down over his ears and brushed against his neck as it grew down to his shoulders.
The warmth in his chest moved down to his stomach. His waist suddenly felt as if it was caught in a vise as it grew narrower. He felt his pants grow loose. Then, a little lower, they became very tight as his hips and butt grew wider and more curved.
The warmth reached -- oh, no! no! it reached his groin. He relaxed for a second, as he felt himself become erect. Then the sensation changed. His penis and balls began to tingle the way an arm or leg does when it goes "to sleep" from lack of circulation. He looked down. A feminized hand reached for the bulge in his shorts. It found it, but the bulge grew steadily smaller as he tried to hold onto it. His testicles seemed to move up into his body -- he could feel the movement within him somehow -- leaving the sack behind. These grew smaller as his penis, still shrinking, settled down within them. In moments all he could feel were two small folds of skin with an opening between them. He probed with a finger and felt it slip in -- into his new vagina.
Now the warmth continued on down his legs. He watched them swell within his slacks, growing the curves of a woman's legs. Finally, it reached his feet. He wriggled his toes as his shoes became looser and looser. He now had the tiny feet of a young girl.
Jerry stepped out of his shoes and walked over to get a better look at his new self in the mirror above his dresser. He saw a girl that looked a lot like his cousin, Sandi, or maybe a younger version of his Mom. His hair was still the same dark blond color, but now it hung down to his shoulders. His eyebrows were narrow slits, and his lashes seemed longer. His nose was smaller and turned up a little. His cheek bones were higher, and his lips seemed fuller. His square jaw was gone, changed to a gentle curve that made his whole face seem rounder. His neck was definitely more slender.
So was the rest of him. He was no athlete, but he'd kept his body in fairly good shape with sports and his weekly chores. Now that was gone, and he had the slender body of a girl. His breasts looked pretty good pushing out his shirt. He couldn't tell the size, but, as the joke said, they were at least a handful. It was hard to judge the rest of his figure in his current clothes, but he knew that his waist was a lot narrower, and his hips and butt looked pretty good when he turned sideways for a look.
"My, you turned out very nice, Jerry," said the Fairy Godmother. She certainly had the powers of one, so why not call her that? "By the way, your name can also be spelled J-E-R-I, so you needn't change it if anybody asks. I would change the last name, though. Two Jerry Nicholas would be too much of a coincidence."
"So now what? You gonna turn a pumpkin into a Porsche, so I can drive to school?"
"You're too young to drive, Dear. Besides, you can't go to school dressed like that."
Jerry bristled at the word "Dear" and braced himself for what was about to happen. The Fairy Godmother waved her wand at him, and he was sure that she said something that actually sounded like "Bibbity, Bobbity, Boo!” A stream of sparks shot out of the wand and circled around his feet, then swirled up around his body and, eventually disappeared over his head.
He looked down and saw his socks change from a baggy gray cotton to a tight, shear mesh that seemed to climb up his legs. His pants were moving up his legs, too, fusing together to become a single tube of material that stopped several inches above his knees. He could see his legs now through the smoky gray mesh covering them. They were slender and hairless, smooth with a nice feminine curve to them.
His shirt moved down, growing tight against his body, as it merged with what had been his pants. He felt the mesh reach his hips and grow together to become a pair of pantyhose. Beneath them his shorts grew tighter. They seemed cooler and silky somehow against his butt, and he realized that he was now wearing a pair of panties. The same thing happened to his undershirt. It shrank until it was just below his new breasts, then tightened to enclose and support them. The material of the new bra was cool against his breasts and tickled his nipples.
The sleeves disappeared from his shirt, and the collar grew out until only two thin spaghetti straps held the shirt up. The material changed colors to a dark blue as pants and shirt merged, transforming into a rather tight fitting dress that hugged his new curves and showed the tops of his full breasts. The skirt loosened just below the hips to allow the sort of movement that a girl was likely to do at a dance. It would also swirl around, giving a good look at his stockinged legs.
Then Jerry noticed something on one of his fingers and took a closer look. As he watched, the nails shaped themselves and turned a dark red as polish appeared on them. He felt something on his mouth. When he stuck his tongue out, he tasted an oily sweetness that could only be lipstick. He looked in the mirror again. He was wearing not only lipstick but blusher on his cheeks. As he watched, his lashes became fuller, and a dark blue eye shadow and liner appeared on his face.
He took in the whole picture. He was hot, the sort of babe that guys dream about, in that tight blue dress and that "come hither" face. If he'd still been male and found her in his bedroom, he'd have been trying to talk her out of her panties in a minute. And she looked like that might not be too hard to do, either. Only it was him.
Fairy Godmother smiled. "You'll find, Dear, that you have the body language of a girl, too. You even know how to walk in those heels."
"What heels?” He looked where she was pointing. His sneakers were lying on the floor near the bed. Right where he'd stepped out of them. Then they shimmered, kind of like a hot road in the Summer, and did a movie quality morph into a pair of high heels the same color as his dress. Jerry walked over and slipped the shoes on. The heels must have been two inches, but he seemed to have no real trouble, as he walked across the room in them.
He did notice that he took a smaller step when he walked and his hips swayed in a very feminine manner, but, somehow, it seemed natural to be walking that way. He tried walking the way he usually did, a long, sort masculine stride, and that didn't seem right.
Fairy Godmother handed him a purse that also matched his dress. He looked inside and found his wallet, some make-up, and some change in a small purse. He took out the wallet and looked for his school ID. He couldn't find it, but he did find a Student Bus Pass. The picture looked the way he looked now, and his name was spelled J-E-R-I. His last name was listed as Whiting, his mother's maiden name.
"Curious about the name, Dear?" Fairy Godmother said. "I told you that you shouldn't use Nicholas, and Whiting is a name that you can identify with. There are enough students in your school that you shouldn't have a problem with people not knowing you. Now put that all away and sit down. There are a few rules that I must tell you."
Jerry put the ID back in his wallet and returned them both to the purse. He sat down on the bed and waited for her to continue.
"First, the magic only lasts until 10:30. You must be home by then."
"10:30! What happened to the stroke of midnight?"
"You're not old enough to stay out until midnight. Besides, that mixer you want to go to is over at 10 PM. Secondly, you'll notice that you're still holding on to the coin.” She stopped, and Jerry looked into his hand. Sure enough, the coin was still there. "You must keep the coin with you at all times. Put it in your purse. If you are more than five feet away from the coin, you will begin to change back ten minutes after you and the coin are separated. The extra time is a safety factor. You don't start changing, the instant you lose the coin. You'll feel a tingling, though, so you'll know that you have to go find it."
She paused again. Jerry put the coin into his change purse.
"One final point. The coin is designed to change you into a girl, and it will stay potent for twenty-four hours after you change back. So after you do change back, carefully put it some place where you won't touch it again for that length of time. If you do touch it again, there may be a reaction."
"I'll turn back into a girl?"
"Yes, and other things may happen as well. The magic of the coin wants you to be a girl. It may actually get stronger."
"Wow! Thanks for the warning. Can other people touch it?"
"Anyone can touch it, Dear, but it's magic is linked to you. You are the only one that it will transform while the spell lasts."
"Great. Well, thanks for helping me out like this, and thanks for the warning, too."
"That's all right, Dear. Try not to get into any real trouble.” The Fairy Godmother waved her wand above her head and slowly began to fade away. The last thing Jerry heard was "Have a good time and remember...."
Jerry stood up and took one last look in the mirror. Nobody would recognize him like this, and the only danger he was in from Jack Andresky and his buddies was that they might try to dance with him. He giggled at the thought, then caught himself. Girls giggled. Well, it would only help the disguise.
He looked at his watch and noticed that it was somehow 7:10 already. "Must have been my Fairy Godmother," he thought. "She took longer than I thought, or she sped up time some how." Either way, it was time to get to the Mixer. Asking his parents for a ride was out. He could never explain what had happened. But school was only a couple blocks away. Jerry grabbed his purse and hurried out the bedroom door. His father had evening shift this week, and he could hear his mother on the phone in the kitchen. He tiptoed down the steps and was out the front door. All his mother heard was the door slam behind him.
The walk to the school was uneventful, though it felt strange to feel his legs brushing against each other in the pantyhose. The breeze on his legs and up his dress felt odd, too, but he got used to it fairly quickly.
The dance had already started by the time Jerry got to the school. It took longer than he had expected because he was taking shorter steps in those heels he had on. He stood in the shadows near the school entrance and watched for a few minutes. Some of the kids had brought dates, but a lot were going in alone or in small groups of all boys or all girls. Jerry also saw a few members of the "goon squad", the football players that he knew were looking for him. Well, they'd see him soon enough, but they sure wouldn't recognize him.
As he came to the door, Jerry realized that he didn't have any ID. Nobody would recognize him in his new form, and he might not even get into the building. Worst of all, Fred was working at the ticket table.
Jerry took a breath and decided to just go for it. He got into the short line and waited as he slowly to the table. Fred looked up, but somehow, it took him a minute to get to Jerry's face. Jerry felt a little embarrassed when he realized that Fred was looking at his new breasts. 'Well,' Jerry thought, 'my breasts don't look anything like Jerry Nicholas. Maybe he won't know who I am behind them.'
Fred didn't really look at her face. The line was too long to talk much, even to a pretty girl. He just took her $2 and stamped her hand. "Next," he said motioning for her to go inside. He did try to remember what she looked like. He didn't know her, but he wanted to.
Jerry walked into the building. Even if he really had been new to the school, it was easy to find his way to the gym by just staying with the line of kids walking in the one direction. He noticed Stan Hellinger and Marty Groves standing near the lockers talking. They were still "on duty", watching for him -- the male Jerry Nicholas -- to try to sneak in. Fat chance they'd recognize him looking like this.
He stopped and walked over to the pair. "Excuse me," he said. Both boys relaxed and gave Jerry's new body an appreciative look over. "Could one of you tell me where the little girl's room is?"
"Oh, sure," Stan said. "Down that hall, second door on your left.” He pointed towards the entrance to the Girls' Dressing Rooms.
"Thank you.” Jerry turned and started in that direction. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Stan and Marty were both caught looking at his pretty new ass. He smiled as they quickly tried to look away.
Jerry had sometimes wondered what a girls' bathroom looked like. It wasn't that much different from the boy's bathroom that he was used to. There were a couple extra stalls along the wall, instead of a row of urinals. Near the row of sinks there was a dispenser on the wall. Sanitary napkins and tampons. Jerry looked down at his groin and shuddered, thankful that he wasn't going to be a girl long enough to deal with that problem.
He looked around and checked the stalls. He was alone. Before he'd left the house, he'd stuck a black grease pencil in his purse. He pulled it out and began writing on the large mirror over the sinks, "So this is what the girls' john looks like. Thanks for the great show this evening.” He smiled. He'd printed in bold letters and now he signed it, "The Peeper". The writing wasn't obviously his, but it sure didn't look like a girl's. It should start things jumping.
He left the bathroom and headed back down the hall. It would probably be a while before his little message was found. As he walked past where Stan and Marty were keeping watch, Jerry stopped. "Thanks again. I knew you were the sort of boys who'd know where the girl's bathroom was.” Jerry could barely keep from laughing at their reaction to the obvious put down as he turned and walked towards the gym.
He went into the gym, where the Mixer was actually being held, and leaned against the wall. The band wasn't bad. Jerry listened to it for a while, and tried to decide which of the other pranks he was going to try. He'd rigged a small smoke bomb -- no, that could cause a panic, and he really didn't want people to get hurt. Besides, it was in his locker, and how could he explain "Jeri" knowing the combination.
Maybe the air conditioner? He knew where the controls were. If he set it for ultra high, the place would get too cold. Only, with over a hundred kids in the gym, and a lot of them dancing, it would almost need to be on ultra-high to keep the place comfortable. Jerry decided to take a walk around the halls and think about it a while longer.
*****
Fred felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Mitch Resnick. "I'm back," Mitch said. "Thanks for taking my place at the table, so I could go to the can."
"My pleasure, believe me," Fred said. He stood up and ran inside to try and find the new girl. It was weird. He'd never seen her before, but he felt like he knew her. He meant what he'd said, too. If he hadn't spelled Mitch at the ticket table, he'd probably never have seen her.
Once inside he stopped and looked around. She was walking near the trophy case near the entrance to the gym. He slowed to a walk and tried to look casual. He smiled at the pretty new girl. "Hi, I'm Fred Paxton. I was the one at the ticket table." he said. "Welcome to Grissom. Is this your first time here? I don't think I recognize you."
"I'm Jeri Whiting, and tonight is my first time anywhere near Grissom. My folks just moved to town, and I'll be starting school here next Monday.” It was a quick lie, but one that Jerry thought he could work with. Besides, Fred had only just recently boasted to him that he knew every one in the sophomore class on sight. He doubted it, but he didn't want to take any chances.
"Well, then let me show you around the school a little."
Jerry smiled, knowing his friend only too well. "Let's wait until I know you a little better before I let you lead me down any dark hallways."
"Okay, then. How about if I take you into the gym, and we dance?"
"Sounds like a plan.” Fred offered Jerry his arm. Jerry smiled at his success in fooling his best friend. Fred took the smile to mean that this new girl liked him, so he smiled back and lead her into the gym and onto the dance floor.
The first two dances the band played were fairly fast. Jerry just had to move in time to the music and smile at Fred from a distance. Then the band began a slow ballad. Jerry was stuck. There was no easy way to refuse Fred's outstretched arms.
Fred took Jerry's left hand in his right and put his left hand around Jerry's waist. He pulled the girl close, but not too close. He didn't want to scare her off, and, besides, the chaperones were watching.
Jerry felt Fred's body next to his own transformed body. He moved with the music, trying very hard to remember not to lead. As he did, his new feminine instincts came into play. Jerry moved in a little closer and rested his head on Fred's shoulder. It felt like the natural thing to do. It felt good, too. In fact, it bothered Jerry just how good it felt to be there in Fred's arms.
Jerry tried not to think about it. He tried to remember that Fred was just part of the camouflage, somebody to dance with so he wouldn't be recognized as Jerry Nicholas. But it wasn't easy.
The music stopped. Jerry found his throat was getting a little dry, and he wanted to move off the dance floor, to get his mind off how much he was enjoying dancing with Fred. "Is there something around here to drink?"
"Sure, just wait here, and I'll ---"
"No, that's all right. I'll go with you.” There was no good reason to stand and wait. Somebody else might ask him to dance.
She wants to stay with me,' Fred thought. Aloud he said, "Okay, it's a little crowded, though, so give me your hand.” He reached over and gently took Jerry's hand. If she didn't want to hold hands with him, she could easily slip free. Instead, Jerry grasped Fred's hand and let him lead her into the crowd.
Jerry found himself enjoying being led through the crowd. It was nice to walk in somebody else's "wake", rather than having to ask people to step aside or to dodge around them. He was enjoying the feel of Fred's hand in his, too.
The refreshment table was just ahead. There were two punch bowls and several trays of cookies and cakes. Four classmates of theirs were behind the table since the food was being sold, rather than just given away. Jerry reminded himself not to recognize any of the kids.
Lisa Morris, a cute redhead that Jerry had dated in his Freshman year was one of the four. "Who's your friend, Fred? I don't think I know her."
"Hi, Lisa, this is Jeri Whiting. She's new in town, and she'll be starting here at Grissom next week. Jeri, this is Lisa Morris."
"Hi, Jeri. Welcome to Grissom."
"Thanks, Lisa. It's nice to meet you."
"Same here. Now, what can I get for you two?"
"Some of that punch, I think," Fred said. "Two cups, please, and three of Mrs. Hardesy's oatmeal cookies for me. Do you want anything to eat, Jeri?"
Normally Jerry would have chosen a couple of Mrs. Telarico's fudge brownies. But he didn't feel as hungry as he would have in his own body. Besides, as a new girl, he wasn't supposed to know which of the parents who supplied food for the Mixers was or wasn't a good cook. "Those cookies you're getting look good. I'll have one of them."
Lisa poured the punch and put the cookies onto a couple of small paper plates. "That'll be $2.20, Fred, unless you're going to make this poor girl buy her own food and drink?"
"No, no, I'll get it."
While Fred fumbled for the money, Lisa asked, "So, Jeri, are you having a good time?"
"Yes, I have to admit that I was nervous coming to the Mixer here before I'm even registered, but I'm glad I came. Everybody's been very nice."
"I think Fred's glad you came, too.” She winked as she said it. Fred handed her $3.
Jerry noticed that Fred was blushing a little. 'Not only doesn't he recognize me, but he's actually attracted to me as a girl.'
Once Fred had his change, he steered Jerry over to one of the tables set up nearby. An empty table Jerry noticed. He held the chair for Jerry to sit then sat down next to him. "I heard what Lisa said, and I have to admit that I am glad you came."
Jerry smiled in spite of himself, and Fred continued. "No, I'm serious. I'm normally a little shy around girls, especially one as pretty as you, but I have the feeling that we've met before."
Jerry wasn't sure how to react. Fred was actually coming on to him. "Thank you -- about being pretty, I mean."
"But have we met before tonight? I know it sounds like an old, dumb line, but I'm sure I know you from someplace."
"I don't think so. I -- my family -- we're new in town.” Jerry was starting to get a little uncomfortable. He didn't want to lie to Fred, but he could hardly tell him the truth. "Um, why don't you tell me a little about the school?” He smiled. "Then later, maybe, you can take me on that tour."
"Well, there's not much to tell. Grissom's a pretty good school. We won the District basketball title last year."
"Great!"
"Yeah, but we kind of blew it in the play-offs. Are you into basketball?"
"A little. I -- umm -- I had a boyfriend on the team at my last school."
"Oh, was he -- was your team any good?"
"Not too bad, I guess. We came in second in our District. One of the other schools had this great player that nobody could stop?"
"Really, anybody I might have heard of?"
"I -- um -- I forget his name.” Jerry realized that he'd dug himself a deep hole. He needed to change the subject. Fast. "I'd just as soon talk about my new school instead of my old one. Okay?"
"Gee, I'm sorry. I guess it is kind of tough having to leave all your friends and start over at a new school."
"Kind of, yeah.” Safe! Now if he could just keep the conversation on Grissom.
"Well, if it's any help. You've got at least one friend here. Me. I'm class Treasurer, so I know pretty much everybody. Anything you need help with, you come to me."
Jerry felt a warm glow run through his body. He'd always thought Fred was a good egg, but he'd never realized how sweet he was. "Thanks, that's very kind of you."
"I'll admit to an ulterior motive. I like you, and I'd like to see more of you. I -- I mean -- I'd like to spend time with you. Are you doing anything tomorrow night?"
"We -- umm, we're still moving in. I don't know if I'll be able to get away tomorrow night. A lot of the furniture is coming tomorrow.” Now Jerry had to figure how to let Fred down gently. He didn't realize that a part of him was disappointed that they couldn't go out tomorrow night.
"How about if I call. What's your number?"
"Our phone -- it isn't connected yet. I think they're coming to do that tomorrow, too."
Fred pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote on one of the napkins. "Here's my number then.” He handed it to Jerry. "Call me tomorrow either way as soon as your phone is installed."
"I -- I'll see.” Jerry put the napkin in his purse. This was definitely getting out of hand.
"Hey, what's that," Fred said pointing to her purse.
Jerry looked down. The magic coin was clearly visible. "It's -- it's a good luck coin that my Godm -- umm -- my Grandmother gave me."
"I collect coins. Can I see it."
Jerry was glad to change the subject and reached in for the coin. She handed it to Fred who examined it very closely. "It's a Roman coin, looks to be Fifth or Sixth Century. You should be careful with it. Coins like that are sometimes pretty valuable."
"This one is," Jerry said. Then she stopped not wanting to give anything away. He thought quickly of an answer. "Umm -- at least to me. My Grandmother passed away last year."
"Gee, I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I miss her and all, but she was over ninety, and she went peaceably in her sleep." Jerry relaxed, happy that Fred had accepted the story. Both his grandmothers were still alive and well. He squeezed Fred's hand to show that he wasn't upset about mentioning "her" Grandmother. It was sweet that he was so concerned.
The band started another tune. "Great song ," Fred said, happily changing the subject. "Would you like to dance some more?"
"Sure," Jerry said, standing up. Fred couldn't ask a lot of questions while they were dancing. He didn't want to have to keep track of a lot of lies about who "Jeri Whiting" really was.
Fred took Jerry's hand and led him out onto the floor. The band danced several fast dances in a row. Jerry found that his new female body seemed a lot more graceful than his old male one. For the most part, he just made the standard moves that went with the music. One or two of the songs had kind of a sexy beat to them, though, and Jerry swayed his hips and moved in a more suggestive way. A few of the people dancing nearby stopped to watch the new hot babe that was dancing with Fred.
Finally, the band switched to something slow. Jerry stepped into Fred's arms, and they swayed back and forth to the music. Jerry found himself thinking how good it felt to be dancing like this. That startled him. The dumb spell must be making him think like a girl. Well, he had caught himself doing it, so he could watch out for thinking like that in the future. The main thing was to try to figure out what else to do for a prank. He'd think about it right after this dance
Just as the dance was ending, a scream ran through the room. Everything stopped, and all eyes turned towards the door. Lindsey Palmer, one of the cheerleaders, was standing in the doorway while a crowd, mostly boys hoping to comfort the pretty blonde, gathered around her.
"A boy," she panted. "There was a boy in the girl's bathroom."
Ms. O'Brien and Mr. Tornambe, two of the chaperones cut their way through the crowd. "Who was it?” Ms. O'Brien asked. "Did you recognize him?” Ms. O'Brien was head of the Phys Ed Department, an unusual position for a woman. She was a commanding presence: tall and muscular, in her mid-thirties. Behind her back, a lot of the boys (and not a few girls) referred to her as "Xena". She knew about the nickname and was actually rather flattered by it.
"No," Lindsey said. "He was gone when I went in. He -- he left a note on the mirror, so we'd know he was in there. He -- he was watching us in -- in there.” She broke down and began to cry in Ms. O'Brien's arms.
Ms. O'Brien signaled to one of the mothers that was helping out at the dance. The woman came over, and Ms. O'Brien gently moved Lindsey into her arms. "Jeff," she said to Mr. Tornambe, "take Lindsey and Mrs. Wallachek to the teachers' lounge. Lindsey can lie down there till she feels better."
Mr. Tornambe nodded and lead the two out of the gym. Ms. O'Brien stood and walked purposefully towards the girl's bathroom with much of the crowd following behind her. "You all stay out here," she said as she opened the door and went in.
The crowd milled around outside waiting for Ms. O'Brien to come out.
"Who do you think it was," somebody said.
"Damned, if I know," another answered.
"Hey, Fred," somebody called. "Where's Jerry Nicholas? This sounds like something he'd do." A few other voices muttered in agreement.
"If it was him, he's gonna be missing a lot of school.” Stan Hellinger smack his fist against the palm of his other hand for emphasis.
"Hey," Fred said. "Jerry isn't here. He hasn't been here all night. You and your goon squad scared him off, okay."
"What's it to you little man," Marty Groves joined the crowd.
"He's my friend, and I don't like the way you guys threatened him,” Fred said. Jerry was amazed. He hadn't expected Fred to stick up for him like this. He wanted to kiss Fred for being so brave.
"I got a right --"
"To keep one of the members of this class away from our Mixer? Who gave you the right to decide who can and can't come to school events?"
"Wait a minute," Stan said. "You all know the sort of stuff Jerry does. We were just trying to protect the Mixer."
"Look," Fred said. "I told Jerry myself that I didn't want him wrecking the Mixer, and he promised me he wouldn't."
"Right, and we can trust him," Marty said sarcastically.
"Maybe not, but I trust him, and you all can trust me. After all, you made me Treasurer, and I haven't run off to Brazil with all your money.” He paused for effect. "At least not yet, anyway." The crowd laughed.
"I still think he's around here someplace," Marty said.
"Then maybe you'd like to keep watch in the girl's bathroom in case he comes back," Fred said.
"Maybe I would."
"You try it, Mr. Groves, and you'll spend so much time in detention that you'll be on a first name basis with the janitors.” Ms. O'Brien had come out just in time to hear the end of the argument. She turned to the crowd. "Nobody's in there. Believe me, I've checked everywhere. I think somebody snuck in before the dance and left that message on the mirror."
"Then it could have been Nicholas," Stan said.
"Or not," Ms. O'Brien said. "For all we can tell, it could have been done by a girl. We'll investigate later.” She looked at her watch. "Right now, it's almost 9:30. You can stand in the hall and gossip or go back into the gym and dance. We're not extending the Mixer because of some foolish prank."
The crowd turned and headed back for the gym. Jerry took Fred's hand as they walked. "It was very brave of you to stick up for your friend like that."
"Stan and Marty just ticked me off. They think they're so high and mighty because they're on the football team.” He squeezed her hand. "Thanks for saying so, though."
"I meant it. They could have really hurt you."
"I don't think so. I do hope they catch whoever did write on that mirror. Practical jokes are fun, but poor Lindsey really got scared."
Jerry thought about that for a minute. Lindsey was something of an airhead, but he'd known her since second grade. He hadn't thought about how the girl who saw the message might react. "Do you think they'll catch whoever did it?"
"I don't know. I just hope it wasn't Jerry Nicholas. If it turns out to be him after they way I stuck up for him, well, he won't have to worry about Stan and Marty. I'll kill him myself."
Jerry looked at Fred. He was really serious about the threat. Maybe he -- Jerry -- deserved it. Pranks were fun, but it bothered him, it bothered him a lot all of a sudden, how scared Lindsey had been. Maybe it would be better to just stay with Fred and not do anything else.
As they walked into the gym, the band started playing again. It was another slow song. Fred looked at Jerry, holding his arms out in anticipation. Jerry felt suddenly shy. He smiled and looked down at Fred's shoes. Fred took Jerry in his arms and moved out onto the dance floor.
Jerry laid his head on Fred's shoulder. It felt nice. He felt safe, protected in his arms. Stan, Marty and the rest of Andresky's goons couldn't hurt him while Fred was around. He was such a great guy: sweet, brave, cute. He was everything a girl could want in a boy friend. A girl? Wait a minute, he was a boy. Wasn't he? The spell was getting too strong. Jerry wriggled free of Fred's arms.
"What's the matter?"
"I -- umm. I have to go to the girls' room.” Jerry turned and walked quickly towards the door. Fred stared at her a minute then started after her.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, yes! I just -- I have to go. I'll be back in a bit.” He reached into her purse and took out the coin. "Here, take my lucky charm as a promise that I'll be back.” Jerry handed Fred the coin and ran from the room.
******
Jerry felt his body begin to tingle almost as soon as he walked away from Fred. He looked back and saw that Fred had begun to talk to somebody. With a sigh, Jerry turned and headed out the front door of the school.
He had ten minutes to get away from the school before he started to change back. The last thing that he wanted was to be spotted by Jack Andresky or any of his goons as Jerry Nicholas. It would be so embarrassing for Fred after that speech -- what was he thinking? If any of them caught him near the school, they'd beat the crap out of him. It was too bad, though, that he had to miss the last dance with Fred, but if they were together when the Mixer ended, Fred would want to walk him home, maybe even come in for a -- "Stop it!" he whispered to himself. "You're a boy, or you will be in about five minutes. Now get moving."
Jerry ran down the street, the tingling spreading through his body and getting more intense. Running in heels wsn't easy, especially when your body felt like an electric current was shooting through it. He was about a block and a half from the school when he felt a sudden wave of dizziness. Somehow he knew that he was about to change back.
Jerry looked around. He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean that he wasn't being watched. He ducked into the shadows between a parked car and an oak tree. As he knelt down, he saw his hands begin to change, his fingers growing thicker and his nails shrinking. The dress became tight as his body grew into the more muscular male form. Jerry actually felt some regret as he saw his breasts shrinking down into his chest. Then, wonder of wonders, he felt his penis grow out and push against his panties, tenting his dress.
Panties, dress? No, for a moment later, he was wearing the Grissom High T-shirt and faded jeans that he'd had on when his Fairy Godmother had first appeared. "I'm back," he shouted. Then he cupped his hand in front of his mouth, hoping no one, especially any of the "goon squad" had heard. He stood in the shadows a moment more while his two inch heels reverted to a pair of old sneakers. Checking to make sure that there was no one in sight, he ran the rest of the way home.
******
"Here, take a look at this coin.” Fred flipped the coin towards Jerry who caught it instinctively. He felt a tingling as it touched him. He dropped it almost at once, but it was already too late.
He saw his hand begin to shrink, his fingers becoming long and slender. His nails grew, turning a pale pink as polish appeared on them. The tingling spread up Jerry's arm. The skin grew paler as his hair whitened and faded away. The arm itself grew thinner.
Jerry looked over at Fred. He was frozen in the position he'd been in at the moment the coin had touched Jerry's hand. His mouth was open slightly, as if he was about to say something, and his eyes stared at Jerry unseeing.
The tingling spread through the rest of Jerry's body. His shoulders narrowed as he grew more slender. His hips began to widen as his waist narrowed. His legs grew supple and curved. He felt the tingling in his groin and instinctively put his hand against his crotch. Through his pants, he could feel his penis shrink as it retreated into him. When Jerry stuck his hand down into his pants, all he could find was a girl's vagina. Now there was a pressure in his chest. He -- no, she -- looked down to see breasts swell up beneath his shirt pushing it out as they grew.
Jerry's face began to tingle, and she put her hands to it. Her nose shrank beneath her fingers. Her chin became more rounded. Her eyebrows, though see couldn't see or feel it happen, narrowed to thin lines. Her scalp itched as her hair grew down over the tops of her ears, to her neck, then on part way down her back.
Now her clothes changed. Her boxers crept up changing to french-cut panties, her undershirt shrinking and tightening around her breasts to become a matching bra. Her cross-trainers changed into a pair of girl's tennis shoes. The fabric of her jeans shifted to a more feminine cut that showed off the lovely curve of her hips and ass. Even her Star Wars t-shirt changed from a battledroid fight scene to a comic picture of JarJar Binks. She had light pink polish on her nails, with a matching lip gloss and blusher on her face.
Jeri looked down at herself. The changes were complete. She was a girl now, perhaps forever. Yet the coin still seemed to be pulsing in her hand. She looked around the room to see the furniture changing colors. The sofa moved to a different angle, and her father's beloved recliner became an ordinary, if overstuffed, chair with a rather feminine looking pillow on it.
Then she saw the picture on the mantle above the fake fireplace. The family portrait was done two years before to celebrate her parents wedding anniversary. It had showed the male Jerry at age 13 standing with his father to his left and his mother to his right.
The child in the middle was now a girl, the new Jeri, but that was not the only change. Her father's image was becoming shorter, more slender. His hair growing longer. At the same time her mother was growing taller and more rugged. Her hair was getting shorter, and a shape that looked like a mustache was forming over her lip. The clothes they wore seemed to be switching bodies, so that it was now her father in the blue dress and her mother in the sports jacket and tie. The change took only a few moments.
Jeri stared at the painting, suddenly realizing what had happened. Her Fairy Godmother had said the coin would become more powerful. In order to permanently change Jerry Nicholas into Jeri Whiting, it had transformed his parents, Pete Nicholas and Stella Whiting Nicholas, into her parents, Patty Nicholas Whiting and Steve Whiting. Most likely, neither they or anyone else would any memories of ever being anything else.
And now new memories flowed into her mind as well. She still remembered growing up as Jerry Nicholas, but now those memories seem to belong to someone else. She remembered a new past of dolls and tea parties, dresses and hair ribbons. And of a boy named Fred who teased her mercilessly, until their teens when they discovered how much they meant to one another.
Her mind adjusting to the new reality, Jeri smiled at her boyfriend Fred. He blinked and smiled back at her. "So you had a good time at the mixer, Jeri?"
"Of course, the music was great.” She smiled back, feeling a little shy and uncertain about her new life and the feelings she seemed to be having.
"Anything else you liked about it?"
"Well, I suppose being there with you was nice, too.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He took her hand and sat down on the couch. Then he pulled her down next to him and returned the kiss, only not on the cheek.
What little was left of Jerry Nicholas wanted to scream. He still knew that he was really a boy. Only, it felt so good to be kissing Fred. His -- no, darn it, her, her, HER! -- body was tingling, but it was a nice warm tingle that centered in her breasts and her groin. She decided not to worry about it and concentrated on kissing Fred back.
They were still on the couch, kissing and holding hands, when Jeri's Mom slammed the kitchen door to let them know that she was in the house. They quickly separated and straightened their clothing. Jeri realized that she was still holding the coin. "Here, Fred, a dinar for your thoughts."
"I think Fred had better leave, or his parents will wonder where he's at," Jeri's Mom said coming into the room.
"I think you're right, Mrs. Whiting.” He took the coin from her hand and headed for the door. "Bye, Jeri."
"Bye, Fred.” Jeri looked at her Mom wondering what the woman had seen.
"Oh, go kiss him goodbye, Jeri," her Mom said smiling. "You might as well."
Jeri smiled back and ran over to where Fred stood waiting.
*****
On another plane of reality, the Fairy Godmother leaned back from watching the last of the transformations in her crystal ball. "An elegant solution, I must say, to such a tangle of wishes." She gestured, and a tall glass of pink ambrosia, chilled just the way she liked it, materialized in her hand. She sipped a little. "Fred didn't want Jerry to ruin the Mixer, and he wanted a loving girlfriend. Jerry wanted a chance to pull some prank, but he didn't want to be punished."
"Jerry got to have his fun, but, in Jeri's new reality, it never happened, so she can't be punished for it. And as Fred's girl friend, she won't be interested in causing any more mischief." She took another sip. "It's so satisfying being Fred's Fairy Godmother."
And they all lived happily ever after.
The End
The End
Bikini Beach: Organlegger
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2007
Somebody once said that no good deed goes unpunished. Somebody else said that joy divided is joy multiplied.
Grandmother and Anna discover how changing an old man' s life creates wild magic that saves the lives of four others.
Bikini Beach: Organlegger
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2007
An explanation of the title follows the story.
September 14, 2003
Anya walked across the lobby of her apartment building to the newsstand near the entrance. "Morning, Tommy," she greeted the man sitting on a stool inside the stand. "How're you this morning?"
"Not too bad, Miss Anya... considering. How's yourself?" Tommy was a slender man in his seventies, with the trace of an Ozarks accent and thinning, silver hair. He gave her a wink as he handed her the morning paper.
She took the paper and reached into her purse for the money. "I'm good, thanks. Here's --" She stopped when she read the hand-lettered sign taped to his cash register. "Hey, what's this? Why are you closing?"
"Doctor's order. My heart... it ain't too good. I sold my house, and I'm moving into one of those --what ya call 'em -- assisted living apartments over on J Street."
"I'm truly sorry to hear that, Tommy. I'll miss you."
"And I'll miss you and that pretty smile of yours, Miss Anya, but it's for the best. I-I ain't as young as I used to be." He sighed. "It'll be nice to take it easy for a change, or so they tell me."
Anya didn't need to be the mind reader she was. "You hate the idea, don't you? You can tell me."
"Can't fool you, can I?" His smile faded. "But what else can I do?"
Anya looked at her watch. "The morning rush is over. Close down for a while, and come over to the Park with me."
"What good would that do?"
"More than you can possibly imagine." She tried to look encouraging. "Please."
The man raised his hands in defeat. "I never could resist a pretty girl." He pulled the wire screen out and around the stand. Once he was sure that it was locked, he followed Anya out the door.
* * * * *
"I don't know why I'm doing this," Grandmother said, as Tommy walked into the Men's Locker Room. "I'm not making a penny out of it."
"Because he's a sweet old man, and he deserves a little happiness," Anya told her.
"He deserves a lot of happiness. His only son was killed in Vietnam, and he's been alone since his wife died three years ago. And now an enlarged heart." She sighed and wiped a tear. "May he... she find that happiness in this second chance you talked me into giving him."
* * * * *
Tommy closed the locker door. He was wearing a pair of baggy, gray trunks that Grandmother had loaned him. "I don't know how I let myself get talked into this." He shrugged. "Well, I always did wonder what it was like in this here park of hers."
He walked over to one of the showers and turned on the water. He let it run for a moment and adjusted the temperature. "Just right," he said and walked in. The warm water seemed to relax every tension out of his body, even the slight twinge he felt when he breathed. He closed his eyes to better enjoy the sensation, so he never noticed the pink mist rising from the water.
He felt odd when he stepped out, full of more energy than he'd had in years, but his body seemed wrong. He walked over to look in the mirror when he saw... "Oh, excuse me, Miss." Now his voice sounded off, much higher in pitch than it should be. What was the matter with him?
The woman he saw was young, no more than her early twenties, with a firm, athletic body. She wore a gray bikini panty, cut high to show off her long legs. And no bra. Her breasts were perky with large, dark nipples. "Here, Miss." Tommy tossed her the towel he was carrying and turned away. He waited a moment for her to wrap the towel around herself before he looked back.
The towel was on the floor. The woman was still there. "My... my reflection." He realized that he was looking in the mirror. He looked down at his body. No, her body. "They're real," he said, carefully touching his breasts. He shivered at the feelings, especially when he... she ran a finger against one nipple. "But... but how?"
"Magic," came a voice from behind her. Tommy turned quickly and saw Anya and that older woman -- her grandmother, Anya had said -- standing by the row of lockers.
"I created this water park so women could have a place to relax without being ogled by men," Grandmother explained. "If a man comes here, the magic changes him into a woman."
"For how long?" Tommy asked.
"For as long as the pass he holds plus a few hours. Anya asked me to give you a one-day pass. You'll be a man again by midnight."
"Or," Anya continued, "you can upgrade it to a lifetime pass and be Tammy Sue Delmar for the rest of her... your life."
"Tammy Sue? I-I don't understand."
"The magic that changed you can... adjust reality, too. Tommy Delmar won't be at the newsstand anymore, but his granddaughter, Tammy Sue, will be."
"Granddaughter?" Tammy Sue turned again to look in the mirror. Tommy's thinning silver hair was now a thick, lustrous strawberry blonde. Mae's hair had been that same color. It was the first thing he'd noticed about his wife-to-be when they met so many years before. That and Mae's smile, the same one Tammy Sue now saw on her own face.
Anya handed her a matching top for the bikini. "Here. Grandmother doesn't allow topless bathing." The new woman nodded in understanding and put on the garment quickly as if she'd been wearing such things for years.
"You just have a good time here in the park, my dear," Grandmother said. "Think about our offer and let us know at the end of the day."
Tammy Sue shook her head, feeling her long hair twist around her head. It felt... interesting. It was just so wonderful to feel anything besides fatigue and pain. "I don't have to think about it," she told the other two. "To be young again, healthy, even as a woman, is beyond anything I could have hoped for. Where do I sign?"
* * * * *
2007
"Watch it," Phil O'Connell warned. He and Al Brooks hadn't seen Jeff Zimmer's motorized wheelchair until they turned the corner on their way to fifth period geometry class. The chair was electric with a nearly silent motor.
Al scowled as they stepped back. "Damn him and that chair of his. I don't know why they even let him in here with normal people."
"He's got to go to school someplace," Phil answered. "It's not like he's retarded or anything. He just gets sick a lot; he's kind of... fragile."
"He's creepy; him and that chair, sneaking up on people. It's no wonder he doesn't have any friends. Who'd want to hang out with somebody like that?"
"He's not that bad."
"I don't see you hanging with him."
"I tried -- a couple of times, to tell the truth." Phil sighed. "We used to be buds back before..."
"Before he screwed up his body getting high huffing gasoline, you mean."
"A lot of kids huffed gas." Phil looked at Al for a moment without saying anything. "His luck just ran out. Hell, man, he almost died."
"Too bad he didn't."
"That's a lousy thing to say."
"It's true, and you know it. He was a damned druggie, and he got what he had coming to him."
Neither boy had tried to keep his voice down. Jeff's liver was shot to hell, but his hearing worked just fine. "Screw you, Brooks," he whispered. He looked down, towards his knees, as he pushed the small toggle switch to move the chair forward. That way, no one could see how hard he was working at not crying.
* * * * *
"Good afternoon, Ms. Hudson." Dr. Ranjiyapur stood at his desk to greet his patient. "Please do sit." He gestured towards the chairs on her side of the desk and sat down.
Marian Hudson studied the two chairs. The one on the right was wide enough not to pinch her hips. Better yet, it looked sturdy enough that it probably wouldn't creak when she moved. "How did my tests come out, doctor?" she asked as she settled slowly into the seat.
"I have been saying for some time that you need to lose weight. You have tried, but you have not been very successful at the trying. I know that it is not as easy for a woman in her 40s as it would be for a younger woman."
'Especially, someone like me,' Marian thought to herself. 'I work late all the time, and the only men in my life are Ben and Jerry.'
"I am so sorry to be telling this," the doctor continued, "but your blood sugar test shows us that you have developed the diabetes."
Somehow, she was relieved that it had finally happened. "Is that why I've felt so out of sorts lately? Am I going to have to take insulin?"
"Most likely you shall, but there is more, I am afraid." He flipped the pages of her chart back almost to the beginning and looked closely at the page. After a moment, he went back to look at the top page, her test results most likely. "I see that there is some history of renal diseases in your family."
"My... my father died of acute renal failure. He and my mom are about the only family I have... had."
* * * * *
The phone rang five times before she answered. "Hello?"
"Hello... Susie," Dennis Marcus said hopefully.
"What do you want?"
"It's my birthday. Can't a father call his only daughter on his birthday?"
"Happy birthday; are we done now?"
"Please, I'd like to talk to you for a bit -- maybe even buy you dinner some night."
"You just want to ease your conscience a little, now that you're so sick."
"Susie, I... I just didn't know how to talk to you after..."
"After the divorce? Dad, you didn't want to talk to me long before that."
"Didn't... I loved you. I-I was on the road so much. And when I was home, it seemed that all we ever did was argue." He felt the tightness in his chest again.
"That's because you never gave me -- or Mom -- a second's thought. It was all just that damned job of yours."
"That 'damned job' put a roof -- cough -- over your heads. It paid for you to go to a pretty good college, too." He coughed again and tried hard to catch his breath.
"Dad?"
Was that concern in her voice? "Yeah, I-I'm okay."
"I'll let you go now. Call me when you're feeling better."
"Do... do you mean it? Can we meet someplace for dinner? I'll buy."
"Let's see if we can talk civilly over the phone first."
It was a start. "Okay -- cough -- I'll call again tomorrow. Bye."
"Bye, Dad... oh, and... uh, happy birthday."
She sounded like she might actually mean it. Dennis leaned back in his chair to catch his breath. Smiling now, he hung up the phone and replaced his oxygen mask.
* * * * *
James Larkin looked at his notes. "Last item on the agenda is the reorganization of maintenance programs in the northeast district. Paul, I read your report. I've made a few changes, of course, but we will be going with your recommendations for the most part. Good job."
"Thank you, sir," Paul Larkin answered. He was always careful at work not to address his uncle by the man's first name.
James nodded in reply and continued. "The revised version of Paul's report is in a WORD file on the s-drive -- NEMaintRe-org, one word with a hyphen in 're-org'. All of your individual assignments are in the appendix. Get started, and we'll meet again a week from today for individual updates." He stood up. "That's it; let's get started." He walked out the door.
The others rose and filed out of the conference room. Paul decided to celebrate his uncle's praise with a smoke, even if his doctor said that he needed to stop. He put a hand in his jacket pocket. "Damn, left 'em at my desk."
He retrieved his cigarettes and headed for the designated smoking room. As he walked in, he could see that Andy Cheskis and Leo Rychek were outside on the balcony, taking advantage of the good weather.
"You think Paulie even wrote that report?" Andy asked. Paul could hear them through the open door.
Leo shrugged. "Does it matter? Jim says he did. The kid makes a good front. If the scheme works, his Uncle Jim gets credit as team leader. If it doesn't, little Paulie takes the blame."
"Paulie'll probably get some high-visibility job that doesn't really mean anything."
"He always does. Nobody takes the kid serious."
The urge to smoke was gone. Paul listened for a moment longer, and then left.
"Damn it," he told no one in particular, as he walked back to his desk. "I worked hard on that report. I work hard on everything I get assigned."
He felt a strange tingling in his fingertips. "Shit!" He reached down in his pocket for the digitalis pills. He found the bottle and quickly popped one under his tongue.
There was a chair nearby. He sat down and leaned forward, lowering his head almost to his lap. He stayed that way for about ten minutes. A few people, maybe even Andy and Leo, walked by. No one even stopped to ask if he needed help.
* * * * *
November 7, 2007
The nurse looked over at the monitor. "There's almost no indication of brain activity, doctor."
"She suffered massive trauma when that drunk's car hit her. He knocked her a good ten feet into the air, and when she landed, she smashed her head against the curb. What a waste." He sighed, looking up from his patient. "Such a pretty little thing; she's about the same age as my oldest."
A second nurse pushed back the curtain. "How's Ms. Delmar doing?"
"No brain function to speak of, breathing with a respirator, and her pulse is thready." The doctor glanced past the new nurse. "Is her family here?"
The nurse shook her head. "A card in her wallet listed a friend as the emergency contact. The desk called her and was told that your patient had no family. The friend, an Anya something, is on her way to the hospital."
"She doesn't have anyone else?"
"No... but she did have a signed organ donor card."
"I'll keep working on her," the doctor said. "Tell the hospital's lawyers to make sure we have legal permission to harvest this lady's organs."
* * * * *
Grandmother found Anya sitting in the Tiki Hut, nursing a diet coke. "Are you all right, dear?"
"I was just thinking about Tammy Sue," Anya said mournfully. "For all our magic, we couldn't do much for her."
"Nonsense. She spent her last years as a healthy young woman instead of the very sick old man she had been. She had a job she enjoyed -- that newsstand of hers, friends like you and Vickie." She winked. "Even a man or two."
Anya gave a faint smile. "She was happy. I suppose that's something."
"Being happy with your life is a great deal." Grandmother paused a beat. "And I'll miss her, too. She was a sweet, caring woman."
"She certainly was that. Did you know that she was an organ donor?"
Grandmother's expression darkened. "A what?"
"An organ donor. The ambulance crew found the signed card in her purse. They asked me about it when I got to the hospital. I figured that it was her last wish, so I said that they should go ahead."
"Oh, my stars." The older woman thought for a moment. "Do you know if Dr. Chastity is in the park today?"
Anya could see the older woman's worried expression. "I saw him and Daphne about an hour ago. What's the matter?"
"We may have a problem, a very big problem."
* * * * *
November 8, 2007
"What's for lunch, Mommy?"
Marian Hudson blinked and glanced around. This wasn't the hospital room she'd expected to wake up in. She was in a kitchen, one she didn't recognize. Was this some delirium from the anti-rejection drugs? It seemed real. She looked down. A little boy, no more than four or five, she guessed, was tugging at her apron. "Who... who are you?"
The boy laughed. "I'm your Petey-Weetie, Mommy. Are we playing a game?" He smiled innocently and held out his arms to her, asking to be picked up.
"Yes, a game." She reached for him, then stopped and stared at her body, her suddenly, wonderfully, magically thin body. She was wearing a pair of blue stone washed jeans that hugged trim, dancer's legs and a matching camisole top that bared a flat stomach. "I... I look like I lost a couple of hundred pounds."
"You look pretty," the boy -- Petey -- told her." He reached for her again.
She laughed heartily and picked the boy up. She hugged him and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Petey. Are you still hungry?"
"Like a horse." He giggled. "That's what Daddy says when he's hungry."
Daddy? That was something she'd have to think about, Marian decided. She held up her right hand. There was a diamond on her ring finger, her long, slender ring finger.
'I wonder who I'm married to,' she thought. Her mind didn't know, but her body did. As she thought about her unknown husband, a warmth that she recognized as sexual arousal flowed through her. 'Later,' she told herself. 'Right now, I've got a... a son to feed.' A son, she couldn't help but smile at the idea.
"Well, Petey-Weetie," she told him happily, "today, you can have whatever you want for lunch." She put the boy down and paused to admire her slender new body. "And so, it seems, can I."
"Ice cream?" Petey asked, hoping for a yes.
A maternal voice in Marian's head quickly answered, 'No.' Instead of repeating it, she told him, "Yes... for desert, but a nice sandwich first." And she knew what kind. "Baloney... hot and on a roll."
"Yippee!" The little boy squirmed in her arms. "You're the best mommy ever."
And, somehow, she felt that she was.
* * * * *
Dennis Marcus blinked. He should be in a hospital bed, doped up on drugs to help him recover from the lung transplant he'd had the day before. Instead, he was in a cubicle someplace typing away at a PC. Typing? He looked down at his hands. They were somehow slim, feminine, with manicured, painted nails.
He was in a satiny, white shirt -- no, a blouse. And, judging from the breasts he could see inside the blouse -- his breasts, he could feel the bra containing them -- he was a woman.
He was staring down at his new body, trying to understand, when the phone rang. "Hello?" Maybe whoever this was would know what was happening.
"Hey, Sis. How's it going?"
"Susie?" His daughter... and she had called him... called her... sister.
"Just how many big sisters do you have, kiddo? I called to see if we were still on for lunch today. I thought we could grab something quick at the Galleria, and then do some shopping till we have to go back to work."
"Yes, yes, of course." She could hardly contain herself. Susie actually sounded eager to see her. "I'll even buy lunch."
"You bought lunch last time. Today's my turn, Denise."
Denise? She glanced around her desk. Several of the papers had the name Denise Marcus on them. "I... uh, okay."
"Well, that sounded sincere," Susie said sarcastically. "I'll see you at 12:30, hon. Bye."
Denise couldn't help but smile. "12:30."
* * * * *
"Paula, do you have anything to add?"
Paul Larkin shook his head. How could he be at work? He was having... having surgery. What was going on? "I... I'm sorry..." he started to ask.
"You have nothing to apologize for," James Larkin told him. "There was nothing wrong with your plan. Your team leader, Leo Rychek, messed it up all on his own."
"So who'll be taking over for him as team leader?" Cathy Trask was one of the other members of Leo's team; a slinky brunette Paul had tried to date on more than one occasion. She had never seemed interested in him, either as a date or a colleague.
James looked surprised, as if he didn't have a real answer. "I... uhh, I was thinking that Andy Cheskis --"
"Why not give Paula a chance," Cathy asked. "It is her plan."
"I won't have it look like I'm favoring her." James answered firmly. "You all know that. Paula gets no special breaks just because we're related."
"Paula?" "Her?" Paul looked down at his body. This had to be a dream. He saw a woman's body, not his own. Whoever's body it was, it wore a stylish gray dress with a high collar. The bodice held a pair of breasts as large as Cathy's 36-C, and below, the dress clung to a narrow waist and a broad pair of hips. 'This has to be a dream,' he thought.
Cathy wasn't satisfied. "That's a pretty easy excuse, sir. You can keep Paula under that infamous glass ceiling and sound noble about it because you're doing it to avoid practicing nepotism." She chuckled sarcastically. "How very noble."
"That's not true," James replied. "There's no glass ceiling for women in this firm."
Cathy tried another ploy. "Then you must think that she can't do the work."
'Now I know I'm dreaming,' Paul told himself. 'First I get a girl's body, then Cathy stands up for me.'
"I know that she can do the job," James said. He was beginning to get angry.
Paul decided to put his -- 'her,' she corrected herself -- two cents in. It was, after all, just a dream. "Then let me do it," he interrupted.
Everyone was staring. "If you give me the job," she continued, "and I can't do it, and you still keep me on, then it's nepotism. If I screw up, and you fire me, it isn't."
She took a breath, wondering at how high, how feminine, her voice sounded. It better be a dream; she was taking one hell of a chance. "But what will happen is that I'm going to do well. Then, when you keep me on, it'll be because that's what's best for the company."
"Anybody buy that?" James Larkin looked around the room. Cathy's arm shot up. She jabbed Andy Cheskis with her elbow, and he reluctantly raised his own hand. Paul -- or should she call herself Paula? -- raised hers, as well. She saw one or two others do the same.
Her uncle smiled. "Good, because so do I. Okay, Paula, the job is yours."
"Congratulations." Cathy slapped Paula on the back, slapped her hard.
Paula's eyes widened in surprise. She'd felt the blow. She was awake. She glanced down at her breasts. She could feel the bra supporting them. "What the hell happened?" she asked aloud.
"You just got your uncle to break that damned glass ceiling, girl," Cathy told her. "You better pull this off because every other woman in the company is depending on you." She laughed. "But, hey, no pressure."
* * * * *
'What the hell?' Jeff Zimmer thought. The last thing he remembered clearly was riding a gurney down to the operating room. 'They found a liver that matched me, and they were gonna put it in.'
Now he was back in Señora Jackson's sixth period Spanish II class, and, he realized, he was in a regular chair, not his motorized one. He glanced down. He wasn't in anything. She was sitting there, wearing a cheerleader's sweater that was pushed out by a pair of really cool tits. Tits? She looked at her hands, her dainty hands with the slender fingers and the nail polish in the school colors.
"I... perdone, por favor." She stood up and bolted from the room and down the hall. Despite the panic she was feeling, she enjoyed running for the first time in three years, even in the short cheerleader's skirt she was wearing. By some instinct, she headed straight for the Girls' Room. She went inside and stared at her face in the mirror.
The girl staring back looked a lot like her former, male self. Her hair was the same brown color it had always been, but it was longer, almost shoulder length, and with blonde streaks. Her jaw was narrower, giving her more of an oval face. Her nose was smaller, but it still had the same bump on the ridge that ran in her father's side of the family. Her eyes were the same color, too, hazel with gold flakes. "I... I'm my own sister."
"Are you okay, Jenn?" Toni Giamotto, by male consensus one of the five hottest girls in the school, hurried into the bathroom. "You freaked everybody the way you ran out of class."
How to explain? "I... I, uhh..."
"Hey, don't worry about it." Toni put a hand on the new girl's shoulder. "Sometimes, I get real crazy right before my period, too."
"P-period?" Oh, Lord, was she that much of a girl?
"Uh huhn. You're due in about three days, same as me, aren't you?" Toni giggled. "I never thought of using PMS to get out of a dull class, though."
"Señora's class isn't dull." Jeff had always enjoyed the class.
"That's not what you said last week."
"I never..."
"You sure did. You told me that some days it was just a way to kill time until practice."
"Practice?" Jenn looked in the mirror again, stepping back this time to see her full reflection. He saw a girl's athletic body, breasts more than filling her sweater, short skirt defining a narrow waist and wide hips, and legs... legs to die for. She looked hot, as hot as Toni, and a part of her liked it. Then she realized what she was wearing. "I... I'm a cheerleader."
Toni gave her an odd look. "Don't you remember, girlfriend? You and me've been on the squad since we were freshman."
* * * * *
November 9, 2007
"So what did you find out?" Grandmother asked.
Dr. Chastity Middleton shifted in her seat. The two women were in the Park office. The doctor took a breath and began. "I had to call in a couple of favors -- and grant a couple of new ones. There's a doctor named Jim Metrovich that you owe a one-day pass."
"Is that all?" Grandmother asked.
Chastity sighed. "No, I have a date tomorrow night with a male senior clerk in the medical records office."
"I'm sure that Daphne is pleased about that?"
"Fortunately, my wife is forgiving. She's heard me complaining about the new confidentiality laws more than once. Also, she was fond of Tammy Sue, and she understands that this is important to you."
"It certainly is." The older woman shuddered. "Wild magic can do terrible things, and I can't always undo them. Whoever got Tammy Sue's organs may be in terrible trouble. I need to know who they are, so I can try to help them."
Chastity took a small notebook out and flipped pages. "The records are confused in ways that I didn't think were possible. Procedures were -- and -- weren't done; patients admitted and not admitted."
"Wild magic can be powerful," Grandmother said with a chuckle, "but so can bureaucracy, it would seem."
"Somebody once said that 'the force that binds the galaxy' is red tape," the doctor replied. "To get back to those semi-unreal patients, the surgeons managed to harvest -- that's the correct term by the way - - Tammy Sue's heart, lungs, one of her kidneys, and her liver. Each went to a different person. Their records were the way you said they'd be, two sets of names, with different addresses in a couple of cases. The information switched back and forth when I looked at them."
"If it weren't for the shifting reality of your own situation, you most likely would have only seen one name and address on each record." She considered the situation. "You might not even have been able to see the records. In the new reality, Tammy Sue wasn't..." She made a face. "...harvested."
* * * * *
"Here's the report from the Connecticut office." Cathy Trask tossed a folder onto Paula's desk.
Paula looked away from her computer and at Cathy. "What's it say?"
"That we're ahead of schedule," Cathy replied. "Setting up that wiki was a good idea. Where'd you get all the material?"
"A lot of it is the research I used to draft the re-org plan: journal articles, instruction manuals, and the like. I just sorted it by area, with some duplicates so people would have what they need all together. I thought it'd make a good support system for the re-org."
"It did. I've seen e-mails from all over the network talking about it -- all of it positive, too."
"That's what I've heard, as well," James Larkin said, standing by the cubicle opening.
"Things are going pretty good," Paula answered. "Everybody's working hard to pull this off."
The man nodded. "Especially your team; better than I ever expected, in fact." He gave them a wry smile. "I've never been so pleased to be proven wrong."
"I told you that Paula was the one to put in charge," Cathy said proudly.
"And you were none too polite in doing so, Ms. Trask. It's a good thing, my niece had the skills to back you up."
"Do you really think so?" Paula asked, a little taken aback by what her uncle had said.
Jim smiled broadly. "I do. And so, I am pleased to say, does Mr. Garrison." L. Rhys Garrison was James Larkin's boss, regional vice president of the company. "Unless something goes very wrong, and I don't think you -- or you, Ms. Trask -- will allow that to happen, you're in line for a sizeable bonus, Paula."
* * * * *
"And that... is... it... two... three," Ms. Gilhooley called out, clapping the beat. The cheerleading coach was a tall, trim woman in her late 40s. "Very good, ladies. "Give yourselves a hand." When the two ranks of girls started applauding, she added. "Then hit the showers."
The squad had been practicing routines for the traditional Thanksgiving Day football game between Westside, their school, and Central High. They caught their breaths as they clapped their hands. A few waved to the boys sitting in the bleachers watching.
"Showers now, ladies," the coach ordered. "You can flirt with the boys later." The girls pouted, but they all started for the door to the locker room. Jenn Zimmer walked with the others.
"You did a lot better today," Toni Giamotto told her as they walked. "Yesterday, it was like you never did those routines before. What was the matter with you?"
Jenn had panicked the day before, not knowing a single step at first. "I... I wasn't myself yesterday. It's kind of hard to explain."
She couldn't explain. She'd stumbled her way through a simple warm- up, barely able to copy the other girl's moves. Gilhooley had been furious. Then, almost by accident, Jenn had discovered that, if she didn't think about it, her body knew what to do. The coach had yelled at her more than once, but she had improved with each routine. By the end of practice, she was moving as well as any of the others.
"Just so you don't lose it again." Toni stopped and kneaded a muscle in her back. "Mmm, that hot shower is going to feel good." She started walking again. "Hey, we've got some time before we have to head home. After we shower, how about you and Dana and me go over to Overbrook Mall and troll for boys?"
"I guess," Jenn answered. A hot shower did sound good. Yesterday, the thought of showering with some of the sexiest babes in school sounded like a dream come true. Only she was one of those babes, and looking at all those others, wet and slippery, soaping their breast and their pussies, hadn't done a damn thing for her. She looked, but she found herself only comparing their bodies to her own, new one, and often the comparison was in her favor.
"Hanging out with Toni and Dana should be fun,' she told herself, 'Jeff didn't have any friends. I do.'
The fact that she was thinking of her old self as a different person didn't bother her. Neither did the fact that she liked the way she looked in the pink baby-T top and pastel blue shorts she had worn to school this morning. Or that she found herself hoping that Phil O'Connell also liked the way she looked. She had seen him sitting in the bleachers with Al Brooks during her practice, and he seemed to be watching her.
* * * * *
She picked up the ringing phone. "Denise Marcus."
"Hi, what time do I pick you up tonight?" Susie Marcus asked the person she thought of as her younger sister.
"Pick me up? For what?"
"Don't tell me you forgot. It's the second Friday of the month; we're having dinner with Mom."
"Mar... Mom." Denise had almost said her ex-wife's first name. She -- in her old life as Dennis -- hadn't seen or spoken to the woman in over two years.
"Duh... yes, Mom; who else?" She chuckled. "You know the routine: we eat, she asks us about our jobs and why we aren't doing better. Then she asks the embarrassing questions about our sex lives and tells us about the son or nephew of some friend of hers and what a nice boy he is. Finally, she gets obvious and talks about her friends' grandchildren."
Denise made a face. "Sounds lovely."
"Oh, it's not as bad as all that, not even when she sighs while she talks about other women's grandchildren. It's for show, really. She just misses us -- and Dad. These dinners are a way for us to all keep in touch."
Denise was astounded. "She misses me -- him, Dad?"
"Of course she does. Sure they were having some problems, but it was a real shock to her when he passed."
He, her old self, was dead. Denise sniffled. "I... I'm sorry."
"I miss him, too, kiddo, but Mom's still around. So are we. And we can get together tonight, eat some of her brisket, and talk about the good times when we were all together." Susie stopped for a moment. Denise heard her saying something to someone else at her end. "Look, I've got to go. When and where do I pick you up?"
"Ummm..." A time and place popped into Denise's mind. They took turns driving out to their mother's suburban home, the house she was beginning to remember growing up in. "How's 5:30, here, at my office?"
"The usual, eh. Okay, bye." There was a click, followed by silence.
* * * * *
November 10, 2007
Marian felt something brush her cheek. "What?" She opened her eyes. This wasn't her bedroom. Then, in a sudden rush of memories, she remembered. "Ralph?"
"I'm sorry, if I startled you, hon," Ralph Tucker told his wife. "You just looked so sweet..." Ralph was a mechanical design engineer at Mecham and Todd. In her old life, Marian had worked in their graphics/blueprints department. They knew each other, but had never talked beyond the details of whatever projects they were assigned to.
Marian smiled up at him. "That's all right." She looked over at the bedside clock. "Look at the time. I have to get up to get breakfast for the kids."
"It's Saturday. They're fine by themselves watching TV. If Petey or Elyse do get hungry, George can fix them something." Elyse and George were her other children. Marian had almost fainted when she discovered that she was the mother of three. Then she had proceeded to fall in love with her children.
"But..." She started to get out of bed. "...I'm their mother." It still felt odd when she said it, but, she had to admit, it was such a nice kind of odd.
Ralph gently took her hand. "Honey, you can get out of bed and go do something that our kids are used to doing for themselves." He leaned over and kissed her shoulder. "Or, you can stay here and snuggle with your husband."
"Ooohh." Marian felt the warmth of sexual arousal flow like hot wax through her body. "That's a tough choice."
"Is it?" Ralph kissed her shoulder again.
She turned and put her arms around him. "It is, if all we're going to do is snuggle." She smiled in anticipation and kissed him back.
* * * * *
"Jennifer... telephone." Her mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding the phone.
Jenn came running down from her room. "Who is it, Mom? Is it Phil?" She giggled, amazed once more at how "girly" she was acting.
"It's some woman." Mom handed her the phone. "I didn't recognize the voice."
"Hello?" Jenn said.
"Hello," the voice answered. It was a woman, a young woman from the sound of her voice. "Am I speaking to the former Jeff Zimmer?"
Jenn's eyes widened in surprise. "Uhh... yes, but who... how..." Someone knew. Someone knew that she had changed; maybe even knew why.
"My name is Anya," The voice told her. "Have you ever heard of a water park called Bikini Beach?"
Jenn had. "Yes... it's over near the expressway."
"What's over near the expressway?" her mother asked.
"Mother!" Jenn said quickly. "This is a private call." She watched her mother's reaction. Her Mom's face had the same look of concern -- and love -- that Jeff had seen when he was having a particularly bad day. "Please..." Jenn added softly.
"All right," her mother replied. "Just don't take too long. Supper will be ready soon." She smiled and headed back to the kitchen.
Jenn waited till the older woman was out of sight. "Who are you?" she whispered. "What's going on?"
"It's a bit hard to explain over the phone. Come to the Park tomorrow at 1 PM. Come alone. Tell them at the gate that you're Tammy Sue's special guest?"
"Who's Tammy Sue?"
"I'll explain it all tomorrow. For now, let's just say that she's the reason you're not Jeff anymore." There was a click; then silence till the dial tone came back.
* * * * *
Grandmother looked up from the notes on her desk. "Come in, Mrs. Tucker."
"How did you..." Marian took a step into the office. "Oh, I guess they called from the gate."
"If that's what you want to believe, then go right ahead. I would hope, though that you'll keep an open mind about things later."
"I... uhh, I suppose." Marian gave her a nervous smile, as Petey stepped in beside her and took her hand. "I know you said to come alone."
Grandmother shook her head. "It's all right. He's a sweet child. I'm just relieved that you didn't bring George, as well."
"Bring a 13-year old boy to a place called Bikini Beach? Please." She laughed. "Lord, I sound just like a mother."
"You are a mother, Marian, even if you weren't one a few days ago." She hesitated. "Does that bother you?"
"Heavens, no." She sat down, and Petey clambered up onto her lap. She leaned back and slowly stroked the boy's head. "I gave up a long time ago on any hopes of marriage and a family. Now... it's all come true."
"I'm very glad to hear that."
"Yes," Marian told her. "I came mostly to say thank you. I don't really care how or why it happened."
* * * * *
Grandmother looked around her office. Anya had brought Paula to the office a few minutes after Marian arrived. Jenn and Denise arrived shortly afterwards. Now the five women were sitting around the desk looking back at her. "I suppose you're all wondering why I asked you here today," she began.
"You're about to reveal who the murderer of Mr. Boddy was," Paula said sarcastically.
"You're closer to the truth than you think, Paul," the old woman answered. "Only, the person who died was killed by a drunk driver. Her name was Tammy Sue Delmar."
"Tammy Sue was a lifetime member of this Park," Anya added. "A caring woman who had signed an organ donor card."
"Organ donor..." Denise said softly. "I was going in for a lung transplant."
"So was I," Jenn said, "only I was gonna get a new liver."
Paula nodded nervously. "A new heart for me." She looked at Marian.
"I... I had acute renal failure." She glanced down at Petey, then over at Grandmother. "Are you saying this happened to me because I got somebody else's kidneys?"
"That's exactly what happened," Anya replied. "You see --"
Denise interrupted, "How? What sort of weirdo was this Tammy Sue?"
"She was not weird," Grandmother spoke firmly. "She just wasn't always Tammy Sue." She took a breath. "Tommy Delmar was an old man, a man my niece, Anya, befriended. I built this park as a refuge, a place where women could relax without being leered at by men. If a man buys a pass to come into the Park, the magic turns him into a woman for however long the pass is for. That plus a couple of hours."
Anya looked embarrassed. "I... uhh, got Grandmother to give Tommy a pass."
"How long was her pass for?" Paula asked.
"It was a lifetime pass," the old woman replied. "The spell should have died with her. It was some kind of wild magic that passed it on to the four of you."
"Wild magic?" Jenn cocked an eyebrow. "What the heck is that?"
"Magic is a... force," Anya tried to explain. "Spells direct it towards a specific end. Sometimes, it goes crazy, though, and acts on its own. It's like... an electric current and a bolt of lightning."
Grandmother nodded. "And it's usually as dangerous as lightning -- doing all sorts of terrible things to whoever gets caught up in the magic."
"Wait a minute." Paula's eyes were wide. "I just remembered something about transplants. They... they take out the organs while... while the donor's still alive. Does that mean that they --"
Grandmother finished the thought. "That they were still under the spell when they were sewn into the four of you?" She thought for a moment, and then beamed. "Very good, Paula. Yes, the spell was transferred to each of you along with whatever organ you received."
"And we... changed." It was Jenn. "But why didn't anyone remember who we were?"
"Tommy Delmar was an old man," Grandmother continued. "The spell changed him into a young woman, a granddaughter he never had. Reality warped to accommodate the change. You got all of the spell, including a change in your own realities, so that you had always been the person you became; at least as far as anyone else was concerned."
"That's some story," Denise said, "rather hard to believe."
"Look at yourself, Dennis," Anya answered, "and see if you can come up with any other explanation."
"If any of you do need proof," Grandmother added. "I'll be happy to give Petey a one-day pass. You can all watch him turn into Patty."
Marian clutched the boy to her. "No, that's... you don't need to do that."
"I won't... unless you ask me to, Marian." The old woman shook her head. "Come to think of it, though, since the magic changed the four of you, you all share Tammy Sue's lifetime membership." She pretended to scowl. "I knew I wasn't going to make money on that pass I gave Tommy."
Anya chuckled. "And we can't say that the pass is non-transferable any more. You just have to give a major organ to the person along with the pass."
"I'm going to have to do something about that," Grandmother said. "The one thing I can't figure out is why none of you were harmed. Wild magic is very unpredictable. I'd have expected at least one of you to have become something bad."
"Not me," Jenn declared. "I never wanted to be a girl, but, now, I've got friends... even a boyfriend, I think. I don't hurt any more, and I can run and jump -- be an athlete, instead of being stuck in that chair." She spoke the last word as if it meant something loathsome. To her it did.
The others nodded and spoke words of agreement.
"I'm glad for you, of course," Grandmother told them. "But I am curious."
Anya closed her eyes for a moment and read their thoughts. Then she remembered the day that Tommy Delmar came to the Park and was transformed. "I-I think I have an answer, Grandmother. When Tommy went into the Locker Room to change, you wished that he would find happiness in his new life as Tammy Sue."
"And she did," her grandmother agreed. "She was very happy as Tammy Sue. She told me so herself, and more than once."
"The spell that changed her was forming when you wished for her happiness," Anya continued. "Your wish became part of the spell, and it was passed on to the others."
"I think you might be right, Anya." Grandmother smiled with satisfaction. "You're really starting to understand the meta-realities that underlie our magic."
"So the final piece of the magic is that we'll all be happy for the rest of our lives. Is that it?" Marian asked.
"No one can be happy forever," Grandmother told her, told the four women. "There's an old saying that 'the sadness in our lives just makes the happy times taste more sweet.' But I do think that you all have a very good chance of being happy, a much better one than you would have had in the lives you were living."
"Just being alive is better," Denise said, and everyone agreed.
"There's just one more thing that I'd like you to do," Grandmother said. "Then you can go. Or, if you want, I'll give you the lifetime passes that you 'inherited', and you can stay and enjoy the Park."
She turned around to a small table against the wall. When she turned back, she was holding a tray with seven glasses and a bottle of red wine. No one had seen the bottle, the glasses, or the tray a moment before.
"I'd like to propose a toast." She poured wine into the glasses. The wine in one glass changed from a reddish to a bluish cast as she poured. "That's grape juice for Petey," she explained as she handed out the glasses.
"To the woman who made it all possible." Grandmother lifted her own glass. "Tammy Sue Delmar, a fine woman who will be missed by everyone who knew her.
Denise raised her glass. "To the woman who made our happiness possible." She looked at Grandmother. "And to Tammy Sue Delmar."
"To you and to Tammy Sue," the four women repeated in unison, all of them looking at Grandmother. "Thank you both."
* * * * *
This story is based on a true incident involving an organ donor who was HIV positive. The HIV wasn't detected in time, and the transplant recipients all developed the disease. After this incident, testing and preventive procedures were improved, so that wouldn't happen again.
Similarly, Grandmother and Anya spent a few days analyzing how the Park's transformation spell had been passed on to the four recipients of Tammy Sue's organs. When they found the answer, the Park was closed for two days, so the spell could be altered. Now the only person ever affected is the one who buys or is given the pass.
And now that it's safe, Grandmother encourages all the Park's members to sign organ donor cards in Tammy Sue's memory. Just as I encourage you to do. I've had "organ donor" printed on my driver's license (that's how we do it in Pennsylvania) for almost thirty years,
"Organlegger" is a term created by science fiction writer Larry Niven for a story by that name about criminals who dealt in stolen human organs. I've been told that, in California, organ donor cards have to be signed by a witness, and that, in commemoration of his story, Mr. Niven sometimes shows up at meetings of the Los Angeles Science Fiction Society to encourage the members to become organ donors by offering to sign their cards as the witness.
Bikini Beach: The Shower
By Ellie Dauber © 2013
A little stream of consciousness story of one man’s visit to Bikini Beach.
Bikini Beach: The Shower
By Ellie Dauber © 2013
I don’t know why the hell I’m here.
My bitch of a wife, Meghan, insisted that I bring her here. She yapped, and she yapped, and she yapped, but I wouldn’t listen. Of course, once I got her to promise to put that mouth of hers; those big, luscious lips; and that talented, pierced — the piercing was my idea — tongue of hers to good use after we got done here, that’s when I agreed to it.
It’s not a bad place, either; lots of prime nookie on the hoof. I’ll have to come back here without her sometime, and check out some of the local talent.
Monday, next Monday, that’s when I’ll come back. Hell, with my lifetime pass, I can come back here anytime I damn well please. Meghan already told me her office was sending her to some damned training session in D.C. for the week. I can call in sick and let Charlie Proctor do the work for our team. That asshole of a boss won’t know the difference, and Charlie’s too much of a pussy to complain.
The hell with it; Meghan’s probably waiting for me already, and the doors won’t open unless I take a damned shower. Cute joke, fixing them with the door, I wonder how they did it.
Damn, that water feels good, just warm enough to soak out the aches, and the pulse feels like a massage. I wonder if I could sneak Meghan in here for a little fun sharing water.
Oaky, I got wet; that should be all I need to get the door open. Can’t keep my bitch waiting, especially in that new suit I got her, two post-it-sized pieces for the bra and a bottom that’s barely a g-string, that’s entertainment. And if she doesn’t like it — too bad; she’s my wife, and she’ll do what I tell her or else.
It’s funny; I didn’t think the shower knobs were so high up on the wall. And why the hell do I feel so dizzy? I — shit! My arms, what’s happening? Where’s all my muscle? They look like some girl’s arms. My hands, they’re smaller, too, with long, slender fingers and — nails! — there’s polish on my nails.
I-I’ve got tits! Big ones, bigger than Meghan’s, I think, and… my junk, it’s gone! I’ve got a pussy down there. Meghan, she did this to me. I’ll kill here. I’ll — oh, G-d, I feel so dizzy. I’ve got to sit down, got to catch my breath. I can’t think, can’t remember…
It’s over. Ron, that foul-mouthed, sexist, egotistical son of a… gun, is gone. No, not gone. He’s a memory, a memory of somebody else, somebody I’m not and — thanks to that glorious shower — I never was.
I can see Meghan, my best friend in the whole world, Meghan, coming into the locker room now. That girl, Anya, the one who sold me my pass, is with her. I love the way Anya’s hair looks. My hair’s about the same length. I wonder how it would look styled like hers.
As they approach me, smiles on their faces, I smile back and hurry to my feet. I was a guy — not necessarily a bad thing, but I abused the privilege. I was a lousy human being, a total waste of space, but I’m not like that anymore. Somehow, I know that all the worst of Ron is locked away inside me, and that I’m a much, much better person than he ever was or ever could be.
I was a rotten person when I sat down, but now I stand, corrected.
This is an untold tale of the first Gulf War. Sgt. Jeff Rikker and his men were captured while on patrol and subjected to terrors -- and pleasures --unknown to the Geneva Convention.
This little tale was my response to a rather unpleasant lurker on FictionMania whose idea of commenting on a story is to say how revolted s/he was that the transformee doesn't immediately raise holy hell and force whoever did it to change her back to the original male self. Or commit suicide in protest.
Warning: This story has some rather brutal "on-stage" sex.
Brute Force
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2001
Sgt. Jeff Rikker slowly opened his eyes. He was a prisoner. He knew that. He and his squad had been scouting a suspected base of the Iraqi Republican Guard when they'd been hit by some kind of sleeping gas. It was something new, something the officers commanding Typhoon, Desert Storm II, hadn't known about. At least, they hadn't told him about it.
Rikker's body felt odd, unfamiliar somehow. He remembered the stories he'd heard about Gulf War Syndrome, the mysterious illness that a lot of guys had brought back from the earlier war. Maybe they'd refined whatever caused it. He hoped not. His Uncle Max still suffered from the Syndrome.
Maybe he was just stiff from lying on the floor. He sat up slowly and looked around. He saw three other bodies — no, other prisoners; they were breathing. At least a couple of the guys had gotten away. He tried to stand, to go over to the others, but he was still too weak.
He looked around the room. It was just about what he expected: four bare concrete walls. There was a heavy metal door set in the far wall with a tiny window slot; no window in any of the walls, though. A toilet stood over in the corner — thank heavens — even if it was just a base to sit on with no lid. The whole thing was lit by a single bulb dangling about fifteen feet in the air.
He felt weak and his body ached. 'Better check for damage,' he thought. Nothing seemed broken, just stiff. His jacket and belt were gone, along with all sorts of useful things for just this sort of situation. His watch, dog tags, and school ring were gone, too, probably some guard's souvenirs. He was also barefoot, a good way to keep him from trying to escape.
Jeff still ached, but he wanted to check on his men. He carefully stood up. He walked slowly since he was still a little dizzy from whatever they'd gassed him with. He noticed that his T-shirt and fatigue pants felt a bit loose on him, but didn't think anything of it.
The nearest soldier, Roy McGill, a big red-haired Irishman, moaned just as Rikker came to him. "You okay, McGill?"
"Yeah, Sarge. Where are we?" He struggled for a moment, and then managed to sit up.
"Prisoners. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine; probably inside that base we were sent to scout." Rikker gave McGill a quick once-over as the second man stood up. He was dressed in his combat fatigues, the same as Rikker, but, somehow, he seemed a bit thinner, a bit less muscular than before. 'I must still be a little out of it,' Rikker thought.
They each went over to one of the other men. Tommy Danko, a squat muscular man rolled over and sat up as Rikker reached him. Sam Carpenter was still unconscious until McGill shook him into wakefulness. The Black man recovered quickly, though, and all but jumped to his feet.
"You see any way out of here, Sarge?" Sam asked.
"Oh, yeah; the door's going to open any minute now. They'll tell us it was all a big mistake, and we can go." Just as Rikker finished, they heard the sound of a key in the lock. "Spread out," he said, "and watch for an opening."
The men separated, so a single person coming through the door would have trouble keeping an eye on the four of them.
Unfortunately, two men came in, both wearing the uniform of the Republican Guard and carrying guns, Kalishnakov semi-automatics from the look of it, 80 bullets in 10 seconds. They pointed them at Rikker and his squad. One of the men yelled something in Arabic. A third man, slender and wearing a white doctor's jacket over his uniform, entered. He was carrying a tray with a pitcher and four cups.
"Sgt. Rikker, I am most happy to see that you and your men have recovered." He spoke English in a soft tenor voice with almost no accent.
"Rikker, Jeffery. Master Sergeant, U.S. Army. Serial num --"
"There is no need to be theatrical, Sergeant. We know who you are, and we have no intention of doing you any permanent harm."
"What do you want, then, and what the hell's in that pitcher?"
"Water, just water from a local spring. I assure you that we have added nothing to it."
"Right, like I'm going to believe you."
"Whether you believe or not is of little interest to me. The custom in this land is to offer water to one's guests. I am merely trying to be a good host."
"Okay, whoever you are. You drink some, and then we'll drink some."
"Certainly." The man smiled and poured some water into a cup. "Cheers," he said and he drank it down in one gulp. He poured water into four other cups handing one to each of the men. "And now you, Sergeant." He smiled. "As a sign of trust between us."
Rikker shrugged and drank the water. The others followed his lead. "Now what," he said, putting the cup back on the tray. Suddenly a wave of dizziness washed over him. "You bastard. It was drugged." He reached for the man who easily dodged. All Rikker could manage was to grab the man's cap. He pulled it off. A mass of black hair fell down over the man's — no — over the woman's shoulders. Rikker felt his knees buckling under him. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
* * * * *
Rikker felt himself lying on the floor. 'Where,' he thought. Then he remembered. 'Sucker punched again, dammit.' He felt a draft on his legs. 'And this time they got my pants, too.'
His head felt like he had the mother of all hangovers. He carefully opened his eyes. He was still in the cell. Somebody had turned the light down a bit, but he could make out three shapes on the floor. The two gunmen and the guy — no, the lady — with the funny water were nowhere to be seen.
He heard a groan, but it didn't sound like any of his men; it was too high pitched. He rolled over and braced himself with his arms to try to stand. As he did, he felt his hair down around his shoulders. That couldn't be right. He'd had a regulation GI razor cut when he left camp with the others. He looked down. His arms were a lot thinner than he remembered. Then he looked a little further down, down to his chest. "What the hell," he shouted, "I've got tits."
Rikker jumped to his feet. It wasn't a dream. He had tits, nice big ones, too, a C-cup easy, that pushed out the front of his T-shirt. He had a narrow waist; only the elastic of his boxers was keeping them on, and wide hips. A hand reached down into the shorts. They were gone, dammit. No nice, "Little Jeffie", just a very sensitive vertical slit.
He heard voices cursing and saw movement. The others were awake, too, and they seemed to be in the same lousy situation he was. The bulb brightened. He saw three very pretty women in men's underwear slowly standing up, looking at each other in disbelief as they did.
A tall, slender woman with fiery red hair half way down to her waist grasped her tits with both hands. They weren't as large as... his, but her nipples poking out her shirt were enormous. "Cripes, Sarge," McGill said. "What the hell did they do to us?"
"What the hell does it look like they did?" Danko was now a statuesque blonde with big pillowy tits and a mass of blonde curls. "We're broads."
"But how'd they do it? Better yet, are they going to change us back?" Carpenter's figure was as lush as Danko's; his head a ball of very tight curls. His skin had darkened, so that he looked as if he were carved from fine milk chocolate.
"No, gentlemen — or should I say, ladies, we are not."
The four transformed soldiers turned towards the door. The three Iraquis were back. The one in the lab coat now wore her hair down. The top two buttons of her uniform tunic were open, showing the curve of her small breasts.
Rikker took a step towards her, and both of her companions raised their weapons. "Look, lady, I don't know what sort of trick you pulled on us, but it isn't funny. You change us back, and I mean now."
"Or what, Miss Rikker? What will the brave American do now that I've taken away his precious manhood?"
"You come on over here, and I'll show you what I can do, you bitch."
"My, my, such language. My name, girls is Yasmin al-Mansr. I am a colonel in the Republican Guard and a physician courtesy of John Hopkins in your Baltimore, Maryland. You will address me as either Colonel al-Mansr or Doctor al-Mansr. As to what I did, I just gave you and your... men some water."
"Yeah, right. Water couldn't do something like this."
"Oh, but this water could. The Spring of the Maiden is mentioned in what you of the west call THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. Any man who drinks its water is transformed into a beautiful young woman."
Rikker looked for the pitcher. "And if a woman drinks it, she becomes a man, right?"
"That, I regret to say, is not true. I can tell you from my own experience that it has no such effect on a woman." She smiled, a cat playing with a mouse. "There is a way to reverse the effect, though."
"Quite a weapon; I suppose you'll be serving it the whole Allied forces."
"Alas, no; the water loses its power if it is diluted by more than 50 percent. In a year, we could barely collect enough to transform 100 men. Of course, it was more than enough to use on you and your squad."
"All right, doctor. My offer still stands. Come on over, and I'll show you what I can do." He crouched, ready to attack. "I beat you, and you change us back to the way we were."
"Such an eager young woman." She drew a pistol. "Perhaps, I should let Da'ud come over and show you what he can do." She said something in Arabic. The soldier on her left handed her his machine gun. Then he smiled and began unbuckling his pants.
"You can't be serious," Rikker said. "I'm... I'm a man."
"You were a man. Now you — all of you — are women."
"No," Sam said. "Change us back. You change us back right now, dammit."
"Perhaps, Sergeant, you will get a better idea of your fate if Da'ud demonstrates on one of your men." Al-Mansr said something more to Da'ud. He smiled and dropped his pants to the floor, stepping out of them. He walked towards Sam, who slowly began to back away shaking his head.
Da'ud lunged forward. He grabbed the front of Sam's shirt and ripped it off in a single motion. Without stopping, he yanked Sam's shorts down to his knees, restricting his movement. Sam tried to push him away, but the tall man simply grabbed both of Sam's wrists in his one hand. He grabbed Sam around the waist with his other hand and pulled the transformed man to him.
Sam kept yelling "No, No!" until Da'ud kissed him savagely. Then Da'ud bent down and began to suck at Sam's breast. Sam started yelling again, but after a few moments, he began to pant for breath. Da'ud reached down and touched Sam's groin. Sam shrieked in his new high soprano and tried to twist away, but Da'ud held him too tightly.
He forced Sam back until he was trapped against the wall. Da'ud yanked down his own shorts past his knees. They fell down around his feet, and he stepped out of them. He was enormous, at least ten inches. He held his shaft, rubbing it up against Sam's new vagina for a few moments before he let it slip inside.
Sam's eyes grew wide, then closed. He shook his head back and forth still repeating, "No" as Da'ud began thrusting in and out. Sam kept shouting, but, after a bit, his body began to respond. His hips were matching Da'ud's thrusts. His legs were wrapping themselves around Da'ud's.
Suddenly Da'ud stopped moving. He raised his head and made a satisfied grunt. Sam shrieked. His body was shaking. He pulled one arm free, but, instead of fighting, he put it around Da'ud's neck. Then he shrieked again and went limp.
Da'ud's penis slid out with an audible "pop." He gently lowered Sam, who was beginning to cry softly, to the ground. Sam curled up on the ground in the fetal position, knees tucked against his chest. Da'ud patted his head and turned. He walked back towards al-Mansr, stopping only long enough to pick up a remnant of Sam's T-shirt and use it to clean himself.
Rikker and the others hadn't been allowed to move during the entire incident. One step, and a tracer bullet left a hole in the floor near their feet. Now they ran over to their friend.
"It's okay," Danko said and knelt beside Sam. They'd known each other since basic and were best friends. "It's okay."
Al-Mansr laughed. "How maternal. Perhaps you should be next, Miss Danko. Ishaq here is most ready after the show that your friend and Da'ud just put on for us."
"Okay," Rikker said. "You've had your fun. Now turn us back."
"You Americans," al-Mansr said shaking her head. "You are stubborn even when it will do you no good. Perhaps I will let... no. Anticipation can be its own punishment. Ishaq will get his turn later. Many, many men here are waiting to sample your charms, and sample them they will. I promise you that."
"At least let me see to Sam."
"Very well. There is water, ordinary water this time, in that bucket." She pointed towards the toilet. There was a bucket next to it. "Use your clothes for a towel, if you wish. After all, it was you Americans who invented the wet T-shirt." She laughed and said something in Arabic. Da'ud opened the cell door, and the three left.
As she walked out, al-Mansr stopped and turned. "Today one of you was raped — raped! — while the other three stood and watched like the helpless females you all now are. Think about that, ladies, until our next meeting." She laughed again and slammed the door shut behind her.
Sam was sitting up now. He was holding his arms around himself and rocking back and forth. "Change me back. I don't want to be a girl." Tears ran down his face. "Please change me back."
* * * * *
Without their watches, it was hard to tell exactly how much time passed. Rikker, McGill, and Danko looked around the room trying to find anything that might be used as a weapon. The only thing they came up with was the metal water bucket. If you hit somebody hard enough with it, they might be hurt, maybe even knocked out. Against automatic weapons, it wasn't much of an equalizer.
Sam sat up now, silent and huddled in a corner. He had put his undershorts back on, but the T-shirt was useless scraps, some of them still slimy from Da'ud. Danko watched Sam shivering and trying to cover himself with his arms crossed in front of his chest.
Danko took off his T-shirt and managed to rip off the bottom third of it. He went over and tied it around Sam's breasts like a bra or a bikini top. Sam looked down and whimpered when he saw how it looked over his breasts, but he didn't take it off. Danko put his own T-shirt back on. It was barely long enough now to cover his own breasts. Danko's flat stomach, wide hips, and narrow waist were all exposed.
Rikker looked at his two men and shook his head. 'They both look damn hot,' he thought. He put the thought away and began again to try to figure a way out of this. He was a man, dammit. They all were. There was no way he was going to let them treat him and his men like that. They'd get out and force that bitch to change them back. Then they'd trash the place and get home. The only thing definite was that Da'ud was reserved for Sam to deal with once they were changed back. Maybe the male Sam could help Da'ud get in touch with his feminine side. The only question was how. Short of a visit from the "machine gun and high explosives fairy," he didn't have a clue.
There was a noise at the door. Rikker pointed at McGill and Danko, and the three of them took up positions on either side of it. The door opened and one of the gunman, Ishaq, started in. McGill and Danko grabbed his arm and pulled him in. He stumbled forward and Danko jumped on top of him. Rikker and McGill braced themselves against the door and tried to force it shut. If they could keep anybody else from coming in until they got the gun, they'd have a weapon and a hostage.
The two soldiers pushed against the door with all their strength. They hadn't quite gotten it closed; there was no "click" of a lock. Now, despite their best efforts, it was slowly inching forward. They could hear voices, three or four, at least on the other side. They tried to find footing on the bare floor, but there was none. The door kept pushing them back.
Ishaq had fallen flat on his face. Danko jumped on top of him and applied a choke hold. It barely slowed him down. He braced himself with his arms and began to get up. Danko tightened the hold. Ishaq was panting now, but he was still moving. "Help me, Sam," Danko yelled. "You don't want to be a girl forever, do you?"
Carpenter was sitting in the corner watching the fight, his eyes wide. "H-help? Help you?"
"Yeah," Danko yelled. Ishaq was on his knees now and starting to stand. "C'mon, Sam. Show me you still got your balls."
"My balls?" He looked down and gently touched himself in the groin. There were no balls there, no penis. There was only his new vagina, still tender from what Da'ud had done. Sam looked up and growled. "My balls!" He jumped up and ran over to Ishaq who was just about standing. Danko was dangling behind his back, still trying to apply the choke hold.
Carpenter punched him in the stomach. "Give me back my damn balls, you Arab bastard!"
Ishaq laughed and pushed Carpenter away. The transformed man stumbled then felt to the ground. She jumped up and ran towards him again. He backhanded her, and she fell backwards to the floor. Ishaq reached an arm up and grabbed Danko's wrist. He squeezed hard, forcing Danko to break his grip. Then Ishaq pulled Danko's arm out from around his neck. He reached behind and grabbed the back of Danko's shorts. He yanked hard, and, a moment later, he was holding a squirming, kicking Danko in front of him by the shorts.
At the same time, McGill and Rikker felt their feet sliding along the floor. They turned and dug in their heels, but it didn't seem to help. Suddenly, the door fell back away from them. With no support — and still pushing in that direction — the pair lost their balance and fell to the ground. When they looked up a moment later, they saw al-Mansr standing in front of them. There were three men standing with each, each holding a Kalishnakov. Da'ud and the other two were smiling and leering down at the two of them.
"A very good try," al-Mansr said. "If you had still been men, it would probably have succeeded."
"We are men," Rikker said gritting his teeth. "This has gone far enough; you've had your little game. I demand that you change us back."
"Demand," al-Mansr laughed. "You are in no position to demand anything. And, if I have had my fun, Ishaq, Harun, and Salim have not." She shouted something in Arabic. The two men with Da'ud lowered their weapons. One handed his to al-Mansr; the other carefully put his on the floor near the door. They leered and began walking towards the transformed soldiers.
Carpenter looked at their expressions and panicked. He whimpered and quickly crawled back towards the corner. "No, no, please. I'm a man. Don't... don't touch me again."
Ishaq lowered Danko until his feet touched the ground. He stood up and tried to pull away, but Ishaq held tightly to his shorts. Ishaq reached out with his other hand and pulled Danko to him. He leaned down and kissed Danko deeply. The hand that had been holding Danko's shorts now caressed his butt. Danko squirmed, but he couldn't pull free. He felt a strange warmth in his breasts and his groin.
The other two men reached down and grabbed Rikker and McGill by their wrists. They pulled them to their feet and embraced them. Both of the soldiers tried to break free, but the two Arabs were far stronger than they were now.
"Let me go," Rikker yelled. "I'm a man. I don't want to do this. Change me back." He could hear similar words from McGill and both of the Arabs answering softly in their own language.
Danko moaned, and Ishaq stuck his tongue in his mouth. Danko wanted to gag, but he couldn't. The feelings running through his body were too much. He was having trouble concentrating.
McGill felt rough hands on his breasts, squeezing them, rubbing them. A fingertip moved across a nipple, and he shivered. "This is — uhh — isn't right." He tried to raise his arms to push the other man away. The man hugged Danko to his chest, pinning his arms. "I... we can't d-do this. I'm a m-m-man."
Rikker tried to break free. The Arab had grabbed both his wrists in one hand and was holding them against Rikker's back. It hurt. He felt a finger slide down along the side of his throat, and he moaned in spite of himself. He heard al-Mansr laugh. "When I get out of this, lady. I'm gonna make you change me back. So help me, and then I'm --"
"You will not change back, Sergeant. In fact, eventually, you may not even want to, though whether or not you do will not matter."
Rikker was about to speak, to challenge her again, when he felt a hand slip down into his shorts. A finger began to slide along the lips of his new vagina, and he shivered. "No, no, stop."
Ishaq broke the kiss. His leaned down and kissed Danko's exposed belly. Then his mouth moved upward. He pushed up the remainder of Danko's shortened T-shirt and began to suck his nipple.
McGill felt a hand on the back of his shorts. They were yanked tight and ripped away. The hand came back and began to rub his butt.
Rikker felt weak in the knees. He felt himself being lowered to the floor. He felt cold stone against his backside and realized that he wasn't wearing his boxers any more. Then he felt something, something new, rubbing against his crotch. His labia parted, and he felt it slide into him.
Danko was squirming, trying to understand the sensations shooting through his body. All of a sudden, he was on the ground, pinned by Ishaq's body. He felt something pulling at his shorts until they ripped away. Then something happened. He felt himself penetrated, as he had penetrated so many women. "No!" he screamed, but it was too late. He felt it move into him, in deeply, then began to slide back out. He moaned as the sensations grew even stronger.
McGill tried to get away from the Arab holding him. The man was too strong and held McGill against him with one arm. McGill felt the other arm suddenly slide down between his legs. It lifted one to the Arab's waist. McGill wriggled and tried to balance on one leg. Then he felt something rubbing against his thigh. It moved around, gradually getting closer and closer to his crotch. He recognized it, since, until today, he had had one of his own. The Arab's erect penis found the opening between McGill's legs and rammed inside.
The three soldiers tried to resist. They yelled that they were still men between moans, but the sensations racing through their bodies kept distracting, kept interrupting them. After a time, their bodies began to react to the feelings, and they moved their hips in time with the motions of their Arab partners. They screamed, as each one orgasmed, and all three felt their partners peak, felt the streams of sperm shooting into them.
* * * * *
Rikker looked around. He felt the cold floor against his back and his butt. McGill and Danko were lying on the floor as well, breathing just as heavily as he was. The three of them were drenched in sweat. Carpenter was still over in the corner, sitting on his haunches. His eyes were closed, and his fists were clenched. Rikker could see his lips moving, but Carpenter was speaking so low that it was impossible to hear what he was saying.
The three guards were using what was left of the American's clothes to clean themselves up. One, the taller of the two, already had his pants back on. They were laughing, jabbering away in Arabic. From the way they would occasionally point to him or to one of the others, Rikker got the feeling that they were comparing experiences. He studied the face of the guard who had attacked — had raped — him. When Rikker was back to normal, he was going to slice off the bastard's prick and make him eat it.
Al-Mansr said something in Arabic, to one of the guards left the cell. He returned a moment later carrying a small box. The other guards looked at the box. One of them said something, and the others laughed and pointed at Rikker and others in the squad. The guard set the box on the floor near al-Mansr. She reached inside and pulled out something made out of rubberized black fabric.
"That one first, I think." She pointed to Danko. Ishaq and one of the other guards picked up their guns and pointed them at the soldiers. Al-Mansr tossed the object to Da'ud, and he and the other guard walked over to Danko. Da'ud pulled Danko to his feet pinning his arms behind him. Danko struggled and cursed but he couldn't pull free. The other guard knelt down and held out the object. It was some kind of panty.
Danko tried to kick him, but the guard dodged and grabbed Danko's ankle. He slipped it over Danko's foot while Danko hopped around trying to keep his balance. He suddenly grabbed Danko's other the leg, lifting him into the air. He slipped the panty over the other foot and began to slide it up Danko's legs. Danko squirmed and tried to kick. The guard just dodged and kept moving the panty up towards Danko's waist.
The guard had to stretch the panty to get it over Danko's hips and around his waist. Danko suddenly stopped kicking and his eyes opened wide. "It's got a — oooh... uhh — no!" The guard clicked something at the waist. Then he seemed to adjust something at Danko's crotch. Danko shivered, moaning low and panting.
Da'ud let go of Danko's arms. The American fell to the floor. He clutched at the panty, trying to get it off. "No," al-Mansr shouted, and then said something in Arabic. Da'ud pulled Danko's hands away from his crotch. When Danko started trying to take the panty off again, Da'ud slapped his face several times until he stopped.
Al-Mansr tossed another panty to Da'ud. He and the other guard walked over to Carpenter. They pulled him out of the corner and forced the panty onto him. Carpenter sank to the ground trembling when they were done. He also frantically tried to take off the panty, but it seemed to be locked at the waist. The two guards slapped him until he collapsed, almost unconscious.
McGill was next. He tried to dodge the two guards until Ishaq fired a warning shot at his feet. He stood perfectly still, fists clenched as they put the panty onto him. "Oh, oh, my G-d," he yelled as Da'ud adjusted it at his crotch. "It's — it's --" His words became a low cooing moan.
"I trust you will not give us any trouble," al-Mansr said. Her tone sounded almost as if she wanted Rikker to try something, but he refused to rise to the bait.
'Whatever that thing do, I won't let it make me act like some hysterical dame,' Rikker thought. He shook his head and stood perfectly still while the panty was slipped onto him. He looked down to see some sort of hook mechanism at the waist. It was rubberized, too. The feel of it reminded him of the wet suit he'd worn when he'd taken scuba diving lessons a few years before. It felt a bit odd, but that was all. Why were the others reacting as they had?
The hook at the waist was pulled tight and somehow locked with a plastic tie. Then he felt something inside the panty. It was down at the crotch, a large piece of hard rubber that lay right at the opening to his new vagina. Da'ud reached down and slowly moved it back and forth before he slipped it inside Rikker. As he did, he tapped a point on the outside of the panty. Rikker heard a hum. Then he felt it, felt it inside him. The damn thing had some sort of vibrator built in. It was — it was — he couldn't think. His entire body shivered. He heard sounds, a moaning from far away that he barely recognized as his new voice.
In desperation, Rikker forced himself to reach down, to try to take the damned thing off. Whap! Something slapped him and kept on slapping him. He stopped reaching for the panty. Part of him wanted the pain to stop, but a part of him didn't want to do anything, anything else, but enjoy the waves of pleasure that were racing out from his crotch to his entire body.
'You're a man, Rikker, a man,' he thought. Don't give in; just pretend to go along. They'll leave in a few minutes, and you and the others can get rid of the damned things.'
"Stand, all of you," al-Mansr shouted. The four soldiers slowly got to their feet. "Now, walk. You are soldiers; march for me around your cell."
The four men formed a line and began to walk. The thing, whatever it was inside their panties, inside them, moved as they walked. It slid across their clits and rubbed against the walls of their vaginas. The sensations got stronger, much stronger. Rikker and his men were moaning, cooing, making the sounds of a highly aroused woman as they walked.
"Hop, two, three, four," al-Mansr said, laughing and clapping her hands as she counted cadence. The soldiers barely heard. It was impossible to keep in step. It was barely possible to walk. Their legs felt so weak, and their entire bodies were trembling.
McGill went first. He staggered and fell to the floor. His legs opened wide as he writhed and moaned in multi-orgasmic ecstasy. His head rolled back and forth, and he reached up to fondle his breasts. Then Carpenter fell. Rikker was trying to step over McGill, when the first orgasm hit, and his legs gave out. Carpenter, his eyes closed, walked into a wall and slide down to join the others on the floor.
Al-Mansr and the four guards stood and watched. She looked at her men, each of them sporting an immense erection. Harun was even reaching down to rub it through his pants. She felt her own nipples tighten in sexual excitement. She would have liked to have some time with McGill. She'd discovered her weakness for redheads of either sex while she was at Hopkins. But she couldn't, not yet anyway. These four had to be treated solely as women until they were conditioned to act that way. Giving McGill a chance to make love to a woman would be... counterproductive.
She looked at the four transformed men. All four had passed out. Danko's hands were on his breasts. Rikker had been pulling at his hair. Now they all seemed to be asleep. And, she noticed, they were all smiling. She took what looked like a TV remote control from her pocket and pointed it at the four men. Batteries weren't cheap. The low humming noise that had been barely audible over the moaning stopped.
From experience, al-Mansr knew that the four Americans would be unconscious for hours, gradually drifting into a deep sleep. She wondered what sort of dreams they would have. "Out!" she shouted at the guards in Arabic, and the four of them left the cell, leaving al-Mansr alone with the four transformed soldiers.
* * * * *
McGill was the first one to recover. He felt himself lying on the floor of a room, shivering. Then the memory of what had happened to him, happened to all of them came streaming back. "Shit," he said, opening his eyes and sitting up.
He felt the cool of the floor against his butt. Was he naked? Had they taken those damn panties off? He looked down. It was still there. He frantically tried to remove it, but it was still fastened tightly at the waist.
McGill took a moment to look at his body. He had slender arms now — damn good legs, too. He caught himself thinking that they'd look great in heels. 'The hell with that,' he thought. 'I'm a man.'
'Yeah, a man with tits,' he corrected himself, looking down at his chest. His breasts weren't large, just a little bigger than the proverbial handful. His nipples were a bit on the big side, though. McGill wasn't wearing anything else but the panties. He looked around for his shirt, or anything else, to cover them. There wasn't a damn piece of cloth anywhere.
The others were in the same state as he was, naked except for one of those damned panties. McGill stared for a minute at Danko. Damn, he had a sweet little ass. 'Wait a minute,' McGill thought. 'That's not a girl; it's Tommy Danko. We're guys. We got together last week with a couple of girls from the 437th and got drunk on some liquor he smuggled in. We all had a fine old time; those girls screwed like rabbits. I can't be looking at Tommy's ass like he was a girl.'
Then Danko rolled over, so that McGill could see his face. Damn, he was wearing make-up. His lips were painted a bright red, there was rough on his cheeks, and, oh Jeez, eye shadow. It looked like somebody had worked on his eyebrows, too. They were just narrow lines.
McGill licked his lips. He could taste the lipstick on his own face. He couldn't tell about the rest, but he had to assume that he had the rest of the make-up, too.
He was still shaky, but he managed to get to his knees and stagger over to Danko. As he got closer, he could see the faces of the others. They were all wearing make-up. He reached over to wake Danko and got another surprise. His nails were polished the same bright red as Danko's — and, probably, his own — lipstick. On a hunch, he looked down at his bare feet. Yeah, his toes were polished, too.
Danko opened his eyes just as McGill reached him. "Hi, beautiful," Danko said with a weak smile. Then he remembered what had happened to them. "Shit, am I wearing make-up, too?"
McGill nodded a look of disgust on his face. "Yep, and nail polish, fingers and toes. It keeps getting better and better, don't it?"
"Screw that kind of talk," Rikker said, slowly sitting up. "We're going to get changed back, and we're going to get out of here, so help me. And I'll personally strangle any man who says otherwise." He stood up slowly and managed to walk over to Carpenter. The Black man was awake. He'd been trying to undo the lock that held on the panties. The locking mechanism was small, but it worked very well, and he couldn't make any progress.
"Hey, where's our clothes," Danko asked. "Or what was left of them." All four men looked around. There was no sign of any clothes, or any cloth at all, anywhere in the room. The four of them were completely naked except for those damned panties that they couldn't get off.
There was a click, and the door opened. Two of the guards, guns at the ready, walked into the room and took up positions. Then al-Mansr came in followed by the other two guards. The four solders glowered at them; feet planted and ready for any opening.
"What sourful expressions for such pretty faces," al-Mansr said. "I have improved your men's natural beauty, Sergeant. I hope that you and the men do not mind."
"You know damn well that we mind," Carpenter said. "When does this shit end?"
"Oh," al-Mansr said, "but it doesn't. As your friend, Corporal McGill said, 'it just gets better and better.'"
"So the room is bugged, too," Rikker said. "Thanks for the information."
"My pleasure, Sergeant." She raised her hand. She was holding something that looked like a TV remote. "And speaking of pleasure…" She pressed a button.
The four soldiers felt something moving inside them. Their eyes went wide, and they all gasped. First in surprise, but, in a moment, they were beginning to feel the effects of the vibrating nubs within their vaginas, against their clits. "Stop this," Rikker managed to say between clenched teeth.
"Would you like me to stop, Sergeant? You and your men seem to be enjoying themselves so much." She grinned and tapped the remote again. "Very well, I will give each of you a chance."
"A... uh chance. For... for what?" Carpenter asked.
"Why to regain your old forms, if that is what you truly want."
"What do we... oooh... we have to do?" McGill and Rikker said, almost at the same time.
"You must say, 'I am not really a woman. I am a man, and I demand that you change me back.' Any one of you who says that four times, promptly and without interruption will be changed back and released. Does that seem fair?"
"Too fair," Rikker said. "There's... there's got to be a... a catch, but it's worth the... oooh... risk."
All four were panting now. Their nipples were stiff from the sensations that were shooting like bolts of energy through every part of their body. It was hard to concentrate on anything except how their bodies felt.
"Very well," al-Mansr said. "McGill. Begin."
The words caught McGill unaware. He was feeling something building inside him. Something that he hated to his very soul but that couldn't happen fast enough for his traitorous female body. He blinked and stared at al-Mansr trying to take control.
"Too long," she said with a laugh. "You fail. Carpenter, your turn."
Carpenter gritted his teeth. "I am not really a woman. I am a man, and I demand that you change me back." One. He took a breath. "I am not really a woman. I am a man, and I demand that you change me-back." He said the last two words quickly. That damned thing inside him seemed to be moving faster every moment. "I am-not really a-woman. I am a... a man." Had she caught that? Carpenter didn't think so. "And I demand that you-oooh... change me back." She didn't stop him. "I am not --"
"Going to finish," al-Mansr said. "Though it was a good try. Danko, start."
Danko had been standing still trying to get control of himself, his sensations. He managed to get through the first two repetitions, but in the middle of the third one, he lost control and said, "I am a... uh m-man, and I... oh-oh-oooh." He shivered and stopped trying. "Shit, I blew that one."
Al-Mansr laughed and pointed at Danko's face. "Well, at least this one is honest." She turned and faced Rikker. "Sergeant, let's see if you can do any better than the others." As she spoke, her hand moved across the remote. She found a small dial and turned it most of the way to the right.
Rikker felt the thing within him speed up. It seemed to be rubbing harder against his clit. His eyes widened at the feelings, but he gritted his teeth and managed to get the first repetition out. The second was harder. He was panting like he'd just been on a 20 mile run, but he managed to keep the rhythm of what he was saying. He squeezed his thighs together trying to stop the sensations as he began the third repetition.
"I'm not really a woman. I'm a man, and I demand to be changed back." Had he gotten the words right? It was hard to think about anything except the way his breasts felt. It was like all the energy from his groin was going straight to them. He had to keep going. Once more, and he was home free. "I am not really a woman." Rikker was concentrating so hard on the words that he didn't realize one hand was moving towards his breast. "I'm a man." Trembling fingers touched the erect nipple. His eyes closed. His hand, without any conscious thought directing it, caressed the nipple. "And I... oooh... ooooh." His mouth opened wide as the other hand rose up to his left breast. His legs buckled, as he fell to the floor
"No better than the others," al-Mansr said. "You claim to be the men that you once were, but your bodies — your bodies are female now. And they have betrayed you into our hands." She said something in Arabic. The guards filed out of the cell. She left last, turning for one last look at the four figures lying on the floor caressing their still sexually excited bodies.
* * * * *
"She's got us, Sarge," McGill said. The four soldiers were sitting on the floor talking. They were speaking in whispers, hoping that the mike, wherever it was hidden, wouldn't be able to hear very well what they said. "There's not a damn thing in here that we can use as a weapon. We can't even stick our heads down that john over there and kill ourselves."
"Stow that defeatist talk." Rikker's face was red with anger.
"Well, what the hell can we do," Carpenter asked. "She got us so hot, we couldn't even say three simple sentences."
"I know," Rikker said. "She got me the same as the rest of you, but there's got to be a way out of this. I'm not gonna be a broad for her or anybody else. I'm a man. We're all men, damn it."
Danko gently lifted his bare breasts. "Did you ever see something like these on a man's chest? Do you still have what a man has between his legs?"
"No, I don't," Rikker said. "But that doesn't mean that I don't plan to get it back somehow."
"I say we just rush them next time," McGill said.
Carpenter looked shocked. "You crazy, man. Rush four guys with Kalishnakovs. No, thank you."
"Look," McGill said. "Maybe it'd work. We'd sure have the element of surprise. Nobody's going to expect us to do something that crazy."
"Yeah," Danko said. "And if it didn't work, and they shot us — well, even death might be better than living like this. I say try it."
Carpenter and McGill nodded, and the three of them looked at Rikker. "You're all crazy." He sighed. "And I guess I am, too. I'm in."
"So how do we do it," Carpenter asked.
Rikker looked at them for a moment, while he thought. "We spread out as the guards come in, so they can't all be watching all of us. We charge them as soon as they're all in the room. Never mind that bitch, al-Mansr. She doesn't carry a weapon as far as I can tell. Anybody gets a weapon, take out your man as quick as possible and see if you can use it on any of the others. Okay?"
The others nodded again. "One more thing," Rikker added. "We aren't built for long-term unarmed combat right now. Take them out any way you can, and if that means a knee to the groin or anything else nasty, so be it." He stuck out his hand, clenched in a fist. "Hut!"
The other three each made a fist and touched Rikker's. It was a sort of military good luck ritual that they had followed since they had first met just out of training.
They stood up to wait for something to happen.
They didn't have to wait very long. The lock clocked, and the door began to open. Two guards came in with al-Mansr. They stood on either side of her. "Stand closer together," she said, gesturing with her hand. "I heard your little plotting, and I have no intention of letting you carry it out." She raised the remote and pointed it at the soldiers.
It was still turned to the highest setting as she pushed the activator.
McGill felt the motion inside him. He felt himself beginning to get warm down there — and wet. It scared him, but it felt so good, so very good. He put his hand down at his crotch and pressed it against the front of the panty as if he were trying to force the sensations to go back into that damned, that wonderful little nub.
"Ooohhh!" The sound was a low moan deep in McGill's throat. He felt waves of sexual energy wash through his body. His other hand reached up to slide along his breast, teasing the nipple. The sensations were coming stronger, faster than they had before. He head was thrown backwards and rolling back and forth. His mouth was open, but his eyes were closed tightly shut. It was a fire under his skin, building… building. He hated and wanted it at the same time. He felt the ecstasy began to break across his body.
"Splat!" A wave of icy water stopped him, stopped the sensations. McGill opened his eyes to see a grinning guard — there were four in the cell now — pointing a SuperSoaker at him. "What the hell was that for?" he demanded. The guard just laughed and said something in Arabic.
It was the same for the others. The panty brought each of them to the brink of orgasm. Then a blast of icy water ended it. The sensations began again after a few minutes. It built and built and built — only to be dashed by a shot from one or the other of the SuperSoakers two of the guards were carrying.
And after a few minutes the cycle of pleasure and water, sexual fire and icy water began again.
After an hour, the four men were barely aware of being wet. They were barely aware of anything except the incredible need for sexual release that had built in their bodies. Their eyes were half closed, and they could barely stand. There was no delay after being hit by water, now. The sexual energies began to run through them almost as soon as the water brought them down from the last peak. Their bodies shivered more from sexual frustration than from being cold and wet. They couldn't speak, could only moan in protest when the water hit.
"I think that you are ready," al-Mansr said. If the four Americans heard, they showed no sign of it. She took a Kalishnakov from one of the guards and spat out a quick order in Arabic. The other guards knelt and put their weapons down near al-Mansr. Each then moved slowly towards one of the four, smiling — leering as they walked.
One of them, Salim, went to Danko. He put his arms around the transformed soldier and pulled him close. He kissed Danko on the mouth. Hard. Danko shuddered and his aroused, frustrated body reacted. He put his arms around Salim's neck and kissed him back. He rubbed his naked breasts against Salim's chest and ground himself against the erection that he felt growing in Salim's pants.
Salim's arms reached down to fondle Danko's butt. Danko kissed him even harder, sticking his tongue into Salim's mouth. Salim worked the concealed locking mechanism on Danko's panty. He felt the material loosen and began to pull it down.
Danko felt the panty sliding down. He felt relieved until he felt the nub begin to move out of him. "No," he said pulling away. "I — I need th-that in me. N-need to feel good, so... uh very g-good."
Salim couldn't understand what this infidel bitch was saying, but he knew that she wanted something. He reached around and quickly loosened his own belt. In a single move, he pulled his uniform's short pants and his underwear down almost to his knees. A wiggle at the hips and they fell to the floor. Then he took his erect member and rubbed it against Danko's pussy.
"Yes, oh, yes," Danko all but shouted. That's what I need — what I want. P-put it in me." She lurched forward and all but impaled herself on it. She grabbed Salim's neck and lifted herself, wrapping her legs around his waist. Then she began to pump her hips, pumping as if she were trying to suck Salim's penis into her own body.
Carpenter, McGill, even Rikker acted the same way. With no conscious thought, with no hesitation, they gave in to the demands of their body. They were each willingly, lovingly allowing themselves to be fucked by one of the guards.
* * * * *
Rikker screamed as the orgasm hit. Was it the fourth, the tenth, she had lost count. She? Yes, she had to admit it to herself. The desperate need had been gone for a while. She had been fucking... she wasn't even sure who he was, purely for the pleasure, the female pleasure that she got from it.
He — Ishaq, Rikker suddenly remembered — was spent now. She could feel his shrinking within her. She knew that she should be furious for what had been done to her. Part of her was and always would be. But now, now her main thought was to find someone else who could make her feel as good as she had felt. She looked around to see if there was anyone. No, the other... women in the squad were doing what she had been doing. Except for Carpenter who was asleep, a very satisfied smile on her face.
Rikker looked up to see al-Mansr standing over her. "Repeat after me," al-Mansr said. "I was never really a man. I want to be a woman, and I beg that you never change me back."
Rikker smiled. "I was never really a man..."
The End
Choice By Ellie Dauber © 2003
Another one of my older stories, served up for your consumption and your comments (if you please).
* * * * *
Joe Neville grew up as “the Mayor’s kid.” Thanks to an African artifact, he gets a chance to be something else.
Choice By Ellie Dauber © 2003
Pineboro is a nice enough little town.
It's the county seat for Jackson County. The main industry is the Traxton Electronics Manufacturing Plant at the outskirts of town. The high school, John Marshall, was district football champion for the past two seasons. “Go Tigers!” Andrew Carnegie gave the money for our library about100 years ago. He gave money to build the museum, too. The mayor is Joseph Arlington Neville.
My father.
I'm Joseph Arling -- Joe, Junior; just call me Joe, Junior. Better yet forget Junior; call me Joe.
I wish I could forget about the Junior, sometimes. My whole life I was "the Mayor's kid." He first vgot elected the when I was two. Next year, he'll be completing his fourth term, and he's already running for his fifth. He's used Mom and me in every campaign.
We don't mind, not too much anyway. We love Dad, and he's done a lot for the town. I can tell everything he's done because I've memorized all his campaign speeches. I couldn't help it. I just heard them too many times.
The problem is, the whole town knows me. 1!"Hey, it's the Mayor's kid."2! or, worse, 1!"Hey, it's Little Joe."2! They hung that last one on me when I was about six. I was tired of it by the time I was seven.
I always got special treatment, too. If there was a class assembly, I was the one who always got picked for the big part. I like to think I made the football team by my own merits. I'm not the best player, but I seem to get used more than most of the other second stringers do. When they wanted a picture of some random person, I always seemed to be the one that got picked.
People always seemed to expect more of me. I was had to get good grades and be good at sports -- that stuff about football again -- and be popular. And, of course, the Mayor's kid would never get into any sort of trouble. When the other kids see cops on patrol pull over to say "Hi" to you, you don't get offered too many opportunities to get into trouble.
Oh, there were some good things about it. I could always find a girl - - a pretty girl -- to go with me to a party or a dance or some political function. Nothing like knowing that he could get her picture in the paper to make a girl interested in a guy.
A few were 1!very2! eager to show why they should be the one I took to one of those parties. Let's just say that I lost my virginity about a year and a half before any of my friends, even Theo Saunders, and he's our quarterback, captain of the “Tigers”, too, and junior class president. I didn't want to run for the job. Dad was pretty disappointed, but he didn't say anything.
Like I said, my life in a fishbowl, it had some good points and some bad ones. I just happened to want a change that Saturday in the museum.
We were studying "The Age of Colonialism" in World History class. I was doing a paper on the early exploration of Africa, and I had an idea to see if there was anything useful in the museum. I drove over and went looking for Mr. Sheppard.
Mr. Sheppard is the science curator of the museum. I met him at some event they were holding at the museum that Dad dragged me to when I was about ten. Mr. Sheppard saw how bored I was and started to tell me stories about some of the exhibits. I loved it; he's a good teacher. We've been sort of friends ever since.
"Mr. Sheppard's not here," Katie told me. Katie's a museum volunteer who acts as one of his assistants. She was working on a publicity release for the new planetarium show. "He flew east on some family business. He'll be back in a week.”
My paper was due on Friday. I had a lot of the research done, but I was hoping to add a little extra "spice" to it. Katie saw how disappointed I was. "Normally, we don't let unauthorized people back into the catalog and storage area," she said. Then she added the magic words. "But seeing as you're the mayor's son..."
Okay, so I do take advantage of the perks now and then. I wasn't going to mess up any of the museum's collection. Each piece has its own complete documentation. Mr. Sheppard had shown me some of the files and explained how the catalog system worked. I figured I'd look through the files, find a couple of interesting pieces, and take down the information. Most files had pictures of the item, and the museum had a world class copier. I could make a copy of the ones I wanted and included those in my paper.
I headed back to the storeroom where the catalogue file cabinets are kept. There are a couple of old ones in there that go back to when they first built the place. I checked one of those first. Normally, there's an index file in the front of the top drawer of every cabinet. When I pulled open the top drawer of the first one, I heard a "thunk." Something heavy fell down from behind the drawer into the one below.
I was curious and pulled open the second drawer. A very old envelop was stuck between two files way in the back. I pulled it free and looked at it. It had been sent from some museum I never heard of in New York, and the postmark date was October 22, 1929. "October 1929," I said to myself. "I bet they were too worried about the stock market crash to worry about why they never got this package back.
I used a letter opener to cut through the tape around the envelope and gently dumped the contents onto a table, a gray file folder and a small package tied with yellowing string. I opened the folder and read the single sheet of paper that was inside it.
"Egg of Shala-Nkuba. Found in the region of Lake Victoria by Alfred Leichester, April 17, 1911. Tribe/culture of origin unknown; appears similar to artifacts of M'barduu lineage. Item was a gift to Leichester from native shaman, a reward for saving the shaman's wife from some sort of wild beast. According to Leichester, the egg is a magic talisman capable of granting wishes after being activated by some sort of blood sacrifice."
The rest of the page was a description. The egg was made of polished African black oak, about four inches long and oval, shaped like an egg -- duh! It was covered with filigree made of burnished copper wire and formed into various symbols.
I got curious and used a letter opener to cut the string and unwrapped the package. Sure enough, the thing inside matched the description. I turned the thing over in my hands, looking at the pattern.
A piece of the wire had come loose. When I shifted the egg, the wire made a nice cut across my index finger. I said a few choice words even though it wasn't much worse than a bad paper cut.
The thing was, I bled a little. The blood dripped down onto the egg and soaked in instantly without a trice, like the egg was some kind of a sponge instead of a hard piece of wood.
I remembered what the note had said. "Okay, Egg, you just got your blood sacrifice. I want my wish." It was silly, but I kept going. "I wish... I wish..." There were a thousand things I could have said; I could have wished for women, money, a really nice car, a thousand things. What I did say was, "I wish I was somebody else for a couple days, somebody entirely different, so I could just have fun for a while and not have to worry about being the Mayor's kid."
I laughed at how dumb that sounded, even as I regretted that it couldn't happen. Then it did happen.
The Egg began to hum. I was so surprised that I almost dropped it, but before I could set it down, it began to glow a funny greenish color. Then the humming rose to a high pitch. The glow shot off the Egg and ran up my arm and all over my body. An instant later, the hum and the glow both just disappeared.
And I changed.
It happened too quickly to really see. One moment, I was a Joe Neville, a tall, athletic looking 17-year old guy with short, medium brown hair wearing a pair of jeans and a silver and green John Marshall sweatshirt. The next minute, I... I was... somebody else.
My new self was a girl, a girl with one hell of a nice rack. She was wearing a tight, green blouse that was cut low to show off her boobs and cut short to show her trim tummy and narrow waist. She had long, dark blonde hair -- there was no mirror, so I didn't know what I looked like, except I knew somehow that I was pretty. Besides the rack and the narrow waist, I had wide hips and a sweet teardrop ass. My jeans were now a short, denim skirt that showed off a dynamite pair of legs. I was still the same height, but that was because I was now wearing a pair of what I guessed to be three-inch high heels.
"Wow," I said with a giggle. "I'm a babe." I put down the Egg, wishing I had a mirror so I could see my face and... and check my make-up. My blouse felt a little stretched, so I reached up and, without thinking, adjusted my boobies in my bra. "That's better," I said feeling happy - - and a little lightheaded.
Part of me wanted to change back. All it would take was a little blood and another wish. But part of me was curious. I had wished to have some fun. "How can I do that if I change back to Joe? No way I can, so goodbye for now, Joe Neville, and hello..." I suddenly knew my name. "... Joy Newell."
The name felt right. "No way I'm gonna havefun in this dump," I said. I was about to leave, when I remembered the Egg. "Better take it with me."
I picked up the Egg and stuck it in... I looked around. I'd brought my backpack with me. Now it was gone, and in its place was a small, black purse with a long shoulder strap. I put the Egg in the purse, the file, too. I left the envelope and the wrapping in a trash can.
Katie was away from her desk. I hurried past and all but ran out of the museum. When I got to the parking lot, my car, an old, black Chevy, was gone. There was a light blue Miata in its place. "A chick's car," I said with an amused giggle. "I should have known."
The car was unlocked. When I got in, I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. I had a round face with a pert, little nose and big, brown eyes -- mine... Joe's were green -- and full, bee-sting lips. I was wearing lipstick and blush and some sort of eye shadow that made my eyes look even bigger. Make that major league babe.
While I was at it, I checked my driver's license. Yes, I was Joy Newell, all right. I was 22, an adult -- Whee! I had an apartment over on Woodbine Street, and, according to a company ID I found in my purse, I worked in the shipping department over at Traxton. I sure got my wish about being somebody else.
The car key was in my purse, too. I started the car and headed off to... to where? I decided to just drive around for a while and think things out. I was circling Main Street for the third or fourth time, when I heard music from one of the buildings. It was a bar, "The Starfire Lounge", the sign said.
It looked like fun. I pulled over and parked in a vacant spot a few doors away. It didn't look like much of a place, but they had a great band. My hips started to sway to the music as I walked towards it.
The band turned out to be one of those CD juke boxes with a really good sound hook-up. I sauntered over to the bar and ordered a white wine. A pussy drink sure, but I was a pussy now, so why not? The bartender brought me the drink. I suppose he could have asked for ID, but he just took the chance that I was legal. Bartenders like to have pretty girls sitting at their bar. It makes the male drinkers want to hang around.
A couple guys came over and tried their pick-up lines. They were so corny, but I guess most pick-up lines are. I chased the first one off with a snide comeback. The second guy was cute enough, so I let him pay for my drink. We talked for a few minutes. He thought he was G-d's gift to women everywhere, and from my reaction, he got the idea pretty quick that I wasn't accepting the gift. "Sorry," I said as he stood up. Then I ordered another glass of wine to take the taste of him out of my mouth.
"I'll take care of that, Tommy," somebody said to the bartender as he set down my drink. I turned, it was a tall, really cute guy with curly red hair. "That is, if the lady will let me join her."
"Love to." I smiled and took a sip, looking at him over the top of the glass, my eyes half closed. He smiled back and sat down next to me. Mmm, he had a nice smile, a definite keeper.
His name was Dave... Something. We had a couple more drinks and talked for a while about nothing in particular. Then somebody put something really rocking on the juke. It got to me, and I was shaking my body to the music.
I jumped up. "Dance with me." When Dave didn't get up, I pulled at his sleeve and pouted at him. "Daaance with me. I wanna dance; I wanna dance."
He took a last shot of his scotch and, with a sigh, stood up and let me drag him out onto the floor. I let go of his arm and took a step back. The music just went through me. I lifted my arms over my head and began to sway to the slow, sensuous rhythm.
Then the beat picked up. I squealed and started to move faster. I shook my boobies and jerked my hips to the ever-faster beat. It was great, the way the music matched my mood, the way everybody stopped back to watch me. Guys were clapping and whistling.
Dave stopped dancing and just stood there, arms crossed, watching me. "C'mon, c'mon, you gotta dance, too," I whined. "I can't do it alone."
"What's the point?" he said, yelling to be heard over the music and the crowd. "Nobody's watching me."
"You want points," I yelled back. He nodded. "How about these?" I grabbed the bottom of my blouse and pulled it up and over my head.
His eyes went real wide when he saw my 38-D boobies nestled there in my green push-up bra. It was so sheer, and I was having so much fun, that you could all but see my pointy, little nipples and the areolas around them through the material. "You win," he yelled and he started dancing with me again.
I was so happy that I threw my arms around him and pulled myself in close. I could feel my boobies crushed up against his big, strong chest. His face was awful close to mine. I felt so happy, so warm and tingly all over. I stopped dancing, and, before he could say anything, I kissed him.
I pushed my tongue into his open mouth and slid it along his teeth and up against his own tongue. He pulled me even closer, and I felt something pushing against my crotch. I broke the kiss and whispered, "Later." Then I started dancing again.
The crowd cheered, and a few guys were shouting what a lucky bastard he was.
***
Next thing I know, it's 2 AM, and the bar's closing. By that time, I was dancing alone up on the bar, so everybody could see me. The great thing was that Dave said he didn't mind. When I climbed down from the bar, he said he'd been proud to be seen with somebody as sexy as I was. I sucked his earlobe and whispered that he hadn't seen the half of it, yet.
I followed him to his place in my car, so I wouldn't have to go back to the bar for it. He lived in an apartment building a few miles away. We parked in the underground garage and kissed and fondled each other in the elevator. I just barely got my hand out of his pants when the door opened on the way up, and this little old lady got on. She rode along for three floors, while we both tried not to giggle.
We started playing with each other again as soon as she left. "Why don't we just stop this thing and do it right here?" I asked him.
"Because I'm not paying $750 a month to give the security guard a thrill." He pointed to a small camera up near the ceiling.
"I'll give him one for free," I said. I'd put my blouse back on before we left the bar. I yanked it off and tossed it to Dave.
"What the hell..." he said.
I didn't answer. I just reached behind my back and undid my bra. I tossed that to Dave, too. Then I looked right up at that camera and started rubbing my boobies. Damn, it felt good! And the look on Dave's face, half embarrassment half lust, was priceless!
Just then, the elevator stopped. "Finally," he said. He grabbed my arm and pulled me out into his floor. "You are the craziest, sexiest..." He didn't get any further because I kissed him again. He picked me up and carried me to his apartment.
He had to put me down to get his key, but then he picked me up again. He walked straight through the apartment into the bedroom.
***
I'm not going to say what happened after that. A lady doesn't tell. I don't tell, either. Let's just say that, when we finally did get to sleep, we needed the rest.
I woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee. Dave was coming into the bedroom carrying a tray with coffee, juice, and a big plate of scrambled eggs. All he was wearing were a pair of boxers. When he bent over to set the tray on a small table near the bed, I enjoyed the view of his tight, little butt.
"G'morning," I said, sitting up and stretching. I wasn't wearing anything but a happy smile. I noticed that Dave's boxers were getting tighter in front.
"Good morning, yourself," he answered. "I thought you might be a little hungry after... umm... after last night. Everything's nice and hot."
I licked my lips. "Mmm, so am I." I reached out and grabbed at his boxers. He didn't put up much of a fight, and... well, the coffee was a lot cooler when we finally got to it.
After breakfast, we took a shower together. No sex, but we had a lot of fun washing all those interesting parts of each other's bodies. There was lot of kissing and cuddling, which -- I discovered to my delight -- is almost as good as sex. We said our goodbyes a while later down in the garage with a long, hot kiss that almost made me want to drag him back up to his bedroom -- or into the backseat of one of our cars. When he asked me for my phone number, I was surprised to discover that I had one, 238-6426, "A-FUN-GAL."
Heading back to Joy's -- to my apartment, I turned on the car radio just in time to hear an ad for a pre-holiday sale at Victoria's Secret. No way I was going to miss that. I turned a corner on two wheels and headed for the mall.
I got lucky. There was a car pulling out of a spot right by the entrance just as I got there. I hit the gas and barely managed to beat another car into it, even though it was closer. The other driver looked mad until I rolled down my window and blew him a kiss. "Thanks, sweetie," I called.
Then I saw a woman sitting next to him and added, "I'll pay you back for real later." Boy, did that get to her. She looked ready to kill -- me or him, it didn't matter. I giggled as I turned off the engine and got out of the car. I blew him another kiss and started walking towards the entrance, putting a little extra "oomph!" into my walk because I knew they were still watching.
A kid, maybe 15, was coming out the door as I got there. He held it for me, something that never happened to Joe. Of course, he was staring at my boobies the whole time. "Thanks, honey," I said with a big smile. Then I slid my hand along the side of his cheek. His jaw dropped a foot, and I bet his pants got real tight. He just stood there watching me, so I kept that sexy walk on into the mall.
Victoria's Secret wasn't too far ahead. I'd walked past it a hundred times, trying not to get caught looking at the sexy undies. Now I was going in. The place was amazing. There were all kinds of displays of pretty things, panties and camis and bras, oh, my! I didn't know where to start. I did know, all of a sudden, that my measurements were 38D- (Wow!) -24-36.
I tried on a lot of things. It was great, putting all those soft, silky things on my body. It was fun, too, especially posing in the dressing room mirror or imagining taking them off for some hunk. I was a walking wet dream. Joe would have been all over a girl like me, and the thought of what he or Dave or some other guy would do to me made my body tingle all over. My nipples stiffened and my... down there, I felt warm and -- truth be told -- a little wet.
In the end, I bought myself a lime green teddy. The panty was cut high to make my legs look longer, with the front was so narrow, it barely covered my crotch. I didn't half to worry, though, because my nether curls were trimmed to a thin strip. I got a gold-colored panty, bra, and garter belt set trimmed with a darker gold colored lace. "Just wait till Dave sees my gold-plated pussy," I said with another giggle.
I just did a little window shopping after that. I saw some darling blouses at Topsides and a really cute mini-skirt at the Jean King, but I guess I was kind of shopped out. I had a late lunch, salad and a diet Coke, at the food court and drove home.
When I got home, I put my new undies away and sat down to watch some TV. There was a football game on, the Eagles and San Francisco, just the sort of match that Joe liked.
I didn't.
I surfed channels till I found SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE on cable. I sat there imagining I was Meg Ryan falling in love with Tom Hanks in spite of myself. Mmm, it sounded nice.
After the movie was over, I turned off the set and thought about my lives.
Joy was a party girl. She lived life to the fullest and had a lot of fun doing so. Her job at Traxton wasn't too exciting, but she had friends there, and it paid enough to get her a nice apartment and keep her in pretty clothes. She figured she'd find a man she wanted to marry eventually, but that was about her only ambition. In the meantime, she was enjoying the hunt.
Joe, I hated to admit it, was kind of a drudge. He was a sometimes starter for the Tigers, though. He had friends, too, and a not too shabby sex life for a 17-year old. He had to be "Mr. Straight and Narrow" now, but he was going away to college -- he wanted to study history, maybe go into teaching. He could cut loose some at whatever school he wound up attending. It wasn't a bad life, either, truth to tell.
I opened my purse and took out the egg, being much more careful how I handled it. "I can use this thing to become Joy forever," I said. "Or, I can change back to Joe, put it back in the museum, and just chalk this whole thing up to a really weird experience." "So which do I choose?"
Yes, dear readers, which end should Joe/Joy choose? The Tiger or the Lady?
Daddy Bear
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2001
I was going through some old files, and I found this story that, apparently, I never posted. It's on the perils of internet predators -- or, maybe, the peril to internet predators, and I’m not sure if it’s out of date. Please let me know what you think of it.
* * * * *
Daddy Bear
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2001
> Hi, this is DaddyBear. Are any of my little honeybears in the chatroom tonite?
Hi, DaddyBear, this is Swee-Tart.
> Hi, Swee-Tart, how U doing?
N1ot 2 good DaddyBear. My 'rents won't let me go to the big concert at school tomorrow nite.
> That's not fair. What's their problem?
They say it gets out 2 late. I have a curfew.
> Now what do U need a curfew 4? You're almost a grown-up.
Yeah, I'll be 14 next month. But they say midnight is 2 late 2 be out.
> I think U should go. I wish I was there. I'd take U.
You would?
> Sure I would. Just like a date.
4 real? I'm not allowed to date on school nights.
> That's silly for a big girl like my Swee-Tart. Sure, a date.
Wow.
> Yes. I'd even get some new clothes so I could take U in style.
Wow!
> Yeah, U could get new clothes, 2. If I was there, I'd buy U some.
You would?
> Yes. What kind of clothes do U like to wear?
I don't know, all kinds.
> What are U wearing now?
Well, it's kind of late, so I'm ready 4 bed.
> Are U in PJs, Swee-Tart?
No, I've just got on my panties and a t-shirt.
> What color are the panties? And the shirt?
The shirt is from my school. It's dark green, with a yellow dragon.
> What about the panties? What color are they?
They're yellow, 2. They're a new pair I just got.
> I bet U look real pretty. I wish U could send me a picture of how U look.
Maybe soon. I saw a thing that U can put on a PC and it sends out pictures just like a TV camera.
> Oh boy! And I promise that the Swee-Tart show will be my favorite. I can see U in all your pretty clothes and panties and stuff.
That sounds so cool. But it costs $400.
> Maybe I could send U some money. No that wouldn't work.
Why not?
> How would U explain it to your 'rents? They don't even know that we're friends. Do they?
No. I could tell them.
> NO!
What's the matter?
> Some parents don't like it when their kids have adult friends.
Why not?
> They get jealous because we can talk about stuff and they can't.
You mean cause they yell when I try to tell them stuff I'm doing?
> Yeah, like that. They just want to push U around. Punish U. Not me. DaddyBear loves Swee-Tart.
I wish I could be with U instead of them.
> Maybe U can. Where do U live?
Eynon Ridge.
> I know that place. Can U get to the park over by Pinehurst?
I think so. There's a bus that goes there.
> Good. You pack a bag and meet me there at 1 on Saturday. Can U be there?
Where? It's a big park.
> Do U know the picnic grove, over at the north end of the park?
Yeah, but nobody goes there this time of year.
> That's why I suggested it. You can come and we can talk and then U can come live with me.
Wow. Nobody ever offered anything like that. Wait till I tell my friend Dannie.
> NO!
What's the matter?
> Don't tell anybody. Don't leave a note. That way, your 'rents won't be able to find U and make U go back with them.
What should I bring?
> Bring a bunch of clothes. Pretty, grown-up stuff so DaddyBear will be proud of his Swee-Tart. Lots of pretty bras and panties 2.
Anything else?
> Do U have any money? DaddyBear has lots of love for his Swee-Tart, but I'm not rich.
I've got $300 saved up for summer.
> Bring it. If U can get some of your mother's jewelry and stuff bring that 2. She owes U 4 being so mean 2 U.
I think that's enough, DaddyBear. Or should I say, Douglas Oakes.
> Who are U and how do U know my name?
I know a lot. I know that you're a predator, Mr. Oakes. Just how many girls have you lured, raped, and robbed? If I were really Swee-Tart, I'd have been the 4th, wouldn't I? Well, it's over.
* * * * *
"Shit!" Doug Oakes didn't wait to log off. He just shut off his PC at the surge protector.
Somebody was on to him. He pushed the shade aside and looked out the window of his apartment. There was no sign of any cops, but who knew how long that would be the case. He got up and ran over to the closet of the efficiency apartment he'd called home the past three years.
The closet was different somehow. A light went on when he opened the door. And his clothes -- they were gone. The closet was filled with girl's clothes, dresses and skirts, even a few blouses on hangers. There was a big rack on the back of the door filled with over a dozen pairs of shoes, flats, sandals, a few low heels, and a couple pair of sneakers.
There was a suitcase on the shelf above the hanger bar. It wasn't his beat up old brown leather case, but a smaller pink thing with little blue swirls. Still, a suitcase was a suitcase. He reached up for up, wondering as he did why the shelf was suddenly so much higher than he remembered? He grabbed it and pulled it down. Then he turned to put it on the couch near the closet.
The apartment was -- different. Brighter. Smaller. The brown wooden paneling was now covered with a blue-green wallpaper covered with tiny flowers. He turned to toss the little suitcase on his bed. The brown blanket changed as he watched, becoming a thick green comforter with a flowered pattern. The pillow split in two, both of them now in matching pillowcases.
The colors seemed to bleed of onto the small dresser by his bed. It grew longer, almost twice its original size. Doug pulled open a drawer, the one he'd kept his underwear in. It was still full of underwear, but not his. He saw a tangle of panties, girl's undershirts, and a few A-cup bras. The balled up socks were all bright colors now, and a few pair looked more like rolled up hose. What was going on?
He looked around. The room was definitely changing, definitely smaller. There was a wall about where his dinner table had been, cutting the apartment down to about half its original size now. It wasn't much bigger than a regular bedroom.
"What the hell is happening," he asked out loud.
"It's called punishment, Doug." He looked around. The voice was coming from his PC. Or from what had been his PC. It was much smaller now, a basic rig instead of the big rig he'd bought with the money from that first girl. It was sitting on a desk along with some schoolbooks and papers.
There was a corkboard on the wall next to it. The wide living room window was now a small single pain of glass, the gray curtain shrunken to fit and changed to a frilly green one held back by a couple of matching cords trimmed in lace. The view from the window showed a suburban back yard instead of a car-filled parking lot.
"Punishment? What are you talking about?"
Somehow the PC was back on. There was a face on the screen, an old man with a white beard. "Punishment, Doug, for what you did to those poor girls."
"This is crazy." He walked over and pulled the PC's plug out of the surge protector.
"That won't help." The old man was still there. Doug could see that he was wearing some sort of blue robe. "This PC is being powered by my magic now, not by electricity."
"Magic? There is no such thing."
"No, eh? Well, if changing the room won't convince you, maybe this will."
A bolt of electric blue light shot out of the screen and enveloped Doug. His entire body began to tingle. He looked down at himself. He was shrinking, growing thinner. He looked at the mirror that suddenly appeared on what had been his front door. He looked like a kid, no more than fourteen or fifteen wearing his father's clothes. Geez, he'd been a skinny little wimp.
Now, as he watched his pants slid down past his narrow hips, but instead of falling to the floor, they grew faint, transparent and disappeared. He looked down. His shoes were gone, too, and his black socks were now a pair of floppy blue slippers.
His legs looked different, too. They were hairless, and they seemed to be smoothing out, the muscles disappearing into a smooth sleekness. His hips were swelling becoming rounded. His boxers shrank down to become tight against his skin. His penis and balls felt the tightness of the material for a moment, but then it was gone. No! They were gone. He reached in under his now oversized sweatshirt. He felt silky panties instead of cotton underpants, and beneath them, there was nothing more than the vertical slit of a female barely covered with a patch of curly hair.
He felt his waist constrict as the change seemed to flow up his body. His sweatshirt was changing, too. Its sleeves moved up his arms, stopping about halfway between his elbow and shoulder. The material thinned and changed color. It was now green, the Penn State logo changing into a yellow dragon. A yellow dragon, why did that seem familiar?
As he stared at the new design, he saw it push out slightly. He pulled the shirt away from his chest and looked down through the collar. He saw two small breasts, A-cup, nipples erect and pointing outward.
"This is totally...." He stopped. His voice was higher now, a girlish soprano with more than a trace of a child still in it. He shook his head in disbelief and felt hair brushing against his neck.
There was some kind of small table and chair where his recliner had been, a make-up table with a lighted mirror. Doug stared in the mirror. He saw a young girl, fifteen at most. She had a round face with the sort of high cheekbones that promise to become those of a beautiful woman. His eyes were green now with long lashes. His hair was dark brown. It was brushed back from his face, held in place with a couple of small barrettes, and it hung down to just below his shoulders. It looked good, and he smiled at the effect.
"What am I doing," he all but screamed. He turned back to the PC, grabbing the monitor with both hands. "You change me back, old man. Change me back, now."
"Change you back? Let you be 'DaddyBear' again to prey on more young girls. I think not. You were so fond of your little 'Honeybears' that your punishment is that you get to be one for the rest of your life."
There was a knock on the door, and the image faded. "What?" Then he felt his head spin as a flood of new memories swarmed into his brain.
The door opened, out into the hall. A woman in her late thirties was standing there. She had a bit of gray in her hair, but otherwise she looked so very much like the young girl that Doug had become, that she had to be....
"Mom? What is it?"
The woman looked at her daughter and smiled. "Debbie Bayer, what are you doing up so late? You know you've got school in the morning."
Doug wanted to grab the woman, to plead for help, but he seemed to have no control over his transformed body. "I'm sorry, Mom,” he heard himself say. “I wanted to finish my homework."
"I know, dear. Being a freshman in high school is a big change from being in grade school, but you need your sleep, too."
"I know, Mom." Doug watched his body walk over to his -- his -- mother? and give her a kiss on the cheek. "I'll go to bed right now."
Mom kissed her back. "That's my good girl. Your father called before from San Francisco. He said he promises he'll be home by your birthday. He wanted to know what you'd like him to bring as a present."
Doug felt herself smile. "First of all, I want a big hug from him, but if he could bring me one of those cool Pokka necklaces, or maybe a pair of jade earrings from Chinatown... pierced earrings?"
"I'll tell him when he calls tomorrow, but we've talked about this before, Debbie. I don't think you should get your ears pierced until you're 16."
"Aww, Mom. All my friends...."
"I know this argument. All your friends have pierced ears, only they don't, I've been checking. So that won't work, but I will think about it. Maybe in a few months."
Doug Oakes screamed inside Debbie Bayer's mind. He was helpless as she threw her arms around her mother and hugged her. "Thank you. Thank you, Mom."
"You're welcome, dear, but, remember, I haven't said 'yes' yet. We'll see how you behave for the next few weeks, and how your grades are at the end of the quarter. Then I'll decide."
Doug sank down 1in despair. He was trapped inside just the sort of little ball of fluff he'd hated since he'd been in high school himself, and somehow he knew it wasn't going to get any better. He would spend his life in the back of Debbie's mind unable to influence a single thought or action of the sweet young thing he had become.
Debbie climbed into bed and cuddled up next to the large rag doll she'd slept with since she was six. Her mother blew her a kiss and turned off the light.
* * * * *
Back in the office of Spells 'R Us, the old Wizard turned off his PC and turned to his pretty young assistant. "You're right, Dannie. There are all sorts of interesting things you can do on the Internet."
The End
I got this idea after reading an article about an adult male cop who pretends to be a young girl to trap SOBs like Doug Oakes who use the Internet to prey on girls. I didn't call it an SRU story without giving the whole thing away.
In 1864, a squad of soldiers out searching for food and supplies, instead find new lives.
This story is a gargoyle. It wouldn't let me finish up week 12 of the next Eerie Saloon story until I posted it.
Details
Ellie Dauber (c) 2013
All right, I’ll tell you the story, if you insist — really insist, but you gotta promise that you won’t ask any questions, while I’m talking, and that you’ll let me finish. It’s hard enough to say what I’m gonna to say. The last thing I want is for you to interrupt me.
Mmm, and no kissing me like that, while I’m talking, either. We can just go screw some more; you did pay for the whole night. Or I can tell you how I came to be here. One or the other, Lover Man, but not both. Aahh… oh, yeah — not both.
Please.
Good choice. Besides, we can… pick things up later. You certainly look like a man who can rise to the occasion again. And again and again, I’m thinking. But now, let’s get on with the tale.
* * * * *
It was — what — maybe two years ago, spring of 1864. We was a five-man squad, one of who knows… Yes, I said a five-man squad, and you promised not to interrupt. Quantrill sent a few squads, out every day by to reconnoiter for supplies. That mean hunt down any food or weapons or anything else that could be useful and bring it back to camp. If whoever had any of them things didn’t want to… share, they had two choices. We could shoot ‘em as Yankee spies, or we could shoot ‘em as traitors to the “noble” southern cause.
The Sarge — Tom Garrity, his name was -- he liked to toss a coin to decide which, ah, reason to use. Sometimes he even let the farmer we was taking the stuff from call the coin toss. “You decided to die,” he told one man. “Least I can do is let you decide why.” Laugh a minute, the Sarge was. He wasn’t a big man, but he had broad shoulders and fists the size of two hams. If he ever hit you, staying down was your best bet.
I still remember that day. We’d been riding since late morning without much luck. We passed a grove of apple trees, but it was May. You can’t eat blossoms, no matter how good they smell. We hadn’t seen no animal bigger than a squirrel the whole damned day, and, personally, I’d eaten more than enough squirrel stew, thank you very much.
Now the sun was getting low. Mick O’Bannon said we should head back to camp. “Maybe somebody else found something,” he said, “and if not, well, hardtack and salt pork is better ‘n’ nothing.” Mick was another Irishman, one of them Fenians, in fact. Helping us drive out the Yanks — it was practice, he said, for driving the Brits out of Ireland. Almost bald, he was, except for a mass of bright red hair over each ear, that stretched down into enormous matching mutton chop sideburns.
We all agreed and started back. Except just then, Billy Tatem yells out, “Over there!” It was a light off in the distance half hidden by some trees. He pointed, and we all saw it. A light meant a house… people. And all those things that we was supposed to bring back to camp.
Billy started galloping towards the light, but Garrity called him back. “We don’t wanna warm ‘em,” he told us. “We ride in slow, quiet like, we got a better chance o’surprising ‘em. Some folks get downright stubborn when soldiers come for stuff they don’t wanna contribute.”
We rode in slow, trying real hard not to make any noise. There was forest almost all the way to the house, big trees, oaks and elms. They’re not there now, but they were then. — No, don’t ask why.
When we got in close, about fifty yards, the Sarge had us split up. Him and Mick kept on going straight. Billy and Sam Fox and me -- I was a corporal -- circled around towards the back. Two riders are less scary than five, and the three of us would be ready in case whoever was in that house made a run out the back way.
I took a look at the place while we were riding around it. The place was a big farmhouse, two stories and lots of shuttered windows. There was a henhouse by the back door, and I saw a couple of birds scratching for food inside a wire mesh yard. We could hear them clucking; heard a cow mooing away, too, inside a barn about fifty feet from the house. “Hoowee,” Sam hissed at me. “We’s gonna eat t’night.”
Billy and Sam was a couple of big, old farm boys, lifelong friends who’d joined up the same day. They was tall, all muscle — including between their ears — and they could eat more than any other three men in the platoon.
We got off our horses and tied them to a post near the barn. I had Billy take a quick look inside the barn, two cows and, better yet, no people, he said. We moved into place. Billy stayed by the barn. Sam ran over near the henhouse. I stayed in the middle. We drew our pistols, and I nodded for Sam to make his magpie call. That was the signal to the Sarge that we were ready.
Somebody must’ve been watching ’cause the backdoor opened a crack. We froze, weapons aimed at the door, waiting to see if anybody was coming out.
Then there was a bright yellow flash, like a big bomb or something going off. I felt myself falling, and things went all black.
* * * * *
Next thing I knew, I was spread out on something soft, that Persian rug you must’ve seen in the parlor room downstairs. I opened my eyes and looked around. My head was at an angle and I could see Mick on the floor to the left of me. I tried to move my head, to see who else was there, but I couldn’t do that no how.
All of a sudden, there was a face staring down at me, a darkie. She looked older than the hills. Her face was shriveled up and full of wrinkles like an apple still left in the barrel at the end of a long winter. Her hair was stray wisps of snow white hair. She poked me in the chest and said, “Dey’s all awake now.” in a voice that sounded a lot younger than she looked. “Git up, boy,” she ordered.
Just like that, I could move. In fact, it felt like I had to move. Without knowing why, I rolled over and scrambled to my feet. The rest of the squad — they was all there — was doing the same thing. Only once I — once we -- was standing, we couldn’t, none of us, take another step.
“I am Honoré deLancie,” a second woman’s voice said, and we all turned to face her.
You’ve seen the Madame, so you know how she looks. This was the first time I’d seen her, and, as always, she was something to see. She was sitting in a highback wicker chair that looked like a throne, wearing a long, deep purple gown with a tight fitting bodice and a low, V-shaped neckline. Between them, they showed her athletic, womanly figure: ample breasts; waist almost small enough that a man could put his hands around it; and wide, childbearing hips. The only jewelry she wore was a silk collar the same purple as her dress. It had a dark yellow gem in the center. Her face was long with a long, aristocratic nose, full rosy lips that were curled in a mischievous smile, and framed in a mass of curls, black as night, that flowed down over her shoulders.
Now the only women any of us had seen in the last two months was dried up old farm wives, wrinkled and skinny and brown from working too hard in the sun. If they was ever juicy young gals, it was too long ago, and if there’d been any daughters even close to old enough to fuck, they was long gone, hiding from us. Now here was this… goddess sitting there right in front of us. All but asking for it, she was. Lemme tell you, mine wasn’t the only pecker — yes, my pecker — getting hard.
She just smiled even more broadly. “What interesting thoughts you men have.” She chuckled, amused, like she knew something we didn’t. And, Lordy, was I right on that. “The rape I would never allow, and, while one or two of you might barely be capable of the level of male ardor I require, that will not be the situation for very much longer.
“What the hell are you talking about?” The Sarge was mad. He took a step towards her, his hands curled into fists. “If you th --” His lips kept moving, but no sound came out. He started to gasp, grabbing at his throat like he couldn’t breathe. After a minute or so, he sunk down to his knees. He was still gasping, and his face was turning blue.
“Shall I re-open your windpipe, Sergeant Garrity,” the woman asked in a firm tone of voice, “or would you prefer to suffocate for your rudeness?”
Sarge managed to grunt something and shook his head “No.” Madame Honoré made some sort of gesture, and he took a big gulp of air into his lungs. He took a couple more and tried to get back on his feet. He was still a little shaky, though, and Billy and Mick had to help him get up.
“For your presumption, you shall be first, I think.” She pointed at Sarge who was now standing on his own, next to a big, black walnut chair. He seemed to freeze in place, not able to move. He just stood there with a surprised, kind of angry look on his face, while his clothes fell off. No, I mean it, his shirt and pants, even his boots shredded into scraps and dropped to the floor around him. Them scraps turned to dust and… blew away.
He was just standing there in his underwear, a pair of baggy, calf-length gray cotton drawers and a long sleeve shirt made of the same dull gray cloth. It was drafty in that room, and he shivered, maybe from the cold or, maybe, from what was happening to him.
Then, sudden like, he started to shrink. I told you that he wasn’t too tall, five foot seven, maybe, but he dropped down to just barely five foot tall. He got thinner, too, a lot narrower in the shoulders, and all the muscle in his arms and torso just sorta melted away. He’s balled his hands into fists just before she froze him, and now them fists wasn’t half as big as before. They was almost… dainty.
The crazy part was, his clothes still fit. Then they started changing. The gray just bleached out of them till they was pure white. The legs of his drawers moved up till they was just below his knees. The cloth looked softer, and, all of a sudden, there was lace trim at the bottom, where they tied off. The ties was a couple of strips of lace, too, and so was the ones at his waist.
They same thing happened to his shirt. The sleeves faded away, like they was made of smoke. And the collar got bigger. It started off close around his neck, but I stretched out so it was almost to his shoulders. It moved down a few inches, till you could see his collar bone clear as day. All that was left above that was two thin strips that went up over his shoulders,
And they was all lacy. There was rows of lace trim on his shirt, too. And the brown button, they was white now, too, covered with cloth and looking like a row of little flowers. He wasn’t in a man’s shirt and drawers, no more. The top was one of them ladies camisoles, all satiny cotton with a little blue bow in the center of his collar. And them drawers was still drawers, but they was soft and silky, gal’s drawers all trimmed with lace.
The Sarge looked down, trying t’figure what happened to his body and his clothes. “Any o’you no-account A-holes say one word, I will --”
All of a sudden, he stopped talking. He looked like he was trying to, but nothing came out. His eyes got wide and his arms stretched out, like he was trying to stop something.
And he began to change some more.
His hair got thick and curly… and long. It crept down over his ears, down ‘round his neck, and halfway down his back. His bulldog jaw rounded out, so his face went from square to… I don’t know, heart-shaped, I guess you’d call it. While that was happening, his bushy eyebrows got thinner and his big, hawk nose got smaller. His lips got bigger, too, full and luscious. He looked younger, too, no more’n twenty, if he was a day.
He was already thin, but now, his filled out, some. It got rounder, curvier. His waist was narrower — and the camisole shrank to fit that. His hips was wider now, too, and his legs was longer now and supple, with a sweet curve to his calves, and tiny little feet.
Except for the bulge at his groin and the lack of any bulges on his chest, Sergeant Tom Garrity of the Army of the Confederacy looked like a sweet, little gal, posing for us in her dainty under things.
Then there was more changes.
The bulge down between his legs, it looked so outta place there in them girly drawers. Hmmm, not like yours, da-darling, your looks like it’s almost right where it belongs. Yeah — giggle — I said almost, ‘cause it looks good where it is, and it feels good when you and me, well, you know…
Back to the story, I guess. The Sarge’s head jerked and, best as he could, he looked down. That bulge, it got smaller and smaller, and smaller, till it was gone. Till, the place down there between his — or was it her legs, was as flat and smooth as any other gal’s.
And her — I gotta call the Sarge her — her chest was as unflat as any other girl’s. First there was tiny bumps that you could barely see, no bigger than a couple of grapes. Then they got bigger, plums, apples… melons, sweet, juicy, round melons filling the bodice of her camisole. I think that camisole had to grow some, so it’d still fit after she got so big. I could see the top of them pretty tits displayed for all the world t’see.
But something else was happening. The Sarge got a funny, scared sorta look in her eyes. Her mouth fell open, and she started t’make noises in that high, girly voice she had now. She was gasping, and moaning, shaking her head like something was happening to her. Her face got red, and her head was moving back and forth. Her face was getting red, too.
She started to shake, trembling all over. Her fingers twitched like she was trying to move her hands or her arms, but she couldn’t. She staggered a couple of steps and collapsed down into the chair. Her head rolled back. She grabbed the arms of that chair so hard her knuckles almost went white. She didn’t seem to be hurting, though. She was smiling, almost grinning, like she was sure as hell enjoying herself. And her tits, I could see them nipples o’hers poking out the front of her camisole.
All of a sudden, she started moaning, “Oohh… oohh…” over ‘n’ over again. Her legs was wide apart, and her back was bowed like she was pushing against something. Her hips was jerking back and forth to the rhythm of her moans. Them moans got loud — she was almost shrieking. Then sudden like, she let out a howl. She trembled and shook for a minute or so, before she stopped moving and just sank back in that chair like her whole body’d gone limp.
She closed her eyes for a second and let out a deep sigh. Then she smiled, a big, happy smile like she’d just done something wonderful. She had, but we didn’t know that… yet. She stood up and started walking towards us. She didn’t walk like the Sarge had, all stiff and strutting, almost like a march. She walked slow, her hips swiveling back and forth like they was on springs, and her smile was big as ever.
Billy Tatem was the closest. She got in real close, almost close enough that her and him was touched. “Man…” she said in a husky voice that almost sounded like a purr. She put her hands on his arms, palms touching him, and slowly moved them up to his shoulders.
Billy tried to move, to get away, but he couldn’t. “What’re you doing, Sarge,” he asked in shaky voice.
“I ain’t your sergeant, Tom Garrity, no more,” the gal said. “I used t’be him, but he’s… gone.” Her voice was still low. It still had that husky purr in it. “I’m… Thelma Garrity now, and I want you.” Her arms slid up and around his shoulders, pulling him down. And when his head was close enough t’hers, she kissed him, kissed him hard.
Billy tried to fight it, but he was only human. His arms wrapped around her, and he kept on kissing her. She was moaning and rubbing her body against him like a cat in heat.
“That is enough, Thelma.” That deLancie woman’s voice rang out loud and clear. Thelma stopped the kiss and stepped back. Billy, he just stood there, hunched over, his arms stretched out like he wanted to yank her back into them for another kiss. The lady chuckled. “You are dismissed,”
Thelma did a little curtsy. “Yes, Madame.” She turned and walked, hips swaying, through a door that I hadn’t seen a moment before.
“Thelma has chosen who shall be next to transform.” She pointed at Billy. Well, to keep the story a little shorter, in a couple o’minutes, there weren’t no Billy Tatem no more. Instead, there was Belinda Tatem. She had long, brown hair, done up in a couple of braids, and deep blue eyes. She had all the curves that the Sar… that Thelma had, and hers was tucked inside a pale blue corset that made her tits look even bigger than they was and drawers that barely got past her hips. Her stockings was the same blue as her corset, with dark blue garters holding them tight.
And she was kissing me. One arm was up around my neck. The other was reaching down, so them new long fingers o’hers could play with my pecker right through my trousers. I was shitting a brick ‘cause I figured I was gonna be next, but, damn, Belinda could kiss! Her tongue was in my mouth, playing tag with my own, and she got that pecker o’mine feeling as long and as hard as my Enfield rifle. Don’t you look at me like that, I told you, I was a man when this whole damned thing started.
Anyway, Madame deLancie must’ve said something ‘cause she broke the kiss and stepped away. I tried grabbing for her, but I couldn’t move. She gave me a smile. “Bye, bye, Clarence, sweetie.” She kissed me again, a quick peck on the cheek, and walked out through that same door.
Don’t look at me like that. Yes, my name was Clarence. Yes, that Clarence; now lemme finish the story. We can talk about the other stuff later.
“You are next,” the Madame told me, a wicked smile curling her lips. Then she made that same damned gesture at me that she made at the Sarge and Billy.
Even when you know it’s gonna happen, it’s not an easy thing t’watch your uniform turn t’dust and blow away. Or t’watch your long johns turn from scratchy, gray wool to soft, white cotton. I had my arms out t’grab for Belinda, and I saw the sleeves of my long johns just… disappear.
Then, sudden like, I felt a sorta prickling under my skin. The room seemed t’get bigger, but I knew it was me getting smaller. I was still feeling that funny feeling when I stopped shrinking. Well, stopped getting shorter.
My arms was still shrinking, all the muscles I had from all them years of hard work just melted away, my arms was thin, supple. My hands was smaller. My fingers was longer then; so was my fingernails. The hair on my arms was getting more ‘n’ more sparse. Hairs was falling off or getting sucked back in under my skin. I don’t know what, but in a counry minute, my arms was hairless and smooth.
I figured my whole body was changing now. My scalp itched, and I felt my hair grow out, tickling my ears, and then coming down ‘round my neck. My face felt funny, too. My jaw hurt, and my lips got all puffy. The prickly feeling moved on down to my shoulders and my body. It was sorta like being in a vise, getting squeezed, especially at my waist. My hips and my ass felt like they was stretching.
The old nigra woman laughed — it was more like a cackle, t’tell the truth. “This one’s gonna be a real money maker when she’s done.” Madame deLancie, she agreed.
The prickling hit my chest. I felt like something was growing out — my new tits — pushing against the soft, cool cloth of whatever my long johns shit was now. They got bigger ‘n’ bigger, like Thelma’s and Belinda’s — shit, I realized that I couldn’t even think of ‘em as the Sarge and Billy no more. And I could feel the weight of my tits, now. No telling how big they got.
And the worst was coming up next. I got me a bodacious hard on. It felt like there was a foot-long piece of steel hanging down b’tween my legs, and I must’ve had a gallon of cum in my balls. It felt good, so damned good. Until that feeling started t’go away. My dick started getting numb, and, pretty soon, I couldn’t feel it at all. . My balls was drained, too, and they sorta climbed up inside me. All sorts of things was going on down there, but none of ‘em had anything t’do with the prick that I knew in my heart weren’t there no more.
I was a gal.
And something was sucking on my earlobe, tickling me. And — oh, Lord — it felt good. Something else was kissing its way down my throat. My body started t’feel warm and tingly — good tingly — all over. I couldn’t see it, but something was rubbing my new tits, now, playing with my nipples. I liked it. I liked it a lot, and I pushed out my chest, so whatever it was could do more.
It felt so good, that I couldn’t help but sigh ‘n’ moan. There was invisible hands all over my body, rubbing my tits, squeezing my ass, plucking at my new pussy. It got better ‘n’ better, and I was shivering and shaking from the way I was feeling.
Then, all of a sudden, something big started poking at my pussy. I was so wet down there that it slid in easy. I felt a little pain. I weren’t a virgin no more. But then that prick started moving in and out and in and out. I was trembling. My hips was rocking back ‘n’ forth to the rhythm of whatever was fucking me. I felt so lightheaded that I wanted to hold onto something. to anchor myself down. I felt so good, I was afraid I was just gonna float away.
My head was spinning. I saw my old self, Clarence Parker, standing there at attention in his army uniform. He smiled at me and waved goodbye. Then he just faded away. All the color drained outta him. He got so I could see through him. Then, he was gone.
And it didn’t bother me, ‘cause that was Clarence Parker, and I wasn’t him no more. It almost felt like I never was him. I was… Clarice Parker now, and I was horny. I couldn’t wait t’get another man in me. Mick O’Bannon and Sam Fox was still standing there. Mmmm, I never knew how handsome and male they both was till that moment.
I was always a little partial t’red hair, so I picked Mick. I walked over t’him, swiveling my hips t’show how ready I was t’fuck him. He looked so scared that I had t’giggle, but that fear went away quick enough when I put my arms around him and shoved my tongue into his mouth. He managed to get his arms around me, and I could feel his big, rock hard man meat pushing against my new cunny.
“Enough, Clarice,” the Madame said in a firm voice. I pouted and let go of Mick. I saw the door open, and I walked towards it. I swiveled my hips as I walked, trying t’give Mick one last, sweet memory, even if I knew that Michele’d be joining me in the other place beyond that door in a few minutes.
She did, giggling and twisting them bright red curls o’hers. And not too long after that, Samantha Fox came in, a tiny, blue-eyed blonde with the biggest tits — for her size — of any of us.
“Welcome to your new lives,” Madame deLancie told us. “You will be working for me, pleasing our many male guests for… a long time.” She gave us all a sly smile. “And these guests come here for pleasure, not for mystery. “
The nigra woman continued. “That being so, you can’t tell nobody you meets here who you was or how you got t’be the way you is now.”
A bell rang three times. “And speaking of guests,” deLancie interrupted, “here are some now.”
The nigra opened a door. I could see a city street, gaslights blazing bright, and carriages and people going by. Three men in suits came in, and the door shut behind them.
“My ladies,” the Madame told ‘em, “have been awaiting you. Select your partners and go to.”
We shoulda been scared, running for the door or screaming for help. We wasn’t. We was just hornier than hoot owls. We smiled. Michele and Thelma giggled. We stood there, posing, hoping that we’d get picked.
That’s what I was hoping, and, sure enough, one man, a tall fellah with gray hair, come over and took my hand. I giggled and kissed him on the cheek. Madame deLancie smiled. “Clarice will show you the way.”
And I did. All of a sudden, I was leading him down a hall to what I knew was my room. This very room, and it was done up just like it is now. He told me to undress him, and I did, stopping to kiss him all the while. He sat on the bed, his pecker pointing up at the ceiling, while I shucked off what I was wearing. And then we — well, you know what we done. You done it with me yourself, twice, you old goat.
* * * * *
Every day was like that, men and fucking and more men and more fucking. I don’t know how long it’s been. Me and Belinda and the rest don’t talk about how we got here, and we sure don’t talk about getting free. We just — giggle — enjoy it too much.
“I am sure that you do, Clarice,” Madame deLancie was suddenly standing in the center of the room. “And yet, you have somehow disobeyed me.” She made a gesture and Clarice and the guest found themselves unable to move.
The Madame studied the guest closely for several minutes. “Or, perhaps, you did not. This gentleman did not ask you who you were, or how you came to be employed in this place. No, he asked if you had ever heard of your former self, and if you had any idea where he might be. Those are very different questions. What is more, you certainly did not meet him here. You knew him long years before you joined my establishment.”
“Y-Yes, Madame,” Clarice answered nervously, and managing to do a curtsey, as she spoke.
The other woman thought for a moment. “No, you have not disobeyed me, but, nonetheless, you have told this gentleman far more than he should know. I cannot allow anyone who knows so much about me — and you — cannot be allowed to leave.” She chuckled. “And so, he will be successful… in a way. He will find the Clarence Parker he had sought. And he will join him.”
She gestured at the man. In his eagerness to have Clarice, he had left on his shirt, merely unbuttoned it. The two halves of the shirt flowed together, merging into one piece as the buttons disappeared. The sleeves faded away, as the starched cotton of the shirt became a delicate silk. The shirt grew longer, flowing down past his hips, his knees, stopping only a little above his ankles. The collar widened and widened. Soon, it was down to his pectoral muscles, with only two thin strips of lace going up and over his shoulders.
What had been a man’s shirt was now a silky, lace-trimmed woman’s nightgown.
As the man began to shrink, the gray vanishing from his hair, Clarice sighed. She know only too well what was going to happen to the man she knew so well, and whom she had betrayed.
“Do not feel sad, Clarice. This man will soon share the life that you have come to know and to love. You told him this yourself just minutes ago. The two of you will, of course, have your own… callers, but there will be times when, for enough money, you will work together to please a guest. And, as twin sisters, you shall be far closer than you ever were as father and son.”
When three old men find a magic lamp, the genie grants each a wish. Each makes a wish based on how he lived his life, and each, in his own way, GETS what he wished for.
This is the first of a series. The characters differ from story to story, though. What ties the series together is the game "Wits and Wishes" that the djinn play. The object of the game is to outwit the human master and "bend" the wish for the amusement of the djinn.
The Djinn Game
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2002
*** The Beginning
Rob Brewster, Mark Kline, and Emil Walsh were old friends. It was true that they'd only met one afternoon in Garrison Park about a month or two before. When you're all in your seventies, you get to say things like that. All three men were retirees living in a Chicago suburb.
Still, they met there in the park every day, weather permitting, to talk and play a little three-handed bridge.
Only today, it was different.
"Hey, look what I bought," Mark said. He was carrying a large plastic bag from Dunham's, a pawnbroker near his apartment.
"What are you doing going into a place like Dunham's?" Emil asked. "You're only looking for trouble."
"I wouldn't normally," Mark said. "I was walking past on my way over here, and I just happened to look in the window. "I saw this thing in the window, and, what is it the kids say, 'it called to me.' So I bought it and brought it here with me."
"So what is the 'thing', already?" Emil asked.
"Yeah, you just sold houses," Rob said. "I'm the actor. I'm the one who gets to make a big production out of everything."
"Trust me, Rob," Emil said. "There's a _lot_ of acting in the real estate business."
"Says the mailman," Mark laughed. "But you still haven't told us what's in the damned bag."
Mark opened the bag. "Ta! Da!" He pulled out a metal rod about four feet long. There was a small box at one end and what looked like a ping pong paddle at the other.
"A metal detector," Rob said. "What the hell did you get that for?"
Mark shrugged. "Curiosity, I guess. I've seen folks using them down along the beach. This thing was only five bucks, so I decided to see what it was all about."
"For five bucks, are you even sure it works?" Emil asked.
"Pretty sure," Mark said. The guy at Durham's let me try it in the alley. I found a hammer he hid under a bunch of carpet."
"Now, there's a good test," Rob said sarcastically.
"All right, smartass," Mark said. "Let's take this thing down to the Lake and see if we find anything. Is that a real enough test for you?"
"What the hell," Emil said. "It's a nice day for a walk."
"You're the expert on that," Rob said.
Garrison Park fronted Lake Michigan, and the town fathers had spent a good bit of money putting in a beach for summer use. They walked for about two hours. The detector found a key ring with three keys and a child's wind-up toy dog. "Let's try over by the breaker there, Mark suggested.
After about a half hour, they were ready to give up and get a cup of tea - or something stronger, in Rob's case. Then the meter on the detector began to jump back and forth the length of the scale.
"What the hell is it?" Rob asked.
"I don't know," Emil said, "but it's right _here_!" He pressed the detector plate onto the sand to mark the spot.
"Dig, then," Mark said. The three men knelt in the sand and began to dig.
Emil was the one to find it. His fingers touched something large and metallic. He brushed sand away until he could get a grasp on it and pulled out "A lamp! A damned Arabian lamp."
"This is too damned cliched for any movie I was ever in," Rob said.
"When were you ever in an Arabian nights movie?" Mark said.
"Oh, Lord, don't go asking him that." Emil said. "Now he's going to pull out his clippings again."
"Well, since you asked," Rob said, ignoring his friend's remark. "I was the steward to the caliph in SON OF GENGHIS KHAN."
"I knew it," Mark said. "Maybe we should wish that you lose those scrap books of yours."
Rob scowled. "My scrapbooks! You dirty..." Then he realized that Mark was kidding him. "Okay, I guess I do dwell a bit much on my past."
"If there is a genie in there, maybe he can fix that." Emil rubbed the lamp three times. There was a low "thrumm" noise and the lamp began to vibrate. "Wha..." Emil panicked and dropped the lamp.
The "thrumm" grew louder. A thin trail of smoke came out. It grew thicker and thicker, then gradually took a human shape. The figure looked like an ordinary man - except for his lime-green skin color. He stepped forward and bowed. "I am Mustapha, Masters." He was about seven-feet tall with bushy black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a pair of gold colored pantaloons and - believe it or not - long slippers with toes that curled up and around.
"This can _not_ be real," Rob said.
"But it is, my Masters. As a djinn, I must grant three wishes to whomever frees me for a time from the Lamp. Since there are three of you, each will receive one wish. Have a care, Masters, for no wish may be taken back."
"Are there any limits on what you can or cannot do?" Rob asked.
"Do you wish to know this, Master?" Mustapha asked.
"No!" Mark said. "We are curious, but you don't have to tell us if you don't want to."
"Well played, Master," Mustapha said. "The mighty King Suilemann, who imprisoned the djinn in our Lamps commanded that we reveal these things to each new Master. I cannot kill, though I can cause death indirectly. I cannot create life, nor can I cause one person to love another. Love is a magic more powerful than my own."
"No limits beyond that, then," Emil said. "Okay, who starts?"
"Can't we think about it a little?" Mark asked.
"Take as much time as you wish," Mustapha said.
"And if we do ask for time, that will count as a wish," Emil said. "No, I think we'd better do it now."
"Mine's easy," Rob said. "I want to be a movie star, world famous, top of the list, and young and sexy enough to enjoy it; yeah, to spend my whole life in the movie business." Robert Brewster had never been higher than sixth billing. He was a dependable character actor, and the work was steady, but that was all. His fame could be measured by the fact that he was the answer to questions in three separate trivia games.
"I spent my life selling houses that I could never afford to live in," Mark said. "I'll take the youth, too. I want to live in one of those houses - and not as some servant. I want the house and whatever goes with it for my own."
"You two can have your wealth and fame." Emil "Being young again sounds great, but I...I never had any friends, any family. I was a mailman, about as invisible as a man can get. I'd like to go back to the beginning. I don't want anything fancy like you two. I just want to make a little bit of a difference with my life."
"And these are your wished, Master?" Muspha asked. The three men nodded. "Then so be it." He made an odd gesture with both hands, and all three men vanished.
* * * * *
*** Rob's Wish
Rob's eyes were closed. He felt...alive!...and full of more energy than he had in years. Still something seemed very wrong. He put his fingers to his eyes and began to rub; it was an old actor's trick.
Someone batted his hands away. "Stop that, Bobbi, you'll ruin your make-up."
Rob opened his eyes. He saw hands -- they couldn't be his. They were slender, feminine, with inch-long manicured nails covered in by a light pink polish. He looked past his hands, down to his chest.
No, _her_ chest. Rob saw what had to be at least 38-DD breasts straining at a pink halter top. This...this couldn't be happening.
Rob's head began to spin as new memories rushed in to push aside the old. The identity of Rob Brewster sank under the weight of a new one. The two merged, and all that was left was Bobbi Boobster, winner of the 1974 "Best New-Cummer" Award, and one of the country's leading porn stars.
* * * * *
Bobbi Boobster lasted in front of the camera until she was in her mid-forties and beyond the help of even the best plastic surgeons. Wrinkles can get hidden for a while, but a sagging butt and the effects of gravity on oversized silicon implants couldn't.
Bobbi hadn't invested her earnings very well. She wound up the owner of a small string of movie theaters, mostly of the sort that had showed her old films. She sold off all but one, and ended her days as owner, manager, and ticket seller.
Exactly as Rob had wished, a star in her youth and a lifelong career in the movie industry.
* * * * *
*** Mark's Wish
Mark felt unsteady on his feet. He looked around. He was in a bedroom somewhere. No, he recognized the place. It was the Halburton Mansion. He'd sold the place about ten years ago to Roy Jeffreys, the founder of Jeffreys Electronics.
"Are you all right, my dear?" Jeffreys was standing about ten feet away, hanging tuxedo pants over one of those wooden "valets." Mark stiffled a laugh at Jeffrey's skinny legs and at the man's waist cincher he wore to help hide a major beer belly. "I say again, 'are you all right?'"
Mark shook his head and felt hair swirl around his neck. He looked down to see a slender, extremely female body wearing only a thin cotton robe.
"Fine," Jeffreys said, "then let's get to it." He undid the waist cincher and began pulling at his shorts. They fell to the ground, revealing a rather small penis barely sticking out of a sparse patch of gray hair.
"No...I," Mark began. He began to back away.
"Come, come, Marci. You knew what you were getting when you married me. Half ownership of my fortune, this house, and all made me a lot more attractive than the average 62-year old, didn't it? Well, you've got to be with me, be my wife in _all_ things for 10 years, or that pre-nup you signed says you lose it all." He grinned and took his flaccid penis in his hand. "Now get over here and use that mouth of yours to get me started."
Mark's head spun. He felt like he was sinking, drowning. He felt himself fade away as the mass of new memories flowed into him. He -- she -- felt a false smile form on her face as Mark Kline was absorbed into the identity of Marci Jeffreys, 24-year old trophy wife and sexual slave to a man who knew that he was buying a live-in whore when he married her.
And she knew that he knew it. When she married him, it hadn't mattered, but...
* * * * *
Marci lived with Jeffreys for almost 9 years before he died of a heart attack. In that time, she discovered that he paid every servant in their house to watch her for any sign of infidelity. She inherited the house, but she had to fight his family for most of his fortune. She lost more often than she won.
A final provision of the will required her to live in the Halburton Mansion if she wanted to keep control of what she did win. The family and the servants kept watch. She was able to take the occasional lover, though. They were all paid, paid to praise her fading beauty until she was a laughing stock. Marci Jeffreys, the crone who kept boys a quarter her age to lie to her.
Mark had wanted a fine house. He lived in one, suffering the life that went with it.
* * * * *
*** Emil's Wish
Emil felt different, very different. His body seemed sluggish, as if he couldn't really control it. Something soft slipped into his mouth, and he instinctively began to suck. He tasted a sweet, warm liquid and realized the truth of what had happened. 'Back to the beginning,' he thought. 'That genie changed me into a baby.'
"There's our little girl," said a voice. Emil opened his eyes in shock. He, no, she saw a Black couple, the woman in a waitress uniform, the man in a workshirt with the words "Sanitation Department" embroidered on it. The woman was holding Emil as well as the baby's bottle that she was drinking from.
'A girl, and a Black one at that, what was that idiot genie thinking of.' It was her last thoughts as Emil Walsh before the new identity of Emma Johnson overwhelmed her.
Emma grew up to be an outgoing, if not overly attractive young girl. At 17, she moved out to live with a neighborhood boy, Jack Clark. Jack ran with a gang, but after Emma gave birth to his son, he married her and took a job at a garage in the neighborhood. Emma got a part-time job as a file clerk and helped out at the office of their small church, doing typing and filing for the pastor.
* * * * *
They held Emma's sixty-fifth birthday party at the church, Jack, as always, was at her side. Her four children were there with their own spouses and children. Jack, Jr., had taken over the garage when his father had retired. The garage was now one of four Junior owned, all with active teen apprenticeship programs. Kim, Emma's only daughter, was a nurse, who ran a neighborhood clinic with her doctor husband. Their son, Micah, flew up from Howard Law School for the occasion. Theo, the baby, was now Rev. Theo, the assistant pastor at Emma's church, which had become the largest Black church in the city.
Emma's other children were there, too: almost forty years of graduates of the "Chance" Scholarship program, she'd started at the church. Winners were expected to pay the program back, both by matching the scholarship money they received and by mentoring teens in the city. The program was fully endowed, much of it from its own graduates, and managed by a partner in one of the city's leading accountancy companies who was herself a recipient.
The party was catered by "Mama Jo's Kitchen," a catering business run by three single mothers who'd taken one of Emma's $100 micro-grants, an idea she got from an article about such a program in Africa. Emma's Girl Scout troop was the honor guard.
At 7 o'clock, they brought in the cake. Only one voice sang "Happy Birthday." Elysse Freeman had taken a break from singing second female lead in AIDA at the Met to visit the woman who put her there with a "Chance" Scholarship to Julliard. Elysse did her mentoring with the Greater Harlem Girl's Chorus, and she brought along two girls who were now going to the School of the Arts on Elysse's recommendation.
A small whiff of smoke lingered near a window, close enough to see what was happening, but far from the detectors in the ceiling. By the edict of Suliemann, a djinn was free to twist a selfish wish to its own ends, but a selfless wish could not be touched. Moreover, the djinn was required to observe the results of such a wish in the hopes that it might learn from the good works of the wisher.
"Wish granted, Master Emil" Mustapha whispered. "Wish very well granted, indeed."
The End
Leo Morgenstern finds a magic lamp while he's on the beach trolling for girls. But it's an EMPTY magic lamp, and that's where his troubles begin.
Djinn Game II
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2002
Leo Morgenstern sat on a finger of rock at the edge of Chapman's Cove, watching the crowd of people on the beach below. The cove was just a ten-minute drive from his college campus and very popular with the students, especially on a warm September afternoon like today when swimming was still possible.
Leo was 6 foot 4 of solid muscle, a first string lineman on the college team, even though he was only a junior. He was taking advantage of the "pass" weekend just before homecoming to scout the female talent. He still hadn't decided which girl was going to be lucky enough to be his date next weekend. He knew, though, that most of the girls at the school would jump at the chance. And if his choice had a boyfriend who objected -- he slammed his left fist into the palm of his right hand -- well, that was a problem that was easily taken care of.
He thought he saw a likely prospect, a tall blonde with a cute figure and a rack that had to be at least a 38-D. He decided to move in for a closer look and started to climb down.
As he climbed off the rock, his left foot found something hard in the sand. It felt smooth and cool, metallic, maybe. He gave in to his curiosity and dug it out.
"It can't be," he whispered in amazement. It was some kind of a brass lamp that looked like something from the Arabian Nights. "Naw," he shook his head. "Still, you never know."
He picked up the lamp and looked around. No one seemed to be watching. Just the same, he picked up the lamp and walked around to the far side of the rock. It was a narrow, _empty_ bit of beach. Leo waited a minute or two in case anyone had followed him. Satisfied that no one had, he began to rub the lamp.
Nothing happened for a moment. Leo was about to stop when the lamp began to hum softly. He rubbed faster, and the hum grew louder. The lamp began to glow. "Hot damn," Leo said, trying hard not to shout. "Babes, lots of money, and more babes, that's my three wishes!"
He rubbed harder. The glow grew brighter. To Leo's dismay, it spread to his hands, up his arms. In moments, his whole body was glowing. He dropped the lamp and tried to run, but his legs wouldn't move. He couldn't feel them. He looked down. He had no legs. Below mid-thigh, there was nothing but a column of bluish smoke.
The base of the column of smoke skittered along the ground until it found the lamp. It began to flow into the opening at the front of the lamp. Leo felt himself shrinking, falling downward. He screamed as he was sucked into the lamp.
There was a moment of absolute darkness before he found himself whole, standing in a room with rounded metal walls. Torches high on the wall lit the room, which was furnished with masses of pillows instead of chairs. "I'm inside the damned lamp," he said. "What the hell happened?"
Shapes -- letters? -- of flame appeared in the air. They were some weird curved alphabet that he guessed was Arabic, but they shifted suddenly into English.
"Know, mortal, that this is the lamp of Abu Sha'arif, he who was cursed by Suliman the King, to serve as its djinn until released. Many since then have served and been released. Because the lamp was empty when you found it, you have become the new djinn of the lamp, doomed to serve until thy Master releases thee to thy Fate."
The letters floated in the air for a while before they faded without a trace. Leo frantically searched the room. There was no sign of an exit of any sort. "Let me out of here," he yelled banging his fists against a wall.
Suddenly, he felt the same odd sensation he had when he began to glow. He felt himself being pulled towards the wall. There was another moment of absolute darkness, and he was standing on the same stretch of beach. It looked like it was the same afternoon.
Someone was standing a few feet away holding the lamp. Leo recognized him, Danny McKean, the football team's assistant manager and its waterboy. "What...what's going on?" Danny asked in amazement.
Leo felt a compulsion to speak. "I am the djinn of the Lamp, Master. Here to grant thy every wish from now until this time tomorrow. Yada-yada-yada."
"This is a joke, right?"
Leo got control, some control anyway of his voice. "What was it you didn't understand, you little wimp? I got stuck in this lamp, and I gotta grant your wishes for 24 hours. Except that your first wish is gonna be to free me."
"I don't know," Danny said. "Can you really grant _any_ wish?"
"Look, you..." Leo tried to continue but he lost control of his voice again. "I cannot create life, Master, nor end it, and I cannot create love, for love is even stronger than my magics." He coughed and regained control. "You little bastard. I ought to beat the shit out of you." He made a fist the size of a small ham.
"But you can't," Danny said with a smile. "My first wish is that you have no wish to ever do me any harm, not now, not ever."
Leo's hand shook as his anger vanished. "Yes, Master." He smiled -- damn it! -- and bowed his head."
Danny pursed his chin. "You know, it's hard to look at you and think of a djinn. I think some changes are in order."
"Changes, Master?" Damn, why did he keep calling Danny "Master"?
"Changes," Danny said with a wide grin. "I wish for you to transform into a Middle Eastern babe. You should be...oh, about 5 foot 5 with a figure that won't quit, long curly auburn hair down to the waist, dusky skin, and a face like Janet Jackson. You've got a sexy, alto voice, and you're wearing a tiny silk halter, harem pants, and sandals. Oh, yeah, and you smell of cinnamon and cloves." He paused a moment. "That's my wish, djinn, make it so."
"Now wait a minute...Master," Leo said, but he felt his body tingling all over. Danny seemed to be growing taller. No, he was shrinking. He felt a tug on his scalp as his hair grew longer and longer. He felt the muscles of his face shifting. "No, please...." He stopped, terrified to hear his voice cracking, moving up into the feminine range.
He felt a pressure on his chest and looked down. Two bumps pushed out the front of his T-shirt; they grew bigger and bigger until they seemed to be same 38-D as that girl he'd been looking at before. His arms grew slender as his body hair faded away and his tanned skin darkened to a Mediterranean olive tone. His jeans felt loose at the waist but very tight at the hips, as his figure shifted. He felt an incredible hard-on, but the feeling faded to a numbness, then -- Lord help him -- to a feeling of emptiness between his legs. As far as he could tell, he was a girl.
It became a lot easier to tell.
The collar of his shirt grew bigger, even as the sleeves vanished until there was no more that a narrow strip of cloth. At the same time, the bottom of the shirt slid upwards, not stopping until it was just below Leo's breasts. The shirt changed, and material became a piece of dark blue silk. At the same time, the denim of his jeans darkened and grew softer. The legs became a semi-transparent embroidered mesh, while the top became a solid panty that hugged his broad hips and heart-shaped butt. His Nikes shrank down into a pair of soft sandals, blue with blue sequins, even as they curled up at the toe. Leo gasped and smelled the spices Danny had mentioned.
"Very nice," Danny said with a leer. "Barbara Eden eat your heart out." He thought for a moment. "For my next wish, let's see. The...ah...State Lottery is at $40 million. I wish to be holding the only winning ticket in tonight's drawing."
"Done, Master," Leo heard himself say. "The ticket is in your wallet." Then he managed to add, "and may you never get a minute's good from it."
"That's not a very mice attitude, djinn. I think -- yes -- my next wish is that you always act in a sweet, submissive manner towards me."
"Aw, shit," Leo said, feeling a sort of tingle in his head. Then he bowed low and smiled. "As you wish, my Master."
"For my next wish...let me ask you a question, djinn. Can you change things so that I've got a twenty point increase in intelligence, and I've always been a straight A student?"
"If it would please you, Master. The records would change, and all would have that memory. You would have the knowledge, as well."
"Then do it." Danny felt an odd sort of "itch" inside his head. Leo thought back to the differential calculus class that he'd almost flunked last spring. Almost flunked? He'd aced that course. In fact, Dr. Dixon had wanted him to submit that proof he'd done as an extra credit assignment for publication in the Math Society Journal. "Well, I'll be..." he said with a broad smile.
Leo bowed low, giving Danny a fine view of his breasts, straining against the silken halter. "My Master is pleased?"
"More than pleased."
"Then, I most humbly beg you, Master, to free me from the lamp." He looked up at him, shyly smiling, a tear, a real tear in his eye.
"I will, djinn...later. I have a bit more to wish for, though."
"Your slightest wish is mine to obey." Leo couldn't help himself. He took Danny's hand in his, lifted it to his lovely lips and gently kissed it. 'Well,' Leo thought, 'it'll be worth it to be myself again.'
"Okay then," Danny said. "I want to be six foot tall and solidly built and skilled enough that I can be on the football team. In fact, that's how I wish everyone to remember, that I've always been a lineman, not first string, necessarily, but on the team, instead of just the assistant manager and damned waterboy."
Danny grew several inches taller. His body filled out, as his shirt, now a team shirt with his number on it, grew tight against his muscular chest. "This is great," he yelled and went through a quick set of weight lifter poses.
"I am glad that you are pleased, my Master. Now am I to be set free?"
"One more thing. I want the sexual expertise of an experienced lover, the stamina to go all night, and a prick that's nine inches long when I'm not excited and two inches longer when I am."
Leo actually felt himself blush. "As my Master wishes, so shall it be."
Danny felt the "itch" in his head again. Images, erotic techniques, flashed before his eyes. His pants grew tight in the crotch, then the fabric shifted, giving him the room he now needed. "Thank you, djinn. Now to see about setting you free of that lamp as a normal human being."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Master." When he was himself, Leo had all sorts of ideas about what he wanted to do to this squirt. Yet, even as he thought of them, his mind rejected them, unwilling due to the earlier wish, to do Danny any sort of harm.
"First, let me tell you about a girl I know. Listen closely, stand still, and don't interrupt." Leo nodded. "Her name is Tamara Faoud. She's an orphan, paying her way through school here with part of her inheritance from her parents' importing firm. She's a sophomore history major and rather bright with a happy, playful personality. We met about a year ago, and she's utterly devoted to me emotionally and physically, sort of a sex slave, you might say."
Leo shuddered, realizing what was coming, but unable to stop him.
Danny continued. "She's here at the beach today, wearing a cotton blouse and skirt over a very skimpy bikini. She's very beautiful. She looks just like you, djinn. In fact, she is you. My final wish is that you be free of the lamp and a normal human being, the girl I just described."
"No, Master, please, I beg you."
"Make it so...Tamara."
Leo nodded. He felt a tingle run through his body. His clothes shifted. The harem pants slid up his leg, merging into a tube that became a short denim skirt. The halter grew longer, becoming a tank top with small heart-shaped buttons. He felt something move under the skirt, as the thong of his bikini pant slid up between his cheeks.
The lamp faded from Danny's hand.
As it did, other things faded as well. Danny and Leo blinked their eyes and stared at each other as memories were rewritten. Since Danny hadn't included it in his wish, neither of them had any memory of the lamp or the wishes.
Danny McKean looked at his girlfriend, Tamara, and smiled. "Have I told you how beautiful you look today?"
She smiled back and shyly took his hand. "Yes, but I love to hear you say it. Are we going to swim? I've got a brand new bikini I want to show you." She slowly began to unbutton her blouse.
"I can't wait to see you in it," Danny said as he began to unbutton his own shirt.
Tamara blushed. "And I can't wait until you see me _out_ of it...Master."
The End
Djinn Game III
By Ellie Dauber © 2003
Beachcombing after a storm, Fred Scofield finds a magical, jade and silver egg, the home of a beautiful, female djinn. Trying to impress — and seduce — her, Fred brags of his sexual prowess. The djinn challenges him to prove his claims, and, when he agrees to do so, Fred begins a journey through time, space, and his own past in a manner he could never have imagined. And plays a game of “Wits and Wishes” just as strange in its outcome.
This story was originally posted as a chapter of the antology-story,“Octet”, on FictionMania.
Djinn Game III
By Ellie Dauber © 2003
The beach was covered with litter from the storm. Fred Scofield muttered to himself as he walked along it. He'd found a long thin piece of driftwood that he was using for a walking stick, and every so often, he vented by taking a swing at something half-buried in the sand.
"Bad enough, Spring has to cancel at the last minute," he said. "I drive up, figuring I could find myself a playmate up here for the weekend, and that damn storm hits ten minutes after I get here."
Spring Harper was the woman Fred was currently seeing. She compensated for her mundane life as a stock analyst during the day by having a rather imaginative sex life in her off-hours. Unfortunately, her boss had dumped a two-foot pile of paper on her desk at 3 PM on Friday and told her to have a full report on it for a meeting at 10 AM Monday morning.
Fred poked at a small, gray crab that hurriedly scuttled away. "If I wanted to sit alone eating cold pizza and listening to the rain, I could have stayed in the city." He was about to chase after the crab - - just to have something to do, when he saw a bit of shiny metal lying there in the sand.
It was some kind of ornament, a green stone -- jade, perhaps -- and the size and shape of an egg, inside an ornate silver filigree. It looked very expensive. "Maybe this weekend won't be a total loss after all." There were patches of mud and sand stuck to the egg. Fred pulled out his shirttail and began to clean it.
The egg began to hum softly. A glow spread through it, pulsing to match the hum. "What the hell?" Fred dropped the egg in surprise. He stared at it as it lay in the sand, the hum getting louder.
Suddenly, a thin column of dark gray smoke began to rise from the egg. It formed into a vaguely human shape and began to grow lighter in color. At first, the smoke was turning blue, but it stopped and, instead, became a light shade of pink. Then, miraculously, the smoke compacted into a human figure.
A very female figure.
Her hair was a sea of auburn, flowing in waves down to her waist. Her skin was the color of dark honey; her eyes, the black of a moonless night. Her face was pleasing, heart-shaped; her lips were full, pouting, and begging to be kissed. The rest of her was a mass of feminine curves. Her breasts were two great pillows that strained against a pale green halter. Her waist was narrow enough that a man might put his arms around it. His eyes were drawn at last to the curvature of her thighs, gateways to infinite pleasures hidden yet revealed in matching translucent harem pants and a small satin panty.
She stared at the man for a moment, then, in a voice like the tinkling of bells, she said, "I am... Jamala, oh, my master. For the freeing of this humble slave, you are granted three wishes."
Forget the wishes. Fred wanted her. He wanted to see that hair spread out on a bed as he drove into her. He wanted to feel those lips around his maleness. He wanted to suckle at those breasts until he tasted their honeyed milk. He wanted... "I want to make love to you."
"Is that your first wish, Master?" Damn, she made it seem so mechanical.
"Ye... No! I want you to be with me because you want to, not because I ordered you to."
Jamala put a hand on her chin and seemed to be studying him. 'Well,' he thought. 'I'm not a bad looking guy, or so Spring tells me. I can still fit into the speedos I wore on the Rutgers swim team ten years ago. I can fill them out pretty good, too, if I do say so myself.'
She seemed to be reading his mind. Her eyes lingered at his crouch, and she smiled. Her tongue poked out and slid against her upper lip. "You are most handsome, Master, and mightily endowed, but it is not looks -- or size -- that make the lover; it is skill. I am of the Green Djinn and over 2700 years old. I have been with some of the greatest lovers known to your history. How can I know that you are to be counted among them?"
"I... I don't know." He grinned. "Why don't you just take a chance? I don't think you'll be disappointed."
Jamala had seemed to be no more that 5 foot 6, half a head shorted than him. In an instant, she loomed 50 foot tall or more. Lightening seemed to crackle in the air around her. "No, my Master. You do not want to take the chance, for you would not enjoy my being disappointed." Her voice boomed down at him.
"I... I guess not. What do we do, them?"
She was suddenly normal sized again, smiling happily at him. "There is a way, Master. If you wish, I could cast you back through the years to relive your every sexual encounter. Our minds would be linked, so that I might experience your skills. In this way, I could know." She leered at him. "And know you also, Master, such an experience can be very arousing." She said that last word almost as a purr.
"All right. Do it." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "but only encounters with real women: no fantasizing, no jacking off with a Playboy when I was eleven, and nothing Oedipal."
"Of course, my Master. You have only to make the wish."
"I wish it," he said firmly. He began to feel lightheaded. Everything went black, and he felt himself falling.
***
He landed with a thump.
It was his room in the house on Spruce Street in Middleburg, the one they'd lived in till he was fifteen. Sure enough, there was a 1987 Playboy calendar on the wall, right by the Farrah poster. There were books on the desk across from his bed, ninth grade English Literature, the top one said.
"She did it," he whispered, unsure what would happen next. Then he... giggled?
The door opened, and his 14-year old self walked in. Freddy, his younger self, was carrying a bottle of his parents' whiskey and two glasses. He was in his undershorts and socks. "Is this okay?"
"'S fine," Fred said. His voice was high and soft, a girl's voice. "I really shouldn't be doing this." Fred looked down at his body. He saw a pair of breasts -- 32-B, maybe -- in a white cotton bra. Below that were a narrow waist and a pair of rounded hips in a matching white panty. There was no bulge at the groin.
'Tammy Griggs,' he thought. 'I'm Tammy Griggs, and this is the day we both lost our virginity.' He panicked. 'Genie... Jamala... what's going on?'
'I am most certainly not a mere genie,' said a voice in his mind. 'I am of the Green Djinn and worthy of respect. Your wish was that I know if you are worthy to be my bed partner. How can I learn this by seeing how you felt during the act of sex? No, my Master, I can only learn by discovering how you made your bedmates feel, and for me to learn this, you must experience it with them.' Fred thought that he heard a chuckle, then there was only a silence within his mind.
All thought stopped when Fred felt the burn of alcohol in his throat. The whiskey Freddy had poured settled in his stomach making a nice warm feeling. He felt Freddy's arm around his waist, pulling him close.
Their noses got in the way, and they fumbled with the kiss for a moment before Fred/Tammy felt Freddy's lips against his own. The kiss was gentle... sweet. He felt his arms rising up to encircle Freddy's neck. His breasts were warm, tingly. His crotch felt... warm, warm and... empty.
Freddy's fingers fumbled with his bra. 'Well, I get the hang of it eventually.' He felt his... Tammy's arms move behind him and unhook it. He smiled and let it fall from his body.
Freddy kissed him again, leaning forward. His/Tammy's body was pushed back onto the bed. He giggled as he fell and tried to move to a sexy position. Freddy was suddenly on the bed with him, kissing him on the mouth, on the breasts. He felt his... Tammy's body squirming with excitement.
Freddy reached down at started to tug at his panties. Fred felt Tammy's fear that they might rip. "Wait a minute," he/she said impatiently. His/her body raised itself slightly off the bed. Freddy pulled the panty down. Tossing it away with a triumphant smile on his face.
Freddy was on top of him/her. Something moved against Fred/Tammy's upper thigh. "Better let me," he/she said. He/she reached down to guide his penis. It seemed so strange to Fred to be touching someone else's penis, even though he knew that it was really the younger version of his own.
It slid in easily. His/her vagina was wet and ready. "Oh," he/she said at the odd feeling of being penetrated. For Tammy, it was something she'd expected, actually looked forward to -- if it was the right boy. Fred had never known, never expected to know anything like it. 'Did it have to feel so good?' he thought nervously.
It did, and the feeling got better and better. Fred felt transported. His younger body seemed to be pumping megavolts of sexual energy into Tammy's body. It was Fred as well as Tammy that shouted "Yes, yes!" before the words dissolved into a high pitched scream.
The scene shifted. He was Tammy again, but it was about two weeks later. They had made love the second time at her house. Her parents came back just as he/she climaxed. Freddy heard them and tried to stop, but he/she wouldn't let him pull out. Freddy almost killed his older self by stuffing a pillow in his/her face to muffle the noise.
The orgasm that second time had felt even better than the first.
He was never Tammy again. Her parents had found them upstairs. They were fully dressed but still upstairs. Freddy was blamed, and Tammy wasn't allowed to see him again.
Then Fred was the succession of the girls he'd dated through the rest of high school. By his senior year, Freddy had earned a reputation as a cocksman among a certain segment of the females in the class. Fred found himself being fucked the back seat of cars, in various bedrooms and basement family rooms. He was amazed at the pride Myra Hertzog felt in being taken on the floor of her father's legal office, when they snuck in there one Saturday. She'd always pretended that she hadn't meant it to happen.
Fred barely noticed that the revulsion he'd felt at first was smaller each time. He tried to change things, to force the body of the girl to push his younger self away. He couldn't. After a few times, he was getting so caught up in the pleasure that he just stopped trying.
It got even better during Freddy's college years. The girls had been more adventurous and more skilled. Fred was fucked in quiet corners of the library, in dorm rooms, and even classrooms. He found him/herself on his/her back in his frat house, and in the "guest" beds at a couple of sororities.
Fred found him/herself on his/her knees giving head. Yes, he'd learned to enjoy that, too, at college. Fred felt the cramping of his/her period just as Freddy came in the mouth of one steady girlfriend. He didn't care; Freddy had played with his/her clit, even ignoring the blood, until he/she had to do something.
He felt the increased pleasure of threesomes. Whether it was a spare boy or a spare girl didn't matter as long as the orgasms came. They were something Fred was looking forward to now, and Freddy never seemed to disappoint.
On into his twenties and the sleek women he'd known... and loved. Fred's mind lingered over each encounter. He was enjoying it now, enjoying the kissing on his mouth, his breasts, his... his pussy. Foreplay was wonderfully different for each woman he became. He thrilled as his body warmed, as the nerves "pinged" with arousal. It was incredible to feel his nipples grow hard, his pussy grow warm, and wet, and empty.
Then... then Freddy, wonderful Freddy, would fill it. He would pump and pump. He would reach down and play with Fred's clit. Sometimes he used a finger or his limber tongue. Whatever he did, the orgasms would build and build until the moment of ultimate, pleasurable release.
It was that way when he shared the experience with Meg, and Sally, and Tamara (his bit of brown sugar), and... He lost track of how many "ands" there were.
Until he was Spring Harper. There was that last time, was it only four days ago, when Freddy had walked into her office just before five. They had a date for dinner, but Freddy hadn't wanted to wait.
Freddy took Fred/Spring in his arms and kissed her. Freddy's tongue forced its way between his/her teeth and played with his/her own. Fred felt his body warm, heard it moan. He felt Freddy's hands pushing his/her dress up, pulling his/her panties down, and taking him/her there right on the desk. The office wasn't empty, and the risk of getting caught just added to the pleasure of it.
Fred was still screaming, still feeling the orgasm, when he found himself back in his own body. He was standing on the beach looking at Jamala.
"You are a most skilled lover, Master. If you still want my body..." she let the words trail off.
She was a beautiful as before, but Fred felt different about her now. "I do; I do," Fred said eagerly. "I want your body -- or one like it. I-I want to experience that sort of sex for the rest of my life. I...I want to be a woman, a beautiful woman." he blurted out the words, almost surprising himself. No, it wasn't a surprise. He had just experienced what might be described as a fifteen-year long multiple orgasm. Who wouldn't want to be a woman after something like that?
The sensation that followed was like being dipped headfirst in warm honey. Fred's hair grew long and silky, reaching down to just below the shoulders. His face soften as his cheekbones rose and his nose straightened and grew smaller. His lips seemed a bit larger, though. His Adam's apple shrank away, so that his voice was now a pleasant contralto. His body shrank and became thinner. What body hair he had disappeared except for the woman's inverted triangle in his crotch.
A woman's curves came in, now. He felt a pulling at his chest. His pects became breasts, growing out until they were a 36-C, pushing out his shirt. His waist narrowed and his hips grew wide. His ass grew out into the teardrop of a woman's ass. His arms and legs developed the supple roundness of a woman.
The final -- truly final -- change came last. His penis grew erect for the last time. It reached its full length before it began to shrink away. His testicles shrank and withdrew into his body to become ovaries. The empty sacks tightened, reduced to a pair of lips that surrounded the nub that was the last remnant of his manhood. The nub became even smaller as it settled down into the slit that was forming between his legs.
Fred Scofield was now a woman.
"How do I look? How do I look?" she asked eagerly. Jamala smiled and made a gesture. The air in front of him shimmered and became a sort of mirror. Fred stared at the reflection. She was beautiful, but... "Why am I still in these clothes, and where is my make-up and all that?"
"Master... Mistress, your wish was for the body of a woman. That was all. You are still Fred Scofield. You wear his clothes because he wore them, and you wear no make-up because he did not."
"The hell with that. I wish... I wish I was a girl, that I was always a girl as far as the rest of the world is concerned, dressed and made up for the male lover I want here with me as soon as possible."
"And that is your final wish?" Jamala smiled. It was the sort of smile a hawk would have as he swooped down on an unsuspecting squirrel.
"Yes, yes. That's what I wish."
Jamala nodded. "Then let it be done." She clapped her hand.
A flood of memories washed into Fred's mind. She still remembered being a male, but those memories were less clear. The clearer memories were of being a little girl, of her first bra, her first date, her first... the first time a boy had kissed her, had made love to her.
And she remembered that people called her Frieda, not Fred.
At that same instant, Frieda's clothes began to change. Her sport shirt lost its sleeves as it shifted from dark blue cotton to a pale blue Lycra. It was sheerer now, and the push-up bra that her T-shirt had become could be partly seen through it.
At the same time, her Dockers moved up her legs. They merged into a single tube of cloth that reformed into a blue beach skirt, with a matching pair of short shorts beneath it. Beneath them, what had been a pair of men's briefs was now a sheer thong panty.
Her sandals were still sandals, but they had a one-inch heel now. She felt something on her face and looked in the mirror again. "These clothes, they're beautiful and... make-up. I'm wearing make-up." She was, lipstick and blusher.
Frieda primped in front of the mirror, admiring her reflection. Then she pouted. "But I wished for a lover, too, a man to make me feel..." She shivered and hugged herself in anticipation.
"As my Mistress wishes," Jamala said. She clapped her hands. "Behold my true form, then."
The Djinn began to grow taller. Her curves filled out into hard angular muscle. Her hair shrank down into a thin layer of stubble, even as a beard grew out from her chin. Her breasts withdrew back into the hard pectorals of her chest even as the halter that had held them became a man's vest. Her pants remained, but they were the solid cloth of a pair of male pants. They even had the bulge at the crotch that hinted at what is so often found in a male's pants.
Frieda was looking at that same bulge. She licked her lips in anticipation as she felt the familiar tingling in her breasts and groin.
Jamal stepped forward, taking the eager woman in his arms. Tricking a human with their own wishes was the favorite sport of the Green Djinn. This human had given Jamal the chance to play a truly historic prank upon him. Not only that, but now she offered herself as a personal reward.
Jamal took the eager, new woman into his arms and disappeared into the egg that was the gateway to his own realm.
The End
In the midst of the Great Recession, computer analyst Harry Jerome finally found a job as driver and general go-fer for millionaire investor Tommy Del Fino. Del Fino is a bully who constantly belittles Harry. Then Harry finds a magic lamp.
Djinn Game IV
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2004
Harry Jerome pulled the car over to the side of the narrow dirt road. "I don't think this is the right road, Mr. Del Fino."
Tommy Del Fino leaned forward from the back seat. "What're you talking about? The map says this is the way to the hotel." His company, Del Fino Investments, owned 30 percent of Coral Breeze, a popular resort complex. Del Fino had decided to spend a long weekend checking out his investment -- and its female clientele.
"Didn't you say I should drive for five miles after we got off Rt. 119? The road was supposed to open onto the Coast Highway."
"You got it; it's right here on the map. What's the matter with you?" Harry could hear the sound of rustling paper.
"I've driven almost ten miles. There's no sign of the highway, and there's nothing ahead but a section of beach."
"You must've done something wrong; turned left when I said turn right."
"I've been following your directions exactly."
"Yeah, sure. I don't know why I ever hired a wuss like you to drive for me."
Harry clenched the wheel with both hands. 'You hired me as your executive assistant,' he thought, 'not as your personal slave.' Aloud he asked, "May I see the map?"
"Listen, you fag, I spent two hitches in the Guard. You telling me I don't know how to read a map?"
"I thought I could see where _I_ went wrong." Del Fino had been insulting Harry since the day he hired him. The way the economy was going, Harry tried hard to ignore it. The eight months he'd spent unemployed before he met Del Fino had taught him patience, if nothing else.
Del Fino looked out the window. "We're on a hill. Let's take this outside. You can spread the map out on the hood and look for landmarks."
"I'd rather stay inside if you don't mind. It's kind of windy out there. It'll be easier to work the map in here."
The rear door opened. "Now he's afraid of the damned wind. Get out of the car, you pansy." He climbed out without giving Harry a chance to argue. By the time Harry had gotten out and walked around to the other side, Del Fino had the map opened. It was catching the wind like a sail. Here, flake, you take it."
Harry reached for the map. At that moment, the wind gusted. It tore the map out of Del Fino's hand and lofted it like a kite. "Shit," Del Fino said. "Now look what you did."
Harry sighed and chased after it. Del Fino followed. Harry was a slender man in his early twenties, who ran three times a week. Del Fino was almost two decades older; he was larger, built like a wrestler, but with a well-developed beer belly. He soon fell far behind his employee.
The wind was playing with the map, lifting it to treetop heights before it swooped down like a hungry bird, almost touching the ground. Now the wind carried it out onto the beach. Harry speeded up, having no wish to follow the map into the ocean. If that was where the map went, Harry knew that Del Fino would expect him to follow.
The map swooped low. Harry saw something shiny sticking out of the sand tight where the map was heading. "Get it, please," he whispered, a sort of plea to the object -- whatever it was -- as he ran. "Have a spike, a sharp edge, anything to catch that damned map."
The object had something. The wind all but pushed the map towards the object. It ripped wide as it impaled itself on what looked like a horn at one end. Harry ran over and crumpled the map around the object before the wind ripped it loose. "Thank heavens," he said and started walking back to the car.
He'd walked about thirty feet by the time Del Fino caught up with him. "Took you long enough to catch that thing," he said, gasping for breath. "What the hell's it wrapped around?"
"I didn't look," Harry answered. He carefully pulled back a piece of the map, trying not to tear it any more. The object was brass, some kind of candle holder. No, it was... "A lamp," Harry said in surprise. "Like something out of the Arabian Nights."
"Yeah, and I suppose if you rub it, a what-ya-call-it... a genie'll pop out." He laughed. "Kid, you're even dumber than you look, and that's saying a lot."
"I didn't say it was magic," Harry said defensively. "I just thought it was an interesting looking piece of brass. I think I'm going to keep it."
"Keep it. Marry it. I don't give a damn. Just find the way to the hotel, or you'll need to hock it to eat. You understand me, fruitcake?" He turned and headed for the car, now several hundred feet away.
"Yes, sir." Harry folded the map as best he could and crammed it into a pocket of his jacket. He brushed some clumps of moist sand off the lamp and began to push it into another pocket when...
The lamp began to "thrummm!"
Harry almost dropped the lamp. A thin stream of greenish smoke flowed slowly out of the nose of the lamp. Rather than rise skyward, the smoke hung a few feet above the ground, forming into a thick cloud. Gradually, the cloud of smoke assumed a humanoid form.
"Greetings, my Master," the cloud said. It was now a slender man in green robes, his skin a darker shade of the same green.
"Who the... what the hell are you?"
"I, Master, am Ishaq, a princeling of the Green Djinn. You have freed me from my prison of a lamp, and I shall repay you with the granting of three wishes."
Del Fino ran over to the pair. "That man works for me. Those wishes are mine."
"What my Master has done to earn his bread matters not," Ishaq said. "He freed me from the lamp which he still holds. The wishes are his."
"Give me that thing, you little pansy." Del Fino pushed Harry in the chest.
Harry stumbled backwards, half falling half stumbling down the hill back towards the beach. His only thought was to hold onto the lamp, if only because Del Fino wanted it. He landed on his butt, and when he looked up, he saw Del Fino running towards him.
The older man had found a branch -- a piece of driftwood, maybe -- about three feet long. He was waving it menacingly as he ran.
Harry scrambled to his feet, moving backwards. He stepped into the water. "Help me, Ishaq. Help me."
"Is that your wish, Master?" The green man was suddenly next to him, sitting cross-legged about three feet off the ground.
"Yes! Yes, I wish you to help me, to keep Mr. Del Fino from hurting me."
"Done." The djinn made an odd gesture with his right hand.
Del Fino froze in place. A cone of silver energy surrounded him. 'He looks like a bug in a glass,' Harry thought. Inside the energy cone, Del Fino began to move again. He planted his feet and pushed against the cone with his whole body. When that didn't work, he began pounding it with his fists. Nothing worked.
"He cannot harm you, Master. He will remain within in that band of energy until you order me to release him." Ishaq chuckled unpleasantly. "Or until he dies."
"Dies? I-I never wanted him to die. I've thought about it, but I never really meant it. I still have two wishes left, don't I?"
"You do, Master. What would you have me do with this one?"
"I've had it with all his snide remarks about my manhood. I wish for you to change him... change him into a beautiful woman."
"What sort of beauty would you wish, Master?"
"What do you mean, umm... Ishaq?"
"Master, you are a son of Adam, a mortal human being. I am of the Green Djinn, an immortal of the Plane of Fire. Can you not perceive that we would have _very_ different ideas of feminine beauty?"
Harry thought for a moment. "Point taken. Go with the human..." He remembered something. "Wait a minute. I've read stories about what tricksters you djinn are supposed to be. Let's go with my idea of a beautiful woman."
"That is your wish, Master, that I transform this one..." he pointed at Del Fino "...into your ideal female beauty?"
"Yes, and I mean my _current_ ideal, not what I might have thought when I was five or what I might think when I'm 105 and senile."
Harry looked at Del Fino, who was mouthing something that Harry couldn't hear. From the expression on Del Fino's face and the gestures he was making, Harry suspected that the imprisoned man had heard every word that Harry and Ishaq had just spoken. Del Fino was pushing himself back against the far wall of the energy cone, shaking his hands as if to say, "No."
"Well played, Master, to word your wish as you have." Ishaq touched his forehead as if in salute. Then he made a second odd gesture at Del Fino.
The man in the cone _shimmered_. He shrank about six inches, his clothes shrinking, so that they still fit. As he shrank, Del Fino became slimmer. His shoulders narrowed. The muscles in his arms melted away. So did his rather respectable beer belly. His ham-sized fists became much smaller.
Del Fino's thinning, dull brown hair changed to a vibrant brown with auburn highlights. It became fuller, as it grew down over his eyes, past his neck, to pool around his shoulders, a mass of curls.
His square jaw softened. His face became heartshaped, with high cheekbones. His lips were thicker, with more of a permanent pout that begged to be kissed. His nose straightened and shrank to an upturned pug. His brown eyes were now green with gold flecks. He looked younger, too. Perhaps no older than Harry.
Two breasts suddenly blossomed beneath Del Fino's shirt. From the way they pushed it out, Harry guessed that they were at least 36-D. Del Fino's hips were widening as well. His pants were tighter now, around a narrower waist, and on down legs that had a much more girlish set of curves to them. There was no bulge at the crotch.
Tommy "Bull" Del Fino was now a woman.
And the changes weren't over. The sleeves of Del Fino's suit jacket disappeared, and it grew tighter as if becoming a vest. Shirt, vest, and pants merged into a single garment that looked like an odd jumpsuit. The garment altered, the pants flaring out and fusing together. It became oddly mottled. In a moment, it was a flowing, knee-length blue and yellow summer dress with a tight bodice and puffed sleeves. The collar was low, showing the tops of her pillowy breasts.
Del Fino's dark gray socks slid up his legs, becoming lighter, sheerer, joining at the hips as a pair of almost invisible pantyhose. Black oxfords whitened, losing their front as they grew a modest heel. They were now a pair of low-heeled slippers the same blue color as the dress.
There was polish on Del Fino's fingers and toes. His lips were colored with a pink gloss. There was blusher on his cheeks and mascara on his lashes. The odors of aftershave and male sweat were gone, replaced by the faint scent of lilacs.
Now the transformation was complete. Del Fino was truly lovely. Harry felt himself stiffen as he looked at her. "All right, Ishaq, you can release her now." He grinned evilly, as the energy field faded away and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "This is gonna be _fun_."
Del Fino's eyes went wide with disbelief and -- yes -- fear. Then her expression changed. She closed her eyes and shook her head as if trying to clear it. When she opened her eyes a moment later, she was crying. She ran to Harry and fell to her knees in front of him.
"Begging for mercy, _Mr._ Del Fino?" Harry asked cynically. "It won't help you." His hand moved towards his zipper. "But as long as you're in that position..."
Del Fino looked up at him, her eyes full of tears. "Do... do whatever you want to me, Harry. I d-deserve it for the horrible way I treated you."
"Damn straight." His hand hesitated. There was something... something so very compelling about the woman.
He was trying to understand his feelings, when she suddenly blurted out, "I love you, Harry, love you with all my heart and soul."
He tried to laugh. "That should make it even more... even... more..." He reached down and gently helped her to her feet. "I... I can't do it. I... love you, too." He took her in his arms and kissed her, still unsure of what was happening. He felt her arms around him, her body pressed eagerly against his, as the kiss deepened from their new, _shared_ need.
When they finally, reluctantly broke the kiss, Harry looked around. The djinn was standing a few feet away, a satisfied grin on his face.
"You managed to trick me after all," Harry said. "I wanted to torture her, to pay her back for all the pain and humiliation she caused me when she was a man."
"Indeed, Master," Ishaq said. "And now you want to cherish and protect her." He laughed. "Yet, how can it be otherwise. You wished her to be your ideal woman, and what manner of man would not have his ideal woman love him?"
Harry completed the thought. "And what man could help but love his ideal woman? Regardless of who or what she had been."
"That, Master, is the cream of the jest. You truly love each other with all your hearts, even thought your minds tell you that you should not."
Harry thought for a moment. He was trained as a logic systems engineer, even if no one was hiring. This was just the sort of puzzle he'd been trained to solve. "Okay, Ishaq, my final wish is that this woman has always been... Mandy... Amanda Del Fino, daughter of the owner of Del Fino Investments, and... as of yesterday, my loving bride."
The djinn laughed. "Very well played, Master. It has been a long time since I came so close to meeting my match in such a game of Wits and Wishes, as we call it." He made a sweeping gesture with both arms, ending by pointing at Harry and... Amanda.
"I beat you," Harry said. He was feeling odd. He sat down next to Amanda, as a wave of dizziness flowed over the pair of them.
"Did you, my _former_ Master?" Ishaq began to fade away. "If she has _always_ been Amanda, then you have no memory of finding the lamp or making any wishes. How can you say that you have bested me when you have no memory of doing so?" As he finished, the djinn and the lamp vanished.
Harry suddenly found himself sitting in a beach chair, looking into the eyes of Mandy, his bride of one day. They were on the lawn of the Coral Breeze Hotel. Her father was one of the owners of the hotel complex, and their month-long honeymoon stay was his wedding gift.
"Are you all right?" she asked, gently running a finger along his jawline.
He smiled at her. "Just a little tired. I... we... ah, didn't get a lot of sleep last night."
"Maybe you should go lie down in the room for a bit."
"That might be a good idea." He stood and looked down at her. She was wearing a short, blue and yellow robe over a very skimpy matching bikini. "Care to join me?"
She raised her hand. He took it and helped her to her feet. "That might be a good idea." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "I think I could use a nap just now."
Harry put his arm around her lovely, narrow waist. "And you'll have one... eventually."
Now Mandy grinned. "Just so it's not too soon."
They joined hands and all but ran back to their cabana suite. As he ran, Harry thought that he heard a deep baritone laugh, but no one seemed to be around.
Dave and Sara Hoffer are at a seaside resort to renew their wedding vows on their 40th anniversary. When they find a magic djinn, they wish to be young enough to PROPERLY consummate those vows.
Everyone's heard the expression, "Be careful what you wish for." You should also be careful HOW you wish for it.
Author's Note: The title for this series of stories reflects the view djinn have regarding their dealings with humans. They think of the granting of wishes as a game, with their goal being to twist wishes to their own ends at the expense of the person making the wish. As revealed in an earlier story, they call this game, "Wits and Wishes". Good wishes that have benefit only to those other than the wisher are exempt from tampering.
The Djinn Game V
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2007
"Look, there's another one!" Sara Hoffer hurried down to the water's edge and knelt down. She picked up another, small, white shell and put it into a cloth bag she was carrying.
Her husband, Dave, pushed back the baseball cap he wore over his thinning white hair. "How many more of those things are you after, Sara?"
"As many as I can find. When we get home, I want to put them in a glass vase the way Diane Keaton did in that movie with Jack Nicholson. Don't you remember?"
"I was too busy watching what Diane Keaton was doing with Jack Nicholson." He gave her his best leer.
Sara laughed. "You, sir, are a dirty old man."
"I prefer to be called a 'sexy senior citizen', thank you, and it helps to have somebody as pretty as you to inspire me."
"Mmm, you sound pretty inspired."
"It must be all this sun and fresh air -- and the company, of course." He gave her another comic leer, "or maybe the fact that we're getting married in a few hours."
Sara gave him back a shy smile. "Yes, we are, aren't we, and thank you. It's a wonderful anniversary present."
"It's been a wonderful 40 years. Why not celebrate by renewing our vows?" He chuckled. "Besides, I knew you wanted to do it. I heard you talking to Helen about it."
"You snoop! How long have you been listening in on my private conversations with our daughter?"
"Years and years; it was the only way I could ever keep ahead of you two." He took her hand and gently kissed it. "Forgive me?"
"I suppose I'll have to." She gave his hand a squeeze. "Could we collect a few more shells before we go back to the hotel?"
"Just a few. I want to lie down for a bit before we have to change for the wedding."
"Lie down; are you all right?" A look of concern crossed her face.
Dave smiled. "I'm fine... honest. I just thought that, as long as we're renewing our vows this evening, we could... re-consummate them after."
"That sounds lovely. I just thought..."
"I'm fine, just a little tired. It happens at my age, that's all." He grinned. "Hey, what's the difference between a honeymoon and a second honeymoon?"
"I-I give up, what?"
"On the second honeymoon, it's the husband who goes into the bathroom and cries."
"Like I said, you're a dirty old man, Sam Hoffer." Sara smiled and took his arm. "But you're my dirty old man."
He kissed her cheek. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. Let's go get some shells for my best girl." He looked out along the beach. "Say now, what's that?" He pointed at something about 60 yards away.
"I see it, too. It looks metallic. I wonder what it is."
"We'll know in a minute." Dave kissed her again and started towards the object. He reached it quickly. Too quickly; he had to stop to catch his breath before he knelt down. "Looks like some kind of old bottle," he told himself. He brushed the sand away and pulled it free.
It was brass, and about the size of a one-liter soda bottle. One side had raised symbols that might be letters in an alphabet he didn't recognize. The bottle had a green glass stopper that was connected to the bottle by a tiny chain.
"Got it," he yelled back to Sara. He lifted it over his head to show her before he started briskly walking back.
"Do you think there's anything in it?" Sara asked.
Dave took a moment to catch his breath again before he answered. "I don't think so." He gave the bottle a gentle shake. "I don't feel like anything's shifting around in there. I don't hear any rattling either." He glanced down at the bottle in his hand. "Still there's only one sure way of knowing."
He tried to pull out the stopper. "Won't move," he muttered.
"Try turning it," Sara suggested.
It worked. "Feels like it's moving on a groove," he told her. "Thanks for the idea." At that moment, the stopper came free. He let it drop and held the bottle upright. "No sense in anything spilling out."
Nothing did. Dave pulled his lighter from his pocket and opened it. He was about to use the light to look down into the bottle, when a small puff of dark green smoke shot from its mouth. "What the hell..." he exclaimed in surprise.
A column of the same dark green smoke escaped from the bottle and floated in the air a few feet away. It didn't seem to move in spite of the mild breeze that had been blowing all day.
Gradually, the column resolved itself into the shape of a slender, well-muscled man. He wore baggy pants that ended in a tight circle of cloth a few inches below each knee. His only other clothing was a sleeveless vest without a single button closed. The being's skin was the color of summer grass, while his clothing, curly hair and short beard were all darker shades of green.
Sara realized what they were seeing. "A genie," she said in delight.
"No mere genie, my Mistress," the being replied, bowing its head. "Know you that I am a Prince of the Green Djinn. As a reward for freeing me, even for a time, from that bottle, I shall grant you three wishes."
Dave studied the being. "What's your name, or do we just call you Green Djinn?"
"Do you truly wish to know my name, Master?"
"Yes -- no!" Dave added quickly. "I've read stories about how tricky you genies are. Let's just say that I asked as a courtesy."
The man bowed. "Well played, Master. My name is Umar ibn Haroun, and, as I said, I not a common genie; I am a djinn, a Green Djinn, a being of noble birth and of great mystic power."
"Is it your wish to be called a djinn and not a genie?" Dave asked wryly.
Umar laughed and clapped his hands. "Well played, indeed, Master. Let us call it another courtesy."
"But we do get those wishes you mentioned," Sara interrupted. "Don't we?"
Umar bowed low. "You do, my Mistress. By the decree of Suilemann ibn Daud, conqueror of all the djinn, I am to repay any son of Adam -- or daughter of Eve..." He bowed his head to Sara a second time. "...for granting me this temporary freedom from the bottle by the granting of three wishes. Once these are granted, my bottle and I return to the ocean, so that I may await another master."
"Doesn't sound like the best of lives," Dave said.
"It is a penance, Master, and I serve it willingly enough. Now, what is it that you wish?"
"My first wish is for youth," Dave said almost without thinking. "When Sara and I renew our vows as man and wife tonight, I wish for us both to be as young -- physically and mentally -- as the day when we first got married. I want it to last, so we can re-consummate those vows the way a wedding night should be consummated."
Umar grinned at the couple. "And this is your wish, the both of you?" They nodded, and Umar continued. "Know then that such a wish requires a great deal of magic, so that all who know you will accept the changes you ask for. It will take time to bring forth and more time for me to recover from my efforts."
"How much time?" Sara asked cautiously.
"I shall need to remain in the bottle, which is my home as well as my prison, until... until midday tomorrow." He looked at them closely. "Do you still desire this as your first wish?"
"We do," they said together.
Umar made an odd gesture towards Sara and Dave. "So be it. And since you asked for youth only for your wedding and your wedding night, you will return to your true forms sometime in the morning."
"You tricked us, you bastard." Dave said. He could feel an odd, tingling sensation running through his body.
Sara looked at her hands. "And we're the same as we were." She felt a tingling as well.
"By now, you are feeling the magic forces gathering in your bodies," Umar told them. "The change will not occur until you have returned to your rooms. It is best that it happen in a private place, not a public beach." He gave a wicked grin and changed to the column of green smoke. The smoke waivered for a moment, then flowed back into the bottle.
Dave grabbed the bottle and replaced the stopper. "Just to be sure," he explained. "Only till tomorrow; what good is that?"
"Let's go, Dave." Sara took her husband's arm. "We still have two wishes. We can make it permanent tomorrow." He nodded reluctantly, and they turned and hurried towards their hotel.
* * * * *
Dave held the door to their hotel room opened for Sara. He followed her in and let it close behind them. She stopped by the bed, wringing her hands. "Now what do we do, Dave?"
"We wait, I guess." He put the bag of shells and the bottle on the dresser and walked over to Sara. "Scared?"
"A little," she admitted. "I feel so strange. I don't know if it's the magic or just nerves." She gave a nervous giggle."
He took her hand. "Or maybe a little of both. Whatever happens, we'll be --" He stopped as a great wave of fatigue washed over him.
"Dave, I-I feel so tired." She sat down on the bed.
"It must be the magic." He walked over to the other side of the bed and kicked off his shoes. "Maybe if we lie down for a -- yawn! -- a bit."
"I thought we were going to wait until after the ceremony for -- yawn! -- that." Sara teased.
"I hate to say it, Sara, but -- yawn -- right now, I just want to lie down. He sat down on edge of the bed. "Damn magic had better work. It owes me one." He put his feet up and fell back against the pillow.
Sara lay down next to him. "Can we snuggle, at least?" She moved even closer.
"That much, we can always do." He rolled over onto his side and put his arm around her waist. There was just time for a quick kiss on the side of her neck before they both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
"Dave... Dave..."
Someone was calling him from far away. 'Who?' he thought. 'The voice is familiar but..." He felt someone -- probably the same man -- shake him.
"Okay," he said, "I'm awake." He opened his eyes. A young man, 25 at most, was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at him. "Who the hell are you?" He asked.
The man smiled. "Look closely, especially at my eyes. Who do you think I am?"
"I have no idea," Dave said in a voice that sounded high to him. Still he looked.
'Nice looking guy,' he thought, not sure why. 'Rugged chin, strong nose, damned good haircut, and those eyes, so dreamy... deep, so deep, they're the same blue as..." Dave gasped. "Sara," he said aloud, "is that you in there?"
The man gave a slight nod and moved back. "It is. How about you, dear, are you all right?"
"I... I guess. I feel better than I have in years, full of energy, and all those little aches and pains that snuck up on me are gone." He took a breath. "But everything feels -- I don't know -- off, somehow."
Sara -- could he still call her... call him that? -- moved back. "Sit up and take a look at yourself." She paused a beat. "But be ready for a... shock."
"Okay, I -- What the hell?" Dave looked down at a slender, young, and very female body, his body. Two pillowy breasts were barely contained in a confection of pink lace, what Dave somehow knew was a canisole. It hugged his new curves and narrow waist. He was still wearing jeans. No, it was a short, denim skirt that was stretched against wide hips. As he sat up, he could see his legs, trim and tanned. "What happened to me -- to us?"
"Your wish, I think. You said -- what was it -- 'I want Sara and me to be young when we renew our vows as man and wife.' It was something like that, remember?"
Dave had taught middle school English for over thirty years, and he realized his mistake at once. "I do. The way I said it made you the man --"
"And you the wife." The new man finished the thought. "And we'll be like this until some time around noon tomorrow."
"Oh, Lord, how do we explain this to Helen and the others?"
"I don't think we'll have to. Umar said he was going to fix things, so we'd be accepted."
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. "Hey, you two decent?" It was Helen, their daughter.
"I always thought so." Sara stood and walked to the door. "We're dressed, too," She said.
A tall, buxom, young woman in a formal blue dress looked closely at Sara, as the door opened. "You're dressed, all right, Sam, but not for a wedding." She looked at Dave, who was just standing up. "And neither is Debbie, I see. What is with you guys?"
"Sam's suit is in our room, Helen, remember." A broad-shouldered man in a dark gray suit walked into the room. He was Nick, Helen's husband.
"I suppose that's a good excuse," Helen replied. "Why don't you two head over there, so he can put it on. I'll stay here and help my little sister get ready for her big day."
"Sounds like a plan. C'mon, Sam." Nick motioned at Sara, who, it seemed, was Sam now. The name suddenly seemed right to him.
Sam took Dave's -- Debbie's -- hand and kissed it gently. "See you later, Deb."
"Save it for the wedding," Nick said, grabbing Sam's arm. "So long, ladies." He led Sam to the door and closed it behind them.
Helen turned the lock and set the door guard. "Now he can't get back in." She looked at her wristwatch. "Okay, strip down. You take a quick shower, while I lay out your clothes and stuff."
* * * * *
Debbie turned off the water and pushed back the shower curtain. She was shorter than Dave was, and she had to step high to clear the side of the old, claw-foot tub. Without thinking, she took a towel from the rack and wrapped it around her wet hair.
"Now that was an experience," she told herself.
It had been. She'd showered quickly, as Helen had asked, but was more because she didn't want to dwell on how she had changed. She also didn't want to get started touching herself in those new, interesting places she had now.
Still, she was curious. Rather than wrap a second towel around herself, she walked over to the two-sink countertop. A large mirror took up most of the wall above it. "Let's see just what Debbie Hoffer looks like."
The mirror was fogged, so she used a washcloth to wipe it. Then she stepped back and posed. "Girl," she said, half bemused and half impressed by what she saw, "you are hot!"
Her reflection showed a slender, athletic body. "No tan line," she noticed and giggled, surprising herself at the sound. "Wonder how that happened." She turned and looked over her shoulder at a delightfully tear-shaped ass. In spite of herself, she ran her hand along it. "Mmm, firm, and it feels sooo good."
To distract herself from what she was feeling, Debbie leaned in to look at her face. "Dave's square jaw was gone, making her face rounder, heart-shaped, with full lips, a much smaller nose, and high cheekbones. His bushy eyebrows were replaced by her thin, well-trimmed arcs. It was a relief somehow to see that her eyes were the same hazel color as always, with the same tiny gold flecs.
A single, dark brown curl -- the same color Dave's had been at her age -- peeked out from the towel wrapped around her hair. She could see her ears, though. "Pierced," she said, noticing the two small pearl shapes on each lobe, "and more than once."
She straightened up and looked down at her body. Her breasts were as large as they'd first seemed. "Thirty-six D," she said, sounding a little surprised as the fact popped into her head. It made her feel embarrassed and proud at the same time. Her nipples were the size of her little finger above the first knuckle and centered in dark circles as big as a half-dollar. She touched one with her finger, raking it with her nail, and shivered at the sensation. She kept playing with it. Her other hand reached for her other breast and matched her actions. "Oh, yeah," she moaned softly. It felt good, and it was starting a similar, very pleasant feeling down between her legs.
"I wonder how it'd feel if Sam was -- what the hell am I doing?" She pulled her hands away just in time for Helen to knock on the bathroom door. "Hey, in there, are you out of the shower yet?"
Helen walked in before Debbie could answer. "About time. You'd best hurry, Sis. We only have the garden reserved for an hour." She picked up the pile of the clothes Debbie had been wearing. "I'll take care of these."
"But what'll I wear?"
"Hello... these are everyday clothes. Your bridal outfit's laid out for you on the bed, undies and all. Only... wait a second." She hurried out of the bathroom, only to return almost at once with a small, white porcelain jar. "Here," she said, handing the jar to Debbie, "call this an early wedding present."
"What is it?"
"It's that powder you liked so much when we went shopping last week, the stuff you said was too expensive for a poor, first year teacher like yourself." She smiled. "It is too expensive, but I figured a bride should be pampered."
'First year,' Debbie thought. 'Same ages as the first time, just like I wished.' She held the jar in one hand and lifted the lid. A massive pink puff was attached to the back of it, and she brought it to her nose. "Ohh, so nice." It was the same flowery scent that Dave had always enjoyed when Sara wore it.
Now it was her turn.
* * * * *
"Do you, Samuel Myron Ross, take this woman..." Rev. Tomlinson's voice was a bit reedy with age. He'd married Dave and Sara all those years ago, and they'd picked this hotel for renewing their vows because the now-retired minister lived nearby and was willing to officiate if he didn't have to travel too far.
"I do," Sam answered, when the older man had finished. The new male grinned, feeling he'd accomplished something, and looked at Debbie.
She felt a little shy from the way Sam was looking at her. She lowered her head as the reverend began again. "And do you, Deborah Elizabeth Hoffer, take this man. Debbie sighed, barely listening as Tomlinson finally came to, "...lawful wedded wife."
"Deb," Sam whispered as she just stood there, "you're supposed to say, 'I do', now."
Her cheeks flushed. "Oh... oh, my... yes, yes, of course, I do."
"Then, by the powers vested in me, I very happily pronounce you husband and wife." The reverend paused a beat. "Sam, you may now kiss your bride."
Sam gently lifted the lacy veil from in front of her face. He put his hands on her cheeks and lifted her head towards his own. "My... bride." Their lips met.
Debbie's arms rose up and around Sam's neck. She pressed her body against his, feeling her breasts pushed against his broad chest. A warmth flowed through her. She felt her nipples tighten and -- much scarier -- felt an emptiness between her legs.
"Me, a bride." She giggled at the thought, breaking the kiss. Then she moved her head back in and kissed her new husband again.
* * * * *
Sam slid the card that unlocked the hotel door. He held it open as Debbie walked past him and into the room. "Well, dinner was certainly fun," he said wryly as the door closed behind him.
"Umar said he was going to fix it so nobody would notice that we got young again. I'd say he outdid himself." Debbie put her white purse and the small bridal bouquet on the dresser.
"He sure did. Helen and Nick think we're their age -- heck, they think you're her kid sister."
"I know. She was whispering in my ear about some boy I evidently had a crush on in college and that you're such a better..." Her eyes went wide. "Tom... His name was Tom Werner. I remember dating him. We..." She suddenly blushed.
"What's the matter?"
"I... Debbie slept with him."
Sam laughed. "I guess I didn't marry a blushing vir -- no, we-we've slept together, too." He shook his head. "This is amazing."
Debbie felt the tingling warmth she'd felt before. "I-I remember that, too." She smiled at Sam. "You were good."
"I was inspired by my partner." He laughed. "Listen to us. We sound like we really did those things we're both remembering."
"It's kind of weird, though. I didn't know I was a teacher again until Helen told me, and I remember the first boy I ever... dated."
"Umar said he was going to fix things. I guess that includes us."
"Oh, I get it. I wished for youth so we could..." Her face reddened. "...consummate the wedding, so we remember stuff to make us more comfortable doing it."
"Do you want to consummate, I mean, while we're like this?"
"I... I guess."
"That was certainly an enthusiastic response." He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. "Let's just get ready for bed and see what happens." He turned away from her and stepped out of his shoes. Then he began to loosen his tie.
Debbie was wearing a knee-length white dress with thin straps. "Okay." She reached behind and slid the zipper partway down her back. Then, without a thought, she slipped first one strap, then the other, off her shoulders.
The dress slid down to puddle at her feet. Debbie gasped as she felt the cool air against her skin.
"Did you say some -- oh, wow!" Sam turned around to look at her. His tie was off, his shirt unbuttoned.
Debbie stood looking at her husband, not sure of his reaction. She wore a lacy, white teddy that hugged her curves. It was cut low, with two thin, spaghetti straps over her shoulders, lifting and accentuating her ample breasts, their nipples peeking out from the silk and lace trim.
The crotch piece was thin, barely wide enough to cover her, with the sides cut high, so that her legs seemed to go on forever. Matching garters, trimmed with small, ivory roses, stretched out from under the teddy, holding up thigh-high, white patterned stockings. Her pumps were white, with a four inch heel that added extra feminine curve to her legs.
Debbie had never unpinned the narrow headband that held her veil. She'd simply pushed the veil back. Now, of its own will, the veil slipped back over her face.
"My Lord, Deb," Sam said in amazement -- and lust. He felt himself grow rock hard. "You look so --"
She misunderstood. "Don't you dare laugh. Helen picked this stuff, and she kept pushing me into wearing it."
"Laughing's the last thing on my mind." He crossed the room to where she was standing and took her in his arms. Before she could react, he moved in and kissed her.
Debbie felt her breasts pushed flat against his chest. Her nipples tightened to hard points, as a burst of pleasure shot down from them direct to her groin. She moaned at the sensation, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth and began to play with her own tongue. She could feel his hardness, and, from instinct she'd never known, she rubbed her groin against it.
His hands reached down and began to knead her firm, round butt. She moaned again -- or tried to. Her own hands were pulling at his shirt, trying to get it, to get all his clothes off of his body.
When they finally broke the kiss, they looked at each other and smiled. "I guess we are going to consummate tonight after all."
Debbie stared at his chest, blushing and unable to face him at this moment. "I guess we are," she answered shyly.
"One thing, though." Sam took a step back and loosened his belt. He lowered the zipper and let his pants begin their slide to the floor. "Sara or Sam... Dave or Debbie, I have always loved you and I always will."
Debbie's eyes trailed down past Sam's hairy chest and six-pack abs. She could see the bulge in his bright red shorts. She could even see... it, the top of a pink helmet peeking through the hole between two snaps in those shorts. "Me, too." She answered.
"Then, let's do something about it." Sam picked her up as if she was weightless. Debbie giggled. She threw her arms up around his neck and let her head rest against his chest.
Her body tingled as if she were swimming in the same pink champagne they'd served her at dinner. There was an emptiness in the warmth wetness she felt between her legs. An emptiness that was growing into a desperate need. "Damned straight," she replied, as he hurried with her to the bed.
* * * * *
Hey, big guy, you want a bite?"
Sara Hoffer opened her eyes to see a young woman with dark brown hair propped up next to her on one elbow. The woman was naked, Sara realized, and holding a shiny, red apple in her hand. But from the lascivious grin on her face, Sara could see that she was just as much offering those glorious breasts of hers, as she was that apple.
Sara smiled back and felt herself stiffen. Stiffen? She -- he suddenly remembered. Sara was gone for now. He was Sam Ross, and the brunette was Dave, now Debbie, his new wife.
"What's with the apple?" Sam asked.
"Helen brought it with her yesterday." Debbie answered. "It's from some French poem she read in college. A couple keeps apples by their bed. They each take a bite when they wake up, so when they kiss, there's no morning breath."
"So this is just your way of asking me to kiss you." Sam grinned back at her.
"If-if you want to." Her face flushed. She took a bite and offered it to him again. "For a start." She was feeling the same feminine need as she had the night before, and -- Lord help her -- she wanted, more than anything else in the world, to satisfy that need with Sam.
He smiled and took the fruit from her. "Well, I always did like apples." He took a bite from a spot next to where she had bitten and chewed it quickly.
Then he accepted her other invitation. He leaned forward and took her nipple into his mouth.
"Sam, you've still got apple in your mouth," Debbie protested. "I can feel it."
"Don't worry," he told her. "I'll clean it off." Instead of going back to sucking, he swirled his tongue across the nipple. He could taste the sweet mix of perspiration and apple juice.
"Two can play at that game." Debbie grabbed the apple from where it lay on the bed. She took a bite and shifted her body. She began kissing her way down his chest, leaving a trail of juice and apple fragments behind.
Where's that damned apple?" Sam grabbed for her hand, which still held the fruit.
Debbie giggled. "Can't have." She moved away, trying to put it on the nightstand, where he couldn't reach it.
"Oh, yeah!" Sam's head was near her groin. He grabbed for her and pulled her to him. His tongue flicked at the patch of curls that surrounded her innermost place.
Debbie squealed as his tongue tickled her labia, then slid in between them. "Y-yeah!" Her hand found his engorged member. She raised it to her lips and kissed the tip. Her lips parted as she let it into her mouth.
There was no talk after that.
She worked her tongue up and down his shaft, while his tongue investigated her depths. His tongue found her clitoris and alternately caressed it and flicked it back and forth. He began to hum, making his lips and tongue vibrate against her flesh, and she copied him.
They both felt the pleasure build within them, coursing out to every part of their bodies. Debbie suddenly trembled, and Sam tasted a tart sweetness that had nothing to do with apples.
A moment later, a salty liquid erupted from him, muffling her orgasmic scream. She began to suck almost by instinct, hollowing her cheeks. She managed to swallow most of his essence, though a small amount trickled down her cheek and onto Sam.
Debbie sighed as Sam's tongue slid out of her. She smiled weakly and collapsed down onto him, winding up with her head resting on his thigh.
"That was wonderful," Sam said, once he'd caught his breath. "C'mere." He raised his arms, inviting her to come to him.
Debbie moved along the bed until her head was even with his. He pulled her close and kissed her, ignoring the slightly salty taste. "That was absolutely incredible," he told her. His left arm was around her waist, holding her near him, while he reached out with his right to gently brush her hair with his hand.
"It certainly was." Debbie's voice was a satisfied purr. "I wish we could feel like that all the time."
Sam sighed. "So do I, Deb, baby; so do I."
"Granted," a voice called out gleefully. "That is your second wish, my mistress and master. You shall be Samuel and Deborah Ross for the remainder of your days."
They turned just as Umar finished. "Unless..." the djinn concluded.
"You lousy bastard of a genie," Sam cursed. "You snuck up on us."
"Yeah," Debbie added. "You know that wasn't a wish."
"How could I know anything of the sort, mistress. Did you not use that very word, and did not my master agree that he wished the same thing?" They both sadly agreed. "And besides, I said 'unless.' You can always use your third wish to return to being David and Sara Hoffer."
"But then we'd have nothing to show for the three wishes," Debbie objected, "except for the experience of wasting three wishes."
Sam took her hand. "That's better than nothing at all. It'd be nice to be rich and all, but the only thing I ever wanted in this life was to spend as many years of it as I could with you, Deb. That's what'd make me happy."
"Aww." Deb leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I feel just the same way." She stroked Sam's cheek. "Okay, Umar, my third wish is that we keep our youth but return to our original sexes."
Umar laughed. "No, my former mistress; that was your fourth wish. Your third wish -- the both of you -- was that you be together for a long and happy life. And so you shall... as you now are." The bottle appeared in his hand. He floated up into the air, passed through the ceiling and disappeared.
A flood of memories washed over them. They knew who they had been, but those memories seemed pale before these newer ones. At the same time, whatever objections they still had to their new selves disappeared. They were happy with who they were.
"I guess we're gonna be Sam and Deb forever," Sam said shrugging his shoulders.
Debbie nodded. "Right now, we're Sam and Debbie in bed and on our honeymoon." She saw that he was erect again and felt a warm emptiness between her legs. "And I feel real happy about that." She smiled and climbed on top of him.
As the bottle tossed in the ocean surf, Umar used his magic to get a last view of his most recent masters. "It was a most interesting game of Wits and Wishes," he told himself. "And the way those two are going at it, I may not be the only winner."
Drug Bust
By Ellie Dauber © 2000
"Effies? I never heard of them, Snake," Rain said.
"Yeah, man. They're cool. They do better than make you high, man, and I just scored a couple hundred of them."
Rain was more than a little skeptical. In the five months he's been in Haight Asbury, he'd heard of -- and tried -- almost a hundred different drugs. Now here came Snake with a new one that he'd never heard of. Impossible.
Rain, or as his parents had insisted on calling him, Myron Wallachek, had heard of Snake. Some said that he was a sailor off a tramp steamer from someplace where the natives grew very strange crops; others whispered that he was a runaway from the Army's "Weird Weapons" program, and that he'd taken a bunch of samples and formulas with him when he left. There were other, even weirder stories, including one that mentioned some town in New Mexico, Rosewell, Rosswood, or something square like that.
Wherever he was from, whomever -- or whatever -- was his source, Snake was said to have the best, the most powerful drugs on the street. In San Francisco in July of 1967, that made him a man to be reckoned with.
" Okay, so how much, and where do I get them?"
"Not so loud, man, or everybody will want some. I only got a limited supply now, but I'm expecting more in a few days. In the meantime," he paused for effect, "I'm making them available at a true discount to a few friends."
"I know you all of three days. How am I your friend?"
"It's the 'Summer of Love', Baby. Everybody is my friend. But you, you I like. We got a lot in common, same taste in music, same attitude about life --"
"Same taste in chicks." Better to bring up the sore spot now, Rain thought. It had turned out that one of the women in the commune he lived in, Flora, had been Snake's lady for a while. Rain and Flora were sleeping together pretty regularly; spending a lot of time together out of bed, too. In fact, that was how they'd met. Rain and Flora had been panhandling on Decker, and Snake had come over to say, "Hi."
"Water long under the bridge, man." Snake smiled, or tried to. "She and I didn't work. I'm happy, I guess, that she found somebody as good as you to be with."
"You sure?"
"Hey, 'Love and Peace', man." He made the two-fingered sign. "Ain't that what it's all about?"
"True, too true." Rain returned the sign.
"Then let's go, man. The 'effies' are at my place."
* * * * *
Snake's place was a dingy apartment two floors up from a small curio shop. Rain followed him up a narrow stairwell that was lit by bare bulbs hanging down at each landing. Rain still was a little suspicious of Snake. He remembered that day on Decker.
* * * * *
"Who the hell is this, Flora?" He was a stocky man about 5-foot ten, fairly muscular, with a snake tattoo on his right arm.
"Snake!" Flora grabbed at Rain's arm. "I - I didn't expect you to see you again, so soon." She was a cuddly bundle of curves, her sandy brown hair in braids that reached most of the way down her back. Rain could feel the heat of her body through her light cotton dress. He smiled at the thought that she was naked beneath it.
"Is that why you moved out?" Snake was gesturing wildly now. "I said I'd be back in a week."
"And then you'd be out dealing whatever you brought back."
"Hey, I got to earn a living. How are we going to live with no bread?"
"Live? You come home, and it's like I'm not even there. Unless you got horny. Then it's ten minutes of fun, and you're done for the night. That's not a life. It's a life sentence, and I got myself paroled."
"Yeah, and I can see what you got to rescue you." He glared at Rain. "Get lost, hippy. Go count your beads."
Rain straightened to his full six foot two, his hands clenching into fists. He was a man of peace and love, but in his previous life back in Heyden, Idaho, he'd lettered in wrestling and football. "Would you care to re-think that last remark, brother?"
Rain looked the shorter man over. He was pretty sure that he could take the other man, but he didn't want to have to fight. That was why he came to the Haight, to get away from that small town aggressive bullshit. He stuck out his hand. "Flora's a free being seeking her own way in the universe. She moved out because she needed her space. It was her need, not your fault. Isn't that right, Flora."
"I -- I guess."
The man, Snake, still looked mad. "You still shouldn't have moved out; especially while I was gone. I thought that you and I --" He let the sentence dangle.
"I do love you, Snake, but not in the way you want."
"And him?" He pointed a thumb at Rain.
"Maybe." She looked down. "I don't know. He's a friend right now, just one of the guys in the commune."
"It's settled, then. Let me buy us all some coffee." Rain decided to take over before anything went wrong. Before Flora told Snake that she and Rain were sharing a lot more than brown rice and yoga. "I know a spot about a block from here, and what we took in will more than cover three cups of fresh Columbian."
Snake's body un-tensed, and he almost smiled. "No. Thanks, but I need to think about things a little bit."
"Just relax, my friend, and go with the flow." He put his hand on Snake's shoulder.
Snake shook the hand free. "I'll go with it, I guess. But I'm not sure I'll like the trip." He turned and `walked slowly away.
* * * * *
Rain noticed that Snake was smiling the same almost smile now as they reached his apartment. It still wasn't very convincing.
Snake unlocked the door. He opened it just a little and reached inside. Rain heard the sound of several switches clicking. "Booby traps," Snake said. "A few real nasty surprises if anybody tries to break into my place." He opened the door wide. "After you, Rain."
Rain smiled and bowed low. "No, Snake, after you." He narrowed his eyebrows and said without any emotion, "it is your place after all."
"I'm hurt that you think that I'd do something like that." He shrugged and walked carelessly into the room.
Rain followed him in and looked around the place.
It was a large single room. There were a few concert posters up on the wall: Jefferson Airplane and a couple of groups whose names he didn't recognize. There was a kitchenette along one wall, a small table with a couple of mis-matched chairs around it. The record player was on an overturned crate that doubled as table and record cabinet. A sofa and two overstuffed chairs were nearby. Against the fourth wall, next to a door to what looked to be the bathroom, was a stack of mattresses with a mess of blankets and pillows. The bed, Rain guessed. Some clothes hung from a pipe frame rack on one side. Books were scattered all over the floor.
He looked back at the door. Just to one side about three feet off the ground was a panel with some nasty looking switches. Rain couldn't see where they led. There was some kind of clock or timer attached as well. It looked like something from a mad scientist's lab by way of an electronics hobby shop.
"Not bad, huh?" Snake said. "It's hooked up, so the booby traps activate if I don't turn the thing off with twenty seconds of opening the door."
"I guess." Rain shrugged. "So where's this new stuff that's get me high?"
"Gets you better than high." Just a minute, man." Snake walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind himself. Rain heard him turn the water on. Hard. He flushed the toilet, too. Probably to cover whatever noises he makes getting to his stash, Rain thought.
Snake came back into the room a few moments later. He was holding a small metal box that he set on the bed. It was painted a drab green with some sort of stenciled lettering on it, "US ARMY CHEMSPECCOMM 028-89507". The box had a built-in combination lock.
Snake sat down on the bed and turned the box, so Rain couldn't see him work the combination. The top popped up. Snake reached inside and took out a small bottle with some green pills. He unscrewed the cap and took out a pill. "Here you go man."
"If they're so good, Snake, why don't you join me?"
"Still, don't trust me?" He took out a second pill and popped it in his mouth. "Okay now." He handed Rain the pill.
"Well, if you took one, I guess they're okay." He swallowed the pill.
Snake made a gesture with his hand. "Sure, only I didn't take one." He was holding the pill between two fingers. "Slight of hand, it's just a hobby, but it comes in handy sometimes."
"You bastard." Rain made a grab for Snake. And missed. He was beginning to feel very weird. Every muscle in his body seemed to be twitching. His legs buckled beneath him, and he sank back onto the bed.
Snake's voice seemed to be coming from very far away. "Don't fight it, Rain. It'll go easier if you… dombt svort..." The words changed into random noise. His vision blurred as the room began to spin, all the colors running together into starfish and pinwheels. Fireworks plumes shot past his eyes, changing in a dance of glowing, flowing colors.
Normally, Rain would have just sat there and enjoyed it. This time he couldn't; his body just felt so damn strange, like it wasn't even his body any more. Every muscle seemed to be twitching as if an electric current was going through him. He felt a weight on his chest and a sharp pinching in his groin. His scalp itched as if something was happening to his hair, and his clothes - his clothes seemed to be moving across his body as if they - or it - were changing.
Rain could hardly tell how long the effect lasted. Five minutes or five hours, he would never be able to tell. But end it did. Rain suddenly found himself sitting on the bed looking up at Snake who was sitting beside him.
Looking up? Rain was a good five or six inches taller than Snake. "What in the hell --" He stopped. His voice sounded different, much higher than he was used to. Was he still high? Instinctively, he put his hand to his throat.
The first thing Rain noticed was that his "Adam's Apple" was missing. The second was that his beard was missing, too. Then he looked at his hand. It was so much smaller, with long slender fingers. A girl's hand. No, it couldn't be.
Rain looked down. He had shrunk. His clothes were far too big now. His T-shirt looked like a tent on him. Except that something -- two somethings - were pushing it out from his chest. He pulled out the collar of his shirt and looked down. He saw a pair of tits, round and firm, with areola the size of half dollars.
One hand shot into his pants. They were plenty loose at the waist, though they felt tight around his hips and butt. His fingers searched franticly for the old familiar bulges, but they weren't there. His fingers poked around, but all they could find was a slit, a woman's slit.
"Looking for something?" Snake was smiling.
"What the hell did you do to me?"
"What do you think I did? You won't be screwing Flora now." He reached over and gently squeezed one of Rain's breasts, messaging it as he tweaked the nipple. "In fact, I'll be the one you'll be screwing."
Rain tried to push Snake's hand away. Snake blocked it with his other arm and kept rubbing. It was as if he was pumping shots of pure warmth, of pure pleasure, into Rain's body. Rain stopped fighting. He couldn't. It just felt too good. Rain leaned back supporting himself with both arms.
Now Snake was rubbing both breasts. The pleasure increased and increased in waves. Rain began to pant. He felt a wetness in his shorts. His head rolled back and forth and his hips began to rock in rhythm to the motion of Snake's hands.
Suddenly a jolt of pure pleasure shot straight from Rain's crotch to his brain. He lifted his hips off the bed and screamed. His voice was high and shrill. When it was over, Rain was lying limp on the bed.
"What the hell did you do to me?"
"Like it? That was a female orgasm. Get used to them man. Your body is in female hormone overdose, fully aroused and horny as a hoot owl."
"No!" But it was true. Rain's new body had thrilled to the orgasm, and it wanted more, lots more, of them. His shorts were drenched. He needed a plug. A big plug. Plunging in and out of him - out of her. Rain admitted to herself that she was female now. She lifted her butt off the bed and wriggled out of her pants.
Snake smiled and unbuckled his jeans. Rain looked at the bulge in his shorts and licked her lips in female anticipation. "That stuff certainly did more than make me high," she said. "Just like you said."
"No, I said that it would make you better than high. And it did. It made you broad."
The End
"Effies", by the way, is short for "Effeminol diethylamide-243", a drug created by CHEMSPECCOMM (U.S. Army Chemical Special Command) in 1966. The effects are as described in the story. It was an idea that I came up with a couple of years ago that FINALLY grew into a story, this story (thanks to the pun at the end). It may show up again.
Eerie Saloon Character List
by Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson
This the LONG asked for list of the characters in the Eerie Saloon saga. We didn't list ALL the characters, but we think we got all the important ones. We also checked off EVERY Category and Key Word that applied to ANY of the stories. Please note that while the physical change is a Fast Transformation, the mental change is a Slow Transformation. As for Age Group: except for Emma, who is three years older than she was as Elmer, and Annie, who stayed the same age (just shy of 17), all of the potion girls were transformed into females in their late teens or early twenties.
Attachment | Size |
---|---|
Eerie Saloon Persona.pdf | 228.23 KB |
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring; part 1 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, March 31, 1872
"Go away, Maggie," Jane ordered when the bride-to-be walked into the busy kitchen of the Catholic Church. "You got a lot better things t'do than putter 'round in here. Especially..." Jane pointed to Maggie's wedding gown. "...in that pretty dress."
Maggie sighed and shook her head. "But I need to check on the tortillas."
"No, you don't. You trust me enough t'run your restaurant while you're on your honeymoon, don't you?"
"Sì, but -"
"But nothing." Jane said, scowling. "If you trust me enough for that, you gotta trust me now. If you don't, then the deal's off. You can stay here and run the place yourself, and I'll... I'll go on the honeymoon with Ramon."
Now Maggie smiled. "I do not think I like that idea. I do not think - I hope - that Ramon would not like it, and I am sure than Milt Quinlan would not like it, either."
"No, he wouldn't." Jane blushed. "But I will, if you don't get outta here, and I mean right now."
"Very well," Maggie replied, "but you must promise me one thing."
"If I can. What d'you want?"
"I will send someone in here just before the ceremony starts. You must promise me that you will come out to watch it."
Jane's eyes glistened. "You really want me there that much?"
"I do."
"Them's the words you need t'save for Ramon. You leave right now, and I promise t'be there to hear you say them when it really counts."
"I am going, and I will not be back - unless you are not out there with me when it is time for me to say those words again."
Jane gave her friend a wide smile. "I won't hug you now; my apron's way too dirty, but I'll be the first one in line after you 'n' Ramon are hitched."
"You had better be." Maggie winked and headed out the kitchen door.
* * * * *
Reverend Yingling stepped confidently up to the podium. He put both hands down onto it and stared out at the congregation - his congregation - for a moment before he began.
"I take my text this morning from the Book of Joshua, chapter 7, verse 13: 'Thou canst not stand before thine enemies, until ye take away the accursed thing from among you.'"
"And what is this 'accursed thing' that is among us? The Bible tells us that witchcraft is evil. 'Thou shall not suffer a witch to live,' it says in Exodus 22:18. Witchcraft is most surely accursed. Now, a man who plies the dark arts may not be a witch, but the things that he creates are things of witchcraft, no matter how innocent his motives, no matter that he may attempt to use those things of witchcraft towards a worthwhile end."
"It is also said that the ends do not always justify the means. That vile product of witchcraft, the potion that Shamus O'Toole has created, has served as a useful means. It is a very powerful means, indeed. I will freely admit that. It prevented the Hanks gang from running riot among us. We can never know how many good men would have died, how many women would have been left widows, how many children orphaned."
"And there is a child within this congregation." He looked down to where Kaitlin and Emma were sitting. "In this very room with us today, a child who would have died had she not taken that very same potion."
"And yet, as with any thing of evil, the potion has twisted events for its own ends. Other members of the Hanks gang were turned from their wicked ways. One has even joined with us, becoming an active member of our own congregation. But what of Will Hanks - now Wilma Hanks - their leader, the one who should have led them on the path of righteousness, even as she led them in the ways of evil? The chance for redemption was taken from her by that same potion. She is on a different path, and it is one that will lead her to eternal damnation as surely as the path that led her to our town."
"And what of Emma O'Hanlan and her family?" He looked at Emma and Kaitlin again, then he glanced over to where Trisha was sitting - uncomfortably, now - with the other members of the church board. "The potion restored a seriously injured child to her loving family; yes, it did. But Patrick O'Hanlan, husband and father, was taken from them as surely as if it had been poison he drank that day."
"Just bad luck, one might say. Perhaps, but can we risk more such bad luck? Good fortune, they say, follows preparation, and I say to you that Shamus O'Toole will never be prepared. A man who earns his daily bread by the encouragement of vice: of drinking and gambling and who knows what other lewd behaviors, such a man can never be prepared for the responsibilities that are imposed by such a potion. Try as he may, he cannot rise to the heights of trustworthiness that the possession of that potion demands."
"It is our Christian duty to give the worthy sinner a second chance. Is Mr. O'Toole worthy? Only our Lord Jesus can answer that, but, even if he were, how many second chances can we afford to give him? He had his second chance, and the O'Hanlan family was shattered by his failure. His third chance came with a woman, a dutiful, proper Christian lady, who visited Eerie some weeks ago. She also imbibed - why, I cannot guess - of O'Toole's foul brew, and she left Eerie - how can I say this - when she left, she was very much of the same... temperament as Wilma Hanks."
"And his fourth chance? How many of you know of the excellent work of Teresa Diaz as a laundress? My own family avails itself of her services. This church uses her, as well, for the alter cloth, for my robes, for all manner of things. Teresa and her son became entangled with O'Toole's potion. She was trampled by horses and almost killed. And, while she heals from her injuries, her son - her now pretty, now female son - is the one delivering our laundry."
"Yes, there is truly an evil among us, and we must 'take away the accursed thing.' I will speak more of how we may do this at the meeting of the church board on Wednesday. In the meantime, we should all be comforted with the words of Isaiah, chapter 41, verse 10: 'Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy G-d: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.' Can we ever hope to ask for more than that?"
* * * * *
"Better get ready," Cap told Bridget. "It looks like Gregorio's about to make the next toast." He carefully refilled Bridget's wineglass.
Bridget giggled once, then, looking embarrassed, she put her hand in front of her mouth. "So, so many toasts. I-I don't think I've ever had this much to drink. At least not... not since I-I changed."
"I have, but the wine wasn't nearly as good as this."
"I know. Maggie, she told me that the wine was special... stuff from Whit's b-basement - cellar - wine cellar."
Cap chuckled. "A barber with a wine cellar. Cutting hair must bring in a lot more money than I thought."
"No, no, no." Bridget waved her hand in front of him. "It's not his barber shop. His fa-family has money, I think, but - sh-shush! Gregorio's starting to speak."
Gregorio was at the head table, sitting - standing now - next to Ramon's right. Maggie was at Ramon's left, of course, the side nearest his heart.
"My friends," the burly man began, "there is an old saying, 'between the mule and the woman, which is the more stubborn?' Which, indeed, I say, and in Marguarita, my brother has found a muy terco, a very stubborn woman."
"I certainly know just how stubborn she is because I tried very, very hard to convince her and Ramon that they should not marry. She said 'no' - again and again and again, she said 'no.' Such a stubborn..." He paused for effect. "...wonderful woman."
"Marguarita, I am glad that you said 'no.' Why? Because you said 'no' out of the deep love that you had for my brother. It is a love deep enough to overlook his many flaws." He winked. "It is a love that is only matched, as it should be, by the love that he has for you. And that love was enough to make him stand up to his foolish bully of an older brother."
He turned and bowed to Maggie. "Marguarita, I apologize again for my opposition to your marriage and for all of the grief that I must have caused you. I hope that you will forgive me for I am both happy and proud to have you as a part of my family. May you and Ramon both be blessed with all that you deserve: health, happiness, and many, many years of each other's love."
He raised his glass, but he only had time for a quick sip before Maggie rushed around to give him a fierce hug.
"That... that was b-b'yutiful." Bridget took a deep drink of her wine, even as tears ran down her cheeks. "J-Just b'yu... b'yutiful."
Cap pulled out his handkerchief and gently dabbed at her face. "It must've been." He smiled. "I never saw you get so worked up." To himself, he added, 'except with me in bed.' It was a memory he cherished.
"I-I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was good toast. Gregorio's never been one to tear himself down, but he certainly did today."
"He loves his brother." She took another sip of wine. "Mmm, that is good wine, and Gregorio's a good man." Her face reddened. "And Ramon's a good man, and you're a good man, and..." She leaned in, a bit unsteady on her feet, and put her arm around his neck. She smiled and kissed his cheek.
Cap shifted. Their lips met, as he pulled her closer. Bridget moaned softly and pressed her body against his.
Then she pulled away. "Not here," she whispered, a giggle in her voice. "There's too many people."
"Later then?"
Bridget smiled and sipped at the last of her wine. "M-Maybe."
* * * * *
"So..." Kaitlin said slowly, as they headed home from church. "...what did you two think of the good reverend's sermon?"
Emma frowned. "I didn't like it. He made me sound like some kind of magic trick."
"That's better than the fool he made me sound like," Trisha responded. "From the way he talked, O'Toole tricked me into drinking that potion. I hate to say it, but it was my own da... my own stupid idea."
Kaitlin raised an eyebrow. "Yes, it was, but I don't see why Reverend Yingling had to bring it up now."
"Neither do I," Trisha replied. "He's up to something."
"Has he ever talked to the church board about the potion, doing something about it, I mean?"
"Not to me, he hasn't, but Horace Styron's another matter entirely." She frowned. "As board chairman, he could cause a lot of trouble, and he'd just love to - if I was on the receiving end. Well, we'll find out at the meeting, I suppose."
"Whatever he's got in mind, I think it's going to be trouble."
Emma looked up at her mother. "You think so, Ma?"
"I do," Kaitlin answered. "The way he was talking about us all, I just hope we don't get pulled into the middle of it."
Trisha smiled at that. "He won't - He won't dare to anything, not as long as I'm on the church board."
"I know." Kaitlin took Trisha's hand in her own and returned that confident smile. 'The problem is,' she thought to herself, 'if Cecelia Ritter and those others have their way, you'll be off the board as of the May meeting.'
* * * * *
"Hola, Marguarita, and... felicitaciones."
Maggie looked up. She studied the figure before her for a moment before she spoke. "Arnoldo, thank you." She paused a before continuing. "I almost did not recognize you in that pretty dress."
Arnie blushed. "Mama will not let me wear my real clothes to church. She says it would be disrespectful."
"So, do you only wear a dress to please her?"
"Why else? I am not truly a girl. I just look like one."
"Of course." Maggie tried not to smile as she remembered how hard she had fought against being a woman after her own change. 'Thank the Good Lord that I lost the fight,' she told herself, 'or I would not be here today, not be Ramon's bride.' She reached over and took Ramon's hand in her own.
"You may not always feel that way," she told the young girl.
Arnie crossed herself. "I pray to the Virgincita every night that I will stay as I am." She sighed. "But that is not why I came over to talk to you. I wanted to wish you both a long and happy life together."
Ramon was talking to Gregorio. Maggie gently squeezed his hand, and whispered his name. He turned to see what she wanted. "Si, Marguarita... oh, hello." He looked at the person standing across the table from him. "Arnoldo Diaz, right?"
"Si, I am Arnoldo. I just wanted to give you and Marguarita my family's best wishes."
Ramon stood. "Thank you. Are you all having a good time?"
"Oh, yes. It was such a beautiful ceremony, and the food and music are so very nice. Mama even let Ysabel and me have a sip of the wine."
"I am glad. How is your mother doing with her injuries?"
"She is not happy with the casts that she must wear, but the doctor says that she is healing just as she should."
"Good. Please tell Teresa that we wish her well. And thank you all for your good wishes for Marguarita and me."
Arnoldo gave a low bow. "Thank you, and now I must get back to them, just as you must get back to your lovely bride." She turned and hurried back to where the rest of her family was sitting.
* * * * *
Cap followed Bridget into the Saloon. As soon as he was inside, she turned and locked the door behind them. "Seems odd to be in here when the place is closed," Cap said, looking around the empty room.
Bridget shrugged. "Can't be helped; ev... everybody's at the wedding, even Jessie."
"Is Shamus going to open up later?"
"Probably. He's too, too much of a businessman not to." She gave him a lopsided smile. "Jane won't be opening the rest'rant till tomorrow. It's gonna take a while for her -- her and Molly - t'clean up that church kitchen and bring all her stuff b-back here."
She looked unsteady on her feet, and Cap put an arm around her waist. "How about your poker game? Will you be playing tonight?" "M-Maybe." Her arm went around his waist. "Unless I'm doing something else. R-right now, I think I wanna go lie down for a while." She giggled. "You-you wanna join me?"
She let go of him and started for the stairs before he could answer. She was weaving a bit as she walked. "Wait up." Cap hurried over and took her hand. "Let me walk up with you, at least."
"That... that'd be nice." She giggled again and kissed his cheek. "For a starter."
They moved slowly up the stairs. Cap had his right hand tightly on the railing. His left arm was firmly around her waist.
"Mmmm, thank you, Cap." She rested her head on his shoulder. "Such a sweet name... Cap." She giggled, snuggling against him, as she spoke. "Cap... Cap... Cap... Cap."
They reached the second floor. "Don't wear it out," he told her.
She kissed him again. "That isn't what I want to wear out." She fumbled in her reticule for a moment before pulling out the key to her room.
"Allow me." Cap took the key from her and opened the door.
Bridget walked into the room. "I certainly will," she said as she walked in. She raised her hand and slid it along his jaw as she walked past him.
"We'll see." Cap followed her in, closing the door behind him.
Bridget stood before him, an expectant grin on her face, as she wrestled with the buttons on her dress. She got two undone, then got so mixed up that she actually re-buttoned one. "I'll-I'll be ready for you in just a bit, Cap." "I can wait," he told her. "Why don't you just lie down for a moment?"
"You sure you can wait?"
"I can; you're certainly worth waiting for."
Bridget's face flushed. "You are so sweet." She kissed his cheek and sat down on the bed. "C'mon over here, right now."
"I'll just stand here for a minute and watch you." He leaned against the wall.
Bridget lay back on the bed, her feet still on the floor. She smiled at Cap, as her eyes slowly closed.
Cap waited until he could hear her soft snoring. He walked over and shifted her body, turning it so that her feet were up on the bed. She didn't awaken, but he thought he heard her mumble his name as he unlaced her shoes. Once they were off, he leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. "Another time," he whispered and left, locking the door behind him and sliding the key back underneath the door to where she would find it.
* * * * *
Monday, April 1, 1872
Cap was just finishing his breakfast when Bridget came down from her room. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs for a moment before heading for his table. She walked slowly, carefully, as if afraid that her head might fall off at any moment.
"Good..." She quickly lowered her voice. "Good morning, Cap."
Cap stood up. "Bridget, good morning. Won't you join me for some breakfast?"
"I will if you promise not to shout." She gingerly touched her head.
He watched her settle carefully into the chair opposite him. "I think you need some of Shamus O'Toole's famous 'morning after' punch."
"What's that?"
"A curious mix of herbs and juices said to be good for what ails you on a morning like this. Shamus told me once that the secret is willow bark, something he learned when he lived with the Cheyenne."
"Willow bark? Sounds crazy, but..." She touched her forehead and winced. "Today, I'll try anything."
She glanced around the room. She and Cap were the only ones in it. "Cap, about yesterday..." Her voice trailed off.
"It was wonderful." He sighed and rolled his eyes. "The earth moved; the angels wept."
"No, they didn't - did they?" Was there something she didn't remember?
He smiled and gently touched her arm. "Bridget, nothing happened, I promise. We came back here from the wedding. I walked you up to your room. We talked for a little while, and you fell asleep."
"And you left me there? Why?" She felt relieved and, somehow, insulted. "As I remember, I was hardly distant or forbidding."
"You certainly weren't, and I would have loved to take things further, but you were somewhat the better - or worse - for the wine, and there are rules about such things."
"Rules?"
"When we get together again, I want it to be you that says, 'yes', not Whit's 50-year old Madeira."
"Thank you, Cap." She put her hand on his. "And there will be an 'again' for us. I promise."
"I hope so." He saw Molly coming out of the kitchen and waved for her to come over. "In the meantime --"
"Well, now," the older woman said cheerful, "will ye look at who finally came down for her breakfast?"
Cap put a finger to his lips. "Not so loud; Bridget's in dire need. Could you ask Shamus to put together another dose of his hangover cure for Bridget here?" When the second woman nodded, he added, "And please ask Jane to follow it with a good hangover breakfast, scrambled eggs with lots of tomato ketchup and the strongest black coffee you've got."
* * * * *
"Miss Osbourne, can I talk t'you?"
Nancy Osbourne looked up from her lunch. "Of course, Emma," she said, quickly wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "What did you want to discuss?"
"I spoke to my folks about what you asked on Friday - about Mr. Cates, I mean, and I thought about it the whole weekend and I - yes! - I'd really like to work for him, to learn surveying, after I finish school."
"I take it then that you have decided to graduate this year, rather than wait."
"Yes'm. I - my folks don't have no problem -"
"Don't have any problem, your parents don't have any problem with your graduating this June."
Emma grinned. "No, ma'am, they don't. Trisha thought I was gonna work at the store, but Ma talked to her, and it's okay with her now."
"I'm very glad to hear that, Emma, and I believe that you will do an excellent job working for Mr. Cates. I happen to know that he will be out at Minnie Haldeman's dairy farm until this evening. I will tell him right after school tomorrow."
"You... ah, think he'll have a problem with me being a girl?"
"I cannot be absolutely sure, but if I thought that he would seriously object, I would not have recommended you for the job in the first place."
"Great. Do you want me to go with you when you talk to him?"
"No, as you say, there is a chance that he might object, and I believe that it would be easier to reason with him on the point if you were not there. I'll tell you his decision as soon as I know it, and then you and I can go meet with him. Is that all right?"
"I... guess so."
"Fine; and now that the matter is settled, why don't you go out and tell Penny and Ysabel - oh, and Yully and Tomas what we've discussed?"
Emma looked puzzled. "Miss Osbourne?"
"They're waiting for you on the porch." She smiled, "Every last one of them has poked his head in while we were talking. Besides, you only have about..." She glanced over at the small clock ticking away in a corner of her desk. "...about twenty minutes until the lunch break is over."
* * * * *
"What're you doing with that candle?"
Jane spun around. "Milt, I didn't hear you come in. What brings you to the kitchen?"
"I was wondering how you were doing without Maggie..." He looked around. There was no one in the kitchen but the two of them. "...or anybody else here to keep an eye on you."
"I don't need nobody. This ain't the first time I ran the kitchen without her."
"True, but you never did it for three whole days."
Jane's eyes narrowed. "Don't you think I can do it?"
"Of course, you can do it," he answered quickly. 'Don't pick at that scab', he warned himself before speaking again. "Maggie thought you could, or she wouldn't have left you in charge." He smiled, wanting to reassure her. "If she thinks that you can manage things, then who am I to disagree?"
"That's what I want to know."
"And I want to know why you have a lit candle there on the table. You still haven't said."
"You're just trying to change the subject." She paused a beat and decided to go along. "Okay, I'll tell you anyway. The candle burns off the fumes from when I chop up onions for tonight's stew. That way, they don't make my eyes water."
"Something to protect those big, beautiful, brown eyes of yours, eh; well, I certainly can approve of that."
"I'm so glad."
He stepped close to her. "I'm glad, too. I like looking into those eyes."
"You... you do?" Her body was tingling all over. She could feel her nipples crinkle, pushing out against the soft muslin of her camisole. The tingling grew more intense, especially down between her legs.
He pulled her to him. "I do. I especially like looking at them up close, just before I do this." He lowered his head. Their lips met in a delicious kiss.
Jane moaned and pressed her body against his. Her lips parted, as her arms rose up around his neck.
* * * * *
"Have you started singing to your little one, Amy?" Edith Lonnigan asked. "It's far enough along now to be able to hear you."
Amy sighed, as she buttoned her camisole. "Don't I know it? Jimmy was banging on a pot with a wooden spoon the other day, and 'Junior' here was all but dancing to the beat."
"I've had the same problem," Laura added. "I was helping Jessie teach Arnie Diaz how to shoot, and I had to stop because the gunshots scared my little one."
Edith looked startled. "You mean she started those lessons again? Doesn't the poor dear have enough to handle, what with changing into a girl?"
"This was in January," Laura explained, "weeks before she drank Shamus' potion. Jessie stopped those lessons a while back."
"I am glad to hear that," Edith continued. "Poor Teresa has enough to worry about with her broken limbs. She certainly doesn't need to be fretting about her daughter wanting to use a pistol, as well." She paused a moment. "Now, getting back to you two, do either of you have any questions or anything that you want to talk about?"
Amy shook her head. "Not really. Things are going pretty much the same as they did with Jimmy. I've had some heartburn and cramps in my legs, but I remember how to deal with that sort of thing."
"Very good, dear," Edith told her, "but if either of those symptoms get very bad, please come and see me."
"I will."
Edith turned to Laura. "And how about you, dear?"
"Aside from feeling big as a house, my main problem has been leg cramps, too. Molly showed me a way of standing..." She posed, stretching out one leg, "...and that seemed to help. Arsenio's been giving me massages, like you said I should, and that... it helps, too." She blushed.
Edith smiled. "I'm sure it does. Is there anything else?"
"Yeah, I'm... anything I drink just goes right through me. I've all but worn a path to the necessary out behind the Saloon, and I'm up and down a half-dozen times a night."
Edith tried to smile. "That can't be helped any more than your... ah, 'bigness', I'm afraid. The baby's pushing down on your bladder, so it can't hold as much. It'll get worse before it gets better."
"The one works against the other," Amy added. "You work off the extra weight with all the exercise you get walking to and from the necessary." She giggled at her own joke, and, after a moment, Laura joined in.
* * * * *
Jane took three chicken breasts from the oven and put each one on a plate. She spooned succotash onto two of the plates. The third got a spicy tomato and onion mixture. A dark brown sauce simmered on the stove. Jane took the pot, drizzled some of the sauce over two of the breasts, and moved the plates onto a tray.
"Is it ready?" Dolores asked as she walked through the door into the kitchen.
Jane pushed the tray across the worktable to Dolores. "Just finished it now."
"Gracias." The waitress took the tray and headed back through the door.
Milt had been standing by the table watching Jane work. "Now, where were we?" He walked over to where she was standing.
"I think you was getting ready t'kiss me again," she answered shyly.
"Why, so I was." He took her head in his hands and moved in close. "And I believe I'll do that very thing." His lips met hers. He felt Jane tremble as she stepped in close to him. Her arms rose up to encircle him.
Before the kiss could go any further, they heard a sharp coughing noise. "I am sorry to interrupt," Dolores said softly, "but you made a mistake with this order."
"What?" Jane asked. She was blushing as she and Milt quickly separated.
Dolores put the tray back on the worktable. "Both of the chicken moles get the pico de gallo - the tomato and onion. The plain chicken gets the corn and beans." There were two plates on her tray, one held a plain chicken breast and the tomato-onion mix; the other had a breast covered with sauce, next to a mound of succotash.
"I-I'll fix 'em right up." Jane used tongs to move the bare chicken breast onto a clean plate. Then she moved the breast with the sauce to where it had been. She spooned the succotash onto the plate with the plain breast. "Lemme just add a little more sauce."
She turned to get the pot with the mole sauce, only to see it bubbling merrily. "Dang!" She spooned a bit of sauce onto the chicken and put the pot onto a wooden trivet on the worktable. "It probably scorched."
"You can fix it," Milt said, trying to sound encouraging.
The blonde cook shook her head. "Scorching sauces, getting orders wrong, I don't know what's the matter with me tonight."
"I think, maybe, you are... distracted," Dolores told her. She picked up the tray and hurried out of the kitchen.
Jane smiled wryly. "Yeah, and I know who's doing the distracting."
"Shall I leave?" Milt asked.
"I hope not." She looked puzzled. "Maggie never got this distracted, not even when Ramon came over t'have his supper with us."
"And if she did, you were there to watch over the kitchen."
"Yeah - that's it! I need a helper here in the kitchen." She looked thoughtful. "Laura's home having supper with Arsenio, but... Molly." She pointed to the door. "Go ask Molly if she can come in here and help till Laura gets back. The two o'them and Dolores can trade off the job till Maggie gets back from her honeymoon."
Milt frowned. "I guess I'll be leaving then."
"No you won't." She smiled. "I don't need no helper for when I get distracted if you ain't here to do the distracting. Besides, I need somebody t'do the dishes."
Milt gave a little laugh. "All right." He took off his jacket and laid it over the top of a chair. "I'll do the dishes, provided I get to do the distracting, too."
"You will, but start on the dishes for now. I gotta see how much of this here mole sauce I can save."
* * * * *
Tuesday, April 2, 1872
Ramon shifted in his bed and stretched out his arm for Maggie.
She wasn't there.
His arm flailed about looking for her before he gave up and rolled over onto his back. "Marguarita?"
"Sì, Ramon?" She was standing by the dresser, hooking up her corset. She already had her drawers and camisole on.
He sat up. "Where are you going?"
"I... the restaurant, I am worried that Jane may be having problems."
"She is fine. You trained her, so she learned from the best. Besides, Molly and Laura are watching out for her." He threw back the blanket and climbed from the bed. All he wore was a pair of gray drawers, drawers with a very noticeable tenting in the front.
"But things can happen that she may not - I need to see - to know - that everything is all right." Her eyes darted back and forth, from Ramon - and his drawers - to the direction of the restaurant and back again.
Ramon walked over to her. He walked slowly, a reassuring smile on his face. "It will also be fine." His arms closed about her waist. "Besides, I know something else you need." He moved in close.
She could feel his manhood pressing against her thigh. She felt that oh, so wonderful warmth spread through her. It was a sensation she had gloried in all those times since her wedding, as her body prepared for the touch of his hands and his lips and his... manhood.
"But..." Her words trailed off as her concern about the restaurant gave way to her desire.
"You can go over later, if you really need to." He kissed her forehead. "Right now, I need something, too."
"Oh, and what is that?" The feelings were getting stronger, especially in that delightful place between her legs. She caught herself smiling in anticipation.
"I need to practice undressing you. We were in such a hurry when we did it the other night that I did not have the time to fully savor the experience." He reached down and began to slowly unhook her corset. "This time, I intend to take my time, to fully enjoy myself as I do."
She gently put her hand on his arm. "I want to enjoy it, as well." She kissed his cheek. "Just do not take too long. There are other things that we can enjoy."
"And we will enjoy them again." He finished with her corset and tossed it onto a chair. "And again." He opened the top button of her camisole, kissing the revealed skin. "And again... and again... and again." Each time he said the phrase, he opened another button. And kissed his wife's newly exposed skin.
Maggie trembled at the touch of his lips. "Ohh, tan buena..., t-tan buuuenna," she moaned as he took her nipple into his mouth, lapping at it like a puppy. Her arm snaked around his head holding it in place.
Ramon's left hand reached up to play with her other nipple. His right hand moved slowly, agonizingly slow, his fingers lightly touching her sensitive skin, "spider walking" he had called it. It was a tease, a tickle, and it sent sparks flying through her body like the fireworks they had seen at the Carnival celebrations. Only these fireworks weren't in the sky, they were in her breasts and down in her coño, her feminine core.
Maggie reeled from the power of those fireworks. They grew stronger, one burst after the other. And, when his hand reached her nether mound, and his fingers began to spider walk along the receptive flesh that surrounded it, it seemed that her whole body exploded. She writhed in ecstasy, releasing Ramon's head from her grasp.
He picked her quivering body up in his arms and carried her back to their bed.
* * * * *
The following letter was received by the Eerie
edition of The Tucson Citizen . While this
paper does not agree with all of the facts
presented in the letter or with the inflammatory
nature of the language used, the letter raises a
valid issue, and so it is presented here.
"An Open Letter to Shamus O'Toole"
"My Dear Mr. O'Toole:"
"You must be aware that questions have been raised
with regard to that transformative potion of yours."
"There is no denying that our town was spared from
the ravages of the Hanks' gang through the use of it
against them last summer. And young Elmer O'Hanlan
is alive today - albeit as Emma O'Hanlan – only
because the potion was administered to him after what
would otherwise have been a fatal accident this
November past."
"Still, your brew has also been the cause of much grief.
I need not name the two other individuals who suffered
the same extreme changes due to their inadvertent
partaking of it. The grief that they and their families
have endured - and continue to endure - is well known.
The degradation of Wilma Hanks following her second
dose is also public knowledge, but few know that a second
woman, a visitor to Eerie, ingested your concoction and
was similarly debased. I will not ask how she came to
imbibe your potion. I would prefer to assume that it
was an accident, rather than due to some deliberate
action on your part."
"Your mixture is a thing of magic. Some might - I am
sure that some have - called it witchcraft. I will not,
at this time, deign to call you a witch. I do feel that
the people of Eerie would be better served if such a
powerful creation were under the control of more
ethical, more pious hands. I call on you, therefore, to
place yourself and your potion under the direction of
the Reverend Mr. Thaddeus Yingling and those others
that he might choose to assist him in this work. I ask
this, Mr. O'Toole, so that that potion can serve as a
force for Good, serving the Will of Him to whom we
must all turn for guidance and salvation."
(signed) Isaias
* * * * *
Arnie pulled the small wagon she used for laundry service deliveries up to the side of the house. She picked up the Spaulding's package and walked up onto the porch. The back door opened before she reached it.
"Annie," Mrs. Spaulding greeted her. "I was just making lunch. Would you like to join us?"
Arnie put the package down onto the kitchen table. "I'm sorry, but I do not have the time. I have deliveries to make for the laundry."
"Oh, yes, the laundry. Let's just see how good a job you did." The older woman untied the package. She held up a folded blouse. "This is excellent work. Is that..." She looked closely at the garment. "...new thread on one of the buttons?"
"Sì, we saw that the button was loose, so we sewed it back on." She quickly added. "We did not charge you for it."
"Very commendable." Mrs. Spaulding picked up each piece of laundry, a dark green skirt, a man's white shirt, a man's red flannel union suit, and two pale blue hand towels. "And very good work, too; what do I owe you?"
"The bill is pinned to the package." Arnie said, pulling it loose. "It comes to 63 cents."
"That certainly seems reasonable. I do believe that I have found my laundry."
"Thank you, señora."
"You're more than welcome. You wouldn't stay for lunch, but you do have to stay while I gather up some more laundry for you." She pointed to a door. "You can wait in the parlor."
Arnie had an empty cloth bag tucked under her belt. She handed it to the woman. "I can wait here in the kitchen."
"Oh, no, please. Clara is in the parlor. She's been hoping that the two of you could talk a bit."
'No sense annoying a new customer,' Arnie thought. Aloud, she said. "All right, but I can't stay very long. They are waiting for me back at our house. That is where the laundry is."
They both walked into the parlor. Clara was sitting in her wheelchair reading. "Look who's here, dear," Mrs. Spaulding announced.
"Annie!" Clara smiled and quickly closed her book. "I'm so glad that you came back."
"She can only stay a short time today," the mother said. "Just long enough for me to pack a bag of laundry for her to do." She headed for a hallway, adding, "Which I will get for her now." She disappeared through a doorway.
Clara frowned. "Perhaps you can stay longer next time. You could take lunch with us, if you'd like."
"I'll see if I can." Arnie sat down on a chair next to Clara.
"I do hope you can," the other girl said, sounding a little sad. "We... we don't know many people here in town."
"It is hard to make time. I have to help with the business. My mother was hurt --"
"What happened - if you don't mind my asking?"
Arnie shook her head. "She... a horse... it ran her down. Her arm and leg were broken."
"Oh, how terrible; I hope that she's getting better." She reached over and gently touched Arnie's arm.
Arnie nodded. She liked Clara's touch. "She is; thank you. I am doing her deliveries and helping with the business. I am helping her get around at home, too. My whole family is."
"That's very kind of you. You're a good person, Annie. Please... please say that you'll have lunch with us. I do so want you for a friend."
Arnie sighed. 'When a pretty girl begs,' she thought, 'a man can only surrender.' Aloud, she said, "I will try."
"Try what?" Mrs. Spaulding walked back into the room. She was carrying the sack Arnie had given her, but now it was stuffed full.
"She's going to stay for lunch, Mama - not today, but when she brings back that laundry."
The older woman beamed. "Wonderful. Shall we say Friday, then?"
"Friday." Arnie took a small piece of paper from her pocket. She wrote, "Spauldings - Friday" on it and pinned it to the laundry bag. "But today, I have to get back to work." She hefted the bag over her shoulder. "Goodbye, Señora Spaulding, and goodbye to you, Clara."
* * * * *
"Hola, Jane!" A small voice called out from the backdoor to the kitchen.
Jane turned to see... "Lupe, well, hello. What brings you over here? And who's that with you?"
"Say, hello, Jose," Lupe told the slender Mexican boy standing next to her.
The boy gave a slight bow. "Hello, Miss Jane. I'm Jose Whitney. Lupe is staying with my Mama and Papa while her Mama is away."
"They're not away," Lupe corrected him. "They're in your guest house."
"The door is locked, and they have not come out since Sunday," he argued. "They are as good as away. You said so, yourself."
Jane decided to change the subject. "They's there, but they ain't there. That sounds as good as them being away, t'me, too" When the two nodded in agreement, she continued. "That being settled, what brings you two over here?"
"I felt like visiting," Lupe answered, "and Jose wanted to see where his new Aunt Marguarita - we're cousins now that his Uncle Ramon married Mama - he wanted to see her restaurant."
"Where's Ernesto?"
"He's in school. Me 'n' Jose ain't old enough to go to school yet."
The boy chimed in. "We go next year."
"And I'll bet you'll both do real good." Jane looked at the clock ticking away on a shelf. "Right now, I'm working on the Free Lunch. If you two sit quiet for a little bit, you can have some."
"That will be nice, Miss Jane," Jose said. "It smells real good."
"It is, Jose, and you being Maggie's new nephew, I'm sure you can come back here anytime."
* * * * *
Jubal Cates looked up from his drafting table, when he heard the bell over his door. "Miss Osbourne... Nancy, good afternoon. I was wondering when you might be coming back."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Cates. I'm sorry about taking so long. When you asked me to help you, I was getting ready to give the older children an arithmetic test. I wanted to see the results, to help me make my recommendation for you."
"And you have those results?"
"I do. Frankly, though, she would have been my choice without them."
"She? Miss Osbourne, are you saying that I should hire a girl as my assistant?"
"You said that wanted to hire my best student in mathematics. Emma O'Hanlan has a 97 average for the past term,"
"O'Hanlan, not Trisha O'Hanlan's daughter?"
"Yes, she is. Does it make a difference whose child she is?"
He thought for a moment. "It does, but not as much as all the other problems I see with hiring her."
"Oh, really, what problems would those be? Perhaps I can resolve them... and in her favor, as well."
"First off - last off, she's a girl." He ticked his points off on his fingers. "She's hardly going to be interested in something like surveying. She won't be willing to do the work. She won't be able to do the physical work."
"May I address those before you go on? " When he nodded, she continued. "You know Emma's background, that she used to be a boy, don't you?"
"Of course, I do, her and Trisha both." He didn't add that he had been one of those who had voted to remove Trisha from the church board back in December.
"Elmer O'Hanlan wanted to be a civil engineer for years before he became Emma. There are no woman civil engineers. She knows that, and she knows that being a surveyor is probably as close to her dream as she's ever going to get. So surveying is something she most surely is interested in."
"As far as not being willing to work hard," the teacher continued, "Elmer was in the fifth grade. Emma is graduating from eighth grade. In the months since she changed, Emma has caught up with the other eighth graders. She's holding her own in most of her subjects, and has the highest marks in mathematics of any of them. She had to work very, very hard to catch up with the other eighth graders and she can most certainly do the work you need done."
"That's all well and good," Cates managed to interrupt, "but surveying is hard, physical work. Whoever I hire has to be capable of it."
Nancy nodded in agreement. "I realize that, and I'd say that she's as capable of it as any of the boys in her class. She plays that ball chase game with them every recess. She had to fight to get back in the game. She fought, and she won. Now she's one of the best players. I've seen her score the winning point in at least one week's game."
"Any other questions?" Her smile would have melted butter. "Or shall I tell Emma that she's hired?"
"N-Neither... for now. You've hit me with quite a lot of data, and I'd like a bit to time to total things up and see what I come get for a solution. I'll let you both know by a week from today."
"And I've no doubt that your answer will be the fair one. Thank you, Mr. Cates."
* * * * *
Reverend Yingling moved a black pawn out to almost the middle of the chessboard. "Ha!" he trumpeted, as he turned over the hourglass that served as timer for their game.
"It wasn't that good," Aaron Silverman said, studying the board. "So tell me, Thad, what did you think of that letter somebody wrote in the paper?"
"It strikes me as a good idea."
Aaron's hand lingered over one or two pieces. "It should." He advanced a pawn. "You wrote it." He turned the timer over.
"Now why do you say that?"
"Because it sounds just like something that you would write." He watched for the other man's reaction. "And as they say, 'you don't have to see the lion if you see his lair.' So tell me, what exactly are you trying to do?"
"As I've told you, I don't believe that Shamus O'Toole should be the one who controls that potion of his." He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, a sure sign that he was thinking. "There." He moved a knight out near his queen and turned the timer.
Aaron studied the board. "And you can do that much better with the potion?"
"I don't think that I'll make the mistakes he's made. Trisha O'Hanlan, that Diaz boy, and the two women are proof that he should not be the one in charge of such a powerful concoction."
"Examples, as they say, aren't proof. They're just examples. You've made a couple of good chess moves, that doesn't prove that you're a better player than I am." He moved his rook and turned the hourglass.
Yingling smiled. "Perhaps this proves it." He took Aaron's bishop with his pawn.
"Or not." Aaron moved out a pawn. "You should think more before you act, Thad. Here, playing chess with me or trying to take the potion from Shamus."
"Don't worry about that. I've given it plenty of thought. And speaking of playing against you, will you support me if I ask the town council to give me control of the potion?"
Aaron sighed. "We're friends - at least, I like to think we are, and a good friend is sometimes better than a brother, as they say. But they also say that if your friend is going into a mire, you shouldn't worry about getting dirty to stop him."
"Are you saying that you're going to fight dirty?"
"No, just like on the board right now, I think you're in a lot of trouble."
"What?" Yingling stared at the board, and at the pawn that Aaron had just moved. "Damnation!" He shifted his queen, trying to get her out of danger.
* * * * *
Wednesday, April 3, 1872
"Dear Phil," Wilma wrote.
"I was so happy t'hear that they're letting you outta
prison early for good behavior."
"I'm looking forward t'welcome you back here for some
bad behavior, some real bad behavior."
"First thing we do when I get you up to my bedroom, is
we's gonna kiss. Maybe that don't sound like much, but
you ain't never had one of my kisses. 'Course, I
ain't never had one of yours, neither, and we's gonna
have to do something about that - something real nice."
"I just can't wait t'feel your lips on my lips, Ethan.
And on other places of mine, too. I got a whole lotta
places on me for you to put your --"
She stared at the paper for a few seconds before she threw her pen down on the table. It bounced once, spitting a few drops of black ink. She jumped back, anxious not get have any of it on the violet corset or satiny white drawers she was wearing.
"Damn!" She asked herself. "Now why'd I go and write Ethan's name instead of Phil's?"
And she answered her own question at once. "'Cause, lately, if I think about anybody kissing me all over, it's that danged painter." She closed her eyes and sighed. "I just gotta get that man outta mind." She giggled. "And into my pussy."
* * * * *
Milt came into Aaron's store and walked over to where the older man was arranging a display of men's shirts. "Good morning, Aaron. How're you and Rachel doing today?"
"Not too bad," the storekeeper answered. "We're a little shorthanded, of course, with Ramon off on his honeymoon, but, as the Sages say, 'the hardest work is being idle.' Having said that..." He took a breath. "...what can I do for you today, Milt? A new shirt, maybe; they're on sale."
"Another time, perhaps; I just came in to mail this." He took an envelope from inside his jacket.
Silverman's store was the post office for Eerie. "Come over to the counter," Aaron said. He put down the shirt he'd been holding and walked behind his counter. He reached underneath and took out a ledger and a small metal box.
"Where's it going?" He opened the ledger to a page bookmarked with a long, thin silvery ribbon.
"Brooklyn, New York." Milt handed him the envelope.
Aaron used a small scale set in the countertop to weigh the letter. "Just under five and a half ounces," he told Milt, "that'll be thirty- three cents." He wrote Milt's name and the letter's destination and the cost of mailing it in the ledger.
"Thirty-three cents." Milt pulled a handful of change from his pocket. While he searched for the necessary change, Aaron opened the box. He took out the stamps he needed, licked them, and put them on the letter.
Milt handed Aaron the money, and the merchant put it and the letter in the box, saying, "It'll go out on the stage tomorrow - get to Brooklyn in a week and a half, two on the outside."
"That'll be fine," Milt said.
Aaron closed the box and put it and the ledger back under the counter. "Good, now, before you leave, are you sure you don't want to look at these nice shirts?"
* * * * *
"That concludes Old Business," Horace Styron said. "Reverend Yingling has asked to be the first item of New Business. So, unless someone objects..." He paused and glanced from one member of the church board to another.
Trisha frowned. 'What're you looking so long at me for, Horace?' she thought. 'Get on with whatever you and the Reverend have cooked up.'
"There being no objection," Styron continued, "the floor is yours, Reverend."
Yingling sat in the front of the room with the board but apart from them. And, usually, apart from board politics. Now, he rose and walked over, so that he was standing in front of the table that the board members were seated behind.
"Thank you, Horace." He spoke in the same firm, resonant voice that he used to deliver his sermons. "These two Sundays past I have spoken to the congregation of my deep concerns regarding the transformative potion developed by Mr. Shamus O'Toole, the proprietor of the Eerie Saloon. As it says in Luke, chapter 12, verse 48: 'For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required'; or, as some might put it, with great power comes great responsibility. I believe that this is true, and I believe that Mr. O'Toole is not capable of meeting the responsibilities imposed upon him by that potion."
"Others, it would seem, share my concerns. The open letter to Mr. O'Toole that appeared in yesterday's newspaper was, I think, a most eloquent statement of those same concerns, and I humbly thank whomever authored those most persuasive words."
"In the past, the town council of Eerie has supported Mr. O'Toole in the use of his potion for the good - its use, that is, against the Hanks Gang and for the punishment of the kidnapper Jacob Steinmetz. It has even paid the expenses incurred by those same miscreants during their incarceration at Mr. O'Toole's saloon, although one can only hope for the truthfulness of the accounting of those expenses that he presented to the town council."
"Even so, the council has never - never - addressed the problems that have been created by his flagrant misuse of his potion and the consequences of that misuse for his victims. That apathy must come to an end."
"It is my intent to correct their omission. At the next meeting of the town council, I shall ask that the council allow me to create a body - an advisory board only, which would have physical possession of all samples of that potion, and which would make recommendations as to when and to whom the potion would be administered."
"I come to the board - and the congregation - of the Eerie Methodist Church tonight to ask your approval." His voice suddenly boomed out. "No!, I ask for your concurrence in my actions. I ask, as your spiritual leader, for a statement that the congregation and board of my church wholeheartedly approve of my actions and that they - that you demand that the town council do as I ask."
"I ask this of you because it is right; it is holy. I ask it in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Amen."
Horace Styron jumped to his feet. "So moved"
"Second," Willie Gotefreund added a moment later.
Horace looked out at the crowd. "All in favor --"
"Hold it, Horace," the Judge interrupted. "This is a serious matter, and I think that it needs to be discussed before the board - or the congregation votes."
Horace folded his arms over his chest. "I don't think we do."
"Perhaps not," Milt Quinlan said firmly, rising to his feet, "but, speaking as parliamentarian, I think we do. Horace, before you can call for a vote, you have to ask if anyone wants to speak on the motion. If no one does, then you can hold the vote."
"And if anyone does want to speak?" Horace glared at Milt.
Milt smiled back innocently. 'I shouldn't be enjoying this,' Milt told himself, 'but I am.' To Horace, and the entire congregation, he said, "Then they get a chance to speak before any vote can be held."
"Very well," Styron said, "I'll ask the board first. Anyone want to speak on this?" The Judge, Trisha, and Rupe Warrick all raised their hands. So did Jubal Cates and Willie Gotefreund. He gave an audible sigh. "And in the congregation?" At least a dozen hands shot into the air.
Milt looked out at the crowd. "Okay, the way it works is that we switch off between those who are in favor and those who aren't. Someone in favor speaks first, and the members of the board should go first."
"That'll be me," Styron replied, standing up. "I don't trust Shamus O'Toole, never have, never will, but I do trust Reverend Yingling. We all do. We trust him with our very souls. I say that, if he thinks we need to do this, then we do, and I also say, vote yes." He sat down. "Next?"
"I'll go next," the Judge said, getting to his feet. "I'm second to no man in my respect for Thaddeus Yingling, and I most certainly follow him in matters of faith and Scripture." He paused for effect. "But he doesn't know Shamus O'Toole, and I do. I've always found Shamus to be an honorable man, and I've seen how he's acted with the newly transformed women placed in his charge. He and his wife, Molly, worked hard to teach them how to act like women, and they gave those women every opportunity to find a new, respectable place in society, encouraging them to work hard at being accepted. How many of you, for example, have enjoyed a meal at the restaurant one of them opened?"
Now Horace interrupted. "Seems to me you've gotten a little too chummy with O'Toole, Judge."
"Excuse me, Horace," the Judge answered, sounding angry. "I wasn't finished yet. Do I know Shamus? Yes, I do. Isn't that what I've been saying? There's no courthouse in this town, in case anyone hasn't noticed. I can do some of the work out of my office, but I need a large public space for holding trials, and Shamus's saloon is the largest room in town, even bigger than here in the schoolhouse. He's been willing to let me take it over for most of those trials, and I'm grateful for that."
"But I'm getting off track. I trusted - the town trusted - Shamus O'Toole to take care of those prisoners, and I think that he's done very well with them. One of them, Laura Caulder, is even married and an active member of this church. I'd say that we'd be a pretty ungrateful bunch if we said that we didn't trust him now, and we wanted to take his potion away from him." The Judge finished and sat down.
Willie Gotefreund quickly stood up. "I vill speak next. Nein, I do not trust him. I vould say, 'tank you very much, Herr O'Toole. You done a good job mit der potion, but ve tink dat ve can do a better one.' Ve got der Reverend to show us how to do a better job, und I say dat it is our duty to try." He gave a satisfied nod of his head and took his seat.
"As the board member most familiar with O'Toole's potion," Trisha said, getting to her feet, "I'd like to go next." There were a few chuckles at her words.
But, before she could continue, Cecelia Ritter stood up. "Mr. Chairman!"
"I'm sorry, Cecelia," Styron corrected her. "But Milt says that the board members speak before the vote." He didn't seem too upset by the interruption. "If enough people want, I'll let some of them speak before the vote."
Cecelia wasn't convinced. "I think that the Board needs to know that the congregation supports the Reverend, and they need to know it now. Right, ladies?"
"Right," Lavinia Mackechnie shouted. "Who cares what that potion freak has to say?"
Trisha bristled. "Potion freak? Why you --"
"Vote for the Reverend," another woman yelled.
Now Milt stood up. "Please, can we have some order here?"
"No," a third woman, Zenobia Carson, shouted. "She's got as much right to speak as anyone else - more than some people who shouldn't even be on the board. Let us vote now."
"Raise your hand, everyone," Cecelia Ritter ordered in a loud, clear voice. "Show these politicians what the people of the congregation want. Show that you support your minister, our Lord's anointed voice." She raised her right arm, her hand extended, palm opened, as if in a salute.
Lavinia and Zenobia's hands shot up, held the same way as Cecelia's. About a half dozen other women raised their hands. Most of the others in the audience looked around nervously, but, very slowly, many with an embarrassed look on their faces, more than half of them raised their hands.
"Seems to me that the board should be going along with what the members want," Styron said, sounding triumphant. "You might as well sit down, Trisha." He pointed out at the crowd, whose hands were still raised. "How many members of the board agree?"
Jubal Cates and Willie Gotefreund quickly raised their hands. Dwight Albertson looked over at Trisha. "I-I'm sorry," he said softly and raised his hand. So did Judge Humpreys, a disgusted look on his face.
"I'm not," Styron whispered, and his own hand went up. He looked around, a satisfied grin on his face. "Anyone voting 'no'?" Trisha's hand shot up.
Rupe Warrick looked down at the table. "I... abstain."
"Passed, then," the board chairman crowed, "five to one with one abstention. Congratulations, Reverend. When you go tell the council what you want them to do, you can tell them that you've got your congregation and it's board behind you."
* * * * *
Thursday, April 4, 1872
Wilma lay back on the bed, while Ethan arranged the sheet against her nude body. "That looks right," he told her, stepping back. "Allow me to ascertain that it does indeed match your earlier poses and we can begin."
"Anything you say... Ethan." Wilma felt a shiver run through her, as she said his name.
He smiled and walked over to the easel. "Yes, perfect."
She felt a blush run across her face. "Thank you."
"Now, if you would please... hold still just like that."
A giggle. "I never 'hold still' in bed." She felt the warmth of arousal flow through her body, and there was that delightful tingling in her breasts and down in her groin.
"Would you please - for me?"
"For you, Ethan, anything." Lordy, she felt giddy as a schoolgirl. What the hell was the matter with her? She decided to think about just that, hoping that her mind would distract her body from whatever it was doing.
* * * * *
"Well, lookee here who's back," Jane said cheerily.
Maggie gave a shy smile as she walked into the kitchen. "Hola, Jane."
"Hi, Maggie. I won't ask how you're doing. I can see it in your face." She giggled. "You and Ramon --"
"Are very happy together," Maggie answered quickly.
"I'll just bet you are, and I'll bet you was together as often as you could be the last three days."
Maggie blushed. "Jane... please."
"I thought I was hearing a familiar voice," Molly said, walking in from the saloon. "Welcome back t'ye... Mrs. de Aguilar."
Maggie smiled. "Mrs. de Aguilar... mmm, I think I can get used to that name."
"Ye better, the Good Lord willing, ye'll be using it for a long, long time."
"Forever! I will be Señora de Aguilar forever!"
"Amen t'that." Jane hugged her friend. "But I don't have t'call you Mrs. de Aguilar, do I?"
"Not unless you want me to start calling you, Miss Steinmetz. Now tell me, Jane, how did things go while I was... away? Did you have any problems?"
"H-How did things go? Well... umm..." Jane tried to think of a way to tell Maggie about the near disaster on Monday.
"Things went as well as ye could be hoping for them t'go," Molly chimed in. "There was a wee - a wee. - bit o'confusion on Monday, but Jane here soon got things going as smooth as glass."
Maggie hugged her friend. "I knew that I could trust my restaurant to you, Jane. Gracias - thank you - so very much."
"There wasn't that much t'do," Jane answered. She looked over Maggie's shoulder to Molly, who was still standing near the door to the Saloon, and carefully mouthed the words, "Thanks, Molly."
* * * * *
"Recess is over, children," Nancy Osbourne announced from the steps of the schoolhouse. In case she wasn't heard, she rang the bell she kept in her desk for just that reason.
Hermione and Lallie were standing along the edge of the field as the boys headed in from their ball game. Emma was with them, brushing the dirt off her dress as she walked. "Honestly, Emma," Hermione asked, as she walked past, "why can't you decide?"
"What d'you mean?" Emma replied.
The Ritter girl chuckled. "You dress like a girl. Sometimes you even try to act like one - not too well, but you do try. Then you go out at recess and play ball with the boys like you were still one of them."
"Maybe she can't decide," Lallie suggested. "Maybe she's a half-and- half freak like the one in that Mr. Barnum's museum in New York."
Hermione laughed again at the thought. "I do believe you're right, Lallie. We oughta write Mr. Barnum to come out here and pick up her and her... her Trisha. He can put them both in big pickle jars with signs that say, 'Potion Freaks' in big letters on the side."
"Potion freak," Lallie chanted at Emma. "Potion freak."
On cue, Clyde Ritter, Junior, and Tommy Carson joined in. "Potion freak; potion freak!" A few other children joined in, forming a circle around Emma.
"Stop it," Emma ordered. "Stop it right now."
Clyde stepped in front of her. "Who's gonna make me, potion freak?"
"If she won't," Yully said, stepping in next to her, "I will."
Stephan and Ysabel stood on either side of them. "And we'll help."
"Us, too." Penny and Tomas joined them. Tomas raised his fists, as if ready to fight.
Clyde and Tommy moved into similar stances.
"As I told you all, recess ended several minutes ago." Miss Osbourne came through the crowd of her students. "And I expected you all to be inside by now, ready to learn."
Hermione put on her best smile. "Emma started it, Miss Osbourne. Lallie and I were talking, and she came over and insulted me."
"That wasn't what I heard you say, Hermione. I'm not sure what you were up to, but you and Eulalie can think about it while you're writing 'I must not start fights.' for me. Fifty times each, I think, after school today."
Emma caught herself smiling. It was almost worth the taunting to see "Whiney Hermione" get punished for it. All the same, she had a feeling that her trouble was only beginning.
* * * * *
Maggie was checking the second batch of stew for the Free Lunch when Ramon strode into the kitchen. "Is there anywhere around here, where a man can --?"
"Ramon!" Maggie dropped her spoon and ran over to him. They flowed into each other's arms and into a passionate kiss.
Jane hurried over and lowered the flame under the stewpot. "Ain't that sweet," she said with a deep sigh as she watched the newlyweds embrace. "I just wish Milt were t'do that to me."
Eventually, the need to breathe made the pair break their kiss. "I do not know about the food," Ramon said with a chuckle, "but the service here is excellent."
"There is more - much more - if you wish," Maggie answered softly.
His eyes twinkled. "And I would have it all, Marguarita, but for now, alas, I will have to settle for a quick lunch. I promised Aaron that I would be back at the store in no more than a half hour, and what I would have takes far longer to do... properly."
* * * * *
"Whatever is the matter, Jubal?" Naomi Cates asked her husband.
Jubal looked up from his dinner. "Did you say something, Naomi?"
"I asked what was bothering you - and don't say, 'nothing.' You've been playing with your mashed sweet potatoes and your peas for the past five minutes."
The bald man looked down at his plate. About half of his peas were mixed in with the sweet potatoes. "Makes a nice contrast, though, orange and green." He laughed. "All right, you got me. You remember how I said I needed some help with my business, and I was gonna ask Nancy Osbourne, over at the school, to recommend one of her kids for the job?"
"Of course, I do. Hasn't she given you a name yet? That isn't like her."
"No, she gave me a name. That's the problem." He sighed. "It was Emma O'Hanlan's name."
"Emma... Kaitlin and Trisha's daughter?"
"The same."
"Jubal, are you saying that you can't hire her because her... her father and you are on different sides on the church board?"
"No - hell no - I like Trisha, even if we do disagree about how the church should be run. It's, well, it's how can I hire a slip of a girl like Emma?"
"Don't you think she can do the work?"
"She can do the math part of it. At least, Nancy says she can, but doing math is just part of the job."
"What else would she have to do - that you don't think she can do?"
"She can't do the job I want sitting in my office here in town. She's gonna have to carry my transit and telescope - all my gear - across open country. That's pretty hard work for a little girl like her."
"Did you tell Nancy what the job involved when you asked for help?"
"Of course, I did. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, Jubal, Nancy Osbourne is a very smart woman. I'm sure that she would have considered what you told her before she gave you Emma's name. Don't you think so?"
"I... I suppose."
"Then don't you think that she must believe that Emma can do the physical labor part of the job?"
"But what if she can't?"
"But what if she can? I think you should give her the chance. If she can't then, you can tell Nancy to find you somebody else."
"Emma can't do that work. It'd be a waste of my time and hers."
"Are you so sure of that? I'm beginning to think that, maybe, the waste of time is you worrying instead of giving Emma the chance that Nancy - and I - think she deserves."
Jubal laughed and held up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, I'll talk to Trisha. If she has no objections with her daughter working for me, then I'll give her the chance."
"I knew that you would do the right thing, dear." She leaned over and kissed his forehead. "Now, would you like some more peas to play with?"
* * * * *
"So tell me, Shamus," R.J. asked, "you given much thought to what you're going to do about Yingling?"
Shamus made a sour face. "T'be telling ye the truth, I been giving the good reverend too much thought. At least, it was too much for me taste." He sighed. "I surely don't like going up against a man of the cloth."
"I think you're worrying too much. He's trying to get the town council to let him put his bunch in charge of your potion, and they won't. The board: Whit, Aaron, and Arsenio - especially Arsenio are your friends. They won't make you give your potion over to him."
The older barman shook his head. "They may not be having any choice, lad. Yingling got his folk all stirred up, the way I heard it. A bunch like that - thinking they're doing the right thing - the G-dly thing - they can force the council t'be doing what they say is right instead of doing what the council members know is the right thing t'be doing."
"I'd disagree, but I've seen things like that happen more than once back in Philly. A loud bunch of people can make a political hack change his mind real quick. The thing is, Arsenio isn't a hack; neither are Whit and Aaron."
"No, lad, but they're human beings, and they can be pushed like any other man."
"Not Arsenio. He's married to - well, to your daughter. That's how you and Molly treat Laura, after all. And they're both members of that church, too. They can stand up to Yingling and his people."
"Maybe - maybe they could be doing that, but I don't want them to be asking them to. Not with Laura as far along as she is."
"You think it'd be bad for her baby?"
"I hope not - no, I pray that it ain't; that nothing goes wrong with that wee babe o'hers, but I don't trust Yingling not t'be making an issue of it. I don't trust him not to use anything he can - including Laura and her baby - to be getting his way."
"He's a minister. He's got to have some principals."
"Aye, the principal that he's always right, and that whatever he wants is what the Lord wants. A man that thinks like that'll be thinking that the Lord'll be excusing anything he does 'cause it's for the right end. And that's a dangerous man t'be going up against."
* * * * *
Friday, April 5, 1872
Molly walked over to the table where Bridget was picking at her breakfast sausages. "G'morning to ye, Bridget." When there was no response, she repeated, "I say again, g'morning, Bridget." in a louder voice.
"What?" Bridget looked up. "Oh, ah, good morning, Molly."
The older woman pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the redhead. "And good morning back to ye." She studied the card player's face. "Are ye gonna tell me what's bothering ye right off, or are we gonna have to pick at yuir problem for a while?"
"Pick at it?" Bridget said, trying to sound cheerful.
"Wrong answer." Molly leaned across the table and gently put her hand on the other woman's arm. "Please... let me help ye with whatever bad thing it is ye're facing."
"It's not a bad thing - or, maybe, it is." She took a breath. "My monthlies started this morning."
"Then ye ain't pregnant, and all yuir worrying about it was for nothing."
Bridget shook her head. "No, I'm not pregnant, and I was worrying for nothing."
"And that's yuir problem?" Molly studied Bridget's face. "Ye ain't pregnant by Cap, and ye don't know if ye should be happy or unhappy about it."
The younger woman looked down at the table. "Yes." Molly could hear the break in Bridget's voice, as she spoke. "That's exactly what I don't know."
"That's how it should be, if ye don't mind me saying it. Ye want t'be happy because ye ain't ready t'be married, t'be a mother, yet, but ye're unhappy 'cause you wanna be with Cap, and this would've fixed it so ye had t'be. Ye know what it all means?"
"No, do you?" Molly could hear the sarcasm in Bridget's voice.
Molly came around the table and gave her a fierce hug. "I do. It means ye love the man, love him with all yuir heart and soul. Ye ain't ready t'be marrying him yet, but I'll tell ye now, sure as the sun rises in the east, ye will be marrying up with him someday, and I'm thinking that the two of ye'll be very, very happy." She kissed Bridget on the cheek.
"You know something else, Molly," Bridget said, trying to smile. "I do believe you're right."
* * * * *
Hedley Spaulding opened the back door of his house just as Arnie climbed up onto the porch. "Welcome, Annie, your timing is perfect."
"How so?" she asked, not certain what he meant.
The young man smiled at her. "Mother is just now finishing the stew we'll be having for lunch." He looked at the two packages she was carrying. "May I help you with those?"
"No, thank you. I have them." She walked past him into the house.
Clara was in her wheelchair near a wooden worktable. "Annie - oh, I'm so glad that you could come."
"Thank you again for the invitation," Arnie replied, giving her a smile and a nod of the head. She'd decided not to correct them about her name. It would just confuse things, especially with Clara. "Where should I put your laundry?"
Mrs. Spaulding was at the stove, adding a last pinch of pepper to her stew. She used the long wooden spoon she was holding to point to a chair in a corner. "Over there, where they'll be out of the way."
"It comes to $2.46," Annie told her, putting the packages down on the chair.
Hedley fished in his pocket. "I've got it, Mother." He handed her three silver dollars, adding, "Keep the change, Annie."
"My," Clara teased, "aren't you the extravagant one."
Hedley's smile widened into a grin. "I consider it an investment in Annie's continued and growing friendship..." He winked. "...with us all."
"Why don't you three go sit at the dining room table?" Mrs. Spaulding suggested. "I'm almost done here."
"Are you certain that you can manage everything, Mother?" Hedley asked.
She shrugged. "You and Clara have already set the table and taken out the bread and the butter."
"And a pitcher of water," Clara added.
"And a pitcher of water," her mother said with a nod. "I can certainly carry in a serving bowl full of stew by myself."
Hedley took hold of the handles of Clara's wheelchair. "Very well, Mother. Annie, would you hold the door for us."
"Sure," Arnie said, "C'mon through."
Hedley pushed the wheelchair through the doorway and positioned it at the table. Clara patted the arm of the chair on her right. "Sit here, Annie, next to me."
"Umm... okay." Arnie moved towards the chair.
Hedley pulled it out from the table. "Allow me."
"Uh... okay." Arnie sat and let him push her and the chair in to place. It felt good to sit down. Her feet had hurt all morning, as if her shoes were suddenly too tight. "Ahh, thank you."
"My pleasure." He moved around the table and sat down opposite her. "Just as sitting across from you - from the both of you - will be a pleasure."
Clara giggled. "Oh, dear, I think Hedley likes you, Annie."
"Of course, I do," he countered. "Annie is a charming young woman who is rapidly becoming your friend - your friend. Why shouldn't I like her?"
Clara nodded. "And that, of course, is the only reason," she didn't even try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Never mind, him, Annie." Clara put her hand on Arnie's arm. "And I do like having you as a friend."
'She likes me!' Arnie realized. She touched Clara's hand with her own. "And I like you, too, Clara." She was so happy that she was willing to ignore the way her breasts and her groin, the "girly parts" she hated to think about, were making her feel even as she said it.
* * * * *
Ethan opened his front door on the third knock to see... "Wilma, do come in."
"Thank you, Ethan," she offered in a soft voice, almost a whisper, as she walked past him and into the house. She stepped slowly, as if she was thinking about something. "I... Should I go upstairs?"
He nodded. "Yes, please. I shall join you momentarily."
"All right." She headed for the stairs with the same slow gait. Ethan noticed that her arms were stretched out, so that she touched or slid her hands over various objects and surfaces as she walked. She did the same with the banister as she climbed the stairs.
He waited for a few minutes before following her. He expected to find her in the nude, either standing beside the bed she was posing on or sprawled out on it. Instead... "Wilma, you're still dressed."
"Yes." She blushed and looked away from him. "Would you - could you please... undress me?"
He studied her for a moment, her expression, the way she held herself. Wilma's usual brashness was gone from the demure young woman standing before him in a pale green dress that was far more modest than anything else he had ever seen her wear. He had to ask, "Is this some sort of ploy on your part?"
"No... no, it isn't. I just thought... I want you so bad, and you kept saying 'no', so I thought maybe you didn't care for the sort of woman I am. I don't have to act that way all the time."
Ethan smiled. 'Soon, very, very soon,' he told himself. He put his hands on her shoulder and felt her tremble at his touch. "I do like the sort of woman you are. I just prefer you... on canvas," he said.
"Then, could you... help me?" Her voice caught and her lack of smoothness made her wince. She glanced down at her buttons. .
"Well, if it will speed things along."
He started with the top buttons of her dress, the ones that Wilma never seemed to close before today. When they were undone, he was surprised to see a white camisole, something she seldom wore, preferring to show the tops of her breasts to any and all who wanted to look. It made her look sweetly demure, and he had to resist the temptation to stroke her cheek.
When her dress was open to the waist, he slid it down off her shoulders. He could feel her body tremble as his hands moved along her body. Both her camisole and corset were white. 'Virginal,' he thought. 'How ironic, that the most infamous whore in town feels virginal in my presence. And how true it is in its own way.'
"You look so lovely," he said aloud. On an impulse, he took her head in his hands and kissed her on the lips.
Wilma moaned and pressed her body against his. Her arms closed around him, but she held herself back, as if waiting for his next move, a little bit more encouragement. Ethan obliged, deepening and intensifying the kiss. Wilma reacted; her tongue slid across his lips, as if begging for his own tongue to come out and play.
"No!" As abruptly as he had kissed her, he pushed her away. "I've told you before, Wilma, that the only way that I wish to have you is on canvas. I apologize for my behavior just now." He turned and started for the stairs. "Please be on the bed, in dishabille and ready to pose, when I return."
He smiled as he walked away. His minnow was most definitely hooked. Now he was reeling her in.
* * * * *
"We're home, Mama," Matt Yingling yelled, as he and his brothers and sisters ran into the house after school.
Martha greeted them from the kitchen. "So I heard. Now, everyone go upstairs and change your clothes. You've chores and homework to get done before supper."
"Mama," Stephan said, walking into the kitchen, "can I talk to you for a minute?"
His mother could see from his face that something was bothering him. "Certainly, dear, what seems to be the problem?"
"Why is Pa making so much trouble for Emma O'Hanlan?"
"What do you mean? I'm not aware that your father is doing anything to her."
"Oh, yes, he is. All that business he's started about taking away that potion that Mr. O'Toole makes. Some of the kids at school are teasing Emma about it. They're calling her a 'potion freak' 'cause she drank it to save her life, and it turned her into a girl."
"Is Emma a special friend of yours? Is that why it bothers you?" Was Emma her son's first case of puppy love?
The boy shook his head. "She's just a regular friend... honest. If she's anybody's 'special friend', she's Yully Stone's." He wasn't going to say anything about Ysabel Diaz and the way he sometimes felt about her.
"Well, I'm glad to hear that you stick up for your friends, and I'm sorry that the other children are teasing her. I'm sure that your father doesn't approve of that sort of thing."
"Then can we ask him to stop going on about that potion?"
"I'm sorry that Emma is having problem, but your father is very definite about wanting to be the one controlling that potion. He feels that it's for the best for everyone in town."
"What if it ain't - isn't - the best? What if Pa's wrong?"
"I'm quite sure he's right in what he wants for the town. He's given so very much thought to the matter." She hugged her son. "Now, you go upstairs and change. You have work to do in the barn before supper."
"Yes, Mama." Stephan kissed her cheek and walked out of the kitchen.
'How can he know what's best for the town,' he asked himself, as he climbed the stairs to the room he shared with his brothers, 'when he doesn't even know what's right for me, his own flesh and blood?'
* * * * *
Jubal Cates walked into O'Hanlan's Feed and Grain. Trisha was speaking to Saul Dinner, who worked at Minnie Haldeman's dairy farm. Saul waved a quick "hello" to Jubal, and then went back to talking to Trisha. Jubal headed over to the counter to wait.
"Can I help you with something, Jubal?" Liam asked from behind the counter.
Jubal shook his head. "No, thanks, I need to talk to Trisha about something." He leaned back against the counter.
Trisha and Sam came over a few minutes later. "Hello, Jubal," she said stiffly, still mad at what had happened at the board meeting.
"Jubal said he needed to talk to you about something," Liam told her. "Why don't I ring up Sam's order?"
Trisha looked at Sam. The dairyman was just the sort of tall, broad- shouldered male that she had learned to appreciate. "Well, if Sam doesn't mind..." Her voice trailed off.
"Your sister's a lot easier on the eye than you are, Liam, but if it's important --"
Jubal cut in. "It is."
"Oh, very well," Trisha replied, trying not to sound disappointed. "Another time, Sam." She had promised not to go off with anyone, but a little flirting wouldn't hurt.
She turned to the stocky surveyor. "Can we talk out here, Jubal, or is this so important that we have to go into my office?"
"Your choice; it's about your daughter, Emma."
"What about her?"
"I've been looking around for somebody to help me with my business. Part of the job'd be in my office, but a big part'd be working with me out in the field, learning to be a surveyor."
"And?" She knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from him.
"And I asked Nancy Osbourne to recommend one of her eighth graders. She told me your Emma was my best choice. You and I aren't exactly friends, so I figured I'd better talk to you before I offer her the job."
"You want to know if I mind - her working for you, I mean."
"Seems only right. Besides the business between you and me, she is only - what - thirteen?"
"Elmer was only ten. Emma's thirteen, her body is, anyway - and I don't understand how that happened. Her birthday's in May. She'll be fourteen, physically, then, and I'm gonna talk to Milt Quinlan about how I can make that her legal age.
She paused a beat then continued. "I always planned for her to work here in the store with me, but then..." She gave a wry laugh. "...I always planned that she'd be my son, Elmer, and that surely won't happen." She shrugged. "If it's what she wants - and I think it is, I say give it a try. If it doesn't work out, well, the store'll always be here for her."
Then she added. "Besides, you're a nice... an honorable man, Jubal, even if you do vote wrong at the board meetings. You go ahead and offer her the job."
* * * * *
Martha Yingling stood in the doorway of her husband's study. "Horace Styron is here."
"Thank you, Martha," the reverend answered. "Please ask him to come in."
Styron walked past her into the room. "No need, Reverend."
"Can I get you gentlemen anything?" Martha offered.
Yingling shook his head. "Later, perhaps, dear. Thank you."
"I'll leave you to it then." She stepped back into the hall, closing the door behind her.
The reverend motioned at a chair. "Please sit down, Horace."
"Thank you." He pushed the chair closer to the reverend's desk and sat down. "What did you want to see me about?"
"As you know, I shall be going before the town council in a few weeks to ask them to give me control of O'Toole's potion."
"Yes, and when you do, you can tell them that you've got the congregation and the board - well, most of the board - of you church behind you."
"Indeed, but it was closer than I would have liked. If Cecelia Ritter hadn't broken in when Trisha O'Hanlan was about to speak, I'm not sure what might have happened."
"You'd still have won, of course, regardless what that meddlesome b... woman said."
"Perhaps, but I am still concerned."
"Maybe you should ask Cecelia and a few of her friends to show up at the town council meeting for a repeat performance."
"I intend to do precisely that, but I wanted to more to do ensure my victory. I have an idea, which I wanted to ask your help with."
"Ask away; you can count on me, Reverend."
"Excellent. I was thinking of getting together some sort of petition that we might use to register support for my request, one that would call on the town council to accede to it."
"That sounds good, but why don't we just print up copies and put them up around town for people to sign. I'd be proud to have a copy in my store, and I'll bet a lot of others would, too."
"Yes, and we can have them at the church on Sunday for people to sign after the service."
"I like that. And why don't you ask Cecelia Ritter to be in charge of that one. She'll make sure everybody signs it."
Yingling laughed. "She certainly would."
"You write something up, and I'll take it to the print shop tomorrow. That way, the board - which already voted to support you - is the one running the petition, and not you."
"Yes, that would be even better."
* * * * *
Saturday, April 6, 1872
"Aii! Mama! Help!"
Arnie's scream woke Teresa at once. "Arnoldo, what is the matter?"
"I am dying," she sobbed. "Look!" She held up a hand smeared with blood. "It is from... from down there." She glanced nervously down at her crotch.
Teresa sat up quickly, wincing, just a little, at the pain in her still healing bones. "Come over here," she told her daughter, patting the bed with her good arm. "And do not be afraid."
"Sì, Mama." Arnie answered in a frightened voice. She sounded like a little girl, sniffling as she walked over from her own cot to sit on her mother's bed.
Teresa gave her a quick hug. "Oh, Arnoldo, I am so sorry. I did not realize just how much of a woman you had become."
"What are you saying, Mama?" Arnie stiffened. "I am not really a woman." Why was her mother bringing that up now? "Do you know why I am bleeding like this?"
"Si, you are bleeding for the same reason that I bleed every month, as do Ysabel and Dolores - and every other woman in the world. You bleed because you are a woman. And you will have these 'flowers', as some call it, for many, many years."
"I will bleed like this for years? Mama, I will die!"
"No, no, you will only 'flower' - it is a better word than bleed --for a few days, but it will happen to you again every month --- unless you are with child."
"Never! I will never have children!"
"Never is a very long time, Dulcita. You --"
Before she could continue, there was a sharp knocking on the door. "Is everything all right?" Dolores called from the other room.
"Everything is fine," Teresa answered. "Arnoldo was just startled. She had her first 'flowering' this morning, and I had not warned her that it would happen."
The door opened half way. "Congratulations, Arnoldo," Dolores said. "You stay with her, Teresa, and tell her what she needs to know. Ysabel and I will keep breakfast ready for whenever you two want it."
"Thank you," Teresa replied. As the door closed, she turned back to Arnie who hadn't spoken while his cousin was in the room. "Take off your nightgown and cleanse yourself. I will show you how we women deal with these things."
* * * * *
Cerise poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. "Good morning, Wilma," she greeted the only other person in the room.
"Morning," Wilma replied. She sat quietly, holding her own coffee cup and staring at the wall.
After a minute or so of silence, Cerise reached over and touched Wilma's cup. "Your coffee, it is cold as ice."
"What... what'd you say, Cerise?"
"Your coffee has gone cold."
"Coffee... umm, no thanks, I got a cup."
"Oui, you do, and it is cold."
"No, it ain't." She took a sip. "Damn! It was steaming hot when I poured it."
"What is it, mon cher, that has your head so lost in the clouds?"
"Your painter... Ethan."
"Has he been rude to you?"
"That's the problem, he ain't been nothing t'me. I been posing on that bed of his for weeks, naked as a jaybird, and all he wants t'do is paint my picture. Any other man in town would've been all over me - and in me - long ago, but Ethan..." her words died down into what was almost a growl of frustration.
"Is that what you want from him, sex?"
"I don't know what I want from him or how t'get it from him. And what's worse, when I get near him these days, I get..." She shook her head. "I don't know what I get. I feel... I feel almost like I ain't never been with a man before."
"Ah, my poor Wilma, it seems that he has touched you."
"Touched me? Not hardly, that's my problem."
"Oui, he has touched you, Wilma, and in the best place - and the worst place - that a man can touch a woman." Cerise gave a wry laugh. "He has touched your heart."
"You mean I - oh, shit!"
"Yes, mon cher, you are in love with him."
Wilma frowned. If this crazy feeling was love, then she'd never had it before, not even as Will. Her expression changed as a new thought dawned on her. It was true; she had no way to know how it felt like to be in love. So, was this love? This thing that made her feel so preoccupied, so awkward and so helpless?
* * * * *
Arnie carefully positioned a long roll of white cotton wadding into the odd-looking loincloth that Teresa had given her - and shown her how to wear.
"It feels so strange, Mama." She retied the strings that connected the front and back sections on her right hip to better accommodate the wadding.
Teresa nodded. "Si, but you will get used to it quickly enough. And you do not really have a choice." She paused for effect. "No woman does. It is the nature of our bodies."
"Si, Mama," Arnie said solemnly. But to herself she added, 'but it is only my body that is a woman.'
* * * * *
"Molly, Love," Shamus asked as he walked into the two room apartment they shared on the second floor of the Saloon, "what're ye doing? Ye've been up here since ye got back from Aaron's store."
Molly looked up from her work. "I had an idea about all that trouble ye've been having with the Reverend Yingling." She held up a strip of pale blue ribbon. "Ye remember them ribbons I made t'be helping Trisha O'Hanlan when they wanted t'kick her off that church board of thuirs?"
"I do, and they most surely helped her get what she wanted. She's still on the board."
"Aye, and thuir's no reason that they can't be helping me sweet husband get what he wants, t'not be bothered by that reverend and them that's working with him."
Shamus picked up a ribbon from a second pile. This one had writing on it in Molly's best script, using a dark blue ink. "Trust Shamus," he read. "I like it."
"'Tis a thought that's always worked for me, Love. I'll have the lot of 'em ready by Monday for ye t'be handing out."
"Molly, I always knew that marrying ye was the smartest thing I ever did in me life. Thank ye for this lovely idea."
"And thank ye for the lovely idea all them years ago of marrying me." She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
* * * * *
Roscoe Unger looked down at the sheet of paper.
"A PETITION," it said in block letters, "To the Eerie, Arizona Town Council."
"We, the undersigned, hereby support the demand of
the Reverend Thaddeus Yingling that all control of
all existing stock of the transformative potion
created by one Shamus O'Toole, and of any stock he
may create in the future of that or any similar
potion be given to the Reverend Yingling and such
other persons he may choose to sit on a committee
with him to advise the Town Council on its use."
"Can you print up, say, fifty copies of that petition?" Horace Styron asked. "With lines underneath where folks can write their names."
Roscoe looked at Styron, then over to Reverend Yingling, who stood next to him. "I... I suppose I can."
"Then why do you hesitate, Mr. Unger... Roscoe?" Yingling asked. He was glad now that he had decided at the last minute to go to the print shop with Styron. "Surely you, a valued member of my congregation, can see the wisdom of my... of Mr. Styron's actions."
Roscoe shook his head. "No, Reverend, I'm not sure that I do. I do printing for Shamus O'Toole, menus for his restaurant every week and flyers for things now and then. I'm not sure that we shouldn't leave things well enough alone."
"Then maybe you ain't as valued a member of the church as the reverend thinks you are," Styron sneered. "And maybe I should think about stocking paper goods over in my store. I've been looking to expand my business, and maybe, just maybe, I'll take some of yours." He chuckled. "If it goes well, I might even set up a printing press."
Yingling stepped forward. "Now, Horace, young Roscoe here was just expressing a few minor concerns he may have had. I'm sure that, after reconsideration, he's more than willing to do the printing for us."
"I'll do it," Roscoe answered in a defeated voice. Styron's hardware store was bigger than his own store and much more prosperous. He could afford to lose money selling paper for a time just to punish Roscoe. And, if he got that press, with his connections, he could take a lot of Roscoe's business. "I'll even give you a nice discount on the price - since it is, sort of, church business."
Styron smiled, the smile of a wolf staring down a rabbit. "I thought you'd see it that way."
* * * * *
"Care to dance," Cap asked Bridget. He held one of Shamus' tickets in his hand.
Bridget looked up at him from her chair. "I'll be glad to take the ticket, Cap, but could we talk instead?"
"I'd rather hold you in my arms," he said, "but I guess I can settle for holding your hand while we talk"
She stood up. "Sounds good to me, but can we go outside? We can't really talk over this music."
"Alone with you, outside and holding hands, this gets better and better." He grinned and took her hand. They walked hand in hand through the kitchen and out into the yard behind the saloon. After a moment, they sat down on the bench, out of sight of the doorway.
"Before we talk," Cap said, "there's one thing I'd like to take care of." Before she could answer, he pulled her to him and kissed her deeply.
Bridget sighed, as her arms reached up and around her shoulders. She opened her mouth slightly, and her tongue and Cap's began a romantic dueling. Her body filled with pleasant, little pinpricks of in her flesh, as she gloried in the emotions he stirred within her.
"Now," he said, when they finally had to breathe. "What did you want to talk about? Or would you rather just kiss some more?"
She smiled. "I'd rather kiss." Her hand shot up to push him away. "But we have to talk." Her lips curled into a mischievous smile. "First."
"Okay, what do you want to talk about... first?"
"Us, I've given it a lot of thought, and I love you, Cap Lewis. I only hope that you love me half as much."
"I do. I love you, and I want to be with you."
"That's the problem, Cap. I love you, but I... I'm not sure that I want to give up my life for you."
"Then I don't want you to, but can I share that life with you?"
"You can. I-I want to, but..." She looked down at the ground.
"You want to share your life, but you're still not ready to share your body again."
"I-I do want to, but I'm... I'm afraid of what it would mean, of what could happen. Can you understand that?" Could she tell him of what almost did happen, that she'd so feared being pregnant? No, no, she couldn't. That would have felt like she was threatening him.
"Bridget, I love you with all my heart, and I want to be with you in every possible way, but I want that, when it happens, we go into it with neither of us worrying about anything. If you're that afraid, that unready, then I don't want it to happen yet." He kissed her gently on the cheek. "But I know that it will happen someday."
"So do I," she told him. It felt like a giant weight was off her shoulders. "And, since we've settled that, can we get back to what we were doing when I so rudely interrupted?" Her arm went back up around his shoulder.
"With pleas - " Her lips cut off whatever else he was going to say, and, whatever it was, it wasn't nearly as important as their kiss.
* * * * *
"I have been watching you, Marguarita de Aguilar," Ramon teased, "How shameless of you, a woman who has just married to be in the arms of so many other men this night."
Maggie had danced the first dance with Ramon, but Shamus' rules said that a woman couldn't have the same partner two dances in a row. She'd danced with him again, but she'd danced with Red Tully first and with Sam Braddock afterwards. At the start of the fifth dance, Ramon had pushed to the front of the line to hand her his ticket.
"Sì, I was dancing with other men," she answered, a smile on her lips. "But now I am dancing with you, and later I will be in your arms again, and..." She blushed and whispered the rest into his ear. "...we will not be wearing all these silly clothes."
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 2 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, April 7, 1872
Nancy Osbourne sat, waiting, on the steps of the schoolhouse. “Good morning, Reverend,” she said, standing quickly when she saw the man coming around the side of the building. “You, too, Martha…everyone,” she added, when she saw his wife on his arm, with their children trailing behind them.
“And to you, Nancy,” Yingling replied for them all. “And how are you this glorious Sunday morning?”
“Fine, thank you,” she answered. “I was wondering if I might speak to you for just a moment.” She took a breath. “In private.”
The man nodded and turned to his wife. “You and the children go in, my dear. I’ll join you momentarily.”
“Very well, Thad,” Martha said. She kissed him on the cheek. “Nice seeing you, Nancy.” She started up the step, Stephan and the other children hurrying behind her.
Yingling pointed to a picnic table a few yards from the steps. “Why don’t we speak over there?” He offered her his arm. “It offers as much privacy as we are likely to get.”
“Thank you,” she replied and let him lead her to the table. They sat down on opposite sides. “Now, then, what did you wish to discuss?”
“I‘m a bit concerned about some of the rhetoric in your sermons these past weeks. It’s… it’s creating problems at the school.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“A number of the children have taken your language as a reason to taunt Emma O’Hanlan. They’re teasing her about having been a boy, calling her a ‘potion freak.’”
“I understood that Emma has been teased on a number of occasions since she took that potion. Why do you blame me?” To himself, he thought, ‘Who are you to blame me?’
“Because the teasing had all but gone away. The only one continuing it was… I don’t wish to name names. It was a girl jealous of Emma’s successes.”
The reverend nodded. ‘Hermione Ritter, unless I miss my guess.’ Aloud he asked, “Are you saying that this girl’s jealousy is causing the trouble?”
“She’s a prime source, but she’s not the only one. A number of the children have taken your language as a reason to taunt Emma O’Hanlan. They’re teasing her about having been a boy, calling her a ‘potion freak.’”
“If they are fighting over Emma O’Hanlan, then I suggest that you speak to her or her parents, not to me.”
“But your sermons are the reason for the fights. The children hear you saying those things about Mr. O’Toole and the potion; that it’s evil --”
“It is evil, or, rather, its continued possession by O’Toole is evil, a threat to the entire town.”
“I’m not saying that it is or it isn’t. The way you’re talking about it, though, the children are taking that to mean that Emma is also a threat in some way. That’s why they’re carrying on the way they are. If you could just tone your speech down a little or tell --”
Yingling stood up and glared at the presumptuous female. “Miss Osbourne, you are a woman, a mere tutor of elementary knowledge, a hireling with only a few years more education than those you are charged to instruct. It is hardly your place to tell me how I, a seminary-trained minister of Our Lord, am to conduct His Work in this town.”
Before she could answer, he stepped away from the table and strode unto his church.
* * * * *
Arnie finished buttoning the dress she was wearing to church. She looked down at it and frowned. “Mama, do you have a safety pin I can borrow?”
“What is the problem, Dulcita?” Teresa asked.
“This dress of yours is too big at the top. The seams keep sliding down on my shoulders.”
“Sì, sì, just a moment.” Teresa opened the top drawer of the small cabinet next to her bed. She took a pair of brass safety pins from a small sewing kit. “Come over here and sit by me.”
Arnie walked over and sat down. Teresa pulled up a bit of the edge of the collar on Arnie’s right shoulder and pinned it back. The safety pin was inside the dress, so that less than an inch of metal was visible. She did the same on Arnie’s right shoulder. “Now stand up, so I can see how it looks.”
Arnie did as her mother asked.
Teresa studied her daughter for a bit. “The collar looks good, but…” She took a breath. “It is still easy to see that my dress is too big for you. You really should have one of your own to wear to church.”
“I-I do not want my own dress,” Arnie answered, maybe a bit too quickly. “How many times do I have to say it to you?”
“I just thought that you might want to look nice – you would look better in a dress of your own, you know. If not for the people at the church, then for those people you met, the… the Spauldings.”
Arnie considered the idea. It would be interesting to see how Hedley – and Clara, of course, Clara -- and their mother, too, would act if she was wearing something other than her rough work clothes. “I-I will think about what you say.”
Teresa smiled. “You should, but not right now. Now, you must help me to get my own dress on, so that we will not be late for Mass.”
* * * * *
“I have spoken to you,” Reverend Yingling continued, “this Sunday, and in Sundays past, of the dangers of allowing Shamus O’Toole to continue in control of his transformational potion. I have also told you what I – with the wise permission of your church board…” He turned and bowed to the seated board members. “…intend to do at this month’s meeting of the town council. I shall be asking that they allow me to create a group to take physical possession of the potion and to advise the council on its use. When I ask this, I shall take pride in telling the council that I have the support of the membership of this church in my request.”
“Better than that, at the suggestion of your board president, Horace Styron, I intend to produce evidence of that support. Horace has drafted a petition asking the council to accede to my request. Copies of that petition are located on a table at the doors of this church. Those who support my intention can sign that petition here today. Mrs. Cecelia Ritter will be sitting by the table with additional copies of the petition. I also ask that the merchants among you take a copy or copies to your place of business, so that those who are not here with us today have the opportunity to affix their names as well.”
“With your help, we will succeed in this holy work.” The reverend bowed his head. “Halleluiah, His Will be done.”
* * * * *
“There’s one name for the reverend,” Horace Styron put down the pen he’d just used to sign his own petition. “And I’ll take a few copies for my store.” He’d held back from taking copies at the printer’s, so he could make a public show of doing so.
Cecelia Ritter was sitting next to the “signing table”, as she called it. She smiled broadly and handed him four of the sheets she was holding on her lap. “Here you are, Horace, and thank you for setting such a good example.”
“I’m just following the fine example you set at the board meeting, Cecelia. With the help of you and your friends, I’m sure that we’ll get the council to see things our way.”
Her smile grew even broader. “To see things the Lord’s way.”
* * * * *
“May I have one of those petitions, Mrs. Ritter?”
Cecelia looked up at the speaker. “Mr. Caulder.” She smiled. “I guess you’re one member of the town council we won’t have to convince.” She pointed at the table. “You can sign the copy here, or your name can be the first one you put on this copy…” She handed him a page. “…when you set it out in your smithy.”
“Wrong on all counts.” He took the sheet from her, folded in and placed it in his jacket pocket. “Come on, Laura.” He offered his wife his arm.
Laura took it. “Yes, wrong as usual, Cecelia,” she said smugly as they left the church.
* * * * *
Cecelia put out an arm as Nancy Osbourne walked past her. “Miss Osbourne, you forgot to sign the petition,” she reminded the young woman, her tone chilly.
“No, I didn’t, Mrs. Ritter. I don’t intend to sign it,” Nancy said firmly.
“May I ask why not?” Cecelia’s voice was hard.
“Even if I agreed with it – and I’m not certain that I do – as the teacher of this town’s children, I feel that I should not become involved in any political matter. After, all I have to teach the children of those on both sides.”
“But this isn’t a political issue; it’s – it’s a moral one. You’re supposed to set a moral example for those children you claim to care so much about.”
“I am setting an example, neutrality.”
“You can’t be neutral on this. You’re either moral or immoral, with us or against us.”
“I’m neutral, Mrs. Ritter. Please respect that.” Nancy walked away before the other woman could reply.
Cecelia watched her go, but, as she observed Stu Gallagher signing the petition, she thought, “I most certainly will not respect that, Miss Osbourne, and I’ll deal with you and the Caulders in my own good time.”
* * * * *
“Shamus,” Arsenio said, walking over to the bar, “you’ve got a serious problem.”
The barman looked closely at the other man’s expression. This was not the time to make a joke. “And just what is that problem, Arsenio?”
“This.” The smith took the petition from his pocket and handed it over. “They set copies of it out at the church. Cecelia Ritter’s sitting there to make sure that people sign as they go out.”
“And how is it that ye have a copy of the thing?” Shamus asked after a quick read.
“That’s the second part of your problem. She’s got spare copies that she’s handing out to people to put in their stores. Horace Styron and Clyde Ritter each took some, so did Jubal Cates. We left at that point, but I’ll bet a lot of others did, too.”
“I’m thankful that ye didn’t.”
“Shamus, as a member of the town council, I’m not sure that it would be right for me to do so. Besides, I think the whole idea is wrongheaded. I trust you with the potion. Look what it did for me.”
Laura had stepped up to join the men. “Well, thank you for that, Arsenio.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“I’m sorry that I ran ahead,” Arsenio told her. “I thought that Shamus should see it as soon as possible. Besides, how could I not trust the man who gave me the most wonderful woman in the world?”
“I think ye earned her on yuir own,” Shamus replied, “but I do thank ye for yuir trust, and, much as I hate t’be saying it, I’m thinking that ye’re right about this here petition. I was hoping that it’d be blowing over by the time of the town council meeting, but that don’t look too likely now.”
“It surely doesn’t,” Laura said. “What are you going to do about it?”
Shamus frowned. “I ain’t about t’be lying down like a dog, that’s for sure. Me Molly’s been making ribbons – they say ‘Trust Shamus’ on ‘em, and I’ll be asking people t’be wearing them around, too. I’d like t’be throwing them that signed that petition out of me bar, but I don’t know who they are. Besides, I suppose a man’s got a right t’be stupid if he wants to be.”
“I’ll wear one of those ribbons as soon as they’re made,” Laura said firmly. “You and Molly, you’re… family. I trust you, and I’ll bet that Dolores, Bridget and Jessie’ll will, too. And Maggie and Jane.”
Shamus looked thoughtful. “It would be a fine thing if they… could.”
Arsenio hesitated. “I support you, Shamus, but I… I am on the coun – Ow!” He reached down and rubbed his leg where Laura had just kicked him. “Okay, okay, but I can’t very well put a ribbon on my leather smith’s apron. It’d probably catch fire. How about if you bring one home as soon as they’re made, and I hang it on the door of my smithy?”
“You’d better,” Laura said, with a chuckle, “or I kick higher the next time.”
* * * * *
Monday, April 8, 1872
“Hola, Jane,” Ramon said, walking in through the kitchen door. “Where is Margarita?”
Jane pointed to behind him. “In the pantry, getting some potatoes.”
“Not anymore.” Maggie hurried out of the smaller room and over to her husband.
He turned at the sound of her voice. They flowed into each other’s arms, and their lips met in a kiss.
“Sweet,” Jane said with a sigh, as she turned back to the carrots she was chopping.
Eventually, the couple had to come up for air. “Not that I am complaining,” Maggie said, her voice soft with the pleasure of being in Ramon’s arms, “but what brings you to my kitchen?”
“Your kiss was all the reason I would ever need,” he told her, “but I also came to give you this letter.” He took an envelope from his jacket pocket. “It is for you… from Gregorio.”
Maggie’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Gregorio… what could he…” She took the envelope and tore it open.
` “My dear, Margarita,”
` “I write to you as the head of the de Aguilar family.
` Now that you are a member of our family, you should
` adorn yourself as befits the lady you are in name, as
` well as in fact. Take this letter to Dwight Albertson,
` and tell him that I hereby authorize him to present you
` with parcel 31 from the safety deposit box in his bank.
` Ramon will help you with this.”
` “The parcel contains our mother's pearl earrings and her
` matching necklace, Margarita, and I give them to you,
` as I know that she would wish. Just as I know that you will
` look lovely in them. Say hello to my very lucky brother.”
` “Via con dios,
` Gregorio”
Ramon frowned. “I was wondering when he would do something like this.”
“What do you mean?” Maggie asked. “I think that it is a nice gesture.”
The man shrugged. “Perhaps, but it is also his way of reminding me – and you – that he is the head of the family and that he expects to be deferred to, as such.”
“Let him think that,” Maggie said. “He also said, and he says it here again and in writing, that he accepts me as your wife. That is all that I care about.”
“Do you have any doubt that you are my wife?” Ramon gave her a wry smile, his eyebrow raised.
“Mmm, none at all. You proved it to me so well again last night.” She moved in close to him.
“And I will do so again, but…” He looked at his pocket watch. “…I promised Aaron that I would be right back at the store.”
“And I have to get the Free Lunch cooked,” Maggie replied wistfully.
He took her chin in his hand and raised her face to his. “I do have time for another kiss.” He took one, and when he was done, he added, “I will be back this afternoon for more and to walk over to the bank with you. I want to see how beautiful you make Mama’s pearls look.” He gave her a quick peck on the forehead and headed for the door.
“I will be waiting,” Maggie answered, a cheerful smile on her face, as she watched him leave. She hugged herself, trying to contain her all the delicious sensations his kisses had stirred in her body.
* * * * *
“Hector, would you please come up to the board and show us --” Nancy was suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door of the schoolhouse.
Jubal Cates opened the door. “Excuse me, Miss Osbourne, may I come in?”
“Certainly,” Nancy answered. “Come up to the front of the room, if you would. Children, this is Mr. Cates. He’s a surveyor, and I believe that he has something to say to one of you.”
Jubal walked slowly up to stand next to her desk. “I ain’t – excuse me, I’m not used to talking to a lot of kids. I just figured to talk to Emma O’Hanlan.”
“Yes, Mr. Cates.” Emma stood up, smoothing her dress as she stood. A few of the others giggled, but she ignored them and tried to look grown-up. “What did you want?”
Jubal took a book from a pack tied to his waist. “Miss Osbourne tells me that you’re the best one for the job of my assistant, so I’m gonna give you a try. This here – this book…” He held it up for all to see. “…has all the material you’ll need to know for the job. You read the first chapter, do the problems at the end – if you can. You come by my office this Saturday at 2, and you can show me how well you did.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Cates.” Emma hurried over to the man and took the book. “And thank you so much for this job.”
“I didn’t give you the job yet, girl. I just gave you the chance for it.”
“Thank you for that then.”
Jubal started for the door. “We’ll see how thankful you are on Saturday.” He stopped about halfway and looked back at her. “Good luck.” He gave her a quick smile and walked out.
“Congratulations, Emma,” Miss Osbourne said. “I know that your friends want to congratulate you as well, but they will have to wait until the school day has ended. Right now, we are in the middle of an English lesson. Hector, as I was saying, would you please step up to the board and diagram the third sentence on page 205 of your reader?”
* * * * *
Ethan stepped back from the painting. He glanced quickly from it to the model, Wilma, who laid seductively on the bed, her nude form on full display. “Yes,” he said with a smile. “I am done… it is finished.”
“Can I see?” she asked coyly.
“Of course.”
She rose out of the bed and padded over. She gave the painting a hard look, and a smile broke on her face. “It’s beautiful.”
“It only reflects the beauty of the model.”
She turned and gazed at him, her eyes sparkling. “That’s the first really nice thing you’ve said about me in all the time I was posing.”
“It was not the right time for such talk. I only wished to concentrate on capturing your likeness on canvas.”
“You certainly did that.” She stared again at the sublimely rendered figure. “Can I thank you for how well you done?”
“There’s no need for that, I assure you. The amount that Lady Cerise and I agreed upon will be more than sufficient reward for my efforts.”
“That’s between Cerise ‘n’ you. I-I want to thank you, too, for doing such a great job.”
“Very well.”
“And my way’s a whole lot better ‘n cash money.” Wilma threw her arms around him and pulled him in for a kiss. She pressed her body close, deliberately rubbing her pillowy breasts against his chest. His mouth opened willingly, and her tongue slid in to begin to tangle with his. She sighed as she felt his arms close around her, even more when she felt the growing firmness of his erection.
He broke the kiss much sooner than she wanted. ‘We do have to breathe,’ she consoled herself. She was about to try for a second one, when he gave her a light smack on the cheek, then her jaw and more times on down to her neck. She delighted at the attention he was giving her, sighing once more and shifting her head back onto her other shoulder.
His trail continued down her neck, onto her shoulders, then slowly, ever so slowly down towards her breast. He gave her one last kiss before he began to swirl his tongue along the top of her left breast. He continued, circling around her breast. Gradually, deliberately, agonizingly, he continued the swirling motion, making those circles smaller and smaller.
Wilma trembled, holding onto him to keep from falling. Her eyes were closed. All she knew was the motion of his tongue on her soft skin, the warm, exquisite ache that was building in her body. She reached down to grasp his maleness, trying to pull it into the so very hot, so very wet emptiness in her loins.
As his tongue began to brush against her almost painfully erect nipple, there was a great outburst of energy, like a lightning bolt straight from Heaven to her deepest female part. She squealed with delight as her body spasmed there in his arms.
“Oh, Ethan,” she gasped when she had regained enough control to speak. “That… that was wonderful. Please… please, take me – right here, right now.”
He grinned with male satisfaction. “I fear that I cannot, at least, not at the present. Another one of my commissions will be arriving…” He glanced quickly at his pocket watch. “…in about fifteen minutes. Just as it took time to properly use my skills to create the painting you so admire, it will take far, far, more than a quarter of an hour to do justice to your carnal desires.”
He saw her sated smile broaden into an anticipatory grin. He had all but promised that he would finally take her to bed. He decided to encourage her, even while making her wait for it. “Tonight, of course, will be a far different matter.”
* * * * *
“With the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill, the great California gold rush began. In the course of --” Nancy Osbourne stopped as the small clock on the corner of her desk began to chime. “And that’s the end of today’s lessons. For tomorrow, grades 5 and 6 answer questions 1-4 on page 247 of your history book. Seventh and eighth grades, please do those, as well as questions 5-8.”
If she had anything more to say, it was lost in the scramble as most of her students filled their book bags and began to file out of the classroom.
“Congratulations, Emma,” Ysabel said, as she put her books away. “You got the job.”
Emma shook her head. “I got the chance for the job. I still have t’show Mr. Cates that I can do the work.”
“You can do it. You’re real good at math.”
“If I am, it’s ‘cause I had your help catching up to where we are.” She had a sudden thought. “Say, can you come over and help me with this?” She held up the book Jubal Cates had given her, Manual of Surveying Instructions from the U.S. General Land Office, 1855 revision.
“I-I don’t know if I can. I don’t know surveyor’s math any more than you do.”
“No, but you’re good at teaching math, finding tricks and helping me see how to do problems. I bet you could do that for this stuff, too.”
Stephan eased up behind her, his bag already on his shoulders. “Can I come over, too?”
“Why?” Emma asked.
The boy looked around nervously. None of his brothers or sisters were still in the room. “You both know how I want to go into the Army – to West Point if I can?”
“Sure, I… we do,” Ysabel answered quickly. Emma nodded in agreement.
“An officer needs to know how to read maps, how to make ‘em, too, sometimes. That means surveying. An artillery officer needs to know the same sort of math for calculating how to aim cannons.” He took a breath. “I figure that the more I know about such things, the better chance I have of getting in. Studying with you and Ysabel seems like a good way to learn some of it.”
“I… suppose,” Emma said.
Ysabel smiled. “If I’m gonna be the teacher – sorta – I get a say in who I’m going to teach, and I think Stephan being in the class is a lovely… a real good idea.”
“In that case, you got room for one more?” Yully chimed in. “I’ve been reading about this Schliemann fellah over in Turkey using surveying to find where Troy really was.”
Penny joined them. “You know those’re just stories, Yully. Even Mama says so. There aren't any giants with one eye.”
“Pappoús says Troy was real,” he argued. “I asked him about it.” Then he added. “Pappoús means ‘grampa’ in Greek. He’s my ma’s papa.”
“He taught those stories for all those years at his school,” Penny replied. “For him they are real.”
“That Mr. Schliemann thinks so, and I do, too. And, maybe, if I learn how, I can go help him.”
Emma laughed. “Maybe you will, but, for now, if you want, you can sit in, too, if Ysabel don’t mind.”
“I guess I can try and teach three people as easily as I can try to teach two. Or do you wanna come, too, Penny?”
The other girl shook her head. “He’s the one that wants to find where the real Ulysses lived. I’m Penelope, I can wait.”
“Penelope was the wife of the Greek hero, Ulysses,” Yully explained. “She stayed home and waited while he spent all those years at the war and even more years coming home. Of course, she had all those handsome suitors keeping her company while she waited.” Then he grinned and added, “If you’re waiting for a bunch of handsome suitors, Penny, you’re gonna be waiting even longer than that other Penelope did.”
“I… you take that back, Yully Stone.”
“Will not.” He winked at Emma and ran for the door with Penny in hot pursuit.
Emma laughed. “I guess we’ll talk about when those classes are gonna be another time.”
“No, we can decide now,” Stephan said. “I can tell Yully.”
Emma thought for a moment. “I have to see Mr. Cates on Saturday. Is Thursday, after school at my house, okay with the two of you?”
“Fine with me,” Ysabel told her and Stephan agreed. Somehow the idea of spending some time together sounded good to them, even if it was to study something.
* * * * *
“Ramon… and Miss Sanchez – excuse me, Mrs. de Aguilar,” Milo Nash greeted the couple who had just stepped up to his teller’s window. “What can I do for you this afternoon?”
Ramon smiled. “We… my wife…” He squeezed Maggie’s hand. “…want to get something from my family’s safety deposit box.”
“Certainly.” Milo slid down the door that closed the front of his window. Then he turned to the teller a few feet to his right. “George, I’m taking the de Aguilars to the safe. I’ll be right back.”
When the other man nodded, Milo walked around to the side of the tellers’ area and opened a door. “This way, please.”
Maggie and Ramon walked through then followed him over to a large half-opened steel door, the entrance to the bank’s walk-in vault. A small table with two chairs were set up just outside. Milo pulled out one of the chairs. “Mrs. de Aguilar?”
“Margarita… Maggie, please,” she replied, sitting down.
Ramon handed him Gregorio’s letter. “Parcel 31, if you please.”
“Let me…” He quickly scanned the document. “It seems in order. I’ll have it for you in a moment.” He pulled a set of keys from his jacket pocket and walked through the door into the vault.
He returned a few minutes later carrying a small leather case with a tag bearing the number 31. “I believe this is what you wanted.” He handed the box to Maggie.
“I-I am so nervous.” She opened the box. “¡Oh, qué hermosa!”
The teller looked confused. “I’m sorry; I’m afraid that I don’t understand Spanish.”
“I was just saying how beautiful they were,” Maggie explained. She turned the box so he could see what he had given her.
Ramon smiled and put his hand on hers. “Sì, they are almost as beautiful as the woman who will wear them.” He took a breath. “Put them on. I want to see how lovely they look on you. Then we will go back to the Saloon, so everyone can see.”
“W-wear them?” she asked nervously. “No, I… I do not want to put them on right now. It is not the right time.” She closed the box and handed it to Ramon. “Please, you… you hold them for me.”
Ramon frowned. “What do you mean? Of course, you should wear them.”
“No, I-I should not, not now.”
He put the box inside his jacket. “Very well. I will take them back to the store for now, and we can lock them up at home tonight.” He spoke slowly, his tone alerting Maggie that she had made some sort of mistake. “And perhaps someday, you will find the right, the special occasion when you can wear them.”
He took her arm and walked her back to the Saloon, never saying another word. And when he left her, he barely gave her a kiss on the cheek.
* * * * *
Nancy Osbourne compared the answers on Miriam Scudder’s test paper to the answer sheet she’d prepared for the fifth and sixth graders’ arithmetic test. “Five out of eight,” she said. “I’ll have to work with her on fractions a good bit more.” She made a note to that effect in her sixth grade lesson plan.
She was about to reach for another paper when the door opened behind her. “I want to talk to you, Nancy,” Zenobia Carter told her.
“Mrs. Carson,” Nancy replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice, as she turned to face her landlady, “I’ve asked you many times not to come into my room without knocking.”
Zenobia sneered. “I’ll not be knocking on a door in my own house, asking your permission to enter.”
“This is my room, and I think I deserve some privacy.” She was sitting in just her yellow nightgown and a light brown robe. She’d already eaten, and she planned to grade papers until she went to bed. If she were dressed, Mrs. Carson would have tried to get her to do housework.
“I don’t, and I don’t trust people who’d lock their door on me.” She took a breath. “You are only here on my sufferance, anyway. You can leave if you don’t like it, but I very much doubt that you would find any place this nice that was willing to put up with you.”
Nancy frowned. Room and board was part of her salary as school teacher, but she had to take what she was offered. Mrs. Carson was being paid by the town board to board her this year, but the matron always behaved as if she were doing it out of the kindness of her heart. ‘Maybe I can find a better place during the summer,’ she thought. ‘In the meantime, just change the subject.’
“What did you want to talk to me about, Mrs. Carson?”
“Cecelia Ritter told me that you didn’t sign the petition about Reverend Yingling. She gave me a copy.” She took a folded sheet from her apron pocket. Looking down, she didn't notice the schoolteacher tense at the mention of Mrs. Ritter's name. “You can sign it now.” She unfolded the paper and held it out for Nancy to take.
“You might as well put that away. I have no intention of signing it.”
“Why not, may I ask?”
“Because, as the school teacher, I think that I shouldn't involve myself in controversies. After all, my students have parents on both sides of this issue.”
“That’s a good reason to sign and to tell your students that you signed. So they know that it is the correct thing to do.”
Nancy shook her head. “I don’t believe in going against a child’s parents.”
“Stuff and nonsense. If their parents won’t sign, then they are in the wrong, and the children must be shown that. Perhaps the tykes can even persuade their parents that the right thing is for them to sign it.”
“Who’s to say that it is right? I’m not so sure that we shouldn’t leave well enough alone. Mr. O’Toole seems to be doing as well as I would expect the reverend to do.”
The older woman gasped. “Are… are you saying that some… some common barman’s judgment is as good as that of an ordained minister, especially on a moral question like this potion?”
“I’m just saying that I don’t wish to sign that petition. I don’t see that I need to explain my reasons to you or anyone else.”
“You are a very, very foolish woman, Miss Osbourne, and I can see that I am wasting my time trying to reason with you. Goodnight.” She tramped out, slamming the door behind her.
“That, Mrs. Carson, is the first thing you’ve said that I agree with.” Nancy smiled and began to check Nestor Stone’s test answers.
* * * * *
Tuesday, April 9, 1872
Clara picked at her apple cobbler. “Annie, could you… would you please do me a favor?”
“If I can help you with something,” Arnie replied with a smile, “just ask.” A chance to get on Clara’s good side, yes!
The other girl fidgeted with her fork, as she spoke. “It’s this dress that Mama is making for me. It’s almost done – it just needs pinning, but I… I really can’t stand up as long as it takes her to put in the pins. We’re about the same size. Would… could you wear it while Mama works?”
“Me; you want me to wear a… to wear your dress?”
“Oh, yes, if you would, please…”
Mrs. Spaulding chimed in. “It would be a great help to me, Annie. I’m sure that you know how much work goes into making a dress, getting the bottom hem right and all.”
“No,” Annie shook her head. “Not really.” She thought quickly, not wanting to reveal who she really was. “I-I never really paid attention when my mama made clothes for my sisters – or me.” She closed her eyes and took a breath. ‘You did sort of give your word,’ she chided herself. Aloud she said. “All right, I will do it, but I cannot be here for too long. I have a cart full of laundry to bring home.”
The mother stood up. “Very well, Hedley, you can clear the table, while I get my pins. The dress is on a form in Clara’s room, Annie. Do you think you can manage her chair?”
“Sì, I have a lot of practice. My Mama is in a chair because of her accident.” Annie rose to her feet and walked around to where Clara was sitting. She slowly pulled the girl’s wheelchair away from the table.
Hedley ran over to the nearby door. “Let me get that for you, Annie.” He pushed open the door and held it, while Arnie guided Clara and her chair through.
* * * * *
Arnie sat down on the bed and pulled off her shoes. Once they were off, she stood and unbuttoned her pants. She stepped out of them and began to undo her shirt.
Clara sat watching her. “You have lovely lacework on your underclothes,” she said. “Who did it?”
“My Mama,” Arnie told her. “She is very good at making lace.” Then she added. “I am sure that you have nice lace on yours, too.”
The girl smiled. “I do.”
“May I see?” She tried not to leer as she spoke.
“That’s silly, why do you need to see mine? Do you know how to tat lace?”
“No, I-I never learned.”
“Oh, but you should. Mama says that it’s a very ladylike skill. She taught me a long time ago?”
“Did you do the lace on your… clothes? Can I see it?”
“If you must,” Clara answered. Arnie smiled in anticipation until she pointed to a tall cabinet. “There’s a petticoat of mine you can wear over there in my armoire.” When she saw the look on her friend’s face, she added. “Don’t look so surprised. The dress won’t fit right without a petticoat underneath.”
“Oh… of course.” Arnie hid her disappointment. She opened the door and took the garment from a hanger. “This is lovely lacework,” she said, honestly admiring the scrolls of blue trim along the bottom edge of the garment.
* * * * *
“Will this be much longer?” Arnie asked. She was beginning to feel stiff from holding in place for so long.
Mrs. Spaulding took a pin from her mouth and used it to adjust another part of the hem of the dress Arnie now wore. “I’m just finishing, dear.” She turned to her daughter. “What do you think, Clara? It’s your dress.”
“It looks lovely,” the girl answered. “I just hope it looks as good on me as it does on Annie.”
Arnie laughed. “I am sure that it will look even better on you.”
“We can see when you come back with the laundry on Saturday,” the mother said. “I’ll have it all finished by then. If you want, you can both model it.”
Arnie shook her head. “That won’t be necessary. Clara is welcome to it.”
“Whether you wear it or wear one of your own,” Hedley replied, “I do hope that you will be joining us again for lunch.”
Clara clapped her hands. “Yes, please do. You can wear a dress that your mother made the lace for, so we can see more of her work.”
“More?” Hedley asked.
His sister blushed. “Yes, Annie had lovely patterns of swirled lace all over her…” She stopped and blushed.
“Her… undergarments?” Her brother finished the sentence. “I’m sure that they are most becoming, and I deeply regret that I am too much of a gentleman to ask to see them.” He winked slyly and bowed low.
Arnie felt odd and couldn’t quite bring herself to face him as she answered. “Th-Thank you. And… and I will be happy to have lunch with you… with you all on Saturday when I come back with your laundry.”
* * * * *
“Hey, Maggie,” Laura said, walking into the kitchen, “what’s for lunch?” She stopped when she saw the mournful expression on her friend’s face. “Hey, what’s the matter?”
Maggie shook her head. “Nothing, nothing at all; it-it is the onions.”
“She’s been like that all morning.” Jane chimed in. “Maybe you can get her to talk.”
Laura walked over to the cook and took her hand. “C’mon, Maggie, fess up. You can’t be keeping secrets from your madrone, now, can you?”
“I… I cannot tell anyone,” she replied. “It is just so… so silly.”
Laura squeezed Maggie’s hand. “You can tell me. Who knows, maybe I can even help.”
“Ramon… oh, Laura, Ramon is so mad at me. I-I do not know what to do.”
“I told you there’d be fights didn’t I? It happens to all married couples. Just what was the fight about?”
“It wasn’t really a fight. He… Gregorio sent word for him to give me some of their mother’s jewelry – it was at the bank, in a safe – and I-I did not want to wear it.”
Jane raised an eyebrow. “Why not, didn’t you like it? Was it something ugly?”
“No, it… they, the earrings and necklace, they were beautiful, so elegante, I was afraid to wear them.” She sniffed. “And it hurt Ramon that I refused. I could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. And when I tried to-to talk to him last night… in bed, he-he p-pulled away from me.” Her lip began to quiver and she looked away so that her companions couldn’t see.
Laura hugged her friend tightly, making cooing sounds and trying to comfort her.
Maggie tugged herself away from her. “Laura, what should I do?”
The taller blonde shook her head. “You should know that better than I do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been a husband, something I’ve never been. Put yourself in Ramon’s shoes; that should be easy for you. Think what could have bothered him and what you would want your wife to do if it had been you and her instead of Ramon and you.”
“He wanted me to put on the jewels like I was a rich lady to whom they didn’t mean very much. He doesn’t seem to understand that I come from poor people. They are like a treasure we never dreamed of. We would bury such things for bad times when the crops fail, or when Apaches burned the pueblo, or else put them into a big city bank and hope it is not robbed.”
Laura crossed her arms and regarded her friend skeptically. “You’re both still pretty poor, moneywise, Maggie, but Ramon comes from a home where people enjoyed precious things and didn’t make such an incredible fuss over them.”
“When Gregorio and Ramon gave you their mother’s jewelry, I think they were saying that you had become one of them, a de Aguilar, just like their mother did when she married their father.”
“By not putting them on, not displaying them as their mother would have, you were saying that you’re not fully ready to be part of their family. What could upset Ramon more? You have to tell him what you told us, but you have to be clever in the way you tell him, so it comes out just right.”
“What can I do now that the mistake has been made?” Maggie asked gloomily.
“That’s easy t’solve,” Jane blurted out. “Wear ‘em.”
Maggie stopped sobbing and looked over at her assistant. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you gotta wear ‘em. Wear ‘em at home, if you’re scared of wearing ‘em here. And you tell Ramon that you love him so much that you had t’wear ‘em, even if you was afraid t’wear ‘em here.”
Laura laughed. “I never thought I’d say it, but Jane’s right. You should wear that jewelry at home for Ramon. Tell him how you’re worried about what could happen to it, but tell him while you’re wearing it. Do that and you’ll be stepping into the shoes of the woman of the house, which is what Ramon wants you to be.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Maggie said. “I will think about what you said. And thank you, thank you both for your help.”
Laura smiled. “Glad to…” Her voice trailed off. She grabbed for the edge of the table. “Chair,” she said in a weak, fearful voice. “Ch-Chair… please.”
“Jane,” Maggie ordered, grabbing hold of the other woman. “Get a chair quick.”
Jane hurried over with a chair, and they both helped the pregnant woman sit down. “You want a drink or something?” Jane asked.
“No, I’ll… I’ll be okay in a minute.”
Maggie shook her head. “Maybe you will, or maybe you will not. Do you want Jane to get Arsenio so he can take you home?”
“No, I-I just felt tired all of a sudden. I don’t want to worry him.”
“If you’re that tired, then you oughta be laying down,” Jane told her.
“No. I’ll be fine. Don’t you be worrying so much about me.”
Maggie firmly put her hands on her hips. “Jane, you take her upstairs and put her in your bed. Do it right now.”
“Please. I’m… I’m fine.”
“The hell you are,” Jane answered. “You come upstairs with me right now , or I’ll... I’ll tell Molly you ain’t well and won’t do nothing about it.”
Laura chuckled and held up her hands in surrender. “Not that.” She tried to stand, but stopped and slowly settled back in the chair. “Maybe… maybe laying down for a while would be a good idea.”
* * * * *
“I truly can’t imagine what Mr. Cates was thinking,” Hermione said as she and Lallie walked down the schoolhouse steps for lunch. “Imagine offering a job to someone like Emma.”
Lallie responded to the cue. “Oh, I know what you mean, but I’m sure that he’ll see the error of his ways as soon as he sees how poorly she does the work.”
“Who should he give it to, Hermione,” Stephan asked, “somebody like you, who can’t tell her seven times tables from nine times tables?”
Emma rose in her own defense. “He gave it to me ‘cause Miss Osbourne told him I could do the job, and I can.”
“A potion freak like you?” Hermione gave a nasty laugh. “You don’t even know if you’re a boy or a girl. I suppose that’s why you’re dumb enough to think you can do a man’s job.”
Yully smiled. “So now you’re saying that Emma’s a girl.”
“I… no, I’m saying no such thing.” Hermione’s smile faded. “He-she… Emma’s a thing, a potion freak, neither boy or girl.”
Emma rose from the bench she was sitting on. Her hands curled into fists. “That’s the second time you’ve called me a potion freak, Hermione. Say it again, and I’ll black them beady eyes of yours.”
“Don’t do it, Emma.” Stephan stepped in front of her. “You’ll get in a lot of trouble, and it’ll just give her more lies to tell about you.”
He turned to face the other girl. “Do you know what the Bible says about people who spread lies and start fights, Hermione?”
“No, no, I don’t.” She stepped back, reminded that she was confronting the minister’s son.
Stephan smiled. “Then, maybe, after you two eat lunch, you should go back into the school and check Miss Osbourne’s Bible t’find out.” He laughed as he watched the two scurry away.
“What does the Bible say about people who tell lies and start fights?” Yully asked as they sat down around the picnic table where they normally ate.
Stephan laughed. “I don’t know right off the top of my head, but it’s gotta say something.” He took a bite of his chicken sandwich. “But Hermione ain’t gonna be scared off for very long, so we’d all better watch our backs for a while.”
* * * * *
“This treacle tart is delicious, Ceceilia,” Lavinia Mackechnie told her host.
Cecelia Ritter smiled. “I’m so glad that you like them. Would either of you like more tea?”
“Please,” Zenobia Carson said, lifting her cup, so that Cecelia could reach it easier. Cecelia poured the tea, and then set the pot down on a wooden trivet next to an embroidered tea cozy.
Zenobia added a spoon of sugar and stirred the tea once before setting the spoon aside. “So how are the petitions coming?”
“Very well,” Cecelia replied. “We got thirty-some signatures on Sunday, and there are copies of the petition at a number of stores. It took a bit of persuading, but I even got Mr. Albertson to post a copy at the bank.” She took a sip of her own tea. “And my Clyde is asking everyone who comes into his livery.”
Lavina nodded. “Excellent. It’s too bad we couldn’t get it into even more stores, say, Silverman’s or Ortega’s.”
“Silverman’s Jewish,” Cecelia said scornfully. “You can’t expect those people to support any proper Christian work. And those Mex aren’t that much better. I didn’t even ask Mr. Ortega.”
Zenobia nodded. “And some of the members of our own church aren’t any different. I saw Mr. Caulder take a copy of the petition, but I’ll bet that he didn’t put it out in his smithy.”
“What do you expect?” Lavinia asked. “He’s married to one of those potion freaks.”
Cecelia shook her head. “That Laura Caulder has always been a problem. I’ve no doubt that she was the one who came up with those ‘Keep O’Hanlan’ ribbons when Horace Styron and my husband, Clyde, were trying to get that horrid Trisha O’Hanlan off the church board.”
“Those potion freaks all stick together,” Zenobia said. “You’d think that they would hate O’Toole for what his potion did to them, but Mrs. Caulder carries on like he’s her father. It’s… disgusting.”
“We all know that O’Toole could control the minds of those women. Maybe he’s still doing it. It’s very disturbing,” said Cecelia.
Lavinia tried one of the almond cookies that Cecelia had set out for them. “I agree, but we have to be nice to Mrs. Caulder for now, at least. Her husband’s on the town council.”
“For now,” Cecelia replied. “After we’ve won, and the reverend has control of the potion, our next objective should be putting our sort of people on the council.”
* * * * *
A slender young woman walked in the back door of the Lone Star Saloon. She set down the bucket and mop she was carrying and stepped through the door into the barroom. “Pa,” she asked Sam Duggan, “did you hear anything of a petition about Mr. O’Toole?”
“Not a word, Winnie,” Sam answered. “Do they want to shut him down?” He gave an ironic laugh. “I couldn’t be that lucky.”
The girl took a folded sheet of paper from her apron pocket and handed it to her father. “No, Pa, it’s about that potion he brews up, the one that changes people. They want the town council to make him give it all to Reverend Yingling.”
“Oh, and what is the good reverend going to do with it?”
“It doesn’t say. All it says is that he’ll form some sort of a committee to tell the town council when they should use it. There was a bunch of copies of the petition over at Mr. Styron’s store. When I bought the new bucket and mop – they’re in the kitchen – he gave me a copy and told me to bring it back here for you. He said he could get more copies if you needed them.”
Duggan unfolded the sheet and quickly read it. “A committee, is it now, and that bas-- and Horace Styron expects me to sign it and to put it out for others to sign. Well, no, thank you.”
“I thought you hated Mr. O’Toole, pa. Why don’t you want to sign?”
“I trust that preacher even less than I trust Shamus O’Toole. Yingling’s making a grab for power, and he’s using Shamus’ brew as an excuse. I wouldn’t be surprised if he plans to parlay that committee of his into a way to shut down Shamus and me and every other place in town. I’ll be damned if I’ll help any man cut my own throat.”
He took a breath and added, “And, for what it’s worth, I don’t hate Shamus. I just don’t like having him – or any other man -- making money that I’d make if he wasn’t here.”
* * * * *
“Margarita?” Ramon glanced up from the book he’d been reading and looked around. There was no sign of her. “She went upstairs to put the children to bed,” he reminded himself. He had to chuckle. It was still hard to believe that Ernesto and Lupe were now his. “Almost mine,” he corrected himself. He made a mental note to talk to her about formally adopting them.
There were other things to talk to her about first. “The jewelry, I want – no, I need -- to know why she was so quick to reject it.” He started for the kitchen, guessing that she might be there.
“Ramon.” As if on cue, her voice came to him from the direction of the stairs. “Could you come up here, please?”
He nodded. ‘Already the obedient husband,’ he thought wryly, as he climbed the stairs. She wasn’t waiting for him at the top, but the door to their bedroom was ajar, and he could see lights flicking inside.
“Margarita, what -- “ He froze at the doorway. The room smelled of cinnamon, her favorite scent. She was standing by the bed, lit by a dozen small candles placed about the room. Her hair, usually tied in a ponytail, hung loose about her shoulders. She wore the white silk camisole, the one she had worn on their wedding day, but now it was unbuttoned, revealing her full, firm breasts and her slender waist. Besides that, all she wore were the matching white stockings, tied high on her thighs with lace ribbons, and a pair of ivory slippers.
And his mother’s necklace and earrings.
“You said that you hoped to find a ‘special occasion’ when I could wear these pearls.” She spoke softly, her lip quivering as she did, and he could hear the uncertainty in her tone. “I was hoping that tonight could be such an occasion.”
He hesitated a moment, taking in the weight of her words. She had understood how she had hurt him, and without his having to tell her. He was as pleased by her understanding as by her beauty. He warmed in every part of his body, his anger now gone like the snows of last Christmas. He rushed over to her and pulled her close.
“It will be the right occasion,” he assured her, putting his hands on her cheeks. Her eyes glistened, even as she smiled in anticipation. They kissed, tenderly at first, then with a fierceness that acknowledged the passion that they felt for each other. His tongue invaded her mouth, dueling with her own. Their hands roamed over each other’s bodies, arousing an eager expectation that swelled and swelled inside each of them, demanding release.
Maggie’s hand reached down to fumble with the buttons on the front of Ramon’s trousers. He broke their kiss and took a half step back. Now that she wasn’t distracted, Maggie quickly dealt with the buttons. Her fingers reached down into his drawers and circled his erection. “So warm,” she murmured, “and so… ready.”
“As are you.” He gently pushed her backwards, until she fell onto the bed. Her legs spread wide in connubial welcoming, dangling over the side.
He let his pants and drawers slide down around his knees. He leaned over her, one arm braced on either side of her head. As he lowered himself to kiss her, he felt her hand take hold of his manhood and guide it into her. She was ready, and he began to move his hips in and out. Maggie moaned, and her legs lifted to encircle him.
It was a very special occasion, indeed.
During the calm after the tempest, they lay together atop the still-made bed. The only cold part of her was the metal and gems he had wanted her to wear. His arm was around her, tenderly rubbing her stomach. She turned her head and kissed his cheek. “Ramon,” she said hesitantly, “about the pearls.”
“What about them?” She felt his body tense, his hand ceased its movement on her skin.
Was that suspicion she heard again in his voice? She took a breath to steady herself and continued. “I… all my life I was so poor. I could never buy such things for myself – or for my wife, my Lupe – no matter how much I wished, for her sake, that I could.”
“Now, everything is changed. I-I am your wife, and from you – or Gregorio… whoever – I get these pearls. They are so, so beautiful, and I know how much they must mean to you because they were your mother’s. I-I was afraid of them. What if I…” Her voice cracked. “…I lost them or broke them? What if one of the earrings fell into a pot of b-boiling hot stew? I could not bear the loss of them, what that would do to you, how you would feel about me for letting such a thing happen.”
“But you are wearing them now.”
“Sì, I am. I saw on your face how hurt you were when I would not wear them. I-I could not stand to see you so disappointed.” She smiled slyly and ran a finger across his bare chest. “Besides… if they had broken tonight, it would have been because of your passion. You could not blame me for that.”
“Margarita, you will always be to blame for my passion.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each finger. “And you look so beautiful in Mama’s pearls. I will take the risk so everyone can see you wearing them.”
He turned so that they were face to face. “But just now, I am ready for yet another special occasion.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, April 10, 1872
“How’s the picture coming, Ethan,” Jane asked, fidgeting a bit as she did. “Seems like I been posing for it forever.”
Ethan stepped back to compare image and subject. “As a matter of fact, I have all but completed my efforts at capturing you – as you, that is – on canvas.”
“And what the heck does ‘as I am’ mean?”
“That I am near to finishing the capture of your likeness in the pose that you are in now, the… ah, maiden. I anticipate that I should conclude with this session… if you stop moving about.” He paused a beat. “However, other portions of the portrait are not yet done. Your sister missed her scheduled session yesterday. Can I expect her here today?”
“Laura wasn’t feeling too good yesterday.”
“Nothing serious, I trust.”
“Nope, she was just real tired from carrying that baby around in her belly. She said t’tell you that she’s feeling better, and she’ll be over today.”
“Excellent. While I have put all but the last few touches on her pose as ‘the mother’, there is still the figure of ‘the elder’, the seated one, to complete. Still, in answer to your original query, I believe that the entire scene should be captured within a week.”
“Shamus told me he’s got something planned for it after it’s done.”
“Mr. O’Toole has requested that there be a grand exhibition at his establishment for all three pieces, ‘The Three Fates’ and the pictures of Miss Hanks – Jessie Hanks, that is – and his wife, Molly, are ready.”
“They’re gonna hang in the Saloon, then?”
“For a short interlude, they shall. I suspect that he plans to take the portrait of Molly up to their rooms. As I’ve said previously, I intend to ship ‘The Three Fates’ back to Philadelphia.”
“Yeah, you said you was gonna put it in some kinda show.”
“I am not a wealthy man, Jane. I support myself with my work. A number of my pieces are currently stored at the Academy of Fine Arts, and upon my return, I shall be exhibiting those paintings and ‘The Three Fates’ for viewing and – I hope – for sale.”
“How ‘bout if you sold this one t’me instead?”
“My dear Jane, you’ve spoken of that possibility before. I don’t wish to embarrass you or to boast, but my work is already quite well known. The prices that I receive for my efforts are, I presume, considerably higher than you could afford.”
“Don’t be so sure of that. I got money, a fair bit, too, or so Dwight Albertson tells me.”
“Albertson at the bank, he handles your finances?”
“Like I told you, me ‘n’ Toby had claims up in the mountains. We… uh, we found some gold up there, and Dwight takes care of it for me.” She wasn’t about to say that they had found the gold by accident, rather than while digging for it.
“Well, far be it from me to dissuade a potential buyer.”
“I ain’t sure yet if I’m gonna buy it. Milt – my… uh, friend, Milt Quinlan, he says I should keep my money in Dwight’s bank and let him make me rich like he’s been doing.”
She’d mentioned Quinlan before, and, from what she’d told him, they were much more than mere acquaintances. Which was a shame considering how much he’d like to become more familiar with this buxom young innocent’s body.
Still, he could see her uncertainty. “Why don’t you just think about the matter for now? It will be two weeks, at least, before I ship this piece back east. If you decide in the interim to purchase it, I’m sure that we can come to some mutual accommodation.”
“I guess that’d be okay. We’ll talk about it another time.”
“Indeed, we shall. But there will not be a painting to discuss unless you resume your pose so that I may complete it.”
* * * * *
Sam Braddock walked into the saloon. He took a look around the place then headed over to Bridget’s poker table. “Hi, gents… evening, Bridget.”
“Hi, Sam,” Bridget replied. “We just started a hand, but I’ll be glad to deal you in for the next one.”
He shrugged. “Fine with me. I’ll just go over and get m’self a beer. I wanted to talk to Shamus anyway.”
“Okay, I’ll give a signal when it’s time for the next hand.”
He nodded and walked over to where Shamus was standing at the bar. “Hey, Shamus, I got some news you might be interested in.”
“And what would that be?” the barman asked.
Sam tossed a silver dollar onto the bar. “Gimme a beer, and I’ll tell you.”
“Beer it is.” Shamus drew a beer and set it down on the counter. He put Sam’s change down next to it. “Now, what’s this big news ye’ve got for me?”
“I got a new job today… over at the Lone Star.”
“The Lone Star, is it, and what exactly has Sam Duggan hired ye t’be doing?”
“He wants me to build a stage, a big one – eight by sixteen – and sturdy enough for three or four men to move around on.”
“And did he telling ye what he was gonna be doing with that grand new stage o’his?”
“Not a word – and I asked him a couple times. I asked Cuddy Smith, too. He said he didn’t have any idea what his boss was up to.”
“Well, whatever it is, I thank ye for telling me about it, Sam. You let me know if ye find out anything more.”
“I will, Shamus, but right now, I see Bridget waving. She must be ready to take my money now.”
“Good luck t’ye, Sam, and let me know when ye’re ready for yuir next beer. It’ll be on the house, just my way of thanking ye for what ye told me about Duggan.”
* * * * *
Bridget took a sip of wine and looked across the table at Cap. “So, tell me, what’s going on? You were so mysterious when you asked me to have dinner with you tonight.”
“Can’t a man just want to have dinner with you? You’re an incredible woman, Bridget Kelly, beautiful, smart, kind… good.” He reached across and took her hand in his. “In or out of a man’s bed.”
Bridget raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Is that the reason? You want to get me back into your bed?”
“Not necessarily, I’m just as willing to get into your bed.” He tried to judge her expression. “Whenever you want me to be there.”
“I-I do want you, but… I don’t know if I-I’m ready yet.”
“Maybe you’ll be ready when I get back.”
“Get back? Are you going away?”
“Yep, that was the reason I came into town today, to say goodbye to you and to fetch some supplies. Uncle Abner’s sending me off to Prescott on business. I’ll be negotiating cattle sales to the territorial government, to the Army, and to the Indian Agency. I should be gone about two weeks… more or less.”
“Two weeks! Oh, Cap, I-I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too. That’s why I asked you to dinner. I want to spend as much time as I can with you before I have to leave on tomorrow’s stage.”
“You’re spending the night here in town?”
“I am. I already rented a room from Shamus.” He squeezed her hand. “If I need it.”
Bridget blushed as a sweet warmth ran through her body. “We’ll… we’ll see about that later.”
* * * * *
Lady Cerise gently tapped the side of her wineglass with a knife. “Attention, attention, s'il vous plait.” She waited until everyone in the parlor was looking at her. “We are here to debut this fine work of art by my good friend, Ethan Thomas.” She clapped her hands, and most of the others joined her.
“Thank you, my lady,” Ethan replied, giving her a low bow. “My thanks, also, to all of you, and, most especially, my thanks to my beauteous model, Miss Wilma Hanks.”
Wilma was standing beside him. ‘Most beauteous,’ she thought, ‘He said I was beautiful.’ She felt the heat of a blush run across her face. Wilma wasn’t used to blushing about anything, and she didn’t want people to see it and give her the hee-haw.
“Show us the thing, already,” someone yelled, and a few others laughed.
Cerise smiled. Teasing men in different ways, making them want what you had to offer them, was a large part of her profession. “Very well, everyone.” She waited one moment, then another. “Wilma, ma chère… and Ethan, come over here.”
They did, walking hand in hand, Cerise noticed. His painting hung on the wall near where she was standing, covered by a white drop cloth. She positioned them on either side. “Ethan,” she asked. “Would you do the honors?”
“I defer to the subject of the work,” he answered. “Wilma, if you please.”
“You sure?” When he nodded, she took the bottom of the cloth in her left hand. In one quick motion, she yanked it upward and off the portrait.
The reaction was immediate. “Whoowhee,” a man’s voice called out. “If that ain’t a sight t’get a pecker hard!” There were many other, similar comments as the crowd gathered around.
“It is, indeed,” Ethan whispered. He and Wilma had stepped out of the way, as the people pressed in for a better look. They stood off to one side, watching the men stare at the canvas.
Wilma looked up at him. “Is what?” she asked. Though now fully dressed, she felt somehow uneasy around the man she had posed nude for all those weeks.
“A sight to harden any man’s ‘pecker’, as someone said.” Ethan took her hand and pressed it against his crotch. “Shall we do something about that?”
She beamed, instantly aroused, her nipples tight as an exquisite heat ran through her, centering in her loins. Now she was feeling again like the old Wilma. “Oh… oh, yes!” She led -- almost pulled -- him to the staircase.
Most of the people in the room were gathered around the painting. Beatriz was not one of them. She’d been leaning against a wall, watching the men. And watching Ethan – and Wilma. She saw him position her rival’s hand on his groin and saw them hurrying away.
“Merde!” she hissed, her face contorted into an expression of pure hate.
* * * * *
“Raise a quarter.” Cap tossed the coin onto the pile on the table.
Bridget looked at her hand again; seven of hearts, seven of spades, seven of diamonds, five of clubs, and jack of hearts. “Call.” She slid a quarter of her own onto the stakes.
“How many cards?” Stu Gallagher asked. He’d dropped out of the betting but he was still dealer.
Fred Norman frowned. “Gimme two.”
“None for me,” Cap said with that same grin that had almost distracted Bridget all evening.
She thought for a moment. “One card.” Stu dealt. She picked up the card and set it in her hand. ‘Four of diamonds,’ she thought. ‘Nothing.’
“The bet’s to you, Fred,” Stu said.
Norman set his cards on the table. “I got nothing.”
“Another quarter,” Cap sounded almost happy to have it down to just him and Bridget.
She considered her hand. It wasn’t that good, not the way he was betting. “Fold. What’d you beat me with, Cap?” She showed her own cards.
“Wit and charm,” he told her. “That and a pair of queens.” He leaned forward to rake in the pot.
Bridget forced a smile. “Congratulations, Cap. You got me that time.”
“Thanks. Is there time for another hand?”
Stu took out his pocket watch. “Ten of two, I don’t think so.”
“Last call,” Shamus yelled, as if to emphasize the fact. A couple of men at the bar raised their glasses, and the barmen hurried to refill them.
Bridget sighed. “Looks like you called it, Fred. Thank you all for a very pleasant evening of poker.” She gathered in the cards to form up a deck.
Stu and Fred thanked her in return and pocketed their winnings. They stood and walked towards the door.
“Need help?” Cap asked, his own winnings still on the table.
“Only with reading your tells. You bluffed me out twice tonight.” She put her cash-box on the table, putting the cards and her own money into it.
“And you won at least a dozen hands tonight. That’s more than I did.”
“I suppose. It still bothers me, though.”
He walked over and stood close to her, very close. “I kind of like it.” He was grinning again. Bridget felt her body come alive in reaction. “Shall we head upstairs?”
“I-I have to give Shamus my money. He’ll store it in his safe till morning.” She started towards the bar, and Cap fell in behind her. Somehow, by the time they reached the bar, he was holding her hand. Shamus took the cash-box with a nod, and they walked to the stairs.
“Cap,” she said suddenly, “I-I still don’t know… about tonight, I mean.”
“Shhh,” he whispered. “We’ll talk about that upstairs.”
In a moment, they were upstairs. “I took the room across the hall from yours,” Cap told Bridget as they walked past the other rental rooms. “More convenient, that way.” When they reached his room, he stopped and turned to face her. “Are you coming in, or do we go to your room again?”
Bridget’s body tingled at the memory of their tryst. “I… I’m not sure that I --”
“Let me persuade you then,” he interrupted her. He moved closer, and their lips met.
Bridget sighed. She put her hand on his chest, as if to push him away, but, of its own accord, it slid upwards to encircle his neck. He pulled her to him. She felt his tongue brush across her lips and she opened her mouth to let it slip in and begin its match with her own.
Their bodies pressed together. The tingling she felt grew into a warmth, no, a fire. Her breasts begged to be touched. Her nipples stiffened, growing tight against her camisole. She delighted as his erection rubbed against her nether parts, separated only by a few layers of cloth. Oh, Lord, she wanted him in her!
“That was nice,” she murmured as they broke the kiss. Then – damn it! – she remembered. “Cap… do you have… protection?”
He looked like he had just sucked a lemon. “No.” He let go of her. “And I suppose that you don’t have any, either; do you?”
“No,” she answered in a low, disappointed voice. “I wish I did. Please believe me, I do.”
He didn’t try to hide his own regret. “So do I. After the way you got so worried last time, I should have gotten some from Doc Upshaw when I came into town.”
“And I should have taken Jessie up on her offer to give me some of hers.”
“Could you ask her now?”
Could she? She considered the idea but… “No, she… she and Paul went up a couple hours ago. I-I couldn’t wake them up – if they were sleeping. I-I’d be mortified.”
“We don’t want that,” he said with a chuckle. “To tell the truth, I’d be kind of embarrassed myself.” He reached down and lifted her chin so that she was looking directly in his eyes. “You just make sure that you have some for when I get back, okay?”
She nodded, her eyes glistening. “I-I will, a lot of them.”
“Tonight we’ll just have to make do with more of this.” He pulled her close again. Their lips met. Bridget knew that she was going to have regrets later, but just now, she had something much, much more important to think about.
* * * * *
Thursday, April 11, 1872
“Eerie,” the stagecoach driver called out. “This here’s Eerie, Arizona.” He pulled the stage up to the depot platform. “Got a thirty minute hold over while we change horses.”
As soon as the stage came to a stop, Pablo Escobar and Hammy Lincoln, a thin black man, run over to it and began to unhitch the horses. Both wore pale green vests with the words “Ritter's Livery” painted on the back in bright yellow letters.
The driver jumped down and opened the door. “Watch your step, please,” he said.
“Will there be time to get something to eat, driver?” a woman asked from inside the stage.
The drive nodded. “It’ll have t’be quick, ma’am. You can get coffee and a sandwich inside the depot.”
“Allow me to help you.” A slender, well-dressed man opened the door and stepped down from the stagecoach. He turned and offered a hand to the woman, a rather attractive brunette in a blue and yellow dress.
She took his hand and exited the coach. “Thank you, Mr. Stafford. Will you join me?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Walsh, I can’t. This is my stop, mine and my friends. We have to get our bags and find a place to stay.”
She smiled. “Of course, perhaps another time?” she said, with just a trace of regret, to the handsome, curly-haired man, and hurried over to the depot office and a dubious meal.
“Get the bags, boys,” Forry Stafford said cheerfully.
Two more men climbed down from the vehicle. One was tall and wiry with short, sandy brown hair. “Okay, Mr. Stafford,” he said and started for the back, followed by a shorter, muscular man with greasy black hair. The driver walked with them to open the boot of the stagecoach, where most of the luggage and freight was stored.
“I hear you say you was looking for a place to stay?” the shotgun rider called down from his seat. As a rule, he stayed on his perch while the coach was stopped.
Stafford looked up at him. “I did. You know of a decent hotel around here?”
“There ain’t no hotel in Eerie, but some of the saloons rent out rooms. The two best is the Lone Star and the Eerie Saloon.”
“I’m a Texas man, born and bred. Which way’s the Lone Star?”
The man pointed. “Down that way, about a half a block. In case they’re full up, the Eerie’s on the other side of the street a bit further down. Either place, you tell ‘em that Vince Glidden sent you.”
“I will. Thanks.” He wasn’t about to spoil the kickback deal the man probably had for each person he sent. ‘In a town like this,’ Forry thought, ‘the quality’ll be about the same as everywhere else along this godforsaken line – awful.’ Aloud, he added, “Can you pass down my trunk, the brown one with my initials, ‘F.S.’, on the top?” Then he added, “Dell, get my trunk, and the both of you follow me to the Lone Star as soon as you have all our gear.”
Glidden lowered the trunk to the muscular man, while Forry started for the Lone Star. “The sooner I can get to a bed and sleep off all those days in that dammed coach, the better,” he muttered to himself as he walked.
* * * * *
Shamus walked over to a table where Molly and Dolores were sitting. Dolores had a scissors and was cutting a light green ribbon into six-inch lengths.
“How’re ye coming with them ribbons, Molly Love?” he asked.
Molly smiled up at him. “Not too bad. Dolores here’s been helping me.”
“So I see. Thank ye for doing the cutting, Dolores.”
“She’s doing more than that. She’s got a fine hand, she does, so she’s been doing some of the writing, too.” She took some ribbons from a stack on the table and showed them to him.
The ribbons read, “Trust Shamus” in dark green ink. Most were in Molly’s own, familiar script. More than a few, however, were written in a more delicate, more ornate, though still very readable style that he didn’t recognize.
“Ye did these, Dolores?” he asked.
She put down the scissors. “Sì, Shamus. You both have been kind to me, and I wanted to help.” She took a breath. “Especially since that preacher keeps talking about Arnoldo. He makes it sound like she is some kind of monster and that it is your fault.”
“‘Tis a shame. That poor cousin of yours shouldn’t get caught up in all these political goings on.” He sighed, then continued. “How’s she doing, by the way, and Teresa, too? Is them casts still on her?”
“They both are doing well. Teresa will have the casts on her arm and leg for some time yet. Arnoldo is helping with the business. Some people teased her at first for what happened to her, but our priest, Father de Castro defended her. After that there was not much trouble.”
“He’s a good man – and don’t ye be telling him I said so. He’d take it as an insult.” He chuckled.
“So are ye, Love.” Molly gently put her hand on his.
Shamus gave her a wink. “If I am, it’s only ‘cause I’ve got such a fine woman t’be looking after me.”
“When are you going to be handing out these ribbons, anyway?” Dolores had decided to try changing the subject.
Shamus stroked his chin in thought. “Saturday night, I’m thinking. That’s when we get the biggest crowd in here, for the dancing. Ye and the other waiter girls’ll be wearing ‘em, so will Molly and R.J., and me. We’ll be having a whole lot more on the table where Molly sells the tickets.”
“And by the end o’the evening,” Molly added, “there won’t be a man in the place that ain’t got one pinned onto him.”
* * * * *
Cap and Bridget walked hand in hand to the stage depot. “Do you have to go?” she asked him again. She didn’t enjoy sounding like a wheedling woman. She’d met her share as Brian, and they always drove her crazy. But she already missed this man who had gone from supportive friend to tender lover.
“I wish I didn’t,” Cap answered, “but Uncle Abner’s counting on me. This is the first time he’s sent me off by myself to negotiate contracts – which is a big step for the both of us. Also, Prescott's a good place to latch on to the latest news. I've heard talk of a railroad line coming out of California this way. Those construction crews need plenty of beef, and it would be quite a break for the ranchers who got in early.”
“I can see it that would be,” she sighed, “and I’m proud of you. I just wish we could have… you know.”
“I certainly do, and I wish it just as much – maybe even more -- than you do.” He smiled at her and gave a half-hearted shrug. “But I figure that you’re more than worth waiting for. It’ll make me come back quicker.”
“And I’ll be waiting and, this time, I’ll be ready.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because how am I going to be able to keep my mind on business, when all I can think of is you, ready and waiting for me?”
“Oh, you…” She giggled and slapped his arm. “Maybe I’ll just give you something to make you – to make it even harder… to think about business, I mean.” Her arms slipped up around her shoulders and pulled his head down to hers, and their lips met. At first, she’d just meant to tease him a little, but now her passion grew, and the kiss grew deeper and lasted longer.
She delighted in the sensation of her body pressed against his, even if – damn it – they were both dressed. And, as the kiss continued, she discovered that she had, indeed, made something much harder for him. Finally, they did separate. “Mmmm, nice,” she said in a husky voice that was almost a purr.
“It was that,” Cap agreed. “I wonder if we have time for another.”
The driver had been checking the hitching for the new team of horses and deliberately not looking in the direction of Cap and Bridget. Now, he walked over. “I’m real sorry to interrupt, folks, but I got a schedule to keep. If you don’t mind…”
Cap frowned. “I do… but you’re right.” He handed the man the valise he’d carried with him from the Saloon. “Here’s my bag.”
The driver took it. “We’ll be going soon as I put this in the boot. You’d best get on board.”
“Okay.” Cap gently ran a finger along Bridget’s cheek. “If I give you the sort of kiss goodbye that I want to give you, we’ll throw this man off so far off schedule that …” He chuckled and pecked her forehead. “It’d be worth it though.”
He smiled and climbed into the stage, taking a place across from the woman who was seated already inside.
“Here we go,” the drive said, scrambling up to his seat.
Cap was sitting by the window. Bridget stood, watching him and waving until the stage was lost in a cloud of dust at the edge of town.
* * * * *
Laura finished wiping a dish and set it in the drying rack. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Maggie, did you settle things with Ramon about the jewelry?”
“Sì, we… settled things.” She smiled at the memory.
Jane fished a dish from the soapy water of the sink and rinsed it in the second sink. “You use my idea o’wearing them pearls while you talked about ‘em?”
“I did,” the cook answered.
Laura smiled. “You wear anything else?”
“Laura!” Jane said in a shocked voice. “How can you ask something like that? O’course, she wore other stuff… didn’t you?”
Maggie blushed. “Sì, I was wearing some… other things.”
“From the way you’re smiling,” Laura said, “I think things went… well between you.” Then she giggled. After a moment, Maggie was giggling as well.
Jane shook her head. “I don’t know what t’make of the pair of you, giggling and talking like that. I can't see how either one of you was ever a rip-snorting outlaw.”
“It is not important what you make of us, Jane,” Maggie answered. “What is important is what our husbands make of us.”
Laura nodded. “That’s right, Jane. Sometimes, talking… and doing what we’re talking about, is the best way for a married couple to solve a problem.”
“The way you’re talking, Laura, what Ramon’s gonna make is… he’s gonna make a mamma outta Maggie, just like Arsenio made one outta you.”
Laura stared down at her body and gently rubbed her bulging stomach. “He hasn’t made me one yet, but he got things started, and it’s going to happen pretty soon now.” She looked over at her friend. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened to Maggie sometime soon.”
“En-encinta,” Maggie seemed startled. “Yes, it… it could happen, could it not?”
“It surely could,” Laura answered, “but whether it does or not, it’s sure a lot of fun getting that way.”
* * * * *
“Lemonade, anyone.” Kaitlin stepped through the door and into the backyard. She was carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced lemonade and four glasses. Emma, Ysabel, Stephan, and Yully were sitting around a worktable spread with sheets of paper and a couple of maps.
Emma put down her pencil. “Thanks, Ma. I could use a break about now. My head feels ready to explode.”
“I don’t see why,” Yully told her. “You’re doing the best of any of us at learning this stuff.”
“If any of us are learning this stuff, it’s ‘cause Ysabel’s such a good teacher,” Stephan said.
Ysabel laughed. “That’s silly. How can I teach what I don’t understand?”
Stephan shrugged. “Maybe you understand it better than you think you do.”
“I think you’re just trying to make me feel good about what I’m doing,” Ysabel replied.
“And what’s wrong with that?” He quickly added, “Not that I am, of course.”
“Can you settle this later?” Kaitlin asked. “I need to get back to cooking supper. I can’t stand here holding this tray forever.”
Yully stood up. “Let me take it, then.” He reached out and took the tray from her, setting it down on a corner of the table.
“Mrs. O’Hanlan,” Stephan said, as he reached for a glass, “you won’t tell my folks that I was here… studying surveying, w-will you?”
Kaitlin studied the boy’s face. “Is that a problem?” she asked.
The boy hesitated. Kaitlin saw the panic in his eyes. ‘I should’ve never asked,’ he thought. ‘Now, she’ll tell for sure.’ He answered her as best as he could. “K-Kind of – it’s… it’s something… something personal between me and… my Pa.”
“Promise you won’t tell, Mama,” Emma begged. “It’s real important.”
The woman saw the look of fear on all their faces. She also saw how Ysabel had stepped in close, as if to protect the minister’s son. Yully, she also saw, stood next to Emma, holding her hand, a determined look on his face.
“Very well.” She gave them a reassuring smile. “Tick a lock.” She made a gesture in front of her mouth as if turning a key. “You all go back to whatever it is you’re studying. Some big test at school, I suppose.” She winked and turned back to the house.
As she stepped inside, she had to smile. “I’ll worry about Stephan and his family problems later.” She spoke in a low, bemused voice. “Right now, I’ll just enjoy the thought that Emma and Ysabel are in the throes of their first cases of puppy love.”
She paused a moment. Was she sure so that it was a good thing that Emma, who she still thought of at times as Elmer, was getting close to a boy – to a boy? She sighed. Whatever she thought about it, there was no going back for him – for her. All she as a mother could do was to try and make it easier for her… daughter… to go forward.
And, possibly, the good Lord was already helping things move along.
* * * * *
“Hey, Jessie,” Mort Boyer called out, “How ‘bout something new?”
Jessie pouted prettily. “Aw, Mort, don’t you like what I been singing?”
“Sure I do. I-I just like t’hear a different song every once in a while.”
“As it happens, I do have a new song, and I think you’ll like it. As I remember, you was in the Army during the War, weren’t you?”
“I was, but what’s that got t’do with anything?”
“‘Cause this song’s about the enemy of every enlisted man on both sides – the officers. T’be specific, a man named Captain Jinks.”
“Was he a bad ‘un? I ain’t never heard of him,” said Mort with a scratch of his beard.
“Well, that’s okay, because if you just keep sitting there, I’m going to tell you all about him.”
Jessie took a pose against the bar and began to sing with gusto:
` “He’s Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines.
` He feeds his horse on corn and beans,
` And sports young ladies in their teens
` Tho' a Captain in the Army.”
` “He’ll teach the ladies how to dance,
` How to dance, how to dance.
` He’ll teach the ladies how to dance
` For he’s the pet of the Army.”
By this point, the men were laughing and clapping along with the sprightly beat. Jessie gave them as wink, as she began the chorus again.
` “He’s Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines.
` He feeds his horse on corn and beans,
` And sports young ladies in their teens
` Tho' a Captain in the Army.”
Her audience was still laughing along as she began the next verse.
` “He joined the Corps when twenty-one.
` Of course, he thought it capital fun.
` When the enemy comes, of course, he’ll run
` For he’s not cut out for the Army.”
` “When he left home, his mamma cried,
` His mamma cried, his mamma cried,
` When he left home, his mamma cried,
` ‘He's not cut out for the Army.’ “
` “The first time he went out for drill,
` The bugler sounding made him ill.
` Of the battlefield, he'd had his fill
` For he’s not cut out for the Army.”
` “The officers, they all did shout,
` They all did shout, they all did shout.
` The officers, they all did shout,
` ‘Why, kick him out of the Army!’”
` “He’s Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines.
` He feeds his horse on corn and beans,
` And sports young ladies in their teens
` Tho' a Captain in the Army.”
When she finished the final chorus, there was a loud round of applause. “You know your officers,” Fred Norman yelled, and a few others agreed. More than a few threw coins, and Mort yelled, “Sing it again, Jessie!”
She did.
* * * * *
Friday, April 12, 1872
Trisha sat in the parlor, eyes half-closed, listening to someone playing a song she didn’t quite recognize on a tinny piano. Her nipples were taut against the silk of her corset, and there was an emptiness in her loins. ‘I need a man,’ she thought, ‘and I need one now.’
“Thanks for a swell time, honey,” she heard a woman’s voice say.
She opened her eyes to see a buxom brunette in a Kelly green corset and silky white drawers walk in from the bedrooms. She was arm-in-arm with a tall, bearded man in gray work clothes. They stopped a few feet away from her, and the man handed the woman a ten dollar gold eagle. “Here’s what I owe you, Emma, and a bit more besides.”
“Emma?” Trisha bolted to her feet. The female standing before her was older than Emma – eighteen, perhaps, with a much more developed figure. She was the spitting image of Kaitlin at about the age she had been when Patrick had met her. That figure was well displayed in the corset, drawers, and stockings that were all she wore, but the woman behind the garish lipstick and rouge was clearly not her ex-wife but her daughter. “Emma,” she gasped. “What are you doing here – especially looking like that?”
“I drank that potion the same as you, Trisha. If you wind up a whore, then why shouldn’t I?” She slid the palm of her hand across the man’s chest, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Besides, it’s ever so much fun being with men, ain’t it?” Her voice was low, sensual – seductive.
Trisha shook her head back and forth, as if trying to erase the image. “No, no, I never wanted this to happen.”
“Like father, like daughter.” The male voice came from the direction of the piano music.
Trisha turned and saw… “Patrick?”
“One and the same.” Her male self stood up and walked towards her. “And you haven’t answered her question.”
“I… I was drunk. I-I didn’t know… didn’t realize what I was doing.”
“No, you didn’t,” he answered, “ but you realize it now, don’t you?”
“Yes, I-I do. I was wrong. Oh, Emma, what have I done to you?” She looked over at her daughter.
Emma smiled reassuringly. “Nothing… yet.”
“After what you did, she never had a chance,” Patrick continued. “It’s bad enough you make the bed for yourself to lie in, but did you have to make it for your little girl, too?”
“It was for me, not Emma. I’m taking her out of here!”
The man walked over to his daughter and put his arm around her waist. “You’ll be back, Sweetheart, and she’ll be back, too. That’s how it works.” The pair – the room faded away, as Trisha’s dream ended, and she sat up, wide awake:
“We won’t be back – ever!” she whispered, her teeth clenched and her expression grim.
* * * * *
“Well, look who we got here.”
Arnie turned at the sound of the voice. Fernando Hidalgo was leaning on the hitching post in front of Ritter’s Livery. “Buenos dias, Arnolda,” he said, making a sweeping bow.
“What do you want, ‘Nando’?” she answered sourly.
“Can’t a man say ‘Hello’ to an old friend?” He raised his voice slightly, and called into the open door of the store. “Hey, Pedro, come see who’s here.”
Pedro Escobar stepped out of Ritter’s onto the sidewalk. “What did you – Well, Arnolda, buenos dias. I see you’re still wearing boy’s clothes.”
“What business is it of yours, if I wear boy’s clothes?” she answered angrily.
Pedro made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Because it’s such a waste. You’d look so much prettier if you dressed as the señorita you truly are.” He studied her figure –or was it just a leer – for a moment. “Yes, I’d really love to see you in a nice dress.”
“I’d rather see her out of her dress than in it,” Fernando added. He distinctly leered as he said it.
Before Arnie could answer, Winthorp Ritter came up behind Pedro. “What are the two of you doing out here?”
“We-We was just talking to --”
Winthorp frowned. “I can see what you were doing, and you’d best be doing it on your own time. Pedro, my father wants you to hitch up that shay for Mr. Janson, and you, ‘Nando, the other horses need to be watered. Get to it.”
“Yes, sir,” both boys answered, and hurried off. Fernando added, “Bye, Arnolda, sweetie,” and made a kissing noise as he went.
The Ritter boy watched them leave. “I suppose that I should apologize for those two.” He stepped closer to Arnie. “Although, I really can’t blame them for flirting with a pretty girl instead of doing the work my father pays them for.”
“You don’t have to apologize for them,” Arnie said quickly.
Winthorp smiled at her. It was the same leer that she had gotten from the other two, and she didn’t like it any more when he did it. “You are a very pretty girl, and quite a good laundress, too.” He lightly touched her arm. “I like the way you handled my undergarments, Arnolda, and I hope to do the same for yours someday.”
“Don’t hold your breath waiting,” Arnie replied. “And in the meantime, why don’t you go and do the work your father pays you for?” She picked up the handle of the laundry cart and walked briskly away, pulling the cart behind her.
* * * * *
“Morning, Bridget,” Jessie said cheerfully. “Is there anything left for breakfast besides coffee?”
Bridget shook her head. “Not much. Maggie and Jane have already started on the Free Lunch.” She chuckled. “You and Paul really must’ve gone at it last night for you to be coming down this late.”
“Don’t I wish. Paul was on duty overnight.” She grinned. “If you want, you can decide if I was resting up from all the fun we had the night b’fore last or resting up for all the fun we’re gonna have tonight.”
“I pass.” She gave a sigh. “I won’t be having a night like that till Cap gets back from Prescott a couple weeks from now.”
“So, you finally decided that you do want t’be with him.”
She blushed. “I have, and I-I need your help.”
“Mmm, Cap’s a good-looking man, but I’d rather be with Paul than helping you get Cap's britches off.”
“Jessie!” Bridget sputtered. “How can you say that?” She looked angry.
Jessie held up her hands, as if to fend off an attack. “Just kidding, Bridget; just kidding. What sorta help do you need?”
“Not help so much as… protection.”
“Them English riding coats, huhn?” When Bridget bit her lip and just nodded, Jessie continued. “Well, I got a few I can spare. If – not, when you want more, you can ask Wilma for ‘em yourself..”
“She’ll just love that. She’s been pushing for me to sleep with some man, any man, since before our sentences at Shamus’ were up.”
“That’s my sister, all right. She’s been telling people, especially me, what t’do, since we was kids back on Pa’s farm.” She snickered. “But if all you’re gonna do is sleep with Cap, you won’t be needing no protection.” Then, seeing Bridget’s face, she added, “Oh, don’t you worry none. I’ll get you one.”
Bridget looked perplexed. “One?”
Jessie grinned. “Okay, by that look of worry in your eyes, I catch on to what sort of girl you really are. I reckon you’ll need to have a whole drawer full of ‘em ready and waiting by the time Cap gets back into town.”
“Thanks a lot,” Bridget said irascibly.
* * * * *
Doc Upshaw studied Teresa Diaz’s face as Edith Lonnigan helped her adjust her broken arm back into its sling, now that his examination was over. “Are you sure there’s no discomfort, Teresa?” he asked her.
“No, no pain at all, but it… it itches!”
The doctor smiled. “Best thing for it, the itching shows that the nerves and skin are all healing properly. Does your leg itch, too, under the cast?”
“Ay! Yes, yes it does. Can I do anything about it?”
“Take a knitting needle, one that has a rounded point, and move it very gently down inside the cast. Don’t force it. You can use that like a scratching post, but don’t rub too hard. Your skin is sensitive from being inside that cast for so long.”
“How much longer does it have to be in there? When can the casts come off? It seems like they have been on me for years.”
“Judging from how well you’re doing, I would say that I can remove them when I see you next week. I’d still like you to use the wheelchair for a couple days, and don’t overdo things to make up for lost time.”
“When can I get back to real work?”
“You should take it easy for a few days once you’re on your feet. Let Arnie take your cart around to collect the laundry for a few days after that, but – if I cut them away next Friday, you can probably start going with her on Monday or Tuesday. And you take it over completely by… Thursday.”
He waited a moment while she thought about what he’d told her. “Of course, that’s if you experience no pain or discomfort. If you have any – and I mean any -- pain, I want you to come see me at once. It may not mean anything, but it could be a serious problem, one that could cripple you permanently. Will you promise that you will?”
“Sì, doctor.” Teresa raised her hand as if taking an oath. “I will.”
“Good girl, and don’t you worry too much about what I said. You’re a healthy woman, Teresa, and I think it very unlikely that you will have any problems.” He gave her a wink and a smile. “I just have to say things like that to my patients so they take me at least a little seriously.”
* * * * *
“Attention, ladies,” Lady Cerise said sprightly, as she walked into the parlor. “We have visitors.”
Beatriz, Mae, Rosalyn, and Wilma stood up. “And such handsome visitors,” Mae greeted them, purring.
“And what lovely, lovely ladies,” Forry Stafford replied, a broad smile on his face. “I am Forrest Wainwright Stafford – call me ‘Forry’, please -- and these are my associates, Leland Saunders…” He nodded to the tall, slender man on his left. “…and Dell Cooper.” Cooper, on his right, was shortest of the three, but with a much more muscular build.
Cerise made the other introductions. “And the ladies before you are Mae, Beatriz, Rosalyn, and Wilma.” Each gave a quick nod as her name was spoken.
“Enchanted,” Forry said. “When Mr. Duggan told me of the beauties to be found in your establishment, Lady Cerise, I thought that he had to be exaggerating, but now I see that he was understating the facts.”
Wilma’s mind raced, even as she posed for these men. ‘What the holy hell is that bastard doing here, and with them two weasels that helped him frame Bridget and me?’ She tried to think of what weapons might be at hand, when she thought about why they had come to La Parisienne. ‘If he – if any of ‘em -- touches me, so help me, I’ll – shit – I ain’t sure what I’ll do, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna go upstairs with any of ‘em.’
“Would you gentlemen care for something to drink?” Cerise asked, continuing in her role as hostess.
Forry nodded. “I don’t see why not… have you got champaign?”
Cerise rang a small bell. “We have a most excellent cellar.” A moment later, Daisy stepped through a side door. “Some of the Renaudin Bollinger, please, Daisy, the ’48.”
“Yes’m,” Daisy replied. “I’ll be back with it right away.” She scurried back through the door.
Forry raised an eyebrow. “If you’ve got some of that vintage, then your cellar is even better than I would have hoped.”
“Nothing but the best for my friends,” the madam answered.
“Does that include that pretty bit of fluff you sent t’fetch the stuff?” Saunders asked.
Cerise shook her head. “I am sorry… Leland, but Daisy is a servant here. She is not one of my ladies.”
“She’s purty enough t’be,” the tall man said. “You mind if I ask her m’self?”
“You can ask, but she will refuse. She is most loyal to her husband, Cyrus.” Cerise pointed to the tall black standing behind a small bar over in a corner and glaring at him.
Beatriz walked over to Saunders, her hips cocking as she walked in a way that was an open invitation. “I am sure that I can more than satisfy such a handsome man as you.” She slowly ran a finger down the man’s chest while she posed before him.
“You may just be right ‘bout that,” he told her, staring at her coppery skin, especially at the tops of her breasts as revealed by her blue satin corset. “I do like dark meat, and you look real fine t’me.”
Beatriz kissed his cheek. “Mmm, I am so glad. You look fine to me as well.”
‘One down,’ Wilma thought, ‘two t’go.’ What was she going to do when one of them chose her?
Just then, Daisy came back in carrying a tray surrounded by wine glasses, followed by Ethan. ‘Thank G-d,’ Wilma thought. Aloud, she cried out, “Ethan!” Half from relief and half from want, she threw herself at him and showered his face with kisses.
“This is unexpected,” he said with a chuckle, “but hardly unwelcome.” His arm snaked around her waist. “Shall we continue this upstairs?”
When she nodded, he turned to Cerise. “I came here to report progress on my various commissions, my Lady. After that, I had hopes of sampling some of this most elegant vintage.” He laughed. “But there are vintages, and there are vintages, so, with your permission…”
“Of course,” Cerise answered. If she had noticed Wilma’s discomfort with Stafford and his men and her relief when the painter had appeared, the Frenchwoman kept silent. “I have always believed in pleasure before business.”
Rosalyn strode over to stand beside Forry. “I do hope that you agree with Cerise on that subject, sir.”
“I do, indeed,” Forry told her. His arms went around her, his hand resting low on her hip and one finger gently stroking her teardrop ass. “And after we all have a taste of that champagne, I think we’ll take the bottle upstairs and get to it.”
Mae pouted delightfully. “I guess that leaves you ‘n’ me, Dell. I hope you ain’t too disappointed.”
“Seeing as you was my first choice t’begin with, pretty lady, I ain’t disappointed at all.” He smiled, and the smile grew broader when she kissed him.
* * * * *
“So, Mama,” Arnie asked, as she wheeled her mother home from the doctor’s office. “What did the doctor say about your casts?”
Teresa leaned back and turned her head to look up at her daughter. “He said that I can use a knitting needle to scratch inside when it itches but I must be careful because my skin is so tender.” Then she saw the puzzled expression on the girl’s face and laughed. “Oh, yes, he said that he will cut them off next week.”
“That is wonderful news.”
“Sí, sí, it is. He said I should still use the chair for a couple of days, but I will be able to go out with you after that to delivery laundry. Then, by mid-week, I can take over for you… unless you want to keep doing it. Do you?”
“I-I do not know. I was glad to help out, but I – Mama, I am not sure if I still want to keep working in the laundry with you forever.”
“Forever is a long time, Arnoldo. The job is there for as long as you wish.” She hesitated. “But if you do not work for me, what do you want to do?”
“I do not know that either, but I will think about it.”
“I can use the help, even when I am out of these casts and walking around on my own.”
“Mama… please, give me some time before I decide what to do.”
“Very well, but remember, ‘if you take too long to decide, then you have already decided,’ that is what your papa used to say.” Then, Teresa changed the subject. “Are you still going to take your meal with the Spauldings again tomorrow?”
“Sì, they are good people, and they do not say anything about what happened to me.”
“They are new to Eerie; do they even know?”
Arnie hesitated. She was reasonably sure that the Spauldings didn’t know about the potion, but was embarrassed to admit to her mother that she was making friends with people who treated her like an ordinary girl. “Maybe they know… how can I ask without telling them?”
“You cannot. Just be careful.”
“I am not worried. I like them, especially Hedley -- and Clara, of course. They are becoming good friends.”
'Especially Hedley?' Teresa thought with some surprise. But she said nothing, and her expression did not change.
* * * * *
Saturday, April 13
Wilma stormed into the Saloon and over to where Jessie and Jane were eating breakfast. “Where’s Bridget?”
“Still upstairs,” Jessie said, quickly taking a sip of coffee.
Without another word, Wilma turned and started for the steps. “Jess, c’mon.”
“Coming.” Jessie put down her coffee cup and rushed to catch up with her sister. Something was up. Wilma didn't get this excited unless serious trouble was brewing.
They hurried up to the second floor and down the hallway to their friend’s bedroom. “Bridget!” Wilma pounded on the door. “Get up, right now.”
“What… what’s… who’s there?” Bridget’s still groggy voice came through the door. She opened it a moment later. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Wilma, hammering on my door like that?” She still wore the lime green nightgown she had slept in.
Wilma pushed past her into the room, with Jessie right behind. “Close the door, Jess,” she ordered. She spun around a chair set in next to a small writing table and sat down. “We got us a big problem. Forry Stafford’s in town. He came over to La Parisienne last night.”
“Cerise’s place?” Jessie groaned as she and Bridget sat down on the unmade bed. “Please tell me you didn’t…” She left the rest unsaid.
“With that pile o’shit? Hell, I wouldn’t even shake his hand, let alone go t’bed with him… or with either of them bastards, Saunders or Cooper.”
Now Bridget growled. “They’re here, too? What is this, a regimental reunion?”
“Who’re Saunders and Cooper?” Jessie asked.
Bridget looked like she was sucking lemons. “When they tried Will and me, most of the men in the platoon backed up what we said. Those two, Saunders and Cooper, testified for Stafford. That was enough to find us guilty.”
“Yeah,” Wilma added, “and they got paid off real good, too, for lying ‘bout us. Saunders got my sergeant’s stripes and Cooper took over for Bridget as corporal.”
Jessie frowned. “Yeah, I guess you did tell me that, years back. They say what they were doing here in Eerie?”
“Not while I was around, but I got Ethan t’take me upstairs, soon as I could.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t want t’wind up with any of them, and I would’ve if I’d stayed around.”
Bridget shook her head. “You think that they know who we are?”
“Nope. They didn’t say anything last night… or this morning. At least, Forry didn’t when he settled up the bill with Cerise. I stayed just long enough for him t’do that before I come over here. They’re staying at the Lone Star; I don’t know for how long.”
“You think anybody’s gonna tell on us?” Jessie asked in a concerned voice.
Bridget shook her head. “You know the town doesn’t want any outsiders to know about Shamus’ potion. They’re all pretty much afraid of what would happen.”
“So what do we do now?” Jessie asked.
Wilma shrugged. “We keep low and try t’find out what the hell they’re doing here.” Then, she grinned and added, “And, if we’re real lucky we get us some payback”
“It smells funny, though,” Bridget muttered out loud.
Wilma turned her way. “What’re’you mumbling about?”
The redhead scowled. “I think it’s damned strange for that coyote, Stafford, and his men to show up here, so soon after I tell Abner Slocum the truth about Adobe Wells. It seems like more than a coincidence.”
“Do you ‘spose him and Slocum are in cahoots against you?”
“He doesn't need Forry; he can be bad enough on his own. Besides, it doesn’t seem like something he’d do. I'd bet my last chip that when he sent back East for my records, he got things stirred up, and that’s why they’re here. If you open a crate of rotten fish, the stink spreads a long way.”
“Yeah,” Jessie added, “and when that happens, the vermin come looking t’see what they can get ahold of.”
* * * * *
Hedley dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Excellent lunch, Mother, as always.”
“Sì,” Arnie agreed. “My papa used to say, ‘Tres cosas son necesarias para una buena vida, buenos amigos, buena comida y buena canción”
Clara smiled shyly. “That’s lovely, Annie. I recognized some of the words, but what do ‘buena vida’ and ‘buena canción’ mean?”
“I’m sorry,” Arnie replied. “You do not speak mucho Español… Spanish, do you?”
“No, we don’t,” Mrs. Spaulding said. “And we do mean to learn it someday, if we’re to live here in Eerie, among so many people who do.”
Arnie didn’t want them to feel embarrassed, so she translated. “My papa used to say that all the time. It means that ‘three things are needed for a good life, good friends, good food, and good song.’”
“We certainly have the first two of those,” Clara answered, lightly touching Arnie’s arm for a moment. “And Mother can provide the third.” She pointed to a small spinet piano set in a corner of the room.
“I’ll be happy to, but first, there is the matter of your dress.”
“The dress… oh, yes, Annie, would you please wheel me to my room? Mama finished my new dress, and I wanted to see you in it.”
“Why me, Clara? It’s your dress.”
“You’ll see.” She answered, then gave a little giggle. “Please…”
Arnie sighed. “Very well, but I am only doing this because you asked.”
* * * * *
Arnie came out of the bedroom, self-consciously smoothing the dress. ‘It fits much tighter than Mama’s dress,’ she thought, and then glanced about for a mirror.
“You look lovely, Annie,” Clara exclaimed happily. “Mama, you did a wonderful job on the dress.”
“She did, indeed,” Hedley added. “And, Annie, I concur with my sister. You do look lovely in it.”
A blush ran across Arnie’s face. “Th-thank you, all of you.”
“Take a few steps in it, please,” Mrs. Spaulding told her. “And turn around. I want to see how it works as you move.”
Hedley stood up. “I have a better idea. Annie, you said something about music before.” He stepped towards her. “May I have this dance?” He bowed low.
“That’s a fine idea.” Mrs. Spaulding hurried over and sat down at the spinet. “How about a waltz?”
“I-I don’t know how to dance.”
The young man stepped in close. “Then I’ll have to teach you.” He took her right hand in his, putting his left at the small of her back. “Put your left hand on my shoulder.”
“N-now what do I do?” She felt awkward but did as he told her.
“The waltz is a box step. I step forward with my left foot, and you step back with your right.” He did, and she followed. He was even closer to her now, and the room seemed to grow a bit warmer.
He continued. “Now I’m going to step forward – and a bit to the right – with my right foot, and you match that with your left.” When she did the move well, he smiled at her and added, “Very good.” He took her through the rest of the steps, repeating them several times. Mrs. Spaulding watched how the dress flowed with Arnie's movements and nodded, pleased.
“You’re a quick learner,” he told her. “Are you ready to try it with music?”
She wasn’t sure, though she didn’t know why. “I… yes.”
“Play the ‘Blue Danube’, Mother, but slowly.” The woman went to the bench and began. Hedley continued to instruct Arnie, but in a in a low voice, so as not to drown the music. “All right, now… right foot back.”
Arnie did as he said. They moved slowly at first, then, gradually, Mrs. Spaulding picked up the tempo. In a few minutes, they were twirling about the room. Without thinking, Arnie let him pull her closer. Her body was tingling, and she could feel her heart beating. ‘What is happening to me?’ she wondered.
“That was lovely,” Clara exclaimed, clapping her hands, when the music finally came to a stop.
“It most certainly was,” Hedley agreed, stepping back.
Arnie’s hands dropped awkwardly to her sides. “Thank you for teaching me.”
“Thank you for allowing me to.” He gave a bow of his head. “You should do it again – often. You move like a born dancer, and you can be my partner anytime.” He suddenly took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.
Arnie gave a small gasp as he kissed it. “Oh,” she said, partly from surprise and partly from…from something that she didn’t understand. She pulled her hand away. “I… I have to go.” She started for the door.
“My dress!” Clara cried out.
The laundress stopped. “Oh, I-I am sorry.” She walked briskly towards the door for the bedrooms. “I-I do have to g-go. My Mama… we have to get started on all this laundry.”
She didn’t know what else to say. She also wasn’t sure why a part of her wanted to stay a while longer.
* * * * *
“You think I should get it?” Jane asked, handing Laura a dish to rinse off.
Laura dipped the dish into a pan of cold water and put it in a rack to dry. “Get what?”
“That painting you ‘n’ me is posing for, what else?”
“I don’t know. What would you do with it if you got it?”
“Stick it in my room, I guess. I think it might be fun to see m’self – and you – hanging up there.” She thought for a moment. “You could bring that baby of yours round to see it once it gets born.”
Laura remembered Milt’s concern about Jane buying the picture. “It’s probably expensive, are you sure you want to spend all that money on something you’re not sure about?”
“I got the money; it’s over in the bank.”
“Maybe it should stay there. From what you’ve said, Dwight Albertson’s doing pretty good for you with it.”
“He is. I ain’t figuring t’take all the money, just enough to get the painting.”
Maggie was sitting nearby. “What does Milt say think about this?”
Jane frowned. “I ain’t asked him, not lately anyhow. When I first got the idea he kept saying I shouldn’t. I ain’t smart enough t’understand it, he tells me. And he said he same as you, Laura, that I was better off keeping all my money in the bank.”
“Do you think, maybe, that he is right?”
“No… no I don’t. Maybe I ain’t got the school smarts he does, Maggie, but I was smart enough for you t’trust me to run your restaurant while you and Ramon was on your honeymoon.”
“I never said that you were not smart, and – to tell the truth – I do not think that he did, either, not really.”
“He did so say it.”
Maggie shrugged. “Maybe. Whatever he said hurt you, and I am sure that he is sorry about that. You should talk to him again about buying it.”
“I-I don’t want to. He’ll try real hard to talk me out of it. He’s a danged good talker.”
“I know one thing,” Laura spoke again. “He was smart enough to agree with me that you were better off keeping your money in the bank.”
“You’re my big sister, Laura, and I know you’re just looking out for me, but I still ain’t convinced.”
“If you won’t listen to me… or Milt, how about if you ask Shamus?”
“I’ll do that. He’s a real smart businessman, and he was smart enough t’buy a couple of the paintings himself. Why, if he says I should buy it, I’ll bet that’d even change Milt’s mind.”
“And if he says you shouldn’t buy it?”
Jane laughed. “Then I’ll… I’ll think about it some more.”
* * * * *
“How was your lunch, Mr. Stafford?” Winnie Duggan asked, clearing his plate and silverware. Winnie was a slender girl of nineteen, who did double duty as cook and waitress at her father’s saloon. Right now, she wore a yellow apron over her green dress. Her chestnut brown hair was tucked up in a bun under a white cap.
Stafford smiled up at her. “Quiet, Miss Duggan, thankfully.”
“Yes, you and Mr. Braddock decided to have your lunch at the same time.” She cocked her head to point to the table where Sam Braddock was working on the sandwich and beer that were a part of his pay. Sam’s carpentry tools were in a case on the floor next to his table.
She continued, “I’m glad that you were able to eat in peace.”
“And it was delicious, as good as anything I might find in Austin.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and handed it to her. She was attractive enough, with wide hips, a waist almost thin enough to put his hands around, and breasts that were just a bit more than a handful.
Unfortunately, she also had a watchful father who kept a shotgun behind the bar. That could be gotten around if the girl was willing. If she wasn’t, well, he’d worked too damned hard at staying alive through the War to get killed chasing tail. Especially when there was such fine tail available at that fancy house just down the street. That Rosalyn was a wonder, every inch a lady – a Southern aristocrat, no less, if what she had told him was true – but get her into a bed, and…
He pushed the thought from his mind. ‘Right now, I need information more from this girl than I need to bed her.’ Aloud, he said, “Miss Duggan, may I ask you a question?”
“You just did,” she replied with a small chuckle. “And you can ask another, if you’d like.”
“Thank you. I’m here in town to try to do some… business with Abner Slocum. Can you tell me anything about him, anything that might help me?”
“I don’t know. My Pa says we shouldn’t talk about people. Folks around here like their privacy. Shucks, a lot of them don’t even give out their real names.”
“I’m not asking you to betray any deep, dark secrets.” He gave what he hoped was a reassuring wink. “Just some general information, the sort of thing most people who’ve lived here for a while would know.”
A chunky young man in a brown frock coat had been sitting at a nearby table, eating his own lunch. “I’d like to know that, as well,” he told them both. “May I join you?” When Stafford nodded, he shifted his chair over to the table they were at. “Thanks, I’m Zachariah – Zach -- Levy. I’m new in town myself, and this Slocum sounds like the sort of fellow I should know about.” He offered his hand.
“Forry Stafford.” He shook Levy’s hand. “I’m just here to take care of some business with Slocum. Then I’ll be on my way back to Austin.”
“That business wouldn’t involve a lawyer, would it? I am one, and I’m just starting my practice.”
“I don’t think I’ll need one, but you never know. In the meanwhile, Miss Duggan, you still haven’t answered my -- our -- question.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. I don’t know Mr. Slocum very good. He’s not much of a drinker, and when he does, he usually goes… elsewhere. I know that he’s older, in his fifties, I think. His ranch is called the Triple A. It’s the biggest one around. Some of his hands come in here. From what they say, he’s a good boss, treats his men fair and pays ‘em well. And then they come in here and give their money t’Pa.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s about all I can tell you. I hope it helped.”
“It helped some,” Stafford admitted.
Levy smiled. “Me, too, and so did meeting you, Mr. Stafford.”
“Forry… please.”
“Okay, Forry, good to meet you.”
* * * * *
Jubal Cates closed his copy of the federal Manual of Surveying Instructions. “Well, Emma, you’ve certainly learned the material I set for you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Cates,” Emma replied. “It ain’t easy, but I wanna do a good job for you, so I worked real hard t’learn it.”
“And you succeeded. I’ll have to admit that I still wasn't sure, even after I gave you the Manual, but you’re doing just fine… so far. I’ll have a better idea come next Saturday.”
“Next Saturday, what happens then?”
“You’ll see. You be here next Saturday morning at 9 AM and be dressed for field-work. I’m doing a job on a road south of town. You’re gonna be there with me as my helper.”
“I… yes, sir. Nine it is, dressed and ready t’get to it.”
“Bring some lunch, too. We’ll probably be out there most of the day.”
“Lunch, too; yes, sir!”
Cates smiled at her enthusiasm. “I’ll see you next week, then. You take the Manual along and study it some more.” He pointed for the door. “Now, git!”
“Yes, sir!” She packed the book and her notes into her book bag and stood up. “Have a good week, Mr. Cates,” she said as she hurried off. ‘Looks like I am gonna get the job,’ she told herself. ‘Wait till I tell Yully – and Ysabel, of course.’
* * * * *
“Maggie,” Molly called from the kitchen door. “Jane, could ye be coming in here t'the saloon for a wee minute.”
Jane put the dish she was rinsing into the rack beside the sink. “Be right there.” She walked into the saloon, with Maggie behind her.
“What is the problem?” Maggie asked.
Shamus was standing with Molly at a nearby table where Dolores, Bridget, and Jessie were sitting. “That reverend Yingling's the problem,” he told them all. “Him and that unblessed petition.” He muttered a few words of Cheyenne under his breath. “And I wanted t'be asking yuir help -- of ye ladies -- in solving it.”
Jane shrugged. “I never was much for churchgoing; what can I do?”
“The good reverend is saying I can't be trusted,” he said by way of an answer. “Me Molly…” he squeezed her hand. “…made up these here ribbons.” He held one up; so did Molly. “And I'll be asking -- not ordering -- asking each of ye t'be wearing one…starting at the dance tonight.”
“I'm not asking ye to be trusting me. By now, ye either do or ye don't.”
“Dolores, I've tried to be a fair employer to ye, and ye'll be able to be judging me on simple, everyday things like most people do with their bosses. But the rest of ye, well, it ain't that simple, now is it? “
“Jane, I turned yuir life upside down with me potion. I'm thinking that ye understand why it had t'be done. Ye earned yuir punishment for what ye done t'yuir sister, Laura.”
Jane frowned, saying nothing as she considered his words.
Shamus looked at the three other women. “It's even harder asking the same thing from the rest of ye. What we done t'ye was pretty drastic, but it had t'be, knowing what ye was comin' t'do to the sheriff -- and then to all the rest of us. Truth t'tell, I didn't like doing it, and I -- me and Molly -- tried t'make it up to ye after…when ye was in our care.”
“Ye all hated it -- and me -- at first, but I'm thinking that ye don’t feel the same way ye did at first. That smile that comes to Laura's face every time she feels her baby moving has to mean something. And I'm thinking how the rest of ye ladies look when yuir eyes light up when ye come over to the bar to tell me or Molly about something that's just happened to ye. Even so, I know I'm asking a lot of ye t'be asking ye to wear a badge saying that yet trust me. But if ye could,” Shamus gave them all a sad sort of smile, “it would mean more to me than I could say.”
Bridget grimaced and filled her lungs. “I've never been able to think straight about getting turned into a woman, and especially not now, with the way my head's been spinning lately. It was so humiliating at first. But when I think back, I remember that you two never tried to rub it in, never made me think you despised me. If you'd laughed at me even once it would have been bad, but I think the big turning point for me was when you let me play cards. That's when I started feeling like a human being again.”
She shrugged. “I didn't start out to be an outlaw, but I became one anyway. Once I was, I didn't know how to get out. I always figured I'd die quick from a bullet or die slow in prison. I didn’t start out to be a woman, either. But it happened. You have to do your best with the hand Fate deals.” She picked up her deck and riffled it. “If I play my cards right from here on in, I've finally got the chance to deal myself a winning hand.” She glanced up at him again. “You're a lot of things, Shamus O'Toole, but somewhere along the road I've learned that I can trust you. I've been trusting you with my money every night. It's time I upped the ante. I'll wear that ribbon of yours.”
Bridget picked up a ribbon from a pile of them in the center of the table. Each one had a pin attached, and she used it to fasten the ribbon to her dress. “But it won’t even cover your bet if we’re the only ones wearing them.”
Molly snorted. “And who says that ye will be? I’ll be handing ‘em out at the dance t’anybody that asks for one.” She said firmly and added, “Which’ll be everybody, or I’ll be knowing the reason why.”
Maggie drew in a long breath, and the bartender looked her way. “You are asking a hard question, Shamus, but if you want to know, I will tell you.”
“It was hard to trust a man who had so much power. You were like the brujos in the stories I heard back home as a boy. They are frightening people. You learn what is in a man's heart when he has power over you. When you had that power, you were more like a stern father than a jailor. I was in prison for a year, and I know how cruel jailors can be.”
“You treated us well, though you could have been very wicked, if you had been that sort of a man. At first, I was very ashamed to be a woman. My people honor machisimo… manliness. But in time I came to be much more ashamed of the sort of man I had let myself become. I wanted revenge on the Anglos, but I received instead a second chance. I thank the santos for that.”
She squared her shoulders. “You are a good man, Shamus. You and Molly trusted me, a bandito – all those months ago – to cook for you. You helped me start a business, and you have been my honest partner.”
She drew another long breath and blinked several times. When she began again, her words were slightly unsteady. “You put me upon a strange new road, and, along it, I have gained much of what I thought had been lost. What I have gained is a future, when before I could see only darkness. I see that future every day in my children's faces – and in Ramon’s. How can I say that I do not trust you now?” She reached for a ribbon.
Jane looked unsure. “Shouldn't Laura be here when you’re asking something like this? How come you didn’t wait for her?”
“‘Cause I already asked her,” Shamus told the girl. “She said yes, and I’ve got a ribbon here waiting for her. I’ve got one for Arsenio, too, t’be putting up in his smithy.”
“Well now,” Jane said with a shrug, “if my big sister and Maggie are wearing them ribbons, then I will, too.”
Dolores glanced over to the bar. R.J. was getting things ready for the crowd that would be coming to the dance. A “Trust Shamus” ribbon was pinned to his vest. He saw Dolores and smiled, and then he pointed to the ribbon and nodded, winking at her. She looked back at the table in front of her, picked up a ribbon, one she had cut and lettered herself. “I will be happy… and proud to also wear such a ribbon,” she said.
“That just leaves you, Jessie,” Shamus noted.
A mischievous smile curved the blonde singer’s lips. “I could say, ‘no’, just to be ornery.”
“You could, Jessie,” Shamus acknowledged patiently, but he expected that she would have more to say.
“The way I see it, the ornery man is the one who stands up and says what he thinks.”
“And just what is it that ye think, Jessie?” Shamus asked.
She met his glance squarely. “I think I would have enjoyed shooting you between the eyes that day I first walked in here, and I would have if I'd even had a hint about what you ‘n’ the sheriff was fixing to do. The way you lorded it over us, I'd have gunned you down a dozen times more, except that you put that spell on me. I felt hogtied and waiting for the brand. I just wanted to run. When I got my chance, I did run.”
Shamus nodded. “That you did.”
“But, something went wrong. ‘Mad Dog’ Jesse didn't come with me that day; instead I had to trail along with this sweet, little gal, Jessie. I got to know her better. I had time to think things over.”
“When I was long-riding, I didn't consider that life so bad. You can even get used to glancing over your shoulder, looking for the glint on a rifle barrel. Somewhere along the way I stopped supposing I'd be living for very long. Maybe I didn't think living that way was too terrible because I'd forgot what real living was all about. Tarnation, growing up with nothing, I ain’t sure that I ever did know.”
“When you had me and the gang penned up, I didn't know what to expect. You heard about the rep me and Will had. You could have treated us as bad as bad can get, but you didn't. Used t’be, folks treated me right because I scared them. But Molly ‘n’ you weren't scared, so none of it figured. Trying to work it out helped me draw a new bead on things.”
“I didn't know squat about being a girl, and I didn't want to learn. But one day I realized that, instead of trying to back-shoot me, or string me up, folks were trying to protect me. I got to thinking that maybe I wouldn't die so soon after all.”
“That's when it struck me that I was all for going on living, even like I was. My idea was to take what was good out of the way things were and shuck off the rest. But it don't work that way. Being a gal gets under a person's hide. Pretty soon, I found myself doing things that no decent gal would ever write home to her ma about.”
Jessie suddenly lost her smile. “But I couldn't have written that letter even if I'd wanted to. I never knew my ma. Growing up without her left what always felt like a hole, right here.” She touched her breast and cast a glance Molly's way. “I’d like t’think that she was a lot like you, Molly.”
Molly smiled, touched, and thought she saw a sparkling bead in the corner of Jessie's eye.
Jessie took a gulp of air and looked away. “But if I'm dead-set on shooting square today, Shamus, I have to tell you that there's one thing about you that sticks in my craw.”
“Yes, and what might that be?” the bartender replied, his voice low, as if he was talking to a grownup child of his own.
“You're so damned stubborn! It ain't decent! When I wear that blue silk dress of mine I can get almost anything I want from any man in this town, but not you.” Then she smiled ruefully. “But I guess that if you were easy, I wouldn't have an ounce of respect for you.” She set her jaw and concluded, “And I do.”
Shamus smiled. “Only an ounce, Jessie?”
Jessie grinned. “Don't be greedy. Every grain of that has been earned. Remember, those ribbons say 'trust.’ Well, I trust you all right. I trust you to be just as hard to bargain with next time as you ever was before. Still, that's a kind of a trust, ain't it?” She plucked one of the ribbons off the table and pinned it to her shoulder. “Satisfied?”
“Aye,” Shamus said with a nod and a chuckle. “But for what it's worth, Jessie, I'm mighty glad you made it this far, and that none of those lawmen that was chasing after ye ever picked ye off.”
The small blonde smiled again and shook her head. “Well, maybe one lawman did pick me off. Maybe that's why I'm always in such a good mood that I can even abide the likes of you. 'Nuff said.”
She glanced down at the table, knowing that her face must be flushed. If a man like Paul could be partial to her – could love her -- it was no wonder she so often felt this warm glow inside her, a glow that made her feel like singing. Her smile suddenly became minx-like, and she felt a tingle of anticipation about the next time they would be together. When she was with Paul, she wasn’t sorry about anything that Shamus had done to her. He had simply opened a door in front of her, but it was Paul who had lured her inside.
* * * * *
“Do not frown so, Beatriz,” Lady Cerise said. “It makes lines that will spoil your pretty face.”
Beatriz’ face soured. “I am sorry, my Lady.” She tried to smile. “I do not want to spoil my looks,” she sighed, “even if he does not care.”
“Ahah! There is a he. Who is the lucky man?”
“Ethan Thomas, and he is not so lucky. He is upstairs even now with… Wilma.”
The other woman shrugged. “He is just taking turns. If it helps any, she was just as upset every time he went upstairs with you.” She chuckled. “There must be something special about him. Perhaps, I – no, my Herve would not like that.” She looked closely at the Mexican woman. “Do you care for him, little one?”
“No, but he’s just so damned good in bed, and it… it was my idea that you bring him here. And now she’s getting it from him.”
“So it was your interests you were advancing and not mine when you suggested that he come here.”
“Well… yes, that was why I suggested it.” She waited a beat. “But you thought it was a good idea, too.”
“And I still do. Let me ask you a question, what do you plan to do about his going upstairs with Wilma?”
“I am not going to do mischief to her, if that is what you are worried about. I do not want to waste more time working on your ledgers.”
“Is the reason that you don’t want to waste time because you want to sit here in my parlor waiting for Ethan to take you upstairs?”
“No, there are many other men I can go with. I do not love Ethan. He’s just so very good. He thinks of my pleasure as much as his own.”
“And there are not many men that do that, I know. But I think that there are still many men that you enjoy -- Sebastian Ortega, for one.”
“Mmm, sì, Sebastian is also very good.”
“And does he ever pick Wilma over you?”
“No… he doesn’t. And she has tried for him.”
“Then stop pouting like a child because she is playing with one of your favorite toys. There are – thank the Lord…” Cerise made the sign of the cross. “…so many very fine toys who come here to play with you.”
Beatriz gave a hearty laugh. “There are, indeed.” She was still upset, but she thought of Sebastian, who was not only handsome and – mmm -- so very bueno in bed, and who also gave her presents. And there were other patrons of La Parisienne who preferred her above the other ladies. These thoughts warmed her heart. And other enjoyable places on her body.
* * * * *
Shamus stepped up onto the small stage. “Now, if ye please,” he told Hiram King. At their leader’s signal, The Happy Days Town Band played a dramatic flourish. Everyone turned to face the stage.
“Thank ye, Hiram,” Shamus said. “Folks, before we’re starting tonight’s dance, I wanted to talk to ye for a minute or so. I’ll be brief, I promise.”
“You better be,” somebody yelled.
Someone added, “If you can.” Most of the crowd laughed.
“I’ll be quicker if ye all stop interrupting,” the barman replied. “As I was about t’be saying, a lot of ye have probably seen that there petition that Reverend Yingling and his friends have about me. Some of ye may even have signed it, though I hope ye ain’t.”
“They’re saying I’m a bad person, and that I can’t be trusted with that potion o’mine, the one that saved this town from the Hanks gang and saved that young boy’s life. I don’t like folks saying things like that about me, and ‘tis yuir help I’m asking t’be fighting ‘em.”
He pointed to where Molly was sitting. “Me Molly, clever lass that she is, made up ribbons that say ‘Trust Shamus’ for them that want t’be helping me. Hold ‘em up, Love.” She did as he said, waving a ribbon in each hand. “I ain’t saying that ye have t’take a ribbon when ye buy a ticket t’be dancing with one of the ladies… but I hope ye all do. As ye can see, all the ladies is wearing ‘em, too. And, them that do take one, I hope ye wear ‘em around town and not just here tonight.”
“Them that want me potion want t’be telling ye what t’think and what t’do. Me, I’m just asking for yuir help, but I’ll be pleased and proud if ye think enough o’me t’do what I’m asking.” He took a breath. “But that’s more than enough talking. Let’s us get on with this here dance.”
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, Part 3 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, April 14, 1872
Reverend Yingling braced his hands on each side of the podium and smiled confidently at his congregation. “As you know, I will be appearing before the town council next week to demand that they vest control of that transformative potion of the barman O’Toole in more trustworthy, more moral hands. The church board of elders has voted to support me in this, and Horace Styron, the board president has circulated a petition on behalf of this effort.”
“Before we sing our final hymn and go out to enjoy this glorious day that our Lord has given us, I wanted to ask Horace how the work of that petition is proceeding.” He turned and nodded to Horace, who was sitting with other board members. “Horace?”
Styron stood. “Thank you, Reverend, but for a full report, you should ask Mrs. Cecelia Ritter. After her enthusiastic support of your – of our cause, I asked her to take charge of the petition.” He extended an arm towards the woman. “Cecelia, can you give us some idea of how it’s going?”
“Oh, I… I couldn’t.” She slowly rose to her feet. “I – oh, very well.” With a determined look on her face, she walked to the front of the room.
Miss Osbourne’s desk had been pushed forward and covered with an alter cloth. The small speaker’s podium was placed atop this. Yingling moved aside as she came around the desk and took his place.
“I’m very pleased to report,”she began, “that, at last count, we have over sixty signatures. There are copies of the petition at Mr. Styron’s hardware store, Mr. Cates’ office, Mr. Warrick’s lumberyard, Mr. Albertson’s bank, and my own husband’s livery. Sadly, other members of this congregation – and of the board – have not been as cooperative… particularly the --”
Yingling cleared his throat. When Cecelia glanced over at him, he shook his head. She frowned but continued. “In spite of this lack of cooperation, I fully expect to have at least seventy-five signatures to present to the town council at it’s meeting on the 24th – perhaps even more, if certain –”
“Thank you, Cecelia.” The reverend stepped forward and clapped his hands. “Thank you for that excellent report and for all your hard work.” He glided back into his position behind the podium, so she had to step aside. The rest of the congregation joined in the applause. Cecelia nodded, accepting the ovation, as she returned, reluctantly, to her seat beside her husband and children.
Yingling smiled at her once more. “And now, if you will all turn to page 104 in your hymnals…”
* * * * *
“You wanted to see me, my lady?”Wilma stood in the doorway to Cerise’s office.
The other woman nodded. “I did. Come in, and close the door behind you, s'il vous plaît.”
“Okay.” Wilma did as her employer suggested before taking a seat by the desk Cerise was working at. “What’s this about?”
“A mystery. Wilma, you have always been one of my most enthusiastic ladies, always ready to… perform with one of my guests.”
“Uh, thanks. I guess I just like men, being with them, having them touch me, kiss me… fuck me.” She felt a delightful tingle of arousal run through her.
“Indeed, I can see that, even now, just the thought of such things brings the pretty blush to your cheeks.” Cerise frowned. “That is why I have to wonder when you refuse our three newest gentlemen.”
“Refuse? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please, ma petite. When I came into the parlor with Monsieur Stafford and his associates, your smile disappeared. You backed away and slumped your shoulders, trying to look less attractive. When Ethan came in, you all but attacked him. And, I suspect, your actions were more out of relief that you had another choice than out of the all too obvious desire you have for him.”
“I-I like Ethan. You know that.”
“I do, but, if it had been any other man but Stafford – or one of his friends -- you would have been upstairs with him before Ethan ever walked in. I must know why you acted this way. It is bad for business, when one of my ladies rejects our guests.”
“Do I… do I really have t’tell you?”
“You most certainly do.” Her voice was firm. “Out with it. Now!”
Wilma looked surprised at the older woman’s insistence. She thought for a while, her head down, not able to look at Cerise’s face. Finally, with a deep sigh of regret, she began. “You know what I… what I was before I came to this town.”
“Ma oui, you were a man, a criminal much feared in this land.” She smiled. “A manly man, by all reports, one I would have liked to… meet.”
Wilma grinned in spite of herself. “I think I woulda liked that, too, but there’s no chance of doing anything about it now. We both like men way too much.”
“We do, indeed, but, please, mon amie, continue with your story.”
“Umm… okay. Before I was a crook, I was a soldier, a sergeant, during the War of Succession, and a good one. Stafford was my lieutenant, and he was a piss poor one. He almost got us – my whole platoon – killed or captured. I knocked him out and got us all away. And he…” She spat. “He paid me back by getting me – me and Bridget, she was my corporal then – court martialed. They could’ve shot us both. Instead, they threw us out o’the army. Everybody hated us, so we… we got back at them by turning outlaw.”
The madam nodded. “And now he comes here. Does he know who you are? “
“I don’t think so. Lord, I hope not! He’d be gloating about what happened to me like he done it himself.”
“Do you regret what happened to you?”
“I… No, I don’t think that I do. I liked being big, bad Will Hanks, doing what I wanted, scaring grown men into doing what I told ‘em to. But I like being Wilma Hanks, too. I still do what I want, and I still got grown men doing what I want, too. I just… want different things now, is all. I got a solid room over m’head, good grub, and a nice warm bed that I get plenty of use of.”
“That is certainly true.” Cerise thought for a moment, and then said, “I can easily understand why you would not wish to do such things with Monsieur Stafford.”
“Or his friends. Them two polecats backed up his lies at my trial.”
“Or his friends, then. I shall try to arrange that you are not available to them.”
“You gonna tell them – or anybody else -- why?”
Cerise gave her a wry smile. “This is my establishment, Wilma. I do not feel the need to explain myself to my employees or my guests.”
“Th-thanks, Cerise.” Wilma smiled and her body relaxed, unclenched. “You’re a true friend.”
Cerise chuckled. “Yes… yes, I am.”
* * * * *
Rupe Warrick walked over to where Judge Humphreys was standing, watching people leave the church. “You think the reverend has a chance with the town council?”he asked the taller man.
“Hard to say,”the Judge replied. “All three men have ties to Shamus. Arsenio’s married to one of his ‘girls’ and Whit’s the brother-in-law of another. Still, Thad Yingling’s a persuasive man, and he’ll have that petition – and our resolution of support…” He made a sour face. “…backing him up.”
“If you didn’t think we should support him, why’d you vote in favor?”
“Because I know better than to fight an angry mob. Cecelia Ritter got the crowd so riled up, that I didn’t think I had a choice.”
“I abstained. Why didn’t you?”
“It wouldn’t have done any good, and – much as I hate to say it – I’m up for reelection as Judge next year, and I’d like to keep my job. This whole matter is just the sort of tempest in a teapot that could come back to bite me in the ass.”
Trisha joined the men. “That doesn’t sound very moral, Your Honor.”
“No, it doesn’t,”Humphreys agreed. “To be frank, I was hoping that this whole thing would blow over.” He sighed. “Now, I’m not so sure, and it worries me.” He stroked his grayish goatee, as if in thought.
Rupe ran his stubby fingers through his curly, black hair. “It troubles me, too. That’s why I abstained.”
“I’d be happy to back you gents up if you want to go against Horace and the reverend,”Trisha said, “if you’ll back me when I need it.”
The Judge cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Next month the board – and the congregation -- is gonna be voting on kicking me off the board,”she explained. “It’d be nice to have some support. With all this nonsense about the potion, I really haven’t had time to work out any sort of… strategy.” She paled for a moment and looked down at her stomach.
“Something wrong, Trisha?”Rupe asked.
She shook her head. “Just my breakfast backing up on me, I guess.” She tried to make a joke of it, not wanting the reminder that her monthlies were due soon. “Either that or it’s some danged female thing.”
“Say no more, then.” The Judge quickly changed the subject. “Why don’t we… Rupe and I and, maybe, Dwight Albertson come over to your place one night this week and talk about what we’re going to do on both fronts, the potion and your staying on the board?”
Trisha smiled. She still felt a little queasy, but it was good to know that she had support. “That would be great. How’s… Wednesday, a week before the council meeting?” Both men nodded. “Okay, I’ll see you then.”
* * * * *
Kirby Pinker heard the bell over his door ring. He looked up from his back copy of Lippincott’s Magazine. “Can I help… Miss Osbourne, good day to you.” He put the periodical down on the counter and quickly ran his fingers through his thinning, brown hair.
Nancy smiled. “And to you as well, Mr. Pinter.”
“Kirby… please. You’re in here often enough looking at books.”
“Kirby, then.” She smiled again. “And you may call me Nancy. I was wondering if the dictionary I ordered for the school had come in yet?”
“I’m afraid not. I understand that there’s still quite a demand for the unabridged Webster’s, even now, eight years after it first came out. The Merriam Company has trouble printing copies fast enough. You might want to try back around the end of the week.”
She sighed. “I suppose we can use the old one that much longer. Very well, I’ll come back on Thursday or Friday. Good day, then.” She turned to leave.
“Wait.”he almost shouted the word. “Before you go, may I tempt you with… something else? I bought a few books from a miner a couple of days ago. He was short of cash -- and food, so he sold them. I know that you read to relax after a hard day’s work.”
“Yes, I do, mostly fiction or poetry. I deal with facts all day.” She was flattered that he’d remembered her reading habits from the times she’d been in his store. “What do you have?”
“Most are about mining, but I have two you might be interested in, Sonnets From the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Dickens’ Great Expectations. I can give you a good price on either, and a better price on the pair.” He pulled the two books from under the counter where he’d stored them for when she came in.
“As it happens, I own a copy of the Dickens, an autographed copy as a matter of fact.”
“Now how did you manage to get something like that?”
“He came to Hartford on a tour about four years ago. My Aunt Clementine went to one of his readings. She asked him to sign the book and sent it to me as a Christmas present.”
“I’d love to see it. May I come over to your home some time to look at it?”
“I-I live with the Carsons. They don’t appreciate my having gentleman callers.” She regarded him curiously. Was it just the book he wanted to see?
“Perhaps supper one evening would be better. I’m told that the restaurant in the Eerie Saloon is very good.”
She smiled at the thought of having dinner with a… friend. Unfortunately… “I am very sorry, Mr. P… Kirby, but my contract with the town council doesn’t allow me to meet men in any sort of social situation.” She frowned. ‘Male teachers get one night a week to go courting,’ she thought, and not for the first time, ‘but women teachers – no, we have a morals clause instead. It is so unfair.’
He considered the situation. “In that case, it’s a good thing that dictionary isn’t here yet. When you come back to check if it’s arrived, you can bring the Dickens along.”
“Why, yes, yes, I can do that. And in the meantime, may I see that book of sonnets?”
* * * * *
Jane walked over to the place at bar where Shamus was standing. “Can I talk t’you ‘bout something?”
“O’course, ye can,”he replied. “Wasn’t I just saying that to all ye girls just yesterday?” He pointed to the stool next to her. “Have a seat and tell me what’s on yuir mind.”
She did as he suggested. “It’s that painting of me and Laura, I’m… I’m thinking about buying it.”
“Why, if ye don’t mind me asking? I never knew ye t’be having any great interest in such things before.”
“I ain’t never been in a painting before. I thought it’d be… fun t’look up at the wall and see m’self looking back.”
“That don’t sound like much of a reason.”
“Ain’t it the reason you had two pictures done, one of Jessie and one of Molly?”
“Them two is different. The painting of Jessie is a… advertisement. It tells folks that she’s here singing for them every night, and that they should be coming in – and buying drinks from me – so they can listen to her. As for that other picture … well, why shouldn’t a man have a picture of his wife, especially when she’s as fine and as beautiful a lass as me Molly?”
“See, there, ya see; you want a picture of Molly ‘cause you’re proud of how she looks. Why shouldn’t I want a picture of me for the same reason?”
“For one thing, having that much pride in the one ye love and having that same pride in yuirself is horses of two very different colors.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, that picture has Laura in it, too. D’you think she’s gonna like having everybody see how she looked being with child, like she was?”
That stopped Jane, but not for long. “I-I wasn’t gonna hang it down here. I was gonna put it in my room. Who goes in there but me?”
“So ye’re gonna spend all that money t’be buying it for yuir own pride in how pretty ye are?”
“No, I… you think it’ll cost a lot?”
“I don’t know, Jane, but I know how much Mr. Thomas is charging me – which is none of yuir business, by the way – and I’m getting a discount for letting Laura and ye off t’be posing for him. I know ye got the money over in the bank, but ain’t it better t’be leaving it there than t’be spending it on something ye don’t really need, except t’be satisfying a streak of vanity I never knew ye had?”
“I ain’t that vain, Shamus, and you know it.”
“If ye ain’t, then, Jane, ye’d best be thinking, thinking long and hard about why ye want t’be doing what I’m telling ye is not a very good idea.”
* * * * *
Monday, April 15, 1872
Doctor Hiram Upshaw put on his best professional smile as he followed Trisha and Kaitlin O’Hanlan into his examination room. “Now, then,”he said, closing the door behind him, “what seems to be the problem?”
“Nothing,”Trisha answered, fuming. “Nothing serious enough to waste your time with, anyway.”
Kaitlin shook her head. “She threw up this morning, and she told me that she’s felt like throwing up the last three days.”
“Hmmm,”he pursed his chin. “What have you been eating, Trisha, anything unusual?”
Trisha thought for a moment. “Nothing different from what I always eat.”
“She’s been eating the same food as Emma and me, and we both feel fine,”Kaitlin added.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,”Trisha insisted. “My monthlies are due, maybe…” She shrugged. “…even overdue. I-I kind of lost track of them.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow. “How were they last month?”
“I… I don’t remember. They must’ve hit right about the time Kaitlin and I… when the judge… when he divorced us. I wasn’t really paying attention to anything else.”
He thought about what she’d said. “It could just be your time of month, but it could also be something else. How about if you take off your clothes and get up on the table, so I can have a look?”
“This is stupid,”Trisha said, “and I’m already late for work.”
Upshaw patted the table. “Humor me.” He grinned. “Sure, you’re late, but it is your store.”
“Please,”Kaitlin asked softly, taking Trisha’s hand. “For me.”
Trisha sighed and began to unbutton her blouse. “Dirty pool, Kaitlin. For you, I’ll do it.”
* * * * *
The exam took him less than ten minutes. “We’re done,”he told his patient, unbuckling her from the stirrup holding her right ankle.
“Thank heavens.” She sat up and worked on the buckle for her left ankle. “So how I do, Doc?”
Upshaw pulled off his gloves and tossed them into a bucket. “I don’t think that your monthlies were much of a problem last month, Trisha, and I don’t think they’re the problem today.” He took a breath. “In fact, I don’t think that your monthlies will be a problem for the next eight months.”
“What do you mean,”the blonde asked. She climbed off the table and started to put on her drawers. “Of course they’ll be a problem.”
He sighed. “No, they won’t, Trisha. Pregnant women don’t have monthlies, and you’re about six weeks along.”
* * * * *
“Eerie, ladies,”the driver yelled as the stage pulled up to the depot. “This here’s Eerie.”
As soon as the stage came to a halt, Sam Duggan stepped forward to open the door. “Which one of you lovely ladies is Sophie Kalish?”
“That would be me.” A tall brunette with a mass of black curls stepped out onto the platform. “Are you Mr. Duggan?”
“I am.” Sam gave a low bow. He pointed to a short, balding man standing nearby. “And that’s my assistant barman, Cuddy Smith.” The other man nodded.
Three other women climbed out of the stage, a slender brunette, a second, more buxom brunette, and a tiny blonde. “And these are Opal Sayers, Ruth Kantor, and Hettie Morris,”Sophie said. Each woman nodded as her name was mentioned. “Ladies, this is our new employer, Sam Duggan, and his associate, Cuddy Smith.”
“Cuddly,”Hettie said with a giggle in her voice. “He certainly is.”
The man smiled. “It’s Cuddy, ma’am, short for Cuthbert, but I’ll be glad t’be ‘Cuddly’ with – for you.”
The blonde giggled again. “I just bet you will.”
“I hate to interrupt,”Duggan said, trying not to smile, “but we need to get you ladies and your luggage to the Lone Star.” He looked around at the crowd that had gathered, mostly men who were staring at the women. “Anybody care to help?”
Ruth smiled at the men. “We’d be ever so grateful if one of you big, strong men could… give us a… hand.” She giggled at her joke, as number of men stepped forward.
“You can start with this here trunk.” The driver shifted a metal-banded trunk so it was sticking out over the side of the stage. Two tall men hurried to take it, grunting from the weight, as they lowered it down.
Pablo Escobar had been staring at the ladies instead of helping Hammy Lincoln change the team of horses pulling the stage for a fresh team. He moved quickly to the back of the stage. “I’ll get the boot opened, so you can get the rest of their gear out.” He opened the straps that held the netting in place behind the vehicle.
“Thank you, Mr. Ritter,”Ruth told him. “Those’re our bags, the ones with the blue star on ‘em.”
Pablo shook his head. “I’m not Mr. Ritter; I just work for him.” He pulled a green velvet carpetbag out of the boot and set it down on the wooden sidewalk.
“Oh,”Ruth replied, giving him a pretty pout. “I am sorry.” She giggled, amused that the boy took her flirting so seriously.
Pablo grinned. “Don’t be sorry. If I was Mr. Ritter, I’d be back at the livery stable instead of over here helping you. Over here’s a lot better.”
“That’s sweet.” Ruth stepped over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You be sure to come over to the Lone Star and see us once we get settled in.”
“That goes for all of you men,”Duggan announced in a loud voice. “These ladies’ll be performing for your pleasure, songs and dances to make you smile, starting…” He paused for dramatic effect. “…starting this Saturday night.”
* * * * *
“Somebody t’see you, boss,”Joe Kramer announced, standing in the half-opened doorway to Dwight Albertson’s office. “A Mr. Stafford.”
The banker looked up at his teller. “Stafford… oh, yes, send him in, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Joe held the door while Forry walked in, then closed it and headed back to his window.
Albertson stood and offered his hand. “I’m Dwight Albertson, Mr. Stafford. What can I do for you?”
“Read this, for a start.” Forry reached into his coat and took out an envelope, which he handed to the other man.
Dwight looked at the envelope. “From the Austin bank, eh. How’s Joe Cochrane doing these days?”
“Very well; he’s the general manager there now. That’s his letter there.”
Dwight opened the sealed envelope and took out a folded sheet of paper. “Letter of introduction…”he mumbled as he read. “…Forrest Stafford… business opportunities… letter of credit.” He whistled. “That’s a substantial sum of money.”
“Yes, it is. My father sent me out here to look for investments. I saw the name Eerie on a map of the territory and got curious. Can you tell me something about the place and what opportunities there might be?”
The banker nodded and frowned thoughtfully. “The town was a pueblo with some Spanish name that nobody remembers any more. Those mountains north of town are called the Superstitions for some reason. Some superstitions are ‘eerie’, so that’s what they named the town. Or, at least that's one version of how the town got its name.”
“There’s a lot of men up in those mountains looking for gold or silver. You might make some money grubstaking a lucky miner, but there’s no way of knowing who that lucky miner would be. We’ve a few cattle ranches in the area – they’re sometimes looking for money to buy more stock or more land. But you're from Texas; I expect that you know about such things.”
Stafford cocked an eyebrow. “You're right. My pa started out with ranching. If we’re going to start investing out here in Arizona, ranching might be a good place to start. Who owns the biggest spreads in these parts?”
“The biggest, that’d be Abner Slocum. Jo Beth Smith’s place is the next biggest, but Abner’s ranch is a good bit larger. The Ortegas – they’re one of those Spanish land grant families – have a pretty fair-sized spread, but they don’t like doing business with us gringos.”
“What can you tell me about this Mr. Slocum? Would he be open to some outside money?”
“Well, I don’t know as he’s looking for any investors just now. Abner came out here just after the War – from Arkansas I think – with about fifty head and a few hands. He took over a small parcel of land with water rights and worked his way up to… a couple thousand head now, at least.”
Forry frowned. Back in Texas we have to drive them into Kansas to get them to the railroads. I never heard of a cattle drive from Arizona to Kansas.”
“He doesn’t send them east to be slaughtered; he sells to the miners and the Army – oh, and to the Indian Agency.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
Dwight shrugged. “Hard worker, stubborn, he’s got a few other investments hereabouts, and he’s done well by them. He likes to play poker, if you’re looking for a game, and he’s not bad at it. He takes my money more often than I take his.” He looked sharply at the younger man. “I’ll be glad to introduce you two… and to assist you on any sort of a deal you cook up, but I have to tell you, Abner’s a friend. He’s also my biggest depositor, and he’ll be here a long time after you go back to Austin, so don’t ask me to give you any help against him.”
Forry grinned. “I wouldn’t expect you to, Mr. Albertson.”
“Dwight… if we’re going to be working together, we might as well be friendly about it.”
“Fine by me, Dwight. You struck me as an honest man as soon as I walked in. I may just take you up on that offer of an introduction, and I do look forward to doing business with you – and with Mr. Abner Slocum.”
* * * * *
“Sorry I’m late,”Amy Talbot said, rushing into Jane’s bedroom.
Edith Lonnigan glanced over at her. “You needn’t have come, my dear. You’re still at the stage where a monthly check-up is enough.”
“I know,”Amy replied. “I just came to keep Laura company.” She chuckled. “Besides who else do I have to share pregnancy stories with?”
Laura finished unbuttoning her blouse. She draped it over the chair. “I don’t know; who?” She smiled. “Whatever the reason, Amy, you’re more than welcome.”
“Thanks.” Amy sat down on the bed. “How’s it going?”
Laura unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor. “Not too bad. The baby’s not moving around as much.” She started to untie the ribbon on her petticoat.
“Lucky you; mine’s been doing somersaults all day.”
Edith looked closely at her patients. “Your baby’s gotten bigger, Laura. It doesn’t have a lot of room left to move around in, so it’s settling down. Amy, your little one still has a good bit of space, so it’s taking advantage of that to learn how its body works.” She made a few quick notes. “Laura, do you have anything else – good or bad – to report.”
“Something bad, I’m afraid. Last Tuesday, I suddenly felt – I don’t know – dizzy, weak. Maggie and Jane brought me up here, and I stayed in Jane’s bed for a couple hours.” She took a breath. “After that, I felt fine, so I went back to work. It-It – whatever it was -- hasn’t happened since, thank Heavens.”
Edith frowned. “But it did happen. Your body is preparing you to have that baby. That takes a lot of energy, sometimes more than you have. The worst of it is that it can get too ready. Your water could burst, or you could actually go into labor. If that happened… well, we could probably save you but…” Her voice trailed off.
“But not the baby,”Laura finished the thought in a terrified whisper. The horror of having so many hopes and dreams dashed was obvious in her voice.
The midwife nodded sadly. “No, not the baby. If you feel another spell like the one you described, lie down immediately. I’ll talk to Shamus and Molly when we’ve finished up here. I’ve no doubt that they’ll want to help. You should take more breaks, too, and not exert yourself as much as you have been doing.”
“Maybe I should just quit,”Laura said in frustration. “Stay home and spend all my time in my own bed till the baby comes.”
Edith came over and took the anxious woman's hand in her own. “It may come to that, but don’t do it unless you have to.”
“Knowing you, you’d get a bad case of cabin fever,”Amy added, “even with all the company you’d have.”
“Company, you mean the baby?”Laura asked.
Amy chuckled. “The baby, too, but we both know that Molly would practically move in with you, and I’d be over to visit as often as I could. More to the point, I think Arsenio would close down his smithy, so he could take care of you; either that, or he’d move his anvil and forge right into your bedroom.”
* * * * *
Leland Saunders looked around the hardware store. A stocky man with thinning gray hair was standing behind a counter, talking to a taller, bald man. Leland waited until the other man had left before he walked over. “’Scuse me; you Mr. Styron?”
“I am.” Horace Styron studied the man, trying to judge what he might be able to sell him. “What’re you looking for, son?”
Saunders pointed to a display on the counter. “A can of Bull Durham chaw, for a start.”
Horace handed him a can of the chewing tobacco. “That’ll be two bits.”
“Here ya go.” He tossed the man a coin.
Styron started to ring the sale up on the cash register, but then stopped. “Anything else?”
“Some facts,”he replied. “I’m Leland… Lee Saunders.” The two men shook hands. “I work for Mr. Forrest Stafford. He’s figuring to do some business with a fella named Slocum, and he’s trying to find out what he can, so he can get a better handle on things.”
Styron made a thoughtful face. “There’s not that much I can tell you. Slocum’s a likeable enough man. He knows quality goods when he sees them, and he’s willing to pay what they’re worth – pays his bills on time, too. And I hear he keeps a pretty good grip on his hands, makes them work hard and doesn’t tolerate any guff.”
“Anything else?”
“He doesn’t meddle much in what goes on here in town, doesn’t try to run things just ‘cause he’s got the money and the men to try. We’ve got a petition going – trying to take control of some of the less desirable folks hereabouts. He ain’t signed it, but a couple of his men have – you’re welcome to, yourself.” Styron pointed to a sheet of paper attached to a small clipboard.
Leland shook his head. “I don’t figure t’be ‘round here long enough t’get mixed up with anything like that.”
“He told his men that they could sign it or not,”Styron continued. “He said it was their choice, not his. It would’ve been better if he signed it and told them they had to sign, too, but you can’t expect miracles, I guess.”
“I guess not,”Leland replied. “Thanks for your help, though.” He took a breath. “Say, you got any ideas who else I should talk to?”
“You might try talking to Clyde Ritter; he runs the local livery stable, and… ummm, Liam O’Hanlon over at the Food and Grain. They both do business from time to time with Slocum.”
“I’ll just do that. Thanks again, Mr. Styron.” He turned and walked out of the store.
* * * * *
“That’ll be thirty cents, Miss Osbourne,”the young clerk said.
Nancy dug through her change purse for the money. She counted out what she needed and handed the coins to the girl. “Here you are, Benita.”
“Thanks, it was nice seeing you again.” Benita Ortega had been a student at Nancy’s school. Now that she had graduated, she worked at her family’s grocery.
Nancy managed a smile. “Yes, it was.” Seeing a former student again had been pleasant. Being ordered like a housemaid to “Get your lazy self over to the market and get me a half bushel of potatoes,”by Zenobia Carson had been anything but pleasant. Still, one of those potatoes was going to be baked as part of her own dinner.
“And thank you for inviting me to your quinceanos party,”she added, as she picked up the bag of spuds and headed for the door.
Only to be stopped by a short, muscular man with greasy black hair who blocked her way. “Well, now, hello, pretty lady,”he said with a chuckle.
“Excuse me, sir,”Nancy replied, stepping to the left, “but I am in a hurry.”
He moved in front of her. “Now don’t you be that way. My name’s Dell Cooper, and I’m just trying t’be friendly. I had my eye on you when you were on the street.” He leered at her, his eyes roaming up and down her body. “You look like a gal who can be real friendly.”
“Not to the likes of you.” She stepped right and tried to go around him.
He moved to bar her way again. “Sure you can. What’s your name, honey?”
She made a sound of exasperation. “Let me pass!”
“I'm the new toll keeper here, and there’ll be a fare to get by.” He shifted in closer to her and ran a finger along her cheeks. “Them lips o’yours are probably the tastiest thing in this here store.”
“Taste this.” She slapped his face. “Now, good day!”and hurried around him while he recovered from the surprise of it.
“Damn,”Dell Cooper said, rubbing his cheek where she had struck him. “I do love a feisty lass.” He watched Nancy's pert little bottom strutting away until it left the store, and then, walked over to Benita. “You was waiting on her, child,”he asked her. “D’you know who that sweet, little bit o’fluff was?”
The teen frowned at him. “Won’t do you any good, señor. Miss Osbourne doesn’t hold with men who have no manners.”
“Don’t give me any lip, you Mex brat .” Dell raised a hand.
Sebastian Ortega walked swiftly over to his niece’s side. “Is there a problem, señor?”
“I just asked her a question, and she starts bad mouthing me. What kinda place you running here?” He gave the taller Mex his most intimidating glare. No damn storekeeper was going to scare him.
Sebastian didn’t take the hint. “A place where grown men don’t threaten fifteen year old girls.” He crossed his arms across his chest, ready to fight if need be. “If you have a problem with that, you can leave.”
“Look, mister,”Dell answered, taking a half step back, “all I want to know who this Miss Osbourne is.”
“Nancy Osbourne?”Sebastian replied. “She is the teacher over at the Eerie Public School, and she’s far too much of a lady to ever be interested in a peasant lout such as you.”
* * * * *
“I’m home, Kaitlin,”Trisha said sheepishly, as she came into the house. “What’s for supper?”
Kaitlin spun around from the stove where she was standing. “Nothing – not a damned thing – until we talk. Now get upstairs.” She pointed at Emma, who was sitting at the table ding her homework. “Emma, you get over here and watch this stew. Make sure it doesn’t scorch.”
“Y-yes, ma’am.”Emma closed her book and hurried over to the stove.
Trisha was about to argue until she saw the look on Kaitlin’s face. “Yes, Kaitlin.” She walked over and began to go upstairs, with the other woman right behind her. When they reached their bedroom, Trisha went in first. Kaitlin followed. And locked the door behind her.
“You ran out of the doctor’s office like the building was on fire,”Kaitlin stormed, “and without saying a word. I want some answers, Trisha, and I want them now.”
“Please, Kaitlin, let me explain.”
“Explain what? You told me that all you did at the dance was let that… that Godwyn man kiss you. A woman doesn’t get pregnant from kissing.”
“I… I… I know.”
“You know. Do you know what you’re going to do now? Are you going to marry the man, so your child has a name?”
“Marry?” Trisha’s eyes went wide.
“Yes, marry; when an unmarried woman gets pregnant, she usually marries the man who did it.”
“But he… I don’t know...” She bit her lip and stared down at the floor, unable to meet the other woman’s eyes.
Kaitlin studied Trisha’s reaction. “There’s something you aren’t telling me, isn’t there?”
“No!”
“Yes, there is. And I… I, Kaitlin McNeil O'Hanlan, order you to say what you don’t want me to know.” She used the phrase that, thanks to Shamus’ potion, Trisha had to obey.
Trisha trembled, trying hard not to speak. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists, fighting… and losing. “He… he m-may not be… be the fa-father.” Her body slumped as she helplessly blurted out the truth. “I’ve… I’ve been w-with t-t-two other… men.”
Kaitlin, startled, needed a moment to fashion the next question. “Who… when?”
“E-Enoch R-Ryland when he w-was making my… my dress and Ethan… Ethan T-Thomas – he’s a painter. I-I met him a couple… a couple d-days after the… the dance.”
Kaitlin made quick mental calculations. “Close enough together that it could be any one of them, and one of them a man you had just met. I can't believe it! You’re even worse than Cecelia Ritter says you are. Maybe I should go to that meeting, tell everyone what you just told me, and help her vote you off the board.”
“No, please, Kaitlin… please don’t.” She was on the verge of tears. “You saying that would kill any chance I have of staying on the board.”
The other woman looked at her in disgust. “Is that all you’re worried about, your seat on the board?”
“No, but, if I get thrown out, so do all my ideas, everything I – you – accomplished with the dance would go to waste. You know what I want for the church. You want it, too.”
“Very well, I’ll keep quiet… for now.”
“For now? When… when are you planning to tell?”
“I won’t have to tell anyone. You can’t hide a pregnancy. You’ll be showing soon enough – showing the whole town soon enough the slut you are.” She sighed. “You certainly made your own bed, and I’m not sorry for what will happen to you. What bothers me is what’s going to happen to Emma when people find out.”
Trisha remembered her dream, her daughter grown up and a whore. “You… you think she’d do anything drastic?”
“I don’t know what she’ll do – except that she’s going to be very hurt. She’s a strong girl, though, and she’s got some good friends, I think – I hope – she can handle it.”
“I-I’m sure that she can.”Trisha tried to sound confident. ‘Please, Lord,’ she prayed silently, ‘give her the strength to handle it.’
“Thank you for your vote of confidence in Emma. As for you, I’ll be expecting you to take on a much larger share in the work around here.”
“Why? You haven’t had problems so far in the amount of housework I do.”
“I have; I just haven’t said anything. But it’s one thing to it’s one thing to do the lion’s share of keeping up the house for the three of us and an entirely different thing to be the one taking care of your baby.”
“You’re going to agree to learn how to cook and sew and do all the other things a baby needs done for it, or you can forget about my keeping quiet.” Kaitlan took a breath. “Do you agree?” She held out her hand.
Trisha half-closed her eyes and sighed. “Do I have a choice?”
“None at all.”
The other woman grimaced and shook her ex-wife’s hand. “Then I agree.”
“Good, and since we’ve settled things – for now, let’s go downstairs and have some supper.” She took a breath. “We’ve having chicken stew, by the way.”
“How are we going to tell our daughter?”
“We’ll think about that for a while. Right now, I have no intention of sharing my shame with anyone, not even Emma.” To herself, Kaitlin added, ‘or Liam.’
* * * * *
Tuesday, April 16, 1872
“Annie,”Mrs. Spaulding began, “might I ask you for another favor?”
Arnie had to smile. “Are you working on another dress for Clara?”
“No, silly,”Clara replied. “Yo soy ... yo quiero ... que ... los españoles, umm ... que me aprendí ... hacer.”
Arnie all but winced at her terrible grammar. “What did you just say – in English, please?”
“We wanted you to help us learn to speak Spanish. Would you… please?”she asked.
“Me? I am not a teacher.”
The girl shook her head. “We know that, but you are a friend, a friend who speaks both languages.”
“I… I would not even know where to begin,”Arnie told her.
Now Hedley joined in. “You needn’t worry about that. We have textbooks that you – all of us can use.”
“Yes,”Mrs. Spaulding continued, “when we first moved to Fort Yuma, there was a lieutenant out there, Lieutenant Kenner, who taught a course in conversational Spanish. My husband signed us all up for the course, but we… lost him not too long after that, and wound up here in Eerie. We still have the books for that class, though.”
Hedley picked up a book that had been placed on the empty chair next to his. “We even have father’s copy, so you’ll have one to use.” He handed it to her. “I can’t think of a more pleasant way to learn Spanish than to have you as our teacher.”
“I-I do not know,”Arnie said, nervously, blushing at his compliment. “Can I take a book home to look at? I will give you my answer when I bring back your laundry on Saturday.”
Hedley smiled at her. “If you decide before that, we could even start our class on Saturday… after lunch.”
“Yes.”Clara clapped her hands. “We could make an afternoon of it. You could even stay for supper.”
Arnie was taken aback. “I will have to think about that, too.”
“Just to give you an additional incentive,”Mrs. Spaulding replied, “we’re prepared to pay you for those lessons, a dollar for each of us, with two lessons a week, you’d be earning $6 weekly.”
That was what Shamus had paid. “I-I will give you my answer as soon as I decide, but, whatever I decide, thank you for the offer.”
* * * * *
` Potion Mob or Lynch Mob?
` For the past few weeks, The Reverend Thaddeus Yingling
` has been preaching on the topic of Shamus O’Toole’s
` amazing potion. Reverend Yingling has raised doubts
` regarding Mr. O’Toole’s code of ethics, and he has
` suggested that the people of Eerie would be better
` served if that potion were in other hands – specifically
` in his hands.
` While this paper is second to none in its admiration of
` Reverend Yingling as a spiritual leader, we must ques-
` tion his actions in this regard. No one felt the need to
` question Mr. O’Toole’s ethics when he first used his
` potion to save this community from the ravages of the
` Hanks Gang. Nor were they questioned when his potion
` prevented the untimely death of young Elmer O’Hanlon.
` We will freely admit that mistakes have been made, but in
` no way can Mr. O’Toole be blamed for them. Nor can anyone
` say that he has misused the potion for his own ends.
` What is, perhaps, the most disturbing point regarding the
` reverend’s efforts is the attitude of the allies he has
` acquired. We were present at the meeting of the Eerie
` Methodist Church board of elders when he sought the support
` of those elders in his cause. If that meeting had been a
` scene of calm deliberation of the issues involved, we would
` not be concerned.
` Unhappily, that was not the case. The cries of the crowd,
` particularly of its leader, Mrs. Cecelia Ritter, more closely
` resembled those of a lynch mob out for blood than a meeting
` of church members discussing a proposal made by its minister.
` We regret the decision that, we feel, the board of elders was
` forced to make, and we strongly urge the town council to
` resist the pressures that they, no doubt, are now being
` subjected to.
` It may be that, after taking the time to address Reverend
` Yingling’s concerns in a reasonable and logical manner, the
` council will choose to agree. However, such rational
` decision making cannot possibly occur in the highly emotional
` atmosphere that now exists. The members of the Eerie Town
` Council should wait on this matter until – we hope – cooler
` heads prevail.
Roscoe watched Trisha read the editorial. “What’d you think of it?”he asked when she finished reading and put the paper down on the counter of the Feed & Grain.
“Not bad for a man who says that he can’t put words together. It’s good to see that somebody agrees with me.”
“Thanks.”
“But you know that you’re gonna catch all kind of hell for it, don’t you?”
“I do, but Ozzie Pratt once told me that a newspaper’s job is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. It sounded like a good idea considering what’s going on. Besides,”he said with a chuckle, “I run the only newspaper and the only print shop in town. They can’t exactly pull their advertising, even if they want to – and they will… want to that is.” To himself, he added, ‘and I’m not about to be threatened by them again.’
* * * * *
Arnie pulled her wagon up to the covered porch behind her house. Teresa sat in her wheelchair supervising Ysabel and Costanza, who were stirring a cauldron filled with clothes and soapy water.
“Hola, Dulcita,”Teresa greeted her daughter. “Did you have a good visit with your friends?”
Arnie nodded and began to unload the bags of dirty laundry from the wagon. “Sì, Mama. They are nice people, and Mrs. Spaulding is almost as fine a cook as you are.” She took a breath, bracing herself for a reaction. “They offered me a job, Mama.”
“A job, what sort of a job?”
“They, all three of them, Hedley, Clara, and their mama, they want to learn Spanish, and they want me to be their teacher.”
Ysabel put down the paddle she was using to stir the clothes. “You’re no teacher. Like Papa used to say, ‘do not ask the elm tree for pears.’”
“He also said that ‘the man who limps is still walking.’ I have spoken Spanish my whole life. With the books they have, that should be enough.”
Her younger sister, Constanza, raised a curious eyebrow. “What books?”
“This one.” Arnie reached in between two sacks. She found the book Hedley had given her and passed it to Ysabel. “This is the book that the Army uses to teach Spanish. They each have a copy, plus this one for the teacher… me.”
Ysabel leafed through the book. “It seems like a good book, but can you teach from it?”
“The Spauldings believe I can,”Arnie replied. “They are sure enough of me that they will pay me $3 a lesson… with two lessons a week.
“That is good money,”Teresa said approvingly. “As your papa said, ‘a bird has to believe that it can fly.’ If you believe that you can do it, then I will, also.”
Arnie smiled. “Thank you, Mama. I still want to think about it some more. And, Ysabel, you are also right. I am not a teacher – not yet, anyway, but maybe I can be a teacher.” She laughed. “For $6 a week, I can certainly try to be one.”
* * * * *
“Duggan, ye dirty…”The rest of Shamus’ sentence was a long stream of Cheyenne phrases. It was the language he used for profanity.
When he didn’t show any sign of stopping, Molly interrupted. “What’s the matter, Love, that’s got ye spouting off like that?”
“This; read this.” He showed her the page of the weekly paper. In the center of the page was a large-type advertisement, set off in a box for extra emphasis. “Now I know what he was building that…” He used another Cheyenne term. “…stage for.”
` LOOKING FOR SOMETHING BETTER THIS SATURDAY NIGHT?
` Sam Duggan and the Lone Star Saloon are PROUD to present
` THE LONE STAR DANCING DARLINGS
` 4 Lovely Ladies Singing and Dancing Just For YOU!
` First Show 8 PM Saturday
` Fifty cent cover charge
“I can see what set ye off,”Molly said. “‘Tis bad enough he’s going up against ye like that, but t’be starting on our biggest night. It just ain’t fair.”
“‘Tis more than that, Molly, me Love. I’ve known about them girls all week, but I didn’t think he’d have the guts t’be starting them shows on Saturday, going up against our dance. ‘Tis an act of war, it is, and come Saturday night, we’ll be seeing just how bad a war it’s going t’be.”
* * * * *
Forry Stafford and his men eased up on their reins as they came near the ranch house. “Dogs, boss,”Dell Cooper said, pointing to a pair of hounds that, even as he spoke, were rising up on the porch. They ran down from the porch, barking as they came.
“I see them,”Stafford said sourly. When he saw Cooper’s hand reaching for his pistol, Forry added firmly. “Let ‘em be.”
Cooper’s hand moved away. “All right, but if either of them goes to snapping at me, all bets are off.” The pair stopped about five feet away from the horses, but they kept barking.
“Blue... Smokey, shut up!” A tall man wearing an apron over denim work clothes walked stiffly out onto the porch. “Can I help you, gentlemen.”
Stafford studied the man for a moment. “You can, if you’re Mr. Abner Slocum.”
“‘Fraid not. He’s inside working. I’m Elias Tucker… Tuck, they call me. I’m his cook.”
A tall, burly man came out onto the porch. “I’m Abner Slocum. What can I do for you?”
“Call off them dogs, for starters,”Leland Saunders told him.
Slocum stuck too fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. The two dogs went quiet and ran back up onto the porch to stand next to their master. “Anything else?”Slocum asked.
“My name’s Forry Stafford,”Forry said as he dismounted. “These here are Dell Cooper and Leland Saunders. We rode out here to ask you some questions, if don’t mind.”
At the sound of that name, Slocum squinted slightly and gave all three of them a second, and more careful, look. “They must be pretty important questions if it takes three of you to ask them.” Abner studied the men for a moment more. “I’ll talk to you, Stafford. Your men can wait outside. If you like, I’ll have Tuck bring them out something to drink.”
Leland grinned. “Whiskey, if y’got it.”
“You’ll have to settle for some lemonade,”Slocum answered. “Tuck’ll bring it out here for you.”
He watched the men walk up and onto the porch. “After you, Mr. Stafford.” He held the door, as Forry walked through, and then followed him into the house. The dogs moved over to a corner of the porch and laid down, still watching Dell and Leland.
Tuck had gone inside and was standing by the door. “Lemonade for the men on the porch, Tuck,”Slocum told him, “and then bring some for Lieutenant Stafford and me.” As Tuck hobbled off to fetch the drinks, Abner turned to Forry. “You are the Lieutenant Stafford in… Brian Kelly’s records, aren’t you?”
“I am, sir. In fact, those records were what I came out here to ask you about.”
Slocum waited for him to say more.
“You’ve obviously read them,”Forry continued. “Can I ask why you wanted to?”
“You can ask, but I don’t intend to answer.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say that I don’t believe them.”
Forry stiffened. “Sir, those records are the report of a military court. How can you say that they are in error?”
“You, for one thing. The very fact that you're here asking questions about them.”
“Sir, I don't follow,”Forry said, his tone guarded.
“It seems to me that the innocent lieutenant portrayed in those records would have no reason to worry that someone was reading them. A guilty man would. He’d do just what you did. He’d come all the way out here from Texas -- or wherever you came from -- to ask me the very question you just asked.”
Tuck brought in a pitcher and two glasses. “You and your men are welcome to a drink; it’s a long, dry ride out here from town.” Abner poured himself a glass and took a quick sip. “But, unless you have another question, one that I'd care to answer, I’ll ask you and your men to leave. I’ve a ranch to run, and I’ve no more time to waste on you three.”
“That, sir, is unfair.” Forry filled his glass and took a longer drink. “I have every right to know why you’re checking into my past.”
“No you don’t, Mister Stafford.” Abner gave him a sly smile. “And an innocent man would have protested his innocence, not my actions.”
For a moment, it looked like Forry Stafford would flare in anger, but then he calmed himself with a visible effort. Picking up the glass of lemonade, he downed it in two large gulps. “I thank you, Sir,”the Texan said afterwards, tonelessly. “I think my question has been sufficiently answered. As much as I have enjoyed seeing this part of the country, my men and I will be returning home very soon.”
Abner nodded, but said nothing. He only seemed to be waiting for his uninvited guest to leave.
* * * * *
Leland leaned back in his chair and took another sip of lemonade. Some feet away, two men were loading a wagon with branding irons, cords of firewood, and other equipment. “I surely do enjoy hard work. I could just sit here for hours and watch men doing it.” He laughed at his own joke.
“You got that right,”Dell agreed, settling back in his own chair.
One of the men noticed them on the porch. He stopped working and walked over to the porch. “You men here looking for work?”
“Maybe,”Dell replied. “What sorta boss owns this spread?”
“Mr. Slocum’s the boss,”the man answered. “He works us hard, but he pays good money for it.”
The second man came over from the wagon. “That is true. He respects his men, treats us like us like hombres, not peons. He is a good man to work for.”
“If you work.” A tall, well-muscled black man came out of the barn. “Joe, they’s waiting for you ‘n’ Angel out at the camp. Stop jawing and get that gear out there.”
Dell frowned and looked at the hands. “You gonna let that nigger talk to you like that?”
“I ain’t got much choice,”Joe Ortlieb told him. “That’s Luke Freeman; he’s the foreman.” He waited half a beat before adding, “And he’s right about where we've got to be. Good talking to you.”
Dell was astounded. “What kind of fool puts some nigger monkey in charge of white men?”
“Señior Slocum is no fool,”Angel Montiero answered, “and neither is Luke. He knows the job and he's good at it.”
The black walked up onto the porch. “Thanks, Angel, but I can speak for m’self. You ‘n’ Joe should get moving.” He watched the two men climb on the wagon and drive off. “You gots a problem with me, gentlemen?”
“I got a problem with any nigger who don’t know his place,”Leland said, standing up and glowering at Freeman.
Luke glared back at him.”This here is my place. I don’t know what you’s doing here, but when you’re done, I’ll be glad to talk t’you ‘bout it.”
“Anytime, boy.”
Forry stormed out of the house. “Cooper, Saunders, get moving.”
“Yes, sir.”Leland said. “We’ll settle this later, nigger.”
Freeman chuckled. “I’ll be waiting, boy!”
* * * * *
Dell Cooper had split off from the other two as soon as they got back to the Lone Star. Now he leaned against a tree and watched the door open as the first of the children ran out and scattered towards their homes. “So this is the school,”he said to himself. “It ain’t much t’write home about.”
“Can I help you with something, mister?”one student, curious about the stranger at his school, asked.
He looked down at the little brat. “Your teacher's a gal named Nancy Osbourne… a pretty gal with long light brown hair and big… brown eyes, right?”
“Yes, sir,”the boy said. He pointed. “Here she comes now.”
Nancy closed the front door behind her. She took a key from her reticule and locked it, testing once to make sure the lock had set.
“I don’t get run off that easy, Nancy,”Dell said from the foot of the steps.
She turned, putting the key away as she did. “Who… oh, you’re that man from Ortega’s.”
“Right on the first guess; Dell Cooper, at your service.” He leered. “And now that we know who we are, how ‘bout you give me that kiss you owe me?” He was on the porch with her, leaning in very close.
She gave him a hard look. “I told you, I have no interest in doing anything like that.”
“Sure you do.” He slid a finger along her arm. “I know spinster schoolmarms. You just wanna be talked into it.”
Nancy drew herself up. “I'm hardly a spinster, and I most emphatically do not want to be talked into anything by you!”
“The hell you don’t. We both know what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna act like the high ‘n’ mighty lady for a little bit longer. But then you’re gonna give me a smooch – tongue ‘n’ all – that’ll be more than worth all the trouble you’re giving me right now. And then we’re gonna go off someplace and really get to it.”
“Never!” She drew back her arm for another slap, but he caught her wrist in his hand.
Dell frowned. “Look, Missy, you can cooperate now or later. I’ll just give you a little time t’think about what I said. But it better not be long. It ain’t a good thing to keep me waiting too long. Something bad might just happen t’you.” He paused for effect. “Or maybe t’some of them precious kids of yours.”
“You… you wouldn’t.” Her eyes were wide with incredulity.
“Me? Why what would I do?” He made a show of letting go of her wrist. “Seems t’me if anything like that happened, it’d be on your pretty, little head.” He laughed and walked away. “You just think about what I said,”he called back to her when he reached his horse.
* * * * *
Forry walked into the Eerie Saloon. He'd come down the street, checking out each saloon as he passed it by. The first two along this side were just dark holes. This one, a bigger operation, seemed to be on par with the Lone Star. He looked around for the tables that marked “Maggie’s Place”, the restaurant that Zach Levy had recommended. He spotted them, but he found something else that looked just as tasty -- a redheaded woman in a green dress suit.
She merited a glance just for the shape of her. But as he looked closer, he blinked in disbelief. How was it possible? A familiar face out here, at the end of the world? So it was! Maybe it was fate that the two of them should meet up again, to complete some unfinished business. Forry grinned. Maybe it was a sign that his luck was going to change for the better, after that disagreeable encounter with Slocum.
He smiled in anticipation as he walked over to the poker table.
“Well, now, Tess Cassidy,”he said, “what’re you doing here?”
Startled at the sound of a name she knew so well, Bridget looked in the direction of the voice. She recognized Forry and immediately put on her very best poker face, the one she used when she was trying to bluff a full house with a pair of threes. “Do I know you, sir?”
“Sure you do. I’m Forrest – Forry – Stafford. I was a lieutenant in the 4th Texas Mounted Rifles. Your father was a sergeant in the same company with me. How is he, by the way?”
She shook her head. Her first instinct was to tell the truth, to make him go away. “I’m sorry, but I’m not this woman that you think I am.” She was certainly not about to tell him her real name.
“Look, Mr. Stafford,”Stu Gallagher interrupted. “We’re trying to play some poker. If you want to talk to Bridget, just be quiet for the rest of this hand, and she’ll deal you into the next one.”
Forry nodded. “So you’re calling yourself Bridget now, are you, Tess? I bet there's a good story behind that. I came in here for some supper, but as soon as that’s done, I’ll be back, and we can reminisce about old times -- and new secrets.” With a laugh, he headed off towards “Maggie’s Place”before she could answer.
The card players had glanced at one another during the brief exchange. They knew full well that Forry Stafford had the wrong woman.
With Forry moving off, it felt like a cloud had broken clear of the sun. But the card playing didn't go so well for Bridget. It was like the man had hexed her. “Damn!”she muttered. Bridget was so preoccupied with the unwanted meeting -- and the promise of another one -- that she lost that hand and almost lost the next. She was just getting back into top form when she noticed Forry coming back again.
* * * * *
“One card,”Forry said, tossing one of his down on the table.
Bridget dealt him a card, watching his face closely as he picked it up. “None for me,”she told the men at the table. She had two pair, jacks over fours. As far as she could tell, that was the best hand at the table. But she wasn’t sure that she could read Forry's tells. She'd never played cards with him back in the army.
“Bet a dime,”Stu Gallagher said.
Joe Kramer folded.
“See that, and raise five cents.” Forry tossed a dime and an old half-dime into the pot. “Care for a little side bet, Tess?”
“I’ve told you five times at least, I’m not this Tess Cassidy you say I am.” She sighed in exasperation. “What sort of a side bet?”
Forry smiled. “Stu was talking about this dance they have in here on Saturday. You’re one of the… dancing girls, aren’t you?”
“What if I am?”
“Then when I win, you agree to dance with me at least… umm, three times next Saturday.”
Bridget frowned. “We're not allowed to dance twice in a row with the same partner.”
Forry chuckled. “The dances don’t have to be one after the other.”
She considered the wager. She was willing to take his money, but…dance with him? Still, she had the winning hand… didn’t she? “Fine… and when I win you agree to call me by my real name, Bridget?”
“Done.” He offered her his hand. “Care to shake on it?”
She frowned, but she shook his hand, and then tossed in a quarter. “Raise another ten cents.”
“Too rich for me.” Gallagher laid his cards down on the table.
Forry called. “What’ve you got, Tess?”
“And that’s the last time you’ll call me that,”she told him triumphantly. “Two pair, jacks and fours.” She showed him her cards.
“Not bad,”Forry replied, a sly smile curving his lips, “but I’ve got better, full house… nines over threes.” He laid down his hands and leaned forward to rake in the pot. “And I’ll see you at the dance… Tess.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, April 17, 1872
“Laura,”Arsenio called out, as he walked back into the house from his smithy, “you leave for work yet?”
Laura groaned and looked up at him from the couch. “No… I… I’m over here,”she answered in a voice that wasn’t more than a whisper.
“What’s the matter?” He rushed over to the coach. “Are you all right?”
“I… I just felt a… a little dizzy, so I thought I’d… I’d lie down… just-just for a while.” She tried to smile.
“Do you want me to put you to bed?”
She gave a wan chuckle and ran her hand across her gravid belly. “Seems to me that’s how I got this way.” When he didn’t laugh, she added. “No, I-I’m fine right here.”
“Good,”he said firmly. “Then stay there. I’ll be right back.” He started for the front door.
“Arsenio, where are you going?”
“To get the doctor – and don’t argue – if you don’t need him, I do.”
* * * * *
“Baaa-aaa!”
Nancy Osbourne was at her desk, preparing for the next lesson, while the children were having recess. If she heard the odd sound coming from the open door to the schoolhouse, she ignored it. The sound came again, “Baaaaa!”
“What… who?” She looked towards the doorway. “Carl, is that you?”
Carl Osbourne stepped into view. “Who else, Nanny Goat?”he answered, using the teasing nickname he’d given her as a child. He walked the length of the room to where she sat. “Mr. Slocum sent me to town on an errand, and I figured I’d just pop in t’see my little sister.”
“I… I’m so glad you came.” She stood quickly and hugged him.
“What’s the matter?”
“Who said anything was the matter?”
“You did. I hear it in your voice, Nancy, and I felt it in that hug. Something’s troubling you, and I want to know what it is.”
“No-nothing. Nothing I c-can’t handle.”
“You’ll tell me what it is, or I’ll…” He gave her a mischievous grin. “I’ll call you ‘Nanny Goat’ and ‘baaa’ at you where all your kids can hear me do it.”
She smiled back in spite of herself. “You wouldn’t.”
“You know I would. Now, out with it; what’s the problem?”
“A man – a very nasty man – named Dell Cooper has been forcing his attentions on me. I first saw him at Ortega’s market. He demanded my name and that I-I kiss him.”
“What’d you do?”
“I slapped his face and hurried away.”
“He chase after you?”
“No – worse. He showed up here yesterday – after school – and insisted that I…kiss him, and then g-go off with him.”
“The coyote!”
“I refused, of course, but then he – oh, Carl, he threatened my students if I wouldn’t d-do what he wanted.” Her eyes glistened. “I don’t know what I’m to do. Was he only trying to scare me, or is he really crazy enough to hurt my children?”
“What’s this bas… this fellow look like?”
She smiled and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Are you going to go all big brother on him?”
“And if I am – do you mind?”
“No, as far as I’m concerned. The bastard – and he is a bastard – has it coming for trying to use my students to intimidate me. He’s a short, burly man with rather greasy, black hair.”
Carl thought for a moment. “Sounds like one of the men that came out to the ranch yesterday. They gave Luke Freeman some trouble, but he handled it pretty good, from what I hear.”
“What’d Mr. Freeman do?”
“He didn’t shoot ‘em like the snakes they are.” Her brother waited a beat. “And now, I’m more sorry than ever that he didn’t. I’ll find this Cooper fellah and have a long talk with him. He won’t give you no more trouble.”
“Any more trouble,”she corrected him out of long habit.
“Baaa-aaa, you old Nanny Goat.”
* * * * *
“It’s perfectly normal for a woman this far along in her pregnancy to have moments of weakness,”Dr. Upshaw told Arsenio.
Laura took her husband’s hand. “See, I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
“I reserve the right to always worry about you,”he answered. “It’s part of the job of being your husband.” He kissed her cheek. “I don’t mind the job, and I do love the perks that go with it.”
She squeezed his hand. "I sort of like your perks, too.” Then she turned to the doctor. “Are the spells going to get worse?”
“They might – or they might not,”Upshaw told her. “There’s no way to tell. If they do get worse, you may wind up spending the last days of your pregnancy in bed. It’d be the best thing for you and for the baby.” He took a breath. “On the other hand, this may be your last dizzy spell. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Arsenio frowned. “That’s not much help.”
“I wish I could do more, believe me, I do,”the other man answered. “All I can tell you – the both of you – is that there’s nothing seriously wrong at the present, and that she shouldn’t over-exert herself. You’re the best judge of what over-exert means, Laura, but you should watch her when she’s here at home, Arsenio.”
The smith nodded. “I will, and I’ll ask Molly the do the same while she’s over at the saloon.”
“She won’t let me do anything, then,”Laura said, half amused and half frustrated.
Edith Lonnigan was standing next to the doctor. “I’ve already spoken to Molly, but I’ll talk to her again, And I’ll check back with her now and then.” She had another thought. “In fact, I’ll talk to her now, just to let her know that Laura won’t be in for a while.” She smiled. “At least, not till Arsenio lets go of her hand.”
* * * * *
Daisy stood in the doorway of Cerise’s office. “We’s got visitors, m’lady, two of them men you told me t’watch out for.”
“Show them to the parlor,”Cerise replied, “and ask Wilma to join me, if you would.”
The black maid nodded. “Right away.” She turned to Leland and Dell. “This way, sirs. The ladies is waiting t’see you.”
“I already made my pick.” Leland put an arm around her waist. “You go find somebody, Dell. We’ll be upstairs.”
She squirmed free. “I told you b’fore, mister, I’s married, and I ain’t one of the ladies.”
“Sure you are.” He grabbed her arm. “And when we get us upstairs, you can show me just how good you are at being one o’the ladies.”
A man’s hand seized Leland’s wrist. “No, monsieur, she will not. And you will let her go.” Herve began to squeeze. “And then you will apologize.” He squeezed harder. Leland tried to twist free, but he couldn’t.
“You… you’re right,”he finally said. “I’m -- ow! -- I’m sorry.” He released the woman’s arm and watched her hurry away. “Real sorry.”
“Do you promise – truly promise – that you will not bother her again?” The tall Frenchman twisted Leland’s arm so that it was pressed into his back.
“I do. Dammit, I do! Now lemme go.”
Herve did as asked. “Very well, since you have made such a sincere promise. You may stay, but know that I will be watching you. Bother Daisy – or any of the people in this house – and what happened just now will seem a pleasant memory.” He looked daggers at the other man. “Do we understand each other, monsieur?”
“We do.” He rubbed his wrist. He’d fix this damned Frenchy’s wagon, by G-d, but first, there were some fancy women here – especially that hot Mex slut, and he planned to have one.
* * * * *
“Closing time, Trisha,”Liam said in a firm voice.
Trisha looked up from the spot on the counter that she’d been staring at. “Wh-what?”
“It’s 5:30,”he told her. “Time to close up the store.” He studied her expression. “Your mind’s been a million miles from here all day. What’s bothering you?”
“That motion to kick me off the board. I know Cecelia’s gonna make it at next month’s board meeting.”
“You figure out what you’re going to do? You can count on my help, you know, whatever you wind up doing.”
“I-I’m still thinking – thinking about a lot of things.” She sighed. ‘Mostly about being pregnant,’ she added to herself.
Every time she’d tried to come up with a way to stay on the board, she’d pictured herself standing up in front of the congregation scantily – seductively – dressed like the whore she was afraid of becoming. Or worse, in a long, loose-fitting dress, its front pushed out as if she were four… no, six… no, nine months pregnant. She shuddered and tried to wipe the images from her mind.
“You better think of something soon. You talk to anybody else about it, Judge Humphreys or Rupe Warrick, for instance?”
“They’re coming over tonight, Dwight Albertson, too.”
“A council of war, eh; you mind if I join you?”
“You… why?”
“‘Cause you’re my sister. I can see how worried you are, and I have a notion or two about giving you a hand.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, and I’ll bet that one of those notions is about having dinner with Kaitlin.”
“Maybe, but if it’ll make you feel better, I have dinner in my room upstairs and come over afterwards.”
“It does. The boys and I’ll be getting together around seven.”
“I’ll be there.” He chuckled. “It’ll give me time to wash up and put on a clean shirt – for the meeting, of course.”
* * * * *
Bridget glanced around as she shuffled the cards. Joel Keenan and Stu Gallagher were the only ones at her table. Were there any of her other regulars around?
She frowned when she saw Forry Stafford walk into the room. ‘He’s headed for one of Maggie’s tables,’ she thought, ‘but he’ll be over here to play as soon as he’s done.’
She sighed and handed the cards to Joel. He cut the deck and passed them back, saying, “Let’s play some poker.”
“No problem,”Bridget replied. She wished Stafford a hearty case of indigestion as she began to deal.
* * * * *
“Liam, what are you doing here?”
Liam turned to greet the speaker. “Same thing you are, Dwight. Trisha told me there was going to be a meeting of the minds here tonight, and I asked if I could sit in.”
“I don’t see why you can’t.” Dwight Albertson knocked on the door.
Kaitlin opened it a moment later.
“Dwight, good evening,”she said, “and Liam…” Her smile of greeting warmed. “Trisha didn’t tell me you were coming.” She stood aside as they walked into the house.
“And a good evening to you, Kaitlin,”Liam smiled back, just as warmly. “It was a last minute thing; I guess she… forgot.”
A voice came from the long dinner table. “Are we all here?”Judge Humphreys called out. “Come sit down so we can get started.”
“And a good evening to you, Parnassus,”the banker said. He and Liam took seats at the table. Kaitlin went back over to the sink where she and Emma were doing the dishes. The men were sitting so that their backs were to her.
Trisha looked at the group around her. “Shall we start then?” When they all nodded, she continued. “I guess the first thing is what do you all think of my chances of staying on the board?”
“A little better than 50-50,”Rupe Warrick said. “I’m not sure how much better.”
Humphreys frowned. “A fair bit better, I think. The problem is that she’ll be off the board in September, anyway. A woman can’t be elected, -- or re-elected.”
“Do you think we could get that rule changed?”Rupe asked.
The judge scratched his head. “Maybe; it’s a bylaw, though. It takes a couple months to change that. Introduce the motion one month, and vote on it the next.” He thought for a moment. “It’d be best not to start until June, and we don’t make it unless Trisha wins by a good bit.”
“Well, thank you very much,”Trisha said. He was probably right, but it annoyed her no end to hear. When she thought about what he said, it annoyed her more than even the fear of her pregnancy and how these men, her allies, would react when they learned of it.
Humphreys shrugged. “If you lose, there’s no point in making it, and if it looks like the only reason you win is because people are willing to wait until your term’s over in September, then there’s still no point.”
“We want you on the board, Trisha,”Dwight tried to reassure her. “We like your ideas, and, if your seat on the board is open in the September election, it’s even money that Ritter – or somebody like him – will get it.”
Rupe agreed. “It’s a lot easier to run as a – whacha-call-it – an incumbent. Some people’ll vote for you because you’re already there.”
“Unless they don’t like you, which brings us back to Cecelia’s motion.”
Kaitlin gave a small cough. Trisha glanced over towards her. When their eyes met, Kaitlin looked down and rubbed her hand up and down once against her stomach. She repeated the motion, but with her hand a few inches out. When she did it a third time, her hand was even further away.
The message was clear, too clear. Trisha’s pregnancy might not be apparent in May, when they voted on Cecelia’s motion, but it would be in July when a motion to change the bylaws would be voted on. There was no way she could win that, and she’d drag down the Judge and Rupe. Dwight, being the banker, might keep his seat, but any chance that the building fund might have had would surely die.
“Maybe,”she said in a soft voice, “maybe I shouldn’t fight the motion.”
Everyone was astonished. “What?”Dwight spoke first. “You mean that you’d let them kick you off the board? Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“I got on the board because I wanted to make the church better,”she explained. “With everything that’s going on, maybe I’d serve it best by getting off the board.”
“I can’t believe that you’d give up without a fight, Trisha,”Liam told her. “You resign, and you practically give your spot on the board to Clyde Ritter.”
She shook her head. “Not if I give it to somebody else.” She stopped, realizing what she was about to say – what she had to say. “Give it to… to you, Liam.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea.” The Judge scratched his chin. “He’d be an incumbent, and I think a lot of people would vote to re-elect him to see what he could do.” He studied Liam’s face for a moment. “You do support Trisha’s ideas about the church and the building fund, don’t you?”
Liam nodded. “Sure I do. In fact, I’ve got a couple of my own that I’ve been meaning to tell her.”
“Oh, really?”Trisha raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
Rupe cut in. “Can we do it? Can we just put Liam in Trisha’s seat on the board?”
“We can. A board member can take a leave of absence and name someone to fill in while he – or she – is gone. Tom Rhodes did it a couple of years ago. He went east on business and wound up staying there three months.”
“Can we do it if Trisha is gonna stay in town?”Rupe asked.
Humphreys chuckled. “I don’t see why not. She can say that she’s doing it to quiet the dissension on the board.” He looked at her. “It also means that nobody has to vote on whether or not Cecelia’s accusations are true. I think people will like that.”
“Cecelia won’t,”Kaitlin mused. “But she’ll be so happy to have Trisha off the board that I don’t think it’ll bother her too much.”
Albertson sighed. “And we’re back to Cecelia, again. I just wish that the board hadn’t given in to her about the reverend’s crazy idea, and Horace made things worse by putting her in charge of that petition. I’m afraid that she’s getting as power hungry as he is.” The banker thought a moment. “Maybe it’s a good idea not to amend the bylaws. I’d hate to see her as a voting member of the church board.”
* * * * *
Thursday, April 18, 1872
“Hola… Hello,”Arnie greeted Mrs. Spaulding when she opened her back door.
She looked for any bundle Arnie might be carrying. “Hello, Annie, is our laundry done so soon? I hadn’t expected you to bring it back until Saturday.”
“And that’s when I will have it for you. Today, I came to tell you that, yes, I’ll teach you all Spanish – if you still want me to.”
“Of course, we do. Can you join us for lunch on Saturday and start the lessons afterwards?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Wonderful; can you come in for a visit now? Hedley is out running some errands and won’t be back for a while, but I know that Clara would love to see you.”
Arnie came through the open door. “Sì, I can stay for a bit.” She enjoyed talking to Clara, and they were quickly becoming good friends. Still, she was sorry – more sorry than she would have expected -- that Hedley wouldn’t be there as well.
* * * * *
“Hey, Wilma,”Jessie said, “what brings you over here?”
Wilma smiled. “Can’t a gal just come over t’see her sister and her best friend?”
“Not when she gives me an answer like that,”Jessie answered. “What’s the real reason?”
“Well, if you must know, I’ve been wondering when Shamus was gonna have that big showing of Ethan’s pictures.” She frowned. “I asked him a couple of times, and he won’t tell me.”
Bridget walked over to where the sisters were standing. “The unveiling is at eight tonight. Right now they’re locked up in Shamus’ office. Sorry.”
“That’s okay,”Wilma replied. “I seen ‘em all over at Ethan’s studio. I just wanna listen to everybody talking about how good a painter he is.”
Bridget shook her head. “You may not want to listen to everybody. Forry Stafford’s gonna be here. He came over Tuesday and yesterday, also, to have dinner and…” She sighed. “…play poker with me. I expect he'll show up again today.”
“How much money you take off him so far?”Wilma asked eagerly.
The lady gambler sighed again. “Not as much as I’d like. He-he rattles me, and I can’t read his tells as well as I should. He won't stop calling me ‘Tess.’ I keep telling him I'm not her, but he's got this idea that Tess has to hide her identity because of some deep, dark secret. I think he'd like to figure it out so he could blackmail me. “You remember Tess Cassidy, don’t you Wilma?”
“I do for sure, and I know that you… look just like her.”
“Oh? I hadn't really noticed,”Bridget replied acidly. She – as Brian Kelly -- could have been an honest man, and been married to the real Tess Cassidy right now, except for Forry Stafford. His perjuries concerning the Battle of Adobe Wells had ruined the chance for happiness that Tess and Brian had once had.
Bridget continued. “Anyway, he thinks I am Tess, and he’s… interested. He won a side bet that means I have to dance with him three times on Saturday.” She frowned. “If I had won, he would’ve had to promise not to call me Tess anymore. When he came in yesterday, he asked me out to supper tomorrow. I told him I'd think about it.”
Wilma shook her head. “I think you should go out with him. Cozy up to the snake; let him think that you really are Tess Cassidy.”
“What!” Jessie and Bridget both exclaimed. “Are you out of your mind?”Bridget added.
The demimonde chuckled. “Probably, but do you know a better way t’find out why he’s here? He ain’t likely t’talk about it at your poker table, Bridget, but alone, sparking a girl he thinks he knows, he’ll talk. You just see if he don’t.” She paused a moment. “Besides, what can happen with Shamus and R.J. and whoever’s waiting t’play poker standing around t’help if he tries anything?”
“Ya know,”Jessie considered, “when you put it like that, it almost makes sense. If he's got his hand into some dirty deal, we can find out and trip him up.”
Bridget hesitated, still very unsure. “I… I don’t know.”
“When’d I ever steer you wrong in all the years we been friends?”
Bridget smiled wryly. “Well, there was that time last July when you said we should go to some town called Eerie, Arizona. You said we wouldn’t have any problems there.”
Jessie chuckled. “I ain’t got no problem – not when I think ‘bout being with Paul. You got any problem about Cap?”
“Only that he won’t be back till next week.”Bridget answered with a laugh. She looked back at Wilma. “Somehow you always have the knack for landing on your feet, even when you do the riskiest things, and sometimes it rubs off on other people. All right. I-I’ll think about it. Stafford won’t be here for my answer until tonight, anyway.”
* * * * *
Carl Osbourne walked through the swinging doors of the Lone Star Saloon. He looked around for a moment, before he walked over to Cuddy Smith at the bar.
“Afternoon, Carl,”Cuddy said. “I ain’t seen you in here for a while. What’ll you have?”
Carl put a half dollar on the counter top. “Gimme a beer, Cuddy.” He waited quietly while the barman had poured the drink. After a sip, the younger man asked, “What’s that thing doing in here?” He pointed to a large platform set at the far end of the room.
“It’s a stage for the dancers. Didn’t you see our ad in the paper the other day?”
“Can’t say I did.” He took a long drink. “What sort of a dance you gonna have?”
“Not dancing, dancing girls, we figure to give Shamus O’Toole a run for his money.” Cuddy shook his head. “There was no competing with him after he got those pretty potion girls working for him. That Jessie Hanks is the biggest asset he's got. My boss tried to hire her away from him, but she wouldn't bite. So Sam went out of town looking to find some really fine looking ladies. He got us four girls that’re gonna be singing and dancing three or four nights a week.” He waited a beat. “They start on Saturday.”
Carl took another drink. “Right up against Shamus’ dances. That’ll be quite a fight.” He finished the beer and set the glass down on the bar. The ranch hand wondered if he should come over and see the girls' first dance for himself. He grinned, remembering the cancan dancers that he had seen in Tucson.
“You want another?”Cuddy asked.
“Nope, but I’ll take some information. I’m looking for a man named Dell Cooper. He ever come in here?”
“Come in – hell, he lives here. He’s got a room upstairs, him and two other fellahs.” Cuddy looked around. “Matter of fact, that’s them over there.” He pointed to a table where the three sat. “Cooper’s the --”
“I know which one he is. Thanks.”
Carl walked over to the table. The men were playing a game of penny-ante poker. “I’d like to talk to you, Cooper,”Carl told them.
“So?”Cooper didn’t bother to look up.
Carl frowned. “You should look at a man when he’s talking to you.”
“You should be polite to the gent, Dell,”a second card player at the table said wryly, as if Carl amused him. “He may actually say something worth listening to.”
Cooper laughed. “If you say so, Mr. Stafford.” He leaned back and stared up at Carl. “Say your piece, friend.”
“My name’s Carl Osbourne. You’ve been bothering my sister, Nancy. She doesn’t like it, and neither do I, so I came in here to tell you to stop.”
Dell stood up suddenly and scowled at Carl. “And if I don’t?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Cooper was wearing a gun belt, and his arm moved down so that his hand was only a few inches from his pistol. “Maybe we should just settle this right now.”
“Stop it, Dell,”Stafford ordered. Then he shifted in his own chair so that he was staring at Carl. “You’ve said your piece, Mr. Osbourne, and I’m sure that Dell will give your words all the consideration they deserve.”
“You see that he does, ‘cause if I hear different from Nancy, I’ll be back to settle things.” Carl turned and walked slowly out of the saloon.
Forry watched him go and, rising, shook his head. “Men, we can't afford to be too conspicuous while we're in town. Ease off that woman, Dell, until after we've settled our business with Slocum. Also, I want you both to play it especially careful while I'm over at the other gambling saloon.”
“What for, Boss?”Leland asked. “More poker playing?”
“Never you mind,”Forry said, but the men thought they spied a smile of anticipation on their employer's lips.
* * * * *
Forry Stafford studied the cards that Sam Braddock had just dealt him. “Have you thought about what I asked you yesterday, Tess?”he asked as he rearranged them in his hand.
Bridget sighed, but accepted the name and answered the question with a grudging nod. “I don’t need anybody to buy my dinner. The deal I have with Shamus O’Toole for my poker table includes all my meals.”
“Then have dinner with me someplace where he isn’t around to provide dinner. I’m staying at the Lone Star. The barman’s daughter is a tolerably good cook.”
Bridget tried not to scowl. Have dinner with this son of a bitch? It was bad enough playing cards with him. Wilma wanted her to start him talking, but the idea of keeping company with the man who had ruined Brian Kelly's best hopes was just so odious.
When she took too long to answer, Forry got impatient. “Oh, come on,”he coaxed. “At least be gracious enough to consider my offer.”
“Very well, I-I guess a little supper couldn't hurt.”
“Fine. I can hardly wait to find out what you've been doing since the War. I thought a woman as lovely as you would be married by now, not running a poker game under an assumed name. And on the wildest part of the frontier, to boot! Where's your father anyway? I haven't heard a word about him or you since the regiment was dissolved at the War's end.”
“Let's save that kind of questions for tomorrow, too,”she replied, refusing to look him in the eye.
“So, you've stopped denying that you're Tess Cassidy!”
“It doesn't do any good to deny it with you, now does it?”Bridget answered ambiguously.” We'll talk tomorrow at supper.”
Hans Euler snorted. “Gut! In der meantime, could we maybe play a little poker?”
* * * * *
Liam walked into the office of the Feed and Grain and shut the open door behind him. Trisha heard it close and looked up from the piles of paper spread out on the desk. “What… what is it, Liam?”
“You’ve been in here all day, and I wanted to talk to you...” He waited a half-beat. “…about what got decided at your house last night. I just want --”
She sighed and raised her hand up to her face. “Please, can we talk about something else?” She blinked and felt her eyes filling with tears. “Anything else.”
“Okay.” He pulled a red and green kerchief from his pocket and set it gently down next to her on the desk. “I’ll get back to work. We can talk later.” Without another word, he left, careful to close the door behind him.
* * * * *
“Can I have yuir attention?” Shamus had used a low stepladder to climb up onto the bar. Next to him were three easels, each holding a painting covered by a white cloth. When he was sure that everyone was looking at him, he continued, “I’ll be thanking ye all for coming to the unveiling of these pictures that Mr. Ethan Thomas – that’s him standing over in the corner – painted.” He pointed to Ethan, who stood well off to the side. “Ethan, do ye want t’be coming up here and say a few words?
Ethan shook his head. “I prefer to let my work speak for itself, Mr. O’Toole.”
“And so it will,”Shamus said. “Jessie Hanks, will ye come up here and show all these folks yuir picture?”
Wilma was standing next to Ethan, her body pressed close. “This is so exciting,”she gushed. Her hand, hidden by the crowd, slid across the front of his trousers. “Mmm,”she whispered in his ear. “Looks like I ain’t the only one who’s excited.” She leaned in and nibbled gently on his earlobe.
“Wilma, please.” Ethan shivered – and felt himself grow harder. “I promise you that we will have our own, lusty celebration later, but only -- and I mean only – if you behave yourself now.”
She pouted, a chastised child. “We better.” But she also stepped back in time to see Paul Grant help her sister up onto the bar.
“Here we go!” Jessie called out as she tossed the cloth back over the top of the portrait. It showed her sitting in a sturdy wooden chair and strumming her guitar. She was smiling, her lips parted slightly, as if in song. The figure in the painting wore the same dress that its model wore that night, a dark blue gown that hugged her figure, cut low to show her shoulders and the tops of her breasts.
The crowd cheered. “You can almost hear her singing,”Mort Boyer yelled. “Sing for us now, Jessie,”another voice added.
“Maybe later,”she answered. “First off, I wanna see them other two paintings.” Paul put his hands on her waist and lowered her slowly to the floor.
Shamus looked over to where Laura was standing with Jane. Arsenio and Milt stood with them. “Jane, get yuirself up here and show everybody yuir painting.”
“Laura, too,”Jane answered. “She’s as much in it as I am.”
Laura shook her head. “Thanks, Jane, but I better stay down here.” She rubbed her expansive stomach. “Be safer for ‘Junior’, if I don’t climb any ladders just now.”
“I guess so,”Jane decided. Milt walked her to the stepladder and held her hand as she climbed it onto the bar. She pulled the covering off the canvas and moved out of the line of sight.
The people stared at the image for a moment until Monk Dworkin called out. “They’s three of ‘em. Who the hell’s the third one?”
“And how come she looks so old?”Matt Royce asked.
Ethan worked his way to the bar and scrambled up onto it. “I apologize, ladies and gentlemen for any confusion. The picture is based on the old Greek story of the Fates, the goddesses that shape men’s destinies. According to the tale, there are three of them: Clotho, the maiden, who spins the thread of a man’s life; Lachesis, the mother, who measures the length of that life; and Atropos, the wise woman, who cuts the thread.”
“Jane is Clotho; you can see her holding the spindle.” He continued, pointing to the figure on the left, who wore a floor-length white tunic and held a spindle suspended below a half-formed woolen thread. “And, of course, Laura, there on the right, is Lachesis.” The figure on the right, almost as pregnant as Laura herself, was in an equally long green tunic and holding a yardstick with Greek lettering.
Ethan took a breath. “Both Jane and Laura modeled the third figure, Atropis. I added some wrinkles to the face and gray to the hair because the wise woman is supposedly older.” The third figure sat in an ornately carved wooden chair that very much suggested a throne. Her garb was black, and she held a pair of scissors with long, thin blades.
“That makes sense, I guess,”a man said, “but I don’t see why you had it done, Shamus?”
Ethan answered for the barman. “He didn’t. This painting is my own concept, and I intend to ship the work East for exhibition and – I have every reason to hope – sale.”
“If someone out here don’t buy it first,”Jane said, as Milt helped her down from the bar. The lawyer didn’t respond, but it was clear from his expression that he didn’t like the idea.
“All three pictures’ll be hanging here till Sunday night,”Shamus told the crowd. “Then Ethan’s gonna ship that one home t’Philadelphia, and I’ll be taking the last – and the best one, I’m thinking – up t’me and Molly’s rooms ‘cause that’s who’s in it, me own darling Molly. Come up here, Love, so ye can be unveiling yuir own portrait.”
Sam Braddock stepped in next to the bar and offered Molly his hand. “Let me help you, Molly. You ain’t quite as young and spry as Jane or Jessie.”
“Ain’t I?” She grabbed his hat, a gray, workman’s cap, and hurried up onto the bar unassisted. “Would ye be doing me a favor and put this on, Shamus?” She winked at him as she asked.
He winked back and fixed the cap on his head. “Ready when ye are, Love.” He stood as if at attention.
“La-da-da-dit-da-dah!”Molly did a quick jig step as she sang. With the last note, she did a kick, a very high kick. Her toe hit the brim of the cap, sending it flying off into the air.
Sam laughed the loudest of anyone. “Molly, I am so very, very sorry for what I just said.”
“Ye should be,”Molly replied, “and I’ll be happy t’accept yuir apology – and the beer ye’ll be buying me by way of apology.” She gave Sam a wink.
Shamus put his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. “And that’s another reason for loving ye, Moll,”he whispered. “Ye’re as limber as the… night we got married.”
* * * * *
Bridget was studying “The Three Fates”painting when Forry Stafford walked over. “It’s a rather odd painting, don’t you think, Tess?”he asked, trying to start a conversation.
“I don’t know. I read about the Fates in Bulfinch’s Age of Fables when I was a… girl. I’d say Mr. Thomas got them pretty much the way Bulfinch described them.”
Stafford chuckled. “It’s funny, you didn’t strike me as much of a reader when I knew you during the War.”
“People change,”she said, but the private joke was lost on Forry.
“As my father always says, 'The more things change, the more they stay the same.'“ He shifted the topic. “Can we, perhaps, discuss exactly how much you've changed at dinner tomorrow night?”
Bridget sighed “Yes, Mr. Stafford --”
“Forry, please. If we’re going to dine together we should be on a first name basis.”
“Very well, then Forry. You can pick me up here at 6.”
* * * * *
“Trisha,”Kaitlin said in a firm voice. “Could you come over here, please?”
Trisha looked up from the papers she was looking at, some correspondence with one of the Feed and Grain’s suppliers. “Why?”
“Because it’s time to start those lessons you agreed to. Now… come sit down across the table from me.”
“Very well.” She set down the papers and walked over to the supper table. The dishes and such from supper were gone, drying in the rack by the sink. In their place were Kaitlin’s sewing basket and a small pile. “What’s all this?”
“One thing a mother has to be able to do is sew; for a start, know how to repair hems, fix tears, and replace buttons.”
Trisha picked up a blue denim man’s shirt, the only one in the pile. “Like you wouldn’t replace the buttons I popped off this shirt all those months ago.”
“I still won’t,”Kaitlin replied. She took a pair of needles from a small, tin container in her sewing kit. “You will.” She set a spool of dark green thread down in front of Trisha and handed her one of the needles. “Thread that, and we’ll get started.”
* * * * *
Friday, April 19, 1872
Laura found herself sitting in a chair, lightly rocking back and forth. She felt something move on her lap and looked down to see… “A baby,”she raised her head quickly and said out loud, “this has to be a dream.” She glanced back down. The child was bigger than she expected a newborn to be. It was wrapped in a yellow blanket, so all she could see was its head and a mass of brown curls partly visible under a matching yellow cap. “Might as well enjoy it,”she said. “Hello…” What to call it? “…baby.”
“Hello, Mama,”it replied in a high, child’s voice. “Why don’t you say my name?”
“I-I-don’t know it.” She chuckled. “I don’t even know if you’re a boy or a girl.”
It stared up at her with Arsenio’s brown eyes. “If I’m a boy, I’m named after you and Papa.” It smiled – the most beautiful smile she had ever seen. “I’m Arsenio… Leroy Caulder.”
“L-Leroy?”
“Sure, why shouldn’t I have the name you had when you were a boy?”
“I don’t know. No reason, I guess.”
“And if’m a girl, I’m still named after you, Eleanor… Laura Caulder, like you told Papa.” The baby’s close-cropped hair was suddenly longer, tied into two delicate ponytails by a pair of yellow ribbons.
“Are you a boy or a girl?”
“I -- you -- don’t know yet.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much. I know you and Papa and Grampa Shamus and Gramma Molly and Gramma Rachel and Aunt Jane. I know Gramma Molly knitted my blanket and my cap.” It pursed its lips and made sucking noises. “And I know that I’m hungry, Mama.”
Laura began to unbutton her blouse. “I wonder what it feels like to breastfeed you.”
“We both enjoy it,”the baby said, smiling again, that same wonderful smile.
Laura was smiling back, when – for some reason – she woke up.
* * * * *
A noise woke Wilma. She glanced up to see Ethan tying his tie. “G’morning, Ethan,”she said in a low voice that was almost a purr. “How come you didn’t wake me? We coulda had us some fun before you had t’head over to your studio.” She sat up and stretched her arms up over her head. The blanket fell away, revealing her naked form.
“I can think of nothing that I would more enjoy than joining you for another sensual romp,”Ethan told her. “Unfortunately, I still have commissions to fulfill.” He picked up his pocket watch from its place on the dresser. “The Ortega’s carriage will arrive at my studio in a short time. Since the old gentleman is too infirm to travel to town to pose for his likeness, they send a carriage to convey me out to the ranch house.”
Wilma smiled and ran her tongue across her lower lip. “Well, I suppose if you have t’go, you have t’go, but can you, at least, gimme a kiss goodbye?”
“There is always time for that.” He walked over to the bed and sat down next to her. “Always time.” His arm wound around her bare waist, and he pulled her close. Their lips met, and she ran her tongue across his lower lip. It snaked back into her mouth, but her lips were parted, inviting his tongue to follow.
He did, and the kiss became far more torrid. His hands explored her voluptuous curves, while she began pulling at his shirt.
“Wilma, please.” He broke the kiss. “I cannot tarry with you, no matter how much you tempt me.” He stood up and began to tuck in his shirt. “I will, you can be assured, return to continue this session this evening, when I can give you the time that you deserve.”
“I'm luckier than you,”Wilma said mischievously. “I don't have to juggle business and pleasure. For me, they're the same thing.”
With a chuckle, he took her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed it, sucking for just a moment on a knuckle. When she giggled at the sensation, he released her hand. “For now, my dear, adieux.” He gave a low bow, picked up his coat from a chair, and headed out the door.
“He’ll be back.” Wilma gave a contented sigh and collapsed against the pillows. “He wants to come back, and he wants me, just like I want him.” She sighed again. “I been teasing Jessie for so long ‘bout her and Paul – been teasing Bridget, too, since she and Cap finally done the deed, but, now, I know how they feel.”
All at once, her smile faded slightly. 'It would be nice if he were just a little bit jealous about what I do for a living,’ she thought.
Wilma threw away that idea and hugged herself, as if trying to keep all those luscious, wanton feelings she had inside of her. “Being in bed with a man was always a whole lot of fun – and I ain’t about t’give that up, but being in bed with a man that you love, one who loves you, it’s a hundred, no, a thousand, no, a million times better!” She closed her eyes, reliving what she and Ethan had done during the night, and thrilling with the delicious sensations that ran through her body as she did.
* * * * *
“Now hold still, Teresa,”Doc Upshaw told Teresa Diaz. “Grasp the edge of this table with your right hand.”
She did as she was told, as the physician carefully slid his surgical saw along her cast. She could feel the pressure of the teeth on her arm, but there was no pain.
“You are doing fine,”Dolores said, holding her cousin’s left hand in her own.
Upshaw put down the saw. “Of course, she is, but, then, she has an excellent doctor.” He winked at Teresa, as he picked up a scissors with small bumps at the tip of each blade. “Keep holding still, though.” He cut through the last layers of plaster and gauze. In a matter of minutes, the cast was opened. He took both halves and pulled them apart. They fell with a “thunk”onto the table.
“My arm, it is so thin, so pale.” Teresa raised her arm, twisting it back and forth.
The doctor nodded. “If you had stayed in bed, under a blanket for six weeks, your entire body would be that way. It’ll be fine in a few days.” He watched her moving her arm, looking for any sign of discomfort. “You don’t seem to be having any problems, but be careful for a while. And come back here at once if there is any pain, in your arm or your leg.”
“How soon can I walk?”
“Oh, any time. You could walk home today, if you liked. However, I’d advise you to wait until, umm… next Wednesday or Thursday before you start dragging that heavy laundry wagon of yours around town.”
“Can I go along with Arnoldo, while she ‘drags that heavy wagon’? I want to get back to work, to my customers, as soon as I can.”
“Yes, but wait until Monday before you do that much walking. Speaking of which, hop up on the table. It’ll be easier to get that leg cast off if I immobilize your limb in the stirrup.”
* * * * *
“Trisha… wait up.”
Trisha stopped, turned to see Liam running to catch up with her. “You know, you wouldn’t have to run if you’d just walked over from the store with me.”
“I had a couple of things to do first,”he explained. As he caught up with his sister, she noticed that he had changed his shirt and that he wore a tie a tie she’d never seen on him before.
She scowled at him as they began walking again. “So I can see. Is that a new tie?”
“It is. I thought I needed one.”
“I don’t know why you would. Your old ties were fine.”
“If you like old neckties, they were. I just felt like getting a new one, and they were on sale at Silverman’s.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“There was an ad in this week’s paper, but I guess you don’t read ads about men’s clothes anymore.”
“No, I don’t. Anyway, we’re here.”
They were at Trisha’s front door. “Allow me,”Liam said, holding the door open as she walked in.
“I’m home,”Trisha yelled, as soon as they were both inside.
Kaitlin and Emma were standing by the table, which was ready for supper. “I see you are,”Kaitlin replied. Then she smiled and added, “Hello, Liam.”
“Hello, Kaitlin… and you, too, Emma.” He stepped forward and held up the bouquet of flowers he’d brought with him. “These are for you, Kaitlin, my thanks in advance for a delicious dinner and for the pleasure of your company.”
She walked over and took the flowers from him. “They’re lovely,”she said. “Thank you.” She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Emma and Trisha could only stare as Kaitlin hurried over to the sink and arranged the flowers in the vase that had been waiting for them.
* * * * *
Bridget sat on her bed, gazing at the full-length mirror that hung on her door. “Damn,”she muttered and shook her head.
“Hey, Bridget,”a voice – Wilma’s voice -- called from the hallway. “Can I come in?”
The redhead shrugged. “Why not? Come on in.”
“What’s the matter? Why ain’t you getting downstairs, waiting for Stafford?”
“I-I I’m not sure that I want to have dinner with the bastard, after all.”
“You ain’t getting cold feet, are you?”
“Yes.” She looked down, not able to meet her old friend’s stare.
“This from the man who spit in the face of them Union blue bellies, who helped me rob the Ranchers and Merchants’ Bank back in Texas?”
Bridget made a gesture at her buxom, very feminine body. “I’m not him anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She was wearing one of Wilma's low-cut and very tight silk evening dresses. It was green, since Wilma agreed that the color best set off Bridget's complexion. They were almost the same size, but Wilma preferred her dresses to be somewhat tight, to better show off her supple body. Bridget felt this snugness mainly in her bust.
“Maybe not, but there was still enough of Brian Kelly’s cahones in you to face down Abner Slocum and them others and come out the winner in that poker game a few weeks back.”
“That… that was different. I know how to play poker. What do I know about…” She made a sour face. “…cozying up to a man, especially one like Forry Stafford?”
Wilma laughed. “I don’t think that Cap Lewis has any problems with the way you ‘cozy up’ to him – neither did R.J.”
“It’s not the same thing. I liked R.J.; I still do. And I – oh, hell – I love Cap. I – Hate is a mild word for what I feel for Forry Stafford.”
“I don’t like the man any better ‘n’ you do, but I do know something ‘bout getting close to a man I don’t particularly like. I can grin and bear it with the best of the ladies, but when it comes to Forry and his galoots, they're more than I can take.”
“Getting very close, I expect.” Bridget said wryly. “Okay, professor, how do I get that cozy with a man who turns my stomach?”
“You think of something else, something you do want. I just think of the fun I can have with most any man. In this case, you think of what you’re gonna find out about why Forry's here and how we can maybe use it against him.” She took a good look at her friend. “And act more confident, like you’re sure of yourself and what you’re doing. Damn, you look like you're on your way to your own hanging!”
“I-I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Maybe a little ‘dutch courage’, as they say. You got any…?” She glanced around the room before she saw a bottle and two glasses on a corner of the dresser. “That’ll do. Must be for when Cap comes back to town. You never was much for whiskey.”
“I’m still not that good with alcohol. I usually nurse a beer, two at most, through a night of poker.”
“I’d say that you need a little something more tonight.” Wilma fetched the bottle, opened it, and poured a drink. “You drink this up – right now.” She spoke in a firm voice that brooked no argument.
Bridget snapped a quick, military salute. “Yes, sir.” She took the glass from Wilma’s hand and swallowed in one, quick gulp.
“Good soldier!”remarked Wilma. “And that's a smart uniform you have on, too!”
* * * * *
Liam looked over at Trisha, who was looking daggers at him. “That was a delicious dinner, Kaitlin, but I think I’d better go.” He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.
“Must you?”she replied, a note of sadness in her voice.
He nodded and stood up. “I think it would be better if I did.” He glanced over at Trisha again. She didn’t say anything, but her expression didn’t change.
“Very well, then.” Kaitlin took his arm and walked him to the door. “Thank you again for the lovely flowers.”
“No thanks necessary.”
“Yes, there is.” She kissed him again on the cheek.
Liam grinned. “You keep doing that, and I’ll bury this place in flowers.” He opened the front door. “Good night, Emma… Trisha.” He winked at his sister and left.
“What the hell was that all about?”Trisha demanded as she rose to her feet.
“Wait a minute,”Kaitlin said, answering the other woman’s harsh tone before she looked over to her daughter, who was clearing the table. “Emma, go to your room,”she ordered. “Right now!”
“But the dishes…”the girl said.
Her mother shook her head. “Now… and close the door behind you.”
“Y-Yes, ma’am.” The confused girl put down the dish she was wiping and all but ran to her room.
Kaitlin waited until she heard Emma’s door slam. “Now, you were yelling something.”
“I want to know just what was going on with you and Liam, kissing him like that. I want it to stop.”
“You can have relations with three men, men you barely know, and I can’t kiss a man I’ve known for fifteen years and more? I think not.” She put her hands on her hips. “I’ll do what I please, Trisha, including kissing your brother.”
“When are you planning to sleep with him?”
“Not any time soon, I should think. I’m not the loose woman you are.”
“Don’t you talk like that to me, Kaitlin.”
“Be happy that I'm the only one that does speak to you like that. What do you think would happen if I told Reverend Yingling that you’re pregnant… or told Horace Styron, for that matter?”
“You wouldn’t – would you?”
“I might, if you keep objecting to my friendship with your brother.”
“I don’t object – as long as it stays a friendship.”
“It may, or it may not. Liam is very much like the man that you used to be, the man I loved and the father of my child. It’s only natural that I might be attracted to him, and…” In spite of her anger, she gave Trisha a shy smile. “…I think that I am attracted to him.”
“Kaitlin!”
“Well, I am. I've got the rest of my life to think about, and our clinging to the past isn't going to help either one of us. If you don’t like it, you can – no, whether you like it or not, I think that you’ll sleep down here tonight. It’ll give you a chance to consider this mess you’ve gotten us into.”
“The hell I will. The worst thing about marriage, past or present, is the way that the woman always thinks that she owns the bedroom.”
“When you're someone's wife – and for your own sake, I hope that you do get married eventually – you and your husband can decide for yourselves who owns your own bedroom.”
Trisha looked at her incredulously. “You're being completely unreasonable. By your own logic, if I'm not your husband, you have no right to order me out of the bed that I bought and paid for!”
“Trisha,”she said in a still, but very firm voice. “You can do it of your own free will and keep a small shred of dignity, or I can order you to. And we both know I can do it.”
The pretty blonde sighed in resignation. “I’ll do it by choice.” She took a breath. “Shall I go get the blanket and pillow now?”
“Yes, and on your way, tell Emma to come down. She can help you finish the dishes.”
* * * * *
They sat across from each other at the small table set up for their meal. Bridget hadn't planned for dining in Stafford's room. When they had come in, those new dancing girls were rehearsing a dance on the stage in the back of the barroom, while a band played nearby. “We won’t be able to hear ourselves think,”Forry had said, a little too smoothly.
“Have your daughter bring the food up to my room,”he told Sam Duggan before he led Bridget upstairs. Forry brought along a bottle of wine and two glasses to, as he explained to her, “Give us something to do until our supper arrives.”
It upset her to be alone with him, so she hadn't been 'cozying up to him' very much. Stiff and nervous, even with all that wine she’d drunk, she hadn't gotten past his guard, not enough to learn anything about what he was up to in Eerie, anyway. Forry had remained gallant so far, but the redhead sensed a growing impatience in him. He must have had high hopes for this evening, but she wasn't meeting his expectations. More and more she just wanted to leave.
Once the meal was served, Bridget ate quickly, not paying much attention to the flavor. Now that she’d finished, she decided that she'd stayed long enough. 'Some Deliah I am,' she thought. Bridget looked at her watch. “I-I’d like t’say that it’s been a l-lovely supper, Mr. Staf… ford, but I --”
“Forry,”he interrupted. “I promised that I’d call you Bridget, but only if you called me Forry.”
“All… all right, Forry,”she said, thick-tongued from the wine. “But I do have t’get back to my po-poker… game.”
“Very well, but you should finish your drink before you go. This is very good wine.”
“I think I m-may have finished too much of it already, but, okay.” She finished the last of what was her third – or fourth -- glass. She’d lost count. By now, the bottle was almost empty.
The dapper man looked at her closely. “I believe that you spilled a bit on your dress.”
“I did?” She blinked and stared at him with half-opened eyes.
There was a blue porcelain pitcher on the dresser behind him. Stafford twisted around in his chair and dipped his napkin into the water. That done, he turned back and began to pat at the spot on her breast where he claimed the spill was. “Hmm, that doesn’t seem to be working,”he told her. “Let me try something.”
He rose and came around the table, moving in very close, startling her.
“I hope you don’t mind,”he continued as he began to undo the top buttons of her dress.
Bridget regained her composure.. “It’s okay. I like it when a man – one certain man -- undresses me.” She giggled for just an instant, remembering her time with Cap.
“And who would that be?”
“C-Cap Lewis, he can undress me any old time he wants.” Her lips curled in a happy smile at the thought. Bridget quickly lost her smile and began to wonder if she was drunk. ‘How could I have said such a thing to a rattler like Forry Stafford?’ she asked herself.
“How about me? Can I undress you?” He opened another button as he spoke.
She shook her head emphatically. “Nope.”
“Why not?”Though he held a grin on his lips, Forry betrayed an exasperated look in his eyes.
“I got a secret,”she whispered drunkenly.
“I know you do. Why are you pretending so hard to be someone called Bridget Kelly?”
“No, that’s not the secret.”
“Then what is?”
She stood, unsteady on her feet, and leaned closer to his ear. “The s-secret is, I don’t like you, don’t like you one li’l’ bit.”
Now Forry drew back, really annoyed. His smile slipped. “I thought that liking the man you're with wouldn't matter to a girl like you,”he said, his tone sneering.
“What'd'ya mean, a girl like me?”
“Tess, Tess, Tess. What do you think you're doing out here? What decent woman would host a card table? I've heard of women running a game before – but they were always whores.” He smiled lewdly and pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, hard enough that it hurt her. “That's all right with me, though; I get along just fine with whores.”
Bridget pushed him away and shook her head. “Don't call me names! You d-don't know anything about me!”
He scoffed. “I know that you're nothing but the daughter of a no-account Irish sergeant. You're putting on airs now, but you were no more than an army brat. You'll dance with a man for a fifty-cent ticket. I wonder how much you charge for going to bed with him.” Forry sneered. “A fair bit, I’ll wager. I hear you made a small fortune off the men that played that big poker game here a few weeks ago.”
“I was in that game. In fact, I was the big… the big wuh- winner.”
He tossed his head. “That's not the way a woman wins. I can make you a big winner again tonight, but in the right way for a woman.” He pressed in on her, shifted his grip to her bare shoulders, and then tried to kiss her.
“Uhhhmmm!” Forry Stafford's lips on hers? Unbelievable!
Shocked, Bridget fell completely out of her role of cozying up to him. “Let me go, you stinking bastard!”
Her words were like a lash. Forry's lascivious hands suddenly became cold claws, digging into her flesh.
“What did you call me?”
“I called you a stinking --”she hiccupped -- “b-bastard.” She tried to shake herself out of his grip. “Let me go!”
“I'm not used to being called names by any dirty-mouthed slut,”he growled.
She managed to slip out of his grip and braced herself, as best she could, against his next attack. Her eyes flashed like green fire. “Since when? That's the only kind of girl who'd ever put up with you back in the army.”
His hand flashed, striking her cheek -- hard. Bridget cried out in surprise, grabbed her stinging face, and almost slipped from the chair, alarmed by the brutal evidence of his much greater strength.
“You bastard,”she repeated, anger burning the alcohol out of her. She tried to slap his face, but her grabbed her wrist and forced her arm around behind her back.
He laughed. “You bragged you always pay your debts. You owe me a little something for supper, Tess. You’re white trash, but you were always so beautiful. I've wanted you since I first saw you at the post in Texas. You only had eyes for that weasel, Brian Kelly, back then, and it made me hate both of you.”
“You scum! You're even worse than I remembered you.”
He pulled her in close, twisting her arm enough to make her cry out. “I don't care what you think of me; it isn't as bad as what I think of you.”
“My father taught me to take what I wanted, and I mean to have you, Tess Cassidy or Bridget Kelly or whatever phony name whores like you travel under. When I brought you up here, I was hoping I could have your pretty ass for a gold eagle, but you weren't nice about it. Now I’m not paying out anything more than the cost of that meal we just ate.”
He pressed her right arm hard into the small of her back. His other hand seized her left wrist and forced her arm down to her side.
“Let me --”she started to say, but he silenced her with a fierce kiss.
The young woman tried to bite him, but he twisted her captive arm. “Do that again,”he threatened, “and I’ll break it off, so help me. Understand?”
His grip hurt so much Bridget forced herself to stop struggling, thinking he might do exactly as he threatened.
“Good,”Forry told her when she nodded in agreement. He kissed her again, forcing his tongue into her mouth, a thing so repulsive it made her gag. She squirmed in his arms, trying to break free.
He ended the kiss and his eyes traveled around the room until he saw what he wanted. “That’ll do.” He let go of her left wrist just long enough to yank a necktie off the dresser. He quickly took hold of the wrist again and wrestled it behind her. A few hurried moves, a second necktie, and her two arms were bound together.
“You dirty… untie me!” Bridget yelled and twisted, but, try as she might, she couldn’t pull either arm free.
Stafford laughed as he watched her struggle. “I will… after I’m… after we’re done.” He grabbed the two sides of her partially opened dress and yanked them apart. Buttons popped, as the dress was now opened to the waist. He pushed it down off her shoulders and as far down both of her arms as it would go, far enough to truss up her arms even more.
“Very nice,”he said in a low voice, as he gazed at her breasts heaving in fear inside her pale blue corset and white camisole. “Very nice, indeed.”
Fright had forced her pride out of the way. “Help,”she howled. “Anyone, help me!”
He grabbed a towel that was set on the dresser top next to the pitcher. “The door and walls are too thick for anyone downstairs to hear, especially with that racket from the dancers. Still…”
He twisted the towel into a narrow length and shoved a portion into her mouth. Tying the ends of the improvised gag behind her head, he continued, “We won’t be sharing any more kisses – more’s the pity – but there’ll be an end to those annoying screams. Afterwards -- well, I’m going to do you so good that you’ll be showering me with kisses.”
He pushed her backwards, so that she fell onto the bed. He tried to rip open the corset, but the hooks held tight. With a curse, he began to open them one by one. She still tried to fight, but bound and gagged as she was, it didn’t do any good. He tugged at the open corset, pulled it from under her, and tossed it to the floor.
“Lovely, my dear,”he told her, “absolutely ravishing. A man could do absolutely anything to a body like yours and who could blame him?” He sat down on her legs, holding them in place. The bow at the neckline of her camisole was tied low, just above her breasts. With surprising care, he untied the bow. Once that was done, he tugged at the neckline, lowering it even more until her breasts were fully revealed.
Forry felt his heart beating in his chest. The night hadn't gone like he'd intended. ‘I didn’t plan to get so rough with this bitch,’ he told himself. ‘I didn’t think I’d need to, not with her kind.’ He looked down at the Irish beauty. ‘She looks mad as all hell, but…’
Bridget looked like she would kill him without a second thought, but, whether from fear or excitement, her nipples were erect, pointing straight up at him. ‘Just begging to be played with,’ Forry thought.
“That's more like it. You do like it rough,”he told her with a chuckle. “Well, I’m glad to oblige.” He leaned over and put his face into the space between her two breasts. “Boowaaah!”he mumbled, shaking his head back and forth, vibrating his lips against her tender flesh and inhaling her exquisite, female scent.
He thought that he could even smell a bit of the sweetness of feminine arousal. He moved his head towards her right breast, alternating between kisses and small nips, stopping at one point to suck, leaving a bright, purple love bite on her creamy white skin. At the same time, the fingers of his right hand were spider walking across her left breast, skimming on the surface, creating a maddening, tickling sensation. His lips reached her nipple, and he took it into his mouth, suckling like a hungry calf. Bridget gasped at what she was feeling; it was like a ghastly mockery of what she had enjoyed with Cap.
In spite of herself, she gave a small moan of pleasure, inhaling to fill her breathless lungs at the same time. She instinctively knew that she must act quickly if she had any chance of stopping him. She tugged as best as she could at the material binding her arms. At the same time, she rolled her head back and forth, trying to loosen the restraint in her mouth.
Nothing worked.
“This has been fun,”he said, sitting up, “but let’s get on to the main event. I've been waiting for this since 1861, and that's too long.” He stared at her intently. “How did you stay so young-looking? You must be thirty by now.” Shrugging, he began to roughly knead her left breast, his thumb playing with her nipple. At the same time, his other hand snaked down and grabbed onto the hem of her dress. He pulled it to where he was sitting, holding down her upper legs. Suddenly, he stood, just enough to slide it under him and up almost to her waist. He sat back on her legs before she could wriggle away.
Bridget’s green petticoat was now revealed. “Seems almost a shame, but time’s a-wasting.” He took his greasy steak knife from its place on the table and slashed at the flimsy garment, shredding the front of it. “Don’t move,”he warned her. “I’d hate to cut those pretty legs of yours.”
His prisoner froze in place. She looked into his gray eyes for any sigh of mercy, but found none. He looked as happy as a miner who’d been looking for color all his days… and had finally discovered it.
Forry still held the knife as he reached down with his other hand for the bow that held her drawers tight at her waist. He played with the ribbon for a moment before a quick yank undid the bow. “Raise that pretty ass of yours, Tess,”he mocked.
She stared at the blade still in his hand. She felt like she was standing at the edge of a cliff. Stafford was behind her, pushing her forward. She was afraid of the knife, and so raised herself a few inches off the bed.
The edge of that cliff loomed before her. He grabbed her drawers with his free hand and moved them down off her hips. She trembled as she felt his hand sliding the soft muslin down her legs. Then, with a “Ha!”of triumph, he had them off and waved them like a signal flag for one instant before tossing them away.
Forry dropped the knife and slipped his suspenders off his shoulders. He hurried with the buttons on his pants and left the trousers fall to the floor, stepping out of them and his shoes in one practiced motion. Bridget couldn’t help but stare at the bulge in the crotch of his gray union suit. He smiled when he saw her looking with eyes so wide. “So, you do want it after all,”he said with a laugh, “Eh, Miss High-and-Mighty. Looks like this Cap Lewis fellow isn’t the only one you like to have undressing you.”
‘Cap,’ she shuddered at his name. ‘Oh Lord, what was he going to do when he found out about this?' She felt herself leaping out from the cliff, but there was nothing on the other side, and she knew that her hopes for a future with him were as good as dead. No man could forgive a woman for something like this.
Stafford climbed up onto the bed and positioned himself between her legs. She was barely aroused, and it hurt when he entered her, and worse when he penetrated very deeply. He was like a famished man. He didn’t wait but began at once to thrust in and out.
She tried to bear his attack by pretending she was with Cap. It almost worked. Feminine passion from his lustful attack overcame her resistance. Tears rolled down her cheeks, as her arousal pushed her higher and higher. “Cap!”she cried, and she bucked her hips and moaned though the towel.
She felt – no, don’t! – felt him spurt into her, and it was the trigger for a rush of horrifying rapture. In her mind’s eye, she saw Cap’s face contorted in anger and disgust at what she was doing. Her eyes flooded with tears, even as her body convulsed in a carnal frenzy that she hadn't known was there and didn’t understand.
* * * * *
“Hey, Molly,”Fred Norman asked, “you got any ideas when Bridget’s gonna start her game?”
Molly shook her head. “She went out t’dinner with that Stafford fella that’s been coming in here t’ play cards the last few days.”
“Damn, she could be gone for hours yet.”
“I don’t think so, she --” Molly stopped at the sound of the batwing doors clacking into the wall as they flew open. Bridget had burst into the saloon. She stood panting, her eyes wide. Her dress was in disarray, the top hanging down from the back at her waist, and shreds of green cloth visible on the floor beneath her.
Her corset was gone, and… Molly gasped. “Oh, Sweet Lord, Bridget, yuir…” Her voice trailed off. Bridget’s camisole was pulled wide at the collar, so that one of her breasts was fully revealed.
Bridget looked down. With the weak scream of a badly injured beast, her hands flew to cover herself. Without another word, she bolted for the stairs, running up them two at a time.
Molly hurried after her. By the time she reached the second floor, Bridget was in her room and the door was locked. “Bridget,”Molly yelled through the door, “what happened?”
“G-go away!”
“I’ll not be going. Lemme in… please.”
“No, I-I don’t want to talk, not to you, n-not to anybody.”
“Maybe ye don’t want t’be talking, but ye need to, I’m thinking.”
“I don't…want you to ….see me, M-Molly.” Bridget’s voice broke. “G-go duh… downstairs. Let me die if I want to.” Her voice broke completely, and Molly only heard loud sobbing.
Molly tried coaxing, tried knocking. All that happened was that the sobbing grew louder. “All right, then, Bridget. Ye get some rest, and maybe we can be talking in the morning.” She turned and started for the stairs, her own eyes filled with tears. “Lord, let it not be what I think it is,”she whispered to herself.
* * * * *
Saturday, April 20, 1872
Bridget’s hands trembled as she tried to shuffle the cards. There were only a few men in the saloon, drinking and waiting for Maggie and Jane to bring out the Free Lunch. “Get ahold of yourself, girl,”she hissed in a sharp whisper. “You can’t play poker if you can’t even handle the damned cards.” No one seemed interested in playing cards with her at the moment – which was just as well.
“Want some coffee?”Jessie asked, sitting down across from her. “You look like you could use something t’steady your nerves.” The singer was burning with questions, but the strange look in her friend’s eyes told her that Bridget might fly off the handle if she asked the wrong one.
Bridget shook her head. “It’ll take something a lot stronger than coffee.” She chuckled, and it was the most disturbing chuckle that Jessie had ever heard. “Except I never could handle the stuff strong enough for what I need.”
“Maybe I’d better get you some of that stronger stuff, anyways,”Jessie said, pointing behind Bridget and towards the swinging doors of the saloon.
Bridget turned to see Forry Stafford walking towards her. He had a package wrapped in white paper under his arm. Bridget felt her heart rising in her chest. Why did she want to sink under the table and hide? Had that man turned her into a coward? ‘Calm,’ she told herself, ‘keep calm. You can find the right chance to kill him in just a little while.’
“Good morning, ladies,”he greeted the saloon girls in a chipper voice.
Bridget scowled up at him. “What brings you over here, Mr. Stafford?” She was holding her clenched fists under the table; they were shaking so hard. She fought to keep her teeth from chattering.
“I came over to make amends for last night.” He set his package down on the table.
“What’s in the package?”the lady gambler asked, her jaw clenched.
He pulled out a knife and opened the blade. Bridget flinched, remembering his threat with the knife the night before. In one quick movement, he cut the string around the package and opened it. “Your corset and your… drawers, of course.” He held the garments up one at a time. Bridget could hear murmurs from the men in the room, as he set them down. They’d seen what he had held.
“You left them in my room last night,”he said in a confident voice, one that she was sure everyone in the room could hear. “I thought to return them, as well as to pay for the mending of the other garments that we, ah… damaged in our exertions.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Will five dollars be enough?”
Jessie glared at the man. “You devil! We know what you did. You ain’t got enough money t’pay for --”
“Let be, Jessie,”Bridget said with a sigh, her anger giving way to humiliation. “Yes, five will do; just go away.”
“Glad to oblige a lady.” Forry tossed a coin onto the table.
Bridget looked at the ten dollar gold eagle. “I thought you said five dollars.”
“I did,”he said loudly. “Five dollars for the repairs and another five as payment for your… time.” He chuckled, tipped his hat, and walked away before either woman could react.
Jessie growled. “If I ever wanted my six-guns, I want them now.”
Bridget just sat there, sobbing too hard to even watch her destroyer leave.
* * * * *
Hedley Spaulding opened the back door just as Arnie knocked. “I thought I heard someone on the porch,”he said by way of explanation. “Good morning, Annie.”
“Don’t you believe it, Annie,”Clara called from her place at the table. “He’s been glancing out the window every five minutes, watching for you.”
“I have not,”he said indignantly. “Well, maybe I was, but only because I’m anxious to… to start our Spanish lessons.”
Mrs. Spaulding came in from the other room. “Whatever the reason, those lessons can wait until after I deal with the laundry and we all have some lunch.” She looked critically at Arnie. “You did remember that we planned on starting those lessons, didn’t you, Annie?”
“Si… yes, I did. Why do you ask?”
The woman frowned. “Your clothes. I’m sure that they are all well and good for delivering laundry, but I, for one, believe that a teacher should be dressed like a teacher… in a dress if she is a woman.”
“Oh, Mama,”Clara replied, “if it bothers you that much, she can borrow one of mine for our lesson.” She turned her chair so that she was looking straight at her friend. “You don’t mind, do you, Annie?”
Did she have to? Yes, she supposed that she did. “No, your dress will be fine.”
“Why don’t you change as soon as soon as you and Mother settle up for the laundry?”Hedley suggested. “That would make our lunch much more festive.”
* * * * *
Dell Cooper was sitting on a bench on the boardwalk in front of the Lone Star when Carl Osbourne rode by. Carl saw him and eased his horse over. “I talked to my sister. She said you’ve been behaving yourself like I told you to.”
“Nobody tells me what t’do,”Dell spat the words. “Least of all you, cowboy.”
“You can do whatever you want, Cooper, so long as you don’t want to give my sister any sort of trouble.” Carl glared at the other man. “You do, and you’ll answer to me for it. Understand?”
The Texan frowned. His hand started down for his pistol, until he remembered that, as per Mr. Stafford’s orders, it was stored upstairs in the room he shared with Leland Saunders. “I understand,”he said with disgust.
“Good, see that you do.” He turned his horse and headed down the street. He didn’t see Cooper hawk a wad of chewing tobacco onto the street before he ran inside for his weapon.
Ten minutes later, Dell was standing in the shadows, when he saw Carl come out of the bank, a well-packed saddlebag slung over his shoulder. He saw Carl attach the bag to his saddle, mount up, and head out of town on the road that, Cooper knew, led to the Slocum ranch.
“This just got a whole lot more interesting,”he said with a nasty chuckle, as he headed for Ritter’s Livery.
* * * * *
Wilma stood just inside the doors of the saloon and looked around. “Now where the – oh, there she is.” She started towards a table near the Free Lunch where Bridget was sitting with Molly and Jessie.
Jessie stood up and hurried over to her sister’s side. “Don’t go over there.”
“Why? What’s the matter? I been waiting all morning for Bridget t'come by the house and tell me how things went last night.”
“Bridget’s too upset to talk to you right now.”
“What’s she got to be upset about?” She thought for a moment. “Did something happen last night, when she --”
“He raped her, Wilma. That son of a bitch raped her.” She took a breath. “Then, just to make things worse, he came over here this morning.”
Wilma’s hands balled into fists. “He’d better have apologized for what he done.”
“Apologize?” Jessie gave a harsh laugh. “This is Forry Stafford we’re talking about. He brought back the clothes she left when she ran outta his room – showed them t’everybody like they was some kinda trophy. “
“So the whole town knows he raped her. Good! When’s the trial, or….” She grinned, showing her teeth. “…are they just gonna lynch the SOB?”
“They ain’t gonna do neither. Bridget hasn't said anything to anybody. We all know what must have happened, but she won't admit it.”
“Why the hell won't she file charges?”
“When Stafford finally gave her back her clothes, he paid her for what he done – and said he was paying, in a loud voice so everyone could hear him.”
“So what? Folks around here know Bridget. They know she ain’t a whore.”
“Some of ‘em believe it; some of ‘em don’t. The problem is, she probably half-believes it herself. She won’t talk t’nobody about it, including Paul or the sheriff.”
Wilma clenched her small fists again. “I’ll… I’ll kill that bastard myself.” Her face was wild with fury. “I’ll cut off his slimy prick and shove it down his throat till he chokes on it.”
Bridget looked up at her friends. “That’s the fuh-first time I ever heard you say s-something nasty about a man’s… private parts, Wilma.” Her voice sounded strained. “But don't… drag this out into the l-light. Let people for-forget about it.” She began to sob. Molly leaned over and put an arm around her.
“The hell I will.” Wilma pulled a chair over next to Bridget and sat down. “Jess, can you send word over to the Lady that I ain’t gonna be back for a while?” She took her best friend’s hand in her own. “I got me something important t’take care of.”
* * * * *
Arnie glanced at the opened book. “You never told me how far you all had gotten in your lessons before… before they stopped. Clara seems to know a lot of Spanish already.”
“My sister is one of those people who reads a textbook from cover to cover before the class even starts,”Hedley told her with a grin. “I, on the other hand, barely crack the book after class starts. This time, however, I plan to give the class -- and our lovely teacher – my undivided attention.” He smiled again and gave her a wink.
Arnie felt a warmth run across her face. She looked away, not quite able to meet his eyes. Only, this time it wasn’t the embarrassment of being seen dressed like a girl. It was the odd fact that, somehow, she liked that he wanted to look at her.
What was the matter with her? She was Arnoldo Diaz, a boy. She didn't want to start liking things like that.
* * * * *
Carl’s horse came around the turn in the road. The trees were getting sparse. ‘Bout fifteen minutes to the ranch,’ he thought.
A sudden pressure hit him in the chest, pushing him back, off his mount. He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him.
“That old rope trick still works,”a gruff voice said behind him. “Just like in the War.” Carl, lying there on his face, heard the click of a pistol’s hammer being pulled back. “Roll over onto your belly.”
Carl braced for the bullet. “Why, so you shoot me in the back?”
“Nope.” Whoever it was, he was right behind Carl. “What I got planned f’you’s gonna be more fun than just plugging you.”
Carl rolled over and started to stand up, A moment later, he felt a sharp blow to the back of the head. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
* * * * *
Jubal Cates stood in the middle of a clearing, carefully holding a long, marked pole in an upright position. He glanced up at the sun before he looked at his pocket watch. “It’s almost 5 PM, Emma. Do you have the reading?”
“Yes, sir.” Emma had been looking at the pole through a sort of telescope set on a tripod.
“Then write it down, and we’ll pack up. I promised your mother that I’d have you home in time for supper.” He chuckled. “I promised my Naomi that I’d be home in time for supper, too.”
Emma wrote the numbers from the theodolite, the device she’d been using, in a small notebook that was attached to the theodolite by a short chain. “How’d I do today?”
“Very well, so don’t worry. You can tell your parents that you have the job.”
She broke into an ecstatic smile. “Oh, thank you, sir.” She ran over and hugged him in gratitude.
“That’ll be enough of that, young lady. From the hug you just gave me, I think you’re strong enough that you can carry the gear over to where we parked the wagon.”
* * * * *
Carl felt the splash of water on his face. “You all right?”a deep voice asked. “We got worried and come looking for you.”
“I’m glad you did,”Carl groaned, slowly opening his eyes. He stared up at the dark face of Luke Freeman, his foreman. “Somebody hit – the payroll, is it safe?” He turned his head to look for his horse, groaning at the sharp pain he felt.
Red Tully was standing next to Carl’s mount. The saddlebag was still there. Red opened it and looked in. “It may be safe,”he announced, “but it ain’t in here.” He reached in and searched with his hand. “Wait a minute. There is something.”
“What is it?”Abner Slocum asked, looking down from his own horse.
Red pulled out a small stack of bills. “Some money and… a note.” He took a folded sheet of paper out from the band around the cash and read. “Carl, sorry I had to put that big bump on your head. Meet me in town tonight to get your full split.”
“That’s a damned lie, Mr. Slocum.” Carl jumped to his feet. “I swear it is.” He reeled, his hand clutching the welt where he had been struck. Luke grabbed him, to keep him from falling.
Slocum nodded. “I’m inclined to agree, Carl. You’re a good man, but, I must warn you, I’ll have to show this note to the sheriff when I talk to him.” He took a breath. “After we have the Doc take a look at that goose egg on your head.”
* * * * *
Molly looked up at the clock. “‘Tis, 8 o’clock, Love. Ye’d best be starting the dance.”
“I know,”Shamus said with a tinge of sadness in his voice. “I was just hoping thuir’d be a few more people here.”
She looked around the room. “Aye, thuir’s maybe half as many as we usually get, but we can’t be keeping them waiting, them that did show up. Besides…”Molly glanced over to the chairs where the ladies were sitting, waiting to be asked. “…Bridget looks ready t’bolt, and the longer she sits thuir, the more likely she’ll be running for the stairs.”
He shook his head. “Maybe ye should have let her stay in her room. It ain’t like we got us a mob waiting t’be dancing with her tonight.” He sighed. “Maybe, for this size crowd, we don’t need as many women for them t’be dancing with.”
“Maybe, but if I was t’pick one t’be sending home, it’d be Laura. Poor Bridget was talking like she wasn’t worth spit ‘cause of what happened to her. Small as the crowd is tonight, thuir’ll still be men lining up that want t’dance with her, and that should help her feel better.”
* * * * *
Carl lay down on the cot in his cell. He flinched as the back of his head touched the pillow. Even with the bandaging Doc Upshaw had put on it, the lump was still tender.
“Might as well get up, Carl,”Sheriff Talbot said, walking over to the cell.
The prisoner sat up. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Abner Slocum walked into view. “He’s letting you out.”
Carl started. “Mr. Slocum, what’s going on?”
“I’m not about to leave you in there, Carl. I know you didn’t do it, and I told Judge Humphreys that I wasn’t pressing charges. He said that there still had to be a trial because so much money was taken – Dwight Albertson insisted, but, even so, the Judge didn’t see why you had to be in jail till then.”
Luke Freeman joined the others. “Mr. Slocum, he done paid your bail.”
“Thanks, Mr. Slocum. I’ll pay back every penny, I swear it.” Carl watched the sheriff unlock the cell door. Once it was open, he walked out as quickly as he could. Damn! What a headache.
“You just be here for that trial, son. You do that, and I get my money back.”
The black foreman chuckled. “If’n you don’t, we’ll hunt you down like a dog ‘n’ take it outta your hide, you just see if we don’t.”
* * * * *
“I believe this dance is mine.”
Bridget trembled at the voice. She looked up from staring at her shoes and saw…”Stafford?”
“Indeed,”he answered glibly. “Once again I get to pay for the use of your body, even if it is a more public use.” He reached out and touched her forehead with a finger. “Perhaps…” He slid the finger down her face. “…we can negotiate terms for a more private use while we’re on the dance floor. I'm surprised you haven't suggested that yourself already.”
Bridget bolted to her feet. “Never!” Her eyes filled with tears as she ran for the stairs.
“You!” R.J. jumped over the bar and made for Stafford. He was carrying the knife that he sometimes used to slice fruit for fancy drinks.
Shamus leaped in front of him, grabbing the arm with the blade. “Ye’d best be leaving me saloon, mister. I don’t know how long I can be holding R.J. back. For that matter, I don’t know how long I want t’be holding him back.”
“I’ll go,”Stafford sneered. “You people are no better than she is, you know. After all, no decent people would care what happened to a whore like her.”
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 4 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, April 21, 1872
“Arnoldo,” Teresa hissed, “you are walking too fast.”
Her mother was holding onto her right arm, as they walked. “I am sorry, Mama.” She slowed her pace. “Is this better?”
“Si, fine.” The woman smiled. “I suppose that I should be happy that you are in such a hurry to get to church.”
“I’m just happy that I don’t have to push you in that wheelchair anymore.”
“Why, was I so heavy?”
“Of course not; I am glad because you do not need the chair anymore.”
“So am I. It is good to get around on my own two feet again.” She chuckled. “I will even be happy to pull that heavy laundry wagon around again.”
“And I will be happy to see you pulling it.”
“What will you do then, when I am back at work?”
Arnie shrugged. “I don’t know, give the Spauldings their Spanish lessons, I suppose.”
“That is only a few hours a week. You cannot just sit around the rest of the time. As your papa used to say, ‘The lazy man is brother to the beggar.’ I do not want that for you.”
“We can talk about such things later. We are almost at the church.” The young woman looked around nervously.
“What is the matter, Dulcita? Who are you looking for?”
“Pablo and his friends, I do not need to be teased for wearing this pretty dress.”
Teresa glanced at the churchyard. “I don’t see them, but I do see Father de Castro. You can relax. They won’t try anything with him watching.” She pointedly ignored the way Arnie had just described her dress, as the priest walked over to greet them.
* * * * *
“What’re you grinning about, Dell?” Forry Stafford asked his hireling. They were standing in the hall outside their rooms on the second floor of the Lone Star, ready to go down for breakfast.
Dell Cooper wouldn’t meet his boss’s eyes. “Nothing, Mr. Stafford, sir.”
“Bullshit,” Stafford spat. “What is it? Tell me, right now.”
Dell sighed. “I got that man I told you about, got him good.”
“What did you do, and who did you do it to? I don’t need people asking questions.”
“That cowhand you saw the other day, the one that all but called me out just ‘cause I been paying attention to his sister, the schoolmarm.”
Leland Saunders gave a quick laugh. “Trying t’get into her drawers, you mean. You have any luck?”
“Not yet,” Dell said with a nasty smirk, “but I expect to, now that her brother’s in jail.”
Forry sighed. Cooper was up to something. “And just why would he be in jail?”
“‘Cause he stole the money he was supposed t’be taking out to that Mr. Slocum’s ranch – or, at least, they think he did. I used that trick with the rope, the one we used against blue belly riders back in the War, t’knock him off his horse. Then I snuck up behind him and knocked him out. He musta had close to $400 in his saddlebag.”
Leland whistled in admiration. Stafford just glared at the other man. “Where is it now?” Forry asked.
“Most of it’s in the bottom of my valise. I left some in his saddlebag with a note t’make it look like he was in on the job.”
Forry glowered at his employee. “You stupid son of a bitch. If you’ve screwed things up for me in any way, getting turned over to the sheriff for trial will be the least of your worries.” His hand shot up and around Dell’s neck, forcing him back against the wall. “Understand?”
“Y-yes, sir, Mr…. Mr. Stafford, sir. Anyway, I -- I was always intending to divvy it up.”
Forry let him go. “Fine, bring me the money, so I can find a proper hiding place for it. The last thing we need is for that barman’s daughter to turn it up it when she cleans.”
“Yes, sir.” Dell hurried into the room he shared with Saunders, returning less than a minute later with a cloth satchel holding the cash.
His employer took the bag. “You two go down to get breakfast. I’ll be along momentarily.” He stood for a moment and watched them head for the stairs before he went into his own room. “Not a bad profit,” he whispered, hefting the Gladstone. “I may even give that idiot, Cooper, some of it back when we’re done here.”
* * * * *
“This Wednesday night,” Reverend Yingling began, “I shall be appearing before the town council, requesting that they vest control of Shamus O’Toole’s transformative potion in more responsible – more moral hands. In this effort, I am most pleased to say, I have the support of our church board and, more importantly, of this congregation. Like Gideon’s band, we are small in number, but we are rich in the spirit of our Lord.”
“Many of you have shown your support for my efforts by signing the petition that Horace Styron prepared.” He paused. “Horace if you would please.”
Styron stood up. “It was my honor to help, Reverend.” He waved and sat down.
“At this time, I must also thank Mrs. Cecilia Ritter, who worked so hard to ensure that as many people as possible were able to sign.”
Cecelia got to her feet. “I’m always ready to help in a noble cause.”
“Ah, yes, and that help is appreciated, Cecelia,” Yingling said, motioning for her to sit. “But we are not done yet. I know how busy you all are, but I would ask that those of you who can be there at the council meeting join with me. Let the men of the town council that you are serious in this matter.”
Mrs. Ritter hadn’t sat down. “We’re with you, Reverend Yingling,” she shouted. “Anyone who isn’t there has no right to call themselves a member of this congregation.” She suddenly burst into song. “Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus going on before.”
“Christ, the royal Master, leads against the foe;” Lavinia Mackechnie and Zenobia Carson rose to join Cecelia. Before Yingling or anyone else could stop them, much of the congregation was singing along. The reverend watched for a moment, looking surprised, before he smiled broadly and added his own deep, basso voice to the impromptu chorus.
* * * * *
“Good evening, Mr. O’Toole,” Ethan said in a cheery voice.
Shamus nodded at the man. “And the same t’ye, Mr. Thomas. What ye be having t’night?”
“Supper, first, I think. Then, I shall be wrapping ‘The Three Fates’ for shipping. I was wondering, though, if I might keep the painting here until morning. I find that the freight office is closed, alas, and your establishment is much closer than my studio.”
“O’course, ye can. The ladies are welcome t’be spending the night in me office.”
Before Ethan could answer, Jane hurried over from the kitchen. “You won’t have t’pack ‘em up, Ethan. I decided t’buy that painting m’self. We can go over to the bank tomorrow t’get the money, and you can move it up t’my room.”
“I’m sorry, Jane, but it’s not for sale.”
She pouted prettily. “But I got the money. I got lotsa money, just ask Shamus.”
“She does,” Shamus answered, scowling at the woman. “And she shouldn’t be wasting it on buying paintings and such.” He turned to look at Ethan. “I’d be saying that about any painting she wanted t’be buying, Ethan. I don’t mean nothing against yuir three ladies.”
Ethan looked gravely at Shamus. “I understand, Mr. O’Toole, and no offense is taken. Your generous payment for my portraits of Jessie and your wife, Molly, is obvious proof of your appreciation for my talents.”
“You are a lovely woman, Jane,” Ethan continued, “and it was a pleasure to have you as a model, but, as I said, ‘The Three Fates’ is not for sale at this time.”
Jane looked as if he had suddenly stuck her. “Why not; when I talked to you about buying it before, you never said nothing like you wouldn’t let me buy it.”
“If I did anything to lead you to think that it was available, I must apologize, but I must also repeat that it is most emphatically not for sale.”
“But --”
Shamus gently put his hand on her arm. “I don’t think it’s worth ye wasting yuir breath, Jane. The man ain’t budging. Besides, thuir’s three tables o’people over there…” He pointed to the tables of Maggie’s restaurant. “…waiting for thuir supper. Should n’t ye be in the kitchen helping Maggie t’be cooking it?”
She looked nonplussed. “Y-yes, but…” Her voice trailed off.
“Please go and cook, Jane,” the artist told her. “I’ve no wish to argue this matter any further, and I do look forward to once again sampling your excellent cuisine.”
She sighed. “Well, thanks for that, at least.” Without another word, she turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen.
* * * * *
Molly knocked on the door to Bridget’s room. “Who’s there?” came a voice from inside.
“‘Tis me, Molly. Can I be coming in?”
“Go… go away.”
“Please.”
Molly heard a sigh – or was it a sob – “Oh, all right, come in.”
“What… what do you want, Molly?” Bridget asked. She was sitting on the edge of her bed. Her dark blue dress was unbuttoned almost down to her waist.
“Thuir’s men downstairs waiting t’be playing poker with ye. I come t’see why ye’re still up here.”
“I-I spilled some of Maggie’s stew on my dress. I came up to change.”
“Aye, ye did, but ye’ve been up here the better part of an hour, and ye’re still wearing the dress ye came up here t’be changing.”
Bridget sighed heavily and stared down at her feet. “Why change? Nobody cares about me or how I look.”
“Now why are ye saying something like that? Of course, people care.”
“Why should they? I know how people think about women like me.” She sniffed, trying to hold back the tears she felt swelling in her eyes. “To them I’m just a… a wo-worthless... whore!” She gave a great sigh, buried her face in her hands, and wept loudly, her body shaking with grief. “Ask anybody.”
Molly hurried over. She sat down next to the crying woman and hugged her fiercely. “That ain’t true, and ye know it. Ye’ve lotsa friends hereabouts, and Cap, he loves --”
“Don’t say it. Please. How can he love me after what I’ve done?”
“What that spauleen, Stafford, did to ye, don’t ye mean?”
“No… I… he – oh, Lord, Molly, Cap’ll hate me.”
“That ain’t true, neither. Ye just wait till he gets back from Prescott.”
“I hope he never gets back, and… and if he does, I’ll just stay up here, so I can’t see his face when he finds out, so I won’t see the disgust in his eyes.”
“There won’t be none of that in his eyes – not for ye, at least, though I wouldn’t want t’be Stafford when Cap finds out. He loves ye, ye’ll see.”
“No, no I won’t. I won’t see him. I don’t want to see him – I don’t want to see anybody.”
“Ye ain’t serious about that. How could ye be playing poker if ye feel that way?”
“Maybe I don’t want to play poker. Maybe I just want to stay up here.” She took a breath. “Forever.”
Molly shook her head. “Not forever, surely, but I’m thinking that ye won’t be playing poker with them men downstairs tonight. Do ye want me t’be staying here with ye, or can I go tell ‘em?”
“Go ahead. I guess I owe them that much.”
“Spoken like the lady ye truly are. I’ll tell ‘em, and then I’ll be back. I’ll bring some nice tea, and we can sit and talk for as long as ye want.”
Molly stood up, but before she left, she gently kissed Bridget on the forehead, as she might her own daughter.
* * * * *
Jane was sitting at the bar, waiting to see if anyone wanted a drink. “Hey, there, Milt,” she greeted the man when he came close. “What brings you in tonight?”
“I realized how long it had been since I saw you last,” he answered, grinning at her, “and I decided that it was too long.”
Jane chuckled. “It’s no wonder you win all your cases, when you can say things like that.” She kissed his cheek. “And thanks for coming, I needed something t’smile about tonight.”
“Really, is something the matter?”
“Yeah, that painter, Ethan Thomas, came over t’pack up that painting he done of me and Laura. He’s shipping it off on the morning stage.” She frowned. “I told him I wanted to buy it, and he wouldn’t sell it to me.”
“He… he wouldn’t? What exactly did he say when you asked him?”
“Nothing much, just that it wasn’t for sale. I don’t understand. Ain’t he shipping it back east t’sell? Why waste all that money, when I can buy it?”
Milt tugged at his collar. “Perhaps he thinks he can get more for it in New York than he could ask you to pay.”
“New York?” She shook her head. “He told me he was from Philadelphia.”
“Really? I-I must have misunderstood.”
She suddenly brightened. “Hey, I got a idea. Milt, you’re so good with words. How ‘bout you try t’get him t’sell me his painting?”
“I-I don’t… I don’t know if I c-could. He sounds like his m-mind’s set on… shipping it out.”
“Will you, at least, try?” She gave him her best pout. “Please… for me.”
He sighed. “Very well.” Milt looked around. “Is Ethan still here?”
“No, he left ‘bout a half hour ago.”
“Good – I mean, okay. I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning before the stage leaves.” He smiled. “But, as a lawyer, I’m going to have to charge you for doing so.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You lawyers charge for everything. How much is this gonna cost me?”
“Something very dear, I think, a kiss, and not on the cheek.”
“Well… if I have to.” She leaned in close, and their lips met. Milt enjoyed the kiss so much, he almost didn’t feel guilty.
* * * * *
Monday, April 22, 1872
Jane hurried down the street towards the depot. The Monday stage sat next to the platform. From the distance, she could see a few people milling about. ‘Don’t you leave yet,’ she mentally ordered the driver, or whomever that was climbing up onto the seat.
People were still standing and talking as she came closer. She recognized Ethan… and Milt. ‘They’s shaking hand,’ she thought excitedly.
“You done it, Milt,” she called out as she reached the crowd. “You got me my painting.”
Both men turned to face her. “I-I’m afraid not,” the lawyer told her.
“But I saw you ‘n’ him shaking hands, like you just made a deal about something.” She asked, uncertain of what was going on.
“We… uh, we did talk, but he-he wouldn’t sell.” Milt replied. “Yes, that’s it, and I-I shook hands with him to show that… that there were no hard feelings.” He sounded relieved, as he finished.
Ethan stepped forward. “I am sorry, Jane, but I feel that it would be more… profitable to ship the painting back east for display and sale there, more profitable in a number of ways.”
“But I got the cash t’pay you right now,” she protested. “And I’m in the painting. Don’t all that count for nothing?”
The painter shook his head. “Not in this case, I fear.” He looked at a watch connected by a fob to his jacket pocket. “And now, I must bid you adieu. Mr. Lyman will be arriving at my studio shortly, so that I may work on the portrait he has commissioned for his place of business.”
“See you later, then, Ethan,” Milt said. “And thanks… for, uh, listening to my-my offer, anyway.”
Ethan bowed slightly. “The pleasure, I assure you, was entirely mine.” He nodded to Jane. “A very good day to you both.”
* * * * *
As Arnie stepped up onto the back porch, she could see Mrs. Spaulding watching her through the kitchen window. The older woman was frowning.
“Good afternoon, Annie,” Mrs. Spaulding said, opening the door before Arnie could knock.
Arnie tried to smile. “And a good afternoon to you, too, Señora Spaulding.” When the woman didn’t respond, Arnie added, “Is anything wrong?”
“I had hoped that you would take our discussion of appropriate clothing to heart, Annie. The sort of outfit you’re wearing might be the right thing for a laundress, but it is most certainly not the proper attire for an instructor – instructress – of Spanish.”
“May I put these bundles down before I answer?” Arnie hefted the four packages she was carrying. When Mrs. Spaulding nodded, Arnie carefully set them down on the kitchen table. “Most of today, I was a laundress,” Arnie continued.
As she spoke, the young woman separated one package, a bright green “X” on the top, from the others. “And I am a laundress right now, bringing you your clean clothes. She pushed the three packages towards her customer. And that will be $4.44, by the way.”
“I have a dress and petticoat in here.” She lifted the remaining package for a moment. “And when we are finished with this business, I’ll change into them.”
* * * * *
“Enjoying your lunch?” Nancy looked up from her sandwich. That rude man – Dell… Something -- she remembered him now from Ortega’s Grocery, was standing a few feet away from her desk, watching her.
She glanced around quickly. Her students were all outside eating their own meals. “What are you doing here?” She asked him angrily. “I made it clear that I wasn’t interested in you – or your threats. My brother --”
“Your brother told me not t’bother you. I ain’t here t’bother you. I come here t’help you – t’help him, matter of fact – if you’re interested.”
“To help him, what do you mean?”
“I heard ‘bout what happened t’him th’other day.” The man walked around her desk, stopping no more than two or three feet away from her. “Shame on him letting somebody steal all that money.” He gave a nasty chuckle. “‘Course now, some folks are saying that he wasn’t robbed at all. They’re saying that he was in cahoots with whoever got that money now.”
She jumped to her feet, the better to look this scoundrel in the face. “That’s a lie!”
“Maybe it is,” he grinned, “and just maybe it ain’t. They’re gonna have t’find somebody to blame for stealing all that cash, and he’s the one most likely t’get picked.”
Her heart sank. Could this slimy little man be right? Was Carl really in danger of going to prison? “But he didn’t do it. He couldn’t.”
“So you say. Too bad there ain’t nobody around t’back him up.” He gave her a moment to think. “But there could be.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean that I could say that I saw what happened – at a distance, o’course, so I couldn’t do nothing t’stop them men. Yeah, I saw some men stop him, and knock him out, and ride off. I could say that at the – at his trial. And I would, for the right price.”
“But I… Carl and I, we don’t have money, not really.”
“It ain’t your money I want. You come have supper with me t’night over at that rest’rant – what’s it called – oh, yeah, ‘Maggie’s Place.’ You do that t’night, have dinner with me, and act like you like being with me, and t’morrow I’ll go and tell the sheriff, tell the judge, too, if you want, what I said about seeing what happened.”
“H-How do I know I can trust you? It’s against the law to lie under oath.”
“Who says I’ll be lying? You gonna shoot holes in the story that’ll save your brother’s neck? Besides, what’s a man get for lying, a few months, at most? Your brother’s facing five, maybe ten years in prison.”
Nancy closed her eyes. The man was pressing her, not giving her time to think. ‘Carl, why did you have to go back to the ranch, so I can’t ask you what I should do?’ She pictured him smiling, calling her “Nanny Goat,” in that silly, teasing voice of his. Then she pictured him being led away in chains.
“All right,” the words leapt out of her. “I-I’ll do it.” She gave a sad sigh. “I’ll… I’ll have dinner with you.”
He ran a finger down her cheek. “Say it again, Nancy. Say, ‘Why I’ll be very happy to have dinner with you tonight, Dell.’ And smile when you say it.”
Her smile was more of a grimace. “Why, I-I’ll be… happy to have dinner with you tonight… Dell.”
“See how easy that was. I’ll pick you up here at four. That way, we can talk some first, get t’know each other a little bit.”
“F-five would be… better.” A later start meant that she’d have to spend less time with him. “I have papers that I need to correct for tomorrow’s class.”
The man shrugged. “Okay, five.” He gave her a sly smile. “See you then, Nancy… honey.” He kissed a fingertip and touched it to her nose, ignoring her shudder from contact with him. He chuckled and headed for the door.
“‘Scuse me, little gals,” he said, as he walked outside. The “little gals”, Hermione and Lallie had been standing at the door, listening as best they could to what had gone on inside.
They waited until he had rode off before they began to talk. “Who do you think he is?” Lallie asked.
“I don’t know,” Hermione replied. “I never saw him before.” She giggled. “But Miss Osbourne must know him if she’s gonna have supper with him. Wait till I tell my Ma.”
* * * * *
“Annie.” Hedley knocked on Clara’s bedroom door. “Lunch is ready.”
Annie opened the door. “And so am I.” She stepped out wearing the dark green dress she had worn to church the day before. It was still pinned to fit her and displayed her slender, blossoming feminine figure. Without quite knowing why, she’d pack one of her sister Ysabel’s green hair ribbons, and her hair was now tied in a ponytail that draped down onto her left shoulder.
“And well worth any wait.” Hedley gave her his best smile. “May I escort you to the table?” He offered her his arm.
Arnie took it and let his lead her to where his sister and mother were waiting. She couldn’t help from smiling as a pleasant tingle ran through her body. She glanced downward as she took her seat, so they wouldn’t notice the blush she could feel warming her face, especially Hedley – and Clara, of course. She was still smiling after he pushed her in to the table and sat in the chair directly opposite her.
* * * * *
“Mama, Mama,” Hermione yelled, rushing into her mother’s kitchen.
Cecelia Ritter turned away from the stove to face her. “Hermione, where the devil have you been? It’s well after 5 o’clock. You should have been home over an hour ago.”
“I-I’m sorry, but it was important.”
“Really, and what was so important that you couldn’t come home to help me with dinner?” She turned back to the stove just long enough to move the sauce she’d been stirring to a back burner. Away from the direct heat, the sauce would simmer, but it wouldn’t scorch.
“Miss Osbourne… she --”
“What did she do? You weren’t kept after school for misbehaving, were you? I will not be disgraced by you, not when I am doing such important work.”
“I didn’t do noth – didn’t do anything, Mama. Miss Osbourne did.”
That caught Mrs. Ritter’s attention. “Miss Osbourne, now whatever could she have done to make you come home so late?”
“I… Lallie and I, we stayed around the school to see if she was gonna go off with that man.”
“Man, what man are you talking about?” Cecelia Ritter was only too aware of the “good morals” clause in the schoolteacher’s contract.
“I don’t know who he is. But he’s been at the school a couple of times talking to her. He came by today at lunchtime and went straight in to see her -- Miss Osbourne usually eats lunch inside. Lallie and me got curious, so we snuck – we walked up to the door and listened.” The girl studied her mother’s expression. “Was it wrong that we did that?”
“Heavens no; what did they say to each other?”
“We couldn’t hear a lot; they didn’t talk too long, but it sounded like she said she’d love to have dinner with him, and… and that he should come for her at the school at 5. That’s why we stayed around there so long. We wanted to see if he was gonna show up, and if she was gonna go with him.”
“And did he come by for her?”
“He was there, Mama, big as life. He was grinning when he went in – we were in the woods, so they wouldn’t see us. When they came out, it looked like she was smiling, too. She was holding his arm, like you do with Papa when we walk to church.”
Cecelia dropped the spoon she was still holding. “Why that brazen hussy. It’s bad enough that is acting like a… a common who – a common woman, but to flaunt such vulgar behavior in front of two innocent young girls, such as you and Eulalie --”
“Flaunt, Mama? She didn’t even knew we were there.”
“She knew. She just didn’t care. Women like her never do.” The woman stared at her daughter for a moment. “They – she – has no concern for the example she’s setting. I wonder if we should allow such a woman to continue as the teacher of Eerie’s children.” She smiled maliciously. “Yes, perhaps, we should bring our concerns about the lascivious Miss Osbourne to the attention of the town council at tomorrow’s meeting.”
* * * * *
Molly brought an empty pitcher back to the bar. “Ain’t much of a crowd here t’night,” she said to Shamus, as she set it down for him to refill. “Thank heaven them that are here’re a thirsty crew.”
“No, not many at all,” he answered, a bit of sadness creeping into his voice. “And there ain’t likely t’be, not for a while, anyways.”
Molly shook her head. “True enough; thuir’s barely enough audience for Jessie t’be doing her show. And Bridget… I don’t think she’ll be running her game again for a while.” She shook her head, unhappy at the thought of what the lady gambler was going through.
“Not after what that…” He muttered something in Cheyenne. “…Stafford done t’her.”
Molly glanced over to the restaurant tables that Jane and Dolores were clearing. “At least the supper crowd ain’t dropped off.”
“It ain’t another restaurant Sam Duggan’s thrown against me, ‘tis them girls o’his.” He sighed. “And what man ever gets tired of looking at a beautiful woman?” He gently took her hand in his own. “I know that I never do.”
She raised her hand – and his – to her cheek. “Thank ye, Love. ‘Tis a shame he had t’be raising the ante on ye like he done.”
“What d’ye mean, Molly?”
“Ye was the one who was the first t’be filling his saloon with pretty gals. Ye done it when ye agreed t’be watching Wilma and them others after they drank yuir potion. He one-upped ye when he got them dancers in, but…” She paused for effect. “…thuir’s no reason ye can’t be one-upping him.”
He chuckled. “Bring in me own dancing girls, ye mean?” He leaned across the bar and kissed her. “That’s as fine an idea as ye’ve ever had, Molly, me love. I ain’t sure that I’ll do it, but ‘tis surely something worth thinking about.”
* * * * *
‘Finally,’ Nancy Osbourne thought as she walked up the steps to the Carson’s front porch. ‘Any inquisition I suffer through with Mrs. Carson, once I get inside, will be better than what I’ve had to put up with tonight.’
She glanced at Dell Cooper. The man had let go of her hand as they reached the steps. Now that they were on the porch, he took it again. “No, thank you, Mr. Cooper.” She wriggled her hand free from his.
“Dell; I told you t’call me ‘Dell’, Nancy, didn’t I?”
“You did, but now that I am home…” Her voice trailed off. ‘And this evening is thankfully over,’ she added to herself.
“Just ‘cause I brung you back home don’t mean we’re done with each other.” He reached for her hand. When she pulled it away again, he grabbed her by the wrist. “We still got time before you go in.”
“T-Time for what?”
“It’s a purty enough evening. We can sit out here and… talk for a while, hold hands, and just enjoy each other’s company. Same as any other couple.”
She tried to pull free, but he was too strong. “We most certainly are not a couple, and I do not enjoy your company.”
“Then why’d you let me take you out t’dinner.”
“You know why. You forced me.”
“Just tell me how I forced you.”
“You… you told me that, if I had dinner with you, you’d confirm my brother’s story about how he was robbed.”
“That’s right, I did, and I’ll keep my word and go to the sheriff first thing t’morrow morning. If….” He leered at her. “…if you keep your word.”
“I did. I-I dined with you tonight. What more do you --?” She stopped, realizing what she was asking and what he might answer.
“What more do I want? Nancy, there’s a whole lotta things a man wants from a gal like you.” He chuckled. “And some of ‘em need a whole lot more privacy that we got on this here porch.” He ran a finger down the side of her cheek. When she shuddered, he laughed. His finger moved on down her neck before it played with the top button of her dress.
She managed, finally, to pull free and took a quick step back, away from him. “How dare you?”
“I dare all sorts o’things, gal. What do you dare?”
“I’ll dare to get away from you as soon as I can,” she answered quickly.
“Maybe so, but do you dare my going to the sheriff and telling him another story? A story where I saw your precious brother meet up with two men and help them put that money into their saddlebags. After that, one of ‘em tapped him on the head, and they both rode off.”
“You… you wouldn’t?”
“Sure I would. You already know that I’m willing to tell one story. Why shouldn’t I be just as willing to tell another one?”
“But you-you can’t. He didn’t do it.”
“Never? Yep, that’s how often they let men in the territorial prison have visitors, or so I hear.” He stopped, enjoying her horrified reaction. “No, I’m sorry, they let then prisoners have visits every… two months or so.” He studied her for a moment, his glance lingering on her bosom. “You’ll look real purty on visitors’ day.”
Her body slumped in surrender. “All right, a kiss, but a quick one… please.”
“It ain’t really your place t’dicker over how long I take, not with the big favor you're asking.”
He pulled her to him and put his hand under her chin, tilting it upwards. She closed her eyes, not wanting to watch what she was being forced to do. Their lips met. She could smell the garlic from the fish he’d eaten on his breath. His tongue ran along her lip. She refused to part them.
Suddenly, his hands grabbed her buttocks. She gasped in surprise, and his tongue darted into her mouth, seeking her own. She tried to use her own tongue to push his out, but failed. She instinctively wanted to bite him, but was afraid that he'd get violent -- and then go lie about Carl.
He pressed his body against hers and began to roughly knead her derriere. She felt unsteady on her feet and wrapped her arms around him for support.
She suddenly realized what she was doing. “No!” She pushed against him with all her strength.
He laughed; it was a nasty laugh. “Aw, we’re just getting started.” He thought a moment. “I’ll be back for another kiss soon enough.”
“In your dreams,” she said angrily.
“In your own dreams. You can kiss me for telling my story – the right story – to the sheriff. And you can kiss me again when your brother gets off.” He leered at her again. “Matter of fact, after I get him off, you can get me off. Won’t that be fun?”
“I’d sooner die.” She ran for the door. Once she was inside, she slammed it behind her and hurried up to her room to change. She couldn’t throw out the dress she was wearing – she didn’t have the money to replace it. But she wanted it washed – no, fumigated -- before she wore it again.
Zenobia Carson had heard the sound of feet on her front steps. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she saw what looked like a good bit of flirting on Nancy’s part. She saw the apparently not so pure teacher kiss the stranger and let him touch her body in some sort of sexual play.
“I knew it,” she said smugly. “All your pretending to be little miss prim and proper was just so much nonsense. We’ll see to you soon enough, Nancy Osbourne.”
* * * * *
~
Tuesday, April 23, 1872
An editorial from the Eerie, Arizona edition of the Tucson Citizen:
` Consider What You Do, Town Council
` Tomorrow night, the town council of Eerie, Arizona will making
` a very important decision. They’ll be voting on whether or not
` to give Reverend Thaddeus Yingling total control of Mr. Shamus
` O’Toole’s transformative potion.
` I think that they should vote “No.”
` If they vote at all.
` Reverend Yingling is my spiritual advisor. I’ve gone to him for
` guidance on more than one occasion, and I’ve always benefited
` from what he’s told me.
` But there’s a very big difference between giving advice and having
` control. While Reverend Yingling is excellent at doing the first,
` I don’t think that it’s right for him to be doing the second.
` We trusted the men on the town council enough to elect them to their
` office. How can we ask them now to let the Reverend Yingling make
` moral decisions for them -- rather than expect them to rely on
` their own good judgment?
` This is an important question, and it should not be decided lightly. I
` am not saying what the town council should decide, but I am saying
` that their decision should be based on lengthy, deliberate consideration.
` There are those, supporters of the Reverend, who are demanding that
` the decision be made quickly, without consideration and without the
` opportunity for other voices to be heard, other opinions to be con-
` sidered. This is irresponsible.
` There is no pressing need for a final decision to be made. Let the town
` council’s decision this Wednesday night be that the council will take
` the extra time they need to properly consider all of the ramifications
` of what they are being asked to do and to consider the opinions of all
` of the citizens of Eerie before they cast their final vote.
* * * * *
Wilma strode into the Saloon. She stopped and looked around the room before she walked over to where her sister was sitting. “Hey, Jess, how’s it going?”
“Not too bad,” Jessie answered. “Just trying t’learn a new song.” She rested her guitar on her lap. “What brings you over here?”
“I come t’check up on Bridget. Where is she?”
The singer glanced upward. “In her room; seems like she spends most of her time up there these days. Molly practically has t’drag her down here to eat.”
“What about her poker game? She can’t run that from her room.”
“She ain’t running it. As far as I know, she ain’t touched a card since Sunday.”
“Shit!”Wilma spat out the word. “Thanks, Jess. I’ll see you in a bit.”She headed for the steps before her sister even had a chance to wish her luck.
* * * * *
“Go away, Molly,” Bridget yelled when she heard the knock on her door. “Please.”
The door opened. “I ain’t going away,” Wilma said, coming into the room. “And I ain’t Molly.”
“Damn it, Wilma, leave me alone.” Bridget was lying in bed, atop the blanket, and wearing a light green robe over her camisole and drawers. She sat up sullenly.
Wilma walked over to a chair and sat down. “I can’t.”
“What the hell do you mean, you can’t?”
“Long, long time ago, in a orphanage far, far away, I made me a pact with this kid, Brian Kelly – maybe you remember him. I promised I’d watch his back, and he promised t’watch mine.”
Bridget had to smile, if only for an instant. “I remember, but that – that was in another life.”
“Seems like the same life t’me. It just turned out a whole lot different’n we ever figured it would.”
“That’s the truth. We went from rangers to… outlaws to… to…” The word caught in her throat. “…whores.”
“You say ‘whores’ like it’s a bad thing. It ain’t bad, but it ain’t true neither. I may be a whore.” She stopped, stood, and defiantly put her hands on her hips. “Hells bells, let's face it. I am a whore, and I’m damned good at it.” She waited a moment, hoping to see Bridget smile. When her friend didn’t, she continued. “And I ain't ashamed to be one, neither. But you ain’t no whore, and you never was one.”
“Yes, y-yes, I-I am, and ev-everybody in town is thinking it.”
“They don’t think any such thing.”
“They do so. I can tell from the way that they – they all look at me.” Her eyes began to fill with tears. “Forget about whatever promises we made all those years ago; forget about me. Brian Kelly is dead. I'm just his -- I don't know what -- his no-good tramp of a sister.”
“Like hell! You’re as good a gal as I am, maybe even better.”
“No, I’m not. I’m -- like I said, I don't know what I am.”
Wilma came over and sat down next to Bridget on the bed. “Well, you’re a better poker player than I am. You can’t deny that.”
“Not any more, I’m not. I was losing just about every hand. How can I play poker when I can’t look the other players in the eye, imagining what they're thinking?”
“All that is, is your imagination. What you’re seeing in their eyes is worry about what you got in your hand and how much money you’re gonna take ‘em for.” Wilma thought for a moment. “You got any cards around here?”
Bridget pointed to a drawer in the night table next to her bed. “There’s a couple of decks in there.”
“Chips, too, I see,” Wilma said, opening the drawer. She took out a deck and a box of chips and tossed them onto the other woman’s lap. “Okay, deal.”
“What?”
“I wanna show you you’re wrong. You ain’t got no trouble looking in my eyes, so we’ll just play cards for a while today. And I’ll keep coming back every day till you’re feeling up t’running your game again.” She moved back to the chair. “One thing, though.”
“One thing?”
“Yeah, this here game is just for fun. I know better’n t’play a sharp like you for real money.”
* * * * *
“Will you stop glaring at me, Trisha,” Liam demanded during a break when the Feed and Grain was empty of customers.
Trisha blinked in surprise. “Was I?”
“You were, and I’m getting tired of it. What’s the matter with you?”
“You – you and Kaitlin, I’m getting tired of the way you’re acting around her, flirting and carrying on every time the two of you get together.”
“Sort of the way you ‘go to’ with some men around here, isn’t it?”
“No!” She stomped her foot, then crossed her arms for emphasis. “It’s nothing like – I do not flirt like that.”
“The hell you don’t. You’ve been chasing after men since before the dance. That’s why some people believe those lies Cecelia Ritter’s been spreading – or are they lies?”
“Of course they are!” She was hardly about to say how much worse the truth really was. That would come out soon enough. “That’s what you keep telling me.” He paused a half-beat. “I will admit that there are a few things different between the way that you and I are acting.”
“And what are those differences, exactly?”
“You say that you’re just flirting with all those men for fun. I’m serious, really serious, about Kaitlin, and, you know what, she likes the attention I’m paying her.”
“What’re you saying?”
“Just what you think. You keep saying how I’m acting like I’m courting her -- well, I am. She knows I am, and she doesn’t mind. In fact, she’s told me that she’s pleased with the idea of my courting her.”
Liam smiled at the shocked look on his sister’s face. “And now that you know, you’ve got a real reason for glaring at me, don’t you?”
* * * * *
“Zenobia,” Cecelia Ritter called out from the street in front of Ortega’s Market. “Wait a moment.”
Zenobia Carson stopped walking and waited for her friend to cross over from the other side of the street. “Hello, Cecelia. How are you this afternoon?”
“Very well, thanks. I was hoping I would run into you today.”
“Any special reason why?”
“Yes, I was wondering, did you notice anything… odd about Nancy Osbourne’s behavior yesterday?”
Mrs. Carson smiled, happy to be sharing gossip. “My dear, there was very little about her last night that wasn’t odd.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“As a rule, she comes home around five, though she tries to get up to her room instead of helping me with supper as she should, but yesterday...” She paused for dramatic effect. “Yesterday, she didn’t come home at all; at least, not before dinner – or for dinner, either. I was concerned, of course, any decent Christian would be, but I had to see that my Thomas and the children were fed.”
Cecelia nodded approvingly. “You’re a good soul, Zenobia.”
“One tries. I asked my Tommy if anything had happened at the school. He said, ‘no’, but he also told me that some man had come to see Miss Osbourne at lunchtime.”
“That’s what my Hermione told to me. I was concerned because she shouldn’t be seeing any men socially, especially not at the school.”
“She wasn’t just seeing men at the school,” Zenobia continued. “She finally did come home about 8:30, but not alone. There was a man with her.”
“No!” Cecelia tried to look concerned. “Really?”
“Yes, he walked her right up onto my front porch. They talked – holding hands, no less -- then he kissed her, kissed her right on the mouth. And, so far as I could tell, she kissed him back.”
“The brazen hussy,” Cecelia gasped. “And it’s probably not the first time, either. According to Hermione, he’s been to the school to see her more than once. The Lord only knows what sort of sinful goings-on they’ve been up to.”
“At the school, where all the children could see them? That cannot be allowed to continue.”
“I think it’s time we found a new teacher for our school.”
“With that – what do they call it – that morals clause in her contract, we should have a very easy time getting rid of her.”
“Indeed, I’ve no doubt that this Cooper fellow is not the first man she’s dallied with. I didn’t wish to spread any hurtful rumors around. I wanted to give that poor, foolish woman every possible chance to reform.”
“What are you talking about, Cecelia?”
“When she was lodging with Clyde and me last year, I had some very serious doubts about her character. It seems she's only gotten worse with time. Now her behavior has gone beyond toleration. Something has to be done.”
She gave Zenobia a self-satisfied smile. “I believe that the day has come for Miss Osbourne to pay the piper, and we shall see that she does as soon as we’ve settled with Mr. O’Toole and that ungodly potion of his.”
“To be sure, we’ll have this town running the way we want – the way it should be run, in no time.”
* * * * *
“I got something for you, Jess,” Paul stood over the woman, a sly grin curling his lips.
She returned his grin. “Oh, you do, do you?” She put down her guitar and stood up. “And what would that be, Mr. Grant?”
“This… for starters.” His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. Her arms went up, circling his neck. Their lips met, and the room went away for a while.
Finally, they had to break the kiss to breathe. “Now that was real nice,” Jessie told him, her voice husky. She was still holding on to Paul. “You said, ‘for starters,’ just now,” she went on. “What else you got in mind?”
“I’ve got a lot of things in mind, and we can… discuss them all upstairs when I’m off duty.” He sighed. “Right now, I’ve got rounds I have to make, and all I can do is give you this.” He retrieved an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to her.
Jessie opened the envelope and skimmed the letter that was inside. “It’s from Hanna Tyler. Her Grampa, Nathaniel Mullens – that’s her ma’s father – got sick or something. They really want him t’be at the wedding, so they’re pushing it back two weeks from Sunday, May 19, to Sunday, June 2.”
“Damn,” she muttered. “Now I’ll have t’ask Shamus all over again if I can go.”
“And I’ll have to ask Dan, but I think they’ll let us.” He winked. “We’ll talk about it tonight.”
She giggled. “I suppose we’ll have t’talk about something… eventually.” The letter and the envelope fell to the floor, as she moved in to kiss him again.
* * * * *
“What’s he doing here?” Jane asked, her voice full of anger. She was sitting with Milt Quinlan, taking a short break.
Milt looked around. “Who – oh, Ethan. He, uh… mentioned Jessie when we… uh, when we talked yesterday. He probably came in to hear her sing.”
“Least people are still coming in for something. The place’s half empty these days, thanks t’them damn dancing girls over at the Lone Star.”
She suddenly brightened. “Still… that gives me a chance t’talk to him.” Before Milt could stop her, she stood up and yelled. “Ethan… hey, c’mon over ‘n’ join us.”
The man had turned at the sound of his name. He nodded and walked over to their table. “Jane, how… delightful to see you once again, and you, as well, Milt.”
“Sit yourself down right there, Ethan.” Jane pointed to an empty chair.
He sat. “My thanks to you both for the invitation, and how, may I ask, are you this evening?”
“Not too bad,” she answered, “still a little unhappy ‘bout not getting that painting you done.”
“I do regret that,” the artist said gently, taking a seat. “You were a delight to work with, and I am sorry to have disappointed you in the matter of ‘The Three Fates’ painting.”
“If you really feel that way, maybe I don’t have to be disappointed.”
Milt raised a curious eyebrow. “What do you mean, Jane? The painting is long gone.”
“It ain’t that ‘long gone.’ Sure, it’s on its way from here t’Philadelphia, but that stage has t’make a whole lotta stops. You could wire ahead – to Sante Fe, maybe – tell ‘em you changed your mind and t’send your picture back here.”
Ethan shook his head. “That would be… difficult – and expensive.”
“I can pay for it, same as I can pay for the portrait when it gets back here.”
Milt placed his hand on her arm. “Jane, it’s halfway to Utah by now, you --”
“Utah!” She cut him off. “Who says it’s going t’Utah?”
Milt looked nervous. “Ethan… he, ahh… yesterday, he said – didn’t you say, Ethan, that you were going to ship it east by train?”
“I did?” the artist looked surprised for a moment. “Oh, ah, yes, I did. We had spoken about the matter before you arrived on the scene at the depot, Jane.”
“What ain’t you two telling me?” Jane demanded.
The men glanced quickly at one another. “Nothing, nothing really,” the painter said. “There is just less danger to the portrait if I ship it by rail, that’s all.”
“But that just makes it easier t’get back. When the stage gets to Utah, they can just put it on one heading back here, instead of on the train.”
“Perhaps, but I decline your offer, no matter how generous and well-intentioned, Jane. I prefer to have my work displayed back East.”
“Since when is the money back East any better ‘n mine? Come t’think of it, how come you made up your mind so fast? Last week you was more ‘n ready t’sell it to me?”
“Jane, please. I’m sure he had a good reason.” Milt shot a quick look to the other man. “Besides, it sounds to me like you aren’t the only – what did you call it once – the only ‘mule-stubborn’ one at this table.”
“Indeed.” Ethan got to his feet. “And the most simple way to end this apparent stalemate would seem to be for one of us to no longer be at this table.” He gave a low bow. “Another time, perhaps. Good evening.”
Jane watched him walk to another table halfway across the bar. “How come you took his side so much?” she asked Milt.
“I-I wasn’t trying to take anyone’s side. I knew he wasn’t going to send for that painting, and I just wanted to end the discussion.”
“You knew, did you? And how was that?”
“I… I’m a lawyer, Jane. Knowing people’s part of my job.” He relaxed as he saw Jessie moving towards the small stage near the stairs. “Right now, it looks like the show’s about to start, so we need to be quiet.” He leaned back in his chair and hoped that the argument was over.
* * * * *
Wednesday, April 24, 1872
Nancy picked at the fried chicken leg she’d packed for her lunch. “Damn,” she said to no one in particular and pushed her wooden plate across her desk.
“First time I ever saw you pass up fried chicken,” a voice said.
She looked up to see… “Carl, what are you doing here in town? I thought Mr. Slocum was going to have you stay out at his ranch for a while.”
“He wanted to, but I said to him, ‘Mr. Slocum, sir, you gotta understand, I need to check up on my little sister.’ Turns out, he had a little sister, too, Cap Lewis’ mama, so he knew what I was talking about. He said I could ride in, but I had to promise to be quick and to stay outta trouble.”
He grinned and threw his arms out wide. “I promised… and here I am.”
“You did not tell Mr. Slocum that you had to check up on me?” She smiled shyly and hid her face with her hands. “I’ll never be able to look him in the face again.”
“And just how often do you look him in the face?”
“You know what I mean. I… “ Her embarrassed smile suddenly darkened. “Oh, Carl, I-I’m so glad you’re here.”
He hurried over to her. “Sounds to me like there’s something more than fried chicken bothering you. C’mon, fess up, what is it?”
“That… bastard...” She hissed the last word, but softly, so no children could hear. “…Dell Cooper, h-he – I don’t want to talk about it.” Her eyes began to well with tears.
“C’mon, Nanny Goat, don’t go all stubborn on me again.” He hugged her and gently patted her head, as he might a small child. “You’ll feel better for the telling. You just see if you don’t.”
“He-He said that he’d back up your story about the robbery if I had dinner with him.”
“You say that like you think I was lying about what happened.”
“I-I believe you. I know that you’d never rob Mr. Slocum. B-But when I told him that I wouldn’t have dinner with him, he… he said that, if I refused, he’d tell the sheriff that he s-saw you… helping those crooks, who-whomever they were. He’d tell that story if I didn’t… go out with -- “
He deliberately cut off her words. “So you agreed to… to protect me. Nancy, I’m sorry that you thought you had to do something like that.”
“That’s not the worst of it. We… He took me to that restaurant in Mr. O’Toole’s saloon. Everybody saw me, and, when we went back to the Carson’s house, he… he kissed me, and I-I let him. I know Mrs. Carson saw it. She was colder to me this morning than January back in Connecticut. She'll surely gossip to everybody. What am I going to do?”
Carl's expression was dark, angry. He struggled to control his tone. “First thing, you’re gonna dry those eyes of yours. Then you’re gonna finish that chicken leg. You know what Aunt Clementine used to say about wasting food.” He used a finger to carefully raise her chin, so she was looking right up at him. “And don’t you worry about Cooper; I’ll talk to him.”
“Just talk?”
“Well, I may have to use my fists to move the talking along the way I want it to go.”
“Please be careful, Carl.”
“Carefullest man in town.”
* * * * *
“How’s it going, Love?” Molly asked, as she stepped through the doorway into Shamus’ office.
He looked up from his ledger and tried to smile. “Just as ye might be expecting… terrible. We’re really taking a hurting, since Sam Duggan brought in them dancing girls o’his.”
“Aye, but ‘tis only a few days since they started doing thuir shows. Ye’ll see, the men’ll be getting tired of sitting over thuir, and they’ll be coming back.”
“Maybe… someday they will, but I’ll not be holding me breath waiting for men t’be getting tired o’watching pretty girls dancing for ‘em. And he'll be making so much money that he'll be able to fix up that place o'his and keep me regulars even after the novelty of them girls has worn off.”
“Ye could always get some dancing girls for over here, ye know.”
“I know, and I been thinking about doing it, too, just as I said I would. It’d be expensive, though -- and risky – t’be fixing up the place and bringing in dancers from San Francisco or Denver or wherever Duggan got his girls from. We might not be making up what money we spend t’do it.”
“It don’t have t’be.”
“Any why not?”
“Thuir’s a pretty girl or three right here in Eerie.”
“Aye, but are any of them dancing girls? I think not. Besides, too many o’them pretty ones have husbands or parents who ain’t about t’be letting them dance -- or they already have a job with somebody like Lady Cerise and ain’t interested working for us here.”
He sighed. “And them few that are interested ain’t likely t’be knowing much about the job.”
“Maybe not, but they don’t have t’be knowing anything at all, not with the experienced dancer ye got t’be training ‘em up.”
He gave her a wry smile. “And who would that be?”
“Who d’ye think?” Molly replied. “Just ‘cause I ain’t worked as a dancer since we got married, don’t mean I forgot what I knew then.”
“That was more’n a few years ago, Molly Love,” Shamus teased. When he saw her expression, he quickly added, “Even if ye don’t look a day older.” He considered the idea for moment. “I ain’t saying yes t’yuir offer, but I ain’t saying no, neither. I want t’be thinking about it for a while first.”
* * * * *
Carl strode purposefully into the Lone Star. He glanced around for a moment before walking over to the bar where Dell Cooper was standing alone, drinking. “I want to talk to you, Cooper.”
“Really?” Cooper set his beer on the bar and glared at Carl. “What about?”
Carl glared back. “My sister… I told you to leave her alone. She says you’re still bothering her.”
“Getting her hot and bothered, you mean.” The man laughed. “Damn hot, and ready for some fun with a real man.”
“Mister, you better apologize for saying that, if you know what’s good for you.”
“The hell, I will.” Dell glowered and stepped back, arms set and ready to fight.
Carl’s hands balled into fists, but before either man could throw a punch, Sam Duggan stopped them. “This is a peaceable bar, gents. If there’s gonna be a fight, I’ll ask you t’take it outside.”
“Fine, with me,” Carl replied. “I can beat the shit outta him outside as easy as I can do it in here.”
The other man sneered. “Lead the way, mister, and we’ll see who takes care of who.”
“Just be sure you ain’t too scared to follow me out.” Carl turned and started for the swinging doors that led to the street.
Cooper waited until they were about five feet apart. His face contorted into a nasty grin as he slowly drew his pistol from his holster so the angry man wouldn't hear the rasp.
“Carl, look out!” Duggan yelled.
Carl spun to the left and quickly drew his own weapon. He fired once, on the fly for cover behind a table.
Dell lurched back a step. “Son of a…” His voice trailed off as he looked down unhappily at his chest. A red stain was growing on his shirt. He barely had time to mutter, “Shit…” before he dropped towards the floor. He was dead before he hit it.
Carl hurried to his feet. “You ain’t even worth that bullet, Cooper,” he said with disgust. “Somebody get the Doc.” He shook his head. “and Stu Gallagher, the undertaker, too, just in case.” He heard somebody agree and run out the door. “Better get the Sheriff, too,” he told Duggan, weariness seeping into his voice. “This sure as hell ain’t gonna help me at my trial.”
* * * * *
“May I come in, Thad?” Martha Yingling knocked on the half-opened door to her husband’s study.
He looked up from his papers and smiled at her. “Certainly, my dear. What did you want?”
“I-I was just out doing some shopping, and I heard the most horrid gossip about Nancy Osbourne.”
“What sort of gossip?”
“They’re saying that she’s been out cavorting with all sorts of men, sitting on their laps, kissing them, and who knows what all else.”
He leaned back in his chair. “And who’s been saying these things?”
“I heard it from several women, Roberta Scudder, Lavinia Mackechnie… Zenobia Carson seems to be the main instigator, her and Cecelia Ritter.” She took a breath. “Cecelia’s even talking about getting Nancy fired. You’ve got to talk to her, make her stop saying such foul lies. And tell others not to believe what she’s saying.”
“How do you know that they’re lies?”
“Because I know Nancy Osbourne, and she’d never do such things. And I know – we both know – Cecelia Ritter, and we know how much she likes to stir up trouble, especially when it would hurt someone she doesn’t like. She’s had it in for Nancy for some time, ever since Nancy boarded with the Ritters last year.”
“Right now, Cecelia Ritter is one of my strongest supporters in getting that dangerous potion away from O’Toole. She has been doing the work of the Lord with that petition.”
“Right now, she’s maliciously spreading lies against a very good woman, one whose only crime is to be younger, prettier, and smarter than she is.”
“For everything there is a season, and I will not go against her at this time.”
“Could you just talk to her, in private if need be, and ask her stop her attacks on Nancy?”
“There are very great issues riding on keeping Mrs. Ritter's support. It would not be politic to go against an ally.”
“But she’s wrong – so very wrong – can’t you see that?”
“Aren't you taking sides too quickly? In the past few weeks, Miss Osbourne has shown me a willful streak that you may not have seen. Time and again she's argued with me about the meaning of the teachings of the Lord. She is not thinking clearly. She can make mistakes, it's clear. It is not so hard for me to believe that there may be some truth in the stories that Cecelia is telling.”
Martha considered his words. “I-I’m sorry, Thaddeus. I’ll leave you to your work.” She walked out of the room, trying to understand just whom she was sorry for.
* * * * *
The schoolhouse also served as the site for meetings of the town council. The three members of the council, Whit Whitney, Arsenio Caulder, and Aaron Silverman, took their places at the large table in the front of the room.
“As chairman of the Eerie Town Council,” Whit Whitney said firmly, “I declare the April 24, 1872 meeting called to order.” He banged his gavel on the tabletop. “We seem to have a larger crowd than --”
Cecelia Ritter quickly rose to her feet, interrupting him. “Mr. Chairman…”
“Yes, Cecelia,” Whit answered. “Do you have a question?”
She nodded. “Yes, I want to know why that wicked woman is up there with you?” She pointed at Nancy Osbourne, who was sitting at the corner of the desk.
“Miss Osbourne is taking the minutes of the meeting. It’s part of her duties as our schoolteacher.”
“Duties she is not fit to do,” Cecelia said, angrily. A number of voices from around the room agreed with her. “I… We demand that she be fired.”
A gasp came from Nancy, but before she could say another word, Lavinia Mackechnie jumped to her feet. “Second the motion.” Her words were met with a round of applause.
“Now, wait a minute,” Arsenio Caulder shouted from his place on Whit’s left. “Before we do anything like that, I, for one, want to know why. What is this all about?”
“She’s not fit… the morals rule.” Zenobia Carson answered. “I saw her.”
“She didn't see anything -- I mean, she didn't understand!” shouted Nancy.
“That may be, Miss Osbourne,” said Arsenio, “but let one person speak at a time. We have to know exactly what you are being accused of before you can give an appropriate answer.”
Aaron took that as his cue to speak up. “And what, exactly, was it you think you saw, Mrs. Carson? As they say, the mind can fool the eye if it wants to be fooled.”
Zenobia’s features set firmly in place. “I know what I saw. That… trollop kissed a man – in public – and allowed him to paw at her.”
“That’s not true!” Nancy rose indignantly to her feet.
Zenobia smiled, a cat playing with a mouse. “It is so. They were right there on my porch. I saw it all through the curtain from my parlor.” She paused for effect. “They were out somewhere, together, doing the good Lord only knows what. When they came back, they were walking hand in hand – more than just friends, I thought. He followed her up onto my porch and sat down beside her. He took her in his arms, and they… kissed. She seemed to enjoy it. Not her first time kissing a man, I should think.”
“And you was watching all this?” Aaron asked. “Without doing anything?”
“I-I was shocked at such scandalous behavior. I tapped at the glass, but they didn’t seem to hear. Not at first, anyway. All of a sudden she broke away and came inside. I suspect that she was ashamed of what she was doing – or angry that she’d been caught – because she went straight up to her room without saying a word.”
“I have something to add,” said Cecelia.
“You’ll get your chance. But it's Miss Osbourne's turn to defend her conduct now,” said Whit. He looked toward the teacher and asked gently, “Nancy would you like to give your version of what happened?” He paused a moment for effect. “If anything did.”
The young woman sank into her chair and thought for a moment. How could she explain? ‘Tell them the truth’, she told herself. ‘Tell them that Dell Cooper had threatened to lie about your brother.’ She paused. ‘But which would they think was the lie, that Carl committed the robbery or that he didn’t? The foul little man was dead, dead by Carl’s hand, and didn’t that just make things worse?’
“I… Mrs. Carson is mistaken. He tried to get familiar with me, but I-I wouldn’t allow it. When I got the chance, I ran inside to get away from him.”
“Why were you with him in the first place?” Cecelia accused. “Where were you, and what sort of sinful behavior were the two of you up to?”
“I-I can’t really explain. It's so complicated.” She looked down at the table, not able to face their accusations.
Cecelia’s voice rang out. “Can’t explain or don’t want to explain? It’s all true, you hussy, and you know it. Even before Zenobia saw what she saw, all the children were talking about how their teacher was carrying on with that Cooper fellow at the schoolhouse -- or maybe it was with a number of different men, who can be sure? Can we allow our children to be exposed to a… a woman like her? Fire her, I say.”
“Is that what you had to add, Mrs. Ritter?” Whit asked sourly.
“Yes… My own daughter told me what she'd seen. And people saw her dining with the man at that saloon. She should be fired just for going into a saloon, much less for cavorting lewdly on a porch.”
“Fire her… fire her.” The words echoed through the room.
Whit banged his gavel. “Folks… please, give the lady a chance to speak.”
“She ain’t no lady,” someone yelled, “she sure as hell ain’t no teacher – not for my kids. Fire her.”
“It’s not fair to act on these accusations before they can be fully investigated,” Phillipia Stone scolded. “Nancy Osbourne has been here for almost five years, and nothing remotely like this has ever been reported against her before. My children think she's a wonderful teacher, and she's a good churchgoer, too.”
Lavinia stood up. “Her brother just killed that man in a saloon fight today. He's a thief and a killer. No wonder she's comfortable with bad types. Mr. Osbourne will probably be sent away to prison in a few days.”
“Damned straight, he will,” someone yelled, and others in the crowd agreed.
Lavinia smiled smugly and continued. “Nancy deliberately got those two stirred up against one another and probably enjoyed doing it.”
The barber sighed. “Nancy, is there anything more you can add that will put to rest these accusations?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don't know. It involves matters I'd first like to talk over with the councilmen in private. Someone might be hurt if I say too much in an open forum.”
“Confess! Confess in public!” some woman shouted.
“Nancy?” Whit tried again.
“I --” she shook her head. “It has to be in private.”
Arsenio spoke softly. “If that's the case, people need a cooling off time. We'll get to the bottom of this, I promise, but we first have to think of protecting the reputation of the school until all questions are answered.”
The councilmen then talked in low voices for a moment. After a moment, Whit looked up. “All in favor of suspending Miss Osbourne until we can find out what’s really going on here, raise your --”
“The hell with suspending her,” Horace Styron insisted, taking up the chant. “Fire her… fire her right now.”
Whit seemed to ignore him. “All in favor, raise your hand.” Aaron and Arsenio slowly raised their right hands. Whit gave another, heavy sigh, and raised his as well. “Nancy, you’re --”
“Fired…” She slowly got to her feet.
Arsenio shook his head. “No, just suspended.”
Nancy didn't seem to hear the councilman's words. She shook his hand. “Thank you, gentlemen, up till tonight, it’s been a pleasure working for you.” She walked the length of the room, ignoring the insults people shouted as she went past.
* * * * *
Whit waited until Nancy had left the building. He poured himself a glass of water to try and get the sour taste of the ugly business out of his mouth. It didn’t help.
“Hopefully we can find out what really happened and why it happened. Nothing would be better than to bring back Miss Osbourne with her reputation justly restored. But if that's not possible, we're going to need a new teacher,” he said finally. “Anybody who wants the job should talk to me or one of the other council members right away. If Aaron and Arsenio don’t mind, we’ll meet here again Friday night at… 7 PM to pick the new teacher -- unless matters resolve themselves in Miss Osbourne's favor before then.” The two men agreed at once.
Fred Norman rose to his feet. “Who’ll teach them in the meantime?”
“You want the job, maybe?” Aaron asked.
Norman put up his hands, as if to shield himself from attack. “Not me, I’ve got a business to run.”
“I’ll do it,” Whit said.
“You?” Horace Styron asked. “What makes you think you can be a teacher?”
“I’m a graduate of Bowdoin College back in Maine, and I doubt that anybody’s going to be seriously troubled if they have to wait a couple days for a haircut or shave. I also think I can handle her class for short while.” He waited a moment for any complaints. When there were none, he added, “All in favor – of the Friday meeting and my taking over as teacher for a couple of days?”
The other two councilmen raised their hands. Whit raised his as well. “Unanimous, good.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Reverend Yingling stood up, “about my petition --”
“Just a minute, Reverend,” Whit interrupted. “I suspect that your petition may take a while. Do you mind if we see if there’s anything else we need to deal with?”
“How dare you?” Cecelia called out from her seat. “There’s nothing else as important as his petition, and you know it, Whitney, you scoundrel!”
Whit ignored her insult. “Perhaps, Mrs. Ritter, but I’d like to get anything that can be dealt with quickly out of the way first.”
“I have no objection.” Yingling spoke with the assuredness of a man who knows that he’s about to get his way.
The council waited, but nobody rose to speak. “Very well, then,” Whit said. “Does anyone on the board have anything to say before I open the issue for discussion?”
“I got something,” Aaron said reaching into his shirt pocket. “Or rather, Roscoe Unger had something to say.” He pulled out a sheet of paper. “I was reading from the paper yesterday, the editorial, it says – let me read some of it. Roscoe says, ‘this is an important question, and it should not be decided lightly. I am not saying what the town council should decide, but I am saying that their decision should be based on lengthy, deliberate consideration.’” He put the paper away. “As the Sages say, ‘Life is so short that we have to move very slowly.’ That sounds like good advice to me.”
The shopkeeper took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment before he put them back in place and continued. “Slow and deliberate ain’t the way we did things tonight with Miss Osbourne. That’s not good, and we shouldn’t keep doing it – especially for something so important. So-o-o…” He stretched out the word to something with at least three syllables. “I move to table the discussion until we can have time for everybody to cool down and, maybe, think clear about what Thad – Reverend Yingling – is asking us to do.”
“Second,” Arsenio chimed in at once. He almost had to bit his lip to keep from smiling at Aaron’s surprising motion.
“You… you cannot do this,” Yingling stormed, his face growing red with anger.
Whit shrugged. “It’s a legitimate motion. All in favor?” The other two councilmen raised their hands. “Unanimous.” Whit raised his own hand. “The motion to table passes.”
“This is patently unfair,” the minister argued.
Arsenio considered the matter for a moment. “You’re right about that, Reverend. It would be unfair for us to wait a whole month. Mr. Chairman, could we have a special meeting, say, two weeks from now to vote on that petition?” He did some quick arithmetic. “That would be May 8,”
“That’s the night for the next meeting of the church board,” Liam O’Hanlan objected, rising to be heard. “But I count more than half the board here in the room. Maybe they can move the date of their meeting to accommodate the Reverend.”
Styron stood up. “Members of the Methodist Church Board, if you’re in favor of meeting on May 15, raise your hand.” He raised his own hand and looked around the room. “Rupe… Judge Humphreys… Jubal… Trisha, everybody’s here but Dwight Albertson. Dwight never comes unless the town council’s talking money, and Willie Gotefreund, and Willie lives outside of town. That’s still a quorum with…” He counted, as the other church board members raised their hands. “With five in favor, we move the church board meeting to May 15.”
Whit nodded. “Good, we don’t want to butt into the church’s business; ‘render unto Caesar’ and all that. Is our meeting on May 8 all right with you gentlemen?” Both Aaron and Arsenio agreed cheerfully.
“In that case…” Whit pounded the gavel once again. “Meeting adjourned.”
* * * * *
The O’Hanlans walked home arm-in-arm, Trisha on Liam’s left and Kaitlin on his right.
“That was a very smart idea of yours, Liam, having the church board vote right then and there to move their meeting.” Kaitlin told him. She leaned in quickly and gave him a peck on the cheek.
He smiled and glanced at his sister. “Don’t look so surprised, Trisha. You aren’t the only one with good ideas.” He chuckled. “Kaitlin herself had a real good one just now.”
* * * * *
Zenobia Carson saw the light under Nancy Osbourne’s door, as she walked down the hall. “Miss Osbourne,” she called, knocking on the door. “Are you awake?”
“Just a moment.” Nancy’s voice could be heard through the door.
Zenobia heard the click of the latch, a latch her boarder had been impolite enough to install, come free. The door opened a crack. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Carson? It’s rather late.” Nancy wore a green and blue plaid robe over her nightgown. She was holding a book – Zenobia couldn’t read the title – in her left hand.
“Then you should be in bed, shouldn’t you?”
“I don’t see why. I have no reason to be getting up any time early tomorrow, as you well know.” She opened the door wide. “Still, I’m being inhospitable. Come in.”
Zenobia stepped into the room and looked around, as if assessing it for damage. “I came to speak to you about what happened tonight. As you know, you have this room by virtue of being the school teacher.”
“Y-yes,” Nancy replied, sensing trouble.
“I'm quite sure you'll never teach school in this town again. Since you no longer hold that position, you are no longer entitled to the room. I’ll allow you to stay here tonight as a matter of Christian charity --”
“Th-thank you, I’m sure.” It was trouble, all right.
“You are quite welcome. However, I shall expect you to be out of my house by… 3 PM tomorrow afternoon. I don’t wish you here when the children come home from school. I have to protect them from bad influences. And so, please do not leave your room tomorrow morning until they have gone from the house.”
“But that’s hardly enough time to find another place to stay.”
“You needn’t worry. Your Mr. Cooper may be dead, but I’m sure that you can find some other man’s bed to warm easily enough.” She gave Nancy a triumphant smile and bustled out the door before the startled young woman could respond.
* * * * *
Thursday, April 25, 1872
“Who’s that?” Constanza Diaz asked, pointing to a tall man who was standing on the schoolhouse steps ringing the bell to announce the start of classes.
Tomas Rivera looked where she was pointed. “That’s Mr. Whitney, the barber. What’s he doing here, and where is Miss Osbourne?”
“I don’t know,” Constanza answered, “but I think we’re about to find out.”
All the children hurried into the building and took their seats. A few tried to ask questions, but Whit just told them to wait. When they were all seated, he closed the door and walked up to the teacher’s desk. “I’m sure you’re wondering where Miss Osbourne is, and why I’m here in her place.”
“I know.” Hermione raised her hand.
The man scowled. “You may think you do, Miss Ritter…” He looked at the seating chart on his desk. “…Hermione, but I’ll talk for now.” He took a breath. “Some serious rumors were being spread about Miss Osbourne. They may not be true – rumors are often based on misunderstandings rather than on the truth. Nevertheless, because of the nature of those rumors, the town council has suspended Miss --”
“She was fired,” Hermione insisted, jumping to her feet. “My Mama told me so.”
Whit glowered at her. “Sit down, Hermione, and stay seated. We’ll discuss your punishment for interrupting like that during recess.” He glanced at the rest of the class. “And if anyone else interrupts -- or laughs at her punishment, they can join her.”
“As I was saying, Miss Osbourne is suspended for a time. I’ll be your teacher for the rest of the week, and we’ll have a real substitute in for her on Monday. Whoever that is will be here until the matter is resolved.”
He walked around the desk and sat down behind it. “I’ll take roll now. Please raise your hand when I call your names, since I don’t know all of you as well as I now know Hermione.”
* * * * *
“Excuse me,” Sheriff Talbot said, stepping up to a table at the Lone Star. Paul was right behind him. “Are you Dell Cooper’s friends, Stafford and Saunders?”
Forry looked up from his late breakfast. “I’m Forrest Stafford, Sheriff. Cooper worked for me, same as Saunders here does. What can we do for you?”
“I’m Dan Talbot. This is my deputy, Paul Grant.” Paul nodded at the mention of his name, as the Sheriff continued. “We’re trying to find out a little more about Cooper and what happened yesterday.”
Saunders snorted. “‘Bout his murder, you mean.”
“Witnesses – and I’ve got a bar full of them – say Cooper drew first. Carl Osbourne just happened to be faster.”
The other man shrugged. “So you say. I think Dell was set up.”
“What do you mean?” Paul blurted out.
Saunders looked thoughtful. “He told me somebody was after him ‘cause of some gal he was sparking. He said this other guy – must’ve been that Osbourne fellah – threatened t’kill him if he didn’t stay away from her.”
“And…” the Sheriff asked, his voice trailing off in expectation.
Saunders continued. “Dell took that gal t’dinner Tuesday night, and he told me, after, that she kissed him when he brought her home.”
“Sounds to me like my man had reason to be worried when Osbourne stormed in here yesterday,” Forry observed. “Maybe Dell figured that Osbourne was going to shoot him as soon as they got out onto the street. Maybe that’s why he was drawing his pistol.”
Talbot frowned. “That almost makes sense… almost. We won’t be trying Carl till next Monday. We’ll need you to testify, so I’m going to have to ask you gentlemen not to leave town.”
“No problem,” Stafford replied. “We weren’t planning to leave before then anyway.”
The Sheriff nodded. “Fine, we’ll see you later, then.” He and Paul turned and headed out the swinging doors of the Lone Star.
“That was pretty good, Mr. Stafford,” Leland said, after they two had left. “All that stuff ‘bout how it coulda been self-defense – hell, I almost believed it myself.”
Forry gave a wry laugh. “It was good, wasn’t it? I had no great love for Dell Cooper, but this Carl Osbourne caused me no little inconvenience by killing him. I see no reason why he shouldn’t suffer some inconvenience in return.”
“What then, boss?”
Forry sighed. “I’m getting damned tired of this town. I think we’ll ride out to Slocum’s one more time and try to get him to see things our way. After that, we’ll be on the first stage out of here.”
Leland looked perplexed. “Ain’t going that far out on the range the same as leaving town? Didn't you just tell the sheriff --”
Forry shook his head. “He had to tell me to stay put, just as I had to tell him I would. Don’t worry; these hick town lawmen can bark, but they know better than to bite.”
“If you say so, boss. But that hombre Slocum… he strikes me as a hard case. What if he don’t wanna see things our way?”
“Oh, he will. One way or the other, he will.”
* * * * *
“Can we join you?” Yully asked. He and Stephan had come over to the picnic table where Emma, Ysabel, and Penny Stone were sitting.
Penny gestured to the open space at the table. “How come there’s no game today? I always figured you boys’d play during an Indian attack – at least till the Apache went after the ball.”
“Not today,” Stephan said with disgust. “Too many of the guys are listening to Hermione and Lallie boasting.”
Emma snorted. “Like they had something to boast about, telling lies is more likely.”
“A lot more likely,” Yully replied. “They’re going on and on how Miss Osbourne was some sort of bad person, and what a good thing it was that their mothers got her fired at the council meeting last night.”
Ysabel was shocked. “That’s silly. Miss Osbourne is a good person and a good teacher. When I become a teacher, I hope that I will be half as good, as a woman and as a teacher as she is.”
“You will be.” Stephan put his hand on her arm. “What bothers me is how much my Pa had to do with it. He knows what sort of a person Miss Osbourne is. He could’ve stopped those women, coulda stopped them real easy, just by saying how wrong they were and telling ‘em to stop.”
He stopped for a moment before continuing. “He didn’t stop ‘em. My Ma asked him to – I heard her, even if I wasn’t supposed to be listening. He wants that… that danged potion too much. Miz Ritter and Miz Mackechnie are helping him, so whatever they want, they can have. It…” He sighed. “…it just ain’t right. It ain’t what a preacher’s supposed t’do.”
“No, it is not.” Ysabel put her other hand on his. The others muttered in agreement.
“Pa wants me to be a minister like him,” Stephan went on. “If I ever didn’t want to be like him, it’s today.”
* * * * *
“Well now, Your Honor,” Shamus greeted Judge Humphreys, “what can I be getting for ye this afternoon?”
The Judge smiled. “A beer, thank you, Shamus, and a bit of your time.”
“Here’s the first,” Shamus poured a beer and set it down in front of him. “And before we get t’the second, I think I’ll be joining ye.” He poured a beer for himself.
The Judge took a drink. “Thanks. I was wondering if we could use your place for Carl Osbourne’s trial on Monday?”
“‘Course ye can. Justice is always welcome here.” So were the customers who came for the trial and stayed to drink. “ T’be telling the truth, I’ve been wondering why that trial ain’t been held already.”
“Because there’re too many questions; if Carl was working with someone, who was it? If he really was ambushed, who did it? We wanted to wait until we had the answers to those questions. We’d still be waiting if he hadn’t shot that man yesterday. The Lone Star isn’t some dive in Abilene, and Eerie isn’t some wild Kansas cow town. We hold a trial or, at least, an inquest when someone is killed in a gunfight. We can get started on the business of the robbery at the same time.”
“Aye, we can. Well, like I said, ye’re welcome t’be using me saloon. I would like t’be asking ye a couple of questions, though, if ye don’t mind?”
“Go ahead.”
“First off, if Carl does have t’be punished – and, mind ye, I don’t think he done anything wrong – do ye want t’be giving him the choice of drinking me potion?”
“I don’t see why not. He certainly knows about it.” The Judge thought for a moment. “We’ve established a precedent of sorts. If a defendant knows about the potion, he gets a choice, potion or jail. If he doesn’t know, he doesn’t get to choose.”
Shamus nodded knowingly, “Aye, it’s off t’jail with him.”
“For the most part, but I suppose that I could just sentence someone to drink the potion. That’s what we did with the Hanks Gang, after all.”
“Aye, we did, and it surely worked out for the best – for the town and for the girls themselves.” He chuckled and added, “And they’d be the first ones t'be saying it.”
Humphreys nodded. “Usually, I choose prison for an out-of-towner, so the secret of the potion isn't passed on to people who might talk, or have friends who would. But if there were special circumstances, I maintain the option to choose differently.”
“Carl will get the choice, of course. He has kept the secret so far, and he'd probably keep it in the future. If he takes the potion, though, he’ll spend… 60 days as your prisoner, the same as the Hanks Gang. That should give you another chance to show that you can handle the potion in a responsible way.”
“Aye, it would. Maybe it’ll be helping me to get out of this mess yuir Reverend Yingling’s stirred up about me.”
“Shamus, I am sorry about that. For what it’s worth, I don’t agree with Thad Yingling about the potion. You’ve done a fine job with it, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Thank ye for that, Judge. It’s nice t’be hearing. I’ve got one more question for ye, though. If Carl does take the potion, he’s – she’s -- gonna be me prisoner, right?”
“Yes, where else would I put her?”
Shamus gave him a sly smile. “Ye could give her t’the good reverend t’be taking care of, since he thinks he can do a better job with me potion.” He laughed. “But that ain’t gonna happen. What I want t’know is – well, ye said I could use me prisoners t’wait tables and dance with the men on Saturday night. What I’m asking ye now is, could I tell Carl t’be a dancing girl for me?”
Humphrey understood at once. “Looking for a way to go up against Sam Duggan, eh?” He chuckled and thought to himself, ‘And on the cheap, too.’ Aloud, he continued, “I don’t see why not. But I do think that Carl should get some extra pay for it. Being a dancer in a show is far beyond the normal duties of a prisoner.”
“So it is, and I’ll be happy t’be giving her something extra in the way of money… if it works out that way.”
“You’ll need more than one dancer, though. Too bad we couldn’t get that bastard that raped poor Bridget. If you’re her father, I feel like I’m some sort of uncle to her, and I’d love to force-feed him a dose… or two.” He whispered the last. “How is Bridget, by the way?”
“Still in a daze. I think she hates herself more’n she hates him that done it.”
“That’s the problem. Much as I’d like to see Stafford up before me for what he did, I can’t do a damned thing unless she presses charges.”
“Aye, and she won’t.” The men looked at each other for a moment before they both took long sips of their beer.
* * * * *
Kaitlin opened her front door on the third knock. “Phillipia, what brings you over here?”
“Cecelia Ritter,” Phillipia answered, her dark eyes flashing.
Kaitlin looked over her friend’s shoulder. “She isn’t with you now, is she?”
“Not hardly. May I come in?” She lifted a small package she’d been holding. “I brought kourabiethes.”
“Those are the shortbread cookies with the powdered sugar and almonds, aren’t they?” When Phillipia nodded, Kaitlin opened the door wide. “Bribe accepted… cheerfully. Come on in, and I’ll brew us up some tea to go with them.”
A few minutes later, the two women were sitting at the kitchen table, dipping the buttery cookies into cups of black tea. “What did you mean about Cecelia?” Kaitlin asked.
“I mean that I’ve had it up to here…” The other woman lifted her arm up above her head. “…with that woman. It was bad enough when she was just the chairwoman of the Ladies' Social Committee. She did the job well enough, and there was no way that she could do anyone any harm.”
Phillipia took a bite of cookie. “She certainly can do harm now. The way she humiliated poor Nancy Osbourne at the town council meeting last night…” She shook her head in anger. “The council only suspended Nancy – no matter what Cecelia keeps insisting – but I wouldn’t be too surprised if she never takes the job back, even after they prove her innocent of that nonsense Cecelia and Zenobia are spreading. If only there hadn't been that killing at the saloon. That's a terrible scandal to overcome, since the two men seemed to be quarreling over Nancy. And with Carl already suspected of robbery, it casts a shadow over his sister.”
“From what Trisha told me about the meeting, I’m inclined to agree. I’m only glad that the council had the gumption to postpone the vote on Mr. O’Toole’s potion.”
Her friend gave a hearty laugh. “That… that was absolutely priceless. I don’t know who was madder about that, the reverend or Cecelia.”
“It’ll do the both of them good to not get what they want so fast – if at all. I don’t know what set Reverend Yingling off to go after the potion the way he has.”
“Neither do I. He can be a bit ‘stiff-minded’ about things, as my father used to say.”
“I know. He was so insistent that Trisha and Emma wear dresses right after they changed. Trisha told me that he threatened to back the efforts to remove her from the board if she didn’t.”
“And now Cecelia is ready to do just that at the next Board meeting. The way she’s got people stirred up about things, she may just get her way.”
Kaitlin hesitated for a moment. “I don’t think she will.” Kaitlin wanted to tell Phillipia that Trisha was going to quit – they were close friends, after all, but she could no more do that than she could reveal that Trisha was pregnant.
“You sound very sure of yourself. I do hope that you’re right.”
“So do I,” she said with a chuckle. “And won’t it be fun to see Cecelia turn red in the face again, if I am?”
“Maybe she’ll wear that violet dress of hers to the meeting,” Phillipia giggled. “The color would go so well with her apoplectic complexion.”
“You’re terrible, Phillipia.” Kaitlin joined in the giggling.
“If I’m so terrible, then why are you laughing?”
“Because it’s so true.” Kaitlin took another sip of tea. “I just wish we could do something to help poor Nancy.”
“So do I… in the meantime, can I ask you a question?” She leaned in, a conspirator hatching a plot.
Kaitlin matched her. “Is it something nasty?”
“Quite the opposite, what would you think of my taking over Nancy’s class?”
“You? Why?”
“Because someone has to do it. My Yully is due to graduate this year, and I will not have some incompetent teacher spoil that for him.”
“Yes, and I feel the same about my Emma, but – excuse me – can you be a teacher?”
“I believe so. My father, Jonathan Wilkes, was professor of Greek language and Greek literature at Dickenson University back in Pennsylvania.”
“Wilkes? With your coloring and features, I always assumed that your family was Greek.” She stopped a half beat, then quickly added. “Not that it matters, of course.”
“My mother was. She met my father in Corinth when he needed a guide. She taught English at a local school, so I’m actually the daughter of two teachers.”
“Then you should do wonderfully… provided your children don’t mind having their mother as their teacher.”
“They had better not. I really want to do this. I think I can do a good job. I plan to ask Nancy for help, too, though I certainly won’t tell many people that she’s helping. She knows how to work with these children, and, maybe if she’s helping, she won’t feel so bad about not doing the job herself.”
“I certainly hope you’re right. She’s been a good teacher, and I would hate to lose her permanently.”
“Let’s just pray that Cecelia hasn’t already made her want to leave the school, no matter what.”
* * * * *
Nancy Osbourne “tsk-tsked” as she walked up the schoolhouse steps. “The door shouldn’t be left open,” she thought aloud. “I’ll have to make sure that I lock it when I leave.”
“Is somebody out there?” asked a voice from inside.
She walked in and saw… “Mr. Whitney, what are you doing here?” He was sitting at her desk, leafing through the McGuffey's Fourth Eclectic Reader.
He put the book down on the desk. “Waiting for you, Miss Osbourne… Nancy. I was hoping that you’d stop by, so I waited around after I sent the children home.”
“Sent them home? No, they need to have their class work. There’s so very much that needs to be covered before the end of the year.”
“And today, some of it was covered. I’m filling in for you this week. The town council will be having a special meeting tomorrow night to see who we can hire for the rest of the year.” Then he added, “Of course, if you can make a good case to the council, you’ll be reinstated.”
He paused. Nancy looked perplexed and glanced away.
“The shooting has made everything seem worse,” Whit continued, “and it removed that Cooper character before he could be made to admit what really happened. Still, things probably won't look so bad once Carl is found innocent of both the killing and the robbery.”
Nancy signed. “I could accept any fate for myself, as long as my brother is exonerated.” She looked as though she was going to say more, but then suddenly changed the subject. “And if you don’t hire anyone to teach?”
He shrugged. “We have to hire somebody. I can’t keep my shop closed forever.” He paused a beat. “Maybe -- if nobody gets hired -- it will force us to end your suspension that much quicker.”
“I-I’m not sure that I want to come back. Don’t get me wrong; I love teaching, but af-after the… the way, I’ve b-been treated…” Her voice trailed off, as her eyes welled with tears and she settled down into one of the eighth graders’ seats.
Whit hurried over to her. “Are you all right?”
“No, I… Mrs. Carson, she… she threw me out, said I was a bad influence, and she didn’t want in her house. I packed – I’ve lived in this town almost five years, and it took me less than an hour to pack.” She half-choked, half-sobbed.
When she got her breath back, she said, “I've got no one in my life except my brother and… and the chil… the children. I pinched pennies my whole life and have saved almost nothing. If I keep going on like I have been, what will I have in another five years, or ten? Besides wrinkles and gray hair, I mean.”
Whit smiled. “Nancy, I don't think anyone will notice many gray hairs and wrinkles on you, even in ten years.” Then he realized that his comforting words might be misconstrued. He shifted the topic. “Do you have a place to stay?”
“No, I asked at a couple of boarding houses. The good ladies would barely talk to me. I got a few offers from men, but not the sort I care to even think about. And if… if I rent a room at one of the saloons, well, to a lot of people I’d just be confirming that those lies about me are true.”
“Come stay with me.”
“Mr. Whitney!” She stared up at him incredulously.
“I said that badly. My wife, Carmen, and I have a guesthouse. My brother-in-law, Ramon de Aguilar, lived there before he got married. It has all the room one person needs and there’s a lock on the door.” He looked at her changed expression. “Don’t worry; Carmen loves company. You can ask her yourself.”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Please, try it for just a night or two. Think of it as my way of apologizing to you for voting to suspend you – and as far as I’m concerned that’s all we did.” He gave her his best smile.
She hesitated for a moment, then returned the smile. “Well, I suppose, I could try it for a while.”
* * * * *
Milt walked over to where Jane was sitting by the bar. “Good evening, Jane, can I buy you a drink?”
“Only if you promise to answer a question,” she replied, looking at him oddly. “Answer it true, I mean, with no lawyer wiggling.”
He raised his hand, palm outward. “I promise.” He turned to R.J. “Two beers, please.” When the barman drew the beers, Milt took them both and let Jane lead him to a nearby table.
“Okay,” she said, taking a seat opposite him. “My question is, what’d you say t’Ethan so he wouldn’t sell me that painting? Remember, you promised t’tell the truth.”
He sighed. “Can I take a drink first?” When she nodded, he took a long sip. He’d been expecting – no, been dreading her question, and he hoped that she’d understand what he was about to say. “I asked Ethan for some samples of his work, he gave me the sketch he did of Jessie’s hands; one of Wilma – just her face, there’s some things you can’t send through the mail; and a couple sketches of ‘The Three Fates.’ He even threw in a quick sketch of me.”
“You said ‘mail.’ Who’d you send them sketches to?”
“Herbie… Herbert Johnston, he’s a fraternity brother of mine from Rutgers. His father, John Tyler Johnston, was one of the men who just founded a new art museum in New York. I thought Mr. Johnson might be interested in Ethan’s work.”
“You thought he’d wanna buy that painting, didn’t you?”
“Frankly, Jane, I-I did. I was hoping he’d make Ethan an offer that you couldn’t match. I figured that you’d be less upset if somebody outbid you for the picture than if Ethan just refused to sell it to you.”
“I guess this Johnson fella outbid me.”
“He did more than that; he offered to sponsor a show of Ethan’s work if he could buy that painting cheap. I don’t know what he paid, but Mr. Thomas told me that he expects to make more than enough on the other paintings he’ll be showing to make up for what he didn’t get for ‘The Three Fates.’ From what Herbie’s told me about the art market in New York, the painter’s probably right.”
“So you win, and Ethan wins. Everybody wins, thanks to you, except me.”
“Jane, please don’t think of it like that.”
“Don’t you go telling me what to think, Milt Quinlan. I know I ain’t near as smart as you, but gimme credit for having some brains.”
“I-I do, Jane. Honestly, I do.”
“No, you don’t, and you never will. I’m just poor, dumb Jane, and you gotta sneak b’hind my back t’protect me from myself.”
“It… it isn’t that way at all.”
“Yes, it is, and the hell with it, and the hell with you, too.” She stood up quickly and headed for the stairs before he could stop her.
Milt watched her go. “Well, that went well,” he said sarcastically.
* * * * *
Friday, April 26, 1872
Phillipia Stone used a borrowed key to let herself in to Whit Whitney’s house. “Hello,” she called, “is anybody home?”
“Hello?” Nancy Osbourne answered from the garden. “Who is that?”
Phillipia followed the sound of Nancy’s voice. “It’s me, Miss Osbourne, Mrs. Stone.”
“Oh, yes, I was hoping I would see you at some point. I wanted to thank you for standing up for me at the council meeting.”
“I was glad to do it. We've met a number of times to discuss my children’s school work, and you’ve always conducted yourself as a lady – as well as a dedicated and caring teacher.”
Nancy had to smile at that. It felt so very good to hear someone say something nice about her. “Yully, Penny, Nestor, and Aggie are attentive and well-behaved children. It’s a pleasure -- it was a pleasure being their teacher.” She sighed. “Having said all that, may I ask what are you doing here just now? Whit and Carmen --”
“Mr. Whitney told me that you were staying here. He gave me the key, as well.”
“You seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble to find me, Mrs. Stone. What can I do for you?”
“For a start, you can call me Phillipia. I’m hoping that we can be friends.”
Nancy gave her a sad smile. “I could use a friend or two right now.”
“And I hope that you will think of me as one, seeing as I came to see you about taking over your job – just until you get reinstated, of course.”
“Thank you for that last part. It doesn’t seem very likely that I will, though.”
“I’m sure that you’re wrong about that.”
“There are a lot of people who think otherwise.” She thought for a moment. “But why are you asking me? I certainly don’t have any say in who my…” She sighed. “…my replacement is.”
“No, but I didn’t want you to think that I went behind your back. Or that I believe that nonsense that Cecelia Ritter and the others are spouting.” She paused for a moment. “Besides, if I’m to do the job properly, I’ll need your help.”
“My help?”
“Of course. My father was a college professor, Greek language and literature, and I often helped him with his classes – that was how I met my husband. But I don’t know the students in your class, or how well they’re doing in each subject, or – or a hundred other details that you know. You can show me all those things, and you can help me prepare the lessons.”
“I-I don’t think I can. I’m not supposed to have anything to do with the children.”
“I can come here after school, and you can help me learn what I’ll need. Then, when you take the class back, you can step right in.”
“If I take the class back.”
“I’m sure that you will.” Phillipia looked Nancy straight in the eye. “In the meantime, will you help me and help your students?”
Nancy felt as if a weight had been lifted. She didn’t want her problems to harm the children. She could still be a teacher, of sorts. “Of course, I will.” She hugged Phillipia. “And thank you, thank you so very much for asking.”
* * * * *
Forry Stafford and Leland Saunders rode slowly up to the hitching post in front of Abner Slocum’s ranch house. Abner saw them coming and walked down from the porch. “What’re you doing here, Stafford?” he asked gruffly.
“I just wanted a chance to speak to you again, Mr. Stafford,” he answered smoothly. “I had hoped to see you in town, but, when that didn’t happen…” His voice trailed off.
“I heard that you found something to occupy your time.”
“What… oh, her. Let me tell you, sir, that little bit of fluff put up a fight, but…” he grinned. “I knew she wanted it; they all do.”
Slocum glared at the other man. “So you took it, and made it look like it was her fault.”
“That’s beside the point, sir.” Forry sensed that he needed to change the subject, even if he didn’t know exactly why. Maybe Slocum was sleeping with the little tart himself – or wanted to.
Yes, that would explain what this rancher had stuck in his craw. Brian Kelly, Bridget Kelly. ‘Maybe the two of them got married after the war,’ he thought, ‘And Tess came out to where Brian was buried and jumped into bed with the most powerful man she could find. She knew the truth, so she got his help to clear her dead husband's war record and settle the grudge she had with me, the man who had gotten him kicked out of the army.’
He chuckled to himself. ‘And I just got her madder, even if she was asking for it.’
Forry didn't want to open that powder keg with Slocum. “I wanted very much to talk to you, so I decided to come back out to your ranch.”
Slocum frowned at how easily Stafford dismissed Bridget and what he’d done to her. “Make it quick. I have work to do.”
“I’m sorry we got off on such a bad footing the other day.” Forry gave the rancher his best smile, as he dismounted. Leland stayed on his horse. “I wanted to ask you another question about those records.”
“We’ve talked about them more than enough, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t believe the records or you.”
“You made that very clear, sir, and I’m sorry that you think so ill of me. I just wanted to ask you what, if anything, you were going to do regarding them.”
“I wasn’t going to do much of anything. Br – Kelly’s done rather well out here – gotten a new start as it were.” He smiled, thinking of how much of a new life Brian – now Bridget – Kelly had gotten.
Stafford misunderstood and smiled back. “Really, sir? I had heard that he was dead. He and that other no-good, Will Hanks, rode into some sort of an ambush and got the deaths they so richly reserved.”
“Don’t be so smug, Mr. Stafford.” Slocum was looking daggers at the man. He couldn’t tell Stafford the truth about Bridget, but he also couldn’t let this slimy little bastard think that he’d won. He might not be able to do much about the rape, but he could do something about those records.
“Your persistence has got me wondering just how badly the truth got distorted at that court martial,” he continued. “When I get back from spring branding, I’ll be writing to Issachar Bailey at the Veterans Affairs Office to ask him to investigate the matter further. He may find that a grave injustice has been done.”
Forry’s smile faded. “Why trouble yourself, sir, with such a trivial matter? Brian Kelly’s been rotting in his grave for almost a year.”
“Whether he’s dead or not, I think that the truth needs to be told about what happened at Adobe Wells.” The rancher looked sharply at the two men. “And the proper men punished for it.” Slocum doubted that any real measures could be taken against an ex-soldier for misdeeds committed in an army of a country that no longer existed, but public shame for Forry Stafford would be some sort of comeuppance.
Forry's face didn't change, but his eyes went cold. Now the rancher's cards were on the table. Stafford knew that it was up to him to either raise or call. He sure as hell wasn't going to fold.
A man led a roan horse over to Slocum just then. “Here y’go, boss. He’s saddled and ready.” He tied the horse’s reins to the post.
“Thanks, Blackie,” Abner said. He turned back to face Forry again. “You’ll excuse me now, but I have to get up north to my herd.”
Leland tried to buy more time. “Maybe Mr. Stafford ‘n’ me could ride with you for a while, Mr. Slocum, so’s you two could talk some more.”
“No, I think that I’ve endured the pair of you for as long as I care to. I’ll ask you to leave my ranch now.”
Stafford remounted. “This isn’t the end of it, Slocum.”
“Yes… I think it is. Goodbye.” Abner watched the pair ride off before he walked back up onto the porch for his saddlebags.
* * * * *
Lavinia Mackechnie poured tea for her two guests. “Cecelia,” she began, “you must be livid after the way you were… we were all tricked Wednesday night.”
“It was a setback.” Cecelia Ritter put a third lump of sugar in her tea and stirred it carefully. “But not a serious one. We got rid of that horrid Osbourne woman sooner than expected, and the town council set an early meeting date for a vote on the Reverend’s petition. They know that they can’t try some trick on us the next time.”
Zenobia Carson scowled. “Postponing the vote the way they did, that Aaron Silverman should be ashamed of himself.”
“Those people have no sense of shame.” Lavinia said. “I don’t understand how this town could ever have elected a Jew to serve on the council.”
“That’s easily remedied,” Cecelia said confidently. “Once the Reverend has the potion, we’ll be the one’s running this town, and we can make sure that the council is made up of G-d-fearing souls who believe in our sort of Christian values.”
“You sound very sure of yourself,” Lavinia told her.
Cecelia laughed. “I have every reason to be. We’ll use the time till the council meeting to make very certain that they vote the way we want them to.”
* * * * *
“You sure he’ll come this way, boss?” Leland Saunders asked.
Forry Stafford pointed down at the trail below. “He said he was going north. This is the only trail north from his ranch house. And I’m pretty certain that we doubled around to here before he had a chance to get past us.”
Things had gone too wrong too fast, Forry thought. Slocum, in his temper, could do a lot of damage if he got that investigation started. Normally, Forry would have had Leland and Dell do the dirty work, while he arranged a nice, tight alibi for himself.
But that damned fool Cooper got himself shot. He’d been the marksman and the steady hand of the pair. Leland didn't have backbone enough to be trusted to do this alone. Forry cursed Dell Cooper one more time for forcing him into doing the job personally.
“I hope you’re right. I don’t wanna have t’track him.”
Forry scowled at the man. “Shut up; I said he’ll be here.” He settled back into the tall grass of the rise, where they were hiding.
“There… there he is.” Stafford pointed down to the figure on the roan horse, who’d just come out of the cover of a patch of trees. “Ready… ready… now, fire… fire!”
Two rifle shots rang out. Slocum’s horse turned, as he started for the cover of the trees. But the man slumped in the saddle for a moment before he abruptly fell to the ground.
“Got you, you smug bastard!” Forry yelled triumphantly. They watched for a moment, but their target lay motionless on the trail. Slocum’s mount halted, then slowly walked back to sniff at the fallen man.
Satisfied, Leland stood up. “Let’s get outta here, sir, before somebody – aww… shit!” He saw men riding quickly out of the woods towards Slocum and ducked back down.
“What?” Forry looked. “Dammit; I thought he’d be alone.”
Two men dismounted and ran over to where the man lay. Another rider – “That damned nigger,” Forry spat when he recognized Luke Freeman. The man must have heard where the shots came from. He was pointing to where they were hiding. Five men wheeled their horses and galloped towards the hidden pair, weapons flashing. They were firing high to keep whoever had shot their boss pinned down.
“Run!” Forry and Leland both leapt to their feet and headed for the tree where their horses were tied.
Forry heard a groan. He glanced back to see Leland stumble and grab his right leg. Forry could see blood. “Help me, boss,” Leland pleaded.
“Idiot!” He sprinted forward. When he reached the tree, he began to pull at the reins.
He heard the sound of horses – and men. “Hold it right there,” a voice ordered. He looked up. Three men were glaring at him from horseback a few feet away, all of them with pistols pointed straight at him. Two more were over by Saunders, who sat on the ground, still holding his leg.
“Certainly, gentlemen.” Forry tried to smile as he dropped his rifle and slowly raised his hands.
* * * * *
“What’s Red doing to the boss?” Joe Ortleib asked.
Red Tully kept working. He’d managed to stop the blood flow with a balled-up kerchief pressed tight to the wound. Now he was trying to tie that kerchief in place with a couple more tied together into a sort of rope. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding,” he answered. “That’s about all I can do.”
“Can he ride?” Luke Freeman, the black foreman, asked.
Red shook his head. “Maybe… but he shouldn’t. He needs to stay as still as he can till the doc gets a good look at him.”
“Since when’re you such an expert?” Finny Pike demanded sarcastically.
“Since 1862,” Red replied. “The Army made me a orderly at a field hospital when I joined up. Moving… moving people was a big part of my job. There’s only one wound. The bullet that got him’s still in there, probably in his spine. His best chance’s t’stay laid down.”
Luke nodded. “Finny,” he ordered, “you’s got a fast horse. Get your ass back to the ranch and get out here quick as you can with a wagon so’s we can get Mr. Slocum into town.”
“Have ‘em put a mattress in it for him to lay on,” Red added. “And a blanket and pillow so he’ll be more comfortable.”
Finny nodded and galloped off.
“You just stay there, Mr. Slocum,” Red told his half-conscious employer. “We’ll get you to Doc Upshaw in no time. With any luck at all, you’ll be up and about in time t’see them bastards off to prison for what they tried t’do to you.”
He smiled reassuringly when he said it. It was the same lie he’d told too many wounded men during the War.
* * * * *
Liam used his napkin to wipe the last crumbs of cherry pie from his face. “That was a delicious dinner, Kaitlin.”
“Thank you, Liam,” Kaitlin replied, smiling. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
Emma took a sip of lemonade. “It was good pie, Mama.” Trisha nodded and mumbled something in agreement.
“Thank you all.” Kaitlin rose and began to gather up the dishes.
Liam stood and shook his head. “You’re doing it wrong, Kaitlin.”
“What am I doing wrong?” she asked. “This is how I always clear the table.”
He walked around to where she was standing. “Yes, and if I was here as just your brother-in-law – your former brother-in-law – I’d watch you for a bit before I went over and sat on the sofa, talking shop with Trisha, while you put away the leftovers and did the dishes.” He took her hand. “But that’s not why I’m here tonight.”
“Wh-why are you here?” She felt a warm blush race across her face.
He smiled. “I’m courting you, Kaitlin. You know that – or you should; I’ve certainly made no secret of my intentions. Tonight Emma and Trisha are the ones who clean the table and do the dishes. We'll go out on the front porch to sit and talk and look up at the moon and…” He took the plate from her. “…and hold hands.”
“Well…” Kaitlin felt a pleasant tingle, one she hadn’t felt in a very long time, run through her. “I suppose we can do that – tonight, anyway.” She took Liam’s arm and let him lead her towards the door.
They both ignored Emma’s gasp of surprise and Trish’s angry glare.
* * * * *
Doctor Hiram Upshaw stepped into his office’s waiting room. He looked tired, and there were bloodstains on his white, cotton surgical coat.
“How’s Mister Slocum?” Luke Freeman asked, quickly rising to his feet. Red Tully, who was sitting three chairs away, also stood.
The doctor sighed. “I stopped the bleeding – you did a good job, Red. He’s not conscious, but, thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be in much pain.”
“Thank the good Lord for that, at least,” Red answered. “Is he… is he gonna be okay?”
“Frankly, it’s too soon to know. He’s weak, and his pulse is far from steady.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t help that the bullet’s still in there.”
Luke looked puzzled. “Couldn’t you take it out, sir?”
“He’s rather weak just now,” Upshaw told him. “And the bullet appears to be lodged in his spine. That’s very risky surgery.”
Freeman frowned. “You can’t jus’ leave it in there.”
“I don’t want to. There’s a doctor in Philadelphia, Wolfgang Vogel. He’s an expert in this type of surgery. Since I’ll be up all night monitoring Abner, I’ll also be using that time to draft a telegram to Vogel describing the case and asking for his advice.”
“You write it up, doc,” Red told him, “and I’ll take it over for you in the morning. That way you can stay here and watch the boss.”
The physician chuckled. “Are you sure Luke here is going to let you hang around my office till morning?”
“You’s prob’ly gonna want some help with Mr. Slocum, doc,” the black man said in reply. “Red done worked at a hospital during the War. I got me a ranch t’run, ‘specially with Mr. Cap up in Prescott, but Red, he can stay here for as long as need be.”
* * * * *
“Are we in agreement, then?” Whit Whitney asked his fellow councilmen.
Aaron Silverman gestured at the almost empty schoolroom. “You see anybody else that wants the job?” He took a breath. “We’re just lucky that the one that does want it will do a good job. As the Sages say, when Luck enters, give him a seat! Let’s hire her already.”
“Arsenio, what do you say?” Whit asked.
The smith shrugged. “I agree with Aaron. She’ll do the job – and do it well enough, I suppose. Let’s hire her and go home.”
“Done.” Whit banged his chairman’s gavel. “You’re hired, Phillipia, and good luck to us all.”
* * * * *
Arsenio watched the room empty. Once the three councilmen were alone, he picked up his hat and stepped over to Whit, who was putting papers into a valise. “Whit, has Nancy said anything to you about what really happened between her and Dell Cooper?”
“Not yet; I’ve given her every chance now that she's staying in our guesthouse, but all she said was that she'd prefer to talk to the whole council together, not one at a time.”
“Is she stalling about something?”
Aaron came over to join them. “Why should she wish to wait? As they say, the truth is so heavy that few men can carry it alone.”
“I think she's waiting for her brother's problems to be decided,” Whit answered. “I can't help but think that her reluctance to defend herself has to do with the suspicions against him. Maybe something she knows might be used against Carl at the inquest.”
Arsenio nodded. “Maybe. And maybe it's her duty to speak up about what she knows about Carl, good or bad. I like Nancy, but she's doing herself no good letting people wonder about her.”
“The truth, as they say, can be the worst libel,” Aaron added, “but he is her brother, and blood don’t turn into water.”
“I get a sense that the feeling is hardening against her,” Whit said, “when she could have nipped it in the bud by talking at the meeting… maybe.”
The other two agreed. “And maybe,” Aaron suggested, “we should set a date to hear her out after we know if Carl's going to go free or not.”
“Probably so,” Arsenio said. “We have time before we need to start a search for a permanent replacement, if necessary.” He considered the situation. “How about Wednesday night at… 7, over at your place, Whit?”
The barber shrugged. “Sounds good to me. I just hope that that young lady uses the time she's got well.”
* * * * *
Saturday, April 27, 1872
Arnie pulled the laundry wagon up to the Spauldings’ back porch, her last delivery of the day. “Remember, Mama,” she told Teresa, who was walking beside her, “the Spauldings do not know that I am really a boy.”
“I will remember,” Teresa answered. “Is that why you are wearing a dress, so they will not find out?”
“I… they expect me to dress this way. Señora Spaulding said I should wear one if I’m going to be their teacher. I want to keep that job.”
“Your papa used to say that ‘gold is the best argument.’ I see that he was right.”
Arnie sighed. “They are very nice people. I like them, and I do not want to disappoint them.”
“Not disappoint them the way you disappoint me when you will not wear a dress except for church?”
Arnie could hear the hurt in her voice. “Mama, I… it is just easier to pull the wagon if I wear my old clothes. A dress… there is not the room to stretch my legs when I walk, and it is tight…” She gestured at her stomach and her bosom. “…up here when I move my arms.”
“I managed,” Teresa replied. “And I will have to manage again when I take the job back from you on Monday.”
“You are used to wearing a dress while you work. I was… I am not.”
Before Teresa could answer, a tall young man walked onto the porch. “I thought I heard voices out here.” He smiled and looked down at the two women. “Hello, Annie. Is this your mother? You said that she’d be coming with you today.” He walked down the steps to where they were standing. “I – we all – have looked forward to meeting her.”
“And you will.” The young woman smiled back at him and half-turned towards Teresa. “Mama, this is my friend, Hedley Spaulding.” She turned back. “Hedley, this is my mama, Teresa Diaz.”
Hedley offered Teresa his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Diaz.”
“And I…” Teresa shook his hand. “…am pleased to meet my daughter’s friend.”
Three packages of clean laundry, all labeled “Spaulding”, were on the top of the cart. “I’ll take these.” Hedley picked them up. “After you, ladies.” He bowed, gesturing at the steps with his free arm.
“Th-thank you, Hedley.” Arnie felt a rush of heat run across her face, as she walked up onto the porch. She stopped and looked back at the boy… and her mother.
Teresa studied the expression on her daughter’s face. ‘Perhaps,’ she told herself, ‘Arnolda is not as much of a boy as she thinks she is.’
* * * * *
Phillipia Stone knocked on the door of the Whitney guesthouse, a two-story structure at the far side of the fenced-in courtyard behind their house.
“Be right there,” a female voice came from inside. A moment later, Nancy Osbourne opened the door. “Phillipia, do come in.”
Phillipia walked in. “Thanks.” She looked around. “Oh, my goodness...” Her voice trailed off.
“It certainly is,” Nancy said with a chuckle.
They stood in a large, well-appointed main room. The walls were plastered a light blue shade that went well with the dark oak paneling. Several paintings, portraits of men in old-fashioned Spanish costume, hung from the walls. A fireplace, almost high enough for Nancy to step into, took up most of one wall. A set of three chairs and a long settee were grouped in front of it. A dining table, made of the same dark oak and surrounded by eight chairs, stood some feet beyond it. Phillipia could see that a stack of papers, most of them arranged in folders, sat on the table.
“I knew that Carmen’s family was old Spanish land grant,” Phillipia said, “but this…”
“Was designed to impress.” Nancy finished the thought. “It impressed me, too. There’s a full kitchen behind that door.” She pointed beyond the table. “And four lovely bedrooms upstairs. I’m using the smallest one, and it’s still twice as big as… my last room.”
Her smile faded. “I hate it, living here on charity like I am.”
“Maybe Carmen and Mr. Whitney will let you stay here after you get your job back.”
“If I get it back. If I want it back after what the good ladies of this town did to me. If I want to go back to living my life by rules that none of them would ever put up with.” She shook her head as if to banish the thought. “No, that’s not fair. I’ve loved my time here as a teacher.”
“And you will be one again… soon.” Phillipia put her hand on the other woman’s arm. “For now, you can help me keep the children’s studies going until you take your job back.”
“You were hired, then?”
“I was, but I don’t know if it was because of my sterling credentials or because nobody else asked for the job.”
Nancy had to smile at that. “Nobody else was crazy enough, eh? All right, come over to the table and let’s get started.”
“What are these?” Phillipia asked as she sat down next to Nancy.
“My files on each student; I kept them in my room because I worked on them at night. I just… brought them with me when I had to move out.”
“I’m glad you did. What are they, exactly?”
“Notes on each student’s habits, especially on how they learn; their test records and their grade levels for each subject; and, most important, my lesson plan, what I hope to teach each student by the end of this year.”
“All that?”
“Let me show you.” She picked up a file. “This is your son, Yully.” She opened it and began to read. “Ulysses – ‘Yully’ – Stone. Good natured and a natural leader; clumsy from a growth spurt early in the fall.” She put down the folder and continued. “He grew into his taller body over the winter, I’m glad to say.”
“Amen to that,” Phillipia agreed.
Nancy picked up the folder again. “Arithmetic… at grade level; reading… above grade level; history... well above grade level. Shall I go on?”
“No, that certainly sounds like him.” She reached for the folder. “Can you show me how to use this – and the ones for all the other children, of course?”
“That’s why I got them out. It may look like a lot of hard work, but I’m sure that you’ll manage.”
* * * * *
“So… Annie,” Teresa began. She and Arnie were walking home from the Spaulding house. Teresa was pulling the wagon now.
Arnie stopped. “Please, do not call me that name, Mama.”
“Why not?” her mother asked. “You did not mind when the Spauldings used it. In fact, you seemed to be very comfortable with the name.” She paused a beat. “Just as you seemed comfortable in that dress.”
“They… Señora Spaulding heard me wrong when I first came to their house. She thought that I said ‘Annie’, not ‘Arnie’ when she asked my name. I did not say anything because I wanted her business for the laundry. Now, it… it would hurt her feelings to tell her the truth.”
“And the dress?”
“I told you, Mama. She – they all expect me to wear a dress while I teach them Spanish. For the money they pay, I am willing to do it.”
Teresa chuckled. “Maybe I should pay you. Then you would wear a dress the rest of the time.”
“Please, Mama,” Arnie sighed, “do not tease me. I am a man. I know what I look like, but – inside -- I know that I am a man.”
“You look like a very beautiful young woman. Why do you not want to dress as one?”
“Because I am not one – I am not, I am not!” She pouted and stamped her foot. Then she sighed again. “And I am so tired of saying that I am not a woman. But if… if I start to dress like one, if I let you call me ‘Annie’, then I am telling people that I am a woman. Can you understand that?” She looked almost ready to cry.
Teresa gently put her arm on her daughter’s shoulder. “Si, Arnolda, I understand.”
* * * * *
Stephan slid his checker to an open square.
“You really ain’t got your mind on your game today, do you?” Penny Stone asked. She jumped the checker, then jumped a second one, which landed her man on the far row of the board. “King me,” she said in triumph, taking his two pieces off the board.
The boy studied the board. He had three checkers left to her seven, and this was her second king. “I give up, Penny. You win.”
The rest of the Fort Secret “garrison “ – as they called themselves – were gathered around the table, watching the game being played out in their underground club house. Ysabel sat down next to the defeated player. “You’re a better player than her, Stephan. What’s the matter?”
“I’m still mad at my Pa about Miss Osbourne, I guess,” he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “He shoulda stopped ‘em from firing her. He’s so good at telling folks what to do – he tells me often enough – but he just stood there and let them ladies get their way.”
Yully sat down next to his sister. “Yeah, but what can you do about it?”
“I can make darn sure that I don’t wind up like him,” Stephan told him. “I’m gonna write a letter t’West Point. I wanna know exactly what it takes to get in and how old you have to be.”
Emma snorted. “Your pa’s gonna hit the roof when you get a letter back from West Point telling all that. You’ll never get to see it, and you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”
“How ‘bout if I write that letter,” Yully suggested. “My folks won’t mind. At least, I don’t think they will.”
Stephan shook his head. “That’s no good. I want them t’have a record of my name. Just knowing that they have that letter from me’ll make me feel like I got a start at going there.”
“You both should write the letter,” Ysabel proposed. “Give them both your names, and you both sign it, but only write Yully’s address, so they send their answer t’his house.”
Stephan’s expression brightened. “You know, that just might work. Thanks, Ysabel.” He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Y-you’re welcome.” It wasn’t very bright in the underground room, and Ysabel hoped that no one saw her blushing in the dim light.
* * * * *
Herve knocked on the half-opened door to Lady Cerise’s office. “Yes, mon cher?” she asked, looking up from her desk. Wilma sat next to her, as they worked on the account books.
“Mam’selle Jessie is here to see her sister,” he replied. “She says that it is très important.”
Wilma stood up. “You don’t mind, do you, Cerise?”
“No,” Cerise shook her head, “but ask her to be brief, s'il vous plait. We have a bit more work to do before you can go and join the other ladies.”
“Hey there, Wilma… Cerise.” Jessie walked into the room. “Is it okay if we talk in here?”
“I feel the need for a cup of tea just now.” Cerise smiled and rose to her feet. “I shall return in… ten minutes?” She said the last as a question.
Jessie nodded. “That should be more ‘n enough time. Thanks.” She waited until the older woman had left the room before she continued. “You hear ‘bout Forry Stafford ‘n’ Slocum?”
“Clay Falk was in here last night. Clay told me – when we had time t’talk – how Forry and that little snake of his ambushed Slocum. He said they almost got him.”
Jessie nodded. “Slocum’s over at the doc’s. He’s hurt real bad, Paul says.” She sighed. “At least they got them two bastards.”
“Yeah, but what’re they gonna do with ‘em? That’s what I wanna know.”
“Try ‘em for murder -- attempted murder, I hope, find ‘em guilty, and put ‘em away some place for a good long time.” She smiled, thinking of Forry Stafford spending years in some prison.
Wilma shook her head. “Or find ‘em guilty and give ‘em each a dose of Shamus’ potion, just like they done t’us, and let ‘em work off their time in the Saloon.”
“Shit, you think that’ll happen? I'm not so sure I want to have those two in there, dirtying up the air. That's my home, you know.” She thought for a moment. “If it happens, what'll we do?”
“I know what I’d like t’do… I’d like t’give ‘em a double dose – turn ‘em out onto the street, a couple of man-crazy carpet girls fucking in an alley with any fellah that’s got two bits t’rub together.” She gave her sister a nasty grin.
Jessie frowned. “I like it, but it ain’t gonna happen. Shamus is way too careful with that potion, ‘specially now that he’s got that preacher man after it. Besides…” she teased, “if they did get a double dose, they’d probably wind up here, working for you and the Lady.”
“The only one that’d like that is Rosalyn. Her and Forry hit it off real good, them both being ‘Suthun’ aristocrats, and all.” Wilma spoke the last in her thickest Texas accent, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“That still might be better than having ‘em over at the Saloon, having Forry rubbing shoulders with Bridget all day long.” She chuckled. “O’course, that’s all Forry’d be able to rub.”
Wilma’s expression changed to one of concern. “How is Bridget? She any better?”
“A little. She still ain’t running her game, but I think Molly’s got her coming downstairs for the dance t’night. She’ll just sell tickets, and Molly’ll be the one dancing.”
“That ain’t much, but it’s a start, I guess. It’s sure better ‘n her sitting up in her room crying.” She thought for a moment. “And maybe – just maybe – all them men asking about her, asking how she’s doing, and why she ain’t running her game, or even ain’t just dancing with ‘em – maybe it’ll get her feeling better ‘bout herself.”
“I hope you’re right. It pains me the way she acts like what that bastard done was her fault.” Jessie took a breath. “Still ‘n’ all, what are we gonna do if them two sons-of-bitches take the potion?”
Wilma shrugged. “I ain’t sure, but I do know two things. I, for one, ain’t gonna tell ‘em who I – we – used to be. And I am gonna laugh at them so damned hard that I’ll like t’bust this here corset of mine.”
Jessie nodded, a nasty smile curling her lips now. “You know, big sister, that part about laughing at ‘em sounds like one of your better ideas.”
* * * * *
“Good evening, Jane,” Milt said in a cheery tone. “I have my ticket right here.” He held it out.
She took it without a word and put it in the pocket of her apron. “Okay, let’s dance.”
“You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?” He took her arm and led her out onto the dance floor.
She turned to face him, as the music began. “What if I am? I took your ticket, didn’t I?”
“You did, but I was hoping that we could talk while we danced, maybe –”
She cut him off. “Look, Mr. Quinlan, I took your ticket. That means I gotta dance with you.” She sighed. “Just like I’d dance with any other stranger who had a ticket. I don't have to talk to you if I don't want to, and I don't!”
He gave a small sigh. “We'll, then let's dance.”
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 5 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, April 28, 1872
Nancy walked slowly towards the schoolhouse. ‘Feels good to be back here,’ she thought to herself, as she joined the crowd of Sunday worshipers gathering outside the doors. ‘Even just for Sunday services.’
There was a rustle around her, as people turned to look her way. “What is she doing here?” someone said indignantly, speaking just loud enough for Nancy to hear.
Another voice – Nancy thought that she recognized the nasal tones of Zenobia Carson – added: “Look at her, coming here today as if she had nothing to be ashamed of.”
Nancy bristled and shifted to face her. “Why shouldn’t I be here? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Cecelia Ritter suddenly blocked her path. “Go home, you brazen hussy. You’ve no place here among decent folk.”
Nancy looked the matron in the eye. “I thought that the church would be exactly the place for a sinner as evil as you claim I am.”
Cecelia laughed smugly. “The place for a repentant sinner, perhaps, but I see no sign of repentance – or the hope of repentance -- in you.”
“And I see no sign of Christian humility – or Christian mercy – in you, Mrs. Ritter.” She tried to step around the other woman. “Perhaps, we’re both in need of some divine assistance.”
Lavina Mackechnie and Zenobia Carson moved in front of her. “How dare you speak to Cecelia like that?” Lavinia asked.
“Because she deserves it; now let me pass.” Nancy glowered at the trio, as they continued to obstruct her. A few others, male and female, joined them. Nancy was all but surrounded. She thought that she saw Phillipia Stone at the back of the crowd, giving her a smile of encouragement, but unable to get any closer.
Reverend Yingling pushed his way through the crowd. “What is going on here?”
“This… this hussy insulted us.” Cecelia replied.” She… she boasted about her scarlet ways.”
Nancy shook her head. “I did nothing of the sort, Reverend. All I wanted to do was to attend services, and these three tried to force me to leave.”
“Perhaps…” Yingling studied Nancy’s face. Then he glanced over at Cecelia. “Perhaps, Nancy, it might be better to let things quiet down before you --”
“Seek the guidance of our Lord?” Arsenio stepped up next to the minister. “That’s hardly what I would expect a man of G-d to say. A politician might say it, but a preacher like you – never.”
Yingling took a breath. “She, ahhh… she is, of course, welcome here today. I only meant that she – that all four ladies -- should take a moment to calm down before joining us.” He looked angrily at Cecelia. “Joy, not anger, however justified, is the way to worship our Savior.” He turned and hurried off, with most of the crowd following him.
“Thank you, Mr. Caulder,” Nancy said, trying to collect her thoughts. “And good morning to you, Mrs. Caulder,” she added when Laura joined her husband.
Arsenio smiled. “Glad to be of help.”
“Nancy!” Phillipa Stone and her husband, Lucian, joined the group. “I wanted to talk to you some more about the school.” She smiled at Nancy and gave a reassuring wink.
The teacher felt her body unclench. “Certainly, we can have a nice long talk about things after church.”
“Why don’t you join Phillipia and me, then?” Lucian offered Nancy his left arm, as his wife took his right.
“Delighted.” She took his arm and walked with them into the building.
* * * * *
Cap Lewis rode into town at full gallop. When he reached Doc Upshaw’s office, he pulled up and leapt from his horse, pausing just long enough to tie the reins to the hitching post.
“Damn!” he spat when he reached the door. “Locked.” He pounded on the glass in frustration.
The curtain at the window to the left of Cap opened deliberately. It was Edith Lonnigan, squinting into the darkness outside. She bustled over to the front door, and turned the latch. “Who?… oh, Mr. Lewis.”
“Thanks,” Cap said as the door opened. He hurried past her into the waiting room, a wild look in his eyes, his clothes coated with dust from a long, hard ride. “My uncle,” he demanded. “Luke Freeman wired me that he’d been shot. How is he?” He waited for a response. When she didn’t speak, he started for the back, where he knew Upshaw had some beds for his patients.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Lewis.” The curtain before him moved aside, and Red Tully stepped through, to block the way. “The doc’s checking on your uncle right now.”
Cap raised an eyebrow. “Red… what are you doing here?”
“Helping me.” The physician walked through the curtain from the back. His white coat was rumpled, and his hair was messed. He’d been busy. “Helping your uncle, too.”
“How is Uncle Abner? What happened? Can I talk to him?”
Upshaw raised a hand. “I just gave him something to make him sleep, so you won’t be able to talk right now. To tell the truth, I’ve got him sleeping a lot. It’s about all I can do for him at the moment.”
“Who hurt him?” Cap demanded.
“Two men, Stafford and Saunders, ambushed him,” Red added, “but don’t you worry none. We caught ‘em. They’re cooling their heels in jail till their trial tomorrow.”
“Who in hell are they?”
“A couple o’polecats from Texas,” Red answered.
“Stafford… from Texas? Is that the same Stafford Bridget told my uncle and me about?”
The other two men suddenly looked uneasily at one another, as if they knew something that they didn't want to say.
Cap took a breath. “In jail? That’s some good news, anyway.” He looked the doctor in the eye. “But you said that all you could do was help Uncle Abner sleep. What exactly is the matter with him?”
“The bullet lodged in his spine, as near as I can tell without surgery. He was mounted when he was hit, and he fell off the horse – hard. He doesn’t seem to have much feeling below the middle of his back.”
“Is he… paralyzed?”
“It’s too early to say. He seems to have some sensation in his right arm, but not much other than that. Look, Cap, there’s a Doctor Vogel in Philly. He was an Army surgeon during the War, and he’s an expert on such wounds. I’ve written – telegraphed – him to ask for advice. He’s helped more than one doctor that way, so I have every hope that he can help your uncle, too.”
“How… how soon will he write back?”
“I don’t know. I said that it was urgent. In the meantime, I’m monitoring your uncle. Luke Freeman told Red to stay here and help out. Did you know that he was an orderly at a Union Army Hospital?”
Cap shook his head. “I guess he did mention it once or twice.” He glanced to the cowhand. “Thanks, Red.”
“Glad t’help. Your uncle’s a good man.”
“Thank you for that, too.” Cap’s body relaxed, and he suddenly yawned.
Doc Upshaw studied the man for a moment. “You rode straight on through from Prescott, didn’t you?”
“I did. What… what of it?”
“There’re four beds in my ward. Why don’t you pick one that your uncle isn’t using and get some rest?”
“But my uncle… and… and Bridget.”
The physician frowned for some reason that Cap didn’t understand. “It’s only mid morning. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until later, after you’ve had some sleep, before you see her? You’ll be rested, and you and she can give each other your full attention.”
“Now, that…” Cap yawned again. And smiled. “… that sounds like a real good idea. Okay, Doc, show me to that bed.”
* * * * *
“Papa,” Ruth Yingling said hesitantly, “can I ask you a question?”
Yingling smiled. “May I ask you a question, and, yes, you may.”
“Why was everybody being so nasty to Miss Osbourne? What did she do wrong?”
The Reverend thought for a moment. “She, ah… some people feel that she has not been acting in a manner appropriate for a school teacher.”
“That’s not true,” the girl protested. “She’s a good teacher. She gave me all that extra help with my spelling, and look how well I did on my last test.”
Yingling patted her head. “It is not her spelling that is the problem, daughter. It was the example she set for her students.”
“She didn’t set a bad example today,” Stephan interrupted. “She was just trying to come to church when Miz Ritter and them – and those other women stopped her.”
The minister raised a surprised eyebrow at his son. “Cecelia – Mrs. Ritter – and the other women were concerned that she might cause trouble. I’m surprised that you didn’t see that.”
“I saw,” the boy continued. “It looked to me like they were bullying her, trying to force her to leave.”
Ruth smiled and clutched her father’s arm. “But they didn’t. Papa stopped them.”
“Yes,” the boy replied, “yes, he did… eventually.”
The man frowned. “I merely wanted to give them all time to calm down. One should not enter a church in anger.” His son just misunderstood. The boy couldn’t possibly be questioning him.
“Of course, father,” Stephan said innocently. “What other reason could you have?”
* * * * *
“Your lawyer’s here to see you, boys,” Paul announced.
Zach Levy walked over to the jail cell where Stafford and Saunders were locked up. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He waited while Paul unlocked the cell and opened the door. “May we have some privacy, Deputy?” he asked as he entered the cell.
“Don’t see why not.” He locked the door. “Give a yell when you’re ready to leave.” He turned and walked back to the desk. The deputy was far enough away that there was little chance that he could hear them talking.
The lawyer sat down on the bunk. He set his dark brown, leather briefcase on the cot next to Forry and took out a pad of paper and a pencil. “It doesn’t look very good. Forry, you were heard arguing with Abner Slocum about something. Then you’re found holding a rifle and looking out from hiding when he’s shot. They found you both, actually.”
“They done shot me, too,” Leland interrupted. “I’ll be limping for weeks from that bullet them bastards put in my leg.”
“The fact that you were two trying to run away doesn’t help your case very much. The only thing in your favor is that Slocum is still alive. Otherwise, you’d be on trial for murder instead of attempted murder.” Zach studied the faces of his two clients. “Can you tell me anything – anything at all – that would help?”
Forry grinned. “How about the fact that I know Ed Davis; know him real good. Does that help?”
“I’m not sure. Who is this Mr. Davis? Does he live around here?”
The other man chuckled. “Nope, he lives back in Austin – in the governor’s mansion.”
“So you claim to know the governor of Texas. I’m afraid that I don’t see how that might help your case.”
“Oh, I know him, all right, but it won’t help at my trial, though. They’ve got me dead to rights.”
Zach raised a curious eyebrow. “Do you want to plead guilty, then?”
“Might as well. It doesn’t really matter what happens at the trial.”
“What do you mean? Of course it matters. If you can give the jury a good reason as to why you ambushed Abner Slocum, you might even get lucky and draw a lesser sentence.”
“Well, I could say that Slocum had been making false accusations about me, and that he'd sworn to my face that he was going to smear my honorable reputation by spreading them around. But that defense would just drag things out. I've had enough of this territory, and I just want to get home as soon as I can.”
“Threatening to hurt your reputation, that seems like a pretty weak justifications for shooting a man from cover. Tell me, do you have any witness to these threats you say he made?”
“Leland here.”
Zach shook his head. “He's one of the accused. His testimony won't count for much, not with Slocum being such a respected man locally.”
“If I’d had my way, Slocum’d be dead right now. But, like you said, after the trial comes the sentencing, and that’s where knowing Ed’ll come in very handy. Whoever you got as the territorial governor of Arizona, he should fall all over himself when the governor of Texas tells him to let me go.”
Saunders looked nervous. “What about me, boss? You ain’t gonna leave me rot in some jail, are you?”
“I suppose I owe you something. I’ll see if Ed can’t get you out, too.” Forry smiled and put him arm on his hireling’s shoulder. ‘The hell I will,’ he thought, still smiling broadly. ‘If I get you out, you’ll have something you can hold over me for years, just like you and Cooper did with Adobe Wells. It’ll be a pure relief to let you rot.’
* * * * *
Cap walked through the swinging doors of the Eerie Saloon. He stopped almost at once and looked around inside. Bridget was alone, sitting at her usual table.
‘Probably playing that solitaire game of hers,’ he thought, ‘but why is she sitting with her back to the door, instead of watching to see who comes in?’ He shrugged and started towards her.
Shamus saw him and started to say something. Cap stopped and put a finger to his lips, asking the barman not to give away the surprise.
“Guess who,” he told her, reaching around as he did so to cover her eyes. He leaned down and kissed the side of her neck – just to give her a clue, of course.
She shuddered and pushed away from him. “N-no! Don’t… don’t touch me!” Then she turned and saw his face.
“Oh… oh, my G-d… Cap!” She looked at him, like he never saw her look at him before. She sprang up and bolted for the stairs before he recovered from his own surprise.
He stared, confused, for just a moment. “Bridget, what’s going on?” When she didn’t answer, when she kept running, he began the chase.
With his longer legs, he closed most of the distance between them while they were still on the stairway. But when she reached the second floor, she sprinted for her door. She managed to get inside, closing it behind her in time to shut him out.
“Bridget, please.” He tried the knob, only to hear the click of the latch, as it slid into place.
“G-go away. I… you don’t… don’t…” Her voice trailed off.
He shook the door, trying to force it open somehow. “I don’t what? Please, Bridget, please tell me what’s the matter.” He took a breath. “I… I love you.”
“No, you… you don’t.” There were no words after that, only the horrible sound of a woman – the woman he loved – sobbing.
Why was she acting like this? All at once, he remembered the odd glance that had passed between Red Tully and the doctor. Something had happened to Bridget, something so bad that they didn't want to him to know about it. He sank down to the floor, his fists clenched in frustration and anger. Anger at whoever had done this to her, and frustration that he couldn’t take her in his arms and comfort her.
* * * * *
Shamus caught Molly staring at the ceiling. “Why don’t ye go up there, Love?”
“What do ye mean?”
“That’s gotta be the ninth time ye was looking up towards Bridget’s room in the last five minutes.”
“I’m worried, Shamus. Ye saw the way she ran, like she was being chased by a demon from Hell, and not by the man she cares for – and who cares for her – more than any other.”
“I know. The best thing for the both of them would be if they was in her room… comforting each other. But if they ain’t – which is the more likely, I’m thinking, that maybe ye can help.”
“From yuir mouth t’the Good Lord’s Ear.” Molly gave him a quick peck on the cheek and headed for the staircase.
* * * * *
Cap sat on the floor outside Bridget’s door. Her crying had stopped, but there were no other sounds from within the room. He was trying to decide what to do next, when he heard a voice, a voice on this side of the door. “Cap, are ye all right?”
“Molly?” He managed to get to his feet. “What’s going on?”
She gave him a vague smile. “I’ll not be telling ye here. Come down and have a drink.”
“What about Bridget? I want to --”
“Ye’re not likely t’be hearing it from her. For that matter, it ain’t likely that she’ll be coming out anytime soon.” She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Ye might as well be waiting for her at the bar. Our stools are a lot more comfortable that that patch of floor ye’ve been sitting on.”
He thought for a moment. “I suppose. She’s got to come out sometime, and I can wait just as well downstairs.” His stomach growled. “Sorry, I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Even more reason t’be coming with me. Maggie’s serving up some nice chicken stew at that restaurant o’hers tonight.”
Cap followed Molly down, and they both took a seat at one of the restaurant tables. “Now,” he asked as soon as he sat down. “What’s the matter with Bridget? Why did she act the way she did? What does everybody know that I don't?”
“She…” Molly sighed. She looked down at the table and spoke in a low, troubled voice. “Cap, there ain’t no good way t’be saying it. Bridget…” Molly sighed and closed her eyes, hating what she had to tell him. “She… she was… raped.”
She saw the young rancher's expression change to astonishment, then horror, then rage. “Take it easy, Cap,” she cautioned.
“What! Who did it? Where is he?” Cap growled, his hands balled into fists. “I’ll… I’ll cut his balls off.”
“In jail, he is, and good riddance.” She spat. “His trial’s tomorrow, only it… it ain’t for that.” She laid her hand on his arm. “His name is Stafford, and he’s… he’s the man that shot yuir Uncle Abner.”
“Stafford again! I’ll… I’ll kill him right now!” Cap’s fists were clenched, and Molly kept a careful eye on the steak knife that was part of his place setting at the table.
“Don’t ye be going off and doing something stupid like that. Bridget needs ye. She’s been in a dreadful state of mind, since he… done it to her.”
“She behaved like she was afraid of her own shadow, but, Molly, why did she run away once she knew it was me?”
“That devil of a man done a lot more t’her than just… what he done t’her body. He come in here the next day, bold as brass, and pays her for what he done t’her. He paid her right thuir where everyone could see.”
“My Lord! He damned well called Bridget a whore when he did that.”
“Most of them that was about when he come in, they knew that it was a lie. So do most o’them that’ve heard of it by now. Ain’t nobody talked like they thought she was a whore, at least not while me or Shamus was around t’be hearing it.” She shook her head. “The problem ain’t what other people thinks of Bridget; it’s what she thinks o’herself.”
“She can’t possibly be thinking that she’s a whore.”
Molly nodded. “She does, and she’s convinced that everybody else thinks the same. Worst of all, she’s sure that ye’ll be feeling that way, too, as soon as ye hear the tale. That’s why she ran. She was afraid t’be facing the disgust she knew she’d be seeing in yuir eyes.”
“I won’t just cut off that bastard’s balls…” Cap’s face was purple with rage. “I’ll cut off his prick, too, and feed it to him. Then I’ll kill him.”
Judge Humphreys had been seated two tables away, eating dinner with Dwight Albertson.
He stood up and walked over, taking an empty seat between Molly and Cap. “That’s a good sentiment, Cap, though it’s hardly something a judge should approve of. Only you won’t be able to put those admirable intentions of yours into action,” he told them, “now or after the trial either, most likely.”
“What do ye mean, yuir Honor?” Molly asked.
“I heard about what Stafford did, and, no, I didn’t believe a word of what he implied about Bridget, not for a minute, either. Unfortunately, she was too ashamed to file charges, so there was nothing the Sheriff or I could do for her.”
“But they got caught dead to rights on your uncle’s land, and the jury’s most likely to find them guilty. If they do, I intend to throw the book at them.”
Cap studied the Judge’s face. “So if they get found guilty, they’ll get the choice of the potion or jail, like Jane did, or Ozzie Pratt?”
Humphreys gave them both a nasty sort of grin. “Maybe.”
* * * * *
Monday, April 29, 1872
“Oyez, oyez,” Dan Talbot called out, “the court of the Honorable Parnassus J. Humphreys for the Township of Eerie in the County of Maricopa and the Territory of Arizona is now in session.”
The Judge was sitting at one of the restaurant tables. He pounded his gavel one time. “Be seated,” he ordered and turned to Paul. “What’s the first case?”
“The Township of Eerie versus Forrest Stafford and Leland Saunders on the charges of attempted murder and
flight to avoid prosecution.”
Zach Levy was seated between the two defendants. He quickly rose to his feet. “Zachary Levy defending these men, Your Honor.”
“And how do they plead, Mr. Levy?” Humphreys asked.
“Guilty on both counts, sir.”
The Judge blinked. He clearly had not expected this. Then, composing himself, he motioned with his hand. “Stand up, you two.” He waited for the men to stand. “Is that right? The two of you are admitting to shooting Abner Slocum?”
“We are, Your Honor,” Forry replied.
“Just for the sake of curiosity, would you care to explain why you did it?”
Stafford shrugged. “Angry words were spoken. My friend and I over-reacted.”
“That would be an understatement,” the Judge said with a scowl.
Forry shook his head in distaste. “Let’s get on with it.” He started to sit until Levy warned him to keep standing.
Humphreys frowned. “Mr. Saunders, are you pleading guilty, as well?”
“He is,” Forry said.
The Judge studied Stafford with annoyance for a moment. “Let the man speak for himself, Mr. Stafford. Are you telling me that you’re also guilty, Mr. Saunders?”
“I-I am, s-sir,” Leland answered nervously. “I -- I'm deeply sorry, Your Honor.”
Milt Quinlan had been sitting alone at a table a few feet away from Levy and his clients. “It seems that we won’t need your services as prosecutor, after all, Counselor,” the Judge told him, “or those of the jury. However, I’ll ask the jurors not to leave, as their services will be required again shortly.”
The dozen men, picked by lot as people came into the saloon, were clustered around two nearby tables. “I think we can do that,” Fred Norton, one of the jurors, replied. The others agreed.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Humphreys took a breath. “Will the defendants please rise?” Stafford, Saunders, and their lawyer stood up, as the Judge continued. “Do either of you have anything to say before I pass sentence?”
Forry gave a low chuckle. “Yes, Mr. Stafford?” the Judge asked. “Speak up.”
“Do what you want to me, Judge,” Forry replied confidently. “I may have acted in rash high spirits, but I only did what any decent man from Texas would have done in the face of such provocation. I think my friend, Governor Davis, would agree with me. He's a Texan through and through, and a man of wide influence. He knows your own esteemed territorial governor, I believe.”
The Judge shook his head and then looked at Leland. “Do you have anything to say, Mr. Saunders?” When the other man nervously shrugged, Humphreys continued. “Very well, then. I sentence you each to a drink of, shall we say, O’Toole’s ‘Special Blend’ and a two month stay in the Eerie Special Offenders’ Penitentiary.”
“Two… two months?” Forry was almost incredulous. Then he smiled. The Judge was no fool. He didn't want to take the political heat. If the man was, in fact, such a coward, a little more pressure yet should get him released by the weekend. “Is that all?”
Zach Levy spoke up. “Your Honor, I’m afraid that I am unfamiliar with this type of sentencing. Where is this ‘penitentiary’ you just mentioned?”
“As a matter of fact, you’re standing in it. The Eerie Saloon has been an adjunct of the town jail for several months already,” the jurist answered. “And here comes the warden to start their sentences.”
“What exactly is the sentence? We may wish to launch an appeal.”
“Appeals? We do things quickly out here,” the jurist replied. “Justice delayed is justice denied. You may, of course, launch any appeals that you and your clients deem wise, but for now, the convicted felons have to be rendered into custody. If that doesn't suit the defense, take it up with your client’s friend, the governor.”
He then pointed to Shamus who was walking towards the table where Zach and the others stood. The barman was carrying a tray with two glasses of beer.
* * * * *
“Now comes the fun part,” Wilma said with a chuckle. She was sitting in the back of the crowd next to Rosalyn, who had wanted to see what happened to her “good friend,” Forry Stafford.
The other woman pouted. “I cannot believe this travesty of justice. Forrest was always a true gentleman. He could never have done what they accused him of.”
“Then why did he just plead guilty? You don’t know him as well as you think you do,” Wilma replied. “I guess you two never talked much when you was together.”
A blush ran across the blonde woman’s pale complexion. “No… we did not, I must admit. I will miss his… company.”
“You can still come over and visit, I suppose. She ain’t going nowhere for a while.” Wilma chuckled. “‘Course, her company’s gonna be a lot different from what either of you was used to.”
“That's horrible, and it isn't fair! This town is more evil in its ways than anything he's accused of doing!”
Wilma was genuinely surprised. Rosalyn had always stayed a bit aloof from the patrons of La Parisienne, but now it seemed that she and Stafford had become friends of a sort. ‘Birds of a feather,’ she told herself. ‘Speaking of which.’ She glanced up towards the stairs. Bridget was sitting on the top step, watching the trial. She was hugging herself. Wilma had hoped that she would be smiling by now, but her face was still an immobile mask of misery.
* * * * *
Shamus set down the tray. “You’re the warden?” Levy asked in amazement. “You're a barkeeper. I-I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why is this place of business called a penitentiary?”
“In just a wee minute, Mr. Levy, ye’ll be hearing – and seeing – a lot of things ye’ve never did before,” the barmen told him. He put the two drinks in front of the guilty men.
Forry looked at the beer stein. “It’s not poisoned, is it?”
“What sort of a man serves poison in his own bar?” Shamus said indignantly. “Consider it a courtesy of the house. It won’t be killing ye, so ye might as well drink up.”
“You have not been sentenced to death, gentlemen,” the Judge told them. “The refreshments are definitely not poisoned. If we thought that your aggravated assault on Abner Slocum merited a capital penalty, we are quite capable to ordering you to the gallows.”
Leland looked at the drinks again and shrugged. “Might as well.”
Forry looked, too. If the spineless judge were giving him only two months of jail for a guilty plea of attempted murder, he certainly wouldn't have the nerve to serve poison. “I never was one to pass up a free beer,” he said, trying to sound confident. Both men drank at the same time. “Not bad.” He put down his half-empty glass. “Do I get another when I finish this one?”
Shamus laughed. “Ye surely deserve another, but I’ll not be serving it up t’ye. If ye want a second drink, ye'll have to ask for it. But that will have to come after ye sentence is served. Too much in one day is no good.”
“What do you mean? After all, I’ll b-be stuck here f-for two mo-months – wh-what the-the h-h- hell?” He was shuddering and moaning, his voice rising in pitch. “Yaah!” Forry doubled over as sharp pains coursed through his body.
Leland, too, screamed as the pains shot through him also. “I-It w-was p-p-poison!”
Forry felt weak; his head was spinning. He leaned against the table for support, but his knees gave way, and he fell to the floor. His clothes didn’t feel right. They seemed to be moving along his body, and the material felt coarser than it had before. He couldn’t see; his eyes were closed from an ache that made him want to scream. He couldn’t stop the way his body was shaking, but he could hear moans – his own and those of that idiot Saunders.
“M-Make it st-stop, boss,” Leland yelled. The man fell to the floor, feeling too weak to stand. He watched his right hand growing smaller, as his sleeve crept down and all but covered it. But there was more to whatever was happening to him. ‘Why’s my skin getting darker?’ He thought feverishly. ‘This is worse than seeing snakes.’
Then both men felt a yearning, a need, which grew stronger with every breath. Forry had to open his eyes and to see and to hear something, something more important right now than life itself. Leland was staring as well. They were both compelled to listen for a voice that they absolutely must hear.
* * * * *
“Can ye hear me?” The pair nodded, their faces blank, eyes opened wide staring at him. Shamus looked down at two of them. Even after all this time, the effects of his potion amazed him, and in this instance, something new had occurred. ‘No time t’be thinking about such things,’ he considered, as he began to speak again.
“Ye’ll be obeying me and me darling, Molly, here…” He spoke in a clear voice, stopping for a moment to point to Molly, who was standing next to him. “…and the Sheriff. Ye won’t – ye can’t -- hurt nobody, and ye won’t be trying t’escape, or asking anyone t’be helping ye escape from this place. Do ye understand?”
The pair nodded. They suddenly blinked, as the need to listen to Shamus went away.
* * * * *
“What in the hell?” Forry shook his head, trying to clear it. He tried to stand, but his clothes were suddenly far too big for him. They kept getting in the way, tripping him as he tried to rise. What had that liquor been? If it wasn't poison, it had been the worst corn squeezings he'd ever tasted.
He pushed back the sleeve of his coat to find his hand. The hand he uncovered was much smaller and daintier than his should have been. His fingers were slender and supple with much longer nails, and his skin was a light peaches and cream.
He saw that the other hand was the same when he used it to pull himself up to his knees. As he looked down at his body, he saw that his oversized shirtfront was pushed out by something – two somethings. His exploring hands found a pair of rather large, firm breasts beneath the shirt. He shook his head to clear it. One cup of booze shouldn't bring on a dream like this one.
Something else didn't feel right. One hand shot down into his pants, groping at his crotch. Only it wasn’t his crotch any more. All his fingers found was a very sensitive opening where his male equipment had been. One finger slipped inside, and his eyes went wide in surprise – and disgust. “A cunt! A damned --”
“Stop yuir talking, especially like that,” Molly’s voice rang out. Forry tried to answer, but he couldn’t make a sound.
Wild-eyed, he looked for his lawyer, but the man had taken a few steps back and was staring in astonishment at him and… ‘A nigger, a nigger bitch,’ Forry thought. ‘That can’t be Saunders, can it?’ This was like a fever dream.
He looked more keenly. This was a particularly pretty piece of “dark meat.” She was short, with a damned nice pair of tits as far as he could tell with all those shapeless clothes of Saunders’ she was buried in. She had a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and full lips. Her hair was dark, almost black, a mass of tight curls, and it flowed in waves down around her shoulders. Her eyes were brown and opened wide, as she stared back at him. He felt like hell; he wondered how he looked to her, though, since she was a nigger now, he hardly cared.
“If I may have your attention,” the Judge ordered, interrupting. The pair turned to face him. “There is one more point to attend to before I hand you over to Molly… Mrs. O’Toole. As part of your sentence, I am legally changing your names. Forrest Stafford, you are now Flora Stafford, and you, Leland Saunders, you are now – damnation, I was going to change it to Leigh Anne, but that doesn’t seem to fit now in light of your new… appearance.”
Forry's head had cleared enough to realize that O'Toole was speaking to the nigger gal as if she were Leland. Forry -- Flora -- touched his -- her -- breasts again.
Aaron Silverman had come over to help his wife with the new women’s clothing. He raised a hand. “How about Lylah, Your Honor? It means ‘night’ in Hebrew.”
“Thanks, Aaron; that’ll work.” Humphreys pointed at Saunders. “Your name is Lylah Saunders, now. You are both legally women, and may you both do better with these new names -- and new lives -- than you did with your old ones.”
Flora understood that she had just been called a woman, along with the darkie that was being addressed as Saunders. She touched herself again between the legs.
“And them names is the only ones ye’ll be answering to or calling each other,” Shamus added.
Molly stepped up beside him. “Flora, Lylah…” She smiled to see the pair both turn their heads at the sounds of their new names. “Ye’ll be coming upstairs now, t’see yuir room and get the two of ye into the proper clothes for working here.”
“Working?” Lylah asked. She was still totally confused about what was happening. She was only beginning to realize that she had changed race as well as sex. Flora tried to protest, but she still couldn’t utter a word.
“Aye, working. For the next two months, the two of ye are the Eerie Saloon’s two newest waitresses.”
* * * * *
Zach Levy watched his clients slowly climb the stairs. They’d both stopped at the bottom to take off boots that were now far too big for them and were carrying them now. Leland – Lylah, now – had to bunch her pants up tightly in one hand. She was so much smaller that her belt was useless.
It was a disturbing sight, and Zach felt that he had to do something. He caught Judge Humphrey’s eye with a wave of his hand. “May I approach the bench, Your Honor?”
“You may, Mr. Levy. I expect that you have some questions.”
Zach nodded and walked over to the Judge’s table. “I do, sir. For a start, I have to wonder how this… transformation is even possible.”
“Magic,” the Judge replied. “Shamus’ potion is half old Irish magic he learned from his mother and half something he learned from the Cheyenne who raised him. He put it in their beer and, voila, magic.”
“But I never heard of such a thing, except in stories!”
“I hadn't either, until last summer. But, in Eerie, we deem it a humane punishment. And all who have undergone it thus far have become upstanding citizens and a credit to our community.” He glanced at Wilma. “Mostly.”
Wilma waved at him congenially.
Zach fought to stay calm. “But is it legal?”
“You show me a law -- any law – that forbids the use of magic to punish prisoners, and I’ll rule that giving Shamus’ potion to those two wasn’t legal.”
The lawyer frowned. “Point taken, Your Honor, but, still, doesn’t this sentence doesn’t qualify as cruel and unusual punishment?”
“I’ll grant that it is unusual, but two months of living and working in a saloon doesn’t strike me as very cruel, not when you compare it to ten years or more hard time in the territorial prison, which their crime certainly would have merited if this better recourse wasn't available to us.”
The lawyer persisted. “What about the very idea of turning the men into women? Isn't that cruel and unusual?”
The Judge shook his head. “I don't see that, Counselor. Nobody gets to choose their own sex, do they? You were born a man, and you grew up to like it. These two were also born men, but they aren’t men anymore. It’ll take time, but you – and they – will be surprised at how well they adjust to their new lives. After all, women are honored members of our community, as they are in your own home community, too, I presume. The counselor doesn't have any objections to his own mother being a woman, correct?”
Wilma was walking over to join Jessie, and she had been close enough to hear the lawyer’s question. “Hey, Zach, honey,” she said, draping an arm around his shoulder. “You didn’t think there was anything so terrible about women them times you come over t’La Parisienne. Leastways, you didn’t mind Mae being a woman.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek and continued on, her hips swinging invitingly.
“Asked and answered, I’d say,” the Judge replied with a chuckle. “Oh, I grant you that a man who didn’t know better might think it’s demeaning to be transformed into a woman, but so is being known as a convicted felon of the conventional kind, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.” He shrugged, thinking hard about what more to say. “How often is this done here?” he finally asked.
“Six felons were previously administered the potion. I am very sure that you may have met some of them.”
“Met some of them? Who? Where?”
“That’s not for me to say,” Humphrey's said with a grin. “They are no longer under sentence, and it isn't up to me to be pointing them out. In Eerie, we respect a person's privacy. When these ladies are certain that you are a man whom they would like to know, one or more might introduce themselves. Ah, you look like you have something more to say, Counselor.”
Levy took a deep breath. “I’ll withdraw my objections – for now, at least.”
The Judge thought it was high time to break the tension. “Counselor, we have spoken earlier about you and Milt trading off, with you becoming the prosecutor against Carl Osbourne. Are you still up for it?”
“Uh, yes Your Honor,” Zach answered quickly, still quite bedazzled.
“Good.” Humpheys now regarded Milt. “How soon do you want to get started on that, Mr. Quinlan?”
Milt took that moment to join the two men. “Actually, Your Honor, I wanted to ask for a very brief postponement of that case.”
“May I ask why?” the Judge inquired.
Milt pushed his glasses back against his nose. “Although my client, Carl Osbourne, is the most directly involved – as the victim, of course – in the theft, it was, in fact, an indirect attack against Abner Slocum; it was his money that was stolen, after all.”
“And…” Zach asked suspiciously.
Milt smiled. “And we have just finished a case involving a direct attack against the same Abner Slocum. Your Honor, I suspect that Mr. – Miss Stafford and Miss Saunders have some knowledge of that robbery. I ask for a postponement until the two ladies return to us once properly dressed and ready to testify regarding their knowledge of that robbery.”
* * * * *
Cap had watched Molly and Rachel lead the new women upstairs. Bridget had been watching the trial from the top step. He saw her expression alter to something that looked intense and thoughtful as the potion was administered, and the pair had changed. Cap hoped that she would at last feel avenged. ‘Maybe I can talk to her now,’ he thought.
He started to stand up, but, as the four women climbed the stairs, Bridget rose and hurried down the hall to her room and slammed the door shut. She didn’t come out after they had walked past. He watched for a while, but there was no sign of her. Cap took his chair. He couldn’t help wondering what two months of living with Flora Stafford would be like for her, and he promised himself that he’d be there to help her through it.
He realized that the trial had left him feeling unsatisfied, and he scowled. It just didn't seem like it was punishment enough, even though he suspected that the rape had actually influenced Humphreys' sentencing. Forry Stafford was a rat and should die like a rat. How he wished he had been able to call the man out into the street and settle things there, fast and hard, in a way that he thought would have satisfied him. Stafford's blood running into the dust would have truly avenged the wrong against Bridget.
Now how was he supposed to get back at Forry -- Flora? By being rude to her?
* * * * *
Molly led the two new women to a small room near the end of the hall. “Here ye go, ladies; ye’ll be living here for the next two months.” She opened a door and motioned for them to go in.
“Who the hell’re you?” Lylah asked when she saw an older woman in a dark green dress, with a matching scarf covering her hair, sitting on one of the two beds in the room, waiting for them.
The woman rose. “My name is Rachel Silverman – from Silverman’s Dry Goods, and you, my pretty, young schwartze, need some better manners.”
“What’d you call me?” Lylah asked indignantly.
Rachel chuckled. “Schwartze; it means ‘black’, what you are now.”
“The hell I am.” Lylah held her left hand up in front of her. She kept hold of her pants with the right hand. Her sleeve was far too roomy and slid down to her elbows. Her skin was the color of cocoa. “Sheeeit!” she screamed. “I can’t be like this.” She started for the door. “They gotta change me back to a white man.”
Molly blocked her way. “Thuir ain't no magic that can do that. Ye’ll be a woman – and a negro for the rest of yuir life. Ye might as well get used to it.”
“No, I-I can’t be no nigger. I just can’t.”
Rachel tilted her head, as if she were studying the new female. “No? It looks to me like you’re doing a pretty good job of being one.”
“You surely are,” Flora laughed.
The other new woman spun around and glared at her former employer. “I don’t see that you got that much t’laugh at, you damned bi--”
“Enough!” Molly ordered firmly. “Neither o’ye can say anything except t’be answering a question from me or Rachel.” She watched for a bit, as the pair tried to speak. They couldn’t, and they looked even madder as they tried and failed. “Good, now strip, the both of ye, down t’yuir undershirts and drawers.”
Flora tried to argue, but she couldn’t make a sound. At the same time, her hands slid her jacket off her shoulders. It fell to the ground, as she began to unbutton her shirt.
Lylah’s pants fell around her ankles as soon as she let go of them to work on her shirt. She watched her fingers, her small, slender, dark fingers working the buttons. ‘I don’t believe this,’ she thought. ‘I’m a damned crow; my skin’s as dark as I’ve ever seen.’ She rubbed her left arm roughly with her right hand, trying to wipe the color away. It didn’t work.
Both of the transformed men were wearing sleeveless, gray union suits, shirt and drawers combined into a single garment that stretched down to mid-calf, with buttons from the neck to the groin. The clothes had fitted the men they had been, so, now, they hung like tents on their new bodies.
“Lylah,” Molly said, “ye sit down quiet-like on one of them beds, while Rachel measures Flora.” She waited while the black woman walked over and sat on a mattress.
Rachel stood and walked over to Flora. “Now, we measure. Stand still.” She pulled a cloth tape and a small pad from a pocket in her long skirt.
“Do like she says,” Molly said firmly. “Like it was meself telling ye what t’do.”
Flora wanted to squirm, as Rachel wrapped the tape around her neck, but a voice in her head wouldn’t let her. “Such a pretty neck,” the older woman told her. “So long, like a swan, it is.” She released the tape and wrote the number on the pad.
“Now lift your arms.” Rachel held the tape in the small of Flora’s back and brought it around, holding it so that it went just above her breasts. “Thirty-four,” she announced and jotted that number down.
The shopkeeper picked up the tape again and warned, “Keep your arms up. This might tickle a little.” She brought the tape around from behind Flora’s back, only, this time, she placed it right on Flora’s breasts. It rubbed against her nipples, tickling her, and she had to try very hard not to move. “Thirty-seven,” Rachel told her. “That’s a nice healthy body you got, girly.”
‘You can have it,' Flora thought, even if she couldn’t speak the words.
Flora endured the rest of the measurements: neck to waist, waist, hips – which also tickled, waist to ground, and the rest, through clenched teeth. It was maddening, and there was nothing she seemed able to do about it.
It wasn’t any better when she sat on a bed, unable to move or speak, and watched Rachel repeat the process with Lylah. The tall, muscular cowhand had become a dainty, little – a foot shorter if she was an inch – negress.
What had the Irish woman said? That there was no magic to change Saunders back? Did that stand for her, too? She couldn't -- wouldn't -- believe it. She'd have to find out who else, if anyone, had been bewitched in this town and what had happened to them. She'd put Levy on the task.
“How old are you?” Rachel asked Lylah as she was finishing. “No, how old was you?”
Lylah gave her an odd look. “Thirty-one, ma’am; thirty-one last August.”
“Ye don’t look it,” Molly said, chuckling. “Maybe ye was that old, but now… now, ye don’t look a day over eighteen.”
* * * * *
“So, Yully,” Stephan asked, “how’s it feel to have your ma for a teacher?”
The Fort Secret garrison, as they called themselves, was sitting around the picnic table where they usually ate lunch. It was recess, but most of the boys had been more interested in talking about their new teacher than playing ball. Stephan and Hector Ybañez, this week’s captains, had agreed to start the game on Tuesday.
Yully thought about the question before he answered. “It ain’t too bad. Ma warned us all about it on Friday, so we weren’t surprised. She said she’d try to be fair, no ‘teacher’s pet’ stuff.”
“No picking on us either,” his brother, Nestor, added. “But now we can’t get out of doing chores by claiming we got homework that we don’t really have.”
Penny chuckled. “You never were too good at doing either of them, Nestor, chores or homework.” She gave him a wink to show that she was teasing. “I don’t mind Mama being here, either. Besides, she said she said it’d only be for a little while, just till Miss Osbourne comes back.”
“That’s not the way Hermione tells it. Just look at her.” Emma pointed over to another picnic table. Hermione and her brother, Clyde, were sitting, surrounded by at least a dozen of their classmates. “She was carrying on all morning about how her mother got Miss Osbourne fired. Hermione even tried to correct Mrs. Stone, when she was introducing herself.”
Ysabel shook her head. “Not fired, suspended, that is what Señora Stone told us. Miss Osbourne is a good teacher. She has to come back. She just has to.”
“Don’t you worry about it, Ysabel.” Stephan gently put his hand on the girl’s arm. “We’ve all heard Hermione’s boasting and bragging before, and we all know she’s been wrong a lot more often than she’s been right.”
* * * * *
Molly sat at the table, waiting for Rachel to bring back the new clothes for Flora and Lylah. The new women were sitting on the two beds, unable to talk because Molly hadn’t reversed her order that they could only talk to answer questions.
“While we’re waiting,” she asked them, “would ye like for me t’be telling ye just what ye’ll be doing here for the next two months?”
It was a question, so she could speak. “I would,” Lylah muttered. “What more crap you got in store for us?”
“Yeah, dammit,” Flora added. “What sort of shit are you going to make us do while we’re stuck here… like this?”
Molly frowned. “I’ll thank ye -- no I’ll be telling ye, there’ll be no more bad language from either of ye while I’m around t’hear it.”
“As t’what ye’ll be doing,” she continued, “ye’ll be working as bar maids and waitresses, mostly, helping t’keep the place clean and bringing drink and food to the customers. That means helping Maggie with her restaurant, too. Her and Jane do the cooking, but they need help sometimes. It’ll be the pair of ye that does the dishes, too, and washes out the glassware.”
“That’s right,” she told them, enjoying the shocked look on their faces, particularly the boastful Forrest Stafford, the man who’d raped poor Bridget and almost gotten away with it. “Ye ain’t Mr. High-and-Mighty Stafford, no more. Ye’re Flora the barmaid. And, ye ain’t just servants, bringing men beers and cleaning up after them. Not only that, ye’re --”
She was interrupted by a knock on the door. “It’s me, Molly,” Rachel yelled through the door. “Shamus and me got clothes for the new ladies.”
“Be right there.” Molly hurried over and unlocked the door. She let Rachel enter, but blocked her husband in the doorway. “The ladies ain’t exactly dressed for male eyes, Love.” She reached out her arms. “I’ll be taking them packages from ye.”
He smiled. “Ah, Molly, Love, ye know ye’re the only woman I ever want t’be looking at. But… if ye want…” His voice trailed off as he handed her four large paper-wrapped packages. When he was certain that she had them, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I’ll be seeing ye – and them -- downstairs, and it better be as soon as ye can.”
“Why’s that?”
Shamus whispered, not wanting Flora or Lylah to hear. “The Judge wants t’be starting the inquest for Carl Osbourne, for that robbery and for Carl shooting that man Cooper. Milt Quinlan – he’s Carl’s lawyer -- wants t’be asking our new ladies a few questions about them things.” He turned and started for the stairs.
“All right then.” Molly kicked the door shut behind her and set the packages down on the table next to the ones Rachel had brought. “Stand up the both of ye, and strip off them clothes.” She saw the hesitation in their eyes. “I mean right now,” she added in as firm a voice as she could muster.
The new women stood up. Their hands trembled. They wanted to disobey, but the voices in their heads wouldn’t let them. They reluctantly undid the buttons on their now much oversized union suits and let the garments slide off their bodies and onto the floor.
“Step out of them things and come over here,” Rachel said.
The pair obeyed and walked to the table. As they walked, they used their hands to cover their crotches.
“Ye might as well be putting them hands down,” Molly said with a chuckle. “Ye ain’t got anything that me and Rachel don’t have.”
Each package had Flora or Lylah’s name written on it, as well as a list of the contents. Molly cut the string and opened two of them. She took a pair of drawers from each one and held them out in her hands. The drawers were lacy, white cotton, with green ribbons dangling down from the top and from each leg. “Put ‘em on,” she ordered.
The two women grimaced, but each slowly reached out for a pair. They stepped into the garments and pulled them up around their hips and waist.
“Use them ribbons at yuir waists t’be getting them tight; then ye tie them ribbons in a pretty, little bow.”
Flora and Lylah obeyed. They noticed that these drawers felt cooler and softer than their old union suits. They didn’t scratch, either. It was a reminder that they hardly wanted of how they had been changed.
Flora got a worse reminder when she bent over to tie the ribbons at the bottom of one leg of the drawers. She felt her long hair brush against her neck as it fell down into her line of sight. ‘I’m a blonde now,’ she thought. Then she felt the weight of her breasts hanging down from her chest. ‘And a big-titted blonde, at that.’
“Don’t ye be tying them legs yet,” Molly said. “Ye’ve got other stuff ye need t’be getting on first.” She held out two camisoles. “These for starters.”
Lylah took one camisole in her hands. It was the same material as her drawers, and she turned it this way and that, staring at the lace trim on the front of it with a look of disgust.
“Now what’s the matter?” Molly asked.
Lylah was quick to answer. “I don’t like these girly clothes, and I don’t like not being able t’even talk about it.”
“Ye’re girls now,” the older woman replied. “And ye always will be, so ye might as well be getting used to dressing like girls.” She thought for a moment. “As for the other matter, ye’re right. It ain’t fair that ye can’t be talking. I’ll be letting the both of ye talk now, but polite like, and with none of that profanity.”
Lylah cleared her throat. “What the he… he… heck do you mean we’ll ‘always’ be girls? Ain’t you gonna turn us back when our sentence is up?”
“There ain’t no way t’be turning ye back. Me Shamus never made no antidote to his potion, and, from what he’s told me, it don’t never wear off. That's why the Judge uses the punishment for only the most serious crimes.”
Flora looked nervously at her new body. Her breasts, her narrow waist and broad hips, the… the bulge that was missing from her crotch. “You… must be joking? To be stuck like this, it-it isn’t fair.”
“No fairer than what ye done to Bridget Kelly – or Abner Slocum, I’m thinking. But right now, let’s be getting back t’be dressing ye up for yuir new jobs. Put them camisoles on.”
The pair grumbled, but they both slipped the garments over their heads and let them slide down onto their bodies. The cloth was soft, cool, almost, and it felt… funny, sort of ticklish, against their breasts. “Happy?” Flora asked sarcastically, as she adjusted the article of clothing on her body.
Molly ignored her comment and tossed each of them a pair of yellow and blue-stripped stockings. “Ye pull ‘em all the way up past yuir knees before ye tie ‘em off. Then ye pull the legs of yuir drawers down over them stockings, and tie them off, too. Make sure ye tie them ribbons tight, with the same sort o’pretty bows.”
When they had the stockings on, Rachel opened a second pair of packages. “These are next.”
“No fu… fu… fu…” Flora sighed and gave up trying to say the word. “It’s going to take magic to make me wear that.”
Rachel just smiled. “Nu, everything else we gave you, you’re wearing. Why not these? They’re ‘Thompson's Glove Fitting’, the best corset on the market for the price.”
“Ye’ll wear ‘em and – well, ye may not like it, but ye’ll do it,” Molly said firmly. “And for making such a fuss, Flora, ye get t’be the one who wears it first. Lylah, ye’ll get t’be sitting down and watching. Flora, ye’ll be the one standing still while Rachel fits ye into that thing.”
The women did as ordered. Rachel walked over to Flora and wrapped the corset around her. It was a milky white color, with ribbing inside to form it into a feminine shape.
“Take a deep breath,” Rachel said, as she started hooking the corset closed. She began at the bottom, working her way up hook by hook.
Flora felt the corset constricting her. She wanted to fidget, but the voice wouldn’t let her. As Rachel’s fingers moved upward, Flora felt the cups of the garment pressing against her breasts. It was like a pair of hands, holding them in place, lifting them up for display.
When Rachel had finished, Molly had Flora sit on the bed and watch, while Rachel did the same to Lylah. It was… arousing, Flora thought, watching the pretty little coon getting dressed up in female frippery. The problem was that Forry’s male mind was in Flora’s female body. She felt the arousal as a tingling in her breasts and an oddly pleasant warmth down in her privates. She shook her head, trying to banish the sensations.
Molly handed each of them a pair of shoes. Women’s shoes weren’t that different from men’s, and the former males were used to wearing shoes with a heel for when they were riding. After they’d gotten the shoes on and tied, Rachel handed them…
“Petticoats…” Flora protested. “Why do we have to wear these?”
Molly chuckled. “‘Cause that’s what ladies wear under their dresses, and ye will be wearing dresses. So hurry up and get ‘em on. Ye tie ‘em up tight with that blue ribbon at yuir waists.” The women frowned, but they donned the underskirts as directed.
“Now you put on these nice dresses,” Rachel told them, “and we’re done. You can go downstairs and show everybody how pretty you look.” She took the garb from the last packages.
Flora’s dress was navy blue. It contrasted with her creamy complexion and long, blonde hair. Lylah’s was canary yellow and worked well with her dark brown skin. “Oh, joy,” Flora said sarcastically. “ It’s just what I wanted.”
“Maybe it ain’t what ye wanted,” Molly answered, “but ‘tis what ye deserve. Now button them things so we can be getting downstairs.” She watched the new ladies working the buttons on their dresses. “Thuir hair’s still a mess, but we can be dealing with that later.” She laughed to herself. “Thuir’s a whole lot of things we’ll be dealing with.”
* * * * *
“Here they come,” Angel Montiero yelled. A lot of Abner Slocum’s men had come to see the trial – and the punishment – of the men who’d tried to kill their boss. For the most part, they were quite pleased with the sentence Forry and Leland, now Flora and Lylah, had received.
The two new women skulked down the stairs, glancing nervously at the crowd waiting below. When they were about halfway down, Flora stopped, turned, and started to climb back towards the upper floor. Lylah hurried to follow.
“Get down thuir.” Molly and Rachel had walked behind the pair, and they blocked their way. “The both of ye.”
They tried to continue upward, but couldn’t. “Da – darn it,” Lylah muttered as the voice in her head forced her to shift again and head towards the barroom again. Flora followed, muttering something under her breath.
“Smile, ladies,” Shamus told them, when he met them at the foot of the stairs. He sounded almost gracious, but it was still an order they had to obey. “And take yuirselves seats over thuir.” He pointed to a nearby table.
The place was still set up for a trial. The Judge was seated at a table in the front of the room. Their lawyer, Zach Levy, was talking to him. The man that had shot Dell Cooper was sitting at a table a few feet away, facing the Judge. That other lawyer – Quinlan – sat next to him.
“What’s going on?” Flora asked as she and Lylah sat down. “I thought our trial was over.” She didn’t want to think about what else this insane court could come up with.
Shamus pulled out a chair and turned it around. He sat down, facing backward on it. “We’re having us an inquest about some things that happened here in town lately. That man…” he pointed at Carl, “…robbed a payroll– or got robbed of it. A few days later, he went and shot a friend o’yuirs. We thought that ye two might know something about both of them things.”
“Ye’ll be called up t’testify in a wee bit,” he added, “and I’m telling ye – no, I’m ordering the both of ye t’be telling them the truth, no lies, no twisting things around. D’ye understand?”
“Yes,” they both nodded, not sounding at all happy about the implications of what he had said.
The Judge banged his gavel once to get everybody’s attention. “Bailiff, if you please.”
“The Court of the Honorable Parnassus J. Humphreys in the Township of Eerie in the County of Maricopa and the Territory of Arizona is back in session.” Dan’s voice was loud and firm, carrying to every part of the large room.
Humphreys nodded as the Sheriff took his seat. “Thank you, Dan. The next item before this court is an inquest into two events, the theft of Abner Slocum’s payroll and the death of one Dell Cooper. Carl Osbourne is, at present, only a participant in both those events, although this court may hold him for trial for charges related to either or both of those events.” He took a breath and looked at the men who were still gathered around a pair of tables with the sign “Jury” hanging down front of one of the tables. “Did you all understand that?”
“We do,” Joe Kramer, the jury foreman replied, and the others mumbled their agreement.
Carl stood up. “I do, too, Your Honor, and I got Milt Quinlan here to speak for me, if it’s okay with you.”
“It is,” the Judge answered. “Shall we get started?”
Milt nodded and rose to his feet as Carl sat down. “Thank you, Your Honor. For my first witness, I call my client, Carl Osbourne.”
“Carl Osbourne,” Dan called out. He was carrying a Bible that he used a moment later to swear Carl in.
The cowboy promised to tell the whole truth and took a seat in the witness chair that was set next to the Judge’s table facing the room.
“Carl,” Milt began, standing and walking over to the chair. “Can you tell the court what happened on Saturday, April 20th, regarding Abner Slocum’s payroll?”
Carl told the story. He was often the one Slocum sent into town to pick up the cash to pay the men. Things went as usual until he was some fifteen minutes away from the ranch. “I was coming ‘round a curve in the trail and something… hit me in the chest and shoved me clear off my horse.”
“I landed flat on my back,” he continued. “I was laying there, trying to catch my breath, and this voice from behind tells me to roll over onto my stomach. I heard the click of a pistol being cocked, so I did what he – whoever it was – said. The bastard hit me in the head with something, and the next thing I know, Luke Freeman is splashing water in my face.”
Milt glanced at the jury for their reaction. “And you don’t know who this ‘bastard’ was, do you?”
“No, sir, but I’d sure like to find out.”
“Why is that?”
“Why? So I can pay him back is why. First off, ‘cause he took Mr. Slocum’s money, and, second, ‘cause he tried to make it look like I helped him do it.”
“So you’re saying that you didn’t rob – or help rob – Abner Slocum?”
“No, sir, I did not. I’m an honest man. I wouldn’t do that t’Mr. Slocum – or to his men. They’re my friends and that money was for them.” He chuckled. “Some of it was even for me. No, sir, I wouldn’t steal it.”
“No,” Milt replied in a firm but friendly voice, “no, you wouldn’t.” He looked at Zach Levy. “Your witness.”
Zach shook his head. “No questions right now, but I reserve the right to recall the witness.”
“Okay,” Milt told Carl, “you can go sit down over at our table now.” As Carl walked back, his lawyer added: “For my next witness, I’d like to call… Leland – excuse me, Lylah Saunders.”
Dan repeated the name and waited for her to walk over. “Do you swear to tell the truth,” he asked, holding the Bible that she had placed her hand on, “the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you G-d?”
“I… I…” Lylah glanced nervously over at Flora, who frowned, then at Shamus who glared back at her and nodded sharply. “I d-do.” She hurriedly took the witness chair.
Milt walked over to stand next to her. “Lylah, do you know anything about the events that Mr. Osbourne just described for us?”
“I… y-yes. Dell – it was D-Dell Cooper. He took that money.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He told me, me and Mr…. and F-Flora b-both.”
“What did he tell you?”
She didn’t want to answer, but the voice gave her no choice. “He used… used a t-trick from the War, a rope… str-stretched up h-high… across the road. Some… sometimes, it’ll catch a rider in the throat ‘n’ ki… kill him. Sometimes, it’d j-just knock him off h-his horse.”
“So Mr. Cooper wanted to kill Carl Osbourne?”
“If he could.”
“If Mr. Cooper tried to kill my client, they must not have gotten on too well. Why is that, do you suppose?”
“Dell, he… wanted your man’s si-sister. Osbourne warned h-him off. Dell figured to get Osbourne outta the way, one w-way or another.”
“And he did that by taking the money. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Did you see him do it?”
“N-no, sir. He told me, me ‘n’ Flora the next day.”
“And how did you know that he wasn’t lying?”
“‘Cause he showed us the money.”
“Did he still have that money when he was shot?”
Lylah shook her head. “Flora, she… she got mad when D-Dell told us what he done.”
“Was she mad because he had stolen the money?”
“N-no, s-sir. She… we all come out here on-on account of… something else. She got mad ‘cause he mighta messed that up.”
“Where is the money now?”
Flora jumped to her feet. “Shut up, you stupid nigger.”
“Sit down, Flora, and be quiet,” Shamus ordered.
She sat down at once. When she tried to speak again, no words came.
“F-Flora,” Lylah answered, some anger in her voice. “She made Dell give h-her the money. It… it’s hid in her room somepl-place.”
Milt looked over to where Flora was sitting, a look of disgust on her face. “And I’ll ask her about that shortly.” He turned back to Lylah. “Was Dell Cooper afraid of my client?”
“Nope. Not after the robbery. Dell f-figured Osbourne was too worried about… about getting thrown in jail for taking that money to do anything to him. He went back to trying to f-f… to bed that snooty sister of Osbourne’s.” She laughed. “He almost done it, to hear him tell the tale.”
There was a lot of muttering from the men in the room. Many of them turned to look at Nancy, who’d been sitting alone in the back of the room. She looked horrified.
“That’s a lie!” Carl leapt to his feet. “You tell ‘em that’s a lie, Saunders.”
Milt frowned. He sympathized with Nancy, and he certainly didn’t need this distraction. “Do you think he may have been lying about his… success with Miss Osbourne?”
“He probably was,” Lylah shrugged. “Dell wasn’t no good with women – unless he paid ‘em, and she…” He studied Nancy’s face and figure. “…don’t look like that sort.” She leered at the woman. “More’s the pity.”
“What about pistols, Lylah? Was he any good with them.”
“He could hit what he aimed at, but he w-weren’t very fast.”
“How do you think he’d do in a gunfight?”
“Well, enough, if… if he got the first shot.”
“Would he draw on a man without warning?”
“If he could. I seen him do it once back in Texas ‘bout two years ago. That other man woulda yelled ‘foul’… if he’d lived.”
Milt tried hard not to smile. Juries didn’t like a smug attorney. “Thank you, Lylah. Do you have any questions, Mr. Levy?”
“Just one,” Zach replied. “Mr. -- ah… Miss Saunders, did you see what happened when Mr. Osbourne shot Mr. Cooper, or were you just guessing when you told us that Mr. Cooper may have been trying to ambush Mr. Osbourne.”
“Just guessing, but that’s the way Dell was.”
“If you say so,” Zach told her. “For now, you can stand down.” When she just looked puzzled, he explained. “You can go back to where you were sitting.”
Lylah stood up and walked back to the table. Flora was looking daggers at her, and Lylah circled around the table so that Shamus was between her and her former employer when she took her seat.
“I’d like to call Miss Flora Stafford now, Your Honor.”
Shamus put his hand on Flora’s arm. “Remember what I told ye, Flora. You go up thuir, and you be telling Milt the truth, no matter what he asks ye.”
“Flora Stafford,” Dan called.
Flora sighed and stood up. She walked up to him as if walking to her own hanging and let him swear her in.
“Now then, Flora,” Milt began, “did Dell Cooper steal that payroll money?”
She didn’t want to answer, but… “Th-that’s wha-what he… he told m-me.”
“And did he say anything about Carl Osbourne?”
“Yes, d-da… darn it.” Molly order about cursing was still binding, it seemed. “He s-said that ma-making it loo-look l-like Osbourne d… did it, was almost… almost as much f-fun as taking the m-m-money.”
“And where is the money he took?”
‘Don’t tell,’ Flora’s mind screamed. She trembled as she fought the voice in her head. Fought, and lost. “I-It’s in m-my r-room, h-h-hid… den in… in my tr-tr… my trunk.”
The Judge scribbled something on a sheet of paper. “Excuse me a moment, counselor,” he told Milt. “Paul, Paul Grant, come up here please.”
“Yes, Your Honor, what can I do for you?” Paul walked up to the table.
Humphreys handed him the paper. “That’s a search warrant for Miss Stafford’s room over at the Lone Star. Take somebody with you and go over and see if you can find any sign of that loot. Sam Duggan’s over here, so you be sure to show the warrant to Cuddy Smith first, then go see if you can find anything.” Duggan had witnessed the killing of Dell Cooper. Zach Levy, who was acting as prosecutor in this case, had asked him to testify.
“Right on it.” The deputy answered. “Angel,” he called to Angel Montiero, “You wanna give me a hand?” The cowhand nodded, and the pair hurried for the saloon’s swinging doors.
The Judge nodded to Milt. “You can continue, Mr. Quinlan.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Milt turned to Flora. “Just to make it absolutely clear, Flora, did Dell Cooper say anything, anything at all, to suggest that Carl Osbourne had anything to do with the theft of Abner Slocum’s money – beyond being the unwilling victim of Cooper’s ambush?”
“No,” Flora spat the word. “He s-said he fi-fixed things so i-it looked… like Osb-b-ourne was a… a part of it.”
“You told the Sheriff that Cooper was afraid of my client, that he was drawing his pistol because he thought that Carl Osbourne was going to shoot him. Was any of that true?”
Flora sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, unhappy at being caught in a lie. “N-Not a wo-word. Dell thought he co-could take Osbourne by f-fair means or f-f-foul. But he liked to hedge every bet.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“I w-wanted to… to mu-muddy the water a l-little.”
“You certainly managed that,” Milt replied. “But I think you’ve managed to clear things up today. Tell me, Miss Stafford, did you actually see the final encounter between Dell Cooper and Carl Osbourne?”
“N-No, I was s-someplace else.” She glanced over quickly to where Wilma and Rosalyn were sitting. Rosalyn gave her a demure smile, and Flora realized that it was the first smile directed at her since coming downstairs that wasn't full of mockery.
“Flora, what do you think happened when Cooper and Osbourne faced off?”
Zach jumped to his feet. “Objection, that’s speculation.”
“Your Honor,” Milt began, “Miss Stafford brought Dell Cooper with her to Eerie for an unknown, but very possibly criminal purpose. He…she… knew the man well and is an expert witness on how he would have handled himself in such situations.”
The Judge considered Milt’s argument. “Mmmm, I’ll allow it. Answer the question, Flora.”
“D-Dell wasn’t too f-fast, but he… he was a sn-sneaky bas… man. But he… he was also a d-dead sh-shot, and that's… that’s why I br-brought him. I th-th-think he’d’ve tried to get in a… a first sh-shot be… fore Os-Osbourne was… r-ready.”
“Thank you, Flora,” Milt said. “No more questions.” He walked over and sat down next to Carl.
Zach stood up, but stayed where he was. “But that’s just your… guess about what happened, isn’t it?” Levy said curtly.
“Y-Yes. I w-wasn’t th-there.”
“I think that’s enough,” the lawyer said. “You’re dismissed – for now.”
Flora rose to her feet. “Gee, thanks.” She started back to the table with Shamus and Lylah.
“Found it, Your Honor!” Paul rushed back into the room. He was holding up a cloth bag. “It was right where she said it was.”
Flora turned to face him. “You can’t prove that’s the stolen money.”
“Sure I can.” He pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his vest pocket. “I found this withdrawal slip in the bag. It’s got Abner Slocum’s name and the date of the robbery written on it.”
The Sheriff placed a hand on Flora’s shoulder. “Flora Stafford, you’re under arrest for the theft of Abner Slocum’s payroll. You're an accessory after the fact.” He paused a beat. “You, too, Lylah.”
“I concur,” the Judge added, “but the trial won’t be today. We’ll give these women a chance to talk with a lawyer first.”
Zach raised a hand. “Can we get back to this inquest, Your Honor?”
“Very well,” Humphreys answered. “Milt, do you have any other witnesses?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I call Sam Duggan to testify.”
Duggan walked briskly up to the witness chair and let Dan swear him in, after which, Milt asked him to identify himself.
“Sam Duggan,” he said proudly, “owner and operator of the Lone Star Saloon, the best damned watering hole in the Arizona Territory.”
Milt tried not to smile. “Please just state the facts, Mr. Duggan.”
“That is a fact.”
“Speaking of facts, can you tell this court what happened on April 24th when Carl Osbourne came into your establishment?”
Duggan told what he had seen. Carl had come into the saloon and headed straight for where Dell was standing at the bar. The two men had started arguing about Carl’s sister, who, Duggan quickly added, had never been on his premises.
“They looked ready to fight -- fist fight,” the barman continued. “So I told them to take it outside. I didn’t need them breaking up my place. Besides, a fight is like a bad cold. It spreads real easy to the folks nearby.”
Milt nodded in agreement. “And what happened then?”
“They both headed for the door. Only, Cooper shifted, so Carl couldn’t see his right arm. I came out from behind the bar to make sure that they left, and I saw him draw his pistol. He pulled it out real slow, so you couldn’t hear the metal slide against the leather. Well, I sure as hell didn’t want a murder in my place, so I yelled a warning to Carl.”
“Why do you say ‘murder’, Mr. Duggan?”
“Cause that’s what it would’ve been. He’d’ve had that pistol out and fired before Carl even knew he was being drawn on. And Cooper had a big mean grin on his face, like he was happy to get the chance to kill.”
“Are you sure that he didn’t look scared; look like he was drawing in self-defense?”
“Nope, he looked like a cat ready to jump on a mouse.”
“Thank you, Sam.” Milt turned to the Judge. “I have no more questions.”
Zach shook his head. “Nor do I, Your Honor.”
“Do either of you have any other witnesses?” Both men shook their heads, and Humphreys turned so that he was facing the jury. “Gentlemen, you’ve heard the evidence. You’re not here to say that anyone’s guilty. You’re here to say if you think we need to hold a trial because Carl Osbourne might be guilty of something. Go upstairs and decide.”
Joe Kramer, the foreman, looked at the other members of the jury. “Do we need t’think about it, fellas?” The men all bunched together around Joe. After a few minutes, they moved back to their places at the table. “Judge,” Joe made a start, “as far as that robbery went, all Carl’s guilty of is being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And shooting somebody in self-defense is no crime, either. Let him go.”
“Thank you for your help, gentlemen of the jury. You are dismissed. There being no other business,” he banged his gavel once, “this court is adjourned.”
“Do we gotta go t’jail again?” Lylah asked Shamus.
The barman chuckled. “Ye are in jail, lass, right here in me Saloon. Where ye got t’be going is into the kitchen t’be getting aprons on over them pretty dresses. Thuir’s thirsty men here, and ye’re the ones who’ll be bringing them thuir drinks.”
* * * * *
Carl’s fellow cowhands rushed over to congratulate him. “Looks like you’s gonna be working for Mr. Slocum for a long, long time,” the foreman, Luke Freeman, said, slapping Carl on the back.
“That he is,” Cap said, pushing his way through the crowd. Then he cupped his hands in front of his mouth and yelled, “Hey, Shamus, c’mere.”
The barman hurried over. “What can I be doing for ye, Cap?”
“I wanted to buy Carl here a beer to celebrate, but, seeing as he hates to drink alone…” He grinned and looked at the men gathered around him. “I guess I’ll have to buy one for all my uncle’s men.” Over the cheers that followed, he added, “But just my uncle’s men. Neither of us is rich enough to spring for beers for the whole town.”
* * * * *
Nancy waited for the crowd around her brother to thin, as his friends took seats to wait for their promised beers. “Oh, Carl,” she said happily, as she hugged him. “You’re free. It’s wonderful.”
“Thanks, Nancy.” He replied, “It does feel good not t’have to worry about going to jail anymore.” He paused a beat. “Now all I have to worry about is getting you out of trouble.”
“Jail? Then you wouldn't have taken the potion?” she teased.
“Not on your life!”
“I think you'd have looked pretty in a dress like Flora's.”
“Nanny Goat, you're crazy. Now, you'd better get out of here. This place is changing from a courtroom to a bar room and you've got a reputation to defend.”
Nancy sighed.
His eyes darted around the room. Many of the men present, even a few of his friends from the ranch, had heard the rumors about Nancy’s behavior. And, from the hungry look on some of their faces, there were men who believed them – or wanted to believe them. They must have been wondering about their own chances with his sister.
“You'll be all right, Nancy; none of those stories about you are any more true than what Dell Cooper said about me.” He'd said it in a firm voice, a bit louder than he usually spoke, intending for as many as possible to hear.
* * * * *
Shamus set a final two beer steins down on the tray. “Ye’ll be taking these over t’that table, Flora.” He pointed to a table filled with Slocum’s men, men who were staring back at him – and at his new barmaid. “And ye’ll not be dropping any of them beers on purpose, and ye will be smiling at them nice men. Understand?”
“I-I do.” Her expression was more of a grimace than a smile as she picked up the tray. It was heavier than she expected, but she managed to carry it to the cowboys. “Here you go,” she told them, setting the tray down.
As she did, she felt a hand stoking her bottom. She gave a surprised squeak and tried to back away.
“Don't you go running off, Sweet Thing,” one of the men said. An arm snaked around her waist, pulling her down onto someone’s lap. “You ain’t near as dangerous as you was when you took a shot at the boss.” He chuckled. “In fact, you look like you could be a whole lot of fun.”
The others laughed. “She surely does,” the man to her left said. “Let’s just see how much fun she can be.” He reached over to grope at her breasts.
“N-No!” Flora twisted free. She jumped to her feet and ran back to the relative safety of the bar, laughter ringing in her ears.
* * * * *
Despite Carl's warning, Nancy had lingered close to the bar. This was the first time she had done more than look into a saloon over its batwing doors. It didn't seem nearly as sinister as what her uncle back in Connecticut had always warned her against.
“Ye look like ye could use something t’drink.”
Nancy looked up. A short redheaded woman was standing before her holding a glass of something. It was she who had taken the felons upstairs earlier. “I… Don’t you think it’s a bit early in the day for a drink?”
“Not if it’s sarsaparilla, it ain’t.” She set the glass down. “Go ahead, ye can’t be toasting yuir brother without something t’toast with.”
“I suppose not.” Nancy lifted the glass tilted it in cautious salute – was it safe to trust this woman? -- toward Carl before she took a sip. 'It is sarsaparilla,' she admitted to herself, not a little surprised.
Molly sat down next to her. “Yuir the first schoolteacher I ever served in here.”
“Not a school teacher at the moment, I’m afraid.”
Molly gently put a hand on Nancy’s arm. “No, but ye will be.”
“And sooner than she thinks,” a male voice said. “May I join you, Nancy… Molly?”
Nancy hurriedly put the glass down and shifted into a more correct posture. “Of course, Mr. Silverman.”
“Thank you.” Aaron settled down into an empty chair. “I hear that you’re staying at Whit Whitney's these days.”
Nancy nodded. “Yes, he was kind enough to --” She blushed, embarrassed at what she was afraid he might be thinking. “But I assure you, it’s all very proper.”
“And who says it isn’t? As the Sages say, the reason the Lord gave us flexible fingers was so we could stick them in our ears when evil is spoken.” He chuckled. “Besides, it was his wife, Carmen, that told my Rachel you was in his guest house.”
“Yes… yes, I am, and there’s a lock on the door and --”
“Don’t drey your koph – don’t get upset, Nancy. Your being at Whit’s just makes it easier for us all to get together. That’s all I’m saying.”
“That’s all?”
“Of course, it is.” He gave her a fatherly smile. “Now that your brother is free, how about you, me, Whit, and Arsenio get together there Wednesday night about… seven?” When she nodded, he continued. “Seven it is. You can tell us whatever it was you didn’t want to tell us before. With any luck, we can get this whole mishagoss behind us, and get you back teaching the children.”
* * * * *
Trisha had just settled back with the latest issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book, when there was a knock on the front door. “I’ll get it,” she called out, setting the magazine down on the settee.
“Liam,” she said in surprise, when she opened the door. “Is there some problem at the store?” Her brother lived in a room above the feed and grain.
He stepped past her into the room. “Not yet; is Kaitlin here?”
“Right here,” Kaitlin answered, brushing her dress, as she walked over from the kitchen. “Hello, Liam. What did you want?”
He held out a small bouquet. “To give you this, Kaitlin.”
“What’s the occasion?” Trisha asked suspiciously.
Liam smiled. “Nothing much. I just thought that a man should give a lady flowers when he asks her to have dinner with him.”
“Thank you, brother,” Trisha answered quickly. “We’d love to.”
Liam’s smile got bigger. “I’m sure that you would, Trisha, but I was just asking Kaitlin.” He handed her the flowers. “Is Wednesday all right? We can go over to ‘Maggie’s Place.’ You liked it the last time we went.”
“It was nice, wasn’t it?” She smiled back at him. “Is six o’clock all right?”
“Six is fine.”
Trisha stepped between them. “Wait a minute. Who said she could go?”
“Who said I couldn’t?” Kaitlin insisted. “I’m an unmarried woman and of age. I can go where I please with whom I please.” She moved around Trisha and took Liam’s arm. “And I will be most pleased to go to dinner with you, Liam, and…” She looked pointedly at Trisha. “…anyone who doesn’t like it can sleep on the settee tonight.”
“But… but…” Trisha sputtered.
“The settee.” She paused a beat for effect. “And you know that I can make you do it.” Trisha looked daggers at the other woman, but she slowly nodded her head.
Liam was still smiling. “If that’s settled, I’ll be going. See you Wednesday, Kaitlin.”
“I look forward to it,” Kaitlin replied, smiling back at him. “And thank you for asking me.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek.
He lightly touched the spot where she’d kissed him. “My pleasure.” His smile was now a full grin. “Good night, Kaitlin… Trisha.” He left quickly, closing the door behind him, eager to leave before the shouting started.
* * * * *
Wilma smiled and snuggled up against Ethan’s side. “So what happens now that you got them pictures done? You gonna go looking for some more folks t’paint?” She kissed his bared chest. “Or are you just gonna spend time in bed with me?”
“I am a painter, Wilma. It’s both my profession and my personal calling.” he took a breath. “I have something important to attend to in New York.”
She flipped over on her side, so she was looking him in the eye. “New York? You’re gonna leave?”
“I am. There's no point to stay; no new commissions have been coming in, and preparing for a major showing of my work will take a great deal of time and effort. I have already purchased my ticket. I shall be departing on the Thursday stage.”
“But you… you can’t. I-I don’t want you to leave, not now.” She fought against the burning in her eyes.
He raised himself up, so that their faces were only a few inches apart. “I am not leaving you, not now, certainly. I am here -- with you – and we are sharing a night of mutual pleasure.” Before she could reply, he kissed her, hard, his tongue darting into her mouth.
Wilma wanted to break away, to argue that he shouldn’t go, but her body betrayed her. Her arm reached up and around his neck as she moaned and sank down onto the bed. By the time she was done with him, she swore, he wouldn't want to leave her behind.
* * * * *
Molly led the two new women back up the stairs to their room. Both were yawning loudly. “Sleepy, are ye?”
“You know it.” Flora yawned again, stretching her arms as she did.
The older woman laughed. “Get used to it. Ye’ll be working just as hard every day for the next two months.”
“Every day?” Lylah whined.
Molly gave her a mischievous smile. “Aye, and on Saturday… well, I think I’ll be waiting a while t’be surprising ye on that.”
“Oh, goody!” Flora replied.
They reached the door. Molly opened it and used the candle in the candlestick she was carrying to light the oil lamp that was hanging on the wall just inside. She set the taper down on the table, as the pair walked in after her.
Lylah asked suspiciously, pointing to two packages sitting on the table near the candlestick. “What’re them?”
“Yuir nightgowns.” Molly used her penknife to cut the string around the packages. “Take off yuir clothes… all yuir clothes.”
The pair began to work the buttons on their dresses. “They’s on the wrong side,” Lylah complained, but she, she and Flora both, had their outfits off quick enough.
“Put ‘em on hangers,” Molly ordered, “and close the top two buttons when ye do, so they don’t fall off.”
The women did as they were told. Once the dresses were hung up, Molly had them take off their petticoats and hang them up next to the dresses.
“Yuir corsets next,” Molly ordered. The women almost looked relieved to obey.
“Oooh, yes,” Flora said, scratching her stomach through her camisole, once her corset was off.
In the space of a few minutes, the two new women stood naked next to their beds. They both looked straight ahead, not wanting to see – or even think about – their new bodies. ‘They’ll be knowing soon enough how pretty they are,’ Molly thought with a chuckle. ‘Thuir’s more than enough men t’be helping ‘em find it out.’ She wondered how long it would be before they each had a beau to brighten their glum faces with smiles.
“Now, ye’ll be putting these on.” The older woman held up one of the white, cotton nightgowns. “Use the ribbon at the top t’be setting the collar. Ye can tie the ribbon so ‘tis close to yuir neck, or ye can tie it loose t’be showing off them pretty… shoulders. Ye each get t’be deciding for yuirselves.” She tossed the nightdress to Lylah. “Ye, too, Flora.” She threw her the other.
The women put their arms into the long sleeves of the garment. They raised their arms upward and let the material slide down onto their bodies. Two sets of eyes opened wide at the sensation of soft, cool cloth moving against their newly sensitized skin. When they lowered their arms and adjusted the outfits, the cotton rubbed against their nipples, almost as a tickle.
“Fine,” Molly said, a wry smile on her lips at their befuddlement. “‘Tis after two in the morning, and we’ll be waking ye ‘round nine for another day o’chores. So it’s t’bed with ye, and no talking.” She lit her candle from the lamp, then lowered the lamp’s wick until there was only a small flicker of a flame. “G’night.” She went out, closing the door behind her.
Flora and Lylah climbed into their beds. Lylah tried to talk, but no words came out. It didn’t really matter, since both of them were asleep almost at once.
* * * * *
Tuesday, April 30, 1872
The sound of someone’s loud knocking woke Lylah and Flora. “Rise ‘n’ shine, ladies,” Molly called through the door. “I want ye dressed and downstairs for breakfast in fifteen minutes.”
“Hell,” Flora muttered, staring down at her new breasts. “It wasn’t a dream.” She shifted over and climbed out of bed.
Lylah threw back her covers and sat up. “No, it wasn’t, damn your eyes!”
“Don’t you go yelling at me, girl. I got changed, the same as you.”
“Like hell, the same; you’re still white. I’m a nigger bitch, black as a crow.”
Flora leered at her. “The way you’re pushing out the front of that nightgown, more like a robin black breast.”
“That ain’t funny.” She didn’t add that Flora was as well developed as she was.
“Sure, it is.” Flora raised her arms. “Now, help me get this thing off.”
Without thinking of what she was doing, Lylah walked over. She took hold of the material of Flora’s gown and slowly lifted it upwards, finally pulling it over her head and off her arms.
She tried not to look at the naked woman standing so close to her, but that was all but impossible. Flora’s breasts were right there, almost touching her, nipples erect and begging to be played with.
Lylah felt an odd… something in her own breasts. And down… there where there wasn’t anything anymore. ‘If there was,’ she told herself regretfully, 'it would’ve been rock hard by now.’
“Just fold my nightgown up and leave it on my bed,” Flora said, “after you make the bed, of course.”
Lylah started. “Wh-What’d you say?”
“I told you to fold my nightgown and to make the bed. Why aren’t you doing it?”
“Why should I? I ain’t your maid.”
“Look, you dumb nigger, I told you --”
“I may be nigger – thanks t’you – but I ain’t dumb. You’re stuck here, same as me. You can fold your own damned clothes and make your own damned bed.” She threw the garment at Flora, who dodged, letting it fall to the floor.
The door burst open. “What the… what’s going on in here?” Molly demanded.
“This uppity nigger won’t do what I say.”
Molly looked hard at them both. Flora realized that she was naked and grabbed for her drawers.
“Do what ye say,” Molly said. “And who’re ye t’be telling her what t’do?”
Flora stepped into the drawers and quickly pulled them up to her waist. “She… She worked for me… before. Why should that stop now?” She tied the bow that held the undergarment tight at the waist. “Besides, she’s a nigger. She’s supposed to do what a white man like me tells her.”
“Really?” Molly looked around the room. “I don’t see no white man here, do ye?”
“N-No,” Flora replied. No one that looked like a man, anyway. She was still uncomfortable, being so undressed in front of Molly, and slipped on her chemise, as well.
“Aye, there’s nobody here but us ladies, the warden – which is me – and her prisoners – which is the two o’ye.” Molly fixed the women with her eyes. “So, I’m telling ye, the both of ye, t’be getting dressed – by yuirselves – and get downstairs as quick as ye can.”
* * * * *
` “Innocent Till Proven Guilty”
` “Innocent till proven guilty, isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be here in the
` United States of America? A person isn’t considered guilty until a jury says
` that he – or she – is.”
` “That’s certainly not the way it was for Nancy Osbourne at last week’s
` meeting of the Town Council.”
` “Nancy’s been teaching here for almost five years. Through the years, this
` paper has covered many spelling bees and school pageants. Every spring,
` we’ve has published a feature story about the graduating class. And, every
` time we’ve asked, the students – and their parents – have been constant in
` their praise of Miss Osbourne’s skill as a teacher and of the affection,
` concern, and patience she’s always shown for her pupils.”
` “That all ended at last week’s meeting. A small group of hysterical women,
` acting on rumor and hearsay, rather than on the facts, forced the Town
` Council, which is also the School Board, to suspend Miss Osbourne pending
` further investigation.”
` “These women would have had her fired then and there, without any real
` chance to defend herself. We applaud the Council for not giving in to the
` mob mentality that seems to be spreading in our community these days. We
` have no doubt that, once the Council completes its investigation, they will
` find be no reason to dismiss Miss Osbourne, and she will be returning to her
` classroom and her students.”
` “We only hope that she will want to come back.”
* * * * *
“You ain’t never gonna finish lunch if you keep picking at it like that.”
Bridget looked up from her plate. “Wha – oh, hello, Wilma. I-I guess I’m not very hungry today.” She tried to change the subject. “What brings you over here?”
“I come over t’talk to you and Jessie.” She looked around and saw her sister sitting alone, strumming her guitar. “Hey, Jess,” she yelled, “c’mere.”
Jessie left her guitar on the table she’d been sitting at and walked over. “How’s it going, Wilma?”
“Better ‘n’ good.” Wilma answered, her face breaking into a broad grin.
Jessie pulled out a chair and sat down. “If you come over t’watch Forry – Flora – work, Molly’s got her and Lylah upstairs, cleaning rooms and making beds.”
“They must just love doing stuff like that, especially Flora. Makes me wish I had a chaw of tobacco.”
Bridget cocked a surprised eyebrow. “Why’s that? I never knew you to chew before, not even back when you were Will.”
“Never wanted to. My pa chewed, so did Mr. Edgeworth at the Home, remember?” She pretended to chew an enormous wad of tobacco, distorting her face as she did to imitate the director of the Texas Orphans’ Home, where she and Bridget had first met.
Bridget nodded. “He was a nasty little man, wasn’t he? He always had some tobacco in his mouth.” She gave a faint chuckle. “Remember that milk cow we had at the Home? We used to call it ‘Edgeworth’ because they both were chewing their cud all the time.” Then she looked puzzled. “But why would you want some now?”
“So I could mess up a spittoon or two for Flora t’clean.” She gave a hearty laugh, and Jessie quickly joined in.
So did Bridget… barely. “That would be something to see.”
“It surely would,” Wilma paused for effect. “Too bad I won’t get the chance.”
Jessie raised her chin. “What d’you mean?”
“Ethan’s leaving Eerie on the Thursday stage.” She smiled contentedly. “And I’m going with him.”
Bridget looked stunned. “What! When did he ask you?”
“Last night… in bed.” She gave a happy sigh.
“Are you sure you didn't just dream it?”
“I am, but it's a dream come true.” She giggled. “We’re gonna go to Philly first, then on t’New York for some sorta show he’s having for his paintings.” She giggled again. “Too bad he can’t take that one he did o’me, but it ain’t the sorta painting t’show in public.”
“Why do you want to go with him?” Jessie asked. “Is there something going on that I don't know about?”
“Plenty. But to answer your question, I'm going 'cause Ethan asked me, and 'cause I want to go with him.”
“I didn't know you were that kind of girl.” Jessie stood and stepped over to hug her sister. “I’m gonna miss you, Wilma.”
“And I’ll miss you – the both of you. Maybe you can come t’visit us sometime, Jess – with Paul, of course. You come see us, too, Bridget.”
“You sound like you're never coming back,” said the redhead.
“I hope I never want to.”
Bridget got practical. “What did Cerise say when you told her you were going?”
“She asked if I was sure, and I told her that I was never surer of anything in my life. She said that she was sorry I was going, but she understood why. She’s gonna throw a going-away party for us tomorrow night, and you both’re invited.”
Bridget studied the tabletop. “I-I’ll try to come.”
“I’ll be there,” Jessie said catching her sister’s excitement. She realized that her sister was either in love, or she had an angle going that would get her set up pretty well. And the former would be much more surprising than the latter.
Wilma reached down and cupped Bridget’s chin in her hand. Then she slowly lifted it until the two women were staring eye to eye. “You’re my oldest friend, Bridget, my sister, almost, and you surely look like you could use a little bit of fun these days. You better be there.”
“I-I’ll try,” Bridget answered softly. “I… I promise.”
Wilma smiled encouragingly. “And I’ll hold you to that promise, old friend.”
* * * * *
` “Justice Served, But to Who?”
` “Justice was swiftly served yesterday in the court of Judge Parnassus J.
` Humphreys.”
` “On Friday last, Mr. Forrest Stafford and Mr. Leland Saunders ambushed
` well-known local rancher, Abner Slocum, on a trail leading to the northern
` portion of his property. Mr. Slocum survived but with serious injuries. He is
` currently recuperating in the infirmary of Doctor Hiram Upshaw. Dr. Upshaw
` will say nothing about Mr. Slocum’s condition, except that Mr. Slocum ‘is
` too stubborn to let something like this stop him.’”
` “Stafford and Saunders were captured almost at once by a group of Mr.
` Slocum’s hands led by his foreman, Luke Freeman. At their trial, they
` admitted their guilt and were sentenced to drink the special brew prepared by
` barman Shamus O’Toole and to spend 60 days working at the Eerie
` Special Offenders Penitentiary.”
` “Their sentence was one that might have been expected, considering the
` nature of their crime. The control of Mr. O’Toole’s brew is currently a
` matter of not a little political contention. Yet, none of those who are advocating
` that some other group be given that control were present to witness Mr.
` O’Toole administer his brew and comment on its use.”
` “For that matter, none of these advocates have made any comment regarding
` Mr. O’Toole and his wife supervising those who partake of the brew. Do they
` intend to have the O’Tooles continue to supervise these people if they no
` longer control the brew, or will Stafford, Saunders, and any future persons be
` boarding with them?”
* * * * *
Clara watched from her wheelchair, as Arnie tied the ribbons of her petticoat into a bow at her waist. “Annie, can I ask you a question… friend to friend?”
“Sure, Clara,” Arnie answered, smiling. “Like you said, we are friends.”
“Thanks, I was wondering what you… what you think of Hedley?”
Arnie blinked, taken by surprise. What did she think? “He… he’s a friend, same as you.” She put her arms into the sleeves of her dress, and raised them up over her head. The frock slid down onto her. “Why do you ask?” She straightened the dress over her petticoat.
“Oh, ahh… curiosity. Are you sure it’s the same? I mean, we’re both girls. Hedley… he’s a boy.”
Arnie’s hands faltered, as she tried to button her dress. “So, he’s a boy; what of it?” To herself, she added. ‘I’m a boy, too… inside, aren’t I?’
“I-I’m not trying to be a matchmaker – honest, I’m not. I just thought… it seemed to me that you… you liked him, liked him the way a girl likes a boy. And I think – well, I think that he likes you – a little – too.”
“He does?” A pleasant warmth ran through Arnie’s body. She felt the heat of a blush. “But that… that’s silly.”
Silly or not, she caught herself rushing to finish changing her clothes. But why? It couldn’t be lunch – she wasn’t that hungry. The lessons – not considering how nervous she still was about being a teacher. She took a breath. The only other possible reason was that she was hurrying so the Spauldings – so Hedley -- no, so the Spauldings could see how she looked in her dress.
But that was silly.
* * * * *
“Nancy,” Carmen yelled from the kitchen. “Would you get the door, please?”
Nancy hurried over to the front door. “I’m coming; I’m coming,” she called to whomever was knocking.
“K-Kirby,” she said in surprise, when she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
He beamed at the sight of her. “Nancy, are… are you all right? I-I was worried.”
“Worried?” She found herself smiling back. “Whatever for?”
“May I come inside to explain?” He glanced both ways down the street.
“Of course.” She stepped aside.
He hurried in, and she closed the door behind him. “The dictionary you ordered for the school,” he explained. “You never came to check on it. It arrived last week.” He held up a thick volume to show her. “I was waiting for you to come in for it, so I could talk to you without making any more trouble for you. But when I saw that editorial in today’s paper, I-I had to make certain that you were all right.” He set the book down on a bench near the door.
“Had to make sure?” she asked shyly. “Are you that concerned about all your customers?”
“No,” he said, sounding embarrassed, “but you’re more than just a customer.” He took her hand in his. “You’re… you’re a… a friend.”
A warm, happy feeling ran through her. “A friend?”
“A friend… and maybe more – if you’ll let me.”
“More? I'm not quite sure what you mean to say. I do like you, Kirby, but...” Her voice trailed off and she gently withdrew her hand.
He continued for her. “But you’re a teacher, and you can’t have a life of your own outside of the school. You’ve told me that before.”
She shrugged. “I’m not a teacher now.”
“But you will be again, I’m sure of it, and very soon. In fact…” He glanced over at the book. “I’ll just leave the dictionary here… with you, so you can take it in on your first day back.”
“Thank you, Kirby, for saying that.” She sighed. “It’s nice to know that somebody trusts me.”
“I do,” Nancy, “and I know that I’m the not only one who does.”
Before she could reply, Carmen came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a yellow apron tied about her waist. “Nancy, the supper will be ready soon. Will Señor Kirby be joining us?”
“I-I don’t know.” Nancy couldn’t help but think of Dell Cooper, and all the trouble from when he had taken her out to dinner. ‘What if Cecelia Ritter and the other biddies found out that I had dinner with yet another man?’ She considered the possibility for a moment and decided that she didn’t care. “Yes, Kirby,” she said in a soft voice, “would you like to stay for supper?”
He gave her another broad grin. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”
* * * * *
“Damnation!” Reverend Yingling slammed the newspaper down on the table.
Martha Yingling looked over from where she was putting away dinner leftovers. “What’s the matter, dear?”
“These editorials Roscoe Unger published. ‘Hysterical women’, he called Cecelia Ritter and her ladies; ‘mob mentality’ – he is no doubt talking about those who are following my lead regarding O’Toole’s potion. The… impunity of the man is beyond measure.”
She quickly walked over to where he was sitting. “I’m sure that he wasn’t criticizing you, Thad.”
“He most certainly was. Here…” He pointed to a paragraph on the page. “…he mentions me by name, saying that I should have attended that mockery of a trial and insinuating that I am not prepared to take on the responsibilities of controlling the potion.”
“How can he say such things about you? Roscoe is a regular member of our congregation --”
“That can change easily enough.”
“You mean that he could quit?”
“I mean that he can be told to leave.”
“T-Tell a man he must abandon his hope of eternal salvation? Thad, you… you can’t mean that.”
He looked up at her and read the shock in her face. He felt a brief moment of shame, and his anger waned – a little. “I suppose I don’t, but I do think that the man needs a severe talking to.”
* * * * *
` “This Pike County couple got married, of course,
` But Ike became jealous, and obtained a divorce.
` Betsy, well-satisfied, said with a shout,
` Goodbye, you big lummox, I'm glad you backed out!”
Jessie finished the song with a flourish of her guitar and a round of applause. “That’s it for this show, fellahs. Thanks for your kind attention. I’ll be singing again in about two hours, and Shamus’ll be glad t’sell you a drink or three to help bide the time.”
She stooped down carefully to pick up the coins a few of the men had tossed. Sometimes – especially if Paul was in the audience – she’d lean forward to show more of her lush bosom. ‘Not tonight,’ she reminded herself, ‘he’s on duty all night, and,’ she added reluctantly, ‘there ain’t enough men here for me to do it for the extra tips.’
It was true. After she’d finished, most of her smaller than usual audience had headed for the bar or signaled for Flora or Lylah to come over and take their orders. Jessie smiled at the sight of the terror of her childhood scurrying between tables, a subservient waitress.
But more than a few of the men had already left, heading for the dancing girls at the Lone Star.
“Ain’t much of a crowd tonight.” Shamus came over to where she was sitting.
She nodded. “A few more ‘n last week, but them gals Duggan’s got are still stealing a lotta my audience – and your customers.”
“That they are,” he agreed sorrowfully. “How would ye like t’be doing something t’get ‘em back?”
“What have you got in mind, Shamus? I ain’t about to dress up in one of them skimpy outfits and flounce around showing my drawers.”
“I ain’t asking ye to. Ye’ll be the one playing the music, while Flora and Lylah are the one doing the dancing. How does that suit ye?”
Jessie had to laugh. “I love it. But ain’t it gonna take a lotta time – and money – t’build a stage and teach them two some fancy dance? They’ve only been girls for a day. Are they ready t’be dancing girls?”
“Thuir ready if I say thuir ready, which I do. Besides, we’ll be starting ‘em off on something simple. D’ye remember that ‘Captain Jinks’ song ye was singing a few days ago?”
“Of course, I do. Why?”
“I’ve seen them shows they do in them dance halls in ‘Frisco and Denver and the like. That song’s a good one for what I’ve got in mind. Them two’ll be dancing, acting out the song – sort of, while ye sing it.” He studied her expression. “Are ye game for that?”
She considered his idea. “Maybe… for an extra dollar a show.”
“Extra… why ye… forty cents.”
“Ninety cents.”
“Fifty cents.”
“Eighty.”
“Sixty.”
“Split the difference… seventy cents.” She stuck out her hand.
He spit in his palm and shook hands. “Done, and thank ye for the fun of that haggle.”
“So when do we start?”
“Tomorrow; me Molly’ll be training ‘em, and, with a wee bit o’luck, we’ll be trying out the show on Sunday.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, May 1, 1872
“Are you all right, Laura?” Jane asked. “You look kinda pale.”
Laura shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said in a tired voice, gently rubbing her swollen stomach. “Junior was restless last night.” She did feel tired, but what could she do about it anyway?
“In that case, Laura,” Maggie said by way of interruption, “could you please take that bowl of coleslaw out to the Free Lunch?”
“Sure thing, Maggie.” Laura put the bowl on a tray and, walking slowly, carried it through the door and into the saloon.
Maggie and Jane went back to working on the Free Lunch. Maggie was slicing leftover chicken, and Jane was piling bread onto a tray.
Suddenly there was a scream from the other room. Lupe came running into the kitchen. “Mama, mama,” she called out in a scared voice, “Tia Laura… she just fell down, and she is not moving.”
* * * * *
Tommy Carson stepped through the doors into the office of the Mackechnie Freight Company. He took a breath and yelled, “Telegram for Ogden Mackechnie.”
“That’s me,” a voice answered from the back of the office. A burly man with graying brown hair and a burnsides mustache walked out from behind a counter.
The boy handed him the telegram. He tore it opened and quickly read the message. “Yee-ah-woo!” he yelled, waving the paper over his head. He fished some change out of a pocket and handed Tommy a nickel. “Would you do me a favor, son?”
“If I can, sir. I gotta get back to my Dad’s office.”
Mackechnie smiled. “Not even for a…” He looked at the change in his hand. “…a dime?”
“A dime, yes, sir!”
“Good boy. Run over to my house, 16 Second Street, and tell my wife that the territory chose my bid for the contract to haul equipment and supplies from Prescott to Yuma, and I’m taking her and the children out to dinner to celebrate.”
* * * * *
“I’m fine,” Laura insisted to Arsenio, staring up at him from their bed.
Edith Lonnigan shook her head. “Women in ‘fine’ condition do not faint. What do you say, Doctor?”
“There’s no sign of bleeding, and the baby appears to be viable.” The relief in Hiram Upshaw’s voice was obvious. “You’re still pregnant, Laura.”
Arsenio breathed for the first time in what seemed like hours. “Thank G-d. What do we do now, Doc?”
“Nothing. We won’t know if anything did happen to the baby for a while, maybe not until it’s born. The best course, though, is bed rest for at least a week -- maybe for the rest of the pregnancy.”
Laura strained to sit up. “But I’ve got a job to do at the saloon.”
“Laura,” Molly said firmly – they hadn’t been able to keep her out of the room. “If ye step through the door into me saloon before the doctor here says ye can, I’ll… I’ll be carrying ye back here meself.” She took a breath. “And, if the doctor says I can, I’ll wallop yuir bottom for trying something so foolish.”
Arsenio chuckled. “Not if I get to her first.”
“With dire threats like that,” Laura said, sinking back into the bed, “I guess I’m stuck here.” Despite her earlier words, she felt relieved at being ordered to stay home.
* * * * *
Nancy was sitting in the Whitney’s garden reading Sonnets From the Portuguese and enjoying the mid-afternoon sun, when she heard Carmen calling, “Nancy… Nancy, where are you?”
“Out here,” she answered and put down the book. Carmen wasn’t due home from her bathhouse for a couple hours. “What’s wrong?”
The other woman walked into the garden. “I am afraid that your meeting with the town council will have to be put back a few days?”
“Why?” Nancy asked nervously. It couldn’t be about her having dinner with Kirby, could it? “Was it something I --?”
Carmen put her hand on Nancy’s shoulder. “This has nothing… nothing to do with you, anyway. Laura, Arsenio Caulder’s wife --”
“I know her from church. I hope nothing serious happened to her?”
“She fainted at work today, and Doctor Upshaw says that she must stay in bed for a while to recover. Nothing will get Arsenio to leave her side, so the meeting --”
“Is postponed, as it should be.” She tried not to look disappointed. “Poor Mrs. Caulder.” It was hard for Nancy to think of Laura as one of those “potion girls,” a former outlaw. She wondered what the new girls, Flora and Lylah, would be like a year down the road.
“Sì, I am going to pack a basket to take over to them. They will both need to eat.”
“May I help? I like Mrs. Caulder. In fact, if you think it would be all right, I’d like to go over there with you, to wish her well and to see if there’s any way I might help.”
“Of course, you can come along. I think that Laura and Arsenio would like some company.”
* * * * *
“Hey Ethan,” Wilma shouted from the doorway to the painter’s rented house. “Where are you?”
His voice came back quickly from the second floor studio. “Up here, Wilma. What did you want?”
“You,” she answered happily, hurrying up the stairs.
The painter was folding up a hinged wooden easel. “What can I do for you this afternoon?”
“Same thing you done to me last night.” She giggled. “And this morning.” She walked over and kissed him deeply on the mouth. “Mmm.” She moaned and rubbed her body against his. Their hands roamed each other’s bodies, exciting her – exciting them both.
Eventually, they had to break the kiss. Wilma glanced about the room. Most of his equipment and supplies were already in shipping crates. So were the paintings he had brought with him to Eerie. The chairs that so many of his subjects had posed on belonged with the house and were stacked against a wall. The bed that he had used for her portrait was in a corner, the mattress rolled up and tied with a thick rope.
“Shame that bed ain’t set up,” she said in a sultry voice. “It’d be nice to use it, just once, the way a bed’s supposed t’be used.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he replied. “Tonight – in your own bed – I have something special --”
“Special, that’s what I come over for. Daisy wanted me t’ask you if there was anything special you wanted for our going-away party tonight.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Our going-away party, are you also going to be doing some traveling?”
“I sure am, to New York… with you.”
“Whatever gave you the idea that you were accompanying me to New York?”
“Y-You did – in bed, last night.”
“Wilma, I said many things to you in your boudoir, but, I am quite certain that I never said anything even remotely along those lines. You must have misunderstood.”
Her jaw dropped in disbelief. “No, you… didn’t you… you promised.” He had to be teasing her for some reason. He just had to.
“Wilma, you are a delightful bedmate, one of the most skillful, most willing women I have ever had coitus with, but I doubt that my fiancé --”
“Fiancé! What finacé?”
“A lovely lady to whom I've been engaged for two years. I didn't mention it because I didn't think it would be an issue with you. Also, I felt that it would be highly improper to mention her name in a place such as Lady Cerise's.”
“But… but what about us and… and this evening? You said it’d b-be special.”
“And it shall be, very special. I have invited your colleague, Beatriz, to join us for the night. It is my experience that the things that can be experienced in such an erotic trio are exceedingly special.”
The woman gasped. This was beyond all belief. She felt her eyes filling with tears, but she was damned if she was going to give him the chance to see her cry. “G-Goodbye, Ethan,” she yelled as she darted down the stairs.
* * * * *
The front door opened almost as soon as Carmen knocked.
“Carmen… and Miss Osbourne, thank goodness.” Arsenio greeted them. “Please, please come in.”
The two women entered the house. Carmen heard loud voices from the bedroom. “Why is Laura yelling like that? It cannot be good for her.”
“It probably isn’t,” he conceded. “Maybe they’ll stop if you go in.” He didn’t look like he believed it. He pushed open the half-closed door. “Laura, you have more company.”
“Who…” Laura looked up from her bed. “Oh, Carmen and… Nancy Osbourne, how nice.”
Nancy nodded. “It is. I was sorry to hear about what happened, Mrs. Caulder --”
“Laura… please.”
“Thank you… Laura, and I’m Nancy. Carmen and I brought some food for you and Mr. Caulder.”
Another voice rang out. “Food? That’s the last thing they’ll need while I’m here.”
Nancy looked around and almost dropped the basket she was carrying. The speaker was Laura’s twin. “W-who…”
“I’m Jane Steinmetz,” the woman answered, stepping forward. “Laura’s my sister – sort of. I was saying how I was gonna come over and t’cook all of her and Arsenio’s meals while she’s laid up.”
Nancy nodded. She had heard about the strange events of last summer’s kidnappings, but this was the first time she had met Laura’s now transformed abductor.
Laura leaned forward. “And I was trying to tell her that she’s needed more over at the restaurant… ‘Maggie’s Place’. She’s the assistant cook over there.”
“Okay,” Jane admitted, “so Maggie wasn’t too happy when I told her what I wanted t’do, but she said that she didn’t mind – not too much, anyway. Molly can help Maggie out instead of me.”
The bedridden woman sighed. “And who’ll help Shamus with those new prisoners, if Molly’s stuck in the kitchen? Or wait on customers, either? Your being over here so much would leave her and Shamus very shorthanded.”
“I know, but you’re my sister, and you – and Arsenio – come first.”
Nancy considered the situation for a bit before she spoke. “Perhaps I can help.”
“Go ahead,” Laura said, “tell Jane how stubborn she’s acting.”
“I don’t think she’d listen to me, but what I meant was that I might be able to help out at the restaurant, for a while, anyway. When I was enrolled at the Hartford Female Seminary, we ate our meals eight to a table, seven students and a teacher. The students took turns acting as server for their table. I could be the waitress you need.”
Jane seemed to brighten. “That’d work; wouldn’t it, Laura?”
“Are you sure, Nancy?” Arsenio asked from over her shoulder. “Those people who are against you won't make any distinction whether you're working at the restaurant or working for the saloon.”
Nancy shook her head. “I think I'm coming to the end of my patience with such bullying. Why should the people who like me the least be the ones who decide what I should do with my life?”
“At least you could give it a try,” Arsenio said with an uneasy shrug. “Then we can both stop worrying.” He gently took his wife’s hand in his.
Jane nodded enthusiastically. “It’s a good idea.”
“Well,” Laura glanced first at Jane, then at Arsenio, then, with a look of relief, at Nancy. “If you're aware of the risks, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try.”
* * * * *
“How’s your chicken?” Liam asked. “I’ve never seen it served with a chocolate sauce before.”
Kaitlin used her napkin to dab at the corners of her mouth. “Neither had I, but Phillipia Stone told me that it was a specialty of ‘Maggie’s Place’, so I thought that I'd try it.” She paused a half-beat. “And it is delicious, by the way. How’s your fish?”
“Pretty good, and it’s even better with you as my dinner partner.”
She smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, Liam. I must admit that I was surprised – just a little – when you asked me out for supper.”
“Why? I’ve told you that I was courting you. When a man courts a beautiful woman, he takes her out to share her fine company and to show everybody how lucky he is to be with her.”
“Well…” She sounded impressed. “Thank you for that, but I was still taken aback – just a little – by the invitation. You never seemed to be interested in women. I don’t recall you ever seeing anyone the entire time we’ve been here in Eerie.”
“Kaitlin, I’ve been interested in women since I was eleven, and my Papa told me all about the differences between boys and girls.”
“Really, you never --”
“There was a problem, a big problem. The woman I was interested in – the woman I loved – was married.” He took a quick sip of water. “To my brother.”
“Liam.” The shock was obvious in her face. “I never thought, never suspected…” Her voice trailed off.
He looked down at his meal. “You weren’t supposed to. I'd eventually have settled for second best, I guess, but I wasn't ready for that, yet.” He sighed. “I’m not sure that I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, please, don’t be sorry.” She smiled shyly and reached over to take his hand in her own. “Besides,” she told him in a soft voice, “I’m not married anymore.”
* * * * *
Lavinia Mackechnie watched Nancy walking towards the kitchen with the orders for her family’s dinner. “Dis… gusting,” she spat under her breath.
“What’s that you say?” her husband, Ogden, asked.
The woman made a gesture towards Nancy, just as she disappeared through the door. “That… disgrace of a school teacher, Nancy Osbourne. The jury frees her brother after he killed her… paramour…” She said the last word in a whisper that she hoped her children wouldn’t hear. “And she’s back here, among drunkards and gamblers, looking for a replacement.”
“Don’t be so hasty, my dear.”
“Hasty, I’m being nothing of the sort. This only confirms what Cecelia Ritter has been saying all along. I heard that she ordered a beer from Molly O'Toole right after the hearing. Mrs. O'Toole said right out loud that she was the first schoolteacher who'd ever come into this place to drink.”
“But we come here, now and then.”
“To dine, not to guzzle beer like a common trollop! Nancy Osbourne is a wicked, low woman, and she has no business teaching our children. I’ll speak to Cecelia, Zenobia, and the others tomorrow, and, when I tell them what I’ve seen here tonight, the woman flouting her sinful nature for all to see, we’ll make very, very sure that the town council fires her this time.”
* * * * *
“Try ‘n’ relax, Bridget,” Jane said, as she took hold of the hinged bronze cupid on the front door of La Parisienne. “You been here t’visit Wilma lotsa times.”
Bridget glanced nervously up and down the street. “I-I know, but now, I… I shouldn’t have come here tonight.” What would people think – did they expect to see her at a place like this?
“Aw, you don’t wanna let Wilma go off with Ethan without you having a chance t’say goodbye, do you?”
Before the redheaded gambler could answer, the door opened. “’Allo, ladies,” Herve greeted them. “I am so glad you are here.”
“Thanks, Herve,” Jessie replied cheerfully. “Has the party started yet? I brought Bridget… and my guitar.” She held up the instrument for him to see as she walked past the tall Frenchman. Bridget scurried in after her.
He closed the door behind them. “Party… no. There is no party… not now. Mademoiselle Wilma, she stormed in some time ago. She shrieked at my Lady Cerise and… attacked Mademoiselle Beatriz. I had to pull her off before Beatriz was injured. When my Lady asked what was going on, Beatriz said that Wilma had just learned whom Messier Thomas really loved.”
He took a breath and continued. “I thought that such words would make Wilma even madder, expect her to snarl and spit like a wildcat, but she did not. All the life seemed to go out of her. She broke free and ran for the steps, crying like the baby, and with Beatriz’ laughing at her out loud.”
“Where is Beatriz?” Jessie snarled. “I got a few things I wanna say to her.”
The man’s eyes drifted upwards. “She is with Messier Thomas just now, and I do not think that either of them would care to hear whatever you might wish to say to them.”
“No… well, ain’t that too bad.” Jessie started for the flight of stairs.
Bridget chased after her. “Jessie… wait. Before you do whatever it is you want to do to them, don’t you think that you… that we should see how Wilma is?”
“You’re right.” Jessie stopped and drew a breath. “Wilma first, then them two.” She turned back to face Herve. “And don’t you – none of you --- go warn them.”
The big Frenchman flashed a nasty grin. “Now why would I want to do that?” He paused a beat. “We will say nothing… so long as you agree not to hurt our Mademoiselle Beatriz. It is a business thing.”
“You got it.” Jessie agreed, and the pair hurried up to Wilma’s bedroom.
Jessie tried the door. “Locked.” She cupped her hands and called out. “Wilma… Wilma.”
“Ethan?” The door suddenly opened, but Wilma’s eager smile faded, when she saw her sister and her best friend. “You two got no business being here – go away.”
“You invited us,” Bridget answered.
Wilma laughed bitterly. “Yeah… I did, didn’t I? Th-That party, big laugh… big j-joke… on… on me.” She started to cry. Her dress was badly wrinkled, her hair was awry, and her eyes were red.
“Let’s take this inside,” Jessie said, motioning for them all to go into the room. When they did, she quickly shut, and latched, the door.
Wilma sat down on her bed, still crying softly. Jessie put her guitar down next to the door and sat down on her sister’s left; Bridget on Wilma’s right. Bridget fished a white cloth handkerchief from her reticule and handed it to her friend. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“Ethan!” Wilma spat the name. “He told me I was special and what a fine old time we was gonna have. I thought he meant that he was gonna take me t’New York with him.” She laughed hoarsely. “‘Cept he couldn’t do that, now could he? Not with that fiancé of his back in Philadelphia. She’s a proper gal, she is, not a wh-whore like me. Hell, I can work in a place like this, but she's too fine a lady even to have her name mentioned here!”
Jessie took her sister’s hand in her own. “That bastard – lying t’you like that.”
“H-He didn’t l-lie,” Wilma answered. “He-He did have s-something sp-special in mind, something h-him and m-me and… and Beatriz could do in b-bed tonight.”
Jessie gasped. “A three-way?”
“Yeah,” Wilma said in a soft voice, tears running down her face. “It… It’s some-something a wh-whore like me… does.” It was the first time that Jessie had ever heard Wilma say anything bad about being a whore.
Jessie frowned and suddenly sprang to her feet. “Why that dirty…” She took her sister’s hand again. “C’mon, Wilma… you, too, Bridget. We got us a score to settle.”
Wilma blinked in surprise and let herself be pulled to her feet. “What – what are you gonna do, Jess?”
Jessie smiled mischievously. “You’ll see.” She waited a beat, while Bridget stood. “Which is Beatriz’ room?”
“A-across the hall,” Wilma answered, uncertain of what her sister was planning. “About five feet further from the steps.”
“Perfect.” She opened the door part way. “You two stay here. Keep the door open just wide enough t’peek.”
Jessie strode out into the hall. She smoothed the front of her dress and patted at her hair. When she was ready, she glanced back. Wilma’s door was opened just a crack, and she could see the other two looking back at her. She winked and walked over to Beatriz’ door.
“Oh, Ethan,” she called out in a seductive voice. She knocked on the door and spoke his name again.
She was about to knock again, when the door opened. “Yes?” Ethan wore only a white towel wrapped around his waist. Angry as she was, Jessie had to admire the man’s muscular body -- and the bulge that tented the towel in front.
She pictured Paul Grant in just a towel. ‘I’ll have t’do something about that later,’ she told herself.
“Why, Jessie,” he said with a wide grin. “What happy chance brings you here tonight?”
She smiled back. “I heard you like some things in threes,” she answered softly.
Ethan's brows went up. “I do indeed. Are you inquiring for yourself, or for another lady?”
“For myself!”
“Delightful.” He moved forward, putting his arms around her and pulling her to him. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, and, more disconcerting to her, she could feel his manhood pushing against her. “This is a most welcome, most pleasing surprise.”
“Surprise, yes,” Jessie’s arms reached up and circled around his neck. “Pleasant… no. Here’s three to remember Wilma by.” Her knee jerked up, hitting him sharply in the groin. His eyes opened wide in surprise – and pain. But, when he tried to move away, he found himself trapped by Jessie’s arms. Before he could break free, she kneed him twice more.
“Ah… erk!” he said in a high-pitched voice, as he collapsed to the floor, stunned and writhing in pain.
Jessie nodded at Beatriz who sat watching, naked, from her bed. “You two have a good night.” She chortled as she closed the door and returned to Wilma and Bridget. Both were laughing, and the tears running down Wilma’s cheeks were tears of joy.
Their merriment was infectious. “I just hope my kicking Ethan like that does Wilma some permanent good,” Jessie said.
* * * * *
Thursday, May 2, 1872
“You didn’t need to come with me, Jess,” Wilma said breathlessly, as they hurried towards the stage depot.
Jessie shook her head. “Yeah… I did, but I think this is a dumb idea.”
“I know, but I… I couldn’t let Ethan leave, not without saying… goodbye.”
“You’re still hoping he’ll take you with him, ain’t you?”
“Yes… but he won’t, not a whore like me.” She sighed, but she kept walking until… “There he is!” she shouted.
Ethan walked slowly out of the stage depot building. From his odd gait, Jessie could tell that he was still sore from being kicked by her the night before. ‘Hope I broke something,’ Jessie thought as they reached the depot.
“Ethan!” Wilma shouted.
He turned to face her. “Wilma…” His expression changed when he saw whom she was with. “And Jessie, what an utterly disagreeable surprise.” He smiled, but he also took a step back from her. “Or have you come to apologize for ruining my last night in this hovel of a town?”
“Seems t’me,” Jessie replied, “that you’re the one who should be apologizing… to Wilma.”
“Apologize? For what? I never promised her more than a few nights of shared carnal delight, and she is surely too honest a woman to have told you that I didn't deliver. There were a few misunderstandings, I fear, but they were unintentional.” He smiled with smug satisfaction. “There is nothing more to be said; I only wish our parting could have come on a more amiable note.” He started for the stagecoach.
Jessie looked past him into the stage. Two men were already inside. They weren’t close enough to have heard the exchange between her and Ethan, but from the leers on their faces and the way they kept looking from her to Wilma to Ethan and back to her again, they were clearly impressed by the beauty of the two women who had come to see him off.
She hurried to catch up with him. “Well, maybe there is one thing,” she said softly. She walked along with him, although he managed to keep a few feet between them. When they were only a short distance from the stage, she spoke up, using the same strong, resonate voice that she used to be heard when she performed.
“Now don’t you worry, brother,” she began, “that mercury treatment’ll have you cured of the clap in no time at all. Why the doc says it’ll even clean up them sores you got all over your pecker.”
A tall, heavyset man that Jessie recognized as the guard was standing by the door to help people in and out of the coach. He frowned at the artist. “Get in… mister,” he told Ethan, stepping back from the door as the painter reached it. “We sure ain’t holding the stage for the likes of you.”
Ethan scowled, but didn’t reply. When he climbed in, the two men inside moved as far away as they could within the limited space.
“And don’t touch nothing,” the guard said. He kicked the door shut and climbed up to the seat next to the driver.
“Gee-up,” the other man yelled, flicking the reins. The stage lurched forward and headed down the street.
Jessie made a deep theatrical bow towards the departing stage. Then she turned and repeated the gesture for her sister. “Ta-da!”
Wilma was standing on the wooden sidewalk in front of the depot. “Thanks for that, Jess.” She started to giggle, even as tears ran down her face.
* * * * *
“There’s the schoolhouse, Kirby,” Nancy said, pointing to the building. “I’ll take the book now.”
He smiled and hefted the large dictionary. “Are you sure? It hasn’t gotten any lighter in the last half mile.”
“I’m sure. After all, I was the one who ordered it.”
“Yes, but you ordered it for the school, not for yourself. I’m delivering it. You just happened to come by at the same time to talk to Mrs. Stone.”
It was lunchtime, and the students were outside, eating or playing games. Someone recognized Nancy, and a few of them started running towards her.
“Miss Osbourne, Miss Osbourne!” Zenobia McLeod called out. “Are you coming back to be our teacher?”
Some of the other children shouted the same question. Others just chanted, “Come back, come back.”
“Don’t you like having Mrs. Stone for your teacher?” Nancy asked, a smile on her face. They had missed her.
“She’s okay,” Tomas Rivera answered, “but we like you, too.”
“Thank you,” the teacher said. “I liked being your teacher, but it’s… it’s not settled yet if I can come back.”
They were in the schoolyard now. Nancy could see that some of her former students weren’t happy to see her. ‘Hermione Ritter looks positively livid,’ she thought. ‘I wonder how she’ll behave if... when I come back.’
“Nancy, I am so glad to see you.” Phillipia Stone came out of the building and hurried over to her. “And Mr. Pinter, how are you today?”
Kirby nodded by way of a greeting. “I came to deliver this dictionary that Nan – that Miss Osbourne ordered a while back for the school. It just came in.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Stone replied. “Please bring it inside. You come, too, Nancy, so we can chat.” They all started for the school. When some of the children followed them, she added, “You students should all stay out here and finish your lunch.”
Nancy could see the disappointment on their faces. “I’ll be out in a bit, and we can have a short visit, I promise. Right now, Mrs. Stone and I need to talk. Okay?”
The children fell back. They weren’t following the adults anymore, but Nancy suspected that they would listen at the door – and the open window near the teacher’s desk.
“How are things going, Phillipia?” she asked once they were all inside.
“Well enough, but I still have questions – a lot of questions.”
Nancy studied her face. “More than we have time for now, I expect. Why don’t you come over to Mr. Whitney’s house on Saturday, and we can go over things in detail?”
“That would be perfect. Is two o’clock all right?”
“Two is fine. I’ll see you then.”
Kirby held up the dictionary. “Now that that’s taken care of, where shall I put this book?”
“On the bookstand there – in the corner.” She pointed to an oak stand with a raised, open platform for holding the book, then added. “If that’s all right with you, Phillipia? This is your classroom.”
“Only for the moment. The bookstand is fine.”
He walked over and set the book down where the women had said. “If that’s all, we’ll -- I’ll be taking my leave of you ladies.”
“We both will,” Nancy said. “We’ve disrupted things enough around here, I should think.”
They all walked to the open doorway. Several students were standing on the steps with more gathered around them. “Can we come over on Saturday, too, Miss Osbourne?” Emma O’Hanlan asked.
“We can make it a party – a ‘Welcome Back’ party, maybe,” Yully Stone said, looking hopefully at both Nancy and his mother. The other students voiced their agreement with the idea.
Nancy was genuinely surprised – and more than a little pleased at the show of affection, but… “I don’t know. I-I’ll have to ask the Whitneys if I can have a party for you all at their house.”
“Why not have it at my store?” Kirby suggested. “You and Mrs. Stone can meet in my office to discuss whatever you need to, and the party can be held afterwards, in the yard behind the shop.”
The students all cheered at the idea. “Can we, mother; can we?” Penny Stone asked.
“Well…” Phillipia glanced over at the other woman, who nodded back. “I suppose that it would be all right.”
Hermione Ritter was standing a few feet away with her brother, Eulalie Mackechnie, Bert McLeod, and a few others. “No,” she suddenly shouted. “It’s not okay. She isn’t our teacher anymore, and she never will be again. My Mama says --”
“What your mother says is not always true,” Nancy interrupted, her patience with the Ritters near its end. “And, yes, I would be very pleased to see any of you who wish to come, but I do need some time to talk with Mrs. Stone. Let’s say three o’clock for the party. How’s that?”
Kirby smiled, amused at her reaction to the girl’s insolence. “Three will be fine.”
Nancy felt her eyes moisten as most of the children cheered in agreement.
* * * * *
Cecelia Ritter answered the frantic knocking at her kitchen door. “Lavina, whatever is the matter?”
“News – have I got news,” Lavinia Mackechnie replied, as she walked into the kitchen. “What I saw last night, I just had to come and tell you.”
“What… what did you see?”
“Last night, my Ogden took us all out for supper – he got some sort of contract with the territory and –”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Anyway, he got the contract, so he took the whole family out to celebrate. We went to that ‘Maggie’s Place’ restaurant in O’Toole’s saloon.”
“I hear that it’s very good. It’s such a shame that the only restaurant in town has to be in a place like that.”
“I quite agree, but, you know what they say, any night that a wife doesn’t have to cook dinner is a good one.” She took a breath. “The thing is… who do you suppose was our waitress?”
“Who? Not one of those miserable, outlaw potion women?”
“Worse! Nancy Osbourne.”
Celica smacked her palms together. “I knew it! I’ve heard that she goes there quite often -- looking for men, no doubt.”
“I heard that she was in there drinking beer with a bunch of cowboys just a few days ago.”
“It’s not hard to imagine what else a woman like her was doing with those cowboys.” Cecelia’s face reddened. “We cannot allow such a vile, common woman to be anywhere near our poor, innocent children.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t recall when the town council meets again, but whenever it is, we have to insist that she be fired.”
“I agree, but will they do it?”
“We will make sure that they do. We’ll get as many people as we can there to support us. I’ll ask the reverend to help. He can say something about it in church on Sunday. That Osbourne woman must be stopped.”
“Maybe we can get someone to keep an eye on her comings and goings. Maybe it should be more than one person, so she won't suspect anything. The more evidence we get, the better.”
“If anyone can do it, Cecelia, you can.”
“We can, my dear, and we will.”
* * * * *
“All right, Jessie,” Molly ordered. “Sing the next verse.”
Jessie nodded. They were in the back hall on the second floor of the Saloon along with Lylah and Flora. “Here goes,” she said.
` “When he left home, his mamma cried,
` His mamma cried, his mamma cried,
` When he left home, his mamma cried,
` 'He's not cut out for the Army.'“
Molly frowned. “I ain’t sure I like them words, ‘his mamma cried.’ Ye got any ideas about what they could be changed to, something that’d be fit for our ladies t’be dancing to?”
“Lemme see.” Jessie thought for a minute. “How about ‘the girls all cried’? Is that what you’re looking for?”
The older woman sang the lines, “When he left home, the girls all cried, the girls all cried, the girls all cried. Aye, that’s a lot better.”
“Flora,” she continued, “when Jessie sings, ‘When he left home’, I want ye to take Lylah in yuir arms --”
The new woman folded her arms. “The hell I will. This whole thing is ridiculous.” She looked down, frowned, and moved them down below her breasts.
“The hell you won’t,” Molly answered, glaring back. “I’m ordering ye, ordering ye t’be doing this, so ye ain’t got a whole lotta choice in the matter, do ye.”
Flora sighed and slowly shook her head. “No… no, I don’t.”
“Fine; like I was saying, Flora, when Jessie sings, ‘When he left home…,’ ye’ll be taking Lylah in yuir arms and dancing a… a mazurka -- and I know ye can do it ‘cause I seen ye doing it downstairs a couple of Saturdays ago. Ye’ll dance towards the left o’the stage and back to center, while she sings, ‘the girls all cried’ three times.”
Molly took a breath. “And when Jessie sings, ‘When he left home’ a second time, ye’ll be switching off. Lylah, ye’ll be taking the lead. Ye dance Flora all the way to stage right and back to the center again, so ye get there when Jessie finishes ‘He’s not cut out for the army.’ Do ye both understand?”
“I reckon so,” Lylah said, and Flora nodded in forlorn agreement.
“Let’s be trying it, then,” Molly said, as she signaled Jessie to start.
* * * * *
Kirby Pinter walked into the saloon and over to R.J. behind the bar. “Is Jessie Hanks around?”
“She’s working on something upstairs, right now,” he answered.
Kirby reddened slightly. He knew that Miss Hanks and that deputy were a couple. “Would… would it be all right if I went up to see her?”
“Why don’t I get her down here?” He cupped his hands and shouted. “Hey, Dolores, would you tell Jessie that there’s somebody looking for her?”
Dolores had been eating an early supper at a table near the stairs. She hurried up to the second floor, returning a moment later with Jessie. Both women walked over to where Kirby was standing. “I was enjoying my meal, just now,” Dolores told R.J. “Running that errand will cost you.”
“Oh, will it now?” He grinned and reached across the bar for her. She stood on tiptoe. “And how’s this for a payment?” Their lips met in a brief but enthusiastic kiss.
When they broke the kiss, she smiled. “It will have to do.” Then she pecked him on the cheek. “For now.” She turned and went back to her food.
“What’d you want to see me about?” Jessie asked with a wry smile.
He held up a large manila envelope. “The… ah, the music you wanted came in today’s mail.”
“‘The Wedding March’? It came already?” She looked at the envelope. It was addressed to him and was already opened. “What do I owe you?”
“A dollar for the copy of the words and music and…” He glanced down at the envelope. “…and twelve cents for postage.”
“My reticule’s upstairs. Can you wait a minute?”
R.J. tossed some money onto the bar. “I’ve got it, Jessie. You can pay me back later.”
“You don’t have to do that, R.J.,” she protested.
“Sure I do,” he answered with a wink. “Call it payment for giving me an excuse to kiss Dolores.”
* * * * *
“Hello, Mama.” Hermione Ritter walked into the kitchen and set her schoolbooks down on a chair. Clyde, Junior was right behind her.
Cecelia looked up from the vegetables she was chopping for a stew. “Hello, my dears, how was school?”
“Not good… Miss Osbourne…” The girl spoke the name as if she had just drunk vinegar. “...She come by – she came by at lunch time.”
Cecelia set her knife down on the chopping block. “She did? Why?”
“She came by with that Mr. Pinter – you know, from the bookstore,” Junior answered. “He brought a big book, a dictionary that she had ordered for the school a while back.”
“And then what happened?”
Hermione answered this time. “Her and Mr. Pinter and Mrs. Stone went inside – it was lunchtime, and everybody was on the schoolyard – and they talked for a while.”
“About what, do you know?”
“Yes, ma’am. Clyde and me listened at the opened window by her desk. Mrs. Stone is gonna – is going to meet with Miss Osbourne to talk about stuff, about school I think.”
Cecelia made a clicking sound with her tongue. “What is the matter with Phillipia? I thought that she had more sense than to even want to talk with that woman, let alone talk about the school and you children.”
“I don’t know what they’re gonna talk about,” the boy said, “but they’re gonna meet at Mr. Pinter’s store. And… and after that, there’s gonna be a party.”
“Uh huhn,” Hermione continued. “Some of the other kids wanted to see Miss Osbourne, so her and Mrs. Stone and Mr. Pinter are going to have a party for them at his store.”
Their mother shook her head. “Those poor, misguided children, to want to expose themselves to more of that wicked woman and her evil ways.” She studied the faces of her two children. “You… you weren’t planning on going to that party, were you?”
“Oh, oh, no, Mama,” Hermione answered quickly, and Clyde agreed. “I didn’t want to go,” she continued, “and I told those other kids that they shouldn’t go, neither. So did Clyde.” She sighed. “Mama, they laughed at us.”
“A couple of ‘em called us names,” he added.
“Those impertinent little – they deserve Nancy Osbourne. Don’t be upset, you two. It just shows how much better than the rest of them you are.” She gently stroked her daughter’s cheek. Junior had always said that he was too old to be “petted” like a girl.
Hermione knew her mother’s mind. “You’re going to do something about that party, aren’t you, Mama?”
“I am, indeed, and about that Mr. Pinter if he persists in siding with that vile woman.” And, apparently, she would have to keep on eye on Phillipia Stone, too.
* * * * *
Horace Styron strode confidently into Ritter’s Livery and walked over to the counter. “’Evening, Clyde, you ready to go over to the Lady’s place?”
“Not quite,” Ritter answered. “I need to check what’s ordered for tomorrow, especially in the morning?”
“Can’t that wait?”
“A man orders a team for 9 AM, he expects it to be ready for him at 9 AM. He doesn’t want to show up at 9 and have to wait a half hour, while my people put the team together.”
“What’s it matter? You’re the only livery in town.”
“And I want to keep it that way. Besides, I don’t like doing shoddy work.”
Styron considered the notion. “Mmm, I suppose you’re right.”
“I am.” He started looking through the order sheet in front of him.
“So… what’d you think of what the paper said about Reverend Yingling?”
“I didn’t like it,” the liveryman replied. “I thought we’d already taught Unger who was in charge.”
“So did I. Maybe we need to have another talk with him.”
Ritter looked dubious. “I think that the Reverend should put the fear of G-d in some of these townspeople. We need to pick somebody for an object lesson. We show everybody we mean business, and then we won’t have no more trouble with anybody else.”
“You mean warn Unger that someone will beat the tar out of him if he doesn't stop using his printing press to make trouble?”
“Maybe…” Ritter chuckled. “And maybe we need to warn him about what might happen after we get our hands on O’Toole’s potion. Let’s just see how the ideas of running that newspaper of his as a woman sits with him.”
“That’s not a bad idea, and I’ll bet he’d make a pretty one. Not that he’s the only one I’d like to give a dose of that stuff, too.”
“You think the good Reverend’d go along with giving Unger the potion?”
“I don’t see why not? It’s Yingling he’s been insulting. If he wants to control the town --”
“And he does.”
“Then you’ve gotta control what the paper says. Like, if Unger was a potion woman, and she got told that she couldn't print anything that didn't support the consensus of the people…”
“You’re right about that, but it won't be just the Reverend that'll have control. It’s gonna be that board he wants t’set up to be in charge of the potion. Who all you think’ll be on it?”
“The Reverend’ll be the chair, of course, but he’s going to need somebody to do the day-to-day stuff. That’ll be me, with you right there helping. Maybe Jubal Cates or Willie Gotefreund from the church board, too. T’tell the truth, I thought about your wife – to thank her for all her help with the petition, but a woman’s got no place telling men what to do. And I wouldn't trust your Cecelia having a say about anything as powerful as the potion.”
“Amen to that. You figure on having any Mex on that board?”
“Don’t see why we should. It’s the Reverend’s idea. It should be his people that’re on it, not any of them damned greasers. Besides, it’ll make it easier to keep ‘em in their places if they first see what happens to the first person who crosses us. They're so superstitious, magic’d scare the living hell out of them. If not, maybe more examples will be needed.” He looked impatiently at his watch. “You ready to go yet?”
“I am now. There’s no team or wagon reserved before 10 o’clock. I’ll be in way before that to make sure they’re ready.” He put the papers he’d been looking at in a drawer. “Let’s go. The ladies are waiting.”
The two men left hurriedly. They stopped only long enough for Ritter to lock the front door to his business. Neither of them noticed that the door to the stables was open halfway, more than enough for Pablo Escobar, who was working late, to have heard every word that the two had said.
* * * * *
“Hey, Milt,” Jessie said as the lawyer walked past the table where she was resting after her first show.
He stopped at the sound of his name. “Oh… hi, Jessie.” His eyes darted around the room. “Is Jane about anywhere?”
“She’s out in the kitchen. The restaurant just closed, and her and Maggie are putting away the leftovers.” She chuckled. “And Flora and Lylah are doing the dishes.”
“Thanks.” He started for the door to the kitchen.
Jessie stood quickly and put her hand on his arm. “I don’t think she wants t’see you, Milt.”
“She’s still mad, isn’t she?”
“Mad and hurt. You shouldn’t’ve meddled like you did.”
He sighed. “I know. I was just trying to… help. I knew how excited she was about that painting just then, but in six months, she’d have hated it -- and hated herself for wasting her money buying it.”
“You’re probably right, but it is her money. Don’t she have the right t’decide what t’do with it?” She looked pointedly at the man. “Or do you think she ain’t smart enough t’be trusted not to ‘waste’ it?”
“Please, not you, too.” He put his hand up to his forehead. “No, I don’t think Jane is dumb – and I never did. But I do think that she’s naïve. She’s an innocent, too, likely to give in to an impulse, rather than think things through.” He gave her a stern look. “And you think the same thing about her, don’t you?”
“I do, I admit it. Just don’t tell her I said so. It took me long enough t’get her to stop hating me for accidentally killing Toby Hess.”
“That’s right. She told me once that she slapped your face the first time she saw you after that. How did you get past that with her?”
“It wasn’t easy – and it wasn’t quick, I’ll tell you that much.”
He thought for a moment. “Maybe you can help me.”
“What d’you mean?”
“You know Jane fairly well. Is there anything I can do – and I do mean anything -- to get me back into her good graces again?”
She seemed intrigued by the challenge. “Lemme think about it. You’re gonna be here for the dance on Saturday, ain’t you?”
“Of course, I will. Mad or not, she has to dance with me if I give her my ticket.”
“Okay then, you give me one of those tickets, too, on Saturday, and while we’re dancing, I’ll tell you whatever I come up with t’help you.”
* * * * *
Friday, May 3, 1872
Molly led Flora and Lylah up to the second floor of the Saloon.
“We gonna do more dance practice?” Lylah asked. “Jessie ain’t up here.”
Molly shook her head. “Dancing’s in the afternoon. For now, ye’ll be doing some house cleaning. First, ye go in and make the beds in yuir own room. Then ye’ll be doing some o’the other rooms. Lylah, ye’ll do Jessie’s room, and Flora, ye’ll do Jane’s. Then ye can both come and clean up me own rooms.”
“How come we each have to do a room by ourselves,” Flora wondered. “Wouldn’t it be quicker if we worked together?”
The older woman cocked an eyebrow. “Have ye got someplace t’be going that ye’re in such a hurry? Ye’ll do what I tell ye. In fact, I’m telling ye plain, not to be going in t’help each other, even if ye’ve got yuir own room done. There'll be other chores to do. Do ye understand what I’m telling ye?”
The pair nodded, even as they wondered why it was such a problem.
* * * * *
Reverend Yingling heard a knock on the door to his study. “Come in, Martha,” he called.
“It’s us,” Cecelia Ritter said, “Lavinia Mackechnie and I.” The pair walked in, and Lavinia closed the door behind them.
He rose to his feet. “Hello, ladies. What brings you here to see me this day?” He motioned for them to sit, and when they had, he took his own seat behind his desk.
“Nancy Osbourne,” Cecelia answered at once. “It’s… she’s even worse that I had thought.”
“How do you mean, worse?” the reverend asked.
“Her behavior,” Cecelia replied, “she was seen at O’Toole’s on Monday… drinking – whiskey, so people say, and who knows what else she was doing.”
Lavina spoke next. “And on Wednesday – my husband took us all out for dinner, you see, and that restaurant in O’Toole’s is the only restaurant hereabouts. Anyway, she was there, Nancy Osbourne, working as a bar maid, no less, and, I’m sure, carrying on with her customers.”
“You saw this yourself?” Yingling asked in amazement.
“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. She… she was waiting tables, taking orders for food and drink like she’d been doing it for years. And the people she's associating with! O'Toole and his wife are bad enough, but the women there are almost all former criminals. There are even a couple of serving convicts working side by side with her right now.”
He scowled. “Hardly the proper behavior for a school teacher.” He paused a moment. “What do you ladies suggest we do about our Miss Osbourne?”
“She isn’t my Miss Osbourne,” Cecelia replied, “and I want to make very sure that she is never again our children’s Miss Osbourne. The idea of her spreading her corrupt morals to those dear innocents, it’s… it’s beyond comprehension.”
Lavinia nodded. “I quite agree. You must help us, Reverend. We have to make the town council fire her once and for all.”
“And we shall,” he said confidently. “The town council will be considering my proposal regarding Shamus O’Toole’s potion at its meeting next Wednesday. I had planned to use my sermon on Sunday to urge that as many members of the congregation as possible attend that meeting. It can also afford us the opportunity to acquaint parents with the increasingly worse behavior of Nancy Osbourne.”
Cecelia gave him a satisfied smile. “And they will no doubt be scandalized. Who could possibly refuse a chance to help with such important matters?”
“Indeed, and in the face of such overwhelming support, I am most certain that the council will comply with my proposal.” He smiled broadly. “After which, the same crowd will force – excuse me, will convince the council that Nancy Osbourne should no long be allowed to teach the children of Eerie. The opinion of so many members of the congregation should place great pressure on the town council to formally end Miss Nancy Osbourne's tenure as a teacher in this community.”
* * * * *
Shamus walked over to the table where Bridget was playing Maverick solitaire. Without saying a word, he spun a chair around and sat down, leaning forward over the back of it. “Bridget, d’ye mind talking t’me for a wee bit?”
“Uhh, sure, Shamus,” she said, putting down the two cards she’d been holding. “What do you want to talk about?”
He could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Yuir rent,” he replied, trying to be as gentle as possible. “Ye ain’t paid me yet t’be running yuir poker game here this month.”
“I-I’m not running my game. Could I just p-pay you for my… room and board?”
“Ye could, but I’d like t’be offering ye a better deal than that.”
“Better?”
“Aye, ye may not feel up t’actually play poker right now –”
Her eyes grew moist. “No, I-I don’t. I... I don’t know if I ever will – ever… ever again.”
“Don’t ye be talking like that, Bridget.” Molly had come over to join them.
She tenderly put her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “Ye’re having a bad time of it just now, but I – me and Shamus both – we know how much ye love t’play cards.”
“Aye,” Shamus continued, “and if ye ain’t ready t’be a free agent, running yuir own game, then I’ll be more than happy t’hire ye as a dealer again.”
Bridget looked surprised. “A… a dealer. I don’t know…” Her voice trailed off as she considered the idea.
“Please do it.” Molly sat down next to her. “Ye’ll have the fun of being in the game with none of the things that’ve been bothering ye. And,” she added, “the job comes with room and board. Ye won’t have t’be paying us anything.”
“That's pretty fair wages for just dealing,” Bridget said with a thoughtful frown. “I don't want to a charity case.”
“T’tell the truth, ye’d be doing me a favor,” Shamus told her. “Thuir’s them men that only came in here t’be playing poker with ye.” He didn’t want to “guilt her” by pointing out that some of those same men hadn’t been in the Saloon since she gave up her game.
She looked down at the cards spread out on the table, not really able to face either of them. “I-I’m not sure that I can even be... a dealer.”
“Ye’ll never know if ye don’t try,” Molly replied.
Shamus turned the knife – just a little. “I know ye’re hurting, Bridget, and I know why ye’re hurting. But ain’t ye enough of a gambler t’be giving it a try?”
“I-I don’t know, Shamus… Molly,” she answered with a deep sigh. It was a challenge, and some part of her refused to let it pass unanswered. “But I-I think I want to find out.”
* * * * *
R.J. watched a very attractive blonde walk into the Saloon. Barely five foot tall, her blonde hair and ivory skin set off her tight sapphire blue dress. She stopped and glanced around as if searching for someone. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, walking over to where she was standing. “Can I help you?”
“Mmm, I’m sure that you could” she answered in a husky voice. “But right now, I’m looking for Mr. Forrest Stafford.”
He nodded, recognizing her now. “You were here for the trial, weren’t you? You’re that friend of Wilma. The two of you sat together.”
“Friend…” She looked like she’d just swallowed something very sour. “Colleagues – co-workers, might be a better word. I am Rosalyn Owens – of the Staunton, Virginia Owenses.” She smiled and offered him her hand.
“R.J. Rossì – of the Philadelphia Rossis,” he answered in a bemused tone. “And speaking of names, she's Flora Stafford now.”
“Yes, I saw… that happen.” She shivered. “It was truly amazing – and more than a little frightening.”
“I guess it would be if you weren’t used to it.” He waited a beat. “Flora’s upstairs with Lylah – the other one that got changed on Monday – and Molly O’Toole. They’re cleaning the bedrooms we rent out.”
“Housecleaning, as if she were some sort of servant?”
“More like a prisoner, which is what they are for the next two months.” He tried not to smirk at her discomfort.
“Does that mean that I can’t see her?”
R.J. shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” He turned and called out. “Hey, Dolores.”
“Sì, R.J.?” Rosalyn saw a tall, willowy Mexican woman walk over – and put an arm around the handsome barman’s waist. “What can I do for you?”
R.J. knew enough to get out of the line of fire. “This, ah… lady wants to see Flora. Would you mind going upstairs and asking Molly to send her down?”
“For you… anything.” She kissed his cheek and headed for the stairs with a sensual glide.
“You welcome to sit over there while you wait.” He pointed to a nearby table. “Can I get you anything from the bar?”
When he looked away, Rosalyn coyly regarded him. That R.J. wasn't a customer of Cerise's interested her. “The only thing that I want from the bar is already here,” she purred, wrapping her fingers around his muscular upper arm. He glanced her way again, his expression uneasy.
“Sorry.” He gave her a noncommittal smile and backed out of her grip. “Private stock.” He made a strategic retreat back behind the bar.
Rosalyn walked to the table and wriggled down into the chair. A man who was loyal to his woman; this R.J. was intriguing her more and more. As time passed, her eyes drifted back and forth between the top of the stairs and the man behind the bar. Dolores had come down almost at once and spent the time talking to R.J. They leaned close over the counter, holding hands.
‘Can’t win them all,’ she thought. 'But one doesn't win a war with one battle.' She glanced towards the steps and saw Flora walking hesitantly down the stairs. “Forrest,” she said loudly, standing and waving her arm.
The woman didn’t seem to respond. Rosalyn rose to her feet and walked over to meet her. “Hello, Forrest.”
“Call me Flora,” the new woman said, looking in her direction. “We… I don’t answer to that other name any more.” She glanced at the floor. “It's…it's that damned witchcraft,” she explained.
Rosalyn frowned. “All right, then, Flora, are you all right – otherwise, I mean?”
“I am, considering what’s happened to me.” She looked at the other woman. “Why are you here?”
“Truth to tell, I’m not sure.” Rosalyn moved over to a table. “Can we sit down?”
Flora nodded, and they both took seats. “Better?”
“Yes, it is. As I was saying, Flora, I-I came over because I… I was concerned about you.”
“Concerned – as in sorry to lose a paying customer, isn’t that more like it?”
“There’s no need to be rude. I’m hardly hurting for ‘customers’, as you put it. There are a good many men who are eager for my… company.”
“Then why come over to talk to me?”
“Because you were a true gentleman when we were… together. We’re alike, I suspect, persons of quality who find themselves in their less than proper place. I found myself thinking of you as a… friend. That was why I attended your trial.”
Flora was still suspicious, but she managed to reply with courtesy. “And I do thank you for that. I have to admit that it was good to have at least one friendly face in the room.”
Flora closed her eyes, remembering Rosalyn’s smile. Then the image shifted to one of a naked, smiling – gasping -- Rosalyn, writhing in sexual fire with her former, very male self. Flora felt herself grow aroused, but the male arousal of her mind had to deal with her newly female body. She shook her head to drive away the sensation of her nipples stiffening and the pleasing warmth that began to build in them and flow down between her legs.
If Rosalyn knew what was happening to Flora, she didn’t react. Instead, she smiled and said. “I do hope that we can be friends. This town has so few people of quality. There are merchants with money, but they're just so vulgar.”
“We can't be the sort we were,” the transformed woman answered, “Never the sort we were.”
Rosalyn nodded, a sad look in her eyes. “Probably not.” She gently placed her hand on Flora’s arm. “But there are other types of friends, you know, and I do believe that you could use that other kind of friend just now.”
It occurred to the Texan that someone like Rosalyn might know a lot of what was going on in town, enough to get some control over things, maybe even enough to find out how to get changed back. But this wasn't the time to ask. “I-I could, indeed,” she finally said. Flora covered Rosalyn’s hand with her own. “And thank you for offering.”
* * * * *
“That’s one… and another one…” Clay Falk chanted in a singsong voice as he unhooked Wilma’s favorite garment, her sea green corset. “Hello, ladies,” he added as her pillowy breasts were almost fully exposed. Her crinkled nipples were pointing straight at him, begging to be played with.
He took a moment to glance up at her face. And, seeing her expression, stopped. “What’s the matter, Wilma?”
She forced a smile. “N-Nothing’s the matter, Clay… honey. You go right ahead with what you was doing. It, umm, it feels so, umm, so… good.” From the flat tone of her voice, she might just as well have been describing the wallpaper as her own sexual delight
“You can’t kid a kidder. There’s something bothering you, ain’t it?”
“No, I’m… I’m fine, really I am.” Her hand snaked down to cradle his erection through his pants. “Now, come on. You wanted me. You paid for me. Let’s get it over, umm… get to it.”
Clay smiled, but without much feeling. It was like she was holding the handle of a machine, not a lover. “You know what I think?”
She sighed and her entire body seemed to droop. “That you wanna take me back downstairs and get somebody else?” She sighed again. “We’re all the same price, after all.”
“Wrong guess.” He put his hands firmly on her shoulders, as if he had to keep her from sagging into a heap. “I’m thinking it’d be nice to just… cuddle, t’lay down next to a pretty girl, to put my arm around her, and to feel her warm, soft, sweet-smelling body up close next to mine. It'll take me back to the days when I was a young buck. You up for something like that?”
She gave him a wane smile. “You sure that’s all you want? The others down in the parlor, they’d be more ‘n happy t’take my place. That’s – that’s how… whores are.”
“I ain’t talking ‘bout whores, Wilma. I’m talking ‘bout me ‘n’ you. You're different from most of those girls. I think a little cuddling is something that we both could use.”
“I'm different from all of those girls,” she said with an ironic lilt.
“You are that, but you're different in a good way,” Clay said.
Her smile warmed as, with eyes glistening, she gave him her hand and let him lead her to the bed.
* * * * *
“Señor Styron, he really said that?” Fernando Hidalgo asked in amazement. “That he would not give any Mexicans a place on the board, not even grandees like Don Luis and Don Sebastian?” He was sitting on a mound of hay in the Ritter stables with Pablo Escobar and Juan Ybañez, while they took their short lunch break.
Pedro nodded. “He did, not even the Padre. Him and Señor Ritter said that they would even use the potion to make sure that they ran the town.”
“But how did they think they would get away with something like that?” ‘Nando rubbed his light beard as if in deep thought.
Juan shrugged and took a bite of an apple. “How do the gringos get away with anything? They just do.”
“I thought that their priest… Yingling – I thought he said that he wanted the potion because he was a better man that Señor O’Toole.” ‘Nando took a breath. “That is what the paper said.”
“They own the paper, too,” Juan shot back. “It says what they want.”
Pedro shook his head. “Maybe they don’t. Ritter said he would give the potion to the man who runs it.”
“This is silly,” Juan said. “They claim that they want it for the whole town.”
“Maybe not the whole town, did they ask any of us to sign that petition of theirs?”
‘Nando shook his head. “No, but I thought that was just for the adults, the ones who can vote.”
“Hammy Lincoln can vote, and they did not ask him,” Pedro said. “When a gringo came into the livery, Señor Ritter asked him to sign. Did either of you see what happened when a Mexican came in?”
Juan frowned. “I saw. He moved it under the counter. They don’t want to let us to have anything to do with that potion – if they get it.”
“Not even the Padre,” Pedro told them. “I heard them say so. “ He suddenly looked determined. “If they do not want to give Father de Castro the chance to speak then, maybe he should speak now. I think that I’ll talk to him about it in church on Sunday.”
* * * * *
“I think the ‘girls’ is coming along pretty good,” Jessie said, taking a sip of lemonade. She was sitting with Molly and Bridget relaxing after a long rehearsal.
Molly nodded. “Thuir coming along in a lot of ways.” She looked over to where Flora and Lylah, now in aprons, were setting the tables that served as Maggie’s restaurant. “But they’ve still a long way t’be going. I’m thinking that I’ll be taking ‘em over to Carmen’s for a bath before the show on Sunday.”
“That’ll be a surprise,” Jessie replied. “In a lotta ways.”
Bridget remembered her own first time, which reminded her of other things. And made her want to change the subject. “Speaking of their first show, what’re they going to wear?”
“Ye know,” Molly admitted, “I ain’t given that a lot o’thought.” She paused a moment. “It can’t be regular clothes like thuir wearing now.”She took a sip of her own lemonade.
“Or even the starched blouses and skirts that we wear for the dance.” Jessie added. “Maybe… for Lylah, a big yellow petticoat she can swing around – flirty like.”
“Aye, and for on top, a corset the same color.” Molly laughed. “Oh, she’ll be loving that. But what about ‘the captain’? Seems t’me she should be wearing something like a uniform.”
Bridget chuckled. Forry had worn an officer’s uniform. “It’s a song about a British officer, so dress her in a bright red corset and a pair of matching drawers. She won't need a petticoat or skirt.”
“That still ain’t very military,” Molly replied, “but, ye know, it seems t’me that I’ve got an old red coat somebody left in thuir room a year or so ago. It’d look like an officer’s coat if I was t’be sewing on some braid. Aye, that and a red cap’d do it.” She let out a hearty laugh. “That’d do her up right ‘n’ proper. Thank ye, ladies.”
Bridget gave her a nasty smile, enjoying the mental image of a very feminine Flora Stafford traipsing around half-naked for a musical show. “Our pleasure, Molly, our pleasure.”
* * * * *
“Finished,” Flora announced, walking over to where Molly stood watching the two new women setting the tables for Maggie’s restaurant.
Molly glanced over at the four tables. “So they are. Lylah, go take them extra plates and such back into the kitchen.” She watched the black woman carry the tray with the plates, glasses, and silverware away. “Ye done a good job,” she said glancing around.
“While nobody else’s around, can I ask you a couple questions?”
“Ask away.”
“Okay, this potion Shamus gave us, who else’s he given it to, and what happened to ‘em after they took it?”
Molly thought for a moment. She remembered with horror what Forry Stafford had done to Bridget and what he’d done all those years ago to Brian Kelly. ‘Better t’be asking Bridget,’ she thought, ‘before I’m telling this one.’ She shook her head. “I’ll be thinking on that for a while, if ye don’t mind,” she told her charge, “before I decide if I want t’be telling ye anything.”
“I do mind,” Flora muttered, “but I don’t seem to have much choice in the matter, do I?”
“No, ye don’t.” She’d have to warn Shamus as well about what Flora had asked.
* * * * *
Nancy Osbourne walked hurriedly into the parlor of the Whitneys’ house. The town councilmen were all sitting together. Carmen was pouring coffee for Arsenio Caulder.
“I’m sorry if I kept you gentlemen waiting,” Nancy told them.
Arsenio shook his head. “You didn’t. I just got here myself.”
“How is Mrs. Caulder?” she asked him.
“Very well, thank you,” he answered, “and she said that you could call her ‘Laura’, remember. She’s resting easier now that she doesn’t have to worry about that restaurant – and thank you for that. Doc Upshaw wants her to stay in bed for a few more days, and then he’ll see if she can go back to work.”
“I was glad to help Laura out. It took my mind off… other things.”
Aaron Silverman dunked a shortbread cookie in his coffee and took a bite. “Speaking of those ‘other things’, we should get started.”
“Not till she has had some coffee,” Carmen told him. She put a cup down in front of the other woman. “Here you are, Nancy. With cream and one sugar, just the way you like it.”
Nancy tasted the dark brew. “Perfect, thank you, Carmen.”
“There are a couple cookies, too,” Carmen added.
Whit chuckled. “Thank you, Carmen, but we do have to get started. If you don’t mind…” His words trailed off, as he glanced towards the kitchen.
“I am going; I am going.” Carmen squeezed Nancy’s hand. “Good luck, Nancy, and don’t let them scare you.”
Now Aaron smiled. “As the Sages say, ‘Honesty saves a man from death.’ Besides…” he leaned back in his chair and patted his large stomach. “…how scary can an old galitizianah shopkeeper clerk like me be?”
“Not very… I hope. Thank you, Mr. Silverman – and Carmen.” Her friend gave her a quick wink and scurried off to the kitchen.
Nancy sipped her coffee. She set down her cup and sat up, her hands demurely folded on her lap. “I-I’m ready, gentlemen. Ask your questions.”
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Whit replied. “Where and when did you first meet Dell Cooper?”
“At Ortega’s grocery, the Monday -- at least, I think it was the Monday -- before Carl was robbed; I don't remember the exact date. Mrs. Carson sent me over for some potatoes. He accosted me, making crude remarks and demanding a kiss. I… I slapped his face and ran from the store.”
Arsenio chuckled. “That should have discouraged him.”
“It didn’t,” she answered. “He showed up at the schoolhouse the next day – someone at Ortega’s must have told him who I was. He made a number of suggestive remarks, and… and when I tried to strike him again, he-he threatened me – sort of.”
Whit raised an eyebrow. “Sort of threatened you, how?”
Nancy explained that he had threatened both her and the children. “I didn’t know what to do. I told Carl, and he went to talk to Mr. Cooper.” She sighed. “Then there was that robbery. People were saying that Carl was involved. I knew that he wasn’t, but what could I do?”
“I wonder if that’s why Cooper staged that robbery,” Whit said, “to get back at your brother for telling him to stop bothering you.”
Aaron shrugged. “Who knows why a man does something like that? As the Sages say, the evil urge begins as a guest and goes on as the host. What I want to know, Nancy, is why you all of a sudden changed your mind and went out with this momzer -- this man you say you didn’t like?”
“I… He threatened me again.” It was the question she’d dreaded. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “It was just a few days after the robbery. People were saying that Carl was involved. I-I didn’t know what to do. And then Cooper came back to the school. He told me he’d seen the robbery happen?”
Aaron stroked his chin. “I suppose that was true, since he was the robber. But what excuse did he give you for not stopping it?”
“He told me that he was too far away,” she answered quickly. “But he was close enough to see that Carl wasn’t a part of it. He said that, if I went out with him, he’d tell the sheriff what he saw.”
Whit studied her expression. “Why didn’t you just tell the sheriff that he was a witness?”
“Be-Because he said that if I didn’t have dinner with him, he’d tell the sheriff that he’d seen Carl helping the robbers.” Nancy’s eyes glistened. “I-I couldn’t let him do that. Carl might’ve… might’ve gone t-to pr-prison.”
Arsenio handed her his handkerchief. “Here, do you want a break for a minute?”
“No… I…” She dabbed at her tears. “I-I’m better. Thank you.”
“Did he ever go to the sheriff,” Whit asked, “with either story?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. It never got mentioned at the trial.” She made a sour face. “And I even let him – eww – kiss me, when he insisted that was part of the deal.” She shuddered at the memory.
“Why didn’t you say any of this at the council meeting?” Arsenio inquired.
She sighed again. “I-I couldn’t. Carl was still waiting to stand trial. People would think that he was guilty and that I… did what I did to give him an alibi. And if Mr. Cooper was asked, he might have lied about Carl and made things worse.”
“So you kept things quiet – went along with Cooper -- for your brother’s sake.” Whit studied her face closely, as he spoke.
“C-Carl is my brother, my o-only family. What else could I do?”
Aaron gave her a smile. “For our families, as they say, we risk the world. I think we’ve heard enough. You stay here, have one of those shortbread cookies.” He pointed to a small dish next to where Carmen had set the coffee pot. “My friends and I, we’re gonna go in the other room and talk for a bit.”
The three men rose and walked out of the room without another word. Nancy leaned back in her chair and tried to relax while she waited.
* * * *
“Nancy.” Whit led the men back into his parlor. “We’ve decided.”
She put down her coffee and stood up. “Yes, Mr. Whitney.” 'Don’t let them see how scared you are, Nancy.'
“We talked over what you said, and we can’t find a single reason why you can’t get back to teaching the children.”
“Do-Do you mean that, sir?”
Aaron smiled at her. “We do. We’ll tell Roscoe Unger, so the story can be in the paper on Tuesday.”
“And we’ll formally lift your suspension at the town council meeting on Wednesday,” Whit added. “Congratulations.”
Her body sagged with relief. “Th-Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you so very much.”
The men didn't notice a shadow of a doubt cross her face. Would the next family she lived with be better people than the Carsons, or the Ritters? She knew she had friends, but she had also seen the vehemence of her enemies, and she couldn't understand it. Also, Kirby's face suddenly flashed before her mind's eye, and she wasn't sure what that was about either.
* * * *
Saturday, May 4, 1872
Zach Levy strode into the Saloon and over to where Shamus was working behind the bar. “Good morning, Mr. O’Toole --”
“It’ll be a better one if ye call me ‘Shamus’, lad,” the barman replied. “What can I be getting for ye?”
“My clients, if you don’t mind. I felt that I should ask you, rather than just go over and talk to them.”
“I thank ye for that.” Shamus cupped his hands and yelled, “Lylah… Flora, would ye come over here?”
Lylah was setting up the table for the Free Lunch. Flora was sweeping the floor. Both stopped what they were working on and walked over to the two men. Flora carried her broom with her. “What do you want now, Shamus?” she asked.
“Some respect’d be a nice start, Flora. In the meantime yuir lawyer wants t’be talking to ye.” He turned to Zach. “Why don’t the three of ye sit down over there?” He pointed to a table against the wall. “‘Tis far enough away t’be giving ye some privacy.” He glanced at the clock over the bar. “Just don’t be taking too much o’that privacy. We’ll be needing to put out the Free Lunch in a wee bit.”
Zach nodded. “Thank you, Shamus. I’ll try not to keep them for too long.” He led the women over to the table and waited until they sat down before taking his own seat across from them. He opened his brown leather case and took out a pencil and tablet.
“I spoke to Judge Humphreys,” he began, looking at some notes on the pad. “Your trial will be held right here on Monday at 10 AM. You’ll be charged with being accessories after the fact in the matter of the robbery of the Slocum payroll. Do you know what that means?”
Lylah nodded, looking glum. “It means we’re in trouble, don’t it?”
“Exactly; it means that you didn’t know that Cooper was going to rob the payroll. You didn’t help him do it, either, but you knew that he had done it, and you knew where the money was.”
Flora shuddered. “Could… could we get jail time for that?”
“Normally, yes,” he answered, “though not as much as you’d get if you had actually helped commit the robbery. But that’s normally. This is Eerie. They have another way of doing things, as you well know.”
“Too well,” Flora replied. “Did the judge say what he might do – if we were found guilty, I mean?”
“No… and I did ask. As a general rule, the accessory to a crime gets less than the actual criminal. Since Cooper is dead, he can’t get any sentence.”
Lylah looked hopeful. “Does that mean they could let us off scot free?”
“I doubt it,” Zach admitted, “but it may mitigate against a harsh sentence.” He took a breath. “It would have helped more if you had turned the money -- and Cooper -- over to the sheriff. Why didn’t you?”
Lylah started to respond, but Flora stopped her. “Would it help if I say that I was planning to do just that,” the blonde said, smiling wryly, “but I never had the chance with all that was happening?”
“You could say it, but I very much doubt that a jury would believe you.”
“How about if I say that I was going to, but, after Dell was shot, I was afraid of being implicated. I… I was going to leave the money behind – with a note, of course – when I left town.”
“Miss Stafford… Flora, I’m not going to help you lie to the jury. You tell me the truth, and I’ll help you put the best face that we can on it.”
Flora frowned. “That is what happened… more or less. Look, I’m a wealthy man. You check with Albertson at the bank. I brought a sizeable letter of credit with me; one worth more than what I hear was in that payroll. Why would I need to steal it?”
“Greed’s a good reason. So is anger. You admitted to shooting Abner Slocum because he insulted you in some way. Why wouldn’t you want to steal his money, too?”
“Because I didn’t… dammit. Cooper did.”
“But you kept quiet about it. Your story almost made it sound like you were stealing the money from Dell, and that’s what the jury will want to know about.”
Flora sighed. “I told you why. Cooper was dead, and I didn’t --”
“We didn’t,” Lylah interrupted, not wanting to be left out of Stafford’s story. “We didn’t want people thinking we done it.” Flora quickly agreed
Zach thought about what they had said. “It’s not much, but I may be able to argue that point.” He made some notes. “We’ll see what it gets us.”
“Free -- I hope,” Lylah said.
“You won’t be free until you finish the sentence you’re already serving,” he told them both. “I’ll just try to keep things from getting any worse. Maybe, since you've already gotten a severe sentence, we can argue for a suspended sentence pending good behavior over the rest of your term.”
“You do that.” Flora considered her situation. “In the meantime, can I ask you to do something else for me?”
“You’re welcome to ask. I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to do it, and I’ll bill you for my time if I do. That money you have in Albertson’s bank should cover it.” He added the last in a sarcastic tone.
“I’m sure that it can,” Flora continued. “What I want is to know who else took this damned potion of O’Toole’s, why they took it, and what happened to them afterward.”
Zach looked at her nonplussed. “I’ll do what I can, but it may take a while.”
“I’m stuck here for the next two months, Mr. Levy. That should be more than enough time. I asked Molly O’Toole, but I don’t think that she or Shamus will spill the beans. But somebody in this damned town should be willing to talk, especially if you wave a gold double eagle under their nose. I need to know if anybody ever had the potion and got changed back, who they were and how they did it, so I can aim for the same thing -- whatever it takes.”
Zach wondered about the hard look in her eyes as she said that last thing…
* * * * *
“May I ask you a question, Annie?” Mrs. Spaulding said, looking over at the young woman seated next to her daughter.
Arnie had been cutting herself another bite of the baked chicken they were having for lunch. “Of course not,” she answered, putting down her knife and fork. “Ask away.”
“Thank you,” the older woman replied. “What is this ‘special brew’ I read about in the paper? There’s been talk about some sort of brew or potion or whatever almost every week. To be frank, I’ve become rather curious about it.”
It was not a question Arnie wanted to hear, let alone answer, and she stalled for time. “Have you asked anybody else about it?”
“No, I – we really haven’t met many people since we came to town. That Reverend Yingling, the one the paper talks about, has come to call once or twice.”
“H-He has?” What had Yingling said? Did he know that Arnie had befriended the Spauldings?
Mrs. Spaulding nodded. “Yes, him and his wife both. They seem very nice, especially her, but we’re not really churchgoing people.”
“Mother doesn’t like the reverend,” Clara said in a half-whisper.
“Don’t gossip, Clara,” her mother scolded. “It isn’t ladylike.”
“It’s true, though,” Hedley added. “And I agree. He seemed quite full of himself, one of those preachers – what did Father used to say – oh, yes, the sort of preacher who thought that the first three words of the Good Book were, ‘Dear Reverend Yingling.’ Isn’t that right?”
Arnie and Clara both chuckled at the joke, and even Mrs. Spaulding smiled. “I really do not know the man,” Arnie told them. “I am a Catholic, so I have never been in his church.”
“But why does he want to control this brew of Mr. O’Toole’s?” the mother asked again. “Most ministers are against hard drink. They don’t want to be the one giving it out.”
The Mexican girl took a breath to steel herself for what she was about to say. “It is not just a drink. It is… “ She hesitated. There was no way that this secret could be kept from residents of the town, and if she denied knowing anything, she would soon be seen by the Spauldings as a liar. But if she “let the cat out of the bag,” who knew what more they would soon learn? Still, she felt cornered with no real choice. “It is magic.”
“Magic?” Hedley said. “Are you joking?”
“No, it is magic. Out -- Out here, there are secrets, very strange knowledge that comes from the Indians. Magic from the world of the spirits --”
“Like in the stories of the old Greeks?” Hedley asked. “What sort of magic?”
“It is used to punish bad men. Banditos.”
Hedley smiled. “Let me guess. It turns them into pigs.”
“Si… no, it changes them into… into other people. They look different. They live with Señor O’Toole for a time, like they were in a prison, to get used to what – who they have become. When they leave, they have always become better… people.”
Mrs. Spaulding was quiet for a moment. “What an amazing story – though I find it hard to believe that it is anything more than a story.” The hostess took a sip of the lemonade she had served with lunch. “But I’ll accept it at face value – for now anyway. Thank you, Annie.”
Arnie sighed, relieved. She was sure that Mrs. Spaulding didn't believe a word she had said, but didn't want to declare what she did think -- that her guest was talking very foolishly or carrying a joke too far. But the look on Clara's face told Arnie that she wanted to ask the questions that her mother wouldn't. She immediately started thinking about how to leave the house without first having to talk to Clara alone.
* * * * *
Nancy studied the test paper spread out in front of her on Kirby Pinter’s desk. “These papers look very good, Phillipia.”
“I thought so,” Phillipia Stone replied. “Having them write the words for homework the night before the test was a very useful idea.”
“I’ve always thought so. When you do the next spelling test on Thursday, you might want to put in a few of the words that they did misspell this week.”
“Do you expect to be out that long?”
“Well, I told the town council my version of what happened, and they’ve decided to reinstate me. It’ll be in the paper on Tuesday, and they’ll make it formal at the meeting Wednesday night. I thought that I’d let you finish out the week.”
“Sounds like you’re enjoying the time off.”
“I am, to tell the truth, but that’s not it. I just think it would be better not to switch off in midweek. It also gives us a chance to meet next weekend so you can go over what you’ve been doing.”
Phillipia considered the idea for a bit. “That makes sense, I suppose,” she finally said. She gathered up the papers and put them in a folder. “Think that takes care of everything for now. Let’s go see what Kirby and the children are up to, shall we?”
Nancy agreed, and the two women walked out the back door of the office and onto the porch behind Kirby Pinter’s bookshop. Kirby and Penny Stone, Phillipia’s daughter, were setting things out on a cloth-covered table at a corner of the porch. “Hello, Mother… Miss Osbourne,” Penny greeted them.
“Are you two finished inside?” Kirby asked.
Nancy looked at the table. She saw plates, forks, stacks of glasses, three pitchers of lemonade, and… “Wherever did you get that cake?”
“The restaurant over at O’Toole’s; I went over a couple of days ago and asked Jane if they could bake one for me. They did.”
Nancy raised a surprised eyebrow. “I’m sure it’s delicious. Maggie and Jane are both fine cooks.”
“I was the odd one out for a game of Cross Questions,” Penny told them, “so I’m helping Mr. Pinter.”
Kirby nodded. “And she’s been a big help, but now that your mother and Miss Osbourne are here, Penny, why don’t you go tell the others that we’re ready?”
“Sure.” She ambled over to the other children who were seated in a circle on the grass. Mostly, the children who had come were from the older grades, although Aggie Stone, Enrique Diaz, and Abe Scudder -- all three were third graders -- had come with their older siblings.
Cross Questions was a popular parlor game. The group sat in a circle. Each person, in turn, asked a question of the person on their right. When they’d all done this, they went around the circle again. Each person said the question they’d been asked, and then answered that question with the answer they’d gotten from the person on their right.
It was Jorge Ybañez’ turn. “Okay,” he told the group. “Emma O’Hanlon…” He glanced to his left, where she was sitting. “…asked me, ‘What do I want to be when I grow up’, and the answer I got from Miriam Scudder was…” He unfolded a sheet of paper and read, “A big, gray rat in my daddy’s henhouse.” His expression soured, as the children burst into laughter. “That ain’t funny.” His question to Miriam had been, “What are you the most scared of?”
“Yes, it is,” Penny told him. “Now I’ve got a question. Do you all want to keep playing or do you want to break for cake and lemonade?”
Jorge jumped to his feet. “I vote for cake.” Most of the others agreed, and they all headed for the table where the adults were standing. Kirby had cut the cake into pieces. Nancy put the pieces on plates and handed one to each child, while Phillipia poured glass after glass of lemonade.
Nancy had just taken a seat next to the table, when she heard a shrill voice shout, “How dare you?”
“What?” She looked up to see Cecelia Ritter, Zenobia Carson, Levinia Mackechnie, and several other women standing a few feet beyond the fence that marked the end of Kirby’s yard. She frowned. “What’s bothering you now, ladies?” she asked sourly.
Cecelia started for the gate into the yard. “You are no longer the teacher of these children, Miss Osbourne, and you have no business being anywhere near them.” The other women murmured in agreement.
“I don’t see that it’s any of your concern, ladies,” Nancy replied. “None of you are the mother of any of these children. Their parents are free to allow them to associate with anyone they wish.”
She decided not to tell them that she would be their children’s teacher again in a few days. That was something for the men on the town council to announce.
“I -- We are acting in behalf of those other parents who, I am sure, have no idea that you are here, corrupting these poor innocent lambs.”
The children were all looking at Nancy and the other women. It was fun to watch grown-ups argue. “I ain’t sure what ‘corrupting’ means,” Nestor Stone called out, “but if it has anything t’do with lemonade and cake, you can corrupt me anytime.”
“Nestor,” Phillipia said sternly. “Don’t be rude. Even if Mrs. Ritter deserves it, she is an adult.”
Cecelia stormed through the gate, a few of the other women following her. “You have no right to talk to me like that, Phillipia Stone!”
“And you have no right to act so high-and-mighty, Cecelia Ritter?” Phillipia quickly replied.
Kirby chimed in. “Excuse me… Mrs. Ritter, is it, would you please leave?”
“Leave? I have no intention of leaving.” Cecelia glared at the impudent man.
Kirby smiled. “Whether you have any intent or not, you and your friends are trespassing on my property. You can all leave now, or you can wait, and I’ll send one of these children to get Sheriff Talbot. There are… three… four… five of you. It’ll be a bit tight, but I think there’s enough room in the jail for you all.”
“Why you… you… you wouldn’t dare,” Zenobia Carson said indignantly.
He smiled. “Oh, but I would. We were sitting here peacefully, and you all forced your way in and disrupted our party. Hmm, that would add disturbing the peace to the charges, wouldn’t it?”
“I believe it would,” Phillipia Stone said, trying hard not to smile.
The women hurried out of the yard. “Satisfied?” Cecelia asked smugly. “We’ve left your precious yard. Are you satisfied?”
“Not really. I’ve no doubt that you can be just as disturbing out there in the alley.” He looked at the children. “Which of you wants to go get the Sheriff?” When almost all of them raised a hand, he looked over at Cecelia. “Well, Mrs. Ritter?”
She glared at him for a moment. “This isn’t the end of it.” She turned and hurried down the alleyway, the rest of the women scurrying after her.
“I think it is,” he said with a laugh.
Nancy leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Kirby. Thank you so very much.”
“Any time,” he told her, adding to himself, ‘especially if I get a reward like that kiss.’
* * * * *
Nancy walked over to where Molly was setting up her table to sell dance tickets. “I’d better be going now, Molly.”
“Are ye sure ye can’t be staying for the dancing?” the older woman asked. “Thuir’s a lot o’men that’d like dancing with a pretty thing like ye.”
“Thank you, but I’ll never get my teaching job back if anyone finds out that I did something as ‘wicked’ as dance with a man. School marms like me aren’t supposed to have a life outside of the classroom,” she sighed.
Molly studied her face. “And that ain’t much of a life, I'm thinking. I won’t be asking if ye agree, but I’ll tell ye that if ye ever do decide ye want more of a life for yuirself, ye come talk to me.”
“Thanks, again. I’ll keep that in mind.” Nancy headed for the door. The “Happy Days” Town Band was tuning up, playing bits of some of the melodies they would be doing that night. She stopped for a moment to listen, waving one hand to their beat. But then she sighed again, shook her head, and walked, reluctantly, out the door.
* * * * *
Flora brought a tray of dirty dishes and silverware into the kitchen and carried it over to the sink. She was about to unload the tray when Shamus walked over to her. “Jane’ll be taking care of that, Flora. Ye and Lylah need t’be getting upstairs t’be changing yuir clothes.”
“Changing clothes, why?” she asked.
He smiled. “Do ye remember what happens here at me Saloon on Saturdays? What the two of ye came over for when ye was men?”
“Yeah, the… dance.” Her eyes grew wide. “You don’t mean…”
“I most certainly do. Me Molly has nice outfits, starched white blouse, black skirt, and white apron, waiting for ye upstairs. I knew the pair of ye can dance; I saw ye doing it. Only now, ‘tis the men ye’ll be dancing with. And ye’ll be smiling and talking nice to ‘em when ye do, just like the other lasses did with the two of ye.”
He looked her squarely in the eye as he spoke. This was an order, one the potion compelled her to obey. “Do ye understand what I’m telling ye?”
She sighed and nodded her head. “Yes, Shamus.”
* * * * *
Bridget heard a knock on her bedroom door. “Who’s there?”
“‘Tis me, Bridget,” Molly answered. “Can I talk to ye for just a minute?”
“Sure, c’mon in.”
Molly walked in and took a quick look at the younger woman. “I see ye’re getting dressed for the dance.”
“I am. It’s part of the job, isn’t it?”
“It is if ye want it t’be. Do ye think ye’re up to it?”
“Yes… no… I don’t know.” She took a deep breath. “That's something that I-I need to find out, don’t I?”
“Aye, ye do, but ye shouldn’t be rushing in when ye ain’t ready.”
“Yes, but this is the only way to find out if I am ready. If I keep waiting until I’m sure, I-I’ll never get up the nerve to do it.”
“All right, then, but there’s two things that ye need t’be knowing before ye go downstairs.”
“And those are?”
“First, thuir ain’t a man down thuir – at least none that’re worth more than a bucket of spit – that don’t think ye’re the lady they always thought ye were. And the other is that none of ‘em’ll think any the less of ye, if ye decide that ye ain’t ready and come back up here.”
* * * * *
Cap walked over to where Lylah and Flora were sitting, nervously waiting for Shamus to start the dance. “Good evening, ladies.”
“What…. oh, who’re you?” Lylah said. She’d seen him at her trial but didn’t know his name.
Flora added. “The dancing hasn’t started yet, so you can put your ticket away, mister.”
“Lewis,” he replied, making a slight bow, “Cap Lewis, I’m Abner Slocum’s nephew. I won’t be dancing with either of you, though.”
Flora felt somehow insulted. “You won’t?”
“No, I won’t. My uncle only let about half of his men come in to the dance on any given Saturday. I just wanted to let you know that tonight I’ve just left a skeleton crew at the ranch. The rest are all here, ready and waiting to dance with you.”
Lylah raised a cynical eyebrow. “And… drop the other shoe, Mr. Lewis.”
“And my uncle was very well liked by his men. I’ve told them that, as long as they don’t hurt you permanently, they’re welcome to express their displeasure with what you did to him while they’re dancing with you.” He gave them a wicked grin. “Have a good evening.” He bowed again and walked away.
* * * * *
Milt led Jessie out onto the dance floor. “Have you come up with any ideas?” he asked as they began to dance.
“Lemme ask you a question,” she replied. “Can you sing?”
“Sing? Yes, a little, I suppose. Why?”
“‘Cause that’s how you’re gonna apologize, by singing t’her… here in the Saloon, with me, in front of everybody.”
“Why, for Heaven’s sakes?”
“You got a better way o’showing her that you love her, and that you don’t care who knows it?”
He suddenly broke into a smile. “Jessie, that’s… that’s brilliant. What am I going to sing?”
“I don’t know yet.” She chuckled. “Don’t you go looking at me like that. It ain’t easy t’write a song special just for you and Jane. I wanted t’know you’d do it before I did all that work.”
“Fair enough; when will you have the song ready for me?”
“You come by Tuesday night, and I’ll give it to you. You take a couple o’days t’learn it, and we’ll sing it for her Thursday or Friday. Okay?”
“Better than okay.” He laughed back at her. “I’d kiss you, except that Jane is watching us while she’s over there dancing with Fred Noonan.”
* * * * *
Red Tully handed Flora his ticket. “Here ya is, Flora.”
“You work for Slocum, don’t you?” she asked as she put the ticket into the pocket of her apron.
He took her right hand and led her out onto the dance floor. “I do. More ‘n’ that, I spent the week over at the doc’s helping t’take care of him.” Once they were in position, he faced her and put his right arm around her waist and hugged her hard against him. “Only now, I’m taking a break.”
She pushed his hand away and stood back, but, when she tried to slap his face, too, the voice in her head wouldn’t let her.
* * * * *
“Here’s m’ticket.”
Lylah looked up to see a hand holding a ticket. A very dark hand. “No,” she said, standing up. “I ain’t gonna dance with no nigger.”
“Why not?” Luke Freeman replied, with a chuckle. “You is as dark as I am.”
“The hell I am!” It was as much a wish as a denial.
Before Luke could answer, Shamus hurried over to the two of them. “What’s all this carrying on?”
“He… this nigger wants t’dance with me,” Lylah said frantically.
Shamus smiled. “He does? Why Luke, I’m surprised at ye. I ain’t never seen ye here on a Saturday night.”
“You never had nobody like this pretty gal here for me t’dance with,” Luke told him.
The barkeeper nodded, understanding. It would have caused problems for Luke if he had come on earlier Saturdays to dance with any of the Saloon's other girls. Shamus thought that it was too bad that the color of a man’s skin should be a problem. Unlike some of his customers, he didn’t care about a man’s color, just about the color of his money. Besides, he liked Luke.
Shamus turned to face Lylah. “In that case, Lylah, ye will be dancing with Luke here, and with any other man that gives ye a ticket. And ye’ll be smiling and acting as sweet as ye can while ye’re out thuir dancing with him. Ain’t that right?”
“Yes, Shamus.” Despite her best efforts, she found herself smiling at the two men. She took Luke’s ticket and put it in her apron pocket.
The tall black man winked at Shamus. “Thank you, Shamus.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we… Lylah? The band’s already started to play.”
* * * * *
Cap had waited until the music started. As he expected, Bridget was still sitting. He’d seen her timidly refuse a couple of tickets. He stepped over to where she was sitting. “Dance with me, Bridget?”
“C-Cap?” She looked up to see him smiling, a ticket in his hand. “I… Y-You want to dance with me?”
“There’s no one else here that I would ever want to dance with. You’re going to start dancing with men some time. Why not start with a friend?” He waited while she thought it over and then added, “Please. I-I miss… dancing with you.”
She smiled -- barely -- and stood up. “So… so do I.”
“Then let’s go.” He took her hand and walked with her out onto the dance floor. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, feel her body tremble, but she still let him hold her in his arms as they danced.
It was a start.
* * * * *
Carl leaned against the wall, watching Flora dancing with Finney Pike, another of Slocum’s men. Finny was holding her very close, close enough, Carl could see, so that the man could fondle her while they danced.
‘I’ll have to dance with her later,’ he told himself. ‘Lord knows she’s pretty enough to be worth the trouble for its own sake. The thing is, though…’
This was the first time he’d been in the Saloon since his trial. ‘If that jury’d found me guilty,’ he thought wryly, ‘that’d be me out there, another damn potion girl dancing with the men.’ He shook his head. If the Judge had given him a choice, like he usually gave convicts, Carl was pretty sure that he would have chosen prison, maybe even hanging, over becoming a woman.
He shivered at the thought and decided that he needed a beer just now more than he needed to dance with anyone.
* * * * *
Molly walked over to the bar and sat on a stool near where Shamus was standing. “The new gals ain’t having a very good time of it,” she told her husband.
“They’ll be having a worse time tomorrow, when they get up on this here bar…” He gestured at the wide surface between them. “…and do that fancy dance ye taught ‘em.”
“I’m thinking that they need something before that.”
“Not more practice time, I’m hoping. I already got signs put up all around town.” He grinned. “Especially over by the Lone Star.”
She shook her head. “They know the dancing well enough. But thuir hairs are rat nests, and they been working hard all week -- and doing all this dancing tonight. They need a bath and t’be putting a brush through thuir hair, I’m thinking.”
“I don’t see why not. Carmen opens her place sometimes on Sunday afternoon. Maggie’s over with Ramon.” He pointed to the couple, happily doing a polka. “I’ll be talking with them once this dance is over, and they can pass the word onto Carmen first thing in the morning.”
* * * * *
“My turn now, little lady,” a deep voice said.
Lylah looked up. Another damned nigger. Except for a couple of Mex – which were almost as bad – she’d been dancing with darkies all night. And Shamus’ orders didn’t give her any say in the matter. “I suppose it is.” She rose slowly, reluctantly to her feet and pocketed the ticket.
“I’se Hammy Lincoln,” the tall man told her. “I works for Ritter Livery.”
She all but sighed with relief. “Lylah Saunders.” He wasn’t one of the ranch hands, even if he did smell of horses. That meant that she probably wasn’t going have to put up with the overly familiar hands the cowboys all seemed to have.
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 6 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson (c) 2014
Sunday, May 5, 1872
Reverend Yingling looked out at his congregation.
“My friends,” he began, “as we prepare to end this morning's service and go out to enjoy this glorious day that our Lord has given us, I remind you that there is work yet to be done. The town council will be meeting Wednesday in this very room to consider our petition regarding Shamus O'Toole's foul brew. I ask you to join with me Wednesday night to show your support for this measure. And I invite you to join with me now in singing a most appropriate closing hymn, 'Song of Exodus.' Yes, sing it out loud and clear, that your righteous words will still be echoing within these walls when the town council begins its deliberation on Wednesday, here in this very room.”
The hymn was a favorite of the congregation, and it had often ended their Sunday prayers. Even those who didn't agree with Yingling's intentions were singing.
` “G-d led the Children on Israel
` By Moses' might hand.
` He parted the sea before them,
` And then they crossed on dry land.”
Which was exactly what the Reverend had planned. He was smiling broadly as he joined in at the chorus.
` “Oh, how marvelous is the power of G-d
` As He leads us in our way.
` Pillar of fire we see in the night,
` And an enormous cloud by day.”
* * * * *
Shamus paid to have the flyers posted all over town by early Sunday morning.
` TONIGHT ONLY
` (And the Rest of the Week, At Least)
` < ----------=====++000++=====---------- >
` The Eerie Saloon Is Proud to Present:
` O’TOOLE’S CACTUS BLOSSOMS
` @>---->-->---- ----<--<----<@
` In: “Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines”
` <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
` Music and Vocal Accompaniment by:
` “The Eerie Nightingale”
` Miss Jessie Hanks
` @>---->-->---- ----<--<----<@
` Shows at 8 PM & 10 PM
A double load of flyers was posted on the block around the Lone Star, just to make absolutely sure that Sam Duggan saw one.
* * * * *
“How are you feeling this morning, my friend?” Cerise leaned forward across her desk to study Wilma’s face.
Wilma looked oddly at her employer. “What d’you mean, my Lady?”
“Let me tell you a story,” the other woman replied. “When I was in Savanna, I had a… friend, Georges. One day, he took me for a carriage ride out to his home at the edge of town. He had a large pen behind the house. He took in stray dogs, you see, and tried to find them good homes. Most of the dogs were friendly; they came over to the walls of the pen, barking and jumping up and wagging their tails.”
“Nice story, but what’s it got t’do with me?”
“I have not finished. One dog, a pretty brown and white beagle puppy hung back. Georges had a shelter built in the back of the pen for when it rained, three walls and a roof. The little beagle, she cowered in there, trembling, her tail between her legs. I asked Georges about her. He told me that he had found her half-dead beside the road. Someone, some cochon, had beaten her and… worse. He said that there were burn marks – from a cigar, he thought – on her.”
“That poor dog was terrified of everyone. Georges told me that he had had to drug her, so she would hold still long enough for him to treat her injuries. She was still afraid, and she would not come anywhere near him or anyone else. He was not certain if she would ever recover from what had been done to her, and he despaired of ever finding her a home.”
Wilma frowned in sympathy for the animal. “Are you saying that you gave the dog a home? That would be right nice of you.”
“No, I did not.” Cerise took a breath. “You, mon petit, are like that little dog. When we had guests last night, the others, Mae, Beatriz, and Rosalyn, they smile, they pose, they want the men to pick them. You… you slump your shoulders and do not smile. You give no sign that you are interested in the men who have come to call upon my House and my ladies. And if some man does pick you, you walk with him as if you were headed to the gallows, rather than to your bed.”
“I… I go with them,” Wilma said indignantly. “What’s it matter if I smile? I’m a whore. It ain’t my smile that they’re paying for.”
“Yes, Wilma, in a very real way, it is your smile that the men pay for. As my second, you should know that.” Cerise broke into a sly smile. “And as my second, I give you a problem to solve for me – if you can.”
Wilma smiled, relieved that the subject had changed. “I’ll do my best. You know that.”
“I do, indeed. The problem you must solve is that one of my ladies is disheartened. She has had her heart broken, and it has shaken her confidence in herself greatly. She feels that she is worthless – when she most surely is not – and her attitude is making this House less than the happy place it should be.
Cerise looked across her desk, directly into Wilma’s eyes. “You are my second. Solve that problem for me.”
“Y’know, Cerise,” Wilma replied, a bit of forced humor in her voice, “you’ve got a sneaky streak in you that I’m only now beginning t’see.”
* * * * *
Pablo leaned against a tree in the courtyard outside the church. The early Mass had ended, and most of the villagers were gone. Father de Castro was waving goodbye to the last few as they left.
It was now or never. Pablo took breath to steady himself and walked over to the priest. “Perdóneme, Padre, por favor, may I talk with you... in private?”
“Have you come to take Confession?” de Castro joked. “My sermon must have been especially good this morning.”
“No, I-I have news about Señor Styron, my... my boss.” He glanced around nervously to see if anyone was watching him.
The man put his arm around Pablo shoulder and guided him into the church. As soon as they were inside, he shut the door. “Is this private enough, or should we go to my office?”
“This is fine... I guess.”
De Castro sat down in one of the pews. “Very well, then, Pablo, what is your news about Señor Styron?”
“The... the other night, I heard him and Señor Ritter talking. The livery was closed, and they didn't know I was there – cleaning up in the back. I-I did not mean to listen.”
“But you did, and you heard something that, I am guessing, you shouldn't have.”
“Yes – No, I am glad that I heard it. They... What they are planning is not good, not for us, at least.”
“For you and I?”
“For the whole congregation.”
The priest nodded. “What is it?”
“You have heard of Señor O'Toole's potion and how the gringo priest – Yingling – does not think that Señor O'Toole should be the one who has it.”
“I know. Reverend Yingling – and you should not call him 'gringo'; it is not polite. Reverend Yingling thinks it would be better if the town council appointed a committee to control it. But what does that have to do with Señor Styron and Señor Ritter?”
“They think that they will be the ones who control it, them and some other... Yanquis. None of us, no Mejicanos.”
De Castro frowned. “Surely that cannot be right. Reverend Yingling would not allow it.”
“They think that he will. They think that it will give them power over us, that they will use it on some of us – to make us afraid of them.”
“You actually heard them say this?”
“Sì, they did not say who they would use it on – except for the man who runs the newspaper. They want to use it on him if he keeps writing those things in the paper against them.” Pablo shuddered. “Padre, if they would use it on one of themselves, nothing can stop them from using it on us.”
The priest studied the boy's face. He had probably heard something. Neither Ritter or Styron were known for their great love of Mexicans. “I will think about what you told me,” he said. “For now, we will put our trust in Him Who has always protected us.” He made the sign of the cross and smiled when Pablo did the same. “And you should go home. Your parents will be wondering where you are.”
'Just the same,' he thought to himself, as he watched the boy leave the building, 'it might be a good idea to talk to Don Luis Ortega and some of his other influential parishioners.'
* * * * *
Molly led her two charges around the corner to the back entrance to a large wooden building.
“Wait a minute,” Flora protested as she recognized their destination. “This is the bathhouse.”
Molly nodded. “Aye, with all the work the two of ye've been doing, me Shamus and I thought ye should have a bath before yuir show tonight.” At that moment, a short Mexican woman walked out of the building. “And here's herself, the mistress of the place. Is everything ready, Carmen?”
Carmen Whitney smiled. “It is. Will you be joining the other ladies in a tub, Molly?”
“Not this time.”
“Very well.” Carmen held the door open for the three women. She followed them in and started a flow of water from the large metal water heater in the corner of the room into two of the wooden tubs. “They will be filled in a few minutes. You can put your clothes in there.” She pointed to a curtained doorway.
The women walked through it into a small room. A dozen lockers stood against the walls, with benches in front of them. Molly looked at Flora and Lylah. “All right, now. Pick a locker t'be hanging yuir clothes in, and start taking 'em off. I wants ye t'be getting into them tubs as soon as ye can.”
“D-Don't wanna,” Lylah said stubbornly, but even as she protested, her fingers were undoing the buttons on her dress. Once they were open, she let the garment slide down and stepped out of it. She put it on a hook in the locker and started on her petticoat, muttering under her breath the whole time.
Flora did the same. In no time at all, the pair stood, barefoot, clad only in camisoles and drawers. They stood far apart and moved slowly, not wanting to look at each other, to be reminded of what they had become. “Get that stuff off ye,” Molly ordered, “and get into the water.”
“All right, dang it,” Flora grumbled as her trembling fingers undid the ribbon holding her drawers tight at her waist. They fell to the wood floor, and she stepped out of them. A few seconds later, drawers and camisole were on a shelf in the locker, and she was walking past the curtain into the main room of the bathhouse, carrying her towel in her right hand. Lylah followed close behind.
The pair went over to the now water-filled tubs. Each hung her towel on one of the handles on the side of her own tub, and cautiously climbed in. “Mmm,” Flora said without thinking as she settled down into the water. It was warm and soothing and it.... “Smells like... is that lilac?”
“Aye, lilac bath salts,” Molly told her. “T'make yuir soak nicer.”
She let the new women just sit there for a few minutes. After all that work, they did deserve some time to relax and soak the ache out of their muscles. Still, that wasn't the real reason she'd brought them over here. “Now...” She handed each women a washcloth and bar of soap. “...I want the both of ye t'be using these things t'wash every inch o'yuir body – every inch.”
Flora put the soap in the water and began to work up a lather on the cloth. Once she had, she ran the cloth up and down the length of her right arm. That done, she worked it across her chest. She looked down and sighed. 'Every inch,' the voice in her head repeated. She sighed again and began to soap her breasts.
It felt good, surprisingly good, especially when the rough texture of the cloth rubbed against her nipples. She felt them stiffen, as an ever so pleasurable fire built in her breasts. 'None of that,' she told herself. She switched the soap over to the other hand and began to move it along her left arm. She did her stomach next, and then lifted first her right leg and then her left leg out of the water to wash them.
“Finished.” She leaned back, determined to enjoy the water's warmth until Molly chased her out.
Molly shook her head. “No, ye ain't. I told ye t'be wash every place, and I meant every place.” The woman smiled a wicked smile. “And thuir's one place ye haven't done yet, ain't thuir?”
“There is,” Flora answered sourly. She took the cloth and wrapped the bar of soap in it. She started at the base of her stomach and slid her hand slowly downward, rubbing gently. The rough cloth rubbed against her groin, and she trembled at the yearnings it roused. She tried to yank her hand away, but the voice in her head wouldn't let her.
The cloth moved back and forth against her nether cleft, and she felt it – oh, Lord, she felt it! It wasn't the growing hardness of a man, but a yielding, a dazzling, delicious heat that built and Built and BUILT in her loins, even as it rose up to her breasts, and out to every other part of her.
Her breathing grew uneven. Her arousal – yes, she recognized for what it was, a female arousal – scared her, it was so... pervasive. She tried to stop things, but she... she couldn't, not because of the commanding voice in her head, but because her body wanted – needed – what was happening to her, needed it so very much.
“Oh... oh, yes,” she gasped in surrender. It was the most – cold!
Flora jerked upright from the shock of the frigid water poured down on her. Molly stood next to the tub, an overturned bucket in her hand. “Enjoy yourself when we're not so busy. For now, ye can be washing yuir hair, too.” The older woman handed her a bottle labeled “Overmeyer's Sweet Lilac Shampoo.”
“Thank heavens,” she sighed in relief. She looked over to the other tub. Lylah was lying back against the side. Her hands were beneath the water. Flora couldn't see what the coon was doing, but she had a good guess. Lylah's head leaned back, resting against the back of the tub. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was open, and she looked to be gasping for breath. How dark she looked against the pale, oaken tub.
Molly came up behind Lylah, toting another large wooden bucket. In one smooth motion, she upended it over the woman's head. Lylah let out a shriek and sat up quickly. “Ye can do yuir hair, lass, now that I got it all wet for ye.” She gave her another bottle of the shampoo and walked away, a sly smile on her lips.
The women shivered from the cold water even as they obediently worked the shampoo into their hair. Molly brought over another bucket, hot water this time, to rinse. Carmen handed each one a towel and helped wrap it around their heads. She held another towel as each woman stepped carefully out of the tub. “Pat,” she told them. “Do not rub. Yuir skin is more tender now.”
“Tell me 'bout it,” Lylah said sourly, as she gently moved the towel up and down her arm. Her skin still tingled from what she had been doing.
Flora did the same, being careful how she dried her own body. 'Don't want to start that again,' she cautioned herself. In a short time, they both were back by the lockers, dry enough for a dash of an unscented talcum powder before they slipped into their camisoles and drawers.
“Before ye finish getting dressed,” Molly told them, “I want t'be talking to ye. Flora, stand up and walk over t'me.”
Flora stood and strode toward Molly. “That's fine,” the older woman told her. “Now turn around and walk over t'thuir.” She pointed to the far corner of the room. “But I want ye t'be taking shorter steps, and when ye walk, put yuir foot so 'tis in a straight line with the one behind.” She watched Flora take a few steps, then added. “and while ye're walking hold yuir hands down low – no, don't slump yuir shoulders – and hold 'em away from yuir body, too.”
“Why?” Lylah asked. “What's so important about how she walks?”
Molly shook her head. “How the both of ye walk, Lylah. Get and walk over thuir, through the doorway and all the way t'yuir tub. And ye'll be walking just the same as I told Flora t'walk.” She watched the black woman step across the floor. “Keep going,” she told her.
“How long do we have to do this for?” Flora asked after a while.
Molly studied the pair as they strolled back and forth. “Much better; ye're walking like ladies ought t'be walking. I mean, with your hips swinging, the way men like to see a gal's bottom moving.” Both women suddenly stopped, aghast.
Reluctantly, the girls started strolling again. A couple minutes later, Molly nodded, satisfied. “Ye can go sit down now on the benches by yuir lockers.”
The pair sat down. “Not like that,” Molly scolded. “Ye sit up straight and tall now, with yuir knees together and yuir hands folded pretty on yuir laps.” They shifted into the positions she described. Molly left them that way for a minute or two to get used to it.
“That's one way ladies sit,” she told them, taking a seat on a bench. “Or ye sit just like this.” She put one knee over the other and held her ankles near each other. “'Tis the best way t'be sitting when ye're in yur dance rig, too. Now ye try it.”
Both women changed to the new position, again, Molly had them hold the position for a short time.
Carmen came into the room just then, carrying a pair of brushes.
“What're those?” Flora asked suspiciously. She took the brush Carmen handed her and stared at it, her legs still crossed.
“Uncross and relax,” Molly said as Carmen unwrapped the towel around Flora's head, while Molly rose and did the same for Lylah. “These’re hair brushes; thuir's more tangles than hair on yuir heads right now,” Molly answered. “After we work out all them snarls, I want ye t'be brushing yuir hair. Ye'll do it each night from now on, fifty strokes a night. And while ye're doing it, I want ye t'be repeating, with each stroke, the words, 'I'm a girl.' Do ye understand that?”
“The hell we – ow!” Flora flinched as Carmen worked on a tangle in her long, blonde hair. There wasn't much curl, so the Mexican woman was able to hand her the brush to use on herself after just a short time. Lylah's hair was a mass off dark curls, and it felt like Molly was pulling them out at the roots as she fought through knot after knot.
Once Flora had taken the brush in her own hand, Carmen opened the locker she was facing. A long, narrow mirror was mounted on the inside of the door. “Just stand there and admire how pretty ye are,” Molly told her. It was the same for Lylah after Molly had finished unsnarling her dark curls.
Each of them stared at the comely young woman that the mirror reflected back at her. Those reflections were dressed only in their unmentionables, their bodies smelling of lilacs and still tingling from the sensations aroused in the bath. As the two new beauties brushed their hair, each kept repeating, “I'm a girl. I'm a girl.” The both of them tried to resist, but they had no choice but to keep saying it.
It was a wholly unsettling experience.
* * * * *
“Well, now, Joe,” Sam Braddock said cheerfully, “look who's back.”
Bridget looked up from her game of Maverick solitaire. “Hi, Sam... Joe. I'm not quite back; not yet, anyway.”
“What d'you mean, Bridget?” Joe Kramer asked. “You're sitting there waiting for a poker game, ain't you?”
She gave him a faint smile. “Right now, all I'm doing is waiting to deal poker, not to play a hand.” She took a breath. “If anybody'll trust me to deal, that is.”
“I don't see why they wouldn't.” Sam pulled out a chair and sat down. “I never had a reason not to trust you, and you're a damned sight better to watch dealing the cards that Joe is, what with that ugly mug of his.”
Joe took a seat. “You're no prize neither, Sam. Welcome back, Bridget, even if you're just a dealer for now. We missed losing all our money to you.”
“I don't know about that 'losing' part,” Sam told her, “but it is good to have you back.”
Bridget's smile brightened. “Th-Thank you both, gentlemen... friends. It's good to be back.” She gathered in the cards on the table to form a deck. She shuffled three times and gave it to Sam to cut. After he just tapped it with his finger, she began to deal. “Now, let's play some poker... five card draw, okay?”
“Sounds good,” Sam said. Joe nodded in agreement.
She knew that she still wasn't ready to play, but the cards felt right in her hands. She was actually looking at the two men as she dealt the cards. She didn't feel nervous. Or ashamed.
And she felt the same way when Fred Norton, Stu Gallagher, and Matt Royce joined the game over the next few hands. It felt like...well, it felt like she was taking the first step on the way back home.
* * * * *
“We want the show! We want the show!”
Shamus walked over from behind the bar to a chair set near the foot of the steps up to the second floor. He raised his arms and waited for the crowd to quiet.
“You'll have to go a ways to better the girls over at the Lone Star!” someone shouted.
Shamus smiled. “Just ye watch and see if our Cactus Blossom girls don't give them Lone Star gals a run for their money.”
There was a wave of lewd chuckling. “That's a powerful promise to live up to!” a man guffawed.
“Well, just see if they don't live up to it,” Shamus replied with a grin.
The excitement of the crowd quieted to a low mutter.
“All right, then,” he said cheerfully, when they finally stopped chanting. “If it's a show ye want, then 'tis a show ye'll be getting.” He looked around the room. The crowd wasn't as big as it might have been, but it had been far too long since this many men were in his saloon.
Shamus put two fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle. “And here's Eerie's own nightingale, Jessie Hanks, t'be getting things started.”
“Bring on the dancing girls,” someone yelled.
During the day, Shamus had changed his mind about using the bar as a stage. He and R.J. had hung sheets in the stairwell to the second floor. They reached down from the steps to the floor below, creating a small private area under the stairs. Jessie walked out from it and took her usual place a few feet away. “They'll be out in a minute, gents, but you're gonna have to put up with me singing a little first.”
“Sing away, Jess,” another voice yelled.
Jessie nodded in the direction of the yell. “Thanks, Mort,” she told the man. “Here's a song I think you'll all like. And in a minute or three...” She winked. “...you'll like it even more.”
` “He's Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines.
` He feeds his horse on corn and beans...”
“All right, Jessie's started singing,” Molly said softly within the area under the stairs. “Are ye ready?”
Flora and Lylah were with her. Their dresses hung from hooks R.J. had set in the back of one of the steps. They stood nervously in the unmentionables that were their dancing costumes. “Do we have to do this?” Flora asked one last time.
“Ye do,” Molly answered in a firm tone. “Ye just remember t'be doing everything the way we taught ye.”
Flora snorted. “And if we don't want to remember?”
“Oh, ye'll remember all right.” Molly suddenly had an idea. “Ye'll remember the dancing and... more.” She flashed a wicked smile. “Right now, I want ye t'be remembering them baths ye had this afternoon, what ye done t'yuir bodies and how good ye felt while ye were doing it.”
Lylah gave a soft moan as she remembered. A warm flush ran through her body. Her breasts tingled and her nipples tight. The tingle flowed down to her crotch, and she shifted her stance as she luxuriated in the feeling.
It was the same for Flora. That pervasive excitement and yearning were back in full force. She closed her eyes, savoring in the arousal her memories stirred in her body.
“See how nice remembering can be?” Molly asked. Both of the new women nodded. “And remember that when yuir dressed up to dance, like ye are now, ye should do that special walk I showed ye.” Molly turned and listened to Jessie for a moment.
` “The officers, they all did shout,
` They all did shout, they all did shout.
` The officers, they all did shout,
` 'Why, kick him out of the Army!'“
“That's it then, Lylah. C'mon”
The black woman followed Molly out of the enclosure. Jessie finished the last chorus, but instead of ending, she just stopped singing, while she played the melody of the chorus one more time. “Pick up yuir petticoat in yuir hands, girl,” Molly ordered.
Jessie began to sing the opening verse again. As she did, Molly pushed Lylah's shoulders and said, “Go.”
` “He's Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines...”
Lylah skipped out in front of Jessie, waving her bright yellow petticoat back and forth, flashing a good bit of leg, as she did. She still felt that delicious sparkling throughout her body, and she couldn't help but smile, as nervous as she was.
The crowd broke out in a round of applause and whistles. Lylah stopped a few feet forward of where Jessie was sitting. She faced the crowd, trying to shut them out and concentrate on the feeling that made her smile, still swaying to the music and swishing her petticoats. The bright yellow of her petticoats and of her corset, all that she wore above the waist, contrasted perfectly with her creamy, dark brown flesh.
` “He'll teach the ladies how to dance,
` How to dance, how to dance...”
Flora danced out, doing a high kicking strut as she came into view. She strutted a few feet past Lylah, turned and danced back past her, almost back to the stairwell. She wore a pair of ruby red drawers – Molly had dyed them herself. She also wore a bright red uniform jacket, with gold epaulets on the shoulders. The jacket was specially tailored to show off her figure, narrow waist and pillowy breasts at their best. She held a military cap, also red, on her right hand, as she danced.
She, too, was smiling inwardly at the pleasurable memories of the bath, but all she wore under the jacket was her camisole, and her movements made the fabric of the jacket and camisole rub against her breasts, exciting her even more.
The women went through the routine Molly had taught them. They pretended to flirt. Flora kissed Lylah's hand and danced her around the stage. In turn, Lylah took Flora in her arms and led her through a series of dance moves. In the end, they joined arms and strutted off towards the enclosure. Except, just before they went behind the stairs, they stopped, turned, and blew kisses at the crowd.
Jessie finished the song, “...Tho' a Captain in the Army,” just as they disappeared back under the steps.
And the crowd went wild, shouting, shooting into the air, and throwing coins.
“I'd like to pluck either one of them blossoms!” a wag howled and the whole crowd laughed.
Molly had the pair go back out to the dance floor. She made certain to unbutton Flora's jacket before they did, so that the men could see her scarlet-dyed camisole – and a good bit of her breasts besides – when she bowed low to acknowledge their applause.
That move made the applause even louder.
* * * * *
Monday, May 6, 1872
Zach Levy faced towards the tables where the 12 jurymen sat. “Tell me, Flora, how did you find out that Dell Cooper had robbed Mr. Slocum's payroll?” Flora was seated behind the lawyer in the witness chair, which was positioned next to the Judge's table.
“He-He boasted about it to... Ly... lah and me the next day.”
“And how did you react?”
“I-I got mad, and I t-told him to give me-me the money.”
“Why did you get mad?”
“It was-wasn't wh-why we came t-to Eerie. He m-might've r-r-ruined my plans.”
Zach raised a curious eyebrow. “Plans, what were those plans?”
“Slocum sent f-for... somebody's War records. I... I was involved, and I wanted to... know what he was looking for – and why.”
“Did he tell you any of that?”
“No,” Flora shook her head. “He wouldn't tell me a damned thing.”
“So you robbed him?” It was a question, not a statement.
“No... No! Dell robbed him, and I chewed Dell out for doing it.”
“Why'd he do it, then?”
“He hated Carl Osbourne. When he stole that money, he made it look like Osbourne helped him. That's why Dell stole it, to get Osbourne in trouble.”
“And you had nothing to do with it?”
“I didn't even know he did it, till he told me.”
“Thank you, Flora,” Zach said. “I have no more questions.” He walked over to the table where Lylah was sitting and took his own seat.
Milt Quinlan was at the next table. He rose and walked towards Flora. “I do have some questions.” He paused a beat. “Flora, if you thought that Dell Cooper was wrong to rob Abner Slocum, then why didn't you turn him – and the money – over to the sheriff?”
“I-I meant t-to, but… but…” Flora strained, fighting so hard not to answer. ‘You can do this,’ she told herself. ‘You can lie.’
Milt stepped in front of Flora and leaned down, so he was looking her directly in the eye. “Is that the truth, what you’re trying so hard to tell us – or to not tell us, Flora? You swore to tell the truth here today, and I heard Shamus order you to answer the questions truthfully. So, I'll ask you again. What are you trying to tell these men...” He gestured towards the jury. “...is it 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth', as you are now under oath to tell?”
Zach jumped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. My client is being forced to incriminate herself under the compulsion of that potion of O'Toole's.”
“Overruled. She's already admitted that she had the money. Milt's question wasn't if she kept it, but why she kept it. Answer the question, Flora. Were you telling the truth?”
“Y-Y-Yes.” Flora trembled as she fought the voice in her head. “N-No.” She sank back in her chair. “I... kept the m-money be-because I wanted to keep it.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“I... I hated Slocum for not t-telling me what he wanted with those... records. He cr-crossed me, so why... why shouldn't he pay?”
Milt smiled. “Perhaps because it was wrong to take his money – whomever committed the original robbery. No further questions, Your Honor.” He sat back down.
Zach called Lylah to testify. “I was there when Dell told Mr. – told Flora, but I never seen it,” she replied to his question. “Dell brought out the bag he had that money in and give it t'Flora. Sh-She told us t'go down for breakfast and took the bag back into her room.”
“Why didn't you go to the sheriff?” Milt asked.
“'Cause Flora told me not to. I worked for her, didn't I?” When Milt pressed her, she admitted that, “Flora told me that the only way I'd get any of that money was if I kept my mouth shut.” She shrugged. “So I did.”
She was the last witness. All that was left was each attorney's final summation to the jury.
Zach argued that Flora had been right to be concerned about being implicated in the robbery. Dell Cooper had been the thief. Since he was dead, Flora and Lylah were only accomplices after the fact and didn't merit any serious punishment.
Milt said that keeping the money, especially after Cooper was dead, was a crime by itself.
The jury went upstairs to deliberate.
“You find out anything about who else took that potion?” Flora asked Zach, while they sat, waiting for the verdict.
He shook his head. “I'm afraid not. I was too busy working on your case to worry about anything else. I'll see what I can find out when I go back over to the Lone Star.”
Flora frowned. “Humph! That thin case you just made for us shouldn't have taken that much preparation time. I just hope we're still here when you've got something to tell us,” Flora retorted. “Lord only knows what they'll do to us this time.”
Zach shook his head. “It seemed like a risk. I wanted to keep a low profile until this trial was behind us. There are a lot of secrets in this town, and asking questions – questions that someone might not want asked – could stir somebody up. And that 'somebody' might be in this courtroom.”
A voice called out, “They's coming down.” Everyone looked up to see the jury descending the steps.
“They're guilty, Judge,” Joel Keenan, the foreman, announced, once the members of the jury had taken their seats. “They should've turned the money in.”
Flora cast a sour glance at Zach; Lylah just sank dejectedly into her chair.
The Judge nodded at the head juror, as if agreeing. “Is the whole jury in accord with the verdict?” he asked the other eleven men. They all muttered agreement or nodded. “Very well, will the defendants please stand?” Both women – and Zach – stood up. “You have both been found guilty of being accessories after the fact to armed robbery. Lylah Saunders, I sentence you to serve an additional two weeks here at the Eerie Special Offenders Penitentiary – that's this saloon.”
“That ain't too bad – I guess,” she whispered under her breath. She started to sit, but Zach told her not to.
Humphreys turned his attention to Flora. “Flora Stafford, your crime was worse than Miss Saunders. You were the one who decided to keep the money after you found out that Cooper stole it. I sentence you to an extra thirty days as Shamus and Molly's prisoner.” He pounded his gavel on the tabletop.
“Wait a minute,” Flora yelled. “That's two weeks longer than Lylah got.”
The Judge smiled. “Two weeks and two days longer; you really should have given the money back, Flora.” He used his gavel again. “Court adjourned.”
* * * * *
Tom Carson walked purposefully into Doc Upshaw's office. “Is the doctor around, Mrs. Lonnigan?”
“He's with a patient just now, Mr. Carson,” she told him. “Is something wrong?”
Carson shook his head. “No, this telegram just came for him from a Doctor Vogel in Philadelphia.” He held up an envelope. “The doc asked us to watch for it, so I brought it over as soon as I got it.” He handed her the envelope.
“Thank you very much,” she told him. “The doctor's been waiting anxiously for this. I'll give it to him as soon as he's free.”
The man bowed his head for a moment. “Glad to have been of help.” He turned and headed back to the telegraph office.
* * * * *
Sam Duggan watched Zach Levy walk back into his saloon. “How'd your trial go?” he said by way of a greeting.
“Not as well as I hoped, not as bad as I feared, as my papa used to say.” Zach took a seat at the bar. “Can I have a beer, please?”
“Of course, you can. That's what it's there for.” The barman poured one for the young lawyer.
Zach drank some. “Ahh,” he said with a sigh of relief. “I needed that.” He studied the other man's face. “Can I ask you a question, Sam?”
“If it ain't too personal, you can.”
“I don't think this is. That potion Mr. O'Toole gave to my clients, has he ever given it to anybody else?”
“Sure he has, a lotta people.”
“Who... How many, and what happened to them?”
Sam thought for a moment. “First time he ever used it was last summer when the Hanks Gang came into town t'kill the sheriff. They all got a dose.”
“What happened to them after that?”
“They all got changed into women and had to work for O'Toole for a couple months. Some of them still do. Jessie Hanks, she sings for him, and that Mex, Maggie... de Aguilar, runs his restaurant. And Bridget Kelly – the gal that runs... that ran the poker game – she was part of the gang, too.”
Zach blinked with surprise. “They were all men? That's amazing. What happened to the other two?”
“One of 'em, Laura Caulder, she works part time for Shamus, too. She got married and, from what I hear, she's in a family way. Will Hanks, the leader, she's Wilma Hanks, now. He – she – got two doses, and that second dose done something to her head. It done something to her pussy, too.” He smiled at the thought. “She works over at La Parisienne.”
“The... brothel.” Zach's eyes widened in surprise. “But you said 'the first time.' How many times has he used it since then?”
“Three times. Some prospectors ran off with Laura and Jessie, the two from the Hanks Gang, last summer, while they was still working for O'Toole. Jessie killed hers and rode off. The deputy had t'track her down and bring her back.” Duggan chuckled. “Not that she minded. They've been real close since she come back. “
“They caught the other prospector and brought him back for trial. He was offered either time in prison or the potion. He took some of that brew and changed into Laura's double, Jane Steinmetz. She works for Shamus, too, mostly as a cook in his restaurant.”
The attorney grimaced. He had seen this Jane, too.
“The next time was late fall. Some kids was playing over by the freight depot, and one of 'em got hurt real bad. Shamus thought the potion could fix the boy's broken parts, but the kid refused to drink the potion and become a girl. His pa pretended that they would both drink, but he messed up on the pretend part somehow. The boy and his papa both wound up drinking the potion. It saved the kid's life, but they both got changed. It broke up the marriage between the papa and his wife. Ain't nobody knows what's gonna happen to them.”
“Last time was a Mex kid. He drank some by accident a couple months back. His – Her mama runs a laundry, and she's been helping out with that.”
“Unbelievable.” Zach finished his beer and pushed the glass towards the barman for a refill.
Sam filled the glass and handed it back. “It's true, every word. Ask anybody you want.”
“Maybe I will. Tell me, has anybody who's ever taken it changed back?”
Sam shook his head. “I only wish they had. As they are, they're some powerful competition. I had to bring in these dancers to get my customers back. But now he's got your clients dancing over at his place, and the tug of war goes on. Anyway, the talk is that there's no way to change back from that dose.”
Zach decided to confirm his information by asking to ask a couple of the others at the bar, men who hadn't heard his conversation with Sam, and, maybe later, he’d talk to Milt Quinlan. If it were true, he'd tell Flora what he'd found out in the morning. He wondered what the information that there was no way back to her old life would affect her. Right now, though, he wanted to think about the enormity of what he'd just heard.
What sort of town had he chosen to practice Law in?
* * * * *
Cap walked over to the table where Bridget was eating lunch. He set down a bowl of Maggie's spicy chili, a slice or corn bread, and a beer. “I see your class is back in session.” He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Class?” She looked puzzled.
He smiled. “Yep, where you teach the other players how the laws of chance really work.”
“I-I'm just the dealer; I don't feel... ready to actually play poker.” She sighed and looked down at her food.
He gently put his hand on hers. “You'll be ready to go back in... in no time. I'm certain of it.”
She looked up again. “Thank you. Speaking of certainty, how's your uncle doing?”
“A little better; he can't even feel his left arm, let alone move it, but he's got full use of his right arm, his right hand, too. He just needs to exercise it more.”
She had an idea. “Give him a deck of cards. He can play solitaire. Better yet, teach him that Maverick solitaire that I taught you. It's a lot more of a challenge than regular solitaire.”
“I may just do that. He loves poker. Thanks.” He thought for a moment. “Speaking of challenges, if you don't mind my asking, how are you and... Flora getting on?”
“Mostly, we haven't been together that much. She's still mad – and embarrassed – about being a woman.” She gave him a nasty smile. “Not that she doesn't deserve it, or worse. I'd love to figure out some way to slip her a second dose of potion.”
“Bridget!”
“Why not, after what she did to me? Wouldn't it be justice for her to become a man-crazy bitch, spreading her legs for – “
“I... I don't think I ever heard you talk like that.” He was amazed at her vehemence.
“Cap, you heard what I told your uncle about Adobe Wells. Forry Stafford almost got me, Will, and a bunch of good men killed by his drunken cowardice. Then he got Will and me labeled cowards and thieves. The Army could've hung us, and he wouldn't have cared. Now... Now, he shows up here, probably to find out about me. He almost killed your uncle, and he-he... he raped me, Cap. He raped me, and he... laughed about it.” Tears glistened in her eyes, even as her face contorted with hate. “I want her to hurt! I want her to hurt a lot more than she's hurting now!”
He slipped into the empty chair next to her. He tried to pull her up and into his arms, but she trembled and moved away. He settled for holding her hand and using a napkin to wipe her eyes. “I understand what you're saying, but when you say it that way, it doesn't sound like the Bridget I know talking.”
“I mean what I say, but Shamus would never stand for it. Besides, he's got the potion under lock and key.” Bridget sensed uneasiness in Cap and suddenly realized that she had to reassure him. She rested her head on his shoulder. It felt so good to be near him, even if this was as far as she was able to go, just now. Someday... She smiled in anticipation.
“So what are you going to do about her?” Cap finally asked. “The two of you will be at close quarters for another two... three months.”
“If I can't turn her into a slut,” she answered, feeling better for his concern, “I'll just have to do my best to find other ways to make her life here a living hell.”
Cap had to laugh at that. “And you're just the one to do it.” She laughed, too, and for just a minute it seemed that the old Bridget was back. But, somehow, he knew that the sweetest part of her laughter was her imagining Flora as an abused whore.
* * * * *
Jessie was practicing a new tune on her guitar, when she looked up to see... “Hey, Milt. You come t'see the new show?”
“Good evening, Jessie,” he replied. “I may stay for the show, but the reason I came was to get that music from you. You said that it'd be ready tonight.”
She reached into her guitar case and pulled out a sheet of paper. “And it is.” She handed it to him. “Can you read my writing?”
“I think so.” He studied the sheet for a moment. “Jane, Jane, ya da-da-da,” he sang a bit more in a strong baritone, a better voice than Jessie had expected. “Yes, I can read it.” He folded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket.
“Good. You just make sure you learn it by Friday, okay.”
“Very okay, and thank you, thank you very much.”
“If them words work and you 'n' Jane get back together – then you can thank me.”
* * * * *
Clyde Ritter walked slowly down the main street of Eerie. He stopped and pulled out his pocket watch. Since it was dark, he moved in closer to the nearest storefront window, using the light from inside. “Almost 8,” he said, looking around to see if anyone was watching.
“I think I'll just stop in for a quick beer,” he announced in a clear voice. “Seeing as I'm right here.”
Satisfied that he'd explained his presence, he strode through the swinging doors and into the Eerie Saloon. The room was full, and he carefully inched his way along the back of the crowd.
“Howdy, folks,” a cheery female voice called out from the other side of the room. “I'm Jessie Hanks – as most of you know – and with me, here by very popular demand...” She stopped as the crowd erupted in laughter. “...are O'Toole's Cactus Blossoms.”
Jessie began to sing. The crowd went silent. Ritter leaned back against a chair and listened. Jessie was sitting, so he really couldn't see her over the crowd. He could see Lylah, short as she was, when she danced out, but he'd never been interested in darkies, no matter how pretty they were.
“Whoa, darling!” He broke into a hearty smile when Flora strutted across the stage. “Veerry nice!” He moved in closer, and his hungry eyes tracked her as she danced. He almost drooled when she bowed low at the end.
He tried to talk to her afterwards, but too many other men had the same idea and he didn't feel like fighting through the crowd like a hungry dog. “I'll be back,” he promised himself, as he finally left, hurrying to get home before Cecelia came back from that damned all-hen card party she went to every Monday night.
* * * * *
Tuesday, May 7, 1872
` Virtue Triumphs
` This paper has learned that the Eerie Town Council,
` which doubles as our local school board, intends to
` restore Nancy Osbourne to her role as teacher at its
` meeting tomorrow evening.
` The members of the town council questioned Miss
` Osbourne at length last Friday night. “She answered
` everything we asked about, completely and truthfully,”
` one council member told this paper. After listening to
` her answers, the council apparently holds her to be
` blameless in the matters of her behavior, which had
` previously been in dispute. When asked what her
` explanation of these issues had been, the council
` member told your reporter that it was a private matter,
` and he did not wish to embarrass Miss Osbourne by
` making those facts public.
` The council intends to formally remove Miss Osbourne
` from suspension at the meeting. To ease her transition
` back into the role of teacher, she will allow Mrs.
` Phillipia Stone, who has been serving in her stead,
` to finish the week.
` Speaking for the citizens of Eerie, this paper thanks Mrs.
` Stone for her exemplary, if temporary, service, and it
` welcomes Miss Osbourne back to the position she has
` filled so well for almost six years. We also congratulate
` the members of the Eerie City Council for their sound
` judgment and for not yielding further to the mob
` mentality that forced them to needlessly suspend
` Miss Osbourne in the first place.
* * * * *
Shamus led Flora out of the kitchen and over to the table where Zach Levy was waiting for her. “Here she is,” he told the lawyer. “I'll be leaving so ye can have the privacy ye wanted; just don't be taking too long.”
“We won't,” Zach answered, “and thank you.”
The barman nodded, “Ye're welcome.” He turned to Flora who was standing by the table, wiping her damp hands on her apron. “As for ye, Miss Stafford, ye're t'be heading back to finish the dishes as soon as the two of ye are done here. Understand?”
“I-I do.” She sat down and waited for him to leave before she spoke. “What are you doing here, Levy?”
He frowned. “Mr. Levy, thank you, and, please, sit down.”
“Very well, Mr. Levy.” She took a chair across from him. “You still haven't answered my question.”
“Actually, I came here today to answer your questions. I know who else took O'Toole's potion.”
“Who... How many?”
“Nine in all, most of them were members of the Hanks Gang that supposedly were killed in ambush here in Eerie last summer.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Will Hanks, his gang?” She spoke the words as a question.
“The same; he rode in with four other men: his brother, Jesse; his old friend, Brian Kelly; and two new men. Sheriff Talbot tricked them all into drinking some of the potion, and they spent two months right here as Shamus' prisoners, just the same as you and Lylah.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I am. I've spoken to four different people, and they all told me the exact same thing. Most of the gang still works here in one way or another. Jessie Hanks sings. That's Kelly over there...” He pointed at Bridget, who was dealing cards to three men at her usual table.
Flora frowned. “Bridget Kelly… Brian Kelly?”
“That's right. She goes by Bridget now. Jesse Hanks goes by Jessie, with an 'i-e' now. One of the other men was a Mexican. She's now Maggie de Aguilar, the woman who runs the restaurant. It'll be her dishes you're cleaning when we finish. The last one is now known as Laura Caulder.”
“Laura? But she's... she's the waitress who’s pregnant. How the hell did that happen?”
“In the usual way; she got married last fall, not too long after her sentence was up.”
“Unbelievable. What happened to Will Hanks?”
“That's maybe the strangest part of the whole story. She – she goes by the name Wilma, these days – she got hold of a second dose of that potion. She thought it'd change her back. Instead, it made her... man-crazy. She works over at La Parisienne, that whorehouse I know you went to... before.”
Flora let out a raucous laugh. “Will... Will Hanks is a... a whore.” She shook her head. “If that isn't – “
“Do you want to hear about the others?”
She wiped a tear of laughter from her eyes. “I... I suppose.”
“Jane... Maggie de Aguilar's helper, she was a prospector who kidnapped Laura Caulder. When they gave him the potion, he turned into Laura's twin.”
“Why?”
“That's what the potion does; it turns a man into the double of the prettiest woman he'd ever seen. For the man Jane was, that woman was Laura.”
An odd expression came to the blonde's face. “That explains something I've been wondering about.” Flora decided to consider that particular piece of information later. “What else do you have?”
“There are two other cases. A boy got hurt. He was dying, and they gave him the potion. It healed him, but it changed him, as well. Her father took the potion at the same time – unintentionally, I’d guess – and was changed, as well. The last case was a Mexican boy who drank the potion by accident. Nobody's quite sure what he thought he was doing.”
He took a breath. “Is there anything else you need me for?”
“What do you suggest?” she asked suspiciously.
Zach shrugged. “I don't know. I'm not completely certain why you needed to know who else had been dosed with Shamus' brew. I can do better work for a client if I know why I'm doing it.”
Flora looked exasperated. “Because if I knew that there was somebody who got changed back,” she explained very carefully, “I'd want to change back the same way, no matter who I had to pay off. Is there anybody who actually turned back?”
Zach shook his head. “Everybody says that the change is forever. I've been hoping that the news won't upset you...too much.”
The determined look that came to her face surprised him. “What you're saying then, is that Forry Stafford is dead. Well, rest in peace, Forry,” she said scornfully and then looked away, lost in thought. Zach was about ready to excuse himself, when she said, “Back in the old days, they killed a few of the king's enemies to pile on his grave, so even in death he'd be a conqueror. I reckon that there are a few people right around here that I ought to take down with me.”
The lawyer grimaced. “That is not a subject which I can ethically discuss with you.”
Flora tossed her head. “Just my luck to have an ethical lawyer!”
Zach shrugged. “Is here anything else you want me to find out for you?”
“I'll think about that. I'm going to have to do a lot of thinking. At least, I have nothing to lose now. You're staying on as my lawyer, right? Even if you are too ethical for your own good?”
“Call on me anytime,” he replied evenly.
“I will. In my own good time.”
As soon as she said the words, the voice in her head started urging her back to the kitchen. She stood up. “Thanks, but I have to be going.”
Without another word, she started walking back towards the kitchen. Doing dishes was mindless work. It'd give her plenty of time to plan what she was going to do with the information she had just gotten.
* * * * *
Wilma was reading The Sporting Times, when Beatriz came into the parlor. “Can I talk to you, Wilma?”
“Seems t’me, we ain’t got anything t’talk about.” Wilma glared at Beatriz for a moment, but then went back to her paper.
Beatriz sat down beside her rival. “Sì, we do… Ethan.”
“Go away!”
“No, I will not. Wilma… to me, Ethan, he was just someone who was muy good in bed.
Wilma sighed. “He surely was that.” In spite of herself, her body warmed at the memory.
“But he was more – much more -- than that to you. I can see that in the way you have acted since he left.” She gently put her hand on Wilma’s arm. “And I am sorry.”
“What d’you got t’be sorry about?” Wilma snapped. “You… He was with you that last night.”
“Sì, but he wanted to be with us, the two of us. He thought no more of you than he did of me. We were just two putas here to pleasure him.”
“What’re you saying?”
“I am saying that, whatever deep feelings you had for him, he had none for you. You were just another woman to fuck, as far as he cared. That last night, after your sister – well, you know what she did – he told me that he worked so hard to seduce you for the ‘sport of it’; his words, exactly.”
“The sport of it?”
“That is what he said.” She paused. “Sport, not love; you were a challenge to him, a trophy to be won.”
“No…” She felt the burning of tears forming in her eyes.. “He… He said –”
“Wilma, Ethan could paint with words almost as good as he could with a brush.”
“He couldn’t have been like that… could he?”
“He was. You should remember his skill, how he made your body feel. The rest of it – to him, at least – it was just… foreplay, nothing more.”
“He was good at that,” she said wryly and looked suspiciously at Beatriz. “Why’re you being so kind ‘n’ telling me all this? You don’t like me any more’n I like you.”
“That is true. I see you as my rival; I admit that. But, as much as I dislike you, I dislike what he did to you even more.”
“I didn't care for it much, myself.”
Beatriz smiled, but then became serious. “You have always tried to be so hard, Wilma, harder than anyone else in this house. I did not know, before this, but you are not hard everywhere, not where a woman most needs to be hard. Make yourself hard in that special place, and no man can ever hurt you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a tender heart. It can be broken. You will not be happy doing the.… work that we do until you fix it.”
* * * * *
Cecelia Ritter looked at the crowd of women gathered in her parlor. “Well, ladies, I assume you've all seen today's newspaper, especially that item about Nancy Osbourne.”
“Disgraceful,” Zenobia Carson replied, as if on cue.
Hilda Scudder looked up from her knitting – she was pregnant again. “But what can we do? The paper said that the school board had already decided to reinstate her.”
“Then we get them to un-decide,” Lavinia Mackechnie told her.
Grace MacLeod raised her hand. “Maybe we should hear Miss Osbourne out? There may be – “
“Lies,” Zenobia interrupted, “that's all you'll hear from the high-and-mighty Miss Nancy Osbourne. Besides, I know what I saw on my front porch.”
“Just as I know what I saw in O'Toole's place,” Lavinia added. “And we all know the sort of woman who works in a saloon, don't we?”
Cecelia made a sort of snorting noise. “Not the sort of woman I want teaching my children.” The other women nodded and murmured in agreement.
“And we can't let the town council put her back in place as teacher,” Cecelia continued. “Make sure that you all come to the meeting tomorrow, and bring as many others as you can. Be prepared to shout the council down, if need be, to make them see things our way.”
Lavinia nodded. “Yes, after all, we elected them. They have to do what we tell them.”
“But is it proper for us women to make such a fuss?” Grace asked. “After all – “
“After all what?” Cecelia cut in. “Reverend Yingling says that he supports us regarding Nancy Osbourne, and, surely, a man of G-d such as he can't be wrong.” She stared angrily at the other woman. “Can he?”
Grace looked down at the rug, unable to meet Cecelia's eyes. “N-No, of course not.”
* * * * *
Bridget was dealing cards for a two-man game between Stu Gallagher and Hans Euler. They'd just finished a hand and had stopped to order drinks from Flora, buying one for Bridget as well.
Flora came back a few minutes later, setting down a tray with the three beers on the table. She handed one to Gallagher and the second to Euler. She seemed to hesitate before she handed the last to Bridget. “I wasn't sure if you really wanted this beer, Bridget.”
The pretty redhead looked up at her warily. “Why wouldn't I want it?”
“I know firsthand about some of the drinks you've had in here, especially that one you and your four friends had last summer.”
Bridget sprang to her feet. “What!”
“Hell, Brian. If I'd known it was you, I would have enjoyed what we did together last month twice as much.” Flora grinned nastily at the redhead.
Bridget's face glowed a bright red. She looked daggers at the other woman. “Like hell!” she yelled and slapped Flora's face so hard that the woman staggered back from the force of the blow.
“How dare you? I-I'll... I'll...” Flora started forward. Her hands balled into fists. She was ready to fight, but that voice – the damned voice – in her head wouldn't let her. She trembled trying to gain control, but it was no good. The voice was just too strong.
Bridget watched the blonde struggling with herself. “When you're ready, waitress, you can take that tray back to the bar.” She took her seat, a satisfied grin on her face. She heard Flora's sigh of defeat, watched her pick up the tray and slowly walk away, her body seething with anger.
“Shall we resume the game?” Bridget asked innocently.
“What was all that about?” Stu Gallagher asked, picking up his cards.
She was still smiling over her victory. “Just putting that bit of baggage in her proper place.”
* * * * *
“So what do I do now?” Abner Slocum asked, looking down at the cards spread out on a tray in front of him. He was in his bed in Doctor Upshaw's ward. The top end of the bed was raised, allowing him to almost sit up without too much strain on his back.
Cap pointed at the cards. “You try to arrange them into five of what Bridget calls 'fighting hands', that's two pair or better in each hand.”
“All right.” Slocum slowly reached for the ten of clubs with his right hand. “Let's try – “
Doc Upshaw walked into the room. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but this arrived yesterday.” He pulled a telegram from a folder with Abner’s name on it. “It's from Walther Vogel, that doctor in Philadelphia that I told you about.” He paused a half a beat. “I wanted to look it over – to be sure of what he was saying – before I talked to you about it.”
“What does he say?” Abner demanded.
The physician opened the folder and read. “That he’s sending me a long letter with full details – and instructions on palliative care. Palliative means treatment that won’t cure but will help relieve some of your discomfort.”
Slocum frowned. “In the meantime, what does he say in that telegram?”
“He agrees with my diagnosis. That is, paraplegia – paralysis – on the left side of your body and incomplete paraplegia on the right, since you have some use of your right arm and right hand. The reason is that the bullet or the fall from your horse – maybe both – did serious damage to the nerves in your spinal cord. They may be permanently damaged, or the damage may just be due to the swelling that's occurred from the initial injury. But he also says, he can't be sure from the information I sent him.”
“What does he need to be sure?” Slocum asked quickly.
Cap added, “And can he do anything about it?”
“He wants you to come to Philly. He won't promise a cure, which is good – “
Cap frowned. “Why is it good?”
“It means that he knows his stuff,” the doctor answered. “A quack would promise, maybe even guarantee a cure.” He looked at his patient. “Abner, he's asking you to make a long and, quite likely, a very painful trip with only the possibility that you'll be the better for it. I know how much you want to be your old self, but I want you to give the matter careful consideration.”
“And if I don't go? I'll stay as I am, right?”
“I believe so. And there is even the possibility that your condition will deteriorate. I’ll know more when his letter comes. It should also say something about how to get you to Philadelphia – if you decide to go.”
Slocum sighed. “I'll give that matter some very serious thought, Hiram, and thank you.”
“We'll talk later.” He went to the door, and then paused. “I didn't mean to sound too pessimistic. Even if we can't cure you, things might not be as bad as they seem now. I might even be able to do you some good with Vogel consulting at long distance.”
“I have no doubt that you will do all you can, and I do want to consider what you've said. Right now...” the rancher winked at his nephew. “...I'm trying to learn this new version of solitaire poker that Cap's been talking about. It'll give me something to do while I'm thinking about Vogel and the trip he wants me to take.”
* * * * *
Jessie was leafing through a songbook when Jane came over to her.
“Jessie,” Jane asked impatiently, “what're you and Milt up to?”
The singer looked up. “What're you going on about, Jane? We ain't up to nothing.”
“The hell you ain't. I seen the two of you talking about something yesterday. You gave him some kinda paper t'look at. He read it, and then stuck it in his pocket. You talked a while longer and then he headed off.”
“Oh... aahh, that. It wasn't nothing important.”
“Maybe it ain't... or maybe it is. I just wanna know what it is you was talking about.”
“A song – yeah, that's it, a song I wrote.”
“You writing songs again, Jessie Hanks? And if you are, what does that have t'do with Milt this time?”
“Folks get tired o'hearing the same songs all the time, so I decided to write me a new one. I got an idea, but when I wrote it out...” She gave her friend a pretty pout. “... it was more something a man'd sing.”
“A man like Milt, you mean?” She shook her head. “You ain't never gonna get him t'stand up in front of a crowd o'people 'n' sing. There's just no way.”
“Turns out there is a way. He owes me a favor... sorta, for something I done for him a... a while back. I told him that singing my song – just this one time – would make us even.”
“Milt Quinlan standing up in front of a room fulla people and singing; now that's something I wanna see.”
“Then you come t'my 9 o'clock show Friday night, and you'll see it – and hear it. Hell's bells, you might even like what you see 'n' hear.”
Jane thought about what Jessie said. “I'll be there. It'll be fun t'see him embarrassing himself.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, May 8, 1872
“Well, Doc,” Laura asked, as she buttoned up her nightgown. “What's the verdict? Is the baby okay, and how soon can I get back to work?”
“The baby seems to be doing well,” Doc Upshaw replied. “It's still moving, and its heartbeat is strong and regular.” He took a breath. “But you still seem to be a bit weak.”
Laura gave him a wan smile and gently put her hand on her belly. “Junior's moving is keeping me awake nights; that's all. I'm fine.”
“No, I... I think there's more to it than an overactive fetus. Sleepy isn't the same as dizzy, and you told me that you've had several bad dizzy spells this past week, times when you were too lightheaded or wobbly to get out of bed or walk around without Arsenio's help.”
Arsenio was standing near Laura. He stepped closer and took her hand. “Is it... serious?”
“I can't be sure,” the physician answered. “For now, I think it'd just be better for her to stay in bed a while longer.”
Laura looked almost angry. “For how long?”
“I can't say.” Upshaw answered. “I'll be back to check you again in a week.”
Molly was also in the room. “And me 'n' Jane'll be over here every day t'keep ye company.”
“Thanks, but, Doc, even if I don't go back to work, can I go over to visit everybody at the Saloon?” Laura asked in a sad voice. “I'm getting so tired of looking at these same four walls.”
Molly folded her arms in front of here. “Laura, if ye so much as set one foot in me saloon before the Doc here tells me ye can, I'll throw ye over me shoulder and carry ye back here meself.”
“No, you won't,” Arsenio said in a firm tone. “I'll carry her back here for you. And I'll tie her to the bed when we get here.”
* * * * *
Flora knocked lightly on the door to Jessie's room. “Anybody in there?” When there was no answer, she opened the door and stepped quickly inside. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, while she glanced around the room.
“Nice,” she decided after a few moments. “Damned nicer than mine.” She blamed herself for having assumed that the singer's name was nothing but a coincidence, and had nothing to do with Jesse Hanks, the lawless brat who had run off at the age of 16. Now she understood why the singer had seemed to have it in for her from the first moment they'd met.
A window on the far wall brightly lighted the room. A closed book, Songs of the Ozark Hills , sat on a writing desk near the window with two or three scraps of paper sticking out to mark pages. The bed, a four-poster with a green cloth canopy, filled much of the right side of the room. The blanket was thrown back and the sheets mussed. “Goody,” Flora said with disgust, “I get to make that bed; probably need to change the sheets, too.”
A long, metal clothes rack was set against the right wall of the room, filled mostly with hangers holding dresses, blouses, and skirts; except for one with a man's shirt thrown over it and with a pair of men's pants draped down. 'That deputy of hers, no doubt,' she thought.
There hadn't been much that she would have put past the young Jesse Hanks, whom she had known back in Texas, but to find out that he was a she now and was crazy for a man came as a real surprise. Jesse had gotten in all kinds of trouble: fights, stealing, and mouthing off to his betters – the Staffords – but no one ever said that he was a nancy boy. She sneered. It could be that folks had been giving the Hanks kid too much credit. “Maybe she'll get pregnant,” Flora muttered. “I'd love to give her the horselaugh about that.”
She continued to prowl the room. “Well, I'll be a...” Her voice faded off as she stared at a small shelf set in the wall near the rack. A tiny, carved wooden figure, a toy soldier, stood alone on it. “I thought I burned all of these up years ago.” She walked around the room and picked up the figure, turning it slowly between her fingers. Then, with a hearty laugh, she hid it in her apron pocket. “If it means enough for her to keep it, she deserves to lose it. It's mine anyway.”
Buoyed up by a sense of accomplishment, she began sweeping the floor with the straw broom she'd brought with her.
* * * * *
Edith Lonnigan peeked into Doctor Upshaw's ward. Her patient's bed was raised so that he was sitting up, reading yesterday's newspaper. “Are you up to some visitors, Mr. Slocum?”
“I surely am.” Abner pushed back the metal stand that the paper was set on. “Who is it?”
Cap walked in. “Just us, Uncle.”
“How you doing, Mr. Slocum?” Red Tully asked, following Cap into the room. “Mr. Lewis lemme ride into town with him.”
The older man smiled. “Well, I'm glad to see you both. Can you stay long?”
“Not too long, I'm afraid,” Cap replied. “We came in for some supplies from Styron's. We have to get back to the ranch before dark, so we need to leave fairly soon if we're going to get everything done.”
“I'm glad you're here for however long you can stay,” the older man told them. “And, to answer your question, there's no change – at least, none that I've noticed, except that I don't hurt quite as bad.”
Cap studied his uncle's face. “I'm glad that the pain's getting weaker.”
“Yeah,” Red added. “Maybe that's a sign that you are getting better.”
Slocum sighed. “If I am, I haven't noticed it yet.” He paused a half-beat. “Anything happening out at the Triple A, I should know about?”
“Same old same old,” Cap replied. “We're getting ready for that cattle drive up to Fort Grant next week. I'm going to head up the drive, and let Luke stay at the ranch.”
“That's probably for the best,” Abner said, considering the idea. “There's a lot of people who wouldn't want to deal with a negro. I don't like it, but that's the way of the world.”
Cap nodded. “Luke's a good man and a good foreman.” He studied his uncle's face. “Uncle Abner, did you give any more thought to... what the Doc talked about yesterday?”
“I did, and I've decided. I'm going head out to see that specialist in Philadelphia as soon as Hiram says I can travel – which won't be for a while, one or two weeks, from what I understand, maybe more. But we're going to have to find a nurse – or someone – to travel with me. I'm hardly capable of managing matters for myself.” He said the last with no little degree of discomfort.
His nephew nodded. “That's true. The trip'll take, what, two or three weeks, counting the time to get up to Utah to catch a train? You'll need somebody to take care of...” He stopped for a moment, not wishing to embarrass his uncle.
“Tickets, and getting you something t'eat, and all them other things that need taking care of on a trip that long.” Red surprised both of the other men by speaking.
Abner gave his man a wry smile. “You sound like you're volunteering for the job, Red.”
“Why not?” he said with a grin. “If you can't get nobody better. I got my army training, and, truth be known, Mr. Slocum, keeping you company on a trip to back East sounds a hell of a lot easier than my chores at the ranch.”
* * * * *
Shamus glanced over at Molly. She was humming and moving her fingers in intricate patterns along the top of the bar. “And what is it ye're up to, Love?”
“I'm working out a new dance for Flora and Lylah t'be learning?”
“What's the matter with the old one? I surely ain't heard nobody complaining about it, and the crowd last night was even bigger than the night before.”
Molly raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do ye want t'be waiting 'till that crowd does complain before I start working on something new for the ladies t'be doing?”
“No, no, Love, I don't.” He chuckled. “Ye're right, the same as always. Ye figure out that new dance, and we'll have them two doing it soon as ye can teach it to 'em.”
She smiled. “I think this has turned out to be a good idea. It would be smart t'be investing in some real dancehall clothes for the girls. And remember how we talked about expanding the line? Sam has four girls; if we had four, having Jessie to help the show, the Lone Star won't be able to compete.”
“Until he finds a singer of his own.” Shamus smiled. “It'll cost him more than Jessie costs us, to uproot a lassie worth her salt and get her to come out here. Love, where does a person buy dancehall outfits? San Francisco? Or find more girls for that matter? It might be a long time before any more prisoners are sentenced.”
“I'll be asking Rachel Silverman about getting costumes. And I'll be putting out a posting for a girl or two. I don't have too much hope that any of our local women would be interested, but who knows?”
“Yuir just the person to do the job, me Darling,” he said and kissed her.
She kissed him back. “Thank ye, Love. I'll see if we can't have something ready t'be showing ye by next week.”
* * * * *
“We have two items of Old Business on the agenda tonight,” Whit Whitney said, looking down at his notes. “Since it'll probably take a lot less time, why don't we settle the matter of Nancy Osbourne first?”
Cecelia Ritter jumped to her feet. “It should take no time at all,” she shouted. “Fire her!”
“First of all, Mrs. Ritter, we haven't asked for comments, yet, and, even if we had, you weren't recognized.”
The woman scowled. “What's the matter, are you afraid to hear what I – what we – have to say?”
“Let her speak,” Lavinia Mackechnie called out, and several other women took up the chant.
Whit raised his hands. “Ladies, please, a little decorum; you'll have your chance to speak”
“When?” Cecelia asked in a loud voice. “After you reinstate that wanton woman? After you turn her loose to corrupt our poor innocent – “
Now Aaron Silverman interrupted. “And just what makes her a... what you say she is, Mrs. Ritter? Did you talk to her? Did you, maybe, ask for her side of things?”
“Why should I listened to, let alone believe, anything that... woman has to say?” Cecelia answered firmly.
Aaron smiled. “You're afraid, maybe, you'll hear something you don't want to hear? We, the town council, we listened, ah-and...” He pronounced the word as if it had two syllables. “...we heard the truth in what she said. Are you afraid that you'll hear some truth, too, maybe?”
“What you heard – ha!” the woman replied sarcastically. “I'm too much of a lady to say what you three old goats heard, brazen overtures, no doubt, with a gilt-edged guarantee.”
Nancy had been sitting near the back with Lucian and Phillipia Stone. Now she jumped to her feet. “How dare you make such accusations?”
“I make them because they are true, Miss Osbourne. How dare a person like you presume to teach our children? I... we will not – we can not – allow such a travesty.”
Nancy put her hands on her hips and glared at Cecelia. “You will not allow. It seems to me that the decision of whom to hire is for the town council to make, not some pompous, self-aggrandizing fool of a woman who doesn't care to hear anything even close to the truth.”
“People like me elected the town council, and the council should only hire the sort of people that we want, that we know are of a proper moral fiber to be hired.”
Nancy walked up to the front of the room. “Is that what you people – all you people – believe? That I shouldn't be the teacher because I don't fit Cecelia Ritter's image of what a teacher should be?”
“It is,” Cecelia answered with a satisfied nod. Only a small portion of the crowd yelled in agreement, but they were loud, and no one seemed willing to shout them down.
The young woman squared her shoulder. “Gentlemen of the town council, it appears that we have all wasted our time. I refuse to put myself in a position where I am in any way answerable to Mrs. Ritter and those of her ilk. I appreciate that you had the good hearts to listen to me. You were willing to accept the reasons I gave you for my actions and to give me another chance to do what I love, to be a teacher. I consider that my vindication.”
“But I will not be judged by petty, sanctimonious people who feel – and for no good reason – that they have the right to determine how I live my life. I could easily endure the poisonous barbs for the present, as long as they ended when I am reinstated. But I know full well that the backbiting and harassment will continue, and it will continue as long as I hold my position!”
“Are you saying that you don't want your job back, Nancy?” Arsenio asked, rising to his feet. “You've done so well here for the children for such a long time. We of the council are not about to withdraw our support for you just because there are a few... malcontents in the assembly. We expected that there would be.”
She shook her head. “I'm very sorry, Arsenio... Mr. Caulder, but having people like that... woman, those people, watching me, judging me, not on how I acted, but on how they wanted to believe I acted. I will not do that. And I have been a teacher more than long enough to know that that is exactly how teachers are treated in most towns. I had thought, and thought for a long time, that my years of service and my good conduct over the span of those years would count for something, but I have seen enough now to know that they don't.”
She turned to look at her friends. “I am sorry, Phillipia, but I know that I'm leaving my students in good hands. And I wish you better luck against the forces of intolerance and ignorance than I had.” Having spoken those words, she looked daggers at Cecelia. Then, without another word, she started walking for the door.
“Good riddance,” Cecelia trumpeted her victory as Nancy started to leave.
Lucian stood up. “Gentlemen and ladies of Eerie, I give you Nancy Osbourne.” He began to clap his hands, as did Phillipia. A number of others joined in. Nancy stopped at the schoolhouse door and looked back. Her eyes glistened as she tried to count the number applauding her. It looked to be at least as many as had agreed with Mrs. Ritter.
And it did include all three members of the town council.
* * * * *
“Before we take up the next item of Old Business,” Whit began, after the room had settled down, “I'd like to remind everyone that this is a public meeting, not a shouting match. All speakers – including Aaron, Arsenio, and myself – are to be treated with respect.” He looked directly at Cecelia Ritter as he spoke, but she just glared back at him.
He glanced down at the agenda for a moment, and took a breath to brace himself. “The next item is Reverend Yingling's petition. I'd sure that many – most – of you know the details of it, but I'd like to ask the Reverend if he wouldn't mind giving us all a quick summary of what he's asking us to do?”
“I'd be happy to, Mr. Chairman.” Yingling rose slowly, a beatific smile on his face. “My petition – I should say our petition, since it has over sixty signatures – asks the town council to order Shamus O'Toole to give control over the creation and administration of his amazing potion to an advisory committee that the council would create for the aforesaid purpose.”
“Thank you, Reverend Yingling. Does anyone on the council have a question before we ask for questions from the floor?”
Aaron Silverman's hand shot up. “I got one – maybe a couple more than one.” He waited a moment before he began again. “This committee you want us to set up, is it also going to be in charge of folks after they take the potion?”
“Ah... no,” the minister replied. “No, I don't believe that it would.”
“So, nu, who does? Are you saying that Shamus O'Toole can't be trusted to give people the potion, but it's all right for him to be in charge of those same people for, what, two, maybe three months after they take it?”
“Perhaps not, but, there... there is no other place for those people to be incarcerated for so long. The town jail certainly isn't fit – “
“But O'Toole's saloon is fit, is that what you're saying?”
“Frankly... no, but it can serve until something better can be found.”
“The town ain't got the money to build 'something better.' We could rent out rooms, maybe, or... you got a spare room at your house you want we should put them in?”
“My house?” Yinging went white for a moment before he regained his composure.
Aaron just smiled. “Probably not your house, but you should think a bissle – a little -- about where we could put them if we stopped using Shamus' place, before you tell us we should stop using it.” He turned to Whit. “I think I'm done... for now. As the Sages say, asking questions is easy. The hard part is coming up with good answers.”
Whit looked at Arsenio. “Do you have anything you want to ask?” When the smith shook his head, Whit looked out at the crowd. “Anybody else have a question?”
“Lots of people,” Whit added, seeing the sea of raised hands. He pointed at one. “Father de Castro, we don't see you at these meetings very often. Why don't you go next?”
The priest stood up and faced Yingling. “Thaddeus, my friend, I've seen your petition and read – and, just now, heard – the details of it. You say that Shamus O'Toole is not moral enough to be trusted with anything as powerful as his potion.” He shrugged. “That may be, but this committee that you want created, you say that it will be moral enough. I'd like to know who will be on it to set this high level of morality – besides you, of course? I'm the only other clergyman in town, and I don't recall being asked.” The man's tone had been conversational, even friendly. Now it grew harder. “Or are you setting yourself up as the sole arbiter of morality for this community?”
“Diago!” The minister's head jerked as if he had been struck. “I didn't think you'd – “
De Castro gave him a wan smile. “No, Thaddeus, you didn't think. And you should have.” He sat back down.
“I'd like to ask the next question,” Horace Styron called out, leaping to his feet. “Reverend Yingling, you said that one of your reasons for taking – for having someone else take charge of the potion was because of all the unfortunate accidents that have happened while O'Toole was in charge. Can you tell us about some of the things that worry you?”
The Reverend smiled, grateful for the reprieve. “Yes, Horace, I can. The first instance was when Wilma Hanks took that second dose. Before that, as I understand things, she was starting to accept the second chance for a decent life that her transformation offered. That ended with the second dose. She became a wanton harlot, embarking on a life of debauchery that will most surely lead to her eternal damnation.” He said the last two words in the stern voice he saved for his sermons.
“The second case...” He spoke in his normal tones again. “...is the O'Hanlans. As a father, I was overjoyed to hear that a dose of the potion had saved the life of young Elmer – now Emma – O'Hanlan. But tragically... tragically, Elmer's father, Patrick, was given a dose as well. He is Trisha, now, and her transformation ripped apart the O'Hanlan family and ended a happy marriage of some twelve years.”
“The third case is a poor Mexican boy – Arnoldo Diaz. Isn't that right, Father de Castro?” Yingling looked over at the priest, who grimly nodded. “Yes.”
Yingling continued, “the poor boy was distraught over his mother's near fatal accident, and, somehow, he, too, drank the potion. Even now, the transformed youth is trying to adjust to his – to her – new life.”
The Reverend looked down. “There is another case, a woman, a visitor in our community, who drank – or was given – a dose of O'Toole's brew. She appeared to be a modest, Christian woman when we first met, but later, when I encountered her again after she had apparently taken the potion, her behavior and attitudes were far from modest. I can only surmise about the effect of that change on her marriage. Such accidents should not be allowed to continue. That was my concern.”
“A very pretty speech,” a deep voice spoke out. A tall, elegantly dressed man in his mid thirties rose to his feet. “Many of you know me. I am Don Luis... Luis Ortega, and I would ask you a question of the Reverend Señor Yingling, or, rather, I would expand upon the Father de Castro's question. The Padre asked if he would be on it. I do not care if I am on it, but I do wish to know who will be and how many of them will be of my people, Mejicanos? For, surely, you Yanquis, you cannot claim to be the only moral ones in this town.”
Luis gave the crowd the same sort of genial smile that his younger brother, Sebastian, was known for. “I have met more than enough immoral Yanquis and more than enough moral Mejicanos to know that there cannot be such a claim.”
“It seems to me,” Whit said, seeing the discomfort on the minister's face, “that a lot of good questions have been asked here tonight. It seems only fair that we give Reverend Yingling time to come up with fully thought out answers, so that the strength of his arguments may be acknowledged by all. I don't think that we want to wait a whole month, so I move that we postpone the reverend's response till next – no, the church board meets next week – until a special council meeting two weeks from tonight.” He glanced at his fellow councilmen, who both nodded. “Would this be acceptable to you, Reverend Yingling?”
“Perhaps...” the clergyman began and trailed off.
Arsenio tried hard not to smile. “Second.”
The Reverend, the council noticed, did not react.
“All in favor?” Whit saw the other two councilmen raise their hands. “Passed... unanimously.” He pounded his gavel on the table. “There being no other business...” He waited a moment to see if anyone contradicted him. When no one did, he continued, “I'll take a motion for adjournment.”
Arsenio raised his hand. “So moved.”
“Second,” Aaron quickly added.
Whit used the gavel again. “Passed; meeting adjourned. And we'll see you all back here on May 22nd. Thank you all and good evening.”
The three of them ignored the shouts of protest, as they packed up their paperwork to head for home. Arsenio's mind had been on Laura all evening, and he bolted for the door, not stopping to talk to anyone.
* * * * *
Thursday, May 9, 1872
The light streaming through her window finally woke Jessie up. She glanced over at the ticking clock on her night table. “Just after 10,” she murmured. She stretched her arms up over her head before reaching over with her left for... “Paul?” Then she remembered. “Dang, he had to work late shift last night.” She sighed, but then smiled at the possibilities for that evening, when he would be finished with work about 8 PM.
“Yeah,” she said, feeling the anticipatory warmth run through her body.
Followed by a hunger pang.
'Best get dressed', she thought, 'and see about some breakfast.' She turned and nodded at the shelf near her clothes rack, where she'd placed the tiny wooden figure her father had carved for her so many years before. “Good morning to you, Pa.” It was a small daily ritual with her, one she'd followed since miraculously recovering the figure last Christmas.
The shelf was bare.
“What the hell?” She looked again; nothing. She dropped to her hands and knees, searching for where it might have fallen. There was no sign of it anywhere, even under the bed. Nor was it on the bed table or on her desk, where it could have been placed, if it had fallen and been found by someone else.
Someone? She thought for a moment about what might have happened to this last remnant of her past. An answer, a very bad answer, came to her. “Flora!” Jessie cursed as she grabbed her robe. She hurried to wrap it around herself, as she rushed out the door.
* * * * *
“Here now, Jessie” Shamus said, as the singer ran down the steps. “What's all this shouting about?”
Jessie stopped and glanced around the room. “Where is she, Shamus? Where is that little – “
“I'm right here, Hanks.” Flora stood by the door to the kitchen, a smug look on her face. “What are you yelling about?”
“I know you took it. Give it back to me; right now?” Jessie strode purposefully towards Flora, ready to fight.
Shamus stepped between the two women. “What's all this about? What got took, Jess, and why are ye thinking that Flora is the one that took it?”
“That wooden soldier I... got last Christmas.” She could hardly say how it had come to her. “And I don't think she took it. I know she did. She cleans the rooms, and she's got it in for me!”
Flora chuckled. “Why shouldn't I take it, Hanks? Your pa gave it to me all those years ago, didn't he?”
The words sank in; Jessie squared her shoulders. “All right, so you know who I am. I knew you'd find out sooner or later. It just gives me a double reason to want to get back at you. You made Pa give my soldiers to you; you threatened t'get Will sent t'jail if he didn't.”
“Why he did it doesn't matter. The fact is that he did.” She chuckled again. “He was just too afraid of my Pa. You dumb 'croppers were all afraid of him.”
Jessie growled low in her throat and made a grab for her tormentor.
“Stop it, Jess,” Shamus said firmly, seizing her by the waist and pulling her back. “I'll handle this.” He glared at Flora. “Did ye take that wood soldier? I'm ordering ye t'answer and answer truthful.”
Flora trembled, trying not to answer, but she couldn't stop herself. “I-I did.”
“And where is it now?”
“H-Hidden in m-my... room, in the... the dres.. ser.”
“Then I'm ordering ye to go get it; get it right now and bring it down here t'me.” A thought occurred to him. “And don't ye be doing nothing to it in the meantime.”
Flora closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, fighting the new order. Her body shook as she slowly turned and began a shambling walk towards the stairs. She paused for a moment, grasping the railing at the bottom, only to sigh in surrender and climb the stairs.
“I think she's going to be worse than even Wilma was.” Bridget had joined Shamus and Jessie as they watched Flora walk towards her room.
Shamus nodded. “She just may. Or... she may turn out as well as the pair o'ye did. We'll have t'be waiting t'see what happens.”
“In the meantime, you better do something to keep her out of Jessie's stuff,” Bridget told him. “And mine, come to think of it. She confronted me about our past a couple nights ago.”
As if on cue, Flora came back around the corner from her room. She had a look of disgust on her face as she descended the stairwell.
“Here,” she said, dropping the figure into Shamus' hand.
Shamus turned and gave it to Jessie. “There ye are, lass, back in yuir hands and good as new.”
“It better be.” Jessie's fingers curled around the toy soldier. “And she'd better not take it again.”
Flora glowered. “Why not, it's mine?”
“No, it ain't,” Shamus told her. “Ye gave it t'me just now, and I'm giving it t'Jessie here.” He looked her in the eye. “And I'm giving ye another order. Ye're not t'be going after that wee soldier ever again. And ye'll be treating Jessie and Bridget and all that belongs t'them with all the respect that ye'd be wanting for yuirself.”
“Even if you don't deserve it,” Jessie added triumphantly. Bridget smiled in agreement.
* * * * *
“Good morning, Reverend,” Horace Styron greeted the minister upon seeing him walk into Horace's hardware store. “What brings you in here today?”
Yingling pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket. “I just came in for some odds and ends.” He opened the paper and read, “A box of 3-penny nails... four candles... ten feet of chicken wire... and a can of green paint. More importantly, I came in to thank you for your help at the meeting last night.”
“You're more'n welcome. I saw the way things were getting out of hand, and I figured if you reminded folks about all the mistakes O'Toole's racked up, it'd get 'em back on track to take that potion away from him.” The storekeeper made a quick, clicking sound with his tongue. “It woulda worked except for them da – them darned Mex talking.”
“Yes, it was a surprise to see those two there. They seldom attend functions like meetings of the town council, let alone participating as actively as they did yesterday.”
“You're right about that. I wonder what the... heck put the bee in their bonnet about your petition.”
“I don't know for certain, but I strongly suspect that Roscoe Unger, over at the newspaper, had a hand in it. Their questions all reflected those pernicious editorials he's been running.”
“That's what I thought, too. That boy is a lot more trouble than Ozzie Pratt ever was.”
“Pratt had other concerns to distract him, if you'll recall. Still, Unger is young, still learning the way of the world. In time, I have no doubt that he will discover the folly of going against moral authority such as ours.”
“I ain't sure we have that much time, do you?”
“No, and it is frustrating...” He practically growled the word. “...to have the council decision postponed yet again because of him.”
“We'll get it next time, Reverend.” Horace let a bit of menace creep into his voice. “Or we'll know the reason why, and know how to fix it.”
Yingling smiled at the thought of victory. “Indeed.”
* * * * *
Mrs. Spaulding looked down at the row of whole chickens, sitting on a bed of ice in Ortega's market. “That one, I think, Señor Ruiz.”
“A good choice,” Ruiz replied, smiling behind his mustache. He took the chicken and used a balance scale to weight it. He quickly wrapped it in white paper, tying the paper with a length of white twine, and wrote a price on the paper with a red wax marker. “Do you want anything else?”
Before she could answer, she heard a voice behind her. “Mrs. Spaulding, is that you?”
“Yes.” She turned to see two women standing behind her. One was a short, plumpish woman that she recognized as the minister's wife, Mrs. – What was her name? “Oh... ah, yes, Mrs..... Yingling, isn't it?”
The woman smiled, pleased to have her name remembered. “It is, but please call me Martha.”
“I shall... Martha, and you must call me Vida.”
The other woman was somewhat taller and thin, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun. “And I am Cecelia Ritter... Mrs. Cecelia Ritter.”
“Cecelia is the chairman of the Women's Social Committee at our church.”
Cecelia studied her closely. “You're new to Eerie, aren't you?”
“I am. My family and I moved here just after Easter.” Then Vida recognized the name. “You're the Mrs. Ritter that I've read about in the paper, aren't you?”
Cecelia smiled broadly. “Yes, that is me; working hard in my own humble way to make this town a more wholesome place for respectable people to live. I trust that I can count on the support of you and your husband.”
“My husband, Captain Jeffery Spaulding, has been... dead some fifteen months.” Vida spoke the words slowly, still reluctant to say them.
Cecelia plowed on. “Just you then.”
“Cecelia, please.” Martha could hardly believe the woman's lack of tact, and she decided to change the subject, if she could. “Have you had a chance to get out and meet many people?”
“Not many, I'm afraid. You and Annie are probably the two locals I know best.”
Martha thought for a moment. “Annie... Annie who?”
“Oh, I'm sorry; Annie Diaz. Her mother runs a laundry. She started out just picking up our dirty clothes and taking them to be cleaned, but she's gotten to be friends with both of my children – she and my Clara are about the same age. I've hired her recently to teach us all Spanish.”
Cecelia cut in. “Well, that explains things doesn't it?”
“Explain what?” Vida asked.
“Explains why you don't want to help us. You're friendly with one of them, one of the 'potion girls', aren't you?”
“What is a 'potion girl'? I'm afraid that I don't understand you,” Vida replied. 'Or like you very much,' she added to herself.
Cecelia gave a nasty chuckle. “Your 'Annie' Diaz used to be Arnie Diaz, a most impertinent young man. The very night that his mother was almost killed by a rearing horse, he got hold of a dose of Shamus O'Toole's foul brew and became a girl. There're some that say that he took it out of guilt about his mother, but I think O'Toole forced it on him for some reason.”
Amazement transformed Vida's face. “She mentioned some sort of magic potion, but I didn't believe her. Th-That story can't be true.”
“Ask the little Mex, herself, and see if she doesn't admit the truth. I dare you. Once you know the way of things, you can come see me about helping us take control of the potion away from that ungodly man.” She then walked away, before Vida or Martha could speak.
Mrs. Spaulding seemed at a loss for words. “And, please,” Martha cautioned, “take care to not tell people from outside from the town about the potion, Mrs. Spaulding. You know how vicious and judgmental some outsiders can be, especially about things that do not really concern them. The best way to deal with this terrible potion is to get responsible people, such as my husband's committee, to take it in hand.”
Mrs. Spaulding turned toward the woman still beside her. “Martha, should my family and I be in anyway concerned about these – potion girls?”
The Reverend's wife shook her head. “Of course not. Some of them have already become a credit to our community. The Lord works in mysterious ways. And I especially think that it is a good thing for Arnie – or Annie, as she seems to be calling herself – to have made friends with your boy and girl. I can't say that I really know Arnie Diaz. His mother does our laundry, and he -- she -- delivered it for a while, after she became a girl. But she was always very quiet and didn't talk about her problems. I'm sure the change must be hard for someone her age.”
“It certainly must be,” Vida replied thoughtfully.
* * * * *
Milt Quinlan peeked into Doc Upshaw's ward. Abner Slocum was playing some kind of solitaire. Slocum noticed him and called out, “I'm awake, Milt. C'mon in.”
“Thank you, Abner,” Milt replied, walking into the room. “How are you feeling today?”
Slocum used his right arm to push away the table with the cards. “Grateful to be alive, I suppose. Beyond that...” His voice trailed off.
The lawyer shrugged. “Being alive is something, anyway. And I'm sure that you'll improve with time.”
“I wish I were so sure. That's why I sent word for you to drop by. I want you to draw up a partnership agreement for Matthew and me. There is a good chance that I won't ever be better off than I am now, and I seem to be facing a very dangerous operation.” He sighed. “Funny how things turn out. If I had become a professional gambler, like I almost did back in my twenties, I might have been better off for it now.”
“Gamblers get shot, too,” Milt reminded him.
“They do, but angry gamblers tend to take better aim than that idiot Stafford did.”
Milt nodded courteously, and then took a pencil and small notepad out of his coat pocket. “Very well, how do you want it to read?”
“Make sure you list all my assets, land, buildings, woodland, and livestock; you have the list from when we updated my will last year. I'd like to have an even split between the two of us, but I... I still can't help thinking of the Triple A as my baby. Make it... 60-40, with me getting the 60.”
“I can do that. How soon do you need the papers? I may also need to change a paragraph or two in your will.”
“Take your time. I'm going to see an expert back East about my back and why my left arm and my legs don't work, but Hiram Upshaw says I won't be up to the trip for a couple weeks yet.”
“How about if I bring in the drafts next week for you to look at? If you don't have any problems with the documents, you can sign the new will, and you and Cap... Matthew can sign the partnership agreement any time after that.”
“That'll be fine.”
“Is there anything else you want to discuss?” asked Milt.
“Nothing legal, but you're welcome to just stay and chew the fat for a while. I don't get a whole lot of visitors.”
Milt put the pad and pencil away. “I believe I can do that.” He pulled a chair over and sat down. “And I won't even charge you for my time.”
* * * * *
“Nancy Osbourne,” Molly said by way of a greeting. “Whatever are ye doing in here so early? 'Tis barely three o'clock.”
Nancy gave the older woman a sad smile. “I've been out looking for work, Mrs. O'Toole – Molly. I resigned my teaching job last night at the town council meeting.”
“So I heard. Ye was goaded into it, t'my way o'thinking. I'd be surprised if the council wouldn't give yuir job back to ye if ye told 'em ye wanted it.”
“I know, but I meant what I said. I'm tired of people forcing me to act the way they think I should act, and I'm even more tired of being condemned for things I've never done by people who won't even give me a chance to defend myself.”
“Aye, I know how that can be. It ain't fair, ain't fair at all, for them t'be acting that way, especially to a sweet, young girl like ye.”
“Thank you for that, at least.” She shook her head. “It's like I was trying so hard to be the sort of person that I never really was, just to please people who would never let themselves be pleased.”
“I've been in that spot meself,” Molly commiserated. “So, did ye get any job offers?”
“I got several offers.” Her expression soured. “...But none that I care to repeat. There are a number of merchants in this town who believe the rumors about me. They expected me to... repay the offer of a job in a way consistent with...my bad reputation.” She sank down onto a barstool.
Molly puttered behind the bar for a moment before she handed Nancy a filled glass. “Here, this'll help.”
“Th-Thanks, but I-I don't drink.”
“Not even seltzer water? That's all that I gave ye.” Molly waited while the other woman took a long drink. “Surely, not all the men made that sorta offer to ye.”
“No, a few just said that they'd never hire a... person like me.”
“Them lousy – “
Nancy took another drink. “I... I can't – I won't give in to people who think like that, but I can't live on charity, either. I don't know what I'm going to do, but I'm not leaving Eerie. I won't give Cecelia Ritter the satisfaction of saying that she drove me out of town. Besides, the only real family I have is Carl, and I don't want to move away from him. I-I just seem to be out of options.”
“Then I'll be given ye one,” Molly replied. “Ye've done good filling in for Laura. Why don't ye come work for Shamus 'n' me full time?”
“Work... here. I-I don't know.”
“Sure ye do. Ye know we ain't the 'den of iniquity' some folks say we are. We pay good money, and I'll throw in room 'n' board, if ye want.”
“It's... can I think about a little?”
“Ye can. Take what time ye need.” Molly glanced up at the clock. “In the meantime, finish yuir drink, and ye can help me set up the tables for the restaurant.”
* * * * *
Wilma sat, alone in her room. staring into her dressing table mirror. She picked up her brush and began to work on her hair. As she did, she caught herself repeating the phrase that Shamus and Molly had drilled into her. “I’m a girl. I’m a girl.”
She stopped for a moment, frowning, but then she shrugged, “What the Hell.” She went back to her hair, again saying “I’m a girl” with each stroke.
“I’m a girl.”
“No, you aren’t,” she answered herself. “You’re a useless, worthless slut, just waiting to be used. That’s all Ethan ever thought of you.”
She recalled the old joke that said, “It’s okay to talk to yourself. You can even argue with yourself, and there’s nothing wrong with you. But if you start losing those arguments, then you’re in trouble. She wasn’t going to lose this argument.
“That ain’t so, even if he… didn’t love me. He said I was one of the best… whores he ever slept with.”
“See, you admit that he just thought of you as just another whore.”
“I ain’t ‘just another whore.’ I’m a damned good one.”
“That’s not what Ethan thought, and he’s a cultured gentleman.”
“He’s a dirty, rotten son of a bitch. Now Gregario de Aguilar, he’s a gentleman, a land-grant aristocrat, too, and he thinks I’m special. He calls me his ‘lively one’, don’t he?”
“So…”
“And… and Jimmy Kellogg, he’s a gentleman, too, he’s traveled all over the country – been t’Europe, too, and he said…” She smiled remembering what the man had said the last time they had been together.
“You make a man feel special, Wilma,” Kellogg had told her, as they walked downstairs in the morning. “And I don’t just mean the way a man feels when he gets his rocks off. You’re good -- very good -- at that, but, best of all, you make a man feel good about himself, that there’s something special about him that made a woman as wonderful as you are want to spend time with him, to take him to bed, and to share that fine body of yours with him.”
Wilma studied her reflection. “Yeah, maybe I am a whore, but I’m damned good at it.” She grinned, repeating Shamus’ “I’m a girl”, as she brushed her hair once more. “And if Ethan didn’t realize what he had with me…t’hell with him. The stupid bastard didn’t deserve me.”
He didn't deserve her, true, but he had been able to hurt her. How? Maybe it was because he had made her feel like more than just a whore. That had appealed to her deep inside. At Cerise's, she had thought for a while that she had everything that she wanted, but did she, really? Didn't she want to be better than she was? What did being “better” mean? Didn't it mean being special to a person that she would think was special, too? By pretending that he thought she was special, Ethan had baited the trap and she had only too eagerly stepped in.
The bastard! He had been finding excuses not to sleep with her for weeks. As a woman, Wilma hadn't encountered a man like that before. It had made her think that the talented man wouldn't be satisfied with a woman unless she couldn't offer more than just sex. He had given her hope that he had seen that sort of woman inside her, and then had taken the hope away. Why? What had she done to the man to make him want to bring her down so cruelly?
Something drew her glance to the mirror again. Before Ethan, Wilma had liked her life at Cerise's, but there was just one thing she didn't care for – that she wasn't special to anyone – not as Wilma Hanks. Wilma was a complete person who didn't just exist in bed, but outside of it, too. The pretty brunette whom she saw reflected looked about twenty, but in twenty years, how many men would pick her over much younger women in the same room? How many fewer would find her at all desirable in thirty years?
Wilma had realized that the future could be a terrible place. It could be so terrible, in fact, that she yearned to stop thinking about it and live for the moment. She remembered what Beatriz had said, that to go on the way she was going, she had to be smarter about men, she had to harden her heart. That advice might make good sense now, while times were still good, but what about later on? She'd end her days dirt poor, with no family, no special person in her life, and probably not even a home to call her own. All that she could have taken out of the carrousel ride would be a heart as hard as stone.
It didn't sound worth the trip. Carrousels were fun, but stay on them for too long and they made you sick. Maybe she had understood that from the start. Hadn't instinct told her that Ethan was a new force in her life, once that could change her course? But Ethan had been a false pick. So, where were the right picks? And how many right picks could women like herself expect to get?
Trying to understand the present, Wilma found herself thinking back about where she had started. Will Hanks had, perhaps, lived the wild way he had because he didn't care about living and didn't expect to be doing a great deal of it. But Wilma didn't think that she was exactly like Will –- not in every way.
She wasn't sure exactly when it had started, but somewhere along the way, she had started caring.
* * * * *
Kaitlin looked closely at her transformed husband, as the new woman slipped her camisole off over her head to get ready for as bed. “Your waist's getting a bit thicker, Trisha,” she observed.
“I-I've noticed.” Trisha replied. “I guess I-I'm starting to... show.”
“Not yet you're not, but you will soon enough.”
“Maybe I can wear my corset tighter to hide it a bit longer.”
“Don't do that. It's bad for the baby.” She said the word neither of them wanted to mention.
Trisha shivered, and then looked down and gently touched her stomach. “Do you th-think I'll be a-able to... to hide it until after next week's board meeting?”
“Probably, but not for too much longer after that.”
“Oh, oh, my Lord, what am I going to do?” She felt the tears forming in her eyes. “Damn it, I... I hate this.”
Kaitlin walked over and took the sobbing woman in her arms, hugging her close. “I know; I know.” This was hardly the time for saying, “I warned you to be careful.”
“And I hate acting like this!” She rested her head on the taller woman's shoulder, giving in to her wild emotions, tears running down her cheeks.
“It's part of being pregnant, just like morning sickness.”
“I don't like that, either. Emma must think that I have stomach flu, the way I get sick almost every morning.”
“Yes, she has asked about it. She's afraid that it's some women's thing that she's going to come down with any day now.” Kaitlin braced herself for what she was going to say next. “We're going to have to tell her the truth... and very soon.”
“I know,” Trisha straightened up and took a step back. “Liam, too, it isn't fair for them not to know.” She was still holding her camisole, and now she used it to wipe her eyes. “Only not... not till after the church board meets next week.”
“Why not? Liam and Emma won't tell anyone.”
“I-I'm not so sure. It's like leaving the board is the end of an era. In some strange way it feels like I'm stepping out of one life and into another. Once I do, that will be the time for making new beginnings, for telling the hard truths. Anyway, Liam doesn't have the best poker face in the world, and Emma, she's still a child. I'd be too afraid that the word would get out, if we told them ahead of time. If it does, I'm off the board, no bones about it, and with no way to put Liam in as my replacement. Clyde Ritter'd be on the board instead, and him and Styron will undo everything I've worked for.”
Kaitlin grimaced. “That's probably true.” She made a pointing gesture, as if lecturing a child. “But I want you to promise that Liam and Emma get told... and right after the meeting.”
“The very next night,” Trisha said, very reluctantly admitting the rightness of it. She just wondered how her brother and her daughter would take the news. How they reacted would have a lot to do with what she would do afterwards. Leaving town was an option she might have to consider.
“The very next night,” she repeated.
* * * * *
Friday, May 10, 1872
Nancy walked up the gravel path to the bathhouse. Carmen was sitting in the shade on the back porch sewing something – reattaching a shirt button, Nancy saw when she was close enough. Felipe, her toddler son, was taking a mid-morning nap in his wooden playpen.
Carmen heard Nancy's footsteps and looked up. “I'm afraid that there are some men using the baths just now. I can't let you in, no matter how much you may want me to.” She winked to show that she was teasing.
“That's all right, Carmen.” Nancy felt her cheeks warm, embarrassed at the thought. “I didn't come for a bath. I wanted to talk to you.” She pointed at an overstuffed chair set not too far from Carmen. “May I?”
Carmen nodded and put her sewing down into a large straw basket by her feet. “Of course.” She rose for a moment to turn the chair so she was facing Nancy. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I've been... looking for work, and not with much success.” Carmen was about to speak, but Nancy shook her head. “I know you – or Whit – don't need any help in your businesses, so please don't make any offer out of pity.”
Carmen gave her a wry smile. “You may too proud for your own good, Nancy. You could have your teaching job back for the asking, you know. Whit and the others would be happy – and lucky, if I may say – to have you.”
“I know, and thank you. I... A part of me wants to be a teacher again. I loved working with the children.” Her expression soured. “But that Ritter woman and her friends have spoiled it for me. I can't – I won't live my life knowing that they're watching me like a hawk, and hoping that I fail to live up to their expectations. Or cheering when I live down to them.”
“But if you are not the teacher, then they have won, haven't they?”
“Maybe not. I'll be through with them, and I think that they'll find Phillipia Stone a harder nut to crack, if she'll take the job long-term.”
“From what I know of her, she is a muy stubborn woman,” Carmen agreed.
Nancy's expression took on an introspective cast. “Maybe the Lord is testing me, and I turned out to be too weak for my own good. I wasn't a fraidy cat when I was a schoolgirl. I think that came about when my uncle and aunt insisted that I stop being such a tomboy. And the teachers' training school was just as determined that I be a lady. But I think that their idea of being a lady is to let others control one's life. Maybe that's why I let the town biddies get their way for so long. I was living out the wrong idea of how to be a lady.”
Carmen shrugged commiseratively.
“Maybe this problem has happened for a reason,” Nancy went on. “Maybe Providence is telling me that this is the chance I've been hoping for, possibly my last chance, to take my life in a new direction.”
“What will you do then? What are your hopes for finding another job?”
“At most of the places I went looking, the men believed Cecelia Ritter's lies about me. Some of them wouldn't hire the sort of wicked, wicked woman she says I am. The others, well, let's just say that it wasn't a clerk or assistant that they wanted to hire.”
“Men!” Carmen almost spat the word. “Still, not all the men are not like that. I know that my Whit is not.”
“No, he isn't, and I'm very grateful to him – to the both of you. I just feel that I'm imposing on you, now that I'm... not the town schoolteacher anymore.”
“That is nonsense. You are welcome to stay with us while you are looking for something else. Still, you should think more about being a teacher again. Especially if you cannot find anything else.”
“I will, but I'll also think about the one real job offer I did get... working for Shamus O'Toole.”
“Shamus offered you a job?”
“Actually, it was Molly – Mrs. O'Toole – who offered. I've been helping out, taking Laura Caulder's place, while she wasn't feeling well. Molly said that I could be a regular waitress if I liked. I don't know; maybe she was just offering charity. I won't take a job offered in pity.” She felt her eyes begin to fill with tears.
Carmen saw her expression and took her hand. “Molly has a good heart. She wants to be everyone's mother, if she could, but she is also muy serious about her husband's business. If she offered you a job, she meant it.” She studied the other woman's expression. “Do you want the job?”
“I-I don't know. I've enjoyed helping out at the restaurant. It's a nice change, working with other people, other adults, instead of being surrounded by just children all day. And no one there was as rude to me as some of the town ladies.”
“You do know that, to Cecelia Ritter and her friends, you working in such a place would prove that they were right about you? If you take such a job, you may tie the council's hands about ever rehiring you.”
“I know, and a part of me hates that possibility, but – to tell the truth – another part of me likes it. Working there...” She chuckled. “...it would be like spitting in Mrs. Ritter's eye. Besides…” She playfully put her hands on her hips. “…I bet some of those women's husbands would like what they see!”
Carmen joined her in laughter.
* * * * *
Cecelia Ritter gathered in the cards from the last hand, shuffled them twice and held them for a moment in her hand. “Would you like to cut, Zenobia?”
“No, thank you,” Zenobia Carson replied.
Cecelia nodded and began to deal. “Two... three... two, and three to me, and three to Zenobia... two... three... and two.” She set down the kitty, the four remaining cards in the euchre deck, turning the top one over. “Jack of clubs.”
“So what were you saying about Reverend Yingling, Cecelia?” Grace McLeod asked, looking up from the cards she was holding.
“That I still can't believe how poorly he was treated at the town council meeting on Wednesday,” Cecelia responded. “Did you see the look on his face when they put off the decision on his petition for another two weeks?”
Lavinia Meckechnie nodded. “I did, and the councilmen should be ashamed of themselves.”
“Oh, they'll be ashamed,” Cecelia said. “They'll be out of office, too, come the next election. People will remember, I'll – we'll make sure of that.”
Zenobia looked over her own cards at Cecelia. “For the moment, what are we doing with this hand?”
“Pick it up,” Zenobia was sitting to Cecelia's left. Lavinia Mackechnie, Cecelia's partner in the game of euchre, sat opposite her. She nodded in agreement, as did Grace McLeod, Zenobia's partner. Clubs were trump for this round.
Cecelia picked up the card and put it in her hand. She put another card from her hand down into the kitty.
“I'll begin,” Zenobia said, “King of clubs.” She laid down the card. Lavinia set down the 9 of spades, followed by the others playing the 9 and then the ace of clubs.
Cecelia's ace took the hand. She eagerly picked up the four cards. “That's one trick for us.”
“At least we got rid of that horrid Osbourne woman,” Lavinia said, trying to restart the conversation.
Zenobia nodded. “It looked like the council was going to hire her back until Cecelia told them not to.”
“The woman lost her temper and turned it down,” Grace cautioned, “but she may change her mind in the light of day.”
Cecelia shook her head. “She might. That's why we have to keep the pressure on her, show her in no uncertain terms that she's not wanted in this town any longer. She'll just slink off someplace and disappear, that sort always do.”
“I can't help feeling a little sorry for her,” Grace admitted.
Lavinia raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”
“She's been turned out of her home – “ Grace began.
Zenobia cut her off. “Out of my home, you mean, and all the time she lived with us, she barely did any work for me to help keep it in order. She was as lazy as Ludham’s dog, ‘that leaned against a wall to bark’ as the saying goes. Only Nancy Osbourne wasn’t a lazy dog, after all; she was a… dog in heat. And one I had every right to turn out.”
Cecelia put down a jack of hearts. “And ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’, as I always say. What's importance now is the town council and making them vote – finally – the way we want on the reverend's petition.”
“I agree.” Zenobia played the 10 of diamonds. “Do you have any ideas on that, Cecelia?”
Cecelia smiled. “I most certainly do. For a start, we need to get the church board – and the membership – to vote to confirm our support for the Reverend at next Wednesday's board meeting.”
“That may not be as easy as you think.” Lavinia played the queen of diamonds. “With Trisha O'Hanlan and some of the others on the board.”
Cecelia's smile grew broader. “Don't you remember, this is the meeting where we vote that... woman off the board. Once she's gone, and my Clyde is there in her place... a vote in support of the reverend should be child's play.”
“I do hope you're right. In the meantime...” Grace put a queen of hearts on the table. Her card took the trick.
* * * * *
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Jessie?”
Jessie looked up from the sheet music she'd been working on. “Sure, Milt. You ready for tonight?”
“That's what I came to talk to you about.”
“You ain't gonna chicken out on me, are you?”
“Actually, I just wanted to talk to you about changing the words in one verse.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Something the matter with what I wrote?”
“No, I just... oh, the hell with it. Here.” He handed her a folded sheet of paper.
Jessie unfolded it, and studied the words. After a moment, she started humming the music as she read. When she'd finished, she looked closely at him. “You sure 'bout them words?”
“I am. Do you mind?”
She shook her head. “Nope, if that's what you wanna sing, then let's do it.”
* * * * *
“May I join you?”
Flora looked up from her lunch, a fried chicken leg and a biscuit left over from last night's restaurant menu. “Rosalyn... please... be seated.” She gestured at a chair nearby.
“Thank you.” She put her own plate from Shamus' Free Lunch down on the table and sat.
“How are you doing these days?”
Flora frowned. “I'm still here, still a woman.”
“I noticed that fact, and, from what I hear, so have a lot of other people – now that Mr. O'Toole's got you dancing for his customers.”
“Yes, I just love being one of his Cactus Blossoms. If that damned potion would let me, I'd cheerfully skin him alive.”
“Why don't you, figuratively, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think that he's making you dance in that skimpy outfit I've heard about to embarrass you; to punish you for what you did to that... Bridget, yes, to Wilma's friend, Bridget.”
“So you know about that, do you?”
“I know, but I don't know her well enough to be concerned.”
Flora raised a curious eyebrow. “You aren't?”
“No, it... such things can happen to a woman, especially one who's not wise to the ways of the world. A woman has to know how to take care of herself.”
“And you do?”
“I was like that once, foolish, easily taken advantage of. But I learned better. Now Bridget knows better, too.” Rosalyn's expression darkened. “But I'd very much prefer to talk about something else, thank you. For instance, about how you can get back at Mr. O'Toole.”
“Now, that is something I'd like to talk about.”
“I thought that you might. As I said, I think he's making you a dancer to mortify you about becoming a woman.”
“So?”
“So, if you acted as if you enjoyed being a woman, enjoyed flaunting yourself in front of all those men you dance for, it would spoil things for him.”
Flora considered the idea. “It just might. But what would I have to do?”
“Flirt with the men while you're dancing. Pick out one – one in nice clothes; that means that he has some money. Pick him out, look him straight in the eye and smile; maybe even wink at him. It'll take courage at first, but you told me you were a soldier. Once you finish dancing, go over and ask him if he liked your dancing. When he says that he did – and he will – smile again. You might even kiss him – on the cheek, of course. He'll probably buy you a drink.”
“You're not saying I should... go with him, are you?”
“No... unless you want to, of course. I'm hardly one to deny that a woman can find pleasure with a man, but don't have to go that far to have fun. Tease the man, flash your lures at him, the way a fly fisherman does with a large trout, until he's hooked, and then make him work for it while you reel him in. If she plays her cards right, a smart woman can get a lot out of a man and hardly has to give him anything in return.”
“I-I don't know. It sounds risky.” It also sounded wrong. Acting like she liked men would start the saloon staff laughing at her, wouldn't it?
“It isn't. You sit on his lap and snuggle up to him, and just... just kiss his cheek.” Rosalyn smiled mischievously. “Get him rock hard, and he'll love you – and thank you – for it; tips, little presents, all sorts of nice things. And you won't have to do anything more than I've already said. Get a man excited, and you get control of him. He might do things for you, things he'd never do otherwise.”
“And you're sure I won't have to... you know.” She felt her cheeks warm. Damn it, was she blushing?
“No… but you may... eventually. I do recommend it. Most of the potion girls have gentlemen friends. But until – if ever – you are ready for such things, you can still have a lot of fun, fun teasing the man – or the men you pick, and teasing Mr. O'Toole, as well.”
“I-I don't know.” Flora gave her friend an uncertain smile. “I'll have to give it some – give it a lot of thought, but you just may be right.” She remembered some of the fool things pretty women had gotten her to do when she was Forry.
One woman in particular.
“I'm sure that I am, and, if you want, I'll even teach you a few things that will make a man putty in your hands.” She giggled. “If you want the man in your hands to be as soft as putty.”
“Oh, you're a wicked one,” Flora said, her cheeks slightly flushed with shame.
* * * * *
“So tell me, Arnoldo,” Dolores asked across the dinner table, “what are you doing all day, now that Teresa is back doing the laundry deliveries again?”
Teresa smiled. “She still helps out... a little.”
“I have thought about getting another job,” Arnie replied, “now that Momma is better.” She took a bite of her tamale before she continued. “I am still teaching the Spauldings Spanish. Maybe I will go looking for something more next week.”
Teresa raised an eyebrow. 'Dell dicho al hecho, hay mucho trecho [From the saying to the act, there is much distance],' she thought. Aloud, she asked, “Would you like to work at the Saloon again?”
“The Saloon, I do not – wait... Dolores, did Señor Shamus tell you to ask me?”
“No... Heavens, no,” his cousin said, “It was my idea. They tell me that Laura Caulder will be out for some time, so I think that he could use the help.”
“Laura, she is sick?”
“She has been having a hard time with the baby growing inside her. The doctor is making her stay home and in bed, so she is not there, and Molly and Jane spend so much time with her, that, sometimes, it is like they are not there, either. Nancy Osbourne has been standing in for Laura, but now that she has quit the school, some say she will leave town.”
Teresa frowned. “I must go over to visit Laura. She is a good woman, and I know how hard a first pregnancy...” She glanced over at Arnie for a moment. “... or any pregnancy – can be.”
“It may be that Shamus does need my help again,” Arnie said carefully. “Perhaps... perhaps, I will talk to him. I will think about it.” She excused herself. All this talk about pregnancy made Arnie uneasy.
* * * * *
Wilma let Clay Falk lead her up to her room. ‘She’s as skittish and down on herself as the last time,’ he thought ruefully. ‘I’ll have t’be real gentle with her.’
“Yes, sir,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “Ain’t nothing like just cuddling up to a pretty gal to take a man back to when he was a kid and just learning about the wonders of life.”
She turned to face him. Her shy, nervous smile became a leer. A leer? “That’s true for a gal, too, Clay, but I was thinking we might do something a little more grown up.” To illustrate her point, her right hand snaked down into his pants and began to stroke his manhood through the fabric of his drawers. At the same time, her left arm encircled his neck, pulling his head down so that their lips met.
When they broke the kiss some time later, he was grinning back at her. “Well,” he stammered. “I-I suppose we could do that instead.”
* * * * *
` “I'll bet all my money, the man ain't alive
` That'll stay with Old Strawberry
` When he makes his high dive.”
The crowd in the Saloon burst into a round of applause as Jessie finished singing “Strawberry Roan.” One man fired a couple shots into the air, while several others tossed coins at Jessie.
“Thank you, gents,” she said, smiling. She did a low bow, giving the closest rows a much better look at the tops of her creamy breasts.
A couple more coins hit the floor near her feet. “Sing 'Collee's Ride', Jessie,” someone shouted.
“Later... maybe“ she answered, glancing quickly over towards Shamus, who gave a negative shake of his head. “Right now, I got a new song for you. Only...”
That was R.J.'s cue. “Only what, Jessie?” he yelled from behind the bar.
“Only this here song's meant for a man t'sing. So...” She paused again for dramatic effect. “...I got a man t'sing it.” She smiled as the crowd looked around trying to see whom she meant.
Paul was sitting with Milt at a table near the bar, and he saw many of the men turning to stare at him. Jessie had warned him. “Not me, boys,” he said grimly, and he held up his hands, as if fending them off.
“It ain't the Deputy,” Jessie told them with a chuckle, “but you're close. Milt Quinlan, you get over here.”
Surprised, some of the crowd began to laugh. “Go on, Milt,” Joe Kramer yelled. “Get up there and make a fool of yourself.” There were more catcalls in the same vein as he stood up and strode towards the stage.
'Oh, Lord, I hope not,' Milt thought. He glanced over towards the door to the kitchen. Jane was standing there with Maggie. He gave her a quick, nervous wave and was glad to see her smile encouragingly and wave back at him.
“You ready, Milt?” Jessie greeted him when he reached her. She stood and shifted her chair to make room for him on the small stage where she usually sat, doing her show.
He stepped up next to her. “No, but let's go anyway.”
“All right, then,” she replied. “Folks, this song's called – well, you'll all know in a minute.” She strummed a line of melody on her guitar and signaled him to begin.
He took a deep breath, looked at Jane again, and started singing.
` “Jane, Jane, who can explain
` This longing, this yearning I feel?
` Is it love I now know?
` My mind declares 'no',
` But my spirit insists that it's real.”
He waited for her reaction. She looked surprised at first, but she was soon smiling broadly at him, nodding for him to continue.
` “Jane, Jane, have I caused you pain
` Pretending that I didn't care?
` It's been but a ruse,
` A mask that I use.
` To embrace you, I just didn't dare.”
` “Till the gold in the mountains is stolen away
` And a stone in the graveyard shall my name display
` I'll be repenting and I'll be remembering...”
` “Jane, Jane, a name, a refrain,
` It flows like the prairie bird's trill.
` It drifts like a song
` Sometimes soft, sometimes strong,
` That I hear when the night sounds fall still.”
` “Jane, Jane, I've earned your disdain
` And deserve to be shown to the door.
` Till the day that I die
` I'll ask myself why
` To win you I did not do more.”
` “Till the gold in the mountains is stolen away
` And a stone in the graveyard shall my name display
` I'll be repenting and I'll be remembering...”
Milt stepped off the stage, as he began the third verse. Jessie stayed where she was, still accompanying him on her guitar.
` “Jane, Jane, does hope still remain?
` Can a heart that's been wounded forgive?
` I came to the West
` To meet a man's test,
` But without you I scarce care to live.”
As he sang, Milt walked slowly through the crowd towards where Jane stood, uncertain what she should do. Now, he reached her and took her hand in his, still singing.
` “Jane, Jane, the weeks and months wane.
` Time surges past those who trail slow.”
Suddenly, he dropped to one knee, still holding her hand, and looked up at her, as he continued,
` “Let me place a band
` On thy precious hand
` That forward as one we may go.”
` “Till the gold in the moun -- “
“Yes!” Jane interrupted loudly, tears running down her face. “Oh, yes.” Milt rose to his feet and pulled her into his arms. They kissed, not even noticing the applause that filled the room or Jessie's happy voice finishing the song for him, with some new words of her own.
` “Till the gold in the mountains is stolen away
` And a stone in the graveyard shall his name display
` He'll be repeating how much he'll keep loving his...”
` “Jane, Jane... Jane”
The applause went on even after Jessie ended the song. No one threw money, though, but she hadn't expected them to. She set her guitar on her chair and hurried over to Milt and Jane. They had finally stopped kissing and were accepting congratulations from the circle of people surrounding them.
“You was right, Jessie,” Jane said, as the singer pushed her way to the pair through the crowd. “I surely did like what you got Milt t'sing tonight.”
Milt stood next to her, his arm around her waist. “Jessie just gave me some of the words. The idea of proposing was entirely mine.” He kissed her cheek. “My best idea ever, I think.”
“I think so, too.” Jane snuggled in closer to him.
Shamus picked that moment to join them. “So when's the happy day?” He asked. “I won't be asking where ye'll be married, 'cause ye'll be having it here, o'course.”
“I can't think of any better place,” Milt answered. “The when's as soon as possible. I-I'd just like to ask Reverend Yingling to officiate. Seeing as I'm church parliamentarian, I think it would be expected of me. I hope you don't mind, Jane, or you either, Shamus.”
Jane grinned and shook her head. “I don't care who does it, Milt; as long as it's you 'n' me saying the 'I do' part.” She took his hand in hers.
“It will be.” He pulled her to him and kissed her again.
Shamus shrugged. “I don't care, neither. Maybe it'll change his mind about me to be a part of a wedding held in me Saloon.”
* * * * *
“Why, Mr. Ritter,” a cheery, female voice asked, “whatever are you doing in here?”
Clyde Ritter pushed his hat back – he was recognized, so why try to hide – and looked up. “Nancy – Miss Osbourne,” he said in surprise. “I might well ask the same of you.”
“Thanks to your wife and her friends, I no longer have my teacher's job. Mr. O'Toole was kind enough to hire me as a waitress. Now, what would you like to drink?”
“A beer, and bring one for yourself, if you'd like to join me.” He pulled a five-dollar half eagle coin from his pocket and placed it in her open hand. “We'll have a drink or two first, and see what happens after that.”
“No, thank you. I'll just bring the one drink for you.”
“You don't have to work here, you know. I'm sure I can find a better... position for you.”
“No, Mr. Ritter; I've lost track of how many times I've told you: it wouldn't be right.”
“That was before. You're not the town schoolmarm anymore. You don't have to be so prim and proper any longer.”
“Perhaps not, but you're still a married man.”
“So? What Cecelia doesn't know what hurt her – or me.”
Nancy glanced up at the clock. “Mr. Ritter, the second show will be starting in a few minutes. If you want that beer, I'll have to go for it now. Shamus won't let us serve drinks while the ladies are dancing.”
“Oh, all right... go.” He watched her leave, enjoying the sway of her hips as she walked towards the bar. It seemed much more pronounced than it had when she was living in his home. Nancy was a fine-looking woman, but it was the > “
Cactus Blossoms that he'd come to see.
Nancy brought him the beer – and his change – just as Jessie Hanks sat down on the small stage. He took a long swig and settled back in his chair, as she began to sing that “Captain Jinks” song.
He sat upright when Lylah pranced into view, flashing her petticoat. “Well, now,” he said in an appreciative whisper, “she is still just about the prettiest darkie I've seen in a dog's age.” He was even more appreciative when Flora came out, doing her high-kicking strut. He leaned forward now, watching her body – especially her uncorseted breasts – move as she danced. “And that Flora, she is definitely someone I want to see more of.”
* * * * *
Saturday, May 11, 1872
Sophie Kalish knocked on the half-opened door to the office. “Can I come in, Sam?”
“Sure thing, Sophie,” Sam Duggan replied. “How're you and your ladies doing this morning?”
She came into the room, not bothering to close the door behind her. “Pretty good, thanks. The ladies are downstairs finishing their breakfasts. I thought I'd come up and talk to you for a bit.” She took a seat in one of the two high-back chairs facing his desk.
Sam watched her settling down, smoothing her skirts coquettishly. Sophie was a tall woman, her hair a mass of black curls that hung down almost to her waist. She admitted to being thirty, but, whatever her age, she was damned handsome, and he felt a pang of regret that their relationship was solely a commercial one.
Then he realized that she wasn't looking at him, so much as she was glancing at the open ledger on his desk. “Business hasn't been so good this week,” he told her. “I hit Shamus hard when you and your ladies started dancing, but he got some of it back with those Cactus Blossoms he's got.” He banged a fist on the desk. “Damn that potion of his. How can I compete with that?”
Sophie's expression became serious. “How does anyone compete with magic? I saw it with my own eyes, and I still have trouble believing what happened.”
Sam raised a curious eyebrow. “Oh, and what, exactly, did you see?”
The dancer nodded. “We've figured out it's a town secret. But Ruthie and I were broadsiding – that means we were standing outside, leaning against the building, just watching the world go by. We saw a crowd going into O’Toole’s, so we tagged along to see what was what. It looked like some kind of trial inside, and we decided to stay. We actually saw those two men drink that stuff and turn into the damned Cactus Blossoms.”
“How did Shamus like having you two beauties in his place, reminding people of what they're missing over here?”
She shook her head. “We stayed in the back of the room, didn’t talk to anyone. We were trying hard not to be noticed.”
“The other girls were scared when we told them what we saw. Especially Opal; she’s religious. We talked about getting out of such a crazy town, but then we decided that it's no more terrible to turn an outlaw into a woman than to string him up on the gallows in plain view. We've found out since then that the girls aren’t treated too badly around here. Two months for attempted murder isn't harsh, at all. Some of these potion girls seem to be doing pretty well. Like, we saw that Jessie Hanks’ picture over the bar.”
Sam nodded. “I tried my best to hire Jessie out of Shamus' clutches, but, damn it, she seems to think of that man as if he were her father.” He shrugged. “But right now, I've got to figure out what to do about the competition -- from both her and the Cactus Blossoms.”
Sophie smiled. “Seems to me, that's my problem more than it is yours. We already beat Jessie's competition. Now he's got two girls to my – to our four. We'll just have to out-dance them. I'll start working on some new routines this very day. And I was thinking that we could do a little more hostessing than we've been doing – for a fair share of the extra tips, of course.”
“Of course, thanks, Sophie.” He reached over and put his hand on hers. “I knew I could count on you.”
* * * * *
Jessie hurried over to Wilma, as soon as she walked into the Saloon. “Wilma,” she hissed, “we need t'talk.”
“Ain't that what I usually come over here for, Jess, t'talk to you 'n' Bridget?” Wilma studied her sister's expression. “But I can see you're riled up 'bout something. Take a seat and tell me what it is.” She pulled out a chair from a nearby table and sat down.
Jessie quickly took the seat opposite her. “Flora Stafford, she knows who we are... who we was.”
“Shit! Now how the hell'd she find out?” Wilma glanced around the room. “Who told her?”
“Damned if I know. Maybe that lawyer o’hers told her, or maybe, when she went in t'clean my room, she recognized that wooden soldier I got from Pa.”
“You ain’t gonna try ‘n’ tell me that fairy story again, are you, the one about Pa’s ghost showing up here on Christmas Eve?”
“Look, Wilma, believe me or not, I know what happened that night. And whoever carved that soldier; it looks enough like Pa's handiwork that Flora recognized it. She snuck it out of my room, and wouldn't give it back till Shamus ordered her to.” Jessie made a very sorry face. “In the meantime, she figured out who I am – from my name, probably and who Bridget 'n' you are, too.”
“We have to watch out. She's not as dumb as I remembered. Bridget must've loved Flora knowing that she used to be Brian.”
“None too well.” The two women looked up to see that Flora had come over unnoticed, while they were talking. She said, her chin raised, “The little bitch slapped me.”
Wilma rose to her feet and turned to confront her childhood nemesis. “Ain't nothing you didn't deserve, that 'n' a whole lot more.”
“Speaking of just desserts, Sergeant,” Flora replied. “I'd say that you certainly got yours. From what people say, you're nothing but a common whore.”
The demimonde laughed in her old enemy's face. “Common? I'm a very special whore, thank you very much, and half the men in this town can tell you just how special. I'd warn you t'keep your own petticoat clean, 'cept I hear you don't wear one. You just prance around showing off your pretty red drawers, don't you, Captain?”
“That'll be enough of that, Wilma,” Molly warned, as she joined the others. “Jessie 'n' ye can sit around and chew the fat, if ye want, but this one...” She pointed at Flora. “...she's got work t'be doing. And, remember, I didn't let people pick on ye two when ye were new here, and I'm not going to let ye pick on Lylah and Flora now.”
Wilma looked contrite. “Sorry, Molly.” Her right hand curled into a fist. Without warning, she threw a right cross that caught Flora on the chin. Flora's head jerked to the left, and she fell to the ground unconscious. “Now, it's enough.” She chuckled. “Forry Stafford never could take a punch like that; looks like Flora still can’t.”
Wilma headed for the door, before Molly could throw her out, her lips curled in a most satisfied smile. “See you later, Little Sister; so long t'you, too, Molly.”
* * * * *
Arnie knocked on the Spauldings' back door. It swung open a moment later. “Annie,” Hedley greeted her with a broad smile. “Do come in.” He bowed low and held the door open, while she walked through. Mrs. Spaulding stood by the table. Clara, in her wheel chair as always, was a few feet away. Arnie sensed some tension in Mrs. Spaulding's smile.
“Good afternoon, Annie. Here's the laundry to be cleaned.” Mrs. Spaulding pointed to a large burlap sack on a chair set by the door. The bag was stuffed almost to bursting a seam.
Arnie had been carrying two wrapped packages. She had made deliveries to the Spauldings some of the part-time work that she was still doing for the laundry. “And good afternoon to you, all of you. Here is what we did clean.” She set them down on the table. “It comes to $4.82 cents.”
Mrs. Spaulding looked around. “I... ahh, I seem to have left my purse in my room. Would you please come with me to get it?”
“I can get it for you, Mother,” Hedley offered.
She shook her head. “No, that's all right, dear. I'd like to talk to Annie privately for a moment, if she doesn't mind.”
Arnie frowned, wondering if she was in some sort of trouble. “I don't mind.” She followed Mrs. Spaulding out of the kitchen and through the parlor to the woman's own bedroom.
Once they were inside the room, Mrs. Spaulding carefully closed the door behind them. “I don't want the children to hear us,” she explained. More and more, Arnie suspected that something was not well. Vida studied the girl's face for a moment before speaking. “Annie, please, are you... I mean, I heard a strange rumor. That you yourself are one of those...potion girls... you told us about. Are you?”
“I...” Arnie looked down, not wanting to face her questioner. “I...I am. Who told you?”
“I'd prefer not to say for now. From what I've heard, that potion is only given to convicted criminals.”
The pretty brunette glanced up. “I'm not a criminal!”
“I know. But why did you take it?”
“I... I took it by accident. My mother was hurt – hurt very bad – because of me. I felt guilt and ran away. Señora O'Toole let me stay in the Saloon overnight. I could not sleep, and I drank what I thought was something to help me do so. I found the wrong bottle.” She made a gesture at her body. “It turned me into... this.”
Mrs. Spaulding stood with folded arms, a stern expression on her face. “A very pretty story – if it's true.”
“It is, I swear it is.” She closed her eyes, not wanting to ask her next question. “Does Hedley – and Clara – do they know? Are you going to tell them?”
“I've not decided. You've always seemed to be a good girl, and my children like you.” Her expression changed, as she thought of something. “Like you, perhaps, a little too much. In any event, I don't think that I want you here until I decide what I do feel about what you've told me. It's not so much what you are; perhaps it was an accident. But it hurts that you have been deceiving us for weeks.”
“Please, Señora. I only wanted to be accepted as an ordinary person, not a freak. Everyone else in the pueblo knew about me, and most of them were laughing at me.”
Not replying, Mrs. Spaulding picked up her purse from her night table. She opened it and took out a half eagle. “Here is what I owe you. You may keep the change. Now, please, leave.”
“But...” Arnie felt the sting of tears forming in her eyes.
The older woman shook her head. “No, buts. I will make some excuse to my children. Go now, and I'll try to have an answer to how you should be regarded when you bring the laundry back on Tuesday. That is the best I can offer now.”
“Sì, Tuesday.” Head bowed in regret, Arnie started back for the kitchen.
* * * * *
“Nancy,” Carl demanded. “What’s this I hear ‘bout you quitting your teaching job?”
“You heard right,” Nancy answered, looking up at her brother from her stool at the bar. “They offered me my job back, and I didn’t take it.”
“Why the hell – Why did you do that? I thought you loved being a teacher.”
“I do – but I don’t love what goes with it, having to live my life the way a bunch of meddlesome biddies say I should.”
He studied her expression. “Was it really that bad?’
“It was worse. I got labeled a fallen woman for nothing more than going out to dinner with a man.”
“I sure wish you hadn’t done that.”
“I had to. To protect you – you know that. Dell Cooper threatened to testify that it was you who robbed Mr. Slocum if I didn’t.”
“I know, and I thought everybody heard the truth at the trial. And you told folks what happened, too, didn’t you?”
“I told the town council, and they believed me to a man.”
“Good for them. So why didn't things work out?”
“They were ready to reinstate me at last week’s meeting, only…” Her voice trailed off.
“Only what?”
“Only some people, Mrs. Ritter and her friends, wouldn’t stand for it. They disrupted the meeting, yelling that I was un-unfit.” She blinked, fighting the tears gathering in her eyes.
Carl grew angry at what his sister had had to bear. “What happened?”
“Whit – Mr. Whitney and the other councilmen tried to argue, saying that people didn’t know my side of it.” She sighed. “The women didn’t care for the truth. They just yelled louder.”
“That’s when I knew that I couldn’t go back,” she continued. “They’d be watching me every moment, just waiting -- hoping -- for me to fail. I-I can’t live that way.”
“But they got what they wanted, didn't they? You let them take the trick!”
“I'm not out of the game yet. I'm just not going to be treated that way anymore.”
“But… what’re you gonna do now? You ain’t planning t’leave town, are you?”
“I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me go away; you’re stuck with me, I guess.”
Carl had to smile at her determination. “That’s my nanny goat of a little sister. You’ll find another job in no time. Just you see.”
“I-I think I have.” Nancy took a breath, bracing for his reaction. “Here, at the Eerie Saloon.”
“You’re gonna work here?”
She shrugged. “Nothing is permanent. I've found that out. 'The best laid plans…’ you know.”
“Why settle for this? Couldn't you find a job in a store?”
“You make it sound so easy! I tried, I truly did. Too many men believe Cecelia’s version of things. Some of them wouldn’t hire a ‘fallen woman’; the others, well, they wanted to hire me because they believed the talk.” Her expression left Carl in no doubt about what she meant.
“Bastards!” He looked like he’d just drunken something very sour. “Up to now, it always seemed like they thought of you as a lady. Maybe I don't amount to much, but I wanted better for you. If you don't clear out of here right now, no one will ever think of you as well as they did before.”
“Do you look down on saloon women, Carl? You certainly spend enough time here.”
“Most people don't harshly judge a man who goes into a saloon for some society. But they come down hard on women who work in such places. If you don't leave, people will start thinking of you as a saloon gal, and that's how you will be remembered.”
“Better that than to be remembered as a spinster with no backbone.”
“If you quit, I'll do my best to help you out until something better comes along.”
“Thank you, but you live from hand to mouth as it is.”
“I can save a little money if I stop drinking and gambling. I just don't want my sister working in a saloon.”
“No, but you don’t mind other people’s sisters working in one, do you?” She waited for an answer. “I said, do you?”
“Oh, hell, Nancy. Saloon work is fine for some women. They have the right nature for it.”
“And my nature? What is it? To be an outcast, supported by a brother who doesn't need the burden? Or should I crawl back to my old job and enjoy the wonderful life of being the only unmarried woman at the one or two tea socials a year that Mrs. Ritter lets me be invited to, barely tolerated by the local gentry as long as I keep my mouth shut?”
“I never got any respect when I was a teacher, Carl,” she continued. “Even the minister told me I had to keep my opinions to myself, because school teachers don't really know much more than the children they teach.”
“That’sYingling, all right.”
She shook her head. “I've tried for long enough to live in the world of people like Reverend Yingling and the Ritters. Just see what it's gotten me!”
“I can't get anywhere with you when you're like this. We'll have to talk this over more when you don't have your back up,” said Carl. “But at least make me one promise.”
“What kind of promise?” she asked sourly.
“That you'll keep looking for other work, and you won't settle for any long spell of waitressing in a saloon. The sooner you take a step up, the better for you.”
She considered that. “You don't have to worry. I don't intend to keep at what I'm doing for very long. A little waitressing is all right for a married woman, to help the family at home, but a single girl on her own needs to do something of more substance. I'm surely going to be keeping my options open.”
He looked into her resolute eyes and decided not to push things any further at the moment. “Thank you, nanny goat, for showing at least that much sense.”
* * * * *
Trisha and Kaitlin sat quietly in the waiting room of Doctor Upshaw's office. There were other patients: a man with his arm in a sling and a woman who sat cradling a small, sniffling boy in her arms. Everyone suffered on their own, not talking to – or even looking at – the others.
“He'll see you now, Kaitlin,” Edith Lonnigan told them. Kaitlin stood up.
As did Trisha. “Can I go in with her?” She asked. When the nurse agreed, they followed her behind the curtain and into the examination room.
Upshaw was waiting for them. “What seems to be the problem, Kaitlin?”
“My... husband is pregnant,” Kaitlin replied sourly. “Her condition needs to be checked, but we didn't want anyone to know, so I pretended to be the one who was sick.”
Trisha stepped forward. “I made her do it, Doc. I-I'm sorry.”
He regarded her. “You're hardly the first woman who didn't want people to know that she was pregnant. Your reason is a bit more complicated than most of theirs, I'll admit, but the important thing is getting you through that pregnancy.”
Kaitlin and Trisha had both been worried about his reaction to their pretense. “Thanks, Doc,” Trisha said.
“You're welcome, Trisha. Now, I need to examine you, so please strip down to your camisole and drawers.”
Trisha was standing next to an alcove with several hooks on the wall, a coat rack and a narrow bench. “Okay, doc.” She began to unbutton her blouse.
“And while you do that, let me ask you a few questions. For a start, are you still suffering from morning sickness?”
“I am,” she answered, “and afternoon sickness, too, some days – the cramping, too, but I don't throw up. Those crackers Kaitlin suggested seem to help with the throwing up, anyway.” She took off her blouse and hung it on one of the hooks.
“Good. Any other symptoms?”
She was undoing her skirt now. “I... my... my breasts feel kind of tender, kind of the way they do just before I get my monthlies.”
Kaitlin made a slight coughing noise, then spoke, “She's gotten moody, too, like before her monthlies.”
“I... I have not,” Trisha said, surprised and a bit angry. She stepped out of her skirt and hung it up next to her blouse.
Edith shook her head. “I think you just proved that you have,” she said softly. “It's nothing to be worried about, though. Your body is still making all the changes it needs to make for you to carry that new life inside you. That can be a strain on any... one.”
“That's not very comforting.” Trisha untied the ribbon holding her petticoat in place. She let them go, and the garment slid to the floor.
Kaitlin picked up the petticoat, as Trisha stepped out of it. “I think her waist's gotten a little thicker, too.”
“It has,” the physician confirmed the fact by gently touching Trisha belly with his fingertips. “And that's to be expected, as well.”
Trisha looked at all their faces. “So where do we go from here?”
“Based on that examination I gave you two weeks back, you seem to be having a normal pregnancy,” Upshaw replied. “Have you had any problems since then?” When she shook her head, he continued. “You should get a monthly check-up for the next few months, then weekly up until you deliver. Do you want to do that?”
“Monthly?” Trisha's eyes went wide. “And weekly, later on?”
Kaitlin gently put her hand on Trisha's arm. “You should. It's better for the baby – for the both of you – to get checked up on regularly, while you're pregnant.”
“I... I suppose. It's just so... so much to take in.”
Doc gave her a reassuring smile. “I suppose it is. You can come back here to see me, if you'd like, but Edith is a very capable midwife. She can take care of you, see you at home, answer your questions, and the like. I'll be here if there are any complications, and either of us can handle an uncomplicated delivery.”
“De... Delivery.” Trisha's legs felt wobbly. She was struggling to understand what she was in for.
Edith slipped a stool up behind Tricia, and she and Kaitlin helped her settle down onto it. “Don't you worry, Trisha, dear,” the midwife told her. “It's always scary, but we'll all be here to help you.”
* * * * *
Nancy Osbourne sat and listened to the band warming up. 'What am I doing?' she asked herself. She had managed to sound cocksure while arguing with Carl, but left alone with her thoughts she felt differently. 'I can't do this.' She glanced around the room that was quickly filling with men. Some of them were staring at her, staring at her and... and smiling.
Were they laughing at the fallen schoolteacher, or did they think she was pretty? Neither idea set easy with Nancy.
She couldn't keep herself from glancing away from those interested eyes. Ever since becoming a teacher she knew she didn't dare dance with a man in public, not even at a church social. Nancy tried to tell herself that the old rules didn't matter anymore. She was free.
But old habits die hard.
“Carl,” she said to herself, when she saw her brother come in along with a few of his friends. “Maybe he...”
‘He's still angry. He isn't about to dance with me tonight,’ she told herself. ‘Not the first dance, nor any that follow. I have to do this on my own.’
No, he was standing with some of the men talking, pointing at the other women, picking out which one to ask. When he saw her looking at him, he frowned and looked away.
She then heard Shamus make the announcement. “All right, men, time t'be picking yuir partners.” There was suddenly a shuffled of boots behind her.
“Hola, Señorita,” a voice said. “I am Angel Montero. Would you care to dance with me?”
Nancy looked up. A tall, round-faced Mexican in a work shirt and jeans was standing in front of her, his hand extended towards her, holding a ticket.
She inhaled deeply, to combat her shakiness. “And I am Nancy Osbourne, and, yes, I would.” She took his ticket in a slightly trembling hand and, as Shamus had told her, placed it in her apron pocket. Then she offered her own hand and rose to her feet. Memories of dances long past came to her mind, as he grasped her hand in his and led her out onto the floor. Memories came, too, of her lost love, of Bill Meisner, who never returned from the Civil War. 'Gone,' she thought sadly, 'but never forgotten.'
She stepped into Angel's arms as the music began. It was a Strauss waltz. She couldn't remember the name, but it was one she had always liked. To get her mind off her nervousness, she closed her eyes and let her body move to the music. “I can dance,” she whispered, delighting in a skill she'd been afraid had gone rusty over long years of non-use.
“You certainly can,” Angel answered, “and you can dance with me any time you wish. It is a pleasure to have you as a partner.”
She had to smile at the compliment. “Likewise, Señor... Angel, and thank you so very much.”
* * * * *
Enough of the men at the dance knew about Milt's proposal that no one else had tried to have the first dance with Jane. He took her into his arms as the band began a sprightly version of “The Blue Danube.”
“You talk to the Reverend like you was gonna?” Jane asked.
Milt shook his head. “I tried. He's been so busy playing politics this week that he didn't get his sermon for tomorrow finished. Martha – that's his wife – told me that he locked himself in his office and ordered her not to let anyone in unless it was a life and death emergency.”
“And he ain't gonna want to see anybody tomorrow neither, I'll bet.”
“Probably not; he likes to relax with his family on Sundays after the service. We'll both go over and see him on Monday, okay?”
“I suppose we can do that – if you want me t'come along with you, that is?”
“Why wouldn't I want you to come along? I want the whole world to know that you're going to be my wife. Besides...” He pulled her closer to him. “...it gives me a chance to spend some time walking around town holding hands with you.”
She rested her head on his chest, so that she could almost hear his heart beating. “I like that answer.”
“So do I.” He kissed her forehead.
* * * * *
~
“Looks like it's finally my turn.”
Flora had been staring down at the floor, enjoying her waiter girl role less and less as the hours passed. She gazed up to see... “Who... Oh, hello, Osbourne.”
“You can call me Carl,” he said with a grin. “After all we've been through, Flora, it seems only fair.”
“Don't remind me.” Her expression was less than happy.
He was still grinning. “Ah, but I want to remind you. If you hadn't gotten so greedy and been so sure of yourself, why... you might even still be wearing pants. You'd be one of the men with a ticket, instead of one of the girls collecting them.==> “
He didn’t add that he might have been one of those girls, himself. That was something he worked very hard at not thinking about. ‘The Judge didn’t give them a choice,’ he thought. ‘Who’s to say that he’d have given me one?’
He enjoyed being male, and the prospect of becoming a woman – especially as punishment for something he hadn’t done – bothered the hell out of him. It was almost enough to make him feel sympathetic – just a little – towards Flora.
“Probably,” she admitted, regret showing in her voice as she stood up.
~
He offered his hand, ticket between his fingers.
“You're one of Slocum's men.” It wasn't a question. She knew the answer. “Are you all here again to give me a hard time?”
“You be nice to me, I'll be nice to you.”
For a moment Flora wondered if she shouldn't try to start taking Rosalyn's advice, but she couldn't. Her face felt frozen; she couldn't even smile. Maybe she should get together with her friend again and hear some of that advice she had been promised. The cowboy was still offering his hand and she took it warily.
The cowboy walked her out into the crowd of people waiting for the music to start. Besides the waiter girls, there were a number of men wearing a kerchief tied to their arm, signaling their willingness to dance the woman's part for a beer afterwards. Seeing them on the floor made Flora feel a little less mortified about what she had to do.
Carl glanced at the girl beside him as they walked. He had planned to tease her as they danced, to get back at her for what she had done to Mr. Slocum, but as he stared at her pillowy breasts and narrow waist, her long, blonde hair that reached down past her shoulders. He decided that just holding her close and feeling her body move against his own didn't seem like too bad an idea in itself.
What good would it do him if he made one of the prettiest women in town dislike dancing with him?
* * * * *
“I come in t'see you dancing during the week, Lylah,” Hammy Lincoln told her while they moved to a jaunty polka. “You was even better'n I thought you'd be.”
The woman smiled, surprising herself. “Thanks, Hammy. It's nice t'hear you say that. I thought I looked like a damned fool.”
“I'se only telling what's true.” He chuckled. “I gotta admit, though, I likes what you was wearing... or not wearing that night... more'n I like what all you got on now.”
Her smile turned to a frown. “I been hearing that all night,” she said sourly, “and I don't like it one bit. Though I surely do know what a man is thinking about when he sees a saloon... lady.”
“I only meant it as a compliment, gal. Them there pretty yellow under things looked mighty nice 'gainst that smooth skin o' yours, a whole lot better than that white blouse and black skirt you gots on now – nice as they is.”
Her eyes shifted to view her right arm and her dark as chocolate flesh. That depressed her more than the dancing. 'Dang,' she thought, 'it's harder t'get used t'being a nigger than it is t'being a gal.’
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 7 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, May 12, 1872
“Before we sing a final hymn to our Savior,” Reverend Yingling began, a benevolent smile on his face, “the president of the church board, Mr. Horace Styron, has asked to say a few words.” He turned to glance at Horace, who was sitting behind him along with the other board members. “Horace, if you would…”
Styron rose and stepped up to the altar as Yingling walked over to his own seat. “Thank you, Reverend, for that introduction and for the fine service you‘ve led us in this morning. I’ll try to be brief, so we can all finish that service and go out to enjoy this holy day of our Lord.”
“Folks,” he continued, “the month’s come around, and the next meeting of the church board of elders is this Wednesday. You all heard me thank the Reverend for what he’s given us in this service today. You’re all invited to come to the meeting on Wednesday and thank him yourselves by supporting my motion of continued support for his petition to wrest control of that magical potion from Shamus O’Toole.”
He paused for the round of applause that followed. “And you can also make your voice heard in the matter of an errant member of this congregations whose actions show that she no longer deserves a seat on the board –”
“What!” Trisha leapt to her feet. “Horace, you’ve got no right to say things like that.”
He turned to face her. “Please, Trisha, I promised to be brief. You don’t want to waste a lot of these good people’s time with your ranting.”
“Ranting? Why, you… you --”
Yingling hurried back to the altar. “Thank you, Horace… and you, too, Trisha. I’m sure that the meeting will be a most interesting one. And now,” he said, barely cracking a smile, “please turn to page 109 and join with me in Psalm 3, ‘Peace in the Midst of the Storm.’”
* * * * *
On pleasant days like this one, the congregation of Eerie’s Catholic Church generally milled around in the churchyard for a while after services. Friends caught up on what had happened to each other in the previous week; men, as well as women, shared the latest gossip; and young people engaged in the sort of casual flirting that young people always did when they were together, even if their parents were watching.
Father de Castro walked over to a group of teens who were happily so engaged and tapped one on the shoulder. “Pablo, may I speak with you for a moment?”
“Is something wrong, Padre?” the young man asked.
The priest shook his head. “No, I just wanted to talk to you about that… odd job you did for me a while back.”
“You see how important I am, Raquel,” he boasted to a pretty girl standing next to him. “Even the Padre comes to me for help.”
She smiled. “I will remember that the next time I need some odd job done around my house.” She giggled then added. “Will you be very long?”
“Only a few minutes, Raquel,” de Castro answered, “and he will be yours once more.”
She gave a quick nod. “Then I will wait.”
Pablo grinned as he followed the priest back into the church. They went through a doorway near the front of the room and into Father de Castro’s office.
“Don Luis,” Pablo said in surprise when he saw a man rise from a corner chair. He turned to the priest. “Padre, I will wait outside while you and Don Luis talk.”
Luis Ortega shook his head. “No, Pablo, you’re the one I wanted to talk to. I just asked the Padre to bring you in here, so we could speak in secret.”
“Secret? I-I don’t understand.”
“You were a great help in warning us about that conversation Horace Styron had with Clyde Ritter. I wanted to thank you for that.”
Pablo gave him a slight bow. “You are most welcome, Señor. I was glad to do it. I did not like the way that they were talking about us.”
“I don’t like it either, and from the way Styron and Reverend Yingling – and others – acted at the town council meeting last Wednesday, you were very right to tell us what you heard.”
De Castro interrupted. “How did Mr. Ritter act on Thursday, after the meeting?”
“He was not happy,” Pablo replied. “He snapped at everyone, especially Nando -- Fernando Hidalgo – and me, and I heard him muttering about ‘those damn sneaky Mex’ all day.” The boy shook his head. “He didn’t get much better the next few days, either. He is still mad.”
Don Luis nodded gravely to the priest. “Just what we thought.” He turned to face the boy. “Pablo, I don’t want you to risk your job, but could you… keep listening to your boss, especially if he’s talking to Reverend Yingling or Señor Styron? If you hear them say anything about the Padre or me, or talk about the potion and what they want to do with it, get word to us as soon as you can.”
“Be careful, though, my son. I do not want Señor Styron to get mad and fire you over this.”
Pablo smiled. “Do not worry, Padre; I will be careful.”
“See that you are,” Ortega warned. “But if anything does happen, know that you will have a job – just as good a job – with me. I promise you that.”
The boy’s smile grew into a grin. Something about the vaquero life appealed to him. Such men had dignity that stable boys lacked. “Thank you, Señor. Are we done now? I do not mean any disrespect, but Raquel Gonzales is waiting, and I do not want her to get mad at me either.”
* * * * *
“Hey, Mr. Slocum,” Red Tully said, walking into Doc Upshaw’s small ward. “How’re you doing t’day?”
Abner carefully put down his spoon next to the bowl of porridge on his tray. “Not too bad… considering, but I am glad you came in.”
“Why’s that, sir?”
“I wanted to ask if that offer of yours, that you’d go east to Philadelphia with me, was still good?”
“It is. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because taking care of a… a cripple like me for the two weeks or so that it’ll take to get me there is a lot of work.” He chuckled. “I was afraid that you might’ve come to your senses and decided you didn’t want to be stuck with me for so long.”
“Like I said, I’m still willing. When d’you wanna get started?”
“As soon as we can. Do me a favor and get the Doc. I think he needs to be a part of this conversation.”
Red nodded. “Be right back.” He left, returning in a short time with Dr. Upshaw.
“Are you all right, Abner?” the physician asked. “Red said that you needed to see me about something.”
Slocum shook his head. “I’m fine – fine enough, anyway. Red’s agreed to go to Philly with me. I wanted to know how soon we can start, and what you think we’ll need on the trip.”
“The first part of that’s the easiest; you’ll probably be able to travel by the end of the week. I should have Vogel’s letter by then, and I expect that it will be very useful in letting us know how to treat and how to transport you. I can teach Red how to best care for you on route in the meantime. He probably knows most of it already from his Army days.”
Red mumbled a word of agreement.
“The tricky part,” Upshaw continued, “is how to get you from here to Ogden, north of Salt Lake City, to catch the train east. It’s a long, bumpy road, and that can’t be good for your spine.”
Red glanced over at his employer. Abner was in a hospital bed, his upper body raised by the top half of the bed and supported by a number of pillows. “I’ve been thinking about that, Doc. You ever hear of a Rucker ambulance?”
“I have,” the physician replied. “We didn’t have them on our side during the War, though. I hear they were very good at keeping Union Army patients comfortable during transport, as good as our own Chisolm ambulances.”
“That they were. The first ambulance my unit had back in ’62 was so bad that men fought not t’be stuck in ‘em. An officer even tried t’pull his pistol once and make us take him out of it, the damn thing bounced him around so much.”
Abner raised a curious eyebrow. “And this Rucker ambulance is better?”
“A lot better. The wagon has a real good suspension, and the patient’s on a platform supported by more springs.”
Abner studied the younger man. “You sound like you know a lot about these things.”
“I do. Us orderlies had t’keep the thing working ‘cause there wasn’t always a mechanic or a blacksmith around t’do it. I was thinking – if you want – I could talk to Mr. Caulder and Sam Braddock, the carpenter. I’ll bet you they could rig us up something that’d work near as good outta one of the wagons we got at the ranch.”
“How long do you think it’d take?”
The cowman shrugged. “A few days; maybe a little more.” He grinned. “We probably could have the thing ready right about the time the doc here says you can go.”
Abner frowned. “Not if we stand here jawing about it. Get started, Red. Bring Arsenio and Sam in to see me if they have any questions. I'll make it worth their while to give the job priority.”
“They should talk to me, as well,” Upshaw added. “I’m going to want to make sure that thing is as comfortable as Abner needs it to be before I let him ride through a few hundred miles of countryside in it.”
* * * * *
“I have been watching you these last few days, Wilma.” Cerise took a sip of coffee and leaned back in her office chair.
Wilma was sitting across from Cerise. She looked up from her own coffee and gave the other woman a mischievous smile. “Oh, have you now?”
“Mais oui, and I have been most pleased to see the return of the Wilma of old, the cheerful, wanton demimonde that you were… before Ethan. I am pleased that you have gotten him out of your head.”
“He ain’t outta my head. He’s sorta locked away in a closet in here…” She tapped the side of her head with a finger. “…where he can’t do no harm.”
“Why have him in there at all?”
“I know what I am, Cerise. I’m a whore, but I like being a whore. I’m damned good at it, and I ain’t gonna let that skunk ruin it for me.” She hesitated a moment. “But there’s some things I gotta figure out yet, and having him around might just help.”
“What are these ‘things’? Perhaps I may also help.”
“I-I liked being in love, the way it made me feel inside. It felt so good that I never noticed that Ethan didn’t feel the same way about me.”
“It is easy for the heart to fool the head in such matters.”
“It surely fooled me – and I don’t like being made a fool of, even by m’self.”
“That is the risk one takes for love.”
“Maybe it’s a risk I don’t wanna take. Maybe I should do like Beatriz says, ‘n’ make my heart hard – stay away from love from now on, maybe forever.”
“Forever?” Cerise waited for Wilma’s grim nod before continuing. “Forever is a long, long time. That advice may be right for Beatriz, but I it right for you?”
“You are young right now, Wilma; beautiful. Love is there, eager for you to find it. But in twenty… thirty years what will you be? Time, they say, is a woman’s greatest enemy. It steals away her proud breasts, her round derrières, and leaves her a hag, with no man seeking her favors. Where will you be then, Wilma Hanks, a poor old woman with no one to care for – or who will care for you?”
“Is that what you say I’m chasing, if I take that road?”
“I am. Do not lock the door of your heart to love; that would be a plus tragique a most tragic waste.”
“What do I do then?
“Examine closely each man who knocks on that door. Is he worthy of you? Does he want more of you than a quick romp? Do you want more of him than a quick romp? When you are sure – and only when you are sure – then you let him in. You still tread carefully, then love, the love you want may blossom between the two of you.”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
“It is, but the results – mmm – they are worth it. That is how I found my Herve and – I think – how your sister found her Paul Grant.”
Wilma considered what her friend had told her. “I’ll have to think about that for a while.”
“While you think about it, think also what would have happened had you applied this advice to Monsieur Thomas.”
“That’s real good advice,” Wilma grinned. “I do believe that I will.”
“Bon, and now that we have solved the problem of your love life, let us get back to the running of my House.”
* * * * *
Nancy Osbourne walked into the Saloon, carrying a brown valise tied with a darker brown leather strap. Ramon and Maggie followed behind her. He was toting a second valise, while Maggie had a bushel basket tucked under her arm.
“Is Mr. O’Toole about?” Nancy asked R.J.
The barman glanced upward. “He and Molly are up in their room having a bit of lunch. They eat up there sometimes on Sunday, while she changes out of her going-to-church dress.”
“Would it be all right to interrupt? He said to bring my things over today. I-I’m taking a room here, part of my pay for working as his waitress.”
R.J. nodded. “I know. They knew you were coming and – hey, Dolores, did Molly give you that key?”
“She did,” Dolores said, hurrying over to the bar, “and you do not have to shout.” She turned to Nancy and smiled. Since Nancy had been working at the Saloon, the two women were becoming close friends. “Molly asked me to take you up to the room and help you get settled in.”
Nancy looked behind her. Ramon and Maggie were sitting at a nearby table. The valise was at Ramon’s feet, and Maggie had set the basket down on the table. “Dolores has the room key; if you two don’t mind…”
“Lead the way,” Ramon said as he and Maggie came to their feet.
They all followed Dolores up to the second floor. There was a set of four small rooms at the top of the stairs. She led them to the third of the four. “That’s Bridget’s room right across the hall there,” she told Nancy, pointing to a door on the opposite side where the hallway turned left and led to a second set of rooms. She unlocked the door, “and Shamus and Molly’s apartment is just beyond it.”
“It’s… nice,” Nancy said, as she walked it. ‘A bit larger than the one I had at the Carsons’,’ she thought, ‘but no window.’ She set her valise down on the bed and looked around.
There was a two-drawer dresser set against one wall, with a white porcelain pitcher and bowl resting on a matching linen cloth. A narrow closet was built into the wall next to it; a bar hung within it held four wooden hangers. An overstuffed, green chair was angled into the corner, with a small table set on one side. An oil lamp was positioned on the table.
“Where should I put this?” Maggie asked, shifting the basket on her hip.
Dolores took the basket from Maggie. “How about on the dresser?” When Nancy agreed, Dolores walked over and put it down where she had said. “Sonnets from the Portuguese ,” she remarked cheerily, picking the book up and out of the basket.
“Do you know the work?” Nancy sounded more than a little surprised.
Dolores nodded. “I do, but my copy is back in Mexico City.”
“You can borrow mine sometime if you’d like,” Nancy said, smiling.
“Thank you; and, maybe, we can talk about the poems sometime when Shamus is not working us so hard.”
Nancy felt herself relax. She hadn’t been certain that moving out of the Whitney’s guesthouse was a good idea, but she didn’t want to impose any longer than she had to. Already, though, she felt a sense of satisfaction, occupying a place where she would earn her own keep. So, it seemed, the move had been worthwhile. It not only forced her to face up to starting a new life, but it also had brought her a new friend.
* * * * *
Teresa came into the house with a basket of newly dried linens. “Can you give me a hand, Arnolda?”
“Si, Mama.” Arnie had ceased to flinch when her mother used that name. She walked over and took the basket, setting it on the worktable.
Her mother took out the top item, a large bed sheet. “Hold the other end and help me fold this, please.” She waited till Arnie had grasped the other end of the sheet. “And while you are helping, you can tell me what happened yesterday.”
“What do you mean?”
“You came home much earlier than you usually do from the Spauldings’, and you had the same unhappy look on your face that you have even now. Do you not remember what your Papa used to say, ‘Al mal tiempo, buena cara’ [To bad times, good face].”
Arnie gave her a sad sort of smile. “Is this any better?”
“A little; now, tell me what happened.”
“Señora Spaulding, she… she knows about potion girls, and she knows that I-I am one.”
“Who told her? What did she say to you?”
Arnie looked down in embarrassment. “I-I told her about the potion earlier – but I did not say that I…” She sighed. “…am one who took it. Someone else – I do not know who – told her that.” She frowned suddenly, wondering it had been Pablo. He was such a serpiente.
“What did she do? What did her children do?”
“She said that she wanted to think about things. I do not think that Hedley – or Clara – know, but she will tell them sooner or later.”
“Que cría cuervos [You bred crows], Arnolda, and now, as your Papa always said, nos han robado los ojos [they have stolen your eyes]. Did she say anything about how she felt or what she was going to do?”
“No; mostly, she was mad that I lied to her about who I was.”
“That may be to the good. They may like you enough to want to get over being mad.” She smiled, just a little, to encourage her. “At least, they still gave you laundry to be washed. When is it due back?”
“Tuesday; she said that she would talk to me, then.”
“Bueno, I do not want you to lose your friends any more than I want to lose their business.”
* * * * *
Rachel Silverman looked up as soon as she heard the bell over the front door jingle. “Molly,” she greeted her friend, as she hurried over from behind the counter where she’d been sitting. “What can I do for you today?”
“T’be telling the truth, Rachel, I ain’t sure.” She glanced over at a long rack of women’s clothes. “I need some… dresses, special dresses for me two new ladies.”
“Special? What sort of thing exactly are you talking about? Ain’t what you got them in now fancy enough for you?”
“The dresses they’ve got now are just fine – fine for everyday, anyway. But – ye know that we made ‘em into dancing girls, don’t ye?”
“Do I know?” She pointed to the store window. “Ain’t that one of your flyers right over there?”
“Aye, it is. If ye know that they’re dancing girls, then ye should be able t’guess that they needs t’be wearing something fancy when they do thuir dancing.”
“And what sort of shmatas – excuse me, outfits are they in now?”
“Lylah’s wearing a yellow corset and petticoat and Flora’s in bright red drawers and a matching jacket and cap. We didn’t want t’be buying no fancy costumes for ‘em till we was knowing that they was a success.”
“And now you know?”
“Aye, we do. We got back a lot o’the business we lost to Sam Duggan and his Dancing Darlings. So now Shamus ‘n’ me want t’be getting some regular dancehall girl outfits for ‘em. You got anything like that?”
“In a little town like Eerie, we should stock such things? No, we don’t, but you come in the back with me. Catalogs, we do got, and it seems to me that we got a couple from some big dress company out in San Francisco that’ll have just the sort of fancy-shmancy dresses you want.”
“Sounds good. I’d like t’be ordering a couple of extra sets. We're hoping to hire a girl or two more, but who knows what sizes they’ll be?”
Rachel nodded amiably. “You order what you need now, and you can change your order later, when you hire them new girls. In the meantime, I’ll put on the teapot and get out some of them rugalah you like.”
“Rugalah, that’s them little roll-up buns with the honey and nuts, ain’t it?”
“I thought you’d remember them. We can have some tea… talk… eat some rugalah; you can even look through the catalogs, maybe even order something. You will have to give me some idea how respectable you will want those outfits to be.”
“Well…” Molly said, letting herself be coaxed. “No less respectable than the costumes I wore on the Barbary Coast meself. Have you seen any of those posters advertising the dancers over at the Lone Star?”
“Oy, those are wicked! And you being a church-going woman,” said Rachel, but with a smile and a playful shake of her head.
* * * * *
Monday, May 13, 1872
On Monday mornings, Thaddeus Yingling liked to catch up on his leisure reading. He looked up from his copy of Scribner’s Magazine when someone knocked on the half-opened door to his study. “Milton,” he cheerfully greeted his visitor, “what brings you in here today?”
“I… We came to ask a favor, Reverend.” He walked into the room, leading a nervous-looking Jane by the hand.
Yingling studied the woman for a moment. The face was Laura Caulder’s but this woman was decidedly not pregnant. “You’re… Jane, aren’t you, Mrs. Caulder’s twin?”
“That’s me, Jane Steinmetz.” She gave him a quick smile. “How d’you do, sir?”
The reverend rose and leaned across his desk to offer her his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Steinmetz. I am the Reverend Thaddeus Yingling.”
“And I’m right pleased t’meet you, Reverend.” She took his hand and pumped it eagerly. “Especially ‘cause of why we met.”
Milt chuckled. “What she means is that we want to get married, and we’d like you to perform the ceremony.”
“As soon as possible,” Jane quickly added, blushing as she spoke.
The minister frowned. “Am I correct that you are one of those so-called ‘potion girls’, Miss Steinmetz?”
“Yeah, I am,” Jane replied. “Why’re you asking?”
“And where do you propose that I marry the two of you?”
Milt raised a suspicious eyebrow. “I had originally thought we could do it in the church, perhaps, next Sunday after the service, but we sort of promised Shamus O’Toole that we’d get married in his Saloon. Is there a problem with that?”
“I got a problem,” Jane protested. “I don’t wanna wait till Sunday t’marry you.”
Yingling shook his head. “You two have a bigger problem. I do not intend to sanction your marriage in any way, either by performing the ceremony or by permitting it to take place in my church, had you asked.”
“What!” Milt looked shocked. “How can you say something like that?”
The reverend scowled. “Because I do not approve of Mr. O’Toole, his potion, or anything associated with it – or with him. I feel that my participation in any way in your wedding would be seen as my accepting Mr. O’Toole’s previous actions while he was in control of the potion. You’ve done a great deal of good work for the church, Milton, but you seem too personally involved to view the matter of Mr. O’Toole’s potion clearly.”
“You don’t seem to have any trouble accepting Laura Caulder’s marrying Arsenio,” Milt chided.
“I do have concerns, and I would not have performed the ceremony for her and Arsenio, had I been asked. However, she seems to have risen above her past. The two of them have attended my service almost every Sunday since they wed. She has become a dutiful daughter of the church, and I believe that such actions have redeemed her in our Lord’s sight.”
He shook his head and continued. “I can hardly say the same of you…” He looked directly at Jane. “…young woman. You have not attended my church, have not shown me any remorse for the crimes that led to your… transformation. For all I know, you’re behavior – and morals – have worsened since that time.”
“No they ain't!” protested Jane. “And how much remorse d'ya want? I said I was sorry to Jessie and Laura. If they don't hold it agin me, how can a man of the cloth?” She was shocked, indignant, and her tears had begun to flow.
“Reverend Yingling!” Milt took hold of her shoulders, a sign to let him do the talking. “You have no right to say such things, no right at all.” He shifted and put his arm around Jane. “This woman is worth ten, worth a hundred of you. And, after what you’ve just said, we wouldn’t let you marry us if you got down on your knees and begged us.”
Jane seemed to want to have another say of her own, but Milt pulled his kerchief from his pocket and wiped at her eyes as he gently steered her from the room.
* * * * *
“G’morning, Mr. Quinlan,” Obie Wynn greeted Milt as he and Jane walked into Judge Humphreys’ outer office. The clerk was searching in the top drawer of a file cabinet. “The Judge is busy just now,” he told them in his thick Kentucky drawl. “You ‘n’ your lady friend’ll have t’wait a bit.”
“This is Jane Steinmetz,” Milt said, “my…” He grinned and gave her hand a squeeze. “…fiancé. Are you sure I can’t talk to him? It’s very important.”
“Fiancé? Well now, congratulations. Lemme go see if he can squeeze you in.” Obie took two manila folders from the top of the file cabinet, closed the drawer, and walked to an inner door. “Your Honor,” he said, knocking on the door, “can I bother ya fer a minute?”
The Judge’s deep baritone could be heard through the door. “It better just be a minute, Obie.” The clerk, a short man, smoothed back a mass of unruly brown hair before he scurried in, closing the door behind him.
He was back out a moment later. “He’ll see ya.” He opened the door wide for the couple to come in.
“Milt Quinlan and fiancé, is it?” Humphreys walked out from behind his desk. “Congratulations to you both. And what can I do for you?”
“Can you marry us,” Jane said quickly, “just like you done for Laura and Arsenio?”
“Of course, I can, and I shall be most happy to do so. When and where do you want the ceremony to be held?”
“Today, if you can, and it’ll have t’be the Saloon, seeing as we can’t use the church.”
The Judge raised an eyebrow. “Why can’t you use the church?”
“That ba – ‘scuse me, Reverend Yingling, he said we couldn’t ‘cause…” Jane blinked, trying not to cry. “…’cause I’m a-a… sinful potion gal.”
Milt put a comforting arm around her. “We just spoke to him, and that’s the gist of what he said.”
“Absurd.” The Judge shook his head. “I think the good reverend is acting very foolishly, with all this nonsense about Shamus’ potion, but that’s neither here nor there.” He looked at his pocket watch. “It’s still fairly early. I see no reason why I couldn’t perform the ceremony today.”
Jane gave him her best smile. “That’d be great. We could do it – oh, shit; we can’t.” Her smile faded.
“What’s the matter, Jane?” Milt asked.
She looked down, not ready to face him. “I can’t get hitched t’you today – much as I want to. It wouldn’t be fair t’Maggie.”
“What does Maggie have to do with it?” Milt inquired. “She seemed more than pleased when we told her the good news about our getting married.”
Jane shook her head. “I know, but we didn’t say when we’d be doing it. She needs time t’find somebody t’take my place while I’m…” She blushed prettily. “…while we’re on our honeymoon. You are gonna take me on a honeymoon, ain’t you?”
“I have every intention of taking you… on a honeymoon.” Milt leered for a moment before his expression changed to a loving smile. “But Maggie may already have made some arrangements. Let’s check with her.” He turned to the Judge. “Your Honor, I’ll get back to you with the specifics, but it will be tonight, tomorrow evening at the latest.”
The Judge nodded. “I shall be happily available to you either night.”
“Today,” Jane said, blushing at her eagerness. “I wanna do it today.”
Milt shrugged and put his arm around her waist. “So do I, but we’d better be married first.”
“Milt!” She giggled and felt a blush come to her cheeks. Her body tingled as he pulled her close, and she knew just how much she did like the idea of what was going to happen to her – to them both, possibly that very night.
* * * * *
Clara used the edge of her knife to push the carrots she’d just finished slicing onto a plate. “Mama,” she asked, “will Annie be coming by tomorrow?”
“I expect that she will,” Mrs. Spaulding replied. “She’s always been punctual, bringing back the laundry she picked up on Saturday the following Tuesday.” The woman studied her daughter’s expression. “Why do you ask, dear?”
The girl took a breath, not at all sure how her mother would react. “I-I’m not really asking if she’s going to come. I’m wondering if she’s going to… stay, like she usually does, for lunch and to give us a Spanish lesson.”
“That I… I don’t know.”
“What happened on Saturday, Mama? Everything seemed fine until the two of you went into your bedroom. Then she came rushing out. She grabbed the bag of dirty clothes and ran for the door. I saw her face. She looked so sad, too, like she was ready to cry.”
“Did she?” The woman felt a pang of guilt. But it was a brief pang. ‘I don’t like being lied to,’ she thought, ‘especially for so long a time.’
“Mother, what do you know? Why was she so upset all of a sudden?”
Mrs. Spaulding drew in a deep breath. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be the one who was upset, that Annie did something that I didn’t like, and that was why she left?”
“I – no, I-I didn’t think… what did happen?”
“I don’t believe that I wish to explain to you – or Hedley – what happened. Perhaps tomorrow, if I decide that she deserves the chance, I’ll let Annie explain herself to you both; to all three of us.” She looked sternly at Clara. “Now toss those carrots into the pot, so they can be ready for our lunch.”
Clara cast her mother a glum look, but she obeyed.
* * * * *
“Good morning, Milt,” Abner greeted his lawyer. “What brings you in today?”
Milt set his briefcase down on the empty bed next to Abner’s. “Paperwork, I have your will and the partnership agreement here for you to look at.”
“I thought you were going to be bringing them in tomorrow. What’s the rush?”
The younger man grinned. “I’m getting married at two this afternoon, and, frankly…” His smile grew even more broad. “…I’ll have better things to do the next few days than your legal work.”
“Well, now, congratulations, and I don’t blame you one little bit. Put the paperwork down and get out of here.”
“Do you have any questions before I go?” He placed the papers on the wheeled tray to the right of Abner’s bed.
“Just one, when will you be back?”
“Thursday… I’ll come in Thursday morning to talk to you. I promise.”
“And I’ll be waiting. Cap should be back on Wednesday, so he’ll be here, too. In the meantime, go – and give Jane a kiss for me.”
Milt laughed. “I may… eventually. I plan to be busy for a while, kissing her for myself.” He winked at his client as he headed for the door.
* * * * *
“I got it,” Molly shouted in triumph, bursting into Jane’s bedroom. “Laura loaned ye her blue petticoat.” She held up the garment that she’d carried, folded, under her arm.
Jane was sitting on her bed, wearing only her best white drawers, a matching camisole, and a pale blue corset. She looked up and gave Molly a wan smile. “Thanks, Molly. Is she gonna be able t’get over here for my wedding?”
“Aye, she told me the only way she wouldn’t make it was if that baby o’hers decided t’be born t’day.” She waited a moment. “Arsenio went over to Doc Upshaw’s t’get one o’them wheeled chairs, so she wouldn’t have t’walk.”
“Good; I was worrying about that. Much as I want her t’be at my wedding, I don’t want her to hurt herself. She’s gonna be the – what you call it – the matron of honor.”
Jessie was sitting on the chair near Jane’s bed. “And I’m a bridesmaid, me and Maggie. Now that we know who we are, let’s get to it. A bride don’t need t’worry about nothing on her wedding day.”
“Except maybe the wedding night?” Molly said, a chuckle in her voice.
Jane blushed and looked down at the floor. “I ain’t worried about that – not too much anyways.” She smiled enthusiastically. “I remember being up in Colorado, under Pike's Peak. I was looking for some place to warm up…” She caught herself. It wasn't a story that fit the occasion.
“From the way you ‘n’ Milt keep looking at each other, I don’t think you got a thing to worry about.” Jessie glanced over at the small clock, ticking away on the wall. “Now, you better get that petticoat on, ‘cause it’s time for you t’get down there and get hitched.”
* * * * *
“So you’ll be my best man?” Milt asked.
Arsenio shrugged. “Might as well, I’ll be standing up front with Laura, anyway.” He waited a beat. “Besides, we’re going to be brothers-in-law in a few minutes.”
“That we are, de facto brothers-in-law, if not de jure.” He saw the confused look on Arsenio’s face and quickly added, “Never mind, it’s a lawyer’s observation.” He offered his hand. “Welcome to the family.”
They shook hands. “The same to you. Say, does this mean that I have to make a toast to you and Jane at the dinner after the ceremony?”
“It does. Do you want me to write something for you to say?”
“No, it has to be nice things about you, and I can lie well enough on my own, thanks.” He winked.
Just then, Judge Humphreys sat down at their table. “If I can interrupt you two liars for a moment, I need to talk to Milt about something… something official, sort of.”
“Do you want me to leave?” Arsenio asked.
The Judge shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I just wanted to remind Milt that the church board of elders is meeting this Wednesday night.”
“That’s right,” Milt said unhappily. “I-I’m sorry, Your Honor, I forgot.”
“Milt, if I had my choice of whether to think of the church board or a girl like Jane, I don’t think I’d be able to remember the meeting, either. I just wanted to see if you were going to be there as our parliamentarian.”
“Probably not; I’ll still be on my honeymoon and –”
“And it won’t be board motions that you’ll be concerned about. I understand. I’m just sorry that you can’t be there. Between reconsidering the Reverend’s petition again and the motion about Trisha –”
“That’s right; they’ll be trying to throw her off the board, won’t they?”
“I’m afraid that they will. It’s not going to be an easy meeting. I can act as parliamentarian, but some people – Cecelia Ritter, for sure – are going to complain of bias.”
Arsenio chuckled. “You’re trying to make him feel guilty, aren’t you, Judge?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I am, and I’m sorry for that.” The Judge gave a hearty sigh. “Look, Milt, if you want to show up Wednesday night, show up. If you decide that you’d rather spend the evening with your new bride, then no one – least of all, me – will blame you.”
Milt studied the older man’s face for a moment. Humphrey seemed sincere in what he’d just said. “Thanks, Judge. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Now that we’ve settled that point, we’d best get started.” Arsenio pointed at Shamus’ clock. “We’ve got us a wedding to do.”
* * * * *
“What are you doing, coming in here?” Maggie asked, sounding angry.
Jane startled. “I just come in t’see how you’re –”
“You chased me out of the kitchen on my wedding day, so I get to do the same to you today. Get out of here.”
“Only if you come out like you promised when it’s time for things t’get going, okay?”
“I will be there.” Maggie’s eyebrows narrowed in mock anger. “Now, go!”
Jane nodded and left.
“That was not nice, mi corazón,” Ramon said. He was sitting at the worktable, waiting for Maggie, once the wedding meal was prepared. He thought for a moment. “By the way, has Jane told you where they will be going on their honeymoon? I know that Milt doesn’t have a house. He lives in the back room of his office.”
Maggie nodded. “That is where they will be. It was either that, or stay in Jane’s room upstairs.” She sighed. “I do not think that his room has much more than a bed, but how much more than that do they need?”
“It was enough for me. Any place would be enough, so long as you were there with me.” He walked over and kissed her on the cheek. Then he shifted and kissed her on the side of the neck.
Maggie shivered. “Ramon, if you kiss me like that I will… oohh!” She stopped as he kissed her again. “Please, I-I… much as I love what you are doing, I must finish with the cooking.”
“I will stop – for now, but after the ceremony and the meal, we can start again.”
“Mmm, I hope so.”
“So do I, but just now, I need to take care of something. I will be back as soon as I can.”
“Where… oh, never mind, just be back for the ceremony.”
“I will try. Adios.” He gave her another kiss, this one much more chaste, and hurried out the back door.
* * * * *
“Here they come!” R.J. yelled, pointing towards the second floor.
All eyes turned to see Jane walking along the landing towards the steps. Shamus walked with her, very much the father of the bride, holding her arm in his. The Judge stood in front of the bar. Milt and Arsenio were in front of him on the left, Molly Maggie, and Jessie stood on his right. Laura was with them, sitting in her wheelchair.
As they started down the steps, Jessie grabbed for her guitar and began singing.
` “Here comes the bride dressed all in white,
` Radiant and lovely she shines in his sight.
` Gently she glides, sweet as a dove,
` Meeting her bridegroom, her eyes full of love.”
` “Long have they waited; long have they planned.
` Life goes before them opening her hand.
` Asking G-d's blessing, as they begin
` A life with new meaning, a life shared as one.
` Entering God's union, bowed before His throne,
` Promising each other to have and to hold.”
` “Gently she glides, sweet as a dove,
` Meeting her bridegroom, her eyes full of love.
` Here comes the bride dressed all in white,
` Radiant and lovely in her true love’s sight.”
Jessie timed her singing, so that she sang the last line just as Jane and Shamus reached her. Shamus smiled and stepped back, as Jane stepped up, to stand next to Milt. “That’s my present t’you ‘n’ Milt,” Jessie whispered to Jane, moving back.
“Thanks, Jessie.” Milt reach over and gently lifted Jane’s veil, borrowed from Maggie. “Hello… wife,” he greeted her.
“Not quite yet,” the Judge said softly. Then, speaking in a loud, clear voice, he began, “Dearly beloved…”
* * * * *
Arsenio slowly rose to his feet, tapping his glass with his knife as he did. “Folks, when Milt asked me to be his best man, he said I had to make a speech. Of course, he asked me all of forty minutes before the ceremony, so I hope he isn’t expecting much of a speech.”
“Milt, congratulations, you just got married to the second prettiest woman in town – maybe in the whole country. I know Jane is my Laura’s twin, but Laura’s been Laura longer than Jane’s been Jane, so Laura has more practice at being so beautiful. And she’s -- we’re -- gonna have a baby, so that makes her even prettier, at least to me. Of course, you and Jane can do something along that same line, and I expect you’ll be trying to as soon as we all get finished here. I guess that means I better not make this speech too long, so you two can get started.”
“Like I said, Jane’s a very beautiful woman, and, best of all, that beauty isn’t skin deep, it goes down into her soul. She’s a sweet, caring, woman, and she’s one of the best cooks in town – hello, there, Maggie; great meal, as always.”
“Milt’s a good man, too, even if he is a lawyer. He’s smart, a real hard worker, and, as we all found out a few days ago, he’s got a real nice singing voice.”
“And, speaking of his singing in public, Jane, my Laura’s told me how you used to fret that he was ashamed of you because he wouldn’t kiss you in public. I think – just to show her how wrong she was – he should get up and kiss Jane right now, in front of all of us. What do you say, folks?” He started clapping. “C’mon, everybody… Kiss her… Kiss her… Kiss her!”
As he chanted, he motioned with his hands for the crowd to join in. They did. “Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!”
“Well, I suppose… if we have to.” Milt stood and offered his hand to Jane. “Mrs. Quinlan, if you would, please stand up.”
Jane blushed. “Here, in fronta everybody?”
“Now who’s embarrassed?” Milt said with a chuckle. He took her hand in his and gently pulled her to her feet and into his arms. “Great speech, Arsenio.”
The couple embraced. Jane’s arms snaked up around his neck as their mouths met in a kiss.
“To the happy couple,” Arsenio said, raising his glass. “And may you always be as happy and as in love, and as loved as you are right now.”
Everyone else clinked glasses, and more than a few applauded, but Jane and Milt were far too busy to notice.
* * * * *
Bridget sat, alone, at one of the tables, finishing a piece of the wedding cake.
“How’re you doing?” Laura asked. Arsenio pushed her wheelchair in close, so that the two women could talk.
Bridget frowned. “Not too bad. It was a nice wedding. I was glad to see you show up. How’re you feeling? Do you expect to be back here any time soon?”
“I don’t know. It’s more up to Doc Upshaw – and the baby – than it is to me. In the meantime, I’m stuck in bed at home.”
Arsenio took Laura’s hand in his. “And I’m stuck having to take care of her. That’s the only good part.”
“It is nice, having him hovering over me all day long.” She smiled up at him. “I’ll miss it when I come back.”
“Then I’ll just have to be more attentive.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek.
Before Laura could say anything, Flora came over to the table. She was wearing an apron and carrying a large tray filled with dirty dishes. “Are you done with that, Miss Bridget?” She pointed to the remains of the cake, still on the plate.
“No, Flora,” Bridget answered. “You can come back for it later.”
The waitress curtsied. “V-very good, ma’am.” She grimaced as she said it and hurried off.
“What was that about?” Laura asked.
Bridget smiled. “Flora was ragging at Jessie and me about how pretty we looked and asking when our weddings were going to be. She… she got to me, I guess. I got all upset and started to cry. Molly said she had to be extra polite to me – to us both -- for the rest of the day. She has to call us ‘Miss Bridget’ and ‘Miss Jessie’ and curtsy and act like she’s our lady’s maid.” She giggled. “I wish I could think of a way to make it permanent.”
Laura smiled, but only politely. “I'm just glad nobody had me curtsying and gushing when I was a convict,” she said.
* * * * *
“Congratulations, Milt,” Davy Kitchner said. “I guess you’re Jane’s partner now. You're gonna love putting aside those lawyer books and laying to with that ol' pickaxe.”
Jane interrupted before Milt could answer. “Davy, you ‘n’ me’ll always be partners in that mine. Milt…” She clenched her new husband’s arm. “Milt ‘n’ me’s a whole different kind of partners.”
“I know that, gal. I’m just having a little fun with you.” He shook her hand, then Milt’s. “I heard you was getting hitched, and I had t’come down and say congratulations.”
“I’m glad you could come, Davy,” Milt said. “When are you heading back up to our claim?”
“I ain’t gonna try t’find my way back up in the dark. I gonna spend the night… down here with… with a friend.” He didn’t want to mention that he’d be spending it – happily – with Edith Lonnigan. Not that many people knew of their relationship.
Jane did know, and she looked around. “Where is Edith, by the way?”
“Over there.” He pointed. “Talking to Laura. I better get back over to her. Congratulations, again, to you both.”
Milt smiled. “Thanks, Davy. I know how far you and Jane go back and what the two of you have been through, so I’m very happy to hear that you approve of our getting married.”
“Yeah, like you wouldn’t have married her if I’d said no.”
Jane laughed. “There ain’t a snowball’s chance in Hell of that, partner.”
* * * * *
“Where’d you find that song, Jessie?” Laura asked.
“It’s from some fancy opera called Lohengrin,” Jessie replied. “Hanna Tyler, that little gal I rescued down near the border, she’s getting married in June, and she asked me t’come and sing it at her wedding. I figured I’d get in some practice singing it for Jane.” She paused a half beat. “What’d you think of it?”
“It’s… beautiful. I wish you’d been around to sing it at my wedding.”
“If I’d been here t’sing it at your wedding, I wouldn’t have been there t’stop them commancheros from taking Hanna to Mexico.”
“In that case, I’m glad you weren’t here.”
“My not being here surely didn’t slow you and Arsenio down from getting married.” She gently touched Laura’s belly. “Or from anything else.”
* * * * *
Ramon and Maggie came over to where Milt and Jane standing. “I hope that you will be as happy as Ramon and I have been,” Maggie said, hugging her friend.
“We’re gonna be.” Jane hugged her back.
Ramon shook his head. “Perhaps, but you are not getting off to the best of starts.”
“What do you mean, Ramon?” Milt asked cautiously.
Ramon continued. “Where are you going when you leave here tonight?”
“I live in the back room of my office,” the lawyer replied. “We’ll be buying a house soon, but until then…”
Maggie shook her head. “That is no place for a honeymoon.”
“Why not,” Jane said quickly. “It’s got a bed and – “ She stopped, blushing at what she had said.
Ramon tried very hard not to laugh. “If your marriage is going to be as happy as ours, then it should start out as ours did.” He took a large and rather ornate brass key from his jacket pocket. “This is the key to my former quarters, the guesthouse at Whit and Carmen’s home. I spoke to them a little while ago, and they agreed. It is yours for the next three days. Call it our wedding present.”
“Ramon!” Jane all but threw herself at him, giving the man a generous hug.
“We’d better pull them apart, Maggie,” Milt teased her. “Your husband and my wife are enjoying that hug far too much.”
Ramon and Jane separated, each turning to their own spouse. “You have nothing to worry about, my friend,” Ramon replied. “Jane was just practicing on me what the two of you will be doing tonight,”Jane nodded, blushing in happy agreement.
* * * * *
Tuesday, May 14, 1872
Molly opened the bedroom door a crack. “How’re the two of ye doing this morning?” she asked Flora and Lylah.
“We’re getting there,” Lylah answered.
Molly opened the door and walked in, closing it behind her. “So I see. I want the both of ye t’be hurrying up getting dressed.”
“Why,” Flora remarked, sarcastically. “Breakfast won’t be done any quicker.”
The older woman frowned. “As a matter of fact, it will, ‘cause it’ll be the both of ye down there helping Maggie t’make it.”
“How come?” Lylah asked. “All we ever had t’do before was t’set the table.”
“That’s because ‘before’ Jane was down there t’be helping Maggie with the cooking, and today she ain’t.” Molly looked at the pair. “Lylah, ye’re the furthest along, so as soon as ye get that dress on ye, I want ye t’go down and see what Maggie needs ye t’be doing.”
Flora laughed. “Yes, Lylah, you go down now, and I’ll be down directly.”
“Aye, ye will, Flora, and after breakfast, it’ll be ye that clears the table and does all the morning dishes.” She chuckled at the sudden shock on Flora’s face. “Now get moving, the both of ye.”
She started for the door. “Ye can switch off tomorrow if ye want, but it’ll be ye two that do the extra kitchen chores till Jane comes back here on Thursday.”
* * * * *
“Having fun?” Rosalyn asked.
Flora looked up from her place on the back steps of the Saloon. She wore a large muslin apron to protect her dress, as she worked to scrape out the dry chaw from inside the spittoon on her lap. “Not in the least. Care to join me?”
“I should say not. Chores like that are far below a woman of my station.” She grimaced. “I don’t know how you can stand them.”
“A man can stand a lot of things when he doesn’t have any choice in the matter.” Flora sighed. “And I don’t.”
Rosalyn noticed, but said nothing about Flora calling herself a male. “Ah, but you do have a choice… if you want to take me up on my offer.”
Flora paused in her labor. “I've been thinking about that. I’m very tired of the shit O’Toole throws at me. The dancing, prancing around in next to nothing in front of all those…” She shivered. “…men, is horrible, and doing things like this…” She held up the spittoon. “…is even worse. They –They enjoy humiliating me, and all because they love that Irish card cheat so much. Yesterday at that stupid wedding, they had me behaving like a damned maid. I had to call that bitch Kelly, ‘Miss Bridget’ and curtsy while she ordered me about.”
“How terrible. They’re trying to break you like some kind of animal.”
“Only I don’t plan to let them, and I think that your idea is about the best option I have. I remember how mad it made me when I couldn't make Wilma Hanks' face turn red. Two can play at that game, if both of them are mean enough. They'll find out what Staffords are made of. No matter how much you train a lion, sooner or later it's going to rip your arm off.”
“Good, can we start now?”
“I’ve got to get these finished before they start the Free Lunch. I’ve no time for lessons.”
“I wish you could visit me at the Parisian.”
“Fat chance of that. O’Toole won’t let me out of the building unless he or his wife tags along.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow, then.” Rosalyn thought for a moment. “How’s one o’clock? I’ll join you for some of that Free Lunch, and we can talk while we dine.”
Flora frowned. “We don't want anyone to hear us talking about such things. It would spoil everything.”
Rosalyn reassured her with squeeze of her hand. “In my business, a woman learns how to be discreet.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” To herself, she added, ‘though it’ll be your pleasure soon enough, I suspect.’
* * * * *
Arnie parked the laundry cart next to the Spauldings’ back steps. She was wearing the prettiest of the dresses that her mother had pinned up to fit her, rather than wearing her old, male clothes for doing laundry deliveries and bringing a dress to change into at the Spauldings’ home. She picked up the three packages of laundry and the Spanish textbook and started up the steps. ‘Be calm, Arnolda,’ she told herself. ‘Be calm.’
“Annie,” Hedley opened the back door just as she reached the porch. “I’m glad you decided to come back.”
Arnie held up the packages. “I-I had to. I have your clean laundry here.”
“Yes, but I hope that’s not the only reason that you came back.” He smiled and reached out to take the packages from her.
“No…” She felt a pleasant tingle run through her, as she handed him the laundry. “I came for your momma’s lunch. And to see Clara, too,” she quickly added.
He seemed to consider her words. “I suppose those will do.” He winked and gave the door a quick kick. “If you don’t have any others, I mean.” The door popped open a bit. Hedley caught it with his right foot and pulled it fully opened. He stepped quickly in to hold it open and gestured with a tilt of his head. “After you.”
“Good afternoon… Annie,” Mrs. Spaulding greeted the pair from her place at the stove. “Hedley, Clara’s in her room. Would you please go and tell her that Annie’s here?”
“Certainly, Mother, I’ll be right back.” He put the parcels on the kitchen table and headed for the door into the front room.
Mrs. Spaulding waited until the door shut behind him. “I’ve given the matter some thought, Annie – or do you prefer Arnie?”
“A-Annie is fine, Señora Spaulding.” She looked carefully at the woman’s face for a clue of what she was about to say.
“Annie, it is then. I’m still somewhat hurt at being lied to, but I believe that I can understand why you did it.”
“Thank you. I am sorry that I lied to you, to all of you.” She took a breath. “What did Hedley and Clara say, when you told them about me?”
“Nothing, because I haven’t told them. I leave that to you.”
“T-To me? I… I do not know how to tell them.” Her voice caught. “C-Can you help me… please. I-I do not want to hurt them.”
“Well… you will have to tell them, but I don’t want to hurt my children either, so I’ll give you some time to think of a way to do it. We’ll say nothing more of this today, but I will expect you to tell them who you really are when you come back on Saturday with those clothes over there.” She pointed to a pair of Annie’s laundry bags, both stuffed full, sitting on a chair over in the corner.
Arnie felt as if a massive weight had fallen from her shoulders. “I-I will. I swear that I will, and thank you for the extra time; thank you very much.” She let out a sigh. “And you owe my Mama $3.75 for the laundry I brought back today.”
“Very well.” She fished in her purse for the money, pulling out a silver half-eagle. “You’re not entirely off the hook though,” she said, handing Arnie the money. “I still expect you to join us for lunch today, with a Spanish lesson afterwards.”
Arnie gave her the change. “Of course, Señora Spaulding.”
* * * * *
“Cecelia,” Grace MacLeod said, “this pound cake is lovely.”
Cecelia took a quick sip of tea before she answered. “Thank you, Grace. Does everyone have a slice?”
“We do,” Lavinia Mackechnie answered for the others. “But you didn’t invite us over here for an afternoon tea. What did you want to talk to us about?”
“Couldn’t I have just wanted to throw a little party for my friends?”
Hilda Scudder shook her head. “Frankly, no; what’s going on, Cecelia?”
“Well… tomorrow night is the May meeting of the church board, and we have to be ready. Not only is there going to be another vote to support the Reverend Yingling’s petition --”
“I wish we could be finished with that,” Zenobia Carson interrupted. “I’m getting tired of all these games.”
Cecelia frowned. “They are most decidedly not games, Zenobia. We are supporting our spiritual leader in his battle to rescue the town from the un-Christian influences that have held sway here for so very long.”
“You make it sound like some sort of heavenly crusade,” Grace said.
“As far as I am concerned, it is, and I had thought that you – all of you – agreed with me.” She glared at Grace.
The other woman took a long drink of her tea. The cup clattered just a bit when she set it down on her plate. “I-I do. I just… oh, never mind. Of course, I support the man.”
Lavinia tried to smile. “We all do, and we’ll all be there to show it.”
“Be prepared to do more than just fill a seat, ladies” Cecelia told them. “Some of the members of the board are foolish enough to oppose the petition, Judge Humphries and Dwight Albertson, to name two.”~
“And Trisha O’Hanlan,” Lavinia added. “One would think that she’d be the most eager to take that potion away from the man whose carelessness changed her into a woman.”
“I can hardly forget Miss O’Hanlan, but I don’t expect her to be voting on the motion. It’ll be my Clyde casting that vote.”
Hilda looked puzzled. “Clyde? I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”
Cecelia gave what she hoped sounded like a sympathetic sigh. ‘Stupid cow,’ she thought to herself. ‘All the blood is going to her belly and none to her brain.’ Aloud she said. “It’s understandable, my dear, what with the baby and all. Tomorrow night, we finally vote to throw Trisha off the board for her scandalous behavior at the dance.”
“We need to get that done, first,” she continued. “It’ll put those others in their place, and it’s one more sure vote for the Reverend.”
“It won’t be easy,” Zenobia observed. “A lot of people enjoyed that dance – I know that I certainly did. Everyone knows that it was Trisha’s idea, and they’ll be thankful to her for it.”
Cecelia thought for a moment. “I’ll readily admit that I enjoyed myself as well. But the success of the dance was due to many, many people besides her, and, maybe we can get them thinking that she’s hogging too much of the credit.”
“Besides…” She gave them a malicious smile. “We all enjoyed the dance with our husbands, dancing with them and talking to each other. But who did she dance with? Any number of unmarried and less than honorable men, if I may say. And… what else besides dancing did she do with them by way of enjoying herself?”
Grace blushed. “Cecelia, you don’t mean…” Her voice trailed off. Hilda looked equally shocked.
“I most certainly do. Trisha O’Hanlan is a woman of very low morals, and the sooner she’s of the board, the better we’ll all be for it.”
Lavinia took up the thread of thought. “And that’s the message we have to deliver -- and deliver in force -- at tomorrow’s meeting.”
* * * * *
“A nickel for your thoughts, Jane,” Milt said, smiling at his new wife and stepping up behind her.
Jane smiled back at his reflection. She was sitting at a dressing table in a bedroom in the Whitney’s guesthouse. She had been gazing into the mirror on the wall behind it, as she brushed her long, light brown hair. “Ain’t it supposed t’be a penny for my thoughts?”
“Usually, but your thoughts are worth more – at least to me.”
“Well, now, thank you for that. If you gotta know, I was thinking ‘bout Laura. I hope it wasn’t too much for her, coming to our wedding getting all dressed up like she done, being a part of the ceremony, and staying there for so long after.”
“I’m sure that she’s all right. Between Arsenio and Molly – and you, for that matter – watching her the way that you all did.”
“You’re right, I guess, but that don’t stop me from worrying about her.”
“I’ll tell you what; later on today, you and I go over to her house for a quick visit?”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not really, not when I see how concerned you are. In fact, I’ll trade you a visit for a visit.”
“What d’you mean, ‘trade’ visits?”
“Tomorrow night is the church board of elders’ meeting. It’s got a lot to deal with. I’m… I’m parliamentarian, and I should be there – if you don’t mind, of course.”
“Can I come with you? I wanna show that… show the good reverend how happy I am t’be your wife.”
“You can. But right now, I’d like to show you how happy I am to be your husband.” He leaned over and kissed the side of her neck.
Jane rose and turned to face him. Her hand moved down to cup the large bulge in his drawers, the only garment he wore. “I can see how happy you are.”
“Likewise.” He tugged at the bow that held the collar of her camisole up tight, just below her neck. The ribbon came undone. He gently pulled the cloth down, until it dipped low, freeing her breasts. Her nipples were erect, tight, and long as his little finger above the top knuckle. They were ready, eager, to be touched.
He leaned in and ran his tongue across the left one, relishing her scent and her soft moan of delight. His lips closed around it, and he began to suckle. At the same time, his left hand spider walked across her right breast, and his right hand reached down to her crotch. His index finger traced the outline of her nether lips through the thin material of her muslin drawers.
“Mmm, v-very happy,” her voice was almost a purr. She trembled, dazed by the heat building within her, consuming her. She pressed her loins against his hand, while her own hands cradled his head to hold it in place at her breast. The arousal grew and grew in her. She was weak, overcome by it. Then suddenly, the feelings burst forth, like a river swollen with spring rains breaking through the wall of an earthen dam. “Ohh, yess,” she whimpered, “yes… Yes!”
Milt straightened up and put his arm around her waist. “We’ll go over to Arsenio and Laura’s place later, okay?”
“Much later,” she replied in a soft voice, barely more than a whisper, as she took his hand in hers and they hurried to the bed.
* * * * *
“Okay,” Judge Humphreys said, “how are we going to go about tomorrow night’s meeting?”
The group gathered at the O’Hanlan kitchen table: Humphreys, Dwight Albertson, Rupe Warrick, and Liam O’Hanlan, all turned to look at Trisha. “Umm… ahh,” she stammered. “You know more about running meetings than I do, Judge. What do you think?”
“Well,” he started, “the motion to… to expel you should be the first order of business – if, for no other reason, than to keep you from voting on the motion about Shamus’ potion.”
Rupe raised his hand. “You think Horace’ll do that, put the motion about Trisha first?”
“He should,” the Judge replied, “and if he doesn’t, I’ll make a motion to that effect. It’s what we did back in December when we had to vote about keeping Trisha on the board. So it should pass without any problem.”
Rupe nodded. “Okay, then what happens?”
“Then the fun starts,” Humphreys continued. “Since Horace was one of the people to sign the petition against Trisha, he shouldn’t preside over the discussion. Rupe, as vice president of the board, you get to preside.”
Albertson frowned. “Horace won’t like that.”
“If he fights,” Trisha said, “I’ll make a motion for him to let Rupe run things.”
“I’ll second it,” the banker replied, “but we’ll still need four votes.”
Trisha shrugged. “We won’t get Horace’s, but Willie’s a possible, and Jubal – you all know that he hired my Emma as a helper, don’t you? After she graduates in June, he’s going to train her to be a surveyor.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Albertson asked.
“He talked to me about hiring Emma before he did it, and we’ve talked a few times since. I may not agree with him on a lot of things, but I’d judge him to be a fair man. If we put the question in terms of fairness, I think he’ll vote with us.”
Humphreys thought for a moment. “I believe you’re right. And once Rupe’s got the gavel, we can start on our real plan. “
* * * * *
Kirby Pinter walked into the Saloon. He glanced around before he headed over to intercept Nancy on her way back to the bar. “Good evening, Miss Osbourne.”
“Mr. Pinter,” she said, not a little surprised, “what brings you in here tonight?”
“I wanted to talk to you, if I may.”
“Pick out a chair, and I’ll bring you a drink momentarily.”
“Beer, please, and bring one for yourself, as well. As I… uh, understand things, you’re allowed to sit with me for a while if I’m buying you a drink.”
“Very well, I’ll be right back.” She headed off to the bar, while he took a seat at a nearby table.
She was back almost at once, carrying two beers on a tray. Pinter rose to his feet. “The way it works, Mr. Pinter,” she told him, “is that you sit down, and I serve you.”
“Force of habit, I suppose.” He sat down. She set the tray on the table. She moved one glass in front of him, and then seated herself opposite him. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I-I’m afraid that I don’t get out very much. I only just heard that you refused the chance to regain your teaching job, and I wanted to ask about it -- if you don’t mind, that is.”
“I suppose I don’t. I was exonerated on the charges against me, but too many people didn’t care. I was guilty in their eyes, and they would have just kept looking for more of what they considered improper behavior on my part. I just couldn’t stand the idea of having their eyes on me every minute. As long as I was teaching, they’d be twisting everything I said and did into something vile and ugly.”
“I don’t necessarily agree, but I will concede the possibility. Mrs. Ritter and her… cronies – if you will excuse the pun – gave ample evidence of how they operate when they disrupted the party at my store.”
“Yes,” she smiled. “I remember that. I’m grateful for your support in that matter.”
“You will always have my support – if you wish it, Miss… Nancy… and a place in my store as a clerk, should you wish that, too. This saloon is hardly the sort of place for a woman like yourself.”
“Thank you… Kirby. I am grateful for the offer, but I suspect that you're making it out of charity, rather than true need. I feel that I am actually needed here. Besides, the O’Tooles and their employees are good, kind people, and I have no qualms about working for them.” She shook her head. “The way some people talk, all saloonkeepers are criminals. I used to be nervous just walking past the door.”
“Very well, but consider the offer open, anytime you choose to accept it. I’ll have to defer to your judgment on Mr. O’Toole's character. I’m hardly a regular patron.” He gave her a wan smile.
And she returned it. “Not in the past, perhaps.” She gently placed her hand on his arm. “But am I correct in assuming that you’ll be in here more often in the future?”
He nodded and covered her hand with his own. “You may, indeed. At least I won't have to worry about all those strange looks I would have gotten if I'd dropped in to visit over at the schoolhouse.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, May 15, 1872
Cap knocked on the door of Doc Upshaw’s ward room. “Uncle Abner, are you awake?”
“Sure I am, Cap,” Abner answered. “It’s well after 9 AM; too late for a man to be sleeping.”
“I have to say, you sound a lot more chipper than you did last week.”
“I could say the same about you. I gather that things went well at Camp Grant.”
“Pretty good, the Army took a hundred head at $8.50 a head. The Indian Bureau took the rest, another 87 head at the same price. You made out pretty good.”
“That is pretty good, Matthew, only you should have said that we made out pretty well.”
“We, Uncle?”
“I can’t run the Triple A very well, while I’m stuck on my back in here, and I certainly can’t run it all the way from Philadelphia. Someone has to be in charge on the spot. Someone I can trust, and who I know can do the job, and that’s you, Cap.”
“Me? What about Luke? Here’s already the foreman.”
“And he’s a damned good one, but he’s… a Negro. The men listen to him, but he couldn’t very well deal with outsiders; they’d never accept him as the one in charge. Since everyone knows you're my heir, they’ll accept you. I could just make you my manager, but it’d be easier – and fairer – to make you my partner.”
He chuckled. “Besides, I was planning to do it soon, anyway.”
“Even when you were feeling fit?”
“Even then. I was planning to talk to Milt about drawing up the papers as soon as we were done with the branding.”
“I’m very flattered, but are you sure I’m ready to be your partner?”
“I am. Like I said, I was going to do it anyway. This just moves things up a little.” Abner studied his nephew’s expression. “Of course, if you don’t think that you’re ready...”
“I… to tell the truth, I’m not sure. Can I think about it for a little bit?”
“You can, but not too long. I’m planning to leave for Philly in a few days. They’re making a special wagon for me to travel to Salt Lake City in. Then it’s a train all the way to Philly. I figure to leave as soon as it’s ready, and the Doc says I’m fit enough to travel in it.”
“Sounds good – that you’ll be able to travel so soon, I mean.” Cap considered the situation. “Can I ask you what sort of a partnership deal, exactly, you’re offering me?”
“You can read it for yourself. I asked Milt to draft up an agreement. It’s in the top drawer of the table next to my bed. Take it home and go through it paragraph by paragraph. Milt’ll be back from his honeymoon –”
“Honeymoon; when did he get married – and to who, as if I didn’t know?”
Abner laughed. “Jane, of course. Who else would he marry? The Judge married them at Shamus’ place on Monday, and they’re off honeymooning somewhere around here. He’s supposed to be back Thursday afternoon.”
Cap shook his head. “Last time I left town, Bridget… well, you know what happened then. This time, I leave and Milt and Jane get hitched. I think I’d better stay around for a while.”
“I don’t blame you, boy, especially when you’ve got Bridget to keep you company.”
* * * * *
“G’day t’ye, Miss Owens,” Shamus greeted Rosalyn near the swinging doors of his Saloon. “Ye’re getting t’be something of a regular over here.”
Rosalyn gave him a genteel smile. “Is that getting to be problem, Mr. O’Toole? You don’t object to my visiting Flora, do you?”
“If I did, I’d be telling ye. It don’t seem t’be doing her no harm, and I never stopped any of me… prisoners from talking to people.”
“Thank you for that, sir. I see that she’s having lunch just now. I believe that I’ll join her. Would you be so kind as to bring over a couple of beers for us?” When he nodded, she walked past him and over to the Free Lunch table.
Rosalyn filled a plate with a few slices of leftover chicken and some coleslaw. She picked up a fork and napkin and headed for the table where Flora was sitting. “May I join you?”
“Sure,” the other woman said. “Don’t you want something to drink?”
Rosalyn took a seat. “Mr. O’Toole is bringing over a beer. I took the liberty of ordering one for you, also.”
“It’ll be beer for you, but some sort of near beer for me. He doesn’t let us drink the real stuff.”
“How sad. You keep watch, and I’ll switch them.”
“That’d be great. I’ve missed the taste of a real drink. He keeps me on a really short leash.”
“Well, then, let’s see what we can do to lengthen that leash. That is, if you still want that help we talked about.”
“I do. You just give me the chance to spit in his eye, and see how fast I take it.”
“Speaking of fast, here he comes.”
Shamus came over to the table. He set down the tray he was carrying and handed Rosalyn the beer on the left of the tray and Flora the tray on the right. “Here’s the beer for each of ye t’be drinking.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Toole.” Rosalyn took a silver dollar from her reticule and tossed it onto the tray.
Shamus gave a quick nod. “And thanks t’ ye, Miss Owens. I know ye’ll each enjoy the beer I gave ye.” He winked and started back to the bar.
“Now,” Rosalyn whispered, “while his back is turned.” She quickly switched her glass for Flora’s.
Flora smiled. “Amen to that.” She reached for the beer in front of her. She was about to pick it up, when the voice in her head began, forcing her to reach across the table for the beer in front of Rosalyn. “That dirty…”
“Whatever is the matter?” the other woman asked.
“He… ordered me to enjoy the beer he gave me. That means that I have to drink that one, even if you switched them so I could have the other.” She growled under her breath. “If I had any second thoughts about your offer, that killed them.”
“I should say so. Let’s begin then.” The demimonde took a breath. “You first have to learn how to flirt. Flirting is a way of showing a man that you’re… interested in him and would like him to be interested in you in the same way.”
“How do I pick the man to flirt with?”
“You don’t – not at first, anyway. You flirt with every man you can. Later on, when you’re ready, you pick a man -- or two or three – to really go to work on. You decide that on the basis of who can do you the most good.”
“But how do I flirt with so many men?”
“There’s lots of ways. For instance – umm, does O’Toole have you dancing with the men on Saturday nights?”
“He does, damn his eyes.”
“At some point between the dances, try sitting like this.” She turned sideways on her chair, crossed her legs, and arched her back sensuously. “And when you do, run your fingers through that pretty hair of yours.”
Flora chuckled. “That’ll get their attention. It would have gotten mine.”
“Gets their peckers at attention, too -- but I guess you know all about that. There are other things you can do to, ah, work a whole crowd. You look a man in the eye – just pick one at random -- while you’re dancing as a Cactus Blosom, and wink at him, smile and run your tongue along your upper lip. That man – and every man near him – will think he’s the one you’re flirting with.”
“Anything more?”
“Lots; you can actually be looking square away from him, but still be flirting. But I’ll save most of the moves for my next ‘class’, if you don’t mind.”
“Most of them; that means you’ll tell me a few more today?”
Rosalyn nodded. “You ought to have a few principles ready to go for those Saturday dances. When a man comes up to hand you his ticket, smile and look at his face for a few seconds, then turn away, but glance back at him with your eyelids lowered a little.”
She gave Flora a quick demonstration of what she’d just described, watching the new woman’s reaction.
“I've seen that done to me a million times,” the latter said.
Rosalyn nodded. “Your own memories will be your best teacher. While you’re dancing a slow dance, lay your head on his chest and hum along. Run your hand slowly along his arm or on his chest. And when the dance is over, you smile at him.”
“And thank him for the dance, sure, I know that.”
“I expect that you do, but you’ll get better results if you say something like…” Rosalyn lowered her voice, “I had so much fun dancing with you, Joe.” She brought her hand up to her bosom. “I do hope that you’ll ask me again.” She looked away, over to the left, and when she looked back, her eyelids were half-closed. “See what I mean?” she asked.
Flora laughed. “I do. I most surely do, and I can’t wait to try it, just to see that old bastard’s reaction when he thinks I'm having a good time, in spite of everything he can do.”
* * * * *
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Cap said, gently tapping Bridget on the shoulder.
She turned at the sound of his voice. “Hello, Cap, what’s the matter?”
“I was wondering if you knew where I might find the prettiest girl in town, but I seem to have found her.”
“My, you’re certainly in a good mood today.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s a bright, sunny day; I’m talking to a beautiful girl; Uncle Abner’s making me his partner…” He let his voice trail off, while he watched her face.
“He’s what?!” She jumped to her feet. “Oh, Cap, that’s… that’s wonderful.” She raised her arms to hug him, but stopped, her expression changing from joy to worry. Would he want someone like her to hug him? “Con… Congratulations.” She reached out and shook his hand. “I guess that means he doesn’t think of you as his ‘idiot nephew’ anymore.”
“Well, now, fancy you remembering me saying that.” Cap had to grin. “He may still think that way, for all I know, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. He needs somebody to run his ranch, while he’s in Philadelphia getting his back fixed.”
“Yes, but it didn’t have to be you. He could have left his foreman in charge. And even if he wanted you to be running the place, he still didn’t have to make you his partner. He did it because he trusts you, Cap.”
She sighed and bowed her head. “I-I wish I could trust somebody – anybody -- that much.”
“Bridget...” Cap gently, slowly put a finger under her chin and lifted, so that her face was raised, and she was looking into his eyes. “You can trust me, Bridget.” He took a breath. “Please, please try.”
He could read the sadness in her glance as she answered him, “I-I don’t know if I can – yet, Cap, but thank you, thank you so very much for offering.”
* * * * *
` DANCERS WANTED!
` The Eerie Saloon is Looking for Young Ladies
` To Join the Eerie “Cactus Blossoms”
` Must be of Good Character and
` At Least 18 Years Old
` If Interested: Contact Molly O’Toole
` At the Eerie Saloon
Shamus put the sheet back on the top of the stack. “These’re just what we wanted, Love. I’ll be sure t’be getting them posted all around the town.”
“Ye might want t’be posting one in here, Shamus. Ye never know who’d be seeing it.”
He nodded. “Might as well. A quite a few women come in to eat at Maggie’s table, like that Rosalyn.”
“She'd be a handful,” Molly replied.
The bartender shrugged. “I just hope we get a lass or two t’be applying for the job. The ones most likely to be interested are already making more money than we can pay working in cathouses like Wilma.”
“Shamus O'Toole! Who says that only bad girls want to dance? Was I such a bad girl when you first met me?”
Her husband tried to mollify her with a smile. “Molly, me love, ye set me right on that score the instant ye dumped that beer over me head for asking, and I’ve loved ye for the angel ye was ever since.” When his wife's look remained dubious, he decided to stop talking. Peeling two of the flyers out of the stack, he left the bar to tack them up.
One was posted outside near the door; the other on the wall by the bar.
* * * * *
“Is there any Old Business?” Horace Styron asked the other members of the church board of elders.
Willie Gotefreund raised his hand. “Ja, der petition about Trisha ist come due. We vote on if she stays on der boardt or not.”
“He’s right, Horace,” the Judge added. “The thing is… you signed the petition for her removal, as I recall”
Horace glared at Humphreys. “I did. What about it?”
“You can’t run the meeting while we’re talking ‘bout your motion,” Rupe Warrick replied.
The Judge nodded. “Rupe’s right, Horace. Give him the gavel.”
“Is this some trick of yours, Humphreys?” Styron glanced around the room. “Where’s that damned Quinlan to make a ruling?” Then he remembered. “Oh, yeah, he’s off with that potion tramp of his.”
Milt and Jane had been sitting quietly in the back of the hall. He rose and walked quickly forward. “Mr. Styron, if you say one more untoward word about my wife, I will beat the living shit out of you and sue what little is left for every penny you have.”
“There… there’s no need to make threats, Milt.” Styron took a step back, keeping the table between himself and Quinlan. “I-I apologize.”
Milt stopped. “I’ll accept it… if Jane will.” He looked back at her and smiled. She blushed and gave a quick nod. “She does,” Milt continued, “but my threat stands. As far as parliamentary rules go, Mr. Warrick is correct. The Chair can’t preside if he’s one of the makers of the question under debate.”
“Thanks, Milt,” Rupe said, reaching for the gavel. “And best wishes to you and Jane.”
“Glad to be of help.” Milt walked back to Jane and sat down beside her.
She took his hand in hers. “Thanks for that ‘beat the living shit’ part, Milt.” She giggled and kissed his cheek. “I liked it a lot.”
“You’re my wife, Jane, and I won’t let anybody say a word against you.” He squeezed her hand. “And when this damned meeting is over…”
She blushed. “We surely will.”
* * * * *
Rupe pounded the gavel once. “All right, there’s a petition on the floor that Trisha O’Hanlan be removed from the board because of…” He took a quick look at the copy of the petition. “…unseemly behavior. It doesn’t say what she did, exactly, but whatever it was, it must have been pretty bad if five of you think we have to kick her off the board for it.”
“Can I say something?” Trisha raised her hand.
Horace smirked. “What lie have you got cooked up for us, now, Trisha?”
“Nothing as bad as the lies you and the others have cooked up about me.” Trisha rose to her feet. She took a deep breath and began. “I ran for the board because I wanted to make things better. I wanted to help the congregation help itself to grow into a caring family that served itself and the rest of our community. We’ve made a start at that with the creation of the building fund and with the dance that so many of you helped with and even more of you enjoyed.”
“When I was elected, I looked forward to serving a long time, to years of bringing our congregation together to do good works. That’s not possible now. The Bylaws say a woman can’t be elected to the Board, so I’m out as soon as my term is up in September.”
“If not sooner,” Cecelia Ritter yelled, and several of the women cheered.
Trisha gave her a wry smile. “Thank you, Cecelia, for making my point. I’ve tried very hard to work for the congregation, the entire congregation, but some people haven’t been interested in that. All they’ve wanted was to get me off the Board. I don’t like it, but I’ve come to see that my being on the Board has become a divisive issue. I don’t want that to continue.”
“Are you resigning?” Horace asked hopefully.
Trisha shook her head. “No, Horace, I’m not. A couple years ago, Tom Rhodes was one of the Board Members-at-Large, the same as I am now. He had to go back to Ohio on some family business, and he got stuck there for almost six months. As soon as he knew he wasn’t coming back anytime soon, he took a leave of absence. He was still on the Board, but somebody else went to the meetings in his place. That’s what I’m asking for now, a leave of absence.”
“Second,” Dwight Albertson yelled.
Styron stared at her in surprise. “A leave of absence, somebody else’d take your place, have your vote?”
“Yes,” Trisha said, looking down at the table.
The man smiled. “Then I second it, too.”
“All in favor?” Rupe asked. When the other six Board members all raised their hands, he did the same. “Passed unanimously; I guess the gavel is yours again, Horace. There’s no sense voting on the petition, seeing as Trisha isn’t really on the Board anymore.”
Styron rose, a toothy smile of triumph on his face. “No, there isn’t. And I nominate Clyde Ritter to take --”
“Sorry, Horace,” Trisha interrupted. “As the person taking the leave of absence, I get to pick who fills in for me.”
“What!” Styron practically howled.
The Judge nodded. “That’s the way the Bylaw reads – doesn’t it, Milt.”
“It does.” Milt held up a small, leather bound notebook. “Article 8, Section 10. I can show it to you in my copy of the Bylaws if you’d like, Mr. Styron.”
The man grimaced. “No, that… that won’t be necessary.”
“Glad to see you agree,” Trisha remarked, sounding almost casual. “My nomination is my brother, Liam O’Hanlan.” She made a sweeping gesture. “Liam, get up here and take over for me.”
Liam was sitting about halfway back, next to Kaitlin. He clambered to his feet and started for the stage. “Not that we really need to,” Judge Humphreys said, “but I move that we formally accept Trisha’s nomination of Liam as her substitute for the remainder of her term.”
“Can I second that?” Trisha asked.
The Judge shook his head in agreement. “You can. You’re still on the Board until your replacement takes over.” He leaned over. “Now, you ask, ‘all in favor’, Horace.”
“All in favor?” The man watched as Trisha, Humphreys, Dwight Albertson, and Rupe Warrick all raised their hands.
A moment later, Jubal Cates also raised a hand. “Seems only fair to honor the lady’s last wish.” Styron and Willie Gotefreund raised their hands slowly, as if in surrender.
“Passed unanimously,” Horace said, not really trying to hide his disgust. “We’ll take a five minute recess while everybody catches their breath and tries to figure out what just happened.”
* * * * *
Styron watched the stragglers come back into the schoolhouse, as the meeting resumed.
The O’Hanlans were all standing together near the window, talking. “I better get up there,” Liam said. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, Liam,” Trisha told him, shaking his hand. “And thanks for your help.”
Kaitlin leaned in and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Something extra for luck.”
“I feel lucky already.” He smiled and walked over to take the seat Trisha had used. He turned to the board president. “Do I need to get sworn in or anything, Horace?”
Styron gave him a sour look. “No, you’re only a ‘substitute’, so you don’t count for that much.”
“Thanks, I’ll try to live down to your expectations.”
Styron pounded the gavel a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. “We’re starting again, folks. Does anyone else on the Board have any Old Business?” He waited a moment, but there was no response. “Okay, then, is there any new business?” He looked at the other board members, but, again, no one spoke.
“In that case,” he continued, “I understand that Reverend Yingling has something to say. Reverend…”
Yingling stood slowly, his hands at his lapels, as if preparing for some great oration. “Thank you, Horace and you other Board members, for giving me the opportunity to speak. As many of you know, I have been concerned about Shamus O’Toole and that amazing concoction of his. I have asked the Town Council to create a committee which would take control of whatever amount of potion now exists and any more that he might produce in the future. A petition has circulated in support of my request, and this board has also voted its support toward that end.”
“In spite of this overwhelming support – for which I am truly grateful – the Town Council has repeatedly postponed its final vote on this matter, often relying on the most trivial of excuses for doing so. The Council will meet again a week from tonight, and I have come to ask that our church board of elders reaffirm their support of these efforts by a second vote of confidence in the rightness of these efforts. Thank you.” He nodded to the Board and resumed his seat.
“So moved,” Jubal Cates said quickly.
Styron seconded. “All in favor…”
“Hold it, Horace,” the Judge quickly cut him short. “I think that we need to talk about this a little before the vote takes place. Right, Milt?”
Milt nodded. “He’s right, Horace.”
“All right,” Horace said. “Who wants to start off?”
Humphreys raised a hand. “I will.” He flipped his lapel to revel a pale blue ribbon that was pinned to it. “For those of you who can’t read this ribbon, it says, ‘Trust Shamus.’ I trust Reverend Yingling implicitly in matters of Faith. He’s a good man and a good minister, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise. But in matters of the potion, which isn’t a moral issue as far as I can see, I trust Shamus O’Toole. He’s done a pretty good job so far. He dealt with the Hanks Gang, saved a boy’s life, and, right now, he’s got two more former men that he’s looking after. Making the potion, giving it to people, and taking care of them after they drink it is all part of the same job. Unless somebody else wants to take over all of that job, then let’s let the people who are doing it so well now just keep on doing it.”
“Panderer,” Cecelia Ritter yelled, jumping to her feet. “I think Mr. O’Toole isn’t the only one who should be losing a job. We’ll be voting on Board members in September and on your judgeship in November, and after that you may not have either job.” A few members of the crowd cheered loudly.
A few others were pinning on their own “Trust Shamus” ribbons. Styron frowned. “Thank you, Cecelia, but it’s the members of the Board who are supposed to be speaking now. Still…” He paused for effect. “…this Board was elected to do the will of the Congregation. So, if no one minds…” He glanced at the others at the table. “I’ll ask those in favor of giving continued support to the efforts of our spiritual leader, to rise for a serpentine vote.”
“A what?” someone yelled.
Milt stood up, still holding Jane’s hand. “I’ll explain, Horace. Everybody in favor stands up. Horace points to someone to start. They say, ‘one’ and sit down. The next one standing says, ‘two’ and so on, until everyone’s sitting, and we have the count. Then, those opposed do the same thing.” He quickly took his seat, placing his arm around his new wife.
“Do like Milt said,” Horace told the crowd. “If you support the Reverend, stand up.” When everyone who did, was standing, he pointed to Clyde Ritter, sitting next to Cecelia in the front row on the left.
Clyde shouted out, “One” and sat down. Cecelia said, “Two” just as loudly. The vote swept from row to row, finally going up to the members of the Board. Willie Gotefreund took his seat last after calling out, “Forty-five.”
“All right,” Styron said, hiding his disgust at the low count. “Those opposed, you stand up now.” He waited for them to get to their feet. “Trisha,” he told the former board member, “you start this count.”
Liam was the last, this time. He sat after saying “Forty-one.”
“According to the poll we just took, the Congregation supports the Reverend,” Horace said.
“Not by much,” Jubal Cates added, nervously. “Maybe we should hold off on this?”
Styron shook his head. “No, I’m calling the vote now. Board members in favor raise your hands.” He looked around. “Willy… Jubal… anyone else… Dwight, thank you, Dwight, and myself. Those opposed. Judge… Rupe… and Liam, no surprise there.” He smiled. “The vote is to 4 to 3 in support of Reverend Yingling. I’ll draft a letter for you in the name of the Board, Reverend.”
“Thank you, Horace,” Yingling said, appearing to smile. “And my thanks to you loyal members of the Board.”
The gavel sounded once more. “Any other New Business?” Horace asked. “No, in that case, I declare this meeting adjourned.”
* * * * *
Thursday, May 16, 1872
“’Morning, everybody,” Jane said, as she walked through the back door and into Maggie’s kitchen.
Maggie slid the frying pan of scrambled eggs over to a cooler back burner. That done, she hurried over to hug her friend. “Jane, welcome back. I did not expect you so early.”
“Why not? You come back from your honeymoon ‘round breakfast time.”
“Yes, but it was my restaurant I was coming back to. I was worried about it the whole time, no matter how good I knew you were or how much Ramon tried to distract me.”
Jane giggled. “I bet he was real good at… distracting you.”
“Mmm, he was. He still is, I am happy to say.” Maggie looked at the newlywed. “And I think it is the same with Milt and you.”
“It is,” Jane giggled. “It truly is, and the only reason I come back this early is ‘cause he needed t’get back to work on something for Mr. Slocum.”
Maggie shrugged. “That is the problem in being married. Sometimes, the men have to leave before we want them to leave.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Flora picked that moment to come in from the Saloon. “Well, now, look’s who’s finally come back.”
“G’morning, Flora,” Jane replied.
Flora set the empty tray she was carrying down on the worktable. “Lylah’s set the table, and I just took out the coffee and the bread. I guess we’re done, now that she’s…” Flora pointed at Jane. “…back.”
“You and Lylah are done, when I say that you are done.” Maggie answered firmly. “Jane, will you finish with the eggs while I find something else for Flora to do.”
Jane just managed not to laugh. “Sure, Maggie.” She reached for an apron. ‘That one’s still putting her foot in it,’ she thought, as she went over to tend the eggs.
* * * * *
“Roscoe,” Trisha said cheerily, “what brings you in here today?”
Roscoe Unger walked over to the counter. “Good morning, Trisha. I came over to interview you – you and Liam, both, actually, about what happened at the church board meeting last night.” He studied their faces. “If you don’t mind, of course.”
“Why not?” Liam answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “Things are quiet right now, so it should be all right.” He glanced over at a tall Mexican who was stacking 50-pound sacks of dried corn meal. “Mateo,” he called out. “Trisha and I are going into the office for a while. Take care of anybody that comes in, okay?”
The man nodded without looking up from his work. “Si, Señor Liam.”
“Thanks,” Liam replied. “Okay, Roscoe… Trisha, let’s go.” He led them over to the office and opened the door. “Ladies first,” he told her, making a broad gesture with his other arm.
As Trisha walked into the office, it occurred to her that she’d never really agreed to being interviewed. ‘Well,’ she thought, ‘in for a penny, in for a pound. And I’ll do most of the talking once we get started anyway.’
Two desks, hers and Liam’s, were pushed together to form a common workspace. She took her own seat and pointed to a nearby wooden chair for Roscoe. Liam shut the door and sat down at his desk, turning the chair to face Unger.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” the newsman said, taking a small pad and a yellow pencil from his inside jacket pocket. “Trisha, why, exactly, did you quit the board last night?”
She smiled. “I didn’t actually quit. I took a leave of absence. Strictly speaking, I’m still on the Board. Only it’ll be Liam sitting there at the table during the meetings, speaking and voting instead of me.” She couldn’t help sounding sad as she spoke.
“Okay, then, why did you take a leave of absence?”
“Because I was too much of a distraction; the Board and the congregation were stuck in a rut, spending way too much time talking about me, instead of the important work they should have been doing. And it wasn’t just talking, they were arguing about me. That’s not right. A congregation’s supposed to be a family, with the board at its head. People can’t be spending all that time yelling at each other, arguing with each other like Cecelia Ritter – no, don’t mention any names, please. Please. Just say like so many of the people were doing, arguing about me, and then arguing about the people who were disagreeing with them about me.”
Roscoe waggled his head in agreement. “Okay, no names.” To himself, he added, ‘besides Cecelia Ritter’s head has already gotten too big from seeing her name in the paper.’
“Why didn’t you take this leave of absence back in December, when Horace Styron and the others tried to get you off the board?”
“Because I thought that it would blow over, that it was more a case of folks not being sure how much the potion changed me. Heck, I wasn’t sure of that myself, but I thought that I could do the job, and I wanted a chance to try, to prove it to myself and to everybody else.” She chuckled. “And I did. The dance was a great success.”
“It was, and you deserve a lot of the credit for that.”
“I’ll take a share of it, but it took a lot of work by a lot of people, and they all deserve a share of the credit.”
“The petition that Horace Styron and the others wrote up claimed that you behaved improperly at the dance. That was why they wanted you off the board. Would you care to comment on those charges?”
“No.” She stared down at her desk for a moment before she raised her head again. “But I guess that I have to. I don’t think I did anything that was so very wrong. I danced with a few men and ate and drank and generally enjoyed myself, just the same as everybody else.”
“The petition claims that you walked off into the woods with someone, a Rhys Goodwyn. What do you say to that charge?”
“I danced with Mr. Goodwyn. Then he was kind enough to accompany me, while I walked around looking at the decorations and such. I don’t know why people made such a fuss out of it. I saw a number of couples strolling around during the evening. I wasn't a wallflower when I was a man, and I'm not one now.”
“Are you and Goodwyn a couple?”
“There were two of us. That’s a couple, and that’s all there is to it.” Damn, she was getting tired of lying, but she could hardly admit that he’d gotten her drunk and seduced her. Or how much she’d wanted him to seduce her. No, she couldn’t say that any more than she could say that she’d been with two other men besides Rhys and that she was pregnant by one of them. ‘Especially,’ she suddenly thought, ‘not to Roscoe – and why am I so concerned about telling him? It’s telling Liam that I should worry about.’
He seemed to see the pain in her face. “I guess that is all.” He shifted in his chair. “Liam, now that you’ll be sitting in for Trisha on the meetings, do you have any plans on what you’ll be doing?”
“I’ll be supporting the Building Fund she started. She and I agree on most matters, and I agreed to take her place to protect her ideas. Neither of us wants to see them dismantled by whoever else might have taken her seat.”
“Is that all you’ll be doing, protecting your sister’s ideas?”
“No, I’ve a few ideas of my own that I’d like to see done.”
Trisha raised a curious eyebrow. “Oh, do you, now, Liam. And what sort of ideas are they?”
“For one thing, I’d like to see the church run some events jointly with the Mexican church. Some of the things that were said at the last town council meeting tells me that there’s still a lot of distrust between us and them. We’re all neighbors here. We don’t have to love everybody, but we have to learn to treat each other with respect.”
Roscoe quickly wrote that down. He glanced back up and asked, “What sort of thing are you talking about?”
“There isn’t much time, but I thought the board and the church could co-sponsor a Fourth of July town picnic.” He took quick look at the calendar on the wall. “The Fourth is a Thursday, a workday, but we could have it on Saturday. Maybe we could even have a two-day party, one day at the church and the other at the field by the schoolhouse. We could have Mexican food and things like those pinyatas they celebrate with and fireworks the first day. Then have fried chicken and sports – baseball maybe – and more fireworks the second.”
Trisha frowned. “That’d be kind of expensive, wouldn’t it?”
“Not too expensive,” her brother replied. “We could sell tickets, maybe have a raffle with prizes that merchants could donate. The ladies from both churches could pack picnic baskets, fix them up real nice, and we could auction them off. Folks do that all the time. Some of the money’d help pay for the picnic, and their church and our own building fund could split whatever’s left fifty-fifty.”
Roscoe considered what Liam had just said. “Those’re pretty good ideas, Liam. Do you have any more?”
“I sure do, and not just about the picnic. I’ve a notion or two about other ways to raise money for our building fund, ideas about how to get people to support the whole idea of what the building fund’s there for. They might not help make us any money, but they’d make it harder for anyone to kill the idea.”
The newsman leaned back in his chair. “Tell me more.”
“Sure.” Liam began talking. He and Roscoe went on for more than an hour. They got so involved that they barely noticed Trisha leave, or noticed the frustrated look on her face as she did.
* * * * *
“Damnation!” Thaddeus Yingling thundered, slamming his pencil down onto his desk.
Martha was dusting in the parlor, close enough to hear him. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked, hurrying into his study.
“Yes – no, blast it! No, I’m not. I’m so mad about what happened at the board meeting last night that I can’t get any work done on my sermon.”
“But you told me that the board voted to support you. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”
“It was, but the vote was 4 to 3, the narrowest of victories. And the congregation, they were even worse.”
“What do you mean, the congregation was worse?”
“Horace Styron called for a straw poll. I believe that he wanted to show those disloyal members of the board how strongly the congregation supported me.” He snorted. “That certainly went wrong. The poll went 45 for me and… 41 – for-ty-one…” He pronounced each syllable separately. “…against. Those ungrateful souls voted against me, their minister, and against the holy work I am trying to do.”
“Perhaps,” she said softly, gently placing her hand on his shoulder, “perhaps you’re trying too hard. All this business with the potion, I think it’s… confusing people, making them forget all the wonderful things you’ve done for them.”
“No!” He pulled away from her. “I-I have to do this. I can’t allow any chance that… that some innocent might be harmed by that foul brew. It's happened before.” He took a breath, as if steeling himself for a fight. “I have to try even harder. I have to succeed. I am the shepherd to these folk, and I shall return my sheep to the fold.”
“The potion will be mine,” he went on, “and when it is he – they, they will all see the error of their ways, and there will be no more rebellion against G-d’s Will.”
* * * * *
Abner Slocum finished reading the last page and shifted it to the back of the set of papers he was holding. “This looks fine, Milt. How soon will you have the copies ready for Matthew and I to sign?”
“I have to make those changes we’ve discussed; there aren’t many of them. I should have them done by late Friday afternoon.”
“That should do it. He’ll be coming into town Saturday morning, and we can sign them then.”
“I’ll have those changes to your will done, too. You can sign it at the same time.”
“That will be even better. Red tells me that the wagon they’re fixing up for me will be done by tomorrow. The Doc wants to try it out. If it works, I can leave right after everything’s signed.”
“Are you sure about this trip?”
“No, but I’m sure that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life lying on my back with only one working arm and no working legs.”
“I can see your point, and I wish you all the luck in the world.” He put the papers back into his briefcase. “I’d better go, if I’m going to get these documents back when I promised.”
“Goodbye, then, and give all my love to your new wife.”
Milt chuckled. “Thanks, Abner, but I’d rather give her all my love. I like to think that she prefers it.”
“I’m sure she does; now, get going on my legal work.”
* * * * *
` “Informed by Eerie School Board of your firing for unseemly behavior.
` Your name removed from our accredited teachers list. Do not use
` Hartford Female Seminary as reference in future.”
` H. Louis Dewey,
` Director of Teacher Placement
Nancy stared at the telegram again. “Of all the deceitful…” She crumbled it up and shoved it into her apron pocket. If one of the town council members had actually told this lie to the Seminary, she was never going to get her job back. If someone else in town had sent it, ‘The more likely case,’ she told herself, then she was still going to have a very hard time getting her job back. “And an even harder time holding onto it,” she muttered under her breath. “And I don’t have the credentials anymore to get a teaching job anywhere else.”
Now, just to get a new teaching job -- anywhere -- she'd have to first get involved in an ugly haggle all the way across the country.
‘I’ve known those people for years,’ she thought, ‘and they’ve known me just as long. How could they believe a lie like that so easily? Was everything they told me, every kindness they ever showed me – was everything I ever believed in been just another lie?’
It made her angry and made her feel alone. Nancy had been thinking of giving up teaching anyway, but she wanted it to be her choice, not someone else's. She didn't want to leave both it and her good name behind.
‘Maybe I should ask Mr. Whitney and the others to write Mr. Dewey. Let him, let everyone know the sort of despicable people who would do such a thing. No,’ she realized, 'that… that would just drag things out. I-I might not win and it would hurt so much worse if I lost.’
“All right,” she growled. “If they want to keep calling me a tramp, that’s what they'll get. They've done their best work on me; let's see how much they like the results!” She all but stomped over to the bar. “Molly, may I talk to you for a minute… upstairs?”
The older woman noted Nancy's angry flush and nodded. “Sure ye can.” She came out from behind the bar, where she’d been stacking glasses, and followed the waitress to the second floor.
* * * * *
“Now what is it that ye had t’be getting me up here t’talk about?”
Nancy pulled the telegram from her pocket. “This!” She thrust it into Molly’s hand.
“Oh, my,” Molly said, after a quick look. “Ye don’t really think any of them on the council wrote ‘em, do ye?”
“No… no, I don’t. Whit wouldn’t have let me stay in his home if he felt that way, and Arsenio’s not the sort of man who’d do something like writing to the Seminary after all the help I’ve been giving to Laura.”
“That still leaves Aaron Sil –”
“That darling, old man – never, not the way he’s been such a gentleman to me. I know I haven't been too good at seeing hypocrites for what they are, but I don't think anyone on the board is that kind.”
“Then who d’ye think done it?”
“If I had to make a guess, Cecelia Ritter. Or Zenobia Carson; her husband runs the telegraph. But, to tell the truth, Molly, I don’t care. Whoever it was, he – or she – settled something for me. I'm giving up teaching. I was thinking about it before, but now, much as I loved the main part of it, I won’t go back to being the timid little schoolmarm under the scrutiny of such narrow minds.”
“What’re ye gonna do then?”
“Well…” She clenched her fists and set her jaw. “I saw that flyer you put up yesterday. I don't know why, but I started thinking of myself up on stage and I couldn't get that thought off my mind all day. Flora and Lylah don't seem to like what they've been doing, but to me it looks like a lot of fun. Now I suddenly realize that I have nothing left to lose. It should be frightening, but it makes me feel free. I can actually try being a dancer.”
Molly looked truly surprised. “Why a dancer?”
Nancy shrugged. “They make a lot more money than a waitress, don't they?”
“Aye…they do,” Molly answered slowly. She studied the woman for a moment. “Ye’re surely pretty enough, but I don't think it's the money yer thinking about right now. If this is only about getting revenge on people for name-calling ye, think again. As much as we love ye, Nancy, the saloon business is serious, and we need a serious-minded girl to help us stay in business. I'm just afraid that you'll quit the first time yer actually asked to go out on stage and show off your knees.”
“I am serious. You can trust me, Molly. I've never been a quitter. If I'll say I'll do something, I'll do it. I'm going to become the best darned --” She took a determined breath. “Best damned dancer this town has ever seen! And it will be good for business. Think of all the customers who'll come in just to see the school teacher they know doing the cancan.”
“Ay, that would be a novelty attraction for a little while. But do ye really want to be looked at the way men are going t'be looking at you? Do ye want to advertise that yer some sort of a fallen woman?”
Nancy's eyes flashed and that expression Carl sometimes used rushed to her lips. “Damned straight!”
Molly regarded her skeptically. This hardly seemed to be the same young lady who had offered to fill in for Laura Caulder only weeks before. “Even if ye really want the job, Nancy, it won't be any stroll down the lane. It takes hard work and a lot o'practice. How well do ye move? Can ye do the dancing?”
“I'm as good at dancing as the Cactus Blossoms are.”
“Let’s see.”
“See what?”
“Let's see how much ye know how to do already.”
They were standing in the back hallway where Molly rehearsed with Flora and Lylah. Nancy didn't seem quite sure about what Molly was asking. To lift her skirts to the knees and start kicking? Then her face brightened. She turned, faced the open floor, and took a few steps. Then, stretching her arms out over her head, she suddenly lunged forward. Her hands touched down on the floor solidly and her body formed a “T” with her legs. The momentum of the roll carried her sideways. First one foot, then the other, touched down. It took her only a couple seconds to collect herself. “Ta da!” she said cheerily, her arms raised over her head like a circus performer.
“Bravo,” Molly said walking over. “Yer just full o'surprises today. And where did ye learn t’be doing a cartwheel like that?”
Still a little breathless, Nancy replied, “I was quite the tomboy, when I was younger. Carl and I grew up on a farm back in Pennsylvania, with only each other to play with. I learned to do cartwheels and climb trees just to keep up with him.”
Molly put her hands on her hips and took a good second look at Nancy. “I’d never o’guessed it. Ye’ve always been the perfect lady.”
“You can thank my aunt and uncle for that. We went to live with them in Hartford after my parents died. Aunt Clementine still refers to my first years with her and Uncle Nathaniel as her ‘Time of Great Trial’, but eventually, her lessons took hold.”
“They surely did. Can ye do other stunts like that?”
“I used to be able to do a double cartwheel, but I’d want to practice before I tried that one in public. I can do somersaults… tucks and rolls, too.” She took a breath. “At least, I used to be able to do them.”
“And ye will again, I’m thinking.” Molly spat in her hand and held it out for Nancy to shake. “If ye won't mind wearing a dancehall costume and kicking yer heart out, welcome to the Cactus Blossoms.”
Nancy laughed. She spat in her own hand and shook hands with Molly. “Thank you… boss.”
* * * * *
Kaitlin poured fresh hot water into her teacup. “Would you like some more tea, Trisha?”
“Yes, please.” Trisha replied, holding up her own, almost empty cup.
Kaitlin filled Trisha’s cup and set the pot down, covering it with a tea cozy. Then she walked over and sat down across from her transformed ex-husband. “Have you decided when you’re going to tell Liam… and Emma? You did promise, you know?”
“I know.” She sipped at her chamomile tea. “I-I was thinking… how about tomorrow night? Liam will be by for his usual Friday night supper.”
“Tomorrow? That’s a rather nasty birthday present for Emma, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but you’re the one pushing me to tell. It’s just bad luck that tomorrow is her birthday.” She looked hopefully at Kaitlin. “We could put off telling them for a while.”
“No, and I don’t think we should tell Liam, without telling her as well.” She gave a wistful sigh. “Maybe she’ll like the idea of finally having a little brother or sister enough not to mind that it’s you who’ll be the mother.”
“Oh, sure, and may we can go outside after supper and watch the pigs flying by.”
* * * * *
Nancy was standing at the bar, waiting for a drink order, when Clyde Ritter walked over. “Good evening, Miss Osbourne.”
“Mr. Ritter,” she said with a sigh. “The last thing I need is more trouble from you. Please go away.”
“I was just being sociable… Nancy. You were a boarder in my house last school year.”
“I remember. I also remember why I left. You’re a married man, and I’ll respect that even if you won’t.”
He smirked. “Your loss, and, for the record, you weren’t the reason I came over here tonight.” He pointed to Flora, who had just come out of the curtained off “dressing room” under the stairs, where she’d put on her blouse and skirt after her early evening show. “She is.”
“That’s her misfortune, then.” Before he could reply, R.J. put the pitcher and five glasses down on her tray. She lifted it quickly and headed over to Bridget’s poker table, as fast as she could walk through the crowd.
Ritter shrugged and hurried over to the mass of men forming around Flora. “You were enchanting as always, Flora,” he told her, once he was close enough.
Flora glanced at the mustachioed speaker. ‘Let’s just see if Rosalyn knew what she was talking about,’ Flora thought. “Why thank you, thank all of you boys.” She smiled broadly and looked down, her eyes half-closed. When she looked up a moment later, she flashed her lashes at them. “I just love dancing for all you handsome, handsome men.”
From the way the crowd ate up the slop she’d just fed them, Flora decided that Rosalyn certainly did know how to handle men. Suddenly a thought crossed her mind. Rosalyn knew how to mint the coin of the realm, but did she know what could be bought with it?
* * * * *
Friday, May 17, 1872
Carl strode a few feet into the Saloon and walked over to where his sister was sitting. “G’morning, Nancy. You on break or something?”
“Carl,” she returned his greeting. “What brings you to town today?”
“Arsenio and Sam got that ambulance done this morning, the one they was rigging up for Mr. Slocum – at least, they think it’s done. Before the Doc’ll let the boss go off in it, he wants t’test it out. So he’s laying down in the back, where Mr. Slocum will be, while Red Tully drives the thing all ‘round, especially over that bumpy trail up to Chiricahua Mesa outside o’town.”
She considered this information. “What happens if he says it’s safe for Mr. Slocum to ride in it?”
“Then Red’ll use it to take him up to Utah t’catch a train east. Angel Montero’s gonna go along, to t’drive the thing back here t’Eerie. Mr. Slocum says he wants the Doc t’have it.”
“That’s very good of him.”
“He’s a good man. What’s new with you, Sister?”
“Nothing good.” She fetched the telegram out of her apron pocket. “I got this yesterday.” She tossed the envelope across the table to him.
Carl took out the sheet of paper and read it slowly. “Tarnation! Now who the hell wrote and told ‘em a lie like that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think that it was any of the actual members of the town council, not after they’ve all told me that they wanted me to come back and be a teacher again.”
“You gonna do it? You gonna take up the job again?”
“Not after this! Somebody in this town hated me enough to send a fake letter to the Seminary. If I take that job, she’ll be waiting to do even worse.”
“She? You know who done it, don’t you?”
“I’ve a good idea who did it, and her initials are Cecelia Ritter -- that, or Cecelia and Zenobia Carson. Tom Carson is the town telegrapher, after all. He’d know that the telegram to the Seminary was a lie, but he’d probably send it anyway, if his wife asked him to.”
“So, what’re you gonna do about it?”
“I’m not going to go scraping and bowing to the sort of people who’d send such a lying letter, to beg them to let me be a school teacher again, that’s for sure.” She paused for a moment, bracing for the argument she knew she was about to start. “I’ve talked to Molly O’Toole.”
“About the telegram?”
“Yes, but I mean I asked for a different job.”
“You want to cook or clean instead?” Carl asked bemusedly.
She was looking to one side, at the light coming in over the batwing doors. “I’m the newest member of the Cactus Blossoms.”
Her brother staggered half a step back. “The Cactus Blossoms! You mean to tell me that you’re gonna be up there with Flora and… and Lylah, strutting around in your underthings?”
“Actually, I expect to be doing some specialty dancing. I auditioned for the job with a cartwheel.”
Carl grimaced and scratched his head. “The schoolmarm’s gone, then, and the tomboy’s back.”
“She is.” Nancy rose to her feet and folded her arms in front of her. “You got a problem with that, Big Brother?”
“A problem? You're damned right I do!”
“I was just taking your advice,” Nancy averred with a smile, almost a laugh, and a sparkle in her eye.
“What are you talking about?”
“You said I shouldn't think about making a long career of waitressing, but that I should be on the lookout out for better opportunities. I'll be making a lot more money dancing.”
Carl felt so exasperated he could barely find words to speak. “You know I never meant for you to do anything so...so...”
“So what?” Nancy had asked that while driving a hard stare right into his eyes.
He knew that look, her “taking a stand” look. She had had the nerve to take it even before Reverend Yingling, and he had seen how much trouble it had gotten her into. “Since you asked, here's what I think.” He raised a hand and began to count off on his fingers. “First off, you ain’t never gonna be able to be a teacher again, if you do something like this, but I guess whoever sent word back to Hartford fixed that, pretty much, anyway.”
“I'm glad you realize that. Anything else?”
“We both know,” he continued, “that I’m gonna get a lot o’grief from my buddies at the ranch about you dancing. Hell, you actually taught a couple of the younger ones!”
She chuckled. “Tell them to drop by and see the show. If they come in on Saturday, I can teach them something new, how to dance with a woman.”
Carl scowled. “And we sure as all get-out won’t be telling Aunt Clemmie and Uncle Nat what you’re doing. They'd probably come all the way out here just to nail your hide to the wall, and then string me up for letting you do what you're doing.”
“Brother, it's not up to you to let me do things. I know that ladies aren’t supposed to take jobs like that, but my lady days are over!”
Carl looked like he'd argue more, but instead he stood there like a cocked hammer, towering above her. He studied her expression for a moment, then gave a sigh of resignation. “…I suppose if you’re gonna be stubborn as a goat – and that ain’t nothing new for you – you might as well be prancing around like one. But before you do, I hope you realize what a mistake you're making.”
“Don't be so sure, Carl. Maybe my real mistake was trying to be something I wasn't. Maybe I'm just catching up with the life I was meant to live. Who knows that some angel didn't write, 'Nancy Osbourne: Cancan girl' in the Book of Life, when I was born?”
Her brother gave a throaty noise and touched his Colt. “If he did, I'm going to shoot down that scrawny old angel like he was a turkey buzzard.”
* * * * *
Phillipia Stone looked down at the small clock ticking softly on the corner of her desk. “Children,” she said, clapping her hands to get their attention, “Please put your arithmetic books away. We’re going to end classes early today, so you may have a little treat.”
“Emma O’Hanlan’s birthday is tomorrow, and she brought cupcakes and lemonade to share with you all by way of celebration.”
Hermione’s hand shot up. “Mrs. Stone, did Emma’s mama make that food and bring it over, or was it her sister, Trisha?”
“What’s it to you, Hermione?” Emma stood at her desk and glared at the other girl.
Mrs. Stone tried to step in. “Yes, Hermione, why are you asking? I’m sure that the cupcakes and lemonade are delicious regardless of who made them.”
“I was just curious,” the girl replied. “I thought that Trisha O’Hanlan’d have the time to bake cupcakes, seeing as she got throwed off the church board Wednesday night.”
Phillipia shook her head. “I’m afraid that you have been misinformed Hermione. She’s still on the board. She just took a leave of absence –”
“But my Mama said,” Hermione interrupted.
“I have no idea what your mother told you, but if she said that Trisha O’Hanlan is no longer on the church board, it was… untrue.”
“Is so true; Mama wouldn’t lie!”
“I was at the meeting, Hermione, and I saw and heard what happened. However, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss church politics.” She took a breath. “The food is on the table in the back of the room. Please help yourselves when I call your group… first grade children, you may go ahead.”
* * * * *
“What was all that stuff about Emma’s… umm, sister?” Yully asked Hermione as the eighth graders walked towards the table. “Who cares what happened at the church meeting? It don’t mean anything.”
Hermione smiled, pleased to start up again. “It means that she realizes that there are some things a female – even a fake female like her and her ‘sister’ -- shouldn’t do. Women shouldn’t be on the church board, and Emma shouldn’t be playing that ball game with you boys.”
“Seems t’me that ain’t up to you, Hermione.” The girl looked up to see Bert McLeod ahead of them with the other seventh graders. “I wasn’t so sure that Emma should play, when she first showed up, but she’s done pretty good since then. Heck, she helped my team win a couple o’weeks ago.”
Emma beamed. “Thanks, Bert.”
“Why are you defending this freak, Bert McLeod?” Hermione looked daggers at the younger boy.
By this point, they reached the table. “He’s just being honest, Hermione,” Emma said. “You should try it yourself sometime.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said haughtily.
Emma chuckled. “You should. And you should tell the truth about things, too. For instances, tell me true if you liked these cupcakes my Ma made.”
“I will not! If I was to say anything true, it’s that you and Trisha are horrid potion freaks and have no business being around regular people.”
Emma clenched her jaw. That was it! She picked up a cupcake from the small tray they were in. It was a white cake frosted with light blue icing. “In the meantime, try one of these.” Smiling, now, she mashed the pastry in Hermione’s face.
“Mrs. Stone,” Hermione screamed, “did you see what Emma just did to me?”
“I’m afraid that I didn’t Hermione,” the teacher replied, covering her mouth with her hand, “and you really must learn not to make such a mess when you eat. Try to be a lady – like Emma.”
* * * * *
“Honey or lemon?” Lavinia Mackechnie asked.
Cecelia Ritter considered the choices for a moment before replying, “Honey, if you please.”
“Honey, it is.” Lavinia used a honey dipper, a small, wooden rod, with an egg-shaped piece of wood at the end. She dipped the egg in a jar of clover honey, then held it over Cecelia’s cup. The honey dripped out of concentric grooves in the “egg” and into the hot liquid. “It’s such a pity the church board meeting didn’t go better last Wednesday,” she said, as she finally handed her friend the tea.
Cecelia took an experimental sip. “Ahh… lovely,” she said by way of approval. She took a longer sip and added, “Actually, I thought that things went pretty well for us Wednesday night.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Hilda Scudder asked.
Cecelia smiled, confidently. “For a start, we finally got rid of that horrid Trisha O’Hanlan. Oh, I know… her brother will be filling her seat for the rest of her term. But that’s only till September. He can’t cause us much trouble in that short a time.”
“What if he decides to run for the spot in the fall election?” Zenobia Carson asked.
Their leader shook her head. “He’s never shown any interest in the board before this. Why should he start now? He only took the seat – I expect – to help Trisha out. Besides, if he does run, I’m more than sure that my Clyde can beat him.”
“You should ask Reverend Yingling to come out for Clyde in the election. The Reverend owes you a lot for all the work you’ve done supporting his petition.”
Grace MacLeod spoke softly. “I’m not sure that he would. I’ve heard him say that he never takes sides in church elections because he has to work with whomever wins.”
“A wise notion, I’m sure,” Cecelia responded, “but after all my -- our -- work on his petition, I just know that he’d consider my husband as a special case.” She picked up one of the treacle tarts from the plate in the center of the table.
She took a bite, wiping her mouth with a napkin before continuing. “That’s another thing. The board may have voted a second time, last Wednesday, to support that petition, but the vote was much too close for my taste.”
“It was that foolish serpentine poll they took,” Zenobia said. “That and those dreadful ‘Trust Shamus’ ribbons some people were wearing.”
Cecelia nodded. “Indeed, and we cannot let that sort of thing happen at the town council meeting.” She hoisted her massive reticule onto her lap and opened the latch. “Before I gave the signed petitions to Reverend Yingling, I made a list of all the names. Now where…?” She rooted through her purse for a few moments before she pulled out a few sheets of paper. “Here they are. I split the list into five parts, one for each of us. We want to get as many of those people as possible to next week’s town council meeting.” She chuckled. “Then we’ll see how little harm to the Reverend those ribbons of Mr. O’Toole’s can do. Or those dumb, yammering Mex.”
* * * * *
“Move it, waitress, move it,” Bridget called out. Flora was walking slowly towards the poker table holding a tray filled with glasses and the second pitcher of beer of the evening. “There’re some thirsty players here.”
Flora reached the table and positioned the tray near Stu Gallagher, who sat across from Bridget. “I guess you aren’t having one, then, Miss Bridget, seeing as you’re just the dealer and not one of those players.” She chuckled. “How many weeks has it been since I… had you, and you aren’t over it yet?”
She smiled and headed back towards the bar before Bridget could react.
* * * * *
“More cake, anyone?” Kaitlin asked. When no one responded, she picked up the plate with the remains of Emma’s birthday cake and carried it over to the work counter by the sink. She placed a glass cover over the plate and walked back to the table and sat down.
Speaking in a firm voice, she said, “It’s time, Trisha.”
“I suppose that it is,” Trisha said. She took a long drink of lemonade, wishing that it were much stronger.
Emma looked over at her mother. “Is this an adult discussion, or do I get to stay?”
“It’s adult, all right,” Kaitlin answered, glancing over at Trisha. “But it concerns you, too, so you should stay.” She sighed. “You, too, Liam.”
He studied the faces of the two women. “This sounds serious.”
“It is,” Kaitlin said. “And before we go any further, I want you both to promise that you won’t tell anyone about what we say here tonight.”
Liam raised his right hand, as if he were in court. “I promise… so help me G-d.”
“Cross my heart and hope t’die,” Emma said, making the gesture over her heart.
Kaitlin nodded gravely. “Very good; tell them, Trisha.”
Trisha stared down at the table, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes. “The reason – the real reason – that I had to quit the Board is that I-I’m…” She took a deep breath, bracing herself. “…pregnant.”
There was about three seconds of absolute silence.
“You’re what!” exclaimed Liam, rising to his feet.
Trisha’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Pregnant.”
“Who did it?” he shouted. “I’ll… I’ll kill the son of a bitch.” He glared at his sister. “Or is there more to this than what meets the eye? Are you involved with him? Do you want to marry him, and have him make an honest woman out of you?”
Trisha shook her head. “No, I don’t want to marry anyone.”
“So he gets off scot-free, whoever he is,” Liam said with disgust.
His sister closed her eyes. “Yes. I-I just want to get on with my life.”
“There’s not much chance of that,” Kaitlin said. “You can’t hide a pregnancy.”
Liam frowned. “That’s why you gave up on any chance of keeping your seat, isn’t it; because you’d have been thrown off the board as soon as you started showing.”
“It is,” Trisha admitted. “I won’t let Horace Styron kill off what I’ve already gotten through.” She took a breath. “And regardless of what happens to me, you’ll still have a good chance of keeping the seat after the election. All you have to do is be the good board member I know you can be.”
Liam stalked to the middle of the parlor. “If I want to keep it.” He took a moment to consider things. “Good night, Kaitlin… Emma.” He walked briskly to the door and left, slamming it behind him.
“That went well,” Kaitlin said.
Trisha sighed. “I’ll talk to him about it at the store tomorrow.” She looked over at Emma. “You’ve been very quiet through all this, Emma. Do you have any questions?”
“This is ‘cause of the potion we drank, ain’t it?” She spoke in a soft, not quite steady voice.
Trisha shrugged. “That’s the only way I could have gotten pregnant.”
“Is that gonna happen to me, too?” Emma’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Am I gonna have a baby?”
Kaitlin shook her head, trying to look serious. “No, dear, just drinking that potion won’t do it. You have to… be with a boy. I explained all that to you back in January.”
Emma frowned. “If you just kiss a boy, does that make you pregnant?” she asked, feeling guilty – and scared – about what she and Yully had done.
Trisha looked across at her ex-wife. “That couldn’t have been much of a talk you gave the girl before.” She gave her daughter a wistful smile. “Kissing’s a good start, but you have to do a whole lot more.”
“Trisha!” Kaitlin shouted. “That’s enough from you.” She turned to face her daughter. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get changed for bed? You can bunk with me tonight, and I promise that we’ll stay up as late as you want, so I can answer all your questions.”
That pleased the girl, but she had one concern. “Trisha, too?”
“No.” Kaitlin glowered at her former husband. “Trisha just volunteered to sleep down here on the settee tonight.”
“Are you sure that would be good for the baby?” Trisha asked with an arched eyebrow.
* * * * *
Saturday, May 18, 1872
Milt Quinlan sat in one of the visitors’ chairs in Dr. Upshaw’s ward, his briefcase positioned on his lap. “Do you have any questions, Cap?”
“Not really,” Cap replied. “This is very generous of you, Uncle Abner.”
Abner Slocum nodded in agreement. “Yes, but it’s nothing that you didn’t earn. You’ve come a long way from that haggard, debt-ridden young man who showed up at my door three years ago.”
“If I have, it’s because of your help, sir. Thank you.”
Milt gave a small snort. “This is all very nice, gentlemen, but I do have other things to attend to. Are you ready to sign?”
“I am.” Cap picked up a pen from the table and quickly signed the three copies.
Once finished, he carried the papers over to Slocum. “Do you need any help, Uncle?”
“Yes, dammit,” Abner spat the words, “but not with this.” He picked up his own pen and signed the first copy.
As soon as Abner signed, Milt removed the copy and put another in its place. “Thanks, Abner. It’s easier for me to just give each one to Red as soon as you sign it,” he explained diplomatically.
“Bull,” Slocum said, finishing the third copy, “but thanks, anyway.” He looked up at his nephew, while Red Tully signed all three copies as witness.
Red signed the last and handed them all back to Milt. “Here ya, go, Mr. Quinlan.” Milt nodded and put the copies into his briefcase.
“Well, Mathew,” Slocum said, “The Triple-A is now – forty percent of it is, anyway. Just make sure that it’s still there when I get back from Philly.”
Cap smiled. “I’ll do my best, Uncle Abner, but it won’t be as good as you’d have done.”
“No, but it’ll be damned close.”
* * * * *
“That will be $4.57,” Arnie told Mrs. Spaulding, putting the three packages of clean laundry down on the bench.
She turned to her son. “Hedley, would you please place these in the house – oh, and bring out my change purse, too, if you would.”
They were all on the Spauldings back porch. Clara sat in her wheelchair at a nearby table that was set for lunch. “Annie,” she said, patting a chair beside her. “Annie, you come sit here by me. We can start lunch as soon as Hedley comes back, so Mama can pay you.”
“No,” her mother said. “There is something that Annie must do first. Isn’t that so, Annie?” She spoke firmly, as if giving an order. It was a tone that any military wife learned very quickly.
Hedley picked that moment to return. “Here you are, Mother.” He handed her the purse and waited while she counted out the money owed. The Spauldings’ dirty laundry was already packed away in Arnie’s wagon.
“You may as well sit down, Hedley,” Clara told him. “Mother says that Annie has to do something before we can eat.”
He shrugged. “I’ll stand, thank you.” He leaned back against the wall of the house. “I can see her better this way. Go ahead, Annie.”
It was a full five seconds before Arnie was able to open her mouth, but then the words just spilled out of her. “I-I've been keeping a secret that I shouldn't have. But… but I didn't do it to trick you. It's just that it's something so…peculiar… that I didn't want to mention it to strangers.”
“I didn't know that we'd become friends,” she continued. “When we did, I didn't think I could tell you. It would let you know that I wasn't telling you the truth up to then. And also, it would make you think of me in a whole new way.”
“I was afraid that you two might want to stop being friends. I knew the day would come when you found out about it, but I'd hoped that we'd be such good friends by that time that you could forgive me.” Her voice trailed off.
~
“Annie, what are you trying to say?” asked Clara.
Arnie took a deep breath. “D-Do you… remember what I told you… a couple weeks ago, what I said about the potion Mr. O’Toole makes?”
Clara thought for a moment. “Yes, you said that it was magic, that it could change people.”
“That is what you told us,” Hedley added, “though I’ve never been much for that sort of fairy story.”
Arnie sighed. “It is not a story. It… it is true. I-I am… proof of that.”
“Proof?” Clara looked frightened. “What do you mean proof?” Her eyes grew wide. “You… you didn’t drink it, did you?”
Hedley smiled. “So it’s some sort of beauty potion, then?”
“In a way.” In spite of herself, Arnie warmed at his compliment. “Before I drank it – and I drank it by accident, I must tell you that – I… I was a… boy. My name is really Arnie Diaz.”
Clara shook her head. “No, I-I saw you… when you…” she suddenly coughed. It was deep, wracking her body. “…wh-when you changed clothes. You’re a girl.”
“I am now.” Arnie answered, not willing to face her, to face any of them. “But I was a boy.”
Mrs. Spaulding cut in. “It’s true, I’m afraid. She was a boy.”
Clara raised her head indignantly. “I finally get a – cough! cough! – a friend, and it’s a lie. It’s all a lie! And I almost let you see me in… in….” She spluttered and pushed herself away from the table. “H-Hedley… Mama, please help me into the house.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped at her mouth.
Hedley walked over and guided her towards the door. When they were close, he turned around and kicked the bottom panel of the door. It popped open and he caught it with his leg. “Please wait for me to come back… Annie.” He said to her in a soft voice, as he walked backward through the door, pulling his sister’s chair after him. She was still coughing.
“Is she all right?” Arnie asked, as the door slammed behind Clara. “I-I did not want to hurt her. You… she must know that.”
Mrs. Spaulding put an arm on her shoulder. “I don’t believe that you wanted to hurt her – to hurt any of us, but I’m afraid that you did. Her consumption is at its worse when she’s upset like this. I had best go to her.”
“Should I leave?” Arnie started for the steps without waiting for an answer.
She gave Arnie a sad smile. “Lunch is certainly spoiled, and I doubt that we’ll be having a Spanish lesson today, either. I’d suggest that you to leave right now, but Hedley did ask you to wait. Just don’t take too long. I may need him to go for the doctor.” She patted Arnie’s hand and hurried into the house.
Arnie sank down into the chair next to where Clara’s wheelchair had been. “What have I done?” She could feel the tears filling her eyes.
“Annie?” Hedley had come back onto the porch. “Or should I call you Arnie, now?”
She slowly rose to her feet. “C-Call me whichever you want.”
“Annie, it is. It’s a pretty name, and I think that it fits you so much better.”
“Is Clara all right?”
“Her consumption gets rough at times, and this was, unfortunately, one of those times. Mother is with her, and I’m sure that she’ll be up and about in no time.”
“You must all hate me.”
“No, I think Mother is a bit upset with you, and Clara feels, well, you reminded her of how some… people weren't honest with her when she first got sick. I think she’ll – I think that they both -- will get over it eventually.”
She tried to gauge how he felt and decided that he had a very good poker face. “And you,” she finally asked. “How do you feel about me?”
“I’m not sure.” He took her hand. “Of late, I’ve had very mixed feelings.” He took a step closer.
Her body felt odd, warm. “You have?” She felt a blush run across her face. “Are any of the feelings bad ones?”
“I always thought that there was something magical about you. Maybe I can see things better than the womenfolk can, but it seems to me that if this happened to a boy, he wouldn't want to talk about it with people he didn't know. I’m a little hurt that you felt you had to keep hiding the truth, but I can understand why you did. Mostly, I…” He stopped speaking, as if there was something important he had to do first. He leaned in close: his hands reached up to hold her head steady. And he kissed her. Arnie gasped and looked up with big eyes wide open.
“I'm not so worried that I'll start thinking differently about you,” Hedley continued, “but I would like to know what you've been thinking about me all this time. Do you..?” He seemed at a loss to find the right word.
Arnie gave an uncertain sigh. She wanted to say yes to whatever he was asking, to say that…
But these unspoken thoughts shocked her. “No!” She pushed him away, startled – no, terrified! -- at what she had allowed him to do.
He looked as surprised as she was. “Annie, what… what’s the matter?”
“We were…” She shook her head. “But we can’t.” She stumbled out the door, down the back steps, and grabbed for the handle of her wagon. “I... I will bring your laundry back Tuesday. I hope that Clara is better by then.”
Hedley stood, watching her swiftly push her gear out of the yard and down the street, trying to understand his own thoughts, his thoughts on Annie, on his mother and sister, and on many other things.
* * * * *
Dwight Albertson came out of his office to greet Jane and Milt. “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Quinlan. What can I do for you on this fine Saturday?”
“You don’t have to be so formal, Dwight,” Milt replied, “though we did come in here on business. We want to buy a house.”
Jane nodded. “Yeah, that back room of Milt’s office just don’t work for the both of us.”
“I can understand that,” the banker said. “Come into my office. I’ve got a list of what we have available.”
He led them back through the tellers’ cages to his office. While they took seats by his desk, he retrieved a thick folder from the top drawer of a nearby file cabinet. “Let me start with a couple questions,” he told them as he sat down at the desk. “How big a place do you want, and do you want to rent or buy?”
“It doesn’t have to be that big,” Milt answered. “I’m keeping my office here on the second floor of the bank building, though I wouldn’t mind a small room to use for when I have to bring work home with me.”
“I’d like a good sized kitchen,” Jane added. “A parlor for sitting and a… a bedroom, of course. There’s gotta be a nice bedroom.” She blushed at the last, as she realized what she’d implied.
Milt chuckled and took her hand. “A very nice bedroom, if you please, Dwight. And I think that I’d rather buy than rent.”
“We’d rather buy,” Jane said. “It’s gonna be my house, too, and I was figuring t’kick in some of the money I got here in the bank.”
Milt nodded. “I don’t want you to spend your investment money on the house, Jane.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “After all, it’s a man’s place to provide for his wife.”
“And for the wife t’provide for her husband, too.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Besides, I ain’t got no investment in this world that’s more important than you ‘n’ me.”
Milt kissed her back. “I can’t argue with that. I feel the same way. Okay, Dwight, what’s on the market that we can buy?”
“Let’s see. The Carlton house – where that picture of Jane and Laura was painted – is available, now that the artist has left town, but the Carltons expect to come back to Eerie in the fall, so they only want to rent.” His eyes scanned the list. “There are three – no, four – other places that might suit you. I’ll make up a list, and you can go check them out.”
Jane raised an eyebrow. “You gonna come with us?”
“Normally, I would, or I’d send one of my tellers along, but you’re my lawyer, Milt, and I think I can trust you with the keys.” He pulled a large flat box from a desk drawer. When he opened it, Milt and Jane could see a large set of separate keys, each with a code number attached by a string.
Dwight glanced at the property list again and took four keys from the box. “Here you go. Take your time, but please remember that the bank closes at 5 PM, and I’ll need the keys back by then. So don’t take too long, if you know what I mean.”
“Spoilsport,” Jane said, with a giggle.
* * * * *
Teresa and her younger children were sorting laundry when Arnie burst into the house. Teresa looked up with at start at the slam of the back door. “Arnolda, what are you doing back from the Spauldings so early?”
“They… I… I brought their laundry.” She dropped the sack she was carrying and rushed into the bedroom she shared with her mother. The door slammed shut behind her.
Teresa stood quickly. “Ysabel,” she said to her second daughter. “Take charge. I will be back as soon as I can.” She hurried over to the door Arnie had just gone through. She walked into the bedroom, closing the door afterwards for privacy. She leaned back against the door, silently watching her daughter.
Arnie was slipping her dress off over her head. Arnie tossed it to the floor and began fumbling with the ribbon that held her petticoat tight at her waist. She finally pulled it loose, and the garment fell to her feet. She stepped out of it and kicked it away, growling as she did, as if angry with the female garments.
At that moment, Arnie caught sight of herself in her mother’s mirror, standing in its frame a few feet away. She froze, staring at a beautiful young woman, a week or so shy of her 17th birthday, her long, straight hair falling down around her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face with wide, gazing eyes. Her body was slender, dressed in a white camisole beneath a pale blue corset that emphasized her narrow waist and pert breasts. The drawers were soft, white muslin, stretched over her wide hips and running down her shapely legs almost to her knees.
“They hate me!” she exclaimed.
“Did they ask you to leave?”
“No… No!” Arnie said softly in a voice filled with pain. “But… but I started feeling… things… I-I wanted Hedley to think of me as a girl.” She paused. “Is that because I am a girl?” Tears flowed down her cheeks.
Teresa came over quickly and took her daughter in her arms. “You are what you are, Arnolda. Think about it, accept it as your fate, and go forward with your head held high.” She patted the girl on the head and shifted, so that they both sank down onto the bed. Still hugging Arnie, she began to croon softly into her ear.
“I… do not w-want to… to be…a girl.” Arnie answered. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Please…” Teresa realized that the young woman was not speaking to her.
Teresa kept her arms around Arnolda. She began to sway, to rock her like a small child. After a time, Arnie’s crying grew softer. She nestled her head on her mother’s shoulder. The sobs were replaced by a soft snoring.
'The poor thing,’ Teresa thought. ‘She must have lain awake all last night, worrying about what she was going to say to the Spauldings.’ Teresa held her daughter for a while longer, before she lowered the girl gently to the bed. She lifted Arnie’s feet and carefully removed her shoes. It was a warm day, so she let her sleep uncovered.
Arnie was still asleep when Teresa tiptoed out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
* * * * *
“Yully,” Ysabel said, “please get the lamp.”i
The boy rose and turned down the wick in the oil lamp hanging above the table. The room grew dark. Ysabel turned and walked to the table. She carried a square cake, blue frosting, with “Happy Birthday” written on it in yellow icing, Emma’s favorite colors. The cake was covered with fourteen flickering candles, burning brightly in the dim light. Emma and her family had decided that she was fourteen, and who were her friends to argue?
As she walked, Ysabel began to sing, with the others quickly joining in.
` “For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow,
` For she’s a jolly good fe-ehlow… and so say all of us,
` And so say all of us, and so say all of us.
` For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow,
` For she’s a jolly good fe-ehlow…, which nobody can deny!”
“Congratulations, Emma,” Yully told her, as Ysabel set the cake down in front of her. “Let’s see if you can blow ‘em out.”
Emma stood in place and leaned over the cake. She drew in a breath and shifted back and forth, blowing out all the candles. “Got’em,” she said.
“So you did,” Yully said. He reached up and turned the small wheel that controlled the lamp wick. The room filled with light as everyone sat down. “Now that we can see the cake, how ‘bout cutting us all a piece?”
Emma pulled out the mumbly peg knife she still carried, hidden in her shoe. She flipped it open and began cutting as soon as Ysabel had removed the candles. “First piece for me.” She took a corner piece – she loved the extra icing – and put it aside for herself. “And one for you, Yully.” It was the piece next to hers.
“Thanks.” As he reached in for the piece, he tilted his head and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
The memory of Trisha popped into her head. She jerked her head back. “N-No!”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, confused at her reaction. “Was I too forward? I-I didn’t mean to be.”
“No, it’s… I can’t explain. I-I don’t want a boy – any boy -- to kiss me.”
Penny giggled. “I hope you don’t mean that you want girls to kiss you.”
“No… nobody. I – ohh, let’s get on with this party.”
Tomas slipped over next to her. “Si, there are more important things to do. Like… like I didn’t get my piece of cake yet.”
“Here you go, Tomas.” Emma cut him an extra big slice. She was grateful for the change of subject. “And I didn’t get my presents.”
Everyone laughed. The party went well after that, but the ghost of Yully’s kiss – and her reaction to it -- still lingered in the back of everyone’s mind.
* * * * *
“Now that was a long day,” Trisha said, locking the front door to the Feed and Grain. She turned the sign hanging down in the window from “Open” to “Closed” and walked back towards the counter.
Liam closed and locked the cash register. He pocketed the key and put the order book on the shelf underneath the countertop. “It’s going to get longer, Trisha. I want to talk to you.”
“What about?” she sighed. “As if I didn’t know.”
“You said last night that you weren’t going to marry Rhys Godwyn. If that’s the case, can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill the son of a bitch for what he did to you?”
“I never said that it was Rhys.”
“No, you haven’t, even if half the town thinks that the two of you were off doing -- whatever you did -- in the woods during the dance. Was he worth it?”
“I… I don’t want to talk about it. Why all the sudden interest now? You left quick enough last night.”
“I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, not in front of Kaitlin and – certainly – not in front of Emma.” He waited a beat, looking around. “But we’re alone now, and we can both say what needs to be said. I’ll start. Who did this to you, and why shouldn’t I beat the living hell out of him for doing it?”
“I-I can’t tell you. Honest, I can’t.”
“Why not? Do you love him? Do you really want to marry him? Or… or is he already married?”
“I… I can’t…” Her voice wavered. She looked down at the floor, not wanting to see his face.
“You can, Trisha. And – so help me G-d – you will. Or you can forget about my working for you on the board – or on anything else.”
“Please, Liam, please, don’t ask me.”
“I have to ask, Trisha, and you have to answer. You are going to tell me who got you pregnant.”
“I can’t tell you...” She closed her eyes. Her whole body seemed to clench, to try to stop her from what she was about to say. “…Because I… I don’t know… I don’t know who it was.”
“What? Did somebody rape you in a dark alley or something?”
She rapidly shook her head back and forth. “No. I knew who I was with… each time.”
“Each time? My Lord, Trisha, how many men have you slept with?”
She was still looking away from him, and her voice was low, but he still heard her answer, “Three… three men.”
“Three?” he spluttered. “Who are they – no, on second thought, don’t tell me. If I know, I may still want to take on all three of them.” He cupped her head in his hand and slowly lifted until she was looking him in the eye. “I should tell somebody what I do know. Reverend Yingling, maybe, or Horace Styron –”
She panicked and spun about. “No, Liam… dear G-d, please don’t. You gave your word!”
“I said that I should tell somebody, but I won’t. I’ll just do what any older brother would do. I’ll try to protect my foolish little sister -- from herself as much as from anyone else.”
“Th-Thank you, Liam.” She felt as though a fifty-pound sack of feed had just been lifted off her back.
“You’re welcome, but you don’t get off that easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you expect my cooperation, I’ll expect you to mind your older brother from now on. You seem to be too foolish to run your own life these days. And I’ll expect you to stop butting in between Kaitlin and me.”
Her head jerked back as if he had actually hit her. She was about to argue when she saw the look on his face, eyes squinted, jaw firmly set. His hands were balled into fists and rested on his hips. It was exactly the way Patrick O’Hanlan had stood, when he refused to give way to anyone else.
Almost before she realized, the words were out. She replied, “Y-Yes, Liam.”
* * * * *
Jane burst into the kitchen through the back door. “Hey, Maggie… Molly, we found it. We found our house.”
“Ye did, and where is it at?” Molly asked.
Milt stepped into the room. “Second Street, number 19, about a half block from the Carlton house and a five minute walk from here.”
“We wanted t’be close enough so’s I could get t’work easy.”
Maggie smiled, knowingly. “That way, you can get home in a hurry when you need to, also.”
“How soon are ye gonna be able t’move in?” Molly asked.
Milt shrugged. “Monday, probably. I don’t think we can get much done on the Sabbath.”
“It’s ‘bout half furnished, though” Jane added. “There’s a nice big stove and worktable in the kitchen – there’s plenty o’ storage room, too -- and there’s a couple chairs in the parlor. It’s got two bedrooms, and one of ‘em, one of ‘em’s already got a bed with a mattress rolled up on it.”
Molly chuckled. “All ready ‘n’ waiting for ye.”
“It surely was – is.” Jane said, lifting her hands to her face to cover her sudden blush.
Shamus had just come in to join them. “Aye, but that’s for later. Right now, it’s time that Maggie and ye was getting changed and ready for the dance.”
* * * * *
“My turn,” someone said.
Flora looked up to see that tall man with slicked-down black hair standing before her again. He wore a dark blue, expensive-looking suit. She gave him a modest smile. “How do you do, Mister…”
“Clyde… Clyde Ritter.” He smiled back. “Please call me Clyde, Miss Stafford. I’ve admired your artistry for some time, and I wanted to dance with you very much.” He held a ticket in his hand.
She rose and took the ticket, sticking it with the others in her apron pocket. “Yes, I’ve seen you watching me.” She thought again of Rosalyn’s advice. “You’re one of the most handsome men in the house. I’m so glad that you like me.” She said the words softly, trying to add a hint of coyness. “But you have to call me… Flora.” Ritter seemed to beam at her flattery, his eyes brightening.
‘Rosalyn was right. This is easy,’ she told herself, as she let him lead her out onto the floor.
“With pleasure...” Still smiling, he put his hand on her waist. “…Flora.”
Her own smile broadened. “It will be, I’m sure,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.
* * * * *
“So I was correct,” Nancy said smugly.
Kirby gave her an odd look. “What do mean, Nancy?”
“You said that you seldom came in here, and I told you that you’d be back.” She chuckled. “And here you are, about to ask me to dance.”
He handed her his ticket. “So I am.” He shrugged. “I never was much of a drinking man, but now I have a reason to come in.”
“And what would that reason be?” she teased, offering him her hand.
He took it and helped her to her feet. “You work here now. We can… talk, get to be friends in ways that we couldn’t when you were a teacher.”
“I think I like that,” she admitted, both to him and to herself.
But there was one thing that she couldn't admit. It would spoil the moment. Kirby would find out about it all too soon.
And would his reaction be as bad as Carl's?
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 8 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, May 19, 1872
Jonah Morrison put down his plate and took a seat at the long table next to his brother, Reuben. It was 7 AM, and the hands at the Triple A Ranch were having their breakfast. Jonah quickly poured himself a cup of coffee and downed it in a single, long gulp. “Damn, I needed that,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“Sounds like you had too much of something else t’drink last night,” Reuben observed.
Jonah shrugged and downed a forkful of beans. “Too many men and not enough gals, that’s the problem at O’Toole’s. I had t’do something with them extra tickets I bought.”
“Ain’t that the truth. The way O’Toole switches the color of the tickets every week, you can’t use the old ones, when the next Saturday rolls around.”
“He’s a sneaky old cuss, ain’t he? I did get t’dance a couple o’times, though. It was real educational.” He laughed loudly.
“I know what you mean, Jonah,” Reuben said. “It’s a pure shame Miz Osbourne didn’t look so purty – or smell so good – when we was in school. I’d’ve paid a lot more attention t’what she was teaching.”
His brother laughed again. “The way she was cuddling up nice ‘n’ close when we was dancing, I bet there’s a whole lot she could still teach me. And I’m more’n ready t’start in with them lesson anytime she wants, anytime at all.”
“You ‘n’ me both, brother.”
Blackie Easton was sitting a couple of places away from the pair. He leaned over and spoke in a low voice. “You boys might want to change the subject. Carl Osbourne’s looking your way, and he don’t look happy.” He pointed to the line of men standing at the chow table filling their plates from the trays of beans, biscuits, and bacon that Tuck, the cook, had put out for them.
“He is?” Reuben asked, trying not to sound nervous. Both of the boys turned. Carl was glaring at them, his plate in his hand.
Blackie nodded when they shrunk away from Osbourne's stare. “You two remember a fellah named Cooper… Dell Cooper?”
“Ain’t he the one Carl shot?” Jonah asked nervously.
Eastman grinned. “That’s right. Carl shot him – shot him dead – and he did it ‘cause Cooper was saying bad things about his sister.” He waited a beat for effect. “And Carl got off scot-free for doing it. You boys should think about that some.”
“So…” Reuben considered what Blackie had said and the expression on Carl’s face. “You, uhh… You think it’s gonna rain anytime soon, Jonah?”
Jonah glanced over at Carl one more time. The man looked daggers back at him. “Yeah, it-it might rain.” Neither man spoke again for the remainder of the meal.
* * * * *
Reverend Yingling looked over his flock, their eyes bright, their faces beaming, all eager for his guidance. “Before our concluding hymn,” he began, “Horace Styron, the chairman of our church board, has asked if he might make what he assures me will be a couple of very short announcements.” He stepped back and glanced over to where the board was sitting. “Horace, if you would…” He made a broad gesture.
“Thank you, Reverend,” Styron said, rising to his feet. “And thank you for leading us in this excellent – as always – service today.” He walked over, taking the minister’s place at the altar. He stood there for a moment, looking smug and confident. “I’m sure that you’ve all noticed that Liam O’Hanlan is sitting up here with the rest of the board instead of his sister, Trisha. As many of you already know, Trisha O’Hanlan has finally gone along with the will of the congregation and taken a leave of absence from the church board.”
He paused and looked directly at Trisha, as she jumped to her feet. “Please don’t interrupt, Trisha. It’s been such a pleasant morning, don’t spoil it with one of your silly rants.”
“You dirty…” Trisha muttered. She felt Kaitlin’s hand on her shoulder, trying to force her to sit down, even as the other woman whispered, “Hush” in a firm voice. She looked fiercely at Horace, then shifted to stare at Kaitlin, but she did sit down.
Horace went on. “As I was saying, Miss O’Hanlan took a leave of absence. Her brother, Liam, will be sitting in for her until the election in September. Since we can’t have two board members on a committee; that leaves an opening on the new building fund committee. I talked things over with Dwight Albertson, the committee chairman, and we -- I -- decided to give the spot to Joel Keenan.”
He waited, perhaps hoping for some explosion from Trisha. She glowered at him but didn’t speak. Finally, he continued. “My second announcement is a reminder. The town council meets this Wednesday. Folks, they’re gonna be talking about the Reverend’s petition regarding Shamus O’Toole and that potion of his, again. Maybe, if enough of you show up, they’ll finally see the light and pass that resolution. So I urge you all to turn out to show your gratitude and your support for the man who’s been our town’s spiritual guide and leader for so long and has done so well. That’s all I’ve got to say. Thanks.”
“And thank you, Horace.” Yingling took his place again at the altar. “And if you will all turn to page 103 and stand up, we will sing our concluding hymn.”
* * * * *
Pablo Escobar followed Father de Castro into the priest’s office. “Here he is, Luis,” the older man said.
“Thank you, Padre,” Don Luis Ortega replied, “and good Sunday to you, Pablo. Do you have any news of Señor Ritter or Señor Styron?”
Pablo nodded. “Good day to you, Don Luis. I heard Señor Ritter and his son, Winthrop, talking yesterday. He will close the livery early on Miércoles [Wednesday], so he has time to get more people to the town council meeting. I-I think that they want to fill up the place, to keep you -- us … Mejicanos -- out.”
“They won’t,” Luis said with a laugh. “I can promise you that.”
De Castro nodded. “I will be there, as well. Perhaps, I can shame Thaddeus away from this notion of his. He is a good man. I do not understand what has stirred him up so very much.” He looked at Pablo. “Don Luis and I will be at the meeting, Pablo, but you should stay away.”
“Padre, why?” Pablo stammered. “I want to help.”
The priest shook his head. “Help yourself, Pablo. You are only seventeen, so you cannot vote. The council would not be swayed by you, and Señor Ritter is the sort of man who would fire you for going against him.”
“I-I will do as you say, Padre, but I will be with you in spirit.”
Ortega shrugged. “Of course, Pablo, and know that, whatever does happen, it will be, in part, because of your help.” He stepped over and took the boy’s hand in his. “Thank you.”
“I… you are most welcome.” Pablo shook his hand, grateful for the chance to have helped, and to be treated as the man he hoped to be.
* * * * *
“What did you two think of this morning’s church service?” Mrs. Spaulding asked, taking her seat at the dinner table.
Hedley frowned. “I’m not sure. The hymn singing was pleasant enough, I suppose, but that sermon! The way the reverend kept going on, ‘Deliver us from evil, oh, Lord.’ He sounded more like he was fighting some dark menace to the town than the evil inclination in our hearts.”
“Oh, Hedley,” Clara said with a chuckle, “‘the evil inclination in our hearts,’ indeed. You’re quite the poet today, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps it had something to do with that petition of his,” their mother suggested, “the one that Mr. Styron mentioned at the end of the service.”
Clara’s expression soured. “I don’t think I like Mr. Styron. He seemed to be gloating about Miss O’Hanlan having to leave the church board.” She paused a beat. “I wonder why she did that, anyway? I never really talked to her, but she always seemed like a nice person.”
“Why don’t you ask someone about it?” Mrs. Spaulding asked. “Those Carson sisters said that they might be over to visit you this afternoon.”
Clara giggled. “Not to see me. Oh, they may say that’s why they’re here, but the one they really want to see is Hedley.” She giggled again and gave her brother an odd look, “…though I can’t imagine why.”
“I can,” Hedley replied coolly. “But, frankly, I’m not interested. I’m just glad that someone’s trying to befriend, you, Clara, even if it’s just an excuse to see me.”
The giggle became a sigh. “That’s right, isn’t it? It’s a lie just like…” Her eyes glistened, and she looked down at the table. “There’s no reason for anyone to like me. They all act like they're afraid of catching something if they get too close.”
“That’s not true,” Hedley said quickly. “Annie…” He stopped. Even if it was for the best of reasons, Annie had lied to them.
Clara jerked her head up and glared at him. “Annie! Don’t you dare mention her -- his -- name to me. I-I trust… trusted him, and all the t-time he was laughing behind my – behind all our backs. I-I never want to see him or hear of him ever… ever again.” She gave a weak cough.
“What about the laundry?” Hedley asked softly. “She still has to bring back what we gave her to be cleaned.”
Clara coughed again, holding her napkin up in front of her mouth. She was crying now. “After that, I don’t want him in this house.”
“Am I to do the laundry, then?” Mrs. Spaulding asked indignantly. “No, we’ll continue to use the Diaz family laundry, I think, but we’ll ask that Mrs. Diaz be the one who comes for it. Her daughter is not welcome in this house, and, if we do continue those Spanish lessons, it will be with another teacher.” She looked sharply at her son. “Are we agreed on that, at least?”
Hedley sighed. “Yes, mother.”
* * * * *
“All right, Trisha,” Liam ordered, “out with it.”
Trisha looked across the dinner table at her brother. “Out with what?”
“You’ve been scowling at me since we left the church,” he complained. “Now we’re about to sit down for Kaitlin’s fine Sunday dinner --”
Kaitlin smiled. She took the roast ham from the oven and set it down on the counter by the sink. “Why, thank you, Liam.”
“You’re welcome, Kaitlin.” He smiled back at her before turning to speak to his sister again. “Now, as I was saying, Trisha, out with it. I want to know what’s bothering you… or is it just a late bout of morning sickness.” He gave her a sly smile. None of the adults noticed Emma’s uneasy reaction to the comment.
He was answered with a frown. “Styron… and you, I think,” Trisha snapped back at him. “Why didn’t he give me your place on the Building Fund Committee?”
“You’d have to ask him that,” Liam told her. “He never talked to me about it.”
“Why didn’t you talk to him about it?” she asked.
“Why didn’t you, Trisha? If you wanted the job, why didn’t you ask him for it yourself?” He studied her surprised expression for a moment before he went on. “I didn’t ask you for the job when the board first set up the committee. I went over and talked to Horace… and to Dwight. You could’ve done that, couldn’t you?”
“I didn’t think…” Her voice trailed off. It was stupid of her not to have asked, and now someone else had the job.
Liam gave her a sly smile. “You never do. That’s how you got into the mess you’re in, isn’t it?”
“Dinner’s ready,” Kaitlin interrupted. “Come and get it.”
Trisha, Liam, and Emma headed for the table. Liam reached it first and held the chair for Kaitlin. Then he sat down in the chair opposite her, the one Trisha normally took, the chair for the head of the house.
* * * * *
Monday, May 20, 1872
“Teresa told me that you had a big fight with the Spauldings,” Dolores said, sitting down at the table where Arnie was sorting clothes for the laundry.
Arnie nodded. “Sì, they… they found out the truth about me, that I am really a boy. They got mad that I had lied to them.”
“Did you mean to lie?”
“No. When I first met them, they called me Annie, and I let them because I wanted them for customers. It was a mistake. Like Papa used to say, ‘Breed crows and they will take out your eyes.’”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. I tried to apologize, but it just made them madder. Clara… the daughter, she was crying and coughing – she is sick – and when she gets upset….” Arnie’s voice trailed off. She looked down at the table, feeling sorry for herself and the clumsy way she had handled things.
“Then it was not really your fault, Arnolda. You truly did nothing wrong. It is a very personal secret, and they should not expect a new friend to immediately tell them such things. Maybe in a year they would have had the right to complain, but not so soon.”
“That doesn’t make it any better. They still want to use Mama’s laundry – I hope they do, anyway – but my job teaching them Spanish is gone. I am sure of that, and I need to find a new one.”
“Or go back to an old one.”
“Señor Shamus?” Arnie shook her head. “I have been thinking about that. He was so mad when he fired me. He would never take me back.”
“Are you so sure? As they say, ‘to be silent is to give consent.’ How will you know if you do not ask?”
“He fired me twice. Why should he hire me again?”
“I will ask him why.” Dolores smiled. “If he doesn’t have a good answer, maybe you can get your job back.”
“And maybe I will wake up tomorrow with a long white beard.”
“If you do, will you shave it off before you talk to Señor Shamus?”
Arnie had to laugh at that. “If he comes, I will shave it off.”
* * * * *
“All right, Jessie” Molly said, “What’s this song Wilma thinks the Cactus Blossoms should be dancing to?”
Jessie picked up her guitar. “It’s from some opera that Lady Cerise likes, something about a fellah name of William Tell. This is from the end of what they call the overture; it’s real fast. Wilma thinks it sounds like a horse running, and she thought it’d work for the ladies dancing.” She began strumming in a rapid 2/4 time, humming as she played.
“Sounds a little like a polka,” Molly observed. “And it’ll do just fine for what I got in mind.”
Jessie nodded. “Cerise said this kinda music was called a ‘galop’, like what a horse does, but with just one ‘l’ in it.” She chuckled. “That surely fits. It does kinda remind me of a horse galloping.” She played on, finishing with the long flourish at the end.
“Aye, and it’ll work out real nice with some of the moves I got in mind.” She looked critically at the three Cactus Blossoms, Flora, Lylah, and Nancy. The latter had been the only woman of the community to apply for the job, but for now one would be enough. “The three of ye stand next t’each other – aye, in a line, and stand straight – I want t’be seeing which of ye is the tallest.”
The trio did as told. “Ye’re the tallest, Flora. Stand in the middle with… umm, Lylah on yuir left and Nancy on yuir right. Now, put yuir arms out on each other’s shoulders. Fine… just like that. Only, Lylah, ye’re in a bit too close. Move away – just a smidge – from Flora. Perfect.”
“Now,” Molly continued, “when Jessie starts her playing, I want ye should kick up yuir left leg on the first beat and bring it down on the second. On the third, ye move yuir right foot a half step to the right. Then ye kick again with yuir left foot and bring it down next to the right one. D’ye think ye understand what I’m telling ye?”
Lylah and Flora just nodded. “I think so,” Nancy answered.
Jessie slowly strummed the beats on her guitar, and the women went through the steps as directed. “That’s a start,” Molly told them afterwards. “But ye need t’be kicking higher. Try t’be getting the tip of yuir toe up even with yuir eyes.”
“That’s not easy to do in these dresses,” Flora complained.
“Take ‘em off, then,” Bridget replied. They turned to see her standing at the corner of the hallway, where it turned to go past the entrance to Shamus and Molly’s rooms. “You should be used to prancing around in your frillies for all the gents to see.”
“Maybe I ain’t as used to taking off my clothes for men as you are, Kelly,” Flora shot back.
Before Bridget could answer, Molly spoke up. “That’s more’n enough from the both of ye. This is a private practice, Bridget, so, unless ye want t’be joining the Cactus Blossoms, I’ll be asking ye t’leave.” She turned at the sound of Flora’s chuckle. “And, as for ye, Flora, from now on, unless I’m telling ye otherwise, ye’ll be calling her Miss Bridget, whether ye’re talking t’her or t’anybody else, just like I had ye do at Jane’s wedding.”
Both women nodded, even while they continued to glare at each other. Bridget turned the corner and started for the stairs.
“Good,” Molly said, glad to have escaped an explosion – for the moment. “Now, let’s them of us that are here get back t’work.” She had a sudden thought. “And ye’ll be curtseying t’Jessie Hanks, too, and calling her Miss Jessie.”
Anger flared in Flora's eyes, “But she started it.”
Molly chuckled. “Maybe she did, but it won’t hurt ye t’be learning a bit o’humility.”
“Humility… f… f…” Flora’s lips quivered as she struggled to find something that wasn't too obscene to utter. All that finally came out was, “Oh, fudge!”
* * * * *
“Trisha,” Emma asked, sounding a bit annoyed, “are you ever gonna finish with that dish?”
The woman started. “What? Oh, I’m sorry, Emma.” She dipped the dish quickly in the clear water side of the sink and handed it to her daughter. “My mind must’ve been someplace else.”
“It was, out on the back porch. I thought you were gonna wipe the design clear off.”
“I-I just don’t like Kaitlin being out there with Liam, that’s all.”
“I don’t think there’s much you can do about it.”
“I know, but I…” her voice trailed off into a sigh.
“Can… Can I ask you a question?”
“I suppose.”
“Did you really do what-what Mama says you did with those men?”
Trisha sighed again. “I did. And I’m so, so very sorry.”
“Sorry you did or sorry you got… pregnant from doing it.”
“Both, I guess. I really hurt your mother – hurt you, too.”
“Then why, Trisha, why’d you do it?” The hurt was clear in Emma’s voice.
“It’s… it’s hard to explain.”
“Mama told me back in January that it happens when a woman loves a man, loves him enough to let him…” Her voice trailed off, unwilling to say the words. “Do you love them men, Trisha?”
“No, it-it was the…” She was about to say that it was the potion that had made her act so wrongly, but she couldn’t. Emma had drunk it the same time as she had. She again remembered that horrible dream, the dream where Emma had grown up to be a whore- – the same as she was – because of the potion.
Trisha shivered. ‘If I tell her that the potion made me do it, would that – could that – make the dream come true, make my daughter a… fallen woman.’ She couldn’t take the chance. But what could she say? “You’re asking some very grown-up questions, Emma. You almost sound like your Ma.”
She decided to bring up the notion that had been rolling around in her mind for a while.
“I-I went with those men because…” She looked down, unable to meet her daughter’s eyes. “…because … because the woman I look like was… foolish, foolish about… men. Because I'm a copy of her, that makes me foolish in the same way.” She then looked squarely into Emma's eyes. “But you're a copy of your mother, and she's smart about everything. That's going to make you smart, too.”
“I sure hope so.” Emma wiped the dish and set it in the drying wrack. She didn’t speak to Trisha again while they worked. She barely looked at her former father, as she considered what Trisha had said, hoping that it was true.
“So do I.” What she’d told Emma felt like the right answer, and she devoutly prayed that it was. She was a woman like Norma Jeane, now, and she’d have to learn to live the consequences. But maybe -- maybe -- Emma was different.
* * * * *
Flora was in the middle of the Cactus Blossom’s dance, when she saw Clyde Ritter take a seat towards the back. ‘He always waits till the show starts,’ she thought to herself. ‘I guess he figures it makes him less easy to spot.’ She caught his eye with hers. Then, she nodded at him and smiled, running her tongue slowly across her upper lip.
Ritter smiled back – broadly – and nodded his head towards the empty chair next to his, an obvious invitation for later, after the performance was done.
Flora answered with a wink.
* * * * *
When the next break came, Flora strolled over to her admirer. “I’m so glad that you came back… Clyde,” she said, settling down into the chair next to Ritter with an extra wiggle of her hips.
He smiled at her mention of his name. “I liked the dance.” He picked up her hand and raised it to his lips for a quick kiss. “And I liked the dancer even more.”
“Mmm, you’re a very sweet man.”
He raised his arm, his hand in a fist, then, he lifted two fingers in a “V.” Dolores hurried over to the table and set down two beers. “I ordered while you were dancing. I thought that you might be thirsty.”
“And you know what I like,” Flora continued. She took a sip. It was the near-beer that Shamus served his employees, but it was cool and wet, and she was thirsty from the dancing. “Ah…” She set down the glass. “…and what I need.”
“Always glad to lend a hand to a pretty lady.”
She glanced down at the table. “I’ll bet.”
“After you finish your drink, perhaps we could go… someplace and discuss the matter further.”
Now Flora's mind raced, reviewing Roslyn's “Advice for Wicked Women.” She looked up at him through half-closed eyes and pouted prettily. “The only place I’m allowed to go is out back behind the saloon. And I-I don’t know you well enough to do that with you… yet.”
“I certainly want you to know me well enough for something like that,” he answered with a grin.
‘Damn, this is easy,’ she told herself. ‘Kind of fun, too.’ She smiled again and took another sip of beer.
* * * * *
“Do you have the key, Jane?” Milt asked as they walked up to the front door of their new house.
She reached down into her reticule and pulled out a brass key. “Right here. You want me t’do the honors?” Milt nodded and she put it in the lock, turning it slowly. “It’s opened.”
“Good, now, hold on.” He smiled and scooped her up in his arms.
“Milt!” She let out a shriek of surprise, then, giggled and put her arms around his neck. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m carrying my bride over the threshold.” He kicked the door open and walked inside. He managed to remove the key from the lock and close the door, while still holding Jane.
“You gonna set me down, now?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.” He shifted her in his arms. “Trust me?” he asked, smiling down at her.
“Always ‘n’ forever.” She shifted, leaning forward for a moment, and kissed his cheek.
He took a breath and slowly, carefully, walked across the parlor to the door to their bedroom. He kicked the half-opened door, and, when it swung wide, he stepped inside. “Now, I’ll put you down.” He lowered her legs, so that she was standing. But her arms were still draped around his neck. “You can let go now,” he told her.
“Don’t wanna. I like being in your arms.” Jane felt so alive. A delicious warm feeling flowed like melted butter through her body, especially in her breasts and down in the empty space between her legs. She moved in close and kissed him firmly on the lips.
Milt pulled her close, as the kiss deepened. His tongue slipped into her mouth to wrestle with her own. He felt himself harden, and he pushed his loins against her.
Then, he abruptly broke the kiss and stepped back.
“What?” She sounded confused. “Is something the matter?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replied. “Much as I’m enjoying what I’m doing, we can’t…” He glanced over at the bed, just a few feet away.
Jane giggled. “No… no we can’t.” She reached out and pushed his jacket off his shoulders. It slid down, and he shook his arms, so that it dropped down to the floor behind him. She smiled and began to unbutton his shirt.
At the same time, he was working on the buttons on her gown. His hands moved quickly, eagerly. In no time, the dark blue dress was open to her waist. “Lift your arms, please,” he told her.
She quickly obeyed, splaying the fingers of both hands. In one swift move, he pulled the dress up and off over her arms. He tossed it… someplace. He didn’t care where just then, and neither did she.
He was surprised and happy to see that she’d forgone a camisole. All she wore above her waist was a red-violet corset. He couldn't resist so much bare flesh and left a trail of kisses down her neck and onto her shoulder. She giggled and trembled at the sparks that each kiss seemed to generate.
Her hands reached down and found the buttons at the front of his trousers. Despite, or, maybe because of the distraction of his kisses, she managed to get them open. With one yank, she got his pants past his hips, and they settled down around his ankles.
He finished with the last hooks of her corset. It fell away, and the trail of his kisses continued on, down past her collarbone to her right breast. He stopped for a moment, sucking hard at the flesh, and when he moved on, he’d left a purple love bite in his wake.
Jane shivered at the feelings Milt was building in her, stoking her body like a furnace. She moaned and kissed him again, as her fingers gently caressed his manhood through the fabric of his drawers.
She pulled at the bow that held her petticoat to her waist, and the ribbons slid apart. Without waiting for the garment to fall away, she moved on to the bow for her drawers. Once they were loose, the weight of the petticoat dragged them both down below her knees. She stepped out of them and hurried to the bed. “Ready whenever you are,” she cooed at Milt.
“Likewise.” Milt yanked at his drawers until they were loose. He stepped towards the bed, only to fall in the tangle of pants, drawers, and shoes. “Damn,” he muttered, still on the floor, as he yanked at the knot of clothing. He managed to get the shoes off and sort of “slithered” out of the rest. That done, he lunged for the bed, landing on it next to Jane.
She giggled and looked down at his massive arousal. “I’d say you’re more’n ready.” She lay back on the bed sheet, her legs far apart. “And so am I. Let’s get to it.”
“Maybe I should make you beg for it first.”
He resumed his fondling, more aggressively than before. He already knew where some of her most sensitive spots were, where he could make her squeal with pleasure. His lips, sucking hard on a nipple, forced a gasp and a lurch out of his bride. Her navel was particularly tender, and his tongue showed her no mercy there. When his left hand reached the gold of her pubic hair, she cried out loud into his ear.
“For Heaven's sake! Now! Please, now!”
He rolled over on top of her, his arms braced on either side. Jane, trembling with need, took his manhood in her hand and guided him in. After all their times together, the sensations of sex were still like nothing else she had ever felt. She was wet and eager to begin.
He began to move, in and out, and her body responded, moving with him. Flames of intense pleasure ran through her – through them both. The flames grew higher, hotter, and the couple moaned and cooed, engulfed by what they were experiencing.
Jane felt lost, so wonderfully lost, all she knew was the motion of their bodies and the rapture it was causing in her. The sensations grew and Grew and GREW! Suddenly, Milt groaned, and Jane felt his spurt inside her. It was like the blasting cap that set off the dynamite when you were excavating for a mine. Jane screamed and her body writhed, lost in the delight of her own orgasm.
“Unbelievable,” she heard Milt whisper finally.
“Oohhh… yes,” Jane moaned, riding the afterglow like water through a sluice. “You know,” she finally said, a sated smile on her lips, “I think I’m gonna like being here even more than I liked living in Whit and Carmen’s guest house.”
Milt nodded. “I agree, especially if the nights are all like this one.”
“Mmm… they will be.” Jane leaned over and kissed him deeply. At the same time, her hand moved downward along his body. He wasn’t ready for a repeat, but, judging from the way his manhood twitched at her touch, it would be -- and very soon.
* * * * *
Tuesday, May 21, 1872
“Are you O.K., Emma?” Yully asked. They were starting back in to the school after recess. “You were playing… well, pretty bad today.”
Emma looked away, embarrassed. “I’m… sorry. I-I guess my mind wasn’t on the game.”
“That’s for sure. What’s bothering you, anyway?”
Hermione was close enough to hear their conversation. “Maybe her conscience is bothering her for what she did to me on Friday.”
“I’d say you got what you deserved,” Yully replied. He smiled, remembering how Hermione’s face had looked after Emma had smashed a cupcake into it.
Hermione snorted. “What I deserved? Why should I have to act civilly towards that… potion freak? I mean… look at her. She – if that’s the right word -- she doesn’t know what she is. She dresses like a girl, even if she has absolutely no real sense of style, and then she goes and gets her clothes filthy.” Hermione pointed at Emma’s dress.
“It’s not that bad,” Emma said, looking down. The dress was streaked with dirt and bore one grass stain from a particularly rough play. “Is it?”
The other girl just pointed. “It’s absolutely filthy. That stupid game you forced the boys to let you play has ruined it.”
“That isn’t fair, Hermione.” Penny Stone stepped in next to Emma.
Hermione gave them a snide laugh. “Isn’t fair? Go ahead, Elmer.” She took a special delight in using Emma’s original name. “Tell me anything I’ve said that isn’t true.”
“I…” Emma looked down, unable to meet the persecutor’s face. She kept remembering what Trisha had said the night before.
The woman she looked like had been foolish about men, and so she was, too, Trisha had explained. Trisha was pregnant Pregnant! The potion had done that to her. It changed her from the strong, confident father that Emma remembered, into a… pregnant fool.
She shook her head sadly. ‘I took it, too,’ she told herself. ‘Trisha says that I'm smart like Mama. But what… what if I’m… not?’ Aloud, she said, “Can’t talk; t-time for class.” She turned and walked up the stairs and into the building without another word.
* * * * *
An editorial in the Eerie, Arizona edition of The Tucson Citizen
` The End is Near
` This Wednesday, the town council will be most likely be voting
` on Reverend Yingling’s proposal to establish a committee to take
` control of the fabulous brew, of Shamus O’Toole’s creation.
` This vote has been a long time coming, and that’s a good thing.
` People have had time to think about the idea. They’ve asked
` Reverend Yingling questions about his reasons AND about what he
` intends to do if the resolution passes. This paper has asked some of
` those same questions.
` Why does he think this is necessary? A lot of people think Mr.
` O’Toole’s been doing a good job. Some of them, wearing “Trust
` Shamus” ribbons, will be at the meeting. We hope that they will
` get a chance to speak, rather than be shouted down by a few unruly
` and undemocratic souls.
` Who will be on this committee? As Don Luis Ortega pointed out,
` there are good Anglos AND good Mexicans in Eerie, and shouldn’t
` both sides be represented?
` What will the duties of the committee be? Is it a good idea to give
` the power that the potion represents to anyone, particularly to a
` government committee? Do we want a committee to decide when
` the potion will be made and how much of it will be made? For
` that matter, where would such a group keep the potion, and what
` sort of security would they use to insure that it is not stolen away
` for who knows what sort of nefarious purposes?
` Who will take care of those who are given the potion? Does
` anyone have a problem with the way Mr. O’Toole and his wife
` have dealt with those were placed in their care, including the two
` women currently under sentence? If the O’Tooles don’t continue
` as wardens, then who will take over those duties? Where will the
` the women be housed, how will they be fed and clothed, and what
` additional expenses will this create for the taxpayers of Eerie?
` We urge the members of the Eerie Town Council to consider all
` of these points in their deliberations tomorrow night. Perhaps
` the Reverend could form an advisory committee. Advising his
` parishioners is a task he has performed so very well for so very long.
* * * * *
Arnie could see Hedley and Mrs. Spaulding waiting for her on the back porch, as she walked towards their house. “Hello, Señora… Hedley,” she greeted them, trying not to sound nervous. “How are you both today, and how… how is Clara?”
“Never better,” Hedley answered. “Though Clara’s still a bit --”
Mrs. Spaulding cut in. “My daughter is somewhat recovered, Annie, but I fear that we will not be having lunch together today.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Arnie replied. “I wanted to apologize to her myself over lunch.”
The older woman shook her head. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. You will not be joining us for lunch, either, nor will you be giving us a Spanish lesson today – or for the foreseeable future.” She paused a beat. “And from now on, I would prefer it if your mother were the one to pick up and deliver our laundry.”
“Mother,” Hedley said in surprise at her words. “That’s rather harsh of you, isn’t it? I thought that you liked Annie.”
Before Mrs. Spaulding could reply, they heard the sound of a bell from inside the house. “I do, Hedley … somewhat, but before anything else, I am Clara’s mother, and I can hardly not be harsh to the person whose actions brought on her relapse. Please deal with Annie, and then come in for lunch.” She turned and, without another word, bustled into the house.
“That didn’t go very well, did it?” Hedley gave her a wan smile and sat down on the steps. He patted the spot next to him, encouraging her to sit.
Arnie ignored the invitation – and the smile -- and reached into the wagon for the two packages of the Spaulding’s laundry. “You owe me…” She glanced quickly at the top one. “$3.87.” She moved forward and put the clothes where he had motioned for her to sit.
“Here you go.” He handed her a gold half-eagle. “Keep the change by way of an apology.”
She needed to be all business. “Thank you. Is there anything to be cleaned?”
Hedley stood and walked up onto the porch. He came back down with a large sack. “This.” He set it on the wagon. “Mother would like it back on Saturday.”
“Spauldings… Saturday.” Arnie wrote the words on a tag and tied it to the sack.
She suddenly realized how close he was standing. “I’m so very sorry about all this, Annie. Mother is very… protective of Clara, and I think that she’s over-reacted.” He smiled and took her hand in his. “I’m sure that this will all blow over in no time at all.”
“Do you think so?” Her hand tingled. It was such a nice feeling that she didn’t want to pull it away.
The boy stepped in even closer and cupped her chin in his other hand. “I certainly hope so. I don't understand why they are having such a hard time seeing this from your point of view.” He raised her head gently so that their eyes met. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned in and kissed her.
Arnie gave a gasp of surprise that resolved into a soft moan. She almost toppled off her feet, and she clutched at his clothes so she wouldn't stumble and fall. Part of her was terrified, but her fingers kept their desperate hold on him, even when she no longer feared staggering backwards.
But Hedley suddenly broke the kiss. “I-I had best get into the house, or Mother will come out to see what’s taking me so long.”
“And I have to get these clothes home.” Arnie couldn’t help but smile as she looked away. She felt happy and shy… and, suddenly, very scared of what she was feeling. “I will see you again,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried off.
‘No, estúpido,’ the girl scolded herself as she continued to run, ‘do not encourage him!’
He smiled back. “Count on it.” He winked and headed for the house.
* * * * *
“Cards, gents?” Bridget inquired of the two players left in this hand of the game.
Mort Boyer cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll just stand with these.”
“Two for me, bitte,” Otto Euler said, trying to sound confident, as he took two cards from his hand and put them, face down, on the table.
Bridget dealt him the replacements. ‘Mort’s bluffing,’ she told herself. ‘That eyebrow of his only points skyward like that when he bluffs. And I don’t think Otto’s got much of a hand, either from the way he’s betting.’
“Raise a dime,” Mort said, sliding a coin from his pile of winnings onto the ante in the center of the table.
Otto matched it. “Call; vhat do you got?”
“Not as much as I’d like.” Mort laid his cards face up on the table. “A pair o’nines.”
Otto chuckled. “I got der odher two nines.” He showed his own hand. “I guess ve split der pot.” He reached for the money.
“Take it all, Otto,” Mort said. “You got the better hand.”
Otto looked confused. “Vhat d’you mean. Ve both goot two nines.”
“Yeah,” Mort replied, “but your next card was a five and his was an eight. That’s the better hand.”
“Is dat how it vorks?” Otto asked.
“You’re wrong, Mort,” Bridget said. “The other cards don’t count. You both had a pair of nines, so you both win, and you split the pot. Except, if it can’t be an even split, Mort, gets the extra penny ‘cause he’s to the left of Stu, the one with the dealer button.”
“You sure about that?” Mort asked.
Stu Gallagher had folded earlier, and he was in a hurry to get the next hand started. “It is if she says it is. The lady knows poker a lot better than any of us.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Mort said with a shrug. “Well, I’ll get you next round.”
Otto chuckled. “Or may I vill get you again.”
Bridget gathered the cards into a deck and began to shuffle, while the two men divided up the pot. Stu passed the dealer button, which indicated the “nominal dealer” to Otto. ‘I guess ‘the lady’ does,’ she thought with satisfaction. ‘I guess the lady does,’
* * * * *
Shamus walked into the saloon kitchen. “It’s 7:30, Maggie. The girls need t’be getting ready for their dancing.”
“Thank G-d,” Flora muttered, setting the bowl she’d been washing back into the dishwater. Anything, even dancing, was better than the drudgery of washing dishes.
Lylah wiped her hands on her apron. “Can we sit down for a few minutes before we gotta change clothes? My feet ache like I been standing up for days.”
“Aye,” Shamus replied. “Just so ye’re ready when me Molly comes for ye.”
Both girls nodded. “We will be.” Lylah said.
“Let’s be going then,” Shamus answered. The pair headed for the door with him right behind them. Once they were back in the barroom, he told them, “Ye go on up, Lylah. I want t’be talking to Flora for a wee bit.” He waited a half-beat before adding, “In private.”
Lylah kept walking. “Okay, Shamus,” she called back to him as she continued to the stairs.
“What do you want to talk to me about?” Flora asked, not hiding her annoyance.
“I been watching ye, Flora, and… lately, ye seem t’be getting awful friendly-like with me customers.”
She frowned. She certainly wasn’t going to admit to anything. “Is that a problem? I’ll be stuck – be working here -- for two months yet. Why shouldn’t I act friendly with the men, especially the ones that come in to watch me dance?”
“Ahh, so ye’re getting t’be liking the men looking at ye?”
“No – yes – I-I don’t know.” She surprised herself at how quickly she’d answered.
Shamus smiled, remembering other potion girls ++who’d given the same confused answer. And how their minds had changed with time. “Don’t ye be worrying about it,” he told her. “It’ll all sort itself out soon enough.” He studied her expression. “If it’s the truth ye’re telling me.”
“I… I am.” Was this damned Irishman on to her ruse?
“I hope ye are – for yuir sake. Jessie tried something like that when she first came here. If ye’re faking them flirty ways o’yuirs it's for no good, and I’ll have t’be teaching ye a lesson, like I taught her, and, I promise ye, ye won’t be liking that one wee bit.”
“No, sir, I'm not faking anything.” She relaxed, certain now that she’d fooled him. ‘Still,’ she thought, ‘I’d better ask Rosalyn's advice the next time she comes in.’
Shamus studied her face for a moment. “I don’t know if ye are or ye aren’t, but I’ll be watching ye t’find out.” He took a breath. “Now skedaddle upstairs t’be getting ready.”
* * * * *
Thad Yingling moved his queen out to the middle of the chessboard. “So tell me, Aaron,” he asked, turning over the timer, “is the town council finally going to vote on my resolution at the meeting tomorrow?”
“Before I answer,” Aaron replied as he studied the board, “let me ask you something. Why?”
“Why am I asking about the vote? Because I’m tired of the matter being postponed again and again for so long.”
“No, why are you pushing so hard in the first place? It ain’t the sort of thing I ever saw you do before. As the Sages say, plums don’t grow on a date tree.”
Yingling considered for a moment. “You’ve heard my reason. I don’t believe that it’s morally right for something as powerful as that potion to be in the hands of a man like Shamus O’Toole.”
“Heard… Shmeard. There are reasons and there are… reasons.” Aaron moved his own queen forward two squares. “Just like there’s a reason for that move I just made.” He turned the timer over again.
The reverend studied the board and frowned. “My queen… and my rook threatened, that’s a very strong attack, Aaron.”
“So talk to me, while you try to escape – if you can. What’s your real reason for going after Shamus?”
“I’m not going after O’Toole; not really. It’s his potion that I am after. I must keep it out of the hands of… of any innocent who might take it to – take it by mistake like that Diaz boy or Trisha – Patrick O’Hanlan, or… or Laura Caulder’s sister.”
“That’s your reason, to protect people from it?”
“Yes – yes, to keep it away from people who… shouldn’t take it.”
Aaron looked closely at his friend. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Thad, but it’s your secret, and, as they say, the only way two people can keep a secret is if one of them is dead, which I am not, kayn ahora.”
“You are indeed alive, Aaron, but your trap, I’m happy to say, is not.” Yingling moved his knight, ending the threat to his two chess pieces. He winked and re-set the timer.
“And, now, since I answered your question,” he continued, “will you answer mine?” He looked at Aaron who nodded. “Are you and the other councilmen going to pass my resolution tomorrow evening?”
Aaron shrugged. “Probably, but I won’t say what’ll happen after that.”
“Whatever happens after that will be fine,” the reverend answered confidently.
“Maybe, but what is it folks say about counting chickens that ain’t hatched yet?”
* * * * *
Wednesday, May 22, 1872
“Flora… Lylah,” Molly called out, knocking on their door, “are ye awake in thuir?”
Flora sighed and sat up in bed. “We are,” she yelled. “The both of us.”
“Good!” Molly answered. “Then get yuirselves dressed and get downstairs t’be helping with the breakfast.” She turned and walked back to her own rooms.
Lylah threw back the blanket and climbed out of bed. “Dang, I was having me a real nice dream.”
“About men?” Flora asked sarcastically as she swung her legs to the floor.
“Yeah… about being one again,” the negress answered quickly. Too quickly? The problem was that, while she had been dreaming about being male, she’d still been working at the Saloon, and the only other persons in the dream were the men – the niggers -- who’d been paying attention to her female self.
She decided to press back against Flora’s teasing. “How ‘bout you? That way you been acting ‘round some of them men that come in here, I think you’re starting t’like being a girl.” She undid the ribbon that held the collar of her nightgown pulled up around her collarbone. Once it was loose, she grabbed the hem of the garment and lifted it up, over her head.
“You’re crazy. I’m as much of a man – inside – as I ever was.” Flora held the sleeve of her nightgown tight and pulled her arm out and next to her body. She repeated the process with her other arm, then pushed the garment up over her head. She stood for a moment, stretching, in just her drawers.
Lylah was no more clothed than Flora. “Oh, sure,” she said, taking fresh undergarments out of the dresser. “If you’re a man inside, then why’re you smiling and flirting with the ones that’re watching us dance? Why’re you sitting so close to ‘em and making doe eyes at ‘em after the dancing?” She put her arms through the bottom of a camisole, raised her arms over her head and let it slide down onto her body. “Hell, I think I even saw you kiss one of ‘em – that Ritter fellah – the other night.”
“What I do – and why I do it -- is none of your damned business,” Flora replied, as she stepped into a fresh pair of drawers. “I’ve got reasons, good reasons, for everything I do, and they have nothing to do with my thinking like a woman.”
“What sort of reasons, then?” Lylah was working on the hooks of her corset.
Flora didn’t answer. She just scowled at Lylah, while they both finished dressing. She didn’t trust the other woman not to betray her plan to Shamus or Molly. ‘Besides,’ she thought, ‘why should I tell that damned nosy nigger anything that important?’
* * * * *
Jessie walked over to the bar, where Molly and Shamus were setting things up for the day. “I’m glad you’re together here, so I can kill two birds with the one stone. I wanted t’remind you both that me and Paul’ll be heading out t’Hanna Tyler’s wedding next Monday.”
“The wedding,” Molly said, “I clean forgot about it.” Shamus nodded in agreement.
Jessie looked worried. “You… You are gonna let me go, ain’t you?”
“If we said ye could,” Shamus answered, “then ye still can. I’ll even be keeping me promise t’be giving ye a bottle of good whiskey t’be toasting the bride ‘n’ groom with.”
Jessie smiled in relief. “Thanks, Shamus… Molly. I know I’m kinda leaving you in the lurch about music for the Cactus Blossoms.”
“Aye, ye are,” he replied. “I’ll talk to the Happy Days Band during the dance on Saturday. I think they’ll be willing t’pick up the slack while ye’re gone.”
Molly thought for a moment. “Aye, they probably will. Ye’ll be gone – what – two weeks at most?”
“Less probably; the wedding’s on Sunday, June 2nd. If we leave first thing Monday morning, we should be back by Friday, the 7th.”
“That oughta work for ‘Captain Jinks,’” Molly told her. “But what about that new dance, the… the galop. Do ye have the music for that?”
Jessie smiled. “No, but I got a couple o’ideas on that. Wilma got Lady Cerise t’loan me her kalliope music box. She’s got a disk with the tune on it, so the girls can practice. And I asked Kirby Pinter t’telegraph an order for a copy o’the music to the same place he got me the music to ‘The Wedding March.’ He figures it should be here in a few days, ‘cause now he knows where t’get it from.”
“That should take care o' it, Jessie,” Shamus said. “And thanks for doing all that work ye done. Ye can go off t’that wedding with a clean conscience and have a good time.”
Molly smiled. “Aye, and I know that ye and Paul’ll be having a good time on the trail, too.” She gave Jessie a broad wink.
“Damn straight,” Jessie said with a bawdy laugh.
* * * * *
Bridget looked at the pocket watch whose chain was pinned to her blouse. “Almost 10,” she whispered. “They’ll be out soon to clear away breakfast.”
“But not quite yet,” she added. She took a last bite of toast and glanced quickly around. The barroom was empty except for her.
She walked over to the table where the food for breakfast: toast, butter and jam, sausage, and coffee were set. She gingerly touched the coffeepot. “Cool enough.” She lifted it. “And about half full.”
She took the lid off the pot and carefully pulled out the brew basket. After a quick check – and yes, she was still alone – she emptied the sodden grounds into a brass spittoon set on the floor near the table. For good measure, she dumped most of the coffee left in the pot into the spittoon as well.
Bridget reassembled the coffeepot and replaced it on the wooden trivet it had been sitting on. Then, she knelt down and picked up the spittoon. It smelled horribly of beer and rancid tobacco chaw, and the coffee and grounds didn’t help. Being very careful not to spill anything, she swirled the spittoon several times, thoroughly mixing the contents before she set it back down.
“Clean that mess, Flora,” she said with a chuckle. She rose to her feet and walked over to the table where she usually dealt poker. She was still chuckling as she opened a deck of cards and began a game of Maverick solitaire.
* * * * *
Kirby Pinter walked through the swinging doors and into the Saloon. He stood, just a few feet inside, surveying the room for Nancy. When he couldn’t find her, he walked over to the bar. “Excuse me,” he said to the barman.
“Hi,” R.J. greeted him. “What can I get for you?”
“Nothing at the moment; I’m… uh, looking for Nancy Osbourne.”
“She’s upstairs rehearsing.” R.J. glanced at the clock on the wall. “But they should be down for lunch any time now. You’re welcome t’wait.”
“Rehearsing?” I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Nancy’s one of the Cactus Blossoms, our troupe of dancing girls. They’re upstairs learning a new number. I hear Nancy’s got a big part in it.” R.J. took a breath. “Can I get you something while you’re waiting?”
“A… A sarsaparilla , I suppose.” Kirby looked around, not sure what to do.
R.J. handed him the beverage. “If you like, you can sit over there with… her.” He pointed to Rosalyn, who was sitting demurely at a nearby table. “She’s waiting for Flora, one of the other dancers.”
“No… ah, thank you. I-I’ll just wait here, if you don’t mind.” Kirby recognized the woman. She was a customer of his, buying an occasional book. Still, he knew who – and what else – she was. And he didn’t want Nancy to jumping to any conclusions about why they were sitting together.
“Suit yourself.” R.J. went back to stocking the glasses under the bar, while Kirby studiously nursed his drink and tried, very hard, to consider what he was going to say. He hoped that R.J. had only been joking with him, about Nancy joining the Cactus Blossoms.
* * * * *
Flora set her plate from the Free Lunch down on the table and took a seat across from Rosalyn. “How are you today?” Rosalyn asked.
“Don't get me started,” Flora answered, taking a bite of Maggie’s spicy stew. “Molly’s had us upstairs all morning. She’s got these new dance steps we have to learn. Kicking as fast as a horse gallops. My leg muscles will burn for a week.”
“And I’m sure that you looked lovely practicing.” Rosalyn cut a piece from one of the herring on her plate and took a bite.
“Damned if I know. I hate the whole thing. I’m tired as all get out, and my feet hurt.”
“That doesn’t sound very good.” She took another bite and decided to change the subject. “How are you doing with the flirting? Has Mr. O’Toole said anything, yet?”
Flora frowned. “Yes, he asked me if I was faking it.”
“Whatever did you say to him?”
“I denied it, of course, but he didn’t seem to believe me. He warned that he’d be watching me, and, if I was faking, I’d regret it. I guess that b-bi… that Miss Jessie pulled something last year, and so he's blasted suspicious.”
“Good, if he’s making threats like that, then he doesn’t know for sure. He’s trying to scare you into behaving.”
“He can forget about that. I’ll be darned if I’m going to give in to him.”
Rosalyn clapped her hands. “Good for you.”
“Any suggestions on what else I can do to convince him?”
The blonde demimonde thought for a moment. “I’ve told you a fair bit about how to flirt with men. I think that you have to start acting feminine in other ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he’s suspicious because you flirt like a girl, but you act like a man the rest of the time. You need to adopt more girlish behavior all day long. But it's really more about style -- movement, apparent attitude -- than anything you actually say or do. But there are things that will help with the effect; just don't overdo them. Try to giggle, rather than laugh, when you hear a joke. Talk about clothes – you might even ask to him to buy you some more things, and, if he agrees, get frilly, girlish things; earrings, perhaps.”
“That sounds like giving up.”
“A soldier… friend, I once had, sometimes talked about ‘tactical retreats for redeployment.’ I guess you'd know more about that than I would. The thing is, if you stopped flirting the way you have been, wouldn’t that be admitting that you were faking… and that you were stopping because you were afraid of Mr. O’Toole?”
“Those are my only choices?”
“I’m afraid that they are.”
“All right,” Flora said with a sigh. “What do I have to do?”
“I’ve told you already; act like a girl. Mostly, you can pull that off by acting cheerful, gracious. Do the sort of things that shows everybody that you’re a girl, a sweet, flirtatious girl, and you like being that way. I’m sure that you’ve seen woman who act like that.”
“I have,” Flora replied in a sour voice. “I have. I saw too much of one a while back.”
“Were you… attracted to her?”
“I must have been.” Flora looked down at her plate. “I'm wearing her face.”
“Hmm, I bet that there’s a story in that.”
“There is, but I’m not about to tell it now.” She sighed. “I have to start thinking about how to act like Vi… like the girl I’m supposed to be.”
* * * * *
“Kirby!” Nancy greeted him, as he came over to meet her at the foot of the steps. “What a pleasant surprise to see you today.”
He gave her a wry smile and a quick tilt of his head by way of a greeting. “You aren’t the only one to be surprised today, Nancy. I got a big surprise of my own.”
“Oh, really, what was it?” She smiled, a little taken aback at how pleased she was that he’d come over to share whatever his news was with her.
“The barman told me about your new job. I must say, I’m disappointed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Yes, I thought you said that you planned on quitting this… place; going back to teaching, perhaps, or, even better, coming to work with me.”
“I never said that – not in so many words, anyway. Besides that, I… I can n-never go back to teaching.”
“Why not? I should think that the town council would be most happy to rehire you.”
She shook her head. “If they could. Those… women made it very clear that they had no use for me – or for anyone who might rehire me.” She blinked away the beginnings of a tear and clenched her fists as if angry. “One… one – or more – of them wr-wrote my seminary back in… Hartford pretending to be the town council and s-saying that I… that I w-was… unfit! The school took away my credentials.”
“Nancy.” Kirby stared at her, saw that she was profoundly hurt but was too stubborn to admit it. She sniffed; the tears she was holding back were making her nose runny.
He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “So you’re going to prove that they were right by parading around to music in a saloon?”
“No!” She jerked back and put her hands on her hips. “I’m going to prove that I don’t give… give a damn what those narrow-minded harridans think of me.” She studied his face, looking for any hint of support.
There was none to be found. He shook his head. “But to do something so extreme, so irrevocable; I don’t understand.”
She wiped her nose and then threw the kerchief back in his face. “That’s obvious. And I so wish that you did.” She hesitated, tempted to argue, to try and make him see her point of view. But it galled her so much that he couldn't see it on his own, so she only said, “Good day, Mister Pinter.” Then she turned and walked away.
He called after her, “Very well, Miss Osbourne; good day to you, as well. I regret that I seem to have misjudged your intentions.” He stuffed the cloth back in his pocket and stalked out of the Saloon.
She looked back and watched him leave, wishing she knew whether to be mad at Kirby for the way he had reacted or at herself for upsetting him.
* * * * *
Clyde Ritter walked briskly up the path to the schoolhouse. “With any luck,” he whispered to himself, “this’ll be over early, and we can get started tonight planning how we want to run this town.”
“What the hell?” His smile of anticipation faded as he rounded a turn. Men were carrying chairs out of the building and setting them up in rows near the picnic tables. A couple of other men were setting up a pole with a lantern attached.
He sprinted to the school, stopping in front of a tall, swarthy man who was carrying a chair under each arm. “What is going on here?” he demanded of the man.
“No hablo inglés,” the fellow answered, stepping around Clyde.
Luis Ortega walked out onto the schoolhouse steps. “Clyde, I thought I heard your voice. How are you?”
“Fine, Luis,” Clyde replied, feeling a bit uncertain. “Are these your men?”
Ortega smiled. “They are… from the ranch, mostly. The padre has spoken at every Mass this week of the meeting tonight and how important it is. In the store, I heard people talking about going, and I wondered if there would be room for us all. Would it not be such a shame if everyone who wanted to be at the meeting could not get in?”
“Uhh, yes, I-I guess it would.” Ritter frowned. ‘Damn it,’ he thought, ‘he knows we wanted to keep the Mex away.’
“Sì, I talked to Whit Whitmore, and he loaned me the key to the building. My men are setting up chairs, so the meeting can be held out here. That way, anyone who wants can listen and even speak.” He looked Clyde straight in the eyes. “Is that not a good idea?”
“C-Couldn’t be better,” Clyde replied, trying to keep the sourness he felt out of his voice.
* * * * *
Whit banged his gavel on the picnic table where the councilmen were seated, facing the crowd. “All right, folks. We all know why we’re all here tonight. The first item of Old Business is Reverend Yingling’s petition that control of Shamus O’Toole’s potion be given over to a committee that he wants to set up. Before the town council votes, we’re going to give everybody who wants to say something about that a chance to talk. All we’re asking – and I’m going to be firm in this – is that you all respect whoever’s speaking; no interruptions and no insults.”
“Is that understood?” He looked directly at Cecilia Ritter who was sitting at a nearby picnic table with her husband, Horace Styron, and a number of the women who’d been working with her.
Cecilia glowered back at him, a determined look on her face.
“Roscoe,” Whit continued. “You’ve had a lot to say about this in your paper. Would you like to start us off?”
The newsman stood up. “Thanks, Mr. Whitney, but no thanks. I’m here to cover this meeting for a story in the paper, not to be a part of that story.” He fidgeted for a moment before he took something out of his jacket pocket. “But if I did want to speak, well, I think this says everything I’d want to say.”
He held up a “Trust Shamus” ribbon, raising it over his head for all to see. After a minute or so, he lowered his hand, pinned the ribbon to his lapel, and sat down.
“Very nice,” Horace Styron rose to his feet, slowly clapping his hands as he spoke. “As nice a piece of politicking as I’ve seen in quite a while.”
“So is what you’re saying right now,” Arsenio said. “And I don’t remember Whit recognizing you to speak.”
Styron looked surprised. “Yes, but --”
“Arsenio’s right,” Whit said. “Please sit down, Horace.”
The blacksmith chuckled. “Oh, let him speak. We might as well get it over with.”
“Thank you, Arsenio,” Horace said wryly, “for that verbal vote of support.” He waited a half-beat for effect. “Some people are wearing ribbons that say, ‘Trust Shamus.’ To tell the truth, I do. I trust that I won’t get poisoned or go blind drinking his booze – or get sick from the food he serves. I’ll trust him that far, easy. But trust him with something as powerful as that potion of his? No, thank you. I’d rather trust it to the man I already trust with my immortal soul, Reverend Thaddeus Yingling.”
As he sat down, Cecilia and her ladies yelled, “Halleluiah!”
* * * * *
“As much as I respect Thad Yingling, as a man and as a minister,” Judge Humphreys said in a clear voice as he got to his feet, “I’m not sure what the point of this committee is. The town council doesn’t decide if Shamus’ brew is administered to someone. I do that – or, rather, I offer a convicted criminal the choice of the potion as part of a judicial process. There’s no resorting to a committee – except for the jury – as part of a trial, and the jury doesn’t decide the punishment. They just decide if a defendant is innocent or guilty.”
He took a breath. “Having said that, I will also say that I’d be willing to talk to an advisory committee that made suggestions about general procedures regarding the potion.”
* * * * *
“Oh, yes,” Cecelia Ritter began, “Mr. O’Toole’s foul concoction has saved some lives, but look at all the people who’ve been hurt by the careless way he deals with it.” She found Trisha in the crowd and pointed to her. “Those poor O’Hanlans, their happy marriage was destroyed because he foolishly allowed Patrick O’Hanlan to drink it. Kaitlin O’Hanlan lost her husband, and Emma O’Hanlan, her father. And our church has lost Patrick’s voice, his wisdom, as a member of the board.”
Kaitlin shook her head. “That pious hypocrite,” she whispered angrily to Trisha and Liam who both nodded in agreement. “She couldn’t wait to get Trisha off the board.”
“And that, I’m sorry to say, isn’t the only case,” Cecelia continued. “The Diaz boy – his mother does laundry – what became of his future because he trusted Shamus and drank that same foul mixture. You’ve all seen him -- her -- around town. She had to take over her mother’s business because the poor woman was so distressed about his change that she was almost killed by a runaway horse. Almost killed. Do we wait until someone is killed before we take that potion away from a man who clearly is unfit to be in charge of it?”
* * * * *
Whit looked out at the crowd. “The chair recognizes Luis Ortega.” He pointed his gavel, even as the man rose to his feet.
“I ask Reverend Yingling now what I asked before. If the town council created this committee of yours, who will be on it?”
Yingling stood up, a gracious smile curling his lips. “A fair question, Mr. Ortega. I assure you that I will appoint men to my committee who represent every important point of view in this community.”
“Every important point of view.” Luis nodded to the people – almost all Mexicans – who were clustered around him. “Thank you, Señor. That is what I thought you would say.”
* * * * *
“I’d like t’be asking a couple o’questions,” Shamus said, after Whit had recognized him. “First of all, what’re ye gonna be paying me for me potion?”
Whit looked surprised. “Pay? Shamus, you’ve never asked us for any money before. Why are you asking for some now?”
“The first time I brewed it up was t’be saving lives – including me Molly’s life and me own. After that, it was under the law, t’punish the man that took Laura, and then it was t’be saving a wee, injured lad. All fine and good, and no charge for it. But now… now ye’re talking about tying me t’some committee, and that’s a whole other matter. Well, if ye’re gonna be taking me potion like that, then I’ll be asking ye t’be paying me just like folks pay the Euler boys for what they brew.”
* * * * *
“Anybody else got anything to say?” Whit finally asked.
When a number of people raised their hands, Aaron added. “Anybody else got anything new to say?” The hands went down. “In that case,” Aaron went on. “I got something new to say. The Sages say fit the suit to the man, not the man to the suit, and I think that’s true here. I move to amend the motion to make the committee one that advises the council and the Judge – is that alright with you, Your Honor?”
“Sounds fine to me,” Humphrey shot back.
Aaron smiled and gave a small tip of his head towards the Judge. “Good, then that’s what I had to say.”
“Second!” Arsenio said almost at once.
“I agree,” Whit said. “The motion is changed. All in favor of the new motion?” He raised his hand.
Yingling jumped to his feet. “Wait a minute here. That isn’t what I asked for.”
“You don’t always get what you want, Thad,” Aaron said. “Aye.”
Arsenio nodded and raised his own hand. “Unanimous.”
“Before we move on, I have one other thing to do,” Whit said solemnly. “Reverend Yingling, I’m sorry, if you misunderstood, but you don’t appoint the committee. The town council created it, and we get to say who’s on it. You’ll be the chairman, of course, and to keep you company… Father de Castro, will you serve as vice-chairman?”
The priest smiled. “Sì, I am always happy for any opportunity to work with my good friend, the Reverend.”
“And to round things out,” Whit continued, “two men who worked so hard on this issue, Horace Styron and Luis Ortega – if you want the job.” Both men nodded, then turned each other. Horace glared at Ortega, while the other man gave him a most satisfied smile.
“That’s only four,” Yingling pointed out. “It should be an odd number to break ties.” He needed another man whom he could control.
Whit smiled slyly. “You’re right, of course. The fifth member of the committee will be the man who knows the potion best, Shamus O’Toole.”
* * * * *
Thursday, May 23, 1872
Molly opened the back door of the kitchen. “How’re ye coming with them spittoons, Lylah?”
“T-Terrible.” Lylah looked up from where she was sitting, a brass spittoon on her aproned lap. Tears ran down her cheeks.
Molly hurried out. “You’re crying up a blue streak, me girl. The work can't be as bad as all that. What’s the matter?”
“I-I don’t know. I feel like… hell. I’m bone tired. My feet hurt, and my corset… pinches, like it’s too tight all of a sudden.” She sighed. “It’s just too… damned much.” She shook her head, and sobbed.
The older woman sat down next to her on the step. As she did, she did some mental arithmetic. ‘Four weeks, it is on Monday,’ she thought. She gently patted Lylah on the shoulder. “Don’t ye be worrying. You’ll be feeling, well, different in a day or three.”
“Better?”
“Let’s just be saying different. I’ll be telling Flora and ye about it t’night. ‘Tis something ye both need t’hear.”
“What is it? Is it something serious?”
“I’ll tell ye tonight. ‘Tis easier t’be saying once it t’the both of ye, that’s all. Understand?”
“I suppose.”
“Feeling better?”
“No, I still feel lousy, and I still got these spittoons t’clean.”
“I can’t be doing nothing ‘bout that. Somebody’s got t’be cleaning ‘em.”
“Somebody’s making a mess of ‘em, too. All of a sudden there’s all kinds o’crazy stuff inside, food, dirt, all kinds o’things.” She showed Molly the spittoon she was working on.
“By all the Saints,” Molly exclaimed. “Is that coffee grounds in there?”
“It is. I think Bridget’s putting stuff in them spittoons on purpose.” Lylah made a sniffling noise. “You know how she hates Flora. I-I’m just getting caught in the crossfire b’tween ‘em. It… It ain’t fair.”
“No, no, it ain’t, and I’ll have t’be talking t’her about that.”
“Th-Thanks, Molly.” Lylah unexpected hugged Molly. She pulled free a moment later, her face flushed. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I done that.”
Molly gave her a gentle smile. “I do. ‘Tis one o’the things I’ll be telling ye about t’night.”
* * * * *
Ernesto raced back and forth at the edge of the field where the older boys were playing ball.
“What’re you doing?” Abe Scudder taunted. “You ain’t in the game.”
Ernesto nodded but kept running. “No, but I should be.”
“A runt like you?” Scutter sneered. “They won’t even let me play, and I’m two grades ahead of you.” Only boys in grades five and up – and Emma – were allowed in the ball game.
“Runt! I am almost as tall as you, and I’m a better player than you will ever be.”
“You are not!”
“I am so. Look at me; I can run fast enough to keep up with the ones out on the field.”
“The heck you can. You can’t even run as fast as me.”
By now, a crowd had gathered around the two boys. “There’s no way a Mex mouse like you can beat Abe,” Basil Mackechnie scoffed.
“I can beat him easy. I can beat the both of you.”
Paula Frick pointed a finger. “You know that ain’t true, Ernesto. Both of them is faster ‘n you.”
“I can beat them – and you!” Ernesto was losing his temper. The boys’ taunts were bad enough, but Paula was a girl, even if she was the tomboy of the second grade.
“You willing t’back up them words?” Basil asked.
“I am!”
Abe smiled. “Fine. Recess is almost over, so tomorrow, soon as recess starts, we race from… from the foot o’the schoolhouse steps round the big oak…” He pointed to a tall oak tree at the far end of the field. The older boys used the tree to mark one of their game’s goal lines. “…round the oak and back to the steps. You in, runt, or are you chicken?”
“I am in, and when I win, I get a ride, once across the field, on the shoulders of each of you.”
Scudder gave a deep, nasty laugh. “And when we win, each of us gets two of them sweet fruit empanadas your mama makes.”
* * * * *
Shamus looked up at the sound of the knock on his office door. “Dolores,” he greeted his waitress. “What can I be doing for ye?”
“My cousin… Arnolda,” she answered, stepping through the half-opened door into the room.
“How is Arnie? Is she still working for her mother?”
“She is helping… some, but Teresa can’t pay her or anything. She-she needs a-another job.” Dolores said the last almost as a question.
Shamus studied her face. “Ye ain’t asking me t’be giving her one, are ye?”
“I – She is a good worker, you know that.”
“Aye, and I know what else she is -- a thief. She stole drinks and money both from me. She -- he -- even let a couple of dodgers get him involved in a robbery during working hours.”
“Sì, he did, but… I do not think that she will. Please, Señor Shamus, give her a chance.”
“I-I don’t know. She's had two chances already.”
“Please… at least, come and talk to her.”
Shamus sighed. “All right, Dolores, that much I’ll be giving her. If she hasn't learned a lesson by now, she never will. Tell her I’ll be coming over t’be seeing her sometime in the next couple days.”
“Thank you, Shamus.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I will tell her.”
Shamus chuckled. “Tell her whatever ye want. Just don’t be telling me Molly that ye kissed me.”
* * * * *
Ysabel Diaz and Penny Stone were waiting for Emma at lunchtime. “C’mon,” Penny said, taking her arm. “We’re gonna eat lunch over here today.” Ysabel took her other arm, and they began to lead her away from the table where Yully, Stephan, and Tomas were already waiting for them.
“Just us girls, today” Ysabel told Stephan when he started to follow. Stephan nodded and headed back to the other boys, while Constanza Diaz hurried to join the three older females.
Emma looked confused, as they sat down at the empty table. “What’s going on?”
“That is what we want to know, Emma,” Ysabel replied.
Penny nodded. “Yes, what is it with you and ‘whiney Hermione’? Why are you letting her say all those nasty things about you?”
“Sì,” Ysabel asked, “why are you not fighting back? You never let her talk to you like that before.”
Emma looked down at the table, unable to look the others in the face. “Maybe I-I don’t wanna… fight with her anymore.”
“Why?” they asked with one voice.
Emma fought the tears filling her eyes. “I… ‘Cause – m-maybe – she’s-she’s… right.” Emma lost, and the tears ran down her face.
“Never!” Ysabel threw her arms around her friend.
Penny and Costanza joined in the hug. “Hermione wouldn’t be right if she said the sun was coming up in the east,” Penny added.
“M-Maybe not,” Emma said softly, “but maybe she’s right about me. I… I am a p-potion freak.” Like Trisha, though she didn’t mention her former father’s name. “I know you’re trying t’help me, but I-I ain’t worth it.”
“The heck you aren’t,” Penny shot back. “You’re worth a dozen Hermiones… easy. And-and me and Ysabel and Constanza are gonna keep hugging you till you get the idea, that you ain’t, clear outta your head.”
Emma gave them a sad smile. “It ain’t gonna work, but…” She stretched her arms out and around the others. “…but you’re welcome to try.”
* * * * *
“So what’s the verdict?” Laura asked, as Edith Lonnigan carefully helped her reposition her bedclothes to a much more modest arrangement.
Doc Upshaw pulled off his rubberized gloves. “There doesn’t seem to be any real change, Laura.” He stowed the gloves and his speculum into a small canvas bag marked “Used” before he went on. “You seem to be progressing as you should. Your weight gain is a bit high, but it’s still in the normal range for this stage of the pregnancy, and the baby appears healthy.”
“Can I go back to work, then?”
“I’d just as soon --” the physician began.
Laura slid around on the bed. “Doc, I’m fine. You just said so.” She sat up and shifted, putting her feet down on the rug.
Edith studied her patient’s determined expression. “Show us, then. Stand up and walk. Walk from… from the bed out to your sofa in the parlor.” The midwife pushed the door open. Arsenio was sitting, waiting, on the sofa, and he turned at the sound of the door.
“N-No problem.” Laura stood and began walking. She was unsteady and extended her arms on either side to help her balance. She began to smile as she took slow step after slow step.
She did get through the doorway, but her smile faded almost as she did. “Ooh,” she moaned and stumbled back against the wall.
“I’ve got you, Laura!” Arsenio yelled, running over to her. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her back into their bedroom. “Are you all right?” he asked, as he set her down on the bed.
“No, dammit!” she spat. “I-I thought I could make it to the settee.”
Upshaw shook his head. “It was a truly valiant effort, Laura, but I’m sorry – almost as sorry as you are – that you didn’t make it. I think another week of bed rest is called for.”
“Shit!” she replied, and the others all nodded in agreement.
* * * * *
Molly knocked on the door to Lylah and Flora’s room. “Can I be coming in for a wee bit, ladies?”
“Can we stop you?” Flora answered sourly.
Molly walked into the room, closing the door behind her. “No, but ye can be civil about it. I come up t’be talking to the both of ye about --”
“Can’t we get ten minutes to ourselves, to just rest up before we have to change into those da… darned dance costumes?” Flora demanded.
Lylah stepped in. “She’s here ‘cause I asked her to be here, Flora. Now shut up and listen.”
“You damned nigger, who’re you to tell me what to do?”
“I don’t want t’be hearing ye talking to her like that,” Molly said firmly. “Now, sit down and be quiet.”
Flora tried to argue, but no sound came. She sat down on her bed, looking daggers at both Molly and Lylah.
“I’d chalk what ye just said up t’what ye’re feeling right now, Flora, but ye’re always acting that way, and I’m more ‘n a little tired of it. If what I come up here t’say wasn’t so important, I’d be leaving ye here alone t’stew in yuir own juices.”
Lylah looked closely at Molly. “No, please… What-What is happening to us?”
“Ye’re women now, and every month, women… have… monthlies.”
The negress’ eyes grew wide. “Is that what’s happening t’me?
“Not just yet. What ye’re both feeling now is yuir bodies getting ready for yuir monthlies. It makes ye tired all the time. Yuir feet – and other things -- swell up and get real tender to t’the touch. The worst of it is that yuir mind goes acting funny. Ye want t’laugh or cry or argue at the drop of a hat.”
Flora grunted, still unable to speak. “All right,” Molly told her. “Ye can speak again, but only if ye’re gonna be polite, understood?”
“I understand,” Flora replied, looking contrite. “These… monthlies, are-are they messy?”
“Aye, why d’ye ask.”
“I used to tease my little sister, Priscilla, when she’d complain about something messy that happened to females. She called it her monthly visitor. When I asked her about it, she said it was something that no woman would ever talk to a man about.” She took a breath. “Priscilla did say -- once or twice -- that there was… blood.”
“Thuir is, and I’ll be showing ye how t’take care o’that closer to the start of it. In the meantime…” She looked at the watch pinned by a ribbon to her pocket. “…’tis 7:45, so ye’d best be changing clothes. I’ll talk to ye more when we get the chance.”
* * * * *
Friday, May 24, 1872
Abe Scudder was waiting at the foot of the steps when Ernesto walked out the schoolhouse door. Paula Frick and Basil Mackechnie were standing next to him. “You ready, runt?” Abe challenged.
“I am,” Ernesto answered as he started down the steps.
Basil laughed. “Then… ready, set, go!” The trio started running.
“That is not fair!” Ernesto yelled. He jumped down the rest of the steps and began chasing after them.
The other children stood watching the race, shouting encouragement. Even the older boys, waiting for the race to end before they started their own game, were shouting.
Ernesto pumped hard. He was about halfway across the field when he passed Basil Mackechnie. The older boy stumbled in surprise, when he was passed. He kept running, but he was going slower than he had before.
“Ex… cuse me… seño… rita,” Ernesto shouted breathlessly as he passed Paula Frick shortly after that.
She scowled and shifted, trying to bump into him, to knock him down. He dodged. She lost her balance and fell. “Dang you, Mex!” she yelled, as she picked herself up. She began running again, but Ernesto had a strong lead on her, now. He rounded the oak tree and headed back, giving her a wide berth as he passed her again, still on her way to the tree.
‘I got it,’ Abe Scudder told himself as he closed on the steps. ‘I got it. He’s nowhere near me.’ The older boy smiled confidently and kept running. But when he was only about twenty feet away from the steps, he broke stride for a moment and looked back over his left shoulder.
As he did, Ernesto passed him.
Abe growled and put on a final burst of speed. It wasn’t quite enough. He saw Ernesto’s hand touch the handrail a few seconds before his did.
A crowd gathered around the pair of runners, congratulating them both. Paula and then Basil reached the steps and began to push their way through the crowd.
“You ran me a good race,” Ernesto said, extending his hand to the Scudder boy.
Abe looked fiercely at his opponent. “You cheated, you damned runt.”
“He tripped me,” Paula added, stepping up next to him. “You all saw him do it.”
Basil sneered. “He doesn't care about the rules, just like his outlaw mama!”
“Who are you calling an outlaw?” Ernesto snarled.
“Your mama's an outlaw,” Abe taunted. “That's why she got turned into a girl with the rest o’the Hanks gang when they come t’town t’kill the sheriff.”
“Look at his face!” Paula called out. “He didn’t even know! Potion freak! Potion freak! Your mama's a outlaw potion freak!”
“That… that is not true. My mama is none of those things.” Ernesto raised a fist. “You two take it back.”
“Make me.” The Scudder boy moved in close, towering over Ernesto. “You Mexican flea.” Ernesto was forced to take a step backwards.
The younger boy looked up at his tormenter. “I will.” He pushed Abe hard, causing the boy to lurch backwards. He waved his arms for a moment, just managing to keep his balance.
“You lousy...” Abe charged the Ernesto. They grappled, throwing wild punches. The crowd gathered in closer, watching the fight, cheering for one boy or the other.
“What is going on?”
The crowd parted as Phillipia Stone bustled over to the two combatants. “Yully, Stephan, help me,” she ordered.
“Yes, Ma,” Yully answered. “I’ll take Ernesto. Stephan, you grab Abe.” The older boys waded in, pulling the pair apart. They squirmed, trying to break free and continue the fighting.
Phillipia stepped between them. “What is going on here?” she demanded.
“We was racing,” Abe answered, “And he cheated. He tripped Paula, too. When I called him on it, he started hitting me.”
“That’s what happened,” Paula added. “Look at my pretty dress.” As she did, Basil Meckechnie slipped away, trying to look like just another student.
Ernesto glared. “Mentirosos! [Liars!] I won the race fair, Mrs. Stone, and they called my mama an outlaw and a potion freak.” He pointed at Abe. “I said that she was not, and he hit me.”
“I think that recess is over for the three of you,” the teacher told them. “You can go inside now. I think you’ll be having lunch inside today, and for next week, as well.” She thought for a moment. “Paula, I think that your mother will have her own ideas about what to do when she sees your dress.”
The girl looked down at her clothes and tried to brush off the dirt from where she had hit the ground. “Oh, no,” she whined, remembering her mother’s warnings about what would happen if she came home from school again in a dress as dirty as her dress was now.
“As for you boys,” Phillipia went on. “I’ll be sending notes home for your parents. Notes that I will expect to get back tomorrow with parental signatures.”
The trio started for the schoolhouse. Paula worried about her mother’s reaction. Abe began to plot revenge. Ernesto was thinking of what had been said about his mama.
* * * * *
“Well now,” Molly said, looking over at Shamus. “What’s got ye looking out into thin air like that?”
Shamus blinked, as if surprised to be spoken to. “T’be telling the truth, Molly Love, I’ve been thinking about something Dolores said t’me.”
“And what would that be?”
“Arnie… now that Teresa’s healed up, there really ain’t no job for him – her – at the laundry. Dolores has been asking me if I’d be willing t’take her back.”
“Give her another chance, ye mean? And what do ye think about it?”
“I’ve given her more chances already than a lot o’folks’d say she deserves. She lied… and she stole from me.” He sighed. “On the other hand, we are needing more help. Laura’ll be out for who knows how long. Flora and Lylah’re busy dancing at night – and Nancy will be, too, soon enough. That'll bring back the customers, which means we need waitresses.”
“Then, too, it was Arnie, the boy, who did them things. We don’t know about Arnie, the girl. Thuir ain’t a one o’them others that drank yuir potion that wasn’t the better for it. Maybe ‘tis the same for her.”
“And maybe, ye’re saying, I should be giving her a chance t’prove it.”
Molly gave him a sweet smile. “Well, Love, ye did say that ye did tell Arnie that ye wouldn’t be hiring him back until he changed his ways. Can ye be thinking of a bigger change than what happened t’him?”
“No, Molly, ye’ve got me on that one. I think I’ll just be heading over t’talk her tomorrow about working for me again.”
“It’d be nice t’be having a busboy – girl – again, Love, but what we’re truly needing is a waitress. Which o’them are ye going t’be hiring?”
“I ain’t sure that I’m hiring Arnie at all. If I do, we’ll just see what she wants t’be hired as.”
* * * * *
Martha Yingling walked quietly into her husband’s study. “Would you like some iced tea, Thad?” She was carrying a tray that held a pitcher and two glasses.
“What – oh, Martha,” he said, looking up from the papers on his desk. “Did you want something?”
She smiled indulgently. He was lost in his work again. “I thought you might be thirsty,” she answered. “You’ve been working furiously in here all day.” She set the tray down on an oak sideboard and poured him a glass of iced tea.
“Thank you, my dear.” He took the glass from her and drank. “Ahh… very nice.”
“You’re welcome.” She poured some for herself and sat down. “Whatever are you working on?”
“My sermon for Sunday needs to be completely rewritten. I had planned a short piece, thanking the congregation for their help and support with my petition. After what happened at the council meeting…” His expression soured. “…that hardly seems appropriate.”
“Why not? The town council passed your resolution. You have your committee.”
“I have a committee,” he spat, “but not only does it not have charge of O’Toole’s wretched potion – which is what I wanted – most of the members are people I do not control, people who are likely to oppose me.”
“The majority; surely you’re not including Diego de Castro?”
“I am. He’s a good man, I’ll admit, but I’ve spoken to him about the potion. He doesn’t see the implicit danger in it, and he most certainly doesn’t have my zeal for wresting control of it from O’Toole.”
“Thad… to tell the truth, I’m not sure that I understand why you are so concerned about Mr. O’Toole’s potion in the first place.”
He frowned. “Do you doubt me, Martha?” There was anger, not hurt, in his voice.
“No, I…” She reached across his desk and gently took his hand in her own. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you so… so driven before -- about anything -- the way you are about this.”
“I’m sorry that you – that so many in this town – do not fully grasp the reasons for my concern. That’s why I’ve been working so hard on this sermon. The people have to know – they have to fear -- the potion as I do. I must lead you – and them – to see what I see. I… We cannot let the council’s action to stand. I mean to lead my congregation to force the council to reverse their actions, to make them give me the power needed to deal with that foul concoction.”
A look of surprise and concern flashed across Martha’s face, only to fade away as quickly as it had appeared. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She let go of his hand and rose to her feet. “I’ll leave the iced tea, as well.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he replied, not noticing her expression. “I’ll see you and the children at supper.” He went back to his work, scribbling away, before she closed the door behind her.
* * * * *
“Hola, Mama… Lupe… Tia Jane,” Ernesto said flatly as he walked into the Saloon’s kitchen.
Maggie smiled at him, but then she saw his angry expression. “Ernesto, what is the matter?”
“I… This.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her.
Maggie glanced at the words, then looked over at Jane with an urgent “I need to be alone with him”
“C’mon, Lupe,” Jane said, taking the girl’s hand. “I think your mama wants t’ talk to your brother without you ‘n’ me here listening.”
“But I want to stay and see what is in the note and what is gonna happen to Ernesto,” Lupe protested.
Jane shook her head. “No, you don’t.” She grasped the girl’s hand more firmly and led her from the room.
“Thank you,” Maggie whispered, as she opened the paper and began to read more carefully.
` “My Dear Mrs. de Aguilar,”
` “I am sorry to inform you that your son, Ernesto, was in a fist
` fight with another boy, Abraham Scudder. The boys, and
` several other students, had some sort of race. Ernesto won,
` and Abraham said something that started the fight. I have
` punished both boys by taking away their recess and outside
` lunch privileges for the next week, but you, of course, are free
` to give any additional punishment you deem appropriate. If
` you wish, I shall be happy to discuss this matter with you.”
` “Please sign this note and give back it to Ernesto. He is to
` bring it to school tomorrow, so I will know that you’ve seen it.”
` “Yours truly,
` Phillipa Stone”
“Ernesto!” Maggie said. “Why were you fighting with this boy?”
“He started it, Mama. He said…” He voice trailed off.
“What, Ernesto, what did he say that was so bad that you had to get into a fight with him?”
“He… He called you an outlaw. Then Paula called you a ‘potion freak’, Mama. I wanted to punch her, too, but she is a girl.”
Maggie shook her head resignedly and started to explain very carefully. “Ernesto, you know that I took the potion. That is how I got to be your Mama.”
“Did… Did you take it because you wanted to be my Mama, or was it a… punishment?”
“What did that boy tell you?”
“He said that you came to Eerie to kill the sheriff, but they caught you and the other outlaws, and they made you all drink the potion.” He studied her face. “Is that what really happened?”
Maggie sighed, trying to think of what she could say. “Ernesto… I --”
“It is true!” Ernesto shouted, hoping that she'd deny it.
Maggie began slowly. “There are things that are hard to tell to children…”
“You… You lied to me – to Lupe and me. You were an outlaw! You did not drink that potion because you wanted us to live with you.”
“I wanted you. I swear by the Madonna that I wanted you.”
She knelt down to hug him, but he wriggled free. “No!” he screamed, tears flowing down his cheeks. “Liar! I-I hate you! Everybody at school knew you were an outlaw except me!” He bolted for the back door and ran off.
“Ernesto!” Maggie rushed after him, but, by the time she reached the open door, there was no clue to where he had gone. She sank back against the door post, misery writ large on her face.
Jane peeked in from the barroom. “Everything all right?” She saw Maggie, still leaning against the back doorway and hurried over to her. Lupe followed in her wake. “What happened?” Jane asked, putting her arm around Maggie. “Where’s Ernesto?”
“He… r-ran away,” Maggie replied. “The children at school told him I was… He-He hates m-me.” She choked on a sob.
Lupe took her mother’s hand. “Mama?” she said softly.
“Lupe!” Maggie squatted down and pulled her daughter into her arms. “If - If I did something bad a long time ago, you would not hate me now, would you?”
Lupe shook her head. “Oh, no, Mama. I could never hate you.”
Maggie hugged the girl fiercely. “I… Oh, Lupe… Lupe, thank you. Thank you.” She kissed her forehead. The child looked confused – and just a little scared.
“Did you do something bad, Mama? Did it make Ernesto mad?”
“I think this here’s just some kinda little mix-up between you ‘n’ Ernesto,” Jane said gently. “You’ll see; it’ll blow over in no time at all.”
Maggie looked up at her friend. “I knew this day would come, but I thought it would be years from now. He is still so young.”
“I ain’t sure what day has come. For now, why don’t you go upstairs and lie down in your old room for a bit? Later on, you can tell me all about it.”
“But… the restaurant. Who will cook for the customers?”
“I think I can manage for a while,” Jane told her. “Me ‘n’ my helper.” She put her hand on Lupe’s shoulder. “Ain’t that right… helper?”
The girl’s expression changed from concern to a wide grin. “Oh, yes, Tia Jane. We will do just fine.”
* * * * *
Bridget glanced up at the clock. ‘It’s almost five,’ she thought. ‘How long’ve I been…’ She thought for a moment. ‘Since just after four; I’ve been playing this one hand of solitaire for close to an hour. What the hell am I doing, taking so –‘
“What?” She lost track of what she’d been thinking when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone come in. She began to smile until she recognized the man as only Matt Royce.
Only? Matt was one of her regular players, a friend who sometimes even gave her a tip when he’d had a good night. ‘Why’d I say only?’ she chided herself.
“‘Cause he’s not Cap.” She smiled at her answer. “That’s why I’m taking so long. I keep looking up to see if Cap’s come in.”
Her smile grew broader. “I-I’m not afraid of seeing him anymore.” She felt her body tingle. “In fact…” She giggled softly. “I-I think I’m looking forward to… seeing him.” She nodded happily and began to gather in the cards. If Matt was here, other players would be along shortly. Yes, she saw Sam Braddock walk in, carrying his carpenter’s toolbox.
“Best get ready to deal some cards,” she whispered to herself. She was just about ready to start playing poker again. Maybe even better, she felt like she was almost ready for some other things, as well.
* * * * *
Lupe came back into the kitchen. “You were right, Tia Jane. Ernesto is over at Zayde Silverman’s store. Uncle Ramon said that he will bring him back when he comes over for supper.”
“Thanks, Lupe,” Jane said. “Now put your apron on and start peeling those carrots.”
“Should I go upstairs and tell Mama, first?”
“Nah, let her rest a while. We’ll tell her when she comes down.”
* * * * *
Ramon watched Maggie slip on her nightgown. He shook his head, seeing her forlorn expression reflected in the dressing table mirror. “Margarita,” he said, stepping up behind her. “You have been so quiet all evening.” He put his arms around her waist and gently kissed her bared shoulder.
“Please… please, Ramon; I… I… not tonight.” He heard her voice break, as she moved away from him.
He closed the distance between them again. “So, you would deny me, your husband.”
“Ramon!” She spun around to face him, her eyes moist and reflective in the lamplight. “How can you say something like that?”
“Because I meant every word of it. I am your husband, and it is my right – and my duty – to comfort you when you are feeling so hurt.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and kissed her tenderly on her forehead. “The way you feel tonight.”
“Oh… Ramon.” She sobbed, tears running down her face. Her head rested on his chest. “Ernesto… you saw the way he acted at supper. He… he hates me.”
He gently stroked her hair. “He is being foolish. We both know how much you love him.” He chuckled. “If you had not loved him and Lupe as much as you do, you and I, we would have been together so much sooner.”
“Do you hate me for that, for how long I took to realize that I-I love you?”
“No, you are more than worth the wait.” He kissed her forehead again. “I just wish I knew what it is that has him so angry with you.”
“Someone -- a child at the school, I think – told him the truth about me, that I became a woman as… as a punishment for my crimes and not because I loved him and Lupe.”
“I was the one who told them that… lie; long ago when I was first bringing them to Eerie. He should be mad at me, not you.”
“No, the lie that you told was about me, and I accepted it -- I lived it until he found out the truth.” Her eyes began to glisten with more tears.
“Until he was told the truth,” Ramon replied. “And whoever told him did so out of anger. It may be that he is madder about how he found out than about the lie itself.”
“Poor Ernesto, that someone should be so cruel to him.”
“He is proud, and that pride has been hurt. I will talk to him tomorrow. I would have done so at the store, except he would not tell anyone what was bothering him.”
She sighed, feeling a weight slide off her shoulders. “Thank you, Ramon. Thank you so much.” She reached up and put her hand on his arm.
“My pleasure,” Ramon replied. “And speaking of pleasure…” He kissed her neck.
Maggie trembled. She enjoyed the attention, but, somehow, she… couldn’t. “Ramon, I-I still…” her voice trailed off, as she started to cry, this time in relief.
“The pleasure of lying next to the woman I love is enough.” Ramon spoke softly, reassuring her. “My arm around her waist, her hand in mine, and her head resting on my chest.” He led her to their bed and helped her settle in before he turned down the lamp.
He lay in the dark, enjoying the feel of her body against his. She cried for just a little longer, before she finally drifted off to sleep.
* * * * *
Emma blinked and looked around. She was standing in the classroom – no, in the church. It was rigged up for the church. ‘Must be Sunday,’ she thought, ‘but what am I…’
“Are you okay, Emma?”
She turned. Yully was standing next to her. He looked… older, all grown up, and wearing a fancy suit – so handsome! She looked down at herself. She was in a flowing white dress – a gown – and she… she was older, too. Her body was rounder, more mature, with breasts that were almost as big as Trisha’s.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Yingling began.
Emma’s eyes went wide. ‘It-It’s my wedding.’ She didn’t understand what was happening, but she realized it wasn't a bad thing. She was marrying Yully. That was good, wasn't it? Her breasts tingled, and she sighed softly, enjoying the sensation. ‘My wedding!’
Then she felt something else, a sharp pain in her stomach. She looked down. Her abdomen was expanding, even as she watched. The bulge grew and grew until it looked like she had a watermelon stuffed under her now much looser dress.
She glanced around in desperation. Yully was staring down at her belly now, and he looked angry. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered.
She knew, somehow she knew. He’d gotten her pregnant somehow, and now he was marrying her, not out of love, but because he had to.
The pain came back, sharper this time. She gasped and stumbled back. She felt a wetness flow down between her legs, as Yully carefully lowered to the floor.
“Somebody get the Doc,” Yully yelled. “The damned slut’s having her baby!”
Emma sat up with a gasp. She was alone and in her bed. Her figure was that of the young girl she still was. She wasn’t pregnant… like Trisha.
‘Is that what’s gonna happen to me?’ she asked herself. ‘Like it happened to Trisha?’ She wanted to be like her mother, not like Trisha. Her eyes filled with tears. She sank back onto the pillow, hugging herself, and far too scared to let herself fall asleep.
* * * * *
Saturday, May 25, 1872
Flora sat on the back steps of the Saloon, scrubbing a spittoon. “Dammit, these things are a pain in the ass to do, even without Bridget making them worse.” She dumped some liquid out of the spittoon and over the side of the steps.
“Rowrrr!” came a squeal from below. Flora leaned over and looked down in time to see a dark shape scramble under the porch. A second, smaller, gray shape lay there, dazed and soaked with the foul mixture.
She set the spittoon down and jumped down next to the animal. “A kitten,” she said, picking it up, “maybe a month old.” It stared up at her, too confused to try to escape.
“You are a real mess,” she observed. “I wonder if your momma’ll even take you back.” She was about to drop the animal, when a thought occurred to her.
She remembered Rosalyn’s advice. ‘You need to adapt more girlish behavior,’ the woman had said. “And what could be more ‘girlish’ than people seeing me cuddle up to you… Sweetums?”
She didn't quite have this girl stuff down pat yet, but she'd try her best. “Look what I found,” she called out, running up the stairs and into the kitchen.
Lylah was at the sink, scrubbing the frying pan Maggie had used to cook breakfast. “A rat?”
“No,” Maggie answered for Flora. “A gato… a cat, a wet, smelly kitten.”
Flora smiled sweetly. “I… uh, dumped some stuff from a spittoon on the poor, little thing.” She looked at Lylah. “Work the pump for a minute… please.”
“Uh, okay.” Lylah pumped the handle a few times, and water poured out.
Flora held the kitten under the flow, turning it this way and that to rise off the grime. It didn't like the cold water at all! Once it was clean, though, Flora quickly wrapped the terrified animal in a dishcloth and dried it. “Her name is Sweetums,” she cooed, “I think I'm going to keep it.”
Lylah blinked, uncertain what to say. “Are you crazy?”
“Why? Have you got something against cats?” the blonde asked.
Lylah shrugged. “I can take them or leave them.”
Flora shook her head. “You just don't have a heart, that's all.”
“Now what’re ye gonna do with a kitten?” a bemused Molly asked.
Flora clutched Sweetums to her. “She’s so cute. I-I’m gonna keep her up in my room and… and she'll catch mice when she's bigger. This place is full of mice! I can't stand those creepy, crawling things!” She shivered. “You never said we couldn’t have pets, Molly. Can I keep it… please?”
“I suppose,” the older woman said. “We ain't had no cat around here since old Tiger ran off last spring. But ‘tis yuir responsibility t’be taking care of it and cleaning up after it. Are you willing t’be doing that?”
Flora nodded enthusiastically, maybe too enthusiastically, but she wasn’t going to stop the charade now. “Cats can be trained to use a sandbox indoors.” She glanced at the kitten. “It will be purrrrrfect.”
“Then ye’ve got yuirself a kitten.”
* * * * *
Teresa Diaz opened her front door to see, “Señor Shamus… what can I do for you today?”
“For starters, ye can be letting me in,” he told her, a smile on his face.
She stepped back, and he walked in. “Thanks,” he said. “Seeing as I was coming over here anyway, me Molly asked me t’be bringing ye this.” He held up a pillowcase, tied with string and stuffed full. “She said ye can be returning it with the rest o’the laundry on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday, O’Toole.” She pulled a label from her apron pocket, wrote the information on it, and pinned it to the bundle. “Now, why else did you come here?”
He glanced around the room. He and Teresa were the only ones in it. “I wanted t’be talking to Arnie. Is she anywhere about?”
“She is out back, helping to set up for the washing. I will get her.” Teresa set the pillowcase down on a table covered with other bundles and hurried out the back door.
Arnie came in almost at once, wiping her hands on her brown work pants. “Mama said you wanted to see me, Señor Shamus.”
“That I did,” Shamus replied. He noticed that Teresa hadn’t come back with her daughter. “Ye’re looking well, Arnie. How’s it been with ye?”
Arnie shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose. And you?”
“Tolerable… tolerable. I hear ye’ve been working hard, helping yuir mama.”
“I – She was hurt because of me. I had to be there, to take over for her.”
“Ye’re a good lass, Arnie, and I know what a good worker ye can be… when ye want to.”
Arnie winced to have her old boss call her a “good lass,” but she said only, “Yes… yes, you do know what a hard worker I am!”
“I said that I did, didn’t I? Are ye still working for her? She looks more’n up and about now.”
“I… help out. Mama does most of the work – just like before. We all help some, though.”
“Would ye be interested in coming back t’be working for me again?”
She challenged him eye to eye. “Are you sure that you can trust me?”
“No, but I’m willing t’be giving ye a chance – a last chance – t’prove that I can trust ye.”
“Are you, or is this some sort of trick?”
He shook his head. “It ain’t no trick. If I’m saying that I want t’be giving ye a chance, then I do.” He chuckled. “In fact, I’m thinking that ye already made a good start at proving yuirself.”
“Oh, and how did I do that?”
“When ye had that – ah, that last drink at me place, the one ye thought would be putting ye t’sleep, ye left money t’pay for it. It was the middle o’the night, and ye was the only one in the place. Ye could’ve hidden that glass easy, but ye paid.” Shamus nodded and gave him a quick wink. “I call that honest, and an honest lass deserves another chance.”
Though she still didn't like being called a lass, Arnie had to smile. After being called a liar and chased away by Clara and Mrs. Spaulding, it felt good to be praised for honesty. Her father had sometimes said, 'When the devil slams the door to an honest man, el Señor [the Lord] will open a window.' “Okay, Shamus, you’ve got yourself a busboy – busgirl – cualquiera… whatever.”
“If that’s what ye want t’be hired as…” Shamus teased.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m more than willing t’be hiring ye for your old job as busboy at six dollars a week. Or ye can be me waitress at nine a week. Thuir’s just one wee catch, though.”
“A catch… what?”
“I don’t care what a busboy’s wearing on the job, but a waitress… she wears a dress – or a blouse ‘n’ a skirt.”
The girl's nose wrinkled. “E-Every day?”
“Every day.” He studied her expression. “I’ll tell ye what. I’ll be hiring ye, starting at noon on Monday. If ye’re showing up in pants, then ‘tis a busboy I’ve hired. If ye’re in a dress, then ‘tis a waitress. It’ll be yuir choice.” He held out his hand. “Agreed?”
Arnie took it. “Fair enough, Shamus. And thank you for the second chance.”
“Third chance, if ye’re really counting – maybe even fourth chance.” He winked. “And I’ll be seeing ye Monday.”
* * * * *
“Aaron,” Ramon said, “do you mind if I go see Ernesto for a bit?”
Aaron shrugged. “Right now, Ramon, we got more time than we got customers. Just don’t take too long; ‘cause we do get customers sometimes, you know.”
“Only too well.” Ramon went through the curtains into the back of the store. He headed through the maze of shelves to the small area set up for Ernesto.
The boy was looking at a leather goods catalog, but he put it down as he heard the sound of Ramon’s footsteps. “Hola, Uncle Ramon.”
“How are you doing back here?” Ramon asked.
Ernesto held up the catalog. “I am looking at this book, like Zayde asked. Can I go out front for a while to help? I want to do that.”
“Later, perhaps.” Ramon sat down across the table from the boy. “Right now I want to talk to you.” He waited a beat. “You know, you hurt your mama very much.”
“So? She hurt me, too. She lied to me, Uncle Ramon. Everybody knew about her, and they were all laughing at me.”
“I lied to you, Ernesto. I was the one who told you and Lupe that she drank the potion because she wanted to be your mother. Margarita just went along with my lie.”
Ernesto frowned, remembering that day last summer. What he said was true. “But why? Why did she not tell us the truth?” He looked ready to cry.
“Maybe… Maybe she was ashamed of the truth, and she was afraid of what you would think if you knew how wrong she had acted.”
“Wrong; wrong about what?”
“Your mama spent a year in jail for something that she did not do, and when they found out she was innocent, they almost didn’t let her out, anyway. She was mad, so, when Will Hanks offered her a chance for some easy money, she did not ask many questions. By the time she found out how bad Hanks was, it was too late. Sì, she got the potion along with the others, but she was not going to help them kill the sheriff.”
“
How do you know that?”
“I know because she told me, and I believe her.”
“Why should I believe her – or you?”
“You should believe her because she is your mama. As for me, I thought that we were… hermanos.”
“My Mama lied to me once. Why should I believe her now?” Ernesto took a breath. “And you, you are not my hermano... my brother. You are not my father, either, so stop acting like you are.” He stood up and started for the front of the store.
Ramon grabbed him around the waist and lifted him up. He carried the boy back to the chair and forcibly set him down in it. “No, I am not your father, but I am in charge of you right now. You will stay here and behave yourself or I will tie you to that chair. Understand?”
“Sì, I understand, Señor de Aguilar.”
Ramon started back to work. “No, you don’t, Ernesto,” he sighed, “and I am so very sorry about that.”
* * * * *
Matt Royce raked in his winnings from the last hand, while Bridget gathered the cards back into the deck. “How ‘bout we get us some beers before the next hand?” he asked.
“You buying?” Sam Braddock inquired
Royce looked at the money piled up before him. “I’m ordering, Sam, but thanks to your lousy poker skills, you, Cap, and Joe are paying for it.”
“Let me get a waitress,” Bridget told the men. She raised an arm and waved to get Flora’s attention.
“Yes, Miss Bridget,” Flora said, curtseying as she reached the table.
Joe Ortleib ordered, “A pitcher for the table, Flora, and… five glasses.”
“Yes, sir.” She curtseyed again and hurried off.
Cap laughed. “What was all that curtseying about?”
“That was for me,” Bridget explained. “She was rude to Jessie and me right after she changed, so Molly ordered her to curtsey to us both and to call us ‘Miss Bridget’ and ‘Miss Jessie’ for the day. Flora didn’t learn her lesson, and so, last week, Molly said that she had to do it from then on.”
Joe gave a hearty laugh. “I’ll bet she just hates that.”
“Who cares?” Bridget replied. “It’s what she deserves. I don’t know about Jessie, but I’ve decided to make her time here ‘hard time’ any – and every -- way I can. I think Jess agrees. I know Wilma does.”
Cap gave her an odd look. “That doesn’t sound like you, Bridget.”
“After what she did to me? She almost got me killed during the War, and then she comes here and rapes me. Anything I can do by way of payback is fair game, as far as I’m concerned.” Bridget looked out of the corners of her eyes to see how her companions were reacting. There seemed to be no reaction, except, perhaps sympathy. She didn't want that, and her cheeks warmed with shame.
Cap touched her arm. “If you humiliate a person, it can be worse than a punch to the breadbasket. What's happened between the two of you is ugly, and it sounds like it's all been Flora's fault. But this is only pouring salt on a raw wound. It can only build up more and worse trouble between the two of you for the future.”
“What? Do you expect me to forgive her? Has she ever asked to be forgiven for the least little thing?”
“Not as far as I know,” Cap admitted.
“Then let me handle my own business my own way,” Bridget told him sharply. “Anyway, I'm going to find a way to settle this once and for all. Sooner or later I'll find a way.”
She glanced over and saw Flora returning with the order. “Now, hush. I don’t want her to get any idea what we were talking about.”
“Whatever you say, Bridget,” Sam said.
Flora put the tray on the table and handed out the glasses. Matt paid, and she curtseyed again before she left. Cap noticed the rage smoldering in the waitress' eyes. What would happen in a few weeks, he wondered, when Flora was let loose to plot a revenge of her own?
Everyone, including Bridget, poured themselves a beer. Bridget took a small sip. She planned to nurse this glass for much of the evening. “Five card draw?” she asked her players. When the men nodded, she began to deal.
No one said a word, but everyone -- especially Cap – was wondering about this vengeful side of Bridget that they’d never really seen before.
* * * * *
“Bear!” Jubal Cates yelled, pointing over Emma’s shoulder.
She just stared at him. “What’d you say, Mr. Cates?”
“I said there was a bear behind you,” he said calmly. “Don’t worry, I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. You’ve been distracted all day.”
“I… I’m sorry. I-I just have something on my mind today.”
“It’s not your… time, is it?”
Emma felt a warm blush run across her face. “Oh, oh, no, sir.” She suddenly remembered that horrible dream. “It’s… I didn’t get a good night’s sleep last night, I guess.”
“I’d say that was a sign of a guilty conscience, but you’re too good a girl – and too young – to have anything to feel that guilty about.” He paused a half beat. “Still, if it’s anything I can help you with, you let me know. I need that sharp mind of yours.”
“Sir?” It was the first time he’d complimented her like that.
He smiled. “You have a sharp mind, Emma. That’s why I hired you. That, and you’re willing to do the hard work I need done. I’m gonna need both when we start on the Sanborn contract.”
“What’s that? I don’t know anybody named Sanborn hereabouts.”
“That’s ‘cause they’re not hereabouts. The Sanborn National Insurance Diagram Bureau is in New York City. They produce special town maps for insurance companies. I worked with Dan Sanborn when he surveyed Boston, and he gave me the contract to do one for Eerie.”
“Where is it?”
“I just told you, I haven’t started it yet. I was waiting till you were all trained up and done with school. You, little lady, are going to be assistant surveyor on the project.” He chuckled. “If you can keep your mind from wandering the way it did today, that is.”
Emma smiled broadly. Mr. Cates didn’t think she was a fool – or a slut. Maybe, if she heard it enough times, she wouldn’t think so, either. “It won’t, sir. I swear it won’t.” She impulsively hugged him. “And thank you, thank you so much for the chance.”
“You’re welcome, Emma.” He pulled free. “But I’ve already got a wife, and hugging me is her job.”
“No, sir; I-I didn’t mean nothing by it. I was just excited.”
“I can understand that, I suppose. The Sanborn map will be kind of an adventure. But right now, we’ve got another ‘adventure,’ measuring out Hiram King’s property line. So, let’s get started on that.”
* * * * *
“Well, now, Mr. Carl Osbourne,” Flora said, staring up at the ranch hand, “you come to bother me again?”
Carl shook his head. “No, I figure I’ve done enough of that.” He offered her his hand. “I was just hankering to dance with you.”
“A truce, then?” She took his hand and stood up. “Very well; we'll see if you're a man of your word.”
He handed her his ticket and led her onto Shamus’ dance floor. “Thank you.” The band struck up a waltz, and they began dancing.
‘Mmm,’ Flora thought. Her tits had been sensitive all day, and, somehow, it felt so good to have them pressed against Carl’s chest. A pleasant warmth flowed through her as their bodies moved to the music. It was like… it was a little like being in that bath again, touching herself, and as soon as that thought came to her, the warmth started moving down to between her legs.
She moaned softly.
“What?” Carl asked.
“Nothing. I had a miserable day and this is the first thing that actually feels good,” Flora replied. ‘Molly said this monthlies thing’d get me acting funny,' she thought. ‘I don’t like dancing with a man, but this time it does feel good!’
* * * * *
“I surely does like dancing with you, Lylah,” Hammy Lincoln said in the middle of their polka.
She looked up at his dark, smiling face. “You’re a nice man, Hammy.” She meant it. They’d become friends of a sort. But tonight… something seemed different about him. His smile was warmer. And, when he held her, her body kind of… tingled where he touched her.
And she… she kind of liked it.
* * * * *
“I love the way your body moves to the music,” Clyde Ritter told Flora as they waltzed.
She pressed in close. “Thank you, Clyde. You’re very sweet.” The feelings Carl had first aroused in her had never gone away completely, and Ritter’s roving hands were adding fuel to the fire.
“I mean it. The only thing I enjoy more than watching you dancing that ‘Captain Jinks’ thing is when I get to hold you like this.”
“Then maybe you'll like the new dance we're rehearsing. Molly says we'll soon have new outfits.
Scandalous dancehall rigs.” She tried to blush with modesty, while still teasing him with her eyes.
Her partner smiled broadly. “A little scandal in the right places doesn't bother me at all.” As Ritter spoke, his hand snaked down and began to knead her buttocks.
The kneading set off sparks of delight in her… pussy. She gave a deep sigh and pressed it against the bulge she felt in his pants. This had been impulsive and not part of her program. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she thought, ‘What the Hell am I doing?’ She had thought, letting him… touch her like this was a good move for the role she was playing. Even so, part of her was disgusted, but there was another part of her that was saying something that she didn't want to listen to.
“Thank you so very much for the dance,” she told Ritter when it was finished, remembering Rosalyn’s advice. Then, almost without realizing what she was doing, she leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips.
* * * * *
When Nancy had left her old life behind; she had been determined to be tough-minded about it. But wasn't Kirby part of that new life? No, he wasn't exactly part of the old life or the new one -- yet. That ‘yet’ left her feeling quite bemused.
Suddenly, a customer stepped in front of her, holding a ticket his in right hand. She squared her shoulders, put Kirby aside – for the moment -- and tried hard to smile, as she let him lead her out onto the dance floor.
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 9 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, May 26, 1872
The music woke Lylah up.
“What the hell?” She tossed back her blanket and sat up in bed.
Only… she wasn’t in bed anymore, or even in the room she shared with Flora. She was downstairs in the Saloon. The room was full of light, and she could hear music, although she couldn’t see the musicians. She couldn’t see anyone. She was alone.
“This hasta be a dream,” she said, looking down at herself. She was in one of the chairs set against the wall for the waiter-girls to use while they waited for men to give them tickets for a dance. But all that she wore was her camisole, her drawers, and the short aprons that the girls used to hold the tickets they were given.
As she looked down, she saw a pair of feet – men’s feet – step in close to her. “Care to… dance, Lylah,” a voice asked.
“I-I suppose.” She looked up. For some reason, she couldn’t make out the features of the man’s face, but the outstretched hand that offered her a ticket was… dark, a Negro’s hand; a hand the same color as her own.
Lylah felt a warm flush run through her, as she rose to her feet. She accepted his ticket, and her fingers tingled as they momentarily touched his. The tingling spread, when he took her hand and led her out onto the empty dance floor.
“A waltz,” he said in a confident voice, “nice ‘n’ slow.” He pulled her gently into his arms, and they began to move to the music.
Something deep inside her seemed to be responding. “Nice ‘n’ slow,” she murmured, pressing herself against him. She was filled with the same exquisite sensations she’d felt in the bathhouse all those weeks ago, and that she’d been forced to “remember” every time she and Flora had danced.
Her breasts ached -- ached! -- to be touched, and her nipples felt hard as two pieces of lead shot.
“Ooohh!” she moaned softly, and the man – whoever he was – came even closer. His head moved in next to hers, and he sucked on her lower lip. After a moment, he shifted, his tongue sliding between her lips to tangle with her own.
Her head was swimming. Her arms, she suddenly realized, were draped around his neck. The kiss deepened, and her body seemed to glow, filled with some marvelous, ecstatic light. She gloried in the touch of his bare skin against hers.
Bare?
She broke the kiss just long enough to glance down. They were still in the Saloon, still dancing to the music. Only now, they were clad only in their drawers. His were tented almost to bursting, and hers… hers were warm and... and damp, as if she’d peed herself.
Before she could react, the man leaned down. His lips closed around her left nipple, and he began to suckle like a newborn calf. She couldn’t move – couldn’t think. Lylah closed her eyes, luxuriating in the sensations flowing through her.
Whap! Something hit her head.
“What?” She opened her eyes. She was back in her bed, dressed again in her nightgown.
Flora was sitting up in her own bed, glaring at her in the light of the oil lamp near her bed. Even her new kitten, curled up against her hip, managed to look angry. “Stop playing with yourself, you damned horny nigger,” she hissed. “You were making so much noise that you woke me up.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Lylah answered, feeling relief and embarrassment. It had been just a dream. Except that her hand was down there, two fingers pressed against her… cunny. She moved it away and settled down in the bed.
“No; no you aren’t, not from all the sounds you were making.” Flora turned down the wick, and the lamp dimmed. “Just shut up for now.”
Lylah nodded. “I-I’ll try.” She lay in the darkness trembling from both the pleasure she’d experienced during the dream, and the fear that her dream would return.
* * * * *
“My text this morning is Matthew 27:24,” Reverend Yingling began. “When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it.”
“He took water, and washed his hands. Pontius Pilate washed his hands, and he thought that he was at an end of some minor problem. He washed his hands because he did not understand the enormity of what was at stake as a result of his actions. He washed his hands because he did not realize that he had handed our Lord Jesus over to those who were to crucify him.”
“That is the way some people are. They make the wrong choice, the trivial choice, the easy choice because they do not understand what issues are at stake. They make these choices, these so very wrong choices, and they try to walk away unscathed, leaving us to live with the, oh, so horrible results.”
“You may say – you may want to believe – that such things don’t happen anymore. If you do, my friends, then you are wrong, so very, very wrong for it happened right here. It happened here – in this country, in this territory, in this very town, and it happened just a few days ago.”
“It happened when the Eerie town council finally… finally chose to act on my petition.”
“I believe – as so many of you do – that the transformative elixir created by Shamus O’Toole is evil.”
“Some might ask, how could it be evil when it delivered this town from the danger of the Hanks gang? Even the worst of the minions of Lucifer, it is said, can take on a pleasant seeming. The better to entice the innocent. The initial good that the potion manifested must be weighed against the evil that it has done since.”
“And… And the evil that it may yet do. The lives that it may disrupt, the innocents that it may cause to stray from the path of Righteousness and from the destiny of good that our Lord has planned for them.”
“And they, the town council, washed their hands of it.”
“They washed their hands of the opportunity to put O’Toole’s brew into the hands of those most capable of discerning the good and evil of it and of best dealing with it. We asked them for a committee, and they gave us a joke.”
“But we are not laughing. We do not see the humor – or the purpose – in what they have done. And we will not accept it.”
“I have no intention of working with this ‘committee’ that they created. Nor – he has told me – does Horace Styron.” Yingling paused a moment to look over at Styron. The other man smiled and nodded in encouragement of the reverend’s words, and Yingling went on.
“The town council will meet again in a month. With your help, we shall be ready for them. We will force the Eerie Town Council to abolish the existing committee and to allow me to form a group of true believers, men who can to properly deal with Mr. O’Toole and his potion.”
“Hallelujah!” he proclaimed, arms raised, looking toward Heaven in supplication.
But only a part of the congregation roared out in response, “Hallelujah!”
“Let our next hymn show the reason we cannot help but be victorious,” the minister announced, ignoring the weak response. “Sing out with ‘Oh What Strength We Have in Jesus,’ on page 87 in your hymnals.”
* * * * *
“Mind if I join you?”
Flora looked up from her breakfast. Nancy Osbourne stood across the table from her, holding a tray. “Sit,” Flora said with a shrug.
“Thanks.” Nancy set the tray down on the table and took a seat. “I… umm, wanted to talk to you about the dance last night… if I may.”
“What’s to talk about? It was the same damned dance as every Saturday. We get our feet stepped on and our asses pinched by a bunch of foul-smelling… horny men.” Even as she spoke, Flora felt a flush come to her cheeks, as her body remembered things.
Nancy looked dubious. “I don’t know; you seemed to enjoy some of it. I saw the way you were dancing with Clyde Ritter. And…” She paused for effect. “…I saw you kiss him.”
“What of it?” Flora thought quickly. Nancy and Molly were pretty chummy. Was she spying for Molly – or, worse, for Shamus? She decided to stick with the story she’d been giving the Irishman. “I-I’m a girl now. Girls kiss men. It feels kind of nice, in fact.”
Nancy grimaced slightly, as if at an obdurate student. “Yes, but when they do, they should know who they’re kissing. He’s married.”
“That didn’t stop him. Why should it stop me?”
She frowned and nodded. “It takes an awful lot to stop him. You know that I used to be the school teacher here in town, don’t you?”
Flora couldn’t resist. “Yeah; you’ve certainly come down in the world haven’t you?”
The other blonde smiled ruefully. “I prefer to think that I’ve simply taken a different path than the one I was on.” Flora was a bitter woman, Nancy knew, and they had never been friendly towards one another. Well, no point in stopping now. If Flora got involved with Ritter, it might be trouble for everyone at the saloon. “I have an unpleasant history with Mr. Ritter myself, and I wanted to warn you about him. My contract with the town called for me to get room and board from the parents of one of my students. Last year, I lived with the Ritters.”
“And?”
“The man was relentless. He chased me the whole time I was there: making suggestive remarks – even in front of his family, catching me alone in a room and trying to steal a kiss -- I even had to mount a bolt lock on my bedroom door, after he used his key to let himself in one night.”
Flora had to smile. “He certainly seemed determined.”
“He was. At Christmas, he gave me a rather lavish present, an ivory pin. He told his wife that it was because I was doing such a fine job teaching their children.” Nancy made a face like she’d just sipped straight lemon juice, instead of the coffee on her breakfast tray. “Later on, he caught me alone in the hall outside my room. He leered and told me that the pin was actually payment for, as he put it, services not yet rendered.”
She sighed. “It was a lovely pin. I never wore it, though, and I left it behind when I moved out.” She took a bite of her toast.
‘Bingo!’ Flora thought. ‘What was it Rosalyn had said about the rewards of flirting?’ This Nancy Osbourne certainly seemed naïve for a grown woman. Aloud, she asked, “Did he ever give you any other… presents?”
“He tried to. He offered other things: a new dress, jewelry – once he just asked me outright how much I charged for my… favors.”
Flora tried to look shocked. “Hot da…. My goodness, what did you do?”
“I told him that I’d tell his wife if he kept talking like that. He – He dared me to. He laughed and said that she wouldn’t believe me.”
“Did you tell her?”
“I-I tried. He was right. She all but ignored me. And, from what she did say, you’d have thought that it was all my fault. I didn’t know what else to do, so I told Mr. Whitney – he’s head of the school board – that I wanted to get to know more of my students’ families. A teacher, especially a female teacher doesn’t have much of a social life. I asked if he could find me another family to board with, starting as soon as the school year ended. He did, and I moved out as quickly as I could after that.”
She sniffled. “A fat lot of good it did me.”
Flora considered what she’d just heard. “You know what I’d have done?”
“No, and that’s why I warned you, so you’d know what you were getting into.”
“What Ritter was offering you was a business transaction. You didn't handle your end of it very well, from what you're saying.” Nancy looked surprised. And Flora surprised herself, too, at how easily she could say the words, “I’d have taken his presents.”
* * * * *
Reverend Yingling stood on the schoolhouse porch after the service, as always. He shook hands with his parishioners as they left the building, taking a reading of how the service -- and his sermon -- had gone.
“Wonderful sermon,” Cecelia Ritter gushed. “I am so glad to hear that you haven’t given up the good fight for control of that horrid potion.”
The reverend smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Cecelia. With the support of fine, Christian people like yourself, I know that our side shall ultimately prevail.”
“We most certainly will.” She beamed at his praise. Her husband simply shook the minister’s hand and moved on, taking Cecelia’s arm in his own.
Arsenio was further down the line, pushing Laura in a wheelchair he’d borrowed from Doc Upshaw.
“Good morning, Laura,” Yingling greeted her. “How are you feeling today?”
She looked up at him and frowned. “Not too good, Reverend. I didn’t care very much for your sermon. I especially didn’t like hearing my husband being compared to Pontius Pilate.”
“I can speak for myself, Laura,” Arsenio said. He turned to the minister. “And I didn’t like it either. You’ve got your committee, sir. Why don’t you try to work with it first before you tear it – and the town council –- down?”
“Because it is not in me to ‘work with’ evil, Arsenio, and that is how I see O’Toole’s potion.”
“You seem to be doing very well at such ‘work’ just now, the way you’re riling everybody up. Did you actually say that the devil changed my wife and her friends only so they'd be able to do even more evil?”
Yingling stiffened, but before he could answer, Laura put her hand on her husband’s arm. “It takes evil to see evil,” she said. “Especially where no evil exists.” She paused, feeling suddenly weak. “We’re holding up the line, Arsenio, and I don’t think either of you is going to convince the other.” Her voice trailed down a little. “Besides, I’m feeling a bit tired.”
“Then I’d best get you home,” he answered. “We’ll continue this discussion later, Reverend.”
The other man nodded grimly. “We shall. We shall, indeed.”
* * * * *
Teresa placed a plate of frajitas on the table and took her seat at the head of the table. “So, Arnolda,” she began, as she used a pair of wooden tongs to lift two frajitas onto a plate. “You have been very quiet this morning. Are you thinking about Señor O’Toole’s job offer?” Without waiting for an answer, she passed the plate to Arnie, who passed it on to Dolores.
“Sì, but I have not decided yet?” Arnie replied, taking another plate of food from her mother. “I do want the job, but I do not know if I want to be a waitress or a busboy.” She also handed that plate to Dolores, who had given the first plate to Enrique. She took the second one and set it down for herself.
“You better decide soon, cousin. Shamus expects you – and your answer – tomorrow morning.” She cut a piece of the frajita. “What is so hard to decide?”
“Waitressing pays more,” Arnie said thoughtfully, “but I would have to act as if I were a girl.”
Constanza looked at Arnie from across the table. “What do you mean, Arnolda? You are a girl.”
Arnie gave her sister a troubled glance. “I… I only look like a girl. Sometimes, I-I admit, I may act like a girl.” As she said it, the memory of Hedley and of his kiss sprang into her mind. “But I… I am n-not a girl; not… not really.”
She took a breath before she continued. “If I take the waitress job, I have to wear dresses—all the time – and I-I do not have any except for the ones that Mama pinned up for me. Men buy the waitresses drinks, so they can talk to them for a while, and I do not want to do that.”
“Why?” Ysabel asked. “From what I have heard, you were not very good at talking to girls… before.”
Arnie scowled and ignored her. “And… And Señor Shamus may even want me to dance with the men at his Saturday dances.” She had a mental image of dancing with Hedley and shivered at the way it made her feel “If people saw me dancing with men, they would think that I like doing it, and they would have no right to think that.”
It would simply be part of her job as a waitress to dance with men, but the thought of it caused an emotional churning inside her. She wasn't sure if what she felt when she was dancing with Hedley -- or might feel with any other man she danced with -- was a good thing or a bad thing, and that left her very confused.
“We could use the extra money, Dulcita,” Teresa said. “And it would not be hard for me to fix one of my dresses for you by tomorrow.” She gave a small sigh. “Maybe Senor O'Toole would excuse you from dancing if you really did not want to. I do not want you to do anything that you truly dislike.”
Arnie relaxed. “Then I will be a busboy, I think.”
“Well,” Dolores said, winking at Teresa, “if you are afraid to be a waitress…”
The transformed girl looked surprised. “Afraid? Why should I be afraid?”
“I do not know,” her cousin answered, “but that is what it sounds like to me.” She paused a beat for effect. “And I would not expect that of you.”
Arnie frowned. “You are trying to shame me into taking the waitress job, Dolores, and it will not work.”
“Good,” Ysabel said. “Because I think you should decide on your own… to be a waitress.” Enrique nodded in agreement, his mouth full of food.
Arnie laughed. “You, too, Ysabel -- and Enrique.” She looked at her youngest sister. “Constanza, you are the only one who is not pushing me to be a waitress. What do you say?”
The young girl took a bite of frajita to give herself a moment to think. “I…” She finally answered, “It is like when Mama cooks something new, something we never ate before. Sometimes… Sometimes, the food looks funny and – maybe – it smells funny. Mama says that we do not have to eat it all, but we got to, at least, try it. If we eat some, and we do not like it, we do not have to eat any more, but we do gotta try some.”
Dolores’ eyes went from Constanza to Arnie. “And what do you think of what Constanza just said?”
“I think that I have a very smart little sister,” Arnie replied with a wry smile. She held up her hands as if in surrender. “All right, I will try being a waitress – for a week; it will mean more money. But if I do not like it, I will not ‘eat’ any more, and I will be a busboy.”
* * * * *
“So how were things at the store this past week?” Kaitlin asked.
Trisha leaned back and took another sip of after dinner coffee. “Pretty good, I’d say. We’re working as hard as ever these days.”
“Some of us are working too hard,” Liam added.
Trisha gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean, Liam?”
“I mean…” he explained, “… that you’re still trying to carry – drag would be the better word – twenty-five and even fifty pound sacks of feed.”
Kaitlin looked shocked. “Trisha! In your condition that could be very dangerous.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” he said. “I don’t think she should be doing things like that anymore.”
Trisha shook her head. “I don’t see it that way. I’ve been lugging sacks of feed around since I was a kid. Why should I stop now?”
“You could seriously strain something,” Kaitlin explained. “You… You could even lose your baby.”
Liam’s face grew stern. “Trisha, I’m your older brother now, and you promised to mind me. I’m telling you that I want you to stay behind the counter from now on. Leave the heavy lifting to Mateo and me.”
“And I’m telling you that it’s my store as much as it is yours, and I won’t be stuck behind the counter.”
Kaitlin glared at her former husband. “You’re right, Trisha. The store is as much yours as it is Liam’s. But twenty percent of it is mine, and I agree with Liam. The store is more ours than it is yours, so you will stay behind the counter.”
“And if I don’t?”
Kaitlin’s eyebrows narrowed. “Do you really think that I’m giving you a choice?”
“No; no you aren’t.” Trisha sighed. “I’ll do it, but I won’t like it -- and I will remember your bad attitude.”
Kaitlin chuckled. “Go right ahead. As long as you remember from behind the counter.”
* * * * *
Monday, May 27, 1872
“Wakey, wakey,” Molly called through the closed door to Flora and Lylah’s room.
Flora groaned. “Go away!”
“Yeah,” Lylah added. “We got us a couple o’real bad belly aches.”
Molly opened the door and walked in. “O’course, ye have. ‘Tis yuir monthlies, just like I told ye.” She closed the door behind her. “Get outta them beds. Now!”
The pair had to obey, and they did with no little moaning and clutching at their stomachs. “How long’re we gonna feel like this?” Lylah whined.
“Four days,” Molly answered, “once yuir flows get going.”
Flora gave her a suspicious look. “Our ‘flows’; what’s going to be flowing, Molly? It-It isn’t… blood, is it?”
“Aye, it is – and it’ll be coming outta yuir privates for the next four days.”
Lylah shook her head. “A… A man can’t bleed for four straight days. He-He’d die.”
Molly chuckled. “It ain’t men that bleed like this – yuir monthlies, we call ‘em. ‘Tis only women… like the two of ye.” She waited a beat. “And ye’ll be doing it every month for the next twenty years or more. Unless ye’re pregnant, that is.”
“And that ain’t never gonna happen!” Lylah said emphatically.
Molly smiled, remembering that Laura had used almost the exact same words. ‘And look at her now,’ she thought. Aloud, she replied, “And who’s t’be saying ‘never’, me girl? Ye never thought ye’d be having monthlies, did ye?”
“No, we didn’t,” Flora answered sadly. “But now that we have them, what do we do about them?”
“Since ye’re asking, Flora, I’ll be showing ye first. Take off yuir nightgown and drawers.”
Flora grasped her nightgown below her waist and pulled it up over her head. As she did, Molly looked down at the new woman’s drawers. ‘No sight o’blood – yet,’ she observed silently.
“Now what?” Flora asked. She had undone the bow that held her drawers tight at her waist. The garment fell down around her feet, and she stepped out of them without bothering to pick them up.
Molly reached into the small cloth bag she was carrying and pulled out a long, narrow strip of cloth with a string attached to each corner. “This.” She handed the strip to Flora. “Set it b’tween yuir legs and tie them strings off on yuir hips, so it stays in place.”
“Okay, but I don’t see how this’ll help.” Flora did as she was told. In a minute or so, she was looking down dubiously at the loose-fitting loincloth.
The older woman took a roll of white cotton from the bag and handed it to the almost naked woman. “Put this in yuir pouch—that thing ye just tied on ye.”
“O-Okay…”Flora said hesitantly, doing as Molly directed. “Feels… weird.” She gave a slight shiver as she felt the rolled cotton press against her privates.
Molly nodded. “Aye, but ‘tis a lot better than not having something down thuir. Ye’ll be seeing that for yuirself soon enough.” She waited a moment. “Now get dressed and head downstairs t’be helping with breakfast.”
“Yuir turn,” she added, handing a second pouch to Lylah. “And hurry up. Thuir’s work t’be done, and the two of ye need to be getting to it.”
Lylah looked up from tying the knot on her right hip. “We hurt, and we’re gonna be bleeding for the next four days. How come we gotta work?”
“Because ye ain’t going t’be getting off from work for something that’s happened t’every woman since Mother Eve,” Molly told her. “I don’t take time off for me own monthlies, and neither does any other woman that works here.”
“But I hurt,” Lylah complained.
Molly tried to look sympathetic. “I’ll have Maggie make ye some herb tea. That sometimes helps. So does hard work, come t’think of it.” She smiled wryly. “Ain’t that handy?”
* * * * *
“Are you ready, Arnolda?” Dolores asked, as they reached the entrance to the Eerie Saloon.
Arnie took a breath to steady herself. “No, but I am here.” She walked through the batwing doors and into the Saloon with Dolores right behind her.
“Arnie,” Molly greeted her. “And Dolores, too. Good morning to the both o’ye.” She looked closely at Arnie. “Since ye’re in a dress, Arnie, I take it ye decided t’be working here as a waitress, instead of a busboy – a busgirl – whatever.”
The girl had worn the green dress that she sometimes wore to church. In the past, Teresa had always just pinned it to fit her, but her mother had worked most of Sunday, altering it to her actual size.
“I… I wanted to talk to Señor Shamus about that. Where is he?”
“He’ll be in his office just now.” Molly pointed to the door, set in the wall near one end of the bar.
As if on cue, the door opened, and Shamus stepped out. He saw the group and walked over. “G’morning, ladies. I see ye decided t’be me waitress, Arnie.”
“No,” Arnie said, feeling unsure. “That is, I-I don’t know if I want to be a waitress, but I-I also know that I want to try waitressing. My Papa used to say, ‘The greatest mistake you can make is to be afraid to make a mistake. ‘“
Shamus lifted a curious eyebrow. “I ain’t sure what ye’re saying, Arnie. Do ye want t’be working for me or don’t ye?”
“I do, but only maybe as a waitress. If… If you don’t mind, I’d like to try the job for a… a week. If I like it, fine. If I don’t, then – if you still want me -- I will be a busboy.”
Shamus considered the idea. “And if I don’t like yuir work – or if ye steal from me again – I can be firing ye outright. A trial week, that seems fair, I suppose.”
“And I will train her to do the job right – if you do not mind,” Dolores added. “It will be easier than for you or Molly to do it.”
Arnie's mind seemed to be somewhere else. She was thinking about mentioning the idea of not dancing, but it hardly seemed to be the right moment to bring up such a distraction.
Molly looked uncertain. “I still got all that work t’be doing with the Cactus Blossoms.” She smiled. “All right, Dolores, ye’ve got a deal.” She spat into her hand and offered it, first to Dolores and then to Arnie.
Both shook hands eagerly, and the matter was settled.
* * * * *
Paul Grant yanked at the leather cord, tightening the strap holding his bedroll tightly behind his saddle. “Done,” he said, satisfied that it was secure. He glanced over at Jessie Hanks, who was fixing her own rig on Useless, the horse she’d taken from Toby Hess all those months ago. She looked to be as far along in her preparations as he was.
“Glad t’see you two ain’t gone yet,” a voice behind him said.
Jessie turned. “Hey, Wilma, you come over t’see me and Paul head out?”
“I did,” Wilma replied. “In fact, I even brought you – you ‘n’ Paul – a going-away present.” She tossed Jessie a small drawstring bag.
Jessie caught the bag. “Thanks.” She loosened the cord that held the bag closed and looked inside. “Wilma!” she hissed indignantly, as a blush spread across her face.
“What’s the matter?” Wilma asked innocently, stepping in close to where her sister was standing. “I figured that you’d pack yourself some riding coats” she replied in a soft voice. “I just wanted t’make sure that you had enough.”
Jessie quickly stashed the condoms in a saddlebag. “More‘n enough, I’d say, but thanks.”
“Just trying t’take care of my little sister. Lord knows, I want you to enjoy your… trip.” The demimonde chuckled. “I’m sure you ‘n’ Paul’ll put ‘em to good use.”
“We will, and thanks again.”
Before Wilma could reply, Shamus and Molly walked over. “Hello t’ye, Wilma,” Shamus said cheerfully. “Jessie, I brought ye that bottle I promised, some fine Kentucky sipping whiskey t’be toasting the bride ‘n’ groom with. “
“Thanks, Shamus.” Jessie took the brown glass bottle from him and stuffed it carefully in the same saddlebag that she’d just placed the condoms in. She arranged a pocket for it in the folded clothes already in the bag.
“I just come out t’be saying goodbye,” Molly told her. “The two of ye have a good trip and come back to us as soon as ye can.” She leaned over and kissed Jessie on the cheek.
Paul put his foot in a stirrup and rose up into the saddle of Ash, his cowpony. “You ready, Jess?”
“Just about.” She closed her saddlebag, putting the strap through the metal hitch that held it tight. She’d been practicing riding in a skirt, and she scrambled quickly onto Useless. “See y’all real soon,” she called, as the pair started off.
Molly waved. “Good bye, and… be careful.”
“Don’t worry,” Paul answered. “I’ll take care of her.”
Wilma smiled. “Mmm, I’ll just bet you will. Have fun, sister.”
“We will.” Jessie turned Useless to face west and rode down the street. Paul waved one last time and followed after her.
* * * * *
Phillipia Stone glanced over at the small clock ticking softly on the corner of her desk. “All right, children, it’s 3 PM, and class is dismissed for the day. Please put your books and papers away and raise your hands when you’re ready to go.” She waited a moment, watching her students scrambling before she spoke again. “Except for Abe Scudder, Basil Mackechnie, Paula Frick, and Ernesto Sanchez. The four of you will be staying for a while, so keep out your pencils and tablets.”
“Mrs. Stone,” Basil Mackechnie whined. “Luis Gonzales and Sam Yingling was fighting, too. How come they ain’t gotta stay and write lines?”
Phillipia gave him a stern look. “Because I saw what happened. Their sole participation in the fight was to pull you and Paula away while Abe and Ernesto were having at it. Three on one is hardly fair, is it?”
“Umm… no, ma’am,” the boy answered, looking down at his desk. “I guess it ain’t.” He didn’t sound convinced.
The teacher waited for the rest of her students to leave. Most did so quickly. When Luis Gonzales started walking towards Paula Frick’s desk, rather than towards the door, she asked, “Are you that eager to stay here and write lines, Luis? I can arrange it, if you are.”
“No… ah, no, thank you, Mrs. Stone,” he replied. He turned and all but ran for the door.
Phillipia chuckled for a moment before she turned to face the foursome. “Basil, Abe, and Paula, I want you each to write, fifty times each, ‘I will not tease others and start fights.’”
Paula moaned. “Fifty times!”
“Yes,” Phillipia told her. “Unless you’d like to try for more.”
The girl shook her head. “No, ma’am.” She picked up her pencil and began printing out the words.
“I thought not.” The teacher shifted her glance to Ernesto. “And you, Ernesto, your sentence is ‘I will not lose my temper and get into fights.’ And you will also be writing that sentence fifty times.”
Ernesto sighed. “Yes, Mrs. Stone.”
“And you should all know that I will also be writing something,” Phillipa went on. “Each of you will be taking home a note from me explaining why you were kept after school today, a note, which each of you will return to me tomorrow, with a parent’s signature.”
* * * * *
“Are we all agreed, then?” Shamus asked. “Three nights a week?”
“Don’t you mean four nights?” Hiram King corrected him. “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights – starting tonight – we play for your Cactus Blossoms, and, on Saturday, we do the regular dance.”
Shamus rolled his eyes. “Aye, four nights then.”
“Four is more than enough,” Tomas Rivera said. “Much more and my wife and my children would forget what I look like.”
Natty Ryland laughed. “They won’t. You can go right home after the 10 o’clock show, if you want. And with a little extra money in your pocket to make it up to them.”
“Aye,” Shamus added. “I’ll be paying yuir band five dollars a night for the three weeknights. Ye can all be taking that home, along with the $9.50 ye get for playing at me dance on Saturday.”
Natty shook his head. “Not directly. I was thinking about hanging around to talk to Flora – or maybe Nancy.”
“I can’t hardly be blaming ye for that, but ye’ll be spending enough time with ‘em both when the music for thuir new dance gets here.”
“And you’ll be paying us extra for practicing with your Blossoms, right?” Hiram, the leader of the Happy Days Town Band, asked.
Shamus nodded, “I will, just like we agreed.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.” Hiram put out his hand.
Shamus spat into his palm and shook the other man’s hand. “Done.” And the arrangement was sealed.
* * * * *
Tuesday, May 28, 1872
From the front page of the Eerie edition of The Tucson Citizen
‘ Well and Finally Done
` “The Eerie town council has finally resolved – we hope – the
` matter of Shamus O’Toole and his potion. This paper can
` hardly fault them for the length of time that resolution took,
` since The Citizen has, from the first, urged caution and a
` full consideration of all points of view and of all concerns.”
` “There were some people who felt that the matter was settled as
` soon as they made their opinion known. There are always
` people like that, people who bask in the absolute certainty of
` their beliefs and in the absolute falsehood (and, probably,
` the evil intent) of any other.”
` “Even if this paper did agree with their ideas about how to handle
` Mr. O’Toole’s concoction – and it did not – fairness and a deeply
` held belief in the democratic process would have had us ask that
` all other opinions be heard and given equal consideration.”
` “Which is exactly what this paper did.”
` “The town council listened, and The Citizen thanks them for
` doing so, and it congratulates them on what would seem to be a
` most equitable compromise. Reverend Yingling asked for a
` committee. That committee now exists, and he is the chairman.
` Father Diego de Castro, of Our Lady of Blessed Charity Church,
` has agreed to be the vice chairman. The other committee members
` were chosen to ensure that a range of voices are represented:
` Horace Styron, of Styron’s Hardware and Mining Supplies; Don
` Luis Ortega, of the Ortega Ranch; and, in a surprising but very
` logical move, Shamus O’Toole, himself.”
` “The role of the committee has also, we think, been properly
` defined as an advisory body to Judge Parnassus Humphreys. Since
` the potion – primarily – has been given to those found guilty in
` his court, this would seem to be most appropriate.”
` “There are those who feel that the town council was wrong, that a
` stronger committee with a stronger role would have been the
` better way to go. There were also those who felt no need for a
` committee of any sort. The Citizen applauds the town council
` for their wisdom -- particularly where it agreed with our own
` thoughts – and wishes the Reverend and his committee much success
` in its deliberations. It also counsels those who would see the com-
` mittee in another role to give it a chance in its current form.”
* * * * *
Tommy Carson stepped nervously through the swinging doors and into the Eerie Saloon. “T-Telegram for Miss Jessie Hanks,” he called out. “Telegram f-for Miss J-Jessie Hanks.”
“She’s outta town for a few days,” Molly said, walking over to the boy. “I’ll just be taking it for her.”
The boy looked uncertain. “I-I don’t know ma’am…” His voice trailed off.
“It’s all right, Tommy,” Nancy told the boy, joining Molly.
“M-Miz Osbourne?” he asked.
Nancy nodded. “One and the same. How are you doing with your spelling words?”
“I’m getting better, I guess. Mrs. Stone, she’s been quizzing me on the words, just like you done.”
“Like I did,” she corrected him. “How are your other grades?”
“I… Miz Osbourne, my PA told me that I ain’t supposed t’talk to you.” He sounded embarrassed as he said it.
Nancy looked stunned. “I-I’m sorry, Tommy. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Why don’t ye be giving me that thuir telegram?” Molly asked the boy sourly. “And ye can be getting the he – getting outta here?”
The boy all but shoved the telegram into Molly’s hands and hurried towards the door. At the last moment, he stopped and yelled back. “Goodbye, Miz Osbourne. I’m sorry, but please don’t tell nobody that we talked.”
Then he was gone.
“G-Goodbye, Tommy.” Nancy whispered, her face furrowed in anger. She closed her eyes and gave a deep, mournful sigh. When she opened her eyes, she added. “Well, that pretty much settles who sent that telegram back to Hartford.”
Molly studied the other woman’s face. “Are ye all right, Nancy? Do ye want t’be laying down for a wee bit?”
“No, I-I’m -- no, I’m not fine, but I will be. Right now, I think some hard work’ll do me more good than anything else I might do.”
Molly smiled and placed a reassuring hand on the younger woman’s arm. “Hard work, is it? Well, that we got plenty of.”
“Don’t I know it? By the way, what’s in that telegram for Jessie, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“T’be telling the truth, I’m a wee bit curious about that meself. Well…” She tore open the envelope. “…thuir’s only one way t’be finding out.” She took out the folded paper, unfolded it, and began to read.
` “Miss Jessie Hanks
` ℅ Eerie Saloon
` Eerie, Arizona”
` “Jessie. Urgent reasons you not – repeat – not come to Hanna’s
` wedding. Will explain later.”
` “Love, Piety and Hanna Tyler.”
Molly’s eyebrows furrowed. “Something’s wrong; very, very wrong.”
“You think Jessie’s in trouble,” Nancy asked.
The older woman nodded. “I do, and thuir’s no earthly way t’be warning her about it. They’re traveling cross-country, and I can’t be asking a man t’ride hard after ‘em, just ‘cause I don’t like the wording of this here telegram. Paul ‘n’ her are riding into an unholy mess of trouble, I’m thinking, and all we can be doing about it is t’be praying that it ain’t half as bad as it sounds.”
* * * * *
Aaron Silverman made his way back through the storeroom to the small desk that he and Ramon had rigged up for Ernesto. “Nu, Ernesto,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, “what’re you doing back here, instead of up front in the store?”
“I didn’t want to be up there today,” the boy answered. He sounded angry. And sad.
“And why not? Most days, we almost have to bribe you with some of Bubbie Rachel’s sugar cookies to get you to come back here to do schoolwork.”
“Because… I don’t want to.” He looked up at Aaron’s face. “Because Uncle Ra – Señor de Aguilar is in the front, and I don’t want to talk to him.” He waited a moment. “Zeyde, do I have to go home when you close the store? I wanna stay here.”
Aaron’s head jerked back in surprise. “Here; you want you should live in my storeroom?”
“No, I thought – maybe – I could live… upstairs… live with you and Bubbie Rachel.”
The man moved a crate over by the desk and sat down on it. “Now why do you want to give up that nice room you got over at your mother’s house? As the Sages say, it’s a foolish bargain to trade what you know for what you don’t know.”
“I don’t wanna live with Mama – or Señor de Aguilar – anymore. They don’t love me… they… they lied to me ‘n’ Lupe about what Mama was, ‘n’ how she got t’be my Mama.”
“So I heard.” Aaron thought quickly. “You ever think that they lied to you because they loved you. Because they didn’t want to upset you and Lupe. They just wanted the both of you should just be happy living here with ‘em. For the sake of peace, the Sages tell us, you can lie; just so that peace isn’t a lie. What you got with Maggie and Ramon, that ain’t a lie.”
“But she… they… they shoulda told us the truth before now.”
“Are you mad because they lied or because they kept up the lie?”
“Both!”
“That’s a lot to be mad at. Like they say that anger comes in as a guest, but, if you ain’t careful, it winds up as the host.”
“What does that mean, Zeyde?”
“It means that you gotta work all this out with your mother and Ramon. A-und…” He pronounced the word as if it had two syllables. “…you ain’t gonna work it out if you’re living over here.”
“You won’t help me?” Ernesto sounded almost ready to cry.
“Of course I will.” Aaron decided to lighten the mood ein bissle [a little]. “Ain’t I already given you all this wonderful advice? This is something you gotta figure out for yourself. You can’t let it get you sour like a bad apple. But, while you’re figuring, I'll be here, ready to talk to you about it, okay?” He tussled the boy’s hair and gave him a big smile and the wink of his eye.
Ernesto couldn’t help but grin. “Okay, Zeyde.”
* * * * *
“Thunderation!”
Thad Yingling’s voice echoed through his household. “I won’t stand for it. I swear I will not stand for it!”
“Good Heavens, Thad,” Martha Yingling said, hurrying into her husband’s study. “Whatever is the matter?”
“This…” He held up the newspaper and waved it about in the air. “This… rag, this pack of lies, have your read it, Martha? Have you read the so-called ‘editorial’?”
She shook her head quickly. “No, no, I haven’t.”
“Just as well,” he answered. “Rubbish… absolute rubbish. That Unger boy ought to be ashamed of himself.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“That committee the town council stuck me with, he doesn’t describe it until page 3, but most of the second page is filled with an editorial that makes it sound like the foremost idea of the nineteenth century.” He crumbled the newspaper. “And Unger is… congratulating them for doing it – why, he’s… he’s even taking some of the credit for it.”
“He isn’t!”
“He is, and, in a way, it is his fault. ‘Take your time,’ he kept telling the council in this rag of his. And… And he kept raising questions, putting ideas into other peoples’ heads… and their mouths.” The minister all but growled. “I only pray that, when the Wrath of the Lord settles upon this town for the sin that the town council committed in foisting that less than worthless committee on me, I pray that Roscoe Unger receives his full share of the punishment!”
* * * * *
Arnie stood, watching the image in her mother’s mirror, as it – as she – buttoned the last buttons of her new dress. ‘Bad enough to get only clothes for my birthday,’ she thought, ‘but they want to see how I look in them, too.’
“Still…” she whispered, considering what she saw. The dress was indigo, a fine contrast to her coppery skin. Trim at the collar called attention to her pert breasts. The dress was cut tight down to her narrow waist, and then it flared out over her wide hips and flowed down almost to the floor.
In spite of herself, Arnie smiled, turning slowly to the left and right. “Nice… very nice.” She was posing, admiring the way she looked. “I wonder what Hedley would --” No! Don’t think about him. She tried to follow her own advice, but, in her mind’s eye, she could see him smiling, nodding in approval at her appearance.
“Hola, Arnolda,” Dolores called from the other side of the closed door. “Are you coming out any time today? We have to get back to Shamus’ very soon.”
Arnie shook her head to clear it of her thoughts about Hedley and headed for the door. “I am out; I am out,” she answered as she stepped into the main room.
“Very pretty,” Teresa said. “Turn around, so I can see how you look from the sides and the back.”
Arnie did. “When I saw that dress in Silverman’s,” her mother told her, “I knew it was made for you. And I was right.”
“I still do not see why you all had to buy me clothes,” Arnie protested.
Dolores chuckled. “You are not a child anymore, cousin, are you; to be upset because you got clothes instead of toys for your birthday? Besides you will need a lot of clothes for working at the Saloon.”
“And they should be your own clothes,” Teresa added, “not my clothes pinned up to fit you.”
Arnie sighed, in surrender. “I suppose.”
“Good,” Ysabel chimed in. “Now go change into the blouse and skirt that I gave you. I want to see how you look in them next.”
* * * * *
The wall clock had just stuck 8, when Clyde Ritter walked into the Saloon. He stopped just inside the door and looked around. ‘Where’s the show?’ he thought. He saw Flora talking to Nancy over at the bar. He waved to catch her eye and took a seat at a nearby table.
“Good evening… Clyde,” Flora greeted him when she came over to his table. “What would you like this evening?”
He smiled and stood up. “Your company, Flora.” He gestured towards an empty chair next to his. “Would you please bring me a beer – and one of whatever you’d like – and join me for a while?”
“My pleasure,” she answered in an affected purr. She hurried off, returning quickly with two beers. She set them down on the table and stood next to the empty chair.
He stood up again and pulled out the chair, pushing it back in as she sat down. “I had hoped to see you dancing tonight,” he said, taking his own seat. “Is there a problem?”
“No. Jessie Hanks was supposed to play for us. Her and that deputy of hers rode off yesterday for something over near Yuma. They’ll be gone a good week, maybe more. O’Toole hired a band – the one that plays at the Saturday dance – to fill in, but they’re only going to play for us Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights.”
“I’ll have to come in one of those nights, then – if I can.” He paused and tried to look sad. “My… ah, work doesn’t let me come in here every night.”
“Your work or your wife?”
His expression changed to embarrassment – and concern. “You… ah… know about Cecelia?”
She smiled broadly. “I do, but it – she – doesn’t bother me – not too much, anyway. A handsome man like you, it’s no surprise that some lucky girl managed to trap – to get you to marry her.” It was a line she’d been practicing since Nancy had talked to her about him, and she almost had to bite to tongue to keep from laughing at how well it seemed to work.
“Well,” he said, relief obvious in his voice. “I’m certainly glad to hear that. I was afraid --”
“Oh, don’t ever be afraid with me.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I like you, Clyde. I like you a whole lot.”
He took her hand in his. “Good, ‘cause I like you, too. How about I come in here early tomorrow evening and buy you dinner, if I may.”
“Mmm, I don’t see why not… Clyde.” She spoke his name softly. “I like it when a man buys me things: a beer… or dinner… or other… things.” She sighed again. “It makes me like him even more.” Flora knew all those words that Violet...that all those wheedling gold diggers had said to Forry.
She had told Nancy, it was all just a business deal. Maybe it was, or maybe it was just a way to show up O’Toole. She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a way to get a powerful ally that she might call on down the road. The important thing was that Clyde seemed to going along with the game. She could hardly believe how easily the words came out of her and, more importantly, how much he seemed to be buying what she was saying.
Ritter’s smile grew into a broad grin, as he considered what “even more” might imply. ‘I’ll certainly have to keep that in mind.’
* * * * *
Wednesday, May 29, 1872
Clyde Ritter shook his head. “I’m sorry, boys, but I’m not about to hire someone who plans to quit as soon as they get enough money to go gold hunting.” To himself, he added, ‘especially when they’re dumb enough to tell me about it in advance.’
“But we’s good workers,” Septimus Blake protested. He was a short, well-muscled man with the dark skin of a person who’d spent most of his life working under the sun. He wore dirty, blue-gray work clothes and a three- or four-day growth of beard.
“I’m not saying you aren’t,” Ritter replied, “but I’m still not interested.” He paused a half beat. “I will give you ten dollars for that mule of yours.”
Septimus’ partner, George Higgins, answered for them both. “No, thank ya, Mr. Ritter. We’ll need Homer t’get what gear we do have up to them new gold fields in the Dakota Territory.” George was dressed much the same as Sep Blake, but he was taller with no hair on his head, top or chin or in-between, except for a pair of bushy red eyebrows.
“In that case, I can’t help you.”
Before anyone could say another word, the bell over the door jangled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Ritter’s voice trailed off, signaling the end of the conversation. He came out from behind the counter and hurried over to greet a more important caller. “Reverend Yingling, what brings you in here this morning?”
“Very little, just now,” Yingling answered. “I wanted to ask you, Horace Styron, and, perhaps, a few others to come over to my home around six this evening for supper and to discuss how we might persuade the town council to revoke their inane decision regarding O’Toole’s concoction, to abolish that… committee, and to give us the sort of authority needed to properly deal with that foul brew of his.”
Ritter considered the idea. It would mean missing dinner with Flora, but he could make it up to her. This was important, too. Besides, he didn’t need the grief he’d get from Cecelia if she heard that there was a meeting, and that he didn’t go. As far as dinner with Flora was concerned, well, what that withered, old potato, Cecelia, didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
“I’ll be there,” he sighed. “You know, I thought we had ‘em, that they were gonna give us what we wanted.”
“I also think that they would have done so -- if it hadn’t been for that thrice-damned Roscoe Unger and his newspaper. He insisted that the council stall in their considerations, and he used that time to stir up Ortega and those Mexicans to oppose us.”
Ritter nodded. “I know just what you mean. Unger was a real pain in the… arse about things, getting everybody all riled up with them lies he printed.”
“Indeed, and I must admit that I take some small pleasure in the certainty that he will be punished in the Next World for defying the Will of our Lord.”
“If you say so, Reverend, but I don’t wanna wait that long for him t’get his due. Hell – excuse me – Heck, I’d pay good money to see that happen right here in Eerie.”
The Reverend studied his companion's expression for a moment, but then pursed his lips and said nothing.
* * * * *
Luke Freeman walked into the Feed & Grain and over to the counter where Trisha was sitting.
“Afternoon, Miss O’Hanlan. How’re you doing t’day?”
“Well enough,” Trisha answered. “And you?”
“Tolerable well, I s’pose.” He shrugged and took a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. “Carl Osbourne ‘n’ me come into town for supplies.” He unfolded the list and glanced at it quickly. “First thing’s two hundred pounds of Cosgrove’s Oat Supplements.”
“We’re having a sale on Cosgrove’s products this week. A fifty pound sack’ll cost you less than two twenty-five pound sacks normally would. Do you want the larger size?”
He thought for a moment. “Sounds right good t’me. Let’s go with them fifty pound bags.”
“Fine,” she replied. “I’ll go get one for a start.”
Liam had been standing near enough to listen. “No, you won’t, Trisha.” He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Mateo, bring four fifty pound sacks of Cosgrove’s Oat Suppliments over here.”
“Sì, Señor.” Mateo, a burly Mexican, had been stocking shelves in a corner of the store. He put down a bottle and walked over to a stack of large gray and purple muslin sacks. He grabbed one, threw it effortlessly over his shoulder, and started for the counter.
Trisha frowned at her brother. “I could have gotten that sack as easily as Mateo.”
“You’d have spent a good five minutes – looking ridiculous the whole time -- dragging that sack over here.” Liam looked at her sternly. “Besides… didn’t we agree that you wouldn’t waste time trying to lift heavy stuff like that anymore?”
She sighed, remembering Liam’s threat to reveal her pregnancy. “Yes, Liam.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he told her. “You keep on saying ‘Yes, Liam’, and we’ll get on just fine.”
She gritted her teeth and spoke slowly, trying not very well to hide her anger. “I’ll say it, Liam, just like we agreed, but don’t expect things to go fine and dandy.”
“I know what to expect, little sister, and what not to expect.” Liam turned to his customer. “Now then, what’s the next item on that list of yours, Luke?”
* * * * *
“Is everything closed up, Winthrop?” Clyde Ritter bellowed at his older son.
The boy nodded. “Yes, sir, but I don’t understand…”
“You don’t have to understand, boy. I have a meeting over at Reverend Yingling’s, and I want the place locked tight for the night before I go.”
“It is, sir. I-I had Hammy Lincoln feed and water the horses, as soon as you told me you wanted to leave early.”
“Good, and what about those Mex?”
“Pablo helped Hammy. Nando put away the livery. They'll be going home, as soon as they're done.”
“Even better. You get going yourself. Tell your Ma I’m over at the reverend’s house for a meeting, and that I’ll be home when it’s done.” He waited a half-beat. “Now, get going.”
Winthrop nodded and ran out the front door without another word. Clyde pulled his key ring from his vest pocket. He turned the “Open” sign on the door around, so the “Closed” side faced out. He walked through the doorway, turned and put the key in the lock.
“Mr. Ritter?” a voice behind him said.
He turned around and saw Hammy standing there, with two grubby men waiting behind him on the wooden sidewalk. “A couple o' gents tah see'ya, sir.”
He recognized the two of them. “Yes?”
“You recollect us, sir?” one of them said. He pointed his thumb towards his chest. “Septimus Blake. And this here’s George Higgins. We was in this morning looking for work.”
Now Clyde remembered. “I’m still not hiring men who plan to leave as soon as they get a grubstake.”
“Maybe not t’work in your livery stable,” Blake replied. He paused and glanced at Hammy Lincoln. “We’d like this conversation to be in private, if you don't mind, Mr. Ritter, sir.”
Ritter nodded warily and told Hammy to head on home. When the black man was out of earshot, Blake continued. “I heard you talking to that reverend fellah ‘bout another job, one just right for a couple of men looking t’leave town in a hurry.”
“Look,” Ritter said, beginning to lose his patience. “I’m in kind of a hurry, myself, right now.” He wanted to tell Flora that he had to cancel their plans for tonight. ‘Friday, maybe,’ he thought. ‘Cecelia has some sort of hen party every Friday.’
The two men smiled. “This won’t take too long, Mr. Ritter,” Higgins answered. “You still looking for somebody t’pay a visit on that Unger fellah?”
“And if I am?”
“Twenty dollars each, and it’s a done deal.”
“And just what would I be paying for?” Ritter asked suspiciously.
“Let's just say that me and Higgins are good at making low-lives respect their betters.”
Ritter scowled. So that was their game. He saw possibilities in the offer. He was tired of just being Horace Styron’s backup man, of paying Styron’s way at – nevermind that. If it worked, this would be a chance to show the Reverend what he could get done. Just the same, there was some risk; better to think about it first. “Can we talk about this another time?” He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time.
“We can if we got the job.”
“I said, we can talk about it later.” Clyde was too eager to see Flora to really want to deal with what was being discussed. His thoughts were mostly centered on how she looked in her “Captain Spaulding” costume, and how she’d look out of it.
Both men nodded. “Yes, sir… later,” Sep Blake said, touching the rim of his hat, as if saluting. “Just remember, sir, time and tide wait for no man.”
“Fine, fine; just get out of my way.” He stepped quickly around the pair and headed down the street. They were talking about scaring Unger enough to mend his ways. Shutting the printer up would be a good start to taking over Trisha O’Hanlan’s seat on the board at the next election, but such a measure would be better if Yingling could sign off on it. After all, the Reverend seemed to want something done, too.
Blake sneered after the businessman. “He hasn't got any spine, but there's a way to give him some. I think we've gotten all we needed from this visit. Let's go, Georgie.”
* * * * *
“Everything okay?” Lylah asked Judge Humphreys and Doc Upshaw.
The Judge swallowed the bite of steak he’d been chewing. “Just fine.”
“Same here,” the physician agreed. He was enjoying one of Maggie’s specialties, baked chicken with a spicy chocolate sauce.
Lylah refilled their water glasses. “Either o’you need anything, you let me know, okay?” When both men nodded, she headed back to her seat by the bar, the one set aside for the waitress on duty at the restaurant.
“He’s still watching,” R.J. whispered, as she sat down.
She glanced over at the table where Luke Freeman had been sitting for the past half hour, nursing a beer. He was looking her way. “Dang it,” she spat. “So he is.” At that moment, their eyes met, Luke winked at her. He lifted his glass, as if in salute, and took a drink.
“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” she said in exasperation. Still, she caught herself smiling back at him. He thought she was pretty. Well, no surprise there. She was starting to accept – maybe even like -- her fetching face and figure. Without thinking about it, she sat up straight, as if posing for him. “And what the hell am I doing?”
She continued sitting that way even when he didn’t come over to talk to her. He just stayed where he was, staring. She glanced at others in the room. When she had to, she walked around, waiting on the dinners at “Maggie’s Place.” The big wall clock ticked on. And whenever she glanced his way, Luke was still staring in her direction.
“This is getting silly,” she told R.J., who mumbled something she didn’t quite hear.
All she could think of was how embarrassing it was. She felt… she wasn’t sure how she felt. Part of her felt like a bug on display. When she looked at her reflection in the big mirror behind the bar, she saw how good she looked tonight. She suddenly felt even more annoyed. With a girl like her just a short walk away from him, why was Luke Freeman just sitting there like a bump on a log?
* * * * *
Clyde Ritter glanced around quickly. ‘Nobody’s watching,’ he told himself, as he stepped quickly through the swinging doors and into the Eerie Saloon.
Flora was bringing a tray of beers over to Kelly, the female poker player. Clyde saw her set the tray down on the table and hand out steins to the players. Kelly said something to Flora, who curtseyed towards the woman gambler before she turned, a grimace on her face, and walked back towards the bar.
“Flora,” he called out, and hurried to catch up with her.
She stopped and wheeled around to face him. The grimace transformed at once into a warm smile. “Why, Clyde, I didn’t expect you to come by this early.”
“I had to.”
“Oh, that’s… that’s sweet.” She kissed his cheek. “You missed me that much.”
“No – Yes, I-I’m very sorry, Flora, but I can’t have supper with you tonight.” He sighed. “I have to go to a… meeting.”
She pouted, “Can’t you get out of it?”
“I wish I could. I… I really do, but I just can’t miss it.” He waited a half beat. “Much as I’d like to.”
Flora looked down at the floor. “I understand. If you have to be there…” Her voice trailed off.
“I do, but please... please let me make it up to you. Friday, I-I promise. I’ll make it up to you Friday.”
“Well… I suppose you should get another chance. But it’ll take more than just buying me dinner – like you were supposed to tonight – to get back into my good graces.” She studied his expression. “If you really want to.”
“I do; I do.” He meant it, even if he wasn’t sure exactly how he would make it up to her. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘I’ll have two days to figure it out.’
He was hooked for sure! Flora smiled in victory. “Then, I’ll see you Friday, and, just so you don’t back out again…” She kissed him quickly on the lips, startling both Clyde and herself. She had actually enjoyed the kiss and the warmth it aroused in her. His interest in her was flattering. But it was only the kiss she had liked, not the man. ‘Damn monthlies; I’m as horny as Lylah,’ she chided herself as she hurried off.
Clyde broke into a broad grin, as he watched her scurrying back to the bar. He quickly wiped his mouth with a kerchief – couldn’t let anybody notice any lip paint – and started towards Yingling’s meeting.
* * * * *
Martha Yingling stood in the door to her husband’s study. “More coffee, gentlemen?” She held a tray with a steaming coffee pot, a sugar bowl, and a small creamer.
“We’re fine for now, my dear,” the Reverend replied. “Just put the pot over there, if you would.” He pointed to a table in the corner.
She put the tray down on the table. “Very well, then, Thad. Will you be out later to say goodnight to the children?”
“If I can.” He took a breath. “Please close the door behind you.” He waited until she had, then turned to face Horace Styron, Clyde Ritter, and Jubal Cates. “Now then, to the business at hand, O’Toole’s potion.”
Styron pursed his chin one and spoke. “Seems to me, the first thing we gotta do is get rid of that committee.”
“Or change it to one more along our way of thinking,” Ritter added. “That means changing a lot of minds.”
Yingling gave them a confident smile. “I have already started that with my sermon on last Sunday. I plan to speak more of the same truth in future sermons.”
“It’ll take more than that,” Styron said. “You’re going to have to show folks that the way the committee is now is a bad idea.”
“Do you mean the way they set it up,” Ritter asked, “or the men they put on it – not counting you two, of course?”
Styron nodded. “Both. Of course. The Reverend and I’ll be on the new committee, too, Clyde, and there’ll be a spot for you on it, as well.”
“We must do both, gentlemen, show the uselessness of the committee in its present form and repudiate the other appointments,” said Yingling.
Ritter frowned. “That’s gonna take a lot of work.”
“First thing we gotta do, is get Roscoe Unger and his paper to shut up,” Styron observed.
“Or get him over t’our side,” Clyde added.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” Yingling said. “I have thought of speaking to him privately about how his opposition to our righteous work is endangering his immortal soul.” He smiled grimly. “And, if that doesn’t work, to see about expelling him from membership in the church.”
Styron shook his head. “I think we need something a bit stronger. When he wouldn’t print those petitions, we threatened to pull our advertising from his paper. I even talked about going into competition against him.”
“You think either of those things’d work now?” Clyde asked.
“Right now, I need money for stock for my shelves,” Horace answered. “I don’t have any to spare. And not advertising would hurt me as much as it’d hurt him. Maybe more.”
Clyde thought for a moment. “Maybe we need to threaten him, not his business.” He wanted to broach the idea carefully, to see their reactions. “There were two drifters in my place today looking for an odd job. Breaking his precious printing press or beating him up’d be --”
“I do not wish to hear such things spoken of in my house,” Yingling said sternly.
Clyde looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Reverend. If you don’t think we should do something like that…” His voice trailed off.
“I am not saying what I think,” Yingling said. “I am saying what I do not wish to hear it spoken about.”
Ritter looked at the Reverend, wondering if he meant what Ritter thought he meant.
Jubal Cates had been sitting quietly, drinking his coffee and listening to the others talk. “I don’t think I want to hear about it, either.” He stood up.
“You changing sides, Jubal?” Styron asked.
Cates shook his head. “I’m still your man, Horace. And yours, too, of course, Reverend. I just think this mud is getting a little deeper than I care to wade through.”
“Take it easy,” Styron said, putting his arm around Cates’ neck. “We were just blowing off some steam, that’s all.” He gave a conspiratorial wink.
Jubal cocked an eyebrow. “If you say so, Horace. Let’s just say then that I’d just as soon not get scalded.”
He put on his hat. “So, I’ll just leave you to it. G’night.” He opened the study door and walked out, closing it behind him.
“Do you think we can trust him?” Yingling asked.
Styron nodded. “I do. Now, if we aren’t going to talk about getting Unger beat up, what else can we do to get that committee set up the way we want?”
Ritter frowned thoughtfully. This wasn't all that he'd hoped for. He’d expected them to congratulate him for a good idea. He was even hoping that they’d admit that he had a lot more to offer than just another pair of hands and a loudmouthed wife.
Instead, they were dancing around the whole thing. The Reverend didn’t say no. He said that he didn’t want to hear them talk about it. ‘He’ll be the first to claim the credit if it works,’ Clyde thought, ‘and the first to shift the blame if it doesn’t. If there was anybody else I could work with…’ He let the thought die as he listened to them prattling on.
* * * * *
Thursday, May 30, 1872
Carl Osbourne walked down from the second floor of the Eerie Saloon, tucking in his shirt, as he did. Luke Freeman was a few steps ahead of him. When they reached the foot of the stairs, they walked over to where Carl’s sister, Nancy, was having breakfast with Flora and Lylah.
“Morning, ladies,” Carl greeted them. Luke mumbled something along the same lines and tipped his hat.
Nancy looked up at Carl. “Good morning, Carl. I didn’t realize that you and Luke were spending the night here in town.”
“Yeah,” her brother answered. “Mr. Lewis told us t’wait for the mail to come in on today’s stage. Red Tully sent a telegram when they got t’Salt Lake City. He said Mr. Slocum was writing Mr. Lewis some sorta letter, and that he was gonna send it back here before they got on the train to Philadelphia.”
Luke had gone over to a second table, covered with serving dishes full of food and a large coffee pot resting on a wooden trivet. Stacks of dishes and cups, and a tray of silverware were also on the table. He came back with a tray full of food: turkey hash, a buttered biscuit, some fruit compote, and a steaming cup of coffee. “Go get yo’self some breakfast, Carl,” he said. “You can talk t’your sister while you eats.”
“Okay, Luke,” Carl said, with a nod, and sauntered over to the other table.
Luke strode over to an empty chair next to where Lylah was sitting. “You minds if I sit here?” he asked her.
“Uhh… no,” Lylah stammered. “If you want.”
Luke smiled down at her. “‘N’ why wouldn’t I want t’sit next to the purtiest gal in town?” He set his tray down and took the chair, moving it a bit closer to her as he did.
“Th-Thanks… I guess.” The compliment unnerved her.
He took her hand. “Thank you, Lylah.” He smiled again and reached over to give her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Oh.” She felt flustered, unsure how to react. She smiled shyly and looked down at her plate. A shiver ran through her, centering finally in her breasts. She could feel her nipples crinkle, pushing against the soft muslin of her camisole. She took another bite of her biscuit and glanced up quickly towards Luke. He winked at her and started on his own meal. Even more confused at her own feelings, her hands shaking, Lylah tried hard to continue eating.
Carl came back with his own breakfast tray. “I think I’ll just sit down here,” he said with a confident smile, as he took the chair next to Flora.
“I see you don’t object to some people being dancing girls,” Nancy said sarcastically.
He took a bite of toast before answering. “No, I don’t – I just don’t like you being one.”
“Do you mind telling me why?” Nancy’s voice was cold.
He frowned. “Do you know what men’re thinking about when they see a gal prancing ‘round in a skimpy outfit – or showing her drawers to every last one of ‘em in the place?”
“I believe that I do.” She didn’t blush, as he had expected, and that fact annoyed him.
Carl continued. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I don’t like ‘em thinking that sorta thing ‘bout my sister.”
“Thank you for your concern, brother, but you’d better get used to men thinking such things about me because that sort of dancing is what I’ll be doing for the time being – however long that is.” She glared at him. “And you’re not going to stop me, understand?” She ate the last forkful of hash on her plate and took a final sip of coffee.
He shook his head. “Same old Nanny Goat you always was, ain’t you?”
“Baaah!” she bleated. She stood and took her tray into the kitchen.
Flora lightly put her hand on Carl’s arm. “Just what do men – what do you think about when you see me performing in my Captain Jinx costume?”
Something wicked danced in her gaze, and she suddenly leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Were you thinking about doing something like that?” She smiled, enjoying the reaction that her little peck was evoking in Carl. He was only a poor cowpoke, but she needed to practice getting a man hot and bothered for the next time that she saw Clyde Ritter. Somehow, though, what she was doing was actually fun on some level, more than just practicing the tricks that Rosalyn had taught her. For the first time she could understand how women felt when they knew that they were beautiful to men.
“For a start,” Carl replied. He steadied her with a hand on her shoulder and returned her kiss. Not expecting that much reaction, Flora tensed, but she sat firm and let him do it.
* * * * *
Arnie spread out the sheet on the bed. “You know, Dolores,” she said with a chuckle, “when I took the waitress job, I did not think it meant I would be making beds, too.”
“Now that you know,” Dolores replied, “what do you think of the job?”
The cousins were in the room where Luke Freeman and Carl Osbourne had spent the night. Since the two men were heading back to the Triple A Ranch, Molly had sent them up to change the linen on their beds and clean the room as needed.
“It is not as bad as washing dishes… as long as fools like Pablo are not here to see it. The only problem is that Shamus watches me like a hawk.”
“Do you blame him? You drank liquor that was not yours to drink, and you stole money from him. You should be grateful that he gave you this chance.”
“Sì, I did a lot of estupido things, and, as Papa used to say, ‘cría cuervos y te sacarán los ojos’ [breed crows, and they will take out your eyes]. But… somehow…” She actually felt ashamed for what she’d done. “… it does not seem… right to think of doing such things now.”
“Perhaps you have learned from your mistakes.”
“I hope so.” She tossed a blanket over the sheet and began to straighten it out.
Dolores tucked in the blanket and sheet at one corner of the second bed in the room. “I am glad to hear that you have decided to behave better. Have you also decided about keeping the waitress job?”
“Not yet. After all, Shamus told me that I do not need to make up my mind until Monday.”
The older girl looked closely at Arnie. “I think that Saturday night will help you make up your mind – one way or the other.”
“What do you mean?”
“Saturday night is the dance. You will be there, even if you will not be dancing with the men.”
“Good, I-I do not want to dance with… anyone.”
“It could mean more money. Shamus pays the waitresses who dance more than he pays you.”
Arnie shook her head. “Money is not always the most important thing.”
“You would also share in the ticket mon--” Dolores could see the unease in Arnie’s face. “Arnolda… dulcita, what is the matter?”
“I… at the Spauldings, I-I danced with… Hedley.”
“Hedley?”
“The son. He… he taught me the waltz, and we-we danced.” Her voice broke. “And… I-I liked it.”
Dolores pretended not to understand. “Sì, the waltz is a lovely dance.”
“No-No, not the dance. I-It was more. It was the way he held me.” Her body, her hateful body, it remembered, and it tingled at the memory.
Her cousin nodded. “So you enjoyed it. There is nothing wrong with that.”
“Yes… Yes, there is. I am a man, and a man should not enjoy dancing with another man.”
There was a mirror mounted on the wall above the dresser. Dolores took Arnie’s hand and led her over to it. “Do you see a man in the mirror?”
“Yes!” There was desperation in her voice.
“Mirrors do not lie, Arnolda. In your mind, you may -- may -- still be a man, but what you see in the mirror, what the world sees when it looks at you, is a muy pretty girl.”
Arnie looked away. “A girl? No.”
“Sì, a girl. You have the mind of a man – perhaps, but it is within the body of a woman. And we women, we like a man to dance with us, to hold us close. It is the nature of a woman, the way our bodies are made.” She smiled and put her arm around her younger cousin. “So, it was not you that enjoyed dancing with the Hedley. It was only your body.”
“Just… just my body?” She seemed to relax as she said the words. “My body, not me.”
Dolores agreed. “Sì, not you.” It was a lie, Dolores knew, but by the time Arnie found that out, she might not care.
* * * * *
Nancy pushed open the door to the “bunkhouse,” the large sleeping room above the Saloon, and the original quarters of the Hanks gang after their transformation. “You wanted to see us, Molly?”
“Sure ‘n’ I did,” Molly replied. “Come in here, the three of ye, and close the door behind ye.” She waited until Nancy, Lylah, and Flora were all standing before her before she continued. “Yuir new costumes is here, Cactus Blossoms, one on each o’them beds there…” She pointed three packages wrapped in yellow paper, each on a different bed. “…with yuir names on ‘em. I wants ye t’be trying them on, and then we’ll be having us a little practice, so ye can get used t’be dancing in ‘em.”
The three women milled around until each had found her own package. They untied the strings binding the yellow parcels and examined the contents. “Kind of an odd shade of green, isn’t it?” Flora observed, holding up a pair of stockings.
“‘Tis cactus green,” Molly answered. “The dresses are the same color, as ye can see.”
Lylah lifted the dress and found a double petticoat of dark pink, which she picked up and examined. “Lemme guess, these here’re the ‘blossoms, right?”
“These too, probably,” Nancy said with a groan. She was looking at a pair of drawers that were the same color as the petticoat. Both were covered with a froth of lacy trim.
“Aye, ye’re both right,” Molly told them. She couldn't help sounding a bit smug.
“There’s pink on them dresses, too.” Lylah was holding the dress in front of her, as if considering how it might look on her. A flower made of some sort of dark pink netting was sewn onto the right side of the waist. A second, smaller flower was on the left shoulder strap.
Molly shrugged. “That there is. Now I want the three of ye t’be getting into these fine new clothes. Leave what ye’re wearing now in here. Ye can be coming back for that stuff later.” She paused a moment. “And that includes yuir camisoles – there ain’t room for ‘em under these dresses. Yuir drawers. too; ye can just be wearing them new pink ones.”
“Do we gotta?” Lylah complained.
Molly gave her a stern look. “Aye, now hush up, and get to it, ladies. As me girl, Jessie, says, ‘Ye’re burning daylight.’” Molly nodded her head, as if to emphasize what she’d said. “I’ll be going now t’set up in the hall. The three of ye come out the minute as ye’ve changed.” She left, closing the door again behind her.
* * * * *
Flora laid her petticoat down on the bed and began to unhook her corset. She’d done it enough times that she didn’t have to pay rapt attention to the process, and she glanced up at the other two women. She barely lingered on Lylah. ‘The nigger’s pretty enough,’ she thought with a shrug, ‘but I’ve seen her “charms” before.’ But watching Nancy strip down was a new treat, since they slept in different rooms. And she was guessing that the former schoolteacher would look right fine in the costume, too.
Nancy had removed her own corset and was now unbuttoning her camisole. ‘Damn,’ Flora thought, ‘look at those tits.’ Flora braced herself, expecting the arousal that she would have felt in the past. Nancy’s lush bosom, nipples exposed and ready to be sucked, would have gotten Forry rock-hard and ready for some fun.
‘Mine are better,’ Flora thought. She frowned at the notion and got back to the business of changing clothes. The bothersome female arousal that she’d expected, her own nipples getting tight and the feeling of warmth in her loins, just didn’t seem to happen.
* * * * *
Nancy stepped into her new, dark pink drawers. She pulled them up, past her hips and used the matching ribbon to draw them taut at her waist. ‘The color is horrid,’ she thought, ‘but they feel comfortable enough.’
She sat down on the bed and raised the bottom of the drawers on her left leg, so she could undo her stocking. ‘It’s like putting on a new uniform,’ she told herself. ‘But I’m not wearing these clothes to keep warm and look respectable. I’m wearing them to display my body.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘That’s hardly respectable.’
“No matter what job I took, Cecelia and her crowd would have treated me like a girl of the streets,” her mind continued. “If the choice is between being my own woman and doing this, or minding my p's and q's just to get the approval of the likes of their kind, I choose this.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “After all, if Molly O'Toole could cancan at my age and still become a respectable woman where it really counts, this can't be anything too awful.”
She knew she was taking a big step, one that she might never be able to retrace. She could cut and run now, but that wouldn't be an option later. She remembered that Kirby had offered her a job. ‘Only… he did it out of pity.’ She sighed. ‘Or was it something else, not pity but… friendship, affection, maybe even…’ She shook her head, denying the word. ‘And yet, his reaction when he found out that she’d be dancing, be dressed like this, sounded like more than the disappointment of a friend.’
Her mind shifted. He had sounded more like the frustration of someone who really cared for her, someone like her brother, Carl. He was disappointed, angry even, at her choice. Two men who loved – loved? – her, and she seemed to have let them both down. ‘I’m not going to quit,’ she thought, almost hearing Carl’s mocking ‘Baa-aah!’ in her mind. ‘I'm not going to be the object of pity. I just have to figure out how to convince them that this is the right thing for me.’
* * * * *
“All right, ladies,” Molly began, once the three women were in their new costumes and standing out in the hall. None of them were used to doing her fancy dance steps in this sort of clothing, so their disarray needed a little straightening, which service she performed. Finally she said, “Let’s be getting started. Stand in a line about three feet apart – that’s right, with Flora in the center, her being the tallest -- and put yuir arms on each others’ shoulders for balance.”
Once the women were in place, Molly continued. “We’ll practice that ‘randy jam’ step first. That’s the one where ye take yuir skirts and petticoats in yuir hands, and ye raise yuir right leg up high – get yuir leg up, Lylah, so yuir knee’s about the height o’yuir belly button. Aye, just like that.”
“Now bend yuir right knee, so yuir lower leg’s hanging down, and make a circle with yuir foot, all of ye moving ‘em the same way, like we practiced.” She watched for a moment, as the trio followed her direction.
“And now, we’ll be doing it with music. Remember t’be waving yuir skirts ‘n’ petticoats back and forth to the beat.” She pressed the lever that started the kalliope, which was perched on a small table next to her. The brass disk inside rotated, and the melody came out of the ornate music box, sounding like an orchestra of tiny bells.
Flora, Nancy, and Lylah danced as Molly had directed. Their right feet circled in syncopation, each with the others. Their dresses were raised up in their hands, and their lush, pink petticoats and matching drawers were plainly visible.
‘These here fancy underthings’ll give Luke something to really stare at,’ Lylah mused. Somehow, the thought pleased her. ‘I just wish he’d stop staring and come over t’say something ‘bout what he was thinking about while he was staring.’
Molly had the woman continue the lift kick for about five minutes. Then she had them switch, repeating the same move with their left leg.
“That’s it, Blossoms -- especially you, Flora, you show off those pretty stems,” a voice behind them taunted.
The women spun around. “What’re you doing here, Kel -- Miss Bridget?” Flora asked angrily. Molly’s instructions to be polite to Bridget had kicked in. Flora had to break ranks and courtesy to the lady gambler.
“Watching you, Mr. Stafford,” Bridget answered, barely keeping in her laughter.
Molly turned off the kalliope. “That’s all well ‘n’ good, Bridget, but since ye ain’t up here t’be joining the Cactus Blossoms, I’ll be asking ye t’leave.”
“I’ll go, M-Molly,” Bridget replied, still chortling. “I’ll go. I thought the Captain looked pretty in her little red uniform, but this… this is just so much better. Damn it, Stafford, I can’t believe how sweet you look in that outfit; as pretty as a real desert blossom.” She waved. “Bye, Flora! Don't catch cold,” and went back around the corner and out of sight.
* * * * *
“You sure ‘bout this, Sep?”- George Higgins asked.
Septimus Blake nodded. “I told you I am. All we gotta do is break into this Unger guy’s store ‘n’ mess the place up a bit. You know, just enough to throw a scare into him.”
“It still seems risky,” Higgans said with a grimace.
Blake shook his head. “We do this, and Ritter'll have to pay us more’n enough t’make it to them gold fields in the Dakotas. Now, let’s get to it.” He held his hat against the window glass of the back door, and punched the inside crown of the hat, breaking the pane.
“There we go.” He pushed more of the glass out of the frame before he reached through and turned the latch that held the door closed. The door swung open, and the two men walked in. The room was small with shelves holding boxes of paper and other stationary supplies along two walls. There were two tall wooden file cabinets against the third wall, with a desk and two chairs in front of them.
George looked around. “This here’s just a office and storeroom. There ain’t much we can do in here.”
“You can mess up the papers in them cabinets,” Sep told him, “and see if they’s anything in that desk.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna see what mischief I can get into in the next room, maybe even break that printing press of his.” He walked through an open door and a few feet into the next room, the print shop, the air tangy with the odors of grease and ink.
The press was in the center of the room. Two rows of trays filled with small pieces of lead type were set against the wall at the back of a long table. A large wooden frame, half-filled with rows of type, lay on the tabletop. To the right of the press, piled high on another, smaller table, stood two stacks of blank paper. A few sheets with printing on them were on a second table to the right of the press. There were bundles of paper, tied with a green string, on shelves along the opposite wall.
“Hold it right there,” a firm voice ordered from behind him.
Sep turned around slowly. A tall man in a bathroom stood near a set of stairs, holding a candleholder in one hand and -- damn! -- a pistol in the other. “I said hold it,” the man ordered.
“You’d be Mr. Unger, I suppose,” Sep said in a cautious voice. “Pleased t’meet you.” He slowly raised his arm, as if offering to shake Roscoe’s hand. While he spoke, he slowly shifted position in the room. Roscoe followed the other man’s movements, until his own back was to the office.
Roscoe glared at the intruder. “You won’t be so ‘pleased’ when I – uhh!” His head jerked forward, and he collapsed to the floor unconscious.
“Shit,” Sep Blake cursed. “I didn’t ‘spect anybody’d be here.” He knelt down and put two fingers on the side of Roscoe’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
George Higgins was standing in the doorway to the office. “Is he dead?”
“Nope,” Sep replied, “just knocked out. Thanks.”
“We better get the hell outta here,” George warned. He holstered the pistol he’d used to knock out Roscoe.
Sep shook his head. “Not till we finish what Ritter’s gonna pay us for.” He reached up and pulled over the boxes of type, scattering the pieces across the floor. He pushed the piles of paper onto the floor, as well, tossing the printed sheets on top of them.
“That should do it,” George told him nervously. “That slug on the head I gave him will teach him as much as a regular drubbing. Let’s go before Unger wakes up.”
Sep nodded in agreement. “Ritter’ll have to be happy with this.” He swept an arm, pointing at the disarray.
The two men hurriedly left the way they had come in, leaving the door open behind them. They were well away when the candle in Roscoe’s candleholder, loosened by being dropped on the floor, slipped free. Its flame touched off the paper it landed on, and in minutes the fire was spreading quickly through the room.
* * * * *
“My brave Ned, that country is not yet sufficiently indicated on the world map, and I admit that the nationality of these two strangers is hard to determine! Neither English nor French, nor German, that's all we can say. However, I am tempted to think that the commander and his deputy were born in low lati --”
Kirby Pinter put down the copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea and sniffed at the air. “Smoke,” he whispered. He climbed out of bed and followed the scent. It was stronger from the direction of his opened bedroom window than from the doorway into his apartment above his store. “Not from in here, thank G-d.”
He stepped over to the window and looked out at the surrounding buildings. There was a flickering light that could only be flames from inside a nearby structure. “Roscoe’s!”
He grabbed for his pants and stepped into them. Then he sat back on his bed just long enough to put on his shoes. He tucked his nightshirt into his pants, as he ran down the stairs and out his back door. The print shop was two doors down. As he ran to it, he shouted “Fire!” as loudly as he could. No one answered.
Roscoe’s back door was open. Kirby saw that fire was hadn’t reached the office yet. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, as ran into the building. The desk drawers and the file cabinets were open, and papers were scattered everywhere. He shouted his friend’s name several time, but to no avail.
He put his right arm over his head for cover. He took a breath of “good” air and moved cautiously into the middle room. Through the smoke, he could see that the fire was mostly paper, loose sheets scattered on the floor and bundles on wooden shelves, burning bright enough to be seen through both the front and back windows. The shelves were beginning to burn. There was still no sign of Roscoe or anyone else.
One wooden shelf was already on fire. The flames were licking at the wooden base of Roscoe’s printing press. As Kirby stepped around the press, he saw a figure lying on the floor. Roscoe. The man was unconscious – Kirby hoped. He wore a thick robe that was burning in several places.
Kirby grabbed a sponge sitting on a corner of the printing press, one of the ones that Roscoe used to ink its plates. The wooden dish it was in was hot to the touch, but it wasn’t on fire. The sponge was clean, nothing flammable on it, and he used it to beat out the flames on the robe, trying to be as quick and as gentle as he could. In a couple places, the garment was almost burned through.
It was a strain, but he managed to get Roscoe over his shoulders. The man was heavy, but, at least, Kirby could feel his breathing. Carefully, crouching to keep his – and Roscoe’s – head out of the smoke, he retraced his steps out into the yard. Once he was outside, he braced himself against a wall and took a long breath of fresh, cool night air. Then, still carrying the printer on his shoulders and panting – just a little – from his load, he slowly began to make his way toward Doc Upshaw’s office.
* * * * *
Tor Johansson was deputy on duty this night. The tall, muscular man was making his rounds on Main Street, checking that doors and windows were shut and locked. As he rounded a corner, he saw an odd, unexpected light in the window of the print shop. He ran over and saw the flames inside.
“Fire!” he yelled as loudly as he could. Still yelling the word, he ran over to the nearest alarm, a thick ring of steel hanging by a chain from a hook on the wall about a half block away. A hammer hung from the same hook, and Tor used it to beat the ring, making a loud, clanging noise.
Duggan’s Lone Star Saloon was just down the street, and three men ran out to investigate the noise. “You…” Tor pointed to one of them. “Get over here and take over der alarm.” When the man hurried over, Tor handed him the hammer and told him to keep sounding the alarm. He sent the second man back inside the saloon to get those still inside. “You,” he told the third, “come mit me.”
Tor led the man to a fenced off area in the alley behind the Sheriff’s Office, through the gate and to the shed where the fire pump was stored. He opened the doors, and a dappled mare whinnied a welcome from her stall. The pair led the horse out and hitched her to the pump. Tor left the man behind to ring the alarm in front of the office, while he drove the pump back to the print shop.
A crowd had gathered by the time he arrived. Some already had buckets of their own and were forming lines. Tor pulled the pump up next to the water trough closest to the fire. He pulled a weighted hose out of the back of the pump and lowered one end into the trough.
People grabbed at the buckets hanging from the sides of the pump. They hurriedly formed double lines to the next two nearest troughs. One line passed empty buckets to the people at the trough. A man or woman filled these and started them up the second line to others, who dumped the water into the tank built into the pump wagon. There were both men and women in the two lines.
Arsenio Caulder worked the small hand pump that was attached to the water trough. Two other men were working the same pumps on the other two troughs. They couldn’t keep up with the big pump pulling the water out, but it took a lot longer to empty the troughs.
Dan Talbot had arrived by now, and he unhooked a second hose from the front of the wagon. Three men on each side of the wagon started working the pump handles, pulling water from the tank and from the trough and pushing it, under pressure through that hose. “She’s ready,” someone – Liam O’Hanlan – yelled. Dan turned a lever on the nozzle of the hose and directed the stream of water through a smashed window and onto the flames within.
It took over an hour to put out the fire, including time to soak the wood of the building – just in case. Every horse trough on Main Street was empty, but the fire was definitely out. Shamus and Sam and every other barman on the street opened their taps and passed out free drinks until the fire in the throats and the ache in the backs and arms of all those who’d helped were also taken care of.
* * * * *
Friday, May 31, 1872
Trisha walked slowly down the street towards the Feed & Grain. Her long, blonde hair swung this way and that, as she glanced from building to building, trying to see where the fire had been. She’d heard the fire gong, they all had, but Kaitlin hadn't allowed her to go out to help, fretting about how unsafe it would be for a pregnant woman in the midst of an excited crowd. Trisha gritted her teeth. She might be going to have a baby, but she wasn't one herself.
“Looking for something, Trisha?” a voice asked.
She turned to see Fred Norman sweeping the wooden sidewalk in front of his leather goods store. “Yes, I am, Fred. I was wondering where last night’s fire was.”
“That was quite a blaze,” he said thoughtfully. “Half the town must’ve been working the bucket brigade to put it out.”
“I’m sure it was, but what building… whose building was on fire?”
“Didn’t I say? I’m sorry. Sometimes my mind just wanders. Don’t you hate it when --”
“Mr. Norman… please.”
“Sorry. It was… ah, the print shop – what’s his name? – Unger’s place. I hear he got burned bad, and he’s over at the doc’s.”
Trisha gasped, fear clutching at her heart. “Th-Thanks,” she called back at Norman as she began running, as fast as she could, toward Dr. Upshaw’s office.
* * * * *
Septimus Blake and George Higgins walked confidently into Ritter’s Livery. They stopped just inside the doorway and looked around. After a very short time, a tall, burly, dark-haired young man came over to them and asked, “Can I help you, gentleman?”
“We wanna see Mr.Ritter,” Sep said in answer.
“I’m Mr. Ritter… Winthrop Ritter. What do you want?”
Blake studied him for a moment. “Your pa, boy. We wanna see your pa, the man that owns this place.” He hesitated for a minute, then added firmly. “In private.”
“He’s over there. Follow me.” Winthrop led the men to a closed door marked “Office.” He knocked twice and called out, “Father, there’s some men out here to see you. They say that it’s a private matter.”
Clyde Ritter’s gruff voice sounded through from inside. “Show them in… and then get back to work.”
“Yes, sir.” Winthrop opened the door. The men went in, closing it behind them.
The boy stood outside, trying to listen. “Now, Winthrop!” His father yelled. The boy jumped in surprise, and then scurried away.
* * * * *
Blake and Higgins stood in front of Ritter’s desk. “How do, Mr. Rittter,” Higgins said.
“You bastards! Were you responsible for the fire at Unger's last night?” Clyde demanded, looking up at them from his chair.
Sep smirked. “There's no reason to be calling us names. We done the job you hired us for, and now we come for our money.”
“Job?” Clyde asked in a strained voice. “I told you to wait until we talked about it more.” His fingers were white from how hard he grasped the arms of his chair.
George chuckled. “We scared that Unger guy, like you wanted. We busted up his place real good last night.”
“I never asked you to do anything!” Clyde sprang to his feet, his hands balled into fists.
Sep nodded. “You were taking your time about it, but Georgie ‘n’ me don't have no time to waste. Strike while the iron is hot, right? We didn’t figure on no fire – that was a accident, but it oughta keep him from putting out that paper o’his for a good while. Any way look at it, you're getting a damned good return on your investment.”
Ritter glared at the pair whose stupidity had ruined his plans. He could have privately taken credit with the better people in church for intimidating Unger and gotten elected to the board on his own. But now, with the fire a part of the act, he couldn't touch the fiasco with a ten-foot pole. “You might have burned down half the town. When I tell the Sheriff --”
“You ain’t telling the Sheriff nothing,” Sep interrupted, stepping towards the man. “Give us any trouble and we'll say that you put us up to it. It'll be the word of us two against you.”
“And who’d believe you?” he asked through gritted teeth, ready to pounce. “I’m a respected man in this town, and you two’re just a couple of --”
Sep nodded, and his grin just got bigger. “That’s true, sir, but we wasn’t the only ones in your store when you told that preacher that you’d pay – what you say? – ‘good money’ t’see that Unger got what’s coming to him. And your own man saw us talking with you private-like yesterday.” He gave a nasty chuckle. “If you want to go on being ‘a respected man,’ you'd better pay up.”
Clyde considered the other man’s words, and then he sighed, knowing he was caught. “And you’ll leave town permanently as soon as I pay you?”
“The very minute,” George promised, holding his hand as if taking an oath. Sep nodded in agreement.
Ritter shrugged, accepting the situation. “Very well.” His body unclenched, as he reached for his wallet. “You said twenty dollars each, as I recall.”
“I said twenty each,” Sep replied, “but… considering everything that we had to do, fifty each sounds a lot more friendly.”
“That’s a hundred dollars!”
Sep and George looked at each other quickly, then both grinned at Ritter. “Why so it is,” Sep said cheerfully. “You just give us that money, sir, and we’ll be on our way t’them Black Hills up in the Dakotas quicker ‘n you can spit.”
Ritter scowled. He put away his wallet and went to get his cash box.
* * * * *
Jubal Cates strode purposefully into Styron’s hardware. “Horace,” he said, “I’d like to talk to you.” His tone was even, but his face showed his apparent anger. “In private.”
“I don’t have a private office,” Styron replied. “Let’s go into my storeroom.” He led cates through a door into a large room filled with shelf after shelf of merchandise. “Now,” he said, closing the door behind him, “what’s this all about?”
“The fire. It’s more than a coincidence, I think, that it happened the night after you, Clyde, and the Reverend got together to talk about ways of hurting Roscoe Unger.”
Styron raised an eyebrow. “Look around you, Jubal,” he said, gesturing at the shelves. “How many kinds of flammable – kerosene… linseed oil… whatever -- do you see? A fire is the last thing I need – or want – to happen.” He took a quick breath. “that’s why I was one of the men working the pump wagon last night.”
“If not you, Clyde, then.”
“Same thing. He’s got horses – you know how they get around a fire; not to mention the hay to feed them and the rigs they pull. He and his boy, Winthrop were both in the bucket brigade.” He frowned. “Neither of us would risk a fire. And neither would Reverend Yingling. Or are you gonna tell me he called down hellfire on poor Roscoe?”
“No… I guess not… I-I’m sorry,” he added.
Horace put his arm over the other man’s shoulder. “I can see how you could make that mistake; the fire happening the night after that meeting, but sometimes… sometimes things just happen that way.”
“I-I guess so.”
“Well, no harm, no foul, as they say.” He slapped Jubal’s back in a friendly manner. “What say the both of us get back t’work?” He opened the door, holding it for Cates.
“I suppose I should get back to my shop.” The surveyor walked through the door. “Sorry to have taken up so much of your time over nothing.”
“I’m just glad we got things settled.” Cates was too good an ally to risk losing over what he hoped was nothing. He knew that he hadn’t done anything to harm Unger, and he was fairly sure that the Reverend hadn’t either. Clyde Ritter was another matter, but there was no real harm done, so Horace decided to let sleeping dogs lie – for now, at least. He didn't like the prospect of finding out more than he really wanted to know.
* * * * *
Winthrop saw the two men leave his father’s office. Both seemed much happier than they had been on the way in.
His father wasn’t happy. He could hear a stream of profanity through the closed door. He heard the slam of a fist hitting wood – probably the desk. The young man hurried away to find something else to do for a while.
* * * * *
“Just follow the music.” Kirby Pinter repeated R.J.’s instructions, as he strode along the second floor landing of the Eerie Saloon. As he walked, he heard very spirited music coming from what sounded like a very large music box.
He turned one corner, then another, and found himself at the start of a long hallway. At the far end, three women were dancing, lifting their skirts and waving them back and forth. They were kicking their legs in time to the music, cheerfully displaying their frothy petticoats and flashing their drawers for all to see. He was staggered to see that one of the scandalously-clad dancers was Nancy Osbourne.
“Ah… ex-excuse me,” he stammered in as loud a voice as he could muster. “Is Mrs. O’Toole about?”
Molly was sitting in the corner, partly hidden by the table holding a large, ornate wood and brass box. She reached into the box and clicked off the kalliope, stopping the music. “Kirby Pinter,” she said, a chuckle in her voice. “Have ye come up here t’be getting an early look at the Cactus Blossoms’ new act?”
“N-No, ma’am.” Kirby took a breath and started down the hall. “Jessie Hanks had me order some music from St. Louis. It came on yesterday’s stage, and I’ve brought it over now. Only… she’s not here.”
“Aye, her and Paul Grant’re on thuir way to a farm near Yuma. The family that owns it is friends with Jessie, and they asked her t’be singing at thuir daughter’s wedding.”
“Yes, she came in Monday morning and told me that she’d be away for a while. She said to bring the music to you when it came in.” He reached out to give Molly the envelope he held.
“Kirby!” Nancy asked tensely. “Wh-What happened to you?” She pointed at the white cloth bandage wrapped around his right hand, the hand holding the packet.
“I… I burned it when I was getting Roscoe out of his shop last night.”
Her eyes went wide. “Last night… the… the fire. You were in the print shop when it was on fire?” Nancy had been one of the women passing buckets, all the women – and the men – in the Saloon had fought the fire.
“I-I smelled smoke and went to investigate. He was lying unconscious on the floor. His robe was burning. I batted out the flames. Then I got him out of there and over to Dr. Upshaw’s office.” He gave her an embarrassed smile. “I didn’t notice my hand was burnt until I got there.”
“You… You could’ve been killed going into a burning building like that.” Nancy impulsively threw her arms around Kirby.
Molly nodded. “Ye’re a hero, Mr. Pinter.”
“And amply rewarded for it just now.” He grinned and held on to Nancy's arms when she began to pull away.
She looked surprised, but not unpleased. Then, suddenly, she frowned and wrested herself free of him. “You certainly don’t seem to have any problem with my profession now, Mr. Pinter.”
“As I recall, Miss Osbourne,” he answered stiffly, “it was you who embraced me a moment ago.”
“I-I was overcome with concern about your hand,” she answered, not sure of herself. “I trust that you’re… f-feeling better.”
He wanted to tell her no, that what he needed to make him feel better was to hold her in his arms again, but he wasn’t about to say that – or anything close to that, not if she was going to act -- and dress -- this way. Instead, he turned to Molly and said, “Here’s Jessie’s package, Mrs. O’Toole.” He tossed the thick envelop onto the table next to the kalliope. “And good day to most of you.” Kirby gave a quick nod and started back down the hall.
Nancy watched, her features shifting back and forth between anger and sadness. ‘That damned man,’ she told herself. “That unreasonable, woolly-headed… brave man!”
* * * * *
Liam peeked through the doorway into Doc Upshaw’s infirmary. Roscoe Unger was lying on his stomach on the farthest of the four beds. His back was covered by a crisp-looking white cotton sheet. Trisha sat next to his bed. She was carefully feeding him soup – a rich beef broth, it smelled like.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said cheerfully, stepping into the room.
Trisha looked up, a startled expression on her face. “Liam, I-I’m sorry, but --”
“Don’t worry about it,” he cut in. “When you didn’t show up this morning, I had a feeling that you’d either be here or at Roscoe’s store.”
Roscoe turned his head, trying unsuccessfully to see Liam. “Muh… My st-store, how… how is it?” He sounded drugged, probably with laudanum.
“Still standing,” the other man answered, “but there’s a lot of soggy paper goods inside – some burnt wood, too. I don’t know about your printing equipment or your press. I ran into Kirby Pinter on my way here. He said that he was going to try to sort things out as best he could for you.”
“Guh-Good friend… Kirby. S-Saved me.” Roscoe turned his head back towards Tricia. “Muh-More?”
She smiled at him. “Of course, more.” She gave him another spoonful of the soup, and then looked up at Liam. “I’ll get over to the store later.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s been kind of quiet all day. I think some of the folks who worked the bucket brigade last night decided to sleep in. That’s how I managed to find the time to come looking for you. Mateo’s holding down the fort till I get back.”
Tricia’s expression changed. “What about… tomorrow? Saturday’s our busiest day.” She looked – and felt – guilty to be asking.
“You thinking about coming back here tomorrow?” Liam asked.
“Ah… If I can. If you don’t mind.” She studied his face. “Do you mind?”
He gave her a bemused smile. “I have to get back. We can talk about that tonight – you are going home for supper tonight, aren’t you?”
“Supper? Oh, yes, but I-I may come back here – just for a while – after.”
“Fine. It’s Friday, so I’ll be there for dinner anyway, and we can talk.” He glanced over at Roscoe. “Right now, I think your ‘patient’ wants some more soup.”
Trisha pivoted to look at Roscoe. “Pl-Please,” he said in a weak voice.
She gave him another spoonful. When she turned back to talk to Liam, she found that he was already gone.
* * * * *
Flora was watching for Clyde Ritter, while she did her early shift as waitress for “Maggie’s Place.” When he did come in, about 5:30, she waved to him. Then she hurried over to where Shamus was standing, acting as maitre‘d. “I’d like to take my supper break now,” she told him, untying her apron as she spoke.
“And why is that…” Shamus replied. “…when ye’ve just taken the supper orders for Judge Upshaw and his friends over there?” He pointed to one of the tables where the Judge was sitting with his law clerk, Obie Wynn, Milt Quinlan, and Zach Levy.
Clyde stepped in front of Shamus. “Because I’m here to have dinner with her, Mr. O’Toole. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Only with yuir attitude, Mr. Ritter. She’s free t’be having dinner with ye, and it’d be rude t’be making ye wait.” He picked up two menus and led them to a vacant table. “Yuir waitress’ll be here in a minute t’be taking yuir orders.” He set the menus on the table and walked away.
Ritter helped Flora take her seat, then walked around to take the chair opposite her. “You look lovely tonight, Flora.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling prettily. “And thanks for standing up to Shamus for me.”
He smiled back at her. “It’s always a pleasure to put that sneaky Mick in his place, but it’s especially a pleasure to do it for you.”
“Why thank you again…” She reached across the table and put her hand on his arm. “…Clyde.” Her voice was low and sultry. “I love it when a handsome man like you does sweet things just for me. It makes me think of King Arthur and his knights in shining armor.”
“Oh, and what sort of things do you like a man to do… for you?”
“He says how pretty I look or how nice it is to dance with me – or to watch me dance.” She giggled. “It’s really sweet when you tell me how much you enjoyed my dancing ‘Colonel Jinx’ and then you buy me a drink. I put my whole heart into that act. I get so… hot – and thirsty doing it.” She couldn’t help but smile. A few dumb words, and Ritter was all but wagging his tail like an eager puppy.
Nancy came over to the table, pad in hand. “Are you folks ready to order?” She couldn’t help but frown. She didn’t know what bothered her more: Ritter cheating on his wife – no matter what she thought of Cecelia Ritter, they were man and wife – or Flora encouraging his cheating ways.
“You had your chance, Nancy” Ritter said, misinterpreting her frown. “I’ve found a woman…” He took Flora’s hand in his. “…who appreciates what I have to offer her.”
Nancy shrugged. “I’m so glad for you both.” She waited a half-beat. “Are you ready to order, or shall I come back?”
“We’ll order now, waitress,” Flora answered sourly. “I’ll have the trout with carrots and peas on the side.”
“Steak for me…” Clyde added. “…well done, and with the carrots and peas, too. Oh, and coffee for us both.”
Nancy nodded and wrote their orders in her pad. “Right away,” she told them and headed for the kitchen.
“Thank you again, Clyde.” Flora’s voice was still soft and seductive. “And I’m sure that you have a lot to offer a woman.”
He chuckled. “I do; this supper for a start.”
“Mmm, it’s a good start. I can wait to see the follow-though.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a man, Clyde, and it’s natural for a man to want what a woman has… to offer. And I’ll admit that I do like you.”
His smile grew into a knowing leer. He'd learned from Wilma Hanks how wanton these potion girls could be. Even the upright Laura Calder had been married and gotten pregnant in just a few months. “Wonderful; after supper, we can go someplace private and --”
“I don’t know you that well. Yet. You have to help me get to know you better, to know you well enough that we can do what you were about to suggest.”
“How do I do that?”
“You just keep on doing what you’re doing right now: talk sweet to me, buy me a drink when I get thirsty and supper – sometimes – like tonight, and… oh… I-I can’t say it.” She looked away, her hand covering her face.
When she glanced back, her eyes were half-closed, just the way Rosalyn had taught her. She seemed to be the picture of shy innocence, even though she was carefully studying Rittter’s reactions.
“Of course, you can say it,” he insisted. “You can say anything you want to me.”
She smiled, the smile of a cat playing with a mouse. “Presents. I-I just love the idea of a man giving me presents now and then. I come from a fine, wealthy family. We're true Texas blue bloods. It's been so hard living in such deprived circumstances lately.” She giggled and gave a pretty shudder. “It makes me feel all warm inside just to think about the generosity of others – and their selflessness makes me feel so grateful.”
“Really?” He tried hard to control his leer. He was about to ask what sort of presents she might like, but Nancy interrupted, bringing their meal.
* * * * *
“How did your day go?” Kaitlin asked, setting a platter of fried chicken down on the table next to a plate of baked potatoes.
Liam speared a breast with his fork. “Mine was a little slow. I don’t know how Trisha’s was. She didn’t come in today.”
“Trisha.” Kaitlin sounded alarmed. “Is that true? What happened?”
Trisha had taken a drumstick, and she was now adding a baked potato. She stopped and gave her brother a nasty look before answering. “The fire last night… it was in Roscoe Unger’s print shop. He got burned real bad, and he needs to be watched all the time. Doc Upshaw stayed up with him all last night, and he was tired, so I volunteered to do it.”
“How did you even know that he was hurt?”
“Fred Norman. His shop’s not too far from Roscoe’s. I was trying to see where the fire was while I was on my way to work. He told me. I like – Roscoe’s a… a friend, so I went to see how he was doing.”
Liam laughed. “The way Doc Upshaw tells it, she came running in, half in a panic.”
“I-I just thought I’d have a quick visit before I went in to the Feed and Grain.”
Kaitlin smiled. “All day isn’t a very quick visit.”
“He’s a friend,” Trisha insisted, feeling embarrassed. “He needed help. Why shouldn’t I --”
Kaitlin raised a curious eyebrow. “Why indeed? Roscoe isn’t one of your three special friends, is he?”
“Special?” Trisha’s eyes went wide, when she realized what Kaitlin was implying. “No – No, nothing like that!” She answered quickly – maybe too quickly, and she caught herself wondering why. “He… He’s just a friend, honest.”
Neither she nor Kaitlin noticed the shocked look on Emma’s face or the nervous way she was staring, silently, shifting her eyes between her parents.
Liam nodded. “That’s true enough. When I found her in the doc’s infirmary, she was feeding him soup, and she looked positively… maternal.”
“Isn’t that sweet,” Kaitlin teased. “And will you be going back to see your patient tonight… or tomorrow?”
Trisha frowned. “Mrs. Lonnigan said that she wouldn’t need me tonight. I-I’d like to go back tomorrow, for a while, at least. Roscoe still needs to be watched all the time. He has no family here, you know. But tomorrow – tomorrow’s our busiest day of the week. I don’t help out as much as I used to…” She glared at Liam for a moment. “…what with no heavy lifting, but we’d still be shorthanded if I wasn’t there.”
“I’d hate to keep you and Roscoe apart,” Kaitlin replied, her lips curling in a small smile. “Why don’t I go in to help at the store? I’ve been wanting to learn more about the business, now that I own twenty percent of it outright. That way, you can spend the whole day over at the doctor’s.”
Liam grinned and put his hand gently on Kaitlin’s arm. “I think that’s a fine idea, Kaitlin. Trisha can spend the whole day helping Roscoe, while you come in and help me.”
* * * * *
Saturday, June 1, 1872
Sam Braddock looked around the barroom. “There still ain’t nobody else here, Bridget; none o’your regular players, anyway.”
“I know, Sam,” she agreed unhappily, “and I’m sorry. I know you came in for a quick game, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone around to play against you.”
He smiled. “Sure there is… you.”
“Me?” She tried to hide the panic she felt at the idea. “No… I-I’m just the dealer.”
“Aw, come on, Bridget. I won’t tell anyone that you actually played a game.”
“Sam, I’m… I’m not ready.”
“What’re you afraid of? It’s just me, Sam. You and I have been friends since you ratted on that Callen fellah last summer. You even told folks that you called him on cheating ‘cause we – me and the other players -- were friends.”
Bridget sighed. It was true. The friendship she felt with Sam and the other players – She warmed at the recollection. Cap had been one of those players, and the thought of him made her smile. So did the memory of what had happened after that trouble with Jeff Callen. Shamus had offered her the job as a dealer because of her calling the man on dealing bottom cards.
But she was still uncertain. “You’re sure that you want to play with… me?”
“Why not?” He pulled a box of finishing nails from his carpenter’s toolbox. “We’ll just play for… nails, if you want – like you play for matchsticks.” He dumped the nails on the table, separating them into two piles. “Hell, I’ll even spot you this stack.” He pointed at one pile. “I know you’re good for it.”
Bridget’s eyes glistened, as she slid the pile across the table to her. “Sam… th-thank you.” She reached across the table to tenderly squeeze his hand.
“For what… playing a few hands of penny ante poker with an old friend, a pretty lady who’s gonna go easy on me – I hope – and not take too much of my… nails?”
She smiled and wiped an eye with her handkerchief. “I won’t promise to go easy…” She raised her hand, signaling for a waitress. “…but I will spring for couple of beers.”
“Well, thank you. Let’s get started. Deal the cards; two nail ante.”
* * * * *
“Well, Roscoe,” Kirby said as he walked into Dr. Upshaw’s infirmary, “you certainly seem to be in good hands.”
Trisha looked up from the Harper’s Bazaar she was reading. “Shh, he’s asleep.”
“Am not,” Roscoe answered. “I’m just resting my eyes for a while.” He was still face down on the bed, his body covered with a fresh, soft muslin sheet.
Trisha chuckled. “And practicing your snoring for good measure.”
“I’m awake now,” he said stubbornly.
Kirby looked closely at his friend. “And sounding a lot better than yesterday.”
“Doc Upshaw cut down on the amount of laudanum he was giving me,” the printer told him. “The problem is, he won’t even talk about letting me out of here before Thursday or Friday.”
His friend shrugged. “What’s the problem with that?”
“I’ve got a paper to get out on Tuesday, and there’s plenty of work to do to get it ready.”
Trisha put down her magazine. “Couldn’t you just skip a week? I’m sure that people would understand.”
“Would you understand?” Roscoe asked. “You and your brother bought an ad in the paper. Would you understand why it didn’t appear?”
“You… couldn’t you print it just as well next week? It’s not like we’re having a sale.”
“No, you’re not, but the Ryland’s tailor shop is, and they bought a special ad to promote it. It has to come out this week.” He sighed. “And what about the news? People are certain to want to read about the fire.”
Kirby nodded. “Oh, yes, ‘Heroic Bookseller Saves Editor’s Life.’ That’s a headline I certainly want to read.”
“And you will -- eventually,” Roscoe told him. “But it won’t be this week. And…” He frowned. “Nobody’s going to be able to read about what happened in Tucson. That’s another problem.”
Both of his visitors looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” Kirby asked.
“The Tucson Citizen sells advertising space in the boilerplate – that’s a metal plate they send me every Monday. I use it to print the front and back pages of my paper. I pay them for that, but it has to come out every week. If I miss a week I have to pay them a one hundred dollar penalty.”
He sighed again. “Between what I’m going to have to pay folks like the Rylands for not printing their ads and what I’ll owe to The Citizen -- not to mention Doc Upshaw’s bill, I’m gonna be in a lot of trouble financially.”
Trisha took hold of Roscoe’s hand. She was about to speak, when Edith Lonnigan came in. The nurse was carrying a tray with several objects under a large muslin cloth.
“I’m afraid that you’ll have to leave for a few minutes,” Edith told them. “It’s time for me to change Mr. Unger’s dressings and to give him his medication.” She set the tray down on the small table next to Roscoe’s bed.
“Do we have to go?” Trisha asked.
The other woman nodded. “I’m afraid so, but you’re welcome to come back in when I’m done.” She smiled at them. “Now scoot!”
“We’ll be right back, Roscoe,” Kirby said. “Come on, Trisha.” He took her hand and led her out of the room, despite her mumbled protest.
Once they were in the hall, the man stopped. “Actually, I’m glad we had a chance to talk. I didn’t want to get Roscoe’s hopes up, but… maybe – just maybe – I can put out the paper for him. I’ve got his shop mostly picked up and put away. Between the fire and the water, he lost a share of paper stock, but the press seems all right now that the soot’s been scrubbed off.”
“Do you need help?” she asked, looking very serious.
He shrugged. “Maybe. My idea is just to use the boilerplate and print the ads. We'll have to do the story of the fire, but the other news will have to wait until next issue. Did Roscoe ever say who it was that did it?”
“He didn't know them. Burglars, probably.” She paused. “But if they'd come to steal, why did they start out by tossing all that paper around? The truth is, Roscoe has made some powerful enemies around town lately. I wonder…”
“Come over to Roscoe’s shop right after church tomorrow, and we’ll see what we can work out.” He winked. “Just don’t tell him anything until we know if we can do it.”
* * * * *
“What is it that the Sonnets say about dancing?” Nancy asked.
Dolores thought for a moment. “Number… Four, I think. ‘Tienes tu vocación...' – excuse me, the English is…” She began to recite again, Number Four from Sonnets from the Portuguese.
` “Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
` Most gracious singer of high poems! Where
` The dancers will break footing, from the care
` Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.”
“Lovely,” Nancy said. Then she noticed her brother walking towards where she and Dolores were standing. “Good evening, Carl.”
By way of greeting, he touched the brim of his hat with a finger and nodded. “Evening, Nancy… Dolores. How’re you two doing tonight?”
“That depends on you.” She studied his face. “Are you planning to argue with me again?” She crossed her arms in front of her.
“I’d like to, I really would, but I get the feeling I’d just be wasting my time.”
“Good call, big brother.”
Dolores took a step back. She wasn’t going to leave. The women were standing near the seats where they waited to be asked to dance, and the dance was scheduled to start soon. Still, she wanted to be out of the line of fire between the pair.
“You know, Nancy,” Carl plowed on, anyway, “some of the boys out at the Triple A are starting t’talk about you – and not in a nice way. It… It’s embarrassing.”
“Let them talk,” she replied. “They’re just as wrong about me as Cecelia Ritter and her friends, and I don’t give that...” She snapped her fingers. “… for any of them.”
“You don’t have to work with them, Nancy. I do, and it ain’t easy listening to them snickering about my sister. And it’ll just get worse when you get up there dancing in your… unmentionables. Practically everybody at the ranch wants to be here the first night you do it.”
She sighed and gently touched his arm. “Carl, I’m sorry for you, I truly am, but I-I’d feel sorrier for myself, if I gave in. Please try to understand that.”
“I’ll try, but –if you don’t mind –I’ll keep trying t’talk you outta this crazy idea of yours.”
“You wouldn’t be my brother if you didn’t, but don’t expect me to give in.”
“Baah, you old nanny goat.”
Dolores gave them both an odd look and recited again.
` “Yes, call me by my pet-name! Let me hear
` The name I used to run at, when a child…”
“From the Sonnets,” she explained with a chuckle. “Number 33.”
Carl ignored her and looked sternly into his sister's eyes. “You've never really explained why you suppose you'll be better off for doing what you're doing. Do you realize how your life is going to change if you go ahead with it?”
She pursed her lips. “I've thought a lot about it, in fact. I don't want to keep any secrets from you, Carl; come back one day next week, when we both have more time on our hands, and I'll put it all out on the table.”
He shook his head. “Same old Nanny Goat you always was, ain’t you?”
“Baaah!” she bleated and sat down in one of the chairs.
The cowboy sighed. Until a couple months earlier he had taken it for granted that he knew Nancy's mind. Suddenly, a whole different side to her nature had broken out of the pen. Probably it was because of all the trouble she had gotten into. She was like a maverick heifer, and he didn't know what to expect from her from one moment to the next.
* * * * *
Lylah saw Hammy Lincoln come into the Saloon and she walked over to him. “Well, hello, Mr. Lincoln,” she greeted him. “I was beginning to wonder if you forgot about this place.” And about her, though she didn’t want to say that.
“What’re you saying, Lylah?” he asked in an uncertain tone.
“I’m saying, where you been all week? You don’t work so far from here that you can’t come over for lunch… or for a drink in the evening.”
“I ain’t really got the time t’walk over for lunch. Mr. Ritter, he don’t give us a whole lotta time t’eat.”
“What about after work. Why ain’t I seen you then?”
“Why’re you making such a big deal about nothing?” he asked sounding annoyed. “It costs good money t’come in here. I figure it’s better t’save up for Saturday night, sos I got more t’spend on you.”
“You got all that money now?”
“I got enough.”
“Then go buy me a drink. It’s thirsty work arguing with you like this.”
“I will if you save me the first dance.”
“We’ll see. In the meantime, I’m still thirsty.”
“Lemme see what I can do ‘bout that.” He turned and headed towards the bar.
* * * * *
A pair of men, brothers from the way they resembled one another, walked over to where Lylah was standing, waiting for Hammy. “Ain’t you the nigger that prances ‘round in her drawers?” the shorter one asked.
“I am.” Lylah frowned. She had to be polite to Shamus’ customers, but this was asking a lot. “I’m… Lylah. Who’re you?”
The man smiled. “I’m Nat Crowly ‘n’ this here’s…” He nodded toward the second man. “…m’brother Vern. We was just wondering if we could see that again.”
“Maybe a private show… upstairs,” Vern added. “How many o’them tickets does that cost?”
Lylah glanced over to where Hammy was standing, as R.J. handed him two steins. Their eyes met. She hoped that he could see her distress, but he just shook his head and looked away.
Just then, Luke Freeman stepped up next to her. “The lady don’t do that sorta thing, mister,” he told them.
“And who’re you t’tell us what she’ll do, nigger?” Nat said, glaring at Luke. “You her keeper?”
Carl Osbourne took a place at Luke’s side. “You got a problem, Luke?” He balled his right hand into a fist and used it to hit the palm of his left hand.
“No,” Luke answered, grinning evilly at the pair. “These boys was just leaving… soon’s they apologize t’Lylah, that is.”
Carl looked first at Luke, and then at the brothers. “That sounds like a fine idea. Good ahead, apologize.”
“We… We was just funning you, ma’am,” Vern said. “We’re sorry.”
Nat agreed. “J-Just trying t’say how we l-liked your act.”
“That’s fine, boy,” Luke said. “Now get.” He smiled, watching the pair rush from the Saloon.
The band picked that moment to start playing. “Seeing as we’s already standing here, Lylah,” Luke said in a quiet voice, handing her a ticket. “Why don’t me ‘n’you have this first dance?”
“Why not?” Lylah replied, pocketing the ticket. She hadn’t really promised that first dance to Hammy, and Luke deserved a reward for rescuing her from the Crowly brothers.
She realized that she was blushing, trying to understand the warm feelings, feelings that were more than just relief, rushing through her body. She gave him her hand and let him lead her out among the other dancers. He stopped after a few steps, took Lylah in his arms, and they began to move to the music.
“I wanna thank you, Luke, for handling them men,” she told him.
“That man had no right t’talk to you that way.” He scowled. “No right at all.”
She thought for a moment. “Luke, can I ask you a question?”
“Don’t see why not. What you wanna know?”
“I seen you staring at me, all week. You don’t say much of anything; you just stare ‘n’ stare. I gotta know why; what’re you staring at?”
“You, of course,” he said with a chuckle. “I’se been wondering… well, I’se been wondering what it’d be like t’kiss you.”
She stopped moving and looked at him, her surprise showing clearly in her face. “You have?” She felt the warmth of another blush run across her face.
“I have.” He pulled her close to him. “And I think it’s time I find out.” He leaned in, and their lips met.
By instinct, her arms braced against his upper arms and she pushed against him but he was too strong, too persistent. His tongue moved into her mouth and began to glide over her own. She kept pushing, but didn't shout, didn't try to tear away. Her nipples tightened, as they grew erect against the cotton of her camisole. Her breasts flattened against his muscular chest as he held her close, and with a will of their own, her loins ground against the firmness of his arousal.
She remembered her dream. ‘This is even better,’ she thought. ‘It’s – ooh! – It’s real.’
Luke began to move again to the music. Her body flowed along with his. The kiss lasted until the last flourish of the waltz. She smiled breathlessly as they parted, and kept holding his hand, as they walked back to her seat.
* * * * *
“That was good, the way you stood up for Lylah,” Flora told Carl as they danced to the mazurka that the band was playing.
He smiled. “Thanks, but it was more a case of standing up for Luke. I don’t really know Lylah.”
“Well, whatever reason you did it for, it was a good thing to do.” She smiled back at him. “I do like a man who’s willing to back up his friends.”
“Thank you, Flora. It’s good of you to say.”
“Mmm, thank you.” Finding something to praise a man for was the best way to put him into a good mood. She rested her head on his chest and began humming the music they were dancing to. It was another trick Rosalyn had taught her, but one that that a certain other woman -- Violet! -- had used on Forry so long ago. Some women were such deceivers, but when she had done the deceiving, he -- the two of them, damn it – had certainly enjoyed the game.
Carl felt her breasts pressing against him, and his hand began to caress her back. He had been holding back, but he had wanted to touch her so much. He felt himself harden and braced for her angered reaction.
It never came. Instead, she made a quiet sound that could have been a moan of contentment.
‘This is nice,’ Flora thought. Then, almost in spite of herself, she added, ‘It's fun to get Carl this worked up, too.’ She always had to be on guard with Ritter; with Carl she could relax.
* * * * *
Arnie set the tray of dirty glassware that she was carrying down on a table. Three steins sat there, two empty and the other about one-quarter filled. She picked up the first two, pointedly ignoring the third.
“Any more?” She looked around as best she could. She could see glasses on a few of the tables, but they all held liquid. Most of the men in the room were dancing, some with Shamus’ waiter girls. In other cases, one of the men in each couple wore a kerchief on his sleeve proclaiming that he’d dance in woman’s part in exchange for a drink after the dance.
She stood for a moment, listening to the music. She didn’t know the tune, but she recognized it as a waltz. “One-two-three; one-two-three,” she whispered. That was how Hedley had taught her to count her steps. She warmed at the memory. ‘If he was here,’ she thought, ‘we could be dancing right now.’ It was a nice thought. She held her arms as if he were with her and swayed to the music.
She worried for a moment about how girlish she was acting, but she calmed herself by remembering Dolores’ words. ‘It is just my body,’ she told herself.
“Ye move real nice,” a voice behind her said.
Arnie jumped and spun around. “Molly, you… you scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” Molly replied, “but I meant what I told ye. Ye move like ye might be a good dancer, Arnie, would ye be interested in being one of our waiter girls?”
The girl looked down at her shoes. “I-I know the waltz… a little, but I do not know the other dances that the band plays.”
“Ye’re a smart lass. Ye could learn ‘em easy enough. Yuir cousin Dolores is a good dancer. I’m betting that she could be teaching ye the polka and the mazurka by next week.” She studied Arnie’s reaction. “If ye wanted t’learn ‘em.”
Dance? With men? Part of Arnie wanted to scream No! -- to say that she was a man. But there was a part of her – and not a little part – that actually liked the idea. “I-I will think about it,” she said in a soft voice. And, before Molly could say anything else, she picked up the tray and started for the kitchen.
* * * * *
“I seen you kissing that Luke Freeman, Lylah,” Hammy Lincoln told her, while they were dancing. She wasn’t happy about the way he’d acted earlier, but, thanks to Shamus’ orders, she couldn’t refuse his ticket. Besides, he was a friend -- even if she wasn’t as sure of him as she had been.
She gave him an odd smile. “T’tell the truth, it was him kissing me.”
“You… like it?”
“Kinda… I guess.” She giggled. “I never kissed a man before tonight.”
“Then, lemme show you what a real kiss is like.” The tall man stopped. He cupped her head in his hands and leaned down until their lips met. He was giving her every chance to fight it, but she didn't. A small male voice, Leland’s voice called – softly – that she should stop, but that voice was the only thing she wanted to fight.
Lylah felt as if a spark had passed between them. His arms glided around her, bringing them together, as the kiss deepened. She felt the same sort of delicious glow build in her, as she had when Luke had kissed her. Her nipples sprang to attention as they had with Luke. Her breasts warmed to his touch. Her entire body grew eager, hungry for the touch of a man, and there was a growing yearning for something down there.
She gave a soft sigh as she felt his tongue slip in between her lips. The dream was true. She was a woman, and her body delighted in the kiss of a man – even Hammy.
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 10 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, June 02, 1872
Reverend Yingling leaned forward, both his hands braced on the altar, and began speaking. “You all know, I’m sure, of the fire last Thursday night. Many of you, no doubt, were among those who fought it. I was there myself, a part of the bucket brigade.”
“I do not know how the fire started. It may have been some careless mistake on the part of the rather foolish man, the printer, whose building it was in.” He paused a moment for effect, and, when he spoke again, it was in his most dramatic tones. “Or it may have been a punishment from our Lord for that man’s sins.” His voice went back to a conversational tone. “I do not know.”
“But I do know that we were victorious over a blaze that could well have consumed our town. We were victorious because of our righteous act of joining together – as a community – to fight it. We were victorious because of the quick thinking of Tor Johansson in alerting the town to the danger we faced. And, finally, we were victorious because the town council, in its wisdom, required the installation of a fire alarm on every block and purchased and maintained the pumper wagon, which gave us the means to fight the conflagration so efficiently.”
“Yes, we must thank the town council for its wisdom in this matter.” He paused again and frowned. “It is a shame that they are not always so wise.”
“This town, Eerie, Arizona, now faces another menace, one as potentially damaging as any flame. I speak, of course, of the potion produced by Shamus O’Toole.”
“And what has the town council done in the face of this danger? They have muffled the fire alarm by appointing the wrong people – including O’Toole himself – to the committee they created. And they have plugged the hoses and lines of the pumper wagon by making that committee no more than an advisory body to Judge Parnassus Humphreys.”
Yingling took a moment to turn and glance over at the Judge. Humphreys scowled back at him.
The Reverend smiled back, confident in the rightness of his opinion, and began again. “This cannot, it must not, it will not be allowed to continue. When the town council next meets, we must be prepared. We shall demand that the current committee be abolished, and that a new committee be created.”
“This new committee must be designed to perform the task that we have always intended to be done. It must take control … proper control of O’Toole’s potion. To do this, it must be composed of men – good, Christian men – with the will and the wisdom to carry out such a task.”
He raised his arms, as if trying to encompass the whole congregation. “Let us pray.” He bowed his head, waiting a moment for the people to do the same. “Oh, Lord, give us the strength to carry out this holy work that Thou has laid before us, and soften the hearts of the town council that they may see the right of what You, in your wisdom, would have them do. This do we ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
There was an answering shout of “Amen”, but, somehow, it wasn’t as loud as he had expected.
* * * * *
“Interesting sermon,”Jubal Cates said, shaking Reverend Yingling’s hand. They stood on the small porch, the entry to the church. The Reverend positioned himself there to greet his congregants after the service.
Yingling gave Jubal a broad smile. “I’m pleased that you liked it. I trust that I can count on your support at the town council meeting.”
“Do you really think that the fire was divine punishment aimed at Roscoe Unger?”
“Who can say what will occur to bring our Lord’s will about?”
“Who indeed? A pleasant day to you, Reverend.” Jubal took his wife’s hand. “Come, Naomi, let’s not hold up the line.”
They stepped down to the ground and started across the schoolyard. “What was all that about?” Naomi asked.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, stopping. Jubal wasn’t completely convinced that the fire was the coincidence that Horace Styron claimed it was. Styron and Ritter still were possible culprits for starting the fire, and now, considering what the Reverend had said in his sermon, he wondered if he should have doubts about the minister himself. He’d never thought of Thaddeus Yingling as a man of action. Still, a man so danged sure that he knew the will of the Lord, as the Reverend seemed to be, such a man might be willing to act as the agent of what he thought was right.
Jubal saw the Judge come out of the church and walk past the Reverend with neither man saying a word or making a friendly gesture towards the other. Jubal still thought of himself as a “Styron man”, but maybe it was time somebody talked to the other side.
“Excuse me, Naomi,” he said, letting go of her hand. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned and headed towards the spot where Judge Humphreys was standing.
* * * * *
` WANTED
` For Resisting Arrest
` For Flight to Avoid Prosecution
` A Possible Murder Suspect (Hanks)
` JESSIE HANKS and PAUL GRANT
` Hanks is female, about 20 year old; five foot tall; slender; blonde
` hair, blue eyes. She is riding a swayback brown gelding.
` Grant is male, in late 20s; just under six foot tall; slender; dark
` brown hair, brown eyes. He is riding a light gray cow pony.
` Both are armed and dangerous.
` If seen, contact Sheriff Elijah Whyte, Dawstown, Arizona.
Sheriff Dan Talbot shook his head. “Oh, Jessie, what did you get yourself – and Paul – into now?” He folded the telegram and set it in the top drawer of his office desk. “I’ll just have to trust him to get them both out of it. And the last thing I need to do is to let Molly O’Toole find out. There’s nothing she can do about it except fret – and, probably, make my life – and Shamus’ absolute misery.”
* * * * *
Judge Humphreys was leaning against a tree, waiting, when Liam O’Hanlan came out of the schoolhouse with Kaitlin and Emma. “Liam,” he called and motioned for the man to come over.
“I’ll be right back,” Liam said, letting go of Kaitlin’s hand and hurrying over to the Judge.
“What did you think of today’s sermon?” Humphreys asked.
Liam frowned. “I think he’s asking for trouble. I’m not absolutely sure of Shamus and his potion, but it seems to me that we should give that new committee some time to work before we talk about changing it.”
“I agree,” the Judge said, “I think that Shamus has done damn well with that potion of his. Thad Yingling sounded like he was obsessed about it.” He shook his head. “That really isn’t like him.”
“What are we going to do about it? He’ll want the church – and the board – to back him up against the town council, and I’m not sure that we should.”
“Neither am I, and I think he’ll be asking for that support at Wednesday’s board meeting. We need to talk about it first. Are you up to a getting together to talk about it on say… Tuesday night?”
“I’d better be.” He waited a beat. “Do you want Trisha in on this?”
“I think that we’d do better to keep it to active board members for now.” The Judge glanced over to where Kaitlin and Emma were standing. “Where is she, by the way?”
“She’s over at what’s left of Roscoe Unger’s print shop – her and Kirby Pinter. They’re trying to see what can be salvaged.”
Humphreys raised a curious eyebrow. “Are she and Kirby…?” He let his voice trail off.
“I don’t think so. They’re both just good friends of Roscoe’s. He’ll be stuck in bed at Doc Upshaw’s place for a while, and – to hear Trisha tell it – he was getting pretty antsy about putting his paper out.”
“That’s understandable.” If the Judge thought anything more about the pair, he didn’t speak of it.
Liam pushed the conversation back to the original topic. “It’ll just be the four of us, then: Rupe Warrick, Dwight Albertson, you, and me, right?”
“I’m afraid not. Dwight won’t be there. This whole thing’s got him nervous, and he didn’t want to seem to be taking sides.”
“Three then; where do we meet?”
“At Rupe’s lumberyard, in the office. And there will be four of us. Yingling’s rant today got Jubal Cates spooked. He asked me about getting together to talk, just as the service ended.”
Liam chuckled. “I guess some of my niece’s good sense rubbed off on him.” When he saw the Judge’s confusion, he explained. “Jubal hired Emma as his assistant. She says he’s going to train her to be a surveyor.”
“Good for him – and her.” Humphreys took a breath. “We’ll all meet at Rupe’s place about 7 o’clock on Tuesday, okay?”
“I’ll be there.” Liam turned to look over at Kaitlin. She held up her pocket watch and pointed to it. “Right now,” Liam said to the Judge, “I’d better get going. Kaitlin’s fixing a fancy Sunday meal for the three of us, and I think she wants to get home before it overcooks.” He patted his stomach. “So do I, come to think of it.”
“I won’t keep you then.” The Judge raised a finger and tapped the front of his hat. “See you Tuesday.”
* * * * *
Sheriff Dan Talbot knocked on the doorframe of the infirmary entrance. “Roscoe,” he asked, “you up to talking to me about what happened at your shop?”
“I suppose,” Roscoe answered. He was lying belly-down in bed. Edith Lonnegan was just covering him with a crisp, white cotton sheet. “To tell the truth, I was wondering why you hadn’t come around earlier.”
The Sheriff smiled. “I was here Friday, but you were so doped up on laudanum that you probably don’t remember. Mrs. Lonnegan chased me away on Saturday, her and Miz O’Hanlan. They said you needed your sleep.”
“He most certainly did,” Edith said. She picked up a small tray that had a cloth draped over it. “I’ll just leave you now to talk, but don’t take too long. He still needs his rest.” She smiled at her patient and walked briskly out the door.
Talbot looked around. “Where is Miz O’Hanlan, anyway?”
“She’s over at my shop with Kirby Pinter. She told me they were going to do some cleaning up, see if I could still get this week’s paper out. I don’t know how, if I’m going to be stuck in here for the next few days.”
Dan nodded. “I’ll head over there, once I’m done here. There may be some clues about whoever set that fire.” He sat down next to Roscoe. “Now can you tell me what happened… best as you remember it?”
“It was about 10 o’clock, and I was getting ready for bed – I have some rooms up above the shop. I heard a noise – voices -- from downstairs. I put on my bathrobe and headed for the steps.”
“Were you armed?”
“Yes, I keep a pistol in a drawer in my sitting room. I took it down with me, that and a candlestick.” He gave the sheriff a weak smile. “It’s hard to see down those steps.”
“What did you see when you came down?”
“A man was standing by my work table. Just as I came down, he pushed over the racks I keep my type in… scattered the pieces all over the table and onto the floor.”
“Can you describe him?”
“A short man, muscles, in work clothes. He had a round face… short brown hair… hadn’t shaved in a while, but not long enough to call it a beard.” Roscoe thought for a moment. “I didn’t know who he was… I-I never saw him before.”
“What did you do?”
“I had to get him to quit what he was doing. He was making a royal mess of the place. I was afraid he was going to go for the press next, so I told him to stop. He… He turned around slowly and – can you believe it? – he smiled at me.”
“Smiled?”
“Yeah. ‘How do, Mr. Unger,’ he says – or something like that. And he raised his hands, raised them really slow, like he was surrendering.”
“Did he?”
“No, he moved, shifted a bit at a time to the left.”
Dan frowned. “And you moved, so you could keep your pistol on him, didn’t you?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“There was second man, one you didn’t see. The fellah you had your pistol on was lining you up for him.”
Roscoe sighed. “That must have been it. I… something hit me in the head, and everything went black. The next thing I know, I’m here in bed, and the Doc is doing something to my back.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“Not really. I-I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
“You’ve helped a lot. I’ll ask around; see if anybody’s seen a man like you described.”
“You find him, Sheriff, and I’ll be more than glad to help put him a… away.” He yawned. “‘Scuse me.”
The Sheriff shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Sleep’s the best doctor, so they say. I’ll check back with you later, if I have any more questions.”
“O… Okay.” Roscoe yawned again, but he waited until Talbot had left before he closed his eyes and let himself doze off.
* * * * *
Arsenio opened his front door and walked backwards into the house, pulling Laura’s wheelchair in behind him.
“What’d you think of Reverend Yingling’s sermon?” he asked, as he pushed her over next to the table.
Laura stood for a moment before she shifted her body and settled down into a chair. “I think he’s going to make a lot of trouble for you, Whit, and Aaron.”
“I hate to say it, but you’re probably right.” He sighed and sat down beside her. “I think I’d better go to the board meeting Wednesday night.” He frowned. “I wish I knew what was pushing the man.”
“What do you mean?”
“He always struck me as a reasonable sort – well, fairly reasonable. Now… he’s got some crazy notion in his head, and he’s pushing himself – and trying to push the town to someplace I don’t think we should go.”
“It’s like he’s trying to start a new version of the old witch-hunting excitement, like they had in Salem a couple of hundred years ago.” She shook her head. “They killed a lot of innocent people back then.”
“Maybe. Preachers don't often run into magic these days, so he’s using a strategy that seemed to work once, long ago.”
“Are you going to stop him?”
“I don’t know,” he shook his head and sighed again, “but I may have to try.”
* * * * *
Trisha peeked into the infirmary. “Roscoe,” she whispered, “are you awake?”
“Trisha?” Roscoe said, turning his head to face her and grinning broadly. “Come on in. I was just wondering where you were.”
She stepped into the room. Kirby Pinter was right behind her. “Hello, Roscoe,” he said cheerily. “How are you doing?”
“Doc Upshaw says I’m getting better,” the printer replied. “My back still hurts like the blazes.”
Trisha smiled. “Kirby and I have something that should make you feel better.”
“It’s gonna take a lot to do that,” Roscoe said wryly.
Trisha took her hand from behind her back. “I think this may just do it.” She unfolded a sheet on newsprint and held it where he could see.
“It… It’s the paper with – how did you get a paper with Tuesday’s date on it?” Roscoe could hardly keep the surprise out of his voice.
Kirby smiled and walked over next to Trisha. “We – Trisha and I – printed it; printed what we could, anyway. We couldn’t find that – what do you call it? – that thing they send up from Tucson every week with the outside pages of the paper?”
“It’s called a boilerplate,” Roscoe answered. “I get the new one by Wells Fargo on Monday, and I send it back the same way on Thursday.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe that you two were able to do this.”
Kirby chuckled. “How many Monday evenings have I come over to split a bottle of wine with you while you put out your paper? I’ve watched you work.” He chuckled again. “You’ve even let me try my hand at setting type or working your press just to see how you did it.”
“I found that block you had set the ads in,” he continued, “so some of the work was already done. Incidentally, a few pieces of type got melted by the fire, and some more must’ve gotten softened by the heat. The letters on them are distorted.”
Roscoe frowned. “A lot of pieces?” he asked nervously. It was expensive to replace pieces of type, and it would be hard to run a print shop if many pieces were gone.
“No more than a handful,” Trisha told him. “Most of them were still on the table, and a lot of the ones on the floor were too far from where the fire was.”
Kirby smiled, adding, “We had more than enough to put the paper out.”
“I guess I taught you more than I realized,” Roscoe said, with a laugh. His eyes scanned down the page. “But there’s more to printing a paper than setting type. Who wrote these articles about the fire?”
“That was my doing,” Trisha admitted shyly. “Kirby told me about how he rescued you, and I talked to Liam and a couple of other people about how the town fought the fire. You don’t mind, do you?”
The printer shook his head. “No, no; they’re fine.” He reached out and patted her hand. “You’re a good writer, Trisha; better than me, I think.”
“Th-Thanks, Roscoe.” She beamed at the compliment, even as she felt a tingling in the hand he was patting. “Can we go ahead, then?”
Roscoe shrugged. “Holed up in here – like this – I don’t see how I could stop you – either of you.” He paused a moment for effect, and then added, “If I wanted to stop you, which I don’t. This crazy… wonderful idea of yours could just save my… ah… – my business.”
“Glad to do it,” Trisha replied. Without thinking, she glanced quickly over at his body, loosely outlined under the cotton sheet draped over it. “Glad to do it.”
* * * * *
Dolores and Arnie walked briskly down the street towards the Saloon. “I saw you and Molly talking last night,” the older female said. “What were you talking about?”
“I-I was dancing… a little to the music,” Arnie replied cautiously. “She watched me, and she came over to ask if I wanted to be one of the ladies who take tickets and dance.”
“And do you? You told me that you had thought about it.”
“I-I still have not decided. I can do our zapateado dance steps well enough, but the dances they do on Saturday….” She shook her head.
“I know them. I can teach you -- if you want.”
“I…” Arnie sighed. She kept thinking of Hedley and how it felt to dance with him, to be in his arms. Did she want to feel that way again? Did she? “I do not know what I want.”
Dolores looked at her cousin’s face. “Think about it some more, then, and, when you do know, come and tell me what you decide.” She had another thought. “And if you want to talk to me before you know, I will be there for that, as well.” She gave Arnie a friendly smile.
“Thank you, Dolores,” Arnie replied, smiling back. “Thank you for both offers.”
* * * * *
“How’s Roscoe doing?” Kaitlin asked, as she set the serving plate down on the table, leftovers from the midday Sunday dinner.
Trisha speared a slice of ham with a fork. “Uhh… Pretty good; the Doc says that his burns are healing very nicely.”
“Will you be going to the store tomorrow, then?”
Trisha looked down at her plate. “Actually… no. Kirby… that’s Kirby Pinter, the bookseller, we’ll be working in Roscoe’s print shop. Roscoe has to get the paper out, or he’ll lose a lot of money. Kirby and I’ll be doing it for him.” She looked up at Kaitlin. “You think Liam’ll mind?”
“No; and I won’t mind, either.” Kaitlin smiled. “I’m starting to enjoy working with Liam… at the store.”
Trisha made a face like she’d been sucking lemons. “I’m sure you are.” She looked around. It was late. She had just come home and was eating alone. And Emma was upstairs.
“If you don’t like it, all you have to do is to come to work at the Feed and Grain yourself. There’d be no reason for me to go in then.”
“I-I can’t. Roscoe… he’s depending on me, on Kirby and me to get out the paper.”
“And you wouldn’t want to disappoint Roscoe, now, would you?”
“No. He's a good ally against the craziness of the Reverend and all those old biddies. They'd like nothing better than to have him put out of business.” Then she added, “Besides, he’s a friend and he needs my help.”
Kaitlin gave her former husband a wry smile. “I’m sure he does, only we won’t go into how you think he needs you, not now, anyway.” She studied the uncertain look on Trisha’s face for a moment before continuing. “You have two choices. You can go work with Roscoe or Kirby or whomever, knowing that I’ll go work with Liam. Or you can go work with Liam, and I’ll stay home.”
“Which is it going to be?” Kaitlin asked after a moment’s delay.
Trisha bowed her head, her eyes half-closed. When she finally spoke, it was in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. “Roscoe.”
* * * * *
Monday, June 03, 1872
Kirby and Trisha stepped into the Wells Fargo depot office. Matt Royce heard their footsteps and, without glancing their way, said, “Morning, folks, what can I do for you?”
The pair walked over to the counter where he was sitting. “It’s me, Kirby Pinter, Mr. Royce.” he replied. “I’m here with Trisha O’Hanlan, who you also may know.”
The manager finally looked up from the dime novel he was reading. “I… ah… I know Miz O’Hanlan, all right, “Matt said. “You might say I was there when she was born.” Patrick O’Hanlan had accidentally swallowed a dose of potion and become Trisha, when his son, Elmer, -- now Emma -- had been fatally injured at the Wells Fargo loading dock.
Trisha frowned at the memory. “Yes, we do know each other, but this isn’t a time for reminiscing. Mr. Pinter and I have come for the package that The Tucson Citizen sent to Roscoe Unger.”
“Roscoe gave us this to show you.” He took a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket and handed it to the station manager.
Matt unfolded the paper and read it aloud. “Mr. Royce, it’s okay to give the boilerplate that The Citizen sent me to Trisha O’Hanlan and/or Kirby Pinter.” He studied the paper for a moment. “And it’s signed ‘Roscoe Unger.’ -- I recognize his handwriting – with yesterday’s date.” He initialed the paper and set it into a folder on his desk.
“Seems to be okay,” he told them. He knelt down and carefully brought up a large, obviously heavy package wrapped in brown paper. “Here it is.” Kirby and Trisha could see Roscoe’s name printed on the top.
“It’s so big,” Trisha said in surprise.
Royce nodded. “Lot of that’s padding to protect the important stuff inside. Can you manage it?”
“I think so.” Kirby lifted the package and, with a grunt, hoisted it up onto his shoulder. “No worse than a box of books.” He braced the package with his other hand. “You’ll have to sign for it, though, Trisha.”
She shrugged and picked up a pen. “I guess.” She signed her name – and Roscoe’s – in a ledger set on the desk. That done, the two of them headed for the door.
* * * * *
Phillipia Stone watched her pupils file into the classroom and take their seats. “Good morning, children,” she greeted them cheerily.
“Good morning, Mrs. Stone,” they answered in unison.
Phillipia looked down the roll sheet on the desk in front of her. “Raul Ybañez, it’s your turn this morning.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stone.” The boy walked over to the small U.S. flag that was set in a metal sheath near the blackboard. He picked it up and held it in front of him in his left hand. His right hand was over his heart.
The rest of the class stood, as did Phillipia. Hands over their hearts, they began singing.
` “O Columbia, the gem of the ocean,
` The home of the brave and the free,
` The shrine of each patriot's devotion,
` A world offers homage to thee…”
Once they had finished the anthem, they remained standing, heads bowed, while their teacher recited “The Lord’s Prayer.” After a hearty “Amen”, the children quickly took their seats. Raul returned the flag to its place and sat down with the other fourth graders.
“Before we begin today’s lessons,” Phillipia told them, “I have an announcement. I’m sure that some of you have already started counting the days until the end of the school year on Friday, June 14th.” She waited a moment, suppressing her own smile, while the class cheered.
“I am pleased to see how well you all are at containing your grief,” she continued, cutting off the cheering. “This has certainly been an interesting year, and I have enjoyed being your teacher.”
Eulalie Mckechnie raised her hand. “Mrs. Stone, will you be back next year?”
“I honestly don’t know, Lallie. The town council and I have been talking about that. In the meantime, we do know of five who will not be returning in the fall: Ysabel Diaz, Emma O’Hanlon, Hermione Ritter, Ulysses Stone…” She stopped to smile at her son. “…and Stephan Yingling. We will be having a graduation party for them on Thursday, the 13th, at 6 PM, and you are all invited.”
This time she let them cheer for a while. “There will be a speech or two, I’m afraid, but there will also cake and, perhaps, ice cream.”
And another, longer round of cheers followed. It took a minute or two before Phillipia could quiet her students and begin the morning’s lessons.
* * * * *
“Trisha,” Kirby called out, “could you come here for a moment?”
“Read this.” He gave her a handwritten sheet. “It’s the editorial Roscoe wrote.”
She read it, and, as she did, a look of concern came over her face. “It’s kind of rough, isn’t it?”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have told him what the reverend said on Sunday.”
“Maybe… but we did. I’m no happier about that sermon than he is.”
“I agree with you, but I do have to wonder… should we print it? People will know that it was us that put out this week’s paper.”
“Yes, but it’s Roscoe’s paper. If that’s what he wants…” Her voice trailed off.
“All right,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, “but I’m going to put in a disclaimer, so people know that it’s his editorial. Perhaps that will take some of the heat off of us.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I kind of like it a little on the hot side. Besides, this is something that Yingling – that a lot of people -- need to read.”
* * * * *
R.J. was watching for Arsenio and Carl, when they walked into the Saloon. “Arnie,” he said, “go upstairs and tell Molly that Arsenio’s here.” She nodded and hurried for the stairs. “Can I get you gents something to drink while you’re waiting?” he asked the pair.
“Sounds good,” Arsenio answered. “Beer for me.”
Carl slapped a silver dollar down on the bar. “Same here; Mr. Lewis’ paying.”
“That’s real nice of him,” R.J. said, drawing the beers and putting them in front of the two men. “How’s Laura doing, Arsenio?”
Arsenio took a long sip. “Pretty much the same as last week; she wants to get up and get back to work, but every time she tries, she feels weak and needs help getting back to our bed. Amy Talbot’s with her now. Amy can go home once Molly shows up, and Molly’ll stay there overnight, while I’m out at the Triple A.”
“Sounds like you’ve got everything worked out,” the barman said.
Arsenio sighed. “I hope so. I don’t like leaving her alone. I have a contract with Abner Slocum, but I wanted to ask for a delay. Laura insisted that I go.” He chuckled and shook his head. “She’s a great one for me keeping my word, Laura is.”
“Molly’ll be right down,” Arnie announced, descending the stairs. “She went to get her carpetbag.”
The young woman came over to the bar. “Would you get me another tray of glasses, Arnie?” R.J. asked. Arnie nodded and headed for the kitchen.
Carl and Arsenio were watching the stairs as they finished their drinks. When Carl saw Nancy and Flora walking along the second floor hallways, he took one last, long sip and hurried over to the base of the stairway.
“Carl,” Nancy said, sounding surprised. “I thought that you were coming in for that talk tomorrow.”
“I am,” he replied. “I’m in town today to take Arsenio Caulder out to the ranch. I don’t have time to talk to you now because I’m supposed to be back with him by suppertime.” He smiled and turned to Flora. “Besides, I wanna spend what time I do have talking to Flora – if you don’t mind.”
Nancy glanced from her brother’s face to Flora’s and gave a slight chuckle. “As Pappa used to say, ‘Hello, I must be going,’ Very well, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gave him a quick pat on the cheek and walked on.
“What was that all about?” Flora asked him.
“Just some family business I have to take care of.”
Flora smiled. ‘Time for a little flirting practice,’ she thought. “Well, business before pleasure.” She had spoken the last word in a low seductive tone. “That’s what I always say.”
“I’ll go along with that. And… speaking of pleasure, Flora, can I have the pleasure of taking you to dinner tomorrow night?”
“Dinner?” She raised a bemused eyebrow. Then, remembering Rosalyn’s lesson, she glanced away for a moment. When she turned back, she was looking down slightly, her eyes half-closed, as if she were suddenly shy. “Why, I would love to… Carl.” Again, her voice dipped down into the sultry.
‘He doesn’t have much money,’ she told herself, ‘and he wants to spend what he has on me. This is so easy. Besides, he is kind of…’ She stopped. She wasn’t thinking about how handsome he was, with that sweet smile and those broad shoulders, was she? No, she couldn’t have been thinking that.
‘…dumb,’ she tried to pick up the train of thought again. ‘I can take him for every penny he has just for the fun of it. He’ll be good practice for Ritter --’ and why did that thought make her feel guilty? ‘Oh, the hell with it.’ She gave up and just smiled at the man.
“Terrific, I’ll see you tomorrow then.” His smile broadened into a full grin.
He was about to say more, when Molly came down the steps with Shamus. “Shall we be going?” she asked.
“Right away,” Arsenio replied. He took her bag from Shamus and started for the door.
Molly kissed her husband on the cheek. “See ye tomorrow, Love.” With a quick wink, she headed after Arsenio.
“Bye, Flora,” Carl said. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze – no time for a kiss now – and hurried after them. Just before he got to the Saloon’s doors, he turned and added, “You, too, Nancy.”
* * * * *
Jubal Cates looked up at the sound of the bell over his office door. He marked the spot in the manual he was reading and greeted the person who’d just entered. “Good afternoon, Emma. You’re in particularly high spirits this afternoon.”
“Thank you, sir. I have the answer to the question you asked me the other day. The school term ends a week this Friday, June 14th.” She took a breath. “And I’m graduating!”
He smiled. “Yes, I know. I wanted a student who’d be graduating this year, remember?”
“I-I guess I forgot. It… It’s just exciting to be finishing school. And… and there’s gonna be a party, Thursday night before we graduate, with cake and ice cream and I-I don’t know what else.”
“Well, I’m sure that you’ll have a good time. Just don’t eat so much that you get a tummy ache. I'll need you with me when we start the Sanborn map.”
“Oh, I-I won’t, Mr. Cates. You’ll see. I’ll be a real hard worker.”
“I’m sure you will because we’ll both be very busy. In fact…” He picked up the manual. “…here’s a copy of the Sanborn manual. You take it home – I’ve got a spare copy -- and study it.” He thought for a moment. “Do you have any final examinations or anything like that?”
“I-I don’t know; maybe.”
“You find out, and, if you do, you study for them first. You’re a smart girl, Emma, but you can only study one thing at a time, and those come first, understand.”
He thought she was smart! “Yes, sir; I understand.” Emma took the book from him and quickly put it in her school bag.
“Good; right now, I have an errand for you. Take this letter…” He handed her a sheet of paper. “…over to Unger’s print shop and tell him to make me 75 copies. I know he’s got to get his paper out, so let him know I’ll pick the copies up on Wednesday, okay.”
“Yes, Mr. Cates.”
“Then get going. You can finish up your notes on that job we did last Saturday when you get back.”
Emma folded the paper twice and stashed it in a pocket of her skirt. A moment later, she was out the door and headed for the printer.
* * * * *
Flora glanced up at the clock on the wall. “My goodness, it’s almost 7.” She looked down at her plate for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Clyde, but I have to go get ready for the first show.” She sighed. “And we were having such a good time, too.”
“Can’t remember when I’ve had a better one,” Clyde Ritter said, smiling broadly. “You be sure to come sit with me after your show.”
She pulled back her chair and stood up. “I shall, and thank you for the lovely meal. It was so generous of you.” She smiled at him.
“It was worth every penny, if it got that pretty smile out of you.”
Yes! She could hardly contain herself. “You spend enough pennies on me, Clyde,” she told him, speaking his name in a sultry whisper, “and you might get a lot more than just a smile in return.”
He hurried around the table to where she was. “Oh, really?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“Well… this, for example.” Moment of truth; how much did she want from this man, and what was she willing to do to get it? She put her hands on each side of his head and pulled him towards her and into a kiss. Her tongue darted out to run against his lip before retreating back into her mouth. Her own lips stayed parted, inviting his tongue to follow.
It did, brushing against hers. At the same time, he stepped in close, so that their bodies touched. Her breasts were pressed against his chest. His arms slid around her, his hands moving down to caress her teardrop ass.
In spite of herself, Flora felt her body warm to his touch. Her nipples grew tight against the fabric of her camisole. And delicious sensations flowed down from her breasts to that special place between her legs. ‘Damn, that feels good,’ she thought ‘even if it's only Clyde doing it.’
“Consider that a… sample,” she said, a little breathlessly, as she ended the kiss. He reached for her, and she quickly put her hand up in front of his face. “But only a sample; I-I’ve got to go.” She wriggled free of him and walked slowly to the stairs. She walked slowly because she was so surprised at what she had just done. And she walked slowly, too, because of a sudden weakness in her knees.
* * * * *
“Aayaah!” Trisha yawned, stretching her arms out. “How much longer are we going to work tonight?”
Kirby took out his pocket watch and checked the time. “It’s already after 1, and we’re both tired. Why don’t we stop now and get an early start in the morning? I don’t believe that people will fault us if we get the paper out a few hours later than usual.”
“That sounds good. I’m so tired now, I’m not sure that I can even find my way home.” She yawned again and shook her head once, trying to shake herself awake.
“You don’t have to go home, you know.”
“Kirby!” Her eyes were wide with surprise. “What are you suggesting?”
He chuckled. “I’m suggesting that you stay here tonight. There are two bedrooms upstairs, the one Roscoe used when Ozzie was here, and Ozzie’s bedroom, which Roscoe uses now. Since he’s still over at Doc Upshaw’s, they’re both free. Pick one. I’ll lock up and go to my own bed, above my store, two doors away.”
“You, know,” she said, the fatigue creeping back into her voice, “that sounds like a good idea.”
* * * * *
Trisha looked around the room. This was obviously the bedroom Roscoe had been using. His pants were draped over the top of a chair, his suspenders trailing down to the floor. A shirt, poorly folded, had been placed on top of the pants. The bed was large, the blanket and top sheet thrown back, and the pillows plumped up for reading. A dime novel, Buffalo Bill, the King of the Border Men, was set on the night table, with a scrap of paper serving as a bookmark.
“Just the sort of thing Emma likes,” she said, holding up the book for a moment. Then she yawned again. “The hell with this,” she scolded herself, “get to bed, Trisha.”
She returned the book to the table and began unbuttoning her blouse. A clothes rack stood a few feet away, with a few empty hangers. Once she had finished with her blouse, she took it off and put it on one of the hangers. She yawned again as she unhooked her corset, but she managed to get it undone and draped it over the top of the rack. In a few minutes, her skirt and petticoat had joined her blouse on hangers.
“I’ll sleep in my camisole and drawers,” she said aloud. Then she chuckled. “Kinda naughty, though, undressing like this in a man’s bedroom and sleeping in his bed.” Somehow, she felt a thrill to be doing it.
On an impulse, she changed her mind, undid her camisole and slipped it off, tossing it up on the rack next to her corset. “Now I need something for a nightgown.” She picked up Roscoe’s shirt. “This’ll do.” When she put her right arm into the sleeve, only the tips of her three middle fingers could be seen. She giggled. “Hmmm, Roscoe’s a big man, isn’t he?” She rolled up the sleeve until her entire hand was visible, and then she did the same to the other sleeve before she put her left arm into it.
“Fits like a tent,” she said, as she buttoned it. She’d had to button the top button just to keep it from sliding off her shoulders, and it hung down almost to her knees. “Still, it’s better than nothing. “
As she climbed into bed, she felt the rough cotton rub against her breasts, tickling her nipples – and why were they so extended? She turned the wick of the lantern she’d carried down to a dim flame and snuggled down under blankets. Her nose caught a whiff of something – bay rum, the aftershave that Roscoe used. She could smell it on his shirt. “It’s almost like he’s here in bed with me.”
Her body tingled at the thought, and she was smiling as she drifted off to sleep.
* * * * *
Tuesday, June 04, 1872
“Anybody here from the Triple A Ranch?” Tommy Carson’s young voice rang clear in the Saloon. He stood just inside the batwing doors, scanning the room for any sign of his former teacher. There was none. She was in the kitchen washing the morning dishes.
Cap raised a hand. “That’d be me, son. I’m Cap… Matt Lewis, one of the owners.”
“I got a telegram for you, Mr. Lewis,” the boy said hurrying over. He gave Cap the envelope he was carrying and happily took a nickel tip. He did remember to say, “Thanks,” before heading out the door.
Molly came over, as Cap was tearing open the envelope. “Forgive me curiosity, Cap, but what’s it say?”
“It’s from Red Tully,” Cap replied in a voice that could be heard by most of the room. “He and Uncle Abner got to Philadelphia okay. That Dr. Vogel from the hospital met them at the train with an ambulance. Uncle Abner wants Red to hang around until Vogel’s done some tests. Red’s staying in a room on the hospital grounds, and he should start home in about a week.”
Bridget leaned over Cap’s shoulder, trying to read the telegram. “Does it say anything about your uncle’s condition?”
“Red said, ‘No problems on train.’ That’s about all,” Cap told her, smiling at how close she was standing. “He says he’ll bring back a letter from Vogel. He’ll probably have one from Uncle Abner, too.”
Molly smiled. “Well, he’s with folks that know how t’be dealing with his problem. That’s a blessing, at least, and we’ll all be praying for him, too.”
“Thanks, Molly. I’m sure that Uncle Abner would appreciate that. I know that I do.”
* * * * *
Trisha and Kirby didn’t get the paper out until well after lunch. The first article on page 2 was an explanation.
` Better Late Than Never
` Today’s issue of The Eerie Citizen is late, and we’re sorry.
`
` We had a break-in to our offices, and somehow a fire got started.
` Our editor, Roscoe Unger, was badly burned. He’s recovering now
` in Dr. Upshaw’s infirmary.
`
` It’s times like this when you find out who your friends are. We
` want to thank everyone who worked so valiantly to put out the
` fire. Thank you and bless you all. We also want to thank Kirby
` Pinter, who risked his life to rescue Roscoe from the conflagration.
`
` Roscoe will be in the infirmary for a few more days. Friends of
` his are the ones publishing today’s paper. We aren’t nearly as good
` at it as he is. That’s why it’s late, and why there may be some
` mistakes in this issue.
`
` Don’t blame Roscoe. With any luck, he’ll be back in time for next
` week’s issue, to show us all how it’s supposed to be done.
* * * * *
Molly was the first to see Carl coming around the corner into the long hallway where the Cactus Blossoms were practicing. She raised a finger to her lips, signaling him to wait quietly. He nodded and leaned against the wall, watching the women going through their routine.
It ended when Nancy did a double cartwheel, going from there into a split. As she landed, she let out a loud, “Yee-hah!” and raised her hands up above her head. The other dancers also fell into a split where they stood, giving the same shout and raising their arms as she had.
It was an unsettling thing to see her that way, but he forced a smile. “Way to go, Nanny Goat,” Carl shouted, clapping his hands emphatically. “I forgot how good you was at cartwheels.”
Molly pressed the lever that turned off the kalliope. “I hope ye didn’t come up here just t’be sneaking a peak at the Cactus Blossoms, Carl?”
“No, Molly,” he said with a chuckle, “but that is a pretty good excuse. Actually, I came for two reasons. First off, I need t’borrow Nancy for a bit – if I can. Then I wanted t’remind that pretty lady over there…” He nodded his head towards Flora. “…that she promised to have supper with me tonight.”
Flora smiled, but then she quickly hid her face with her hand and turned away, as if embarrassed.
Nancy glanced over at Molly. “Is it okay, Molly?”
“Well, I suppose we can stand t’be taking a wee break.” She checked the watch fastened by a ribbon to her apron. “Fifteen minutes, ladies.”
Nancy gave a nod of her head. “Thanks.” She turned to face her brother. “Let’s go into my room. It’s more private there?”
“Sounds good,” Carl said. He followed her into the room, shutting the door behind him.
A dress, petticoat, camisole, and a pair of drawers were tossed on the bed. Nancy quickly bundled them up and pushed them over to a corner. “You take the chair,” she said, sitting down on the bed.
“Okay.” He sat, crossing his arms in front of him.
Nancy had been quick to hide the undergarments in plain view, but she couldn’t hide what she was wearing. Her dress stopped only an inch or two below the knee, showing a great deal of her shapely legs. At the same time, the deep sweetheart neckline and lack of sleeves clearly showed that she wore no camisole. He could see a lot of creamy skin, including the tops of her breasts and the cleavage between them. Carl didn’t find the view arousing – hell, she was his sister, after all -- but he damn well knew what the effect would be for every other man in the house.
“Now,” he said, choosing his words with care, “suppose you tell me, real slow like, why you wanna flounce around in front of everybody in that scanty outfit?”
She threw up her arms. “What should I do, Carl? You saw that telegram. They… They took away my credentials.”
“You could ask for your old job back. The town council knows you’re a good teacher, and they all believed your version of what happened with Dell Cooper. They’d probably be glad to get you back with or without credentials.”
“But I don’t want to go back, and before you ask, yes, I loved working with the children.” She shook her head sadly, “but I-I can’t – I won’t work with their parents.”
“Not all the parents are against you. Mrs. Stone --”
“Cecelia Ritter is. So is Zenobia Carson. One – or both – of them sent that lie to Hartford. They want a prim little schoolteacher, one who’s afraid of them. They want someone who can’t think, except what they tell her to think, and can’t have any sort of a life beyond what they allow her.” She sighed. “I can’t live like that anymore.” Nancy paused suddenly. “It's strange, but if they had shown me just a little more sympathy, a little more kindness, I might never have realized what an impossible situation I was in. That would have been a shame, actually.”
“So instead, you work here and prove that they were right about you.”
“I stay here and prove that my life is what I want it to be, not what other people tell me it should be. I’ve never – never ever – had the chance to do that before.”
“Oh, Nancy, Nancy. Do you understand that you can still circle back to what was, but only if you don't go out on the stage this Friday, especially wearing that outfit? Maybe you wouldn't be able to teach again. Hell, maybe you don't even want to. But most people still think of you as a lady. You can go back to the kind of life that you've lived before.”
“But going out on that stage is going to change you. From then on, anyone who needs an excuse to despise you is going to call you a cancan girl -- and who knows what else?”
She sighed. “Haven't you been listening, Carl? That old life is empty, and I don't want it anymore. It only allowed me to be part of the person I am. Only a small part, I think. There's much more to me than that, and I'm finally have a chance to out what I'm capable of.”
“Then you're saying that you actually do want to do this! Why?” Carl demanded.
Nancy threw up her bare arms. “I could have begged a job from my friend, Kirby, and kept my head down and my mouth shut, so no one would bother with me. But that wouldn't have served notice to anyone that I was going to be my own woman from now on, and not care what they think of me.”
She took a breath before she continued. “Aunt Clemmie and Uncle Nat spent years trying to knock the rough edges off the tomboy they got stuck with after mamma and papa died. ‘A proper girl doesn’t do this,’ she’d say. ‘A proper girl doesn’t say that.’ And Uncle Nat would pray over me like I was the source of all sin in Hartford, if not the whole state of Connecticut.”
“I know,” he admitted. “I got some of the same. He had me all measured up to be a proper young gentleman. That’s why I ran off as soon as I could and became a cowboy, the kind I'd been reading about. I bet that really stuck in Aunt Clemmie and Uncle Nat's craws.”
“If I’d been a boy, I’d have run right after you. But I wasn’t. I was afraid to be so bold. I stayed, and I took it, and when I met… Bill, I, well, I decided that, maybe, being a proper lady wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.” Her expression changed, and she looked down at the floor.
Carl nodded. “Bill Meisner was a good man, all right, and I know that he loved you.” He reached over and gently touched her arm.
“He was. And he knew what I was really like, that I was only a ‘pretend’ lady. We talked about a life together, a life of travel and adventure, going to live in London or Paris, not settling down so he could run his father’s bank.” She laughed. “We even imagined exploring Africa together. He… He loved the idea of great adventure; that was why he…” Her voice faded away.
Her brother finished the sentence for her. “Why he joined the army and went off to that damned War just as soon as he was old enough.”
She shook her head once, in grief. “And…died, died in a useless battle down in Georgia, a week after Lee surrendered. We were going to be married as soon as he came home, you know. Now all I have of him are my memories and the present he gave me before he left.” She reached over and lifted the lid of a small, pink music box sitting atop her bed table. It played a few notes of the Stephen Foster tune “Jenny’s Own Schottish” before she lowered the lid. That song had been the first one that she and Bill Meisner had ever danced to.
“I… I just stopped fighting after that. What was the point? I went to the seminary, like Uncle Nat told me to do, and got my teaching certificate. If I wasn’t going to have a life – a family and children of my own – he and Aunt Clemmie decided that I might as well teach other women’s children. They thought that I'd lost any chance I might have had for something different, and I was so sick with grief that, deep down, I agreed with them. I found that I was good at teaching, and that I enjoyed doing it. It wasn’t much of a life, but I didn’t really want a life. If I thought about truly living, it made me think about Bill and the life we would have had.”
“And now you want more of a life?” Despite himself, he felt the urge to smile and – imagine that! – he agreed with what she was saying. Nancy had moved beyond the sadness that that been so much a part of her for so long, and he could see again the courageous young woman she once had been.
“Damned right I do!” She spoke the words firmly, almost angrily. “I have a life now, and Cecelia and Zenobia and all the rest of them can go to hell, for all I care. Maybe there’s no great virtue in what I’m doing, but it’s my choice to do it. They thought that they were slapping me down when they got me suspended, but, instead, they slapped me awake -- awake from the dream everybody had forced me into for all those years.” She glanced into the mirror, saw herself sporting clothes that no lady would wear, and chuckled. “In a way, I should almost thank them for that.”
“Oh, sure, you should.”
“And I would, if they’d done it for my good. But they didn’t. They did it because the only way they can be comfortable in their own miserable, little lives is to make everybody else feel just as miserable and just as little. And I actually did feel like the person they thought I was, but I don’t any longer. I feel good, good about myself, for the first time in years. I don’t care what they think, anymore, and they know it, and it hurts them. Knowing that I’m still here in Eerie; that I’m doing what I want to do and enjoying it.” She smiled grimly. “Knowing that hurts them a lot worse than they ever managed to hurt me.”
“And if it hurts me?” He stood up. “Some of the men I have to work with are laughing at me ‘cause of what you’re going about.”
“I know.” Her smile faded. “And I’m sorry, but I-I don’t know what else to do. Remember how you hurt people when you ran away?”
He sighed, sorry that he had left her alone with their aunt and uncle. For the first time in a long time, she looked so full of hope. Could he take that away from her because of some remarks made by a few idiots?
Nancy had been hurt so much by other people's advice, by people forcing their expectations onto her, that she no longer trusted anyone else, maybe not even him. She was shaping her own life now, not knowing whether that would be for good or ill. Either way, what she found there would be there because of her choices.
“I guess you ‘n’ me’ll do what we used to do back when we was living with our folks on that apple farm near Bigglersville.” He took her hands in his own. “I’ll watch your back, and you’ll watch mine.”
She looked up at him. He met her gaze and smiled down at her. “Carl…” They fell into each other’s arms, hugging as they had as children. She felt tears running down her cheeks.
“I think that’s enough,” he said, finally breaking the hug. He pulled his kerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You dry your eyes now, Nanny Goat. You gotta get back out there and practice that fancy dance of yours. If you're so all-fired sure you want to be a cancan dancer, you just better make sure that you're a good one. I want you to make me proud on Friday, when you’re doing it out in front of everybody.”
“You're going to be there to watch, then?”
“I have to be, sos I can beat up on any varmint there that doesn't treat you like a lady!”
Nancy sighed. “Okay, but just one time only. After that, I have to be on my own. Everyone has to see that I'm woman enough to stand on my own two feet.”
“You sure do make things hard for a fella.”
“So do you. I heard what you said to Molly, about having dinner with Flora. I'm not so sure....”
She caught herself, shook her head, and started over. “I guess we don't have to be sure about everything. We just have to have faith in each other.”
“Amen,” said Carl with a grin.
* * * * *
` Hold Your Fire
` An Editorial by Roscoe Unger
` Last Thursday, a fire started in the offices of The Eerie
` Citizen. That there was little damage to our offices – or to any
` other buildings – was due to the town’s pumper wagon and to
` the many citizens of Eerie who worked the pump or manned
` the bucket brigade that kept it supplied with water.
` To all these people, The Eerie Citizen offers a humble
` and very heartfelt THANK YOU.
` The pumper wagon performed just the way the town council
` expected it to work. That’s why they bought it. Many of you
` will remember when it arrived. The Happy Days Town Band
` played, Mr. Whitney, the chairman of the town council, made a
` speech. It was quite a party.
` But before the party started, before Mr. Whitney took
` delivery and gave the men who brought it over from Yuma the
` check, we tested the pumper wagon. Sheriff Talbot hooked it
` up to a horse and drove it over to Mr. Whitney’s barber shop.
` Those present formed a bucket brigade, and we doused the
` building. THEN we gave those men their check.
` If it hadn’t worked, we’d have sent it back unpaid. The town
` took three months to decide to buy the wagon – it wasn’t
` something we just jumped into. And we made certain that it
` worked the way it was intended to before we took delivery.
` That’s how we do things in Eerie.
` And what’s good enough for the pumper wagon is good enough
` for the committee that the town council created to deal with
` Shamus O’Toole’s potion. Some people say that the potion is
` as big a threat to our town as a fire would be.
` So we dealt with it the same way. We took our time, talking
` about the problem for quite a while before we came up with a
` solution, the committee to advise Judge Humphreys on its use.
` We have the solution -- A solution, anyway -- to the problem.
` Before we decide that it doesn’t work and send it back, let’s
` give it a try.
` This problem – if it is a problem – is too important for us to
` act hasty. Isn’t it?
` The plans of the diligent lead to profit, as surely as haste leads
` to poverty. (Proverbs 21:5)
` Do you see a man who speaks in haste? There is more hope for
` a fool than for him. (Proverbs 29:20)
* * * * *
Flora put down her dinner fork. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Carl asked, taking a bite of potato. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know; you just had a funny look in your eyes. Like you were… thinking hard, surprised, maybe.”
“I guess I am. Surprised, I mean, very pleasantly surprised.” He chuckled. “I didn’t expect to like you after the way you acted when you was Forry.”
The notion bothered her. “You didn’t? Why?”
“For one thing, I was – I am a friend of Bridget Kelly’s. I sit in on her poker game sometimes, and, well, you know what you did to her.”
Flora looked down at the table, her voice soft and, maybe, a little ashamed, “I-I know.”
“And your man, Dell Cooper, tried to get me blamed for that robbery. I coulda gone to prison for that. You knew I didn’t rob Mr. Slocum, and you didn’t say nothing. And it was you who tried to kill Abner Slocum. I liked him; he was as good a boss as I ever had.”
She sighed. “I-I admit I let things get out of hand. And look what they did to me for it.”
“I did look. I was there for your trial, remember? I saw you ‘n’ Lylah drink that brew of Shamus’, and, later on, I heard Mr. Lewis tell all his men that he wouldn’t mind one little bit if we gave you ‘n’ her a hard time.”
She nodded, remembering the trouble that Slocum’s men had piled on her. “And they certainly listened to him on that score,” she said grimly. “You gave me a hard time, too, as I recall.”
“Yes, but not for very long,” he said unhappily. “My heart just wasn’t in it.”
“May I ask why not?”
“For one thing, I kept thinking how it coulda been me out there. If they’d found me guilty of taking that money, I might’ve had to take a swig of Shamus’ potion myself. I don’t think I coulda handled it as well as you seemed to, and, truth t’tell, I kinda admired the way you were able to take what they dealt out.” He shrugged. “For another thing, well, you just was too pretty to stay mad at for very long.”
She blinked. “I-I was?”
“Yep, and you still are.” He shifted his chair in close to her. His hand snaked behind her head, pulling it even closer. Her neck stiffened and resisted his draw for only an instant. And their lips met.
Flora closed her eyes, savoring the luxurious feelings his kiss aroused. ‘This… This isn’t happening to me,’ she told herself. ‘It c-can’t be happening.’ But her body insisted that it most certainly was happening. ‘The hell with it,’ she thought, as her arms moved up to encircle him.
* * * * *
“I’m home,” Clyde Ritter, Sr. bellowed, slamming the front door behind him.
Cecelia Ritter came bustling out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re home early tonight, dear.” She glanced around. “Is Winthrop with you?”
“Things were quiet this afternoon, so I thought I’d let him close up – give him a chance to earn his keep for a change.” He took off his coat and hung it on a wooden peg rack. “Is supper ready?”
“I-I wasn’t expecting you home this early. It’ll be ready in… in fifteen minutes or so.”
“Fine; that will give me time to read the paper. They didn’t get it out till mid-afternoon. I suppose Roscoe's being laid up slowed things down.”
“No doubt.” She waited for him to say more on the subject. When he didn’t, she added, “I’d best get back to the cooking.” She gave his cheek a quick peck and hurried off.
“Yes, I'm starved,” Ritter said, before he settled down in an overstuffed, oversized Turkish-style Victorian chair and quickly skimmed over the first page. “National and international news… Grant signed the Amnesty Act, I see, gives full rights back to the South.” He shrugged. “That’s a lot better than that stupid Yellowstone Park. How can the West progress if they start closing off land that can’t be developed?” There was little else on the page. “Bizet – what kind of a name is that -- opens a new opera in Paris, and more pictures of that Vesuvius eruption. Who gives a…” His voice trailed off as he opened the paper to read page two.
Pages two and three were the local news and advertising. He checked for the small ad for his livery that he bought every week. It was nicely set along the right edge of page 3, ‘Easy to notice,’ he thought and smiled.
The short piece explaining why the paper was late was in a box, top left, on page two. “So Unger got burned in the fire… serves him right for all the trouble he’s caused.” He gave a satisfied chuckle. “I wonder who he got to put out the paper?”
“Let’s see if they know who did it.” He read the articles about the fire very carefully. “Praise for the deputy and the folks on the pump and the bucket brigade… okay.” He’d been one of those, passing the buckets of water to fight the flames.
He scowled at the article about how Kirby Pinter had rescued Roscoe. “I wonder if he’s the one who printed the paper,” Ritter thought. Then he saw something.
` “Mr. Unger describes the culprit he saw as a short, muscular man with
` a round face, short, brown hair, and several days growth of beard.
` Anyone who knows anything about this man should talk to Sheriff
` Talbot at once.”
“Damn!” he swore under his breath. “Good thing those two bastards are long gone. As long as nobody remembers them – and they weren’t very memorable – or, worse, remembers where they were heading, I’m home free. That’s almost worth the money they cost me.” Then Clyde reflected, “I hope the Sioux scalp them up in the Black Hills.” He leaned back and relaxed, reading the paper and enjoying the smells coming in from the kitchen.
Then he saw the editorial.
“What!” he howled. “Is that all that son of a bitch knows to say?” He crumbled the paper in his hand and threw it across the room. “Of all the G-d damned, misbegotten, bull. I’ll… I’ll…” He stood quickly, his hands in front of him, fingers apart, curved as if about Roscoe’s neck, squeezing and shaking. Clyde’s face was beet red, eyes popping, and lips pulled back to show his teeth. “I’ll make Unger wish he’d died in that fire.”
Cecelia hurried with the meal. She suddenly heard her husband's angry shouting. As she drained the fried chicken pieces on a towel, her eyes glanced upward. Her younger children were in their rooms on the second floor, doors shut. They knew their father, and they’d wait until their mother thought he was calmed down enough to call them to dinner.
* * * * *
Rupe Warrick leaned back in his office chair and looked at the three other men seated around his desk. “Okay, we’re all here. Who wants to start?”
“I will,” Jubal Cates said. “What’re we going to do about Reverend Yingling?” He shook his head. “That sermon of his…” His voice trailed off. “I never heard the man get so worked up over such a little thing as that committee of his.”
Judge Humphreys nodded in agreement. “Don’t I know it? I thought we were over and done with the potion committee.”
“You’re not done with it,” Liam answered. “You’re the one they work for.”
The Judge shrugged. “Work with would be a better idea of what I had in mind, but it surely doesn’t seem to be what he had in mind.”
“What does he have in mind?” Rupe asked. “I can’t figure that out.”
“Da --” Jubal didn’t like to curse when he talked about church business. “Danged if I know.”
Humphreys gave them all an odd look. “Maybe I should ask him.”
“What do you mean?” Rupe looked puzzled. They all did.
The Judge smiled. “How does this sound.” The Judge shifted his body and his voice into what he thought of his “formal” mode. “Since the good Reverend Yingling has some… some serious concerns regarding the committee, and since I’m the one that the committee is supposed to – no, is charged to work for, I’d like a chance – an opportunity – to meet with him prior to his asking the church board to take any action.”
“The committee hasn’t met yet, and it may be that we can find a way to meet – to address those concerns of his under the present structure. This would avoid the Reverend having to go back to the Town Council and explain to them where he feels they erred in the creation of the committee. Instead, he could begin doing the work that he and I both agree is the potion committee’s proper duty.” He looked at the others. “Well?”
“Sounded like a speech to me.” Liam replied with a chuckle.
Humphreys grinned. “It was, and one of my better impromptu ones, I think. After all, it won't improve things if he gets another chance to do some more public grandstanding. And if Thad Yingling doesn’t take the hint, I’m going to move that the board table any further discussion of the potion committee until after the two of us get together.”
“And I’ll second it,” Liam said quickly. He looked at Cates. “Can I count on you to go along, Jubal? You and I don’t always agree on board issues, and we’ll need four votes to slow down the Reverend.”“
The surveyor looked thoughtful. “It does seem fair to give the committee a chance, so, yes, Liam… You Honor, in this matter, you can count on my vote.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, June 05, 1872
“So,” Kaitlin said, as she finished buttoning her dress, “now that you and Mr. Pinter put out this week’s newspaper for Roscoe Unger, will you be going back to the Feed and Grain today?”
Trisha was sitting on their bed, tying her shoe. “Would… Would you mind going in for me again? I meant to ask you last night, but I was bone tired.”
“Why can’t you go in? You don’t look very tired this morning?”
“Roscoe’s not getting out of the infirmary till Friday, maybe not till Saturday. Somebody’s got to work in his store till he can do it himself.” She looked over at her former wife. “He depends on the print shop for his living.”
‘Can’t Mr. Pinter do it?”
“Kirby has his own business to run. He doesn’t have anybody working for him, so he has to stay there.”
“You still didn’t say why you have to be the one in the print shop. You have a business to run, too.”
She really couldn’t explain why it seemed so important to her, but it was, and she had to say something. “Be-Because I do. You can cover for me, but there's no one else who can cover for Roscoe. He’s depending on me.”
“Well, I suppose, if you have to help Roscoe, I can spend another day or two at the Feed and Grain.” She smiled. “If Liam doesn’t mind, that is.” And she was sure that he wouldn’t.
Trisha missed Kaitlin’s sarcasm. “That’d be great, Kaitlin. Thank you; thank you so very much.”
“My pleasure,” Kaitlin replied. “My pleasure, indeed.” And she expected that it would be.
* * * * *
Luke Freeman was sitting at a table near the stairs, when Molly and the Cactus Blossoms came down for lunch. The dancers were all wearing robes, both to protect their costumes while they ate and to keep those costumes a secret from anyone else who might be looking.
He rose and walked over to meet Lylah. “Hey, there, Lylah. How you doing?”
“Luke,” Lylah said, a bit surprised. “What’re you doing in here?”
“Mr. Lewis sent me and a couple of hands t’pick up the paper and some supplies at Styron’s. I figured they could do the loading. When they’s done, they can come over for drink b’fore we head back. I come over early t’talk to you.”
Lylah had to smile. “Just talk? Don’t you wanna have lunch with me?” It still felt odd – a little odd, at least, she admitted to herself – to actually flirt with this nigger. But she also had to admit the way his words – and his kisses made her feel -- and how much she had come to like feeling that way. ‘If I’m gonna start liking men,’ she told herself, ‘Luke’s one man – nigger or not – I wanna like.’
“Lylah, I would surely love t’have lunch with you, but I ain’t got the time – not the way I wants to, sitting back and looking at your pretty face while I eats, holding your hand now and then, and having one – or maybe two -- o’your sweet kisses for dessert t’keep me going all the way home.”
Lylah felt a blush run across her face. Her smile widened, as her body warmed with arousal. “Mmm, that does sound nice.” There was a husky tone in her voice. “You gonna be in here when we do our new act Friday night?”
“I wish I could, but so many o’the men already asked ‘bout coming in to see you pretty gals, that Mr. Lewis had t’say, ‘No’ t’some of ‘em. And he asked me t’help set an example by staying out there with him.”
“You sure you can’t come in?”
Luke shook his head. “Not Friday, I already give my word t’Mr. Lewis. But I surely am gonna be in here on Saturday. I figure that’d be better, anyway. If I come in early, will you have dinner with me?”
“Sure.” She suddenly felt a little shy. “But why d’you figure that Saturday’d be better ‘n Friday?”
“‘Cause on Saturday, I gets t’dance with you. Friday, all I can do is watch you ‘n’ them other girls dance.” He grinned, a grin that set her body tingling. “Holding you in my arms is a whole lot better.”
* * * * *
‘Now’s the time,’ Flora thought, looking around the Saloon. ‘Molly’s out gossiping with old lady Silverman, and Shamus is going to be in his office for at least another half hour.’ She sat down on a barstool. “Say, R.J.,” she said aloud. “You got a pen and some paper there behind the bar?”
R.J. shrugged. “I might. Why?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about writing… something.”
He gave her a sly grin. “A letter, maybe; one asking your father to get you out of here?”
“And if I am?”
“Are you gonna tell him that he’s got himself a new daughter?”
“No, I’ll… I’ll wait on that bit of news.”
“What’s the matter? Are you afraid that he won’t help you if he knows?”
Flora frowned and glanced away.
“Frankly, I’d have thought he'd have been making inquiries about you long before this. What sort of father won't send as much as a telegram to find out what's happened to his son and heir after almost three months?”
“He's my father, not my nanny. He knows that, wherever I am, I have things under control.”
“Sure you do.” He rummaged under the counter for a bit before taking out a pen and inkwell, which he set on the bar in front of her. They were followed almost at once by a few sheets of off-white paper. “Here you go,” he said, “but I don’t think you can write that letter.”
“The hell I can’t.” She grabbed the pen and jabbed it into the inkwell, drawing the black liquid into it. She’d found that she could curse some, if Molly and Shamus weren’t around to hear.
“Go ahead and try, then.”
“Father,” she spoke the words as she wrote, very glad now that her handwriting was barely changed by her transformation. “I have been arres – What the hell?” Her right hand began to shake violently, so that the word became a jagged line on the paper.
She grabbed her wrist with her left hand to steady it, but the shaking just got worse. “What’s happening to me?”
“When you were first caught, you were bragging about how your father knew the governor of Texas, and, between your father’s money and his big shot friend, you were gonna get off the hook for shooting Mr. Slocum. You remember that?”
She nodded grimly. “Yeah… what’s that got to do with my getting the shakes?”
“When Shamus gave you the potion, he told you – you and Lylah both – that you couldn’t escape. He does that with everybody who gets changed, but in your case, he added that you couldn’t ask anybody else to help you escape.” He chuckled at her discomfort. “When you started writing something that’d make your old man try to get you out of here, the potion wouldn’t let you.”
“Damn!” She pulled her hand back, away from the paper, and its jerky movements stopped. When she slowly moved it towards the paper, the tremors came back.
“Double damn!” She threw the pen down onto the bar. It bounced and landed on her lap, leaking a bit of ink onto her light blue dress. She grabbed for it and set it carefully onto the bar.
“He's going to figure out that something's wrong and then come charging in here like an angry bull. Wouldn't it be better if I finessed things beforehand?”
“It's not for me to say. Talk to Shamus.” R.J. put the writing supplies back under the bar. “You have to get upstairs and change out of that dress. You better set the thing soaking up there. Shamus and Molly want their waitresses all neat and clean, and Maggie and Jane’re too busy working on supper in the kitchen.”
“Triple damn!” She stood and stomped towards the steps.
* * * *
Lavinia Mackechnie dealt the last card into the kitty and pushed the pile towards Zenobia Carson. Zenobia turned over the top card. “Queen of diamonds; I’ll take that as trump.” The other women nodded in agreement, and Zenobia put the card in her hand, placing another card in the discard pile. She studied her hand for a moment and placed the queen of diamonds down on the table.
Grace MacLeod frowned and played the 9 of diamonds.
“Did you all see that editorial in yesterday’s paper?” Cecelia Ritter asked as she laid down the King of diamonds. “How dare that Unger fellow quote the Good Book to Reverend Yingling?”
Lavinia played the 10 of diamonds. “I quite agree,” she said, as Cecelia took the trick. “Can’t we do something to stop that?”
“We can show how wrong he is by supporting the Reverend at the board meeting tonight.” Cecelia played the Ace of hearts.
Hilda Scudder was taking her turn at sitting out the hand. She put down the baby’s hat she was knitting. “If only he didn’t have to be so ardent about it. I hardly expected such a ‘fire and brimstone’ sermon on the subject of a committee he doesn’t like.”
“He has every right to want a committee that works the way he wants, doesn’t he?” Lavinia paused a beat, before adding, “Jack of diamonds.”
Zenobia studied her hand. She had to play a heart, but she hated to play one so high. “Of course, he does.” She sighed and put down her King of hearts.
“Couldn’t he try the new committee for a little while?” Grace asked in a soft voice, setting down the 9 of diamonds. “A month at least.”
Lavinia took this trick.
“Why should he?” Cecelia said in a firm tone. “He’s a wise man, a learned minister of our Lord. If he says that the committee is wrong, corrupt even, why should – how can we doubt him?” She fixed Grace in her eyes, a wolf freezing a rabbit. “Those who trust in the Lord need never doubt.”
Grace shuddered and forced her eyes away. “P-Perhaps you’re right. I… I’m sorry.”
“And well you should be,” Cecelia replied, smiling in satisfaction.
Lavinia nodded in agreement and played the Ace of clubs.
* * * * *
“This is the life.” Flora leaned back against the pillows propped up on her bed. She’d stripped off her dress and petticoat. The petticoat was clean, and the dress was draped over a basin to allow soapy water to seep into what was left of the ink stain. “I’ll just hide out up here until O’Toole sends somebody to look for me.”
She frowned at her mention of Shamus’ name. “He thought he was so clever, rigging things so I can’t get out of here – even with help.”
“Mrrrow!”
She leaned over and looked down at the space beside her bed. “Sweetums?” The gray kitten was still too small to jump up onto the bed. She reached for it and grabbed it, as a mother cat would, by the loose skin at the back of its neck. In a moment, her pet was snuggling down on her stomach.
“Hey, there, kitt.” She picked up a long piece of purple yarn from where she’d set it on her bed table and began to dangle it in front of the feline. The little animal tracked the yarn for a moment, and then it started swatting at it with a paw.
“What do you think I should do, Sweetums? I started playing up to Clyde Ritter and those other men just to get Shamus’ goat. It was fun, too, watching them get all hot under the collar from just a word or from batting my eyelashes at them.”
“Then Nancy Osbourne tells me about how Clyde gave her all those gifts, tried to buy her ‘favors.’ I figured I could get some nice loot from him, like that ivory pin he gave her, at least. And I surely wasn’t planning to ‘pay him back’, not like he expected, anyway.”
“You think I should do that, Sweetums, try to get some presents out of Clyde?” The kitten tilted its head and swiped a paw at the yarn again by way of an answer.
“Yeah, I thought so, too. But then I had a better idea.”
“Ritter has some real important friends in this one-horse town,” she told herself. “When he skipped dinner with me to go to that meeting, I figured I could promise him what he really wanted, but only after he got that damned judge to let me out of here.”
She gave a wry chuckle and laid the thick thread out on the bed. She pulled it in a slow, wriggling motion. The kitten watched for a moment before it sprang atop the string.
“Well, that idea’s out,” she said sourly. “If I can’t write for help to get out of here, I surely can’t ask for it.”
Then she got to thinking. “Maybe Zach Levy could send a letter for me. He's still my lawyer, after all. But how could I ask him without making it sounding like I was asking for help to escape? Maybe if I don't ask for escape. Maybe if I just say that I want my pa to know that I’m in jail in Eerie for attempted murder.”
“The problem is, O’Toole’s ‘instructions’ probably won’t even let me ask him for that. I know damn well that pa would take any word of my being in jail as a call for help. He’d come storming in, and as soon as he saw what happened to me…” her expression soured. “…as like as not, he’d go storming out of town the minute he finished laughing.” She gave a reluctant sigh. “Maybe I’d better just be careful about anybody writing to him. I’ll have to think that over some more.”
“But if a letter to Pa is out, I need a fallback strategy of some sort.” She sat up suddenly, dropping the yarn as a thought occurred to her. “Maybe I can’t ask for help to escape, but I could ask… ‘Oh, Clyde, those presents you gave me are so wonderful!’ – yeah, I’ll see if I can’t get some loot out of him first; even if I have to give him something – a little something – in return.” She giggled at the notion. “But I can’t give myself to you until you prove that you really would do anything for me.” Yes, that would work, and it would be so much sweeter if she could fix her enemies' wagon all by her lonesome, without getting her father to do it for her.
She picked up the kitten and began hugging her. “That’s right, Sweetums – and you, too, Clyde – you’ve got to get some men to avenge me. You and your friends – whoever you get – have got to beat up Shamus O’Toole, beat him within an inch of his life, him and that son of a bitch judge, along with him. You do that, Clyde, honey…” She spoke the last in a low, sultry voice. “…and I’m yours, body and soul.”
Flora fell back against the pillows, laughing and petting the purring kitten.
* * * * *
Emma’s eyes widened in surprise when she walked into Unger’s Print Works. “Trisha, what’re you doing here?”
“Working.” Trisha tried hard, but couldn’t quite read her daughter’s face. “Roscoe – Mr. Unger – needed somebody to run his store until he gets out of the infirmary, and I-I decided to do it.”
“How… How come?”
“He’s a… a friend, and he needed my help. W-Why shouldn’t I help him out?”
“Is he the… the…” Her voice trailed off as she stared down at Trisha’s belly.
“The father?” Trisha shook her head. “I told you, he’s just a friend.” And why did it seem so odd to say it?
Emma raised a skeptical eyebrow. “If you say so.”
“I do.” She took a breath. “Now, if we’re finished with me, why’re you here?”
“Mr. Cates – my boss – he sent me over here Monday with a letter he wanted copied. Mr. Pinter, he said they’d be ready this afternoon, so I came to pick ‘em up.”
“Kirby – Mr. Pinter – isn’t here. Let me look…” Trisha rummaged under the counter. After a minute or two, she brought out a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The package had Cates’ name written on it. “Here it is.” She looked at the package again. “That’s seventy-five copies at a half-cent a copy… thirty-eight cents. Do you have the money?”
“Uh hunh.” She pulled a small purse from a pocket and opened it. “Here’s a quarter, a dime and… a – yeah, here’s a three-cent piece.” As she spoke, she put the coins down on the counter. “Okay?”
“Okay, here’s your copies. The original’s in there, too.” Trisha slid the packet across the counter. “See you at home tonight,”
Emma nodded and replaced the purse. “Bye,” she said, picking up the package. She left the store without another word.
‘That wasn’t my Pa, not in there,’ Emma thought, leaning against the wall of the building and clutching the package to her chest. ‘That… that was just some shop girl named Trisha. I know her good – she lives with Ma and me -- but she wasn’t anything like my Pa.’
She took a breath and started walking back towards Mr. Cates’ office. ‘Is that what folks think about me? Is there any of Elmer left in me?’ The question scared her, and she tried very hard to think of something – of anything else -- as she walked.
* * * * *
“Hello, Flora.” Clyde Ritter stood behind the woman he was addressing and kissed her neck.
Flora shivered, enjoying the sensations. She turned to face him, smiling. “Why, Clyde, this is a surprise. I know that I’d have remembered if we were having dinner together.” Her voice went sultry on the last word. “Or did you just come over real early to get a seat for our show?”
“Neither, I’m afraid. I’d like to see you tonight, maybe spend some time getting to know you better someplace more private between your two shows.”
Flora chuckled. ‘I still can’t believe he’s buying this,’ she thought. Aloud she answered, “And I’d really like to do that, but you’ve got to do something for me first, something more than just buy me a supper – much as I do enjoy that. I have to be sure that you’re serious before I… you know.” She half-closed her eyes and looked away, as if shy.
Just as Rosalyn had taught her to do.
“What – What can I do?”
“A present would be a good start, a really nice present – jewelry, maybe.”
He considered what she’d just told him. “I think that I can manage a present, one that you’ll like.” He gave her a confident smile.
“Mmm, you manage that, and I think that you’ll be pleasantly surprised at what I manage in return.”
“Will I now?”
“Let me just give you another sample of what you might get." She stepped in close, raising her arms up around his neck to pull him in close. Their mouths met in a kiss, her tongue running along his lower lip, inviting his tongue out to play.
He took the invitation. Her own lips parted, her tongue retreated, granting entrance to his. They tangled in a dance, as she moaned softly and pressed her body against his. ‘Damn, this feels good,’ she told herself. His hands roved over her body, and their erotic friction kindled sparks that flittered through her like lightning bugs.
She was only kissing Ritter as a tease, to encourage him to give her gifts and – eventually – other things. And the job wasn't half as unpleasant as she'd expected it to be.
* * * * *
Horace Styron stood, arms folded, outside the schoolhouse, watching people filing in for the church board meeting. “Welcome, gentlemen,” he greeted the three members of the town council as they approached. “We don’t often see you three at our meetings.”
“Our past decisions usually aren’t the main topic of discussion at your meetings,” Whit Whitney replied. His voice was formal in tone with his Maine accent at its strongest.
Arsenio simply walked past. He was pushing Laura in her wheel chair, and she answered for her husband when they moved past him. “See you inside, Mr. Styron.”
“Aaron,” Styron said in a cheerful tone. “This is the third or fourth meeting you’ve shown up at in as many months. You keep coming, and we may just manage to convince you to accept Jesus Christ.”
Silverman scowled at the other man. “Better men than you have tried – you momser,” he muttered under his breath, “and they ain’t done it yet.”
“What did you call him?” Arsenio asked once they were all in the building.
Aaron smiled. “Momser, it’s Yiddish, and it means… well, let’s just say that, compared to momser, calling somebody a bastard is almost a compliment.”
* * * * *
“Okay, folks,” Styron said, pounding his gavel once. “We’ve got some – I don’t know if the Reverend’s request is Old Business or New Business, but I do know that it’s important. So I’ll just ask him to tell us what he wants.”
Yingling rose confidently to his feet. “Thank you, Horace. I’ll try to be brief. After some considered thought, I have come to believe that the Eerie Town Council erred – and erred seriously -- in creating a mere advisory committee to address the very real concerns that I – that many of us – have regarding Shamus O’Toole’s potion. I intend to petition the Council at its next meeting to abolish that group and to create a far stronger group, one with the power to properly deal with the menace that his concoction truly represents. As with any action of mine, I have come to this congregation to ask on its support.”
“Second!” Cecelia Ritter yelled, jumping up as she spoke.
Horace smiled. “Thank you, Cecelia, but only a board member can make or second a motion. Having said that, I’ll move that the Board votes to support Reverend Yingling in this matter, as we have supported him on such things in the past.”
“Und I second.” Willie Gotefreund added quickly, stroking his walrus mustache with a finger of his right hand.
The Judge raised a hand. “May I say something, Horace?”
“No, you can’t,” Cecelia shouted, “you… you panderer.”
Humphreys looked daggers at the woman. “Cecelia, I was being polite – a form of behavior that you appear to be totally unfamiliar with. As a member of --”
“Who cares what you have to say.” She took a breath and began singing. “Onward, Christian soldiers…” She made a motion for the women sitting around her to join in.
Judge Humphrey’s firm voice, the one he used to quiet a rowdy courtroom or speak at a political rally, cut through the women’s clatter. “Clyde Ritter, tell your wife to be still and sit down.” He glared at them both. “If she doesn’t,” he continued, “I will have her arrested for disrupting a public meeting. That’s a felony with a fifty dollar fine and two nights in jail as maximum sentence, and, as the likely presiding judge at her trial, I can guarantee that the maximum penalty will be applied.”
“Shut up, woman!” Clyde hissed. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down.
Cecelia was about to argue, when she saw the look on her husband’s face. “Y-Yes, Clyde.”
The Judge smiled benevolently. “Thank you. As I was about to say, I believe that much of the Reverend’s concerns stem from the fact that I have not yet convened the new committee in order to discuss with its members how I want it to work. This is my fault, and I apologize for my delay. I would like to announce that there will be a closed meeting – that means no outsiders—of the committee at 3 PM on Monday in my chambers, to correct that grievous error.”
“No!” Yingling stormed. “I-I do not hold with the committee, and I will not attend such a travesty.”
Styron shook his head. “Me neither.”
“That’s too bad,” Humphreys replied, “but I’ve already spoken to Father de Castro – the vice-chairman, as you’ll recall. He agreed to attend and to act as chairman in your absence, Reverend Yingling. Luis Ortega and Shamus O’Toole are also coming. That’s a majority of the group, so we can certainly proceed if it happens that you two aren’t present.” He looked pointedly at the two men. “Of course, if you change your minds…” His voice trailed off.
Horace and the Reverend looked quickly at each other. Yingling sighed, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “We shall attend.”
“In the meantime,” Horace said, trying to regain control. “We’ve got a motion on the floor to support the Reverend.”
Liam raised his hand. “It’s your motion, Horace. Shouldn’t Rupe take over?”
“Yes…” Horace handed the gavel to Rupe Warrick.
The heavy-set man shifted in his chair. “All right, then, you got anything else you wanna say, Your Honor?”
The Judge smiled. ‘Right on cue,’ he thought. Aloud, he continued, “Since all of the good reverend’s concern will – I hope – be addressed when we meet on Monday, I move to table the motion of support until the next board meeting after that.”
“Second,” Liam added quickly.
Styron glared. “You can’t do that!”
“A motion to table is always in order,” the Judge told him. “Ask Milt if you don’t believe me.”
Milt was sitting near the back, with Jane. “The Judge is right,” he said in a loud, clear voice.
“That’s not fair,” Lavinia Mackechnie shouted. “I demand that we get a chance to speak.”
Milt shook his head. “You can’t debate a motion to table, either.”
“But…” Lavinia tried to continue, but her husband, Ogden, whispered for her to stop. “Well, it isn’t fair,” she told him in a soft tone. “We ought to be able to speak when we want.”
“All in favor, raise your hands,” Rupe ordered. He turned to look at the others on the church board. “The Judge… Liam… Jubal… Dwight – thanks, Dwight… and m’self. That’s five.”
He waited while they all lowered their arms. “Opposed? Horace and Willie. That’s two. The motion to table passes.” Rupe handed the gavel back to Styron. “You be sure to put the motion to support the Judge first on next month’s agenda, Horace.”
“Count on it,” Styron answered sourly. He glanced down at the Reverend, who looked back at him, fit to be tied, his face red, and his fists clenched. Horace made a “What could I do?” shrug and said, “Moving on…”
* * * * *
Styron checked his notes. “I think the only other item tonight is Willie Gotefreund’s report on the Fourth of July town picnic. Willie…”
The rancher stood up. “I talked mit Mr. Whitney a couple of days ago.” He stroked his mustache absentmindedly. The talk had occurred while he was getting a haircut. “He’s gonna giff a speech – a short one, he promises. Der school children vill sing ‘Columbia, Gem of der Ocean.’ Den dhere’s gonna be races und a band concert. Der church… we is gonna have a booth, selling punch und cookies. In der evening, we have picnic suppers, another band concert, und firevorks after dark. Dat’s it.” He sat back down.
“Actually, it’s not,” Liam raised his hand. “Luis Ortega came into my store yesterday, and we got to talking. He – in the name of his church – challenged us to a couple competitions. I couldn’t accept, but I told him that I’d bring them up at the meeting tonight.”
“That’s kind of short notice,” Styron said. “What sort of challenges?”
Liam smiled, a bit smugly perhaps. “I was hoping that you’d be interested, Horace. First off, they’ve got a baseball team over at his church. The Coyotes, they call themselves, and they want to play us on the Fourth.”
He stopped talking to watch the reaction. Baseball was a very popular game. There’d even been talk of forming an Eerie town team and challenging Tucson and some of the other nearby towns.
“Horace,” Liam started again, “you know the game pretty good. I figured you might be our team captain – if you wanted to, and if we take their challenge.”
Styron’s expression went from suspicion to broad smile. “I don’t see why not – to either question.”
“Und what is dhere other challenge?”
“One for our ladies, picnic baskets. Those ladies that want – in both churches – fix up a nice picnic basket, food, drink, even the decorations on the basket. We auction off those baskets, and the winner gets the food and drink and the lady’s company while he eats – chaperoned, of course. Our churches split the money, less a 10 dollar prize to the lady whose basket goes for the highest price. Our share can go to the building fund.”
“What if the lady is married?” Yingling asked. “Or engaged?”
Liam chuckled. “Then her husband or fiancé better bid high.” The room burst into laughter.
“’Course, there’s a lot of pretty, single women around here that a fellah might want to have supper with.” He looked directly at Kaitlin, who smiled back at him. “Either way, it’s a chance for our ladies to show off what great cooks they are.”
Willie considered the idea. He gave a smile and a shrug. “Vhy not? I move dhat ve accept der challenges.”
“And I’ll second,” Styron said quickly. Team Captain Styron, he did like that idea. “All in favor?” Seven hands shot into the air. “Unanimous.” He banged the gavel on the tabletop. “And tryouts for my – for our team, the… the Eagles, will be on the field outside this building, Tuesday night at 7.”
‘For once Unger’s damned paper’ll be some good,’ Horace thought. ‘Anybody doesn’t hear about the team by word of mouth’ll read about it on Tuesday.’
* * * * *
Thursday, June 06, 1872
“Here is your lunch, Ernesto.” Maggie handed her son the bucket he carried his food in.
The boy took the container and placed it carefully in his schoolbag. “Thank you, Mama.” He draped the bag’s strap over his shoulder started for the door.
“Aren’t you going to give your Mama a kiss goodbye, Ernesto?” Ramon asked.
The boy turned and looked at Maggie. She stood, knees bent and arms outstretched, a hopeful smile on her face. “No… I-I do not want to be late,” he said and hurried out the door. “Goodbye,” he yelled, as it slammed behind him.
“If he is not smart enough to want to kiss you, Margarita, I am.” Ramon stood and walked quickly to his wife’s side, as she stood up. He took her in his arms and gently touched his lips to hers.
The kiss lasted only a few seconds before she began to cry. “He… He still hates me.” She clung to Ramon, her head resting on his chest. “Why…” The word trailed off into a pang of grief.
“He does not hate you, mi querida.” Ramon gently stroked her hair. “He is – his pride is hurt, and he is lashing out without realizing how much it hurts you.”
Lupe ran over and hugged her mother, as well. “Please don’t cry, Mama. I love you.”
Maggie sighed, feeling the love from her husband and her daughter. It helped – a little. She stopped weeping and snuggled against Ramon, even as her hand reached down to run her hand against her daughter’s cheek. “Thank you, the both of you,” she said softly, making no attempt to stop them from consoling her.
* * * * *
Teresa sat at the worktable with Arnie, folding newly dried laundry. “Be sure to keep track of the time, Dulcita,” she told her eldest daughter. “I do not want you to be late for work.”
“I have time, Mama.” Arnie glanced over at the small clock ticking away on a shelf near the door. “More than an hour.”
“Then why did Dolores go over so early? Did she not want to help you and me with what we are doing?” She pouted, but then she winked to show that she was joking.
“I think that she would rather help R.J. with whatever he is doing. They are --”
Teresa interrupted whatever Arnie was about to say. “Sí, they certainly are, but he seems to be a good man, and I trust them both.”
Arnie glanced down at the name written on the tag on the pillowcase she had just pulled from the basket. Was this a sign that she should ask? “Mama, how… how are the Spauldings?”
“Well enough, I suppose. The girl, Clara, does not cough very much. At least, I do not have any handkerchiefs in this load from them.”
“I am glad for that. I did not like it that I upset her so much.”
“She is over it, I think.”
“And the son… H-Hedley? How is he?”
Teresa smiled. She’d been wondering when her daughter would ask about the boy. “He is not over it. Every time I come there, he asks about you.”
“He asks?” Arnie felt a warm flush run through her.
“He does, but always when his mother and sister are not around to hear.” She waited a moment. “They never ask about you.”
“Never mind them; what does he ask? Does he say anything else about me or just ask questions?”
“He asks how you are, what you are doing, that sort of thing.” She watched Arnie’s face for a reaction. “Last time, he asked if he could see you.”
“He… He did? What did you say? What did you say?”
“I told him that it was up to you – do not frown, Dulcita, he only asked me on Tuesday. That is why I asked for your help this morning, so we could talk about it. I know that you want to see him, but it is not good for you and him to do this in shadows. His mother must know. Do you understand me?”
Arnie sighed and stared down at the tabletop. “Sí, Mama.”
“Bueno, I am glad that you agree. When I deliver their clothes on Sábado [Saturday], I will ask Mrs. Spaulding if you can come to her house, to see – to apologize to all of them – and because you are concerned about Clara. I will say nothing about you and Hedley. We will wait to see what she says.”
“Yes! She must say, ‘Yes!’ She must.” The girl hugged herself, as if trying to hold in the joy that she was feeling.
“Perhaps she will,” Teresa hoped that the Spaulding women, mother and daughter both, would agree, but she would be ready to comfort her own daughter if they didn’t.
* * * * *
As Lylah came down the steps, she was surprised to see Hammy Lincoln sitting at a table, eating. “What’re you doing in here, Hammy?” she asked, walking over to him.
“I come over t’have lunch with you,” he answered, “but they said you was upstairs dancing.” He took a bite of cornbread. “Mr. Rittter don’t give me a while lotta time, so I figured I’d better start without you.”
“You shoulda sent word that you was here. Molly woulda let me come down.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said in an unapologetic tone. “I didn’t think of it… and I was hungry.” He looked down at what was left on his plate: less than half a slice of cornbread and the remnants of a drumstick, plus about a third of a glass of beer. “You can still join me. This here food ain’t bad, but eating it with you’d make it that much better.”
It wasn’t much, but it was a compliment. “Okay, lemme get something.” She walked over to the table where the Free Lunch was laid out. She took a tray, selecting a half chicken breast, drizzling some chocolate sauce on it, and a slice of cornbread. On her way back to Hammy, she stopped at the bar and picked up a glass of the “near beer” that was all Shamus would let her and Flora drink.
“How come you wearing that robe?” he asked as she sat down.
“Shamus ‘n’ Molly don’t want people t’see our costumes. B’sides, them robes help keep the clothes clean. You can see ‘em when we does our show t’morrow night.”
“Much as I’d like to, I ain’t coming over here t’morrow. I can only manage one night, and on Saturday… Saturday, you ‘n me gets t’dance.”
‘Finally, he said something right,’ she thought, as she sat down, her body warming at the thought of being in a man’s arms. Any man… even Hammy.
“Mm-huhn.” Hammy shrugged and went back to his meal.
Lylah cut herself a piece of chicken. She chewed slowly, trying to think of something to say.
“Hammy.” A Mexican boy came through the swinging doors of the Saloon and rushed over to where Hammy and Lylah were sitting. “Mr. Ritter’s looking for you, and he ain’t happy.”
The black man wiped his mouth and stood up. “Then I’d better get moving, Pablo.” He took a last gulp of beer and leaned across the table to kiss Lylah on the forehead.
“Bye, gal,” he told her. “See you Saturday.” Without another word, he turned and headed for the door.
A dissatisfied Lylah watched him go. “Well, that was fun,” she muttered softly.
* * * * *
Liam leaned back in his office chair and took a last sip of lemonade. “I must say, Kaitlin, I’ve never enjoyed lunch more than I have this week.” She was sitting next to him at his desk, rather than sitting at Trisha’s desk, across from him.
“It must be the new recipe for the apple tarts I’ve been bringing with me;” Kaitlin replied coyly, “that or the fried chicken.”
“The food has been delicious, but not as delicious as the company.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“Mmmm, thank you.” She giggled. “I have to admit that I’ve enjoyed being here as much as you have.” She kissed him in return. “I’ll be sorry when Trisha comes back, and I have to stop coming in.”
“You don’t have to stop. It’s your store, too.”
“Now that I'm unmarried, and Emma is growing up so quickly with a job of her own, there is less need for me to be at home all day. But is there room for all three of us here?”
He thought for a moment. “Probably not; shall I tell Trisha not to come in, or do you want to?” He winked to show that he was joking. Or was he?
She kissed him again on the cheek. “You do it.” She winked back. “You’re better at words than I am.”
“Maybe, but you’re pretty good at some things, too.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What sort of things?”
“Let me show you.” Liam pulled her close. He cupped her head in his hands, steadying her, as he moved in for a kiss. She gave a sort of sigh, as their hands slid along each other’s bodies, and they both luxuriated in the carnal glow of their mutual arousal.
The meal was over. Dessert would last until a cautious Mateo knocked on the office door.
* * * * *
‘All right, girl,’ Nancy told herself. ‘Take a breath, while you check for crumbs.’ She looked down to see if there was any remnant of her hastily eaten lunch on her clothes.
There wasn’t. The dress was an ordinary cotton one, the deep blue one that was her favorite, not her Cactus Blossom costume, and it was perfectly clean.
‘Good! Now get in there.’
She was standing on the wooden sidewalk in front of Pinter’s Book Emporium. She took another breath and walked in. “Hello,” she called out. “Kirby?”
“Nancy!” Kirby hurried over to her from behind the counter. “This is a very pleasant surprise.”
“Thank you. I was wondering – you hadn’t been over to the Saloon in a while. I was… I was worried about you… your hand.”
He held up his right hand. “The bandage came off Monday, and, as you can see, it’s fine.”
“So I see. But why didn’t you come over to show me? I – Well, to tell the truth, I missed you.”
He took her hand in his own. “You did?”
She suddenly felt embarrassed about what she had just admitted and looked away. “Yes,” she said in a soft voice, almost a whisper. “I-I did.”
“I’m certainly glad to hear that because I’ve missed you, as well. I’ve been very busy working over at Roscoe Unger’s print shop. He’s still in Doctor Upshaw’s infirmary, and somebody had to get out this week’s newspaper for him.”
“I saw the paper. That was you?”
“Trisha O’Hanlan and me. She’s a very good friend of Roscoe’s,” he added the last quickly. “She wanted to help him, too. In fact, she’s over at his shop now, running the business for him.”
“Couldn’t you do that?”
“Not with my own business to run.” He smiled slyly.
“Doesn't Miss O'Hanlan have a business to run, too?”
“Yes, but her wi – I mean Mrs. O'Hanlan is helping out at the Feed and Grain while she's away. Of course, if I had someone working here with me here, I could have left her in charge and took care of the print shop myself.”
“Kirby, we’ve… we’ve talked about that. I have my reasons for what I’m doing.”
“So you’ve told me.”
Now she smiled. “Why don’t you come over and buy me supper on Saturday, so I can tell them to you again?”
“Saturday?”
“Yes, the Cactus Blossoms are premiering our new act on Friday, and I’m too nervous to concentrate on anything else right now.” She frowned, wondering if she had ruined things by needlessly bringing up the fact that she was working as a dancing girl.
He sighed. “I can understand that. I’m not happy about your dancing – as you well know – but I’ sure that you’ll do fine. And I’ll be most pleased to have dinner with you on Saturday.”
“Thank you, and, remember, the regular dance is on Saturday. We can talk and dance together.”
They both smiled at that, anticipating the pleasure of being in each other’s arms. Suddenly, Nancy got a sad look on her face. “I-I have to get back. Molly wants to have us practice most of this afternoon with the band.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Goodbye, Kirby.” She started for the door.
“I hope that you’ll do better than that on Saturday,” Kirby said, grinning.
She stopped at the door and turned to look at him. What man would have ventured to be so forward with her even a couple months before, when she was a schoolteacher? It was like a fresh new breeze was wafting through her life, blowing away all the dead, brown leaves. “I’ll certainly try.” She winked and hurried out the door.
* * * * *
Laura leaned back, bracing herself on the bed with both arms, while Doc Upshaw used his stethoscope to listen to her heart. He cocked his head, as if he had just heard something, and then moved the instrument down to her stomach, so he could listen for her baby’s heartbeat, as well.
“You can sit up now,” he told her after a minute or so. He took the device away. “Your heart sounds good and strong. So does the baby’s.”
Arsenio was next to her on the bed. “That’s good to hear, Doc, and she does seem stronger. But she still gets dizzy and needs help walking.”
“It is so damned frustrating!” Laura added.
The doctor considered how to proceed. “Do you know how that pumper truck the town has works?” He asked, after a moment’s thought. When they both looked confused, he continued. “There’s handles on both sides that folks move up and down to build up pressure. That pressure pushes the water through the hose, so it shoots out at the fire.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Laura asked.
“If people didn’t pump so hard, there wouldn’t be enough pressure. The water would just dribble out of the hose. It wouldn’t reach the fire.” Upshaw paused half a beat. “Your heart’s a pump, too, Laura, and I don’t think that there’s enough pressure – blood pressure – for your brain to get all the blood it needs, especially when you’re standing up, and the blood has to fight gravity to get all the way up there.”
“Why?” Arsenio asked nervously. “What’s wrong with her?”
“The baby – and, no, there’s nothing wrong with the baby, not as far as I can tell, anyway. It just needs her blood, too. It’s like… like if we added a second hose to the pumper, but we didn’t pump the side handles any harder than before.”
Laura finished for him. “The water wouldn’t shoot as far out of either hose.” She took a breath. “So what do we do, Doc?”
“If I’m right – and I think I am – there’s some medicines I can give you to strengthen your heart and to enrich your blood. That should do it.”
Arsenio stood and vigorously shook the physician’s hand. “That’d be great; thanks.”
“I’m not promising. The theory is new, but it fits her symptoms, so it should work. Laura, you might still want to stay bedridden for the rest of your pregnancy anyway, just to be sure.”
He didn’t add that low blood pressure might be a problem for both the mother and the baby, especially during delivery. ‘No sense to worry them, now,’ he thought. ‘It’s enough right now that I’m worried.’
* * * * *
“Hey, Molly,” Jane said, walking over to where Molly was sitting on a barstool. “Can you come into the kitchen for a minute?”
Molly nodded. She handed R.J. the magazine she’d been reading. “Would ye be putting that under the bar for now?” She stood and started towards Jane. “What’s going on,” she asked as they walked through the door and into the kitchen.
“That!” Jane pointed to Maggie, who was sitting at her worktable, staring down at the table and muttering softly to herself. “I can’t get her t’stop.”
Molly hurried over. She pulled a chair up next to Maggie and sat down, her arm going around the woman at the same time. “Sure, now, whatever’s the problem, Maggie, for ye t’be carrying on like that?”
“Er-Ernesto, after two weeks he… he still hates me.” Maggie shifted in her chair. She raised an arm up and around Molly’s neck and rested her head, her eyes moist, on the barmaid’s bosom. “H-Hates me.”
Molly pulled Maggie close. “Thuir…thuir, now.” She began a gentle rocking motion, as if comforting a small child. “I’m sure he does nothing of the sort.”
“Sí, sí, he does. He ran off to school this morning without letting me hug him. He barely said goodbye to anyone. He never talks to me anymore.”
“Thuir must be something truly awful bothering him, for him t’be acting like that.”
Jane came over to where they were sitting. “He found out ‘bout Maggie; why she came t’Eerie with the Hanks gang and how they all got changed into gals.”
“Och! When Ernesto and Lupe first arrived, Ramon ‘n’ Maggie told them that she turned into a gal so she could be taking care o’the pair of ‘em like a real mother would.”
Maggie raised her head. “Sí, and now… now he knows that I lied to them.” She sniffed, wiping her eye. “He think that I-I do not… do not love him, and, sí, he does hate me – for lying.” A tear ran down her cheek.
“Hogwash!” Molly said angrily. “If thuir’s a child in this territory that’s loved more ‘n ye love them two darlings of yuirs, I’d like t’be meeting him.” She took a handkerchief from her apron pocket and handed it to the tearful cook.
Maggie dabbed at her eyes. “I-I tried to tell him that – tried and tried. So did Ramon, but he… he would not listen. I do not know what else I can do.”
“Neither do I – exactly,” Molly told her. “But I’ll be knowing by tomorrow. Ye tell him t’be coming in here t’see me after school. Tell Ramon that I want t’see the boy, too. That way, Ernesto can’t be hiding out over at Silverman’s.” She sighed. “I’m his gran – so ye say – and we’ll be seeing if I can’t be knocking some sense into the lad.”
“Th-Thank you, Molly.” She hugged the older woman. “Thank you so, so much.”
“Ye don’t need t’be thanking me.” Molly patted the young mother’s head. “I had t’do it,” she answered with a chuckle in her voice. “I seen on the menu that ye’re making beef stew tonight, and if ye started blubbering, ye’d have watered it down to beef soup.”
* * * * *
Martha Yingling knocked on the closed door of her husband’s study. “Thad?”
“What!” He yelled, but a moment later, he added in a much softer voice, “I’m sorry, Martha. Please, come in.”
She opened the door and walked in. She was carrying a tray with two glasses. “I thought we might share some lemonade.” She set the tray down on a bookcase and handed him a glass. “How’s this week’s sermon coming?”
“Horrible.” He pointed to the blank sheet of paper in front of him on his desk. And to the crumbled sheets in the nearby wastebasket. “I’m too upset to write anything – anything meaningful, at least.” He sipped at his lemonade.
She took the other glass from the tray and sat down across the desk from him. “Yes, I could see that last night when you told me how the Judge managed to get the motion of support tabled.”
“I had not realized until yesterday the depths that man has descended to. Saying that we could resolve – could compromise, perhaps – on my concerns by holding a meeting of that unholy committee. As if I could ever compromise with evil in any form.”
“Surely you can’t be calling Parnassus Humphreys evil. We’ve known the man for years, and he always struck me as a good man, a strong supporter of the church, and… of you.”
“He is not supporting me – or the church – now. He is opposing them both.” He sighed. “I don’t know whom I am more angry at, Judge Humphreys or Liam O’Hanlan.”
“Liam O’Hanlan, what did he do to distress you?” She took a quick drink.
“He showed up with those absurd challenges from the Mexicans.”
“Whatever is the matter with them? I never cared much for baseball games, but I am planning my basket for the auction.” She chuckled. “And you’d better bid high for it.”
“I shall, and I’m sure that it will be worth whatever it costs me, but that is my very point.”
“I don’t understand. How can my basket be a problem?”
“It’s not your basket, my dear. It’s everything, both of the challenges. After the meeting, I tried to talk to Horace Styron about what we would do at the Judge’s meeting on Monday.” He snorted. “All the man could talk about was the church’s baseball team, the…Eagles: what the team uniforms should be and who he hoped would try out for the team.”
She tried to act upset. “Oh, dear.”
“And Cecelia Ritter and her friends were just as bad. They twittered on and on about their own picnic baskets until I finally gave up and came home.” He shook his head in disgust. “You can see why I am so disturbed.”
“I can, indeed.”
* * * * *
Friday, June 07, 1872
Arnie and Dolores walked towards the Saloon. Arnie had to walk briskly to keep up with her taller cousin’s stride. “Dolores,” Arnie said suddenly, “I have decided.”
“Decided what?” Dolores asked, even though she expected that she already knew the answer.
“I-I want to learn to dance, so I can work for Shamus as a waiter girl on Saturday nights.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I-I am.” She sighed. “I am tired of cleaning tables, while everybody else dances. And it seems like… fun.”
“It is fun, especially if you like the person that you are dancing with.”
“That is not possible for me. Even if I do want to learn how to dance – and I do, I am really a man, and I would be dancing with… other men.”
Dolores gave her a skeptical look. “Well, your body will like it, I think, whether you do or not.”
“My body…” Arnie considered her cousin’s words. “Sí, my body may like it.” She frowned at the way her body warmed at the thought of dancing with men.
“Especially if the man you are dancing with is Hedley Spaulding.”
“H-Hedley?” She stopped in her tracks. “Why do you mention him?”
“Because he was the one you talked about when you first asked me about dancing.”
“That was only because he was the one who taught me the waltz.”
“Ah, I see. One always remembers her first teacher.”
“Yes, that-that must be it.”
“I will be happy to teach you, but the lessons cannot be very long. We both have a lot of work to do.”
“Maybe in the morning… before we leave to go over to the Saloon?”
“That might do it. In a week, two at the worst, you will be ready to dance with anyone who gives you a ticket – even Hedley.”
“Thank you, Dolores.” Arnie gave her cousin a hug. She hoped that the talk of dancing was over, but, in her mind, a voice was saying, ‘Especially Hedley.’
* * * * *
“Hola, Liam,” Luis Ortega called out as he walked over to the counter at the Feed and Grain. “I see that the two challenges were accepted.”
Liam grinned. “They surely were, but how’d you know?”
“There must have been a dozen women from your church in my store yesterday asking about ribbons and dried flowers and this or that special ingredient that they had to have before the Fourth of July Picnic.”
“Have the women from your church heard about the challenges yet?”
“Sí, the Padre announced them at the evening Mass last night and at this morning’s Mass, as well. I expect the Mejicanas to be in the store today, asking the selfsame questions.”
Liam chuckled. “These challenges are certainly going to help your business.”
"Sí, but for a good cause. I will do well by doing good, as somebody must have said.”
Kaitlin joined the men. “You two can gloat all you want, but, Luis, you just better make sure to have that vanilla extract I asked you about.”
“Of course, Señora O’Hanlan.” He bowed low. “I did not know that you were working here.”
“I’m only here for a few days,” she told him. “Trisha is helping out at Roscoe Unger’s while he’s in Doctor Upshaw’s infirmary.”
The man nodded. “It is always good to help a friend, just as I was glad to help you, Liam.”
Kaitlin gave them a suspicious look. “Help him with what?”
“Don’t tell anybody,” Liam replied. His finger raised in front of his mouth as if silencing a conspirator. “Those challenges were my idea as much as they were Luis’.”
“Sí, I am one of the captains of the church team, and he asked me to issue the challenge.”
“And I remembered the block association back east doing one of those picnic basket auctions. I think you can figure out why Luis was so happy to go along with it.”
Kaitlin gave them an appreciative nod. “I can, but it’s still a good idea. I’m just worried that the game may increase the rivalry between the two teams, not decrease them.”
“It might,” Liam said, “except that I’ve been talking to Whit Whitney about the town sponsoring a team made up of players from both teams.”
“I didn’t know that Whit was interested in baseball.”
“Who do you think will be umpiring the game at the picnic? Whit’s a Yankee born and bred, but his wife’s a Mejicana. He’ll be fair.”
“Sí, and if there is to be a joint team – an Eerie team that will be playing other towns, then the game on the Fourth is a practice game, a try-out for those who want to be on the town team.”
Liam finished the thought. “And the whole town will pull together for that.”
“You’re a clever man, Liam O’Hanlan.” Kaitlin leaned in and kissed his cheek.
He smiled. “I must be, if I can get a pretty girl like you to kiss me.”
“I also think that you are a clever man, Liam,” Luis said, “but you will forgive me, I trust, if we only shake hands.”
* * * * *
Molly was in the sitting room of the small apartment on the second floor of the Saloon. She was working on a blanket she was making for Laura’s baby, when she heard a knock on the door. “Abuela?” came a child’s voice from the hall. Molly had encouraged Maggie’s children to use, “Abuela”, the Spanish word for "Grandmother”, with her.
“The door’s open, Ernesto,” she said, putting her knitting back in the basket. “C’mon in.”
He did. “Mama said that you wanted to see me. Uncle Ra… Señor de Aguilar knew it, and he wouldn’t let me stay at Zayde’s store until I came over to see you.”
“Well, now, I’m glad t’be hearing ye was so eager t’be seeing me.” She smiled wryly and pointed to a chair. “Close the door and sit there. Me ‘n’ ye need t’be talking.” She waited until he had obeyed. “Now, what’s all this I hear about ye being mad at yuir mama?”
He looked away, his fingers tensing into fists.
“Ernesto!” Molly said firmly.
He looked her in the eye. “She lied to me.” He spat out the words. “To me and Lupe both. She told us that she changed into a lady because she loved us. But she really got changed because she came to town with the other men to rob and to kill. It was a punishment.”
“And who told ye this tale?”
“Abe… Abe Scudder. I beat him in a race, but he said that I had cheated. Then he said that I didn’t follow the rules just like my – he called her a potion freak – my… Mama.”
“And ye believed him – instead of yuir mama, I mean.”
The boy shook his head. “No, I hit him, and we fought. Señora Stone sent home a note, and when I asked Mama about what Abe said, she… she admitted it.” His eyes narrowed in anger. “To lie like that, she must not have loved me.”
“Growing up means a lot of things. One thing you find out is that people – even good people – sometimes do things they feel sorry for later. Maybe your mama loved ye too much t’be hurting ye by telling ye the truth. Or maybe she was ashamed o’what happened, and she didn’t want ye t’be thinking less o’her. Did ye ever think o’that?”
“N-No.”
“Ye say that yuir mama don’t love ye. Does she love Ramon?”
“Sí, she loves him very much.”
“And he loves her, don’t he?”
Ernesto looked confused. “V-Very much.”
“Then I want ye t’be thinking ’bout this; if the two o’them loved each other so much, why’d they take all them long months t’be getting married? I’ll be telling ye why. Maggie – yuir mama – promised yuir… yuir real mama --”
“Mama Lupe, she promised Mama Lupe not to get married?”
“Sort of; she promised yuir… Mama Lupe not t’be getting married till she found somebody that’d love ye ‘n’ yuir sister enough t’be wanting to help her take care o’ye.” She saw his surprised expression and pounced. “Aye, that’s right, Ernesto. The mama that ye say hates ye waited until she was sure that Ramon’d love the two o’ye that much before she married him, the man she loved.”
Ernesto shook his head. “I… I do not know…”
“Here’s one last thing for ye t’be thinking about. What makes ye madder, the fact that yuir mama didn’t tell ye everything, or the fact that the Scudder boy teased ye? If the one ye’re really mad at is that other boy, then ye shouldn’t be taking it out on yuir poor mama.”
The boy’s brows were knit with puzzlement. “I-I do not know.”
“Ye need some time, I’m thinking, t’be figuring all this out.” When the boy nodded in agreement, Molly added, “Well, don’t ye be taking too long, it ain’t fair to yuir mama.” She tossed him a toffee from a candy dish on the table. “Thuir’s something t’help ye get started.”
He caught it one-handed. “Thanks, Abuela.”
“Now, scoot. Yuir Uncle Ramon and yuir Zayde Silverman are waiting for ye back at thuir store.”
* * * * *
“Thad!” Judge Humphreys shouted, waving his arm. “Reverend Yingling, over here.” Once he saw that he had caught the other man’s attention, he hurried over. “I’m glad I ran into you.”
The Reverend cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Yes, amazing accident, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is. I was just in Lyman’s getting some cigars.” Humphreys held up the box of El Plantadors. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the meeting on Monday.”
“Haven't you done enough, just forcing me to attend?”
“Forcing you? Thad, you're the chairman of the committee. What is the matter with you?”
“You...and the benighted committee are the matter.”
The two men were standing alone on the wooden sidewalk. “Let’s just sit down here and talk for a few minutes.” The Judge pointed to a long bench positioned against a storefront.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Sure you do. You can explain to me why my usually reasonable minister is suddenly so obsessed about Shamus O’Toole’s potion. In the years I’ve known you, you never carried on this way about anything else.”
Yingling stiffened. He glared at the other man. “I have always been opposed to evil, and this potion is truly a thing of the foulest evil.”
“Foulest evil?” Humphreys snorted. “Don’t you think that you’re exaggerating… maybe just a little?”
“No, that potion is evil. It must be kept out of the hands of… of anyone, any innocent who might be transformed by accident or… wrongful intent.”
“Anyone?” The Judge studied his friend’s – surely not his former friend’s, he hoped – face. “Are you thinking of someone in particular, Arnie Diaz… Trisha O’Hanlan… or is there someone else?”
The minister scowled. “I have said enough. I will make my thoughts fully known at that meeting on Monday.” He stormed off without another word.
“I wonder if you really will.” Humphreys said thoughtfully. “There’s something very wrong, and I doubt if you’re anywhere near ready to talk about it.” He sighed. “In the meantime, it’s tearing you – and this whole -- town apart.”
* * * * *
Clyde Ritter leaned back in his chair at “Maggie’s Place”, the Eerie Saloon restaurant. He smiled, as he watched Flora working the bow on the small package he had just given her.
“I wonder what…” Flora opened the small wooden box that had been inside. “Oh, Clyde,” she cooed, “It’s… it’s lovely.” She held up the present he’d promised her. It was a broach, dark brass-colored filigree surrounding a round piece of polished jade.
His smile broadened. “I’m glad you like it. I think the stone comes close to matching those pretty eyes of yours.”
“Really?” She studied the broach. She was no expert on jewelry, but it looked expensive – at least, by the standards of Eerie, Arizona. Rosalyn had been right; it wasn’t that hard to get a man to give her things, but some sort of payoff was necessary. She decided to set the rate before Clyde asked for more than she was willing to give.
She slid her chair next to his. “And here’s something from me in return.” She cupped his head in her hands and moved in close, taking the initiative. She ran her tongue across his lips. He took the hint, but before he could slip his tongue into her mouth, she invaded his.
‘Oh, Lord,’ he thought. ‘I wonder what else she can do with that tongue of hers.’ His manhood stiffened, eager to find the answer.
Flora felt her body reacting to the torrid kiss. His tongue – and, now, his hands, as they kneaded her breasts, spread sexual energy through her like wildfire. Her growing carnal hunger made her press her body against his.
‘Slow down, Flora,’ she told herself. ‘All you want right now is to thank him for the broach and to prime the pump for future gifts – and favors.’ Her mind agreed. That was all it wanted, but her body had much different notions. Damn! No wonder the Hanks Gang acted the way they did.
She forced herself to pull away. “See what happens when I get things I like.” Her tone was breathless, but not with stress. It was low, seductive.
“I certainly do, and I’d love to keep talking about it, preferably in a more private place.” His eyes glanced up at the second floor of the Saloon.
She had him – but she didn't want him to have her! “That would be… nice, but I-I couldn’t; not tonight. I’m so nervous about our new dance that I… well, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.”
“I’ll be right in front when you girls go on. And I’ll be here to rave afterwards about how good you were. Maybe we could… get together between shows for that private talk.”
“There really won’t be time; not to do it right, anyway. Besides. Molly will be watching me – watching all three of us, actually.” He was eager; too eager. How could she hold him at bay until she got some more loot and that special favor out of him? Flora had an idea. “I’m not ready to go… upstairs.” She said the last word in a sultry whisper, looking away shyly. “But next week – especially if you bring me another nice present – we can go out back. It’s nice and private there, and we can talk… or whatever.”
He frowned. “That’s certainly worth thinking about. I won’t be able to stay around after your second show tonight, unfortunately. I can’t be in here on Saturday or Sunday, either, but we can do… something, when I come in one night next week.”
“Maybe.” She smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You come in next week -- with another present, of course – and there won’t be any maybe about it.”
It was risky, she knew, but she wasn’t promising what she’d do in return for another present. The way she had him wrapped around her little finger, getting him to hire some men to beat up Shamus and the Judge seemed like it should be easy.
* * * * *
Flora joined Nancy and Lylah, who were standing just “offstage”, under the stairs. “Are you two ready?” she asked, her face slightly flushed.
“I-I guess,” Lylah replied nervously.
Nancy frowned. ‘Am I ready? Shamus’ll be introducing us in a minute. If I go out there with these two, there’ll be no turning back. My old life will be lost to me forever.’
She saw herself in front of a firing squad, blindfolded and dressed in her most demure dress. Another Nancy Osbourne, this one wearing her Cactus Blossom costume, held a sword in one hand. A squad of “Nancys”, all in identical cancan outfits, were pointing rifles at her.
All of a sudden, Cecelia Ritter stood behind the blindfolded Nancy, working on the knot on the kerchief covering her eyes. “You need not do this. You can come with me.”
“With you?”
Cecelia started on the rope holding Nancy’s hands tied behind her back. “Yes, we’ll put you in a special place where you’ll be free to do whatever we tell you.”
“N-No,” the Nancy protested.
“Oh, but you must come with me. You’re a lady. You don’t want people to say otherwise. Isn't being a lady the most important thing in the world? You showed us so many times that you would do anything, endure anything, so we would let you think you were welcome in our company.”
“Maybe… Maybe it isn’t enough anymore.” She pulled off the wrap over her eyes.
Cecelia looked disgusted. “In that case, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”
“Ready… aim… dance!” The Nancy with the sword commanded. The squad was suddenly playing music. The once blindfolded Nancy began doing the spins and high kicks that were part of the act. She did one kick right over Cecelia’s head, knocking off her hat. The woman crumpled to ground and vanished.
“So there, Cecelia,” Nancy said in a determined voice.
“What did you say?” asked Lylah.
Nancy blinked. She stood with the other two dancers, waiting. She remembered what Carl had once said about breaking horses. He was always more worried just before he got on a wild horse's back than when he was actually siting in the saddle. Nancy was feeling that way now. Maybe her mood came from the music, like a trumpet that began a horse race, but she was suddenly eager for Shamus’ introduction.
* * * * *
The Saloon was packed. As usual, it took something special to lure this many people in at one time.
“If ye would, please,” Shamus said. The Happy Days Town Band played a loud flourish. Shamus stood with them on the small stage. “Here they are, gents, the ladies ye came t’see, the Eerie Saloon’s lovely Cactus Blossoms! Tonight, joining them for the first time, will be a lady the whole town has known for quite a while, Miss Nancy Osbourne!”
The band began the E major final movement of the overture to l’opera Guillaume Tell. Lylah, Flora, and Nancy stood together at the far right of the space where Maggie’s tables normally were.
As the music began, they let out a resounding “Whoop!” that startled more than a few of the men in the audience. A moment later, they grasped the front of their dark green skirts with hands set a foot apart and lifted them very high, showing their layered petticoats, short, pink drawers, and shapely legs. They waved the skirts back and forth in time with the music, doing a series of lively jig steps. The three then lifted their left legs to bring their knees up to about waist high. They bent their knees until their lower legs were vertical and began to rotate their left feet in small circles to the beat of the music. The movement, a rond de jambe – or as Molly had called it, a “randy jam” – continued for a short time, while the men in the audience hooted and whistled.
Then the trio broke. Lylah danced clear across to the left side of the dance area. When she reached it, she let out a second “Whoop!” Flora did the same, stopping in the middle. All three danced the randy jam, as they moved, still flashing their bright pink undergarments. They continued for a few seconds. Flora whooped this time. At her signal, Lylah and Nancy switched positions, flashing their petticoats as they crossed.
The three rejoined at center stage to form a line, their arms stretched out, so that their fingertips rested on each other’s shoulders. They did a long series of high kicks, toes pointed and reaching up, so that, at the top of the kick, they were above the ladies’ heads.
It was Nancy’s turn to “Whoop!” When she did, the women stopped their high kicks and moved a few feet apart. Each raised her right leg, almost straight up, grabbing her ankle with her right hand. Holding their legs in that position, they turned in circles to the music, and, again, the crowd cheered. Pistols fired, and coins were tossed towards the three dancers. The women yelped, continuing the port d’armes move. They smiled and yelped, throwing their heads back and raising their left arms high in the air.
The dancing continued. The women moved across the stage alone or in groups of two or three, doing another spirited jig. As the music reached its peak, Flora and Lylah were at opposite ends of the area doing randy jams. Nancy was center, doing a port d’armes. She lowered her leg and did a cartwheel, ending up next to Flora. She did a double cartwheel over to Lylah, and then, a cartwheel back to center. When she reached center, she gave another whoop and fell at down into a split. At the same instant, Lylah and Flora whooped and dropped down into splits. A final yelp from the three women, and the music ended.
The applause exploded. The men in the audience rose to their feet clapping and howling. More shots were fired skyward, and more coins hit the floor near the three women.
Flora delighted the throng when she scooped up a golden eagle that landed on the edge of her skirt. She bit it once to see if it was real. It was. She smiled and held it up for all to see. Then she winked at the crowd and stuffed it down into her corset.
* * * * *
Bridget sat at the card table, watching the crowd, including the three men who’d been playing poker, with her as dealer, when the show began. “Un-be-lie-va-ble,” she muttered under her breath. “Stafford’s a rapist and would-be killer, and they cheer and throw money at her just because she prances around and shows them her unmentionables.”
She sat waiting, still angry at what she’d just seen, until the men finally remembered that they had been playing poker. They had cards in their hands, and there was money on the table. Almost as one, they shrugged and resumed the game.
* * * * *
Cecelia was already in bed when Clyde came home. When she heard him climbing the stairs, she quickly closed her copy of Ladies’ Repository magazine and set it on the night table. “Good evening, dear,” she greeted him. “Did everything go well at the livery?”
“The livery…” He looked confused for a moment, but recovered. “Oh, ah, yes; yes, it did.” His tie was already in his hand. He tossed it onto the dresser and began to unbutton his shirt.
His wife watched him, trying to judge his mood. He seemed calm enough, so she decided to change the subject and ask. “Clyde, have you seen that broach my Aunt Clotilda left me?”
“Broach… What broach?”
“That pretty one with the brass filigree and the green gemstone. I-I can’t seem to find it.”
“Have you looked in your jewelry box?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t there.” She sighed. “It’s such a charming…”
He looked daggers at her. “Why bring it up to me? Are you insinuating something, woman?” His voice was a low growl.
“N-No… nothing. I-I just thought you… you might have seen it.”
He slipped his suspenders down off his shoulders, letting his pants fall to the rug. “Well, I haven’t.” He sat down to take off his boots.
“I’ll just have to k-keep looking for it.”
His boots were off now. “Good riddance, I say; it’s a worthless piece of junk not worth wasting your time – or mine – looking for.” He stood, stepping out of his pants. His shirt joined the pants on the floor. Wearing only his union suit, what he usually slept in, he walked over to the bed.
“Yes, dear,” she replied, trying not to let the hurt she felt show in her voice.
Clyde slipped in, under the blankets. “Fine, then. Now turn down that light, so I can get some sleep.”
“Yes, dear.” She turned the wheel that lowered the wick in the oil lamp on her night table. As she did, the room grew dark. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Good night, dear.”
He shifted away from her. “Good night.”
* * * * *
Saturday, June 08, 1872
“Mind that step coming up, Roscoe,” Trisha warned, as they reached the wooden sidewalk in front of his store.
Roscoe made a face. “I’m fine, Trisha. Doc Upshaw wouldn’t have let me out of his infirmary if I wasn’t.” He walked up onto the sidewalk. “See?”
“I know… I just… I worry.” She was on the sidewalk beside him.
He took her hand in his. “And I have to admit that I like having you worry about me.”
“You do?” She felt a warm flush run through her, and she looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
He took a key out of his pocket and used it to unlock the print shop door. “After you, fair lady.” He pushed the door open.
“Thank you, kind sir.” She did a quick curtsey and walked in.
He followed, closing the door behind him and flipping the lock shut. “I’m not quite ready to open for business,” he explained. “I want to see what damage there was, and how well you and Kirby cleaned things up.” He offered her his arm. “Care to give me the grand tour?”
“Where would you like to start?” She smiled and took his arm.
“Upstairs.”
“Roscoe!” She giggled and batted at his elbow.
“I just wanted to see if there was any smoke damage to the stock I keep upstairs.” He raised an eyebrow. “What did you think I wanted?”
“I…”
He grinned. “Just fooling. Let’s start with my office. I can check out the upstairs later.” He sighed dramatically and added, “After you leave.”
“Is that a hint?”
“Of course not; I’m grateful for your help -- and your company.” He smiled and touched her arm. “I just thought that you had to get back to your own business.”
“I do, eventually, but I thought that I’d stay -- for a while, at least – to make sure that you could manage. Your burns…” Her voice trailed off.
“…are pretty much healed. Just a bit of blistering on my arms, and I have a jar of the poultice he mixed up for that.” He waited a half-beat. “You’re welcome to stay, though. You can stay as long as you want.”
It sounded like a good idea. She gave him a shy smile, saying, “Perhaps I will.”
* * * *
Sam Duggan was setting up the bar, when Sophie Kalish came over. “O’Toole upped the ante again last night, from what I hear.”
“He surely did,” Sam replied unhappily. “I was in the back of the room, and I saw it all. It’s three Cactus Blossoms against your four ladies, now, and their act was a real crowd pleaser, too. Scanty new costumes, lots of jumping around, high kicks, and one of ‘em did a double cartwheel at the end.”
“Four queens still beat three of a kind, no matter how much they jump around. You’ll see.”
“Nancy Osbourne was a powerful new draw, just because she used to be our nice-as-pie schoolteacher. She even taught my daughter for a couple years.”
“That's only the power of novelty. In a week, people will be looking at her as just another cancan girl; you'll see. But those cartwheels are slick, I admit. We might be smart to add a few gymnastics of our own.”
He chuckled. “Well, anyway, it'll be four against four when Jessie Hanks comes back from wherever she and that deputy got off to.”
“Is she going to dance, too?”
“No, I suppose not. But combined with the Cactus Blossoms, she'll give us a real run for our money.”
“Maybe we'll get lucky; maybe that deputy and her just run off, and they aren’t coming back.”
“Wish I had your confidence, Soph.” He winked at her.
She leaned across the bar and kissed him on the cheek. “If I got it, it’s yours, Sam. Me and the girls’ll start working on our new routine this afternoon. We'll need one. I never thought that a school teacher and a couple of outlaws would be so good.”
* * * * *
“That will be $5.27 for the laundry, Señora Spaulding,” Teresa said.
The other woman shook her head. “Vida, please call me Vida. I do want us to be friends.”
“Then I am Teresa, Vida.” Teresa unpinned the itemized bill from one of the packages of laundry.
Mrs. Spaulding passed her a five dollar half eagle and two quarter-dollar coins. “Here you are, Teresa.”
“Thank you… Vida.” She handed her the change.
“Would you… do you have the time to stay for lunch? My children and I don’t know many people in town.”
Teresa glanced around. “Where are they, your children?”
“Hedley is doing chores out in the barn, and Clara is in her bedroom. I can get them, if you’d like.”
“No, I was hoping that I could talk to just you… if I may.”
“This is about Annie, isn’t it?”
“Sí, it is. I cannot tell you how sorry she is for what happened. Arnie… Annie worries about your Clara, how she is doing, if she is coughing still, and she hopes that her friend – and Annie calls Clara her friend – is doing well; she thinks of you all as her friends. And she hopes – just as much -- that Clara forgives her. She wants to come, to ask again for you all to forgive her.” Teresa took a breath. “And I ask you to give her that chance. Vida, it hurts me to see my daughter so upset.”
Mrs. Spaulding studied the laundress’ face, looking for any sign of deceit. She found none. “I will admit that I liked Annie. I miss her, and I know that Clara and Hedley do as well. Still, it was not right for her to deceive, no matter how good a reason she thought she had.”
“She knows that, and she is sorry that she lied to you all.”
“I can see that my stew isn’t the only thing I will have to chew over. Let me think about this -- and talk to Hedley and Clara. When you come back with that pile of dirty clothes on Tuesday…” She pointed to a large bag on the floor near the back door. “I’ll give you our answer.”
“Thank you, Vida. That… that is all Annie – and I – ask.”
* * * * *
“Mrs. Diaz!”
Teresa turned towards the direction of the speaker, who was running towards her. “Señor Hedley, what are you doing here?” They were about five houses down from his home.
“I… I wanted to talk to you without Mama or Clara around to listen.” Hedley glanced around as if to make sure. “Did you tell Annie that I wanted to talk to her? What did she say? Does… Does she want to?”
“I told her, but…” She hesitated. “I asked your mother if Annie could speak to her… and Clara. When I get her answer on Martes – Tuesday – I will see about you and Annie talking.”
“But…”
“That is my answer. I will not go behind your mother’s back, and neither should you.” She took a breath. “Do you understand?”
He shrugged. “I suppose.” He started walking towards his house, but after a step, he stopped and turned. “Thank you… I guess.”
* * * * *
It was the usual, busy Saturday night at “Maggie’s Place.” Shamus led Luke and Lylah to the only open table. “Here ye go, Mr. Freeman… Miz Saunders.”
“Thanks, Shamus.” Luke pulled out a chair for Lylah.
Thomas and Zenobia Carson and their three children were seated at the next table. When they saw Luke and Lylah, the two older girls shifted to seats farther away. Thomas leaned over and put his hand on Shamus’ arm. “Do they have to be seated here?”
“Mr. Freeman…” Shamus turned back to Luke. “…do ye mind --”
Luke shook his head and looked angrily over at Carson. “We ain’t leaving, Shamus, so don’t ask.”
“That ain’t what I was going t’be asking ye, sir. I wanted t’be knowing if ye minded sitting next to people like them?”
Zenobia scowled. “How dare you?”
“Thuir money’s as good as yuirs, Mrs. Carson,” Shamus said in a firm voice. “And, t’my mind, thuir manners is a whole lot better.”
Carson rose to his feet. “We don’t have to put up with that sort of rudeness, O’Toole. Come, Zenobia… children, we’re leaving.”
“And I’ll not be stopping ye. As soon as ye pay for yuir meals.” Shamus moved to block their way.
“I have no intention of paying,” Carson replied indignantly, and Zenobia quickly agreed.
“Is yuir intention t’be spending the rest o’the weekend in jail? ‘Tis against the law t’be skipping out on a bill.”
Carson looked shocked. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m afraid that he’s telling the truth.” Milt was having an early dinner with Jane, and they were both close enough to have heard the argument. “It is illegal to avoid paying a restaurant bill, and you’d have to stay in jail until the Judge convenes court on Monday. His usual sentence for that is a week in jail, but – sometimes – he’ll throw in a twenty-five dollar fine besides; plus your paying the bill, of course.” He winked at Shamus. “And since Mrs. Carson was so quick to agree, he might just find her guilty, as well.”
Zenobia snorted. “Pay the man, Thomas, so we can get out of this horrid place.”
“Very well, O’Toole.” Carson took out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”
Shamus gestured for Dolores, the waitress for that evening, to come over and hand him the bill. He examined it for a minute, before he spoke. “Twenty-five dollars’ll be covering everything, I’m thinking.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“No more outrageous than the twenty-five each the both o’ye’d be paying. ‘Tis what ye owe for yuir meal… a nice tip for yuir waitress, and…” Shamus paused for effect. “…the cost of dinner for these two…” He pointed with a nod of his head toward Luke and Lylah. “…by way of apology for being so rude to ‘em.”
Carson turned red. “I’ll be damned if I’ll buy dinner for a pair of niggers.’’
“That’s all right, Mr. Carson,” Luke answered with a chuckle. “It’s payment enough knowing that Lylah ‘n’ me done chased you ‘n’ yours outta here.”
Shamus smiled. “I told ye, he had better manners. Now the bill’s only twenty dollars.”
“Here, damn your eyes.” Carson threw a gold eagle down on the floor. “And it’ll be a cold day in Hell before we come back in here. And we'll see to it that our friends won't eat here either.”
The barman chuckled. “Promise? ‘Cause I’m always looking t’be getting a better class o’people into me place.”
“Damn niggers, causing all this trouble.” Zenobia muttered. “Come, children.” Tom, the youngest protested; he’d been enjoying the meal, but the others looked relieved as they followed their parents out of the Saloon.
Lylah was still standing next to the chair that Luke had pulled out. “Now that we’s rid o’that white trash, lemme help you,” Luke said, taking hold of the chair.
“Gotta do something first,” she said. She kissed Shamus on the cheek. “Thanks for your help, Shamus; ‘n’ you, too, Luke, for defending me.” She moved in and kissed his lips before she sat down.
Luke helped her move in close to the table. “My pleasure, Lylah; my pleasure.” He took the chair beside her. “I looked forwards t’having dinner with you too much t’let anything ruin it.” He gave her one of those grins that made her body tingle down to her toes.
* * * * *
“I’ll have the chicken with chocolate,” Kirby told Dolores. “And the lady will have…” He glanced over at Nancy.
She looked up from her own menu. “The fish.”
“The fish.” He repeated her order to Dolores, adding, “With carrots and peas on the side for us both, and a pot of coffee.” Dolores wrote the orders and hurried off.
He looked at her for a moment and began. “So how did it go last night? The dancing, I mean?”
“Very well, thank you,” she said, feeling a little proud. “I think we were a hit.”
“I’m glad for that, I suppose. I still find it unsettling, your being a dancing girl, rather than a school teacher.”
“I’m being myself, Kirby. I’m not saying that the old me was an act. I loved teaching children, but… there was so much that went with it that I didn’t like.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”
“Remember the way Cecelia Ritter and those others behaved at that party behind your store?”
“Yes, but we chased them off.”
“You chased them off. I-I couldn’t. I… worked for them, even if they were trying to get me fired.”
“But you quit right after that, even though the town council wanted to reinstate you.”
She frowned at the tabletop. “Taking my job back meant accepting that they'd try even harder to make trouble for me. Having those people tell me how to live, what to think, who to…” She put her hand on his. “…who to be with.” She took a breath. “I like you, Kirby, but, a schoolmarm is supposed to – isn’t allowed to -- have male friends. That’s why I couldn’t have dinner with you or even let you call on me at the Carson’s house. I would have been fired.”
“So you quit.”
“I spit in their collective eye. I showed them that they couldn’t own me.” Her expression soured. “And do you know what they did, the fine, upstanding folk of Eerie? They sent a letter to Hartford, to the people who trained me as a teacher, pretending to be the Town Council and saying that I was unfit. I can’t work anywhere as a teacher, I have no credentials, thanks to that lying letter.”
“That’s terrible! Why would they do something like that?”
“For spite, nothing more; they expected me to slink off quietly, my tail between my legs.” She tossed her head back. “I took this job to rub their noses in it; to show them that I was free of them, free to live my life the way I feel like living it and… and to Hell with the lot of them.”
“Free of me, too?”
Nancy pursed her lips. “I… I hope not.”
“So do I, because, as much as I liked that quiet little school teacher you used to be, I think I'd like to get to know the new you better.” He took her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and gave it a kiss, all the time, looking into her eyes.
She looked straight at him. “Does that mean you're going to sit in on my next show?”
He thought for a second and then asked a question of his own. “Would you like it if I did?”
Nancy glanced down. “It – It's one way to get to know the new me better, or so I'm thinking.”
* * * * *
“From what I hear,” Cap said, “that was quite a show Shamus put on here last night.” He and Bridget were waltzing around on the dance floor.
She gave him a wry smile. “You sorry that you missed it?”
“Not really; you weren’t in it, so I wasn’t that interested.”
“Are you saying that you’d like me to be a part of all that, kicking up my heels and showing off my unmentionables?”
“Yes, but not in public – just you and me alone.”
She sighed. “Cap, I-I’m still not ready. I still find it hard to be here dancing with you; to have you want to dance with me.”
“Bridget, there’s no one else I would ever want to dance with. I love you, and I’ll keep waiting until you are ready.”
“I know… and the knowing makes it easier for me to keep trying.”
* * * * *
Hammy took Lylah in his arms as the waltz began. “I guess I lost,” he said a few moments later. There was a note of sadness in his voice.
“Lost?” Lylah asked. “Lost what?”
“Lost you, Lylah.” He paused a half a beat. “I seen you ‘n’ Luke, two or three dances back. You was pressing yourself up against him, resting your head on his chest, and smiling t’beat the band.”
“But I –”
“B’fore you start arguing, you ask yourself, is you dancing as close t’me as you was t’Luke. I knows you ain’t got your head on my chest.”
Lylah glanced down. It was true; they weren’t dancing as close.”
“I got ‘nother question for you,”He went on. “If you had your choice – right now – who’d you be rather be dancing with, Luke or me?”
“Luke,” she answered in a soft voice. And from the warm feeling she suddenly felt, she knew that Hammy was right. “I-I guess you’re right.” Then she added. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I, and thank you for saying that last bit.”
“Do you wanna stop dancing then?”
“Hell, no. You is too pretty t’not wanna dance with. B’sides, friends can dance t’gether can’t they?”
“Yeah, I guess they can.” She gave him what she hoped was a comforting smile. “And I’m glad t’still be your friend.”
“Me, too, Lylah,” He said, trying to keep the hurt and disappointment out of his voice. “Me, too.”
* * * * *
Carl stepped up to where Flora was sitting. “My turn,” he told her cheerfully, holding out his ticket.
“Why, so it is.” Flora stood. She took the ticket, put it into her apron pocket, and let him lead her out onto the dance floor.
The music, a sprightly polka, began, and he took her in his arms. “I didn’t get a chance t’say how much I liked your dancing last night.”
“Why didn’t you come over?”
“And get trampled? There musta been a couple dozen men standing around, trying t’talk to you. B’sides, I, uh… I had t’talk to Nancy, her being my sister and all.”
She gave him a sly smile, as if to say, “Of course you did. It was a big night for her, too.” She waited for a moment before actually speaking. “There were probably as many men around her, too. That double cartwheel she did surprised everybody. Molly is already having her teach it to us.”
“I know. I’d forgotten how good she was at such things, and I taught her m’self when she was seven or so.” He chuckled. “She done me proud.”
“And you had to tell her that, didn’t you?”
“After all the fuss I made about her dancing, I surely did – but here I am, wasting time talking ‘bout my sister, when I’m dancing with the prettiest gal in town.”
Flora kissed him lightly on the lips. “That’s sweet; thank you.” She smiled and rested her head on his chest, as they continued their polka.
She could feel the warm glow of sexual arousal sweeping through her body, but there were other feelings, as well. ‘Carl dances with me because he likes dancing with me,’ she thought. ‘Clyde dances with me because he wants to get into my pants.’
It made all the difference in the world.
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 11 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2014
Sunday, June 09, 1872
Father de Castro looked down at his notes for a moment before speaking. “My friends, I have a few quick announcements before the final prayers. Last week, Don Luis Ortega presented two challenges from our congregation to Liam O’Hanlan and the board of the Methodist Church. They have accepted them both.”
“The first, I have spoken of already at the daily Mass. There will be an auction of the picnic baskets at the town Fourth of July festival. The lady whose basket goes for the highest price will win a prize. The high bidder for each basket will share the basket with the lady who prepared it – with a suitable chaperone, if the man is not the lady’s husband, of course.” He stopped for the quick chuckle from the congregation.
“Some of our ladies have told me that they do not feel such a contest is proper. I disagree. Most of the baskets will be won by the husband of she who made it, and what is the sin in doing your best cooking for your husband and family? Since I will be one of the chaperones, and I will be sharing a basket of delicious food, what is the sin in cooking well for your priest?” Again there was a laugh, as the man licked his lips and rubbed his stomach, as if in anticipation of a fine meal.
“Nor should the men feel that they are forgotten. Our second challenge was a baseball game between our own team, the Coyotes, and a team from their church. Gaspar Gomez, you are the co-captain of the Coyotes. Is our team ready for such a game?”
Gaspar stood up. He was a tall, well-muscled man with a broad smile – as usual – on his face. “Padre, on the Fourth of July, the Coyotes will be more than ready to hooowwwlllll!” His voice rose in volume and pitch as he leaned back his head, pursed his lips, and finished with a very good imitation of the southwestern coyote baying at the moon.
The congregation, including Father de Castro, laughed and then burst into a round of applause.
* * * * *
Cuddy Smith nudged the tiny blonde sitting next to him. Cuddy and the blonde, Hettie Morris, were having breakfast with the rest of Sophie Kalish’s dance troupe. “Hettie, honey,” he whispered, “what’s the matter with Opal? She’s been just sitting there, picking at her food, for the last five minutes.”
“Oh, not again?” Hettie looked at her friend, Opal Sayers, a slender brunette, and frowned. “She’s… It’s sort of like homesick, Cuddly. She misses going to church.”
“Church?”
“Shhh! She’ll hear you.”
Opal looked over at them, her eyes flashing. “She already did. What’s so wrong about my wanting to go to church on Sunday, Mr. Smith?”
“Nothing, I guess,” he replied. “You just looked so… miserable, I thought that it would be something more impor --”
She looked daggers at him. “More important; what could be more important than –”
“Opal!” Sophie Kallish interrupted in a firm voice. “How many times have we gone through this? If you want to go to church, just go. I doubt that Sam Duggan would mind, and I certainly don’t.”
The other woman looked down at her plate. “I-I’m afraid to. In big towns it's easy to blend into the crowd; nobody knows your name or your work. I don’t think I’d be very… welcome here.”
Ruth Kantor nodded. “I hate to say it, but she’s right. With all the mishigoss – the craziness – that reverend’s stirred up around about O’Toole and that potion of his, the pious folk of Eerie wouldn’t want a…” She rolled her eyes, as if in shock and held up her hands, pretending to fend off something unwanted. “… dancing girl in their midst.”
“No,” Cuddy said apologetically, “they probably wouldn’t. And it’d be their loss, too, Opal.” He gave the woman a comforting smile. A smile that grew broader, as a thought occurred to him. “I wonder how those fine, upright folks’d feel about two dancing girls.”
Sophie gave him an odd look. “Why? Which of us do you think should go with her, and why would the two of us be any better received than the one?”
“Don’t look at me,” Ruth answered quickly. “I don’t even go to shul for the High Holidays, so I sure won’t go to no church.”
Cuddy shook his head. “None of you, actually; I was thinking of Nancy Osbourne, one of Shamus’ girls, the one who does the cartwheels.”
“She’s the one that used to be a schoolmarm, ain’t she?” Hettie asked, a giggle in her voice.
“The very same,” he said. “She was a regular churchgoer before she ‘fell into sin’ as Reverend Yingling would say. Why she’s in such a state of disgrace that Opal here’d look positively saintly by comparison.”
Opal made a sour face. “That doesn’t sound very fair to her.”
“No, I guess it wasn’t, and… Oww!” He winced as Hettie punched him in the arm. “I was about to say that I was sorry about it. People came down on her real hard, and, the way it sounded to me, there wasn’t much proof to what they were saying. I don’t know that she’s back t’church since, and, if she hasn’t, she probably misses it the same as Opal does. If she has, she’s probably felt one or more set of nasty eyes glaring at her. The two of ‘em can go together and give each other the sort of moral support they ain’t likely to get from anybody else.”
Hettie leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “That’s a wonderful idea, Cuddly!”
“I think so, too, Cuddy,” Opal said. “And I’d thank you myself, but I think I’ll leave that to Hettie.”
The little blonde kissed him again. “And I will thank him, too; just as soon as we get finished with breakfast.”
* * * * *
Reverend Yingling strode confidently over to the podium to begin his sermon. “My friends…” He stopped and poured himself a glass of water. As he drank, he scanned his audience. They were looking up at him, waiting to hear and believe whatever he had to tell them.
“An odd thing happened at last week’s meeting of our church board. We, our congregation, were challenged by the congregation of the Mexican church. These challenges were a surprise, a great surprise, but they were accepted – accepted a bit too quickly, perhaps – but accepted, nonetheless, in the spirit of friendship that should exist between our two houses of the Lord.”
“Now, some might say that the challenge of the dinner basket was an invitation to the sins of pride and gluttony, but this need not necessarily be true. My own dear wife, Martha, has told me that she will be preparing a basket. I have no doubt that the contents will be delicious, and...” He smiled down at Martha. “…that I will have to bid high for it.”
“As to the second challenge, the ball game, I am not as familiar with the game as our team captain, Horace Styron…” He turned and nodded at Styron, who stood for a moment, raised his right arm and waved his fist in a gesture of victory.
Styron was about to speak, when the Reverend interrupted with, “Thank you, Horace,” and motioned for the man to take his seat. Once he had, looking chagrined, Yingling continued. “I have no doubt that you and your team will give your opponents a strong game. And I shall be there with many of you to cheer them on.”
“Yes, these two challenges are most exciting, but in that excitement we must not allow ourselves to be distracted from the far greater, the far more serious challenge of Shamus O’Toole’s potion.”
“The potion is still there, my good friends, still poised and ready to create havoc in people’s lives, to change irrevocably the lives of innocents, to prevent them from attaining the destiny that our Lord has prepared for them. Yes, this, my friends, is what I am trying to thwart.”
“These many weeks, I have striven mightily for the creation of a group of honest, G-d-fearing individuals, men who would assume the responsibility for that infamous elixir and would carry out those duties in a manner far wiser than we could ever expect from Mr. O’Toole.”
“And what have we gotten instead? In their timidity… in their perfidy, the town council did not give us what we wanted, did not give us what we needed. There is no strong body to protect us. There is, instead, an advisory body, a body with no power except to suggest what might be done. And who are they to make their suggestions to? To a man who, I feel, does not begin to grasp the true danger that O’Toole’s foul concoction represents.”
“And a man who managed – by trickery – to tie my hands in my own modest attempts to protest this unacceptable situation.”
Judge Humphreys jumped to his feet. “Now, just a minute, Thad –”
“Let the Reverend speak,” Styron shouted, and a number of voices rose in agreement.
Clyde Ritter rose to his feet. “You didn’t give him a chance at the board meeting, Humphreys. This is his turn.”
“I’ll sit,” the Judge grumbled, as he took his chair, “but this isn’t the end of it.”
Yingling smiled. “No… it isn’t.”
“The Judge has called a meeting of his ill-fated advisory committee…” The Reverend continued, saying the last with disdain. “I shall be there. The only thing that the town council did correctly, I feel, was to name me chairman, but I see nothing useful coming from that meeting. And I intend to put things aright regarding the creation of a proper group to control the potion. And, with your help…” He looked upwards and raised his hands, as if in supplication.” …and our Lord’s, I shall -- we shall – prevail.”
“Amen.”
* * * * *
“You sure you ain’t got no beer, Colonel?” Fred Reinhardt asked for the third time. Reinhardt was a short, heavyset man in an expensive, but ill-fitting, dark gray suit. He had a round face with brown eyes deeply set in a round, jowly face and sparse graying hair.
Priscilla Stafford sighed, hiding her disgust as best she could. It was bad enough to have this horrible little man in her… her father’s house, but to be polite – even pleasant – to him, was almost more than she could bear. Still, it was her father who’d ordered her to be cordial to him, and, so, what choice did she have?
She answered for her father. “We might be able to find something in that line if you absolutely insist, Mr. Reinhardt, but do try this Chardonnay.” She held up her own wineglass, filled with a pale, white wine. “It goes so wonderfully with the trout.”
Priscilla was a tall brunette, with a slender, womanly figure. Her hair fell in ringlets to frame a heart-shaped face with green eyes and full lips. At 22, she was less than half Reinhardt’s age.
“Well now, Miz Stafford,” he said, “since it’s you that’s asking.” He held up his glass in his stubby fingers. “Fill ‘er up,” he ordered the harried butler. All the while he stared openly at Priscilla’s body, trying to better discern her breasts, hidden as they were beneath her high-collared, green silk dress and layers of undergarments.
Colonel Stafford caught his daughter’s look of distaste and gave a quick cough, signaling her to smile.
“Miss Stafford is so formal,” she replied on cue and with no affection in her voice. “Please call me ‘Priscilla’, Frederick… Fred.”
Reinhardt chuckled and took a long gulp of his wine. “Prissy by name, is it. I hope you ain’t prissy by nature.” He laughed and leered at her, never quite lifting his gaze above her neck. He burped and finished off the glass. “More,” he demanded, waving his glass in the air.
“I try not to be,” she answered, taking a bite of lunch. The way the man was guzzling, she had every hope that he’d soon be too drunk to do anything more than fall asleep in his chair. ‘With any luck,’ she thought, ‘he’ll choke on something.’
* * * * *
As soon as the service was over, Judge Humphreys hurried over to the altar where Reverend Yingling stood, gathering up his notes. “Reverend… Thad, what was all that business about the committee and me? You all but branded me as one of the demons of Hell.”
“I am doing the work of our Lord, Jesus Christ,” Yingling answered. “When you oppose me, you oppose Him, and that makes you an agent, a willing agent, of evil.”
“You’re saying that I’m evil just because I disagree with what you want to do about Shamus’ potion. I think you’re obsessed with that stuff.”
“Obsession! My desire to serve our Lord and to protect … protect the innocents of this town is hardly an obsession.”
“Look, Thad, in my own way, I try to do the very same thing. Protecting the people of Eerie is my job as much as it is yours, and you know it.” The Judge took a breath, hoping that his words were having some effect. “We’ve been friends, worked together on various projects, for so many years. In the spirit of all that, can’t you find some room for compromise on this?”
“Compromise; yes, I suppose that I can see grounds for a compromise.”
“Wonderful, what do you propose?”
“If you will cease your insistence on that foul advisory committee and support me before the town council in my original proposal for a body strong enough to wrest control from O’Toole, then I will cease my efforts to denounce the current committee – and yourself as its promoter – as the workings of Satan that it, and you, truly are.”
“What! That… That’s absurd.”
“So is your attempt to change my mind.” Yingling put his papers into his brown leather carrying case. “Now, if you will excuse me, the faithful members of my congregation are waiting for me.”
He closed the case and headed for the small group standing by the door: Styron, the Ritters, and a few others. Humphreys stood, dumbfounded, by the altar shaking his head. “Now what the Hell do I make of that?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.
* * * * *
“Maybe I should get one of those things for myself,” Amy Talbot said, as she and her husband watched Arsenio carefully lowering Laura’s wheelchair down the steps outside of the schoolhouse. Laura was in the chair, leaning back and holding on tightly.
She reached the ground, and Arsenio stepped down and pushed the chair clear. “Are you having ‘baby’ trouble, too?” Laura asked.
“Just the usual for this point – at least that’s what Edith Lonnegan tells me. I feel big as a house, and somebody…” She rubbed her belly. “…keeps doing somersaults. I’ve had a headache for the past week, and – ohh, there I go, carrying on. I’m sorry.”
Laura smiled. “Don’t be. It’s kind of nice to hear someone else complaining about being pregnant. I’m immense, too. My feet hurt, and I’m stuck in bed all day.”
“You know,” Dan Talbot said wryly, “Sometimes, I think women tell stories about being pregnant the way we men tell stories about fishing. Each one’s trying to outdo the other.”
Amy scowled. “Fishing! When you have a… a trout flopping around inside your belly for nine months, you can talk to Laura and me about how hard it is to be pregnant.” But then she took his hand and smiled. “It is worth it, though… sometimes.”
“It does have its moments,” Laura agreed. Arsenio took her hand, raised it to his lips, and gently kissed it. “Besides,” she continued, “I’m almost… done.” She shivered for a moment.
The Sheriff’s wife saw the change in her friend’s expression. “You scared?”
“Never been more scared in my life,” she admitted, squeezing Arsenio’s hand and glancing up at him.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Doc Upshaw and Mrs. Lonnegan came by Friday. They say that they’re as ready as they can be, and that Laura… that the two of us shouldn’t worry.”
“I’m feeling stronger, too,” Laura added. “I wouldn’t even be in this wheelchair, except that a certain blacksmith of my acquaintance keeps insisting on taking it.” She reached up and kissed Arsenio’s hand.
Dan Talbot chuckled. “You should listen to your husband. That’s something wives don’t do near often enough.”
“Dan!” Amy punched him in his side. Hard.
He winced. “Some wives, anyway. I’ve no complaints against mine, of course.”
“Neither do I,” Arsenio replied. “Neither do I.”
Laura giggled. “Now that our husbands have both agreed about what great treasures we are, Amy, I’m afraid that Arsenio and I have to be going. Jane’s cooking our dinner today, and it’s not fair to keep her waiting.”
“If you are able to get about,” Amy said, “why don’t the two of you come over for dinner some evening?”
Laura brightened at the thought of spending some time away from her house. Still… She looked at her husband who nodded in approval. “We’d love to; what night?”
“Wednesday, say… 6 o’clock.”
Arsenio nodded. “We’ll be there, and thanks for the invitation.”
Just then Nancy Osbourne came out of the building. She walked unhurriedly through the schoolyard, pausing briefly to give a smile and a nod to anyone who greeted her cordially. She pointedly ignored the snide remarks and catcalls from others in the crowd. Some men leered, imagining her in the skimpy green dress and flashing pink petticoats of a Cactus Blossom rather than the demure blue dress she had worn to church.
“Miss Osbourne… Miss Osbourne,” Yully Stone called out, wriggling his way through the crowd.
Nancy turned, beaming. “Yes, Yully, what is it?”
“School graduation’s this Thursday, Miss Osbourne. can you come… please?”
If possible, her smile grew even broader. “Do you really want me there?”
“Miss Osbourne, you was -- were -- my teacher a lot longer’n my Ma. You gotta be there.”
Lavinia Mackechnie was standing close enough to hear the exchange. “She most certainly does not. The idea is absurd.”
“It’s my graduation, Mrs. Mackechnie,” the boy replied, “and I want her there. So do some of the others. When Lallie graduates next year, she can decide who she wants.”
“Thank you, Yully,” Nancy said. “I shall be happy to attend.” She couldn’t resist giving Lavinia a quick “so there” bob of the head, as she walked away.
The women watched her start on the road to town. “She gave years of her life to this school. She must miss the old days,” remarked Amy. “Yully Stone just did her a world of good, I think.”
“She's got some courage, to face such a chilly reception by so many people,” added Laura. “She just showed some real ‘cavalry steel,’ as my Poppa used to say.”
“That nice, sweet schoolmarm she used to be. Who would have supposed?” said Arsenio.
* * * * *
Ernesto was playing catch, throwing a ball against the back wall of his house and trying to catch it when it bounced back. Lupe sat on the porch with her doll, Inez, watching him. Finally, she got up and came over to him. “Ernesto, are you still mad at Mama?”
“What?” He was so surprised at her asking that he missed the ball and had to scramble after it across the yard. “Why do you ask?” he said, when he came back.
“Inez wants to know – and so do I. It is silly to be so mad for so long.”
“She lied to me – to us both, Lupe. That was not right.”
“You made her cry. That was not right, either. She is still very sad. I can tell. And it makes… Inez cry.”
“Inez is just a doll. She cannot cry.”
“She is my baby. Do not be so mean to her.” Lupe hugged the doll. “It is all right, mi pequeña [my little one]. Mama is here.” Her eyes glistened while she tried to comfort the doll. “He will not hurt you.”
After a moment, she continued. “We were all so happy when we first came to Eerie, so happy to be together, to be a family again. Why does it matter so much to you how it happened?”
“Because it is important.”
“Isn’t Mama important, too?” Lupe stood up, scowled at him. “You always said she was.” She scowled again and walked back into the house.
* * * * *
“Ernesto Sanchez, it is time.”
Ernesto looked up to see a strange, a grave looking man in a black suit. “Time, time for what?”
“Time to leave. Your mother is a bandit and a liar. You and your sister cannot live with her anymore.”
The boy shook his head. “No… No.”
“You said so yourself, Ernesto. She lied to you.” The man made some sort of gesture, and Ernesto was suddenly in chains, marching forward slowly, as much as he tried to resist.
A wagon stood in the street a few feet away. The back was a large metal cage. Lupe was inside, dressed in rags. She was trying to reach through the bars to Mama who was trying to reach in. Both were chained, so that, at best, their fingers could barely touch.
A door opened in the cage. The man picked up Ernesto and tossed him in. “What’s this?” the man asked in an angry voice, grabbing for the doll at Lupe’s feet.
“She is my baby,” Lupe answered in a small, scared voice. “Inez.”
He tossed the doll to the street and slammed the cage door shut. “There’s no such thing as a baby – or a mother’s love.” He clambered up into the wagon’s seat. “Not at your new home.” He flipped the reins, and the wagon started moving.
Ernesto scrambled to Lupe’s side. They tried and tried to reach through the bars towards Maggie, but the chains stopped them.
“Ernesto! Lupe!” Maggie fell to her knees, crying, her own arms outstretched as they moved farther and farther away from her.
“Mama!” Ernesto sat up in bed, his eyes wide and filled with tears and his body covered with cold sweat.
* * * * *
Monday, June 10, 1872
“Ernesto,” Maggie said in an exasperated tone. “You have been staring at me all through breakfast. What is wrong now?”
The boy blinked and jerked his head back, startled. “Nothing is wrong… Mama. I-I was just trying to… I do not know how to… to apologize to you.”
“Just say what is in your heart,” Ramon told the boy. Maggie sat where she was, looking surprised and uncertain. Ramon reached out and held her hand.
“Mama,” Ernesto said softly. “I-I was wrong to say what I did. I love you, Mama, and I am... sorry.”
Maggie rose from her chair and quickly knelt down, her arms outstretched towards her son. “Ernesto!” was all she could manage.
“Mama!” He moved quickly to her from his own chair, and they embraced. Maggie kissed his cheek, while he hugged her as tightly as he could.
“Ernesto,” Ramon asked, rising to his feet. “Do you know the difference between a boy and a man; not that one is bigger or older, the real difference?”
The boy looked up at him. “A man does not make such stupid mistake as I did?”
“A man can make as stupid a mistake as any boy – maybe even stupider ones.” Ramon paused a moment for emphasis. “The difference is that, when you tell a boy that he made a mistake, he yells, and hits people, and acts badly.”
“Like I did,” Ernesto replied, looking down at the floor.
Ramon nodded. “Sí, like you did. A man, when you tell him that he was wrong, he apologizes and tries to make things right.” He reached down, cupping the boy’s chin and lifting it so that they were eye to eye. “And you did that, too. You are not a man yet, Ernesto, but today you took a big step towards being one.”
* * * * *
Bridget set a couple slices of chicken and some coleslaw on her plate. She added three small pickles and walked over to the table where the Cactus Blossoms were having lunch. “You ladies getting ready for another show tonight?”
“And if we are, Kelly?” Flora asked cynically, “What’re you gonna do about it?”
Bridget shrugged. “Not that much; it just holds up my poker game for a little while, but I can manage. I was just thinking how the maneuvers Molly’s got you all doing out there aren’t exactly what you trained for, are they, Lieutenant?”
“At least, I’m doing something, Corporal. You’re just dealing cards; it’s the men that’re playing poker, and I proved weeks ago, that you’re no man.”
“You would certainly know about how men behave – or misbehave, considering the way you’ve been dancing with them, sitting on their laps, and kissing them.”
Flora’s teeth gritted, but she quickly remembered how the Hanks girls, Wilma, Bridget, and Jessie, always acted whenever she tried to bait them. Not getting angry was the best way to shut Bridget up. She lifted her chin and said with a smirk, “Jealous, ‘Miss Bridget’, that the only use any man in this whole town will ever have for you is dealing cards in a poker game you haven’t got the guts to play in?”
Nancy stood up. “Why don’t you two cats go snarl at each other someplace else?” she said firmly. “Lylah and I would like to eat our lunch in peace?” She waited a moment.
“Flora needs t’eat, too,” Lylah added. “Molly wants us upstairs for more practice in a half hour.”
Bridget frowned. She owed Molly a lot. “All right, for Molly’s sake, I’ll let the little slut eat.” She walked away, taking a seat at a nearby table, not completely satisfied with the exchange.
* * * * *
“Shall we begin?” Humphreys asked the men assembled in his office.
Yingling scowled. “I thought that I was supposed to be the chairman of this benighted group.”
“Sorry, Thad,” the Judge said, quickly. “You are the chairman. Would you please start the meeting?”
“If I must.” He slapped the table he was sitting at with his hand. “The meeting is called to order; now what?”
“I suppose that the first thing would be to explain what I want the committee to do.”
Horace Styron raised his hand. “I don’t remember you being named to the committee, Judge.”
“Since the committee reports to me, I’m an ex-officio member,” Humphreys explained. “What I’d like it to do is to work out a set of standards for me. When should a convicted prisoner be offered the potion as a punishment option? Under what circumstances should it be imposed without the defendant's consent? If a person does take the potion, how long should she be sentenced to work for Shamus? That sort of thing.”
“Are we allowed to discuss other matters?” Yingling asked sourly.
The Judge braced himself. “Such as?”
“Such as, where should doses of the potion be stored after manufacture and between uses, and who should have control of those doses?”
“Your committee can make recommendations on any of those things, Thad. I’ll be willing to read and consider anything approved by a majority of the committee members.”
The Reverend rose to his feet, glaring at the Judge. “That is an outrage. These people...” He made a gesture that included, Ortega, Father de Castro, and Shamus. “…will never agree to what I know to be the only proper way of dealing with O’Toole’s brew.”
“I’m always willing t’be listening to a reasonable proposition,” Shamus said, leaning back in his chair, “but I ain’t about t’be approving nothing that goes against me own interests – or against the interests of the town.”
Luis nodded. “That can be said of any of us.”
“I had hoped that I could lead you all to an understanding of what is the Will of our Lord in this matter,” Yingling stormed in his best dramatic voice. “But I see now that my hope was in vain.” He rose to his feet and started for the door, warning, “This is not at an end.” He then left, slamming the door in the face of Horace Styron, who had hurried after him.
Styron stayed in his seat, looking uncertain. “I guess the meeting’s over.” He stated to rise.
“It does not have to be,” Father de Castro said in a calm voice. “I am vice chairman, and we still have three members here – four if you stay, Horace.”
Horace shrugged. “Might as well.” He took his seat again. Maybe he could salvage something from this mess. He could still try and push to get things the way he and the Reverend wanted. At the least, he could pass on to the Reverend -- once the man had calmed down -- what useful information might be had.
“Thank you, Horace,” the priest continued. “As I said, I am the vice-chairman. Anytime Thad Yingling comes back, he can take over. In the meantime, Your Honor, what has been the practice so far as to who gets the option of taking the potion?”
Judge Humphreys looked thoughtful for a moment. “That’s a good question, Padre. As a judge, my job is to get the facts of the case and use those facts to deliver justice or to help a jury do just that. Sometimes, before Zach Levy came to town, I even had to act like a lawyer in the case, questioning witnesses myself.”
“The potion raises a few new issues. We don’t want outsiders to know about it, so it shouldn’t get mentioned in cases with outsiders unless it absolutely has to be. We all know that.”
“Since it changes a man’s life as much as prison time does, a lot more, really, a man gets out of prison. Someone who takes the potion will never change back, according to Shamus. Using prison time as a guideline, I won’t use the potion as a punishment except in major cases.”
“The first time I gave it as a sentence – the Hanks Gang doesn't count, they got the potion before they came into my court – was when Phil Trumbell tried to shoot it out with Wilma Hanks. I gave him the choice, potion or prison time, and he took prison. So did Ozzie Pratt. Jake Steinmetz decided to take the potion” .
“When Forry Stafford and Leland Saunders came before me charged with the attempted murder of Abner Slocum, I didn’t give them a choice. Stafford bragged that he had political connections that could get him out of any reasonable prison time. I’d probably have considered giving the choice to Carl Osbourne when he was charged with robbing Abner – it was grand theft, after all; conspiracy, too, but it turned out he was innocent.”
“How long people have to stay at Shamus’ place after they take the potion is another question, and I’d like to take that up at a later meeting, if you don’t mind. Right now, I’d like to hear what you all have to say about deciding who should get the potion.”
* * * * *
Aaron Silverman looked up at the sound of the bell over the door to his store. “Kaitlin, Trisha… and Emma,” he greeted the people coming in. “What brings the whole O’Hanlan family to my store today?”
“Hello, Aaron,” Kaitlin said. “We’ve come to buy a dress for Emma. She graduates school this week.”
Rachel Silverman came out from behind the counter. “Mazel toiv – that means, congratulations, Emma. Come, we just got some nice, new dresses for you to look at.” She led them over to a long rack of children’s clothes.
“These are very nice,” Kaitlin said after looking at a few of the frocks. “But… do you have something a little more… mature?”
Rachel looked closely at Emma. “For a young lady, you want. Okay.” She walked over to a second rack and pushed a number of outfits away from three dresses near the center of the rack. “These should be her size. For her coloring, I’d say…” She picked one and took out the hanger it was on, so they could see it better. “…this one.”
“Ohh, Mama,” Emma said excitedly. “It’s beautiful.” The dress was emerald green with light green lacework on the bodice, around the cuffs, and along the bottom hem. “Can I… can I try it on?”
Kaitlin smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm. She had changed so much since November. “Don’t you want to look at the others?”
Emma glanced over at the clothes still on the rack. “They’re pretty, I guess, but I really like this one.”
“Then go put it on.” Kaitlin had barely spoken the words, when Emma grabbed the first dress and ran for the changing room.
Trisha chuckled. “That was easy.” She glanced around. “While she’s in there…” She walked towards a small table with several different styles of corsets displayed on it. A couple of them looked like the sort of “man-bait” that she supposed Norma Jean would have liked.
“These are all Thompson’s Glove Fitting corsets,” Rachel said, following Trisha over to the table. “How far along are you?”
Trisha’s eyes went wide. “What? What do you mean?”
“I don’t want I should spill the beans,” Rachel said in a low voice, “but I’ve helped too many pregnant women buy comfortable clothes to not be able to know another one when I see her. But don’t drey your kopf, that means don’t worry, you only show a little… today, anyway.”
“Please don’t tell,” Trisha said, sounding a bit desperate. “Besides my family – and Doc Upshaw and Mrs. Lonnegan, of course – nobody else knows.”
Rachel shrugged. “So who should I tell? You – and that little one – will be letting everybody know soon enough.” She thought for a moment. “Let’s get that dress for your Emma, and you can stay behind and see about a corset, okay?”
“Uh, okay.” Trisha looked very relieved. “And thanks.”
Before the shopkeeper could answer, Emma stepped out from the changing room. The dress fit her perfectly. The lace at her bodice, coupled with the darts sewn into the dress, emphasized her blossoming breasts without being obvious. The garment was cut to show off her narrow waist and wider hips.
“How do I look?” Emma held out her arms and slowly turned around.
Kaitlin sighed. “Like a princess.” She smiled remembering how hard the newly transformed Emma had fought the idea of wearing anything feminine.
“I feel like a princess,” the young woman answered, sounding giddy. “Can I have it; please… please?”
Trisha nodded. “That’s what we came in for. Go take it off, so Rachel can wrap it up.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Emma sprinted back to the changing room.
Kaitlin picked up a small purse from a shelf. “This is almost the same color. It’ll look good with her new dress.” She handed it to Rachel.
“I’ll ring them up together,” Rachel said. “In the meantime, Trisha, why don’t you take another look at the corsets? You should get one at least two or three sizes larger than what you normally wear. And you don’t wear it as tight; that’s bad for the baby.”
Trisha gave a slight shudder. “Every time I turn around, being pregnant gets more complicated.”
“That’s how it works, having a baby,” Kaitlin replied, and Rachel nodded in agreement.
* * * * *
“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar voice said, “are you Nancy Osbourne?”
Nancy glanced up from her copy of Sonnets. The speaker was a slender brunette. “I am… and you are?” She’d seen the young woman strolling along the street once in a while, but didn’t know her name.
“Opal… I’m Opal Sayers.” The woman offered her hand. “I’m one of the dancers over at the Lone Star.”
Nancy shook her hand. “Have a seat then, and tell me what brought you over here.”
“Thank you.” Opal pulled out a chair and sat down across the table from Nancy. “I-I’ve heard about you. I’m… oh, I don’t know how to say it.”
Nancy shrugged. “Just say it, whatever it is.”
“This Sunday…” Opal bit her lip nervously. “I wanted to – to ask…ask if – fooey! N-Nancy Osbourne, will you go to church with me?”
“Why do you ask? You work at Sam’s place, so you can’t be one of those evangelizers.” She smiled ironically. “Not that I need anyone else telling me to save my soul.”
Opal shook her head. “Heavens, no! It’s just… I-I enjoy going to church on Sunday, but… a lot of places, they don’t want to have me there, let alone welcome me in as a new member of their congregation. And the minister here has the people all stirred up even more than usual about something. I-I was afraid to go by myself.”
“I know what you mean,” Nancy replied. “Our Reverend Yingling’s got some kind of bee in his bonnet, and some of the church’s ladies are even worse.”
“Cuddy Smith – he’s Mr. Duggan’s assistant barman – he said I should ask you to go with me… for ‘moral support’, he said.”
Nancy chuckled. “Your Mr. Smith has an odd sense of humor. I’m hardly the most welcome person at the church these days. Still…” Her lips curled in a mischievous smile. “…it might be… interesting to see how welcoming the Reverend and Cecelia Ritter and her friends would be if I show up with another ‘scarlet woman’ next Sunday.”
“You’ll do it? You’ll take me with you next Sunday?”
Nancy nodded. “Sure; you just meet me here at 9:30 next Sunday morning – dress neat, but not flashy – and we’ll walk over together.”
* * * * *
Lucian Stone knocked on the half-closed door to his sons’ bedroom. “Good evening, boys.”
“Evening, Pa,” they answered, not even close to unison.
“Yully, I want to talk to you. Come with me, please.”
“Sure, Pa.” The boy put down his pencil, rose, and followed his father to his parents’ bedroom. As he walked, he tried to think of what he had done to warrant whatever punishment he was about to get. ‘Nothing,’ he decided. ‘I don’t know what he’s mad about.’
Lucian waited for Yully to walk into the room before he went in, closing the door behind him. “You got a letter today...” He picked up a thick envelope from the top of the dresser and tossed it to his oldest son. “…from West Point.”
“West Point?” Yully looked at the packet. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.”
“You never mentioned wanting to go into the Army, and now you ’forgot’ writing to the admission office at West Point? Ulysses Plutarch Stone, what exactly are you up to?”
“Pa, it’s – well, it’s kind of a secret.”
“The reason why you want to go to West Point is a ’secret’?”
“Kind of; we don’t want nobody – want anybody -- to know about that letter.”
“We? Who all is this we?”
“Do I have to tell? I sort of promised.”
“I can respect a promise – you know that very well, but I would like to know what’s going on.” He smiled, trying to reassure the boy. “How about if I promise something? I won’t tell anyone else… not unless I talk to you about it first. Is that acceptable?”
“I-I guess.” He spat in the palm of his hand.
Lucian spat in his own hand, and they shook hands, sealing the bargain. “Now,” the man asked again, “who else is on this, and what are you trying to do?”
“Stephan… Stephan Yingling; he’s the one who wants to go to West Point, not me. I still want to study history at Pappous’ [Grampa’s] school up in Pennsylvania.”
“Your grandfather will be happy to hear that you still want to go to Dickinson, but, if that’s the case, why did you write to the military academy?”
“‘Cause Stephan’s pa won’t let him be anything but a minister. If Reverend Yingling knew Stephan wrote that letter, he’d tan Stephan’s hide.” He swallowed nervously. “So I wrote the letter. We both signed it, but we just wrote my address.”
“Don’t you think that Stephan and his father should be the ones deciding what he does with his life? They don’t need you butting in.”
“Pa, the Reverend don’t care what Stephan wants. He says Stephan has to be a minister, just like all the Yinglings have to be ministers. Stephan’s grampa and his uncle and his father’re all parsons, and his older brother got sent away to some school for ministers about a year after he finished grade school.”
“Surely, Stephan has, at least, talked to his father about his own career choice.”
“He’s talked and talked, but his Pa won’t listen.” Yully took a breath. “Heck, that’s why Stephen ran away. He wanted to show his folks how serious he was. But all he got for it was a whupping, and his Pa got even more set in his mind that Stephan was gonna be a reverend.”
The boy studied his father’s face. “Can I go, Pa? I’ve got still got some homework to do. Ma ain’t -- isn’t going easy on us just ‘cause school ends on Friday.”
“You can go. I may – I will -- talk to your mother about what you just told me, but it won’t go any further.” Lucian made a “King’s X” mark over his heart. “I promise.”
Yully let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Pa.” He jammed the envelope into his pocket and hurried from the room.
* * * * *
“Here we go.” Clyde Ritter led Flora over to one of the benches in the yard behind the Saloon. “Now we can talk in private.”
Flora looked about nervously. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.” She smoothed out her dress, part of her Cactus Blossom costume, as she sat. She knew that it was barely long enough to cover her knees, and she found herself feeling a certain pride in how pretty her legs looked.
“Sure, it is.” He took his place next to her. Very close. His arm snaked around her waist. “We’ve been wanting to be alone – haven’t we? And now we are.”
She didn’t want to be alone with him, but she did want things from him, flattery for a start, which was always nice to get. But, more important, gifts, and then, the real prize, getting him to hire somebody to beat up Shamus O’Toole and Judge Humphreys for what they’d done to her.
And being alone here with Clyde Ritter seemed to be the only way to get those things she wanted.
“I guess we are alone,” she answered in a low voice.
“You are so beautiful.” He pulled her even closer, leaning in as he did, so that their lips met.
Flora’s arms reached up and around him. ‘At least, he’s not too bad at kissing.’ She sighed, consoling herself. Her lips parted and his tongue darted in, playing with hers.
At the same time, his hand moved towards her neckline. It was cut very low. The tops of her breasts were clearly visible – and accessible, since she wasn’t wearing a camisole. His fingers glided down from her throat and on to her left breast, only the tips of his fingers touching her bare skin. It tickled her, and she shivered. Two fingers slipped down into her corset and found her nipple. They rolled it between them, and then one finger stroked it, his rough, fingertip stimulating her tender flesh.
Flora gasped. Tiny jolts of purest pleasure shot from his fingers throughout her body. It was – ooh! – so much better than touching herself in the bath. She arched her back, pushing her nipple against that wondrous finger of his. At the same time, some instinct she’d never known before made her move her knees apart.
Ritter took the obvious hint. His other hand was on her knee, and then moving up and underneath her dress and petticoats, pushing them aside, as it progressed slowly, deliberately, deliciously up her thighs.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she scolded herself. ‘Make him stop, st-stop r-right now – ohh, G-d, doh-don’t!’
The small part of her that was still Forrest Stafford hated the female rapture that Clyde was stirring up within her. The Flora Stafford part of her luxuriated in her passion but hated the fact that Ritter was the one making her feel that way, instead of -- somebody she actually liked.
“And what do ye think the two of ye are doing out here, Flora… Mr. Rittter?” Molly scowled at the pair of them.
Clyde sat back quickly, guiltily yanking his hands away from her. “We’re just… enjoying ourselves, Mrs. O’Toole,” he said smoothly. “Making good use of this bench, as so many others have done.”
“Aye, so many unmarried others,” Molly scolded. “Ye’re a married man, Clyde Ritter. I may not care for the woman, but she is yuir wife. I’ll respect that fact, even if ye don’t.” She drew a breath. “So I’m telling the both of ye t’be getting back inside. Now!”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He rose to his feet.
Flora did as well, but she seemed a bit unsteady as she adjusted her dress. Her face was flushed, her breathing heavy, and her knees wouldn’t work the way they were supposed to. “Can he help me walk in, at least?” she asked meekly.
“Aye, he can do that.”
Clyde stepped over and put his arm around Flora’s waist. “Lean on me” he told her, taking her hand in his. They started walking, with Molly following a few feet behind.
“We’ll have to try that again some time when she’s not around,” he said very softly, as they made their way through the kitchen.
Flora’s strength was coming back, but she didn’t move away from him. She was bemused by the way her body was still reacting to his presence. “We can,” she whispered back, “if you bring me something nice to show me how much you want me.”
A thought came to her. “That ivory pin that Nancy Osbourne said you gave her once, the one she was too silly to accept -- that’d be just the thing.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “But, for now, you’d better go.”
And he did go, not saying a word but frowning thoughtfully.
* * * * *
Tuesday, June 11, 1872
Flora lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling in the darkened room. ‘It felt so good,’ she thought, ‘so damned good that I almost didn’t mind that it was Ritter doing it to me.’
‘That’s… dangerous thinking.’ She shivered and rolled over onto her side. Sweetums was on the bed next to her, and the kitten mewed softly in complaint and darted out of her way.
She stroked its back to quiet it and let her thoughts continue. ‘It’s supposed to be like… fly-fishing. You go out on the Little Colorado, south of Austin and tease those trout, flash your lure, and watch them go for it. Rainbows don’t just swim over and swallow your lure.’
‘And that’s pretty much what Rosalyn told me; flash my lures…’ She raised her head and looked down at her breasts lifting the blanket that covered her. ‘Get men’s attention by acting like a sweet little girl, that’s what she said, do that, and it’d drive O’Toole crazy.’ She chuckled softly. ‘Like O’Toole cares. He and that wife of his’re happy to see me acting the way I’ve been acting. He needs stronger medicine to get his comeuppance. That’s why I want to get Ritter to strike to my bait, so he’ll get somebody to beat the crap out of O’Toole for me.’
‘Only,’ she sighed. ‘Only, tonight, it was Clyde Ritter who was doing the casting. I was putty in his hands, and those hands… mmm.’ A smile came unbidden to her lips, as she remembered. Her body remembered, too. Her breasts were warm, tingling. Her nipples grew tight. Without thinking, her hand reached up to massage one breast, and the sensations grew. It was a good thing that she disliked him; otherwise she wasn’t sure what might happen if they got that close again.
Even so, it was pleasant to fantasize. Her other hand moved downward, her fingertips sliding over the fabric of her nightgown. It reached the juncture between her legs, and two – three – fingers rubbed her nether lips through the layers of fabric. She moaned and fell onto her back, her legs parted slightly to give her fingers better access. She lay there, panting, then her hips began to move to the rhythm of those fingers.
“Ohh… yes… yes – NO!” She spoke the last word loudly. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, and she lay quiet, almost holding her breath, waiting for Lylah to say something.
Instead, all she heard was the other woman’s gentle snoring.
“Close,” she whispered, giving a long sigh of relief. ‘Ritter’s all but got me hooked,’ she told herself. ‘If I’m ever going to deal with him on my terms, I’d better strike now. Yes, tomorrow’s – today’s – the day I ask him for that favor. He’s all but got me – and why did it have to be him, anyway? It wasn’t like she wanted just any man. That last thought startled her. Who would she want touching her like that?
She shrugged and tried to get her thoughts back in line. ‘I may as well get something I want out of it?’ She pictured someone big – she couldn’t see whom – beating Shamus O’Toole into a bloody pulp. Some part of her liked what she was seeing, in a detached way, but she told herself that the real thing would be much better.
* * * * *
“Lookee what came in the mail yesterday.” Yully pulled a package from his school bag and tossed it on the table where the garrison was eating lunch.
Stephan grabbed it and read the return address. “U.S. Mili – It’s from West Point!” He turned it upside down and dumped the contents onto the table. He grabbed for one of the two identical booklets that had fallen out.
A letter was folded inside it. “Dear Mr. Yingling,” he read aloud. “Mr. Yingling, don’t that sound grand? Thank you for your interest in the U.S. Military Academy. The enclosed booklet includes all of the information you will need to apply when you reach the minimum age of…” He frowned. “…seventeen. That’s three years away.”
“Sounds like you just passed the arithmetic test,” Tomas said, trying to add some humor.
Ysabel shot the younger boy a nasty look. “That is not funny. What is Stephan going to do for the next three years until he can apply?”
“Maybe that minister’s school out in Indiana isn’t a bad idea, after all,” Yully said. “Didn’t you say that they covered most of the stuff you need to know for West Point?”
“All but the math -- boy, do they want a lot of that, and I can get that from Ysabel here, if no place else.” He smiled at her.
She smiled back. “Sí, I will be glad to help.”
“I’ll help, too,” Emma said, cocking her head proudly. “Mrs. Stone told me that I won first honors in arithmetic.”
“We’ll all help,” Yully added, “especially Ysabel. You do still wanna be a teacher, don’t you?”
“I do, but the school for teachers won’t take anyone younger than sixteen.” She gave a deep sigh. “My Mama says that I can help out with her laundry business till then.”
“That don’t sound like much fun,” Nestor Stone, Yully’s younger brother, said.
Ysabel shook her head. “It won’t be, but there are not many jobs for a girl my age. Emma got real lucky.”
“It wasn’t luck,” Emma replied. “It was hard work, and a lot of it was because of your helping me catch up in math, Ysabel. You’ll make a real good teacher someday; just wait and see.”
Stephan sighed. “I almost wouldn’t mind going to that school if Pa agreed that it was just till I could transfer to West Point.” He looked around the table, his glance stopping at Ysabel. “I’d miss you – all of you – though.”
“You think there’s any chance your father would let you do that?” Penny asked. “Go for a couple of years, but then switch over to West Point?”
Stephan made a face. “Oh, sure, about as much chance as our seeing pigs flying up over that hill.” He pointed to a hill off to the west of the schoolhouse. As he did, he saw Mrs. Stone come out onto the porch of the building.
“Looks like lunchtime is over,” he said. “You better take this back, Yully.” He handed the booklet over to his friend. “If my Pa ever found it, I’d… He’d whup me good ‘n’ hard.”
Yully put the material back into his book bag. “Okay, but I’ll keep it with me so’s you can see it any time you want.” He paused a beat. “And don’t worry ‘bout my folks. My Pa knows about it, and he promised not to tell anybody else, especially your Pa.”
“Thank Heaven for that,” Stephan answered, looking very relieved.
* * * * *
Tommy Carson stepped carefully through the swinging doors of the Saloon, still remembering how Shamus had treated his parents a few days before.
“Can I help you?” Lylah asked, walking over to where he was standing. If she recognized him as the child of the couple who had been so rude to her, she gave no sign.
The boy glanced nervously around the room. “I was looking for -- him!” He pointed over at Cap, who was sitting, talking to Bridget. Without a word of thanks, he rushed over to the pair.
“‘Scuse me, Mr. Lewis. I got a telegram for you, sir.” He held it out in front of him.
Cap took the envelope. “Thanks, son.” He handed Tommy a nickel. The boy pocketed it and hurried for the door.
“Who’s it from?” Bridget asked.
Cap tore the envelope and took out the sheet inside. “Red Tully,” he said. “I’ll read it aloud for you.” He took a quick breath. “Train leaves for Utah in twenty minutes. No change in Mr. Slocum. Bringing letters for you and Doc. Arrive on June 27. Red.”
“I’m sorry about your uncle,” Bridget said in a gentle voice.
Cap shrugged, taking her hand in his. “Doctor Vogel never promised an instant cure. And ‘no change’ means that Uncle Abner hasn’t gotten any worse, either.” He smiled, noticing that she hadn’t pulled her hand away.
‘Well,’ he thought, ‘something good came out of it, at least.’
* * * * *
“I do not want to rush things,” Teresa Diaz said, trying not to sound nervous as she wrote out the words “Spaulding” and “Sabato” onto a tag. “But have you decided about… my Annie?” She pinned the tag to the bag of dirty laundry they had just given her to clean.
Mrs. Spaulding and Hedley both turned to look at Clara. “What do you have to say on that subject, daughter?” her mother asked in a firm voice.
“I… Well…” The girl fidgeted in her wheelchair. “Yes,” she said, giving a deep sigh. The only other girls she’d had the chance to speak to since sending Annie away weeks earlier were the Carson Sisters. And they only came to flirt with Hedley. They were lying when they asked about her.
Annie had lied, too. She had admitted it, but she did it – so she said – only to avoid embarrassing Clara or her family. She was a much nicer girl -- It was so hard not to think of Annie as a girl.
‘What's more,’ she told herself, ‘Annie must know a lot about boys, and that would be something interesting to talk about.’ She smiled graciously and said, “Mrs. Diaz, would you and… Annie please join us for lunch on Saturday?”
Teresa felt her eyes moisten. “Thank you, Clara… Vida...” She smiled broadly. “We shall be happy -- most happy -- to have lunch with you all.”
* * * * *
“Señora Diaz… Señora Diaz… wait!”
Teresa turned at the sound of her name. Hedley Spaulding was running down the street towards her, waving his arm to get her attention. They were about two blocks away from the Spaulding house.
“Did your mother forget something?” she asked when he finally reached her.
He shook his head, taking just a moment to catch his breath. “N-No… ma’am.”
“She did not change her mind about Annie, I hope.” It hurt to ask, but it was a possibility.
“On, no, this has nothing to do with Saturday, except…” He stopped not sure how to ask what he wanted to ask her.
“What is it then?”
“Can…” He swallowed hard. “Can I talk to her? Is it all right – I mean, now that my mother and Clara are willing to talk to her?”
Teresa tried very hard not to smile. It was sweet, in a way, that the boy and Annie – ‘Arnie’ she reminded herself. ‘I must remember to think of her as Arnie.’ It was sweet the way they seemed to care for each other. Still… “I am sorry, Hedley, but my answer must be, ‘no’, for the present.”
“But why… my mother said it was okay for us all to talk?”
“Hedley, your Mama got mad, and your sister got very mad because… Annie kept a secret from them. Now you want to meet her in secret.” She shook her head. “No, not until after lunch on Saturday?”
He brightened. “But we can get together after that?”
“After that – if it goes well – you can talk to my daughter about it yourself.”
* * * * *
From the June 11, 1872 edition of The Eerie Citizen, an editorial by Roscoe Under:
` A New Game Begins
` Tonight at 6:30 PM, Horace Styron will be holding tryouts for the
` Eerie Eagles baseball team on the grounds of the Eerie Public School.
` The Eagles are sponsored by the Methodist Church, but the tryouts are
` open to anyone. The team’s first game will be against the Eerie
` Coyotes, a team sponsored by the Church of Our Lady of Blessed
` Charity, as part of the town’s Fourth of July Celebration.
` Frankly, The Eerie Citizen is very glad to see the game being
` planned. It is especially glad-making, since the eventual goal is the
` combining the best players from both teams in to an Eerie City Team.
` Recently, political thought – and action – in Eerie has been most
` divisive, splitting our community apart, creating distrust between
` friends and neighbors. Some of this has been due to people who we
` would have expected to be far more responsible, people whose true
` role should be to turn us to the higher path, not to lead us to the
` lower one.
` Now we will have two rival teams, but they will be friendly rivals,
` teammates eventually. Let’s all hope that it can be that way off the
` field, too. Everyone of us working towards their own goals, but all of
` us working in a spirit of friendly cooperation that has been too long
` missing from our public affairs.
` It’s a good sentiment on -- or off -- the field, “Play Ball!”
* * * * *
Constanza was putting the last of the silverware out on the table, when Arnie came through the door. “Mama,” the young girl called out, “she is home.”
“Ysabel,” Teresa said, “watch the food. I need to talk to Arnolda.” She wiped her hands on her apron and walked towards Arnie. “In private; Arnolda, please come with me to my bedroom.”
Arnie nodded and followed her mother. She studied the older woman as she walked. No, there didn’t seem to be any new problem with her leg. “What is it, Mama?” she asked once they were both in the other room.
“Shut the door, please,” Teresa ordered. She waited for the door to close before she continued. “We have an invitation, you and I.”
Arnie stared at her for a moment, before she realized what Teresa was saying. “Mama, do you mean…?”
“Sí, the Spauldings want us both to come to their house for lunch on Saturday.”
“They do?” Arnie’s concerned expression broadened into a grin. “Oh, Mama!” She ran over and embraced her mother.
“You certainly seem happy about lunch,” Teresa teased. “Is Señora Spaulding that good a cook?”
“Not as good as you, Mama. I am happy because -- if she invited me – she, they all have forgiven me, and we can be friends again.”
“All of them? Is there one of them that you especially want to forgive you and to be friends with you, again?”
‘Hedley,’ the answer came at once to her, but she was not going to say it. This was something different from any way she had ever felt before – as a boy or a girl. She looked down at the floor, hoping her mother wouldn’t see her face flush. “Cl-Clara,” she said aloud. “She is the one who was the most upset to find out the truth about me.”
“Clara… of course.” Teresa covered her mouth to hide her expression. ‘Spoken like a girl in love,’ she thought, ‘and trying to hide the fact. Where, oh where, would this lead to? Lunch on Saturday will be muy interesting.’
* * * * *
“Nu, Phillipia,” Aaron Silverman asked, as he took his seat, “have you decided to take our offer?” Aaron was sitting at the table in Whit Whitney’s dining room. Whit and Arsenio Caulder, the other two members of the town council, were next to him. Phillipia Stone sat across the table from the trio.
“It’s a very flattering offer, gentlemen,” she replied, “and I’ll admit that I have enjoyed being a school teacher these past weeks.”
Whit, the chairman, smiled. “And you’ve done an excellent job of it. That’s why we’d like you to stay on as the teacher for the next school year.”
“The problem is, I’m not just ‘the teacher.’ I’m also a married woman with a husband and four children to take care of. Three of those children would be my students next year, as well.”
“You managed to do all that this year,” Arsenio said. “Or were there problems that you didn’t tell us about?”
“Not really, but I was only teacher for a few weeks, and, to be honest, Nancy Osbourne was helping me – in the beginning, at least. I’d like to have some help again next year.”
Aaron shook his head. “Getting Nancy’s help might be a bissel – a little bit – harder next year. The Saloon keeps her -- jumping.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Nancy,” she answered. “There’s… I know of a young woman; she has no formal training, but she very much wants to be a teacher, and I believe that she’d be an excellent one.”
“And who is this jewel?” Aaron asked. “And how much would it cost to hire her?”
“Not very much. In fact, I’d be willing to take a small cut in what you offered me to help pay for her.”
“For who? A pig in a poke, I’m not interested in.” The shopkeeper chuckled. “It ain’t exactly kosher.”
“Ysabel Diaz. She’s one of the two girls graduating on Thursday.”
Whit raised an eyebrow. “She’s barely out of school herself, and you want her as your sort of assistant?”
“She’s been acting as the teacher’s assistant all year. She’d help with the younger students while Nancy or I was working with the older ones.”
“So she’d only be there to help with those younger students; is that what you’re saying?”
Phillipia shook her head “Oh, no… I believe that you’re all familiar with Emma O’Hanlan.”
“Yes…” Whit glanced at his fellow councilmen, both of whom nodded in agreement. “She took a dose of the potion last… November, wasn’t it? She was badly injured, and it saved her life.”
“Yes, but Elmer O’Hanlan was in fifth grade. Emma is graduating eighth grade. Ysabel tutored Emma after her change to bring her up to eighth grade level. In fact, Ysabel is a large part of the reason why Emma is able to graduate.” She paused a beat. “Not only that, Emma has a job with Jubal Cates when she graduates. He’s training her to be a surveyor. That takes a great deal of math, and, as I understand it, Ysabel has been helping her with that, also.”
Aaron stroked his chin. “There’s a saying that even an idiot can be a teacher, bu-ut…” He pronounced the word as if it had two syllables. “…he can’t be a good one.” He studied the woman’s expression. “You , we know, are a good one; so, I ask you, are you saying that she’s a good one, too?”
“I am. She wants to be a teacher, but the new teacher’s college over in Prescott won’t take any students less than 16-years old. I thought that she could get a very good start working with me.”
“Tell me one thing, Phillipia,” Arsenio said. “Will you take the job – even if we don’t hire Ysabel Diaz?”
“I will, but I’ll be able to do a better job for the children if you do hire her.”
Whit rose and reached across the table. “The job is yours, then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whitney… gentlemen.” She shook Whit’s hand. “But what about Ysabel?”
“Let us think about it, if you don’t mind. We’ll give you and her both our answer at the graduation ceremony on Thursday, if you don’t mind the wait.”
“I suppose not,” she answered, looking Whit in the eye. “Especially if it’s the right answer; you know how much we teachers prefer right answers.”
* * * * *
Clyde Ritter pawed through the bottom drawer of his wife’s jewelry box. “It’s gotta be here someplace,” he muttered angrily. He was about to give up and just pull out the drawer and dump it on the top of the dresser, when he saw what he was looking for.
“There it is,” he said in a triumphant whisper. He saw a flash of white, hidden – mostly – under a length of enameled chain. “When the hell did she get that piece of crap?” he muttered, pushing it aside. He carefully took out the pin, the item he’d been looking for. It was a finely carved, round piece of ivory with a lustrous white pearl set in the center.
He smiled and held it up to get a better look. The pin sparkled in the light of the setting sun that was streaming through the bedroom window.
“Clyde,” Cecelia shouted from behind him, “what are you doing?”
He turned to face her. “Nothing that concerns you. Go downstairs.”
“Nothing? That’s my pin you’re holding.”
“No, it’s my pin. I just let you keep it in your jewelry box, but I didn’t buy it for you.”
“I know only too well that you didn't, but it's mine now. You… You put it back, or I’ll… I’ll tell.”
He glowered and took a step towards her. “Tell what, that your husband stole something from you? Under the law, as your husband, anything you have is mine, anyway.” He slipped the pin into his pocket.
“No,” he continued, “you’ll stop complaining and just go off with Lavinia and those other loudmouthed busybodies in your sewing circle. I let you play your stupid pretend politics because you were making trouble for the people I wanted you to make trouble for.” He took a breath. “And I’ll do what I feel like with your – with my -- jewelry.”
She blinked in astonishment. “My broach; you took that, too, didn’t you?” She crossed her arms in front of herself, and tried to look firm. “You’re up to your old tricks, like with Nancy Osborne. Is it her again? That saloon tramp! I-I won’t stand for it!”
“You won’t stand for it?” He slapped her face; she winced and staggered a step back. “You’ll stand for whatever I damned well tell you to stand for! Otherwise, you’ll find yourself divorced and out on the street with no home and not a penny to your name, nor a friendly hand to help you – I’ll see to that. Now, do we understand each other?”
Cecelia stood, trembling, as all her resolve flowed out of her. “Y-Yes, Clyde.” Her voice broke as she fought the tears welling in her eyes.
“Fine, now, get downstairs and fix dinner. I’m hungry.” He watched her turn slowly and walk through the door. “And not a word of this to anyone. I’m tired of talking about it.”
She nodded, “Yes, Clyde,” and kept walking towards the stairs.
* * * * *
Wednesday, June 12, 1872
“The boss wants to see you, Priscilla,” Rory Halpert said in a cheery voice. “In his office.”
Priscilla Stafford frowned. “I’ve asked you more than once to call me Miss Stafford, Mr. Halpert.”
“Maybe so, but the boss told me to call you Priscilla, and he’s the Stafford who pays me.” The man chuckled. “He said he didn’t want you putting on airs just ‘cause you were his daughter.”
She rose slowly to her feet. “No, we can’t have that, can we?” She walked past the man without another word and headed to the Colonel’s office.
“You wanted to see me, father?” she asked from the doorway.
The man smiled at her, something he rarely did. “Yes, Priscilla, come in – and close the door behind you.”
“Very well.” She did as he had ordered. “May I sit down?”
“No, this won’t take very long.” His smile grew wider. “Congratulations.”
“For what? I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”
“I just came from a meeting with Fred Reinhardt. He was quite taken with you on Sunday.”
“I’m so glad,” she replied coldly.
“Yes, he agreed to finance my railroad syndicate on remarkably good terms.”
“Then the congratulations are yours.”
“Not entirely; the terms are that he gets twenty percent of the stock… and your hand in marriage.”
Priscilla stared; she had been afraid of a moment like this one for years. “Me and that odious old man? Never!”
“Never is a very long time, Priscilla, especially for a girl with no resources to fall back on.”
“It’s too ridiculous to consider… Mother --”
He cut her off. “Your mother won’t say a word – not if she wants me to keep paying her bills and letting her live in my house in Atlanta. And don’t go crying to my wife for any help, either. You two may have been friends once, but she still hasn’t forgiven you for telling me all those lies about her and your brother, Forrest.”
‘They were true,’ she told herself, ‘but you’ll never take my word over hers.’ She took a breath and asked, “And if I refuse?”
“I’ll put you out like the baggage you are, your mother, too, if she tries to help you. I don’t have to support you anymore than I have to support your mother. Fred Reinhardt will be coming over Friday night for supper. After we eat, he and I will work out the details of our business agreement and of your wedding. You have until then to decide not to refuse.”
She stood silent, glowering at him, while she considered her options and trying desperately to think of more options to consider.
“Enough lollygagging, girl; get back to work.” She had no alternative, as far as he was concerned.
She sighed and lowered her head in submission. “Yes, father.” Shoulders stooped, she turned and walked slowly back to her desk.
* * * * *
“Laura!” Molly shouted gleefully. She came out from behind the bar and rushed over. Laura sat in her wheelchair near the Saloon’s swinging doors. Arsenio was right behind her. “What brings ye in here t’day?” Molly asked as soon as she reached them.
Arsenio chuckled, “I did.” He placed his hand on Laura’s shoulder.
“I’ve been feeling a lot better the last few days, but someone…” Laura reached up and covered his hand with her own. “…insisted that I still have to use this blasted chair.”
“The Doc said it was natural for a woman to feel a little weak or dizzy in the last weeks of her pregnancy,” Arsenio replied. “After all the trouble Laura’s had, I didn’t want to take any chances.”
“I’m fine,” his wife argued, “Honest, I am.” She took a breath. “Well, I’m a lot better, anyway.”
Molly had to smile. “Of course, ye are. The Good Lord knows ye’re as feisty as ye ever was.”
“And I wouldn’t have her any other way,” Arsenio said with a laugh.
“Neither would I,” Molly agreed happily. “Now ye just set yuirself up at a table – any one ye like – and I’ll be getting ye something t’be eating.” She thought for a moment. “We still got some of them sugar cookies Jane made yesterday.”
Laura raised an eyebrow. “Jane’s baking?”
“Aye, she baked an apple pie for Kirby Pinter. Turns out, she ain’t a bad baker, and a lot of other customers enjoyed some o’that same pie. Which got her ‘n’ Maggie ‘n’ me to talking about how there weren’t no desserts at the restaurants, and we decided that Jane could be doing something about that.”
“I’ll have to try those cookies, then.”
“Fine, and I’ll be bringing ye some ginger and rosemary tea t’wash ‘em down.”
“Now, how did you get hold of the very same tea that Dr. Upshaw made for me?”
Molly gave her a mysterious smile. “How d’ye think? I just told him I wanted t’have some ready for the next time ye came in here – which I knew ye’d be doing. And what d’ye want t’be drinking, Arsenio?”
“That same tea; Laura said if she had to suffer drinking it, so do I.” He laughed. “It’s not too bad once you get used to it.”
“We’ll make it three. I been wondering how it tastes. Speaking o’tastes, are ye gonna stay for supper, too?”
Laura nodded. “I am. My keeper…” She smiled up at Arsenio. “…said we can even stay for the Cactus Blossoms’ first show, if I’m not too tired. I’m curious to see what it’s like.”
“Oh, tis a spectacle, it is,” Molly told her. “And I oughta know, seeing as I’m the one who made it up. And, in the meantime, Maggie’s got some lovely venison steaks ye can try for yuir supper.”
Arsenio looked surprised. “Venison, how did you get venison?”
“Maggie wanted something different for the restaurant. Thuir’s mule deer up in the Superstitions, and she asked Davy Kitchner t’see if he couldn’t shoot one for her. He did, and he brought it down a few days ago. That butcher over at Ortega’s cut it up, and… now thuir’s venison steak at Maggie’s Place.”
Laura smiled. “I haven’t had venison in…” She glanced up at her husband. “Now we have to stay.”
* * * * *
Arsenio pushed Laura in her wheelchair over to Bridget’s poker table. “You got time for a little… girl talk?” Laura asked.
“Depends.” Bridget looked at her friend curiously. She gathered the cards she’d been playing with back into a single deck and set them aside. “What do you want to talk about?”
Laura looked up at Arsenio. “Push me in close to the table, please.” When he did, she added, “Why don’t you go over and talk to Shamus and R.J. for a bit?”
“I can take a hint,” he replied. He bent down and kissed her cheek before he headed for the bar.
Bridget watched, bemused, as Arsenio left. “You’ve certainly got him well-trained.”
“Not really,” Laura said. “He just thinks a woman as pregnant as I am should be pampered when she can be.” She waited a half beat. “Besides, he knows how… worried I am about you.”
“Shouldn’t you be worrying about yourself?” Her eyes trailed down to Laura’s swollen stomach. “You and… junior, I mean?”
“Oh, I’m worried about having the baby – and scared, to tell the truth. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t worry about other stuff. Stuff like you and Forry Stafford; how are you doing with her?”
“You mean am I over what Stafford did to me, yet? Laura, I’ll never get over it.”
“Never? I mean, she certainly paid for what he did. You and I never had to prance around in skimpy rigs, kicking up our heels, and showing our frillies to every man in the place.”
“It doesn’t matter; it’s not enough.” Bridget sighed and looked down at the table. “I-I’d have thought you’d understand. You were the one Jake Steinmetz tried to rape. But you just don’t…” Her voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry, Bridget. I admit that I was thoroughly pissed off at Jake for what almost did, but, after he took the potion, he -- she wasn’t Jake anymore. I’m still mad at him, I suppose, but Jane – I don’t know – somehow, Jane isn’t him. She’s my sweet, eager to please sister – sort of -- and I can’t be mad at her for what somebody else did. Can you understand that?”
“I… suppose, but Flora is different. She’s still Forry, teasing me about what he did to me, stealing that wooden soldier that Jessie puts such store in. Inside, she’s still the man that raped me, unrepentant and full of spite. I know it isn’t right, but I hate her as much as ever, and, right or wrong, I want her to suffer for what she did.” She glared at no one in particular. “To suffer!”
* * * * *
Clyde Ritter stood and clapped his hands together softly, as Flora walked over to his table and sat down. “You were terrific tonight,” he told her. He took his own seat. There were two steins of beer on the table, and he picked one up and set it down in front of her. “I thought you might be thirsty after all that dancing.”
“Thank you.” She took a drink. It was only the near-beer that Shamus made her drink, but it was cold and wet. “And thank you for those kind words, too.”
“I’ve got more than ‘kind words’ for you.” He gave a meaningful tap to a bulge in his shirt pocket. “But I’d like to give it to you someplace more… private.”
Flora pouted. “That would be nice – only Molly told me not to go out back with you.”
“Then don’t.” He had to smile at the confused look on her face. “But if I left by the front door and then went around the side of the building, and you went out through the kitchen, we might meet up in the yard, but we wouldn’t have gone out there together, would we?”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I knew you were a smart man.”
* * * * *
“That was certainly a good idea you had,” Flora said, snuggling in close to Clyde on a bench by the back wall of the Saloon.
Ritter put his arm around her waist. “Thanks, and here’s a better one, something to show how special I think you are.” He took a small box from his shirt pocket. The box was wrapped with white tissue paper and tied with a green ribbon.
“Oooh, thank you.” She took the package from him and carefully unwrapped it, putting the paper and ribbon down next to her on the bench. She opened the box and found… “It’s that ivory pin of Nancy’s.”
“No, it isn’t – not anymore. It’s ‘that ivory pin’ of Flora’s now.” He lifted it from the box. “Can I put it on you?”
She could see the eagerness in his face. “I’ll have to take it off for the next show – we jump around too much, but… yes, please.” She had him for sure.
“With pleasure.” He opened the clasp and let the sharpened wire come free. Two fingers slipped beneath the neckline of her dress, pushing the fabric away from her corset. With his other hand, he guided the wire through the fabric, out, and then captured it again with the clasp. “There we go; that looks real nice.”
The fingers that had been beneath her dress shifted, moving inside her corset, and beginning to massage her breast. “Feels real nice, too.” His hand inched down and began to play with her nipple. “Doesn’t it?”
“Oooh… yes, it d-does.” She closed her eyes, to better concentrate on the delicious sensations his touch was stirring in her. Her nipples tightened as her arousal flowed through her, and she arched her back, pressing her breast against his fingers.
Clyde leaned in to kiss her. She sighed, and his tongue darted in between her open lips to dance with hers. Without conscious thought, her right arm reached up to drape around his neck.
Clyde was the only man available at the moment, so she let herself enjoy it.
Flora felt herself being succumbing to the exquisite feelings he was creating in her. She was transported, and she wanted them to go on and on and on. Some instinct made her hand slide down, and she ran a finger along the bulge in his crotch. Its firmness almost made her giddy.
She wanted… ‘No!’ she told herself. ‘I will n-not give in. Ritter’s – oooh – I’m as ready to “jump at the lure” as he is. I b-better get him… get him to t-take it n-now, while I – ooh – can still think straight.’
“Well, now.” Clyde broke the kiss, surprised -- and pleased -- to find her stroking his maleness. “I’d say we can move this right along.” He carefully began to work at the top button of her dress. He opened it and moved down to the next one, which was tucked in between her breasts.
Her hands shot up to his chest, pushing him back… gently. “Clyde… please.”
‘Think fast, Flora,’ she cautioned herself. ‘Tease the man, but don’t lose him.’ She took a breath to calm herself. “I… I want to – to be with you,” she tried to explain, “but a girl… a girl has to be sure before she gives herself to a man – like I want to do.”
“What do you mean, ‘be sure’, Flora?” There was a tone of caution – and of suspicion edging towards anger – in his voice.
“Presents are nice… very nice. This pin…” She put her hand up to her breast, touching the ivory pin, but also touching, sliding her finger across her partially exposed breast. “… is lovely, but before I do something to -- with you, I need to know that I can trust you.”
“Who says you can’t? I’ve been good to you, ain’t I?”
“You’ve been very good to me.” She had said in a husky voice. “But buying me stuff, even expensive stuff like this pin, doesn’t show me that I can trust you, trust you enough to… you know.” She fell back on Roselyn’s lessons, smiling shyly and looking away for a moment, her eyes half closed. “I've never been with a man -- that way. This is so new to me.”
“All right – dammit – what do I have to do?”
Gotcha! “Shamus O’Toole, he’s been mean to me, real, real mean, and that judge, ordering me to take the potion -- and then adding a whole month to my sentence, two weeks more than Lylah got. You’ve got to… avenge me. Beat them up, hurt them as bad as they hurt me.” It was fun for her to just to say such a thing to the man.
“Me, slug it out with two men?”
She heard the words, but not the growing anger behind them. “Not you, personally; you’re an important man. You could just hire somebody, a couple roughnecks, and have them do it for me – for you. You do that for me, and…” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “…you’ll... be… so... very… glad… that… you… did.” With each word, she gave him a peck on his cheek, his lips, his nose.
At the same time her hand had reached down, her fingers encircling his leg. With each word, she also gave it a gentle squeeze. It was the ultimate lesson from Roselyn, and it was something that Violet had done to her, two years ago when she was still Forrest. If she was only one tenth as delectable as Violet had been that night -- She felt a quick pain of regret; the night before Violet had announced that she was marrying his father instead of him -- her appeal would be irresistible.
She loved the power her beauty gave her. With someone else – Who? She wondered for a moment – she might have enjoyed herself, just as Forrest – poor, stupid, trusting Forrest had enjoyed it back then. With Clyde Ritter, it was a business negotiation strategy, nothing more.
“H-Hire somebody?” The faces of Higgins and Blake sprang into his mind. Those bastards had ruined his political plans, beating up on Roscoe Unger and wrecking his shop. Then they’d blackmailed him about it, threatening to say that he’d hired them to do it. They were halfway to the Dakotas by now and, he hoped, to a slow, painful death at the hands of the Sioux.
And now this… woman wanted him to do it again, hire some men to do something that they – the hell with any them – that she -- could blackmail him for. “You’d like that,” he growled, “wouldn’t you?”
“I just said I would,” she said cheerfully, not noticing his growing anger. “Didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did; just like you kept telling me to give you presents.”
“Girls like presents.” She giggled, trying to act like the willing girl he had wanted before.
“Girls are supposed to like the men who give them the presents. Seems t’me you just like the presents.”
“That’s not true. I-I like you, Clyde.” She smiled and rested her hand on his arm.
“You do, do you? How about you prove it by giving me back that pin?” He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“But… But you just gave it to me.” She tried to understand what was happening; why he was suddenly acting so unreasonable.
“Well, now I want it back.” He glared at her. “You give it back, and then you can tell me how much you like me, even if I don’t give you presents.”
“That’s not fair.” His face was contorted with a ferocity that she had never seen in it before. She had taken some terrible misstep. She was losing the moment, losing it badly, and she didn’t know how to save the situation.
“I’ll tell you what’s fair.” He stood up and pulled his penknife from his jacket pocket. “Take off that pin,” he ordered. “Now!”
Flora rose slowly to her feet. “But…”
“Now.” He flicked his wrist, and the five-inch blade swung into place, locking with a click. He watched her with one eye while pretending he was cleaning his fingernails. “When you learn how to give, maybe I’ll think about letting you receive something later on. We’ll see.”
Flora took a few steps back, away from him and towards the porch. Hoping to mollify him, her hands fumbled at the pin, undoing it from the clasp and slipping it carefully from her dress. “You’re not being fair.” She felt her eyes burn. All her plans, her hopes of payback, all seemed lost. “Not fair at all.”
“I’m fair. I’m very fair.” His voice was low, menacing. “You kept telling me how much you liked me, how you wanted to be with me.” He made a sound that was half laugh, half snarl. “I’m gonna give you a chance to show it. You take off that pretty dress of yours…” He used the knife blade to push the unbuttoned top of her dress apart. “…and we’ll go to it, right here in the yard, right now.”
She shook her head and took another step back. “Somebody will see. No… I-I won’t.” She threw the pin at him.
“The hell you won’t, you little bitch!” He lunged, arms outstretched to grab her.
She dodged and stuck out a leg, as he charged past her. If she could trip him, she could probably make it to the safety of the building before he could get up and chase after her.
He stumbled and fell to the ground. The collision made her yelp in pain.
Flora stood, taking a moment to rub her sore leg before she darted away. She was braced for him to jump up and attack her, but he didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. Careful of a trap, she knelt down after a few tense seconds and touched his arm. He still didn’t move.
It took some effort, but she managed to roll him over. His hand held firm to the hilt of his penknife.
The blade was buried in his chest and covered with blood. Lieutenant Forrest Stafford had seen enough dead men on the killing fields of the Civil War to recognize another here in Shamus O’Toole’s yard.
“Shit!” Flora wrapped her hand around his wrist and yanked. The blade came free, but she got some blood on her hand and on her dress.
There was a noise, and she nervously looked round. Matt Royce stood in the just opened doorway to the necessary. “You… You killed him.” Before she could say a word, he ran for the building shouting over and over, “Somebody get the sheriff. Flora just killed Clyde Ritter.”
* * * * *
Flora was still standing by the body, uncertain of what to do and bound by Shamus’ order not to escape, when a crowd of men came out into the yard, no more than a minute later. “Ye’d best be coming along peaceable,” Shamus told her. He spoke in a conversational tone, but, to Flora, it was an order.
“But I-I didn’t do anything,” she protested.
R.J. picked up the knife, carefully wrapping it in a bar towel. “Somebody surely did. That’s as neat a job as I’ve ever seen.”
“Better tie her hands till the Sheriff comes,” another man said. “Potion or not, she might try to bolt.”
Shamus nodded. “Ye’re right. R.J., there’s rope in the tool box; would ye be getting me some?”
“Right away.” The assistant barman hurried inside, returning quickly with the rope. “Sorry about this,” he told Flora, as he tied her hands together tightly.
“But I didn’t do it,” Flora said in an unbelieving voice. “I swear.”
Molly put her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “I’m sure ye didn’t mean t’be doing it, Flora, but the man’s dead nonetheless. The sheriff is going to have to sort this thing out.”
* * * * *
They led Flora back slowly to the barroom to wait for Sheriff Talbot and Doc Upshaw. And Stu Gallagher, the town’s undertaker.
Bridget waited until she was certain that no one was in the kitchen. Then, as quiet as she could be, she stepped out of pantry, where she’d hidden, when Matt Royce had run towards the building.
She’d been the on her way to the necessary, when she saw Flora step into view and Ritter menacing her with his knife. She’d stood in the shadows just inside the kitchen, watching the struggle between them and clearly seeing its fatal outcome.
A cruel smile curled her lips as she walked out onto the porch and down the steps to the necessary. “Suffer!“ she whispered into the darkness.
* * * * *
Thursday, June 13, 1872
“You have done very well with your lessons, Arnolda,” Dolores said, as the pair walked to work at the Saloon.
Arnie smiled. “Thank you, Dolores. I think that I have most of the steps down by now.”
“Are you going to tell Molly O’Toole? They can use another waiter-girl, especially this week.”
“I-I want to think about it more. I cannot decide.”
Her older cousin smiled. “It seems to me that you are too busy thinking about seeing the Spauldings on Saturday to be concerned about much of anything else.”
“Sí, I want to apologize again to Clara. I hope she forgives me.”
“And Hedley; do you want him to forgive you, also?”
Arnie felt a tingling run through her. “Oh, yes, him, too.”
* * * * *
Obie Wynn knocked on Judge Humphrey’s door. “‘Scuse me, Your Honor, there’s a Mrs. Ritter to see you.”
“Cecelia?” The judge rose to his feet. “Show her in, please.”
The clerk nodded and stepped back. “He’ll see you folks now.”
“Good morning, Cecelia,” the Judge greeted her as she walked into the room. “May I offer my sympathies on your loss? Clyde and I –”
He stopped as Reverend Yingling came in. “Good morning, sir,” the Reverend greeted him. “I have come to add my voice to Cecelia’s request.”
“What request? What do you want, Cecelia?”
“Where do you intend to have the trial of my poor Clyde’s murderer?”
Humphreys hesitated for a moment. “Normally… for a trial like this, I’d ask Shamus O –”
“No!” she shouted angrily. “No! I will not have the trial held in the very place where my dear Clyde was enticed to his death. I-I demand that you use someplace else.”
Yingling nodded grimly. “I concur. Holding the trial there would be highly inappropriate.” He looked straight in the Judge’s eyes, as he spoke. “Highly inappropriate… perhaps even immoral.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” the Judge replied, not a little surprised at the accusation, “but I can see your point, Cecelia.” He thought for a bit. “The only other place in town big enough is… the Lone Star. I’ll have to ask Sam Duggan, but I think he’ll be willing.”
Cecelia shook her head. “Another saloon, another whiskey-soaked den of evil; how can my Clyde ever find justice in a place like that?” Her eyes narrowed. “They… They should all be shut down, all of them, every last one of them.”
“Perhaps they will be.” Yingling put his hand gently on Cecelia’s arm. “But you and I can speak of such matters later. Right now, we have to see to getting justice for Clyde.”
The Judge bristled. “I assure you both that wherever the trial is held, justice will be served.”
“One can only hope that is the case,” the woman answered. “But justice will most decidedly not be served if it’s held in a saloon.”
Humphreys frowned. “Where would you suggest we hold it then, on the street? There is no other room large enough.”
“Yes, there is.” the Reverend spoke in an almost triumphant voice. “The very place where people pray every Sunday for our Lord’s justice and mercy can be the place where lesser, human justice is applied. Let the trial be held in the church.”
The jurist considered the idea. “It is big enough, but it’s the schoolhouse Monday through Friday. We can’t move the school.”
“We won’t have to,” Cecelia said gleefully. “The school year ends tomorrow. In fact, my Hermione is graduating tonight. The trial could be held Friday – after Clyde’s funeral, of course.”
Humphreys didn't like the idea of holding a murder trial in a children’s school, but challenging the Reverend's idea would put even more anger into a situation that was already boiling over. “I don’t want to be rushed in a half-day session, but we probably could start the trial there on Saturday. It’d be available Monday, too, if we needed it.”
Yingling rose to his feet. “It is settled then.” He held out his arm. “Come, Cecelia; we need not be in the Judge’s presence any longer.”
That was a backhanded crack! Lately Humphreys hadn't cared much for the parson's presence either. The Judge settled back in his chair, watching them leave, a look of disgust on his face. This was a bad situation. The idea that a fallen woman would kill one of the town's leading citizens would have a lot of people up in arms. Public opinion would be a wild bronco that he would somehow have to ride.
* * * * *
Priscilla Stafford knocked on the half-opened door. “Excuse me, Father. May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Just a moment,” the Colonel said, looking up from the paperwork on his desk. “I’ve work to do. So do you for that matter.”
She stepped into the office, closing the door behind her. “I was just wondering if you had heard from Forrest. He’s been away for quite some time now.”
“And he’s just as bad at keeping in touch with me as he ever was. I’ve heard no more from him out in Eerie, Arizona that I did when he was throwing my money away in Europe.”
“Eerie… that’s an odd name for a town. Why ever did he go there?”
“A… ah, personal matter. I’m sure that he’ll be back as soon as he’s dealt with it.”
“I do hope there isn’t anything wrong.” She fought hard not to show her concern. She’d been hoping to get her brother’s help to fend off Fred Reinhardt.
“If there were a problem, he’d have sent a letter pleading for my help. You can be sure of that.” To himself, he added, ‘the little bastard’s probably sleeping his way across the Arizona Territory like he did in Europe. As long as he doesn’t get himself – or some damned woman -- in trouble or spend too much money, I don’t give a good goddamn.’
He looked down at his desk, as if dismissing her. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes… umm, about Friday night.”
The man gritted his teeth, bracing for an argument. “What about Friday night?”
“I was wondering if I could have some money for a new dress?”
“Why? What’s the matter with what you wore the other day?”
“Mr. Reinhardt’s already seen me in it. You don’t want it to seem like I only have one good dress, do you? I mean, don’t you want to show me off to my best advantage? All the other good dresses I have are years out of style.”
“Good point; I’m glad that you’re warming up to the idea of marrying Fred.” He waited for her reaction. ‘She’s fishing for a new dress, but -- What the hell? -- buying her one would be an investment, not an expense. And after Reinhardt marries her, her clothes budget will be his problem.’
“It’s all I can think off.” She gave him a sarcastic smile.
“In that case, draw some money from petty cash – no more than $100, though. You can take the rest of the day off to find a dress you like.” He chuckled. “It’s not like you’re doing anything important around here.”
‘I never am,’ she thought to herself. Aloud, she said. “Thank you, Father. I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing when I came in.”
He was already back at work. “Shut the door behind you,” he answered without even looking up.
* * * * *
Zach Levy stood at the corner of the short jailhouse hallway. Flora sat in her cell a few feet away, staring at the opposite wall. Her hair was mussed, and she still wore her Cactus Blossoms costume. There were three or four spots of dried blood on the dress. “You’ve certainly gotten yourself into a pickle,” he said.
“What… oh, Levy.” She had started at the sound of his voice and turned on her cot to face him. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard that you might need a lawyer.” He raised a bemused eyebrow. “I am still your lawyer, aren’t I?”
“You are. You are, and…” She took a deep breath. “…oh, Lord, do I need your help.”
The lawyer motioned to Tor Johansson, the other deputy sheriff. “Please let me into her cell, Tor.”
The deputy came over and unlocked the door. He closed it, locking it, after Zach was inside. “I let you have privacy. You give a yell, vhen you vant out.”
“I will,” the lawyer said. “Thanks.” Tor nodded and walked away without a reply.
Zach sat down on the cot next to Flora. He opened his brown leather briefcase and took out a pad and pencil. “Now… tell me what happened.”
“I didn’t kill him. You’ve got to believe that.”
“Just tell me what happened, and I’ll decide what to believe.”
“Will you still be my lawyer if you think I did it?”
“I was your lawyer when I knew that you had ambushed Abner Slocum, and I’ll be your lawyer now. My job will just change from trying to prove your innocence to trying to get you the best possible deal.” He studied her face. “Do you understand that?”
“A deal? A deal is for guilty people. I’m innocent. At least, let me tell you what really happened before you decide that you can’t get me acquitted.”
“I’m listening.”
“Clyde and I were in the yard behind the Saloon… sitting on a bench… talking.”
“Just talking?”
She looked away, her eyes partly closed. She could hardly admit to her scheme to get someone to beat up Shamus and Judge Humphreys. “Well… we were kissing… spooning some.”
“Did you know that he was married?”
“Yes, Nancy Osbourne told me, and he admitted it. He said that it didn’t matter.”
“Did it matter to you?”
“No, I-I guess not. Shamus O’Toole wants his people to be nice to his customers. In my case, thanks to that damned potion of his, it’s more a command than a suggestion.”
“Being ‘nice’ to a customer doesn’t necessarily mean to go spooning in some private yard with him. On the other hand, we might get some sympathy for you if we could imply that Mr. O’Toole is forcing you into prostitution as some sort of special punishment.”
“I’m not a prostitute! I-I liked Clyde.”
“Then why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!” She sucked in a breath. “Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because I think you’re hiding something. Any lawyer will think the same thing. I just asked the question the way Milt Quinlan -- he’s acting as prosecutor for your case -- will ask it.” He made a note. “Now, one minute, you and Clyde Ritter are sitting on that bench spooning; the next minute, he’s on the ground – dead – with the knife that killed him in your hand. What went on between those two minutes?”
She clutched her arms in toward her body and shivered. “He’d just given me a gift – an ivory pin. But he expected me to go to bed with him for it. I told him that we didn’t know each other well enough for me to do something like that.”
“He demanded that I hand the gift back. I told him he wasn’t being fair. He drew a knife to let me know he was serious. I was afraid he’d kill me if I didn’t do what he told me, so I took off the pin and threw it at him.”
“Then he said that I knew how to take but didn’t know how to give. He told me that I’d have to start giving before I’d ever give anything else from him. He wanted to do it right there on the grass. He came at me with his arms out, to grab me. I dodged. I thought I could trip him and get inside the saloon, but he went down and fell on his knife. I tried to help him by pulling the knife out. That’s when all hell broke loose with somebody yelling and accusing me of murder.”
“That was Matt Royce. Why didn’t you yell?”
“Yell what?”
“Yell that Clyde was chasing you with a knife.” He looked her in the eye. “I certainly would.”
“I-I didn’t think of it. I was too scared… too busy trying not to get raped at the time.”
“Why didn’t you yell for help when you realized that he was dead?”
“Because Royce was already yelling enough for the both of us.”
“Why didn’t you try to explain what happened?”
“Nobody asked me what happened; they were all just calling me a murderer. It seemed more important to answer that accusation first. Nobody has asked me anything or let me say anything to anybody important until you came.”
“You didn’t think of that story then.” Zach studied her expression as he spoke. “Or you didn’t think of it until you were making up the nonsense that you were going to tell me? Which is it?” He shifted slightly on the cot. “How about you stop with the fairy tales and tell me what actually happened?”
“Why do you call it a fairy story? What’s not believable about it?”
“Listen, Miss Stafford, your life is at stake. You pled guilty a couple months ago to a charge of attempted murder; now you’re going to be accused of actually committing murder. It would be no great leap for a jury to decide that you’re quite capable of murdering Clyde Ritter.”
“To defend you successfully, I have to know everything that the prosecutor might find out and throw at us at the worst possible moment. I need to know every detail, even the details that make you look bad. I especially need to know everything that you did that might have contributed to his death. Don’t be afraid that I’ll tell anyone what you tell me. There’s a thing called attorney-client privilege, which means that, not only won’t I tell, but that they can’t force me to tell.”
“I’ll defend you even if I know you’re guilty. Depending on what you give me to work with, I’ll do my best to get you found not guilty or, if I can’t, I'll get you the best deal that I possibly can.”
“You’re frank about how lawyers do their job. I’ve always known that's how they work, but you’re honest enough to admit it, and I like that,” said Flora, somehow reassured.
“It’s a job – maybe a dirty job – that somebody has to do. Give me everything you have, and maybe there will be some useful kernel of fact in it that will save you.”
“Is this your first murder trial?” his client asked.
“Yes, it is, aside from practice cases in law school.”
“Well, doesn’t that fill me with loads of confidence?” she said with a sarcastic sigh.
* * * * *
“Nancy… Lylah,” Molly called out from the table where she was sitting, “could the two of ye come over here for a wee bit?”
The pair hurried to her and sat down. “What’s up?” Nancy asked.
“The Judge just sent word over; Flora’s trial ain’t gonna be held till Saturday, and it’ll be held out at the school.”
Lylah looked surprised. “I thought it was gonna be held here.”
“Aye, it was,” the older woman explained, “but Mrs. Ritter didn’t want it held in no ‘den of iniquity,’ and Judge Humphreys decided to go along with that.”
Nancy frowned. “Seems like everybody does what that harridan wants.”
“I ain’t no fonder of the woman than ye are, Nancy, but this here saloon’s the place where her husband died. I can see how she wouldn’t wanna be visiting it for the trial.”
Nancy gave a sour laugh. “Her husband didn’t have any trouble ‘visiting it.’ That’s why he’s dead.”
“Aye, but we’ll be respecting the widow’s wishes – this time, anyway.” Molly took a breath. “But that ain’t why I was calling the pair of ye over. Flora ain’t gonna be here t’be dancing with ye Friday night.” She hesitated for a beat. “Maybe not ever, if that trial goes against her.”
Lylah gasped at Molly’s words. “You think they’re gonna find her guilty and send her t’prison, Molly?”
“They might, Lylah; they just might,” the barwoman replied. To herself, she added, ‘or they may just hang her.’
Nancy frowned. “They don’t like to hang women,” she told them, “though it would hardly be a mercy to send her to prison for years and years.” The dancer’s feelings were decidedly conflicted. Flora was hard to like, seldom letting down her guard. ‘And I warned her to stay away from Clyde Ritter,’ she thought. It was a terrible business, and she didn't want to think about it anymore. “So what are we going to do about Friday night?” she asked.
Molly looked at the former schoolteacher. “That’s a good question. D’ye think ye could be learning ‘Captain Jinx’ in the next day ‘n’ a half?”
“Maybe, but I won’t make any promises. Couldn’t Lylah and I just do the dance we’ve been doing?”
Molly shook her head. “It’d look pretty sad with the two of ye doing the dance that I worked out for three.”
“Probably,” Nancy continued, “but it’d be easier to change the dance we’ve been doing, rather than for me to try and learn ‘Captain Jinx’, wouldn’t it?”
Molly thought for a moment. “Aye, that would be easier. What d’ye got in mind?”
“Pushing up something we’ve been working on anyway,” Nancy explained. “All we need is for Lylah to finally get the hang of doing a cartwheel.”
* * * * *
Bridget walked into the parlor at La Parisienne. Wilma was sitting in a plush, green horsehair chair holding a stereopticon viewer. They were the only two in the room. “Wilma?” Bridget said in a curious voice.
“Oh, hey, Bridget,” Wilma greeted her, setting down the viewer. “Thanks for coming over so quick.”
“Your note said that it was important, so I came right over.”
“It surely was.” She picked up a small china bell and rang it three times.
A slender black woman came in. She was carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses on a silver tray. “Here you is, Wilma,” she said, setting the tray down on the table next to Wilma.
“Thanks, Daisy.” Wilma said quickly as the woman left. That done, Wilma picked up an ornate corkscrew and popped the cork like an expert. “Drink up, Bridget.” She filled the two glasses. “We got something – something big -- to celebrate.”
“What?”
Wilma laughed. “What? Why Flora Stafford, of course. I heard tell how she killed Clyde Ritter back behind the Saloon. I’m gonna miss that horny old bastard. He was a good customer -- a lousy lay, but he spent money like a drunken sailor.” She took a sip of the liquor. “Damn, that’s good. Like I was saying, I’ll miss Clyde, but it’ll be well-worth losing his business to see that Stafford bitch hang.”
“I guess.” Bridget took a long drink. “She certainly deserves to hang.”
“That she does; that she surely does.” Wilma laughed. “And she done it to herself, killing that fool Clyde. That’s the real beauty of it; that damned bitch done it to herself.”
“Yeah… to herself.” Bridget took a second drink, finishing the glass. Then she gave a hollow laugh and poured herself a refill. “It is kind of funny at that, isn’t it?” She took a sip and giggled from the bubbles tickling her nose.
* * * * *
Nancy Osbourne walked slowly into the clearing that surrounded the schoolhouse. The clearing was filled with chairs facing the porch in front of the building. Some people were sitting, the rest, milling around and talking. She stopped, still uncertain about being there, when she heard a shout. “Miss Osbourne,” Ysabel Diaz yelled. The girl ran over to her former teacher and threw her arms around the woman. “Oh, I’m so glad that you came.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Nancy replied, returning the hug. She looked up to see Ysabel’s siblings, Constanza and Enrique, hurrying over.
Other people had heard Ysabel’s shout, and more children were running over to greet her. Some parents joined them. Others stood and glared, a few of the adults were trying to restrain squirming children, who shouted or waved greetings. Even so, some other children held back, looking as angrily at Nancy as their parents were.
“How dare you come here tonight,” Cecelia Ritter demanded, pushing her way through the crowd. “We don’t want you around. Go away.” In her black widow’s weeds, she reminded Nancy of the illustrations of the evil witch in the school’s copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, a book she had sometimes read to her students.
Ysabel stepped in front of Nancy. “I invited Miss Osbourne, Mrs. Ritter.”
“Actually…” Emma joined her friend. “…we invited her. It is our graduation, after all.”
Hermione gave a dismissive snort. “It’s my graduation, too, and I certainly don’t want her here.”
“I do.” Yully had been standing off to the side near his parents, but now he walked over to stand with Emma and Ysabel. “That makes three out of the five of us.” Stephan had started towards them, but his father pulled him back.
Whit Whitney walked slowly over to Cecelia. “The commencement is open to anyone in town, Cecelia. If Nancy… Miss Osbourne wishes to attend, sitting quietly in the audience like any other citizen…” He glanced over at Nancy and winked. Nancy nodded once and winked back. “…she has every right to do so.”
“I object to having a woman like her anywhere near these poor innocent children.” Cecelia put a protective arm around Hermione and Clyde, Jr.
Whit nodded gravely. “And you have every right to object. You just write a letter stating your objections, and the other school board members and I will give it all the consideration it deserves – at our next meeting.” He smiled his most politic smile. “Now, if everyone will please take their places, we can get started.”
* * * * *
“My friends,” Reverend Yingling began, “we’ve gathered here to honor the five children -- no…” He smiled at the graduates who were sitting on chairs near the porch where he stood. “…the five young adults who are leaving their primary school years behind them and commencing a new stage in their lives tonight. Some of these students shall be going on for further education. My own son, Stephan, for example will be attending training next year for his eventual ordination as a minister in the Methodist church. Others will be finding employment and, eventually, marriage and families of their own.”
“It is altogether fitting that we, as a community – a family -- come together to celebrate their accomplishments and to look forward to their future triumphs. Just as, as a family, we join together to combat the threats facing our own families, our community.”
“And in this fight, we must not be distracted by vain attempts at compromise or place our hopes in the hands of false friends or in allies of the very threat that we are confronting. We must cleave to the biblical truths that guided our --”
Whit jumped up onto the porch. “That guided these young people…” He spoke in a loud, clear voice, while Yingling glowered at him, too surprised – and too angry – to speak. “… in their studies and in their plans, whatever they may, be for the future. Amen, and thank you for that fine speech, Reverend.” He pumped the minister’s hand, even as he gently guided him down from the porch.
* * * * *
Phillipia stood on the porch behind a small podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, I give you the 1872 graduating class of the Eerie, Arizona Public School. When I call each student’s name, will he or she please come up to accept your diploma?” She waited a moment. “With the highest overall average, as well as first honors in science, our valedictorian, Ysabel Diaz.”
There was a round of applause, as Ysabel walked up onto the porch. She shook Phillipia’s hand and then turned to face the crowd. “The valedictorian gets to say a few words, they tell me. I just want to thank my teachers, Miss Osbourne for her encouragement all through my school years and Mrs. Stone for her help these last few weeks. I thank my family and my friends, everyone, who has guided me and loved me, and everyone who taught me how a true lady acts…” She looked at her mother and Dolores. Arnie was there, as well, sitting between Costanzia and Enrique, her younger siblings.
“…and doesn’t act.” Ysabel glanced quickly over to where Cecelia was sitting. “Thank you.”
“And I would like to add something,” Phillipia said. “As some of you may know, I have accepted the school board’s offer to continue on next year as teacher. The job is fulfilling, but it’s hard work, and I am a married woman with a husband and children to care for. After a bit of wrangling, the school board has just agreed to allow me to hire an assistant. And I have, one Ysabel Diaz, who, I am certain, will be a most valuable asset to the students and the school.”
Phillipia stepped back and began to applaud Ysabel. Nancy stood up from her chair and also began to clap. Soon, most of the audience joined in, although none of the Ritters did. Cecelia was aghast at the idea of this impudent Mexican brat being a teacher. Clyde, Jr. shuddered at the prospect of having to obey the girl he had been teasing for so long.
* * * * *
Emma received first honors in mathematics. Yully took first honors in history and geography, and Stephan took first honors in English.
Hermione was last and gave a wan smile as she received her diploma to a smattering of applause from her family and a few, younger friends.
* * * * *
Stephan Yingling walked into the classroom. Ysabel was sitting at the teacher’s desk, smiling to herself. Her elbows were on the desk, her hands together, imitating a teacher watching her students. She started when she saw the boy. “Uhh… Hi, Stephan; I was just trying out being a teacher.”
“Miss Diaz… Miss Diaz.” Stephan sat down quickly at one of the fourth grade student desks. He grinned and waved his outstretched hand, as if trying to get her attention.
Her smile broadened. “Yes, Stephan, do you have something to say?”
“They’re bringing out the ice cream and cake, Miss Diaz. Can we go get some?”
“Certainly.” They both rose to their feet.
Stephan stood by the desk as Ysabel walked towards him. When she reached him, he said, “I wanted to congratulate you, valedictorian and a job as Mrs. Stone’s assistant next year, that’s a pretty big deal.” As he spoke, he took her hand in his.
“Th-Thank you.” Ysabel felt a tingling, like a thousand butterflies taking wing from the hand she was holding and scattering to all parts of her body. A lot of them seemed to head for her chest or down below her tummy. She smiled, not sure of what was happening but enjoying it all the same, and stepped closer to Stephan.
He stared down into her dark, chocolate eyes. Something in them, warm and inviting, seemed to draw him in. He leaned down towards her. Their lips met, and the sensations got even stronger. By instinct, Stephan’s arm went around her waist, pulling her closer, even as Ysabel’s arm draped like a garland over his neck. Ysabel bent her knee so that her lower right leg rose upwards behind her.
“We better go get some of that ice cream before it’s all gone,” she said when they finally had to break the kiss.
He took her hand again. “Okay, but it won’t be as sweet.”
They smiled and walked out of the building hand in hand.
* * * * *
Friday, June 14, 1872
Daisy came into the kitchen just as Wilma was taking a long sip of her breakfast coffee.
“You got a letter, Wilma,” Daisy told her. “A li’l boy just brung it over from Silverman’s”
Wilma read the names on the envelope. “It’s from Phil Trumbell.”
“What’s it say?”
The demimonde tore the envelope open, and took out the letter inside. “Dear Wilma,” she read. “I just got word from the warden that they decided to let me out six weeks early on account of my good behavior. I expect to arrive back in Eerie on July 22, and we can celebrate my release with some bad behavior, some real, real bad behavior.”
Wilma smiled, running her tongue across her top lip. “Mmm, he’s got that right. We been teasing each other long distance since last fall. It’ll be so nice t’do it in person.”
“He say anything else?”
“Lemme see. ‘real, real bad behavior’, he says. Then he goes on…” She gave a raucous laugh. “…he says I should meet his stage with a mattress tied to my back, so we can get started right away.”
Daisy chuckled, shaking her head. “You gonna do it; meet him with that mattress on your back?”
“I’m gonna write him a letter back and tell him I will.” She laughed again. “But I’m gonna warn him that he better be the first man off that stage.”
“An' I'm gonna warn you, Miss Wilma. You kilt that man's brother, and what he did to even the score sent him to prison. He might still be powerfully mad. For all his dirty talk, he might really be cumin' back to finish what he started.”
“I'll take that under advisement, Daisy,” Wilma replied without much worry showing on her beautiful face.
* * * * *
The funeral was held in the Ritter parlor. Liam, Trisha, and Kaitlin stood in the line that was inching past Cecelia and her children. The Ritters were seated and all wore mourner’s black. Cecelia still had her hat on, although the veil was pulled up, away from her face. A few feet away, Clyde Ritter, Sr. lay in his coffin, with long, white candles, all lit, on brass pedestals set at each corner.
“Cecelia,” Trisha said softly, when she finally reached the mourners, “Clyde and I may have disagreed on a lot of things, but he was a good man, and I want to say --”
Cecelia had a slightly dazed look in her eyes, as she studied the woman standing in front of her. She blinked as recognition crept into her mind. “Whore,” she cried out, jumping to her feet.
“Mother,” Winthrop said, putting his arm around Cecelia. “What’s the matter?”
Trisha stared at the woman. “I know we aren’t exactly friends, Mrs. Ritter, but you’ve got no call to say something like that to me.”
“Don’t you lie to me, Trisha O’Hanlan. I’ve had three children, and I know what a pregnant woman’s belly looks like.” She put her hand on Trisha’s stomach. “It looks just like yours does.” She glared at Trisha. “Quitting the board for the good of the church – hah – you quit so no one would know what a brazen hussy you really are. I only… only wish my poor Clyde were alive to see the sort of cheap slut --”
Trisha stared at the woman, uncertain of what to say. ‘I knew people would find out,’ she told herself, ‘but not like this.’
Roscoe had been standing off in a corner, out of the way, covering the story of the funeral for his paper. “Mrs. Ritter,” he said in a loud, firm voice. At the same time, he strode over and put his arm around Trisha’s waist. “I’ll thank you not to speak that way to the mother of my child.”
He gave Trisha a quick peck on the cheek and guided her out of the Ritter house before she – or anyone else – could say another word.
“What did you just do?” Trisha asked him as soon as they were outside. “Why did you lie for me like that?”
He smiled – he had such a nice smile. “It wasn’t a lie.” He reached up and gently ran a finger down her cheek. “It was… wishful thinking.” Then he glanced back over his shoulder. “I have to go back inside to cover the funeral. Why don’t you go home, and we’ll talk about… things later, okay?” He kissed her forehead and hurried back into the Ritters’ home.
“Uhh… Okay.” She wanted – oh, Lord, how she wanted to kiss him, to thank him for what he had just done. Instead, she just stood, a shy smile curling her lips as she watched him disappear into the house.
* * * * *
Liam O’Hanlan sidled up next to Dwight Albertson as the two men were walking back to town after Clyde Ritter’s burial. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Dwight?”
“I don’t see why not,” Dwight said amiably.
“A few of the church board members are getting together in the Judge’s chambers as soon as we get back to town. Can you come? It’s important.”
“I-I don’t know. I’ve a lot of work to do?” Albertson took a quick glance at his pocket watch.
“So do I; so do all of us, but it is important. And we won’t be long. I promise.”
“We'd better not be.”
* * * * *
Rupert Warrick looked around, as he walked into Judge Humphrey’s chambers. “Everybody’s here but Horace and Willie, I see.”
“It would’ve been a waste of time to invite them, I think,” Liam said, “but thank you for coming, Rupe.”
Warrick took a seat. “You said that you had some sort of story to tell… so tell it.”
“Okay, Jubal, please tell Dwight and Rupe what happened at the school graduation ceremony last night.”
Jubal Cates took a breath and began. “Reverend Yingling went – I don’t know – crazy. He started off with a nice simple opening prayer. Then he said how we were all there to celebrate the kids who were graduating, and finally he go to how his kid, Stephan, was going on to be a preacher… just what you’d expect.” He sighed. “Then, all of a sudden, he starts talking about some evil threat to the whole town and how we can’t compromise and we gotta stick to… biblical truths.”
“Whit Whitney jumped in right then,” the Judge said, “and got things back on track. Yingling was fit to be tied.”
“Did he say or do anything else?”
“No…,” Liam said. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see him after that. He must’ve gone home.”
“Or got sent home,” Judge Humphreys said, “and a good thing, too, whatever happened. He’d’ve probably tried to make another speech, one just as disruptive as the first.” He paused and looked at the others. “And that’s the problem.” He waited a moment before he continued. “He’s obsessed with the potion. He sees it as the ultimate evil, and he sees anyone who says otherwise, anyone who disagrees with him in any way, as just as evil.”
“Has anybody talked to him about it?” Jubal asked.
The Judge nodded. “I tried on Monday, before the potion committee meeting, and he all but accused me of being in league with the Devil.” He shook his head sadly. “He’s becoming an embarrassment to himself – and to our church.”
“Are you telling us that we have to... to fire him?” Dwight Albertson asked in a shocked voice.
Rupe frowned. “Can we fire him?”
“We can,” Humphreys told them,” but I don’t think – I hope it hasn’t come to that… yet.”
“Then why’re we all here?” Jubal asked.
Liam looked at the others. “Because it may come to that – and, no, I don’t want it to, either. But if it does, it can’t be a spur of the moment thing. For the sake of our own consciences and in honor of what Reverend Yingling has done for this town, it has to be something that we’ve thought about, something that we’ve prepared ourselves to do, not because we want to, but because we’ve decided that we have to do it.”
* * * * *
As Emma came near the place on the hillside that hid the entrance to Fort Secret, she saw Yully Stone sitting alone nearby. “Yully,” she greeted him. “What’re you doing here so early, and where are Penny and Nestor?”
“They’ll be along in a bit,” Yully replied. “I came on ahead. I… umm, I wanted to talk to you... alone, if I got the chance.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah, I…um, congratulations on getting first honors in mathematics.”
“Same to you, for history and geography.” She studied his face, trying to understand what he was saying. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Yes… no, dang it, Emma, no, it isn’t.” He swallowed hard. “I-I wanted to say how nice you looked with your hair up in a braid like you had it last night – and today – instead of in pigtails, like you been wearing it.”
A warm, happy glow ran through her. She felt suddenly shy. “Do... do you really think so?”
“I-I said it, didn’t I? I liked that green dress you had on last night. It made you look real pretty and grown-up and…” His voice trailed off.
Emma reached out to touch his hand. The warm feeling came back, stronger than before, as she felt his fingers curl around his. She sat down beside him and looked around. There was no sign of anyone coming in either direction. “Thank you, Yully. That’s the nicest graduation present I could’ve gotten.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He smiled broadly and kissed her back.
They didn’t say – or do – anything more, but they were still sitting there, smiling, and holding hands, until they heard Tomas coming towards them.
* * * * *
Liam and Trisha were talking when Trisha finally came back to the Feed & Grain after walking around aimlessly, trying to understand what had happened at the funeral. As soon as Trisha had come in, Kaitlin hurried over and turned the latch, locking the door. Once that was done, she turned the window card, so that the “Closed” side faced out to the street.
“Where the hell have you been,” Liam demanded, “and who have you been with -- as if we didn’t know.”
Trisha jerked her head back, as if physically struck. “I... I was just – is that why you closed the store, so the two of you could yell at me?”
“Damn right,” he replied angrily, “and don’t tell me we can’t close it. Kaitlin and I own more of this store than you do, if you’ll remember.”
“Oh, I remember,” Trisha shot back, “and that was your idea, too, as I recall.”
Liam frowned. “If you ‘recall’ so much, maybe you can recall why you lied to us about Roscoe?”
“I never lied about Roscoe.”
Liam gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, sure; he claimed to be the father of your baby just for the hell of it.”
“He isn’t the father,” Trisha insisted. “I honestly don’t know why he said that he was.” She didn’t know, but, for some reason, she was glad that he had, and – oh -- how she wished he were here to defend her now.
“Liam and I saw you talking to him, outside, before he… kissed you. What did he say?”
“I asked him just what you asked me, why he lied to Cecelia Ritter. He said that it wasn’t a lie. He said…” She looked uncertain about what she was saying. “He said that it was wishful thinking – whatever that means.”
Kaitlin smiled knowingly. “It means that he wishes he was the father.”
“You believe her story, Kaitlin?” Liam stormed. “You actually think it was somebody else, Rhys Godwyn or one of those mystery men, she never told me the name of.”
Kaitlin nodded. “I do.” She knew the names; she’d forced Trisha to tell her all those weeks ago, but now she wanted to see if her former husband would tell Liam.
“It is true,” Trisha insisted. “No matter what he may tell people, Roscoe isn’t the father.”
He glared at her. “Then who is – and don’t tell me that you don’t know.”
“I-I don’t, honest.”
His glare got stronger, if that was possible. “Then pick one.”
Kaitlin gasped. “Liam! You can’t be serious.”
“Sure I can, and she has to pick one. Thanks to Cecelia Ritter, the whole town knows – or will know pretty quick – that Trisha’s pregnant. We can’t deny that. If Cecelia can see it, everybody else will be able to, soon enough.”
He glared at his sister again. “And they’re all going to think that it’s Roscoe’s baby, thanks to that speech he made. The way I see it, she has two choices, to go along with Roscoe, and let him claim the baby – and her -- or pick somebody else for the job.”
“P-Pick somebody?”
“That’s what I said… little sister. Now that your secret’s out, you’re a fallen woman, and the only way to get your good name back is to find a father for that baby… and a husband for yourself.”
“Husband? Not one of the men who could be the real father was fit to be any woman's husband.”
“That’s the bed you made,” Liam told her, a nasty grin on his face. “And now you get to pick who lies in it with you. So think real carefully, Trisha. It’ll probably be a new experience for you, but you can try. You’ve got till suppertime Sunday to tell me who my new brother-in-law is going to be, and I’ll do the rest.”
* * * * *
Fred Reinhardt took a long drink of his brandy, draining his snifter. “Shame ‘bout that pretty daughter of yours not being here, Stafford. I was looking forward t’spending some time alone with her, seeing how we’re… engaged.” He raised the empty glass and the butler hurried over to refill it.
“Yes, I am sorry about that,” Colonel Stafford replied smoothly. “But when she got that telegram from her mother – my second wife – asking for help, while she was ill… Well, the girl just dotes on her mother. She was heartbroken about not seeing you tonight, but she had to go to Atlanta.”
“And when’s she gonna be back?”
“That’s hard to say. It's a long way, and you know how some illnesses can linger.” He studied Reinhardt’s expression, while he silently cursed Priscilla for disappearing the way she had. ‘She can’t hide from Pinkerton,’ he told himself, ‘and when they bring her back, I’ll whip the tar out of her and then chain her to the bedpost.’ He chuckled. ‘Reinhardt might just prefer her that way.’
“Do you keep in touch with your former wife?”
“Not really.” Touch was the right word. ‘If Priscilla is with Daphne, my former wife will find that her meal ticket from me just expired.’ He decided to change the subject. “But enough talk of my family, Fred. How about we go over the details of the railroad you’re going to help finance.”
“Sounds good t’me.” Reinhardt put down his brandy. It took a bit of work to get his overstuffed body up and out of the equally overstuffed chair he was sitting in. “This deal is sweet enough that I’d’ve probably bought in, even if you hadn’t made your daughter part of the deal.” He chuckled, “Of course, you wouldn’t have gotten terms anywhere near as good if she wasn’t…” He chuckled again, sounding nastier this time, “…on the table as part of the deal.”
* * * * *
As the music reached its peak, Nancy and Lylah were at opposite ends of the area doing randy jams. Suddenly, Nancy gave a whoop and started skipping towards Lylah’s side of the stage. At center stage, she whooped again and did a cartwheel to get the rest of the way across. She stood up, she put her hands on her hips and did a jig step, facing Lylah, as if challenging the black woman.
Lylah danced away. Halfway across the stage, she whooped and cartwheeled to the far side. She did the same jig step that Nancy had, put her hands on her hips, and gave a quick nod of the head, as if saying, “So there.”
The two women faced each other and did cartwheels, winding up next to each other. They linked arms and did a few high kicks, before they each whooped one last time and dropped down into splits just as the music ended.
The crowd exploded, applauding, yelling and whistling raucously. A few men fired pistols, and more than a few threw coins at the pair.
* * * * *
“I gots to admit,” Luke said, as he and Lylah settled down on the bench behind the Saloon, “I didn’t even know if there was gonna be a show tonight, not with Flora in jail.”
Lylah smiled, feeling very smug. “Well, there was, ‘n’ the way they was clapping ‘n’ yelling, I’d say that people thought we done okay.”
“Okay? Gal, you was fantastic, doing all them cartwheels like you done.”
“Seems like cartwheels was all I’ve been doing the last couple days. Molly ‘n’ Nancy kept at me till I learned how t’do ‘em. Then we practiced the new version of the dance till I could do it in my sleep.”
“You sure didn’t look like you was sleeping in there. The way you was dancing, jumping ‘round and yelling, was a pure delight.”
“I’m glad everybody liked it so much – ‘specially you. If Flora don’t get outta jail, me and Nancy’re gonna be doing it that way for a good, long time.” She paused, remembering Flora’s situation. “And she’s gonna – I don’t know where she’s gonna be.”
“Ain’t nobody knows. They say she murdered Mr. Ritter. A person can hang for that.”
“You think so. Dang, that’d be --”
Luke cut her off, putting a raised finger in front of her lips and whispering “Shhh,” before he continued in his normal voice. “I didn’t bring you out here t’talk about your dancing or Flora or anything else.” He took her head in his hands and drew close. “I brought you out here for this.” His lips touched hers in a kiss that quickly grew more and more intense.
Lylah sighed. He pressed his lips against hers. Her tongue brushed against Luke’s lips for a moment before it fled back into her mouth. His mouth opened slightly. She could taste the sweetness of his breath as he began to suck on her upper lip. The warmth of his kiss flowed through her body. Her arms rose slowly, gliding up and around his shoulders and neck, even as his arms encircled her, pulling her even closer.
When he broke the kiss, she looked up at him with half-closed eyes and an expectant smile on her lips. He kissed her again on the lips, a quick kiss, before he left a slow trail of kisses across her face, her chin, and on down her neck.
She trembled, lost in the feelings, the flames, he was kindling in her. Her nipples were drum tight, pushing out her corset. The warmth, the yearning that was building in the cleft between her legs was more than she could bear. It was a hunger that she longed to feed, and feed, and feed....
While he nibbled on her neck, Luke’s hands reached for the green buttons on her dress. He quickly undid the top four, revealing the cactus-flower pink bodice she wore beneath. He waited for her reaction, and when she made no effort to stop him, he began undoing the hooks.
He moved back up to kiss her on the mouth again, and she moaned, as his tongue slipped back into her mouth. At the same time, his hands finished with her garments, and he gently pulled them aside, freeing her breasts.
Again, he waited for her to react, but all that happened was a murmured, “Oh, yes,” when he broke the kiss. He smiled as he moved down to run his tongue across the tender flesh of her breast. She moaned again, and he took her nipple into his mouth, sucking at it like a nursing calf.
She leaned back slowly, bracing her arms on the bench. At the same time, she arched her back, pushing her breast at him, making it even easier to work at her extended nipple, while she luxuriated in the thrills that he was sending through her.
His hand reached up to play with her other breast. His fingernail ran across it, raising sparks like a sulfur match on sandpaper.
Lylah moaned again, overwhelmed by delicious sensations. She wanted more, and some instinct she’d never realized she had made her spread her legs in invitation. At the same time, her arm shifted and her hand began to caress his thigh.
He did the same, pressing firmly down to feel her flesh beneath her dress and the layers of petticoat. He moved slowly, past her knee, between her thighs, until his hand reached the narrow space at the juncture of her legs. Then he wriggled his fingers against her.
Lylah had never been touched this way before. She made a deep, sensual noise, a giggle of delight, and pressed her legs together. His hand was trapped, still moving against her. She luxuriated in the exquisite yearning he was causing her to know. “Yes… please, yes.” Her arm moved up and around his head, holding it in place against her. Her other hand was still on his leg, just now reaching his crotch. The bulging she felt was so big and firm and, somehow, oh, so very, very reassuring.
The world seemed to fall away from them. All they knew was the mutual fervor they felt for each other.
It lasted – they didn’t know or care how long – until they heard a voice.
“Just in case thuir’s either o’the Cactus Blossoms out here,” Molly called, standing on the top step and out of sight of the bench, “she needs t’be getting inside and getting ready for the next show.”
A short time later, she stepped back as Luke and Lylah came around the side of the building and onto the steps. They’d have been holding hands, if they both weren’t hurriedly adjusting their clothes.
* * * * *
Saturday, June 15, 1872
A News Item from the June 11, 1872 edition of The Eerie Citizen.
` Eerie Makes the Grade
` This Saturday, Eerie, Arizona will join the list of cities and towns
` from all across these United States that have had a Sanborn insurance
` map drawn up for their buildings.
` These maps use a very detailed system of colors and symbols to detail
` how each building is constructed and what use or uses it is being put
` to. The maps are used by all major insurance companies to assess
` risk and set rates. And, in the event of a fire – as recently beset
` the building that your own Eerie Citizen is published in – or any
` other calamity, the insurer is better able to indemnify the policy
` holder.
` Insurance companies view these maps very favorably. In fact, we are
` reliably told that towns that have had such maps drawn up have found
` that their insurance rates have lowered.
` The map is being prepared by Mr. Jubal Cates, local surveyor, and his
` new apprentice, Miss Emma O’Hanlan. Mr. Cates is quite familiar with
` the Sanborn insurance map system. Indeed, he worked alongside of
` Daniel Alfred Sanborn, the originator of the system, in the creation
` of the insurance map for Boston, Massachusetts.
` Mr. Cates has met with the members of the Eerie town council, who
` have all wholeheartedly supported the project, as does this
` newspaper. In fact, the first four buildings to be surveyed are the
` those containing Josiah “Whit” Whitney’s barbershop and his wife’s
` bathhouse, Aaron Silverman’s Dry Goods, Arsenio Caulder’s smithy, and
` the offices of The Eerie Citizen. We trust that the rest of
` the good citizens of Eerie will all be equally willing participants.
* * * * *
Teresa Diaz walked up to the back steps to the Spaulding house. “Are you ready, Arnolda?” Hearing no answer, she looked around, finally seeing her daughter hanging back by the entrance to the yard.
“Arnolda,” she asked, “why are you standing so far away? Come over here.”
Arnie shook her head. “No, I… This was a mistake.”
“No, it was not. Come over here, and you can carry the clean laundry up onto the porch for me.”
Arnie nodded. “Sí, Mama.” Still uncertain, but unwilling to disobey her mother, she walked slowly over to the laundry cart and picked up the three bundles that were the Spaulding’s clothing.
“Ah, Teresa,” Mrs. Spaulding said, opening the back door, just as they reached the porch. “And Annie, too. Or do we call you Arnie?”
The girl looked down, not quite able to meet Vida Spaulding’s gaze. “Arnie is the thoughtless boy who lied to Clara… to all of you,” she answered in a halting voice. “Annie is the stranger who you welcomed into your home and allowed to become your friend.” She and Dolores had worked out the words of apology, and she had practiced the speech over and over, hoping to get it right. “I would rather that you think of me as Annie.”
“Annie it is then, and she… you are welcome in our home.” Mrs. Spaulding stepped aside, holding the door open and gesturing for Teresa and Annie to go inside.
Hedley was waiting in the kitchen, standing next to the worktable. Clara sat next to him in her wheelchair. “You are, indeed,” he said, flashing a broad smile.
“H-Hello, Annie,” Clara added.
Arnie set the laundry down on the table and hurried to her. “Clara, how are you feeling? Are – Are you still coughing, or are you better? You seem better. That dress, it is the one I wore for you.” She looked up at Hedley for a moment. “You see, I said that it would look better on her, and it does, doesn’t it?”
Clara laughed at Arnie’s bubbling questions. “Yes, Annie, I-I am better. Thank you for asking.”
“I’m fine, too, by the way,” Hedley said sourly, but then he winked. “It is good to see you again, Annie.” He studied her for a short time. “Is that a new dress? It fits you… very well.”
Arnie suddenly felt a delicious warmth run through her. “It is new, yes.”
“Why don’t we settle up on the laundry?” Mrs. Spaulding suggested. “Then we can all sit down and catch up on things over lunch.”
* * * * *
In short order, they were seated around the dining table. Vida Spaulding and Teresa Diaz each sat at an end. Clara and Arnie sat along one side. “So we can tell each other secrets,” Clara explained with a giggle.
Hedley sat opposite them. “The better to look at you,” he’d whispered to Arnie, causing her to blush and – almost – giggle herself, as he helped her into her chair.
“Are you still working for your mother, Annie?” Vida asked.
Teresa answered for her. “She was only helping out while my broken bones healed. Now she works for --”
“Mama!” Arnie all but shouted, suddenly afraid of how the Spauldings would react to her working for Shamus.
Teresa smiled gently and reached over, putting her hand on Arnie’s arm. “Annie yelled like that because she was afraid that the truth would shock you.” She took a breath. “She is working as a waitress at the Eerie Saloon.” She said the last words quickly, in case Arnie tried to stop her.
“A saloon,” Clara giggled. “Oh, my, how scandalous.”
Hedley grinned and leaned forward to look closer at Arnie. “How scandalous, indeed.” Arnie felt as if he was looking right through her clothes, and she had to fight to keep her hands from modestly covering herself.
“Isn’t that the place where they had the potion that… changed you?” Vida asked. “Are those people forcing you to work for them?”
Teresa spoke before Arnie could frame an answer. “Oh, no, they are good people. The owner’s wife, Mrs. O’Toole – Molly – is a friend of mine. They pay Annie – and my niece, Dolores -- a good wage to wait on their customers and do the dishes. Mollie has them help with the housework, too, sweeping floors and changing the linen in the rooms that the Saloon rents out.”
“You’re not one of those Cactus Blossoms I keep hearing about, are you?” Hedley asked, sounding hopeful.
Arnie felt a blush race across her face. “Oh… no, I could not do something like that.” She decided not to mention the Saturday night dances. She still wasn’t completely certain that she was going to ask about being one of the waiter girls. ‘Maybe,’ she thought, ‘if I knew that Hedley would come to the dance.’
And she blushed again.
* * * * *
Zach Levy moved in until he was standing very close to the eighth-grade desk that was serving as the witness stand. “Miss Stafford,” he told Flora in a clear voice, “Hit me.”
“What?” Flora couldn’t understand.
He was right next to her now. “Hit me, better yet, stand up and slap my face.”
“I-I can’t.”
“You’re on trial for your life, Miss Stafford. Do it.”
“You know I can’t. O’Toole’s potion won’t let me.”
“Could you explain that, please?”
“Shamus, when he gave me that damned potion of his, and I… I changed, I had to do whatever he said, and he told me that I couldn’t hurt anybody.”
“You can’t hurt anyone, anyone at all?”
“No, I-I can’t.”
“Then I suppose you couldn’t kill anyone either, could you?”
Flora brightened, understanding what he’d been trying to do. “No… No, I couldn’t.”
“No more questions,” Zach said confidently. “Thank you, Flora.” He walked back over to the student desk that he was using.
Milt Quinlan stood up. “You can’t hurt anyone, Miss Stafford. Is that right?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
He walked over to where Zach had stood. “I say that you can.” He leaned in close. “You know I’m right, so why don’t you just slap my face and have done with it. C’mon, what’ve you got to lose?” He waited a half beat, and then added, “Bitch.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Zach leapt to his feet. “Mr. Quinlan has no right to insult my client like that.”
The Judge nodded. “I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Levy. Let’s have no more language of that sort towards this or any other witness.”
“Very well, Your Honor,” Milt replied. “Hit me, Miss Stafford, if you can.”
“I can’t!” The frustration showed in her voice. “And you know that I can’t.”
Milt smirked. “You say that you can’t. All right, then, is it because of Shamus O’Toole’s potion, or is it because you’re afraid to hit me. Is that it, really, you’re afraid?”
“No, I-I’m…”
“I say it is. I say that you’re a coward. You couldn’t face Abner Slocum, so you had to ambush him. And you couldn’t kill Clyde Ritter – so you say – because you were just too scared to do it.”
“I’m no coward.” She quickly added, “I didn’t kill Clyde, but I’m no coward.”
“I say you are. Coward, coward, coward, yellow belly, chicken.” As he said the last word, he suddenly reached out and pushed her.
“Bastard!” She growled. The potion allowed for self-defense, and Flora reacted to the push, slapping his face.
Milt smiled in triumph. “It seems that you can hit me, after all. No more questions.”
Zach quickly rose to his feet. “That’s right, Mr. Prosecutor, she can hit someone, but only in self-defense, as you’ve just demonstrated. Thank you.”
* * * * *
Trisha watched the jury walk out of the schoolhouse. A tent, she saw, had been set up over two of the picnic tables, and the twelve men were headed for it. As soon as they had, Sheriff Talbot took his place a few feet in front of the tent’s entrance in order to ensure the men privacy for their deliberations. “Time to find Roscoe,” she told herself.
“Trisha.” As if on cue, he stepped out onto the porch. “What brings you here?” He hurried over to where she stood, his smile growing broader with each step.
She smiled back, a little hesitant about what she was going to say. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened… what you said yesterday.”
“When I… um, when I claimed to be the father of your baby. Is that it?”
“Of course, it is.” She looked around. Others were coming out of the building. “But can we find someplace a bit more private to talk about it?”
“There’s not much privacy around here.” He pointed to a break in the grass and trees that surrounded the grounds, a narrow pathway into the woods. “Let’s try this way.”
He started for the path, and she followed behind him, walking circumspectly, rather than holding hands. About twenty feet in, he stepped behind a large Arizona cypress tree. She looked back. Between trees and high grass, she couldn’t see the school. “Now,” he said, taking hold of her hand, “what exactly do you want to talk to me about?”
“I need to know, why did you do it – and don’t give me that silly nonsense about ‘wishful thinking.’ I just won’t buy that.”
“Then let me – damn, you know that you’re better with words than I am.” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Let me show you why I did it.”
His arms circled around her, pulling her close. Startled, she looked up at his face. He leaned down and their lips touched in a kiss. Her arms drifted upwards, settling around his shoulders like a cloak. She felt lit up inside, like a paper lantern, with a gentle warming glow that flowed through her body.
She sighed, as the kiss grew stronger, more passionate. Her breasts ached, an exquisite ache, to be touched, fondled, caressed. Her nipples stretched, pushing against the fabric of her camisole in their eagerness for his attention, and in the cleft between her legs, she felt a hunger grow that cried out to be slaked. She trembled at the intensity of it, even as she rubbed her body against his.
“Now do you know why,” he said, breathlessly, as they eventually had to break the kiss.
Her arms tightened around his neck. Her knees felt too weak to support her on their own. “Ohhh, oh, yes.” She felt shy and happy and… loved, and she wanted him, wanted him so badly.
“Good, then what are we going to do about it?”
“I know what I want to do.” She grinned in anticipation.
He kissed her forehead. “I suspect that you do – and I suspect that it’s what I want to do, as well, but not here, not now.” He was all business now. ‘Somebody has to be… damn it,’ he told himself.’
“And we have something that must be taken care of first,” she said, trying to calm the fluttering in her body. “Come to my house tomorrow for lunch after church. I think that you and my brother and I have a great deal to talk about.”
* * * * *
“Flora Stafford,”Judge Humphreys began, “you have just been found guilty of first degree murder. Under the laws of the territory of Arizona, this court has no choice but to sentence you to be hung by the neck until dead.”
Flora sank down in her seat, tears swelling in her eyes. “But I didn’t kill him. I didn’t. I didn’t.”
“Your Honor,” Zach jumped to his feet. “This sentence is not warranted. Defense has clearly raised the issue that a potion girl like my client can only fight in self-defense. Further, no motive for a murder has been offered by the prosecution, only some vague conjecture of a lovers’ spat.”
Now Milt stood. “The jury has considered – and rejected – these issues, Your Honor. However, the prosecution has no problem with an appeal to lower the charge to manslaughter, which only carries a sentence of imprisonment for twenty years to life.”
“This court will agree,’ the Judge said in a formal tone. Unless either of you object, it will hear such an appeal on… Wednesday, the 19th of June, 1872.”
Milt shook his head. “I have no objection.” Zach nodded in agreement, while Flora looked skyward, as if a prayer had been answered.
There was an angry mutter from among the trial watchers. Judge Humphreys pounded his gavel against a wooden plaque. “There will be order in the court.”
A couple persistent voices still offered backtalk.
“I said order,” the jurist warned. “One more sound and there will be citations for contempt.”
The court voices fell to quiet, but the silence was a tense one.
* * * * *
“Nu, Ramon,” Aaron Silverman said, as they were closing the store, “you been quiet all day. What’s the matter?”
Ramon chuckled and shook his head. “I never could fool you, really, could I?”
“As the Sages say, ‘you laugh with your friends, but you cry with your good friends,’ and I can see, plain on the nose on my face, that you got something heavy on your mind.”
“If you must know, I was thinking about something Ernesto said to me a while back… while he was still angry at Margarita. He was in the stockroom, reading his school book of all things, and I went to talk to him about how much he was hurting his mother.”
“Such a sad time that was.” Aaron studied Ramon’s face. “What did he say to you?”
“That he didn’t have to listen to me because I wasn’t his father.” He sighed. “I wasn’t his father… then.”
“And you are now; since when?”
“No, I’m not, but I-I think that I want to be. I think of him as my own son, of Lupe as my daughter. Why should they not be my children?”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna adopt them? What does Maggie think of that?”
“I haven’t talked to her yet. There is a problem, you see… my brother.”
“A big problem, from how he acted about you getting married in the first place.”
“He has been unlucky in love and still has no heir of his own. If that does not change, Carmen and I remain to inherit his share of the family estate. And if I adopted Ernesto and Lupe, they would also be heirs to our family’s property after me. I believe that such a prospect would be a very unhappy one for Gregorio.”
“Well,” Aaron said, pursing his chin, “I think I know what you should do about it.”
“You do, what – what should I do, por Dios?”
“You gotta talk to that pretty wife of yours. If she says, ‘no,’ and I don’t think she will, then you and Gregorio ain’t got a problem. If she says, ‘yes,’ then you got two minds working on it – three if you count yours truly. If nothing else, we got your brother outnumbered.”
Ramon had to laugh at his friend’s optimism. “We do, indeed. I will think about what you said, Aaron, and thank you.” He pumped the older man’s hand. “My friend.”
“You’re welcome. Now let go of my arm, so we can both go home to our wives.”
* * * * *
Molly walked over to the table that Arnie was working at, putting out the napkins and silverware for the diners at Maggie’s restaurant. “Can I be talking to ye for a wee bit, Arnie?”
“Sure, Molly,” Arnie said, putting the tray of silverware down on the table. “What is it?”
“Ye’ve heard about Flora, I expect, that she was found guilty, I mean.”
“I have. It is hard to believe that someone I know could be a murderer.”
“Don’t' ye be too hasty,” Molly went on. “I didn't hear nobody in that courtroom come up with any good reason why Flora’d want t’be murdering Clyde Ritter. Forry may’ve had a reason t’shoot Abner Slocum, but her killing Ritter don’t make no sense to me at all.”
“I don’t think she done it, and I hope ye don’t neither, but that ain’t what I come t’ask ye about.” She seemed to be studying the girl’s expression as she spoke. “There’s a lot o’people in town for the trial – and for thuir usual Saturday business o’course, and a lot of ‘em are gonna be staying for the dancing here tonight.”
“Probably…” Arnie replied, “…some of them wanted to dance with Flora I think, but that… cannot happen now.”
“No, it can’t, can it?” She sounded sad, as she said it. “With her in jail and all that’s happened with some of the other girls, thuir ain’t near enough for them men t’be dancing with, Maggie, Bridget – when she’s up to it, Jane, Lylah, and Dolores.” She took a half beat. “And ye.”
“Me?”
“Aye, Dolores told me that she was teaching ye the dances. She thinks ye’re ready. Are ye?”
“I…” Was she ready? She hadn’t told the Spauldings about the dances because she wasn’t sure that she was ready – that she would ever be ready to dance at them. She wanted to say, “No,” but this was Molly asking. Arnie knew that Molly had spoken up for her to Shamus more than once.
The young girl sighed. “I do not know if I’m ready, but – for you—I will try.”
* * * * *
“Should I say congratulations?” Cap asked, as he waltzed Bridget around the floor.
She blinked, as if she hadn’t heard. “What… congratulations, what do you mean?”
“Congratulations on being right about Flora Stafford. She certainly seems to be as bad as you’ve been painting her all these weeks.”
“Oh, uhh… thanks.”
“You certainly don’t seem very happy about it.”
“I-I guess I am.” She took a breath. “Can we change the subject… please? I don't want to think about it. Uh -- it's already old news.”
“Sure.” He smiled. “I know something worth talking about. Us. You seem to be more and more of your old self. How are you feeling, and would you like to… go outside and, maybe talk – or, even better -- not talk about it?” He gently stroked her cheek.
She trembled at his touch and put her hand on his. “I-I… do want to, Cap, but tonight… tonight, I don’t think I’m fit company for myself, let alone for you.” A tear ran down her cheek.
“I can’t imagine you not being good company.” He wiped away her tear with a finger.
“Trust me, tonight, I’m… I can’t. Oh, Lord, Cap, why do you put up with me?”
“Because you’re more than worth it.” He kissed her cheek. “You’re worth the wait, too. Something’s troubling you tonight, so let’s not talk about being together after the dance. In the meantime, please let me help with whatever is bothering you.”
“I don’t know if anyone can help me, but thanks for the offer.” She sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” He smiled, a sad little smile. Maybe with Flora in her grave, Bridget would finally be able to close the book on a terrible experience. “I’ll just have to console myself – for now – with having you in my arms out here on the dance floor.”
She felt warm, protected, and so damned frustrated. “Thanks you, Cap, for understanding.” She lay her head on his chest and tried to just enjoy being in his arms.
She shivered, thinking that if Cap ever found out the truth, he would despise her forever.
* * * * *
“Arnolda Diaz,” Jerry Domingez said in surprise. “Since when are you one of Shamus’ waiter girls?”
“I-I am just helping out tonight.” Arnie answered nervously.
He didn’t speak for a while, concentrating on the mazurka they were dancing. Finally, he said, “You should keep at it. You are a good dancer.”
“Thank you, Señor Domingez.”
“If we know each other well enough to dance together, you should call me by my given name, Gerardo… Jerry, the Anglos call me.”
“Jerry, it is.”
“But it seems so wrong to be dancing with such a pretty girl as you, when her name is Arnoldo. Can I not call you something else when I am dancing with you?”
“Mama has started to call me Arnolda.”
Jerry frowned thoughtfully. “That is not a very attractive name, not for a señorita so bonita.”
Arnie thought for a moment before she gave in to the inevitable. “When we dance, you can call me… Annie.”
* * * * *
“You got company, Miz Stafford,” Tor Johansson announced walking over to her cell.
“Sorry t’disappoint you, Flora,” Carl Osbourne said, walking into view, “it’s only me.” He came around the beefy deputy and entered the cell. “Thanks, Tor.”
“What are you doing here, Osbourne?” Flora asked. When she hadn’t seen him at her trial, she’d been afraid that he didn’t care enough, or – much worse – that he thought she was guilty.
He gave her a lame smile. “Mr. Lewis sent me up to check on a couple of the line cabins up to the north. I only got back to the ranch house a couple hours ago. Soon’s I found out you was in jail, I told him I had t’come in and see that you was all right.”
She felt like a massive weight had just slipped off her shoulders. “I’m just so glad you’re…” she glanced down at the bars of her cell. “…here.” She was suddenly afraid that she was admitting too much. “I mean, you're about the only real friend I have in this damned town.”
Johansson shut the door slowly, listening for the click of the lock. “You give a yell vhen you vants out.” He turned and headed back to the sheriff’s desk.
Carl sat down beside her and gave her an encouraging smile. “So, how are you doing?”
“For a woman who’s probably going to hang in a few days I’m doing fine; just wonderful, in fact.”
“You’re not gonna die – at least – not while I have anything to say about it.”
“What can you do about it? That damned jury found me guilty, and the Judge said I would hang.” She sighed. “He’s letting me appeal my sentence on Wednesday, but, even then, the best I can get is twenty years in prison, which isn’t much better.”
“Did you kill Ritter – honestly, did you?”
“No, I… I swear it. Of all people, what reason would I have to kill him? A lovers’ spat like my lawyer said? I didn’t like him that much! Mainly, I played up to him to get back at Shamus O’Toole.”
“Then you shouldn’t hang -- or rot in jail. You've got so much to give. It would be a waste to let you get gray behind bars, and I’m gonna do all I can to see that you don’t.”
“How? You don’t have time to be appointed governor of Arizona, and there’s no other way you can get me out of this.”
“Maybe not, but I have to try.”
“Why? I mean, why should you care what happens to me?”
“Before I answer, let me give you something.” He reached into his pants pocket and took out…
“A ticket?”
“Yep, I bought it from Molly before I come over. Will you take it?”
She shrugged. “I suppose.” She accepted the ticket, putting it into a small pocket sewn into her dress. “Now what happens?”
“What usually happens when you take one of them tickets?” He pulled her gently to her feet and into his arms. “We dance.” His left arm went around her waist, while he took her right hand in his.
“Wha-Where’s the music?”
“Right her.” He began to hum the”Blue Danube”waltz as they danced, as best they could, in that small cell.
Flora was tense at first, and she moved awkwardly. But, as they waltzed, she began to relax. His arms were around her, sheltering her. When she rested her head on his chest, she could hear his heart beat and feel the vibrations from his humming. She was somehow comforted by the sounds. A warm glow flowed into her, through her, and it seemed to melt the icy fears that had stabbed at her heart since the moment that Judge Humphreys had read her sentence.
“Thank you,” she whispered, looking up at his face, her eyes glistening.
He kept humming, but he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “And that Flora is why I have to save you.”
“What, so you can dance with me?”
“You got it. I gotta save you ‘cause I don’t wanna see what my life’d be like if you wasn’t there t’dance with.”
He couldn’t be serious, not like that, not about her. She stared at him, her mouth open and her eyes glistening. “That does sound like a good reason,” she said softly. Her arms remained comfortably around his waist.
And his arms still cradled her against him.
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 12 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2013
Reverend Yingling preaches about Clyde Ritter. Roscoe joins the O’Hanlans for lunch. Carl confuses Flora with a question. Things become known at Flora’s second hearing. Yingling can’t stop a wedding. Hedley gets a haircut. And lots more.
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 12 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2013
Sunday, June 16, 1872
Nancy Osbourne and Opal Sayers walked slowly through the schoolyard towards the building. Both were dressed demurely, Opal in dark brown, and Nancy in her blue “church-going” dress.
“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Opal whispered, looking around nervously.
Nancy shook her head. “Yes, it is. It’s always a good idea to go to church on Sunday. You and I belong here as much as anyone else, so we’ll just go inside and be a part of today’s services, okay?” She reached out with her right hand.
“O-Okay.” Opal took Nancy’s hand in her own, and they continued on towards the school house.
As they walked, Nancy felt any number of eyes on her and on Opal. ‘Pretty much everybody knows me,’ she thought, ‘but most of them don’t know Opal.’ She smiled. ‘They’re probably wondering, who’s this woman with the town’s painted lady?’
“Hey, there, Opal,” a man’s voice abruptly greeted the two women. “What’re you doing here? Are the other girls with yah?” He leered. “If they are, I hope they’s dressed better’n you are.”
Opal looked down, shyly. “They’re not... I’m the only one here, me ‘n’ Nancy.”
“And we are here to go to church, thank you.” Nancy said firmly in her best “teacher-in-charge” voice. “So if you’ll excuse us.” She tried to go around the man.
He stepped back in front of them. “I don’t know what sorta game you ‘n’ your friend here’re playing, Opal. Let’s you ‘n’ me go find someplace real private, ‘n’ you can explain it t’me.” He grabbed for Opal’s arm.
“We came here to go to church,” Nancy told him, as she moved between the man and Opal.
His eyes roamed up and down Nancy’s body. “Maybe we, all three of us could go find us that special, private place ‘n’ have us a fine old time.”
“We know precisely where we intend to go,” Nancy replied, “and it’s a very public place.” She grabbed Opal’s wrist and walked briskly towards the building. “I'm sorry that we had to run into a fool like that.”
Opal shook her head. “I meet that kind every night. I'm only worried about what the high and mighty people will do when they find out who I really am.”
“They'll probably treat you like the treat me. Some biddy might test your nerve by telling you to go home, but if you just smile and say, ‘Yes, ma’am, that's what I intend to do right after the service.' She'll probably sneer and say, ‘Well, I never!’ and go back to her pew. We won't have a lot of friendly conversation after the service ends, either, I expect.”
“Except for the sort of conversation we just had with that man,” Opal replied with a sigh.
“Well, we came here for Sunday services,” Nancy said decisively. “And that is what we are going to do.”
The women turned and walked deliberately to the school house, while the man admired their sway as they strolled away. He was imagining that they were in their cancan rigs, the bare-shouldered, feathery outfits he had seen them wearing many times already.
* * * * *
“A moment of silence, please, my good friends.” Reverend Yingling raised his arms up into the air. “I ask for a moment of silence for our brother in Christ, Clyde Ritter, Senior.” He bowed his head, mouthing a silent prayer, while most of the congregation did the same. At the end, he lowered his arms and continued.
“Clyde was a good, decent man, a family man who dearly loved his wife, Cecelia, and their children, Winthrop, Hermione, and Clyde, Junior.” He stopped for a moment and looked directly at Cecelia and the others, who were seated in the center of the first row. They were all in mourning black, with Cecelia and Hermione veiled.
Cecelia knew that everyone was watching them. “Sit up straight,” she hissed at Clyde, Junior, “and try to look brave.” He did at once. Then she gave a loud sniffle and dabbed at her eyes with a white lace handkerchief. Hermione whimpered, right on cue.
“Clyde was a hard worker,” Yingling went on. “He worked hard at his livery stable to support his family. And he worked just as hard to support our church. There was seldom a meeting that Clyde missed, seldom a project that was not made better by his temperate presence. He was ever at the side of our board chairman, Horace Styron, the two of them in tandem, two stallions pulling together to move our church towards noble ends.”
“That team is broken. That firm hand is lost to us. A loving wife, herself a pillar of our church family, no longer has a husband to cleave to. Three children no longer have a wise father to guide them along the path to adulthood.”
“Death comes to us all, so it is ordained, but it need not have come so early for Clyde Ritter. I have spoken – I have warned -- so many times about the dangers posed by Shamus O’Toole’s potion. And now, my worst fears have been tragically realized. The potion has led to the death of a good, G-d fearing man.”
“Clyde was lured to his death – he was foully murdered -- by a she-demon created by that potion. O’Toole knew the sort of woman she was; he knew that she had been given her new form for attempting to kill yet another pillar of our community, Abner Slocum. Abner now is in a hospital back east, gravely injured and far, far away from us. We all pray to the Almighty, I am sure, for his speedy and complete recovery.”
“Yes, Shamus O’Toole knew what sort of woman Flora Stafford was, but did he keep her apart from others – did he make any attempt to protect us from her? No, he flaunted this potion girl, dressing her in scandalous costumes and having her dance lewdly for all to see.”
“And what is the result? A grieving widow and her forlorn, fatherless children, a broken family seeking our comfort and support.” He waited a half beat. “And seeking justice.”
“Flora Stafford has been tried by a jury, twelve good men and true, tried and found guilty in this very room, in our church, a place sanctified and filled with the presence of our Lord. One would hope, then, that justice would be served. But even this, it would seem, is to be twisted by the evil that is O’Toole’s potion. Friends of O’Toole, supporters of his evil machinations, have forced a reconsideration of that trial’s verdict.”
Reverend Yingling paused for a moment and glanced over at Judge Humphreys, a very satisfied look on his face. The Judge knew that there was no purpose to be served in interrupting the sermon, but he glowered back at Yingling.
“We can only hope,” the minister continued, “that fair, pious heads will prevail, and that the justice which Flora Stafford truly deserves will be served. And towards that end, let us pray.”
* * * * *
Molly put her elbows down on the bar and leaned forward, staring at the batwing doors of the Saloon. It almost seemed as if she were willing someone to come through those doors.
“What’s bothering ye, Love?” Shamus came over to stand beside his wife. His hand rested gently on her shoulder.”
She turned to face him, a sad smile just barely curling her lips. “I’m much worried, Shamus.”
“So am I, t’be telling the truth, Molly, but that lawyer fellah, Levy, seems like a sharp tack. He’ll be doing all he can for Flora.”
“Aye, but that ain’t too much, seeing as they’ve already found her guilty. Only, she ain’t the one I was worrying about just now; ‘tis Jessie and Paul. They was supposed t’be back a week ago, and we ain’t seen hide or hair of ‘em. With the telegram that come the day after they left, I’m… I’m scared for ‘em.”
“I won’t be telling ye not t’worry, Love.” Shamus bent closer to her and kissed her cheek. “That’d be like telling the sun not t’rise up in the morning. But they both know how t’live in the wild. Didn’t Jessie tell ye them tales about what she done when she ran off after Toby Hess… died?”
“She did.”
“And Paul’ll be thuir with her. Ye know that he’ll be looking out for her if anything does happen – which it won’t o’course.”
“Just like she’d be taking care o’him. I know that, Shamus, but I still can’t help worrying.”
“Did I ask ye t’stop?” He chuckled. “Ye know what I think happened?”
“What?”
“Thuir’s a lot of pretty country between her and that farm they went to. I’m thinking that they’re holed up someplace, taking some time t’be doing what young folks that love each other like t’ do.”
She tried to smile. “Ye think so?”
“It’s what I’d be doing if I was out thuir with a pretty young barmaid o’my acquaintance.” He winked and kissed her again, this time on the side of her neck.
Molly couldn’t help but giggle in spite of her concern. “Ye’re a naughty, naughty man, Shamus O’Toole, t’be kissing me like that when I’m worrying so about Jessie and Paul.” She took his hand in hers. “Thank ye.”
* * * * *
“Tramp!”
“Hussy!”
“Ought to be ashamed!”
More than one voice, mostly female, hissed as Trisha left the church, and some of those “good women” who didn’t speak just glared at her. A few of the men leered.
Trisha walked across the schoolyard, holding Kaitlin’s hand, while Emma walked behind them with Liam. They were more than halfway across, when Arsenio Caulder guided Laura’s wheelchair up next to them.
“Can I talk to you for a bit, Trisha?” Laura asked.
Trisha shrugged. “I suppose, but can we keep walking? The sooner I’m away from some of these people, the better.”
“Arsenio?” Laura looked up at her husband, when he nodded and kept pushing her forward to keep up with the O’Hanlans, she said to their church friends, “Walking’s fine.”
“I heard about what happened at the Ritters’,” Laura continued. “Is it… are you…” Her eyes moved down to examine Trisha’s stomach. “Yes, you… you are pregnant, aren’t you?”
Trisha frowned and then nodded. “I am, about fifteen weeks along, Doc Upshaw tells me.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“Should I be?”
“It’s up to you. I know that you’ve made a lot of other people happy. You’ve lived up to their worst expectations about you.”
“Thank you so very much,” Trisha said coolly. She started to move away from the couple.
Laura reached out and grabbed her arm. “Wait -- please, I was only joking. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”
Trisha looked over her shoulder and said, “You should be.”
“I am. Sometimes my mouth just moves faster than my brain. I know how scary all this must be for you, and I was trying to lighten things up a little.”
“It-It is scary, and, to tell the truth, seeing you sitting in that chair doesn’t help any.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t, but just because I’m in a wheelchair doesn’t mean that you’ll have to be. Doc Upshaw says that every pregnancy is different. When I asked him, he said that it’s entirely possible that you won’t need one.”
“You asked him about me?”
“Actually… no. I asked him about pregnancy and potion girls back when Maggie Sanchez was getting ready to marry Ramon de Aguilar. And I asked again after Milt Quinlan proposed to my… sister, Jane. I got pregnant right off when Arsenio and I got married, and I wondered – you know – about them.” She smiled and looked down at her own gravid middle. “I just thought you should know.”
“Thanks, I suppose.”
Laura took Trisha’s hand. “If you have any questions – any at all – or, if you even just want to talk, you come and see me, okay?”
“I-I guess.”
“Don’t guess; I mean it. After all, we’re the only two of our kind, the only two pregnant potion girls ever, as far as I know. We have to stick together.”
* * * * *
“Penny for your thoughts, Honey,” Mae said. She leaned over and kissed Zach, several quick pecks on his cheek.
He sighed. “I’m sorry, Mae. I was thinking about that appeal hearing on Wednesday. It’s going to be close.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Clyde Ritter, some people’ve been talking him up as a real honest, forthright, moral pillar of the community. It’s like the whole town is going to collapse without Clyde there to show us all the way.”
She giggled. “That’s almost funny, considering how much time he spent here at La Parisienne.”
“He was here? A lot?”
“Honey, he was a regular. Matter of fact, yours truly…” She patted her hair. “…was his favorite.”
“Do you have proof – that he was a regular here, I mean? I can understand that you would be his favorite.”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t have nothing with his name on it, but he’s probably listed in the Lady’s account books.”
“Mae, I could kiss you – and I think I will.” He shifted and kissed her meaningfully. She moaned and her right arm slowly slid up and wrapped around his neck.
When they broke the kiss, he said, “I’ll have to take a look at those books. Later.”
“How much later?”
He raised an eyebrow, giving her a wicked leer. “Later later.” He waited a beat and then added, “Thy two breasts are like two fawns that are twins of a gazelle, which feed among the lilies.” It was a line from the biblical Song of Songs. Jewish tradition called for young couples to use the work as an onset to sexual relations. Milt shifted again and kissed her left “fawn.”
Mae knew the tradition from her own childhood, and she answered as he’d taught her. “His left hand should be under my head, and his right hand should embrace me.” She smiled, as his hands moved as she had just directed.
* * * * *
“I could ask Judge Humphreys to subpoena your account books,” Zach told Lady Cerise. They were both in her office. Wilma and Herve, Cerise’s “friend”, were there, as well. A red, leather-bound account book sat open on Cerise’s desk.
Cerise gave him a sly smile. “He may not be willing to do that, Monsieur Levy, not when his own name might be read in those same pages.’ She thought for a moment. “Still… I, too, have tired of hearing what a fine, saintly man Clyde Ritter was.”
“Seems t’me,” Wilma began, “we gave his wife ‘whore’s coins’ last autumn, when she was raising money for the victims of that fire in Chicago.” She smiled slyly and winked at Zach.
Zach look confused. “What’re ‘whore’s coins’, Wilma?”
“An old custom, a way to get back at people who condemn what we do here,” Cerise explained, “but who are so willing to take the money we earn doing it. For a time, a coin – a silver dollar, perhaps – is wrapped in each of the pessiaries that my ladies use to prevent becoming enceinte… with child. Afterwards, we collect the coins, and... spend them. In this case, we gave them to the high and mighty Madame Ritter.” She chuckled. “She said that she was so grateful for our efforts on behalf of those poor people.” She chuckled again. “I did not tell her that some of those ‘efforts’ involved her own husband.”
Zach shook his head, his body wracked with laughter. “You really did that?” When she nodded, he laughed and added. “From now on, though, I think I’ll be asking you to pay my legal fees by check, if you don’t mind.”
“Seriously,” he said, after gaining control again, “I don’t have to read the entire book, just a few marked entries that prove that he’s been in here on various occasions.”
“Eet would be a problem for my business is thees whole book were read out loud,” said Cerise. “Many of my customers have wives.”
Zach shook his head. “I don't think the court will want to have the entire book read publically.” Zach now grinned broadly. “Especially not the Judge, from what you said.”
“Zhat is a relief! As a rule, we just enter the income on a given night from food, drink, and… other services without listing the names of our gentlemen callers.”
The lawyer frowned. “I need Ritter’s name.”
“And you shall have it,” Cerise told him. “I said, ‘as a rule.’ After the fight, he took… here, let me show you.” She leafed through the book until she saw what she was looking for. She turned the book, so he could read it and pointed to an entry.
Zach read. “Clyde Ritter and Horace Styron… The Dining Room… $50. What’s the dining room?”
“A private room,” Wilma explained, “with its own entrance. Two or three gents can eat their fill ‘n’ drink up some good booze, b’fore they get down to… business. There’s some couches in the room for ‘em t’use, all set up for privacy.”
“And what did you mean ‘after the fight’, Cerise?”
* * * * *
Liam leaned forward, his hands flat on the dinner table. “All right, Roscoe, the first question – the one that I have to ask – is, are you the father of Trisha’s baby?”
“Umm, ah, Liam… Mr. O’Hanlan…” Roscoe squirmed in his chair. “In all honesty, no, I’m sorry, but I’m not the father.”
Kaitlin knew the truth; Trisha had confessed the names of the three possible fathers to her months before. “Then why did you say you were?”
“I-I thought that it would go easier for Trisha if I did, especially the way Mrs. Ritter was shouting insults at her.”
Liam raised a skeptical eyebrow. “My sister’s a very pretty woman, Roscoe; even I can see that. Were you just angling for a chance to… be with her?”
“No!” The man shook his head. “I like Trisha. I like her a lot. If I was wishing for anything, I-I’d wish that she was mine—her and her baby, both – mine to protect and take care of and…” His eyes grew wide as if he was just becoming aware of what he was about to say. “…and love.”
Liam seemed to come to a decision. “Stand up, Roscoe,” he ordered. “You too, Trisha.”
Roscoe slowly rose to his feet. He tried to keep his eyes on Liam, but he kept taking quick glances at Trisha, as she also stood. “Mr. O’Hanlan, if I said anything wrong, I’m sorry…”
“There’s no need for you to be sorry, not if you’ve been telling the truth. Just take my sister’s hand and get down on one knee. If you’re going to propose, you might as well do it right.”
Trisha’s jaw dropped. “Propose?”
“Propose. Roscoe’s the only chance you’ve got at being an honest woman, Trisha. The news that you’re pregnant is all over town by now. Isn’t that right?”
The newsman nodded. “Probably. Mr. Pratt used to say that half the people in town bought the paper to see which of that week’s rumors we’d decided to print.”
“So the whole town knows you’re pregnant,” Liam continued, “but nobody else has stepped up to admit that he’s the one who got you that way. If the two of you don’t get together, it won’t do Roscoe much harm, but you, Trisha, you’d be a foolish, fallen woman, betrayed and abandoned by the father of your child.”
Roscoe took her hand and dropped down. “He’s right, Trisha.” He smiled up at her. “Will you marry me and let me save you from such an awful fate?”
“You… You want to… marry… me?” She could hardly believe what was happening. Part of her was panicking, but part -- and not small part -- of her tingled with excitement.
He got back on both feet, still holding her hand. He took a firmer grip and pulled her to him. “Yes, I do; very much, now that I think of it.” He gently placed his hands on either side of her hands and, before she could say anything more, moved closer and kissed her with all the passion he could muster.
Trisha sighed, as a warm glow enveloped her. There were a thousand reasons, she knew, why she shouldn’t marry -- couldn’t marry -- Roscoe but, at that moment, she couldn’t think of a single one.
* * * * *
“Hello, Flora.” Zach Levy was smiling, almost grinning, as he and Tor came around the corner and back towards her cell.
Flora stood up next to her cot. “What’re you so happy about, and what took you so long to get here today?”
“Wait a minute.” He tilted his head, pointing towards Tor. The deputy opened the door, and Levy walked in. “Thanks, Tor.”
He waited until the other man had shut and locked the cell door and headed back to his desk. “Now, I’ll answer your questions. I was over at La Parisienne... ah, checking things out.”
“I’m sure,” she said coolly.
He chuckled. “All right, all right.” He held up his hands, as though he was defending himself. “That wasn’t all I was doing, but I did find out some things that I think will help your case.”
“What… What did you find out?”
“Let’s just say I think I can prove that Clyde Ritter may not have been the even-tempered family man that some people are claiming he was.”
“That’s what I kept saying at my trial.”
“Yes, but you were hardly the most objective of witnesses.”
“Do you have enough to get me freed?”
“First things first; my goal on Wednesday is just to get rid of that death sentence. That’s all the Judge was willing to consider. If I can prove your case – and I think I can -- and get your sentence dropped to twenty years, then I can go for a new trial.”
“But if you can’t.” The air seemed to go out of Flora, and she sank down onto her cot. “Shouldn’t we be talking about…” She sighed -- or was it a whimper? “…my will?”
He sat down next to her, cupping her chin in his hand. “Hey, now; I’m not so desperate for business that I’ll waste your time on something that you won’t need.”
“Are you that sure I won’t need one?”
“You’re the one who complained about my being an ‘honest lawyer.’ If I thought things were going to go bad, I’d be happy to help you write your will, wouldn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“And if I thought things were okay, but I was greedy, I’d also take on the job. But I’m an honest lawyer, so if I won’t work up your will it must be because you won’t be needing one, understand?”
“I guess.” She gave him a weak smile.
“Good. Now you relax. You’ll see; you’ll be out of here in no time.”
* * * * *
“Hey, Bridget,” Sam Braddock set his carpenter’s toolbox down on the table. “You up for a game of poker… for nails, of course.”
Bridget had been playing a game of Maverick solitaire. “I suppose.” She gathered in the cards.
“Good.” He opened the toolbox and took out a box of nails and dumped them out onto the table. “Here you go.” He sat down and pushed a handful to Bridget and took roughly the same number for himself. Then he carefully picked up the remainder and returned them to the box.
Bridget shuffled the deck twice and offered it to Sam to cut. He tapped the cards with a finger and nodded for her to deal.
“Can anybody get in this game?”
Bridget looked up to see… “Carl, what brings you in here?”
“I rode in t’see Flora.” He ignored the frown that briefly clouded Bridget’s face. “Only she’s talking to her lawyer, right now. They said they was gonna be a while, so I came over here for a drink.” He looked down at the nails. “Only this looks more interesting.”
Sam took a handful of nails from the box and put them down near where Carl was standing. “Have a seat.”
“But…” Bridget cradled the cards nervously. So far, she’d only been playing poker with Sam. Still, Carl was a friend. He’d been sitting in at the poker table with her since she first started dealing cards for Shamus all those months ago. ‘I-I can trust him,’ she reassured herself, ‘even if he… is with Flora.’
The cowboy saw her expression. “If you’re afraid to play for something as important as nails…” He gave her a quick wink. “…we can always play for cash money.”
“No,” she answered. “Nails will be fine.” She took a breath to steady herself. “Five card stud, okay?” When both men nodded, she dealt the cards.
Sam tossed two nails to the center of the table. “Ante up.”
“Okay.” Bridget fanned out her hand; 10 of clubs; 2, 7, and 8 of diamonds, and 10 of hearts. ‘Not a bad hand,’ she thought. She leaned back in her chair and started watching the two men for tells.
It was like she’d never stopped playing
* * * * *
Monday, June 17, 1872
Flora used a biscuit to soak up the last of the grease from her bacon. “Well, you gonna tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Carl asked. He was sitting opposite her at a small table he’d brought into her cell along with the picnic basket that held their breakfast. He took a bite of his own biscuit.
“Why it was you that brought breakfast this morning… and why you stayed to eat with me?”
“I… Did you enjoy having breakfast with me?”
She shrugged. “I suppose.” She saw his expression cloud. “Yes… Yes, I did. It was…” She thought for a moment. “It was… nice. In fact, I enjoyed it more than I expected to.”
“I’m glad. Would you like to have breakfast with me again tomorrow?”
“Yes, but you haven’t answered my question.”
“How about the day after tomorrow… and the day after that and the day after that?”
She chuckled at his eagerness, putting up her hand to cover her mouth. “Yes, yes, but why…”
“How about every morning for the rest of your life?”
“Now how could I…” Her eyes widened in surprise, as she realized what he was asking.
Carl smiled and took her hand in his. “By marrying me, Flora. Will you be my wife?”
“Are you crazy?” She stood up quickly.
He rose and walked around to her side of the table, still holding her hand. “‘Course, I’m crazy; crazy in love with you. Do you love me?”
“Well, I...I don't know. I don't know if I feel the marrying kind of love. I need to think.” She felt confused… and surprised… and uncertain….
He stepped even closer. His other hand reached up to softly stroke her cheek. She stared into those warm green eyes of his, her lips parted. Then his lips touched hers in a kiss that made the world just… drift off for a while.
“That’ll give you something to think about,” he told her when they separated.
Her legs felt unsteady, and she sank down on the cot. It was like all the strength had gone out of her. What was he doing to her?
Without another word, but grinning as he worked, Carl loaded the leftover food and the dirty dishes into the basket. He folded the table, and then he called for the sheriff. “I have to put the table outside your cell,” he explained.
“Th-Thanks,” she said, blinking as if she’d stared into a bright light. “See you later.”
He leaned down and kissed her in the cheek, as the sheriff opened the cell door. “You surely will, Flora, honey; you surely will.”
* * * * *
Roscoe raised his hand, but then he paused a moment before he knocked on the half-opened door. “Reverend Yingling?”
“Yes, come in.” Yingling dog-eared the page of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper. ‘I’ll finish this later,’ he promised himself as he set it down in a drawer of his desk.
Roscoe pushed the door open and walked in. Trisha was with him, holding his hand. “Good morning, Reverend,” they said, almost in unison.
“And a good morning to the both of you. What can I do for you?”
“We… ah, we want to get married,” Trisha answered, trying to hide the quiver in her voice.
Yingling nodded gravely. “After the events of last Friday, I am hardly surprised.”
“You heard about that, did you?” she asked.
“I was there, actually, over in a corner pouring myself a cup of tea. I witnessed the entire incident.”
“Whatever you may think, sir, I love Trisha, and I -- we -- want to do the right thing.”
“We want to get married,” she added. “Seeing as school’s out for the summer, I thought…” She smiled and squeezed Roscoe’s hand. “We thought, maybe, we could use it as the church. We’d like to get married on Thursday afternoon, if that’d be okay for you.”
The Reverend leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “It is most uncertainly not okay with me. I will not officiate at your wedding, not on Thursday nor on any other day. Nor will I allow the use of my church for such sacrilege.”
“Sa-Sacrilege?” Trisha’s eyes went wide. “If it’s because I’m… pregnant…” She let the thought hang.
The minister shook his head. “I do not, of course, approve of the sort of behavior that led to your… condition, but I know that it can happen. In your case, I would almost expect it to happen.”
Roscoe’s expression hardened. “What do you mean ‘expect it to happen’? What are you implying?”
“Patrick O’Hanlan was a good, church-going man before he was transformed by Shamus O’Toole’s infernal potion. That the woman he became would indulge in such indecent practice – to become… with child – is only to be expected, given that potion’s corruptive influence.”
She glared at the man. “Now just a minute, Reverend; you can’t say something like that about me.” To herself, she added, ‘or about Emma.’
“No?” Yingling shook his head again. “That potion is the foulest evil I have ever encountered. My feelings on the matter are well-known, and I will do nothing that can possibly be taken as condoning it in any way.”
“That’s absurd,” Roscoe argued.
The other man rose to his feet. “No, it is our Lord’s revealed truth. Since you both refuse to accept this, I fear that our conversation is at an end.” He took a breath. “And I will ask you to leave.”
“This conversation may be ended,” Roscoe replied, “but, rest assured, the matter is not.” He put his hand around Trisha’s waist and guided her out the door.
* * * * *
“That went well,” Trisha said sourly, giving Roscoe a wry smile. The pair had just left the Yingling home.
Roscoe smiled back. “No, it didn’t, but it’s his fault, not yours. And, just in case you’re wondering, I still want very much to marry you.” His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close.
“Good, because I feel the same way.” They looked at each other for almost five whole seconds before they kissed.
* * * * *
“Is he in, Mr. Wynn?”
The clerk looked up. Roscoe and Trisha had walked into Judge Parnassus Humphrey’s outer office.
The Judge was standing a few feet away looking at a file. “I am, Trisha… Roscoe.” He handed the file to Obie Wynn, his clerk. “Can we talk about whatever the problem is in my office?”
“We want to get married,” Roscoe said, “and your office will be fine for now.”
The three of them went into the office, and the Judge shut the door behind them. “Are you all right, Trisha? Do you want some water or anything before we start?” He glanced down at her stomach.
“I’m fine, Your Honor.” She took a quick look down, and then shook her head. “Aside from just being there, ‘Junior’ isn’t a problem… yet.”
“Cecelia Ritter never was much for tact. She picked a terrible way to announce him… or her.”
Roscoe gave a harsh laugh. “That’s for sure. It’s not nice to say it, but I was hoping that her husband’s death would slow her down – for a while anyway.”
“It probably won’t,” Trisha added. “But that’s not why we’re here.” She took Roscoe’s hand. “We want – not need -- want to get married.”
“I’m flattered to be asked to officiate, but, frankly, I’m a bit surprised that you didn’t ask Thad Yingling.”
Roscoe frowned. “We did ask him, to tell the truth. He refused. He said that everything about Shamus O’Toole’s potion was evil – even Trisha.” He squeezed her hand. “He not only refused to marry us, he said that he wouldn’t allow us to get married in his church.”
“His church?” Humphreys scowled. “I think not. Strictly speaking, it’s mine, mine and the rest of the board, to administer in the name of the congregation.”
“I’m on the board.” Trisha brightened for a moment. “That is, I was till I took that leave of absence. Liam’s on it now.” She brightened again. “If Liam and you, Judge, and… and Rupe and Dwight Albertson said it was okay…” Her voice trailed off.
The Judge nodded. “Then, of course, you two could use the church. I have no problem with that. The good reverend’s getting a little too arrogant for my taste. You know, you two aren’t the first couple he’s refused. He said ‘No’ to Milt and Jane Quinlan when they asked.”
She frowned. “'I heard you married those two at the Saloon. But I didn't know that the choice had been forced on them.”
“Nobody called him on it. Milt and Jane were happy enough to have the wedding at Shamus’ saloon.”
“I think Trisha and I would prefer the church. Can you help us?”
The other man nodded. “I think so. When would you want the ceremony?”
“Thursday afternoon,” Roscoe answered. “It’s summer break, so the school house is available.”
“Hmm, and does Liam approve of this wedding?”
“He sure does.” She wouldn’t say that it was his idea originally.
“Good, ask him to talk to Rupe Warrick about the church board meeting tonight --- at your house, Trisha, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t. Kaitlin approves, too, so she shouldn’t mind our meeting there, either.”
“Good; I’ll talk to Dwight. We’ll start at 7 or so.”
Trisha smiled. “I think that’ll be fine.” She thought for a moment. “And I think that I’ll go drop in on Jubal Cates. Emma’s working for him, and I want to see how she’s doing. Of course, if I just happen to tell him about tonight – he just might happen to show up.”
“The more the merrier,” the Judge said with a chuckle.
* * * * *
Flora sat on her cot, staring at the bars of her cell and at the brick wall beyond it. As she did, Carl’s words – his question – kept repeating over and over in her mind. “Will you be my wife?”
“How can I be his wife?” she asked herself. “How can I be any man’s wife when I’m a man; when I’m Forrest Wainwright Stafford?”
“Will you be my wife?”
“Well, I was a man, before I took that damned potion, anyway. O’Toole made me dress like a woman. And those damned baths -- I had to remember how the baths made me feel every time I got up and danced. What with brushing my hair and saying, ‘I’m a girl’ and lessons on how to walk and sit, I couldn’t help but start acting girly, but acting girly and being a girl, those are two very different things. Aren’t they?”
“Will you be my wife?”
“And why did I have to flirt with Carl? I flirted with Clyde to rile Shamus. I let Clyde think he could get into my drawers if he was nice to me, if he brought me presents. Carl, okay, I was practicing with Carl. But he… he was different… special.’ She smiled to herself. ‘And he made me feel special, too.”
“Will you be my wife?”
“Now he wants to be with me forever; except forever is only probably the few days till they can hang me. That… That’s not too long a time.” She sighed. “What would it be like, I wonder, to be with a man, to be his? To hold him and touch him and… to find out if this crazy feeling, that I’m feeling, is really...love.”
“Will you be my wife?”
“But what if isn't it love? What if it’s just an impulse to try out something -- anything that's new -- to take my mind off the hanging?”
“Will you be my wife?”
“And if I don’t hang… if we do have a life together, can I be the sort of a wife that he needs – that he deserves, or will I immediately want out of our marriage? That would hurt Carl so much, and he's the last person in the world I want to hurt.”
“Will you be my wife?”
“Even if I tried to do my best for him, what would my best be? Keep house, like Laura Caulder does for her husband? I hate doing that sort of work for Shamus. Help him relax after a day of roping cattle? Bring him a beer in our house, if we even have a house? Sleep with him? I never did that with a man. Does he want children? Could I ever be enough of a woman to do that? The whole idea scares me.”
“And what about my days? What will I be doing? Is my father going to disown me and leave me with nothing? Am we supposed to live on a cowboy's wages? Wouldn't I have to keep dancing so we'd have a little extra to spend? Even with a cowhand's and a dancehall girl's wages together, we'd still be poor. Could I live with being poor?”
“Will you be my wife?”
“Is it even possible for me to let somebody love me and not have the person end up hurt? It’s happened before – too many times. But I never felt serious about anyone before. Everything about this thing with Carl feels serious. Is it even possible? Should I run, or should I give it a chance and see what happens? Forry Stafford wasn’t the bravest of men, Lord knows. Does he – do I -- have the courage to actually love someone, and let him love me for however long – or short – the rest of my life is going to be?”
* * * * *
Kirby leaned back in his chair and glanced around the yard. “It’s really nice – nicer than I expected – having dinner with you here in Shamus’ backyard.”
“I thought that you’d like it,” Nancy replied. “That’s why I asked Shamus to put the table out here.”
He gave her a wry smile. “I admit to being a little surprised at first, but it’s just the thing for a demure, little school teacher who can’t be seen having dinner with a man.”
“Or for a brazen hussy of a dance hall girl,” she teased him back, “one who wants to be alone with her beau.”
“And am I that beau?”
“I would think so.” She smiled. “You’ve been working at it long enough.”
He shifted his chair, so he was sitting closer to her. “I think so, too.” He took her hand. “You’re a wonder, Nancy Osbourne. Somehow, you’ve managed to be that ‘demure, little school teacher’ and ‘the brazen hussy’, both at the same time.
“Which do you prefer?”
“The dancer; I couldn’t even talk to the schoolmarm, let alone be having dinner with her. But I can certainly talk to the dancer. She seems more natural, more free. I can watch her show, and then, afterwards, I can sit with her and tell her how much I enjoyed it. Even better, on Saturdays, I can buy a ticket and dance with her, hold her in my arms and feel her moving across the floor with me.” He took a breath. “Yes, I definitely prefer the dancer.”
“You sound like you have no use for the schoolmarm,” she teased.
He leaned in close. “I most certainly do. She’s every bit as pretty as the dancer, and she had the courage to spite Mrs. Ritter and the rest and to become the dancer. I’m proud of her and proud to know her.”
“You didn't talk that way when you first found out what I was going to do.”
He shrugged. “You'd been hurt, and I thought that you were going to make a mistake that would get you hurt even more. Also, I cared so much about the person you were, and I was afraid that my feelings would change if you stopped being the schoolmarm that first won my heart.”
“Speaking for the schoolmarm, I’d like to say that you’re a very sweet man, Kirby Pinter.” She touched his cheek, brought her face close, and kissed him softly on the lips.
Kirby smiled. “And another thing, she kisses just as well as the dancer.”
Nancy looked down and said through a smile, “You silly! That was the dancer kissing you!”
* * * * *
“Evening, Flora.”
Flora looked up from the last of her dinner to see Carl Osbourne and Sheriff Dan Talbot standing outside her cell. “C-Carl, what are you doing here?”
“I came for an answer to the question I asked you this afternoon.” Carl stepped back, as the Sheriff unlocked the cell door and swung it open. “Thanks, Sheriff,” he said, walking into the cell. “I’ll call if I need you.”
Talbot closed the cell door, making certain that the lock clicked shut. “You do that – and good luck.” Without another word, he turned and headed back to his desk.
“Are you sure you want my answer?” She took a last sip of her coffee and set the empty cup down on the tray. “For that matter, are you still sure that you want to marry me?”
“Yes; yes to both questions.”
“Why…Why for heaven’s sake do you want to do something that crazy? Don’t you know who I am – who I was? What I did?”
He nodded. “You used to be a fellah named Forry Stafford, and he done some pretty nasty stuff. But you ain’t him no more.”
“I don’t look like him anymore; I know that.” She took a fleeting look down at her body. “But inside --”
“You ain’t him inside neither,” he insisted. “You still got his spunk, some of it anyway, and I admire that ‘bout you, but you talk different – not so sure of yourself, not so angry – more friendly.”
“That was an act for the Saloon crowd. I was just playing up to people. It was good for business.”
“Is that so?” He took her hand in his own. “Flora, you just ain’t that good an actress; the real you keeps peeking through. You look like a gal. You walk and talk like a gal. And, best of all, you kiss like a gal.” He looked her straight in the eye. “What does that make you?”
“A monster!” She looked away from him. “Carl, I don't know anyone in the world who wouldn't rather have me dead, except, maybe, my sister Prissy; maybe my father, too, but only because he wouldn't want to lose a piece off his game board. And how many friends have I made in this town? Half of it is howling for my blood.”
“Flora, you've got to accept that you're a potion girl. I know most of the potion girls, and there’s no way in hell that any of them are still men under their pretty skin. It's magic, Flora. Every move you make, every breath you take, every word you say tells me you're a hundred percent gal.”
She spoke in a soft, uncertain voice. “You're wrong.” But, silently, she asked herself, ‘Is he? Am I really a girl? And if I am, does it make any difference?’ Her two conflicting natures seemed to be deadlocked. She had the deciding vote. What should she do? She could either be the monster, or be the girl...
Carl tugged gently on her arm. “No, I’m right,” he said, “You’re all gal, now -- my gal.”
He pulled her to her feet and into his arms. “Look, Flora, you heard me tease my sister about being so stubborn. Well, it runs in the family. I can be just as stubborn, when it’s important to me.” He took a breath. “And I can’t think of nothing more important than getting you t’marry me.”
“You need someone who'd be good for you, and good to you. Why do you think that person could be me?”
Carl shook his head. “My sister’s the one who’s good with words. Lemme give you my best argument for why you oughta marry me.” He took her in his arms. Her breasts were pressed against his chest. She could smell the citrusy aroma of his Pinaud aftershave. He was smiling, his green eyes sparkling.
Flora stopped her nervous squirming and accepted his embrace. She had felt so alone in the cell, but Carl was here for her now. What did the preachers say? “For better, for worse?” She had to admit that things were pretty bad. Her arms, of their own accord, reached out to encircle his neck.
Her body was responding. She was aroused, and she welcomed it. But this wasn’t just the beginning of a new adventure in sex. She felt cherished, protected. Her logical mind told her that it was a false feeling, this sense of being cherished. It had to be false because she was sure that she didn't deserve it. If only she knew how to deserve it.
But suddenly, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, she started to warm, first deep inside, and then spreading outward from her core.
An epiphany, an incredible sense of relief filled her. The hard, hard work of quarreling with herself was over. Only one voice was speaking now. It wanted her to give him the chance to love her, and she wanted, somehow, to love him, too. She wanted to make her decision before that second, nay-saying, voice came back. She shifted slightly and whispered one word in his ear. “Yes.”
He stopped kissing her and looked into her eyes, eyes that were hot and wet. “I love you, Flora, and I promise to make you happy.”
“If --” she said, “if that's what you're trying to do, a little voice tells me that you're on the right track.”
* * * * *
Five members of the Eerie Methodist Church Board of Elders – everyone but Horace Styron and Willie Gotefreund – sat around the O’Hanlan dinner table. Rupe Warrick, as board vice president, was at the head of the table, with Liam, and then Trisha at his right.
As they waited for the meeting to start, Trisha noted one or another of the others glancing nervously over at her, at her stomach, to tell the truth. She never met their eyes with her own, though. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she thought, and not for the first time that evening, ‘why couldn’t Roscoe be here?’
“Thank you all for coming.” Liam rose to his feet. “I’d like to start this meeting with an announcement.” He waited for a moment. “My sister, Trisha…” He gestured towards her with one arm. “…is getting married to Roscoe Unger.”
Dwight Albertson was first to speak. “Well, congratulations, Trisha. When’s the happy day?”
“That’s the problem, gentlemen,” Liam continued. “Trisha and Roscoe wanted to get married in our – in her church, and by her minister. Even if she is on leave, she’s still a member of this board, and Roscoe’s been a member for – what – three or four years?” His voice grew hard. “Only Reverend Yingling refused.”
Jubal Cates looked perplexed. “Why?”
“Because I’m… I’m a potion girl,” Trisha answered. “He said that the potion was evil. That I was evil. And he’d be condoning that evil if he married Roscoe and me.”
Dwight Albertson glanced – again – at her body. “I hate to be indelicate, Trisha, but was that the – ah, the only reason?”
“Yes, it was, Dwight,” she answered firmly, trying not to show her embarrassment. “What other reason could there possibly be?”
The banker held up his hands, as if warding off an attack. “I do apologize, but I-I had to ask.”
“It’s the only reason.” Liam told them all. “And there’s more to it. Reverend Yingling not only refused to perform the ceremony; he said that he wouldn’t allow the wedding to take place in the church -- his church --under any circumstances.”
Rupe scowled. “Since when is it his church? If anybody owns it, it’s us, the board. We hold it in the congregation’s name.”
“He said the very same thing when Milt Quinlan wanted to get married,” Judge Humphreys added. “That’s why he and Jane were married in Shamus O’Toole’s saloon.”
“Is that why? I always figured that it was because Jane worked there.”
Humphreys shook his head. “No, they asked, and he refused. We can’t very well force the man to perform the ceremony when he doesn’t want to.”
“It’d give a whole new meaning to ‘shotgun wedding,’ wouldn’t it?” Jubal said with a sly smile, but then he saw the expression on Trisha’s face and quickly added, “Sorry.”
She smiled back at him graciously. “Don’t worry, Rupe. As a matter of fact, Roscoe proposed to me.”
“To get back to my point,” the Judge interrupted, “Thad Yingling doesn’t have to marry them – though I think he should, anyway – but he has no authority to deny them the use of our building.”
“What can we do about it?” Rupe asked.
The Judge turned to face Trisha. “When did you say that you two want to get married?”
“Thursday… This Thursday afternoon.”
“Fine; I move that the board grant permission for Trisha O’Hanlan and Roscoe Unger to hold their wedding in our church this Thursday afternoon. I’ll perform the ceremony myself, unless Thad changes his mind. If I do it, it’ll be a civil wedding, of course, but it’ll still be binding.”
Liam quickly raised his hand. “Second.”
“All in favor?” Rupe asked. All five hands were raised. “Passed; congratulations, Trisha.”
She wiped a tear from her eye. “Thank you… friends. Thank you so very much.”
“What do we do if the Reverend objects?” Dwight said nervously.
The Judge frowned. “When he objects is more like it, and how we react will depend on what he says and does. Whatever that is, I think we can handle it.”
“From your mouth to G-d’s Ears,” Liam added, looking heavenward.
The Judge took a quick look at his watch. “If there’s no other business, gentlemen… and ladies, I’m afraid that I have to get to another engagement.” He rose and started for the door. “Good night to you all. And congratulations again, Trisha, to you and Roscoe.”
* * * * *
“It would be easier,” Judge Humphreys observed, “if I – we – do this in the hall, rather than in Flora’s cell.”
Sheriff Talbot shrugged. “Hall or cell, she’s still in jail.”
“Let’s do it that way, then.” The Judge walked over and stood in the hall outside the two jail cells. “Everyone get into place.”
Flora walked down towards the other end of the hall, where Shamus and Molly were standing. “I still don’t see why Levy and Quinlan have to be here,” she said.
“Because we’re appealing your sentence on Wednesday,” Zach Levy explained. “When a person in your… situation has any sort of a meeting with the judge hearing the case, her lawyer and the prosecution lawyer have to be there. Otherwise, it’s what they call illegal ex parte contact.”
“Well then,” Molly chimed in, “let’s be getting this here ‘parte’ started.”
Humphreys smiled at the deliberate pun. “All right, Carl, you stand here before me as groom, with Zach, your best man, to your left.” He waited while the men stepped into place before calling out in a clear voice, “Gentlemen, if you would.”
The Happy Days Town Band had been playing for the remaining Cactus Blossoms’ act, and Shamus and Molly had brought them along. They were just around the corner in the Sheriff’s office, and, at the Judge’s signal they began playing “The Wedding March.”
“Are ye ready, Flora?” Shamus asked. He offered her his arm as father of the bride,
Flora took his arm and tried to smile. “No...” she said softly, “but let’s do it anyway.”
They began walking towards Judge Humphreys. Her glance shifted from Shamus to Carl and back again. Both men, she discovered, were smiling back at her. When they reached Carl, Shamus gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “For luck,” he told her. He stepped away and walked over to stand next to Molly, the matron of honor, signaling the band to stop playing.
Flora slipped in between Carl and Nancy, her maid of honor and future sister-in-law. Carl lifted the veil that Molly had loaned to Flora, and they both tuned to face the Judge.
Suddenly Flora burst into laughter. Silently the crowd regarded her.
“S-Sorry,” she said struggling to keep a straight face, as the absurdity of what she was doing struck home. “It’s just….never mind. Judge, please continue.”
“Dearly beloved,” Judge Humphreys began.
* * * * *
“Excuse me, folks,” Sheriff Talbot announced, “but it’s after 9:30, time I was making my rounds. I’m going to have to ask everybody but Flora and Carl to leave.”
The Judge and the two lawyers had left right after the ceremony. “I can’t very well fraternize with someone who’s appearing before me in two days,” he had explained. The band had headed back to the Saloon to play between shows, as they usually did.
“Just as well,” Shamus said now, looked at his pocket watch. “’Tis almost time for the second show. C’mon, Nancy, Lylah can’t be dancing alone, ye know.” He put his arm around Molly’s waist. “Ye come along, too, Love. We’ll be leaving these two for the night.” He guided her towards the door.
Nancy gave Flora a hug. “You take good care of my big brother, and… welcome to the family.”
“Thanks… sister.” Flora hugged her back. She wondered how her sister – her other sister, Priscilla, would react to the news of the wedding and to her new in-laws.
Her grin faded for a moment, as she wondered when – and if she’d ever see Priscilla again. If the trial didn’t go according to Zach’s plan, she wouldn’t have to worry about getting Priscilla’s approval for anything.
The Sheriff was looking through his keys. “Time to lock you two up for the night.”
“Not much privacy for a wedding night,” Carl said, staring at Flora’s cell. Flora felt her face flush at what he was implying.
Talbot glanced at the cell and chuckled. “No, it’s not, but, like I said before, ‘in the jailhouse’ is ‘in jail.’ Come with me.” He led them to a door at the other end of the hallway. The door had a latch bolted on it, with a lock in place. The word “Storeroom” was painted on the door in white letters.
“I’ll just lock you in here tonight.” He unlocked the door and opened it wide. “Go on in. It’s not as bad as you think it’ll be.”
Carl and Flora stood in the doorway and looked around the room. The room was much larger than Flora’s cell. A bed, covered by a blue blanket sat in the far right corner. A bed table with an oil lamp, already lit, was set next to it. A wooden rack with three wooden hangers projected out from the back wall, with a low dresser along the side wall. A tray with a bottle of wine and two glasses was placed atop the dresser.
“Wine?” Carl asked. “This is quite a storeroom you have, Sheriff.”
Talbot chuckled. “Shamus and Molly brought over the wine. Molly made up the bed, too.”
“We’ll have to thank them,” Flora said. She was surprised at the idea, but it seemed the right thing to do. She chuckled to herself, ‘This is a day full of surprises.’
A file cabinet stood to the left of the door, and there was a gun cabinet, locked and chained, with four Winchester 1866 model repeating rifles and ten boxes of ammunition stacked on a small worktable to the right of it. “This is one heck of a place,” Carl observed.
“It started out as just a storeroom,” the Sheriff told them, “but my wife, Amy, fixed it up some for nights when I had to be on duty. And then, this was where my other deputy, Paul Grant, lived before he found… ah, other accommodations. Now, if you don’t mind...” He gestured for them to go in.
They stepped through the doorway, and Talbot closed it behind them. “Goodnight,” he shouted through the door. They heard the click of the lock being set in place followed by the footsteps of Talbot walking away.
Flora stared at the locked door with a sense of foreboding. ‘Oh, G-d,’ she thought, ‘what have I done? I-I’m locked in a room with a man who has every right to expect me to have sex with him.’ Part of Flora was horrified by the idea, remembering the power a man felt having sex with a woman. That's what Carl would be feeling. Somehow, though, another part of her wondered what she would be feeling, what sex as a woman would be like. Clyde Ritter had given her a taste of what it felt like to be touched that way by a man.
She shivered, and for more than one reason. Her body was tingling in anticipation of what might happen. At the same time, she was worrying, ‘Will I be good enough in bed to please him?’
That she cared so much about not disappointing him scared her even more.
‘I better be a girl,’ she said to herself, ‘or else this is the last place in the world where I ought to be.’
“Are you all right, Flora?” Carl asked. “You got such a funny look.”
She looked down, unable to face him. “I-I’m sorry, Carl. I know what you’re planning on tonight, but I – oh, Lord – I don’t know if I’m ready, if I can do what you want me to do.”
He was silent for a moment, thinking, then he sighed. “Well, I can’t say that I’m not disappointed, but I ain’t about t’force you t’do something you don’t wanna do. How about we just settle for what you wanna do, what you do so good, kiss and cuddle?”
Feelings of relief and disappointment – disappointment? – warred within her. This night should be special; kissing and cuddling wouldn't be special. But beyond kissing and cuddling lay danger. “Okay, I guess.”
“Let’s have some of that wine for a start.” He poured them each a glass. He handed one to her, and then took the other, raising it upwards. “To my beautiful wife.” He winked and took a sip.
She nodded, nervously, accepting the compliment. “Thanks… I guess.” She grinned abashedly and said, “Wife is going to be a hard word to get used to.” Then she drank most of the wine in one gulp before she set the glass down on the tray.
“Lemme start then… wife.” He put down his own glass, moved in close, and took her head in her hands, steadying her. Their lips touched. Their passion grew, as one of his hands snaked behind her neck. Her lips parted in a moan, and she tasted the wine on his breath.
He broke the kiss after a time, but then he kissed her again, a quick peck on her lips before he shifted, kissing her cheek, her jaw line, and on down her neck, a trail of kisses that lit delicious sparks under her skin. She sighed and closed her eyes, even as her arms slipped ever so slowly around him. Their bodies pressed against each other. Their hands explored each other’s form. The sparks in her grew even more intense, filling her body with an inner light.
Carl had reached the base of her throat by now. The high collar of her dress kept him from going any further. Flora trembled, and the motions of her hands became less certain. He took a half-step back, and his hands reached up to the top button of her dress. “Can I?” he asked in a confident voice.
“Y-Yes.” Flora looked up at him with dazed eyes, an uncertain smile on her face. She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed like what she should say. As nervous as she was, she didn't want to cry uncle first.
He undid the button, waiting for her reaction. Her smile became more of a grin, as the absurdity of the situation once more began to loom. He grinned back. “All right, then.” With a bit of a flourish, he opened the next button. And the next button and the next. And the next, until the dress was opened wide.
Carl paused a moment, trying to make out his bride's reaction. She was looking up at him, uncertain and dewy-eyed. Her lips were bravely set.
Encouraged, he carefully parted the two halves of the dress, revealing her cobalt blue corset. The sight of it, contrasted with the milk-white skin of Flora's perfect neck, made him sigh with desire. With fingers slightly atremble, he slipped the dress off her shoulders, exposing the top of her white camisole, with its low, heart-shaped collar, which barely showed the top of her corset. The tops of Flora’s breasts were now visible. He kissed the cleft between them. “So damned beautiful.”
He lifted his head and pushed back the hair gathered around her neck. Then he leaned in and kissed her exposed flesh. She gave a small gasp. The kiss lasted for some time, and, when he moved away, there was a small, purplish bruise, a love bite, where his lips had been. As he drew back, he could feel her body trembling. “Sshh!” he whispered and gently stroked her hair for a moment, as he would an overexcited horse, trying to calm it.
Then he began inching his way down towards her breasts. The soft kisses alternated with tiny nips. He could hear her sighing, almost moaning, and unable to speak. When he had reached her camisole, without waiting, without asking for permission, he began to unhook her corset.
Flora shivered. Was it from fear or desire? She didn’t know, but she said and did nothing to stop him. She simply watched his nimble fingers do their work. And, when they were done, he took the garment in one hand and reached over to set it atop the dresser.
Her nipples poked out her camisole, and he could see their dark pink though its white fabric. They begged to be played with, and he obliged, cupping her breasts with his hands, tweaking her nipples with his fingers.
“Ooh!” Flora’s eyes went wide. A sort of liquid fire flowed into her breasts from his fondling. It was like a delicious itch, the more the fire entered her body, the more of it she wanted. Her nipples were tight as a drumhead. She arched her back, pushing her breasts into his hands.
Her head swam as the fire spread through her to every corner of her body, but, especially, to the cleft between her legs. She wanted – no, she needed to be touched, down there, just as fiercely as she needed him to keep kissing her lips and touching her breasts.
Her hands reached up to rest on his shoulders as she ground her groin against his, still uncertain but excited now by the hardness she found there. Her lips curled in a wry smile as she came to terms with what it meant, and she leaned in to kiss him again. As she did, her dress fell off her right shoulder and dangled about her elbow.
“Maybe you oughta take that thing off,” Carl told her. “You’re gonna have to eventually.”
Flora raised a curious eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“Sure, that dress is too pretty t’sleep in.” He moved around behind her and took hold of the fabric. “Here, lemme help you.” He held it in place, while she pulled her arms out, and then he pulled it upwards and off her body.
Carl set the dress down gently on the dresser and stepped up behind her. His arms went around her waist, and he kissed the side of her throat. Flora trembled at the sensations of his lips on her skin, of his body against her.
“You can’t sleep in this, neither.” His left hand reached down to tug at the bow that held her petticoat tight at the waist. It slipped apart, and the garment fell to the ground.
He kissed her neck again and breathed in the scent of her. “Oh, Lordy, what the sight and the smell and the touch of you does to a man.” He pressed the massive tenting in his trousers against her rump, as his hands began to caress her breasts again.
“Aah,” she sighed. What Carl was doing seemed to awaken a whole new set of sensibilities. She reached behind her back, and her fumbling fingers searched for the buttons on his trousers. “Seems to me that I’m not the only one who has to take off some clothes.” She giggled, amazed at her sudden aggressiveness.
Carl kissed her neck again and stepped back. “Be faster if I take care of my own pants.” He began undoing the buttons.
Flora smiled to see how his fingers fumbled in his rush to remove his pants. She thought she should try to keep up with him and so started to step out of her petticoat, but a buttonhook on her shoe caught on the material. She turned and sat down on the bed to better deal with the tangle.
“That’s a good idea.” Carl finished with the buttons and let his now-loosened pants fall down around his ankles. He shifted and sat down next to her, lifting his right leg, so that he could remove his boot.
In spite of herself, Flora glanced over at his crotch. “Ooh, my,” she whispered, looking at the size of the tenting in his drawers. She glanced up to see him smiling at her. Her face flushed bright red, as she quickly went back to the problem of her petticoat. In a matter of moments, the undergarment was tossed atop her dress, and two pair of boots sat on the floor.
“Now what do we do?” She asked. Her body and her mind were giving her all kinds of answers, and the answer from the small part of her that was still Forry, “Run away!” was lost in a chorus of very erotic – and very contrary -- suggestions.
Rosalyn had talked about using the skills she was teaching Flora, the ones that went beyond just touching, talking, and teasing, on a man. And now, as if in a dream, she was about to find out how well she had learned those skills.
He grinned at her. “We just keep on doing what we was doing, kissing and cuddling.” He slid over, next to her. His arm went around her waist, and he kissed her behind her ear.
She shivered, her body tingling once again, and turned to face him. Their lips met, as she draped her arms around his neck. She moaned softly and her tongue darted out and ran across his lip before it retreated back into her mouth. His followed, and it began to tangle with hers. She moaned again from the exquisite sensations the kiss was creating in her.
Carl’s hands reached down and slowly, very carefully began to undo the buttons of her camisole. Once it was opened, his hands moved into it. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs rubbing against her extended nipples. Reacting, her breath came in tiny, rapid gasps.
Flora broke the kiss. She had to. She could barely breathe, so intense was the ache building within her. And coupled with that ache was a most delicious emptiness in her feminine slit. Without thought, she spread her legs apart, as if in welcome, and her hand came down to rub against the bulge in his drawers. She felt it twitch to her touch, and that only served to intensify the ache – and the void.
He smiled, and his hand was down at her crotch. He ran his fingers across her nether lips, tickling them through the fabric of her drawers. The feelings grew stronger yet. Too strong. Flora was swamped by them, and it both scared and delighted her. Could she give in? Could she give up the last bit of her that was still male, still Forry? Could she be a woman, Carl’s woman? Carl’s wife? She had to be! If this was to be the only night they would have to remember, it had damned well better be one that he could never forget.
“Yes!” she cried out abruptly in answer. “Oh… yes!”
He grinned and accepted her cry as a grant of permission to go further. His fingers went to the ribbon that held her drawers in place. A quick yank of the ribbon, and they were undone. He leaned over and kissed her again. As they kissed, he continued leaning forward, so that she gradually shifted, until she was lying down across the bed.
When she started to sit up again, he bent over her. He took her left nipple into his mouth and began to suck at it. His hand reached over and began to roll her right nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She gasped and fell back onto the bed. Her eyes were glazed and half closed, her jaw was set, and her breath was coming in pants.
Carl kissed her breast, and then he began to leave a trail of kisses and love bites from her breast, slowly, towards her stomach. He could hear her moaning, and he smelt the sweet odor of her arousal. He was down below her stomach, when he told her to, “Lift up for a second.”
Trembling, Flora obeyed. She brought her legs closer together and raised her hips off the bed. He took hold of her drawers with both hands and tugged. They slipped down to her thighs, and he pulled them down to her ankles. The next instant, they were off her, and he tossed them away over his shoulder without caring where they fell.
She pushed herself so that she was entirely on the bed, but with her legs spread wide apart. She held her pose expectantly while Carl undid his own drawers and stepped out of them. Then he climbed onto the bed. He was atop her, supporting himself by bent knees and elbows. “You sure?” he asked before kissing her forehead.
“No,” she answered nervously, “but do it… please.” She stared at him intently. ‘Change me,’ she thought, ‘make me the kind of lover -- the kind of woman -- you deserve.’
He took his maleness by the hand and, oh so gently, guided it to her. It slipped in easily – damn!
Her eyes widened as she felt him enter her. There was a quick, sharp pain, but it melted away in the thrilling heat he was causing her to know. The faces of every woman Forry Stafford had ever been with flashed before her eyes. Had he made any of them feel like this? Every part of her body was by now afire, and the sensations just got sharper and more intense.
Carl held in place, just savoring the moment. But then he began to move in deeper – so very deep. And come out slowly. In and out, he moved faster and faster and even faster still. So many times before today, he had wanted to be exactly where he was at this moment. There had been times that he had thought that it would never happen. But here he was, pumping the woman he loved, making her moan with heat and delight, with love and a carnal fervor she had never imagined.
Flora moved. How could she not? Uncertain at first, her movements started to match his. And their matching efforts made the sensations even stronger – even better. Her hands clutched at the blanket beneath her. Her body arched to take him in even deeper, as her legs wrapped around him.
Fireworks were going off within her in ever increasing bursts. It built and Built and BUILT until a great cannonade of every color exploded, and all she knew was washed away in the blast. There was no Flora... no Carl, just her cunny and the most incredible penis in the history of the world.
Then she felt him spurt, and it set her off again. She gasped, and they both collapsed down onto the bed, dazed.
After – who cared how long it was – they remembered to breathe. Carl smiled and pushed a long strand of hair, moist with her sweat, away from her face. “That… was so good!” He kissed her cheek.
“Yes, you were… husband.” She gave him a warm, very sated smile.
He felt himself grow limp. He slid off her and rolled over onto the bed. “Yeah, I guess, after that, we really are married, aren’t we.”
She realized it was true; she had consummated her marriage; she was now somebody’s wife. Incredible. “I guess we are,” she answered with a giggle, as she snuggled up against him. “If not, we’ll just have to do it again, until we get it right.”
His arm slid under her. “We’ll do it again, even if we are married. Especially if we are married.” He kissed her yet again.
They turned their heads, so they were looking at each other, smiling in blissful disbelief at what they had just done. They stayed like that, refusing to think about tomorrow, until they both fell asleep.
* * * * *
Tuesday, June 18, 1872
Something… woke Flora, a tickle on the side of her neck, the gentle caressing of her breasts. She stretched like a cat having its back scratched, as a way of prolonging the pleasure of the dream she was having. Then she realized what was happening, that she was in bed – naked! –and there was someone’s lips on her neck, someone’s hands on her breasts. And someone’s – some man’s -- erection pressed up against her ass. Fearful, and still half-asleep, she turned around to see…
“Good morning, wife,” Carl Osbourne, naked as she was, greeted her.
And she remembered. “Good morning, h-hus... band.” This was so strange, but something about it made her smile -- almost laugh.
“What are you so happy about?” Carl asked teasingly.
“It's just that I've woken up with worse things in my bed.”
Carl was still smiling. “You don't tell me about what you've done, and I won't tell you what I've done.”
“Deal.”
Their lips met. Then Carl settled back, to study her adoringly, like a piece of art.
'What should I do next?' Flora wondered. 'If I were with a girl, what would I want her to do?' She shifted her hips, positioning herself to accept his maleness. She felt her courage coming back, very curious to know if last night had been a fluke, or if she could feel again what she had felt then.
“Hey, you two.” They heard a knocking, and the Sheriff’s voice came through the door. “Flora, your friend, Lylah, just came over with breakfast for the two of you. And she brought you a change of clothes, too. But you’ll both have to get dressed and go back to your cell; there’s no room for eating meals where you are.”
Carl sighed and broke the kiss. “Thanks, Sheriff. We’ll be out as soon as we can.”
“The door’s unlocked, and the clothes’re right outside,” Sheriff Talbot replied. “Come out when you’re ready.
“I feel so fine this morning that I'm even willing to consider going out and talking to Lylah for a while… almost,” Flora said. She smiled when she saw Carl’s disappointed expression and kissed his forehead. “I hope Lylah didn’t bring over any hot food.”
“And why is that?” her new husband asked slyly.
Her arms reached up and around his shoulders. “Because it’ll be very cold before we get around to eating it.” She kissed him again.
“The Sheriff could get riled,” warned Carl.
“Let him. What can he do? Throw us in jail?”
“Be right back.” Carl got out of bed. He hurried over to the door, opened it and grabbed for the pile of clothes. He pulled the door shut and latched it from the inside. Smiling broadly, he returned to the bedside.
Flora was right. The sausages and gravy that Lylah had brought were cold when they finally did get to breakfast. As was the coffee, but the newly married couple were both grinning at each other so much that they didn’t notice.
* * * * *
` From The Eerie Citizen, Tuesday, June 18, 1872:
` Wedding Announcement
` The management of The Eerie Citizen is pleased and proud to
` announce the marriage of its editor and co-publisher, Roscoe Unger, to
` Miss Trisha O’Hanlan. The ceremony will occur at 2 PM this Thursday,
` June 20, at the Eerie Methodist Church. All of the readers of this paper
` are invited to attend and to share in their joy. A small reception will be
` held in the yard outside the church following the wedding ceremony.
* * * * *
“My, oh, my, doesn’t this look cozy.”
Carl Osbourne was sitting on the jail cell cot, using the wall of the cell as a backrest. Flora was on the cot with him, nestled up close. His arm was around her waist, and he was reading the newspaper over her shoulder. “Beg pardon,” he said, looking to the cell door.
“Rosalyn…” Flora put down the paper. “He-Hello.”
The demimonde regarded the pair. “I was worried about you, Flora, but you seem to be doing just… fine.” She smiled uneasily. “I'm sorry I didn't get an invite to your wedding.”
Flora got up and went to the bars. “There weren't any invitations. Only lawyers, lawmen and jailors were asked in. Oh, and Carl brought his sister, Nancy, to be maid of honor. Not even the Judge would keep close family away.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I was worried, but…” Flora answered, “…but Carl… distracted me.”
“Mmm, I’m sure that he did.
Flora’s eyes darted from Carl’s face to Rosalyn’s. “Do you two… know each other?” Then she shook her head. “No, don't tell me, I don't want to know.”
Rosalyn offered Carl her hand. “Hello, I’m Rosalyn Owens – of the Somersville Owens. I’m a friend of Flora’s.”
“I’m Carl Osbourne…” He stood up and took her hand, a bemused look on his face. “Of the, ahh, Bigglersville Osbournes.”
“I think I’m going for a bit of a walk,” Carl told them. Carl knew that Rosalyn and Flora had been friends; she was there at Forry's trial. But he tried not to think about what kind of friends the two had been...before. “I’ll leave you ladies to talk for a while.” He leaned down to kiss Flora, who was still on the cot. He’d planned on just a quick buss on her lips, but her arm rose up around his neck, and the kiss became much more intense.
Flora smiled coyly, when they finally broke apart. “That was just to make sure you came back.”
“Oh, you can count on that.” He kissed her again, a light peck on the forehead this time. “Nice t’meet you, Miss Owens.” He nodded to the woman and headed out of the cell and down the hall.
Rosalyn sat down and waited for Carl to disappear around the corner before she spoke. “I was a little afraid that you might not want to see me, considering what I did.”
“What did you do?” Flora asked.
“I-I told you to play up to the men in that saloon, to pick one and flirt with him, get him to give you presents.” She looked away unable to meet Flora’s eyes. “If it wasn’t for me, Clyde Ritter wouldn’t be dead, and you… you wouldn’t be in here waiting…” Her voice broke. “…waiting to be hanged.”
“No, he wouldn’t, but that’s his fault as much as mine, I guess. I really don’t think that you need to blame yourself for what happened.” She frowned. “You taught me how to use the tools; but I put them to waste. You can't do good workmanship on rotten wood.”
“What did happen?”
“I’m not sure. I was teasing him, trying to get him to – well, never mind that, but he lost his temper. He started yelling at me and pulled a knife. I tried to get away. I kicked him, and he tripped, and then fell on his own knife. They saw him dead and jumped to the conclusion that I did it.”
Rosalyn gave a deep sigh. “You don’t have to tell me about people jumping to conclusions. That’s how I wound up as I am.”
Flora studied her friend’s face and saw the hurt in it. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s not a pleasant story.”
“They’re planning to hang me; what can you tell me that’s worse?”
“Not much, I suppose.” Rosalyn sat back in her chair. She thought for a minute or so, staring up at the ceiling, before beginning own her story. “My family is FFV, First Family of Virginia, going back to Lord Colin and Lady Viola Wessex, who landed at Jamestown in 1609.”
“My father was a banker. He invested in the expansion west, railroads in Kansas, new farmland opening up, and like that. He lost his bank and a lot of money – ours and other people’s in the panic of 1857. People blamed him for it, even though we lost our own plantation. Mama got sick – heartsick, I think, and died. It was too much for Father. He just up and disappeared. A lot of people said that he took their money with him.”
“Perhaps he did. I know he didn’t leave me any, and I never heard from him again. I managed to scrape by for a couple years until, in 1862, I married Calvin Norvell. He was FFV, too, but his family hadn’t really been hurt by the panic, since they had only invested in expanding and improving their own plantation, Greenbrier. Many people said that I married Cal for his money, not for love.” She took a long breath before continuing. “And, no, Flora, before you ask, it was very much for love.”
“I-I wasn’t going to ask.”
“I was about six months pregnant when I got word that Cal had died at Chickamauga. The shock was…” She looked away, fighting back tears. “I lost the baby.”
“About a month after that, I got a visit from Cal’s family. They had never approved the marriage. Several close friends of theirs had lost money invested with my father. A cousin of Calvin’s mother had died shortly after hearing of the failure of my father’s bank, and they blamed Father for his death. They didn’t trust me, and they had no intention of losing Greenbrier to me. Cal’s young brother, Arthur, tried to move in and take over the place a few days later. I chased him away with the help of some of the servants, but then he took me to court.”
“And you lost?” Flora asked. She took hold of Rosalyn’s hand. Forry hadn’t been much on comforting others, but she thought that her friend needed a sympathetic listener just now.
“Eventually, yes; but there’s more to the story. During the early spring, the Yankees came down on us like a swarm of locusts, taking everything. A squad of blue bellies rode up to Greenbrier. I met them at the steps, holding Calvin’s old hunting rifle. They laughed, but then they got the rifle away from me, and one of them said that I was now part of the booty.”
“They threw me to the ground. Two men held me down while a third…” She turned away again. “They all had me, and they were not gentle about it. I was hurting in several places, and my clothes, what I still was wearing, were in rags. And once they had satisfied themselves, they tied my hands, so they could take me back to their camp.”
Flora looked shocked. “White slavery? I never heard any stories of soldiers of either side engaging in such a thing.”
She shook her head. “These soldiers did, at least that’s what they said they were going to do.”
“That was when Rufus – Major Rufus Cartwright -- rode up. He demanded to know what was going on. One of those men said that I was just a local who’d offered them sex in return for their protection. The others quickly agreed. I did not, and I said so loudly, using a few less than ladylike words, I’m afraid.”
“Rufus climbed off his horse, and helped me mount it. He told those men that they were free to conscript as much supplies as they could find, but that he would horsewhip any of them that tried such behavior with any of the local women. I watched the men storm into my house, as Rufus turned and took me back to camp.”
“So you wound up sleeping with a major instead of a bunch of enlisted men.”
Rosalyn shook her head emphatically. “I wound up as a helper to the other women who worked for Rufus and his senior officers, cooking, and cleaning, and such. He was most loyal to his wife, I’ll have you know. I stayed in that camp for almost two weeks, under his protection and untouched the whole time.”
“But I was worried about Greenbrier, and, with Rufus’ permission I returned. But it was too late; Arthur had moved into the place and taken over. He claimed that I had abandoned my home to be with my Yankee lover. The court – and just about everyone else in town – accepted his version of things.”
“He allowed me to stay. I was, after all, his brother’s widow. But I noticed that he stared at me oddly from time to time. On occasion, he was even… kind to me.”
“One night, he found a bottle of very old wine, and he insisted that we drink. The next thing I knew, I was in a bed, naked. I had no idea what was going on, but a man’s voice said that he was Calvin, come to make love to his beautiful wife. I was dizzy from the wine, and I imagined that I had awakened from a nightmare. It had been so very long, and I loved Calvin so much that I very happily cooperated.”
“I awoke the next morning to a knock on the door. A woman I had never seen before entered, carrying a breakfast tray for two. She was followed by a man I did know, John David Selden, Arthur’s lawyer. It was Arthur in the bed with me.”
“I screamed and covered myself with a sheet. Arthur just laughed. ‘You were very good last night, Roselyn’ he said. ‘If you’d like another go at it, I can ask these people to leave.’ When I refused, he laughed again and told the woman to set the tray down on the bed between him and me.
I was naked and trapped in the bed. Arthur then told Mr. Selden that I had agreed to become his mistress in return for permission to remain at Greenbrier and a small monthly allowance. ‘She likes the idea of getting paid for it,’ he told the man.”
“I tried to argue, but he answered that no one would accept my side of things. I had supposedly been the mistress of a Union officer and had been seen in bed, naked, with Arthur by two ‘reputable’ witnesses.”
“I told him that I had no intention to become his mistress. I leapt from the bed and fled to my room, only to discover that all of my clothing and belongings were gone. The woman who had brought the tray – and who, as I discovered later, was John Selden’s wife – brought in the clothes I had worn the day before. ‘Arthur says that, since you refuse to see things sensibly, you’re to leave as soon as possible,’ she informed me in an imperious tone. I had no choice, and I dressed in them as quickly as I could.”
“As soon as I was dressed, she signaled Arthur, and he and Selden walked me to the door. ‘You really were quite good,’ Arthur said as he pushed me out onto the front porch. ‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to stay on here as my… bed warmer? If you refuse my gallant gesture again, I shall consider myself at liberty to deal with you as you deserve.’”
“I slapped his face. ‘I would sooner die than prostitute myself like that,’ I said, trying to regain my dignity.”
“‘Those are your choices, as it happens. Here’s your first payment for services rendered.’ He tossed me a fifty dollar Confederate grayback banknote and slammed the door. ‘Just to help you decide.’ I sank down on my knees and cried for some time.”
“Mr. Selden came out a few minutes later. He stared at me for a moment, but then he offered me a ride to town in his carriage. I readily accepted. About half way to town, he pulled off the road. ‘Now that you’ve chosen your new way of life, would you like to earn a bit more working at it?’ When I asked what he meant, he took my hand and placed it on his crotch. ‘You use that pretty mouth of yours to make me happy, and there’s… two dollars in it for you.’ He began to unbutton his trousers.”
“I was shocked. ‘How dare you?’ I said and slapped his face.”
“He just laughed. ‘We’ll see how long you act that way,’ he sneered and drove on, taking a different road than we had been on.”
“Where are you going?” I asked. “This isn't the way to town.”
He scowled. “You're not fit to be among decent people right now. There's no telling what wild things you'll say. You’d just start a scandal in your excited state. You need a chance to rest and think things over. There's a lady along this road… She runs a... boarding house, and she's agreed to take you in.”
“Mr. Selden didn’t say another word the remainder of the trip. However, about five miles further on, he stopped the carriage in front of The Scarlet Vixen, a notorious local brothel that even I had heard of.
“‘Here’s your new home, Rosalyn,’ he called out in a loud, clear voice. ‘Arthur decided not to keep you as his personal whore, after all, but I’m sure that you’ll do well here.’ There were several people nearby, and they all heard him. They also saw him hand me a two dollar gold piece, saying that it was payment for an act of oral sex.”
“I had lost. Everyone in the county was against me. I took the money because I knew I'd need it and a lot more besides. Some last bit of pride made me answer. ‘Next time, it’ll cost you a whole lot more.’ I climbed down from the carriage, refusing any offer of help. I walked straight ahead into the Vixen. My anger was a blessed thing; it kept me from collapsing right there in front that pack of whores and criminals.”
“I became a different person that day. I had to, just to keep from going mad. I wasn't Rosalyn Owens Norvell anymore; I just had the same name as her. That Rosalyn couldn't be blamed for anything I would do from then on. Calvin had taught me very well to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, and I was soon one of the ‘favorites’ of the place. I wouldn't have brought back the weak and foolish girl I had been even if I could.”
The memories had been too much, and Rosalyn started to tremble. Flora put her arms around her friend.
‘How odd,’ she thought. Rosalyn had come over to comfort her, and now she was comforting Rosalyn. ‘I guess that’s just how women act towards each other when they’re friends.’
Forry had seen a lot of women in his social circle hugging each other, giving solace to friends. He had always put it down to the silliness of the female mind; no sense of personal independence.
His male friends had been mere acquaintances, men to drink and gamble with. Boys made close friends, men didn't. But, come to think of it, Forry hadn't made many close friends even as a boy. It was nice to have at least a couple people in town who didn't want to string her up.
* * * * *
“These cookies are delicious, Vinnie” Cecelia Ritter said. “Thank you so much for bringing them.”
Lavinia Mackechnie nodded. “With all that’s going on in your life, Cecelia, you surely can’t be expected to bake for your visitors, can you?”
“You all have been so good to me. After poor Clyde…” Cecelia’s voice faded, and she sank back into her chair.
Grace MacLeod leaned over and patted Cecelia’s hand. “He was a good man.”
“He just doted on me and the children,” said the widow. “I-I don’t know what we’re going to do without him.”
“You aren’t thinking about leaving Eerie, are you?” Hilda Scudder asked.
Cecelia managed a brave – rehearsed – smile. “Oh, no; my home – Clyde’s business – is here. So many people depend on the livery stable.”
“And we depended on Clyde at the church, too,” Zenobia Carson chimed in. “He was a rock for the congregation, such a fine, pious man.”
Cecelia smiled again. “Thank you. He was always so proud of his work for the church.” She sighed. “There were nights when he came home so late from some meeting. He’d just fall into bed without a word to me.”
“That awful Stafford woman,” Zenobia said angrily, “she deserves to hang.”
Cecelia sighed again. “She probably won’t, though.”
“But…” Hilda looked confused. “I thought that the Judge sentenced her to hang.”
“The Judge,” Cecelia spat. “He’s so cozy with O’Toole and all those terrible people. He agreed to a second hearing quick enough, didn’t he? You just watch; he’ll find some flimsy excuse to… to let that brazen woman go free.”
“We can’t let that happen!” Lavinia glared at the other women.
Grace looked astounded. “But what can we do?”
Cecelia studied the faces of her friends. “We can go to that hearing, and we can insist that justice be done. When – and I mean when -- Judge Humphreys or that Jew lawyer try to twist things, we shout out and put a stop to it, just like we did at the church board meetings. We stand up for the right, and we put those people in their place.”
“Are we all in agreement on that?” Lavinia asked.
The other women quickly nodded. Cecelia’s smile broadened into a grin. “Thank you so much, ladies. I knew that I could count on you, my best friends, in my time of grief.” In her mind, she added, ‘to help make certain that Flora Stafford will die!’
* * * * *
“Hey, R.J.,” Bridget walked over to the bar. “What’s Shamus so happy about? He’s been in his office whistling all morning.”
R.J. was setting up the glasses for the day. “You know what a romantic he can be sometimes. He’s still celebrating last night’s wedding.”
“Wedding; who got married?” She cocked a bemused eyebrow. “It wasn’t you and Dolores, was it?”
The barman laughed. “If Dolores and I had gotten married last night, do you really think I’d be in here working today?”
“No, I suppose not. Who was it then?”
“A couple of friends of yours – sort of – Carl Osbourne and…” He watched her face for her reaction. “…Flora Stafford.”
He wasn’t disappointed. Bridget’s eyes went wide as saucers, and her jaws dropped a foot. “Flora – that’s – that’s not possible. She’s… She’s in jail.”
“Sure it’s possible. The Judge married them in her cell, and they spent the night in Paul Grant’s old room.”
“But why would Carl ever want to --”
“You’ll have to ask him that yourself. If you’ve got any other questions about the wedding, you can ask Shamus. He was there as father of the bride. Besides, he wants to see you about something anyway.”
“Do you know what he wants?”
“No, why don’t you go and find out?”
“I think I will.” She turned and walked over to the door to Shamus’ office, listening to whistling growing louder. ‘How the hell can he be that happy for someone like her?’ she thought to herself.
The whistling stopped when she knocked. “Who is it?” he asked through the door.
“Bridget, can I come in?”
“Aye, and be shutting the door behind ye, if ye please.”
She did as he asked and took a seat.
“Before ye’re saying anything, Bridget,” he began, “ye should be knowing that Flora got married t’Carl Osbourne last night.”
“R.J. told me.” She shook her head in disgust. “I thought he had more good sense than to do something as stupid as that.”
“Thuir’s ‘good sense’… and then thuir’s love, me lass. Ye should be knowing that, considering the way ye’ve been blowing hot and cold with Cap Lewis.”
Her eyes narrowed in anger. “You know what happened, Shamus, what Flora did --”
“I know what Forry done t’ye, and what Flora didn’t do t’ye. More important, I know what they say she did t’Clyde Ritter and what may happen t’her because of it. And I’m saying enough about her.”
“But --”
“I said, ‘enough’ if ye please. She ain’t the reason I wanted t’be talking to ye.” He waited a beat for her to relax. “I seen ye playing poker with Sam Braddock and some of yuir other ‘regulars’ these last few days.”
“It-It was Sam’s idea. We weren’t playing for money, just nails from his tool box.”
“Playing poker is playing poker, and it seems t’me that ye was the one who wound up with most o’them nails.”
“I got lucky, I guess.”
“Aye, and the luck was that ye finally got your old game back.” He looked her in the eye. “D’ye think it’s back enough t’be playing for money again – t’be running yuir own game instead of working for me as dealer?”
“I-I don’t know. Can I think about it a little while?”
“Aye, take yuirself a few days if ye need ‘em. Ye can tell me yuir answer by this time next week, okay?”
“Why?” she teased, “Does someone else want set himself up to run the gambling here?”
“No. I just think it would be good for you. It'd help bring back the old Bridget, the one we know and love. You've been healing, m'gal even if you haven't noticed. So think about it and let me know.”
She frowned. It was one more thing to think about. “Thanks, Shamus.”
“Since it’s June 18th already, I’d only be charging ye for days left in the month, once ye start up again, just t’be fair.” He thought for a moment. “Do ye have any money t’be paying the rent with – and the money ye’ll need t’be betting with, too?”
She shrugged indifferently. “I do. It’s been sitting in the bank all this time.”
“Good, then I’ll be hoping t’see ye back running yuir game again, real soon.”
“We’ll see, but either way, thanks. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” She rose and left his office.
Shamus watched her close the door behind her. “Aye,” he said softly, “and ‘tis better for ye t’be thinking about playing poker again, than t’be wishing for Flora t’die.”
* * * * *
“Sacrilege!” Reverend Yingling crumbled the newspaper and threw it across his study. “Sac. Ri. Lege.”
Martha Yingling hurried into the room. “Good Heavens, Thad, whatever is the matter?”
“Trisha O’Hanlan – The paper says that she and Roscoe Unger are getting married on Thursday. The entire town is invited.”
Martha smiled. “How wonderful. After Cecelia Ritter blurted out about Trisha’s pregnancy last week, I’ve been so afraid for her. But when everyone sees her standing up before you with that Unger fellow --”
“Martha --” He cut her off. “They will most emphatically not be ‘standing up before me.’ I have no intention of consecrating such a blasphemous union, and I told them so when they asked me the other day. I also forbade them to use my church, but, according to that miserable, lying excuse for a newspaper of Unger’s, that is precisely where they intend to marry.”
“Would it be so bad for you to marry them in the church?”
“It most certainly would. Martha, can’t you – can’t anyone in this town see the potential for evil in O’Toole’s potion, potential to corrupt… to cause the breaking of sacred vows…”
The man stiffened his stance. “No, they obviously cannot. I-I will show them. I will disrupt this wedding and drive the miscreants out of the house of our Lord. Yes, yes, that will do it. That will protect… protect everyone.”
Martha walked slowly back to the kitchen. “Oh, Thaddeus, what’s become of you? Do you truly need to protect the town, or…” She wiped away a tear. “…or does the town now need protection from you?”
* * * * *
“Mademoiselle Bridget,” Herve said, a note of surprise in his voice, as he saw her in the brothel doorway. “What brings you here this time of day?”
Bridget glanced nervously into the building. “I-I know it’s late, Herve, and Wilma’s probably… busy. But I need to see her. Please. Tell her it’s an emergency.”
“I shall try.” He gestured for her to come inside. “Why do you not wait over there…” He pointed to a half-opened door. “…in the office, and I shall see if Wilma is… available to talk to you.”
She nodded and went into the office. An oil lamp on the desk was turned low, but it still gave enough light for her to find a chair. She sat down and stared at the lamp. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ she asked herself. ‘What the hell am I doing anywhere?’
She was still sitting in the dim light, lost in thought, when Wilma came a few minutes later. As Bridget expected, her friend was in her “work clothes,” short, silky white drawers and lace camisole. Her corset was sea green, and she was just fastening the top hook, when she entered the room.
“This better be important, Bridget,” Wilma scolded. “Me and – well, you never mind who – was just getting down to it, when Herve knocked on my door and told me you had some kind of emergency you needed t’talk to me about.” As she spoke, Wilma closed the door behind her.
Bridget sighed. “I’m sorry, Wilma. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’ll let you get back to who – what – you were doing.” She gave Wilma a sad, little smile and started to stand.
“Sit down!” Wilma ordered. “I don’t know what’s got you so riled up that you don’t know if you’re coming or going, but if it was important enough for you t’get me in here, you’re gonna stay and tell me about it.”
Bridget looked like she’d just sucked a lemon. “Flora really didn’t have anything to do with Clyde Ritter’s death. The damn fool tripped over his own feet and fell on his knife. I know because I saw the whole thing.”
Wilma put her fists on her hips and scowled. “And you kept you mouth shut.” The brunette's eyes seemed to drill straight through the gambler. “You're having a fit of guilt; ain’t you? You came to me because you think I'm the one person in town who doesn't have an ounce of decency; that I'll tell you to keep mum and let Flora hang, so you can feel good about yourself?”
“No, of course not. I came because I already know what everyone else would do. You're the only one who wouldn't go running to sheriff about what I just told you. We've eaten too much road dust together for either of us to do that kind of backstab. You know how I’m feeling; they can't. Don't you want to see Flora dead, too?”
“So, this is about Flora again. I think you've been thinking about her too much, and it’s got you all tied up in knots.”
“I want her to die for what she did to me. It's only justice.”
“Some people would think so. Only I didn't know you were that kind of person. I'm sorry t’find out that you are.”
Bridget blinked, surprised by the strength of her friend’s reaction. “She hurt me, Wilma. I'm only thinking that, maybe, if I hurt her even more than she hurt me, I can stop my own hurting.”
“Babykins, you're a sad case. In this crazy world, Flora didn't actually do anything to you. Oh, I guess she was rude once or twice, but Molly put an end to that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Flora didn't hurt you; Forry did. Are me and you still Will and Brian? I hope that we ain’t. Do you want to go on being blamed for what they did on the owlhoot trail?”
“Hell, no, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“I've been watching and worrying about you. You’ve been hurt, hurt so bad you haven't been able to see straight for a couple months. Sometimes I think the only thing that's kept you going is your hate. Well, maybe hate has its use; it can keep a person fighting long after everything else says ‘Stop.’ But don't you see that, when Flora is gone, she won't be there for you to hate anymore? All that hate inside you ain’t just gonna go away. You’ll feel even guiltier than you do now, and you're going to start hating the woman you see in the mirror.”
“Some polecats could do what you're planning, and they’d get by; they're as cold as a rock inside. The trouble comes when the backshooter isn't a polecat down deep. I've seen guilt kill a man. Long before they laid the sod over him, he was good as dead. He'd stopped living months before the fever got him; there was nothing left behind the skin and the bones of his face, because the rest of him was in hell long before he died.”
Bridget wrung her hands. “It isn't fair. Why did I ever have to see her and Ritter? I could be enjoying this hanging otherwise. Why do I have to make myself dirty just to make sure that Forry pays for his rotten life?”
“Hell's played you a rotten trick, sweetheart. Somebody below sure must be laughing. If you let Flora go down the chute, you'll go down with her. Only, her death’ll be a quick one. You… you’re gonna be years in the dying.”
Bridget shook her head. “I want to destroy her, but why did Fate force me to have to do it this way? I'd have rather stood in the street and faced her off with six guns. To have to wait this out....”
Wilma chuckled. “That would be a gunfight that this country would never forget. But you won't have that chance, not if she swings. You're about to kill a person with a lie, or what amounts to a lie. That's not the Brian Kelly I know. It's no better than what some Kansas jayhawker would do, and you've never been a jayhawker. That's why I liked riding with you. I could always depend on you to be square, when, sometimes, I couldn't even be sure about Jesse.”
“You're saying....”
“I'm saying that I'd sacrifice Forry or Flora in a snap to save your life. I owe you everything, and I owe her shit. But you've managed to get tangled up in the same hangman's rope as her. You're right about me; I won't turn you in. But from where I stand, it's like watching my best friend put the gun to her head to shoot at a tick that's dug in there. You've got a devil of a choice to make, old friend, but maybe it's time that you decided what sort of woman Bridget Kelly really is.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, June 19, 1872
The hearing, like the trial, was held in the schoolhouse. A crowd was waiting outside when Judge Humphreys and his clerk, Obie Wynn, strode up to the door. Sheriff Talbot was with them to open the building. Most of the crowd was silent, but a few men – and women – shouted for Flora to be hung at once. The two men ignored their yelling, as they weaved through the crowd and up the steps. The Sheriff unlocked the doors, and the Judge and Wynn walked in. Talbot closed the door behind them and stood blocking the entrance.
After about ten minutes, Wynn poked his head out the door. “She’s ready,” he told the Sheriff in his thick Kentucky accent.
“All right, folks,” the Sheriff said, as he opened the door. “You can go in now. Just take your seats quietly… and behave yourself.” He had added the last, as one of the men who’d been yelling for Flora to hang walked past.
The room filled quickly. Wynn opened the windows, so those outside could hear the proceedings.
Roscoe sat near the back, taking notes for the paper. He’d deliberately asked Trisha not to sit near him. “You’re just too distracting,” he’d told her, kissing her afterwards.
She was sitting with Liam – Kaitlin was minding the Feed and Grain – and two other members of the church board: Horace Styron and Dwight Albertson.
Cecelia Ritter and her children sat just behind Milt Quinlan, the prosecutor. Even Winthrop was there, as the livery stable was closed for the day. Lavinia Mackechnie, Zenobia Carson, and the other women sat around her.
“What are they doing here?” Zenobia asked sharply, pointing to Lady Cerise, Herve, Wilma, and Rosalyn, who were taking seats at the far side of the room.
Cecelia gave a haughty sniff. “Come to see what happens to one of their own, I suspect. After all, that Stafford woman is just like them.”
“Allo, Cecelia,” Cerise said in a loud voice. She’d seen Mrs. Ritter and her friends staring at her, and she decided to embarrass them. She waved and blew the group a kiss from across the room.
Cecelia gasped in dismay. “Well, I never!”
Before Cecelia or her friends could react further, there was a commotion in the back of the room. All heads turned as Deputy Tor Johansson led Flora into the court. Carl walked beside her, holding her hand, while Zach Levy followed closely behind her.
“That hussy!” Cecelia was indignant. “My poor Clyde’s body isn’t even cold, and she’s already entrapped another man.” She jumped to her feet. “Slut! Murderess!” Her friends picked up the chant and several other women joined in.
Flora took a seat at a table in the front of the room. Zach took the chair down beside her, putting his briefcase up on the table. Carl sat just behind them. Molly came over and sat down next to him. “Shamus couldn’t take the day off,” she whispered to Flora, “but he told me t’be wishing ye good luck.” She placed her hand on Flora’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze.
Tor took a position against the wall. The Sheriff, as bailiff, was standing near the front of the room. Both men carefully watched the crowd.
* * * * *
“We’ll begin now.” Judge Humphreys pounded his gavel once on the desktop in the very front of the room, and the Sheriff called the court to order. “I will have silence – and I mean right now,” the Judge continued, “or the people involved will find themselves cooling their heels in jail. Am I understood?”
He glared at the crowd. Most of those who’d been talking, including the troublemakers from the schoolyard, grew quiet. Most. Cecelia was still whispering to her friends. The Judge waited a bit, then he ordered, “Winthrop Ritter, tell your mother -- and the others there -- to stop talking, or they will most assuredly spend the rest of the day in jail – regardless of who they are.”
“Yes, sir.” Winthrop looked frightened for a moment, but then he put his hand on his mother’s shoulder and spoke. “Mother… ladies, please… be quiet… for my father’s sake.”
“Your… Your father.” Cecelia looked startled. “Yes… Yes, for him.” She shifted in her seat, so that she was facing forward and sank down into her chair.
Humphreys picked up a sheet of paper and began to read. “This is an evidentiary hearing with regard to the case of the Territory of Arizona versus Flora Stafford. The defendant is not disputing the evidence or the jury’s verdict. She is disputing the original charge, claiming that the situation of the case does not justify the charge of first degree murder, which carries a mandatory sentence of death. Instead, the defense is asking that the charge be reduced to involuntary manslaughter, which would only carry a sentence of 10 to 20 years.”
“Ladies and gentlemen…” He put the paper down on the desk. “Clyde Ritter is dead. No one can diminish that unfortunate fact, nor should they try to do so. This hearing is not in any way intended to make light of his death. What we’re here to do is to determine the degree of fault for that fact, which can properly be laid upon Flora Stafford and what is the appropriate punishment for that guilt.”
He glanced at Milt and Zach, his eyes shifting between the two men. “Are both counsels in full agreement with this proceeding and with its intended results as I have described them?” Both of the lawyers nodded and stated that they were.
“Does the prosecution wish to call any witnesses?” the Judge asked.
Milt rose and shook his head. “No, Your Honor, but the prosecution does reserve the right of cross examination and the right to call rebuttal witnesses, if appropriate.”
“Granted of course,” Humphreys replied. He turned to Zach. “Is the defense ready?”
Levy stood. “I am, Your Honor. The defense calls Pablo Escobar.”
* * * * *
Zach waited until the Sheriff had sworn in Pablo before he stood and walked towards him. “Pablo, who do you work for?”
“Seňor Ritter’s livery stable – I hope.” He squirmed in his chair.
“Aren’t you sure who you work for?”
“I work for the livery… now, but after I’m done answering your questions…” His voice dropped away.
The Judge looked directly at a very angry Cecelia and Winthrop, both of whom were glaring at the witness. “I’m quite sure that you’ll keep your job after you testify here today,” he told Pablo in a stern voice. “The Ritters are smart enough to realize that firing you for what you say here would be witness-tampering after the fact, a serious offense, and one which is punishable by both jail time and a hefty fine.”
There was no such charge – though, perhaps, there should be – but Humphreys doubted that the Ritters were aware of that fact, or that either Milt Quinlan or Zach Levy would ever tell them.
“Sí,” Pablo said, looking more relaxed. “They are very smart people. Thank you, Judge.”
The Judge smiled, first at Pablo, then at the Ritters. “I just wanted to clarify that point. Please continue, with your questions, counselor.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Zach replied. “Pablo, how long have you worked for Ritter’s Livery?”
“About six months.”
“And, in all that time, did you ever see Mr. Ritter – Clyde Ritter; that is – lose his temper? I mean, really lose his temper?”
Milt stood quickly. “Objection, Your Honor; everyone loses his temper now and then. Meaning no disrespect, but I’ve even observed Your Honor become angry on occasion.”
“Sustained.”
Zach nodded, accepting the Judge’s ruling. “Let me rephrase the question,” said the Judge. “Pablo, did you ever see Mr. Ritter get so mad that his face changed color, he started cursing, and he threw things around or hit people?”
“Sí, but not often.”
“When was the last time he got that mad? Tell me what happened, please.”
“The day after the big fire, two men – they looked like prospectors – came in to see him about something. He took them into his office. The two men came out in a little while, smiling and laughing. They went away, but Mr. Ritter, he stayed in the office. I don’t know what his face looked like, but we could hear him screaming. He was – what is it – ‘cursing a blue streak’ and throwing stuff around. We could hear crashing noises, too.”
“After a while, he stormed out and went for a walk or something. Mr. Winthrop sent me in to clean up. Everything was pushed off his desk and onto the floor. Some things were thrown across the room, and his pen knife was sticking in the wall, right through a map of the country. I had to pull real hard to get it out.”
Zach took a knife from a small table near the Judge. A small tag was attached to it. “Is this the knife that was stuck in that wall?”
“I-I think so. It sure looks like his knife.”
The lawyer handed the knife to the Judge. “As Your Honor can see, this knife is Exhibit A, the knife that killed Clyde Ritter.” When Humphreys nodded, Zach looked over at Pablo. “No further questions, thank you, Pablo.”
“Did you ever see Mr. Ritter use this knife?” Milt asked as he rose and walked towards Pablo.
“Sí, a lot of times; he’d cut an apple for Sam, the roan stallion, or one of the other horses as a treat. And he used it to cut the string around boxes of supplies we get delivered, or cut a loose thread off those vests we have to wear when we change horses for the stagecoach, too. One time, he used it to pry loose a pebble that was stuck in Lulu’s hoof.”
“Did he ever use it to threaten you -- or anybody else?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he ever threaten or hurt anyone with that knife?”
“He didn’t have to. When he was mad like that, he was scary enough without the knife.”
Even Milt chuckled at Pedro’s answer. “I’ve no more questions, Pablo. Thank you; you can step down.” The prosecutor took his seat, while the boy scrambled out of the makeshift courtroom.
* * * * *
“Miss Duval --” Zach began.
Cerise held up her hand, interrupting him. “I prefer ‘Lady Cerise’ or ‘My Lady’, if you please.”
“Very well, then, Lady Cerise, for the record, would you please state your full name and occupation?”
“I am Lady Cerise Jeanne Marie Duval, proprietor of La Parisienne Social and Sporting Club.”
“A brothel.”
“Mais oui, if you wish to be coarse about it; yes, a brothel.”
“I don’t mean to be coarse, but I do wish to seek the truth regarding the death of Clyde Ritter. Would you please tell the Court what that book is on your lap?”
“My grand livre… my ledger.”
“And what is ‘The Dining Room’, if you please.”
“A special, confidential room at La Parisienne, a room for parties, with a table that can seat six people for a meal, as well as three comfortable lounge chairs placed to ensure… privacy for those making use of them, even when all three are in use.”
Zach peeked down at his notes. “Now, would you please open the ledger and turn to the page for April 29, 1872.” When she did as he had asked, he added, “Now read the entry regarding ‘the Dining Room’, please?”
“Very well.” She scanned down the page. “Here it is… Avril 29… The Dining Room… reserved for Clyde Ritter and Horace Styron, with Mae and Wilma, fifty dollars.”
Horace jumped to his feet. “That’s a lie!”
“All of it, or just the part about you, Mr. Styron?” Zach asked in mock innocence.
Before Horace could answer, the Judge interrupted. “Since this hearing pertains solely to the matter of Clyde Ritter and Flora Stafford, I will instruct the witness to refrain mentioning the name of any other patron of her… establishment besides those two individuals.”
“Very well, Par -- Your Honor,” Cerise said with a bit of a wicked smile, leaving a few people to wonder if she had actually started to say the Judge’s first name.
“Would you please show me the page?”
“Why?” Cerise asked in a mischievous tone. “Do you not trust my honor, Your Honor?”
Humphreys shook his head. “It’s just a formality. Since I’m the one making the final ruling, I have to actually see the evidence.”
“Very well.” The Lady handed him the book. His eyes glanced down the page, stopping a moment at an entry. He nodded and handed the ledger back to her.
Zach looked down at his notes again. “My Lady, would you please read the entries for ‘The Dining Room’ for April 8, April 15, and April 22, 1872; excluding any other names, of course?”
The other, older entries said the same thing. Clyde Ritter and someone else – probably Horace Styron, since he tensed as she read each entry – had used the room in the company of Mae Snyder and Wilma Hanks. Judge Humphreys briefly examined each page, after Cerise read the entry.
By the time Cerise had finished, the courtroom was full of voices half whispering things about Clyde – and Horace. A number of people were staring at a very embarrassed – and very mad – Cecelia Ritter. Some also were staring at Horace, who was slunk down as low as he could get in his seat.
“It seems to me,” Zach began, “Clyde Ritter was spending a lot of money – him and whoever that other person was – on that ‘Dining Room’ of yours, Lady Cerise. I’m sure that it’s a very nice place, but do you have any idea why Clyde kept using it?”
She nodded. “Oui, it was the only way that I would permit him to continue as a patron of my establishment after the fight he started.”
“Tell the Court about that fight. What happened, exactly?”
“It was late February – no, early March. Clyde came in very upset about something. He kept muttering something I could not understand under his breath. I thought nothing of it. My… House, it is there to help gentlemen to forget what troubles them, to relax and enjoy a bit of… pleasure in a hard… dull life.”
“And was Clyde Ritter a frequent… visitor?”
“Mais oui…” She chuckled at the memory of what she was about to tell. “…once he even told his wife that there had been a fire in his stable, so he could come back early from some tiresome family vacation.”
Cecelia gasped. “He… No!” She sank back in her chair, a look of utter despair on her face. Winthrop and Hermione moved in close to try comforting her.
“Getting back to the story of the fight,” Zach prompted.
The Lady nodded and resumed her story. “Clyde Ritter, he had his… heart set on being with Wilma that night. Alas, she was upstairs with another… gentleman friend. He said that he would wait for her, even though Mae and Roselyn were both available.” Cerise shrugged. “Sometimes a man can be stubborn. I offered him some wine while he waited, just to be sociable, of course.”
“And?” he asked.
“Alas, it did not work as I had hoped. Too much wine and a man becomes… He began to yell, demanding Wilma. I asked him to be patient, and he just yelled the louder. Two gentlemen told him to be quiet, and he shouted insults at them. One of the gentlemen took offense and rose to his feet. Clyde kicked him in the stomach, and the man went down. He jumped the other, and they began to grapple. The entire time, he bellowed for Wilma.”
“Finally, my friend, Herve, had to step in. He pulled the two men apart. Monsieur Ritter grabbed a chair and smashed it over his back.” Cerise gave a shy smile. “How fortunate that Herve has such a strong back, is it not? He staggered for a moment, but then he shook off the blow and knocked Clyde out with a single punch.”
She waited a moment, watching Zach’s face. “When Clyde woke up, he was gentleman enough to pay for the chair and the other damages. But I could not risk it happening again. From then on, he used the dining room, he and… someone else together more often than not, as it was so expensive, and they sent word in advance, which of my ladies they wished to sport with. It is all in my book.”
“I’m sure it is,” Zach told her. “I’m sure it is. No more question; thank you, Lady Cerise.” He walked back to his chair, letting the idea of Clyde Ritter’s sexual indulgences sink into the minds of everyone in the room.
Milt stood up and walked a few feet towards the Madame. “Did you ever see Clyde Ritter act in that extreme manner on any other night, either before or after the incident you described?”
“No, but men do not come to La Parisienne to get… angry. They come to enjoy themselves, if anything, to get over their anger.”
“So his violent behavior was just a one-time thing?”
“It is hard to say. A man can appear calm, happy even, but inside, the anger can fester like a boil. It grows bigger – darker -- and when it finally explodes, anything can happen.”
“No further questions.”
The Judge looked at his pocket watch. “It’s 11:42. I’m adjourning this Court until 1 P.M. Enjoy your lunches, everyone…” He looked at Cecelia. “…those of you who can.”
* * * * *
“You buy that shit they’re shoveling?” Jack Schwartz asked, taking a swig from the jug he’d brought. He was a thin, sandy-haired man, dressed in brown work pants and matching shirt.
Rog Hayden shook his head. “Nope; who gives a damn if Ritter had a temper, or if he liked getting laid on Mondays. He’s still dead.” He took up Jack Schwartz’s jug and drank some. Hayden was short, and both he and his clothes were in dire need of some cleaning.
“And it was that Stafford bitch that killed him,” Cyrus Moran added, taking a drink. “Killed him for no good reason.” He was heavyset man in a green and blue checkered shirt and overalls.
Schwartz nodded. “Seems t’me the only reason they’s going through all this crap today is ‘cause they’re looking for a way t’let her go.”
“The hell you say,” Hayden said angrily. “I mean, she’s pretty enough – damn pretty – but she’s still a murderer, and she’s gotta pay for what she done.”
Schwartz shook his head. “She’s a potion gal. O’Toole ain’t gonna let anything happen t’her – to any of ‘em. He prob’ly already told the Judge to fix it.”
“That ain’t right,” Moran said. “We gotta do something.” He took another drink.
Hayden nodded. “Yeah, but what?”
“Last week, the Judge said t’hang her,” Schwartz told them. “If he lets her walk today, I say we grab her ‘n’ string her up ourselves.”
Moran looked nervous. “How we gonna get her away from all them people?”
“We got our guns, don’t we?” Schwartz replied, with a nasty laugh. “How many o’them you think is packing?”
Hayden answered. “Enough – prob’ly more’n enough.”
“The hell with ‘em,” Schwartz said. “The Judge said she dies, then she dies. Let’s just shoot her, right there in the courtroom.”
Hayden shook his head. “Right, and then they shoot us.”
“Not likely,” Schwartz told him confidently. “We’re right, and they all know it. Most decent folks’ll back our play.” He handed the jug around for one last drink.
* * * * *
“It would have been nice if Cecelia and her children could have joined us,” Grace MacLeod said, handing out finger sandwiches from the basket Cecelia had persuaded her to bring. “Heavens knows, I brought enough,”
Lavinia Mackechnie poured herself a glass of the iced tea Grace had brought. “Yes, but there’s hardly room for four more at this picnic table. Besides, after this morning’s testimony, I think she’s more comfortable eating with her children inside. Alone.”
“I have to feel sorry for her,” Hilda Scudder said. Even at lunch, she was knitting, a green cap for the baby she was expecting in August. “To hear all those things about her husband.”
Zenobia Carson took a bite of sandwich before she spoke. “As if she didn’t already know all that about her ‘darling’ Clyde and his temper. That business about the cathouse makes me wonder, though.”
“About what?” Grace asked.
Zenobia frowned. “About Cecelia. She’d have to be pretty dumb if she didn’t know how he was taking his leisure. And if she did know, why didn’t she do something to stop it?”
“Perhaps she tried,” Lavinia suggested, “but she couldn’t get him to stop.”
“Or, maybe, she didn’t care,” Hilda said. “Maybe she thought all that good work she was doing for the church was more important and didn’t want to create a public scandal that might hurt it.”
Lavinia shook her head. “More important than her marriage, than her children? I don’t think so.” She waited a beat. “And it makes me wonder something, too.”
“What’s that?” Grace asked.
“It makes me wonder if we should all be following her lead so strongly. It was all right when she was just the head of the Women’s Social Committee – there was so little to do and so many hands to help if things went wrong. Perhaps letting her be our leader in all the commotion about the Reverend and that potion was a bit too much for her.”
Zenobia frowned. “I don’t think that she did that bad a job.”
“She did do some good,” Grace added. “Let’s think about things some more – see how the afternoon goes, at least, before we…try to persuade her to stop overtiring herself for a while.”
The others agreed, although Zenobia didn’t seem as strongly convinced as the others. For the rest of their lunch, the only sound at their table was Hilda’s knitting needles.
* * * * *
“For my next witness,” Zach said, as the afternoon session began, “I’d like to call Miss Nancy Osbourne.”
Nancy had been sitting quietly in the back of the room, with Kirby next to her for support. Everyone turned to watch the former teacher walk slowly and with great dignity towards the witness stand.
“The woman’s little better than a whore, herself” Zenobia snickered, rising and pointing at Nancy.
The Judge banged his gavel. “Perhaps, Mr. Carson, but she’s more of a lady than yourself in one respect.”
“What’s that?”
“She knows better than to disrupt my Courtroom. Do it again, and it’s a ten dollar fine or a night in jail for contempt. Now, sit down and be quiet.”
Zenobia quickly took her seat. Nancy reached the witness stand and sat down after being sworn in.
“Miss Osbourne,” Zach began, “you were formerly the teacher at the Eerie Day School, is that correct?”
Nancy nodded. “I was.” She glared at the women, and Cecelia and Zenobia glared back.
“As I understand it, part of your teacher’s agreement was that you be given free room and board in the home of one of your students. Is that also correct?”
“It was, though I tried to help out somewhat with the housekeeping.”
“I’m sure that you did. Now… where did you live during the 1870-1871 school year?”
“With the Ritters. I’d lived the previous year with the Scudder family, but when Hilda -- Mr. Scudder – had another baby, it became a bit too crowded. I moved into the Ritters’ home in late July of 1870. That gave me time to settle in before school started.”
In answer to more questioning, Nancy said that she got on well enough with the family. Mrs. Ritter was polite, if a bit formal and standoffish. Winthrop leered at her, but that was to be expected of a young man his age. The younger children, the ones she taught that year, seemed bright and eager to learn.
“And how did you get on with Mr. Ritter?” Zach asked.
Nancy’s expression soured. “Not as well as he’d have liked.”
“Could you explain that? Did you quarrel?”
“More the reverse, I would have to say. He began almost at once to make improper suggestions, especially when Mrs. Ritter was not present. He touched me in places where a gentleman – particularly a married gentlemen should not touch a lady. He would whisper in my ear, and, on occasion, he even tried to kiss me. I had to install a latch on my bedroom door, after he came in uninvited one night, while I was preparing for bed.”
“Did you do anything to encourage such behavior?”
“Quite the opposite. Even if I had found him attractive – which I most certainly did not -- he was a married man. Cecelia – Mrs. Ritter – and I may not have been friends, but I could never betray her by causing her husband to violate his wedding vows.” She looked down at her lap. “I just couldn’t.”
“And did your rebuffs force him to end his inappropriate behavior?”
Nancy shook her head. “I think it just made me more of a challenge. He began to proposition me. At Christmas, he gave me an expensive ivory pin. He told Mrs. Ritter that it was because I was being such a good teacher for his children, but later in the evening, he was waiting by my room, and he told me that it was in return for ‘services yet to be rendered.’ His tone – and his leer – made it quite clear exactly what services he expected in return.”
“That was enough.” She sighed. “I talked to Mr. Whitney, the head of the school board, and asked for him to find me new lodging for the next school year. He did, and I moved over to the Carsons’ house as soon as school ended for the summer.”
“Why didn’t you move at once?”
“There… I couldn’t think of a reason I could give, other than the truth, and that would be terribly embarrassing, both to me and to Mrs. Ritter.”
“What happened to the pin?”
“I made a point of never wearing it, and I left it behind me when I moved out. I suppose Mrs. Ritter has it.”
“Did you ever see one of Mr. Ritter’s emotional outbursts?”
“No, but I spent most evenings in my room, working on lesson plans, preparing or grading tests. A teacher does a great deal of her work outside of the classroom. I also enjoy reading for pleasure. These things kept me occupied and away from Mr. Ritter.” She thought for a moment. “I do remember hearing him shout on one or two occasions, but I never saw him, and I didn’t try to follow what he was yelling.”
“Thank you. Miss Osbourne. I, at least, am done with you.” Zach smiled and went back to the table where Flora was sitting.
It was Milt’s turn. “Miss Osbourne, are you still a teacher?”
“No… No I am not.” Nancy’s voice was low and a bit sad.
“No, you’re not,” Milt continued. “In fact, you work with the defendant in Shamus O’Toole’s saloon don’t you? Aren’t you both Cactus Blossoms, Mr. O’Toole’s dance…. group?”
“Yes, but we aren’t very close as friends.”
“Are you close enough to talk to Miss Stafford about Clyde Ritter?”
“Yes; when I saw her flirting with him, I told her about the problems I’d had with him when I lived in his house.”
“Did you go into detail? For example, did you mention that ivory pin?”
“I… I did.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said that I was wrong to turn it down and that she would be willing to do what she had to in order to get it.”
“Did she get it?”
“I never saw it, but I think that she would have offered something for that pin, and I know that Clyde Ritter would have taken her up on the offer if she had.”
Milt reached into his pocket. “Is this the pin?” He held something in his hand, allowing Nancy to study it.
“It is.”
“Then we do know that Clyde had it with him on the night of his death,” Milt said, holding up the pin, “since this was found near his body. I’d like to enter it as evidence.” He handed the pin to the judge, who nodded in agreement.
Nancy looked over towards Cecelia to see how she reacted, but the other woman turned away. “No more questions,” Milt said, and Nancy went back to her place next to Kirby. The bookseller took her hand and, as she sat down, gently kissed it.
* * * * *
Bridget sat quietly in the back of the court room.
Flora wasn’t going to go free, Bridget was sure of that, but she wasn’t going to die either. Not the way the testimony had gone.
‘Ten, maybe twenty, years in jail isn’t death by hanging,’ Bridget told herself, ‘but it’s hardly a picnic, either. Forry deserves to pay.’ She stopped in mid-thought. ‘Forry deserved to die. But Flora doesn’t. Wilma’s right; I don’t want to have Flora’s death on my conscience. But maybe… maybe I can live with a ten-year prison sentence. Could be I’ll keep my mouth shut after all.’ She sank back in her chair, deep in thought.
But Bridget wasn’t the only one who could see what was happening. Cecelia Ritter sat mute in her chair, trying to understand what had happened, what had been said – in public and under oath – about her husband. It was up to Lavinia, now, and Zenobia and the others.
“To hell with all this legal mumbo-jumbo,” somebody yelled. “She killed Clyde Ritter. Let’s just string her up and be done with it.” Others joined in the shouting.
The Judge hammered his gavel. “This is a court of law. I will not –”
“Let ‘em speak,” someone else yelled. “They’re absolutely right. She oughtta die for what she did.”
Three men started for Flora, who ducked down under the table. Zach Levy and Carl Osbourne both stepped in front of her. So did Milt Quinlan, who had hurried over from his own table. The men started to throw punches.
A chill ran through Bridget, remembering another lynch mob, the one she and Will had faced after the court martial. The one led by a sheriff whose brother had been killed by “blue bellies,” Union troops, somewhere in Alabama. ‘If the two of us hadn’t had each other’s backs…’ She shivered again, this time at what could have happened to her.
‘So am I supposed to watch Flora’s back today?’ Bridget thought sourly. ‘She isn’t worth --” She shook her head. ‘Maybe I don’t think she’s worth it, but Carl does. He thought she was worth… marrying.’ She shook her head again, surprised at her own thoughts. ‘And if Flora could agree to marry a man like Carl,’ Bridget realized, ‘maybe I don’t understand her -- the woman she is now -- at all.’
Tor Johansson, the deputy, had been standing near the wall in the middle of the room. He’d rushed forward as soon as the men had started for Flora, pushing people aside as he ran. So did the Sheriff, who had been standing at the front, next to Obie Wynn’s small desk, acting as bailiff. In a moment, both were beside Flora, standing with Carl, Zach, and Milt, defending her. Carl stood directly in front of her, blocking any sort of easy approach to the accused.
‘He surely must think she’s worth it.’ Bridget felt a tear run down her cheek.
One of the roughnecks grabbed for the Colt he'd brought into the courtroom. He was wild-eyed, looking for Flora through the confusion of bodies.
“Gun!” Hilda Scudder shouted, pointing at the man. “He’s got a gun!”
Bridget saw the weapon, and she was on her feet before she realized it. “Flora didn’t kill anybody,” she shouted, her voice cutting through the din. “I-I saw the whole thing.”
The man lowered his pistol. He –and everyone else in the room – turned to stare at Bridget, waiting for what she would say next.
Carl wasn’t the closest defender to the would-be killer, but somehow the cowboy managed to reach him first. He punched the man in the stomach. Hard. The rowdy fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Carl reached down and grabbed the pistol from his hand. A second punch, this time to the jaw, knocked the man senseless.
The two men who’d been pushing and shouting along with the unconscious one lifted their hands in surrender. The Sheriff had them pick up their unconscious friend, and Tor led the three of them off to the jail.
* * * * *
“Now that the excitement – that excitement, anyway – is over,” the Judge said, gaveling the room to silence, “would you please take the witness stand, Bridget, and explain the nature of your outburst?”
Bridget nodded and took the seat. Zach started questioning her as soon as she was sworn in. “Miss Kelly, if you saw what happened, why didn’t you come forward at the trial to testify?”
She looked down towards the floor unable to meet his eyes. “There’s a lot of bad blood between Flora and me. She… He… when she was a man, she --”
“The Court is aware of what happened,” Judge Humphreys interrupted. There was a sadness to his voice when he added. “You need not repeat it here.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she answered, a small smile on her lips. “Anyway, a lot of bad blood; I figured it’d even things out some if I kept quiet, and she got put away for a few years. I certainly didn’t expect her being sentenced to hang.”
“So you come forth now – freely – to testify?”
She nodded. “Forry Stafford did some really bad things in his life, things that Flora'll have to answer for someday, but killing Clyde Ritter wasn’t one of them. Much as a part of me would enjoy seeing her swing, the rest of me just can’t let that happen.”
“Whatever your original motives,” Zach said, “you’re doing the right thing now, and you can be proud of that.” He paused a beat. “Now, in your own words, would you describe what you saw of the events leading up to the death of Clyde Ritter?”
“I was dealing poker, and I… uh, I had to answer a call of nature.” A few people laughed, and Bridget felt her cheeks warm in a blush. She sighed softly and continued. “I was in the kitchen, right by the open door out to the yard, when I heard a man’s shout. I stopped and waited to see what was going on.”
“Flora came into view. She was walking backwards, trying to get away from some man – Ritter. He had a knife, and he was talking loudly about how he was tired of her teasing, and that he was going to have her whether she wanted to or not.”
“Why didn’t you shout something? He’d probably have stopped if he knew there was a witness.”
“I-I thought it’d be nice to see her get raped at knife point, like she – he…” Her voice trailed off.
“Was it?”
“No! It was almost like it was happening to me all over again. He got closer, and she kicked him in the leg. It must’ve thrown him off his stride because he stumbled and fell down. She stood there, waiting to see what happened, I guess, but he didn’t move.”
“She managed to roll him over, and I could see the knife sticking straight up out of his chest. Then Matt Royce came out of the outhouse. He saw Ritter lying there and started yelling.”
“And what did you do?”
“I figured that I’d let her stew for once. I ducked back into the pantry, hiding in the dark, when he -- Matt -- ran for the steps, and I stayed in there when everybody ran past and out to the yard. Nobody saw me.”
“And did you ever get to the necessary? You must have been waiting quite a long time, standing there, watching Clyde Ritter kill himself.”
“My eyeballs were beginning to float, but it happens sometimes. You can’t stop in the middle of a good poker hand to go… outside. I got to the necessary just as the Sheriff took Flora away.”
Zach smiled. “This, too, shall pass.” He waited for the laugh. “No more questions.”
“While you were watching all this happen…” Milt was on his feet now, walking over to Bridget. “…did you see Miss Stafford handle the murder weapon at any time?”
“Handle it? She was doing her best to keep away from it.”
“She didn’t grab for it… or grapple with Mr. Ritter?”
“She knew enough not to grab for a knife pointed right at her. Ritter was a lot bigger than she was, and he was shouting at her like a madman. She just wanted to get away from him.”
“But she didn’t run when he fell to the ground. Why do you suppose she didn’t? It would have been her best chance to escape.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she was surprised that he fell down. Maybe she was scared out of her head from what was happening. Maybe she was just trying to catch her breath. All I know is that she never got near that knife. The damned fool stabbed himself, and that’s the long and short of it.”
Milt turned to look at the Judge. “Your Honor, we have here a hostile witness, someone with a long-standing – and justified – hatred of the defendant. Yet her testimony clearly states that said defendant did not commit the crime of which she was accused and has already been found guilty. In light of this, the prosecution has no choice but to drop all charges against Flora Stafford and to move for her immediate release.”
“I concur.” Humphreys pounded the gavel. “Case dismissed.”
Cecelia Ritter jumped to her feet. “You – You can’t do that. She killed my Clyde!”
“No, Cecelia, she didn’t.” The Judge spoke as gently as he could. “Your husband killed himself accidentally during the last of what appears to have been a long line of marital indiscretions. And, rather than raise the useless commotion that we both know you are capable of, you would do well, I think, to consider your marriage and what was in – or was lacking in – that marriage that led him to commit such actions.”
Cecelia looked quickly to her friends on either side. “How dare the man. We can’t let him get away with saying things like that, can we ladies?”
“He’s right, Cecelia.” Lavinia spoke softly, not wanting her words to hurt, but wanting them to be heard. “Your Clyde did some very bad things, but he more than paid for what he did. Pray for him, darling; think about your children and their future. There's no righteous vengeance that is possible here.” She looked quickly over at Zenobia, Hilda, and Grace, who all nodded back.
“But…” Cecelia sank down into her chair, fighting back tears. “…we can’t let it end like this. We can’t let them win.”
Lavinia shook her head. “Who? Clyde… that Stafford woman? And win what, Cecelia?” She looked down at the stricken woman.”Dear, would you like some time – to yourself?”
Cecilia slowly gazed upward, her face a mask of misery. “Yes -- please.” Then she looked down and said not another word.
“We’ll come visit you tomorrow, if that’s all right,” offered Lavinia. When Cecilia made no reply, she turned and walked towards the door. The other women followed without a glance backward.
“Let’s go home, Mother.” Winthrop put his arm around her shoulder and helped her to stand. Hermione took her hand. With Clyde, Junior, leading the way, the Ritters walked very slowly home.
* * * * *
“I-I’m free.” Flora sat, stunned, uncertain what to do next.
Suddenly, Carl was at her side. “Yes, free – free to be with me… forever.”
She stared up into his face. Something about those words bothered her, but that worry – and everything else – went away when he took her in his arms, and their lips met.
After a minute or two – or three – they broke the kiss. Even lovers need to breathe at times.
“What happens now,” Carl asked. His arm was around her waist.
The Judge had walked over. “Flora still has about six weeks left to serve of her sentence. She has to go back to Shamus’ saloon to serve it.”
“That ain’t very fair,” Molly said, joining the group. “Them just getting married and all.”
The Judge shook his head. “It’s the law, Molly. She’ll be back at the saloon …” Then he smiled, and added. “…some time tomorrow morning… administrative delay, I’m sure you and Shamus understand.” He gave Molly a quick wink.
“Aye, I think I do.” She winked back, just as quickly. “Thanks, Yuir Honor.”
Flora and Carl would have thanked the Judge themselves, but they were busy.
* * * * *
Thursday, June 20, 1872
Carl and Flora stepped through the swinging doors and into the Saloon. “Oh, Lord,” she said, clutching his arm. “I never thought I’d be happy to see this place.”
“Scared?” Carl asked.
She nodded. “Most of the people hereabouts wanted to see me hang -- and they didn’t even like Clyde Ritter.”
“That's not true. You'll see.”
Before she could answer, Molly came bustling over. “Flora, me girl, welcome back.” She hugged the nervous woman, and then shifted and hugged her new husband. “And welcome t’ye, too, Carl.”
“Ye’re both looking good,” she said, stepping back. “Not that ye shouldn’t…” She winked. “…considering what the two o’ye have been up to.”
Flora flushed and turned her face into Carl's sleeve. The cowboy grinned. “Just doing what comes natural.”
“I’m sure,” Molly replied with a chuckle. “Maggie ‘n’ Jane’ll be bringing out the Free Lunch in just a bit, Carl. Can ye be staying t’have a meal with yuir new bride?”
He frowned. “I wish I could...” He looked at Flora for her reaction to what he was about to say. “…but I-I sorta promised Mr. Lewis that I’d head back t’the ranch as soon as I brought Flora back here.”
“What?” Flora grabbed for his arm.
Carl turned and cupped her chin in his hand. “I gotta go, Flora. I work for Mr. Lewis, and he’s cut me a lot more slack than he had to these last few days.” He kissed her forehead. “And we surely did put that time t’good use, didn’t we?”
“We… We did.” She smiled in spite of herself. Then her expression changed. “I figured Cap would hate me more than almost anybody else. He hasn’t been hard on you because of me?”
“He’s not that kind,” Carl continued. “Mr. Lewis told me that, if I got back pronto today, he’d let me come into town early for the dance come Saturday.”
Molly smiled knowingly. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s just the dance ye’ll be coming in for. Thuir’ll be a room reserved for ye upstairs just in case ye want t’be spending the night here in town.”
“And,” she went on, “if ye come in here early enough, Shamus ‘n’ me’ll be treating ye both to supper – call it a wedding present from us t’the two of ye.”
Carl smiled. “Thanks. Molly.” He wrapped his arm around Flora’s waist, pulling her close. “Not that I needed another reason t’get back to town as quick as I could.”
“I’ll be leaving the two o’ye to be saying goodbye, then,” Molly told them. “When ye’re done, Flora, come back t’the kitchen t’be getting an apron, so ye can be setting up the table for Free Lunch.” She turned and walked back to the bar.
Carl turned, so that he was facing Flora. “She’s right… damn it. I gotta go.”
“I… I know.” Damn it. Forry Stafford had never liked clingy woman. ‘And now I am one,’ she thought ruefully. Her mind didn't know what to do just then, but some other part of her did know. Her arms just seemed to float up and around his neck, as she pressed her ample breasts against his manly chest. Their loins were flush against each other. Their lips met in a kiss.
“Oooh,” she sighed, as he broke it off. She stood, still holding onto him for support, trying to get her shaky knees to work the way they should.
He was as unhappy about going as she was. “I will be back for you so damn early…”
“You better be.” She kissed his cheek, a chaste farewell kiss – damn it! – and tried to smile as he turned and walked out onto the street.
* * * * *
Reverend Yingling was sitting on the steps of the schoolhouse, when Liam, Trisha, Kaitlin, and Emma rode into the clearing for the building.
“What’s he doing here?” Trisha asked, climbing down from the Food and Grain delivery wagon. She was already in the proper state of mind for a bride, very nervous.
Liam jumped down and came around for Kaitlin. “I’d like to believe that he’s here to apologize and offer to perform your wedding ceremony, but I don’t think that’s the case, and, if it isn’t, we’ve got it taken care of.”
“You can talk to the good reverend,” Kaitlin said. “Trisha has to get ready.” She pulled a valise out of the back of the wagon, and they all started for the building.
Yingling rose slowly to his feet, as they approached. “I see that you are still planning to marry today, Trisha. Perhaps I cannot stop that from happening, but it will not happen here.” He spoke in his most dramatic fire-and-brimstone voice, glaring at them while he spoke. “Not in my church.”
“Actually, Reverend,” Liam replied in a smooth, conversational tone. “It’s not your church. The congregation as a whole owns the building and grounds in partnership with the school board, that is to say, the town council. The church board of elders – including me – is in charge of the church’s half.”
“Yes, but…”
“You, as our minister, can make a recommendation to the board about someone using the church, either by writing or at a board meeting -- I checked with the Bylaws. But you can’t just forbid the use of the church on your own say-so.”
“Very well, then,” Yingling said angrily, glowering, first at Liam and then at Trisha. “I strongly recommend that the church not be made available for this wedding.”
“I’m afraid you’re too late, sir. The majority of the board met and we voted, five to nothing, to allow it.”
The man shook his head. “I do not – I can not believe what I am hearing. This wedding must not take place. I will --”
As if on cue, Judge Humphreys walked over. “Good afternoon, Thad… O’Hanlans, and, again, congratulations to you Trisha. You look radiant today.”
“Thank you, Judge,” Trisha blushed at the compliment.
The Reverend scowled. “I might have known that you’d be involved in this, Humphreys.”
“Reverend,” the Judge said firmly, “you are entitled to your personal, private opinion, but five members of the church board will be here for Trisha’s wedding. Two of us already are here.”
Yingling glanced quickly at Liam, and then back at the Judge. “And…” He dared the Judge to continue.
“Some of your recent actions have raised questions in the minds of some board members about your fitness to continue as our minister. Speaking as someone who likes to think of himself as your friend, I ask you not to do anything here today that might add to those questions.”
The minister’s face went white. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“If you leave now, quietly,” Liam added in a calm voice, “there’d be no way any questions could be raised on this particular matter.”
Humphreys nodded. “If you leave now. It will also create some good will that the board shall take into consideration regarding certain other matters now under review.”
“I’ll go,” Yingling spat the words. “But know that you have not heard the end of this matter.”
The Judge looked very unhappy. “That, I’m afraid, is a given.”
“It is.” The Reverend looked daggers at the two men, but he turned and walked away without another word. He hardly looked defeated, and he was whistling “Battle Hymn of the Republic” by the time he was on the trail back to town.
* * * * *
“Are ye all right, Bridget?” Molly sat down at the table where the lady gambler was sitting, fiddling with a deck of cards.
Bridget blinked and shook her head, as if just waking up. “Molly… uh, what did you say?”
“I asked if ye was all right. Ye’ve been shuffling them cards for a good ten minutes.”
Bridget sighed. “I don’t know how I am. I’ve been trying to figure out why I did it.”
“Did what?” Molly asked cautiously. She was sure that she knew the answer. And she didn’t like it.
“I had her, Molly.” Bridget’s voice was filled with frustration. “I had her. Flora was finally going to pay for what she did to me. I didn’t want her to die… of course, but twenty years in jail sounded about right.”
“Then – Aaarrgh!” Her face contorted in anger, and her hands, twisted into claws in her rage, raked the air. “Then I go and open my big mouth and tell what I saw, what really happened. I got her freed. She’s upstairs with Lylah making beds and sweeping floors when she ought to be in prison. And it’s all my fault.”
“Aye, it is. And ye should be proud of it.”
“Proud? I… I got her set free. Milt dropped the damned charges as soon as I finished telling what happened.”
“Lemme ask ye a couple o’questions.”
“Umm… okay.”
“Did Flora kill Clyde Ritter?”
“No… I told you – hell, I told the whole town that she didn’t.”
“Aye, ye did. Now, did ye and Wilma – back in the War – did ye turn yellow during that Adobe Wells fight?”
“You’ve heard me tell that story. You know we didn’t.” She tried to guess where Molly was going with these questions. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Plenty; Flora – Forry – knew the charges against ye wasn’t true, but he let ye get convicted t’be saving his own scurvy hide.” Molly cheered to see Bridget smile – for the first time in days – at the words “scurvy hide.”
“Ye knew that Flora was innocent, and ye knew that people’d be asking why ye waited t’be saying anything. And ye still told the truth, didn’t ye?”
“I-I had to. Those men were going to shoot her – or take her outside and string her up. At the very least, people were going to get hurt in the fight. I just couldn’t let that happen.”
“Why not? Didn’t ye tell Shamus ‘n’ me that Forry didn’t do nothing when that lynch mob came after ye and Wilma?”
“Yes, but that was him, not me.”
Molly smiled. “Me point exactly. Ye’re a lot better person than Forry Stafford ever was, and ye can be damned proud of it.” She waited a half beat. “Ye can be proud o’yuirself.” She paused again, for effect, before she added. “Just like Shamus ‘n’ me are proud of ye.”
* * * * *
“Doesn’t look very crowded,” Laura observed, as Arsenio pulled their wagon up near the schoolhouse. It was true. Besides Liam O’Hanlan and Judge Humphreys; the only people present were Jubal Cates and his wife, Naomi; and, surprisingly, Hilda Scudder and her children. “I wonder where Trisha is.”
Arsenio shrugged. “Inside maybe; the door looks open. Besides, we’re pretty early.” After a moment, he added. “I saw Reverend Yingling as we turned onto the trail for the school, but he was walking the other way.”
“Just as well; the way he’s been carrying on about Shamus’ potion and us potion girls. I don’t think he’d be a very pleasant part of the festivities.”
“Does he bother you?”
“Yes, I don’t like my so-called spiritual adviser telling people what a bad influence I am.”
Arsenio leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Nobody believes him – at least, nobody who knows you. How could they?”
“Thank you for that.” She took his hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze.
Arsenio guided the horse to the hitching post where the Feed and Grain wagon was tied. He jumped down and secured his horse’s reins to the post. He walked back to the wagon, took out Laura’s wheelchair, and set it on the round. “Now you, Laura,” he said, stepping over to where she was sitting, his arms outstretched.
“I can get down by myself,” she complained, “and I really don’t need that thing.”
“I know, but… humor me.” He looked up at her, grinning broadly. “Please.”
She couldn’t help but smile back at him. “Oh, all right, but I don’t know why I’m humoring you on this.”
“Because you’ll use any excuse to be in my arms,” he said with a chuckle. “But that’s all right. I’ll use any excuse to get you in my arms.” He carefully lifted her from her seat in the front of the wagon.
She leaned into him, her arms encircling his neck, and their lips touched. ‘One nice thing about being married to a big, strong blacksmith,’ Laura told herself, when they eventually broke the kiss, ‘is how long he can hold me in his arms.’
* * * * *
“Aaargh!” Trisha glowered at the third button on her new, white blouse, a button that was stubbornly resisting her attempts to force it through the buttonhole.
Kaitlin smiled sympathetically and pushed Trisha’s hands away. “Let me do it. The way you’re going, you’ll tear that button right off.”
They were using the small supply room in the school for a changing room. Emma stood just outside with the valise they’d brought. The valise lay open across two desks. Emma had folded the outfit Trisha had worn and was now packing the clothes inside.
“Are all brides this nervous?” Trisha asked. Her hands were at her sides and she was all but standing at attention, while Kaitlin fastened the errant button.
Kaitlin did the other buttons, as well. “It does seem to go with the territory,” she answered, remembering. “I know that I was.” She paused. “Is it the same with grooms? You would know.”
“It is, but I think I’m more nervous today.” Trisha sighed, remembering. “You were such a beautiful bride.” She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing that day so many years ago. “I loved you so much.” She felt tears well in her eyes. “I still do.”
Kaitlin gave her a wistful smile. “And I love you – but we’re so… different now. We can’t – we don’t love each other the way we did.” She paused a moment. “But Roscoe loves you that way, and I think that you love him, too.”
“I-I guess, I do,” she said in a hesitant voice. “He’s a good man.
“Granted; he’s also the man that you skipped work to take care of. You didn’t have to do that anymore than he had to say that your baby was his, did you?”
“He was hurt. He needed --”
“Yes, he needed help, and you needed to help him.” She smiled. “You took off almost a week from the Feed and Grain to take care of him, and then you put in all that extra effort to publish his newspaper.”
“That was Kirby’s idea as much as mine, and he worked on it as hard as I did.”
“Yes, but I’ve talked Kirby. He told me that he was just planning to put out enough of a paper to print the ads, so Roscoe wouldn’t lose any money. You pushed him into putting out a complete paper, even if it meant a lot of extra work – most of which you did, not him.” She looked Trisha straight in the eye. “Why?”
“I wanted to put out an issue that he’d be proud of.”
“You wanted to put out an issue, because you were proud of him and because you wanted to be a part of his work, a part of his life. Isn’t that the real reason?”
“Uhh, I guess.” It was the first time she’d admitted that fact, even to herself, and it felt so good to admit it. “But getting married like this.” She gestured wide with both arms. “It’s all happened so fast, and marriage, it changes… everything.”
“You aren't setting any records, you know. Laura Caulder got married a bit more than two months after she... changed. And Flora Stafford just set a new record at less than two months.”
“But Miss Stafford had to hurry. She was facing the gallows.”
“Whatever the reason, she did get married on Monday.” Kaitlin looked at her pocket watch. “Just a minute.” She opened the door. “Emma, we’re ready for the skirt.”
“Here you go.” Emma handed in the skirt, which was also white. “You gonna be done soon? The place’s filling up pretty fast.”
“Give us five minutes.” Kaitlin closed the door.
Trisha raised her arms, and Kaitlin slid the garment over her head and down until it was covering her petticoat. “You were saying, about Roscoe, I mean,” Trisha asked as she adjusted the skirt.
“What it comes down to is that you spent all that time with Roscoe at Doc Upshaw’s, and you helped Kirby get the paper out because that’s just the sort of thing that a woman does… for the man she loves.”
Trisha’s jaw dropped, as she realized the truth in Kaitlin’s words. “Yes! Thanks, Kaitlin,” she answered, stepping over to hug Kaitlin fiercely. “I do love him; I do, I really, truly do.” Tears ran down her cheeks, tears of joy.
“I know.” Kaitlin dabbed first at Trisha’s eyes, and then at her own with a handkerchief. “But save some of those ‘I dos’ for when the Judge asks you.”
A few minutes later, Liam, acting as father of the bride, marched Trisha down the aisle. Roscoe was waiting, Kirby Pinter, the best man, at his side. Kaitlin and Emma, matron and maid of honor, stood beside Trisha. Even with her face covered by the veil Kaitlin had loaned her, everyone could tell how deliriously happy the bride was. For those who remembered Patrick O'Hanlon as he had been, it was an amazing thing to see.
Kaitlin was smiling, too. From the beginning, she had wanted with all her heart to help Trisha accept her transformation and to find happiness as a woman. It had seemed all but impossible, especially after Trisha became pregnant and faced public disgrace. Then Roscoe had appeared, as if by magic, to rescue her. And so her former husband was marching down that aisle, out of her old life, and into an entirely new one. It was like something out of a fairy tale, pure and simple, and that was all that anyone could say about it.
* * * * *
“Excuse me, Miss Bridget,” Flora said in a soft voice. She wanted to talk to the lady gambler, but she hated the way Shamus had ordered her to address the woman. “Can I talk to you?”
Bridget was just finishing her dinner. She took a sip of coffee and glanced up at her. No one was waiting to play poker. She turned to face Flora, gesturing for her to sit down. “What about?”
“I-I just wanted to thank you for testifying for me,” Flora said, taking the chair opposite the redhead.
Bridget frowned. “Let’s get things straight, Stafford.”
“Osbourne; I’m Flora Osbourne, now,” she said, surprising herself slightly. She liked being Flora Osbourne, being Carl’s wife. She almost laughed. Her father had intended to make the Stafford name a great one in Texas; now it was fated to die with him. Unless he managed to get Violet to give him a son, unlikely as that might be.
“Osbourne, then. A rattler by any other name is still a rattler. I don’t know why Carl wanted to marry someone like you.”
She glanced uneasily over her shoulders, at the batwing doors. “Neither do I -- and I don’t care. I’m just very very pleased that he did.”
“Whatever; like I’ve been trying to say, I didn’t testify for you. I testified for myself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I did it because I knew that you didn’t kill Ritter, and I couldn’t live with myself if I let an innocent person – even you – go to jail for something that she didn’t do. If you’d really done it, I’d have been in the front row to watch you hang. I don’t suppose you can comprehend somebody acting like that.”
Flora considered Bridget’s words. “No, I can’t. I don’t think I ever met anybody who wasn’t so busy watching out for himself he couldn’t give a damn about anybody else.”
Bridget snorted. “You mean like at Adobe Wells, when Will and I risked our lives to save the platoon – even you -- from those blue bellies?”
“Will Hanks? He’s been trying to show that he was as good as me since we were kids. And you weren’t any better. The two of you may’ve saved the platoon, but I sure as hell put you in your place.”
“Yeah, you got us kicked out of the army. We almost got killed by a lynch mob that day, thanks to you.”
“I had to make sure you two took the blame for losing that battle. Otherwise, it would’ve all fallen on me.”
“Poor baby; we both know that your father would’ve bought your way out of any real trouble.”
“Yeah, but then I’d’ve had to answer to him. He loved to make me pay anytime I made him look bad.”
Bridget gave the other woman a wicked smile. “It was Will – Wilma – who you knew wasn’t as good as you were – who told me last night that I should do what I did yesterday.”
Flora frowned. “Why would she do anything to help me that? She must hate me even more than you do.”
“No, you’re wrong there. I thought you were a coyote from the first time I met you, but even since that day in April, I’ve hated you more. Wilma’s my true friend, though. When she saw my rig out of control on the downgrade into hell, she got up into the box and pulled in on the reins.”
Flora regarded the gambler, her lips held in an O. ‘Damn!’ she thought. ‘The only thing worse than owing Kelly was owing Kelly and Hanks.’ Flora almost – almost – would have preferred to her been hanged rather than be put under that kind of an obligation.
The dancer shook her head. “I don't know why either one of you would do me any favor, but I'd rather be alive than dead. The trouble is, I don't like owing anybody. This is the kind of debt that I have to pay off before the bank closes. What would you want to call us square?”
Bridget scowled. “I don't suppose you'd hang yourself if I asked you to?”
“Not likely, Miss Bridget.”
“Then just keep out of my way. I can’t stand the sight or sound of you.”
Flora sighed. “Gladly. But this place is too small for that kind of disappearing act.” Flora rose and curtseyed, as Shamus had ordered her to do, before she headed back to the bar.
“Try anyway.” Bridget watched her, a cynical smile on her face, as she dealt herself another hand.
* * * * *
The sound of trumpets blared out from Second Street, the street that led to the Eerie Public School. As people stopped to see what was happening, two wagons turned left from Second onto Main Street. The wagons were surrounded by a number of men on horseback.
Liam O’Hanlan drove the wagon from the Feed and Grain. Trisha sat in the back, her arms crossed and glaring at her brother. George Sturges rode alongside, tooting an old, much-battered bugle. Kirby Pinter drove the second wagon, with Roscoe as his unhappy passenger. Zach Mitchem, sitting next to Kirby, was trying to coax music from a three-foot long English hunting horn.
Roscoe jumped from the wagon even before it had stopped. He ran over to the second wagon as soon as it had reined in. “Are you all right, Trisha?”
“I-I think so.” She stood up carefully, holding on to the side of the wagon. “I’m a bit shaken up from that wild ride I just had.”
Matt Royce rode over. “Hey, it was in good fun, y’know.”
“I’m sure that it was,” Roscoe said, “but I think that my new wife and I have been separated more than long enough.” He reached up to put his hands around Trisha’s waist. She braced herself on his shoulders and nodded that she was set. That done, he carefully lifted her from the wagon and lowered her to the ground.
Even after Trisha’s feet were firmly planted, she and Roscoe kept their arms around each other. Their lips met in a kiss that was far too brief.
“I agree with my… husband,” Trisha said, feeling a little shy. “But I do thank you for the shivaree. “ She reached into the back of the wagon and retrieved what looked like a large cloth doll wearing a bonnet. There were several more besides it and still more in the wagon that Roscoe had ridden in. Some were in bonnets; others wore cowboy hats – girl and boy “babies.”
“Ain’t no one not gonna know that you two are married,” Royce said. “Not after all that noise.”
Roscoe smiled. “No one at all. It was particularly nice of you all to circle Reverend Yingling’s house twice on the way here.”
“Just wanted to make sure he knew that you two were married,” Kirby added. “Now, why don’t the pair of you go someplace and do something about that?” He pointed at the door of the print shop, which now bore a sign saying, “Just married! Go away!”
The newlyweds both chuckled, although Trisha blushed as well. “Thanks, Kirby. I do believe we will.” Roscoe took Trisha inside. And locked the door behind them.
* * * * *
Friday, June 21, 1872
Lylah put her arms in the sleeves of her nightgown. She raised her arms over her head and let the garment slide down onto her body. She smiled, enjoying the coolness of the soft muslin as it moved against her bare skin. “Flora,” she started, as she began to close the buttons at the collar. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I guess. Flora was already in her nightgown. She was putting the dress that she’d worn onto a hanger.
“What’s it like being… married?”
“It’s hard to say. I’ve only been married a few days, and I was kind of distracted by the prospect of all that jail time I was facing.”
“Yeah, but you was married for three whole days – and nights. You had t’have done… something.” Lylah’s voice trailed off, and she looked away from Flora, embarrassed at her words.
Flora smiled. “Are you asking what it’s like to be married or just what it’s like to be with a man?”
“B-Both, I guess.”
“Being married is… I know that Carl loves me. He wants to spend his life with me, taking care of me, and I…” She stopped, as if considering her words for the first time. “I feel...all strange about him.”
She didn't understand everything she felt, and she wasn’t sure that she could put it into words. She could see Carl’s face in her mind, and it was like the warm sun rising after a cold, windy night. She was still scared, still unsure that she could be the wife he deserved. But she wanted – part of her, at least, wanted -- to try.
“I thought I was in love a dozen times before,” Flora slowly began. “But those times were nothing like what just hit me between the eyes. I didn’t know what love was before Carl. It was only a word, a lark, a game; something easy to have a good time with. But I’ve suddenly gotten tangled up in something that I just can’t believe a person like me can ever have – let alone hold onto. My stomach’s jumping and every damned nerve in this body is twanging a tune.”
Lylah sighed, hugging herself. “That sounds so good.”
“Good? You haven’t been laid on the Devil’s grill until you’ve fallen in love!” She studied the other woman’s face. “Who’s the man you want to be with?”
“What makes you think --” Lylah stopped, knowing that Flora probably knew the answer already. “Luke Freeman,” she answered in a whisper.
“That’s what I thought. He doesn’t seem too bad – for a nigger buck.”
Lylah scowled. “In case you ain’t noticed, I’m a… nigger, too, and I think he’s a real good man.” She suddenly laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“We sure do sound different than we was talking that day we changed, don’t we?”
“I guess the changes only started that day. The magic kept working on us, until we’re seeing everything backwards and upside down, like most women do.”
“Ain’t that the truth? And, you know, I kinda like things this way. It sure beats not having nothing to look forward to except getting paid Fridays and drinking up that pay come Saturday night.”
Flora climbed under the covers. She missed Carl. She wanted to be with him every minute of the day. How had get gotten such a grip on her? The whole idea of marriage daunted her. She’d never seen two people as able to hate one another as her father and her first stepmother were. It was bad even before Violet came on the scene. Growing up in their home was the worst possible training for how to have a happy marriage.
Forry, she knew, would never have made a good husband, no more than his father had. So why did she think she could be a good wife? She didn’t know, but Carl had taken the chance of loving her, and she wanted to try, if only for his sake. But how does one be a good wife; who was there to teach her about such a thing? Rosalyn had been happily married, but only briefly. No, the only really successful marriage she knew was – she chuckled at the irony of it – Shamus and Molly O’Toole.
To be a good wife, she realized, she had to sign on to living and thinking as a woman. But there was no rule book for doing that, either. And thinking like a woman didn't necessary make one a good wife. Far from it. A lot of women had razor tongues, and had shown jealous and acquisitive spirits that always driven Forry crazy. Flora knew that even if she could become all-woman, she might still chase Carl away. How could a person avoid doing that?
Finally Flora replied to her roommate's statement. “The way things are now, certainly is interesting.” She reached over and turned down the lamp by her bed to a minimal glow.” “There's a lot to be said for a life lived upside down and backwards.”
* * * * *
“Be careful with that straightedge, Emma,” Jubal Cates warned. “You want to show the wall exactly.”
Emma nodded and pressed the tool down firmly on the paper. “I didn’t realize how much of an artist a surveyor has to be.” She ran the drafting pencil along the edge, completing the fourth side of the building that housed Whit Whitney’s barbershop and his wife Carmen’s bathhouse.
“Now you know. And I want us to be especially precise with these, seeing as they’re going to Dan Sanborn. I don’t want him to think I’m slipping.”
“No, Sir.”
“That’s why I’m going to check your work – and you’re going to check mine – every building – to make sure we put in all the information that Dan’s draftsmen’ll need to make a full-sized fire insurance map of Eerie.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good, I just want you to understand that I’m not doing it because I don’t trust you. I do.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
The man smiled. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. That was a nice wedding yesterday.”
“Thank you, Sir, and thanks t’you and the rest of the church board for making it possible.”
“We were glad to do it. Trisha is -- and Patrick was -- a friend, and she did a lot of good during her time on the church board, even if we didn’t always agree on how to do it. I can’t understand why Reverend Yingling was so opposed to the marriage.” Cates thought for a moment. “How about you; how does it feel to have your father become somebody’s wife?
Emma shrugged. “I’m not sure. I guess I’ve been thinking of Trisha more like a big sister or a cousin than as my pa. She loves Roscoe – I think, so I suppose that I’m happy for her.”
But Emma didn’t look happy. She’d been feeling like a fatherless child for months. Trisha still loved her, but she could never again offer what a father could offer. Emma realized that a large part of the blame for her loss had been her own fault. If she -- Elmer -- had only been more careful playing at that loading dock. If only she hadn’t been so stubborn when her pa told her that the only way to stay alive was by drinking Shamus’ potion. After months as a girl, she was no longer sorry that she had taken the potion, but she remained very sorry for what she had caused. It hadn’t been just Pa who’d been badly hurt, but Ma and herself, too.
Cates patted her on the back. “And you should be happy. I am, too. Now, let’s get back to work. Those building drafts won’t get done if we stand around talking about weddings.”
* * * * *
“All right, Flora,” Molly ordered, “Try again.”
“Flora’s whole body seemed to frown. “Do I have to? I’ve been trying all afternoon.”
“The afternoon ain’t over yet, and ye still can’t do a proper cartwheel. So ye’ll keep trying till ye can.”
“Can’t we do the old act? Folks like that.”
“Aye, they did, but they liked seeing Nancy ‘n’ Lylah both doing cartwheels, and they’ll like it more if the three of you are doing ‘em.”
“If a dumb nigger like me can learn how t’do a cartwheel,” Lylah teased, “a smart white gal like you should be able t’pick it up in no time.”
Flora gave her a sour look. “That’s a lousy thing to say about yourself, Lylah.”
“That never stopped you from saying it to me.”
Molly clapped her hands. “Back t’your practicing, me gal. Ye’ll be dancing here tonight, whichever dance ye do, so ye might as well get back t’be learning the new one.”
* * * * *
Kirby Pinter was shelving books when he heard the bell over the door jingle. “Just a minute…” he yelled as he headed for the front of the store. Then he saw who his customer was. “Jane, hello; what can I do for you today?”
“You can sell me a cookbook – if you got any. There’s gonna be a party tomorrow for Carl and Flora, and I wanna bake ‘em a wedding cake.”
He mentally went over his stock. “There’s not much call for cookbooks, but I think I’ve got a couple. Follow me, please.”
He led her back to a shelf labeled “Domestic Arts”, which held about a half dozen books. “Let’s see…’Soaps, Dyes, and Other Useful Home Formulas’, no, that won’t do; ‘A Manual of Home Remedies’, I don’t think so. Ah, here we go, ‘The Housekeeper’s Assistant’ and 'Hand-Book of Practical Cookery.’ Here, take a look.” He handed her the first volume.
“This one, ‘Assistant’ is kinda old,” Jane said, examining the book, “but it says right in the title that it’s got recipes for ‘fancy cakes and puddings.’ That’s what I want. And it’s got game recipes. Now that Davy’s bringing down venison and quail from our claim, we can use some recipes for them, too.”
“Take a look at this other one,” Kirby told her. “It’s a lot newer, and it’s got a bunch of cake recipes, too. And I’ve heard of this Pierre Blot fellow. He’s some kind of famous cook back East.”
“How much are they, the two of ‘em?”
“Seventy-five cents each, but I’ll give you a deal on the pair, a dollar twenty-five.”
“That still ain’t cheap.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’m planning on inviting Nancy to dinner with me next week. If you promise to bake an apple pie that night – just for her, you can have them both for seventy-five cents.”
“Okay, I like to bake, but what’s so special ‘bout apple pie?”
“Nancy’s parents had a grove of apple trees on their farm, and I think she misses fresh apple pie.”
Jane smile. “Not anymore she won’t.” She shook Kirby’s hand. “We got us a deal.”
“Great, just don’t tell her about it. I want to surprise her.”
* * * * *
“What’s bothering ye, Love?” Molly asked, draping her arm over her husband’s shoulders.
Shamus turned to face her. “And what makes ye think anything’s bothering me?”
“I’ve been yuir wife for too many years not t’be knowing the signs.” She kissed his cheek. “Now, fess up . Ye know I’ll just keep asking ye if ye don’t tell me.”
He reached up and gently squeezed the hand that was resting on his left shoulder. “The Saloon’s what’s bothering me. It ain’t big enough no more.”
“What d’ye mean? We’ve got all the space that we ever did.”
“Aye, but we’re using it more’n we used to. We got Maggie’s restaurant using the same space where the Cactus Blossoms dance, not t’be mentioning the space where the band plays. They all take up room. And upstairs, half the rooms we used t’be renting out are getting used by folks that we pay: the Blossoms and Jessie and Bridget.”
“Well, Bridget’s gonna be back running her own game any day now, I’ll wager, and then she’ll be the one paying for her room.”
“So she is, and it’ll be good t’be having money coming in for that room instead of going out.”
“It’ll be good t’be having her back t’her old self, too.”
“That it will; that it will, but that’s only one small piece o’me problem.”
“Our problem, Love. And we’ll be finding a way out. We always have.” She considered the problem. “Ye could always build out into the yard. Move yuir office back t’that space and make more room inside.”
“What, and lose one o’them benches out back? Thuir’d be way too many couples after me for taking away their private place for spooning.” He chuckled. “Besides, it’d take money, more’n we’ve got just now.” He sighed. “Maybe we can start saving for next year.”
“Maybe… I got faith in ye, Shamus O’Toole. Ye’ll figure out a way.”
He squeezed her hand again. “That’s the one good part o’the problem, Molly. Having ye here t’be sharing it with me.”
* * * * *
“Do you want to go over to the Saloon tomorrow?” Arsenio asked Laura.
Laura shrugged. “Maybe… for a while in the afternoon.”
“Don’t you want to go over for the dance?”
“Not if I have to sit in this damned wheelchair.” She made a sour face. “It’s not fun being stuck in this thing and watching other people dancing.”
“How about if we go over for supper? I heard that Davy Kitchner brought down some quail for Maggie to cook.”
“Sounds good. I think there’s going to be some sort of wedding party for Carl… and Flora Osbourne whenever he gets in from Slocum’s ranch.”
“That’s right; they got married, too, just before her hearing.” He chuckled. “The Judge’s had a busy week.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” she said, beginning to sound angry. “Reverend Yingling wouldn’t marry either couple: Carl and Flora or Trisha and Roscoe.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into the man. He was always so levelheaded.”
“When he first found out I was expecting, he told me how much he looked forward to baptizing our little one. Now, I don’t know if he’ll even be willing to do it – or if I want him to do it.”
Arsenio put an arm around her. “Don’t fret. Things’ll get better; you’ll see.”
“They better. Marriage is one thing. The Judge can do the ceremony as well as the Reverend, but only… only a minister can do a… a baptism.” There was a catch in her voice. “I want our baby to get baptized.”
Arsenio hugged Laura as tightly as he dared. “Don’t worry, Laura. It’ll be all right.” He kissed her cheek and began to gently stroke her hair. ‘I’ll make damned sure that it is,’ he promised himself – and Laura.
* * * * *
Opal Sayers stood near the swinging doors of the Saloon. Her eyes flitted around the room. Finally, she saw Nancy Osbourne come through a door in the back, carrying a tray of food.
“Nancy… Nancy!” she called, hurrying towards the other woman.
Nancy stopped at the sound of her name. “Just a minute, Opal” she said when the woman was within easy earshot. “I’m waitressing tonight, and I’ve got to get this food over to the folks who ordered it.”
“Okay, I’ll wait right here.”
Nancy shook her head. “Go wait over there.” She pointed to a table some feet away. “You stand or sit here, and Shamus’ll think you want to order dinner.”
“Sam Dugan’d have a fit if I did that.” She giggled and walked over to the far table and sat down.
Nancy joined her a few minutes later. “Now, what did you want to talk about? I’ve got three tables filled with hungry people that I have to take care of, so please be brief.”
“First off, I wanted to thank you again for going to church with me last Sunday. I’d never have had the nerve to go by myself. And the stares I -- we -- got from some of those people would’ve scared me off if I did go alone.”
Nancy nodded grimly. “Some of those folks can be pretty rough.”
“That’s why I came, t’ask if I could go with you again this Sunday.”
“I suppose. I don’t think that it’ll be that much easier for either of us this week, though.”
“Maybe, or maybe not, but going to a church – especially with a friend – is always worth it.”
“A friend?” Nancy studied Opal’s open, eager face. “Yes, I guess it is.”
* * * * *
“Can I have everybody’s attention for a minute?” Horace Styron stepped up onto one of the picnic tables outside of the schoolhouse. The men of the Eerie Eagles baseball team were there for a few hours practice after work, and they all gathered around him.
Fred Nolan pushed back his catcher’s mask. “What’s up, Horace?”
“I guess you all heard about what came out at that hearing on Wednesday, the one for Flora Stafford.”
Someone else yelled, “Yeah, she didn’t kill Clyde after all. He died ‘cause he couldn’t keep his pecker in his pocket.” The men laughed raucously.
“I heard they said at the trial that Horace here had the same problem.” This was met by more laughter.
Horace raised his hand. “It’s true,” he said with a shrug. “I was with Clyde in Lady Cerise’s place all those nights, and we both had female… companions.”
“Styron’s hardware…’ Our tools work.’”
Even Horace had to laugh at that. “Yes, I’m very happy to say that mine does. The thing is – well, this team is sponsored by the Methodist Church. I figured that some of you may not want a forni… a fellow like me as your captain, and I wanted to get things out in the open before it went any further and, maybe, hurt the team.”
“Hellfire, Horace, it’s natural for a man to wanna get his rocks off every once in a while. You ain’t married, so you either do yourself or you go to somewhere like the Lady’s place and pay some pretty gal t’do you. At least, you had the good sense to go whoring.”
“All in favor of Horace staying on as Team Captain, say aye.”
The men shouted, “Aye!” in a single, very loud voice.
“Thanks, men,” Horace said, his voice cracking slightly. “Now get those asses moving. We ain’t gonna beat the Coyotes standing around beating our gums.”
“Or anything else,” another man yelled. Still laughing, the players took the field for their practice.
* * * * *
Saturday, June 22, 1872
Vida and Clara Spaulding were in the yard behind their house. Mrs. Spaulding was beating a rug, while her daughter shelled peas for supper.
“Good afternoon, Mother… Clara,” Hedley said, coming around from the street.
Vida turned to her son. “You said that you were just running a couple errands, Hedley. Where were you for so very long?”
“You missed the Carson sisters,” Clara teased. “They said that they came to visit me, but they left quickly enough when you didn’t come back from wherever it was that you went.” She sounded more amused than sad.
Hedley smiled. “As they say, ‘fortune favors the prepared,’ but, truth to tell, I didn’t miss the Carson girls.”
“You most certainly did,” his mother replied.
The young man shook his head. “I’ll admit that I didn’t see them, Mother, but I hardly missed them. Prudence and Temperance Carson are two of the most vapid, empty-headed, and self-centered females it has ever been my misfortune to encounter.”
“Don’t hold back, Brother,” Clara chuckled, “tell us what you really think of them.”
“Frankly,” he said, “I’d rather not think of them.” He casually slid his palm along the side of his head. “I’ve other… matters to consider.”
Clara noticed. “You got a haircut, didn’t you?” She leaned towards him and sniffed. “Hair tonic, too, I think.”
“You look very nice, dear,” his mother told him. “Is there some special reason for it?”
Her daughter grinned. “He may find the Carson sisters ‘vapid’ and all that, but I think that there’s some...” Her voice trailed off, as she realized. “It’s Saturday! You’re going to that saloon to see Annie, aren’t you?”
“A saloon… Hedley,” Vida said nervously, “are you certain that you want to do that?”
He frowned. “I’m eighteen, Mother. I’m quite capable of handling myself.”
“I thought Annie was the one that you wanted to handle,” Clara joked.
“I admit that I’m looking forward to seeing her again – she is a friend, after all, but I’m going because I’ve heard that it’s quite a lively place, and I’m curious to see that for myself.”
Mr. Spaulding frowned, still uncertain. “Please be careful. Those places can be so very dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine, Mother,” he insisted. “If things get out of hand, I’ll leave immediately. If not – well, I’ve heard that there’s a very good restaurant in that saloon. If it’s as safe as I’ve heard, I’ll take you both there for dinner one night next week, so you can see it for yourselves.”
“Would Clara be admitted into a Saloon at her age?”
“I’ve that heard even children can eat there – with their parents – parents who are some of the town’s most upstanding people.”
Vida considered what he had said. “That would be nice. Annie did say that she worked there as a waitress. Perhaps we could visit with her for a bit, while we’re dining.”
“Indeed, it would,” he cheerfully agreed.
* * * * *
Bridget was playing Maverick Solitaire, waiting for players. She was so intent on her game that she didn’t realize that Cap had come into the Saloon until he was standing next to her.
“Hello, Bridget.” He had a massive grin on his face.
She stood up quickly, nervously. “Cap, wh-what brings you to town?” With Abner stuck in a hospital in Philadelphia for who knew how long, Cap was working harder than he ever had before. He was his own boss now, and he had turned out to be a hard taskmaster for himself. She missed him, and it had added to her moodiness of late.
“I had to talk to Dwight Albertson about some business matters, and we need some supplies. Then, too, there’s the dance tonight.” He stepped in closer. “But the most important thing I have to do today is this.” His arm was suddenly around her waist, pulling her closer still. He leaned in, and their lips touched.
She felt all her worry flow out of her, replaced by the delicious warmth that she had missed for so long. She sighed, and her arms moved slowly up and around his shoulders. Her body pressed against his. Her nipples were taut against her camisole, as the sensations centered in her breast and down there at her innermost core.
“Not that I’m complaining,” she said in a husky voice when the kiss ended, “but what was that all about?”
“I wanted to tell you – to show you how proud I am of you.”
“Proud? I don’t --”
“Damned proud, as a matter of fact. I know what it meant for you to testify at that hearing.”
“Who told you?”
“Carl; besides telling everyone he could how great it was to be married to Flora, all he could talk about the last few days, was how amazing it was that you saved her.”
He cupped her chin in his hand. “That must’ve been so hard for you. I know what Forry did to you, and how much you hated Flora because of it. A lot of women would’ve sat back, smiling like a cat in a milking shed, and watched Flora heading off for twenty years in the territorial prison.”
“But not my Bridget.” He smiled. It was a wonderful smile that warmed even more. “No, not her; she steps in, stops a lynching, and then tells everybody what really happened. I am so damned proud of you. I couldn’t wait to come into town and tell you.”
“You-You’re thanking me? I got Flora out of being hanged. After what she did to your uncle, I’d have thought you’d want her dead.”
“I suppose I'll never like her, but what you did makes me love you even more than before.” He squeezed her more tightly. “It’s not about the kind of person that Flora is; it’s about the kind of person that you’ve shown yourself to be.”
She luxuriated in the feel of his arms. But even more important were the words he was saying. He was proud of her. She was his Bridget, and, at the first chance, he had come in to see her, to tell her how he felt, and to give her – in front of everybody -- a kiss that made her knees weak.
Her doubts about him – and about herself -- melted like ice on a hot griddle. She wasn’t unworthy, she wasn’t a no-account whore. Hell, no! She was Bridget Kelly, a woman that Cap was PROUD of. She was a woman he wanted, a woman he loved.
“You said that you were staying for the dance tonight,” she asked, an impish grin curling her lips when he nodded. “Are you staying the night, too?”
He nodded again. “I am.”
“That’s nice.” She looked up into his twinkling hazel eyes. “But don’t bother to rent a room. You won’t be needing one.”
* * * * *
The Saloon doors swung open wide. “Anybody home?” a familiar voice rang out.
“Jessie!” Molly ran out from behind the bar and hurried over to where the young woman stood, dressed for a hard ride in a man’s blue shirt and green work jeans. “What happened to ye. I’ve – Shamus ‘n’ I -- have been worried sick.”
At that moment, Paul came through the batwing doors and walked over to Jessie. “Sorry, Molly,” he said, putting his arm around the singer's waist. He pulled her close and kissed her cheek. “We were kinda busy.”
“We surely was that,” Jessie said with a giggle, “and it wasn’t all fun ‘n’ games, neither.” She grew serious for a moment. “Some of was more like… life ‘n’ death.”
Molly could see the pain on the other woman’s face. “Well, ye’re back here, safe ‘n’sound, and ye’ve plenty o’time t’be telling us all about what happened to ye.”
“Right now,” Jessie tried to stifle a yawn, as a crowd formed around her. “Right now, all I want t’do is t’crawl into a real bed and sleep for about twenty years.”
Shamus came over to join them. “Don’t ye want something t’be eaten first? Maggie ‘n’ Jane’re just about ready to open the restaurant, and I’m sure they can be getting something ready for ye quck enough.”
“Shamus,” Paul said, shaking his head, “we’ve been riding for days and days – even with a stop at the Tylers -- and we are bone tired. All we want now is bed – and sleep.” He yawned. “We’ll eat and tell everybody what happened later. Okay?”
Molly looked the pair over. She could almost see how worn out they were. “Ye’d better.” She sighed. “Yuir room’s waiting, all clean and ready. Here’s yuir key.” She held out a large brass key.
“Thanks, Molly.” Jessie took the key and put it – temporarily -- into the pocket of her jeans. She draped her arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go, Paul.”
He nodded, and the two of them moved towards the steps. “See you all later,” he called out to no one in particular, as they started up to the second floor.
“Oh. Lordy,” Molly said, as she watched them climb the steps. They seemed to be leaning on each other as they went, going one step at a time. “I been worried sick about them two, imagining all sorts o’terrible things happening, and now I’m think that whatever did happen may’ve been even worse than what I was imagining.”
* * * * *
Carl Osbourne leaned back in his chair. “I gotta tell you, Shamus. This has got t’be the best meal I’ve eaten in donkey’s years.” He looked across at Flora, who smiled back at him. “‘Course it was the company more’n the food that made it so special.”
“‘Tis the least we can be doing,” Molly replied. “Thuir wasn’t get much of a chance t’be throwing a wedding party for ye in jail.” She was on his left, with Shamus beside her. On his right, sat his sister, Nancy, and her friend, Kirby Pinter. Best of all, Flora sat opposite him, so he could look at her while they ate. “And the food part ain’t over yet,” Molly added.
She raised her hand as a signal. Lylah opened the door to the kitchen, and Jane came through, pushing a cart. She maneuvered it over to the table. “Here you go,” she said cheerfully. On the cart was a large pound cake covered with a yellow frosting. The words “Happy Wedding Flora and Carl” were written on it in a frothy blue icing. A stack of dessert plates and a cake knife were set on the tray next to the cake.
“That’s quite a cake,” Carl said.
Shamus handed him the knife. “Aye, Jane baked it and done all the icing herself, but ‘tis up to the happy couple t’be cutting it.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Carl said. He stood up and motioned for Flora to join him. She did, kissing him on the cheek. They both took hold of the knife handle and cut the cake into four long strips. Another few turns with the knife, and twenty-four squares of cake sat on the tray.
Carl kissed Flora again, this time on the lips. “Who gets the first slice?” he asked when they separated.
“You feed it t’yuir wife,” Molly told him. “She takes a bite and feeds the rest t’ye.”
Carl picked up a corner slice with a serving fork. “Here y’go, Flora.” She leaned in and took a bite.
“My turn.” She took the cake from him and held it out for him to taste.
He did. “You know,” he said with a laugh. “This cake tastes as sweet – almost – as one of Flora’s kisses.”
“Then have some more.” She pushed the cake at him, smearing icing on his face.
He picked up another piece and seemed ready to do the same to her. “Hold on,” Molly ordered. “Ye’ll not be making a mess of this restaurant. Flora, why don’t ye take this man t’where he can clean up?”
“Aye.” Shamus handed Flora a key. “Him ‘n’ his wife’ll be staying in Room 3 t’night. You take ‘em up, and while ye’re upstairs, ye can be changing into the clothes for tonight’s dance.”
Flora glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Shamus, the dance isn’t for a couple of hours yet.”
“So it is,” Molly replied, “but I’m thinking that the two of ye can find something t’be doing in the meantime.”
Carl took his wife’s hand. “I think we can. Thanks, Molly… Shamus.” He kissed her cheek, deliberately smearing some of the icing onto her face. They joined hands and hurried towards the stairs.
* * * * *
“Hello, Annie,” Hedley said, walking up to her.
Arnie gasped in surprise. “Hedley, what – what are you doing here?”
“I’ve heard about how lively this place gets on Saturdays, and I came to see what was going on.” He looked at her outfit: white blouse, black dress, and white apron. “Are you one of the dancing girls?”
She chuckled. “The dancing girls are the Cactus Blossoms, who do a show on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights, and, no, I am not one of them. I’m a waiter girl. At the dance tonight, men will give us tickets, and then we dance with them.” She felt embarrassed and not a little nervous at what he would think.
“I bought a couple of those tickets. Do I give you one now?”
“No, the band is just setting up. Shamus, that man over there…” She pointed at the barman. “…he will say when the dance starts. You must stand in line with the other men and wait your turn to give me a ticket.”
He took her hand. “A long wait, but a worthwhile one, I’m sure.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I look forward to dancing with you tonight.”
“Th-Thank you.” Arnie’s hand tingled where he had kissed her, and the tingling was spreading through her in a most enjoyable way. She giggled and, not knowing what else to do, she nodded and walked slowly over to her seat with the other waiter girls. She’d have walked faster if her legs had been working better.
* * * * *
“That’s two tickets, Luke,” Lylah said. She started to hand one back to him.
Luke curled her fingers around the second ticket. “We ain’t gonna dance.” He took her hand and led her through the kitchen and out into the yard. “You don’t mind if we come out here instead, do you?”
“Not really. I like t’be in your arms, standing up or sitting down.” She giggled, as they walked down the steps and around to one of the two benches. “And we can do a lot more‘n dance out here.” There was a hint of mischief – and desire -- in her voice.
She sat down, and he took the place beside her. They turned to face each other, and their lips met. She moaned softly, as her body seemed to light from within like a paper lantern. Her hands glided upwards, as her arms slowly encircled his neck.
He broke the kiss – ‘Way too quick,’ she thought – and moved to peck her cheek, her chin, and on down her throat. His progress was slow, and each kiss inflamed her more. Her body trembled from the intensity of what he was stirring in her, and she wanted only for him to continue.
His lips reached her collarbone, the lowest point exposed by the neckline of her dress. “You want I should keep going,” he asked in a teasing voice.
“Y-Yes,” she answered in a husky whisper.
He unbuttoned her blouse, kissing each newly exposed bit of her dark, rounded breasts, until he reached the top of her camisole and corset. He moved back up, kissing and gently nipping at her neck. His hands kept going, and, very shortly, her starched white blouse was open to the bottom. He pulled the two halves apart, and the top of it fell off her shoulders.
She leaned back, letting the garment drop further from her body. Her back arched, pushing her breasts forward, so that her undergarments strained to contain them. “Please…” she gasped, “…hurry!”
Nimble fingers ran down the front of her corset, popping the hooks. The garment slid off her and to the ground of its own account, as he began to work the more delicate buttons of her camisole. When the top three were open, he pushed it away, revealing her chocolaty breasts, the darker nipples extended. He leaned in and suckled at one like a newborn calf, while he rolled the other between two fingers.
The exquisite energy flowed in from his lips and his fingers through her breasts and to every part of her; to every part, but, especially, to that secret place between her legs, stoking the great need she felt there. It built and built, a torrent against a dam, until the dam broke. She was lost, tossed like a leaf in a hurricane. She bit her lip, almost drawing blood, to keep from screaming, and forcing herself not to pass out from the sheer pleasure that she felt.
Luke watched her body quake with delight. When she had stopped, when she looked up at him with dazed eyes, he asked, “You want I should go on?”
“Yes! Oh. G-d, yes!” she answered. Lylah was on a cloud. Leland had never cared about the woman he was with; she was just the way to scratch his “itch.” Luke wanted her for herself.
He moved in to suck the other nipple. At the same time, his hand moved down her body. His fingers were arched, barely touching her. The sensation was of swarms of sparks, sexual fireflies, flitting about under her skin. She moaned and, by newly found feminine instincts, spread her legs.
He helped her to lie back on the wide bench, one foot on either side. “What… What’re you doing?” she asked as if half asleep.
“Just helping you t’feel real good.” He pushed up her skirt and petticoat up onto her stomach. Her drawers were moist where he touched them, and he could smell the heady scent of her arousal. He was rock hard, and – he had to admit – his hands trembled just a little as he undid the bow at her waist.
She looked up. “Are you gonna screw me now?” There was hope – and desire – in her voice.
“That’s m’plan.”
She smiled; her eyes half-closed. She had been imagining THIS happening for days. “Well, okaaaaay..” She lifted her rump slightly off the bench. “That’s t’help you get my drawers off. You better be careful with them.”
“Careful as I can be.” He managed to slide the garment down a few inches before the bench got in the way. Still it was enough.
He stood and unbuttoned his trousers and undid the knot on his own drawers. They dropped to his ankles. He lifted one leg over the bench and moved down and between her legs. He grinned as he felt her fingers around his manhood, even more so, as she guided him into her.
She gasped as she felt something tear, but the pain passed, and what came after was more of that incredible pleasure. Her arms reached up to pull him closer. He was still inside her for a moment, letting her get used to him. Then he began to pump and pump and pump! Her hips moved to match him, and that just made it even better. The rapture he was pumping into her, like water rising through new pipes from deep within the earth – within her -- until it all came GUSHING out. And she screamed, unable to keep the explosion of ecstasy she felt inside her, until he smothered her scream with a kiss.
And then he resumed; Luke was as powerful as the mustang he rode. Her body writhed, as another powerful blast of carnal delight whipped through her. “More… more…” she begged.
He suddenly froze. Then she felt him spurt what seemed like a gallon of his essence into her. It set her off in one last frenzy -- out of control, her mind barely functioning.
When it was over, when they both lay, exhausted, sated, on the bench, she looked up into his dark, welcoming eyes, and repeated a phrase that Shamus had given her weeks before. “Thanks for the dance, Mister. I really enjoyed it, and I hope we can do it again some time.” She giggled then and kissed his cheek.
“We will, Sugarplum,” he answered solemnly. “I swears that we will.”
* * * * *
Hedley stepped up to where Arnie was sitting. He was holding a ticket. “May I have the next dance?”
“Again?” she asked. “You have danced with me twice already tonight.”
“I like dancing. That’s why I came here tonight.”
“But you aren’t dancing with any of the other waiter girls. I’ve been…” Her voice trailed off and she blushed, as she realized what her words implied.
He smiled. “Been watching me, have you?” He offered her the ticket and his hand. “If you dance with me, you can watch me up close.”
“Very well.” She took his hand and let him carefully help her to her feet. His ticket joined the others in her apron pocket, and they walked out onto the floor.
The music – a waltz -- began, and she sighed, as his arms closed around her. Her body tingled where he was touching her, and the tingling raced through her body. She felt warm… happy, and she relished the feelings.
“I lied to you before,” he told her. “I said that I came here to dance. Actually, I came here in the hope that I could dance with you. And since I can, I intend to do so as often as possible.”
The tingling in her body grew into a warm glow. She sighed again and leaned her head on his chest. ‘Sí,’ she thought, ‘as often as you can.’
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Spring, part 13 of 13
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2013
Sunday, June 23, 1872
Hiram King finished the waltz with a flourish of his fingers across the keys of his accordion. “That’s it for tonight, folks. We hope you enjoyed yourselves, and that you’ll all be back next week.” He slipped the straps off his shoulders, while Natty Ryland and Tomas Rivera, the other members of the Happy Days Town Band, stashed their own instruments, fiddle and clarionet, in carrying cases.
“Time for bed, I guess,” Cap Lewis told Bridget, his dance partner, “but, for some reason, I don’t feel the least bit sleepy.”
Bridget blushed, but just for a moment. “I should hope not.” She flashed him a sly smile, “Because I’m not sleepy, either.”
“I think that we can find something else to do.” He took her hand, and they walked briskly towards the steps.
As they climbed up to her bedroom, Bridget glanced down. Molly was on the barroom floor looking up at her. The older woman winked and made a “thumbs up” gesture. Bridget nodded and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
“Here we are,” Cap said, when they reached her door. Bridget fumbled in her apron pocket for the key. When she found it, she handed it to him, trembling as she did so. She was offering him far more than the key to a room, and she – they both -- knew it.
He opened the door and held it, gesturing for her to go first. She did, brushing her hand along his cheek as she walked past him. He followed, closing the door behind him, and latching it shut.
She had been so uncertain that first time they’d made love, all those weeks ago. It felt like she was jumping across some wide chasm, making the leap – the final leap -- from Brian Kelly’s past to Bridget Kelly’s future. Back then, she’d wondered if she had it in her to make it across. More importantly, she’d wondered what she would find on the other side.
She was still exploring that other side. There were false trails – and snakes! But Cap had always been there with her, even when she had feared that he was lost to her forever. And she had come to realize how much she wanted him there, sharing her life and her love. And her body. Their future together started tonight, and she wanted it to be as bright and as happy and as pleasurable as she could make it.
She untied her apron and carefully set it down gently on her dresser. “I’ll have to turn in all those tickets in the morning, I guess. For now --”
He interrupted her by pulling her to him. Their lips met. Her arms seemed to float up and around his neck of their own accord. At the same time, his arms circled her waist, holding her close against him.
She sighed, as the heat of his kiss flooded into her body. She delighted in feelings that she had missed for so very long. Her breasts tingled, and she felt her nipples stiffen, pushing against the soft muslin of her camisole.
“Much as I’m enjoying what we’re doing now,” Cap told her, “I’ve got more in mind for tonight than just kissing you.” His hands moved up, and he began to undo the buttons of her starched white blouse. “A whole lot more”
She giggled. “Oh, do you now?” She was enjoying just standing there and letting him undress her. She could see the pleasure on his face while he was doing it. She glanced down. The tenting in his pants showed his arousal, and she felt pride – and her own arousal – as well, in how she was affecting him.
He finished with her blouse and tugged gently to free it from her skirt. Once it was free in front, he slid it off her shoulders. She pulled her arms out and let it dangle free behind her, until, after a bit, it slipped loose and dropped onto the floor.
Cap stepped in close again and put his arms around his woman. He kissed her forehead, the space between her eyes, and the tip of her nose. Then, without warning, he gently nipped her nose. When she gasped in surprise, his kissed her half-parted lips, his tongue darting in to dance with her own.
She moaned, and her arms slipped up, under his, reaching up his broad, strong, male back, so that the palms of her hands were on his shoulders. Sharp little sparks of pleasure flowed down from her breasts, floated through her stomach, and settling in at that special cleft between her legs. They gathered down there pulsing and growing in strength. She moaned, as the feelings began to engulf her.
When they broke the kiss, Cap stepped back for just a moment to unbutton his own shirt. He yanked it off in one quick motion and let it fall to the floor. Bridget pouted. “I wanted to do that.” Wilma had told her how good it was to have a man undress her. She knew, now, just how wonderfully right her old friend had been, and she’d been wondering if undressing a man was as much fun.
“Next time.” He kissed her again, this time at the base of her neck. She shivered and closed her eyes. He continued to kiss her, while his hands gingerly unhooked her corset. Once that was done, he let the garment slide free. His hands moved up to cup her breasts through the thin fabric of her camisole. Her nipples were two hard pebbles, and he strummed each one with a finger, copying the way Jessie Hanks sometimes strummed her guitar.
She sighed and arched her back, pushing her breasts even more into his hands. He continued, and she could feel the warmth of his passion passing into her.
When he started on the buttons of her camisole, her trembling hands pushed his away. “Let me.” Her voice was unsteady, and she looked away, unable to look into his eyes. The buttons seemed to fly open at her touch, revealing her firm breasts, nipples erect, and the expanse of creamy flesh below. He pushed it off her shoulders, and it fell away.
Cap leaned in and kissed the base of Bridget‘s neck. He felt her tremble and started a trail of kisses down to the space between her two breasts. He stuck out his tongue, then and began to run it along her left breast in an ever-narrowing spiral that centered on her nipple.
“Oohh… Cap,” she gasped. Her hands took firm hold of his head, shifting it, so that his lips wrapped around her turgid nipple. Her head tilted back, her eyes half-closed, as the exquisite feelings he was creating threatened to overwhelm her.
His hands were busy, even as he suckled. They shifted down, running one finger along her bared flesh. He found the buttons that held her skirt in place at her waist and quickly opened them. Then, as the garment loosened, he reached in and did the same for the ribbons that held her petticoat in place. The two, skirt and petticoat, slipped over her hips and settled together about her ankles.
She sighed, releasing her hold on Cap. Then, with a short laugh, she stepped out of the pile of clothing and kicked it away. Her lips curled in a sly smile. “My turn, now.” Her hand reached down to run along the bulge in his pants. It reacted with a small, quick jerk. She giggled and began to work on the buttons of his pants.
“Damn!” she blurted out, as her fingers fumbled with one of the buttons. She wasn't used to taking off a pair of pants that someone else was wearing.
Cap’s eyes darted down and saw her problem. “Don’t worry; you’ll get the hang of it eventually.”
“The hell with eventually. I want these pants off you now.” She blushed at admitting her need for him.
“You just need some practice. I guess I’ll have to come around more often.”
“You better.” The button chose that moment to pop open. “Finally!” she muttered. Now his trousers were open, and she yanked them down to his knees.
And found herself at eye level with the bulge in his drawers. “Oh… oh, my, she whispered. She reached out and ran a finger along it, giggling as it twitched in reaction. A thought popped into her head. ‘It’s like presents at Christmas. I have the fun of unwrapping the present and the fun of playing with what’s inside.’
“Hold on a minute,” Cap said, startling her. He shifted and sat down on her bed. His pants were bunched around his boots, but he pulled them up and began to pull of his right boot. He had it off in a moment and began to work on the other.
Bridget had been kneeling. She stood for a moment, and then sat down next to him and untied the bow on her shoe. As soon as it was loose, she tugged it off. She undid the other shoe and wriggled her foot out of it. “Before we go any further,” she said, opening a drawer in the small table next to her bed. She reached in and took out an “English riding coat.”
“I got this from Wilma,” she explained, holding up the condom. “I got a lot of them.” She handed it to Cap. “Here you go; put it on… please.”
Cap smiled and stood up. “For you, anything.” He fiddled for a minute with the buttons on his drawers. They opened and fell down around his ankles. He stepped out of them and kicked them away.
“Oh… Oh, my!” Bridget’s eyes were drawn to his manhood, which sprang up, as if standing at attention. It seemed to be pointing right at her.
Cap slid the riding coat over his maleness, using the attached ribbons to tie it in place. Once he was done, he glanced over at Bridget, who was sitting there, staring at him. “We can’t do much of anything, while you still have your drawers on, you know.”
“I guess not.” Her hands worked the bow that held her drawers in place. When she stood, the intimate garment slipped down around her hips. She wriggled and slid them down a few inches. She shifted her hips one times and let them fall the rest of the way to the ground. “Happy, now?”
He took her in his arms. “Not as happy as I – as we both -- will be in a minute.” He picked her up and gently laid her down on her bed.
“Mmm. I should hope so.” She shifted to the center of the bed and spread her legs wide. He climbed up on top of her, his body between her legs, while his weight was supported by his arms. Her hand found his manhood and guided it to her nether cleft. She was more than ready. “Ooohh… Oh, yesss!”
He began to move his hips, pumping in and out of her. At the same time, their lips met in a torrid kiss.
Wave after wave of delicious pleasure swept over her. The cool logic that guided her at the poker table was swept away, as she surrendered, trembling, to the rapture he was creating in her. Bridget's arms reached out, her hands clawing at his back. At the same time, her legs wrapped tightly around him.
She moaned, with an ecstasy beyond anything she had ever known. The sensations grew and grew and GREW within her, until it exploded in every part of her. She shrieked with joy, as her body writhed.
Cap had been so busy working on Bridget’s pleasure that he hadn’t held himself back. Her movements set him off. He groaned and shot what seemed like buckets of his essence into her. His explosion set her off again, and she cooed her delight.
He tried to continue, but he felt himself soften. He slid off her and onto the bed. She was still in the throes of her passion and he held onto her as best he could. When she began to calm, he kissed her cheek and caressed her, prolonging the experience for her as best he could.
After a time, she regained herself. Her arm reached around his neck. She moved closer and their lips met. “Thank you, so much, Cap. Thank you for everything.”
“Thank you, Bridget,” he grinned, “but that wasn’t everything; it was just the beginning.”
* * * * *
Reverend Thaddeus Yingling stepped up to the altar. He looked out at his congregation and smiled broadly. ‘Never mind the trouble caused by Clyde Ritter’s death and by what was said about him afterwards,’ he told himself, ‘these are my people, assembled here so that I can lead them to the right path.’
“My friends,” he began, “these last days have been a most unhappy one for all of us. Not only have we lost a good and trusted member of our flock with the tragic death of Clyde Ritter…” He stopped for a moment and searched for Cecelia Ritter. When he found her, sitting with her family near the back of the room, he looked her in the eye and gave what he hoped was a comforting smile.
Then he resumed his sermon. “But we, his family and his friends, have had to suffer hearing his name and reputation befouled in defense of the potion girl who was involved in his death. Yes, once again, the shadow of O’Toole’s potion girls has darkened our lives. I have long warned that these women – and the evil brew that created them -- must be under the firm control of the right-thinking people of this community. Nor, and I cannot stress this too firmly, can it be left to the ineffectual advisory committee that the town council has so uselessly created, a body that cannot do other than fail.”
“That pompous ass,” Laura muttered softly. “I’ve had about all of him I can stand.” She firmly grasped the armrests of her wheelchair, bracing herself.
Arsenio put his hand on hers. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked her in a whisper.
“Yes, I have to do it.” She took a breath. “The only way that I can be sure is to challenge him in public.”
“For my own part,” Yingling continued. “I have refused to participate in any activity or ceremony that might be taken as showing my approval or acceptance of these potion girls, and --”
Laura’s voice rang out. “Bullshit!”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Caulder.” Yingling glared down at her, and she could hear whispered comments from others in the congregation.
She rose slowly out of her wheelchair, and glared back. “I said, ‘Bullshit!’, and I meant ‘Bullshit!’ You ‘refused to participate in any activity’ – hah! You refused to marry Milt Quinlan and my sister, Jane; you said that she was too evil to marry him.”
“And that’s ridiculous.” She glanced over to where Milt and Jane were sitting. Jane’s head was bent, looking down, and Milt had one arm around her, holding her hand. “Jane’s the sweetest woman I know.”
Someone yelled, “Sit down!”
“Let her speak,” Phillipia Stone shouted back.
Laura gave Phillipia a quick smile and turned to face the minister again. “And then, you not only refused to marry Trisha O’Hanlan and Roscoe Unger,” she argued. “You tried to keep them from being married here in church. Only you couldn’t do that could you?”
“No,” he replied angrily, “but that was the fault of the church board. I have long fought against their –”
Laura interrupted him again. “Against their doing the right thing? You wouldn’t marry those couples, but the Judge could. And when he did, it was just as binding as if you had done it.” She gave a deep sigh. “But that’s not always the case, is it?”
“No, thankfully, it is not. And I intend to withhold my support – my presence – from anything that involves one of the potion girls, even from you.” He glanced over at Cecelia Ritter, expecting her, at least, to rise to his defense. She seemed ready to speak, but her older son whispered something to her. She leaned back in her seat, her head lowered, as if avoiding his glance.
Laura looked grim. “Withhold your… support even from me? What about from my child?” She gently touched her swollen stomach. “I’ll be having a baby in a few days, you know, and it scares the… dickens out of me. But one of the things that scare me the most is the thought that you -- my minister – are so caught up in your absurd hatred of potion girls that you won’t baptize my child.”
A swell of realization ran through the hall. Methodists took infant baptism very seriously.
“You’re the only one in town who can do that baptism, and if you won’t… if my innocent little one doesn’t get…”She had to pause, to get control of her emotions before she could continue. “So I’m asking you, right here, in front of everybody, Reverend Yingling. Will you baptize my baby?”
The Reverend looked flustered. He’d never considered this possibility, and he wasn’t certain how to reply. “Perhaps… It might be that I could… If --” Again, no one seemed to be taking his side.
“I’ll take your stammering as a ‘No.’ You’re refusing to…” she sobbed and collapsed back into the wheelchair. “T-Take me home, Arsenio… please. I can’t look at that man anymore.” He nodded and started to push her towards the door.
Jane and Milt stood up. “Neither can we,” Milt said, as they began to leave. A number of other people, including the Stones and several other entire families, followed.
“But…” Yingling stared, watching the people walking out.
Rupe Warrick stepped up next to him. “Why don’t we just go to that hymn on page 97?”
“Y-Yes…” The Reverend moved aside as Rupe began to sing. He took his seat and tried to grasp what had just happened to him.
* * * * *
“What was that all about?” Opal asked Nancy, as they were leaving the schoolhouse.
Nancy was trying very hard not to smile. It felt good to see the, oh, so pompous Reverend Yingling get some of his own back. “You mean between that woman… Laura Caulder and the Reverend?”
“Yeah, I ain’t never seen somebody take on a preacher in his own church like that. What’s her story?”
“Let’s see; you told me that you were there when those men took the potion and got changed into Flora and Lylah, right?”
“No me, but a couple o’my friends, Sophie and Ruthie, was there, and they told me all about it. It’s still kinda scary t’me, them two turning into gals – and one of ‘em turning into a nigra besides.”
“I suppose it was, but they weren’t the first ones to drink the potion. Laura was also a man once -- part of an outlaw gang that was tricked into drinking the potion last year.”
“Did the potion make her pregnant, too?”
“No, she got pregnant the… ummm, usual way. After she changed into a woman, she fell in love with a man and married him. Then, they… you know.”
Opal smiled shyly. “I surely do. It’s kinda romantic, them getting married like that. And it just happened again with that gal, Flora.”
“The problem is that Reverend Yingling doesn’t think the potion is ‘romantic.’ He doesn’t think that it’s anything good. He tried to get the town council to put him in charge of it, instead of Shamus O’Toole. He got the whole town arguing about it.”
“He didn’t get it, though, did he?”
“No, the town council set up a committee, like he asked, but it just advises Judge Humphreys on who he should sentence to take the potion.”
“I’ll bet that got the Reverend even madder.”
“It surely did. He’s always been one of those people who thinks he’s always right and that anybody who disagrees with him isn’t just wrong -- they’re evil incarnate. He was always a bit inflexible, but I’ve never seen him so… obsessed before. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“He’s scared o’that potion; that’s what it is.”
“What? Why do you say that?”
“I’ve seen it before. A man’s afraid o’something, either he runs away from it, or he tries to take control of it, so it can’t hurt him. My cousin, Eben, was scared o’snakes. He set up a bunch of cages and filled ‘em with snakes he caught, even had a rattler in one cage. He liked to stare at them through the glass. Sometimes, he’d tease ‘em with this long pole he used t’catch ‘em. He used t’say that he had his fears all shut up in them cages, and he didn’t have t’be afraid no more.”
She took a breath, and then continued. “I think your Reverend Yingling’s got the same sorta fright about that potion that Eben had about snakes.”
Nancy spent the rest of the walk back to the Saloon considering what Opal had said.
* * * * *
Cap glanced up at the clock on Shamus’ wall. “Damn!”
“What’s the matter, Cap?” Bridget asked nervously. Cap had seemed concerned about something, something else besides her, the whole time they’d been together, but, try as she might, she couldn’t get him to say what it was. “Was there a problem on the ranch?”
He stood up. “I… We have to go. Carl, Luke, and I… we have to be back home before supper.” She could hear the regret in his voice.
“Oh, Cap.” She rose to her feet and moved in close to him. “Do you have to go? Right now, I mean.”
“We should have been on the road an hour ago.” He gave her a wan smile. “I sort of got… distracted.”
Bridget leaned in close and raised her arms up and over his shoulders. “Mmm, now how do you suppose that happened?” A wicked smile curled her lips.
“I don’t know.” He gave her a quick kiss. “But I surely did enjoy the distraction.”
He cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, “Luke… Carl, we’re going.” Luke and Lylah were sitting by the Free Lunch table, and Carl and Flora were standing near the bar. Both couples looked over at Cap. He could read the disappointment on their faces. “In five minutes,” he added. “So say your goodbyes.”
“Thanks, boss,” Luke yelled back before he pulled Lylah in close for a kiss. Carl managed a wave with his free arm. He and Flora were already much too busy for anything more.
“That was sweet,” Bridget said, “giving them an extra five minutes.”
Cap looked deeply into her eyes. “What makes you think I did it for them?” He pulled her in against him with one arm. His other hand cradled her face, as their lips met.
* * * * *
“Where’s that no-account sister of mine,” Wilma bellowed as she strode into the Saloon.
Jessie waved a hand from where she was sitting having a late lunch with Paul. “Over here, Wilma.”
“Damn, it’s good to see you, Jess.” Wilma hurried over to Jessie, who stood up as she approached. The sisters hugged, patting each other on the back. “Where the hell’d you two disappear to?”
“It’s good t’see you, too, Wilma, but you’re gonna have t’wait till Paul ‘n’ me finish eating. We decided, we’re just gonna tell this story once… t’everybody, instead o’having to say it over ‘n’ over.”
Wilma frowned. “Mighta known; you’re as stubborn as you ever was.” She walked over to what was left of the Free Lunch and began to fill a plate for herself.
* * * * *
“Winthrop,” Cecelia said angrily, “you should have let me defend Reverend Yingling when that potion-witch Laura Caulder attacked him for no good reason.”
Her son sighed. “Give it a rest, Mother. Please. You’ve been saying that since the moment we left the church.”
“I will not. Lavinia and Zenobia were all set to back me up, and you… you order me, your mother – to be quiet. Have you no respect?”
“No, Mother, it’s you who have no respect. Father’s been dead less than two weeks, and you want to stand up in church and make a foolish spectacle of yourself. You’re a widow, Mother.” He grabbed for her cap and shook it and its thick black crêpe veil in her face. “Why can’t you be quiet and mourn for a year like widows are supposed to do?”
She took the cap and adjusted it back on her head. She pushed back the dark veil and glowered at her son. “Your father would have wanted me to --”
“My father – your husband -- put up with your silliness for his own reasons. But he’s dead, and I have enough on my hands keeping us out of poverty.”
She jerked her head back, as if physically struck. Winthrop had used the exact tone that his father had used to order her about, a tone that she was used to obeying. “It isn’t foolishness,” she whimpered. “I was doing a service to the community.”
“Fine, if that’s what you think. But now, do a service to your family and steer clear of trouble.” He took a breath. “At least, for a respectable period of mourning, okay?”
Cecelia grimaced. “I’ll think about it.” He was offering a way out, a reprieve – maybe.
“I’ll settle for that, I suppose – you ‘thinking about it’ -- for the time being.” He glared at her. “But only for a short time. Meanwhile, you can help me to find out where so much of Pa's money has gone. I hope he didn't spend it all on the sly. The books at the stable show decent profits, but there wasn't much in his bank account. Did he ever mention any investments? And I’m going to have to talk to Dwight Albertson to find out if he was managing anything for Pa.”
* * * * *
Molly leaned back in her chair, as Jessie finished her story. “That’s quite an adventure the two o’ye had.”
“That it was,” Paul agreed. He put his arm around Jessie’s waist, “but being with Jess, like I was, made the whole thing worthwhile.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “And then some.”
Wilma just laughed. “What gets me is how doing that little bitty robbery last fall got you outta a murder rap now. I guess, sometimes, crime does pay.”
“Robbing a stage ain’t no ‘little bitty‘ thing,” Shamus scolded. “Jessie wouldn’t’ve been accused of murder, if she hadn’t stole that cameo in the first place.”
Jessie made a sour face. “That’s true enough, I suppose.” She took Paul’s hand in hers. “Good thing I found Paul here t’make me give up them wicked, wicked ways.” She smiled when he leaned in and kissed her again.
“You found me?” Paul said with a chuckle. “I found you on the dodge and had to drag you back to Eerie across my saddle bow.”
“That worked out all right, didn't it?” Jessie replied, smiling.
“Still… t’be accused of murder ‘n’ have a posse hunting after you for something you didn’t do.” Jane shivered. “Now I know how Flora must’ve felt when it happened to her.”
Jessie raised an eyebrow. “Flora? What sorta trouble did that lying bitch get herself into?”
“Clyde Ritter tried t’rape her,” Jane explained. “He fell on his knife while he was chasing after her and killed himself. Only everybody thought Flora done it. They was all set t’string her up, but Bridget seen the whole thing and told what really happened. After they heard what she had t’say, they had t’let Flora go free.”
Jessie scowled. “No why’d you go and do a fool thing like that, Bridget? You should’ve let her swing.”
“Jessie!” Paul yelped in surprise. “You don’t really mean that, do you?”
“Yes!” Jessie said firmly. Then she sighed. “No… much as I hate her, she shouldn’t die for something she didn’t do. I just wore those shoes, and they’re way too tight. Besides, she’s got enough real sins t’answer for.” She sighed again, and then broke into a vicious grin. “Still, it must’ve been hell for her, sitting in jail, all alone, waiting t’hang. I woulda liked t’see that.”
Jane giggled. “She wasn’t alone – not all the time, and she surely wasn’t suffering. Her and Carl Osbourne got married. They had their honeymoon in jail, in that storeroom in the back.”
“Damn,” Paul said with a laugh. “That old room of mine must’ve seen as much… use as any of the bedrooms over at your place, Wilma.”
Wilma nodded, giving him a wry smile. “Not quite, but it’s a close second.”
“Married?” Jessie let that sink in. “I could see her marrying some rich fool like Ritter just for his money, but not some down and out cowpoke.” She shook her head. “I just can’t believe Carl’d go and do something that dumb -- I mean t’go and marry Flora.” Jessie shook her head ruefully. “Don’t the man have no sense at all?”
Paul gave his lady friend an odd look. “When it comes to the woman he loves, a man doesn’t always think the way he would, otherwise.” He took her hand in his again and gave it a squeeze. “If I'd listened to all the things people had said about – someone I know – and not listened to my heart....” He paused, grinning waggishly, “...I wouldn't have been on the lam for two god awful weeks.”
Jessie looked back at him, amused. “No, you'd probably have been sleeping cold on the ground all that time with the rest of the posse. Ain't you glad you weren't?'
His smile seemed to say it all. “You have a point.”
* * * * *
Monday, June 24, 1872
“Hey, Maggie,” Jane called out from the pantry, “we got any of that Cheddar cheese left?”
Maggie glanced over from the work table. “In the cooler, next to the milk, but why do you need it?”
“There‘s this recipe for cheese biscuits in one of them cookbooks I bought. I tried it out for Milt. He liked it, so I thought I’d try it here.”
Maggie chuckled. “First a wedding cake, and now cheese biscuits; I think that you are getting to be a better baker than I am.”
“We both know that ain’t true, but can I try it anyway?”
“Go ahead. If they work for breakfast, we can offer them with the Free Lunch or at the restaurant.”
* * * * *
“Wakey, wakey,” Trisha chimed, sounding far more chipper than anyone had a right to be so early in the morning.
Roscoe made some sort of a grunting noise and burrowed back under the blanket, trying to escape for a few more minutes of sleep. Except, something chased after him, a smell, a delicious fragrance, rich and dark, tart and hot. “Coffee?” he asked, suddenly sitting up. “That’s not fair.”
“You’ll live,” she greeted him, setting a tray down on the brown oak dresser. She lifted two steaming cups and turned back to face him, holding the cups up in front of her.
He looked closely at his new bride. Her light blonde hair was tied in a ponytail that snaked over her left shoulder. Her sapphire blue eyes sparkled, and her lips were curled in a mischievous smile. And all that she seemed to be wearing was… “Is that my shirt?”
“Is it?” She giggled and added, “Then I guess that I’d better give it back.” She handed him one of the coffee cups and placed the other back on the tray. Her smile broadened into a grin as she unbuttoned the top button.
Roscoe took a sip. It was hot and black, sweetened with some sugar; just the way he liked it. He leaned back against the pillows to watch. The shirt draped down almost to her knees. It hid her figure – except where it was pushed out by her splendid, pillowy breasts – but, for some reason, that only made the sight of her more arousing. Trisha surely could fill a man's shirt in a more interesting manner that she could have back in the fall. He could feel his manhood stiffen in anticipation.
Trisha was at the fourth button now. The shirt was sliding back on her shoulders. From what he could tell, it was all she wore.
He took another, longer sip of coffee, before he carefully positioned the mug on the small table next to the bed. It was likely to be cold before he got back to it.
He watched his best white shirt settle down around her pretty ankles. She was naked, and, even with that small bulge they were both starting to call “Junior,” her body was glorious.
Trisha sighed, wondering how many times Norma Jean Baker must have felt like this. That thought reminded her of the amazing corset that the girl had worn in the cigar box picture. She could fancy getting an outfit like that and wearing it for Roscoe. ‘Maybe, after the baby comes, I’ll see about getting one,’ she promised herself.
Still grinning, she glided over to the bed, hips swaying in invitation, and climbed in next to him. He could feel her bare skin against his own and shifted to embrace her. ‘At a time like this,’ Roscoe though happily, ‘who gave a damn about coffee?’
* * * * *
“Dang monthlies,” Lylah said, as she tied the straps of her pouch around her right hip.
Flora was doing the same with her own pouch. “Tell me about it. I’m no happier about them than you are.”
“Thuir’s one thing ye both should be happy about,” Molly teased. She was sitting on Flora’s bed. Next to her was a basket filled with rolls of cotton for the other two women to use.
Lylah finished tying her pouch and reached for one of the rolls. “There ain’t nothing t’be happy about.”
“Sure thuir is. Ye should be happy -- real happy – that they waited till Monday. They coulda hit ye over the weekend when Carl and Luke was hereabouts.”
Lylah giggled. “If you put it that way, you’re damned right, Molly. It woulda been no fun at all t’have my monthlies while Luke was in town.”
“Even better,” Flora added, as she considered the situation. “We can be happy that they’ll be over when Carl… and Luke come back next Saturday.”
Molly nodded. “Aye, but ye better be ready for them men o’yuirs.”
“What d’you mean ready?” Lylah’s body tingled as she thought about another session with Luke on that bench in the yard. She glanced over at Flora, who was smiling, her eyes half closed.
Molly studied the expressions on the faces of her two dancers. ‘So much for them not being women,’ she thought. Aloud, she said. “I know ye want t’be with yuir men, but are ye ready t’be mothers?”
“M-Mothers…” Flora’s face went ashen. Lylah’s eyes looked twice their normal size.
The older woman nodded. “Aye, both of ye are big enough t’be knowing where babies come from. If ye don’t wanna be making one – like Laura did right after she got married...” Molly looked directly at Flora, who, if possible, was starting to look even more scared. “…ye’ll be needing some protection, won’t ye?”
“What… How?” Lylah said. “Help us, Molly… please.” Flora nodded in agreement.
“Since ye asked so nice, I’ll see about getting each of ye some British riding coats for yuir men. I’ll have ‘em for ye well before yuir men come back t’town.” She stood up. “Now ye finish getting dressed. Thuir’s more’ n enough chores for ye t’be doing.”
Flora frowned thoughtfully. If his own bride had told Forry Stafford that she didn't want to have his baby, he’d have wanted to strangle her. That was what a wife was for, as far as the Staffords were concerned, to give a man an heir – a male heir.
Now, she was the one a man would be asking for an heir. How would Carl feel if she asked him to wear protection? Would it hurt him? Would it make him angry? How far was she willing to go to keep him from being disappointed in her? If she wasn't willing to go that far, would it change the way he felt about her?
She’d have to find out – and very soon.
* * * * *
Lavinia Mackechnie’s eyes roamed around the Ritter parlor. The furniture had long since been put back to its normal arrangement, but there was more than enough black crêpe hanging to show that there had been a funeral in the room, and that this was still a house of mourning. “Where are your children, Cecelia?” She asked the question as if expecting them to jump out from hiding and shout, “Boo!”
Hilda Scudder sat next to Lavinia, not saying a word. As always, she was quietly knitting.
“Winthrop had to go back to work,” Cecelia replied. “The livery can’t run by itself, after all. We expected Clyde… Clyde, Junior, to work there during the summer, so he went along.” It hurt her to say “Junior.” As was custom, she knew, her son would soon be dropping that no longer necessary part of his name. She sighed and continued. “Hermione is in her bedroom, sorting out which clothes she wants to put away and which clothes she wants to dye black for her time of high mourning.”
Lavinia thought for a moment. “She might as well do most of them. At her age, she’ll probably outgrow a lot of her clothes before six months pass, and she can wear any color but black once again.”
“Probably; she has been growing lately. Up…” She put her hand atop her head and lifted it a few inches. “And out.” She looked down at her breasts for a moment. “I just hope that I don’t have to get her anything new while she’s still in high mourning.”
“That can be a problem,” Hilda said, glancing down at herself. She was due in August, and she’d had to buy clothes for herself already, during her pregnancy.
“I’m sure that her clothes will still fit properly for the whole time,” Lavinia continued. “After all, she – neither of you – will be doing much of anything for a long, long while.”
Cecelia’s eyes grew wide in surprise. “What do you mean? There’s the potion; we still have to…”
“Perhaps we do have work to do, Cecelia, but it can’t be you that does it. Your husband has been dead less than two weeks. You can’t be seen out and about, getting people to work on things, speaking at meetings; it would be a… a scandal.
Hilda nodded. “Yes, you’re supposed to mourn and do nothing else for a year and a day. Otherwise, people would think that you didn’t care about Clyde.”
“And they’d start to wonder how much you cared about anything, including Reverend Yingling’s cause. No…” Lavinia shook her head. “…I’m afraid that you must bow out.”
Hilda had an odd look on her face. “To tell the truth, I’m starting to wonder – just a little, mind you – about Reverend Yingling.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Cecelia asked in surprise – and hoping to change the subject, to give her time to marshal arguments against stepping down.
The pregnant woman answered in a soft voice. “What he said about the potion girls… about Laura Caulder, for instance. She doesn’t seem like an evil person. She’s always at the Sunday service, and she got her husband to start coming to services again.”
“She supported Trisha O’Hanlan ever since we tried to get rid of Trisha back in January.” There was anger in Cecelia’s voice now.
Hilda shrugged. “So did a lot of other people. Is it evil to want to give a person a second chance?” She didn’t wait for the others to answer. “And then for the Reverend to say that he wouldn’t baptize Laura’s baby, to refuse to do that, no one should have the right to deny baptism to an infant -- any infant.” She took a breath to steady herself. “It isn’t right, and… and I’m sorry, Cecelia, but I won’t be a part of helping him anymore, if that’s what he thinks.”
“In that case, Mrs. Scudder,” the widow said, looking daggers at her former friend, “you are no longer welcome in this house.”
Hilda looked at her incredulously. “For land sakes, Cecilia. What if some preacher came up with an excuse not to baptize your children, or mine? What should we think?”
“That wouldn't happen. We're not like Laura Caulder,” the woman in black replied.
Hilda started to gather up her knitting into her bag. “No, I suppose we're not. You have my deepest and most sincere sympathies for your loss, Cecelia, and I hope that we can be friends again… someday.” She rose and started for the door.
“I doubt it.” Cecelia said to her withdrawing figure.
* * * * *
“Call,” Fred Norman said, adding two nails to the pile at the center of the table. “Can anybody beat three ladies?” He laid down his cards: five of diamond, seven of clubs, and the queen of diamonds, queen of hearts, and queen of clubs.
Bridget shook her head. “All I’ve got is a pair of nines.” She put her cards down.
“Four… five… six… seven…” Sam Braddock slowly set his cards down, a smile on his face until he finished with, “jack.” The smile faded. “Well, I almost made it.”
Fred chuckled. “Almost doesn’t count in poker, just horseshoes.” He gathered in the heap of nails, added them to those in front of him.
“How about a little change-up,” Bridget asked , as she gathered the cards together into a deck.
Sam shrugged. “Why not; what do you want to play, seven card stud?” Fred nodded in agreement.
“Five card draw is fine with me.” She shuffled the cards twice and set them down on the table. “I just thought that we could play for… something else.” She tried to keep her best poker face on, while she reached into her reticule. She brought out a small bag and emptied it onto the table.
Sam cocked an eyebrow. “Pennies… well, why not?”
“Suits me.” Fred raked what he guessed was about a third of the pennies into a stack in front of him and right next to the nails. He’d won earlier. Sam and Bridget divided the rest.
Bridget’s hand shook – just a little --- while she dealt the cards. She won the first hand, but she had a feeling that the men had let her win. Sam won the second hand with the straight he hadn’t been able to get earlier.
“Fold,” Fred said unhappily. He had a good hand, three nines, but, he was sure, she had better. “What’d you beat me with, Bridget?”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Two sixes.” She showed her cards and then collected the best fourteen cents she had ever won.
“Welcome back, Bridget.” Fred reached across the table to shake her hand. “Welcome back.”
Sam smiled back as he walked around the table to shake hands with her, too. Instead, he got a big “Thank you!” hug and a kiss on the cheek.
She was back, and it felt so damned good. Bridget was finally sure about what she wanted to reply to Shamus about that question he had asked her.
* * * * *
The three dancers stood together, center stage, arms linked and doing a series of high kicks. They separated with a yelp, and each balanced on her left leg while she raised her right one high overhead, grasping the ankle with her right hand, turning in a full circle. This was the crowd-pleasing move that Molly called “the porty arms.” Another yelp, and the legs came down.
Nancy moved to the extreme stage left, as Lylah moved to extreme stage right. As they moved, they held up the hems of their dresses, waving them back and forth, displaying their lush petticoats and their silky drawers. Flora, standing center stage, did the same with her own dress.
When the two women reached the edges of the stage, all three yelped and did “randy jams”, quick rotary movements of lower leg with knee raised and their dresses still held up.
They yelped again, and, in turn, Lylah, Flora, and Nancy each did a cartwheel towards center stage. They joined arms for another round of high kicking. After that, each yelped in turn and jumped into the air, landing in a split. Their left legs were extended forward, and their right arms were raised in a graceful curve.
The crowd went wild, applauding and tossing coins at the dancers. A few of the men also fired their pistols towards the ceiling. The ladies rose to their feet, joined arms and bowed. The low cut of their dresses gave the appreciative men in the first few rows a more than generous view of their heaving breasts.
* * * * *
Kirby stood and began applauding softly, when Nancy joined him a few minutes later. “You were marvelous, Nancy, absolutely marvelous.”
“When you say that,” Nancy teased, “do you mean that I was ‘marvelous’, or that all three of us were ‘marvelous’, Kirby?”
He chuckled. “After seeing that show, you just did – and I meant that you, Miss Nancy Osboune, were marvelous -- I thought that the school teacher was gone. But after hearing that question, I think, maybe, I was wrong.”
“Oh, she’s still here, Kirby.” Nancy giggled. “She and the dancer are just feeling a little playful just now.” She looked him in the eye. “And what are you going to do about it?”
He shifted over so that he was standing next to her. His arm slipped around her waist and pulled her close. “Oh, maybe something like this.” He paused a beat. “Or this.” Their lips met. Her arm rose up to circle his neck.
‘Good answer,’ the school teacher thought, and the dancer most happily agreed.
* * * * *
Tuesday, June 25, 1872
An editorial in June 25, 1872 issue of The Eerie Citizen:
` The Wrong Reverend Mr. Yingling
` At this past Sunday’s Methodist Church service, Reverend Thaddeus
` Yingling spoke again on what has become his favorite topic, the so-
` called “potion girls.” Reverend Yingling and – we believe – a few
` benighted others allege that these women are evil by their very
` nature. He and his faction are as free as any other person to hold to
` whatever beliefs they may entertain. Such freedom of expression is
` one of the glories of our great Republic.
` What the Reverend is NOT free to do is to act upon those beliefs in
` such a way as may cause harm to innocent persons. On Sunday, he
` announced what some people, including this writer, already knew. He
` said that he would not participate in any activity that could, in any
` way, support any of the potion girls, even to withhold his services as
` a minister of Christ from those among them who might seek – who
` might need -- those services.
` Any such services.
` Is there anything more innocent than a newborn baby? Don’t we all
` refer to the birth of a child as a “blessed event?” Reverend
` Yingling doesn’t; not if the mother is a potion girl.
` Laura Caulder is a potion girl. She is also the wife of Arsenio
` Caulder, blacksmith and member of the Eerie Town Council. Mrs.
` Caulder is a supporter of the Eerie Methodist Church. She has been
` active in various projects, including the dance that so many of our
` readers enjoyed back in March. Moreover, she and her husband can be
` seen in church just about every Sunday. These days, she attends
` church in a wheel chair, since she is currently well along in what is
` reported to be a very difficult pregnancy.
` And Reverend Yingling has made that pregnancy more difficult by
` telling Mrs. Caulder that he will not perform a baptism when her
` child is born. We ask our readers to imagine how unsettling this
` statement must be to Mrs. Caulder and her husband.
` We must also ask our readers to consider the frame of mind of a
` Christian minister, a man that this writer has long respected, that
` he would act in such a manner. We particularly ask this question of
` the members of the Methodist Church Board of Elders. Consider,
` Gentlemen, and act, as you deem it necessary, for the good of Mrs.
` Caulder, of her unborn child, and of all of the members of the
` congregation you represent.
* * * * *
Kirby walked slowly into the Saloon. As he headed for the bar, he kept glancing around. “Where’s Nancy?” he asked R.J.
“Upstairs practicing,” the barman said. He set down the bottle he was holding. “Do you want me to call her?”
Kirby shook his head. “No, I’m here to arrange something for tonight – a surprise, so please, don’t tell her I was here.”
“Tic a lock.” R.J. held his hand up in front of his mouth and gestured as if turning a key. “Who did you want to see?”
“Jane; she’s in the kitchen, I suppose.”
“She is.” R.J. pointed to the door.
The other man nodded and walked over and into the kitchen. “May I speak to Jane for a moment,” he asked Maggie.
“Sure y’can,” Jane answered before Maggie could reply. “What d’you wanna talk about?”
“I came to collect on your promise, Jane. I’m having dinner with Nancy tonight. Will you be able to bake that apple pie we talked about?”
Maggie chuckled. “Again with the baking. Can you make two apple pies, Jane?”
“I suppose… why?”
The Mexican woman smiled. “Because we will reserve a piece for Nancy – and one for you also, Señor Pinter.” She waited. When Kirby agreed, she continued. “But I would like to have it on the menu – to see if anybody else wants it. I think they will.”
“That would be an excellent idea,” Kirby said. “I suspect that a lot of people would enjoy Jane’s baking.”
Maggie’s smile broadened. “I agree. Jane has become a muy good baker, and I think that it is time, maybe, for there to be desserts on the menu more often.”
“D’you really think so, Maggie?” Jane asked. “I don’t know if I am that good.”
“You are, Jane,” Kirby answered. “I know it. Maggie knows it; she just said you were, didn’t she? And, pretty soon the whole town will know it. You just wait and see if they don’t.”
Jane blushed at the compliment. “In that case, I better go get me some apples.”
* * * * *
A second editorial in June 25, 1872 issue of The Eerie Citizen:
` Wedding Bells – And Horns
` That great cacophony heard throughout the town on the afternoon of
` Thursday last, was caused by the many friends and family of the editor
` of this newspaper, Roscoe Unger, and his new bride, Miss Trisha
` O’Hanlan, who were celebrating the happy couple’s wedding. The
` nuptials were held at the Eerie Methodist Church.
` Mr. Kirby Pinter of Pinter’s New and Used Books served as best man,
` while Mrs. Kaitlin O’Hanlan and Miss Emma O’Hanlan were,
` respectively, matron of honor and maid of honor. The ceremony was
` conducted by Judge Parnassus Humphreys. The bride wore a gown of
` white cotton with satin trim and was, in the opinion of this writer,
` the most beautiful woman in the world. A large crowd was in
` attendance, although, alas, not all those who, it had been hoped
` would be present, were present.
` Following the ceremony, a reception was held on the church grounds.
` At the conclusion of that reception, the pair were very loudly
` escorted to their home, the Eerie Print Shop, where they will be living
` in rooms above their business.
` Speaking for my wife and myself, we thank our friends for witnessing
` our marriage and for their many gracious wishes for our future health
` and happiness.
* * * * *
“Well?” Amy Talbot asked, lifting her head off the pillow. “What’s the verdict?”
Molly put a finger to her lips. “Shh, it don’t work if ye’re lifting yuir head t’be watching.”
Amy lay on one side of the bed in Laura Caulder’s bedroom. She had just had her monthly examination by Edith Lonnigan and was still wearing only her camisole and drawers.
“A circle,” Molly said, “clear as day. Yuir ring says that ‘tis a wee baby girl ye’re carrying.” Molly was holding a string weighted down with Amy’s wedding ring over the woman’s gravid stomach. The ring was moving in a wide circular motion.
“Congratulations, Amy,” Laura said. She was lying on the bed next to Amy and still in her bed clothes. “Can we do me now, Molly?”
Amy looked surprised. “Haven’t you done this already? You’re going to be having your baby any time now.”
“Molly did it weeks ago… twice, in fact. The ring would swing back and forth… a boy, but then it would go in a circle like yours just did. The thing couldn’t make up its mind.”
“You don’t think it was because you’re a… because you weren’t always a woman, do you?”
Laura shrugged. “I don’t know, and neither does Shamus; he’s the expert on his potion, after all.” She sighed. “And thanks for not saying ‘potion girl.’ I’ve gotten quite tired of that phrase, thank you very much.”
“I noticed that on Sunday. The whole congregation did.”
“Do you think I was out of line?”
“No, I think the Reverend was. If he refused to baptize my little one,” Amy gently touched her belly, “Dan’d make him do it at gunpoint. And I wouldn’t blame him one little bit.”
Edith Lonnigan nodded. “I don’t think Mr. Caulder would pull a gun on Reverend Yingling. The way he slings around those hammers in his smithy, he wouldn’t need a gun.”
“No, I’ll be the one threatening him with the pistol. I was one of the evil Hanks Gang, remember? In fact, I was probably – to blow my own horn – the best shot in the gang.”
The midwife frowned. “I certainly hope that it won’t come to that – even if you would be justified. I cannot understand what has come over Thaddeus Yingling of late. He’s never acted so immoderately.”
“Nor I,” Amy added. “It’s as if he were obsessed by that potion for some reason. I… I almost feel sorry for him, for the way it’s driving him.”
“But… getting back to the reason that you’re here, Amy,” Edith continued, “your pregnancy seems to be coming along without any problems – or have you had some problem that you haven’t mentioned?”
The other woman shook her head. “Just the aches in my back and in my legs, the ones you warned me about.”
“Nothing else?”
“No; I’m just feeling a little… anxious about being pregnant, about the baby and all.”
Laura nodded. “That part gets worse as the baby gets closer.”
“I think that’s just a warm-up for all the worrying you’re going to do after the baby’s born,” Amy mused, but then she sighed. “You know, I’ve enjoyed… sharing my pregnancy with you, Laura, talking to you about all the things going on. It just won’t be the same after you have your little one, and it’s just Edith and I.” She suddenly realized what she’d said and put her hand up in front of her mouth, as if to block anything else she might say. “No offense, Edith.”
Mrs. Lonnigan gave her a patient smile. “None taken, Amy. I think that you’ve been good for each other. In fact, I was going to ask you if I might bring in another woman, one who’s adjusting to… many things with her first pregnancy.”
“Who would that be?” Amy asked, sounding curious.
“Trisha O’Han – Trisha Unger; would you have a problem with that?”
Laura chuckled. “Just the other day, I told Trisha that we should stick together, since we’re the only two pregnant potion girls ever. First you ‘share’ my pregnancy, and now you’d share hers. You have to do it, Amy,”
“I’ve been feeling sorry for Trisha and everything she’s had to go through,” Amy replied. “I’ll be glad to do it, Edith. You ask her and let me know what she says.”
The older woman nodded. “I shall, and I am sure that she will happily accept the idea.”
* * * * *
Dolores came over to the table where Nancy and Kirby were just finishing their meal. “Would either of you like more coffee?”
Kirby looked over to her. “Nancy?” When she nodded, he said, “Yes, please, a cup for each of us, and… would you please tell Jane that we’re ready?”
Nancy cocked a curious eyebrow, as Dolores refilled her cup. “Ready for what? What are you up to, Kirby?”
“You’ll see.” He smiled mischievously, as Dolores poured his coffee. Then, as the waitress left, he finished the last piece of his pot roast.
Dolores returned almost at once from the kitchen, carrying a tray with two plates on it. “Here you go,” she told them, as she put one in front of Nancy. “By the way, Jane said to say, ‘Thanks’, and that you let her know how you liked the pie.”
“Pie,” Nancy said in surprise. She glanced down at her plate. “Apple pie, no less; I didn’t know that they -- we served desserts.”
Kirby grinned back at her, as Dolores served his own slice of pie. “You – or they – don’t; not as a rule. You told me one time how much you missed fresh apple pie, so I asked Jane to bake one for you.”
“It must be weeks since I was talking about pie. I’m surprised that you even remembered what I said.”
“I always remember what you say, Nancy, especially when you’re talking to me.” He raised her hand to his lips for a moment and kissed it.
She smiled shyly and reclaimed her hand, using it to take up her fork and have some pie. “Mmm… delicious.” She turned to where Dolores was still standing. “Tell Jane that her pie is delicious… absolutely delicious.”
“I agree.” Kirby dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “And tell her ‘Thanks’ from me, too.”
“I will.” Dolores hurried away, first to carry the message to Jane, and then to deal with the other diners.
Nancy looked at her plate and then at Kirby. “How did you arrange for this pie? You must have done more than just ask Jane to bake it.”
“Jane came into my store last week looking for a cookbook. She wanted to bake something fancy for that supper Shamus and Molly threw for Carl Osbourne and Flora. I gave her a big discount on two books on the condition that she bake an apple pie for the next night I took you to dinner.”
“That was very sweet.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek.
He smiled and returned the kiss. “My pleasure.”
“If it involves something as considerate as this pie, you can have ‘your pleasure’ with me any…” She blushed, realizing what she had just suggested. “I-I mean…” Her face felt hot. The trouble was, no matter how Kirby took her remark, she wouldn't be totally sure if he would be off the mark.
Her escort smiled, being very careful not to leer. “You mean that I can feel free to do nice things for you from time to time, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly, “that’s… that’s exactly what I mean.” She sighed with relief, even though a small part of her kept dwelling on the other meaning.
Kirby was glad to help her avoid the embarrassment, but he was thinking of that other meaning, as well.
* * * * *
“’Scuse me, Dolores,” Sam Braddock said, as the waitress walked by his table. “Did you just serve up pie to those two?” He pointed towards Kirby and Nancy’s table.
Dolores nodded. “Sí, apple pie.”
“I didn’t know you served desserts,” Fred Norman said.
“We do tonight. It is something special.”
Stu Gallagher was also at the table. “Is it just for them, or can anybody have a slice?”
“Anybody, I think. I will ask, if you want.”
Sam looked at his two friends, who nodded back. “Ask, and if we can, then we’ll each take a slice.”
* * * * *
Bridget tried to keep her hands steady, as she buttoned her green Eaton jacket over her starched white blouse. “C’mon, Bridget,” she chided herself, “you can do this.”
“Done!” she said, taking a breath as she got the last button in place. She checked herself in the mirror. The short jacket was just a bit tight at the waist and across her breasts. “Not enough to distract me,” she chuckled, “but enough to distract somebody else.” She took another breath and watched, bemused, as the garment tightened, accenting her lithe figure. “Especially, if he’s new to these parts.”
She smiled. It felt good to be proud of how she looked. She’d wasted so much time being ashamed of herself, her beauty, after the… after what Forry – damn him -- had done to her.
Now she was happy about her appearance – and about herself. She certainly enjoyed the way Cap looked at her and all the lecherous notions that the sight of her stirred in him. Even more, she enjoyed how she and Cap had indulged some of those notions last Saturday night.
Somewhere along the line since last summer, she’d become a woman. Her mind had become a woman's mind, her heart a woman's heart. The possibility of that happening had bothered Brian, but now, instead of being afraid, she was almost eager to find out the implications of the changes.
“Cap… Dang it, I almost forgot his earrings.” She slipped off the pearl studs she’d been wearing and carefully replaced them with the pair of green gemstone earrings he’d given her so long ago, the same green color as her eyes, he’d said. She remembered, too, that he’d called them lucky because they would be spending their time so close to her. As she screwed the back of the earring tight against her left ear lobe, it felt like he was with her, nibbling on that same lobe. Her body tingled at the thought, and it seemed as if he was there, close to her, lending her some of that confidence she always felt when he was around.
Bridget winced; as much as she'd gotten used to wearing earrings, they still hurt a little, and would fall off if she didn't screw them tight. The pain could be distracting when a girl wanted to concentrate on her cards, or keep a smile on her face. For the first time, she seriously wondered whether she should get her ears pierced. Before, she had looked at piercing as an excessively female thing to do. But so was wearing a corset, and it went with the territory. Pain she could deal with; what mattered more was that earrings and corsets made a woman alluring, and she especially wanted to pull out all stops for Cap.
The redhead checked her reflection in the glass one last time. “Now, I’m ready.” With a confident nod of her head, she walked out of her room and onto the landing.
* * * * *
Shamus greeted Bridget at the foot of the stair, carrying the case with her cards and chips. “Thuir’s some men waiting t’be playing poker with ye, Miz Kelly.” She took his arm and let him lead her to her table. The men he’d mentioned -- Sam Braddock, Fred Norman, Stu Gallagher, and Joe Kramer -- rose as Shamus and Bridget approached the table.
“Please, gentlemen.” She took her seat and gestured for them to sit, as well. As they did, Shamus set her case down in front of her and stepped a few feet back from the table, watching. She opened the case and took out a rack of chips. “The blue ones are a quarter; the red ones, a dime; and the white, a nickel.”
The men exchanged cash for chips, and Bridget took some chips for herself. “Is five card stud all right for the first hand?” she asked.
“Five card stud’s okay for me,” Sam told her, “but, before we start, I -- we all -- just wanted to say how glad we are to have you back as a player.” The others smiled and nodded in agreement.
“And I’d like to add that you look very pretty tonight,” Fred replied. “Pretty enough to ease the pain of losing all my money to you – almost.”
She grinned and gave a quick wink. “Thanks, Fred; thank you all. After such gallantry, I’m tempted to let you win a few hands -- almost.” She shuffled the cards, and everyone anted up.
She wasn’t just back. It almost felt as if she’d never left.
* * * * *
Wednesday, June 26, 1872
Shamus studied the trays that Maggie and Jane had set out for breakfast. “Jane,” he called out, “thuir wouldn’t happen t’be a wee slice of that pie left from last night about, would thuir?”
“Sorry, Shamus,” Jane answered, wiping her hands on her apron as she came through the kitchen doorway. “I took the last two pieces from the second pie home for me and Milt. You don’t mind, do you?”
Shamus sighed theatrically. “With all me heart, but ye can make it up t’me with whatever ye’re baking for tonight’s dessert.”
“I ain’t baking anything tonight,” she replied, but then she cautiously added, “Am I?”
“Ye are… if ye’re willing to. Half the people that ate dinner here last night told me how good yuir pie was. The other half was asking why I didn’t have enough for them. I’ll not be arguing with success. From now on, I’d like thuir t’be something baked for dessert every night, cake, pie… whatever ye decide.”
“D’you mean that, Shamus? Every day; it’s gonna be expensive.”
“We’ll be putting it on the menu, with the price set high enough t’be covering the cost and a wee bit o’profit, o’course. And, Jane, I’ll be paying ye a bit of them profits for yuir extra work.”
Maggie had been in the kitchen listening. “Excuse me, Shamus,” she said, walking into the room, “but it is my restaurant as much as it is yours. Do you not think that you should talk it over with me before you make Jane such an offer?”
“Ye’re right, Maggie.” Shamus bowed his head feeling ashamed for his actions. “I shoulda asked. Jane, that offer I just made ain’t good, not unless Maggie agrees.”
Jane sighed. “I understand. You two talk ‘n’ let me know what you decide.” She started back for the kitchen.
“Jane… wait,” Maggie said. “The only thing that we have to decide is how much more we will pay you. I, too, saw how fast the pie you baked disappeared last night, and I was going to talk to you and Shamus after breakfast about you doing more baking for us.”
Jane spun around. “You mean it?”
“We both said it, didn’t we,” Shamus answered with a smile.
Jane ran over and hugged Maggie. “Thank you… thank you both. Wait’ll I go tell Milt.” She let go of Maggie and hugged Shamus as well.
“I’ll wait… we’ll be waiting,” Shamus told her. “Ye go an tell that husband of yuirs, but hold on t’be… celebrating till tonight. It takes too long, and ye’ve got a long day’s work ahead of ye.”
Jane nodded, blushing, and hurried away.
* * * * *
“What’s the matter with ye, Jessie,” Molly asked. “Ye’ve had a sour look on yuir face all morning.”
Jessie gave the older woman a wan smile. “I’m beginning t’wonder if I didn’t screw myself out of a good job when I went away, Molly. I seen how popular them Cactus Blossoms was on Monday, and I don’t know if I can compete against ‘em.”
“And who says ye have to? I’d like t’be having a nickel for every time somebody asked when ye’d be coming back when ye and Paul was out… gallivanting about. And the crowd was large enough for yuir singing when ye was on last night. I saw more’n one man toss coins at ye after one song or another, too, same as they used t’do.”
“Not as many, though, and I can’t just sing the nights they don’t dance. When the Blossoms first started, I played for ‘em. I can’t do that now; you and Shamus gave them a band, and I don’t play near loud enough t’be heard as part o’the group. So now I’m wondering how long it’s gonna be before Shamus tells me he wants t’cut my pay.”
Molly considered what Jessie had said. “We don’t want t’be losing ye, Jessie. I’ll be talking t’Shamus about what ye’ve said, and we’ll see just what we can come up with.” She suddenly had a sly smile on her face. “For a start, how about if it was ye and not Shamus that introduced the Blossoms tonight.”
“I don’t know how much good that’ll do,” Jessie replied, “but it sounds like a start.”
* * * * *
Aaron Silverman knocked twice on the closed door to Reverend Yingling’s study. “Thad, are you in there?”
“Aaron?” The minister’s voice came through the door. “Come in… please.”
The storekeeper opened the door and walked in. “Hello, Thad.” He closed the door behind him. “You’re looking good -- kayn ahora.
“Thank you, and how are you and Rachel these days?”
He shrugged. “Eh, we’re healthy, the store is doing well -- kayn ahora, what else can I say? I came over to see why you ain’t been over to play chess these past two weeks. What’s the matter, mine friend?”
“Am I?”
“Are you what?”
“Am I your friend? I have to wonder, the way you’ve been opposing my efforts of late; playing all those procedural games at the town council meetings: table this, vote against that, and then to take the very heart out of my petition for a committee to properly control O’Toole’s potion. A friend wouldn’t do things like that, not a real friend anyway.”
“He would if he thinks his friend was wrong,” Aaron said. “As the Bal Shem Tov said, ‘To pull a friend out of the mire, don’t hesitate to get dirty.’ You were mired in a mistake, you still are, I think, and I was trying to keep you from making things worse.”
Yingling's expression darkened. “A mistake; is it a mistake to try to protect this town, these people, from the evil of that damnable potion?”
“To me, it seems like Shamus’ potion has done a lot of good on purpose and, okay, maybe a little bad. By accident. The Midrash says that even in good there’s a little evil – but mostly there’s good.”
“It’s witchcraft, vile witchcraft. Does it not say in the Book of Exodus, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live?’ That’s Old Testament, your Bible.”
“Are you saying that Shamus should be killed? After all, he’s the ‘witch’, the one who makes the potion.”
“O’Toole… be killed?” The idea startled Yingling. “No, of course not, but his potion, he cannot be allowed to continue to have control over it.”
“Why are you being so stubborn about this, Thad? As the Sages say, if you harden your heart, you soften your head.”
“And you are a stiff-necked man, Aaron, as one would expect of your race.”
“Better stubborn than cruel.”
“Cruel? Is it cruel to try to protect people from evil?”
“Protect? You mean like the man who prepares the bandage but then inflicts the wound.”
Yingling glared at Aaron. “I think that you’ve said quite enough, Mr. Silverman, and I’ll thank you to leave now... Right now!”
Aaron sighed. “I’ll leave, Thad, but you should be careful how many friends you chase away. From what I’m hearing in the store, you ain’t got that many left.”
* * * * *
Molly came into the kitchen about 3 PM. “So what’d ye bake for dessert t’night, Jane?”
“There wasn’t a lotta time to plan,” Jane said sheepishly, “so I just made up a whole bunch of sugar cookies.” She pointed to a pile of large, pale yellow cookies cooling on a tray in the corner. “I figure three cookies to a order.”
“That’ll be fine. How much are ye charging?”
“Twenty-five cents an order,” Maggie said. “Why are you asking all these questions, Molly?”
The older woman smiled. “So I can get the sign right.” She took a pen and small container of ink from her apron pocket and sat down at a corner of the work table. She inked the pen and began writing on a large sheet of paper that she’d carried in with her. “No peeking, now.”
“How’s this look t’ye?” she asked a few minutes later. She held up the paper. Written on it in a large, florid hand was
` “Tonight’s Dessert Specialty from Miss Jane’s Bakery:
` Sugar Cookies – Three for Twenty-Five Cents”
Jane grinned. “I don’t know ‘bout Maggie, but I think it’s one of the prettiest things I ever seen?”
“Sí, but why ‘Miss Jane’? Jane is married.”
“Aye, but ‘Miss Jane’ sounds fancier, don’t it?”
Jane nodded. “I kinda like it.”
“Then it is settled.” Maggie shrugged, and both cooks went back to working on the dinner menu.
* * * * *
Just then Flora came in, dressed for waitressing. “You wanted to see me, Molly?” she asked without much spirit.
“Don't look so somber, me girl; I didn't bring ye here to scold ye for anything.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a cloth bag, small but very full. “Here're the riding coats I promised I'd be getting for ye. Ye'll have to share ‘em, half and half, with Lylah.” She smiled teasingly. “I'm figuring she'll need as many as you do.”
Flora took the bag and began to turn away, but then looked back. “Molly, can I speak to you about something…. in private?”
“What about?”
“It's private.”
The older woman shrugged. “I got me a moment. Let's take us a stroll out to the back yard.”
The pair walked out into the yard. As they sat down on one on the benches, Molly turned and asked, “Now what's making ye look so serious?”
“Molly, would you order me to ask Carl to wear... protection every time he and I... every time I have a chance to be alone with Carl?”
The matron threw up her hands. “Land sakes, lass, why do ye think I've ever do a thing like that to you? What ye do in the bedroom is yuir own business.”
“No! I mean, if I asked you to order me, would you do it?”
Molly was taken aback, but then she smiled; this was the first time that Flora had ever come to her asking help to manage a problem. “What's this all about?”
“Molly, I… I love Carl, love him so very much.” She spoke in a soft, unsteady voice, her hands moving nervously. “I want to be the sort of woman – the sort of wife -- that he deserves.”
“And?”
“I’ve been having a hard enough time trying to figure out what sort of a woman that is. I know she’s not much like the man I was – or the woman I am now.”
“Don’t ye be so sure about that last. Ye’ve changed a fair bit, just t’be worrying about such things, and I’d be wagering that ye had more changes t’come. The other potion girls turn out to be a wee bit like the ladies they look like. Do ye know what sort of lady ye resemble?”
Flora made a face. “She was a monster! She ruined my father's second marriage and treated my sister abominably.”
Molly regarded the dancer. This was the first detail of her past life that flora had ever 'fessed up to.
“Well,” she began slowly, “then let's hope ye don't turn out t’be a spitting image of that one.” Then she smiled. “Ye won't, though; I'm thinking. Ye have the chance t'be yuir own person.” She gave a knowing wink. “Carl’s kind o’person.”
“I-I hope so, but now there’s this whole new part of it. A man deserves children -- he expects them. It’s what I was brought up to believe, that a man deserves an heir.”
“Only… the thought of… getting pregnant – or having a baby – scares the living hell out of me.”
She sighed, needing to catch her breath. “I thought if you… ordered me, I’ve still got a month to serve. Maybe… maybe I can have things figured out by then. If not…” she sighed and looked away, fighting back the urge to cry. “…I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Me poor Flora,” Molly said, gently stroking her cheek.
The younger woman nodded, “Then you’ll do it?”
“No, and ye can’t know how sorry I am t’be saying it, but I’ll not be hurting the two of ye like that.”
“Hurting me… us? I-I don’t understand.”
“Look, ye was a man of business… before, wasn’t ye?”
She gave Molly a confused look. “I was, and I’m hoping to be one – a woman of business -- again when my sentence is up.”
“Then ye surely must know what a partnership is.”
“A business partnership? Of course I do.”
“Good, ‘cause marriage is a partnership, too, a partnership b’tween two friends… two lovers.”
“So…”
“So…” Molly thought for a moment. “So, maybe that’s too much t’be talking about just now. Ye can’t be going off half-cocked, forcing yuir answer on Carl. Ye’re risking a lot, an awful lot, Flora, and I’ll not be helping ye do it.”
“But if I don’t…”
“Ye don’t know what’ll happen, and ain’t what ye have… what ye want t’be having between ye worth the risk?”
Flora sighed. There was no way that Molly would do what she wanted, so there was no point in arguing any more.
Besides, a part of her agreed. Carl was worth any risk she could think of, no matter how scared she was.
* * * * *
“Here we go,” Hedley warned, as he took firm hold of the handles of Clara’s wheelchair. He turned the chair and walked backwards through the swinging doors of the Eerie Saloon, pulling the chair along with him. Their mother followed, catching the doors, so they wouldn’t strike the sides of the chair. Once inside, Hedley turned it around, and the three of them glanced about the room.
Clara suddenly raised her arm, pointing. “There’s Annie over there.”
“That must be where they serve the food, then,” Mrs. Spaulding said, and the family moved further into the room. She began to scan the saloon very intently.
“What are you looking for, Mother?” Clara asked.
“If we didn't know Annie, it would make me quite uneasy, walking into a place with all those notorious potion girls around.” She noticed Dolores and Nancy standing by the bar. “Do you suppose that's two of them? They are very pretty.”
“No, Mother,” Hedley chuckled. “One is Miss Osbourne, who used to be Annie's schoolteacher. The other is a young lady from Mexico, Annie's cousin, Dolores.” He took a breath. “I… ah, Annie pointed them both out to me...once.
“I've heard Annie mention Dolores,” Clara volunteered.
Arnie had turned at the sound of her voice. She saw the Spauldings and hurried over to them. “Clara… and… and Hedley and Mrs. Spaulding, what are you doing here?”
“Good evening, Annie,” Mrs. Spaulding greeted here. “We’ve heard such good things about your restaurant that we decided to try it.”
Hedley smiled warmly. “Perhaps you can join us. If you’d like to, that is.”
“Oh, please do,” Clara added.
Shamus had been watching, and he came over to where they were standing. “Good evening to ye. I’m Shamus O’Toole. Welcome to Maggie’s Place… and t’me Saloon.” He saw no point in mentioning to the woman, whom he guessed was Hedley’s mother, that her boy had been at last Saturday’s dance.
“Good evening, sir,” Hedley replied. “My name is Hedley Spaulding, and these ladies are my mother, Mrs. Vida Spaulding, and my sister, Clara Spaulding.”
Shamus nodded at Vida and Clara, as they were introduced. “Please t’meet ye, Hedley… ladies. I gather ye already know Arnie. She’ll be yuir waitress t’night.”
“Oh, dear.” Clara pouted. “I was rather hoping that Annie could join us for dinner.”
Shamus cocked an eyebrow. “Annie?”
“Yes, Annie… your waitress.” The girl pointed directly at Arnie.
The barman turned to face his waitress. “Och… of course; I don’t know where me head’s at. Would ye like t’be having supper with these folks, Annie?”
“Can I, Shamus?” She tried hard not to react to his calling her Annie.
He shrugged. “Ye get a break every night for eating. If ye want t’be having it with these folks, ‘tis fine with me. Lylah can take over for ye.”
“Thanks, Shamus.” Annie smiled broadly at the Spauldings. “I’ll be happy to have supper with you… Clara. Thank you for asking me.” She untied her apron and handed it to Shamus.
The barman led them to a nearby cloth-covered table. He moved a chair out of the way, so Hedley could set Clara’s wheelchair in its place. A moment later, Shamus held another chair for Mrs. Spaulding. As soon as Clara was settled in, Hedley hurried to pull out a third chair. “Here you are, Annie.”
“Oh, uhh… Thank you, Hedley,” she said shyly. She’d never had anyone else pull out a chair for her, and she still wasn’t sure how to act.
As she sat down, he whispered, “Let me slide in the chair under you.” She gave a quick nod and took a slight step forward. Hedley pushed the chair, and she settled down in it.
“Glad to be of service.” He whispered again, but this time he had leaned close enough that she felt his warm breath on her neck. She felt a delicious shiver run through her, and she couldn’t help but smile.
He scurried around the table to sit down opposite her. He had a look of satisfaction on his face, and she felt her cheeks begin to warm.
“G’evening,” Lylah said, suddenly standing by the table, handing out menus. “I’m Lylah, and I’ll be waitressing your table.”
Hedley took a menu and glance at it for a moment. He looked up and straight across at Annie. “I know what I want.” He grinned.
Annie stared down at her menu trying to hide the blush she felt rise to her cheeks. Her whole body seemed to be tingling, and she had trouble concentrating on what to order.
It was going to be a long dinner.
* * * * *
Jessie waited until the Happy Days Town Band had set up on the small stage before she walked out to join them. “Howdy, folks,” she said in the voice she used when performing.
“What’re you doing up there, Jessie,” somebody yelled. “Are you gonna be one o’the Cactus Blossoms?”
Jessie laughed. “The way I dance? I’d be about as useful t’them ladies as tits on bull.”
“Maybe so,” someone else called out, “but your tits is a whole lot prettier.” The room rocked with laughter.
Jessie laughed along with the others. “Well, thank you for that, but I’m just here t’introduce the Blossoms.” She turned to the band. “So, strike up the music, boys, and…” She made a gesture towards the area under the steps where the three dancers were waiting. “…here they come, the Eerie Saloon’s own Cactus Blossoms.”
The band began to play, and the Cactus Blossoms moved out to take up their positions for the start of their routine. Jessie walked silently back to where Molly was sitting. ‘That was a whole big nothing,’ she thought glumly. Anyone could have done what she'd just done. Could she do it in a more interesting way?
* * * * *
Thursday, June 27, 1872
“Here it comes,” Winthrop Ritter shouted, pointing down the street at the incoming stage coach. “Get ready, boys.” He was standing on the raised wooden sidewalk in front of the Wells Fargo depot.
Hammy Lincoln and Pablo Escobar were sitting on a nearby bench. “We sees it, Mr. Ritter,” Hammy replied patiently. “And we knows what t’do when it gets here.”
“Unless you wish to do some of the work,” Pablo added.
Winthrop frowned, ignoring the comment. The three men wore pale green vests with the words “Ritter's Livery” painted on the back in bright yellow letters, but Winthrop had no intention of helping the other two.
He was running the business after his father's death. They were short a man, but, as the new manager, he didn't want to pay more wages until his kid brother, Clyde, Jr., had been tried out. Clyde would work cheap. It had become Winthrop's responsibility to provide for the entire family, and he had to be careful with the money.
By now the stage had slowed. It pulled to a stop in front of the depot and just down from where Winthrop was standing.
“Eerie, Arizona,” the driver announced jumping down from his seat. “There’ll be a ten minute stop, in case anybody wants t’stretch their legs.” He opened the door adding, “Watch your step, please. And, oh, yeah, there's an outhouse behind the freight office.”
Pablo walked over and began to unhitch the horses from the coach. Hammy went to the hitching post where the replacement team waited. Winthrop watched -- supervised. After all, that was what bosses did; they watch while their employees do the physical work.
His own job was worse; the manager had to do the books, something he hated. Winthrop wondered whether someone – such as Miss Osbourne – would hire on to work part time as a bookkeeper. He'd surely like to have a pretty lady like that around the office. But it was a forlorn hope; she was kept busy doing two jobs at the saloon, and the way she smiled all the time made him think that she liked the place. Anyway, he had to be very careful about running up costs for a while.
“I’m getting off here,” Red Tully said, stepping out of the stage and onto the platform. He shielded his eyes from the morning sun.
A woman called out from inside. “As am I, Mr. Tully, if you would be so kind….” She reached out a hand.
“My pleasure, Miss Stafford.” Red took her hand and helped her from the vehicle.
The driver walked to the boot at the back of the stagecoach, where most of the luggage and freight was stored. “You folks got any gear?” He pulled at the straps that held the netting in place.
“The gray valise is mine,” the woman said as she stepped out. She was young, slim, and very pretty. The driver reached in for the case and handed it to her.
Red pointed to a tartan-patterned bag. “And that one’s mine.” He grabbed for the overstuffed carpetbag. A clerk came out of the depot with a cart, and he and the driver loaded several packages from the boot onto it and pushed it back inside the building.
“Are there any hotels in this town?” the young lady asked cautiously.
As a rule, the shotgun rider stayed in his seat while the coach was stopped. “There ain’t no hotel in Eerie,” he called down in reply, “but some of the saloons rent out rooms. The two best’re the Lone Star and the Eerie Saloon.”
“Considering my brother’s love for all things Texan, I’m guessing he’s at the Lone Star,” she said. “Which way is it?”
The man pointed. “Down that way, about a half a block. In case they’re full up, the Eerie’s on the other side of the street a bit further down. Either place, you tell ‘em that Vince Glidden sent you. They know me hereabouts, and that’ll get you the best deal.”
“I shall. Thank you.” She picked up her suitcase and started for the Lone Star.
Red hurried over to match her pace. “Can I help you with your bag, Miss Stafford?”
“Thank you, Mr. Tully, but I can manage it by myself.” She remembered to smile, not wanting to seem too abrupt. “After five days on that stage, it’s a pleasure to get the exercise.”
From days of occasional conversation, Red had learned who she was and was worried for her. “What if you can't… find your brother?” he asked.
“I have to find him. As I've said, he's the only real family that I have left.”
Red only knew Forry as a would-be killer, a crook who had robbed his ranch's payroll. It was hard to imagine a man like that having a sister who loved and depended on him. Would this girl – a nice girl, as far as he could tell – be allowed to find her brother, or would Flora want to hide from her? Priscilla Stafford was either in for a big disappointment or a terrible shock.
He nodded and touched the tip of his hat. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
“I do thank you for the offer, though. Perhaps we’ll meet again while I’m in town.” She smiled once more; Red Tully was a fine looking man, and a cowboy, just like she'd read about in the magazines.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” said Red. “I usually – uh, dine at the Eerie Saloon when I'm in from the ranch. It's the best food in town.” As soon as he had said that, he wondered why he had told her where to find him. She was pretty, that was for sure. But this mannered young lady was going to get hurt and Red didn't want to be around to see that.
He smiled tightly, tipped his hat, and walked toward Doc Upshaw’s office. He had a letter to deliver.
At that moment, the driver came out of the depot. He walked over to where Winthrop was standing, overseeing the exchange of teams. “Ain’t you gonna help your friends with the work, buddy?” he asked Winthrop.
“I pay them to do the work,” Winthrop answered smugly.
The driver chuckled at the boy’s presumption. “Yes, sir, Mr. …” He glanced over and quickly read the words on Winthrop’s vest. “…Mr. Ritter.” He gave a mock salute and stepped away.
‘This kid’s a snot-nosed, little punk,’ he thought, ‘but those other two know what they’re doing.’ Satisfied with what he saw, he sat down on a bench and waited for Pablo and Hammy to finish.
* * * * *
Priscilla angled her way through the swinging doors of the Lone Star Saloon. The only one in the bar was a slender young brunette who was clearing away the plates and cups from a couple of tables. “Excuse me,” Priscilla called out. “A Mr. Glidden told me that you rented out rooms. Who do I see about getting one?”
“That’d be me,” the other woman said. She set down her tray and wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m Winnie Duggan. My father owns the Lone Star.” She walked over and shook Priscilla’s hand.
“I’m Priscilla Stafford. I think my brother, Forrest, may already have a room here.”
Winnie looked surprised. “Mr. Stafford, he… uhh, he used to have a room here. So did his men.”
“Used to have; is Forrest still around?”
“Sort of; he’s… it’s kind of hard to explain.”
“I'm relieved. I've been worried sick. He hasn't written since he came out here.” Now Priscilla yawned. “Perhaps we can talk later. I just got off a stage, and I need…” She yawned again.
“I understand. Come over here, and you can register.” Winnie walked behind the bar and pulled out a thin black ledger. “Just sign in, and I’ll take you right up.”
“Umm, before I do, how much are the rooms?”
“Two dollars a night; ten dollars for the week; that includes breakfast and supper.”
Priscilla opened her reticule and took out a small purse. There wasn’t much in it, but… “Let me have it for the week.” She handed Winnie a ten dollar gold eagle. During the journey, it had become clearer and clearer that she wasn't going home again. If Forry refused to support her, if he tried to send her home, she'd have to disobey him. That would leave her on her own, and she'd soon be destitute. What would it mean to be alone in this strange new land? She knew office work, but the town didn't look like it had many offices. She grew worried again.
“Just sign here, please.” Winnie opened the registration book and pointed to a blank line. “Just your name and where you’re from.” Priscilla did as asked.
Winnie came out from behind the bar. “Why don’t I take your suitcase? I can see how worn out you are.”
“That would be lovely.” Priscilla handed her the valise and followed her up to a room on the second floor. In five minutes, the case was set on the dresser, and Priscilla was sleeping on the bed, having taken off only her shoes.
Winnie shook her head, as she went back to gathering the breakfast dishes. “How am I… How – how is anyone -- going to explain what happened to Mr. Stafford? Or should I say… Miss Stafford? That poor girl; I hope she has someone else to fall back on.”
* * * * *
Edith Lonnigan looked up from the papers she was working on, when she heard the bell over the door. “Mr. Tully, I didn’t know that you were back from Philadelphia.” She closed the folder with the papers.
“I just got in, Mrs. Lonnigan,” Red replied. “Is the Doc around?”
She pressed a button on her desk, ringing a bell in the back of the medical office. “He should be out in a moment. How was your trip?”
“The train wasn’t bad, at least I could get up and walk between cars. The last days, on that stage… don’t ask.” Well, maybe the personable Priscilla Stafford had made the trip a little easier than it would have been otherwise. Again, he worried that she was in for a rough time of it.
At that moment, Doctor Upshaw walked out from behind the curtain that separated his waiting room from his work area. “Red,” he said warmly, “welcome back. Did you have a good trip?”
“Mostly, nothing t’talk about, though.”
“How’s Abner doing?”
“He’s ‘bout the same as he was when we left, even after all that poking and prodding that Doc Vogel done. He ain’t getting no worse, thank the Lord, but he ain’t getting no better, neither. I think it’s starting to bother him, wondering if he’ll ever be himself again.” He yawned and stretched his back.
Doc Upshaw nodded. “I can see how that would prey on a person. Abner Slocum was always an active, vigorous man. The prospect of being paralyzed permanently – well, let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that.”
“From your mouth t’G-d’s ear, as my ma used t’say.”
Red squared his shoulders and, with a soft grunt, lifted his carpet bag onto Mrs. Lonnigan’s desk. “Doc Vogel gimme a report t’give to you,” he explained. He opened the bag and began rummaging through it. After a minute, he pulled out a thick brown envelope tied with white cord. He checked the name and handed it to Upshaw. “Had t’make sure I gave you the right one.” he said, as he handed it to the physician. “I got a letter for Mr. Lewis that’s almost as thick.”
“I expected something this size.” The older man hefted the package, as if trying to guess its weight. “Dr. Vogel promised me a complete copy of his findings, his final diagnosis, his proposed treatment regime, and his prognosis for success.”
“Whatever all that means,” Red said with a chuckle that progressed into another yawn.
“It means what the tests show, what he thinks is the matter with Abner, how he plans to treat the problem, and how well he expects the treatment to work.”
“Well enough t’get Mr. Slocum back t’normal, I hope.”
“As do I.” Upshaw studied the other man for a moment. “What are your plans… after you leave here, I mean?”
“I’m gonna get a horse – before I left, Mr. Lewis arranged for me to get one at Ritter’s – and head out to the ranch.”
Doc put a hand on Red’s shoulder. “Not right away, you aren’t.”
“Sure I – yawn – am.” As he spoke, he arched his back and stretched.
Mrs. Lonnigan shook her head. “You really shouldn’t; not in the state you’re in.”
“I agree,” Doc told the cowman. “Red, you just rode five days in a stage coach; that’d tire anyone out. It’s a long way out to the Triple A, and you’re all but dead on your feet.” He paused a beat. “I’ve got a room in the back with four beds that nobody’s using right now. As your physician, I prescribe that you climb into one and get a few hours sleep before you go anywhere.”
Red was about to argue, when he yawned again – loudly. “Well, Doc,” he answered with a laugh. “You talked me into it.”
* * * * *
“Laura,” Amy Talbot asked, “are you all right?” The two women were sitting in the parlor of Laura’s house.
Laura stared at Amy for a moment before she blinked twice and shook her head. “Did you say something, Amy?”
“Yes, I asked if you were all right. You’ve been holding that sock in your hand for I don’t know how long without darning that hole in it.”
“I-I’m sorry.” Laura sighed and put down the sock. “I’ve been feeling odd all morning… cramping on and off like I was having my monthlies.”
Amy raised an eyebrow. “‘On and off,’ you say. About how often does that happen?”
“I don’t know – oh, there was another one. They’re maybe… less than ten, maybe… about five minutes apart.”
“Oh… my; excuse me.” Amy walked quickly to the side door that opened into Arsenio’s smithy. The man was working at his forge. She hurried over and tapped him on the shoulder. When he stopped and turned around, she took a breath to steady herself. “Go and get Edith Lonnigan and the doctor, Arsenio. Laura’s gone into labor.”
He tossed his tongs and hammer to the ground. “Thanks, Amy.” Without another word, he ran for the gate. Amy went back inside to help Laura to her bed.
* * * * *
Molly saw Jessie come around the corner and into the hallway where the Cactus Blossoms were practicing. “What brings ye up here, Jessie? Have ye decided ye want t’be a dancer, too?” The other women stopped moving and stared at the singer.
“You heard me the other night, Molly,” Jessie replied. “I can dance well enough with a man…” She grinned. “…especially with Paul, but I ain’t never been no good at moving in step with a bunch of people. That’s why I wasn’t in the army during the War – one reason, anyway. I stunk at close-order drill.”
“Don't underestimate yerself. Flora and Lylah seemed hopeless at first, but they shaped up right fit.”
“I already got a talent that I like better.”
“What brings ye up here, then?”
“I got an idea about them introductions you want me t’do for the Blossoms, and I wanted to talk t’you about them. The way you had me tackle it, any coyote could have pulled it off. I can do something better.” She pulled a folded up paper out of a pocket in her dress. “Take a look at this song I wrote.”
Molly unfolded the paper and read. “Goes t’that song ‘Buffalo Gals’, don’t it?” When Jessie nodded, she read the words again, this time humming the melody. “Hmm, it fits. How d’ye plan t’be working it?”
“It thought that the Blossoms could come out… here.” She pointed to the page. “And the band’d start playing… here. What do y’think?”
“It sounds good t’me, and I can work it out with the Blossoms real easy, but ye’d better talk t’Hiram King and the others before ye try it out.”
“That’s just where I’m going next,” Jessie told her. “I just wanted t’talk to you first.”
* * * * *
“Will ye stop pacing, Arsenio?” Shamus asked. “It ain’t doing Laura any good, and ye’re like t’be wearing a hole in yuir rug.”
Arsenio shook his head and continued striding back and forth. “I know, Shamus, but I… I feel so helpless out here, while she’s --”
He stopped abruptly, as Jane came out of the bedroom and rushed to the kitchen. “Not yet,” she called to the men, “but soon. I’m just getting some more hot water.” She grabbed a pot off the back burner of the stove without stopping and all but ran back into the bedroom.
The men stared at the closed door for a time. Then Shamus settled back in his chair with his copy of Sporting Times, and Arsenio resumed his pacing. At times, he stopped and clenched his fists when he heard Laura’s screaming from labor pains.
After what seemed like a week, they heard the sound of a slap followed by the cry of a newborn baby. Arsenio bolted for the door, which opened just as he reached it. “It’s a boy, Arsenio,” Jane told them, “and Laura’ll be ready t’see you in a few minutes.”
* * * * *
“Laura?” Arsenio whispered, opening the bedroom door just a crack. “Can we come in now?”
Jane opened the door all the way. “Sure, c’mon in.”
“Hi, Arsenio.” Laura was sitting up in bed, her back propped by pillows. A few strands of hair were plastered by sweat to her forehead. She looked tired, but her lips curled into a smile at the sight of her husband.
He was by her side in an instant, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. “How are you doing, Laura?”
“Tired,” she sighed, “but happy to have that over with. Have they let you see the baby? They won’t show him to me.”
Edith Lonnigan walked over. She was carrying something wrapped in a yellow blanket. “We thought he should meet his momma and daddy together.” She very carefully handed him to Laura, who cradled him in her arms.
“Hello… Junior,” Laura said softly. Despite her smile, she looked uncertain.
Arsenio stepped over next to the bed. “What's wrong, darling?” Arsenio asked.
“I-I thought it would be all over. But it's only beginning. How can I be a good mother? I don't know anything.”
“Neither do I.” He sat on the bed next to his wife. “We'll learn how… together.”
He gently slid his arm behind Laura’s head. His hand reached downward until it was touching the blanket. “Hello, son.” Then he leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. “He’s beautiful, Laura. Thanks you; thank you so very much.”
“And thank you… papa.” Laura was cradling the baby with her left arm, handling it like she was afraid it would fall to pieces. Her right arm moved, and her free hand reached for his.
A moment later, her eyes went wide. “Oh… oh, my?”
“What’s the matter?” Arsenio asked quickly.
“I felt another… contraction, like I did before, when I went into labor.”
Dr. Upshaw walked over. He was still wearing his white coat, but the gloves he’d worn were sitting in a bucket with his instruments. “Your body is getting ready to expel the placenta… the afterbirth. “It should be a lot easier than having the baby.”
“No – ow! That was another contraction, and it felt as bad as when the baby was coming.”
Upshaw’s smile faded. “Jane, take the baby from Laura and put it in the cradle. Edith, get me another pair of gloves. And, Arsenio, I’m afraid that you’ll have to go outside again.”
“Doc, what’s the matter? Laura… is she all right.”
“I don’t know, but I don’t need gawkers. Get out, and I mean now.”
Shamus grabbed the smith by his arm. “Ye can’t be helping her, lad, and you’ll be getting in the man’s way.” He pulled, but Arsenio wouldn’t move. “She needs ye t’leave, Arsenio. Please… for her.”
“I’ll be back, Laura,” Arsenio said, reluctantly letting himself be led from the room. He stopped at the door and looked back. “I love you, Laura,” he called to her.
Her voice rang in his ears as the door closed behind him. “I know, Arsenio, and I-I love you, too.
* * * * *
Maggie walked down the steps and into the parlor. “The children are down for the night.”
“Your children,” Ramon said, looking up at her.”
Maggie looked as if she’d been slapped. “Our children, Ramon; they love you as if you were their papa, and I thought that you felt the same way.”
“I do, mi corazón, but they are not mine. When Ernesto was angry with you, I tried to talk to him, to explain things, and he said that he did not have to listen to me because I was not his papa.” He took a breath. “I am not his papa, but I very much want to be.”
“What are you saying, Ramon?”
“That I… I want to adopt Ernesto and Lupe, to be their papa. Can I? You are their mama…” He smiled. “…and their papa. It is for you to say.”
“And for them to say. You cannot force them to let you be their papa.”
“I know, but I think that they will, especially if you say that it is all right for them to do so.”
“What about my Lupe, their real mother?”
“You are their real mother, Margarita, but they know that she was the one who gave them birth and who loved them with all her heart. And you -- we -- will make certain that they always remember her.” He walked over and took her hand in his.
Maggie smiled and rested her head on Ramon’s chest. “Yes… yes, we will. But… let me think about what you’re asking.” She kissed his cheek. “And thank you for asking.”
* * * * *
Jane opened the bedroom door. “You can come in, now, Arsenio. You, too, Shamus.”
“Is she… all right? Is it over?” Arsenio asked in a nervous voice.
Edith stepped up next to Jane. “She is, it is, and they want to see you.”
“Steady, lad,” Shamus counseled him. “I’ll be right behind ye.”
Arsenio walked slowly to the door and into the bedroom. He stopped and his face broke out in a grin that stretched, at the least, from ear to ear.
Laura was in the bed, propped up with pillows. She was wearing a pale blue bed jacket. Her hair was brushed and seemed -- to him -- to shine in the light of the lamps set around the room. She looked pale, but she smiled back, her eyes glistening.
And she was cradling a baby in each arm. For Arsenio, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen or ever would see.
“You didn’t get a chance to meet your son,” Laura told him, “before your daughter decided to butt in.”
“Just like her mother.” He ran his hand gently along her cheek. “Her beautiful, beautiful mother.”
“Right now, I think introductions are in order,” she replied. “Arsenio Leroy Caulder… Eleanor Laura Caulder, this handsome man with the big grin on his face is your papa.”
Arsenio kissed his fingers and lightly touched them to his son’s -- his son’s -- cheek. “Howdy, Junior.” He did the same to his marvelous new daughter. “Howdy, little lady. And the one holding you is your mama.” He touched his lips gently to Laura’s. “The most beautiful, most wonderful woman in the world.”
* * * * *
Friday, June 28, 1872
Priscilla Stafford walked slowly through the doors of the Eerie Saloon. Once she was a few feet inside, she stopped and looked around the room. “No sign of Forrest,” she whispered. It was mid-morning, and the only ones in the room besides her were a tall, slender man working behind the bar at the far end of the room, and a young Mexican girl sweeping the floor a few tables away from Priscilla.
“Excuse me,” Priscilla began, walking towards the girl as she spoke. “They told me at the Lone Star that Forrest Stafford, might be here. May I see him, please?”
Arnie leaned her broom against a table. “Sí, she is upstairs. I’ll go get her.” She hurried away before the older woman could speak.
‘She?’ Priscilla pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘That Mexican girl must not have understood me. Perhaps I’ll have better luck with whomever she brings down to talk to me.’ She sat, her hands demurely set on her lap, watching the stairs.
The señorita came down a few minutes later. A second woman followed her, a very attractive blonde in an outlandish – and rather scanty – green dress with a full pink petticoat underneath. Then, as the pair came closer, Priscilla recognized the second woman.
“Violet!” She gasped, bringing her hand, balled into a fist, up to her mouth. What was her step-mother doing here in that ridiculous outfit? Was her father here with her? Was Fred Reinhardt? How had they found her, and gotten here first? What would they do, now that they had her trapped? In a blind panic, she jumped to her feet and dashed for the door.
Flora had recognized Priscilla in the same instant. Her first impulse had been to run and hide, but she wanted to know what the hell her sister was doing in Eerie. “Priss… Wait!” She started after the fleeing woman.
But…
“…and ye won’t be trying t’escape ,” Shamus had ordered Forry Stafford during the process of his transformation. About ten feet from the doors, Flora stumbled. Her legs gave out. She fell to the floor, as she watched Priscilla run through the swinging doors and out onto the street. When she tried to get up she found that they wouldn’t cooperate. She tried to crawl, only to have her arms go numb. She laid prone, tears of frustration running down her cheeks.
R. J. had seen what had happened. He came out from behind the bar and headed straight for where Flora lay. “Just say that you weren’t trying to escape,” he told her. “It’s the only way you’ll be able to get up.”
“I wasn’t trying to escape,” she said grimly. “I just… I wasn’t trying to escape.” She could feel sensations in her hands again. She braced herself and, with R.J.’s help carefully got back on her feet. “Thanks, R.J.”
“You’re welcome, but who was that, and why’d she run away?”
“My sister, Priscilla, but I don’t know what she’s doing here in Eerie.” She sighed. “I look like her worst enemy and she's afraid of me. We have to bring her back and explain.”
Arnie and Molly joined them by the door. “When she came in,” Arnie told them, “she said that somebody at the Lone Star told her that Forry Stafford might be over here.”
“Sam’s a great one for not telling other people’s secrets,” R.J. said. “I guess she'll run back to her hotel room. Your next stop is the Lone Star, Flora. That’s probably where your sister’s at.”
Flora nodded. “Sure, only how do I go there, if I can’t walk out of here? And if… when I do find Priscilla, how do I convince her who I really am?”
“We’ll see what we can figure out on the way over t’the Lone Star?” Molly said, taking Flora by the hand.
Flora looked confused. “We?”
“Aye, you ‘n’ me. I’ll be going with ye for moral support, and, besides, how can ye be trying to escape from this here prison, if ye’re walking out and about with one o’yuir jailers?”
*****
Priscilla sat on her bed, staring at the contents of her purse spread out on her bed, eighteen dollars and some change. “I’ve barely enough to get home,” she said ruefully, “and it would be just like Father and Violet to make me pay my own way. And if I do go home, I’ll be Mrs. Fred Reinhardt as soon as they can arrange it.” She sighed. “Maybe he's come, too. They might even force me to marry him right here.”
With so little money to buy her way out of town, the girl knew she didn't have a chance. “I could go… somewhere, Denver perhaps, but what could I do when I get there? How could I survive… penniless?” ‘Maybe I should just try to get Father mad enough to disown me and leave me be,’ she thought desperately. ‘Even that would be better than the fate he has in store for me.’
But was it?
She buried her head in her hands. “Oh, Forrest, I was so counting on your help. Why couldn’t it have been you and not… Violet waiting for me?” She collapsed on the bed, her eyes full of tears.
A knock on her door made her sit up. “Go away!” she yelled.
“Miss Stafford,” a voice called through the door, “me name’s Molly O’Toole, and I come over here t’talk t’ye about yuir… brother, Forry.”
Her heart leaped. “F-Forrest… Where is he? Is he… all right?”
“That’s not something I’ll be saying from the other side of a locked door. Ye’ll have t’be letting me in, if you want to know the truth.”
Priscilla wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress and hurried to the door. “If this is a trick….” What did it matter, really? If her father was outside with this Molly person, what could she do about it? She turned the latch and cautiously opened the door.
An older woman, in her late thirties, perhaps, stood in the doorway. The woman – Molly, she guessed -- was short and slightly plump with the reddish hair and freckles that all but screamed, “Irish.” She had a round face with a broad, friendly smile. “Hello, m’dear,” Molly greeted her. “Can we come in?”
“We?” Priscilla looked off to the side. There, almost out of the line of sight, stood… “Violet!”
She spat the name and tried to slam the door closed. Only, Molly had stuck her foot in the way, blocking it.”Ye may as well let us in, Miss Stafford,” Molly told her. “I’ll not be moving me foot, and thuirs the two of us out here t’push the door in, and only the one of ye t’fight against us.”
Priscilla ignored Molly and kept pushing at the door. “Go away; just… just go away and leave me to my misery.”
“C’mon, Prissy-Britches,” Flora said abruptly, “let us in.”
The words surprised Priscilla. “Don't call me that! You have no right!” she cried. It was an old pet name for her that only Forry had used.
“I’ve always called you that. I know you don’t believe me, but I'm Forry. Please let me explain.”
“I'd have to be crazy to believe that!”
“Whoever I am, you're going to talk to me. You don't have much choice. I love you, Prissy-Britches; don't act this way.”
Priscilla stepped back from the door. The voice was right. She was trapped. If her father wanted the innkeeper to open the door, he would. No one could stand up to the man. Violet was a terrible person, but she wasn’t the type that would hurt her in front of witnesses.
“All right,” she said in a resigned voice; time to face the music, whatever tune was playing. She took a step back from the door.
Flora pushed the door inward. Molly stepped back and let her gaudily-clad companion come in first. When Flora saw the look on her sister’s face, she groped for words to calm her. “I’m not Violet, and I’m not here to hurt you, Prissy-Britches, and that’s a promise.”
Priscilla shook her head. “Of course you're Violet. Who else could you be? I have eyes! If you want to drag me to Father, don’t pretend that you're Forry. I haven't gone mad. Have you?”
“I'm not Violet, Prissy-Britches.”
“How do you know that name? I-I don’t think even Father knew about it.”
“How could he? I never told him.”
“How could you tell him? You shouldn't have known it, either.”
Flora sighed. “I knew it because I’m the one who called you that. I’m not Violet.” She sighed again and half-closed her eyes. It was so hard to say it. There was no way to make it believable. “Like I keep telling you, I’m… I was your brother, Forrest.”
* * * * *
Shamus, Molly, Priscilla, and Flora sat at a table, watching R.J. as he carried a newly-converted “potion pup” – as Molly had dubbed her – out to the yard. The dog, a small, brown mutt, kept squirming in his arms and trying to lick his face.
After some talking – and a bit of arguing – Shamus and Molly had decided that he should keep a bottle of the potion in his office just for emergencies. The bottle was locked in a drawer. Shamus, Molly, and R.J. each had a key, again, just in case of emergencies, like some terrible accident that needed a miracle cure.
“I guess we won’t be calling that one ‘Scrapper’ no more,” Shamus said with a chuckle. Like I was telling ye; a boy drinks me potion, and she’s a girl. A girl -- a born girl or one that’s already tasted me potion – gets a dose, and she gets a lot friendlier – gets to be a lot more of a woman.”
Priscilla shook her head. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. What am I saying? I saw it, and I still don’t believe it.”
“Do you believe in me?” Flora asked in a hesitant tone. “That I’m who I say I am?”
Priscilla gave her new sister a questioning look. “I-I don’t know. My old nanny, Nora, used to tell me that I should believe only half of what I see and… and…” She threw her arms up in desperation. “Oh, now how did the rest of that go?”
“Still testing me, Prissy Britches?”Flora asked, a chuckle in her voice.” She used to say ‘half of what you hear and a quarter of what you see.” Flora looked her sister in the eye. “And her name was Cora. She was a busty little brunette with a pink birthmark – it looked like a rose – on her left --”
“Forrest! You didn’t… not my nanny?” Priscilla's blue eyes were hot with indignation. “How could you?”
Flora smiled wryly. “How could I what, ma’am?”
Priscilla suddenly realized that these people – and Violet -- almost had her believing their absurd tale. Her jaw dropped, and her eyes went wide as two of Maggie’s dinner plates. “Oh… oh, my Lord, if you are Forrest, then the whole world has gone insane. That's it! You're trying to drive me out of my mind and then lock me away in a madhouse!”
Flora sat down across from her. “Prissy-Britches, I don't want you in a madhouse. Ask me any question, anything that no one except Forry would know.”
Priscilla shook her head, hopelessly, not knowing what to say. Violet – “Flora” she called herself – took her hand and squeezed it gently, reassuringly, a way that Violet never had, never would. Priscilla resisted the impulse to pull her hand away. She didn't want to believe that this was Forry, but she even more wanted to believe that it was not Violet.
“Remember what you just saw happen to that puppy?” the woman in green said. “It happened to me, too. I hate frightening you; but it happened. I’m just glad we're together again. I've been lonely out here a lot of times, but now that you've come, maybe we can both start smiling, again.”
Priscilla looked into Flora's face, not knowing what to say.
Flora pressed. “Violet wouldn’t come this far to get you. Father would, maybe. But our stepmother doesn't care about you. It wouldn't matter to Violet if you married Reinhardt or not. Her kind of vengeance would be to turn you out on the street without a penny. I would never do that to you.”
Priscilla thought for a moment. “Answer this. Who was Mr. Claws?”
“Your porcelain collie dog. You broke it when you were about eight.” Flora was smiling hopefully.
Violet shouldn't have known that, Priscilla reasoned. She had cried all day when it happened and moped about it for a week, but she’d never talked about Mr. Claws again after that, not as far as she could remember.
“This is like a fairy story, where people turn into frogs and other things,” she began tentatively. “Real life isn't like that.”
“Real life is a lot bigger and stranger than people want to believe it is. And for the record, I really never had relations with Cora. She was your nanny, and that made her family… sort of. I wouldn't wanted to have you looked after by a slut.”
She took a breath. “Besides, I think that she and father were…” her voice trailed off meaningfully. “I saw her sneaking out of Father's room, wrapped in a sheet one time when I was home on leave from the Army. She caught the end of it in the door and when she saw me she backed away and the sheet pulled off. That's when I saw the mark. You actually did have a low woman for a nanny, but I didn't make her that way.”
“My goodness,” Priscilla said, sounding more than a little disgusted. “Father is a bastard; isn’t he?”
Flora had to chuckle. Priscilla had seldom used such course language. “He certainly is. I don’t know why I spent my whole life…” She stopped for a moment, realizing what she was saying. “…trying to be so much like him. He only loved himself, so if I could be more like him....”
“Is that how you got to be Flora, by acting the way he would have acted?”
“What do you mean, Priss?”
“Mr. O’Toole said that his potion was used to punish the most serious criminals. What did you do to make them give you a dose?”
Flora shook her head, a forlorn expression on her face. “You… You don’t want to know. I wish you would never find out, but you probably will. I'm afraid that you might stop loving me when you realize what terrible things I did.”
“Did you k-kill somebody,” the girl asked in a tiny voice.
“No. But it was bad enough. When I was talking with Father about what I might have to do out here, that sort of thing didn't seem bad at all. It sounded clever. That's the way he always is. He thinks that people like him should do anything they feel like, just to get their own way. And he always made me think that way, too. But when I look into your eyes, Prissy-Britches, I only want you to be proud of me.”
Molly put her hand on Flora's shoulder. “Ye don’t have to be like that anymore,” she said. “Ye sure ain’t like yuir papa, now.”
Flora nodded, now looking very serious. “I hope not. If I still am, I'm going to lose the two people I love most in the world. I'd rather die.”
Prissy looked intensely curious. “Two people; if I'm one of them, who else is there?”
Flora shook her head. “You've had too many shocks for one day. You've got another shock coming, and it will be a big one. But if you think about it for a while, you're going to realize that it's a good shock.” Flora couldn't imagine how Priscilla would react to her brother being married to a man, a man who was now part of their own family.
* * * * *
“Ladies and gents,” Shamus announced, “here she is, the ‘Songbird of Eerie,’ Jessie Hanks.” The Happy Days Town Band played a quick flourish, as Jessie stepped up onto the stage and took a seat next to them.
She smiled at the smattering of applause that greeted her and picked up her guitar. “Thanks, folks, I got a little song that I’m gonna sing by way of an introduction.” She strummed the cords once and began.
` “Shamus’ gals, gonna come out tonight,
` Come out tonight, come out tonight.
` Shamus’ gals, gonna come out tonight,
` And dance at the Eerie Saloon.”
` “Come see them dancing, oh, so sweet,
` Move their feet, to the beat,
` Come watch them as they jump and leap,
` And dance for all to see.”
During the verse, the Cactus Blossoms strutted out, waving their skirts to the music, and took their places around the dance area.
` “Shamus’ gals, gonna come out tonight,
` Come out tonight, come out tonight.
` Shamus’ gals, gonna come out tonight,
` And dance at the Eerie Saloon.”
During the second chorus, the band joined in, playing low behind Jessie. When the chorus ended, she stood up and bowed. The band segued into the Cactus Blossoms music, playing at a much higher volume. Jessie looked over to where Shamus and Molly were standing. Her eyes caught his. Shamus said something to Molly, and they both gave her a quick “Thumbs Up.” Jessie smiled back and moved quietly away from the stage, as the Cactus Blossoms began their show.
* * * * *
The applause for the dancers ended. Flora broke away from Lylah and Nancy and headed for the table where Priscilla was sitting, smiling bemusedly and still clapping her hands softly. “That's amazing,” her sister told her, as she sat down. “I had no idea that you were so… supple.”
“I get that from Violet,” Flora explained. “When I drank O’Toole’s potion, I turned into her physical double, and, as I found out when she first came to Austin with you…” Flora leered. “…she had a very supple body.”
Priscilla blushed and looked away for a moment. “Flora! You shouldn’t say such things,” she giggled and faced her sister again, “even if they are true.”
“No, I suppose not. But even if I had been this limber when I was Forry, I still couldn’t have done all the steps you saw me do just now. Those splits, where I drop to the floor with my legs splayed out forward and back, I couldn’t have done those without hurting… things.”
Priscilla lightly slapped Flora’s arm. “One thing hasn’t changed. You continue to enjoy teasing and embarrassing me, don’t you?”
“Yes, to tell the truth, I do, but it is good to see you. You did the right thing to come. You'd be miserable marrying that old devil Reinhardt. What's his first name again?”
“Fred!” Priscilla said through gritted teeth.
Her sister shook her head. “Father was always a selfish cuss, but he went too far, the way he treated you after he divorced your mother.”
“I know you loved Violet! He stole her from you! But she wasn't worthy of you! She's evil!”
Flora nodded. “I know. But she had a hold on me that I've never really gotten rid of.” She looked down at herself. “I guess you can see that. I don't regret losing her, but I never could stand the way she came between you, your mother, and Father.”
“It was my fault for bringing her down for a visit. She was so charming, but all she really wanted was to latch onto a rich man. I hoped you two would marry, but she jilted you for Father. After she got her hooks into him, home became a terrible place to live.”
“I know. Because I was angry and still wanted her, I tried to travel on business as much as possible. But when I did that, I missed you, and I knew that you were being treated badly.”
“After you came out here, you were missing for months and father never got worried about where you could be,” Priscilla said. “The only thing I heard him worrying about was whether you were, as he so gently put it, ‘Wasting my hard-earned money on liquor and whores.’ I don’t know about the first, though I haven’t seen you take a drink all day. As to the second, you hardly seem… equipped for such things.”
“Not now, anyway.” Flora looked down ruefully at her body. “When I first came to Eerie, I – no, I can't tell you that. It was another life. It's something else that you'll surely hate me for.” Priscilla's expression made Flora change the subject. “How did you get out of Father's bear trap of a home?”
The girl sighed. “I pretended to accept the idea of marriage and asked for some money to buy a dress to be seen in style with Mr. Reinhardt. He agreed. I used the money to buy a ticket out here.” She sighed. “It was all the money I had, and it’s almost gone. I thought you'd be able to help me.” She looked down at the table, her eyes glistening. “But here you are in prison. I thought I was in a bad way, but you're even worse off. What's going to become of the two of us?”
Flora shook her head. “I'm supposed to get out of jail in a month. When that happens, things won't be so bleak. Father sent me here with a letter of credit for $5,000. Most of that should still be sitting in the local bank. I want to start some sort of a business and build a new life for myself. I'm sure that Father will disinherit me when he finds out what happened. What good am I to him now? He'll think I belong in a circus.” She had a sudden thought. “We’ll go over there – to the bank -- tomorrow and transfer some of it – say, $500 -- to an account in your name. How would that be?”
“It-It would be… wonderful.” The woman sprang up and impulsively hugged her sister. “Thank you, F– What should I call you?”,
“Try to get used to saying 'Flora.' I'm not supposed to answer to Forry. It's part of the magic. They tell me that there's no way back from where I am now.”
Priscilla looked dismayed.
“It beats hanging." Flora said. “I'll have to tell you about that, too, but not today.”
Priscilla squeezed her sister's hand.
* * * * *
Saturday, June 29, 1872
“Ramon…” Maggie whispered in his ear.
Ramon woke with a start. He reached over for his pocket watch from where it was sitting on the night table. “Margarita, it is not yet 7 AM. What is wrong that you had to wake me up so early?”
“I wanted to talk to you about your idea to adopt Ernesto and Lupe.”
“Do you agree?”
“Sí, I want us to be a family… a true family. I want them to be as much a part of it as their younger brothers and sisters.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Younger… Margarita… mi amor… you are not…” He stared down at her trim waist.
She smiled mischievously. “Pregnant; not that I know of, mi corazón, but my monthlies are…” She thought for a moment, mentally counting the days. “not due for a week. Perhaps, by then…” Her voice trailed off.
“How would you feel about... something like that?”
Maggie frowned thoughtfully. “Lo que sera, sera [What will be, will be],” she said at last.
His arm snaked down, around her waist, and he slid over close to her.
“Ramon,” she said with a giggle. “What about your adoption idea?”
“We will talk to them about it tomorrow… after lunch. In the meantime, let’s see about that little brother or sister you mentioned.”
Maggie was about to say something, but when their lips met, whatever she was about to say became much less important.
* * * * *
Molly walked into the Wells Fargo Bank, with Flora and Priscilla right behind her. “Och,” she groaned. “Look at them long lines.” She pointed to the tellers’ cages and a very busy George Sturges and Joe Kramer. “We’ll be stuck in here for hours.”
“I’m not sure if it’s even a teller we want to see,” Flora answered. “The last time I was in here, I talked directly with Dwight Albertson, the bank president.”
They walked towards Albertson’s office door. Milo Nash, the head teller, was working with some papers at his desk nearby. “Can I help you with something, Molly?” he asked, setting the papers aside.
“I’d like to see Mr. Albertson,” Flora told him. “I’m… I was Forrest Stafford.”
“I know who you are, Miss Stafford,” he replied. “Mr. Albertson is in a meeting. What was it that you want to see him about?”
“When I first came to town, I gave him a letter of credit to set up an account. I’ve decided to finally use some of the money in that account.”
Milo nodded. “Yes, I can take care of that for you. Just let me get the account records from the file.” He rose and walked over to a bank of three tall, oak file cabinets set against the wall behind him. He opened the second drawer in one and searched through the folders until he found the one he wanted. He pulled the file and returned to his desk. “Please sit down,” he told the women, as he took his own seat.
“Now, let’s see how much we’re talking about.” He untied the bow that held the file closed and took out an envelope that Flora recognized as the one she had brought with her from Austin. He also pulled out a bankbook and ledger sheet.
As he put the materials down on the table, Flora saw that there were several other papers in the file. “What’re those?” She pointed at the papers. “Can I see them?”
“Certainly.” He glanced at the sheets as he pulled them out. “They’re bills for your upkeep – yours and Miss Saunders – from Mr. O’Toole.”
Flora turned to Molly, an accusing look on her face. “Bills; what’s this about, Molly?”
“The town pays Shamus ‘n’ me for yuir room and board, but we ain’t got the money t’be paying for all yuir new clothes. The Judge said that we can make our… prisoners pay for them, so Shamus send his own bills, plus the ones from Silverman’s, here. Milo here or Dwight checks ‘em over and, since thuir ain’t nothing amiss, they’ve paid ‘em outta yuir money.”
“Miss Saunders was your employee -- you brought him to town and paid his room and board at the Lone Star before you were… sentenced. So the Judge ruled that you would continue to pay for her, as well.”
“That seems fair, I suppose,” Priscilla said hesitantly. “Don’t you think so, Flora?”
Flora considered the matter. “Did I pay for my Cactus Blossom outfit?”
“Heavens, no,” Molly answered quickly. “They belong to the Saloon, and Shamus paid for ‘em outta our own money.” She studied Flora’s expression. “On the other hand, ye paid for that pretty dress ye’re wearing now, Flora. The one ye put on t’be looking nice for…”
She caught herself before she could mention Carl. As far as she knew, Priscilla wasn’t aware that her new sister was married. ‘And it shouldn’t be me that’s spilling the beans about it,’ she decided. Aloud, she said, “… for Mr. Nash here.” She gave Flora a quick wink.
“Point taken,” the other woman said in a resigned tone. “Yes, I guess it is fair.” She found a tally sheet among the bills. “And you haven’t paid out very much, anyway.”
Milo opened a large drawer in his desk and pulled out a form. “If we’ve settled that matter, Miss Stafford, how much money do you want, and who will be getting it? I need to know so we can transfer the money.”
“I wanted 500 dollars… to create an account for my sister here.” She pointed to Priscilla. “Her name is Priscilla Stafford.”
“Easily done. I’ll need you to fill out this first, Miss… Flora.” He slid the form across the table to Flora. “It authorizes the bank to transfer the money to the new account.” He reached into the drawer for a second sheet of paper. “And this is for you, Priscilla. It will create the account that we deposit the money into.” He handed her the paper.
Priscilla grinned as she began to write. “How wonderful; 500 dollars of my own money, money that Father can’t control.”
“That does sound good,” Flora said. “Better give me one of those forms, too, Milo. I think I’m going to set up one of those 500 dollar accounts for myself.” What she didn’t say, but what she was thinking, was, ‘for Carl and I, so we can set up a life of our own when I’m done with Shamus.’
* * * * *
Laura was sitting back on the settee on her parlor, enjoying a quiet cup of tea with Arsenio, when they heard a knock. “I’ll get it,” Arsenio said, putting his cup down and hurrying to the door.
“Hello, Arsenio,” Trisha greeted him, as he opened the door. “Can I come in and talk to you and Laura?” She smiled and stepped into the room. “I’ll try not to be long.”
Arsenio turned to look at Laura. When she nodded, he said, “All right, but please speak softly. We just got the twins down for a nap.”
“Certainly.” She walked over and sat down on a chair across from Laura. “And congratulations, by the way.” She paused a beat. “Can I see them?”
Laura shook her head. “I’m sorry, but they’re light sleepers, and they need the rest almost as much as Arsenio and I do.”
“I understand. Can I ask you a few questions in the meantime?”
Arsenio thought for a moment. “Just why are you here, Trisha?”
“I-I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to fool you.” She looked down at the rug, unable to meet his eyes. “I told Roscoe that I wanted to visit Laura, and he said I should try and interview her – the both of you, I guess – for the paper.” She sighed. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Laura shook her head. “Not really; I’m kind of flattered, I guess. After all, I’m hardly the first woman in town to have a baby.”
“No, but you’re the first one to have twins in quite a while, more important, you’re the first potion girl to have any kind of a baby,” Arsenio replied. “That’s newsworthy, I suppose.” He chuckled.
“But you can't put all this potion girl business into the newspaper,” Laura argued. “Outsiders will read it and this town will become a circus of reporters and novelty seekers!”
“Believe me, I'm concerned about such things myself. I'll be discrete in how I write it, but people who know you will understand the extreme importance of the occasion.”
Arsenio nodded. “It’s also kind of ironic that the person interviewing you is the second potion girl to have a baby – or, she will be in a few months.”
Trisha glanced down at her still-narrow waist. “Yes, but that’s not going to happen for some time – I hope.” She fished in her reticule for a moment before she pulled out a small notebook and a pencil. “Now… if I can ask you some more questions?”
“I suppose.” Laura shrugged. “Would you like some tea while we’re talking?”
“Please….” The reporter waited for Arsenio to pour her a cup. She added two spoonfuls of sugar and a bit of milk, stirred, and tasted. “Perfect. My first question is, do you think that your having taken the potion had anything to do with having twins?” She thought about the possibility, and it really scared her.
“That's being discrete?” asked Laura.
“I'll edit it out, but I want to ask real questions, so the interview will flow smoothly. Anyway, that question is mostly for my own information, and you should understand why.”
Reassured, Laura said, “I don’t think so. Two of my sisters are twins, and there are a couple of pairs of twins among my cousins.” She waited for Trisha to write that down. “And... Arsenio, didn’t you tell me that you have an aunt and uncle who are twins?”
He shook his head. “Not quite; my grandpa Caulder had a twin sister, who died before I was born. I had a pair of cousins who were twins, but I only met them a couple of times, when I was a boy.”
“Sounds like twins run in both your families,” Trisha said thoughtfully. “Nothing magical about it.” And nothing she need worry about -- thank Heavens.
Arsenio chuckled. “Maybe not, but the Doc’s been kicking himself about the twins for the last two days.”
“Really,” Trisha asked. “Why is that?”
“All the problems Laura had with being pregnant, they’re just the sort of things he says can show up when a woman’s having twins. He’s mad at himself for not thinking of that.”
Laura gave her husband a bemused smile. “He got caught up in the idea that it had something to do with Shamus’ potion. Of course, Arsenio and I never told him that twins run in both our families, so I guess it’s our fault, too.”
She glanced towards the bedroom, where the infants were sleeping. “And he helped me bring my two beautiful babies into the world, so how could I ever be upset with him?”
“How do you feel about being the first man who became a mother?”
Laura looked thoughtful. “I don't really think of myself as a man anymore. The way I feel about it...Well, I don't know. Maybe you can figure out a way to say it better than I ever could.”
“I don't know what to say,” replied Trisha. “Maybe it's not the same for every one of...us. But how do you feel about motherhood – as a woman?”
“Well, for me, loving the children seems to come instinctively. I didn't know how I'd react to them, so I guess my heart is in the right place. But I was worried enough about being a good enough mother for just one child. But suddenly I have to think about everything in pairs. That is extremely daunting.”
“It'll be daunting for both of us,” said Arsenio, “but I'm going to be here to help her bring it off. Such a wonderful wife has to be a wonderful mother, too.”
“I can say one thing,” Laura added. “Whenever I can forget about being afraid, I feel like I've accomplished something absolutely unbelievable. Until you have one yourself, Trisha, you can't imagine what it feels like to look down into a cradle to see your own beautiful, sleeping baby.”
* * * * *
Horace Styron stood in the doorway to Reverend Yingling’s study. “Can I see you for a moment, Reverend?”
“Certainly, Horace,” the Reverend replied, rising from his chair. “What can I do for you?”
Styron walked in, closing the door behind him. “I… uh, wanted to talk to you about what you said in church last Sunday – about not baptizing Laura Caulder’s baby.”
“Babies,” the minister corrected him, “she had twins on Thursday, a boy and a girl.”
“So I heard. Have you decided… what you’re going to do?”
“Am I willing to baptize them, you mean? To tell the truth, I have not yet decided.”
“You should do it.”
Yingling’s expression soured. “And why do you say that, Horace?” There was tension in his voice. “Have you gone over to the side of those errant souls who believe that I am wrong in my opposition to Shamus O’Toole?”
“No, sir, I think you’re right about the potion – and the potion girls. They’ve been nothing but trouble. So, if you say that a committee under your direction should be the one in control, then I’m your man. The only reason I stayed on that advisory committee was to push your ideas.”
“But babies…” He shrugged. “Babies are different.”
“Even when their mother is a potion girl, the creation of evil?”
Styron sighed. “Even then. You can’t blame a baby for who his – or her – mother is, can you?”
“Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I, the Lord, thy G-d, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me. Exodus: Chapter 20, verse 5.”
“But… but doesn’t that verse say that the Lord will do the punishing, not the people – not his people?”
“The Lord is very good at passing punishment -- or obligation -- down from one generation to the next. However, it does not preclude the involvement of human agents acting in our Lord’s name.”
Horace held up his hands as if in surrender. “I ain’t going to argue religion with you, sir. You know the Good Book a lot better than I ever will.” He took a breath. “On the other hand, I think I know a fair bit more about politics than you do.”
“I would suspect you do. What of it?”
“You got a lot of people riled up when you said you wouldn’t baptize Laura Caulder’s baby… babies.”
“How can that matter so much?”
“A lot of the folks in church have kids. Some of them figure to have more. They believe in baptism, and they don’t like the idea that you might decide that they aren’t good enough for you to baptize their kid.”
“That… that’s absurd.”
“Then you will baptize the Caulder brats – and you’ll tell everybody that you will in church tomorrow. And, for gosh sakes, do it gracefully, with a smile on your face. A grudging concession won't help you very much. Cheerfulness will help people remember that you're a good man and strong leader out to do the best for everybody.”
“I have not yet decided about the Caulder children. I meant that it was absurd that the people of my congregation would ever harbor unflattering thoughts about me.”
“Not as absurd as you think, Reverend. The congregation is really split on this, and you’re not going to win by fighting them on something that they feel so strongly about. Things’d go a lot smoother for you if you did that baptism.”
“Would they? Perhaps it is you who has become one of my gainsayers, twisting things, threatening to withdraw your own support if I do not do as you ask?” He sniffed. “As if I needed your help all that much.”
Styron sighed and shook his head. “You still have my support, sir, but how many others will you have, and how long will you have them if you keep acting this way?”
“That is not your worry, Mr. Styron. And now – not to be rude – I wish to be alone. There are still things that I need to do to prepare for tomorrow’s service.”
Horace nodded and started to leave. “There certainly are. Good day, Reverend.” But, to himself, he added, ‘I’m just not sure that you’re going to do the right ones’
* * * * *
“So, Priscilla,” Nancy asked, “are you going to stay for the dance tonight?” The two women were sitting with Flora, around a table at the Saloon.
Priscilla cocked an eyebrow. “You mean another performance of those Cactus Blossom dancers, like the one I saw yesterday?”
“Heavens, no,” Nancy said. “It’s a regular dance. Oh, the band is the same as last night, but tonight, the men buy tickets to dance with us.”
“Do they dance with you, Flora?” Priscilla asked, not quite believing what she heard.
Flora nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed.
“With Flora and me,” Nancy replied. “And with Lylah and Dolores and – oh, with just about all of the women who work here in the Saloon.”
“So you enjoy dancing with men, now, do you, Flora?”
Flora looked down at her hands, folded there on the table. “Not… Not at first, Priss, but the potion… it works on the mind, as well as the body. I sort of like dancing with men now.”
“If it’s the right man,” Nancy teased, “she likes it a great deal.”
“What does she mean, Flora? Is there a ‘right man’ for you?” Priscilla waited tensely. If Flora said “yes”, how much of the big brother that she’d relied on was left to help her?
Before Flora could answer, a tall, muscular man tiptoed up behind her. His index finger raised before his lips, asking that no one say anything to her. When he reached Flora, he abruptly covered her eyes with his hands. “Guess who?” he challenged and began to kiss her on the side of her neck.
“Carl…” Flora said the name as a soft moan. She smiled, oblivious to where she was, and pressed her body against the stranger.
“Excuse me, sir,” Priscilla said stiffly. “Even if she seems to be enjoying it, you have no right to molest a woman like that, and I’ll thank you to stop immediately.”
The man grinned and pulled back slightly -- very slightly – from Flora. “Well now, whoever you are, ma’am, I’m the lady’s husband, and that give me every right in this world to ‘molester’ her.”
“Her…” Priscilla’s jaw dropped. “Her… husband?”.
Carl nodded. “That’s right, ma’am.” He offered his hand. “I’m Carl Osbourne, and this is my wife, Flora Stafford Osbourne.” He waited a half-beat. “And who’re you?”
“Pri-Priscilla Stafford,” she mumbled, stunned by what he had said.
Carl blinked and asked his bride, “She’s your sister?”
Flora sighed. “I'm afraid so. Priscilla’s just arrived from Austin. She was looking for Forry. She didn't know about me.”
Carl frowned in surprise. “Well now,” he started slowly. “Somehow I never expected to meet any new in-laws.” Then he grinned. “Certainly not one as pretty as your sister.” He put out his hand.
Priscilla shook his hand, still somewhat in a daze, and glanced quickly at Nancy. “Osbourne… Nancy, are you his sister?”
Nancy gave her a small smile. “I am, which, I guess, makes us all family.”
Priscilla sank back into her chair. “My word. I thought I was going to be all alone in the Wild West, and now I'm suddenly at a family reunion.” She looked directly at Flora. “How many more surprises are you going to spring on me?”
Flora smiled and gave Carl’s cheek a quick kiss. “I can’t think of any more… right now. But enjoy this one, because it's definitely the best of the lot.” If she was lucky, Priscilla would never find out the way Forrest had acted, but she doubted that such a thing would ever happen. Nobody was that lucky.
Priscilla rubbed her forehead. “Frankly, this is an awful lot to take in. Now I know what you meant when you talked about too many shocks too quickly. If you all don’t mind, I’d like to go back to my hotel and think about it for a bit.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Flora agreed.
Her sister nodded. “Good, then I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Could you make that tomorrow afternoon?” Flora took Carl’s hand in hers. “We… I was planning to… ah, sleep in.” She felt a blush run across her face, though she had no reason to feel ashamed. Still, she was very concerned that the adjustment would be hard for Prissy to make.
Priscilla forced a grin. “I’m sure you were.” The girl from Austin felt like she had lost her brother, without gaining a real sister. Flora was living a life so different from Forry's that it was like she was a stranger. Priscilla had already been told that Forrest had done terrible things here in Eerie. She had known and trusted Forry all her life, and she could have forgiven him a great deal. But could she forgive Flora in the same way? If she couldn't open her heart to Flora, where would that leave her? Priscilla left the saloon and went to her hotel room, once more feeling very much alone.
* * * *
Arnie was gathering the used dishes, glasses and silverware from a table where three men had eaten supper, when Molly came up next to her. “Can I be talking to ye for a wee bit, Annie?”
“What?” Arnie turned, startled. “Molly, why did you call me Annie?”
The older woman smiled. “And why shouldn’t I? Ye’ve told some o’them men ye danced with t’be calling ye, Annie. And me Shamus told me that them folks ye had supper with the other night called ye Annie from the get-go. Ye can't dislike the name too much. Personally, I think Anna is a much nicer name than Arnolda. Ye look more like an Anna, too.”
Arnie shook her head. “The Spauldings are friends of mine. They have called me Annie for many, many weeks.”
“Why did you let them do that?”
“When I first met them, I told that that I was ‘Arnie’, but they called me ‘Annie.’ I was trying to get them to use my mama’s laundry, and I did not want them to ask questions about an ‘odd’ name so I didn’t argue.”
“That was sensible. But every other person that took the potion got her name changed. Ye’re the only one who didn’t. Ye’ve always called yuirself ‘Arnie’, the name ye had before. Now ye’re telling folks t’be calling ye ‘Annie’. It's up to ye, of course, but think about it. What would help ye get along better with customers? Should ye be called Arnie or Annie?”
It was the same question that Mrs. Spaulding had asked. Which did she want to be – Arnie or Annie? Arnie closed her eyes and thought about how she had answered then. How she should answer now?
Being called Arnie made her remember the person she used to be. Arnie was a liar and a drunk. Everything about his life made him miserable. He’d stolen drinks and money from Shamus and lied about it. Shamus had given him a lot of second chances, and he’d wasted each and every one. ‘He was brave,’ she thought in Arnie’s defense, ‘a hero. He’d attacked a man… Hersh, when the man had threatened Bridget.’ Then she answered herself. ‘And Hersh and Parnell had used that same bravery to get him involved in a robbery – and fired again.’ And it almost got her grieving mother killed, when she had stepped in the path of that horse.
And who was Annie? Yes, she was working at the Saloon because Shamus had given her another second chance. But she had done better by that second chance. 'I have told no lies,' she thought, 'and I do not remember the last time I thought about stealing a drink.' Annie had friends, friends at the Saloon who knew her and who trusted her.
And she had the Spauldings. They had been very upset because she had pretended to be something that she was not. But they had forgiven her in the end. And Hedley had forgiven without question. ‘He wants to be more than a friend,’ she thought. That idea alarmed Arnie; he could not let that happen. She knew that as long as she stayed Arnie, it would not happen. But Annie… She seemed to have feelings for Hedley. If she became Annie, she could act on those feelings, see what they truly were. The thought frightened her, but, at the same time, it warmed her.
“Arnie” was not just a name. It was a ways of seeing herself. What would happen if she saw herself, instead, as “Annie”?
She thought about asking Dolores – and her mother, of course, what she should do. But she knew what they would say. ‘Go with your heart,’ they would both tell her. And she would do as they told her.
“Here at the saloon my name shall be… Anna…” She took a breath. “Anna… Teresa… Diaz, Señora Molly,” she said, a shy smile curling her lips. “But you can call me Annie.” She would let Arnie be Arnie at home. But she wanted to find out whether it was better to be looked at as the person she was now, or the one she used to be.
* * * *
“Next dance, Flora?” Carl asked, handing her a ticket.
She stood and tucked the ticket in the pocket of her apron. “Of course, Carl, I’ve been waiting all night to dance with you.” She smiled and took his hand.
“Same here, only I think we should sit this one out.”
She smiled and snuggled against him. “On one of the benches out back? I suppose we can do that.”
“Nope,” he said in a regretful tone. “Those benches are too… distracting, and we need to talk serious.”
Flora felt a chill. “Talk seriously?”
“Real serious.” He led her to a table at the far corner of the room from the band, where they could talk without having to shout over the music. “We got married in an awful hurry, Flora,” he said pulling out a chair for her. “And we gotta talk about it.”
The chill became an icy stab at her heart, as he pushed her in and took a seat next to her. “Are… are you having second thoughts about that?”
“Flora,” he raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. “The only second thoughts I got about our getting married, is that I’d do it again in a second.”
“Then what… what’s so important?”
“Us… our lives together.” He took a quick breath. “Your… sentence is up in a month. You gonna stay on here as a dancer, or are you gonna try t’get some other job?”
“What about you? Are you going to stay on as a cowboy?”
“Prob’ly not. A man likes t’think he can support his wife, and I sure as hell can’t do that on the $35 a month Mr. Lewis pays me. ‘Course, if I get a good enough job, you could even stay home – if you wanted --‘n’ take care of our house – take care o’me, too.” He winked.
Flora felt another chill. Was that what he wanted, a stay-at-home wife? As much as she loved him, could she be that sort of a woman, that sort of a wife? “I-I guess,” she said, the uncertainty clear in her voice.
“That’s one the things we gotta talk about, Flora. We got a month t’figure things out, at least as much as any couple figures it out.”
The chill deepened. So many questions; she’d been thinking that she’d had all the time in the world to work things out. Now… Now she could almost hear the clock ticking away, and it scared her. “That’s a lot we’ve got to get settled.”
“Yeah, but there’s only one thing we need to take care of t’night.”
“What’s that?”
“With all them other things we got on the burner, the last thing we need is for you t’get pregnant.”
This was the last thing she expected to hear from him. “D-Don’t you want to have children?”
“I surely do, but not right now. That’d make things a whole lot more complicated that we need ‘em t’be. So… well, I… ahh.. I been trying all week t’figure out how t’ask how you’d feel ‘bout my wearing one of…” He pulled a small leather pouch out of his pants pocket. “…these.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “You… You brought protection, too? “
“I did; maybe not for the same reason you did, but it looks like we ain’t gonna have t’talk about... protection – not for a while anyway.” He glanced over to see Shamus waving. “Looks like it’s time for you t’get back in line for the next dance.” He helped her to her feet and kissed her cheek. Then he chuckled. “Just one thing, though. How many o’them British riding coats d’you have?”
“Four… why?”
“I got five in my bag here.” He leered. “That’s nine. You think that’ll be enough?”
“I don't know,” she quipped. “It's a long time till morning.”
They both laughed.
* * * * *
Sunday, June 30, 1872
“I have been asked,” Reverend Yingling began, “if I will relent on my statement that I would not baptize the child… the children of potion girl Laura Caulder. Hebrews 10:26 tells us, ‘For if we go on sinning deliberately after receiving the knowledge of the truth, there no longer remains a sacrifice for sins.’ And yet, Mark 10:14 tells us, ‘Jesus said to them,’ Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.’ How, in light of our current circumstances, shall we reconcile these words?”
“I suggest a compromise. I will happily baptize the newborn son and daughter of Laura and Arsenio Caulder. But they -- he, Arsenio Caulder, -- must likewise compromise. Let him reverse his own votes on the creation of the committee I had requested. Let him convince the other members of the town council to do likewise, to abolish the so-called advisory committee that they created and establish a proper committee, one that will regulate and control O’Toole’s potion. Once this compromise committee is in place, I shall compromise, as well, and I shall then perform those baptisms.”
“Both sides compromise, and both sides receive what is their due. Surely, this is fair.” He gave the congregation his best “Trust me, I’m your minister” smile.
And some of the congregation did. It was a fair compromise, as far as they were concerned.
But the Judge, who knew an attempt at blackmail when he saw it, didn’t think it was much of a compromise at all. And neither did the rest of the board.
* * * * *
“I have truly died and gone to Heaven.” Luke Freeman leaned back against the pillows, grinning happily in the afterglow of a bout of early morning sex.
Lylah snuggled up next to him, her bare breasts pressed against his side. “Now why do you say that?”
“Why? ‘Cause here I is in as nice a bed as I ever seen, all soft ‘n’ warm, and there’s a beautiful lady angel in this here bed with me – just as soft and just as warm.” He leaned down and kissed the side of her neck, just above her collarbone.
She purred at the compliment. “Mmm, I like that answer.”
* * * * *
Ramon took a sip of his wine. When he set down the glass, he shifted his hand, so that he was holding Maggie’s hand in his. “Now, I think, is the time, Margarita.”
“Sí, Ramon,” she answered nervously.
He gave her a comforting smile and began. “Ernesto… Lupe, may I talk to you about something?”
“Sí, Uncle Ramon,” Ernesto said. Lupe nodded in agreement.
“Ernesto, a short time ago – when you were mad at your Momma – you said that you did not have to listen to me because I was not your Poppa.”
The boy stared down at his plate. “Sí, I am… sorry I said that to you. I was so angry, but it was wrong to say such a thing to you.”
“I accept your apology, Ernesto. It was rude, but it was not wrong. I am not your father.” He took a breath. “But I want to be.”
“Señor?” The boys eyes were wide as saucers.
“I… your mother and I, we want to adopt the two of you.”
Lupe looked confused. “How can Mama adopt us? She is already our Mama.”
“Your legal parents,” Maggie explained, “are Miguel and Guadalupe Sanchez. Yes, I-I used to be Miguel, but now… now I am Margarita de Aguilar, a very different person.”
Ramon gently squeezed her hand. “My much beloved wife; it is very confusing… to some grown-ups. Miguel and Guadalupe would still be the ones who gave you birth, but your legal parents, the people who were responsible for you, would be your Mama and I.”
“You would be our Papa?” the girl asked.
Maggie nodded. “He would. I would be, as I am – and always will be, your Mama, and you two would be Ernesto and Lupe… de Aguilar.
“But we are asking you to accept me into your family, too,” Ramon continued. “Not just as your mother's husband, but your papa in every way. And I will accept you and Lupe as my children in every way, also.”
“Do we have to decide now?” Ernesto asked. He glanced over at his sister, who looked as nervous as he felt.
Their mother smiled. “No, this is too big to decide right now, and you are right to ask for time to think.”
“Very wise… very grown-up,” Ramon added. “You both think about it for a few days. Talk to each other, and if you have any questions, any at all, ask your Mama or me.” He gave them both a broad smile. “Just know that we love you both. Bien?”
Lupe smiled back and came over to give him a hug. “And we love you… Papa.” She winked. “I just wanted to see how it would sound.”
* * * * *
Molly sighed and put down her knitting. With two grandbabies instead of one, more blankets and such were needed. “And that’s the end o’this part of our story. T’my way of thinking, it’s nice that it starts and ends with Maggie and Ramon.”
“So it is,” Shamus added. “They don’t seem t’be playing a big part in things these days.” He chuckled. “And they’ll be playing even less of a role – no role at all, in fact – in the next story.” He shot Molly a quick wink. “Some of ye’ve been wondering why Chris and Ellie didn’t tell ye more about what happened t’Jessie and Paul when they rode off to that wedding.”
“That’s what the next part o’the story is,” his wife continued, “‘Jessie Hanks, Outlaw Queen – The Cameo Murder.’ Chris ‘n’ Ellie have been working on the plot, and they’ll be starting the writing as soon as they rest up a little from the telling o’this story.”
“O’course,” Shamus said, “they’ll be more’n happy t’be hearing what ye thought of this tale. There was certainly enough action -- a rape and a shoot-out, an ambush and a fire.”
“And a wedding -- three weddings, no less -- and a cat.” Molly said.
Shamus glanced around the sitting room. “Speaking o’which, Love; it looks t’me like Sweetums is after yuir ball of wool again.”
* * * * *
Elysse
By Ellie Dauber © 2015
Here’s a gargoyle that kept me up about an hour last night insisting that I write it.
* * * * *
Morgan sat on a curved oaken bench at the edge of the parkway surrounding the harbor. It was late afternoon, and, far to the west, the sun was hovering just above the water’s edge. “Seems like everything’s getting ready to die,” he said sourly and flicked his half-finished cigarette into the water.
“When did you first notice?” asked a very female voice.
He turned and looked up at her. “Where’d you come from?” She was beautiful, five foot four of delightful feminine curves, displayed in a green blouse and matching, short skirt. Her long, straight blonde hair framed a round face with full lips and deep coral blue eyes.
“A nightmare.” She waited a moment. “You’re the last man I slept with. The Voices tell me that you’re the one. It happens at dusk.”
He studied her face, not quite understanding. She was trying to smile, but she looked so nervous, so drawn and tired. “Here?” he asked in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.
“By the water? Crashing waves… swept away by the force of our passion; it – look, this is your party as much as mine. Where do you want it to happen?”
“Up in the hills. The air’s clear, with the smell of grass and trees; nature, the way it was when I was a kid.” He could see her strained expression. “You don’t mind... do you?”
“Not if it’s important to you…” Her voice trailed off.
He stood up and took her hand in his. “It is. My car’s right over there.” He pointed. “Let’s go.”
* * * * *
They drove less than twenty minutes. Micklesohn Park would have been full of people on Saturday or Sunday, playing games, cooking and eating dinner. This was a Wednesday, and the place was almost empty. Especially around the remote parking lot where he finally stopped.
Morgan hurried around the car to help Elysse get out. She needed the help. She was pale and unsteady on her feet. “I’ve got a blanket in the trunk. Give me a minute to get it.”
“O… Okay.” She leaned against the vehicle for support.
He was back quickly with the blanket and – surprise! – a bottle of very good red wine. “There’s a great view just over here.” He took her left hand in his and put his other arm around her waist.
“Thanks.” She was annoyed at how husky, how tired her voice sounded. Still, she was grateful for his concern. And she could feel the beginning of arousal in his gentle touch.
He found a nice space near a small stand of pine trees. The trees blocked the view from the parking lot. She braced herself against one, while he spread out the blanket. A patch of pale blue wild flowers grew around the trees giving off a pleasing scent.
“Careful, now,” he said, helping her onto the blanket. He was smiling, but his happy mood, she could tell, was as forced as her own.”
He used a corkscrew, one that she hadn’t noticed before, to open the wine, pouring some into a glass. He took a sip and smiled. “Good as advertised.” He filled the glass and handed it to her. He filed a second glass and raised it in a toast. “To my beautiful Elysse.” He clinked he glass with his own and drank.
“Thank you.” She also drank a bit of the wine. “It is good.” She quickly finished her glass.
By now the sun was sinking down behind the buildings of the buildings in the city below. It seemed to be pulling the energy right out of her. “We must get started.” She grasped the hem of her green silk blouse and pulled it up and over her head, tossing it away. Her breasts were proudly displayed in the froth of an off-white lace 36-C brassiere.
“Good start.” He noticed that her nipples were extended, pushing against the fabric of her bra, and he felt himself grow hard. He undid the top three buttons of his shirt and yanked it off. That done, he leaned over and took her head is hands, steadying it for a kiss.
She tensed, but then moaned softly and gave in her feelings and began to return the kiss. Then she sighed and pulled away. We… We have to keep going. We can’t… can’t waste time….” She looked ready to cry. “…enjoying ourselves.”
“Elysse.” He gently touched her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re --- don’t apologize! I’m the one doing this… Doing it to you.” She kicked off her shoes. She wasn’t wearing hose. Her legs were long with an elegant curve, even seated on the ground..
He quickly pulled off his own shoes and socks. And pants. His arousal was obvious, tenting his camo-colored boxers almost to bursting. “Oooh, damn!” he gasped when she reached over and ran a finger along it.
Her hands trembled as she slid down the zipper that held her skirt tight to her waist. He realized that he couldn’t tell if that trembling was sexual excitement or physical weakness. She grew paler, more drawn even as he looked at her. Much as he hated all this, he had to continue.
“I need some help here.” Her voice was hoarse, raspy, as if she were ill.
Morgan nodded. He moved up beside Elysse and carefully slipped his arms under her at the waist and just below her hips. “Ready?” When she nodded, not wanting to use the energy to speak, he lifted her middle a few inches from the blanket. Her hand snaked down and yanked at her clothes. When she had finished, her skirt – and panties – hung down just below her hips. Her most secret self was now exposed to him.
“Still so very beautiful.” He said in a husky voice that betrayed his arousal. He set her back down, and then grasped her garments and slid them down her legs. He put them out of the way in a corner of the blanket.
Her breath was coming in short gasps, and she looked so thin. ‘Like some Third World famine victim,’ he thought. In spite of that – or was it because of the curse – she was more sexy than he had ever seen her. When he yanked off his own shorts, he was almost surprised not to see a billy club, no a baseball bat down there between his legs. He felt that hard.
He climbed over her. She spread her legs and guided him in. Damn! She was wet and more than ready for him. Before he started pumping, he reached up and tried to kiss her.
“Just do it!” she ordered angrily. Then her voice softened, and she added, “Please.”
He nodded and started to move, stroke after pleasurable stroke. She was so very good; so tight that there was almost a hand around his member, stroking him as he moved.
She gasped. Her hips moved with him. Her arms flailed for a moment before they grasped at the blanket. Her head rolled from side to side as she made small, cooing sounds.
He felt the pressure build in him. Build and build, and he would do anything to stop what he knew was going to happen. The line-up of the 1969 New York Mets, the twelve times tables; they held the pressure back. But not forever. He grunted like the great brown bear he’d once seen in a circus and felt what must have been gallons of his male essence into her.
His release set off hers. She screamed and her fingers clawed at his back. He devoutly hoped that nobody was in the twenty-block radius that her screams must have been heard.
He felt himself grow flaccid. He started to move off of her.
And found that he couldn’t. He was frozen in position above her. A feeling of... was it weakness spread from his member to all parts of his body. He no longer had the strength to be on his hands and knees above her, and his body sank down onto hers.
No… into her. His body was insubstantial, a mist, and her body seemed to be soaking it up like a sponge.
“I’m sorry, Morgan.” Her voice sounded much stronger. “And I-I did love you.”
“So did I,” he managed to whisper.
She smiled, bright as the sun. “I think we can live with that.”
It was the last thing he heard, as his head settled down, absorbed into hers. He found himself drifting in a dark, silent place.
But then there was a great wrenching. He found himself looking up at a sky that was shifting from daytime blue to evening purple. He felt full of life and energy.
He sat up and looked down at his nude body on the blanket, his pillowy breasts, his narrow waist, his legs that went on “forever”, and the hair covered slit between his legs. “I-I’m her. I’m Elysse.”
“Welcome to the job,” a voice in his head greeted him. He – no, she – recognized it somehow as Tom, Elysse’s previous lover.
Tom had become Elysse some twenty-five years ago, just as he – she, she reminded herself – had just become Elysse. Now they were separate within in Elysse’s mind. Tom joined Billy, and Jared, and Frank, and a long line of others stretching back over five centuries and more to the original Elysse.
She had been a poor Tuscan peasant who had betrayed a rich landlord, and then betrayed the man’s son, her lover. Both had died, but another, younger son, a tonsured monk, had laid the curse of 1,000 years of lust and betrayal upon her.
Morgan would have been astounded, even angered by the truth. That she had been forced by her lover to betray his father might not have mattered to him. He was a man after all.
She… She was Elysse, now, and she had a woman’s sensibilities. “And no sensible woman stands around naked on a blanket in a deserted park at twilight.”
She dressed in a hurry. That she knew how to put on a brassiere was no surprise. She’d been wearing the things since they were invented more than 100 years ago. Walking on grass in two-inch heels was no mystery either.
She gathered up the blanket. The last effects of Morgan, his wallet and his keys, were on it, and she stuffed them into her purse. She climbed into the car, the driver’s side this time, and adjusted the seat for her shorter height. When she adjusted the mirror, she saw another trace of Morgan. Her hair was now red, with a bit more curl, and her eyes were a shade of green. “Something to remember him by,” she said. Such changes weren’t uncommon in her half-millennium of experience.
She started the car and turned on the radio. With a frown, she switched the channel from a sports call-in show to an NPR classical music station. It had been too long a day, and she just wanted to relax.
Eshet
By Ellie Dauber © 2018
Ever wonder what happened to Harvey Weinstein?
* * * * *
Any resemblance to a real world situation is deliberate.
Eshet manifested herself just outside the elevator doors on the penthouse level of the hotel. She hummed a wordless tune, a 3000 year-old melody, as she stood in place, getting used to the body that she had created for her purposes. Still humming, she walked down the hall to a wide set of doors that a small metal plaque proclaimed was the entrance to the Blue Diamond Suite. She took a breath and knocked twice on the door.
“Yes?” A slender man with a bemused look on his face, opened the door just enough to look at her.
He saw a short blonde, about nineteen years old, her hair tied in two long ponytails by bright green ribbons. She wore a pale green dress that clung to her lush figure and stopped well above her knees. The sweetheart neckline revealed the tops of her breasts and the cleavage between them. Her face… ‘Hell, with a body like that,’ he thought, ‘who gave a damn about her face?’ Even as nice as this girl’s face was, especially those full, juicy-looking, cocksucker lips.
“Hi,” she said in a high, very chipper voice. “I’m… ah, I’m Marley Weber.” The name was carefully chosen, the identity carefully crafted. “I got a message that Mr. Weinberg wanted to see me.”
The door swung open. “Mr. Weinberg is in his office.” The man pointed to a half-closed door at the other end of the living room of the suite. “In there.” He walked past the woman and out into the hall. He waited until she had stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. He took the “Do Not Disturb” sign out of his jacket pocket and slipped it into the electronic key slot on the door. Then he strolled towards the elevator. Marley and Weinberg were alone in the suite.
“Hello.” Marley walked cautiously across the room. “Mr. Weinberg?”
A raspy voice came through the door in front of her. “Miss Weber?”
“Yes, sir… Marley Weber.”
“Come in, my dear.”
She moved to the door, pushed it open, and walked through. “H-Hello, Mr. Weinberg.”
Arnie Weinberg rose from his chair. He was a heavyset man of some sixty-five years. His grey hair was cut very short, barely longer than his perpetual two-day beard. His face was as fleshy as the rest of him with beady gray eyes, a bulbous nose, and narrow lips. As far as she could see, all he wore was a dark green robe, trimmed in gold, the logo of his film production company, Weinstar, embroidered on the breast pocket.
“I’m very happy to meet you, Miss Weber.” He extended a hand. “One of my scouts caught you in that production of Fallon’s Follies over in the Hauser Center, and he was very favorably impressed.”
She shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.” He was slow to release her hand.
“Call me Arnie.” He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her breasts and her hips. “And I’ll call you Marley, if I may. I look forward to working with you for a long time, and I hope that we can be… friends.” He ran his tongue quickly across his upper lip, as he settled back into his bulk back into the plush, dark brown chair.
“I’d like that, sir… Arnie.” She tried not to smile in triumph. The Follies was a poorly written student production, and the part that Marley Weber had played involved a single of dialog, after which her dress was ripped away. After posing lewdly for a moment, the girl ran offstage screaming. The only impressive thing about the part was the tear-away dress and the Victoria’s Secrets underwear she wore beneath it.
And the very female body revealed. It seemed that the tales about Weinberg were true.
“Come now… Marla, sit down and we’ll talk.”
She didn’t correct him about her name – no sense annoying the “great man.” She just looked around the room. There was no other chair beside the one he was in. “Sit down where, Arnie?”
“Right here.” He patted his lap. “It’ll be more… personal.”
She blushed. “N-No, sir… Arnie. It… It wouldn’t be right.”
“You know, Marla, one of the things I judge an actress on is how well she takes direction. If she – if you – can’t follow even the simplest of directions, then I’m afraid that I have no place for you in my next movie.”
“Movie?”
“Yes, I thought you might do well as Amy Adams’ younger sister. It’s a small role, but a vital one.” He paused for effect. “Just the sort of showcase a promising new talent like yourself could use to make her mark.”
“That would be fantastic. Thank you; thank yoou so very much,”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’re not the only girl being considered. I asked you to come here to show me why you should get the part… how much you want it.”
“A lot… I want it a whole lot; more than I ever wanted anything!” Her burst of enthusiasm was so strong that even she believed it. Almost.
“Prove it.” Weinberg shifted in his chair. He reached down and opened his robe. He was naked. His pale bloated flesh, his large, hairy belly, seemed to fill the chair. He glanced down at his member lying flaccid between his legs. Then he looked directly, imperiously, at the girl. “Jack me off, and the part is yours.”
“What!”
“Girl, are you deaf or stupid… or both? If you want that part— or any part in any movie my company makes, you will get over here and use those delicate fingers of yours to jack me off.” He chuckled. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to use that sweet mouth of your to do it.”
Marley lowered her head, not in shame as Weinberg happily thought, but to hide her broad, triumphant smile. “As you wish,” she said softly.
She walked over to the man, mumbling in a language few had ever heard, and no male had ever spoken. Her fingers wrapped around his member. To his surprise, he became hard almost at once. He felt a silky, warm pleasure as her hand began to stroke. His entire body was tingling in arousal. But then the feeling in his maleness seemed to fade. In moments, he couldn’t feel the force of his erection or the touch of her hand.
“What the hell?” He looked down. She was still holding him, but his penis no longer looked like it was flesh. There was a plastic sheen to it, a light pink plastic sheen.
She saw that he was watching her. She looked up at him and smiled. Her expression was wild, almost feral, and when… how had her teeth been sharpened to points? With a cry of animal joy, she pulled her hand away. As she raised it over her head, he could see that she was still holding the rubber dildo his member had become.
“Oh… G-d!” He looked down at his groin in panic. Nothing. At least, nothing that should have been there. Instead of “Little Arnie” and the family jewels, he saw a pair of feminine “lips” surrounding a slit and partly hidden by a patch of blonde hair. “What the hell did you do to me?”
Marley’s voice was suddenly firm, commanding. “Silence, foul dog!” Her image shimmered out of focus -- better than the best CGI he had ever seen -- and when this was finished, the blonde teenybopper in a pale green dress was replaced by a tall, regal woman, a queen or high priestess, in blood red robes, her scarlet hair streaming down her back, her face contorted in anger with piercing ice blue eyes. “And behold as your form changes to better match the fate that will be yours.”
Weinberg tried to object, but found that he could not speak… could not move.
But he could see. He watched as layers – years – of flab melted away. In moments, he went from grotesquely obese to merely fat to – Good Lord! – to actually slender. He hadn’t had a body this thin since he was a young man producing rock concerts back in Buffalo in the 1970s. He felt younger, too. All those little aches that he’d grown used to in the past few years were suddenly gone. If this was his fate, like that bitch said, he could happily live with it – provided he got his dick back, of course.
But the changes continued.
His body hair vanished, except for that blonde patch at his groin. At the same time, his pale, white skin darkened to a healthy-looking bronzed tan. His waist narrowed even as his hips grew wide. His butt now seemed to be resting on a soft, but firm pillow. His scrawny legs were fuller, now, and curved, coltish and feminine. His feet were smaller, as well, with – somehow – a bright pink polish on his toenails.
A moment later, something grew on his chest, blocking his view; breasts, large and round, with dark pink nipples that were extended, stiff with the excitement – the horror of what was happening to him. He was smaller, too, his narrow shoulders and slender arms lost in the folds of his robe, the sleeves long enough to hide his now dainty hands. Invisible hands seemed to be shifting the muscles of his face, and he felt the pull of much longer hair.
“Behold what you have become,” the woman commanded.
Arnie felt compelled to rise from the chair. A mirror was set in a frame a few feet away. Sometimes, he liked to watch himself with one of “his” girls. “What the --” The words stuck in his throat. His deep baritone rumble was now a high, cheery soprano.
He recognized the image at once. “You… I-I look the way you looked when you came in.” He stared accusingly at the witch that had transformed him.
“No, this is the way you look,” she replied in triumph, ‘now and forever.”
Arnie stared at his – his? – reflection in the mirror. He saw the blonde… Marla… Marley; she was naked, her high, 38-C breasts in full display, along with her narrow waist and wide hips. He turned – why? – and saw a delightful teardrop ass with long, well-curved legs that went, as somebody had said all the way down.
Then his… no, she sighed, her body was obscured by that same CGI shimmering. It faded quickly. Now her body was clothed, that same revealing green dress, sandals with a two-inch heels, a face made up with mascara and eye shadow, lipstick the same pink as her finger and toe nails, and her hair in twin braids.
“Who are you?” she asked incredulous from her transformation.
“I am Eshet, the eternal female spirit; in this case, the female spirit of vengeance.” The being smiled. “And who are you, my dear?”
“You know who I am.”
“Yes, but do you?”
“Of course I do. I’m Mar – I’m Mar… Mar-Ley!” She spit out the name, angry, but, then, surrendering. “Marley We… Weber.”
“Indeed, you are. And you’re late for work, aren’t you?”
The words spilled out of her. “Uh huhn, and Bert…” Who the hell was Bert? Someone she didn’t want to anger. “He hates that.” She grabbed for the purse that was now resting on her arm and ran for the door without another word. And, of certain, not a word of protest.
Epilog
When Marley ran into “The Blue Note” jazz club, she discovered that she had “run” into a complete life: job, friends, a small apartment a few blocks from her job, even a boyfriend with whom she had been intimate -- delightfully intimate, to her inner horror.
Right now, she was working the Friday evening shift at the club.
“Marley,” Billie, the bartender called, “The wings are up for table eight!”
Marley Weber stood up from the bar stool she’d been resting on, while she waited for the order. She walked slowly over to where Billy was standing. After a month, she still wasn’t completely used to the five-inch heels that were part of the costume of a waitress at “The Blue Note.”
The rest of that costume was a pair of smoky, thigh-high stockings and a lacy, sheer green teddy. The panty of the teddy was barely wider than a g-string in front with a thong in back that slipped easily between her ass cheeks. It looked, especially under the colored lights of the room, as if she was nude below – and above – the waist.
She picked up her tray, a pitcher of beer and three glasses and a large serving of wings with ranch dressing. It was heavy, and she walked carefully, the heels giving a most inviting sway to her hips as she walked.
The men at her table had watched that walk. “Here you go, guys,” she said, setting the food down; bending over the table to put her breasts on display. “You want anything else, you just let me know.”
“Thanks, Sugar,” one man, a beefy-looking man in a Johnny Walker t-shirt, said. “And here’s something for your trouble.” He pulled a twenty from his wallet and folded it twice. Before she could stop him, he stuck the bill down the front of her teddy, shifting his hand to grasp her breast for a moment before he pulled it out. “Keep the change,” he told her.
Before she could straighten up and walk away, a second man reached over and pinched her butt. “Nice and ripe,” he said with a laugh, running his hand along the curve of it and making her shiver.
When she got back to the bar, she fished out the money and handed it to Billy. He smiled at her and kissed the bill before he rang up the register. He put in the twenty, but he took out six singles that went into the “Tip Jar” to be divided by all the waitresses at the end of the evening.
Marley sat down to wait for the next customer for one of her tables. She sat gingerly. That bastard’s pinch had hurt! Still she sat, perched invitingly on the high bar stool. For a special fee, waitresses were also available for lap dances in a private room. No sex – at least, none on site during the girl’s shift. After the shift; well, that was between the girl and the John – the customer. So was any money that might change hands.
Alice, one of the other waitresses was sitting there as well, listening to the radio, an all-news channel she liked. The story, of all things, was about the recent sale of the Weinstar Corporation. Billie came over to tell her to turn it down. “Big Joe” Briggs, the trumpeter and his jazz band were about to start their set.
“I wonder what ever happened to that guy,” Alice mused over “Big Joe’s trumpet. “What was his name… Weinstein? I didn’t hear anything about him going to jail or anything.”
Billie shrugged. “He didn’t go to jail; that’s for sure, a big shot like him. Probably grabbed a ton of money and ran away. He’s living the life of luxury now… wine, women, and song, you can be sure of that.”
“I don’t know,” Marley said, the magic actually let a bit of irony into her voice. “Wine, women, and song, ain’t necessarily that great,”
Explanations -- A Short Political Gargoyle
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
Yes, this is another politically biased story. I just couldn’t resist the notion.
The President slammed the report down on his desk. “Too damn many pages,” he muttered. “I’ve told them, and I’ve told them no more than two pages… and large type.”
He leaned back in his chair. The TV remote was in the top drawer of the desk. It wouldn’t do to have it out where it might be photographed. He reached for it, then stopped. He didn’t feel like Fox. He wanted something more, something special. He flipped the intercom. “Genna, no calls – no nothing for the next two hours.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Staff was used to such requests. They came on a weekly basis, sometimes – especially these days -- more often.
He stood up and walked over to a small door set in the south wall of the Oval Office, barely noticeable next to a bookcase and half-hidden by a curtain. He opened the door and walked through, carefully closing it behind him. He turned the small knob that locked it.
“The Nap Room,” he called it. It was a small room, probably a closet originally; no furnishings except a lamp on a small dark wood bedtable, a rack for his jacket and tie, and a very comfortable couch. A watercooler and a supply of paper cups stood next to the door. It was someplace for the President to take an hour or so to just rest his eyes and his mind. If he got the chance.
He smiled as he took off his jacket and draped it over the rack. He unknotted his red silk tie and set that on top of it. Then he glanced over at the door – just to be sure. Locked. With a sigh of relief, he kicked off his shoes and dropped his pants. He was careful, very careful to straighten the pants as he lay them down atop the jacket and tie.
He opened the drawer of the bedtable. He pushed aside the wind-up timer and the spare cellphone. The pills were in two bottles in the back of the drawer. The first were the big white ones that everybody knew about. The second were the tiny purple ones, the special activator pills that Jeff Epstein had stumbled on during a trip to North Africa. The combination wore off abruptly, returning him to his Presidential self in about ninety minutes, unless he took another “Activator” pill. He took one of each, washing them down with a cup of water.
The effects hit immediately, a sudden chill that ran through his body. He began to shrink, shedding inches of height and pounds of body fat, vanished by the magic of the pills. In moments he was a foot shorter, barely five feet tall, and weighed about 110 pounds. His shirt was like a tent; the sleeves falling far past his hands. His undershorts slid off his hips and sank down around his ankles.
Now more changes hit. His hair darkened to amber and grew down past his shoulders. His face rounded as the wrinkles and creases of age melted away. Wrinkles and signs of vanished from his body, as well. The figure was now no more than fifteen years old.
And feminine.
All body hair disappeared, except for a patch at his groin. He felt a stretching on his chest as his nipples rose, pushed out by small mounds, breasts that swelled to a pretty, perky 32 B. His arms were slender, supple. His fingers now thinner, bit longer, too. When there’d been time – like on Jeff Epstein’s island -- they might be manicured and painted.
His waist narrowed as his hips swelled out and his butt inflated to the inverted heart-shape of a young female. He felt himself grow hard, but then there was the delight – it almost felt like a caress – as his member soften, shrank away. It sank down between the two lips that had been his scrotal sack. The caress seemed to move into him as his male organs became their female counterparts.
She was Dawn now. She pushed up her sleeves past her hands and quickly unbuttoned her shirt. She stepped out of her briefs and took off the shirt, tossing it onto her other masculine clothes. She could see her legs, now long and coltish, with rounded, inviting thighs.
Hurrying now, she arranged herself on the couch, head raised to watch better, legs spread for better access. She reached down, three fingers together caressing her tender, new clit. The rest of her hand moving in and out of her new opening. It felt so good, even when she was alone. When she was with another girl – or girls – or even with a man (in this form she liked men), the sensations that flooded her body were… unbelieveable.
The delight, the warmth of arousal, spread through Dawn. Her other hands kneaded her breast, playing with one turgid nipple. As she reached the first of what would be several orgasms this afternoon, she screamed in pleasure – the room was soundproofed. “Oh… oh, G-d, I LOVE chloramphenicol!”
Family Jewels
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2007
Here's a gargoyle inspired by the recent release of files from the Central Intelligence Agency. I hope you enjoy it.
* * * * *
Family Jewels
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2007
This material is released as part of the "Family Jewels" information from the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency on Wednesday, June 28, 2007. The facts have been verified, although no explanation is offered.
CIA Document 63-057-A09-1553
The following transcript is from a conversation conducted within the offices of the Public Document Analysis Section; Building C-5, Room 218; Langley, Virginia on 14 August 1963. Names and other identifying information have been deleted. The participants are identified only as Voice 1 and Voice 2.
Voice 1: Good morning, sir.
Voice 2: Good morning, [deleted]. What have you got for me now?
Voice 1: A letter... from a wizard.
Voice 2: A what?
Voice 1: A wizard -- at least, that's what he claims in this letter.
Voice 2: I don't know what we're doing here, sometimes. It's... it's [expletive deleted] ridiculous. Lord, I wish I was still out in the field.
Voice 1: You and me both.
Voice 2: You did some good work out there, too, mister, even if those damned Cuban [expletive deleted] things up for you at the Bay of Pigs.
Voice 1: Thanks. I was lucky to get out alive. [pause] I've read some of the reports about your work in Berlin, especially after the Wall went up, not bad, not bad at all.
Voice 2: Enough of this mutual admiration society. I've got a meeting with the deputy chief in a half-hour. What does this so-called wizard say in his letter?
Voice 1: He claims that he can use magic to neutralize enemy agents. He even says he can do it at a distance of hundred of miles.
Voice 2: Now that would be something worth have. What's he claiming, voodoo?
Voice 1: Just some kind of chant. He even put the words in this letter.
Voice 2: He did? Is he asking for money for it?
Voice 1: No, sir. Let me read what he says. [clears his throat] As a loyal American, I have been looking for ways that I might be of service to my country in these perilous times. After months of research, I have developed this charm -- he calls it a charm, rather than a spell.
Voice 2: I heard, get on with it.
Voice 1: ...developed this charm. Read aloud in the presence of an enemy, it will alter reality, so that the person will no longer be a threat.
Voice 2: Alter reality? What the [expletive deleted] does that mean?
Voice 1: I don't know. Maybe we can figure it out after I read the rest of it. He says, it does not matter who reads the charm. However, if the reader does not first recite the protective charm, then he will also be affected. The protective charm should not be read in the presence of the intended victim. I offer this magic as my gift to my government. If you wish to contact me about working with you on a continuing basis, I may be contacted at the address on the envelope that contains this letter. And it's signed, "A loyal and proud American, Albertius Mudge."
Voice 2: What's this Mudge's address?
Voice 1: Albertius Mudge; Second Booth From the Back; Elephant and Crown Tavern; Hempstead, New York.
Voice 2: And the post office delivered something with that as the return address?
Voice 1: No, sir. To tell the truth, the security camera film shows an owl flying in and dropping it at the entryway desk.
Voice 2: An owl? Are you serious?
Voice 1: I didn't believe it either until I saw the film. Security says the owl's still circling by the door... like it's waiting for an answer.
Voice 2: He may be a total wacko, but if he can train an owl to do something like that, we may still want to talk to him.
Voice 1: Should I try and get the owl's attention?
Voice 2: You're kidding, I hope. Call the New York office, and have them send somebody over to Hempstead to bring him in.
Voice 1: What about the letter? The two... charms are right there on the page.
Voice 2: This agency does not accept the existence of magic, not officially anyway. I've heard rumors of something; a Bureau 13, I think, that deals with such things.
Voice 1: Shall I forward it to them?
Voice 2: I don't see how. Officially, they don't exist either.
Voice 1: Seems like a shame. It'd sure make life easier. Just step up to some Commie and say [serious garbling of the tape that could not be electronically resolved].
[Note: There was some change in the pitch and timbre of the voices for the remainder of the tape. Electronic analysis confirms that it is the same two speakers.]
Voice 2: Well, that was interesting. It's almost noon. Do you want to get some lunch?
Voice 1: Thanks, but I'm meeting [name deleted] for lunch today.
Voice 2: Mmm, he's cute. You're a lucky girl.
Voice 1: I know. We're [giggles] going away this weekend, a bed and breakfast over near Ocean City.
Voice 2: You naughty thing. No white wedding for you, dearie.
Voice 1: Who says? Or are you just trying to get out of wearing that bridesmaid dress?
Voice 2: I admit it. Pink pastel was never my best color.
Voice 1: But I thought you and the other girls liked your dresses.
Voice 2: Some do, some don't. It doesn't really matter. Everybody's going to be looking at you anyway.
Voice 1: Not everybody. [Name deleted] is one of the groomsmen, and I know he likes you.
Voice 2: [giggle] I know it, too, and I like him. He's [giggle] a great kisser.
Voice 1: Ooh, details, girl, details.
Voice 2: Later, it's still lunchtime. I'm heading out before the cafeteria line gets too long.
Voice 1: What'll I do with this letter?
Voice 2: File it with the other junk letters -- or just toss it. It's too silly to believe.
Voice 1: I guess. We're not even supposed to be reading this stuff.
Voice 2: We can't file it if we can't read it. Even secretaries like us have top secret clearance here.
* * * * *
A final note: The Bureau 13 referred to in this story can be found an RPG Game by that name and in the Bureau 13 novels by Nick Pollatta based on the game. It's a special bureau created by Abraham Lincoln to investigate and neutralize threats to the U.S. from mad scientists, aliens, and the supernatural. The books the game are very much tongue in cheek, and I do very much recommend them. Though out of print, they're available through Amazon.com. Also, Nick's a friend of mine, and several mutual friends of ours appear in the stories. There's a bit of peripheral TG in a couple of the books, but that's all.
Johnny Crayne loved driving his SUV down the highway at full speed, but when he picked the wrong truck to pass, he and his wife and their best friends discovered that they'd passed on into new lives.
Family Time
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2004
"Johnny, slow down. You're driving much too fast."
Johnny Crayne glanced at his wife in the rear view mirror of their SUV. "Paula, this is Arizona, nothing but flat, straight roads that go on for miles. There's no better place to see what this baby can do." He chuckled and patted the car's dashboard.
"Yeah, relax," Ray Preston said from the front passenger seat. "Johnny's a good driver, and there's not another car on the road."
The SUV came over a low rise that had hidden the road ahead. "Yes, there is," Lisa, Ray's wife said. She pointed over her husband's shoulder. "Do you see it?"
A black dot was on the road ahead of them, perhaps a half-mile away. "From the way we're closing on it, it can't be doing over 50," Johnny said in disgust.
As they came closer, the dot resolved itself into an old, gray-green pick-up truck. "No problem," Ray said. This is a two-lane road. We'll pass this guy like he's doing -- shit." A large sign loomed next to the road just ahead.
"What's the matter?" Lisa asked.
"Damned sign," Johnny answered. "Says the left lane's closed ahead for construction the next 15 miles." He gritted his teeth. "There's no way I'm gonna be stuck behind that truck for 15 miles." Everyone felt the back of their seats press against them as the vehicle raced ahead.
Paula leaned forward and looked at the speedometer over Johnny's shoulder. "What... 90! What are you doing? It's not that important if we pass this guy."
"Yeah," Lisa added. "We're on vacation. Vegas will still be there tomorrow."
"Women," Johnny said sarcastically. "They just don't get it, do they?"
"Tell me about it," Ray said. "Look, Lisa... Paula. He's going slow, maybe even weaving a little, with a thick, black exhaust. Do you both really want to be stuck following that pick-up, breathing in that smoke, for twenty minutes, maybe more?"
Johnny answered. "They don't." There was another burst of speed. The van began to vibrate. It passed the pick-up and ducked back into the right lane just as the left lane disappeared behind the start of a very long line of orange highway cones. "I said we'd make it," He said as he raised his right hand and high-fived Ray.
"Way to go, old buddy," Ray said wildly.
Lisa looked out the rear window of the SUV. ""He's in a ditch, Pull over."
"He'll be okay in a minute," Johnny said. "Watch."
Now Paula looked back. "He's not moving, Pull over." Her voice grew firm. "Pull over, now."
Johnny shook his head, but he slowed down and pulled to a stop on the shoulder. They all turned their head and watched. The truck didn't move, nor did anyone get out of the cab.
"I'm calling 911," Paula said, reaching into her purse for her cell phone. She pushed the "emergency call" button and waited. "Hello," she finally said, "I'm Paula Crayne. I'm at the eastern end of the construction on Route 66 near Peach Springs. There's been an accident. A truck..." she looked at her husband's face. "A truck ran off the road into a ditch just where the construction starts. I think the driver's hurt."
* * * * *
Johnny glared at his wife. "You happy now, Paula? By the time we got finished talking to that two-bit sheriff, it was after dark, too late to drive on. We're stuck here -- beautiful, exotic Peach Springs -- till morning."
"At least they were nice enough to get these motel rooms for us," Paula replied, "and at a discount, too." The couple was in a room decorated in southwestern style. Pictures of desert landscapes hung on the walls, and the cover on the queen-sized bed was a blue and red Indian blanket. Ray and Lisa were in the next room, the connecting door between them open for now.
"And they bought our story of the old guy swerving into the ditch by himself." Ray walked in from the other room, "I think this is yours, Paula." He put a pale blue overnight bag down on the bed.
"But when that old man -- Mr. Swiftwater -- wakes up --" Paul started.
Johnny completed her thought. "It'll be his word against the four of us." He looked sharply at his wife. "Unless somebody says otherwise."
"I agree with Paula," Lisa said as she came through the open door. "It was just an accident. What's the worse that could happen if we tell the truth?"
"Tickets for speeding... reckless driving..." Johnny counted off on his fingers. "Enough pointed to raise our car insurance... maybe enough to get my license suspended for a while."
"The way you were driving back there, maybe it should be suspended," Lisa said.
"Before you get off of that high horse of yours, Lisa," Ray said, "you might want to consider this: Swiftwater is a local; we're outsiders, maybe rich outsiders if you look at what we're driving. They could decide to tack a mother big fine onto those tickets."
"They... they wouldn't?" Lisa said.
"Sure they would," Johnny added. "A big enough fine that we have to sell my SUV and use our vacation money -- if they leave us enough of that -- to take the damned bus home."
"And we'd be on that bus with them, Lisa," Ray added. "Even if I wanted to keep going when Johnny and Lisa had to go home, we really don't have the money to rent a car of our own for the week."
"All right," Paula said with a deep sigh. "You've made your point. We'll back up your story."
"But if either of you two pull another hare-brained stunt like that," Lisa warned, "we'll do the driving for the rest of the trip."
"And I'll sell that thing as soon as we get home." Paula added.
* * * * *
"I think we have heard enough, my brothers," the spirit form of Malcolm Swiftwater said. The six other spirit forms, invisible to all but themselves, nodded in agreement.
The seven forms drifted upwards, passing through the ceiling of the motel room. "The punishment shall be as they themselves have pronounced it," one of the others said.
"They will begin by bringing your grandson to us for his consecration," a third said. The forms moved through the night sky towards the hospital where their bodies waited.
* * * * *
The buzz of his travel alarm -- Johnny never trusted motel wake-up service -- woke him at exactly... 'Eight o'clock,' he thought. 'Maybe enough time for some morning fun.' His body felt... odd as he rolled over, as if his center of gravity had shifted. There was some kind of weight on his chest, too.
"Paula, hon --" Johnny froze. That wasn't Paula next to him. It was a guy! "What the hell?" He rolled back and jumped out of the bed.
The noise and motion woke the stranger. "Morning -- hey, who the hell are you?" The man scrambled out his side of the bed. He grabbed the blanket and held it in front of him.
"I'm Johnny -- never mind that. Who the hell are you, and where's my wife." And why did his voice sound so high-pitched?
"I'm..." the man touched his throat. He looked down at himself and let out a scream. "Johnny... what... what's happened to us?"
"What do you mean 'us', buddy?" Johnny stopped. His voice was higher... and soft, like a girl's voice. He looked down and saw that he was wearing some kind of blue nightie. His body looked a lot thinner with no trace of body hair. Worst of all, he seemed to have grown a pair of breasts.
He looked at the stranger, realizing for the first time that this meant looking up at him. 'Eyes are the same,' he thought, 'so's the hair color. Round out the jaw -- and get rid of the stubble on it -- and this guy could be..." He said the name aloud, "Paula?"
The man nodded, still staring at him. "Johnny? Is that you?"
"In the flesh." He pointed to himself, accidentally touching his breast. He pulled his hand away, as if he'd touched a hot stove. "Sort of, anyway. Paula?"
The man nodded. "This is crazy." They both hurried to the mirrored door to the closet. "I'm a kid," Johnny said in disgust. "G-damned jailbait." He looked about 15, cuddly, his new teen queen curves revealed in a short, sleeveless, blue night shirt that hung down to his hips, just revealing a ruffled matching panty. His razor-cut brown hair was now black, the same color as Paula's and hung down to his shoulders in a mass of curls.
His face was different yet familiar. "I... I look like you... like you did when we met in high school."
Paula rubbed her jaw. 'Need a shave,' she thought. "I... I look like my brother, Harry. She was tall now, just over six foot, and ruggedly built. Her old self ran and cross-trained with five-pound weights. Her new body, clad in a t-shirt and boxers, looked like she used much heavier ones.
She looked over at Johnny. "It's like you were my daughter or something," she said in agreement with Johnny's assessment of his new form.
"What the hell are we going to tell Ray and Lisa?"
As if on cue, there was a knock on the connecting door. "Open up, you two," Lisa called from the other side.
The transformed pair looked at each other. Johnny shrugged. "Might as well get it over with."
Paula strode over and unlocked the door. "It's open." The knob turned, and Lisa walked into the room. She stopped in surprise and stared at the two of them. "There's... umm, been some changes," Paula said.
"Tell me about it." A girl about Johnny's new age and size walked through the open door. She looked like Johnny as well, wearing the same nightclothes, except hers were turquoise. Her hair was shorter and the same strawberry blonde as Lisa's own hair. Her face looked a bit like Lisa's, as well.
"Ray?" Johnny and Paula said in unison. The new girl nodded.
"Anybody have any idea how this happened?" Ray asked.
"And why?" Lisa added.
Johnny scratched his head, tangling his fingers in his new, longer hair. "We passed an Army base on the way here. Maybe this is some kind of crazy, secret, military experiment."
"Then why isn't Lisa changed?" Paula asked. "And why are you two teenagers, while I'm still an adult?"
"Maybe it's some kind of hallucination," Lisa suggested. "And we're just imagining this."
Ray's hands moved across his breasts. "Feels real -- too damn real -- to me."
"Then what..." Paula's eyes shifted. "Hey, the message light's blinking." She reached over and picked up the phone, tapping the button next to the blinking light.
It was as if the phone went into conference call mode. "The answers you seek are at the hospital with Malcolm Swiftwater," a deep voice said, one that they all could hear. There was a click, and the message light stopped blinking.
"Let's go," Johnny said, heading for the door to the parking lot. Ray was right behind him.
"Not dressed like that," Lisa said, pointing at their clothes.
The pair stopped and looked down at themselves. "Then what the hell do we wear?" Johnny asked. "I don't think any of my old clothes will fit me now."
"No, but I'll bet that your new clothes will." Paula pointed at Johnny's suitcase, next to the folding luggage rack in the corner. Its size and shape hadn't changed, but what had been a mahogany-colored leather case was now a green, blue, and yellow paisley cloth bag.
Johnny walked over and tried to put the bag on the rack. "Damn... heavy." It took two hands to lift it now. He grunted as he put it on the rack. He opened it and found... "Girl's clothes? Now how in the hell..." He looked through the case. "Panties... bras... and a bunch of damned dress."
"Pick something pretty to wear," Paula said wryly. She picked up her own suitcase. 'Light as a feather,' she thought. 'Amazing." She flipped the latch. "Just what I expected," she said, holding up a pair of boxers and a man's denim shirt." She looked through the clothes. "Even a jock strap to go with these swim trunks."
She pulled out a few things and started to pull off her t-shirt.
"Maybe I should leave," Lisa said softly.
Paula stopped with the t-shirt over her head. Lisa and the newly female Ray were looking at her oddly. So, she realized, was Johnny. She put her arms down, letting the shirt settle back onto her. "I'll change in the bathroom," she said feeling somehow embarrassed. She grabbed a set of men's clothes from her suitcase and walked into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind her.
"I think the weirdness is just starting," Lisa said. She walked over and took a blue cotton bra and matching panty from the paisley suitcase. She tossed them to Johnny. "Put these on, then pick something nice to wear over them."
Johnny was holding the bra by one strap, looking as if he expected it to turn into a snake and bite him. "I... I can't wear this. I'm a guy for Pete's sake."
Lisa reached out and gently cupped his breasts in her hands. Johnny's eyes went wide at the sensation. "Not according to these, you're not," Lisa said firmly.
"Looks like your cups runneth over," Ray said sarcastically.
"So do yours," Lisa told him. She turned back to Johnny. "I want you dressed when we come back." She grabbed her husband's hand and started walking towards the connecting door, pulling him along. "Come on, dearie, and let's see what sort of pretty frillies are in your suitcase now."
* * * * *
Twenty-seven minutes later, the SUV pulled into the hospital's visitors' parking lot. Paula was driving, with Lisa sitting next to her. The "girls" were in the back seat.
Lisa wore a stylish green skirt and short-sleeved yellow top. Her make-up was suited for a woman on a family vacation, just lip gloss and a bit of blusher. Paula still needed a shave, not having wanted to risk her neck with Johnny's straight razor. She wore a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved denim shirt that showed off her hairy arms and muscular build.
The girls were in what would best be called "grunge." Their hair was uncombed, and they both wore loose jeans and sweatshirts that all but hid their new figures. Both had put up more than enough fight to make sure that neither wore any make-up.
"Why bother?" Johnny had argued. "We're gonna make whoever did this change us back as soon as we get there."
Johnny jumped out of the van, as soon as it stopped moving, and ran towards the hospital, the others close behind.
An older woman with a "Volunteer" pin on her pale yellow blouse was sitting at a desk in the middle of the lobby. A large sign on the front of the desk said, "Information." Johnny ran over to her. "Swiftwater... umm, Malcolm Swiftwater, where the hell is he?"
The woman looked up at him and frowned. "Well, aren't we the rude little girl? Try asking me again... politely."
"But this is important, dammit," Johnny whined.
"I'm sure that you think it is, young lady, but that's no excuse for bad manners... or profanity."
Lisa stepped up next to Johnny. "How about if I asked?" she said, smiling at the woman. "Could you please tell me where Mr. Swiftwater... Malcolm Swiftwater's room is?"
"That's better." The woman looked at Johnny. "You should try to act like your mother here." She glanced at the terminal on her desk. "Mr. Swiftwater is in 301, that's the ICU... the intensive care unit. No visitors but immediate family, which I don't think you are." She looked at the screen again. "That's odd. There's a note that anybody else asking about him should be sent to the family conference room." She pointed off to the right. That's room 122, down that hallway. The note says to tell you that they're waiting for you."
"Who's waiting?" Lisa asked cautiously.
The woman shook her head. "It doesn't say, but the word 'they' is underlined." She shrugged. "Must be some one important. You better go."
* * * * *
The blinds were closed on the door and windows to room 122, but Johnny, Paula, Ray, and Lisa could hear voices as they came close. "Let me go in first," Paula whispered. She opened the door quickly and walked in. The rest of the group followed, bunched up behind her.
Six old men, all Native American, sat around a table looking at them. They were all in work shirts and jeans, two of them wearing old-style trooper hats with a feather in each. Their craggy features -- they could have been chiseled in granite -- and silver-white hair seemed to radiate dignity and wisdom.
And power. The door closed of its own accord behind them.
One of them, a tall, slender man in a red and blue plaid shirt spoke. "I see that the Hartman family has finally arrived." He gestured. "Welcome and do come in."
Johnny shook his head. "No, we're the Craynes and the Prestons... or, at least, we used to be."
"Who you were is of no concern to us." The man looked at Paula. "What was your birth name?"
Paula pointed at herself in surprise. "Me?" The old man nodded. "My maiden name was Paula Louise... Hartman."
A second, shorter man in a brown shirt spoke. "We sort of tweaked reality. Right now, you're in a world where you were born a man, Paul Hartman. That's your wife, Lisa, and your twin daughters, Jenny and Rachel." He pointed to each of the others in turn.
Johnny and Ray stepped forward. "That's crazy," Johnny said.
"Is it?" Brown Shirt and other five men each raised a hand, palm upward, and blew, as if blowing some sort of dust, towards the transformed group. "Now, what's your name, missy?" He asked.
Johnny -- was it Johnny? -- shook her head, as a wave of dizziness ran through her. "Jenny... Jenny Hart... man." She realized what she was saying and looked at the others. "I... I just called myself 'Jenny', didn't I?"
"You did, Jen," her fellow teen said.
"Gosh, Rachel," Jenny said, her eyes wide. "What am I gonna do?"
The old men, Plaid Shirt, laughed. "You ain't gonna curse, like you did to that poor lady outside," a third elder, this one in a hat with an eagle feather, said. "It ain't ladylike." He chuckled at his own joke. "You all still know who you were, but you'll only call yourselves -- and each other -- by your new names."
"For how long?" Paul asked, stepping forward.
The tall elder -- Paul thought of him as "Plaid Shirt" -- smiled. "Well, now. That all depends on you. We've got a little errand for you all to run. You do it for us, and we'll talk about changing you back."
"And if we don't?" Rachel asked.
"In that case," Eagle Feather said, "you and your sister get to start 10th grade about three weeks from now. A couple of cute girls like you, there'll be all sorts of boys after you."
"Hope you two know about birth control," Plaid Shirt added.
Jenny sighed deeply. "What do we have to do?"
"Not much," Brown Shirt said. "Mal was on his way to Santa Fe to pick up his grandson, when you almost killed him. You go get the boy -- his name's Tony Swiftwater, by the way -- and bring him back here."
"That's a day's drive each way," Rachel protested. Ray had been "navigator" for the trip. "I don't want to be a girl that long."
Brown Shirt slapped the table loudly with his palm. "You ran Mal off the road so you wouldn't have the inconvenience of following him for fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes. Two days as a girl don't seem like too much of a punishment." The other elders muttered words of agreement.
"We'll do it; we'll do it," Lisa said hurriedly. The old men were getting angry, and who knew what else they could do. "But we'll need more than his name to find him."
Eagle Feather tossed a thick envelop onto the table near Paul. "There's his address and phone number. There's a couple of maps in there, too, with a set of directions straight to his house." He paused a beat, then added, "and we'll tell him to be packed and watching for you tomorrow morning."
"More of your Injun magic, I suppose," Rachel said sarcastically.
The man ignored the ethnic slur and showed his teeth in a feral sort of grin. "Nope, e-mail."
* * * * *
"Paul," Jenny called from the back seat of the SUV, "could you... uhh, find a place to pull over?"
"What's the matter?" Lisa asked. "Do you have to... you know?"
"No," Jenny said, sounding embarrassed. "We... me and Rachel... want to --"
"You hungry?" Paul asked. He looked at the dashboard clock. "It is getting kind of late. I'll look for a restaurant."
"Okay," Rachel said. "I am getting kind of hungry, but what we... umm, what we want is a place to change clothes."
Lisa turned to look at the pair. "Change?" She tried not to smile. "What's wrong with what you're wearing?"
"It's too warm," Jenny whined.
"Yeah," Rachel added. "A sweatshirt and these heavy jeans are just too much."
Paul smiled now. "You didn't seem to think so this morning."
"That was this morning," Jenny complained. "Now they're just too uncomfortable, even with the van's air conditioning."
"Okay," Paul said. "I'll look for something." About ten minutes later, he saw a sign. "McDonald's ahead. We'll have some lunch, and you two can change after we eat. Is that okay?"
"Coo-ul," Jenny said happily.
* * * * *
"Paul Hartman, don't you dare!" Lisa warned.
Paul froze, his hand inches from the door to the ladies' room at the McDonalds where they had all had lunch. "I wasn't going to go in," he said. "I was just going to knock and tell them to hurry."
"Be patient. This isn't something that they're used to."
"I know. It's just... frustrating, being a man, the only man in the group, no less, all of a sudden. I feel... I don't know how I feel."
"You need to relax for a bit." She waited a moment for him to react. When he didn't, she continued. "How about if I drive for a while?"
Somehow, the suggestion bothered him. "No, I'm fine. I'll drive."
"You're sure? You've been driving since we left the motel this morning."
"I said, 'I'll drive.' Don't worry about it."
"Umm... okay." She knocked on the door. "How are you two doing in there? Need any help?"
The bathroom door opened about three inches, and they saw part of Jenny's face. "I... we're done, I think. You guys promise... promise not to laugh?"
"We won't laugh," Lisa said. "Will we?" She looked at Paul.
He raised his hand, palm outward. "No laughing, I promise."
"You... you better not," Jenny said. She turned her head and looked behind her. "C'mon, Rachel."
"You first," a second voice hissed.
"Together," Jenny said firmly. The door opened wide and the pair of them walked out. Jenny had her hand tightly around Rachel's wrist. They walked out, then turned around slowly to show what they were wearing. "Well?" Jenny asked, trying hard not to look nervous.
"You both look... lovely," Lisa said, her voice full of surprise.
It was true. Jenny was wearing a pair of dark green capri pants that hugged her curves and a lighter green blouse cut short to show a bit of her narrow waist and just tight enough to draw attention to her perky breasts.
Rachel was actually wearing a dress, a pink mini that showed off her excellent legs and nubile figure. It was sleeveless and cut low enough to show a bit at her cleavage.
Both girls carried the clothes they had been wearing balled up under one arm. Their hair was combed and looked like they'd both worked with it a little.
"Very pretty," Paul said, feeling a bit of pride somehow. "But those clothes are a bit... umm, unexpected."
"Girly, you mean," Jenny said. "These were the only pants in my suitcase."
Rachel nodded. "All I had besides dresses and skirts were a couple of pairs of shorts that were practically denim bikini bottoms."
"They're called 'Daisy Dukes'," Lisa said, "after that old TV show. I think you both look very nice, but you need a bit of --"
Jenny shook her head. "Make-up? No... no way." She said it rather quickly.
"Yeah," Rachel added. "I... uhh, I don't think so... umm, either."
"Maybe later," Lisa said.
"Maybe," Rachel answered under her breath.
* * * * *
It was almost 6 when the group pulled into a Motel 6 next to a park along the Santa Fe River on the western side of town. As they checked in, they could hear rock music playing in the park through the screened windows. "What's going on over there," Paul asked.
"It's a party for teens," the desk clerk said. "The city council runs it to thank the kids who worked in various programs over the summer." She handed back Paul's credit card, one in his new name, Paul Hartman. He'd been surprised to it find in his wallet when they had stopped for gas that afternoon.
"Can anybody go?" Jenny asked.
"It's supposed to only be for the teens who worked for the city," the clerk said, "but that's mostly boys. I don't think that they'd keep out a couple of pretty girls like you and your sister."
"Umm, thank you, ma'am," Jenny said. She wasn't sure why she'd even asked.
"Do you want to go there?" Lisa asked, surprised at how eager Jenny had sounded.
"No... certainly not," Jenny said too quickly. "It's just that, well, after sitting in the van all day, I'd just kind of like to stretch my legs some." The idea of going to a teen party sounded like fun, too, but she didn't want to admit it to herself, let alone say it aloud.
"Me, too," Rachel added, smiling. She felt almost giddy at the thought of the party nearby.
"I guess a little wait before supper wouldn't hurt," Paul said, kneading the muscles in the small of his back. "I wouldn't mind stretching out in a bed for a bit, myself."
"The party's very well chaperoned, if the young ladies do decide to go," the clerk said, trying to be helpful, "and there's plenty of food, burgers, pizza, and such. My cousin works for the parks department. He's on the committee that runs it." As a final argument, she added, "It ends at ten o'clock; the kids still have to go to work in the morning."
"Do you two want to go?" Lisa asked them. "It sounds like fun."
"Well..." Jenny said, trying to sound like she needed to be convinced. "I guess it would be okay."
Rachel nodded. "Be something different to do." She was looking in the direction of the music, her body swaying gently to the beat.
"Come back in an hour if you decide that you don't like it, and we'll all go out to dinner together," Paul said. "And you'd better be back here by 10:10." He pointed at his wristwatch.
"Thanks," the two girls said together. "We will." They grabbed the purses that they'd found in the van in mid-afternoon and walked quickly out the front door of the motel.
"Now that we've settled that," Paul said with a wry smile. "Let's get a cart for the bags and go find the rooms."
* * * * *
Paul kicked off his shoes and lay down on the queen-sized bed. "Aahh! Wake me in about a week,"
"Not likely," Lisa said, coming in from the adjoining room, where the girls' baggage had been left. "How about I let you rest there for an hour. Then you can take me out for dinner."
"How exotic do you want to go for dinner?"
"Exotic? What do you mean?"
"McDonalds again or Taco Bell, or we could split the difference and send out for some pizza."
"I don't care. You think the... the girls will be joining us?"
Paul shrugged. "Who knows. The clerk said there was dinner-type food. I guess it'll depend on how comfortable they are being 'the girls.' If they aren't back, and we do go out, we'll leave them a message at the front desk."
"Sounds good."
"So does a nap. What are you going to do while I take one?" He patted the bed next to him and leered -- sort of. "You could always join me."
Lisa cocked an eyebrow. More surprises. "No, thanks. I napped some in the van. I think I'll... umm, take a shower. We were kind of rushed this morning." She began to unbutton her blouse.
Paul lay in the bed, eyes half closed, watching Lisa undress. He liked it that her firm breasts didn't sag when she unhooked her bra and tossed it onto a chair. When she bent over to step out of her skirt, he smiled to himself at the sight of her rounded butt and the soft curve of her legs.
He wasn't sleepy anymore; he was hard, achingly hard, and he found that he enjoyed the sensation.
Lisa didn't seem to notice. She picked up her toiletry case and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
'Well, we are supposed to be married,' he thought, as he climbed out of bed. He heard the shower start as he quickly undressed.
Lisa had just stepped into the shower, when she heard his voice by the door. "Can I wash your back?"
"Paul," Lisa said. "What are you doing?" She turned to look at him. He was standing next to the shower, naked, smiling, and very ready." She found herself smiling back.
"Once -- before -- you confided to me that you had this elaborate fantasy about being made love to in a shower. This isn't exactly the Left Bank in Paris, and candles would probably set off the smoke alarm, but..." He gently took her hand and placed it on his erection. "...I'm ready to do my part."
Lisa felt her face flush. Her nipples felt hard enough to cut glass. "Then get in here and let's see just how ready you are."
* * * * *
Jenny and Rachel followed the sound of the music into the park. They walked along a well-lit pathway, coming eventually to the entrance to a fenced-in picnic area. A metal archway at the entrance to the area said, "Madison Picnic Grove" Hanging down from the archway, a second sign read, "Park Department Thank-You Bash." A thin, Hispanic man in a white shirt and tie and a darkly tanned boy in a RETURN OF THE KING t-shirt were sitting behind a table handing out name tags.
'Here goes nothing,' Jenny thought and she walked over to the table. Both she and Rachel had stopped to put on lip gloss after they left the motel.
"Hi," the man said. "Which program are you two with?"
Jenny bit her lip nervously. "We're... umm, not with any program. We're staying over at the Motel 6. The guy behind the desk said we should come and ask to get into the party."
"I'm sorry," the man said with a frown. "This really is just for our summer workers."
"And their dates, Joe," the boy said, interrupting. "And their dates."
"Yeah, but these girls aren't anybody's dates, Marco," the man replied.
The boy took a good look at Jenny and Rachel, his gaze roaming over their shapely bodies. "No, but hot as they are, they will be somebody's dates real quick." He handed them each a tag that said, "Guest."
"Thanks," Jenny said, pinning the tag to her t-shirt.
"Yeah," Rachel said, "Thanks." She looked down at the ground, feeling a bit shy.
The boy smiled and kept looking at Rachel. "You're very welcome. Just save me a dance for when I get off gate duty, okay."
"O-okay." Rachel looked up at the boy, smiling, then quickly turning away again.
* * * * *
The food area, a "U" of long tables surrounding a portable pizza oven and three large, smoking, barrel-shaped grills, wasn't far inside the grove. A balding man wearing a "Kiss Me I'm the Cook" apron over a white shirt and tie, was standing behind one table opening a bag of burger buns. "What'll you young ladies have?" he asked.
"Burger and fries," Jenny said. Rachel asked for the same, and the man shouted their order to a second man working at the nearest grill.
The man pointed down to a long tray, next to a couple of large coolers at the end of the table. "Drinks are down there, fixings, too. Help yourselves." Jenny and Rachel looked. An metal tray held two kinds of relish, shredded lettuce and slices of pickle, tomato, and onion in different compartments, along with a row of squeeze bottles holding mustard, ketchup, and horseradish sauce. A small heated pot at the end was full of melted cheese.
"Here you go," the man said. He handed them each a paper plate with a burger and a small cardboard container of fries. A paper napkin was wrapped around a plastic knife and fork.
"Thanks," Jenny said. She put lettuce, a tomato slice, and some horseradish sauce on her burger and sprinkled some salt on her fries. Rachel just put ketchup and salt on her burger, but she used a ladle to pour melted cheese on her fries. They fished a pepsi and a can of pink lemonade out of the iced cooler, and sat at a nearby table.
Rachel popped one of her fries into her mouth. "Eeeww, all that grease," she said, spitting it out. "What was I thinking of?"
"I thought you liked cheese fries," Jenny said.
"I did... before. I guess I don't now." She picked up another fry and began scraping off the melted cheese with her knife.
Jenny nodded, looking unhappy. "I know what you mean. This pepsi is way too sweet. I need a diet pepsi." She frowned. "I guess our tastes are changing."
"I hope that doesn't include your taste in guys," a voice said. They looked up to see the boy from the gate. "Remember me... Marco... Marco Delgato... from when you came in?" He spun a chair around and sat down, both his arms resting on the chair back. "I traded shifts with a buddy of mine, so I could get that dance."
Rachel saw that he was looking straight at her. "Ummm... I remember. I'm Rachel... Rachel Hartman. This is my sister, Jenny."
"Hi, Jenny," Marco said and turned back to look at Rachel. "About that dance..."
Jenny felt slighted by all the attention he was paying Rachel. "Do you mind if we finish our supper first?"
"Whoa." Marco held up his hands. "I was gonna ask if I could join you two for some supper first."
"Sure, you can," Rachel said happily, "If it's okay with Jenny, I mean."
Jenny shrugged. "Why not?" She started to stand up. "I have to go get another pepsi, but I'll be right back."
"What's the matter with that one?" He pointed at the soda on the table next to her.
"I... uhh, I grabbed a pepsi instead of a diet pepsi." Jenny felt foolish even as she said it.
Marco stood quickly. "I have to get some food anyway. Why don't I drink that one..." he pointed to Jenny's soda on the table, "...and bring you a diet pepsi back for you?"
"Okay, I guess that'd work, too," Jenny said, deciding to cut the boy some slack for trying to get on her good side.
The boy bowed slightly. "Very well, then, my lady. I shall return anon... a-ten, even." He turned and walked over to the food table.
Rachel giggled as he left.
"Rachel," Jenny said, "what's got into you?"
Rachel put her hand in front of her mouth. "I... I'm sorry, Jenny, but he's funny, and he's nice, and he's soo cute."
"Oh, Lord, what's happened to you?" Jenny said, looking concerned.
"I... I don't know, Jen, but -- to tell the truth -- I-I kind of like it."
"Just keep it under control. Okay?"
Rachel nodded her head quickly up and down, a wide grin on her face. "I will."
"Better get started, then." Jenny glanced over at the food tables. "He's coming back over." She sighed. "At least, he remembered my diet pepsi."
* * * * *
"Leave to you, Marco, to find the two prettiest girls at the party."
Marco looked up. "Hey, Coop. Ladies, this is Coop, Jefferson Coopersmith to the rest of the world. Coop, this is Rachel... and Jenny... Hartman." Marco shifted closer to Rachel as he spoke.
"Hi." He nodded at Rachel and stuck out his hand towards Jenny. He was tall, over six foot, and slender, with café au lait skin and an unruly shock of blonde, almost white, hair. "Can I join you?" He was carrying a slice of pizza with a bite out of it and a can of root beer.
Jenny shook his hand. 'Nice eyes,' she thought to herself. Aloud, she said, "Su-sure, sit down." He did. Next to her, but she didn't move away.
"So where do you girls work?" Coop asked, taking a swig of his soda.
"They don't," Marco answered for them. "They're a couple of tourists crashing the party."
Coop let out a soft whistle. "Does Harris know?"
"Yeah," Marco said. "I was working the gate with him, when they showed up. He wasn't gonna let them in"
Coop shook his head. "The man had no heart."
"Yeah, but I talked him into it," Marco said, gently putting his hand on Rachel's. "A party can't have too many pretty girls."
Rachel felt her face warm. "Or cute guys." She saw a surprised look flit across Jenny's face when she said it.
"You're our guests then," Coop said, "and it's our duty to show you a good time while you're here."
"Don't put yourself out on our account," Jenny said. This mutual flirting was getting way out of hand.
"It's a dirty job," Marco said --"
Coop finished for him, "But somebody's got to do it. I just glad that we're the ones."
Jenny giggled in spite of herself.
"How 'bout we start with that dance, Rachel promised me?" Marco asked.
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "I never promised you a dance."
"Well," Marco said with a wry smile. "We can argue about whether you did or not... or we can dance." He stood up and offered her his arm. "Which do you want to do?"
Rachel stood smiling. "I think I'd rather dance." She took his arm and let her lead her to the area in front of the bandstand.
"How about you, Jenny?" Coop asked. "Would you rather argue or dance?"
Jenny looked at closely. "Hmm, tough choice." She waited half a beat, just to make him suffer, "Dance."
* * * * *
"Hmm," Jenny said. "That was nice." She and Coop had just kissed. She felt warm all over, felt like she was floating on a soft, pink cloud, felt Coop's hand gently massaging her breast under the fabric of her bra.
Coop moved in close to kiss her again. "Shhh," he whispered. He put his other hand behind her head.
'No! Please, no!' In the back of her mind, Jenny could hear Johnny Crayne screaming. He'd never have let a boy kiss him like that. He'd have pounded the kid into the ground for even trying. And, as far as letting the kid play with his tits -- hell, Johnny Crayne didn't even have tits.
Jenny Hartman did.
Johnny was a part of her, but he wasn't all of her. She liked Coop, and she definitely liked what he was doing to her body. 'The hell with it,' she thought, sighing with pleasure.
Coop moved closer. His lips pressed against hers, his tongue taking control of her mouth. He felt her nipple grow tight in his fingers, and kept playing with it with his left hand. His other hand "spiderwalked" down from her breast to her navel, his fingers just barely brushing against her skin. He heard her moan and felt her muscles tremble under her skin. Now her entire body was trembling.
Jenny pressed her body against his. Her hands explored the muscles of his back. She ran her fingers through his hair. All the time, she never broke the kiss.
Coop's hand spiderwalked down to her hips. He found the zipper on her capri pants and slowly pulled it down. When she didn't object, his hand slipped inside. He shifted and began to run a finger across her sensitive labia through the thin fabric of her panty.
Jenny moaned, thrilling at the sensations running through her body. Then she realized what was happening, what he was doing to her. "No!" she said, breaking the kiss.
"What's the matter, babe?" Coop asked. He didn't move either hand. One began to pluck at her nipple, while the other slipped a finger under the elastic at the top of her panty.
"Get your hand out of there!" Jenny said, her voice shallow from excitement and fear. She shifted her hips, pulling away from his hand. "I-I don't like it."
"Sure you do," he said confidently. His hand was on her thigh now.
She pushed her hands against his chest with both hands. "I don't. Get away from me."
"What's the matter with you? We were just having some fun."
"Maybe you were. I-I wasn't. I... I don't want to do anything like that." She quickly zipped up her pants and moved away from him.
Coop frowned. "I thought I was with a woman, not some little girl."
"You thought you were with some little sex toy, not a... a girl, and you were wrong." She stood up and stormed up. No way she was going to stay with him, especially when she was starting to cry. "I won't give him the satisfaction," she told herself.
* * * * *
"Rachel... Rachel."
Rachel broke her kiss with Marco. "Did you hear that?"
"Yeah," Marco said with regret. "I think it was your sister." He sighed and ran his fingers gently through her hair. "I guess... I guess we'd better see what she wants."
Rachel nodded, looking disappointed, and began to button the top of her dress. She looked around and saw a figure hurrying along a path about twenty feet away. "Jen... over here," she called waving her arm.
"Rachel?" The figure turned and started walking -- no, running towards Rachel and Marco. They stood up. Jenny ran past Marco into Rachel's arms, almost pushing him out of the way.
Jenny was sobbing. "It was... he... I-I want... I... want... to... go... home."
"What happened?" Rachel asked. "What did he do to you?"
"He... he put his hand down... down there," she said, brushing at the tears with her hand. "When I told him not to... he... he got real mad at me."
"That idiot," Marco said, angrily. "He got in trouble more than once already for trying to do stuff like that."
Rachel glared at Marco. "And you didn't say anything. You just let him take Jenny and walk away."
"He said that he wasn't going to do anything like that again. It... he would have gone to jail if he didn't promise." He stopped and swallowed hard. "He... he's my friend. I got to trust him."
"Maybe you do," Rachel said, "but isn't it a bit much to risk Jenny like that?"
"C'mon," Marco said. "I can't stop being his friend just because of what your sister says he..." He stopped, realizing his mistake. "...because he molested --"
"I heard you the first time, Marco," Rachel said. "You're a nice guy, but you've got a lot to learn." She reached out and took Jenny's hand. "It was a fun evening -- up to now, but I think we'll be heading back to our motel."
Marco sighed and looked to the ground. "I... can I walk you back to your motel, at least. It's dark, and, well, you don't know the way."
"Jenny," Rachel asked gently. "Is that okay with you?"
Jenny wiped a tear. "I guess so. I'm-I'm sorry, Rachel. I just... I want to go home, to go back to the way we were."
"The way..." Marco asked. Then he shook his head. "Never mind. It's none of my business." He pointed to the path Jenny had been walking. "It's that way back to the gate. Let's go."
Marco barely spoke as they walked back, only to give directions, but he tried three times to hold Rachel's hand. On the third try, she let him. She even let him kiss her kiss her gently on the cheek, when they said "good night" in the lobby.
* * * * *
Paul heard a knock on the connecting door between the two rooms. "Just a minute," he yelled. He threw back the covers and climbed out of bed.
"Better put something on," Lisa called from her side of the bed. "Don't want the girls to see you buck naked."
Paul reached for his robe. "I don't have anything 'the girls' didn't have themselves yesterday."
"That was yesterday," Lisa said. "Today, you're their dad, and they're your daughters."
He nodded. "And teenage girls shouldn't see their daddy's privates."
"Nope," Lisa smiled happily. "That's a pleasure reserved for their mommy."
"Count on it." He put his finger to his mouth. "Now, shhh, while I see what they want." He turned the latch that locked the door from his side and opened the door a few inches. "Hi, how was the party?"
"Not too bad," Rachel said. "We-we just wanted to... to let you know we were back." She sounded like she was hiding something.
Paul's fists clenched. "Are you sure you're okay?" If anybody hurt his girls...
"We're fine." Jenny's voice came from inside the room. "Just a little... tired."
"You sure?" Paul asked. Did Jenny sound upset, sound like she'd been... crying?
Rachel tried to smile. "We're just not ourselves today." She gave a weak laugh at her own joke. "Nothing a good night's sleep -- and a reverse transformation spell -- can't fix." She tried to smile. "We're... we're fine. Honest." She faked a yawn. "Goodnight, daddy."
Paul was so startled, he let her shut the door. He heard the latch click on her side a moment later. He shrugged and turned his latch. "Daddy," he said with a chuckle as he walked back to bed. He tossed off the robe.
"That's right," Lisa said, looking up at him. "You're the daddy, and I'm the mommy." She threw back the covers on her side. She was gloriously nude. Her hair was a golden halo around her head. Her nipples were visibly erect. "And now... we're gonna play... house."
Paul felt himself stiffen.
He -- no, she and Lisa had been girlfriends since junior high, sharing every female experience as they grew up. Now... He didn't feel girlish now. He was a man, and he was about to make love -- again -- to a beautiful woman -- no, better than that -- to his beautiful and very sexy wife.
* * * * *
"Daddy --" Rachel suddenly had a horrified look on her face, as she locked the door. "I called him... you know what, didn't I?"
Jenny nodded. "You did. This is beginning to scare me, Rachel... even more than... than what happened with Coop." Rachel just nodded and looked scared.
"Look," Jenny continued. "let's just... just go with the flow for now. Remember, we pick up the Swiftwater kid tomorrow. We'll be back at... ummm..."
"Peach Springs."
"Peach Springs, we'll be there by nightfall tomorrow night." She smiled for the first time since... since Coop. "And we'll be ourselves, our real selves, by the next morning."
* * * * *
"Doesn't look like the sort of a neighborhood where a wizard lives," Lisa said. The van had just turned onto Clinton Street, and they were driving slowly, looking for a street number, the house where Malcolm Swiftwater's grandson lived. The houses were small, mostly ranch-style and at least a generation old. Almost every house needed some repair work or a fresh coat of pain or both. The lots they stood in were also small, covered with yellowing grass and the occasional cactus. Children and dogs ran across the yards, the children shouting, as children will, but not always in English.
Rachel looked out her window from the rear bench. "It's no worse than Privat Drive, I guess."
"Privat Drive?" Paul asked from the driver's seat. "Where's that?"
Now Jenny spoke. "Harry Potter. In the stories, he lives there with his aunt and uncle when he's not at Hogwarts."
"Harry Potter?" Paul raised an eyebrow. "How do you know about him?"
"Last spring," Rachel said without thinking. "We went to..." She stopped. "I-I remember going to the movie, going as me -- as Rachel -- with Jenny. I know Ray... Ray n-never saw any of th-those movies." Her voice faltered.
Lisa turned around in the captain's chair she was sitting in and took hold of Rachel's hand. "It's okay, honey. It's okay."
"No... no it isn't," Jenny said softly. "The magic... it's getting stronger. I-I remember going, too. I think... I think some... some boys t-took us."
Paul turned the van in to the curb and stopped. "On a date, you mean?" He turned to look at the girls. They both nodded. Jenny was nervously biting her upper lip. "Look," he said, "maybe the magic is getting stronger, but maybe... just maybe it's getting weaker. After all, we're noticing what it's doing."
"Do you think so, Daddy?" Rachel asked.
Paul shrugged. "I really don't know, honey, but I do know that we'll be picking up that Swiftwater boy pretty soon. We're at 1117 Clinton Street; 1341 can't be more that a couple of blocks away. Then it's straight back to that hospital in Arizona, and we make them change us back to who we really are."
"Can't be soon enough for me," Jenny said, and Rachel quickly agreed.
Paul gave them a big smile. "Okay, until then, don't worry about it -- not too much, anyway. You two are strong, just like Johnny and Ray were -- are. You'll be fine."
Jenny sighed. "I hope so, 'cause being like this really sucks."
"Jenny Hartman," Lisa scolded, "how many time have I..." She put her hand to her mouth as she realized what she was saying.
Jenny shook her head. "Never, but you thought you had. You see what I mean?"
"I guess I do," Lisa said.
* * * * *
"He is just... sooo good looking," Rachel squealed.
Jenny grinned and squealed back. "He is; he is! And I think he likes me. Did you see the way he kept looking at my legs?" The two girls were alone in the ladies' bathroom of the dinner where Paul had stopped for lunch.
"With those 'Daisy Dukes' you're wearing, he can't help but look." Rachel opened her purse and started to put on a fresh coat of lip gloss.
Jenny fluffed at her hair. "Oh, yeah, like that mini of yours is much longer." She paused. "I swear... that Tony Swiftwater has got such deep, dark eyes. I could get lost in those eyes."
"And those muscles. He's like something from one of those romance novels, the handsome, noble Indian brave that rescues the young maiden..."
"And they fall in love." Jenny sighed.
"You know what we're acting like, don't you?"
"Uh huh, like two lovestruck teenyboppers, but you know what? I don't care."
"You don't?"
"I don't. Mom and Daddy say we're gonna be back to that hospital, back to ourselves, by nightfall. Right?"
"Right, but..."
"But nothing. It..." She giggled. "It feels good to be like this. My insides feel like they're full of ginger ale. I like it, and I'm going to enjoy it till it's over."
"Do you want it to be over?"
"What? Of course, I do. I really do. I mean, this is fun and all, but I'm supposed to be Ray Preston."
"Supposed to be? Who do you want to be?"
"You sure know how to spoil a mood. Okay, I... deep down, yes, I want to be Ray Preston. Are you satisfied now?"
"Yeah, and I guess -- deep down -- I want to be Johnny Crayne... eventually."
"Eventually?"
"Yeah, I want to be Johnny, but later, when we get back to Arizona. In the meantime, there's this hunk out there, and I want to spend some time with him as Jenny."
Rachel giggled. "Me, too."
"So what are we doing in here?"
* * * * *
This time, the volunteer at the hospital's information desk was a balding man with glasses. "Swiftwater?" He looked at the computer screen. "I'm sorry, but there's no information except that he's here... someplace. It does say something about the conference room, though. That's room --"
"We know the room," Lisa said quickly. "Thanks." The group hurried quickly towards the room.
The door opened just as they reached it. "Enter freely and of your own will," Paul said wryly.
"Dracula is not the sort of quote we need, Daddy," Jenny said. Johnny and Paula Crayne had both been fans of old horror movies.
They stepped inside, and the door closed behind them. "Sorry, honey," Paul said, "but it does fit."
The same six men were sitting around the table. There was no sign that they'd moved at all since the day before. "Welcome to you, Anthony Swiftwater," the man in the brown shirt said. Then he added some words in what had to be some Native American language.
Tony bowed his head for a moment and answered in the same language.
"I have sad news, Anthony," Brown Shirt continued. "Your grandfather has passed on to the next plane of being."
"He... he died," Jenny said in a panicky voice, sinking down in a chair. "Then I... I killed him."
The man with the eagle feather shook his head. "Mal was very old. His heart was not... very strong. It... stopped just after sunrise this morning, and, for all their wisdom, the doctors could not start it again."
"Couldn't you... with your magic," Lisa asked. "Couldn't you do something?"
The old man in the plaid shirt looked down at the tabletop. "Malcolm's heart was too weak. The magic to save him would have killed him."
"And once a spirit has moved on," Eagle Feather said sadly, "No magic can bring it back."
Jenny looked up at Tony. "I'm sorry, Tony. I'm so, so sorry."
"We all expected it," Tony said. "That was why he was coming to get me, so he could finish training me to take over for him."
Paul stepped over and put a hand on Tony's shoulder. "We're all very sorry for your loss, Tony. We'd never have wanted it to happen. I hope you know that." Lisa and Rachel mumbled words of agreement.
"And do you all accept some blame for Mal's death?" Plaid Shirt asked. "His heart, his body, was weak. The accident you caused was more than it could bear."
Jenny was sobbing, rocking back and forth in her chair. "No, no, please. I-I didn't mean to hurt him."
"We know, honey; we know." Lisa bent over and put her arms around the girl.
Eagle Feather nodded. "Very good. You accept the blame and feel the guilt, even before we give it to you."
"I... I do," Jenny said, trying to get control of herself.
Now Tony stepped forward. "Elders, I have not known these people very long, but they... they seem like good people."
"Thank you for not being mad," Rachel said, her own eyes moist. "I-I guess we messed up real good."
"More than you can know," Eagle Feather said. "And now the question is, what do we do about it?"
Paul stepped in between Jenny and the elder. "That's what I want to know. You said you'd change us back if we brought Tony here. We did that, but, considering what happened, I don't suppose that's very likely."
"Do you think that we are as much without honor as yourselves?" Plaid Shirt said angrily.
Eagle Feather touched the other man's shoulder. "But they do deserve some punishment for the part they played in Malcolm's death."
"Let them stay as they are," another elder, this one a shorter man wearing a green hairband.
Plaid Shirt shook his head and said something in the Native American language. The others argued back and forth in that language for several minutes. Even Tony Swiftwater took part in whatever they were discussing. Finally Plaid Shirt said, "It is decided." He gave the group an odd smile. "We will give you your real lives."
"Do you mean it?" Paul said in surprise.
The elder nodded. "Your real lives, just as I said."
"Thank you," Jenny said, standing up. "Thank you so much. I am just so tired of this teenage stuff I've been doing."
Plaid Shirt nodded. "That will not be a problem much longer." He waited a moment. "Now, go."
"We're going," Lisa said, pushing Jenny and Rachel towards the door. "Thank you, and, Tony, we really are sorry for your loss."
The door opened, and the group hurried out, Paul last. "We are, Tony, and... good luck with your training." He hurried to catch up with the others, as the door closed behind him.
* * * * *
The buzzing of the travel alarm woke Lisa up. 'Morning,' she thought, giving a sigh of relief. 'We're back to normal.' She felt movement in the bed and turned to see... "Paul? I... I don't understand."
"Maybe this will help." He took her in his arms and kissed her. It was one of those toe-curling kisses of his that she loved. That she loved?
She pulled away. "What... it was like... like I'd always been your wife."
"I know. The last two days -- when we... -- it was because the spell was making us do it. We knew it, but it felt too good to worry about it."
Lisa's eyes grew wide. "We were Paula and Lisa under a spell. Now... now, this is what we really are."
"Our real lives, just like they said. Paula and that... other Lisa, they're the ones that don't seem real any more."
Lisa thought about it for a moment. "No; no, they're not." She leaned over and kissed Paul again. "We... this Lisa and Paul, they're the real ones."
"And we'll do something about that." Paul gently ran a finger along her cheek. "But I think we'd better check on the girls first."
"They must be having a fit, especially Jennie." They hurried out of bed and over to the connecting door between their rooms.
Lisa knocked. "Rachel, Jenny, are you awake."
The door opened. "Yeah," Rachel said, "but I... I almost wish I wasn't."
"Almost?" Lisa asked.
Rachel nodded. "Uh huh. I know I should be mad about still being like this, but... this morning, I don't feel like Ray any more. He's... he's somebody else, like in a story or something."
"Remember what they told us," Paul said. "That they were going to give us our real lives." Rachel nodded. "They did. They made these lives the real ones. Who we were before... those are the one that are unreal now."
Lisa looked around. "Where's Jenny. She was so unhappy about being a teenaged girl, and now..."
"Now that's not a problem," Rachel said, smiling wryly.
Just then, Jenny came out of the bathroom. "Good morning, Mommy... Daddy," she said, smiling and clutching her overstuffed toy pony as if she'd always been the pig-tailed nine-year old she had become during the night.
The End
Getting to Know You
By Ellie Dauber © 2003
Another one of my older stories, served up for your consumption and your comments (if you please).
`*
Gary McFee was really anxious to know if Lisa Tolliver liked him. The SRU Wizard shows him what he wants to know, but hardly in the way she expected,
Getting to Know You
By Ellie Dauber © 2003
"Hey, there's Lisa Tolliver." Dan Kearns jabbed Gary McFee in the side and pointed.
"Where? Where?" Gary looked around frantically until he saw Lisa and another girl, Cassie Young, coming out of the Jean King. When he saw her, he sighed and leaned back on the railing they were standing against. "Oh, man, she looks so hot."
Dan took a long sip out of his soda. "You really like her, don't you?"
"What's not to like? Did you see how she looked?" He watched the girls walk down the mall corridor until they went around a corner.
"So ask her out some time."
"Me? Are you crazy? Lisa could have her pick of any boy in the school. Why should she want to go out with me?"
"Why shouldn't she? If a girl likes a guy, she'll go out with him, even if he's as big a loser..." Dan elbowed Gary again, "...as you are."
Gary grinned sheepishly. "That's just it, ‘if she likes a guy.’ I don't know if Lisa even likes me."
"So ask her. That shouldn't be too hard."
"Yeah, it shouldn't be. To tell the truth, I'm kind of... afraid to ask."
"Afraid? No way. The guy who skateboarded down Petersburg Summit, the Hamlin High Eagles best offensive lineman this year; my man, Gary, he can't be afraid of some little --"
Gary made a fist and held it in front of Dan's face. "Watch it, man. That's Lisa, you're talking about. You're my best friend, and I don't want to hurt you, but..."
"Okay, okay. Geez, talk about sensitive. I was going to ask if you were afraid of some little… brunette, but now I don't have to. My sympathies, man, you got it bad."
"Tell me something I don't know." He sighed. "If I asked her out, and she said 'no', I don't... ah, the hell with it -- I'll never ask, so I'll never find out." He finished his soda and threw the cup into a trash bin in the Food Court on the other side of the railing.
Time to change the subject. "Look, I heard somebody broke my record on the Pirate Cove game. I'm going over to see if I can beat his score." He started walking towards the arcade, then stopped and looked back at Dan. "You coming?" He walked on without waiting for an answer. The arcade was in the opposite direction from the way Lisa and Cassie had walked.
"Ah, true love," Dan said wryly. He took a sip of his own soda and headed after his friend.
***
They were almost to the arcade, when Gary suddenly stopped. "Wait a minute. Isn't the Photo Barn next to Pelham's Shoes?"
"Yeah, why?" Dan asked.
"Because now it isn't." He pointed. "Take a look."
"What the hell?" They were looking at a new store sandwiched in between the other two. Its front was what like a pretty good imitation stone, with a large display window.
A clothing dummy in the center of the window wore a bright red 1920s "flapper" dress, short and dripping with fringe. There were tables on either side. One was covered with a display of T-shirts. The top one was a dark pink with the words "If these were only brains" written across it in a florid pale pink script. The other table held a pile of old, leather-bound books and two trays of costume jewelry. A sign just above the window read, "Spells 'R Us" in large block letters.
"Never heard of them," Dan said. "Must be new."
"Yeah, but they've got some strange stuff," Gary said. He looked in. Behind the windows, they could see rows of shelves with all sorts of odds and ends. "Let's take a look."
"I don't know, Gary. There's something about this place that bothers me."
"What d'you mean?"
"How'd it get there for one thing? Does the Photo Bran look any smaller? Does Pelham's? Where's the space for this store come from?"
"The name of the place is 'Spells 'R Us.' Maybe they used magic."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Then stay out here. I'm even more curious now. I'm going in."
"Ribbit... ribbit." Dan said the words in a deep voice.
"What're you doing?"
"Practicing for when you come out. I never talked to an enchanted frog before."
"And you never will." Gary laughed and walked into the store. There was a bell over the door that rang when he pushed it open, and when it closed behind him.
"I'm back here, Gary," a man called from the rear of the store. "Just follow my voice." Gary did. The voice spoke an occasional word or phrase as he walked to keep him on track.
When Gary reached the back of the store, the man was sitting on a high stool behind a long counter. 'Looks like Santa Clause on vacation,' Gary thought. 'Same white hair and beard, but this guy's a lot thinner, and he's wearing blue, not red.'
The old man laughed heartily. "Very good, Gary; 'Santa on vacation', I'll have to tell that to Nick the next time I see him."
"How'd you know what I was thinking?" Gary asked. "For that matter, how'd you know my name?"
The same way I wedged my store in between the Photo Barn and the shoe store, magic." He watched Gary very closely. "I'm a wizard."
"What level?" Gary asked, sticking out his hand. "My best character is a twelfth level fighter-mage."
The man chuckled and shook Gary's hand. "Very, very, good. Gygax certainly did make a mark on this world with that game of his, far better than we all thought he would, back home."
"Are you saying... hey, who's kidding who around here?"
"I'd say that we're about even. I like you, Gary, but..." he looked up at a clock that hadn't been on the wall a moment before, "...time is wasting. So it's back to business. What's your problem?"
"You can read minds and do all this other stuff, and you still have to ask?"
"Oh, I know what your basic problem... Lisa. I also know of seventy- three... no, seventy-four different solutions to that problem. The way you answer my question will tell me which is the best solution for you."
Gary shrugged. "Makes as much sense as anything else. Okay, how... how to I find out if Lisa really likes me... likes me enough to want to go out with me?"
"Very good. No 'make her love me' or 'make her my sex slave.' I like that." He made a gesture. "Accio bracelet." A piece of jewelry from the window display flew into his hand. "Forgive a little bit of showing off. This should do the trick."
Gary looked at what the wizard held. It was a silver bracelet done in a very feminine style. Two small silvered objects, a thin rod, with a star at the end, and a scroll hung from small loops.
"A charm bracelet?" The wizard made another gesture, and the bracelet flew over and wrapped itself around Gary's right wrist. "What the hell?"
"Say, 'change me, so I can ask.' Say it, Gary."
"Why do I have to wear... okay, okay. Change me so I can ask." He suddenly felt very dizzy. He closed his eyes and grabbed the counter for support. It seemed to move, to get higher, as he held it. His body "thrummed" like a stereo speaker holding a very low base note.
After a minute or so, the dizziness, the sensations passed. Gary opened his eyes. Some hair had fallen down over his face, and he pushed it back. Then he froze. "My hair isn't long enough to cover my eyes like that. And it... it isn't blonde." He held out a strand, so he could see it. "It's blonde now."
He looked at the hand holding his hair. It was smaller than before, its fingers were slender, with long nails covered with a pale pink polish. His eyes moved slowly past the bracelet at his wrist and up his arm, his no longer muscular, hairless arm. The kept going until his... breasts came into view.
"I'm a girl," he yelled, only to stop when he heard his new soft, alto voice. He looked down at himself, at his body. He'd been wearing his green and gold Eagles team T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. Now he wore a pastel green sleeveless top, with the gold Eagles logo on one breast, and a pair of low-cut jeans tight enough to show off his new female curves.
"Very good, Cheryl. What was your first clue?"
"Cheryl? Who's Cheryl"?
"You are, dear. The name Gary doesn't exactly fit you anymore."
"Yeah, but why'd you have to change me like this?"
"Because Lisa wouldn't talk frankly to a boy about what boys she liked or disliked, even under magic compulsion. Forcing her to do so might do permanent damage to her." He paused. "By the way, you owe me $14.95 for the bracelet."
"But will she talk about that to a strange girl -- one she doesn't know, I mean." Gary -- Cheryl -- reached into her jeans. "Where's my wallet?"
"Over there, in your purse." He pointed to a small green purse that was suddenly resting on the counter near Cheryl. "She knows you, or she thinks she does. You're Cheryl McFee, now, a girl she thinks she's known for years."
"McFee? Then I'm -- my real self -- is he still around?" She picked up the purse and took out her wallet. There were three tens in it, and she handed him two of them. While she waited for her change, she looked at the ID. The name said "Cheryl Susan McFee", and the picture showed a pretty blonde that looked vaguely like Gary. Except for the "F" for sex, the information was mostly unchanged.
"Of course, he is. What would be the point, otherwise?" He handed her the change. "Cheryl is Gary’s sister or a cousin or something. No one will really be concerned enough to think about her unless you push the matter."
"And when it's over, when I know what Lisa thinks, I'll change back, right?"
"Yes. You see those charms?" Cheryl nodded. "They're real charms, real magic items, if you will. The scroll will cause anyone within five feet of it to tell the truth any time they're asked a direct question. The wand changed you into Cheryl when you asked it to, and it'll change you back when you ask again. Be careful, though. There's only one charge left in it, and this is a magic item that can be 'crocked' very easily."
"You really do know D&D, don't you."
"Where I come from, Cheryl, we live D&D. And before you ask, I'm a binary seventh level mage."
"Seventh level, that does seem very high."
"I said 'binary seventh level -- that means two to the seventh power, 128."
"You're a 128th level..." Cheryl's knees felt weak. As she collapsed backward, a chair materialized to catch her."
"Something like that." He looked at the clock again. "You'd better go out before Lisa gets worried."
"Lisa? What's she doing outside?"
"She's waiting for you to come out after you buy this bracelet you saw in my window. You and she are out shopping."
"But Lisa was with Cassie, and I was with Dan."
"Cassie came with you and Lisa, but you girls ran into Dan, who was here by himself. He took Cassie to the movies."
"Not bad," Cheryl thought. "Dan's dated her a couple of times."
"And he's doing so again. It was the easiest way for you and Lisa to be alone." He helped the new girl to her feet. "Now scoot. And good luck."
***
"Did you get it?" Lisa asked as Cheryl walked out of the shop. "Was it as creepy as I said in there?"
Cheryl stared at her for a moment. As far as Lisa remembered, Cheryl had been the one to go in. 'And to buy the charm bracelet, no less,' she thought. She held up her arm, so Lisa could see the bracelet. "It wasn't creepy at all. The guy who runs it is a nice old man."
Lisa shrugged. "Maybe so, but you won't catch me going any place like that." Then she smiled. "Besides, there are better places to go." She grabbed Cheryl's arm. "Come on, Topsides is just down this way.
Topsides was about halfway further down the corridor. The store sold women's tops: blouses, sweaters, scarves, and such. Some sort of fall clearance was going on, and the store was crowded with girls and young women.
"Over there," Lisa pointed. A table was piled high with short-sleeved blouses, all marked "20% off."
Cheryl followed her over to the table. Gary's only concerns with women's clothing were the body of the girl inside them and how to get the clothes off, so he could see her better. Cheryl caught herself wondering how she'd look in some of the blouses. 'That magic works pretty good,' she thought, as she began to look at them
Lisa went through several piles and picked four blouses that she wanted to try on. "This would be perfect for you," she said, holding up a light brown one with rows of lacy trim all across the front. "Well, I got enough to start trying them on. How are you doing, Cheryl?"
"I've got these three." She picked up a blue tank top. "Make it four."
"Then come on," Lisa said. "There's probably a line."
There was. The two girls waited about fifteen minutes before two women came out of one of the small changing booths. "I guess we share," Lisa said leading Cheryl into the booth.
The booth was rectangular, about five by six. One long wall had a row of hooks coming out from it at about the five-foot mark, with a long bench running the length of the wall underneath. A metal bar near a shorter wall connected the two long walls. A wide mirror was fixed in the wall behind the bar.
Lisa put her blouses on the bench, so Cheryl did the same. Then Lisa began to unbutton her blouse and hung it on one of the hooks. From the waist up, all she wore was a pink Lycra bra, so sheer that Cheryl could see Lisa's nipples and the dark area around them clearly. It was something most of the boys in school would have given their left arm to see.
Cheryl stared at Lisa for a moment. 'Nothing,' she thought. 'That magic works too damned good.' She shrugged and took off her own blouse. As she did, she glanced down to see that she was wearing an almost identical bra. 'And my ti... my breasts look just as nice as hers do.' She shook her head. 'Yeah, it works way, way too damned good.'
The two girls giggled as they tried on the blouses, posing in the mirror to see how they looked. "Can I try on that green embroidered top you brought in?" Lisa asked.
"Only if I can see that gold one of yours," Cheryl answered. Somehow, she knew that she’d look good in it.
Lisa wound up buying an ivory tank top. Cheryl bought two, the gold top that Lisa had liked and the blue one. 'I can afford it,' she thought. 'When I change back, I won't have spent the money.' Aloud she said. "I'm thirsty. Let's pay for this stuff and get some sodas." She would use the truth charm and then change back in time to invite Lisa out that very night.
***
"So," Cheryl said, taking a quick sip of soda, "what do you think of my... uh... my cousin, Gary?"
"He's a nice guy... kind of cute, too."
"Cute! Yes!" Cheryl grinned. In her mind, she made a fist and jerked her whole arm back triumphantly. "Cute... okay, cute enough to date? I mean... do you think I'm... think he's cute enough that you'd go out with him?"
"Yes, yes I would... Cheryl, what's going on? Why are you asking these crazy questions? For that matter, why am I answering them?"
"It's this magic charm," Cheryl said, holding up her arm to show off the bracelet. "Shit, it's making me answer, now. The scroll is m-magic. It... it makes anybody within f-five feet of it truthfully answer any direct question. I got it at that Spells 'R Us store wh-when the wizard changed me into Cheryl."
"Changed you into Cheryl? Who were you before? Why did you change?"
Cheryl bowed her head, knowing that she had to answer. "I-I'm Gary. The wizard changed me into a girl, so I could find out how you felt about me."
"This is the most... if you're really Gary, what's the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you?"
Gary looked like he had just eaten a sour lemon. "When... when I was seven, my mom dressed me as a -- please, Lisa, I'm sorry. Don't make me a-answer. I-I was seven, and, for Halloween, she-she --"
"Forget I asked," Lisa said quickly. When she saw how relieved he suddenly looked, she said, "It's got to be magic. I could tell how much you didn't want to tell me what happened." Her eyes widened. "Then you are Gary. You actually let some magician turn you into a girl so you could find out about how I felt."
"Ummm, yeah, I did. I guess I should apologize."
"For what? I had fun. I got this neat blouse." She held the package up. "And I found a boy that likes me enough to let himself get turned into a girl."
Cheryl shook her head. "I don't understand?"
"Don't you see -- no, I guess you don't. Most boys are much too macho, too hung up on their 'thingies' to give them up, even for a little while. And they don't care about what a girl thinks, just how she looks."
"And I don't?"
"No, you cared enough to be changed. If you care that much, then you're the sort of boy I really want to go out with." She looked at Cheryl and giggled. "Or you will be once you change back -- you can change back, can't you?"
Cheryl held up her arm again and pointed, in turn, at the bracelet. "Sure I can. The scroll makes people tell the truth. The wand will change me back."
"Okay, then, wand," Lisa said. "Do your magic, so Cheryl and I can go out on a date tonight."
The wand glowed. A beam of light shot out from it.
And hit Lisa.
Time seemed to stop around them.
Lisa grew taller. Her brown hair seemed to be pulled back into her head until it was a short, man's haircut. Her body filled out, becoming less round, more angular, more muscular. Her breasts sank down into her chest, hardening into firm pectorals. Her jaw became squarer, and her nose grew a bit larger.
Her feet were bigger now, straining at her pumps. Her hands were bigger, too, more callused, with stumpy fingers. Her fingernails were shorter, rounded. There was hair on her arms, her now flat chest, and her legs.
The make-up faded from her face. There was no longer any polish on her finger or toenails. Her perfume changed scent from "Autumn Mist" to "Old Spice."
Her bra grew into a cotton T-shirt that was now under an Eagles team sweatshirt. Her panties became a pair of cotton briefs, as an opening formed in front. Her jeans shifted to a masculine cut, darkening from pastel blue. She had black socks and a pair of sneakers on her feet, instead of the knee-high stockings and pumps that had been there moments before. The last, the crucial change was in her groin. Her female opening disappeared as a penis and testicles grew out from that place to fill out the front of her pants.
"Lisa?" Cheryl said in amazement.
"No... it's... I'm... Les. I remember being Lisa, but I-I remember always being Les, too."
Cheryl remembered the wizard's warning. She looked at her wrist. The bracelet was still there, but the only thing hanging from it was a small silver heart.
"Oh, my gosh; the charms, they-they're gone," Cheryl said, feeling very scared. "I've got to get back to that old wizard in the store."
"Wizard?" Les looked even more confused.
"Yeah, the... wizard changed me... changed us. I've... we've got to find him and make him change us back." Cheryl jumped up and ran back down the corridor towards where the store had been. "I have to find it," she kept saying as she ran. "I'm a guy. I have to change back. I can't be girl."
The store was gone. There was nothing between the Photo Barn and Pelham's Shoes now, just the two or three feet of blank space where one store's ended and the entrance to the other began. Cheryl stood about where the door to the Spells 'R Us had been and stared at the blank wall.
Les caught up to her a moment later. "You run pretty fast, Cheryl. You should try out for the track team next spring."
"Next spring?" Then she realized what he'd said. "Who cares about the track team? The store where I got this crazy charm bracelet is gone. The charms are gone. We're... we're stuck like this." She felt helpless. Tears were forming in her eyes.
"It'll be okay," Les said, sounding very confident. "I'll take care of you." Cheryl noticed he had a real cute smile. He put his arms around her, pulling her in close. She rested her head on his broad chest. She could hear his heart beating, and she felt safe and protected.
"What's happening to me?" She thought. Les moved her head to look up at him. He leaned down a little and kissed her. She was floating on a warm cloud, her whole body tingling pleasantly. Les kissed her again, and she heard herself sigh. She suddenly “remembered” that she had been dating Les for a while.
"No!" She pushed him away. "We can't have dated. This... this isn't real." She felt tears forming in her eyes. "It can't be real."
"It can, and it is." Les stepped forward and put his arms back around her. He gently pushed her head, so she was resting it on his chest again. "And if it is... if we're stuck this way, I'll be with you. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be stuck like this with than you." He tilted his head and kissed her gently on the forehead.
That safe, warm feeling wrapped itself around Cheryl like a blanket. She found herself snuggling in closer to him. 'Maybe being a girl -- being his girl -- won't be so bad after all,' she decided. 'At least I know that she... that he really likes me."
The End
Alan thought he'd have an easy time when Aunt Therese moved in to take care of him. She decided that a change was in order, and that a niece would be easier to deal with.
Girl for a Spell
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright Ellie Dauber, 2000
I really don't remember my folks. They died when I was about five. Car accident. Mostly, I remember my Aunt Liz, Momma's aunt. I lived with her from when they died, until she got too sick to care for me. I was a junior in high school by then, and -- to tell the truth -- I'd gotten kind of wild.
Too wild for most of the family. When Aunt Liz started getting sick, there was a lot of looking around to see who'd want to take me. Nobody did.
For a while, it looked like I was headed for a foster home. Then, finally, out of desperation, they called in "Aunt" Therese. Therese was some sort of cousin of my Mom's, a real recluse and the family eccentric. She seldom had anything to do with the rest of us, but, as she said, "Blood tells."
Aunt Liz went to a nursing home down in Florida a few days later, and Aunt Therese showed up the day after that. I was watching TV when the bell rang.
There she was, one of those women who could be any age from thirty to ninety: tall as me (almost six foot) and slender, no make-up, and gray-black hair piled up into a tight bun. Her dress was about the same color as her hair.
She looked me up and down. "You would be Alan. Fetch my things in from my car, please." Without another word she walked past me into the house. I shrugged my shoulders and went out to get her bags. From what I'd heard about her, I'd expected some weird luggage, but this! Besides three heavy suitcases, she'd brought a couple of African masks, a stuffed crow, some really old books bound with a leather strap, jars and jars of spices -- all labeled in Latin, even a pair of candlesticks made from animal skulls.
"It's like she's some kind of witch," I thought.
Aunt Therese turned and looked at me for a minute. "Why, yes, I am," she said. "Very perceptive of you, Alan. There may be hope for you, after all."
- # -
It was like that for about a week. Aunt Therese took over the house like she'd been there forever. Her luggage went into the main bedroom; the books, boxes, and odds and ends into Aunt Liz's old sewing room. A lot more boxes came in the next few days. Aunt Therese put a lock on the sewing room door after she caught me snooping. She spent hours in that room doing who knew what. Sometimes, late at night, I'd think I heard drums and -- once -- two or more weird voices talking. I tried not to let all this bother me. It was only a few weeks till summer vacation. I had a bunch of friends, all as wild as me, and we found lots of ways to keep ourselves amused. Jerry had an old clunker of a car, and Phil, the oldest looking one of our group, had managed to get an ID that said he was okay to buy beer. We put both to a lot of good use.
- # -
It was late one Saturday night in early May. We'd been out using that fake card of Phil's, and I was pretty drunk. I was trying to find my key, so I could sneak in to bed. Suddenly, the door swung open. I heard Aunt Therese's voice. "Come in, Alan." I staggered in, looking for her by the door. She wasn't there. I couldn't figure out how she had managed to open the door, when she was standing way over by the steps. As she walked over, the door slammed shut behind me somehow.
"Dead drunk," she said in disgust. I just stood there giving her a dopey grin. "I've been patient long enough. We shall deal with this in the morning." She reached down into a pocket and pulled out a ring. "Wear this tonight. I want you alert and healthy in the morning." She handed me the ring and walked up to bed. I looked at it for a minute. It was silver with a purplish gem, an amethyst I found out later. I was too drunk to care, so I slipped it on and went to bed myself.
Sunday
Whatever that ring was, it worked. I woke up expecting one monster hangover, but I felt great! I threw a robe on over my T-shirt and shorts and headed downstairs for some breakfast. Aunt Therese was waiting for me in the living room. Her hair was undone and hung straight down to the small of her back. She wore some sort of blue satin gown embroidered with all sorts of red, gold, and black symbols. All the shades were down, and there were lit candles everywhere. She just stood there and pointed to a chalk pattern drawn on the carpet in the shape of a star inside a circle. "Please stand in the pentagram, Alan, so we may begin."
"What is all this mumbo-jumbo?" I asked.
She slapped my face. "Enough insolence. Move!" I was too startled to resist. I went over and stood in the center of the design. She took five red candles off the table, put each one in a little holder at one point of the star, and lit them. They burned with a greenish flame and gave out thin trails of black smoke. What a strange smell! Then she began chanting in a low voice and walking around the star. After a couple of minutes, the smell of the candles began to get to me. I tried to leave, to go have breakfast, but something seemed to stop me. It was like there was a wall around the blasted thing. I pushed against thin air, but couldn't get past.
Aunt Therese nodded. "Ah, you begin to see. Now, feel the power. _Feminis corporae transmuto_." She walked around the star saying that same weird chant over and over. Finally, she stopped right in front of me and began gesturing with her hands. "_Feminis corporae transmuto_." Seven times she said it. I noticed that her hands were beginning to glow somehow. The glow got bigger and brighter until it was a ball of golden light around both hands. She raised her hands and pointed at me. "_Transmuto_!" she yelled.
The ball of light shot off her hands and flew across the room towards me. I panicked, but I still couldn't move out of the way. It shot over the edge of the star and sank into my belly. I felt the energy sitting there warm in my stomach for a minute. Then it seemed to spread out through my body, tingling like an electric shock. My scalp began to itch. My chest felt tight against my robe. I had a weird feeling in my groin, a tingling like my penis was going numb somehow, and inside me it felt like things were being moved around. I shook my head. It felt like somebody was pulling on my hair, too, making it seem like it was a lot heavier or longer. I was dizzy, and the room was spinning. I raised one hand up towards my face. I just had time to notice that my hand seemed to be shrinking. Then I felt myself falling into blackness.
- # -
I awoke in my bed. Aunt Therese was sitting on the edge putting a cold cloth on my forehead. "Ah, awake at last, I see." She smiled for a moment as if to reassure me. "You needn't be concerned. The first time is always the hardest."
"The first time? The first time at what?" My voice sounded different. I was scared. "Get out of here," I shouted. My voice seemed much too high.
"A young lady mustn't talk like that," Aunt Therese scolded. Young lady!? I looked down at myself. I had breasts! I could see two nipples pushing out points against the front of my T-shirt. I jumped out of bed and ran to my mirror. I tossed off the robe and pulled my shorts down past my knees. All the old familiar male equipment was gone. Instead, I saw a vertical slit covered with brownish curls. My hair was long, hanging down past to my shoulders. My face looked pretty much the same, except my nose was smaller, and my cheekbones seemed a little higher. The real shocker was my figure. Big tits sticking out on my chest, pushing against the robe; a fairly narrow waist; wide hips. I was too shocked to fully judge my new looks, but I was definitely a girl.
Aunt Therese smiled again at the look of horror on my face. "Yes, Alice -- that's your name now, incidentally -- Alice, you were far too unruly as a boy. So I've used my magic to transform you into a girl."
"I'll tell."
"Certainly, go ahead. If they don't believe you, they'll think you're mad. If they do, well, what of it. I'm the only one who can change you back. If I want to change you back. Now, stop dawdling and get dressed. We've a great deal of shopping to do."
"Shopping? For what?"
"You'll see," she said and tossed a pile of clothes onto the bed. "Wear these." She turned and left the room. "Be down in ten minutes, or it gets worse."
The clothes were mostly old stuff of mine from down in the basement, only the Star Wars shirt was new. I'd noticed as I picked the stuff of the bed that I was several inches shorter than before. I didn't think I was going to be able to fit into most of my regular clothes, so I was glad that Aunt Liz had never seemed to throw anything out. Even so, it felt strange getting into clothes that I'd outgrown a couple years before.
I took off the T-shirt that I'd slept in and put on the Star Wars shirt. Even though I was smaller, the shirt was tight across the, umm, chest, and the material felt scratchy rubbing against my nipples. I put on a new pair of undershorts, too. The ones from the basement wouldn't fit. I was just too "girly". The pants were the right length. They were very loose at the waist, though, and much too tight across the hips. I barely managed to get the fly up, which reminded me again that I had nothing in front to block the zipper.
Aunt Therese hadn't included any shoes, so I just put on a pair of sneakers. They were much too big. I took them off and put on three pairs of gym socks. Then I tried the sneakers on again, pulling the laces extra tight. It looked pretty shabby, but they fit. I was trying to figure out what to do next when Aunt Therese came back into the room. "Stop dawdling, Alice. Our first appointment is in fifteen minutes."
"Appointment? Where? And for what?" I was puzzled and more than a little scared. Was I supposed to go out and meet people looking like this? Apparently, yes, I was. Fifteen minutes later, we were walking into Oak Hill Mall.
Oak Hill Mall! Half the kids I knew in town hung out there. By now, it was early Sunday afternoon. Most of the stores would be opened, and I was terrified of being recognized. But nobody did. Not even Jerry, who I'd been out drinking with only the night before. I mean, even with the hangover that he obviously had, he should've recognized me. He was coming out of the "Dairy Barn" just as we walked in, and I almost walked right into him. He just muttered something like "Dumb bimbo" at me and walked away. I didn't know whether to be happy or mad that he didn't recognize me.
Aunt Therese grabbed my arm and lead me to the "House of Style", one of the beauty shops in the mall. As we walked in, she touched my throat. I felt a funny tingle. When I tried to ask what she'd done to me now, I discovered that I couldn't speak above a whisper. A tall blonde in a yellow smock walked over. "May I help you," she asked.
"This is my niece, Alice," Aunt Therese said. "She showed up for a visit looking like a vagrant. See if you can't get her looking like a lady." I tried to say something, but all that came out was a tiny squeak. The woman, who called herself Jennie, led me over to a sort of barber chair and handed me a smock the same color as hers. I figured I was stuck, for the while at least, so I put on the smock over my clothes and sat down.
Jennie and Aunt Therese talked for a few minutes. Aunt Therese gave me something to drink that almost tasted like tea. Then Jennie came over and began work. She put on some sort of mask over my eyes and began to rub something oily into my hair. It was warm in the shop, and Jennie's scalp massage felt really great. In spite of everything I'd been through (or maybe because of whatever it was that Aunt Therese had given me to drink), I fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, somebody was rubbing something onto my face. I opened my eyes and saw Jennie. She smiled. "Your Aunt Therese had me to do your make-up as well your hair. I wanted to wake you up to ask how you wanted it, but she said you had no real taste in such matters. I did it the way I see a lot of the kids your age. I hope you like it."
With that she spun the chair around towards the mirror. It -- it was unreal. I could hardly believe it was me. My hair was combed out straight and curled up around my neck with a couple of tiny plastic bows, one on each side. My eyebrows were thinned into narrow lines. (How had I slept through that?) I had blue shadow over my eyes, and light red lipstick on my lips. When I put up my hands to my face in surprise, I saw that my nails had been shaped and were colored to match the lipstick. I looked --
"Excellent," Aunt Therese said from behind me. "Every inch the young lady. Now, come, child, and let us do something about those horrid clothes." While she paid Jennie, I got out of the chair and took off the smock. I found myself wanting to look in the mirror again. Part of me hated what was going on and shuddered at the thought of looking in that mirror. Another part of me was enjoying the way I looked. That part seemed to be getting stronger, but before I could decide if I really wanted to take that second, better look, Aunt Therese hustled me out of the shop.
A few minutes later, we arrived at a shop called "Le Moderne" in one of the fancier parts of the mall. The shop seemed closed with shades drawn on all the windows, but the sign on the door said "By Appointment Only". Aunt Therese knocked.
A very pretty woman in a long, dark blue dress opened the door and smiled, "Ah, Therese, I haven't seen you since last Lammas Day's coven. And this is the transmute you told me about. Do come in." We went in, and the woman locked the door behind us. It was a woman's clothing store!
"Yes, Mariah," Aunt Therese was saying. "One newly-made maiden in need of your skill and your wonderful wares to truly fit her new role in life."
"I understand," Mariah said and turned to me. "Take off those stupid male clothes right now, girl. I want to get a look at what I have to work with."
I wasn't sure what to do. I certainly wasn't used to stripping down in front of women. But I was a girl now, myself. I hesitated for a minute then pulled my T-shirt off over my head. (Being careful, of course, of my new hair-do.) I kicked off my shoes and dropped my pants. I suddenly felt embarrassed standing there in just my shorts. I put a hand over my crotch like any guy would do, but for some reason, I put up my other arm to cover my tits. Aunt Therese and Mariah looked at one another and smiled.
"Very good, Therese," Mariah said. "Feminine instincts already. She'll be an easy one."
"I do expect so," Aunt Therese said. "It's just us girls, though, Alice. So take off those boxer shorts. You look ridiculous in them."
My shorts joined my other clothes in the pile near my feet. I was puzzled. What did she mean "feminine instincts"? I thought it might be important, but my mind just didn't seem to want to focus. "Now, come over here," Mariah said, "and let's get started." Here was a table of lacy women's underwear. She handed me a pair of panties, blue I think they were, with little yellow butterflies on one side. "I think that these should do nicely. Ah, yes, and here's the bra that goes with them." She handed me a matching bra with the butterfly pattern on one cup.
I stepped into the panties and pulled them up. They felt light and cool on me, much different than the cotton shorts I was used to wearing. I wasn't sure how to put on the bra. I thought for a moment, then I put it around my waist and fastened it. I was starting to twist it up and around to my breasts when Mariah stopped me.
"No, you little twit. Take that off, right now!" I stopped and unsnapped the bra. "Now, put your arms through the straps and lean into it -- yes, that's right. Now reach around behind you -- good girl -- and grab the ends. Good! Now, feel around for the hook and eye -- Yes! Now, just hook it up."
I did it just as she ordered. I'd never worn a bra, of course, but now the movements came easy. Somehow, I felt better with the bra on. My breasts weren't that big (even if they did seem enormous to me just then), but the support of the bra made them feel more comfortable. Pantyhose came next. I found that I knew how to put them on: one leg at time, being careful not to get them twisted or to snag them on my pretty new nails.
Mariah handed me a pale blue dress. "Try this. It goes with your eyes." I'd never thought much before about dressing to match my eyes. But now, it seemed more important. I wriggled into the dress and buttoned it up the side. It felt a little tight at the waist and seemed to push up my breasts, making them look more noticeable.
"I think these should be your size," said Mariah, handing me a pair of light blue shoes. With a two inch heel! I put them on and took an experimental step. I was a little wobbly, but I found that there was no problem if I took shorter steps than I was used to and shifted my weight as I walked. Shifting my weight also shifted my hips. My walk was now totally feminine.
Aunt Therese smiled and pointed to a mirror over by the wall. "Go take a look at your new self, Alice."
I'll admit, I was more than a little curious. I'd been too scared to take a real good look when I first changed, and I hadn't been able to tell much in those old clothes. Aunt Therese had rushed me out of the beauty shop, but now she let me linger to fully appreciate the effects of her magic.
But now! Holy spit, I was one prime fox! I mean, I knew my head looked pretty good with the new hair-do and the make-up. But the body was a real surprise. Big, melon-y breasts, the nipples half visible through the shear bra and the flimsy dress; my waist, now almost narrow enough to put your hands around; and full, luscious hips. My legs looked pretty good, too, long and well-curved in those high heels. I loved the way I looked, and I kept turning and staring at myself in that mirror.
Aunt Therese walked over. "Very pretty, isn't she, Alan?"
It was like a blast of cold water, but I found that I could talk again. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"I already told you that, as punishment for your horrid, male behavior. You know who you really are, but you'll find yourself acting like the girl this body says you are. And, by the way, you've been under this spell long enough now that you can't tell any one what I've done. If you try, you'll just begin to giggle, and should you persist, you'll find yourself prattling about all sorts of feminine inanities."
Mariah walked over, her arms full of clothes. "There's still a lot more for you to try on, dear."
Now that it was decided that I was properly dressed, we spent the better part of two hours looking at other clothes. Aunt Therese picked out several more panty and bra combinations; several more dresses; a short pink nightgown and a frilly, dark blue one; and a number of blouses and skirts. Mariah had a lot of women's slacks on display, but Aunt Therese ignored them. When I asked about getting a pair or two, she just said that a lady never wore slacks.
A lady! Hell, until that morning, I'd been a boy. But Aunt Therese was acting like that was a thing of the past. The scary part was that I found myself enjoying it. I was soon "oohing" and "ahhing" over this or that outfit like I'd always been a girl.
For example, I had hated changing out of one particular skirt, a lacy green job that was the latest fashion among several of the girls I'd dated recently. Aunt Therese said that it was too short and too tight. "A lady suggests her gender," she said. "She doesn't shout it." That got to me. Here I was, a boy turned into a girl by his aunt-the-witch, and she was talking like I was some kind of tramp and she was being forced to protect my virtue.
By now it was mid-afternoon. Even Aunt Therese admitted that she was getting hungry. I put that first blue dress back on while she paid. Then we headed out to the Food Court. I got a burger, coke, and fries and headed back to the table. Aunt Therese was waiting for something at the Chinese stall, and I figured that I'd better not start till she got there. I was staring off into space trying to figure out everything that had happened, when I realized that somebody was talking to me.
"Excuse me, but don't I know you from school or someplace?" Omigosh! It was Rick Medford. He'd known me (the male me) since third grade. If he could recognize me now, I'd never live it down. I looked at his face for a few seconds then looked away.
"No," I said. "I don't think so. He pulled out one of the chairs at the table and sat down. "I'm sure I remember you, but I'll be darned if I can remember where I know you from. My name's Rick Medford. I'm a senior at Jackson High. Maybe we met at a dance or something."
He gave me his best smile. "It bugs me. You're too pretty for me to forget where we've met." I wasn't sure how to take the compliment. Rick had a solid reputation as a lady killer, and I was getting a prime sample of his technique. It was getting to me, too. I felt my nipples tingling, and there was a sort of a warmth down in my crotch. It felt good, and I smiled back at his dumb line in spite of myself.
"My name's Alice, but you really don't know me. I'm here --"
"Having luncheon with her Aunt, whose chair you have taken, young man." Aunt Therese had come over. She positively _loomed_ over Rick.
"Uhhh, no, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. Have a nice lunch, ma'am." Rick stood up quickly and began a hasty retreat towards CD City. "Nice to meet you, Alice."
Aunt Therese sat down. "Well, that was fun. I'm so glad you're making friends, Alice. Perhaps you'll see that nice boy in school tomorrow."
School! I hadn't thought about that. I couldn't go to school; not as Alice. "Oh, relax, child," Aunt Therese said. "Things are taken care off. Think of something else. Think -- why, think of how nice it felt to have that boy flirting with you. Made you feel warm and tingly all over, didn't it?"
I looked down at my burger. "Yes" was all I could say. More than the dress or the hairdo, the way that my body had reacted to Rick's flirting told me that I really was a girl. And worst of all, that some part of me liked being a girl. I was trapped in this -- this nightmare for as long as Aunt Therese wanted.
I didn't eat much of that lunch. When Aunt Therese finished hers, we headed back to the house. As we pulled up in the driveway, Aunt Therese told me to take all my new clothes upstairs and put them away. There were about six boxes and bags, but I got them out of the car and up to my room without too much trouble in two trips. (I did notice, though, that I was a lot weaker as a girl than I had been as a boy.)
The trouble started when I pushed open the door to my room with the first load. Or what had been my room. It was changed, half my old room and half - well, half was a girl's room. Two of the walls were now painted pink instead of light blue, with posters of kittens and male rock stars on the walls where my motor rally posters and Playboy pin-ups had been. The bed and the dresser were in the same place as always, but the top of the dresser was covered with some frilly pink padding. My bedspread was also pink, and the bed had some sort of cloth canopy over it. I'd had a worktable in the corner yesterday, my tool chest and parts from an old PC spread out across the top. Now, there was a low table and chair with a lighted mirror on the wall next to it and containers of make-up and a box of tissues on a tray on the top of it. Next to the tray was a copy of _Seventeen_ along with the issue of _Electronics Experimenter_ magazine that had been there the day before.
"Like it?" Aunt Therese had come up behind me. "A little something that my magic fixed up for you, while we were at the mall."
"Where's all my stuff?"
"Why, _your_ stuff is right there, Alice. So are some of Alan's things. The rest of his stuff is in the basement. Some of his clothes are still in the closet or in the bottom drawer of his dresser, but there's lots of room for your pretty, new girl's clothes. Put them all away carefully. After all, you'll be wearing them for a long, long time."
I set the boxes down on the bed and opened the closet door to hang up the two garment bags. Most of my (Alan's?) clothes were gone. Just a few of my old T-shirts and three pair of jeans hanging in a corner of the closet showed that a boy had ever lived in this room. Several of the now-empty hangers were padded with some kind of pink foam. I hung up the two bags with the skirts in them and got a couple of fancy blouses from one of the boxes on the bed. After I'd hung them up, Aunt Therese showed me how to pin the new skirts on some of the unpadded hangers.
Most of my dresser was empty, too, except for a few of pairs of undershorts, some mis-matched socks, and some undershirts in the bottom drawer. My new bras, panties, and pantyhose went in the top drawers where my underwear and socks had been. Blouses and a couple of sweaters went into the lower drawers. The long nightgown was draped over the foot of the bed.
Aunt Therese started to leave. "And get started on your homework now. I'm sure you haven't finished it." She was right. I hadn't. I hadn't intended to, either, but now it looked like I didn't have any more choice about that than about anything else. I sat down at my desk, which was now painted a light pink to match the rest of the room, and began doing my algebra.
- # -
A couple of hours later, and I was done. The math had gone easier than usual, and I remembered a lot more of my Spanish vocabulary words than I normally did. "Maybe Alice is smarter than Alan," I thought. Then I decided that I'd rather not find any silver linings in this new, pink cloud. I put my books away and headed downstairs.
Aunt Therese was in the kitchen. "Ah, Alice. Just in time to help with supper." Before I could say anything, she'd tied a frilly apron around my waist and handed me a bowl with some potatoes and carrots. "Be a good girl and peel these, please."
I peeled them. And I cut them up for the stew we were making. Yeah, we were making. Normally, I hate to cook. It was a girl's job. Only, now, I was a girl, and cooking was suddenly fun. I was thinking about that as I was setting the table. Aunt Therese came in with the food. As she sat down, she looked at me like she was reading my mind. "Oh, don't worry about why you suddenly enjoy cooking, Alice. My spell changed you mentally, as well as physically. Otherwise, I'd just have had a troublesome niece instead of a troublesome nephew. Instead, you'll find that you're now a demure young lady, studious and obedient. A little shy perhaps, especially with boys, but very much the girl you appear to be."
I ate my meal in silence. I helped Aunt Therese clear the table without her even having to ask me. She put the leftovers away. I put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, then headed up to my room to think. I lay on my bed for well over an hour, just staring up at that dumb, pink canopy and trying to sort things out. I was a girl now. I liked to cook. I liked wearing dresses and how I looked in them. I liked -- oh, my gosh! -- I liked Rick Medford. I couldn't help thinking about what he said, how he'd acted at the mall food court. I pictured him smiling at me, and I wondered if he really liked me; if he'd like to date me. I suddenly realized that my nipples were tingling -- just like with Rick at the mall. No way! This was happening too much too fast. I ran to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face.
That felt better. On my way back to the bedroom, I heard Aunt Therese call from downstairs. "Are you all right, dear?" She knew what I'd been thinking about! Hell, she'd probably put those thoughts in my head somehow.
"Yes, Aunt Therese," I called.
"Well, you've certainly had a long day, Alice. Why don't you go to bed early tonight. You've got school tomorrow, you know."
"Yes, Aunt Therese." I suddenly felt very sleepy. I went back to my room and slipped out of my dress, stockings, and bra. Boy or girl, I figured I'd better wear some kind of underpants. I glanced at the mirror as I hung up the dress. "Boy," I thought, "what a body I've got now." If I'd been Alan, alone with an almost naked girl who looked as good as I did now, I'd have screwed her in a minute. Now I was just proud of my figure, my narrow waist and my wide hips. And my breasts -- my breasts were as pretty as any I'd ever seen in a Playboy. Not as big, but I was only sixteen.
Suddenly, I realized what I was thinking. My thoughts weren't of screwing such a pretty girl, but of being pretty enough that some boy would want me. And I was smiling at the thought! NO! I shook my head, trying to shake those thoughts loose. Then I grabbed my long, loose nightie and threw it on, so I wouldn't have to look at my new body. Maybe I was stuck with this body, but why did I have to like it so much?
The nightie felt cool against my bare skin. The soft cotton felt cool against my legs and my breast. I climbed into bed and tried to get comfortable. It took a minute to get used to sleeping in the new position required by a girl with breasts, but then I was asleep almost at once.
Monday
It seemed like only a minute later that the alarm was ringing. Morning! Blah! Monday morning! Double Blah! I reached over to hit the "Snooze" button. Then I saw my arm, my wonderful, _hairy_, male arm. I sat up in bed and looked quickly around the room. It was still half Alice's room, but I figured that Aunt Therese would switch it back later. The girl's clothes would probably stay around as a reminder of what would happen if I misbehaved again. I decided not to worry about that for a few minutes and went into my bathroom to shower and brush my teeth; maybe even to have my weekly shave.
When I came out, I fished a pair of cotton boxers out of that bottom drawer and stepped into them. I couldn't help noticing that they didn't feel as nice going on as the panties Alice wore. I shook my head to try and get rid of such thoughts. Alice was gone. Gone forever! From now on, my only concern about girl's panties was going to be trying to get them off of whoever my date was. I resolved to try to keep that phony-macho attitude (well, for a while anyway), and slipped into a pair of jeans and a Steelers t-shirt. As I was finishing getting dressed, I decided that not causing Aunt Therese any trouble -- for a while, at least -- was also probably a very good idea.
Breakfast was ready when I came downstairs with my books. Aunt Therese acted like nothing had happened. Except as I was leaving, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "You had best know right now that I expect you to be home by four o'clock."
"Four o'clock." I tried to repeat it in the same weird monotone that she had. Didn't quite do it, though. Then I shrugged and left for school.
- # -
What can I say about school that day? It was school, the same boring place that it always was. Mr. Holgar in Civics reminded us that our term papers were due the Friday of next week. I groaned along with the rest of the class at the prospect of spending several evenings doing research at the Library. Algebra and Spanish classes seemed easier than usual, though. A little leftover gift from Alice, I guessed.
The important news was that Matt, another member of my bunch had managed to scrounge up somebody's old timing light. He, Phil, and I agreed to head over after school and try it out on Jerry's clunker. Maybe we really could get that thing running by Summer.
My house was on the way to Jerry's. I ran in, dropped off my books, and headed out the door in two minutes, tops. I'd gone about two blocks, most of the way to Jerry's, cutting through back yards and an alley, when I heard the chime from the clock at the North Street Bank. "Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!"
Suddenly, I felt very dizzy. I leaned back against a tree and closed my eyes. I was shivering a little and felt very strange. It was a feeling that I'd never had before. No! It was the feeling that I'd had when Aunt Therese had cast her spell on me.
Was I turning back into Alice? I put my hands on my chest. Yes, I could feel my breasts growing under my shirt, the tickle on my neck as my hair got longer. Things seemed to be moving around down in my gut, and I had this weird feeling in my crotch. The tree seemed to slide against my back as I shrank down into Alice's smaller body.
Then the feelings stopped. I opened my eyes and looked around in case anyone had seen me. Nobody had, thank heavens. Then I looked down -- down past where my breasts pushed out Alan's shirt, the nipples visible through the flimsy material of my T-shirt. Aside from that, my clothes had gotten much too big for me. I reached down to my crotch. Nothing! Nothing that I wanted to be there, anyway. I pulled my belt tight, tying it in a knot, so my pants wouldn't fall down. When I tried to walk, I stepped right out of my shoes. My socks had pretty good elastic, so they stayed up, even if they were now much too big for Alice's tiny feet. I grabbed the shoes and started running towards home. Nobody had seen me change, but I sure didn't want to run into anybody I knew. Or just run into anybody, since whoever I met would want to know why Alice was going around in Alan's clothes.
I was home in a few minutes. Aunt Therese was waiting for me in the living room. "I did warn you that I expected you home by four. Maybe Alice can't go to that school of yours, but that doesn't mean that I have to endure Alan the rest of the time. Now, upstairs, young lady, and change into something proper for after school.
"But Matt, Phil, and Jerry are expecting me. We were going to work on Jerry's car."
"Those hoodlums are expecting their friend, Alan. You are Alice, who -- if you think about it for a moment -- knows much less about cars than Alan does."
"What!?!" I closed my eyes and tried to picture Jerry's engine, and how we were going to check out the timing with that light Matt had gotten. I'd seen the light at Matt's locker maybe an hour before, after gym, but now I could hardly remember what it looked like, let alone how to use it. I could see the three guys and the car itself clearly, but the tools and parts were just sort of vague shapes that I couldn't understand. I had no idea what any of them were or how they were used. What's more, I didn't seem to care that I couldn't remember anything about them.
Aunt Therese smiled. "Don't worry, my dear. The knowledge is still there, but only for Alan to use. Now, go put on some proper clothing."
There was nothing else to do. I went up and stripped out of Alan's clothes. I picked a peach colored bra and panty set out of my drawer. I thought for a minute about going without a bra. A few of the other girls at school did. (Other girls? What was I thinking?) But then I thought about how you could see their nipples through their blouses and what I knew the boys said about them. My face suddenly felt warm. I looked in the mirror and found that I was blushing in embarrassment at the thought of being considered that kind of girl. I began to realize again that Aunt Therese's spell had changed a lot more than just my body.
I stepped into the panties and pulled them up to my waist. These felt right, not like those scratchy things of Alan's. I was afraid for a second that I wouldn't remember how to put on the bra, but I slipped into it like I'd been wearing one for years. I'd have loved to put on slacks or, say, a comfortable pair of jeans, but Aunt Therese hadn't let me buy any. Those real old jeans that I'd worn to the mall yesterday were folded over a chair.
I tried wearing them again. They fit -- more or less -- but they just didn't fit right. They were much too loose in the waist, but barely got around my hips. They bagged in the seat and, worst of all, they had a bulge in the front. Who needed something like that? I put on a yellow blouse with a cute "Peter Pan" collar and a matching yellow-brown skirt. I just wanted to relax, so I put on a pair of socks, rather than tights or knee-high stockings, and stepped into a pair of flats. This was much better; much more the way I wanted to be dressed.
When I looked in the mirror, I found that my hair had grown back into the style that Jennie had put it in yesterday. I didn't really need any make-up, just a little lipstick and blush. I found putting the make-up on as easy as putting on the bra. As if I-as-Alice had been doing it for years, even if I-as-Alan never had. But Alan was Alice. Wasn't he? She? I? It was just too confusing. I went back down to Aunt Therese in the living room.
"That's much better, Alice. There's still some time before I need your help with dinner. Why not get in some study time?" I shrugged my shoulders in defeat and reached for my book bag. Boy! Alice was a lot less strong than Alan was. Those books were heavy! I put my arms through the shoulder straps and headed back upstairs to do my homework.
- # -
At supper I told Aunt Therese about the Civics paper being due. As Alan, I had barely begun my research. That hadn't bothered me much before, but it did now. Since I'd gotten most of my homework done before supper, I asked Aunt Therese if I could go to the library. "Certainly, my dear," she said with a strange sort of smile. "Let me get the car keys."
"Keys? It's not much over a half mile. I can walk it in no time."
"No, my dear. Alan might have been safe walking that far alone at dusk, but it isn't really a good idea for you to do it. Now is it, Alice?" Aunt Therese had gotten the keys as she spoke. Now she was staring at me, eyes narrowed almost to slits. I suddenly had an image in my mind. I, as Alice, was walking along a dark street. Men grabbed me. I tried to struggle, but I was just a weak girl. They pulled me into some bushes. They tore at my clothes. I felt my bra ripped off, and hands were squeezing my breasts, playing with my sensitive nipples. I screamed and opened my eyes.
I was still sitting at the table with Aunt Therese. She had a much too satisfied look on her face. "Now you know, _Alice_. You may be a boy named Alan during most of the day, but after four, your instincts and reactions are Alice's. And she's very much aware -- especially at this moment -- of just how vulnerable a girl like her can be."
Ten minutes later, we were at the library. "Call me when you're ready to come home," Aunt Therese said. "It will be well after dark, when the building closes." She rolled up the car window and drove off without another word.
I went inside. My paper was going to be on how MTV had gotten older kids involved in political issues. I'd already done some of the research for my paper, used a Key Word Search program on the school library computer to get a list of articles to read. I walked over to the room where back issues were stored. I was reaching for a volume of old Time magazines up on one of the higher shelves, when I heard a voice behind me.
"Need some help with that?" I turn around. It was Rick Medford. He smiled and walked over. He was about the same height as Alan, so I realized again how much smaller Alice was, when I found myself having to look up to see his face. He leaned in close to me and reached up for the book. "Where are you sitting," he asked.
I pointed to a table nearby where I'd left my notebook. He walked over and put it down on the table. Then he put down his own notebook and picked up my list of references. "This is a pretty long list. Better let me help." We walked through the stacks, while he pulled out the different volumes of old articles on my list. I realized after a couple of minutes that he wanted to show off for me; to show strong he was by lifting and carrying all those books. Just the sort of dumb stunt I tried all the time as Alan to impress girls.
We eventually got back to the table, and he put the books by my place. He went and got a couple reference books from one of the librarians and sat down across from me. "This way, I can look at you while I'm working. A pretty view makes the time go quicker."
I smiled back at him and sat down. "I think so, too." What was I saying?
We didn't say much of anything after that. Well, it was a library, after all. Besides, we both had work to do. I did look up once or twice and catch him staring at me and smiling kind of funny. And once he looked up, and I realized that I was looking at him. He smiled at that. He had a nice smile. I felt my cheeks get warm all of a sudden, and I buried my head in my notes in embarrassment.
A while later, I felt him lightly touch my hand. "Care to take a quick break? I'm buying."
"Okay," I said. "I'm getting a little thirsty anyway." There was a small lounge in the basement of the library: soda and candy machines and a couple of couches. We walked down. The room was empty. Rick got put some change in the soda machine by the door.
"As I recall, you drink Coke," he said. "At least that's what you were drinking at the mall, yesterday." He pressed the button, and a can rolled out. "Want anything else?"
"Coke'll be fine," I said. He got a Coke for himself, and we sat down on one of the couches. He sat close, very close. I felt strange. Nervous, but happy, somehow, also suddenly warm. I drank some Coke, but it didn't help. My nipples were tingling, and my stomach was doing flip-flops. I was smiling for no real reason. I realized that Rick was getting to me. I was feeling attracted to him like any other girl might be. Any other girl? No, that was wrong. I was a boy, Alan, under a spell. This feeling was --
Rick reached over and took my hand.
Wonderful! I smiled and looked up into his eyes. I could feel my heart beating. My nipples felt like they'd turned to stone, and my stomach, or just below it, felt so nice and hot. "Yes, Rick?"
"I really like you, Alice. Would you like to go to a movie or something this Saturday?"
"I -- umm -- I don't know." A date! I wanted to so much, but I could hear myself, as Alan, screaming "NO!" in the back of my mind. "I have to ask my Aunt. Can you wait till tomorrow night for an answer?"
I could see the disappointment in Rick's face. He'd been hoping I'd say "Yes" at once. But I was afraid to. It meant giving in to Alice. Then I thought of how Aunt Therese had made Alice a little timid. Was I hesitating because Alan didn't want to, or because Alice was too shy to accept? I stood up to try to shake my thoughts together and make some sense out of them. "We'd better get back up stairs." I looked at the clock on the wall behind us. "The library closes in about 45 minutes."
Rick followed me back upstairs with a kind of hound dog look. I felt so sad that I was almost ready to give in and agree to the date. I didn't, though, but it was tough.
About five to nine, they announced over the speakers that the library was closing. We packed up our notes. Rick put his books and mine on the "reserve" shelf to hold them until the next night. I walked over to the pay phones to call Aunt Therese. Rick came over. "Can I give you a ride home?"
"Right, Rick," I thought. "So you can see that I live at Alan Webster's house. That's all I need. Okay, face, stop smiling and say something to let him down easy."
"Yes, thanks." I'd answered before I could stop myself. Rick smiled broadly and led me out to his car. (His father's, actually.) He opened the door for me, then got in himself.
"Where to? Where's your house?"
There was no point in lying now. Besides, a lie would mean walking home from someplace, and I still remembered that image Aunt Therese put in my mind. "I'm staying with my Aunt Therese at 837 North Maple."
"Hey, I know that house," Rick said. "Alan Webster lives there. Now I see why I thought I knew you. You look a lot like him. Only much prettier. Will you be staying a while, and will you be going to the high school with him while you're here?"
"Thanks." I thought as quickly as I could. "He's a cousin. I'm staying there while -- while my parents are working overseas. I may be going to his school. I don't know how long I'll be here. In the meantime, my old school sent along a bunch of assignments. That, Mr. Medford, is why I was in the library. Any other questions?" I was smiling now, a little surprised at how easily the lies came. Rick just smiled back and started the car.
Like I said, the library's only a few blocks from my house, so we were there in no time. Rick pulled up by the house and came around to open my door. As I got out, he leaned over and, well, he kissed me. And I kissed him back. It was a short kiss, no tongue or anything, but it felt real nice. Only now, my nipples were aching and harder that ever. The warmth in my groin seemed to be spreading out through my body. My knees felt weak. I wanted to kiss him back, but I didn't want to at the same time. I pulled back for an instant to think.
Rick was smiling again. "I've heard that you shouldn't kiss on the first date, but this wasn't our first date. It was our "zero-th date, but who's counting." Just then the porch light went on. Rick ran around and jumped in the car. "See you tomorrow at the library," he called and drove off.
Aunt Therese was waiting inside, watching through the living room window. "You seem to have made a conquest, Alice. Who is he?"
"Rick, Rick Medford. That boy who talked to me at the mall. We met at the library. He brought me home." I wasn't sure if I should tell Aunt Therese about Rick's asking me for a date. I was still afraid to think about it.
"He did more than that, I noticed." Aunt Therese was smiling. It was a smile I didn't like. "And you seemed to be enjoying it, and a bit too much, my girl. Well, go upstairs and get ready for bed."
"Bed? But it's only about 9:30." I was embarrassed about her seeing Rick kiss me and anxious to change the subject.
"Yes, but your body needs extra energy to make the transformation. Stay up too late, and Alice might get to go to school tomorrow after all."
That was a threat I didn't want to risk. Besides, I was suddenly feeling a bit tired. "Okay," I said. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Alice. And just think, maybe you'll dream about your new boyfriend."
_Boyfriend?_ I tried not to think about Rick as I ran up to my bedroom. But I couldn't. I kept seeing his face. His smile. He had such a nice smile. As I unbuttoned my blouse, I felt my nipples getting hard again. I could see them poking out against my bra. I touched one. Oh! The sensation was so strong that it was almost frightening.
I took off the bra and put on my nightgown. My whole body was tingling. I turned off the lights and got into bed. I couldn't help but think about Ricki. There was a warm feeling spreading out from my groin. I suddenly realized that I'd been stroking my nipples. I was about to touch myself down _there_! I was suddenly very much afraid of Alice. I lay there in bed a long time, afraid to think of anything, afraid to move, until I feel asleep.
Tuesday
However much sleep I got must have been enough. I woke up as Alan.
Jerry was really pissed at me for not showing up the day before to help with his car. Matt and Phil weren't too happy either. I told them that I'd gotten stuck helping Aunt Therese with some stuff around the house. They'd all met her at one time or another, and Phil even had the good sense to be a little afraid of her, though he didn't know why.
I knew why, but I sure wasn't going to tell. The best I could do was to warn him, warn them all, to stay clear of Aunt Therese. I made up some lie about her being a little crazy. Said that I had to humor her, or I'd wind up living in a foster home someplace or worse. They were sympathetic and agreed to go along.
(I suppose that I could have told them the truth: that Aunt Therese was a witch and that, if they weren't careful, my cousin Alice would have some new girlfriends to compare lipsticks with. Yeah, and they'd have believed me. NOT!)
Just when I thought everything was handled, Rick Medford comes by. We didn't have any classes together; he being a senior and me a junior. Besides, he hung out with a different crowd, so I hadn't seen him (as Alan) in a good month or more. Now he came looking for me. To ask me about my cousin, Alice, no less.
I told him the same lies that I had the night before. Only now, he wanted details. I made some up. My Dad and hers had been first cousins. Her dad was a businessman who'd been given a temporary assignment traveling through Europe. She was staying with Aunt Therese and me while he and her mother were over there. No, I didn't know if she'd be coming to our school. I didn't think that she would, though. Her old school had given her a lot of work to do, so Aunt Therese had decided to keep her at home, rather than do all the paper work needed to register Alice as a temporary student.
Then Rick got to the important questions. Yes, Alice had mentioned him when she got home. Yes, she seemed to like him. She said something to Aunt Therese about having a good time at the library. I said that I'd been busy, and, anyway, it was girl stuff, so I hadn't paid very close attention. No, I didn't know if Alice had a boy friend at her old school. She'd never mentioned one.
I realized that I'd better figure out what to say if Rick ever asked Alice about a boyfriend. I finally decided to say that Alice was between boyfriends, if Rick ever asked her -- asked me -- oh, whatever! I'd just say that they'd split up a week or two before she'd left, and I -- she -- didn't want to talk about it.)
After Rick headed to his next class, Jerry and Matt chimed in. They were both curious about my cousin, and why hadn't I introduced her to them. They knew Rick's reputation, so they figured that if he was interested, then Alice must be a fox. Didn't I think my friends were good enough for her? Somehow, I found myself thinking that maybe they weren't. I bobbed and weaved for a while; told them that Alice hadn't wanted to meet anybody. She'd run into Rick by accident, and the two had hit it off. I don't think that they bought much of what I said, though. The guys, I decided, were going to be trouble.
All in all, it was not my best day at school. That afternoon, I gave Jerry and the others the same lame excuse about having to do something for Aunt Therese and headed towards my house. It was almost a relief to get home. Aunt Therese wasn't home. "Gone Shopping", her note said. I would have relaxed, except that I knew what was coming at 4 PM.
I had a crazy idea about watching the change, so I ran up to my room, stripped down, and stood naked in front of my mirror. The bank clock struck "Four." I began to feel dizzy. All my body hair seemed to shrink down into my body. My muscles seemed to shrink down, too, into smooth, slightly pale skin. My whole body was shrinking. It looked in the mirror like I was getting younger, about age 12 or so. Then I noticed that the hair on my head was growing over my ears. My nose seemed to be getting smaller. I was so fascinated watching my face becoming pretty that I just stared at it for a minute.
Then I realized that I was missing the big changes. I looked down. My breasts were already about the size of plums and growing out, growing bigger as I watched. I could feel my balls retreating up into my body. My pubic hair had reshaped itself into an upside-down triangle. I could barely see my prick. By now, it was maybe an inch long, shrinking up into a new position inside my vagina and becoming my clit. I panicked and reached down for it, barely finding it as it shrank. Then I suddenly felt very embarrassed. "A girl shouldn't be feeling herself up like this," I thought. I knew then that Alan was gone again, and Alice had arrived in his place.
I walked over to the dresser and picked out a cute bra and panty set, lilac colored with white lace flowers. I stepped into the panties and pulled them up around my hips. They were soft and cool, so much more pleasant to wear than Alan's scratchy cotton shorts. I did have a little trouble getting on the bra. The hooks were trickier than either of the other bras I'd worn, but I managed on the second try. I found myself thinking for a minute of how hard it would be for a boy to unhook it. I was sure, though, that Rick could manage. I found myself giggling at the thought; my nipples getting hard. (Oh brother, maybe I was that kind of girl, at least for Rick.)
I went over by the mirror, thinking to distract myself by looking some more at my new body. Even without make-up, I was gorgeous. Not quite centerfold standards, but I was getting there. I should have felt lust, staring at this great looking chick, standing there half naked posing in the mirror. Alan would have lusted after a girl like this. But I was Alice now, a girl myself, and all I felt was pride in how narrow my waist was and how my breasts filled out my bra. I walked around, turning my head to keep watching my image in the mirror. I saw my hips sway as I walked, my butt moving invitingly. It was really cute, and I wished I had a pair of jeans or a tight little dress that I could wear to show it off better. (Yeah, Alice was definitely back.)
I decided that I'd better finish getting dressed, when I heard Aunt Therese come in. I put on a light blue sleeveless blouse and a matching skirt. The skirt was a little on the short side. I'd barely been able to persuade Aunt Therese to let me buy it. I liked it because -- well, because it showed off my legs so nicely. "Might as well give Rick a treat," I thought. I put on a pair of skin tone peds and my new sneakers and went down to help Aunt Therese with the groceries.
I had just put a bag of groceries on the table when the front door bell rang. Aunt Therese was out back bringing in another bag. "Doorbell," I yelled to her. "I'll get it."
Big mistake! Phil and Jerry had come to get Alan. "Well, hello," Phil said, looking me up and down. "You must be Alice. We heard about you, but we didn't think anybody could be as pretty as they said you were. Is Alan home? I want to congratulate him on his taste in cousins." Jerry just leered. I wished that I hadn't picked out such a short dress. I felt naked in front of them. I wanted to cover myself with my hands, but I knew that doing so would just make things worse.
"Alan -- um, Alan's not -- he's not here," I said. I wasn't worried about them recognizing me as Alan. Heck, Phil was looking at my breasts, not my face, while he talked to me. I just felt like I was on some kind of bug on display, and I didn't like it.
"Can you tell us where he is?" Jerry chimed in. "Even better, would you like to come with us to look for him?" Great! Now my friends were hitting on me. I knew these guys well enough to know that they weren't about to rape me or anything. But sex was definitely on their warped little minds, and I really didn't think that I enjoyed being with them as Alice.
"My niece will not be going with you," Aunt Therese pronounced. She made it sound like it was written in stone someplace. "As for Alan, he is here, but unavailable. His behavior has been so bad that he will not be leaving this house, except to go to school, for some time."
Phil and Jerry both jumped at her voice. "Could we at least see him for a minute? It's kind of important."
"Since I hold you two miscreants to blame for some of his worst behavior, you will not be allowed to see him here, either." Aunt Therese was either very mad, or she was laying it on to good effect. The guys turned and, without another word, hurried away from the house. Aunt Therese smiled. "Well, that was fun. Now shall we put away these groceries?"
I felt somehow like I wanted to wash my hands after talking to the guys, but I figured that I'd better help Aunt Therese. We got in the last of the groceries and started putting things away. "So, Alice," Aunt Therese asked me all of a sudden, "what do you think of your cousin's friends?"
"They're, umm, they're okay, I guess."
"Truthfully now, my girl," Aunt Therese said. "You weren't acting as if you were very comfortable around those two."
"I was afraid that they'd recognize me." It was the truth, or at least part of the truth. At best, the guys would think I was some kind of cross-dresser, maybe even gay. At worst, they might guess what had happened. (Jerry had told me more than once that he thought Aunt Therese was some kind of witch.) Then what would Aunt Therese do? Turn them into girls, too. Or maybe something worse, frogs or bugs or something.
Aunt Therese looked me up and down. "That might have been what Alan was thinking. But I asked what _Alice_ thought." She had me.
"Okay, okay, I'll admit it. I was afraid that they'd recognize me, but only for a minute. Then, I was just upset that these two guys were staring at me like a piece of meat or something and that their only real concern was trying to -- to get me into bed. I didn't like it."
"Ah, poor sweet little Alice. She isn't used to being a girl, yet. Most teenage boys -- most men, in fact, think mainly below their belts. You did yourself when you were Alan. I'll wager that even your friend -- what was his name? -- oh, yes, Rick, is guilty of doing it. You just have to learn to accept that -- and the sort of crude behavior that results -- as the price of being such a pretty girl. In fact, watching you learning to accept it is part of my fun in the casting of this spell on you."
"And just how long is your fun going to last?" I was worried now. The more Aunt Therese enjoyed watching me squirm, the longer she might keep the spell going. Being Alice was getting way too comfortable. I wanted to get it over with and go back to being Alan full time.
"It will last, more or less, as long as I wish it. Your -- Alan's behavior was intolerable. As Alice, you are far better behaved. When I am sure that her politeness and good manners will remain with Alan, then and only then will I end the spell." She looked up at the kitchen clock. "And since all of the groceries are put away -- and thank you for your help, incidentally; Alan seldom helped around the house -- you should go back to your room to study or do homework until supper. We'll be having a cold chicken pasta salad this evening, so I won't need your help getting it ready. Just come down about six."
So those were the terms. I went back upstairs to think about things. I _was_ acting differently as Alice. I had been proud of her body while I was getting dressed. I not only felt comfortable in her pretty dresses and skirts, panties and bras, but I liked wearing them. Helping with the groceries had seemed the natural thing to do. And I didn't like being around two of my oldest friends. That last one bothered me. What bothered me more, though, was that I had liked being around Rick.
Then I thought some more about Rick. He bothered me, too, but in a different way. I found myself smiling at the thought of seeing him at the Library. I decided that I did want to go out with him over the weekend. That made me smile more. (And worry more.) I knew that I'd have to ask Aunt Therese if I could go. But I thought that I'd better wait a bit before asking, considering what she'd said about Rick before.
I was primping in the mirror, thinking about seeing Rick. Then I realized that Aunt Therese probably wouldn't let me go to the Library if my homework wasn't done. I couldn't bear not seeing him, so I buckled down. I was just finishing my Earth Sciences problems, when I heard the bank clock strike six. All I had left was some Spanish vocabulary review, and I could do that before I went to bed. I put my books away and headed down to eat.
I didn't say much during supper. Aunt Therese asked if my homework was done. I said all but the Spanish vocabulary review, and asked her to drive me to the Library. She agreed and even suggested that I ask Rick to drive me home.
Rick was waiting just outside the Library. He waited till Aunt Therese had driven off, then asked about the date. "Yes, I'd love to go out with you this weekend" I said, enjoying his big smile when he heard that. "But I still have to ask my Aunt. Things got a little edgy with us this afternoon, and I didn't want to bring up any plans for the weekend."
It was a lie, but I couldn't tell him the truth. I wasn't sure what Aunt Therese would say after her comment about boys thinking with their penises. I wanted to wait a little bit till she forgot about what idiots Phil and Jerry had been.
"Okay, I guess," Rick said. "At least you didn't say 'No'. I guess that I can wait another day." He opened the door and held it for me. "After you, my lady. We still have our time studying together tonight." I smiled at him and went through into the building. We went over to where we'd left our stuff from the night before and began to work.
We both worked fairly steadily. I looked up and caught him looking at me once or twice, and one time I stopped and just looked at him for a minute until he caught me. We both laughed at that. Time went so fast that they were giving us the "Fifteen minutes until the Library closes" notice before I realized it. "Let's put our stuff away and grab a coke for the ride home," Rick suggested. I agreed. We put the books back on the restricted shelves and went downstairs to the lounge. As we walked in, I realized that Rick was holding my hand. And that I liked it.
Rick bought a couple of sodas and we headed back up. We left the building just as the five minute notice came over the P-A system. Rick's car was at the far end of the parking lot. "The lot was much more filled up when I got here," he said. We walked over to the passenger side. I waited for him to open the door. He put the two sodas on the car roof and took my hands in his.
I began to feel a tingling all over. He leaned forwards and kissed me. The tingling got worse. I could feel my nipples getting hard, and there was a warmth flowing down from them straight to my groin. Rick let go of my hands and put his arms around my waist. I raised my own arms up and around his neck. My mouth opened. I felt his tongue touch mine. I pulled it back, and his followed. My nipples felt like they were inches long. My panties suddenly began to feel damp.
Then we heard a giggling and looked around. A couple of girls, maybe fourteen, had come out of the Library and seen us. I felt my cheeks get hot. Rick unlocked the door. I grabbed the sodas and got in. I managed to lean over and unlock his door, while he ran around to his side. He got in quickly, and we drove out of the lot past the girls who were still giggling.
About halfway back to my house, Rick pulled over and stopped the car. When he turned the headlights off, I noticed that only a couple of the houses on the block had lights on inside. We were at the top of a hill with a view of the whole town out to the highway. The Moon was just coming up over the ridge. "I'd rather take you out to Taylor Point," Rick said, "but it's a school night, and you still don't have permission from your Aunt to date me."
He leaned over and kissed me. I wanted to respond. It felt so very good. Then I suddenly got the image of the two of us naked in a bed. He -- he was about to -- I couldn't think it. I was terrified. "No, Rick," I said, pushing him away. "It just wouldn't be right. We barely know each other." My mind was spinning. I wanted to kiss him, and I didn't. But the craziest part was that none of it had to do with my really being a boy. I was reacting completely as Alice, a girl who was suddenly afraid of being pushed into something that she wasn't ready for.
Rick looked disappointed; then, kind of apologetic. "I guess I was rushing you. Heck, you haven't even said if you would go on that date with me." He started the car and drove the last few blocks to my house in silence. As he was helping me out of the car, he said, "I hope I didn't scare you off."
I smiled with relief. I'd found myself worrying that he wouldn't want to date a timid girl like me. "No, I don't think that I have. I'll try to give you your answer tomorrow." With that I leaned up and gave him a rather sisterly kiss on the cheek. He smiled at that and tried to kiss me back. "Good night, Mr. Medford," I said coldly.
Rick was a quick learner. He mumbled a "Good night", got back in the car, and drove off. I stood on the curve and waved once, as he turned the corner.
Aunt Therese was watching TV when I came in. "Don't forget that homework," she said without looking up. I went upstairs. I tried to study my Spanish, honest I did. But my mind kept wandering to Rick - and that kiss. It took a while, but I reviewed each vocabulary word three times, reading them aloud from my study cards. Then I put them away, hoping that at least some of the words had stuck in my mind. For once, being Alice didn't help my studying. Her hormones certainly got in the way of my Spanish.
Wednesday
The next afternoon, Phil stopped me as I was leaving the Boy's Dressing Room after gym. "Jerry and I came by your place yesterday -- cute cousin, by the way -- where were you?"
"Yeah, where?" Jerry had joined him. They were blocking my way and looked ready for a fight.
I thought fast. "Oh yeah, Aunt Therese said you to came by. She got really mad when I came home drunk last weekend. I -- um -- I threw up in the hall, and she -- she got real mad. She grounded me for a month. I have to be home by 4 PM to do homework, and I can't go hang out on the weekend. I was up in my room when you guys came by. You left before I could come down."
"So sneak out, man," Jerry sneered. "What's the matter? You afraid of the old bat?"
I couldn't believe these guys. Didn't they know the situation that I was now? No, I guess they didn't. How could they? But they did know a little about my life. "I've got no choice," I said. "Aunt Therese says that she doesn't have to take care of me. If I sneak out or do anything else she doesn't like, she says she won't even consider a foster home. She'll just drop me at the State Home for Boys on her way out of town."
"Bummer," Phil said. "Hey, but it might still be worth the risk. I hear some guys are planning a big party this weekend over by Kleigger Lake. A bonfire, plenty of beer, women. Be great, man. You interested?"
"Didn't you hear me, you asshole? Aunt Therese locks the house when she isn't around, and she already took my keys. I try anything like that, I might as well pack for the Home before I leave for the party." I'm afraid I got a little mad. These guys were supposed to be my friends, and they were acting like a pair of jerks. I gave up and tried to push Phil out of the way, so I could get to class.
"Who you calling asshole, asshole?" Phil pushed back. Then Jerry pushed me; just to get his licks in, I guess. I should have ignored them and walked away. I never had the chance.
"What's going on?" It was Mr. Graydon, the English teacher. He was not happy. "Fighting in the Hall, boys. Maybe you can work it off in Detention after school." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small tablet and a pen. "Webster, Lane, and Klein. Thirty minutes." He wrote each of our names on a sheet of paper, tore the sheets off, and handed them to the three of us. As he turned to walk on down the Hall, he added, "I'm on duty this afternoon. If I don't see you, it will be an hour every day for a week."
The three of us glared at each other and hurried off to class. Luckily, I had Spanish, and Jerry and Phil had math.
This was not good. School ended at 3:20. Add a half hour, and it was 3:50. Figure a couple minutes to get to Detention and a couple more to get out after my time was up, and it would be 4 o'clock. I was going to change into Alice at the school. I thought about calling Aunt Therese to see if she could get me out of Detention. Tell them that I would be punished at home or I had a doctor's appointment. Anything. Then I thought about how mad she was going to be when she found out. Calling would probably make her even madder. I definitely did not want that.
I didn't pay a lot of attention in my classes the rest of the afternoon. I was trying to figure out what to do at 4 PM.
- # -
Detention was in a first floor study hall. I go there just after Mr. Graydon. He took my detention slip and told me to sit in a corner of the room. He made a note of the time as I sat down. I got out my algebra book and started doing that day's assignment. As before, I noticed that it seemed to come easier since I began doing my homework as Alice. I thought about it for a minute and decided that it was -- I hoped -- just because she was studying harder than I did.
Jerry never came. He told me the next day that he didn't care. He didn't have much to do after school anyway. Phil showed up ten or fifteen minutes after I did. He made a big protest about how it was all my fault. Mr. Graydon had him sit across the room from me. Some other students who'd gotten in trouble during the day or who had several days detention to do were sitting in other seats. A couple of kids who'd gotten caught being much too affectionate during lunch hour tried to sit together. Mr. Graydon sat them about three rows apart and recommended that they take a cold shower after they were done in Detention. "Only if we can take it together," the boy said. The girl giggled. So did a couple of others.
And so did I. I suddenly thought about Rick. I hadn't thought of him all day, but now I sort of looked forward to seeing him at the Library. Omigosh! Was I about to change; here in front of witnesses! I felt the dizziness beginning, but only a little. I concentrated and it went away. I looked at the wall clock. It was 3:55. I decided that it wasn't the change, just nerves.
Mr. Graydon saw me looking at the clock. "Okay, Alan. You can go. Try to stay out of trouble."
"I'll try," I said. I grabbed my book bag and walked quickly out the door. The hall was empty, but other kids would be finishing detention at any time.
I particularly didn't want to run into Phil as Alan or Alice. I knew that I'd never get out of the building -- let alone get home -- before the change, so I tried to find a place to hide. The classrooms were locked, and the bathrooms were at the far end of the floor.
But the stairwell was nearby. I headed for the basement. The door to the girl's dressing rooms weren't far from the stairs. Nobody seemed to be around, so I tried the door. Open! I got in just as the change began to hit.
It was getting easier. I was dizzy for a minute, then it felt like I was dropping down a fast elevator. I felt my clothes shift along my body as I shrank. Everything got looser, except for my t-shirt, which got tight again as Alice's breasts grew. My hair growing out tickled me on the back of the neck. There was a weird sensation in my groin as my sex changed -- I can't really describe it -- kind of like getting a hard on in reverse. Then it was over, and I was Alice.
Now my problem was how to get home in Alan's clothes. They were much too big. Anyone who saw me was sure to ask question; questions I couldn't possibly answer. Besides, if I was going outside, I wanted to look nice.
Yes, I was definitely Alice.
I looked around. In a corner, I saw some cheerleaders' outfits that were tossed in one of those big wheeled laundry baskets. You know, the kind with a heavy canvas bag fitted over a metal frame. I could wear one of those, maybe even find a pair of the boots that went with them. I dug through the pile and found both a skirt and top that fit me. I even found a pair of those short shorts they wore underneath the skirts.
I stripped out of my T-shirt and jeans and put on the outfit. I had to take off my undershirt, too, because of the way the top was designed, sleeveless with narrow shoulder straps. The top felt cool and tickled my bare nipples. I felt them begin to stiffen in response, and I understood why girls like silky blouses so much. The shorts hid my boy's underpants.
I didn't find any boots, but I did find a couple pair of matching socks. When I put them on over my regular socks and stuffed my feet into my shoes, they almost fit. I checked myself in a mirror near the door. Except for my big feet, I was as pretty as any cheerleader.
I did a couple of cheers, watching myself in the mirror. I looked good. I closed my eyes and daydreamed about being a cheerleader. Rick was watching me and smiling. I liked that and I felt my nipples tingle as I thought of it. But, suddenly, in my mind there were a whole stadium full of other people watching me. A whole stadium! Watching me! I opened my eyes and shivered. I could never, ever, stand up in front of all those people.
Alan might. He -- I -- he had played junior varsity football, till he quit the team after Aunt Liz died. Playing in front of a crowd never bothered him. But, as Alice, the thought of standing up and performing in front of all those people scared me silly.
I put Alan's clothes in my book bag and left the dressing room. There were no practices today, but some of the cheerleaders sometimes wore their outfits to class anyway. A few did it because we were having a rally or something, even if the cheerleaders weren't going to be a part of it. Some of the others did it to show off or because their boyfriends liked it. As long as nobody got close enough to recognize me, I'' be okay waking home in these clothes. I'' figure out later how to get them back to school without being caught.
It took a while to walk home. I hadn't realized how heavy my book bag really was. As I was waiting to cross Grove Street, an older guy, in his forties maybe, pulled up next to me in a Chevy. He lowered the window and asked how much I wanted to ride with him. I was flustered and just mumbled something about wanting to get home from school. "High School?" he asked. When I nodded "yes", the windows shot back up and he drove off. I realized what had just happened -- I'd been mistaken for a hooker! I was terrified and hurried across the street.
A block or so later, a car full of guys from school drove by. As they passed me, they shouted out several suggestive remarks and a very lewd invitation to join them. The car slowed to see my reaction. I froze for a minute, then I turned and crossed the street at an angle away from their direction. I could hear them calling me and almost feel their eyes staring at my new female charms. I felt slimy all over and was very glad to hear the car drive off behind me.
Aunt Therese was waiting for me when I got home. "The school called to say that you would be late because of detention," she explained "They said it was a new program -- calling the parents -- so they would know when a child misbehaved." She paused then smiled. "I didn't think it was a work punishment, though. I must say that you look very fetching as a cheerleader."
I was too tired to rise to her baiting. "Phil and Jerry hassled me about not meeting them yesterday. I was dumb enough to push one of them, and a teacher saw it. We each got thirty minutes detention, and I changed at the school. I didn't want to walk home in Alan's clothes, so I took these. Can I go put on some other clothes, please?"
I noticed that Aunt Therese's eyebrow shot up when I referred to "Alan's clothes", but she didn't say anything about it. "Go change clothes. And bring down that cheerleader's outfit. I'll see that gets back to your school without anyone noticing it was ever gone." I had expected her to be really mad about detention, but I guess she decided that my having to walk home dressed as a cheerleader was punishment enough. Besides, in a way, the fight was her fault..
I went upstairs to change. I was kind of sorry to take off the cheerleader's outfit, though, and I did a couple more cheers before I did, watching myself in the mirror. Again, I pictured myself doing cheers for Rick. He smiled and held out his arms for me. I ran to him, and we kissed. My nipples began to tingle and my crotch seemed warm.
"No!" I shouted to myself. I wasn't really a girl. I was Alan Webster under a spell. I shook my head, trying to shake loose these crazy thoughts. It was getting harder and harder to think of myself as Alan. I had to try, though, or Aunt Therese had won.
I changed, trying hard not to look at myself in the mirror. I thought that maybe I should let Aunt Therese win. If she saw that I behaving myself while I was Alan, she'd end the spell and Alice would be gone. I decided to ask her about it again.
I put on a pale yellow panty and matching bra. Over this I wore a yellow sleeveless blouse and a light brown skirt. I kept on one pair of the yellow cheerleader's socks and put on my -- Alice's -- my brown sneakers. A quick dab of lipstick, and I was done. I picked up the rest of the cheerleader's outfit and headed back down stairs.
"Here's the cheerleader's stuff," I said, handing my bundle to Aunt Therese. She stuffed it into a brown bag and stuck it by the door. I was curious as to how she'd get it back to school but decided not to ask. I had other things on my mind.
"Aunt Therese, can I ask you a question about this spell?"
"Certainly, dear. You want to know how to break it, of course."
"Well, yes. But I was going to ask what exactly I had to do to get you to end it."
"Why? Don't you like being a girl? Goodness me, did you and our young man have a fight?" She smiled at that, maybe trying to look sympathetic, maybe just laughing to herself.
"No, we didn't have a fight -- I mean, no, I don't like being a girl." Why had I answered like that. Which _was_ more important?
"Well, I'm glad to hear that you two are still together. As far as ending the spell, I hate to admit it, but I can't."
"What!"
"Not just yet, anyway. The spell is to teach you a lesson for all the trouble that you caused me as Alan. I expected that to take a while, so I linked it to a woman's menstrual cycle. You must go through a minimum of one complete cycle, thirty days, before the spell can be reversed."
"Oh, great," I thought. "Besides everything else, I get to see what having PMS is like."
"Yes, and remember, dear. Most of the time, you'll be Alice. The only reason that you change back to Alan at all is so he can attend school. If I don't reverse the spell before your Spring term ends, you get to be Alice all Summer. Think about that for a minute."
I did. As Alan I had definite Summer plans: a job, working on Jerry's car, dating, swimming out at the Lake. I could just see myself out at the Lake. I'd wear a really skimpy bikini. Rick would like that. Even if I felt embarassed showing off my body like that, I'd do it for him. We could -- oh, hell, Alice was taking over again.
I think Aunt Therese could tell how my thoughts had strayed. "Yes, my dear. All Summer as Alice, unless you show me that you've changed your ways. Now is there anything else before you go upstairs to study?"
"What the hell," I thought. "If I'm going to be stuck as Alice for a while yet, I may as well see how the other half lives." Aloud I asked, "Rick Medford, the boy who's been driving me home, he -- well, he asked if he could take me out this Saturday. I said that I had to ask you first. May I go out with him?"
"Since you asked so nicely, and since you've been behaving in such a ladylike manner, I suppose a reward is in order. Very well, you two may go out. But he will come into the house to introduce himself; not just honk to the horn on that car of his. A "Honk!" and his date with you will be over before it begins. And you must be home by 11:30 PM."
"Thank you, Aunt Therese," I said, hugging her impulsively. I knew that I was a lot happier to be going on the date than I should have been. I was really Alan after all. Wasn't I? But I was so happy that I didn't care. I ran upstairs to start my homework, so I'd have time for a little extra primping before I went to the Library to meet Rick.
- # -
Rick was waiting for me at the door to the Library. "Did you ask your Aunt about our date?"
I suddenly felt very shy, scared almost. I found myself looking down, rather than at his face. "Yes, yes, I did, and she said that I could go out with you."
"That's great," he said. I looked up. He had the cutest smile on his face. "I'll pick you up at 6. We can get something to eat, and then go to a movie, if that's okay."
"It sounds fine. But Aunt Therese said that you have to come into the house and introduce yourself. If you just honk for me, she won't let me go. And I have to be home by 11:30." Now I felt embarrassed. And scared. It suddenly occurred to me that Rick might not want to come in; that he might call the date off. I held my breath and waited.
"That's okay. A lot of parents are like that. My folks used to be that way with my sister, even."
"You don't mind, then?"
"Nah, I'll come ten minutes early, so your Aunt has time to ask me whatever questions she wants. It's cool."
I felt so relieved. I wanted to kiss him for being so understanding. My body was tingling at the thought of being with him for the evening. Then I remembered where we were and those two girls from the night before. If someone saw us kissing, I'd just die. I felt my face get warm and realized that I was blushing. "Let's go in and get started with our research," I said, trying to change the subject. Rick took my hand, which made me tingle even more, and we walked into the Library.
About a half hour before the Library's closing time, I heard Rick yawn. I looked up to see him stretching like a cat. "I think I've worked enough tonight," he said winking at me. "I'm kind of tired, and if we -- if I -- leave now, I don't have to drive home so fast to make curfew." He winked again, this time with a little bit of a leer thrown in.
I realized that what he was saying was that, if we left now, we'd have some time to park before he had to get me home. Time to do all sorts of things - alone - in his car - in the dark. All I had to do was say "No", or even just keep on with my studying. Only I didn't want to. I wasn't sure what was going to happen, but I found myself _wanting_ it to happen - wanting to be with Rick in whatever way he wanted. It was like Alice had locked up Alan in a cell in her - his -our mind. He'd get to watch, but that was it.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, or both. Nothing happened on the way home. That is, nothing happened to me. There was some kind of accident on Pine Street, and Rick and I got caught in mid-block in a long line of cars. Rick started to pull over to park, but I was afraid that we'd get stuck. I didn't want to get home so late that I couldn't change back to Alan for school the next day.
Rick put his arm around my shoulder, while we inched our way down the street. I smiled and moved closer to him on the seat. Then he moved his hand down and began rubbing my breast. It felt good, damned good. I wanted him to keep doing it, then I suddenly remembered where we were. "Rick," I yelled.
He jerked his hand back. "What's the matter, Alice?"
"There's people here all around. Somebody will see us."
"Alice, it's nighttime. Everybody's trying to see whatever caused this tie-up. Nobody will know."
"I'll know. It -- it just feels like everybody's staring at me. Please, stop."
"Well," he said, sounding very disappointed, " if you don't like it."
"Oh, I like it, Rick. I like it a lot, but I just feel uncomfortable doing anything where people can see us." I reached up and squeezed his hand. "Can you understand?"
"I guess so." He took his hand away. "I kind of like shy girls."
I beamed. I was so afraid that he would have called everything off; maybe even told me to get out of the car. I promised myself that I would try to make it up to him on our date. Then I realized again what that would mean. Alice wanted to be with Rick -- to sleep with Rick -- but I was Alice, and I was Alan, too, wasn't I. Was Alan gay, or was Alice taking over. I was beginning to get scared of just what Alice might do on that date.
I didn't really say much of anything to Rick the rest of the way home. Not that he said a lot to me, either. I gave him a very sisterly kiss as I got out of the car. He got back in, shouted, "See you tomorrow," and drove off.
Thanks to that accident, I got home about ten minutes later than usual. Aunt Therese said not to worry. It was still early enough that I'd have no problem changing back to Alan in time for school. That was good because I had enough other things to worry about.
Thursday
I was hoping that Jerry and Phil wouldn't be a problem at school. Wrong! They both blamed me for starting the fight. Jerry even blamed me for having a week's worth of detention, even though it was his fault for not showing up the day before. "Had more important things on my mind," he smirked.
They did both offer to forgive me if I'd fix them up with Alice, maybe give them some tips on how to seduce her. Now that they'd met her, they wanted to see more of her. Which meant, eventually, to see all of her -- naked in a bed. I was beginning to wonder what I'd ever seen in them to consider them my best friends. Was I like that? I didn't think so, but who could tell? I decided that if -- if? I meant when -- when I got back to being Alan full time, I'd look for a better class of friends.
"There's no way that I'll help you do anything to Alice," I said. "I mean come on, you guys, she is my cousin."
"So?" They both said.
"You guys are hopeless," I said and walked away shaking my head. I was half expecting them to start another fight. In fact, I was half hoping for a fight, a chance to get some of the "Guy" hormones into my system after the heavy doses of "Girl" hormones I was getting as Alice. Besides, I knew from past experience that I was a better fighter than either of them, and I figured that I had a fair chance of taking them both if I had to.
But nothing happened. At least not then.
- # -
Both guys showed up at my house about 10 minutes to 4. Jerry must have cut detention, which was going to make him real popular with Mr. Graydon; he'd probably get detention for a month. I guess that I should have been flattered that he thought Alice was worth it. I was going upstairs to get ready for the change, and I heard them at the back door. They claimed to be looking for me -- Alan, but I had a hunch that they wouldn't be too disappointed to find me -- Alice, instead. I ran the rest of the way upstairs and crouched at the top of the stairs to listen. If I needed to -- if the change started, I could get to my room and lock the door before they caught me. I heard them arguing with Aunt Therese. She repeated my story that I was grounded and told them to leave.
"Hey," I heard Phil say. "If we can't see Alan, we're willing to settle for that pretty cousin of his. Is she around?"
"I expect her here shortly," Aunt Therese said. She must have looked at the kitchen clock. I had checked my watch when I got home, and I figured that it was now almost 4 o'clock. "However, knowing the sort of hooligans and reprobates you two are, I have no intention of allowing you boys anywhere near my niece. Now get out before I get mad, and you get very sorry."
"Go, guys!" I thought. "If she gets mad, you'll be as able to get as near me as any other two girls would."
I heard Jerry say, something about "Later", but then the door slammed.
Aunt Therese yelled that they were gone, and I could relax. She'd known that I was listening! Thank heavens the guys weren't too stubborn. I got up and walked to my room, getting there just as the change began.
- # -
I found out at the Library what Jerry meant. We were leaving early like the night before, when there was an announcement that Rick was wanted at the Reference Desk. The Reference Desk was half way across the Library from the main doors. Rick told me to wait for him. It was a warm night, so I said that I'd wait just outside the building. That way, I could drink some of the soda we'd just bought. (You can carry food out of the vending area, but you have to go outside the building to eat or drink it.)
Phil was waiting for me. "Don't bother waiting for Medford, Babe. Jerry had him paged. There's a message at the Reference Desk about a book in the Stacks. By the time he figures it out, we'll be long gone. He grabbed my arm and began to pull me towards his car.
I froze. As Alan I could take him out easy. But I wasn't Alan. I was Alice. Weak, female Alice. I suddenly found that I remembered as much about Alan's fighting techniques as I did about his skill with cars. Nothing. Besides, Phil was several inches taller than me now and a lot heavier and stronger.
I looked around the lot. Our sneaking out of the Library early had helped him. Just about everybody was still inside. I tried to pull my arm free, but I couldn't. There was no point in yelling. Nobody would hear. I slapped Phil's face, but he just laughed. I began to hit him on the arm, but it didn't seem to do any good either. "That's it," he said as if to encourage me. "I like my girl to get feisty when I hold her hand."
"What do you mean, your girl?" It was Rick! He grabbed Phil by the wrist and squeezed till Phil let me loose. Phil turned and tried to throw a punch. Rick blocked it and threw one of his own. Then a couple more. Phil caved like a ton of bricks and fell to the pavement unconscious.
"Are you all right," He asked. I saw that idiot Jerry trying to hide near the Reference Desk. When the librarian said that he'd been the one to have me paged, I got worried and headed out here."
"And just in time," I said. "Would it be corny to reward my gallant rescuer with a kiss?"
"Not when it's this gallant rescuer, fair damsel."
I threw my arms around Rick and pulled him close to me. Who cared if anybody saw. He'd saved me, and he deserved a kiss.
As we kissed, I realized that my nipples felt like two steel points poking through my bra. My crotch felt warm and moist. And empty. I wanted Rick, wanted him in me. I moaned and rubbed myself against him. I felt him get hard, and I was very happy knowing that I was doing that to him. I opened my mouth and met his tongue with my own. My knees began to feel weak and my entire body was tingling from 1,000 watts of sexual electricity.
He was the one to break the kiss. "That's a wonderful reward. Let's go someplace very private and do something more about it."
I smiled, and we both half ran to his car. It was a good thing everybody was still inside, because Rick didn't take a lot of time to watch for pedestrians when we drove out of the lot.
We got as far as the hill on Pine Street. Rick pulled over and parked under a big maple tree. Its leaves would give us extra shade. He turned off the engine and leaned over to kiss me. I hesitated for a second, then kissed him back. My mouth opened, inviting in his tongue. He put one arm behind my back, pulling me closer. I felt his other hand on my left breast, gently massaging it through my blouse and bra. My nipples were still hard from those kisses in the parking lot. He began to play with my left one with his thumb. The sensations were incredible!
He broke the kiss and pulled his arm back from behind me. He was unbuttoning my blouse. I could have stopped him, but I didn't want to. I found myself lowering my head and smiling shyly. My blouse was wide open now, my nipples poking out, clearly visible beneath my bra. I felt them rubbing against the silky lacework of the bra. It was wonderful, and I wanted more. I reached down and began to pull at his t-shirt.
Suddenly, I heard the bank clock. Nine. No! Nine fifteen by now! I felt as if a bucket of ice cold water had been thrown on me. What was I doing, letting Rick kiss me, touch me like this? What was I doing trying to get his shirt off? I pulled my hands back in horror. Wasn't there any of Alan left? Then I remembered what Aunt Therese said about needing my sleep, if I was going to be able to change back into Alan for school. That made me stop. I had really wanted Rick and had been ready to do whatever he wanted, but, now that I'd had time to think of what I was doing, I was suddenly very afraid of going too far with Rick.
I sat up and pushed Rick away. "Please, Rick. My Aunt's expecting me home right after the Library closes." To emphasize my point, I readjusted my bra and began to button my blouse.
Rick started to protest. "Besides," I said, smiling coyly, "if I'm late, she may not let us go out Saturday night. We'll have a lot more time then." I realized what I was saying, what I seemed to be promising him. Alan might not like it. But right then, I was Alice. I wanted Rick, and I didn't want Rick. My feelings, my body, were scaring me because of how strongly I wanted him. I kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Please take me home before we get into trouble."
Rick started the car and drove the rest of the way in silence. I used the time to finish buttoning my blouse and pulled down my skirt from where it had ridden up as we squirmed on the seats. Once, when we stopped for a red light, I saw him reach down and adjust something, too. I pretended that I hadn't noticed, but I felt pleased to have had that effect on him.
I know the effect that he had had on me. My nipples were still erect, rubbing against my bra as if begging to be touched. It felt like my panties were damp from the moisture I had leaked, and my female parts down there were definitely sending me messages. It was all I could do to keep from asking Rick to stop the car, but I was afraid. Whether it was of going all the way or of not getting home early enough to be able to change, I couldn't tell. We did kiss again when he helped me out of the car at the house. A short kiss, but -- oh, boy! He hopped back into the car and drove off waving. I stood at the curb until he turned the corner then went inside. My body was still tingling, and I tried very hard not to smile too much at Aunt Therese when she asked how my studying had gone. "Dreamy," I said. "That is, it's like a dream the way the information just comes together. I think this will be a really good paper."
"I'm glad the work is going so well." Aunt Therese knew exactly what I'd really meant. And she was enjoying it. "But now, you'd best get to bed, Alice dear. We do want _Alan_ to be rested for school tomorrow." I nodded in agreement and headed upstairs.
I took off my blouse and skirt and hung them back up in the closet. My nipples were still poking against the material of my bra. Any movement on my part and the lace rubbed against them, making me tingle. My panties were actually a little damp. I took them off and put on a short nightie and matching panty. Then I washed up and got into bed.
I was hoping to doze right off, but I kept thinking off Rick. At first, I just pictured his face and that cute little smile that he had. Then I remembered the feel of his lips on my lips and his hand on my breast. I closed my eyes and laid there in the dark thinking about them. Suddenly I felt his hands on my breasts. No! They were my hands, moving -- rubbing -- my extended nipples. It felt so very good! I felt my groin get moist again.
Without thinking, my hand reached down to touch my groin, to feel the moisture. I only meant to touch for an instant, but my hand stayed there! I reached up under my panties. My fingers moved across my patch of hair, moving it and tickling my pussy. One finger reached inside and found my clit. I began to rub it in time with the motion of my other hand rubbing my nipple.
Fireworks were going off inside me. I rocked back and forth on the bed. My legs were thrown wide apart, and my hips bucked like a wild horse. I moaned! I knew that I didn't want Aunt Therese to hear me, to have her come in and discover my like this. But I knew even more certainly that I didn't want to stop. Not ever. I took my hand off my nipple just long enough to grab a pillow and throw it over my face.
My hand went back to my breast, now rubbing the other nipple in time with the hand in my pussy. I arched my back and screamed into the pillow as jolt after jolt of pleasure shot through me. This wasn't like jacking off as Alan, one quick spurt and it was over. The sensations went on and on and on. If this was what a girl's multiple orgasm was, I didn't want it to stop until I was a dry husk lying dead in my bedroom. One last, incredible explosion, like being inside - no, like _being_ that last big blast in a fireworks display, and it was all over. I lay panting on my bed drenched in sweat and too weak to continue.
I was probably still smiling when I fell asleep.
Friday
Alan was back in the morning.
I climbed out of bed and carefully stripped off the nightie. It had looked great on Alice, but it was much too small for me as Alan, so tight that it was almost painful to wear. It was also still a little damp from my - from Alice's, umm - exertions of the night before. Still, I was very careful as I took it off. There was still a little of Alice in me, I guess, because I was thinking that I didn't want to tear anything that pretty. I stuck it in the dirty clothes hamper and headed in to take a morning shower.
Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed and downstairs. Aunt Therese had breakfast waiting.
Jerry and Phil didn't want to have much to do with me at school, which was fine by me. Phil had a black eye and walked a little hunched over as if his ribs hurt. He claimed that he had tried to help an old guy who was being robbed and had gotten beaten up for his troubles. Well, it sounded better than the old "I fell down some steps" routine, though very few people believed him.
I did run into Rick Medford. He stopped me in the hall on my way to Algebra. "How's your cousin?" he asked.
It was a little weird. As Alice, I I really liked him - liked him enough that it scared me. But as Alan, he was just another friend, a guy that I'd known since grade school but didn't hang out with very often. "Okay, I guess."
"She say anything about what happened - about last night?" He was definitely worried that Alice might have said something to Aunt Therese, and the date would be off. I wondered if it would have made a difference. Aunt Therese might have enjoyed knowing how I'd panicked when Phil grabbed me, and how I'd needed a male protector just like any other weak, timid little girl. Of course, I couldn't tell him that.
"I was upstairs when she came in. I heard her talk to our Aunt for a couple of minutes, then she went to her room. I don't know what they said, but, from the tone, it sounded fairly routine." I decided to have a little fun. "Why? Did something happen that my Aunt and I should know about?"
He squirmed. "No! Ah - you know how it is, Alan. I'm spending time with a girl that lives with you. I thought that she might have said something about how she feels about me."
"So you want me to spy on her for you. Nope, we don't tell each other's secrets in my family." He looked really sad, and I decided to toss him a crumb. "I will say that she's really looking forward to that date you have with her on Saturday." Before we could say anything else, the bell rang. We both had to run to get to our classes. I thought that I might see him after school, but I didn't. Of course, I couldn't wait around to look for him.
- # -
I got home about five minutes before the change. Aunt Therese was sitting in the living room reading from some over-sized book with a leather cover; _The Joy of Witchcraft_, maybe. She looked up as I came in. "Good afternoon, Alan. I thought that we might have something easy this evening, so I'm sending out for pizza. You can putter around as Alice until I call you for dinner."
That sounded simple enough. As I headed upstairs to change - my body and my clothes - it occurred to me that Aunt Therese had been a lot more pleasant the last couple of days. Maybe, she was mellowing. Or, maybe, timid, ladylike little Alice didn't put as much of a strain on our relationship as I had as Alan. Whatever the reason, Aunt Therese could be fairly nice when she wanted to be. Having seen what she could do when she was angry, I decide that her nice side was _much_ more preferable. I decided to encourage it by behaving better.
Then I remembered that her wanting better behavior was exactly why she'd turned me into Alice. Was the whole thing some kind of mind game? I planned to think about that after I'd changed.
It was 4 o'clock. I didn't need to hear the bank clock. I could feel the change begin. My hands were getting smaller, my fingernails growing out and shaping themselves. I loosened my pants and let them fall past my widening hips. I stepped out of them and out of my shoes -- which were, again, far too big - at the same time. It was trickier taking off my T-shirt as my breasts grew out. As I pulled the shirt off over my head, I felt my hair -- so short a minute ago -- fall down against my neck and back. Anybody looking in my room would have wondered why pretty little Alice Webster was standing there in her cousin's jockey shorts and socks.
She didn't wear them for long. I stepped out of the shorts, holding my feet, so the socks came off at the same time. I walked over to the dresser and picked a matching lemon panty and bra set from my drawer. I stepped into the panties, pulling them up tight against my butt and hips. The nylon felt so much better than Alan's cotton shorts that I wondered why I'd even tolerated them as a boy. I put my arms through the straps of the bra, leaning in to get my breasts into the cups. Then I reached behind and fastened it as if I'd been doing it for years instead of for a few days.
As I walked over to get a shirt and blouse from the closet, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. Even without any make-up I looked pretty good. Phil and Jerry would kill to see me looking like this. Not that I wanted them to see me like this. It was too bad that they were such jerks. They were both kind of cute. Rick was much more handsome, but they weren't too bad looking.
I'd listened to both guys brag about their sexual exploits for years, and the memories of some of their stories flooded back into my brain. If only a third of them were true, they were both accomplished lovers, and I wondered -- What was I thinking? It was bad enough to fantasize about Rick, but now Phil and Jerry. "Don't go there, girl," I said to myself.
I decided to do some homework before dinner. The Library closed early on Friday, 6 PM, so I didn't expect to see Rick until tomorrow. I thought that if I could get all my homework done, I could spend some time with him on Sunday. I'd have to see how the date went, but it sounded like a good idea. Especially since I was going to have to stay home and write that paper the first part of next week.
English was easy, read some more of _Jane Eyre_, the book we were discussing in class. I finished a chapter and put the book aside. It had gotten more interesting now that I was Alice, but I was well ahead of the class discussion. We had no civics homework, since we were supposed to be working on the paper. I spent a half hour going over Spanish vocabulary, then moved on to Algebra. I was still working on math problems, when Aunt Therese called me down for the pizza.
I was a little surprised at what she'd ordered. First of all, it was the small size, rather than the medium one that I would have expected. More important was the kind of pizza. She'd ordered half with just mushrooms, her favorite, I guess, and half sausage, onion, and extra cheese, my favorite. This was the first time that we'd had pizza since she'd arrived. How had she known?
"Well, I am a witch, you know, Alice." She reached in and pulled out a slice, carefully putting it on a plate.
"As if I could forget." I picked up a slice and took a bite. After that we didn't talk much, just ate. I finished that piece and another, but I had trouble with the third. I left almost half of it. I guess my stomach was just smaller. Aunt Therese ate about as much as I had, leaving some crust and part of a third slice. No wonder she'd only order the six sliced small pie.
After we finished the pizza, I found myself cleaning up without even being asked. Something Alan would never have done. I also found that I was starting to think of Alan in the third person, as if he were somebody else and not my real self. Did Alan -- did I -- think about Alice the same way? I thought that he -- that I -- did, but it still bothered me.
I went in to watch some TV. Aunt Therese was watching the news. I sat down on the sofa and tried to listen, but after a while I found myself getting a little bored. I looked over and saw that Aunt Therese was doing something with a needle and thread.
"It's called embroidery, dear," she said without looking up. "Would you like to try it?"
I figured what the heck and went over. Aunt Therese showed me the stitch she was doing. Then she threaded a second needle and let me make a couple stitches in a corner of the fabric. It was really easy and a lot more fun than I'd have expected it to be.
Aunt Therese reached into a big cloth bag, something shopping bag size, next to her chair. "Ah, here you are, dear. I got this in the mail a while back as a promotion for that new crafts store in the Maytown Mall." She handed me a small paper bag with a picture of a strawberry on it. I opened it up to find a piece of white cloth, a line drawing of the strawberry showing what colors went where, and a little cardboard piece with about six different shades of colored yarns wrapped around it.
Aunt Therese fit the cloth to plastic circle from her bag and showed me how to thread the needle. In a few minutes, I was happily sewing away.
It only seemed like a short time had passed, when Aunt Therese mentioned that it was past eleven o'clock. I looked at the embroidery I had been working on. The strawberry was about half done. So were the leaves and a little of the decoration around the edge. And it looked pretty good.
Aunt Therese agreed. "I thought that you might have a bit of talent for sewing," she said.
"But I can't sew," I said. "I mean, I, as Alan, can't sew." I'd tried to sew on a loose button one time a couple months ago, and I was all thumbs. Suddenly I realized what I'd been doing. How could I have a skill as Alice that I didn't have as Alan
"But you're not Alan, dear. That is, you and Alan are two different personalities, two different people within the same body. The same magic that keeps you from knowing about cars the way he does also gives you skills, or, rather, the potential for skills that he doesn't have."
It seemed simple enough, but it bothered me. Alan and Alice were two different people. But I was Alice a lot more of the time than I was Alan. If I stayed Alice too long -- if I didn't change back over the Summer -- would there be any of Alan left.
I gave Aunt Therese bit of a sad smile. "I'm not sure I like that, but I did enjoy learning how to do embroidery. Thank you, Aunt Therese." All of a sudden, I felt very sleepy, so I added, "and good night." I put down my work, promising myself to get some more of it done over the weekend. If I got it done before I changed back to Alan full time, it would make a nice souvenir. I yawned and went up to bed. It never occurred to me that the thought of not_switching back to Alan wasn't quite as scary as it had been a few days before.
As I changed into my nightie, I realized how much later it was than I had been going to bed. Since I was going to be Alice all weekend, I didn't need the extra sleep to have the energy for the change. I'd just have to remember not to stay up too late on Sunday.
And, best of all, it meant that I could stay out later with Rick. What had Aunt Therese said? Be home by 11:30. That was time enough for a lot of things to happen. I was beginning to think of some of them, when I dozed off. Smiling.
Saturday
I slept in Saturday morning, something I often did as Alan. I put a robe on over my nightie, a pair of fuzzy slippers on my feet, and went down to get something to eat. There was a note on the table. Aunt Therese had gone out to run some errands. She said that, if I was dressed "and looked presentable", she'd drop me off at the mall after lunch. I wasn't sure what I'd do at the mall. I mean, Alice didn't have any friends to hang out with, but, somehow, it seemed liked something to look forward to.
I had a quick breakfast and ran upstairs to get dressed, I put put on a pale green pair of panties and a matching bra. I dug an old T-shirt of Alan's out of the closet and put it on. It fit pretty good except for being a little tight in the chest. I decided that I liked the way it accented my figure. I'd wear a light sweater, at least till I got to the mall, so Aunt Therese wouldn't object. I'd have liked to put on a pair of jeans, but Aunt Therese hadn't let me get any, so I picked a light brown skirt that matched the colors in design on the t-shirt. It was a little shorter than the skirts that I'd been wearing, showing off my long legs. I put on a pair of yellow socks and my brown sneakers. I grabbed a light brown sweater from a hanger and tossed it over my arms and head. I pulled my hair out from inside the sweater, and I was ready.
As I looked in the mirror to put on my make-up, it occurred to me how much I was enjoying the way I looked. "I'll worry about it Monday, when I'm Alan," I thought. "No, wait a minute. Just how much _am_ I enjoying being pretty little Alice? This isn't right. I'm the victim of a spell, and I should resent it. Shouldn't I?" This was getting damned confusing. I decided that the best course would be to go with it. Just not get too caught up in being Alice, since she -- I -- she was only temporary.
My mind was definitely made up -- sort of. I finished doing my face and went down stairs. Aunt Therese wasn't back yet from her errands. There didn't seem to be anything really interesting on TV, not even the cartoons that Alan used to enjoy. I found the strawberry embroidery that I'd started the night before and began working on it again.
Aunt Therese came back just before lunchtime. I helped bring in a couple of boxes and some groceries from the car. She fixed us both a light lunch, salad with a little chicken. "We girls have to watch our figures you know. I thought that I'd still be hungry afterwards and planned to grab something at the mall, but it was surprisingly filling. I guessed that Alice's stomach was smaller than Allen's.
Aunt Therese kept her promise and agreed to drive me to the mall. If she had noticed the tight shirt that I was wearing, she didn't say anything. On the way over, she asked, "I need to take some boxes down to the basement tomorrow. There's some stuff down there of your Aunt Liz's that I want to sort through as well. Would you be mind helping for an hour or so?"
"No, Aunt Therese," I said, sensing an opportunity. "But it's a little dusty down the basement by the storage shelves for me to wear a good skirt. I know that you don't approve of a girl in pants, but may I buy a pair of jeans to wear?"
I wasn't sure how Aunt Therese would react. She'd been very stubborn the day I changed about buying me pants. Now I was asking her again. She got a funny smile on her face while she thought about it. "Very well," she finally said. "I agree with your reasons. In fact, you may buy two or three pair, so long as you agree to only wear them around the house."
When we got to the entrance to the mall, she pulled over to let me out. She turned off the engine and reached into her purse, taking out $60 dollars. "This should cover the pants. I expect to get the change and the receipt."
"Thank you, Aunt Therese." I wanted to hug her. Pants just like every other girl wore. Every other girl? What was I thinking? But now, I was so happy to be getting permission to shop for jeans that I just didn't care.
"I'll expect you home by 6. There's a bus stop here at the mall entrance."
"I know. The 5:15 bus should get me home on time."
"See that it does. Oh, and make sure that you get nice jeans -- and not so tight that you look common." She started the car again and drove off.
- # -
I went into the mall and wandered just wandered around for a bit. I couldn't help thinking of how different it was from last Sunday. Then, I'd been terrified at the thought of being a girl. Now, I'd gotten used to it. I was even enjoying myself -- a little.
I was looking at some books on a rack in front of the B. Dalton's when I heard a voice behind me. "Excuse me, but do I know you from school?"
I turned and without thinking said, "Oh, Hi, Grace."
Grace was Grace MacAvoy. She was a short, cuddly brunette that I -- Alan -- had dated for a while. We'd had a fight over something -- a really stupid, sexist joke that Alan told her -- and sort of split up about two weeks ago. That was part of why I'd gotten drunk the week before, I missed her. She still was as pretty as ever. Her hair was styled differently and she was wearing the cutest -- but what was I thinking? Worse yet, what had I just done?
"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought I recognized you. We must know each other, or you wouldn't know my name. But I can't for the life of me remember who you are?"
"Well," I said, trying to recover. "You really don't know me. But you do know my cousin, Alan Webster. Everybody says that we look a lot alike."
"Oh, umm, sure, Alan. But how did you know me, then?"
"I'm staying with him and our Aunt Therese while my parents are out of the country. Alan showed me your picture. He talks about you a lot. He said that you two had some kind of fight, and he was really sorry about it and wanted to make up."
"Well, he should be sorry. I'll tell you about it later -- maybe. Anyway, welcome to town. Will you be going to the school while you're here?"
"No, my parents got so much stuff from my old school that I can stay home and study."
"Sounds like fun, but you won't meet many people at home."
I suddenly had an idea. I'd wanted to get back together with Grace. If Alice got to be her friend; I could pick up a lot of pointers that Alan could use. "Well, I met you. How about giving me the grand tour of the mall? I need to pick up some jeans for working around the house."
"Great! A new friend _and_ an excuse to shop, what more could I ask for." We both giggled. Alice, it seemed, had a friend.
Grace took me to a "Jean Shack" store. We passed right near "Le Moderne". I could see Mariah watching me from inside the store. When she saw me, she got a funny smile on her face, kind of like a cat watching a canary.
"Jean Shack" sold jeans, blouses, and some accessories. It was full of teenaged girls, all sizes and shapes. "What size are you," Grace asked.
I didn't know. I hadn't really been paying attention last week when I got all those dresses. And weren't there some differences between dress and pants sizes because of hips and length of the leg or something? I stammered for a minute while Grace looked at me. Was she getting suspicious? Would she somehow guess that I was really Alan? Finally, I blurted out, "I -- I'm really not sure. I just lost some weight."
"Lucky you," Grace said. "I'd guess that you're about my size. "Here. Try these." She handed me several pair. "If they fit, I can borrow them from you." We both giggled at that.
"It's a deal," I said and walked back to the changing rooms. It was a busy afternoon, and two were in use. There were some clothes in the third, a dress and a pair of heels, but nothing else. I went in and closed the curtain behind me. I was just hanging my own skirt up on a hook, when I heard somebody else come in.
"Well, there should be enough room for us both." I turned. It was an absolutely gorgeous blonde a few years older than me. She gave me a smile and walked over to the other side of the small room and began to wriggle out of the jeans she was wearing.
I recognized her almost at once, Sheila Hartman. She'd been a senior when I was a freshman, head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and the fantasy of almost every male in the school. Now here she was, even prettier than I remembered, and she was stripping her luscious body for me.
And I didn't care.
Alan would have been in _lust_ with her in a minute. Alice studied the way she did her make-up, glanced for a moment at her pretty undies, then looked away. Partly out of politeness, but partly because I found myself comparing my body to hers - and coming out a poor second.
I couldn't believe what I was thinking. Sure, I was a girl at the moment, but if this vision couldn't get a reaction out of what little remained of Alan inside me, then he - I - must be dead. Or all girl, which might be worse.
I realized that I was beginning to stare at her again. I turned away and undid my skirt. I stepped out of my shoes and my shirt and hung the shirt on one of the hooks. I stepped into the jeans and started pulling them up. I had to yank some to get them past my hips, but it was worth it when I looked in the mirror.
Shiela had left, and I was alone in the room. The jeans looked great. The weren't tight enough to look "slutty", but they really showed off the curve of my leg, my round hips, and the narrowness of my waist. I turned, posing, and saw that my butt looked pretty good, too. I had just the right amount of curve and bounce to be interesting to Rick - or any other boy, I guess.
I went out to show Grace. "What do you think?"
She studied me for a moment. "Boy, I wish I looked that good in jeans."
I decided to start my campaign to win her back. "Alan told me you had a great figure. He said that he loved walking with you, watching all the boys looking at you, and knowing that you were his girl."
"His girl? You mean like he owned me. Why that --"
"No, no. I asked him about that, too." I had to think fast, or I'd have made things worse. "He - umm - he said that he felt lucky knowing that such a pretty girl - um - wanted to spend her time with him."
"That's better. He is a nice boy, but he can be a little dense at times."
"How so?" This was it. Grace was going to tell me how to get her back.
"Oh, you know how boys get. Look, I know I'm probably going to forgive him in a few days - don't tell him that - but I'm still a little mad for that dumb joke he told. So, can we change the subject and talk about something else?"
Darn! I'd hoped to pump her for more information. Still, she _had_ said that she was almost ready to forgive me. I decided to change the subject and smiled. "Okay, my aunt gave me enough money for three pair of jeans. What colors do you think I should get besides these?"
"Let's see what they've got." We spent almost an hour looking at and trying on jeans. A couple of times, Grace and I were in the dressing room together. The first time that it happened, I was really looking forward to seeing her undressed again. (Let's just say, that we were passed the stage of holding hands, okay.)
Grace took off her skirt, and I snuck a glance at her. _Nothing_! I mean, I looked at her slender legs, at her butt in that little pink bikini panty that she was wearing - especially when she bent over to take off her shoe. And nothing happened. I could appreciate how pretty she was, but she was just another girl. That was the problem. I was a girl, too, and whatever Alan might have appreciated seeing Grace half-naked was lost on Alice.
I wound up getting a second pair of jeans, in the same style but chocolate brown. Then Grace talked me into trying on some regular slacks. I remembered what Aunt Therese had said, but Grace persuaded me that I could talk Aunt Therese into letting me keep them as long as I just wore them around the house. I chose a dark green pair with a bit of lace at the ankles and on the pockets. They looked very pretty on me, and I had a couple of ideas about which of my blouses would look best with them.
After we left the Jean Shack, Grace and I walked through the mall window shopping. I was never much on shopping as Alan - even with Grace. Now it was fun. We talked about the clothes, sometimes making jokes. Grace told me one about a girl on her wedding night while we were looking in the window at the Bridal Boutique. It was just as dirty as the one I'd told her as Alan, the one that had started the fight. I was a little shocked, but it _was_ funny. I giggled at the punch line and tried unsuccessfully to think of a topper.
As we walked on, we passed a Piercing Pagoda. Grace looked at me critically for a moment. "Want to get your ears pierced, Alice? You'd look really cool."
"I think I'd better ask my Aunt first." I was tempted, I admit, but I was afraid that the holes might still be there when I changed into Alan. I was also afraid that they'd disappear when I was Alan and not be there when I changed back into Alice. "Changed back?" Great, now I was beginning to think of Alice as my true body as Alan as the magic trick.
I had another problem when we turned down one of the rows of stores. Grace started talking about the Victoria's Secret about halfway down that row. In my mind's eye, I started visualizing all those great commercials for the store, those sexy babes posing in really hot lingerie or modeling them on a fashion show runway. I liked the image. That meant that there was still at least a little of Alan left in me after all.
Then I saw myself - Alice - in some of that same lingerie, and I liked that image, too. Alice was walking down the runway wearing a skimpy little babydoll nightie with a thong panty, matching thigh high stockings, and three-inch heels. I saw her looking down at the people and smiling, and I felt scared. I tried to think of her walking slowly, slumping over so nobody would want to look at her. Then I saw Rick in the audience, looking at me - at her - and smiling. I - the Alice in my mind - smiled back. She straightened up and put a really sexy strut in the walk, wiggling her butt just for him. At the same time, I suddenly felt my body - my real body - tingling.
This I did _not_ need. I looked around for a way to talk Grace out of going into the store. About four stores past the Victoria's was the mall cineplex. The marquee said that RUNAWAY BRIDE was starting at 2:45. I looked at my watch. It was 2:30. Grace had mentioned the movie while we were in the Jean Shack.
I grabbed her hand. "Hey, look. Didn't you say that you wanted to see RUNAWAY BRIDE?"
"Yeah," Grace said. "I hear it's a great movie."
I pointed at the marquee. "It's starting in 15 minutes. C'mon."
"I thought we could shop some more."
"We can -- later. Hey, I'll buy the popcorn." That did it. She forgot about the store, and we headed in to the theatre.
I've always enjoyed watching Julie Roberts. She has that hip, girl next door look about her. The kind of girl that a guy knew could be a pal, who knew about football and other "guy" stuff the way Julia did in the movie, and who'd also be fantastic in the sack. This time it was just like back at the Jean Shack. Julia was just another girl. Oh, but Richard Gere! When he told Julia the way he'd propose to a woman, I found myself sighing right along with Grace and probably half the other females watching the movie. My body tingled a more than a few times, a female response that I was getting to both like and hate. Still, it was better to be turned on by a movie star that I was never going to meet than by thoughts of the guy who'd be picking me up in a few hours.
"A few hours!" I suddenly remembered that Rick was picking me up at 6. If I waited to catch the 5:15 bus; I'd never get home in time to get ready. What time was the movie over? I began to panic. "Grace," I whispered. "I may have to leave before the movie's over.
"What's the matter Alice."
"I didn't realize how late it was. I -- I have a date tonight."
"Well, that was fast. Who is it?"
"Rick Medford."
"Not bad for somebody new in town. He's cute. As far as getting home, relax. My Dad's out of town, and Mom let me drive over to the mall. I can get you home in ten minutes."
"Thanks."
"No problem. Now be quiet. I want to watch the rest of the movie."
I sat back and watched the movie. I had definitely lucked out meeting up with Grace, even if I hadn't learned much about how to get back together with her when I was Alan. But now that she and I -- as Alice -- were friends, there was still time for that. The movie ended about 4:30, and we headed out to Grace's car.
"Are you doing anything tomorrow," Grace asked as she pulled out of the mall parking lot.
"No, why?"
"The Alpha Aides -- that's the school's service club -- is having a picnic over at Morton Park. Everybody's invited, and I thought you might like to go."
"I don't know." I wasn't sure about spending a lot of time with my -- Alan's -- classmates. I was sure that somebody would recognize me, or that I'd give myself away. Besides, somehow I didn't feel as confident at the thought of being around a lot of people as Alan would have been.
"You can bring Rick."
Suddenly the idea got a lot more interesting. "I'll see how the date tonight goes," I said, smiling at an excuse to spend more time with Rick.
The car pulled up in front of the house. "I think I'll head back to the mall," Grace said. "If Alan sees me, he might get the idea that I want to get back together with him."
"Don't you?"
"Yes, I really do like him, but I want him to stew for a while more." I giggled at that, even though Grace's actions were really at my - well, at Alan's expense. I grabbed the bag with my new pants from the backseat and got out of the car. Grace started the car and did a U-turn to get back to her own house. Then she stopped, rolled down the window, and added, "Don't forget about the picnic. Alan can give you directions to Morton Park. He can even come, if he wants. It starts at 2."
"I'll try," I said, but she was already driving off.
The house was locked. I guess Aunt Therese wasn't expecting me home so early. I used my own key to get in. There was a note on the table, "Alice, I've gone on an errand. Please leave your new clothes on the table for me to look at." I smiled at that. Let her look. I had done what pretty much she wanted. I put the bag on the table with the receipt and her change next to them.
Then I headed up to get ready for my date. _My_ _date_!?
I stripped down and headed towards my bathroom. I stopped short when I saw Alice's reflection in my new bedroom mirror. I'd seen her body naked every time I changed clothes, but I'd never really done a detailed inspection. I turned this way and that posing her lovely body in ways I remembered from _Playboy_. I was really enjoying myself until I happened to look over towards the clock by my bed. It was almost 5 o'clock.
I ran into the bathroom and started the shower, while I got out a couple towels. I climbed into the shower and began to soap my body. I normally shower in the morning - as Alan, so this was the first time I had showered as Alice. It was surprising how good it felt. I found that my nipples had grown a little tight from the posing, and was trying to be careful as I lathered them. It felt even better. I moaned and closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation for a moment.
I found myself picturing Rick in my mind. I pretended that it was his hands that I felt touching my breasts, kneading my breasts. I felt his hand moving slowly down my body touching my stomach, my navel, then tickling at the edge of my vagina, slowly caressing the lips. I moaned again and began to spread my legs to - What the hell was I doing?
Part of me - the Alice part - was suddenly embarrassed to realize what she was doing to herself. Another part - the Alan part - was embarrassed at finding myself reacting like a girl. It was probably the first time that Alice and Alan had agreed on something.
My hands were shaking as I picked up the soap from where I dropped it and finished washing. My hair got wet when I reached for the soap, so I decided to wash it. If nothing else, it would take my mind off the tingling I still felt throughout my body. I had some shampoo on one of those bathtub shelves. As I lathered it into my hair, I found myself wishing that it was a scented shampoo, not just Head & Shoulders, a little of Alice coming back, I guessed. Well there was nothing I could do about it. I lathered up, rinsed, and shut off the water.
When I got out of the tub, I reached for a towel. But I found myself wrapping it around my hair instead of using it to dry myself. Considering the way my hair was dripping, it seemed like a good idea. I used a second towel to get dry. I found that I had to rub myself more gently than I had when I was Alan. And I had to be particularly careful drying my breasts. They were still sensitive from what I'd done to them. It didn't hurt, it was - well - very _distracting_ when I touched them with the fluffy towel.
I dried myself, then took a third towel and wrapped it around me the way I saw the girls do it in the movies, like a swimsuit from just above the nipples to as far down as the towel would go. I caught myself giggling at the way I tucked the end of the towel in between my breasts. 'So _that's_ how they do it, I thought.
Then I unwrapped the towel from around my hair and used the air blower that Aunt Liz got me for my birthday last year to dry it. It seemed like it took forever. I don't know how girls managed it, but I had to admit that it looked real nice all fluffed out like that, curly and more feminine.
I was just coming out of the bathroom when I heard Aunt Therese. "Alice, dear, I'm home. It's 5:30. You had best hurry if you want to be ready when your young man comes for you."
5:30! I pulled open the underwear drawer and started looking for clean underwear. I found a matching ivory set that Aunt Therese had barely let me buy. She said it was too mature for a young girl like me, but Mariah had argued that every girl had a special set of "grown-up" lingerie. "It makes them feel especially _feminine_," she said, winking at Aunt Therese. I wasn't sure that Aunt Therese was convinced, but she did let me buy them.
I hadn't liked the idea of feeling "particularly feminine" last Sunday. I did now. I was dressing to impress Rick, dressing that way from the skin out. These were my best, my prettiest lingerie. I chose them, like I was choosing everything else because I really wanted Rick to like me.
I slipped into the panties and pulled them up around my hips. They were French cut with a lacy trim, and they made my legs look extra long and sexy. With a week of practice, I had no trouble putting on the bra. My nipples were still a little tender, and the satin felt so very good rubbing against them.
I would really have loved to have a garter belt and stockings, but there was no way I could talk Aunt Therese into buying something that overtly sexy. And last week, when I was just changed and still thinking so much like a boy, I'd cringed when Mariah had suggested a set. I had been thrilled to hear Aunt Therese say "No". Now I wished that she had.
Well, she had allowed for a couple pairs of panty hose. I pulled one out of its egg and sat down on the bed. I scrunched one leg up, again, like I'd seen in the movies or someplace, and carefully put my toes into it. I pulled it part way up my leg, then repeated the process with the other. I pulled them up carefully, I certainly couldn't afford to snag them. Success! I stood up and pulled the top into place at my waist. I could barely feel them when I stood still, but when I walked over to the closet to get a skirt and blouse, I felt little caresses all along both legs.
Then I realized what I was thinking. "Dressing for Rick from the skin out?" Was I planning to let Rick see me in this sexy underwear? NO! I was dressing in them to feel adult and confident as a female, not to feel sexy. Or was I? Was I a transformed boy going out with a friend who didn't really know who I was, or was I a girl going out on a date with a boy that I really liked, and who I wanted to really like me?
I decided to think about it later. Right now, whichever I was, I had to get ready. I took down a light blue sleeveless blouse and put it on. I left the top two buttons undone. It was more comfortable that way, and, a part of me said, it was a lot sexier. I thought about wearing one of the new pairs of jeans, but pat of me wanted to look as feminine as possible. One of my skirts was the same color as the blouse. It was a little short, but that only showed off how pretty my legs were. Next came a pair of shoes with two-inch heels.
They were a darker blue than the shirt or blouse, but I thought that they all worked as an outfit. I'd never worn shoes with that high a heel, so I tried walking in them. I wobbled for a minute, but then the same magic that gave me the knowledge of how to act like a girl kicked in. I couldn't run laps in them, but I could walk comfortably. I watched my reflection as I walked towards the mirror. My hips were swiveling in a very feminine manner. It wasn't overly sexy, but it sure wasn't the way a boy walked.
I took a pair of silver earrings from a small tray on my dresser and fastened them to my unpierced ears. Then put a silver and turquoise bracelet on my left wrist. I also fastened a long silver chain around my neck. The chain hung down almost to the top of my breasts. I stared at my reflection for a minute. Should I be trying so hard to make myself look sexy for Rick? I found myself asking this as Alice, a girl who was uncertain about how far she wanted to go in making herself attractive for the boy she was about to date. Alan's male concerns didn't even enter into it. It was weird, but what I was worrying about was whether Rick would like me.
I sat down at the small make-up table in the corner. I pursed my lips and applied a pale pink gloss. Then I added a little blusher on my cheeks. I'd been doing that all week, so I had some practice. What came next was trickier. I picked up some eyeliner, trusting again in Aunt Therese's magic to show me how to use it. The magic was there, and I was able to apply both the pale blue eyeliner and, later, some mascara as if I'd had years of experience. I stared into the small mirror behind the table. I looked -
"Lovely, my dear." I started in surprise. "I didn't mean to startle you, Alice. I just came up to see if you needed any help. It's only a few minutes until 6."
"No, I'm fine, Aunt Therese. It's just that I feel so confused."
"Is Alan giving you a problem?"
"No, and that's part of what's confusing me. Shouldn't I feel embarrassed to be dressing up like this and going out on a date with a boy?"
"No, Dear. Part of the magic is to make you think like a girl while you're Alice. If it helps any, think of Alan as a brother whom you're very close to, rather than as your other self."
"My _real_ self."
"For now, your _other_ self. The spell makes Alice as real as Alan is. Now is there anything else that's bothering you?"
"Well, I'm a little nervous about the date. I want Rick to like me, and I'm afraid that he won't."
"That just proves how real Alice is. You're having the normal reaction of any girl about to go out on her first date. Just remember this: if he didn't like you, he wouldn't have asked you to go out with him. Have more confidence in yourself, dear."
Somehow, I felt better. Aunt Therese had sounded like a friend, not the hateful witch that I had been thinking her to be. She almost sounded like Aunt Liz. I wanted to hug her, but I was still much too nervous. I looked at the clock near the bed. It was 5:55. 'Well,' I thought. 'In for a dime, in for a dollar.' I stood up and headed for the stairs with Aunt Therese right behind me.
Just as the bank clock started to chime the hour, there was a knock at the door. I jumped up and started to run towards it. "Slowly," Aunt Therese said. "You are a lady." I stopped, caught my breath, and walked to the door. It was --
"Rick, um, hi."
"Hi, yourself. Am I early? You did say 6, didn't you?"
"I did." I smiled. "Please come in."
Aunt Therese was suddenly standing beside me. "Yes, do come in. Punctuality is a great virtue. "
"Thank you, Ma'am." Rick came in and offered his hand to Aunt Therese. "I'm Rick, Richard Medford, Alice's date for the evening."
"And I am her Aunt Therese." She turned, walked over to a large chair and sat down. She motioned for us to join her. We walked in and sat down on the couch. We made sure to sit a discrete distance apart, but I tried to sit close enough that I could hold Rick's hand if I thought Aunt Therese would approve.
"Now, Richard, tell me a little about yourself."
"Well, I'm a senior at City High. I start at State next fall as a history major. I'm hoping to get into the pre-Law program. I'd like to be a lawyer like my cousin, Joe - um, Joe Medford."
"Yes, I believe that I know the man. He handled part of my cousin Elizabeth's estate. This was her house, you know."
"No. Ma'am, I didn't."
"Yes, she was the one who raised my nephew, Alan."
"I know Alan. In fact, I was wondering where he was."
"I was forced to reprimand Alan for serious misbehavior. He's - what do you children call it - he's grounded until he corrects that behavior."
Rick nodded. He may have sympathized with Alan for being grounded, but right now, his job was to impress Aunt Therese. "Is there anything else you want to know about me?"
"Yes, what are your plans for Alice this evening?"
Rick swallowed. He'd been expecting the question, I guess, but not exactly in those words. "Well, Ma'am, we'll go to Burger King for some supper, if that's okay with her." He looked over to me for approval. I nodded, then looked down quickly.
It struck me that Rick and Aunt Therese were talking as if I wasn't even in the room. Somehow, I felt a little relieved. It felt good to have somebody else planning the evening for me. Rick made the plans and just checked to see if I had any problems with what he wanted to do. And, of course, he was so nice and so considerate that I wanted to go along with whatever he said.
"Then, I thought a movie would be nice. My sister and her friends have been talking about this film RUNAWAY BRIDE, that's come back for a second run at the mall theater. I thought I'd take her to that. You haven't seen it yet, have you, Alice?"
I had and only a few hours before. But I somehow knew that seeing it with Rick would be an entirely different experience then seeing it with Grace. And I _wanted_ that experience. "No, I'd love to see it with you, Rick."
"After the movie, well, I, umm, understand that you want Alice home early, but I thought that we might just go someplace and sit and talk for a bit and get to know each other better. Most of the time I've been with Alice has been in the Library, and you can't really talk there. You can't talk in a movie either. I asked Alice out because I wanted to get to know her better, and this way, we'll have some time to do just that."
It was a good answer, and I was almost convinced. I don't think Aunt Therese was, either. "Talk, eh. Just remember, young man, Alice is to be back home by 11:30. I will not take any problems lightly."
Rick took Aunt Therese's words as the standard sort of parental threat and nodded gravely. I was afraid that if we were late, I'd have a new girlfriend named Rikki to study with at the Library. I reached out and took his hand. "Aunt Therese is very concerned with my welfare, Rick. I really wouldn't want her to be upset because I came home late." I couldn't say any more than that, but he seemed to understand.
Rick put his hand on top of mine. "I understand your concern, Ma'am. Alice is very special, and I wouldn't do anything to make you upset. I'll have her home at 11:30. I promise."
I felt like I was suddenly floating. Rick said I was special! I smiled and squeezed his hand a little.
He squeezed back, and then he looked at his watch. "But if we're going to have something to eat before the movie, we'd better get going." He stood up and offered me his hand. "It was nice to meet you, ma'am."
I stood up. "Good night, Aunt Therese. I'll see you later."
"Have a good time, children, but remember, home by 11:30." Aunt Therese gave me a look that had "Or Else" written all over it. I glanced at my own wrist, glad that I had decided to wear a watch, as we left.
In a few minutes, we were in Rick's car heading for the Burger King. "Boy, your Aunt really laid it on thick back there. She made it sound like my life depended on getting you home on time."
How could I tell him? His life did depend on it. He wouldn't be dead, but he or _she_ certainly wouldn't be the same Rick Medford. "It's just her way of watching out for me, Rick, but she would be upset if we weren't back on time. Please. I have to live with her. Can we try - can we really try - to be home by 11:30?"
"Well, if it mean that much to you." He reached out and put his right arm around my shoulders. It felt - it was nice. I slid over a little and snuggled against him. His hand reached down, not to touch my breast or anything, but just to pull me closer. I felt warm, protected - safe. I was actually a bit disappointed when he pulled into the Burger King and parked the car.
We went inside. The place was about half empty, and there wasn't much of a line.
"So what do you want?" Rick said.
"Um, a salad and small diet Pepsi," I said, surprising myself. Normally, I - that is, Alan - would have had a Whopper, fries, and a large Pepsi, but, as Alice, it was hard to even think of eating that much.
"Girls and their appetites." He made a sour face, and then broke into a grin. "Well, I guess you want to keep that pretty figure."
I all but lit up! He thought I was pretty. "If I don't watch it," I repeated the old joke, "then you won't want to, either."
Before he could answer, the counter asked us what we wanted. Rick got my salad and drink, then ordered a Whopper, onion rings, and a root beer for himself. We didn't say much while she got the food ready. Then Rick carried the tray while I walked us over to a booth in the non-smoking area. There were a lot of empty tables, but a booth gave us more privacy.
We sat down and started eating. I caught myself watching Rick once or twice while he ate. He looked up and smiled. "So, how do you like Bradford?"
Whoops. Alice was supposed to be from out of town someplace. I'd grown up here. How do I answer? "I, umm, I haven't really seen much of it. Aunt Therese has kept me on a real short leash."
"Well, I'll have to loosen it a little. I'll give you the grand tour after the movie."
"Will we have time?"
"To tell the truth, It's not that grand a tour. Bradford's a big town. Say, where _are_ you from? You've never talked about it, and Alan never said anything - he never even talked about you."
"Oh, and how often do you talk about your cousins?" With any luck I could change the subject away from me.
"Yeah, I guess I see your point. But where are you from?"
'Think fast, Alice.' I needed something believable. "I'm not from anyplace. We - umm - my Dad's got this dumb job with Dartex Corporation, and we travel around a lot."
"Gee, that's kind of sad." He reached out and took my hand. "Well, for as long as you're here, this is your hometown. Okay?"
I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I stood up, leaned over across the table, and kissed his forehead. His arm reached up behind my head, holding me in place. Then he stood and we kissed again, this time on the lips. It was just a short kiss. We _were_ in a fairly public place and had to sit down. Besides, the position, with each of us on one side of the table, was kind of awkward, but I felt tingly all over.
Rick had kind of a goofy smile on his face. "That was nice," he said.
He picked up the onion rings and held them towards me. "Want one?"
"Thanks." I took one and nibbled on it. I guess we both wanted the kiss, but we were both uncertain what to do -- at least there at Burger King.
"How's your paper coming?" I still wanted to change the subject away from me. "We've worked together every night at the Library, but we've never talked about it. What's it on, anyway?"
"Civics. I'm doing one on Roosevelt - he was the President in the 1930s. He did these chats on the radio, and I'm writing about how the people reacted to them. The books say he got a lot of mileage out of them, putting his ideas out to the people and everything."
"Sounds cool."
"Yeah, I didn't think it would be, but it's kind of interesting. They didn't have TV and the Internet back then. A lot of people got to know him from those talks, and he got a lot of support for his programs."
"You sound like you're interested in government."
"I guess I am. Like I told your aunt, I want to be a lawyer, but I think that it's partly because I'm interested in politics." He took a last bite of his burger. "What's your paper on?"
"That 'Get Out the Vote' thing MTV did in 1992, and how much it helped Clinton."
"So we're both doing papers on communications and politics. It's like we were in the same class or something."
Oops! That was hardly what I wanted him to start thinking. "Yeah, umm, that's what Alan said, too. Aunt Therese, umm, Aunt Therese said that a lot of schools use the same lesson plans 'cause they come with the text books. We shouldn't be surprised about it."
"You should ask about going to the school." He took my hand again. "It' be great to see you every day. Maybe we could even be in the same classes."
"Yeah, but I change schools so much that I just didn't want to do it again. When Aunt Therese offered to let me stay home, I thought I'd try _that_ for a change." I squeezed his hand. "Of course, you do make a good argument for going to the school. Let me think about it, and maybe I'll ask Aunt Therese to enroll me."
"That'd be great - hey look at the time!" He was pointing at a clock on the wall behind me. I turned. It was about 7:20.
"The movie starts at 7:45." He stood and picked up his tray. "We'd better get going." We dropped our trash and trays at the station by the door and headed for the car.
The Burger King was at the edge of the mall, but it took a few minutes to find a parking place anywhere near the outside entrance to the theater. We didn't need to stop for any munchies, but even so, the previews started just after we took our seats.
Even though I'd seen the movie a few hours before, it was different seeing it now. The movie was just as good the second time, though. From Julia Roberts' ride alone at the start to where they ride off together into the closing credits. I loved the whole thing, but _boy!_ was it different watching it with Rick instead of Grace.
The part of me that was still Alan could appreciate the easy way Richard Gere's character made friends with the whole town. The Alice part could sympathize with the way Julia Roberts' character felt while it was happening. Then I felt something and looked down. Rick was holding my hand.
I looked over at Rick. He looked at me, then down at his hand. He started to take it away. I quickly put my other hand down on top of his, trapping it between my hands. He looked at me again. I was kind of embarrassed at the way I was acting, but I sort of smiled and nodded my head "Yes". He smiled back, a big grin that made me tingle. When I took my other hand away, he left his where it was.
When Richard told Julia the way he'd propose, I sighed - I couldn't help it. Rick squeezed my hand. I felt warm, good, and happy. I leaned over and rested my head against his shoulder. He lifted his arm and put it around me. I sighed again and snuggled in closer.
I think I started to sniffle a little when Julia panicked and left Richard at the altar. Rick leaned down and kissed the top of my head. "It'll work out, Alice. You'll see." He hugged me closer and began to gently rub my arm. It was just like somebody petting a dog or stroking a baby to calm them down.
And I did feel better. Rick kept gently stroking my arm. Then he moved his hand. He - he was stroking my breast now. It was the same slow, gentle motion as before, but the effect was _so_ different. My whole body began to tingle, and my breasts --- my beasts were tinling even more. O could feel my nipples beginning to get hard, to push against my bra. My Lord, it felt so very good that I hoped it would never end.
Rick kept on softly rubbing my breasts for the rest of the movie. I felt myself getting warm all over, especially down in my groin. When Julia got down on her knee and proposed to Richard, I sighed again and squeezed Rick's hand. He lifted his hand off my breast and gently turned my head so I was facing him. He leaned over and kissed me. My mouth was open a little, and I tasted his warm breath. Then his tongue darted into my mouth, teasing my own tongue. I felt my panties get really damp, and it seemed like my skin was on fire from the way it was tingling.
I don't know how long we kissed, but I suddenly heard music swelling. Then, suddenly, the lights went on. The movie was over. We broke the kiss and looked around to see it anybody was watching us. Nobody seemed to be, but I thought that I saw a smirk on the faces of a couple sitting a few feet away.
My face flushed, and I felt like I just wanted to shrink down into the seat and disappear. I had loved what we were doing, but the thought that somebody had _seen_ us doing it - oh, Lord, I just wanted to fade away.
Of course, in the darkness, they may have been doing the same sort of things that Rick and I were. They just hadn't been caught, and _that_ might have been what they were smirking about. (Too bad I didn't think of that until I was home in bed.)
I stood up to move out with the rest of the crowd. Rick stood up a moment later. As he stood up, I noticed a rather large lump in his pants. I felt kind of tingly again knowing that I had done that to him. Then he saw where I was looking and grinned. I looked down, feeling my face flush again. How could Rick smile like that? Then I realized that, even though my head was hung down, I was smiling, too.
Rick put his arm around my waist and steered me through the crowd and back to his car. "Would you like to stop for a soda or something?" He asked as he started the car.
"Maybe, but I'd kind of like that tour of the town you promised me." I really just wanted to be there in the car with him, but I didn't want to say that.
"Let's compromise." He switched lanes and headed for a Long John Silvers fish place just inside the mall. There was a bit of a line, but he got into the drive-through lane. "This way, we can get something to eat and do the tour."
We didn't say much as we moved up in the line. The place had a loudspeaker mounted outside that was blaring '70s elevator music. When we got to the speaker, I got another diet coke and a small fries. Rick got a root beer and large fries. By that time traffic had thinned and we headed straight out of the mall.
"So, what would you like to see first?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't need the tour, would I?"
"No, I guess not." He took a sip of soda. "Let's see, I guess the Library is out. How about the Green?" He steered south onto N. Main and towards the center of town. "Bradford's named for Colonel Bradford. He was a big hero in the Revolutionary War and owned a big chunk of the land up around here. City Hall was built where his cabin used to be, and - here we are."
We pulled up in front of City Hall, a three-story brick building that I always thought was trying too hard to look like some kind Greek temple or something. "Let me guess," I said. "That's your City Hall."
"Yeah, but that's not the reason why I brought you here. C'mon." He turned off the engine and got out of the car. He came over to my side and opened the door. "I want to show you something."
Rick took my hand and led me into the park across the street from City Hall. "This is the Green. It used to be farmland. Colonel Bradford left it to the town when he died, and they made it into a park. That cannon over there is from the Civil War." He pointed to the old town cannon that, in a bit of irony, was pointed right at City Hall. "When they want to tear down the building for a new town hall, they just load 'er up and _Boom!_, instant urban renewal."
I laughed at the joke, even though - as Alan - I'd heard it years before. Somehow, it was funny when he said it. Then I realized _where_ he was leading me.
We stopped by an oak near the center of the park. "This is the Sweetheart Oak," Rick said. "Col. Bradford planted it for his wife 'cause she liked acorns. Bradford made the city promise to never cut it down. It they do, then the park belongs to some cousin of his or something. They say that if a couple kisses under the tree, then they can hear Bradford and his wife singing to them. Do you, umm, want to try?"
I felt my cheeks flush again. 'Oh, Lord,' I thought, 'he's asking if he can kiss me.' Aloud I quietly said, "Well, I've always liked music."
I leaned back against the tree. I could feel the roughness of the bark through my blouse. Rick leaned forward, resting one hand against the tree. The way he positioned his body effectively trapped me. I felt trapped and _very_ vulnerable. It was scary. But at the same time, it wasn't scary. It felt, it felt nice. Rick was sheltering me, protecting me, as much as he was trapping me.
I felt my body getting warm. Nerves. No, it wasn't nerves, I realized, it was arousal. My nipples felt an inch long as they pushed against, rubbed against the silky fabric of my bra. My groin felt warm and wet and - and empty. I half closed my lips as Rick leaned forward and gently kissed me on the mouth. It felt good, and I moaned slightly as my body reacted to what I was feeling.
"I think I heard something," Rick said.
"So did I, but I couldn't tell if it was music or not."
"They do say that the better the kiss, the louder the music."
I smiled and lifted my arms up around the back of his head, pulling him closer. "Only one way to find out."
The second kiss was longer and deeper; mouths open and tongues playing back and forth. I felt my breasts flattened against Rick's chest. I ground myself against his hardened penis as if trying to form a link, to share the heat she was feeling.
I sighed and broke the kiss.
"Is something the matter. Alice?"
"No," I looked down, wanting to say what I was about to, but embarrassed to admit my need. "It's just that, well, if we're _really_ going to be 'hearing the music', I'd like to do it some place with a lot more privacy than under a tree in the center of town?"
Rick grinned. "Well, I did promise you a tour. I think I know just the sort of place you'd like." He leaned over and kissed me gently. Then he took my hand and led me back to the car.
Morton Park was about ten minutes away, a bunch of green space at the end of town. There used to be a zoo there when I was a kid. They still had a small amusement park -- with a roller coaster even, and picnic grove. But for a lot of the older kids, the highlight was Taylor Point.
The point was on the top of a hill, parking area just north of the picnic grove. If you parked in the last row facing east, you got a great view of the whole town. At night, you could watch the Moon rising over the Nesquehonney Mountains on the other side of the valley. It was a great place to bring a girl for some fun. I'd brought Grace there a couple of times, not that I'm going to say what we did. Now Rick was bringing me there.
I didn't say anything the whole time we rode there. I was trying to decide what to do. My body wanted Rick. Boy, did it want Rick! I was tingling all over just from feeling his hand in mine as we drove. Somewhere, deep inside, though, Alan was still there, and the thought of making love to Rick scared the hell out of him. Part of him - part of me - still thought of himself as a guy, and guys didn't do things like that with guys. And part of him - part of me - was scared that he - that I might enjoy it; enjoy it much too much.
We pulled into the park, and Rick drove straight for the point. There were only a couple of cars there, each parked a discrete distance from the other. We pulled in to a corner spot, and he turned off the engine and the lights. Then he put a CD in the player under the dash and turned it on.
Then he reached over and started to turn _me_ on.
He reached over and undid my seat belt. Then he took my head in his hands and pulled me gently to him. We kissed again, like we had done under the Sweetheart Oak, long and deep. I responded, opening my mouth to let his tongue in. My arms went around his back, pulling him toward me.
While we were kissing, his hands reached down and began caressing my breasts. Bolts of energy, of pleasure shot through my breasts to all parts of my body. Especially down to my groin. It felt warm and moist and, oh, so wonderful.
My own hand reached down to his pants. I found his erection pushing out his pants. I ran my finger along the edge, tracing its shape with my nail. Now it was Rick's turn to moan. His hands stopped caressing my breasts. I was disappointed until I felt him fumbling with the buttons of my blouse.
I could feel his eagerness, and I was afraid that he'd pop one of the buttons. I broke the kiss. The look on his face, his eagerness, I felt proud and happy that I was able to do that to him. And a little embarrassed as I found myself wanting it as much as he did.
I smiled back. I didn't want him to see how eager I was. I looked down and slowly unbuttoned my blouse. When I was done, I took it off. I was about to toss it into the back seat. Then I thought that it might be better if the blouse stayed up front, and _we_ got into the back.
Rick saw my expression, I guess, and the way I was looking at the back seat. "Wait a second," he said, getting out of the car. He came around and opened my door. He was standing so as to shield my body in case anybody was watching. I got out quickly and, just as quickly, got into the back seat. He ran around and got in from the other side.
"Now," he said. "Where were we?"
"About here," I said, kissing him again. When he kissed me, I felt his hands on my bra. He ran a fingernail around the right nipple. The sensation was amazing, little tiny jolts of pleasure ran all through my breast. Then he repeated what he did with my left breast. I moaned and kissed him harder.
I felt him fumbling behind me at the catches on my bra. I was afraid that he'd tear it. Then, before I realized what I was doing, I reached back and unsnapped the bra. Now Rick was really smiling. I took it off and laid it carefully on the floor half under the front seat.
"They're so beautiful -- you're so beautiful," Rick said. He kissed me again. Then he slowly worked his way down, kissing my chin, my neck, down to my left breast. He ran his tongue slowly around the nipple. The rough, moist wet sensation was even better than before. I was tingling all over. My breasts sent a jolt of pure pleasure down to my groin. It felt so hot and wet. I rubbed my legs together trying to satisfy the craving I seemed to feel down there. The feeling just got worse -- or better, because it felt so good. Now Rick was sucking my nipple. His hand gently rubbing the other one. I heard moans as if from a long way off, then I realized that it was me who was moaning.
Suddenly, I felt Rick's other hand. Not on my breast, but on my thigh. His fingers were running along up under my skirt, tickling my legs. I spread my legs apart to give his hand more room. A finger touched my panties. Then another. They moved along, searching for my pussy. They found it and I felt him rubbing it through the material.
He moved the elastic and put his fingers inside them. My pussy was moist and ready. He found it and began running a finger along the outer edge. Then he thrust in two or three fingers and began moving them in and out in steady strokes. His other hand kneaded my breast to the same rhythm. I felt my nipples grow tight and waves of warmth spread out from breast and groin throughout my body.
My hand seemed to have a mind of its own. I found myself reaching down. I felt his prick stiffen under his slacks. I rubbed it a bit. I could hear Alan, a tiny voice in my head, telling me to stop, to remember that I was really a guy. But I couldn't help myself. I ran my finger along the length of his prick. It seemed enormous. I felt panic, but it was the fear of the size of the thing, not any idea of doing something like this with another guy. I giggled at the thought. Another guy? I was a girl, and happy to be one.
Rick's own hips began to move at my touch. I could feel his prick through his pants, stiffening in my hand. I fumbled at the zipper, then at his underpants, to free it. It sprang free, enormous, red, and, oh, so beautiful. I thought about kissing it, maybe even taking it in my mouth, but for once Alan and Alice agreed. Alice was shocked at the boldness of the idea, and Alan still rebelled at the thought of doing _anything_ with another guy's penis.
Then I had another idea, a wonderful idea. I raised my hips and slid my panties and panty hose down my legs. It felt like I was taking off armor, and I shivered a little at my vulnerability. Then I lay back against the corner of the back seat and raised my arms, inviting Rick to come to me. He did. He leaned forward over me. His arm reached down, pulling his pants and his shorts down below his knees. I moved my left leg, so he was between them.
He leaned forward and kissed me again. His arms went around me, so that he was more or less resting on his elbows even as he was pulling me to him. My hand reached down. I found his penis and gently took it in my hand and guided him to me. I felt the nub rub against my vaginal lips, then slowly slide inside of me.
My eyes half closed from the intense pleasure as it filled me. He moved slowly, stopping when his balls were touching me. He held still for a moment, then he began an equally slow withdrawal. I wanted to talk, to tell him how good he was making me feel, but we were beyond that. We were both breathing heavily, panting from the sensations. I moaned and threw my head back. He pulled almost all the way out, and then slid back in.
It was easy; I was loose and very, very wet. He continued, picking up speed. I moved my hips to match his motions. We were thrashing around all over the back seat, grabbing at each other, kissing each other on the mouth, the cheeks. He was sucking on my breast, while I was chewing his ear.
Suddenly he froze, lifting himself off me. I heard a grunt and felt something shooting into me. I heard a scream high and shrill from far away, only it was me screaming. Bolts of purest energy shot through my body until I felt like I was about to just melt down. I grabbed at Rick throwing my arms, my legs around him. I pulled him as close as I possibly could. He was moving again, pumping harder as I struggled to match him.
Then it was over. Over for him at least. He collapsed down on top of me. I felt his penis soften even though he was still inside me. He was breathing hard as if he'd just run a twenty-mile race. I wanted more. He leaned down and kissed me softly on the lips. Then he moved slowly down, kissing my chin, my jaw, my throat, eventually sort of hunching over and reaching my breasts.
It was like doing cool-down exercises after a game of hardball or a session jogging. Oh, my, it felt good. We just lay there on the back seat enjoying the feel of each other's bodies.
Then, off in the distance, I heard the bank clock chime. I counted: 9-10-11. Eleven! We had half an hour to get me home, or that wonderful penis of Rick's would be gone forever. I was sure of that.
I sat up, pushing Rick off me. "Eleven! Rick we've got to go."
"What? Oh, yeah, your Aunt. I promised I'd have you home by 11:30." He reached down and picked up a towel that was lying on the floor of the car, folded up just under the front seat. He kissed me on the forehead and handed it to me. "I'd love to stay here with you all night, but a promise is a promise." He smiled. "Unless you'd like to try to talk me out of it."
I took the towel. "I'd love to try, Rick, but my Aunt, she's - umm - well, she can be very difficult. It'd be better if we tried to get me home - darn it!"
Rick pulled up his shorts and his pants. I used to towel to clean up some of the sticky mess that was leaking out of me. I left it there against my crotch, while I picked up my bra and fastened it around me, carefully adjusting my still tender breasts. I took the towel away, cleaned up the last of the mess, and lifted my butt to pull up my panties and hose. Then I re-fastened my skirt. I re-buttoned my blouse and tucked it into the skirt.
We were presentable enough now, so we got back into the front seats. Rick started the car and we headed back down the hill. A couple blocks from the park, Rick pulled over and turned on the car's interior light, so I could touch up my make-up. We hurried the rest of the way, and Rick pulled up in front of my house just after 11:20.
Rick came around and helped me out of the car. We held hands as he walked me to the door. "Can I see you again, Alice?"
"Oh, yes. Umm - what are you doing tomorrow afternoon?"
"Nothing much. Why, what did you have in mind?"
"I met a girl a the mall this afternoon, Grace - umm, Grace MacAvoy. Do you know her?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I think she dates your cousin, doesn't she?"
"Yeah, but they had a fight. Anyway, she said there's some kind of picnic tomorrow over at Morton Park. She invited me. Do you want to go along?"
"Sure, what time should I pick you up?"
"She said it starts at 2. How about a quarter of?"
"Great."
I looked down into my purse for my keys. Rick took my head in his hand. I looked up at him and he kissed me. It was a gentle kiss, but I was sighing for more. I was hearing bells. It was 11:30.
"Time to go in," I said unhappily.
"Till tomorrow." He kissed me on top of the head. I turned the key in the door, and he started down the steps as I opened the door.
Aunt Therese was waiting inside. "Prompt," was all she said.
"And more," I said smiling. Then I yawned and realized how tired I was. Even if I wasn't going to need sleep to change back, my body had gotten used to going to bed early. "Good night, Aunt Therese." To my surprise - and hers, I think, I gave her a light peck on the cheek. I turned and headed up to bed. I didn't bother to change, just stripped down to my panties and bra. In five minutes, I was happily asleep.
Sunday
I had wonderful dreams that night: Rick and I walking through the park. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. I had on a flowery print dress that clung to my curves, then flared out full around my legs. Rick had on slacks and a tie. We were walking hand in hand, laughing and joking about something. Then, Rick stopped and took me in his arms. I could hear music playing off in the distance. We danced to it for a while, moving slowly to the music. Then he kissed me. It was so wonderful; my whole body was tingling, and I pressed eagerly against him.
Then I woke up. My whole body was tingling. I looked down to find one hand on my breast and the other at my groin. "So, girls do it, too," I said aloud.
I looked at the clock. It was about 9:30. I liked to sleep late on the weekends, but I had_promised to help Aunt Therese in the basement. If I didn't, she might not let me go to the picnic. I jumped out of bed and took off the bra and panties I'd slept in. I walked naked towards the bathroom, tossing my undies in the hamper.
I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror. Nope, I looked exactly the same.
Only, I wasn't.
I, Alice Webster, who had only existed as a girl for a week - and that only part time -- wasn't a virgin any more. Rick had _certainly_ taken care of that last night. I found myself smiling at the wonderful memory of what we'd done. My body, especially my breasts, began to tingle all over again. _That_ was not the way I wanted to have Aunt Therese see me this morning.
I ran cold water in the sink and washed my hands and face. I ran a brush through my hair, brushed my teeth, and headed back to the bedroom. I put on a pair of panties and a bra, as naturally as if I'd been doing it for years instead of days. I threw a robe around me and headed down for some breakfast.
Aunt Therese was waiting for me in the kitchen. She sat at the table drinking a cup of coffee and reading the Sunday paper. She looked up as I came in. "Good morning, Alice. What would you like for breakfast?"
"Some juice, a bowl of cereal, and some milk, I guess." Most of what I needed was on the table. I just had to get a banana from the refrigerator for the cereal.
"How was your date last night?"
It was a question that I didn't dare answer. At least, not answer truthfully. But could I lie to Aunt Therese?
"Um, okay, I guess." It was the sort of answer any kid would give.
"That's hardly an answer. What did you and Rick do?
"Well, umm, we went to that movie he mentioned, RUNAWAY BRIDE."
"And ---"
"And I enjoyed it. Why? How much detail do you want?"
"That, young _lady_, is hardly the sort of answer that will encourage me to end the spell on you."
"I'm sorry, but it _was_ scary, Aunt Therese. I -- Alice -- loved it. Rick's a great guy, but Alan hated it. He didn't want to even think about going out with a guy, let alone enjoying it as much as I did."
"Oh, was he there very much? I should have thought that by now he was very much under your control."
"I've never really tried to control him. I just acted, well, natural, or what felt natural. I knew Alan was there, but he just seemed to go along for the ride with the things I did." I found myself beginning to cry.
"It's all right, dear. It's all right." She reached across the table and took my hand in hers, stroking it gently. I felt myself becoming calmer.
"Thank you, Aunt Therese. Can - can we talk about something else?"
"Very well. I found the clothes and the money that you left on the table. You did very well. I approve of your choices, even the slacks."
"Thank you, Aunt Therese."
"You do remember that the reason I allowed you to buy those pants was your promise to help me in the basement?"
"Yes, Aunt Therese. Are you ready to start now?"
"No, I wish to finish the paper first. Have you finished your homework?"
"No. I got a lot of it done on Friday, but I still have some algebra to finish. I thought I'd review my Spanish again, too."
"Very good." She looked at her watch. "It's just after 10 now. We'll start at 11:30. We should be finished by 1."
"Aunt Therese, umm, if we are, may I go out this afternoon?"
"Possibly. Where do you intend to go."
"I met Grace MacAvoy yesterday at the mall. She's the girl Alan was dating. Anyway, we hit it off and went shopping together. She invited me to a picnic that the Alpha Aides are throwing this afternoon in Morton Park."
Aunt Therese looked at me closely. It was as if she were reading my mind. "And..."
"And I - I asked Rick to take me."
She smiled as if she'd just won something. "Who am I to stand in the way of young romance? You may go."
"Thank you, thank you, Aunt Therese." I wanted to jump up and hug her. I could go! I could go! I could spend the afternoon with Rick. I hurriedly finished my breakfast and all but ran back upstairs.
*****
I managed to finish my algebra, but that was all. I looked at my clock as I finished the last problem. It was almost 11:20. I ran downstairs and grabbed the jeans off the table where I'd left them the day before. I pulled the tags off one pair and wriggled into them. Then I grabbed one of Alan's T-shirts. It felt a little weird wearing it, but I didn't want to mess up one of my pretty blouses. The basement was fairly dusty. Aunt Therese met me at the basement stairs. She looked at me with a questioning eye. "May I ask why you're wearing that shirt?"
"I don't have any tops to wear down there. All my blouses are for school, and they're too nice to wear for working in a dirty basement."
"I must agree with your logic, Alice." She was smiling that same strange smile. I noticed that she was wearing an old pair of gray slacks and what might have been a man's work shirt. "Shall we get started?"
We headed down to the basement. A lot of Aunt Liz's stuff had just been put into boxes at random and taken downstairs when she went to Florida. We stuck newspapers down on top of the workbench that somebody had put there years before. Then we took the boxes down one by one. We sorted the stuff in the boxes into categories; clothes, jewelry, and so on. Aunt Therese wanted some of it to go up to her room. Some stuff was marked for charity. The rest was put into boxes with mothballs, sealed up, and put back onto the shelves.
*****
By the time I carried the last box up to the kitchen, it was just after 1 PM. I still had to take the boxes out to the car or up to Aunt Therese's room. Alice just wasn't as strong as Alan, I guess.
She came up the steps behind me. "Would you like something to drink before you take the boxes upstairs, Alice?"
"No, thank you, but would it be alright if I stopped now?"
"We're hardly finished."
"I know, but it took longer than you or I thought it would. I promise that I'll do the rest. But if I do it now, I'll never be ready for Rick when he comes." I was suddenly afraid that she'd change her mind about letting me go out with Rick. "Please, Aunt Therese. I promise I'll take everything out. I - I just want to look nice for Rick."
"What time is he coming for you?"
"I - the picnic starts at 2 PM. I asked him to pick me up at 1:45."
"Very well. _If_ you are ready in time, and _if_ he remembers to come in, as he did last night. And you will be home _no later_ than 5 PM. That will give you the time to deal with the boxes before supper. Fail in this, and you can forget about being allowed to go out with Mr. Medford again."
"Thank you, Aunt Therese. I'll be home by 5." I took one of the boxes and carried it with me as I headed it upstairs. I left it in a corner of Aunt Therese's room.
I headed back to my own room and stripped down. I'd worked up a sweat and wanted to take a shower. Also, I was a little turned on, either from last night, or else from the thought of seeing Rick again. Either way, my body tingled as I lathered it up, especially my breasts and down around my new female groin. I had to concentrate to stop myself from just standing there and playing with myself. "Save it for the real thing," I finally said aloud.
"The real thing," that was reason enough. I had to be ready if Aunt Therese would let me go. I finished and gently patted myself dry. _Very_ gently. I sprinkled on some scented talc and headed into the bedroom. The other two pairs of pants were on the bed with a note. "Since you'll be in the park, you may wear one of these."
I was more than a little surprised. I took a pair of pale yellow panties and a matching bra from my drawer. I had a sleeveless blouse that was almost the same color. I put the blouse on, then got into the chocolate colored jeans. I wanted to save the green slacks. Aunt Therese would have seen me in both pair of jeans, and maybe, just maybe, I could her into letting me wear them to school during the week. I slipped on a pair of peds and my dark brown sneakers.
I put on a little blusher and some clear lip gloss; nothing too fancy for a picnic. Then I put just a hint of perfume behind each ear and by my collarbone. I put on a pair of green earrings shaped like little leaves, just the thing for a picnic. I'd have liked to wear some more jewelry, but it was a picnic. I looked at the clock. It was 1:42. I let out a little yelp and ran downstairs.
Aunt Therese was waiting by the front door. I looked through a curtained window next to the door. Rick was just pulling up. I held my breath. I'd meant to call and warn him, but I hadn't had the time. If he just honked, no picnic. No Rick.
I let out a quite audible sigh when I saw him getting out of the car and walk up to the door. Aunt Therese let him in. "Good afternoon, Rick."
"Good afternoon, umm, ma'am."
"Oh, please just call me Aunt Therese."
"Thank you, ma'am, excuse me, thank you, Aunt Therese."
"You're very welcome. Did you and Alice enjoy the movie last night? I really didn't have a chance to talk to her last night.
"Yeah, it was, umm, it was a very good movie."
"And you had a chance to get to know each other better afterwards?"
'Omigosh,' I thought. How can he possibly answer this one.
"I - um - think so. We drove around, so I could show her some of the local sights, and we talked. She made sure that I got her home in time like you said."
"Yes, I noticed that. I do hope that her early curfew didn't spoil the fun of the date." She stared directly at Rick. "You _did_ enjoy your date, didn't you?"
Rick blushed and looked very embarrassed. I felt my own cheeks get red. How much did Aunt Therese know? I was suddenly _very_ nervous. Was I going to go to the picnic with Rick or Rikki?
"I certainly did. Alice is a - umm - a very nice girl. I enjoyed myself last night, and I'm glad that she asked me to take her to the picnic."
"Thanks, Rick," I said. "It's getting late, we should get to the picnic." Aunt Therese knew, or, at least, she suspected. I was sure of it. She just wanted to trick Rick into admitting it. Then, well, who knew what would happen. Nothing good, I was sure of that.
"Very well, Alice. Have a good time. Just remember that you promised to be home by 5 to help me in the basement."
"Say, umm, Aunt Therese," Rick said "is there something in the basement that _I_ could help you with. I don't have to be home till 6 or so." He smiled. He was trying to get "brownie points" with Aunt Therese. It was a trick Alan had tried a few times with Grace's parents.
'Please be quiet, Rick.' I shuddered at the thought of him and Aunt Therese together for an hour. She half suspected now. If she got him alone for even five minutes, she'd know for a fact that we'd had sex. She was sure to hate that idea, and we'd _both_ be girls forever.
"Thank you, Rick. It's very kind of you to offer, but Alice and I can manage."
"Okay." He looked at his watch. "It's almost 2, Alice." I wanted to kiss him for changing the subject. Instead I kissed Aunt Therese. A nice "Goodbye, and I'll be home by 5" kiss as we headed out the door.
*****
We got to Morton Park just about 2. The picnic was in the grove right next to Taylor Point. Rick pulled into the lot and parked in about the same spot as we'd parked the night before. "For sentimental value," he said with a wicked grin.
I blushed and kissed him on the cheek. "Me, too."
He got out of the car and came around to help me out. I didn't let go of his hand as we walked down into the grove. It felt so good walking with him, holding his hand.
I looked around for Grace. Alan -- I -- knew most of the kids here at the picnic, but they didn't know me as Alice. Grace and Rick did. So I couldn't really talk to anybody else until one of them introduced me.
"Alice!" I turned at the sound of my name and saw Grace waving from a table nearby. She and Paula Haney were unpacking food from a bunch of coolers. I waved back with my free hand. "C'mon over," she said, motioning with her arm.
I looked at Rick. He nodded, and we walked over. "Hi, Alice," Grace said. "Paula, this is Alice, the one I was telling you about, Alan Webster's cousin."
Paula looked at me for a moment. She had known Alan since they were in kindergarten together. "Funny he never mentioned you."
"My, umm, my folks travel a lot. We'd never met until I moved in with him and our Aunt Therese last week."
"I guess. You sure do look like him, though." She stuck out her hand.
"Thanks," I said, shaking her hand. "Cousins do that."
"If you two are finished with the preliminary rounds," Grace said, "can you help unloading the rest of this food?"
"Sure," Paula and I both said at once. We giggled, the ice definitely broken between us. I looked around for Rick. He was gone. I looked around some more, but I couldn't see him in the crowd
"He left while you two were glaring at each other," Grace said, guessing who I was looking for. "He said he wanted to talk to a couple of guys from the track team. I think he just wanted to get out of the line of fire. Anyway, he said he'll be back in a little bit."
Paula, Grace, and I got to work unpacking food from three big coolers and setting it all out on the covered picnic table: veggies and fruit from one, chilled bottles of soda from a second, and sliced deli from a third. We put everything out on trays. Bread and rolls were in a box next to the coolers, and we put them out by the trays. Other boxes had plates, cups, napkins, knives, forks, ketchup and mustard, pretzels and chips. In about half an hour, we had all the food set up.
While we were doing that, Nate Persky and Johnny MacGuire had set up a gas grill and started charcoal going. The first batch of burgers and hot dogs were ready just as we finished. "Come and get it," Grace yelled.
The line formed up quickly. "Do you need me to stay and help?" I asked Grace.
"Yes, but you're here as my guest. Besides, there's somebody else looking for you." She pointed to the line, about ten people down from the front. Rick stood there and motioned for me to join him.
"Still want to stay here? You can, or would you rather be with Rick?" She gave me a wink and a gentle nudge in the ribs. "He _is_ quite a hunk."
I avoided embarrassment by looking down at my shoes. "Okay."
I walked over to where Rick was waiting. He stepped back, letting me get in line in front of him. "I was hoping you wouldn't get stuck behind the table," he said. "I'm looking forward to lunch with you."
"Me too." I took his hand for a second and squeezed it. I'd have liked to kiss him, but there were so many people around that I just couldn't.
We picked up a couple plates and walked along the table. I took some baby carrots, a handful of pretzels, and one hot dog. Rick got a big handful of chips and two hot dogs. We each took sodas, diet for me, of course, and headed off to find a place to sit and eat.
There were tables scattered through the grove. Rick led me past several to a small one that was partly under some trees at the edge of the grove. We sat down next to each other and began to eat. Neither of us said much. I did glance over at Rick once or twice. He saw me and smiled. He shifted over a little so our legs were touching. I felt the warmth of his body against mine. My own body began to tingle.
"So," he said. "Anything special you'd like to do while we're here?"
"I don't know. Grace told me that they were going to be playing some music later. We could listen or maybe even dance."
"Anything else?"
"I don't know," I said shyly. My whole body was really tingling now, partly in fear, partly in anticipation, of what might happen. "Was there something that you wanted to do?"
"Well, there's one thing that I've been wanting to do." He reached over and put his hand under my chin. He moved my head towards his. He leaned forward, and our lips met in a slow, warm, delicious kiss that I felt down to my toes. I closed my eyes and began to open my mouth. I felt his arms on my body, and I reached out and put my arms around his neck.
Then I heard the noises of the picnic behind us. I was startled and pulled away. I wanted to be with Rick, wanted it _bad_, but the thought of having everybody see us kissing was just too much to bear. I hated myself, but I pulled away.
"Please, Rick, I - I want to, but not where everybody can see."
"I don't think we can just disappear into the woods." He smiled lamely and took my hand. "Much as I'd like to."
I could see the disappointment in his face. I squeezed his hand. "I'd like to, myself, but I - I just couldn't. You don't mind too much, do you?"
"Well, not _too_ much." He leaned forwards and kissed me again; this time on the forehead. "Let's finish eating and see what else is going on."
We ate slowly, just enjoying being with each other. Rick talked a little about his plans for the summer. He was going to be working at his Dad's office as a student intern. It had taken him a long time to convince his folks that he didn't want to be an accountant like his Dad. He'd worked as an intern last summer, and he was flattered when they asked him back again. He figured that it would be good experience, even if he wasn't going into business. He also said that the money wasn't bad, even if his folks were making him put most of it into his college fund.
I said that I hadn't decided about college yet, which was true. I also told him that I didn't know if my parents were going to let me stay around for the summer.
"I hope so," Rick said finishing his last hot dog. "I'd like to take you up to the lake. I'll bet you look great in a bathing suit." Then he got this silly leer on his face and added, "and even better out of one."
I blushed and pretended to be mad. I suddenly had an image in my mind of Rick posing in a pair of trunks. Then the trunks shrank down into a Speedo, a really snug Speedo. My nipples began to tingle. I leaned forward and kissed him again. I would have liked to stay there and keep kissing, but I kept hearing the crowd, and I chickened out again. I sighed and said, "Let's go back to see what Grace and Paula are up to."
We cleaned up the table, tossing everything into a trashcan near the table. Then we walked -- hand in hand, I'm happy to say -- back down to the food table. Nate Persky was still there; helping Paula put out more soda. They'd been dating for quite a while, and it seemed like they were still serious about it.
Grace was standing nearby looking at them kind of wistfully. I think she was missing Alan, and that thought made me smile a little. Maybe she and Alan would be getting back together quicker than she'd planned. I was happy for him.
A couple of kids, that I didn't know, came over, freshmen or sophomores, I think, to take their turn at the food table. Johnny MacGuire was showing one how to work the gas grill.
Somebody had a boom box on and was playing dance music about forty feet from where we were. "Want to dance," Nate said to Paula.
"Sure," she said taking his hand. "Hey, Alice, why don't you and Rick come over, too?"
Before we could answer, Johnny turned to Grace. "Want to dance, Grace," he asked shyly.
Grace looked a little surprised. "Umm, okay, Johnny." She smiled and took his hand.
Rick took my hand, and the six of us walked over to get closer to the music.
I was as surprised as Grace, and surprised at her. She was supposed to be my -- to be Alan's girl. Why was she dancing with somebody else? Then I thought, 'because Alan isn't here, and he and Grace had a fight. Be happy that she's with somebody nice.'
I noticed that Rick was looking at me. "Penny for your thoughts," he said.
"Oh, I was just happy that Grace found somebody to dance with."
"Wasn't she going with your cousin? Have you no family loyalty, woman."
We both smiled at the joke. "Well, right now, they aren't going together. I like Grace. If she wants to spend time with somebody else, why shouldn't she?"
"I guess so, but Alan better make up with her quick. I know Johnny, and he's had a crush on Grace for a while now."
"That's between him, Grace, and Alan." Even as I said it, I wondered why I was so calm. My girl was dancing with somebody else. Only she wasn't _my_ girl. She was Alan's girl. I was Alice, and _I_ was dancing with _my_ Rick. It was getting too confusing to think about, so I decided not to. The music was moving pretty good. I let go of Rick's hand, and we began to dance.
For a while, the music was all fast stuff. You didn't dance _with_ somebody so much as you both stood near each other and danced _to_ the music. It was fun. It felt different to be moving in a female body, all bumps and curves, instead of an angular male body. I got used to it quickly, though, and I found myself enjoying moving some of those bumps and curves in ways that I thought Rick might like. From the way he was smiling, I think that he did like what he was seeing. I didn't feel shy about it because every other girl in the crowd was doing the same thing, moving to show off her body for the guy she was dancing with.
Then a slow song came on. I moved into Rick's arms. He took my hand in his and put his other arm around my waist. I was pulled in close, so that I felt my breasts pressed up against his chest. I felt warm and protected as we moved to that music.
I lay my head down on Rick's chest. He was humming along with the music, and I could feel the vibrations in his chest. He moved his head down close to my ear. I could feel his breath tickling my neck. My nipples felt stiff against my bra. I was definitely getting turned on by all this.
And so was Rick. I was close enough to feel something poking me in the groin as his penis stiffened. I felt an urge to reach down and caress it, but I could hardly do something like that in public where everybody was watching. My whole body was tingling now. Part of it was from sexual arousal, but part of it was happiness in the knowledge that Rick wanted me. He wanted me as much as I wanted him. 'Maybe,' I thought, 'I can do something about that later.'
The boom box played three more slow songs in a row. A lot of the couples were dancing like Rick and me, just moving slowly to the music as an excuse to hold each other.
When the music switched to a fast tempo, I found that I didn't quite feel so much like dancing. We danced one quick dance, and then I asked Rick if we could get something to drink. Some of the other couples had the same idea. There was a small line back at the food table.
We got our sodas. Rick took my hand and led me to a little hill near the edge of the grove that was close enough so we could listen to the music, but far enough away that we could talk without having to shout. It hadn't rained for a few days, so the grass was dry enough to sit on.
I sat down on the grass. Rick sat down next to me. Very close. We finished our sodas and leaned back against the slope of the hillside to listen to the music. As we leaned back, Rick put his arm around my shoulder. He sort of hugged me in, so I was even closer, almost cuddled up against him. It felt so nice.
"Alice, I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed last night."
"So did I, Rick."
"You - you don't regret what we did? No second thoughts?"
"Oh, I've had lots of second thoughts, third ones, too."
"And..."
"And I am _very_ happy with what we did last night." I reached up and took his hand, the one at my shoulder, in mine. "In fact, I wouldn't mind doing it again some time."
He pulled me to him and kissed me on the cheek. I felt flustered. I wanted him. My whole body was tingling, but - like I'd said before - we were in public.
I pulled away from him a little. "Rick, please. People are watching us."
"No, no they're not. Look around."
I sat up a little. It was true. Some of the kids were dancing or eating or talking. A few - way across the field -- were throwing a Frisbee around. And there must have been a good half dozen couples besides us scattered around the grove. Some just laying there next to each other, but a few were kissing and, well, and groping each other.
"I guess they're not," I said. "Not really anyway." I lay back down besides him. "Let's just lay here next to each other and cuddle for a while."
"Still self-conscious, eh. Well, I'd rather just be here next to you than be about any other place I can think of."
I smiled and kissed him on the cheek for that. As I did, he reached around with his arm to hold me in place next to him. He turned his head and kissed me square on the mouth. I was so surprised; I opened my mouth a little. He kissed me harder, then his tongue darted into my mouth and began playing with mine.
I loved it! My whole body was tingling like mad. I felt my nipples get rock hard. (Alan's, well, you know what gets hard on a boy; anyway, his was never any harder.) I felt a warmth growing down in my crotch. I squirmed, pretending to try to break free. Actually, I just wanted to rub my body against his.
All of a sudden, his grip loosened, and he broke the kiss. "Uhn uhn. None of that, woman; we're in public."
I pulled my head away and looked at him. He had the silliest, cutest grin. I wanted to slug him and kiss him at the same time. "You - you." I kissed him on the cheek, then snuggled down next to him. My body was still tingling, but the feeling wasn't quite as insistent as it had been. I laid back, my head resting on his shoulder, closed my eyes and listened to the music.
I don't know how long we lay there. It felt nice resting my head on Rick's shoulder with his arm around me, his hand resting politely on my stomach. Every so often, I'd just reach down and touch his hand.
Once, I reached down with my other hand and accidentally - honest, it was accidental - accidentally touched something of his, something hard down in his crotch. I giggled a little at the affect that I was having on him, but, for some reason, I didn't take my hand away.
Rick's hand moved up from my stomach and began to fondle one of my breasts. His finger rubbed against my nipple through my blouse. I felt it get hard again. I began to move my hand slowly over the lump in his pants.
Rick sort of half sat up. He stopped rubbing my breast. "Umm, as much as I hate to say this, if you don't stop doing that to me, I'm going to be _very_ embarrassed."
I stopped, but then I leaned over and kissed him. I put my arms around him and pulled him towards me. I could feel his chest pushing against my breasts, feel his erection against my own groin. 'Maybe,' I thought, 'we can find some place private and take care of this.'
Then I heard that damned bank clock chiming. Rick looked at his watch. "Damn, 4:30. We'd better stop if we're going to get you home by 5."
I wanted to tell him that I didn't care, that I wanted to stay out with him. Only, I couldn't risk Aunt Therese getting mad at him. At the least, she could forbid me to see him again. At the worst; I didn't want to think about what her worst could be. She could change him into a frog, a girl, who knew what.
I stood up, gently brushing the grass off my slacks. The boom box had mostly been playing slow songs. "Can we at least have one more dance?"
"Sure, I'd like that."
We walked over to where the kids were dancing; hand in hand, I'm happy to say. A new song was just starting as we got there. I turned to face him. He put his arms around me and pulled me in close. We spend the next few minutes, swaying to the music, our bodies against each other.
When the music stopped, I looked around. Grace was standing near by, holding Johnny's hand. I walked over, still holding Rick's hand in mine.
"Grace," I began, "I - we -- have to go. My Aunt Therese wants me home my 5. I just wanted to thank you for inviting me - us."
"Glad you could come. I'd ask if you had a good time, but I think I know the answer." She smiled. I felt my face get warm. I was blushing!
I took Rick's hand. "Well, bye, and thanks again."
"No problem. Hey, give me a call. Maybe we can go shopping again or something. Alan knows my number."
"I - okay." I noticed that Grace and Johnny were _still_ holding hands. I decided to call her and, in the course of talking, "casually" ask her about that. It was funny, though. Part of me was jealous, but another part just wanted to compare notes about the picnic and talk about boys in general.
Well, I'd think about that later. It was getting closer and closer to 5. "We'd better go, Rick." He started to say goodbye to Grace and Johnny, but I turned and started walking to his car. He turned and chased after me.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I just - I don't want to get Aunt Therese mad by coming home later than I said I would. She can be very strict."
"I guess a lot of parents are like that. Okay, I'll have you home by 5 or know the reason why."
*****
We made it home at about 4:55.
Rick came over to my side of the car and helped me out. We walked hand in hand to the door.
"Thanks, Rick. I had a great time."
"Me too." He reached up and took my head in his hands. Then he leaned forward and kissed me. My body was tingling. I shifted my stance a little and kissed him back.
I wanted the kiss to go on forever, but I knew it couldn't. "Rick, I'm sorry, but I have to go in."
"Yeah, I guess so. I'll - I'll see you tomorrow at the Library." He smiled and walked slowly back to his car.
I stood there at the door watching him drive off until he turned the corner. The bank clock was just chiming the hour as I went in.
Aunt Therese was waiting for me inside. "I see that you remembered when I told you to be home."
"Yes, Aunt Therese."
"Oh, don't be so sad, child. I was watching you on the porch just now. That boy obviously likes you as much as you like him."
"I know that. I just wish I didn't have to wait until tomorrow night to see him again."
"You can see him in school tomorrow."
"No, _Alan_ can see him in school. I'm not Alan."
"No, my dear, you aren't." She put her had on my shoulder. "I'm truly sorry that things got complicated in this way. But I suspect that they will eventually work out for the best."
"I hope so. I sure hope so." I shrugged and decided to change the subject. "I guess I'd better get started with those boxes."
"Very well, dear."
I headed down to the basement. Alan wouldn't have had much trouble with the boxes. They really weren't very heavy - for him. I was a lot weaker. My arms were shorter, too, darn it! The best I could manage was one box a trip. I even had to stop and rest with a couple of them. At least I was smart enough to take care o the boxes that had to go upstairs first. Even so, it was after six by the time I was finished.
Aunt Therese was in the kitchen working on a salad. "I assume that you ate at the picnic. Do you want some dinner?"
"Yes, thank you. I did eat, but I've kind of worked up an appetite carrying those boxes."
"I thought you might." She thin sliced a chicken breast and added it to the large bowl of vegetables: lettuce, carrots, onions, green and red peppers. Alan wasn't much of a salad person. "Rabbit food," he called it. I thought it looked interesting.
"What dressing do should I get out, Aunt Therese?" I'd decided to be helpful.
"Oh, none of those store-bought things for me." She lifted a small glass pitcher filled with some kind of purplish liquid. "I make my own."
I stared at the pitcher. It looked a lot like one that I remembered carrying up to her "work room" when she first moved in.
"Oh, relax, Alice. It's just salad dressing. Do you think I'd try to slip a potion of some sort into it?"
I motioned at my body. "I'm not sure what you'd do, Aunt Therese, but I guess I'll trust you."
"Good answer, dear. And it is just salad dressing. I promise." She made a gesture as if she were crossing her heart, only she made it on the right side of her body.
I was a little surprised. I'd seen Aunt Liz make the same sort of gesture more than once. Aunt Liz had always said it was an old family joke. "Shows you mean what you say, even if your heart's not in the right place," she always said. I guess Aunt Therese used it, too. At least, I hoped that she did.
She did. The only magic about that dressing, at least as far as I could tell, was how good it tasted, kind of a spicy raspberry taste with a bunch of flavors that I couldn't recognize.
"I'm glad you like it, Alice," Aunt Therese said when I asked her about it. "I'll be glad to teach you the recipe if you like."
I thought about the offer for a moment. I'd helped out with dinner a couple of times as Alice, and I found that I liked cooking. "Yes, thank you, Aunt Therese."
"That's all right, dear. I expect to teach you all _sorts_ of recipes and things in the future."
I wasn't sure just what she meant by that. Was she planning to teaching me how to be a witch? Was I going to be forced to remain a girl, since witches were always female? I suddenly felt very nervous.
Aunt Therese looked at me then looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. "We'll have to hold off the cooking lesson for another time, though, dear. I believe that you still have homework to do." It was as if she read my mind, and, maybe, she had. Whatever she'd done or not done, she was right.
"Yes, Aunt Therese." I put my dishes in the sink and hurried up to my room. I was never so glad to go do homework. I reviewed my Spanish vocabulary one more time, and read another few pages of _Jane Eyre_. Then I got out my civics notes. I was going to actually write the paper tomorrow night, but I wanted to make sure that I had everything organized. I read through my notes, sorting some of the material into sections. I had a pretty good idea of how the paper was going to go, and I expected to get a good grade.
As Alan, I hadn't worried nearly as much about my schoolwork. My grades had dropped off in the past year, and I'd heard the phrase "not living up to his potential" more often than I ever wanted to. Alice was much more studious, it seemed. I didn't know if that was a good thing or not. I was kind of glad that it would be Alice who was going to write the paper that counted for 40 percent of my grade for the year.
The best part about the paper, though, had been that I had gotten to meet Rick. Now that the assignment was over, I'd have to find another excuse to see him during the week.
I closed my eyes and thought about how much I'd enjoyed being with him at the picnic. That reminded me of how much I'd enjoyed being with him - being so very much with him the night before. My breasts began to tingle at the thought, and, without thinking, I reached up and began to rub the left one. That made me tingle even more.
Suddenly there was a knock on my door.
"I don't want to interrupt your studies, Alice." My hand froze at my breast. Why was Aunt Therese at my door? Did she know what I'd been doing? "Or anything else that you might be doing in there." She knew. But I sensed that she wasn't going to say anything.
"What - what did you want, Aunt Therese?"
"I just wanted to tell you that it's getting late. You had best be going to bed, so Alan can get enough sleep for school tomorrow."
Alan! I'd almost forgotten about him. Aunt Therese had said I needed a full night's sleep to have the energy to change back. For a moment, I was tempted to try to stay up late, so I couldn't change. Only, what would that accomplish? Alan couldn't just disappear. It would be much too hard to explain.
With a sigh, I put my notes away and put my books and homework in my backpack. That would save a little time in the morning.
I stripped down to just my panties and bra. It was a warm night, so I decided to sleep in my panties and one of Alan's T-shirts. I was afraid that I'd rip the bra as I changed back to Alan. His chest and shoulders were a lot bigger than Alice's.
I liked the feeling of the cotton shirt when it brushed against my nipples. There was a faint odor clinging to the shirt, too. I knew that it was Alan's sweat, but I pretended that it was Rick who I was smelling.
I brushed my teeth, got into bed, and turned out the light. But I couldn't seem to fall asleep.
I kept thinking of Rick and of the weekend. My body started to tingle again. My hands went to my breasts, kneading them gently. I closed my eyes and pretended that they were Rick's hands. It felt good, so very good. My nipples were hard. Little jolts of pleasure were shooting all through my body, especially to my groin.
I felt myself growing warm, growing wet down there. One hand moved down from my breast. It slid under my panties to my slit. My fingers found my vaginal lips and slid along them. They were sensitive, oooh! _soo_ sensitive. My hips twitched from what I was feeling. I slipped a hand inside myself and found the nib of my clit.
I rubbed it, tweaked it, and a warm, wonderful feeling spread out to every part of my body. It grew and grew and grew. My whole body was thrashing around on the bed. My eyes were closed, my head rolling back and forth. From a great distance, I heard a voice, my voice, moaning. About the only word I could make out was Rick's name. The rest were just sounds, animal noises.
But it couldn't last forever. I, well, "exploded" is a good word. I exploded with pleasure. I felt a scream build in my throat. I had just enough sense to turn my head, so the noise was lost in the mass of my pillow.
Then it was over. I lay there hugging myself, pretending it was Rick holding me and basking in the warm, gentle afterglow. My breathing gradually got a lot more regular. Then it got deeper as I fell asleep.
Monday
The alarm went off much too early, the way it always did on Monday morning. I reached over to shut it off, but stopped short. My arm! It wasn't Alan's hairy arm I was looking at. It was smooth, slender, and very, very feminine. It was Alice's arm. I was still Alice!
I sat up in bed and looked down at myself. Two breasts still tented out my Sixers' T-shirt. My hair was still down to my shoulders. "Aunt Therese!" My voice was still Alice's soprano instead of Alan's tenor. "Aunt Therese, help!"
I was out of bed, out of my room, and part way down the hall by the time Aunt Therese came out of her bedroom. "Alice! What's the matter?" Then she realized what she's said, what had happened. "Oh, my Goddess! You haven't changed."
"No, I - I haven't. Why? Why haven't I changed into Alan?"
"I don't know, dear. Please follow me."
We went back into my bedroom, and she had me lay down on the bed. She sat down beside me and placed her hands on my forehead. "Close your eyes, dear, and try to relax. I'm just doing a reading, not casting a spell."
I closed my eyes and tried to calm down. I saw flashes of color as if I'd looked at a flashbulb go off. My body tingled the way your arm tingles when the circulation comes back after it's been asleep. I found myself thinking of nothing in particular, simple math problems, days of the week. It was as if something was keeping me from concentrating on anything specific, especially from concentrating on my current situation.
I'm not sure how long it lasted. I couldn't keep track of time either. Eventually, though, I heard Aunt Therese's voice. "You can open your eyes now, Alice."
"So what's the verdict? Can you change me to Alan?"
"Let me tell you a little story, Alice, and please don't interrupt."
"Umm, this doesn't sound good, but okay."
"One of your - of our great, great grandmothers was a Carpathian witch, a Druid priestess of vast power whom our great, great grandfather met while traveling through Central Europe around 1850. Ever since then, _some_ of her female descendents have had the potential for witchcraft. The girls in the family are tested by an older relative before their fifth birthday. That way, if they lack the power, they're too young to even remember being tested."
"Boys never have the potential, so they're never tested. Alan still doesn't have it. But Alice does. In fact, you have a great deal of potential, possibly as strong as my own. You have no training, but, _subconsciously_, you're using your potential to fight the transformation. Since I didn't expect you to want to stay being Alice, I didn't, shall we say, build any reinforcement into the spell. Your untrained potential is enough to stop the transformation."
"But why, why am I fighting it?"
"Be truthful with yourself - and with me, Alice. You like being a girl. You've fallen in love with Rick. You've even had sex with him - something that I never expected, by the way. I intended Alice to be shy just for that reason, to prevent her from getting serious about anyone. I believe your magic potential overcame that part of my spell."
"It made me fall in love with Rick? Why would it do that?"
"Oh, Goddess, no. Magic can't cause Love, because Love is stronger than Magic. Your potential just smashed the wards - the artificial wards - that I put up in your mind to keep you from falling in love."
"Then what I feel for Rick -"
"Is absolutely real, dear. Congratulations."
"But what are we going to do about Alan, about me?"
"In the short term, it's already done. While you were recovering from my reading, I called the school. Poor Alan's not feeling very well today, and he won't be in school today."
"And tomorrow?"
"That's for you to decide, dear. You have two choices."
"What are they?"
"You have great potential, but it's untrained. I, on the other hand, have years of training. I can rebuild the wards, so that your feelings for Rick are gone. Then I can easily change you back to Alan. In fact, I can channel your potential to end the spell, something I couldn't do otherwise until after your period, which will be coming in about a week. In fact, I'll _have_ to end the spell to keep this problem from happening again every day. Alice will be gone forever, never to be heard of again. And so will your magic potential."
"And the other choice?"
"I can use your potential to make the change permanent. Alan would be the one to disappear. You would be Alice forever, but I could train you to use that potential of yours."
"But what about Alan's life? Won't people wonder what happened to him?"
"That can be taken care of. Alan wouldn't disappear, because, as far as most people were concerned, he would _never_ have existed. You would have always been Alice Weber."
"You can do that, change reality that way?"
"No, but we - my coven and I - _can_ change memories, so everyone would believe that you had always been Alice. And we can change the documents of your life, so they all say 'Alice', rather than Alan."
"Can I think about it a while?"
"Yes, dear, but don't take too long. Whichever you choose, the spell will require time to perform properly." She smiled and left me alone in my room.
It wasn't easy. Alan or Alice, one of them - one of me - had to die. How could I choose? I thought about each of them.
Alan was who I was born to be, who I'd grown up as. He had friends - even if they were Phil and Jerry. He had a life and a future - even if he had been wasting it making trouble for himself, for Aunt Therese - and for Aunt Liz before her, and just about every other adult who came in contact with him.
Alice was who I was - now. She didn't have a life, but she was making one. Grace had become a good friend in a really short time. I wondered for a moment why I hadn't thought of Grace when I'd been thinking of Alan. Wasn't she part of his life, too?
No, I guess she really wasn't, not anymore.
Grace was Alice's friend. And Rick, Rick was her lover. I loved him, and I wanted to keep on loving him, being with him, making love to him. But if Alice was going to be with Rick, then Alan had to die.
Or did he?
There was more of Alan in Alice than there was Alice in Alan. If I chose to be Alice, a part of Alan would live on in her. If I chose Alan, then the little bit that was Alice was going to disappear. Just like Alice's potential for doing magic would disappear.
That was something else to think about. To be able to do magic, real magic, was a wonderful possibility.
I sat up in bed. "Aunt Therese, I've decided!"
*****
I'm not sure who all I expected to be in Aunt Therese's coven. I knew that Mariah from Le Moderne was. She'd admitted it when I went into her store, but who else? Jennie, the hairdresser from the "House of Style" came in with a couple of women that I didn't recognize. Ms. Hollcraft, one of the teachers at my old Junior High School, showed up about ten minutes later.
I was sitting on a chair in the center of the living room, wearing the panties and T-shirt I'd slept in beneath a white cotton robe. There was another pentagram chalked in the rug around me.
Four women showed up together, having come from the airport in the same cab. "Only a few of the members are local, dear," Aunt Therese said. "I've sent out a call to the Grand Coven, several hundred women across several states to make certain that enough can be here to properly cast the necessary spells."
By two thirty, there were about a dozen women in the room. I thought that this would be all, since no one had come for about a half hour. Then there was a knock on the door.
"Aunt Liz?" I was so surprised that I tried to get out of the chair and walk over to hug here. The - what did Aunt Therese call them - the wards, were in place, though. I could stand, barely, but I couldn't walk out of the pentagram.
Still, I didn't believe it. Aunt Liz, the woman who raised me was a witch. It couldn't be. Could it?
Aunt Liz walked slowly over to me, leaning on a cane as she walked. "Yes, Alan - excuse me, Alice. I'm also one of the witches in the family, although my powers aren't nearly as strong as Therese's are."
"But if you're a witch, why couldn't you heal yourself? That has to be easier magic than changing me into a girl."
"Actually, dear, it isn't. My illness is genetic, something like Hodgkin's Disease that only shows up in later life. It's a part of me at the most basic level. The healing spells have been cast, but they'll take over a year to work. During that time, I couldn't possibly do anything as strenuous as care for a boy like you - like Alan. Or a girl like Alice. But I _did_ want to be here to help bring you - bring Alice into the family. I love you, dear, and I'm very proud of you."
"As am I," Aunt Therese said, coming over to join us. We all hugged one another. "Shall we begin?"
Five of the women, Aunt Therese and Mariah among them, sat down at the points of the star within the pentagram. The others stood behind them, joining hands. Aunt Therese began to chant something in a language that I couldn't begin to understand. The others picked up the chant. They got louder and louder. I could almost feel the power of their voices passing through my body.
Suddenly the women began to glow, Aunt Therese first, then the rest of them. The glow was pulsing, green in color, like a living neon light between them. Then it flowed forward along the lines of the pentagram and towards me. It hit me from all sides at once. It felt like standing in the surf as wave after wave hit me. I felt it flow through me, warming every part of my body. It was a strong, a powerful feeling, and I enjoyed it.
Then, as quickly as it hit, the feeling seemed to leave my body. It shot upwards. I looked up to see a golden pulse fly to, fly through the ceiling and disappear.
I looked at Aunt Therese and silently mouthed "What?"
"The spell has changed you, Alice. Now it's changing everyone and everything else in the town. In a few moments, there will be no memory, no evidence that Alan Webster ever existed."
I stood up and found that I could leave the pentagram. In fact, as I stepped forward, the pentagram left me. The chalk marks just faded from the rug. I hugged Aunt Therese, then Aunt Liz, then all the other women.
Aunt Therese smiled at me. "Why don't you go upstairs and get dressed, Alice?"
I ran up to my room. There was no sign of Alan. Now all four walls were pink. So was my PC. The clothes in the closet and in the dresser were all girl's clothes. There were pictures on the wall, Grace and I in Girl Scout uniforms at summer camp, a ten-year old Alice in a ballet costume with a pair of pink slippers hanging down from the frame. There were a bunch of old dolls on a shelf where my old baseball glove had always been.
It was Alice's room. It always had been Alice's room.
I stripped off the T-shirt. It was still a Sixers' shirt, but now the emblem was on a pink shirt with a female cut to it. I tossed it and the panties into the hamper, and got a new panty and bra set out of the dresser. I put on my lovely, frilly _girl's_ underwear, then pulled on a pair of jeans I'd nevr seen before.
There were several more pairs of jeans, plus a few pair of slacks in the closet. I guess Aunt Therese's restrictions didn't apply now that I was Alice for real.
I picked out a pretty blue blouse and put it on. Then I sat down at the make-up table and applied a bit of lipstick and a little blusher. A bracelet on my left wrist and a pair of sandals on my feet, and I was ready to go back downstairs.
I thought that I'd only been a few minutes, and I expected all the women to still be there, so I could thank them again. But, by the time I came back downstairs, they were all gone except for Aunt Liz.
"I just stayed long enough to say a proper goodbye to my pretty new niece," she said kissing me gently on the cheek. "Don't worry, by the way. Not even the rest of the family remembers Alan."
"I'm taking Elizabeth to the airport," Aunt Therese said. "I won't be back until her flight leaves, sometime around 5:30. If you're willing to put on a dress, I shall take you out to dinner to celebrate your new status."
"That sounds wonderful, Aunt Therese." I hugged her. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."
"You may think otherwise once I begin your training, my girl. I'm told that I can be a true witch - spelled with a 'w' or a 'b' - as a teacher."
Aunt Liz winked at me. "Don't believe her, Alice. She's a pussycat." She hugged me. It felt just as good as when I was five. "You apply yourself, and you can show me what you've learned when I come back in a few months for a proper visit."
"Let's get going, Elizabeth, before you completely undermine my authority." Aunt Therese tried to sound angry, but she was smiling as they both headed out the door.
*****
It was almost four when I heard the door again, too early for Aunt Therese to be back unless something was wrong.
I was watching TV. Even if I was a girl now, I still couldn't get into soap operas. I was watching an old war movie on one of the cable channels. The action parts weren't as much fun as they had been for Alan, but I did enjoy them some. Besides, there was a romance between one of the soldiers and a French partisan that Alice was enjoying.
I went over and answered the door. It was Grace, Grace and Johnny MacGuire and, best of all, Rick.
"Hey, Alice," Grace said. "They told us you were sick. Can we come in?"
"Oh, yes. It was just some kind of stomach flu. I'm feeling much better. In fact, Aunt Therese says that I'll have to go to school tomorrow."
"Great," Rick said. "I missed you." He gave me a polite peck on the cheek.
"I brought some homework from a couple of your classes," Grace said. She handed me a sheet of paper. I recognized the handwriting of two of my teachers. Read more of _Jane Eyre_ and study the next chapter of Spanish. Johnny also had an assignment sheet for me. I had about a dozen Algebra problems to do and was reminded that my civics paper was due on Friday. Mr. Holgar said I could have an extension if I sent in a note from Aunt Therese saying that I wouldn't be back to school before Thursday.
"I guess I'd better get started," I said.
"The heck you will, girl," Grace said. "Your friends are here for a visit and you're stuck with us for a while."
"Yeah," Rick said. "You wouldn't want to be rude and chase us out, would you?"
"Never," I said. I hugged Grace, Johnny, and Rick. I put a little extra when I hugged Rick. I gave him a little kiss, too. I turned off the TV and we sat on the couch, Johnny and Grace sitting next to each other and holding hands. As far as they were concerned, they'd been dating for over a year. We just sat there, talking about nothing in particular, the way longtime friends - what we were now - always do.
The End
Want to comment but don't want to open an account?
Anyone can log in as Guest Reader -- password topshelf to leave a comment.
Glimpses of the Afterlife
By Ellie Dauber © 2006
The true and final fate of Saddam Hussein.
* * * * *
Glimpses of the Afterlife
By Ellie Dauber © 2006
Saddam Hussein closed his eyes for a moment as the noose was lowered
down over his head. He felt the rope, coarse fiber against his throat
under his beard. "Go to hell," someone yelled.
"You first," he answered back. He saw the executioner reach for the
lever that would drop the floor beneath him, and he began to recite the
Koranic verse of acceptance. "There is no G-d but Allah, and Mohammed is
his prophet.
The floor fell away. He dropped. The roped grew tight. He gasped once
for breath, and the world went black.
* * * * *
"Welcome, my son."
Saddam opened his eyes. He was in a large room illuminated by glowing
torches. An old, but robust man in the flowing golden robes of a sheik
stood before him. Next to the man was a woman, elegantly dressed. Her
body was ripe with womanly curves. Her face gave no signs of age, but
her hair was white as purest silver.
"Who are you?" Saddam insisted. "Where am I?"
The man smiled, a warm smile that hinted of gentleness but great power.
"I am Ibrahim abu Ishmail, the father of the Arab people. This woman is
Sarai, my wife. You are --"
"Truly dead," Saddam uttered, as if wakened from a dream. I am in
Paradise, and you..." He knelt before the man the Western infidels
called Abraham, father of the Jews, and whom he honored as the first of
the prophets in the line that ended in Mohammed, may he be blessed
forever.
Ibrahim nodded. "Rise, son of my son's son. Yes, you have passed on to
the Garden that men call Paradise."
Saddam rose. He realized as he did that his suit of Western clothes were
gone. He was dressed in the simple, black robes of a member of his own
tribe. "And you, Father Ibrahim, have come to greet me. I am honored and
blessed."
"You are a very special case," the woman, Mother Sarai, told him. "We
have come to see you to the place Allah the True Judge, has set for you
in the World to Come, the place you shall dwell until the Day of
Resurrection."
Ibrahim made a broad gesture with his right hand.
The room changed. The three of them stood in a large, well-lit chamber.
In its center, a small fountain shot a spray of water, as if in welcome.
Colorful pillows were scattered here and there, inviting one to sit and
be comforted. In one corner, a mass of them formed a sort of bed. A few
were next to a low table which held a pitcher and cup, a broken loaf of
dark brown bread, and large bowl filled with savory stew.
Saddam heard the music of an unseen band. The air was filled with the
scent of roses. "This is most surely the chamber of a great man."
"No," Sarai shook her head, "this is the sort of place reserved for any
pious believer. It will be the home of an honored man, however." She
waved her hand. "Come forward, Farad."
A slender man, perhaps thirty-years old, surely no older, appeared next
to her. He had curly brown hair and a small, well-trimmed beard. He wore
the same sort of golden robes as Father Ibrahim, though of a much
simpler design. He stared into the air as if in a trance.
"Who is this?" Saddam demanded.
"This," Ibrahim answered, "is Farad. He was the sole support of his aged
parents, a man who became a policeman, not for the pay, but to try to
make his neighborhood a safer place for them to live." He looked
directly at Saddam. "He was killed by a bomb while on patrol, a bomb
planted by Bathists turned insurgent and acting in your name."
"He is a fool to work for the evil ones who drove me from power. He
deserved to die. What is he to me?" Saddam was growing angry. What was
he being bothered by all of this?
"He is a pious man who did not deserve to die, and he is here to receive
his reward." Ibrahim pointed at Saddam. "And you are to serve him."
"What! I will do no such thing," Saddam said indignantly. " If this scum
deserves a reward -- which I very much doubt -- let him receive it from
some panting houri, not from the rightful ruler of Iraq."
"He shall," Sarai replied, a laugh in her voice. "He will receive it
from a panting houri who was the false ruler of Iraq."
"What!" Saddam yelled in panic. Suddenly, he felt cold. He looked down
and saw that he was naked.
He found that he could not move.
His entire body began to prickle, as if a thousand, tem thousand ants
were running across his bare body. He grew smaller. He had been almost
as tall as Father Ibrahim. Now he was looking eye to eye at Mother
Sarai.
Every hair below his neck fell from his body, vanishing before they
reached the floor. His skin lightened to the color of honey. His thick
beard seemed to be pulled back into his chin, even as his hair grew down
past his shoulders, its gray color darkening to inky black.
His muscles melted away, as did the small belly he had developed from
the inactivity of his imprisonment. He was thinner. His shoulders
narrow. It was the body of a young boy.
It became the body of a young girl. His male organs shrank back into his
groin. His testicles shrank and slid up into him to become ovaries. The
scrotal sack became the lips on either side of the opening that formed
in him. The opening that his much smaller penis slid into as it
transformed into a very sensitive clitoris.
As this happened, his hips widened, and his rear took the teardrop shape
so many men desired for a woman. His limbs became curved and supple. His
hands were so much smaller, his fingers long and slender. His nails were
longer, too, and they darkened as a red polish appeared on them.
The skin around his nipples darkened, as the nipples grew. They moved
out from his chest as breasts blossomed. They were firm, the size of
melons.
His face changed, becoming moon-shaped. His nose was smaller, his lips
full and forming into a delicate pout. His eyes were as a fawn's with
dark lashes. There was a sweetness, gloss, on his lips and shadow around
his eyes that made them seem even larger.
"What madness is this?" Saddam was so mad that he ignored the high
feminine contralto that was his voice now. "What have you..."
A warm glow ran through his body. It centered in his breasts and down
there in his groin. Saddam moaned from the pleasure, sexual pleasure,
a... a woman's pleasure. Of their own will, his hands reached up to
caress his new breasts, to bring them even more pleasure.
The man, Farad, blinked. "Where... where am I?"
"You are in Paradise, Farad, my son. You died bravely, and Sarai and I
have come to welcome you."
"And this one?" Farad looked intently at Saddam.
Saddam wanted to dismiss the unworthy little man. Instead, he felt
himself smile. "I am Sa'adia, my lord, your own houri to serve you in
every way until the Day of Resurrection."
Saddam... Sa'adia walked towards him, hips swinging seductively. He...
she tried to stop, to walk with a man's gait, but she found that she had
no control over her body. She felt her nipples tighten and felt a
moistness in her loins.
"In every way?" Farad felt himself grow hard.
Sa'adia stood before her lord. "In every possible way." She kissed him
briefly, then fell to her knees. Her hands reached beneath his robes and
found his manhood. She lifted the robes and exposed him. Then she smiled
up at him and brought her lips down around his pulsing organ.
* * * * *
"Father Ibrahim!" Farad sat up in bed. Sa'adia was next to him, naked
and asleep, a sated smile on her face.
"Sa'alam Alekim, Farad," Ibrahim said. "How do you fare this morning?"
"Alekim Salamm" Farad answered. "I am fine, as might be expected in
Paradise. To what do I owe the honor of this visit from you and Mother
Sarai?"
"The Koran, blessed be its giver and blessed be Mohammed who write it
down, promises a faithful believer a reward of houris in the Afterlife.
You have only received this one, Sa'adia."
"I have been more than rewarded with Sa'adia," Farad replied. "She is a
most willing and most... able of houris."
"Perhaps," Sarai said, "but you were promised more." She made a gesture
and Farad's eyes widened as he sank back into a trance.
Another man appeared between her and Ibrahim. An older man, a Westerner,
pudgy and balding. He wore only a pair of boxer shorts. "I demand to
know what's going on here. You can't do this to me."
"Yes, we can, Richard Chaney," Ibrahim said. "We have received
dispensation from the Heaven of your Jesus, to bring you to the Paradise
of the believers of Allah to receive your proper ahzab-e-kabr... your
punishment in the grave."
"How dare --"
The late Vice President, dead in his sleep of a massive heart attack,
froze as he began the transformation to Hannah, a limber blonde
Circassian and Farad's second houri.
The End
Grogg
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2002
A father uses the Medallion of Zulo to break up the relationship between his daughter and a boy he doesn’t like. And, as you’d expect, things don’t go exactly as planned.
This is an experimental story that alternates between the action of the story and a stream of consciousness by the narrator character. I'll be curious to see what people have to say about it.
Grogg
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2002
You see that young couple wrestling out on my front porch?
The boy with the octopus hands is Greg Reiner. They call him "Grogg" out on the football field. He's an offensive lineman -- emphasis on "offensive" -- the best Cedar Brook High has had in years. He's only a junior, and already the college scouts are sniffing around him.
That innocent, young girl he's molesting is my daughter, Annie. Smart as a whip, my Annie, and pretty as -- well, as pretty as her mother, which is saying a lot, believe me. My Lisa is as pretty as the day we got married. Annie could have any boy she wanted. Just my luck, she wants Grogg. I always thought that she had better taste.
By now, you're probably wondering why I'm in here talking to you, while they're out there trading spit. It's a good question. Normally, I'd have broken things up minutes ago. Tonight, I'm being -- damn it, boy, get your hands off my daughter's ass. That's it. I wanted to be a nice guy, give them one last chance to be together, but that is the limit.
I'm flicking on the porch light. That's Annie's one-minute warning. She has that long to say goodnight, or I come out after her.
Okay, here she comes. I just wish she didn't have to be tucking her blouse back in. Well, by this time tomorrow, she'll be in Dayton, and I'll have broken up her little romance -- personally. Now, if I can just get her to start dating within her own species.
* * * * *
Hello, Annie, did you have a good time? Good, I'm glad because I'm... uhh... afraid that I have some bad news for you. Your Uncle Max and Aunt Sylvia were in a car accident. Hey, hey, no, they're still alive. They're going to have to be in the hospital for a while, though, maybe a week or two. Cousin Rose was watching Nancy, Alan, and Joe, but she can hardly manage them for that long.
You and your Mom are booked on the late flight out to Dayton. It leaves in about... let me see... in about two hours. Your Mom is packed; she's out in the kitchen fixing up some food for me to eat while you two are gone. She thought that you'd want to pack for yourself. You better get going. I want to leave for the airport in about twenty minutes.
Hey, I'm sorry to rush you. You were out who knows where. We just knew that you said were going to be back in time. Would you rather that your Mom or I had packed for you? I thought not. Now get going.
* * * * *
I've had the means for breaking up Annie and Grogg for a couple of weeks now. I just didn't know exactly how to use it till now. Don't get me wrong; I'm sorry that Max and Sylvia got hurt. Really I am. Hey, Sylvia is Lisa's kid sister, and Max is a really good guy. I wouldn't hurt either of them for the world. Still, I'd be crazy not to take advantage of a situation that just dropped into my lap like this.
As soon as Lisa got the call and agreed to go watch their kids, I saw my chance. Three kids and that big house of theirs is a lot. Lisa jumped at the idea of taking Annie along to help.
* * * * *
Their plane just left. I'm supposed to call the school tomorrow to explain about Annie going out of town and get her homework and such sent out to her.
The thing is, though; I won't have to call. I'll be there in Annie's place.
You see this thing? I know how dumb it looks with the silly little cherub on the one side. Trust me; it's a lot more powerful than it looks.
I'm a freelance writer, mostly non-fiction, and I'm pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. Maybe you read my last book, Stolen Kidneys and Other Urban Legends? It was on the Times Best Sellers' List for about a month last year.
That's how I found out about this thing, research for that book. It's called the Medallion of Zulo. The stories say it's maybe a thousand years old, maybe even more. It came here from Africa -- nobody knows how -- and, believe it or not, it's magic. Yeah, you can use it to change your shape, even swap bodies with somebody else.
No, honest, it works, I swear. I found it in a flea market one Saturday and brought it home to test. Lisa's a packrat about clothes. I dug an old sweater that she didn't like out of a box in the attic. She put it about there about five years ago with some other stuff.
About two years ago last May, I got a bad cut on my leg when the glass panel in a storm door I was taking down broke. I needed six -- no, seven -- stitches, and they left a nice scar. Well, I put on the Medallion and took hold of that sweater -- that's how it works -- and the scar goes away. I was as young as I'd been the last time I wore the sweater, younger than I'd been when I got the stitches.
I tried it on Lisa, too. She didn't know that the reason she felt so good when she woke up that morning was because she was seven years younger. Then we both felt real good. You see, I used it on myself again, this time with... well, with an "Extra Large" condom.
* * * * *
This is the big test. It's about 6 AM, and here I am buck naked in Annie's room. I can't even begin to say how weird that is. I've got the Medallion around my neck, and I'm picking up a blouse from Annie's dirty clothes basket. I can feel a tingling as I tie the blouse around my wrist. That means the magic is beginning to work.
The legends say that the longer you hold the piece of clothes that are doing the transformation the more -- I don't know -- the more "background" information you pick up. Tying it to me should give the knowledge to walk and talk and act like her. It should help me recognize all her little friends, too. The last thing I want is for anyone to get suspicious.
I don't really want to watch my body turn into hers, so I'm just going to lie down on her bed here till it's over.
* * * * *
This is, like, soo cool. I look just like me... her. It felt weird, ya know, climbing out of bed and walking over to her mirror. I'm so much shorter now. My feet barely touched the floor when I sat up at the edge of my bed. Walking's different, too, way different. I don't have my... thingie hanging down between my legs anymore. My hips are wider, and they sway when I walk.
I've got boobies, now, too. I could see them jiggle as I walked towards the mirror. It looked kind of, well, kind of sexy.
Eeew! I'm not getting turned on by my own daugh... my own body. That would just be soo gross.
* * * * *
Okay, I'm dressed now. Those old legends were, like, soo true. I knew how to do everything. I got my bra on like it was something I did every day. I need one. Annie's boobies may not be as big as some girls, but I think they look pretty good, nice shape, no sag, and big nipples, just like Mom's.
I could put on my make-up okay, too. Daddy... I think she wears too much, but puh... lease, she is 16, and she can't get by with just some kiddy "Baby Love Blusher" like she was still in grade school.
I didn't wear a skirt -- even if it does show off my legs. It was just too... too female for now. I did put one these cute jeans and a blouse. The jeans're so tight that I almost had to lie down to get them on. And they show off my figure pretty good, too.
I think the Medallion did something to my appetite, too. I usually have toast and -- eeew -- black coffee. This morning, I just felt like some fruit yogurt and a glass of milk. It was so good, I'm gonna have to, like, try it when I change back to myself.
Right now, I'm waiting for the bus down at the corner. This book bag is soo heavy. I'm nowhere as strong as I was. Parents don't realize how homework some teachers pile on us.
* * * * *
I made it to school okay. I remembered the names of the kids at the corner and the ones on the bus. I know where my locker is, too. Good thing, they just give us five minutes from when the bus gets to school to when we have to be in homeroom. It is just soo unfair.
No sign of Grogg at school, either. He's a year ahead of me, with a whole different bunch of classes. We can only get together for lunch, so that's when I'm gonna dump him; just thinking about it should get me through a morning of bo-oring classes.
* * * * *
Man, I thought this morning would, like, never end. That last one was the worst. I'm a writer, and I love words, but "Old Man" Mitchell, he just killed it for me, ya know.
Anyway, there's Grogg. He's smiling; he looks so happy to see me. Too bad he doesn't know what's going down. I'll do it here -- break up with him public, right here in the cafeteria. I can make a real big scene and, like, really embarrass him.
First, we have to get in to the cafeteria. That crowd is, like, the worst, and the line for the food stretches on for just miles.
This is soo cool. Grogg took my hand -- his hand is, like, five times as big as mine -- and just led me through the crowd. People ran around like... like animals to get out of his -- out of our way. He walked straight to the head of the line. Sam Jenkins just let Grogg get in front of him. Then Grogg let me get in front of him. It was like we were royalty or something, ya know. And when Grogg smiled at me and handed me a tray, I -- I don't know -- I felt kind of warm all over.
Maybe... maybe I misjudged him, ya know. Maybe I should be, like, fair, and get to know him a little better before I, like, do anything. Besides, he did pay for my lunch. It would be, like, so rude to start a fight after he did something like that."
* * * * *
The afternoon classes were a little bit better than the morning ones; a couple actually weren't, like, too bad at all. We're studying the Italian Renaissance in History. Ms. Fenton made it almost like an art history class with the slide show she had. Melanie Brooks did kind of giggle when Ms. Fenton got to the picture of Michelangelo's "David." So did a few of the other girls. They are such airheads; I mean, like, it wasn't anything they all had seen before.
Grogg was waiting for me at the bus pick-up. We couldn't talk for very long. I had to catch the bus home, and he had to get back to football practice. He is such a hunk in his uniform.
Anyway, he asked if he could come over later, like after dinner, so we could, like, study together -- maybe go out for a coke or something after. I was going to say "No" -- honest, I was -- but I did decide that I wanted to get to know him a little, to see if maybe I had, like, misjudged him.
Besides, he looked so sweet, and he had such a lost puppy dog look that I just didn't have, like, the heart to. I said he could over about 7, and my Daddy would -- oh, my gosh, how am I gonna explain that my folks -- that Lisa and I aren't there?
* * * * *
Grogg showed up right on time. Eager, I like that in a boy; it says that he, ya know, respects me. Anyways, I told him that he'd just, like, missed my folks. My Mom was visiting some friends, and Daddy was at a meeting with agent or somebody. He got this funny look in his eyes, ya know, but it, like, went away in a few seconds.
We went into the dining room so we could use the big table to study. Grogg asked about studying upstairs in my bedroom. My bedroom! There is, like, no way, I'm taking him up there. I told him that and pretended to be mad. He just shrugged like it was no big deal or nothing. Maybe he was just joking. Yeah, sure, that's all it was.
Grogg's book bag was bigger than mine and full of all kinds of stuff -- his playbook and like that -- but he carried it under his arm like it didn't weigh anything. He is soo strong. I bet he could just pick me up and carry me... ooh, I got this warm, kind of tingly feeling all of a sudden, like I was swimming in ginger ale or something, ya know.
The legends of the Medallion say that it won't work again for 12 hours. Maybe that tingling was how you know the time is up or something. I don't remember ever reading about the Medallion doing that, but, sure, that must be what it was. Like I'd want to change back with Grogg here in the house with me.
I stuck my books and stuff there on the long side of the table, right where Annie sits for supper and like that. I figured Grog would sit across from me, but, no, he sits down sort of next to me. We're, like, far enough apart so we don't get in each other's way, but we're close enough, ya know, that I can reach over and, like... touch him --like I did just now -- if I want to.
* * * * *
I did my math first. Tomorrow's Friday, and Ms. Hecht always gives us a quiz. I think I get what the book says; math wasn't my best subject when I went to school the first time either, ya know. I'll have to try 'cause I don't want to, like, ruin Annie's average.
We're reading Pride and Prejudice in Lit class. Grogg asked if I was gonna read some of it now. I said that I'm reading it in bed, a chapter a night. He raised on eyebrow -- Mr. Spock, he isn't -- and asked if I, like, needed someone there to turn the pages. He is soo silly.
I started to get that "ginger ale" tingle again -- I wonder why the Medallion's magic is, like, doing that -- especially in by breasts and... down there. It made me feel kind of giddy. I sort of, like, chuckled, ya know, and slapped Grogg real light, like, on his wrist for what he said.
* * * * *
Grogg, it's 10:30. Your curfew... yeah, I think it sucks, too, but I don't want you to, like, get in trouble. Besides, it's only for the football season, and that, like, ends at Thanksgiving. The play-offs? Oh, yeah, I'm, like, sure we'll get in with you playing.
* * * * *
I remember my old football couch had, like, the same curfew when I was in high school, and how much I hated it then. He checked, too, Coach Stepanic did.
Grogg stuffs his books and everything back in his bag and just throws it over his shoulder. That's soo sweet; he took my arm and, like, walked me to the door.
* * * * *
"What? No, Grogg, we never like, said goodnight on this side of the door. We..."
* * * * *
He takes me in his arms and pulls me close -- real close. My boobies are mashed up against his chest. I don't care; it feels soo good. It's, like, that "ginger ale" feeling from before, only, like, stronger.
He's... he's kissing me! I feel warm now, too -- all over, but most of all in my boobies and down... down in my groin. This is soo cool. My arms just went and wrapped around his neck. I didn't think of it or nothing.
I don't want to think of anything -- not really. I just want this kiss to go on and... ooh! He's got his hands on... on my butt. Ooh, yeah, that feels even better. I hear myself, like, moan. I move in close to him.
Now, I can feel... something poking my thigh. I move -- just a little -- rubbing against it.
I -- Wait a minute, I was, like, right. He's, like, all over me. Now I've got a reason to -- What!
* * * * *
Aww, don't stop, Grogg. Your curfew! I don't, like, care about your curfew. You do? More than you care about me? Oh... oh, I see. Yeah, I guess we both got carried away, kind of. No... no, it really isn't right. I'll... I'll see you at lunch tomorrow. G'night.
* * * * *
Damn! The kid's got character. He even kissed me goodnight on the forehead. The forehead! Maybe I won't, like, break up with him. Not when he does something like that, especially when he -- mmmm -- when I feel so good all over.
We'll, like, see at lunch tomorrow. That'd be my last chance before the game on Saturday. Coach won't let his players go out the night before a game. He says it takes their edge off. I have to, like, chuckle at that.
Anyway, he said that we'd, like, go out after the game to celebrate. He is just soo sure we're gonna win.
I suppose I could use the Medallion to change back for the night and, ya know, change again in the morning. No... It’s too late for that. It's almost 11 now, and I have to be in school at 8:30. Besides, I just feel soo nice, so warm and tingly, that I don't want to change.
Yawn! I do feel sleepy, though. I wonder if Annie, like, took that new blue nightie with her.
* * * * *
I decided in school today not to, like, change back and forth. It'll be easier to just stay my... Annie till I break up with Grogg. If I break up with him. He's been soo nice and soo sweet that I'm having doubts. Maybe he is, like, good enough for my Annie.
He's gotta, ya know, stay home tonight, rest up for the game. That means I get stuck here by myself watching TV. I scarfed down a salad with some diced chicken for supper. Lisa left a meatloaf and some potatoes, but... eww... all that red meat, and the calories. For. Get. It.
Like I said, I'm stuck watching TV. Normally, on Fridays, I watch the Washington gang and Wall Street Week, but they are just so... bo-ring. Maybe PROVIDENCE with that hunk of a boyfriend for the lady doc, or SABRINA; those girls wear the coolest clothes.
* * * * *
We won! We won! We won! We won!
We beat Lakeview 28-6. That puts us, like, 7-0 for the season. We've already got the District title for sure, and it's still, ya know, October.
Grogg did it. Oh, sure, somebody else carries the ball, but he wouldn't be able to score if Grogg wasn't there to keep the tackles off him, you know.
I almost yelled myself hoarse cheering. Grogg heard, too; I know he did. There was this one play, ya know. There must've been five men on Rick Vargas. Grogg came out of nowhere. He took out two of them, and then kept up with Rick, like, all the way to the goal.
I let out a "Whoop!" that, like, everybody in the stadium must've heard. Grogg turned and looked right at me. He waved... at... me right there in front of, like, everybody, he waved at me.
I was over in the 'chick seats'. They're, like, the seats closest to the team benches. Nobody ever says so, ya know, but they're sorta reserved for the players' girlfriends. I was supposed to be Annie, after all, so there I, like, was with all the other girls. We jumped up and down and yelled and screamed for our guys on the team.
After the game, I was thinking -- just a little bit -- about breaking up with Grogg tonight. He and I have a date, ya know. If he, like, did bad in the game, I could've, like, picked a fight with him -- maybe even in public -- and stormed off.
Only, I can't do it now, even if I wanted to -- wanted to? He's the hero of the game, well, one of the heroes. I'd be like, a traitor to the school, if I broke up with him now.
That's, like, the bad news. The good news is I have a date with one of the guys who won the game for us. I am, like, soo, proud!
* * * * *
Thanks, Grogg. I hoped you'd like this dress. Yes, it is new. It is, like, soo great that you noticed.
* * * * *
Like, Earth to Grogg, I have a face, too, ya know. Try looking up at it instead of at my boobies when you talk to me. I don't know why Annie bought this dumb dress -- or what, like, possessed me to wear it. If it was cut any lower, he could, like, see my nipples, and -- ooh -- here comes that tingly feeling again. I've got to admit, though, I really liked the look on his face when he, like, first saw me. I -- it made him soo happy.
* * * * *
They, like, spiked this punch. Didn't do it too well, though; I can, like, taste the alcohol. No big deal, though, ya know; I mean, I started drinking when I was a boy younger than I am... than Annie is.
* * * * *
I'm, like, sorry I made you bring me home so early, Grogg, but I feel soo dizzy, ya know. Now where... where's that key -- oh, here it is. Okay, I got the door. I'll, like, see you -- a goodnight kiss? Sure, I'm never too... I... ooh, Grogg!
* * * * *
I guess the alcohol hit me, like, all at once when Grogg kissed me. I got real tingly and felt, ya know, weak in the knees. Good thing Grogg was holding me so tight. He picked me up in his arms and, like, carried me inside.
I put my arms around his neck and rested my head on his chest. I felt so safe and so happy and just, like, warm all over. It felt so good; I was just chuckling away like crazy. I hated it when he put me down on the couch -- until he, like, sat down next to me and started kissing me again.
Now he's... he's reached behind me, and he's, like, unbuttoning my dress... Oh! There went the bra strap. He's... my breast... mmmm. Should I stop... he... he did win the game for us, and he's been -- ooh! -- like, soo sweet.
And it feels soo good.
* * * * *
Hey! Who turned on -- Mom... Lisa, what are you, like, doing here? Why aren't you in -- who... who do you think I am? I'm... uhh... that's, like, a little complicated.
* * * * *
Whew, thanks for sending Grogg into the kitchen. I don't, like, want him to hear this. Hon, I'm -- yeah, I said "Hon." I know I don't, like, look it, but I'm... Jack. Yeah, Jack, you know, your husband.
No shit, I can, like, prove it. Your birthday? May 12; you were born in... ahh, what's the next question? Okay, we met when I tried to pick you up while we were in line to see... RETURN OF THE JEDI. We... uhh... can I, like, put something on? It is soo cold in here.
Thanks, that's better. We... ummm... made it for the first time in the back of my old van. We went out to the lake to watch fireworks, and we, like, decided to make some of our own fireworks, ya know.
* * * * *
Wouldn't you know it'd be, like, my fault. I never called her the whole time she was away. Lisa left Annie with Rose and flew back 'cause she was, like, worried something had happened. Come to think of it, something sure had.
Anyway, Grogg's, like, on his way home. She told him I... Daddy... Jack would talk to him in the morning. Yeah, I'll, like, be my old self, and he'll... I'll talk to him then. Poor Grogg, it is going to hurt him soo much when I tell him we... I mean, Annie and him can't see each other anymore.
* * * * *
No, Lisa, honest; this necklace is, like, magic. Now that I've got it on, you just hand me that shirt of mine, and I'll be, like, me... your husband, me, again in just a half hour.
* * * * *
What the hell is the matter with this thing? I, like, change half way back, then it stops, and, in a few minutes, I'm Annie again. At least, Lisa saw me change, so she, like, believes me. She knows it's magic.
* * * * *
Yes, Hon, I know; I'm, like, still Annie. It must be her time of month, ya know. The Medallion won't work on a woman when she's, like, having her period.
Lisa, please, tell... tell me you're joking. Annie's period was, like, two weeks ago. Are you sure; really sure? She... she borrowed one of your pads. Then... oh, like, oh, my Gawd!
The Walgreen's at the downtown mall, the 24-hour one -- yeah, I am, like, plenty scared -- go... go over there, like, right now, and get... get one of those home... pregnancy... tests.
* * * * *
Annie, please, please stop crying. We've, like, been all over this a hundred times. You can't all of a sudden be twins, ya know, and somebody has to be me, the real me, your father, Jack. He... I can't disappear for, like, nine months.
* * * * *
Annie... Daddy says he's still mad at Grogg for what happened, but I heard him and Mom, like, really going at it the other night. That's one good way to help him get used to being me. Mmmm, the thought of it makes my nipples all tingly. I wonder how Grogg is doing. Six months since that night, and I'm, like, still not allowed to be alone with him. It, like, really bums me out.
* * * * *
I finally got the baby quiet. He was, like, real hungry. Breast feeding is, like, soo weird, but it feels soo good when he nurses.
I was, like, so afraid after "Little Jack" was born. I love being his mother, and I don't ever, like, want to change back. Be a man again... gross!
No chance of that, though, Annie -- damn, I keep, like, forgetting to call him Daddy --likes being who he is now. I can hear him and Lisa almost every night. If they aren't careful, I'm gonna, like, have a new little brother or sister.
It'll probably happen before the wedding. Yeah, I said "wedding." Grogg proposed the first time we got to see each other. The week after he graduates, I'm gonna, like, be Mrs. Grogg... Greg Reiner. Then, in the fall, we both go off to State College on scholarships.
Everything would be soo cool if only An... Daddy didn't dislike Grogg so much.
Habeas Corpus
by Ellie Dauber(c) 2002
Hugh Feldman breezed into his outer office at Baumgarton and Whyte, Attorneys at Law. At 27, Hugh was the youngest of the associates, but he also had the second largest number of billable hours. His success was as much due to his good looks and his man's man charm as to his knowledge of the law.
Alice, his secretary wasn't at her desk. 'Getting coffee, fixing her hair, or something,' he thought. He put down his briefcase and turned to take off his mohair overcoat. As it hung it up on one of the wooden hangers, he heard a noise behind him. "Alice, I need the file on Serranko and --"
"She isn't here," a very feminine voice said. "In fact, she's working for someone else now."
High turned. The voice belonged to a short, slightly chunky woman in her late thirties or early forties. She pushed her horn-rimmed glasses back onto her nose, then extended her hand. "How do you do, Mr. Feldman. I'm Sylvia Jackson, your new secretary."
"Hi, Sylvia."
Hugh shook her hand as he looked her over, mousy brown hair done up in a bun; her face wasn't bad, but she needed to lose those glasses and get some make-up. It was hard to judge her figure in the bulky sweater and skirt she was wearing, but she had a pretty good rack. Lose 10, maybe 20 pounds, and she might have some potential. No wedding ring -- big surprise -- just be careful.
"May I ask a few ques --"
"Later, if you don't mind. Right now, I need the Serranko file. You'll find it in 'Pending' over there." He pointed to a set of vertical files along one wall. "Be a good little girl and bring it in -- Chop! Chop! -- oh, and coffee, black two Sweet-n-Low." Without another word, he turned and went into his private office.
Sylvia was in a few minutes later with the file and his coffee. "Mr. Feldman, there was a tag on the file referencing Bayside Realty, so I brought in that file as well." She put a stack of material onto his desk.
"I asked for the Serranko file," he said. "If I had wanted another file, I'd have --" He paused. He did need the Bayside file. Well, he certainly wasn't about to apologize to a secretary. "Never mind, just go. Leave it here, and you can refile it later with the other material."
She nodded, "Yes, sir." and left. He watched her walk to the door. Even with that extra weight, her ass wasn't too bad either.
Once he heard the door click shut behind her, Hugh dialed Joe McGregor, the personnel manager and a sometimes poker buddy. "Joe, this is Hugh Feldman. What's the story with my secretary?"
"Alice, umm, asked for a transfer," Joe said. "She said that she was tired of commuting, so she's over in our Elkins Glen office. It's a good half an hour or more closer to where she lives."
"It's in a damned mall. Didn't she mind the pay cut?"
"She, ahh, said it was worth it to, ah, to get the experience. She's the assistant office manager over there."
"I didn't think she was qualified -- ah, the hell with it. If she wants to give up being my secretary, it's her loss. But her replacement..." He let the words trail off.
"What are you talking about? Sylvia's probably the best secretary in the firm. The only reason you got her is because Frank Harrison left to take that job in the D.C. office. Even Katherine Whyte asked about her."
"Then let Katherine have her. She's... she looks --"
"Will you try thinking with your brain for once? Sylvia's a great secretary. She can help you get that partnership you keep dreaming about."
"I suppose I could give her a try." He did want to be partner. There was enough money in it to keep him in pussy for a long, long time. "Besides, I've always liked Rubens."
McGregor groaned. "Hugh, two bits of advice that you probably won't take: give the woman a chance and behave yourself. I shouldn't be saying this, but Sylvia wasn't the only one Katherine was asking about. She's watching you, my friend."
"I knew it," Hugh said. "Katherine wants me, too." He chuckled and ended the call.
* * * * *
Hugh spent the rest of the morning going over the Serranko file, making notes on his PC, checking some references in Shepard's on-line. About 12:40, there was a buzz on his phone.
"Mr. Feldman, this is Sylvia. I'm going for lunch now. Do you want me to order anything for you?"
"I want you to stay here, Sylvia. I may have some work for you to do."
"May? Mr. Feldman, I'm having lunch with my niece, Ginny. I don't want to get off on a bad start, but she and I set that up a week ago. She'll be meeting me at 'The Brick Oven' in five minutes." The "Oven" was an upscale restaurant in the lobby of the building.
"Call down and have her come up here," Hugh said. "You can order out from there and eat at your desk. Oh, and when you do, add a Cali-burger and sweet potato fries, a large coke, and a slice of their apple pie for me. I'll pay you for it later."
"But, Mr. Feldman."
"Have to get back to work. Bring in the food when it comes." He cut off the line before she could respond.
About 15 minutes later, there was a knock on his door. "Come in," Hugh called.
"Lunch, Mr. Feldman." A blonde came in carrying a box lunch and soda from "The Brick Oven." She was pretty, damned pretty. She was, at most, 25, with shiny, straight hair that hung down to her shoulders. Her navy suit was dignified and appropriate, but it more than a little suggested the lush figure within. The skirt stopped just above the knee, revealing a pair of legs that right were out of ZZ-Top. "Aunt Sylvia said that your share was $14.80. That includes an 18 percent tip."
"I told her that I'd settle with her later." He stood and watched her walk to the desk. Not bad, 38-C, maybe even -D. "You must be Ginny. What brings you into town today?"
"I'm doing a little job hunting." She put the food down on one of the few cleared spots on his desk.
"I'd be happy to talk to Joe McGregor in personnel. We can always use another pretty secretary. Who knows, you could even wind up working under me." He leered, just to make sure that she caught the sexual suggestion in his words.
Ginny stiffened. "Mr. Feldman, I have a masters in marketing from Columbia. I was interviewing this morning with the Wexlar Group for a job as senior analyst."
"Really? I'd never --"
"Why? Because I'm a pretty young blonde."
"Well, umm, yes. It's an honest enough mistake."
"Not in this day and age. If I could, I'd slap your ass with a sexual harassment suit."
"As a lawyer, I can tell you that you've no real grounds for a suit. However, I'd be happy to let you slap my ass -- if I can reciprocate, of course."
"Good day, Mr. Feldman, and be very glad that you're not wearing your lunch right now." She turned and hurried out. Hugh sat and watched her ass swaying as she left.
* * * * *
Sylvia buzzed him about 3:30. "Mr. Feldman, Ms. Whyte wants to see you."
Hugh looked up from the mass of papers on his desk. "Did she say what case it was about?"
"No, sir. She said it was a personal matter and that it would only take about five minutes."
"Tell her I'll be right there." He clicked off the machine. "Yes!" he said, making a fist and cocking his elbow back in triumph. "It's the partnership. It's gotta be."
Hugh straightened his tie, checked his hair, and headed directly for the office of Katherine Whyte, the managing partner.
Susan, Katherine's assistant was at the desk by the door. She was a juicy little redhead Hugh had dated -- and bedded -- a few months before. She smiled when she saw Hugh and motioned for him to go right in.
Katherine's office was twice the size of Hugh's, tastefully furnished with a small conference table and several comfortable chairs in one corner. Her desk was cherry wood with an inset PC console. The walls were mostly bookcases with both state and federal statutes and case law, but here and there, a painting hung on the wall. There were plants trailing along the length of her windowsill and a small, but well-stocked mini-bar in another corner.
"You wanted to see me?" Hugh closed the door behind him and gave Katherine his best smile.
"Yes, I did." She opened a drawer and took out an inch-thick manila file. "I've been going over your record here with the firm.
"And..." He knew what was coming next. Bingo! Hugh Feldman, partner, it had such a nice ring.
"You're an excellent litigator, Hugh, one of the best I've ever seen. You're a good rainmaker, too, with the highest billable hours of any of the associates."
"Thank you, Katherine. I like hard work."
"What I can't understand is how you can do all that good work and still find the time to be such an asshole."
"What! What are you talking about, Katherine?"
Katherine stood at her desk, still holding the file. She was a handsome woman of about fifty with a still trim figure. She wore a dark gray woman's business suit and a white satin blouse. Her hair, an even mix of gray and blonde, was done in a French braid.
"I mean that this folder holds written complaints from half the women in this office, lawyers, para-legals, and secretaries. I've even gotten comments from a few of the clients. In fact, we've made it a point not to give you any female clients for the last couple months."
"That's... that's ridiculous."
"Why do you think Alice Kerns transferred over to the Elkins Glen office? She had enough of your leering and your propositions. We even made her the assistant office manager over there just to get her to drop the suit she wanted to file."
"Aren't you exaggerating just a little, Katherine? I admit that I'm a bit forward with women, but they never seemed to mind it."
"Maybe -- or maybe you were just too caught up in your own ego to notice how they really felt."
"Even if it's true, why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I've decided that I'm getting very tired of it. You've brought a lot of money to this firm, but I'm not sure that it's worth -- that you're worth the aggravation anymore."
"So this whole thing is your way of telling me that I've got to work harder, bring in more money to the firm. Is that it?"
"My Lord, you're even worse than I thought. No, Hugh, this is my way of telling you that you're not to harass another woman."
"And if I don't -- assuming that I am in the first place, of course."
"Spoken like the litigator you are. If you don't, well, you may not be very happy with the results."
"You'll fire me then?" Hugh didn’t like the idea, but he could probably take about a third of his clients with him, if he left. That would be more than enough to set up his own firm.
"No, actually, I had something much different in mind. Why, you might not even be able to practice law for a while."
"Jail, disbarment? Come on, Katherine, we both know that you can't do either of those because I might... might have harassed some women."
"I know that, Hugh. As I said, I have something else in mind." She took a breath and put the folder down on her desk. "Look, Hugh, you're a fine lawyer and a real asset to this firm. Please, try and behave."
"All right, Katherine, since you asked so nicely. I'll try." He looked at his watch. "If there's nothing else you want to talk about, I do have some work on my desk. The Serranko case..."
"Oh, yes. How's it coming?"
"We have a hearing coming up in a couple of days. I think we've got this one beat. Do you want any of the details?"
"Not right now; I'll leave you to it."
"Okay, then." He started for the door.
"And, Hugh, again, please try and keep what I just said in mind."
"I will. I will." He closed the door behind him. "Like hell, I will."
* * * * *
Sylvia looked up as he walked past her desk. "Mr. Feldman, I'm sure you forgot, but you still owe me for your lunch. It was 14 --"
"Will you stop bothering me? Take it out of petty cash if it's so important. I've got work to do."
"Petty cash? But that would be stealing."
"If you want the money so badly, then that's what you'll have to do for it. Otherwise, you can wait. I said that I'd pay you eventually. It's only a few dollars. Go without lunch or something. You could stand to lose a little weight." He was through the door and in his office before she could answer.
"Mr. Feldman, that's not fair."
"I'll tell you what, you get that pretty niece of yours to agree to go out on a date with me, and I'll pay you back double whatever it is I owe you."
Sylvia gritted her teeth. "You'll have to excuse me, sir. I like to think of myself as a lady, and I won't be one, if I give your offer the sort of response it deserves." She stood up and started for the door.
"Just a minute. You can't --"
"Mr. Feldman, if I don't, you'll be singing soprano." She looked straight ahead and walked right past him and out of the office.
Hugh stared at the closed door. "Some women just can't take a joke." He shrugged and went into his own office to finish preparing for the hearing.
* * * * *
"A messenger just dropped this off, Mr. Feldman," Sylvia said. She tossed a packet on his desk.
Hugh opened it and began to read. "Damn! They transferred it."
"What do you mean, sir?" Sylvia asked.
"My case, the Serranko case. I was supposed to be heard by Judge Rictman; Tom Rictman's an old friend of mine. The problem is, he's too good a friend. He felt that he had to recuse himself, and the case was transferred to Judge Hopkins."
"I know her," Sylvia said. "I hear that she's a fine judge."
"'Hippo' Hopkins hates me," Hugh replied. "She's not too fond of men in general, but she particularly has it in for me."
"Perhaps if you hadn't given her that nickname," Katherine said, walking into his office. "Lucille's always been sensitive about her weight."
"Then she should do something about it," Hugh said, "instead of over-reacting to a little good-natured ribbing."
"Good natured?" Katherine said. "The first time you used that name was when you were interviewed about Watlin v. Hayes, right after the jury found against you. That's hardly good-natured."
"Okay, I admit it," Hugh said. "I was mad." He paused a beat. "But a woman has no business letting herself get like that."
"What business is it of yours what she looks like?" Katherine was getting mad.
"I... I had to look at her sitting there like a lady Buddha every day of the case. I had to watch her three chins move every time she ruled on a motion." Hugh gestured to show the judge's size.
Katherine looked at pointedly. "You know, I've never heard you object to appearing before an overweight male judge. Phil Carmody must weigh close to 400 pounds, and the two of you get along famously."
"That's different," Hugh said. "Phil's a guy."
"That's just what I thought," Katherine said. "We won’t go into this any further, at present, but I want to see you in my office at 6."
"What?" Hugh said. "I've got a plans for this evening."
"Make your apologies to whomever it was, because your plans are changed. I expect you to be at my office at 6 – prompt." She turned and stormed out the door.
Hugh scratched his head. "Women, like I always said, they have absolutely no sense of humor."
* * * * *
The offices were empty as Hugh walked down the hall. Katherine had sent out a firm-wide e-mail asking everyone to go home early. The rumor mill had quickly spread the word. As much as some people would have liked to stay and watch whatever was going to happen to Hugh, Katherine was the boss. Just about everyone had left.
Hugh looked at his watch as he knocked on the door; 5:55. 'Better to be a few minutes early than on-time,' Hugh thought. 'Early could mean that you felt you had some power in the situation; on-time -- or, worse, late, -- meant that you felt trapped.'
"Come in, Hugh," Katherine said. There was a click as the door unlocked and slid open. Hugh walked and looked around. Katherine was sitting in one of the chairs in the corner of her office. A woman, an attractive brunette Hugh had never before, was in the chair next to her.
"Hello, Hugh," the brunette said. "Katherine's told me a great deal about you." Hugh judged her to be in her 20s. She wore a well-cut brown woman's suit over a crisp white blouse with a gold-colored scarf around her neck. The outfit hinted at a very nice body underneath.
"Nothing too drastic, I hope." Hugh smiled his best smile. The evening had possibilities after all.
"Amazing," the woman said. "He comes in here knowing how much trouble he's in, and he still hits on me. You were right, Katherine. He needs very serious adjustment."
"I told you so," Katherine said. "I'll take the responsibility. With a little luck, I'll have my litigator back in... what... five or six years?"
"More like ten, I should think." The woman seemed to be studying Hugh like some sort of animal in exhibit.
"Excuse me," he said. "Would it be too much to ask what you're talking about?"
"Actually, you have every right to know," Katherine said. "This is Delphine, a friend of mine. I asked her here to take care of you."
"Excuse me?" Hugh asked.
Katherine stood up and walked over to him. "Hugh, your attitude towards woman is terrible. I talked to you about it more than once, but you don't seem to listen. It's ruining the quality of your work and creating a great deal of trouble for me and for the firm."
"And what are you, Katherine," Hugh said sarcastically, "my boss or my mother?"
"At present, I'm your boss, but that's about to change." Before Hugh could stop her, Katherine slipped a silver chain with a small, heart-shaped locket over his head. As it hung down around his neck, High felt his body begin to tingle.
Katherine stepped back. "Hugh, you are in serious need of what they used to call a 're-education', and you'll never get that as a full-grown man."
"What the hell..." Hugh tried to lift his arms so he could take off the locket, but he found that he suddenly couldn't move. He couldn't even speak.
The brunette rose to her feet. "What you're feeling, Mr. Feldman, is the magic beginning to work on your body, rejuvenating it. In a few moments, you'll be young again, fifteen or sixteen at most. Then the real changes start."
'No way,' Hugh thought. But the room did seem to be getting bigger. His clothes felt looser. He'd been taller than Katherine, but now he found himself looking up at her face.
As the women watched, Hugh shrank down, losing almost half a foot in height, as he went from 6'2" to 5'9". His rugged face softened, his jaw rounding as he became younger. He was thinner, too, though his body still gave the sense of an athlete. His carefully razor-cut hair was now a mass of curls.
His clothes stayed the same size at first, so that the new teen looked like he was wearing a tent. Then the magic affected them. They shrank, changing as they did. High's power suit changed into a pair of dark blue Levis and a sweater in the green-and-gold of a nearby high school. His tie disappeared completely. The buttons fell from his shirt, which gradually darkened as the material itself changed. The sleeves slid back along his arm. A "Transformers" iron-on emblem appeared on what was now a blue cotton T-shirt. His polished oxfords softened and altered, to become a pair of black-and-white cross-trainers.
The tingling feeling stopped, and Hugh discovered that he could move somewhat. He looked down at his new body. "Bitchin'," he said in a somewhat higher voice. "No responsibilities and all those sleek high school babes."
"You like high school girls now, Hugh?" Katherine asked. "I would have thought you'd consider them jailbait."
"Hey, Katherine, I still remember what statutory rape means. But it ain't -- excuse me -- it isn't the same if the stud is a kid, too." He looked over at the brunette. "If this is your idea of punishment, sweetcheeks, then punish me some more."
"Exactly what I had in mind," the woman said. "Resume."
The tingling feeling came back as strong as ever, and Hugh's body was paralyzed once more. He seemed to shrink again, but only a few inches this time. 'Shit,' he thought. 'I'm probably going to be too young to be interested in girls for a while."
Hugh felt the clothes loosen. His body seemed to be growing thinner as well as smaller. But now there were other sensations. His scalp began to itch. He felt his hair getting longer, sliding down over his ears, tickling the back of his neck. It didn't seem to stop until he could feel the hair reaching the small of his back. His face twitched as if the flesh was moving.
His waist hurt. It felt as if it was being pulled tight. His hips felt odd, as well. His chest felt odd, as his shirt seemed to be moving against it. Something, something was pushing the shirt outward. He felt an erection.
'Last hard-on before I go back through puberty,' he thought.
Then the feelings changed. His penis seemed to be melting away. The sensation disappeared after a short time to be replaced by the feeling that something was moving around inside his belly.
The two women watched his face soften even more. Hugh's eyes seemed to grow bigger. They were hazel now, instead of the brown that they had always been. His shaggy eyebrows thinned and were shaped. His nose shrank and his lips seemed to grow fuller. Katherine noticed how much his new features made him look like a young cousin of hers. He was suddenly wearing a pale pink lipstick and a light blusher on his cheeks.
It was hard to see in Hugh's once again oversized clothes, but his body was much slimmer. The 145 pounds he had weighed as a teenaged boy reduced to a mere 114 pounds. His waist was narrowing as his hips grew wider. Breasts slowly formed on his chest, growing out to a 32-A. His hands grew slimmer, his fingers longer. His nails grew out, a coat of pale pink nail polish forming on them.
Although they couldn't see it, the women knew what was happening at his groin. Hugh's penis stiffened, then it shrank down to less than a half-inch in length. His testicles retreated up into his body to transform into ovaries. As they did, the empty sack shrank down to a pair of nether lips that surrounded his new clitoris as it sank down into the opening that was appearing. In the space of a few moments, Hugh now had a fully functional female set of genitalia, all of it hidden behind a triangular patch of soft, chestnut-colored curls.
As before, the magic now worked on Hugh's clothing. The T-shirt changed from dark green to pink, as a pair of battling robots became an image of Brittany Spears. A lacy bra formed underneath to cup and support the new breasts. The jeans slid up Hugh's legs, joining together as they did to become a skirt that stopped a couple inches above the knee. His sweater altered to a feminine cut, and his cross-trainers were now black-and-pink.
"Now what do you think?" the brunette asked.
The tingling stopped and movement returned. Hugh looked down at his hands, wriggled his long, slender fingers. The fingers moved, gently cupped his new breasts. Then one hand moved down further. It pushed it at the front of his skirt, then pulled away. There was nothing there -- at least, nothing of what had been there.
"It's... it's so... different," Hugh said.
Hugh? No, that was somebody else. Someone she had been, but someone that she wasn't -- that she didn't want to be any more. She blushed, embarrassed at the memory of the man she had been. She was... Sue, now. The name came in a flash. It felt right, and she smiled as she repeated it to herself.
"Ready to start your new life, then?" the woman -- "Aunt" Delphine -- asked.
Sue walked over to Katherine Whyte, whom she now thought of in a very different way and shyly took her hand. "Yes. Can we go home now, Momma?"
The End
For those lacking in Latin, the legal term "habeas corpus" literally means "you have the body."
A tale for the season. I know the contest cited was long-closed, but, to quote Doc Brown at the end of BACK TO THE FUTURE I, "I figured, what the hell."
Hallow-Weenie
By Ellie Dauber
From the time he was a boy, Edwin Hyde had to put up with Jekyll and Hyde jokes.
It only got worse when he entered college, a pre-med/chemistry major. Hard as the teasing had been, his medical degree, specializing in endocrinology, more than made up for it.
So did the job with Cyto-Tech, Inc. as a researcher. Edwin was good at what he did. Grant money came in, and he soon had charge of his own lab, with over thirty others working under him on various projects.
No one teased Edwin now. Everyone just assumed that he hated the Stevenson book.
He didn't. He'd been inspired by it since he'd first read it at age 15. He even had treated himself to a first edition about a year ago, when he got a large bonus after the FDA approved one of the drugs his lab had developed.
Now, in a small side lab that was supposedly reserved for a soon to be arriving grad student/intern, he was ready. A yellowish liquid bubbled slowly over a Bunsen burner. He watched. The final reaction was endothermic. The liquid cooled when it turned an odd orange color. Edwin used a pair of lab tongs anyway to set the flask down on a trivet.
He checked the liquid, 41.3 Celcius temperature, just a bit warmer than a human body and almost exactly what his calculations predicted. He noted time, temperature, and color in the notebook resting at the end of the table. Then he took a deep breath and added an afterthought.
"The most foolish thing a researcher can do is to self-administer an untested drug. If I had hidden some mice or a guinea pig in my personal research budget, I wouldn't have to. Since I didn't, it's bottom's up, m'lad. I'm taking 20 cc of the stuff. At my body weight, that should be more than sufficient. Let me add that this is my own mania. Cyto-Tech, Inc. knows nothing about this work. I hold them totally blameless for whatever may happen to me."
He signed the page and put the still open book under a protective pyrex shield. "Just in case," he whispered, hardly able to contain himself.
Edwin took off his lab coat and folded it over a chair. Then he poured the 20 cc into a second flask. "Like I said, bottom's up." He grabbed the flask and drank the liquid in one very quick gulp.
"G'yahch! That tastes absolutely awful." He desperately wanted to drink something -- anything -- to kill the taste, but anything he drank might affect what was going to happen.
He sat down to wait.
He didn't have to wait long.
Edwin felt a sharp pain, like a knife, in his stomach. He almost doubled over as the pain shot out to all parts of his body. He hugged himself to try to make the pain go away. It didn't, but when he looked down, he saw that his arms were shrinking, becoming thinner and shorter as they seemed to be absorbed into his body.
He looked down further. His legs were doing the same thing. His pants legs dangled empty below the knees. He leaned back, afraid that he might fall onto the floor. He felt his back sliding against the chair, as his trunk became shorter and more compact. It was changing color, as well.
By now, Edwin's limbs were gone. What was left of his body, now a hard, rather round shape, kept his pants from slipping to the floor. His shirt looked like it had been draped over him.
The sensations moved up to his head now. He felt it becoming smaller as it sank down into the cavity that was forming in his body. In a matter of moments, it was a small cylindrical shape at the bottom of a large orange-yellow dome.
Holes were forming somehow in the sphere that had been his body, two triangles with a long arc beneath them. He could see the white of his shirt showing through the holes.
As his hair disappeared and the outer layer of his skin turned to wax, he grasped the terrible truth.
He, Edwin Hyde, had become a Jekyll-lantern.
Copyright 2000
Remember the episode of HAPPY DAYS where Fonzie battled Mork from Ork? In this version, the Fonz still wins, but he doesn't get off as easily as he expected to.
"Okay, what's the next round?" the Fonz asked the strange man in what looked like a silver foil jump suit. Fonzie, Arthur Fonzarelli, was a tall, rugged eighteen year old dressed, as always, in jeans, a white T-shirt, and his precious leather jacket. His face, as always looked confident, a smile on his lips and every hair "Perfect!"
Mork from Ork smiled. It had been a long time since he had been so strongly challenged. Who would have thought that such a backward little world would be the home of such a powerful hollitacker opponent? He raised his finger. "We destroy this building and all the beings within."
"No!" Fonzie yelled.
They were all in Arnold's Drive-In, his favorite hangout and the local gathering spot for teens from Jefferson High. The place had been full when Richie and Mork had walked in looking for him. Some of the kids were still probably in here someplace, hiding maybe, scared or hurt or both. But even if there was no one else in the building now, he couldn't destroy it. He couldn't do that to Al Delvecchio. Al was a friend as well as the owner of Arnold's.
"I won't do it. You wi...wi...you wi...." He could hardly get the word out.
Richie Cunningham was standing next to the Fonz. The tall, slim redheaded seventeen-year old said boy something he had never expected to say to anyone who fought Fonzie. "You win."
"Do you mean this?" Mork was suspicious.
"What he said." The Fonz hung his head. Defeat was something that happened to other people, not to him.
"Then we are done?" Mork smiled now. The contest was in its final phase.
"Yeah, sure." There was no way out. Fonzie had agreed to the rules at the start. He would go back to Ork - wherever that was -- with this Mork guy.
"Very well," Mork said. "I initiate the space warp." Richie jumped back just in time as blue glow from Mork's finger engulfed the other two.
"Nnnooowww, wwweee gggooo." Mork was moving in slow motion, his voice sounding like a 78 record played at 45.
Fonzie turned just as slowly and started after him, his thumb raised in a sort of victory salute. "Aaaaaaaayyyyyyyy!"
Then, suddenly, Fonzie stopped. He slowly closed his eyes for a moment; then he formed his hands into fists. At normal speed. "I ain't going."
"Fonzie," Richie said in amazement. "You broke free."
"No being has ever broken the time warp." Mork seemed equally amazed. "Your victory is even more complete."
"You mean he won."
"Indeed. A hollitacker tests the heart of the warrior as well as the physical skill. Your champion was willing to sacrifice himself to keep other beings from harm."
"Then why did you say he lost?"
"Yeah, and why were you taking me away?"
"It was part of the test. Would the champion change its mind at the prospect of exile from its own world for a full bleem? That's a thousand of your years, you will remember."
"I knew that."
"You were willing to go. Indeed, you raised your lorznap in victory salute as we left." Mork paused. "Then you broke free. You are indeed a champion."
"Ay...I'm the Fonz!"
"Then you'll leave us -- leave the Earth in peace," Richie still wasn't sure about this weird guy.
"Yes, but so powerful a champion cannot be allowed to exist outside of Ork." He suddenly raised his finger and fired what looked like a ball of red energy at Fonzie. The ball hit and surrounded the Fonz for a moment. Then it seemed to shrink down into his body. Fonzie staggered and fell to the ground.
"You killed him." Richie lunged towards Mork who teleported to a booth about ten feet away.
"No, I merely neutralized it. It will live." Mork pointed at Fonzie. "See, even now, it moves."
Richie looked. Fonzie was rolling over as if he wanted to stand up. He seemed very weak.
"I leave you Earth beings to each other." Mork glowed for an instant, then disappeared.
Richie ran over to the Fonz. "Fonzie, are you all right?"
"Is he gone?" Fonzie was on his hands and knees now.
"Yeah, Fonz, I think he is."
Fonzie grabbed onto a table and tried to stand. He didn't seem to have the energy to pull himself up. "Then get me out of here before anybody sees me like this."
Richie looked around. Al's was empty. The others who had been in the place when he and Mork arrived, Ralph, Chachi, Potzie, even Al himself, had fled. Richie helped the Fonz to his feet. He was still very unsteady. Richie had the Fonz put an arm over his shoulder and lean against him. He helped Fonzie into his car, the only one still in Al's lot, and drove home.
Fonzie's apartment was over the garage next to Richie's house. The street was dark, and the car hid them as he helped Fonzie out of the passenger seat. They took the steps one at a time, stopping several times so one or the other could rest. Richie was fairly strong, but Fonzie was almost dead weight. His body felt hot as well, as if he had a fever.
When they got to the door, Fonzie pulled his key out of his leather jacket pocket. Richie helped Fonzie off with his jacket once they were inside. Fonzie was pale, and his T-shirt was soaked with sweat. Richie opened up the sofa bed and laid Fonzie on it. He pulled off his friend's boots and set them on the floor near the bed.
"Are you going to be okay, Fonz? Do you want me to stay here a while, or call a doctor or anything?"
"I'm fine, Cunningham. You go to bed. I'll be all right in the morning."
"You sure you don't want a doctor?"
"A doctor? Yeah. I just tell him I won a hollitacker, and this little silver guy hit me with a fireball he shot from his finger. You want some doctor to think I'm nuts?"
"But...."
"Go to bed, Cunningha...Richie. I'll be fine." He wasn't sure that he believed what he was saying, but he was the Fonz. It had to be true. Besides, the last thing he needed was for the word to get out that the Fonz was sick. There were people that would be only too happy to hear that he was too weak to defend himself.
Richie wasn't sure that what Fonzie said was true, but he knew better than to argue with him. "Okay, Fonz. I'll see you in the morning." He walked to the door, then turned back to look at his friend. "And, Fonzie...thanks."
"Will you go already and let me get some sleep?"
* * * * *
Marian Cunningham had a worried look on her face as she came back into the kitchen. She was holding a tray in her hands. "Richie, are sure that Arthur just has a bad cold?"
Richie looked up from his lunch. "Yeah, Mom, why?"
"I was just upstairs to take him some chicken soup. He said that he was feeling all right, but his voice was so weak. It looks like he's lost a lot of weight, too. He seemed so skinny."
Marian was a still attractive woman in her mid forties, her once fiery red hair tinged with a bit of gray. She still maintained the figure that she'd had at twenty-five to the delight and pride of her husband, Howard.
"Did he eat the soup?"
"I don't know. He asked me to leave it on the table, but he wouldn't get out of bed until I left."
"Maybe he wasn't dressed, and he didn't want you to see him in his underwear."
Marian smiled. She thought of Fonzie as another son, and she suspected that he felt the same about her. "Yes, that must be it. Arthur was embarrassed." She put the tray on the counter and nervously began to fix her own lunch.
Something deep inside her whispered that something was very, very wrong. Why did he look so thin, and his hair...usually every hair was in place - looking perfect. It had been a mass of tangles when she was upstairs, and it looked as if it had gotten much longer. Arthur must be very sick - or worse -- to neglect his hair like that.
* * * * *
That night when Marian took Fonzie his supper, the door was locked.
"Arthur, are you there? I brought you some supper." She bent down and looked through the curtains that she had hung on the door a few months before. "Is there..." She thought that she saw a movement inside but the lights were out, and the shades on the windows drawn.
"Mrs. C?" the voice from inside was faint, hardly more than a whisper.
"Arthur, is that you? Are you all right?"
"I got a real bad headache. The, um, light hurts my eyes."
"You poor dear, can I get you anything?"
"No! Um, no, I -- I'll be fine. Please, just leave the food. I'll get it in a minute."
"You're sure that you're all right?" She was beginning to worry. She had never heard of anyone being sick like this.
"I'm handling it. Thank you." Was that desperation in his voice? "Please, Mrs. C., just leave the food and go."
"Very well, but please, Arthur, call us if you need anything." Marian's maternal instinct told her that Fonzie was in serious trouble, but he had asked, pleaded almost, for privacy, and she decided to honor his request. Reluctantly, she set down the tray of food and walked down the steps.
Marian could see Fonzie's door from her kitchen window. As soon as she was inside the house, she sat on her kitchen counter and began watching.
A few minutes later, the door opened. A head covered in a blanket looked out. It looked left and right, as if trying to see whether anyone was watching. Satisfied that it was alone, the blanketed figure bent over and picked up the tray. It retreated back into the apartment and quickly closed the door behind.
"Spying on somebody, Mom?"
Marian jumped off the counter. It was her daughter. "Joanie, you scared me."
At fourteen, Joanie Cunningham was blossoming into early womanhood. She seemed to have inherited her mother's figure, including her height, but she had her father's dark hair. "So what were you doing on the counter anyway?"
"I just left a tray for Arthur, and I was watching to make sure that he got it."
"Did he?"
"Somebody did, but the way he was covered with that blanket, I couldn't even tell if it was Arthur or not."
* * * * *
"Anybody seen the Fonz lately?" Ralph Malf called out as he walked into Arnold's later that same evening. Ralph was seventeen, a slightly stocky boy with red hair and a matching set of freckles. He wore his usual broad grin. "I got this great new joke to tell him."
"I think the alien got him," Potzie said, looking up from his burger. Potzie Weber was also seventeen, a quiet, good-looking boy with dark brown hair and a pleasant voice. His main problem was that he seldom thought before he used it.
Several of the kids turned in Potzie's direction. "What are you talking about, Potz?" Ralph asked.
"Don't you remember, Ralph? That weird guy Richie came in with the other night, the one you said was dressed like a TV-dinner."
A few kids came over to where Potzie was sitting, and they all began talking at once. "An alien," somebody said. "You mean like in that movie, THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL?"
"That was the one with that robot that killed all those people."
"And somebody like that came in to Arnold's. Why would they do that?"
"In the movie, he was looking for our leaders, you know, the President, Congress, and like that."
"Fonzie! They came for Fonzie." Every female in Arnold's began to cry.
"Wait a minute," Ralph called out. He tried to put his arm around Sally McGruder's waist, but she pulled away. "Potzie and I were there that night. I know something happened. I just don't remember what."
"Sure you do, Ralph," Potzie said. "That alien made our clothes disappear."
"Potzie!" Ralph looked embarrassed. "You are such a Potzie. I don't remember that, but I know that something happened. We ran out, but Richie Cunningham stayed. We've got to talk to him." He grabbed for Potzie's arm and pulled him out of the booth.
The two boys left, but the other teens stayed and talked, the story getting worse with each re-telling. In a few hours, half of Milwaukee had heard about the army of disintegrator robots that had kidnapped the Fonz.
* * * * *
A few of the kids drove over from Arnold's to the Cunningham's. The lights were out in Fonzie's garage apartment, but more than one girl in the crowd could testify that no lights didn't necessarily mean no Fonzie.
One or two of the crowd stayed through the night watching for any sign of life. Many others came by in the early morning. When Marian Cunningham opened the kitchen door to get the milk, she found almost twenty teens sitting in her backyard staring up at Fonzie's apartment.
"What are all of you children doing here?"
Potzie looked up from where he was sitting with Amy Ross. "Waiting for Fonzie to come out, Mrs. C."
Marian hesitated. Richie had told her that Fonzie didn't want anybody to know that he was sick. "I'm not sure that he's up there, dear."
"The robots got him," somebody said, and a few of the girls began to cry again.
"Robots? Good heavens, dear, what are you talking about?"
A girl began to sob. "Ro-robots...came to...Arnold's. They - they t-took him...away w-with them."
"Or dis - dis - dis...inte...grated him," another added.
Marian kneeled and took both girls into her arms. "There, there, dear. I'm sure nothing like that happened.
"We're going to check," Potzie said. "That's why we're here, Mrs. C., but we don't want to bother him too early, but if we don't see him by 9 o'clock, we're going up to check."
Marian glanced at her watch, then up at the apartment. It was 7:45. She didn't know what was going to happen, but it would happen in then next hour and a half. Not knowing what to do, she went back into the house.
Her husband, Howard, was waiting in the kitchen. Howard was a short, chunky man with dark hair that had started to go to gray. "Marian, why are all those kids in the back yard?"
"They're waiting to see if Arthur was carried off by robots. Do you want pancakes or eggs for breakfast, Howard?"
"Pancakes -- robots? Marian, what is going on out there?"
"They haven't seen Arthur for several days, and, somehow, they got the idea that some sort of robot took him away."
"Why didn't you just tell them that he's sick?"
"Because Richie said that Arthur didn't want anyone to know."
"So you let them believe that story about the robot? How can anybody believe something that crazy?"
"Well, he is the Fonz, Howard."
"I suppose so." He looked out the window. "Are they going to stay there all day just looking up at his apartment?"
"No, dear. At nine, they're going to up and knock on the door."
"Good! He'll answer. They'll be satisfied, and they'll go away."
Marian leaned over and flipped the pancakes she was cooking. "I hope so, dear. I really hope so."
At that moment the doorbell rang. "I'll get it, Mom," Richie called from the living room. A couple minutes later, he walked into the kitchen and handed an envelope to his father. "It's a telegram."
"I can see that, Richard." Howard used a kitchen knife as a letter opener. "It's from Fonzie. He's in Chicago."
"Chicago?" Richie said. "What's he doing there?"
"He doesn't say, just some sort of personal business. He says that he'll be there for a while, though. He doesn't know how long."
"I do hope he was up to a trip like that," Marian said. "He seemed so sick yesterday." Somehow, she had a feeling that there was something wrong about that telegram.
"Can I borrow it for a minute, Dad," Richie said. "I want to read it to the kids in the yard."
"That's a good idea, Richard." His father handed the boy the telegram. "Then, maybe they'll go away and leave us in peace."
Richie walked out into the yard. A moment later, the sounds of cheers could be heard in the kitchen. By the time Richie came back in for his breakfast, the yard was empty.
* * * * *
"Mom, Mom!" Joanie Cunningham ran into the kitchen.
Marian looked up from the pot roast she was preparing. "My goodness, what is it, dear?"
"There's somebody in Fonzie's apartment. I looked up as I came around the corner. I saw somebody standing in the window."
"Was it Arthur?"
"I couldn't tell. He was in shadows, and he backed away from the window as soon as he saw me." She glanced towards the kitchen door. "Do you think we should we call the police?"
"I don't think so, dear. Your father will be home in a half hour. You sit by the door and see if anyone comes out. If they do -- and it's not Arthur -- try to get a good look at him."
"Okay. Do you want Richie to watch, too?"
"He's not here, dear. He's at Arnold's. I'll call him to come home, but I'd just as soon wait for your father."
* * * * *
Howard and Richie arrive home within a few minutes of each other. Marian had called her husband, and he decided to close the hardware store early. "Anything new happen?" Howard asked as he came in through the kitchen door.
"No, dear. Joanie and I have both been watching."
"Yeah, Dad," Joanie added, "and there hasn't been a sign of anybody up there."
"Are you absolutely certain you saw someone?"
"I'm positive." Joanie thought of Fonzie as a sort of big brother. Nobody was going to mess with his place while she was around.
Howard got the spare apartment key from a drawer in his desk. "I suppose it won't hurt to check. C'mon, Richard."
"We're coming, too," Marian said firmly.
Howard knew that look in her eyes -- and in Joanie's. He might be able to talk them out of it, but it would take a very long time. "All right, but stay back behind Richard and me."
They went out back and climbed the stairs to the apartment. "Hello," he knocked. When his family looked at him, he explained that it might have been Fonzie that Joanie had seen.
There was no answer, so he used his key.
The apartment was dark with all the shades down. There was no sign of life, but Fonzie's leather jacket was hanging on the coat rack by the door.
'He'd never leave that behind,' Marian thought. Now she was really worried.
They carefully searched the apartment. No one seemed to be there. They were about to leave when they heard a noise from the kitchenette. Fonzie had installed some shelves under the sink. They opened the door slowly and saw a face staring back at them.
"Get out of there," Howard said.
A young woman in her late teens climbed out. She was small, no more that 5'4", with long, dark brown hair and classic Mediterranean features. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with the cuffs rolled up several times. She wore neither shoes nor socks.
Even in clothes that were far too big, Richie could see that she seemed to have a great figure. A piece of rope worked as a belt to hold the jeans up to her narrow waist, and a large pair of breasts pushed out the front of the sweatshirt. She reminded Richie of one of those Italian starlets, Sophia...what was her name, the one in the dolphin movie, where she'd worn a wet T-shirt. He wished he could see this girl in something like that.
"Who are you?" Howard said. He held her firmly by the wrist to keep her from running for the door.
"And what have you done with the Fonz?" Richie demanded, not quite realizing what he had said. Joanie did realize and giggled softly, then stopped hoping her parents hadn't noticed.
The girl looked at them with a strange mixture of surprise and fear. She stammered for a moment, then said nothing.
Marian's maternal instinct took over. "Can't you see that you're frightening this poor girl? Joanie, get her a glass of water. Howard, you let go of her." She walked over and took the girl's arm. "Now you sit down, dear, and tell us what's going on."
The girl sat down on the couch. Joanie came back with the water and handed it to her. The girl drank a bit then set the glass down on the nearby table. She took a deep breath, as if bracing for the question she knew was coming.
"All right, now, dear," Marian said. "Can you tell us who you are or where Arthur is?"
"Yeah," Richie said. "Where's the Fonz?"
"I'm right here, Cunningham," the girl said softly.
"Yeah, I know but where's the Fonz?"
"I am the Fonz."
"What!"
"This..." the girl held her hand in front of her at the neck and moved them down to her waist. It was a very "Fonz"-like gesture. "This is what that Mork character meant when he said he was gonna 'neutralize' me. He turned me into a chick."
"Gowon! How could he possibly do something like that?"
"How could he do half the stuff he did in that hollitacker thing?"
"Yeah, but you -- I mean, the Fonz matched him move for move."
"Hey! That's why I'm the Fonz."
"Okay," Richie said. "Prove that you're the Fonz. What were we doing two Saturday nights ago?"
"I was up at Lookout Point with Paula Petrolunga. You were there, too, with a blonde, Linda Alder, from your school." She leaned over and whispered something to Richie, whose face grew very red. "That's what you were doing. I can say it louder, but Shortcake will have to leave first."
"Why do I always have to leave the room when it starts to get interesting?" Joanie whined.
"That's okay, Joanie," Richie said. "Fonzie isn't going -- omigosh, you -- you are the Fonz!"
"That's what I've been telling you."
"You mean that story about the man from space was true," Howard said.
"Yeah, Dad. It was. I know it's crazy, but this is the Fonz."
"We believe you, dear," Marian said. "And we'll discuss what happened with you and Linda Alder later."
"Yes, we'll talk about that later, Richard," Howard said. "In the meantime, what are we going to do with Fonzie?"
"What do you mean, Mr. C?"
"How do we get hold of this Mork character to make him change you back?"
"Dad, we can't. Mork said he was going back into space, home to that planet Ork. He may not ever come back to this planet."
"But that would mean..." Joanie's eyes widened.
"Hey, whatever happens, I'm still the Fonz."
Marian took a breath. "Howard, Richard, there's some things that I think I want to talk to Arthur about...alone. Would you please go downstairs?"
"What can you have to say to Fonzie that Richie and I can't hear?"
"Things, Howard. Please leave it go at that."
Howard recognized her tone. Whatever it was, this was important to her. "All right, Marian. C'mon, Richard, let's go see about supper."
"But, Dad."
"Let's go, Richard." He put his arm over Richie's shoulder and gently pushed his son towards the door.
"Thank you, dear," Marian said after the males had left. "Joanie, would you please go get my sewing kit? I think it's in the living room near the couch. Oh, and bring my purse, too, please."
"You mean, I get to stay and listen while you talk to Fonzie?"
"We'll see, dear. Please get my things from the house."
Joanie jumped up and ran to the door. They could hear her running down the steps two at a time.
"Actually, my sewing kit is up in my bedroom," Marian said. "She should take a few minutes to find it."
"What did you want to say to me, Mrs. C., that you needed to be alone?"
"I want to know how far you're prepared to go with hiding what's happened to you, and to talk about what I think you need to do and how I can help."
Fonzie grinned. "You're a smart lady, Mrs. C."
"Yes, but don't tell Howard or Richard."
"I think that they already know."
"I think so, too," she smiled at the thought, "but back to business. Are you going to tell people what happened to you?"
"I don't think so. You may not believe it, Mrs. C., but there are people out there who don't like the Fonz."
"I can believe it. A man like you -- like you were -- can make a lot of enemies."
"All in a good cause, believe me. The thing is, they're afraid of the Fonz, but they ain't gonna be afraid of this." She ran her hand down in front of her new body again.
"So we don't tell them. You just go into hiding."
"I can't do that either. First, the Fonz don't run away from his problems. Second, I got a business to run. People are counting on me to fix their cars."
"Could you do that -- the way you are now, I mean?"
"Sure. There aren't a lot of girl mechanics, but there are some. Pinky Tuscadero did all the work on her own car, her bike, too. She had them motors purring for her."
"Then you could do it, too. We'd just have to explain who you were, give you some sort of a new identity."
"A secret identity, I like that. Me and Superman, whoa!"
"How about Audrey for a name. It sort of sounds like Arthur."
"To tell the truth, Mrs. C., you're about the only one who calls me 'Arthur'. Even Father Delvecchio calls me 'Fonzie'."
"All right then. Let's see. 'Fonzie'...'Fancy'...'Francie"! How does 'Francie' sound as a new name?"
"Francie. Francie Fonzarelli, I like it."
"We can say she -- you came in from out of town -- from Chicago to help out while you're there on some sort of family business. Isn't that where your telegram said you were?"
"Yeah. A buddy of mine in Chicago sent that for me."
"Oh, wait a minute. What about Chachi? He's your cousin. He'll know there's no Francie in your family."
"We tell him the truth then. He's a Fonzarelli. He won't tell."
"Very well, I'll call him...no, I'll have Joanie call him tomorrow."
"Why not tonight?"
"Because we have too much work to do, and I don't want any men around."
"I'm around."
"I hate to remind you, Francie, but right now, you're not exactly the man you used to be. In fact, as soon as Joanie gets back, I want to see just how much of a woman you are."
"What are you talking about, Mrs. C?"
"Relax, dear. I'm hardly going to give you a physical examination, but I do want to get your new measurements. We'll need them for clothes."
"Clothes. The Fonz does not wear chick's clothes."
"No, but his cousin, Francie, does. Tell the truth, dear. Don't you find those boy's clothes just a little uncomfortable?"
Fonzie -- Francie -- lowered her head. "Maybe...just a little."
"I thought so. Too tight in some places, and too loose in others." She saw Francie nodding in agreement, her face a bit red with embarrassment. "I'm not going to put you in dresses, dear, but you will need some jeans and blouses that fit you. Those won't be too different from what you're wearing now." She paused, almost dreading what she had to say next. "Underneath, though."
"What about underneath?"
"Well, you can hardly wear boxer shorts, now, and you do need some, umm, support up there on top." She cast a critical eye. Arthur -- 'No, get used to calling her Francie now,' Marian, she thought -- looked to have a very nice figure so far as she could see, and Marian actually felt herself get a little jealous at the size of the new girl's breasts.
"You mean I gotta wear a bra?"
"Yes, dear. That was the other reason that I sent Joanie for my sewing kit. I want to take your measurements. I'll need them to figure out your, um, sizes."
"This is crazy. The Fonz in a bra."
"You need one now, Francie. A girl needs the support. Gravity gets us all eventually. Besides, tell me the truth, doesn't that shirt you're wearing feel kind of, well, odd against your new breasts."
Francie mumbled something Marian couldn't quite hear.
"What did you say, dear? Please speak up."
"Yes! I said, 'yes'. It feels real strange, kind of half way between a scratch and a tickle. The weird part is, I think I'm getting used to it."
Just then, Joanie came back. "Sorry, it took so long, Mom. Here's your purse and the sewing kit. The kit wasn't in the living room. It was upstairs." She was a little out of breath from running. "What are you going to do, Mom, and can I stay and watch?"
"I'm afraid not, dear. I'm going to be a while, I think. So I'll need you to finish supper and serve it to your father and Richard."
"Ah, Mom. I want to stay and help."
"You'll be helping me a lot more by making sure that the men get fed." She looked at her wristwatch. "Dinner should be just about done by now. Richard can set the table -- I was going to have you do that when you came in with the news about seeing someone up here -- and you serve. If it will make you any happier, tell them that I said they have to do the dishes. Oh, and bring up two plates for -- for us after you've eaten."
"Then can I stay and help?"
"We'll see. Besides, didn't you say that you had homework?"
"Ah, I never get to stay for the good stuff." Joanie turned and walked out of the apartment.
Marian waited a minute, then listened by the door. When she was certain that Joanie had gone into the house, she locked the door. "All right, Francie, get out of those clothes."
"Mrs. C! I can't strip in front of you."
"Why not? You're a girl, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I guess, but I feel weird."
"I know, dear. This must be a lot -- even for you, but I need to get your measurements, so I can see what size clothes to buy you. I can't do that while you're dressed."
"Okay -- but nothing funny now."
"Why, Francie, what ever do you mean?"
Fonzie -- Francie blushed. "To tell the truth, Mrs. C, I'm a little ticklish."
* * * * *
Joanie came back about a half hour later with a picnic hamper. "It was the only way to carry everything," she said. Inside the hamper were containers with slices of pot roast, Marian's prize winning peas and pearl onions, two baked potatoes, and a fruit compote.
Joanie put the hamper on the counter by the sink and began to set the table. Marian walked over and knocked on the bathroom door. "Francie, dear. Joanie's here with supper."
Joanie looked up from what she was doing. "Francie? Who's Francie?"
"I am." Fonzie came out of the bathroom. He - she was dressed in the same clothes as before, but now her hair was combed and tied in a ponytail with a blue ribbon. Even without make-up, it made her face look much more feminine. She looked at the puzzled look on Joanie's face and smiled. "I don't like it either, Shortcake, but I can't exactly answer to 'Arthur' or 'the Fonz' right now, can I?"
"I - I guess not," Joanie stammered.
Francie walked over and took Joanie's hand in her own. "Hey, Shortcake, just remember, whatever I look like, I... am... still... the Fonz! You got me? 'Francie' is just, well, like a secret identity."
"I guess so." She finished with the table and set out the food from the hamper. "I - I guess I'd better go down and get my homework done, okay?"
Marian looked closely at her daughter's unease. It was probably better if she left. "All right, dear. You go and do that. I'll be down to talk to you later - about a lot of things, okay?"
Joanie nodded quickly, turned, and all but ran from the apartment.
* * * * *
The next morning, Marian drove downtown to Hinkley's Department store. She went straight to the teen fashion department and told the salesgirl that she was shopping for a niece who would be coming to visit. After an hour's shopping, she loaded the packages into her car and drove home. Since it was almost lunchtime, she fixed some sandwiches and headed up to Francie's.
"Are you awake, dear," Marian called through the locked door.
Francie opened it a moment later, and Marian hurried in. Francie was wearing an old t-shirt and a pair of men's gym shorts. "It was about all I could find to sleep in," she admitted.
Marian stared at the girl Arthur had become. She hadn't changed from the day before, so the clothes should fit. Marian felt a little jealous of Arthur's figure, the firm breasts pushing out the front of the t-shirt, the wide hips stretching tight the fabric of the short, and her legs.... They'd look absolutely wonderful in a pair of heels, though it would be a long time before she could convince Arthur -- no, remember to call her Francie -- before she could ever convince Francie to wear such things.
Well, her own figure was still pretty good for a mother of two who admitted to being "almost" forty. She could still wear some of the clothes she'd worn twenty years before, and Howard was certainly happy about how well she kept herself, how good she looked. When you got right down to it, Marian decided, having a figure that still made her husband want to get "frisky" was more than enough for her.
I went shopping for you this morning, Francie," Marian said.
Francie winced. "Do I have to use that name? There's nobody here but us."
"You'll have to get used to it, dear, if you're going to go outside and be with people. You might as well start with me."
"I guess, so, Mrs. C. Where's the stuff? Do you need help bringing it up?"
"It's down in the car. I brought lunch so we could eat first, but I'll go down and get it myself, thank you. I don't want you leaving here until you're properly dressed."
"You didn't buy me no dress, did you?"
"No, dear, I told you yesterday that I wouldn't. I got you a few blouses and some jeans." She hesitated a moment, not wanting to upset Francie. "Umm, and a few other things that you're going to need."
"I can't wait. Well, maybe I can. To tell the truth, I am kind of hungry. What did you make for lunch?"
* * * * *
"All right, Francie, are the dishes done?" Marian came through the door into the apartment carrying several large bags from Hinkley's
"Done and put on the drying rack." Francie was drying her hands on a dishtowel. "So what did you get me?"
"Well, these are the blouses I told you about. Feminine, but not too feminine."
"Is there a work shirt or two in there, Mrs. C.? I can't wear one of those cute blouses when I'm working on somebody's car."
"Oh, I thought you had a mechanic's uniform for that, dear?" She pretended not to notice that Francie had called the blouses "cute".
"Yeah, but I don't always wear it. Sometimes I wear a pair of coveralls and a t-shirt instead."
"Couldn't you do that with one of your old t-shirts?"
"I guess. I'm a lot smaller than I used to be, though."
'Not with those breasts you're not,' Marian thought, but she didn't want to say anything. She picked up another bag. "This one has the jeans that I mentioned. Remember, girl's jeans are sized for both the waist and the hips."
"Those ain't jeans!" Francie almost jumped back and pointed at one of the pairs of pants that Marian had taken from the shopping bag."
"No, dear, they're not. They're Capri pants."
"I ain't wearing them. Mrs. C., we had a deal."
"Francie, you don't have to wear them on the street. I bought this pair for you to try on here in the apartment, at least for a start. Unless you change back, you will need some more feminine clothing. These should be a lot easier for you than a skirt."
"I -- I'll think about it, but I ain't promising anything. You keep the receipt for them."
"I will, dear. Now there is one more thing before you go and get dressed."
"Yeah? What?"
Marian hesitated, then took four items from another bag, two bras with matching panties. It was the moment of truth.
"You have got to be kidding, Mrs. C."
"Francie, put your hands on your chest and tell me what you feel."
"Stupid. Stupid is what I feel."
"And what else?"
"Okay, okay." She lowered her head in embarrassment. "I got...these things."
"They're called breast, dear. Yours are quite lovely, but a girl needs support. Besides, they're rather too obvious under that t-shirt, especially now that it got wet from your doing the dishes."
Francie looked down. Her shirt was damp. It was plastered against her breasts, and her nipples, erect from the coolness of the shirt, were clearly visible. She grinned. A very male grin. "Yeah, I guess you can pretty much see everything I got."
"And a lady - which is what you're pretending to be - doesn't show 'everything she's got.' Does she?"
"No...no, she don't. And I guess I don't either." Francie picked up a pair of lime colored panties and a matching bra. She looked through the jeans on the table and selected a medium green colored pair. "But I don't think I'm quite ready to change clothes in front of you." Francie turned and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
"Do you need help, dear. You've never, well, worn a brassiere before."
Francie opened the door and stuck her head out. She had the same male grin as before. "No, but I do have some experience with them. Whooa!" The door shut.
Marian walked over and sat on the couch to wait. About five minutes later, the door opened, and Francie walked out.
'She still walks like a man,' Marian thought, 'but she certainly doesn't look like one.'
Francie's hair hung in long black waves down her back. Her breasts were properly settled within the lime brassiere, though a good bit of firm, creamy flesh overflowed the cups, making them look even bigger. The jeans fit snuggly at her waist and were just tight enough to show the curve of her butt and her long, well-curved legs. She had a half-bemused look on her face as if she were trying to understand the feelings that the clothes created in her new body.
"I...um...forgot a blouse," Francie grinned, now looking rather embarrassed at the oversight. "Not having something on...um...on top wasn't a problem before."
"No, I guess it wasn't, but you'll get used to it. Try that white blouse with the scalloped collar."
Francie picked up the blouse and put it on. "What's with these buttons," she asked, struggling to close the blouse.
"Girl's blouses have their buttons on the other side, dear."
"Oh, yeah. I never noticed before," he blushed. "I was never in the blouse I was unbuttoning before."
Now it was Marian's turn to blush. Well, she knew Arthur's reputation, and, after the time they were in that dance contest together, she knew that it was well deserved. He had been a very attractive man, and he knew how to make a woman feel attractive in his arms. If she'd been twenty years younger and not married to Howard.... She left the thought pass. In his own way, Howard could bring out those same feelings in her, make her feel like she was the most attractive woman in the world. That was more than a lot of wives had.
"So how do I look?" Francie posed for a moment; then did a slow turn. "Will I pass as a girl?"
"I think so, dear. You need just one more thing."
"Now what?"
"Well, two actually. You could use some jewelry. I've got a bracelet that would look perfect with that outfit, and," Marian paused. How could she say this? "You really need a bit of make-up." She looked over to her purse.
"Make-up! No way, Mrs. C."
"Francie, every girl wears make-up. You'd look suspicious if you didn't."
"I don't need make-up to work on a car."
"Perhaps not, but let me ask you a question. When Pinky Tuscadero worked on a car, did she wear make-up?"
Francie hesitated, knowing she'd been caught. "I...ah...I never looked."
"Please, dear, if you can't be honest with me, I can't help you. Now, did Pinky wear make-up?"
"Yeah...yeah...yeah, she wore make-up: lipstick and a little something on her eyes, I think. I ain't sure what else."
Marian sat on the couch and upended her purse on the coffee table next to it. Good, she not only had a fair assortment of her own make-up, but also a lip gloss and some blusher of Joanie's. "Sit down over here by the couch, and we'll try a few things."
Francie walked over slowly and sat down. What was she getting herself into?
* * * * *
Howard Cunningham came in through the kitchen door. Marian was standing by the oven checking something. He gave her a peck on the cheek. "How did everything go today, Marian?"
"Fine, I think, Howard. How was your day at the store."
"Not bad. I think I'm going to get that contract to supply parts for the addition to the Waltham Building."
"That's wonderful, Howard. How soon will you know?"
"I'm expecting a call tonight." He looked around. Joanie was setting the table, but there was no sign of Richie. Howard looked at his watch. "Where's Richie, Marian?"
"Probably on the way home from Arnold's. You know how he likes to hang out there with Ralph and Potzie after school."
"I suppose. Say, where's Fonzie? How did it go with him today?"
"Fonzie's in Chicago on some sort of family business, Howard. You know that."
"Marian, you know what I mean."
"Yes, dear." She kissed him on the cheek. "Please go wash your hands. Supper will be ready in a few minutes."
Howard washed his hands then went into the living room to read the paper. He did notice that Joanie was setting five places at the table. He'd find out about Fonzie soon enough.
A few minutes later, Marian came in with a serving dish full of fried chicken. Joanie followed carrying a bowl of green salad. "Supper, everyone," Marian called.
"Where's Richie," Howard said.
"Here I am, Dad." Richie came out of the kitchen holding a bowl of mashed potatoes in one hand and the small gravy bowl in the other. "I came in through the kitchen to see if there was any sign of Fonzie up in...um...his apartment."
"Fonzie's in Chicago, dear, just like I told your father."
"Mom, we all know that's not true."
"Oh, but it is," Marian said with a smile. "He'll be there for some time, so he's asked his cousin to come and work at his auto repair business for him."
"Chachi? Chachi doesn't know enough about cars to do that."
"No, dear, another cousin." Marian looked at her watch. "In fact, this cousin should be here any time now to join us for supper." As if on cue, there was a knock at the back door. "Come in, dear," Marian called.
The door opened, and Francie came in. She was wearing the same clothes that she'd put on that afternoon, but Marian had added lipstick, eye shadow, and mascara. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a green ribbon from Marian's sewing kit.
Howard and Richie stood instinctively, their eyes wide and their jaws open in amazement. Joanie continued to sit, but she was just as astounded.
"Howard, children, I'd like to introduce Arthur's cousin from Chicago, Miss Francine Fonzarelli, but everyone just calls her 'Francie'." Marian felt like the announcer at a Miss America Pageant. Now it was all up to Arthur -- oops, stop doing that, Marian -- all up to Francie.
Smiling to herself, Francie walked slowly around to the empty seat at the table. Marian watched with approval. 'It took over an hour of practicing with her,' she thought, 'but Francie's walking more like a girl, now.'
Francie pulled out the chair and started to sit. Richie ran over. "Let me help you," he said taking the back of the chair."
"No, I got it."
"Francie," Marian said. "Be a lady and let Richie help you."
"Do I gotta? I can manage it."
"Yes, you 'gotta'."
"Okay, Red," Francie said. "Go for it." She sat lightly in the chair and let Richie push her in. For some reason, the thought of his wanting to help pleased her. "Thank you, Cunningham." She smiled as Richie went back to sit in his own place at the table.
Marian passed the chicken to Howard, who was on her left, and the mashed potatoes to Richie on her right. Both of them sat staring at Francie. "Howard, please," she said. "The chicken is getting heavy. And Richard, you take some potatoes." Food made it's way around the table slowly, since Howard, Joanie, and Richie were too busy staring at Francie to keep track.
Francie picked up the chicken in her fingers. It was a little distracting, seeing her breasts whenever she looked down at anything, but she was beginning to get used to it. She was about to take a bite when Marian stopped her. "No, no, Francie. Set that down and use silverware like a lady, not your fingers."
"Mrs. C., I always used my fingers before. Why should I change now?"
"Well...because you weren't -- because you could get grease on that pretty blouse, not to mention smearing your make-up."
"Yeah," Joanie said. "That blouse is much too nice to get messed up with chicken grease."
"Thanks, Shortcake, do you really --" Francie caught herself. She was thinking like a chick. That would not do. Besides, it wasn't the point. "Wait a minute, Mrs. C. I'm the Fonz. Why should I worry about stuff like getting grease on a blouse?"
"Because you don't want people to know that you are the Fonz," Marian said. "Or have you changed your mind about that?"
"If you have," Howard said quickly following his wife's lead, "you can head down to Arnold's right after supper and announce who you really are. Richard can go along to back up your story."
"No! You know I don't want anybody finding that out." Francie put down the chicken and began cutting at it with her knife. "This is harder than I thought it was going to be."
They finished the meal without incident. Francie even offered to help cleaning up, but Marian refused, saying that Francie was a guest. "Besides," she said, "you have someone coming to see you."
"To see me? The Fonz me or the Francie me? What's going on here, Mrs. C.?"
Marian looked at her watch. "Relax, dear. He'll be here in a few minutes unless -- Joanie, you did remember to call him, didn't you."
Joanie was filling the sink with water. "I called him, Mom. Chachi said he'd be here at 7."
"Chachi? I ain't ready to see him yet." Francie started to get up from her chair, but Marian stopped her.
"He's the one person that you do have to see," she said. "He's your cousin, your only family here in Milwaukee, and he knows that there is no 'Francie' Fonzarelli. You have to get his cooperation."
"All right, I guess, but if he laughs." Francie made her hand into a fist. Then she looked at how small it seemed next to his memory of the Fonz's fist. Well, she'd just hope it didn't come to violence.
The bell rang a few minutes later. Joanie hurried to answer, bushing her hair with her hands. She'd grown up with Chachi and had always been annoyed by the way he came on to her. Now that they were teens, though, and especially since he'd lost some of his baby fat and gotten a bit taller than her, she was beginning to feel differently about him.
Chachi was now a tall, slender boy of fifteen with longish dark brown hair. He wore a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off his wiry arms. When he saw Joanie at the door, his Italian features lit up in a happy grin. "Hi, Joanie, Mr. C., Mrs. C." he said. "Joanie said that you wanted me to come over for something."
"Yes, Chachi," Marian said. "Please come in. There's somebody that I want you to meet." Chachi came into the room and stood near Howard's chair. "You can come in now, dear," Marian called towards the kitchen.
Chachi looked in that direction. A very pretty girl a few years older than he came through the door. She was wearing a white blouse and a pair of jeans that did little to hide what he quickly saw was an excellent figure. 'Pretty face, too,' he thought. She had a strange, sort of shy expression, and he was sure that he'd seen her before, though he had no idea where.
"Chachi Arcola," Joanie said, a bemused look on her face, "this is Francine Fonzarelli. Everybody calls her Francie."
"Fonzarelli? Excuse me, but I don't think I ever heard of any Francie Fonzarelli. Is this some kind of joke?"
"I wish it were Chach," Francie said. "Believe me, I wish it were."
"Do I know you?"
"You better, kid. I gave you a job in my garage."
"A job! I work for -- no, it can't be -- you -- you're the -- but you -- you're a girl -- Fonzie? What happened to you?"
"A hollitacker happened to me."
"Then that weird guy the other night at Arnold's -- no, this is some kind of a joke. It's gotta be a joke."
"It ain't no joke, Chach. I'm the Fonz."
"Swear it. Swear it on Grandma Nussbaum's grave."
"Her grave? Grandma Nussbaum ain't dead."
"You're right, and only somebody in the family would -- my gosh! You are the Fonz. There was an alien at Arnold's."
"That's right," Richie said. "Fonzie won the hollitacker -- the challenge, and that -- Mork -- turned him into a girl."
Chachi looked at the figure of the girl in front of him. "He does good work."
"Yeah, keep it up, and I'll call him back to do it to you."
"Hey, c'mon, Francie," Richie said. "Stop kidding around. We can't call him back, Chachi. For all we know, Fonzie -- Francie -- isn't going to be able to change back."
"You mean he'll -- she'll -- be like this.... Wow, it's like Clyde Beatty got changed into a lion or something."
"Lioness," Marian said gently. "Francie may change back someday, but, right now, we need your help, dear."
"Me? What can I do?"
"In a day or so," Francie said, "I -- that is, your cousin, Francie -- is coming in to town to take over the garage while her -- while our -- cousin, Arthur, the old me -- is stuck in Chicago on family business. You got that?"
"Yeah, Fonz -- Francie. I've been trying to keep the garage going, but I don't have your touch with cars."
"Hey, who does?"
"Francie does," Richie said. "Chachi, we need you to back up the story. If anybody asks, you tell them that Francie's your cousin, and she knows all about cars, maybe even as much as the Fonz does."
"If that's possible," Francie said.
"Tell them that her father owns a garage out in Chicago," Howard said. "Francie, you lived out there for a couple of years, didn't you?"
"Yeah, right after my father left my ma and me. We stayed with my Uncle Vito for a while; then I decided that I could take care of myself and came here to Milwaukee."
"Weren't you a little young to be on your own, dear?" Marian said.
"Hey, I was eight. The Fonz could take care of himself."
"If you say so, Francie," Howard said. "We'll say that your Uncle Vito is the one who first taught Fonzie about cars, and that he taught his daughter, Francie, too."
"You know, Mr. C., that may just work."
"Yes, but only if Chachi goes along with the story." Everyone in the room looked at Chachi, who squirmed nervously.
Chachi walked over and shook Francie's hand. "Hi, I'm your cousin, Chachi." Then, not letting go of her hand, he led her over to the Cunninghams. "Mr. C, Mrs. C, Richie, and, especially Joanie, I'd like you all to meet my cousin, Francie. She's going to fill in for the Fonz while he's out in Chicago."
Everyone smiled, and Joanie impulsively kissed Chachi on the cheek. He grinned. Then Francie put her arm around him. Chachi froze. Was the Fonz going to kiss him, too? That would be just a little too much.
"Hey, Chach," Francie said, giving him as big a hug as she could manage. "I knew I could count on you. Familia." Fonzie rarely spoke Italian, though he knew the language well. The word had a lot more meaning to him than the Cunninghams could know.
"Familia," Chachi said and hugged his cousin back.
* * * * *
Fonzie spent the next two days getting used to being a girl and wearing feminine clothing. Howard pointed out that a girl like Francie who fixed cars would probably be something of a tomboy. She would know how to act like a lady, but she wouldn't always act that way. That made it a lot easier.
Chachi worked as best as he could at the garage. He could do a lot of repairs, but Fonzie was the real expert. Richie helped with paperwork and other things as well, sweeping up and running errands. Joanie even tried to help out a bit, which only helped Chachi's morale. When people asked, Chachi told them that he'd spoken to the Fonz in Chicago, and some sort of help was on the way. He was deliberately vague on what sort of help, saying that Fonzie hadn't told him any of the details.
* * * * *
Ralph Malf strolled into Fonzie's garage. "Hey, Chachi, how's my dad's car..." Ralph froze. A figure in coveralls was bent over the side of an old Dodge. She certainly filled out the coveralls a lot better than Chachi did. Ralph watched for a while, enjoying the view of her butt moving as she worked.
The figure stood up suddenly and turned towards Ralph. "What are you looking at, Ma-mister?"
Ralph was startled. She looked even better from the front, especially the way she filled out the top of those overalls. "You. I mean -- I was just wondering who that was working on the car?"
"So now you know. What about it?"
"Who are you? Where's Chachi?"
Francie smiled. Ralph startled so easily. Now he'd be the first to hear the story, and she'd see how believable it was. "I'm Francie, Francie Fonzarelli." She wiped off her hands on a rag in her pocket and offered it to Ralph.
"Fonzarelli? Are you the Fonz's cousin or something?"
"That's right. He's out in Chicago on some family business, and he asked me to come back and watch his garage for him."
"You? But you're a girl."
"Nice of you to notice. So, what's your name, kid?"
"Ralph, Ralph Malf. I'm a real good friend of Fonzie's."
"Funny, I don't think he mentioned you." Still smiling, she walked over to Ralph, putting an extra bit of feminine wiggle in the walk as Joanie had shown her the afternoon before. (She had done so while Marian wasn't watching; Joanie would be grounded if her parents knew that she had learned how to walk like that.) As soon as she was next to Ralph, Francie stopped smiling and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him towards her. "You got something against a girl working on a car?"
"No, No, I don't."
"You better not. Fonzie and me both learned about cars from my dad. He wouldn't trust me if he didn't think I could do the job. You think I can do the job, Malf?"
"If Fonzie thinks you can, then who am I to argue?"
"That's right. Nobody argues with the Fonz." She let go of Ralph's shirt. "Or with his cousin, Francie. You got that?"
"No, I mean, yes. Nobody argues with either of you."
"Right. Now, what did you come in here for?"
"My -- my dad's Studebaker. Is it ready yet?"
"Oh, yeah, the Studebaker. Look, Fonzie had to get to Chicago in a hurry, and I just got here, myself. It'll be ready tomorrow afternoon." She looked sharply at him. "That okay with you?"
"Fine. It -- it's fine."
"You got anything else on your mind?"
"Umm, no. Welcome to Milwaukee. Bye." Ralph turned and all but ran out of the garage."
Francie giggled -- no, chicks giggled, Francie laughed and stuck her fist, thumb raised, in the air. "Ay! The Fonz is back!"
* * * * *
Ralph was halfway to Arnold's before he calmed down. How could he be intimidated by a pretty girl like that? Because she was Fonzie's cousin, and she sounded as tough as he was. Still, the Fonz was Ralph's buddy. He liked Ralph's sense of humor. Everybody did. Ralph decided that they'd just gotten off on the wrong foot. That Francie was pretty enough to be worth flirting with again. A little of the Malf charm, and she was all his. By the time Ralph got to Arnold's, he was whistling a tune and planning his moves for when he went back the next day to get the Studebaker.
* * * * *
Francie looked at her wristwatch, a slender female-style watch that Joanie had loaned her. It was 5:30. She locked the shop and washed the top two layers of grease off her hands and face. Fonzie had left his motorcycle in the back of the garage the night of the hollitacker. Francie had been looking forward all day to riding it home.
"Hello, darlin'," Francie said to it, looking around to make sure no one was nearby. "I may not look the same, but, believe me, I am the Fonz."
She pushed the cycle out the back door of the garage, locking the door behind her. The cycle seemed heavier than it had been; she was weaker than Fonzie, though still fairly strong. She climbed on and tried to kick start it. It took three tries before the engine finally caught. She gunned the engine and headed back towards the Cunninghams'.
Francie had gone about two blocks when she noticed that her body was feeling funny. She was tingling all over, especially her nipples and in her groin. The feeling got stronger as she rode, a sort of warmth down below her belly that was sending all sorts of incredibly pleasant sensations through her body.
She noticed that, when she leaned forward, the sensations grew stronger. "What is happening to me," she said aloud. "It's like my body's going crazy." She was concerned, but it was far from unpleasant, so she just kept going. A few blocks later, Francie noticed that her hips were twitching back and forth, and she was pressing her crotch harder against the seat. "Aw, no," Francie moaned as she realized what was going on. "I ain't that much of a girl, am I?"
Francie forced herself to ride the rest of the way home sitting upright on the seat. She managed to get up the stairs to her apartment, even though her legs were suddenly a bit wobbly.
Marian Cunningham knocked on the apartment door about fifteen minutes later. "Can I come in, dear?"
"Y-yeah," came a voice from inside. The door unlocked.
Marian walked in. Francie was wearing a white terrycloth robe that had belonged to Fonzie. It almost touched the floor, and Francie had needed tie it shut and to roll the sleeves back considerably. Her hair was dripping wet. "J-just took a sh-shower. N-need an-nother t-towel for my hair." She was shivering.
"Are you all right, Francie?"
"I took a sh-shower, a cold shower, that's all."
"A cold shower? Oh, dear, is the heater broken again?"
"No, Mrs. C. I - I needed to take a cold shower." She looked ready to cry.
"Needed to? But, why?" Marian's hands went to her face. "Oh, my!" There was only one reason why a young girl like Francie would need to take a cold shower. No wonder she was shivering. "You just sit down, dear. I'll help you with your hair. I came up to invite you to dinner. We're all curious about how your first day went, but I think that you need to talk to me about this first, and in private."
Francie sank down into a chair. "My bike! My own bike did it to me."
"Your bike? Oh, on the ride home, I guess the, umm, the vibrations of the motor got to you, didn't they?" She got a towel out of a drawer and began to wrap it around Francie's hair like a turban.
"Mrs. C., how do you know about that sort of thing?"
"Remember the time you had to give me a ride on your bike because Howard had the car, and I absolutely had to get to a meeting? When we got there, I told you over and over how much I had enjoyed the ride, how exhilarating it was. Well, Francie, it, umm, wasn't just your company."
"Why, Mrs. C., you little dickens." Francie was grinning now, one of Arthur's very male grins.
"Yes, dear, and I rode behind you where the vibrations weren't as intense. I probably wouldn't have noticed at all, except that I sat down wrong, and my dress wasn't underneath me on the seat."
"Yeah, but how can I ride my bike if it's gonna happen to me? It's like somebody's slapping me in the face and forcing me to admit I am a girl."
"First of all, dear, at the moment, you are a girl. I sympathize, but that's about all I can do. You could stop riding the bike."
"Never!"
"Then you'll have to learn how to ride so it doesn't...affect you."
"Can I do that?"
"I always heard that the Fonz could do anything."
"Yeah, but I ain't then Fonz anymore."
"Says who?"
"Says the engine on my bike. The Fonz - the old Fonz - never got, well, bothered by it."
"So you're not quite the Fonz that you used to be, but, even if you're just Francie now, isn't she a Fonzarelli, too?"
"I guess so."
"Then she's got at least some of the Fonz in her, and she can figure a solution to this problem."
"You're right, Mrs. C. Pinky Tuscadero and her girls rode their bikes everywhere, and they didn't seem to have any problem. Pinky sat a little different on her bike than I did, and she had the engine tuned - that's it! That's the answer. I can take care of it after dinner." She impulsively leaned over and kissed Marian on the cheek.
Marian pretended not to notice how feminine a gesture it was. "Well, dinner will be in about twenty minutes, so you'll have time to put on something a bit more suitable than that robe."
"I will, and thanks again, Mrs. C."
"You're welcome, dear, and we'll just keep quiet about both our experiences on your bike, won't we?"
Francie grinned, though it seemed different than before -- and blushed slightly, another feminine response. "You got it, Mrs. C. It'll be our secret."
'Just between us girls,' Marian caught herself thinking, as she went down to finish making dinner.
* * * * *
The next afternoon, like any other, Arnold's was full of kids, talking, eating, flirting, and dancing.
Richie Cunningham and Chachi Arcola sat in a corner booth well away from most of the kids in the place. It wasn't their usual table, but it gave them a chance to talk without being overheard.
"How's Francie working out at the garage," Richie asked.
"Great. She's as good a mechanic as ever." He caught himself and looked around quickly. Nobody was close enough to have heard him. "That is, as good as Fonzie ever was. Man, this is so weird."
"I know what you mean. Francie came down for dinner last night, and it was like she and my mom had some kind of private joke. Then right after dinner, she goes out and works on her bike for about two hours."
"What was she doing?"
"I don't know, something with the engine, I think. When she was done, she rode around the block for about ten minutes. Then she comes back and yells for my mom. Mom gets on, and they ride once around the block and come back laughing like crazy."
"Did they explain what they were doing?"
"I asked, but they just said it was something I wouldn't understand. I kept asking, and finally mom just said, 'Sit on it, Richard!' They both started laughing again, and I gave up and went into the house."
"Weird. You think...hey, there's Francie." Chachi stood up and waved his arm twice. Francie was standing by the door, wearing a pair of almost clean overalls and an old t-shirt of Fonzie's. She waved back and began walking towards the boys' table. Francie still had the Fonz's animal stride, but in her new body, it was transformed to a sensual and very female walk that stopped conversations as heads turned to follow this new girl across the floor.
Suddenly she became aware of someone blocking her way. Francie looked up to see Bill "The Wall" Wallenska. "Wall" was a senior, defensive lineman for the Jefferson High Cougars, and he had something of a reputation as a ladies' man, not all of it deserved. "Hello, Good Looking," he said, grinning at what he expected to be his next romantic conquest. "I'm "Wall" Wallenska. You've probably heard of me."
Fonzie - well, Fonzie would never have had this problem, and Francie was still uncertain about how much of her old fighting skills she still had in her new form. "Excuse me, I'm trying to get by." She shifted to the side, but "The Wall" quickly moved to block her again. Since "Wall" was 6 foot 3 and as solidly built as his name suggested, this wasn't very hard for him to do.
"Tell me your name, Honey, and we'll see what the toll is to pass."
"Francie, Francie Fonzarelli." Damn, why had she done that?
"A pretty name for a - Fonzarelli?" "Wall" knew the name, and he was suddenly a bit less sure of his situation.
Richie had come over and stood beside "Wall". "Yeah, Francie is Fonzie's cousin from Chicago."
"That's right." "Wall" was relieved at the memory. "The Fonz is in Chicago, isn't he?" This could still work out okay. He smiled again and ran his fingers through his close-cropped sandy brown hair.
Francie knew what "Wall" had in mind, and she decided to end it before it went any further. She grabbed his collar and yanked. "Wall" was so taken by surprise that he let himself be pulled down. "But I'm right here, little man. Now why don't you just go bother somebody else?"
"Wall" stood up, pulling himself free of Francie's grasp. "Little? Who are you calling little?" By now, everybody in Arnold's was looking at them.
Francie sneered. "I wasn't talking about your height." A roar of laughter filled Arnold's. A couple of girls that "Wall" had dated giggled.
"Wall" looked around. He was stuck. What could he do, hit a girl half his size? He thought about taking it out on Cunningham, but now there were two, no three others standing with him. "Later," he spat through his teeth and stalked out of the place.
"Never," Francie said. She snapped her fingers at "Wall" once as he left. Then she turned and walked with Richie, Chachi, and now Ralph and Potzie Weber over to the table Richie and Chachi had been sitting at. They had all risen when "Wall" stopped Francie, and all four had been ready to come over to her defense.
Francie sat down first, then Richie and Chachi. "Francie," Richie said as he sat down next to her, "I don't think you've met my friends here."
"I met, umm, Ralph yesterday at the garage," Francie said with a smile. Ralph had a rotten sense of humor, even though he thought that he was the next Milton Berle, but he had been there to help Richie with "Wall". Francie admired loyalty. "Your father's car is ready by the way."
"Thanks, Francie," Ralph said, pleased that she remembered him. "I'll be by to pick it up tomorrow." Potzie sputtered a couple of times. He wanted to be introduced to this pretty new girl. "My friend here, the one imitating a teapot, is Warren Weber. Everybody calls him 'Potzie'. Potzie, this is Fonzie's cousin, Francine Fonzarelli."
"Hi, Francine. I'm pleased to meet you." He gave her his best boyish smile.
"Hi, We...Warren; nice to meet you, too." Francie hadn't noticed before how cute Weber was. The thought bothered her.
""Just call me 'Potzie'," Potzie said, pleased that she'd used his real name. "Everybody does."
"Thanks...Potzie."
"How did you learn so much about cars, Francie," Ralph asked.
"Why? Don't you think I know what I'm doing?" Francie was still upset at what happened with "Wall". Scaring Ralph would let off a little steam.
"No! I mean, of course not. If the Fonz trusts you, then you must be good. I just mean, how did such a pretty girl like you get to know so much about something like that?"
Now it was Francie's turn to be startled. Malf was actually flirting with her. "My, umm, dad taught me. He has a garage out in Chicago. In fact, he's the one who first taught, umm, cousin Arthur about cars back when he lived with us."
"Well, I'm sure that you're very good at it." Ralph smiled. "I like a girl who's good with her hands."
"Umm, uhh, thanks, I guess." Francie was at a total loss. Nothing in her experience as a male had prepared her to be hit on as a girl. Worst of all, a tiny part of her seemed to be enjoying the attention. Francie decided that she'd talk to Mrs. C. or, maybe, Shortcake about that later.
"How do you like Milwaukee?" Potzie decided that he was going to try for Francie's attentions as well.
"It's nice, I guess. It's no, umm, Chicago, of course, but it's a -- it seems like a nice place."
"I'd love to show you around, if you'd like. Maybe on Saturday after you close the garage."
"Hey, I was going to ask her that," Ralph said.
"Yeah," Chachi said, trying not to laugh at his cousin's obvious discomfort, "but Potzie asked her first. "Hey, maybe you could both take her out."
"Thanks for the idea," Francie said gritting her teeth. Chachi would pay for this; boy, would he pay.
"Yeah, I guess we could do that," Ralph said. Half a date was better than none, and, maybe, they could lose Potzie and spend some time alone -- say at Inspiration Point.
"I'm sure Francie would like that," Richie said, not wanting Chachi to have all the fun of teasing Francie.
"I'd have to think about it," Francie said. "Can I let you boys know tomorrow?"
"Sure," Ralph and Potzie said, almost together. Then Ralph added, "Of course, if you'd just like to go with one of us, that would be okay, too."
"Yeah," Potzie said. "Ralph won't mind.
This was getting out of hand. Richie looked at his watch. "C'mon, Francie. We've got to go."
"You've got to go - like go together?" Ralph was clearly annoyed that Richie seemed to have already something going with Fonzie's cousin.
"No, Ralph, like go home for supper. Francie's staying in Fonzie's apartment, and she's having supper with my folks and I. You know how my mom feels about having people come late for supper."
"How does she feel about extra guests," Potzie asked. "My folks won't mind if I eat at your place. My dad likes it when I don't come home early. He says it helps his digestion."
"Umm, maybe another night, guys, okay? Mom...umm...wanted a quiet supper so she could talk to Francie about something...umm...about how the Fonz is doing and when he might be back, I think."
"We don't mind. We'll just eat and leave." Ralph was getting insistent.
"Look, guys," Chachi said. "It's kind of a family thing. I...umm...only got invited at the last minute myself. Right, Rich?"
"Yeah, oh, yeah, Chach." Richie said. "And mom's already stretching supper to include you, so there really won't be any room for anybody else." He looked at his two friends and their sad faces. "I'll ask mom if you guys can come over another night, okay?"
"I guess so," Potzie said. "I'll just have dinner with Ralph and his folks."
"What! You are such a Potzie."
While Ralph and Potzie began the next round of an argument that went back to kindergarten, Francie, Richie, and Chachi quietly snuck away.
* * * * *
Francie grabbed Richie and Chachi's arms almost as soon as they were out in Arnold's parking lot. "Are you crazy, Cunningham? You, too, Chachi? You two were acting like you were trying to fix me up with Malf or Weber."
"What were we supposed to say?" Richie asked, looking around. They were alone in a far corner of the lot. "Don't hit on Francie, guys, 'cause she's really the Fonz."
"Yeah," Chachi added. "I was just having a little fun. I didn't mean for it to get out of hand."
"Well, don't do it again, okay?"
"Okay, Fonz...umm, Francie," Richie said. "But we're going to need some sort of reason for you to not be available for dating."
"Yeah, Francie. I hate to say it, cousin, but you're a really pretty girl."
"Thanks, I guess. You two just come up with something that we can tell Weber or Malf or anybody else who tries anything."
"How about," Richie was thinking out loud. "How about if we say that Francie's got a steady guy in Chicago?"
"That might work," Francie said. "No, wait a minute. If I got a guy in Chicago, then why didn't I say anything when Weber asked me out?"
"Yeah," Chachi said. "Besides, there's guys who would consider her having a boyfriend in Chicago as her not having boyfriend at all."
"It's got to be somebody local," Richie said. "Somebody we can trust."
"Somebody whose father owns the apartment I'm staying in," Francie added.
"Wait a minute! That would be me!" Richie had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"It's perfect," Francie said. "You already know the truth about me."
"Yeah, and besides, you aren't dating anybody steady right now, are you, Rich?" Chachi said.
"Not after my mom found out about me and Linda Alder, thank you, Francie."
"So I owe you one," Francie said. "You were the one who brought it up in the first place. I had to tell you about her so you'd believe who I was." She paused for a moment; then she smiled and batted her eyelashes. "How about I make up for it by letting you take me out?"
"That's not funny, Francie." Richie said. Chachi just stared in surprise at his cousin.
"No, but why should you two have all the fun? I'm just not sure if I'm that desperate?"
"I hate to admit it, but it does seem like a good solution." Richie hesitated. The sinking feeling was getting worse. "I just want to think about it for a little bit before I agree. Okay?"
"Fine by me," Francie said. She had parked her bike next to Richie's car. She jumped on, kick started it, and was out of the lot before Richie and Chachi were both settled into Richie's car.
Richie drove the entire way home with his teeth clenched. Every so often, he looked over at Chachi and sort of growled.
* * * * *
Francie wasn't any happier as she rode along on her bike.
She had to admit that she'd enjoyed the attention when Malf and Weber had begun flirting with her, but then she'd become uncomfortable. Only, it wasn't because she knew that she was really a guy, and she didn't want other guys flirting with her. No, the feelings that they gave him - her - were different. She felt like they were treating her like so much meat, like a trophy to be won, not as a person. She didn't like it.
Chachi's idea made a certain amount of sense. She had to admit that to herself, but Cunningham? That was the worst part of it. A little piece of her, the same part that enjoyed picking out a nice blouse to wear or kidding around with Shortcake or having a couple of guys flirt with her, that part of her liked the idea of pretending that she was dating Rich -- Cunningham. In fact, it was a part of her that didn't want their dating to be a pretense. It really wanted to be dating him.
This was not a good thing.
* * * * *
Francie helped Marian and Joanie clear the dinner dishes. "Can I talk to you, Mrs. C? After, you finish with dinner, I mean."
"Can I come, too?" This sounded grown-up, and Joanie didn't want to be left out.
"Later, maybe, Shortcake, but I want to talk to your mother first."
"I always get left put of the good stuff."
"Well, I'll see about giving you somebody to talk to," Marian said. "Richard."
"Yeah, mom," came a voice from the living room. A moment later, Richie came into the kitchen. "What did you want, mom?"
"I have to go upstairs with Francie about something. Would you please help Joanie with the dishes...oh, and put the leftovers in the fridge?"
Richie started to protest, but he saw the concern in his mother's face. He looked at Francie and said, "Is this...." Before he could finish, Francie nodded. Richie nodded back, recognizing that Francie wanted to talk to his mother about Chachi's stupid idea.
Richie wondered who he could talk to. Francie was really Fonzie, his friend, his male friend, his - well, they were almost like brothers in some weird way. Still, a part of his mind, when he looked at Francie, had trouble thinking of her as anything but a female, a very desirable female. So far, there hadn't been a problem, but if they started pretending to be dating.... He let the thought fade out. That same part of his mind didn't want it to be pretend.
Richie mentally scheduled himself for a cold shower that evening. He walked over to the kitchen sink and began to rinse the dinner dishes.
* * * * *
Marian smoothed her skirt and sat down on Francie's couch. "Now, dear, what did you want to talk about?"
Francie started to sit down, but stood up again. She was too tense to sit and began to pace. "It -- it's about what happened at Arnold's this afternoon. Malf and Weber began to -- um -- they began to flirt with me. With me."
"I'm not surprised. You're a very pretty girl."
"No! No, I ain't. I just, well, I just look like a girl."
Marian looked at Francie. The girl looked like she was about to cry. "All right, dear. You just look like a girl." She paused for a moment. "How did you feel about the way they were acting."
"I -- I hated it. It was worse than when the 'Wall' -- "
"The 'Wall'. Who or what is that?"
"It -- he's a guy on the Jefferson football team, a big, dumb defensive end. He tried to pick me up, too. He blocked my way and wouldn't let me pass, but I handled him."
"How did you do that, dear?"
Fonzie smiled. "I called him little man. Then I said that I wasn't talking about his height." The smile was decidedly male.
Marian blushed slightly, then giggled. "Serves him right. Did you do the same sort of thing to Ralph and Warren?"
"No, I -- I couldn't. After I said what I did to 'Wall', he looked like he was going to hit me. I still could have taken him - at least, I think I could have, but Chachi and Rich and Malf and Weber all stood up like he'd have to fight them, too. After that, they were just -- I didn't want -- I wasn't sure how to...how to handle it -- how to handle them."
"I think you did, dear, but you just didn't want to hurt them they way you did that 'Wall' person."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, first of all, they defended you. How did it feel to be defended, to not have to stand on your own."
"Weird, but I -- I do have to admit that I was relieved not to have to try to fight 'Wall'."
"Anything else?"
"It -- Mrs. C, it felt kind of, well, kind of nice to have all those guys be willing to defend me."
"And when two of those defenders starting flirting with you, how did you feel?"
"How did I -- I felt...I felt good. I -- I was flattered that they were interested in me. It felt nice -- no, creepy. No, no, I got to admit. It felt nice. Mrs. C, what's happening to me?"
"Well, Francie, I'd say that now that you're a -- now that you look like a girl, the parts of you that do are starting to act...maybe just a little bit...like a girl."
"No! I -- Mrs. C -- I don't want to be a girl." Now she definitely looked like she was about to cry. Marian wanted to reach up and hug Francie to her, to comfort her as she might Joanie, but, somehow, she knew that doing so would be the wrong approach.
"You don't have to, dear. I mean, you're strong. And smart. I'm sure that you can find a way to deal with boys flirting with you, with them arousing such feelings in you."
"Oh, we already done that. Most guys won't flirt with a girl who's already going with someone. The guys that will, well, I don't think I'd be interested in them anyway."
"So you're going to make up an imaginary boyfriend?"
"No, I don't think that'd work. I...Richie and I...we're going to pretend that we're..." she stopped and took a breath before she continued, "dating."
"And you don't think that Richard will be a problem?"
"Him? Nah, I trust him. He knows that I'm really the Fonz, and he ain't going to flirt or anything."
"If you think so, dear," Marian said. She was smiling, but inside, she had the same sinking feeling that Richie had felt when he heard the idea.
* * * * *
Richie was coming out of the bathroom when he met his father, who had come upstairs to get a magazine he'd been reading the night before.
"A shower, Richard, and so early in the evening. How come?"
Richie shivered. He was dry and changed into his pajamas, but his hair was still a bit wet. "Dad, can we talk for a minute." He looked around. Joanie's bedroom was nearby, and she was in there doing homework. "In private."
"Certainly, son. Let's go to your bedroom." They walked to the room, and Howard closed the door behind him. "Now, what's the problem?"
"Francie. It's Francie."
"Francie? What about -- Richard, does she have anything to do with your taking a shower just now?"
"Yeah, Dad, and, yes, it was a cold shower."
"Well, I suppose it's understandable. She's a very attractive girl."
"Yeah, but she's -- she used to be...the Fonz."
"And she isn't any more?"
"Yeah, she is...but she's something else, too. She's that 'very attractive girl' like you said."
"And you're attracted, aren't you?" It was more a statement than a question.
"Yeah, dad, and I don't know what to do about it."
"Have you ever been attracted to a girl that you couldn't do anything about, say, to one of the Fonz's girlfriends?"
"Yeah, and I knew what to do. I ignored whatever feelings I had because the Fonz was my friend."
"So do that now."
"Dad, I...I can't. Ralph and Potzie were flirting with her this afternoon, trying to get a date with her."
"They don't know the truth then."
"No, and we -- Francie -- doesn't want anybody else to know, but that's not the problem."
"You weren't trying to date her; were you, Richard?"
"No, but I'm going to be dating her. Chachi, Francie, and, well, and I decided that the best defense against Ralph or Potzie or anybody else flirting with Francie was to pretend that she already had a boyfriend."
"That should -- oh, no, they didn't..."
"Yes, they did. Francie and Chachi decided that, since I already knew who Francie really was, I'd be the best choice to be -- to pretend to date her."
"Well, then Richard, unless you can think of something else, I think you'd better get used to cold showers."
* * * * *
Richie was waiting in Arnold's parking lot the next afternoon when Francie pulled up on her bike. She pulled in to a spot near his car as he walked over.
"Hi, Francie, ready to start 'Operation Boyfriend'?" He watched as she took off her helmet and ran her hands through her hair. It was a very feminine gesture.
"Yeah, Cunningham. What do we do first?"
"First, I think that you'd better start calling me 'Richie'.
"Yeah, I guess so. Okay, Richie, then what?"
"Then we walk into Arnold's holding hands."
"Holding hands? Do we have to?"
"We do if we want people to think...to know that we're dating. I can't just walk in and make an announcement."
"No, I -- I guess not, but let's wait till we're at the door, okay?"
"I guess." They walked towards the entrance to Arnold's. Just as they got to the door, Richie said, "Ready?" When Francie nodded, he took her hand in his. As he did so, they both felt a strange tingle run through their bodies, followed by a pleasant warmth.
Francie pulled her hand away. "Whoa! What the heck was that?"
"I -- I don't know." Richie was confused for a moment, then he smiled. "It felt kind of good though."
"Yeah, I guess."
"You...umm...you want to try again? I don't think it'll be a problem."
"Okay." Francie took Richie's hand. Again, a warm pleasant tingle ran through their bodies. For some reason, it didn't seem to bother them as much this time. They smiled and headed through the door.
Potzie saw them first. "Hey, look, it's Richie and... and Francie."
"Yeah," Ralph said, "and they're holding hands. I thought he wasn't interested in her."
"I guess you lose out, Ralph," Potzie said with a grin, then he realized what had happened. "Hey, wait a minute. I lose out, too."
Richie and Francie came over to where Ralph and Potzie were sitting. They didn't realize it, but they were still holding hands. "Hi, guys," Richie said with a lame smile.
"What are you doing with my girl?" Ralph said.
"Your girl." Francie tensed, ready to fight. She instinctively left go of Richie's hand. "Who says I'm your girl, Malf?"
Richie looked at Francie nervously. She sounded exactly like Fonzie might. This was not good. "Calm down, Francie. You, too, Ralph. Francie is her own girl. We were -- we got to talking last night, and we, umm, realized how much we had in common. I, umm, sort of asked her out."
"And I accepted. You got a problem with that?" Francie wanted to grab Ralph by his collar and haul him out of the booth, but she knew that it would not look good for her to do so.
"I guess not." Ralph said quickly. If Francie was this hot tempered, maybe it would be better not to date her.
"Me either," Potzie agreed. "Gee, Francie, you're sure a lot like your cousin."
"More than you'll ever know, Web -- Warren," Francie said as she slid into the booth. Richie sat down next to her.
"I guess I should apologize to you guys, but it, umm, it happened so quickly. We just really hit it off."
"That's okay, Rich." Ralph still wasn't completely happy. Sure, Francie had a temper, but she was also very, very pretty.
"It must be love," Potzie said with a smile. Ralph mumbled under his breath at the suggestion.
"For now, let's just say that we like each other, okay." Richie didn't want to think about that anymore than Ralph did. After all, this was the Fonz he was sitting next to. Still.... He let the thought die.
Francie motioned for one of the waitresses, happy at the distraction. Francie noticed that she felt the same odd sensation when her leg touched Richie's. It was barely there, and Richie didn't even seem to notice, so she just ignored the feeling and waved again for the waitress.
The girl came over, and Richie ordered Cokes for the two of them. His leg brushed against Francie's, and he noticed the same vague tingle that he'd felt before. It was barely there, and he wondered if Francie even felt it.
"So, Ralph, heard any good jokes lately?" Richie said. "I have to admit, Francie, that Ralph's got the greatest sense of humor."
"Don't overdo the compliments, Rich," Ralph said. "Even if they are true. I've decided to forgive you two. Besides, I heard this great new one about a man who goes into a psychiatrist's office...."
Ralph droned on for several minutes, amusing himself if no one else. Desperate to escape, Francie stood up and walked over to the juke box. She looked around. Nobody was looking. She hit it at just the right spot, and it began to play a Paul Anka ballad. "Malf isn't the only one who's 'still got it'," she said under her breath as she walked back to the table. "Let's see him keep talking while the music's playing.
Ralph was gone by the time Francie got back to the booth. She saw him dancing with Barbie McCasky. Potzie was with somebody as well. She was about to slide back into the booth, when Richie stood up. "We'd, umm, we'd better dance, too."
Francie hadn't thought of that, but it was true. If they were interested in each other, how could they not dance together. She let Richie lead her onto the floor and felt him put his arms around her. The tingling started again, stronger this time because they were doing much more than just holding hands.
"Try and remember to let me lead," Richie whispered. His body was tingling, too, and he was trying not to be distracted by it. The problem was that he was dancing with a beautiful girl, feeling her in his arms, against his body, and that was even more distracting.
The music ended, but somebody had stuck in a quarter. The next song was slow, too. Richie and Francie kept dancing. Francie moved in a little closer and rested her head on Richie's shoulder. 'It's just for show,' she thought to herself. Only, why did it have to feel so good?
The next song was a fast one. They danced a little, then walked back to the booth. Richie looked at his watch. It was almost time to leave, if they were going to be back at his house for supper. "Francie, let's go. I -- I'd like to talk to you for a minute before we have to head home."
She knew what he wanted to talk about. "Okay, Richie, lead the way."
They walked past Richie's car and Francie's bike to a far corner of Arnold's lot. There was a low concrete block fence between the drive-in and the next property. Francie sat down on the fence, while Richie stood and began to pace.
"Francie, I - I'm sorry about what happened in there."
"What do you mean, Richie?"
"The way I acted, the way I held you while were dancing, I was totally out of line doing that."
"I liked it."
"Francie - Fonzie - what are you saying? Do you want to be a girl?"
"No, but I've got to admit that it felt nice, real nice."
"That tingling when we - when we touched. You felt it, too?"
"Yeah, but I sure don't know what it was. You got any ideas, Red?"
"I don't know. I think it has something to do with whatever changed you. I think it's...it's working on your mind...on both our minds."
"Yeah, I agree, and nobody messes with the Fonz's mind."
"Maybe we should stop pretending to be dating. That seemed to have started whatever it is."
"And what do we tell Malf and Weber? And how do we know that it won't start again if I date one of them? At least with you, we can talk about it. With anybody else, I'd have to explain a lot of stuff that I'd rather not talk about. That make any sense?"
"No, but none of this does. I guess we can try dating without touching."
"And won't that be fun?"
They both shrugged and walked back to their vehicles. It was not getting any easier, not by a long shot.
* * * * *
Joanie and Chachi were sitting in the living room when Richie walked into the house. They looked like they were watching TV, but Chachi's shirt was mis-buttoned.
"How did it go at Arnold's," Chachi asked.
"Okay, I guess. Ralph and Potzie weren't too happy, but they got over it. Francie and I even danced a couple of --"
"You danced together?" Joanie said. "You and Francie."
"Yeah, somebody put some money into the juke box. Everybody else was dancing. What could we do?"
"So who led?" Chachi asked with a slight smirk.
"I did. That was the weird part."
"Weird," Chachi said. "Richie Cunningham dancing with the Fonz."
"That was what was weird. It - it wasn't like I was with the Fonz. It was like I was with a real girl."
"How did Francie act?" Joanie said quietly. "Did she act like a girl?"
"Yeah, and afterward she said that she liked it. I did, too."
"I think whatever changed her is doing something to her mind now."
"Is she all right?" Joanie asked.
"Is who all right." Francie came in from the kitchen.
"You, Fonz...Francie," Chachi said. "Are you okay? I thought you were coming home with Richie."
"I did, but it looked like rain. I pushed my bike under the steps and covered it with a tarp." She paused and looked at Chachi and Joanie. "Now ask what you really want to ask me, Chachi."
"Okay, Francie." Chachi took a deep breath. "Richie says you were acting like a girl today. What's going on?"
"I'm fine. The whole thing just got to me a little bit, but I'm fine, now."
"But, Francie," Richie said. "What about the...."
Francie gritted her teeth. "I said I'm fine, Cunningham. Now drop it." She had decided not to worry anyone about what happened. At least, not until she could figure it out herself.
"Okay," Richie said. "If that's the way you want it." He looked around and realized who was missing. "Hey, where are mom and dad?"
"Mom had to run an errand downtown for the Leopards' Lodge Ladies Auxiliary," Joanie said. "She said that she'd meet dad and the store and they were going to bring home pizza for supper.
As if on cue, a car drove up into the driveway. Ten minutes later, everyone was in the kitchen having pizza.
Marian Cunningham looked up from her half-eaten slice of pizza. "How did it go at Arnold's, dear?"
"Yes, Richard," Howard added. "Does everyone know that you and Francie are, as they say, an item?"
Richie cleared his mouth with a swallow of coke. "They know, dad. Everybody saw us together this afternoon."
"How about tonight," Marian said. "Are you two going back after dinner?"
"I - I don't think so, Mrs. C.," Francie said. "We don't want to overdo it."
"I suppose that's best."
"Richie has to help me in the store all day tomorrow," Howard said. "It's inventory time, and he promised that he'd help weeks ago."
"That's okay," Richie said. "We really didn't have anything planned." After what had happened that afternoon, he wasn't sure if he wanted to go out again with Francie, or if she wanted him to go out with her.
"Why don't you take Francie to a movie tomorrow night?" Marian was trying to be helpful. "I understand that there's a very nice movie at the Roxy."
"I guess that would be okay," Francie said.
"Would you like another slice of pizza, Francie," Joanie asked, noticing that Francie's dish was empty. Fonzie had always loved pizza, but Francie had only eaten one slice. She normally had an appetite almost as good as the Fonz.
Francie stretched. "No, thanks. To tell the truth, I'm kind of tired for some reason. I guess I put in a harder day than I thought at the garage." She stood up and headed for the kitchen door. "Good night, folks."
Richie stood. "Wait a second, Francie. I'll walk you. I want to talk about tomorrow night." He hurriedly followed her out into the back yard.
"Okay, Red," Francie said once they were outside. "What did you really want to talk about?"
"Are you crazy wanting to go out again after what happened at Arnold's?"
"No, but I don't want to get your folks worried. I'm even sorry, Shortcake and Chachi know."
"Yeah, but still...."
"Look, I think that we can keep things cool as long as we don't really touch or anything. Can I trust you to keep your hands to yourself?"
"I guess so - I mean, sure, sure you can."
"Then it's settled. What time will you be home?"
"We usually quit about 6:30 and get home before 7. Give me time for a quick shower and such, and I'll meet you in the living room at 7:30. That okay?"
"Perfectamundo. I'll see you at 7:30." They were at the steps leading up to her little apartment. Part of Francie was relieved, but a part of her wanted to invite him up - or at least, kiss him good night.
Richie was flustered. It was like walking a girl home from a date, and he almost felt like he should try to kiss her. "Umm, okay then, Francie. I'll see you." He began to stick out his hand, then froze, remembering the tingling.
"'Night, Richie," Francie said. She turned and slowly began the climb to her apartment. Richie watched her until she went inside, then headed back to the house for another cold shower.
* * * * *
Richie spent the next day counting items of hardware for his father's store. It was slow, dull work, but it kept his mind off Francie. About 6:20, Howard came into the storeroom where Richie was working. "You did a fine job here today, Richard. Thank you."
"You're welcome, dad."
"No, I mean it." He reached into his pocket. "Here's a little something to show just how much I mean it."
"Dad, this is thirty bucks. You usually don't pay me more than twenty for a day at the store."
"Usually, all I get out of you is twenty dollars worth of work. You worked extra hard today, and I figure that you deserve the extra pay for it."
"Thanks, dad," Richie said pocketing the money.
* * * * *
Richie can down from his room about 7:20. He'd showered and shaved and changed his dirty clothes for a clean shirt and slacks. He didn't want to dress up too much for the "date" and embarrass Francie.
She was waiting. She heard him come down the stairs and stood to look at him.
Richie froze in his tracks and almost fell over. Francie's hair was combed out and hung full on her neck and shoulders. She had on earrings and a lot more make-up than he'd ever seen her in.
She was also wearing a dark blue sleeveless dress that clung to her curves, hugging her narrow waist and wide hips. It stopped just above the knee and he could see that she had on stockings and -- good grief - high heels.
She smiled and twirled once. "What do you think, Richie," she asked shyly.
Richie smiled. "I think that I have to go back upstairs for my jacket and tie." He turned and bounded up the steps.
* * * * *
"Francie, what's with this get-up you have on?" They were in Richie's car heading for the movie.
"It's your mother's idea, at least at first."
"At first?"
"Yeah. Mrs. C. suggested a dress. I was trying to talk her out of it, saying that I didn't want to go shopping. Then Shortcake comes in with this thing." She touched the fabric of her dress.
"Oh, yeah, now I recognize it. Joanie sent away for it a couple of months ago, but she got the size wrong."
"Wrong for her, maybe. It fits me fine."
"It sure does -- I mean, so okay, it fits, but that still didn't mean that you had to wear it."
"I know, and I was still trying to talk your mom out of the idea. Only she starts talking about how pretty I'll look in it."
"You do, I guess, but is that why you wore it?"
"No, but then she says how much you'll like seeing me in something this nice. All of a sudden, it was like I couldn't argue with her any more. I let her do my hair and my nails. I got nail polish on, you know."
"Polish, too." Richie had no idea how to answer.
"Yeah, and I'm wearing, well, never mind what I'm wearing. This whole thing is just too weird."
"Do you want me to take you back. You don't have to go to the movie with me if you don't want to, you know."
"No, it's okay. I want to see this movie, so I might as well let you treat me to it." She held up a fist. "Just don't try anything."
"I won't, Francie. I promise."
Richie pulled into the theater parking lot. It was fairly full, and he had to circle a couple of lanes before he found an empty spot near the back of the lot. He parked and got out. Then he came around to Francie's side of the car. He opened the door and took her hand to help her out. The movie must have already started because there were no other people in the lot so far as they could see.
As Francie stepped out of the car, the tingling began. It was stronger than ever, washing through both their bodies. Richie and Francie found themselves holding hands and staring into each other's eyes. The tingling sensation grew even stronger. It seemed to focus in Francie's chest, where she felt her nipples growing stiff, and in her groin, where it seemed to become a wet sort of warmth. Richie felt it only in his groin, especially as his pants grew tight right there.
"Attention, Earthlings!" They heard the voice -- Mork's voice -- and turned to see where he was.
"Ha, ha, made you look," the voice continued. "I am implanting this telepathic message in your minds on the night of the hollitacker. As you hear this, I am in a galaxy, far, far away -- hmm, good line, I'll have to save that one."
"Will you get on with it," Francie yelled in exasperation.
"You, the champion, the one called 'the Fonz'. Orkan law says that anyone who defeats one of us in a hollitacker must be rendered harmless, a non-warrior. On your world, the easiest way to do so was to make you a female of your species."
"Gee, thanks."
"Yes, but we are not the heartless superior beings that we may appear to be. The champion is to be given to one who will protect it after it is rendered harmless. I have given you to the one called 'Cunningham'."
"So that's what you meant when you said you leave us to each other," Richie said, suddenly remembering Mork's words.
"'Give' me," Francie said. "Who are you to give me to anybody?"
"I am a superior alien being from the planet Ork, and don't ask so many questions, human. Be glad that I didn't give you to that Malf being who ran screaming out of the structure where we conducted the hollitacker."
"How come you can answer our questions?" Richie said.
"No, that is not possible," Mork replied. "But I will tell you that it will rain most of your next week."
"Or maybe he can't," Francie said.
"I sensed a great deal of the emotion that you call affection between the champion and the Cunningham. You were -- what is the word -- friends. Now you can be more. I have shaped your minds to accept, even to wish this to happen."
"I guess," Richie said, still not sure of what was happening. "Do you have anything else to say to us?"
"Live long and prosper, Earthlings. Shozbot! Another great line, and I just threw it away on those two. The Vulcans would love that one. Maybe when I go there next...." The voice faded.
Richie looked at Francie. He realized that he was holding her in his arms. The sensations were growing even stronger. He gave in to them and leaned forward. Their lips met. Francie moaned and raised her arms up and around Richie's neck.
Arthur Fonzarelli had known a great deal about how to kiss and how to be kissed. Now, as Francine Fonzarelli, she gave Richie a master's class in the subject for a minute or two until they had to break for breath.
"Wow," Richie said. "Francie, you were fantastic."
Francie suddenly felt shy. She looked down at the ground. "Do you believe what that...what Mork said?"
"I don't know what I believe -- except what I feel about you right now."
"I -- I think I feel the same way, Richie. What are we going to do about it?"
"I don't know," Richie grinned, "but I don't think that going in to the movie will help. I hear that Inspiration Point is a great place to 'think' about stuff like that."
"Okay," she said, smiling up at him and running her tongue against her top lip. Then her eyes narrowed, "but, so help me, if you sing one word of 'Blueberry Hill', Cunningham," she said his name as much like Fonzie as she could, "I'm going home."
The End
He-Demon
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2002
Here’s something for that Halloween Challenge that seems to be going on. Hope it isn’t too late.
* * * * *
Lemuel stuck a twig into the fire and used it to light his pipe. "Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, "it being right 'round Hallerween, I 'spect you'll wants t'hear a story 'bout spooks and spirits."
"Yeah," Rafe said, his 11-year old eyes was wide. "A scary story."
Little Sarah scootched up against me and shivered. "But not too scary."
"Not too scary, eh?" Lemuel said, taking a draw on his pipe. "Now there's the story -- naw, that's too scary. I wouldn't want to scare Sarah none." He scratched his chin for a moment and took another draw o'tobacco. "There's the story of the ghost whut haunted a river."
"A whole river?" Rafe asked. "Why'd he do that?"
"A-well, when he was livin', he done pulled the biggest fish anybody'd ever seen out that river. He was so proud, his ghost stayed along the river and went... BOO!" Lemuel looked right at Sarah when he said that.
She let out a yell and turned away. Then she turned back and began to giggle.
"Yep," Lemuel said. "He said 'boo!' t'anybody whut tried t'pull out a bigger fish than the one he got."
"What'd they do t'make him stop?" Rafe asked.
"They dug up that there ghost's grave and tossed in a fishin' pole. Then they fills the hole up again. Now that ol' ghost he can fish for hisself, and he keeps quiet so's he don't scare the fish away from his own hook."
"That's silly," Sarah said. She giggled, only it done turn into a yawn halfway through.
"Bedtime," I said.
"Don't wanna go t'bed." Sarah said.
"I don't recollect asking you," I said. "Gimme a kiss and get yourself upstairs."
"Please," Sarah said. "Just one more story."
Lemuel reached over and scritched Sarah's hair. "You go do like your Daddy said. I'll come back t'morrow and tell a story just for you."
"You promise?" Sarah said, looking him right in the eye.
"Cross m'heart and spit," Lemuel said. Then he done just that.
"You done promised me," Sarah said, "so's you gotta do it." She yawned again. "G'night Uncle Lemuel; g'night, Daddy, Rafe." She kissed me on the cheek. Rafe pulled back just in case she tried t'kiss him. She snorted at him like she'd rather eat worms 'n kiss her brother, and marched herself right up t'bed. Me, I just sat there and tried not to laugh at m'son.
'Specially not t'night. Not for what Lemuel was there t'do. I nodded for Lemuel t'start.
"Rafe, I can't rightly believe how fast you're growing," Lemuel says.
Rafe sat hisself up ramrod straight. "Pa says I get a size bigger every month."
"He surely do," I agreed. "I think he's even startin' to notice gals and how they's different from boys."
"Pa!" Rafe said, even in the dim light, I could see his face get all red, like."
"I think he's doing more than noticin' them," Lemuel said. "I reckon he's startin’ t'think about how nice them differences can be. Am I right, boy?"
"Maybe a little," Rafe said quietly. He got hisself a big ol' grin on his face.
"Then I knows just the story t'tell," Lemuel said. "Micah, you r'member Davie Harwell and what happened to him?"
"I do," I said. "But you know it better. You was there, so you get t'tell it."
"All right, then," Lemuel began. "It started... what? ‘bout seven... yeah, seven years ago over in Fulton. A gal, Polly Mae Burton, got herself beat up n'raped on her way home from the general store. The sheriff, he looked, looked high n'low, but there weren't no sign any place of who done it. All Polly knew was that somebody done jumped her from behind. He tore off her dress and her drawers, and he done had his way with her before she even got a chance t'scream."
"Didn't she see who it was?" Rafe asked. I'd just had me that talk with him about gals a few months before. He knew what Lemuel was talking about. I seen him looking at the gals all the time... at his school... at church... everyplace. Gals and what a man could do with them was all he seemed t'think about.
Same as any other boy his age.
"That there was the bad part," Lemuel continued. "She said that she did see his face, and she said it weren't human. It was some kind of an animal head, like a wolf's head, on the body of a man."
"A haunt," Rafe said. "A real haunt."
"Yep, and that weren't the last time it come around. It attacked two other gals. One had herself an old coon gun. She shot it, right in the heart she said. It just laughed. She throwed that rifle at it and ran. She got away, too, and when they found that there gun, the barrel was twisted t'all getout, something she could never o' done herself."
"What about that other gal?"
"There weren't no one around t'stop the haunt, and it done t'her just what it done t'the first." Lemuel paused for another draw from his pipe. "'Cept it done it on soft ground. After we found that gal and sent her t'see the doc, we found tracks."
"Tracks? Naw, a haunt don't leave no tracks." Rafe said it sure as he could.
"This one did," Lemuel said. "Ya see... well, I'll tell ya soon enough. We got ourselves dogs, good coon dogs, and we tracked it. We tracked it for two days. That haunt could hear them dogs, and it just kept on running, through the briars, down the side of a mountain, and through a swamp. We should've lost it, but a haunt, it don't smell like nothing else them dogs ever smelt. You couldn't 'a shaken them off the scent with dollars nor dynamite."
"We saw fresh tracks when we got ourselves out of that there swamp. We thought it was too easy -- that they wasn't the haunt. Them dogs knew. They started in barking and pulling at their leashes, so we men followed. We followed them tracks across open country for about a mile. Now we was on a farm, fences and a plowed field, but we weren't sure whose."
"And them tracks was getting downright odd. When we first seen 'em, them tracks looked like they belonged to a big ol' man, full growed and then some. But as we was getting closer to the farm, them tracks, they started on getting smaller. By the time we got to the farm cabin, them tracks looked more like it was a boy that made 'em."
"Luke Cromwell, the constable, he was leading us. He walked up to that cabin door and knocked on it like it were something he done every day."
"That door creaked open. We all raised up our own rifles, ready t'shoot the haunt. Only, it weren't no haunt. It was a boy, fifteen maybe, in a pair of overalls. He had sandy blonde hair and a face full a freckles. 'Can I help you, sir,' he says in a tone that'd melt butter on your plate."
"We all thought that them dogs done made a mistake. A couple of us put down their guns and said something real bad about them dogs. Not Luke. He done look down, but he looked at the boy's feet. Sure enough, he had work boots on, boots that looked just the right size to've made them tracks, and they was covered with mud."
"'Anybody in the house here with you, boy,' Luke says, and he points his rifle right at the boy."
"'No... no, sir,' that boy says."
"One of the other men says, 'What're you doing, Luke?'"
"Ol' Luke says, 'I'm catching me a haunt.' He pushes his rifle against that boy's chest and tells him t'get into the house."
"The boy, he backs up into the house. Luke walks in, and the rest of us follow."
"How come that ol' haunt didn't rush 'em?" Rafe interrupted. "You said rifles couldn't hurt it."
"Well, now, I don't know. Maybe it was tired, or maybe a rifle could hurt it when it turned itself into a boy. Maybe... hellfire! All I know is that it was afraid of Luke's rifle. Now, can I get on with this here story I'm telling?"
"So anyway, there weren't nobody else in that cabin. It looked... it looked just like any other one y'might see in these parts, 'cept they was a lot a pictures on the walls, pictures of women cut out from ol' Sears Roebuck 'Wish Book' catalogs and some of them pictures from France that men get with their chawing tobacco. The boy, he had a bunch of 'em tacked all over th'walls."
"'I think we best tie you t'something till we can figure this out.' Luke said."
"The boy just smiled. It must'a been the kind of smile a cat gets when it starts t'play with a mouse. 'That ain't gonna help you none, sir. I gets real strong again, and I can get free of anything. Them guns of your'n, they ain't gonna hurt me. But I'm sure gonna hurt all o’you.'"
"'We'll just see 'bout that,' Luke said. He made that boy lie down, spread eagle on a bed that was over in one corner of the room. Some of the men had rope, and they tied that boy; they tied him down good. They found some more rope -- and some good leather harness -- in a shed out back of th'cabin, and they used it, too."
"When they started tying the boy down, one of the men, Efram Sook, decided that this haunt was gonna take more'n rope t'deal with. Efram told Luke what he was doing, then he headed out -- running fast as he could -- for Pastor Jonas from the Gospel of Our Lord Church. Pastor Jonas, he was the smartest man in them hills, and he was educated, a man of G-d. He'd know what t'do."
"Efram and the Pastor came back in the Pastor's old buggy quick as they could. The Pastor had him a copy of the Good Book and a box of crosses blessed at some place called Lourdes and sent special delivery from there for only $5.85 per set of six. The Pastor had four sets with him."
"They come back just in time. That haunt was coming back. The boy's body was growing muscles like bottomland growed barley, and his face didn't look none too human no more. It was pulling at them ropes and saying all sorts of wicked things when he couldn't break 'em right off. That didn't stop it none. It kept right on pulling, and some of them ropes was starting to show the wear."
"The Pastor come in wearing his good frock coat and the big silver cross that he only wore on Sundays. 'All right, you thing from Hell,’ he says. ‘I come t'send you back thar in the name of Jesus.'"
"That thing hauled off and just spat at the Pastor, but that holy man was sprier than he looked, and he ducked. Good thing it missed him 'cause it burned the wood when it hit the floor of that cabin. That ol' haunt, he just laughed and laughed."
"By now, Efram had them boxes open. They was five men in the cabin besides Pastor Jonas, and they each had them a handful of them crosses. 'Tie one t'each set of them ropes,' the Pastor says. 'Efram, you put them four you got under the bed; make a cross out've them.' We was all brave men, and we done what the Pastor said. It took a few minutes, the way that thing kept pulling at them ropes, twisting 'em in our hands, but when we was done, that haunt stopped pulling the ropes. It just laid there and glared at the Pastor with big yellow teeth, like a mad dog."
"Pastor Jonas looked at that haunt, kinda sad like. 'Why you come here, haunt; why did you do this to that poor young boy?'"
"The haunt bared its teeth. 'He... Davie... wanted me... wanted me to come... wanted the power I bring... power over the females that he hates... that he wants... the females that won't love him as he loves them.' It howled right then, but that howl, it sounded more like the cry of a lonely man than the howl of an angry beast."
The Pastor got mad at that. 'You got no right 'come here, just like he had no right t'be calling you.' He picked up the Good Book, turned some pages and began to read. 'Each o’you men put on one of them crosses,' the Pastor said at one point. 'I don't want this devil jumping hisself into one of you.' He went back t'reading as soon as he saw we all got them crosses on. He read... I don't know... it may've been an hour; it may've been forty days and forty nights. We all stayed there, saying 'Amen' when we felt the need, keeping our rifles ready just in case."
"That haunt weren't laughing now. Its face weren't none too human, but it looked t'me like it was in pain. 'A deal,' it suddenly said."
"One man asked, 'What kind of a deal? The Pastor got you demon, you got nothing t'deal with.'"
"The haunt shook its head. 'I can save this boy pain. I was promised three females, and I have already had two. Give me the third, and I will leave the boy in peace. If not, you must force me out. You will win, but the boy... the boy will feel... pain, great pain.'"
"'The words in this book will protect the boy,' the Pastor said. 'And I ain't one t'deal in the bodies of young women.'"
"The haunt laughed, a pained laugh, but still a laugh. 'No, just in their souls, which can be worth so much more... or so much less.' It laughed again, coughing a little, like it was hurt bad inside."
"The Pastor looked triumphant. 'I am winning, hellspawn, and you will soon be gone back thar t'the pit.' He started reading again. I recognized some of the words from the Psalms."
"All of a sudden that ol' haunt let out a scream that chilled my blood. 'I am going, Pastor, but I will take my payment with me yet.' Then the haunt pulled against the ropes, arching its back like some trapped animal. It started in t'glow, red like an ember, and smoke like oil on a hotplate. The air smelled of what had to be brimstone. Then there was a pop, and it was gone."
"'Is it over?' the boy asked. He sounded kinda scared."
"We all looked at the bed. "'Not yet,' the Pastor said. The boy looked down at hisself. His body was still glowing."
"'I feel right strange,' the boy said. His voice sounded different from b'fore, higher n'softer. Now I seen a lot things in my days, but I never saw anything like whut happened next. The boy's hair was growing, growing fast. It came down over his ears and it didn't stop it it was a-hanging down 'round his shoulders. His face got a little bit thinner, so did his body, all his muscles just sorta went away. I looked at him close, and I could see he didn't have no adam's apple no more."
"Whut was happening to him?" Rafe asked.
"Whatever it was, it kept right on happinging. He got smaller, shorter. In fact the straps of them overalls started t'slip off his shoulders. That bib on them overalls hung down low on his chest. He didn't have no hair on his chest, but he had something thar... two somethings, and they was getting bigger. She saw whut they was doing, and she grabbed that bib and pulled it up almost to her neck."
"She," Rafe said. "What d'you mean, 'she'?"
Lemuel smiled. "I mean there wasn't no boy on that bed. It was a gal, a pretty little thing, with hair down past her shoulders. She still had them freckles, but they just made her look cute, 'specially with them big blue eyes she had. She had a gal's figure, too, I tell you. It was a good thing that she was wearing bib overalls t'cover up things that a man ain't supposed to see in public. Her face was flushed, and she was panting like she'd just done a full days work. It was kinds nice watching them... watching the top of her overaslls go up n'down like they done. "
"What happened to the boy?" Rafe said stubbornly, not quite understanding.
"Why, Rafe, that haunt said it wanted payment. It took payment. Davie called that ol' haunt 'cause of the way he was thinking 'bout gals and whut he wanted t'do with... do to them. So, it took that boy's manhood, changed him into a gal somehow before it got drove out by the Pastor."
I took a quick look over at Rafe. He looked like he was paying attention now, and that was why I asked Lemuel t'tell the tale. A boy his age should be thinkin' of gals, but his ma and me was afraid he was doing it a little too much for it t'be healthy.
"After we got her untied, she climbed off that bed and got a good look at herself. We almost got a good look. Them overalls was way too big for her now, and they almost fell off. The Pastor took off his frock coat and put it over her. He put a cross 'round her neck... just t'make sure. She done picked it up and kissed it."
"Didn't she mind getting turned into a gal like that?"
"No, Rafe. She said she got to hate what that haunt was making her do. She wasn't happy, but she said it was a punishment she deserved."
"'Amen,' the Pastor said, and we all joined in."
"The gal -- she decided to call herself 'Daisy' -- thanked us all for rescuing her. She was an orphan. Her daddy and momma had left her the farm, but she didn't want any part of it now. She rode back t'town with Efram and the Pastor. She sold that farm -- or most of it; gave some of the money t'each of the gals that ol' haunt had attacked."
"She stayed in the Pastor's house. His sister, Miss Hermione, taught her how t'act like a lady. Why I r'member the first time she came t'church on a Sunday. She wore a white dress that Miss Hermione had sewed for her, and she looked --"
"Hold on there a minute," Rafe said, he eyes suddenly very wide. "That haunt gal, is she still living at the Parson's house?"
Lemuel smiled and ran his fingers through Rafe's hair. "No, Rafe, she ain't. Your Aunt Daisy said for y'all to be sure to r'member t'come by her... our house this Sunday for dinner after church."
He-Demon
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2002
Lemuel stuck a twig into the fire and used it to light his pipe. "Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, "it being right 'round Hallerween, I 'spect you'll wants t'hear a story 'bout spooks and spirits."
"Yeah," Rafe said, his 11-year old eyes was wide. "A scary story."
Little Sarah scootched up against me and shivered. "But not too scary."
"Not too scary, eh?" Lemuel said, taking a draw on his pipe. "Now there's the story -- naw, that's too scary. I wouldn't want to scare Sarah none." He scratched his chin for a moment and took another draw o'tobacco. "There's the story of the ghost whut haunted a river."
"A whole river?" Rafe asked. "Why'd he do that?"
"A-well, when he was livin', he done pulled the biggest fish anybody'd ever seen out that river. He was so proud, his ghost stayed along the river and went... BOO!" Lemuel looked right at Sarah when he said that.
She let out a yell and turned away. Then she turned back and began to giggle.
"Yep," Lemuel said. "He said 'boo!' t'anybody whut tried t'pull out a bigger fish than the one he got."
"What'd they do t'make him stop?" Rafe asked.
"They dug up that there ghost's grave and tossed in a fishin' pole. Then they fills the hole up again. Now that ol' ghost he can fish for hisself, and he keeps quiet so's he don't scare the fish away from his own hook."
"That's silly," Sarah said. She giggled, only it done turn into a yawn halfway through.
"Bedtime," I said.
"Don't wanna go t'bed." Sarah said.
"I don't recollect asking you," I said. "Gimme a kiss and get yourself upstairs."
"Please," Sarah said. "Just one more story."
Lemuel reached over and scritched Sarah's hair. "You go do like your Daddy said. I'll come back t'morrow and tell a story just for you."
"You promise?" Sarah said, looking him right in the eye.
"Cross m'heart and spit," Lemuel said. Then he done just that.
"You done promised me," Sarah said, "so's you gotta do it." She yawned again. "G'might Uncle Lemuel; g'night, Daddy, Rafe." She kissed me on the cheek. Rafe pulled back just in case she tried t'kiss him. She snorted at him like she'd rather eat worms 'n kiss her brother, and marched herself right up t'bed. Me, I just sat there and tried not to laugh at m'son.
'Specially not t'night. Not for what Lemuel was there t'do. I nodded for Lemuel t'start.
"Rafe, I can't rightly believe how fast you're growing," Lemuel says.
Rafe sat hisself up ramrod straight. "Pa says I get a size bigger every
month."
"He surely do," I agreed. "I think he's even startin' to notice gals and how they's different from boys."
"Pa!" Rafe said, even in the dim light, I could see his face get all red, like."
"I think he's doing more than noticin' them," Lemuel said. "I reckon he's starting t'think about how nice them differences can be. Am I right, boy?"
"Maybe a little," Rafe said quietly. He got hisself a big ol' grin on his face.
"Then I knowed just the story t'tell," Lemuel said. "Micah, you r'member Davie Harwell and what happened to him?"
"I do," I said. "But you know it better. You was there, so you get t'tell it."
"All right, then," Lemuel began. "It started... what? "bout seven... yeah,seven years ago over in Fulton. A gal, Polly Mae Burton, got herself beat up n'raped on her way home from the general store. The sheriff, he looked, looked high n'low, but there weren't no sign any place of who done it. All Polly knew was that some body done jumped her from behind. He tore off her
dress and her drawers, and he done had his way with her before she even got a chance t'scream."
"Didn't she see who it was?" Rafe asked. I'd just had me that talk with him about gals a few months before. He knew what Lemuel was talking about. I seen him looking at the gals all the time... at his school... at church... everyplace. Gals and what a man could do with them was all he seemed t'think about.
Same as any other boy his age.
"That there was the bad part," Lemuel continued. "She said that she did see his face, and she said it weren't human. It was some kind of an animal head, like a wolf's head, on the body of a man."
"A haunt," Rafe said. "A real haunt."
"Yep, and that weren't the last time it come around. It attacked two other gals. One had herself an old coon gun. She shot it, right in the heart she said. It just laughed. She throwed that rifle at it and ran. She got away, too, and when they found that there gun, the barrel was twisted t'all getout, something she could never o' done herself."
"What about that other gal?"
"There weren't no one around t'stop the haunt, and it done t'her just what it done t'the first." Lemuel paused for another draw from his pipe. "'Cept it done it on soft ground. After we found that gal and sent her t'see the doc, we found tracks."
"Tracks? Naw, a haunt don't leave no tracks." Rafe said it sure as he
could.
"This one did," Lemuel said. "Ya see... well, I'll tell ya soon enough. We got ourselves dogs, good coon dogs, and we tracked it. We tracked it for two days. That haunt could hear them dogs, and it just kept on running, through the briars, down the side of a mountain, and through a swamp. We should've lost it, but a haunt, it don't smell like nothing else them dogs
ever smelt. You couldn't 'a shaken them off the scent with dollars nor dynamite."
"We saw fresh tracks when we got ourselves out of that there swamp. We thought it was too easy -- that they wasn't the haunt. Them dogs knew. They started in barking and pulling at their leashes, so we men followed. We followed them tracks across open country for about a mile. Now we was on a farm now, fences and plowed field, but we weren't sure whose."
"And them tracks was getting downright odd. When we first seen 'em, them tracks looked like they belonged to a big ol' man, full growed and then some. But as we was getting closer to the farm, them tracks, they started on getting smaller. By the time we got to the farm cabin, them tracks looked more like it was a boy that made 'em."
"Luke Cromwell, the constable, he was leading us. He walked up to that cabin door and knocked on it like it were something he done every day."
"That door creaked open. We all put up their own rifles, ready t'shoot the haunt. Only, it weren't no haunt. It was a boy, fifteen maybe, in a pair of overalls. He had sandy blonde hair and a face full a freckles. 'Can I help you, sir,' he says in a tone that'd melt butter on your plate."
"We all thought that them dogs done made a mistake. A couple of us put down their guns and said something real bad about them dogs. Not Luke. He done look down, but he looked at the boy's feet. Sure enough, he had work boots on, boots that looked just the right size to've made them tracks, and they was covered with mud."
"'Anybody in the house here with you, boy,' Luke says, and he points his rifle right at the boy."
"'No... no, sir,' that boy says."
"One of the other men says, 'What're you doing, Luke?'"
"Ol' Luke says, 'I'm catching me a haunt.' He pushes his rifle against that boy's chest and tells him t'get into the house."
"The boy, he backs up into the house. Luke walks in, and the rest of us follow."
"How come that ol' haunt didn't rush 'em?" Rafe interrupted. "You said rifles couldn't hurt it."
"Well, now, I don't know. Maybe it was tired, or maybe a rifle could hurt it when it turned itself into a boy. Maybe... hellfire! All I know is that it was afraid of Luke's rifle. Now can I get on with this here story I'm telling?"
"So anyway, there weren't nobody else in that cabin. It looked... it looked just like any other one y'might see in these parts, 'cept they was a lot a pictures on the walls, pictures of women cut out from ol' Sears Roebuck 'Wish Book' catalogs and some of them pictures from France that men get with their chawing tobacco. The boy, he had a bunch of 'em stuck all over
th'walls."
"'I think we best tie you t'something till we can figure this out.' Luke said."
"The boy just smiled. It must'a been the kind of smile a cat gets when it starts t'play with a mouse. 'That ain't gonna help you none, sir. I gets real strong again, and I can get free of anything. Them guns of your'n, they ain't gonna hurt me. But I'm sure gonna hurt you all.'"
"'We'll just see 'bout that,' Luke said. He made that boy lie down, spread eagle on a bed that was over in one corner of the room. Some of the men had rope, and they tied that boy; they tied him down good. They found some more rope -- and some good leather harness -- in a shed out back of th'cabin, and they used it, too."
"When they started tying the boy down, one of the men, Efram Sook, decided that this haunt was gonna take more'n rope t'deal with. Efram told Luke what he was doing, then he headed out -- running fast as he could -- for Pastor Jonas from the Gospel of Our Lord Church. Pastor Jonas, he was the smartest man in them hills, and he was educated, a man of G-d. He'd know what t'do."
"Efram and the Pastor came back in the Pastor's old buggy quick as they could. The Pastor had him a copy of the Good Book and a box of crosses blessed at some place called Lourdes and sent special delivery from there for only $5.85 per set of six. The Pastor had four sets with him."
"They come back just in time. That haunt was coming back. The boy's body was growing muscles like bottomland growed barley, and his face didn't look none too human no more. It was pulling at them ropes and saying all sorts of wicked things when he couldn't break 'em right off. That didn't stop it none. It kept right on pulling, and some of them ropes was starting to show the wear."
"The Pastor come in wearing his good frock coat and the big silver cross that he only wore on Sundays. 'All right, you thing from Hell. I come t'send you back thar in the name of Jesus.'"
"That thing hauled off and just spat at the Pastor, but he was sprier than he looked, and he ducked. Good thing it missed him 'cause it burned the wood when it hit the floor of that cabin. That ol' haunt, he just laughed and laughed."
"By now, Efram had them boxes open. They was five men in the cabin besides Pastor Jonas, and they each had them a handful of them crosses. 'Tie one t'each set of them ropes,' the Pastor says. 'Efram, you put them four you got under the bed; make a cross out've them.' We was all brave men, and we done what the Pastor said. It took a few minutes, the way that thing kept
pulling at them ropes, twisting 'em in our hands, but when we was done, that haunt stopped pulling the ropes. It just laid there and glared at the Pastor with big yellow teeth, like a mad dog."
"Pastor Jonas looked at that haunt, kinda sad like. 'Why you come here, haunt; why did you do this to that poor young boy?'"
"The haunt bared its teeth. 'He... Davie... wanted me... wanted me to come... wanted the power I bring... power over the females that he hates... that he _wants_... the females that won't love him as he loves them.' It howled right then, but that howl, it sounded more like the cry of a lonely man than the howl of an angry beast."
The Pastor got mad at that. 'You got no right 'come here, just like he hadno right t'be calling you.' He picked up the Good Book, turned some pages and began to read. 'Each a you men put on one of them crosses,' the Pastor said at one point. 'I don't want this devil jumping hisself into one of you.' He went back t'reading as soon as he saw we all got them crosses on. He read... I don't know... it may've been an hour; it may've been forty days
and forty nights. We all stayed there, saying 'Amen' when we felt the need, keeping our rifles ready just in case."
"That haunt weren't laughing now. It's face weren't none too human, but it looked t'me like it was in pain. 'A deal,' it suddenly said."
"One man asked, 'What kind of a deal? The Pastor got you demon, you got nothing t'deal with."
"The haunt shook its head. 'I can save this boy pain. I was promised three females, and I have already had two. Give me the third, and I will leave the boy in peace. If not, you must force me out. You will win, but the boy... the boy will feel... _pain_, great pain.'"
"'The words in this book will protect the boy,' the Pastor said. 'And I ain't one t'deal in the bodies of young women.'"
"The haunt laughed, a pained laugh, but still a laugh. 'No, just in their souls, which can be worth so much more... or so much less.' It laughed again, coughing a little, like it was hurt bad inside."
"The Pastor looked triumphant. 'I am winning, hellspawn, and you will soon be gone back thar t'the pit.' He started reading again. I recognized some of the words from the Psalms."
"All of a sudden that ol' haunt let out a scream that chilled my blood. 'I am going, Pastor, but I will take my payment with me yet.' Then the haunt pulled against the ropes, arching its back like some trapped animal. It started in t'glow, red like an ember, and smoke like oil on a hotplate. The air smelled of what had to be brimstone. Then there was a pop, and it was gone."
"'Is it over?' the boy asked. He sounded kinda scared."
"We all looked at the bed. "'Not yet,' the Pastor said. The boy looked down at hisself. His body was still glowing."
"'I feel right strange,' the boy said. His voice sounded different from b'fore, higher n'softer. Now I seen a lot things in my days, but I never saw anything like whut happened next. The boy's hair was growing, growing fast. It came down over his ears and it didn't stop it it was a-hanging down 'round his shoulders. His face got a little bit thinner, so did his body, all his muscles just sorta went away. I looked at him close, and I could see he didn't have no adam's apple no more."
"Whut was happening to him?" Rafe asked.
"Whatever it was, it kept right on happinging. He got smaller, shorter. In fact the straps of them overalls started t'slip off his shoulders. That bib on them overalls hung down low on his chest. He didn't have no hair on his chest, but he had something thar... two somethings, and they was getting bigger. She saw whut they was doing, and she grabbed that bib and pulled it up almost to her neck."
"She," Rafe said. "What d'you mean, 'she'?"
Lemuel smiled. "I mean there wasn't no boy on that bed. It was a gal, a pretty little thing, with hair down past her shoulders. She still had them freckles, but they just made her look cute, 'specially with them big blue eyes she had. She had a gal's figure, too, I tell you. It was a good thing that she was wearing bib overalls t'cover up things that a man ain't supposed to see in public. Her face was flushed and she was panting like she'd just done a full days work. It was kinds nice watching them... watching the top of her overaslls go up n'down like they done. "
"What happened to the boy?" Rafe said stubbornly, not quite understanding.
"Why, Rafe, that haunt said it wanted payment. It took payment. Davie called that ol' haunt 'cause of the way he was thinking 'bout gals and whut he wanted t'do with... do _to_ them. So, it took that boy's manhood, changed him into a gal somehow before it got drove out by the Pastor."
I took a quick look over at Rafe. He looked like he was paying attention now, and that was why I asked Lemuel t'tell the tale. A boy his age should be thinkin' of gals, but his ma and me was afraid he was doing it a little too much for it t'be healthy.
"After we got her untied, she climbed off that bed and got a good look at herself. We almost got a good look. Them overalls was way too big for her now, and they almost fell off. The Pastor took off his frock coat and put it over her. He put a cross 'round her neck... just t'make sure. She done picked it up and kissed it."
"Didn't she mind getting turned into a gal like that?"
"No, Rafe. She said she got to hate what that haunt was making her do. She wasn't happy, but she said it was a punishment she deserved."
"'Amen,' the Pastor said, and we all joined in."
"The gal -- she decided to call herself 'Daisy' -- thanked us all for rescuing her. She was an orphan. Her daddy and momma had left her the farm, but she didn't want any part of it now. She rode back t'town with Efram and the Pastor. She sold that farm -- or most of it; gave some of the money t'each of the gals that ol' haunt had attacked."
"She stayed in the Pastor's house. His sister, Miss Hermione, taught her how t'act like a lady. Why I r'member the first time she came t'church on a Sunday. She wore a white dress that Miss Hermione had sewed for her, and she looked --"
"Hold on there a minute," Rafe said, he eyes suddenly very wide. "That haunt gal, is she still living at the Parson's house?"
Lemuel smiled and ran his fingers through Rafe's hair. "No, Rafe, she ain't. Your Aunt _Daisy_ said for y'all to be sure to r'member t'come by her... _our_ house this Sunday for dinner after church."
***
House Sitting Pretty
by Ellie Dauber © 2003
Looking back, I guess it was all my fault.
My name, by the way is -- was -- Dan Hendrix. I worked as a salesman for Paxton Realty. In fact, I still do. We specialize in commercial real estate: office buildings, malls, warehouses, that sort of thing, and we do sales, rental, and maintenance. I've worked there since before Mary and I got out of community college about twelve years ago. Mary and I got married the week we graduated. She's a paralegal -- the senior paralegal, in fact -- at Baumgarten and Whyte, one of the biggest firms in the city.
Anyway, about a month ago, Mary went out of town for a few days with her boss, Katherine Whyte. Ms. Whyte was handling some big case up in Boston, and she needed a lot of help. She even took her daughter, Sue, along to act as her secretary. Sue's only 15 or so, but she's smart as a whip -- pretty, too -- and her mother swears that Sue will be a lawyer when she grows up. She's certainly got the right name for it.
Their trip took a lot longer than they expected, though. Mary had been gone for... six days, I think it was. I was tired of going home to an empty house and eating bad take-out. When Mick Tatum, one of the other salesmen, suggested stopping off at the Fox and Hounds for burgers and brew, I was more than happy to go along.
We were following the waitress to our table -- not too closely, she had an ass that was worth watching, especially in that short skirt she was wearing -- when we heard a female voice. “Nick... Dan, it that you?” We both turned. It was Beth Lindley. Beth's a perky little redhead with big green eyes and a lush figure. She's also one of the loan officers at Laurel Valley Bank, the bank our firm usually deals with. She flashed a 1000 watt smile -- aimed mainly at Nick -- and said, “Why don't you two join us?”
Nick looked at me. It was common knowledge that they were dating seriously, but he had offered me a “stag” evening. “Why not,” I said with a shrug. Who was I to spoil his love life?
Another woman was sitting in the booth that Beth led us to, a slender brunette. Beth did the introductions. “Cindy, this is Nick Tatum, the guy I was telling you about, and this other hunk is Dan Hendrix. Dan works with Nick. Guys, this is Cindy Blume. She's an old friend of mine from college, in town for some sort of conference.”
“Hi, Nick... Dan.” She flashed a big smile at us. I sat down next to her in the booth, as Nick sat down next to Beth.
To make a long story short, Nick and Beth went home together, and I went back to Cindy's hotel room. There was no lying about it; I never took off my wedding ring or anything like that. Cindy had just broken up with a long-time boy friend after a major fight. She hadn't had sex in a couple months, and she missed it. It hadn't been near that long for me, but I missed it, too.
Besides, when an attractive woman puts her hand on your thigh, squeezes, and whispers in your ear, “I could really use a man tonight.” Well, I was married, but I wasn't dead.
* * * * *
Two days later, I was dead.
Mary had gotten back in the middle of the afternoon. When she called from the airport, we arranged for me to pick up a pizza for supper. I picked up some wine, too. I figured a little pizza, a little “vino”, and on to the bedroom to welcome her home in our favorite way.
I was humming some hokey old Italian tune, as I let myself into our apartment. “Mary, I'm --”
“I know what you are.” Mary was standing a few feet away from the door. She was glaring at me and talking in a voice that could cut glass. “I knew it as soon as I found this.” She held out her hand to show me something.
Shit! I recognized the earring as soon as I saw it. It was one of Cindy's. I tried for a fake. “Nice earring,” I said hesitantly. “Get it up in Boston?”
“I didn't get it anyplace, you son of a bitch. I found it, found it by the bed, while I was unpacking.”
“I don't --”
“The hell you don't. Who was she this time, Dan?”
She had me dead to rights. The only way that earring could have gotten to our bed was on a woman's ear. “She's... I went out for dinner and drinks with Nick Tatum. She was a friend of Beth's from out of town.” Mary knew about Nick and Beth; like I said, it was no big secret.
“And just how long have you and Nick been double dating?”
“Mary, it was just that one time; I swear. You'd been out of town for almost a week, and I was... lonely.” Okay, it was a dumb answer. I knew it was dumb as soon as I said it.
“You mean you were horny. Come on, Dan, I was only gone a few days.”
“Yeah, but you were gone.”
“Are you saying that I should stay home, that I shouldn't work?”
Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! This was not an argument that I could possibly win. Besides, I didn't really mind that she worked. “No, no. I'm... I'm not saying that. To tell the truth, I'm proud of how well you're doing with your job.” And that was the truth.
“You just think that I shouldn't travel; that I have to stay here in town, so I can be ready any time you get... 'lonely'.”
I was desperate, and desperate men say really stupid things. “Well, it's your own fault.”
“My fault? How the hell is it my fault?”
Open mouth and insert both feet. Up to the knees. “You... you're just so good in bed that it's... it's addictive. Yeah, addictive. When you go away for any length of time, I go crazy -- like a druggie without his fix.”
She put her hands on her hips, a bemused expression on her face. “That is the biggest load I ever heard. You've been unfaithful to me all those times because I'm so good in bed.”
“I guess it is a pretty lame excuse.” It was. When you're unarmed and surrounded, surrender can be a viable option, just not unconditional surrender. “I... I was just afraid of losing you. I know that I've hurt you, Mary. I'm sorry, really I am. Please, please forgive me.”
Sure I was “whipped”, but -- dammit -- I did love her. I just wasn't very good at being faithful to her.
“Do you promise that this... Cindy will be the last time?”
“I do, Mary, I swear that I do. Cindy was a... a horrible mistake. You're the woman I love.”
Remember that scene in the first Blues Brothers movie where Carrie Fisher has John Belushi trapped in a tunnel? She wants to kill him for leaving her at the altar, and she's got an Uzi to make sure that she does it right. Belushi falls to his knees and yells out a long string of stupid excuses. Then he smiles and wiggles his eyebrow a few times.
And Carrie forgives him.
That's what I was trying for. I did love Mary -- always have, always will -- just not very well, I guess, or I wouldn't keep hurting her that way. Besides, I wasn't lying about how good she was in bed, exaggerating just a bit maybe, but not lying.
You see, Cindy wasn't my first... fling, not by a long shot, and I was asking a lot for Mary to believe me when I said that she'd be my last.
Mary gave me a funny look, as if she were trying to decide something very important. I guess, come to think of it, she was. After a minute or so, she smiled, a big, toothy smile, and said, “All right, I guess I'll keep you.”
It was a funny way of putting it, but I didn't care. I ran over and picked her up in a big bear hug.
“Dan! Put me down. I said I'd keep you, but I'm still angry with you -- and more than a little hurt.” I gently lowered her to the ground and tried to kiss her. On the forehead, honest.
She stepped back out of my arms before I could touch her. “We'll have supper now. I see you brought the pizza. Hmm, wine, too, I see.” She put the bottle on a counter. “I don't think either of us have anything to celebrate tonight. We'll just eat while I decide where you're going to be sleeping.”
She decided, and it wasn't our bedroom. There's a smaller room just across the hall from the bedroom. It was going to be a child's -- our child's -- room when we got the apartment, but with work and, to be frank, my fooling around, we just never managed to have a kid. Even though we really both did want one.
Now we just called it the “projects” room, since we both used it for work or hobby-related stuff. Our PC is set up in there on a desk by the window. There's also a fair-sized worktable and a couple of cabinets full of tools and odds and ends.
And a couch that opened up into a bed.
* * * * *
I spent three nights on that couch. I was back in our own bed the fourth night, but Mary acted like there was a barbed wire fence between us. It took a couple nights for that wire to go away, but still all Mary would do was snuggle a little. “Cold turkey,” she called it referring to that stupid excuse I'd given.
Snuggling wasn't enough, not by half. I missed her, dammit. I hate it when she's mad at me. She still was -- she had every right to be -- but that wasn't helping me any.
I decided to go all out. It was Friday. I'd take her away for a surprise weekend, like I'd done when we were first married. Mary really liked it up in the mountains near Tammament State Park. We'd drive up, find a nice little motel, and spend the weekend just goofing around. We could picnic in the park, explore some the villages nearby, maybe do some antiquing, another of Mary's hobbies. And, at night, we'd... make up.
I called her mid-morning. I was hoping that she wasn't so mad that she'd veto the whole idea. “Hi, Mary. I was... ah... wondering... about the weekend...”
“Dan, you must be psychic. I was just about to call you.” She actually sounded happy to see me. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all. “Could you... umm... come by the office here around noon?”
I quickly checked my appointment book. I had nothing scheduled for the rest of the day. “Yeah... yeah, sure. Noon is great.” It was. Maybe we could both take the afternoon off and get an early start.
“Fine, then,” she said. “I'll see you at noon.”
'Mary, I--” I heard the phone click, followed a second later by the dial tone. “She must've been called to a meeting or something,' I thought.
Roy Koehler is my boss, a straight up guy, about 50 with a solid handshake and a “trust me” grin, the perfect salesman. He was also a friend, and he knew what was going on with Mary and me. I walked into his office explained why I wanted the afternoon off.
“Yeah,” he said, “take the rest of the day; it's fairly quiet in here. Good luck with Mary, too. She deserves a lot better than the way you've been treating her.”
“I know. It's just that --”
“Dan, you say that you love her, right?”
“I do. I may not show it very well sometimes, but I do.”
“I know you do, and she loves you, Heaven knows why. Go... make up with her. Promise that you'll behave, and, this time, mean it.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Okay, okay, I've said my piece, and I do I wish you luck. When you're not letting your 'Johnson' think for you, you and Mary are a great couple. I just hope that you're smart enough to realize that.”
“I do; thanks. I'll see you on Monday.”
“With good news, I hope.”
“So do I.”
* * * * *
Mary's office was across town from mine. I was almost late thanks to Friday noon traffic. I made it, though. I found a spot in the garage under her building right by the elevators, and I was stepping off them at her floor -- her office rents the whole floor -- just as the big clock in the Spencer Building chimed noon.
She was waiting for me. “Hi, Love,” I said, bending over to kiss her cheek.
She stiffened a little and stepped away. “Come with me,” she said, offering her hand. “We have some things to... umm, talk about.”
“Okay.” I took her hand -- it was a start, after all -- and let her lead me out of the reception area and into a maze of cubicles. “About the weekend. I thought we could... maybe drive up to Tammament. I even got Ray to give me the afternoon off. If you can get away, we can make an early start of it.”
“I know; Ray called me. He said how much you'd been moping around the office, and he hoped that I'd give you another chance.”
“You didn't mind, did you? You know how he likes to 'mother hen' everybody.”
“I didn't mind. He's a good man and a good friend. The thing is... well, I have to be away again. I've already been to the house and packed.”
“More travel for work? So soon?” I caught myself, not wanting to screw things up. “I'm... no, I'm not mad. I'm... I'm disappointed. I wanted to be with you this weekend.”
“I don't think that would be possible.”
“Where are you going? Maybe I could --”
“You can't. It's... it's complicated.”
“Maybe next weekend, then -- if they can spare you.” Damn, sarcasm wasn't going to win me any points. “I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.” I had to try and salvage something. “And this time, I promise that I'll behave. No fooling around, you can trust me.”
Mary's eyes narrowed. “No, Dan, I can't trust you, not any more. That's why I've made some other arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” I stopped walking and looked around. We weren't anywhere near her cubical. We were walking down a hallway with real doors, the offices of some the lawyers she worked for, I guessed. “What's going on? Where are we headed?”
“You'll see.” She smiled and pulled at my hand. She seemed almost playful. For a moment, I thought that she might be taking me to an empty office for a “nooner.” I felt a stiffening in my slacks, as I started after her again.
“Here we are,” she said. We were almost at the end of the hall now, near two very formidable looking doors. She stopped in front of the one on the right. A small bronze plaque on the door read, “Katherine Whyte, Managing Partner.”
“I pointed at the sign. “She's your boss, isn't she? Why do I have to see her?” I took a breath. No “nooner”, that was for sure. “This doesn't have anything to do with your going away today, does it?”
“It does, but not in the way you think.” She knocked on the door, then opened it a crack. “Ms. Whyte, it's me, Mary.”
“Come in, Mary,” came a feminine voice from inside. “Is your husband with you?”
“He is.” She opened the door wide, and we walked in. “Ms. Whyte, this, of course, is my husband, Dan Hendrix. Dan, I'm sure that you remember my boss, Katherine Whyte.”
Ms. Whyte rose from behind her desk, walking around, her arm extended to shake my hand. She was an attractive woman; in her forties, I'd guess. She was wearing a dark blue suit that hinted at a still trim figure. Her hair was blonde, going to gray, and done up in some sort of a braid. “Hello, Dan. May I call you Dan?” Her handshake was firm and deliberate.
I was outclassed, and I knew it. “Dan... uh, Dan's fine, Ms. Whyte.”
“Please, please call me Katherine, Dan. You, too, Mary. I don't know why you've gone so formal on me.” She flashed a friendly “trust me” sort of smile. “Mary's been telling me a great deal about you, Dan.”
“Not all of it bad, I hope.”
“Not all, but enough.” She frowned. “I understand that you don't approve of all the travelling she's been doing for the firm.”
“I-I don't, not really. I understand that it's a part of her job and all, but I miss her. I love her.”
“So you say. You love her so much that you sleep with other woman to make up for her not being around.”
She had me. “Very good, umm, Katherine. Mary always said that you were a first rate lawyer. Now I see why.”
“Thank you, Dan, but you haven't answered my question.”
“I don't have an answer, not a good one. I-I'm a man, I guess, and sometimes... sometimes I do stupid things.”
“You're right, that wasn't a good answer, but it was an honest one.” She looked at Mary who was now sitting next to a small conference table a few feet from the desk. “And, if Mary still wishes it, we can do something to correct the problem.”
“I... I do,” Mary stammered. “I... oh, just go ahead and do it.” There was a sadness to her voice.
“Very well,” Ms. Whyte said looking towards the back of the room behind me. “Delphine, if you would please.”
I looked around. A tall, very attractive brunette was sitting on a couch against the wall. She stood in one fluid motion and walked towards me, her hips swaying. She wore a long, pale blue dress that showed off her figure without being suggestive or vulgar. It didn't need to. Between her lush figure and the feline grace that she walked with, she'd have given the Pope a hard-on.
“Dan,” I heard Ms. Whyte say, “this is Delphine, a friend of mine. Delphine, this is Dan.” She paused a beat. “Delphine has something to give you, Dan.”
Delphine stood very close to me. She was tall, almost my six foot one height. I could smell her odd, flowery perfume. She smiled and reached hands up over my head. I felt her breasts push against me, as she leaned forward and put something around my neck. Then she mumbled something softly in a language that I didn't recognize and stepped back away from me.
A weird sort of tingling, sort of like a low voltage electric shock ran through my body. I reached up with my right hand to see just what it was that she'd stuck around my neck.
My hand froze halfway to my neck. I couldn't move. “What the hell?” At least I could still talk.
I was still tingling. The room began to move, to get bigger. No, I was shrinking, even if I didn't realize it at the time. I did realize that my scalp itched. I felt my hair get longer, felt it slide down over my ears, growing until it was tickling the back of my neck.
My clothes got very loose. My shirt sleeves moved down past my wrist to cover most of my hand. My slacks slipped down to my hips, and those were growing because now the slacks got tight against my hips and butt. My shirt collar hung a lot looser around my throat, too.
The tingling got worse at my crotch. A hard-on started; then it kind of went numb, like there was nothing there. All I could feel was something... moving. Yeah, that's the only word for it, moving around inside of me down there.
My chest was suddenly tingling like crazy. It was like something was growing on it, pulling it outward. Whatever it was, it was pushing against my t-shirt, and the fabric of the shirt felt rougher than it had before.
Something was pushing against my face, too. It was like the flesh was clay, and a sculptor was moving my nose around and pushing against my cheekbones. That only lasted for a minute or so. Then it felt like something oily was smearing across my lips, on my cheeks, even on my eyelids.
The changes, whatever they were, kept coming. I couldn't feel my shirt collar any more, just the cord that Delphine had put around my neck. I didn't feel the weight of my jacket on my arms, either. I did feel my shirt sleeves moving up my arms. Some sort of mesh was moving up my legs, too. It reached all the way up to my hips, where the mesh from my two legs merged together into a single, tight garment. I felt a draft on my legs, all of a sudden, as if I wasn't wearing my pants anymore.
I seemed to rise a couple inches as there was a “push” on the backs of my feet. I was off-balanced and stumbled forward a step. Hey! I could move again.
“What... what just happened to me?” My head was spinning, and my voice didn't sound right.
“It is all right, Diane,” Delphine said. “Do not be afraid. The dizziness will pass in a moment.”
Now I was really confused. “Diane? Who's Diane?”
“You are,” Mary said. “For the time being, you're my husband's younger cousin, Diane, and you'll be watching our house for a while.”
“That's crazy,” I said. “I'm your cou... your cou... sin; I'm Di... Diane.” I stopped trying and just glared at her.
Mary smiled wryly. “Don't look at me. Take a look at yourself.”
I looked down. My jacket and tie were gone. My white cotton shirt was now a silky yellow blouse with a scoop neckline, a neckline that showed the tops of two very impressive breasts. Now I could see what Delphine had put on me, a white locket that hung well down into my new cleavage. I looked past that and on down to a narrow waist and full, rounded hips. The yellow blouse was actually the top of a dress that went halfway down to my knees. Below it, I saw stockings -- no, pantyhose, I remembered -- and a pair of matching high heels.
My arms -- my bare arms, since the sleeves of my... dress stopped just above my elbows -- were slender and hairless. My hands were smaller with long, slim fingers that ended in manicured, pink-painted nails. “I... I'm a girl.”
“Without a doubt,” Katherine said. “Would you like to see your new face?” I nodded, and she handed me a small mirror set in a black frame.
I was too stunned to talk. I took the mirror and held it up. I still looked like me -- or a close relative anyway. I had the same brown eyes, but now there was green shading on the eyelids and mascara on the lashes. My shaggy eyebrows had shrunk down to a pencil-thin line. My jaw was wider and my cheekbones higher, which gave a much softer look to my face. I could see blusher on my cheeks. My lips were fuller, too, and they... they had lipstick on them. I instinctively ran my tongue over them. It tasted oily and a little sweet.
It was not a face that could ever be taken for male, especially now that my curly brown hair had grown into a mass of auburn ringlets that framed it. Besides everything else, I looked younger, maybe in my mid-20s.
The worst part of it was that the face, my face, was smiling. A part of me liked the way I looked.
Mary stood up and walked over. I'd been a good six inches taller than her; now we were about the same height. “You're lovely, Diane. I don't think I'll have to worry about you sleeping with any other women while I'm away.”
“Is that what this is about?” I asked. “Don't you think changing me like this is a little drastic?”
“Perhaps,” Ms Whyte said, “but she has given you a good many chances to reform, chances you've missed I might add.”
“So this is your idea, then.” I turned and glared at Ms. Whyte. “You did this to me.”
“It is far less than you have done to your wife,” Delphine said. Her voice was high and musical with an accent that I couldn't recognize. “It had been done, and there can be no turning back.”
“Swell,” I said. “And I suppose that I'll be this way until you come back from wherever the hell you're going. What about my job, my life, in the meantime?”
“Taken care of,” Ms. Whyte said. “As far as anyone is concerned, Mike Hendrix went away with his wife.”
“What!” She couldn't be serious.
“That's what I told Ray when he called,” Mary said. “He said to tell you that he didn't mind. You had more than enough earned vacation time, and he wanted us to get back together.” She paused. “He's a very sweet man.”
“I'm stuck like this, then, until you get back.”
“Oh, don't worry, Diane,” Mary said wryly. “You'll be seeing me again before you know it.”
“And in the meantime...” I let the words hang in the air.
“In the meantime, you're Diane,” Mary said, looking very serious. “You can just think of it -- I don't know -- think of it as your ultimate punishment for all those women you slept with. You don't have to like it, Diane, but you should accept it.”
“And if I do?” Like I had a choice. This wasn't some $10 parking ticket to pay and forget about. This was magic.
Delphine answered. “If you do, if you accept this magic, then, in the end, the bond between the two of you will be restored, and the love that you share will be stronger than ever.”
I shrugged, feeling an odd jiggle in my... my breasts. “Sounds crazy, but if it will put things back the way they were between Mary and me, then I'll go along. That's all I really want.”
They will not be as before,” Delphine said. “They will be different, but they will be better.”
I looked at Mary. “Better? That would be worth even... this.” I swept my arm down in front of me. “Okay, I'll be a good, umm, girl, and cooperate.”
“Thank you, Diane.” Mary smiled one of her patented 1000-watt smiles. I'd seen too few of them lately, and I wanted to see more. “And you won't have to worry about clothes, you know. You and I are the same size now.”
“Goody.” As if I was going to wear any of her stuff. I was on vacation, and I'd spend the time in sweats or whatever I could find that wasn't feminine. I looked down at my clothes. “I guess a little change now and then can be good for a marriage.”
“Perhaps not at the present, but in the fullness of time, change is inevitable.”
Who was this Delphine? Yoda's kid sister?
Ms. Whyte looked at her watch. “Change isn't the only that that's inevitable. We have a lot of work to do before our 3 o'clock flight, Mary. Why don't you see Diane to the elevator?”
“Sure, Katherine.” Mary pulled at my arm and led me from the office.
I'd agreed to cooperate, so I didn't argue. Besides, I did want to talk to Mary once we were back in the hall. “Do you really think this is necessary?”
“I do, Diane.”
“We're alone now, Mary. You can call me Di -- oh, hell, I still can't say my real name.”
“Right now, Diane is your real name.” She paused to collect her thoughts “I love you, too. That's why I stayed with you for so long. But I couldn't take the hurt any more. It was this or divorce.”
“Divorce? No, Mary, please. I-I love you.”
“Maybe so, but you have a rotten way of showing it. Katherine and Delphine say that will solve the problem, and I have faith in them.” She sighed. “So, if you do love me, do me a favor and go along with it. Okay?”
Like I had a choice. Still, maybe it would work. “Okay, I'll... I'll do it.”
She smiled and kissed me on the cheek, a sisterly sort of smile. “Thank you, Diane. By the way, you left this in Katherine's office.” We were almost to the elevator now. She handed me a butterscotch-colored purse with a long shoulder strap.
I took the thing and put the strap over my left shoulder, as I'd seen her do so many times. “Look inside,” she whispered.
I did. I saw tissues, a couple of lipsticks, and a small makeup case. My keys, which had been in my pants pocket, were in there, too. So was a matching woman's wallet. I took out the wallet and looked inside. The driver's license had a picture of how I looked now and the name on it was “Diane Hendrix.” My age was listed as 25 -- why was I 10 years younger? -- and my sex was listed as “F”. The same name was now on my MasterCard and AmEx credit cards, not to mention a couple of department store cards I'd never seen before.
I got everything back into the purse just as we got to the elevators. “Here we are,” Mary said. “Thanks for being such a dear, Diane, and watching the house for us.” Was she trying to rub it in?
The elevator door opened. I decided to throw Mary a curve she wasn't expecting. “My pleasure, Mary. You and Cousin Dan just have a good time.” Gotcha! I kissed her on the cheek and stepped into the elevator. I spent most of the trip down thinking of the surprised look on her face and trying not to giggle.
* * * * *
My car was right where I'd left it, and, at least, it hadn't changed. I guessed that “Diane” was borrowing it while Dan and Mary were away. She-I must have been; the seat and the mirror were adjusted for my new height.
All I could think of as I drove off was getting home and changing out of this dress. I changed my mind as I got off the highway at my exit. It was after 1:30, and I was hungry. I decided to stop at the Wendy's up ahead and grab a burger for lunch.
That plan lasted until I got into the drive-through line and rolled down my window. Thanks to that damned spell, the aroma of grilled beef was now the smell of hot grease, and it hit me like a lead pipe. Instead of the double burger and fries I'd been planning on, I ordered, “a Mandarin Chicken salad and a diet coke.”
When I got to the pick-up window, I fumbled with my purse looking for the wallet. “It's okay,” the kid at the window said. “Take your time; take your time.” I thought he was being polite until I handed him the $10, I'd fished out. He didn't seem to notice it, and he had an odd look on his face.
The little bastard was staring at my lap! I hadn't paid any attention to my dress, when I got in the car. It had ridden up so high that it was showing my legs all the way up. My legs, hell, that kid could practically see my crotch.
My face felt hot -- blushing, I guess. I wanted to punch out his smirking face. Instead, I shoved the money in his face. When he turned away to make change, I quickly lifted my butt and pulled my dress as far down as I could.
He knew he was caught when he handed my change. He took a breath and waited for me to start yelling. “Just give my food,” I hissed. He did, and I peeled out of there as fast as I could.
I waited to get home to eat. Hungry as I was, though, I barely managed to finish half the salad and drank only about a third of the diet coke. I stuck the leftovers in the fridge for later and tossed the trash.
Time to change out of these clothes. I headed straight for my bedroom.
I surprised myself when I reached behind my back and unbuttoned my dress without a thought. I stepped out of it and tossed it into the laundry basket Mary keeps for dirty clothes. I liked the shirt I'd been wearing, and I hoped that the dress would change back to it, when I turned back into Dan.
The bedroom closet was behind a set of folding doors, each with a mirror. Now I could really see my new body for the first time. I looked pretty good -- hot even -- standing there in a gold colored bra and panty set. If Mary hadn't lied about my being her size, I had a 36-C rack.
I posed, taking the classic female stance, one hand on hip, the other at her side, one leg straight, the other with the knee bent. I grinned, a big, hungry grin, and my reflection smiled back, looking just as ready.
I-she raised her arm and slid her hand slowly across the tops of her-my tits. One finger moved down under the fabric of my bra and touched the nipple. A jolt of sexual energy ran through me. I shivered and heard myself moan.
I started teasing the nipple with the tip of my finger. It stiffened as I played with it. I was getting hornier by the minute, but I didn't feel the erection I was used to. Instead, I felt the hardness of my nipples and a dampness down in my...
“What the hell am I doing?” I yelled. I'd gotten so caught up in what I was feeling that I forgot who I really was. I was alone in my bedroom with a horny little slut, but she wasn't there for me to fuck. She was me.
But I didn't want to be her.
I didn't want to be a woman, and I sure didn't want to be doing anything to make me enjoy being one. I pulled my hand away and ran for the bathroom. I ran the water in the sink until it was ice cold, then I kept splashing it in my face.
It worked... eventually. I dried my face and hands with a towel. I'd gotten more than my face wet, but I sure as hell didn't want to be rubbing a towel anywhere near my tits.
I hung up the towel and walked back into the bedroom. Since I didn't have to go anywhere, I decided to indulge in an afternoon nap. I took off my panty hose and climbed into bed. The sheets felt cool against my skin. I pulled a cover over me and soon fell asleep.
* * * * *
I awoke to the feeling of my hand touching something, a woman's breast. Mary? No, I could feel myself being touched; it was my breast. “What!” I sat up, my heart racing, my eyes opened wide. Then I remembered what had happened. Talk about your rude awakenings.
I climbed out of bed and walked over to my dresser. Okay, I had tits, so I'd have to wear a bra, but that didn't mean that I had to wear anything else that was “girly.”
Wrong! I was Mary's size now. That meant that I was about six inches shorter and about sixty pounds lighter than before.
The boxer shorts I put on seemed to hang down to my knees, and they were so loose, that they almost slid off when I tried to walk. I cursed at them a couple of times, and switched back into those gold panties.
I had to roll up the sleeves of my sweatshirt four times before they were short enough so I could see my hands. The thing hung on my like a tent, and it was long enough that I could put a belt around it and wear it for a dress.
I had a worse problem with my sweatpants than with the boxers. They were down around my knees from the weight of the material as soon as I took a step. That was just as well; I could hardly walk with a good six inches of leg pooled at each ankle. “Round to the ladies,” I said as I put the pants back in my drawer. “Okay, let's see what Mary has that I can wear.”
The first outfit I found was from her aerobics class, skintight yellow and purple spandex, with a bright red panty. “No way,” I said, as I put it back. Then I got lucky. Mary had an old pair of sweats in the back of the drawer. They were pink, but what can you do? I put them on and checked myself in the mirror. They were tight enough to hint at a good figure underneath, but that was all.
There wasn't much in the way of food in the fridge. “Maybe I'm supposed to go shopping,” I guessed, not liking the prospect. I found part of a leftover chicken breast. That plus what was left of the salad and coke from lunch were my dinner. I put it all, along with a banana for desert, on a tray and went in to watch TV while I ate.
On ESPN, a couple of guys were talking baseball. It looked like the usual suspects in the National League division races. I've been a rabid Phillies fan all my life, but tonight it was about as exciting as watching paint dry.
I channel surfed till I found an old movie, some dizzy comedy from the 30s. The plot wasn't bad, but I caught myself noticing the costumes and hairdos of the actresses, especially the leading lady. “How could she let them dress her in something like... aww, hell.” Now I was beginning to think like a woman. I switched back to ESPN just in time for the start of a basketball game. Okay, it was women's basketball, but it was basketball, and I enjoyed the game anyway.
The game ended around ten. I normally stay up later than that, especially on the weekends, but, tonight, I was tired. “Getting changed into a woman sure takes a lot out of a guy,” I said with a laugh and headed off to bed.
I took off the sweats and tossed them on a chair. I was going to wear them in the morning. I was about to get a pair of pajamas out of my dresser, but “I probably won't have any better luck with my pajamas than I did with my other clothes,” I said in disgust, as I turned and opened a drawer in Mary's dresser.
Mary doesn't like to wear pajamas. It was too hot for any of her long flannel nightgowns. Mary must've taken a bunch of her nightwear with her on her trip. I had my choices of a couple of teddies, a pale green baby doll nightie I'd bought her as a gag anniversary gift -- hey, she bought me a pair of white silk boxers with little red hearts all over them -- and a short blue nightie that was almost as bad as the baby doll. They were all much too feminine for me.
Nudity was out. It was much too erotic to even think about sleeping in the nude. I sighed and went to bed in the panties I was wearing and one of Dan's... one of my t-shirts.
* * * * *
I woke up smiling after a good night's sleep. “Damn, that was a crazy dream,” I said scratching my head. My hair felt a lot thicker than it had before, and my voice... I threw back the blanket and looked down at my body. “It... it wasn't a dream.” I was a girl, and I was going to be one until Mary got home.
I sighed and got out of bed. Boy or girl, whatever I was, I was hungry. I grabbed a robe -- yes, Mary's robe -- and put it on before I padded out to the kitchen.
We were almost out of coffee. We were out of milk. Amaretto CoffeeMate tastes terrible on corn flakes. Mary kept one of those grocery pads on the fridge door. Besides coffee and milk, a bunch of other things were marked. “I guess I am going grocery shopping,” I said.
I went back into the bedroom to change.
I stuck the robe back over the chair where it had been.
I tossed my underwear from yesterday into the laundry basket. It was the first time that I'd seen myself naked as a woman, and I had to admit that I was pretty hot stuff, just the sort of girl that my old self would have made a play for. That thought stopped me. I looked like this because of what I'd done with other women and how it had hurt Mary.
I quit leering at myself and went into the bathroom. I washed my face and brushed my teeth same as always -- even used my old toothbrush. Instead of the Right Guard I... Dan used, I used Mary's Secret. I could have done more, maybe even played with myself a little before I got dressed, but somehow just then, I didn't feel like doing anything remotely sexual.
I pulled out a plain white pair of panties from Mary's dresser -- I didn't want to wear anything fancier -- okay, anything more “girly” than I had to. When I stepped into them, they fit fine, just the way she said that they would, but they sure felt funny. Even simple cotton panties were a lot softer and smoother than any boxers I'd ever worn.
I'd watched more than my share of women putting on and taking off bras, though I always thought that a woman taking off a bra was a lot more interesting to watch. I found a match to the panties and put my arms through the straps. I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to reach behind and fasten the hooks, but I surprised myself and got them on the first try.
Now I had a new problem.
My first thought was to put on the sweats I'd worn the day before. Sweats were fine around the house or for a walk in the park, but it always seemed to me that people who wore them for shopping or even just walking around in a mall were some kind of slobs, lazy, dirty, I don't know what, but that was how I felt.
And this wasn't part of the spell, either. Dan... I... the male me wouldn't have gone shopping in sweats, either.
So my problem was, was I going to be a slob and dress in what was basically a genderless sweatsuit, or was I going to put on women's clothes? “I've already got on a panty and bra,” I said with a sigh, “and Mary does own a few pair of nice slacks. What the hell...”
I found a pair of jeans and a t-shirt in Mary's dresser, and she had sandals with no real heel in the closet. That didn't seem too bad.
Yeah, right. It took me five minutes to get those jeans past my hips, and I had to take a breath to close them at my waist. They weren't painted on, but they showed off every damned curve. The lace trim on the pockets and down at the bottoms didn't help any either.
The t-shirt was a “Morning Edition” shirt that Mary had gotten for renewing her membership to public radio. It wasn't tight, but it wasn't exactly very loose, either. It showed off my new figure, unfortunately, and it sure as hell got pushed out by my new boobs... excuse me, my new breasts.
I was ready to go, when I got a look at myself in the hall mirror. Something was missing. Hell, makeup, I wasn't wearing any. I thought about going without, but back came that “lazy slob” image nagging at me. There was some lipstick in my purse, and, don't ask me how, but I knew how to use it. I did my lips, pursing them just right, then blotting with a tissue. A little blusher on my cheeks, and I was ready to go.
* * * * *
The ShopRight was a five-minute drive from the apartment. Does everybody in town go food shopping on Saturday morning? It took forever to find a parking spot that wasn't a hike from the store. I found a cart that didn't wobble too much, and started looking for the things on the list Mary had left.
I found most of it without any trouble. It was a little -- no, actually it was very -- creepy going into the “feminine hygiene products aisle after the tampons, and I hoped I got the kind Mary wanted. I hoped even more that she'd be back before I needed them.
One of the last things on the list was cereal. I was going to get more corn flakes, then, up on the top shelf, I saw Blueberry Nuggets. I'd had some of this a while back, when I spent a weekend with a couple of my friends, helping one of them move into his new house. It was pretty good; a bran flake cluster with dried blueberries. I decided to get that instead.
Like I said, though, it was on the top shelf. I couldn't reach that high in my new body. I tried jumping up, but that didn't work. Besides, I didn't like the way certain parts of me jiggled when I jumped.
I was all set to give up and settle for corn flakes, when I heard a voice behind me. “Can I help you with that, Miss?”
I turned around. It was a guy I didn't know. He was tall, about my old height and in his late 20s, I guessed. He had curly, sandy brown hair and a cute... stop it, Diane. Anyway, he was smiling at me. “I-I guess s-so,” I answered. “I was trying to get --”
“The Blueberry Nuggets, yes, I saw.” He reached up easily and handed a box down to me. “Is one box enough or do you want more?” He smiled and looked down, taking in my appearance from head to toe.
I put the box in my cart. “One’s fine, thanks.” I felt nervous, and I was suddenly very aware of what I had been turned into.
“I'm Jeff... Jeff Thomas.”
“Diane Hendrix,” I said, not sure why I was telling him.
“Nice to meet you, Diane. Would you care to join me for some coffee after we're finished here?”
He had a sweet sort of eager smile that I just... that I didn't want to think about. And why was my body tingling that that? “No... I, uhh... I have errands to do.” Dammit, a tiny part of me wanted to go with him -- maybe a not so tiny part. Now I was scared. I looked down at my list. Crackers, they were next. I looked around; crackers, where the hell did they keep the crackers? Oh, there they were.
“Another time maybe,” he called after me as I pushed the cart past him and hurried down the aisle. As I turned the corner at the end of the aisle, I thought I heard him chuckle. Was I that funny?
I paid for the food and got out of there as fast as I could. I drove straight home, but before I put the food away, I splashed some cold water in my face, sat down, and tried to get my nerves under control.
* * * * *
By the time I'd made my lunch, I was calm again. I was; really I was. I barely jumped when the phone rang, and I didn't drop my sandwich or anything.
“H-Hello,” I said.
“Is this the Hendrix residence?” a man's voice asked. “Am I speaking to Ms. Mary Hendrix?”
“I'm afraid that she's not here right now. Can I help you with something?”
“This is The Gatherum Book Store. The book Ms. Hendrix ordered has just come in. She asked us to call when it did.”
I remembered the book, the account of somebody's trip through the south of France. Mary loved reading that sort of thing. I checked the desk Mary used for her kitchen “office.” Sure enough, there was the receipt from the bookstore. I thought I'd earn a few brownie points. “I have the receipt. Can I come in and pick it up for her?”
“I suppose so. Do you know where we're located?” Silly question, it was printed on the receipt.
“Yes, I've been in your place a few times. I'll be over some time this afternoon, okay?”
“That will be fine. We're opened till 9.” The store was in the Braddock Run Mall about a half-hour away. “Have a good day.” The line was dead before I could answer.
* * * * *
It was a nice enough day, so I decided to drive over for the book after I finished lunch. “Maybe I'll walk around the mall a little, too.” It sounded a little weird when I said it. I've never been one for shopping, at least not when I was... was a man. Of course, there was a great sporting goods store over in that mall, a pretty good electronics store, too, now that I thought of it. Sure... that was it.
So why did I keep thinking about the dress shops?
Anyway, I went. The bookstore was on the second floor. “Hi,” I said, handing the clerk Mary's receipt for the book. “I came to pick this up for my cousin, Mary Hendrix.”
The clerk looked at the receipt. “Oh, sure. It's in the back.” He turned and walked behind a curtain.
“Well, hello, again, Diane.”
I'd been looking at a couple of the magazines racked up for sale at the counter. I turned at the sound of the voice. It was the cute -- scratch that -- it was the guy from the grocery store. “Oh, hello, umm...”
He grinned. “Jeff... Jeff Thomas.”
“Hello, Jeff,” I said with a smile that I hoped wasn't too big. “What brings you here?”
“Gee,” he said wryly, looking around the store. “Books, I guess. I was picking up something in the mystery section.” He held up a couple of paperbacks. “Then I saw something that I'd rather pick up.” He smiled and looked right at me.
Now I had to smile. “You do realize just how corny that line was, don't you?” Oh, man, now I was flirting with the guy.
“Hey, I figured it was worth a shot.” He shrugged. “Now, about that cup of coffee, I mentioned before...” He let the invitation just sort of dangle there.
“I... umm...” Damn, my body was really tingling. This... Jeff was actually starting to turn me on. I was a guy, for gosh sakes. I couldn't be feeling “that way” about another guy, but, as I looked at him, I felt my resolve melt.
“Here's the book.” Saved by the clerk! “Would you like to take a look at it?”
“No... no.” I looked at Jeff and shook my head just a little. “I... I've got to get going. Do I owe anything?”
“No,” he said, putting the book in a plastic bag. “I'll just put your receipt in here with the book.” She did just that and handed me the bag.
“Th-thanks,” I said. I grabbed the bag and started towards the doorway back into the mall. “I really do have to go.” I didn't want to give Jeff a chance to say anything that might make me change my mind.
“Later then,” he called after me.
“When pigs fly,” I whispered more to myself than to him. There were restrooms only a few doors down. When I ran through the doors and into the ladies room, I felt like Quasimodo, the hunchback, yelling “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” as he carried the gypsy girl into Notre Dame cathedral.
I hurried to a stall and sat down inside to catch my breath.
I sat there for a long time trying to figure out what the hell was the matter with me. Okay, I looked like a girl. It was weird, but I was almost getting used to it. What I couldn't get used to, what I didn't even want to think about getting used to, was acting like a girl.
Finally, it hit me. “The spell!” I almost shouted it, but there didn't seem to be anybody else in the bathroom to hear me. Then I whispered it softly to myself. “The spell!” Now there was a big surprise, but think about it for a minute. The whole idea was for me to stay away from women. The fact that I was a woman didn't automatically stop me. I was young and pretty, and there were plenty of women who liked other woman who looked like that.
If I still thought like a man, I might be willing to try a little girl-girl action. It might be a lot of fun. But if I... if part of my mind thought like a woman, a heterosexual woman, I wouldn't want to go in for anything like that. Since part of my mind was still male -- pray to the Lord that part of me still was male -- I wouldn't be up for any male-female... fun, either.
It was brilliant. “Damn, that Katherine Whyte is a sneaky, little bitch.”
* * * * *
I looked at my wristwatch, now a small woman's watch. I'd been in the stall for over a half an hour. “Good thing there wasn't much traffic in here.” I opened the bathroom door and looked carefully out into the mall. There was no sign of Jeff. Part of me was disappointed, but the rest was relieved. I left the bathroom and headed out into the mall and on my way back to the car.
I almost made it, too.
Ettinger's stopped me.
Ettinger's, in case you don't know, is an upscale women's wear chain. They had a store about half way between The Gatherum and the mall exit where I'd parked. At the pace I was walking, I almost got past it. Then I saw that dress in the window. It was the classic “little black dress”, a slinky, sleeveless number with a low-cut, sequined bodice. I took one look and stopped dead in my tracks. It was absolutely beautiful, and I couldn't help wonder how I would look in it.
“You'd look wonderful in that, Diane.” It was Jeff again, talking as if he'd been reading my mind. I must have seemed angry or something after he said it because he put his hands up in front of himself, palms out, and took a step back. “I'm not stalking you or anything. I just happened to be walking this way, too.” He grinned and added, “but you would look great in that dress.”
I smiled back. “Thanks, but I don't think I could afford it.”
“Does milady accept bribes?”
“What do you mean, sir?” This was fun, the flirting back and forth, I mean. I felt a warm, tingly feeling spreading through my body.
“I'll buy that dress for you, if you'll agree to wear it when we go out to dinner tonight.”
“Are we going out to dinner tonight?” Damn, part of me actually liked the idea. I remembered my theory. I figured it was safe to give in to some of my “girly” feelings because I was still enough of a man inside my head to keep those same feelings from getting out of hand.
“We are if you'll let me buy you that dress.” He grinned again. It was a smile that made me feel safe and warm somehow, protected, I guess. Whatever it was, I liked it.
“I... I'm really not that kind of girl.” Boy, was that an understatement.
Jeff shook his head. “You're not the kind of girl who wears a pretty dress? Hey, all that you'll be obligated to is dinner and maybe... I don't know; do you like jazz?”
“Yeah, I-I guess so.” As a matter of fact, I did.
“Okay, then. We'll have dinner and go to a club I know to listen to some jazz; that's all, I promise.” He raised his right hand as if to take an oath. Then he winked.
I stifled a giggle. “It had better be all.” I didn't know this man from Adam, but there was something that made me trust him. “If you're willing to spend all that money on me, who am I to say no?”
“Great,” he said. “Shall we go see about that dress then?” He took my arm and led me into the store.
A salesclerk walked over to us. “We'd like to see that black dress in the window,” Jeff said.
“Certainly, sir, and what is your wife's size?”
“I'm not --” I said quickly.
“Size 8,” Jeff said with no hesitation. How the hell did he know? I didn't even know.
The clerk hurried off to get a version of the dress in my size. “Why didn't you say that I'm not your wife?” I said, feeling a little angry. “And what makes you think I'm a size 8?”
“It, umm, saved time not to correct her about us,” he said, “and I, umm, used to, umm, know a woman about your size, and she was a 8.” It sounded funny when he said it, but I let it pass.
The clerk came back with the dress on a padded hanger. “Our dressing rooms are right over there.” She pointed to an opened doorway nearby.
“Thanks.” I took the dress and started over to it. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Would you like me to come along and help,” Jeff said, lifting an eyebrow and doing a more than passable Groucho Marx impression.
“No!” I said. His face assumed such a comic, totally unhappy look that I had to smile.
The doorway opened to a short hall with four curtained rooms on each side. I found an empty one and hung the dress on a rod that ran the length of the back wall. Before I started to change, I got curious and looked at the dress's price tag. It was on sale, marked down 20 percent to only $160. Only $160! I felt my face flush. Either Jeff was a fairly wealthy man, or he was expecting a lot more than an evening's company in return for the dress. Or both.
The moment of truth was here -- one of them anyway. What did it say about me if I accepted the dress? If he did expect more, was I willing to give it? Hell, no! It didn't matter what I looked like; I was a man. Okay, I liked him, and the dress was darling, but I was a man, damn it. I didn't want to have sex with Jeff or any other man.
Still, it was a beautiful dress, and hadn't Jeff been a perfect gentleman up to now? Sure he had. Besides, I was still a guy deep down. I knew how guys thought and what sort of moves a guy would make on a... a woman like me. I didn't have to do anything I didn't want to. I could stop him before things went too far.
If he did have ulterior motives for buying me this dress, if he did plan to get me in bed with him -- too bad. He'd just have to settle for what I was willing to give him in return, company for dinner and an evening at some jazz spot. And it would serve him right if he had tried to trick me into bed.
Now that I was sure of myself, I quickly got out of my jeans and shirt and into the dress. It fit perfectly, hugging every curve. There was a built-in bra, so I wouldn't have to wear one with it. I turned this way and that, admiring myself in the dressing room mirror.
I looked incredible, and I loved the warm feelings that the dress inspired in me. My hands fluttered along the curves of my hips and up to my breasts. I posed, hand on one hip, the other raised. I leaned forward, raised a hand to just below my mouth and blew myself a kiss. It was a lot of fun.
“How you doing in there?” It was Jeff. I straightened up, startled to hear his voice and a little afraid of getting caught posing like that.
I stepped through the curtain. “What do you think?” I stood there, my hands behind me, so he could see for himself.
“I think that you look absolutely wonderful,” he said, a big grin on his face. “I guess this means that you'll be joining me for dinner.”
I smiled back at him, feeling suddenly shy, but happy, very happy, at his reaction. “I guess you're right.” I walked over and, on an impulse, kissed him lightly on the cheek. Okay, it was a really feminine gesture, I admit it, but he did deserve a something for being so sweet. A little kiss like that didn't mean anything.
Did it?
I went back into the dressing room and took off the dress. I handed it out, so Jeff could pay for it while I finished changing.
“The dress comes with this matching purse,” the clerk said, when I came out, dressed again in jeans and a shirt. She held up a small black purse on a black leather strap. The top of the purse had the same sort of sequins as the dress had on the bodice. “It is only $40 more.”
“We'll take it,” Jeff said before I could answer. He was really trying to impress me... or he was really going to be expecting a payback. “I think that's it, though.” The clerk nodded and put the purse in a large box that already held the dress. Jeff handed her a credit card. She ran it through a scanner and handed him something to sign. He did, and we left the store.
“Now shall we have that coffee?” he asked.
“That depends,” I said. “What time are you going to pick me up?” I wasn't sure why I asked the question, but it seemed important.
“I thought about 6 o'clock... if that's okay with you.”
I looked at my watch. It was after 3. “Six is fine, but I'll need some time to get home and get ready for tonight.” I smiled. “I'll take a rain check on that coffee, okay?” Was it really going to take me that long to get ready? Then again, I never dressed for a date with a guy. It just might.
He looked disappointed. “Rain check given. Now, where do you want to meet?”
I could have taken the out and met him at the restaurant, so he wouldn't know my address. I could have, but I wanted to be pampered a little. “Why don't you pick me up at my place, Lakewood Apartments. Do you know where it's at?”
“Over on Haddonfield Road, isn't it?”
“Yes, I live in Building G, apartment 3L.”
“Okay, I'll meet you there at 6. Now, do you have any other errands to do, or can I walk you out to your car?”
* * * * *
I got back to the apartment just before 4. The first order of business was a shower... no, just then I felt like a bath. I turned on the water and poured in some of the crystals Mary used. Then I went to take off my clothes. Shirt, jeans, and undies all went into the dirty laundry basket. From here on out, after tonight, of course, I was going to stay in the house and live in sweats until Mary got home.
“What the...” I had thought that what had I dumped in was just something to scent to water, soften the skin, that sort of thing. There was a scent. There was also a tub full of bubbles waiting for me. “Oh, what the hell,” I said. I turned off the water and lowered myself into the water.
Ooooh, Lord, it felt good, so nice and warm. I leaned back to just let the tension soak out of me.
After a while, I raised my head and looked down at my body, or tried to. I couldn't see much of it because of the bubbles, but I could see my ti... my breasts sort of half-floating in the water. I -- okay, I got curious -- I wondered what it would be like to actually touch them.
I reached down and cupped them in my hands. Oooh, that felt good, too. Without thinking, I began to caress them. My left hand reached up towards my breast, and my thumb touched -- played with -- my nipple. It was erect and stiff as the penis I used to have.
My right hand slid into the water, heading slowly down towards my stomach. A finger circled around my navel. It all felt so soft, so... so feminine. My hand moved further down to my groin. I ran a nail along the edges of my new vagina and shivered at the sensations.
I could feel the connection between breast and groin as pulses of gentle, warm, sexual pleasure ran between the two. I was squeezing my breast now, kneading it like dough.
“This is crazy,” I said to myself and pulled my hands away from my body. By way of distraction, I took a washcloth from a towel ring near the tub and lathered it up with soap. That done; I started scrubbing my arm.
Unfortunately, after I had done my arms, my breasts were the next thing to wash. I gently moved the washcloth across them. They were soft and wet and slippery. And sensitive, they were v-very sensitive, especially around the nipple.
I moaned and closed my eyes and imagined that Mary was in the tub with me, that those were her breasts I was washing.
There really isn't room for two in our bathtub, but a few years ago, I took Mary to a little inn -- up near Tammament, no less -- a place with one of those old style tubs that you could easily get three or four people into with no problem.
A cold front or something blew in Saturday morning, and it poured. We had planned to go on a picnic, but there was no chance of that. While I looked in the paper for something else we could do, Mary decided to take a bath. Listening to her humming in the tub, I thought of something very nice we could do. I stripped down and climbed into that tub with her.
Now, in my mind' eye, I could see us in that old porcelain tub, making love in the warm, rose-scented water. I could almost feel her body in the tub with me. I was... she was stroking my penis... my breasts, playing with the nipples. She... I panted a little as little jolts of pleasure ran down from them to my groin. I felt myself stiffen... felt empty.
Legs -- hers or mine? -- spread... spread apart. Some... something -- a penis, my penis? -- slide inside a grasping warmth and began to move in and out, in and out. My hips were jerking to the motion. I heard a voice, a woman's voice, from far away. “Yes, oh, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me, Jeff, fuck me!” Jeff? Why was Mary -- was it Mary? -- calling him? I was too far gone to care. I-I exploded in pleasure, feeling like nothing I had ever felt before as every cell of my body relived that day in the past when Jeff...
What the hell was I thinking? What had just happened?
I sat up in the tub, trembling, my eyes wide as pie plates. I had been back at that inn with Mary. Only I was Mary, or was I? It had been me, the male me, Dan, there in the tub with Mary when it had happened for real. This time out, I was -- shit! -- I was Diane, and it was Jeff, not Mary in that tub with me. I remembered screaming his name, clawing at his back as he... hell, I didn't even want to think about it.
And why did I still feel so good? I looked down at myself. This was getting unreal. My left hand was on my breast, caressing it as one finger played with the nipple. My right hand -- oh, Lord! -- my right hand was down there, two fingers actually inside my... inside me.
“Stop it!” I screamed and stood up as quickly -- and safely -- as I could. I bent down and flipped the handle to open the drain. My body was still tingling, though -- such a pleasing tingle -- and my body was covered with bubbles. I turned on the water, the cold water, and let it wash the bubbles -- and the tingles -- away.
Stepping out of the tub, I grabbed a towel from another ring and began to rub my left arm dry. Mistake! I'd never realized how much more tender a woman's skin is. I carefully patted myself dry. “Just as well,” I said aloud. “There're places on me that I'd just as soon not be rubbing just now.”
My hair was damp. I hadn't washed it or anything. It had just gotten some water on it during my... activities. I decided to let it air dry while I took care of other stuff.
I used a deodorant, Mary's Ice Blue Secret, of course. Mary used powder, too, so I decided to try some. I dusted myself with a rose-scented talc that went well with the lingering scent from the bath. Believe me, though, I was very, very careful rubbing it on myself.
I checked myself in the mirror, as I brushed my teeth. By now my hair was drying into a mass of curls. My hair did that when I had been Dan, too. It bothered me a little, even though Mary said it looked cute. Yeah, like a guy wants to look cute. Now, I kind of liked it. What did they call it, the “bedroom” look? I half closed my eyes and pouted. “Hello, lover,” I said in a low, breathy voice. Funny? Yeah, I thought so too, till I heard myself giggle and realized what I was doing.
I sighed. “Bad enough the spell makes me look like a girl. Now, I'm feeling like one, especially after what I did in the tub. What's next?”
I knew the answer. “Dressing like a girl. I let Jeff talk me into going out with him, even let him buy me that damned dress. I guess I've got to go and get presentable in it.”
“But that's it,” I said stubbornly, as I walked back into the bathroom. “There'll be no... nothing tonight -- sorry, Jeff. And starting tomorrow, well, I've got food now. The house has cable. I'm locking myself in. It's nothing but sweat suits and ESPN, till they get back from wherever they went, and that... Delphine turns be back into my real self.”
As an afterthought, I added. “And there'll be no next time. Their little plan worked. Anytime I get the hots for any woman besides Mary, I'll just remember this weekend, and that will be the end of it.”
But there was still tonight. I was going out with Jeff, and I had to get dressed. I searched through Mary's underwear drawer, but nothing seemed right. Nothing, that is, till I found a dark blue satin bra with embroidered lace on the cups. It was like I could hear it saying, “Wear me.”
I found a matching, high cut panty in another part of the drawer. There was a matching garter belt with it. I hadn't planned on a garter belt -- too damned sexy -- but, well, it was part of the set. If I was going to spend the evening looking like a beautiful woman, I decided then and there, that I was going to look like one from the skin out. And who'd know besides me, anyway? Jeff certainly wasn't going to get a chance to see my undies, no matter how delicious I looked in them.
I put the bra on like I'd been wearing one all my life instead of just over a day. I was going to put the panties on, when I remembered something Mary told me once. “I wear the garter belt under my panties,” she said, “so I can get out of the panties easier in the ladies room.” Then she’d added, “or any other place I want to get out of my panties in a hurry.”
When I'd asked, I'd been watching her strip down after a party, so we could make love. I remember that she walked over to me just after that, wearing only the garter belt and those long, black stockings of hers. I said that the garter belt and stockings were like a gilt frame around a beautiful painting.
We didn't talk much after that for a while.
It was nice -- romantic -- that I remembered what we did that evening, but it was strange that I had remembered her explanation about the garter belt, too.
I wrapped the garter belt around my hips and closed the hooks. I still had to slide it along my tummy a little to get it even. I stepped into the panties and pulled them up, making sure that the garter straps hung down below them.
I sat on the bed and picked up one of the sheer black stockings that I'd brought over with me from the dresser. I scrunched it up and slipped it onto my toes. Very carefully, I slid it up my leg; it was much too pretty to get it snagged. The stocking felt like a little electric tickle against my leg, odd but very pleasant. I hooked the top to the front garter, and then shifted so I could hook the back one as well. As I shifted legs to put the other stocking on, I felt the tug of the garters drawing the stocking tight.
I stood up and walked over to where I'd hung the dress. As I walked, I felt the stockings rub against one another. I stopped for a moment to pose in the mirror; not bad, not bad at all.
I took the dress out of the plastic bag and off the hanger. I unbuttoned it and held it so I could step in. As I was wriggling to get it past my hips, I remembered that it had a built-in bra. I should have remembers; I mean, it was the prettiest... the only dress I'd ever worn.
The dress was mostly past my hips, so I just let it go. It stayed in place as I reached behind and unhooked the bra. I tossed it into the bed and finished getting into the dress.
I had to adjust my breasts a little, but that built-in bra did wonders. The dress was cut low, and that bra lifted them up and made them look almost a cup size fuller. “Mmm, I look hot. I can't wait till Jeff sees me again.” Now why did I say that?
My ears weren't pierced -- darn it -- but Mary had some lovely silver clip-on earrings that worked perfectly with the dress. They were an anniversary gift from me a couple of years ago and came with a matching bracelet that I also slipped on. And I traded the gold wristwatch that I'd been wearing all day for a silver one of hers.
“If I know how to dress as I woman,” I said, “I'll bet I know how to do make-up, too.” I was right. I sat down at Mary's make-up table and switched the light to “Nightime.” Lipstick, shadow, mascara, I knew all of it. I knew perfume, too. I picked up a small bottle labeled “Summer Roses” and used the applicator to dab a little behind each ear. Then I sort of leered at myself in the mirror and ran that applicator down between my breasts. I shivered quickly from the feeling of the cool liquid against my skin. “Mmm, maybe there'll be something later to warm me up.”
This was getting... shoes! I hurried to the closet. Mary had a dozen pair or more in a rack on the inside of the door. I always thought she had too many, but not tonight. I quickly found what I was looking for, a pair of black pumps. I braced myself against the door and put on one, then the other.
I stood there looking down at them. They matched the dress perfectly, but they had to have at least a three-inch heel. How could I possibly walk in them?
The doorbell! I was about to find out. I took a cautious step, my arms out to catch myself when I fell. Only, I didn't fall. I walked perfectly. For all the trouble I had, they might as well have been a pair of flats.
“Coming,” I yelled as I hurried to the door.
My walk had changed, though. I took smaller steps, and I noticed a feminine swaying of my hips. It felt natural, so I didn't worry. After all, a guy... a girl can't help walking differently in high heels.
I checked through the peephole -- a girl can't be too careful, after all. It was Jeff, smiling and holding some flowers up to the peephole. I unlocked the door and let him in.
He was wearing a dark gray suit and emerald green tie. The suit looked very expensive. It was tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and chest and his narrow waist. The tie brought out the green of his eyes. He stood just inside the doorway and looked me up and down. “It's a miracle.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I was five minutes early, and you're still ready to go.” He handed me the flowers. “These are for you.”
I took them and walked into the kitchen. “I'm not quite ready,” I called back to him. “I didn't get a chance to put my keys and such into that lovely new purse you bought me.” I took a glass vase out of a cupboard, put some water in, and added the flowers, pink roses.
“I can do it for you while you're in there, if you'd like.”
“Another miracle,” I said.
“Now I get to ask,” he said. “What do you mean?”
“A man who's willing to go into a woman's purse, that's got to be as amazing as a woman who's ready for a date on time.”
“I guess we were made for each other.”
“I guess so,” I said as I brought the flowers in from the kitchen. “Thank you for the roses. They're my favorite.” They were; they were even Dan's favorite. Mary knew they were; that's why so many of her soaps and perfumes were rose scented. My grandmother had bred several types of prize-winning roses, and the flower always reminded me of her and the summers I spent as a kid at her and grandpa's house.
“I know,” Jeff said. “I mean, umm, don't all women love roses.”
“Well, this one does.” I put the vase down on a table.
“Here's your purse.” He handed it to me. It was still opened, and I could see my wallet, keys, make-up, and some other odds and ends all arranged inside.
“Thank you, kind sir,” I said. Then I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
He seemed a little flustered. “You're, umm, ah, very welcome. Shall we go?”
* * * * *
It was a warm evening, and I didn't need a wrap. Jeff's car was in a parking space near the door. It was a late model green Corsica. I'd driven one like it myself, only in gray, a couple of years ago.
Jeff took my arm as soon as we were outside and led me around to the passenger door. He held it open while I got in, checking to make sure my feet were inside before he closed it. He also took the chance to get a look at my legs as I got in and made myself comfortable. Then he walked around and got in. “Next stop, Emilio's,” he said as he started the car. He pulled out of his parking space, and we were off into the night.
* * * * *
I knew Emilio's fairly well. It's an upscale restaurant that was built as part of the center city mall complex. My company has the maintenance contract on that building, and the company throws its annual employee dinner there. Mary likes the place, too, so we've gone there for her birthday and our anniversary the last few years.
Tonight was different, though. I wasn't taking Mary; Jeff was taking me. We walked in arm in arm. “Good evening, William,” he said to the maitre d'. “I'm Jeff Thomas. I have a 6:30 reservation for two.”
William looked at the list on a small table in front of him. “Ah, yes, Mr. Thomas.” He scratched the name out with a pen and took two menus from a rack next to the table. “Follow me, please.” He led us to a corner table, pulling out a chair once we'd gotten to the table.
I stared at the chair for a moment. Oh, I realized, he'd pulled it out for me. I sat down and moved with the chair as he pushed it in. Jeff sat down opposite me. William handed us the menus. “Your waiter will be here in a moment to take your drink orders.” He bowed his head slightly. “Enjoy your meal and have a very pleasant evening.”
“Thanks, William,” Jeff said. “With company like Diane here, I certainly will.”
William nodded as if in agreement, then he turned and walked back to his post to greet the next customers. The waiter, a slender young man with a sandy brown mustache, came by almost at once. Jeff ordered, “A carafe of the house red.” The waiter came back almost at once with the wine. Jeff sniffed the cork and pretended to be impressed. It was excellent, and we sipped it as we looked at our menus.
After maybe ten minutes, the waiter came back to take our orders. Before I could say anything, Jeff spoke, “We'll start out with the spinach salad, blue cheese dressing for me and the raspberry vinaigrette for the lady, both on the side, then the ginger-lime flank steak for two -- medium -- with the pasta primavera and green beans almondine. That all right with you?” He looked at me. I just nodded in surprise. He took the menu gently from my hands and handed it, along with his own to the waiter.
I was stunned. The order sounded good; I'd have probably ordered something like it myself. What surprised me was the way he just... just jumped in and ordered for me. No, on second thought, what surprised me was that I had let him, that I had enjoyed letting him do it. It felt good being... pampered like that; at least, a part of me thought it did.
I needed to think about what was going on.
“So tell me about yourself, Diane,” he asked, breaking my train of thought. He leaned forwards, towards me, to show that he was interested.
What could I tell him? Not the truth, certainly. Sure, Jeff, I'm really a man; my wife's boss had me turned into a girl because I slept with other women while my wife was away on business. Yeah, like he'd believe that. Besides, when I thought about it, the story seemed kind of, well, sleazy.
“There's not much,” I said after a moment's hesitation. “I'm a salesman... a salesperson for a real estate firm. You know where I live and that I like to read. That's about it.”
“Go ahead, reveal nothing,” he said with a chuckle. “I just love mysterious women.” He paused, looking as if trying to remember something. “I guess it's my turn. I'm twenty-seven, and I've lived around here my whole life. I work, umm, I guess you could call it tech support, for a large firm downtown. I like good food and good jazz, especially cabaret-style jazz like we'll be hearing later. Oh, and one more thing...”
“What's that?” Okay, I suspected he was leading me on, but I was curious.
“I'm spending the evening with the most beautiful woman I ever saw, and I hope that this is just the start of a long, loving relationship with her.” He reached over and took my hand in his.
What can you say after something like that? This guy was good. I felt my face redden. I felt something else, too, the sense of being cared for, protected. It felt very nice, kind of warm all over. 'Damn,' I thought. 'A person could get used to something like this real easy.'
After that, we made mostly small talk.
It turned out that Jeff and Dan... I were born in different parts of town and gone to different schools. Since I was a few years younger than him now, there just wasn't much chance of common friends to talk about.
By luck, Jeff happened to mention the Knights, the local triple-A baseball team. I think I surprised him by being a fan. I don't know why. Girls do like baseball; Mary loved the game. Anyway, we talked about the Knights' prospects for the rest of the season. “Want to go to a game sometime?” Jeff asked.
It sounded like fun, but who knew how long I was going to be Diane. Maybe long enough, though. I smiled at the idea, but... “Let's see how tonight goes, first,” I told him.
“Great.” Jeff took a sip of wine, emptying his glass. “I'll look forwards to it.” He refilled his glass, then he topped off mine, too. I was drinking slowly. I didn't know how much alcohol my new body could handle. Still, I didn't stop him. “To the Knights,” he said, raising his glass. “And to a winning season.”
I raised my own glass just as he added, “And to Diane, who'll be the prettiest girl at the game.” He winked and touched his glass to mine.
I reddened and clinked glasses with him. “To the Knights.”
I was getting, well, flustered by this steady stream of compliments. I didn't know how to react to what he was saying, but I liked -- a part of me definitely liked -- hearing him say it.
While I was trying to decide what to do, the waiter brought our salads. The carafe was almost empty, so Jeff asked for another; those things only held about four glasses worth.
Those salads looked good. I just poured the dressing over mine. Jeff speared some veggies on his fork and dipped them in his dressing. “Tastes just as good,” he said, when he saw me looking at him, “but there's a lot less calories this way.”
I'd heard about doing it that way someplace; Mary had shown me an article about it in one of her attempts to get me to lose some weight. “It looks kind of silly,” I said.
Jeff speared more veggies and did the dipping thing again. Then he brought the fork over near me. “Here try it.” I leaned forward and “chomped.” He almost jerked his hand back. “Hey, leave the fork.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Could I try it again?”
He brought another fork load to me. This time I moved forward slowly. All of a sudden he lifted the fork and got some on my nose. “Hey,” I said.
He grinned. “I'm sorry. Would you like me to lick it off?”
I must have felt the wine just a little because I giggled at the suggestion. “No, I've got it,” I said as I wiped off the dressing with my napkin.
Just then, the waiter came by with our dinners. He also had the new carafe of wine. We let him take what was left of out salads -- not much -- and put the plates in front of us. Oh, that steak smelled good. While we were starting, he topped off our wineglasses.
We didn't talk much for a while. That steak was scrumptious. I wish I could have eaten more of it, but I guess my stomach got smaller when I changed. I could barely eat half of the baked potato. Jeff was so sweet; he had them put the rest of the steak in a “doggie bag.”
“I suppose you don't want any desert,” Jeff asked as the waiter was clearing the table. “Or do you?”
I shook my head. “No, please, I'm stuffed.”
The waiter came back the “doggie bag.” Jeff said that we weren't having desert. “Just the check, please.” The waiter brought it. Jeff looked it over and handed him a credit card. We were out the door in less than five minutes.
“Where to now?” I asked.
“First stop is my car -- unless you want to carry that food around the rest of the evening.”
I didn't. We walked back to our parking spot in the underground garage below the mall and ditched the doggy bag. Actually, it turned out to be a good idea. The garage ran the length of the mall, so it was a shortcut to “The Blue Note.”
The “Note” was a jazz club, a pretty good one, too. “Big Joe” Briggs was the star of the place whenever he and his group were in town. Tonight, they were on the road somewhere. “Big Joe” was probably the best horn man in town, but whoever was playing that night ran a close second.
We managed to get a table near the front and just sat there feeling the energy. After a while, one of the waitresses came over. The waitresses at the “Note” are a show in themselves. They dress in these -- what-ya-call-em -- teddies that look like skin under the blue house lights. It's like being waited on by one of those nude impettes from Playboy Magazine, only life-size.
“Hi, welcome to 'The Blue Note.' I'm Allie, your waitress.' She was a short, busty brunette with a killer smile. “Is this your first time here?”
“No,” Jeff said. “I've been here before. It's just been a while, and I guess you don't recognize me.”
“I guess not,” she said. “How about you, hon?”
How to answer? “The same, I think.”
“Well, in case you don't remember, there's a two drink minimum.” She handed us each a small menu with an impressive list of beers and wines. “We've got a kitchen, too, nothing fancy -- there's a list of what they can make on the back of the beer list -- oh, and it closes at ten.”
“We ate already,” Jeff said. “Will a pitcher of Sam Adams do for the minimum?” He'd ordered again without asking, but I didn't really care anymore. Besides, I like Sam Adams beer.
“It'll do fine. I'll be right back with it. How about some peanuts for the table, too? Just in case you want to nibble.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” She turned and headed towards the bar. I noticed Jeff watching her ass sway as she walked. I couldn't really blame him. Normally, I'd have been watching, too. It was a great ass. Tonight I felt, well, jealous. I had a pretty good ass, myself.
And the way Jeff was watching didn't help any. “Hey, remember me, the girl you came with.” I slugged him in the arm.
He flinched nicely. “Okay, I'm sorry; I'm sorry.” He took my hand. “I'd much rather look at your... in your eyes.”
“Mmm, nice save.” I smiled and squeezed his hand.
We settled back and listened. The man with the horn turned out to be “Big Joe's” cousin, Jamal. He'd been playing with “Big Joe” for a couple of years, and they'd both decided that it was time he was out on his own. He was good, and so were the guys backing him.
Allie brought the pitcher, a big dish of honey-roasted peanuts, and a couple of glasses. Jeff paid her and poured. Hot jazz and cold beer is a really great combination. We sat back and let the music flow over us. I know that I nursed my beers, but the pitcher emptied somehow, and Jeff ordered another one. “Here, you go,” he said as he refilled my glass. “Can't fly on one wing, they say.”
“That is so corny,” I said. I giggled -- giggled? -- and slapped his arm playfully. I leaned back in my chair and pushed the glass away. “I think I've had enough for now.”
I thought I was done drinking, but, after a bit, the beer in my glass seemed to have evaporated. I looked at my watch. “Damn, it's almost 2 o'clock.”
“You have to be some place?” Jeff asked.
“No, I just... it's been a while since I was out this late.”
“Then, let's get you home.” He started to stand.
“But the band...” The music was still going strong, and I wanted to stay and listen to more of it.
“We'll be here again, I'm sure.” He took my hand and pulled me gently to my feet. “Besides, this way, we beat the last of the traffic out of the garage.”
It was a man's argument, and I was still enough of a man to go along with it, but as I started for the door, “Oops!” I stumbled and grabbed for his arm.
“You okay?” He steadied me and put his arm around my waist, pulling me in closer to him.
“Maybe I had one beer too many,” I said. It felt nice having his arm around my waist. I put my arm around him and let him guide me back to the car. He'd bought a CD of Jamal's music during a break, and we listened to that all the way back to my place.
When he pulled into a parking spot near my building, he popped the CD out of the player and handed it to me in its case. “What?” I asked. “You bought that for yourself, didn't you?”
“I guess I'll have to come over here and visit you to hear it.” He got out of the car and came around to open the door for me. I was a little unsteady on my feet, and he had to help me up the stairs to my apartment.
I unlocked the door, but didn't open it. When I turned around to say goodnight, Jeff was standing close, very close. He had me trapped between him and the apartment door.
“I... uhh.” It was suddenly very warm in that hallway. I looked up into Jeff's eyes. My body was all tingly, sort of like the way it had felt back in the bubble bath.
Jeff ran a finger along my cheek. He took my chin in his hand and lifted it, tilting my head back. I gasped or something. Then I felt his lips on mine. My arm went up around his neck, pulling his head in even closer.
We just stood like that, lips touching, feeling the warmth of each other's bodies, for I'm not sure how long. A part of me was screaming in my ear to stop. “You're a man, dammit!” it kept saying.
“But another voice was saying, “Not right now you're not. You'll be a man again, but wouldn't it be a shame to experience a little of the other side, while you've got the chance. It might even give you some insights into how Mary feels and thinks about things.” It seemed to make sense. Doing this, acting like a woman, would make me a better husband for Mary when I changed back.
The loudest voice of all was saying, “Get him in that apartment and kiss him, girl, kiss him for all you're worth.”
The voice saying “Stop” was outvoted. I opened the door; then I took his hand and led him slowly into the apartment.
* * * * *
Sunday morning.
I always loved Sunday mornings. That's the day when you can wake up slowly. That's because, just as your brain gets to the point where it can actually think, it realizes that it doesn't have to. You can snuggle back under the covers because you don't have to be anywhere anytime soon.
I woke up thinking that I smelled coffee. I stretched and decided to open my eyes; maybe even get out of bed and get a cup.
“Gaah!” There was somebody -- a man I didn't recognize -- in bed with me.
Wait a minute; it was Jeff. “Good morning, Pooh Bear,” he said with a big grin on his face. “I was wondering when you'd wake up.”
Pooh Bear? That was a pet name Mary had stuck me with a few days after we were married. We were in bed in that B&B down on the Outer Banks, and I said that she tasted sweeter than honey, and that I wanted to taste as much of her as I could as often as I could.
You don't talk about honey like that to somebody who was raised on A.A. Milne. I've had it as a “bedroom name” ever since. Thank Heavens, the only one who knew it was...
“Mary?” I looked at Jeff as if for the first time. Yes, now I could see the resemblance. Mary looked like her mother. Jeff looked like... Mary's father.
“Surprise,” Jeff... Mary... Jeff said, his grin getting even bigger. “I said that you'd be seeing me before you knew it.”
“But how? Why?”
“The how is easy; Delphine's spell was on the both of us. You just changed before I did. The whole thing takes a while. In fact, the spell wasn't complete until last night.
Last night!
A flood of memories streamed into my mind. I'd invited Jeff in -- hell, I just about kidnapped him. We kissed for a while, our hands eagerly groping each other's bodies through our clothes. Then we wanted to see those bodies without our clothes.
I'd practically torn his shirt off, and my new dress wasn't on much better shape. We got down to our underwear pretty quickly. My hand was tickling that lovely, big bulge in his shorts, while his mouth was doing all sorts of wonderful things to my nipples.
“Enough,” he suddenly yelled. He picked me up in his arms as if I were a small child. I giggled and my arms went around his neck. I was taking little nips at his neck, while he was all but sprinting for the bedroom. The next thing I knew I was on my -- our? -- bed, my legs wide apart, and my panties -- oh, who cared where they were. Jeff was above me. I felt something deliciously big and warm moving around my groin. My flesh parted in a way I'd never dreamed possible, and he was inside me.
I felt him moving, in and out of me. It was incredible. The sexual energy leapt between us and flowed out to every part of my body. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. My hips rose and...
I moaned. Reliving the experience was arousing me again.
“Having fun?” Jeff's grin had turned into a leer. “If you'd like, we could...” His voice trailed off, as he ran his finger along my neck.
I shivered. Part of me liked the notion, but part of me was getting a little paranoid. I remembered what he'd said. “What do you mean the spell was only completed last night?”
“The last step in the spell was that we make love, which we did. That was the fixer that sealed the spell. That's why you were so... interested in the idea. “
“What do you mean, 'sealed'?” That couldn't be good. I needed that coffee now.
I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. I was wearing a nightie I'd never seen before, a short, lavender one that hung kind of loosely about me. I didn't bother to wonder where it came from. I just headed for the kitchen.
I've got one of those programmable coffee makers that you can set the night before. I'd done that -- set it before I changed after shopping, actually. It was slow perking away happily. I poured a cup. Then, just to be gracious, I poured Jeff a cup, too. “Look around,” he said, taking a sip.
I looked. The nice, homey, New England style kitchen that Mary used was gone, replaced by something that looked more, I don't know, engineered. There was a new rack of cookbooks above the small “kitchen office” desk in one corner. An array of glassware, a bunch of kitchen gadgets, big spoons, pots, and what have you hung on black steel hooks above one of the wood block “islands” in the center of the room. The kitchen table was moved next to the back window.
“What happened?” I asked. “Where did all this stuff come from?”
“You bought it, Pooh Bear. When we... when Dan and Mary moved in, you told me I could fix up the kitchen however I wanted, since I was the one who was going to use it the most. Well, now it's your kitchen, and this is how you fixed it up.”
I still didn't understand. Jeff tried to take my hand, but I pulled it back. “Come in the living room,” he said, “and I'll explain.”
I nodded and followed him. The living room was pretty much the way it had been, but then we'd picked out the furnishings for it together. The chairs and sofa faced in a different direction, though, and they were a deeper shade of brown.
I sat on the sofa. Jeff tried to sit down next to me, and I shifted to one of the chairs. “Don't trust me, eh.” He shrugged. “I suppose that's fair. This whole happened because I couldn't trust you anymore.”
“Is this about what happened with Cindy while you were --”
“Yes, and about all those other times that it happened. I loved Dan, but I... I couldn't be married to him anymore.” Jeff stood up and walked over to a corner table where we kept some framed photographs. “I asked Katherine for some advice, and she introduced me to Delphine. The three of us worked this out between us.” He came back carrying a picture.
“I wasn't going to do it. I believed you when you said that you'd changed. Then, you went had had that last fling.” He took a breath. “And you had the nerve to use that stupid excuse about being addicted to me. That's... that's when I knew that I had to do it.”
“Do it? Do what?” Nothing was any clearer.
“Do this.” He handed me what I recognized as our “official” wedding photograph. He handed it to me face down.
I took the picture and turned it over. There we were, right after the ceremony, me, in that lovely white gown that was still in its box in a storage trunk in the basement of our building, holding hands with my new husband, Jeff, who looked so uncomfortable in that rented tux.
What the hell!
There was a card taped to the back of the frame with all the particulars of the wedding. I read it now. “Wedding of Jeffery Thomas Ross and Diane Lee Hendrix, April 5, 1997.” It was the date of our wedding -- Mary's and mine, but six years later. Maybe I should tell you that Ross is... was Mary's maiden name.
I felt shaky and fell back into the chair. “It can't be. It isn't real.”
Jeff shook his head. “It is very real. The spell changed reality. We still have the same jobs, same schooling, same friends -- pretty much, but we were born five years later. I was born a man; Jeffery and Thomas are the names of my grandfathers. You were born a woman.”
“I-I don't believe it.” I tried to stand. “We've got to go to them, get them to change us back.”
“I don't want to be changed back. I can't trust you as a man. We'd... we'd probably wind up getting a... a divorce. This way, we're together. Doesn't that count for something?”
“But a woman?”
“What's wrong with women? You were always fond of them, a little too fond, in fact.” He took my hand. “Why don't you go lie down? I'll fix some breakfast and bring in the paper. You can think about things, and we can talk.” He looked at me closely. “There's a lot we have to talk about.”
Somehow, I felt reassured, and damned if I knew why. “Okay. Breakfast sounds good. This has been an awfully big shock.”
He held on to my hand and put his other arm around my waist. I leaned my head on his shoulder as we walked silently back to the bedroom.
The door to the “projects room” was opened. As we got to it, I wondered what had changed in there. When I looked in, I saw that most of the furniture was gone, replaced by a bunch of large boxes. Ladders and a drop cloth were piled next to what looked like rolls of wallpaper.
“What's going on in there?” I asked. “It looks like you've got some kind of rush redecorating project.”
“I do... we do,” Jeff said, kissing me gently on the cheek. “But it's not that much of a rush.” His arm came around and he carefully put his hand on my tummy. “The baby's not due for another seven months.”
The Beginning
Identity Theft
by Ellie Dauber
© 2000
Author's Note: When I read an article about identity theft some time back, it occurred to me that such thieves better be very careful whose identity they steal.
* * * * *
T-Jay watched from the shadows while the guy from Apartment 307 tossed his trash into the dumpster. He waited till the old coot ambled back into the building. Sure that nobody was watching, he ran over and grabbed the three loosely tied plastic bags. He turned and ran back into his own apartment, locking his door behind him.
He had newspapers spread out all over the spare room with clear plastic dry cleaning bags on top to hold in the moisture. With a grimace, he opened the bags and tossed their contents onto the floor. T-Jay had already gotten trash from several other apartments, so he had quite a pile to work through. He put on an apron and a pair of old work gloves and began treasure hunting.
He got lucky after about fifteen minutes. The old guy had bought gas with his Visa card about three days before and then tossed the crumpled receipt.
It was inside a grapefruit rind, and some of the ink had run. Most of the name and all of the card number were readable. So was the expiration date.
Jackpot!
He kept hunting. He found a phone bill. The lady in 204 would be paying for his long distance calls again this month. There were four people in the building who routinely tossed their phone bills. T-Jay liked to switch between them. There was less chance of getting caught that way.
The rest of the piles were just garbage. He found a bill for a credit card at a local department store. The problem was that the store didn't have a web site and wasn't likely to get one. It was too dangerous to try to use the card number in person. He tossed the paper back onto the pile.
When he was finished, he carefully gathered all the garbage up and put it into his own trash bags. The newspaper and plastic sheeting went in as well. He carried everything back outside and tossed it all into the same dumpster that he'd taken it all from a few hours before. The apron and gloves went into a hamper to be cleaned.
Now came the fun. And the profit.
He booted up his PC and logged onto the Internet. In a few moments, he was web surfing through one of the largest virtual malls. He looked through his stack of papers. Yes, it was there. Somebody had been visiting one of the apartments. T-Jay had caught sight of her a couple times, a really classy looking bitch with one hell of a figure, long blonde hair, and tits out to there. Classy -- but dumb. She'd been careless enough to toss a receipt for an American Express Gold Card.
With a little care, that receipt was going to pay his rent and a whole lot more. He clicked on the icon for a jewelry store and began loading his shopping cart.
He'd been at it for about a half hour. His bill was up to almost $20,000 when his mouse suddenly froze on him. A red message box filled about two-thirds of his screen. Warning! Use of this card is unauthorized. You have thirty seconds to stop by clicking on EMPTY CART or be penalized for your greed. An icon with the words EMPTY CART and a number 30 appeared at the bottom center of the message box. As T-Jay watched, the number counted down 29... 28... 27...."
Damn! The card must have been reported lost or something. Well, there was no way they could trace it back to him. He'd just wait till it counted down and jump to another site. He might even come back to this same site with that Visa. He probably wouldn't be able to buy as much, but it was the principle of the thing. Nobody pulled anything like this on T-Jay Kendall.
As he glared at the screen, the numbers finished "...2... 1... 0". The screen went dark for a full ten seconds. Then the image brightened into a swirling green mist. "What the hell?" T-Jay said. A face was appearing on the screen. It became more and more distinct. It was the bitch with the gold card.
"What the fuck? What's going on here?"
"That's what I want to know, T-Jay? Who told you that you could use my credit card?" Her voice was soft and sensual. Another time it might have been sexy, arousing. Now it was mad, very mad, and some instinct told T-Jay that he was in very big trouble.
"What's it to you, bitch? You can't do anything about it? If you could. you'd be here in person."
"Very well, if that's what you want." The woman smiled as her image slowly faded from the screen.
'Good,' T-Jay thought. He reached for another sheet, another stolen ID, from the pile. Now to get back to work.
"Is this better, T-Jay?"
The voice was behind him. T-Jay jumped up and turned around. The bitch!
She was somehow standing there in his room.
She was as pretty as T-Jay remembered. Her dark green eyes were narrow slits in a look of pure anger. Her arms were folded in front of her just below those oversized breasts of hers. She wore a long shimmering green gown with a high neck. It hung loose on her, but not so loose to hide all those interesting curves.
"How the hell did you get in here?"
"How do you think?"
"I don't know, and, unless you're a cop with a warrant, I don't care. Get out of my house."
"Oh, but it isn't your house."
"The hell it isn't."
"It isn't anyone's house, T-Jay. No one's lived here for the last six months." As she said it, the air seemed to shimmer. T-Jay had rented the place five months ago. Slowly, item by item, things began to disappear.
The couch and chairs, the table, and the floor lamp had all been there when he'd moved in. They stayed, but the pictures he'd put on the walls, his CD rig and tapes, even his PC vanished. He looked through the doorway into the kitchen just in time to see the microwave go away.
"Where'd my stuff go?"
"To the homes of whoever bought it in this new reality. Some things, the stuff that you bought with somebody else's credit card are even back in the store or warehouse. Why, even your clothes are gone."
"This is crazy." He pulled out his knife, clicking the blade open. "You bitch! Nobody messes with T-Jay Kendall like this."
The knife disappeared from his hand. The woman smiled as she saw it fade.
"Oh, but there is no T-Jay Kendall. There never was."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You stole my identity, so I'm stealing yours. In a few moments, there will be no record of you, T-Jay. No papers with your name on it, no memories in anyone's mind. Your friends, your family will never have heard of you. Oh, you may be happy to know that you also have no debts and no criminal record."
"Then you did me a big favor, bitch. I'm into Joey Bruckner for twenty big one."
"No, that debt is gone. Mr. Bruckner never heard of you. T-Jay Kendall was never born."
"You mean, I'm going to disappear, too. That -- that's murder."
"No, T-Jay Kendall was never born. You were."
"You mean, I'm somebody else." T-Jay's body began to feel funny.
"I mean, you're nobody." She stared at him as if trying to decide something. "For a start, since you're no longer T-Jay, you don't look like him or his family any more."
T-Jay felt the muscles of his face twitching. It spread down to his throat, then down into the rest of his body. He reached up to touch his face. His nose felt different, smaller, and his beard was gone. "What the..." T-Jay stopped. He'd always been told that he had his father's deep baritone voice. Now, he had the voice of a slightly reedy tenor.
"Since you were so eager to pretend to be me," the woman said, "I think that I'll steal one more thing of yours."
T-Jay felt a sharp twisting pain in his crotch. He doubled over in agony.
When the feeling passed, he reached down into his pants. The masculine equipment that he'd used so many times in the past for his own pleasure was gone. Instead, he felt a small mound of curls around a narrow vertical slit. A finger slipped inside, and he carefully inspected what he had found. A finger brushed against a sensitive nub, his clit, and he squeaked in surprise at how good it felt.
Now he felt his clothes sliding along his body. He looked down at them.
His Lakers' jersey changed into a sleeveless pastel green blouse. The neckline moving down to the center of his hairy, male chest. Beneath the shirt, his T-shirt inched upwards to transform into a bra. His jeans rode up his legs, past his knees, shrinking into a pain of denim cut-offs that hugged his now flat crotch. Inside them, T-Jay felt the material of his undershorts change from cotton to a lacy silk.
Then the changes hit his body. His razor cut dark brown hair lightened with blonde streaks as it flowed down past his shoulders. The hair on his chest and arms vanished as they grew slender. His nipples seemed to grow as two nubs pushed out the shirt. His blouse swelled as breasts grew within, full and round, and almost as big as the rack on the bitch that was doing this to him. His waist narrowed as his hips rounded. His legs became smooth and curved.
"You may want to see what you look like," the woman said making an odd gesture with her hand. The air in front of T-Jay shimmered and changed to a mirror-like surface.
The woman in the mirror didn't look at all like T-Jay Kendall. He nose and lips were fuller suggesting an African ancestry, while her eyes had the almond shape of an Oriental. Her skin was tanned, a light coppery color.
She was damned pretty, though, with higher cheekbones and long, dark lashes. Her make-up -- when the hell had she put on make-up -- was expertly done.
Her figure was fantastic, lots of nice round curves, a great ass, and long, long legs.
The mirror vanished. The woman was standing in its place, her hand out to shake his. "Just so you know who did this to you, my name is Elsbeth, Elsbeth Lange. You won't be able to tell that to anyone though. Now what's your name?"
"C'mon, bitch. You know my name. I'm...I'm..." His name seemed to stick in his throat.
"You can't say it anymore. You know who you were. You always will. You just can't tell it to anyone. Or write it. Or identify yourself in any way."
"You bitch!" T-Jay lunged for her. He might not have the knife, but he'd been doing Aikido since he was ten. He could still hurt this Lange bitch, hurt her real bad.
Elsbeth vanished as his hands reached her. T-Jay looked around. The apartment was getting dark, hazy. His head began to hurt, as he felt himself falling towards the floor.
* * * * *
He was lying in a bed when he awoke. A wave of relief flowed through him.
The whole thing must have been a damned dream. T-Jay opened his eyes. He wasn't at home. He was in a hospital. He looked down at himself, trying to determine why he was there. His eyes widened at the sight of two feminine breasts pushing up beneath the blanket.
Maybe it wasn't a dream.
A tall man in a doctor's smock came into the room. He looked like something out of an old Western, dark features, dark coppery skin, and log straight black hair tied in a ponytail behind him. "Hello," he said, "I'm Dr. Daniel M. Twoknives. You were found in an alley not too far from here without any identification. You seem to have an injury to the head. Do you remember your name?"
"I..." T-Jay reached up to touch a bandage wrapped around his head. He wanted to say that he was T-Jay Kendall, and some bitch had done something to him, but what came out was, "No, Doctor. I can't remember anything before I woke up just now." His eyes widened in fear. He tried again and again to say his name, but nothing came out. After a while, he stopped trying and began to sob.
The doctor took a look at the bandage. T-Jay could feel a small lump under it that was tender to the man's careful touch. The doctor took his pulse and shined some kind of light in his eyes. "Now, don't worry too much about it. A blow like that sometimes causes temporary memory loss. You should be okay in time. Meanwhile, you're on the hospital rolls as 'Jane Doe'. Is that okay?"
"No!," T-Jay wanted to yell. "I'm T-Jay, T-Jay Kendall!" Instead, he just nodded and said, "I guess that'll be okay."
"Fine. I'm prescribing something to help you relax and get some sleep. You don't seem to have any sign of a concussion, so you should be out of here soon." He squeezed T-Jay's hand gently as if to comfort her and left the room. A nurse came in a few minutes later and gave T-Jay a shot. He was asleep again almost immediately.
* * * * *
Elsbeth Lange stood next to her husband staring down at the sleeping figure. "Thanks, Dan," she said. "It took a lot of magic to do that."
"I'm still not convinced that it was necessary."
"Not necessary. He was about to put $20,000 on my card when I stopped him, and he'd been using other people's credit and phone cards for months. There was almost $75,000 that went back to its rightful owners when we switched things around."
"All because he liked to play at being other people, to use their identities for his own profit."
"Yes, well, he -- or rather, she -- is nobody now. She'll be Jane Doe forever. In fact, over the next few days, she'll start getting used to it.
She'll be thinking of herself as a woman by the time she's discharged."
"Then what?"
"Whatever she wants. She's a free agent. There's no ID in her purse, but hospital social service is getting her some new ones. And there'll be $1500 more than whatever her hospital bill is. That will let her get a start. She can do whatever she wants. With one exception."
"And that is?"
"Whatever happened in T-Jay's life to make him a criminal never happened to Jane. She'll remember her old ways, but she won't be able to follow them.
T-Jay -- Jane -- may even realize some day that she didn't get a punishment.
She got a chance to start over."
Insurance Ad
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
Here’s a VERY short piece, a script based on an ad that keeps turning up on my TV. I mean no offense to the insurance company. This is just something that the wording of the ad suggested to me.
* * * * *
The scene is a modern kitchen. A young woman in a house dress is sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee. There are a few papers with some sort of writing on them near where she is sitting. The camera moves in to a medium shot as she speaks.
WIFE:
SINCE TOMMY AND I GOT MARRIED AND MOVED INTO OUR NEW HOUSE,
HE’S BEEN ACTING STRANGE.
VERY STRANGE.
She holds up a sheet of paper. It is some sort of bill. The name “Progressive” can be seen at the top of the page.
WIFE:
OF COURSE, WE DID SAVE A LOT BUNDLING OUR HOME AND CAR INSURANCE
WITH PROGRESSIVE.
An attractive woman in her mid-40s comes in. Her hair is in a bouffant style. She is wearing a fashionable dress and a pearl necklace. She’s carrying a briefcase.
OLDER WOMAN:
I‘VE GOT TO GET TO WORK, HONEY. I’LL BE HOME ABOUT SIX. MAYBE, AFTER
DINNER, WE CAN GO DRESS SHOPPING OVER AT THE MALL. I CAN’T BELIEVE
THAT I’VE NOTHING BUT MEN’S CLOTHES IN MY CLOSET. BYE, BYE!
She kisses the wife on the cheek and heads out of the scene.
ANNOUNCER:
PROGRESSIVE CAN’T STOP FROM CHANGING YOUR HUSBAND INTO ONE OF HIS
PARENTS, BUT IT CAN SAVE YOU A LOT ON HOME AND AUTO INSURANCE.
The wife glares angrily at the camera.
WIFE:
YEAH, BUT COULDN’T IT HAVE CHANGED HIM INTO HIS FATHER?
Jessie and Paul travel to Dawson, Arizona, so Jessie can sing at her friend, Hanna Tyler's, wedding. But the cameo that Jessie gave Hanna as an engagement present makes Jessie prime suspect in a murder investigation. On the run, they encounter Apache, venomous scorpions, road agents, and the U.S. Cavalry.
Street and Smith’s New York Weekly is proud to present the latest addition to the amazing legend of Eerie, Arizona.
Jessie Hanks Outlaw Queen: The Cameo Murder
By Nicholas Varrick
As Told by Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson © 2016
Part 1: On the Trail to Trouble
Chapter 1 -- “Prolog: September 1871”
Tuesday, September 12, 1871
A chunky, sandy-haired man walked into the Prescott, Arizona Wells Fargo depot and looked around for the clerk. In his mid-thirties, Eugene Barlow was dressed in a brown woolen suit, with a budge in one of his pockets. He stepped over to the counter at the far end of the room and called out, “Hello, anybody here?”
“Just me.” A slender man in jeans and a starched white shirt came out of the back room. He was wiping his hands on a napkin that he quickly stuffed in his pants pocket. “I’m Gully Finch. I was in the back, having some supper. What can I do for you?”
Barlow pulled a package about the size of a man’s clenched fist from his jacket. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bluish-green string. “I want to send this back east to my wife in Atlanta. It’s a birthday present for her.” He set the parcel on the counter.
“It’ll take about ten days to get there. Will that be enough time?”
“I think so. How much?”
Finch put the package on a small brass scale. “Twenty-one ounces; that’ll be a dollar and a half.” He handed the other man a label, a white paper rectangle with a narrow yellow and black striped border. “Just fill this out, so we know who gets it and where you want it to go.”
Barlow tossed Finch a five dollar half-eagle. While the Wells Fargo man made change, Barlow wrote the information on the label. He finished just as the other man put his change down on the counter.
“Okay,” Finch said, taking the tag. He licked the gummed back of the label and pressed it down hard onto the top of the package. “This’ll go out on the 8:35 stage to Tucson tomorrow morning. That should help get it t’your wife in time.”
The other man nodded and gathered up his change. “Thanks; I’ll let you get back to your meal.” He checked his pocket watch. “Hmmm; almost 6 PM.” He said. “I’d better head back to the boarding house before Mrs. Rossini stops serving supper.”
He paused a beat before adding, “Good night, Mr. Finch.” With that, he returned the watch to his pocket and walked briskly out of the depot.
* * * * *
Wednesday, September 13, 1871
The Prescott offices of Hall and Hall Investment Bankers took up most of the second floor of the Gurley Street office building. The clerks and bookkeepers worked at three rows of desks in a large open room, next to the Hall Brothers’ private office. Gray steel file cabinets lined three walls broken up by large wall maps of portions of the Arizona, New Mexico, and Nevada Territories. A second, locked door in the north wall of the room led to the steel-lined room where the firm kept its most confidential financial and legal documents and records.
Eugene Barlow set down his pen in the crease of the ledger he was working on. He leaned back and checked the large clock ticking away atop a row of file cabinets. ‘10:50,’ he thought, ‘time to go.’ He stood up and began to put on his suit jacket.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” Supervising clerk Jonas Lee asked. Lee was a short, heavy-set man whose desk faced the dozen men he supervised.
Aquilla “Quill” Jenson’s desk was next to Barlow’s. “Maybe Gene’s off to meet with some young lady, to try to trade her virtue for that cameo he was showing everybody a couple of days ago.”
“What I do – or don’t do – with the cameo is my concern, Quill,” Barlow answered. “But I wouldn’t say ‘No’, not right off, anyway, if some pretty young gal suggested such a trade.” He chuckled, and then added, “Perhaps your sister might be…”
“Hey, now.” Quill jumped up, his hands curled into fists. “You can’t say that about my sister.”
Lee glared at the pair. “We’ll have no fighting here. You teased him, Jenson, and he got you back. You’re even, so let it go.” He paused for a moment. “And shake hands.”
“I will if he will.” Gene Barlow offered his hand.
The other man shook his head. “I want an apology first.”
“So do I,” Lee replied. “The two of you have been going back and forth for days, and it’s disrupting the whole damned office.”
Barlow pointed at Jenson. “He started it!”
“And I’m finishing it,” Lee told them both. “Now shake hands.” He waited, and when neither man moved, he added, “Now!” in an angry voice.
Barlow grimaced, but he offered his hand. Jenson gave a low growl, but he took the hand and shook it. “Satisfied?”
“I am,” the supervisor answered. “Barely… and I hope that this is the end of it.” He turned to Barlow. “You can go now, Eugene, but you never did say where you were off to.”
“Just some personal business; I’ll be back by the end of lunch.”
Lee glanced up at the clock. “Fine; I’ll see you at 12:30 then.”
“Thanks, boss.” Barlow nodded at Lee and walked away.
* * * * *
Ignatz “Iggy” Kent ran down Prescott’s Cortez Street, his feet pumping as fast as he could. After all, there was a whole two bits hanging on whether he or his kid brother, Silas, was the faster.
So far, the eleven-year old Iggy was in the lead, but he could hear Silas catching up, his footsteps on the wooden sidewalk getting louder. The older boy made a quick turn and hurried down Union Street, a narrow alley in the business district. As he ran, he saw a man lying on the ground, blocking his way. “Dang,” he spat. “By the time I go around this drunk, Silas’ll – Ho-oly shit!”
He stopped in his track and stared at the man. Specifically, he stared at the red stains being made by the two bullet holes in his chest.
* * * * *
Jessie Hanks saw a stagecoach, coming out of a cloud of its own dust as the road curved sharply about a half-mile away. She scrambled down the hill, crouching low to keep hidden. All the time she was studying the coach as it came closer.
There was a driver and a guard up front. The guard wasn’t holding his rifle. Sloppy. There was almost no luggage on top, just a few boxes. When the road curved again, she could see that there wasn’t any sort of a bulge in the rear boot either, where luggage and mail might be stored at the back of the coach. There wasn’t likely to be much on that coach, but there was something on it. She was going to find out just what that something was, and, if it was valuable, she was going to use it to pay her way in Mexico.
By the time she reached the side of the road, the coach only about a hundred yards off. She stepped out and began waving her arms. “Stop the coach,” she yelled, lowering her voice to a more masculine range. Her hat was pushed down over her head, partly covering her face.
The driver pulled at the reins. The horses slowed, stopping a few feet from Jessie, kicking up a cloud of dust around her. “What you want, boy?” the driver called down. He was an older man, brown from years in the sun and wearing what looked like an old cavalry jacket. The guard, a chunky-looking man in a brown work shirt and a gray, fringed vest, just sat there, his arms crossed in amusement.
“Whatever you got up there that’s valuable.” She pulled the pistol from her pocket and pointed it at the pair. They didn’t move.
The guard began to chuckle. “You think you gonna scare is with that there popgun, sonny?”
Jessie tried to fire, but her arm shifted as she did, so that she shot into the air. “Now!” she shouted, recovering quickly. But the damage was done. The pistol’s recoil had made her head jerk. Her hat flew off, and her long, blonde hair tumbled down about her shoulders. While the jacket she wore concealed her figure, her face was feminine, heart-shaped, with cornflower blue eyes and full, inviting lips.
“A girl!” The guard sat up. “Well, I sure as hell ain’t gonna give up no mail sack to no pretty little slip like you. “ He reached forward, under the seat, probably for his rifle.
Desperate, Jessie aimed for his chest and fired again. And again her hand shifted of its own will. The bullet hit the seat just inches from his hand. He pulled it back quickly. The driver raised his hands into the air. The guard scowled and did the same.
Jessie silently cursed Shamus O’Toole. When he’d used his potion to transform her into a woman, he’d ordered that she couldn’t hurt anyone, an order the potion was still enforcing.
Aloud she said, “Next time I won’t aim for nuthin’ you weren’t born with. Now, real slow, you take out that rifle you was going for, and hold it up so I can see it.” Her teeth were set, as she fought to keep her hand from shaking. This was turning into the worst stage robbery she had ever committed.
The guard muttered something under his breath, as he carefully lifted the rifle, a Winchester, out from under the seat.
“Toss it...” She pointed with her pistol towards the other side of the road. “...over there.” The guard muttered again and threw the rifle to the ground.
Jessie pointed her pistol back at the driver. “He got anything else on him?”
“Don’t say a word,” the guard growled.
Jessie fired into the air, deliberately this time. “Tell me.”
“He-he’s got a derringer in a vest pocket -- please don’t shoot me -- and... and a b-bowie knife in his right boot.”
The man’s yellow streak was showing, and that gave Jessie confidence. “Take ‘em, mister, out and toss ‘em by the rifle,” she told the guard, pointing her Colt right at his head. The guard glared at her, but he did as she said.
She turned her attention to the other man. “Now you, driver, what’re you carrying?”
The driver stood up slowly, his hands raised. “Just this, ma’am.” He was wearing a gun belt. He reached down with his left arm and loosened it. Then he grabbed one end and tossed it in the same direction as the guard’s weapons.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Now if you’d be so kind to show me that mail sack you mentioned. You... driver, you do it. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for making your friend here lose his job for giving up a mail sack to ‘no pretty little slip’ like me.” After a rough start, she was definitely enjoying this. “Not a big, brave man like him.”
The driver reached back on the roof of the stage. He fiddled with something Jessie couldn’t see. When he turned back, he was holding a pale gray bag about the size of a sack of flour. The words “U.S. Mail” were printed on it in big black letters. It looked full, and he needed both hands to hold the thing.
“Fine,” Jessie said. “You just toss that thing over here by me.” She pointed to the ground in front of her with the pistol.
The man twisted his body and, with a loud grunt, tossed the sack into the air. It landed with a sizeable thud in the grass at the edge of the road about five feet from where Jessie was standing.
“All right,” Jessie said firmly, stepping off the road. “Now get outta here.”
“Y-yes, ma’am,” the driver said. He jerked at the reins and the team started off at nearly a full gallop. Jessie stood for a moment, laughing at the fright she’d put into the two men.
She picked up her hat and tucked her hair back up under it. Then she hurried over to examine her prize. The sack was heavy burlap interwoven with some sort of a metal mesh with a lock sewn into the top, as well.
She didn’t try to lift the thing after she’d seen how the driver had struggled with it. Much as she hated to admit it, she knew how much weaker her woman’s body was. From the look of the mesh, she likely couldn’t cut it open.
“The hell with it!” She held her pistol next to the lock and fired. The bullet tore through the mechanism, and the sack popped open. She lifted it as best she could and dumped the contents on the ground.
“Letters!” She cursed thoroughly – in English and Spanish. “What the hell am I supposed to do with letters? I’m can’t very well carry ‘em all away, and I sure as hell can’t sit here going through ‘em looking for cash.”
And there had been nothing in the sack but letters. No, that wasn’t quite true. She recognized a few things as legal documents, a will and a couple deeds that fell out of some envelop full of papers with the name of a lawyer printed on the side. There were a few newspapers and a bound stack of flyers advertising a new settlement up in the Oregon Territory, all of it just worthless so far as she was concerned.
Finally, down near the bottom of the pile, she found a small package all tied up with string. It was only about the size of a man’s fist, but it was something that, at least, looked like it might be valuable.
“Well, that was pretty much of a waste,” she said in disgust, holding up the package. “First, I can’t shoot straight, then, all I get for my trouble is this, whatever the hell it is.” She thought about just leaving it there, but there was a principle involved. When you robbed somebody, you took some of their stuff with you. It was the principle of the thing. She shoved the box down into the empty left pocket of her jacket. The pistol was in the right pocket.
She was about to go hunting for the weapons that the driver and guard had left behind, when she heard a noise, way, way off in the distance. Jessie turned and looked down the road in that direction. “Riders,” she spat. Had the men on the stage sent them? No, they were coming from the north. The stage was headed south. Still, she didn’t need to be seen. There might be questions, questions that she’d just as soon not have to answer. “No time t’look for anything, dammit!” She ran into the brush and up the hill towards where her horse was hidden.
* * * * *
Jonas Lee dabbed at his forehead with a red polka-dot kerchief, as the deputy sheriff led him into the back room of the town mortuary. “I’m not sure about this. I-I really don’t think I’ll know this man – whoever he is.”
“That may be,” the deputy said. “But he had a Hall and Hall business card in his pocket. In fact, that was all he had; no wallet, no engraved watch, or any other identification. No jewelry or other valuables neither, not even change in his pockets. We’re pretty sure it was a robbery, but it’ll help to know who the man was. Mr. Hall… Primo Hall, that is, said you knew the staff and clients best.”
Lee sighed. “I suppose I do. Where’d you find this body, anyway?”
“A couple of boys found him on Union Street, between Cortez and Marina, that’s only about three blocks from your office.”
“Maybe he is a client – or somebody from the office. Most of our people are at lunch now. I was about to leave myself when you…”
“I know, sir, and I’m sorry. I hope the sight of him won’t ruin your appetite.”
The chief clerk shook his head and made a sour face. “I’ll be all right. I saw enough death up close during the War to last me a lifetime.”
“Amen t’that,” the deputy replied. He glanced over to Phileas Moss, the mortician, who was standing next to the table where the corpse lay. It was covered with a dingy, graying sheet. “Ok, Phil, show the man what we got here.”
Moss carefully lifted the sheet, revealing from the dead man’s head. “Oh, my good Lord,” Lee gasped. “That’s Gene Barlow.”
“You sure, Mr. Lee?”
The chief clerk nodded grimly. “The man’s desk faces mine. I’ve looked straight at him every day since he started working for us a couple o’months ago. I’m… I’m sure.” He took a breath and wiped his forehead again as the mortician replaced the sheet.
“Do you have any idea who might want to kill him?”
The man shook his head. “No, it was probably a robbery like you said.” He had a sudden thought. “In fact, that might help you. Gene bought a necklace, a blue cameo, a couple days ago – a birthday gift for his wife, I think. He was showing it to everybody in the office – and probably anybody else he knew. As far as I know, he had it with him this morning. You look for that cameo. Whoever has it, he had to take it from Gene, and he’s probably your murderer.”
* * * * *
Jessie Hanks took another sip of coffee and gathered Toby Hess’s jacket around her. The tiny blonde had taken the jacket when she’d fled his cabin. Toby was dead; killed by accident when she’d fought his attempt to rape her. It was self-defense, but Jessie feared that she’d hang for it anyway.
She’d been a notorious male outlaw -- “Mad Dog” Jesse Hanks, they’d called him -- before Shamus O’Toole’s potion had transformed her into her current form. All she’d done was kill a few good-for-nothings and brag about killing even more of them than she really had – and that she’d enjoyed doing it. It was usually a good idea for an outlaw to have a deadly rep.
“Even so, I never did time for anything I had done,” she told herself, “and I sure as hell don’t wanna die for something I didn’t do. I had every right in the world t’keep that bastard from raping me, but folks’re likely t’hang me anyways ‘cause of who I was.”
The wind had shifted just after sunset, and, as the flames of her campfire danced in the cooling breeze, she was glad that she’d taken the jacket when she’d bolted. In the setting sun, she could see storm clouds beginning to gather to the south, and she gathered the jacket around her. “Oh, yeah,” she muttered, feeling a weight in one pocket. “I almost forgot about that package, whatever it is.”
She took the parcel from her pocket. It was the sole piece of loot from her not very successful attempt at robbing a stage that very afternoon. Her knife quickly cut through the string and she threw both the string and the torn wrapper into the fire. ‘Don’t need to see who the thing’s going to,’ she told herself, ‘cause they ain’t never gonna get it.’ She opened the box. There was a folded piece of paper inside, above a mass of cotton padding. Out of curiosity, she set it down beside her. Then she pushed away the fluffed cotton that had been under it.
“A damned cameo and necklace!” The necklace itself was silver wire worked into a slender chain. The small cameo dangling from the chain looked like a ten dollar silver eagle coin. The disk was blue with the silhouette of a woman’s head wearing a coronet and the year, 1868, done in ivory or mother of pearl. “Might be worth a few bucks,” she said unhappily, “but I’d have a helluva time explaining how I got ahold of it.” Still she might find a use for it, and, with that chance in mind, she put the box and all back in her pocket.
She was about to toss the paper into the fire, but, on a whim, she decided to read it.
‘ September 12, 1871
‘ “Dearest, Sweet Martha,”
‘ “I hope that this reached you in time for your birthday.
‘ I only wish that I could be there to give it to you myself.”
‘ “Words can’t express how much I miss you, my beloved wife,
‘ and you are always in my thoughts. The moment my work
‘ out here for Mr. Hall is done, I will be on the first stage-
‘ coach back to you.”
‘ “Until then, know that I will always be
‘ Your Loving Husband,
‘ Eugene”
“Now ain’t that sweet,” Jessie said, sarcastically. “It’s almost a shame that she ain’t never gonna get that necklace... or the letter.” She crumbled up the paper and tossed it into the fire. “Some men are just downright fools about their wives. Like ole Shamus. He don’t show it very much, but I’ll bet that he’d do just about anything for his wife, Molly.”
Jessie stopped as a wicked smile curled her pretty lips. “…for his wife, Molly.” She suddenly brightened with an idea, a way to force Shamus O’Toole to change her back into a man. She had a couple of other ideas, notions of what she’d do to Shamus after she was a man again; nasty ideas all of them, and, to her, those were the best kind.
* * * * *
Saturday, September 16, 1871
The door to the stage depot opened, ringing a small brass bell on a wire just above it. There were about a half dozen men inside, waiting out the “monsoon” rains that had blown up from the Baja. A few turned toward the door to see a tall man no one recognized, wearing a brown hat and rain slicker. “Do I smell coffee,” he said by way of a greeting.
“You do.” A short balding man sat behind a counter with a sign above it saying “Station Master.” “Have some n’warm up yer insides,” the man added. He pointed to a large coffeepot resting on a stove in the corner of the room. There were cups and a bowl of sugar on a shelf next to it.
“Thanks.” The newcomer headed straight for the pot. He filled a cup, drank, and sighed. “Damn, that feels good.”
“‘Spect it would in this rain,” the man behind the counter said. “I’m Coleman Hoyle; m’friends call me Cole. I run this place for Wells Fargo.”
“Paul... Paul Grant,” the new man said. He was a tall, wiry-looking man with chestnut-colored hair. He took another sip of coffee, pausing to feel its warmth in his stomach. “I’m deputy sheriff over in Eerie, Arizona.” He pulled back his slicker on one side just long enough to show Hoyle the badge on his light brown leather vest.
Cole scratched his head. “Don’t think I ever heard of it.”
“You’re not likely to have,” Paul said. “It’s a little place a few hours east of Phoenix. The stage only comes through twice a week, almost never stops.”
“Then what brings you over t’these parts?”
“I’m looking for somebody.” He raised his voice, knowing that the men in the room were listening, even if they pretended that they weren’t. “Her trail led on this direction -- at least it did before that damned rain...”
“Her trail,” somebody said, a chunky man in a brown work shirt. He sounded angry. “That wouldn’t be a pretty, little gal with long, blonde hair and a big mouth, would it?”
“Sounds like her,” Paul said with a wry smile. “Especially the part about the mouth. You see her?”
Another man laughed. “See her. She almost cost Devon there his job.”
“Shut up, Sol,” the chunky man -- Devon -- said. “Why you looking for her anyway, Mister?”
Paul sensed more than normal curiosity here. “A man died, and she’s the only witness.”
“She probably did it,” Devon said. “I had a bad run-in with her three days back.” He gave Paul a nasty grin. “Say, is there a reward for her?”
“Sure is. The thanks of the good citizens of Eerie and the satisfaction of seeing justice done.” Paul wanted directions, if he could get them, but he didn’t need a trigger-happy mob trailing after him.
Sol made a face. “Yeah, sure; that ‘n’ two bits’ll get me a beer.”
“I don’t care,” Devon said. “I might just ride along with the man. Be nice to see a little justice fall on her head.”
“The hell you will.” Cole slammed his fist on the counter. “The company hired you t’ride guard on their stages. They’ll be another one along soon as this rain stops, and the roads ain’t flooded no more. You was begging me not t’report you after what happened. You better by G-d be here when that stage comes through, or you can just keep on riding, ‘cause you won’t be working for us no more.”
Paul poured himself another cup of coffee and took a seat at the table Devon was sitting at. “What exactly did happen to put that burr under your saddle?”
“Story like that, a man needs something stronger than coffee t’tell it right.” Devon looked expectantly at Cole.
“Fifty cents a shot, same as always,” Cole told him.
Paul tossed Cole a silver dollar. “Give the man his drink. I’ll just take mine later.”
Cole leaned forward. There was the sound behind the counter of a key in a lock. A moment later, Cole brought out a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. He poured one drink before putting the bottle back. “Here, y’go, Devon.”
Devon took the glass and downed it in one quick gulp. He closed his eyes and shuddered for a moment. “Ah, that there’s the real stuff.” He sat down opposite Paul and started talking.
“Three days ago, me’n Noah Ward was bringing the stage down from Prescott t’ Tucson. He was driving, and I was the guard…”
Paul listened closely as the man related his version of the robbery. ‘Sounds like something Jessie’d pull,’ he thought. ‘She’s probably wearing Toby’s old clothes. He tore her stuff up pretty good.’
The station agent – Hoyle – was totally put out at the way Jessie had caught Devon and the driver off guard. To hear him tell it, Devon wasn’t too happy about it, either.
He was even less happy about the other men in the room were teasing him about what had happened.
“Damn all you bastards t’hell!” Devon stood up and spun around, his pistol in his hand.
“Put that away,” Paul said quietly. His own pistol was drawn and pointed directly at Devon. “I mean it.”
Devon looked at Paul. He looked into Paul’s eyes and trembled with rage. “They... they called me a coward -- n’worse. You heard them.”
Paul looked at the others in the room. “I heard them. Some men talk real big when it’s somebody else in danger and not them. But you can’t shoot a man for talking stupid.” He glared at them and shook his head. “No matter how much he might deserve it.”
“We... we was just funning you, Devon,” a man at another table said. He was an older man, bald but for a few tufts of gray hair at each ear. There were murmurs of agreement from every other man in the room, followed by a round of very hasty apologies.
Devon brightened. “Then you all will help me go find that gal after this rain stops?” He sounded hopeful.
“No they won’t, Devon,” Hoyle answered in a stern voice. “First off, I already told you that you’re staying here t’wait for the next stage. Second, I won’t stand for no lynch mob pretending t’act in the company’s name.”
“Lynch mob?” Devon pointed at Paul. “We... we was gonna bring her in so this here man can... arrest her for robbing the stage.”
“He can arrest her for whatever he come to arrest her for,” Cole said, “but there’s no point bringing her in for robbing the stage. The company ain’t pressing charges.”
“What are you saying, Cole?”
“If she got anything, we’d press charges,” Cole looked uncomfortable with what he was saying. “We can’t have people thinking that they can just take valuables that Wells Fargo has promised t’protect and t’deliver to their rightful destinations. “
“She took nothing at all?” Paul asked.
Cole shook his head. “They found that mail sack right where Noah tossed it, and, as far as anybody could tell, nothing got taken. We press charges, we got to tell people how some little bit of a gal scared two Wells Fargo men into giving her that sack. You think the company wants t’say something like that, you’re crazy as that gal must be.”
Devon gritted his teeth. “So she gets off scot free?”
“No she doesn’t,” Paul said. “I’d lost her trail in this rain. Thanks t’you, I found it again. I just have to figure out which way she went after she... umm, ran into you and Noah.”
“That’s easy,” the angry man said. “She went t’Mexico.” Most of the other men in the room made noises like they agreed.
“Why do you say that?” Paul asked.
“I been giving it some thought in case I could get this company man t’let me go after her.” He looked at Cole, who just shrugged. To him, it was a compliment.
“Anyways,” Devon continued. “She tried to rob the stage -- I’ll be damned if I know why she didn’t take that sack -- so she must figger that there’s a posse chasing her.”
Paul put on his best poker face. ‘Jessie’s not the strongest of gals,’ he reminded himself. ‘Most likely, she couldn’t lift that heavy bag, and I bet that really pissed her off.’
“You don’t have t’be too smart to know that the easiest way t’shake a posse is t’head south,” the other man continued. “Once you get across that border, ain’t nobody gonna help them bring you back. Law don’t say they has to. There’s nothing that a posse can do short of kidnapping you -- and then they’s the criminals.”
“Give him my drink,” Paul said to Cole. He’d wait here till the rain stopped and head south after her. No need to get wet now that he was pretty sure he knew where Jessie was headed -- out of the frying pan and into the fire. The border was a bad place, with the meanest kind of owl hoots scuttling back and forth across it. It would be especially bad for any gal as pretty as Jessie Hanks.
* * * * *
Monday, September 25, 1871
Deputy Sheriff Paul Grant and his prisoner, Jessie Hanks, were ready to ride back to Eerie to stand trial for the murder of Toby Hess. Paul knew how Toby Hess had died, that it had probably been an accident, as she tried to defend herself, but a jury still had to settle the matter, to set her free on the grounds of self-defense.
Their horses were saddled, and Paul was going over a map with Ephrem Tyler one last time. Jessie and Ephrem’s daughter, Hanna, stood near the horses, saying their goodbyes. Jessie had saved Hanna and her mother from Commancheros, Mexican raiders, and she and the girl had become close friends.
Hanna was tall for a girl of fifteen. Her butternut-colored cotton dress modestly displayed her slender, blossoming figure. Her brown hair hung down over her shoulder. “I wish you didn’t have to go, Jessie,” she said, her voice full of regret. “I’ll miss you.”
“You’re gonna be too busy to miss anybody, getting ready for that wedding of yours, Hanna,” Jessie told her, with just a bit of a smile. “June’s a lot closer than it looks by the calendar. “
“And you’ll be back for it, won’t you? It wouldn’t be... I… Gil and I -- we really want you to be here. Please… oh, please say you will.” Gil Parker was the girl’s fiancé. They were to be married in the spring, a few weeks after her sixteenth birthday.
“I don’t know, Hanna.” Jessie hesitated. She thought – wrongly, she would later discover -- that she knew how to be restored to her male self. ‘You wouldn’t like ole male Jesse Hanks at your wedding, Hanna, flirting with the ladies and scaring the men half t’death.’ The thought bothered her. ‘Damn, why do I keep badmouthing myself like that? I liked being Jesse Hanks… didn’t I?’
Hanna wouldn’t give up. “Please, please say you’ll be here. I heard the way you sang to Gil’s little sister. You have such a beautiful voice... like an angel’s, and I... I’d love for you sing at my wedding.”
“I can’t promise you anything, Hanna,” Jessie admitted reluctantly. She was standing next to Useless, the horse she’d taken from Toby Hess’s barn. She reached deep into one of her saddlebags. “Just in case I can’t be there -- and I ain’t saying I won’t -- let me just give you a present now.”
The girl’s eyes glistened. “You aren’t going to come, are you?” She sounded almost ready to cry.
“No, no, Hanna. It’s just that I don’t know how my trial will come out. Call this...” She dug out the box with the blue cameo necklace, her sole gain from the stage robbery, from her saddlebag. “…Call it an engagement present.” She pressed it into Hanna’s hand.
The girl opened the box and examined the gift, carefully running her finger across the cream colored silhouette. “Oh, it’s... it’s lovely. I couldn’t.”
“Sure, you could, Hanna. I got it from... well, you never mind where I got it from. I just want you t’have it. Besides, ain’t there something about old and blue that a bride’s supposed t’have for luck?” She curled Hanna’s fingers around the cameo.
Hanna refused to take the hint. “There is, and the rest of it says, ‘something borrowed.’ That’s what this is, as far as I’m concerned. And you’re gonna have to come to my wedding, so I can give it back.” She threw her arms around Jessie, hugging her fiercely.
In spite of herself, Jessie hugged her back. It felt like she was saying goodbye to kinfolk, not to somebody she’d met less than a week before. “We’ll see,” she said, reluctantly letting go of Hanna. She turned and quickly mounted Useless.
Paul already sat in the saddle of his cow pony, Ash, and he had to smile as he watched the two females say their farewells. Jessie was acting just as “girlie” as Hanna. If she stayed that way, the long ride back to Eerie might be a lot more… interesting. When Jessie was finally in the saddle, he nodded to her, and the pair rode off.
“You better be here for my wedding, Jessie Hanks,” Hanna yelled, waving after them until they were out of sight. “You’d just better be here.”
* * * * *
Chapter 2 -- “Heading to the Wedding”
Monday, May 27, 1872
Paul Grant yanked at the leather cord, tightening the strap holding his bedroll tightly behind his saddle. “Done,” he said, satisfied that it was secure.
He glanced over at his lady love, Jessie Hanks, who was fixing her own rig on her horse, Useless. She seemed to be as far along in her preparations as he was. There was plenty to pack. It was a four- or five-day ride to the Tyler farm.
Jessie was going to keep the promise that she’d made all those months ago to Hanna Tyler. She was going to sing at the girl’s wedding. Paul was going… well, he was going because Jessie was going, and, no matter how good she was with a gun or a knife, a woman as beautiful as she was shouldn’t be riding alone through open country.
Or sleeping alone those four or five nights.
He spent a minute – time definitely not wasted – looking at her strawberry blonde hair and full red lips before his eyes trailed down to her delightful curves so well displayed in a forest green dress that hugged her breasts and emphasized her narrow waist and wide hips. No, she certainly would not be sleeping alone.
“Glad t’see you two ain’t gone yet,” a cheery voice said, coming up behind them, scrambling his lecherous thoughts.
Jessie turned to greet her older sister. “Hey, Wilma, you come over t’see me and Paul head out?”
“I did,” Wilma replied. She was taller than Jessie, a voluptuously curved, dark- haired product of O’Toole’s potion. “In fact, I even brought you – you ‘n’ Paul – a going-away present.” She tossed Jessie a small drawstring bag.
Jessie caught the bag one-handed. “Thanks.” She loosened the cord that held it closed and looked inside. “Wilma!” she hissed indignantly, as a blush spread across her face.
“What’s the matter?” Wilma asked innocently, stepping in close to her sister. “I figured that you’d pack yourself some riding coats” she replied in a soft voice, almost a whisper. “I just wanted t’make sure that you had enough.” The transformed woman worked in a local brothel, and sex was both a business and a hobby for her. Teasing her younger sibling was a longtime habit that went all the way back to when they were boys growing up in Texas.
Jessie quickly stashed the condoms in a saddlebag. “More’n enough, I’d say, but thanks.”
“Just trying t’take care of my little sister; Lord knows I want you to enjoy your… trip.” The demimonde chuckled. “I’m sure you ‘n’ Paul’ll put ‘em to good use.”
“We will.” Jessie gave her sister a nervous giggle. “And thanks again.”
Before Wilma could reply, Shamus and Molly O’Toole walked over. “Hello t’ye, Wilma,” Shamus said cheerfully. “Jessie, I brought ye that bottle I promised, some fine Kentucky sipping whiskey t’be toasting the bride ‘n’ groom with.”
“Thanks, Shamus.” Jessie took the brown glass bottle from him and stuffed it carefully in the same saddlebag that she’d just placed the condoms in. She arranged a pocket for it in the folded clothes already in the bag.
“I just come out t’be saying goodbye,” Molly told her. “The two of ye have a good trip and come back to us as soon as ye can.” She leaned over and kissed Jessie on the cheek.
Paul put his foot in a stirrup and rose up into the saddle of Ash, his cowpony. “You ready, Jess?”
“Just about.” She closed her saddlebag, putting the strap through the metal hitch that held it tight. She’d been practicing riding in a skirt, and she scrambled quickly onto Useless. “See y’all real soon,” she called, as the pair started off.
Molly waved. “Good bye, and… be careful.”
“Don’t worry,” Paul answered. “I’ll take care of her.”
Wilma smiled. “Mmm, I’ll just bet you will. Have fun, little sister.”
“We will.” Jessie turned Useless to face west and rode down the street. Paul rode a short distance back, enjoying the view of her rump bouncing from her horse’s movement for a time before he caught up with her.
* * * * *
Ivar “Chip” Woods glanced up at the jangle of the bell above the door of his general store. “And how can I help you today, Miss Tyler?”
“Good morning, sir,” Hanna Tyler said. “That sigh in your window says that you repair watches. Can you repair jewelry as well?”
He shrugged and ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. “That depends on what sort of repairs are needed.”
“The clasp.” She set her purse down on the counter and carefully took out a silver chain. A small, blue cameo dangled from the chain. “I can’t get it opened, and it’s too small to just slip over my head.”
He held out his hand. “May I see it?”
“Of course.” She handed it to him, and stood quietly, a nervous smile curling her lips, as she watched him examine the item.
“I think I can fix it. How soon do you need it?”
“As soon as possible.” Her face reddened. “I want to wear it on Sunday. I-I’m getting married.”
“So I’ve heard, and congratulations.” He thought for a moment. “Tell you what; I’ll get right to it. You come back here, and it’ll be done – polished, too, my wedding present to you.”
“Oh, thank you… thank you so much.”
“My pleasure.” He set the necklace down and watched her walk – skip almost – out of his shop. Then he opened the drawer where he kept his watch and jewelry repair kit. A folded up sheet of paper had been placed in there, next to the kit. He remembered what the paper was about, and he took it from the drawer and began to read. He frowned as his eyes moved from the paper to the necklace lying on his counter.
* * * * *
Paul Grant poured himself a cup of coffee, while he checked on the campfire. It was safe within the crude circle of rocks, and it was well on its way to becoming a mass of glowing coals that would last until morning. He turned to where Jessie Hanks was sitting, her back against a boulder. “You want some more coffee, Jess?”
“Yeah... please.” She smiled at him for a moment, and then returned to plucking at the strings of her guitar.
Paul came over to where she sat. He carefully placed two steaming cups on the ground before sitting down beside her. “What’re you working on?”
“A new song for my act; I gotta add songs every now ‘n’ then – especially now that the folks got the Cactus Blossom’s dancing t’distract ‘em.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that, not as pretty as you… sing.” He leaned over and gently kissed her cheek.
She smiled. “Speaking of distractions, I think you’re trying one on me.”
“Who… me?” He asked in an innocent tone that was spoiled by the leer on his face.
“Ain’t nobody else around here; not that I really mind a little… distraction now ‘n’ again.” She chuckled. “Things is sure a lot different than the last time we was on the trail.”
“Yeah, this time, I don’t have t’put you over my knee to get you to behave how I want.”
Jessie put down her guitar. “And just how d’you want me t’behave?” She shifted slightly and kissed him gently on his lips. “Something like that?”
“More like this.” He took her head in his hands and leaned in until their lips met again. Jessie sighed and pressed herself against him. Her arm rose to encircle him.
Finally, they broke the kiss. “One other thing that’ll be different,” she said, smiling shyly. “You ain’t gonna have no problem getting me outta these clothes.” As she spoke, she began unbuttoning her blouse.
“Getting you out of your clothes isn’t a problem,” he replied, working on his own shirt. “It will be my pleasure.”
* * * * *
Tuesday, May 28, 1872
The bell over the door to Woods’ General Store jangled as Hanna Tyler walked in, followed closely by her mother. “Morning, Mr. Woods,” Hanna greeted him. “Is my necklace ready?” She asked eagerly, almost running to the counter.
“Well… umm, that is.” Chip Woods glanced over to a young boy who was arranging cans on a shelf. “Marcus, would you run and tell the Sheriff that Hanna Tyler is here?”
The boy nodded. “Sure, Dad; I’ll be right back.” He ran for the door.
“May I ask why the Sheriff needs to know about my daughter’s presence?” Piety asked stiffly.
Woods looked nervous. “It ain’t her; so much as that cameo she brought in. The... Uhh, the Sheriff can explain it better’n me.”
“Explain what? “ Hanna said. “Why does he have to explain anything? Je --.” She cut off her words as her mother gave her a stern look and shook her head. “We’ll wait,” she added with a sigh.
Woods cocked a curious eyebrow, wondering what she’d been about to say. “In the meantime, why don’t you ladies look around?” he suggested, trying to distract them. “See if there’s anything you need… for your wedding or… whatever.”
* * * * *
The two women were still looking at blouses, considering a last minute addition to Hanna’s trousseau when Sheriff Whyte arrived. Elijah Whyte was a burly man in his forties, with curly, dark brown hair and a bushy mustache. “There they are, Sheriff.” Marcus Woods pointed eagerly at the pair. “You gonna arrest ‘em now?”
“No, Marcus.” Whyte tousled the boy’s hair with his hand. “I just want to talk to them – for now, anyway.” He walked over to the pair, while the boy hurried behind the counter and settled in to watch. “I can talk to you, ladies, can’t I?”
“Yes, Sheriff,” Piety replied. “What is all this about?”
“That cameo your daughter has, Miz Tyler. It matches the description of one I got in this flyer from Prescott last fall.” He took a folded paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Piety. “I gave a copy to Mr. Woods ‘cause he’s the only one in town who deals with jewelry.”
She opened the paper and read, holding it low enough so that Hanna could read it as well. “Murder!” the girl gasped. “You don’t think I did it – do you?”
“I don’t think you – or your mama – had much of anything to do with this Barlow fellah’s death, but that cameo of yours – or one just like it – belonged to Barlow.”
Piety glanced back down at the paper. “This says that Mr. Barlow was killed last fall. Surely they’ve found the one who did it by now.”
“Shirley’s my wife, ma’am.” The man smiled at his own joke, hoping to put the two women at ease. “And, no, they haven’t found the killer yet. I got another telegram about a month ago. They’ve still got no leads, and they wanted folks to keep watching for that cameo.”
He took a breath, fixing his gaze at the girl. “Now… speaking of cameos, where did you get yours, Miss Hanna?”
“Do–Do I have to tell?” The girl asked nervously.
Piety put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m afraid that you do, dear.”
“I-I found – No! It was part of the loot that the Comman –”
“Stop that, Hanna,” Piety interrupted angrily. “It does you no good to be lying to Mr. Whyte; no good to you -- or to Jessie.”
“Jesse? “ The Sheriff raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Who exactly is this Jesse, and what does he have to do with the cameo?”
“He’s a she,” Hanna said, her face reddening with embarrassment. “I-I’m sorry about lying to you like that, Sheriff, but Jessie… uhh, she protected us when Mama and me was taken by those Commancheros. She kept ‘em from… from doing… things to us, and… and then… when Gil and those others came to rescue us, Mama got caught in a cross fire. She might’ve been shot if Jessie hadn’t knocked her down – and Jessie did get wounded while she done it.”
The man frowned. “I can see why you’d want to protect her, Hanna, but you know it was wrong to say those other things.”
“I-I do, and I’m sorry. I just had to try.” She looked down, not wanting to meet his gaze. “She gave me the cameo. She said it was a sorta wedding present.”
“Do you know where she got it?”
Piety spoke first. “Neither of us know anything about that, Sheriff. She gave it to Hanna just before she and her friend, Mr. Grant, left our farm last fall.”
“Do you know where she might be now?”
The older woman nodded. “She – and Mr. Grant, I believe – live in a town called ‘Eerie’, somewhere east of Phoenix, but I do understand that they are both coming back to Dawson for Hanna’s wedding this weekend.” She didn’t seem happy to be giving the Sheriff this information, but after the way she had scolded Hanna for lying, she felt that she had to tell him the truth.
“Any idea when they’ll be getting here?”
Hanna shook her head. “Jessie just said they was coming. I think they figured to get here on Friday or Saturday.”
“You tell her that I want to talk to her. If she isn’t in to see me before the wedding, I’ll ride out with Brother Douglas when he heads out to marry you and Gil Parker and talk to her then. You understand?”
Piety answered for both herself and Hanna. “Y-Yes, Sheriff,”
“In the meantime, though, I’ll be holding onto the cameo.” He picked up the piece of jewelry and jammed it into his pocket.
Hanna’s eyes went wide. “That’s mine. Please… it’s for my wedding.”
“And I’ll make sure that you have it. I’ll give it to your friend, Hanks, when she comes to see me.” He frowned. “And if she doesn’t come in, I’ll bring it back to you myself.” Then, to himself, he added, ‘unless I need it for evidence.’
Before Hanna could say anything else, Piety put her hand on her daughter’s arm. “Very well, Sheriff. Whatever happens, we will expect to get the cameo back. I’m certain, though, that Jessie won’t have anything useful to you.”
“Perhaps, but I won’t know that until I talk to her. Till then, I’ll let you ladies get on with your errands.” He nodded and touched the rim of his hat with his index finger, as if saluting. “Good day.” Without waiting for any response, Sheriff Whyte left the store.
* * * * *
Chip Woods positioned the rolled up rental tent in the back of the Tyler farm wagon. He moved his hands carefully. The canvas was heavy enough and the wooden poles wrapped inside it just added to the problem. “You sure you can manage this?” He asked. “It’s heavy and awkward.”
“My husband and sons should be able to unload and set up the tent by themselves well before the wedding,” Piety answered. “If not, there will be others there to help.”
He stepped back onto the wooden sidewalk in front of his store. “In that case, you’re ready to go. And again, congratulations and good luck, Hanna.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woods,” the girl answered. She didn’t sound nearly as happy as a bride should be just a few days before her wedding.
Her mother flicked the reins, and the wagon moved out onto the street. “You seem upset, dear,” Piety said.
“Mama, did you have to make me tell Sheriff Whyte so much about Jessie? You know that she couldn’t have murdered anyone.”
“I know nothing of the sort. I saw Jessie win a knife fight against a man half-again her size, and I saw how well she could shoot a pistol. She’s perfectly capable of killing a man if she had to.”
“Mother, how can you say that about Jessie?”
“I said that Jessie could kill someone, but I don’t think that she did. A killer wouldn’t have put herself between us and those evil men. She certainly wouldn’t have risked her own life to save mine.”
“Then why did you say all those things?”
“Because I feel that it’s better to tell the truth than to have to worry about getting caught in whatever lie I could have said. And I’m sure that Jessie can explain where she got that cameo.”
“What if she can’t? What if the Sheriff doesn’t believe her? What… What if her puts her in… in jail? It would be all my fault. I-I wish I hadn’t insisted she come to my wedding. If she gets arrested, I-I’ll just die.” Hanna sniffled, her eyes stinging as she held back her tears.
Piety stopped the wagon. “Well, we can’t have that.” She put her arm around her daughter, trying to comfort the girl. “But I don’t believe that Gil would want a tearful bride, either.”
“Can’t we do anything?”
“Perhaps we can warn her not to come – if she hasn’t already left.” Piety flicked the reins again. “Mr. Lawler’s telegraphy office is just around the corner.”
* * * * *
Tommy Carson stepped nervously through the swinging doors and into the Eerie Saloon. Eleven year old boys usually didn’t go into such places. “T-Telegram for Miss Jessie Hanks,” he called out. “Telegram f-for Miss J-Jessie Hanks.”
“She’s outta town for a few days,” Molly O’Toole said, walking over to the boy. “I’ll just be taking it for her.”
The boy looked uncertain. “I-I don’t know ma’am…” His voice trailed off.
“It’s all right, Tommy,” Nancy Osbourne told the boy, joining Molly.
“M-Miz Osbourne?” he asked. Tommy knew that his former teacher was working in the Saloon. His father, the town’s chief telegrapher, had warned him not to speak to the so-called “fallen woman.”
Nancy nodded, trying to make her former student feel more comfortable. “One and the same. How are you doing with your spelling words?”
“I’m getting better, I guess. Mrs. Stone, she’s been quizzing me on the words, just like you done.”
“Like I did,” she corrected him. “How are your other grades?”
“I… Miz Osbourne, my PA told me that I ain’t supposed t’talk to you.” He sounded embarrassed as he said it.
Nancy frowned; she had heard things like that too many times already. “I-I’m sorry, Tommy. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Why don’t ye be giving me that thuir telegram?” Molly asked the boy sourly. “And ye can be getting the he – getting outta here?”
The boy all but shoved the telegram into Molly’s hands and hurried towards the door. At the last moment, he stopped and yelled back. “Goodbye, Miz Osbourne. I’m sorry, but please don’t tell nobody that we talked.”
Then he was gone.
“G-Goodbye, Tommy.” Nancy whispered, her face furrowed in anger – and disappointment.
Molly placed a reassuring hand on the younger woman’s arm. “Are ye all right, Nancy? Do ye want t’be sitting down for a wee bit?”
“No, I-I’m -- no, I’m not fine, but I will be. Right now, I think some hard work’ll do me more good than anything else I might do.”
Molly gave what she devoutly prayed was her best reassuring smile. “Hard work, is it? Well, that we got plenty of.”
“Don’t I know it? By the way, what’s in that telegram for Jessie?” Nancy asked, hoping to change the subject. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“T’be telling the truth, I’m a wee bit curious about that meself. Well…” She tore open the envelope. “…thuir’s only one way t’be finding out.” She took out the folded paper, unfolded it, and began to read.
‘ “Miss Jessie Hanks
‘ ℅ Eerie Saloon
‘ Eerie, Arizona”
‘ “Jessie. Urgent reasons you not – repeat – not come to Hanna’s
‘ wedding. Will explain later.”
‘ “Love, Piety and Hanna Tyler.”
Molly’s eyebrows furrowed. “Something’s wrong; very, very wrong.”
“You think Jessie’s in trouble?” Nancy asked.
The older woman nodded. “I do, and thuir’s no earthly way t’be warning her about it. They’re traveling cross-country, and I can’t be asking a man t’ride hard after ‘em, just ‘cause I don’t like the wording of this here telegram.” She sadly shook her head. “Paul ‘n’ her are riding into an unholy mess of trouble, I’m thinking, and all we can be doing about it is t’be praying that it ain’t half as bad as it sounds.”
* * * * *
Thursday, May 30, 1872
“Shit!” Jessie spat.
Paul glanced in the direction of her voice. He saw her reach for a large piece of wood, but then, in the same smooth motion, toss the branch some distance away from her. “What’s the matter, Jess?” he asked. He’d been arranging rocks for a fire pit, while she gathered the wood for that fire.
“Scorpion; there was a damned bark scorpion on that thing. I didn’t see it till I was picking up the stick.”
“It didn’t sting you, did it?”
“Nope, I saw it in time and threw it away as quick as I could.”
He stood and walked over to where their horses were tethered and began searching through his saddlebags. “I guess we’d better both start wearing work gloves when we’re setting up camp.” There could easily have been a scorpion or three hiding the rocks he was arranging. “Those things have enough venom to kill.”
“I didn’t know as they’d kill a grown man.” She joined him and began rooting through her own saddlebags for gloves. “But their sting’d hurt like hell and make him awful sick, b’sides.”
He found his gloves and began pulling them on. “And we certainly don’t want anything like that to happen. It’d ruin the whole trip.”
* * * * *
Friday, May 31, 1872
“Mmm, that was good ,” Jessie said, snuggling even close to Paul under the blanket. They were both relaxed, enjoying the afterglow of early morning sex.
Paul shifted so he could take in the beauty of her profile. “It surely was.”
“I gotta admit,” Jessie said, rubbing her hand across his bare chest. “I do like these sleeping arrangements a whole lot more than anything I had the last time I was out in these parts.”
The Deputy shook his head. “Maybe you were being too selective back then.”
The girl grinned. “Yeah, I’ve lowered my standards considerably since those days.”
Paul smiled and gently stroked her cheek with a finger. He glanced up at the sun, now well above the horizon. “But we’d best get dressed and on our way. With a little luck we can make the Tyler farm by early afternoon.”
“Be really good t’see Hanna again – and Piety, too, I guess.” Her lips curled in a mischievous smile. “Be nice t’sleep – or not sleep -- with you in a real… soft… bed.”
“That it would, but I’m afraid it ain’t gonna happen. The ‘with me’ part, I mean.” When she looked puzzled, he continued. “The Tylers’re respectable people; they’re not about to let an unmarried man and woman share the same bed.”
“Dang it; you’re right. It’ll probably be like they done it last time. I’ll wind up sleeping with Hanna, and you’ll bunk in with one of her brothers.”
“Maybe not. Didn’t Piety Tyler tell you in one of her letters that her father was coming west for the wedding? He’d be the one to get a bed in the boy’s room. I’ll most likely be out in their barn. Or what was left of their barn after that Commanchero raid.”
“I’ll have t’sneak out ‘n’ visit you, to… see how you’re doing now and again.”
“You know, if we were… married, you wouldn’t have to sneak. We could even have a double ceremony with Hanna and Gil.” He grinned. “You know Hanna’d love that.”
Jessie looked away, a frown on her face. “Marriage is too danged important t’be joking about, Paul.”
“Who says I was joking?” The grin came back, but then he saw the expression on her face. “Okay… I was joking, but let’s just say that the offer’s there, if you ever want to take me up on it.”
She gave him a wan smile and put her hand on his. “Maybe. Like I was saying, I’ve lowered my standards.”
* * * * *
Jessie and Paul rode down the low hill towards the Tyler farmhouse. “Looks like they got the barn rebuilt,” Paul said. “I forgot how bad the Commancheros burned it.”
“Looks like that Brother Douglas made good on that barn building he was gonna get organized. I guess you’ll have a place t’sleep, after all,” Jessie teased.
The same outdoor cooking area that had been set up for the people helping with last fall’s harvest was now set up for the wedding guests. Not too far away, Paul and Jessie could see men putting up the poles for a large tent. When they were close enough, they recognized them as Hanna’s father, Ephram Tyler, and her brothers, Amos and Malachai. Gil Parker, her fiancé, was also working on the tent. Hanna stood nearby with her mother, Piety, watching the men’s efforts.
“Mother, look!” Hanna pointed at the two riders. “It’s Jessie… Jessie and her Mr. Grant.” She ran towards the pair. Piety followed, moving slower, an odd expression on her face.
Jessie quickly dismounted. “Hey, Hanna… Piety; how’re you two doing.?”
“All right… I guess,” Hanna said nervously. “I… We was just hoping you wouldn’t come.”
“Now why wouldn’t you want Jessie and me to come, Hanna?” Paul asked, climbing off his cow pony, Ash. “You were the one who invited us in the first place.”
Piety reached the spot where the others were standing. “It would seem that you didn’t get out telegram warning you not to come.”
“What telegram? There wasn’t nothing when Paul ‘n’ I left on Monday.”
Hanna sighed. “We didn’t send it till Tuesday. That’s when we found out.”
“Found out what?” Jessie asked cautiously.
Piety sighed and looked down towards the ground where Jessie and Paul were standing. “Found out that the Sheriff wants to talk to you about a murder.”
“I think he thinks you done it, Jessie,” Hanna added grimly.
* * * * *
Chapter 3 – “Sheriff Trouble”
Saturday, June 1, 1872
Ephrem Tyler cut another piece from his short stack of pancakes. “So, Jessie, when are you leaving for town?”
“Right after breakfast,” Paul answered for her. “I’m going along to keep her company… and maybe I can help her straighten things out with Sheriff Whyte.”
Hanna sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Jessie, I’m so sorry I got you in so much trouble.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Hanna. I got outta a lot worse spots – and don’t you go asking me what they was.” She winked at the girl. “I can get outta this one; especially with Paul t’help, him being a lawman himself.”
“Oh, I hope so,”
“And are you coming right back?” Piety asked.
Jessie shrugged. “I guess. I don’t know as there’s much t’do in – what was it? – Dawson.” A thought struck her. “You need me t’pick up anything?”
“No, I just thought… there’re some lovely stretches between here and town. Rather than you having to hurry back here for lunch, I thought I might fix you a picnic basket. You could find a nice place to stop – Ephrem has a good map of the area, if you’d like – and you could have a quiet, relaxed… meal off the trail somewhere.” Piety’s face flushed just a bit. “Somewhere… private.”
Jessie and Paul glanced at each other and smiled. “A… picnic sounds like a fine idea – if it’s not too much trouble,” Paul said. “Thanks, Mrs. Tyler.”
“I told you yesterday to please call me Piety, and it’ll be no trouble at all. Why don’t you go pack an extra blanket -- to sit on… or whatever?”
* * * * *
Paul maneuvered his mount, so that he was riding close – very, very close – to Jessie. “We’re getting near to town, Jess; time to change clothes.”
“I suppose so,” she replied reluctantly. They both dismounted and led their horses off the trail and over a low hill, tying their reins to the branches of an ironwood tree. “This is silly,” Jessie said, as she took her green dress and her petticoat from a saddlebag. “Even Piety don’t mind – not too much, anyway – if I go ‘round some of the time in pants.”
“It’s not Piety Tyler we’re worried about,” Paul reminded her, “it’s that sheriff. He’s a lot more likely to give the benefit of the doubt to a lady in a dress than a female saddle tramp in a pair of jeans.”
“What d’you mean ‘saddle tramp’, Paul?” she asked indignantly, but then she sighed and added, “I suppose you’re right, but that don’t mean I gotta like it.”
Paul waited, keeping watch, until Jessie was in her petticoat. “We need to talk, Jess,” he finally said.
“Can’t it wait till we get to town?” she asked. Her arms were in the dress, and she was letting it slide down onto her body.
“I think it’d be better to talk out here, where there’s nobody else around to listen.” He took a breath. “Jess… where did you get that cameo, anyway? I didn’t want to ask at the Tylers’, but I… I really need to know the truth before we get to town – and go see that sheriff.”
She was silent for a short bit, gathering her thoughts, while she smoothed out the frock over the petticoat. When she finally spoke, her voice low and hesitant. “You… You remember how I-I… robbed that stage coach, back when I was… on the run?”
“I do. That Wells Fargo agent told me that he wasn’t going to do anything about it because…” His voice trailed off, as he realized what she was saying. “Jessie, you did get something from that robbery, didn’t you?”
“Yep; I did.” She sighed, fastening the buttons on her garment. “They didn’t have no cargo, just a mailbag, ‘n’ when I managed t’get the damned thing open, it was pretty much all just letters.”
“And one package,” he added.
“And one package,” she repeated in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “I grabbed it and ran off ‘cause I saw some riders coming.”
“And is that all you took?”
She raised her right hand, palm forward, and used her left index finger to make an “X” over her heart. “That’s all, I swear it is. I opened it that night and found the cameo and necklace. I burnt the wrapping in my campfire. There was a note in the box, ‘n’ it went into the fire, too.”
“It’s a good thing that it wasn’t reported missing, or they would’ve come after you.”
“Yeah, only now Sheriff Whyte is after me. I don’t know if the cameo I stole – I gave t’Hanna -- is the one they’re looking for, but if it is…” Jessie’s expression changed. “But they’re looking for a murderer, not a stage robber. I just don’t see how them two things work together.” She sighed again.
Paul gazed off into the distance. “I don’t know either, but something tells me we’ve got big trouble.”
The blonde beside him was quiet for a moment. “Well,” she finally said, “in my experience, the best way to head off trouble is to have a good lie ready.”
“Let’s hope we can figure one out before we get to town.”
* * * * *
Jessie and Paul rode up to the hitching post in front of a brown adobe building in the center of town. A wooden sign hung on the wall well above the door read, “Sheriff.”
A strongly built, curly haired man was leaning back in a chair on the wooden sidewalk in front of the office. He was carefully whittling a block of wood. “You folks looking for the Sheriff?” he asked.
“We are,” Paul answered.
The man stood up. “Well, you just found him. I’m Sheriff Whyte. What can I do for you?”
Paul glanced over at Jessie, who shook her head nervously. “Can we talk inside?”
“In… In private,” she added.
The Sheriff shrugged, his mustache twitching slightly. “Don’t see why not.” He stood, waiting while the pair dismounted, tying the reins of their horses to the post. “Follow me.” He turned and entered the building.
Jessie stood as if she’d sprouted roots into the wooden sidewalk staring at the jailhouse door. “Don’t be afraid, Jess,” Paul told her. “I’m right here with you.”
“I sure hope you’re right about this.” She took a breath and walked in, with Paul following her. Once he was inside, he shut the door behind him.
“Now, like I said, how can I help you?” Sheriff Elijah Whyte asked. As he spoke, took a seat behind his desk. A rifle and cleaning rag were on the desk right in front of him, but he pushed them aside. Hanna’s cameo rested atop a pile of papers in a corner of his desk
Jessie almost managed a smile. “T’tell the truth, I’m here t’help you, Sheriff. I’m Jessie Hanks, and the Tylers said you wanted t’talk to me.”
“And I’m Paul Grant, sir. I’m a… a friend of Jessie’s.”
The Sheriff looked at the pair, his eyes drawn to the deputy’s badge pinned to Paul’s shirt. “And a lawman, too, I see. Are you here as her friend, or is it… official?”
“What do you mean, ‘official’, Sheriff?” Paul asked cautiously.
“Official… helping me make the arrest.” Whyte rose, pulling out his pistol. “Jessie Hanks, you’re under arrest for the murder of Eugene Barlow.”
Jessie’s jaw dropped. “A-A-Arrest… murder? But I didn’t kill nobody.”
“That cameo says you did.” He pointed towards the cameo. “It’s a dead ringer for the one Barlow had, and the only way you coulda got it was to take it when you shot him.”
“I never ran into the varmint. Where was I supposed to have murdered him?”
“Prescott,” replied the Sheriff.
“That’s daft!” said Jessie. “I ain’t never been there!”
“Tell it to the judge. I’ve got to return you to Prescott to sort this thing out.”
Paul frowned. “You’re putting an awful lot of weight on some pretty flimsy evidence, Sheriff.” “There’s a perfectly logical reason that Jessie had the cameo...” He started to tell the story they had worked out.
“Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t,” the Sheriff interrupted, “but you and me can talk about it after I get this pretty little lady into a cell.”
Jessie shook her head. “N-No, I ain’t going t’jail for something I didn’t do.” She took a step back, moving towards the door.
“Hold it right there, or I’ll shoot.” Whyte’s finger moved, pulling back the hammer of the weapon.
Paul stepped in his line of fire. “You scare the hell out of Jessie, threatening her with jail, and then you want to shoot her for being scared. What kind of a man are you?”
“A man who knows his duty. Now, get out of my way.” He motioned with the firearm for Paul to move.
“Like hell.” Paul swung suddenly, hitting the older man square in the stomach. When Whyte staggered back in surprise, Paul connected again, this time with a right cross to the jaw. The Sheriff groaned once and collapsed, unconscious in his chair.
Jessie let out a low whistle. “He has got to be the most unreasonable man I ever crossed paths with, and he won’t be any more ready to listen to what we have to say, once he wakes up. What’ll we do?”
“First things first.” Paul put his arms under the Sheriff’s shoulders, lifting him, and pulled the unconscious man over to an empty cell. He settled the unconscious man on the floor and walked out. The key, one of four on a small steel keyring, was in the cell door’s heavy steel lock. Paul carefully took the key out and shut the door, listening for the lock to click. He tugged at the door once – just to be certain on the lock. Then he knelt and positioned the keyring about a foot and a half away from the bars. “That should keep him for a while. Now we can go.”
“Lemme get a couple souvenirs,” Jessie said. She scooped up both the rifle and the pistol. There was a box of shells near the rifle, and she grabbed those as well.
Paul pocketed the cameo necklace. The top sheet of the papers beneath it showed a picture of the cameo. “And a little light reading, too.”
“Too bad he didn’t let you finish talking, before you had to start throwing punches,” Jessie suggested, wryly. “It’s a shame when a good lie goes to waste.”
“Too late to cry over spilled milk. When he threatened to shoot you, I just went crazy.”
They hurried for the door. There was a small window in the door, with a sign hanging down from a nail so that it could be read through the window. Paul turned the sign so that the words “Sheriff on Patrol” faced towards the street. “That’ll give us some more time before they come after us.”
“Then we’d best make the most of it,” Jessie replied, smiling, as she untied the reins and scrambled up onto her horse.
Paul nodded in agreement, as he stuffed the papers and the cameo into his jacket pocket. He climbed up onto his own mount, the reins in his hands. A moment later, they were both galloping out of Dawson.
* * * * *
They stopped about a mile out of town, turning their horses to see if anyone was following them. There was no cloud of dust, no sight of horsemen. “Nothing yet,” Paul said, “but they’ll be coming soon enough.”
“Which way do we go?” Jessie asked.
Paul pointed. “That way; northeast, towards the river.”
“Back to the Tylers? That’s the first place they’ll look.”
“That’s why we’ll let them think that’s where we’re going.”
Jessie grinned. “Only we ain’t; are we?”
“Nope,” Paul grinned back. “Once we get to the river, we’ll use a little trick a… friend of mine showed me a few months back.” He glanced back towards the town again. “Now, let’s put some more miles between us and whoever the sheriff sends after us.”
Jessie frowned. “Can I change outta this damned dress before we go into the river.”
“No time… unless you want to risk a posse catching you in your unmentionables.”
She gave him a wry smile. “The only one I want t’catch me in just my drawers is you, and we surely ain’t got time for that right now.”
“Maybe later -- definitely later, but right now, we’d better ride.”
* * * * *
“Oooh…” Elijah Whyte groaned and slowly opened his eyes. He was laid down on a cot in one of his own jail cells. He shifted his feet and stood up.
Too quickly; he sat back down while the cell stopped spinning around him.
After a minute or so, it wasn’t moving any more. He rubbed the ache in his jaw and very slowly rose to his feet. Still moving slowly, he walked over and tried the cell door. “Locked… dammit!” he swore, angry at letting himself get sucker-punched by Paul. “And him a lawman,” he muttered. He sat back down and looked around, expecting to be in the cell for some time. But then he spotted the keys on the floor not too far away.
He positioned himself on the floor, his body pressed against the cell walls. He reached for the keys, but his arm was painful inches too short. “G-d dammit to all Hell!”
He pulled his arm back and sat up. He took off his left boot and lay back down. Using the boot as a hook of sorts, he was able to snag the keys and bring them within reach. He paused only long enough to slip the footwear back on before he let himself out of the cell.
Whyte cursed again when he saw that his rifle, pistol, and a box of shot were gone, but these were not the only firearms. He unlocked the case on the wall, holding two other rifles – both loaded – a pistol and another box of shells. The weapons were fastened by a chain that he also needed to unlock. He replaced the pistols in the holsters on his belt and gathered up the rifle and ammunition. A moment later, he was out the front door.
A black iron ring hung by a rope from a hook on the underside of the roof above the wooden sidewalk; a large steel hammer was attached to it by a second rope. The Sheriff took down the ring and began to strike it loudly with the hammer. Within minutes, a crowd of men had rushed to gather in front of him.
“I just had two suspects escape,” he shouted, “a tall man on a gray cow-pony and a short, blonde gal in a green dress, riding a brown nag. Anybody see which way they went?”
A short man in dark brown overalls pointed down the street. “They headed that way, Sheriff, riding like the Devil hisself was chasing him.”
“You’re all deputies, boys, all them that want to help, anyway,” Whyte said. “Mount up. And if we catch up to them, watch yourself; they both might be partners in murder.”
Almost a dozen men ran for their own horses. In less than five minutes, the Sheriff was leading them out of town heading after Paul and Jessie.
* * * * *
The Gila River was almost one hundred feet wide where it cut across the trail. Paul and Jessie rode into the slow-moving river at an angle, as if still headed east, towards the Tyler farm. By the time they reached the halfway point, the water was just reaching the underside of their horses. “Damned dress,” Jessie muttered, watching the hem of her garment floating about her.
“It’ll dry quick enough,” Paul reassured her. They stayed in place. He looked down and was unable to see the river bottom in the muddy water. “Let’s head west now.”
They turned their horses and started at a different angle for the far bank. They stopped a few feet from shore and rode on for several miles. Every so often, one or the other glanced back, but there was no sign of any pursuers behind them.
* * * * *
Sheriff Whyte reined his horse, as the posse reached the Gila River. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath.
“What’s the matter?” Cal Bucher asked. Cal was a farmer, in town for supplies, when he’d joined the posse.
“The damned river,” the Sheriff replied. “There ain’t much in the way of tracks. They could’ve just crossed, or they could’ve stayed in the river… gone east or west.”
“So what do we do?”
Duke Moran, another member of the posse, glanced down at the ground. “The trail’s rocky, no real sign of tracks to follow.”
“And the river’s muddy,” Bucher added. “Same problem.”
The Sheriff made a sour face. “We guess. Mizz Tyler told me that Grant and Hanks said they’d never been to anywhere ‘round here. Most likely, they’d head back to someplace they did know, the Tylers’ farm.”
“Sounds right t’me,” Bucher said. Moran and the rest of the posse agreed.
Whyte pointed towards the far side of the river. “Let’s get wet, then.” He flicked his reins and started across.
* * * * *
Paul pulled back on his reins with one hand, even as he raised the other. “Hold up, Jess. I think it’s safe to leave the river now. That’s a wide piece of stony ground, and anyone looking for tracks might not spot them as they go by.”
“Bout time,” she said, reining up her own horse. “We must’ve gone a good five miles downstream by now.”
“At least. Let’s get out and see if anybody’s still following us.”
He rode over to the shore and out onto the brush and rocks alongside the river. Jessie followed. Once they were both on dry land, they rode up and around a low ridge that overlooked the Gila River. Near the top, they dismounted, tying their mounts to a nearby tree.
Paul bent low as he walked to the top of the ridge. “Let me take a look.” He stayed down, looking down through the brush. From this height, he could see at least a mile back along the river. “No sign of anybody coming,” he called to Jessie.
“There’s also the danger is that some local saw us riding in the water. He’d remember that.”
Jessie frowned. “Yeah, but would he still be there t’tell the Sheriff?” She glanced down at her damp clothing. “Can we stay here for a few minutes?”
“I suppose. Why?”
“So I can get outta this dress. It’s dry enough – so’s the petticoat – that I can put ‘em away and get into a pair of pants.”
“You do that. I’ll keep watch – just in case.” He gave her a comic leer. “Be less distracting that way, too, for me to watch the river instead of watching you taking off your clothes.” He turned back towards the river.
She chuckled. “Distracting… why, Mr. Grant, you’ve seen me get undressed lotsa times.”
“Yeah, but right now, I can’t do anything about it.” He shrugged. “Maybe later.”
Jessie was back by the horses, wriggling out of her dress. “Count on it.” She draped the dress over her saddle. “Just now, I got a question ‘bout something else. How come you put them keys where that sheriff could get hold of ‘em?”
“Because I didn’t want to embarrass the man. Catching him by surprise with a lucky punch, that’s one thing. Leaving him stuckin a cell, so he needed to call for help to get out; that’s something else. We’re gonna have to talk to him sometime about that cameo, and I’d just as soon that he ain’t too angry to be willing to listen to what we have to say.”
“He tried to shoot me, Paul. How much worse could he get?”
“I don’t know, but I’d just as soon not find out. A really angry sheriff might just shoot first and ask questions later – if at all.”
“I suppose you’re right, but you’re the only lawman I ever was willing t’trust.”
“And why do you suppose that is?” He took one last look down at the river. There was still no sign of any pursuers. With a smile, he turned to face Jessie.
She was just buttoning her blouse. “You just got a winning way about you, I guess.” She gave him a smile that was hardly shy.
“And we can talk about that later, too.” He walked over, giving her a quick kiss before he untangled his reins from the tree. “For now, let’s put some distance between us and the river.”
Jessie winked. “For now.” She untied her own mount, and the pair of them began riding towards the mountains some miles to the north.
* * * * *
Piety and Hanna were hanging clothes on a line near the farmhouse when they saw the sheriff and his posse riding towards them. Piety draped the tablecloth she’d been hanging over the line and ran towards the men, waving her arms furiously.
“What’s the matter, Miz Tyler?” Sheriff Whyte reined his horse with one hand, while he quickly signaled the others to stop.
Piety gave him an exasperated look. “We’ve just hung up a basket of just washed tablecloths and clothes over there.” She pointed. “And you and your men come riding in, raising a cloud of dust. How am I supposed to keep them clean?”
“Can’t be helped. We’re chasing that gal you told me about, Jessie Hanks; her and her man, Paul Grant.”
“Chase? They went looking for you this morning.”
“They found me, all right, but when I started t’talk to them about that murder, they spooked. They grabbed for their guns and ran off.” He looked around. “I figured that they might’ve come back here.”
“I can’t imagine why they would have run. I’m quite sure that Jessie isn’t involved in anything as sordid as what you suggested.”
“I can’t say as I agree. Innocent folk don’t run when you ask them questions. Anyway, you seen any sign of ‘em since this morning?”
By now, Hanna had pinned up the tablecloth and come over to join her mother. “No, but they’re gonna come back here, I think.” She glanced quickly at her mother, giving the woman a wink that the Sheriff couldn’t see. “Their clothes and all are here.” She paused a half beat before going on. “Besides, she promised to sing at my wedding tomorrow.”
“Perhaps, they decided to circle around to the farm,” Piety added. “In case anyone was following them.”
The sheriff dismounted, as did his men. “Maybe we’ll just wait for ‘em then; kinda give them a surprise.” He turned to the posse. “You men put your horses in the corral over there by the barn. Leave ‘em saddled though. Then take cover so you can watch for anybody riding in.”
He watched with satisfaction as the posse members obeyed. ‘I’ll be ready for them this time,’ he thought.
* * * * *
“Hey, Paul,” Jessie yelled, “can we stop for a minute.”
Paul slowed the pace of his cowpony, Ash, down to a gentle walk. “What’s up, Jess?”
“We been riding for an hour at least since we got outta the river. There ain’t no sign of a posse behind us, and I’m getting hungry. How ‘bout we find someplace t’eat?”
He turned Ash so that he was facing back along the way they had come. It was clear, open range. “No sign of any posse.”
“Or even the dust they’d raise.” Jessie rode her own horse, Useless, over to a stand of brush and dismounted.
He rode over and joined her on foot. “True enough. Let me get that; it’s a pretty big basket.” He was almost a foot taller than Jessie and more easily reached the large wicker basket tied fast behind her saddle. When it was free, it carefully set it down. “Let’s see what sort of lunch Piety Tyler packed for us.”
Jessie thought for a moment. “Better not eat it all, though. We really don’t know where our next meal’s coming from.”
Jessie opened the latch and lifted the basket lid. “There’s a note.” She unfolded the paper and began to read. “‘Dear, Jessie, it says’ – it’s from Hanna. ‘I don’t trust Mr. Whyte, so I’m packing some extra stuff I hope you don’t need. Please take care of yourself – and Paul – and come back for my wedding if you can. Love, Hanna.’” Jessie put the note down next to the basket.
“What all did she pack?” Paul asked.
She held up two folded sheets of paper. “Looks like a couple of maps – can’t eat them, but here’s something wrapped in waxed paper – fried chicken and biscuits.” She handed the food to him and continued unpacking.
“There’s two tins of canned beef… and a can opener in here; a couple of cans o’beans, too. And she packed us a bag of ground coffee… and a pot ‘n’ a couple o’cups; and matches in a glass bottle.” Jessie put the items on the grass as she spoke. “Hmm, she really don’t trust the man.” She took out two boxes of… “Bullets.”
Paul had worn his gun belt into town. Jessie had hers, as well, but she’d hidden her weapons in her saddlebag when she’d changed clothes. They both had knives – again, hers was in a saddlebag – and a flint and steel fire starter kit.
Finally, at the bottom of the basket, Jessie found… “Hanna tossed in a couple o’shirts, too, flannel ones.” She glanced up towards the mountains that loomed miles ahead of them. “I hope they’re enough.”
“They’ll have to be.” Paul told her. “Let’s re-pack the rest, and see what we can do with that chicken.”
* * * * *
Sheriff Whyte glanced off to the west. “Still no sign of ‘em,” he told Ephrem Tyler, “and it’s an hour or so till sundown. Do you mind if we camp out here tonight; in your barn, maybe?”
“I suppose not, since you and your men are going to stay anyway.”
“Thanks… say, didn’t your daughter say that Hanks and Grant left a lot of their stuff here with you?”
“She did; why?”
“Where’d they stay – in the barn? Maybe we can go through their things; see if there’s anything that might give us a clue to where they are?”
Piety had come outside to join her husband. “Mr. Grant slept in the barn. Jessie shared my daughter’s room. You and your men can examine his belongings. In fact, I’ll have… Malachi!” She shouted the name of her older son. When he ran over to her, she continued. “You go with the Sheriff. After he and his men go through Mr. Grant’s clothes, please pack them in his carpetbag. Then, you bring that and anything else of his into the house.” She took a breath, and then added, “Solely to make more room for you and your men, Sheriff.”
“Fine,” Whyte said, trying not to sound upset at her apparent attitude. “After we’ve looked at Grant’s stuff, we’ll see what we can find in Jessie Hank’s gear.”
Piety scowled. “No, sir, you will not.”
“And why not?”
“Because I will not have you – or any man pawing through Jessie’s clothing as if she were some kind of low criminal – which she is not.”
He gave her his best smile. “Ma’am, we are looking for her, and there may be something in her garments or other possessions. What do you suggest we do?”
“Well…” she thought for a moment. “How about this; my daughter and I will pack away Jessie’s belongings? You may watch. If you see anything that you need to examine more closely, we shall do that for you, at your direction, of course.”
Now Ephrem smiled. “I’d advise you to go along with her. My Piety can be a very stubborn woman, and she feels very protective about Jessie Hanks.”
“I guess I don’t really have a choice in the matter, do I?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Alright, Miz Tyler, we’ll do it your way.”
* * * * *
“Hey, Jess,” Paul said, “you want another cup of coffee?”
Jessie was on a blanket spread out on the grass. She was leaning back against the saddle from her horse, carefully reading the papers she had taken from the sheriff’s desk. The sun was setting, but she still had more than enough light. “Huhn… what’d you say, Paul?”
“I asked if you wanted some coffee. Do you?”
She sighed and set down the sheet she’d been reading. “N-No, thanks,” she answered in an uncertain voice.
“You okay?”
“Yeah… no… no, I’m not okay.” She sighed. “It just… it’s ain’t fair. This is the second time I’m being chased for… for killing somebody that I didn’t kill.”
Paul set the coffee pot down on the ground just outside the ring of rocks that surrounded their campfire. “You seem to have a define talent for that happening.” He gave her a smile of encouragement.
“That… That ain’t funny.” She shook her head and then looked down at the papers. “It ain’t funny at all.”
He could see a glistening, tear forming in her eyes, and he hurried over and sat down next to her. “Jess...” He took her hand in his, while his other arm reached around her waist.
“I-I thought I was done with riding the owlhoot trail, done with always looking over my back for somebody sneaking up on me, always…” She sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “…with always being ready for the… the bullet that’d take me outta my misery.”
She turned abruptly to stare at him. “I thought I – me, me and you – we m-might’ve had some kinda… life together.”
“We still can.” It was the first time Jessie had ever spoken of a future with him. He shifted slightly and kissed her forehead.
She clutched his vest. “I started t’think that I might have some time ahead of me. Now I ain’t so sure. Nobody can be sure. So what’s a man gonna do? Does he give up, or does he try to grab as much of life as he can, as fast as he can?”
“I don’t have advice for any sort of man, but I’d sure hope that a pretty gal who happens to be around here would take the second choice.” He gently kissed her cheek.
She sobbed and buried her face in his chest. “How… How can I, when they’re hunting me for a murder I-I didn’t do?”
“It’ll be all right, Jess. I-I promise it will.” He let go of her hand and began to stroke her head, trying to comfort her. She didn’t speak. He could hear her weeping; feel her tears wetting his shirt. He just held her, letting her give rein to her fears, until the girl’s breathing became more even and she fell asleep in his arms.
He lay back, still holding her. ‘I wanted you in my arms tonight, Jess,’ he thought wryly, ‘but sure as hell not like this.’ He freed one arm just long enough to pull the blanket over them both and drifted into sleep.
* * * * *
It was already dark outside, when the Sheriff and Piety came downstairs from Hanna’s room.
“Thank you for your… cooperation, Miz Tyler,” he grumbled as he started for the barn.
Ephrem waited until he was sure that Whyte was out of earshot. “How’d it go, and where’s Hanna?”
“She stayed in her room to pack her trousseau – for the fifth time.” She sighed. “It won’t be a very fancy honeymoon; spending two days in that old shack on the Parker farm.”
“Two people in love don’t need much.” He took his wife’s hand. “We didn’t.”
“That was so many, many years ago. Now, look at me. I’m an old woman… old enough to have a daughter about to get married.”
“All I see is that pretty, young girl I was lucky enough to marry.”
She sat down next to him and kissed his cheek. “You, sir, are a liar of the first water – and I love you for it.”
“Every word’s the honest truth, Pie, every word.” He paused a beat. “So tell me, did he – did you – find anything in Jessie’s stuff?”
“Hanna found the words to that song she so wanted Jessie to perform at her wedding. I hope that works out for her.”
“We can certainly hope. Anything else?”
“Yes, there was a small, drawstring bag in the drawer where Jessie put her underthings.” She giggled. “It was full of British riding coats. I don’t know who was the more embarrassed, Hanna or the Sheriff.”
“But not you.” He chuckled. “Not my sweet, sweet Pie.”
“Well… I pretended to be.”
He frowned. “I’m kind of sorry that Hanna had to see them.”
“She knows about such things – in a way. But knowing about them and seeing one for the first time are two entirely different experiences.”
“And the experiences she’ll be having tomorrow night won’t involve such a thing, I’m sure.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “In the meantime, let’s us go to bed.”
“But it’s early,” she protested, “and I’m not really tired.”
He kissed her again. “Good, because neither am I.”
* * * * *
Chapter 4 – “Into the Mountains”
Sunday, June 2, 1872
The morning sun, just rising over the crest of a hill, shone in Jessie’s face, waking her up. She shifted her body and slowly opened her eyes, shading them from the bright light. As she did, she found Paul awake and looking at her.
“Morning, Jess,” he greeted her. “You sleep well?”
They were both under a blanket, fully dressed but snuggled close together. He could feel his arm around her waist. “I-I guess. How ‘bout you?”
“Not bad. I dozed off not too long after you did.”
His words reminded her of how she’d acted the night before, and she could feel her face flush with embarrassment. “Sorry about last night; I-I don’t know why I acted the way I done.”
“Don’t worry about it. You had every right to be upset after that sheriff pulled a pistol and tried to arrest you for a murder you didn’t commit.”
“The old Jesse Hanks wouldn’t’ve gone all soft and cried like that. He’d have laughed at what happened – or tried to kill that sheriff for doing what he done.”
“Yes, but you aren’t him. You’re… you.”
“Yeah, a no-account crybaby of a gal.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He spoke softly, choosing his words so as not to rile her. “You’ve had almost a year of not being a hunted outlaw. You’ve settled down. You’ve got a good job, one you enjoy doing, and you’ve got friends who care about you.” He gently ran a finger down her cheek. “And you’ve got me.”
“I ain’t gonna complain about my life now, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna complain about having you around t’help me live it. But I still feel dumb, crying like that.”
“You gonna cry some more, now?”
“Nope.” She gave him a wry smile. “I think I’m cried out for now.”
“You see; that was just something you needed to do. You’re done now, and I’ll bet you feel a whole lot better for it.”
She thought for a moment. “Yeah, I… guess I do. Thanks, Paul.”
“Speaking of things to make you feel better.” His other hand slowly moved across her stomach.
She put her hand on his. “It surely would, but I think we got a problem in that department.”
“What’s that?” Then his eyes widened as he realized their situation. “Protection; we left all those condoms back at the Tylers’ place. Didn’t we?”
She shook her head. “Nope, I brought one… for that picnic Piety suggested. But that’s all we got, and, much as I hate t’say it, we better save that one for a special occasion.”
“We could do without.”
“Much as I want to, Paul, I’m scared. I keep thinking of Laura, belly the size of a watermelon and stuck in bed ‘cause she’s too weak t’get around.” She shook her head. “No, I-I just ain’t… ain’t gonna risk it. I’m sorry, so, very, very, very sorry, but I-I just couldn’t.”
He kissed her cheek. “Jess, if you’re that scared, I certainly won’t force you, but I reserve the right…” He kissed her again. “…to hope that you change your mind.”
“You know,” Jess said, sitting up and trying to smile. “This kinda reminds me of the last time me and you was on the trail.”
He nodded and sat up, too. “Last fall, you mean; on our way back to Eerie from the Tylers’ place.”
“Uh huhn; that was the first time you ‘n’ me… kissed.” She managed the smile at the happy memory.
“We did more than just kiss.”
“Yeah, but not as much as you – or me, t’tell the honest truth of it -- wanted.” She blushed as she spoke.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to settle for what we did back then.” He leaned over and kissed her.
Jessie sighed as her arm reached up to encircle his neck. She felt a tingle run through her body as her breasts were pressed against him. The fear and mortification she’d felt was replaced by feelings of being cherished and protected. Her lips parted to let his tongue invade her mouth to tangle with her own.
“That was so nice,” she whispered, almost breathless, when they finally parted.
He leaned in and began to unbutton her shirt. “Let’s make things even nicer.” When he had finished, he slide it down off her shoulders. She shrugged, and the sleeves dropped down to her wrists. She had it completely off a moment later.
“Now you.” She grinned mischievously and started working on his shirt. “Dang… you don’t never wear undershirts, do you?” She rubbed the palm of her hand across his thick chest hairs. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
He grinned back at her. “I’m not complaining either.” His fingers went to the hooks of her corset, undoing them one by one in quick, practiced order. Once it was undone, it fell of its own accord onto their blanket. He could see her nipples, erect and pushing out the soft muslin of her camisole, her breasts eager to be touched.
“Better stop right there,” she told him, the regret clear in her voice. “I figure I’ve taken off as much as I should… dang it!”
“I’m afraid I have to agree. You know, undressing you is like eating peanuts.” When she stared at him, confused by his words, he continued. “I like it so much, it’s damned hard to stop.”
Her hand snaked down to cup the bulge in his crotch. “That ain’t all that’s hard. It’s too bad we --”
He cut her words off by pulling her to him and kissing her again; a kiss full of passion and longing.
She moaned as the feelings he was stirring flowed through her. Her breasts warmed, her nipples tight and eager to be touched. There was a warmth down between her legs and an eagerness to be touched there, as well.
Paul took advantage of that moan. His tongue slipped in between her parted lips to play with hers. His hands roamed her delicious curves, finally settling on her breasts. These he gently fondled. Her own arms encircled him drawing him closer.
“Oh, that was so dammed good,” she said when they finally broke the kiss. Even lovers need to breath once in a while. “I wish…” her voice trailed off.
He smiled. “So do I, but we don’t have any more condoms than we had a few minutes again.”
“It ain’t that – well, it is that, too. But look at the sun; it’s getting awful high in the sky.”
“You’re right.” He glanced over to check. The sun was almost half way towards zenith. “Much as I hate to say it, we’d better get mov – ah, riding.”
* * * * *
Ephrem Tyler walked towards his barn. The sheriff and his posse had camped there overnight, and, now, he saw that almost all of the men were packing their gear back onto their horses.
“Aren’t you and your men staying for the wedding?” he asked, trying not to let the sarcasm into his voice.
Sheriff Whyte shook his head. “Most of them are leaving – I am, too, as a matter of fact. Cal Bucher and Lafe Olmsted were invited, so they’re staying. Mick Walsh went home t’get Katie and that baby girl of theirs, but he’ll be back here, too. The three o’them’ll be keeping watch for the Hanks gal, but I don’t really expect her and that Grant fellah to show up for your daughter’s wedding.”
“Where do you think them two will show up?”
“To tell the truth, I think they may’ve rode on past your place, heading back to… umm, Eerie.” He paused a beat. “I just may do something about that when I get back to town.”
“But before I do,” he continued, “I want to check the river again. I’m gonna send some men to ride along the banks – going east and west for a few miles – just to see if they find any signs of where the pair of ‘em might’ve gone. It ain’t likely, but if you run into anybody, ask him if he saw Grant and Hanks pass by, yesterday. A pretty gal in a green dress, that’s something a man would remember.”
Ephrem frowned. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t wish you good luck. Jessie’s a good friend of my daughter, and she saved my wife’s life. I find it very hard to believe that she did anything wrong.”
“Then why’d she run?”
“From what you told me, I think you scared her. As soon as she has a chance to calm down, she’ll be back – and with a good explanation about that cameo.”
“And I think she ran ‘cause she was guilty, and she knew that she was caught, but I’ll give her a chance to tell her story if she shows up again.”
The other man gave him a wry smile. “What more could anyone ask?”
* * * * *
The posse slowed as it reached the Gila River from the north. There was no need to gallop back across it, and a slower fording meant that the men would stay dry. They were about ten yards into the water, when Sheriff Whyte suddenly stopped. “Hold up, men,” he yelled.
“What’s the matter, Elijah?” Tom Finney asked. Finney was a beefy man in green overalls and a plaid shirt.
The Sheriff frowned. “I’m having me some second thoughts, Tom.”
“You wanna ride back to the Tyler place?”
“No, I ain’t sure that they headed there or rode on towards that town they come from.” He looked left and right. “I think, maybe, I was wrong about them riding straight on through this river.”
Hugh Jones was close enough to hear the two men. “You think they mighta stayed in the river for a while to make it harder for us to be tracking ‘em?”
“I do – maybe.” Whyte said. “Tom, why don’t you and Beau ride a few miles downstream? One of you take the north bank, and the other, the south. See if you can’t find somewhere they might’ve come out of the river. If you do, the one who found it’ll stay there t’mark it, and the other’ll come back here t’us.” He turned his head. “Ollie, you and Rich do the same thing heading upstream.”
“How far should we go?” Finney asked.
Whyte shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know… five miles or so, that oughta be enough. Either of you see anything, come back t’town ‘n’tell me.”
“Okay, Sheriff,” Beau van Zandt nodded. He started back towards the riverbank. He stopped a yard or so from the land and turned left, downstream. Tom Finney did the same, but he headed to the opposite bank. Ollie Croft and Rich Potter copied them, but riding upstream.
The Sheriff and the rest of the posse stayed in the water, watching the others for a short time. Then they continued on across. ‘That takes care o’one possibility,’ Whyte thought, as they reached the southern bank. ‘In case they did head back home, I think I’ll send something there, so the Sheriff in… Eerie – yeah, that’s where Ephrem Tyler said they were from – send a telegram t’whoever the sheriff is there, so he can be on the lookout for them.’
Whyte usually carried a pencil and a small notebook in his vest pocket. He took them out and began to write. He was a “belt and suspenders” man. Whatever happened he’d make sure that telegram got sent. Come hell or high water, he was gonna catch them two. ‘Nobody’, he thought, as he began to write, ‘makes a fool out of Sheriff Elijah Whyte.’
* * * * *
“Sheriff... Sheriff, we found something!”
Whyte turned downriver at the sound of his name. Beau van Zandt was galloping toward him, shouting and waving his arm.
“What’d you find, Beau?”
Van Zandt took a moment to catch his breath. “Tom found it, t’tell the truth. About four miles down, it looks like somebody came outta the river ‘n’ headed north. Tom stayed where he found it, and I rode back here t’get you ‘n’ the others. “
The Sheriff grinned, glad that his hunch had paid off. He clambered onto his horse. “Hugh, you head upstream for Ollie and Rich. Duke and me’ll be downstream t’ see just what Tom found. “
* * * * *
“What d’you think. Lige?” Tom Finney asked. Like most of the posse, he was on horseback.
Elijah Whyte was crouched down, examining some scrub brush on the bank of the Gila River. “I think you found ‘em.” He stood up. “There’s enough broken brush that it was more’n one horse that came outta the river. And the breaks in the wood are fresh enough that it couldn’t have been more’n a day since they happened.”
“So what happens now?” Ollie Croft asked.
The Sheriff mounted up. “We go after ‘em, of course.” He thought for a moment. “We might wanna send somebody into town for supplies. This may take a day or three.”
“Not for me,” Croft shook his head. “I got a job I gotta be at tomorrow.”
The other men agreed. They had jobs to get to, businesses or a farm to run. A few had families, a wife, kids maybe, that they couldn’t just up and leave for who knew how long.
“You’re gonna let them two get away?” the Sheriff said with disgust. “Hell, then; I’ll just go after them by myself.”
“No, you don’t,” Beau van Zandt said. “You’re hired on to be the town sheriff. You can’t just go off on some damned squirrel hunt.”
Whyte thought quickly. “How’s about if I… if I leave a deputy to stay in town while I chase down Grant and Hanks? ‘Cept for them, Dawson’s been pretty quiet lately.”
“Who?”
It had to be one of them, the men with him now, but who was qualified? “Hugh… Hugh Jones. Didn’t you tell me you used to be a sergeant in the English Army?”
“I was,” Jones answered, speaking in a thick Welsh accent. He was a tall, muscular man with steel-gray hair. “The Coldstream Guards, it was, afore Gwenlyn and I come to America. Now, I’ve got me a saddle and harness shop to be running.”
The Sheriff shrugged. “So run it. Put a sign on the jailhouse door telling folks t’come to your shop if they need the sheriff. Besides that, once or twice a day, say in late afternoon and about 8 at night you walk around town checking up on things. There shouldn’t be no trouble. Like I said, it’s been kinda quiet lately.”
“I suppose – just don’t you be gone too long.” A thought came to him. “Say, if things are so quiet, can I be taking me son, Henry, with me when I go on them walks?”
Ollie Craft raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Why; does he wanna be a sheriff some day?”
“No…” Hugh’s expression soured. “He wants to be a knight; always reading books about somebody named Charlemagne and King Arthur and such he is; talking about going on quests, looking for magic treasure and rescuing princesses.”
Tom Finney chuckled. “Don’t worry, Hugh. Your boy’s what… nine or ten? It ain’t like he’s gonna be thinking about crazy stuff like that his whole life. You just wait till he’s grown and has a job and a wife ‘n’ kids of his own. He’ll settle down quick enough.”
“Lord, I hope so.” He looked over at Whyte. “I’ll do it, but I ain’t gonna do it forever. You got… two weeks, a week to find them two and a week, at most, to bring ‘em back, or I’m done.”
The Sheriff extended his hand. “Fair enough.” He shook Jones’ hand, and then reached into his vest pocket. “Here’s a telegram. Do me a favor and send it to the sheriff in Eerie – whoever he is – in case they do head back there.”
“Done and done.” Hugh put the paper into his shirt pocket. “And happy hunting.”
The men watched Sheriff Whyte head out of the river and up a low hill to the north before they turned their own horses and started back for town.
* * * * *
Dan Talbot, Sheriff of Eerie, Arizona, read the telegram for a second time.
‘ Wanted for Resisting Arrest, for Flight to Avoid Prosecution,
‘ Jessie Hanks and Paul Grant and a Possible Murder Suspect (Hanks).
Talbot shook his head. “Oh, Jessie, what did you get yourself – and Paul – into now?” He continued reading.
‘ Hanks is female, about 20 year old; five feet tall; slender; blonde
‘ hair, blue eyes. She is riding a swayback brown gelding.
‘ Grant is male, in late 20s; just under six feet tall; slender; dark
‘ brown hair, brown eyes. He is riding a light gray cow pony.
‘ Both are armed and dangerous. If seen, contact Sheriff Elijah Whyte,
‘ Dawson, Arizona.
“I’ll just have to trust Paul to get them both out of it.” Talbot folded the telegram and set it in the top drawer of his office desk. “And the last thing I need to do is to let Molly O’Toole find out. There’s nothing she can do about it except fret – and, probably, make my life – and Shamus’ -- absolute misery.”
As he closed the drawer, he had another thought. “This telegram sounds awfully formal. I wonder who else that Sheriff Whyte might’ve sent it to.”
* * * * *
Paul looked up from the papers he’d been studying, the ones he’d grabbed from that sheriff’s office. “Say, Jess, do you remember what day you, ah… stopped that stage?”
“Robbed, you mean.” Jessie gave him a sly wink. “The twelfth, I think – no….” She began mumbling to herself as she counted days off on her fingers. “The thirteenth – yeah, I’m pretty sure it was September 13.” She thought for a moment. “Why?”
“Because – according to these papers – Barlow was killed on the thirteenth and… here, come look at this map.” He unfolded the map Ephrem Tyler had given them and set it carefully on the ground. A few small rocks set in the corners held it down.
While he was positioning the rocks, Jessie moved in close -- very close -- to him. “What d’you got?”
“Now here’s… here’s Prescott.” He cleared his throat, a distraction as much as anything else, and pointed to the representation of the town on the map. “And over here…” He shifted his body and pointed to a place on the map that was some distance away from Prescott. “…just north of Black Canyon is where you robbed the stage.”
“How d’you know that?”
“When I was… tracking you, I stopped at the Wells Fargo depot in Black Canyon to get my bearings and – I’ll admit it – to get out of that rain for a while. One of the men there – still pissed as all hell – was talking about how somebody, somebody who sounded a lot like you had robbed the stage he’d been the guard on. He said it happened a couple days before and just a few miles north of where we were.”
“Yeah,” she admitted, “it was me. I didn’t get much, though.”
“You got enough to get accused of murder, Jessie, but the good news is that what you did get – that cameo – might just say that you didn’t kill Barlow.” He took a breath. “That is, if we can just get people to listen to what it does have to say.”
“What the hell are you going on about; how does that cameo prove I’m innocent?”
“About how long do you think it’d take a stage to go from here – Prescott – to here – where you robbed it?”
She studied the map for a few minutes, running her finger along the route. “I dunno, six hours, maybe a bit more… seven on the outside.”
“You think that you could catch up with stage – if it had a head start, I mean.”
Jessie raised a suspicious eyebrow. “How much of a head start?”
“Let’s say… a half hour; could you catch up with it?”
“Maybe… if I had a real good horse.”
“How about an hour head start?”
“Mmm, that’s be harder; maybe.”
“How about an hour and a half… or two hours?”
“There’s an outside chance – if they took their time at the stops, changing horses and folks getting on and off, I might get past an hour ‘n’ a half lead, and that’s saying a lot, and it’d take a damn sight better horse than Useless. Two hours, though.” She shook her head. “There’s no way in hell, I could catch up with it by the time it got to Black Canyon.”
“That’s what I figured.” He held up sheet of paper. “According to these notes, Barlow was killed sometime after 11 AM. “
“So…”
“You robbed that stage about mid-afternoon, right?”
“Yeah, I waited a couple hours for something worth robbing t’come along. If that stage hadn’t shown up, I’d left before too long. I wanted time t’find a place t’camp before it got dark.”
“That’s what I thought. Let’s say you robbed the stage at 3 o’clock.”
“Okay. That’s as good a guess as any. I didn’t have no watch with me.”
“Figure six hours drive time, it would’ve left Prescott about 9 AM, maybe even before 9.”
“So the stage left at 9. What does that prove?”
“Everything; Barlow was killed around 11 AM, maybe later. There’s no way that you could have been in Prescott and killed him at 11 and caught up with the stage and robbed it at 3, like you did. It would’ve had too much of a lead.”
She moved even closer. “You’re right; I couln’t’ve done ‘em both.” She threw her arms around him and leaned in for a kiss. For a time – much too short a time – their worries about the murder charge were lost in their shared passion.
“We still have to get a copy of the schedule to prove when the stage left Prescott,” he said, a little breathless, when they finally separated. “And we have to get Wells Fargo to admit that they were robbed.”
Jessie gave him a sly smile. “We can do that easy. You’re smart, and I’m… sneaky. We just put our heads together and –”
“Like this?” Paul moved in, putting his head – his lips, at any rate – together with hers. Talk of murder and alibi was over for the evening. They kept their drawers on, still concerned about the lack of protection, but they certainly enjoyed themselves – and each other – before they both drifted off to sleep.
* * * * *
Monday, June 3, 1872
“I don’t know ‘bout this,” Jessie whispered. “Them’s awful big sheep.”
Paul tried to reassure her. “They call them ‘big horn’ sheep… for obvious reasons, but they shouldn’t bother us if we don’t bother them.”
“You got that right. The horns on somma them rams must weigh twenty-five… thirty pounds.”
The pair was walking slowly towards the pond where the sheep were drinking. Their horses were tied to a tree some twenty yards away. They made no sudden moves that might startle flock, especially the large rams which were watching them very closely, ready to attack any threat.
“I still don’t like the look of them sheep,” she repeated.
“Maybe not, but we need water.” He held up the canteen he was carrying. “These things’re half empty, and who knows when we’ll see another watering hole.”
“We got enough t’get back t’the Tyler farm…” She let her voice trail off.
Paul gave her a look of surprise. “You know we can’t go back, Jess, not for a while anyway. That sheriff probably still has men waiting there for us.”
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “It’s just that… hell, the only reason we come out here was for Hanna’s wedding.” She glanced up at the afternoon sun. “A wedding that’s probably going on right now, and one that I – hell – I promised t’be there for it.”
“I know, but it can’t be helped. Once we get this business with the cameo settled we’ll --” He was interrupted by a loud bleat.
They glanced over at the herd of bighorns. One of the rams that had been watching them collapsed to the ground, two arrows in its side. The other sheep were hurrying away from where he stood.
Paul and Jessie turned towards where the arrows had probably come from. Five Indians – Apaches! – were walking slowly down the rise. Two, with bows in their hands and satisfied expressions on their faces, headed for the game they had just killed. The others, one with a bow and two with rifles, and all three looking grim, came straight for Paul and Jessie.
* * * * *
Chapter 5 – “Among the Apaches"
Tuesday, June 4, 1872
A train of five Apache warriors slowly headed east along a narrow mountain trail.
Paul and Jessie, hands tied behind their backs, were on Jessie’s horse, Useless, who was being led by a line from the second Apache. A travois, a triangular sled, was attached by ropes to either side of Useless’s saddle. The carcass of a bighorn ram was carefully placed on the sled and held in place by leather straps.
The fifth Apache was leading Paul’s horse, Ash. A second travois, this one also bearing a dead sheep, was attached to the cowpony.
“Paul,” Jessie whispered, “what d’you thinks gonna happen to us?”
“I don’t know, Jesse,” he answered in an equally low voice. “The Apache aren’t too happy with white folk right about now.”
“When was they ever happy with white folk?”
“When we left them alone.” Paul’s expression soured. “After what happened at Camp Grant – all those Apache women and kids killed for no good reason – a lot of them scattered to the hills. And some of them – like Cochise – are out for blood.”
“They come in to the reservation when General Crook told ‘em to.”
“That came in because it was easier to spend winter in a camp, getting food and blankets, than it was to stay in the mountains. A lot of them ran for it when spring came.” He looked around at their captors. “I think that’s who these men are, Apaches who didn’t want to stay where General Crook or General Howard wanted them.” He add that some of those warriors who had escaped had taken to killing whites.
He didn’t need to. “You think they’s gonna kill us,” she asked nervously.
“I hope not.” He thought for a moment. “They could’ve killed us outright when they found us. It’d be nice if we could ask them what they do have in mind. You don’t happen to speak Apache, do you?”
“Not a word; how ‘bout you?”
“The same, I’m sorry to say.” Very sorry; it would be hard to try to reason with men who couldn’t understand what he was saying to them.
Just then, one if the warriors rode over to them. “Cerrar sus bocas malditos [Shut your damned mouths],” he ordered in surprisingly good Spanish.
‘Well,’ Paul thought wryly, ‘that’s one problem solved.’
* * * * *
The Apache warriors – still leading Useless and Ash – rode into a small encampment, a semi-circle of seven wickiups. These were shelters about twelve feet across and about nine feet high, formed by poles tied together to form a cone. It was summer, and the poles were covered with an array of rushes and leafy branches.
Several women were working by a communal cook pot surrounded by the huts. Others were seated in front of huts sewing or doing some other sort of close-up work. Children of various ages ran through the camp, playing some sort of chase game. A few older children were laboring in what looked like a small field of crops beyond the camp itself.
Everyone stopped when the horsemen came into the camp. A woman cupped her hand, turned towards one of the wickiups, and shouted something in Apache.
The riders halted near the crowd of women. Two of the men climbed off their horses and walked over to Useless. The first grabbed Paul by the waist and yanked him off the horse, letting him fall to the ground. Paul grunted when he landed. He scrambled, his hands still tied behind his back, and tried to get to his feet.
The second Apache grasped Jessie by her waist and lifted her more slowly off the horse. Grinning, he pulled her close, as he lowered her to the ground. She felt her body move against his, as she moved down.
“Hey!” she shouted in protest. He continued holding her close once she was on the ground, laughing and making what she suspected were rude comments in his native tongue. Some of the other riders laughed at whatever he was saying. “Leggo o’me, you son of a bitch!” she ordered and kicked him as hard as she could in his left shin.
The man grunted and released her. The men were still laughing, but now they were laughing at him, not with him. He scowled and pulled his knife, pointing it at Jessie.
“Uhh-ohh,” Jessie whispered.
Paul was on his feet now, and he quickly moved to position himself between Jessie and the man with the knife. “Ahora seamos razonables, amigo, [Now let’s be reasonable, friend,]” he said in Spanish, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. “I don’t think it helps our case to get them mad, Jess,” he added in English.
“He should be happy it was his shin I kicked.” As she spoke, she struggled, shifting her arms inside the ropes, trying to get free.
“Kree-gah!” A deep voice called out.
Everyone, Apache and white, turned in the direction of the speaker. An elderly man clad in a white buckskin tunic decorated with red, blue, and green beads was walking towards the group. A young girl, perhaps fifteen, held his arm, leading him. She wore a longer tunic, also white buckskin, which was decorated in much the same pattern as the man.
The old man walked slowly, shuffling his feet as he walked. When he reached Jessie, he stopped and looked angrily at the younger man. The brave mumbled something and replaced the knife in a sheath hanging from his belt. He stepped back, yielding his place to the elder.
The man stared into Jessie’s eyes. ‘Feels like he’s trying t’read my mind,’ she thought. Then he stepped back, and his gaze ran slowly down the length of her body. Her lush figure was well-displayed in a pea-green blouse with Kelly green trim and a pair of men’s dark blue work pants that was tied tight at her waist and clung to her wide hips and buttocks. He suddenly put his hands on her hips and looked down at her stomach. His hands gripped her firmly, so that her body shifted, as he moved them forward and backward. After a few moments of this, his eyes moved upwards, stopping at Jessie’s ample bosom.
“What goes on here?” she demanded in Spanish, as the man’s fingers moved towards the buttons of her blouse. The old man startled and took a quick step back.
The young woman spoke a few words in Apache before she answered Jessie in Spanish. “I am Ih-tedda. I speak to you for my grandfather, Taklishim, His eyes have grown dim, but, as his sight left him, Usen, the Life Giver, gave him the power to see Magic.” The old man spoke again, and the woman translated. “Grandfather says that you have been touched, your life altered by the great Magic of Esdzanadehe, the Changing Woman.”
“You got that right,” Paul said with a laugh.
Jessie gave him a sharp look and turned back to the young Apache. “Who’s this ‘Changing Woman’ and what sorta ‘magic’ does she have?”
“The Changing Woman is a being of the Spirit, born at the Creation of the World; she is a Spirit of Life and Healing, the mother and the guide to all Tindé… all Apache women. She hears our songs, lends us her power of healing, and strengthens us against death.”
The old man spoke again, this time in a low, hesitant voice. As he spoke he tilted his head back and forth, still seeming to be examining Jessie.
“Grandfather says that the Magic of the Changing Woman is mixed together with another Magic.” The girl translated. “It is just as strong, but it is of a sort that he has never seen before.”
Jessie and Paul looked at each other in surprise. ‘How the hell does he know that?’ they both thought.
“The man who done this to me comes from a land far t’the east – towards the rising sun,” she began slowly. “And they got their own kinda ‘magic.’ When he come here, to this place, he lived with some other Injuns, the Cheyenne, and they taught him the ‘magic’ they knew. When he mixed ‘em together, he got the ‘magic’ that he used on me.”
The girl translated Jessie’s words for her grandfather. They spoke back and forth for a time. “Grandfather says that both Magics are strong,” she finally said in Spanish, “wherever they come from. In two days, at the coming of the New Moon, we will hold the celebration for Bimisi, his grandson, taking his first steps. Is this white man under your protection, Magic One?”
“Uh, he surely is.”
The girl nodded. “That is good. I – we – ask you to stay and be a part of the fiesta, to join your Magic to ours as we sing to the Spirits, asking for them to grant good luck, a good life, to the child.
Paul raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Ask us to stay; does that mean that we have a choice?”
“No,” the Apache maiden said with a wry smile. “But grandfather thinks that the Spirits will look on us with more favor if we do ask.”
Jessie chuckled, glad that no one was talking about Indian torture. “In that case – since you asked so nice – we’ll be glad to stay.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, June 5, 1872
Jessie sat on a low rock covered with a tanned hide. She was watching Paul who was playing some sort of game with a few of the older boys.
A boy stood on one foot next to a line scratched in the dirt. He balanced a stick on the toes of the raised foot, while the other boys counted…. “gots’idi… tsebíí… ngóst’áí… goneznán.” When they reached goneznán [ten], the boy kicked, tossing the stick high into the air. All the boys noted how high the stick went. When it landed, they used a twig to mark how close to the line it came. A couple of them clapped the boy, who had tossed the stick, on his shoulder.
Jessie smiled, remembering back to when she had played similar games with her brother, Will, back when they were boys growing up in west Texas. The Apache camp was a few yards away from a small pond, and she wondered if the boys knew how to skip stones. “Maybe I’ll teach ‘em,” she mused softly.
“Sunset Woman.” Jessie turned and saw Ih-tedda, the young girl who acted as her grandfather’s guide and translator, coming over to where she was sitting. The Apache had given Jessie the name “Sunset Woman” because of her strawberry blonde hair, “the color of the sky when the sun goes down.” She was still trying to learn to pronounce it in Apache.
“Yes, Ih-tedda,” Jessie answered with a friendly smile. “What can I do for you?”
“My grandfather needs to speak to you. You must come… please.”
Jessie rose to her feet. “Hey, Paul,” she called out, “the old man wants t’talk to us.”
“No… No,” the girl said nervously. “It is just Sunset Woman that he must see.”
Paul was close enough to hear. “Maybe so, but I think I’d better come along, too.” He smiled, but his tone made it clear that Jessie wasn’t going anywhere without him.
“It was…” The girl looked at Paul and Jessie, who here now holding hands. “So be it… come with me.”
* * * * *
Taklishim, the tribal elder, was sitting on a raised stool in front of his wickiup, a warrior standing on each side. A few feet away, a woman sat on a log covered with a gray wolf skin. A large woven basket was leaning against the rock. A baby wrapped in a brown fur was inside the basket, held in place by strips of buckskin. The baby made a sort of a gurgling noise, and the woman reached down and pushed a dried-up piece of what looked like leather that hung from the top of the basket. The thing began to swing back and forth, and the baby smiled and watched it move.
Ih-tedda ran over and took a seat at her grandfather’s feet. The man closest to the seated woman pointed at Paul and said something in Apache. He was the one who had tried to fondle Jessie when he took her down from her horse, the one she had kicked. He sounded angry as he continued to speak.
“I don’t know what that guy just said,” Paul said to Jessie, “but I don’t think he likes me.”
The Apache scowled, and then he replied in an excellent Spanish. “I said that you have no reason to be here, white man, and you should leave – or be made to leave.”
“Listen here; you got something important t’say to me,” Jessie said, returning the scowl, “you say it t’him, too. You got that?”
“You are… together?” the man asked. “Married?”
Jessie took Paul’s hand in hers own. “Yes, t’your first question, but no t’your second one.” She cocked a curious eyebrow. “Why’re you asking?”
“I am Dasodaha. When the sun goes away behind those hills, tomorrow,” he pointed to the west, “we hold the moccasin ceremony for my son, Bimisi. You…” Now he pointed at Jessie. “You promised that you would lend your Magic to our ceremony.”
Jessie frowned. “I said I would, didn’t I? You think I’m gonna go back on my word?”
“No,” the man told her, “but you are a stranger to us. The Magic that Taklishim sees within you may not bind with the Magic of the Tindé, the People.”
“You may be right,” Paul said, “but what can she – what can anyone do about it?”
“To bind the Magic, you must bind with us.” Dasodaha’s lips curled into a nasty smirk. “You must become my isdzán – my woman.”
Jessie’s jaw dropped. “What? The hell I will!”
“Seems to me you already got a wife,” Paul added, gesturing towards the woman.
Ih-tedda had been translating the conversation for her grandfather. The old man spoke a few words, which she repeated in Spanish. “Grandfather says that our laws say that a man can have more than one wife. It is also our custom for warriors to take captive women for their own.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?” Jessie asked, anger beginning to creep into her voice.
The girl shook her head. “No, it is decided. You are to be Dasodaha’s woman.”
“I say it isn’t decided,” Paul said suddenly. “I challenge for the right to marry Jessie.”
“You are a captive,” the warrior sneered, “the same as Sunset Woman. You cannot challenge me.”
Taklishim had followed the argument, and now he said a few words in Apache to Ih-tedda. She answered, and the pair spoke quickly to each other. The old man chuckled and pointed first to Dasodaha and then to Paul.
“Dasodaha,” the girl said in Spanish, “grandfather has taken the white man’s challenge for you. You will grapple with him, and the winner will take Sunset Woman as his wife.”
“What!” the warrior exclaimed. “Why should this be?”
“Grandfather says that forced Magic will not work as we wish it to. It may even anger the Spirits and work against us. The Spirits will guide the two of you, and will give strength to the one who should win, the one who will best guide Sunset Woman so that her Magic can be strong in his grandson, Bimisi.”
The warrior shouted at Taklishim in Apache. The old man answered, calmly but very firmly. Dasodaha scowled. He spat out one last word and stormed off.
“What just happened?” Paul asked.
Ih-tedda smiled. “Dasodaha did not want to grapple with you. Grandfather told him that if he refused, Grandfather would tell everyone that Dasodaha could not be troubled to help with his own son’s moccasin ceremony. He would be shamed. Dasodaha would not have that said about him. He will meet you when the sun has tracked halfway to the hills in the west.”
“Terrific,” Paul answered. He turned to Jessie. “Now what so we do?”
Jessie shrugged. “I guess you’ll fight him… and I’ll cheer for you.” She paused, but then added, with a laugh, “and you’d better win -- for both our sakes.”
* * * * *
Jessie and Paul stood at the edge of the common area in front of the Apache camp. Taklishim was making some sort of announcement to those gathered around him. “What’s he saying?” Jessie asked Ih-tedda.
“Grandfather is telling everyone that Dasodaha claimed you for himself, but your… Paul, is it?” Paul nodded, and she continued. “Your Paul has challenged him. The two men will grapple, and you, Sunset Woman, you will be the prize,”
Jessie looked at some of the men who were standing, listening to Taklishim. “They ain’t gonna fight with knives or anything, are they?”
“No, a killing would sour the Magic you will bring to the Moccasin Ceremony. They will grapple with no weapon, only their bare hands. “
Paul smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
“And bare chests,” Ih-tedda added. She giggled, hiding her mouth with her left hand.
Paul shrugged and began unbuttoning his shirt. When he finished, he slipped it off and handed it to Jessie. She smiled at the sight of his broad, muscular chest, remembering nights together. ‘Mmm,’ she thought, but then she realized that he was smiling back at her, and that he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. “Ooops,” she said, turning away as she felt a blush run across her face.
Dasodaha picked that moment to come out of his hut. He wore only his brown loincloth and a pair of knee-length moccasins. Jessie studied the warrior as he stood, waiting. He was a good six inches shorter than Paul’s six foot one, but he was stocky and, while not muscle-bound by any means, he looked very strong.
“Be careful now, Paul,” she said, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. “He looks pretty tough.”
Paul took her hand in his. “I can take him – I think.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “But, just to make sure, how about a kiss for luck?”
“For luck.” She threw her arms around him, feeling the hard muscles of his body. Her breasts were pushed up against his chest. She looked up at Paul’s broad smile, and she felt her whole body tingling from the warmth of that smile. Whatever fears she had seemed so unimportant, as their lips met.
As they kissed, Jessie heard angry shouting. When she and Paul finally broke the kiss, they saw Dasodaha gesturing furiously towards her. “What’s he going on about?”
“He says that, to be fair, you must kiss him as well,” Ih-tedda explained, a wry smile curling her lips.
Jessie chuckled. “The hell I will.” She pointed at the man. “You tell him that.”
Ih-tedda translated Jessie’s refusal, and Dasodaha’s expression grew even madder.
“Let’s get this thing over with before he starts foaming at the mouth,” Paul said. He walked forward, his arm out in an offered handshake. “Tell him I just want this to be a fair fight.”
But the warrior just snarled and crouched down, his arms out, ready to fight. “Well, I tried,” Paul said with a shrug before he assumed the same position. “Whenever you’re ready, Taklishim.”
The old man grunted and raised his right arm. Then he shouted something, a quick guttural word, and quickly lowered his arm. The match had begun.
The two men circled, backs bent, arms extended, and finger arched out like claws. They were each ready to attack – or to defend against the other’s attack. Dasodaha suddenly grabbed for Paul’s right arm. Paul dodged and made a grab for Dasodaha’s arm, but the man pulled it back. They continued to circle, each trying to take the measure of the other, to judge what the other’s strategy might be.
Dasodaha stopped in place and began motioning with his arms, inviting Paul to come for him. Paul grinned and shook his head. “No, thank you.”
The Apache lowered his head and charged Paul, who tried to dodge. Dasodaha grabbed him around the waist and lifted him into the air. Then he shifted and threw Paul to the ground. As soon as Paul landed, the warrior tried to jump onto him.
Paul rolled quickly out of the way and leaped to his feet. His opponent sprang to his knees and then stood erect. The two men began circling again, each looking for an opening. Paul suddenly grabbed Dasodaha’s wrist and yanked. As the Apache stumbled forward, Paul tripped him. He fell to the ground, but he rolled quickly onto his back, as Paul jumped atop him. The two men grappled.
Dasodaha rolled, and, now, he was atop Paul. Paul rolled and managed to tuck his legs up, under him. He used hands and feet to push the warrior off him. The man jumped up, but before he could attack again, Paul was standing, too, braced and ready.
The Apache grabbed Paul again. This time he pulled the man off-balance. His arms encircled Paul’s waist, and he lifted him up and into a bear hug. Paul squirmed, trying to escape, but his opponent just squeezed him tighter. Paul reached out and clapped the man hard on both ears with his open palms. Dasodaha shook his head from the pain. His ears were ringing, and he was having trouble keeping his balance. He staggered back a step and dropped Paul.
Paul grabbed his forearm and yanked. The man lurched forward, past Paul, who threw his left arm around Dasodaha’s neck. He balled his left hand into a fist and grabbed it with his right. The Apache fell back against Paul, tugging at his arm. Paul tightened his hold. Dasodaha’s grasping grew weaker, less organized. He gave a final gasp and his arms fell to his sides.
“I think you got him,” Jessie yelled.
Paul held on for a few moments longer. Then he released his hold. The man fell to the ground. He was still breathing, but he didn’t move. Paul stood over him, a bit unsteady on his feet. “I hope so,” he whispered and wiped his brow with his bare arm.
“Ye-yahoo!” Jessie yelled. She ran over and took Paul’s arm, lifting it up over her head. “The winner and still – and my champion – Paul Grant!” She put her arm around his waist and kissed his cheek.
Paul took her hand in his and turned to Ih-tedda. “Okay, I beat your man. Now what happens?”
“There must be a joining,” she replied, “for Sunset Woman’s Magic to be at its most strong.”
Jessie gave her a curious look. “What kind of a ‘joining’, and when’s it gonna happen?”
“The best kind,” the Apache maiden said, “and we will have it now.” She said something, and her grandfather walked over to where they were standing.
Taklishim took Jessie’s left hand in his right hand. Then he stared down at Paul’s hand. Paul nodded and allowed the old man to take his left hand in his own left hand. Ih-tedda hurried to stand next to her grandfather. “You are to become Taklishim’s daughter,” she explained.
“Daughter?” Jessie said, the doubt clear in her voice.
Ih-tedda nodded. “This is the gotah... the camp of Taklishim, his daughters, and their husbands and children.”
“All the men in the camp are married to his daughters?” Jessie said incredulously.
“Yes, all but old… Uncle Juh, his brother, and the two youngest men, Chalipun and Nitis. They are Taklishim’s unmarried sons. When they are old enough, they will take wives and then they will go to live in the camps of their wives’ fathers.”
Jessie shrugged. “I guess that makes sense. Okay, let’s do it.”
“Very well.” Ih-tedda nodded to her grandfather. He moved his hands so that Jessie and Paul’s hands, the ones he was holding, touched. Then he began to speak, more to recite some ancient prayer. He spoke each line and waited for his granddaughter to translate before continuing.
“Now you will feel no rain; for each of you will be shelter to the other.”
“Now you will feel no cold; for each of you will be warmth to the other.”
“Now there is no more loneliness; for each of you will be companion to the other.”
Jessie suddenly interrupted. “Wait a minute. This doesn’t sound something t’bind my so-called magic. It sounds like –”
“Let him finish, Jess,” Paul said, cutting her off. “We can’t be sure till he finishes.”
Jessie frowned. “But…”
“Please,” Ih-tedda said, “let grandfather finish.” Taklishim had stopped when Jessie had spoken. Now he continued, with Ih-tedda translating. “Now you are two bodies, but there is only one life before you.”
“Go now to your dwelling place; to enter into the days of your togetherness,”
“And may your days be good and long upon the earth.”
As Ih-tedda spoke the last line, Taklishim moved his hands together. He had been holding Jessie and Paul’s hands in his own. When his two hands touched, he jerked them away, so that Jessie and Paul were now holding each other’s hands. The old man smiled and put his hands atop theirs. He said a last few words and gave them a very definite nod.
“Now you are bound together as one.” Ih-tedda translated.
Jessie pulled her hand free of Paul’s. “What!” Then she saw the smug look on his face. “You dirty son of a bitch, you knew this was gonna happen didn’t you?”
“Not till the old man started the ceremony. Then I figured, why the hell not?” He reached for her hand again. “Can I kiss the bride now?”
Jessie’s entire body tensed. “Kiss,” she hissed. “I’ll give you a kiss, Mr. Grant.” She cocked her arm and punched him in the stomach as hard as she could. Then she turned and stormed off.
Paul staggered backwards and, tripped over his own feet. As he fell to the ground, he could hear the entire Apache camp laughing at him.
“That’s what I get for rescuing her,” he said as he climbed back onto his feet. He chuckled and added, “Ain’t love grand?”
* * * * *
Jessie sat on a low, fur-covered stool, staring into the fire. She’d been there since she’d gut-punched Paul, and she had no interest in speaking to anyone. Especially Paul.
“Sunset Woman.”
Jessie glanced up to see Ih-tedda standing before her.
“What d’you want now, gal?”
The young maiden offered her hand to Jessie. “You must come with me now.” When Jessie grumbled and turned back to the fire, she added, “Please… Jessie.”
“Well… since you asked so nice.” Jessie raised an eyebrow, bemused at being called by her “White” name. She rose to her feet and made a gesture with her arm. “Lead on, Ih-tedda.”
Ih-tedda took Jessie’s hand and walked with her to the edge of the encampment. A new wickiup had just been erected. She could see one of her saddlebags was lying on the low mound of earth that encircled the structure. Apaches dug out a few inches of earth from the inside of a wickiup and then used that material to brace the outside of the hut. The saddlebag was by the break in the mound that was made for the entrance flap.
“This is home for you and your… man.” The girl giggled, covering her fingers with her hand.
“Is somebody out there?” The flap was pushed aside, and Paul looked out. “Hi, Jess. They… uh, they gave us this place for our, um… honeymoon.” He gave her a wan smile and tried to sound cheerful. “I got most of our stuff inside already.”
She frowned. “Well, you can just haul it all back to where it was. I’ll sleep with Ih-tedda and her sisters, and you can camp out under the stars, the way we been doing.”
“Jess, before you say anything more, you need to come in here and talk to me in private.” He glanced over at Ih-tedda.
“I don’t think so. Whatever you got t’say, you can say out here to the both of us.”
He came over to stand next to her. Very close. “Inside, Jessie. Now.”
“Make me!”
“All right, then.” He grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of wheat.
“Put me down, you bastard!” She squirmed, but he held her tightly with his one arm around her waist.
He shook his head. “When we’re inside.”
“Like hell!” She started to kick, and he grabbed her legs and held them in place with his other arm.
“Ih-tedda,” he ordered, “open the flap.”
The girl did as she was told. Paul walked in, still carrying Jessie. Once they were inside, he yelled, “Shut the flap and go.” Paul waited until he heard the sound of the flap close behind him. He lifted Jessie off his shoulder and set her, so that she was sitting on a pile of blankets.
“Now sit there and listen to me, Jessie,” he ordered, and when she began to get up, he pushed her back down. “If you tried to get out of our… out of what Taklishim did, I’d’ve probably wound up sleeping back by the fire like I was, but you wouldn’t be back with the girls.”
“And where would I be, Mr. Grant?”
“You’d be sleeping with Dasodaha, only I don’t think he’d let you get much sleep; not till he was done with you, anyway.”
“The hell I would.”
“Jess, he claimed you. You said, ‘No’, and I fought for you. When I won, that made you my… prize. If you refused me, the Apache would think that you changed your mind, that you wanted Dasodaha.”
“I don’t want him,” she said. “I don’t want t’be anybody’s... prize.” She looked up at Paul. They’d been lovers for so long. She wanted more – she thought – but she hated the idea of being tied down to a man, to any man, the way Laura and Maggie were.
“And you’re not my prize,” he answered. “Or my wife. I just let them think you were.”
“What about all that rigmarole Taklishim said? We’ll keep each other warm and share each others’ problems. That sure sounds like a damned marriage ceremony t’me.”
“Well, I’ve been keeping you warm since the night I fished you out of that flood, and we’ve had more’n our share of problems, but nobody ever said we were married.”
“But the chief…”
“Did you say, ‘I do,’ to him?”
“No, but --”
“Neither did I. Nobody said, ‘I do’, so we didn’t. We’ll just act like we are; okay?”
Jessie sighed, and her whole body seemed to relax. “Okay, but not too much like we are. Remember, we only got that one riding coat.”
* * * * *
Thursday, June 6, 1872
“Hey, Jess,” Paul called from outside the wickiup, “we’ve got company.”
Jessie came out of the hut, buttoning the top button of her blouse. “Company... who?”
“Well, not exactly a friend; take a look.” He pointed to a group of five Apache horsemen riding into the camp. Dasodaha was leading a sixth horse. On that mount, his hands tied to the saddle horn was…
“Oh, shit,” Jessie spat. “That’s Sheriff Whyte, ain’t it?”
“I’m afraid it is. I guess we didn’t lose him, we just slowed him down.”
One of the other braves, Laziyah, untied the rope binding the prisoner’s hands. With a single, strong yank, he pulled the man off the horse.
Whyte scrambled to his feet. He reached for his pistol, but then remembered that his captors had taken it. He did still have a knife, hidden in his boot. He crouched low and drew it quickly. He stayed crouched, in fighter’s stance, ready and waiting for anyone to start something.
“All right, you Apache bastards,” he said, his voice an angry growl. “I’m ready for you now.”
Jessie chuckled. “Maybe you are, mister, but I don’t think these Apache’re ready for you.”
“Hanks…” He turned to face her. “So they got you, too.” Then he saw how comfortable she – and that man of hers – how comfortable they both seemed. “Or are you friends with these savages.”
“Friends,” Paul said. “But you won’t be, Sheriff; not if you keep calling them names.”
Jessie shook her head. “Put that knife away, you danged fool. It’s five to one against you; you ain’t got a chance in hell of beating ‘em.” She chuckled. “And if you’re thinking about rescuing Paul ‘n’ me, forget it. We don’t need rescuing.”
“These Apache are treating us more like guests than prisoners,” Paul added. “And if you stop acting like such a damned fool and give them half a chance, they’ll probably treat you the same way.”
The Sheriff snorted. “In a pig’s eye; if you’re guests, then why don’t you up and leave?”
“‘Cause they asked us – asked me t’stay,” Jessie told him. “Stay and help with some ceremony they’re gonna do t’night.”
“Yeah, right. What’re they gonna do; bless a war party?”
Jessie had to laugh at that. “Not hardly.”
“And why should I trust you, either you or Grant?” He made a motion with his head, as if to point at Paul.
“Because we’ve no reason to lie,” Paul replied. “Look, if these people meant you any harm, why would they keep you alive and bring you back to their camp? They could’ve killed you where they caught you.”
“Maybe… Maybe not. How do I know that they don’t need my blood for some heathen sacrifice in this ‘ceremony’ you keep talking about?”
“You speak any Spanish, Sheriff?” She asked.
“In a town as close to the border as Dawson, with all the Mex living nearby; o’course, I do. Why?”
Jessie looked around. Ih-tedda was standing not too far away, with some of the other women. “Hey, Ih-tedda,” She yelled in Spanish. “What’s this ceremony you got planned for tonight?”
“Don’t you remember, Sunset Woman; the moccasin ceremony.”
Whyte chuckled. “Sunset Woman; why do they call you that?”
“On account of my red hair,” Jessie replied, running a hand through her strawberry blonde locks. Then she prompted Ih-tedda. “What’s this ‘moccasin ceremony’ for, anyway?”
“My… cousin, Bimisi, is taking his first steps. The ceremony asks the Spirits to keep him healthy and help him to grow strong.” She pointed to a woman holding a carrier in her arms. The baby inside was clearly visible. “There is Bimisi… with his mother, Nascha.” The baby looked up at the sound of his name. He smiled and waved his arms at Ih-tedda.
Jessie smiled at the baby. “Sure is a bloodthirsty-looking fellow, ain’t he?”
In spite of himself, Sheriff Whyte smiled and waved back at the infant. “Yeah, ‘bout as bloodthirsty as my own grandson.” The Sheriff shrugged. He lowered his arms and relaxed. “I may be wrong – and Heaven help me if I am – but I’ll believe you.” He slipped his knife back into its sheath in his boot. “For now.”
* * * * *
“What’s this?” Jessie asked, looking down at the steaming bowl that had just been set down before her.
Ih-tedda was sitting a few places to the right. “Boiled meat,” she replied, “served in its own broth.”
“What kinda meat? It ain’t… dog, is it?”
“Sheep; the animal that was shot today.”
Jessie used her wooden spoon to take a sip. “Not bad.” She could taste pepper and chunks of onion in the soup.
“Try it with some chigustei.” The girl held up a round flatbread that was a bit thicker than one of the tortillas that Maggie served sometimes with her spicy Mexican stew. She tore the bread into pieces and tossed them into her own bowl.
Jessie did the same. So did Paul who was sitting on Jessie’s left. “Not bad at all,” he said, after taking a sip with a bit of the bread in it. “First that roast rabbit, then the meat broth; this is a real feast.”
“Feasting is a part of the celebration,” Ih-tedda said, “as is the exchange of gifts.” She held up her arm to display the flannel shirt she wore, one of the two that Hanna had packed. “Thank you.”
Jessie shrugged slightly. “I guess. I ain’t sure o’this outfit you gave me.” She wore a light brown blouse, a brown belt, and a long, pale yellow skirt, all soft buckskin and all decorated with matching patterns of beads. The bottom of her skirt was fringed. Her hair had been forced into a bun. An hourglass-shaped metal ornament atop the bun held it in place.
“It looks nice,” Paul said. “Besides, if you’re going to be a part of the moccasin ceremony, you might as well dress the part.”
She gave a wry laugh. “Oh, I’m dressed for it, all right.” Her voice dropped down to a whisper. “Dressed from the skin out; Ih-tedda and the other women said that I’d spoil the magic if I wore my corset and drawers. All I got on under this skirt and blouse is a loincloth and some kinda wrap ‘round my tits.”
“Must be a lovely sight,” he said with a chuckle. “And I’ll be glad to help you out of all that later.”
She shook her head. “Forget it, Paul. I still ain’t over how you tricked me with that so-called wedding. I’ll sleep in the same hut as you ‘cause Taklishim expects me to, but that’s as far as it goes. Understand?”
“I understand,” he said, the regret obvious in his voice.
* * * * *
Taklishim carefully poured yellowish powder – cattail pollen – onto the grass. He shook the woven basket holding the pollen to the rhythm of a wordless chant he was singing, and as he poured, he moved backwards, so that the pollen formed a narrow trail, perhaps ten feet long, facing east from the Apache camp.
“Now we are ready,” Ih-tedda told Jessie.
The baby -- Bimisi’s – mother, Nascha, set down the carrier he was in at the closer end of the path. She unstrapped the carrier and lifted the baby out. Dasodaha, Bimisi’s father, brought over a pair of moccasins, and the two of them slipped the knee-high moccasins onto the infant’s feet.
Nascha sat on the ground, holding her child on her lap. Dasodaha walked to the far end of the trail of pollen. He squatted down, his arms outstretched.
“You must stand behind Dasodaha,” Ih-tedda instructed Jessie. “Put your hands on his shoulders to channel the magic within you.”
Jessie took her place by the man. She could hear the other members of the Apache band begin to chant. Drums and rattles picked up the beat of the chant. Jessie heard a high-pitched sound drift over the drumming. She glanced over to see that one of the warriors, a man named Eknath, running a bow across a string attached to a long wooden tube. Ih-tedda had called it a tsii’ edo’a’tl, "singing wood."
Taklishim, Dasodaha, and Nascha began a chant. The woman put Bimisi down on the path and gave a slight push. Dasodaha waved his hands and called the baby by name, encouraging him to walk forward. The words of the chant changed with each step the child took.
Ih-tedda had taught Jessie what the chant meant.
‘ “May the sun bring you new energy by day.
‘ May the moon softly restore you by night.
‘ May the rain wash away your worries,
‘ And the breeze blow new strength into your being.
‘ All the days of your life, may you walk
‘ Gently through the world and know its beauty.”
Bimisi reached his father’s arms just as the chanters finished. Dasodaha scooped his son up in his arms and stood erect. As he stood, he let loose a whoop that startled Jessie, and she stepped back. Nascha and Taklishim took up the whoop, and it spread from them to the others.
Eventually, even Jessie, Paul, and the Sheriff joined in.
* * * * *
Elijah Whyte glanced at his pocket watch. “Don’t these folks ever go to bed?” he muttered. “It’s been more than two hours since that baby walked and his mama took him to bed, and they’re still drumming and chanting.”
“I asked Ih-tedda before she went to bed,” Jessie said. “She told me that they stay up all night, sometimes, celebrating and singing.”
Paul held up a bag made of tightly sewed hide. “And drinking, too. One of the men, Norroso, gave me this. He called it… tiswin.” He took a sip. “Tastes like corn squeezings; I wonder where they got hold of it.” He handed Jessie the container. She took a drink and handed it to the Sheriff.
“They may’ve made it themselves,” Whyte said. “The Apache probably learned how to get alcohol out of corn before us white men came to Arizona. A friend of mine over at Fort Yuma, a sergeant, told me that the reservation agents give them mostly corn flour or corn meal ‘cause they’d make liquor from kernel corn.”
They finished the first “jug” and started on a second one. “I’m turning in,” the Sheriff said, shaking his head to try to clear it. He handed Paul the bag and walked very carefully to his bedroll on the far side of the campfire.
“Now ‘bout you, Jess?” Paul asked. He was sitting on the ground, his back braced against a hide-covered bench. “You done for the night?”
She shook her head. “Nope, I think I wanna stay up for just a mite longer.” She shifted over, so that she was lying next to him. His arm went around her waist, and she smiled and snuggled in a bit closer. Neither spoke. They were just enjoying being in physical contact with each other.
Juh, an older brave, limped over carrying another bag. Juh was Taklishim’s brother, a cripple who used a crude crutch to get about. He handed the container to Paul and gestured as if taking a drink.
“Why not?” Paul took a sip. “Different; here, Jess, you try it.”
She took the thing from him and took a drink. “Not bad; it tastes different from the other stuff, sharp, like whiskey.” She held up the bag and looked at Juh. “Tiswin?”
“Mezcal,” the brave replied and motioned for her to have another drink.
Paul cocked an eyebrow. “Better be careful, Jess. That stuff can really mess you up.”
“I ain’t Bridget,” she replied, taking another swallow. “I can hold my liquor.”
“This isn’t liquor, Jess; it’s mescal, and it’s dangerous.”
She took one last, quick sip. “All right, here.” She pouted and handed him the bag.
“That’s my girl,” Paul said, kissing her cheek, then he added to himself, ‘But just in case,’ Paul thought. Jessie was on his right. He reached out with his left arm and set the container down as far from her as he could. A moment later, his right arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer.
This time the kiss, a longer one, was on her lips. She sighed and quickly returned it. After that, they sat quietly, snuggling together and staring into the fire.
After a few minutes, though, she began to squirm in his arms. At the same time, she was giggling softly. “Jess, are you okay?” Paul turned to face her. She was smiling, but her eyes seemed glazed.
“It’s that danged loincloth Ih-tedda made me wear.” She bent her knees and yanked at her skirt, pulling it as far up her shapely thighs as she could Then she grabbed his hand and shoved it under the skirt, so that his fingers could feel the soft hide that was touching her crotch.
“Jess!” He wrenched his hand free. “What do you think you’re doing – acting like that in public?”
She slowly stood up, using his shoulders as support. “You’re r-right. We gotta… do this in our wi-wicki-hic-up.” She giggled again at her mispronunciation and stated walking – stumbling, rather – towards their wickiup.
He carefully got to his feet, feeling the effects of what he’d consumed. He took a breath while he steadied himself, then he made his way to the hut.
“Wap!” Something hit him in the face as he entered. Jessie’s blouse. “What the hell?” he spat.
Jessie was standing by the fire. Her belt and skirt lay near her on the floor. As Paul watched, she unfastened the loincloth, letting it fall about her feet. “There,” she said in a dazed voice, “now you don’t gotta worry ‘bout that thing tickling my pussy. You can tickle it yourself.” She posed for him, naked except for her moccasins.
“That’s not you talking,” Paul said, “it’s the mescal, and I’m not go-gonna…” He was beginning to feel the liquor in him. “…gonna take advantage.”
“You’re right. It ain’t just me talking. It’s me, Jessie Hanks, and Giselle…” She spoke that name in the terrible accent that she used when she and Paul played the sex game where she was a “Fronch” whore. “…and Sunset Woman…” She spoke the name in carefully learned Apache. “We all want you, but, lucky me, I get to have you first.” She took a step forward, pressing her body against him, as her arms wrapped around him.
He tried to break free. “Jessie,” he said firmly, as his resolve stiffened.
But his voice wasn’t all that was firm, and his resolve wasn’t all that was stiffening. A half-drunken man, his mind also numbed by mescal, is easy prey for a sexually aroused woman – the woman he loves – when she rubs her naked body against his, groping down into his pants for his member, and begging to be taken.
In a matter of minutes, those pants – and his drawers – were off. He was lying on a carpet of sleeping furs, pumping into that incredible female body, and Jessie, Giselle, and Sunset Woman were all three groaning in carnal delight.
* * * * *
To Be Continued
Jessie and Paul leave the Apache with the Sheriff not far behind. Can they escape him and the risk of the venomous scorpion? WIll Jessie prove her innocence? And what of the mystery of Dandy Jim? For this and more, read the stirring adventure of JESSIE HANKS OUTLAW QUEEN!
Street and Smith’s New York Weekly is proud to present the latest addition to the amazing legend of Eerie, Arizona.
Jessie Hanks Outlaw Queen: The Cameo Murder
By Nicholas Varrick
As Told by Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson © 2016
Part 2: Finding Their Way
Chapter 6 – “Crossing Arizona”
Friday, June 7, 1872
Jessie slowly – regretfully – opened her eyes. “Uhh,” she moaned, putting her hand to her head. “Why the hell is it so damn bright in here?” She thought about sitting up, but decided against doing so. In her condition, her head just might fall off, and she wasn’t sure that she’d be able to get it back on. She managed to raise her arm, and then let it drape down over her face to shield her eyes.
As she lay there, she felt her sleeping furs against her skin and realized something. “I’m… I’m nekkid!“ She raised her head – a serious tactical error – and, groaning from the pain, looked down at her body.
Her left breast was uncovered, her nipple erect. At the same time, most of her left leg poked out from the tangle of furs. “Shi-it,” she said in a voice that was much too loud. “Where’s my clothes?” Her voice quickly lowered to a bearable near-whisper.
“Good morning, Jess,” Paul said softly, entering the wickiup. “I heard you yell just now, so I figured you were finally awake.”
She turned her head… slowly, to squint at him. “Finally; what time is it?”
“Almost noon. After all you drank last night, I thought it’d be better to let you sleep in. How’re you feeling?”
“Like I got a hive of bees – big ones -- buzzing ‘round in my head.”
“Here.” He handed her a cup of what smelled like a meat broth. “This’ll help.”
She took a deep gulp. It was meat, sheep probably, but there was a slight medicinal aftertaste. Her head seemed to be throbbing a bit less, and she could bear the light easier. “What is this?” She held the cup close to her face. Even breathing in the fumes seemed to help.
“Hair of the dog…” He saw her expression sour. They both knew what some Indians used the packs of dogs in their camps for. “Bad choice of words; it is mutton, I swear, with some special herbs that Ih-tedda put in to help your, umm… hangover.” He gingerly touched his own forehead. “It worked for me; give it a little time.”
She took another swallow. “Lordy, I hope so.” She paused a moment, feeling the warmth in her belly. “In the meantime, lemme ask you a question.” She gestured down at her body. “How come I woke up like this, with no clothes, I mean.”
“You shucked them off as soon as we got inside the wickiup. You said they were… bothering you.”
“Bothering me; what the hell does that mean?”
He sighed, knowing that trouble was ahead no matter how he answered. “Okay… tickling you. And you said that I was – Jess, between that tiswin and the mescal you went on one hell of a spree last night.”
“And from the look of things,” she gestured at her nude body. “You did pretty good last night, yourself. You told me more‘n once that you had ‘rules’ against taking advantage of a gal who was too drunk t’know what she was doing. You don’t seem to’ve held on to ‘em much last night.”
“I tried to, Jess, but when the gal is bare-ass naked, shouting about how much she wants me, while she’s got her hand in my pants, it, well, it gets hard --”
She giggled in spite of herself, but then glared at him. “I bet it does.”
“Dammit, Jess, I was – to tell the truth – kind of drunk myself, and those rule sort of got… lost in the shuffle.” He took a breath and gave her the saddest look he could manage. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be, but… I guess some of it was my fault. I think it was, anyway. T’tell the truth I don’t remember a whole lot about last night.”
“Probably just as well.” There had been some very memorable goings-on the night before, but Paul knew better than to mention them in any detail. Instead, he decided to change the subject. “How’s your head now?”
She took a long, slow sip of the liquid, savoring the warm, settling sensation in her belly. “Tolerable; it don’t hurt near as much, and I think I can move around some, without worrying about it coming loose.”
“In that case, Jess, it’s time you got up and got dressed. We’ve got things to do if we’re gonna leave today.” Now that the moccasin ceremony was over, they had no reason to stay – or for the Apache to keep them.
“Okay.” She started to throw back the sleeping furs, but stopped. She’d almost forgotten what she wasn’t wearing. “Why don’t you go wait outside?” She managed a smile. “Wouldn’t want t’temp you t’break any of them rules of yours again.”
* * * * *
Paul finished tying the Tylers’ picnic basket, now filled with foods supplied by the Apache, to the back of his horse, Ash’s, saddle, while Jessie said her farewells. “Where’s the Sheriff?” Jessie asked Ih-tedda in Spanish. “I might as well say goodbye t’him, too.”
“The man left not long after the sunrise,” she replied.
Paul finished and walked over to stand next to Jessie. “Do you know which way he went?”
“That way,” Laziyah, one of the warriors, pointed south. “Back the way he came.” He had been the one to capture Sheriff Whyte.
Jessie smiled, feeling relieved. “Guess he gave up on me.”
“I hope so,” Paul said. “It still might be a good idea to be watchful.”
Just then, Dasodaha walked over and stood up in front of Paul. His face was grim, and he muttered something in Apache.
“He said that he still doesn’t understand how he lost the fight,” Ih-tedda translated, “but it was a worthy battle.”
The man smiled and stuck out his hand. Paul did the same. Each man grasped the other’s forearm, and they shook hands in the Apache manner. Dasodaha said something else and looked over at Jessie, his gaze going from head to toe, but lingering at her breasts and her wide hips.
“And for a worthy prize,” the maiden translated again. “He asked about a rematch.”
Jessie shook her head and grabbed for Paul’s arm. “Tell him thanks, but no thanks.”
The brave chuckled deep in his throat and motioned with one arm. Nascha came over. She walked slowly, leading Bimisi, who walked beside her. She picked up her infant son and held him up for Jessie to see.
“And goodbye to you, little one.” Jessie gently shook hands with the boy. “And to your Momma.”
Ih-tedda translated and the mother smiled. Then Ih-tedda led Taklishim over for a formal goodbye.
“May the Spirits smile on you,” he said, with his granddaughter translating. “And may your lives together be times of joy.”
Paul glanced over at Jessie, who glared back at him. “Tell him thanks, but we’d better be going.” He took Jessie’s hand. She continued to glare, but she walked with him over to their horses. “We’ll talk about that later,” she whispered, as they mounted their horses.
Then, with a final wave, they rode east, out of the Apache camp.
* * * * *
After some two hours of riding, Paul signaled for Jessie to stop. “There’s a creek up ahead. Let’s stop and water the horses.”
“Sounds good,” she replied. “I could use a drink m’self.” She paused a beat. “Gimme a chance to see if our shadow’s still there.”
“Shadow – then you see him, too.”
“Yep, he found us about an hour ago. He ain’t always there, but when he is, he’s always riding steady, ‘bout a half mile behind us, too far back t’see who he is, but I’m pretty sure it’s always the same man.”
“Apache, do you think?”
She shook her head. “Nope, that ain’t their kinda trick. But, whoever it is, we’re gonna find out real soon.”
“I think so, too. Let’s just see if we can’t make sure that we meet up with him on our terms. “ They tugged at their reins, guiding their horses away from the stream.
They had been riding past a long grove of pinyon trees. The path curved, so that they would occasionally be out of sight of their “shadow” for a short time. Paul suddenly turned his horse and dashed in between two trunks.
“Come on,” he ordered Jessie. “Quick, before he sees us.”
“What the hell?” Jessie said, but she followed.
Paul rode a few yards into the wood, and then quickly dismounted. “I figure that it’s time to see just who’s been trailing us.” He led his horse farther back from the path they’d been on. Jessie got off her own horse and walked just behind him.
“We’ll leave the horses here.” Paul tied his reins around a pinyon tree. Jessie glanced back. She could barely see the light beyond the woods. She tied her own horse, pulling once at the reins to make sure that the knot held.
The pair of them walked slowly back towards the road. There was some low brush near the trail. They hid behind it, crouching low, making them even harder to sight.
After about five minutes, someone did ride by. “Sheriff Whyte!” Jessie hissed in surprise. “What the hell is he doing here?” Her voice was barely a whisper, and the Sheriff gave no sign that he had heard, as he passed by them.
“Probably looking for us,” Paul guessed. “And I think we’d better find out why.”
“Are you crazy?” Jessie said. “Weren’t we trying to get away from him?”
“Jess, we’re a day – maybe less – away from the Prescott to Phoenix road. That’s where the Wells Fargo depot is, the one with the men we need to help us. I’d rather have things settled with the Sheriff now, than have him pop up while we’re talking to those men. Wouldn’t you?”
Her expression soured. “I’d rather not meet up with him at all. He tried t’shoot me.”
“I remember. And if he showed up at that stage depot and pulled a gun on you there, he’d likely ruin any chance we have of those Wells Fargo men backing up your story.”
She sighed in resignation. “You’re right about that. I’m gonna have a hard enough time getting them to admit what I done.”
“True enough, but let’s deal with the immediate problem, Sheriff Whyte.”
Jessie hesitated for a moment before she nodded in agreement. They retrieved their horses and led them back through the trees and back onto the trail.
* * * * *
It turned out that they didn’t have a choice.
The sun was hanging low in the sky, when Paul and Jessie came around a turn in the trail and found Sheriff Whyte facing them. He was astride his horse, his pistols drawn, and facing them. “Hello, Miss Hanks…. Mr. Grant,” he greeted them in a not quite friendly manner.
“Sheriff,” Paul said with a nod of his head. “What can we do for you?”
“You two got something I want back, them weapons you took from my jail.” He shook his head. “I can’t very well go home without ‘em; can I?”
Jessie tensed. “Is that all you want?”
“Well,” the lawman replied, his lips curling in a grin, “There is the little matter of you and that cameo… and Barlow’s murder.” He holstered his revolvers and glanced up at the western sun. “But it’s getting late. Why don’t I ride along with the two of you, and we can talk about that when we hunker down for the night.”
Paul looked over at Jessie, who gave him a nervous smile. “I suppose we can do that,” he said.
* * * * *
Jessie sat near the fire, drinking the last of her coffee, while Paul and Sheriff Whyte stashed the rifle he and Jessie had taken from the jailhouse, alongside of the Sheriff’s saddlebag. The pistol and shells that they’d also “borrowed” were inside the saddlebag.
They were camped in a clearing about one hundred feet back from the trail. It was close enough to get moving easily the next morning, but far enough not to be bothered by any nighttime travelers.
“That’s it then, Sheriff,” Paul said walked over to sit next to Jessie. “You can head back to Dawson in the morning, and Jessie and I --”
“Are coming with me,” Whyte interrupted. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it’s gonna be.” He had a pistol in each hand, the pair of them pointed at Jessie and Paul.
Jessie glared up at him and reached for her own weapon, still in its holster on her gun belt. “You dirty --”
“Don’t even think about it.” The lawman fired once. The bullet kicked up dirt just a few inches from her hand, and she quickly pulled it back.
Whyte smiled. “Good. Stand up… slow; the both of you.” He gestured with his Colt, and Paul and Jessie clambered to their feet, watching the lawman as they did.
“Now, just as slow, toss your weapons over to me. Use your left hands.” He took a step back and used the weapon in his own left hand to point to the ground at his feet. “Do it.”
Paul reached across his body to use the middle two fingers of his left hand to pull his pistol from its holster. ““Don’t do this, Whyte,” he said, tossing the weapon to the ground.
“You’re a lawman, Grant, or you claim t’be. You’d know this was right if you weren’t thinking with your Johnson.” At that moment, Jessie tossed her own gun, so that it landed at the Sheriff’s feet.
Whyte knelt carefully, never taking his eyes off Paul and Jessie, and picked up their six-shooters. “Grant, you go stand by that tree.” He pointed to a pine tree growing a few feet away from the Deputy. “Stand with your back to it and put your arms out.” When Paul did as he had been ordered, Whyte fished a pair of handcuffs from a pocket in his jacket and tossed them to Jessie.
“Cuff his wrists,” he ordered Jessie. “Behind him, so his arms’re stuck ‘round that tree.” He followed her over to the tree, watching from a distance, as she did as he had directed. When he heard the click of the handcuffs closing on Paul’s wrists, he smiled. “Good girl.”
Jessie glared at him. “Thanks. Which tree to I get stand next to?”
“None; I wouldn’t make a woman stand up all night, handcuffed to a tree.” He paused a beat. “No matter how much she might deserve it. I’ll just tie your hands and feet and leave you on a blanket t’think about what’s gonna happen to you.”
Still keeping his eyes on her, the man slowly knelt down. “Lemme just get my knife, so I can cut a couple lengths of -- Ye-ow!.” He stood up at once, clutching his right hand in his left. “G-d damned bug!”
“What happened,” Jessie asked.
He rubbed his hand. “Damn scorpion stung me. It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.” He shook his hand briskly, trying to shake off the pain. “Damned bug,” he muttered again as he used the knife to slice off a length of rope.
“Put your hands behind your back.” He shoved his knife back into it belt sheath and drew his pistol. “Do it… now.” He hurried over to where she stood. Jessie did as he ordered, and he came behind her and wound the cord around her wrists, binding them together. It seemed to Jessie that he was taking a very long time tying the knot. The ropes felt lose, but she wasn’t about to test them while he was standing there.
Finally, the Sheriff finished and came around to face her. “Now, sit d-d-down.” He pointed at the blanket with his pistol, as if to rush her. He seemed to be having trouble speaking. Drool was leaking from one side of his mouth, and he looked like he was in pain.
“Are you all right, Sheriff?” she asked, surprising herself with the question.
“I’m… uh… I’m f-uh-fine. Don’t you be… be getting any -- Sit d-down!” He pointed the pistol at her. His hand was shaking, but he looked serious, and Jessie quickly settled herself on the blanket.
Whyte grabbed up the canteens and shambled a distance away. He took a final step forward, stumbled, and fell to the ground. He lay there, trembling and rubbing his right arm. While he rubbed, he moaned, as if in great pain.
It seemed to Jessie that he was dazed, uncertain where he was. She tugged at the ropes binding her, twisting her arms as best she could, watching for any reaction from him. There was none. She felt them loosen, and in a few moments, her right hand was free. She pulled the coil from her left wrist and hurried over to Sheriff Whyte. “My arm,” he groaned. “My arm’s on fire.” He kept rubbing it, both hand shaking, as he spoke.
“Jess,” Paul said, “check the ground real careful for scorpions. Then see if you can find the key to these handcuffs of his.”
“Scorpions?” She took time to look closely, but saw no signs of any. “Never seen a little scorpion sting to all this to a grown person.” She shifted her head to indicate the injured man.
“It’s like bee-stings. Most people get stung, they say, ‘Ow!’ and go on with their business, but with a few folks, a couple of bee stings can kill them. It’s the same with scorpions.”
“The hell you say.”
“Nope. Blackie Easton, out at the Triple A, is like that. He got stung once, about a year ago. He was laid up in bed, out of his head for a day or so. Doc Upshaw couldn’t do much for him, kept him still in bed; put a cold, wet cloth on his forehead and another where he was stung; and gave him lots of water to drink. The aches and pains were gone in a day, but it was another whole day before he could get back to work.”
“How come you know ‘bout all this?”
“Mr. Slocum had three or four of us hands watching Blackie, changing those cloths and such. And he made sure we all knew what to do in case it happened again while we were on the trail.” He took a breath, “You never know when somebody else might get sick from a scorpion’s sting the way Blackie – or the Sheriff here – did.”
“Found it!” Jessie had been searching Whyte’s pockets while they talked. He did nothing to stop her. She held up the key for Paul to see, and then walked over and opened his handcuffs.
Paul stepped away from the tree. “Thanks, Jess.” He smiled. “And now that I can use my arms again…” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to him. His arms circled her waist, and their lips met in a kiss.
“That was nice,” she said, when they separated. She gave him a mischievous smile and added, “You gonna kiss the Sheriff now?”
“I don’t want to kiss him, but I don’t want to kill him, either.” He scowled. “And that’s what we’d be doing if we left him here like that.”
She sighed, her expression changing to a frown. “Much as I hate t’say it, you’re right, Paul. He’s one damned stubborn cuss, t’think he coulda held us in the shape he was in, but there’s no telling what – or who might find him out here, and him not able t’defend himself.” She thought for a bit. “Maybe he’ll be better in the morning.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t bet good money on it.”
* * * * *
Saturday, June 8, 1872
“Riders coming,” Jessie yelled, looking down the trail.
Paul was kneeling next to Sheriff Whyte. He was holding the man’s head up, helping him take small sips of water from a canteen. “Any idea how many and who they are?”
“Soldiers… I think; it looks like one of ‘em’s carrying one of them military pennants.” Jessie shielded her eyes from the midday sun. “About ten men, I’d say.”
“See if you can stop them. Maybe they’ve got something that can help Whyte.”
“Okay.” Jessie ran down the gentle slope to the trail. ‘Wish I had time t’change into a dress,’ she thought, unbuttoning the top button of her blouse. “But if they can’t tell I’m a female…” She tucked her blouse in tightly and stood just off the roadway. When the riders were close, she began waving her arms, and yelling.
The lead man, now clearly a cavalry officer, raised his arm, signaling for the unit to stop. They maintained formation, while he rode over to where Jessie stood. “Can I help you ma’am?” He was a tall, husky man with dark brown hair. “I’m Lieutenant Orville Heffler, and my men and I are out of Fort Whipple.” His eyes roamed up and down her form, lingering for a time on her pillowy breasts and narrow waist.
“I hope so, lieutenant, sir.” She recognized his interest and gave him her best “damsel in distress” smile. “I’m Jessie Hanks, and that’s…” She pointed towards Paul. “…my, uh, friend, Paul Grant. We’ve got another man with us. He got stung by a scorpion, and he’s in a real bad way. You think you can help him?”
“I’m afraid not. There’s not much that can be done for a bad scorpion sting except to keep the victim still, clean the site where he was stung, and give him all the water he can drink.”
“May you could… take him back to your fort,” she asked hopefully. “I’m sure you could take care of him better than us.”
The officer shook his head. “I regret not, Miss Hanks.”
“Please… call me Jessie.” She pouted prettily. “And why can’t you take him?”
Heffler tried to smile. “Miss Hanks… Jessie, my men and I are on patrol. A band of Apache, led by a renegade named Delsay, stole – believe it or not -- over a thousand sheep from a range just a couple miles from the fort.”
“They-They ain’t headed this way, are they?” Jessie asked nervously.
Heffler shook his head. “No, Miss Jessie. They drove that herd off to the northwest, but they killed more than a dozen men. My Colonel was fit to be tied. He sent most of the company after them, but he sent us – and a couple other patrols out to warn ranchers and travelers and – I don’t mean to alarm you, Jessie, but I also have orders to hunt down any other Apache savages that might be lurking about.”
“Oh… oh, my goodness,” she said, putting a bit of a tremble into her voice. “We-We saw some Indians a few days ago – we were too far away, and they didn’t see us, thank the Lord.”
“Where were they – and which way were they heading?”
“Uh… It was south… yes, south of here, and they were heading east -- I think. We came this far north to avoid meeting up with them.”
“That was very wise of you.” He gave her a broad smile. “You are a lady of brains as well as beauty.”
“Why… Orville, how sweet if you to say that.” She looked away for a moment, and, when she looked back, she gave him a shy smile.
“I wish that I could offer you an escort back to the fort, but --”
“I’m sure that Paul and I can manage our way to the Prescott to Phoenix road, but Elijah, the man who was stung, couldn’t you take him back to your fort?”
“Much as I’d like to, there’s no way I can detail men to transport your friend back to Fort Whipple.”
“Then what can we do?”
“How long ago was your friend stung?”
“Last night.”
“Then he’ll probably heal faster here than if we were to move him. My advice is to be careful. Keep a watch for trouble, and be ready to run at the first sign of it.” He glanced at the road. “This trail joins up with the Prescott to Phoenix road in about ten miles. When you get to it, head for a Wells Fargo station and hole up there for a while.”
“Thanks, I guess, Orville.” She sighed dramatically.
The soldier smiled as he watched her bosom rise and fall. “I wish I could do more, Miss Jessie, I truly do.” The tone of his voice made it clear that he meant more than helping Elijah Whyte. “But I’m afraid that my hands are tied.” He tapped the brim of his hat, as if in salute. “Please… be careful.” He turned his horse and rode over to rejoin his men.
“Let’s move,” he shouted, pointing his arm forward. He gave her one last, regretful look as he rode past. So did his men. A couple of them gave her low whistles of appreciation.
Jessie sighed, and then chuckled. “Men!” she whispered in amusement, as she walked back to where Paul was still holding his canteen for the Sheriff.
“How’d it go?” Paul asked.
“Not too good,” she replied. “There was a big Apache raid near their fort – Fort Whipple – a couple days ago, and they’re out warning people… and looking for more ‘savage’ Apache.”
“You didn’t tell them about Taklishim and his people, did you?”
Jessie gave Paul an angry look. “What kind of a… Of course not; I sent them off in another direction. But first, I asked if they could help us with the Sheriff here. They didn’t have no medicine that could help, and they was too damn busy hunting Injuns t’take him back t’their fort.”
“That could’ve been dangerous. He’ll be up and about in a day or so, and he could’ve sent them after us.”
“I know, but it was worth asking… for his sake.” She looked down at Whyte, who seemed to be sleeping.
Paul sighed. “You’re probably right, but it was risky.”
“Life’s a risk, Paul.” She shrugged then smiled. “At least I got you t’share the risk with.”
* * * * *
Sunday, June 9, 1872
“You up t’some stew, Sheriff?” Jessie asked, as she doled some onto Paul’s plate.
Elijah Whyte shook his head. “I don’t think my stomach can handle it.” He paused a beat. “Some broth, maybe?”
“Done.” She carefully filled a cup with broth from the stew, stopping twice to fish out an errant bit of meat or vegetable. When she finished, she walked over to where the man was sitting, his back propped up by a bedroll. She knelt down and held the cup while he took a cautious sip.
He sighed softly, as he felt the warm broth settle in his belly. They both waited a bit – just in case. Finally, he smiled. “I think I’d like some more.”
“Think you can hold this cup by yourself?”
He held up both hands. They were still a bit shaky, but he managed to take the cup from her. “Now that hit the spot,” he said, after finishing the drink. “Thanks.” He handed her the cup.
“You want some more?”
He shook his head. “Maybe later; I want to make sure that can keep down what I already had.”
“In that case, can we talk for a little bit?”
“I suppose. What do you want to talk to me about?”
* * * * *
Elijah Whyte snickered. “That has got to be the dumbest excuse for an alibi I ever heard.” He gave a quick laugh. “You’re telling me that Jessie here couldn’t have killed Eugene Barlow ‘cause she was off someplace robbing a stagecoach at the time.”
“It’s the truth,” Jessie argued, “every last word of it.”
Paul glanced at Ephrem Tyler’s map, now laid out on the ground, with rocks piled at each corner to hold it down. “Here,” he said, pointing to a spot along the Prescott to Phoenix Road. “Jessie stopped the stage here… near the Black Rock Canyon stage depot around mid-afternoon on the day Barlow was shot. Now…” He looked squarely at Whyte. “…about how long do you think it’d take a stage to get here from Prescott?”
“Mmm… six hours,” the man answered after studying the map, “more or less.”
Jessie nodded. “You think I could leave Prescott after 11 o’clock, and get to there by, say… three?”
“There ain’t a horse in the world fast enough to do that,” Whyte told her. “O’course, considering this here ‘fairy story’ you’re trying to sell, maybe you had one of them flying horses.”
Jessie smiled. “Nope; just a regular ole horse, the same one I’m riding now, in fact. Them papers Paul took from your office said Barlow got killed after 11 in the morning. By your own words, I couldn’t have been there t’kill him.”
“Yeah, but that’s if you robbed that stage where and when you said you did. You still gotta prove it, to me, at least.”
“Are you going to give her the chance to prove it?” Paul asked.
Whyte looked like he’d swallowed something bitter. “To tell the truth, I shouldn’t. A day ago, I was more than ready to haul your both your asses right back to Dawson and let you tell your crazy story to some judge. But now… Hell, you could’ve left me out here to die, and you didn’t. I figure that I owe you – and then some.” He had another thought. “And I’ll give you a couple points more for steering those troopers away from little Bimisi and his folks. Give me one more day t’get over that damned scorpion sting, and I’ll go with you to find your alibi. “
“Th-Thank you.” Jessie impulsively hugged the still-ailing man. “We can leave in the morning. If you’re up to it, that is.”
He laughed. “I should be. And you better be right, ‘cause I will arrest the two of you if you ain’t.”
“Speaking of arrest,” Jessie said, “I hope you ain’t gonna say anything about that cameo. They don’t know I took anything, and they wouldn’t be happy t’find out they was wrong.”
“Tell you what; I won’t mention it if they don’t.”
* * * * *
Chapter 7 – “Black Canyon Station”
Monday, June 10, 1872
“How you coming, Jess?” Paul asked.
A rope was stretched between two trees, with a blanket hanging down from it. Jessie stood behind the blanket, changing her clothes. “Well enough, I suppose. Having t’put on a petticoat ‘n’ dress for a ten mile ride is a royal pain.”
“So you’ve said,” Paul teased.
“And more than once,” the Sheriff added. The two men were packing up the last of the camp, while Jessie changed. Whyte had mostly recovered from the scorpion sting, but he was still moving a little gingerly.
Paul smiled. “I could always come back there and help.”
“No, thanks; we both know that you’re a lot better at getting me outta my clothes than getting me into ‘em.”
The older man chuckled. “I’m heading over to finish packing my horse. I’ll leave the two of you to work this out between you.” He picked up his saddlebag and started to walk away. “Just don’t take too long.”
“I think you’re stalling, Jess,” Paul told her. “And you’re embarrassing Elijah.”
“Does that mean you ain’t coming back here behind this blanket?”
“I’d like to; you know that, but I’m not about to put on a show for Sheriff Whyte. And you know that, too.”
She lowered the blanket enough so that he could see her face and pouted prettily. “I know, but it’s still a pain t’have t’get dressed up so fancy.”
“Yeah, but it’ll help our chances to get a straight answer out of the men at that stage depot if they get asked by a beautiful woman in a pretty dress.”
She beamed. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Always have, always will.” He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now get that beautiful ass of yours dressed and get out here.” He took a breath. “We both know that I’m also willing to spank it if you keep on stalling.”
She winked back, but warned, “You try, and it’ll be the only way you get to touch it.”
* * * * *
The bell hanging above the door to the stage depot jangled as Jessie walked in. Paul and Whyte followed just behind her. Both men wore their badges… just in case.
Coleman Hoyle, the station manage stood behind the counter about ten feet inside. “Howdy, folks; what can I do you for?” He was the only one in the room.
“I’m Paul Grant. I was in here last September looking for somebody.”
Hoyle scratched his balding head for a moment. “Oh, yeah; I remember. You was looking for a lady.” He gave Jessie an appreciative glance. “And from the look o’things you found her.” He smiled at Jessie. “Don’t blame you for looking, neither. She’s a pretty little thing.”
“Thank you, Mr. …” Jessie gave him a quick, flirtatious wink.
“Hoyle, Missie, Coleman Hoyle, but you can call me Cole.”
“And I’m Jessie... Jessie Hanks.” She smiled back at the man. “Paul found me all right, but now we’re – him, ‘n’ me, and Sheriff Whyte here – we’re looking for somebody else. The men that I… ah, I met the last time I was in these parts, the driver ‘n’ guard of that stage.”
Hoyle chuckled. “The one you tried t’rob, you mean. Too bad you didn’t get nothing for your trouble.” He took a breath. “I don’t suppose you come back t’apologize, did you?”
“Let’s say I did. Are them two men around here anywhere?”
“I couldn’t tell you where Noah Ward – he was the driver – headed off to. Word got out how he caved when you pointed that gun o’yours at him. Nobody wanted t’ride with him. He quit about six weeks after you stopped his stage. He’s homesteading up in Oregon State, I hear.”
Paul gave the depot man a sour look. “What about the guard… Devon, I think his name was.”
“Yeah, Devon Fisher is who you want. He’s still working for us. In fact, he’s on a run right now. He should be back this way…” Hoyle glanced at a paper, a printed Wells Fargo schedule posted on the wall next to him. “…about two, tomorrow afternoon.”
“If you don’t mind asking,” Hoyle continued, “what d’you need that pair for? You come t’rub some salt in their wounds?”
Whyte stepped forward. “It’s kind of complicated. I’m working on a case, and I need to know ‘bout this robbery you mentioned, when and where it happened.”
“It wasn’t really a robbery – nothing got taken. I got a log book, Dev and Noah wrote up what happened that day.” He paused a beat. “You’re welcome to look, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do.”
“Why do you say that?”
“‘Cause Dev Fisher wrote the entry himself, and he ain’t the most wordy of men.” He pulled a thick leather bound book out from under the counter. “Here, look for yourselves.” He set the book down on the counter and opened it. “Do you remember the date?”
Sheriff Whyte and Jessie answered at the same time. “September 13, 1871.”
“Well, that settles that,” Hoyle said with a laugh. He turned pages, lined paper like a ledger book filled with writing – dates and facts – in several different hands, until… “Here we is, September 13.” He turned the book around so that Paul, Jessie, and the Sheriff could read it.
“September 13, 1871, about 2:45 PM.” The writing was in a crimped, angry hand. “Stage stopped; driver – Noah Ward – gave in too easy to gun threat. Dropped weapons and mailbag and rode on.” And it was signed by both Devon Fisher and Noah Ward at 3:27 on the same date.
Paul gave a sour sort of chuckle. “Well that doesn’t give us much.”
“I didn’t ‘spect it would,” Hoyle told him. “Dev’s a proud man. He wouldn’t want to put it in writing that this pretty lady…” He gave a quick nod to Jessie. “…was the one who stopped that stage, ‘specially when she got him to give up his gun.”
Jessie looked down at the page again. “There’s another note here, dated about an hour after the first one.” She read the text. “Mailbag and weapons recovered, nothing missing. No need to report what happened.”
“I wrote that,” Hoyle said. “I think that just got Dev madder. It was bad enough that the stage was stopped. The notion that I wasn’t gonna call down all the avenging angels of Heaven to punish the gal who done it was something he couldn’t swallow.” He took a breath. “I don’t think he got over it yet. You can ask him yourself if you stay here till tomorrow.”
Jessie shrugged. “What choice do I – do we have? We’ll wait.”
* * * * *
“What sorta sleeping rooms do you have here?” Jessie asked Coleman Hoyle. “After three days on the trail, I’d kind of like to spend a night in a real bed.”
He shook his head. “Ain’t much chance of that, Miss Hanks. The only bed in the place is mine, back behind that curtain there.” He pointed to a doorway off to his right. An old wool blanket, mostly a faded brown in color, hung across the doorway. “I’d offer t’share it with you,” he said with a wink, “but I don’t think your Mr. Grant there would appreciate the offer.”
“Right in one,” Paul answered. “Where do other folks sleep?”
“Sol, he’s my hostler, he sleeps on some hay in the stable. Passengers, when any stay overnight, sleep on the floor; I rent out two blankets and a pillow for a dollar.”
“How much t’rent that bed,” Paul asked. “Seems to me a lady should have some privacy.”
Hoyle thought for a moment. “Seeing as I’d have t’sleep on the floor out here m’self… ten dollars.”
“Ten dollars?! That's robbery!” exclaimed Jessie.
“Look whose calling other people robbers,” the station master replied with a grin.
“That’s about all the money I’ve got,” Paul said regretfully. “How about you, Jess?”
“Not even half that, but…” Her lips curled in a smile. “How ‘bout I do something t’earn that bed, Mr. Hoyle, something I think you’ll like; you and them other fellows, too.”
Hoyle glanced around the room. Since he sold drinks here at the depot, it doubled as a gathering place in the evenings. Four other men, two prospectors, a farmer, and Sol, the man Hoyle hired to care for the depots horses, were in the chairs set about the room. “What exactly do you got in mind?” His smile was more of a hopeful leer, and his eyes never looked higher than her breasts while he spoke.
“Singing; I’m a singer back in Eerie – where me ‘n’ Paul live – and a pretty good one. How ‘bout I trade some songs for the use of that room?”
Sol Carlin, Hoyle’s stableman, a lanky man of forty or so, heard the offer. “Give ‘er a chance, boss. She’s got t’be better’n you or me wailing.”
“Thanks.” Jessie looked at the man. He was wearing a faded butternut brown shirt with two inverted black chevrons on his sleeve, part of the uniform of a corporal in the Confederate army. “And here’s a song, I think you may know.”
She made herself as comfortable as she could on one of the wooden chairs. “This’d work better if I had my guitar, but here goes.”
` “The years creep slowly by, my darling,
` The snow is on the grass again.”
“That’s a Reb song – ‘Lorena’, ain’t it?,” Hoyle whispered.
Sol raised a finger to his lips. “It is. Now shut up, boss, and lemme hear it.”
Jessie smiled and kept singing.
` “The sun's low down the sky, my darling,
` The frost gleams where the flow'rs have been.
` But the heart throbs on as warmly now,
` As when the summer days were nigh.
` Oh, the sun can never dip so low
` A-down affection's cloudless sky.”
The song continued on, telling how the singer, usually a man, but not here, lamented over separation from his – in this case, her -- lost love. At the end, he -- or she – takes a sort of consolation in the knowledge that they will be reunited after death. It was a popular song during the Civil War, first heard in the Confederate ranks, but learned quickly enough by Union soldiers who missed their homes and their loved ones just as much.
The men in the room all applauded loudly when Jessie sang the last lines.
` “It matters little now, my darling,
` The past is in the eternal past;
` Our heads will soon lie low, my darling,
` Life's tide is ebbing out so fast.
` There is a Future! O, thank God!
` Of life this is so small a part!
` 'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod;
` But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.”
As she finished, she raised her left arm, as if in supplication, and looked sadly up to heaven. Then, as the applause erupted, she shifted her head to gaze at Hoyle. “Well?” she asked.
“You know any happier tunes?” he replied sourly.
“You want happy; you gotta make me happy.” She waited a beat. “What about that room o’yours?”
“You sing a couple more songs -- happy ones, mind you, and the room’s yours – the bed, too – even trade.”
“Deal,” she said and began singing “Camptown Races”, an old favorite of hers.
It turned out that the bed wasn’t as comfortable as she’d expected, and she missed sharing it with Paul, but it surely beat bedding down on a bit of open floor with him. And the Sheriff and Sol.
* * * * *
Tuesday, June 11, 1872
A Prescott-Tucson Line stagecoach pulled up in front of the adobe depot building.
“Black Canyon, folks,” the driver, Rolf Messinger, yelled in a thick German accent. “Dhere’ll be a ten minute stop here for changing the horses.” He saw Sol Carlin coming towards the coach, leading a team of six fresh horses, and he jumped down to help. Devon Fisher, the shotgun rider, leaned back in his seat to watch.
“Cole wants t’see you, Dev,” Sol called up to him.
“Any idea what he wants?”
“Yeah, but it’ll take me too long t’tell it.” The hostler began unfastening the lines that connected the current team of horses to the coach. “Best you just go inside ‘n’ talk t’him.”
Devon took a quick, cautious look around – just in case of trouble – and climbed down from the vehicle and started for the building.
“Excuse me…sir,” an older man in a derby hat stuck his head out the window of the coach. “Is it possible to buy something to eat while we’re stopped here?”
Devon shrugged. “Sorry, mister; this is a switch station, not a home station. They may have some food for sale inside, but I wouldn’t count on more’n a cup of coffee – or a shot of whiskey – ‘n’ maybe… -- maybe a sandwich.”
“Thank you, but no thank you.” The man frowned and sat back down inside the stage.
“Suit yourself, mister, but it’s a good five hours t’the next home station in Phoenix.”
The man muttered a curse under his breath and stepped down from the stage. He squinted at the sunlight -- it was dark in the stage with the curtain drawn to keep out the dust of the trail – and followed the shotgun rider into the station.
* * * * *
“Okay, Cole,” Devon said, as he walked through the door, “what’d you wanna see me…” His voice trailed off when he saw Jessie standing next to Cole Hoyle. “What the living hell…” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “…is she doing here?”
Paul stepped in next to Jessie. “She’s with me,” he said in a firm voice.
“And they’re both with me,” Sheriff Whyte added, just as firmly.
Fisher saw the badges both men wore and gave Jessie an evil smile. “So, you finally caught her.” His eyes roamed up and down her body. “And now that I get a good look at her, I can see why you chased after her for so long.”
“We ain’t arresting Jessie,” the Sheriff said, “at least, not right now, we ain’t. She’s… a part of another case I’m working on.”
“Another case; what else d’you think she done?”
“That’ll take some time t’explain,” Jessie said.
Hoyle looked at his pocket watch. “More time than I think you got, Miss Jessie. The stage’s supposed t’leave in six minutes.”
* * * * *
At that moment, the passenger from the stage interrupted. “I don’t know what you gentlemen – and lady -- are all talking about, but could one of you please¬ sell me something to eat?”
“That’d be me,” Hoyle replied. “Let’s us go over here and talk about it.” He gave Whyte, Fisher, and the others a quick nod. “‘Scuse me folks.” And led the man away from the others. “They did tell you that this ain’t a home station; we ain’t set up t’feed passengers.”
“They did, but they also told me that it’s a very long ride to the next station that does serve meals.”
“It is. It’s five… six hours to Phoenix. That’s the next home station on this route.”
“Can you help me then? Sell me some food?”
“Lemme see what I’ve got.” Hoyle walked over to a door with the words “Store Room” crudely painted on it. He opened the door and went inside for a moment. When he came out, he was carrying a crusty brown roll and something wrapped in a white cloth. “I got this.”
He set the two items down on the counter and pulled back the corners of the cloth to reveal a lump of yellow cheese. There was green mold growing on it in one or two spots. “A dime for the bread and twenty-five cents for half the cheese; you interested?”
“That’s all you have?” the man asked in a resigned voice. When Hoyle nodded, he reached into his pocket and took out a paisley change purse. “Very well; just the cheese, though.” He opened the purse and handed the station man an Indian head gold dollar.
Hoyle fished out a cashbox from under the counter. He dropped in the coin and shifted through the box until he found what he needed. “Here you go, sir; six bits change.” He replaced the cashbox and used a knife to slice the cheese in half. “And here’s your food.”
“Umm… thank you.” the passenger spent a moment scraping off the mold before he bit into the cheese. “Not quite as bad as I expected,” he muttered to himself and started back to the stagecoach.
* * * * *
“Settle anything?” Cole asked as he rejoined the others.
Dev shook his head. “I still want her arrested for stopping my stage.” He chuckled. “That’d sort of be what you want, Missy. It’d prove you couldn’t’ve killed that other guy.”
“Can’t arrest her if nobody’s gonna bring charges,” Sheriff Whyte replied. “Your company willing t’press charges, Mr. Hoyle?”
The depot master shook his head. “Nope; don’t wanna make the company look bad.”
“I’ll press charges, then,” Fisher said stubbornly.
He looked past the man to see his driver standing in the doorway, anxious to leave and nodding in agreement.
“Not till this is settled. Rolf can go on without me.”
“The hell he can – and you know it. Company rules; no coach goes out without a shotgun. ‘Specially with all them angry Apache on the loose.”
Paul had a thought. “How about if I take his place as shotgun? He can stay here and work this out with Jess.”
“That might just work.” Hoyle considered the notion. He glanced over at Jessie.
Whyte grinned. “Go ahead. I think it’s a safe bet that you’ll come back for her.”
“Lemme just make it official.” Cole said. He went behind the counter and began to write in a pad, reading aloud as he did.
“I, Coleman Hoyle, station master of the Black Canyon Depot, am letting Deputy Sheriff – What’s your name again, deputy?”
“Grant… Paul Grant.”
“Deputy Sheriff Paul Grant ride shotgun on today’s southbound run of the Prescott to Tucson Stage Line. The regular shotgun rider, Devon, Fisher, is stuck here at Black Canyon on some personal business. Grant can sleep at the Phoenix station tonight and deadhead back here on tomorrow’s run. That okay with you?”
When Paul nodded in agreement, the agent added, “Lemme sign it then… Coleman… Hoyle, June 11, 1872.” He tore off the paper and handed it to Paul. “There y’go; now get moving. Don’t want t’make that stage late, do you?”
Jessie came over to where the two men were standing. “Just a minute here. I wanna make sure he comes back.” She wrapped her arms around Paul and pulled herself close to him. They smiled at each other for a moment before their lips met.
Then the world just sort of went away for a time while they enjoyed one another's touch.
Paul was grinning when he finally – out of a need to breathe – broke the kiss. “You promise me another kiss like that, Jessie Hanks, and I’ll run all the way back here from Phoenix if I have to.”
“I’ll promise that ‘n’ more.” Jessie’s lips curled in a sly smile. “If you promise t’bring me… something when you come back from Phoenix.”
“Something…” Paul looked puzzled for a moment, but then he smiled in realization. “I will; something we’ll both like.” He winked and headed out the door.
Devon Fish chuckled. “You kiss me like that, Missy,’ he said as they heard the stage drive off, “and I might just admit t’what you done.”
“Sorry,” Jessie answered, “but no.” In her mind, she added. ‘I’d almost rather rot in jail, you stubborn, horny son-of-a-bitch.’
* * * * *
“So vhere ist you and der sheriff from, dep’ty?” Rolf Messinger asked Paul. Rolf was a hefty man with short, red hair turning to gray. These were the first words the driver had spoken since their stage had left Black Canyon station about a half hour before.
Paul shrugged. “I’m from Eerie, about two hours ride east of Phoenix --”
“Ja, I know der town. Ve go dere… tvice a veek.”
“Well, I’m from Eerie. Elijah Whyte… the Sheriff, he’s from a town called Dawson, down along the Gila River, over near Yuma.”
“Dem ist a long vay apart. Vhat is you doing together?”
Paul thought for a moment. It might be better not to admit the truth. “I was tracking an escaped prisoner from Eerie. I followed h-him up into the mountains north of town, then across the territory and down towards the border near Dawson.”
“You catch him?”
“Ahh… no. He made it across the border, and Mexican law says I couldn’t go after him.” That last was a lie, but Rolf wouldn’t know. “I met Sheriff Whyte,” he continued. “He… um, he was working on another case and asked me to help track down the man he was after.”
“Gott, you must be one damned gut tracker.”
“I manage.”
“Did you git dat one?”
“Ah, not yet. He came up along this way. That's why the sheriff and me are hereabouts.”
Rolf frowned, apparently unimpressed.
Paul felt irked. “I helped track down that gang that took the strongbox at Stagecoach Gap last December.”
Rolf only shrugged.
Paul leaned back in his seat, letting the driver think what he wanted to think.
* * * * *
“Dang it, Dev Fisher,” Jessie said, glaring at the man, “why’re you being so damned stubborn? Why don’t you just sign the Sheriff’s paper?”
Dev shook his head. “And admit that I let the stage I was guarding get stopped by a little bit of fluff like you? There’s ain’t no way… unless I know you’re gonna go t’jail for it.”
“She ain’t going t’jail,” Cole Hoyle said, “because the company ain’t gonna press charges.” He looked at Fisher for a moment and added – again, “but the company will fire your ass if you try t’press charges.”
Jessie sighed, half in anger, half in disgust. “We’ve been back ‘n’ forth over this a dozen times. What do I gotta do t’get you to admit that I stopped that coach?”
“You tried to rob that coach, Missy, even if you didn’t get nothing for your efforts. And Cole, here…” He pointed with a nod of his head towards the Station Master. “…he’s gonna let you get away with it. Why should I help you?”
Sheriff Whyte raised an eyebrow. “You’d rather let her stand trial for something you know she couldn’t have done. What kind of a man are you?”
“A pissed off man, an angry man, a man who got shown up by some little slip of a gal, and a man who ain’t gonna help her.” He stopped his rant as his eyes roamed up and down the length of Jessie’s body. “Not unless she… she makes it worth my while.” His lips curled in a leer.
Jessie stormed to her feet. “Why you dirty son-of-a—”
“Just as well she objects,” Hoyle interrupted. Jessie and Dev both turned quickly to look at him. “Word got out that she… went along, people might say that you two was in cahoots; that the reason you let her stop that coach was ‘cause you ‘n’ her was… together.” He chuckled wryly and shook his head. “A driver… working with a lady road agent, now that is something the company might press charges about. I bet it’d be in all the papers, too, once people find out how pretty she is. Are you ready t’have everybody and his cousin reading all about ‘Outlaw Dev Fisher’?”
The guard glowered at Hoyle. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t be too sure what I would or wouldn’t do, Dev. I been listening to you two go at it all day, and now you talk like the only reason you ain’t given in was so you could get into the lady’s drawers.”
“That… I was just… dammit, Cole Hoyle, you got no cause to say something like that.”
Jessie scowled. “And you got no cause t’say what you done about me.”
“It’s getting late,” Elijah Whyte said, cutting in. “Why don’t we all bed down for the night, and Dev can think about what his motives really are.”
Jessie nodded. “That sounds like a plan.” She walked over to the curtain that covered the doorway to the Station Master’s quarters. “I’ll be in here thinking ‘bout… whatever.” She walked through the doorway and slid the curtain back to fully block the view from the other room. “And all you gentlemen can do your thinking out there.”
* * * * *
Chapter 8 – “On the Trail of Dandy Jim”
Wednesday, July 12, 1872
Paul Grant was having breakfast with the staff of the Phoenix Station, when a skinny, brown-haired boy walked into the alcove of the station that served as a dining room. He stood there a moment looking around before he crossed over to Aubrey Jenner, the station master. “Telegram for you, Mr. Jenner. From Prescott.”
He handed Jenner an envelope. The man set it down on the table and fished in his pocket for change. “Here y’go, Joey,” he said, handing the boy a silver half-dime. The lad mumbled a quick “Thanks” and ran out the station’s front door.
“Let’s see what this is about,” Aubrey said, tearing open the envelope and removing the sheet inside. His eyes quickly scanned the message. “Shit!” he muttered, crumpling the telegram. “Dandy Jim just got another stage.”
Paul raised a curious eyebrow. “Who’s Dandy Jim?”
“A road agent; him and his men have robbed four – make it five now -- stages up ‘round Spring Valley.”
“Is he really a dandy?”
Aubrey shrugged. “People say he wears a black frock coat, a boiled white shirt, and a bowler hat, with a flour sack with eye holes t’hide his face. He never cusses and he has this courtly way with women passengers, like something right out of the penny dreadfuls.”
“Now that you mention it, I did see a wanted circular for him back in Eerie,” said Paul.
“They lie in wait for a coach. Dandy Jim jumps out, waving his hands for the coach to stop. When it does, he points to his men, hidden, three on each side of the road. Nobody sees ‘em, just their rifles pointed at you, and…” the station master gave a shrug, “…who’s gonna fight that?”
“Not me; those six rifles are one hell of an edge. But… hasn’t anybody been able to chase after them? Seven men on horseback should leave an easy trail to follow.”
“That’s the problem. The sheriff from Prescott and his men’ve never been able to find a trail. They’re gonna be at the robbery site in a few hours – it’s that long a ride from Prescott, but it’s a waste of time.”
Rolf had been sitting with the others. “Maybe Mr. Grant here can find somet’ing. He vas telling me on der vay here vhat a good tracker he is.”
“Is that true?” Jenner asked hopefully.
“Well, for almost three years, I rode line for Mr. Charles Goodnight, tracking down strays from his herds up in Colorado.”
“That’s a start, but cows are dumb. How good are you tracking somebody who don’t want to be caught?”
“This Dandy Jim guy may be smarter than a lost steer, but the principles of following tracks are the same for the both of them.”
Rolf tried to help. “He told me he tracked a man halfvay across der Arizona Territory.”
“You catch him?” Jenner sounded skeptical. Rolf was making the deputy sound too good.
Paul shook his head. “I’m afraid not. She -- He hooked up with some Commancheros and made it across the border. I couldn’t follow him there.”
“Damn shame, but a little humility is a good thing. You sound like you’re just the man we need.” He waited a moment and then added. “Will you help us?”
“I… umm, I’m working on another case right now.”
“You ain’t working too hard on it, not if you could take a day to ride shotgun down here to Phoenix.”
“That was just one day.”
“So just take one more day. I ain’t asking you to sign on long term with the company. Give us one day. You’re gonna be deadheading up to Black Canyon. You can get your horse and follow the stage up to Cordes Lakes, where the robbery happened.”
“Ja,” Rolf added. “Maybe dat sheriff, der vun dat vas mit you, he vill come, too. “
Paul sighed and gave in to the inevitable. “All right, and I’ll ask Sheriff Whyte if he wants to tag along as well.” He just hoped Jessie would understand. ‘Hell,’ he thought, ‘she might want to come along, too.’ And that thought had its good side and its bad side.
* * * * *
Jessie was sitting outside on a bench when the northbound stage came to a halt in the yard of Black Canyon Station. She started to rise, to greet the returning Paul Grant, but she froze when she saw that it was Vince Glidden, a man who sometimes rode as shotgun on the stage in Eerie, rather than Paul, who was seated next to the driver.
“Hey, there Jess,” Paul suddenly called, as he climbed out of the stage and ran over to where she was standing. He had just time enough to ask, “Miss me?” before she answered by pulling his head down to hers. She moaned softly as their lips met.
He felt her body pressed against him, felt himself harden in anticipation, and he was glad that he’d had time to buy that package of condoms, British riding coats, while he’d been in Phoenix.
“So how was your trip?” Jessie asked when they finally, but much too soon, broke the kiss.
“Not bad; it would’ve been better if you were with me, though.” He sighed. “And I’m afraid that the trip’s not over. Some guy named Dandy Jim robbed the stage up north of here, and they asked me for help. Seems they haven’t been able to track the man and his gang after the robberies.”
“Well, you’re certainly one for tracking folks. I know that better than --” She grinned. “Maybe I should come along with you. I may not know much about tracking anybody, but I got a lot of experience being tracked.”
Sheriff Whyte had come out of the building in time to hear her. “I’m not letting the two of you outta my sight. If she goes, I do, too. Besides, I managed to follow the both of you pretty good. It just may be that I can help.”
“I’m sure you can,” Paul told him. “In fact, I was planning to ask you to come along.”
“The more eyes the better,” Vince Glidden added. “Jack ‘n’ me…” He pointed to the driver who was helping Sol switch the teams of horses. “…We know where the robbery was. You folks just hitch your horses behind the stage. You can ride inside, and we’ll stop ‘n’ let you three off when we get there.”
Jessie nodded and ran off. “I’ll go get the horses,” she called back to the others. Paul and Elijah Whyte followed. Paul gave the pocket of his jacket that held the condoms a pat, as if to say, “Soon.” It was a happy thought that pushed back against his concerns about Dev Fisher… and Dandy Jim.
* * * * *
Jessie hurried into the station. She ran through the doorway into the station agent’s room. “I’m going with Paul,” she called out, as she closed the curtain. “Tell ‘em t’wait while I change outta this danged dress.”
“Is Sheriff Whyte going, too?” Cole Hoyle asked.
“Yep,” Jessie yelled from the other room.
Cole Hoyle came out from behind the counter. “I’ll tell them to wait for you.” He stopped at the table where Devon Fisher was sitting. “And you’re going with ‘em, Dev,” he said, as he started for the door again. “I’ll tell Sol t’get you a horse, while I help change teams.”
Dev’s features soured. “Why the hell do I have to go up to Cordes Lakes? I wasn’t shotgun on that coach that got held up?”
“Look, Dev, I ain’t got time to argue. They’re going to investigate the robbery of a company stage coach. There oughta be somebody company there with ‘em.” The station agent took a breath. “And you’re it. You got that?”
“All right, all right, I’ll go, but I sure as hell, don’t see as I’m gonna be any help.”
* * * * *
A stagecoach pulled to a stop near a stand of trees. “We’re here,” Vince Glidden yelled, as he knocked on the roof of the coach.
“You sure?” came a voice from inside the vehicle. A moment later, Sheriff Whyte climbed out of the curtained coach, blinking his eyes in the bright afternoon sun.
Jessie, Paul, and Dev Fisher followed the Sheriff out onto the shoulder of the road. “Yeah,” Jessie added, shielding her eyes with her hand against the sunlight. “How d’you know this is where Dandy Jim and his gang hit that coach?”
“’Cause of this.” Glidden took a folded sheet of paper from his vest pocket. “Prescott sent us this telegram.” He opened it and read. “Dandy Jim and men struck about 100 yards north of ‘the Elephant.’ See what your friend – that’s you, Grant, can find out.”
Paul gave the guard an odd look. “What the hell is the elephant?”
“There.” Glidden pointed to a nearby hill. A rock formation on the side of the hill did look like an elephant’s body, with a narrow, variegated vein of rocks hinting at the beast’s upraised trunk. “There’s your elephant.”
Paul shrugged. “I suppose it is.” He walked over to the back of the stage. “Okay, let’s get our horses, so these folks can leave.” The reins of Ash, his cowpony, Jessie’s nag, Useless, the Sheriff’s horse and a mount for Dev Fisher were all affixed to the bottom of the boot, the storage space at the back of the stage.
“You can go,” Jessie told the driver a few minutes later. He waved and gave a whip of his reins. The coach, complete with its shotgun rider and three other passengers, headed off for Prescott, disappearing over the crest of a hill several hundred yards from where she stood.
Fisher turned to face Paul. “Now what do we do, Mr. Master Tracker?”
“First,” Paul said, sloughing off the insult, “we need to find out exactly where Dandy Jim stopped that stage.”
“And how’re we gonna do that? A stage coach leaves the same tracks whether it stopped along the way or drove on through.”
“There is one difference, Mr. Fisher. When Dandy Jim robs a stage, he has the passengers get out and stand by the side of the road. It’s only been a day; there should be some signs in the grass by the road of where those people stood.”
Sheriff Whyte nodded in agreement. “Let’s split up into two teams, one goes north along the road and the other goes south. Look for that patch o’trampled grass by the road, and whoever finds it, give a shout. “
“Who goes with who?” Jessie asked, sneaking a glance at Paul. “And who goes where?”
The Sheriff noticed. “If it’s all the same t’the rest o’you, I’ll go north with you, Miss Jessie, and Paul and Dev Fisher can go south.”
“Still don’t trust Paul ‘n’ me, do you, Sheriff?” Jessie said sarcastically.
“Just being cautious,” Whyte told her. “Your man’s supposed t’be the best tracker here. I’m pretty good at tracking folks, too, and you know all about being tracked; so why not split the difference?”
Jessie had to laugh. “You know; that almost makes sense.” She took the Sheriff’s arm. “Let’s get going.”
“Be better if we each took one side of the road. Stages have two doors on ‘em; you know.” He slid his arm free of her and walked to the opposite side of the narrow road. He smiled at her for a moment before he started walking. “C’mon, we’ve got some foot-trampled grass to find.”
* * * * *
In the end, it was Sheriff Whyte who found the robbery site, on the right side of the road and about sixty paces from where they started.
“Got something,” he yelled cheerfully.
Jessie hurried across the road to look at what he’d found, while Paul and Dev raced towards them. “Stand away,” Paul yelled, as he ran. “Don’t foul the tracks.’
“Why,” Dev asked. “What’s the matter?”
“For one thing, we have to be sure that it’s the right spot.” Paul stopped a couple feet from where the Sheriff was standing. “For another, we need to see what those tracks can tell us.”
Whyte looked down. “I see three… no, four separate sets of footprints. That last one heads off into the brush.”
“That’d be Dandy Jim,” Dev said. “The others are passengers. They milled around while he took their money, and then they got back on the stage and ran like rabbits.”
Paul turned to Jessie. “Jess, if you were going to stop a stage right here, where would you station men to cover your play?”
“Paul,” Jessie said indignantly, “you know I don’t do stuff like that.”
He smiled. “Not anymore, you don’t, but you have…” His voice trailed off.
“Yeah, but that was before I gave up my wicked, wicked ways.” She gave him a seductive smile. “Some of ‘em anyway.” She spoke the last in a low, breathy voice.
“Yeah, too bad, teasing me was one of the habits you kept.” He winked when she stuck out her tongue at him. “For now, how about answering my question? Where would you hide your men?”
Jessie studied their surroundings, a very serious expression on her face, while she considered Paul’s question. “I’d split ‘em up,” she finally said, “Just like Dandy Jim did. Put half of ‘em up on that ridge where them tracks…” She pointed at the one set of footprints that moved away from the road. “…lead to. And I’d put the other half over there.” She pointed again, this time to a high spot on the opposite side of the trail.
“Let’s follow those tracks,” Sheriff Whyte said, starting up the hill, “but watch where you walk. Like Paul says, we don’t want nobody messing up the trail Dandy Jim left for us.”
The others followed behind him. They moved slowly. “Yes, we want to take a good look at the man’s tracks, as we walk,” Paul explained. “He may’ve left some clue or something.”
“What?” Dev’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You figure he left his calling card for us t’find?”
“Probably not, but sometimes a man’s footprints’ll tell you a lot more than which way he was walking.”
They continued to the top of the low ridge. “This oughta be the spot,” Jessie said.
“What d’you mean ‘oughta be’?” Whyte asked. “Is it or ain’t it?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a good spot for a hold up, especially with that rise just across the road from here. The trouble is, there’s no sign of anybody being here.”
“What d’you mean, Jessie? Those tracks we followed led right --”
“Them tracks just show that one man walked up here. What about them three men that was supposed t’be here, backing up Dandy Jim’s play?” She pointed at the grass atop the ridge. “There oughta be a whole mess of crushed down grass where them three men was hiding.”
“There’s some grass that’s been pushed down,” Paul said, “but it looks like just one man walking around; just one set of footprints, and they go back down towards the road.”
“Then where the hell did those three guys go?” Dev asked angrily. “That telegram from Prescott said there was three men on this ridge.”
Jessie thought for a minute. “Did anybody – the driver or shotgun or the passengers – did any of ‘em see them three men standing here up on this ridge… or did they just see three rifles pointed down at ‘em?”
“What’re you saying, Jess?” Paul asked.
“Maybe there wasn’t three other men here. Maybe there wasn’t nobody here, ‘cept Dandy Jim himself.”
Dev shook his head. “That’s crazy; of course there was men up here.”
“Then where the hell is any sign – anything – t’show it?”
The Sheriff shrugged. “I don’t know. Let’s look around up here some more before we follow those other tracks back down to the road.” Then he added, “But watch out for scorpions.” He rubbed his hand where he’d been stung. “I had some trouble with one not too long ago.”
“Okay,” Paul directed. “Everybody take a different position and walk out about ten paces along the ridge here. Shout out if you see anything.”
They turned their backs to the road and began to move forward, slowly, into the low brush. “I think I found something,” Jessie called out a short while later.
“What is it?” Paul asked, as the others gathered about her.
“That branch.” She pointed to a straight piece of green-gray wood about four feet long sticking out from the thick tangle of branches of rounded budsage bush that was, maybe, two feet high. “Looks like somebody shoved that thing in there in a hurry.”
The Sheriff examined the brush. “Maybe so, but what does that prove?”
“Maybe nothing… or maybe...” She yanked the branch loose. She held one end and pointed the other at the man. “It's been smoothed, like with a whittling knife. If you saw the front two feet ‘this thing, sticking outta some tall grass, and pointing at you from, say, twenty feet away, what’d you figure it was?”
Whyte thought for a minute, following her logic, until a wicked smile began to curl his lips. “I think I’d think it was a rifle, with a man there in the tall grass ready t’shoot me.”
“Yeah, one of Dandy Jim’s men – if they was there. Only they wasn’t there. Dandy Jim tossed them branches into the brush so folks wouldn’t see ‘em sticking out in ambush and guess the truth. This one must’ve got stuck in that bush. The five others’re probably laying on the ground somewhere ‘round here. A robber probably would scatter them, but not trouble himself to carry away six long sticks on horseback.”
“You wanna go look for the rest of ‘em?”
She reached over and yanked the stick free. “This one’ll do. Let’s follow them footprints back to the road and go up to the rise on the other side – just t’see what’s over there.” She began striding down from the ridge, using the branch as a walking stick.
* * * * *
“Same as on the other side,” Dev Fisher said, when they reached the top of the hill directly across the stage road from the ridge. “Only one set of footprints, no difference.” Then he added, “‘Cept for that.” A few feet from where they all stood, an opened strongbox, dark wood and reinforced metal, lay overturned on the ground. The busted padlock was next to it. “Dang, them road agents is smart,” he added in an almost admiring tone.
Paul shook his head. “Not all of them. I know of one time where bandits took the box, but hadn't thought to bring any tools to open it with. They ended up hiding it near the robbery site, hoping to come back for it later. Only things didn't work out quite the way they wanted.”
“Looks t’me like Dandy Jim got whatever was in this box,” Jessie said, bringing the talk back to the present. “Easier t’take the stuff than carry that box; nobody’s gonna wonder ‘bout why you was carrying a strongbox, neither.” She glanced around. “His horse was probably tied up t’that tree over there. It’s far enough back t’be outta sight of the road.”
Dev looked down at the trampled ground by the tree. “Any chance you could follow that horse, Deputy?”
“Hard to say.” Paul studied the hoof prints in the dry soil. “There’s nothing special about those hoof prints.”
“What could be ‘special’ about hoof prints?”
“A shoe could be loose, or not put on right, anything to make that horse’s tracks stand out from any other tracks on the road.”
Jessie chuckled, remembering something. “The smith in Eerie – where Paul ‘n’ me is from -- his first ‘n’ last names both got seven letters in ‘em, so he uses seven nails t’shoe a horse instead six or eight nails like most smiths do. That’s how Paul tracked me down last year.”
“Why was he tracking you?” Sheriff Whyte asked, his eyebrow raised in interest – no, maybe, suspicion.
Paul gave him a wry smile. “That, Elijah, is a story for another day. Right now, we’re hunting Dandy Jim. Let’s see where his horse’s trail goes.”
“ ‘Back to the road from the look of it,” Jessie said. “Clever; there ain’t no way to follow one set of tracks with all the traffic on that road.”
The Sheriff frowned. “And who’d stop one man, when everybody thought it was a gang of seven men that pulled off that robbery?”
“That man would probably have had tools in his saddlebags good for breaking a heavy lock, a sign that he'd been up to something,” Paul speculated.
“Yes, but if it’s only one lone rider, a posse wouldn’t likely stop him in the first place, let alone go through his gear.” He paused a beat. “And if they did, what wrong with a man carrying some tools in his pack?”
Paul shrugged. “When the truth gets out, someone might remember running into a man with all those tools and say something.”
“So what happens now?” Jessie asked.
Dev gave a shrug. “Now we get my horse back to Cole Hoyle and spend the night at his station. Tomorrow, we all deadhead t’Prescott t’tell the head office what we figured out.”
“Do we have to?” Jess asked. “Prescott's a long way off. Ain’t we spent enough time chasing after Dandy Jim?”
Whyte nodded and looked at her and Paul. “I got my own case to settle, and I’d just as soon start back to Dawson.”
* * * * *
Paul moved the blankets and opened the stall door. A lantern set against the far wall lit the stall. The hay they’d found there was now spread out in a low mound that was covered with a large, green and gray horse blanket. Jessie was next to it, sitting back on her heels and wearing…
“What’s all that you’ve got on, Jess?”
“There is no one here called ‘Jess.’ I am Sunset Woman, adopted daughter of Taklishim, Apache war chief, and the, uh… prize…” She stumbled, just a little over the word. “…of you, the warrior Raging Lion, who won me by right of combat.” She raised her hand towards him. “Come, Raging Lion, come and take your prize.”
He took her hand. “Very well,” he said firmly, trying to get into whatever this game of hers was. “Let me see what I have ‘won.’ Stand up.” He helped her to her feet and began to walk around her, as if conducting an inspection of something. The game seemed to be that she was some sort of slave, to be treated however he wanted. It was hardly the independent, spirited Jessie that he knew so well, but he was willing to go along. For a while, at least.
She bowed her head, seeming to be shy and held her hands at her sides. She was dressed in the clothes she’d worn the night of the moccasin ceremony back in the Apache village, a light brown blouse, a brown belt, and a long, pale yellow skirt. All were soft buckskin and all decorated with matching patterns of beads. The collar of the blouse was closed by a brown thong interlaced with the garment, and the bottom of her skirt was fringed.
“You seem like a worthy enough prize.” He saw that she’d forced her long, strawberry blonde hair into a bun with an hourglass-shaped metal ornament holding it in place. “A maiden’s hair is bound, as it should be.” He pulled the thing loose. “But the hair of a prize should not be bound.” He watched, smiling, as her hair fell free about her shoulders.
He grabbed her suddenly, moved in close and brushed his lips against hers. But as she started to respond, he stepped back, the stern master, not the gentle lover. “That was good – for start. Let me see more of my prize. Remove your blouse.”
“But…” Her voice was uncertain.
He gave her a way out. “Do not argue. You are only a prize, are you not? Something won in fair combat, not a woman to be wooed.” All she had to do was say, “No”, and the game was over. And they both knew it. Instead, she said…
“I am only a prize, Raging Lion; your prize.” Her voice sounded sad, resigned to an unhappy fate, but she gave him a quick wink and a smile before she began to unlace the cord that held the two halves of her collar so tightly. As soon as it was undone, she reached down to yank her blouse loose from the belt at her waist. In one quick motion, she pulled the blouse up, over her head and tossed it to the floor behind her.
Paul took a surprised, delighted breath. She’d dressed “Injun” from the skin out. All she wore above her waist was a band of yellow doeskin that supported – and concealed – her breasts. Only the very tops of them could be seen above the material.
“But a most worthy prize, indeed.” He kissed her again, harder. As he did, his hands reached down to cup her breasts through the doeskin halter. His fingers caressed her breasts, rubbing the soft leather against her sensitive nipples.
She gasped, and he felt her body tremble. Her eyes were slits, her mouth opened, as she arched her back to press her breasts against his hands. Her arms moved up to embrace him.
“Hands at your sides,” he ordered. “No, remove your skirt first.”
She looked surprised, but she obeyed. Her hands trembled as she loosened the brown leather belt. She let it go and gave a quick jerk to her hips. The skirt slid down of its own weight to pool at her feet. A thin cord tied around her waist held a long, thin strip of doeskin – the same yellow as the wrap around her breasts. The doeskin was draped over the front of the cord. It ran back, between her legs at her crotch, and was draped again over the cord at her back; a loincloth. And, except for the breast wrap and her calf-high moccasins, it was all she now wore.
“Hands at your sides,” he ordered, “and you will keep them there until I say that you can move them.”
Jessie did as he had told her. She looked down, unwilling – unable? – to meet his gaze. “Paul --”
“I am your master, the warrior Raging Lion. Do not speak.” His voice was firm, almost angry.
He stepped in close to her. His hand reached down and ran a finger against the doeskin, pressing it against her sensitive flesh.
“O-ooh!” Jessie’s breath caught in her throat. She shivered, overwhelmed by what he was doing to her.
Paul balled his hand into a fist, the middle finger bowed out. He pressed it against the doeskin directly covering her nether lips. Pressed and twisted his finger, so that the soft material forced those lips apart and caressed the velvety flesh within.
“O-ooh… uh… uh… oooh.” Jessie couldn’t speak. A wave of carnal delight crashed through her. She felt lightheaded. Her fingers twitched eager to grasp hold of him, and her knees… she could hardly stand.
Then the hand went away, taking all of that sexual joy with it. “Now – before we go any further, Jessie Hanks – how about you tell me what the hell sort of a game you’re playing?”
“Game… what d’you mean?”
“I mean, what’re you doing playing like you’re some kind of slave that has to do whatever I tell her?”
“I, uh… I got curious. I was wondering – kinda – what woulda happened if Dasodaha had won that wrestling match, if I had to go with him. I wouldn’t be his wife. He had one already. I woulda just been a prize, and he coulda done whatever he wanted with me -- to me. “ She took a breath. “That scared me, scared me a whole lot. But a part o’me got to wondering what it woulda been like. He coulda hurt me, probably woulda hurt me; he was a big, rough man. But you, I…I knew that you… you wouldn’t hurt me.”
He smiled, the smile of a cat about to play with a mouse it had caught. “Even if I did something like this?” He finger rubbed a furrow across the doeskin covering her nether lips. They parted and his fur-covered finger slipped inside her again, wriggling against her.
“Y-Yessss.” She hissed the word as a tremor of ecstasy ran through her. “Ooh, ooh, yesss.”
He managed a smirk. “Undress me, then, woman, so I can enjoy you.”
She nodded, uncertain of what to say. Her hands trembled as she unbuttoned his shirt. When that was done, she moved close to push it back off his shoulders. His arm shot behind her, forcing her against him. As was his custom, he hadn’t worn an undershirt, and his curly chest hair tickled her extended, oh, so sensitive nipples. He kissed her. Very hard. She moaned, rubbing her body against him.
He ignored her, releasing her and stepping back. “Keep going.”
Her fingers fumbled as she worked at his belt buckle. It opened – finally – and she popped open the top of the buttons on the front of his pants; then the next and the next. His pants were tight in front from his erection, and she felt her body warm as that erection came into view inside his drawers. His pants were loose, and they began to slide down his hips. He spread his legs slightly and let them fall.
“What did you stop for?” he demanded.
She reached down and yanked at the knotted the cord which held his drawers tight at his waist. The knot came free, but the drawers only slipped down a few inches
“Well?” His voice was more of an order than a question.
Jessie felt another flush run across her face. She knelt down, grabbed at his garment, and gave a slight tug. It dropped down almost to his knees. She released it, and it fell atop his pants. His erection sprang up, pointing up at her, and she shivered in anticipation of what might come next.
“If you were just my prize, kneeling there, I’d probably order you to use your mouth on me.” He cupped her chin in his hand, raising her head, so that their eyes met. He was grinning mischievously, as he spoke. “Do you want me to do that?”
Jessie startled. She’d pleasure him that way before, but always on her terms, because she wanted to. Even in a game, the thought of being forced to do it was… unthinkable. “I, uhh… I want…” She shrugged, admitting her reluctance to Paul – and to herself. “I guess that game’s over.” She gave him a wan smile.
“That’s okay.” He smiled back at her, this time, a gentle smile. “I know a better one.” He helped her to her feet and kissed her softly on the lips. She moaned again, and his tongue moved into her mouth to play with hers. Her right arm rose up slowly to encircle his neck. At the same time, his own right arm reached behind her and yanked at the knot that held her doeskin halter in place. He tossed the fur over her shoulder and broke the kiss.
She sighed. “Mmm, that is better.” She pressed her bared breasts against him. “You got any other ideas?”
“A few.” He leaned down to take her engorged nipple into his mouth.
She shivered at the feel of his lips on her breast, of his rough tongue brushing against her tight, inflamed nipple. “Ooh… ooh, yes… yesss!” Her hands twitched as they moved down to fumble at the knotted cord that held her loincloth in place.
“Let me get that, Jess.”
“O-Okay, but… hurry!”
The doeskin was damp to his touch, and the air filled with the sweet fragrance of her arousal. He undid the knot, and the cord came free. The strip of doeskin fell to the floor. He used a finger to tease her nether lips, sending sparks of sexual lightning racing through her.
“You better have them riding coats,” she said breathlessly.
Paul had stepped out of his pants. He picked up the garment and retrieved one of the condoms from a pocket. “Right here,” he told her, holding it up for her to see. “I bought a bunch of them when I was down in Phoenix.”
“Then lie down, and lemme put it on you.”
Without another word, he stretched out on the blanket that she’d spread over the loose pile of hay. His member sprang to attention, pointing straight at her. It was red and ready and – to Jessie – it seemed to be at least five times its normal size.
She took a breath to steady herself and quickly -- carefully but quickly – slid it onto him, using the attached green ribbons to fix it in place.
“Okay, Jess.” He patted a spot on the blanket next to him. “Time to get yourself down here.”
Jessie leered at him. “Don’t wanna.” She straddled him before he could react, and bent her knees, lowering herself down atop him. Her left hand grasped his manhood and guided it into herself. “Oh… oh, yeah!” She leaned in towards him and began to move her body forward and back, grinding herself against his body. “Uhh… o-ooh… oh… yesss!”
Paul braced himself on the blanket. She was tight inside, like a third hand stroking his maleness. He raised his head and kissed her. She kept moving her body, but her lips stayed with his, their tongues dancing together to the rhythm she was setting. His hands found her breasts and began to massage them. At the same time, his hips matched her own movements.
Slowly, those movements became more ragged. “Yeah!... Yeah!... YEAH!“ Jessie screamed as the exquisite joy of an orgasm exploded within her. Paul’s arm pulled her head down to his own and silenced her with a torrid kiss. And through it all, the motions of her body against his never stopped.
After a time, she collapsed, spent for the moment, onto his chest. She lay still, catching her breath. He was still hard, and he gave a quick thrust of his hips. “Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed and resumed her own rhythms.
Again her fervor grew. And grew. She delighted in the carnal fire blazing within her. His hands were at her breasts. The light touch of his fingertips, as they traced inward spirals towards her nipples excited her even more. She reached a peak and then crashed over it in another rapturous blast.
As she began to scream her joy, he grunted and shot forth what felt like a gallon of his essence. She collapsed, sprawling onto the blanket beside him, totally exhausted. They stared with sated smiles at each other. Fatigue overtook them, and they fell asleep, still smiling blissfully.
* * * * *
Chapter 9 – “It’s Tyler Time”
Thursday, June 13, 1872
Coleman Hoyle took a sip of his coffee. “How soon do you folks figure on heading out?”
“We’re pretty much packed,” Jessie answered. “Right after breakfast, I think.” She glanced across the table at Paul, who nodded in agreement while he chewed on a strip of bacon. “Yeah, me ‘n’ Paul’ll be leaving right after we eat.”
Sheriff Whyte looked up from his own meal. “The three of us’ll be leaving.” He turned to face the pair. “Unless you have some objection, that is. We’re all going to the same place, more or less, so I thought I’d ride with you.”
“You gonna try ‘n’ arrest me again?” she asked suspiciously.
Paul chuckled. “You know that hasn’t exactly worked out for you the last couple times you tried, don’t you?”
“Only too well.” He gave Paul a rueful smile and self-consciously rubbed the spot on his hand where the scorpion had stung him. “Only too well. That’s why we’re out here in the first place.”
Dev Fisher gave the Sheriff an odd look. “What’d you wanna arrest her for, Sheriff? It didn’t have anything t’do with the stage she rob – she stopped did it?”
“To tell the truth…“ Whyte’s voice trailed off, and he glanced over at Jessie. She gave a quick, nervous shake of her head and silently mouthed the word, “Please.“
“No,” he continued, “it doesn’t have anything to do with your stagecoach and, beyond that…“ He gave her a reassuring wink. “…I don’t see where it’s any of your business.“
Fisher frowned. “You don’t need t’get up on your high horse, Sheriff. I owe Jessie for helping me figure out what Dandy Jim was doing, even more so for letting me take all of the credit for it. I was just trying t’watch out for her.”
“You been watching out for her since the day she ‘stopped‘ your stage,” Hoyle said with a laugh. “Only now you’re on her side while you’re doing the watching.”
The other man gave a quick laugh. “Maybe so, but you got no reason t’arrest her now, do you, Sheriff?”
Whyte shook his head. “No… and I’m not planning to try.”
“Well,” Paul said, “if you’ll shake Jessie’s hand on that, we’ll be glad for your company.”
The older man offered his hand. “Seems fair to me.”
“Me, too.” Jessie shook his hand. She held it for a minute, looking at the man.
Paul put his hand on top of the other two. “In that case, let’s ride.”
* * * * *
By mid-afternoon, they were climbing up into the highlands that marked the transition from the mountains of central Arizona to the Sonora desert. The road, more of a trail for game, was steep. Their pace was kept slow, so as not to overtire the horses. That let them move close enough to each other to talk.
“I been wondering, Lige,” Jessie began, “what’re you gonna do about that cameo necklace when we get back t’Dawson?”
Sheriff Whyte pursed his chin. “Strictly speaking, it belongs to Eugene Barlow – his family, now. One of the papers they sent me from Prescott said he had a wife somewhere back east.” He frowned. “If she wants it.”
“Why wouldn’t she want it?” Paul asked.
Whyte smirked. “Why; ‘cause it’s all tied up with her husband being killed. It’d be a reminder of that every time she looked at it.”
“Give it t’me then,” Jessie said. “Or t’Hanna Tyler direct, ‘cause I’d give it t’her, anyway.”
“Don’t you think it’d remind her about Barlow’s death, too?” Paul asked.
Jessie shook her head. “No, if anything, it’d remind her that it made trouble for me. I give it back t’her, that says it won’t be a problem, no more.”
Paul frowned. “What’re you gonna tell Hanna? For that matter, Lige, what – if anything – are you gonna tell the authorities up in Prescott? The cameo ain’t a lead no more, it’s a red herring.”
The Sheriff looked thoughtful. “You’re right. It’s a waste of time, but how do I tell them without… implicating Jessie while I’m at it?”
“Tell ‘em the truth – sorta,” Jessie answered. “The lady…” She gave them a mincing smile. “…who had the cameo was over near Black Canyon Station ‘bout the time Barlow was killed. Oh, and tell ‘em she bought the cameo from him the night before… on her way outta town.”
“Bought it from who? The lie can be made simpler. I think I will tell them that I found the cameo out by Black Canyon Station, but I’ll also say that the ‘lady’ who had it had an alibi. If I'm pressed, I'll say that she won it in a poker game.”
“What are you gonna tell the Tylers?”
“That I’m sorry that I bothered them – and you, and that when I finally talked to you, you proved that you hadn’t done anything worth worrying about.”
“Sounds good t’me,” Jessie said. “Thanks, Lige.”
Paul held out his hand. “Now that it’s settled, can we have the cameo?”
“Okay, but you’ll have to wait till we stop someplace. I’ll have to dig down into my saddle bag to get it.”
Jessie laughed. “For something like that, I don’t mind waiting.”
* * * * *
Friday, June 14, 1872
This time, it was Sheriff Whyte who was the first to see… “Soldiers!”
“You think they’re the same ones we ran into before?” Jessie asked, riding up alongside him.
Paul joined them in time to hear her question. “Probably not; we’re a lot farther south and farther west than where we met up with Heffler and his men.”
“Only one way t’find out.” Jessie gave a shrug and started riding towards the troopers; Sheriff Whyte and Paul hurried after her.
The leader of the troop raised a hand, signaling for his men to stop. They stayed in place, some watching Jessie and the others approaching. The remaining men scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of trouble.
“Hello, there… lieutenant.” Jessie gave the man her best friendly smile. “I’m Jessie Hanks, and the men with me’re Sheriff Elijah Whyte and my friend, Paul Grant. What’re you ‘n’ your men doing out this way?”
The officer looked nonplussed for a moment, hardly expecting such a greeting. He was on his late thirties, a tall, almost painfully thin man, whose graying hair was in mid-retreat from his forehead. “Miss Hanks, I’m Lionel… Lieutenant Lionel Staub. I don’t wish to alarm you, but my men and I are out from Camp Verde, on patrol for renegade Apaches.”
“Apaches?” Paul asked, pulling his cowpony up next to Jessie.
“Yes, sir; we have scattered sightings from across the Territory, reports of war parties stealing cattle, setting fires…” He waited a beat. “…killing settlers. My orders are to deal – and deal harshly -- with any of these savages that my men and I encounter.”
Paul, Jessie, and Whyte exchanged quick, concerned glances. “You got any notion of where they might be?” the Sheriff asked.
“If I knew where any of those devils were, I’d be there, myself, fighting them. For now, my orders are to patrol this area.” He hesitated a moment. “May I ask where you folks are headed?”
“Dawson; it’s along the Gila River, about seventy miles east of Yuma.”
“I’ve been down there, down to the Quartermaster Depot in Yuma a time or two, that is – don’t know Dawson, I’m afraid, and I’m not likely to any time soon.” He took a breath. “But I can offer you an escort to the Gila Bend Mountains, that’s about as far south as my orders allow.”
Jessie hesitated. “I don’t know…”
“I’d really feel much better if you accepted my offer, ma’am. I’ve seen what Apaches do to white men – and women – they get their hands on them, and it’s, well, it’s not at all pretty.”
Jessie shivered. It was hard to think of Taklishim or Ih-tedda or even Dasodaha doing what the Lieutenant was describing, but she knew that not all the Apache nation were friendly. “I-I think we’ll take you up on that offer, Lieutenant Staub.” She glanced over, first at Paul and then at Elijah Whyte, only to see both men nod in agreement. “And thanks.”
* * * * *
Jessie and Paul picked up a couple of tin plates from the stack and fell in at the end of the line for the soldier’s evening meal. The man in front of her turned to see who had stepped up behind him. “Hallo, Miss Chessie,” he said in a voice with a thick German accent. His eyes roamed quickly from Jessie’s smile, down past her lush bosom to her narrow waist before he spoke again. “Vhy you don’t get in der line aheadt of me?” He gestured broadly with his right arm.
“Und me.” The next man made the same gesture. Soon most of the squad was inviting her to move to the front of the line.
She took their invitation and walked slowly to the mess table, smiling at each man, as she passed by them. But then she spoiled it for them by yelling, “Hey, Paul, you get here in front o’me.”
“Sorry, gentlemen,” Paul said, as he moved up to stand next to her. “Fortunes of war, as they say.”
A tall, mustachioed sergeant stood behind the table. On the table was a tray with slices of hardtack bread and a steaming pot of beef and bean stew. A large coffee pot at the end of the table was balanced on a brass trivet and surrounded by a ring of empty mugs. “Here ye go, ma’am,” the cook said in a brogue as thick as Shamus O’Toole’s. He ladled a serving of the stew onto each of their plates, tossing a piece of the bread into the midst of each portion. “The only way t’be eating that hardtack,” he explained, “is t’ soak it in the stew t’soften it.”
“Thanks… I guess.” Jessie glanced down at her plate. The beef – she hoped it was beef -- looked to be as much fat as meat, and there was an oily look to the gravy. She poured herself some coffee – which smelled too much of chickory – and walked over to sit on a log a few yards away from where most of the men were eating.
Paul joined her as soon as he’d gotten his own supper. He took a forkful of the stew, and made a face. “Too much salt; I pity the men who had to eat army food during four years of war.”
“I know,” she replied. “Drink a little coffee. It helps.”
He did as she suggested. “Helps some, but Lord I miss Maggie’s cooking. I'm thinking that if that lady were cooking for them, the soldiers would have been glad to go on fighting for ten years.”
“I don’t think even she could do much with this stuff.” She dipped her bread in the stew for a short time before she took a bite. “No, not much at all.”
Jessie took another forkful. “At least it’s filling; for soldiers, that’s all they really need.”
“Ah, the glamorous life in the cavalry; risk your life fighting Indians and all for thirteen dollars a month, and all the slop you can eat.”
“You never say much about the war,” Jessie remarked. “You were too young to join up, I suppose.”
Paul winced, as if someone had just stepped on his toe. It was a moment before he could force out an answer. “I didn't go to war, but the war came along anyway.”
He didn't say anything more, didn't want to say anything more, and Jessie knew better than to push.
Paul finished the last of the stew and used his bread to soak up what gravy remained on his plate. He popped the bread into his mouth and chewed, taking some coffee to soften it a bit more.
Jessie did the same. She put down her cup after a final sip and set it down. “Don’t look like there’s much going on tonight.”
Two of the men were cleaning up for the mess sergeant. A few more were playing cards, a cutthroat game of poker from the sound of it. Another was using what was left of the daylight to write a letter. Lieutenant Staub was talking to a second sergeant, a tall lanky man with a shock of curly black hair. ‘Prob’ly setting up the watch for tonight,’ she thought. The rest of the squad was spreading their bedrolls.
“Staub’s going to be getting his men up at dawn; that’s pretty early this time of year. If they want a good night’s sleep, they pretty much have to go to bed right away.”
She stood up. “In that case, let’s us go find a place t’bed down.” She grinned – practically leered -- at him. “Someplace… private, so’s we can put another of them riding coats to good use.”
“I’m afraid not, Jess,” Paul said, a regretful tone in his voice. “Staub’s hardly going to let the two of us get out of sight of the rest of the camp.” He sighed. “And I don’t think either of us wants to put on a show for him and his men.”
Jessie considered what he’d said. “Dammit!” she replied after a while. “I hate it when you’re right ‘bout stuff like that.” She playfully kissed him on the cheek and went to get her own bedroll.
* * * * *
Saturday, June 15, 1872
It was still early in the day when Lieutenant Staub raised his arm, signaling his men to halt their horses and rest for a few minutes. “Miss Hanks,” he called out. “Would you and your friends come over here, please?”
“What’s the problem?” Paul asked when they had ridden over to him.
“No problem,” the officer answered. “Not really, anyway. Do you see those peaks up yonder?” He pointed to a range of mountains a few miles ahead. When they nodded, he continued. “The tallest one, off to the southeast of our line of march, is Woolsey Peak. By my map, we're at the southernmost point of the area I’ve been ordered to patrol, so I’m afraid you’re on your own again.”
The Sheriff glanced at the mountains. “Any idea how far we have to go?”
“The day is young, yet. Based on what you showed me on your map, I’d guess that Miss Hanks and Mr. Grant can reach the Tyler farm around supper-time. It’ll be a bit farther for you, of course, Sheriff, but it is mid-June. You should be able to reach Dawson with time to spare before dark.”
“Good, ‘cause I’m going to the Tyler ranch, too.”
Jessie startled. “How come?”
“I scared Mrs. Tyler and that daughter of hers the way I chased after you, Jessie, and I figure that I owe them both an in-person apology.”
“Seems like a good idea.” Paul said. He turned back to Staub. “Thank you for all your help, sir, and good luck to you and your men.”
‘Or not good luck if you go chasing after Taklishim and his family,’ Jessie thought to herself. Aloud she said, “Yeah, thanks a lot.”
Staub offered a salute which all three returned. Then, smiling, they started south once again.
* * * * *
Malachi Tyler came running into his mother’s kitchen. “Ma, Ma, we got company.”
“Who is it, Malachi?” Piety Tyler wiped her hands on her apron.
“Jessie Hanks and Mr. Grant and… and the Sheriff; they just rode up.”
“My Heavens.” She pushed the stewpot she’d just put on the stove onto a back burner and hurried toward the front of the house.
Paul and Jessie were tying the reins of their horses to the hitching post when Piety and her son came out onto the porch. Sheriff Whyte was still on his mount. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Tyler,” he greeted her.
“Sheriff… what’s going on? Have you come here to gloat about finally capturing Jessie?”
“No, Ma’am, and I’m sorry that you think that of me. It turns out she wasn’t anywhere near Prescott when that man was killed. She proved it, and Paul and her are free to go wherever they want. I just… well, I figured I owed you a face-to-face apology for the high-handed way I acted when I was trying to arrest her.” He took a breath. “You and your daughter, both; is she around?”
Piety shook her head. “Hanna is with her new husband at their farm.”
“I can ride out t’get ‘em,” Malachi offered. “If it’s okay with you, Ma?”
Jessie’s eyes moved from Whyte to Piety. “He’s a good man, Piety. He coulda rode straight home, but he wanted t’make it right with you and Hanna. Seems t’me if a man does that, he deserves t’be heard.”
“I-I don’t know,” Piety said. She stood still for a moment considering Jessie’s word. “Still… I… Do you vouch for him, Jessie?”
Jessie nodded. “I do.” She glanced over at her companion, who mumbled some words of agreement. “Me and Paul both.”
“In that case, Malachi, go get your sister.”
* * * * *
A farm wagon sped into the yard in front of the Tyler house. As it came to a quick halt only a few feet away from her, Jessie heard a familiar voice calling her name.
“Jessie… Jessie!” Hanna Tyler – Hanna Parker now, Jessie reminded herself -- leapt from her seat almost before the wagon stopped and ran to her friend. She threw her arms around Jessie and began hugging her fiercely.
She was still hugging Jessie while her new husband, Gil Parker, tied his two-horse team to the hitching post and walked over to join her. “Welcome back, Miss Jessie… Mr. Grant,” he greeted them and shook Paul’s hand. Then he saw who else was present. “Uh… you, too, Sheriff.”
“Hello… Gil.” Whyte replied. “Hanna.” She glowered back at him, her arms crossed in front of her.
Just then, Malachi rode up. “I told ‘em you was here, Sheriff.”
“You tell them why I was here?” Elijah Whyte was off his horse now, sitting on the porch next to Jessie.
“N-No, sir.”
“Then let’s go inside, so I can apologize to everybody at once.” He started to dismount.
As if on cue, Piety and Ephraim Tyler walked out onto the front porch. “That won’t be necessary, Sheriff,” Ephraim said. “You can say your piece right here ‘n’ now. And if the womenfolk forgive you…” He glanced quickly at his wife and daughter. “…I reckon that you’re welcome t’stay for supper.”
“That’s a big if,” Piety said, frowning. “Even if Jessie did say that it was all right.”
Jessie chuckled. “For the record, Paul and I do forgive Elijah here for what he done. We’ve spent enough time together since then, and, like I said, he’s a good man, even if he can be a damned sight too hard to convince sometimes. He deserves another chance.” She nodded to Whyte. “Showtime, ‘Lige. Give it your best shot.”
“I will.” He took a breath. “It ain’t easy t‘say, Hanna… Miz Tyler, but I was wrong.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Wrong?”
“I’m afraid so. Jessie and Paul proved that she couldn’t have killed Gene Barlow ‘cause she wasn’t nowhere near Prescott when he was murdered. I was too busy thinking how I’d solved a big case, one that had everybody stumped, t’listen to her story. I scared her off – her and Paul. And when me and my posse came after ‘em, I, well, I came down on the two of you a lot harder than I had any right to.”
Piety gave an emphatic nod. “You most certainly did,”
“I know, ma’am, and like I said, I’m real sorry for it.” He took his hat in his hands and began to nervously crimp the brim. “I’m just hoping that you’ll have the Christian charity to forgive me for my mistake.”
Hanna had let go of Jessie. She stood next to her, holding Gil’s hand. “What d’you say, Jessie?”
“I say, forgive him. The man made a mistake – a big one – but I figure he made up for it.” She shrugged. “I was the one he was chasing – and, well, Paul and me – ‘n’ we forgive him.”
The girl smiled. “Then I guess I will, too.”
“As will I, Sheriff.” Piety put out her hand.
Whyte gave her hand a gentle shake. “Thanks, ladies, all three of you.” He released her hand walked over and mounted his horse.
“Won’t you be staying for supper, Sheriff?” Piety asked.
The Sheriff shook his head. “No, ma’am, but thank you for the offer. There’s another lady I got to apologize to, and I only hope that my Thelma is as forgiving as you and Emma and Jessie for my being away from her for so long a time.”
“I’m sure that she will be.”
He nodded and tapped his hat with a finger, as if in salute. “From your mouth t’G-d’s ear.” He flicked the reins. “G’bye, Jessie and Paul… and all the rest of you.”
Then he stopped. “Almost forgot this.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out something that he tossed to Hanna. “It’s yours now, Hanna.”
“The cameo!” she said in an excited voice, as she caught it one handed. “Oh, I missed this at my wedding.”
Gil stepped in next to her. “You have it now.” He gently took it from her. “Let’s put it where it belongs.”
“O-Okay.” Hanna leaned her head forward. Her hair was done up in a bun, so there was no need to lift it out of the way.
Gil took one end of the chain in each hand and brought it up around her neck, fastening it behind her. “Done.” Then he leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. She trembled slightly in surprise, but then her arms slowly rose up, like ribbons, to drape around his own neck.
“Well, that certainly settles the matter,” Sheriff Whyte said with a hearty laugh. “G’bye again.” He waved once and rode towards the road to Dawson.
Piety waited until the newlyweds broke their kiss. “Supper should be ready shortly,” she told them – and everyone else. “Will you two be staying?”
Hanna nodded. “Yes, Momma; I was fixing our own dinner when Malachi showed up. I brought it with me in the back of the wagon; chicken and dumplings.”
“That doesn’t exactly fit with the pork stew I’m making,” her mother answered, “but… beggers and choosers; bring it in.”
Hanna hesitated. “I hope you don’t mind, Momma, but Gil…”
“I knew how much Hanna’d want to stay and talk to Miss Jessie,” her husband continued. “So I packed up some bedclothes, while she was making supper.” He grinned shyly. “I hope you don’t mind, Mother Tyler, but, well, Hanna and I thought we’d spend the night.” He smiled, and Hanna blushed slightly and buried her face in his chest.
Piety chuckled. “I suppose I should’ve expected that you’d want to stay. Very well, you two can sleep in Hanna’s old room.” She gave her daughter a sly smile. “I’m sure that we can find a spot in the barn for Jessie… and Paul.”
* * * * *
“Back in the straw again,” Jessie said wryly. She and Paul were in the rafters of the Tyler barn, positioning a horse blanket over the bedding. “Just like at Black Canyon.”
Paul smiled. “I remember Black Canyon – and that bed – rather fondly, thank you.”
“Mmm, so do I.” She leered at him as they settled the blanket down onto the straw. “Maybe it’ll happen again.”
He leered back at her. “I certainly hope so.” Piety had loaned them two pillows. He tossed them to Jessie, who set them down at her end of the coverlet. “To tell the truth,” he continued, “I’m a little surprised that the Tylers didn’t seem to have any objection to our sleeping together out here.”
“They couldn’t’ve said much, seeing as they were putting us both in the barn tonight.”
“I don’t know. They could have had you and Hanna in her bed, and Gil and me sleeping here.”
Jessie laughed. “Are you loco? Hanna woulda pitched a fit. She’s still busy finding out how nice it is t’sleep – or t’not sleep with Gil. Besides…” She paused a beat. “Piety and Ephrem knows what me ‘n’ you’ve been up to. After supper, she got me alone for a minute and told me how Hanna and the Sheriff searched through my stuff when he came here chasing after me – after us.”
“Hanna?”
“Piety wouldn’t let him go rooting through my clothes, ‘specially my unmentionables. She had Hanna go through ‘em while he watched.” She giggled. “And tried not t’blush.”
“He’s a married man. I’m sure he’s seen such things before.”
“Maybe… and maybe not; Hanna found that bag o’riding coats that Wilma gave me. Piety gave ‘em back t’me.” Jessie held up the small drawstring canvas bag. “She told me she figured I… we might be wanting ‘em tonight.”
Paul walked over to where she was standing. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” He took a delighted Jessie in his arms and kissed her tenderly. Her arm rose up over his shoulder. She pressed her body against him and returned the kiss with all the passion she could muster.
“No,” he said when they finally broke the kiss. “Not surprised at all.”
* * * * *
Sunday, June 16, 1872
“Can you help me with this dress?” Jessie asked. “It buttons up the back.” She turned her back to Paul. The dress was only buttoned about halfway up her back.
Paul began to work the buttons. “I’ll help, but it won’t be as much fun as unbuttoning one of your dresses.” He finished and leaned in to kiss the side of her neck.
“You’ll be undoing this one soon enough.” She turned to face him, her arms raised slightly away from her sides. “Right now, how do I look in it?”
He smiled at what he saw. The dress was sky blue. It was cut tight enough to flatter her figure, with a pattern of dark blue lace that drew attention to her breasts. But the collar was higher than most of the dresses she wore when she performed in the Saloon, and the lace-trimmed sleeves came down almost to her wrists. “Nice, very nice; but it’s kind of… modest for you, though.”
“Well, it sure ain’t one of them scanty outfits Wilma wears. You can call it my ‘going t’church’ dress. I bought it special t’wear at the wedding.”
“It won’t be much of a wedding, I’d guess; just Ephrem walking Hanna across the yard, while you sing that song for her.”
“Maybe not; I heard Ephrem tell his boy, Amos, t’ride into Dawson and ask that preacher, Brother Douglas, t’ride out here after church ‘n’ say the words for real to Hanna and Gil.”
“He’ll probably do it if he can. He’s a good man, and he’ll know that it would make Hanna happy. She was telling me – told everybody at the wedding, too, I expect -- how much she missed having you there to sing for her.” His face went serious. “I know something else that would make her happy.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
Paul took her hand in his. “You and me standing up there next to her and Gil, while Brother Douglas says those words over us.” He took a breath to brace himself. “Jessie Hanks, will you marry me? Please.”
“Paul!” Jessie’s eyes were wide as dinner plates in surprise. “Much as I do love you, I told you that I ain’t ready t’settle down yet.”
“But when we were on the trail running – hiding – from Lige Whyte and his posse, you talked more than once about wanting to have a future with me.”
“I do, but… I ain’t ready t’start in on that part of our future, yet.” She gently kissed his cheek. “So lemme tell you two things, Paul Grant. No, I won’t marry you – not today, anyway.”
He sighed. “All right, you won’t marry me today, but what’s the second thing?”
She beamed at him. “You keep on asking me, ‘cause, one o’these days…” She gave him a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. “…you’re gonna wear me down t’where I give you a different answer.”
* * * * *
Paul sat on the edge of the Tyler’s back porch, watching Jessie slowly pacing between the barn and the house. “What’re you doing, Jess?” he asked when she came near him.
“Measuring the yard; I’m gonna be singing ‘Here Comes the Bride’, while Hanna walks over t’where Brother Douglas’ll be marrying her and Gil. “ She pointed to a spot near the barn, where Brother Douglas, a tall, skinny man in a frock coat with the turned collar of a preacher was talking to Hanna’s husband, Gil Parker, and her father, Ephrem Tyler. “I wanna know where t’start, so I finish just as she gets t’where they’ll be standing.”
Paul considered her words. “That makes sense, I guess. Any idea how soon it’ll all be starting?”
“Soon as Hanna comes downstairs; Piety and Mrs. Parker are upstairs helping her get ready.” She chuckled. “She’s so nervous, you’d think this was her real wedding, instead of a do-over.”
“I guess it’s that important to her that you sing for at her wedding. You should be flattered.”
“I am. Hanna’s a sweet girl, and I’m glad I met her.”
“Lucky thing, too.” He said. ‘We were both lucky,’ he added to himself. Getting captured along with Hanna and her mother had slowed Jessie’s escape, so that he’d caught her before she disappeared across the Mexican border. Even more important, by befriending Jessie, they’d helped her accept her life as a woman and, in a way, to accept Paul’s affection for her.
He thought about proposing again. ‘Nothing like a wedding to put a woman in a marrying frame of mind,’ he told himself. But she might think that it was too soon after his proposal that morning, so he decided to wait.
“You know, it’s kinda funny,” Jessie said with a chuckle. “We rode all this way, got chased by a posse, lived with Injuns, ‘n’ solved the Dandy Jim mystery, just so’s I could sing a song for about half a minute.”
Paul shook his head. “Not when you did it all for a girl that you think of as your little sister.”
“I never said I think of Hanna that way.”
“You don’t have to. I can see it every time the two of you get together, and I think that Hanna feels the same about you. For family, somebody you love, you’ll do all that we went through and more.”
“You make me sound like some sorta homebody.”
“No, you’re still my wild… beautiful mustang.” He took her hand in his. “You’ve just found some people that you can care for.” He rose and put his other arm around her waist. “And who care for you.”
She raised a bemused eyebrow. “You wouldn’t happen t’be one of those people, would you?”
Paul kissed her cheek. “Maybe…” He kissed her again, this time on the mouth. “Definitely.”
“Mmm, very definitely; we can talk about this later. In the barn.”
Before Paul could say anything else, Amos called, “Here she comes,” from inside the house. He rushed to the door, holding it while his sister, Hanna, her mother, and her mother-in-law came through. The three women waited on the porch while Ephrem ran over to join them.
Hanna wore the simple white cotton dress she’d worn at her first wedding. It was cut to accent her figure, slender waist but broader hips – Jessie noted -- than the girl had last fall, when they had first met. She was taller, too, almost her mother’s height. She wore a crown covered with white orange blossoms that had just begun to brown at the edges. A gauzy veil hung down from the crown, covering most of her face. And the cameo was where it should be, on its chain around her neck.
“You sure you want to go through with this again?” Ephrem asked, looking serious. “You can always say ‘No’ this time.”
Hanna giggled. “Daddy! Of course, I want to be married to Gil, now and forever.”
“Just checking.” Her father winked and offered her his arm. “You ladies better all get in place. ‘Cause here we go again.”
Piety and Elsie, Gil’s mother, ran over to take seats on the bench that had been set up near the barn. Since they were only re-enacting the wedding, no guests were invited. In fact, the only reason that Brother Douglas had been available was that he routinely rode out to minister to congregants who weren’t able to attend the morning service he held in the field next to his small cabin on the outskirts of Dawson.
“Remember what I told you,” Jessie told Hanna. “Walk to the beat of the music.” Hanna nodded, and Jessie hurried over to the bench, where she’d left her guitar. Hanna and Ephrem descended the porch steps. He took her arm and nodded for the music to start. Jessie began to play, singing along to her music, as father and daughter began a slow march towards Brother Douglas and Gil.
` “Here comes the bride dressed all in white,
` Radiant and lovely she shines in his sight.
` Gently she glides, sweet as a dove,
` Meeting her bridegroom, her eyes full of love.”
` “Long have they waited; long have they planned.
` Life goes before them opening her hand.
` Asking G-d's blessing, as they begin
` A life with new meaning, a life shared as one.
` Entering God's union, bowed before His throne,
` Promising each other to have and to hold.”
` “Gently she glides, sweet as a dove,
` Meeting her bridegroom, her eyes full of love.
` Here comes the bride dressed all in white,
` Radiant and lovely in her true love’s sight.”
Hanna and Ephrem stumbled once or twice, trying to match their steps to the music. Still, they reached Gil and Brother Douglas just as Jessie sang the last line. “Hello, fair lady,” Gil said, lifting her veil.
“Hello, my shining knight.” Hanna gave him a radiant smile, her eyes glistening with tears. She turned her head to Jessie for a mome nt and added, “Thanks.”
Jessie nodded and moved closer to the girl, still holding the guitar, to act as maid of honor. “You’re welcome,” she said smiling, and then added in a whisper. “Little sister.”
* * * * *
“I now – again – pronounce you man and wife,” Brother Douglas said, with a smile of satisfaction. “You may kiss --” He stopped as Gil took Hanna’s head in his hands and pulled her to him. Their lips met, as her arms rose slowly to drape about his shoulders. The preacher took a step back, as the couple were pelted with grains of rice from the small packets that Piety Tyler and Elsie Parker, mothers of the bride and groom, had handed out earlier. The couple broke their kiss and scurried towards the porch to escape the rice that everyone, even Brother Douglas, was throwing at them.
* * * * *
Jessie leaned back on a wide bench set against the back wall of the house and looked at the scene around her.
Cyrus Parker was sitting with Ephrem Tyler on a pair of overstuffed chairs that had been brought out onto the porch. Gil was perched on a stool next to his father. A bottle of rum and three shot glasses rested on a low table between them. The men were talking about what farmers always talked about: their crops and the weather.
Hanna sat with her mother and her mother-in-law on benches around a trestle table, boards set across a pair of saw horses. Jessie couldn’t tell what they were talking about, but the older two women were giggling. So was Hanna, though her face was flushed, as if she had been blushing at something one of the women had said.
“Jethie.” Two year-old Phoebe toddled over to Jessie, her arms outstretched. Her older sister, Lettie, was close behind her. “Up?” the toddler asked. Jessie smiled and lifted her up, setting her on her lap. Lettie clambered up on the bench beside her. She smiled up at Jessie and snuggled against her.
Paul pulled over a chair and settled in a foot or so away. “You certainly look cozy there… natural.” It was hard to believe that this sweet young woman, happily surrounded by children was his own “Wild Mustang.” It was a side of Jessie that she almost never showed.
“I… I-I told you what it was like, growing up with Pa and Will.” Her eyes glistened. “We wasn’t much of a family. I didn’t even understand – back then -- how much Pa really… loved me. This…” She gently brushed Phoebe’s hair with her hand. “…This – all this…” She gestured with her arm to include all those on the porch. “…is so nice.”
“I’ve got a feeling… If I were to ask you that question – you know the one – I might get a better answer than I got the last time.”
Jessie gave him a bemused smile. “Ask. T’tell the truth I ain’t sure how I’ll answer.”
“In that case…” He took her hand in his. “Jessie Hanks, will you --”
The shrill blast on a bugle caused everyone to turn. Amos and Malachi Tyler rode out of the barn at a healthy cantor. Amos was the one blasting away on his father’s old bugle. They circled their horses around and around in the yard, shouting and blowing the bugle.
By the time, the pair finished their circling and rode over to the porch, everyone was standing at the porch railing, watching them. Lettie was holding her mother’s hand, while Jessie cradled Phoebe with her left arm.
Malachi had a pouch tied to his saddle. He reached in and pulled out a featureless cloth doll wearing a cowboy hat. He tossed it to Gil, who caught it one handed. Amos blew the bugle again, and Malachi tossed a second doll, this one in a bonnet, to his sister. Hanna jumped back, startled, and the doll landed at her feet.
“I think that we had enough of a shivaree at the first wedding,” Ephrem said. “More than enough.”
Malachi tried to look remorseful. “We was just having some fun, Pa; wishing lots of healthy babies on Hanna and Gil.” He grinned mischievously. “Or whoever.” He tossed a boy doll at Jessie.
“Gyaah!” she yelped and batted it away with her free hand. It landed in the yard, a few feet away. Jessie frowned and stared down at it. Then she turned to face Paul. “About that question you was asking.” She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile and shook her head.
He sighed, knowing that the mood was spoiled. “Another time, maybe.”
“Maybe.” She sounded as unhappy about it as he was, and both of them were contemplating horrible fates for the two boys who couldn't keep their damned dolls to themselves.
* * * * *
Chapter 10 – “The Long Road Home”
Monday, June 17, 1872
Piety Tyler came out of her house. She was carrying something wrapped in a red and white checkered napkin. “This is for you, Jessie,” she said, handing her the package.
“Thanks, Piety.” Jessie looked down at the thing in her hands. She hefted it. “What is it?” It was very light.
“It’s a piece of Hanna’s wedding cake. It’s supposed to bring you sweet dreams if you sleep with it under your pillow, dreams of your future husband.” She couldn’t help but glance over at Paul who was busy packing his saddlebags.
Jessie saw where she was looking. “Yep; he’s already good at giving me sweet dreams, but every little bit helps, I guess.” She carefully added the cake to one of her own saddlebags. The bags were already loaded with her gear and tied to her horse’s saddle.
“We’re almost packed,” Hanna said, walking over from her own farm wagon. “Gil is just tying down last of the boxes. So I guess we can go as…” Her voice broke. “…as soon as you do, Jessie.”
Jessie gave her a sad smile. “I know, Hanna. I’m gonna miss you, too, but you got that handsome new husband to take your mind offa things. I’ll write you when I can, and you do the same, okay?”
“Okay… I guess.” She threw her arms around Jessie and gave her a tight hug. “And I will miss you.”
“Me, too.”
Paul walked over, along with Ephrem Tyler. “Looks like we’re ready,” Paul said.
“You sure that you’ve got enough ammo packed?” Ephrem asked. “We’ve been hearing stories – bad stories -- of Apaches on the loose.”
Piety shook her head. “Bloodthirsty savages; they should all be killed, every last one, before they can kill us poor Christian people.”
“Some of them just wanna to live in peace,” Jessie said. “I’ve…” She stopped. It might not be a good idea to tell the Tylers about Taklishim and his band, not after what Piety had just said. “I just don’t think that all of them are as bad as some folks say.”
“Then you are sadly wrong,” Ephrem said, “And I hope that you never learn otherwise.”
“Me, too.” Hanna hugged Jessie again. “Oh, Jessie, please, please be careful.”
Jessie tousled Hanna’s hair. “I will, Hanna, and thank you for the warning, Ephrem.”
“Send us a line when you get home,” Ephrem said. “These womenfolk will be spending all their time worrying about you, till they hear that you got home safely.” He winked. “So will I, truth to tell.”
Jessie had to smile. “I’ll do that, Ephrem.”
“It’s time to go.” Paul said, pointing to his pocket watch. “And we will be careful, Ephrem… and Hanna. And you, too, Piety.”
Jessie sighed. “All right then.” She gave Hanna one last hug. She shook hands with Piety and Ephrem, and then mounted Useless. “You all be careful, too, okay,” she asked by way of a farewell. By this time, Paul was on his cowpony, Ash. They both waved goodbye and flicked their reins. The horses and their riders were out the yard and onto the road almost at once.
Gil and Hanna said goodbye to her parents and headed out for their own farm within the next few minutes.
* * * * *
Tuesday, June 19, 1872
Sheriff Dan Talbot walked into the Saloon, heading straight for where Shamus was standing behind the bar. “Welcome, Sheriff; what can I be doing for ye this fine day?”
“You can tell me if you or Molly have heard anything from Paul or Jessie.”
The barman frowned. “I’m truly sorry t’be saying it, but we ain’t had word one from either of them.”
“And I, for one, am starting t’be worried about ‘em.” Molly had come over to join the two men.
Shamus put an arm around his wife’s waist. “I told ye, Molly love. They’re just enjoying a bit o’time together. There ain’t nothing t’be scared about.”
“I hope that’s the case,” Talbot said. “I really do.”
“What ain’t ye telling us, Dan?” Shamus asked cautiously.
The man looked like he had drunk something sour. “There’s a lot of things that a man and a woman – especially that man and that woman – could find to occupy themselves out on the trail, but… well, I hate to worry you two, but I’ve also been getting reports. The Apaches… something ticked them off.”
“The order that they all go to the reservations,” Shamus muttered. “Getting told t’go living in a pen ain’t something I’d be happy about neither.”
“I suppose not, but you probably wouldn’t go out on a killing spree, murdering settlers, stealing livestock, burning farms. That, I’m very sorry t’say, is what the Apaches have been doing since the order came down from Washington.”
Molly’s face paled. “Ye don’t think they…” Her voice faded, and Shamus took her hand to try to comfort her.
“That’s the problem, Molly,” Dan replied. “I don’t know what to think. I know that they both can take care of themselves pretty well, but, well, they should have been back a week or more ago.” He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry if I scared you, Molly. I’m sure that they’re okay, but I surely would like to hear – to see – it for myself.”
“You ‘n’ me both,” Shamus said. “You ‘n’ me both.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, June 19, 1872
“Smoke!” Jessie said, pointing. “You see it… off to the north up ahead?”
Paul nodded. “I see it; a mile or two away, maybe more.” He studied the plume of smoke, using his left hand to shield his eyes from the early afternoon sun.
“Smoke ain’t moving; must be a building or something, not a grass fire. Let’s go see if they need help.”
“They may be beyond help, Jess,” he said gently. “It may be that Apaches started that fire.”
“Are you saying we shouldn’t help; that we should turn tail and run?”
“No, I’m saying that we ride in carefully; keeping an eye out for… folks that might not be too happy to see us… except, maybe as targets.”
“I get your point.” Jessie took a moment to check her pistol. It was loaded and ready for action in the holster on her gun belt. Her rifle was in a saddle holster, and she checked that as well. She left the strap on it undone, so she could grab it in a hurry, if need be.
Paul used the same time to make sure of his own weapons. Satisfied, he said, “Okay, Jess, let’s go looking for trouble.” The irony in his voice was clear.
* * * * *
Paul and Jessie followed the plume of smoke for almost half an hour. The fire was very much out by the time they reached the smoldering ruin, a building that might have been a farmhouse or a barn – or both – about half-finished, the wood a charred black.
A man was sprawled out in the front yard, with two yard-long Apache arrows in his body. He was still holding the shovel he must have been digging with – a well, it looked like, two or three feet deep -- when the Apaches had attacked.
“Jess,” Paul ordered, his pistol drawn, “stay put and keep watch.” She nodded and drew her own pistol. He jumped down from his horse and ran, crouching low, over to the man with the shovel. He put three fingers on the man’s throat. “Dead,” he told her, shaking his head. “Dead… and cold.”
“I’m going in the house,” Paul told her. He moved quickly towards the house, still staying low, in case anyone unfriendly was waiting inside.
“Be careful,” Jessie called out him, just as he was about to walk through the opened door. He stopped for a moment to quickly turn and smile at her.
The house was empty, a burnt-out shell. He walked slowly, not certain how strong the walls still were. “Anybody here?” he called out, in case anyone was hiding inside, but too scared to reveal themselves. No one answered. Then in the center of the room, he saw a body, a man’s body dead on the floor and badly burned by the fire. He searched the rest of the house, finding no sign of anyone else, living or dead.
He and Jessie were alone.
“I see you found somebody else,” Jessie said when she saw Paul carrying the body out of the house. He set it down as carefully as he could next to the first body.
The corral was knocked apart. There was no sign of any livestock. “If the horses in the corral had any life in them, the Apaches took ‘em as mounts,” Jessie said.
“If not, or if it were mules in the corral, they’re headed for the stewpot,” Paul replied. “Apache actually prefer mule to beef.” He smiled. “Lucky for us, Taklishim and his band liked sheep even more.”
Paul had taken up the dead man’s shovel. He looked down at the ground where the man had been working. “We can’t very well leave them out for the buzzards.” He tossed a load of dirt from the hole.
“While you dig, I’ll see ‘bout a cross for ‘em.”
* * * * *
Paul used the iron blade of the shovel as a hammer to pound the crude wooden cross Jessie had nailed together into the ground at the head of the double grave. He’d piled some rocks atop the mound to keep the predators away from the men’s remains. Once it was in place, he took a step back and lay the shovel across the grave. He took his hat in his hands and nodded for her to start.
“Lord,” Jessie bowed her head and began. “We don’t know who these fellas was, but we figure that You sure as he --… that You do. I couldn’t tell You what sorta men they was, but I guess You know that, too. All they wanted was a chance t’make a home out here. Give ‘em the benefit of the doubt, please, and let ‘em find a home up there with You in Heaven.” She took a breath and added, “And, if you would, help Paul ‘n’ me find our own way home, too, back t’Eerie. Amen.”
“Amen.” Paul put his hat back on and looked down at the grave, examining Jessie’s handiwork.
After she’d nailed the boards together to form the cross, she’d used her hunting knife to carve on it.
` ? and ?
` RIP
“Let’s get moving,” he said, walking over to where his cowpony was tied to a nearby tree. “I know there’re probably no Apache around, but I’d just as soon put some distance between here and us. But before we get started…” He reached into a saddlebag and took out a box of cartridges. “Jess, take one of these and put it in your shirt pocket.”
“Why?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He put a bullet in his own pocket and returned the box to his saddlebag. “These Apaches are mean, Jess. they like to ‘play’ with their victims before they kill them, and what they’d do to a woman like you…” His face was grim. “I don’t want to even think about it.”
“You really think…”
He nodded, still very serious. “That second man we buried, I’m not sure he was dead when the fire reached him. If we get caught by those Apaches, and it comes down to that last bullet…” He hesitated for a moment. “Use it… use it on… yourself. You’ll save yourself a whole lot of pain.” He climbed up onto his cowpony.
Jessie shivered, and then she joined him, mounting her own horse. She glanced up at the sun. “How far you figure t’ride before we stop for the night?”
“To tell the truth... I’m not sure that stopping anywhere tonight would be a good idea. I’d rather use the time to get more miles under us. We can hold up somewhere and rest some tomorrow.”
* * * * *
Thursday, June 20
They rode slowly past a stand of saguaro cacti, some of them almost fifty feet tall, with multiple arms. Jessie lagged a bit behind Paul, staring at the two to three inch long, bright red fruit growing on most of the plants. “I wonder if you can eat those things,” she said, thoughtfully.
“I think so,” Paul answered, “but I don’t know how we’d get them down off the trees.”
“We could try shooting some of ‘em loose.”
Paul shook his head. “We really don’t have the ammo to spare. Besides, the sound of gun shots can travel pretty far in open country like this, and there may be people around that we don’t want to tell we’re here.”
“I see your point. They do look good, though.”
“We can stop in a while and get some food from Hanna’s basket.”
Suddenly Paul reined back his horse. “Get back, Jess,” he ordered, pulling for the horse to move backwards towards the cacti.
“What’s the matter?”
He pointed across the valley. “Look over there; maybe 100 feet down from the top of that hill.” A band of men on horseback was visible – barely – against the rocks and tall grass.
“Injuns,” she said in a half-whisper. “Apaches.”
“I think so, too. And the way they’re riding, well below the crest of the hill means that they’re trying hard not to be seen.”
She gave him a wry smile. “That sounds like a real good idea. Maybe we should try it.”
“It also might be a good idea not to stop long enough to get found. We’re close enough to Eerie, I think, to ride straight on through. No camping, just staying in one place long enough to rest the horses and get something to eat.”
“It ain’t gonna be easy, but it sounds a whole lot better than winding up like them folks back at the cabin.”
* * * * *
Saturday, June 22, 1872
“At last.” Jessie muttered, sounding a little breathless, as she and Paul approached the crude wooden sign that read “Eerie Arizona – Welcome, Friend.”
Paul nodded. “We’re not quite there yet, Jess. C’mon.”
The trail into town widened into a street with buildings on both sides. The street itself was wide enough for a loaded wagon to turn around. It was mid-afternoon on a busy Saturday, and the street was full of people. A man stepped out of Lyman’s tobacco shop. He leaned against the building and lit up one of the cigars he must just have purchased. People, men and women, were going in and coming of the Wells Fargo bank. Blackie Easton waved as he left O’Hanlan’s Feed and Grain, a bag of something thrown over his shoulder.
Jessie raised her hand in a vague sort of greeting. After the long ride she and Paul were just finishing, it was about all that she had the strength for.
“Home, sweet home,” Jessie sighed, when they reached the Saloon. They climbed down from their horses slowly, bracing themselves when their feet touched the ground.
Paul took the reins from Jessie’s hands. “You go on in. I’ll tie up the horses.”
“Okay.” She stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and pushed her way through the Saloon’s batwing doors. “Anybody home?” she called out.
Molly ran out from behind the bar and hurried over to the doors where the young woman was standing. “Jessie! What happened to ye? I’ve – Shamus ‘n’ I -- have been worried sick.”
“Sorry if we worried you, Molly,” Paul said, coming into the Saloon and walking over to Jessie. He, put his arm around the singer's waist, pulled her close, and kissed her cheek. “We were kinda busy.”
Jessie giggled at the kiss. They’d been far too hurried the last few days for any such displays of affection. “We surely was that.” Then, not wanting to give Molly the wrong idea, she added, “And it wasn’t all fun ‘n’ games, neither.” Her voice grew serious. “Some of was more like… life ‘n’ death.”
“Well, ye’re back here, safe ‘n’sound,” Molly said, trying to sound reassuring. “And ye’ve plenty o’time t’be telling us all about what happened to ye.”
A small crowd, the curious patrons of the Saloon, was gathering around Paul and Jessie. They all wanted to hear where the pair of them had been. Jessie shook her head. “Right now…” She tried – and failed -- to stifle a yawn. “Right now, all I want t’do is t’crawl into a real bed and sleep for about twenty years.”
“Don’t ye want t’be eating something first?” Shamus asked, pushing his way through the crowd. “Maggie ‘n’ Jane’re just about ready to open the restaurant, but I’m sure they can be getting something ready for ye quick enough.”
Paul shook his head. “Shamus, we’ve been riding for days and days, and we are bone tired. All we want now is bed – and sleep.” He yawned. “We’ll eat and tell everybody what happened later. Okay?”
“Ye’d better.” Molly could see how close to exhaustion they both were. “Yuir room’s waiting, all clean and ready. Here’s yuir key.” She held out a large brass key, one that she’d been carrying for several days, hoping for Jessie and Paul’s return.
Jessie took the key and put it – temporarily -- into the pocket of her jeans. “Thanks, Molly.” She draped her arm around Paul’s shoulders. “Let’s go.”
“One last thing,” Paul said. “Shamus, our horses are out front, as tired as we are. Can you get somebody to take them over to Ritter’s Livery? Ask them to brush the horses down and give them something – something good – to eat.”
Shamus nodded. “Consider it done.” He paused. “Now ye’d best be getting upstairs whilst ye’ve the strength t’do it.”
“See you later.” The two of them moved towards the steps. “See you all later,” Paul called out to no one in particular, as they started up to the second floor.
Molly watched them climb the steps. They seemed to be leaning on each other as they went, going one step at a time. “Oh. Lordy, I been worried sick about them two, imagining all sorts o’terrible things happening, and now I’m thinking that whatever did happen may’ve been even worse than what I was imagining.”
“We’ll be finding out soon enough, Molly, me Love,” Shamus said.
He walked over to where Carl Osbourne was sitting, holding hands with his new wife, Flora. “I hate t’be interrupting ye two, but Paul asked me t’be taking care o’their horses. Carl, ye know more about such things than I do, and Paul’s horse probably knows ye from yuir working with Paul out at Slocum’s ranch. Would ye mind doing that for me?”
“I suppose.” He kissed Flora, a short kiss but a meaningful one. “You gonna be here when I come back?” he asked in a teasing voice.
She smiled. “I will if you kiss me like that when you do come back.”
“I think I can manage that.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and started for the door.
* * * * *
The End
Kidnapped
By Ellie Dauber © 2003
I’m posting this now because that kidnapping of the three women in Cleveland is in the news.
For Bart Kabakjian, being kidnapped by religious fanatics wasn’t bad. His kidnappers had the Medallion of Zulo, and they were grieving over their daughter.
Kidnapped
By Ellie Dauber © 2003
I guess I should start at the beginning.
My name is -- was Bart Kabakjian, but everybody called me "Brick." Partly it was because of my bright red hair -- which I still have, see. Only now, it's glossier and a whole lot longer. Anyway, they also called me "Brick" because I was the best defensive lineman in the Lakeland District High School Conference, the best anybody'd seen in years, and a lot of folks said that I was a shoo-in for All-State, even if I was only five-seven. When I planted myself, nobody, and I mean nobody got by me.
Yeah, I know I don't look much like a defensive lineman now. Besides, Lakeland's not even in this state. Well, there's a long, sad story behind that.
* * * * *
It was a rainy Sunday afternoon, and I was killing time with some buddies in the game arcade at one of the local malls. We'd been there for a couple of hours, when the super sized Coke that I'd drunk with my lunch hit me, and I went to take a whizz.
I was almost to the john, when this guy steps in my way. He was a big guy, maybe six-six, and he looked like he worked out pretty regular. He was in his thirties, with long, dingy brown hair, and he was wearing something like a brown bathrobe over this long white tunic that came down almost to the ground.
Anyway, this guy grabs me by the shoulders and says, "Ishtar, is that you my daughter?"
"Do I look like a daughter?" I asked, shaking him off. I was wearing a muscle shirt and a pair of jeans that showed off my "package" pretty good. Hey, you never know when you're gonna run into some hot babe. I liked to be ready.
So this guy says that his Ishtar had disappeared a few weeks ago, but the signs -- whatever the hell they were -- had said that she'd return in some new form. Since my hair was the same bright red as hers, he figured that I was her. "You're crazy," I said and started walked away.
He followed me -- followed me right into the john. That made me nervous. He could be some kind of fag for all I knew. I could block anybody, but I wasn't much of a brawler. He was a foot taller and much heavier -- and a lot of that looked like muscle. I didn't think that I could take him in any sort of fair fight.
I decided not to fight fair. I'd try and sucker punch him in the gut. Then, when he doubled over, I'd run past him. Mall security was only a couple doors down from the johns.
It was a good idea, but he had a better one. As I turned to punch him, he sprayed something in my face. Everything went black, and I felt myself falling over.
* * * * *
Next thing I knew, I was in a small, dark space getting bounced around, the trunk of somebody's car. There was no way to tell how long I'd been out, where we were, or where we were going.
Then, the spray he'd used and the bouncing got to me. My stomach churned some, and I threw up all over myself. A lot of the puke got onto the floor of the trunk, and I hoped that they'd never get the stink of it out of the car.
They drove maybe another half-hour. My stomach settled down -- I guess it was that spray stuff that got me. The bouncing got worse, though, so I guessed that we were off the main highway, on some back road. When we finally stopped, the driver didn't seem to be in any hurry to let me out. I was cramped, wearing my own puke, and I still had to whizz. Man, did I want out of there.
All of a sudden, I hear voices, the weirdo from the mall and some woman. They sounded excited, but I couldn't really tell what they were saying. I did hear that name, Ishtar, a lot.
One of them popped the lock, and the trunk swung opened. I tried to get out, but my feet were asleep. I'd have fallen, but the guy reached in and picked me up like I didn't weigh anything. He made a face, when he saw the puke all over my shirt, but he just shifted me in his arms and started walking.
The woman was wearing some sort of shapeless, green tunic. She had long, red-brown hair done up in a thick braid that hung down almost to her waist. She wasn't wearing any make-up that I could see, but she had big, dangly bracelets on each wrist and a sort of matching necklace with some kind of weird symbol, a jagged Y between two crescents and a circle above. It wasn't anything I recognized.
She was small, maybe five-three, and kind of pudgy. She shouted, "Ishtar, welcome back, daughter." The guy put me down. I was still shaky, but I could stand -- sort of. The woman gave me a bear hug that almost lifted me off the ground.
I steadied myself and pushed her away. "Look, lady, I told this guy, and I'm telling you, I'm not this Ishtar chick. I'm a Bart, Bart Ka --"
"Don't lie to your mother, girl," the guy yelled. "She's had a hard enough time since you went away."
"I told you, I'm n-- Ow!" He'd grabbed my arm and twisted it behind me.
"This is for your own good, girl." He pushed me down into a sort of squat and "duck-walked" me into their house, a ramshackle old wreck of a place.
Their front room wasn't too bad: a couple of mismatched old couches and some chairs, all facing towards a big, brick fireplace. There were paintings on the walls, creepy-looking landscapes done mostly in oranges and purples. Over the fireplace, there was a picture of the man and woman, looking a bit younger and wearing regular clothes instead of those robes. In between them -- in the picture, I mean -- was a pretty girl, maybe ten or twelve, with hair as bright a red as my own done up in pigtails.
They both saw me looking at the picture. "She remembers; she remembers," the woman said happily.
"Which will make her true return that much easier," the man said. "Go get what we will need." The woman nodded and went into another room. The guy turned and looked at me. "Why don't you get out of those filthy clothes? They stink to high heaven."
It was the first thing he said that I agreed with. My shirt and my jeans both smelled of puke. They were starting to get sticky, too. I peeled on the shirt. "Just drop it in the floor," the guy said. I did. I kicked off my sneakers and started to take off my jeans. Just then, the woman came back in. She was carrying a pile of clothes and stuff. I grabbed my jeans and pulled them back up.
"Modest, isn't she," the woman said. Before I could answer, she handed me this long, dark green tunic. "Put this on, if you must. Then you can remove those pants."
I tossed the thing over my head, putting my arms through the sleeve holes. It was a tight fit, but I got it on. As I pulled it down past my waist, I undid my jeans again. After I got the tunic down to my knees, which was as far as it would go, I shook my hips and felt my jeans slide down my legs. I stepped out of them and kicked them over to where my shirt was.
The woman sniffed. "Oh, Ishtar, it's so good to see you in your own clothes again."
"And soon you will be fully restored to us," the man said. He grabbed my arms and pulled them behind my back. "Now, Lira, now."
The woman put a necklace like her own around my neck. Then she opened a bottle of some weird brown gunk.
"I'm not drinking that!" I yelled.
"Drink," the man said with a laugh. "Drink the sacred oil of Asanth." He laughed again. "Do it, Lira, now."
The woman lifted the bottle and poured it out over my head. The liquid was warm and sticky and smelled really bad. As I felt the stiff dribbling down my face, she put another necklace on me. Then she poured some more of that stuff into my chest.
"Let it begin, oh, Gaia," they both said. "Let the magic restore our daughter to us."
All of a sudden, my body began to tingle like crazy. I felt my hair flow down over my ears, past my shoulders, and on down my back. The tunic began to get looser.
"It's happening," the man said. "Praise Gaia." He let go of my arms.
I looked down at my body. I was a lot thinner. All those muscles I'd spent years working to build up, just sort of smoothed out and faded away. My arms were slender, graceful. My hands were much smaller, my fingers longer. So were my nails; they grew out about a half-inch and looked like they were manicured. "This is crazy," I said, and stopped. My voice was getting higher.
I felt something in my chest. Two small bulges were pushing out the front of the tunic, getting bigger until they were a pretty nice looking pair. I could feel -- I could see -- the nipples pushing against the fabric. I looked down the neckline and saw them, nice, round, and perky.
"Shit! If I've got tits, I've got..." I slapped my hand against my groin. I could barely feel the bulge of my "jewels" inside the tunic. And the bulge was getting smaller and smaller until, finally, it wasn't there at all.
I felt my waist pull in, my hips seem to stretch and get wider. The tunic hung down well below my knees by now. I lifted it a bit and looked at what was now a pair of really sweet, feminine-looking legs with just the right amount of curve to be interesting. My feet were a lot smaller, too. I think I could have gotten both of them into one of my sneakers. "I-I'm a girl," I said in disbelief.
"You are as you should be, our lost daughter, Ishtar, returned to us in the flesh, as promised by Gaia." He said it firmly, like it was written in rock or something. Now sleep and let your spirit return as well. Before I could say anything, he pulled out that spray and gave me another shot of it.
* * * * *
I don't know how long I slept this time. When I woke up, I was lying on a bed. I sat up. There were pictures of birds and flowers on the wall, and I could see a rack with two or three dresses and a couple of those tunics hanging from it. A dresser was against one wall. A drawer was open, and I saw some panties and bras.
Then I started to remember things. The green tunic was for everyday, just like the one I had on. The blue was for formal worship. There was a doll on top of the dresser, Rissie, her name was. The guy's name was Paulus. Our... their last name was ap Taffyd. "How the hell do I know this stuff?" I got off the bed. I was still wearing those stupid necklaces, but the damned oil was gone -- wiped off, seeped in, I didn't care.
I started walking towards the door. I noticed that I walked differently, more gracefully, with a swing of the hips, like I'd been doing it for years, like a girl. I stopped and shook my head. This just got crazier and crazier. Was I really this Ishtar? Was Brick Kabakjian just some crazy dream? My wallet, my ID was in my jeans. I can find out from them.
I walked out the bedroom door and back into the front room. Paulus and Lira were by the fireplace. They had a good little blaze going. When I got close, I saw what was left of my jeans in the heart of the flames. Paulus looked up and saw me. "We have no need of that false life now, daughter." He was smiling. So was Lira. Not a nasty smile, more like relieved, like some bad time was over. For them, I guess it was.
* * * * *
"Grass," I muttered, "nothing but dammed grass." I'd snuck out of the house in the middle of the night and followed the road that head away from it. I'd been walking for over an hour, and it was just this narrow dirt road between fields of what looked like overgrown grass, "wheat, half-grown and starting to form kernels," a weird memory popped into my head.
I froze when I heard the rumble of a car's engine. I looked quickly in both directions, but there was no sign of lights. I didn't want to take a chance, so I ran for the hay. Paulus came around a curve in the road just in time to see me running. He'd been driving without lights, so as not to give me a warning. He stopped the car and ran after me.
I made it to the hay and ran in. He came after me. He knew how to run in the thick strands of it. I didn't. He grabbed an arm and held. I twisted and turned but I couldn't break free. "Papa, you're hurting me," I screamed. Papa? I stopped trying to break free. Why did I say that?
"Your spirit grows stronger, Ishtar." He wrapped an arm around my waist and carried me back to the car like a sack of potatoes. "You don't remember it yet, but our fields go on for a half score of miles. When we get home, I'll just take those sandals of yours. That should keep you from trying to leave us again."
* * * * *
"Why did you do this to me, Lira?" I asked. It was two or three days later. We were cooking dinner. Paulus -- I worked very hard at not calling him Papa -- said that he expected me to help with the chores if I wanted to eat.
"Because you are our daughter. You left us, and we missed you so very much."
"But I'm not her. I know you think I am, and you used some kind of magic to make me look like her, but I'm not her. Please, change me back. I won't tell anyone, I swear by Gaia..." Another slip. Brick didn't know anything about Gaia, but Ishtar did.
Lira just smiled and kept on chopping vegetables for the stew. We were... they were vegetarians. Gaia didn't want her children eating each other, so she created plants that would sustain us. And there I went, sounding like them again.
"It's a quarter moon tonight," Lira said finally. "We'll have a prayer session after supper." She began to hum some tune I'd never heard before.
And I began to hum it along with her.
* * * * *
"Mama," I screamed. I'd been sweeping in the kitchen, when I suddenly felt something odd between my legs. Nobody was around, so I just lifted my tunic and felt down there, inside my panties. When I looked at my hand, there was something red and sticky on my fingers, blood. "Mama!"
Lira came running in from the yard. "That's the first time you..." She stopped and saw the look on my face. Then she saw my hand and chuckled. "Still say you're a boy, Ishtar? A boy doesn't have a time a month when he bleeds, but a girl does." She took my hand. "Since you still don't remember how, I'll show you how to take care of it."
As we walked to the bathroom, I vaguely remembered that this had happened to me before.
* * * * *
We were in the yard, tending to Mama's herb garden, bedding it down for the winter. I still remembered being Brick, but it seemed so long ago, like something from a story. I walked and talked like Ishtar. I'd had a period like any other girl. When I dreamed about boys, I wasn't one of them; I was the girl they were with. For the love of Gaia, how could I have ever imagined that I was really a boy?
I must have sighed out loud.
"Troubled my daughter?" Papa asked.
"Just remembering something from a dream," I said.
"Only a dream?" Mama asked.
"Maybe it was more once, Mama, but it seems like a dream now."
Mama smiled and gave me a big hug. "She is back with us now, Paulus, back forever and ever."
Papa smiled and joined in what became a wonderful group hug.
I was home.
* * * * *
One of the things we didn't have on the farm was milk. Papa drove to a store someplace every few days for milk, coffee, and other things that he or Mama needed. After a long while, they decided that I could go along if my chores were done. Hanson's General Store wasn't very big, but it seemed to have everything we needed.
"Here's half of the list," Papa said, handing me a slip of paper. "I'll meet you by the counter."
I took a small basket and started off. I was looking for teas -- Mama loved Irish breakfast tea -- when I saw him. It was a boy, about seventeen, a tall, skinny guy wearing a store apron and stocking shelves with cans of peaches. He stopped when he saw me. "Well, hello there, missy, can I help you?"
I suddenly felt like I was naked. I blushed and looked down. "No, th- thank you," I said quietly as I hurried past him.
Papa was standing at the end of the aisle. "You handled that very well, Ishtar." He had an odd look on his face, happy, like I'd just passed some kind of test or something. I went to get the rest of the things on my list.
The last item was milk. I opened the cooler that it was kept in. There were pictures on some of the cartons. One looked familiar. I lifted out the carton for a better look. It was me, the old me who never really existed. "Bart Kabakjian," the writing under the picture said. "Age 16. Last seen, March 7, 2002."
My head began to spin. I started to remember things about Brick. Things I'd wanted to forget because they made him seem real and I knew he wasn't: the time he almost drowned when he tried to swim across Lake Callaway, the joy of making first string junior varsity in his seventh grade, what his -- my? -- parents looked like, his big sister, Mary, who was away at college. "He was real," I said in a whisper. "He's... and I'm... I'm him."
They'd done something to me. The magic that changed me somehow gave me enough of Ishtar's memories to confuse me. They just added to that confusion until I started to believe it was real. Should I run or report them? No, I decided. I'd play along. I still knew how to act like Ishtar. I'd find out how they did it, and change back. Then I'd bust them.
I put the milk carton back, no sense giving things away. I took another that had a picture of some girl I'd never seen on it. I hoped she was in better shape than I was. Then I got the rest of the things we needed, butter, orange juice, and some flour. Mama was going to bake biscuits.
* * * * *
That night, I had an idea. If I had some of Ishtar's memories, maybe I could remember what had happened to her. I closed my eyes and concentrated. I remembered coughing, being very sick. I heard the word "carcinoma." Mama cried, but Papa said that he had faith that Gaia heal me, that she wouldn't let me die.
Somehow, I knew he'd been wrong.
I felt sorry for them, but not sorry enough that I wanted to stay with them.
* * * * *
It was Samhain, the fall harvest holiday. Papa said that spirits wandered on this night, and we had to be careful. "They're looking for a weak soul whose body they can steal," he said. "Then that person's true soul wanders lost through the world of dreams."
"But you could bring it back, couldn't you, Papa?" I asked. "Just like you brought me back."
"There are ways," Papa said, "but there are risks. The one who tries may become lost, even if the magics he uses are powerful ones." He patted the Book of Thoth and Ja-Thoth, the book we -- they -- had for a bible in their faith.
"Amen," I said. Mama and he both said it, too.
After they went to bed, I snuck out and got the Book from where Papa kept it. I read it through, cover to cover, over the next few nights. It had a lot of crazy stuff in it, even a few restorative spells, but nothing that even vaguely sounded like it would work real magic. They just sounded like somebody playing at doing magic tricks.
It had to be something else, but what?
I didn't think I was going to have time to look for it. The night I was finishing reading the Book, the light suddenly went on in Mama and Papa's room. "Who's out there," he yelled. "I've got a rifle in here."
I shut the Book and put it back in its place. "Just me," I called, trying not to sound scared. "I-I just wanted to get... to get a little slice of apple pie." Mama and I had baked the pie that day. She let me do most of the work, and it had turned out pretty good, if I say so myself.
Papa laughed. "Girl, you're gonna swell up like a watermelon, if you keep sneaking out to eat in the middle of the night." Mama must have said something because then he added, "But since it is your first pie, I guess you're entitled to an extra piece. Just leave some for your Mama and me." The light went out in their room.
"I will," I said. I took a breath, my first one since their light had gone on. Then, just to be sure, and because it was good pie, I went into the kitchen and had a slice.
* * * * *
A few days later, Papa and I went back to Hanson's. As we walked in, I noticed a state police cruiser parked in front. A tall cop was standing by the counter, drinking some coffee from the pot Mr. Hanson always had going. Papa gave me half the list again. Milk was the first item. I went and got a carton. Then, just as I got near the cop, I pretended to trip. I fell, landing on the carton. Papa ran over. "What happened to you?"
"Don't hit me again, sir, please don't." I screamed at Papa, trying to sound like I was terrified of him. I curled up in a ball there on the floor.
"Don't be silly, girl." Papa knelt and put his arm around me, so he could lift me up.
I screamed, even louder than before. "No, please, no, don't touch me there. I'm... I'm a good girl, please."
Everyone in the store was looking at us now. The cop put his coffee cup down on the counter. "Sir, could you stand away from the young lady, please?" He sounded polite but very concerned.
"The girl's just playing a game, officer," he insisted, but he did step back. "Ishtar, daughter, what are you doing?"
"I'm not your daughter," I screamed. I was actually beginning to feel a little hysterical at this point. "I'm not; I'm not."
A second cop joined the first. "Why don't we all go down to the station house and settle this. I'll radio it in." He walked outside. When he came back a few minutes later, he asked Papa. "Where's your car, sir?"
"The black Chevy out front, why?"
"I'll just drive the young lady in that, sir, and you'll go in the back of the cruiser if you don't mind."
"We will speak of this later, Ishtar," Papa said, glaring at me. Then he realized how it must look. "My daughter is given to pranks, officers. You mustn't take her serious."
"We take any accusation of child abuse very seriously, sir. If she's lying, we'll be more than happy to release her. If not..." He stuck out his hand. "May I have your keys, sir?"
* * * * *
"Tell me the story again, Ishtar." The police lieutenant sat looking at me. She was a tall, slightly plump woman, with just a bit of gray in her dark brown hair. A short man in a gray suit sat next to her. He was Dr. Reese, a child psychologist that they'd called in after they heard my story the first time.
"My name is Bart Kabakjian. I'm seventeen. I played football for the Curryville Wolverines. Mama and Papa -- Mr. and Mrs. ap Taffyd kidnapped me back in March. They used some kind of magic to change me into a girl and make me think I was their daughter, Ishtar. I only just came out of whatever spell they had me under. I want to get changed back, and I want to go home."
"Home," Dr. Reese said. "That would be the house you claim to have in... Curryville. I suppose it's a nice, big ranch house, much nicer than that place the ap Taffyds live in."
"It's an apartment, if you have to know," I said. "Why are you worrying about stuff like that? It's 344 Clifton Street; we live on the ninth floor. We moved there from a smaller place when I was six or seven."
"And your -- Bart's parents are..." The lieutenant asked. Her name badge said "Tayune," but she said to call her Jo."
"Jack and Carla Kabakjian. Before you ask, I have an older sister, Mary. She's away at State College now, engineering major. Anything else?"
Dr. Reese looked at a slip of paper. "Podestra... n'luthto... e... ah... fervina..."
The words sounded sort of familiar. "That's some kind of prayer, I think. It sounds a little like what Mama... Mrs. ap Taffyd says sometimes."
"What was the final score in the Curryville-Meade Run football game last year?" Dr. Reese asked.
I had to smile at the memory. "Eighteen... thirteen, Curryville. We were down by one, and they had the ball, about a minute left to play. I hit their man just right, and the ball pops out of his hands. Roger Schiarlotti catches it and gets about ten yards before they bring him down. We switch teams, and on the next play, Jerry Atwood throws a beautiful pass to Mort Kessler. Mort catches it on the twenty-three and runs it in to score. We missed the extra point, but it was enough."
"Satisfied?" Jo asked.
"Yeah," Dr. Reese said, "except it's physically impossible." He threw up his hands as if in surrender. "You can't just do some mumbo-jumbo and change a boy into a girl."
"They did," I said. "They put me in her clothes and jewelry, poured some weird oil over my head and -- ZAP! -- hello, Ishtar. I was a girl."
The two looked at each other for a moment. "Describe the jewelry," Jo said. It sounded like it was important.
"Umm, a necklace with the symbols of Thoth, Ja-Thoth, and Gaia on it." I picked up a pencil and drew a picture. "Oh, yeah, and a second one with a little angel -- what do they call them? -- a cherub, like a little cupid, on it."
"Do they still have that necklace?" Dr. Reese asked.
"I-I don't know. Why?"
It turned out that the necklace with the cherub was magic; something called the Medallion of Zulo. The thing even has a few dozen web sites, but they mostly treat it like some urban myth. Jo and Dr. Reese didn't think it was a myth. Neither did the ap Taffyds. When Paulus said that they'd had a sign, he meant that they'd found the Medallion and discovered what it could do.
The real Ishtar had died of some kind of bone cancer that kids get. It showed up about a year ago, and she had died only three months later. They'd buried her in secret and grieved till they were just about out of their minds. Ishtar was home-schooled, so nobody had missed her.
When the Medallion touched me and Ishtar's robe, it turned me into her double, fingerprints and all. It seemed that if a person wore the Medallion for a long time after they changed, they got the some of the memories and such of the person they'd changed into. After Paulus knocked me out with that spray, I had worn it for almost six hours. No wonder I walked and acted like her.
I'd have gotten her cancer, too, when I changed, but they had buried her in her good robes. The robe that they'd put me in was one that she hadn't worn for about six months before she died, before she had gotten sick.
My problem was that the Medallion had a knack for disappearing. They'd hidden it in one of the outbuildings on the farm, but when Paulus happened to check about a week later, it was gone. Nothing else was missing. It either vanished by itself, or somebody had come specifically for it.
Either way, I was stuck with Ishtar's body.
But I was Bart Kabakjian again.
My parents, my real parents were so happy to have me back; they didn't care what I looked like. Mary warned me not to be taking clothes from her room, while she was away at school. Then she gave me a big hug and offered to take me shopping that afternoon.
I went. I certainly needed to. Those clothes that I wore as Ishtar were terrible, so plain, and they didn't fit very well, and I -- yep, I knew who I was, but I was still a girl. I loved shopping and pretty clothes and all that stuff.
One thing that bothered me was how my friends were going to react. And how I was going to react to them. I had hung out with a bunch of pretty macho guys. Now, I was just the sort of hot babe that they liked to chase. And I found myself starting to get a little tingly when I thought about them.
Mom and Dad understood. Dad put in for a transfer to a site his company had in another state. Mom quit her job. It turned out that the ap Taffyds lived the way they did, because of their religion, not because they were poor. They had a good bit of money, and they were willing to spend some on me, if it would help keep them out of jail.
It did. They're on parole and in some sort of grief counseling. I honestly hope that the counseling can help.
My old school cooperated, too. They doctored my records, so it looks like I've always been Esther Kabakjian. We told everybody that I lost part of a year being sick, so I have to do my junior year over. That's because Ishtar was a year younger than Bart was. I'll never play defensive line again, but I have Ishtar's suppleness and grace. I've taken up acrobatic dancing, and I've become one of the cheerleaders at my new school. We're being touted for the statewide championship this year.
Somebody asked me if it's better being a boy or a girl. One's not better than the other, I've decided, they're just a whole lot different.
The End
Last Full Measure
By Ellie Dauber © 2010
This is another story of Jakov Pauli, an assassin who specializes in identity death.
* * * * *
For the third time, Mike Ryan stared up from his booth at the clock on the wall of the diner. “14:33 hours,” he mumbled under his breath. “He’s late.”
“In point of fact,” a voice said, “that clock is five minutes fast. I am early.”
Mike spun around. A tall, slender man — about 40, Mike guessed — stood looking down at him. “Are you Pauli?” Mike asked.
“I am Jakov Pauli,” the other replied. “And you, I would assume are Sergeant Michael Ryan.”
“Mike’s good enough,” he said with a heavy sigh, “‘specially when I’m sitting here in civvies.”
Pauli glanced down at the man. ‘Almost civvies,’ he thought. The other man wore a gray “Property of the U.S. Army” T-shirt under an opened pale green “Hawaiian” shirt that was covered with a swarm of bright blue and yellow flowers. Aloud, he answered, “Mike then, may I join you?”
“Please.” He gestured at the chair on the other side of the table. As the man sat, Mike studied him. He had a narrow face, with an aquiline nose and jet black hair combed straight back. His dark grey suit was well-tailored and looked to have cost more than a couple months’ of a soldier’s pay.
The waitress, a plump, gray-haired woman in a blue uniform set an empty cup down in front of Pauli. “Coffee, dear?” she asked in a motherly tone.
“Yes,” he looked up at her with a smile. “Thank you.”
She filled the cup with a pot she was holding. “Menu’s right there.” She pointed at two yellow cards in a rack attached to the napkin holder. “You boys just let me know when you’re ready to order.”
“Sure thing, Roz,” Ryan answered. He waited while she walked back from their booth at the back of the eatery and taken a seat at the long lunch counter before speaking. “I know it’s a little late for lunch, but you really should try their pie. Ira, he’s the cook, bakes it fresh every morning.” He paused a beat. “When I was… in country, sometimes, I’d-I’d spend hours thinking about… thinking about a slice of Ira’s apple pie, piping hot and with a scoop of vanilla — Mr. Pauli, I understand that you kill people for a living.”
“I do — in a way.” He spoke casually with no surprise at the abrupt change of subject or the nature of the question. “I prefer to say that I remove obstacles.” He looked into Mike Ryan’s eyes as if he already knew the answer to what he was about to ask. “Whom did you wish me to… remove?”
“Me. I want you to kill me… please.”
“Might I ask why?”
“You’re a professional, aren’t you?” Mike waited until Pauli nodded before he continued. “I’ll pay you to kill me, what more do you need than that?”
“Normally, that would be enough, but, in this instance, I must admit to some curiosity.”
“And if I don’t tell you?”
“Then I shall leave, without removing you, without even having that slice of pie you recommended.”
“I’ll just get somebody else to do it. Hell, I could just as easily do it myself.”
“Then why don’t you. You’re in the military. You suggested that you’d even been in combat, so you most certainly are familiar with weapons. That being the case, why do you feel the need to hire my services?”
“Because… because however much I want to die, I — my father, my family, they just wouldn’t understand. It would destroy them if they thought I-I couldn’t take it, that I went psycho and offed myself.”
“Are you certain that you want to die? The regard you show for your family is more what I should expect of a man who wants to live.”
“That’s just it. I do want to live. I-I just can’t live with myself.”
“Iraq… Afghanistan,” he continued. “I’ve been over there three times, I just got called back again. I leave in two weeks.” He looked down at the table and shook his head. “I can’t do it, lead men into combat. Have them depend on me for their very lives.” He sighed. “I’ve seen men die, Mr. Pauli, not just the enemy — friends.”
“The last time… we were on patrol north of Kabul. Frank Antonelli and a new guy were in the first vehicle — Frank was driving. It… hit a mine. The new guy was lucky; he just lost his right leg from the knee down. Frank — when I got to him, he was sitting up against the side of a house, trying to.” Ryan made a sound that was almost a sob. “He was trying to shove his guts back into what was left of his belly. He looked up at me and said, ‘damn, I almost made it.’ Then he just closed his eyes and… and died.”
“I trained with Frank; we were best friends, in the same unit for two years. We had each other’s back in combat more times than I can count, and each time we got out alive, we got stinking drunk together to celebrate. And…” He gave a deep sigh. “…ten days — ten fucking days — before we were due to be rotated out of that hellhole, he buys it. I-I can’t go back to that.” Now he was sobbing. “I just can’t. And I can’t live with myself for being too much of a damned coward to want to not go back.”
Ryan looked up at Pauli, his eyes still glistening with tears. “Does that answer your shit-assed question?”
“It does.” He put his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “You are hardly a coward for what you are feeling.”
“Then you’ll do it, you’ll kill me?”
“Not exactly.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I do not kill people. I… remove them. I have — my family has — a talent for altering reality. You will not die. Michael Ryan will not have been born. You will have always lived some other life.”
“Mr. Pauli, if it’s possible, you’re crazier than I am.”
“I do not believe you are crazy, Mr. Ryan… Mike, you are just very troubled by the horrors of what you have lived through.”
“Assuming that you aren’t crazy, that what you said is true, will I — will I remember?”
“No, and no one else, save myself will remember you.”
Mike sighed. “Well, there’s a mercy in that.” He reached into the pocket of his “Hawaiian” shirt and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “What about this?” He handed it to Pauli.
“Your check?” Pauli looked at the paper, a certified check for the amount he had mentioned when the two men had talked by phone to set up the meeting. “It will be attended to, I assure you.” He took what looked like a silver cigarette case from an inside pocket of his jacket, put the check in it, and put it back in his pocket.
Ryan sat up straight. “Do it; do it right now.”
“I shall, but, first, there is one additional fact that I feel ethically bound to tell you. The new — the alternative life — that you will be reborn into, it will be as a female.”
“A broad, why the hell is that?”
“I do not know the reason. A gender change is always part of the process. Man to woman, woman to man, it is just a fact of the transformation.”
“What the hell.” He shrugged. “I screwed up my life as a man. Maybe I’ll do better as a girl. Go ahead. Give me your best shot.”
Pauli took a thin, foot-long rod from inside his jacket. It seemed to be made of the same silvery metal as the case he’d just put the check in. He pointed it at Mike and spoke a few words. He spoke in a low voice, and, close as Mike was, he couldn’t make out a word or even be sure of what language the other man had spoken.
“Is that it?” Mike asked.
Ryan nodded. “Subtlety is very much a part of the magic.”
Mike was about to speak when the room filled with an odd gray light. He stared wide-eyed as he — and everyone else in the room — froze in place. Mike blinked, still aware of what was happening. He wondered if Roz and that other, blonde waitress behind the lunch counter knew that their reality was changing over in a corner of the room.
“And so it begins,” Pauli said. He never knew who or what a subject — he _never_ thought of them as victim — would become. He did hope that Mike Ryan’s new life would be a pleasant one.
As he watched, the man began to shrink. Pauli had judged him as being just over six foot tall when they’d met. Now, he was no more than five foot six. He was thinner, as well. The well-developed muscles of an active, male warrior melted away, leaving a slender form that was almost lost in a much bigger man’s clothing.
Mike felt a tingling, like a mild shock run through him. He could feel his sandy-brown hair growing out from the short, military cut he’d worn for so very long, down over his ears, down the back of his neck, and further yet. He didn’t know it, but it had darkened to a coppery brown with blonde highlights
His chest itched. ‘My new breasts,’ he told himself. Then he shivered as a gust of air brushed against his legs. He had known that he was getting smaller, as he watched the perspective of the room shift. ‘I must be tiny, now, if my pants fall down.’
His exposed legs developed a delightful, very feminine set of curves, as his waist narrowed, and his butt grew out. The breasts that he had felt grew larger, plums to delightful C-cup melons with large, dark nipples the size of half dollars. His smaller, now soft hands had longer, more slender fingers with well-shaped half-inch long nails.
There was a sudden lurch, and they were now seated on two stools a few feet apart at the lunch counter. Ryan’s pants and shoes were back at the booth, and his now oversized socks dangled on his tiny feet. ‘Interesting,’ Pauli thought. ‘Apparently, I am still a part of her new reality.’
The grayness diminished, but it was still there. Mike found that he could move again. “Am I…” A hand shot down to grope his groin. “Gone!” he muttered, as a finger discovered the feminine slit where his manhood had been.
“I’m a girl now, Mr. Pauli, but I’m still Mike Ryan. What went wrong?”
“Nothing,” the slender man answered. “The transformation is far from completed.”
Mike felt his — her — clothes shifting. Her shirt grew downward, almost to her knees. As the dress it had become tightened to fit her new curves, the colors muted into a forest green with a few yellow flowers. The bottom of her Army T-shirt, now hidden under the dress, moved up to just below her breasts. What was left tightened around those breasts, while the sleeves vanished and the collar widened. In a moment, only the thin strap of a bra stretched over her shoulders. The gray cotton of the T-shirt changed to a silky, pale green nylon. At the same time, her boxers tightened around her hips and ass to become a matching panty.
The tops of her socks slid slowly up her legs. The material became more sheer as it moved, until the two pieces met and merged at her waist to become a pair of pantyhose. The part of the hose covering each foot split into two parts. The inner became sheer hose, while the outer part hardened. A piece grew out from each heel, and, in a moment, she wore a pair of shoes the same green as her dress, with a two-inch heel.
“Unbe-fucking-lievable.” Ryan exclaimed. Them the same magic moved her down to the end of the counter, well away from Pauli. She shook her head in surprise. “And I’m still… still me.” For some reason, her eyes filled with tears. “What’s the matter with me?” she moaned. She felt dizzy, but, she knew, all of a sudden, that it was understandable.
The last of the grayness disappeared. The younger waitress, the one behind the lunch counter, came over to where Pauli was now sitting. “You ready to order, hon?”
“In a minute,” he answered, then pointed to the woman Ryan had become. “That young woman over there, she seems very upset about something. Do you know why?” He thought he might as well explore this new reality his magic had created.
The waitress nodded. “I do, but I don’t know if I should say anything; you being a stranger and all.”
“Please do; perhaps I can be of some assistance.”
Roz had been close enough to overhear. “Oh, go ahead and tell him, Mandy. It’s not like it’s anything she should be ashamed of. Besides, just about everybody else knows.”
“Oh, all right.” She leaned in towards Pauli and began to speak in a low voice. “Her name’s Shelly, Shelly Ryan. She was a sergeant over in Afghanistan, but the Army sent her home when she got pregnant. Her and her fiancé, Tony — the guy that got her pregnant, was supposed to get married when he came home, but he got killed by a mine or something about two weeks before he was set to leave. She’s living with her folks, now, but her dad got cut back to part time, and she can’t get a job. The Army isn’t helping much, so there ain’t a whole lot of money for her or the baby.”
Pauli stood up. “Thank you, Mandy.” He picked up his half-filled coffee cup and walked over to the girl. As he approached he could see that she was now about six months pregnant. “Excuse me, Ms. Ryan,” he said softly. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
Shelly looked up from the counter she’d been staring at. “I-I guess, what do you want?”
“A… ah, a former client of mine, a friend of your late fiancé --”
“He knew Frank? Was he someone in Frank’s outfit?”
“I really cannot say. In any event, you would not recognize his name. He was, however, a very close friend of Frank Antonelli.” He reached into his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve done this for years,’ he thought, ‘and the magic still surprises me.’ He took out the small, silver case, opened it, and handed her the paper that was still inside. “My client would want you to have this.”
She took the paper and opened it. “This is a check,” she said, her eyes wide. “And for so much, why?”
“For you, and for the baby you are so obviously carrying, to pay for some of the things you will both need.” He sighed and told himself that a bit of pro bono work once in a while wasn’t that bad an idea.
She looked at the check again, then at Pauli. “Gringotts, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that bank.”
“It is a very real bank, I assure you, very old and very well established, with a rather specialized clientele.”
She looked at the check again, her eyes glistening, but a smile on her lips. “This will help so much. I-I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary — really.”
“Please, I can certainly afford it now.”
“Very well, you can buy me a slice of apple pie. I’ve been given to understand that it is rather good — especially when topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
“Amazing, that’s just the way I like it. We’ll each have some pie. And we’ll eat it in honor of the wonderful man, whoever he is, who gave me a way to get on with my life.”
“An excellent idea and one that I am quite certain he would have liked.”
The End
* * * * *
I got the idea for this story while watching the new HBO documentary about the history of shell shock/combat fatigue/post traumatic stress disorder last Thursday. Veterans’ Day should be a celebration of American’s veterans and what they’ve accomplished and what they’ve sacrificed on our behalf, not a discussion of what the stress of war has done to them and of how poorly they — and all of us — have been at handling it. I’m proud to be the child of two veterans. My father was in the Army Signal Corps, and my mother served as an Army nurse. This story is dedicated, belatedly, to them and to all their fellow veterans and to all of those currently serving who, I sincerely hope, will all live to become the healthy, honored, and successful veterans they deserve to be.
The Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America (IAVA) and the USO are two real organizations that run all manner of support programs for those now serving and those who have served in the wars in those two countries and their families. The IAVA website is www.iava.org, and the USO may be found at www.uso.org.
MAU: On Golden Pond
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2001
When Norman Thayer, retired college professor, finds an MAU, he and his wife give it a challenge to see what all it can do to them and for them.
MAU: On Golden Pond
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2001
FYI, this story is based on the Henry Fonda/Katherine Hepburn version of the story, rather than the more recent one with Julie Andrews.
* * * * *
"It's a long story," Edith Thayer said. "As I remember, I was fixing lunch when it began."
* * * * *
"Norman, lunch is ready." Edith Thayer put the tray down on the table and looked around for her husband. There was no sign of him. She called up to the bedroom and, when there was no answer, walked out onto the cabin porch.
It was lovely May afternoon, the sun peeping through a few low clouds. It had been in the high 50s when she and Norman woke up. Now the big thermometer mounted on the wall said that it was almost 80. A slight breeze kept things from getting too hot.
Edith patted at an errant curl come loose from the bun she wore her hair in these days. She was a tall slender woman in her mid 70s, but with more than a trace of youthful beauty. Her hair was almost white, but there were still a few brown-gray embers of the fiery red it had been.
The only trace of Norman was his new sweater tossed over the back of a lawn chair. 'He could have folded it, at least,' she thought. 'It took me two months to knit that thing.' She flexed her long, thin fingers, remembering the work that had taken up a good part of the previous winter. No arthritis yet, thank Heavens. She folded the sweater and laid it gently on the arm of the chair where Norman could find it. Then she looked around the yard, trying to guess which way he might have gone.
"Hey, Edith, look at this." She turned and saw him walking up the trail from the meadow. He was carrying something, a small box or chest that he must have found someplace. She certainly didn't recognize it. He was grinning as he walked. It was the same lopsided grin that she'd fallen in love with when they'd met over forty years before. She was a freshly minted professor of Asian history. He was a year shy of tenure in American Lit: Twain and Hemingway and Steinbeck -- especially Steinbeck. Norman always swore that Grapes of Wrath was the great American novel. He'd been her knight in shining armor back then, sweeping her off her feet and marrying her within a few months. Come to think of it, he still was.
"I found this in that little clearing near the lake." He was a bit out of breath. He set the box down on the porch, and then sat down next to it. He was a tall, angular man with thinning white hair, and his long legs dangled over the side.
Edith took a good look at his find. It was a block of seamless metal about the size of a breadbox and covered with some sort of writing she'd never seen before. "What is it," she asked. "It looks like one of those Chi'in Dynasty puzzles from the university museum."
"I don't know. I found it in a little crater with broken branches on a couple of trees." He stood and lifted it. "It feels like metal, but it's so light, it must be hollow. He moved the box around, turning it over to different sides looking for some way to open it. He pushed a spot near the writing, and the thing began to move, to grow in his hands.
"What the Devil," Norman dropped the box. It didn't bounce; it just stayed where it had landed, a few feet from where he stood. It kept growing, though, until it was the size and shape of a telephone booth. Norman walked around the thing. Three sides were blank. The fourth had what looked like a door with a purple crystal where the doorknob would be. Next to the door, there was some kind of a red crystal that looked like a three-fingered hand. Above the hand was some sort of square plate.
"Norma, you get away from that thing. It -- it's dangerous; I just know it." She backed away wringing her hands over and over.
"It's just some kind of phone booth," he said. He was hardly sure, but he wasn't about to say that in front of Edith.
"It must be from outer space," she said. "I've never heard of anything on Earth that could grow like that."
"Maybe this is what that E.T. fellow uses to phone home."
Norman's curiosity took over. He walked slowly towards the box, watching it closely in case anything happened. He stopped as he reached it and looked over to where Edith stood, still wringing her hands. If anything did happen, he wanted her to be the last thing he saw. He turned towards the machine again and grinned. "Klaatu berada nikto."
Edith couldn't help but smile. "Be careful, Norman. It may not have seen that old movie."
"Edith, this was obviously made by an obviously superior race. They must have seen THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL." He studied the device for a moment. Then, on a whim, he put his hand down on the three-fingered red crystal. "I'll bet this activates it."
The square plate lit up. Lines of symbols, the same sort that had been on the small version of the box slowly scrolled past. "Edith, could you read any of the writing that was on this thing when it was tiny?"
"Read? Norman, I was a professor of Asian history for over thirty years, and I didn't even recognize whatever those symbols were."
As she spoke, the last of the symbols passed off the screen. They were replaced by a three-dimensional image, a human figure that slowly rotated as they watched. "Will you look at that," Norman said. "It's me." Then, suddenly, the figure's clothing vanished. The figure was very realistic. "The hell with that; it's bad enough living in an 81 year-old body without being reminded how bad it looks."
Edith took his other hand. "I always thought that you had a wonderful body." She smiled, remembering long ago nights and the pleasure they had found in each other.
Norman remembered, too. "Maybe, but I'm certainly no Superman." As soon as he said it, the image changed. The face still had some of Norman's features, but now the face -- and the body -- looked much more like a cross between Christopher Reeve and Dean Caine. It was young and virile -- very virile. "He lifted his hand off the crystal, and the figure froze. "Now what?"
"Maybe this does something." Edith lightly touched the purple crystal. The door quickly and quietly slid opened. "It is a door."
"I wonder what's inside," Norman said, stepping through the opening before Edith could stop him. It was dark, especially after the mid-day sunlight. He heard a "whoosh" as the door closed. There was a flash of light, and he heard it open.
Edith had seen the door quickly close with Norman still inside. She frantically began to push the purple crystal. Nothing happened the first few times, then the door slid open. Someone -- Norman? -- staggered out, blinking his eyes in the bright sunlight.
"Norman," she asked fearfully, "is that you?"
"Who else would it be, my old dear? Something happened to me in there, though. I -- I feel great, fantastic, wonderful." He raised his arms and flexed his muscles. Edith saw the seams of his shirt beginning to give.
Edith reached into her purse and pulled out a small hand mirror. "Look at yourself."
Norman took the mirror and held it in front of his face. His mouth opened and his eyes grew wide. Then he looked at the frozen image on the side of the machine. "I -- I'm an exact match." He looked down at his arms, his body. "Edith, I'm -- I'm Superman."
"Maybe... but I think you just look like him. Try to fly or something."
Norman took two steps, then jumped into the air the way he'd seen George Reeves do all those years ago. He was airborne for about a half second before landing with a solid "Thump!" He could lift the large stone he tried next, but only because any strong young man could lift it. When he tried to lift it just one-handed, it fell, just missing his foot. He sighed. "I guess I'll have to settle for being Clark Kent."
Edith put her hand on the shoulder. "You'll always be my Superman."
He reached up and took her hand in his. "And you'll always be my... wait a minute." He walked back to the machine and placed his hand back on the red crystal. Edith came over to see what he was doing, but he deliberately blocked the screen. "Perfect," he suddenly said.
Edith tried to look over his shoulder, but, as she stood on tiptoe, Norman spun around and picked her up in his arms. "Norman, what are you doing? Your back, your bad back... "
"Feels absolutely wonderful." Norman put her inside the machine, and then leaned back as the door quickly slid shut, trapping her.
"I opened again after a moment, and she stormed out. "Norman Thayer, don't you ever do --." She stopped, seeing the way he was grinning at her. She looked down. Her breasts, larger than they had ever been, strained against the front of her blouse, and she realized how much her bra was pinching her. Her slacks felt looser at the waist, but very tight around her hips. "What did you ... give me that mirror."
He handed her the mirror, and she stared into it. There was very little of Edith Thayer left in her face -- mostly she looked like that it was -- what was her name -- Hatcher, Teri Hatcher. Her eyes looked bigger, and they were much more of a sea green. Her lips seemed to fall into a truly sexy pout. There was just one thing. "Didn't Lois Lane have dark brown hair?"
"I've always been partial to redheads," Norman grinned. "Especially to one natural redhead of my acquaintance." Edith's hair was exactly the shade of red it had been at 20, and it now hung down almost to her waist.
"You know," Edith said, "we could see our new selves a lot better in a full length mirror." Her entire body was tingling, especially her breasts and, oh my, down there in her groin. It was a feeling that she'd almost forgotten. She suddenly felt a little shy and looked down at her shoes.
"You mean the one in the bedroom?" Norman took her hand, and they sprinted for the house.
* * * * *
"Wake up, beautiful."
Edith stretched. She felt wonderful, not a twinge or pain anywhere, just a gentle warmth that flowed through her body. She smiled and opened her eyes. "Good morning, Nor-- Yah! You're not Norman!"
The man was in bed with her, a strange young man she'd never seen before. And he looked like -- no, he was naked. Oh, my, she was naked, too. She could feel the sheets against her bare skin. Then, the memories came back: the machine and what it had done to them -- and how they had celebrated that change. She blushed at the thought -- and felt her nipples begin to tighten.
Norman grinned, that same silly grin that she'd always loved. "I'm sorry if I startled you, Edith. I guess it is kind of a shock. Waking up like this and all, I mean."
"Not a shock dear. I'd call it a surprise -- a very pleasant surprise." She smiled and reached up to tenderly touch his face. "You were wonderful, as good as anything I can remember." She felt almost giddy from the feelings racing through her body.
"If I was, it was because I was inspired by my partner." He reached down and began to play with her nipple. "Of course, I might get even better... if we keep practicing."
"Oh, really." Edith felt a warmth run through her body. Something brushed against her thigh. She lifted the sheet a bit and looked down. "Well, you're certainly ready for more practice." She put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her.
Then, she happened to glance at a picture on her nightstand. "Oh, my sainted aunt," she said. "The children!"
Norman kissed her nose. "I hadn't been planning on any more children -- not at our age, but if it happens, it happens."
She playfully slapped his forehead. "No, silly. I mean our daughter, Chelsey, and Bill, her new husband, and his son, Billy. They're coming here for dinner tonight."
"All the way here from California for dinner. They must really be trying to get in my will."
"No, no. Bill's out for some sort of dentist's conference, and he brought them with him. They were going to go antiquing in the village today, and then drive out for dinner and to spend the night. They'll be leaving to catch a plane home after breakfast."
"Not a very long visit, but it'll be great to see Billy -- Chelsey, too of course. What's the problem?"
"Norman, we -- we can't let them see us like this. I -- I'd be too embarrassed. We have to change back."
"They're going to know sometime. We have to tell people about that machine. We can't possibly be so selfish as to keep it secret. Everybody will benefit, and we'll -- we'll keep these bodies as our reward."
"I know that. I just thought we could keep it for a little while, a week, maybe, just to see what all it can do." She looked at him carefully. "Norman, I think there's something else, something you're not saying."
Norman frowned. "Edith, I like being young and strong again. I'd forgotten how good it feels. I don't want to be old again."
"We can change back to these bodies after they've gone."
"And if we can't? To have been young again and then to have tossed it away looks like a... wait a minute."
"What? What is it, Norman?"
"Maybe, just maybe, we could use the machine so we look like our old -- our very old selves, but we'd still be young inside."
"Do you think that would work?"
"It's certainly worth a try. Just one thing, though. What time are they all due to get here?"
"She said to expect them about 6. Why?"
"Because it's only 3-something, now. I'm young again -- for the moment, anyway -- and I'm in bed with the woman I love." He pulled her to him and kissed her. "And... whatever happens, I want to make love to her -- slowly and deliciously, the way she always liked it... and the way she deserves."
Edith reached down and gently closed her hand around his penis. Oh, my, he certainly was ready. She felt her groin muscles loosen, her entire body tingle in anticipation. "I'm -- I'm certainly glad that you aren't Superman."
"And why is that?"
She almost purred. "Because they say that he's faster than speeding bullet."
* * * * *
"Hey, Edith, I -- I'm ready to try it. Come on out." Norman's voice drifted in from the porch. Edith looked up from the salad she was making. "I'll be right out." She'd been much too nervous to watch Norman fiddling with the machine, so she'd gone inside to work on supper.
Norman stood next to the machine. He was wearing a pair of shorts and his old sneakers, about the only clothes that still fit him. Edith sighed, looking at his muscular chest and arms. Part of her just wanted to just grab him and lead him back up to their bedroom. 'Oh, my,' she thought. 'I'm acting just like I did on our honeymoon.' She smiled at the memory.
"I think I've got it," he said. "I usually wear long pants and a long sleeve shirt or a sweater, so all I've got to change are my head and my hands."
"Not quite, dear." She patted his bare chest. "Norman Thayer is a bit skinnier than Clark Kent."
"Hmm, you're right, but that shouldn't be a problem either." He put his hand on the red crystal. The "Clark Kent" image, the way he looked right then, appeared on the screen above it. Then as Edith watched, the figure became thinner. He was still muscular, but, now, he was... wirery, more like a dancer or a track star than a wrestler or a weightlifter. There was still quite a difference between this young body and Norman Thayer’s, but clothes would hide most of it.
Then the hair changed, turning first gray, then white. It grew thinner, too, and Norman's hairline receded several inches. His features slowly shifted back to those of the elderly professor. "I think it's ready," he said. He touched the purple crystal and the door slid opened. He went inside, coming out a few moments later as a perfect match for the image on the screen.
"How do I look?" he asked.
"Very odd," Edith said, "but you've definitely got your old head back -- oh, and your neck, too. I hadn't thought about that. Oh, my, you even have that liver spot on your wrist."
"Yes, but the rest of me is still young." He gently took her hand. "Feel my stomach."
She felt it. That flabby belly of his was gone. "Hard as my old washboard," she said.
"Now feel this." He took her hand again and moved it downward, pressing it against his crotch.
She blushed -- and smiled. "Just as hard, Norman; just as hard."
"Your turn now." He touched the red crystal again, and the image changed to that of Edith as she was now. She was....
"Naked! Norman, I'm naked.!"
"Umm, sorry, my old dear. I was just remembering about this afternoon."
"It was worth remembering, but now I'm afraid that I have to turn back into a pumpkin again."
"Yes, but my pumpkin." He reached down and cupped her buttock. "Round and firm and so very sweet."
She brushed his hand away. "Thank you, dear, but we've got to think about changing me back." She looked at the image. I'm afraid that Edith Thayer is hardly as curvaceous as Lois Lane." She sighed. "Or so... top heavy."
The figure on the screen became more coltish, and her breasts shrank down from 38-DD to 34-B. "No," Edith said, sighing again. "Compared to Lois, there's not much there at all."
Norman took her hand. "Maybe not, but what's there is choice."
"Thank you for that." She kissed his cheek. "Now -- now, quickly, do my head and hands before I lose my nerve."
The figure's hair grew shorter and arranged itself into a bun. The color slowly faded, first to brown, then mostly to a silver gray. Her face changed as well. It became longer and a bit more angular as the features shifted back to those of Edith Thayer.
When Edith came out of the machine a few moments later, she, too, looked like her original self. Her loose jeans and light sweater covered her almost completely. "We're a matched set again," Norman said with a smile.
"Both ways," she said. She took his hand now. She felt shy, but he was her husband, after all, and she had to show him. She pressed his hand against her breast. "Not as hard as you, my dear, but firm enough, I think."
"Perky, too." He twisted the nipple gently, sending a shiver of pleasure through her.
She put her hand over his. "Later, dear, I promise. Right now, we've got to hide this machine."
"Maybe this will work." He touched the red crystal and said, "Shrink." The screen showed the image of the box as he had found it. The machine seemed to quiver. Then, it folded in on itself until it was the small box again.
"Why don't you put that in our room, dear," Edith said. "You've got to go upstairs to change anyway."
"Why?" He looked down at his bare chest. "Oh, yeah. Well, here's something to remember me by." He flexed his arms and took a muscleman's pose. Then he grinned. "Or maybe this will work better." He pulled Edith to him and kissed her passionately. She sighed, feeling her knees become weak.
"Go," she said, using all her willpower to push him away. "We'll... talk later."
"We sure will. After." He grinned. He was still Norman, silly grin and all. He picked up the box and sprinted inside, then upstairs -- two steps at a time.
He came down a few minutes later, wearing a pair of jeans and a green and blue plaid shirt Chelsey had given him. "Hello, old girl," he said, kissing Edith gently on the cheek.
"Hello yourself, you old poop. How about starting the barbecue? We're having that chicken you like. The meat has been marinating since this morning."
"Something you'd better do before the kids get here," Norman said. "You, ah, forgot this." He pulled a white cotton brassiere out of his pocket.
"Oh, my." Edith blushed. She certainly didn't need one now, but Chelsey would notice, even if nobody else did. She quickly looked around, and then took off her blouse. Her breasts stood up now with no sag at all. She felt goose bumps from the kitchen fan. She took the bra from Norman and put it on, playfully slapping his hand away when he tried to help. He shrugged and headed outside to start the grill.
* * * * *
Edith was just putting the chicken on a platter to take out to Norman when she heard the sound of a car driving up towards the house. "It's them," he yelled from the porch.
Edith put a cloth over the chicken and hurried out onto the porch. A green SUV was just pulling in. Bill's son -- no, her grandson, she had to remember that, she scolded herself -- jumped out the back of the SUV almost as soon as the car stopped. "Hey, Edith, what's for supper?"
"Billy, is that anyway to greet somebody?" Chelsey Thayer Ray climbed out from the passenger side. She was a tall, strawberry blonde in a tank top and hiking shorts that did nothing to hide her curved and tanned body. At 42, she could pass for a woman ten years younger.
"Aw, but Chelsey, I'm hungry. You and Dad took way too much time buying that old dresser."
"It's all right, Chelsey," Edith said. "Boys his age are all stomach anyway." She reached out and tousled his hair. "Hello, Billy. We're having chicken and potatoes and a nice salad, with something special for dessert."
"Mom, you shouldn't encourage him. He'll never have any manners if you let him get away with everything."
"You're right," Norman said, walking over. "Just look how badly you turned out." He winked and shook Bill's hand. "Hi, Bill, you must be treating Chelsey okay. She's feistier than ever."
"Hello, sir -- Norman," Bill said. "She's a handful all right, but well worth the trouble." He put his hand around Chelsey's waist and kissed her on the cheek. She turned her head suddenly and their lips touched. Her arms went around his neck, and the kissed lengthened.
"Fooey," Billy said. "All they ever seem to do these days is suck face like that. I'm sick of it."
"We'll pry them apart when it's time for dinner," Edith said. "In the meantime, how about helping me in the kitchen?"
"Do I gotta?"
"Yes," Norman said. "You gotta. You help bring everything outside, and I'll show you how to grill pineapple."
"Pineapple? Is that part of the dessert?"
"Yep, the best part."
Billy ran into the house. He came out a moment later with the chicken and potatoes and put them on the worktable next to the barbecue. He went back into the house, while Norman began to arrange the food on the grill.
"Need any help," Bill asked, walking over. He was a bit shorter than Norman, with a thick mustache and curly black hair. "Chelsey just went in to give Edith a hand."
"No, I'm fine, thank you. I was afraid we'd have to hose the pair of you down."
"Well, um, ah, you remember how it is with newlyweds."
"You may not believe it," Norman said, "but it wasn't all that long ago, I was feeling just the same way. Married life must agree with you -- with her, too. She looks very happy."
"We are. Your daughter's a great girl."
"I know; I wish I'd told her that more often. You be careful, though, Bill. These days they don't like to be called 'girls,' you know."
"That's for sure. Heck, she's still using 'Thayer' at work."
"Chelsey's one of the youngest senior editors at Golden Gate Books. She earned that as Chelsey Thayer. That's who people know. Her mother was still Dr. Spencer after we got married. You'll get used to it."
"I suppose so -- and I am proud of her. It's just that sometimes, I -- well, I want the whole world to know that I'm lucky enough to be her husband."
"The important thing is that the two of you know it -- that she knows how proud you are of her -- and knows how much you love her. You keep that in mind, the rest kind of takes care of itself."
"That's good advice, Norman. Thanks."
"What's good advice?" Chelsey came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and five glasses.
"Your father was telling me the secret of a good marriage."
"Oh, this should be good," Edith said. She was carrying a bowl filled with salad and a couple bottles of dressing. She carefully set them on the picnic table. "What is the secret, Norman? Do tell us."
"Do what I did, marry the perfect woman." Norman smiled and kissed her on the cheek. Then, too quietly for anyone but Edith to hear, he added, "and then screw her till her eyes cross."
"Norman!" Edith's eyes grew wide. She blushed and slapped him on the hand, but she was smiling. She kissed him and said, "and vice versa, my dear."
"Jeez, even the old folks suck face around here." Billy came out carrying paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware. He began to set the table, muttering to himself as he did. Norman walked back over to the barbecue to check on the chicken and potatoes.
Edith poured everyone lemonade, bringing Norman's over to where he was sitting, near the barbecue. They chatted while dinner cooked, catching up on each other's lives. Bill and his partners were moving to a new office because their practice was doing so well. Chelsey was one of two editors in the running to handle the new Jack Chalker book. Billy was going to leave the next Friday for two weeks at Scout Camp.
"What about you, Norman?" Billy asked. "Anything rock your world lately?"
Norman and Edith looked at each other. Should they tell? Norman took Edith's hand. "Just my old girl, here, and she's been -- what did you call it -- she's been 'rocking my world' for years and years."
The conversation continued through dinner, though it stalled a bit over dessert, grilled pineapple slices with vanilla ice cream and a caramel glaze. Billy got bored once he'd finished eating. He went inside to watch a ball game and read some comic books that he'd brought with him.
* * * * *
Edith yawned and looked at her watch in the dim light from inside the house. "My heavens, it's almost 11; no wonder I'm so tired." She gently nudged Norman in the ribs.
"I guess it is late," he said. I think we'll head up if you two don't mind." He stood and winked at Bill. "Leave you lovebirds to do whatever it is that lovebirds do."
Bill and stretched. "I want to check on Billy; set him up in that spare room of yours downstairs. Then I think we'll head up, too."
Edith had already gone into the house. She came back out. "Billy fell asleep on the couch. It's more than big enough to be a bed for him, so I just turned off the TV and put a cover over him. He'll be fine there till morning."
"Thanks, Mom," Chelsey said. "And good night to you both. We'll all see you in the morning."
"Not if we see you first," Edith said. She walked back into the house, with Norman right behind her. They walked slowly through the house and up to their room, still pretending to be their old selves.
* * * * *
Norman locked the bedroom door and grabbed Edith by the waist. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. When they finally came up for air, he said, "I've been wanting to do that all evening. I could barely keep my hands off you downstairs."
"Me too," Edith said with a giggle. "I wonder if Chelsey and Bill feel this way about each other."
"I hope so," Norman said. "If they don't, then they're older than we are -- we were."
"You're right. I just don't remember feeling quite so... randy all the time."
"You were, and don't blush. So was I. I think we're just not used to being young again. We're kind of high on our own hormones. And speaking of those hormones, do you remember what we did that time in old Dean Driscoll's office?"
"Norman! That was -- what -- forty years ago." She kissed him again. "I remember, and I'm so pleased that you do, too."
"My memory is certainly not what it used to be, but there is no way that I'll ever forget that. He was in another office with three other people about twenty feet away. We turned up his radio and hoped that the lock on his door worked. We could have been fired, Edith, but I knew that you were worth the risk."
"So were you, my dear. Thank you, Norman, for that day and for all the ones since then."
"My pleasure, Edith, and it certainly was. As I recall, though, you enjoyed it as much as I did." He ducked as a pillow flew past his head. "Now, do you want to change first, or shall I?"
"I'm not sure that we should, not with the others in the house."
"What do you mean?"
"What if one of us has to go to the bathroom during the night, and we run into somebody? What if Billy comes in to wake us up at 7 AM? How do we explain it? Besides, won't we have to change back to these bodies to have breakfast with them in the morning?"
"We couldn't explain it, I guess, not without showing them the machine. And I still want to play with it some more before we have to turn it over to somebody official. We'd have to do that if we told them about it; Bill and Chelsey would expect it if us."
"That's my Norman," Edith said. Norman looked over by the door where she was standing. Her blouse was unbuttoned, and she was holding her bra in her hand. He could see the curve of her breasts, her nipples pushing against the fabric of the blouse. "Now, is there anything else you want to play with?" She walked towards him, her hips swaying invitingly as she walked.
* * * * *
"Bye, my dears," Edith yelled as the SUV drove down the graveled driveway that led back to the county road. She and Norman stood on the porch waving, arms around each other's waists, until the car was too far away to see them. "My, it was good to see them again."
"Yes," Norman said. "They don't come east often enough."
"Maybe we could fly out to see them. Chelsey said they have lots of room, and we haven't been in Los Angeles in years."
"Let's talk about it later." He pulled her close. "Right now, I've got other things on my mind... Lois."
"My hero." Edith clasped her hands together like something out of a silent movie. Then she turned and ran for the house. "Race you upstairs."
Norman caught up with her near the steps. He scooped her up in his arms and kept on running, delighted at his renewed strength. He put her down gently once they got to the bedroom. They were giggling like teenagers as they undressed one another.
"I'll go first this time," Edith said. "How do you work this thing?"
"Just put your hand on the red crystal and think of what you want to look like.
Edith did as he said. In a moment, the screen showed the image of the voluptuous female she had been. "Now what?"
"Just press the purple thing and go inside."
"All right, dear." She hurried in, thinking of how Norman would look in a minute. The door closed, but then re-opened almost at once. "Norman, it -- I feel so different from yesterday."
"Of course, you do," he said with a bemused expression on his face. "Just look at yourself."
Edith looked down. "My breasts! Where are my breasts?" They were gone. Instead, she saw the flat chest, the rippling muscles of a young man, and below, below was something she had never thought -- never wanted to see sticking out between her legs. "I -- I'm a man." Even hysterics couldn't raise her new baritone voice back to its original feminine alto.
Norman put his hands on her shoulders and shook her gently. "Edith! Edith, get a hold of yourself. Somehow, you've got the body that I was supposed to have. But we can fix it. Just tell me what you did with the machine."
"I thought of that... Lois body, and it came up on the screen -- just like it did for you yesterday. I couldn't wait for the change -- for the both of us to change -- so we could -- could do what we... did in those bodies." She felt her face flush.
"I wonder." Norman scratched his chin, an old nervous habit. "When you were thinking about that, did you still have your hand on the red crystal?"
"I -- I think so. Why... yes. Yes, I did. I kept my hand on it until I went inside the machine."
"There's the answer, I'll bet. You were thinking about my body -- what I was going to change into, I mean. So that's what the machine turned you into."
"So I can change back, then?"
"Of course, you can. Just put your hand on the red crystal and think of Lois' body." Edith did, and, as she watched, the male body reverted to the very female image it had been. "Now," Norman said, "take you hand away."
She did, and they both watched the figure slowly turning on the screen. Edith felt her male body begin to react to the erotic image. It was a feeling that she'd never known before, but it felt natural somehow and very nice. She began to get curious.
"She's all ready and waiting for you," Norman said. "Just go inside the machine and change."
"You first," Edith said, surprising herself. She yanked Norman's arm, throwing him off balance. Before he could recover, she pushed him into the machine. The door closed before he could get out. It opened a moment later, and a very upset redhead stormed out. "That wasn't funny, Edith Thayer. What the hell got into you doing a thing like that?"
She took him in her arms and kissed. He struggled for a moment, but now she was much stronger. He sighed as if in surrender and put his arms around her neck. 'If I'm going to have to be in this body for a few minutes,' he thought, I may as well enjoy it.' Without breaking the kiss, Edith reached down and began to message his breast.
"Edith, st-stop that. It -- it feels so weird."
"Yes, but it's a nice feeling, too; isn't it?"
"Y-yes, I... uh... I guess it is."
"And this will feel even better." Her hand reached further down. A finger played along the edges of Norman's new vagina. She felt him tremble as his body reacted. Good heavens, he was wet already.
"Oh, E-Edith... uh... pl-please, please... oh... st-stop it. Pl-please, no m... uh... more."
Encouraged, Edith continued. She inserted one finger, then a second, and used her own experiences of how a woman liked to be touched.
"Edith, it... it's -- oh, my G-d, I'm --" Norman screamed and grabbed on to her as his body convulsed with its first female orgasm. When it was over, he was still holding on to Edith, gasping for breath and barely able to stand.
She looked down at him, almost leering. "Enjoyed that, didn't you?" He weakly smiled up at her and nodded. She scooped him up in her arms and carried him to the bed. "Then, you'll absolutely love this."
* * * * *
Norman Thayer lay still on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His head rested on his wife's very masculine chest. He was enjoying the post-coital warmth that was still flowing like honey through his newly female body.
Edith reached down and began to gently play with his nipple. "So, Norman, did you enjoy making love as a woman?"
"Hmmm, yes. I hate to admit it, but it felt wonderful. I think I like being the man a bit more, though."
"Mmm, I like it better as a woman, though I must admit that it was -- well, exhilarating as a man."
"So we can change back, then?"
"I -- I don't know. It was fun this way."
"Now wait a minute, Edith. You just said that you liked being a woman more."
"And I like lamb chops more than pot roast, but that doesn't mean that I don't enjoy a good pot roast now and then." She began to message his breast a bit more vigorously. "You just said that you enjoyed it this way, too."
"Yes, but not as a steady diet. Edith, I want to be a man again."
"You will be, dear, and as vigorous and virile as you ever were, but can't you grant me a bit of, well, of an indulgence?"
"What exactly do you have in mind?"
"A deal. You said you wanted to try out the machine for a week; see what all it could do. Right?"
"Yes, and...." Norman took a breath. Edith's massaging was beginning to get to him. He didn't want it to stop, but he wanted his head to be clear enough to listen to what she was saying.
"So, we take turns each day picking a new pair of forms. We'll make a contest out of it to see who can be the most creative. But for the last six hours each day, we swap. You be the female, and I’ll be the male. Okay?"
"It -- it sounds reasonable. All right, when do we start?"
"How about right now?"
"How about 3 PM? I'll let you go first."
"That's a couple of hours from now, Norman. Why are you stalling?"
"A couple of reasons: first, to give you a fair chance to come up with the forms we're going to change into."
"And what's the second reason, Norman?"
Norman's hand closed around Edith's semi-erect penis. "Oh, you'll find that out soon enough." Edith felt herself stiffen as he ran his fingers up and down its length.
* * * * *
"Norman, you stay over there. No peeking." Edith shifted her large, male body to block the screen. She was wearing nothing but a pair of Norman's shorts, about the only clothes that would fit her body.
"Be reasonable, Edith. I'll see it as soon as you change."
"Yes, but until then, I want it to be a surprise. Now, get over there." She waited a moment, and then looked over to where he was standing. "And stop pouting like that. I don't care how sexy it looks. You'll be a man again in a few minutes anyway."
"Phooey," Norman said. He folded his arms over his breasts. It didn't feel right, so he moved them to under his breasts. That wasn't any better, so he just leaned against the dresser, drumming his finger on the top. He was wearing a pair of his own boxer shorts, hopelessly oversized for his female body, and Edith's robe, loosely tied around his waist.
Edith stared at the screen making adjustments. The form she wanted was more difficult than she had expected, but eventually, she had exactly the image she wanted. She giggled at the possibilities of this new form, and then giggled again at the deeply masculine sound. Her pants felt tight as her male body reacted to both her thoughts and the image on the screen.
"It's ready," she said. She moved her hand from the red crystal to the purple one. The door slid open. Edith took one last look at the screen -- just to make certain that it hadn't changed. It hadn't; there would be no accident this time. She stepped inside, hearing the door close behind her.
As the door opened, Norman caught the scent of ginger and some other spices he quite couldn't identify. 'Smells like an Indian restaurant,' he thought. Then he realized the effect the aromas were having on his body. His nipples felt tight and his groin was warm and wet and... empty.
Edith stepped out of the shadows of the chamber inside the machine. She was tall, maybe six feet, but a mass of feminine curves: narrow waist, wide hips, and breasts -- breasts like melons, with dark nipples that begged to be played with. Her skin was a dusky brown, and she had a moon-shaped face framed by straight auburn hair. Her eyes were large and expressive with some sort of reddish eye shadow. Her lips were full, sensual.
Her borrowed shorts had changed into a pair of pantaloons made from some almost transparent gold patterned cloth. He could clearly see her feminine slit framed by a tiny wisp of curls.
"My Lord, Edith, you look like something out of one of those Indian temples."
"More than you know, Norman." She posed for him, her left hand on her hip and her right outstretched as if offering something. Then her other left and right hands reached up and ran her fingers through her hair.
"What in the... four arms?"
"Are forewarned, Norman." Her voice shifted from its New England accent to that of Delhi or Bombay. It was soft and low, almost a purr. "I am Kali... in her aspect as the female life force." Then she giggled, a high pitched sound like a small child. "What do you think?"
"I think I can't wait to change back into a man. Hey, I'm not going to be four armed, too, am I?"
"Oh, no. I have something much, much different in mind for you." She turned back towards the machine. "Don't peek."
Norman was curious, but he was enjoying the current view too much worry about it. Her hair was tied into a long braid that reached down past her waist to rest on her ass. He could see that through those pantaloons; two firm masses of curved flesh which jiggled invitingly as she moved.
She turned around and leaned back to hide the screen. "Okay, get in." A feminine hand with long slender fingers and darkly colored nails touched the purple crystal, opening the door.
As Norman walked past her, the smell of spices grew even stronger. 'Damn sweat of hers is an aphrodisiac,' he thought, 'as if she needs one with that body.' He took a deep breath and stepped into the chamber.
He looked down at himself as soon as he came out. He was taller than Edith, or should he call her Kali, and male, definitely male, he could feel it inside the darker pantaloons that the boxers and robe had become. His body was a mass of muscles; he could see them ripple when he flexed his arms. His skin color was odd, though, a medium gray with a leathery texture that he'd never seen on a human. For some reason, his nose was much more sensitive. He could sense a dozen separate spices in that glorious aroma of... Kali's.
He felt himself stiffen in reaction to that aroma, and he put his hand down without thinking. He was enormous! Then something gray flashed in front of him. He grabbed it and froze. It was -- was his nose. It had to be at least a foot long. "Edith, what exactly did you turn me into?"
She reached down and stroked his groin. "I'm not Edith; not now. Today, I'm Kali, goddess and consort to you, Lord Shiva, whose aspect is the great bull elephant and whose attribute is unfailing virility."
"Unfailing... virility? That's quite a reputation to have to live up to." He pulled her to him and kissed her. Her arms went around his neck, while a third hand continued to gently touch his manhood. His hands caressed her firm buttocks, while the tip of his nose flicked her left nipple.
Edith... Kali pulled away after a moment. She was breathing heavily as her four hands continued to caress him. "Perhaps, Shiva, but I think you're... up to it."
* * * * *
Edith/Shiva lay in the bed watching her beautiful husband as he reprogrammed the machine for their next bodies. 'Oh, Lord, look at that ass,' she thought. 'I'll miss these bodies. Maybe we can try them again. She felt her manhood engorge, pushing the sheet high above her groin. It was fun being Shiva -- it had been fun being Kali, too.
She smiled, remembering the look on Norman's face when she'd shown him just how flexible that body was. She'd stood; one leg over his shoulder, the other on the floor, bracing herself with all four arms on the floor while he'd taken her for the first time. Then, after they switched, she'd insisted on having him just the same way.
The memory excited her. She wanted to get out of bed, grab Norman by that sweet ass of his, and -- what had he said the other night -- "screw him till his eyes crossed." It was definitely worth considering.
Norman turned around, his bare breasts jiggling. "Okay, I'm -- my next body is ready. Close your eyes."
"Why? I won't see it until you come out of the machine. What's the big secret about it?"
"You'll see in a minute." He touched the purple crystal and stepped in when the door opened. He blew Edith a kiss as the door closed.
"Good heavens," Edith said a moment later when he stepped out. "I knew that you loved 'pussy,' but it looks like you've become one --even if it is a male one."
Norman was male again. There was no trace of Kali, though he moved with a feline grace. That was only natural since his body seemed to be half human and half cat, an orange tabby from the look of it, with rather short fur. 'He'll probably shed all over the house,' Edith thought with a smile. Aside from the fur, he was human from the neck down -- a very well endowed male human. His head, though, was very much the head of a cat. Despite her currently male body, Edith found herself shiver in anticipation when he stuck out his tongue and licked his whiskered nose.
"Wherever did you get this idea?" Edith asked.
"From Billy, or rather, from a comic book he had, Shanda the Panda, I think its name was. It's what he called a furry, a story where the characters are humanoid animals. I guess that nose you -- Shiva -- has made me think of it."
"So we're going to be kitty-cats for today, then, just you and me-ow."
"No, and, especially, not after that pun. Let me get your new body ready." He turned back to the machine. Edith noticed that he had a long, feline tail. It swayed back and forth as he worked, the way a real cat's would when it was stalking something.
"Okay, it's ready. Get in the machine."
"Can I see it first?"
"Be patient. You'll be in it in a minute."
"Well, you're certainly in a hurry."
"Of course, I am. Here I am on hormone overload and ready for love, and I'm in the bedroom with a guy and he's bigger than I am."
"I see your point, my old dear." She hopped out of bed and walked into the machine. "I'm sure that I'll have something much more suitable in the way of a body in a moment." She smiled as the door slid shut.
She came out a moment later looking at her hands and arms. "Oh, Norman, I've always looked horrible in stripes." Her skin was milk white now, with wide alternating bands of dark red stripes.
"Edith, you look good in anything." Norman smiled at what he saw. Edith's body was female again, lithe and athletic, rather than voluptuous, with a narrow waist and long, delightfully curved legs. Her breasts, they were more large apples than melons.
"I suppose I have a zebra's head, too." She turned and looked in the full-length mirror on a stand a few feet away. She did, though there was a human quality to it as well. Her mane -- mane! -- also had the red and white stripes. It was a lot higher than a normal zebra, maybe six inches above her head. She frowned, not certain about this new transformation. She looked down at her body. "Norman, you dirty... I've got three breasts."
"I always was a breast man, dear. You know that. When I thought of it, I couldn't resist. It's only for a day, after all. I am kind of sorry that I didn't give myself a zebra's body."
"Why is that?"
"I always wanted to be hung like a horse."
She came over swaying her hips and took his erect penis gently in her hands. "You may not 'be hung like a horse,' dear, but there's more than enough here to get me purring like a kitten."
* * * * *
"You know, we're getting kind of low on food," Norman said.
Edith reached over and tweaked one of his three nipples. "Only a man would think of that; no matter what sort of body he was in."
"Maybe so, but regardless of what all the poets say, we can't live on love, and today's the day we'd normally go shopping."
"Maybe we can just have them deliver." She played with his nipples again, sending a shiver down his female spine. "If there was milk in these, we could live off that for a while." She lowered her head and sucked at the middle nipple for a moment.
"St-stop that," he said. "I'm serious."
"I'm sorry, I just wanted to get a last little bit of use out of these bodies before we trade them in on the newest model."
"Do you have anything particular in mind?"
"A couple ideas. Why do you ask?"
"We do need to get some food. I was going to suggest that whatever you do change us into should look normal enough -- at least, when we're dressed -- so we can go shopping."
"I think I have just what we need. 'And all shall love me and despair.'"
"Wait a minute. I know that quote. I... yes, and you'll make a lovely Galadriel, Edith."
"And you'll be an absolutely darling little Frodo. I thought it was time his love for her was requited."
"Requited? Try consummated, my dear."
"I intend to, Norman. I'll try it any number of times."
"All right, my Lady, the machine is yours. Tolkein, here we come." He rolled over and sat up at the edge of the bed. Edith climbed out the other side and walked over to the machine.
"Yes," she said. "After all, the Lord helps those who help them elves."
"Now I know why everyone would despair."
"Norman," she shouted, "come look at this."
Norman ran over to the machine. More of those strange symbols were scrolling slowly across the screen. "What did you do, Edith?"
"I touched the red crystal, the same as all the other times. These... whatever they are come on instead of a picture. What do you think it means?"
"I don't know, but I don't like it. Maybe we'd better switch back to our normal selves until we figure it out."
"All right, but let's make it younger versions of ourselves. I don't want to be old anymore than you did."
Norman took her hand, as much to reassure himself as to comfort her. "Edith, you were never old. You were... vintage."
"Thank you, even if it isn't true, you old poop; it's still nice to hear. Look, the symbols are finishing." They held hands and watched the last of the odd symbols scroll off the screen. But, instead of an image, the screen went blank.
"Norman, what -- what happened?"
"Take your hand away and try it again." Edith did, but the screen stayed dark. Norman tried, too, but still nothing happened. They tried collapsing the machine down to a little box and re-expanding it. The machine shrank and grew as well as ever, but the screen stayed blank.
Edith sat down on the bed and began to cry. Norman sat down beside her and took her in his arms. It was weird; she was still male and taller and stronger than his female self. That didn't matter. Inside, she was Edith, and he'd been sharing life with her for too long to worry about anything else.
"Look," he finally said. "Our voices are still the same, even if you have mine right now, and I have yours. We'll call down to the college. Jerczy Blalock's the head of the biology department now. He was the one I was going to call next week anyway. We'll get him up here, and let him take a look at it. If he can't fix it, he'll know who can."
* * * * *
Edith leaned back in the chair, her cat's tail flicking back and forth. "Only he couldn't fix it, and you, gentlemen, were the ones he called."
Two men in very dark gray suits and matching sunglasses sat on the couch opposite her. "Yes... ma'am," the taller one said. "Dr. Blalock is a consultant to our agency. He tried to get the machine working again as a favor to the two of you. He didn't expect to be able to; nobody has ever gotten one of them to work after the shutdown."
"Never?" Norman felt a panic in the pit of his stomach. He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts as a courtesy to the two men. In the summer heat, he and Edith had taken to going around in the buff. Besides, three breasts were enough to distract most people. Jerczy had almost fainted when he first saw his old friend, and he'd kept taking odd looks at Norman the entire time he'd been at their cottage.
"I'm afraid not, sir. We'd like to take you to a base out west for some tests, if we may. You can stay there if you want; a lot of the, ah, more extreme transformees do. They really don't have any place else to go."
"So, there really is a Hanger 52," Norman said. "Actually, I think we'd like to come back here."
"Here, sir?" the shorter man said, looking around. "It's a nice place in the summer, I guess, but it gets pretty cold up here in Maine in January."
"We know that," Edith said. "We've been coming up here over the Christmas break since we bought the place. It was a working farm before we bought it. The walls and windows are all triple insulated, there's a 500 gallon oil tank buried in the yard near the road, and all the fireplaces work."
"Sure," Norman said. "The folks around here know us, and they'll respect our privacy. Stuff can get delivered, so we don't have to go into the village."
"It might -- and I'm only saying might -- work," the taller man said. "Are either of you very familiar with computers?"
"Not much," Norman said. "Chelsey's been after us to get one so we could e-mail each other. She said it was as good as a free phone line."
"Billy was really pushing us to get one," Edith added. "He said they were real cool, and he'd be glad to help us get started."
The two men stood up. "Sounds like a plan to me. If you folks will come with us for some tests, we'll be glad to help you set up permanent quarters here."
"Won't that be kind of expense," Norman asked. "We're just two old college professors on pension."
"Sir, as a duly authorized field agent for a U.S. government agency so secret I can't even tell you its initials, I'm authorized to pay you the going rate of $50,000 for your machine."
"You're kidding -- aren't you?"
"We don't kid, ma'am. It's against regulations, but we are authorized to offer assistance in return for your cooperation. I think we can manage something."
"And," the other man added, " you two aren't old anymore. In fact, when Mr. Thayer goes into estrus --"
"Estrus," Norman said. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Estrus, sir, female mammalian ovulation."
"I know what it is." Norman said nervously. "I want to know what it has to do with me."
"In most cases where a transformee has assumed partial animal characteristics, we've found that their reproductive cycles tend to become more animal like."
"You mean there are more like us," Edith said. "Like Norman and me."
"Yes, ma'am, though I think you two are the first to go animal and transgender. Anyway, human females are about the only species that are fertile on a regular basis all year round. Other mammals just get fertile once or twice a year. You probably fall into that category now, Mr. Thayer. We'll know from the tests that we want you to have. If you do, well, there's no way of knowing if you'll be cross-fertile with Mrs. Thayer here, but my money says you will."
"I get it," Edith said. "So unless we want to have a lot of really strange babies, we'll have to be very, very careful."
"It might be fun," Norman said. "Chelsey always wanted to have a little brother or sister, and you know how much she loves animals."
The End
Madam Souzcha
By Ellie Dauber
copyright 1999
Two men, on the run from the law, seek escape with one who has arranged such escapes. Only to find that there are escapes and there are escapes.
Here's one of my older stories, while Chris and I do the final work on the next part of the Eeie Saloon saga.
Madam Souzcha
By Ellie Dauber
copyright 1999
There was a knock at the door.
Madame Souzcha was busy stirring something in a small brass pot over a burner on the table. It oozed around her hardwood spoon, colors flowing together. Now dusty gray, now dove's blood red, now a bilious yellow. She heard the knock, but her stirring barely slowed. "Enter, if you will," she called. "Enter, if you dare ."
Two men strode through the door. Strode with the arrogance of the young and the wealthy. Both were dressed in well-tailored suits that looked like they had cost more than most people in that part of town made in a month. One was tall, sandy haired, clutching a brief case to his chest with long, thin fingers. The other was short and prematurely balding, his suit cut to hide his extra weight. He also carried a brief case, though holding his tightly by the handle.
"You are Souzcha," the taller one said. It was more a statement than a question.
"Madame Souzcha to such as you, young man." Madame stopped her stirring. A tiny bit of the something spilled over the top of the pot. When it hit the tabletop, there was a sudden smell of burning wood. She didn't seem to notice or to care.
"Madame Souzcha," the shorter one said. "We are two who have heard of your power and come to seek your help in our time of need."
"I know who you are; scoundrels, the both of you. Stealers of young men's dreams and old women's last hopes. Money you have taken from others, money that weighs you down even as you clutch it within those cases."
"I won't deny that we have money with us," the tall one said. "But it was all taken, that is to say, earned , in a manner allowed by the law in this state. It is money that we are entitled to."
"Bah," said Madam. "Entitled to! Why? Because you are young? Because you are smart? Because such as you are more entitled to have money than those poor souls who you took it from?"
"Yes!" said the shorter one. "Yes to all of those reasons. Some people just deserve to have money. However they get it." The man paused. "But who are you to question us? We have heard that there are any number of things that you have done for cash."
"And not all of them legal," added the other.
"What I have done, I have done for my own reasons. Reasons that I do not need to explain to such as you." Madame slapped the spoon down hard on the table. "You are in my home, now, Mr. Whitley and Mr. van Zandt. You come seeking my help. If you want any chance that I will help you, then you will treat me with the respect that I am due."
Whitley, the tall one, spoke first. "You are right, of course, Madame Souzcha. And my associate and I do both apologize."
"It's just that, well, we've been under a lot of pressure." This was van Zandt speaking now. "Ever since that one idiot shot himself in the bank and left the note blaming us; why there have been so many, many people asking questions."
"Questions that you two would prefer not to have to answer, I am sure."
"Yes, and we were told that you could arrange this. That we not be around to answer those questions, I mean."
"Oh, I can. I can, indeed."
Van Zandt was suddenly cautious. "But we'll be all right. You aren't going to kill us or anything like that. Just fix matters so that the police won't be looking for us."
"That I cannot do," said Madame Souzcha. "The authorities have read the note. They have investigated your schemes. They will continue to be searching for H. James Whitley and Charles van Zandt III." She paused for effect. "But you two will no longer be those men."
"Impossible!" Whitley said. "What are you a make-up artist? Or is there a plastic surgeon hiding in here somewhere?"
"I am neither," said Madame. "I am a practitioner of an ancient art based on the Principle of the Wheel of Life. Reincarnation, you might call it, but without the discomfort of having to die. When a person passes from his current life, Something -- G-d, Fate, call it what you will -- looks at that life and determines the form that the next life will take. I have found the means of causing one to undergo that process in this life."
"Reincarnation without death. Unbelievable."
"Ah, my doubting van Zandt, unbelievable -- but true. I administer a potion which puts your mind and body into the proper state. Your life is judged, and the new life created."
"Instant infancy!"
"And with no memory of our past, so she gets the money we worked for."
"Forget it!" Both men turned to go.
"No," Madame Souzcha said. "Because you have not died, your soul is linked to your current body. That body changes to match the new life. Your mind changes, as well, to match. But the memories of your current life remain. You will be adults, knowing who you were, what has happened to you, and why. Yet, you will also have the skills of the new life."
"I'm still not certain about this idea, Charlie," Whitley said.
"Yes," said Madame Souzcha, "but what choice do you have? The authorities have broadcast your descriptions across the city. It is very late, but some person must have seen you come to this neighborhood. It is only a matter of time before Whitley and van Zandt are caught. If they still exist to be caught."
"I think you're right, Madame Souzcha." Whitley's tone was more sincere now. It was his smooth voice, the voice he used on new clients or potential lovers. "When do we start?"
"As soon as you remove all of your clothing."
"What!?!"
"It is necessary. The changes to your bodies will be abrupt, and anything you were wearing would be badly damaged. I have some control over the process, but no one can know what their shape in that next life may be."
"I don't know," van Zandt hesitate, sensing a possible trap.
"There is but this one room in my home," Madame Souzcha said gesturing about with her arm. "Lock the door if you wish. I am an old woman, far too weak to overpower you. And with no way to safely get rid of your bodies should I choose to kill you."
The two men looked at Madame Souzcha. She was perhaps five foot tall, half a foot shorter than van Zandt. Her face was thin, her voice old and frail sounding. What could be seen of her fingers from the sleeves of her long blue-green robe -- van Zandt thought it looked more like an old bath robe than any sort of witch's gown -- looked almost unnaturally bony. The two men shrugged and began undressing. Van Zandt tossed his clothes onto the bed. Whitley folded his carefully and draped them over a chair next to the table. Both men kept their brief cases besides them.
Madam Souzcha picked up a tong and used it to lift the pot off of the burner. She poured an equal portion into two old jelly glasses resting near the center of the table. The something bubbled for a moment in each glass, before it settled down, turning a slight purplish color as it did. Madame put the pot on a wooden trivet and handed each man a glass. "Drink," she said, "drink to your new lives."
The two men looked carefully at the glasses in their hands. Whitley smelled his. He was surprised to find a rather sweet odor, something like freshly cut hay. Van Zandt thought his had more of the smell of bad meat. As if on cue, though, both men held their noses and drank.
"Now what," asked van Zandt. The answer was not long in coming. Both men suddenly stiffened, their mouths opening, their eyes going blank, oblivious to the world.
"You see nothing; you hear nothing except my voice. My will is all." Madame Souzcha walked over to the two frozen men, stopping in front of Whitley. "Tell me, who are you to cheat so many people of their life savings?"
Whitley began to sweat, as if he was somehow trying not to answer but knew that he could not stop himself from doing so. "I -- I am H. James Whitley, Harvard class of ‘02, cum laude . If people are stupid enough to let me talk them into giving me their money, then they deserve to be used. I'm smarter than them, and I deserve that money. Screw them !"
Madame Souzcha spat on the floor at the answer. She turned and asked the same of van Zandt.
"My family's old money. We came over in 1647 and got rich early. Kept it a long time. Some people, some classes of people, just deserve to be rich. We have a right to take money from those who don't know what money means or how to use it. I say screw them , too!"
Madame Souzcha stepped back and looked at the two men. Their bodies seemed to be swelling, turning coarse and a pale, sandy color. They gradually lost all detail as if becoming mounds of earth. Graves. "As you spoke," she said, "so shall you be judged. Yours was a crime of male arrogance. Let such feelings fade, and with those feelings, the maleness that called it forth. You shall enter your new lives as women. Yet one emotion will remain. In your past lives you were so eager to screw others figuratively. That drive shall remain, but in a stronger and more literal meaning."
Madame pointed at Whitley. "You who were H. James Whitley prided yourself on your great mind. That mind is of the past. Your intellect is far more limited, the mind of a child, given to pouts and fits of emotion, easily persuaded to do as others tell you, with an aggression now turned yielding and submissive."
Now she turned to van Zandt. "Class and family that meant so much to you are now gone. You who were of the upper classes are now of the lower, a dark child of the streets. You are wiser in some ways than your friend, but your speech and your manner shall forever mark you as socially inferior. Aggression in you also is lost, changed to the need to yield to the desires of others."
Pieces now seemed to flake off the two mounds that had been Whitley and van Zandt. Slowly two figures were revealed; two women in their early twenties. A pale, long limbed blonde with hair far down her back stood where Whitley had stood, and a Black woman with corn-rowed hair was now in van Zandt's place. Both were quite lovely with well-formed breasts, somewhat large for their sizes, narrow waists, and wide hips. Their features were beautiful, although neither woman's face gave the slightest hint of the man she had been. Their bodies were smooth and lacking in any hair, except for that on their heads and the inverted triangles that guarded their new genitals.
Madame Souzcha shook the blonde by the shoulders. The woman trembled, closing her eyes to shut out her new reality. "Who are you?" Madame Souzcha answered. "I command you to speak your new truth to me."
"I -- I'm Candy Price", she said, and then she giggled. "But I used to be Jimmy Whitley. I want to be mad at you for doing this to me, but it all seems kind of silly. I -- oh, I don't know. Can I get dressed? I'm cold."
"Dress," said Madame pointing to Whitley's clothing on the bed.
"But those are guy's clothes. I'm a girl , silly." She put a hand on her hip and bent one knee, clearly and quite unconsciously to better exhibit her new charms.
"They are of your life, old or new. Touch them and see."
Candy carefully picked up Whitley's boxer shorts between two dainty fingers. As she did, the shorts transformed into a pair of lacy blue panties. "Ooh, cool!" she said stepping into them, pulling them up around her waist. The transformation continued with each item. An undershirt became a matching bra. Two socks stuck together and changed into panty hose. The shirt and slacks were transformed into a miniskirt and semi-transparent silk blouse. The tie became a silk scarf, and the suit jacket turned into a sleeveless fake fur halter top. Candy put the clothes on without difficulty, as if she had always worn such things, and without regard for anything else happening in the room. She stepped into Whitley's loafers which immediately changed into a pair of leather pumps with a three inch heel.
As Candy dressed, Madame walked over to the transformed van Zandt and shook her. "Speak, I command you. Tell me of your new place in this world."
The figure blinked and shook her head for a moment, not believing the thoughts in her mind. "I was some ol' White guy name of van Zandt, but I be Jasmin Moore, now. Why you do this to me, you ol' honky bitch witch?"
Madame Souzcha slapped Jasmin's face. The Black woman's anger flowed out of her. She trembled and seemed ready to cry. "Dress yourself!" Madame ordered.
Jasmin sniffled and walked over to van Zandt's clothes. As with Candy, each item changed as she touched it. In a few moments the new woman was dressed in five inch heels, her legs in patterned stockings held in place by a black and red garter belt. Beneath a micro mini-skirt she wore a matching thong panty. The dress was cut low to show her pillowy breasts pushed up and out by a lacy black and red bra that could also be partly seen.
Madame opened a drawer and pulled out two small purses, handing one to each woman. "In here are the details of your new lives, cosmetics, and a few dollars." Candy opened her purse, took out a lipstick and began applying it. Jasmin counted the twelve dollars in her purse, frowned, and also began doing putting on make-up. Both acted as if they had years of experience as women.
Madame waited until they had finished before continuing. "You will never be able to come back to this room or to bother me in any way. Nor can you talk about what happened to you to anyone but yourselves. You will always remember who you were, but the impulses of your new bodies will overwhelm any chance of your behaving as the men you once were. So far as the world knows, Whitley and van Zandt have disappeared."
"Candy and Jasmin, you are new in this town, and you have a chance at good, useful lives, if you choose to try. If you choose not to try, if you give in to the sensual impulses of your new bodies as quickly as you gave in to the evil impulses of your old lives, well, there are many places in this town with those who would welcome lovely, willing young girls such as yourselves.
"Both women stood quietly as Madame's warning sank in. Neither would admit it, even to themselves, but both had sensed a sort of hunger in their bodies. It was a feeling that each vaguely recognized as sexual, like, yet at the same time very different from the arousal that they had known as men. It was stronger now, taking its strength from the drive to acquire money that they no longer had. Neither realized it, but that displaced drive was a special part of the transformation intended by Madame Souzcha to torment them long after they left her that night.
Candy suddenly had a serious thought, a bit of her former self struggling to survive in its new form. "But the money?" She asked abruptly, almost as surprised at her words as Madame Souzcha was. "Are you going to keep it?" Madame could see that what was left of Whitley was fighting for control, and she move quickly to crush it.
"Why," Madame asked. "It isn't your money, is it, Candy?"
Candy shook her head. The question had been important a moment before, but now it seemed meaningless. Money wasn't something to be grasped for at all costs. It was just something you spent to have fun. Deep within her, the remnants of H. James Whitley screamed in a blind frustration that came out of Candy as an innocent giggle.
"I will return the money in a way that makes it seem as if Whitley and van Zandt are dead. For in truth, those two men hardly still exist."
"Yo," said Jasmin, "I still gots one question. You could'a done a lot a diff'rent things to us. Even killed us if ya wanted. This -- these bodies -- and what you done to our minds, they's the worse. Why you done dat to us?"
Madame smiled for a moment. "Why? For the simplest of reasons. I've been working my magic for years helping people escape what they deserved. And generally, I don't make any sort of judgement. Very few wind up as badly as you two did -- although your new fates were chosen at my direction, of course."
She smiled again, showing teeth; teeth that were filed down to points in some cases. "But you two are special cases because of that idiot' as you put it, the one who gave you away when he shot himself. He made all the difference. You see, he was my grandson ."
The End
Submitted for your approval, an invitation delivered to the members of the Board of Directors of Intellex, an international corporation dealing in civilian and military computer hardware and software. The Board members think that they're in for an evening of corporate politics before one of them receives the final prize.
But what each man will receive is very, very different. For these are not so much invitations to a party as they are a summons to justice, a special justice to be found only in... the Twilight Zone.
* * * * *
A warning. There is a scene in part 3 that involves child molestation. As the father of the victim of such an act in my real life, I -- well, let's just say that it happened over 10 years ago, and I still want to perform a radical orchidectomy on the kid who did it.
I felt that it was appropriate to the story and justified for the character. I won't say any more. Those of you who are offended hate me already for writing it, and I don't want to spoil the story for the rest by giving any more details.
If the concept offends you, please either don't read the story or give me the benefit of the doubt until you get to the scene where it happens.
Masks
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2001
The invitations arrived at their offices by bonded messenger. In large, embossed letters, they read:
John Flannery of Intellex Corporation
Cordially Invites You to His Home
11355 Steven's Hill Road
On Thursday, April 26, 2001
To Celebrate His Retirement
As President and Board Chairman
Then, in smaller print at the bottom of the invitation, were the following additional words:
* At Midnight, the name of his successor will be announced.
* Only those attending the party at that time will be considered for the position.
* Come alone; bring NO staff, friends, or family.
The six other members of the Intellex Board of Directors were the only ones to receive invitations. (They checked to make sure of that.) None of them were happy about going, but Flannery controlled 53 percent of the voting stock. He could decide whatever he wanted and make it stick.
Assistants made phone calls. Schedules were shifted and tickets returned. Several meetings, including two sexual liaisons -- one of them illicit -- were postponed. Everyone would attend.
* * * * *
Richard Neimuth, Corporate Treasurer and Chief Financial Officer of Intellex, was the first to arrive in his silver Rolls. Neimuth was a heavy-set man in his late fifties. He was nearly bald, with only a fringe of gray hair above each ear. His dark gray suit was impeccable, English tweed, specially tailored so that his bulk suggested muscle rather than the fat that was actually beneath.
The oak door opened as he walked toward it across the brick driveway. An older woman dressed in the style of the early 1900s, violet floor-length dress with long puffed sleeves and a high buttoned collar, stood in that doorway. Neimuth caught a scent of lavender as she stepped out. As he came closer, he saw that her face was actually some sort of painted mask.
“Richard, tell your man to leave.” There was no mistaking that voice. John Flannery was behind that mask, in that dress. Before Neimuth could say anything, the woman -- John -- continued. “Have him leave _now_. He can come back for you at 1 AM. We'll be... finished by then.” She -- he -- stood firmly in front of the door, clearly waiting for his order to be obeyed.
“If that's how you want to play it,” Neimuth muttered under his breath. He turned and walked back to his Rolls. The chauffeur quickly lowered the window. Neimuth leaned down. “Walters, take the car home. Be back for me here promptly at 1 AM.” As the chauffeur raised the window, Neimuth added, “And make sure the champagne in the back stays chilled. I expect to be celebrating.” The chauffeur nodded, gritting his teeth and trying hard not to laugh at Flannery's appearance. He was still smiling as he drove past the gatehouse and out onto the highway.
Neimuth walked slowly back over to Flannery. “What's with the outfit, John?”
Flannery shrugged. “I'm a crossdresser, Richard. I've been one for years.”
“So you decided to -- what's the phrase -- to 'come out' tonight? Won't you feel strange being dressed like that around the rest of us?”
“Not really. You'll all be dressed up, too.”
“What! Look, John, if you want to go fag on us, go right ahead, but there's no way I'm going to put on a dress.”
“Then you might as well use your cell phone to have your man come back for you. No one comes to the party unless they're dressed 'en femme', as we say.” He paused. “And you know what happens if you're not at the party. You can kiss your chance at my job goodbye.”
“But what if somebody sees --”
“Except for we seven Board members -- assuming everyone comes, and I think they will -- there'll be no one here. I gave the entire staff the night off. In fact, I sent them all to a hotel.”
“But still, why do I have to?”
“Call it an old man's whim. Now go upstairs and change. Your clothes are waiting for you in the gold bedroom. You remember where it is?”
“Sure. Up the stairs, third door down on the right.”
“Exactly. Now hurry up and change. Oh, and be sure to read the material in the file on the bed. It's, well, it's an extra little incentive that I've thrown in just to make things more interesting.”
* * * * *
The gold bedroom was opulent, gold paint on the wall, gold-in-silk curtains and bedspread, and gilt edging on the dressers and the four-poster bed. There was a large dress box on the bed, wrapped, of course, with a gold ribbon tied in a bow. A thick manila folder was on the bed next to the dress box. Neimuth sat on the bed, opened the folder, and began to read the material inside.
Richard:
For the past four years you've been taking payoffs and kickbacks from
our suppliers and contractors to approve cost overruns. In doing so,
you've cost the company over $30 million. This folder has enough
documentary evidence of what you've done to stand up in any court.
The originals of all the evidence are in my private safe at work. Yes,
the Chairman's safe, the one that only the Chairman has the key to.
There are also folders on each of the other members of the Board in
that safe, each one with evidence of some illicit act.
I trust that the chance to destroy the evidence against you, to gain
control of the company, and to have the power to blackmail the rest of
the Board will be enough to encourage you to put on the items in the
dress box.
John
“Damn!” Neimuth threw the folder down on the bed. Nervously, he untied the ribbon and opened the box. He really had no choice.
Neimuth took off his jacket and laid it carefully on the bed. There was an oak suit rack near the bed. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants. First the pants, was carefully folded and placed on the rack. His shirt and silk tie followed. Then he draped his jacket over the rest.
He sat down on the bed in just his undershirt, shorts, and socks and untied the ribbon. There was a long, reddish-brown wig inside the box. He put it on the bed and looked inside at what else it held. There was a pair of sandals inside. They looked sort of like a woman's shoe with a wide half-inch heel. They seemed to be about the same size as his own shoes.
He picked up a brassiere next, red with black lace. Next to it in the box was a matching strip of elasticized material the same colors as the bra, with long strips of velcro at the top and bottom. A small label inside said, “waist cincher.” He looked for the matching panties, his stomach turning at the thought of having to wear such a feminine garment. They weren't there, but he did find an old style girdle, red with four garters hanging down. Underneath the girdle, he found a pair of dark black stockings half rolled into a ball. In the bottom of the box was a neatly folded blood-red dress.
“No way!” He lifted the stockings between two fingers and was about to throw them into the wastebasket near the bed. But he had to wear them. John had said that he would take Neimuth out of the running for something even that petty. He would be in jail an hour after any of the others read his file. Either that, or he'd have to dance the tune of whoever _did_ win. Hell, that would be almost as humiliating as jail.
Neimuth sighed and stepped into the girdle, pulling it up over his boxers. His shorts bunched up under the thick, rubbery material, and he had to twist and tug to get it comfortably on him. Neimuth sat on the bed, feeling the front garters brush against his thighs. He grimaced. This was _not_ funny. The others had better be in equally stupid outfits, or he'd -- oh, hell, what could he do?
He picked up one of the stockings. Then he closed his eyes and tried to picture his wife putting on her stockings. That didn't work; the two of them seldom slept in the same bedroom any more. He thought about Lorraine, the cute little financial analyst he was fooling around with. _That_ worked. He picked up one of the pair from the box and balled it up in his hand. He bent his leg up and slipped it over the toe. He pulled it up over his leg, watching the material stretching tight and being careful not to snag the damned thing. It was sheer, and dark enough to hide the hair on his legs. He could feel them catching in the mesh, being pushed down; it was a weird sensation. The stocking came halfway up his thigh. He fastened it to the garter, then repeated the process with the other leg. When he was done, he stood and twisted his body to fasten the back garters, as well. John was crazy enough to check something like that.
Neimuth took the waist cincher and held one end tight against his stomach. He took a deep breath and pulled the other end around, hooking it to the first with the velcro. It held, pulling in his stomach several inches even as it puffed up his chest. He sighed and picked up the bra. He thought of Lorraine again and mimicked what he remembered, arms through the straps then reach behind to hook the ends. “Damn, women must be double jointed to wear these things,” he cursed, but he somehow managed to fasten the ends. The thing was heavily padded; it looked like he had two large pillows on his chest.
He stepped into the dress and pulled it up past his hips. Thankfully, the dress buttoned in front. When he was done, he was surprised how high the hemline was. He could almost see the tops of his stockings. With the bra and cincher, he even had a figure of sorts. The dress was cut high in front, stopping just above his neck, so it looked almost as if the bosom was real.
He lifted the wig to put it on. Something was tangled inside. It fell as he lifted the wig off the bed. A mask made of the same kind of ceramic or plastic as the one Flannery was wearing. A woman's face with garishly painted lips, roughed cheeks, and long eyelashes was painted on it. The opening at the mouth was large enough that he would probably be able to eat and drink with it on. There didn't seem to be any sort of string, but when he raised the mask to his face, it held fast. 'Some kind of glue on the inner surface,' he thought. He put on the wig and stepped into the slippers.
There was a mirror standing near the bed. When Neimuth looked at it, he saw a heavyset woman in a red dress that was obviously in poor taste and not really large enough for her hefty frame. “Bah! The others better look as silly as I do, or I'll, well, I'll think about leaving.” He slammed the door behind him and headed back downstairs.
Neimuth walked down the stairs. He walked slowly because he was still getting used to walking in heels, even low heels. Flannery was sitting in a chair talking to a tall dark-haired woman in a black dress with an apron tied around her waist. “I thought you said there'd be no servants here tonight, John?” If he couldn't trust Flannery on that, could he trust him on anything else? Did the police already have the file? Was this all just a game to embarrass him?
The woman turned. She was wearing a mask, too. “Who are you calling 'servant,' lady?”
Neimuth recognized the voice. “Tony, Tony Fleischer, I see he got you to go along with this crazy idea, too.”
“Actually, it wasn't hard.” Flannery sounded very smug. “Tony saw the wisdom of the same argument that you did.”
“You got... “ Neimuth asked.
“Yes,” Fleischer said in an annoyed voice. “And that's all I'll admit to, so you might as well change the subject.”
“Fine, but we'll probably have a lot to discuss on the subject later,” Neimuth said. “Are the others here?”
“Stuart Weiss and Paul Harper are in the dining room,” Flannery said. “Probably making good use of the bar I had set up there. Harry Salvatori came just after you did, Neimuth. He's still upstairs... changing.”
“Then George Androchek is the only no-show,” Fleischer said.
“Who's a no-show? And what are you all doing in those weird outfits? I wouldn't have recognized any of you if I hadn't heard your voices.”
The three costumed men turned in the direction of the voice. Androchek was standing at the door. He was a tall, slender man in his late 30s, dressed in a gray Armani suit. He was a computer entrepreneur who'd gotten a seat on the board when Intellex had bought his company. He was quiet and generally kept his mouth shut; that was how he'd gotten elected Board Secretary. Neimuth and Fleischer both wondered what sort of secret Flannery had on him.
“It's -- well, it's a sort of costume party, George,” Flannery said. “Your outfit is in the green room -- I think you know where it is -- there's a note with the costume that explains everything.”
“This is absolutely crazy,” the younger man said. “I'm not sure --”
“Humor me on this, please. As I said, the note explains everything. If it's any help, there'll be no one to see you except the other members of the Board and myself.”
“Oh, what the hell.” Androchek shrugged and headed to the steps.
“I need a drink,” Fleischer said. Neimuth nodded, and the three of them headed to the dining room.
A short blonde in a green sweater was behind the bar mixing a drink. A brunette woman in what looked like a maternity smock was sitting in a corner chair nursing a martini. As they walked toward the bar, Fleischer and Neimuth saw that both “women” were wearing masks. They both recognized the blonde as Stuart Weiss. The “preggie” had to be Paul Harper.
“Are you sure you should be drinking that in your condition?” Neimuth said. He'd gotten his wish. So far everybody else looked as stupid as he did.
“Very funny, Richard.” Harper had recognized the other's voice. “What are you supposed to be, queen of the may?”
“I think John's the fairy queen tonight; aren't you, John?” Neimuth said.
The blonde walked out from behind the bar. The green sweater was the top half of a cheerleader's uniform, complete with a megaphone symbol. The cut of the short skirt, the pompom socks, and matching sneakers did nothing for Weiss' hairy legs.
“Actually,” Flannery said, “most men who crossdress are not gay. We just like to -- what's that old song, '... put on women's clothing and hang around in bars.'“ He walked behind the bar and pulled a bottle of Sam Adams beer out of a cooler. He opened it and drank a couple of swallows. “Ah, that's good stuff!”
“Where's the damned bar?”
Everyone looked toward the doorway. Harry Salvatori -- they had all recognized his voice -- stood there in a pink pinafore. With his curly strawberry blonde wig, complete with hair ribbon, and those old style kid's shoes -- Mary Janes -- and socks, he looked like the young Shirley Temple. Or as much like Shirley Temple as a stocky forty-five year-old man could look. He wore a little girl's mask with big, blue eyes and bright red, rosy cheeks.
He strode quickly over to the bar, poured three fingers of scotch into a glass and downed it in one gulp. Then he turned and looked at the group. “I swear, John, if you didn't have that... if the stakes weren't so high, I'd just say the hell with it and go home.”
“But I do have that... something,” Flannery said. “And the stakes _are_ that high. So you'll stay here, Harry, and make the best of it like everyone else.”
Salvatori sighed. “Yes, damn you, yes, I'll stay.”
“Oh, I'm _so_ happy,” Flannery said. “Everyone get another drink if you want. We'll have supper as soon as George joins us.”
* * * * *
“By the way, John, where did you get these masks?” Stu Weiss put down his fork and leaned back from the table. He reached for his own mask as if he were about to take it off.
“Leave it alone,” Flannery shouted. “I'm sorry, Stuart, but I insist that the masks stay on until this evening is over. Call it one of the conditions of your all being here tonight.”
“All right, but I'd still like to know where you got them. They're excellent work, easily museum quality.”
“I won't tell you everything about them, Stuart, but I will say that I got them from Mexico.”
“That's right,” Paul Harper added. “You did some jungle sightseeing while you were down at our Mexico City office a few months ago. Checking out the native talent, John. I'd have thought you were too old for a little of the old hot and spicy Tex-Mex nookie.” He winked and leered like a schoolboy.
Flannery pointedly ignored Harper and continued talking. “The artist is a... brujo, a craftsman who lives out in a small village in the mountains of central Mexico.”
“I thought that 'brujo' meant a witch doctor or something like that?” George Androchek added.
“It does,” Flannery said. “They also use it down there to refer to someone whose level of skill makes it look like he's using magic, the level above 'master,' if you will. At least, that's what they told me.”
“Did you have much trouble getting them?” Stuart asked.
“Enough,” Flannery said. “It was more than a day's trip by Land Rover through the jungle to the village. Then I had to explain what I wanted through two separate interpreters. I don't speak Spanish, and neither did the old man who made the masks.”
“I'd love to get my hands on a few pieces of this quality,” Weiss said.
“I didn't know you collected Mexican art, too,” Harper said.
“I don't,” Weiss said, “but I'm on the board of directors at the Carlton Museum. I've been having some trouble getting the other board members to agree to some of my ideas. If I could dangle the chance to get some really good new pieces over their heads, I think I could get them to vote my way on a whole bunch of issues.”
“Well, Stuart,” Flannery said. “If you're still interested after tonight, I'll be glad to let you have the masks. At a fair price, of course.”
“Why wouldn't I be interested?” Weiss asked.
“That's a good question, John.” Tony Fleischer came over carrying a plate full of food and sat down next to Flannery. “I have a feeling there's more to these masks and costumes than you've told us.”
“There is,” Flannery said, “but that's for me to know and you to quite literally find out.”
“Damn it, John, I hate it when you get talk to me like that,” Fleischer said. “I'm as much a member of this Board as anyone else, and I expect to be treated with respect.”
“I've always given you all the respect I thought you deserved, Tony. Maybe you should spend less time worrying about having my respect and spend more time doing your job and earning it.”
Weiss put his hand on Fleischer's arm. “Calm down, Tony. John's just trying to play with our heads a little. There's nothing... “
“Who the hell are you to patronize me, Stuart? You're just another damn bean counter with delusions of adequacy.”
“I do well enough, thank you. My Division has been a steady moneymaker for the company for the past six quarters.”
“I'll admit you have a modest talent. We gave you a good product and excellent support, and you haven't been able to screw it up... yet!” Fleischer laughed at his own joke.
“That's more than enough, Tony.” Flannery glared at the other man. “Your complaint is with me, not Stuart.”
“My complaint is with the whole lot of you -- and with this stupid outfit.” Fleischer pulled slightly at the apron he wore. “Tell me, John, do I have to stay in sight the entire evening, or am I free to walk around a bit?”
“You -- all of you -- are free to walk around; just as long as you stay here in the house,” Flannery said. “And, Tony, I will know if you do leave. Trust me on that.”
Fleischer stood up. “John, I don't know that I'd trust you right now, if you said that the sun would be rising in the east tomorrow morning.” He turned and walked quickly out of the room.
* * * * *
Tony Fleischer slammed the door to his room behind him. “Damn, that old fool. If he didn't have that evidence... “ He glared over at the bed table where he'd left the folder. 'That was dumb,' he thought. 'There's nothing to keep one of the others from coming in and getting a look at that stuff; maybe even taking it to use against me no matter how this turns out.' It was a good strategy. 'As long as I'm up here, maybe I'll check out a couple of the other rooms myself.'
“But first,” he said aloud, “I want to get out of this costume -- or at least this stupid mask.” He pulled at the mask, but it seemed stuck to his face. He tried several times until his skin actually began to hurt. “That's it. At least I can get out of this idiotic maid's outfit for a while.”
He walked over and locked the door. Confident that he wouldn't be disturbed, he reached behind himself to untie the apron. The knot wouldn't budge. He tried to move it around his waist, so the knot would be where he could see it, but the apron seemed to have somehow merged with the dress. He reached for the buttons at the collar of the dress. He could move them, but he couldn't seem to get them through the buttonholes. In a panic, he grabbed the collar and tried to rip the dress apart.
Suddenly, his entire body began to tingle. The room spun around him. It seemed to be getting bigger. No, he realized, he was shrinking. He stuck out his arms to steady himself. He saw them grow thinner, paler. The hair on them seemed to shrink back into his skin without a trace. His hands grew smaller, more delicate looking, with long slender fingers. There... there seemed to be polish on the nails, though they, at least, didn't get any longer.
He looked down at himself. The collar of the dress seemed to be getting bigger, moving far down on his chest. His hairless chest, for his chest hair was shrinking back into his body, just as his arm hair had done. Something was growing out, though. As he watched, his nipples grew larger and darker. Then the tissue behind them seemed to push out -- way out -- to become two large and very feminine looking breasts.
Fleisher looked past them to see that his waist had gotten smaller, while his hips seemed to be growing. The dress and apron he'd been forced to wear were changing, too, getting shorter. He tried to get a look at his legs, but something white was under the dress, pushing it out away from his body.
He had to find out.
There was a full-length mirror over in the corner, and he hurried over to it. As he walked, something seemed to be happening to his shoes, so that his step changed. He stumbled and felt something soft brush against his neck.
He looked into the mirror and shook his head in disbelief. There was no trace of Anthony Fleischer, 58 year-old businessman in the reflected image. Instead, he saw a girl of no more than 20 or 25 dressed in one of those sexy maid's outfits. Her ample breasts almost spilled out of her low-cut, lace trimmed bodice. Her short skirt, pushed out by a ruffled petticoat, showed a narrow waist and full, lush hips. Below them were a pair of deliciously curved legs in fishnet stockings, the garters just visible under the petticoat. She wore black shoes with at least a three-inch heel.
He leaned in close to look at her face. It was heart shaped, framed by a mass of chestnut brown curls that hung down to just below her shoulders. Her eyes were green, not gray, as his had been, with mascara enhanced lashes and a green eyeshadow that made them look larger. He was reminded of a deer somehow, caught in the headlights. Her nose was small and pert. Her lips were full; “beesting” lips formed into a very sexy pout.
“Mon Dieu,” he said, surprised at the soft timber of his voice -- and by the French accent he seemed to have acquired. “Whut hazz happuned to moi?”
Suddenly the room changed. He was standing in a small alcove. It was a room he did, but didn't, recognize. He knew, though, that he was in a different house.
“Antoinette,” came a voice behind him.
“Oui,” he answered, turning automatically.
A tall young man in a butler's uniform came into the room. “You had best hurry, my dear. Mr. Byers expects us to have everything ready for his party by the time he gets home and there's still a lot for everyone to do.”
“Comming,” Fleischer said, and walked toward the man, hips swaying.
The man -- Fleischer suddenly knew that his name was Michael Saunders -- reached over and gently messaged Fleischer's breasts. The transformed businessman felt a shiver of pleasure run though his body.
“You will be, my dear,” Saunder said. “After the party's over, when we're in our room together.”
Before Fleischer could react, he heard John Flannery's voice in his mind. “You were happy to take bribes to do what our European competitors told you to do, Tony. So, I've given you a new body better suited to that role. You're Antoinette now, a lovely French maid; Antoinette Saunders, actually, since you and that horny young butler there have been married about two weeks. Enjoy your new life, Antoinette. It's the only one you'll have from now on.” The voice chuckled and faded away.
Antoinette found herself smiling as her hand moved, against Fleischer's will, to run a finger along the bulge in Saunder's pants. Unwelcome words came to her lips. “Az weel yu, mon amour, az weel yu.”
* * * * *
Paul Harper walked carefully, quietly down the hall. He stopped every few paces, freezing in place and glancing behind him as best he could in case anyone was following. “Damn preggy suit,” he swore in whispered tones. “Damn thing's too hot and heavy to move in. How the hell do women manage it for nine months?”
Nevertheless, he managed to reach this objective without any problems. 'This is too easy,' he thought when the doorknob turned. 'I wonder if John or anybody is waiting for me inside?' He opened the door just wide enough to slip through. Then he opened it wider when his stomach padding hit the heavy wood.
He looked inside; no one was waiting. The room itself was sparsely furnished: a solid-looking wooden desk with a Pentium PC on its top; two bookcases, half-full with reference books and three-ring binders; and a rather battered looking four-drawer file cabinet. “Looks more like the office of one of my clerks, than the office of the Board Chairman,” he said aloud.
There were some papers on the desk. Paul looked through them quickly, nothing incriminating, just some background material on the new distribution center in Georgia. He tried one of the drawers. Locked, that might be a good sign. It would be just like Flannery to have a copy of the incriminating materials here, as well as in the office. If he could find out what Flannery had on the others, he could use it to protect himself and to control the rest of the Board no matter who was chosen as Chairman.
He looked around for something to use to jimmy the drawer lock. Then he heard footsteps coming down the hall. He moved back from the desk and looked for a place to hide. There was a door in the corner, a closet probably. He moved to it quickly. Unlocked. He stepped in and closed the door behind him.
He put his ear to the door, listening to see if anyone came into the room. Damn, it was stuffy. Hot, too, especially with this rubber padding he had to wear. Harper stepped back and began to unbutton the high collared maternity blouse that was part of the costume. He felt a strange tingling, like an electric spark, run through his body. He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he could see the room he was in much clearer, as if his eyes had adjusted to the dim light. It wasn't a closet. It was a small bedroom. He could make out a metal bed, more of a cot, really; a couple chairs and a dresser. It reminded him of a dormitory room.
He still felt odd, and he decided to get out of the stupid outfit, if only for a few minutes. He had some trouble with the buttons and looked down. His hands seemed much smaller, and there was no hair on his arms. 'Just the dim light,' he thought.
He finished unbuttoning the blouse, and it fell open. Something... something didn't seem right. He listened against the door for a moment, no sound at all. He decided to risk it and turned on the small lamp that was on a stand next to the bed.
When he'd changed into that stupid outfit, he'd put on the latex padding over his white cotton undershirt. Now the shirt, or part of it anyway, seemed to have gotten outside the padding. As he watched, it changed. The sleeves disappeared so it was held up on his shoulders by two narrow, lacy straps. The front formed into two circular pieces. It looked like -- no, it _was_ changing into -- a bra, shaping itself around those fake boobs. But they weren't fake. The padding had changed to match his own skin color and merged with him. He couldn't see where it ended. He could feel, though, feel the satiny material of the bra rubbing against his own new breasts.
The stomach, the preggy stomach was his, too. He touched it with a finger and shivered at the sensation. Then he felt a kick from deep inside his stomach, as if something had reacted to being touched. That meant he -- no! He couldn't be. Men didn't get pregnant. A hand shot down. He felt satiny material around his hips instead of cotton boxers. There was no opening at the front. He reached down inside the panty from the top. There was no sign of male genitals, only a patch of hair covering a very, _very_ sensitive slit.
He suddenly knew that there was a full-length mirror on the closet door, and he turned to look. The image showed no sign of the man he had been. Harper saw a girl, probably not even eighteen and just over 5 foot tall since he could see mirror above the top of her head. She had short, curly brown hair, a rather pretty round face with brown eyes, and a turned up little nose.
She would have had a good figure except that she looked to be at least six or seven months pregnant. Her breasts filled what Harper suddenly knew was a 38-DD nursing bra. Even pregnant, she had a sweet little ass, and a nice pair of legs that even the dowdy skirt and old sneakers she was wearing couldn't hide.
It was the face, though, that Harper kept looking at. This girl he had become looked a lot like... Martha. It couldn't be. That was so long ago, he was surprised that he even remembered. Odd that Martha was the secret Flannery had threatened him with.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. “Polly,” a woman's voice said. “There's someone here to see you.”
“Just a minute, ma'am.” Harper blurted out the words, then instinctively covered his mouth with his hands. That couldn't have been his voice. He sounded like a little girl, and his New England accent had been replaced with a southern drawl.
His hands went to the blouse of their own will and quickly buttoned it. He opened the door to see a short older woman in a nurse's uniform, Mrs. Tyree, though he didn't know how he knew her name. The woman smiled. “Normally, we don't allow visitors after 9 o’clock, but I thought we should make an exception this time.” She turned and walked away.
Harper hurried after her, not knowing why. Flannery's office was gone. They were walking down a hall, a dormitory hall, judging from the doors on either side. They turned a corner into some sort of reception area. There was a sign near the door.
Tuliphocken County Hospital
Home for Unwed Mothers
No! It... it couldn't be. Harper looked around for any sort of escape. All he could see was Mrs. Tyree, the admissions desk, and Jimmy Joe! Wait a minute. Who the hell was Jimmy Joe?
Before he could say or do anything, Jimmy Joe, a skinny, red-haired boy of eighteen wearing faded blue jeans and an old gray work shirt jumped up and threw his arms around Harper. “I told my folks, Polly.”
“Told them what?” A horrible thought began to form in Harper's mind.
“Told them that I was the one that got you pregnant, and that I wanted to marry you and give my kid a name.”
Harper stared in amazement. Then he heard Flannery's voice in the back of his mind. “Paul, forty years ago, you seduced a secretary to get information on a competitor at work. Only, she got pregnant. When she tried to get you to admit that you were the father, you got her fired. She lost the baby; she lost any chance of ever having another child; and, not long after, she killed herself. I thought I'd give you the chance to have some babies to make up for the ones that Martha Eckstine never had.”
“M-marry me,” Paul heard himself say. “Oh, Jimmy Joe, that's -- that's wonderful.” He threw his arms around the boy and kissed him.
“That's right, Polly. It's all arranged. You and me'll get married tomorrow, but you'll stay here so they can take care of you and the baby. I graduate high school in a few weeks, and my Daddy says he can get me a job at the garage he works at. Your momma and daddy says we can live with them in your old room after the baby gets born.” He gently touched her stomach, rubbing his hand gently over it. Then he moved his hand up and quickly groped her breast. “Course, we'll need our own place eventually once we start having more kids.”
“M-more kids? Couldn't I work for a while or something?”
“Polly Mae Harkins, do you think I'm gonna let my wife work? Hell, no! I may be poor, but I got my pride. You stay home and raise up that mess of kids me and you are gonna have.”
Polly threw her arms around Jimmy Joe's neck, even though the thought of what his body was doing made Harper's mind shudder. She kissed him, too. “I'm sorry, Jimmy Joe.” Harper couldn't stop the words. “I was just fooling you 'bout wanting to work. All I ever, _ever_ wanted to do was to be your wife. I want to have your babies and raise them all up to be just like their Daddy.”
* * * * *
Richard Neimuth poured himself a brandy and sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs to enjoy it. “Flannery may be a flaming faggot and crazy as a loon,” he said to no one in particular, “but his cellar is as good as ever.” He took another sip and decided to have one of those cigars in the humidor on the bar. Real Cubans were hard to get. Flannery had joked more than once that the real reason Intellex had an office in Mexico was to get cigars for the Executive-level staff.
As he stood up, he felt oddly dizzy. 'Damn outfit,' he thought. 'I can hardly breathe in all this feminine crap.' He unbuttoned the top two buttons; Flannery could hardly fault him for that.
A strange sensation ran through his body. His fingers fumbled with the buttons. The material of the dress seemed to be changing from simple cotton to a fine silk.
Neimuth touched the bodice of the dress over and over in disbelief. The padding in that stupid bra began to get firmer. No, when he touched the dress there, he could feel his fingers against his... chest? He quickly unbuttoned another button. His chest was hairless now, and he could see the tops of two large breasts inside of some kind of _purple_ material.
“What the hell... “ He stopped. His voice was now a throaty contralto, low and sexy. He looked down past his new breasts. His stomach was flat with no hint of the gut that years of rich food and no exercise had given him. His waist was narrow now, and his hips wide.
He panicked and put his hand flat against his groin. He could feel the hand pushing him, but there was no bulge, no sign or sensation of the male genitals that had been there. There was no sign of that dumb girdle, either. He ran his finger -- when had his nails gotten so long? -- across the front of his leg until he found a much thinner garter. It tickled. He traced it up until it ended near his waist.
What _was_ going on? A thousand questions ran through Neimuth's mind. What had made his body change? Where was the girdle? When had his dress gotten so short? The damn thing ended well above his knees. And his legs, they were so slim and curved and hairless, so... female.
His feet seemed smaller in what were now -- good grief -- red patent leather pumps with what had to be at least three-inch heels. He took a step, bracing for the fall. It never came. He walked as if he had worn such shoes for years.
He took two more steps, as the room began to spin. He could hear Flannery's voice in his mind. “Richard, for years you've willingly taken money to screw over the company. I thought you might as well look the part.”
He was in a bedroom, now. No, a hotel room. Neimuth recognized the Chicago skyline through the window. More... magic, he was over a thousand miles from Flannery's place north of New York City.
“Great view, isn't it?” Neimuth turned. There was a man standing behind him, a tall man in his forties, wearing a bathrobe over a pair of boxers. Neimuth recognized the man as Jack Kiley, president of one of Intellex's biggest suppliers. As Chief Financial Officer, Neimuth knew that Kiley's firm and Intellex were currently negotiating a major purchasing agreement.
Kiley put down a set of papers he was holding. “Let me get this straight. If I agree with the terms of this contract... “
“Then Intellex has paid me to agree to _your_ terms for the evening.” Neimuth shuddered. What was he saying, and why did he have to say it in such a sexy purr of a voice?
“Well, Intellex's offer seems pretty fair, but I'm a businessman, honey. I want to see what I'm buying.” He looked down at Neimuth's dress.
“Certainly, Mr. Kiley.” Neimuth tried to stop himself, but he had no control. His hands worked the buttons of the dress until it was opened almost down to his waist. He shrugged his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “So, does their offer still seem... fair?” He felt himself smile. Jeez, he was actually flirting with Kiley.
Kiley was leaning back against a low dresser, and Neimuth could see himself in the mirror behind it. Only -- it wasn't _him_. The image in the mirror was female, _definitely_ female, with auburn hair that framed her face and spilled over her shoulders, and a better figure than Lorraine's. Her big boobs looked about ready to fall out of some flimsy little purple thing she was wearing. The thing -- a “violet teddie,” the phrase popped into his head -- was cut high at the bottom to make her legs look even longer. The gusset in front was barely wide enough to cover her crotch. He could see those narrow garters -- but no sign of the girdle -- stretched down over satiny smooth thighs to hold up a pair of matching violet stockings. Damn. Her legs were better than Lorraine's, too.
“Are you okay, umm, Miss? You're staring at yourself in that mirror.” Kiley sounded concerned.
The woman in the mirror smiled at Neimuth... and Kiley. “Call me Rachel, honey.” He couldn't stop the words. “I was just admiring that _firm_ counter-offer of yours.” His voice was a purr as he walked over to Kiley. 'No!' Neimuth screamed in his mind. 'Stop!' But he couldn't. His hand gently caressed the bulge in Kiley's shorts.
Neimuth’s -- Rachel's -- arms went around Kiley's neck and pulled his head down to her own. She kissed him -- deeply. “And we have the whole night to compare... terms.”
* * * * *
“So this is John's art collection.”
Stuart Weiss turned and saw Harry Salvatori standing in the gallery doorway.
“Yeah, but the weird thing is, these are all copies.”
“How do you... ? Oh, that's right, you collect, too, don't you?”
“I do, and I've seen John's collection any number of times. He has the originals of all these paintings -- or had them. I wonder what's going on?”
“I don't know, but something -- someone -- else is missing, too.”
“Really, what or who is that?”
“The rest of the Board; you're the first person I've seen in almost an hour. Have you seen anybody?”
“I've been in here for some time. Man, even these copies are great. Look at this one, 'The Ballet Lesson,' those young girls Renoir painted have all been dead for years, but here they are, still young and vital, swaying their bodies to some unheard melody.”
“It's, umm, nice, very nice, I guess.” He stared at the painting for a moment, an odd look on his face. “Frankly, though, I'm more interested in finding out where everybody is.”
“Relax, Harry. This is hardly one of those teen slasher movies where the mad killer picks the people off one at a time.”
“Okay, then what's your theory of where everybody is?”
“All John said is that we had to stay here and stay in these dumb costumes until midnight. I know that I certainly feel foolish in mine. That's why I came in here; to be off by myself so nobody could see how idiotic I look. I think everyone else did the same.”
“I guess that makes sense. I certainly feel like a prime idiot. I must admit, though, I think that you make a really cute cheerleader.”
“And you're just the _sweetest_, little girl. I wonder why John picked these particular costumes?”
“I'll ask him when -- or, should I say if -- I see him. Just remember, the mad killer _always_ goes after the cheerleaders.”
“I'll keep that in mind. You going to stay here with me?”
“No, I think I want to go and find John -- if I can. See you at midnight.”
“Midnight.” Weiss watched the other man leave. He waited a moment, then walked over and locked the door. “No sense taking chances,” he said.
He sat for a time admiring the art. “I'll have to ask John about these paintings. Maybe I can buy some of the copies when he gets the originals back from wherever they are. Better yet, I'll get the museum to buy them. Then, as a Board member, I can get them on an indefinite loan.”
He stood to take a closer look at one of the paintings. As he did, an idea came to him. “The door's locked, and it's over an hour till midnight. Maybe I can get out of this cheerleader suit for a while without anyone being the wiser.”
He reached up to take off the mask, but it refused to come loose from his face. “What's on the back of this thing, superglue?” He gave one more tug.
An odd tingling sensation, sort of like a mild electric shock ran through his body. The paintings seemed to move higher up on the walls. No, he was... shrinking. He looked down at his body in disbelief. He was getting smaller, thinner. The hair on his arms was fading away. He stuck out a leg, so he could see it past the skirt he was wearing. There was no hair on it, either, and it was getting thinner as well. So were his arms, he noticed. They were smooth and almost feminine looking.
Weiss shook his head in disbelief and felt something soft brush against his neck. He grabbed for it. Hair, his own judging from the pain he felt when he tugged at it. This was crazy. He was almost bald, only now he had a full head of hair. It was still growing, too. He could bring it into view. Damn, his hand looked small, almost dainty. His fingers were thin, and he could see a pink polish on the nails. He could see the hair, too. It was a golden blonde, like the wig, not the sandy brown color that his own hair had been.
Then he felt a strange sort of “pushing” sensation on his chest. He looked down. The cotton blouse had been replaced with a satiny looking sweater with a name on it. He worked at the upside down lettering. “Susie.” Then it got hard to read for another reason. Something was growing on his chest. Two bumps that pushed out further and further. Breasts? No, it couldn't be.
He looked down past them to see his waist narrowing, even as his hips widened beneath the now shorter skirt. He reached under it to find a cotton panty. There was a bulge inside, but it grew smaller as he felt it, until it disappeared completely.
He could see his legs now. They were gracefully curved. He was wearing a pair of boots with a two-inch heel that set them off rather nicely.
As he stared down, trying to understand what was happening, he heard the voice of John Flannery in his mind. “You falsified a number of production and inspection reports to make yourself look good, Stuart. Faulty equipment that you said was all right cost the company millions of dollars in 'make goods' and resulted in almost a dozen deaths. It seemed to me that if you're going to get so enthusiastic about things that aren't real, you might try doing it in a more persuasive form.”
“This is crazy,” Weiss said, stunned at the squeaky soprano tone of his voice. He took a step toward the door, only to see it vanish. He was in a gymnasium leaning against a wall; no, a bleacher. He looked around. There were about ten girls, teenaged girls talking or going through different exercises while a couple of women seemed to be comparing notes on a clipboard.
Weiss suddenly realized that he knew the names of the girls and that several of them were wearing the same cheerleader's outfit that he was. Was he one of them now, a teenage girl? It seemed impossible.
“How do you think we did, Susie?” He turned to see a pretty red-haired girl about fifteen years old. She was -- oh, hell -- she was the same height he was. Her name was... “Karen, umm, hi.” What was he saying? “I think we did pretty good. Ms. Braxton was smiling while we went through our routine.” Routine? What the hell was he talking about?
A whistle sounded, and the gym was suddenly quiet. A slender woman in a gray-green leotard top and a pair of matching sweat pants walked to the center of the gym. Somehow, Weiss knew that she was Ms. Braxton, whoever that was.
“May I have your attention,” Ms. Braxton said. “Ms. Gelfand and I have evaluated the results, and we're ready to announce the winners. It hasn't been easy. You're all very good, but there's only six spots available at the camp.”
'Camp,' Weiss thought. 'What kind of a camp?' Still he felt a knot in his stomach as if he were really worried about getting picked.
Ms. Braxton continued. “For those of you who don't get selected, don't be upset. One of our considerations was age. There are a number of very promising freshmen here. We wanted to give the sophomore and junior girls first crack at the camp. Keep working, and you may get picked next year.”
She paused a moment for effect. “The six girls are Hazel Domchec, Tina Hoffer, Karen Schuyler... “ The girl next to Weiss squealed at the sound of her name. Weiss felt happy for her -- and a little jealous somehow. “... Joni Landis, Meghan Preis, and Susan Silber.”
“Susan Silber!” He was picked. Weiss grabbed Karen and hugged her. He felt so happy, so proud. He tried to stop himself as he squealed and jumped up and down with her.
“Hey, congratulations.”
Weiss froze. He knew that voice, though he didn't know how. “Ray? Thanks.” He turned. The speaker was a boy of, perhaps, seventeen, dressed in jeans and an Oakland Raiders T-shirt.
“I'll miss you while you're at cheerleader camp this summer, but, hey, you were great. I was proud of you.”
Weiss felt himself smile. He took a step over to where the boy was standing and impulsively kissed him on the cheek. What the hell was he doing? He tried to step away as Ray wrapped his arm around Weiss' waist. His body refused to obey. In fact, it moved in closer to the boy. “So, how about I take you out tonight to celebrate?”
“Great,” Weiss heard himself saying. Then, to his horror, he leaned in close and whispered, “And if you think I was screaming this afternoon, wait till tonight when we're alone in your van.”
* * * * *
“Where the hell is everybody?” That was Harry Salvatori's question as he searched the house. “I was kidding with Stuart before, but this _is_ like a bad horror movie.”
There was no sign that anyone had been in the house with him except the mess they'd left from the buffet supper. That, and the locked door to John's art gallery. Stuart had been listening, and he had locked the door. Only whatever was going on had gotten him, as well. Harry had pounded on the door till his hand hurt without Stuart even answering.
Either that, or they were all off someplace laughing at him.
“The hell with it,” he said. “I'll just wait here till they come for me at midnight.” He walked over and sat down on an overstuffed sofa. It felt comfortable, very comfortable. He reached down and unbuckled the oversized “Mary Janes” that were part of his little girl outfit. He kicked them off and stretched out on the couch, a throw pillow under his head.
As he lay back, he felt an odd tingling running through his body. His arms and legs seemed impossibly heavy. The couch seemed to be moving under his body. It was -- it was growing. No, he was shrinking. He could see the muscles in his arms and legs fading away. They were getting skinny, almost like toothpicks, and... hairless. Where had the hell his body hair gone?
Now his arms and legs seemed to be getting shorter relative to his body. There seemed to be some plumpness to them again, too. He looked down at his hands, his now stubby fingers. The dress he was wearing lightened in texture. The ruffled skirt smoothed out. He now wore a pale blue nightgown. Hs body was short now, and plump. He managed to raise his head to look over his small belly. There was no bulge at the crotch. “I -- I'm a little girl,” he whispered the words, not wanting to hear what his voice sounded like now.
The room suddenly grew dark. As he lay there unable to move, Salvatori heard John Flannery's voice in his head. “Harry, I know about what you've been doing to those children. Since you got so much joy out of what you did to those poor innocents, I thought I'd let you be on the receiving end.”
There was a small brightness now, a small nightlight over in the corner. A nightlight? He could move his head now. He was in a bedroom, on a bed. There was a doll next to him. Looking around, he could see a dollhouse and a toy box. He could almost make out the shapes of Sesame Street characters on posters on the wall. A girl's dress hung on a hanger on the door of what he knew somehow was his closet.
He heard a click and turned to see the bedroom door open. A man came in quietly, closing it behind him. The man walked over and sat down on the bed. “Pretty, pretty, little Hayley, don't be afraid. Uncle Harry is here again to just play a game with you. Won't that be nice?” The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't recognize it.
“A... game,” he heard a soft voice -- his now -- say. “What kind of a game?”
“Oh, it's one you'll like.” Uncle Harry leaned over and stroked his hair. Now Salvatori could see the man's face. It was his own -- what he had looked like before. He wanted to scream, but his body wouldn't cooperate.
Uncle Harry kissed him on the mouth. Salvatori was so surprised that he opened his mouth. Uncle Harry's tongue probed inside. Then the man broke the kiss. “See, now wasn't that nice?”
“I -- I don't know. I -- I guess.” Salvatori braced himself, afraid that Uncle Harry would kiss him again.
The man -- his other self -- did kiss him, but lightly on the cheek. “Don't be afraid. You'll like this even more.” He stroked Salvatori's chest through the light gown. “Then we can kiss some more.”
One hand continued to stroke Salvatori's chest; Uncle Harry's fingers playing with his tiny nipples. The other hand slowly lifted the bottom of his nightgown, raising it almost to the waist. Salvatori shivered as he felt a finger run along the panty underneath, stroking his hairless crotch.
Then his panty was slowly, gently pulled down off his hips, pulled down almost to his knees. Salvatori whimpered. He wanted to move, wanted to scream, but his body refused to obey.
He felt something -- he was afraid to even think what -- slip inside him. 'No,' he yelled in his mind. 'No, please, no.'
An instant later, Salvatori was sitting up in the bed. He knew that he was still in the little girl's room, still in her body. But he was alone, blessedly alone. He heard a shrill, high-pitched scream, and he realized that he was the one who was screaming.
A light went on. He looked over at the door. Lynnette Ralston, his secretary, was standing in the doorway, a bathrobe covering a nightgown. Her husband -- what was his name? -- Frank, was next to her. They both rushed to the bed. Salvatori all but threw himself into Lynnette's -- into _Mommy's_ arms. He realized that he was crying.
“I h-had that d-dream ag-again, Mommy,” he heard himself say, his voice broken with fear. What dream? What was he saying?
“It's all right, Hayley, honey,” he heard... Daddy say. “That man won't bother you again. Mommy doesn't work for Uncle Harry anymore.”
“She doesn't?” What was going on? Lynnette had never said anything to him about quitting.
“No, she doesn't,” Mommy said. “I'm not going to work for anybody who did what he did to you. I can't report him -- he's too rich, too protected, so I transferred to another office, effective tomorrow. And I'm going to warn anybody who takes my old job exactly what Mr. Harry Salvatori's idea of playing with children is.”
Salvatori wanted to explode. Nobody walked out on him, threatened to expose him, especially some insignificant little secretary. She'd be back, and he'd have plans for her real daughter -- wait a minute, Lynnette didn't have any kids. She'd told him once that she'd been in some kind of accident as a child and couldn't get pregnant.
He tried to say something, to ask what was going on, but his body refused to obey. Instead, he found himself hugging... Mommy again. “Thank you, Mommy; thank you, Daddy. I -- I feel better.”
“Good enough to go back to sleep?” Daddy asked, gently taking her hand. “It's awfully late, you know.”
“Would you like to come and sleep with us?” Mommy asked. “Or I could sleep in here with you. Just for tonight, of course.”
The idea had possibilities for Salvatori. Lynette had a fairly nice body, and this would let him grope her to his heart's content. Then he heard his voice say, “Thank you, Mommy, but I think I'll be okay now. Miranda will protect me.”
Miranda? Did this kid have a sister? No, he suddenly knew that Miranda was the large doll next to him on the bed. He found himself clutching the doll as Daddy tucked him in under the covers he'd kicked off during the dream. Both parents kissed him goodnight and left. Daddy shut off the light.
Salvatori lay there in the dark trying to understand what had happened to him. As he began to fall asleep, all he knew was that he felt safer under the covers, especially when he hugged Miranda, his best-est doll friend.
* * * * *
George Androchek stared at the image of the little girl who had been Harry Salvatori, as she snuggled in bed with her doll. “Well, I'm the only one left, now, John.” He turned to Flannery who was sitting next to him watching the oddly shaped screen. “When _exactly_ do I turn into the school girl that probably goes with this outfit?” He tugged at the short plaid skirt he was wearing.
Flannery smiled. “You don't, George. Your outfit isn't magic. I wouldn't do that to you, especially now with my grandchild on the way.”
“Grandchild? You mean that you -- you're my father? That can't be.”
“It is. Your mother and I met when we were both in college, and we got married the day after we graduated. I didn't have much money, and, well, by the time you came along, I was obsessed with the idea of making a success of myself at Intellex. I was never home, never there for her -- or you. When she told me to choose between my family and the company, I -- I chose the company and gave her the divorce she asked for.”
“And never had anything to do with either of us again. Why are you telling me this now, John? Is your conscience bothering you after all these years?”
“George... please. You don't understand. Peggy -- your mother -- moved to the West Coast and remarried. She made me promise to stay away, so she and her new husband and you could be a family. I swear it.”
“And you never tried to contact us, or to help out with things?”
“Your... your... parents sent me a letter every month saying how they were doing, what was happening to them -- and especially to you. It was part of the agreement we made. I can show you the letters -- and the pictures they sent as you were growing up. As far as helping, well, your step... your father was a proud man. They wouldn't take my money, not directly anyway. When they bought the house you grew up in, they made all the payments themselves, but they did let me co-sign the mortgage. I helped with your college, too. That special scholarship you got, that was me paying your way. I had to donate a building to the school to get them to agree.”
“Wait a minute, I had to work part time for that scholarship.”
“That was your mother's idea. She wanted you to know the meaning of hard work; know that things never come too easy.”
“That sounds like Mom, but why didn't she ever tell me that you were my father? I've known since high school that Dad -- Mike Androchek -- was really just my stepfather.”
“I think she was going to, but the... stroke took her before she could. I talked with Mike right afterwards. We decided that I shouldn't come to the funeral; it would be a terrible time to have you find out. He left it up to me to tell you when I felt the time was right. He's a good man. He made your mother's life a happy one, and he raised a fine son. I'm not sure that I could have done either of those things nearly as well as he did.”
“So what happens now? Do the others get changed back eventually?”
“For starters, the other Board members are trapped in their new lives forever. The spell is making them act the part, but gradually over the next few days or weeks, their minds will adjust. They'll always know who they used to be. They just won't care anymore.”
“So the men just disappear?”
“No, that's, well, that's been taken care of. A mass disappearance would scare the Market; Intelex stock would sink through the floor. There are, I guess clones would be the best word; there are clones of all of them in whatever room they were in when they were transformed. But there's no time to explain any more now.” He looked at a clock on the wall behind George and sighed. It was 11:50. “It has to be finished by midnight.”
“What? What has to be done?”
Flannery took off his mask. As George watched, his hair whitened, thinned until there was almost nothing left. His face grew thinner and thinner until it looked more like a skull than a living man. “What... what happened here tonight had a price, a sacrifice that had to be made.” His voice was soft, waivering, as if it was becoming a physical effort to get the words out.
“Don't... don't be... upset.” Flannery's entire body seemed to be getting thinner, wasting away. “P-pancre... atic cancer. D-doc says two... two months. Maximum. Much be-bet-ter... this... way.”
George suddenly heard an odd, roaring noise outside the room. He went to see what it was. The doorknob was hot to the touch. Fire!
Flannery was smiling as if he welcomed what was happening. “The... the whole h-house is... is going... going up. Windows... get out. N-now!”
George tried to pick the older man up. “John -- Dad, I can't let you die like this. Not now.”
Flannery shook his head. “W-why? So I d-die from... from the c-cancer? G-get. Out. Of. Here. N-now!”
The flames were coming through the wall. John's eyes were closed as if he were asleep. He was still smiling. George felt for a pulse that he couldn't find. He leaned over and kissed John on the forehead. Then he rose quickly and threw a chair through the window. He jumped through after it, landing roughly but unhurt on the ground outside.
The entire building was a mass of flame. He stood up and ran about fifty yards from it. He suddenly realized that he was wearing the suit he'd come to the house in hours before. He grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and quickly dialed the fire department.
Then he sat down on the ground and began to cry.
* * * * *
“I think they're finally getting it under control.” The fire inspector had questioned George while two crews fought the blaze. “You're lucky you were able to get out that alive.”
“I know.” George had given him a somewhat edited version of what happened, and no one seemed to blame him for anything. “I just wish I could... John could have gotten out, too -- and the others, of course.”
He reached inside his jacket for a handkerchief. There was an envelop in the pocket next to it, an envelope that hadn't been there before. Hands trembling, he tore it open and read the letter inside.
George:
My will is in the Chairman's safe at the office. It names you as my son
and my only heir. I know I'm leaving Intellex in good hands. There are
other papers in the safe that will prove who you are.
The company has “Best Man” policies on all of the Board, including me.
The insurance will absorb any loss to the company from their deaths,
with plenty left over for their families. You'll get the money from my
policy. Call it a present to my grandchild.
The new lives of the other Board members are taken care of, as well, but I
won't say how.
I'm sorry I never told you the truth about us, George, but I want you to
know that I think you're a fine man, and I'm very proud to be...
Your loving father,
John Flannery
George carefully folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. He looked at the remains of the house. An ambulance was taking the last of the six corpses that had been found inside to the morgue. He would have a lot of work to do in the morning, but the first item of business would be to call his father -- to call Mike -- for a long talk. If Dad didn't mind, George wanted to see about adding another gravesite to the family plot, one next to his mother's.
The End
Member of the Wedding
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
When Sam Hanson tries to stop Cathy Fletcher from marrying his brother, she comes up with an interesting solution.
This is the second story featuring a PolaSRUid camera. The camera changes any subject to match the inscription on its side. In the previous story, “Snapshots,” a retired couple got one that said, “My Darling Daughter.” When the husband took his wife’s picture, she became his daughter. When the daughter took her former husband’s picture, he became her daughter. See what happens in this story.
Member of the Wedding
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
Somebody knocked on the door. Three times. Me, I was sitting down, very carefully attaching my sheer white stocking to a garter.
“I’ll get it,” Cathy Steiner said. Cathy, my best friend since Brownie Scouts, was already in her maid of honor’s pink chiffon dress. It was a lot simpler than the rig I was going to be wearing, but then I was Angela Fletcher, Marty Hanson’s bride-to-be; soon to be his bride-that-was.
The chain was still across the hotel room door. Cathy opened it just a crack and saw… “Sam Hanson, get the hell out of here!”
“I have to see Angie. It’s… It’s important.”
I stood up and grabbed for the plush robe the hotel provided for its guests. There was a limit – a big limit -- on how much of me he was going to see. As soon as it was on and belted, I told her, “Let him in.”
She undid the latch. He was in before she had the door all the way open. Cathy stepped back, and he closed the door behind him. “Thanks.”
“What’s so important that you had to see me now?” I asked, trying to keep a civil tone. “Can’t it wait until after the ceremony?”
“That’s the problem. You’re making a mistake… marrying the wrong guy.”
“What!”
“You’re my girl. You’ve been my girl since we were in high school. We were meant to be together.”
“Then what were you doing in bed with Monica Kepler at the lake last summer?”
“That was a mistake. I thought you were – I mean, it was a one-time thing. You were in Manchester. I was lonely… drunk. I… She seduced me.”
“So you said. She seduced you. And so did Lisa Whitmore and Steffie Palmer – twice – and… and, hell, the list goes back to Gilda Weiss at our high school graduation party.”
“What about you and Marty?”
“I never even dated your brother until after I caught you with Monica. He came by to see how I was doing, and we just… hit it off. I mean, I’ve known him for years, but, till then, I’d never thought of him as anything more than a friend. He’s a lot like you, Sam, only he’s honest and loyal. And I love him. I’m sorry, but I do.”
Sam came over to where I was standing. He grabbed me by the shoulders. “You can’t. I-I won’t let you, Angie. You’re mine.”
“Let go of her,” Cathy ordered.
He shook his head. “No! Not till she agrees to marry me!” He had a wild look in his eyes, like he was ready to hurt somebody. Maybe Cathy, maybe Marty, maybe even me.
But I was ready for this. “Okay, Sam, okay; let’s calm down. I need to think about what you’re saying.” I pointed across the room to the complimentary bottle of wine in the ice bucket that the hotel had sent up. “I need a drink. Would you please pour me a glass?”
“Sure,” he said, giving me his best smile. “Anything for my beautiful bride.” He walked over, found a glass, and began to pour the drink.
That’s when I grabbed it, the polaSRUid camera that the funny old man in the bathrobe had given me. I’d gone to the mall for my hair appointment and discovered his shop where M’Lady’s was supposed to be.
“Hello, Angela.” He greeted me like an old friend, even though I’d never seen him before. “I’m glad that you came in. I wanted to warn you about Sam Hanson.”
“What about Sam? He left town the day Marty announced that we were getting married.”
“He’s coming back, and he has every intension of marrying you himself.”
“I won’t have him. I love Marty, and he’s the Hanson I’m going to marry.”
“Then I’m afraid that Sam will try to kill you.”
“What; no!”
“Yes; he’s warned his brother that he’s the only Hanson you’ll ever marry.”
“Oh, Lord, he’s stubborn. He’ll keep making trouble after Marty and I --”
“He will… as long as he’s a Hanson. Would you like to change that?”
“What do you mean?”
He told me, and he sold me the odd little camera for $49.50. The same camera that I was now pointing at Sam.
“Hey,” he said, the camera flash surprising him. “Next time, warn me, so I can smile for the birdie.”
He finished pouring the drink and fitted the bottle back into the ice bucket. Then he walked over, smiling. As he handed me the glass, I pulled the film packet out of the camera. “Here you --”
He froze in place, still bent over, the drink in his hand. I glanced at the picture. It was nothing but a silvery cloud. A moment later, Sam’s body was covered with the same washed-out silver color. “Solarized,” the old man had called it.
I managed to pry the glass free. His fingers just wouldn’t move. I don’t know why it wasn’t silvered, too, but it wasn’t. Maybe it had to be a part of him.
Then he began to shrink. I noticed that some color was seeping back into the picture, and the same seemed to be happening to Sam. He and Marty had been about the same size, just over six feet, with broad shoulders and a muscular build.
He shrank down to my size; and smaller. I’d guess that he was barely five foot tall when he stopped. He was a lot thinner, too. His square jaw looked a lot rounder, and his hands were tiny.
The silvery figure was smooth. No sign of cuffs at his ankles or wrists; no lump for a bowtie at his throat or bugle for his jacket around his middle. The silver was fading away from his hair. It had gone from dark brown to a honey blonde. It was a lot longer, too, hanging halfway down his back. There were lumps of some sort in the hair, like something was attached to it.
As the silver faded from his body, it left behind feminine curves where there had been masculine angles. His legs -- bare, except for what looked like pink slippers on his feet – were graceful, coltish, with a creamy complexion very different from his normal dark tan.
By now, the color was almost gone from his body below the waist. Her body, actually; there was no male bulge in the front of the pink panty she seemed to be wearing. Her waist was narrower, and her hips were wider. Her butt was swelling out to the inverted heart-shape of a young woman.
The silver was fading fast. Sam was wearing a lovely one-piece teddy that hugged her figure. The last vestige of silver left her chest as the front of the teddy swelled outward, filled with what I’d guess were probably 34-B breasts. There was no hint of an adam’s apple in her long, slender neck.
Sam’s face could be seen now. Her eyebrows were two thin lines over eyes that, once the silver left them, were a bright blue, rather than the brown they had been. Her nose was smaller, pert, and her lips were fuller. They were covered with a pale pink polish, not strands of silver. Her cheekbones were higher, as well. She didn’t look anything like Sam Hanson anymore. Actually, she looked a lot like my mother. And me,
“What the hell?” She suddenly blinked. Then she shook her head, trying to get rid of the confusion she felt. The bumps in her hair turned out to be pink baby orchids.
Cathy had been in the mall with me when I met that old man. She hadn’t believed a word of what he’d said. Until that moment; now she believed, and she was more than willing to play along. “Are you all right, Amber?”
“Who’s Amber,” Sam asked. And what… what’s the matter with my voice? When I tell… Mom. Wait a minute, what Mom? Who-Whose Mom?”
I looked at the picture. It showed the same young girl that was standing before me. Only she was smiling, almost laughing as she poured me that drink. “You. You are Amber,” I told her. “Amber Fletcher, my sixteen year-old sister.
“You’re crazy. I’m…” She looked down at her body. The view, though, was partly blocked by two breasts, clearly visible in the cups of the pink teddy she wore. Her hand shot down to her groin, and her mouth dropped as she felt no masculine lump, only a flat surface over a very sensitive slit.
“But I… I’m Sam… Sam Hanson and – but I-I remember playing with baby dolls and wearing cute dresses – cute dresses? I’m… I’m Amber Fletcher, too. How?”
Cathy turned the confused girl to face the full-standing mirror placed nearby.
Amber stared a moment, uncertain. Then she began to pose, shifting to look at her back – and her backside; facing the mirror, one hand on her hip; taking a breath and pushing her… chest out. “I look so grown up, so… No! I’m a man, darn it! A man.” A man, hah! She couldn’t even curse like a grown man anymore,
“Amber!” Cathy clapped her hands.
My new sister turned at the sound of her name. “Yes?”
“I know how pretty you look, Amber; like a real grown-up lady.” Cathy saw the girl smile, but then look confused and uncertain. Sam and Amber were fighting it out inside the girl’s head, and Cathy wanted to give Amber some help. “It’s getting late. You’ve got to get into your dress.”
“My… My dress?” She looked around the room.
I decided to put in my two cents. “Yes; your dress. I can’t get married without my junior bridesmaid standing next to me in her pretty pink dress.” I pointed to the rack where my wedding dress hung. Next to it was a dress that hadn’t been there, that probably hadn’t even existed, a few minutes before. It was a pink bridesmaid dress, identical to the one Cathy already had on, but smaller. Amber’s size.
“I-I guess.” Amber walked slowly over to the rack. “I remember trying this on. So… so many memories, and they’re getting stronger. Sam’s losing, getting weaker.” She looked dazed, but she took the dress off the rack. She shifted it over her head and let it slip down onto her body.
Cathy stepped over to her. “Need help?” The dress buttoned in the back. Only female clothes do that.
Amber shook her head. “No, I can manage it.” Her arms reached behind her, and she buttoned the garment easily, as if she’d had years of practice. Then, while Cathy helped me into my wedding gown, Amber preened in the mirror like the teenage girl she appeared to be.
* * * * *
The ceremony went off without a hitch. Marty looked so handsome, and when the minister said, “I now pronounce you man and wife,” and told him, “You may kiss the bride.” He certainly did. I felt that kiss down to my toes. I kissed him back, too, a kiss that promised a lot more as soon as we could be alone.
When I looked over at them, Amber was tearing up as much as Cathy was.
And when it came time to toss the bouquet, Amber was there with Cathy trying to catch it. Cathy was the one who did, and she smiled at me and then at Jim Heinz. They’d been dating for a while, and she told me that it looked serious. I hope the bouquet gave him a push in that direction.
* * * * *
Finally, it was time to go. Marty was changing in his hotel room, while Amber helped me switch from my gown to the simple white cotton dress I would be wearing on the flight to Bermuda. I don’t know where Cathy was, but Jim was with her. I kept on the “fancy” underwear I’d worn under my gown, off-white silk and satin bustier, frilly white thong, and matching garter belt; white stockings, too. I planned to let Marty take those things off me when we got to our room.
It suddenly occurred to me that Sam Hanson was getting to see me in that sexy outfit, after all. Except I didn’t think that there was much of Sam left. “Did you enjoy the wedding?” I asked, trying to sound her out.
“Sam didn’t,” she said frowning. “He’s still around; sort off. I remember being him, and I remember how you changed me with that camera.” She looked around the hotel room. “Where is it, by the way?”
I looked, too. I remembered setting it in a drawer in the nightstand, but it was gone. There was an envelope in its place. I opened it and read a typed note.
“Item: PolaSRUid Camera; “My Sweet Little Sister” model. Rental fee: $9.50. Deposit of $40 returned. Congratulations on your marriage.” Four ten dollar bills were in with the note.
I showed Amber the note. “I guess there’s no way of changing you back.” As if I wanted to.
“I don’t mind... much.” She shrugged. “I think I like being Amber. Sam was kind of a creepy guy, and I don’t think I like him very much.”
“Besides, Tony Schmidt was at the wedding. He’s a junior at the school that Amber – that I go to. We went into the hotel garden after the meal and…” She blushed. “…he kissed me. I-I know I liked that.”
Nerd-No-More
by Ellie Dauber (c) 2018
Tired of being bullied? Take Nerd-No-More and see the change.
* * * * *
Nerd-No-More -- Available by prescription only; talk to your doctor now.
Attachment | Size |
---|---|
Multi-colored, multi-typeface, illustrated ad | 150.93 KB |
Nerd-No-More, that great little, bio-chemical problem solver.
Attachment | Size |
---|---|
Nerd-No-More 2.pdf | 314.58 KB |
Nerd-No-More Ad #3
by Ellie Dauber
Commercial products have been put to political use since the dawn of time. This use (misuse to some) of Nerd-No-More is only the latest case, and the Nerd-no-More company claims no responsbility for the INDEPENDENT actions of one or more of its customers.
Attachment | Size |
---|---|
Nerd-No-More Ad 3.pdf | 305.64 KB |
When Mrs. Hejak thinks her daughter Kera is being mistreated by her boyfriend, she turns him into a girl and gives him an ultimatum - break up with Kera when she gets back in town, or be stuck as a woman forever.
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2001
Nate Quinn looked at his watch. It was 8:43. Just enough time to nuke some nachos and get a beer before Monday night football started. There was a good game scheduled, and, much to Nate's surprise, Dennis Miller hadn't sucked nearly as much as a commentator as Nate had expected.
Nate had just hit the start button on the microwave when the doorbell rang. "Who is it," he yelled, running in from the kitchenette of his apartment. He wasn't expecting anyone, and Kera Hejak, his girlfriend, was out of town on some kind of business trip for the next few days. They'd been getting very serious about one another, and he had been thinking about proposing marriage when she got back. He smiled. 'Maybe she came back early.'
"Kera." The voice was vibrant and feminine.
Nate ran to the door and flung it open. Kera Hejak was 24, a willowy brunette, about five foot nine of feminine curves. She was dressed in a simple gray business suit, with a skirt that came to just above the knee. Her long brown hair was done up in a french twist, and her make-up was understated.
Nate reached out to take her hand as she walked into the apartment. She pulled away, a look of revulsion on her face. "Please, no. Is bad enough that I had to come here at all."
Nate closed the door behind her. "Kera, what's the matter? Why are you so mad at me?"
"Because of what you do to my daughter."
"Daughter? I don't understand?"
"Then I show you." Kera made a strange gesture with her hands. As Nate watched, she began to change. She shrank by three or four inches while gaining about twenty pounds. Her face wrinkled, and her hair darkened, then turned a solid gray as it rearranged itself into a simple bun. The business suit became a housedress and sweater. Her three-inch heels changed into a pair of comfortable flats. Kera had somehow become her mother.
"Mrs. Hejak?" Nate looked at the transformed woman in amazement. "What? How did you do that? Where's Kera? Is she all right?"
"She still in Chicago, Mr. Quinn. I spoke to her last night. She is fine."
Nate tried to be diplomatic. "I'll admit that you and I haven't hit it off very well, but maybe we can do something about that; now that you're here tonight. Why did you come, by the way? And why -- and how -- did you come here looking like Kera?""
"I use Kera' s form to show that I powerful enough to be taken seriously. Why I come is to make you go away."
"What! Look, Mrs. Hejak, Kara and I are very fond of each other, and nothing you say can make me 'go away'."
"You won't just leave because I ask you. I know that, but I have good bit of money. How much it take to get you to leave her?"
"There isn't enough. I truly love Kera too much to put my feelings up for sale."
"So, you have some sense of honor. At least you not total stinker."
"Thanks...I think. If we're finished talking about my character, may I get you something to drink? Then you can tell me how you managed that trick."
"Discussion is finished, Mr. Quinn, but not the way that you think. I offer money first just to see how stubborn you are. " She paused for a moment. "You see what my magic do to me. I use on you if you not leave my Kera alone."
"Look, Mrs. Hejak, I don't know how you pulled that trick, but I already told you. I love Kera, and I don't want to give her up."
"You think it only a trick." She made an odd gesture with her right hand. "Now I do it to you." The air seemed to shimmer around her hand. The shimmering became a sort of mass of silvered sparkles that flowed through the air and towards Nate. He tried to dodge, but the flow followed him and suddenly passed without effort into his body.
Nate looked down at his chest. There was a faint sort of afterglow where the sparkles had entered, but he felt no pain. Then, as he watched, he felt a strange cold tingling in his chest. The tingling grew in strength, then it seemed to flow outward to every part of him. He closed his eyes as the sensation reached his head. Instead of darkness with vague patterns of light, he saw the same sparkles he had seen with his eyes opened. It was as if they were actually flowing through, filling up every part of his body.
Nate felt muscles all over his body clenching and unclenching. He couldn't seem to move, except for his neck and head. His clothes seemed to be moving -- no, they were somehow getting looser on him. The room seemed to be growing, too. It was hard to believe, but he was shrinking. He looked down and saw the sleeves of his flannel shirt slide down over his hands, hands that seemed slimmer than he remembered.
His chest felt odd, tender against the rough fabric of his shirt. Then, as he looked down at it, the shirt swelled, pushed outward by what Nate instinctively knew was a pair of woman's breasts. They continued growing, popping a couple of buttons off his shirt. Nate could see them now that his shirt hung open. They were round and pink with dark nipples the size of quarters.
His pants began to get tight at the hips. His butt seemed to be growing. The pants were loose, much looser, at the waist, and he felt them slide down onto his now wider hips.
He felt the tingling as the sparkles seemed to flow down into his penis and balls. He grew erect at the odd sensation. Then the feeling kind of faded -- no, it was more like it was sinking back into his body. He guessed that his genitals were sinking in as well, converting into their female equivalents.
He felt a tickling on his neck and ears and realized that his hair was growing longer. He felt it slide past his shoulders and guessed that it stopped just after that, since he couldn't feel it on his back.
His vision blurred for a moment, and he felt his face twitching. He tasted something sweet and a bit sticky on his lips. He had to be wearing make-up now.
Then he saw his shirt begin to change. The arms faded while the rest of the shirt seemed to become some sort of sheerer fabric. The colors changed from a dark green plaid to a lighter, solid green color. The shirt shrank down, hugging his new figure.
He felt his pants sliding up his leg, not stopping till they almost reached his crotch. Then he felt the cool air of his apartment against his bare skin. His shorts seemed to move under the pants. The material felt a lot softer now. He felt something silky against his now flat crotch.
Suddenly, the feeling was gone. He could move again.
Mrs. Hejak let out a laugh. "I must say, you turn out prettier than I expect."
Nate panicked and ran into the small bathroom just off the kitchenette. He looked into the mirror in amazement. The image in the mirror looked a lot like him, same color hair and eyes, similar shape to the eyes and the nose. But the hair was longer, and his lips were a bit fuller. He -- no, she -- was the sister Nate had never had.
There was certainly nothing masculine about the body, though. She was a good six inches shorter, a slender girl with wide hips, a narrow waist, and what looked like 36-C breasts. Since she was only about 5 foot 5 inches, now, they looked even bigger.
Her flannel shirt and jeans were gone, too. The girl in the mirror wore a pale green camisole and matching denim cut-offs. Nate looked down at herself. Her socks were gone, replaced by a pair of fuzzy mules with a two-inch heel. Nate had never worn heels before, had never even thought about wearing heels. Yet, just now, she'd run across the room in them as if she'd been wearing them all her life.
She came storming out of the bathroom. Mrs. Hejak was standing in the center of the room, arms crossed over her chest and looking very satisfied with herself.
"I don't know what you did, lady," Nate growled, raising her hand in a fist, "but you're UN-doing it and right now!"
Mrs. Hejak didn't move. "Such a bad temper. Tsk, tsk, it so unladylike."
"I'm not a lady. I'm a guy!"
"Really? Then why -- and how -- _this_ happening to you." She made another gesture before Nate could stop her.
Something, something Nate couldn't see, was rubbing her breasts, caressing them. The nipples began to tingle and stiffen. Tiny sparks of pleasure flowed out of them through her body, especially down to her groin. The sensations on her breasts didn't stop, but Nate felt something -- an invisible finger -- slowly slide its way down to her crotch.
"No, p...please. Stop!" She was frozen, unable to move. The hand -- if it _was_ a hand -- reached her crotch. A finger played along the lips of her new vagina. Nate felt herself growing warm down there -- and wet. The finger moved in and began to rub against her clit. Her hips responded, moving in time with the finger.
She cried again, "Sto...stop, plea...uh, oh...please do..uhh...don't!" Then she felt something, something that she didn't want to think about, something larger than a finger, slide into her moist vagina. It moved in and out, and her entire body matched the movements. A feeling of immense energy, immense pleasure, grew within her groin, then exploded out through her entire body.
She screamed in ecstasy as the world grew dark.
Sometime later, Nate found herself lying on the floor. There was a sort of afterglow warming her, and she couldn't stop herself from smiling. That is, not until she looked up and saw Mrs. Hejak still standing there.
"Ready to admit that you a girl, now?"
Nate ran her fingers through her hair. "I guess I have to, but why -- why did you do this to me?"
"Because you want to betray my daughter, to lead her on, use her body, and desert her."
"No, no, I don't. I love Kera. I would never want to hurt her."
"Well, now you not have choice."
"You -- you're not going to leave me like this, are you?"
"You be Nate-ely...Natalie Quinn for the next two days. You live the life you would have lived if you been born a woman, and none but you or I will remember that you not. You see, you even gonna act like you was a girl. When Kera come back from Chicago, you change back -- for a while."
"For a while? Why? What do you mean?"
"So you can break up with her. You change back when she land because she want to call you when her plane come in. Tell her whatever you want when you see her that evening, but try not to hurt her."
"But I don't want to hurt her -- or to break up with her."
"You have no choice. When she leaves you that night, the spell ends -- _if_ you two are no longer together."
"And if we are still together -- at the end of the evening, I mean."
"Then, you not be together at one minute longer. You be Natalie again. Forever this time, and Kera will never have heard of you."
"Never?"
"Oh, she may know a girl named Natalie Quinn, but Kera not be in love with her." She laughed. "Is perfect. Either way, my little one is protected." She turned and quickly waked out of the apartment.
Natalie Quinn looked down at her new, feminine body. It was still tingling from the -- from whatever she'd experienced a few moments before. "Oh, Kera, what have you gotten me into? And how the Hell am I going to get out of it?"
* * * * *
The radio turned on at 6:45 AM, some thirty minutes earlier than it was usually set for. "I don't remember re-setting it," Nate thought, "or changing the station." Nate normally listened to a morning sports show, not NPR.
A hand reached out to hit the snooze button, a slender hand with long, feminine fingers, fingers manicured and the nails covered with a pale pink polish. Natalie Quinn brought the hand close to her face. She was suddenly wide awake. She looked down at herself under the covers. The body looked smaller, and there were two very prominent bulges at chest level. "Mrs. Hejak," she said in amazement. "It -- it wasn't a dream."
Natalie threw back the covers and looked down and her body. When had she changed into a woman's pink babydoll nightgown? But then, when had she re-set her radio alarm or changed the station? She sat up and looked around the room. Mrs. Hejak hadn't stopped with changing her or her clothes. The curtains were a frilly yellow, now, instead of the solid brown ones that had hung there the day before. There was a small vanity table against one wall, its top covered with various cosmetics. There were some brushes that Natalie had never seen before, and her mother's old jewelry box sat on top of her dresser. Even her bed linen had changed. The dark brown bedspread was now a pale yellow that matched her curtains -- and covered with tiny flowers.
There were clothes on the floor and tossed over her chair. She smiled. Some habits are just too hard for even magic to change. But then she took a closer look. The clothes on the floor were a high cut panty, cut-offs, and a camisole. A woman's blouse and a skirt were on the chair. She sighed and tossed the dirty under-things into the hamper near the dresser. She tossed the cut-offs on the bed, to be put on after work, and hung up the still clean blouse and skirt for possible wear. She suddenly heard a voice in her head. 'They should go into the hamper, not the closet.'
"What the?" Natalie nearly dropped the hanger with the blouse.
'A woman doesn't wear her clothes a second time,' the voice said.
"Now I'm hearing voices telling me how to act -- oh, I get it. This must be what Mrs. Hejak meant when she said I'd act like a girl. She put a voice in my head to tell me how to do it." She smiled. "Okay, voice. I'll listen, but I may not always go along." She put the hanger in the closet, determined to keep a little bit of Nate's sloppy, masculine self in her.
She took off the nightgown and tossed it onto the bed. She was naked underneath. She walked over towards the mirror on the closet door. 'Not bad,' she thought, striking a pose. 'Not bad at all.' She'd seen her body last night. It looked even better without clothes. There was still a strong resemblance to Nate in the face. She might have been his twin sister; same round face, same color hair and eyes, just as she'd noticed last night. Only her nose was smaller and her cheekbones a bit higher. Her lips were fuller, too, even without lipstick. It was definitely a woman's face.
The body was even more definitely female. Her breasts were full and firm. That same voice in her head told her that she'd guessed right about the breasts, they were a 36-C and with no trace of sag. The aureoles were about the size of half dollars and the nipples big and sensitive. She tingled a little when she touched them.
She had a narrow waist and nice round hips. She turned then strained her neck looking back at the mirror. Nice ass, just the right amount of roundness; firm, too. She gentle rubbed it with her palm and felt another tingling in her skin.
Now she got down to basics. Her muff was neatly trimmed to just a patch around the genitals. She could wear a narrow thong panty without showing any hair. She smiled at the thought until she realized that this could mean that her new self was sexually active. Natalie shivered again. She was _not_ ready for something like that. She closed her eyes and tried to ask that voice -- whatever it was -- about sexual activity. It was silent, and she wasn't sure if that was good -- or bad -- news.
She was about to go exploring her new sexual equipment when that damned voice did speak up, beginning to nag at her again. She didn't get up early to have time to play with herself. It took longer for a woman to get ready in the morning, and she didn't want to be late for work. She hurried into the bathroom and washed. There was a can of Secret where she'd kept the Right Guard. She used it, then dusted herself with a floral-smelling body talc that she'd never seen before.
Now -- now, it was time to get dressed. Natalie went automatically to one of the dresser drawers. She took out a pair of pink panties and matching bra. There were several balls, rolled up pantyhose and a couple of those egg-shaped pantyhose containers in a corner of the drawer, and she pulled one of those out as well. She stepped into the panty and pulled it up past her hips. The material felt soft and cool against her skin, so different from Nate's boxers. She wasn't sure that she would be able to handle the bra, but her arms and fingers seemed to know what to do. She put her arms through the straps and leaned forward into it. When she reached behind to fasten it, her fingers found and hooked the clasps as if it were something they did every morning.
She sat down on the bed and popped open the pantyhose container. 'How the heck did you put these on, she thought. 'They barely looked big enough for a six-year old. Still, her body seemed to know because a few moments later, she was straightening the sheer material on her legs. The material was so sheer that she didn't feel it when she was standing still, but when she moved, she felt the tension of it against her skin.
She opened the closet door. The nice rack of slacks and suits was gone. In its place was a double rack of skirts, jackets, and blouses. She picked out a pale gray satin blouse and put it on. The buttons were on the "wrong" side, but Natalie's fingers seemed used to them. The blouse was looser than a man's shirt,, and she felt the material slide along her body as she reached in for a matching burgundy skirt and a woman's tailored jacket. She stepped into the skirt and wriggled it up to her waist, zipping it at the side. She tossed the jacket onto her bed. There were things she had to do before she put it on.
She sat down at the make-up table and clicked on the mirror light. 'Okay, now what do I do,' Natalie thought. She found herself brushing some powder onto her cheeks. It was like someone else was moving her hands. She picked up and opened one of several tubes of lipstick from a tray. Pursing her lips, ship applied it, then carefully blotted the excess with a tissue. Her hands moved just as naturally as she applied mascara and shadow to her eyes. She didn't even flinch, much to her surprise. The image in the mirror looked like any other career girl Nate might have met in the course of a day. Only, this was Nate -- Natalie, she corrected herself.
She stood and walked over to the dresser, to her mother's jewelry case. She opened it and took out a pair of silvered earrings. Again, her hands moved naturally as she found the holes -- Good heavens, she had pierced ears! She picked up a wide silver and ruby bracelet and placed it on her wrist. Her watch was where she always left it, but it was a lady's watch now. She strapped it on, and grabbed the jacket. She was putting it on as she walked towards the bedroom door.
'Wait,' the voice in her mind said. Natalie looked down and realized that she was just in her hose. There was an entire rack of women's shoes on the back of one closet door. She reached for a pair at random, and something guided her hand to a pair of low, burgundy pumps. She stepped into one, then the other.
'This should be fun,' she thought, bracing herself for a fall with the first step. But no, as she had the night before, she moved as easily in them as if she'd been wearing heels for years. She smiled at the small success and headed out the door.
She drank some milk -- from the container, it was another of Nate's habits that hadn't changed -- and grabbed a sweet roll from the breadbox and an apple from the fridge. Her wallet and keys were on the small table near the door, along with a gray purse. Natalie tossed them in the purse, grabbed her mercifully unchanged briefcase, and headed out the door and towards the elevator. Five minutes later, she stepped out into the garage beneath her apartment building.
Her car, that sweet gray '83 Chevy Nate had spent a month of weekends tuning just right, was gone. Instead, there was a cute little blue Hunday in her parking spot. 'A chick's car,' Natalie thought. She got in, instinctively sitting down and moving her feet in, like a girl, rather than stepping in and sitting down like a man.
'If so much else has changed,' she thought, 'I'd better see where I work." There were business cards in her wallet; the same ones that had always been there, except for the new name. With a sign of relief, she started the car and headed to Miller, Hersh, and Greene, the consulting firm she still worked for.
* * * * *
Or did she? When Natalie pulled into the underground lot, Mark Franz's car was in her spot. Or should she say, "his spot", since the sign said, "Reserved for M. Franz, Director of Operations Research." Natalie groaned. "What the Hell?" She checked her business card again. Instead of listing her as 'Director', it had her old 'Operations Analyst' title. "Damn, somehow Mark got the job instead of me when old man Davies retired." She put her purse back on the seat and circled through the lot until she found a vacant spot two rows back.
Natalie felt self-conscious walking into the office from the parking lot. 'Anybody asks why a guy like me is wearing a dress,' she thought, 'and I'm out of here.' But no one did.
Lynn Corman, one of the women from her office, was already waiting by the elevator. "Hi, Natalie," Lynn said cheerily. I just love that dress you're wearing." Nate had known Lynn, although not very well. She was a trim-looking brunette, about Nate's age, wearing a long green skirt with a matching blouse with a pretty yellow and green scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. Nate and Lynn had worked together on several projects and become casual friends. He'd even dated her once or twice before he'd gotten serious about Kera. Now, it seemed they were good friends.
"Umm, thanks, Lynn," she said almost automatically as they walked in, and Lynn pushed the button for their floor. "I like scarf. Is it new? It goes so well with that outfit of yours, too."
"Don't you remember, Natalie? You and the other girls gave me this scarf for my birthday last week. Today's the first time I've had a chance to wear it in to the office."
Suddenly, Natalie had an image of about a dozen women sitting around the table at Sorrell's, a small bar about a block from the office. Lynn had a mass of boxes in front of her, and she was just picking that same scarf out of a small box on the table. Natalie shook her head. First, the voice, now, new memories. This was getting too weird. "I must still be half asleep," she said. "We picked pretty good. That scarf looks great on you."
"Well, I wanted everybody to see it." The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Lynn was a demographer in Joe Halpern's shop, off to the right. "See you at lunch." She headed down the corridor.
"Bye," Natalie said. She was guessing about where her office was. If she had lost out on the promotion, and still had her old job, then her office -- Nate's old office -- was to the left. She took that direction and quickly found her old office. Sure enough, the sign on the door read 'Natalie Quinn, Grants Analysis.'
'Yep,' she thought, 'same old office, same old job.' She sighed and walked in. The office was pretty much as she remembered it, though there were a couple of feminine touches, a couple of flowering plants -- azaleas, came the voice in her mind -- one on the window ledge and a second on the coffee table by her office couch. The Neimann football lithograph on the wall had been replaced by a framed poster from the New York City Ballet.
Natalie walked behind the desk and sat down. Another old habit was still there; she'd left herself a detailed "To-Do" list from the night before. She and Mark Franz were working on the same projects that Nate had been working on with Mark, only he was the boss, now, and she was the subordinate. 'Well,' she thought, 'better get moving. That project conference call is still set for 11 AM.' She turned on her PC, logged into the project directory, and began working.
Natalie spent the morning getting up to speed for the conference call, catching up on the details that she would now be expected to know as the grants specialist, with the half dozen grant proposals the firm was currently consulting on under her direction during the development process.
At 10:30, the phone buzzed. It was Mark Franz. "Nat, can you come over here before the meeting to brief me on what's where?"
"Sure, I'll be over in five minutes." She got the files together and walked over to his office.
It was a little aggravating seeing Mark sit in the chair that was really hers. 'Just for two days,' she told herself. She briefed him, and they had a quick cup of coffee before the meeting started.
The conference call went fine, except that Natalie caught herself early in the meeting wanting to jump in and answer a question or make a comment as the Division Director. That was Mark's job now. By the end of the conference call she was automatically deferring to Mark and to the clients on-line. It was as if Mark had always been her boss.
She was thinking about that after the meeting. This new life was getting more and more natural to her, and she didn't like it. She'd been less aggressive even than was warranted at the meeting. Was she starting to act like the demure woman she appeared to be? Natalie shuddered at the thought. 'Just two days,' she thought. 'Yeah, two very hard days,' she answered herself, 'but what can you do about it?'
"Nothing," she said aloud, making a face.
There was a knock on the door. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, hi, Lynn. No, just not exactly myself today."
"How about we grab some lunch and do a little window shopping? That always perks me up."
"Why not?" Natalie shrugged. "It's better than ordering in at my desk." She pulled her purse out of the drawer and followed Lynn to the elevators. "Any place special you want to go?"
"How about the Galleria? It's close, and we both like their food court."
"I guess." Nate did like the food. It seemed that Natalie did as well. Some things never change.
* * * * *
The Galleria was an upscale mall that took up the first three floors of an office building about a block away from where they worked. They headed straight for the Food Court. Lynn got in line at the "House of Chan", while Natalie went to the "Pizza Palace." When Natalie had her food, she turned and saw Lynn waving at her from a table near the escalators.
"What's with all that junk food," Lynn asked as Natalie sat down.
"What do you mean?" Natalie looked down at her tray. It was the sort of lunch Nate normal would have had, two slices of pepperoni pizza and a large coke.
"There must be a couple thousand calories in that pizza, two slices, and with pepperoni, no less -- I've never seen you eat more than one slice and that with just cheese." Lynn had vegetable lo mein and a small coke -- or diet coke, more likely.
"I -- umm -- didn't really have any breakfast this morning. I was hungry, and it smelt so good. I guess I just got carried away and ordered too much."
"Well, you'll never keep your figure if you keep eating like that."
Natalie smiled. "Probably not." She didn't want to keep her figure. Hell, she didn't even want to _have_ a woman's figure. She took a bite of pizza and shivered involuntarily at the greasiness of it. She tried to wash it down with her soda, but that was far too sweet. 'Damn,' she thought. 'Now my body won't let me enjoy this stuff.' She took a breath. 'Okay, body,' she said to herself, 'How about a compromise. I'll switch to drinking a diet coke, if you let me enjoy the pizza.'
Not expecting an answer, she stood up.
"What's the matter," Lynn asked.
"They gave me regular coke instead of diet." She walked back over to the "Pizza Palace." The guy on duty was unusually apologetic, she thought, until she realized that he was looking at her chest instead of her face. 'Well,' she thought, 'I guess I'll take a little leering this once if I can eat the pizza.'
Natalie returned to the table. For whatever reason, the pizza didn't seem quite as greasy. She finished the first piece, then ran into another problem. She sat and stared at her plate.
"I knew you were hungry," Lynn said, "but I didn't think you really had room for two slices of pizza and that big drink."
"I guess not," Natalie said. She hated to admit it, but she _was_ stuffed. They went back to the "Pizza Palace" and got a single slice box to carry the pizza in. Natalie put it in her purse. There was a mini-fridge in the office that would keep it reasonably fresh until she could eat it the next day.
Lynn looked at her watch. "We've still got about a half hour. Let's see what they've got over at Hanson's." Hanson's was a chain store-boutique on the second level of the mall. The window had a spring display, dresses and mix and match outfits in shades of blue, pink, and yellow.
Natalie caught herself looking at a long blue skirt with a matching sweater top. She was thinking about how it would look on her. 'With those new shoes....' Wait a minute! How did she know that she had a pair of shoes at home that were almost an exact match to that outfit? Even worse, why was she picturing herself in it, and, worst of all, why was she happy about what she was picturing? This was definitely getting out of hand. She shook her head to try to clear away such thoughts. "Hadn't we better be getting back?"
"Since when would you rather go back to work than window shop?"
"I don't know. Like I said, I guess I'm not quite myself today."
"Well, snap out of it, girl." Lynn paused. "Hey, how long ago did you and Ray split up?"
"Ray," Natalie said. "What do you mean, 'Ray'?"
"Duh! Ray Weston, your boyfriend -- your ex-boyfriend; you two split up -- what was it -- about a month ago."
Ray was an old friend of Nate's. He'd worked as a financial analyst for MH&G before he left to start his own company with a couple of other analysts. Ray and Nate still got together weekly to play handball at the Y. In this new reality, it seemed that they'd gotten together for more than that.
"Ray...but he...." Memories popped into Natalie's head. She and Ray had had some kind of fight and decided not to see each other -- at least, not for a while. Something seemed to tell her, though, that they weren't going to get back together as a couple, and she felt a pang of regret at the loss.
"Have you been seeing anybody else since then? Or even just been dating at all?"
"No. No, I...haven't." Had she? Natalie didn't remember. 'No,' the voice said suddenly and without emotion.
"Now, you're moping about here, acting depressed because you haven't gone out in so long. Nat, you need to get out and have yourself some fun."
"No, I -- I couldn't. I don't...." Natalie blushed. Looking at clothes was one thing; she could almost get used to that, but the thought of being with a man was something else entirely. The part of her that was Nate panicked at the idea, but the part -- the small part -- that was Natalie began to think of the possibilities. Worst of all, her body seemed to tingle in anticipation of those possibilities.
"Sure you do, Nat, but not right now, and you're feeling down about it. Well, nothing helps a girl when she's feeling down like shopping, maybe even buying something a little naughty." Lynn giggled. "Something you can wear to show the guys that you're back on the market and available again." She grabbed Natalie's arm and dragged her into the store. "Or some fancy lingerie to show yourself off to just one lucky guy."
Natalie closed her eyes and groaned inwardly, not knowing what to do. A very attractive redhead in the store's trademarked rose blazer came over to them. "May I help you," she said with a polite smile."
"We're just looking," Natalie said quickly.
"I'm just looking," Lynn said. "My friend here has been having a romantic cold spell, since she and her boyfriend split up. We're here to get her mind off it with a little 'shop' therapy, if you know what I mean."
"Certainly, my dear," the clerk said. "What would you prefer?"
"To leave, thank you."
"Oh, come on, Nat," Lynn said. "Don't tell me that the idea of buying something pretty to wear doesn't appeal to you. Tell you what. You close your eyes and think about it for a minute. If you don't like the idea -- not even a little bit -- we'll leave."
"Oh, oh all right," Natalie said. She was really a man, so she couldn't possibly want to wear something "special" for another man.
Or could she? She closed her eyes and visualized herself standing in a room wearing an outfit like the one she'd been looking at outside the store, a long blue skirt with a matching sweater top. A man, Ray Weston -- maybe -- his face, his features were blurred somehow, was standing nearby. He was in a shirt and slacks, a tie hanging loosely under the shirt's collar. He looked at Natalie and smiled. Natalie noticed what a nice smile he had -- how muscular he was. The room looked sort of familiar, but she couldn't recognize it. Was she imagining this or remembering it?
She saw herself turning slowly, posing for the man, even as she wondered why she was going on with this stupid idea of Lynn's. Her nipples began to tingle just a little. Her poses got a bit more suggestive -- what the hell was she thinking? The man's smile got bigger. The tingling got stronger. It began to spread down to her groin. Suddenly, he stepped forward and took her in his arms and kissed her. She could feel the tingling grow into a gentle heat that flowed out through her entire body. She heard herself sigh and opened her eyes.
Lynn and the salesclerk were smiling at her. "I think you lost," Lynn said, breaking into a giggle.
"I -- I guess I did," Natalie said. She was willing to admit defeat, but she was damned if she'd admit how tight her nipples still felt or the pleasant warm feeling in her groin. She sighed. "Okay," she said to the clerk, "but none of that 'naughty" lingerie you mentioned, Lynn. Miss, could you show me what you've got in a blouse?"
Twenty minutes later, Natalie left the store carrying an innocent looking pink shopping bag with two very sheer lycra blouses inside. "I don't believe I let you talk me into buying this stuff," she said to Lynn as they walked back to their office.
"Oh, come on, girl. You can always use another blouse. Tell you what; after work, you go home and put it on. We'll go out to that club you like, what is it? -- Nickleberry's -- and listen to some good music." She yanked at Natalie's arm. "Now c'mon. We'll be late getting back to work if we don't hurry."
* * * * *
The afternoon went smoothly enough. There were a couple of things that she'd been assigned to do during the conference call. She made a couple of necessary phone calls and began work on a meeting report with the additional information. Mark was the same sort of boss that she had been as Nate. He wanted the report on his desk by close of work the next day. Since she expected to be Natalie until the day after next, she was working to finish it in time. She wondered, though, what the report would look like and whose name would be on it when she was Nate again.
She did finish the report, though.
When she got home, she brought the shopping bag with her into the bedroom, tossing it onto the dresser without emptying it. Then she stripped to take a quick shower before she got ready for her evening with Lynn.
She showered, trying very hard not to notice how nice the streaming water felt on her breasts. It wasn't easy. Especially when she closed her eyes and had an image of a man -- she wasn't sure if it was Ray -- there in the shower with her. She felt his hands on her breasts. No, they were her hands, and she quickly dropped them to her sides. She reached out and shifted the water to cold. 'Just in time,' she thought, even as she squealed when the icy stream hit her. She forced herself to stay in for a few seconds, then jumped out and grabbed for a towel.
She patted herself dry, then dusted herself with a floral body powder. Wrapping a towel around herself, she headed back to the bedroom.
She opened her lingerie drawer, trying to decide what to wear; a garter belt and stockings? No, that would be surrendering to the sexy, the female feelings she was having. The feelings, the thoughts, were coming to her often enough as it was. She was not going to...encourage them by wearing anything so obviously sexy. She put the stockings on top of the dresser and took out pantyhose and a matching panty and bra in pale green.
She stepped into the panties, then drew them up, past her hips, to her waist. Then she put her arms through the straps of the bra and reached behind her back to fasten it. When that was done, she adjusted her breasts in the cups. She looked down and her body and shook her head. That was probably the strangest part of the whole thing, that she knew exactly what to do, how to act like a woman, and -- worst of all -- that she felt comfortable doing it. Just as it felt comfortable for her to be sitting there on the bed and carefully putting on the pantyhose, drawing them up one leg at a time as if she'd been wearing pantyhose for years.
She stood and walked to the closet, watching herself in the mirrored door. She looked good in the feminine underwear, and she had a nice, sexy strut to her walk. 'More of Mrs. Hejak's magic,' she thought. She opened the door and pulled out a dark green silk blouse with a high, ruffled collar. There was a matching pleated skirt on the hanger next to it. The skirt looked long enough to hang below her knees. She pulled on the blouse, carefully buttoning the small, gold-colored buttons. It wasn't easy the way the bra pushed out her breasts, but she managed. She stepped into the dress, pulling it up around her waist and tucking in the blouse.
She looked in the mirror again. She still looked very pretty, but not _overtly_ sexy. The blouse was a little tight against her breasts, and the way the skirt hung called some attention to her narrow waist and wide hips. It stopped just about _at_ her knees, showing the pleasant female curve down to her ankle. But she was an attractive female, and just about any outfit would have shown that fact. She could live with it.
Make-up was next. She put on a dark red lipstick, blotting it with a tissue almost without realizing it. A bit of blush and a little eye shadow, and she was done. No, she used some sort of medieval torture device to apply mascara to her lashes, making them look thick and sultry. She found a polish that was almost an exact match for her lipstick and applied it to her nails, blowing on them afterward. The polish was some new product that dried almost immediately. She touched a nail gently with a tissue and found no stickiness.
Natalie took a pair of thin gold bracelets from the top of her dresser and put them on her right wrist. A thin gold wristwatch went on the left wrist. She found a pair of gold earrings that she liked -- they looked like a pair Kera owned -- and put them on. Her hair was okay; she just fluffed it up some and let it hang down around her neck and shoulders. She was just dabbing a bit of perfume on her neck when she heard the doorbell.
"Just a minute," she yelled; hoping whoever it was had heard. There was a rack of shoes hanging on the wall of the closet. She grabbed a dark green pair and hurried to the door without bothering to put them on.
Lynn was smiling at her when she opened the door. "I was half afraid you were going to chicken out," she said as she came into the apartment. Lynn wore an electric blue tube dress that hugged her every curve. She had the top pulled low on her breasts. The bottom stopped well up on her thighs. She had on matching shoes, with a heel at least three inches high, and pale gray panty hose -- no, when she stepped forward, Natalie could see the top of one stocking held in place by a narrow band of elastic at the top.
"No, I'm still, well, kind of out of it, but I'm not going to let it ruin my evening" She stepped back, leaning against the doorframe. "I just need to get my shoes." She balanced on one foot, while she put on a shoe, then switched her stance to put on the other. "Okay, I'm ready." She grabbed for her purse, and the two of them headed out of the apartment.
'Damn,' Natalie thought as they walked down the hall to the elevator. She hadn't taken a good look at the shoes that she'd picked to wear. The things had a three-, no, a four-inch heel. She took a step expecting to fall over, but found that she could walk in them. The problem was the way the shoes made her walk. The heel accentuated the curve of her leg. She also had to take smaller steps, swaying her hips in a very feminine gait.
Lynn stopped for a moment to fix her own heel. She watched Natalie walk on for a few feet then hurried to catch up with her. "Well, I guess you are -- ready, I mean," she said.
"Why do you say that."
"The way you're walking, Nat. You're putting an awful lot of 'oomph' into the way your hips and butt are moving. That sexy walk with that oh-so demure little dress, it's gonna be like shaking a red flag at a bull when we get to Nickleberry's. I just hope a few of the guys stop looking at you long enough to notice me."
"I'm not trying to 'oomph.' It's these stupid high heels."
"Yeah, and you're the one who picked them. You're a billboard, Nat, and the message is 'Here I am, boys. Come and get me."
"Listen, Lynn. The heels were an accident. The last thing I want -- believe me -- is to get picked up by some guy." Natalie spoke slowly and firmly, hoping that Lynn would believe her." A large part of her meant it. But the way her body began to tingle whenever she thought about men, she was hoping that she believed it herself.
* * * * *
Nickleberry's was a rock club at the edge of a large mall about twenty-five minutes from Natalie's apartment. Lynn parked her Chevy near the entrance, and they headed in. The place was packed. The bouncer was starting to turn away people. Natalie thought he might not let in the two of them, and she would be off the hook. They waited in line, slowly inching their way forward. Natalie tried to smile when they got to the front of the line, hoping that they would be turned away.
The bouncer, a tall bearded man in a muscle shirt, looked at the pair of them closely. He smiled and opened the chain across the doorway. "For two ladies as lovely as you, we always have room." He bowed slightly at the waist and motioned for them to go in.
"Say 'Thank You' to the nice man," Lynn said.
Natalie looked up at him. He was just over six feet tall, but so perfectly proportioned, so that he seemed even taller. Natalie looked up at him, feeling smaller than ever. "Th-thanks," she said, feeling her body respond to the attention he was giving her. 'Am I going to get the tingles from every cute guy in here,' she thought. 'Wait a minute! I did _not_ call that guy "cute", did I?' She shook her head once to try to get the thought out of her head. A line from an old Bette Davis movie came to her, 'Brace yourself. It's going to be a bumpy night.'
The house band, a "70s revival" group with the original name of "The Generic House Band" was in the middle of a number as Lynn and Natalie walked down the long ramp into the club. Colored laser beams were tracing patterns above them, sometimes triggering holographic images like an indoor fireworks show. "Should we try and find a table?" Lynn shouted over the noise from the bandstand
"No, let's get drinks first," Natalie said. They walked through the crowd toward the nearest of the three small bars in the room. Lynn began to get into the music as they walked. She was doing a little dance step and moving her body more to the music. Natalie felt the music, too, but walked stiffly, her shoulders scrunched together, her head bowed slightly. She was avoiding attention as much as Lynn was seeking it.
They reached the bar just as the music ended. The bartender looked to be in his late 40s, a slender man with a close crop of sandy brown hair. He smiled at Lynn, then at Natalie. "And what will you two pretty ladies be having?"
"White wine," Lynn said.
Natalie wanted -- needed -- something stronger. "Scotch, straight up."
"Nat, are you okay," Lynn asked. "That's awfully strong stuff. Can you handle it?"
'Damn,' Nate thought. 'She's right. I need a drink, but I sure as hell don't need to get plastered.' She signaled to the bartender, who was pouring Lynn's drink. "I -- I'm sorry. I guess I'm not myself tonight. Please make it a white wine instead of that scotch."
The bartender nodded. A minute later, he was putting the two wineglasses on the bar. Lynn had reached into her purse, but suddenly, a large hand reached out and put a $10 bill on the bar next to the two glasses. "I'd be honored if you lovely ladies would allow me to buy your drinks."
Lynn and Natalie both looked around. The hand belonged to a tall, ruggedly built man about 6 foot tall in a dark gray suit. He was smiling, almost grinning at the two women. Lynn smiled back and threw her arms around him.
"John," she said. "I thought you were out of town." She kissed him, then turned to Natalie. "Nat, this is John Rutledge, an old -- umm -- friend of mine. John, this is Natalie Quinn. She and I work together."
John smiled and gently shook Natalie's hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Natalie. Are you two here with anybody?"
"Not until just now," Lynn said, hugging his arm.
"Great," John said. "Look, I'm also here with a friend from work. Why don't you two join us over at our table?"
"Actually, we just came to listen to the music," Natalie said, hoping Lynn would take the hint and tell this Rutledge guy to go away.
"Sounds good to me," Lynn said, missing the hint. Was she doing it on purpose? "How about you, Natalie?"
Natalie's first impulse was to say "NO." She'd let them walk away, then sneak out of the place. Only then what? She'd come in Lynn's car. It was much to far to walk, and finding a cab wasn't going to be easy. She was trapped.
"I guess," she said with no real emotion.
John signaled for the bartender. He paid for a bottle of the white wine, then lead the two women away from the bar and towards a group of tables near a wall painted to look like an exaggerated city skyline. As they got close, a second man sitting alone at one table stood up. He was tall, taller than John, and slender, but muscled like a basketball player beneath his brown suit.
John led Lynn and Natalie to the table. "I thought you were just going for drink," the other man said.
"I was, Bill -- Lynn and Natalie, this is Bill Ecklar. Bill, these two fine ladies are Lynn Corman and -- umm -- Natalie, Natalie Quinn. Lynn and I are old, ah, friends. When I saw Natalie and her at the bar, I went over to say 'Hello.' Then I found out that they were alone and decided to ask them to join our celebration." He set the bottle on the table and helped Lynn into a chair. Bill held a second chair for Natalie and helped her sit.
"What are you celebrating," Natalie asked.
"Meeting the two of you," Bill said with a wry smile. "Besides that, we're salesmen for Intext, the software company. We just signed a very large contract with the city to upgrade their human resources and computer based training systems. It means a couple of very large commissions with a bonus as well."
"Congratulations," Lynn said, raising her glass as if making a toast. "Natalie and I work for Miller, Hersh, and Greene, it's a consulting firm here in town. "She does operations research and grant writing. I'm a demographer."
"A real people person," John said, grinning at the pun. Lynn giggled at it, too, though she'd heard the joke before.
"Do you enjoy your work, Natalie," Bill said.
"I guess." Natalie was still trying to find a way out. The problem was that a part of her found Bill -- well, interesting. He had a nice voice, and he seemed kind of cute. Damn, where had that thought come from?
"Natalie's a little bit out of it tonight," Lynn said. "I thought if we came here, it might cheer her up."
"Well," Bill said. "At least it isn't the present company. Anyway, I hope it isn't."
"No," Natalie said truthfully, "I'm just not quite myself today. I'm sorry." She found that she was actually beginning to feel a little attracted to Bill. It was crazy. She was a guy -- wasn't she?
"Hey, that's okay," Bill said. "Everybody gets out of sorts every once in a while. You just sit. We'll talk, have a little wine, and listen to some nice music. Best way I know to get yourself straight is a relaxing evening with friends, okay?"
"I guess," Natalie said. Despite herself, she began to smile slightly. Bill was cute -- stop thinking that! -- but he wasn't really coming on to her, except as somebody just looking for a friendly face to talk to.
They just sat and talked. Between the wine and Bill's easy-going manner, Natalie found herself getting drawn into the conversation. Lynn helped as well, often asking Natalie a question or deferring to her about some point.
Natalie was explaining about a survey technique that the firm used when she glanced over and noticed that Lynn and John were gone. "Now where did they..."
Bill laughed. "You were so deep into that business about polling that you didn't hear John ask Lynn to dance, not that I minded. It was interesting, and my outfit uses surveys like that before they send us out." He pointed towards the dance floor. "Anyway, there they are."
Natalie looked in the direction Bill was pointing. Lynn and John were dancing to the fast melody that the band was playing. Lynn must have seen Natalie looking because she waved in Natalie's direction.
"Would you like to join them," Bill said.
Natalie hesitated, uncertain how to possibly answer. She was really a man, regardless of how she looked. How could she want to dance with another man? But Nate loved to dance, and the part that was still male inside Natalie was curious about what it would be like to dance as a girl. Natalie loved dancing, too, and she was attracted to Bill in spite of herself. He was strong and good-looking and, well, relaxed. He was just trying to enjoy himself, not coming on to her. She found herself smiling. "I'd love to."
Bill stood and pulled out her chair. As she stood up, he took Natalie's hand. She discovered that she liked him holding her hand and let him lead her onto the dance floor.
The band was playing a fast number, so they just stood a few feet apart and began moving to the music. Bill was a good dancer, moving sensuously to the beat. Natalie found herself matching his moves, getting caught up in the music. She danced around him, not really noticing the seductive way she was moving as one fast number followed another.
Finally, the band switched to a slow, romantic number. Bill took Natalie in his arms and pulled her towards him. She felt herself moving with him to the music. It was nice, surprisingly nice. She felt safe and protected without really understanding why. It felt so good that even Nate, buried deep in her mind, was enjoying it just a little. She leaned forward and rested her head on his chest. She could feel his heart beating; feel hers beating as well; her skin, her entire body tingled pleasantly, and she smiled to herself.
The band announced that it was taking a break. Natalie and Bill walked back to the table. As they walked, Bill reached down and took Natalie's hand in his. She looked up at him and nodded her approval. Her whole body seemed to be tingling.
Lynn and John were waiting for them. "Well, you certainly seem to have come out of your funk," Lynn said. "We came back here a good ten minutes ago."
"Oh, Lynn," Natalie said. "I -- I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't be, hon. John and I put the time to good use." Lynn was holding John's hand. About half the bottle of wine was gone. There was lipstick on John's face.
"I see," Bill said. "I'm glad you remembered to save some of that wine for us."
"Plenty left," John said. "But if it bothers you, we can order another bottle. Besides, we've got more back at the apartment, too, remember."
"Mmm," Lynn said. "Maybe you and I should head back there later."
"Why wait," John said. Then he turned to face Bill and Natalie. "That is, if you two don't mind."
"John and I share a condo downtown. I guess I can get a cab back later," Bill said. "I'd be glad to spend whatever time with Natalie that she's willing to spend with me."
"Yeah," Natalie said. "I guess I can grab a cab, too."
"We -- umm -- both came out in my car," Lynn said. "Maybe I can drop you off now, Natalie." She fumbled for her keys. "Where's your apartment, John?"
"About a block and a half from the City Government Center."
"Hmm, that's a bit out of my way," Lynn said. "Unless, of course, Natalie came with us."
"What?" Natalie panicked. Go back with a man to his apartment? She shivered at the idea, but only partly in fear. The part of her that was Natalie was just a bit tempted by the possibilities of going back to Bill's place.
"Hey," Bill said. "Don't rush her into anything." Then he took Natalie's hand gently in his. "Unless, of course, you'd like to go."
"Thank you, Bill." She smiled with relief, hoping he wouldn't read anything more into it. "You're a very nice man, and I'm very flattered. Only, I'm...well, I...we just met. I'm afraid that's a bit too fast for me." She actually felt a little sad at turning him down.
"I understand," Bill said. "And I, well, I respect you for it, even if I am a bit disappointed. Would it be okay if we just stay here and listen to the music for a while, maybe dance again? I promise, I'll pay for your cab home."
Natalie felt her hand tingle, a feeling that spread to her nipples. "That's very sweet, Bill. Yes, I would like to stay for a while. You're a good dancer, and I've enjoyed myself more than I expected to this evening. We'll, well, we'll see who pays for the cab."
"If that's settled." Lynn said, "I'll see you in the morning, Nat. Enjoy the rest of the evening." She winked as if to suggest that Natalie might change her mind.
"Thanks, Lynn. It was nice meeting you, John." She rose and offered him her hand.
"Likewise, Natalie. Don't keep this guy up too late. We've got calls to make early tomorrow morning." He shook her hand briefly. Then he put his arm around Lynn's waist and guided her towards the door.
They sat and made small talk for a while. Bill told a few stories about life on the road, including one very off-color joke about a farmer's daughter that got Natalie giggling in spite of herself. She also tried to remember it, so she could tell it when she was Nate again. ('It was a little too naughty for a girl to tell,' she thought.)
When the band started one set of slow tunes, they danced for a while. Natalie enjoyed being in Bill's arms. She snuggled in closer, resting her head on his chest. He was humming to the music, and she thought that she could feel the vibrations. 'Maybe it wouldn't be _that_ bad to go back to his place,' she thought. 'There's still time....' Time for what? To have sex with this man she'd just met? To have sex with any man? She panicked and pulled away.
"What...what's the matter, Natalie?" He stopped dancing and looked straight at her.
"I -- umm -- it's the...what time is it?" She needed some sort of excuse.
He looked at his watch. "About 10:40. I don't think the club's going to close for a while yet."
Natalie -- Nate -- had been to Nickleberry's enough times to know that it was open until midnight during the week. "No, but...I'm sorry, Bill, but I'm kind of -- kind of tired. I think the wine's getting to me a little, too. Would you mind if I left?"
"Terribly, but if you have to, you have to." He took her hand and led her back towards the table. "Let me pay the bill, and then we'll see about getting you a cab."
"You don't have to do that." He was so sweet, Natalie was sorry to be leaving him.
"I want to. Besides, I _did_ sort of promise Lynn that I'd make sure you got home okay." He put a $10 on the table. With what they'd paid during the course of the evening, it would more than cover what was left of the bill. "Can I share a cab with you?"
'No!' Natalie thought. 'If you do, you'll ask to come in for a drink or something, and I'll -- I'll wind up in...in bed with you.' She almost shivered at the thought, partly in fear but partly -- Lord help her -- in anticipation.
'And what would be so bad about going to bed with this guy,' the voice in her head asked.
'I'm a man,' she answered herself.
'Oh, _are_ you' the voice asked sarcastically.
Natalie remembered an old saying of her dad's. The first step of going crazy is when you talk to yourself, but everybody does that. The second step is when you argue with yourself. When you start losing the arguments, _then_ you're crazy. She decided to drop it before she lost the argument.
She smiled up at him. "It would be nice, but John said you live downtown. I live so far out that it would take you twice as long to get back to your hotel from my place as from here."
"Well, could you at least give me your phone number? I'd like to call you sometime. No strings, and you can say 'No' when I do and tell me to tear up the number. I will if you ask. I promise." He held up his hand, three fingers raised like a Boy Scout.
'Why not,' Natalie thought. 'When things get back to normal the day after tomorrow, and I'm Nate again, he'll have never met me. In the meantime, he'll be happy.' She took a breath. "All right. Do you have a pen?"
Bill took a pen from a jacket pocket and handed it to her. "Always. Even today, with palm pilots and such, it's still a major tool of the trade.
Natalie took a business card from her purse and wrote her home number on it. She handed the card and the pen back to him. He smiled -- that same cute smile that she was really getting to like -- and put them back in his pocket. "Okay, then. Let's see about those cabs."
There were a number of cabs in line outside waiting. Bill led Natalie to the first one and held the door while she got in. "Take the lady to...." Natalie told the cabby her address. Bill handed the man a $20 "Will this cover it?"
"With some to spare, sir," the cabby said. "Thank you."
Bill leaned in. He put his hand gently on the side of her head and pulled it towards him. He kissed Natalie, holding her there for what seemed to her like an hour. Her body began to tingle, and she fought the impulse to pull him into the cab. She sighed and broke the kiss. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Bill...and for the cab ride."
"It was more than worth it." He shut the door and waved as the cab pulled out of the parking lot.
* * * * *
Natalie sat quietly in the back of the cab listening to the driver cursing at the traffic. 'What am I doing,' she kept asking herself. Her mind kept going over the evening. Part of her, the part that was still Nate was repulsed at how she'd acted with Bill. 'Like some horny little twit,' he thought. Another part, the part that was Natalie, was also feeling regret, but it was the regret that she had turned down Bill's offer. He was cute and so considerate. I bet he'd be great in bed. Damn! She was doing it again. She whimpered and scrunched down further in the seat shivering. How could she think of betraying her male self so easily?
The cabby let her out in front of her apartment. She ran up the steps and into the building before he had pulled away. It was late, and the lobby was all but deserted. She ran into a waiting elevator and pushed the button. As it rose to her floor, Natalie studied her reflection in the mirrored doors. A beautiful woman stared back at her. Natalie's face was flushed; she could feel the heat in her cheeks -- and in her nipples. 'Oh, Lord,' she thought, 'don't let me be sexually aroused.'
"Why is this happening to me?" Natalie said aloud. She felt tears filling her eyes. Her legs were weak. "Why did Mrs. Hejak ever think I would cheat on Kera?" The elevator doors opened on her floor, and she rushed to her apartment. She was so nervous that she kept fumbling with the keys, but eventually, she managed to get in and closed the door -- almost slammed it -- behind her.
She quickly stripped off her dress and took off her pantyhose. It was a little too cool to just sleep in her underwear. She looked at the pink nightgown from the night before. 'Much too...feminine,' she thought. Too sexy was what she meant. She dug through a dresser drawer and found a long yellow flannel nightgown. She put it on and climbed into bed.
Her body was still tingling, and she absentmindedly reached down to touch her breast. Even through the fabric, the sudden sensation of her hand against her nipple made her realize what she was about to do. No! She pulled her hand away. She closed her eyes, but she kept seeing Bill's smiling face. She got out of bed and walked into the bathroom.
The sleeping pill had her snoring in five minutes. She slept soundly till morning. The trouble was that she kept having dreams, erotic dreams, about men -- about Bill.
* * * * *
The radio woke Natalie far too early. She stretched. "Man, oh, man, what a crazy...." Natalie stopped in mid stretch and looked down at her breasts pushing out the front of her nightgown. "Damn! It wasn't a dream. I really am a girl."
She threw back the blankets and climbed out of bed. The room -- everything -- had the same feminine look as she remembered it now from the day before. She glanced around, then reached over and pulled the covers back, making the bed. She took off her nightgown and tossed it on the bed. As before, she was naked beneath it.
Natalie looked down at her body. It didn't seem strange to her any more. It was, well, it was her body, and it felt natural to her now. In fact, she was proud of it, how good, how sexy she looked. She posed in the mirror, knee bent, hips cocked, and one arm raised, as if beckoning someone to come to here. She smiled at what she saw. "Boy, if Bill could see me like this," she said aloud.
Then she realized what she was saying, what she was thinking. The small part of her that was still Nate took over. Her face flushed with embarrassment. Damn, she was tingling all over. Her nipples felt stiff, and her pussy -- no, don't even think that. She ran for the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, then on her breasts, her body.
She felt better, and much more under control. She took a towel and gently patted herself dry. She could hear the radio; it was after 7. "Enough of this," Natalie said stubbornly. "I've got to get to work." She hurried through a strangely familiar feminine morning routine and went back into the bedroom.
As she stepped into a pair of yellow bikini panties, Natalie realized what the problem was. Mrs. Hejak wanted her to be willing to become a girl. The spell had created a real life that she was actually comfortable living. In a way, it was the simpler solution. If Nate broke up with Kera, the girl would be hurt, no matter how gently he did it. This way, as soon as the spell kicked back in, Kera would probably forget ever knowing -- let alone being in love with -- Nate Reilly. She wouldn't be hurt that way. She _would_ be hurt if Nate broke up with her
It was an easy solution, too easy. Nate was a stubborn man, and the trait had carried over to Natalie. She was damned if she was going to let that -- might as well use the word -- witch win. She just had to figure out _how_ to fight the woman.
But first, she had to get to the office.
She finished dressing, slipping a knee-length copper colored dress over her head. She brushed her hair and quickly, expertly applied make-up. Satisfied with the package, she walked into the kitchenette and tossed a bagel into the microwave. She poured herself a glass of orange juice while it toasted. She caught her breath over breakfast. "I can make it through this," she said. "I'll be Nate tomorrow, and, if I can figure out how, I'll keep Kera _and_ still be Nate. I know I can do it. I just don't know how -- not yet, anyway."
* * * * *
Natalie stared at the draft report she was re-reading for the third time. She wasn't sure that she needed to work on it. She'd be Nate again tomorrow, and it would be Mark's job to write the thing. Only, it had been nagging at her since she'd gotten in about a half-hour earlier. Right now, it was _her_ job to do the report, and it was due _today_. She felt herself compelled to do it and to do it well. Mark was depending on her.
The voice didn't help any, either. It kept telling her that she wasn't the boss. Mark was. She should accept her place and do the job she was supposed to be doing. It wasn't right for her to act as if she were in charge. The scary part was that part of her believed it.
"So what did you think of Bill." It was Lynn, bright-eyed and, mercifully, carrying a Starbucks bag.
Natalie looked up, grateful to be rescued. "What do you mean? He was okay, I guess."
"Okay! Girl, when John and I left, you two were getting close, _real_ close. I want all the juicy details."
"There aren't any. We stayed at Nickleberry's and talked for a while. We even danced some more."
"He's a good dancer, isn't he."
"Oh, my, yes -- I, um, I mean, yes, Bill is a good dancer." Natalie flushed. She certainly hadn't meant to say it like that. But she was remembering how nice it felt in her arms.
"Then what? You two go back to your place for a little...."
"No!" She blushed. She'd said that too fast, as if she were trying to hide something. "He put me in a cab and sent me home. He was a perfect gentleman." That was a good answer, but then the voice added, 'darn it!'
"Too bad," Lynn said, taking a plastic cup of coffee and a large muffin out of the bag. She broke the muffin apart and offered half, plus the other cup, to Natalie. "Are you going to see him again?"
"I don't know." She paused. "Yes, I did give him my number, and stop smirking. He said that he was going out of town for a few days, so I don't know when -- or if -- he's going to call." She stopped, not knowing if she felt relieved or -- damn it -- a little sad.
"Oh, I'm sure he'll call. He was quite taken with you."
"He was -- I, um, mean, how do you know?"
"Well.... He -- umm -- kept asking me about you at breakfast. I -- umm -- sort of spent the night with John. That's why I'm just getting in. I -- umm -- had to go home to change."
"Oh, and how was that?"
"Look, girl, let's try and get _you_ a love life before we start talking about mine." Lynn put her hands on her hips as if she were mad. Her smile ruined it. "Let's just say that it was a _very_ good night."
"No, details, eh. I guess a lady never tells, either."
"I sure don't, at least not _all_ the details." She sat on the edge of Natalie's desk and took a sip of coffee. "But let's get back to you and Bill. He said he's gonna call sometime today. Do you have anything planned for tonight?"
Natalie closed her eyes as if thinking. 'Nothing,' said the voice in her mind. "No, I don't think so; why?"
"Well, get yourself ready for a real nice dinner because that's what he was talking about. He asked me about what sort of restaurant you liked?"
"What did you tell him?"
"Sorry, I'm sworn to secrecy." She giggled. "He knew I was gonna tell you, so he made me promise not to reveal any of the little details."
"Gee, thanks." Natalie felt that she should be mad, and the part of her that was still Nate wanted to be nervous at being pursued by another man, but all she could feel was the pleasure that Bill was investing so much effort in her."
"You don't sound like you're sure about going out with him. Look, he's going to call. Think about it. At the worst, you get a free meal tonight in the company of a great guy."
"I'll think about it -- _if_ he calls." Natalie found part of herself hoping that Bill would call, while another hoped, just as strongly, that he wouldn't. She took a sip of coffee, silently cursing Mrs. Hejak and not for the first time.
* * * * *
Natalie eventually decided to give in and do the report. She'd been working at it for a while when her phone beeped. "Yes," she said, flipping the intercom switch.
"Ms. Quinn, there's a Bill Ecklar on line 4. He wouldn't say what it was about." The receptionist's voice was noncommittal; equally ready to put through an important call or to disconnect one Natalie didn't want.
"Thanks, I'll take it." Natalie's hand actually trembled as she pressed a button on the phone. "Hello, Bill. I didn't expect you to call me here at work."
"You did give me your business card, Natalie." He paused. "It is...okay, isn't it? I mean, I can call back if I caught you at a bad time." He hesitated. "That is, if you...if you want me to call you back."
"No, it's okay. I'm, uh, glad you called."
She could almost hear him smile over the phone. "You are? That's great. I wanted to tell you what a good time I had with you last night, and to -- umm -- ask if you'd care to have -- umm -- dinner with me?"
"I enjoyed myself, too, Bill. It was nice spending the evening with you...and Lynn and John, of course. I'd...I'd be happy to go out with you tonight. What did you have in mind -- for the evening, I mean?" She smiled at the sexual implication in her question. She knew what he had in mind. Part of her -- a small part, but it _was_ there -- wanted it, too, but he'd have to buy her dinner first.
"I was thinking about dinner, maybe; then we could go listen to some music, maybe -- unless there's something else you'd like to do?"
"No, that -- that sounds fine."
"Okay, then. Do you like Italian food?"
'As if you don't know,' she thought. "Yes, very much."
"Great. There's a place, Dante's, that combines the two -- Italian food and music, I mean. It's a very nice restaurant, and they've got a place upstairs -- the Lounge -- that has a dance band. Ballroom dancing, I mean, waltzes and like that, not rock like last night."
"Sounds okay." Natalie knew Dante's. As Nate, he'd taken Kera there several times. It was one of the best restaurants in town, the sort of place to take a woman you were really trying to impress. "You can pick me up at 6:30 at my place. I live at 6134 Oak, apartment 308, just off exit 22 of the beltway north of town. Do you know it?"
"I remember it from when you told the cabbie last night, and, yes, I know the area. We've got some clients out that way, including a couple not that far from your place, I think. I'll see you at 6:30."
"Fine. That will give me time to get fix myself up after a day at work."
"You mean you'll make yourself look even prettier. Is that possible?"
She caught herself smiling at the compliment. "Very possible, but thank you for saying so. See you this evening."
"I'm looking forward to it." Natalie heard a voice in the background. "Oops! I've got a staff meeting to get to. See you tonight. Bye." There was a click, and the phone went quiet.
Natalie tried to get her mind back on the report. It wasn't easy. She kept thinking of Bill. He had such a nice smile, and he was so sexy -- damn it, what was she thinking? 'I'll be a man again tomorrow, and this will be all a _very_ bad memory.' She repeated the thought to herself over and over. After a while, she began to believe it, and she could work on the report again.
* * * * *
Natalie handed in the report about 4. Mark seemed happy enough with it that he said she could leave early. She headed home as quickly as she could to get ready for her date with Bill
She took a quick shower. Her nipples seemed unusually sensitive as she had dried herself. When she touched them, she felt a warm tingling that she immediately recognized. 'Wow, I never thought of a shower as a sexual experience. Talk about seeing how the other half lives.' She hurriedly patted herself dry, dusting herself afterwards with a floral scented talc.
She reached into her underwear drawer. Instead of a panty, she inadvertently pulled out a lilac-colored teddy. She considered it for a moment . The top looked like it had some sort of built in bra. 'What the hell,' Natalie thought. 'It'll be quicker just to wear this.' She bent over and stepped into it pulling it up to her waist. Then she put her arms through the straps and pulled it up and over her breasts. It had a sensual feel to it that she liked. She adjusted her breasts inside the satiny cups. The silky fabric seemed to caress her body. There was more than enough support for her breasts. The feeling of cool material against her nipples was...distracting, it felt so good.
Natalie sat on the bed and pulled on a pair of pantyhose, moving slowly to avoid snagging. Somehow, it felt wrong. When she was done, she looked in the mirror. The pantyhose definitely did _not_ look right with the teddy. She carefully took them off and balled them up; maybe for work in the morning. She searched in the drawer until she found a pair of thigh-highs, smoky gray with elasticized tops. When she put them on and checked herself in the mirror, they looked right.
And felt great. Her body tingled all over. 'What the hell,' she thought. 'I'll be a man again tomorrow. I might as well see what it's like to wear this sexy stuff. Then she shivered. 'It's not like I'm going to let Bill see me in it.' She posed for a bit in the mirror, turning to see herself from various angles.
She reached into the closet for a dress. She made several choices, only to hear a sharp 'No!' in her mind. Finally, she pulled out a black dress that the voice seemed to approve of. It was sleeveless and cut low enough to show more than a little breast. Natalie stepped into it and pulled it up. She had to wriggle a bit to get it past her hips. She rested the straps on her shoulders and reached behind her back, pulling the zipper closed. The dress hugged her waist and showed her bosom off without being slutty. It was the basic elegant black dress of every woman's wardrobe, even if it did stop well above her knees.
Natalie placed a silvered bracelet on her left wrist. She'd discovered that morning that her ears were double pierced, and she put on a pair of silver and pearl earrings. She touched up her lipstick and applied lilac eye shadow, surprising herself at how easily she was able to do it. A dab or two of perfume on her neck and she was ready. No, without really understanding why, she ran the perfume applicator down the cleft between her breasts. She was about to ask the voice why, when she glanced at the clock radio; it was 6:25.
Natalie still had Nate's dislike of women who weren't ready on time, even though she understood now that it took a woman so much longer. She opened the closet door and looked at the shoe rack on the inner side. She pulled a pair of black shoes with a -- good grief -- they had to have at least four inch heels. But there was no other black pair anywhere on the rack. She sighed and put them on her feet.
She took a step, ready to catch herself when she fell. Only it never happened. She instinctively knew how to walk in them, taking careful steps and swaying her hips a bit. She walked slowly, and in a most feminine manner, over to the dresser. There were several purses in one drawer. She picked a black one with a silvered metal strap and transferred her keys and wallet from the brown purse she'd used that day.
The doorbell rang just as Natalie walked back into the living room. She looked at her wristwatch. It was exactly 6:30. Bill was right on time.
He smiled when she opened her door. "Ready on time and more beautiful than I remembered. Natalie, you are a woman in a million."
Natalie smiled and watched him walk into the apartment. 'Sexy,' she heard the voice say. Bill wore a navy suit cut to flatter his broad shoulders and muscular build. His tie was dark blue with small fleur-de-lis. "Nice tie," she said. Nate had owned one just like it, one of his favorites, she realized.
"Thanks." He held up a small bouquet of roses and a bottle of wine. "These are for you."
"Thank you, Bill. Please come in." She took the roses and the wine and went into the kitchenette. She took a cut glass vase from a cupboard, added some water, and put the roses in. The wine was already cold, and it went into the refrigerator. She brought the vase back with her into the living room and set it on a table near the TV. "The flowers are lovely," she said, "Thank you." She leaned up to give Bill a kiss on the cheek.
Bill took her head in his hands. He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips instead, a long kiss that made Natalie's entire body began to tingle. She sighed as he ended the kiss. "Much as I enjoyed that," he said, "we do have reservations for dinner."
"Do we have to leave right now?" Natalie found herself wanting to continue the kissing. At the same time, the part of her that was Nate hoped that they would have to leave.
He looked at his watch. "Well, I made them for 7:30. We have time for a drink first, if you'd like."
"No, no, that's okay. I understand that there's some construction on Packer. We may need the extra time to get there." Nate wanted to hurry them along before Bill kissed Natalie again. Those kisses were much too enjoyable.
"I heard about that at the office. I figure that I can get around it by going down Hudson."
"Hudson! But then you'll run into the jam up near --"
"Boy," Bill laughed. "I've never heard of a woman so hopped up about directions. You sound like a guy almost." Then he smiled again and looked her up and down. "But you sure don't look like one. Are you sure you don't want that drink or something?"
"Maybe at Dante's," Natalie said, feinting left and grabbing for her purse. "I -- I'm starved."
"Well, okay, I guess." Bill scratched his head and closed the door behind Natalie. He watched the show for a moment, looking at her swaying hips and butt as she walked down the hallway, then hurried to catch up with her.
* * * * *
"Is something the matter, Natalie?" Bill looked over at her quickly as he pulled into the lot at Dante's. "You haven't said a word the whole drive over here." She had just sat there, as far away from him on the front seat as her seatbelt allowed. Her arms crossed in front of her.
"No, I'm -- I'm sorry, Bill. I guess I'm just not myself tonight." Her concern was genuine, but it was mostly -- entirely, she told herself, though she knew she was lying -- about upsetting her...date.
He forced a grin as he parked the car and turned off the engine. "Well, fear not, pretty lady. Between my good company and Dante's food, you'll be fine in no time." He came around and opened her door, offering a hand to her.
"We'll see," she said standing up. She'd automatically taken his hand, and she found that she both liked and disliked the way it made her feel to have him help her out of the car.
Dante's was a bit crowded for a weeknight. The maitre'd recognized Bill and was apologetic about a short delay. He suggested that they have a drink at the bar. Their table would be ready in just a few moments. They took his advice. Natalie would have killed for a scotch but decided to stay in character with a glass of red wine. Bill ordered a bottle, saying that they could take it to their table.
"How was your day," Natalie tried to start the conversation as the waiter left.
"Not bad. I've been getting ready for a trip. I have to fly back to Seattle on Sunday for a follow-up to my last sales trip out there."
"Is that a problem?"
"No, I enjoy Seattle. It's still something of a boomtown out there, Silicon North. I spent my last trip explaining my company's fiscal analysis and projection packages to different people; everybody from new venture start-ups to, well, to a couple of Microsoft execs. I think we've got some nibbles, too. My office said there had been six calls from out there, and I get to fly back to talk to them."
He stopped for a minute and reached over, taking her hand in his. "Maybe this is too much to ask on a first date, but why don't you take some leave time and come out with me?" You can go sightseeing during the day, it's a great town for that, and we can be together in the evenings.
'And at night,' Natalie thought. Part of her -- no, a lot of her liked the idea. Nate loved to travel, as did Natalie, and Seattle was supposed to be a beautiful city. But Bill wasn't asking a guy named Nate to go bar hopping with him in the Pacific Northwest; he was inviting a woman, Natalie, to join him there for a romantic weeklong tryst. The problem was that Natalie knew it, and part of her wanted to accept. 'Thank heaven, this will be over soon," she thought.
The waiter came back with the bottle, and to tell them that their table was ready. They followed him to a quiet table in a back corner of the restaurant. He helped Natalie into her chair. After Bill had sat down, he opened the wine bottle and offered Bill the cork. Bill sniffed it, sampled the wine, and had their glasses filled. The waiter gave them menus and said that he would be back shortly to take their dinner order.
"So," Bill asked, "what do you think about coming with me to Seattle?"
"I -- I don't know." Natalie smiled. She didn't have to make a decision. She'd be Nate again by this time tomorrow night. "Let me think about it a little while, okay?"
Bill faked a smile. "Well, at least you didn't say 'No', so I have some hope."
Natalie reached over and touched his hand for a moment. "That's right. I didn't say 'No', and thank you for giving me time to think about it." Bill looked so sad; like Shade, the black Labrador Nate had owned when he was in college. He looked so happy, so eager that a part of her wanted to say "Yes."
They spent the next few minutes just looking at the menu. Dante's was considered one of the best restaurants in town, a little expensive, but worth it. Natalie was still trying to decide when the waiter returned.
"We're ready to order," Bill said. "We'll have a double order of garlic bread, the antipasto appetizer for two. I'll have the spaghetti carbonara, and the lady will have the pasta verde." He turned to Natalie. "Is that all right with you, Nat?"
Natalie just stared for a moment. He -- he'd ordered for her, just like she was his date. 'You _are_ his date,' came the voice in her head. 'Nod.' Without thinking, she did as the voice said.
"Fine," Bill said. He handed the waiter his menu, then reached for Natalie's. "Bring these back later, and we'll see about coffee and desert." The waiter nodded and left.
Bill didn't want to push the Seattle issue, so he let the conversation drift into small talk. They stopped when the dinners came. The food was really too good to allow more than a limited conversation.
Bill tried, though. He even invited Natalie on another date. There was a traveling exhibit of French Impressionist paintings opening that weekend, and Bill offered to take her on Friday. Nate had taken a couple of art classes in college, and he had been surprised at how much he'd enjoyed them. They'd talked about modern art the night before at Nickleberry's. Now, Natalie surprised herself with the pleasure she felt in the invitation. It was nice when your man remembered your interests. "Your man" -- oh, hell, she was doing it again.
She'd be Nate again tomorrow, and she could go to the exhibit with Kera. Still, for some reason, she accepted Bill's invitation. He all but grinned when she said, "Yes," and she felt a warmth run through her.
Natalie took another sip of wine -- just to get her mind on something else. Nate had always enjoyed good wine. Natalie did, too, it seemed, but she didn't have Nate's capacity. By the time they had ordered their coffee and dessert, she was feeling a bit of a glow. Bill noticed that she giggled a bit more at his jokes. She also seemed more relaxed. He was glad that the alcohol seemed to be making her forget whatever had been bothering her.
"How about if we have the waiter bring the coffee and desert to the Lounge," Bill asked. The Lounge was on the second floor, a small intimate club with a good dance band.
"Sounds like a nice way to end the meal," Natalie said.
"Fine." Bill turned to the waiter and told him to do as he had suggested. The waiter nodded and headed off. Bill stood and offered Natalie his hand. She smiled and rose slowly. She was a little unsteady on her feet and held on to Bill 's hand after she stood. Bill didn't mind. Natalie felt oddly reassured knowing that he was there.
"Let's take the elevator up," Bill said. "It's a lot closer than the stairs are." The stairs weren't that much farther away. Bill just wasn't certain that Natalie could handle them.
Their waiter met them near the elevator and led them to a table. He seated them and headed off. He was back a moment later with their coffee and tortelini. It was so good that Natalie forgot about the rum in the tortelini.
The band struck up a slow tune. "Would you like to dance," Bill asked.
Natalie found herself smiling shyly. "Yes."
Bill stood and offered his hand. She took it, and they walked out onto the dance floor. Bill took her in his arms, holding her close. Natalie smiled and looked up into his eyes. He smiled down at her, and they began to move to the music.
The band played several slow numbers in a row. Natalie felt relaxed and comfortable in Bill's arms. More than that, she felt safe and protected. She lay her head on Bill's chest. He was humming along with the music, and she felt the slight vibration. She smiled.
"Well," Bill said, looking down. "You certainly seem to have gotten over whatever it was that was bothering you before." He smiled. "I'm glad."
Natalie looked up at him. He had such a nice smile. She felt warm and safe and happy being with him. "So am I. I'm really enjoying myself." She said it as if she was just realizing it herself.
"I hate to push, but have you given any more thought to coming out to Seattle with me?"
"Yes." She had, and it bothered her how much a part of her wanted to go. "But I haven't decided...yet."
"Okay. Maybe that was an unfair question. I'll tell you what, unless you say otherwise, I won't ask again until we go to the gallery on Friday."
"Thank you. And thanks for the gallery invitation, too. It was nice of you to remember that I'm interested in Impressionist art."
"I did it for purely selfish reasons, ma'am. It gave me a chance to spend some more time with you."
"Well, it was sweet, and you deserve a reward." Without thinking about it, Natalie stood on tiptoe and kissed Bill. She meant to kiss him on the cheek but accidentally -- or was it an accident? -- kissed him on the lips. He pulled her close to him and kissed back. Natalie's entire body began to tingle. 'This is a lot more fun than dancing, isn't it?' the voice asked. In spite of what the part of her that was still Nate felt, Natalie couldn't help but agree.
They began to dance again. Bill was still holding her very close. She could feel the muscled hardness of his body. She felt something else, just there a bit below his waist. 'Mmm,' the voice said. 'He wants you.' Natalie felt her face flush. Part of her was embarrassed at the way her body was reacting; part of her was thrilled by it.
The music stopped, and the bandleader said that the band was taking a short break. Natalie and Bill walked back to their table hand in hand. She was still blushing a little, and she held her head down as she let him lead her to her chair. "Thank you, kind sir." She kissed his hand as she sat.
He pushed her in and took his own chair. "And thank you, sweet lady. Would you care for something to drink. Some more wine, maybe?"
"I -- I think I've had enough wine, thanks. I would like a little coffee, though. I want to keep my head clear," she smiled slightly, "for later." What the heck was she saying?
Bill signaled, and a waiter came over. "Coffee for two, please."
"Would you like anything with that, sir? Miss?" the waiter asked.
Bill looked at Natalie. She shook her head. "Just coffee, thank you." The waiter nodded and hurried off.
"This is a great place," Natalie said. "Thank you for bringing me."
"You're welcome. I'm enjoying myself, too, but I think it's more the company than the location." He reached over and took her hand.
Natalie felt her face flush again at his touch. She smiled. "I -- I think so, too. You're a real nice guy, Bill."
"I was hoping for a better compliment than that, but I'll settle. Tell me a little more about yourself, Natalie."
"What would you like to know?" This was trouble. Natalie's past was Nate's past. How could she pretend to have been a girl all her life?
"I don't know. Where did you go to school? What kind of music do you like? Anything you'd like to talk about."
"Well, I'm 25, and you know where I work. I was born and raised in the Poconos...in Pennsylvania; a little town nobody every heard of, Wassahannock. I went to junior college there. That's where I took those arts courses. Then I transferred to Penn State for my business degree."
"Did you enjoy college?"
"A lot. I had to work hard, but I had fun, too. Especially after I got to Penn State. It was the first time I was ever on my own."
"And you were 'Little Miss Party Animal,' I suppose."
"Well, maybe a little. I was on the girls' basketball team and joined a sorority and..." _Girl's_ basketball? Sorority? Where had that come from? 'From me,' the voice said. 'That's the past that _I_ had.'
She suddenly realized that Bill was staring at her. "Are you okay, Natalie? You just stopped in mid sentence and stared into space for a moment."
"I -- I'm okay. I guess I was just...umm...woolgathering, I guess. A couple of memories I wasn't expecting."
"Do you want to talk about it? Whatever it is, please let me help." He took her hand again.
She put her other hand atop his. "No -- no, I'm okay. Or I will be in a minute."
"Maybe this will help." He pointed to the waiter who was coming over with a large pot of coffee.
There were cups on the table, and the waiter filled them both. "Will that be all, folks?"
"No, we're fine, I think. Did you want anything, Natalie?"
"Uh...no."
"Very good." He bowed slightly and left. They slowly sipped the coffee.
"Did it help," Bill asked, putting down his cup.
"No, but you did." She smiled and took his hand again. "Thanks."
Bill lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "You're welcome. I...I know we've only known each other for a day, Natalie, but I think you're a very special woman."
'You don't know the half of it,' Natalie thought. "Thank you," she said. "I -- I think you're a special guy, too."
He smiled at that. As if on cue, the band ended its breaking and began to play "Unforgetable."
"Would you like to dance?" Bill asked.
Natalie nodded and put down her coffee. Bill took her hand as she stood and guided her out onto the floor.
They danced a couple more dances, hardly moving, just enjoying holding each other. As the band finished a number, Bill looked at his watch. "I hate to ask," he said, "but it's after 11. Do you want to head home? I know you have work tomorrow."
Natalie sighed. In spite of the faint nagging she was still hearing from the part of her that was Nate, she'd really been enjoying herself. Still, he was right. She did have to be in the office early the next morning. "I suppose."
They walked slowly back to the table, still holding hands. The waiter had left the bill. Natalie instinctively picked it up, but Bill took it from her. "I know all about you liberated women. I invited you, so I get to pay. You can pay next time, okay?"
"I -- oh, okay." It was the Nate part of her that had picked up the check, and she was glad that Bill had just made a joke out of it. She was even gladder that he wanted there to be a next time. 'Who says _this_ time is over?" the voice whispered in her head.
* * * * *
Bill parked near Natalie's apartment and came around to open the door. "Would you come up to my door," she said as she got out of the car. "I'm afraid that I'm still a little dizzy from that wine."
"Okay." He took her hand and walked into the building with her.
Natalie felt a bit confused -- no, concerned -- as she walked. She knew she could still feel the wine, but it was a gentle buzz, and she didn't really need help. 'Just giving you a chance to spend a couple of extra minutes with him,' the voice said, 'and to let you thank him properly for such a nice evening.'
Natalie wasn't sure that she accepted that, but she was enjoying the feeling of the wine, of leaning up against Bill as she walked, and of his hand holding hers; enjoying all that too much to really want to think about it. When they got to her apartment, she handed him the key. He put it in the lock and turned it, opening the door an inch. "There you are, Madam, safely delivered to your door. And the charge for that will be one good night kiss."
Natalie put her arms around his neck and looked up into his eyes. Her entire body was tingling. She felt a warmth in her groin and a tightness as her erect nipples pushed against the material of her teddy. Something, the voice, took control. "How about a good morning kiss instead," she asked and pulled him into the apartment.
Bill closed the door behind them and took Natalie in his arms. They kissed, a long, slow kiss. Natalie ran her tongue across Bill's teeth, then opened her mouth to invite his own tongue in. When it followed, she rubbed her breasts against his chest and ground her groin against his. Her entire body was tingling, that maddening -- that wonderful -- tingling.
When they did finally break the kiss, she reached up and loosened his tie, then pushed his jacket off his shoulders. Bill smiled and took off the jacket, tossing it onto a chair. Natalie stepped back and looked at him -- how muscular he was. Still smiling, he loosened his tie and began to unbutton his shirt.
She smiled back and reached behind her to unzip her dress, moving her hand slowly down towards her waist. The dress slid off her shoulders, then down past her waist to form an inky pool around her feet. She stepped out of it and turned slowly, posing for Bill. Her nipples began to tingle just a little. Her poses got a bit more suggestive -- what the hell was she thinking? -- but it seemed right to be doing it.
Bill's smile got bigger. Without taking his eyes off of her, he removed his shirt and tossed it away. The tingling in her body got stronger as she saw the muscles rippling in his chest. The feeling began to spread down to her groin.
Suddenly, Bill stepped forward and took her in his arms and kissed her again. She could feel the tingling grow into a gentle heat that flowed out through her entire body. She heard herself sigh and closed her eyes. She felt herself being lifted off the ground. She opened her eyes. Bill held her in his arms as if she was weightless. She leaned back against his chest and put her arms around his neck. He lifted his arm, bringing her head near to his own and kissed her. The heat was a furnace now. Her nipples felt hard as rocks, and her groin -- down there it felt hot and wet, oh so wet, and...empty. "The...the bedroom's through...through there." She nodded her head towards the door.
Bill smiled and kissed her again. He walked to the door and pushed it open with his shoulder. A moment later, he gently laid Natalie down on the bed. He climbed onto the bed next to her and took her in his arms.
* * * * *
A sudden movement of the bed half-woke Natalie. 'Someone's in the bed with me.' She panicked for a moment; then the memory of the night before came to her. She still felt some of the afterglow of sex in her nipples and her groin. She smiled, stretched, and opened her eyes, ready for more of the same. It was still dark, but she could see by the lights of the city coming through her window. Bill was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was...he was getting dressed.
"Is something wrong?" She rolled over and turned on the lamp on the bed table. The clock radio dial said it was just after 3 AM.
Bill finished tying his shoe. "I'm sorry I woke you, Natalie. I've got to be at my office at 8:20. I was going head home now so I could get a little sleep and still have time to shower and shave."
Natalie sat up. She was still a bit sleepy, but now her body wanted something else -- wanted him. She realized that she was naked. She could feel the cool air on her bare breasts. Her nipples were still erect, and now they were getting even harder. "Isn't there _anything_ I can do to get you to stay for a while?" Her voice was low and sultry.
Bill turned towards her and took her in his arms. "You are the craziest -- and the sexiest -- woman I ever met, and I would like nothing more than to stay here and make love to you until morning -- or afternoon -- or evening. He reached up and took her head in his hands and pulled her even nearer to him. Then he kissed her.
On the forehead.
"Unfortunately, I can't. The meeting this morning is my briefing for the trip. You know, the trip I promised not to talk to you about until Friday. I _have_ to be there."
"Pooh!" She tried to pout, but it just felt silly, and she giggled.
"Well, if it's any consolation. I expect to have a very hard time concentrating at that meeting. I'll keep thinking of you, how great you were last night, and the way you look right now. And what an idiot I am for leaving. There's no way I'll be able to pay attention to what my boss is saying."
"Good! I want you to have a hard...time." Her hand ran across his chest -- he was only wearing his undershirt -- then snaked down quickly to his crotch. She could feel his erection straining the fabric of his slacks, and she began to gently rub it.
"Stop that!" Bill said, swatting at her hand. "I have to get going."
Natalie leaned over, leaned against him. He was in just his undershirt; his shirt still in the living room with his jacket and tie. She pressed her breasts against his back and put her arms around him. "Are you sure?" She began to gently kiss the back of his neck.
Bill pulled away and stood up. "Natalie," he laughed. "You are insatiable."
"And this is a bad thing?" She reached out suddenly and grabbed him by his belt. She pulled him a bit closer as her other hand began to unzip his pants.
Bill sighed. He had to be crazy. Here he was in the bedroom of a beautiful, naked woman who was practically begging him to fuck her, and he, idiot that he was, was trying to leave. But he _had_ to be awake and alert for that meeting. Otherwise, they were just as likely to send somebody else. Well, he sighed again, if she was this eager, she'd be with him there in Seattle, and he could give her the attention and time that she deserved.
Of course, that didn't mean that he couldn't do anything for her now. He pulled her to him and kissed her -- hard. She moaned and parted her lips slightly. As his tongue moved into her mouth, his hand reached down to message her breast. The nipple stiffened as he rubbed a finger across it.
Bill let the kiss continue for a while, his tongue wrestling with hers. Then he broke the kiss and moved his head down slowly, kissing her chin, her neck, on down to the other breast. He took the nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue over it. All the time, his hand continued to work at her other breast.
Natalie's breath grew uneven. She pushed her chest forward as if trying to stuff more of her breast into his mouth. He gently lapped at her nipple for a while, then closed his mouth slightly and ran his teeth over the nipple. Natalie gasped, but she didn't pull away.
Bill continued for a moment or two. The he switched, now sucking the other nipple, while his hand now massaged the one he had been sucking.
At the same time, his other hand began to spiderwalk down her stomach. He could feel her muscles twitching under her skin as his fingers moved over it. He found her navel -- she was an "innie" -- and his fingernail traced circles around it before the hand moved further down.
Eventually, his fingers reached her soft nether curls. A nail traced a gentle figure-8 over her vaginal lips, and he felt them twitching at the sensation. Two fingers began a gentle in-and-out motion while a third found her clitoris and began to flick it like a guitar pick.
Natalie gasped. Bill was still sucking her breast. Her arms went around his head, holding it there. He matched the rhythm of his tongue to the finger on her clit.
To Natalie, it felt as if there was a direct electric connection between the two. She twisted her head form side to side, moaning. She felt herself getting ever so wet. A warmth, a wave of pure pleasure was building inside her. She moved her hips to match his rhythm, and clutched even tighter at his head, almost smothering him with her flesh.
Then something _wonderful_ broke free inside of her. Every nerve in her body "pinged" and she screamed and screamed, "Yes!" over and over again until it became a hiss and sizzle in her throat. It was first a yell, then a growl, then a low, sated purr. Her arms, her entire body went limp, and she collapsed onto the bed.
Bill leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek. "Later," he said. "_Definitely_ later." She looked at him through half-closed eyes and smiled. She felt too weak to talk. She closed her eyes and fell asleep, the smile still on her face.
Bill waited until he heard her snoring, a soft purring noise. He tiptoed into the living room and closed the door behind him. Only then did he reach down into his pants to adjust his erect penis to a slightly more comfortable position. "If _you_ had any sense at all," he thought, "you'd go back in there." He'd never met a girl so passionate -- or so quick to respond to any sort of sexual touch. "She's worth being a _month_ late for that meeting." He sighed as he buttoned his shirt. "Yeah, and you can show her how you feel about her when you're in Seattle together." He slipped on his shoes and left, still carrying his jacket and tie.
* * * * *
The radio alarm woke Natalie at the usual time. Her body was still tingling, and she rolled over, hoping to find Bill in bed with her. He wasn't. 'Damn,' she thought. Then she smiled. 'But he sure had a great way of saying goodbye. A girl could certainly....' Suddenly all of his -- of Nate's -- memories came flooding back into her mind. If was as if somehow the Nate had been sleeping since the evening before. Sleeping, or would "in a trance" be a better description? "Mrs. Hejak." She all but spit the words.
"You even gonna act like you was a girl." The old lady's words came back to Natalie. She certainly had last night, both times. She stretched catlike on the bed. It _had_ been fun, but she wanted her old life back. Or did she? This was getting confusing. Mrs. Hejak wanted to scare him into breaking up with Kera. Why was she making Natalie's life seem so damnably attractive? Unless....Suddenly, she knew. She knew exactly what was going on.
Mrs. Hejak's whole point with this spell -- of his being a woman -- was that Kera not be hurt. If he _broke up_ with Kera, there was no way she wouldn't be hurt. She loved him -- Nate -- him. At least, he hoped she did. _But_ if they just had a pleasant evening together, he'd change back into Natalie at the end of it, and he and Kera would never have been engaged. She'd have no memory of him, so she couldn't possibly be hurt.
For that to happen, Nate had to want -- actually want -- to be Natalie. Well, after last night -- and early this morning, it was certainly an attractive option. If -- no, no, _when_ -- she got back to being Nate, she was going to see how Kera liked some of the things Bill had done to her. Natalie's nipples began to tingle at the memory, and her vagina felt warm, and just a little wet. Damn!
She cursed under her breath and got out of bed. She had to get ready for work, though she might take a little longer than absolutely necessary in the shower.
* * * * *
"Call for you from Mr. Ecklar." The intercom interrupted Natalie in mid thought.
"I'll take it," she said almost too fast.
"I thought you would," came Cindy, the receptionist's, voice. "He sounds like a very nice guy."
"Snoop." Natalie clicked the blinking button on her phone. "Hello, Bill. I was just thinking about you."
"Good thoughts, I hope."
"Mmmm, the best." Damn, her female self seemed to be taking over again. Be careful, Nate.
"I just wanted to thank you for last night and ask if I could see you again this evening."
"I -- I'd love to." Wait a minute, what about Kera and the spell? "But I can't. A friend's coming into town today, and we made arrangements weeks ago to have dinner tonight and catch up on things." Man, that was _almost_ the truth. Nate never thought he could be such an accomplished liar.
"I understand. Girl talk and all that."
He sounded disappointed, but he was trying to hide it. 'He's so sweet,' Natalie thought.
"But we are still on for that art exhibition on Friday, right?"
"Unless the universe changes." Now why had she said that? "I'm sorry, private joke."
There was a knock on her office door. Cindy came in carrying a vase filled with roses. "These just came." She carefully put it on the file cabinet and handed Natalie the card. "He is nice," she said with a wink and left.
Natalie realized that she was still on the phone. "I'm sorry, Bill. The oddest thing just happened."
"Do you like the roses?"
"How did you..."
"I tipped the delivery man five bucks to call me from the lobby of your building. When he called me, I called you. Do you like them?"
"They're...they're lovely."
"Now read the card."
Natalie pulled the card out of its envelope. "To Natalie: Last night was the wonderful start of what I hope will be a long and loving time together. I can't wait until I see you again. With All My Love, Bill."
Natalie felt her eyes begin to fill with tears. He loved her. "Bill, the card. It's...it's beautiful."
"No, the flowers are very nice, and the words on the card are the truth. _You_ are beautiful."
"I don't know what to say, Bill. I -- I'm overwhelmed."
"That makes two of us." He paused a moment, and she could hear a second voice at his end. "I'm sorry, Natalie. That was my boss yelling at me to -- quote -- 'get my ass in gear for the meeting.' Unquote. I have to go. I'll call you later, okay?"
"You'd better." Ooops. Or did she really mean that? "Goodbye, Bill. She actually made a kissing sound.
"Count on it." There was the sound of a kiss; then the line went dead.
Natalie leaned back in her chair and smiled. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad to be a woman. Bill loved her as much as Nate loved Natalie, and she did have feelings about him. "No," she said, sitting up. "_I_ have feelings about Bill, strong ones, too, but I'm not sure whether I love him or just love what he does to me. Nate _loves_ Kera, loves her very much."
'Yes," said the voice inside her. "But wouldn't Bill be a pretty good trade for Kera. Would it be so bad to give in? Would it hurt so much to be a woman -- to be Bill's woman?"
'But if I do that,' she said to herself, 'Mrs. Hejak wins. What she did to me that first night, the way I acted, spending the night with Bill. It was her making me do that, making me think and act that way. If I decide to be with Bill, she'll have won. She'll be rid of me for good; and Kera won't even know that she lost our love. I just can't let that happen to her.'
"Yeah," she said aloud, "but the only way to avoid it is to stay male and to break up with Kera, to hurt her myself." There had to be a better solution, and she was going to do her damnedest to think of it. In the meantime, she might as well get back to work.
* * * * *
"Hey, Natalie, can I interest you in lunch?" Lynn was her usually cheery self. "You can tell me all about your -- umm -- date with Bill."
Natalie looked at the wall clock. It was 12:15. Kera's plane was due in some time before 1. "I -- I think I better skip it today, Lynn. I'm expecting a call, and I don't want to miss it."
"Phooey to that. You just don't want to give me all the juicy details. I heard Bill come in around a quarter of 4."
"Then you should have asked him."
"I did, at breakfast. All he did was smile, one of those 'took the undertaker three days to wipe it off' smiles. Girl, you must be damn good."
"A lady never tells."
"Yeah, but since when are you a lady? Well, if you can't come to lunch, I'll go with Cindy. You can fill me in later. Okay?"
"We'll -- we'll see. Okay?"
"Not in the least, but I'll talk to you about it later." She waved and closed the door behind her.
Natalie worked for about ten more minutes, as much to make sure that Lynn had left as to get anything done. The last thing she wanted was to be around people when she changed back into Nate. There was no way she would be able to explain it to Lynn -- or anybody else.
She bought a chicken sandwich, bag of pretzels, and a diet coke from the vending machines, went back to her room, and locked the door. Nobody would think anything of that; lots of people did it when they wanted to take their lunch break in privacy.
She finished lunch and tried to relax with a magazine, but she gave up after she'd read the same page three times. 'As long as I'm going to sit here,' she thought, 'I may as well to figure out what to do tonight.'
'Not breaking up, giving in to being Natalie is _out_; if for no other reason then because I won't give Mrs. Hejak the satisfaction. That means _I_ have to break up with Kera. Is there any way that could be a positive thing? Yes, if I could use it to be beat Mrs. Hejak; use it to get her off my back, maybe even make her help us get back together. Which we could, couldn't we? Maybe...maybe I can talk to Mrs. Hejak. She's got to feel upset when she sees how Kera takes it. Maybe she'll -- hah -- even feel guilty about it.'
'Yeah, I can try to talk to her -- plead with her to let Kera and me get back together. Then, if -- no, when, it's got to be when -- I have to try to get Kera to take me back. Oh, Lord, she's got to take me back. I -- I love her. We've got to be together. The only reason I'm not giving in and staying Natalie is because I'd rather be with her than with Bill.'
She was about to break down and cry, when she felt a tingle run through her body. She looked at her hand. It seemed to be getting bigger, growing more coarse. There was -- there was hair on her knuckles, and the polish was gone from her nails. She looked down at her chest, watched her breasts shrinking even as her chest and shoulders expanded.
Then the room suddenly went black.
Nate opened his eyes and looked down at himself; at his flat, muscular chest inside his white shirt and Windsor-knotted tie. A hand shot down into his slacks. _It_ were back! The whole male package was damn well back. He looked up and realized that he was in his own office, the Division Director's office. The report Natalie had written was on his desk, but now Mark -- his subordinate, Mark -- was the one who'd written it.
Nate jumped out of his chair and almost ran out of the office. He was...himself again, and he was going to stay that way. He looked around for somebody to talk to, somebody to call him Nate or, even better, _Mr._ Quinn.
It was lunch hour, though, and nobody seemed to be around.
"Miller, Hersh, and Greene." Cindy! Of course, the receptionists and secretaries took lunch in shifts to make sure the phones were covered. Nate walked quickly towards her desk. Then he stopped, all but froze in his tracks. There, on a corner of Cindy's desk, he saw....
"N-Nice flowers, Cindy." They were the ones Bill had sent him -- to Natalie.
"Thank you, Mr. Quinn. My...umm...boyfriend sent them."
Nate swallowed, closed his eyes for a second. "That wouldn't be Bill Ecklar, would it?" He _had_ to ask.
She looked surprised. "Yes, but how did...do you know Bill?"
"Umm...sort of, I was...umm...talking to him recently. He -- umm -- said he'd met somebody who worked at my office."
"It must have been very recently. We just met the other night at Nickleberry's, but we really -- umm -- hit it off."
Somehow, Nate felt relieved. Bill and Cindy made a good match. He turned and started back towards his office. At the last second, he turned and said, "Have a good time in Seattle." He was halfway back to his office before Cindy recovered enough to answer.
He'd only been back in his office a few minutes when the intercom buzzed. "Hello, Cindy. Bill told me he was going to ask. When I saw the flowers, I guessed that you had said you'd go with him."
"I'm not. Bill did mention that he was going to Seattle, but he didn't ask me. I like him; he's a great guy," Cindy said, "but I think it's a little early in our relationship to go away for a week with him, don't you? " She paused for a moment. "But that isn't why I buzzed. Kera Hejak is on line 2."
"Thanks, Cindy." He found himself agreeing with her, as he clicked the line. "Kera! Welcome back. How was your trip?"
"Exhausting, but profitable. I'll tell you all about it tonight -- that is, if you haven't anything else to do."
"A million things, but I'd much rather be with you." Damn, he felt like he was leading her on. "I'll pick you up at your place at 7, okay."
"Wonderful. That gives me time to get home and take a nice, looong, soak in the tub before you show up. Unless you'd like to show up early and, maybe, scrub my back or something."
Nate sighed. He knew that bathtub. It was more than big enough for the both of them -- he'd proven that on more than one occasion, and the mental image of Kera stretched out in it was one he definitely didn't need right now. "I'd love too, Kera, but I'm stuck here with meetings all afternoon."
"Until tonight then. I love you, Nate."
"I love you, too." Damn! Even if he meant, he shouldn't have said it, not with what he was going to do -- what he _had_ to do tonight. He sighed and listened to the dial tone for a while.
'Seattle must have been more of Mrs. Hejak's magic,' he thought. 'I should have realized it from how quickly I jumped into bed with Bill. She not only had me "act like a girl," she got me hornier than a hoot owl. I'm damned lucky it was somebody as nice as Bill that I -- um -- fell for.'
* * * * *
Nate looked over at Kera, as he opened the bottle of wine he'd brought with him. She was sitting on her couch, smiling at him, while he worked at the small bar in a corner of her living room. "Penny for your thought," she said.
'Might as well get it over with,' Nate thought. He poured Kera some wine, then filled a second glass for himself. He walked over and put his own glass down on a coaster, then handed the other to her on the couch. He took a deep breath and sat down opposite her. "Kera, I -- I've got something to tell you."
"Yes, Nate." She smiled. Damn, she had a beautiful smile. He had to be crazy to give her up, but if he didn't....
"I -- I'm afraid that I -- we -- I don't want to see you any more. It -- it's hard to explain, but I -- umm -- need to end our relationship. I'm sorry. Believe me, I -- I'm really sorry."
She almost dropped her glass. "Why, Nate, why? I -- I thought we had -- that you loved me."
"I -- Kera, I can't explain it. It's just -- I don't want to, but I have -- I have to."
"Have to? What do you mean, 'have to?' Is there -- is this because of -- of another woman."
"I -- uh -- I really can't explain." How could he tell Kera about what her mother had done to him?
She had been about to cry, but now she stopped and looked at him very strangely. "Yes, you do." She made an odd gesture with her hand. Her voice sounded _different_. "You have to answer my questions and answer truthfully." She took a quick sip of the wine. "Are you doing this because of another woman?"
He didn't want to -- didn't dare -- answer. "Yes, there is another woman involved." What was he saying? He couldn't stop himself. 'Oh, Lord,' he thought. 'Kera has the same sort of magic powers as her mother.'
"Who -- no, don't tell me. You said you loved me, but now, because of this other woman, you want to dump me. Am I right?"
"I -- I don't want to. She's making me do it." He wanted to explain that it was her mother, but Kera's own words were keeping him from saying so.
"Making you! Well, that tears it. You lead me on all these months, get me to sleep with you, make me think we're going to get married. Then you dump me when some new piece of ass comes along. Well, I have something to say about that." She stood up and gestured at him. The same gesture her mother had made! No, it couldn't be; could it?
Yes, it could. The air shimmered around her hand. The shimmering formed a mass of silvered sparkles that flowed through the air and towards Nate. He tried to dodge, again, but as before, the flow followed him and suddenly passed without effort into his body.
Nate felt that strange cold tingling in his chest. The tingling grew in strength, then it seemed to flow outward to every part of him. He couldn't move. He closed his eyes as the sensation reached his head. Instead of darkness with vague patterns of light, he saw the same sparkles he had seen with his eyes opened. It was as if they were actually flowing through, filling up every part of his body.
Nate felt the same cold tingle as his body began to change. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. He was paralyzed, barely able to move his head to look down at his body.
He looked down and saw breasts growing, pushing out the front of his shirt. He could feel the rough cotton of his undershirt against his erect and newly sensitive nipples. His clothes became looser as his body shrank. He watched his hands grow smaller, his fingers get slimmer until his shirt cuff slid down to cover everything but his fingertips. His pants grew tight again as his hips flared out. He felt the material of his pants move against his leg, and he realized that he had probably shrunk several inches in height.
He felt his hair growing down over his ears, tickling the back of his neck. His face seemed to twitch as his features softened and became feminine. The tingling moved down his body and finally seemed to concentrate in his groin. He felt his penis grow hard and begin to throb. Then the feeling slowly faded away, and he knew his penis was being absorbed back into his body along with his testicles to become female organs. He could feel a shifting below his stomach, as if something was moving up inside his groin as that change took place.
The tingling stopped. His body was finished changing. He was a girl. "Not again," he -- no, she was Natalie again -- she groaned.
"What did you mean 'Not again,' Natalie?" Kera's anger gave way to curiosity.
"I...your mother...while you were out of...she turned me into...Natalie." Nate -- Natalie -- wasn't sure how much to tell, but she still felt the compulsion to answer any question Kera asked.
"She turned you into -- why?"
"She...she said I was betraying you -- I wasn't, honest, I wasn't -- but she thought I was. She said the only way to get turned back was to dump you. I --"
"So you were so afraid of losing your manhood that you went along. Is that the story?"
"No, I...yes, I didn't want to be a girl. I -- I enjoyed it too much. It scared me, but I...I thought that if I -- we split up, then maybe I could have a second chance; maybe get your mother to let me...marry you."
Kera scratched her head. "The spell I put on you won't let you lie. Do you love me, Natalie -- Nate, I mean."
"Yes, I...whatever happens, I love you. I always will."
Kera ran over to Natalie and kissed her with a passion that surprised the transformed male. "I'm not a lesbian, dear, but I couldn't wait. I'll change you back and show you how I _really_ feel."
"But your mother? She said her spell was still on me. I changed back to...dump you. If we're still together at the end of the evening, her spell will --"
"Is her spell still there?" Kera frowned. "Well, I think it'll end when I turn you back." She made a gesture, the same sort that she'd used to transform Nate just moments before. Another silvered glow formed about her hand. She pointed at Natalie, and the glow moved towards the transformed man. Natalie flinched a little as the glow hit her and sank into her body. She felt the tingling again and sighed in relief. In a few moments, she'd be Nate again.
The tingling spread through her body, but, instead of a vague warmth, it grew into a searing pain. Every nerve, every muscle in Natalie's body seemed to be in agony.
She was unconscious before she hit the floor.
* * * * *
"Are you all right? Please be all right." Nate heard Kera's voice from far, far away.
Gradually, he returned to consciousness. He was lying in his bed, tucked under several blankets. There was a cool cloth on his forehead. His eyes opened. "Ummmm." His voice was little more than a croak.
Kera was there, smiling that wonderful smile of hers. "You gave me quite a scare for a while."
"See. I tell you this one not dead." Nate shivered at that voice. Mrs. Hejak! What was she doing here?
Nate tried to pull the covers up over his head to hide. He saw his fingers yanking at the blanket, his long, slender fingers with the polished nails. He lifted the blankets and saw his breasts, still there inside a lacy blue bra.
He -- she was still Natalie.
Kera gently took his -- her -- hand. "I'm so sorry, Natalie. My spell and Mama's merged somehow inside your body. The pain that you felt was the magic locking you into a female form."
"No...not a girl." Natalie looked from Kera to Mrs. Hejak and back. They both shook their heads.
"This what happen when young one meddles." Mrs. Hejak scowled.
"When I -- Mama -- if you hadn't put that spell on him, none of this would have happened."
"I say I sorry. How I know that only reason my little one so upset was because she had to leave her lover, not because he betray her?"
"You could have just asked me, Mama. But no, you have to --"
"Please," Natalie said, her voice growing stronger. "You mean I'm stuck like this. I can never be a man again. There's no way the two of you can undo this?"
"Is not possible," Mrs. Hejak said. "Two spells join together. Then they get in every cell of you body. We break, you...die."
"I might as well be dead," Natalie said. "I -- I don't really mind being Natalie so much -- even though I'd much rather be myself -- my _male_ self, that is." She squeezed Kera's hand. "It's that you -- you and I can never be together. I love you, Kera."
There were tears in Kera's eyes. "And I love you...Nate, but you don't have to be 'Natalie.' Mama's a very powerful, well, witch, I guess, is the easiest way to say it. She can make you into any female you might want to be. She can -- can even f-fix it so you -- you don't re-remember me."
"I -- I don't want to forget you, Kera. I love..." Natalie suddenly had an idea. "Any female? If that's the case, and if you're willing, Kera, then I may have a way out of this mess."
* * * * *
Kera came out of the bathroom, his hair still wet from the shower. He smiled as he looked at the woman lying there on the bed. She had hung up the light blue summer dress that she had worn on their honeymoon trip. Now, she was lying there on the bed properly dressed for her wedding night, in an electric blue push-up bra, high cut panties, and high-top stockings. A matching blue garter clung to one thigh.
Smiling, Kera walked over to the bed. The sight of his wife, Nate, displaying herself was exciting him, tenting the towel that was the only thing he wore. "Are you sure about this, Nate?" he asked. "Just because I look exactly like you now, doesn't mean I know how to use your body the way you used to."
"No, but you should certainly knew what to do to your old body -- that is to say -- my body, now." Nate smiled and ran her tongue across her lip just the way Kera used to. Why not? She was Kera's double -- no, she _was_ Kera now. She reached out for the now male Kera, now and forever Nate, as he lay down on the bed beside her. "After all, that's what marriage is about. Getting to know each other a whole lot better."
And they lived happily ever after.
The End
On a Ring and a Prayer
By Ellie Dauber
Cathy Reinhart looked up from the letter. "Johnny! Johnny, you get out here at once."
When he didn't come out of his room, she went in after him. He was sprawled out on the bed reading some magazine. She didn't have to look past the naked woman on the cover to know what kind of magazine. He still wasn't paying attention, but between the pictures in that magazine and the earphones, she wasn't certain if he even knew she was there.
She decided to tell him as dramatically as possible and yanked the magazine from his hands.
"What the hell -- hey, Ma. Gimme that back." Johnny grabbed for the magazine, but Cathy was too fast, holding it behind her.
"Dammit, I said give it back." There was a threat in his voice, but he made no move to actually hit her.
"Take off those earphones, Johnny and show me some respect. I am your mother."
"So?" He relaxed a little, unclenching his fist and taking off the earphones. Something was up. She normally didn't have the guts to pull something like this. His curiosity won out over his anger, as he decided to listen -- at least for a while.
"So this." She still held the letter in her other hand. "It's a letter from your school. You've been absent so much lately that you've been put on suspension -- and I'm being fined for your absences. You know we can't afford any new expenses."
"Hey, I got bored. There's a lot more to do on the streets than in that stupid school."
"But you need to graduate to get a good job."
"Hell, Ma, there's more to life than a job. Besides, Doc Brokaw says he's got a job for me now, if I want it."
"Brokaw! But he's a --"
"You know what he is, Ma. He's a man with money and power in this town. That's what I want, and that's what Doc says I can get, if I work with him."
Brokaw. Cathy's anger collapsed into fear. They said the man controlled half of the crime in the city, and, from what Johnny said, the man was taking a special interest in her son.
As the anger left her, Cathy's body relaxed. Johnny's arm snaked out and grabbed the magazine. "Now that we've settled that, get the hell out of my room." He put earphones back on and settled back onto his bed.
Head bowed, Cathy left the room in defeat, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks.
Almost by instinct, she ran to her own bedroom and flung herself across the bed. When she finally looked up, she found herself looking at the picture of Mick. It was the special picture, the one taken a week before the accident that had -- after fifteen years, it still hurt to think about it -- had killed him. He was smiling, that big dumb grin of his that she loved, and looking down at her and their infant son.
"Oh, Mick," she said, lifting up the picture. "If only you hadn't died."
Then man in the picture moved. Mick looked up, looked straight at her. "But I did, Cathy. I'm sorry, but I did."
"What? How?"
"You're dreaming, Cathy, but I'm using the dream to talk to you."
"It can't be. You're -- you're dead."
"You said that already. Please listen to me for a minute."
"Ah -- all right."
"First of all, I love you. I love you so much it still hurts to be away from you after all these years. I've tried to watch out for you and Johnny, but there's some things that -- well, -- that you can't do from this side."
"Oh, Mick, I still love you, too. I haven't even thought about anybody else since you died."
"Yes, you have, Cathy. And you should."
"What?"
Cathy, love of my life, you're a healthy, passionate, giving woman. I know that better than anyone."
"Yes, but I love you, Mick." Cathy felt herself thinking about Mick and remembering their last night together. She blushed at the memory. And smiled.
"And I love you. Only, you're alive, and I'm not. Cathy, our bed was a place of love and joy once. I can't stand to see it be my second grave. I want you to promise that, once we've solved the problem with Johnny, you'll go on with your own life. Find another love and be happy with him."
"I -- I promise."
"Of course, it'll be hard to find anybody as good as me." He grinned, "but you will find him."
"Mick!" Cathy smiled. It seemed as if some weight she hadn't even known about had been lifted off her back.
But there was still another weight. "But Mick, what can I do about Johnny? It'll take a miracle"
"You have a miracle, Cathy, your wedding ring."
"What are you talking about?" She looked down at her ring, the ring Mick had put on her finger on their wedding day, and that she'd steadfastly refused to take off (except to protect it from water or rough work) to this day. It was silver, a small diamond surrounded by five emerald chips.
"Cathy, that ring's been in my family for I don't know how long. My great-grandmother brought it with her when she and my great-grampa came over from the old country."
"It's so beautiful. I always thought it must be an antique."
"It is, but it's more than that. According to family legend, once a generation, the wearer of the ring can make a wish to save the family line from danger."
"That's silly. There's no such thing as magic."
"Then how can you be talking to your dead husband?"
"Because I'm dreaming."
"Believe that if you want, but, please, remember what I'm telling you. Johnny, our Johnny, is in danger."
"I know. I know." In spite of herself, she began to cry.
"Don't cry, Cathy. The ring can save him. You can save him. You just have to believe."
"I don't know about the ring, but I believe in you, Mick."
"I love you, too, Kit-Cat." It was a pet name he'd given her on their honeymoon. It never failed to make her smile, even now. "Remember what I said about the ring -- and about yourself. Have a good life." He seemed to be fading as he spoke.
"Goodbye, Mick."
He grinned again. "Not goodbye, Cathy. See you later." He faded, the grin going last.
Cathy suddenly found herself sitting on the bed. 'He always did like Alice in Wonderland,' Cathy thought, and she suddenly giggled as if in relief. "What a dream."
Then she felt a warmth on her hand. When she looked down, her wedding ring was glowing slightly. There seemed to be a pattern, a pentagram of all things, forming between the emerald chip. Maybe it wasn't a dream.
"No time like the present to find out." She stood up and walked back to Johnny's bedroom. The door was half closed, but she could see him still lying on the bed. His music was turned up so loud that she could hear it leaking out from his headphones.
She pushed the door. It swung open, slamming into the wall.
Johnny looked up from the magazine, that same damned smutty magazine. "What the hell do you want, bitch!"
"Respect, Johnny. I'm your mother."
"Who cares? I'm sick of you. Sick of listening to you tell me what to do, how to behave."
"Oh, Johnny, I wish things could be different, that I could have been able to raise you right."
"Who cares what you -- hey, what the hell's happening to me?" He looked down at his body. It was tingling like crazy, and he seemed to be shrinking. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were moving down over his wrists, beginning to cover his hands.
Cathy stared as her son. He was getting smaller, somehow. No, not smaller, younger.
"Ma -- help me." Johnny was panicking now. His clothes were getting much too big on him, and he heard his voice crack as he slipped back through puberty. He tried to get up. It wasn't easy in his now very much oversized garments.
A ten year old boy jumped off the bed and ran towards his mother. He stepped out of his $150 dollar sneakers. Where had he gotten the money to pay for them? He had to hold his pants as he ran -- the belt was useless now. They would fall off in a moment. Even so, they were growing longer and longer on him. He slowed to a walk to keep from tripping.
He was six or seven by the time he reached her. A cute little boy with chubby cheeks and a head full of curls, not a slender, sullen teen with his hair in a short, "gang" cut. He put his arms around her, grabbing her around the legs since he could reach no higher. "Help me, Mommy. Please help me."
Cathy reached down and patted his head, trying to comfort him. She was beginning to get an idea of what was happening. The ring had been magic, and she was getting a chance to start over. "It's all right, Johnny. It's going to be all right."
A three year old looked up at her. His eyes were wide with fear. "I'm scared, Mommy. Please make it stop."
"I don't think I can, honey. But don't be afraid. Your Mommy's here."
"Ma-ma here." The baby smiled up at her. He had collapsed into the heap of clothes. It was funny, and he began to giggle. He was about eight months old, Cathy guessed. Somehow, she knew that he wouldn't get any younger.
Suddenly Cathy felt a tingling in her own body. Her breasts were tingling. She looked down. They seemed to be growing. She felt her bra growing tight. Then she felt a tenderness in her nipples and a wetness on her chest. Of all things, she was lactating.
She picked up the mass of clothes, baby and all, and walked back to her own room. The baby must have sensed the milk, smelled it maybe, because it began to make little sucking sounds.
She put the clothes and the baby on her bed. With all the clothes piled around it, there was little chance of it falling. She unbuttoned her blouse and took it off. Her bra was wet from the milk. She took it off, too, and looked at her breasts. They were bigger than before. Firmer, too. It was almost as if she had grown younger, as her son had.
She was curious to look at herself in the mirror, but first things first. She fished little Johnny out of the pile of clothes and drew him close. He squirmed in her arms trying to reach her breasts.
A moment later, he was close enough. Johnny put his lips around her left nipple and began to suck. It was a soft, almost sensual feeling. Cathy sat on the bed enjoying a pleasure that she hadn't known in far too many years.
As Johnny nursed, Cathy began to remember other feelings on her breasts. The sensation of a man touching her breasts; touching her in other places, too. Mick had been right. It had been too long; much too long. Whatever else happened, she resolved to do something about that as soon as she could.
But now, she noticed that the ring was still glowing. The spell was still working. What, she wondered, was it doing now?
Then she looked down at Johnny sucking so contentedly at her breast. Something was happening to him. His hair was getting longer, growing down over his ears. Something else was happening. His infant's penis, small as it was, was getting even smaller. As he drank, he seemed to be absorbing femininity from her. In a few moments, his penis had retracted into his body leaving behind only a familiar, utterly female slit between two pudgy, infantile lips.
The baby drank her left breast dry. It still seemed hungry, so she shifted it to the right. By now, Johnny's hair -- no, it wasn't Johnny any more. By now, Jenny's hair was down to her neck in beautiful ringlets. Somehow, there were even two small bows in her hair.
The baby finished. Cathy leaned her over her shoulder and patted her back. Jenny gave a loud, satisfied, "Burp!" and giggled. Cathy held her in her arms and smiled at her. "Oh, Jenny, what am I going to do with you?"
The baby smiled up at her and began to rub its eyes. "See-py," it said. Cathy put on another blouse. She didn't know why, but she gathered up Johnny's old clothes and walked with them and Jenny back to Johnny's old room.
It wasn't Johnny's room anymore. The brown walls were now painted pink and gold, and his posters of rock musicians and half-naked women were gone. His bed was gone, too. A baby's crib stood in its place with a Sesame Street mobile hanging down from the ceiling. Her old rocker was next to the crib. Next to his dresser, now painted a cheery pink, was a baby's changing table. There was a stack of disposable diapers, wipes, baby oil, and talc on the top of the dresser.
She put the clothes in the bottom of the crib and gently set Jenny on the changing table. A little oil and some talc, and in a few moments, Jenny was wearing a clean diaper. Cathy knew which drawer of the dresser to open. She pulled out a pale blue baby's nightie and dressed the sleepy baby. She placed Jenny on her back in the crib and covered her with a blanket.
She recognized the blanket. The pattern of embroidered ducks that her mother had sewn in it meant that it couldn't be anything but Johnny's old "Blankie", lost years before. It was back now, in perfect condition, except that now it was pink, rather than blue. This was just too much, and she sank down into the rocker.
At least it was over. Johnny was safe now, even if he was Jenny. She smiled and looked over at her baby; her much bigger baby. Jenny was growing. She looked to be about two, now.
The changing table vanished to be replaced with a large toy chest. It was open, and Cathy could see a number of toys inside. The puzzles were Jenny's favorites. She could spend -- Cathy started. How did she know that? She still remembered Johnny, but now she had memories of shopping with Jenny, picking out the rubberized puzzles. Cathy remembered other things, too. The day care center she left Jenny with, the names of some of her friends there; and the name "Ranny" that Jenny had given the "Raggedy Ann" doll she was now clutching as she slept.
Cathy stood in amazement as the room continued to change. The crib became a bed. Jenny was four or five now. There were a row of stuffed animals on the top of the dresser. The Sesame Street mobile still hung down over the bed, and there were pictures of Big Bird and The Count on the walls. Cathy remembered buying them for Jenny when they had gone to see some sort of live show with the Sesame Street characters at the local arena.
Jenny was still sleeping. She looked to be about seven now. A small adjustable desk appeared in the corner. Two papers, written in a child's hand and each with a gold star, were pinned to a cork board on the wall above the desk.
A number of dolls were suddenly in bed with the nine year old girl. The Sesame Street toys were gone, but there was a furnished doll house in their place. A brownie uniform hung from the closet door. Cathy suddenly knew that she was a troop leader, and her mind was flooded with new memories of activities and cookie sales. There was a picture of a girl on a pony on the wall next to the cork board. Jenny had learned to ride "Star" at Camp that summer. She'd gushed about the horse to Cathy for weeks afterward.
Camp? Nine-year olds didn't go to Girl Scout Camp. Twelve-year olds did, though. There was now a small bookshelf on the top of the much larger desk: Sonnets of Emily Dickinson, a couple Nancy Drew mysteries, and Anne McCafferey's Dragon Singer series were in among the junior high text books. A poster of a horse very much like "Star" hung on the wall across from the bed.
Jenny stirred a little beneath the covers, rolling over to face Cathy. Her hair was short, now. 'Just a tomboy phase,' Cathy caught herself thinking. Jenny was lanky. Her baby fat was gone, but her woman's glands hadn't quite kicked in yet. Cathy remembered a minor argument a few days before. A girl didn't need a training bra when she still hadn't begun to grow breasts yet; even if, as she had told her mother, "all my friends are wearing them already."
Jenny rolled over onto her back. Cathy watched her growing taller under the covers, her feet reaching down to the pile of Johnny's clothes that were still at the foot of the bed. Something else was growing, too. 'Too late for a training bra now,' Cathy thought as the blankets over her chest rose several inches.
She looked at the pile of clothes. They changed as she watched. The sweatshirt became a girl's blouse and the jeans rewove to a more feminine cut. Johnny's shorts and undershirt shrank down to become a silky matching bra and panty set, turning color from cotton white to a satiny yellow.
The dolls vanished from the bed, re-appearing in a neat row on a shelf over the dresser. The toy box was replaced by a make-up table with various cosmetics. A PC appeared on the desk. Cathy remembered how Jenny had run errands and saved money for several months for that PC. Cathy was able to match the savings with part of her Christmas bonus.
Jenny was a pretty good student, she remembered now. If there wasn't much money for college, her grades were good enough to justify at least some financial aid.
Jenny stirred a bit, pushing the blankets down. She was somehow wearing a blue flannel nightgown. Her figure had developed a bit more. The nightgown covered her, but nothing could deny those C-cup breasts pushing out the fabric. Cathy stood over her daughter and pulled the blankets back up. She hadn't meant to, but the movement woke the sleeping girl.
"Oh, Mama, I -- what happened?"
Cathy noticed that her voice had none of Johnny's male arrogance. 'No,' she suddenly thought. 'Johnny's gone. This is Jenny.' "I don't know, dear. How do you feel?"
The girl stretched. "I had the strangest dream, Mama. I was a boy, a terrible boy. He was in all kinds of trouble."
"It was just a dream, Jenny." Cathy smiled at her lovely young daughter.
"Oh, I know that. I'd never do anything bad like that." She looked up at Cathy and smiled back shyly. "You raised me right, Mama."
‘This time I did,’ Cathy thought.
The end
Once a Star
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
Silent movie start Ashley Templeton gets a chance to restore his failed career after the advent of sound. But there's a price.
Once a Star
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
“Five minutes, Princess,” someone yelled.
Ashley Templeton, the being that had been Ashley Templeton, snorted in disgust.
* * * * *
How had he come to this? He’d been a rising star, a dramatic leading man. ‘Yes,’ he thought to himself, he was a star, a star of “the Silents. ”M-m-my d-damned st-stutter; as soon as sound came to the movies, I was over.”
He’d had a few comic roles, the point of which was to use that stutter. To laugh at him. Years of therapists, acting coaches, whatever, “Cou-couldn’t do a-a-a d-damned th-thing for me.”
“And dhat is vhy you comb to me,” Sonya Karpinyi had said. Sonya, smoldering Sonya, as good in bed as she was on the screne. He knew that much to be true; they’d starred together in four movies, happily sleeping together during the shooting of all four. They’d separated with a shrug and a handshake. They were movie stars, after all.
Before SOUND.
Sonya’s problem with "Talkies" had been different, a thick “Hongar-ri-yin aggzent” that limited her to minor parts at best. She’d had the courage to quit. She had a bit of money saved, and she’d set herself up as hostess of a tearoom/restaurant, a place where her accent only added an extra touch of glamour.
“Th-That’s why. I-I-I’m told y-you ca-can help m-m-m…” He took a breath. “Me.”
“I cahn, Before I levdt home to play at zer moffies, I studied the oldt va-iys. If you ahrre villing to pa-iy the prize, I cahn mayg you a shtar again,”
“W-W-Won’t p-people w-wonder h-how…”
“How you losht yurr shtudder. Dhey vill noht vonder, becawse you vill noht be you.”
“What!”
“It vill noht be Ashlay Templetun dhey szee. Reality vill change. You – the pearson you vill becomb -- vill alreddy be a shtar.”
“Th-that’s c-c-crazy.”
“True, bot it vill habben.” She smiled and held out her hand to offer a cup of an odd-smelling grayish drink. “Comb on, vhat you haff got to lose?”
“N-Not a d-d-d-damned th-thing.” He took the cup and swallowed whatever the stuff was in a single gulp.
A moment later, fade to black. He never noticed Sonya's rather smug smile.
* * * * *
It had been a week since he’d woken to his new life. It was hardly what he’d expected, but, he sighed, he was a star. That made up for a lot. Even… Well, there was no going back.
“We’re ready for you.” The third assistant director – a polite word for a gofer – stepped into Ashley’s trailer.
Ashley climbed out of his – no, call a spade a spade -- her chair. She followed the man out of the trailer and onto the set.
“Sound ready!”
“Cameras ready!”
“Okay, this is a take.” A pause, and then, “Roll ‘em!”
Ashley Templeton, now a curly, blonde-haired child of five, picked up the hem of her party dress, showing the starched petticoats beneath. She began tap dancing as she sang, “On the Good Ship Lollypop…”
One Night at Magee's
by Ellie Dauber
This is the first of three stories about Magee’s, a neighborhood bar with a most unusual owner. When Dutch Blucher comes in, looking for a fight, he finds out just how unusual.
One Night at Magee's
by Ellie Dauber
It was your typical Thursday at Magee's Irish Pub. About a dozen guys -- regulars mostly -- were standing at the bar, nursing their beers and arguing about the game on the TV. A few more, some couples, some alone, were sitting in the booths or at tables drinking or talking or both. Simon, the owner, was over in the corner booth playing his weekly chess game with Larry Steinburg, one of the regulars. Sally, the waitress had just brought a pitcher to four guys at one table. She was flirting with one of them, a tall, skinny guy with brown hair.
"I'm Dutch Blucher, and I can lick any man in this bar!" The challenge was given in a bellow that even managed to be heard above the TV. Just about everything stopped as we watched the challenger walk across the room. He stood about 6 foot 5, most of it muscle, all of it mean. He had black hair, cut short like a soldier's; two bushy eyebrows scrunched together over half-closed eyes. His nose looked like it was broken at least a couple of times, and his lips were curled in a snarl. He was wearing a camouflage jacket with cut off sleeves and an old pair of jeans, frayed here or there and with a hole near one knee. A couple of the guys near the bar recognized his work boots -- the kind with a reinforced steel toe.
The crowd by the bar parted and let him through. He pulled an old crumbled up twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and slammed it on the bar. "Pitcher of beer," he said. "And none of that pansy light crap either." Matt was bartender on duty. He drew a pitcher and put it on the bar; took the twenty and gave his change. Blucher wrapped fingers the size of sausages around the handle of the pitcher and hefted it like a regular glass. He drank about a third, set it down on the bar, and let out a belch that drown out the TV. The guys closest to him could smell the garlic from whatever he'd had for lunch that day.
"I say it again. I can lick any guy in this bar. Anybody here think he wants to try me."
Matt put on house smile #7, the one he reserved for calming fights. "Look -- Dutch, is it? -- look, Dutch, this is just your friendly corner bar. We don't go in too much for that sort of stuff. If you're looking for a bar to pick a fight at, I know a couple of places. Be glad to give you directions. Call a cab maybe."
Dutch got a look on him like he'd just sucked a lemon. "Well, I didn't know this was that kind of a bar." He made a sweeping gesture with one arm, his wrist overtly limp. "So, none of you pussies want to fight. Maybe this'll change your minds." He picked up somebody’s glass and threw it at the TV. It bounced off something in front of the set and crashed at Matt's feet. We do get a little rowdy at times at Magee's. When he put in the new color TV, Simon had said he'd paid too much for the set to let it get wrecked because somebody didn't like a show. Then he set up something to protect it.
"Damn," Dutch said and drank another third out of the pitcher. He looked at the crowd at the bar, sizing each man up as a possible victim. He picked Arnie Keller, and pushed aside the men in between with a sweep of his arm. Arnie's about 6 foot 2. He lifts weights, and it shows. "How about you, ‘Nancy'; you looking for a fight?"
"I haven't looked for much of anything in years," Arnie said, lifting his white cane from where it rested on the bar and holding it up for Dutch to see. "Not since that explosion over in Desert Storm got me out of the Army."
Dutch didn't say a word. He tried to grab Jack Kaplan, the guy next to Arnie, but Jack was too fast and wriggled away. Nobody else said a word either, but Dutch knew for sure that they were all laughing at him.
Sally made the mistake of walking too close trying to take some empty glasses back to be washed. Dutch grabbed her arm, knocking the tray with the glasses to the floor. "Since none of you pansies want to fight, maybe I'll just take this little trick back to my place and show her what a real man can do." Still holding her arm, he began walking towards the door, pulling Sally with him.
"That is enough." Every head turned toward the sound of that voice. Simon was mad. He got up slowly and walked over to Dutch. "You have interrupted my patrons, tried to wreck my television, and now you propose to do harm to this woman. I will not tolerate such behavior, and I will ask you this one time to apologize and leave my bar."
Dutch looked Simon over. He saw a man who looked to be in his early fifties, slender with salt and pepper hair, a good six inches shorter than he was, wearing a brown sports jacket and tan slacks. "This'll be fun," Dutch said. "I can lick you in five minutes and still have plenty left for this doll." He let go of Sally's arm and curled his hand into a fist.
"In the alley, if you don't mind?" Simon said. "I'd prefer to let my patrons get back to the game."
"Fine by me. Lead the way."
Simon walked over to the side door and opened it. "After you," he said.
Dutch walked through and stepped a few feet into the alley. He looked around to see if there was anything he could use for a weapon. The alley was dark, darker than he expected. With the buildings all around, it seemed more like a room than an alley. Simon walked out and closed the door behind him. He waved his arm, and the room -- for that was what it really was -- was lit by the glow of torched hanging ten feet up on all four walls. "What the hell," Dutch said, staring for a moment at the torches. When he looked back at Simon, he saw that Simon's clothes were changed. His jacket and slacks were replaced by a long dark blue robe with stars, moons, and a bunch of weird symbols Dutch didn't recognize embroidered all over it.
Dutch had enough sense to know that something really strange was about to happen, and he wanted no part of it. He started back for the door to the bar. Gone. And there seemed to be no other way in or out. For the first time in a very long time, Dutch was scared.
Simon was standing about six feet away from Dutch who was now in a circle that had somehow appeared on the brick pavement of the alley. "You are an irritant, Dutch Blucher," Simon was saying. "I have known of you for some time, and I knew that you would eventually come to my bar, if you were not stopped by more normal means. Now you will get the fate that you deserve."
Dutch somehow knew that his only chance was to hurt this man before he could do anything. He tried to take a step toward Simon, ready to beat him into the ground. But Dutch discovered that he couldn't step out of the circle. And when he tried to reach out for Simon, Dutch found that his arms wouldn't move out from it either.
Simon began muttering in some strange language that Dutch didn't recognize. A glow began to form in the space between his two hands. It formed into a ball of light that shimmered purple and red. Then it shot out of his hands flying directly towards Dutch. Dutch tried to dodge it, but he could hardly move. The ball of light hit him in the chest and spread out covering his entire body. Then it seemed to sink into him.
Dutch began to tingle all over. Simon and the room seemed to grow. No, Dutch realized that he was shrinking. He looked at his hands, watching them get smaller. They seemed to get thinner, too, the fingers growing longer and more delicate. His nails were also growing longer, turning a lacquered red as they did so. As Dutch stared at his hands, he realized that his scalp was tingling. He felt something tickle the back of his neck and reached up to touch his head. His hair was growing, faster and faster. He felt it slide down past his neck and finally stop somewhere around the middle of his back. He moved his head, feeling the weight of the hair. He pulled some of his hair around and saw that it had changed from black to brown and was getting lighter even as he held it.
Now the tingling spread down through his body. Dutch looked down and saw that he was no longer the well-muscled man he had been. He had become much thinner. The muscles on his arms were fading away. So, he saw suddenly, was the hair on his arms. His arms were soon hairless and now looked slender and feminine.
Feminine! He looked down at his chest to see two breasts growing there, pushing his jacket far out from his chest. He felt his nipples pressing against his t-shirt. In fear, he stuck one hand down into his jeans, which now hung loosely at his smaller waist. His prick was still there, but it was getting smaller as he held it. He reached in with the other hand and felt for his balls. They weren't there, and his scrotum was getting smaller, too. In a few moments, his prick was too small to try to hold onto. He felt it settle down as the remnants of his scrotum formed lips around it. He felt a sudden twinge within his groin just below what was left of his prick. His fingers found an opening. One slipped inside to discover his new vagina. At the same time, he felt his hips and ass growing out pulling his jeans tight around them. The small beer belly that he'd grown in the past year melted away leaving a narrow waist and flat stomach.
"What'd you do --" Dutch stopped. That wasn't his voice. That was some dame's voice, high and soft. It couldn't be him. Could it?
Simon was smiling now. "That's much better. You look very nice, Ms. Blucher, but the clothes are all wrong." Simon gestured again.
Dutch felt his clothes moving along his body. His t-shirt slide up around his breasts, the material becoming soft and clinging. The same thing seemed to be happening to his undershorts. He felt himself lifting slightly and looked down. His work shoes had become a pair of woman's pumps and were growing a four inch heel. His jeans merged into a single tube of cloth, turned bright pink andmoved up his legs, past his knees, to become a miniskirt that clung to his much wider hips. His socks followed, becoming sheerer and sheerer. Dutch saw garters, red and lacy, slide out from below his dress and attach themselves to the stockings. They retreated back under the skirt, pulling the stockings taut against his thighs. Dutch was surprised at the feel of the nylon sliding against his bare legs. His camouflage jacket became a loose pink blouse, the top two buttons undone to show a good bit of his pillowy breasts and a little red lace trim from his bra. His heavy man's watch changed into a slender woman's watch with a matching gold bracelet somehow appearing on the other wrist. He felt a pinch in both ears, and when he shook his head, he could feel something dangling there. When he nervously licked his lips, he tasted the sticky sweetness of lipstick on them.
"Perhaps, you'd like to see the results of my work?" Simon gestured again, and a full length mirror appeared floating in the air in front of Dutch. The woman reflected in it was hot. Long curly blonde hair down her back, a moon-shaped face with big blue eyes -- Dutch remembered that his eyes had been brown -- and full pouty lips. His nose wasn't broken now, and it was much smaller. Besides the lipstick, he was wearing eye shadow and mascara.
The woman's blouse was sheer. She could almost see her – yes, her -- bra through it, and her nipples pushed against the material showing themselves to the world. Her skirt stopped far above her knees and clung to her hips and ass like it was painted on. Her legs were long and shapely, covered with patterned black stockings that stopped low enough on her legs to show a good bit of creamy thigh.
"Why -- why did you do this to me?" Dutch was pleading now. She was truly terrified, and she wanted to cry for the first time in many years. Like the woman she now knew herself to be.
"Because you annoyed me. And because you deserved it."
"But I was just minding my own business. Just trying to have some fun."
"Minding your own business? Looking for somebody to -- as you said -- lick in a fight. Well, in a moment that will be your business. By the way, what is your real name?"
"Rich… Richard Blucher. What do you mean?"
"You will always remember who you were and what you were, but you will only answer to the name of Rachel Block. Richard Blucher no longer exists, and no one besides the two of us remembers that he ever did. Your body is the body of a woman now, and you will crave what a woman's body craves. Only those cravings will be much stronger than those of most women. When I free you, you will be compelled to go downtown, to seek out a House that can use your talents. And to work there for the rest of your days. You can try to resist, but the cravings, the compulsion, will only grow stronger. Now go."
Simon gestured a final time, and Dutch, now Rachel, saw a door form in the wall near her. She found that she could move her legs, and she hurried through it. When she passed through, she found herself on the street outside Magee's. She wanted to go home, but her mind was suddenly filled with thoughts of men's cocks. Instinctively she licked her lips at the thought, tasting the sticky sweetness of her lipstick for the second time. She felt a warmth and an emptiness that she had never known in her groin, and her nipples rubbed enticingly against the satin of her bra. Without thinking, she caught the downtown bus, paying her fare from a purse that suddenly dangled by a strap from her shoulder. Without a second thought, she was heading for the new life Simon had decreed.
Simon watched her leave from the alley, smiling. "You will keep on looking from somebody to lick, my dear Dutch. Only they will enjoy the licking a lot more now, even if they have to pay you for the privilege." With that thought, Simon Trimagestes, once sorcerer to the Pharaoh Ramses and now owner of Magee's Irish Pub, went back inside to resume his chess game. The night was young, and he was up by a Rook and two Pawns.
One Portland Night
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
A magical protester gets some retribution from two agents from an unknown federal task force. Warning: This is a politically-biased story. I won’t argue the politics, but I would like to hear about what people thought of the story.
One Portland Night
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
Shaylah was standing at the edge of the crowd, about forty feet from the Portland federal courthouse, when the vans pulled up.
Five dark gray vans with out of state license plates. The actual license numbers were covered, and there was no sign of any insignia on the license plates or on the vans themselves. The right-side doors slid open, and six men climbed out. The men were in camo gear with helmets and masks covering their faces. They all held nasty looking rifles, and each had a belt of what Shaylah had learned – the hard way -- to recognize as smoke grenades. There were no name patches or badges to identify what military unit they were from.
“There’s a good one.” A tall man said, pointing to her. She was a tall ponytailed blonde in a pale yellow peasant blouse and jeans that clung to her wide hips and long, shapely legs.
The man next to him nodded. “Yeah, I’d detain her anytime.” They began to walk towards her.
“Let me alone,” she protested, trying to keep her voice calm and steady. “I’m not doing anything.” She moved backwards, away from the crowd and from the courthouse.
The men kept coming. One sounded through his mask like he was chuckling. The other reached out with his free hand, ready to grab her when they were close enough.
Her eyes darted about. No one seemed to be watching. “I think that’s enough.” She whispered the words of the spell that she had been prepping for some twenty minutes… just in case. What seemed like a bit of mist, smoke from a firepot or a strand of the tear gas, drifted out and around the men.
They stopped, immobilized for just a moment. Then the taller man began to twitch. “What the hell? All of a sudden, I itch… itch all over.”
They both dropped their rifles and began to scratch at the sleeves of their shirts. In a frenzy, they pulled off their gloves and arched their fingers to scratch better. Neither noticed that his hands were getting smaller, more supple; his fingernails growing longer, turning red; and that his skin was darkening from pale white to the color of coffee with cream.
Their fingers, now delicately manicured, moved on to scratch at their torsos; torsos that were narrowing, becoming less muscular beneath the camo jackets. The men continued working on the irritation they were feeling. They also didn’t notice the two mounds growing out on their chests. Shaylah smiled when one of the men moaned as his fingers rubbed the small bump that was likely one of his new sensitive nipples.
The two men seemed lost. Their heads swayed back and forth; totally unable to understand what was happening. The taller – though they were both several inches shorter now – lifted his clear plastic face mask and pulled of his helmet.
His helmet? The face was oval, the same coffee light color as the hands. There was a purplish liner that made the eyes look bigger. The noses were smaller, and the lips full, juicy, and colored the same as the eyeliner. The face -- her face was framed by dark brown hair that curled as it grew down to her shoulders.
“I… this isn’t right.” She unbuttoned her uniform shirt. Somehow, it had become a one-piece with her pants. They fell to the ground. Beneath it, a dark pink tube top struggled to contain a pair of 36-C breasts. Her waist had narrowed, the flesh pooling around her hips and buttocks – she was packing now. She wore a pair of dark blue jeans, the legs shredded to form a sort of skirt that flowed about her very long, well-formed legs.
Her friend seemed astonished. “Matt, what… what the – my voice.” His voice had shifted from baritone to a feminine alto. “This… this is crazy… but…”
Curious hands pulled off a second helmet. This one’s face was heart-shaped now, with a mass of curls that were braiding themselves, even as she revealed them. She had a bit of a pug nose and very full lips. She was darker than her friend, almost the color of chocolate.
“Ralph,” her friend said, “you look soo pretty.” Then she looked scared from how female that sounded.
The other former soldier smiled and shucked herself out of her uniform. She wore a pastel pink one-piece jumper that showed off her full breast, narrow waist, and rounded hips. “Thanks, girl. Now let’s us go see what’s going on at the rally.”
Sgt. Matt Collier and Corp. Ralph Gates of I.C.E. were gone – forgotten by all except for stray memories in the minds of the two young women they had become, Mandella Collins and Rashida Jordan. The pair moved carefully towards the crowd. The troops had headed off in a different direction, but the crowd of protesters had grown, joined by people leaving their day jobs.
The cause was important to Mandi and Rashida. But the number of handsome men in the crowd was a happy incentive. Hips swaying gently, they walked towards the crowd.
Shaylah headed back towards the crowd, too, ready for a night of peaceful protest, whatever certain people claimed. She stopped to pick up a cardboard sign with the slogan “Black Lives Matter” scrawled across it. She was a believer in Black Power. And Black Power.
One Saturday Night at Magee’s
by Ellie Dauber
I’m afraid that I screwed up in attaching the .pdf file that was the bulk of Magee’s story #2. I have fixed it. So if you couldn’t read it before please try again. And comment. I did get 8 comments on what was posted, but they were all “Where’s the .pdf?” Still eight comments are eight comments, so here’s the third story. I’d like some comments on this one, also. Just because I only wrote three doesn’t mean that a fourth one might show up, given sufficient feedback.
This is the last of three stories about Magee’s, a neighborhood bar with a most unusual owner. Out of work – and bitter -- Vic Cantrell lets his wife. Betty, drag him into Magee’s for a drink. Only to find an evening far different than they ever expected.
One Saturday Night at Magee’s
by Ellie Dauber
It was a busy night at Magee’s Irish Pub.
Saturday is always a busy night for a bar. People want to be with other people. They can relax because they don't have to go to work the next day. For some, it's the chance to be with friends. Others are doing the preliminaries of meeting and mating. A few just like to drink.
This Saturday, though, it seemed busier than usual. Sally, Simon's main waitress had to do the work of two, since it was the bar's first day without Mandy.
Mandy had been Simon's junior waitress. A short, friendly red-head with the uncanny knack of getting just about every guy in the place to think of her as his kid sister. Her husband, Rick, had come back Wednesday from a three year stint in the Aleutians with the Navy. He wanted something warmer after that. So, following a wild, happy going-away party here at the bar (thrown by Simon, of course), he and Mandy had done just that. They'd moved back to Rick's hometown, San Antonio, where he already had a job as an electronics technician waiting for him.
The problem was that Rick had come back six weeks early, and Simon hadn't had time to hire even a temporary replacement. Sally tried hard, even cut back on her flirting with the customers a little in the interest of time. But she couldn't quite be in three places at once.
Simon had filled in for a while. Then Dr. Fran offered to take over, while Simon helped Matt at the bar. Fran was a doctor, new to the neighborhood, but already well liked. Her office was over in the shopping center a half mile or so from Magee’s.
She admitted a while back that she worked her way through college as a waitress. She didn't say where, but a few of the regulars had a private bet that her boss was a guy named Hefner. She's in her -- well, I won't say how old -- but she still looks damn good. Simon thinks so, too, but that's a whole different story.
Dr. Fran had come in about 8. She knew about Mandy leaving. Heck, she'd been at the going away party. When she saw how busy it was, she asked Sally for a pad and took her own order. After she drank it, she just started on some of the other tables.
With an extra bartender and a substitute waitress in place, things settled down to their usual Saturday night chaos. There was a fairly involved discussion at one section of the bar about the current pennant race, and a few die-hards were even talking about a subway series in New York. A couple feet away, some other folks were arguing about the upcoming Senate race. The two conversations were close enough that a couple of guys seemed to be in both discussions.
The tables were as crowded as the bar. Besides the usual suspects, I spotted some folks just out from the cineplex a block or two away, three guys on their way home from their jobs with a movers, and Vic and Betty Cantrell.
Vick and Betty lived somewhere in the neighborhood. He was a salesman for some big company, but he'd been downsized a couple of months ago and hadn't been able to find a job since. They'd been getting by on savings and odd jobs, so it was something of a surprise to see them in Magees.
*****
"I don't know why I let you drag me here," Vic said. "I can hardly afford to buy myself something to drink. Let alone waste money on you."
"Oh, Vic, come on," Betty said, trying to change the subject. "We haven't gone out in quite a while. I thought it would be a nice change."
"You thought? Oh, that's just swell." He stopped and looked up as Fran came to the table. She was a doctor, worked longer hours than he had. But she still had the time to fix herself up to look pretty. Not like this doudy old lady he was stuck with.
"Hi, Betty, Vic," Fran smiled. "I haven't seen you two in here for a while."
"I --" Vic didn't want to admit that he's lost his job.
"We've been busy," Betty chimed in, trying to save face."
"I can tell her," Vic growled. "We've been kind of busy lately."
"Well, I'm glad to see you again. What'll you two have?"
"A pitcher of Bud, please," Betty said. Fran nodded and walked away.
"A pitcher?" Vic said. "And whos' going to pay for it?"
"I will. Cousin Maggie just sent me the money I loaned her last year when they came to visit, and their car broke down."
"How much?"
"$327.50; you remember. It was some kind of hose that needed replacement. They were on the way home, and they were short of cash."
"If they sent back the money we loaned them, you should told me."
"I just got the check yesterday, Vic. I cashed it this morning and put most of the money in the bank. I just kept out a little to spend on us tonight. I was going to tell you. Honest I was."
"Going to doesn't cut it. You get any more money, you tell me right away."
"That's the other reason that I wanted to come here, Vic. I -- I wanted to ask you something."
"What? Somebody else send us money you didn't tell me about?"
"No, but I know that we do need the money till you can get another job."
"I'm looking. Nobody seems to be hiring right now."
"Mr. Casey is hiring."
"Casey. Who's Casey?"
"Mr. Casey at Alden's Market."
"What does a supermarket need with a salesman?"
"It doesn't. But he does need -- well, Vic, he -- he asked if I'd be interested in working as a cashier. The money isn't very good, but --"
"No!"
"But why? We do need the money."
"I'm the husband; earning the money is my job. You think I'm going to stay home because you can get a job, and I can't?"
"But I'd only take it to help out. And I promise to quit the day you find something."
"You make it sound like you don't expect me to."
"No, please, no, Vic. I'm sure that you'll find something very soon. I just thought --"
"You thought! Who told you you could think? If we have to depend on you and your thinking to keep us going, we'll be in the poor house inside of six months."
"But we need the money."
"I'll tell you what we need, you stupid cow." He raised his hand as if to hit her. He never did, but it was satisfying to him to watch her cower as if he would.
Only this time, when he raised his hand, someone grabbed his wrist and held it. Vic turned to see who it was.
"What you need is to come into the back room with me," Simon said. You are disturbing my friends here in the bar." He said it softly, but there was an undertone that made it clear to both Vic and Betty that this was an order, not a request.
The couple stood. Fran was just bringing the beer. Simon turned to her and said, "Thank you, Fran, but the Cantrells are just leaving. Please give the pitcher back to Matt."
Fran turned and headed back to the bar. Simon motioned towards the hallway to his back room. "Over you please, Betty, Vic." Again, it seemed like an order that they felt compelled to obey. They followed Simon to the back room. He had a desk against one wall. He offered Betty the chair near it, sat down on a crate, and motioned for Vic to do the same.
"Now, what was all of that commotion about?" Simon said.
"None of your damned business," Vic answered.
"Everything that goes on in my establishment is my business. Especially when it disrupts the mood of my friends."
"I -- I asked Vic if I could get a job," Betty said. "I'm afraid that he didn't like the idea."
"He should," Simon said. "He's been out of work for quite a while, and I doubt that his unemployment checks cover all your expenses."
Vic lept to his feet. "That's it, Betty! What have you been doing; spreading out our dirty linen for the whole world to see? I told you I didn't want anybody to know."
"She did not tell me, Vic. I like to know what's happening in the lives of my friends, and I counted you among that group until tonight. I make it a point to know."
"Stupid woman still had no business talking." He sat down giving Betty a scowl that meant there would be trouble later.
"I was just -- I was just trying to help," Betty said, and she began to cry.
"Of all the stupid," Vic said. "Stop crying, you dumb woman." Betty looked up at Vic and just began to cry harder. Vic raised his hand again, and she shuddered. She tried, but her crying didn't stop.
Simon rose to his feet. "You have gravely harmed this woman; broken her --"
"I never hit her!"
"Not her body, perhaps, but you have broken her spirit. She has lost her free will and is dependent on you for the emotional support you are unwilling to give."
"She's my wife. She's supposed to take care of me."
"Marriage is a partnership. Each must help the other bear the troubles life may cast at them."
During this exchange, Betty had continued to just sit in the chair staring wide-eyed at the two men. Now she began to sob, softly at first. Then the crying grew fiercer until her entire body seemed to be shedding the pain. Simon looked at her for a moment, and then turned to Vic.
Vic glared at Simon. "What am I supposed to do," he said. "You're the one who made her cry like that."
"Then, I should be the one who comforts her," Simon said. He turned and gently helped Betty to stand. Then he put his arms around her, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. He hugged her carefully, muttering some words that she couldn't begin to understand in her ear.
A strange, somehow comforting warmth seemed to spread through Betty's body. She still felt the hurt of Vic's words, but more and more it was as if those were memories of a story, not of her own life. She turned her head to look at Vic. For some reason she didn’t understand, he seemed older than she remembered.
Vic stared in disbelief. Betty seemed to be getting younger. The grey was disappearing from her hair, the lines from her face. In a few moments, they were gone. She seemed a little thinner now, looking like she had in her mid-twenties. There was an odd expression on her face, too, as if she wasn't upset anymore and didn't know why. He wanted to move closer for a better look, but his body refused to move.
Betty got even younger. She looked the way she had when she and Vic had met in college. Damn, he'd forgotten how beautiful she had been. Why the hell had she let herself go like she had? She must have known how much he disliked her looking like she had been.
As Vic watched, Betty continued to grow younger. Now she looked as if she were in her teens. She was smaller, too. Her head was resting on Simon's chest, rather than his shoulder. There were some freckles on her face now, and a curious expression. She didn't seem to know who he was. Her clothes, strangely enough, continued to fit, shrinking even as her body did. Her bra adjusted as her breasts grew smaller. The heels on her shoes became smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing as the shoes became a pair of flat sandals.
Betty felt her body relax as it continued to shrink. Something had been bothering her, but she couldn't remember what. Maybe that man there, whoever he was. He seemed familiar, but she wasn't really sure.
By now, Betty was no more than twelve; her womanly curves diminishing; her breasts now gradually disappearing back into her chest. Her body became more angular. Her now unnecessary brassiere changed under her blouse to a girl's t-shirt. Her panty hose thickened into a pair of "Little Miss" tights. She still held herself close to Simon's body, though her once supple arms were now scarely able to reach all the way behind him.
Simon reached down and picked up the now eight year old girl. She continued to hold him, now hugging him around the neck. Her hair was now arranging itself into two pigtails. Somehow, they had little pink ribbons tied into bows at the end.
The process continued for a minute or so more. Betty's body plumped a bit as some of her baby fat returned. She blinked her eyes, and then closed them. She was now a five year old sleeping peacefully in Simon's arms.
Suddenly, Vic realized that he could move again. "Great," he said. "Now I've got a kid to worry about instead of a wife."
"It would seem so," Simon said. "And at her young age, you will have to take care of her instead of demanding that she take care of you."
"But I don't know anything about taking care of young kids. That's a mother's job."
Simon smiled. He had hoped that would be the man's reaction. "I'm sure that you can make the necessary adjustment."
Vic took another step then found that he was trapped within some sort of circle of light that had formed around him. Simon shifted Betty, freeing his one arm. He said something in a strange language and began to gesture with his free hand. As he did, a something formed in his hand, a shimmer like the air over a concrete road in the hot sun. Simon stopped speaking and held his hand traight out. The something pulsed an electric green and flew from his hand toward Vic. It passed through the wall of light that held him prisoner, hit him in the chest, and then sank down into his body.
Vic clutched at his chest not knowing what to expect.
He felt the whatever-it-was was a warmth inside him, a warmth that seemed to grow outward, flowing to all parts of his body. He took his hands away from his chest and looked at them. They seemed to be growing smaller. His fingers were getting longer and slimmer. As he stared, he noticed that his nails also seemed to be growing.
He looked up. The room was growing bigger. No, he realized suddenly, he was shrinking. He shuddered, expecting to repeat what Betty had just gone through. He wasn't ready to be a five-year old again. But the process stopped after a few seconds. He was only perhaps a foot smaller than he had been. He looked down at his body now. He was much slimmer than he had been. He had never been a Schwarzenegger, but now he looked like a damned scarecrow. His arms were like pipe cleaners sticking out of the sleeves of his sport shirt. Somehow, though, his clothes did still fit him.
As he stared at his arms, he realized that he had lost his body hair -- at least what he could see. His arms were hairless and pale. Then they began to grow a bit more rounded, as if a layer of fat was forming beneath them.
He saw two small mounds growing out from his chest. Breasts! They couldn't be. But they were. He touched them, feeling the sensitive nipples through his shirt. They grew and grew, pushing out his shirt so that he could actually see his bare stomach.
He shook his head in disbelief. Something bushed against his neck then moved down onto his back. A hand shot up. Hair! His hair had grown down onto his shoulders.
He felt a constricting at his waist. He looked down to see the beer belly that he'd nurtured during his unemployment shrink away. His waist grew thin enough that he could see his boxer shorts in the space between his stomach and his pants.
The pants should have fallen as his waist shrank. They did slide down some, but were stopped as his hips expanded and his butt firmed and rounded. The pants legs became narrower, but then they seemed to fill in as his legs grew round and curvy.
Vic realized that he was becoming a female. He panicked and reached down into his shorts for his penis. It was there but much smaller. And shrinking more even as he tried to hold onto it. His other hand reached down for his balls. They were gone. He could somehow feel them moving up into his body, becoming part of a woman's sexuality. The empty sack grew tighter. It shrank down against his crotch, separating as an opening formed in the middle to become his vaginal lips. He felt the nub that his penis had become slip down into the opening to become his clitoris.
He was a woman.
Now his saw his clothing change. His sneakers turned a pale pink. His pants turned into jeans of a matching color and a feminine cut, tight against his new crotch and accenting his lush hips and rounded ass. His sport shirt also turned pink. Scalloped sleeves formed. The neckline grew until the curve at the top of his new breasts could be seen. He felt some sort of movement on those breasts and realized that he was now wearing a bra. He couldn't see it happen, but his boxers had also transformed into a pair of lacy panties.
"You should know what you are now, Vickie," Simon said. The air shimmered in front of him and became a sort of mirror. He saw a pretty young woman, perhaps 25 though probably younger. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail that went halfway down her back. Her make-up -- make-up! When had that happened? -- was subtle, eyeliner and mascara to give a doelike quality to her eyes, a bit of rouge on her cheeks and a pale pink lipstick. Her eyebrows were arched slits; her lips rather full. She looked nothing at all like Vic Cantrell.
"What did you ---" Vic stopped. She didn't sound like Vic either. Her voice was a pleasant contralto, rather than his beery baritone.
"You said that a child needed a mother to take care of her," Simon said. "Since you're her only relative in this new life of hers, I gave you the job."
"And if I don't want it?"
"You don't have the choice. Vic and Betty Cantrell no longer exist. You remember who you were, but Betty doesn't. As far as she's concerned, she's Betsy Carver, and you're her Mommy."
"Yeah, right."
"As I said, you have no choice. Tell me your names."
"I'm Vickie Carver. No, I mean Vickie Carver. Carver. Carver. And that's my daughter, my daughter -- damn you, Simon! -- my daughter, Betsy."
"That's right. You know who you were, and given time, you'll know what you were. But he's gone, and I'm the only one that you can talk to about him. You'll find that you also have a very strong sense, almost a compulsion, of obligation to little Betsy here. You want to be the best mother possible to her."
"And how do I do that? I don't know the first thing about being a woman, let alone a mother. And how do we live if I don't have a job? At least as Vic, I was still on unemployment."
"You'll find that the knowledge is there. Being a woman is a lot like being a man. Do your job, try not to hurt anyone, love, laugh; it's all the same. The specifics for make-up and dresses and heels you'll find that you also have."
"Now," he continued. "As far as a job; have you ever waited tables?"
"No, but it doesn't look that hard."
"It isn't. Sally can show you the ropes in no time, especially with Fran helping tonight."
"What!"
"You need a job. I need a waitress. Fran -- Dr. Fran cannot give up her practice just to help me take care of my customers."
"If you were so hard up, why couldn't you have hired me as Vic? Then I wouldn't be in this new body."
"Vic was one type of person that I'm allowed to discriminate in my hiring practices, a rotten human being and a wife-beater."
"I never hit her."
"A blow to the spirit can do more damage and take longer to heal than one to the mind. You excelled in such blows. But now the damage is gone, and there are no scars because there is no memory of her former life."
"You mean she thinks she's a little girl."
"She is a little girl. Her child's mind had no place for the memories of an adult, so they have left her mind." Simon paused. "Left her mind for your own."
Suddenly, Vic's mind was filled with images of the past: Betty growing up, going to college, meeting him. He remembered their courtship, seeing it now from her point of view. He felt the love grow within her and felt the joy when he asked her to marry him.
Then came the terror. Vic had not handled married life very well. He became frustrated at his life at home, the limitations of having to support two people on a single salary. At work, the promotions and recognition he sought never came fast enough. And he took out all of that on Betty.
He had never raised a hand to her. But he had belittled and berated her at every opportunity and for things that were hardly her fault. She was a good wife, and she loved him. She -- oh, Lord -- she blamed herself for what he was doing to her. She lost what drive she had had and settled for a mediocrity and self-loathing that she did not deserve. Most horrible of all was the number of times that she had thought, not of saving herself by leaving him, but of punishing herself one last time by suicide.
The shock of what Vic, now Vickie, remembered was too much. She sank down into a chair and began to sob.
Vickie's crying was not loud, but it was enough. The small child awoke and squirmed in Simon's arms. "Mommy," she said. Simon gently put her down. Betsy ran over to the person she now knew as her mother. "Don't cry, Mommy," she said, hugging the transformed man.
Simon smiled. "It's all right, Betsy. Your Mommy's crying because she's happy."
"Who are you, Mr.?"
"My name is Simon, and I've just given your Mommy as job as my new waitress. Isn't that right, Vickie?"
Vic – Vickie -- looked up. "You mean it, Simon. You'll give me that chance after what I did?"
"Vickie, you didn't do anything. The person who did those things is buried within you, imprisoned by his own remorse for what he now realizes he had unknowingly done."
Betsy yawned deeply and let go of her mother. She climbed up onto Simon's empty chair, curled up, and tried to fall asleep. "Now, as to the little one," Simon said. "I have a cot in my store room where she can sleep for now. You're welcome to it as well after we close."
"I have a place."
"No, the Cantrells had a place. They're gone. If you wish, I can arrange for you to take over their lease."
"No. Somehow I get the feeling that if I'm starting over, I should start clean."
"I agree. I also happen to know that there's a small apartment available in Joe Lander's building. I'll pay the first month's rent, and you can pay me back out of your wages. I also suggest that you talk to his wife. She's a lovely lady, who's always happy to babysit a small child, especially since their own granddaughters live out on the West Coast. You should have no trouble arranging for her to watch Betsy when you're working here."
"Thank you, Simon. I really don't deserve your kindness."
"Perhaps not, but Betsy does. I'll give you a few minutes to settle her in the cot. You can put your suitcase there as well."
"Suitcase?" Vickie looked down to see a large brown suitcase on the floor next to her. A woman's purse -- her purse, she somehow knew -- was atop the suitcase.
"Certainly. You'll need toiletries and a change of clothes for yourself and Betsy for tomorrow. The rest of your luggage is in a locker at the bus station. Matt, my bartender, can go down with you to get it tomorrow morning. The locker key is in your purse."
Vickie leaned over and kissed Simon on the cheek. She surprised herself by doing so, but somehow it had seemed the right thing to do. She picked up Betsy, who was almost asleep in the chair, and followed Simon to the storeroom and on to her new life.
Orpheus Ascending
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2000
Author’s Note: Except for the TG element near the end, this is a straightforward retelling of the Greek myth.
* * * * *
Now would I tell the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, a sad tale of death and longing and of a fate most strange and yet most fitting.
Orpheus was a bard, a singer of songs and teller of legends. He was the most handsome of men, tall and well formed. It was said by many of those who saw him that his beauty was beyond the mere human, and that Orpheus was surely the son of Apollo himself. Yet, in all the years that this tale of his birth was told; Orpheus was never known to confirm -- or to deny it.
If the form of Orpheus suggested that he might be a son of a Godling, then his voice was the proof of this claim. There was no man nor woman, no matter how base, who would not stop to listen when Orpheus sang; who could not fail to be moved by its sound. Orpheus carried no weapons in his travels for his voice was enough to stop the wild beast from attack. Even the birds came to listen to his golden voice; to listen, aye, and to learn what a song could be.
There was but what thing that Orpheus held as dear as the music he played and sang. His wife, Eurydice, did he prize even over his songs. Beautiful was she with long plaits of golden hair, skin the shade of fresh cream, and a form most fair and supple. She was the child and the grandchild of singers, but she was wise enough to know that her husband’s talents were far above her own.
She held her husband’s greater skill as her own treasure. “Orpheus is the greatest bard in all Hellas,” she boasted. “And when he weaves his words of love, it is always me that he is singing to. And too, when we join in together, his manly form, his wondrous voice, and his supple fingers upon the proper instrument -- and here she made a blush as pretty as any innocent maiden -- ‘tis then that I do sing my best...and my loudest.”
Alas, for there is little that the gods hate more than to hear a mortal boast. The boasts of Orpheus and Eurydice were heard, and a punishment, a most tragic punishment, was ordained. In the space of but a few days, Eurydice grew sick, her body weakened beyond recovery, and she died.
The grief of Orpheus could not be contained. It flowed forth in his every song. Songs of triumph and life became dirges and cries of woe, and no man nor any king could force him to sing otherwise. Neither pleadings, nor words of comfort, not even the commands or the threats of a mighty lord made any difference. There was -- there could be -- no other songs on Orpheus’ lips but songs of the loss of his one true love.
Orpheus wandered the land singing his sad songs until both man and the gods shared his grief. The very Godling who had caused Eurydice to die guided his steps to the mouth of Tartaris, to the very Gates of the Netherrealm.
Now Hades, the Lord of the Netherrealm had set Cerebrus to guard these gates. Cerebrus was a fierce three-headed being, a monster in the shape of a dog. He breathed fire and his teeth and claws were as long as a man’s arm and as sharp as any warrior’s sword. Cerebrus heard footsteps as Orpheus approached and rushed to defend its master’s realm. But Orpheus stood unafraid. He sang as the great breast rushed towards him; sang a song of gentleness and beauty. And Cerebrus slowed; he lay down to better listen; and he whimpered and let Orpheus pass unharmed.
The next defense that Hades had set was Cheron, the boatman who ferried dead souls across the River Styx. “You are alive,” Cheron said. “I cannot carry you. Your living body is too much weight for my boat of souls.”
Then Orpheus said, “You must be tired to have spent so many, many years taking the dead across this river. Rest a moment, and I will sing a song to refresh you.” And Orpheus sang of the beauty of the World Above, the world that Cheron had not seen in many years, and that the souls he carried should never see again.
Cheron sat and listened. The many souls who were already in his boat climbed out that they might better hear the song. Orpheus saw this, and he said to Cheron, “your boat is empty now and so much lighter, and I have paid for a passage with my song just as I did trade songs for passage with ferrymen in the World Above.”
Cheron nodded; for what Orpheus said was true. Then Orpheus climbed into the boat. He sang a work song for Cheron to speed him in his task, and Cheron soon had Orpheus on the far side of the river.
Hades saw all that happened within his realm. Orpheus was coming, coming to take back the soul of Eurydice. This could not be permitted, and Hades rushed to the River Styx. He was waiting when Cheron’s boat landing. “This is not proper cargo for you, Cheron,” he said, his eyes burning with anger. Cheron bowed his head and fled in fear. Orpheus was left alone to face an angry God.
Hades looked down upon Orpheus. “You are here before your time, Orpheus, but I do not think that I shall let you go.”
“Oh, great and mighty Hades, I know that only a fool challenges the gods. But I know, too, that a man in love is the greatest of fools. I do not ask mercy, or even justice. I ask only a chance.”
“A chance? Do you presume to wager with a god?”
“As I said, great Hades, I am a fool. I wager myself against Eurydice.”
“An interesting wager, since I already have you. What are the terms?”
“You have my body. If you take me now, I will be but another soul in your realm. But if we bet -- and I lose -- I shall pledge myself to you as your bard, to serve in your court. For as long as you would have me.”
“An interesting prize. And if you win?”
“Then you shall take me to the soul of Eurydice, and you shall allow the both of us to return to the world above.”
“I will accept this challenge. You shall sing three songs. At the end, I will decide if you have won or lost.”
“You will decide? How can this be fair?”
“There is no peer to me within this realm, and any you would choose would not have the will to go against me. I, at least, may be persuaded. This is your only choice. do you agree?”
“I do, for I have no other choice.” Orpheus took out his harp, his best harp, made from the laurel of Apollo’s own grove and fit with strings of finest silver. It was polished so finely that, even in the dim, cold light of Tartaris, it glowed and gave out a warmth of its own. Orpheus sat upon a rock. He lifted his harp to his shoulders, and he began to sing.
He sang of the beauty of the world above, the beauties of nature and the beauty that man had created. One could almost feel the warmth of the sun and hear the whisper of the wind in his words; one could see the cities of man, alive with the bustle of a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand souls working and striving to make something of their lives.
Orpheus’s voice was strong and clear. It reached to every part of Hades’ realm. Men, women, even children woke from the half slumbering that is death. They listened, and the words touched them. “This is what we were,” many of them said. “This is what we have lost.” And not a few began to weep. But Hades was unmoved.
Then Orpheus sang of the glories of man, the glories of war and the greater glories of peace. He sang of the triumphs of the spirit, of those who strove against great odds to win an even greater victory; of those who won, even if it meant dying, because of what they won.
And the souls in the Netherrealm heard this song, too. “This is what we tried to be,” they said, and more yet began to weep. But Hades was unmoved.
Then Orpheus sang of love. He sang of the love between a parent and child; of the love of one man for his brother. But most of all, he sang of the love, the glorious love that had driven him to the very center of Hades. Orpheus sang of the love that might flower between a man and a woman. He sang of his own love for Eurydice, but Hades was still unmoved.
Then Orpheus took a breath. Did he stop? Had Hades won?
No, for Orpheus now sang of the love of Persephone, the daughter of the goddess Ceres; Persephone who had given up her right to live in the world above because of her love for Hades, the Lord of the Netherworld.
And Hades wept.
Then Orpheus knew that he had won. “The wager is mine, Hades. My singing has defeated a god. Bring me my Eurydice that I may take her home.”
“You have won, but you have not learned how to win,” Hades said. He gestured, and a figure stepped forward. It seemed to be Eurydice, but it was wrapped within a burial shroud. Orpheus could not see the face nor hear the voice of the being within.
“Here is Eurydice but know that you have not won until you have returned her to the World Above. You may lead her to the surface, but you must not look upon her until you both step through the Gates to my realm. If you do, then she shall return at once to this place. And you shall not follow her, for it is my Will that you are banished from the Netherrealm until the time chosen for you by the Fates.”
“Harsh words from a harsh god,” Orpheus said. “But I agree to them. I will have no need to return to your realm, for Eurydice will be in the World Above with me.”
The silent figure raised its ghastly arm. Orpheus took its hand, its cold, cold hand, and turned and led it away from Hades. He longed to turn, to tear off that all-covering shroud and look again upon his lover’s face, yet he did not. For he remembered the warning of Hades and was most loathe to defy that Godling within his own realm.
“Eurydice, I cannot look upon you till we be gone from this realm, but let me, at least, hear your gentle voice. Speak to me, Eurydice, for it has been too long since I have heard your voice.”
The figure spoke or seemed to speak. It’s voice was more a whisper than a voice; more a croak than the sound a human throat might make. And yet, the sound that came forth did sound to Orpheus’ desperate ear as if it had said his name. As if it had said, “Or...Oorphee-us.”
And was there not a hint to it of Eurydice’s own sweet voice?
But as they walked, no other sound did the being behind him make. Orpheus remembered Hades’ warning, but, too, he remembered Hades’ anger. A thought, a simple thought grew in his mind. “Was this being he lead his own Eurydice?”
The thought gnawed at him as a worm gnaws at an apple. It grew as they crossed the Plain of Tartaris. It festered as they sat in Cheron’s boat. And as they passed the place where Cerebrus sat and watched, it burst out into his mind.
“Was this being Eurydice?”
“Was he taking his love back to the World Above, or was he leading a demon to that unsuspecting land?”
He trembled. The Gate lay but a few paces further. He stopped at its edge. “So close,” he thought. “If it is Eurydice, we can be through before Hades even knows, and it is a demon, I can race free, close the Gate, and leave it behind.”
He stopped. He turned. He saw.
He saw the shroud fade away as mist fades before the morning sun. He saw Eurydice, his beautiful Eurydice, her face full of love and longing form him. And he saw Hades appear and snatch her away within a half a heartbeat.
Cruel rough hands of some thing he could not see grabbed him and held him and flung him outside the Gate. He lay on the ground, staring up at the sun and the clouds. A voice came within the Gate. “It would seem, Orpheus, that you truly do not know how to win.”
And now, Orpheus wept.
Then he stood and marched back to the Gate. It was locked, and he knew that he could not force it open. “You are not an honorable Godling, Hades. It is said that no man can cheat death, but I see that Death can cheat me. Oh, what a song I shall sing of it, Hades, a song that shall make you a Godling mocked across the length of Hellas. It will be the only song that I sing, and I will sing it so often and so well that even the gods shall take it up. Even your own kind shall mock you.”
And then the voice of Hades echoed from beyond the Gate. “What would you have me do, Orpheus? You were fairly warned. There are some things that even I cannot do or undo.”
“What do I care of rules? I want to see Eurydice again. Here, in the World Above. I want to touch her skin, to smell the honey of her hair, to hear her sweet voice once more. I won our wager, Hades. Give me what I ask as my prize.”
“Is that what you truly wish?”
“It is. Do you grant it, or do I teach the world to laugh at you?”
“You have asked what you have asked, and I shall grant it. Your prize is your punishment, your words are ruin.” The voice laughed from deep within the Gate, then it faded to echo and was gone.
A strange weakness came over Orpheus. He sank to the ground. He felt his body moving beneath his tunic. He was smaller, thinner. His shoulders narrowed and his skin grew soft and pale. The fingers of his hands grew thinner and longer yet lost none of their suppleness. His feet were smaller, too, he saw, and there seemed to be a new smooth curve to his legs.
Beneath his tunic, he felt a pounding in his chest. He touched it, and his eyes opened in wonder at how sensitive it felt. Then, while all else seemed to be growing smaller, his chest grew. Something, two somethings moved, grew outward from his chest. A fear then grew in the pit of his stomach as he watched the rounded breasts of a woman coming forth on his own body.
His body? Orpheus reached down beneath his tunic. That which had made Orpheus a man was truly gone. In its place was the very essence of a woman, the soft yielding flesh that he had delighted in when he had been with Eurydice.
“Eurydice,” he moaned her name aloud. Then stopped in greatest surprise. It was not his voice that spoke. It was...could it be...but it was! His voice was now altered to the sweet tones of his Eurydice.
The very air shimmered before him. Orpheus stood and watched as it seemed to harden into the like of a mirror. And in that mirror, dwarfed in the clothes of a man, stood Eurydice. Her form, her face, her long golden hair, Orpheus was truly transformed into the likeness of his lost love.
“Hades,” Orpheus shouted, straining Eurydice’s voice. “What have you done to me?”
There was a laugh from within the Gate. “You wanted to be able to see Eurydice, to hear her, to touch her.” The voice laughed again. “Perhaps even to taste her. You asked for Eurydice’s body, not for her soul. And I have given you what you asked.”
Then a great wind came forth from the Gate, a foul wind that smelled of death. It lifted Orpheus into the air and carried her for many miles, across the sea to an island far away. She landed gently, as gently as a mother sets down a child to play.
Orpheus looked down at hers new body and saw Hades’ final gift -- or curse. Her man’s tunic was now the long skirt of a woman, the very skirt that Eurydice had worn the day that she had died.
Orpheus sat and gave in to the weakness of her beloved’s body. Three days, she neither moved nor slept nor ate. He sat, rocking softly back and forth, watering the green earth with her tears.
At long, long last, those eyes grew dry. She knew a hunger in her belly, and she set forth to find some manner of food.
Orpheus found that food. She found a settlement of men and earned her meals and a small place to sleep as she always had, by song. Her voice was Eurydice’s voice only, yet it was a trained and pleasing voice. It suited her new form, and she came, in a way, to accept what Hades had ordained for her.
Orpheus traveled after a time, moving from place to place. She stayed a while to trade songs for comforts, then moved on before her hosts grew tired of her. A full year did Orpheus travel until she came to the lands of the Bacchae.
The Bacchae were worshippers of Dioneseus the Winegiver. Most of the time, they were as other women. But there came times in the year when their worships led to a fierce madness that made any sane man travel days to avoid the dangers they became.
Orpheus reached their land at the full of the Harvest Moon. It was a time of their greatest madness. Even before Orpheus knew of the danger, they were upon her. They had the forms of women, but their minds, their very souls were as the ravening beast.
The voice of Orpheus, the Orpheus he had been, had the power to stop, to sooth such madness. The voice of Orpheus, the Orpheus that she was now, was but the voice of a female bard. The song on her lips gave way to screams and then to silence. The Bacchae tore her body to pieces and threw it into the river.
But the soul, the soul of Orpheus came back to Tartaris. It -- he found that he had regained his own form in death. His head was bowed as he stepped before Hades in judgment. “You tried to cheat me, Orpheus,” Hades said. “I punished you in life, and you know that you should expect an even harsher punishment now that you are forever in this realm.”
“But husband,” another voice said. It was a soft voice that dripped of honey yet was somehow as firm as settled stone. “Remember why you gave him that chance.”
Orpheus dared to look up. Hades sat upon his dark red throne, but there was a woman beside him, a woman whose face spoke of spring and of hope, Persephone.
“Orpheus,” her voice spoke again. “You have dared what no man has ever dared, to challenge Hades twice. Twice were you punished for what you did. You died because of what you have done. And now you shall be rewarded.”
Then a figure moved out from behind the throne and into Orpheus’ sight, a figure wrapped in a burial shroud. “Or..oor-phee-us,” came the whisper of a voice. Then the shroud melted away. It vanished not from the heat of the sun, but from the warmth of Eurydice’s smile.
Orpheus ran to Eurydice’s side. They touched, carefully as if fearing that what they touched would vanish for the act of touching. Yet it did not vanish. The touch became an embrace. Orpheus took his beloved Eurydice’s hand, and they walked slowly and happily forever into the land of the dead.
Phone Fun
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2019
Andy liked to amuse himself by making prank calls on his cell until he called a very wrong number.
Phone Fun
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2019
This is a revision and updating of an earlier story.
Damned addictive gargoyles got me again. This one, by the way, has TWO endings. Let me know which one you like better.
* * * * *
Phone Fun
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2019
Andy smiled and hit redial.
The display on his phone showed the number being dialed; 5-5-5-3-8-0-7. It was a number he'd picked at random.
"Hello," a voice came over the speaker. It was the same woman's voice, though he couldn't tell her age.
He tried a southern accent this time. "Hello, ma'am. Is Jerry there?"
"There's no Jerry here." She was beginning to get annoyed. Well, why not. This was the fifth time he'd called in less than ten minutes.
Andy leaned back in his chair and took a swig of beer. He loved playing this game with people. He wasn't as good at it as his idol, Bart Simpson, but then, Bart had better writers, and nobody was as dumb as Moe, the bartender. All in all, it was a great way to kill a Saturday night. Or, at least, as good a way as he was able to find.
Andy had moved to Uniontown about six months before. He was a shy twenty-year old, who hadn't made more than a couple of very casual acquaintances in that time. He was thin, with shaggy brown hair and very few social skills of any sort. He made up for it by playing silly jokes like this. It was just before April Fools Day, and he couldn't resist
He took another swig. Long enough; it was time for the last set up call. He hit re-dial again.
"Hello." She was definitely getting mad. "Is this another call for Jerry?"
"Yes'm," Andy said. His voice was higher this time, so he sounded younger. "C-can I talk to him?"
"This has gotten tiresome, young man. I would advise you not to call back." The phone slammed down at the other end of the line.
Andy clapped his hands together. Oh, boy, was she ready. He knew that she was on to him, that she realized that it was a practical joke. He was still going to make the final call and to finish her off. If he didn't, if he didn't call back, then she'd have won. He couldn't have that.
He finished the beer and crushed the can. He had a small recorder hooked into the phone. He turned it on as he hit redial one more time. Her reaction was going to be epic, and he wanted to get it on a disc.
"Very well," the voice said. It sounded incredibly calm. "Go ahead; you've made your choice."
"Hi, this is Jerry," he paused to let the name sink in. "Were there any calls for me."
"There were a great many calls, as you well know. And since you insist that you are who you say you are..." There was an odd edge to the voice. Maybe she had a phone tracer. Andy panicked and tried to end the call.
But he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. His body wouldn't move. He was frozen in place, his finger hanging a few inches above his phone.
"If you want to be Jerry, then Jerry you shall be. But not the Jerry you would want to be. No, not at all who you would want to be."
Andy's body began to tingle. He could see his right arm, the one that had been holding his phone. It seemed thinner now, and the hair on it was growing lighter, thinner; it was fading away. His fingers looked slender and more graceful, and now there was a layer of pink polish on his nails.
His scalp itched. He felt his hair getting longer. It grew over his ears and down to tickle the back of his neck. His face twitched. Something was happening to it, something that he didn't think he'd like. He nervously ran his tongue over his lips and felt a waxy sweetness. Lipstick? It couldn't be. He felt something, a stretching in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something push his shirt outward into his line of sight. He felt the fabric pushing against him, and there was some kind of weight in his chest.
His slacks grew tight as he felt his hips swell outward. The fabric was cool against his softer, hairless legs. It was a pleasant feeling until... until some force seemed to grasp his penis and balls. It pulled and twisted them, even as it was caressing them. Then, it just pushed, pushed them into his body. He shuddered, and his eyes grew wide at the flood of sensations that ran through his body.
The voice came over the phone again. "Enjoy your new life, Geri. You'll be too busy now to be bothering me ever again." There was a click and then the dial tone.
But as Andy... Yes, Andy watched, the phone changed color, shifting from a jazzy purple to eggshell white. Then his improvised living room table, a board over two milk crates, turned into a real coffee table with a cherry wood finish. Andy could move again. He stood up and looked around.
He was still in the same apartment, but now it was entirely different. There were framed art posters on the walls where the magazine centerfolds had been. The used furniture, a table and three chairs near the kitchen and the couch he'd been sitting on, were in better repair. They all had the same finish as the coffee table. There was a vase with fresh flowers on the table and several pastel red throw pillows on the couch. Two chairs that Andy had never seen before were at the ends of the couch, and there were recent issues of Cosmo and Metropolitan Life on the coffee table.
"What the hell did she do to me?" Andy wondered.
He looked down. His "Naked Volleyball" T-shirt was now a blue cotton top that clung to his curves, his new busty curves. He was at least a 36-C. "Can't be real," he said, touching them, but they were. His fingers kneaded the new flesh. It felt good, real, real, good, and he hated to stop.
But he had to. Expecting the worse, he lowered one hand to his crotch, his flat crotch. There was no bulge. He slid his hand into his very tight jeans. His cotton boxers were now soft and satiny to the touch. His prick and balls were gone, but he found a very sensitive slit, where they had been. He slid a finger in and moaned at the feeling.
"Shit, no!" He pulled it out quickly, very quickly. This was crazy. He was a guy, damn it.
The phone rang, startling him. He pressed the speaker button. "He... hello?"
"Is Geri there?" It was her again "You might as well speak up. I know you're there."
"No, bitch. This is Andy. What the hell did you do to me?"
"Could you say that again, please?" She said it so calmly, that Andy shuddered. He felt a moment of dizziness, as the room seemed to spin around him. Then…
"I said this is... this is... Geri." She shook her head. That didn't sound right, but it was her name. It had always been her name; hadn't it? "What... what did you want?"
"Why, Geri, I just wanted to say 'April Fools!' before Ron got there."
"'April Fools'... 'Ron'? I'm afraid that I don't understand."
"No, but you'll be all the better for it."
The doorbell rang, startling Geri. She didn't have a doorbell.
"Ah," said the voice. "He's here. I'd best go. Try to make something of this life." Another click, and the dial tine came back.
"What the?' Geri said. The doorbell rang again.
She hurried over and opened the door. "Yes?" A tall man about her age stood just outside. He had curly, light brown hair, big brown eyes, and... and the cutest grin.
"Yes?" the man said. "Well, that's hardly the sort of greeting I was expecting.”
Geri blushed and looked down. "And what sort of a greeting were you expecting... Ron?" She knew, all at once that it was his name, that they had met about a month before, and that they were dating, dating… seriously.
The man stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and took her in his arms. Geri felt warm and happy. "When a man comes to pick up his girl to take her out for dinner, he expects something a bit more like this." He pulled her close and kissed her. Geri was startled, but she returned the kiss. Her arms went up around his neck. She felt her breasts tingling as they were crushed against his chest. Down in her crotch, there was a warmth and an emptiness.
After a few minutes, they stopped for a breath. The man suddenly looked around your apartment. "Say, is your refrigerator running?"
"Why?" she asked breathlessly. She kept her arms around his neck, hoping for another kiss.
"Because we'd better catch it then, before we go out for that dinner."
* * * * *
Alternate Ending
This ending was suggested by Steve Zink. Thanks for the idea, Steve.
* * * * *
The phone rang, startling him. He pressed the speaker button. "He-hello?"
"Is Geri there?" It was her again "You might as well speak up. I know you're there."
"No, bitch. This is Andy. What the hell did you do to me?"
"Could you say that again, please?" She said it so calmly, that Andy shuddered. He felt a moment of dizziness, as the room seemed to spin around him. Then…
"I said this is... Hi, this is... Geri." She shook her head. That didn't sound right, but it was her name. It had always been her name. Her voice, it was sounded softer, now than she remembered it being before. What was going on?
"Hi, Geri. I'm... umm, Joe." The voice was male. She didn't recognize it, but it sounded... compelling.
"Hi, Joe. That's a nice name." What was she saying? "You've got a sexy voice. It's really turning me on."
"Really? Gee, nobody ever said that to me before."
"Well, I'm saying it. It makes me feel all warm and tingly."
"Y-yeah? Tell me more. Tell me... tell me what are you wearing."
"Oooh, you naughty boy; do I really have to tell you that?" Andy... Geri was disgusted. And scared. She kept trying to stop talking, but she couldn't seem to control her voice any more.
"You do." Whoever this Joe was, he was getting turned on. She could hear it in his voice.
"Okay. I'm wearing my favorite purple teddy. It's my favorite because it's got a built in bra that makes my breasts look even bigger, and it's cut so low that my nipple kind of, well, pop out some times when I get excited." She said the last word in a very seductive tone.
"Like now?"
"Yes, I..." Geri looked down. Her clothes, the blue top and the tight jeans were gone. She was wearing a very low cut teddy, purple, just as she had told him.
"Is something the matter?" He sounded concerned, anxious that she was still there on the phone.
"No, I... my titties just looked so inviting that I wanted to play with them." Oh, Lord, what was he saying? "Should I play with them, Joe? Should I play with them for you?"
"Yeah, yeah, play with them... and talk like it was me there playing with them."
"That sounds real good." Geri's voice was low and breathy now. "I'm lying back here on my bed, and you, you're here with me. Your hands, oooh, they're so big. I like a man with big hands. It means he's got a big dick. Do you have a big dick, Joe, honey?"
The room seemed to shift. She was in a bedroom, a woman's bedroom with lacy curtains and a dressing table covered with cosmetics and a bed, a woman's bed with a white ruffled bedspread that she was lying on.
"Yeah, and it's getting bigger all the time I'm listening to you, Geri."
"Goodie. Well, right now, you've got those big hands on my titties. You're squeezing them and playing with them in a way that's -- oooh -- that's sending shivers all through my body.” Oh, Lord, she felt those shivers running through her. “You're making me hot, Joe, hot and wet, and I --"
"I'm just cutting in here for a minute, Geri." It was her. "Don't worry about Joe. This is all happening in a fraction of a second. He won't even miss you."
"What the hell did you do to me?"
"I gave you what you wanted. You enjoyed playing with people's minds over the telephone, so I adjusted reality, and now you do it for a living. You can't help yourself. My magic will make you respond as the perfect phone sex girl. Only, what you tell them won't be a lie. You'll transform into whatever you tell them you look like, do to yourself whatever you say you're doing. Feel whatever you say you feel," She laughed. "You should be very, very popular." There was a click, and just a moment of dial tone. Then…
"I'm making you hot, am I?" Joe was back.
"Ooh, you sure are, honey. I want you, I want you inside me so much."
Geri kept talking, indulging Joe in what was now becoming a rape fantasy. And as she twisted and moaned in a genuine sexual frenzy, tears ran down her cheeks, she realized that this was the only kind of call she would be getting – or making -- for a long, long time.
Andy thought he was just having a little harmless fun on the telephone, but he made the mistake of dialing the wrong number, a number whose main exchange was in... the Twilight Zone.
The End
Pick-Up Line
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2000
Lou enters a bar, meets Sarah and says...
Pick-Up Line
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2000
I always loved the bar in the Chapman Hotel.
The hotel was right at the edge of the big office complex north of town, convenient for visiting big shots or for staff on temporary assignment. Then they build the conference center next to the hotel. Nothing fancy, but just right for trade shows and the like.
What did that have to do with the bar?
It meant that it was the stop of choice for anybody leaving the office complex in need of a drink or in town for a conference, thirsty, and unsure where to go. The place was always full of secretaries and professional types of both sexes looking to relax, and, sometimes, looking for somebody to relax with. Since I also like to relax, especially with somebody else, that made it prime "hunting grounds" for me.
I saw the woman sitting alone at the bar, nursing a drink. Her hair was a reddish blonde, flowing off her shoulders and down her back. She wore one of those flouncy white peasant blouses, with the top two buttons undone to show a really nice cleavage, and a navy skirt that was tight enough to show off her splendid figure without being slutty. It wasn't very long either; even sitting, it was well above the knee. Her waist was narrow, but her hips were wide with a tight, nicely rounded ass. Her legs were curled around the high barstool and, to quote the phrase, "went all the way up to her neck".
I motioned for Jack, the bartender, to come over. "Who's the lady," I said pointing at my target.
"Sarah, Sarah Mather. She owns a consulting firm of some sort. Class, definite class."
"She seeing anybody I should know about?"
"Nope. She comes here once and a while; sometimes alone, sometimes with a girl friend. I don't think she's gay, though. I've seen her leave with a guy more than once."
I handed him the ten I'd held in my fingers. "Okay, I'm going over there. When you take my order, ask me if I'd heard any good jokes."
He nodded, and I walked over and sat down on a stool two stools away from where Ms. Mather was sitting. It was close enough to strike up a conversation, but not an obvious pick-up.
Jack came over. "Hi, Mr. Prescott."
"Hi, Jack. Seven and seven, please."
"Right. Hey, you hear any good jokes lately?"
"A guy goes into a bar and sees this woman in a really tight pants suit. He's curious, so he goes over and says, 'Excuse me, but how do you get into those pants?' and she says --"
"That joke is older than this building," the woman interrupted. Jack retreated to get my drink.
Now the whole idea of telling the joke is to get a reaction from the target, so you can start a conversation. I hadn't gotten the reaction that I wanted, but it was a start. I decided to go with it.
"It was the only joke I could think of at the moment."
"Your sense of humor is as creative as your pick-up technique. I saw you watching me over at the far side of the bar. I should be insulted that you tried something so trite. I might even think about just insulting you and walking away."
"But --"
"But instead, I've decided to teach you a little lesson. Come on, I keep a room here at the hotel." She turned and started towards the door.
I tossed Jack a five to pay for the drink and gave him a "thumbs up". Then I turned and followed her out of the bar humming "Hooked on Teacher" under my breath.
* * * * *
Her room was on the twelfth floor. It was more of a mini-suite, actually, a fair sized living room with an adjoining bedroom. There was even a wet bar with a small, built in refrigerator. It also must have doubled as her office, since I saw a box full of files next to a laptop PC on what looked like a dining room table over in one corner.
"Make yourself a drink," she said. "I'm going to get something out of the other room." She disappeared into the bedroom. To slip into something more comfortable, I hoped.
In the meantime, I took a look at the bottles by the bar. I poured myself two fingers of 12-year old Jim Beam and called after her, "Would you like something?"
"No, thanks," she said coming out of the bedroom. She hadn't changed, merely tossed some sort of a bathrobe over her dress. She was wrapping it shut around her as she came out. The robe was a deep green with yellow and red symbols of some sort on it. It looked great on her, bringing out the red of her hair.
I started towards the couch. She looked at me oddly and made some sort of gesture with her hands. Suddenly, I just wanted to stand where I was. 'Weird,' I thought and sipped some of the Jim Beam.
She looked at me and frowned. "I've really had it with clowns like you who think a handsome face and some corny line are enough to get any woman into bed with them. I spent the day with several of my clients over at the complex. And, you know what, there wasn't a single office where some idiot pretty boy didn't try something like you just pulled in the bar."
I took another sip of my drink. For some reason, her rant didn't bother me. Nothing bothered me. I just wanted to stand where I was for a while. Even the fact that I was enjoying just standing there listening to her didn't bother me.
It should have.
"I went into the bar tonight to just relax for a bit before I had to come up to my room and get ready for tomorrow's meetings. Just spend a little time with people. Then you hit on me with that stupid line." She really had a full head of steam now. If it hadn't been so pleasant just to stand where I was standing, I would have left.
"Well, pretty boy, you're going to pay for all those idiots who tried something today. What's your name, by the way?"
"Lou, Lou Prescott." I finished the drink and set the glass down on the floor next to me. It would have been too much trouble to move anyplace else just to set it down.
"Nice name. Only, you won't be answering to it for the rest of the evening. Incidentally, I'm Sarah Mather."
"What are you talking about?"
"You'll see, honey." She made another, much more elaborate gesture with her hands and mumbled something in a language that sounded a little like Welsh.
All of a sudden, my body began to tingle all over, like an electric current was going through it. I noticed that the room seemed to be getting bigger. Then, so were my clothes. I felt them getting baggier on me. Then something tickled my ears and the back of my neck. It felt like I had hair there. It was weird, but I somehow didn't feel the urge to look at myself and see what was happening.
By this time my pants had gotten so loose at the waist that they began to slide down. They'd have dropped to the ground, but something stopped them. My hips somehow got wide enough that the pants couldn't slide past. My shirt was loose, too, but now I felt something pressing against it. My chest felt fully, kind of sensitive, and it seemed to be pushing against the shirt.
Then as suddenly as it had started, the tingling passed. I was curious to see what had happened, but not curious enough to actually look.
"Why don't you walk over to the mirror," Sarah said with a pleasant smile. She hadn't put any emphasis on the idea, but it seemed like a command.
There was a large mirror mounted on a wall near the bar. As I walked over to it, I noticed that my reflection didn't look right. I should have seen Lou Prescott, thirty-two year old ex-jock, six foot two with curly brown hair and a killer smile. Instead, it looked like Sarah's kid sister was wearing my suit, a pretty girl in her early twenties; about five foot five with golden blonde hair running halfway down her back.
Sarah joined me as I stared at the image -- my image. I was the girl.
"Pretty, isn't she?" Sarah said. "Even without any make-up and in those ridiculous clothes. You look fabulous, Lucy."
"Lucy?" My voice was much higher, a soprano squeak that sounded like a little girl.
"Yes. You're my cousin, Lucy Mather now. At least that's the only name you can answer to."
"No! I'm not Lucy Mather! I'm not a girl. I'm a girl! I mean -- I'm a girl! I'm Lou-cy P-P-Pa-Mather!" I all but spit out the last name in frustration. What had she done? How was it possible?
"It's possible because I'm a witch -- and, yes, I just read your mind." She looked me up and down. "Now let's do something about those clothes." She made another gesture and spoke a few more of those strange words.
I felt my clothes moving across my body again. This time I was looking in a mirror, so I could see what was happening.
My navy suit jacket grew lighter in color, turning baby blue. At the same time, the material softened so that it became a sweater, a girl's sweater. My shirtsleeves retreated up into the sweater. I felt them moving up my arms until they disappeared as my cotton shirt transformed into a woman's silk blouse. The collar also disappeared, as did the top two buttons. My necktie shrank down into a gold chain with a little heart-shaped locket at the end. The locket settled down into what I suddenly realized was my very attractive cleavage. I felt a rippling of material under the shirt as my T-shirt transformed into a lacy bra. A thought popped into my head. I needed a bra with my new 38-D breasts.
I couldn't see below my knees in the mirror, but I watched when my pants rose up my legs to become a pair of shorts. They looked good on my wide, feminine hips. Then the shorts merged into a tube of material that became a mini-skirt some five or six inches above the knees. I saw my socks grow up my legs as if chasing after the pants. They grew up past the hem of my skirt and merged at my hips becoming a pair of sheer pantyhose. Then I seemed to grow taller.
Sarah saw the confused look in my eyes as I grew. "You're wearing three-inch high heels now, Lucy."
I was done now. No! Something seemed to be happening to my face. I saw my lips darken as lipstick suddenly appeared on them. I felt blusher on my cheeks. I blinked my eyes in surprise and discovered mascara and a pale blue eyeliner on those same eyes. The girl in the mirror looked sweet and sexy and very innocent. She would draw men the way bees draw honey.
"A very good analogy, Lucy." Sarah had read my mind again. "But maybe a little too clever for a sweet young thing like you."
I stared at myself in the mirror uncertain what would happen next.
"All right, cousin, dear." Sarah smiled like a cat might smile while it was playing with a mouse. "Here’s what happens now. You're going back down to the bar, and you’re going to stay there the rest of the evening no matter how much you want to leave. You’ll get to feel what it's like to be hit on all evening."
She was suddenly holding a purse. She handed it to me, and I was compelled to put the strap over my shoulder. "Please don't make me do this," I said, tears welling up in my eyes.
"Oh, don't cry, Lucy. You'll ruin your make-up." I blinked as the tears seemed to vanish from my eyes." She opened the door. "Now you go downstairs and see how the other half lives." I slowly walked out -- I really had no choice in the matter. I fought it, but my body was mostly doing what she told it to, not what I told it to. She either read my mind or my body language because she added, "and, Lucy, you perk up and be sure to smile for all the nice men you're going to be meeting." afterthought, she added.
I straightened and walked chest out stomach in (which must have looked really great considering my new figure) to the elevator. I pressed the button. While I waited, I looked at myself in the mirrored doors. I saw a pretty blonde in her early twenties, eyes slightly closed and with a sexy little smile on her face.
The part of my mind that was still male felt a rush of lust, but my newly female body betrayed me. Instead of the old familiar hardness in my groin, I felt a hardening in my nipples. My groin felt warm, and a little moist, and -- no! . -- a little empty. Dammit, I was arousing myself, but as a female. This was the last thing I needed when I was going into that bar. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath and let it out slowly to try to calm myself.
Unfortunately, just as I did that, the elevator doors opened. The three guys inside suddenly saw what they could only think was an attractive young woman eyes closed and sighing at them. They all went into testosterone overload, smiling and stepping back as I got on the elevator.
To make matters worse, my "programming" took over. I smiled at the one closest to the buttons for the floors and said, "I'm going down" in that squeaky new voice of mine. That got me another smile, as three pairs of men's slacks suddenly got considerably tighter at the top of their inseams.
They spent the rest of the elevator ride staring at me, my legs, my breasts, my ass. One even looked at my face for just a little bit. Inside I was screaming, but my body never showed it. I stood there letting them look at me, feeling their lust as a warmth in my body. It was like being under a sunlamp.
"Don’t I know you from someplace," one of them said eventually. I felt myself purse my lips as if thinking. I stared at his face for a minute, and then my eyes trailed down his body, stopping at the bulge just below his waist. I smiled and licked my lips as I looked back up. "No, I’m sorry, nothing about you seems familiar." Then I smiled and added, "Yet." Damn, I was flirting back.
Just then, the elevator doors opened onto the lobby. "Bye, boys," I said and walked out of the elevator and towards the bar. The three of them lagged behind, but I could still feel their eyes on me. I started walking with more and more of a sway of the hips, a strut to my walk, until I might as well have been a stripper on a runway.
I kept going with that exaggerated walk once I reached the bar. As I walked over to get a drink, it seemed to me as if everything stopped, and everybody was looking at me. If it had been a movie, a spotlight would have followed me across the bar while somebody played low sexy jazz riffs on a trumpet.
I reached the bar not far from where Jack was standing and sat down on a stool. "What’ll you have, ma’am?"
"Whatever it is, Jack, put it on my tab." A tall man in his mid thirties was suddenly standing next to me. He had close-cropped sandy brown hair and a neat little mustache. He smiled and said, "A pleasure to meet a lady as pretty as yourself, ma’am." He had a soft Texas drawl that didn’t quite match the expensive Italian suit he was wearing. "I’m Pete Nelson."
"White wine, please," I said with a smile I didn’t want on my face. I hated white wine. It was a woman’s drink, but, thanks to Sarah, I was a woman just then. "Lucy Mather," I said.
Pete hung in for about twenty minutes plying me with wine and trying to impress me with stories about his electronics firm in Dallas. When he saw that he wasn’t making any sort of progress, he smiled wanly and headed down the bar to try his luck on a redhead who had just come in.
Sam Epstein, an accountant I knew, tried next. Sam was a good guy, and I kind of felt sorry for him. He used an even lamer joke than I had with Sarah; the old "If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?" gag. In spite of myself, I giggled when he said it. I had the sort of high, breathy giggle that immediately turned guys on. He tried and tried, but he couldn’t get a rise out of me.
I got a rise out of him, though. I could see it in his pants.
It was like that the rest of the evening. A guy would come over and hit me with some dumb line. He’d spend a while buying me drinks and trying to get me interested. I’d respond, maybe even flirt a little, but, somehow, every one of them would give up after a while and leave.
And each time, somebody new would take his place a minute or two later. The only good thing about it was that I didn’t seem to be affected by all the alcohol I was drinking. I might have enjoyed all that drinking without getting drunk, but getting changed into a magnet for dumb pick-up lines seemed like too high a price for the privilege.
* * * * *
It was about 1:40. I was being double-teamed by two jocks from the local college. They finally gave up and decided to spend the last twenty minutes before the bar closed to find more agreeable (make that "more bed-able") company. I sighed with relief. It was almost over.
"Excuse me, ma’am. I couldn’t help noticing you there, and I was wondering if I might talk to you for a bit."
I turned to see who was talking. He was in his late twenties, about average height with curly black hair. He was smiling. ‘A nice smile," I thought suddenly.
"I’m Harry, Harry D’Ambriso." He offered his hand.
"Hi, Harry. I’m Lucy Mather." I smiled and shook hands. He had a firm handshake. I felt a tingle in my breasts as he released my hand. It felt really… really nice.
The rest of those twenty minutes flew by. He was a computer consultant in from Chicago to discuss a new application his company was developing for one of the firms over in the complex. Only, he didn’t want to talk about computers. It was his first time in town, and he wanted to know what sights he should see while he was here. He knew something of the town and asked a bunch of questions, questions that always seemed to get back to the idea of what I -- which is to say -- Lucy Mather liked.
There was nothing really sexual about the conversation, but the tingling in my breasts kept going. It spread out through my body, especially down to my crotch. I had the same feeling down there that I’d had before, warm, a little wet, and empty. Very empty.
Jack came over and told us that he was closing up the place.
"Thank you for the conversation, Lucy," Harry said. "Could we continue it tomorrow night over dinner, say at that sushi place you recommended?"
I smiled my -- Lucy’s -- best smile. "We could continue it now; that is, if you have a room here at the hotel."
He smiled back. "I never refuse a lady." He took my hand in his and kissed it. He knew just the right way. He stared into my eyes as he raised my hand to his mouth. He opened his lips slightly and closed them around my knuckle, where my ring finger joined my hand. He pursed his lips and sucked for a moment, then licked the knuckle with the tip of his tongue before releasing it.
A shiver ran through my body. It wanted this man. It wanted him bad!
We walked hand in hand back to the elevator; my head resting on his shoulder, my body nestled up close to his.
* * * *
I awoke about 8 Am to the sound of a shower. Where was I? I looked around the hotel room. I remembered going up to a room with Sarah Mather and smiled. Then I remembered what she’d done to me. I glanced quickly down at my body, half expecting to see Lucy’s tits poking up under the blanket.
No. With a silent "Hallelujah!" I recognized my own very male body. I was Lou Prescott again.
And I was in a man’s bed.
I’d been intimate with this man, too. Intimate, hell, we’d screwed like a couple of rabbits. Harry knew all kinds of tricks, and he’d used every one. My nipples still felt a little sensitive, and I half expected that I’d be walking bowlegged for a while. I also had gotten far too familiar with what the phrase "multiple orgasm" really meant.
I smiled at that memory. The pleasure had been incredible, like nothing I’d ever felt as a man. I felt a new twinge down in my crotch, and I realized that I was giving myself one humongous hard-on thinking about it.
The shower stopped. Harry was going to come out and find a strange man with a hard-on lying naked in his bed. At best, he’d call the cops. At worse, he’d beat the living crap out of me.
A figure came out of the bathroom wrapping her hair in a towel. Yes, her hair. She had a second towel draped around her the way women do, from the breasts -- nice full breasts, too -- to down around her hips. She turned so that I could see her face. "Surprise, Lou."
"Sarah! But how -- what -- what happened to Harry?"
"I was Harry, Lou. I changed myself into a man the same way that I changed you into a woman."
"But why?"
"I thought that, after you spent the evening seeing all the wrong ways to approach a woman, you might learn something from seeing the right way."
"But -- you -- we --" I couldn’t finish.
"Had sex?" She smiled. No, she grinned. "Yes, and it was pretty good, too. Lucy was one horny woman."
"But I was Lucy!"
"Part of the spell; part of the lesson. Think of it as additional punishment for acting like a jerk, or you can think of it as a reward."
"I’m not sure what I want to think of it as."
"That will come with time. All wisdom does."
"And will I see you again?"
"Probably not. I’m not really interested in you except as somebody that I taught a lesson to."
"Well, at least that’s over. I don’t think I’ll ever try any sort of dumb line like that again."
"I hope not."
"Why? Why do you say that?"
"Because I didn’t end the spell that I cast on you, Lou. I just de-activated it. You try using a dumb pick-up line on any woman ever again, and it re-activates, and, Lou --" she paused for effect.
"Yeah?"
"I will know if the spell re-activates, and I will make very sure that you can’t find me to ever change you back."
The End
Portrait
by: Ellie Dauber © 1998
When Dorian complains about his neighbor’s music, the neighbor finds a new way to solve the problem.
This is the first story in a set of stories about Stavros and his family. I’ll be posting them all in the next few days.
Portrait
by Ellie Dauber © 1998
In my Mother’s family, the custom has always been that the first son was named for the father’s father, and the second son, named for the mother’s father.
My parents honored that custom with my older brother, who was christened Frank Grey, Jr. But, when my Mother was pregnant with me, it was her father, Dorian Michaels, who asked that the custom be broken, saying, “Who wants his grandson to have to suffer with being known as Dorian Gray? As soon as the other kids learn about that stupid story, he’ll never hear the end of it.”
Grampa Dorry died unexpectedly just before I was born. Mother was a stubborn woman who loved her own father very much. She insisted on honoring the tradition. As a compromise, I was named Dorian Michael Gray, and I grew up using both “Dorry” and “Mike” as nicknames.
****
About a year ago, I moved into my current apartment. It was a fairly roomy apartment: very large living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bath, and in a pretty good location. I was surprised to get it -- particularly for as little as I had to pay. The rental office said that they’d had trouble finding a tenant for it, even though the people in the rest of the building seemed happy enough.
My neighbor, Stavros “Something-or-Other” and I shared a common wall between our two bedrooms. He had seemed like a nice enough guy, an older man, about seventy I guessed, of Eastern European descent, who walked straight and erect as a soldier on parade, his bushy white eyebrows and full mop of curly white hair flashing like banners in the light. I tried to talk to him the few times we passed in the hall or met by our respective doors, but we never really hit it off.
Part of the problem was that I ran a computer consulting service out of the apartment, which meant I was home all day and needed the place fairly quiet for my work. Stavros also stayed in most of the day, but his idea of relaxation was playing music. Loud music. All day I could hear that damned violin of his screeching away, just off-key enough to set my teeth on edge. And definitely loud enough to ruin any chance I had of concentrating on my work.
I hoped that somebody else in the building might complain, but it seemed that he and I were the only ones home during the day. He stopped playing about four and generally went out. He must have had some night job or something, because he never came in before eleven or twelve. Then he generally went to bed.
I wasn’t making a detailed investigation or anything. The walls in that building were kind of thin. I could hear his door slam when he came or went, and he talked to himself when he came home and got ready for bed. Nothing in a language I could understand, but I could hear his voice through the bedroom wall.
I tried leaving notes on his door about the playing. Nothing nasty. Just explaining that I also was home during the day and asking if he could play more quietly or in another part of the apartment. My living room had to double as my office, since clients sometimes came to discuss business. If he could just play quietly in his bedroom, I asked, everything would be fine. One note even said that I enjoyed his music as a background, but that it was too loud to let me concentrate on my work.
Nothing worked. Sometimes it seemed like he waited until he heard me typing at the keyboard of my PC before he’d start playing. (I told you those walls were thin.) He also left me a couple notes saying that, since he had lived in the building for years, he had first rights on whether there was music or not on our floor. He also said that nobody else had ever complained, and that I was the first person not to have the good taste to appreciate his music.
After two weeks of his noise, I was falling behind schedule on a couple of important jobs. In desperation, I called the office of the company that managed the building. I was lucky, he was playing particularly loudly and off-key that day. All I had to do was hold up the phone, so the guy at the other end could hear. He agreed that it was a real problem and said that he would try to help.
****
Three days later, there was an angry knocking at my door. It was Stavros. “So, coward,” he fumed, “because you could not get your way, you run like little girl to landlord. He send me letter that say I must stop my music.” Stavros threw a crumpled up sheet of paper at my feet. When I bent down to pick it up, he grabbed at my head, pulling loose a bit of hair. I yelled and told him to leave.
“Stavros go,” he said, suddenly smiling. “Stavros stop the music for a while, but he stop you for good.” He turned and was gone through his own door by the time I stood up. Mercifully, there was no music. I uncrumpled the paper and read:
Dear Mr. Stanipopoulis:
Your neighbor, Mr. Dorian M. Gray, has complained about incessant and loud noise coming from your apartment throughout the day. We have investigated and found evidence to support his claim. We must, therefore, ask that you reduce the noise to an acceptable level -- if not stop it completely. If Mr. Gray continues to complain, we shall have to consider possible action, including, if absolutely necessary, the non-renewal of your lease at the end of its current term in two months, or even early eviction. We hope that such action will not be necessary, and that you will comply with this request.
We will be checking back with both you and Mr. Gray in two weeks to determine the outcome of this letter and whether any further action on our part is necessary.
Yours truly,
John Norman
Mid-City Realty
The letter was a little harsher than I had wanted, but it seemed to do the job. There was no music for two or three days. Occasionally I heard Stavros muttering to himself through the wall. Once or twice, I thought I heard my name mentioned, but I couldn’t be sure. For the most part, there was blessed silence. I managed to catch up on my work, even got ahead on a few long term projects. I felt so good that I thought about knocking on Stavros’ door. Maybe we could work things out. I did have to take a break or go out to a meeting at times. Sometimes I did research at the Library, and, of course, I went out to buy food, run the occasional errand, etc. Maybe we could work out a schedule of times when I’d be out, and he could play.
I went over and knocked, but there was no answer. I went back in and wrote a note,
“Stavros, please come over. Maybe we can work something out. -- Dorian.”
I taped the note to his door and went back to work.
Stavros didn’t show up, but a couple hours later, I heard a knock on my door. There was nobody there, but leaning next to the door was a large package with a note taped to it.
“Stavros taking care of problem. Will talk to neighbor soon as it over.”
I figured that the package was some sort of gift of apology and took it in to the apartment. I was glad that he seemed to be taking it so well, even if I wasn’t sure what he meant by “soon as it over”. Really, all I wanted was to get along with my neighbors and get my work done. I was really sorry that there had been a problem.
I carefully opened the package and looked in. It was a picture of some kind in a beautiful old wooden frame. I carefully lifted it out. It was me! I was dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals posing in front of an old house somewhere in the country. I had a feeling that the picture was intended as a not too subtle hint that I’d be happier living someplace else. But the likeness was excellent. In fact, the whole picture was almost photographic quality. To tell the truth, I was kind of embarrassed at seeing my skinny arms and legs in that outfit. I was also curious about how he’d gotten such a good likeness -- especially in such a short time. “It’s almost like magic,” I chuckled to myself. If only I’d know how true that thought had been.
****
That night I had a strange dream. I could hear somebody – no, a group of people -- chanting. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I recognized the language as the one Stavros spoke. I seemed to be surrounded by chanters. I definitely heard my name mentioned a number of times, and ever time with a laugh as if they found it funny. At one point, I saw the painting. The image seemed to be shifting, but I couldn’t tell what it was turning into.
I thought of the dream as I woke up. I jumped out of bed and walked into the living room. The painting was still leaning against a chair where I had left it. I looked at it for a moment, then I noticed something. Actually, a couple of somethings. My hair -- in the painting -- was shorter, almost a crewcut. And the hair on my arms and legs looked a lot thicker. No, I didn’t look like an ape or anything. I’ve got fairly fine body hair, not really noticeable except for some on my chest, and was clean shaven. The “me” in the picture had somewhat hairy arms and legs, and “he” was sporting a mustache and closely cropped beard.
I shook my head trying to figure out what had happened. Had somebody -- Stavros? -- gotten into the apartment to change the picture. Then I noticed that my own hair was longer. I felt it brush against my neck when I’d shaken my head. I looked down at my arms and legs and saw that what hair had been there was gone. Finally, I rubbed my hand along my chin. No beard. But also no five o’clock shadow, which was definitely strange, since I hadn’t shaved in a day.
I checked my reflection in the small mirror on the inside door of the living room closet. Not a trace of stubble.
This was beginning to get very weird. I decided that I didn’t want Stavros’s gift any more. I stuck it back in the box it had come in and went to get dressed.
While I was changing, I checked out my body hair. Not a trace of hair below the neck except in my groin, and the pattern of hair around my genitals seemed a little different from what I remembered. The hair felt softer, too. I was definitely spooked. I threw on some clothes, an old jogging suit and a pair of sneakers. They seemed a little looser than I remembered, but I had been trying to lose weight for the past month or so.
I took the painting to a pawn shop a few blocks from the apartment. The guy wasn’t interested in the painting very much, but he offered me fifty bucks for the frame. I’d thought about keeping the frame at first, but I decided that it and the painting were a set. It was probably better to get rid of both. I took the money and the claim ticket and headed home. Since I had no intention of reclaiming the painting, I tossed the ticket into a trash can within a block of the pawn shop.
I got back into the apartment and went straight to the kitchen for some breakfast -- well, coffee and a couple donuts, something I could eat while I worked. I had a report due late that afternoon, and I still had some final details to finish. I carried my breakfast into the living room and set it down next to the PC.
The damned painting was back, leaning against the chair where it had been when I woke up.
I stood up and fished out my wallet. The two twenties and the ten that I’d gotten from the pawn shop were still in it. I had a quick thought about using this boomerang painting to get rich. Take it to pawn shop after pawn shop and keep the money when it returned. No, first, I liked to think of myself as an honest man. I would get that money back to the pawn shop that day. More important, I was getting VERY bad vibes about this thing, and I wanted it out of my apartment and my life.
I noticed that there was a small note written on a “sticky” that was on the frame.
“You can neither give away nor sell this painting until its work is done. -- Stavros.”
What work? Then I noticed that the hair on “my” head was now practically a razor cut, just a quarter of an inch of stubble with the scalp clearly showing through. I felt my own hair. It seemed a lot thicker than before, and it had grown past my neck and part way down my back.
The “me” in the picture was still as hairy in the body, but his muscles seemed to be more developed. He looked like a man who spent his day working out instead of sitting at a PC. I looked down and my own body. My arms and legs seemed to have grown slimmer and more curved. I realized what was going on.
In the short story, “The Picture of Dorian Gray”, Gray stayed young and handsome, while his portrait became older and more depraved in appearance. Stavros had said my calling the landlord was the action of a girl. Somehow, his painting of me was becoming more and more masculine, while I was becoming feminine.
I grabbed the picture and ran for the stairs.
My apartment was in an old building with a furnace that was linked to the hot water heater and that doubled as the trash disposal. I got down to the basement and used a steel pole next to the furnace door to open it. It was a warm day, but the furnace was blazing away. Nice hot flames flared up through the open door. I tossed in the painting and slammed the door.
The painting was waiting for me back at the apartment, when I got back. It leaned against that chair as if it hadn’t been moved since I took it out of the box the day before. This time, the note read:
“Nor can you destroy it. I will return when its work is done. Midnight. -- Stavros.”
I kneeled down next to the painting and cried. I don’t know, maybe it was the first sign of a new feminine personality, maybe it was the situation. I cried for about five minutes. Then I decided not to give him the satisfaction. I’d see what would happen, let the thing do its worst. And I’d get Stavros -- get him good -- when he came for the painting that night.
In the meantime, I still had to make a living, and female computer consultants could make just as good a living, could do just as good work as male ones. I went back to finishing my report, just looking up occasionally to watch the painting’s progress.
About two o’clock, the “me” in the painting began to develop washboard abs and what I once heard a girlfriend refer to as “pects of steel”. I looked down and watched as my waist rose and narrowed, my hips widened. I couldn’t watch for long, though.
It was definitely getting to me, and I felt the need to talk to somebody. I speed-dialed Jack Tressler. Jack was a lawyer; a pretty good one from what I’d heard. He and I had met a couple years ago, when I consulted for him on a copyright case. We’d hit it off and continued as friends – good friends; playing tennis once a week, doing the bar scene together every so often, that sort of thing.
“Finch, Day, and Tressler,” the receptionist answered. “How may I direct your call?”
“I’d like --” I stopped short. That wasn’t my voice. I looked over at the picture again. “He” was rapidly losing his neck in a mass of muscles. Which meant that my neck, including my vocal chords, were rapidly becoming feminine. I touched it with my fingers. Sure enough, no Adam’s apple. There was no way that Jack would believe it was me. “I’m sorry, wrong number,” I said and hung up the phone and went back to work.
As I worked, I began to feel an uncomfortable scratching and stretching sensation on my chest. By 3:30, when I e-mailed the finished report to my client, I was sporting rather impressive 38C breasts. My fingers were getting longer and slimmer. I had shaped fingernails about a half inch long by four.
My other self’s face began to change again about then. His jaw got wider and firmer -- or, at least, that’s the way it looked from how his beard changed shape. And his eyebrows got much bushier, even long than Stavros’. I looked in the mirror that -- by now, was next to the PC. My own face had grown thinner with high cheekbones. My nose was smaller -- when I looked close at the painting, “his” nose had grown a bit angular, and I had narrow plucked eyebrows. My lips seemed fuller, too, and I somehow seemed to have developed a pout.
I didn’t eat much dinner. I think it was as much out of fear of what was happening as because my stomach was now much smaller. I was sitting listening to some music, ironically enough, and glancing at the painting. My other self was now a well-muscled brute, his new physique stretching the material of the t-shirt. In fact, I think that he was turning me on a little. I was staring at the painting like I used to stare at Playboy centerfolds, and I could feel my nipples getting harder and rubbing against the fabric of the sweat suit that I was still wearing.
Then I noticed that something was stretching his shorts. He seemed to be getting an erection, and it was enormous. And getting even bigger as I watched.
That could only mean one thing. I reached down into my pants and found my penis. It was flaccid, and no amount of stroking could get it hard. What was worse, it seemed to be shrinking even as I was rubbing it. I reached down to feel my balls. They were still both there, but they felt smaller, too. As I held them, I felt them pulling away, moving up into my body. My scrotal sack was now empty and it was growing tight against my crotch. I felt for my penis. It was maybe an inch long now and sinking down into the folds of the scrotum. I felt things moving inside my stomach and pulled my hand away.
When I put it back, my penis was all but lost inside the two folds that surrounded it. I put my finger in between the folds and felt the wall of my crotch move away, sinking back into myself. It was over in about a half an hour. I had started the day as a man. Now I was a woman, sitting at the edge of a chair in her living room, and crying while she inspected her brand new vagina.
The painting didn’t change any more, and neither did I. I was a woman now, but I didn’t intend to be one for very long.
Stavros has said that he’d be back at midnight. I was waiting for him. I’d gotten a pistol when I moved to the city. The Army had taught me how to shoot at the same time it had taught me how to use a PC. I still practiced twice a month on a range at the Y, and I was pretty good. I figured that I could persuade Stavros to undo what had happened. Either that, or perform a .38 special surgery on his own genitalia.
Sure enough, just before midnight, there was a knock on the door. “Is Stavros,” came the voice on the other side.
“It’s open,” I said. I was still not used to my new voice, so much higher and more musical that the original male version.
He came in. He looked the same as ever, but now he was wearing some sort of green robe covered with ornate symbols embroidered in gold and silver. He looked every inch the evil sorcerer. I was standing, leaning against the couch facing the door. The painting was on a chair diagonal to both me and the door, so both he and I could see it. He looked me up and down, almost leering. “Now you see why nobody complain; why it not good to make trouble for Stavros.”
“Are you going to change me back, now? I promise that I won’t bother you again.”
“No! Stavros been nice before. Change people back and they forget. They just make new trouble.”
I really didn’t want to use the pistol unless I had to, so I tried to argue. “There’s nothing to stop me from making trouble as I am, either. Especially as I am. People will get very upset to find out that there’s an evil wizard casting spells.”
“People not know. Change is full change. Even the past. You call up your people -- your Mama and Papa. They tell you they never had a son, just a daughter.”
“No,” I said drawing the gun into sight. “You change me back, old man, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
“Then you never change back. You go to women’s jail.”
“For what? For defending myself against a crazy old man who broke into my apartment at midnight and tried to rape me?” It was a wild idea that had just popped into my head, but I thought that it might work. If he thought that I might get away with shooting him, he might be willing to change me back.
“Stavros knew you was crazy, but change take care of that.” He was smiling. Why was he smiling?
“Take care of what? The change is over. I’ve been a woman for over two hours.”
“Last part of change take longer. Look at left hand on painting.”
I looked over quickly. There was something metallic looking forming on one of the fingers. It took me a second to recognize. It was a man’s wedding ring! As I turned back to look at Stavros, my head began to spin. I felt myself falling into blackness.
****
It was morning. I could hear the birds in the garden outside my bedroom, feel the sunlight through the window on my arms. I felt warm and protected and very reluctant to wake up. I rolled over and bumped up against somebody. Somebody? Who the hell was in bed with me?
I opened my eyes to see Jack Tressler propped up on one arm and smiling down at me. “Good morning, beautiful,” he said. “Have a good sleep?”
“Um, I guess,” I said, too confused to think of anything else.
“You know, I don’t have to be in the office till noon. So, unless you’ve got something pressing with that consulting business of yours, I thought we could stay here a while and...” Jack let the obvious suggestion trail off, while he reached over with his other hand and brushed the hair off my face. What was going on?
Suddenly a new mass of memories tumbled into my mind. I knew what was happening and who I was. Stavros had solved the problem, all right, but not quite as nastily as I had thought. But now, as my husband’s hand reached down to gently play with my nipple, I had other things to concentrate on. I was Mrs. Doreen Gray Tressler, happily married these past six months and about to be made love to by my sexy husband, Jack.
****
Back in the now empty apartment, Stavros crated up the painting. “Maybe next tenant appreciate good music,” he thought. In the meantime, he had things to do. He sealed the crate for shipping, writing: “John Norman; Mid-City Realty” on the address label. Stavros felt Mr. Norman’s letter about the music deserved a special response.
(fin)
Promotion
by Ellie Dauber © 1999
Another old story posted here for the first time. This story is part of a set of stories about an old wizard named Stavros and his family that I'll be posting from time to time.
When Nick Lucas gets the promotion that Jeff Rayburn wanted, Jeff seeks a unique revenge.
Promotion
by Ellie Dauber © 1999
Jeff Rayburn's phone buzzed. “Yeah,” he said, leaning over his desk.
“Boss wants you in his office in five minutes,” came the voice of Janie, his secretary.
“Right,” Jeff said. He pushed himself away from his desk and stood up. He walked over to his office door and took his jacket off a hook. He put it on and ran his long fingers through his thinning gray hair. Then he checked a mirror hanging next to the hook to make sure his tie was straight. He pushed his glasses back on his nose and hurried out the door.
Jeff was a senior financial analyst for the Bayard City Bank and Trust. His division director had retired about two weeks before, and Jeff was a prime candidate to replace him. At forty three, he didn't have a reputation for brilliance, but he was known as a steady, hard worker who generally got done whatever job he was assigned. Often doing better than was expected.
Tom Vernon's office was on the Executive floor, one floor up from Jeff's. Vernon was chief of Jeff's department and the one who got to decide who got the division director's job. Jeff had been buttering him up ever since his old boss had started hinted about retiring. The decision was due soon. Maybe this was it. Jeff was smiling as he walked into Vernon's office exactly four and a half minutes later.
His smile faded away almost immediately. Nick Lucas was there waiting with Vernon. The two were laughing over some joke that Lucas must have just told. He was there sitting on the edge of Vernon's desk pretty as you please. Jeff began to get worried.
Lucas was Jeff's main rival for the division director's job. He'd joined the bank about a year before from somewhere in the Midwest. He was only twenty five with dark good looks, a shock of curly black hair, and an easy smile. His analysis was often eccentric, but he'd gotten a reputation for being lucky.
Vernon turned when he heard the door open. “Ah, Jeff. On time as always. I've finally made my decision on who gets Milt Kasper's old job. Since you two are the prime candidates, I wanted you both to hear it at the same time. Nick was here for a meeting, and I asked him to stay, then called you.” He motioned towards the plush tan chairs arrayed around his desk.
“Thank you, Tom,” Jeff said easing into one of the chairs. They were status symbols among the senior staff, and he hoped to get a couple when he moved into Milt's office. He tried not to notice that Nick stayed where he was, perched like a hawk on the edge of Vernon's desk.
“It was a tough choice,” Vernon continued. “Jeff, you're a good analyst. Most of the key people in this town know you, and they all trust your work. Nick, you're new in town and fairly young, but there's no denying the level of your work. Or your luck. Either way, it was tough.”
Jeff and Nick mumbled a “thanks” and looked at each other with a sincerity that neither felt. ‘The old bastard's enjoying making us sweat,’ Jeff thought. ‘Well, I've kissed his ass long enough to get this job. A few minutes more won't kill me.’
“Anyway, Nick. I've decided that the job is yours. You're smart enough to do the work and charming enough to win over anybody that may have doubts.”
Jeff was stunned. He'd been sure that the job was his. Sure, Nick was charming, but since when did a banker have to be charming? He tried very hard to keep his smile. And not to look at Nick.
Vernon was speaking again. “Nick, I'm making Jeff your Assistant Director. With Jeff as your key man, your division should be as productive as ever for us. Jeff, I know this isn't what you wanted, but Assistant Director is a promotion with some increase in pay for the extra work.”
‘Sure,’ Jeff thought. ‘And as Assistant Director, it becomes part of my job to make Lucas look good. My own promotion will depend on it.’ He stuck out his hand towards Lucas and said, “Con congratulations, Nick.”
“Thank you, Jeff,” Lucas said shaking Jeff's hand. “You're a good man, and I look forward to working closer with you.”
“Now that everything's settled,” Vernon said. “Why don't you two head back to Nick's new office to work out the details. All of Milt's files are on his desk. Excuse me, Nick. On your desk.” His face went into the neutral mode that he used to indicate that a meeting was over. The other two rose and left his office.
As they walked to the elevator, Nick put his arm on Jeff's shoulder. “Jeff, I know how much you wanted this job, and…. in a way, I'm sorry you didn't get it. We'll go slow and try to work out a good relationship. Right now, I want to take a look at those files, Tom -- Mr. Vernon -- mentioned.”
“Umm, okay, Nick.” Jeff looked at his watch. “It's about 11 o'clock. Why don't we meet early this afternoon to talk about things?”
“I don't know. Let me take a look at those files. I'll call you when I'm ready to meet.”
‘I'll call you,’ Jeff thought. ‘Why you pompous son of a bitch.’ The bile rose in his stomach. He had a feeling that the call wouldn't come for a long time. Lucas had to make himself look good to keep the new job. Jeff was sure that he'd do it by making Jeff look bad. It was certainly what Jeff would have done if things were reversed.
They had come to Milt's old office. The internal grapevine was as efficient as ever. Somebody had taped a sign on the door over Milt's nameplate. The sign said “Nicholas Lucas, Division Director” in one of those fancy new computer fonts that half the office had on their PCs.
Nick patted Jeff on the back. “See you later, Jeff,” he said. As Jeff walked back to his office, he could hear cheers from the Nick's new office. The grapevine worked real well. Nick's Section had gotten enough warning of the promotion to throw together a small party to celebrate.
*****
Jeff spent the rest of the day thinking about his new situation. He'd have to make sure to cover his ass at all times and in all directions. That meant keeping his own Section staff working at their usual level; making sure that he knew enough of what was going on to keep Nick from messing him up; and looking for a way to get Nick.
Nick did call Jeff in late that afternoon. He said that he was going to keep his own Section and that he expected Jeff to keep his. “For a while, at least,” he said. “You should keep an eye out for somebody to be your assistant, run the day to day stuff.”
Jeff nodded. Now he was going to have to watch his back to keep some hotshot from going after his job. It just got worse and worse.
“By the way,” Nick continued. “Seven new accounts came in during the last two weeks. I'm taking these four for my section. You get the other three.” Nick quickly rattled off the names of the new accounts. Jeff recognized most of the names. Five were accounts that he'd been chasing for months. And Nick had taken the largest of them. Since each section was measured by its productivity, Nick was setting his section to be the more productive one.
Nick did go on to discuss a number of problems that the entire division seemed to be having. Jeff made some suggestions, and they worked on an overall strategy. Jeff had to admit that Nick did know his business. ‘Almost as well as I do,’ he thought.
He also began to see a pattern in what Nick was doing. He was setting up shields to protect himself from problems. They were being delegated to subordinates or passed back to other divisions for questions. If things worked out, Nick would still be able to claim some of the credit. If they didn't somebody else would get most of the blame.
Jeff decided that he'd better stay low for a while. Nick's shields would work for him, too. He'd take advantage of that while he waited for a weak spot. He could afford to wait, and, much as he hated to admit it, there were a couple of things that Nick could teach him.
*****
It went on like that for a couple of weeks. Nick had been a little wary at first, but Jeff hadn't seemed to make a move against him. Then a problem came up. A letter authorizing a major stock transfer for one of the new accounts was never acted upon. The deal fell through, and paper losses were almost $500 thousand. The paper turned up in Nick's desk.
Vernon should have fired Nick in a minute. Nick claimed that he'd never seen the letter. Fortunately for him, the letter didn't have the routing stamps that it should have. There was no way to prove that it had gone through the normal channels. Somebody was playing games.
Jeff was the logical suspect. He had thought about doing something like that, screwing up a major deal and letting Nick take the blame. But it hadn't been him. He was in Nick's office defending himself, when the real story came out. A kid in the mail room had held back the letter because his father worked for one of the companies involved. He had panicked and tried to hide the letter in Nick's desk when he came in to deliver that day's mail.
They fired the kid immediately. Nick didn't even apologize to Jeff. He just told Jeff to write a letter of apology to the account. “Tell him we fired that kid's ass, and that we'll make good on their losses the best we can. I think our insurance will cover it. Make the letter good. That account brings in a lot of money, and I don't want you to lose it.”
“Me to lose it',” Jeff exploded. “You're the division director.”
“Right. An executive delegates. I'm delegating you to take the blame.” Then Nick saw the look on Jeff's face. He smiled. “Hey, come on. I was just kidding. Nobody takes the blame. We fired that kid -- what's his name… Gary. We fired Gary’s ass, and Danny Singh's been reprimanded for letting it happen in his mail room. We didn't even know about the letter till things went crazy.”
Jeff forced himself to smile. “Okay, I guess I'm just a little upset that it happened.” He looked at his watch. “Look, it's almost five. Do you mind if I leave a few minutes early tonight?”
“Nah, go ahead. In fact, I think I'm going to sneak out a little early myself. Can I buy you a beer someplace?”
‘Right,’ Jeff thought. ‘You think you can patch this up with a beer, you bastard.’ Aloud, he said. “Thanks, but I've got some errands to run. Will you give me a rain check on that beer?”
“Sure. Now you'd better get going. Wait too much longer, and you'll be leaving at your regular time.”
“Okay, I'll see you tomorrow.” Jeff was still pretending to smile as he left Nick's office. ‘Just kidding,’ he thought. ‘Yeah, right. The only reason he was kidding was because he knew he couldn't pin this on me. I've got to get this guy before he gets me.’
*****
Jeff didn't go home that evening. It was a warm night, and many of the stores downtown were open late, trying to lure people back from the malls outside of town. He found himself wandering in the Old Market district. The neighborhood had been a slum a few years ago, but it was turning around with an influx of yuppies, and was filled with all sorts of quirky little shops.
He found himself looking in the window of a small store on a side street. The sign on the glass said “Curious Curios” in an ornate gold leaf. Underneath in a smaller font size, were the words “What You Need, We Have”. The space behind the window was filled with a wide variety of items, a stuffed owl, a turn of the century map in a wooden frame, some candlesticks, and a strange looking chess set with some extra pieces that he didn't recognize.
Chess was a longtime hobby of Jeff's. He played two or three times a week and was one of the top ranked players in the city. He decided to ask about the chess set.
One of those old fashioned bells hung over the door, and it rang when he opened door. He heard a voice from the back of the store, “Come in, Jeff. I'll be with you in a moment.”
‘How the hell did he know my name,’ Jeff thought. He made his way to the back of the store. There was a man leaning over a counter working on an old fashioned desk clock. He was wearing a bright orange long sleeved shirt with loose sleeves. ‘With that mass of curly black hair and long mustache,’ Jeff immediately thought, ‘he looks like a gypsy. Probably helps in the business.’
The man looked up. “Very good, Jeff. As a matter of fact, I am a gypsy, and, yes, it does help in this business.”
“How did you know my name?”
The man smiled and made a very broad theatrical gesture. “I'm a gypsy, Jeff; though we prefer to be called Romany, and a sorcerer, if you will. My name, by the way, is Zoltan.”
“Zoltan! Come on, now.”
“Actually, it isn't. ‘Zoltan’ just fits me in this role far better than my real name does. But enough of that. You are a troubled man. I sensed your troubles and guided your feet to this place.”
“Right. Tell me another one.”
“Very well, and then we get down to business.” He paused for effect. “Did you like the chess set in the window? It's a copy of a fourteenth century French set. Those extra two pieces are the War Wagon and the Cameleopard. The pieces on a modern chessboard weren't standardized until after Renaissance. It's yours for $175.”
“Done.” Jeff pulled out his checkbook. He was beginning to get the creeps, and he wanted out of this store. He did want the chess set, though. That was why he hadn't left already.
“Oh, we're not done yet, Jeff. In fact, we haven't really gotten to the reason that I brought you to my store.”
“And what is the reason.”
“I want to help you get on better with your new boss, Nick Lucas.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“By magic, as I've said.” He closed the back of the clock and wound it by means of a small brass key. He looked at a clock on the wall, nearby, 6:30. He set the alarm for 9:19 the next morning. “Make certain that you and your adversary are together when the alarm sounds. The magic will bind you to him and him to you. Your body will alter as well. You will become young, vital, far better to assume the new role that will be yours. This I guarantee. Are you interested?”
“Youth and the division director's job. Of course, I'm interested. But what's it going to cost me?”
“This clock is also something of an antique. It's cost, now that I've restored it, is $125. Thus, both items are yours for $300. The magic I throw in for free.”
“That's a little high.”
“High? For a new life.” Zoltan looked at Jeff for a moment. “Oh, very well. The price is still $300, but you may date the check for the day after tomorrow. If it doesn't work, you can cancel the check before I can deposit it. I will ask only that you return the chess set and the clock. And that you never return to my store.”
“Seems a bit dramatic, but very well.”
Zoltan pulled a sheet of paper from beneath the counter. “Sign this.”
“A formal sales agreement stating the conditions we have just discussed. Here,” he said handing Jeff the form. “Read it if you wish.”
Jeff took the form. “We don't sign this in blood or anything, do we?”
“No, a regular pen will be fine. You can also see that there's no mention of your immortal soul or your firstborn child.”
“This all sounds crazy, but, you're right, if it works as you promised, it'll be more than worth it.” Jeff read the agreement quickly -- just to make sure it didn't mention his immortal soul. He signed it, made out the check, and handed check and form to Zoltan.
Zoltan put the check in a drawer. “I'll put it in the register when you don't come back for it tomorrow. Now excuse me a moment. He got the chess set from the window and put it and the clock into a pair of padded boxes. He put both boxes into a cloth bag with the store's name on the side and handed that to Jeff.
“What's with the bags,” Jeff asked.
“Curious Curios, just another average business grateful for your patronage, kind sir.”
“Yeah, right.” Jeff shook his head and left the store. It was certainly worth a try. And, if it didn't work, at least he had gotten the chess set out it.
Zoltan watched him walking away from the store. “The magic will work. But I never said that you would be division director.”
When Jeff got home, he sent an e mail message to Nick's office PC asking for a 9 AM meeting. From what he remembered of Nick's schedule, there was nothing on tap until that afternoon. By that time, if the magic worked, he'd be the one going to the meeting.
*****
There was a message on Jeff's PC when he came in at 8:30. Nick agreed to the meeting at 9. There was no mention of yesterday's argument. ‘When things have changed,’ Jeff thought. ‘I'll make sure you remember, make sure I get a real apology.’ He took the box with the clock out of his briefcase and wrote a brief note, “For all the time we'll be working together.” He taped the note to the box. Then he began to pull together some paperwork. Zoltan said that he had to be with Nick at 9:19, and he wanted enough work to give him an excuse to stay there that long.
He was at Nick's door at 8:58. “You wanted to see me, Jeff,” Nick said.
“Yes,” Jeff replied. “There's a couple contracts that I wanted to talk to you about. But first…“ He stopped and opened his briefcase. He took out the package and put it on Nick's desk. “First, I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I lost my temper, and things got way out of line. I admit that I wanted Milt's job. You got it, and you've been a gracious winner.”
Nick picked up the package and read the card. “That's very nice of you, Jeff,” he said. “I'll admit I was a little concerned about how you were going to react. And I've tried to do things to make it go easier.”
“So open the present already.”
“Okay.” Nick opened the package and carefully lifted out the clock. “That's a beautiful clock; I collect them, you know, just like you collect chess sets.” He walked over and put the clock on the window ledge.”
“Now, how did Zoltan know that he collected clocks,” Jack thought. “Maybe he really is a sorcerer. Maybe this will work.” Jeff pulled some files from his briefcase and put them on the desk. There had been things he needed to go over with Nick on these contracts.
The two men had been working for about fifteen minutes when the clock began to chime. ‘Now we'll see,’ Jack thought. He looked closely at Nick who was reading one of the documents. ‘Wonder if there'll be any visible changes?’
Nick seemed oblivious to what was going on. It was as if he couldn't even hear the clock. Jack's scalp began to itch. When he reached up to scratch, he noticed that his hair seemed thicker than usual. Longer, too. He made a mental note to get a haircut that evening.
When he took his hand down from his head, he noticed that his hand seemed smaller. His fingers were thinner and his nails longer. They were growing as he watched and suddenly coated with a pale pink nail polish.
Nick looked up from the file he was reading. “Feeling a little different, Jeff? Don't worry. It'll get worse, but the physical changes will be over in a moment.”
Jack's whole body began to tingle. He looked down at himself. He looked a lot slimmer, though his clothes still seemed to fit. As Jeff watched, his shirt began to push outward as two breasts grew on his chest. The chair felt like it was moving beneath him. He saw his waist narrow and his hips become wider. His ass, he was sure, was also growing into a rounder, more feminine shape.
Now his clothes began to change. The cut of his jacket became more feminine. His shirt became a satiny blouse even as his necktie transformed into a colorful scarf. The legs of his pants fused together, and the skirt they became crept up to just past his knees. He had dark grey hose on his slender legs, and his shoes became a pair of women's pumps, growing a two inch heel. There was suddenly a pair of blue metal bracelets on his wrist, and he felt earrings dangle down from his ears.
Nick pulled two sheets of paper from his desk. “Sign these, please.”
Jeff was unable to stop himself. He signed the first, “Jeffrey W. Rayburn.” He tried to read the sheet before he signed it but wasn't able to do so. Nick took the first sheet away and put the second down for Jeff. Jeff's eyes widened as he signed the second “Jennifer Tyler” in a feminine hand that was entirely different from his regular handwriting.
“Confused?” Nick said. “The first thing you signed was Jeff's letter of resignation. Poor Jeff, he just couldn't really accept my getting Milt's job. He's moving down to Florida. The letter authorizes the bank to send his retirement to a bank down there. We also get power of attorney to liquidate his assets and send that money, too. Two guesses who winds up with the money.”
“Jennifer, the other paper was your job application. Welcome aboard. With Jeff gone, I'll need an administrative assistant, even though the job is really secretarial.” Nick pulled a hand mirror out of a drawer. “By the way, would you like to see how you look now?”
Jeff found that he could move. At least, enough to take the mirror. The face in it was familiar, but it didn't look anything like Jeff Rayburn. This was a beautiful young woman. She looked to be in her early twenties, her long brown hair full of auburn highlights. Her heart shaped face was expertly made up, her lips, full and pouty in that sexy way Jeff had always liked, were covered with a lipstick that was the same color as her nails.
“Of course, our relationship won't be completely professional.” Jeff looked in the mirror again. Instead of his face, he saw a man and women in bed. The man was Nick, and the woman…the woman had the face he'd seen in the mirror a moment before.
Jeff realized that Nick was now standing next to him. He gently took the mirror from Jeff's hand and laid it on the desk. Then he leaned over and kissed Jeff. Jeff heard himself moan softly and open his mouth. He felt Nick's tongue enter and duel with his own. He liked it, or, at least his new body did. His nipples grow erect, pushing against what had to be his new bra. He felt a warms and -- oh, no -- a yearning in his groin.
Nick broke the kiss and walked back behind the desk. As he sat down, he said, “That will have to hold you till tonight. We are running a business here. Jennifer, you can use Jeff's old office until I can get one set up for you. Don't expect one as fancy as Jeff's, though. You are only an administrative assistant.”
“But I don't understand. Zoltan said…“
“I know exactly what Fred said. Excuse me, what Zoltan said. Fred's his real name, but he never thought it matched the image he wants. I was getting very suspicious of the way you were acting. Jeff wasn't as nice a guy as you were pretending to be. So, I did a reading and saw what he was planning to do. Jennifer is a sweet girl, though, and totally devoted to me.”
“You and he will be bonded,” Jeff -- now Jennifer -- repeated what Zoltan had said.
“Exactly. Though you're just as savy about banking and investment as ever, which should be very helpful. On the other hand, you'll be a lot more fun to be in bed with than Jeff ever would have been. Anyway, I saw that you were gunning for me, so I asked Zoltan to take care of you.”
Nick smiled. “And he certainly did that with your transformation. Zoltan's never been happy that I went into financial analysis instead of following him into the family business. But, yes sir, this time, he certainly did right by his kid brother.”
The End.
Quality Time
by Ellie Dauber © 2017
A tale of rape, its awful aftermath, and, perhaps, Justice.
Quality Time
by Ellie Dauber © 2017
Brenda Horner snuggled down into an overstuffed chair in one of the “quiet” rooms set up for study groups in the Taite College Student Center. Not quiet tonight, though; the music from the Term’s End Mixer came right through the wall, though it was much softer here than in the room where the band was actually playing. Something didn’t seem quite right to her, but she decided that it was just the beer. To be exact, the one – or two, maybe – more beers than she should have drunk this evening.
She’d left the party to give her head a chance clear, but things were still… fuzzy. ‘Might as well head back to the dorm – and bed,’ she told herself. ‘There’s nobody special waiting for me in there.” She glanced over at the door to the auditorium where the dancing was. ‘And the last thing I need when I start cramming for my finals tomorrow is a hangover.’
It was the walk of no more than ten steps until she was outside. It was a warm spring night. The sky was clear with a few stars that were visible through the haze of lights from the surrounding buildings. A light breeze carried scents from the formal garden over by the Biological Sciences Buildings. She decided to walk back to her dorm by way of the garden. ‘It’s not the quickest way, but I’ll be spending too much time inside the next few days, hitting the books. A little fresh air’ll be a nice change. Besides, I-I love flowers… don’t I?’
‘No,’ she answered herself. ‘I never had much use for… for... flowers. No, that… that’s not right. I’ve loved them since I was a little… a little girl?’
She shook her head in confusion. “Must’ve had more beers than I thought.” She frowned. “Or somebody put something in one of them.” She sat down on the steps of the building, hoping to clear the jumble of her mind.
“Smells nice, doesn’t it?” Brenda looked up at the sound of the oddly familiar male voice. The boy was tall – six two, she knew somehow – and slender, wearing jeans and a gray Taite Athletic Department T-shirt. He gave her a sort of half-smile as he offered her his hand.
He smiled. She’d always liked that sort of a smile, boyish it was, happy-go-lucky. Always? She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” Who was this guy? Why did he look so familiar?
“You know, the garden extends around the side of the building. There’s a bench towards the back. We can sit and just… smell the flowers, if you’d like.” He offered his hand. “I’m <…..>, by the way.”
Brenda knew he had just given his name, but, for some reason, she hadn’t understood what he’d said. It was a nice name, though. She knew that. “Brenda,” she answered, shaking his hand. She rose and took his arm, as they walked towards the building.
They sat down on some steps, a delivery entrance, which was most of the way to the rear of the building. He sat next to her, very close, and put an arm around her waist. She looked around. The curve of the hedge around the building hid them from view for anyone walking by the lane she’d been on. Not a good situation. “I-I have to go,” she said, trying not to sound nervous.
“No, you don’t,” he said in a confident tone. “Besides, we just got here.” He moved even closer. “We need some time to… to get to know each other. “ It was a line that always worked—and how did she know that?
Or know what he was going to do next, when he suddenly pulled her to him and kissed her.
It was strange… wrong. She never – did she? “No!” She broke the kiss and tried to push him away.
“You damned tease.” He was strong, much stronger than her. But how could that be? She was an athlete, a strong, forceful… girl?”
He kissed her again. Hard; trying to force his tongue between her lips. His arm was still around her waist, holding her so she couldn’t get free – couldn’t run. The other hand slipped up under her blouse and began group at her breast. She squirmed, frantically trying to escape.
“Not comfortable, baby?” He leered. His hand came out from under her blouse and grabbed her wrist. He stood up, pulled her to her feet. Then he gave a sudden, firm yank on her arm. She stumbled and fell to the grass.
In an instant, he was on top of her. His weight held Brenda in place, while his hand yanked at her short skirt – oh, Lord, why had she worn such an odd garment? He pulled it far up her thighs. He reached beneath it and found her panties – panties? He plucked the flimsy thing from her, exposing her privates. Somehow, he had opened his own pants. Something hard and so very male pressed against her yielding flesh. She was not aroused, and it hurt going into her.
“Oh, yeah, baby.” He didn’t care. She loved it. He knew she did. And she knew what he thought she knew. He began to pump, groaning, ignoring her screams of passion – or were they screams for help?
Help came. He wasn’t on top of her any more. Three boys, students that she didn’t know, were holding, while he twisted and turned and cursed, trying to break free. A fourth boy took off his t-shirt and draped it over her for modesty.
A few more people appeared. One of them was a campus rent-a-cop. He handcuffed the would-be rapist, led him to a nearby car marked “Security” under the Taite College logo, and locked him in the back. A few female students, some of them surprisingly cute in Brenda’s mind, formed a circle around her. She got to her feet as best she could and rearranged her clothes for public view. Then two of the women offered to help her back to her dorm.
“Be better not to go there yet,” the rent-a-cop told her. “Not till they check you out at the med center.” He used his phone to call for a second car to take her there. She wanted to argue, to just head for the safety of her room, but he insisted; so did the two women, who had offered to go to the dorm with her. They, all three, wound up in the back of the second car headed for the campus medical center.
The driver of the second car was a matronly woman in her mid forties, as best as Brenda could tell. She waited while Brenda discovered the joy – didn’t she know before this? – of a gynecologic exam. The female intern explained every step as she “took evidence of what that bastard did.”
The driver took the three girls back to their dorm. Brenda promised to go to Campus Security the next morning to file a report – and press charges. The two other girls knew Brenda; they lived on the same floor as her, but their names were lost to her; on the tip of her tongue as they say. They told her that she could talk to them anytime she needed to and hugged her goodnight.
She undressed, giving some thought to throwing away the damned miniskirt and panties. Then a warm shower to help with the soreness in her muscles from fighting to break free. She went back to her dorm room and changed into a pair of light green, cotton pajamas. They weren’t anywhere near sexy, which is why she chose them. She slipped into bed and turned out the light on her desk.
And froze in panic. Dark! Too dark! She clicked the light back on and lay, shivering, in her bed. When she finally fell asleep, more than an hour later, the light was still on.
It stayed on during the times she awoke in fright from nightmares. They were all the same. All him and what he had done to her. Reliving it was as bad as the original experience.
* * * * *
It was a very tired and very nervous young woman who went to classes the next morning. Her hair was uncombed, and she wore almost no make-up. Instead of a short skirt, shorts, or jeans that the other female students wore, she was dressed in a loose pair of sweat pants and an oversized top that all but hid her figure.
She wasn’t taking any chances that somebody might think of her as attractive.
The story was out, but in a hundred different versions, and, in many of these, it was her fault. She was asking for it, the way she was dressed. She was drunk. She has passed out – from liquor or rugs, take your choice -- and she’d screamed “rape!” when he found her and tried to help. She had seduced him. She had tried to seduce him, but he was a good boy, and she faked the whole thing to get back at him.
The boy was popular, a good student and the captain of the swim team. He had many supporters.
Brenda stayed in her room as much as possible, talking to no one she didn’t have to. Her schoolwork suffered. It felt to her like every male – student or faculty – was looking at her. Staring at her. Undressing her with their eyes. Raping her in their minds.
The trial – evidentiary hearing, actually – was torture. He had loads of character witnesses. Friends from the swim team told what a right guy and a good leader he was. Professors reported on his academic success. And several women – righteous babes all, she caught herself thinking – swore that he was a gentleman who would never – force himself on a girl. A couple suggested – at best, hinted – that his prowess as a lover was such that he hardly had to prey on an unwilling partner. A boy she’d dated once before she broke up with him for being “creepy” testified that she was “a horny bitch who just couldn’t get enough.” Odd, since she’d never gone beyond letting him kiss her on the cheek.
Finally, the boy’s father, wearing the pin of the Taite Alumni Boosters, spoke. One earned the boosters’ pin by donating at least 25 thousand a year to the school. The man admitted that his boy was, perhaps, a bit rambunctious, but did the hearing committee want to ruin his son’s life: expel him from school, perhaps even send him to jail, for a few minutes allegedly improper behavior?
The committee didn’t. He was found guilty, but just barely, and sentenced to a six month suspension (that included the three months of summer break) and a year of probation. The father thanked the committee for its fine judgment, assuring them that there would be no repetition of the incident. That evening, in private, he thanked the chair of the committee, the chairman of the political science department. In a more personal way, a check for one thousand dollars to help fund the research for book the professor was working on.
Brenda Horner was given a “Pass” in most of her courses. She did manage to take two final exams some week later, and she almost got the grade her professor expected her to get in one of them. She barely passed the other. She was spending more time in counseling at the Taite University Women’s Center than she did studying.
Then she met Dr. Anandha Sheppard, a professor of anthropology – or something – at the Women’s Center.
* * * * *
Hecate Wroth glanced through the Plexiglas window of the holding tank. Hecate – “Cat” to her friends -- was a junior in the Anthropology/Magic Department at Taite. She was tall with a trim, athletic body and jet-black hair that was now tied in a ponytail by a sea-green scarf that her current boyfriend said matched her eyes.
“So that’s Brent Horner,” she said rather smugly. “Where do his parents think he is?”
Dr. Sheppard smiled at Cat. “Spending his summer probation snorkeling with friends in the Florida Keys; one of our people sends irregular but glowing letters home telling them all the fun he’s having.” The Eurasian woman ran her fingers through her long, light brown hair. “He was easy enough to catch.”
“And to process, I expect.”
“Indeed.” She rose and joined Cat at the window. Inside the tank, Brent Horner lay, tied to a hospital bed. His eyes were tightly closed, though his face was convulsed in terror. He pulled at the bands holding him in place, desperate to escape.
“Once we had Mr. Horner securely in place, we brought in his victim. The poor thing was in a state of exhaustion from her experiences. It was a simple enough spell to transfer her memories of the entire experience to him. She remembers what happened, the horror of the rape and the horror of the aftermath, but it’s like something she read or heard about, not something she actually had to suffer through. I’m told that she’s almost back to being the perky co-ed that she was the day before it all happened.”
“What about him?”
“It’s hard to tell. The experiences repeat in his mind about every sixteen hours – time compression in a dream state.”
“I read your paper on that last fall.”
“Yes; and the results of this ‘experiment’ will make an excellent follow-up. He’ll be ‘Brenda’ Horner, reliving that rape and what followed almost fifty times before we release him. It should be interesting to see the sort of person Brent Horner is after all that.”
* * * * *
Inside the holding tank, a sort of magical CD re-set itself to begin another replay.
Brenda Horner snuggled down into an overstuffed chair in one of the “quiet” rooms set up for study groups in the Taite College Student Center. Not quiet tonight, though; the music from the Term’s End Mixer came right through the wall, though it was much softer here than in the room where the band was actually playing. Something didn’t seem quite right to her, but she decided that it was just the beer. To be exact, the one – or two, maybe – more beers than she should have drunk this evening.
And so on and so on and so on...
* * * * *
Author’s note: This story is based on the case of Brock Turner who escaped a severe sentence for rape because his father argued that his life shouldn’t be ruined for twenty minutes of bad behavior. I disagree.
Road Trip
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2000
Six fun-loving college boys on a road trip to New Orleans for Spring Break, but, when they have car trouble on a flooded Louisiana back road, they find themselves spending an eventful night at a little hotel located in the TWILIGHT ZONE.
Road Trip
By Ellie Dauber
"It was a dark and stormy night."
"Shut up, Jack," Harry said, his long slender fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "It's hard enough trying to drive through this mess. I don't need bad quotes."
Fred looked up from the map his was trying to read by flashlight and pushed back his glasses. "Has anybody seen a road sign or a town name or anything? I'm not sure where we are."
"Aw, man," Tank called out from the back of the van. "At this rate, Spring Break will be over before we even get to New Orleans."
"Don't worry, Tank," Harry said. "I'll get you there in plenty of time to party."
"Party! Party!" Max yelled from the back of the van.
"Cripes," Stan said, “Are you into the beer again."
"Cool it, Stan," Tank said. "Harry and Jack are the designated drivers, tonight. Me and Max, we're the designated drinkers."
"Yeah," Jack said, "and every other damn night. If we didn't need you guys to help pay for the gas and the room, we wouldn't have even let the pair of you come along."
"I love you, too, Jack," Max said. "Anybody else want a -- hey, why are we slowing down?"
"The road ahead," Harry said, leaning forwards and squinting for a better view. "I think the damned thing's flooded." He drove slowly for a few moments, then stopped and switched to high beams. "Yeah, it's flooded."
"The hell, you say," Fred spat.
"Look for yourself. I can't tell how deep it is, but I don't think we should try to drive through it. There're enough dips in this road that it could be six inches to six feet deep."
"Can we drive around it?"
"Where? There's enough of a shoulder to turn around -- I think, but then it's all barbed wire or stone fence."
"Great, man, just effing great," Stan said.
"Add another day to the trip," Tank said. "Well, at least now I've got a reason to drink."
Harry swung wide onto the shoulder, and then turned the wheel sharply. The van moved forward slowly, straddling the two narrow lanes of the back road. He back up and repeated the maneuver. The van was back on the road now, facing back the way that they had come. As Harry started back down the road, there was a "thump!" and the van shook as if it had just driven over a large object."
"Hell!" Tank yelled from the back. "I almost spilled some."
"What the hell happened," Max said.
"What do you think happened," Jack said. "We hit something."
"Is the van okay," Fred asked.
"I -- I'm not sure," Harry said. She's handling kind of funny."
"Can we make it back to civilization," Stan asked.
"Screw civilization," Tank said. "Can we make it to New Orleans?"
"I'll be happy if we can make it to that gas station we passed about forty minutes ago," Harry said. "It was the last thing I saw on this road."
"I remember it," Fred said. "I think it was closed when we passed it."
"If it wasn't, it probably is now," Jack said. "It's after six and getting dark."
"Yeah, but it's a target," Harry said. "We can sleep there in the van and get help in the morning."
They drove on for another ten minutes. Harry noticed that the van was getting harder to handle. It also began to make grinding noises -- especially when they went up or down a hill. "I think whatever we hit got the transmission," he said finally. "We'd better look for a spot to pull over for the night. We won't get anywhere near that garage."
"Can we walk it?" Stan said.
"In this rain? Besides, I'm not sure that I want to be seen walking along a road out in the boonies like this." Fred was the sole Black in the group. He was tall and something of an athlete, but that might make him even more of a target in some people's eyes.
"Look, man," Jack said. "Walk or not, the place is closed. We can't get help for the van until tomorrow morning at the earliest."
"Damn," Max took another swig of beer. "There goes another day. By the time it gets fixed, Spring Break _will_ be over."
"So what," Jack said sarcastically. "By the time we pay for getting it fixed, we won't have any money to spend anyway."
"Now there's small comfort," Harry said. He drove slowly, looking for a place to safely pull the van off the road for the night. Unfortunately, the road was the same as it had been back at the flood, narrow shoulder with barbed wire, thick hedge, or stone fence just beyond.
"That grinding's getting worse," Fred said. "We'd better find a place soon.”
"I know, but I don't see anything." Harry said. "I don't like the idea of just parking on the shoulder."
"There," Jack yelled suddenly. "Up ahead on the right."
"What!" Harry looked trying to see whatever Jack had.
"A light." He pointed through the windshield. "Off to the right. Must be a farmhouse or something."
"Yeah," Harry said. "I see it now. On a rise or something hidden from the road by those trees."
"Great. Maybe we can even get some tools to try and fix it." Fred was a mechanical engineering major.
"More important," Tank said. "We can get some food; maybe even a place to sleep."
"Maybe the farmer's even got a daughter," Max said.
"Yeah," Harry slowed down to look for the turn-off, "and if they do have one, you guys better leave her alone -- no matter how pretty she is -- or how much she asks. Farmers don't have a sense of humor about their daughters."
"So," Max said. "I can handle some old guy."
"Farmers don't have a sense of humor," Harry said, "but they usually _do_ have shotguns."
"Oh." For once, Max stopped talking.
Harry found the side road; a break between some two trees, and turned onto it. As he turned, he saw the remnants of some sort of a sign on one tree. He tried to read it in the headlights as he turned, but the sign was old and faded; maybe even a little fire damaged. The best he could make out was an ornate looking "H" surrounded by what seemed to be three or four hearts. “I wonder what that big ‘H’ means," he said.
"House on Haunted Hill," Tank said. Somebody, Max, probably, began to whistle "There's a Light (Over at the Frankenstein Place)" from ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW.
"That farmer _better_ have a sense of humor," Fred sighed.
They rounded a bend as they came out of the trees. The house suddenly appeared at the top of a low hill. It was a rambling old Victorian, perhaps as many as twenty rooms, with turrets, Queen Anne's lattices, and a half a dozen small balconies. Most of the windows on the first and second floors were boarded up, but there were a few open second floor windows, ragged curtains flapping in the wind. The light that they had seen from the road seemed to come from a small window on the second floor.
Harry pulled the van into a gravel area near the front steps. The high covered porch looked wide enough that they could sleep there without worrying about the rain.
Jack opened his door as soon as Harry stopped. "We'd better leave our stuff in the van for now. We don't want to come on too strong."
"Maybe there's nobody here," Fred said. "Maybe it's just a timer."
Harry turned off the engine and climbed out. "Then we sleep on the porch."
"Why the hell can't we sleep inside, if there's nobody here to say 'No'?" Stan asked.
"Remember what I said about shotguns? Farmers don't take too kindly to folks who break into their houses, either."
"How do you know all this shit," Tank said. "Your old man sells Chevies."
"Yeah, Chevy tractors." Harry started up the steps. "I come from a town of about 3500 people in the middle of Kansas."
Stan ran up the steps, his long legs taking them two at a time. He reached the porch and pushed the doorbell without waiting for his friends. "Well, we'll know in a minute." He waited, and the others were all standing around him, when he pushed the bell a second time. He was waiting to push the bell again, when they heard a voice from inside.
"Enough! Enough, I have heard you." The voice was thin and reedy. The door opened slowly. The voice belonged to a short, slender man who had to be at least sixty. He wore a black string tie and a suit that looked at least fifty years out of style. He looked at the boys and raised a slender hand as if counting them. "What would you -- what brings you to this place, you six, you happy six." He smiled at them, an almost toothless smile.
"It's our van, sir," Jack said, trying to place the man's accent; Russian, Hungarian, somewhere in Eastern Europe. "I think the transmission is shot. We'd like to stay here over night and call for help in the morning."
"This place was once a hostelry, though it has not been so for some time. It has been waiting to be one again, and you are most welcome. There be no phone here now, but, mayhap, your vehicle will not act so falsely in the morrow."
Max started for the steps. "Great, let's get our stuff out of the van."
"Then can we get something to eat?" Fred said.
"I fear that I have nothing to eat beyond mine own needs," the old man said looking embarrassed.
"No food?" Max said.
Tank came back up onto the porch carrying the cooler. "That's okay. We still got those sandwiches in the cooler. I think there's some pizza left, too. And I _know_ we got beer."
"Not enough time for you and Max to drink it all?" Harry said, but he smiled and pulled a can out of the cooler.
"If that be settled," the old man said, "let me show you to your quarters."
"Okay," Jack said. "Leave the food on the porch. We'll eat it out here after we get our gear outside. That way we won't make a mess in any of our rooms."
"Six rooms?" The old man looked startled. "Phah! The rooms in this place have two beds each, and I would ask -- I must insist -- that the rooms be shared."
Harry turned to the group. "Seems fair, doesn't it, guys?" When nobody disagreed, he continued. "Okay, two to a room."
"Who sleeps with -- ah, hell," Fred stopped, embarrassed at what his words had implied. "Who shares with whom?"
Harry ignored his friend's mistake. "Why don't we do it the way we were sitting in the car: Jack and me, Fred and Stan, and Tank and Max."
Nobody seemed to have any problems with the arrangement. The old man took the boys up to the second floor. The three rooms were along one side of the hall just at the top of the stairs. The rooms were almost identical, painted off-white with blue shutters and curtains on the large windows. There were twin beds along one wall separated by a nightstand with an old fashioned looking lamp. The beds were covered with quilts and two or three throw pillows each. They looked almost too comfortable to boys who'd spent the last night in sleeping bags. There was a dresser against the wall opposite the beds.
Each room had its own bath, fairly small, with white tile floors. Stan looked in quickly. "Hey, there's a claw foot tub in here that looks big enough for two. Is the water connected?"
"It is, my young guests," the old man said, "but the heater will take time to produce enough hot water to sate all your needs. May I suggest that half of you bathe this night? The rest of you would wait until the morrow when there is enough hot water for such a luxury."
The boys agreed. They unpacked their bags from the van and took them upstairs. When they came back down, the old man was setting up a table on the porch. "I fear that I lack the victuals to feed you, but there is the start of a cellar." He held up two bottles. "I hope that this wine goes with whatever sort of food you may have."
Max took one of the bottles and looked at it carefully. "Geez, this stuff's almost a hundred years old." He pulled out a penknife. "Is it any good?" He opened the knife and used the blade to pull out the cork. "Smells okay." He poured a little into a cup that the old man had set on the table. "Tastes even better. Thanks, man."
"If you have no further need," the old man bowed, "I will be gone. A pleasant night to you." He bowed low again, smiled strangely, and walked back into the house.
"Weird old dude." Max took a swig of wine.
"Yeah, but he was nice enough to let us stay here." Stan said.
"He did say it was a -- what'd he call it? -- a hostelry; that's some kind of hotel, isn't it?"
"Very good, Tank," Jack said between bites of sandwich. "You win a cookie."
Harry reached for a sandwich. "Leave him alone, Jack. He did get the word right. Yeah, Tank, it does mean hotel, but that doesn't mean that he had to let us in. The place really isn't ready for business. He could have made us stay on the porch, or even have ordered us off the property."
"Like to see him try." Tank flexed his muscles, showing how he'd earned the nickname. It wasn't much of a name, but it beat the hell out of "Thorvald", the unwanted legacy of a Danish grandfather.
"It's his place," Harry said. "Even if he doesn't have a phone, he could still take our license and get word to a sheriff or something. I don't want to spend my Spring break in some parish jail."
"Parish?"
"Yeah; that's what they call counties in Louisiana. The State laws here are based on the Napoleonic Code instead of English Common Law they way they are in the rest of the country."
Jack chuckled. "I knew there was some reason for bringing a pre-law major along. Thanks, Harry."
They finished dinner, putting the garbage in a covered trashcan. The cooler went back into the van, except for the sixpack that Tank and Max took up to their room. The others tried to talk for a while, but the wine and the rigors of three days driving began to get the best of them.
Harry stood up and yawned. He pulled a quarter from his pocket and flipped it into the air. "Call it, Jack."
"Heads." It came down heads.
"Okay, your choice. Do you want to take your bath tonight or in the morning?"
"Tomorrow, I think. I just want to do my exercises and hit that bed."
Harry laughed. "You and your exercises, man. Watching you is like watching some sort of crazy slow motion ballet."
"Yeah, but if I'm going to stay on the fencing team, I've gotta stay limber. Those crazy Japanese katahs -- that's what they call them -- really work, and I'm not stopping just because the season's over."
Harry yawned again and headed for the door. You guys talk. There's a tub upstairs with my name on it. G'night." He went inside.
Jack stretched. He bent at the waist and slapped the porch with the palms of both hands. "I might as well head up, too. I can get a full routine in while Harry's in the tub. That way, he won't be bitching at me for keeping him up."
Stan reached up and scratched his head. "I think I'm heading up, too. Get me a good night sleep."
Fred just nodded and joined the others as they went into the house. He wasn't that sleepy, but there was no point in staying out on the porch by himself.
* * * * *
Harry soaked in the tub for almost an hour, listening through the half-opened door to the music Jack used with his -- what'd he call them? -- his katahs. The first tape, Japanese music, was over, and Jack was playing some weird Indian melodies. Harry decided that he'd had enough and pulled the plug. He climbed out of the tub and rubbed himself dry with one of the thick white towels that that weird old guy had provided. He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked into the bedroom.
Jack had stripped to a T-shirt and boxers. He stood in the center of the room, one leg straight back, the other bent forward at the knee, making a series of elaborate circular gestures with his arms.
Harry stared at him for a minute. He looked… thinner, as if his muscles were fading away. His butt looked bigger, though, and his hair, it was down over his ears. What was going on?
"Jack, are you okay, man?"
Jack stopped, straightened up, and turned towards his friends. Yes, he was definitely thinner, even in the shoulders; shorter, too. His face looked different, too, though Harry wasn't exactly sure how.
"Yeah, Harry, I guess I am. My timing seems off tonight though. It wasn't too bad at first, but it seems to be getting worse."
"No wonder. Look at yourself in the mirror."
Jack turned to the mirror above the dresser. "What the hell? I look like I lost about fifty pounds, all muscle, and how'd my hair get so long?"
"I don't know, man, but you're still changing. When I came out of the bathroom, your hair was just over your ears, now it's almost down to your neck."
"Yeah, I can see it growing. My face looks different, too. I haven't shaved since before we left school, and there's not a trace of beard on my face.
Harry looked at Jack. The muscles in his legs were gone, too, but they seemed to be developing some interesting curves. "I don't know how to tell you this, Jack, but it looks like you're turning into a girl."
Jack stared at himself in the mirror. "Shit! I think you're right." He turned and started towards Harry. "What do you --"
"Stay the hell away from me, man. Whatever it is could be contagious."
"Well I'm getting out of here." He turned again and went to the door. "You can stay if you want." He tried the knob, but it wouldn't turn. "It's locked. The damned door's locked."
Harry ran over to try the door; better to risk contagion from Jack than be stuck in the room where it -- whatever it was -- was happening. They tried the door together. Locked!
Harry had always been a couple inches taller than Jack. Now he loomed a good six inches over him (him?). "Stand back. I'm going to try to force it." He took a running start and launched himself at the door. He seemed to bounce off and landed with a thud at the foot of the bed. He stood up, and then sat down on the bed rubbing his sore shoulder. He didn't notice that the twin beds had somehow merged into a single queen-sized bed.
Jack stood at the door pounding it with his fists and screaming to be let out. His hair grew longer, stopping just below his shoulders, with blonde streaks in among the brown. His slender body began to fill out, his waist and butt broadening into feminine curves. His voice rose as he screamed, going from tenor to a pleasant high alto.
Harry watched all this from the bed. He noticed that Jack's clothing seemed to be changing, too. His T-shirt's sleeves disappeared and the collar widened so that, in a few moments, it was being held up by two thin straps. It shrank in against his body as well, revealing a very narrow waist. The boxer shorts shrank, too, clinging to his new curves. Then the two garments merged, the white cotton changing to a yellow satiny material.
Jack seemed to have exhausted himself and sank to the floor sobbing. Harry came over and helped him stand up. His eyes widened as he saw the two breasts that had grown out from Hurry’s chest and were pushing against the front of the teddy that he was now wearing. As Jack stood, Harry took a quick glance at his friend's crotch. ‘Nothing, no bulge, at least; transformation complete,' Harry thought. 'Am I next?'
They walked over to the bed and sat down. Jack was still sobbing pitifully. He -- no, it was she, now -- turned and put her head against Harry's shoulder. Not knowing what else to do, he put his arms around her and began patting her on the back. "It's going to be okay," he said, not knowing why.
Jack sniffled and raised her head to look at Harry. She was beautiful. Her cheekbones had raised and her nose had gotten smaller, turning up slightly at the end. Her lips were full. And red; somehow, she was wearing make-up, and he caught the scent of a perfume. "Th-thanks, Harry," she said, wiping a tear with the back of her hand. "You're so go-good to me."
She suddenly put her arms around Harry's neck and pulled him to her. Their lips met in a kiss. Harry's mouth opened in surprise, and her tongue slipped inside teasing at his own. 'Damn,' Harry thought, 'Jack's a good kisser.' Jack? Harry broke the kiss and pushed away. "What the hell are you -- are _we_ doing?"
"Kissing, Harry. What's the matter? Don't you like it?"
"Hell, no! You're a guy."
Jack stood up. "No, I _used_ to be a guy. I mean, I know who I was and all, but he isn't me anymore. I'm a woman, now, Harry. Your woman, if you want."
"This is crazy."
"Maybe, but it happened." She stepped back away from the bed. Jack's CD player was still playing that Indian music. She began moving to it again, but this time it wasn't the stylized moves of one of those training exercises. Her movements were slow, sensual. Sexy. Her arms flowed like rivers; her hips swayed invitingly. She smiled at him, eyes half closed, and occasionally ran her tongue across her lips.
Harry stared in disbelief. What had happened to his friend? Was it going to happen to him? It didn't seem likely. The only changes he was feeling were a flush in the face and a certain stiffening in the groin.
Jack kept swaying to the music. Her hands slid up her body caressing her new curves. They stopped at the shoulders and grabbed hold of the straps to her teddy. A sudden yank and the knots were untied. Fabric slipped down, so that she was essentially nude above the waist. "Ever see a man with anything like these?" she asked. She fondled her breasts, lifting them up, rubbing a long fingernail across the areolas, spiraling in to play with her erect nipples.
She kept swaying, the straps of the teddy dangling down, moving with her hips. She kept playing with her breasts, her eyes closed now, her mouth open. She moaned, and Harry couldn't help but wonder how those lips would feel around his "johnson".
She smiled, aware of the effect that she was having on him. Without losing the rhythm, her hands went down to where the teddy was bunched at her waist. Slowly, still moving to the music, she slid it down past her hips. Then she released it, letting it fall to the floor. When it did, she stepped out of it and kicked it away.
Jack walked forward, a little closer to the bed, motioning with both hands for Harry to stand. He rose, almost unable to stop himself. Her hand shot out, grabbed his towel, and yanked. She smiled in triumph and threw the towel behind her. "At least part of you thinks I'm a woman."
"That wasn't fair, Jackie." Jackie?
"What is, lover?" She leapt forward and threw her arms back around his neck. He felt her breasts pushing against his bare chest. She ground her hips against him. Her hand moved down and guided him into her soft cleft. She was wet and ready, and he slid in easily. She had both arms around his neck again, and she lifted her legs, wrapping them around his waist. Harry gave in to the inevitable. He turned slowly and laid Jackie onto the bed.
* * * * *
Stan came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. Fred was sitting on the bed in his pajamas, reading a Brother Caedfel mystery. He glanced up at Stan. "You spill some paint or something in the tub?"
"What do you mean, Fred?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's the light, or I'm tired, or something, but your skin looks darker."
"Nah!" He lifted his hand and looked at it, palm and back. "Damn, you're right, I am darker. I wonder what -- hey, it's still happening." As they watched, Stan's hand, his entire body darkened, light tan to dark tan, then beyond that to the color of milk chocolate.
"What the hell's going on," Fred said, sitting up on the bed. "You're almost as dark as I am." He looked closely at Stan. The man's features were changing, his nostrils widening, his lips becoming fuller. The rest of the face seemed a bit smaller and more feminine. Stan's hair was changing, too. His straight, sandy brown razor cut was growing out, becoming curlier and curlier as it did, until it reached almost to his shoulders.
"My whole body feels weird," Stan said. His voice seemed higher, but he didn't notice. He was thinner, smaller too, no more than five foot six. The slight beer belly he'd developed in the last few months was gone. So was every bit of hair on his body, at least what they could see of his body. Stan wasn't at all sure that he wanted to take off the towel wrapped around his middle.
Now as he looked at it, the towel seemed to slide down onto his hips. It was as if his waist had narrowed or his hips widened -- or both. He put the facts together. Somehow, he was turning into a girl. "Shit," he said, and his hand shot down to grope at the towel.
He found what he was looking for, but it -- they seemed smaller. And getting smaller still. He felt his penis shrinking down into his body. He reached beneath the towel. It was no more than two or three inches long now and getting smaller by the moment. His fingers found his scrotal sack, his empty scrotal sack. He had felt his testicles retreating up into his body as he groped.
In desperation, he yanked the towel away and looked down. He could barely see his penis in the mass of tight brown curls. It seemed to be shrinking down into him followed by the empty sack. He felt for it, but he only found the sensitive lips and moist slit of a female vagina.
He reached down to try to wrap the towel around himself again. His arm brushed against his chest and he felt yet another strange sensation. His looked down. His areolas were dark circles even against his Black skin, the size of half dollars. The seemed to be on small bumps, but as he watched, these grew larger. They rounded out as they continued to grow into a pair of firm, round breasts.
Stan raised the towel and wrapped it around him just above his new nipples. The towel was long enough to reach his widening hips creating a certain amount of modest cover.
"Damn," Fred said. "I don't know what just happened, but you are one pretty woman."
The statement affected Stan. He felt a blush rise in his cheeks. His nipples felt a little tight, and there was an odd sort of warmth in his groin. He didn't recognize the sensations, but he liked them. "Glad you think it's so funny, Fred." He marveled at his new voice, a sexy sort of purr. "I can't wait to see how pretty _you_ turn out."
"Oh, I don't think I'm going to change," Fred said staring at her. "I think it's only supposed to happen to one of us."
"Why? What makes you say that?"
"I'm -- to tell the truth, I'm not sure. Call it a hunch."
"I think you read too many detective stories."
He smiled. "Maybe, but what else is there to do?"
Stan felt the warmth growing in his body. He recognized it now for what it was, sexual arousal; female sexual arousal. He looked at Fred standing there, so tall and muscular, so handsome in his pajamas. Handsome? Where had that come from? But it was true, he couldn't deny it. His hands, of their own volition went to his hips and he bent one knee. "I bet we could think of a _lot_ of better things to do?"
Fred's eyes widened. "Stan, are you okay?"
"More than okay, Sugar." What was he saying? Stan didn't know, but he felt comfortable saying it. The tingling in his nipples as they rubbed against the rough towel was driving him crazy, and the warmth, the wetness in his groin was even worse. He needed something, needed it very badly. He didn't know what, but he knew that it had something to do with Fred.
Stan began to walk towards Fred, a smile, almost a leer on his face. His wide hips swayed as he walked, and his breasts pushed against the towel. "You want to see just how 'okay' I am. His hands went to the towel, the end twisted in between his breasts holding it in place. With one quick twist it came free and fluttered to the ground.
He reached Fred and threw his arms around the confused boy. Stan rubbed his naked breasts against the fabric of Fred's pajama top. Stan's hips ground against Fred's. He was hard, big and getting bigger. Fred suddenly pushed him away. "Stacy, this is crazy."
"Stacy?" Yes, that was his -- was her name now. She threw her arms around his neck and began kissing him, his cheek, his nose, his mouth. When he tried to say something, she kissed him hard on the mouth, teasing his tongue with hers. Now she knew what she wanted -- what she _had_ to have. She could feel it poking against her crotch. She stepped back and pouted at Fred. "You know, this really isn't fair?"
"Wha-what isn't?"
"Here I am all naked and ready, and you're still in those damned pajamas." With a wicked smile, she began undoing his buttons. After a moment's hesitation, He began to help her.
* * * * *
Max came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around him, taking a drink from the last of three beers he'd taken in with him. Tank was laying on of the beds in his T-shirt and boxers, drinking a beer and reading a Sports Illustrated. Max looked at Tank and began to laugh.
Tank looked up from the magazine. "What's so damn funny, asshole?"
"I took the bath, and you're the one who got shriveled."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Look at yourself, man. Where's those muscles of yours?" He pointed at Tank's legs. "Hell, you got legs like a stork."
"What the..." Tank looked down. It was true. His whole body looked like somebody had sucked out every muscle. He was all skin and bones. "Hell, I spent ten years of working out, and now I look like some damn geek."
He stood up. His shirt was far too big now, dangling down past his hips, and the only reason his boxers were staying up was the elastic at the waist. "I'll be damned if I can --" Tank had been about to scratch his head. He had a full head of hair instead of the shaved scalp of a few hours before.
This was too much, he ran over to look in the mirror above the dresser. His hair was growing at a fantastic rate. It came down over his ears, then past his shoulders, and not stopping until it was halfway down his back. He stared at the mass of honey blonde curls. Honey blonde? His hair had been a sandy brown.
Tank looked at his reflection in the mirror, trying to focus through the beer. His face seemed thinner, too. His jaw was certainly narrower, and his nose -- it wasn't broken any more. The bump and slight angle it had gained from a schoolyard fight in tenth grade were gone. Hell, the damn thing even looked like it had gotten smaller.
He looked down to get a better look at his spindly body. He was a lot thinner in the shoulders, but now his arms and legs seemed to be filling out again. Only what was coming in wasn't muscle. At least not the sort of muscles he was used to. It almost looked like a layer of fat was growing under his skin. There seemed to be more graceful curve then before. He looked down. Yes, his legs were filling in, too; long, graceful, sleek legs. His waist didn't get any wider, but his hips seemed to be widening, filling his boxers in a way they never had before.
It all struck him funny, somehow. "Look at me, man. I'm a whole new Tank." He spun around at the mirror for Max to see.
"Cool, man. You sure ain't 'Mr. Football' anymore."
Tank felt dizzy from the spinning and put a hand down on the dresser to steady himself. He looked down. His hand was thinner, too, with long, thin fingers. 'Geez', he thought to himself. 'How'd I get polish on my nails?' It was true. His nails were about a quarter inch long, expertly manicured, and covered with a pale pink polish.
Now, as Tank looked down, he saw that something was happening to his clothes. They changed color from white to a shade of pink very much like his polish. Then his T-shirt somehow split into two garments. The top piece was now some sort of short robe with puffy sleeves. It grew sheerer and sheerer until Tank could see through it with ease. Beneath it, the remainder was now a slightly darker pink chemise with spaghetti straps. It also grew sheerer, though not as transparent as the cover. It also was again tight against his body.
The boxers changed as well. They grew tight against Tank's new curves. The material was narrower, shrinking in the back to a thong that crept in between his asscheeks. In front, it was narrower and sheerer, almost transparent except for a patterned lace gusset that held the bulge of his male organs.
Max giggled. "Oh, man, Tank. I don't know what happened to you. If you had tits, you'd look just like Becky Randall." Becky was head cheerleader and the frequent subject of the sex fantasies of most of the men -- and a number of the women -- on campus.
"Thanks, man. I really needed to -- damn, listen to my voice." Tank's baritone growl was gone. He was now speaking in a squeaky soprano.
"Damn, you got one of those 'fuck-me' voices; just like Sue Ann Halloran." Sue Ann was another cheerleader.
Tank turned back to the mirror. He saw a fairly pretty blonde in a negligee and baby doll nightie. She looked pretty good to him, good enough that he forgot that it _was_ him. 'Too bad she's got no tits,' he thought. 'I do like a girl with big tits.'
At that moment, Tank felt a tingling in his chest. He looked down to see to small bumps rise up from his chest beneath the chemise. They grew bigger and rounder. He saw the swell of breasts rise up, pushing the chemise out. The nipples were erect, and the lace at the top of the chemise tickled them. Tank giggled, a low sexy giggle, and shivered at the sensation.
"Oh, man," Max said. "If you only had a pussy." He took a step towards Tank.
Suddenly the implications of Max's words sank in to Tank's mind. "No way, Max. I'm a guy."
"You sure don't look like a guy."
"No, look, I still got a --" Tank's hand reached down to his groin. He had planned to pull down the panty and show Max his prick, "Tank's 'Big Gun'", the babes called it back on the campus.
The "Big Gun" was gone. Tank's hand found only a narrow, moist, sensitive slit. Without thinking, he slipped a finger inside. One manicured nail sought out the remnants of his "Gun", now an equally sensitive clitoris. It found its goal and gently, carefully stroked it. A feeling of incredible warmth and pleasure shot through Tank's body. As he continued to stroke, his head rolled back, and his mouth opened. His other hand found a breast and squeezed it through the satiny material.
Max stood entranced watching the show. His penis was standing straight out, tenting the towel, as it pointed at Tank. He took a last swig of beer and tossed the can over his shoulder. He pulled off the towel and walked over to Tank. "That feel good, Tank?"
"Yes... oh, man, yes. It... it feels so damn good."
Max gently took Tank's hand off his breast. "C'mon, Tank. I know something that will feel even better."
"N... no."
"Sure, I do, Tank. You'll really like it."
"No -- not Tank. I... I'm Tandy. T-Tandy, sweet as candy." He, no, she giggled and put her arms around Max. He could smell pussy on the fingers of her one hand. "Show me, Max. Show me what feels so good." She kissed him.
Max picked up her in his arms and began walking towards the bed. Bed? 'Hadn't there been two beds?' He thought. It was a bed, and it was there, and he and Tandy were sure as hell going to use it.
* * * * *
It was well after midnight before the last of the couples finally drifted off to sleep. The storm outside grew worse. By two o'clock, thunder was mixing with the sounds of the rain.
The lightning bolt hit the building some time later. The bolts holding a lightening rod to one of the turrets had rusted away, and the bolt hit the wood of the roof. For a moment, nothing seemed to have happened, but then a thin wisp of smoke rose from beneath the tiled roof. A sliver of flame was visible shortly after that.
"Fire! Fire!"
Harry awoke to a yell and the sound of hard knocking at his door. He sat up in bed. "What a dream," he said, trying to shake the sleep out of his head. "I actually thought that..." He stopped at the sound of a very feminine mumbling next to him. He looked down. "Jackie?" It wasn't a dream.
He reached down and shook her awake. "Mmm, hi, Harry." Her voice was that of a very sated female. Then she heard the yell. "Harry, what do we do?"
"We get out of here." He looked down. They were both naked under the covers. He threw them back and pulled at them as he and Jackie stood up. "Wrap yourself in this and open the window." He handed Jackie a sheet and ran over to grab their suitcases.
Harry took the two suitcases and threw them through the opened window. He heard a clatter of wood as they crashed through the porch roof followed by a hardy "Thud!" when they hit the ground. So much for that route; if the roof couldn't take the weight of the suitcases, it wouldn't hold them.
He ran to the door and put his palm against it. Cool, which meant safe. He opened the door, and the pair ran out into the hall. Four others came out at about the same time. Fred was with a beautiful Black girl, and Max was holding the hand of a killer blonde. "Stan? Tank?"
"Stacy used to be Stan," Fred said staring at Jackie and the blonde. "I guess these two are Jack and Tank." He fought back a hardy laugh.
"Now that we've called roll, can we get out of here?" Jackie said.
"That way," a voice yelled. They looked in the direction it came from. The old guy was standing at an open doorway, using an old-fashioned hand extinguisher to spray something into a wall of flame.
"You need help," Fred said, and started towards the man.
"Go!" The old man yelled. "Get the young women out of here. This fire is my concern -- as it was before."
"But you'll never manage..." Harry said.
"And you'll be trapped here," Stacy said. "Please, please come with us."
"No! This time, no!" The old man's voice was harsh. Down those steps, then out past the porch. Please. I want it this way. I swear. Go!"
The three couples realized that their arguments would do no good. They turned and hurried down the stairs. The fire was spreading through the house. They could see it in some of the rooms on the first floor. They ran out onto the porch, then down the steps. Harry jumped into the van and released the break. It coasted down the hill, stopping about thirty feet from the house. Fred and Max came over carrying suitcases. Stacy and whoever Tank was calling herself now carried one bag between them.
They stood besides the van watching as the fire took the house. There was no sign that the old man ever got out.
* * * * *
It was more than an hour after the house collapsed in on itself, when Harry first heard the siren. He woke the others who were all sleeping with him inside the van. He pulled on a pair of jeans and climbed out just as the fire engine roared into sight. "About time you guys got here," he said to the first fireman.
The fireman pushed back his helmet. "Well, son, we didn't know anybody was here. That old house is far enough away from the woods to keep the fire from spreading."
"That's all you're worried about. What about the guy who lived here?"
Another fireman came around to talk to Harry. "Ain't nobody lived here for years, kid. Not since the big fire at the hotel."
"What fire?" Fred had climbed out of the van. He looked a little nervous as every "Cracker" story he'd ever heard growing up in Chicago kept popping into his head.
A Black fireman climbed down from the back of the fire engine. "Fifty years or so ago, this old place was a hotel, 'Hanson's Honeymoon House', they called it. Run by some old guy, a refugee from Europe. It caught fire during the night. There were some folks inside that never woke up. They found the old guy the next day. Seems he panicked and ran out without warning his guests. He said it was too much like being back in the bombings during the war. He hung himself here on what was left of the porch 'bout a week later."
"What was left?" Fred and Harry looked back towards the house for the first time. The building was a ruin, but a lot of it looked like it had been that way for years, a lot of years.
"Folks said the place was haunted," one of the fireman, an older man with thinning gray hair, said. "Nobody'd buy it, and the old guy's family, cousins or something, didn't want to rebuild. It's been like this since..." he did some mental arithmetic. "Damn, you know what, chief. The fire was fifty years ago tonight. I remember ‘cause my Daddy'd just joined the Department."
"This -- this is crazy," Harry said.
"What's crazy," the fireman said, "and what're you kids doing here?"
"We had trouble with our van." Everyone turned. It was Jackie, stepping out of the van and looking radiant in a pair of shorts and a knitted t-top. "We pulled in here for the night." She flashed a 200-watt smile. "I do hope it's not going to be a problem."
"No ma'am." He turned to Harry. "You think you can get your van going?"
"I don't think so. I think something broke the transmission."
"We'll use our radio to call for a tow. You kids pack up." He climbed back into the fire engine. The other three firemen began searching around the ruins of the building to make certain the fire was completely out.
"Do you think it was a ghost?" Jackie said.
"It was something." Harry said. "Maybe he had to save some people from the fire so he could rest in peace. He looked at Jackie and smiled remembering the night before.
"I -- I guess it had to be couples. That's why he changed Stacy, Tandy, and me."
"Yeah, but if he's gone, I don't know that you guys will ever change back."
Jackie smiled. She was also thinking about the night before. "What makes you think that we want to?"
The End
Author's Note: This story began as a couple of questions of mine on Mindy's Polling Site, the ones about the six college men who spend time at a Summer rental that somehow changes at least some of them into women. I've played around with it for a while, until I came up with this version while I was on vacation. (Yes, parts of this story were written in three different states, on the ground and in mid-air.) Some of it is rather explicit, though all the sex happens off-stage.
SRU: A Slight Switch
By Ellie Dauber © 1999
An early tale of the Spells 'R' Us universe, when the Wizard was first setting up the business. It's 1929, when he helps a young man who wants to be in the movies. This is the first of two of my stories that involve 20th century icons. The biographical facts are correct, so you can tell who it is in each story.
SRU: A Slight Switch
By Ellie Dauber © 1999
It was a very unhappy young man who walked into the Wizard’s store. The Wizard had only been running the store a few days. He hadn’t even come up with a good name. “I Have Spells”, “Spells 4 You”, there were a lot of possibilities. Probably more than there were customers. ‘And it was going to get a lot worse in a few months when the Great Depression hit.’ He decided to wait on this customer and then head for the 1970s. Those new malls they were building, that was the ticket.
“Can I help you, son?” He looked up at the tall, lanky young man.
“I don’t think anybody can,” the man drawled. Barely out of high school, he was over 6 foot tall and looked like one of the USC football players that he rooted for on weekends. “I want to be in show business, but I doubt that I’m going to make it.”
“Why, you seem as handsome as any of the stars I see in the movies these days.”
“A lot of things. I talk funny; just listen to the way I chop words up into short spurts. I got a funny kind of walk, too. Worst of all is my name."
“What’s the matter with it?” The Wizard had known the young man’s name as soon as he walked into the store. He’d thought about calling his customers by name as soon as they came in. Maybe it would impress them with his powers. Maybe it would just confuse them. He’d try it out when he got to 1974.
“It sounds like a girl’s name, but I’m proud of it, and I don’t want to change it.”
The Wizard smiled at the opportunity. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small medallion on a chain. There was a sculpted figure of a man on the side, an athlete that looked a good bit like the young man. “I think you just need some confidence. This medallion is supposed to bring the wearer the success that he truly wishes.”
“Sounds silly.” He paused a moment in thought. “How much?”
“Well, I’m just starting out at this location, so how about $1.75?”
“I guess I can afford that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change and a few small bills. He handed the Wizard a dollar, then counted out three quarters. The coins looked like dimes in his large hand. He handed the money to the Wizard, taking the medallion in exchange.
“Might as well put it on,” he said. He lifted the chain up over his head, letting it settle down around his neck. “Now what happens?”
Before the Wizard could answer, the changes began. The young man froze and began to shrink, his body becoming slimmer as it grew smaller. Somehow, his clothes continued to fit even through the changes. In a moment, he was no more than 5 foot 6. His arms, visible in a short sleeve shirt were slender as a 12-year old and completely hairless. Beneath his clothing, so was the rest of his body. His square jaw rounded as his nose grew smaller, becoming slightly upturned. There was no trace of beard, and his bushy eyebrows had become two thin lines. Making up for the loss of the rest of his hair, his sandy brown mop grew incredibly fast, covering his ears and flowing past his neck to the middle of his back. At the same time, it darkened to a rich dark brown with red highlights.
His lips darkened with a bright red gloss. There was now blusher on his cheeks and highlighter on his eyelids. Mascara made his lashes look longer and thicker. There was a matching polish on his long fingernails. Even his toenails were rounded now and covered with polish.
At the same time, two small mounds began to push out from his chest. They swelled out and didn’t stop until they had reached 34-C. At the same time, his stomach grew flat, and his hips and butt swelled and rounded. His pants stretched to fit the new curves. At the same time, his legs grew slim and shapely.
If the man had been aware of what was happening, he would have felt his penis begin to shrink. His testicles receded into his body to become their female counterparts. The sac shrank back against his body as the penis, now less than an inch long settled down between them at the entrance to the cleft that had opened in his groin. Only now it was hergroin.
The final transformation was the clothing. The shirt transformed into a sheer cotton blouse as the T-shirt beneath it twisted and split in two. One part grew into a pale pink camisole, while the other shrank around the new breasts to become a silken bra. Pants grew together into a single tube of fabric that moved up her leg to three inches above the knees before it blossomed out into a flowing skirt. Boxer shorts became a pair of frilly panties. What had been his socks moved up her legs transforming into a pair of stocking, were held in place by a pair of frilly garters at the tops, well up on her shapely thighs. Her male shoes lost their laces as they grew heels, changing into a pair of two-inch high heels with a thin ankle strap.
Now, time began again. The young woman blinked as her memories changed to match her body. She reached down to admire the medallion around her neck. “It’s amazing,” she said, “how much the girl on it looks like me.” She tucked it under her blouse where it settled between her new breasts. She giggled at the feel of cold metal against her delicate skin. “I have an interview at Metro this afternoon for a part in a new movie.”
“I’m sure you’ll get the part,” said the Wizard. “You’re a very pretty girl.”
The young woman giggled again. She leaned over and kissed the Wizard lightly on the cheek. “You’re cute,” she said. In her new soprano voice, the drawl sounded rather sexy. ‘So was her walk -- now,’ the Wizard thought as he watched her leave the store.
The Wizard was right. (Surprise!) She did get the part. She did very well, and the parts got bigger. In a few years, the young actress was a major star, specializing in light comedies and romances, often playing the helpless, confused female who was rescued by the handsome hero. They would fight through the movie, the man chasing her until, in the last reel, she caught him.
After World War II, she was smart enough to move into character roles, although she was still an attractive woman. It turned out that she had considerable talent, and she was nominated three times for Oscars, eventually winning for Best Supporting Actress in 1975.
And when she died of cancer in 1988, Marian Morrison had left behind a body of work that any actress could be proud of. Even if she never did make a Western.
SRU: Haiku
By Ellie Dauber
© 2001
Another old story, another high school football story, another experiment – this time, writing in haiku.
Haiku - a Japanese form of poetry made up of three lines of, respectively, 5, 7, and 5 syllables.
* * * * *
Autumn in high school,
A war, football season, starts.
Testosterone rules.
Joe Trayne, quarterback,
Tall and strong, smart and handsome,
Hero to his school.
Stu Geller watches.
Old friendship turns to cold hate.
Jealous second string.
Within a store front,
A wizard deals in mischief
Wrapped in robes of blue.
Before the big game,
A potion mixed in cool beer
Weaves transformation.
Warm kiss in shadows,
A hero claims his reward.
Sue Geller blushes.
SRU -- The Football Hero
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2001
Here's another of my older stories. It was an experiment in writing in the first person. Let me know what you think.
* * * * *
Jack Weston really wanted his son, Mark, to follow in his footsteps as a high school football star. He wanted it enough to resort to magic. But...
* * * * *
"Mall Security, Sam Crawford speaking."
"Sam, this is Al Dehner at Rite Aide. I've got a crazy man screaming in my story." Al's voice was quivering, a sure sign the man was nervous. In the background, Sam could hear what sounded like someone shouting, though he couldn't make out any words.
"On my way," Sam said.
The Rite Aide was only about six stores away from the corner where the Security Office was located. Sam could hear the shouts before he was halfway there; something about the "wrong store" and some old man.
Sam followed the noise.
A heavyset man in his late forties was standing near a display of lawn furniture, demanding that some old man show up and fix something. The man was angry, and he wasn't using the sort of language that should be used in a public place. He stopped screaming when he saw Al and ran over to the guard. "You work here -- in the mall I mean," the man said. He didn't sound angry, more desperate. "You know where his store is. You can take me there; can't you?"
"I know every store in this mall, sir. I'll take to whatever store you want, but you've got to be quiet. Your shouting -- and your language -- they're disturbing all these nice people."
"O-okay, you're right. I'm sorry. But I've got to see that old man, got to get him to fix what he did." The man grabbed at Sam's uniform.
"It's all right, sir, but please let go of me." The man looked into Sam's eyes and blinked. Then he let go of Sam's uniform. "Now, sir, where's the store that you want to go to?"
The man... giggled. "It's here; the store's right here; right across from the Radio Shack; and next door to the T-Rex T-Shirts store."
"Yes, that's where we are now. Is this the store you wanted? I don't think there's any old man working here." He looked at Crawford who shook his head.
"This is the place, but it isn't the store. There -- there was another store here yesterday."
"Sir, this store has been here since the mall opened. How could there be another store here?"
"He -- he said the store was m-magic. That it was there because I needed it to be there." He giggled again. "He knew my name when I walked in; he knew what I wanted before I -- before I could tell him."
Sam closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head; another nut that believed in urban legends. "Sir, that old guy, was he wearing some kind of ratty old robe?"
"Yes... yes! You know him; you know the store. Where is it? How do I get there?"
"I'm afraid you can't sir. That store, Spells-R-Us, it doesn't exist. You must have heard about it and had some sort of weird dream or something. Let me call a cab to take you home."
"No! It's true, and it's here, and I'll find it." He picked up a beach chair and through it at a display. "Even if I have to tear this whole mall apart."
"I'm afraid I can't allow that, sir. Please calm down."
"Calm down!Er Calm down after what that bastard did to me -- to my son." He threw another chair. This one smashed the glass display case holding some calculators and cameras. "Come out, you old bastard," he shouted to no one in particular. "Come out, or I'll wreck this store."
Sam grabbed the man and quickly applied a wrestling hold. "Call the cops, Al," he yelled to the frightened druggist. "This guy's their baby."
* * * * *
Jack Weston stared at his lawyer through the reinforced glass of the police visitors' room. "I tell you Ned, I'm not crazy."
Ned Montgomery looked at his client -- and his friend of over ten years. "Well, you must be something, Jack. Disturbing the peace, destruction of property, public nuisance, they could put you away for a year or more, easy. Do you want to tell me what happened?"
"Okay, but, please, let me tell the whole story before you interrupt. Okay?"
"The whole story, I promise."
"You know how much I'm into sports, especially football. I got to go to college on a football scholarship, almost made it into the pros. I met Sherrie because I was the big football hero, and she was the tutor that helped me keep my grades high enough to be allowed to play."
"Any way, after we got married and had Mark -- you promised not to interrupt -- I wanted him to follow in my footsteps, be a jock like his old man. He tried, I'll have to give him that, but it wasn't because he wanted to. He did it just to shut me up. His heart wasn't in it, and he just didn't care enough to be any good. I knew he had the talent -- he was my kid after all. He just didn't give a damn."
"This weekend is the start of training for the fall schedule. Mark should be there, first string, just like I was. When I asked him about it, he said that he hadn't even tried out. He said that he had better things to do. 'Better things,' do you believe that? No -- don't answer; let me finish."
"We had a big fight. I almost slapped him -- you know, try and knock some sense into him, but Sherrie screamed at me. She said she'd leave me if I hit him. I stormed out of the house and drove over to the mall. On the way to the mall, I started to get one of those tension headaches of mine. I went to the Rite Aid to get some aspirin. Only it wasn't there."
"Don't look at me like that. It wasn't. There was a store, a curio shop or something -- like that Pier One Sherrie likes -- with display windows and -- I swear to Heaven -- a real door with one of those old-fashioned bells that jingled when the door opened. I looked around. There was this old guy in a real ratty looking blue robe -- like my Uncle Fred's old bathrobe -- behind the counter."
"I looked at him, and he says, 'Hello, Jack. Welcome to my store.' Then he hands me a line that he's some kind of wizard and can read my mind. I tell him to prove it, and he says, he's here to sell me something for my kid. He says the store's magical, and it came to the mall because I needed it to be there."
"He hands me this little bottle of green liquid -- it looked a little like that Mountain Dew soda. He says pour it in something and give that to Mark to drink. Mark drinks it, and he'll be down on the field with those football players. I give him a look because I know he's crazy. He says it'll only cost me five bucks, and what did I have to lose. I figured what the hell and gave him the money. What did I have to lose? Oh, Lord! What did I have to lose?"
"I bought the stuff and went left the store. I still had my headache, so I stopped at another store and got some aspirin. I bought a soda at the food court to wash them down, and drove home.
Sherrie gives me a look that says I'm really in trouble with her. She said Mark had gone to a friend's house, but he came back about ten minutes later; just after I got home. His friend wasn't home or something. I apologized to them both like I really meant it. I said how much football meant to me, and asked Mark to let me try just one more time to convince him. If his answer was still no, then I wouldn't ask again. He agreed, and I said he should let me give it my best shot. Let me take him over so we can watch the team try-outs."
"He wasn't sure, but I promised we would leave, if he wanted, after I talked to him. I figured that if that stuff was magic, he'd go right down and try out. If not, well, I had my fingers crossed when I promised not to bring the subject up again."
"We head over to the field. The kids are trying out, working hard. A few of them even had some talent. But I thought, 'Wait till Mark gets his mind changed, he'll show them all." There were folks sitting here and there in the stands, family and friends of the kids on the field, I guessed. Over away from the players, the cheerleaders were practicing. A couple of them were pretty cute, too, for jail bait."
"The school boosters were selling refreshments. I bought a couple sodas, orange for me and a coke for Mark; easier to tell them apart that way. While he was talking to some kid, I poured that stuff in his coke. We climbed up into the stands and took a couple of seats right there on the 50. I handed Mark his coke and started talking about what a wonderful game football was. You know, he was hardly listening to me. He was too busy looking at those cheerleaders -- not that I blamed him."
"Then he took a swig of the coke. I began to tell him the story of that pass I caught that won us the district title my senior year in high school, but I stopped. He -- just about everybody -- seemed to have frozen. I looked around. There was even a ball or two hanging in mid air. The damn stuff wasmagic."
"Then Mark begins to change, only not the way I expected. I figured he was going to bulk up, get some muscles, maybe even grow a couple of inches. Instead, he starts to shrink. He gets thinner, more delicate looking. His hair starts to grow, comes down over his ears, doesn't stop until it's down past his shoulders.
His nose gets smaller and his lips get a little bigger. His eyebrows got thin, like narrow lines. Then I could see it -- somehow -- he had on lipstick, and there was something on his eyes. I could even smell some perfume in him. I looked down at his clothes. His T-shirt had these bumps growing under it. 'No,' I thought, but, yeah, my son was growing tits -- nice looking pair, too, big like his mother's."
"What little hair he had on his arms just kind of faded away; so did the few hairs he had on his face. He seemed to be getting a figure, slim waist, broader hips. I wondered how his clothes still fit. Then, they start changing, too. His T-shirt turns into some kind of pink blouse. It was kind of sheer, and I could actually see the lines of the... the bra he was wearing all of a sudden. His jeans changed, too. They just kind of grew up his legs and turned into a pair of white shorts -- with no damn bulge in them where a guy's family jewels should be. He had on pink socks and girls sneakers, too."
"Then, all of a sudden, everything started moving again. Mark looks at me like everything's normal. I started to say something, but before I could, one of the cheerleaders, a cute little redhead, comes over to near where we're sitting. 'Hey, Marci,' she says. 'You better come down if you're going to try out for the squad.' I didn't know what to say."
"Then Mark... my Mark leans over and kisses me on the cheek. 'Wish me luck, Daddy,' he says, and he runs down onto the field. He and the redhead go over and talk to a woman, the girls' coach, I guessed, and he starts jumping around the field, doing somersaults and stuff. The coach asks him a few questions and hands him a couple of sheets of paper. He comes running up into the stands and hands it to me. 'I made it, Daddy. I'm gonna be a cheerleader.' The papers are a medical form and a permission slip. He runs back onto the field, and I sat and stared."
"What the hell happed? Then I remembered what that old coot had said: 'Mark would be on the field with the football players.' The potion worked all right. Where else would cheerleaders be except on the field. I knew I had to get back to the mall, get him to take back the magic. I ran for my car and drove here -- I don't want to say how fast -- but the store was... gone. The Rite Aid was back where it always was. I figured the two stores had to be in it together, so I started wrecking the place to get them to call the old guy. The rest... well, the rest you know."
"And you believe that?" Ned asked.
"Of course, I do. It's the truth."
Ned stood up and walked over to the door. "Did you hear all that?" he asked someone in the hall outside.
Sherrie walked into the Visitors' Room followed by a pretty young girl in a new cheerleader's uniform. It was obvious from their features and long brown hair that they were mother and daughter. They both looked like they had been crying. "Jack," Sherrie said leaning towards the glass separating her and her husband. "What have you done to yourself. We don't have a son; you know that."
The girl joined her. "Daddy, I-I'm sorry that you don't love me. I'm a girl. I've always been a girl. Just ask anyone. I love you, but I -- I can't be the son you want me to be." She sat down in the chair and began to cry.
A young man in a brown suit, a policeman's badge hanging out of his jacket pocket, walked in. "Mrs. Weston, Mr. Montgomery, after what I just heard, I think a judge will drop the charges if you agree that Mr. Weston will go someplace for a nice long rest."
Sherrie Weston nodded. "Yes, I-I think he needs one, and it will be better than putting him in jail for something he-he wasn't responsible for doing because he wasn't in his right mind."
"Fine," the officer said. "If you'll come with me, we'll see about his transfer to Connorstown Hospital, they have a very good psych unit." Sherrie and her lawyer started out, but Marci stayed where she sat. "Are you coming, Ms. Weston?"
"No, I-I'd like to talk to Daddy for a minute if I could, please." When the officer nodded, Marci added, "and could you turn off the microphone. I-I really don't want everybody to hear."
Marci waited a bit; then she leaned forward. "Testing... one... two... three. Okay, I'm pretty sure it's off. Are you satisfied now, Dad?"
"What... what do you mean?"
"You tried to trick me, to use magic to make me into some stupid football jock. Instead, you got a pretty little cheerleader."
"What, but how did you know?"
"Mom asked me to follow you. She was afraid you might go get drunk or something. I saw you go into that store, and I saw how happy you looked when you came out, so I got suspicious."
"The wizard told me exactly what the potion he sold you would do. It would change reality so everybody but you -- even me -- would think I'd been born a girl. But it would only last 24 hours. He figured that was enough time to teach you a lesson."
"I figured that you'd never really learn your lesson. All my life you've been trying to make me into a man just like you. I figure that if being a man means that you're willing to use magic to make your son's life into something that he never wanted; then I didn't want to be one. I paid him a hundred bucks to make the spell permanent but fix it so I'd know who I was, too."
"You can't -- you can't possibly be serious."
"I'm serious, Dad. Thanks to that magic, everybody -- even Mom -- thinks I was born a girl. And the magic gives me all the memories of that life, so I won't make any mistakes."
"But a girl?"
"Yes, a girl, with periods and a boyfriend -- a cute one, too -- and everything. I'm free of you, Dad, free of your trying to control my life. You'll be away for a long, long time, and the only way you can get people to stop thinking that you're crazy is to admit that I'm a girl. And there's one more thing I want you to always remember."
Jack sank back into a chair, feeling defeat, feeling the headache of all headaches growing behind his eyes. "What... what's that... Marci?"
"I love you, Daddy." She said in a voice like a little girl's. Then she blew him a kiss and turned and walked out of the room, hips swaying in her pretty new cheerleader's skirt.
The End
SRU: The Map
by: Ellie Dauber
© 1999
"Fred, I think we're lost." Almost as soon as Margie van Arndt said it, she was sorry. Most men won't admit that they'd messed up directions or misread a map, but Fred, well....
"I'm not lost," he said through clenched teeth. "This road is just the long way to Wheaton. It's such a nice day that I thought I'd --"
"Drive past that mall up ahead twice? Look, Hon, there's no shame in it. We haven't been out this way in, what, five years." She was trying to give him an out. "Not since that weekend when we were in college."
"Maybe that's it," he said. "We've passed through some construction that wasn't on the map. I guess I can hardly be blamed for those detours."
There had been no detours that Marge had seen. But he wasn't getting upset as he had a few weeks before, when he'd missed a cut-off, and they'd had to backtrack almost twenty miles after they caught the mistake. Well, after she'd caught the mistake and managed to come up with a reason so he could admit it without losing face. 'What is it,' she thought, 'about guys and roads? You'd think it was a test of manhood or something.'
She looked at her watch. It was almost 1:30. They'd left the apartment about 10 AM for a romantic weekend in the country. If he'd been willing to let her navigate, they'd have gotten to the bed and breakfast already. But no! She was only a Woman, even I she was also real estate broker, used to reading sub-division maps and to checking out prospective properties all over the county. He was a Man, with a man's perfect sense of direction.
Well, this thing he had about directions and maps was his only really major flaw. He was a pretty good guy, smart, considerate, with a great sense of humor. And some of his other manly abilities - hey, that was the reason that's she'd agreed to go to a bed and breakfast.
"Are you hungry," she asked. "I haven't eaten since about 8:30 this morning. There's bound to be a food court in a mall that size. We can grab some lunch, and you can get a better map."
"Sounds good," he said, slowing the car as they got near the mall. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he had been lost. Guys didn't get lost. It was in their blood from thousands of centuries of hunting for food, blazing trails, fighting wars. Anyway, a mall that size should have a store that sold maps. He'd check with a clerk, a male clerk in the store, and get the directions he'd need. They'd be at that B&B in time to work up an appetite for supper. He smiled at the thought as he pulled into the mall parking lot.
Since it was early afternoon on a Saturday, the parking lot was fairly jammed. Fred found a spot not too far from a side entrance to a lower level. They'd probably have to walk a little to get to the food court, but there was no place to park within a good hundred yards of the main entrance. At least this way, they'd walk inside an air-conditioned mall.
'Besides,' Fred thought, "after driving for three hours, they needed a chance to stretch their legs.
They hurried past the stores without paying attention and took an escalator to the main level. In ten minutes they were sitting at a table. Margie had chicken fried rice and a diet cola, while Fred was putting away a Big Mack, fries, and a vanilla shake. There were maps of the mall posted at the entrances to the food court. According to the one that they looked at, there was a news stand/bookstore not too far from where they came into the mall. They could pick up a map without wasting any more time.
Except when they got to the spot where the Book Nook was supposed to be, it wasn't. "Fred, are you sure we came to the right spot? Remember, we've never been in this mall before." A little salve to the ego never hurt.
"Sure, I'm sure. There's the door we came through. I think I can see my car from here. Besides, I checked the map by the food court for other stores to use as landmarks. There's a Godiva's Chocolates, and over there's that new pet store franchise we heard about on the radio last week, Bertha's Kitty Boutique. Maybe the Book Nook moved. Let's ask inside."
Marge looked at the store. Most mall stores had open fronts, so you could walk right in. This place had what looked like a wooden storefront and windows for heaven sakes. Maybe this - she looked at the sign over the door again -- Spells R Us would be able to help them. With a crazy name like that, they might even sell maps.
A small bell over the door rang as they came in. Marge looked around. They probably did sell maps. It looked like they sold everything else. There were shelves everywhere filled with all kinds of stuff: sunglasses, masks, brass bottles, and Barbie dolls. And that was just on the first two selves near the door. There was a rack of hardback books near one wall, a bunch of mannequins in costumes right next to it.
"Be right with you, Marge, Fred," came a voice from the back of the store. They looked in the direction of the voice just in time to see an old man come around from behind some shelves. 'He looks a little like a skinny Santa,' Fred thought. 'Only he's wearing a blue bathrobe instead of the red suit Santa always wears.'
"Actually, this time of year, Nick likes to wear Hawaiian shirts and jeans," the old man said.
"Who," Fred said.
"My old friend, Nick," the old man said. "St. Nick, to be formal, though he seldom uses the title; says it puts off too many of the kids." He wiped his hands on his robe. "Anyway, what can I do for you, Fred?"
"How'd you know my name - our names?"
The old man pulled two business cards out of a pocket of his robe and handed them to Fred and Marge.
"So," Fred said. "Spells R' Us. What's the name of the store got o do with anything?"
"Turn the card over," the old man said with a smile. He'd been wanting to try this new variation.
Fred turned the card over. There was a short message neatly typed on the back. "Because I'm a wizard, Fred. Now please tell me what you want." Marge's card had the same message, except with her name on it.
"Now that is a trick!" Fred said.
The wizard smiled. Some people never caught on. "What can I do for you," he asked.
"We were looking for the Book Nook," Fred said.
"We need a local map," Marge added.
"Mr. 'I'm not lost, the road is lost' can't find his way to your B&B," the Wizard said.
Marge snickered.
"Actually," the Wizard said. "It is a little tricky with that new construction."
Marge groaned. Another voice from the "Men's Union." Can't they ever admit that a guy can get lost?
"But you two do a lot of travelling, and anybody can get lost once in a while. Except maybe me. How about I sell you a magic map case?" He rummaged through a pile of leather goods on a counter next to him and pulled out a zipper case the size of a notebook. It was unzipped with a folded sheet of blank paper sticking out. The Wizard pushed the paper inside and zipped the case shut.
"Yeah, magic," Fred said.
"Oh, it is," the Wizard said. "You hold the case in your hands and think for a moment of where you want to go. When you unzip the case, it will be holding a map that shows you exactly where you are at that moment and the fastest, most direct route to where you want to go. You won't have any problem finding your way."
"How much?"
"For you, Fred, and this lovely young woman, $19.95."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"Try it out in the parking lot. If it doesn't work, bring it back, and I'll give you a cash refund."
"Fair enough," Fred said. He got out his wallet and handed the man a twenty.
"I'm afraid that there's another dollar, tax."
Fred handed the man another dollar. He took his nickel change and the map case and left the store.
Once they were in the car, Fred tried the map case. He held it in his hands and said the name of their destination, "The Wayside Inn at Crabapple Cove." He thought he felt a tingling in his hands for a moment, but it went away too fast to be sure.
He unzipped the case and unfolded the map inside. It had color printing on it now. It was a state map. Crabapple cove was circled in red with a notation next to it, "First right after the post office onto Haley road; then on for two miles to the Inn."
Fred saw that the red color continued as a line back along the highway. He traced it back to another circle with a little note scrawled inside it marking the mall. There was some additional writing as well. He smiled noticing a misspelling.
Fred's finger was touching the map, tracing the line along the highway. Suddenly, that finger, the entire hand, grew slimmer. Fred's nails grew out and changed color as a red polish appeared on them. The transformation spread through his body. His arms grew slender and hairless. His body lost the masses of muscles gained from his twice a week visit to the local health club. A shape, no, two shapes grew out from his chest. He looked in amazement as they grew out from his flat chest until they were as large as
Marge's own 36-Cs.
Fred felt a pressure as his waist grew smaller. His hips and butt felt like they were inflating. His legs grew slender curves to match his now female body. A hand went down to touch the bulge at his crotch. It was still there, but as he tried to grab it through his slacks, he felt it shrinking away. Finally, there was nothing left; nothing but two very sensitive folds of skin on either side of what felt like an opening at his groin.
He felt his hair grow past his ears, past his neck, in great waves that didn't stop until they were halfway down his back. He couldn't tell what he looked like, but he felt something. He looked over to Marge, trying to understand.
"What happened to you, Fred? Somehow, somehow, you've turned into a woman. No, you've turned into me. You look just like me."
Fred grabbed the rear view mirror and looked into it. It was true. The face staring back out wasn't his. It was Marge's. Or maybe Marge's twin, since the hair was longer and the make-up looked a bit different. Make-up? Where the heck had that come from?
Suddenly, they both shook their heads in confusion as reality re-booted around them.
"Will you stop looking in the mirror," Marge said. "Your make-up is perfect."
"Well, I was just checking after lunch," Frieda said to her twin sister. "I want to look perfect when we meet our boyfriends up at that bed and breakfast." She brushed an imaginary speck of dirt off her white blouse.
"Relax," Marge said. "Even stopping for lunch, we'll probably get there ahead of them."
"You think that they'll get lost again?"
"Probably. And they won't stop to ask directions since that would mean admitting that they're lost."
"What is it with guys and maps and directions?"
"I don't know, but I don't think that we girls will ever have that problem."
Frieda laughed as she took one last look at the map before she started the car. The route was mapped out perfectly from this mall where they stopped for lunch. It was just funny the way that nice old man who'd marked the way had made such a silly error when he circled the mall and wrote, "You Are Her."
The End
SRU: The Two-Fer
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2000
This is another of my older stories. A couple of slackers help out the SRU Wizard. Now comes the problem of how to properly thank them.
SRU: The Two-Fer
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2000
The Wizard glared at his rented van, parked by the side of the road with a flat tire. He considered the philosophical implications of his situations and possible paths of action. Having considered, he acted.“Damn, stupid truck!” he shouted and kicked at the flat tire. It didn’t fix anything, but he felt much better.
He checked the back of the van. Sure enough, the toolbox was empty. “If this were a back road,” he said aloud, “I could just levitate the thing while I change the tire. But nooo… I have to have a flat on one of this town’s busiest stretch of highway and just before rush hour, too.” He was about to call Dannie and have her magically send him his own toolbox, when a beat-up mostly green Chevy pulled up beside the van.
Charlie Briggs and Wes Healey didn’t look much like Good Samaritans. Charlie was tall and skinny with a mop of light brown hair tied into a ponytail. Wes was short, with curly dark brown hair, and showing the beginnings of a beer belly. Both were in their early twenties, dressed in jeans and T-shirts. They normally didn’t act like Good Samaritans, either. Cut today, they were coming back from a three-day beer and pot party, and they felt particularly “mellow”.
“What’s the trouble, old guy,” Charlie said.
“Hey, you know you got a flat?” Wes asked.
“Only too well,” the Wizard said, trying to suppress a grimace. These two were hardly his idea of help. “The problem is that this infernal van doesn’t have a jack, so I can’t change tires.”
“Hey, old guy,” Charlie said with a lopsided grin. “We got a jack, a jill, everything.” He giggled at his own joke. “You go sit in our car while we change tires for you. You do have a spare, don’t you?”
“Yes,” the Wizard said. “It’s in a rack on the back right door of the van.” He did a quick scan of both boys’ minds. Normally, Charlie and Wes would have driven past, laughing at his problem. They were the sort who were sometimes actually improved by alcohol and other drugs. If they fixed his car – and they did know how to change a tire – he would see if he could do something to keep them that way.
Wes got the jack out of the trunk of his own car, while Charlie took out the spare. In a matter of minutes, they had the van jacked up and the tire off. They put on the spare and lowered the van to the ground. Wes came over to put the jack back in his trunk, while Charlie put the flat inside the van.
“She’s fixed, old guy,” Wes said, “but you should complain when you return that van.”
“I intend to.” The Wizard covertly materialized a couple of business cards. “By the way, this is my business. I don’t have any cash with me to repay you for your kindness. Come by my shop, and we can work something out.”
“We don’t need – oof” Charlie said, stopping when Wes elbowed him in the stomach.
“Charlie, Charlie,” Wes said. “We don’t want to insult this nice old guy by not taking his offer.” He took the cards, handing one to Charlie. He glanced at the card.
“Spells ‘R Us"
Colonial Crest Mall
Magic Solutions for
Your Every Want or Need
“Hey, I think I heard of your place, old guy,” Charlie said.
“Possibly,” the Wizard said. “Lot’s of people have told stories about me.” He got back in the van. “I’m sure that I’ll be seeing you boys in a day or two. Thanks again for the help.”
* * * * *
“I’m not sure that I want to go in there, Charlie,” Wes said. “I’ve heard some really crazy stories about this place. A lot of guys go in and get changed into bimbo chicks.”
“So, you don’t like bimbo chicks?”
“You know I do man, but I sure as hell don’t want to be one.”
“Neither do I, but if we’re careful, maybe we can get some kind of real cool stuff from that old guy.”
“Yeah, if we’re careful.”
“Relax, man. He’s just an old dude who didn’t know how to change a tire. We can handle him.” Charlie smiled and pushed open the door to the shop.
A very pretty girl was stocking some shelves near the door. Charlie and Wes waited for a moment to watch her move and stretch to reach the higher shelves. She finished putting what looked like boxes of pen and pencil sets on a shelf and turned to face them. “Famous last words, Charlie. I’d advise you not to try anything. He won’t like it if you try to trick him.”
“Hey, relax, Babe,” Wes said. “If Charlie says we can handle the old guy, we can handle him. You come and watch. Then,” he leered at the girl, “Then, we’ll show you how well we can handle other things.” If they did get some kind of “bimbo-izer” from the old guy, this Babe was going to be its first test.
“Charlie, Wes,” came a voice from the back of the store. “Please let Dannie finish her work. Come back here, and we can talk.”
The duo followed the Wizard’s voice to the back of the store, where he was sitting behind a counter, drinking something steaming in a purple mug.
“Can I offer you boys some tea? It’s a very special blend from India.”
“Ah, no thanks, old guy,” Wes said, suspiciously.
The Wizard frowned. “I understand. You’ve heard those stories about me, and you’re suspicious.” He put down the mug. “I suppose I can’t blame you. Would it help if I promised you ‘no tricks’?”
“A little, old guy,” Charlie said. “Let’s just get on with this, so we can go.”
“Very well; you boys did me a favor, so I owe you something, right?”
“Yeah, man. Something cool,” Wes said eagerly.
The Wizard frowned. He had hoped that the boys would take his hint. If they had refused any payback, he would have been a lot happier. (And they would each have had a $100 bill in their wallets the moment that they left the shop.) As it was, their minds were full of thoughts of what they could get: money, sex, beer, sex, drugs, sex, and – oh yes – sex. Well, the best that he could do was to play fair and give an honest warning of any consequences of what they asked for.
“How about something that would make any woman our slave?” Wes asked.
“Yeah, that would be so cool,” Charlie added.
“Yes,” the Wizard said. “I’m sure it would, but it’s a little too powerful to give to you two.”
“How about something that would make any one woman our sex slave?” Charlie asked. “Just one woman each. That wouldn’t be too much, would it?”
“Frankly, Charlie, I really don’t like the idea of anything that would enslave one person to another.”
“I see, man. You promise something, but then you don’t deliver.”
“Charlie, you wound me to the quick. If that’s what you insist on….” He reached behind the counter and took out a small plastic container with two pills in it. “You take these pills --”
“And we turn into our own sex slaves,” Wes said.
“Only we aren’t there to enjoy it,” Charlie added.
“Oh, you’ll be there,” the Wizard said. “Each pill gives the person who takes it the power to create his ideal woman. She’ll be perfect, physically and mentally, and she’ll be in love with the person who created her, willing to do whatever that person wants of her.”
“Sounds perfect,” Charlie said. “What’s the catch?”
“Don’t both be in the same room when you take the pills. It – umm, interferes with things."
“No problem, man.” He pocketed the pill bottle. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Charlie. Just remember what I said. I can’t give a clearer warning than that.”
“No problem, old guy,” Wes said. “See you.”
They headed out towards the door. Dannie was still working on the shelves, her back to the boys. Wes tried to pat her rump as they walked by, but pulled back his hand with an audible “Yow!”
Dannie giggled. She knew she looked hot, so she’d used a simple protective spell with a twist. As far as Wes was concerned, she was hot, about 530 degrees hot to the touch.
* * * * *
Wes and Charlie hurried back to their digs, a three room furnished apartment in a low rent part of town. Charlie took the pill box out of his pocket and opened it. “I’ll take my pill out here. You can take yours in the bedroom.”
“Why, what’s the problem?” Wes took the pill from Charlie and looked at it carefully. It was pink and white, about the size of an aspirin.
“Don’t you remember, man? That old guy said that if we take the pills in the same room, they’ll – whatchamacall it – they’ll interfere with each other.”
“So, you got good taste in chicks, and so do I. So what if we get a couple of babes who’re half your perfect broad and half my perfect broad?”
“Yeah, but won’t they love the both of us?”
“Again, so? We can take turns, man. Besides, I don’t remember you saying ‘No’ to that group thing we did at Casey’s party last month.”
“Okay, how do we do it?”
“We each pop the pill, close our eyes, and think of our perfect chick. I guess when we open them, they’ll be here with us.”
“Sounds good. On three, then. One. Two. Three.” Each boy popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed. They closed their eyes and began to visualize their perfect women. Charlie liked redheads, tall and curvy, with big pillowy breasts. Wes had a fantasy about Hispanic girls, darkly tanned with masses of curls down to their tight little asses, full pouty lips, sexy accents, and legs that went on forever.
As the pair concentrated, they felt a “tightness” in their minds. Then a strange warmth spread down from their heads throughout their entire bodies. The sensation was weird, but it wasn’t unpleasant. After what seemed like a couple of minutes, it faded away. They opened their eyes in the exact same instant.
Charlie saw a redhead standing in Wes’ clothes. His -- her? T-shirt was pushed out to the limit by two large breasts, their nipples erect and further straining the fabric. She was as tall as Wes had been, and her jeans were like a second skin against her broad hips and thighs.
Wes saw a girl with dark auburn hair trailing down behind her. She stood where Charlie had been, but she sure didn’t look like Charlie. Her skin was the color of burnished copper. Her doe-like brown eyes lay behind thick lashes. She had the cheekbones of an Indian offset with thick smiling lips. Her tits weren’t very big, but she had a tiny waist that broadened into a pair of very womanly hips. Her jeans were stretched tight against an ass that you could bounce a quarter off of.
“Wes,” the girl said in a sultry voice with a soft Spanish accent, “is zhat you? Whut – whut happen to us, Wes?”
“Charlie?” Wes said. He had no accent, but his voice was now a pleasant alto. He was about to ask what happened when their clothes began to change.
The sleeves disappeared from Charlie’s T-shirt and the collar expanded until nothing was left of the top third but two narrow strings tied at the shoulder. The remainder of the shirt turned a deep pink. One section of the shirt thickened. The inner part separated and changed to a more silky material that shaped itself around Charlie’s new breasts to become a strapless bra. His jeans lid up his legs, fused together, and transformed into a blue denim mini-skirt. His socks followed the pants up his legs, the material becoming more and more sheer before joining at the waist to become a pair of pantyhose. His boxers shrank, the fly disappearing as they became a pair of silky pink panties. He felt himself lift as his sneakers reformed into a pair of sandals with a two inch heel.
Wes’ T-shirt blossomed into a frothy white peasant blouse, the collar growing until it rested on his shoulders. One section of the blouse changed into a rose demi-bra that lifted and separated his new breasts, making them seem larger. His pants fused together, then spread outward to become a wide multi-colored skirt that stopped just below his knees. His socks moved up his legs even as pieces of elastic reached down from his shorts. In a moment, Wes’ dark nylon stockings were stretched taut against his legs by the straps of a pretty gray garter belt trimmed with black rosebuds. The remainder of the shorts became a pair of rose-colored panties, almost as sheer as his stockings except for a narrow gusset in the front. His sneakers were now a pair of woman’s shoes with a narrow three-inch heel.
“Thees, thees is crazy. We gots to go see zhat old man. He change us back, no?” Wes was near frantic, and his accent was getting thicker.
“I – I don’t think he will, Wes.” Charlie felt lightheaded for a moment. Then he felt a tingling in his nipples. They seemed to be growing harder as she stared at Wes, beautiful Wes. The tingling got worse, and Charlie felt a warmth down in his crotch.
“Thas okay,” Wes said. His entire body was tingling, especially his new tits. “I think I like this. The way I look and the way you make me feel.” Wes reached out and gently touched Charlie’s breasts.
“Wes, no! No, please.” Charlie couldn’t believe how great Wes’ hands felt on his breasts. His mouth opened as his breathing became irregular. He reached over and began to rub his finger against Wes’ left nipple.
“Oh, oh, zhat is wunnerful,” Wes said. “More.” The two transformed males collapsed together. Their mouths met in a passionate kiss, tongues dueling one with the other. Their knees grew weak as they continued to caress each other’s breasts. They sank to the floor, still kissing, and continued the exploration of their new bodies. Blouses were ripped off and hands fondled breasts. Then those hands reached down to explore two new moist, warm, and very empty slits. They orgasmed together, and then lay back for a moment to enjoy the warm mutual afterglow.
But the afterglow left them each wanting more, and they were soon at it again. They stripped each other, kissing and caressing the new flesh as it was exposed. Each noticed that she weren’t as concerned with her own pleasure so much as she were in pleasing her oh, so sexy partner. It was an odd concept, but it didn’t seem to bother either of them. Each loved the other so much that her own delight was enhanced by bringing the other to new heights.
* * * * *
The Wizard sat back in his chair and looked at Dannie. She was a little flushed by all the activity they’d been watching on his scrying device, but she was trying very hard not to show it. He gave her a moment to regain her composure, then said, “So, what do you think about what you just saw?”
“You gave them every warning – more than usual, to tell the truth.”
“They were an unsavory pair with little in the way of redeeming qualities, but they did stop of their own accord to help me. If they’d asked for something simple, I’d have given it to them. If they’d left the store without asking for anything, they’d have each gotten a nice cash reward. In either case, I’d have reinforced their positive feelings. With a little luck, they’d have wound up a much nicer pair of boys.”
“Instead, they asked for sex slaves.”
“And they got them. Wes is Charlie’s perfect, submissive sex slave, and Charlie is Wes’. Only now they’re Charlene and Rosa.”
“What if they’d gone into separate rooms?”
“Then they’d have gotten twenty-four hours with a magical artifact in the form of the girl they imagined. And, when those disappeared, a strong subconscious understanding of the meaning of real love.”
“But this is permanent?”
“More or less. They’ll be those girls forever, but the attraction to each other will fade after a couple weeks. They’ll still be friends, but that’s all. They’ll also be completely female by that time. Within the year, they should find boyfriends and marry. Those will be good marriages, too. Their ideal women were better people than they were, and those qualities will stay.”
“So they did get a reward for helping you.”
“Yes. I helped them make better people of themselves.”
The End
Shakedown
by Ellie Dauber (c) 2003
The Ace-High Lounge was in its early evening lull, between the “I’ll just stop off for a quick drink on the way home” crowd and the “Let’s go out tonight and have a few drinks” crowd. A few people were scattered here and there through the room, trying to decide which group they wanted to be in.
A beefy man, about forty, in a police uniform, walked in and headed quietly over to the bar. “Your boss around?” he asked the bartender.
“In the office,” the bartender said. “You want I should get him?”
“I know the way,” the cop said. He walked to a doorway at the far end of the bar and down the short hallway it opened in to. There was a door at the end, with a small, metal “Office” sign nailed to it. The cop opened the door and walked in without knocking.
A curly-haired man in his late 20s was looking through a liquor company catalog. He looked up when he heard the door open. “I’m busy - - oh, excuse me, officer, what can I do for you?”
“You the owner?” the cop asked.
The other man stood and walked around his desk. “I’m one of them. I’m partners with my brother and a couple of cousins. I get to manage it, though.” He offered his hand. “I’m Pete Djanko. And you are?”
The cop ignored the offered handshake. “Reilly, Sean Michael Reilly, but you can call me Sergeant Reilly. Did Costner tell you our deal when he sold you this dump?”
“He said you two had some kind of arrangement, but he didn’t give much in the way of details, I’m afraid.”
Reilly’s expression soured. With his very close cut brown hair, he looked like a bad ‘smiley’. “That sounds like the little weasel. Okay, it’s real simple. I come here every Wednesday night for your donation to the Police Sergeants’ Fund.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that charity.”
“That’s because you ain’t a police sergeant. We’re... it’s real exclusive.”
“I see, and I’m sure it’s a very good cause, but our budget’s very tight right now. We tied up a lot of cash buying the club and we’re still in the middle of re-decorating. You probably saw the roped-off work area when you came in. Plus, there’s some repairs we need that Mr. Costner didn’t tell us about, when he sold us the place -- I’m sure you understand. Can you come back in a couple of months, and we’ll talk then. I’m sure we can work something out.”
“You’re not being very friendly, mister, almost like you got something to hide. Maybe I need to ask a friend of mine in the vice unit to check this place out for drug dealing. They can hang around and make sure that nobody’s doing any hooking in here, neither.” He paused and looked at the office walls and ceiling.
“Then, too, maybe the fire department needs to take a look at this place, see that you’re up to code; the building inspectors, too. Check your permits for all that work you’re doing on the --”
“Thank you, Sergeant Reilly. I believe that I get your point. That fund does sound like a very worthwhile charity.”
“I knew you’d think so once I explained it to you.”
Djanko walked back behind the desk. He took a key from his pocket and opened a drawer. A second key opened a small, metal box in the drawer. “You said $100, I believe.” He took the amount out of his ‘petty cash’ cashbox and handed it to Reilly.
“Smile, sir, it’s all for a good cause. You know, you got a really friendly place here.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. May I buy you a drink?”
Reilly looked shocked. “Mr. Djanko, I’m not allowed to drink on duty.” Then he laughed. “See you next week.”
***
“He’s as bad as Marty Kostner said he was,” Pete Djanko said. He was sitting in the office of his cousin, Stefan, a rising, young lawyer and one of his partners in the club. Pete’s brother, Nyklos -- Nick, and another cousin, Tomas, the other partners, were also in the room.
“I did a little checking,” Stefan said. “He’s one of about six cops, all sergeants, who are in on the scam. A lot of people know, but nobody’s saying anything.”
“Why the hell not?” Nick said. “The honest cops should want to get rid of a bad apple like him.”
Tomas shrugged. “The ‘Blue Brotherhood’ protects him. Nobody wants to rat on a fellow cop.”
“That’s for sure,” Nick said. “You don’t screw a guy who may be the one you need for backup in some shoot-out.”
“Besides, these guys know where a lot of bodies are buried bureaucratically,” Stefan said. “Take them down, and they’ll take a lot of others down with them.”
“So what do we do?” Nick asked.
“The law can’t touch them,” Tomas said, with a knowing smile. “So we go to a... higher power.”
“Uncle Stavros,” all four said at once.
***
Pete Djanko was standing at the bar, talking to Joey, the bartender, when Reilly came back in. “I see you put in a stage,” the cop said by way of greeting.
Pete smiled. “Yeah, we thought our customers like to have something to watch while they’re drinking. The first show’s tonight, in fact. You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like.”
“I like, but you may not like it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Thing like this, live dancing, you’re gonna be making a whole lot more money.”
“There’s expenses, too, but, yeah, we think we’ll do pretty well.”
“So do I. In fact, it seems to me, with a set-up like that, you can afford to your contribution to the Sergeants’ Fund. Yeah, I’d say... umm... $150 a week seems about right.”
“$150, but that’s --”
“What you’ll be paying -- excuse me -- contributing every week.”
Pete sighed. “Can you at least wait till next week? We haven’t even had the first show yet?”
“Mr. Djanko,” Reilly said with a smile. “You should have more confidence in your own business. It’ll be $125 tonight, just to show what a nice guy I am, then up to $150 next week.”
“All right... I guess. Let me go get it from the office.” He started to walk away. “Joey, give the good sergeant whatever he’d like to drink... on the house.”
“Just a Coke,” Reilly said. “I am on duty.”
Djanko came back just as Reilly was finishing his second Coke. “Here’s the... contribution.” He handed the cop a small, gold-colored piece of metal with a number of bills folded inside it.
“What the hell’s this?” Reilly looked at the object. It was shaped like a policeman’s badge.
“A money clip, I though the shape was appropriate. I’ve got an uncle - - my great uncle, really -- who’s got a real... talent for turning out things like that. Call it a gift.”
Reilly opened the clip and took out the money. “Fifty... seventy... ninety... one-ten... one-twenty... five. All here.” He put the money down and looked at the money clip. “Not a bad piece of work. Thanks.” He put the money back inside the clip, then put it all in a pocket.
“If you’re going to be here for a while, let me show you around.”
“What do I need to see some stage for?”
“Well, I thought you might like to meet the woman that’ll be dancing here tonight. Her name’s... Tawny.”
“That’s more like it.” He swung his arm wide. “Lead the way.”
Pete led him down the hall to a second door. He knocked but there was no answer. “Tawny, come forth,” he said with an odd smile.
“That’s a hell of a way to say hello,” Reilly said. He felt a chill for a moment, but then it passed. He didn’t notice that his policeman’s badge had been replaced by the one from the money clip.
“I suppose not,” Pete said. He knocked again and, when there was no answer, turned the knob. The door was unlocked and opened easily. The two men walked into the room. Pete closed the door behind them.
The room was sparsely furnished, a couch and chair against one wall, a pipe rack with hangers for costumes. A well-lighted mirror hung from a second wall, with table and chair up against the wall in front of it, a make-up table. There was a door in the opposite wall with a full- length mirror covering it.
The two men were the only ones in the room.
“She ain’t here.” Reilly sounded more angry than disappointed.
“Oh, she’s around. Come forth, Tawney.”
“What is with that ‘come forth’ crap?” Reilly asked. He felt another sudden chill. “Jeez, it’s drafty in here. You should look into that.”
“It... it’s being taken care of.” He watched Reilly closely. The man was growing shorter, thinner. The amazing thing was that he wasn’t noticing the change. Even his clothes were changing. His uniform shrank down as he did, so that it still fit him.
Then Reilly happened to glance in the wall mirror. He froze a moment and stared. “What the hell’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean! Dammit, look at me. I look like a damned kid.”
“It’s a definite improvement,” Pete said wryly.
“Oh, yeah, well don’t screw with me Djanko. You won’t like it. In fact, let’s see how much you like this” Reilly threw a left hook.
Pete dodged it easily and grabbed Reilly’s wrist. “Ah, ah, ah, you’ll break a nail, if you do that.” He squeezed, causing Reilly to open his hand, his much smaller hand. His fingers were long and slender, with tapered nails a half-inch long, nails with a bright, red polish.
Reilly held up his hand, fingers spread apart and stared. “What’s... what’s going on here?” He raised his other hand, also small, also with nail polish. “It ain’t possible.” He shook his head in disbelief.
When he did, he felt something flying around his ears. And hitting his neck and shoulders. Another glance in the mirror showed that his close-cropped gray hair was now a honey-blonde mane that flowed down to the middle of his back.
“This is crazy. I’m getting out of here.” He ran over to the door and pulled at the knob. Locked. He pulled at it, but it was no use. The other door, it was opened slightly and he ran through it.
Pete followed Reilly down the hall, listening as the slap, slap, slap of Reilly’s shoes became the click, click, click or a pair of high heels. When he caught up with Reilly, the cop was pulling at the locked door at the end. “Open, damn you, open.”
“It won’t open till we’re ready,” Pete said.
“Ready? Ready for what.” His voice was higher now, an alto instead of a bass. His body was still changing, his waist narrowing, his hips growing wider.
His chest growing... fuller.
Reilly screamed and groped at his chest. More specifically, he groped at the pair of breasts that were growing there, pushing out the fabric. “It can’t be. It can’t be.” His voice was moving higher, into the soprano range.
“It is, Tawny.” Pete said.
“What did you call me?” Reilly’s face was changing now, growing softer. His lips were fuller, his cheekbones higher, a woman’s face.
“I’m sorry. Did I get you name wrong?”
“Yeah, it’s Seah... Teah... Tawny.” Reily shook his head. It didn’t sound right; his voice didn’t sound right, but he continued. “Tawny Reil... lon R-Meilly... Mella... Mello... Yeah, that’s it. I’m Tawny Melons.” She giggled, relieved to have gotten it right.
“Yes, you are, Sergeant Melons,” Pete said. “And we need your help. There’s an unruly crowd out there that you need to get under control.”
“You can count on me, sir.” Her voice was a high, breathy soprano. Her uniform was still changing, growing tighter around her lush new curves. The fabric had a silky sheen to it, now, rather than the flat cotton it had been.
With a determined look on his face, Tawny opened the door and walked out onto the stage. As he did, the final transformation began. Tawny’s already shrunken penis and testicles became even smaller. The testicles moved up into the body, changing as they did into ovaries. The empty scrotal sack tightened down on either side of the penis. Their sensitivity remained, as they became the lips of the vagina that was forming between them.
By the time Tawny had taken the second step onto the stage, his penis had settled down into its new place as a clitoris. Tawny was, now and forever, a female.
A tape clicked on, and a particularly brassy version of “Theme from Dragnet” blared out from hidden speakers. Tawny strutted across the stage to the music, her hips swaying invitingly, then she moved back to center stage and stood staring at the audience.
A chorus of catcalls rang out. “This ain’t proper respect,” Tawny said, her voice all but drowned out. She glared at them and pulled her billy club from its strap on her belt and began pounding the end of it in her hand.
Then she smiled and began to stroke it.
‘What am I doing?’ Tawny thought. She tried to stop her hand from moving sensually up and down the billy club. She couldn’t. Worse yet, it was starting to feel good to be doing it, very good.
She pointed the billy club towards the ceiling. As she kept stroking it, she moved it towards her face. She bent her head forward suddenly and kissed the tip of the billy club.
The crowd cheered and whistled.
Tawny grinned and re-fastened the club to her belt. She smiled, sliding her tongue slowly across her upper lip and began to unbutton her blouse. Sean Reilly’s pasty complexion had been replaced by an even, golden tan. There was make-up on her face, now, expertly applied.
When she looked down, Tawny wasn’t surprised to find a pair of 38-D breasts held in place by a satiny bra the same color as her uniform. The blouse was unbuttoned now. She pulled it free, flashing first her left, then her right breast.
The crowd loved it. Tawny left the blouse slide down from her shoulders. She wrapped it around herself, feigning modesty. Then she let it fall. Slowly, sinuously, she slid her arms out one at a time.
An embroidered gold patch on the left cup of her bra looked just like the badge that had been on the money clip.
Tawny shuddered, trying harder than before to fight her body, but she couldn’t stop it. She grabbed her blouse, twirled it over her head and threw it into the audience. Her body was tingling now, warm, pleasant tingles that she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop.
She strutted back and forth across the stage a second time to the “Dragnet” theme, her hips swinging, her breasts sticking out. Her nipples were two sharp points pushing out the front of her bra.
She stopped at center stage and winked at the crowd. Winked? Whatever was happening to her was getting worse. She reached down and pulled at the sides of her uniform pants.
The Velcro that hadn’t been there ten minutes before gave way. The slits that hadn’t been there either opened. A moment later, she was holding the pants in her hand, raising them triumphantly into the air. Below the waist, all Tawny wore was a narrow thong -- a g-string, really -- in the same dark blue.
She tossed the pants into the wings of the stage and took the billy club off the narrow belt that she still wore. Somehow, it seemed thicker now and more even more phallic.
She walked back and forth, hips jerking to the beat of the music. She stroked the billy club to the same beat. She raised the club towards her mouth. With an evil grin, she began to slowly slide her tongue up and down the length of it.
The crowd cheered and yelled its encouragement.
Tawny felt a warmth in her breasts. The warmth moved down in a series of sensual jolts to her groin. She moaned softly as she felt her vagina wrapping around the jolts.
She smiled, and her free hand snaked behind her to work the hook on her bra. She pulled it away with a single motion, revealing the blue and gold pasties she wore beneath it.
Now she lowered the club. Still keeping to the beat, she began to slide it up and down along her groin. The jolts increased in power. She was moaning louder now. Her legs felt weak. Her entire body trembled. Her head rocked back and forth to the same beat, driven by the sensations flooding her body.
A small bit of Sean Reilly remained. ‘This... ain’t... right,’ Sean thought. ‘It... ain’t... it... ain’t... it --’
Something exploded in Tawny’s groin, a pleasure stronger than anything she had ever felt raced to every nerve of her body. She screamed in joy, but she kept moving the billy club.
Sean screamed as well. He screamed and fell irrevocably into the darkness.
Tawny shuddered for a moment. “What am I doing? What just happened.” She stopped, a wicked smile forming on her face.
The audience, cheered, clapped, and whistled. Someone started yelling, “Tawny! Tawny! Tawny!” and the crowd picked it up.
Tawny bowed. This was wonderful. It was what she was meant to do, what she’d always wanted to do. She bowed and threw kisses, soaking in the warmth, the approval, the lust, of the crowd.
She ran over her boyfriend, Pete Djanko. “They certainly seem to like your act,” he said. “I did, too. You were great.”
“You know what the best thing about my dancing is, lover?” she asked, throwing her arms around him and kissing him.
“No, what?”
“How horny it gets me.” She rubbed her almost bare breasts against him. “How about we go someplace and do something about that?”
“Your wish...” Pete put an arm around her waist and led her back to the dressing room and its wide, comfortable couch. He was most certainly going to screw with Sergeant Reilly, or Tawny, as she now knew herself, and he expected that he would most definitely like it.
Slow Justice
by Ellie Dauber
"Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?" The jury foreman rose. He
was an older man in a plaid work shirt and jeans. He looked nervously
about the court room, his eyes never resting on Jenny or her parents
sitting nervously behind the District Attorney's desk.
Jenny Benton was a slender seventeen year old, her blonde hair done in a
pony tail that hung down well below her shoulders. She wore a pale blue
blouse with matching skirt and belt, light blue sneakers with matching
socks, rather than hose and heels. The outfit was intended to make her
look even younger and more vulnerable than she was.
Jenny was attractive enough, if a little too thin. (She was a late
bloomer whose body hadn't yet caught up with those of many of her
classmates.) Now her eyes were filling with tears behind her silvered
glasses.
"We have, Your Honor. In the matter of the State versus Russ Walsh, we
find the defendant 'Not Guilty'." There was pandemonium in the court
room. A few people, mostly women, looked shocked, but most of those
present cheered. A few men broke into the "Ellwood City High Fight
Song".
The Judge pounded his gavel for silence. After a moment or two, most of
the noise stopped. The Judge faced the jury box. "Thank you." he said
sourly. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are dismissed with the
Court's thanks. Case dismissed." The judge banged his gavel for
emphasis. Then he rose and left the court room, a look of disgust on
his face.
Jenny was sobbing, holding her face in her hands. She heard her mother
get up to talk to somebody. Then she heard an "Ahem", and looked
through her fingers. It was Russ, an insincere smile on his face. He
was about six-two and looked like he had just stepped out of a Norman
Rockwell painting. His chestnut hair was cut short and fashionably
styled; his tanned and muscular body dressed in a sport brown sports
jacket and slacks, a "sincere" tie in the Ellwood City High school
colors over an off-white shirt, and dark brown loafers. His dark gray
eyes seemed cold and empty of any emotion.
"I -- my lawyer -- um -- thought I should come over and tell you that
I'm not mad at you."
"Not mad at her," Jenny wanted to scream. As it was, she trembled,
hardly able to speak.
Now Russ bent low, patting her hand as if trying to console her. "Next
time, be more cooperative. I'm the big football hero. Who'll take the
word of a bimbo like you over mine."
He had raped her! Then, when she had gotten the courage to go to the
police, he'd not only denied it, he'd gotten two other members of the
team to lie for him. He admitted taking her out, but he said that he'd
left her off at the McDonald's about 9 PM. He claimed that she had
demanded that he go steady with her, threatening to cause trouble if he
didn't. Nobody had heard their conversation, but Max Snyder and Billy
Jackson said that they'd run into him at the arcade. The three claimed
to have spent the rest of the evening playing video games.
And he'd gotten away with it. The jury had taken the word of the boy
who had just lead his school's team to the state football championship
over a mousy little girl who seldom dated. He'd even had the nerve to
say that he'd liked her. He said that he had been attracted to a shy
girl who didn't go after him like so many of the girls in the school.
He'd been shocked when she tried to blackmail him, and he hoped that she
could get counseling for whatever was bothering her.
The bile rose in Jenny's stomach. She grabbed for her purse and ran for
the court room doors without a word. She was still crying ten minutes
later in the Lawyers' Lounge when she heard someone calling her name.
She looked up, her brown eyes filled with tears. Someone handed her a
lacy handkerchief.
It was one of the Weaver sisters. Three woman who'd lived in a large
house at the edge of town for nobody knew how long. They never seemed
to age, always appearing in their late thirty or early forties. On the
few occasions that anybody asked, they claimed it was a combination of
good genes, clean living, and enough money to afford a really good
cosmetologist.
Jenny recognized the woman as Chloe Weaver. Chloe had been a leader for
Jenny's old Brownie troop. She was a dark blonde, about 5 ft., 5, with
a still trim figure, her hair trimmed into a short wave of tight curls.
She looked like a well-to-do business woman, attractively dressed in a
navy business dress, pale hose, and matching navy heels. Her jewelry
consisted of a broach that looked like a stylized silver spindle, a
couple of matching bracelets, and pearl earrings.
Now she stood over the young girl smiling encouragingly. "I know, Dear.
He wronged you, and the Law let him get away with it."
"Why? Why did they do it, Ms. Weaver."
"People can be very foolish, Dear. They want to believe the people that
they admire. Even when they should know better."
"And now he'll get away with it." A thought suddenly occurred to her.
"Oh, Ms. Weaver, now that he got away with raping me, he'll be even
worse, and nobody will ever believe me again. Not about anything."
"Jenny, I've known you since you were eight years old. I believed you
in the court room, and I'll always believe you -- and believe in you."
"Thank you, Ms. Weaver. I know my parents feel the same, but to the
rest of the town, I'm a fool -- or a tramp -- or both."
"Nonsense. Time heals everything. Threads may break, but the healthy
one will come back, stronger then ever. It's Friday afternoon. You go
home, and I promise that things will be better on Monday." She sat down
next to Jenny and hugged her. Jenny was surprised at how comforting it
felt.
"Now, I hear your mother and father out in the hall, calling you. You
go home with them, have a good rest, and see if I'm not right."
Jenny rose and handed back the handkerchief. "I'm not sure I believe
you, but thanks for making me feel better." She walked out, leaving
Chloe Weaver alone in the Lounge.
"Nice promise," said Leslie Weaver suddenly appearing beside her. "How
do you intend to keep it?" As always, she carried the knitting bag that
was almost a town joke. She was no taller than her sister, but with a
more lush figure and long brunette hair that draped halfway down her
back. She wore a pale pink knit dress, dark hose, and low heeled
sandals.
"There's always my way," said Andrea Weaver, also materializing. She
held a small gilt nail scissors in her hand. Andrea was taller and
slimmer than her sisters with jet black hair done in a tight bun, a few
loose curls framing her round face, and dark eyes. She wore a white
blouse with a black cameo at the throat, a knee-length black skirt with
matching hose and shoes.
"No," said Chloe. "I think a re-weaving is called for. I'll get
started on him Sunday night. I have something special in mind."
"I think I know what you're planning," said Leslie. It's a bit of a
drastic change in the pattern, but I think it's only fair."
"Are we agreed then," asked Chloe.
"It should be more interesting than just a simple cut," said Andrea.
"Cut 'it' off, rather than cut him off." She snipped the scissors
dramatically, a strange smile on her face. Laughing, the three women
disappeared from the Lounge.
****
Late Sunday afternoon, Russ, Max, and Billy were tossing a frisbee in
Highmore Park. It was a warm day for late Fall, and the three boys were
dressed in nothing warmer than sweat shirts and jeans.
"So what are you doing now, Russ?" Billy asked.
"About what?"
"About that bitch, Jenny. She could've cost you that scholarship to
State, if anybody'd believed her story."
"Hell, man," Max said, "Who's gonna believe the word of that little
mouse against the great Russ Miller, boy hero and football star?" All
three laughed.
"Well, my lawyer said not to go anywhere near her. I figure to wait a
little while -- you know -- keep mum. Then I'll make like I'm sorry she
felt so desperate to be popular that she tried to trap me into dating
her. Maybe one of you can say something nasty about her, and I'll
defend her. Nobody's gonna want to have anything to do with her. She be
alone and confused. I'll bide my time. Cozy up to her. Take her out
again and -- finish what I started." He made a fist and thrust it
forward in a short jab to illustrate his point.
"Russ Miller," somebody -- a woman -- called. "May I see you for a
moment? The three boys looked around. Chloe Weaver was standing near
them under an oak tree, though they hadn't seen her approach through the
mostly opened space of the park. The three boys stared at her
appreciatively. She wore a brown blouse and slacks outfit that, while
not overly tight, did nothing to hide her attractive figure and long
shapely legs. With her tight mass of blonde curls, she looked like a
slightly older Meg Ryan.
Russ strutted over, a big dopey grin on his face. He'd heard stories
about older women being sexually interested in high school jocks. He'd
also seen Ms. Weaver around town. For an old broad, she looked pretty
hot. Even if she wanted him for some other, simple errand, he'd do his
best to try and wind up in bed with her. And if he didn't, well, he
could always claim that he had.
"You wanted me for something, Ms. Weaver?"
"Yes, Russ. I wanted to give you one last chance to admit what you did
to Jenny. "
"How did -- what do you mean, what I did? I didn't do anything to her.
The jury said so."
"We both know that the jury was wrong. You raped her, then you and your
friends lied about it. Admit it now, and I'll see that your punishment
is minor. Deny it again and --- "
"Admit it! Admit what? Lady, if you had any real proof, you'd have
shown up in court with it." Russ was mad now and didn't care that he was
admitting the truth to this meddlesome bitch. "I thought you might be
interested in a little fun, but I don't think you even know how."
"'A little fun!' Why you impudent child. You've been strutting around
thinking with your prick for years. Well, threads can be rewound with a
different warp, my lad. You just threw away your last chance, and now
you won't have your little 'Johnson' to think with for much longer." She
made a sudden gesture with her arms and grabbed him suddenly at the
shoulders. He felt what seemed like a mild electric shock go through
his body, and he grimaced, closing his eyes. When he opened them, Chloe
had disappeared.
Russ shook his head trying to figure out what had happened. Then he
walked back to his two friends.
"What you go over to the tree for, man," Max asked.
"What you mean? 'Old lady Weaver' called me over for something."
"Old lady -- oh, one of those Weaver broads. They're no older than my
Mom," Billy said. "They're a hellava lot better looking, though."
"That's for sure," Max said, "but I haven't seen any of them since we
got here. You sure you're okay."
"Yeah," Russ said, running his fingers through his hair. His skin still
tingled from whatever that Weaver woman had done to him, but the
sensation was fading. "I guess I'm still a little stressed out from the
trial."
"Hey, man," Billy laughed. "What stress? You won, didn't you? Now,
think fast." He tossed the frisbee towards Russ, and the game began
again.
****
That night, Russ had a strange dream. He was standing in a room that
looked like a temple from HERCULES or XENA. The Weaver sisters were up
on some kind of platform wearing flowing white robes. He tried to move
or to say something, but he was unable to do either. It wasn't that he
was paralyzed, he just didn't seem to want to badly enough.
Chloe Weaver stepped down from the platform and walked over to him. She
was carrying some sort of a top hanging down from a mass of loose wool,
spinning slowly and twisting it into a thread. She stopped the top and
set it spinning in the opposite direction.
"Behold your life, Russ Walsh. The thread unwinds to take a new shape.
Poor Jenny's trial lasted five days, so your life will take that long to
find its new way. You will know what you were, what you might have
been. But no one else will."
Now Leslie Weaver came down from the platform to stand beside her
sister. "And as the thread of your life takes its new shape, the
pattern of your life will itself reshape to match that new form. The
changes will happen as you sleep. You will know that it has happened,
but, to your friends and your family, everything will have always been
as you find them anew each morning."
Russ's body began to tingle again as it had that afternoon. He felt
himself changing beneath his clothes, but he couldn't tell into what.
Then he saw his pajama top moving as something grew on his chest. He
pulled open the top to see two shapely breasts, areolas big as half
dollars, growing larger even as he watched. He heard the Weavers
laughing as he changed. He screamed and woke up.
It was almost 7:30 by his bedside clock, and the room was half lit by
the rising sun. It looked different somehow. It took Russ a few
moments to realize that his framed sports trophies from a childhood of
Little League and Pee-Wee Football championships were missing from the
walls, replaced by posters of a couple of rock stars he'd never much
cared for.
"What the hell," he said jumping out of bed. Then came the second
surprise, the room was bigger. No, he was smaller. A good three or
four inches shorter than his former six-two. And when he looked in the
mirror over his dresser, he realized that he was no longer the muscular
"hunk" of the day before. He was still in fairly good shape, but there
was no real evidence of the years of daily work-outs that he'd used to
get and keep his body in shape.
His chestnut hair was a bit longer, hanging down over his ears a little.
Even his face looked a little different. The bump on his nose, the
result of a bad play in a school yard football game when he was twelve,
was gone.
The really strange part was that his pajamas fit him as if he'd always
been this size. Opening a dresser drawer, he had the feeling that the
rest of his clothes would be the same.
Russ got another shock when he stripped off his pajamas. His body was
not only as slender as he had thought, but it was also almost completely
hairless. All that was left of a mass of body hair that got him the
nickname "Kong" was a thin patch on his chest and a few sparse hairs on
his arms.
He dropped his pants to check out his legs, but never looked down that
far. His penis looked smaller. He'd never actually measured it, but it
did seem to have shrunken some. Maybe -- he grabbed a Penthouse from
where it was hidden in the middle of a pile of sports magazines and
opened it to the centerfold. As he stared at the picture and -- to
quote the old joke -- "took things well in hand", he could feel himself
getting stiff. He continued stroking, bringing himself near to climax.
Then he looked down again. He was definitely smaller, even when fully
erect.
Especially when fully erect. What had happened to him? He vaguely
remembered some sort of dream; him and the Weaver sisters. People
always said that they were some kind of witches. They must of done it.
He'd been in some crazy room. One of them -- no, a couple of them had
said or done something, but he couldn't really remember what. And the
more he tried, the vaguer the memory got. Finally, all he could remember
was that there had been a dream, and that the Weaver sisters were in it.
His mother knocked at the door. "Russ, you had better hurry. The bus
comes in thirty minutes.
The bus? Russ usually rode to school with Billy and Max. Then a new
memory popped into his head. No, he didn't. Billy and Max were jocks,
the stars of the football team, and he was just a third rate scrub.
Wasn't he? He remembered being the quarterback, winning the
championship. But he also remembered having to work hard just to get on
the team and barely hanging on as third string lineman.
Russ resolved to figure things out later and dressed for school.
Breakfast was waiting downstairs, cereal, milk, and juice instead of the
protein drink he normally had drunk. "Mom, where's my proto-mash?"
"His mother looked up from her coffee. "Did you want to try one of
those weird supplements, dear? I don't think I know it."
"It's a training table drink," he said in surprise. He'd been using it
for two years instead of eating a regular breakfast, and now his mother
had never heard of it.
"Are you thinking about going out for the basketball team again this
year?" His father asked. "I think I've read about that stuff, but I'm
not sure how much good it'll do."
"Try out?" He made it sound like that would be a problem. He was a
three letter man, football, basketball, and track. "No," said a new
memory that suddenly popped into his mind. He had played JV basketball
his freshman year, but hadn't really been good enough for the varsity
squad. After half a season on the bench, he'd been dropped. He had been
on that year's football team, but now he was third stringer who had only
played in four games. And without him -- or who he used to be -- the
team hadn't gotten past the district play-offs.
Things were getting really strange. He still had all his old memories,
but they were beginning to feel like they were about somebody else.
Whenever something came up, a new one popped into his head, and they
seemed as real -- no, more real -- than the old ones.
He was still trying to resolve the two sets of memories, when his mother
looked at the clock near the stove. "7:45, dear, The bus will be
coming by in five minutes. You'd best get ready." Russ took one last
drink of milk and stood up to get his books. He was waiting at the curb
when the bus came.
The bus was about two-thirds full when Russ climbed on board, and he was
walking back slowly, looking for an empty seat. Suddenly he froze.
Jenny Benton was sitting two rows down from where he stood, calmly
chatting with Irene Roth. He'd expected her to skip a few days after
the trial, but she was just sitting there talking as if she didn't seem
to have a care in the world.
There was a seat in the row behind them on the opposite side, and he
went to it. Jenny and Irene hardly noticed him. as he walked by. Once
he sat down, he caught himself staring at them. Irene noticed.
Embarrassed, he turned away and watched the houses roll by,
"I think Russ Walsh has a crush on you," Irene said. She was trying to
keep her voice low, but Russ heard. He continued to look out the window
but listened closely.
"He's a nice enough boy, but I'm more interested in jocks. I've known
him since we were little, so I guess I might go out with him."
"Might," Irene said. "Jenny, you're so shy; you hardly ever date. It
took me a week to talk you into going double with me and Tom to the
dance." The two girls giggled, and the conversation turned to a
discussion of the upcoming school dance that Friday night.
Russ was astounded. "Nice boy?" "Might go out with him?" She damned
well _had_ gone out with him. Then she wouldn't cooperate, and things
had gotten way out of hand. Didn't she remember?
No, he suddenly realized. She didn't. There was nothing even close to
what he knew had happened among his new memories. In this crazy world
he'd woken up in, Jenny had never been raped.
That, at least, was the first good thing to come out of this weirdness.
If it had never happened, then she wasn't a threat to him any more. And,
if she "might go out with him", then there was a chance of nailing her
again. Maybe even getting her to cooperate this time. Russ decided
that maybe he'd just play along with whatever was happening.
He was smiling one of "old Russ's" smile when he got off the bus. The
smile disappeared when he noticed that there was no "1998 State Football
Champions" banner over the entrance door. No trophy in the case near his
locker, either. Russ' confidence was shaken, but he decided to ride
things out. He didn't have much of a choice anyway, but he was still
cocky enough to think that he could get his own life back.
There weren't many surprises the rest of the day. Fortunately, he was
taking the same classes as before. Doing better in history and English,
too, it seemed. And his new memories included that extra knowledge, so
he could keep up in those classes. He still had the same friends, too,
though the relationships had changed.
Max and Billy, for instance, had gone from being his best friends to
more casual acquaintances. They'd still all grown up together, but they
were still successful athletes and hung out with the other jocks in the
school. Since, in his new history, he had just managed to make the team
he was tolerated by them, but hardly a part of their clique.
On the other hand, he had been accepted by what the jocks had called
"the straights", the regular kids who made up the majority of the
students at Ellwood City High. He'd grown up with most of them, too,
but he'd always preferred to hang out with the other jocks.
At Lunch Period, a group of "straights" had called him over to join
them. Again, a new memory popped into his mind. These were the friends
he normally ate with: Al Sachs, Steve Porter, Rick Klein, and Ted
Grossman.
Russ slid into the booth, unloading his tray and putting down it in with
the others in a stack at the far end of the table. In a few minutes, he
was joining in the conversation, joking about the upcoming dance.
"You taking anybody?" Steve asked.
In his old life, Russ had pretty much had his choice of any girl at the
school. He'd even suggested picking one and asking her to be his
"steady" to help his case at the trial. His lawyer had said no, that it
was too obvious a move. For the same reason, he hadn't asked anyone to
go to the dance. He'd planned to ask someone by today. He just hadn't
gotten around to asking, when this -- whatever it was -- happened.
He wasn't "King Jock" any more, but he was still Russ Walsh. He must
have asked somebody. He waited for a new memory of who the lucky girl
was in _this_ version of his life. None came. "I don't think so," he
said, shrugging his shoulders. He decided to change the subject, more
unsure now of what he had become. "How about you guys?"
Ted was going with Ellen Weiss, and Steve had asked Becky Landers. The
others were going stag, and Rick suggested that they meet at Al's and
ride over together.
"Gee, I don't know," Al said. "If I get lucky, I don't want to have to
get a ride home with you losers."
"As if," Rick said. They all laughed, and the three boys agreed to the
idea. That settled, they started arguing over who would be the wild
card teams in the upcoming NFL play-offs. When the bell ending the
period rang, they went to their separate classes, promising to meet
later.
Nothing too much out of the ordinary happened to Russ the rest of the
day. He spent an hour or so after school looking for the Weaver
sisters. He still remembered a little about the dream, and he was sure
that they were responsible for whatever had happened to him. He was
equally sure that he could get them to give him his old life back. But,
no matter how hard he looked, there was no sign of them. Still,
somehow, he had a felling that they were nearby. They were hiding from
him somehow, watching him. And laughing.
Still, he went to bed that night thinking that the surprises were pretty
much over.
**** ~ He was wrong.
An alarm clock woke him the next morning at 6:45. An alarm clock? He
hadn't used one in years, relying on his natural body clock most
mornings. The surprise came when he reached out to shut the damned
thing off.
His arm looked thinner than he ever remembered it. Now he was wide
awake. He jumped out of bed and stared at his reflection in his dresser
mirror. He was another three inches shorter and skinny as a rail with
straight lusterless brown hair now hanging down past his shoulders.. He
pulled off his pajama top and stared at his new body. It was bad enough
being skinny -- and hairless, he noticed -- but there wasn't any muscle
tone either. Just a mass of pale, pink flab. Oh, Lord! He was a geek!
He looked around the room. It was pretty much the same as yesterday,
just a couple more rock posters on the wall. He must have been a real
fan. There were three or four t-shirts for the same groups in his
drawer. He put one on, plus a pair of black jeans. He still looked
pretty much like a "straight", no earrings or tattoos, hair long rather
than razor cut into strange designs. But now he was definitely leaning
towards "rocker", rather than jock.
He closed his eyes and tried to search through his new memories. He had
a feeling that they had changed the same time that his body had, and he
wanted to see if he could catch any more revisions. But he still
remembered agreeing to go to the dance stag with Al and Rick. He felt a
little more in control, knowing somehow that, if his memories hadn't
changed, then what he remembered was still true.
He decided to try and make the best of it and went down to breakfast.
Things went pretty much the same as the day before. He was still in the
same set of classes, still had lunch with the same bunch of friends.
Then came seventh period. Gym.
The old Russ loved gym. He was the star athlete, the coach's pet, and
it gave him a chance to show off in front of the rest of the class.
But that was his old life. The new Russ Walsh was a short, out of
condition geek. He could barely keep up, when they went through the
warm up drills. He panted and puffed like a train and had to stop a
couple of times. It got worse when they counted off sides for a game of
volleyball. He still remembered all his old moves, but his new body
just wouldn't do what he told it to.
The score was tied, 20-20, no thanks to him. Max Snyder was on the
other team. He hit the ball towards Russ, a high arching shot that
seemed to take forever to get to him. Russ tried to return it low,. He
did hit it, but the ball headed right for the net. At the last instant,
Billy Jackson jumped in front of it. Billy hit it straight up, then
spiked it over the net for the winning point.
As most of the team gathered around Billy to congratulate him, he looked
at Russ and mouthed the word, "Asshole!" Russ felt like one, too, and
he turned away unwilling to meet Billy's glare.
He was still thinking about the shot as the boys dressed for their next
class. Damn it, this wasn't fair. He should have been the hero, not
the goat. And why did it have to have been Billy who'd saved his ass
and won the game.
He heard his name and suddenly realized that he'd been staring at Billy
who was getting dressed about four lockers away. Billy had caught him
at it. "What're you looking at, faggot? You want to start something?"
Billy made a fist and waved it in his direction. "Or maybe you just
want to come over and blow me?"
The old Russ knew he could take Billy in a fight. He'd proved that last
summer, when the two had fought over a girl both wanted. It took some
effort, but Russ had won. And he'd celebrated his victory with the girl
that night in an old cabin near the lake.
But now a new memory came into Russ' mind. There had been a fight last
summer, but it was when Russ' bike had fallen over and scratched Billy's
car. Billy had won easily, leaving Russ with a black eye and a number
of bruises.
Russ actually found himself shaking. "Um, no, Billy. I -- I was
feeling pretty stupid for messing up that shot and wishing that I was
half as good an athlete as you are."
Russ still knew how to get to one of Billy's weak spots, his ego.
"That's all?" he asked Russ.
"Yeah. Just -- just wanting to be like you, man."
"Well, I don't see any chance of that happening, but even a geek like
you has a right to dream." A few of the other boys had heard the
exchange and were waiting for the excitement of a fight. Most laughed
with Billy -- and at Russ -- and went back to getting dressed.
Russ took a few seconds to calm himself and did the same. The rest of
the school day was petty much the same as always. After school, Russ
went looking for one of the Weaver sisters, but he was as unsuccessful
as the day before. And just as sure that they were around and watching
him.
*****
He felt different somehow when he woke up the next morning. He took a
quick look around the room. It was pretty much the same as the day
before. The main difference seemed to be that, for some reason, his
pajamas had changed from dark brown to a pale yellow. But the feeling
persisted, so he got out of bed to look at himself in the mirror.
He was still a skinny runt, about 5 foot 6, now, with hair down to --
no, this morning it was past his shoulders. And it looked thicker, too,
and chestnut again, rather than a dull brown. Or maybe it was his face.
His face was thinner, with higher cheek bones. His eyebrows looked
thinner, too, almost as if he plucked them.
His arms seemed smoother, less bony, as if there was some more fat under
the skin. His hands were smaller, but his fingers seemed longer
although more slender.
Russ began to wonder just how far the changes went. He had trouble
unbuttoning his pajama top. He was so nervous that he didn't realize
that the buttons were now on the other side.
He slid off the shirt and stared at his chest. His nipples, they were
bigger now and on dark brown aureoles that were as big as half dollars!
And those were centered on -- no, it couldn't be. It just couldn't be.
He had tits! Little ones, barely A-cup, but tits! And his waist was
narrower. It was as if --
Frantically, Russ reached down into his pants. _It_ had to be there! He
felt around for his penis, his testicles, but they were nowhere to be
found. His fingers moved slowly through his pubic hairs, stopping at a
pair of lips on either side of a narrow opening. He gently pushed in a
single finger. He knew only too well, from the experiences of his old
life, what he was feeling: labia, a vagina, a clitoris. No, _his_
clitoris. He was a girl.
Wide awake now, Russ looked around the room. There was a full length
mirror on the bathroom door that hadn't been there the day before. He
-- no, she -- ran over to it and dropped her pants. The girl staring
back at her from the mirror was slender, almost too slender, with small
tits, narrow waist and hips. Her legs were pretty good, though, and the
face was kind of cute. If she'd seen her in the right outfit and with a
little make-up, the old Russ would definitely have given her a second
look. Maybe even try to get her into bed. But the new Russ -- hell,
this girl _was_ the new Russ.
Now she looked around the room, knowing that there had to be other
changes. There was a white quilt embroidered with red roses on her
bed, and she noticed that her dresser and end table, which were too low
to have seen while she was lying in bed, were painted white as well.
There was a knock on the door, and her mother called, "Rose, honey, are
you up?"
"Yes, Mom," she said, startled at her new alto voice. "'Rose'? well,"
she thought, "it was close enough to her real name that she'd be able to
answer to it." Then she looked down and realized that she was going to
have to get dressed. As a girl.
She walked over to the dresser. There was some make-up on a small tray
on top. The underwear drawer was half full of panties, mostly plain
cotton or trimmed with just a little lace. There were only a couple of
bras. She didn't really need one with her small breasts. Instead there
were some girl's undershirts with narrow lacy straps.
Russ pulled out a pale blue undershirt and slid it down onto her body.
She could feel the cotton brush against her nipples and tried to ignore
how pleasant it was. She stepped into a pair of matching panties and
pulled them up to her waist. The material was cool against her skin.
The sensation of the cloth flat against her groin reminding her again of
the loss of her manhood. She pulled a pair of socks from another drawer
and sat down on the bed to put them on. There was no way she was going
to try to put on the panty hose or, worse, stockings.
There were no other clothes in sight. Whatever else she was in this new
life, Russ decided that, at least, she was neater than she had been. She
pulled a "rocker" t-shirt from the dresser and walked over and opened
the closet door. She wasn't ready to wear any of the dresses or skirts
that she found there. She knew that she would have to eventually, if
she couldn't get her old life back, but she was willing to wait.
Instead, she chose a pair of jeans, and she grabbed two light blue
sneakers from a shoe rack on the door. She was ready in a moment.
Just as she was about to go down for breakfast, a new memory rushed into
her head. Make-up. She'd forgotten to put any on. She didn't want to,
but she didn't want to answer a lot of questions about why she hadn't.
Fortunately, the memory included the knowledge of how to use the stuff
and of what was the minimum she could get by with.
He pursed her lips and applied the gloss, as if she'd been doing it for
years. A little blusher on each check, and she was ready. No, her hair
needed a quick comb. That done, she inspected her work. She had been
right. She did look cute. She shook her head in disbelief and went to
breakfast.
Twenty minutes later, Russ was waiting outside when the bus came. As
she climbed on, she heard her new name. "Rose," Becky Landers called.
"Over here." Russ had known Becky since second grade, even dated her
for a while when they were both freshman. But it turned out that she
didn't really like jocks. "Her loss," he'd figured at the time. Now,
it seemed, they were best friends. Russ said "Hi" and sat down besides
her.
"Are you going to the dance," Becky asked.
"The dance," Russ thought and shuddered. Earlier in the week, she
hadn't had a date. Did she have one now, or, worse, did she have a
steady? she waited for a name to come into her head, but all that came
was the memory of not dating much. "Thank heavens," she thought. Aloud
she said, "nobody's asked me."
"I'm going with Steve, of course," Becky said, "but I know that a lot of
girls are going without dates. Why don't you?"
"I don't know."
"C'mon, it'll be fun. Besides, if the boys see you there, especially if
you put a little work into how you look, they'll start asking you out.
You really are too cute to not date, you know."
"I'm -- I'm just not interested in boys," Russ said truthfully.
"Oooh, maybe I should be nervous sitting here next to a butch girl like
you," Becky said. Then she giggled. "I'm sorry, Rose. I shouldn't be
teasing. I know you're not gay. Just shy."
Russ was beginning to feel really embarrassed. "Can we drop the whole
subject, if I promise to think about going to the dance?"
"Okay -- did you see those dresses on the MTV fashion show the other
night?" Russ spent the rest of the ride dodging questions about the
show. Once in a while, the answer to something Becky said came into her
mind, but she was seriously handicapped by the fact that most of what
she knew about female clothing was ways to coax the female out of them.
As before, Russ discovered that she was still taking much the same set
of classes. The exception was fourth period, just before lunch. Without
thinking she walked into her Auto Shop class. Mr. Slavin looked up from
his desk. "May I help you, young lady."
"Young lady." The thought suddenly came into Russ's mind that she had
Home Ec this hour. She stood for a moment, trying to figure a way out.
"Look, young lady, whatever you might want to say to your boyfriend --
whoever he is -- will have to wait. You have to get to your class, and
I'm about to start teaching mine."
"I -- I'm sorry," Russ said, feeling her face flush with embarrassment.
She turned and ran from the class. Home Ec was about half way down the
corridor, and Russ entered the room just as the bell rang.
Ms. DeWitt had already begun. "So nice of you to join us, Ms. Walsh.
Please take your seat." There was a single empty seat in the room,
thankfully not very far from where Russ was standing. She took it
quickly, as Ms. DeWitt handed out papers. "Today, I want to review the
results of Monday's pop quiz. Most of you did well, I'm happy to say,
but there's always room for improvement."
She went on for most of the hour, going through the quiz question by
question, pointing out problem areas, making suggestions, even telling
an occasional joke to make a point. She was so good that Russ paid
attention and actually found herself learning something.
Becky was in the class with her. She came over after the bell had rung
to end the period. "So, how did you do?"
Russ realized that she hadn't noticed. She looked quickly at the paper.
"Eighty seven," she said. "I missed a couple of those questions in part
2."
"They were tough. Hey, c'mon, we only have twenty-five minutes for
lunch." Becky grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the cafeteria.
Irene Roth was saving a table for them with, of all people, Jenny
Benton. Russ wasn't sure how to react. Jenny just smiled at what, in
this new reality, were two of her oldest female friends. "Go with the
flow," Russ thought and sat down.
Lunch was general girl talk, a lot of it about the dance. Who was going
with whom, and what everybody was wearing. Becky tried to draw Russ
(Rose) into the conversation but wasn't very successful. "That girl is
just too damn shy for her own good," she thought to herself. Russ had
kept still more because she hadn't known what to say than because she
was too shy to say it.
To Russ's amazement, Chloe Weaver was waiting for her after school. She
wore a knee length knit beige dress with dark brown open-toed shoes with
a two inch heel. A gold pin in the shape of a spindle with small
matching earrings were her only jewelry. "I understand that you've been
looking for me, dear," she said with a smile. "I thought you might want
to discuss some of the things that have been happening in your life
lately."
"You're damned right I do," Russ all but shouted.
"Please, not here." Russ tried to argue, but she found herself unable
to speak. Chloe lead her over to a bench near the side entrance to the
school. she wanted to stay where she was standing, but found herself
compelled to obey. Chloe looked her up and down, then sat on the bench
motioning for her to join her. "The thread is rewinding nicely, you're
becoming quite a pretty young lady."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because you deserve it for what you did."
"I never did anything to you."
"Not directly, but I do resent you."
"What?"
"First of all, Jenny is my friend, and I resent what you did to her.
More to the point, I resent that you used your good looks and your
status as a football hero to escape from what would have been a just
punishment. Most of all, I resent that you were totally unrepentant
about it."
"So you changed me into this." Russ's hands gestured at her slender
female body.
"Oh, you haven't finished changing yet. You don't remember your dream
from Sunday night, do you?"
"Dream?" Suddenly the memory of the dream flooded back into her mind.
She remembered the room, the Weaver sisters being there and looking so
strange, and, worst of all, she remembered what Chloe had said. "Five
days. You mean it's going to get worse. I'm -- I'm only half done?"
Chloe smiled. "I waited until today to talk to you. Waited until the
rewinding had truly started. You are a female now, but barely so. By
Friday, you will have become as female, in mind as well as in body, as
you were a male."
"In mind? You mean that I'll forget who I was?"
"Oh, you'll remember, although no one else will. No one else does now,
as you may have noticed."
"Then what? You don't mean that I'm going to start liking boys?"
"Of course I do, but that's not all that I mean. Think back on how you
acted today. Was the old Russ ever as shy, as easily embarrassed, as
you were today?"
"' Not all you mean'," Russ thought. "It's damn well enough." Then she
thought about how she had acted. She had been shy. In fact, a lot of
her reactions had been decidedly feminine, back to the way she'd so
easily convinced herself to wear make-up.
"I see you begin to realize your fate."
"Please, I'll do anything you want. I'll apologize to Jenny, admit what
I did to her."
"But, Rose, what have _you_ done to Jenny that do you have to apologize
for?" Chloe stressed the name. "No, you'll take your punishment. Just
as your friends will be punished."
"My friends? Who? Why?"
"Max Snyder and Billy Jackson were willing to help ruin Jenny's life out
of friendship to you."
"Are they going to become girls, too?"
"No, as my sister says, lesser crimes weave a lesser pattern. A pattern
you are responsible for. With no Russ Walsh, there was no championship
game. No scouts saw the three of you play, so no scouts offered any of
you college scholarships."
"Then what happens to the guys."
"According to my sister, Max was going to be a fairly successful
business man, and Billy was going to go into semi-pro ball, eventually
becoming a successful college coach, and then a well-known TV sports
commentator. Now, Max will be a salesman at Sears. Billy gets to drive
a delivery truck, though he does also coach Little League."
"They'll hate me."
"They'll never know what happened, what they would have been, if you
hadn't done what you did. And they hadn't helped you get away with it."
"It's horrible. I never meant to ruin their lives." Russ found herself
about to cry.
"But you had no qualms about ruining Jenny's." She noticed the look on
Russ's face. She pulled a small silk handkerchief from her purse and
handed it to her. "Want to cry? Good ahead, dear. It's only natural
for a girl to cry when she's upset."
Russ was stunned at the enormity of what had happened, what was going to
happen. She took the handkerchief from Chloe and sat quietly dabbing at
her eyes. Gradually she gave into emotions that had been bottled up
since the first changes on Monday. Her sobs grew louder. The tears
flowed. In a few moments, she was crying openly on Chloe's shoulder.
She felt the woman's arm wrap around her, patting her on the back.
"There, there, dear," Chloe said rocking her gently like a small child.
It felt good, Russ thought. Too good.
"No," Russ said, squirming free. "I'm not a girl, and you can't make
me act like one!"
Chloe smiled. "Not a girl? Look at yourself, my dear." She gestured
at Russ's body. "And I'm not making you do anything, but look at how
you're acting right now? Your emotions are becoming as female as the
rest of your body. Your reactions a moment ago, indeed, your reactions
right now, are hardly those of a boy."
"Go away. Leave me alone."
"Very well, my dear." Chloe stood up. "You won't be seeing me until
the thread has completely rewound. Enjoy the next two days."
Russ looked up. "What? What's going to happen?" But Chloe was
completely gone. Vanished without a trace, leaving Russ alone on the
bench.
*****
Russ had a hard time getting to sleep that night. She knew that
something would be changed by morning, and she was afraid to guess what
that change would be.
She found out quickly enough the next morning. When she sat up in bed
to look around the room, she felt a weight on her chest. Looking down,
she saw that the yellow pajamas she had put on the night before had
changed into a yellow nightgown. Two breasts, much larger than the day
before, pushed out the front of the gown. Her nails seemed a bit
longer, too, and they were covered with a pink polish.
Curious to get a better look, she got out of bed and walked to the
mirror on her bathroom door. The nightgown hung down almost to the floor
hiding her figure. She pulled it off over her head, noticing as she did
that her chestnut hair seemed even thicker and longer.
Yes, her hair was definitely longer, hanging down almost to her breasts.
She pushed the hair back with an automatic -- and very feminine gesture.
Her breasts were bigger: a B-, maybe even a C-cup. Her waist was higher
and a bit smaller. Her hips were wider, and her butt rounded and firm.
"Pretty cute," she thought to herself, looking back over her shoulder
into the mirror.
She stripped off her panties. They weren't the plain cotton ones of the
day before. They were still pale blue, but now they were a silky nylon,
cut higher and trimmed with white lace.
She stepped into the shower, being careful to tie a long cloth that was
hanging near the tub around her hair to hold it together and help keep
it dry. Picking up a bar of herb scented soap, she began to lather her
new curves. Her body was much softer now, firm but somehow yielding.
The sensations when she began to rub her breasts were amazing. Russ had
to force herself to stop and move on down her body.
She bypassed her crotch for a moment, lifting each leg in turn to the
edge of the tub to apply the soap. Her breasts were still tingling a
little when she finished her legs and finally got to her crotch. When
her fingers, covered with the gentle lather, began to rub against her
vaginal lips, they began to tingle as well.
It felt so good! Russ became curious as to what it would feel like to
really go at it. She rinsed the lather off her hand and slipped a
finger inside. Russ had been fairly experienced. He had known how use
his hands to make a girl feel good, and now the transformed Russ used
that knowledge on her own body. The finger inside her found her
clitoris and began to caress it, while her other hand reached up and
began to play at her breast.
She arched her head back and began rolling her hips in time to the
motion of the finger. Jolts of electric pleasure shot through her body.
She began to moan.
Russ closed her eyes. She tried to pretend that she was still male.
That the female body she was touching belonged to somebody else, a
beautiful girl who was lovingly touching her own, still male body. Russ
imagined that it was Jenny she was feeling up. A picture can into her
mind. But the naked girl was herself as she'd been in the mirror a few
minutes before. And the boy was Billy Jackson, naked as she remembered
seeing him in the boys' gym on Tuesday. They were alone on a bed. He
was doing those wonderful things to her body, and she was reaching down
to fondle Billy's prick. She smiled as it grew firmer and longer in her
hand.
No!
Terrified at the thought, Russ pulled his hands away from his body. He
reached down and shut off the hot water. The shower turned cold,
washing away much of what she had been feeling. Still, as she stepped
from the shower, there was a feeling of incompleteness, almost a hunger,
down in her crotch.
Patting herself dry with a fluffy towel didn't help her with the
feeling. She'd never imagined that taking a shower could be such a
sensual act. She picked up a duster of bath powder from tray that
hadn't been there on the counter by her sink the day before. The powder
was cool on her body with a lovely floral scent. She dusted herself all
over, trying very hard not to notice the jolts of pleasure when she
rubbed it across her nipples or down at her groin.
Finishing in the bathroom, she went back into her bedroom to get
dressed. The room had changed as well. The curtain on the window were
now white with lacy frills. A make-up table was tucked in the corner
next to the dresser, which now had an assortment of small stuffed
animals and dolls on its top.
There were still posters on the walls, but they were of different
groups. Russ caught herself staring at the drummer of one group.
Yesterday, Irene Roth had been talking incessantly about him at lunch.
Now Russ felt her nipples beginning to tingle. "Great," she thought,
"now I'm acting like some lovesick little chick."
Russ opened the dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of silky pink
panties, girl's boxers trimmed with a lacy froth on each leg. She
stepped into them and pulled them up around her hips. The soft cloth
felt incredible against her skin. She found a matching bra -- no
undershirt would be suitable for her new, bigger breasts -- and stared
at it for a moment, uncertain how to put it on. Then another memory
surfaced. She put her arms through the straps and leaned forward,
nesting her breasts in the cups. Her arms reached behind her, and she
fastened the hooks as if she had been doing it for years.
Panty hose or socks? Russ knew that, if she chose hose, the memory of
how to wear them would pop into her head. But she'd also heard girls
describe wearing them as a sensuous experience. And after the assault of
female sensuality that she'd had to suffer through this morning, the
last thing that she wanted was more, especially all day long. She chose
a pair of pale green socks and slipped them on her feet.
As she walked to the closet, another reason for socks occurred to her.
Panty hose meant heels. Even if her trick memory told her how to wear
them, she just wasn't ready for anything that overtly feminine.
But what was she ready for? Yesterday, the closet had held mostly jeans
and girl's slacks. Today, it was crammed full of skirts and dresses.
Russ looked at them, wondering how she'd look in this or that one. In a
few cases, she found herself remembering. how well she looked. That pink
mini, for instance, the boys had really liked -- no!
"None of that," Russ thought, shaking her head to clear her thoughts.
She chose a green blouse and brown plaid slacks. She dressed quickly.
Except for the buttons being on the other side, these weren't much
different from what Russ had always worn. She had to smile when she
looked in the mirror, though. The slacks showed off her narrow waist and
wide hips.
It did need something. No girl ever seemed to come to school without
some jewelry. There was some jewelry in a glass case among the dolls on
the dresser. She put a wide gold bracelet on her left wrist. A gold
chain hung down from her neck and rested between her breasts.
Unfortunately, they always wore make-up, too. Russ sat down at the
make-up table and turned on the lights around the mirror. New memories
told her what each item was and how to use it. She sighed. If she had
to, she had to. A little mascara on her eyes, some blusher for the
cheeks, and a pale pink shade of lipstick, and she was ready.
Like the day before, Becky Landers called Russ over as she boarded the
bus. Becky was excited about the dance Friday night, joking and
giggling about her date with Steve Porter. Her excitement was catching,
and by the time the bus got to the school, Russ was giggling along with
her.
From what Becky said while they rode to school, Russ got the impression
that she had a date for the dance, too. She tried to remember who it
was, but nothing came. That worried Russ. She'd gotten to depend on
those crazy new memories to help her blend in. Then it occurred to her
that the new memories only came when she needed the information for some
reason. "I guess I don't need to know that yet," Russ thought.
She found out why when the bus parked, and kids began to get off to go
in to class. Al Sachs was standing near the parking space. When Russ
climbed off, Al called her over. He took her by the hand and gave her a
little peck on the check. "How are you this morning, babe?"
Russ wasn't sure how to react. "Um, okay, I guess."
"What's the matter? Hey, you're not mad about last night?" Al sensed
that something was wrong, though he could hardly know how wrong Russ
thought things had become.
"What about last night?" Russ waited for a memory to tell him, but
nothing came.
"Look, I'm sorry. I wanted to come over, but my dad needed my help at
the store. It was help him or not get the car tomorrow night." He put
his arm around Russ' waist, pulling her close. "You _do_ want to have
the privacy of a car tomorrow night, don't you?"
Russ felt her nipples tingling. "Oh, shit," he thought. But the
feelings running through his body felt so good. "I guess, so," she said
aloud.
The five minute bell rang. Al gave her another peck on the cheek.
"Gotta go, Babe. See you later." He dropped his arm and ran off.
"You and Russ planning something for the dance," Becky said nudging Russ
with an elbow. "Or maybe for after the dance?"
Russ felt her cheeks flush. Embarrassed, she looked down towards the
ground. "I guess so."
"M.m., he's cute. I won't ask now, but I'll expect a full report on
Saturday."
"We'll see," Russ said, still blushing. Then, desperate to change the
subject, she said, "right now, we'd better get to class." The two girls
ran into the building.
The day went by in a blur. She was still in the same classes, so the
schedule wasn't much of a problem. Even having to take Home Ec instead
of auto shop wasn't so bad. Ms. DeWitt was a pretty good teacher, even
if the class was one she really had no interest in. Then came seventh
period and with it, gym class.
Russ was walking towards the Boys' Gym, when Becky called her. "Aren't
you going in the wrong door, Rose? I know that I've thought about
peeking in from time to time, but I never thought that you'd have the
nerve to try." She giggled. "We'd better hurry. Coach Vorhees hates
it when girls are late."
"Girls," Russ thought. "I'm going to get into girls' gym. Cool, first
good thing since this craziness started."
But it wasn't cool. It was just gym. Russ was surrounded by some of
the prettiest girls in the school. They were taking off their clothes,
baring their lovely bodies to her. And it was no more exciting than
when the old Russ had been in the boys' locker room.
He stared at Kelly Jackson, Billy's cousin, for a couple of minutes.
Kelly had what a lot of boys considered the sexiest body in the school.
Narrow waist, long shapely legs, and a set of tits that a lot of guys
thought had to be half plastic. She'd dated college boys since her
sophomore year, so even the old Russ hadn't had a chance with her.
Now Russ was standing next to her. He watched her free those glorious
breasts from a skimpy black bra that was so sheer it was almost
transparent. They looked real now, but she found that she had no
interest in touching them. Kelly noticed her staring. "What's the
matter, Rose? Never seen what a real girl looks like."
"No. I mean, I was just admiring your bra and panties. They look so
sexy, I was wondering where you got them." Russ blurted out what she
thought was just a line. Then she realized that it was true. She had
wondered where Kelly had gotten the matched set. More scary, she was
wondering how she'd look in something like that, and what -- oh, no --
what Al would think if he saw her in something like that.
"Victoria's Secret, but you've got to have the figure to wear them."
Russ actually felt the sting of the insult. "I think I look pretty
good," she thought."
"If you two have quite finished discussing your lingerie," Becky said.
"Ms. Vorhees is expecting us on court."
Russ already had on her sports bra and gym shorts. She threw on a
t-shirt from her locker and slipped into her sneakers. The old Russ
tied his shoes loosely, so he could slip into them like loafers in a
hurry. Evidently, the new Russ was the same. Russ was on the gym floor
just as Ms. Vorhees blew her whistle to start class. She had the
satisfaction of seeing Kelly come out a couple minutes later. Ms.
Vorhees was as tough as any of the male gym teachers. Standard
punishment was 12 push-ups per minute late. Girl push-ups, maybe, but
Kelly still had to do 24 of them, while the rest of the class watched.
Russ had a feeling that Kelly would be gunning for her, looking to
revenge herself for the embarrassment of the push-up. Nothing happened,
except once, when she glanced over and saw Kelly glare back at her.
Girls' basketball was just starting at Ellwood City High, and Ms.
Vorhees was still recruiting for the team. She split her girls into two
teams, so she could see what talent there might be.
Russ had learned to play the game by age seven, and she'd lettered in it
in her old life. But she discovered that, while her mind still
remembered the moves, her body just didn't want to cooperate. She
managed to get the ball at one point and was moving down court with it.
Kelly ran by, trying to guard her. She made a couple of quick moves and
reached for the ball. Russ moved to keep control, and Kelly's leg shot
out around her own. They both fell to the gym floor, and the ball
rolled towards the bleachers.
Russ was up in a moment. "You tripped me, bitch!" she shouted.
"You fell over your own two left feet, you cow."
Ms. Vorhees blew her whistle. "I don't know what this is about, but I
won't tolerate it. The two of you get dressed now, and we'll talk about
it later." She paused for a beat, then blew the whistle again. "All
right, the rest of you. There's still ten minutes of class left. Let's
see if any of the rest of you are any good."
The two girls went back to the locker room. They stripped and headed
for the showers without saying a word to one another. Russ watched
Kelly soaping her body, rubbing the lather across her breasts, down her
legs, in her groin. This was an image that she'd fantasized about --
hell, that half the boys in the school had probably masturbated to. And
now, nothing. She felt some arousal, but it was triggered by the
feelings she got rubbing the soap across her own female form.
Russ was tempted to do a repeat performance of her morning activities in
the shower, but Kelly was in there with her. The rest of the class
would be coming back into the locker room in a minute. She felt a
shyness welling up in her, killing any thought of self pleasure. She
left Kelly in the shower, dried off, and dressed.
Ms. Vorhees was waiting for her near the door to the gym. "Becky
Landers told me what happened. You shouldn't be arguing about something
as silly which of you has the better body. I'm sure there are enough
boys in this school doing that, anyway. For me, the important thing is
that you stopped and got to class on time. Kelly was late. It was her
own fault, but she seems to have blamed you. You can go to class, now."
"What about Kelly," Russ asked.
"She can consider the error of her ways while she's doing laps this
afternoon."
"Thank you, Ms. Vorhees," Russ said, smiling.
"Wipe that smile off your face, or you'll be out running with her."
Russ nodded in obedience and headed for her next class. She had the
sense to wait until she was around the corner from Ms. Vorhees before
breaking back into a smile
The old Russ had a bunch of chores around the house. Now it seemed that
washing the dinner dishes was added to the list. She was just
finishing, when her mother came into the kitchen. "You have company,
dear."
"Who?" Russ looked up from the plate she was rinsing. Al Sachs walked
into the kitchen.
"I came over to study with you, like we talked about at school" he
said. "I'm sorry if I got here early."
"That's all right, Al -- is it?" Russ's mother said. "I can finish for
her this once. In the future, though, Al, please don't come to see Rose
before, say, 7:15 to give her time to finish." She put on an apron and
moved to Russ' place at the sink.
Russ took off her own apron and dried her hands. "Let's go upstairs,"
she said.
"Let's not," said her mother. There's plenty of room at the dining
room table for the pair of you."
Russ realized what her mother had thought the two teens might do in her
room, especially with the door shut -- or even locked. She blushed at
the notion, even as she felt her nipples tighten and a warmth spread
through her stomach. Her body seemed to have the same idea, and it
liked the idea.
The pair didn't get a chance to go upstairs together, but they were left
alone at the table for the most part. They sat close, hips touching and
holding hands. Once or twice, Al leaned over and kissed her on the
cheek. One time, he even took a chance and kissed her on the lips. It
was a short kiss, but full of feeling. Russ felt her nipples pushing
against the material of her bra. There was a warm moistness in her
crotch and an empty feeling there as well.
Al went home about ten, kissing her again at the door before he left.
Russ went upstairs and changed for bed. The emptiness, the need Al had
aroused in her remained. Lying in bed she remembered how he looked, the
touch of his hand on hers. He had such a wonderful smile. She felt her
hand on her breast and pretended that it was his. The part of her that
was still the old, male Russ was screaming "No!", but she barely heard
it.
Her other hand went down to her crotch, pulling her night gown up around
her hips. She began rubbing her clitoris. The sensations got better
and better. She began to pump her hips to the motion of her finger, as
jolts of pleasure shot between her breasts and her pussy. Then they
radiated out through her entire body like a bolt of lightening. Russ
realized that she had experienced her first female orgasm.
But not her last. She kept caressing her body, lifted higher and higher
by the pleasure. She finally stopped when she heard her parents going
to bed. She lay there quietly, afraid to start again and have them
hear. After a while, she simply drifted off to sleep. Still smiling.
*****
Russ was awakened the next morning by music, one of those easy listening
stations that girls liked. She rolled over to find that her alarm clock
had been replaced by a small clock radio. That couldn't be the only
change. She decided that she might as well get the worse over with and
climbed out of bed to view herself in the mirror on the bathroom door.
As she walked over, yawning and scratching her head, she noticed that
her hair seemed even thicker. Longer, too, she thought, considering the
extra pull she felt on her scalp. She leaned in close to the mirror to
get a look at her face and hair.
She could hardly believe what she saw in the mirror. Her hair was a
mass of chestnut curls that framed her now heart shaped face and hung
down almost to her waist. Her eyebrows were shaped to narrow lines, and
her eyelashes seemed much longer. Her complexion was peaches and cream
perfect. Her lips seemed fuller, and her expression felt into a
natural, but very sexy pout.
She stepped back to get a look at her figure. The pale yellow night
gown of the night before was now a baby doll nightie that barely reached
down to her hips. Her hips seemed wider, too, and her waist narrower.
The nightie was cut low and barely contained her larger breasts. She
posed this way and that in front of the mirror, marveling at her new
figure. She felt feminine and sexy, and a growing part of her loved the
feeling.
"Fun as it might be," Russ thought, "this isn't getting me ready for
school. She walked over to the dresser, shucking off her nightie. The
panty was almost a thong, barely covering her crotch and held on by
narrow strings tied across her hips. She untied the strings and let the
panty fall to the floor.
The underwear in the drawer looked a lot more sexy than the day before.
Russ pulled out a pair of white, French cut panties that were so sheer
as to be almost transparent, except for a narrow, lace trimmed gusset
at the crotch. They looked very much like the sort Kelly Jackson had
worn the day before. She stepped into them and pulled them up to her
waist, feeling their silky coolness against her skin.
She had trouble finding the matching bra. She thought about going
without. "Give the boys a thrill," she thought and giggled. Then she
remembered the sort of jokes that guys made -- that she'd made -- about
girls who went braless, especially girls with a rack as big as hers was
now. She decided that she'd rather keep looking.
She finally found the bra in the back of the drawer. It wasn't quite as
sheer, with a pattern of swirled lace to hide her nipples. The bra was
underwire, lifting and separating her 38 D breasts for even better
effect. (She'd looked at the label before putting it on.) It was cut
low, too, so that her breasts looked ready to spill out.
Russ reached in the drawer again and pulled out a pair of smoky gray
panty hose. She sat back on her bed and slowly, carefully pulled them
up her long curvy legs. It took a little time. Not from inexperience,
but because she wanted to make sure that there were no sags or wrinkles.
That was hard to do with fingernails that were longer and more rounded
than the day before. She still had the same pink polish on her nails,
but now her toes were painted the same color.
She walked towards the closet, watching herself in the door mirror. She
had a nice feminine strut, her hips swaying invitingly as she walked.
Her legs looked good, too, but she knew somehow that they'd look better
in heels.
Russ took a frilly white peasant blouse and a short charcoal skirt from
hangers in the closet. She pulled on the blouse over her head, then
carefully pulled her long hair free and let it hang down behind her. She
stepped into the skirt and pulled it up around her hips, tucking in the
blouse. It was narrow at the waist, then flared out about her hips. It
was tight enough to show them off but not to make her look slutty. Well,
not too slutty. And it ended about half way between her waist and her
knees.
Pulling out a pair of dark gray pumps, she slipped them on her feet.
hey had two inch heels, and Russ wondered for a movement if she'd be
able to walk in them. She sat for a moment, waiting for a memory of how
to do so. None came. "Well, better learn," she said with a sigh and
stood up. She walked towards the make-up table half expecting to fall
and ready to catch herself.
To her delight, she found that she was comfortable in the shoes, walking
with the same feminine gait as she had barefoot. "I guess my body
remembers, even if my mind doesn't," she thought.
She sat at the table and reached for a hairbrush. A gentle combing got
a few of her stray curls into place. Her make-up was more sophisticated
this morning. A smoky eye shadow accented her eyes. The blusher was
joined by some highlighter that made her cheekbones look higher. She
dabbed a little perfume behind each ear.
She found a small jewelry box in a corner of the table and, curious,
opened it. Earrings. Russ touched her earlobe and felt a small hole.
No, her fingers told her, two holes. She brushed her hair back to look.
Yes, pierced ears. Mercifully, the memory that came to her was how to
put the earrings on, not the memory of the piercing. She picked a pair
of pearl earrings from the box and put them in the lower hole on each
ear.
On her way out the door, Russ picked a wide white gold bracelet from the
jewel box on her dresser and put it on her wrist. A matching chain went
around her neck. It was long enough to hang down to the valley between
her breasts, calling attention to them.
"Girl, you look hot," she said, catching a glimpse of herself in the
mirror. The thought scared her. A few days ago, she'd been Russ Walsh,
boy hero, terror of the football field and the date of choice for most
of the girls in the school. Now, here she was in heels and French cut
panties, ready to strut her pretty ass through the halls of Ellwood City
High.
The changes to her mind were as thorough as the changes to her body.
She was comfortable in her new body and her new clothes. She'd put that
body through its paces last night, and she'd enjoyed it. Well,
everybody enjoyed masturbating, didn't they? But she was suddenly
afraid of how much she'd probably enjoy letting somebody else touch her
like that. She had enjoyed kissing Al last night, and the way he
talked, they had plans to do more -- to go further -- that evening. Part
of her was still the old Russ and was repelled at the thought of sex
with a boy. But part of her, a big part, was Rose, and she liked the
idea. Her body seemed to agree with the new Rose. She felt her cheeks
flush and her nipples begin to tingle.
Then even newer memories came to her. Yes, Al had been there last
night, but only to study. He was much better in math than she was, and
she'd asked him to come over to help her prepare for today's quiz. She
was going to the dance with somebody else. But who? That she didn't
remember. "Great," she said in despair. "Now I'm playing mind games
with myself. It just gets better and better." She closed the door
behind her and went down to breakfast.
Al was waiting near the bus stop when Russ' bus got to the school. He
was coming over as she stepped off. "Maybe I am going with him after
all," she thought. Aloud she said, "Hi, Al."
"Oh, um, hi, Rose. You ready for the test?"
"I guess so. Thanks for the help last night." She was waiting for a
kiss, but none came. Al suddenly smiled and stepped around her. He
took Jenny's hand, as she stepped off the bus. The two kissed quickly
and walked towards the school building hand in hand.
"That is so sweet," Russ thought watching the two of them. She hugged
her books and sighed. "If only -- if only _who_?" She knew that she was
dating somebody in this new reality, but her mind stubbornly refused to
tell her who it was.
"Give you any ideas, Babe?"
Russ turned towards the voice. It was Max Snyder, leaning against the
side of the bus and positively leering at her. "What do you want?"
Max actually looked hurt. "Gee, can't a guy say 'hello' to his girl
without her jumping all over him?"
"His girl?" Russ thought. "Shit!" Now the memories came. She and Max
had been dating since the middle of football season. Considering some of
the stories Max had told the old Russ, she was just as glad that she
couldn't remember any details.
But if her mind didn't remember, her body did. She felt it tingle, and
her nipples begin to stiffen. She caught herself smiling and feeling
sorry for the way she'd greeting him. "I'm sorry, Max. I'm just a
little out of sorts today."
He took her hand in a surprisingly gentle way. The tingling sensation
got stronger. "That's okay, Hon," he said. "Gee, it hope it's not your
time of month or anything. I mean, with the dance and all tonight."
"Oh, God, not that," Russ thought. "I am in no way ready to have a
period." But she suspected that her trick memory would have warned her
if she was anywhere near her "time of month".
She shyly shook her head and said, "No, I just really haven't been
myself this week." Boy, was _that_ the truth! "I'll be okay."
The five minute bell rang. "We'd better get going," Max said. "I wish
I could walk you in, but you know how far apart our first period classes
are." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and ran off towards the far
side of the building. Russ walked in the nearby door, heading for her
own class. She felt good. Maybe she was wrong about Max.
The rest of the day went pretty smoothly. Russ was surprised at how
well she did on the quiz. The way she remembered their study session,
she and Al had spent more time cuddling than cramming. But in today's
reality, she also remembered that they'd spent several hours just doing
math. Time after time, the memory of how to answer a problem simply
popped into her head when she needed it. She didn't expect an A, but
even a B was better than what the old Russ had done. Even a C would
have been better, and she was sure that she'd done at least that well.
All any of the girls could talk about at lunch was the dance that night.
Who was going with whom, and what they were going to wear. A few of the
girls had gotten new dresses, even if it was just a Friday "mixer",
rather than a "formal" dance, and were being mysterious. Russ didn't
remember what she was wearing, but she did remember seeing a dress in
her closet wrapped in a plastic bag from Lorraine's, one of the better
dress shops in town. That had to be a new dress, but she wouldn't know
what it looked like until she got home after school, so she just dropped
what she hoped were generic hints.
Russ had been home about fifteen minutes when the phone rang. It was
Max. "Hi, Babe. I wanted to see if you were feeling any better than
this morning." The only class that Max and Russ -- the old Russ -- had
had together was Auto Shop, and now that was gone. They had different
period lunches, too. She hadn't seen him since that morning.
She felt a warm feeling all through her body. He cared! Evidently
there was more to her old friend than the jock that Russ had grown up
with. "I feel fine, Max. Especially now that I'm talking to you."
"Great. What time should I pick you up? The dance starts at 8, you
know."
"Umm, 7:30 sound okay?"
"Sounds fine. Hey, I'd love to talk, but I know you've got a million
things to do to get ready for me -- for the dance, I mean. I'll see you
then." He hung up without another word.
"Well, that was romantic," said Russ, hanging up her phone. She had
been wanting to talk. She'd never liked girls that gushed at a guy over
the phone, but now she had felt the need to do just that, to share her
excitement with the boy she liked. Her new opinion of Max dropped a
notch.
Still, he was right. She did have a lot to do. She went back to her
room and stripped out of her clothes, tossing everything into a wicker
hamper near the closet. Then she sat at the make-up table and used cold
cream to remove every trace of make-up from her face,
Russ ran water in the tub, letting it get comfortably hot before turning
on the shower. Pulling the shower curtain across the tub, she stepped
in. The shower now had one of those pulsing showerheads, and the waves
of water shooting over her body felt absolutely wonderful. She lathered
herself with the same herbal soap as yesterday, taking extra time on her
larger breasts.
Even as one hand moved the soap slowly around her large nipples, the
other moved down to rub against the lips of her vagina. A long finger
reached up to caress her clitoris, while another slipped inside moving
in the same steady rhythm. Jolts of pleasure shot to every part of her
body. Her knees grew weak, so that she had to lean against the wall to
keep standing. Her hips rolled to the motion of her hand, as her vagina
began to pulse.
Her head went back, eyes closed, mouth open. She heard herself moaning
and hoped that the sounds wouldn't carry over the noise of the shower.
Last night, she had thought of Al Sachs while she'd masturbated, but
now the image of Max Snyder came into her mind. He was there with her
in the shower. It was his hands on her breast and in her pussy. He was
bringing her higher...higher...high -- a lightening bolt of pure sexual
energy shot through Russ, setting off every nerve. She stopped the
motions of her hands and sank slowly to the tub floor, lost in the
physical joy of her orgasm.
As the water washed over her, Russ had time to think about what she had
just done. This was the second time she'd had an orgasm as a girl. And
enjoyed it, reveled in it. The first time, she could excuse that as
curiosity, taking her new equipment out for a test run. But this second
time, it was getting to be a habit. She was getting used to her female
sexuality. What was worse, she found herself curious about what it
would be for real. What it would be like to have sex as a girl -- with
a boy.
She shook her head as if to clear it and stood up. Since her hair was
already soaking wet, Russ decided to wash it. There was a bottle of
herbal shampoo in a little basket hanging from the showerhead. She
poured some into her hand and began to work up a lather. As she worked
the lather through her thick curls, it occurred to her that this was the
shampoo/conditioner that advertised itself as "an organic experience"
with those commercials that suggested that you could almost bring
yourself off using it. Well, she'd already done that. Now if it would
just clean her hair.
Russ finished her hair, turned of the shower, and stepped out. There
was a pile of thick towels on the counter. She wrapped one around her
hair, planning to dry it later. She used a second towel to pat herself
dry. Her skin was so much softer now that she couldn't rub it dry the
way she had as a male. She also was careful around her nipples and
vagina which were still sensitive from her activity in the shower.
She finished and tossed the towel in a hamper near the sink. Picking
up the duster of floral scented bath powder, she sprinkled on herself
and carefully rubbed it in. Again, she was careful rubbing her breasts
and by her crotch, not wanting to, well, distract herself again. There
was a short pink bathrobe on a hook on the door, and she slipped it on.
It was fluffy like a towel and reached most of the way down to her
knees.
Then she unwrapped her hair. It hung down straight, heavy with the
weight of water and even darker than its usual chestnut. Russ plugged
in the portable hair dryer, set it to "maximum dry", put in the drying
comb and turned it on. It seemed to take forever, but working from the
top of her head down to the tips that hung almost to her waist, she
eventually got the hair dry. She could smell the gentle scent of
flowers from the shampoo, brought out by the dyer heat.
She decided not to do anything with her hair, which was now a mass of
curls. She liked the way it looked. "The bedroom look," she thought
and giggled. Damn, she was definitely ready to see what sex was like as
a girl. Knowing Max's alleged history, his locker room bragging, there
was a good possibility of that -- as far as Max knew in this new reality
-- it had already happened. She also knew that there was a good chance
of it happening for her this evening. Well, whatever happened happened.
She applied some deodorant and went back to her bedroom.
Russ had left the robe on, expecting the room to feel cooler after the
heat of the shower. It was. She saw goose bumps on her slender bare
arms and felt her nipples grow erect. Though, this time it was from the
cool air.
She reached into her drawer and pulled out a matching panty and bra set,
off-white satin with English lace trim in a white rose design on the
gusset of the panties and the cups of the bra. It was actually a three
piece set. The matching garter belt was in the other drawer with her
stockings and panty hose. She pulled it out along with a pair of sheer
dark gray hose.
Russ fit the garter belt around her, marveling at how narrow her waist
was now, and hooked it into place. The four straps hung down, brushing
against her thighs and over the curve of her lovely rounded butt. She
stepped into the panties and pulled them up, twisting to get them past
her hips, marveling at the cool feel of the satin against her bare skin.
She had to reach inside the panties to straighten a couple of the garter
straps and make certain that all four hung out from beneath the panties.
Then she sat down on the bed and picked up one of the stockings . She
bunched it up and carefully pulled it up her leg. Checking once or
twice for any sags or runs, she stood up and hooked the front of the
stocking to a garter. Then she twisted at the waist and bent her knee
to attach the back to a second garter. She repeated the process a
moment later with her other leg.
She took off the robe and stood still for a moment enjoying the new
experience of wearing stockings. She felt them pulled tightly on her
legs, the garter straps rubbing against her bare thighs, They felt like
fingers caressing her skin, and she felt herself getting turned on
again. Her nipples were growing erect, sticking out "Just like two tiny
little pricks," she thought with a giggle.
The bra was strapless. She rested the cups on her breasts, leaning back
as she expertly reached behind her to fasten it. The bra was cut low,
and she reached in, positioning each breast, so that they were lifted up
and looked even bigger. Her nipples brushed against the lace and satin,
making her tingle delightfully.
There was only a little time now till supper, so Russ used it to do her
nails. Polish remover got rid of the light pink color. She found
press-on nails in a drawer in the make-up table, helped by the new
memory that they were there. Once they were attached, she trimmed and
shaped them to a rounded half inch extension of her own nails. She then
applied a deep red polish, blowing gently on each nail afterwards to
help it dry.
About ten minutes later, when her mother called her for supper, the
nails were dry. Russ put the robe back on, closing it around her and
tying it tightly at the waist. It wouldn't do to flaunt her sexy
undies in front of her parents. There were a pair of fuzzy pink
slippers near the bed. She stepped into them to protect her stockings
and went down to super.
The meal went well enough. Both her parents worked; her mother in the
records office at the hospital; her father at an insurance agency. They
talked about their days, sharing a few jokes about "Life in the Office"
that Russ had heard before and wasn't particularly interested in.
Eventually, her father asked, "So tonight's the big dance that you've
been talking about all week."
"It's just a Friday mixer, dear," her mother said. "Are you going with
Becky and your other friends?"
"If I've been talking about it 'all week'," Russ thought, "I must have
said who I was going with." Her mother's inability to remember almost
anything he said had been a constant complaint of the old Russ. Some
things didn't change. "I have a date," she said aloud. "Max Snyder is
taking me."
Now her father perked up. "Hey, I saw him at that one football game you
dragged me to. He's not bad. If your team had had a good quarterback,
they might have gone a lot further than they did."
Russ sighed. The team did have a good quarterback. Her -- him -- her
when she'd been a him. This change was really getting to her, and being
reminded of what she'd been was killing all the new pleasure of being a
girl. She wanted to change the subject, and she _certainly_ didn't want
it brought up again when Max came for her.
Her mother rescued her. "You and your Sports, Stan, I don't want you to
embarrass poor Rose by gushing over the boy when he comes to pick her
up. Or drag him off to talk football, while she waits to go to the
dance."
"Okay, okay, I promise. Do I get to meet the boy, or are you going to
lock me in my room when he comes?"
Russ wasn't listening any more. What had she just said to herself?
"The new pleasure of being a girl?" Yes, she finally had to admit it.
She was enjoying being a girl, and she wasn't sure that she'd want to
change back, if Chloe Weaver gave her the chance. This was something
that she'd have to give careful thought to.
But not right now.
It was almost 6:40. Max would be there for her in less than an hour,
and here she was sitting in her undies eating supper. She pushed the
plate away and stood up. "I have to get ready for the dance," she said.
"But you're not done eating."
"Mom, I don't have time to finish. Besides, there'll be food at the
dance." Russ turned and ran up to her room. Normally she would have
had to do the dishes, but her mind told her that mother had agreed to
let it go. She would have to set the table the next two nights to make
up for it, though.
She tossed the robe onto the bed and took the clothing bag out of the
closet by the hanger. Carefully, she pulled the bag up and off over the
hanger. The dress came with a short jacket that she took off the hanger
and laid aside. The dress itself was absolutely lovely, a long
strapless white sheath trimmed in swirls of silvered sequins. It hung
beneath the hanger attached by three padded clip hooks.
Russ unhooked it from the hanger, laying it carefully on the bed. She
stepped out of her slippers. Then she unzipped the dress and took it in
her hands. She bent over and stepped into the dress. It moved sensually
up her legs, and she had to squirm and twist to get it past her wide
hips. She pulled it up and over her ample breasts. It reached just
high enough to cover her bra, leaving much of her bosom displayed.
Russ reached behind her and found the zipper. With a surprising
expertise, she pulled it up. The dress was tight. It clung to her
narrow waist, calling attention to her feminine curves. It made her
stand straight and forced her to inhale slightly. Her breasts rose,
looking ready to spill out.
She stood before the mirror and smoothed the dress on her hips. The
white of the dress went with her creamy skin, while the sequin swirls
subtly called attention to her hips and breasts. Russ replaced her tiny
pearl earrings with dangling shapes of silvered metal. She took a small
silver locket on a chain from the top of the dresser and placed it
around her neck, taking her time to keep the chain from tangling in her
hair. The locket hung from her neck resting just above her breasts and
dramatically calling attention to them.
She sat at the make-up table. She applied a bright red lipstick to her
mouth, pursing and pouting her lips to see the effect. Dark violet eye
shadow made her eyes look larger, deeper, and mysterious. Mascara
lengthened her already long lashes. And a final application of blusher
and highlighter made her face appear narrow. She looked into the
mirror. Staring back at her was a mature and sexually desirable young
woman, not the demure and feminine high school senior Russ had become.
There was perfume on the table, as well. She picked a floral scent that
would go with the fragrance left in her hair from the shampoo. She put
a dab behind each ear, then on the side of her neck. She had the
feeling that there was more she wanted to do. She stared at the bottle
for a moment, then took the applicator and made a long stroke in the
cleft between her breasts. "So wicked," she giggled. "Max'll love it."
But her parents wouldn't. A streak of stubbornness that she didn't know
that she still had asserted itself. She picked up the jacket from the
bed and put it on. It concealed her lovely bare shoulders and how low
much of her bosom the dress revealed. It also made it hard to tell just
where she had applied the perfume.
She stood and looked at herself in the door mirror. She looked good,
damned good. The dress hugged her every curve, but wasn't so tight as
to be vulgar. And it was high enough to show plenty of leg. They were
long, slender, and gracefully curved, and Russ knew that they'd look
even better in heels. She turned this way and that looking at herself.
She looked better and better from every angle. She felt a new feminine
delight in how good she looked, and, even though she didn't realize it,
this delight was the reason she was now smiling at herself.
She picked out a pair of white shoes with three inch heels from a shoe
rack on the closet doors. "These puppies are going to be tough," she
thought. She didn't doubt that she would find herself able to walk in
the shoes. It was the thought of standing, walking, even dancing in
them for several hours that bothered her. She decided to give her toes
a break and sat on the bed, the shoes besides her, listening to her
radio.
About fifteen minutes later, she heard the doorbell. She put the shoes
on and waited by the door to be called. Something, a memory that was
more than just a memory, told her that it was better to make an
entrance.
"Rose," her father's voice came from downstairs, "your date is here."
Russ hurried out the door and down the hall, stopping just before she
got to the stairs, never even noticing how easily she was walking in
heels.. Then she slowed to a graceful walk that continued as she came
down the stairs. Max and her father were waiting at the bottom, both
smiling.
"Hi, Ba-, um, Rose," Max said. "You ready to go?"
"Honey, you look beautiful," her father said. "Hold on a minute." He
went into the next room, coming back a moment later with a camera. He
pointed to the wall by the stairs. "You two stand there while I get a
picture."
Russ felt embarrassment well up inside her. "Oh, Daddy, please. We
have to go."
"Daddy"? where had that come from. Russ had never called her father
that, not even earlier in the evening. But now the word came naturally
to her.
"Okay, just one," her father said, pointing to the wall again.
Russ looked at Max. He didn't seem happy about the delay. She walked
over to the wall and motioned for Max to join her. "Please," she
whispered to Max. "He promises -- only one."
Max sighed and came over to stand next to her. "Only one," he said.
Russ's father snapped the picture. He began advancing the film for
another, saying, "How about a 'saver'?"
"Stan," her mother said. "You promised only one." She handed Russ her
outer coat and motioned for them to leave. The pair were out the door
before her father could seriously protest.
"I'm sorry about the camera," Russ said as they walked to Max's car.
"You know how parents get."
"Pain in the ass," Max replied as they reached the car. "He knew we
were in a hurry." Russ walked around to the other side. She stood
there waiting for something. But what? "Get in already," Max said.
Russ realized that he'd been waiting for Max to come around and open the
door for her. It was another reminder of how her behavior was changing
to match her new body. She got in the car, and they drove off.
Max didn't say a word as they drove to the school, except to occasional
curse at another driver. Russ tried to start a conversation, but he cut
her off with a grunt each time. Besides he had a heavy metal tape on,
blaring out over the car's speakers.
He parked near the school building and got out without a word. Russ
watched for him to come around and open her door, to help her out.
Instead she saw him striding towards the school. She jumped out and ran
to him before he even missed her. She took his hand as they walked into
the building. It felt good. Sure he was a little gruff, but she knew,
deep down, that he liked her as much as she liked him.
The school service club had set up a check room near the gym. Russ
handed the girl on duty her jacket as well as her outer coat. She
looked at Max as he took the tags for their coats. He was smiling and
staring at her, or rather at her bare shoulders and the amount of breast
showing above the top of her dress. She felt a mild glow of
satisfaction thinking about how much he liked what he saw -- how much he
liked her.
The gym was full of people and music. There were a few of the jocks
standing near the door, and Max went over to talk to them. She stood
alone for a minute listening to the music. The she saw Becky and Steve,
Jenny and Al sitting at a table nearby. She went over to join them.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi, yourself," Jenny said. "Where's Max?"
"He, um, he's talking to somebody he saw when we came in. I'm sure
he'll be over in a minute." She sat down, positioning herself so she
could watch the group Max was with while she talked to her friends.
But Max didn't come. Russ watched him talking to the other jocks for
about ten minutes. The others at the table were beginning to fidget.
They wanted to dance, but they didn't want to leave her alone.
Finally, Max split off from the others. He looked over to where he'd
left Russ and scowled when he didn't see her. He looked quickly around
the room and saw her sitting there. He came over. The band began a new
song just as he reached the table. "C'mon, let's dance," he said,
ignoring the group at the table.
"I'm talking to my friends," Russ said. She wanted to just go with him,
but a little of the old Russ asserted itself.
"Oh, yeah. Hi." He made no effort to start a conversation or sit.
"Now can we dance?" It was less of a question than an order.
Russ felt her resistance melt away. "Later," she said to those at the
table. She stood and let Max lead her to the floor. She looked back,
feeling a little guilty, but she was relieved to see both couples
following them.
Max and Russ danced together for more than an hour. Every dance. Most
of the music was fast. At best, couples touched hands on occasion.
Mostly they stood facing one another moving almost independently to the
music. But there were enough slow dances to please those who wanted
them.
During those slow dances, Max held her as closely as one could get away
with at a chaperoned high school dance. Russ found that she enjoyed
feeling her strong arm around her waist as he lead her around the floor.
Her breasts were pulled against his chests, flattening slightly from the
pressure. Her whole body was tingling and her nipples were fully erect,
pushing against the satin of her bra. Once or twice, he pulled her
really close, and she could feel the growing erection in his pants
pushing against her groin. She felt a yearning down there, and a
moistness growing from the anticipation.
A slow dance was just ending. Russ had been resting her head on Max's
shoulder, and he'd been breathing softly on her neck. As the music
stopped, he took her by the hand saying, "C'mon, let's go get some air.
It's getting kind of stuffy in here."
Russ smiled and let him lead her from the gym. She suspected that fresh
air was the last thing on his mind, but her body was screaming at her to
do something, to satisfy the hunger that Max's skilled hands has
awakened.
Max turned his head this way and that, making certain that they weren't
being watched. Then he lead Russ down the hallway to the locker rooms.
Russ had no real concerns. The locker room doors were padlocked at
night.
Max stopped at a wooden door next to the locker rooms, the Equipment
Room. "Being offensive team captain has some advantages," Max said,
taking his keys out from his pocket. "I had a spare key made before I
turned in the original at the end of the season." He opened the door
and went in, leading Russ in behind him. Then he shut the door behind
them and locked it.
Russ was surprised. In the old reality, she'd been offensive captain
and had the key, but she'd never thought of using it like this. She
hadn't realized that Max was so smart. She was proud of her friend's --
her boyfriend's -- ingenuity.
The door had a frosted window. No one would see them inside, but there
was enough light for them to see within the room. A narrow window in
one wall must have been near one of the school lights. A second shaft
of light lit up the back of the room.
Max took her by the hand again. He lead her past racks of football
gear; boxes of basketballs, footballs, and soccer balls; and a shelf of
baseball bats. Back to where the wrestling mats were stacked. He
pulled a couple mats off the stack and piled them onto the floor.
He came over to where Russ was standing, took her in his arms and kissed
her. She pressed herself against him and opened her mouth. His tongue
took the invitation and entered, playing with hers. His hands reached
down to massage her firm, rounded bottom. Her arms were around his neck
pulling him down closer to her. She felt an itch growing in her crotch
and rubbed herself against him, trying to fulfill this new hunger.
He suddenly dropped his arms and stepped back. "We can do this better
with a few less clothes," he said smiling at her. He took off his
sports jacket and draped it over the remaining stack to mats. She put
her purse down near it, smiled back, and stepped over to undo his tie.
It felt good to be helping him, somehow, knowing that she was pleasing
him. As she leaned in to unknot his tie, he reached behind her and
pulled the zipper halfway down the back of her dress.
She felt his fingers walk gently up the small of her back. It tickled,
and she giggled softly. Then his fingers found the clasps of her bra.
He unhooked the bra and drew his arm back around, still holding the one
bra strap between his fingers. "Here you are, Babe," he said, handing
it back to her as if it were a trophy.
Russ leaned over and laid it on the top of the stack of mats. As she
did so, the top of the dress slipped forward, and she had to move
quickly to keep it from falling away, from exposing her breasts. The
cool air hit her erect nipples, and she gasped at the sensation.
The feeling made her stop for a second. There could be no doubt as to
what was gong to happen if she let it. Did she want to? Deep within
her, there was still some of the old Russ Walsh shrieking "NO!" and
pounding against the bars of the magical cage that had him imprisoned
inside her mind. She could hear him, but the voice was faint.
Yet, there was another voice, too, the voice of the person that the old
Russ had become, Rose Walsh. "Do it," she was saying. "You want it.
You _need_ it." Her voice was getting louder. "Listen to your body, not
to a past that no longer exists."
"Listen to her body?" Her body was practically screaming at her. Russ
realized that Max was kissing her again. He was using one arm to pull
her in close to him. His other hand was doing "spider fingers," gently
tickling the side of her neck. She moaned and opened her mouth to let
his tongue back in.
The kiss lasted a delightfully long time. Then Max pulled away. She
was about to say something, when he began kissing his way down her
throat. Her hands dropped to her sides, allowing the top of her dress
to slide down on her breasts. Both nipples were now fully exposed.
Max's mouth moved down below her neck. His hands reached up and pulled
the top of the dress away, revealing her full breasts. His mouth moved
to her left breast, sucking and licking at her nipple. His hand went to
the other breast. His fingers massaged the breast while his thumb
gently rubbed the nipple back and forth. Russ' arms went around the
back of his head, pulling his head -- his marvelous mouth --in closer to
her.
Jolts of pleasure shot out from her breasts to every part of her body,
especially to her vagina. She was conscious of how warm and wet it felt
down there. She needed something; needed to fill the growing hunger
that she was feeling down there. She knew what she wanted and she
grabbed for it. Her hand cupped Max's erection through his pants. One
finger slowly ran the length of it. It twitched slightly at her touch.
"He wants me, too" she thought, delighted at the thought.
There was no hesitation in her mind, now. And none of the repulsion of
having sex with a boy that she'd felt in her earlier fantasizing. The
old Russ was still there. Still screaming. But she could barely hear
him.
She stepped back from Max, smiling at the look of confusion on his face.
"This dress is in the way," she said. She zipped it the rest of the way
down and wriggled out of it. When his confusion gave way to a broad
smile, she smiled back and put an extra wiggle into her efforts to get
it past her narrow waist and broad hips. He liked that. She could
tell. She carefully laid the dress on the stack of mats next to her
bra. Then she stepped out of her heels and laid down on the two mats on
the floor.
Russ raised her arms, inviting Max to join her. He frantically pulled
off his shirt, popping one button. Then he simply dropped his pants to
the floor. He stepped out of them, stepping out of his shoes at the
same time. Her eyes tracked down his large, muscular body, lingering
for more than a moment at his massive erection that pushed against the
fabric of his boxers.
Max laid down beside her and resumed sucking at her left breast. He
took the nipple of her other breast and rolled it between his finger and
thumb. His other hand reached down to below her waist. He ran a finger
up and down against her vaginal lips through her panties. Russ's
breathing became shorter and shorter, her whole body was trembling, and
her juices were soaking through the panties.
Russ reached down and pulled his hand away. With her other hand, she
began frantically pulling at Max's shorts. "Please," she panted, "I
need you."
"But I'm right here, Babe." Max was smiling. Teasing the girl, getting
her so hot that she begged for it was almost the best part of sex. You
get her hot enough and she'd be willing to do anything for you -- or to
you. Rose was hot enough. Now he'd just see what he could get her to
do.
"No," she said. "I mean -- oh--"
He had his hand inside her panty now. One finger was moving around her
labia, teasing at the entrance of her vagina, while another reached up
to pluck at her clitoris like a guitar pick.
Her head went back, her mouth open. She could hardly talk now, moaning
more than saying words. Her hips began to pump to match the motions of
his fingers. Her hands reached up to rub at her breasts.
Then he took his hands away.
"No," she said. "Please, why did you stop?"
"Did it feel good? Do you want me to go on?"
"Yes, oh, please, yes!"
"Before I can make you feel good, Babe, you've got to make me feel
good." He pulled down his shorts and held his erect cock. "Suck it,
Babe."
Russ stared at Max. Was he serious? She'd accepted her new, female
self, been ready to have sex with him. But this? It was degrading,
awful. The small voice of the male Russ seemed to become a shout. "No!"
he was saying. "Don't do it."
But there was another scream. It was her female body. Max had aroused
it expertly, and it definitely, urgently, needed to be fucked.
Max sensed her hesitation. He reached down and began to message her
pussy through her panties. Her body arched, rising to meet his hand.
Her hips were moving to match the motion of his hand. "Uh -- uh --
okay," she gasped. "I'll do it." She sat up and leaned forward,
positioning herself for what she was about to do.
"No." His voice was cold. His hand stopped moving.
"What? But I thought you -- "
"Beg me." His hand began to move again, sending bolts of pleasure
through her entire body.
Russ had no choice. She had to do something. "Please -- uh, please,
let me suck your -- cock."
Max smiled. "Say, 'pretty please'. Tell me what you want to do."
This was horrible, but her body's hunger gave her no choice. "Please.
I need to -- uh -- suck your cock; to have it in my mouth; to -- uh
--make you cum in my mouth."
"Okay," Max said. "But you better be good, or that's the end of it."
Russ was desperate. She sat up and leaned over him, taking his cock in
her mouth. Her hair felt down over his crotch. She felt his cock
reaching towards the back of her throat, tasted the salty sweat on it,
and fought down the impulse to choke. She remembered what she'd liked
as a man and tried to copy it. Her mouth moved up and down the length
of it; now taking it deep in her throat, now almost taking it out. As
she moved her tongue swirled along it, tickling the sensitive underside,
licking at his foreskin.
Now it was Max's turn to moan and buck his hips. She felt his cock
begin to twitch. She wasn't ready, no matter how desperate her body
felt, to have him spurt in her mouth. But when she tried to move her
head away, he put his hands on her head, forcing it to stay where it
was. She tried to swallow it all, not to gag, but she wasn't quite fast
enough. She coughed and some of the jism oozed out her mouth. It ran
down onto her hair and dripped down on his crotch.
Finally, he was done. He leaned back, releasing her head. She sat up
and swallowed the last of what was in her mouth.
"That was great, Babe. As a reward, you can come over and lick me
clean."
She stared at him. "You need to get fucked. I need a little
encouragement to get back into the mood." His voice went cold again.
"Do it!"
She had no choice. She leaned forward again and began licking at his
limp cock. "What am I doing," she thought. But her body was still in
need, and this was the only way to get him to satisfy it.
As she licked, she noticed that his cock was getting hard again. That
was good. She wanted -- she needed -- him hard. She ran her tongue the
length of his cock, leaned in close to lick once or twice at his balls.
Yes, yes! He was ready. She stopped, not wanting him to ejaculate
again unless it was inside her.
Russ leaned back on the mats. "There," she said. "Now you do me."
She lifted her butt and slid her panties down her legs. She bent her
knees and leaned over, pulling them off over her feet and putting them
on the floor near the mat. Then she lay back on the mats and waited.
"On your knees, bitch."
"But you promised."
"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you, but we're gonna do it doggy style like the
bitch you are." He glared at her and raised his arm. "Move."
"Oh, God," she thought. "He'll hit me if I don't. And I need it so
bad."
She turned over and got down on her hands and knees. "Is this okay,"
she asked. Then, afraid of what might happen -- or not happen -- if she
didn't cooperate, she sobbed, "Please, Max. Please fuck me like the
bitch I am."
"That's what I like to hear," he said. "A bitch who knows her place."
He moved behind her. His cock slid along her vagina tickling against
her nether lips. She moaned and began to move her hips to match the
motion as he moved it back and forth. "Hold still," he said, stopping
the motion. She bit her lip and forced herself to stop moving.
"Better," he said.
His cock slipped inside her and began moving. It was glorious! Her
whole body was ablaze with sexual energy. "Can I -- uh -- can I please
move," she begged.
"Do it," he said. He was rocking his own hips, and she began moving to
match his rhythm. Her head rocked back and forth. Her eyes closed. She
could hear moanings from far away and only barely realized that she was
the one moaning. She climbed higher and higher, her vagina pulsing as
she discovered the incredible joy of the multiple orgasm. There was no
here, no now. She had no body. She was only a vagina, filled with
Max's magical cock that was shooting jolts of purest pleasure out to
every pore of her body.
Suddenly, she heard Max grunt. She felt him spurting jism, it felt like
buckets of the stuff, into her. He stopped moving, and she felt his
weight on her hips and ass. Then she felt him pull out of her and heard
him fall back onto the mats.
She collapsed down onto the mat, rolling over onto her back. She still
needed him, but he was just laying there smiling. Hell, he was
practically asleep. She sighed and caressed her body. Slowly, she felt
herself cool as the need gradually left her.
Russ looked around. There were some towels on a table nearby. She
managed to reach out and grabbed one. They were clean and folded. She
gently wiped her vagina, trying to lean forward, to let all of the
fluids, hers and his, leak out and onto the towel. When much of it was
out, she tossed the towel away and grabbed two more. She sat up on one,
and wiped at her hair with the other. She'd get to a bathroom as soon
as she could, but she didn't want to have to walk around the rest of the
dance with Max's jism leaking out of her pussy and drying up in her
hair.
By now, Max had revived. He grabbed another towel and wiped himself
down. As he did, he stared at Russ. "Pretty good, Babe," he said.
"We'll have to do this again some time."
They both dressed in silence. Max didn't see the need to say anything.
Russ was too humiliated to speak. And she had to make sure that her
hose weren't torn, or that she had his jism on them. The result was that
he was dressed and tying his tie, while she was still putting on her
bra.
"It'll look better if we don't get seen leaving together," he said,
moving towards the door. "Meet me at the gym in five minutes." He
opened the door quickly and darted out.
Russ was alone. She felt abandoned and not a little scared. Scared to
be caught and scared of what Max might do if she wasn't back at the gym
in time. She was just pulling up the dress past her wide hips when she
heard a voice.
"How does it feel, Russ?"
She looked up. It was Chloe Weaver, standing before her in the flowing
white robe that Russ suddenly recognized from her dream the Sunday
before. "What, what do you mean?"
"I said that you'd be properly punished. The old Russ Walsh was a
domineering little prick who used girls as sex toys."
"You mean like Max just treated me."
"Exactly. And to a certain extent, you enjoyed it."
"Is that what it's going to be like from now on?"
"Only if you choose to let it be. I remade you into this new person,
and my sister reset the pattern so you would see what you had done to
Jenny. The female needs that you experienced will remain, and Max knows
what he got you to do in here tonight."
"And he'll want to do it again."
"Yes, and a part of you will want him to do it. But another part of you
_may_ be strong enough to resist."
"If I do -- if I resist, will you change me back."
"Oh, poor, poor Russ. No, a life thread can only be worked so much.
You'll be Rose Walsh for the rest of your life."
"Yeah, Rose the Bimbo."
"Probably. You can change that if you want, but I'm guessing that you
won't. That's your real punishment. You know why you became what you
are, and you know how to change it, to make something of your new life.
But you just won't be willing to work hard enough to avoid it."
With that Chloe disappeared. Russ finished dressing and snuck unseen
out of the equipment room. But as she walked back to the dance,
hurrying to make Max's deadline, she thought she heard Chloe Weaver
laughing.
The End.
Copyright Ellie Dauber, 1999.
Snapshots
By Ellie Dauber
This is another of my older stories, appearing on Big Closet for the first time. I hope you enjoy it.
* * * * *
Retirement is a time to pull back, to take a much-earned and welcome rest after more than forty years work. But for those people whose work has become their life, it's an early death, the end to any useful purpose, while they still have the minds and the heart to continue.
For Lillian Wagner, it meant the sorrow of watching her newly retired husband, Ed, sink into the despair of imagined uselessness. Things, however, aren't always as bad as they seem. Ed and Lil will find a reprieve in a very common place that just happens to lie at the edge of... the Twilight Zone.
* * * * *
The sky was a deep, almost slate gray.
The Harbor Heights Community Center moved its annual Fall Flea Market into the Center auditorium because of the threat of rain. A chipper young woman in a blue "Volunteer" t-shirt sat behind a table next to the open door. "Hi, and welcome to the flea market," she said, adding, "There's a $2 admission fee."
"I don't see why we have to pay money just to get in." Ed Wagner said, as he reached for his wallet. Ed was a tall, slender man with thinning gray hair cut just a bit on the long side. He wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt
"Oh, shush, Ed," said a short, slightly plump woman standing next to him in a pale yellow housedress. Lil Wagner wore her own gray hair in a ponytail that went halfway down her back. "It's for a good cause, and you know it."
"I suppose. Hell, I don't even know why I let you drag me to this thing." He handed the volunteer a $5. When she gave him the change, he quickly pushed the single into a slotted can marked "Contributions."
Lil smiled at the small charity. "Because you're bored to tears, you old fraud. You've done nothing but sit around the house, since you retired last month. You need to get out and do things. Retirement isn't the end of the world."
"Next thing, you'll be telling me that I've still got my health."
"Well you have." She squeezed his arm. "You're still my big strong 'Mr. Man.'"
Ed took her hand in his. "And you're still my 'Sweet Lilly'... but, if I'm so fit, why did the company force me to leave."
"Because you turned 65, and that was the mandatory retirement age."
"I know. It's just that I... I feel like I wasted my whole life, never accomplished a damned thing at work. I'm like that guy Jack Nicholson played in that SCHMIDT movie."
"Now that is nonsense. Didn't they make you spend your last three months with the company training Andy Becker and Matt O'Hara, the men they picked to take over for you? How can your work have been a waste, if you had to train two men to replace you?"
"I don't know, but don't think that I haven't been tempted to drive over and check out the company's dumpsters."
"At least that would have gotten you out of the house."
"You're one thing that I didn't waste my time on." He paused. "I can't think of a better way to have spent my life than being married to you." He gently squeezed her hand.
"Nor I." She squeezed his back. By now they were inside the auditorium. "Now, let's see what sort of 'treasures' we can find."
"Shall we stay together?" he asked after a moment that they both spent looking at the number of tables. "Ned Royce has some fishing lures for sale over that way." He pointed off to the right.
"I don't think so. I see a table full of cookbooks that I want to look at. You go buy a better way to catch 'em, and I'll see about getting some new ways to cook 'em up.
Before they could separate, she added, "Let's meet at the food booth..." she pointed to an area near the front of the room where volunteers were selling hot dogs, burgers, and soda, "...in an hour."
"Fine. We'll show each other what we found, and I'll treat you to lunch."
She kissed his cheek. "You always did know how to show a girl a good time, you big spender."
"Anything… for the right girl."
* * * * *
Ed took a sip of coke -- diet coke at Lil's insistence. "So what did you find?"
"A cookbook on indoor grilling, and it has a big chapter on fish, so that new lure of yours better work. I got another one on Thai cooking, so brace yourself for something new at mealtime." Cooking was a longtime hobby of Lil's, one that Ed had learned to put up with through the years. Only about one new recipe in four actually tasted good to him, but it made her happy.
Another hobby of hers was collecting salt and pepper sets. She had about sixty, sixty-one, now, and she held the newest one up for him. "See, Mickey Mouse is the salt shaker, and, Donald Duck is the pepper, of course."
"Oh, of course." He tried not to smile at her earnestness. "Anything else?"
"Well..." Her voice trailed off as she reached into the paper shopping bag that held her purchases. "I did get this."
"An instant camera? Now why did you buy this?" He took the pale gray camera case from her hand.
"Because they're fun," Lil said stubbornly. "And we never did replace the one that accidentally fell off the dock at Dingman's Lake last year."
"That was an accident. Besides, I got Harry to take the blame." Harry was their son, a chemical engineer, who lived way out on the West Coast near San Francisco. "By the way, I'm thinking of taking him and Charlotte up on their offer to fly us both out there for Xmas."
"Oh, let's do it. We haven't seen them or the kids in so long."
"I thought you'd say that. How about we call them tonight and say yes?"
"Now I'm really glad I brought that camera. We can use it on the trip. It'd be terrible to get home and then discover that none of the pictures we took there came out."
"Hmmm, I'd better test it first." He looked closely at the camera case. "It's a knock-off. I never even heard of the name, 'Polasruid', probably doesn't even work worth a damn."
"Maybe... but the man I bought it from said that we'd be amazed by the pictures it could take." She shrugged. "And if it doesn't work, I'm only out $1.50."
"That's probably $2 too much, but we'll try it when we get home."
* * * * *
"Okay," Ed said. "You just sit there on the steps and give me a big smile."
Lil walked over and used her handkerchief to dust the three steps up to the back porch. When she was satisfied, she sat on the top step. "How's this?" she asked, looking up at him demurely.
"Perfect." He focused on her through the viewer and pressed the button. As he did, he saw her quickly stick out her tongue at him. "Just lovely," he added.
Lil stood up and took the other packages into the house. Ed counted to thirty, as the directions in the camera case explained. Then he pulled out the film packet and put the developing photo face-up on the step to finish its processing.
At first, there was only a blur. Slowly shapes appeared, and, after a few more seconds, the scene was almost recognizable. He could see Lil sitting on the step, but her image was that half-finished, washed-out metallic image that photographers call "solarized."
At that moment, Lil came back outside. "How did --" She froze in place. In an instant, her body took on the same half-done look as the photo.
"Lil!" Ed dropped the camera and ran to her. She couldn't be moved. It was as if she were a part of the porch. She just stared at him with unseeing eyes. "Oh, Lord, what have I done?" Ed collapsed down onto the step next to the picture.
As he sat, trying to figure out what to do, he glanced down at the picture. It was changing; color was starting to leak back into the silvery areas. He looked quickly at Lil. Yes, he could see traces of color on her, too. "It's... it's still developing," he whispered in amazement. "And when it's done, Lil will be normal again."
He leaned back against the step, waiting for it to be over.
Colors were coming back into Lil, but they weren't the colors that had been there before. Her skirt had changed from yellow to a dark green, and it seemed to be cut tighter against her figure than before. It made her hips look rounder; her legs looked better, too. Lil had always been slender, now, she seemed more... curvy.
She looked taller, too. Ed stood next to her. Yes, she was. Lil had been a head shorted than he was, but now, she seemed to be almost as tall. He looked closely at her face. As the silver faded away, so did her glasses. Her face was a bit rounder, her nose smaller.
And she looked so... so young.
"What?" The silvery effect was gone. Lil, whatever she had become, was moving again. "Da... Ed, what just happened to me? I... I feel so strange."
"I can't even begin to guess, hon. Go in the house and take a look at yourself in a mirror."
"Okay." She gave her hair a flip. It was shorter now, hanging free down around her shoulders, and the gray he was used to had given way to a deep chestnut. Lil had been a blonde when she was young.
Ed's hair had been that very shade of brown. And she hadn't noticed that her hair had changed. If was as if she'd always worn it like that. What was going on? He followed her into the house.
"Dad, I'm young again. I... I can't be much past thirty." She was standing in front of the mirrored wall in the dining room, posing her new body.
Ed was confused. "Lil, why did you call me 'Dad', and when... when did the wall get mirrored?"
"I... I remember that it wasn't mirrored this morning, but... somehow, I remember that we had it done about a year ago. I... Dad... Ed... I remember being your daughter. I'm Lil, but I'm... I'm Leah, too, Leah Wagner, your daughter."
"If you're Leah, then where's Lil?"
Her face went white. "I'm... she's... she's dead, Dad. She had a heart attack and died in her sleep about two years ago."
There was a sudden rush of memories. Ed remembered waking up that morning and... and -- NO! -- and finding Lil dead. He remembered -- oh, Lord, please, no -- he remembered the funeral. He'd taken early retirement, and Leah had moved back in to take care of him.
"The camera!" he yelled. "Thank G-d I bought it. It changed things, changed everything." He ran for the porch. "Maybe... maybe if I take another picture..."
Leah ran after him. She'd... Mom had bought... No, she remembered now that Dad had bought the thing. It was all so confusing, but she wasn't changing back. "Dad, no."
He had the camera in his hand. "No? You... you want to be dead?"
"Dad, I'm not dead. I'm… me." She put her hand on his. "I think the Leah part of me is getting stronger. I still remember everything about... Mom, but those memories are of someone else, someone I loved, but someone else."
"Then I've lost you, lost you all over again." He collapsed down onto the step, his eyes wet with tears.
"No, you haven't, Dad." She sat down next to him and put her arms around him. "I'm young again. I've got a life. I've... I’ve even got a job." She had just realized the fact.
"A job?" His curiosity was getting the better of his grief. Just how far did this magic go? He put down the camera. The bag he had brought it home in was a foot or so away. Impulsively, he put it back in. He could always get it later when Leah -- when Lil, dammit! -- agreed to try and change back.
"Yes, I'm... I'm office manager at the Maplewood branch of the Whitmore Bank. I, hey, I make pretty good money, too."
"I'm happy for you," Ed said wryly.
"Be happy for yourself, Dad. If it can make me young, then it can do the same for you."
"For me... no, that's... that's not possible."
"Oh, sure, and I'm your daughter who used to be your wife."
"This has to be a bad dream," he said, standing up quickly.
"Where are you going?"
"If I'm dreaming -- and I know that I am -- I should be in bed." He turned and walked into the house. Leah grabbed the bag with the camera and followed him in. He headed through the house and up to the second floor.
As she walked through the house, Leah noticed other differences. Her briefcase was sitting on the dining room table, right next to her laptop. Lil had never touched a computer, but Leah suddenly was aware that she knew the entire Microsoft Office Suite. A fashionable camelhair coat – also hers -- hung on the coat track by the front door.
What amazed Leah most was the family portrait hanging on the wall over the fireplace. It had been painted almost twenty years ago, but now a young girl, her younger self, stood next to her brother, Harry.
"Where the hell is everything?" Ed's voice echoed down the stairs.
Leah ran up to her... father's bedroom. He was standing in the middle of the room, just staring at things. "Where are all your clothes, where's your make-up, and jewelry?"
The answer came to her mind. "Dad, I'm not your wife anymore. We don't sleep together. I sleep in... in my old room down the hall." She took his hand and led him down to what had been her sewing room that morning. "See."
Now the room was a woman's bedroom. The bed had a yellow chenille bedspread. A rosewood dresser was against the wall with a dressing table next to it. There was an exercise bike in a corner. Leah remembered that she tried to pedal at least fifteen miles a week. The narrow storage closet of the sewing room was now a double closet with a mirrored door.
"This can't be happening." Ed stared a moment, then sank down on her bed. "It can't. It can't."
"Yes, it can." She pulled out the camera and snapped a picture of him sitting there on the bed.
He looked up when he heard the click. "No!" he yelled. He jumped up and ran from the room.
Leah grabbed the camera and ran after him. He ran into his own bedroom, trying to close the door behind. She dodged and managed to get in. "Now we'll make you young, too." With a smile of anticipation, she pulled the film packet out and put the picture on the bed table. "You'll see, Dad; it'll be great, your being young again, too."
"I don't wa..." He froze. In an instant, his body was covered with the same silvered effect.
Leah waited. After about thirty seconds, some color began to show on Ed. Leah glanced down. The same thing was happening to the figure in the picture. "Soon I'll have a husband again, a young, virile husband." As she said it, she felt a warmth in her groin that she hadn't felt for so very long.
Then something began to go wrong.
Ed was getting thinner, smaller. His slacks were getting tighter on his body, and as they did, they were showing curves that shouldn't be there. The silver was gone from a part of his head. His hair was the same brown she remembered, but it was longer, almost down to his back.
His face was moon-shaped now, with a small nose and much fuller lips. Was that lipstick on them? She shouldn't be... She? Leah realized now what was happening to Ed. "Oh, my Lord in Heaven, he's turning into a girl."
It was almost over, just a bit of silver left on her body, just enough to allow for a pair of breasts to grow on... her chest. Only they weren't growing much. Ed -- no, Edie -- was only fifteen, after all.
The retired man had become a young girl. She was only five foot one, with chestnut hair tied in a ponytail and hanging down almost to her waist. Ed's jeans and sweatshirt had become a pair of pale blue capri pants and a matching camisole top that showed off her blossoming figure.
As Leah watched in amazement, she suddenly realized that the room was changing, too. All of that furniture from her room was replacing her parents' bedroom set. The bed was a queen-sized one, though. She knew that she liked the extra room. She blushed as she also remembered that she occasionally shared it with someone, a Jack McGraw, whom she now remembered much too well.
"Earth to L... to Mom."
The voice shook her back to attention. Mom? She looked at Ed... Edie.
"Are you satisfied now?" The new girl stared at the person she was remembering now as her mother. "I'm my own damned granddaughter."
"Granddaughter?" This was crazy. "Why didn't you become your son -- or, better yet, your son-in-law?"
"Aw, Mom, this is magic. It -- like -- doesn't have to make sense, you know."
"I know." Leah noticed that Edie's language was becoming more like a teen's. Her body language was changing, too. She was slumping. "Maybe we can change you into a boy or something."
"No, I... I kind of like being a girl." She shook her head. It was true. She was starting to feel very comfortable in this body. A part of her didn't like it, though, but that part seemed to be getting weaker. Her memories of Ed Wagner's life were becoming something she knew third hand, not something she had lived. "Well, I guess, maybe, I could try it...for a while, anyway."
"Fine." Leah looked around. "Where... where's the camera?" There was no sign of it. "It was here a minute ago."
Edie's eyes went wide. "So was Grampa Ed. He's the one who bought the camera, but now I... I remember that he died about six months after you... after Grandma did."
"Think, Edie, what did we do this morning?" She remembered, but she wanted to see if her... her daughter had the same new memories.
"You... you did some housework, and I watched TV. You said we might go to that flea market this afternoon, but I wanted to go to the mall with Lainey." Lainey Ross lived two blocks away. An hour ago, neither of them had known of the girl's existence. Now, she was Edie's lifelong friend.
And they had never owned the camera, a polaSRUid camera with “A Picture of My Daughter” printed on the side in a florid pink scrawl.
"We're... we're stuck."
"No!" Edie panicked and instinctively ran back to the other bedroom. It was her room now, painted in wild colors with posters of boy bands up on the walls. She saw clothes, jeans, panties, blouses thrown here and there -- Mom was always on her case about that -- and her book bag on her desk, the desk with the Central Peyton Junior High banner in the wall above it.
She looked at the mirror above her dresser. A cute, young girl stared back at her. Behind the image, she saw the image of Ed Wagner... her late grampa. He just had time to wave and blow her a kiss before he faded away.
As he did, Leah and Edie felt their memories fade -- no, shift. Even the experience of changing seemed more like a dream now. They would remember Ed and Lil Wagner -- even remember being them, but now they accepted their new lives and their new chances.
* * * * *
Ed and Lil Wagner were just planning on buying some odds and ends to occupy a bit of time with their hobbies. Instead, they found the greatest of bargains, new lives at a low price, all at a very special flea market that's open every Saturday... in the Twilight Zone.
The End
South Seas Adventure
By Ellie Dauber © 2000
It took George and Leo three weeks to reach what Captain Jehosephat Sheppard, an 18th Century officer in His Majesty's Navy had called Schooner Island. "Whatever else he'd done or said in his life," Leo thought when the island first came into view in the window of their seaplane, "he's certainly been right about the island. That mountain at the south end still looks an awful lot like an old style sailing ship."
* * * * *
Leo had been the one who found the old captain's logbook - or a part of it at least - in an old bookstore just off campus. He'd picked up the book more out of curiosity than anything else. It had been misfiled with a bunch of textbooks. He took one quick through it, tossed $5 on the counter, and ran back to the graduate dorm.
"I found it, George! I found our thesis."
"What?" George looked up from his PC. "What do you mean, _our_ thesis? Haven't you found a topic yet?"
"Are you on-line?"
"Yeah, why?" George looked up at his roommate as if Leo were crazy.
"Check Ashcrombe's Index. The keywords are 'South Pacific Cultures' and 'Schooner Island'. See if there's anything."
George linked to Ashcrombe's web page, a master index of every anthropology journal for the last sixty years. He typed in Leo's keywords, and they sat watching the "Searching" message blink for a _very_ long five minutes. Leo let out a "Whoop!" when the message "0 Items Found" came on. He gave Leo the map coordinates from the captain's log. (The records in Ashcombe's were also set up for geographic searches; sometimes you didn't have keywords, just a rough location.) It took even longer this time, but the same message came up at the end of the search.
"What's all this about?" George said.
"Listen," Leo said. He opened the book to a page he'd bookmarked with a dollar bill and began reading.
"A full thirty days we stayed on that island, refreshing our supplies with fresh meat, fruit, and much smoked fish. The water barrels were scrubbed clean and refilled."
"I was hurried in this work for more than one of the crew had admitted to a desire that we stay. This I could readily understand for the climate was most hospitable, the island a place of great beauty, and the people most friendly -- especially some of the younger women. We were then some twenty months and more out of England, and I, myself, was tempted more than once by a sweet smile or a glimpse of bare skin."
"Yet I found myself at the same time repulsed by the pagan rites -- I hesitate to call it a religion -- of these people, bizarre rituals whose like I had not seen or heard in all my years sailing through these waters. The garishly painted bodies, heads hidden by obscene masks, the drumming, and the screams. We suffered through the worst of these things towards the end of our stay on this island, and they shall haunt me for the remainder of my days."
"Two nights before we left that island, they had held their festival at the full of the Moon. They had made no secret of the festival, and they had urged my crew and myself to come and join in their worship. One look at the costumes they were preparing, they marks they placed on their bare flesh, and most of us demurred."
"Four crewmen, however, gave in to their curiosity. They were never seen again. Only the remains of their clothing were ever found - all ripped to shreds. Were they human sacrifices to some strange gods, perhaps even the victims of cannibalism? We never knew."
"I asked one of the natives, a young man of, perhaps, twenty, whom we had earlier hired to help in our hunting. He claimed no knowledge of the whereabouts of my men. Indeed, all he could talk about was his new bride. Apparently, those strange midnight screams had been some sort of group wedding for several of the young men."
"Wait a minute," George said. "Polynesians don't do group weddings."
"Right, and they marry in the daylight, so their gods can all be witness. This a totally unknown culture."
"Just waiting for two _brilliant_ anthro students to document in their thesis."
"How much money have you got left on your student loan?"
"About $1200. What's the credit limit on your Master Card?"
"My folks notched it up to $7500. How about you."
"About the same. Between the two of us - and what we can borrow from the Department's equipment - I think we can make it."
"Shall we drink on it, _Dr._ Jessup?"
"I think a small celebration is in order, _Dr._ Freeman."
* * * * *
It took about ten days to make the travel arrangements and scrounge the necessary equipment. The TA who maintained the Department's video equipment loaned them two old but serviceable cameras and a case of film cassettes in return for the promise of a copy of any tapes with buxom naked (or near naked) women. He had a profitable sideline mixing such films with bits of old porno tapes and selling them to frat houses and lonely undergraduates.
Their shots and passports were up to date. Any working field anthropologist kept both current out of necessity. Both of them had finished all the classroom work for their doctorates. They were expected to spend the next term preparing their thesis papers. Travel was by tramp steamer with any number of trading stops. The last leg, by seaplane, took about six hours. Thus, it was almost exactly three weeks to the day after Leo had found the book, that they first saw their objective, Captain Sheppard's discovery, Schooner Island.
* * * * *
The plane circled the island twice, then landed in the waters just outside a sheltered cove on the eastern side. The village was on the beach within the cove, about fifty feet above the shoreline.
The natives had been drawn by the sight and sound of the seaplane. A number of men ran to the water. Five outriggers were launched and quickly crossed the waters of the cove to where the seaplane floated.
"I'll open the door, so you can palaver with these blokes, but don't leave the plane - or even stand up to give them a clear shot - until you're sure they're friendlies." Jake Mulrooney had been flying seaplanes in these waters since his retirement from Her Majesty's Royal Australian Navy over fifteen years before. Tanned almost as dark as the natives coming towards his beloved plane, he was a cautious man in some ways. As he often said over a cold beer, "That was how you got to be an old pilot flying out there from Hell to Nowhere and back again."
The natives, it seemed, were also cautious. Only one outrigger came out from the cove and approached the plane. An older man, wearing the robes and headdress of a village chief, sat between the two younger rowers. George could see spears on the floor of the outrigger, loose and easy to grab and throw.
"I am Kahimi, headman of this place. Why do you come here?" He spoke English with surprisingly little trace of a local accent beyond the formalized style.
Leo answered. "Kahimi, I am Leo and this is my friend, George. We have come here in peace to learn of the ways of your people."
"Why? Do you not have your own place -- your own ways? Why do you come here to learn ours?"
"It is a belief of my people, Kahimi, that by learning the ways of others, we can learn more about ourselves. We believe that all people are alike in many ways. If we learn what is alike and what is different about ourselves, it may be that we can even learn how to live together in peace and friendship."
"You do not come to change us and our ways?"
"No, Kahimi. How can we learn how your ways are different from ours if we try to change them?"
"If you come in peace, then you are welcome." Kahimi turned and shouted something to the other outriggers. George and Leo recognized the language he was speaking. It was a widely used Polynesian tongue that they both spoke fluently. Only, Kahimi's accents were different, and some of his words weren't recognizable. It got better and better. This was an archaic variant of the language, closer to the form it had several centuries before. The language alone was probably worth a paper or two by itself.
Two of the other outriggers drew up along side the pontoon of the plane. "Ashtitu will help with your things," Kahimi said. He said something in Polynesian, and one native climbed out onto the pontoon. George and Leo handed their gear out to him, and he passed it, item by item to the natives in the outriggers.
Mulrooney was still suspicious. He sat at the controls the entire time. "Just in case," he said with just a hint of a smile. The seaplane's motors were primed, and he could be airborne in a little over a minute.
It took over a half an hour to transfer the last of the clothes, camping gear, and equipment into the two outriggers. These natives might speak an outdated language, but they had a modern respect for the equipment. Once the first boat was loaded, Ashtitu climbed back in and helped row back to shore. The second out rigger took its place by the pontoon. A second native -- Kahimi never mentioned his name -- climbed onto the pontoon to help with the loading.
As the second outrigger, now also loaded, pulled away from the pontoon, Kahimi called out again. The remaining two approached. "These will take you in to our village," he said in English. George climbed into one.
As Leo stepped off the pontoon into the second, Mulrooney called out to him. "Remember, test your radio as soon as you're ashore. If I don't hear from you in an hour after I leave, I'll be back."
"Yes, Mother," Leo answered.
"I mean it kid. We haven't agreed on any pick up time. No radio, and you're stuck here until I get curious - which I seldom do -- or somebody else just happens by. This far off the shipping lanes, that could be months. Maybe years, so don't forget."
"We won't, Mulrooney. Hey, and thanks."
"Part of the service, kid. Good luck." The two rowers pushed away from the pontoon. Mulrooney shut the door and revved the engines. The seaplane was out of the water and heading home before Leo's outrigger was halfway back to shore.
* * * * *
Almost as soon as the first two outriggers landed, the natives had formed aBaggage brigade. By the time George and Leo stepped ashore, much of their equipment was piled in a heap outside a small hut at the edge of the village. The two students jumped out of the boats and ran up to Kahimi who was standing near the hut supervising.
Kahimi turned to the pair. "This hut is yours for as long as you wish to stay here among us."
"We don't want to put anyone out of their home," George said.
"This is no one's home. This is a hut for guests, for those who come to trade with us from the islands to the west. Now it is yours."
"But --"
"We thank you for your offer, Kahimi," Leo interrupted. He picked up one of the cameras and walked into the hut.
"What are you doing?" George said, following him into the hut.
"Trying to keep you from getting him mad at us. Look, people have been writing about how generous the Polynesians are for over two hundred years. If the hut is empty, let him give it to us."
"Yeah, I guess. I just have a feeling we're getting set up for something."
"Look around, man. This place has got to be more comfortable than that tent we brought. Besides, look at this place," he waved his arm in an expansive gesture. "The place's decorated. We've got enough samples of handicrafts in here to do a good elementary analysis of their technologic and esthetic structures. It would've taken us weeks, maybe more, just to collect this much stuff."
The pair checked the radio. Mulrooney greeted them warmly and reminded them that he wouldn't be back unless called. They unpacked their gear and settled into the hut.
* * * * *
They spent the next few weeks cataloging the technologic level of the islanders. They watched the people at work and at play, and asked a great, great many questions. Once every few days, they held a session long into the night to review their findings.
The villagers were an offshoot of a fairly common branch of the Polynesian people. Based on their styles in dress, their techniques with wood and shell, and the way certain words were used, they had been isolated some 300-400 years before. Kahimi confirmed this one night when they got him talking about the history of the island.
The villagers had learned the trick of fermenting a local yam into a more than tolerable brandy. Kahimi came by the hut every so often at night with a large woven jug full of the brew. He sipped it slowly as Leo and George asked about the history of the island. He said it gave him a chance to practice his English, though he never did get around to explaining where exactly he'd learned the language.
"During the War of the Tuhogo," Kahimi began one evening, "our ancestors set out in three large war canoes on a raid. They angered the gods of their enemies' village by what they would do. A great storm came up and blew them far away from their home island."
"They drifted in the sea for many days, fearing death from Sun or shark and praying to their own gods. At last, their prayers were answered. Far off in the distance, they saw the 'Blanket Peak'. They rowed to the island just as a storm -- as bad as the first one -- began. They beached their canoes as quickly as they could and ran into the forest with all that they could carry."
"Three days the storm raged while they hid from it in the forest. When it could not get them, it took out its anger on their canoes. There was little left. our ancestors came out of the forest happy just to be alive. They had their tools and, in time built this village and made the island our home."
"Amazing, George said. He checked the tape recorder to make certain that he had gotten the story. "It's a good thing that your ancestors were on their way back from the raid when the storm hit."
"Why do you say this?" Kahimi asked.
"Because then they had female prisoners. Otherwise, you and your people wouldn't be here."
Kahimi laughed. "The gods provide." He looked strangely at Leo and George, then laughed again. "The gods always provide."
"Do you know the name of the island your ancestors came out from, Kahimi?" George asked.
"Or the one that they attacked?" Leo added. The war Kahimi had mentioned was well documented in the historical record. Europeans had arrived in Polynesia while it was still being fought, and a number of traders had gotten rich selling guns to one side or the other. There were cultural differences between the two sides. Knowing which side Kahimi's ancestors had been on would give a baseline to the study of the current village culture.
"The name 'Togo-ahu' has been handed down to us. Some stories say that it was our ancestor's home island. Others say it was the island that they attacked. I am sorry that even I cannot be certain."
"It's easily enough understood," George said. "Your ancestors were on both sides. The fathers told one side of the story; the mothers told the other. Over time the two got mixed together."
Kahimi smiled. "Yes, it must have been that way." He took another sip of his drink. "Is there anything else you would know from me?"
"Kahimi," George began. "Since we have come to your island, you and your people have been very kind. You gave us this place to live and work." His arm swept through the arm to indicate the hut. "You have let us watch you at work and at play, all the things of your life."
He paused, and Leo took up the point. "You have even let us see some of your worship. We saw the blessings and prayers when that new fishing canoe was launched, the prayers when young Paluwa went into the jungle alone and the rejoicing when he returned as a blooded warrior with the wild pig."
"Yes," Kahimi said. "We have shown you much of our way of life. This is what you asked of me when you first came here."
"We have seen your rituals of daylight," George said. "But not those of the night." He and Leo had practiced this questioning. It was the style that the elders used in their council sessions with Kahimi.
Kahimi's smile vanished. "Night? What do you mean 'night rituals'?"
"Kahimi, you know of the old book. It was how we learned of your island in our far away land."
"Yes, you told me of this book. It is the writing of a man who came to this place many, many years ago."
"Exactly," Leo said. "And in this book, the captain tells of a night ritual, a wedding. He says that the men of the village painted their bodies and wore strange masks. His men did not go, though they were invited. And that night, they heard drumming through much of the night."
"And you would know of these things?"
"Yeas, Kahimi, we would. It was the captain's tale of this things -- as much as anything else -- that made us wish to come to this island."
"Yes, yes," Kahimi was frowning now. "And you wish to see this?"
"Yes, we do."
"Outsiders may not see -- not watch and study these ways, but they can be a part of them -- if that is what you truly wish."
"We wish it, Kahimi. To study your ways, to understand them, that is why we have come here."
Kahimi sighed. "Then, perhaps, you _should_ be a part of the pihali-aliahuu, the 'change to marriage' ceremony." He looked out the window at the Moon. It was only a thin crescent, but growing night by night. "In four days, four nights, will come the night of the full moon. We will hold the ceremony then."
"Can you tell us anything more about the pihali-aliahuu?"
"It is our oldest ceremony, handed down from when our ancestors first came to this place." He finished his drink in one gulp and rose from his chair. "There is much to do before this ceremony. I say 'Good Night', and may the gods bring only good dreams to you."
"Thank you, Kahimi. You cannot know how much we appreciate this kindness."
Kahimi was at the entrance to the hut. "You do not know what you have asked." He walked through the hanging beads that acted as a sort of door and disappeared into the night.
* * * * *
The next four days went quickly.
George and Leo spent most of the time in the hut finishing their notes on several types of native craft. Togu-ahu was a large island several hundred miles to the northwest. It was the home of one of the leading groups during the ancient war. Its men had gone on raids of other islands, while it had been raided several times during that war. Now that they knew to look for them, George and Leo found several of the features of Togu-ahu crafts in the goods they had collected. "Yet another paper," George said.
* * * * *
The day of the ceremony came, a sunny day with a bit of a breeze from the southwest. The village was unusually quiet. George and Leo saw the village elders gather at Kahimi's hut for some sort of meeting. A number of the younger men of the village waited outside. They were called in one at a time, as if being interviewed for something.
George ran into one of the men later in the day. "What is happening at Kahimi's house," he asked in Polynesian.
"What do you mean?" The young man looked at him strangely, as if he were looking for something. "Why do you ask this of me?"
"Because I wish to know. We have made no secret that we are here to learn your ways. The ceremony tonight, my friend and I have asked to be there because we wish to see the ways that you honor your gods and each other."
"The ceremony, the pihali-aliahuu, oh yes, you will be there. That is why it is to be held."
"If you know this, if you know that Kahimi is willing to let us see the ceremony, the pihali-aliahuu, then why --"
"Let you see it." The man laughed. "Oh, how little you understand what you have asked. You will see it. You will see it very well." He walked away, laughing as he went. Once or twice, he looked back and laughed even louder.
George stood confused for a moment, trying to understand what had just happened. When that didn't happen, he went looking for Leo.
He found his friend standing by a path near their hut. The path lead out of the village and up through the jungle to the mountain the natives called "Blanket Peak", the oddly shaped mountain that had inspired Captain Sheppard to call the place Schooner Island. He was sitting on a large stone watching men carrying oddly wrapped bundles up into the jungle.
"Hey, Leo, what's going on?"
"I don't know." He paused to glare at a smiling young man walking up the path with what looked to be some sort of chair strapped to his back. "And they won't tell me."
"Yeah, I've noticed that. Have you tried looking for yourself?"
Leo gritted his teeth. "They won't let me do that either. When I tried, they stopped me."
"Did they threaten you, pull those knives they carry?"
"No, that was the weird part. One of them, Liliji, started to, but the others yelled that he shouldn't - or couldn't, I'm not sure which. Then four of them just picked me up and carried me back down to here. Liliji said that if I tried, they'd just carry me back down."
"They don't seem to mind you sitting here watching, though."
"No, but they won't answer any questions either. It's weird. They never tried to keep anything secret from us before."
"I know. I'm not sure if we should be mad or worried."
"I'm going with mad. If they were going to do something to us, I don't think they still let us walk around like this."
"Yeah, but where could we go?"
"There's always the radio. Kahimi, at least, knows that we can use it to get in touch with Mulrooney. He can be here in a couple hours."
"I suppose you're right. Well, we'll find out soon enough."
"Why don't you go back to the hut and check out the gear we'll need for night filming. I'll stay here. They don't mind my watching -- or taking notes." He held up a notebook, one of the many they had filled with information about the island. Leo had sketched several of the bundles as they were carried past him.
"Done. See you later." He turned to go, then added, "remember, Kahimi said that he'd meet us at the hut at dusk. It seems we get an escort up to wherever the ceremony's going to happen."
"I just hope it isn't an armed escort." He turned to quickly sketch a second chair being carried past him. "Well," he said as he drew, "we'll find out soon enough."
* * * * *
At dusk, the two friends were sitting at the entrance to their hut. Leo had the video camera loaded, with several spare cartridges in his pack along with a photolamp that would let them shoot in total darkness. George was carrying spares to all the equipment, several sets of lens, and a special digital still camera in his own pack. He also had a tape recorder with plenty of batteries and twelve hours of audiocassettes. Whatever this ceremony was, they wanted to be certain to record every detail.
They watched a group of ten men, Kahimi in the lead, approach. Almost all had painted designs of various sorts on their chests, arms, and legs. George took several shots as the group approached. "So the Captain's 'garishly painted bodies' turn out to be a fairly standard set of Polynesian ritual symbols," he said almost disappointed as he put the camera down and the ground next to him.
"Yeah," Leo said. "Did you notice, though, that most of the symbols are of the war and sea gods? Shouldn't a wedding have more of the hearth and fertility symbols?"
"Kahimi said this pihali-aliahuu ritual was linked somehow to their landing on the island. It happened while they were on a raid at sea, so I guess those were the gods invoked."
"I guess." Both stood as the natives stopped a few feet away from the hut. Most of the group were tribal elders, though there were four young men and one boy among them. Itimii, Kahimi's twelve-year old nephew, heir and apprentice, stepped forward. He was carrying some sort of necklaces made of seaweed woven with jungle grasses into a narrow rope. Tiny bits of coral and colored wood were strung along the rope.
"These for you," Itimii said in English. "You wear for pihali-aliahuu." He held the necklaces out for the two men to take.
George and Leo looked at the natives. Four of the younger men were wearing similar necklaces. One was the same as the two being offered to the two Americans, the other three were in a second pattern, all identical. George and Leo took the necklaces and put them on. "May we photograph these necklaces before we go," Leo asked. When Kahimi nodded, George took several close-up shots of each of the two styles.
He put the camera back in his pouch, and the group started up the path. At the edge of the jungle, they were met by several other men carrying elaborately woven full-headed masks. The masks were dyed to match the symbols. The masks were rather grotesque -- they had to be similar to the ones the Captain had mentioned -- painted with symbols much like the ones on the men's bodies.
The elders, including Kahimi, put on one style that reminded Leo of a giant fish, a representation of the sea gods, no doubt. These masks covered the entire head of the wearer. Three of the four young men put on simpler masks. These were somewhat elongated and only covered the face of the wearer. Yellow fertility symbols were painted on in a pattern similar to wedding masks worn on some of the islands to the north, including Toga-ahu.
Leo tried to stall, so George could take more photos. "Kahimi, can you tell us the meaning of these masks?"
"When we get to the plain below the blanket, I will explain all."
"Can you at least tell me why most of you are wearing masks, but this man," he pointed to the one wearing a necklace similar to his own, "and George and I aren't given any to wear?"
"When the pihali-aliahuu begins, all will be made known to you." He shouted a quick "Forward" in his Polynesian dialect and the others began walking up into the jungle. A number of men with lanterns carved from large shells walked along with the group.
George fell in next to the one native without the mask. "Who are you," he asked in dialect.
The man didn't even notice that George was there. He tilted his head, as if hearing something far off, but never answered. George repeated the question three more times before giving up. He did noticed that the man seemed a little dazed. He was walking hesitantly and seemed uncertain as to where he was going.
They walked over a mile, always upward. Eventually, George saw the jungle thin out. They were nearing the "plain", a clearing perhaps a quarter mile up the side of the mountain. As they approached, drums began to beat.
The clearing was square, perhaps a hundred feet on each side. In the center was a large stone firepit ablaze with logs. George worried about how that mass of light was going to affect the video. Well, the Department had some computer enhancement equipment; maybe it can be edited down.
A small altar had been set up about half way from the edge to the clearing to the firepit. Six chairs, the sort they had seen that afternoon, were set up a distance away. The chairs were in two groups of three, one to the left of the altar, the other to the right, about twenty yards apart.
Itimii came over to George and Leo. "Kahimi says you are outsiders. You have done no real wrong to us. He lose some face, but he offer you a chance to leave."
"What," George said. "Leave now and miss the pihali-aliahuu?"
"Leave. Leave this clearing. Leave this island. And never speak of what you have found here."
"Thank your uncle - thank Kahimi for his offer, but we want to stay to witness the ceremony."
"Yes," Leo added. "And whenever we do leave, we will be telling many, many people of your island and your people."
"Why does Kahimi think we took all these pictures and wrote down so much? We told him that we wished to study your people. Doesn't he think that we will share what we learn with others of our own people?"
The boy ran off without another word. The pair watched him report to his uncle. Kahimi shook his head, making the entire mask move. He clapped his hands and shouted "We begin" in Polynesian.
The three young men in the masks came over and lead George, Leo, and the lone unmasked man over to the one set of chairs. "You sit," one of the masked men said, and they did.
Now drummers began to beat out a low rhythm. Kahimi said something to his nephew, and the boy came over to stand between Leo and George. "Kahimi says that he sorry, but you must now go do pihali-aliahuu. He say I stay. I tell you what it mean."
"Thank you, Itimii, and thank Kahimi also." He tried to lean forward to get the video camera out of his pack. He couldn't move. "What the hell? Leo, I can't move. Can you."
Leo tried. "No, no I can't. Itimii, what's happened to us."
"The magic of the necklaces keep the pihal from leaving."
"Magic? What magic?"
"Ancestors come here after great storm. Forty-five warriors, twenty prisoners - all enemy warriors - and fifteen pigs. Storm destroy canoes, so they cannot get home. They pray to gods for help, any kind of help. The leader, also Kahimi, have a dream. "Sea god come to Kahimi; show him how to make necklaces. War god say, make twenty of each kind. Put all of one kind on prisoner. Put all of others on twenty bravest warriors. Bring to this place at full of Moon and pray to them. Miracle happen."
"Miracle?" Leo said. He was trying to move, to get up from the chair, but nothing, nothing dammit below his neck seemed to be working.
"Twenty marriages," Itimii said, "and by the next year, twenty babies. The others knew what must be done. They draw lots. Soon ten more marriages. We are children of the children of those babies."
"This is nonsense," George said. "How could an island with sixty-five people, all male, produce babies?"
Leo answered him, "the same way two grown men can't move, magic. Somehow they're going to turn us into women."
"Again, I don't believe it. It's drugs or hysteria or something. Besides, what about number three over here next to me?"
"Kanaruu get drunk. He kill Ashtitu's woman by mistake. Now he _be_ Ashtitu's woman. He go first, so you see what happen."
"This is still ridiculous. I don't --" George stopped as the drumming became louder and louder. A strange chanting began among the men in the clearing. The chant included the names of the sea god and the war god and of Kanaruu and Ashtitu. George and Leo couldn't make out much of the rest. It was a part of the local dialect that they had never heard before.
Suddenly, they heard a moan from Kanaruu. "It begin," Itimii said, his voice cracking with excitement. George and Leo found that they could turn their heads. They looked at Kanaruu who was able to move again. His body seemed to be spasming for a moment, then he began to move almost sensuously to the chant.
Kanaruu's eyes were wide with fright. He rose from the chair and began walking, dancing -- it was hard to tell which -- sensuously towards the other group of men. As he walked, he seemed to be shrinking. His hair, cut in the warrior's style to just above the shoulders, grew down to reach almost to his waist. He grew thinner throughout his body, especially at the waist. Then his hips seemed to widen and his figure grew remarkably curvy. Woman's curves.
About halfway to the men, he suddenly tore at his waistband. His skirt, about as long as a Scottish kilt, fell to the ground. He danced around it, turning so George and Leo could see him from the front. No, their eyes told them, see _her_ from the front. Kanaruu had somehow grown an impressive pair of breasts. And at his groin, there was nothing to see but the familiar inverted triangle that marked the way to a woman's sexual organs.
Kanaruu was smiling now. She turned and ran the rest of the way to the men. One stood and took her in his arms. They embraced, and the man - it must have been Ashtitu - picked up his naked bride and carried her away.
The drums and the chanting had stopped when Kanaruu and Ashtitu has embraced. Now it began again. "Now you will become pihali-aliahuu, brides of the change," Itimii said. "Welcome to our people."
"Fight it," George said, but Leo barely heard. The drumming, the chants were invading his soul. He moaned and tried to fight what he was feeling. It was strong within him and growing stronger.
The two men felt as if the whole world had vanished except for the chanting. They felt the rhythm and felt their bodies began to move to it. They rose from their chairs because that was what the rhythm told them they had to do. Something, something in the chant was calling them to the side of the two other men sitting across from them. Something that they had to answer.
As they walked, their bodies changed, the better to feel the rhythms of the chant. They grew smaller, thinner. Their skin became more delicate, even as it darkened beyond a rich tan to the coppery brown of the natives. Their waists grew narrow, their limbs more supple to better dance the rhythms of the drums and the chant. Their hair straightened and grew dark brow, almost black as it grew down to their waists.
Beneath their shirts, their useless, silly shirts, now far too big for their bodies, breasts grew in firm and round. They could feel their nipples tighten in arousal and rub against the fabric as they moved. It was a most pleasant feeling.
Their hips, their wider, childbearing hips swayed to the rhythms of the chant. The motions seemed to suck in their male genitals until these shrank within them transformed into the female equivalents. Their new organs tingled. They were warm and wet - and empty. But the chant told them to be happy for relief was sitting not far away.
Their husbands were sitting not far away. But could those wonderful, manly men want them in these stupid male clothes? "Never," the chant said, and in desperation, the two women tore their clothes from their body, tore them to shreds in their eagerness. They stopped and stood naked, except for the necklaces, before their husbands. Before their lovers. For the men stood and embraced their brides, kissing them and fondling their bodies.
George and Leo remained in these new forms. They knew who they had been, their lives, their memories, and their ambitions. But the chant told them how little those things meant. It told them that, from this time on, they were Showashaa and Ehileawa. It was so much better, it said, to be these two women; these happy women with their virile new husbands.
Showashaa and Ehileawa found to their horror, then their amazement, then their joy that they agreed. They giggled in delight as their new husbands carried them back to their huts to consummate the marriages. There would be time later to destroy the notes, to lie to Mulrooney. They were happy as the chants told them to be happy. They would not let anything destroy that happiness or ever, ever make them leave their homes and their husbands on this island.
The End
Please note that I resisted the temptation to call this story
"George and Leo Get Lei-ed".
T-Girl Perfume
by Ellie Dauber
© 2002
Helen Atwell's mother hated her daughter's live-in lover, Fred. Buying the older woman a nice birthday present won't help -- or will it?
* * * * *
From the vantage point of their bed, Fred Hogan watched his lover, Helen Atwell, stepping into her panties. Even bent over, those luscious breasts of hers didn't sag. "You sure you want to do that?" he asked. Fred shifted his tanned, muscular body under the bed sheet, so he was lying on his side. As he did, a curl of reddish brown hair slid down on his forehead.
"What else should I be doing?" She slid them up, adjusting the skimpy silk around her hips. Helen was a busty, well-curved young woman, a massive of dark blonde curls surrounding her moon-shaped face.
Fred patted the bed. "You could climb back in here with me for more of what we were doing this morning"
"Hmm, that would be nice; later maybe. In fact, you'd better get out of there yourself."
"Why, what's up?"
"You are; that's why I said 'later.' Right now, you've got to get dressed. You, stud, are going shopping with me."
"Shopping?"
"Shopping. Remember, we're going to my mother's tonight."
"Your mother hates me. Why do I have to go shopping for her?"
"Because it's her birthday tonight, and the family's throwing her a big party. You are invited. You'll be nice, give her a present, and maybe -- just maybe -- she'll decide to like you."
"You'll tell me what to buy, right. I have no idea what your mother would like."
"Actually, Mom told you already."
"She did? When?"
"She knows about the party, and she knows I'm bringing you. I asked her what she'd like for a present, and she said she'd like you to buy her some new perfume she heard about."
"Did she say why?"
"No; maybe it's expensive. You make a pretty good living. Maybe she decided you could afford a higher priced gift than poor little me." Fred was an associate at one of the largest law firms in the city, while Helen taught junior high school.
"Is that why you moved in with me, my enormous income?" Fred climbed out of bed and walked over to Helen. By now, she was almost dressed, buttoning a dark green blouse.
Helen reached down, touching him just below his waist. "Well, there is something enormous about you that I like."
* * * * *
Danner's was one of the pricier department stores in town. Helen led Fred to the outer borders of "No Man's Land," the perfume counter next to the Women's Wear Department. "I'm heading over to casual wear," she told him as she started off. "Mom asked me for a blouse."
"But...how do I do this?" Fred asked in a slightly panicky voice.
"If you bought me perfume once in a while, you'd know. Just ask the girl for the brand I told you Mom wants. She'll do the rest."
"Okay, but hurry back." He watched her walk away, enjoying the gentle sway of her ass as she walked.
"May I help you, sir?" a soft, very feminine voice asked. Fred turned around. The speaker was an Asian woman, just barely five-foot tall. She has a thin, coltish figure wrapped in a long black dress. Her straight black hair framed a lovely, round face, then fell on down to her waist.
"I...uh...my girl's mother wanted..." he looked down at the slip of paper in his hand, "T-Girl perfume. Do you...uh...sell it here?"
"Ah, yes, T-Girl," The woman smiled mysteriously. "Your girlfriend's mother, you say?"
"Yeah, she specifically told Helen that she wanted me to buy her that perfume."
The woman bent down -- "Nice, ass," Fred thought. -- and unlocked a door in the display case. She took out something, closed, and locked the door.
"Here it is," she said. She put a small, pink glass bottle on the counter. A stylized "T-Girl" was painted on the bottle in a darker pink. There was an atomized bulb attached to the top of the bottle, though Fred couldn't see how it unscrewed from the bottle itself.
"How much?" Fred reached for his wallet.
"Wouldn't you like to try it first?" The woman picked up the bottle. Before Fred could answer, she sprayed some in his face.
"Phaah!' Fred said, spitting the taste of the perfume. "What the..." He suddenly froze. So did everything else, as time seemed to stop around him.
Fred shrank, going from 5 foot 11 to 5 foot 4. As he did, he grew slender, his muscles seemingly absorbed into his body. His dockers and polo shirt hung on him like a tent for a moment, but then they shrank, fitting his thinner body as well as ever.
His hair changed to an auburn color, growing thicker, longer, past his ears and down around his now narrower shoulders. His face grew less rugged, his tan fading to a softer brown. His eyebrows became narrow lines as his nose grew smaller and his lips fuller. His prominent adam's apple shrank away so that, when he spoke again, his baritone would be a soft contralto.
The angularity of his body faded as body fat reshaped it into pleasing curves. His waist shrank in by several inches, even as his hips widened. His hands were smaller, with long, delicate fingers. His feet were several shoe sizes less than they had been.
His nipples darkened and expanded. Flesh formed behind them, pushing out small cones that bloomed into softly rounded breasts. They grew, pushing out his shirt, AA, A, B, eventually stopping at a firm C-cup.
At the same time that his breasts grew, his penis diminished. It became smaller, even as his testicles tightened and moved up into his body. Their empty sacs shrank down around the now barely two-inch long penis, forming a pair of lips. Fred's penis moved down between them, down into the hole forming at his groin, to become his clitoris, even as his organs re-arranged, altered from male to female.
There was make-up on Fred's face, now, lip gloss, blusher, and a pale blue eye shadow.
His cotton undershirt moved up around his new breasts to become a pink silk demi-bra. His boxers moved up around his crotch, the opening in front sealing, to become matching panties. His polo shirt was a blouse now, dark pink with white pearl buttons. His brown dockers fused into a single piece of cloth that moved up his legs to become a burgundy skirt that stopped just above his knees. His socks were sheerer, almost transparent, and longer. They grew up Fred's legs, merging at the waist into a pair of pantyhose. The laces vanished from his cross-trainers, as they grew a one-inch heel, and the material shifted and hardened into a pair of pumps.
Time started again.
"Well, I said I wouldn't be long," Helen said, coming back. "I got a great blouse for Mom."
Frieda Hogan turned and held up the bottle of perfume for her old friend and roommate to see. "And I got the perfume she wanted."
"Great," Helen said. "That's why my Mom likes you so much; you always do just what she wants."
Tabloid Tales: Memphis Interlude
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 1999
This is the second of my two stories about Twentieth Century icons. Except for this one, all the “Tabloid Tales” stories were written by a very fine writer named Pyrite, whose work I heartily recommend. The stories are part of a VERY long line of tales set in a pub, bar, or other drinking establishment by authors ranging from Lord Dunsany to Spider Robinson. In the Tabloid Tales, the characters are all writers working at tabloid newspapers, the sort of paper sold in the checkout line in grocery stores. Since they write about the odd and fantastic, they’re willing to listen, at least, to any sort of story told by one of their own. In this story, it’s a fellow named Billy McNeil, who has a KING-sized tale to tell.
Tabloid Tales: Memphis Interlude
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 1999
The Wheatsheaf Pub -- Wapping London -- October '99
It was another Friday night at the Wheatsheaf, the small dockside pub that had somehow become the favorite place for London's tabloid reporters to relax and unwind after a day of muckraking. It was a warm and pleasant autumn night, the sort that people called "Indian Summer". Normally, the Wheatsheaf would have been filled, but some American rock stars had flown into Heathrow late that afternoon. There had been some sort of blow-up: drugs, under-aged girls, exotic pets -- maybe all three. Half the reporters in town, including a lot of the regulars, were waiting to see how it all sorted out.
Tom Walters and Mike Langston were sitting in a corner booth, trading "war stories" about rockers that they'd covered, when Billy McNeil came in. Tom shouted and waved him over. "Not out at Heathrow to see the ‘Dogs at Bay’? I thought you covered the rock scene?"
"Actually, they're called the ‘Baying Hounds’," Billy said, "which pretty well describes Snake Addison's singing voice." He sat down at the table and motioned for the barmaid to bring him a beer. "I do a story now and then when there's nobody else that wants it, but I lost interest -- especially in American rock -- over twenty years ago." Billy was a tall, stocky man of about 50, with thinning sandy brown hair going to gray. He seldom got rocker stories any more. Except for dinosaurs like Clapton or McCartney, what rock star would open up to a man who looked more like his father than one of his mates?
"Say, that's right," Tom said. "You got one of the last interviews with Elvis, didn't you?"
"Got that and a lot more." The barmaid brought his beer. He took a long swallow. "I got a story that -- well, that _nobody_ would believe."
"What is it?" Mike said. "You know who really killed him? You have proof he's really still alive?"
"No," Billy said. "In a crazy sort of way, he really did kill himself." He paused and looked around. He took another swallow of his beer and continued. "And he's regretted it ever since."
"Oh," Tom said. "So you're -- what do they call it -- you're channeling Elvis' ghost?"
Billy looked nervous. "I've said far too much. Nobody would believe me anyway. It would be hell, though, if they did." He put a two pound coin on the table to pay for the beer and stood up to leave.
Tom caught his arm. "Look, Billy. We're tabloid journalists here, the lot of us. We've all heard and seen too many things not to believe a story just because it seems strange. And if you ask us, the story goes no farther than this table."
"Promise?" Billy said.
"On my honor as a tabloid reporter," Tom said.
"Mine too," Mike added.
"Most blokes would say 'honor' and 'tabloid reporter' are mutually exclusive," Billy said. "But I know you two." He sat down and finished his pint, then motioned for the barmaid to come over. They all ordered another pint, making small talk until she'd brought the beers and left. Then Billy leaned forward and began his story.
***** Billy McNeil's Story -- Memphis -- August, 1977
Back in '77, I was something of a Young Turk. I'd done dozens of stories about the British rock scene. They'd all gone pretty well, and I had visions of even bigger things ahead. I managed to talk my editor, old Sammy Matthews, into flying me to the States to spend time with some of the big American names. The thing that set the deal was that I'd pulled in every favor anyone in the Business owed me, and managed to get a week with Elvis as a finish to the trip. Actually nothing was 'writ in stone' as they say. I had managed to get an interview. If we hit it off, I'd get to stay with him for the week. If not, well, at least I had the interview.
I read up on him as much as I could; real background stuff, not just the rubbish that we all write. He loved fast cars, especially sports cars. They made a museum out of his collection, in fact. My uncle Bill, the bloke I'm named for, worked at British motors back then. They had a small store on the factory grounds, mostly for employees and collectors. Uncle Bill got me the schematics and manuals for a couple of their classic models. I never really paid attention to what they were, but Uncle Bill said they were books anyone who fancied sports car would go crazy to have.
I had the books in my camera bag when I arrived in Memphis. I was staying in one of the cheaper local motels. Charlie Hodge, an acoustic guitar player who lived at Graceland with Elvis, picked me up at the door and drove me out to the mansion. Elvis met me at the door, wearing jeans and an old T-shirt from one of his tours. He looked rather well, I thought. He was hardly the skinny fellow the Yanks called "Young Elvis" on that stamp of theirs a few years back, but he had lost some weight from the pictures I'd seen that were taken a couple of months before.
That was the first thing that I asked him about. He looked unhappy for a bit, and I was certain that I'd just ruined my chances. "I got tired of my own fat ass, Mr. McNeil. Weight's a lot easier to put on than take off, but I'm trying."
"Looks like you're more than trying. Congratulations."
"Thanks, but I'm not sure that I want you to write about it. My fans will know soon enough. I leave tonight for a tour of New England. The Colonel's already up there in Portland setting things up."
Tonight? Nobody had mentioned anything about a tour. Now I was really worried.
"Yeah," Elvis continued. "I thought I needed to lose some weight. My fans expect, hell, they _deserve_ the best show I can give them."
This was a side that Elvis didn't normally show, and I could see that he felt uncomfortable about it. I decided to change the subject. "So, what other surprises are you planning for this tour?" Elvis started talking about a couple of the new songs that he'd been working on. He sang one -- no music, no back up, just that beautiful voice. I still have the tape, and he sounded great. We talked about the songs. One was a gospel number. That got him talking about his roots, singing at his family church. From there we went on to talk about the other influences on his music. And on and on.
His publicist had only offered me two hours. We talked for nearly four. It was one of the best interviews I ever got. And I was beginning to think that it might not be over. I reached into my camera bag. "Elvis," I said, "the deal was that you'd decide after this interview if this interview was it, or if I'd get some time with you."
"Yeah, and I've enjoyed it. You can stay if you still want to."
"I can't thank you enough for that. I wanted to give you this before you told me if I could stay, but, this way, I guess they don't quite qualify as a bribe." I pulled out the manuals and handed them to him.
Elvis looked at the one book and began spouting some automotive techno-babble that I could barely follow. As near as I could tell, I'd brought him just the book he needed to tinker with a fancy auto that he'd just bought.
The man all but kissed me.
He said that I could stay as long as I wanted and could ask him or anyone else anything that I wished. He even offered to drive me back to the motel to pick up my gear. As far as he was concerned, I was his guest, and he wanted me to stay there at Graceland. His road manager, Jerry Esposito, said somebody else should drive me, but Elvis was adamant. He wanted to show off one of the autos I'd brought the manual for, a car _nobody_ drove but him. He did agree to let a couple of others come along with us, though.
About halfway back to the hotel, Elvis asked if anybody else way hungry. It was almost noon. One of the others, Lamar Fike I think it was, agreed that he was a bit hungry. Elvis turned the car and headed towards a restaurant he knew nearby.
We were driving through a residential neighborhood. As we turned down one side street, we could see a man and woman on the sidewalk. They must have been arguing because the woman suddenly turned and walked away -- right into the path of Elvis' car. He tried to swerve, but it happened too fast. We heard a scream and then felt the "THUMP!" as the car hit her.
Elvis pulled the car over to the curb and started to get out. Lamar Fike grabbed his arm. "Elvis, what’re you doing? You want them to see it was you driving?"
"Hell, no," Elvis said. "But I don't want to leave that girl lying out there on the street. He pulled his arm free and got out of the car. The rest of us followed.
The woman -- the girl was about 18. She was Black, with skin the color of milk chocolate and hair down to her shoulders in a mass of dark curly ringlets. She was wearing a short, sleeveless sundress that showed off her figure. Her body -- what I could see of it -- wasn't heavily bruised. When the car hit, she'd been knocked back against the curb and hit her head. I could see a trickle of blood running down into her hair.
Lamar checked her pulse. Then he put two fingers against the side of her neck. He'd been one of those field medics the Yanks used in Viet Nam. He looked up at Elvis with tears in his eyes. "She's dead, man. Dead."
"Marie -- Marie Michelle!" The voice was ragged with fear. A man came over and bent down beside the girl. It was the one she'd been talking to -- arguing with -- on the sidewalk. He was a lot older than her, but the resemblance was obvious. Her father or grandfather, I thought.
"I -- I am Auguste deSange. My granddaughter, how she is?"
Elvis stepped forward and bowed his head. "I'm very sorry, Mr. DeSange, but I think she's dead."
DeSange turned and looked at his granddaughter. He never touched her or even walked closer, but I got the impression that he was examining her somehow. He sank down against the car and began to sob. Then he recognized Elvis and straightened up. "Cochon! Bastard! You think you can do this because you such a big star? My Marie Michelle, you kill her!"
Elvis looked as if the man had hit him. "Sir, Mr. deSange, I'm very, very sorry. I -- she walked out in front of me. There was nothing I could do, no way to avoid hitting her."
"You kill her! You kill my granddaughter! You will pay! So much you will pay!"
Elvis started to say something, when we heard the siren. An ambulance someone must have called. Jerry Esposito yelled for Charlie and me to get him out of there. Elvis protested. He wanted to stay, but he knew Jerry was right. He let us push him into the car. Jerry stayed behind while Charlie drove us out of there. It was the only time Elvis ever let anybody else drive that car.
*****
Jerry Esposito showed up by cab about forty minutes after we got back to Graceland. He said a couple of other witnesses had backed up Elvis' story. The police wanted to see him later that afternoon to sign a statement, but that was all they wanted.
"What did they do with the girl?" Elvis asked.
"I don't know," Jerry said. "That old man -- the grandfather -- was really weird. The medics tried to put her in an ambulance to take her to a funeral parlor or something. He wouldn't let them. He told them to just take her into her house just up the block. The medics didn't want to, but he insisted. He swore at them in English _and_ French, he did. He said he was some kind of priest down in New Orleans. Finally, they did do what he wanted. One of the medics warned him to be careful; said the cops would get him on the health laws. He promised that the body would be gone by the morning. Then he gave me a look like death itself."
Elvis got very upset and began to pace. He wanted to track down deSange and try to explain again. He said that he would offer to pay all of the cost of getting the body back to New Orleans, pay for the funeral itself. If deSange wanted, he would even sing gratis at the funeral.
We could see how upset, how out of control he was getting. Lamar asked if he wanted a drink. Jerry said deSange was probably still too upset to appreciate the offer. In the morning, he'd have his office contact the man and offer whatever help was wanted.
That seemed to quiet Elvis somewhat. Somebody suggested a game of poker, and the five of us sat down to play in Elvis' dining room. Mostly, we just wanted to give Elvis something else to think about.
Now, I'm not a bad poker player, but these blokes were out for blood, even Elvis. I was soon very glad that the limit was fifty cents, about twenty-five p. back then, a hand. Even so, I was soon down by almost five pounds.
We'd been playing for an hour or so, when we suddenly heard the guard dogs barking. They sounded like they were after something, barking madly off at a distance. Then there was a loud yelp, and the barking stopped. "Cat," somebody said, and we all laughed.
A minute or two later, we heard a knock at the door. Charlie went to see who it was. I heard him scream and call for Elvis. "You okay, Charlie," Elvis called, but there was no answer. We all went to see what happened. Charlie was on the floor. He'd fainted dead away, and no wonder because the dead girl, Marie Michelle, was standing over him. DeSange was standing next to her with a truly evil smile on his face.
***** The Wheatsheaf Pub -- Wapping London -- October '99
"Wait a minute," Tom Walters said. "New Orleans, some baddie named deSange. Are you telling us that Elvis was killed by some voodoo zombie?"
"No," Billy said. "The zombie was as much for effect -- for shock value -- as anything else. Still it -- she -- _had_ to be there for what deSange had in mind."
***** Billy McNeil's Story -- Memphis -- August, 1977
We all took a look at the thing and tried to run. We couldn't. DeSange had done something to us somehow.
"The police, they say it was accident," deSange told us. His voice was low and even, almost without emotion. "Elvis would not do something like what you tell us, they say. Elvis is good man, they say." Now his voice was filled with emotion, with hate. "There is nothing we can do to Elvis, they say."
Elvis tried to speak, but deSange wasn't finished.
"Elvis kill my Marie Michelle, _I_ say. Elvis thinks he is too rich, too powerful to face justice, _I_ say." His voice was becoming shrill. "Elvis will face justice before something much, much more powerful than a _human_ judge." His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to fill with an inhuman anger. He just glared at Elvis, at all of us, for a moment.
Then he regained his self-control. "No," he said as if talking to someone, "that is the way of vengeance, not justice." He turned back to face us. "You will take us, all of us, to your inner sanctum, Elvis. To the place where you sleep, where you think you are safest. That is where you will receive your punishment."
Elvis tried to fight the command. We all did. It was no use. Elvis turned and led us up the stairs to his bedroom. DeSange and Marie Michelle, the zombie, followed at the end.
Once we were all in the bedroom, deSange had Elvis and the zombie stand in the center of the room. "Remove your clothes," deSange said. "You face your ends as naked and defenseless as you were at your beginnings."
Elvis and the zombie began to slowly take off all their clothing, tossing each item into a separate pile in front of them. I could see that Elvis was fighting it. His teeth were clenched and his body shook as he tried to regain control of it. Whatever he was trying, it didn't work.
In a few moments, the pair were both naked, a 42-year-old man standing there next to a teen-aged girl. Frankly, she was the much better show as far as I was concerned. There was no sign of the bruises that we'd seen before, more of deSange's work, I guessed. She was just standing there totally unaware of any of us, her female charms on full display for her paralyzed audience.
DeSange began to speak again. A little of what he said was in English and a bit more in French. That I could follow, but much of it was in a language that I'd never heard before -- and _never_ want to hear again. I got a feeling of things ancient, of demons that had ruled the world while our ancestors still hid in caves and barely knew fire. These were dark beings that came, now, to do justice as deSange directed them.
A strange yellow-green mist seemed to form in the air around Elvis and the girl. It gradually thickened to hide them. Before it had totally hidden them, I could see Elvis' body shrinking and growing darker. The girl seemed to be growing and becoming more muscular as her skin seemed to lighten.
The mist stayed there, surrounding and hiding the pair for what seemed like hours, though I later noticed that it had only been a few minutes. It hung there around the two of them, not moving at all, despite the air conditioners loudly humming away in the windows. Then it went away. It didn't drift off like a fog; it just faded away, losing color until it was just the air in the room. Elvis and the girl were still there. They looked exactly the same as they had when the mist appeared around them. Except they had switched positions. No, I realized, they had exchanged bodies.
"Elvis," I said aloud. I could talk, if not move about. The girl turned and looked at me. Then she looked down at her body. She was about to scream when deSange made some kind of weird gesture. Her face went blank. She walked over to where her clothes were, right in front of Elvis, and began to dress.
"Where does Elvis keep his night clothes," deSange said. Lamar pointed to a dresser against one wall. He seemed to be fighting the compulsion. “Th-there. Se -- Second drawer."
DeSange pointed to the dresser. Elvis -- his body anyway -- slowly moved to the dresser. He opened the drawer and pulled out a pair of white silk pajamas, which he slowly put on. Once he had the pajamas on, he picked up a brown robe that was draped over a chair. After typing the belt around his waist, he just stood there as if waiting for something.
Me, I watched Elvis dress him -- or her now, I supposed -- her pretty new body. She moved slowly as if half asleep or in a trance -- which, I guess, she was. Still, she put on those clothes as if she had always worn such things. She didn't even seem to have trouble with the bra. After she'd finished, her hands dropped to her sides. She stood there, too, just waiting for the next command.
DeSange saw that they had both finished. He pointed to the half-opened door to Elvis' bathroom. Elvis' body walked over and went into the bathroom. DeSange mumbled something and snapped his fingers. I heard a thud as something heavy hit the bathroom floor. "I could only keep my poor Marie Michelle alive for a short time, even in her new body. She will shortly be dead again, this time forever. If they investigate, it will seem as if her new body die of a heart attack."
'What about us,' I thought. 'We all know the truth.'
DeSange turned towards me. "What these others know now is not what they know five minutes after we leave. Elvis spend a quiet day at home. You talked, then you leave. After lunch, he go upstairs. Soon they find him dying or dead."
He gestured again. I watched as everyone else seemed to fall into a sort of trance. They just stood there a few moments, their eyes glazed, their faces drained of any emotion. Then, they all quietly turned and left.
"No one will remember that my Marie Michelle die. The police, they have no need to see Elvis."
My reporter's curiosity got the best of me. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Elvis must be punished for what he do, but I am not a cruel man. His life, his career, they are gone. He will need help -- someone to care for him -- while he make a new life. It cannot be his friends for they would help him be Elvis again. I will not do it -- I _can_ not do it -- for I grieve for my Marie Michelle, and I do not want a living reminder of her. That leave you."
"And if I refuse?"
"I think you will not. You are, I sense, a good man." He pointed to Elvis. "Tell her, tell her now -- if you can -- that you will not help her."
I looked over. Elvis didn't move. His -- her -- blank expression didn't change, and she was still staring off into space as if she didn't know that anyone else was in the room.
But she was crying, tears running down her face.
"I'll help," I said.
"Good." He handed me a purse that I would have sworn wasn't in his hands a moment before. "I give you Marie Michelle's life. The purse contains her birth certificate, her bankbook and her check book, her Social Security card, even her passport. You will need them. I have also put in $1,000 cash to help start her new life."
"But how can she ever adjust to her new body?"
"Her body will help her adjust. It has its own memory, and it will not let her disgrace herself by acting like a man."
"It'll force her to act like a woman, then?"
"No, not force her. It just will seem natural to her to act that way."
He walked over and took Elvis by the hand. He led her over to where I was standing. She still seemed to be in a trance, but her movements seemed much more graceful and feminine. He put her hand in mind. "I give her over to your care." There was a sudden noise from downstairs. "Now we must leave for the others, they begin to wake up."
We hurried downstairs and out of the mansion. There were two cars parked in the circular driveway, my rental car and an old black Cadillac. De Sange got in the other car, while I led Elvis -- Marie -- to mine. Somehow, all of my luggage from the hotel was in the back seat, along with a light blue suitcase that I didn't recognize. I helped Marie into the car. She seemed to be waking up, too, but she didn't say anything. She got into the car the way a woman would, sitting down with her dress tucked under her, then moving her feet into the car.
I thought about driving back to my motel, but as I started the car, I heard deSange's voice in my head. "You must take her far, far from this place." I drove straight to the airport. My ticket home was in my camera bag. I traded it for one on an immediate flight to London and bought a second ticket for Marie. Our plane left for London by way of New York within the hour.
We heard the first reports of Elvis' death during the layover in New York. Marie cried a little when she saw the papers, but so did a lot of people.
***** The Wheatsheaf Pub -- Wapping London -- October '99
Tom and Mike looked at Billy in disbelief.
"You're saying that Elvis didn't really die all those years ago?" Mike said. "He got turned into a girl, and you brought her back to London with you."
"Yes, but please don't tell anyone. Frankly, I'm rather surprised that you believe me."
"I'm still not sure I do, even though I've heard other stories just as strange," Tom said. "But, if it _is_ true, what happened to her after you two got to London?"
Before Billy could answer, a tall young man in his late teens burst into the pub. "Dad," he yelled. "Are you in here?"
"Over here, son," Billy called and waved him over.
"Mom said to tell you to stop hanging around with this lot and get yourself home."
Mike and Tom looked at the boy. He was tall and lanky with very closely cropped black hair. His skin was the color of coffee with cream. He was wearing the jacket of one of the local football clubs and a pair of jeans.
Mike noticed that he didn't look at all like Billy. Both men stared at him, imagining him with long black hair cut in a style from the 1950s and a sequined leather jacket.
Billy must have guessed what they were thinking. As he and his son turned to leave, he said, "A final joke of deSange's. My son, Aaron Jesse, looks just like his mother."
The End
Author's Note: There are bits of fact in this story.
Elvis was to leave at 11:30 PM for a concert the next day in Portland, Maine, the start of a new tour. Col. Parker, his manager, was in Portland the day of the story preparing for the concert.
Jerry Esposito, Elvis's road manager, is the man who found the body. Charlie Hodge was an acoustic guitarist who lived at Graceland. Lamar Fike was Elvis' music publisher. The three men were pallbearers at Elvis' funeral. Vester Presley, Elvis' uncle, was head of security at Graceland.
Elvis was found around 2:30 in the afternoon in his bathroom, wearing his pajamas and bathrobe. He was still alive, but unconscious and dying. A paramedic team that was summoned to the site could not revive him. The coroner's verdict was death due to heart attack.
Elvis' full name was Elvis Aron Presley. He had a twin brother, Jesse, who died at birth.
Tales from the Eerie Saloon
by Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson
by Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson
A desperate sheriff resorts to magic to stave off an attack from a vengeful gang of owlhoots. Can the bartender's potion prevent a massacre?
It's a long, dusty trail from the Territorial Prison to Eerie, Arizona.
Now the one-time badmen are faced with a life sentence - starting with being trained to work as saloon girls!
Eerie Saloon - High Noon, now on Kindle
Ellie and Chris are going to be releasing more of the Eerie Saga later this year through DopplerPress, so please everyone, if you buy from Amazon or have only just read the story here, please Leave a Comment on Amazon! It's important.
As the girls of the former Hanks Gang serve their 60 days at the Eerie Saloon, they begin to adjust to their new bodies and make new lives. This being the Old West, there's also a shootout, poker games, and a kidnapping.
Wilma, Jessie and Bridget have new opportunities but old ways of thinking, especially thinking of themselves as men, are hard to break. It's all a question of learning the new rules for how to live as women.
This is a fresh edit of the classic tale and we'll be publishing more of the Eerie Saga.
Don't forget to go to Amazon and leave a review if you enjoyed this or any other DopplerPress book. Here's a list of our latest: DopplerPress at Kindle.
Life has a way of happening when you stop paying attention to your troubles. The transformed women of the Hanks Gang have served their sentences and now must build new lives for themselves.
There are restaurants to run, poker hands to deal, blacksmiths and ranchers to...consider?
Romance rears its pretty head and other complications threaten tranquility. The new girl, Jane, presents special problems for her sister, Laura.
Everyone needs and wants a life partner, everyone has someone they want to ask to dance...
And here are the earlier two books: click image to order
Jessie Hanks is on the run from Eerie after the death of Toby Hess, but, as she discovers, there's some things a boy-turned-gal can't escape from. Most of all, from herself.
Sample from the original BigCloset version:
Chapter 1 -- "Riders in the Night"
"One... Two... Three!" Jessie Hanks yelled, as she swung the saddle back and forth, then upward. This time, it worked. The heavy saddle went over the top of the tethered horse, settling unevenly on the blanket on its back. "Finally!" she said, tugging at the blanket to straighten it. She quickly reached down and buckled the cinches around the horse's trunk fore and aft, pulling them as tightly as she could. She stood back and puffed. Hell, it had taken her four tries to get the damned thing on the horse; she hadn't had so much trouble with a saddle since she was twelve.
The horse, a brown gelding that Jessie was starting to call "Useless", snorted, as the cinches tightened. Luckily he didn't move very much because the pen was too narrow.
She looked at her slender arms and spat. Jesse Hanks had been able to saddle a horse by himself since he was ten. Now, as Jessie Hanks, a girl of about eighteen, she'd had to work hard just to lift the forty-pound saddle off the shed wall and onto the horse. Damn, and she hadn't even put the saddlebags on it yet.
Jessie decided to put the saddlebags on empty and load them afterwards, so she just tied them to the saddle. "C'mon, Useless," she said, as she picked up the oil lamp that she'd used for light. She opened the stall and used the bridal and reins to lead the horse back to Toby's cabin. She tied the reins to a post and went inside.
"Now I'm sorry you got your head bashed in," she said as she looked down at Toby Hess' body on the floor. I could have used some help with that saddle. I never thought you was good for anything more'n hard labor, you old bastard." She looked down at the body and shook her head. "With a rep like mine, they'll never believe it was self-defense. I'll hang for sure. Hell, they might just string me up and not even wait for a trial. I figure my only chance is to put as many miles as I can between me and that town."
Deciding she didn't like looking at him, she took the dusty canvas that lay against the wall and spread it over the corpse. "Anyhow, I'm sick and tire of being a damned slave at that Saloon."
"Much fun as it is talking to you, it ain't helping me get packed and get outta here. You'll smell as bad as you look, pretty soon, but that's the undertaker's problem." She looked around the cluttered, unkempt cabin. Most of what she wanted to take was already piled on the table. Now she sorted the goods into two heaps. The pistol -- and why the hell didn't the man have a holster for it, anyway? -- rifle, bullets for them both, a flint and steel fire starter kit, a small sharpening stone, can opener, hardtack, and some canned meat all went in one pile. A thick, wool blanket, a towel, Toby's other spare shirt, and a union suit went into the other.
The union suit was too big for her, but she could always roll up sleeves and legs. If she rode up into the mountains that she'd heard were there to the north, she'd probably need the extra warmth. She was already planning to wear Toby's jacket, but that was as much to make her look bigger as it was for heat.
Jessie was already wearing Toby's shirt and a spare pair of his pants. He'd ripped her dress and camisole to shreds on his ill-fated try at rape. She'd reacted by kneeing him where it would hurt the worst. He'd fallen backwards in pain and hit his head on the stone fireplace. The blow was fatal to him, though the fireplace seemed to be mostly intact.
She had tied up her long, blonde hair in a bun and tucked under the man's tan plainsman hat. She'd used the hairpin she'd been wearing to pin it tighter for the ride ahead.
She picked up the pistol and was about to tuck in under her belt when she had a second thought and stuck it in a jacket pocket. She'd found a knife, too, and she was already wearing it in a sheath clipped onto her belt.
The girl carried the items in each pile out to Useless and packed it in one of the saddlebags. She couldn't find a scabbard for the rifle, so it was tied to the left saddlebag; a small hatchet was in a scabbard attached to the right one. A second blanket, she rolled up and tied behind the saddle. She filled two canteens full of water and hung them down next to the hatchet.
She picked up the sock she'd found with money in it: two twenty dollar double eagles, a five dollar half eagle, and three dollars in folding money buried in a trunk with the clothes. This Jessie shoved into an inside jacket pocket, sock and all.
"Thanks for the loan," she said with a smile, looking at Toby's corpse. "What's that? Keep it? Why thanks! Thanks for nothing, you horny bastard." She grimaced with a twist of a smile. "'Course, maybe I owe you. If you hadn't dragged me outta town tied up like a sheep for your own lecherous purposes, I wouldn't be able to get away now."
"Then again, if you hadn't up n'died, I might not need to run. My sentence is up in..." She counted days in her head. "...hell, in a week or so, but with you dead, I might not even be alive by then."
For a moment, she thought about torching the cabin, but it'd take a little time and it might bring company, company that she didn't want. "Best to put some distance b'tween this place and me," she said aloud. "No telling who might be around. Hell, it's even money that there'll soon be folks out here from Eerie looking for me and Laura. Last thing I need is t'run into Shamus or that damned sheriff."
The thought of Laura Meehan made her pause for a moment. If Toby took her, then Laura was probably with his idiot partner, Jake Steinmetz. Toby had told her once that Jake had a cabin a few miles away from his. 'Maybe I should try'n find her,' she thought.
"Why the hell waste the time?" she answered herself. "It ain't like she's kin; we ain't hardly even friends." She remembering the way Laura had palled around with Maggie and Bridget, and mostly just sent dirty looks her way. "We only just rode together a few days before we come t'Eerie. Besides, I don't even know which way that other cabin is. Sorry, Laura, m'girl," she said with a shake of her head, but it's every man for himself. Besides, they ain't gonna be looking t'hang you."
She locked the door to the cabin behind her, leaving the oil lamp still burning inside. "Let'm think somebody's there, so they waste time trying t'get in."
Jessie had learned to ride on her father's old plow horse when she was a boy, so now she had no trouble mounting Useless, as big as he was. Once in the saddle, she looked around once. She knew she was in the mountains somewhere north of town. She looked up and found the "Drinking Cup" in the night sky and followed the handle to the North Star. She planned on riding in that general direction for the rest of the night.
"Look out, World, cause Jessie Hanks is back," She yelled into the night, louder than she'd planned. The echoes coming back out of the darkness prickled her hair. Determined to make it deep into the rough before sunup, she whipped the reins, letting go with her right hand to slap Useless' rump. The horse reared and took off at full gallop.
Again Jessie had overestimated her own strength, and the reins almost pulled out of her left hand. She clenched them hard enough to turn her knuckles white, while Useless galloped through the woods. She ducked this way and that, dodging branches and hoping she wouldn't fall -- or be knocked off his back. Useless didn't respond to Jessie's shouts of "Whoa!" any more than to any of the other words she yelled -- some of them much bluer.
All the while, the fugitive girl kept grabbing for the reins with her right hand. She finally caught it and pulled back as hard as she could. She braced herself in the stirrups, leaning back until it almost felt like she was lying down.
Useless slowed from a gallop to a trot, and Jessie sat up. She thought she'd be able to control him well enough at this speed. She sighed with relief; then she looked down at her arms. She'd had to roll the sleeves of Toby's jacket over twice, so her hands -- her damnable weak, _pretty_, little hands wouldn't get lost in them. "I'll get my old body back, so help me I will," she said through gritted teeth, "and when I do..."
{end sample}
Read the rest of Jessie Hanks, Outlaw Queen on Kindle!
And here's a link to the other books in the series you may have missed:
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change - Autumn
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson (c)2005
Part 1 - October
Saturday, September 30, 1871
"You made it, Jessie," Paul said, walking over. "I told you it'd --"
Jessie interrupted Paul by throwing her arms around him and thrusting her lips against his. She ended the kiss almost immediately when the room broke into laughter and applause, and when she could sense Paul's embarrassment. "I'd better thank you later," she said in a husky voice. Then she looked at the crowd of men gathering around her and winked at Paul. Relief made her feel playful. "Unless one of these fine gentlemen makes me a better offer."
"Better than this?" Paul scooped her into his arms and kissed her again, with all the feeling he could put into it.
Jessie felt a rush of heat throughout her body. She trembled, remembering what had happened when he had kissed her like this the night before. She wanted that to happen again.
"Looks like somebody changed her mind about men."
Jessie turned quickly and saw..."Wilma." Now all the heat was concentrated in Jessie's reddening face. "I... This wasn't what it looked like." She pushed herself away from Paul.
"Looked t'me like you was kissing the deputy there," Wilma said. "More 'n that, it looked t'me like you liked doing it." She smiled, happy to have caught Jessie with Paul. "If it wasn't that, what was it?"
Jessie studied the floor. "It was my own business, I'd say."
"'Bout time you seen the light." Wilma slapped her heartily on the back. "I'll tell 'the Lady', and you can come over and work with me as soon as your term here in the saloon is up." She let out a laugh. "The Hanks boys... girls... together again. Look out, Arizona. They'll be lining up for miles."
Jessie shook her head. "Forget it, Wilma. One little kiss don't mean I'm ready to... to join you over at La Parisienne."
"I think you're both being a bit premature, ladies," Milt interrupted. "You... ah... you still have 40 days to serve, Jessie, before you're a free woman like your sister."
"Free?" Wilma said with a sly show of indignation. "I ain't free. Lady Cerise charges plenty for me - you just ask anybody." She winked. "They'll all tell you I'm worth it, though. Better yet, lawyer man, why don't you just come by yourself." She looked him up and down, her eyes pausing just below his waist. "We can discuss your bill for getting Jessie off." She ran her tongue along her upper lip. "I'll bet a man like you is real good at getting a gal off."
Milt's face grew beet red. "I'll just send you the bill, Miss Hanks." He tugged at his collar. "I... ah... think I... uhh, I-I need a drink just now." He looked around, and then all but ran for the bar.
"I bet he will, too." Wilma pouted. "And that's a damn shame; he is one handsome man." Playing with a man was always fun, even if it didn't lead to a session in bed. "Well, there's always hope. Them shy ones can be a whole lot of fun, once they loosen up a little. I expect you'll be finding that out soon enough, little sister. " She paused a beat. "If you ain't already."
"Wilma... I..." Jessie sputtered. "Can you slow down long enough for me to thank you for hiring that lawyer?"
"Sure I can. You're welcome."
"Hell, Wilma, I didn't even say it yet."
"So say it already. I was trying t'save time. I figured you'd want t'be getting back to t'kissing that deputy of yours."
"He's not my deputy."
"You done with him already?" She gave Paul a long look, her eyes stopping again just below his waist. "He's right handsome, too, but I don't know as I like you taking up with a lawman."
"Wilma, you stop talking like that." Jessie felt a cold wetness on her palms. Did Wilma know what she and Paul had done? No, she decided, her big sister was just playing games.
"Don't know why I should, Jessie. I heard what you said before about 'better offers.' If you don't want the deputy, why don't you go kiss a few of the boys here in the Saloon? See which of 'em you like kissing; some of 'em are pretty good at it."
"I... I couldn't." She wished she sounded more certain.
"Sure you could. Then we can compare notes on 'em the next time I come over for a visit. I don't think ol' Shamus is gonna let you leave the place again none too soon."
Before Jessie could answer, Wilma glanced over at the clock. "Dang, I'd love t'stay here and talk to you some more, Jessie, but we open up soon." She smiled, her eyes half closed for a moment. "I gotta go put on my working clothes."
"That shouldn't take too long," Jessie muttered, glad that the embarrassment was about to end, and trying to score a point in their verbal duel.
"It don't. And I can take 'em off even faster." She giggled softly at her joke. "It's a skill worth learning, Jessie, believe me." She paused again. "And I bet you will, soon enough. Bye now." She turned and walked slowly out of the Saloon, smiling at the thought of how many men were watching her hips sway as she walked.
Jessie was watching, too. "Damn, she always knew how t'get me riled, all the way back to when we was kids in Texas."
"Ye'll get yuir chance to rile her back soon enough," Shamus said from behind her. "And in the meantime, ye can go into the kitchen and help Maggie with the free lunch. Nothing like a wee bit of work to be taking yuir mind off yuir troubles."
Jessie wanted to chase after Wilma and continue the argument, or - better - to stay there with Paul, but the voice of the potion didn't give her the choice. Her hands clenched into fists, as she slowly walked towards the kitchen door.
* * * * *
"Lemme buy you a drink, Paul," Blackie Easton offered, moving in next to him.
"Hi, Blackie," Paul said. "What's the occasion that you're buying?"
"What's the occasion?" Blackie slapped Paul heartily on the back. "Don't be so modest. You've done gone and tamed her, Paul. You tamed that pretty hellion, Jessie Hanks."
"I didn't tame anybody," Paul said. "She's still her own woman. She just came around to the idea that she was a woman." He smiled, remembering the night before. "And started to cotton to the idea."
Blackie grinned wickedly and nudged Paul in the ribs. "I won't ask how you managed that... you lucky bastard, you."
Paul stiffened. Did anybody - did everybody - really know what he and Jessie had done? Paul didn't enjoy the thought of folks snickering at him, and he was damned sure that Jessie would like it a whole lot less. The last thing he wanted was for her to get jittery about their relationship, especially with the way Wilma had just been ragging her.
"Blackie," he said finally. "You're always welcome to buy me a drink, but I can't say that I like what you're thinking."
"You don't... are you saying that you didn't... that nothing happened between you two out there on the trail back to Erie? After what I... what we all just saw Jessie do to you?"
Paul thought quickly. "Blackie, I won't deny that something happened on the trail. Jessie and I kissed, and we both liked it, liked it a lot. But I can honestly say that what you think happened out there didn't happen." He smiled; a red herring was better than no fish at all. "I was wishing it would, especially after we kissed, but nothing like that came even close to happening the whole damned way back here."
That was it. Now the question was if Blackie would catch the hint and ask what happened after they got back.
"Danged if I don't believe you," Blackie said. "I suppose if it didn't happen, it wasn't for you not wanting it to." He shrugged. "Whatever you did do sure worked, though. She's a whole different woman. Hell, I'll still be happy to buy you that drink."
The lie worked. Paul sighed in relief. "And I'll be happy to drink it."
* * * * *
"I'm a girl. I'm a girl." Jessie stared into the mirror as she sat in her room at the Saloon, combing her hair and repeating the phrase as Shamus had ordered. Before, it had always seemed to like an extra punishment. Now that Paul had helped her to discover what it really meant to be a girl - she caught herself smiling as she said it.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" Jane's voice from the doorway broke Jessie's happy train of thought. Jane's voice was angry, almost shrill.
Jessie put down the brush. "You heard what the Judge said. I got me 30 days more added on to my time t'serve. Where else would I be?"
"Thirty days," Jane spat out the words. "You killed Toby, and you get a whole thirty days. You shoulda hung for it."
"The jury didn't think so - neither did the Judge. They thought... you been a girl long enough; you should know by now that a gal's got a right t'fight back when some man's trying to... to rape her."
"I ain't no gal. Besides, you're lying. Toby didn't try... you led him on, you... you shameless harlot. You're no... no better than your sister, a pair of whores, the both of you."
Jessie stood up slowly, fists clenched. "You take that back."
"I won't; whore... whore... whore!"
Jessie growled low in her throat and threw herself at Jane. They grappled a few minutes, and Jessie realized her mistake. Jane was taller and much stronger than she was, every bit as strong as Laura. 'But she ain't a fighter,' Jessie thought. 'She ain't used to scrapping, especially as a woman.'
Jessie was, though, so she decided to teach Steinmetz some manners. She stuck her leg deftly between Jane's and pushed, tripping the taller woman. Jane let out a yell and fell to the floor, but she reacted quickly and pulled Jessie down with her. Jessie snarled as they grappled; this wasn't going to be as easy as she'd hoped.
The two women rolled around, screaming at each other. Jessie was trying to scratch Jane's face. Jane was fighting her off, even while she tried to pull at Jessie's hair. They knocked over a chair and rolled hard enough against the table that Jessie's brush was knocked off and fell to the floor.
"What in the name of all the saints..." Molly took one look at the pair of them scuffling on the floor and yelled from the doorway, "Shamus, ye get up here and be double quick about it."
Shamus was at the doorways in an instant. "What's - stop that, you two. Jane... Jessie, ye stop fighting right now and stand up." His voice was firm - and loud enough to be heard over the women's shouting.
It was a direct order; the pair had no choice but to obey. They stopped their struggling and rolled apart. Then both got slowly to their feet, each glaring at the other.
"Now what the Sam Hill was the two of ye doing?" Shamus asked.
"I just came in, and she up and attacked me for no reason," Jane said, trying to look hurt. "I said she was dangerous after what she done t'Toby."
"Like hell!" Jessie said angrily. "She called me a whore and said that I should hang for what I... for what happened to Toby."
"See there, she admitted it. She killed --"
"Quiet," Shamus yelled. Jane's mouth snapped shut.
"Ha!" Jessie said.
"You, too, Jessie." Shamus added. "I was afraid that something like this would happen. Jessie, ye and yuir friends could always fight each other, and Jane's the same way, I'm thinking." He sighed. "So, I'll be making meself clear as crystal. Jessie and Jane, ye can NOT try to be hurting each other physically; no attacks, no booby traps, no asking somebody else t'be doing it for ye." He paused a second for effect. "Understood."
Neither answered. Jessie pointed to her mouth and mumbled.
"Oh, yes," Shamus said. "Ye can talk again. Now, do ye understand what I'm saying to ye?"
"Yes, Shamus," they said in unison.
"Good," Shamus said. "Ye can insult each other till the cows come home. Maybe that'll let off the steam ye're both feeling right now."
Then Jane added, "but But that don't mean she has t'share a room with me, do it."
"It surely does," Shamus said. "The town's only paying me for one bedroom for me prisoners. The only way either of ye'll have yuir own room is if somebody's paying me for it."
"I can pay," Jane said quietly.
"Can ye now?" Shamus asked. "And how would ye be doing that?"
"At the claim... there's... I can pay. Why do you need to know how? Just let me go up to my claim, and I'll get however much money you want." Jane looked angrily at Jessie. And at Shamus.
"Let ye go up to that claim of yours?" Shamus said in surprise. "The last time a prisoner of mine got up there, we had to send Paul after her. Didn't we, Jessie?"
He looked at Jessie, and she glared back at him. He smiled at her and shook his head. "No, ye'll stay in town, and, if ye haven't the money for yuir own room, then ye and yuir new roommate will be stopping this nonsense and getting ready for this evening's work."
He turned to leave, then stopped as a thought occurred to him. "And they'll be no wrecking what belongs to the other, besides what I told ye before." The two women nodded, and Shamus left.
* * * * *
Molly was waiting for Shamus downstairs, a glass of beer in her hand. Shamus took a long drink; after dealing with those two hellions, he needed one. Then he told Molly what had happened upstairs.
"While ye were at it, why didn't ye tell them not to insult each other?" she asked.
Shamus took another drink; "For the same reason I let Wilma and Laura be rude to each other that one time when they was our prisoners. Because I'll not be telling a person how to talk. It won't hurt nothing, and it'll give them a chance to get thuir feelings out. They might even get over their mad someday."
"Aye, they might, in a month of somedays." She smiled at her own pun. "They must love having to be living together, too. How'd they take that bit o'news?"
"About as well as ye might expect. Jane even offered to pay for her own room."
"With what?"
"She says that she's got more than money enough up at that claim of hers. As if I'd be letting her go up there after what happened with Jessie."
"But if she has the money..."
"If she does - and she says she does - she can keep it. A warden doesn't let his charges go traipsing across the countryside on errands. He don't give 'em separate rooms either... unless thuir's bars for the walls of them rooms."
"I suppose ye're right."
"I am." Shamus finished the beer in another long drink. "Now let's be getting back to the running of this here saloon."
Ozzie Pratt folded his newspaper at the next table, a weekly "boilerplate" edition of the Tucson itizen e produced on contract at his print shop. "So Jane does have money." He mumbled under his breath. "Thank you, Shamus. It's always gratifying to have one's suspicions confirmed." He decided that it might be time to visit Josiah Whitney's barbershop for a haircut and shave and some of that nice bay rum tonic after.
Sam Braddock, sitting two tables away and losing a poker hand to Bridget, had the same idea.
* * * * *
Jessie glanced nervously around the Saloon. 'Where the hell is Paul?' she thought. "Shamus is already selling dance tickets."
A voice suddenly broke into her thoughts. "Jessie, would you like to dance?" Joe Ortlieb stood before her, hopefully holding a ticket up for her to see.
"Of course," Jessie said, trying not to sound disappointed. She took his ticket and tucked into the pocket of her starched white apron.
Joe took her hand and led her out into the open area that served as the dance floor. They were quickly joined in turn by Marty Hernandez and Maggie, Ozzie Pratt and Jane, Davy Kitchner and Molly, and, finally, Sam Braddock and Bridget.
As they waited for the music start, Jessie noticed that she didn't mind holding Joe's hand. 'Rather it was Paul's, though,' she thought. She suddenly remembered thinking of Joe when she had taken that shower bath in the rain, while she was on the run. She remembered, too, what she'd been doing to herself at the time, and she felt a warmth in her cheeks, the beginnings of a blush.
Shamus gave the signal, and the band began to play.
The first dance was a slow waltz. Joe took Jessie in his arms. "Before you ran off, you flirted with me to get into that big fight and make trouble for Shamus. You remember that?"
"I-I do." What was he leading up to? Was he still angry for being tricked?
"Well, now that you're back, I hope you'll be acting more like a lady."
"I... I will," Jessie said. She wasn't certain what she was letting herself in for, dancing with him.
"Good," Joe said with a smile. "Then I'll treat you like one." They began to move to the music.
The phrase "Treat you like a grown woman" echoed suddenly in Jessie's mind. Jessie felt Joe's arm around her waist, pulling her body to him. Her breasts were pressed against his chest. "Oh, my," was suddenly all she could manage to say.
* * * * *
Shamus handed Molly a beer as she came off the dance floor. "Ye seemed t'be enjoying yuirself out there with Hans Euler."
"I was, Love... and thanks for the beer," Molly answered, taking a long sip. She had seen that it was the real beer Hans and his brother brewed, and not the "near-beer" Shamus normally gave to the other women during working hours. Hans seldom paid to drink his own product. He was off, edging his way into the crowd of potential partners around Bridget.
"Och, thuir'll be time enough for that fake stuff later. This was just to say thanks again for filling in while Laura's still away."
"A honeymoon's a special time in a young girl's life. I'd hate to be having to ask her cut it short, just so we had enough girls for the dancing tonight."
"Lucky there was another pretty lass to be filling in." He gently put his hand on hers.
"I thank ye for that, Love, but it's been a long time since our own honeymoon."
"Seems like it was just last week. Time flies when ye find the right person to spend it with." He squeezed her hand.
"Then come out from behind that bar and spend some of it dancing with me."
"I'd love to, me darlin', but with ye out there, I'm shorthanded enough. I can't be asking R.J. to carry the load by himself, even for the little while."
Molly looked around. "Then ask Ramon to." She pointed to him, slowly sipping a beer at a table, as he watched the dancers. He can handle the money, sell the tickets. It surely beats just sitting there the way he is, poor thing, waiting for a turn to be dancing with Maggie."
* * * * *
"How's the evening going, Jane?" Sam Braddock asked, when he finally got a chance to dance with her. "You look like something's troubling you."
"Darn straight, there is," Jane snapped.
"That bad? What is it?"
"It's that... it's Jessie. It's bad enough they let her off for what she done t'Toby with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Now Shamus says she gets to sleep in my room... my room."
"That don't seem very fair. Did you talk t'him about it?"
"I did, and he didn't want to even listen to me."
'Better and better,' Sam thought. He gave her his best smile. "He don't really care about you, Jane. You're just a way to make money for him. If you want to talk, you need to talk to somebody that cares about you."
"You mean like my sister, Laura?"
"If Laura cared about you, she'd be here now, wouldn't she? I don't see her around here anywhere. Do you?"
"She just got married. She's on her honeymoon."
"Like I said, she ain't here. She cares more about some ol' husband of hers than she does her own sister."
"Nobody cares about me that much then, I guess." She swallowed hard and blinked dewy eyes.
"And you'd be guessing wrong, Jane. 'Cause I do."
"You... you do?"
"Hell, I'm here, ain't I?" He pulled her into his arms as the music began.
* * * * *
"Hi, Jess," Paul Grant said cheerily. "Miss me?"
Jessie's eyes flashed. "A little, but I had Joe Ortlieb and Blackie Easton and a few other boys t'keep me busy." She smiled, her eyes half-closed. "Those fellers really know how to treat a lady."
"I'll bet." Paul cocked an eyebrow. Jessie still liked teasing people. There was a lot of spirit left in this mustang, even if the bit was between her teeth these days. "Well, I'm here now."
"So I notice." She took the ticket he was holding and put it in her pocket. "You sure wasn't here before."
Paul grinned. "Been looking for me, were you?"
"No... I was just... where you been all night anyway?"
"Working. I switched off with Dan at 11 and came right over."
The music started, an energetic mazurka that put an end to their talking. It also meant that Paul wouldn't hold Jessie in his arms as much as he would have with a waltz or even a polka. 'Maybe Shamus'll forget 'bout his no two dances in a row rule,' Jessie thought. 'Seeing as Paul wasn't here till just now.'
When the music stopped, Hiram King, leader of the Happy Days Town Band, took off his accordion. He put it down on his stool and called out, "Folks, we're gonna take a break for about fifteen minutes. Why don't you all do like we're gonna do and have yourselves a drink."
Most of the crowd headed for the bar. Shamus scurried ahead of them, having left a tray of beers for the musicians. Molly ran over, too. She took up position with Shamus and R.J. behind her own section of the bar and began to pour drinks.
"You... ah... want a beer?" Paul asked, looking warily at the thick mass of people scrambling for drinks.
Jessie shook her head. "Not really, but some fresh air would sure be nice." She took a chance. "There's benches and such out in Molly's garden... out behind the Saloon."
"Lead on." He took her hand in his, and they walked around the edge of the crowd towards the kitchen.
* * * * *
"Now what exactly were you doing with Joe Ortlieb and Blackie Easton and those other boys before I got here?" Paul asked. He was sitting next to Jessie on a low, whitewashed bench set against the back wall of the Saloon. It was out of sight of the kitchen door, the same place where Bridget had discovered Wilma and Clay Falk two weeks before.
Jessie moved in a bit closer to him. "What do you think I did?" He had one arm loose around her waist. She put her hand on his.
"If I knew that, I wouldn't ask."
"We danced. We talked." She giggled. "They held me in their arms."
"You like that, Jess, being in a man's arms?"
"Mmmm, depends on the man. It was... yes." She giggled again. "Yes... all right, I did like it. But I... I'm not out here with Joe or Blackie, am I?" She turned and looked him in the eye. It was a clear challenge.
He ran a finger along her cheek. "No... no, you ain't." He took her head in his hands and kissed her.
Jessie hesitated a moment. Then she kissed him back. Her nipples were hard. It astonished her how easily and how quickly the nearness of him could arouse her.
Their tongues dueled sweetly. At the same time, their hands explored each others' bodies. Jessie's body flesh tingled as she ran her fingers across Paul's broad shoulders and muscular back. At the same time she felt his fingers exploring her narrow waist and the curve of her hips.
When they broke the kiss, she looked up at him, her eyes glistening. "Shame we got all these clothes on, ain't it?" She reached over and impishly began working the top button of his shirt.
Paul reached up and took her hands in his. "Worse shame is, they gotta stay on." He paused for a moment. "For now, anyway."
"Why?" She sounded confused and a little hurt. "Don't you want to..."
"As much as you do, Jess." He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "But we only got ten... fifteen minutes. Then they're gonna come looking for us. I don't want to put on a show for half the town. Do you?"
"We could go somewhere? Back t'your room, maybe?"
"You're a prisoner, Jess, much as I hate to say it. I can't take you away from the Saloon. Besides, Dan's on duty. As like as not, he's over at the jail right now. I don't think I can just walk you past him and into my room."
"What're we gonna do then?"
"I'll try and think of a way we can... be together without everybody knowing it. I expect you'll do the same. In the meantime..." he pulled out his pocket watch, "... we still got a good ten minutes out here."
* * * * *
Sunday, October 1, 1871
"Hey, Milt, c'mere."
Milt Quinlan turned. Jane was waving to him from the sidewalk in front of the Eerie Saloon. She held a long-handled straw broom in her other hand. 'Cleaning up from last night's dance,' he thought.
He tuned and walked over to her. "Good morning, Jane."
"Morning, yourself. I got a question for you."
"I wasn't sure that I was still your lawyer. I - ah... I assume that this is a legal question."
"It is. I still ain't happy about you being that oman's awyer, though."
Milt sighed. "I told you, Jane, and more than once, I'm the lawyer for - look, do you want to argue or do you want to ask me something?"
"Both. But I'll ask the question first. I been waiting since yesterday t'ask it. You left right after the trial, and you never come back, not even for the dance. Come t'think of it, I ain't never seen you at the dance. Why is that, anyway? Don't you like t'dance?"
"I - ah, I'm not a very good dancer." Milt tugged at his collar. "I don't want embarrass myself."
"Not a good dancer? Don't let that stop you. Half the fellas I dance with can't dance worth spit." She considered him for a minute. "Why don't you come by next Saturday? I'll dance with you, no matter how bad y'are."
"I... ah... is that what you wanted to... umm... ask me, to come to the dance?"
"That? Hell... 'scuse me, heck, no - Shamus don't like for us t'curse. I was wondering if you could tell Shamus t'gimme my own room."
"Is there a problem with the room you're in now?"
"Yeah, there is. It's got this big rat sleeping in there with me."
"A rat? Why not just ask Shamus to set a trap, or, better yet, get a cat. There's enough stray cats in this town. Besides, it probably won't stay in any one room."
"Sure, she will. She likes sleeping in that bed there by the window."
"Bed? Oh, you mean Jessie."
"Course I do. What other rat you know in this town?"
"I'm not sure that I agree with your characterization, but I'll... I'll ask Shamus about your room."
"Ask? I already done that. He says he won't do give me my own room unless I can pay for it. I ain't got the money right now."
"What do you expect me to do, then? There's no legal reason I can think of to make him move you."
"You can tell him I'm good for the money. I... I can pay him once I get out."
"I... I can't do that, Jane."
"You... you can't." She looked like she'd just been slapped. "Don't you trust me no more. I said I had the money. I do, honest."
"I believe you, Jane, but I can't do anything more than tell Shamus that I think you'll be able to pay. I don't think that he'll take my word for it any more than he'd take yours."
"You got all them big words when you want t'use them. You made that jury believe they should let Jessie off, but you won't use them t'help me. I... I thought that was what a lawyer did, talk people into doing things they don't want to do."
"Jane, I said I'd talk to Shamus, but I can't make him do what he doesn't want to do. He has every right to protect his own interests."
"'Every right', well, the hell with you." She turned and briskly walked away.
Milt watched her go. He sighed and shook his head. "Some... clients are more trouble than they're worth. Still..." He shrugged. "I'll talk to Shamus this afternoon. Maybe I can work something out."
* * * * *
Red Tully saw Jane hurry into the Saloon, looking almost ready to cry. "Something wrong, Jane?" He put down his drink and walked over to her.
"I... I asked Milt Quinlan - he's my lawyer, you know, for some help, and he said he couldn't do nothing t'help."
"That prissy little..." he put an arm around her shoulder and tried not to let her see him smile. "Next time you need a favor, you come t'your old friend, Red. I can't promise I'll be able t'do what ya want, but I sure as hell'll give it a try."
* * * * *
Roscoe Unger walked over to the bar. "Is Miss Maggie around, R.J.?" Roscoe was a tall slender man, in his early twenties, with neatly combed, sandy brown hair.
"'Fraid not, Roscoe," R,J. said. "What do you need her for?"
"She has a deal with Mr. Pratt. We print up the menus for the week, and she gives us supper one night during the week. Mr. Pratt's a lot better printer than he is a cook." he made a sour face. "We all make out pretty good by it. Anyway, I came to pick up the copy for this week's menus."
"You'll have to come back... unless you want to wait. These days, Maggie takes her kids to church on Sunday mornings. Josh Whitney's wife, Carmen, watches Maggie's kids Saturday night, while she works here at the dance, so then she makes late Sunday breakfast for them all."
He pulled out his pocket watch. "It's noon, now. She should be in by 1 PM." He made a motion as if to draw a beer. "You're more than welcome to wait."
"No... A beer'd be nice, but I don't think so. Mr. Pratt isn't going to want me to spend his time drinking. I'll come back in an hour or so."
"You surely do admire that boss of yours."
"R.J., Mr. Pratt gave me a job when I gave up on my claim and was ready to go back east with my tail between my legs and not enough money to get home on. I'm learning a trade, a good one, too. Why shouldn't I admire the man?"
"I don't know. He just struck me as an odd duck, kind of cold and using all those big words."
He's not the easiest man to get to know - I still can't say I do after over a year working for him. And you can't blame a man for being educated. I wish I was half as good at words as he was."
"I suppose that's true. I'll see you in an hour, but I don't think I'll tell Maggie you're coming."
"Why not?"
"'Cause I don't think that your Mr. Pratt would mind you having a beer while you waited for Maggie to write out her menus." He winked. "See you in an hour."
* * * * *
Monday, October 2, 1871
"Well, now," Molly said happily, "will ye look at who's back." She rushed out from behind the bar and gave Laura a big hug, almost lifting the younger woman off the ground.
"You almost sound surprised," Laura said, trying to catch her breath after Molly let her go. "You know that Shamus and I agreed on a three-day honeymoon."
"I was there when ye agreed to it, wasn't I? I just thought that ye might have... other things on yuir mind." She gave a broad wink.
Laura's face reddened. "I was a little... pre-occupied, but I'm a woman of her word. Said I'd be back Monday, and here I am."
"Sure'n I think that's the first time I've heard ye call yuirself a woman, at least not without stumbling." She laughed. "But then I'm sure Arsenio spent the last three days reminding ye of what ye are."
Now it was Laura's turn to laugh. "He certainly has a fine way of tweaking my... memory." She looked around, not sure that she wanted anyone to hear the way she was talking.
"Ye can relax, Laura. If there was anyone close enough to be hearing us, I'd not be teasing ye so about yuir honeymoon."
"I should hope not."
"After all, us old married women have to be sticking together." She winked.
"Maybe so, but we both sounded more like Wilma than a pair of 'old married women.'"
"Perhaps that's because we're all interested in the same thing." Molly winked. "We married women are just the lucky ones, being with somebody we truly care about."
"I don't know about that. I don't know that I ever saw much affection between my sister, Elizabeth, and her husband, Theo."
"What ye see people do in public ain't always the way things are, ye know. Some people don't like to be showing the world how they feel."
"I guess not. So... where is everybody?"
"Ye know how slow things get on Monday morning. Shamus is in the office doing the books, and R.J. don't come in till noon. Maggie and Jessie --"
Laura's eyes narrowed. "Oh, yeah; how's she adjusting to being back here instead of running free? She ever say why she did come back? I... ah, went home right after the trial."
"Ye'll have t'be asking her yuirself why she come back. As t'how she's doing, I'd have t'be saying that she's fit back into things like she never left."
Laura glanced around the room. "Where is she then?"
"Like I was saying, she's out in the kitchen, helping Maggie with the Free Lunch. Ye can say yuir hellos when ye go in to get an apron. Don't be too long at it, though. This place needs a good sweeping up, and ye, m'girl, are just the one to be doing it."
"I'll get right to it, then. Where's Jane by the way?" Laura looked around warily this time. She wasn't sure how ready she was to see her "sister."
"Upstairs cleaning the rooms. I should be warning ye. Jane still wants Jessie dead for killing Toby. They can't fight - Shamus' orders - but, if looks could kill, the pair of them would've been dead yesterday."
Laura sighed. "And I'll be right in the line of fire."
* * * * *
Tuesday, October 3, 1871
Maggie spooned another measure of coffee into the pot - Shamus liked it strong in the morning - and set the pot on the stove. She was getting eggs out of the cooler, when she heard a voice behind her.
"Morning, Maggie. What's for --" Shamus stopped and looked at the empty space on the worktable. "Hmm, I'm guessing breakfast won't be ready for a while yet."
"I am sorry, Shamus," Maggie said. She set the bowl full of eggs down on the table. "Ernesto could not find one of his books for school. Then Lupe... Never mind, I am sorry. It is my fault, not my children's."
"No, it's mine, if ye think about it. I knew that bringing them children up here to live with ye would surely be a distraction." He chuckled and scratched his head. "Come to think of it, that's why I done it." He looked around the kitchen. "Where is Lupe, anyway?"
"She wanted to pick some flowers - from out in your yard - to go onto the breakfast table."
"Well, that'll make for a nice bit of color." He paused a moment. "She does know the difference between the flowers for color and the herbs and such things that me Molly has growing out there, don't she?"
"Si, she does. Molly showed her. Besides, the garden that Molly has is very much like the one that my sister, Juana, has down in Mexico." She sighed. "It is just as well that she is outside. She likes to help, but, when I am in a hurry..." she let the words hang.
"Aye, that's the way that it is with wee ones. They can be getting in the way, even when they're trying to be a help."
"Especially when they try to help. Lupe loves to cook. She wants to learn all about it as quickly as she is able."
"If she has half yuir gift for it, she'll be a fine cook someday. For now, I think I'll be sending Jane in to help ye."
"That would be good. I think that Jane, too, has a bit of a gift for cooking. And, by the way, Shamus..."
"Aye?"
"We are having coffee, scrambled eggs, toast - toast takes less time than biscuits do - and honey butter for breakfast."
"Now that's a breakfast worth a bit of a wait. I'll have Jane in here in just a wee minute t'be helping ye."
* * * * *
Red Tully looked up confidently from his cards. "How about a drink, Bridget? Marty? I'm buying." He made a gesture to signal for a waitress. "Raise you a dime."
"No, thanks, Red." She glanced down at her cards, then smiled. "I think I'd better keep my wits about me. You're too good a player." She tossed in a couple chips. "See you and raise another dime."
Marty Hernandez sighed and put down his cards. "Fold. You got enough of my money, Red. You might as well buy me a beer."
Before Red could say anything, Jessie stepped up to the table. "Hi, Red, what can I get for you?"
"Why don't you just take him upstairs, Hanks? You know you wanna."
Jessie looked over her shoulder and frowned as soon as she recognized the speaker. "Go away, Jane."
Jane had followed Jessie over, even though the pitcher of beer and three glasses on her tray were for a table halfway across the room.
Bridget placed her cards face down and gently put her hand on Jessie's arm. "Ignore her, Jessie. She'll been gone in a minute."
"Will not," Jane said. "I'll be right here telling everybody what sort of person Miss Jessie Hanks really is."
"You don't know that many words," Jessie answered.
"Stop it, the both of you," Bridget said.
"No, I won't" Jane said stubbornly. "I got as much right as anybody else t'say what I think."
"Not at my table." Bridget stood up and rested her hands on the table. In a loud voice, she said, "Shamus, would you come over here, please."
Shamus came out from behind the bar and quickly walked over. "What's the problem, Bridget?"
"That one..." she tilted her head towards Jane "is bothering my waitress and annoying me and my players."
"Is she now?" He scowled and turned towards Jane. "Ye'll apologize, lass, and I mean now."
Jane squirmed. "I-I'm sorry, Bridget... Red and Marty. I-I didn't mean to ruin your poker game."
"Very good," Shamus said, "but they ain't the only ones you need to apologize to. Tell Jessie ye're sorry, too."
"No, I..." Jane shook her head. It was the last thing that she wanted to do, but the potion didn't give her a choice. "I-I'm sorry, Jessie. I-I'm sorry that... that you're all them things I said you was."
"That's not what I meant, Jane, and ye know it." Shamus was mad now. "I want a real apology."
Jane gritted her teeth, as the magic of the potion forced the words out of her. "I... I'm s-sorry for... for what I-I said, Jessie. I ap-apologize."
"Not very gracious," Jessie said.
"No, but ye'll accept it, Jessie," Shamus said. "Now scoot, Jane."
Jane hurried away, almost spilling the pitcher in her haste.
"I hope that's settled for a while," Bridget said with a sigh.
"So do I," Red said, "but this hand ain't settled yet." He tossed three chips onto the table. "See you and raise fifteen cents. Oh... and, Jessie, beers for me and Marty, please."
* * * * *
Wednesday, October 4, 1871
"Jane," Laura said, "can I talk to you for a minute. It was early afternoon, and the Saloon was almost empty.
"You're my big sister," Jane said cheerfully. "You can talk t'me anytime you want to."
Laura took a breath. "Can I talk to you about Jessie?"
"Her?" Jane's smile soured. "Why d'you want to talk to me about her?"
"Because I think it's high time you and her stopped fighting."
"Stopped fighting! She killed Toby. If it wasn't for--"
"She was defending herself, for heaven's sake. It wasn't her fault Toby hit his head against the fireplace."
"Yes! Yes, it was. She shouldn't've kicked him like she done. Toby liked her; he liked her a lot"
"You mean, the way you liked me - when you were Jake?"
"I still like you, Laura, and, now, you n'me is sisters."
Laura was still a bit uncomfortable with Jane saying that. "Do you think it's fair, you getting changed into my sister and all?"
"I still don't know what all I done that was so wrong, but everybody - you and the Judge and that jury - said I done bad, real bad, so I guess I deserved what happened to me." She shrugged. "I don't much like it, but it's better'n going t'jail, I guess."
"You do know that Toby was doing to Jessie what you were... doing to me." Jane nodded, and Laura continued. "And it wasn't any more right for him --"
"See, that's where it's different. A judge and jury said I done wrong. Nobody told Toby that. Jessie just up and killed him."
"But a jury said that Jessie --"
"It ain't the same." She looked very hard at Laura. "Are you taking her side against me, your own sister?"
Laura shook her head. "If anything, Jane, I'm taking your side. The way you're acting, picking fights with Jessie, is bothering people. Shamus is getting mad, which is never a good idea. I just think you'd better stop before you get into real trouble."
"No. I got as much right as anybody t'say what I want. Toby was my partner n'my friend. Maybe nobody else gives a rat's ass that Jessie murdered him, but I do. And I aim t'keep saying she did."
"But --"
"It's nice t'know you're worried about me, Laura, but I ain't stopping. You might as well quit wasting your breath talking to me about it."
* * * * *
"How's the prettiest card sharp in the west?"
Bridget lost her poker face. She put down her cards - face down, she was still playing the hand to win - and stood up. "Cap! Welcome back."
They stared at each other a moment, not sure what to do next. "Thanks, Bridget. It's good to be back."
"So... uhhh... how... how was your trip?"
"Not bad. The Army's paying top dollar for beef; so's the Indian Bureau. There must've been a couple thousand head up at Fort Verde, half a dozen ranches or more fighting over contracts to sell their cattle."
"The Army bought that much?"
"The Army bought some right there. The Indian Bureau bought more, and we got contracts to deliver the rest of that herd on to Fort Whipple and to Fort Mojave. I've never seen Uncle Abner so happy. He's more than willing to take the Army's money for his cattle, especially when they're paying top dollar."
"That sound's like your uncle. Did he ride back with you?"
"Nope. He sent me back to work at the ranch. He'll stay with the herd for the rest of the drive." He paused a beat. "By the way, you got a big game in your future, Bridget.
"What do you mean?"
"One of the other herds at Fort Verde belonged to Henry Clay Hooker, the man I told you about."
"I remember him. That was quite a gamble on his part, letting Cochise's warriors raid his herd."
"He still says it works, cut down his loses a whole lot. Point is, you'll be getting to see just how good a gambler he is. I told him about you. He's coming out this way sometime during the winter, and he's looking forward to getting in a little poker. Uncle Abner said he'd sit in, too, so brace yourself for one high stakes game."
Bridget let out a "whuff" of air. "I'll say. I'd better get back to winning this one to build up my stake." She put a hand down on the table next to her cards. "There's a spare seat. You can buy in before the next hand."
"Finally, she remembers that there's a game going on," Carl Osbourne said in an exasperated voice. "Even if Joe and Jerry and me ain't no cattle barons."
"C'mon, gal," Joe Kramer said, playing with his stack of chips. He can't get in the game, not till we finish this hand."
"I-I'm sorry, Carl... Joe." Bridget flashed them a quick smile. "I'll be back to take your money in just a minute."
"We'll see about that soon enough," Carl said with a wry grin.
"You might as well get back and take their money, Bridget. I have to ride out to the ranch, anyway. I just came in to tell you... ah, to say I was back."
Bridget sighed. "Well, if you got to go..."
Cap took a step towards her. "I do. I had a long ride, and the sun comes up awful early tomorrow. There's just one thing I have to take care of, first." Before Bridget could say anything, he took another step forward. He gently put his hand on her cheek and kissed her quickly on the lips. "Now, I can go. Bye, Bridget." He grinned, very satisfied at what he'd just done, turned, and headed out the door.
Bridget stared after him, her eyes wide. Her hand slowly reached up, and she ran a finger across her lips.
"Whenever you're ready," Joe said. The fourth man at the table, Jerry Domingez, nodded in agreement. He'd already folded and was eager for the next hand.
Bridget blushed and slowly sat down. Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up her cards.
* * * * *
"Bam! Bam!" Clay Falk let go of the bronze cupid doorknocker and took a step back. He heard footsteps. A slot in the door opened and a pair of long lashed brown eyes looked out at him. "Mais oui?"
"Why, howdy, Lady Cerise," Clay said cheerfully. "It's me, Clay Falk. I come to visit Wilma."
"M'seur Falk, welcome. Wilma will be so 'appy to see you." The slot closed. Clay heard a "click", and the deep burgundy colored door opened wide. Lady Cerise stood just inside. She was a tall, full-figured woman probably in her mid thirties. She wore a violet silk dress cut to accent her Rubinesque figure. Her dark brown hair was a mass of tight curls.
"Wilma is in the parlor." She offered Clay her arm. He took it and walked with her into House.
The parlor was flamboyantly decorated, paintings - some of them naked or almost naked women - hung in gilded frames above comfortable-looking Empire-style chairs and couches. Wilma was sitting playing cards with two other women, a small, slender very fair-skinned blonde and a tall, voluptuous Mexican. All three women were wearing only a corset, lacy white drawers, and matching stockings.
"Wilma," Lady Cerise said as she walked in. "You have a gentleman caller."
The women all looked up. "Clay," Wilma yelled. "When'd you get back t'town?" She tossed her cards onto the table and jumped to her feet. She ran around the table and into his outstretched arms.
"Just now, li'l darling. I told Mr. Slocum I had something important I needed t'do, and he let me ride back with Cap Lewis."
"Something t'do, Clay," Wilma said wryly. "And what would that be?"
"This." He took Wilma's head in her hands and kissed her. "For starters."
"Perhaps, you would like to continue this... upstairs?" Lady Cerise suggested.
Clay put his arm around Wilma's waist, his hand rested on her right buttock. "That sounds like a fine idea. Can you send up some supper in about an hour? We'll have worked ourselves up an appetite by then."
Cerise nodded. "Steak with the Saratoga chips, non?"
"And some of that good red wine of yours t'wash it down with." Clay said with a grin. "You just give us that hour first." He grabbed Wilma by the hand, and they started walking quickly towards the stairs.
The other women watched them go.
"I'll wager he wears those spurs to bed," the blonde, Rosalyn, said.
"Hmmm," Beatriz, the Mexican said. "Man like him can wear whatever he want, just so he wear it to my bed."
"How'd she get so damned lucky?" Rosalyn asked.
"Must be all those weeks she give it away at that saloon," Beatriz said. "The man get used to her; he do not know no better."
Lady Cerise clapped her hands. "Ladies, ladies, I will 'ave none of this jealousness."
"What jealousness?" While Beatriz and Roselyn had talked, a third woman had come downstairs. Mae was a slender brunette, walked down arm in arm with a tall, mustachioed man in a gray frock coat.
When they reached the bottom, the man took a $10 gold eagle coin out of his pocket and, with a grin, pushed it down in the space between her breasts. "Here's what I owe," he said, smiling. "Can't think of a better place for it to be... at least not one I can touch in public."
"We'll see about that next week, Lloyd, honey," Mae said. She leaned forward and kissed him.
"Count on it," Lloyd said when they broke the kiss. He made a gesture as if tipping his hat. "Ladies." With that, he smiled and walked out of the parlor.
"There," Cerise said, "each of you have men who ask only for you; why do you begrudge Wilma her own steady... beaus?"
"BonBon," Mae called. She knelt down and opened a napkin she'd been carrying in her hand. A small, brown and white mixed-breed dog ran out from under a chair and began eating the meat scraps that were in the napkin. She stood up and shrugged. "Aw, they're just slicing... sizing up the competition, Lady Cerise. Give 'em some time --"
"And we will really get catty," Beatriz finished the thought.
Lady Cerise shook her head. A certain rivalry between her ladies brought in extra money. Too much, though, was a much different story. "I will 'ave Daisy put out the saucers of milk at breakfast."
* * * * *
Thursday, October 5, 1871
"How's it going, little sister?"
Jessie was behind the bar, stacking beer steins. "Just fine, Wilma. I ain't seen you since my trial. What you been up to?"
"No good, same as always." Wilma chuckled at her own joke. "Cerise said she didn't mind if I went to your trial, but I had to get back soon as it was over. Saturday's our busy day, too, you know."
"I'm sorry you couldn't stay - even for a little bit longer." Jessie remembered her sister's teasing, and she was up for another match.
"So am I, but you had other things on your mind, anyway."
"'Other things... ' What do you mean?"
"The way you was kissing that deputy, Paul... Grant, ain't it?" Jessie nodded. "You thank him yet, like you said you was gonna..." Wilma continued, "... or did one of them other men make you a better offer?"
Jessie felt her cheeks redden. "I... I was half outta my mind with relief that I wasn't gonna hang. I didn't know what I was saying."
"Don't try that excuse on me, gal. You sure looked like you knew what you was doing when you kissed him." She chuckled again. "I think you and him was practicing on the way home."
"Why? You looking for tips on how to kiss?" Jessie was going on the offensive.
"Jessie, the things I could show you about how - and where - to kiss a man... well, no matter, you'll learn quick enough once you come t'work with me, and, oh, the fun you'll have learning."
"Stop it, Wilma." Jessie glowered at her sister. "You want to be a whore... fine. It's your life; you be one, but stop trying t'make me one."
"And just what's wrong with being a whore, Jessie? It may not have a good name, but the pay's good, and the work's real easy."
"Like I said, you want t'be one, Wilma, you go ahead and be one. Just stop trying t'make me out t'be one."
"That's right, you got a reputation t'protect, a reputation as a horse thief, rustler, stagecoach robber, and backshooter. Or do you just want to be known as the best waitress Shamus ever had working for him, bring drinks t'drunken cowboys and cleaning out their spittoons."
"I don't know for sure what I want t'be. But I sure as hell was never a backshooter? For you information, I'm still thinking about my future."
"With what, Jessie. I always done the thinking for the both of us. Even when I was stuck in that damned home for boys, you was always writing t'ask me what I thought you should be doing."
"Who was I gonna ask... Pa? Like I gave a hoot what that old man ever said. He was as useless as tits on a boar." She paused a beat. "But I ain't ten now. I got a mind of my own."
Wilma nodded. "Yep, brand-new and never been used."
"Why don't you just go back t'work? I hear you do your best thinking these days lying down with your legs spread, only it ain't your brain that you're exercising. If you don't start using it again soon, it'll get blamed rusty."
"And you can keep on mucking out Shamus' necessary. That's about as fancy a job as you'll ever hold down. Or maybe you can get hitched like Laura did and start keeping house. At least you can give it a try if Paul ever saves two dimes he can rub together." With that she turned and stormed out of the Saloon. There were no swaying hips this time, she walked very much the way Will Hanks had. She was loaded for bear and almost hoping somebody would get in her way. Jessie watched, her eyes two narrow slits.
* * * * *
Blackie Easton leaned back against the tree he was sitting near and took another puff of his hand-rolled cigarette. "Nothing like a good smoke after lunch," he said to no one in particular.
"I agree, Blackie," Cap Lewis said, stepping into view. "But shouldn't you be getting back to work?"
"Oh... uhh... hi, Cap." Black said trying not to look guilty. "I... uhh... heard you got back."
"Relax, Blackie, I won't begrudge a man five minutes extra for a smoke - not today, anyway. Just don't ever let my uncle catch you taking extra time. He's not the forgiving man I am."
"He ain't a bad boss, your uncle; a little strict maybe, but fair." He took a long drag on the cigarette. "How was your trip?"
"I may not've 'seen the elephant', as they say, but I've seen the Apache, hundreds of them living on that reservation."
"Lousy, stinking bastards, every last one of 'em."
"Maybe so, Blackie. I never fought them like you... and a lot of other men did. I will say that there's two things I like about them, though."
"Yeah, what's that?"
"They did sign a peace treaty. From what I could tell at Fort Verde, they're sticking to it."
"What's the other thing?"
"The Indian Bureau buys a lot of our steers to feed them - pays pretty good money, too."
"I... I suppose that's true enough."
"It is. That's why Uncle Abner can afford to pay you and the other men as much as he does."
Blackie took another drag. "Can't fault that. Your uncle pays a man top dollar for a day's work."
"When a man does a full day's work." He smiled and punched Blackie on the arm to show that he was joking. "So... anything interesting happen around here, while I was gone?"
"Pretty quiet out here. Had a wagon break down while we were hauling rocks away from a landslide on the trail over by Swallowtail Ridge on way into town. Arsenio Caulder rode out and fixed the axle and undercarriage."
"I'll have to go see what we owe him next time I get into town."
"Might want to wait a couple days, Cap. He may not be open for business just yet. Him and Laura Meehan just got married."
"Married? Why that... now I'll have to go see him... offer my congratulations and all that." He smiled broadly, thinking of Bridget. "They have much of a wedding, did they?"
"I'll say! Shamus had it in the Saloon. The whole town was invited, and about half of them came. Judge Humphreys did the honors - I guess Rev. Yingling didn't want to go into a saloon. Maggie Lopez, she cooked up a mighty fancy meal, with a wedding cake and all the trimmings. There was dancing and drinking till... well, I heard Shamus opened late the next day 'cause he was fixing a hangover cure for himself."
Cap laughed at the thought of a hung over Shamus O'Toole. "Sorry I missed it."
"There's one thing, though, about that dancing." Blackie pinched the end of what was left of his cigarette and tossed it to the ground. "Most of them dances - when she danced - Bridget, the gal you... the one that runs the poker game..."
"What about her?"
"She danced most of the time with R.J., Shamus' bartender. She wouldn't even dance with me when I asked her first. That ain't --"
Now Cap was frowning. "It certainly isn't. Thanks, Blackie, you'd better get back to work now." Blackie nodded and walked over to where his horse was tethered to another tree.
'And so had I,' Cap thought. 'The sooner I get finished with the chores here on the ranch, the sooner I can ride into town and talk seriously with Bridget.'
* * * * *
Maggie lit a small candle and set it down on the worktable next to Ernesto. "There," she said, blowing out the match, "now you can peel and chop the onions without crying the whole time."
"Thank you. Mama," Ernesto picked up a knife and began working on a large yellow onion. "Mama, can I ask you a question?"
"Si," Maggie said, "so long as you keep working. I need those onions chopped for the chicken."
Ernesto picked up an onion and carefully cut off the root. "Mama, did you and Uncle Ramon have a fight?"
"Heavens, no. How can you ask such a thing?"
"Because we don't see him any more."
"What do you mean? You saw him last Sunday in church. I heard Lupe say hello to him after Mass."
Lupe was peeling potatoes, and now she spoke up. "Si, Mama. I said hello, and he answered." She sniffled her nose. "But he looked so sad..."
Maggie looked at her daughter. "Sad? He looked sad?"
"Si," Lupe said. "I think he misses us. He kept looking at you all through the Mass. I saw him."
"So did I," Ernesto said. "Why doesn't he come by the house at night like he used to?"
"Si, it was so nice when he came over," Lupe said. "You looked so pretty, Mama, with the flower in your hair. You don't wear one any more. Is that why he does not come around?" Lupe looked at Maggie. A few curls of her mother's long, black hair were coming out from under the cotton cap she wore when she cooked.
"The flower..." Maggie shifted uncomfortably. How could she explain things to her children? "The flower has nothing to do with it - not really. I... we... I just thought that I wanted to spend more time with the two of you... to... to get to know you, my children again. Ramon... your Uncle Ramon understands." To herself, she added, 'I hope.'
"Then why did he look so sad?" Lupe asked.
"He misses us, you silly girl," Ernesto said with great dignity.
"And I miss him," Lupe said, sniffling again. "So does Inez. And... and you miss him, too, Ernesto. I know you do."
Ernesto drew himself up to his full height, tall for the six-year old he was. "I miss having an hombre, a good man like him, around to talk to. I cannot just be talking to women like you and Mama." He glanced quickly at Maggie. "Besides, Mama misses him, too, I think."
Lupe's eyes went wide. "Do you? Do you, Mama?"
Maggie frowned. "He is a friend. I miss him - just a little - when he is not around." She didn't want to say anything more on the matter if she could avoid doing so.
"Then you are not mad at him?" Ernesto asked.
"No, but I do not want either of you to ask him to come to the house or anything." Maggie tried to sound firm. Ramon had a way of making her unsure of her decision to put all of her efforts into making a life for her children. "Do you understand me?"
"Si, Mama," the pair said in unison.
"Good. Then we should all get back to work. Dinner will not make itself."
* * * * *
Friday, October 6, 1871
Jane picked up the dirty dish and stacked it on the others in the tray. The stein went in next to it. Customers filled their plates at the Free Lunch, and then carried them back to a table to eat. Most of the food was salted or spicy, just the sort of food to make a man buy himself a beer to wash it down with.
Jane's job this afternoon was to gather up the dirty dishes, steins and shot glasses, and silverware and bring them back to the kitchen to be washed. She got to wash them, too.
"Lemme help you with that." Davy Kitchner picked up the tray. "I can carry it a lot easier than you can."
"I can carry it fine, Davy," Jane protested. "I ain't no weak sister like that Jessie Hanks."
"Never said you was. But it's big, kinda awkward, too, with all that loose stuff in it. I got bigger hands and longer arms than you do. That makes it easier for me."
"I-I suppose." She put in a shot glass someone had left on the table. "Just be careful this time. Shamus gave me hell when you boys broke all them glasses last week."
"I will; I promise." He put down the tray and made a "king's x" over his heart.
Jane shrugged; anything so she didn't have to work as hard. She looked around and pointed. "That table next." She walked towards it. Davy picked up the tray again and followed close behind.
Oswyn Pratt was at the third table they came to, just finishing a quick lunch. "Well now, what have we here?"
"Clearing up the mess after lunch," Jane answered. "You done with that plate?" There was just a bit of potato salad and a small piece of pickled herring still on it.
"I suppose so." Ozzie dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his kerchief. "Allow me." He stood up and put both the plate and his empty beer stein into the tray.
"Thanks, Ozzie," Jane said with a smile. "C'mon, Davy." She started walking towards the next table.
Ozzie hurried after them. "Why don't you allow Davy and I to do this for you."
"Ain't you got a business to run?" Davy asked.
"Things at the print shop are currently as quiet as the proverbial tomb," Ozzie said, picking up a glass and putting it into the tray. "I am quite certain that Roscoe can handle anything that might occur, and, should that not be the case, he knows where I may be found."
"But if Davy's holding the tray, and you're putting the dirty stuff in it, Ozzie, what am I supposed to do?" Jane asked.
"You just stand there and look purty," Davy said quickly. "Something you do so very well," Ozzie added.
"Or the two of ye can be getting back t'minding yuir own business and let this lass do what I told her to do," said Molly, walking over to the group.
Ozzie smiled and gave a slight bow. "My dear Molly, how lovely you --"
Molly shook her head. "Och, thuir's gotta be Irish somewhere in yuir blood, Oswyn, 'cause I never heard such blarney from an Englishman."
"I am Welsh, madame, on both sides, and as far back as the Flood." He drew himself up to his full height. "Mr. Kitchner, here, and I were merely attempting to be gentlemen and assist this young woman in her assigned tasks."
"A likely story," Molly said. "There's a reason for Jane's being here at the Saloon, I'll be asking ye to remember. Ye want to be paying court to her - or whatever it is ye're really trying for - I don't care. But ye'll not be interfering with her 'tasks', thank ye very much." She looked them both in the eye. "Understood?"
"They was just being friendly," Jane whined.
"And, Jane," Molly said firmly, "ye'll not be encouraging them - or nobody else, none of the customers - t'be helping ye like that neither." It was said as an order, and the potion would make Jane obey. "Understood?"
Jane sighed. "Understood."
"You have made yourself most clear," Ozzie said in an overly polite tone of voice. Davy nodded in agreement.
"Fine," Molly said. "I'm sure the two of ye will excuse Jane, then. She's got work to be doing. Half them tables still got dirty dishes on them."
* * * * *
"You sure you don't mind my being a waiter girl tomorrow night?" Laura asked Arsenio, gently putting her hand on his. "Dancing with men over at Shamus's, I mean." They were sitting on the couch on the main room of their house.
"It's part of your job, isn't it?" Arsenio tried to sound noncommittal.
Laura smiled wryly. "It is till you teach me blacksmithing like you promised."
"I did no such thing. I promised you that I'd think about teaching you to be a smith."
"So... you thought about it?"
"To tell the truth, I've had much more... interesting things to think about for the last few days." He ran a finger down her side, just below her ribs.
Laura squirmed... and giggled. "Stop that!" She slapped his hand away, but it came back. She'd been surprised to discover that she was very ticklish just there. She'd been delighted, also, at what the tickling session with Arsenio had developed into. Maybe, after he answered her question, they could...
"You still haven't said if you minded all those men dancing with me," she said impatiently, slapping his hand away again.
"Of course, I do. I can't rightly blame them, though. What man wouldn't want to dance with the prettiest gal in town?"
Laura smiled, and she squirmed again at his tickling. "Do... do you want me to tell Shamus I-I can't do it?"
"Do you want to do it?"
The question surprised her. She thought for a moment then answered. "I-I guess so. I mean, I... I sort of got to like it, the dancing, I mean. Even if... if you... aren't the one I'm dancing with."
"Then you go ahead and do it. I figure a man should let his wife do what she wants to do."
"I want to learn to be a blacksmith."
"A man should let his wife do what she wants to do... within eason."
"Fooey, I think the only reason you don't mind my dancing is because you hope it'll take my mind off wanting to learn how to be a smith."
Oh, there's reasons why I don't mind, but that ain't one of them."
Laura raised an eyebrow and looked carefully at him. "And just what are those reasons, Mr. Caulder?"
"First off, you want to. You're a grown woman, and I trust you to know what you're doing."
"And..." Something in her needed to hear his answer.
"And... I know the men you'll be dancing with. I think I can trust them." He paused a beat. "Of course, if I can't trust them, if anybody tries anything, I know that I can beat the living hell out of any three of them."
"Is that it, that you can 'beat the living hell out' out of them?"
"Nope. The reason, the real reason that I don't mind is that I know with all my heart and soul that you'll be coming back here after that dance." He pulled her close. "Back to our house... and back to my... to our bed. When a man knows that, he doesn't worry about anything else."
Laura looked at him for a moment, her eyes glistening. Then she kissed him, answering his need with her own.
* * * * *
Saturday, October 7, 1871
Cap stood in the doorway to the Saloon for a moment. Bridget was at her usual table playing poker. As he watched, she matched Marty Hernandez' bet. The hand was over. She showed her cards, a full house, sevens and threes, and, as the others watched unhappily, raked in the chips.
Cap quickly walked over. With luck, he could get her to take a break in the game. "Bridget, can I talk to you for a minute?"
"You can if you're sitting in," Joe Kramer said, sourly. "Otherwise, you'll have to wait. I've got me a lot of money to win back."
"Aw, he can have a couple minutes with the lady," Finny Pike said. "Go ahead, Mr. Lewis, sir. I'll just get me a drink."
"Yeah," Kramer said. "The way you just kissed his butt, Finny, I bet you need that beer to get the taste out of your mouth."
Finny stood up and glared at the other man. "Just what're you saying, Joe?" Kramer stood up and glared back.
Bridget slammed the tabletop with the palm of her hand. "Gentlemen, I do not play poker with rowdies." The two men looked at her. "If you want to continue, you'll sit down, right ow." he two men still looked daggers at each other, but they both sat back down. She sighed and looked at Cap. "We'll talk at the dance, okay?"
Cap knew when he was outgunned. He nodded and walked away. At least she wanted to talk to him. He grinned. He had to admit, too, that she surely knew how to handle the men at her table.
* * * * *
"Well, you're here early, tonight," Jessie said as she took Paul's ticket.
"I've got the late shift tonight. I go on duty at 11." He took her in his arms, while they waited for the music to start.
"So tonight..." she left the sentence drift off.
"We get to dance a couple of times, I guess." He shrugged as the band began a waltz. "I wish it was more."
Jessie rested her head on his chest, as they moved across the floor. "'Least I get to be in your arms for a bit tonight. We ain't done anything like that for a while."
"Yeah, there's a whole lot of things that we haven't done lately." He kissed her forehead and pulled her in closer against his body.
* * * * *
"So," Cap asked, "anything happen while I was out of town?" He and Bridget were sitting out a polka, enjoying a couple of beers.
"Laura and Arsenio got married," Bridget said. She took a sip of her beer. "I guess you heard about that."
Cap frowned. "Yeah, I heard. I heard a lot of things." He took a drink. "I heard about the dancing, too."
"What do you mean?"
"Blackie Easton told me you were doing all your dancing with R.J. at the wedding. He said you wouldn't dance with anybody else." He waited a beat. "Is that true?"
She stiffened. "And if it is? What business is it of yours?"
"It's my business because... because, if you're gonna be dancing with somebody all night, I'd kind of like it to be me."
"Maybe I would, too, but you weren't here. R.J. was."
"I had to go with my uncle; I... I work for him."
"I know that. Did I say you shouldn't go?"
"No, no you didn't." He thought for a moment. "Did you care that I was going?"
"I cared. You're a friend, a good friend."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, and it's... it's all I want - from you and from R.J." She looked at him closely. "Understand?"
Cap sighed. "I understand... but let me ask you something?"
"Ummm... okay."
"You just said that you would have liked to have been dancing with me at the wedding. Is that right?"
"I said it just now, didn't I? But that doesn't mean that I didn't like dancing with R.J."
"That isn't what I asked. Would have liked to be dancing with me... part of the time, at least?"
"Yes... yes, that would have been nice."
Cap stood. "Then let's end this arg... this discussion, and make up for lost time while the band's still playing."
"I'd like that." Bridget took his hand and let him lead her to the floor. She was smiling, glad that things were settled - if only for the moment. She still wasn't sure how she felt about having the two men fighting over her, but she has a hunch that she was going to have a lot of thinking to do on the subject.
* * * * *
Monday, October 9, 1871
Ernesto walked hesitantly through the door and into Silverman's General Store. He stopped for a moment, then walked over to Ramon, who was setting up a display of shirts on a table. "Hola, Uncle Ramon."
Ramon looked up and quickly glanced around the store. "Hola, Ernesto. Is your mother here with you?"
"She is over at Grampa Shamus', making supper. She said I could go outside and play for a while."
"Why did you come here, then?"
"To see you, Uncle Ramon. You do not come to our house anymore. Are you mad at Mama?"
"No, you... uhh... see..." Ramon tried to think of a good answer. "Your Mama thought... she... she wanted to..." He sighed. "It is a grown-up thing and... umm... hard to explain." Especially when he, himself, did not understand.
Ernesto brightened. "Then you are not mad at Mama... or at me or Lupe?"
"Now why should I be mad at either of you?" Ramon reached down and gently mussed Ernesto's hair.
"Good, then I can stay."
Aaron Silverman had been watching the pair talking, and now he walked over. "Stay? What do you mean, 'stay'? You want you should go live with Ramon instead of your Mama?"
"Could I?" Ernesto's eyes were wide as saucers.
Ramon shook his head. "You have just come to live with your Mama. It would make her very sad if you left. You would not want to do that, would you?"
"No," Ernesto said, more than a little sorry. "Besides, she says that I am the man of the house, and she needs me to help her with things."
"So then what did you mean when you said, 'stay' just now?" Aaron asked.
"A man must be with other men sometimes," Ernesto said. "You know, just to talk about 'man' things."
"Si," Ramon said, winking to Aaron. "I know how such things are."
"Then, can I stay here for a while... just till I must go back to help Mama with the supper?"
Ramon looked at his employer for a moment. "This... this is a place of business."
"Which we're not doing much of right now," Aaron said with a shrug. "Why not? I let my Shmulie and Yitzchak stay with me at the store, when they were little."
"I can stay then, Seá±or Silverman, and... and maybe come back again now and then?"
"You can stay... you can come back," Aaron said, "but on two conditions. First..." he held up his index finger. "... you got to sit quiet in a chair behind the counter, especially if Ramon or I is waiting on a customer. Agreed, boychik?"
"Boychik? I... agreed," Ernesto said. "What is the other thing you want of me?"
"We-ell, you know how my Rachel thinks of herself as your Mama's mama?" Ernesto nodded, and Aaron continued. "Okay then. You don't call me 'Seá±or Silverman' no more. You want to hang around my store, then you got to call me 'Zayde.'"
"Sadie?" Ernesto asked. "That is a girl's name."
Aaron chuckled and shook his head. "No, no, Zayde... with a zed. In Yiddish - that's what they speak in Poland where I grew up - it means 'Grampa.'"
* * * * *
Jane looked around the room. "Just my luck. Molly ain't around to stop Ozzie or Red or Sam or Davy from helping me bus the glasses from the tables, and none of them is around neither." She picked up the empty tray and walked slowly to the nearest table. Not only was she wrung out tired, even with a full night's sleep, but her shoes were also pinching her.
* * * * *
Lady Cerise looked at the cards on the table. "Hmm, red three on the black four, I think." She put the card down. It was a busy night, the kind she liked best. Wilma was the only one downstairs with her at the moment, and that probably wouldn't last for very long.
"'Scuse me, my Lady." It was Daisy, the housekeeper and cook. "Mister Grant is here."
Cerise stood up. "Well, please, show him in."
"Yes, m'am." Daisy nodded and made a waving motion with her arm. She waited until Paul walked past her, then hurried off on some errand.
Cerise watched Paul walk into the room. He was a tall man, whose good looks she appreciated. "Good evening, deputy. Is this business... or pleasure?"
Paul smiled wryly. "Isn't much of a difference for you, is there, Lady Cerise?"
Cerise smiled back warmly. "No, my ladies and I are very lucky that way."
"Well, you can relax. I'm just here making my rounds. Any sign of trouble tonight?"
"Nothing. It has been a quiet night." She glanced towards the ceiling. "At least down here."
"Then I'll be heading --"
"Can I talk to you a moment first?" Wilma had been stretched out on a couch looking at stereoscope pictures. Now she stood up and walked over to Paul. She looked at Cerise for a moment. "Alone?" Her voice was low, almost a purr.
Cerise looked at the two of them. "Certainment, come BonBon." She stood and walked towards the door. The pup followed her, wagging its tail. As she reached the sliding parlor doors, she turned. "And, deputy... it will be on the 'ouse, as they say." She winked at Paul as she left, shutting the parlor doors behind her.
"What're you up to, Wilma?"
"Why... what makes you think I'm up to anything?" She stepped close to him and ran her palm across his chest. "Anything bad, that is."
"Stop it, Wilma."
"I'm just wondering what you done t'my sister?"
"What do you mean, what I did?"
"What you done to get 'Mad Dog' Jesse Hanks acting like the sassy little gal she's been since you two rode back into town." She looked at him closely for a moment. "I wonder if it's the way you kiss." She suddenly threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him with pressure and heat enough to wield her mouth to his, if they'd been made of iron.
Paul felt himself stiffen in reaction. Then he thought of Jessie and how she had surprised him with kisses that last night on the trail. "Stop it, Wilma." He pushed her away.
"You ain't a bad kisser, Paul," Wilma said breathlessly. "Not bad at all. I don't think it was just your kissing, though."
Paul thought about just walking away. He didn't think delaying things would get the burr out from under Wilma's saddle, whatever it was. This had to be settled now. She'd just try again the next time he came in. And he had to check the place every few hours while he was on duty. 'Might as well get it over with,' he thought.
She took one of his hands in hers. "You got such big hands, strong, but tender. I wonder... was it the way you touched her?" She lifted the hand slowly. For a moment, Paul thought she was going to put it on her breast. All she wore above the waist was a dark green corset.
Wilma slid his hand across her breast, making sure to rub his index finger against her half-visible nipple. "Ooh, that was nice." Her voice was breathy. "Let's see if I can't do something just as nice right back at you."
She raised the hand further, then bent her head down and took his index finger into her mouth. Her action was so swift and deft that it took him too aback to react properly. She moved in it and out a couple times. Then she stopped with her lips down at the base of the finger. Paul could feel her sucking on it, even as he felt her tongue running along the length of it.
He looked at Wilma's face. She was smiling, her eyes shining with mischief. He was getting even stiffer down below. He gritted his teeth and pulled his finger back. "Wilma, just what do you --"?
"Hmm, the hands were a definite help, but I think this..." Her hand snaked down and grabbed his erect member through his pants. "Oh, my, yes. This was definitely the clincher." Her hand began to move slowly... gently along the length of his erection.
"Wilma... I-I don't know what game you're trying, but I don't want to play."
"You may be saying no, but I think your body got other ideas." She moved forward to kiss him again.
"You'll never know." He moved slightly to dodge her, then turned and walked quickly - but not too quickly from the room. 'Better an orderly retreat than a rout,' he thought, as he opened the parlor doors.
Lady Cerise was standing just outside. "M... m'seur Grant, this... this is a surprise. I had thought..." she let the words trail off.
"So did Wilma, but I guess you were both wrong." He made a motion as if tipping a hat. "See you later, Lady Cerise."
* * * * *
Tuesday, October 10, 1871
"Damn! Damn! Damn!"
Jessie looked across the room at Jane. "What in the hell is the matter with you, yelling like that?"
"What do you care?" Jane fidgeted with a button on her blouse.
"I don't, but if I gotta listen to you cussing like that, I might as well know what you're cussing about."
"I think I'm sick or something. Yesterday my shoes were too tight. They still are, and, now, so's my blouse. And my titties feel all funny like."
"Uh hunh," Jessie nodded. The symptoms sounded very familiar. "Is that all?"
"What do you mean, 'is that all'? I feel... I feel... terrible." Jane sniffed. She sounded ready to cry.
"How long ago was it they turned you into a gal?"
"I ain't no gal. I ain't. I just... just look like one."
"Sure, you just... look like one. How long ago?"
Jane started counting under her breath. Jessie watched her lips move. She was using her fingers, too. Finally, Jane said. "Four... four weeks. Yeah, in fact, it's four weeks today. Does that mean something?"
"Not t'you, Jane." Jessie smiled, happy to be getting back at Jane for her taunting. "It don't mean nothing t'you 'cause you ain't no gal."
"You... you don't know what's bothering me; you don't know nothing. You're just trying to get a rise outta me, teasing me for saying what a tart you was."
Jessie grinned, deliberately showing her teeth. "That's right, Jane. I'm just teasing." She'd let Jane find out about her monthlies the hard way. 'I just hope I'm there t'watch when she does.'
* * * * *
Paul had barely walked into the Saloon on his afternoon rounds, when Jessie hurried over to him. "Well, now, howdy, Paul, she said, smiling broadly. "Where you been keeping yourself? Under her breath, she added, "Buy me a beer."
"What?" he asked softly.
"Buy me a beer," she whispered again. "You and me gotta talk."
Paul shrugged. In his normal voice, he said. "Tell you what, Jessie, you bring me a beer - bring one for yourself, too, and I'll fill you in." He tossed her a silver dollar. Jessie nodded and hurried off.
Paul glanced around the room. Most men were at work, only a handful of bar hounds. Bridget was playing poker with a couple of them, and, from the look on their faces, she'd been winning.
Paul walked slowly, casually, he hoped, over to a table against the near wall. No one was sitting anywhere close to it. 'For privacy,' he thought as he sat down.
Jessie rejoined him a moment later. "Here you go." She put a beer down in front for him. She put a second beer on the table and sat down next to him.
"Okay," he started. "What did you want to talk about?"
Jessie took a long drink. "Us. It's been over a week since we... you know... in your room that first night back."
"I remember. Paul remembered that night and smiled - for a moment. "You... you having second thoughts?"
"Sort of."
"What do you mean, 'sort of'?"
"I mean I'm having thoughts about when we're gonna do it a second time. We ain't done nothing more'n dance together since then." She slid her hand under the table and ran a finger along Paul's leg.
Paul tried not to squirm. "You ready to ask Shamus to let you come over and spend the night with me?"
"No!" Jessie yelped. They both looked around. Nobody seemed to be paying attention. "No," she said again in a softer tone. "I don't want people smirking at me, especially Wilma."
"Especially Wilma," Paul said, with an odd look on his face that Jessie didn't understand. "Well, if you don't want people smirking, you'll have to - we'll have to wait till we can figure out a way so they won't find out."
"I'll be too old to care by then."
Paul chuckled. "Maybe not that long, but we may have to wait until your sentence is up. It'll be a lot easier when you don't have answer to Shamus or anyone else, and you can come and go as you please."
"It ain't the going that I'm thinking about." She moved her finger further up his leg.
"If it's any consolation, Jessie, it's no easier for me." He moved a hand down under the table. His hand found her thigh and squeezed it gently though her skirt.
"Hmmm," Jessie purred. Her finger reached his crotch, and she slid it along the length of his erection. "I can just imagine how hard it is for you." She had learned a few things from the girls Jesse had known as an outlaw and wrangler, and this was as good a time to try one or two of them out.
Paul was suddenly reminded of another Hanks and how she'd done the very same thing the day before. "Stop it, Jess," he said firmly, lifting his hand away from her leg.
Jessie stopped, looking surprised. She pulled her hand from Paul as if from a hot stove. "Wha-what's the matter? I... I thought you'd like it."
"Jessie, you're acting like Wil... like a whore." He braced himself for her reaction. "Is that the sort you want to be? If all you wanted to do was raise your skirt and drop your drawers, we could be all done in five, maybe ten, minutes."
"No... no. I... is... is that what you... want?" The window light reflected off a tear in the corner of her eye.
Paul shook his head. "Hell, no. I want it like it was that first time, done slowly, like we had all the time in the world to enjoy each other."
"That does sound a whole lot better," Jessie sighed. "But it's gonna take a while before something like can happen, ain't it?"
Paul took her hand. "Maybe so, but it'll surely be worth the wait."
Jessie glanced around the room. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them, and she decided it was more than worth the risk. "In the meantime," she said softly, "here's a little something t'keep your interest."
She put an arm around Paul's neck and pulled him to her. Their lips met in a deep kiss that was full of their shared need one for the other. Paul's arm moved around her narrow waist. Jessie pressed herself against him.
When they finally broke the kiss, Jessie's face was flushed, and her breathing uneven. Paul was grinning, and he was going to have to adjust his pants before he could stand.
* * * * *
Molly watched Jane walking to the bar. "What's the matter with ye, Jane? Ye're walking kind of funny."
"I-I don't rightly know," Jane said. "I feel kinds funny down... down in my privates." She looked as ready to bolt as a rabbit.
"What do you mean 'funny'? Do ye hurt?"
"A little. It ain't like nothing I ever felt before. I must be getting worse."
"Worse? Ye ain't looking like ye're sick."
"I know, but the last couple days, I been tired all the time, and my feet and my titties is swoll up, and --"
"Uh hunh." Molly came out from behind the bar. "I think the two of us needs to be going upstairs.
"But, Molly, I gotta get drinks over to Carl Osbourne and them other men."
"What are they having?"
"Four beers."
"R.J.," Molly called. The tall barman looked over from where he was pouring a whisky for Red Tully. "Soon as ye can, have Jessie take four beers over to Carl Osbourne's table." She turned to Jane. "Did they pay ye for them beers?"
"N-no. What's going on, Molly?"
"Tell Jessie they ain't paid for them beers, neither," Molly called to R.J. "I'm taking Jane upstairs for a wee bit. I'll explain later, okay?"
R.J. nodded. "Sure, Molly."
"Thanks, R.J. C'mon, then, Jane." Molly took Jane's hand and all but pulled her towards the stairs.
"Go into yuir room and take off yuir skirt," Molly said, once they were upstairs. "I'll be back quick as I can."
Jane shrugged, uncertain of what was happening, and went into her room. She untied her apron and tossed it over a chair. Then she unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She looked down as she was stepping out of it.
There was a bright red stain at the crotch of her drawers. When it touched it, the spot was wet and a little sticky. Jane reacted instinctively. "Yaaaah!" she screamed. "Molly, help me!"
Molly ran in and slammed the door shut behind her. "Just as I was thinking. Ye've started yuir monthlies."
"I'm... I'm bleeding, Molly. Down... down there." She pointed frantically. "What are you talking about?"
"Yuir monthlies. It's something every woman has every --"
"But I ain't a woman."
"That says ye are, Jane. A woman - and only a woman has them every month starting when she's a lass of thirteen or so."
"Every month?" Jane's eyes were wide with fear.
"Aye, unless ye're pregnant, of course, until ye're in yuir forties, and ye go through 'the Change.'"
"Pre-pregnant? No, that can't be."
"It surely can, Jane. Now take off them drawers of yuirs, so ye can clean yourself. I'll take them over t'Teresa Diaz with tomorrow's cleaning."
Jane worked at the ribbons on her drawers with trembling fingers. While she did, Molly took a washcloth and towel out of a drawer. Then she poured some water into the basin and put the cloth and the basin near Jane. "Here, ye go. Use this to be getting yuirself clean down there."
"Am I gonna... bleed more?" She carefully stepped out of her drawers and put them on the table.
"Aye. If ye're like the others, like Laura for one, ye'll be bleeding that way for four days."
"F-four days. I'll die if I bleed that long." She took the cloth, wet it, and began to gingerly dab at her groin.
Molly took a long strip of cloth out of the bag she had brought with her. "No, ye won't die. I'll be teaching ye how to use--"
"I saw Maggie with one of them. She was wearing it under her drawers."
"She still does, I'm sure, when it's time for her monthlies. As soon as ye're clean... and dry, I'll show ye how to put it on."
"I'm really a woman, then," Jane said, her eyes glistening. "Am I gonna be one, be a woman, forever?"
"That's what me Shamus says. There's no antidote to the potion what changed ye. Ye'll be a woman forever."
"No. No." Jane shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Molly came around behind her and hugged Jane fiercely. "Now, now, Jane. It's not as bad as ye seem to be thinking. Just look at... yuir sister, Laura."
"Laura? No, I... I don't want to be like that. I don't want to get married."
"Well, now, and who's saying ye have to? But I'm thinking that Laura was starting t'be happy with being a woman before she and Arsenio was wed. Ye should be talking to her about that."
"I-I will."
"Good, good for ye. Now hurry up and finish cleaning yuirself, so ye can put on this here pouch and get back downstairs. There's work enough and then some waiting for ye down there."
* * * * *
Wednesday, October 11, 1871
"Can I talk to you for a minute, Laura?" Jane asked, as Laura walked into the kitchen to get an apron.
"And good morning to you, too, Jane," Laura said. Then she saw the mournful expression on Jane's face. "Jane... what's the matter?"
"I-I'm a girl."
"And?"
"And? Laura, I'm a girl."
"Jane, you've been a girl for..." Laura did some figuring in her head. "... for a month now. Why are you so upset now?"
"I always figgered that I just - well, just looked like a girl. It was all some kind of a trick, and I was gonna change back."
"And now you don't. What happened?"
"I... my monthlies. They st-started yesterday. Molly says that only happens to girls. It pro-proves I am one now."
Laura nodded, remembering the shock of her own monthlies that first time they happened. "Yes, I guess it does."
"I don't want to be a girl. I wanna change back, and Molly says there ain't no way I can."
"That's what Shamus told all of us, too."
"Did you believe him?"
"Not at first. We spent a lot of time trying to find the antidote, searching the building, asking questions of Shamus, Molly, even R.J. I guess we didn't give up until... not till Wilma took that dose Shamus made for your trial."
"I remember. That's when she got to liking men so much, ain't it?"
"Yes, it surely didn't change her back. It made her be... be more like... like a woman."
"It made her hornier than a hoot owl is what it done."
"I think we all were coming around to the idea that the potion was its own antidote. When we saw that it wasn't, we... just ran out of ideas and gave up."
"So, you didn't want to be girls... not even then."
Laura thought a bit. "I... I think we were all starting to accept the idea that we might be women for the rest of our lives. I don't think any of us liked it much... except Wilma, after she drank that second dose."
"What... what about now?"
Laura smiled. "Now? It's not bad at all. I love being a woman - being Arsenio's wife. I'm not sure how Bridget and Maggie feel. To tell the truth, I don't think they're sure either. Jessie seems --"
"I don't care what that whore thinks."
Laura frowned. "Jane, you really have to stop talking like that. It just gets you in trouble."
"I don't care." She paused a beat. "Aw, the hell with it. What was you saying about Bridget and Maggie?"
"I can't say that they're happy being women, but they've accepted it. They're getting on with their lives - making new lives for themselves doing what they already knew how to do... but as women."
"I... I guess they are. Bridget sure enjoys running her poker game. 'Course, if I won as much as she does, I'd enjoy it, too."
"Yes, and Maggie has the restaurant --"
"And them young'ns of hers. She's doing all right, too."
"So what about you, Jane?" Laura asked. "What're you gonna do after you've served your time here in the Saloon?"
"That's easy. I'm going back t'work my claim... my claims." Her eyebrows furrowed, as she was reminded again that her partner was dead.
"Can you?" Laura hurried to change the subject.
"What d'you mean?"
"From what I've heard, mining's pretty hard work." Jane nodded. "Can you do it, Jane, as a woman, I mean. Especially alone?"
"I-I don't know." Jane's eyes opened wide. "I'm strong... for a girl - same as you, but I ain't as strong as when I was a man." She looked down at her slender arms. "Laura, what am I gonna do?"
Laura put her hand on Jane's shoulder to try and reassure her. "The first thing you're going to do is to calm down. You've got a month to think about things before you have to make any real decisions. And... and I'll help you do it."
Jane brightened. "And I can ask Sam and Red and Davy - yeah, he's a miner, too, like I was... like I am - and Ozzie. Ozzie's real smart. I'll ask 'em all what I should do. And I'll ask Milt, too, him being a lawyer and all."
"No! - I mean, let's... let's keep it a... umm... a secret for now. You know, just between us... sisters, okay?"
"Okay." Jane giggled at the thought. "It'll be fun sharing a secret with you, Laura."
"Yeah, but we better hold off for now. Shamus saw me come in, and he's probably wondering why I'm taking so long just to get an apron." Laura wasn't sure what she could do to help. 'But anything's better than giving those vultures a chance to sink their teeth into Jane,' she thought, as she tied the apron strings behind her back.
* * * * *
Molly pulled the large sack of clothes down off her shoulder and set it onto the porch next to her. Then she knocked on the dark brown door. "Momento," came a soft voice from inside. The door opened. A Mexican girl of about ten stood in the doorway. "Hola, Seá±ora O'Toole."
"Hello, Constanza," Molly said. "Where's your mama? I got a load of dirty clothes for her."
"Mama is out back, hanging clothes with Ysabel. I'll go get her. Please come inside and sit down."
"Thank ye, dear. That'll be fine." Maggie picked up the sack as the girl ran back into the house. She walked in, closing the door behind her.
The large room was full of laundry bags, each with its own mark, just like the green shamrock on the bag Molly carried. A boy of eight or so sat at a table near the center of the room, folding a man's shirt. When he finished, he put it on top of two others and reached into a basket on the floor next to him for another. He looked up and saw Molly. "Hola, Seá±ora O'Toole."
"Hello, Enrique," Molly said. The boy nodded and went back to folding the shirt. Molly sat down in another chair at the table to wait.
She didn't have to wait very long. A short, too-thin Mexican woman came bustling through a door in the back wall. "Molly... Molly O'Toole, how are you today?"
"Fine, Teresa, same as always. How are ye doing?"
"I am busy, which is always a good thing, no?" Teresa Diaz was in her early forties, her dark brown hair was done up in two braids that hung halfway down her back.
"It is when ye're trying to earn a living. Of 'course, ye've got them children of yuirs t'be helping ye."
"Si, Constanza and Ysabel are a great help." She reached over and tussled the hair of the boy, who had stopped work, when his mother hadn't mentioned his name. "And this one, too; aren't you, Enrique?"
The boy grinned. He finished the fourth shirt and put it carefully atop the others. There was a sheet of tissue paper under the shirts. He wrapped them, tying the package with string. He drew two symbols on the paper with a black pen, Teresa's code for the owner of the shirts. "The basket is empty, Mama."
"Then go get another from your sisters," Teresa said.
"Si, Mama." The boy jumped down from the chair and ran out through the door Teresa had used.
"Ye've certainly got it down to a drill," Molly said. "And I've got something here t'put through yuir well-oiled laundry machine." She held up the sack she had brought. "'Tis a week's worth of clothes from me and Shamus, Jane and Jessie."
"The ladies' underclothes get the 'especial care,' no?" Teresa asked. Molly nodded. "Then it will all be ready Friday afternoon. Is that all right?"
"Friday will be just fine," Molly said. Then she remembered. "Oh, yes... Jane got surprised yesterday with her first monthlies. Thuir's a stain from 'em on one pair of her drawers, a yellow pair with dark green ribbons."
"I will watch for them," Teresa said, a sly smile cirling on her lips. "How did she take it... the monthlies?"
"Just like any man would. She screamed. "It was all I could do to keep from smiling, while she stood thuir and looked so scared. She thought she was gonna be dying from the bleeding. And them men call us 'the weaker sex.' As if..."
"No man could ever know how strong a woman has to be."
"Not unless he took a drink of me Shamus' potion, and then..." Molly giggled. "... she ain't a man no more."
Teresa joined Molly in the laughing, before their talk moved on to other things. After about twenty minutes, Molly took a watch from her pocket. "I hate to be saying it, Teresa, but I got to go. My Shamus didn't tell me not to be talking to ye - he knows better than that, but he did ask that I not be taking too long a visit. Could ye have Arnie bring them clothes over on Friday?"
Teresa's expression darkened. "Arnie... Arnie does not does not do such things for me no more. He says that a man, a real man, does not do the work of a woman."
"Woman's work!" Molly shook her head. "As if he don't know it was that 'woman's work' that put food on the table and clothes on his back all them years. That ungrateful..." The words died, when she saw the mournful expression on Teresa's face.
"He is 16," Teresa wrung her hands. "It has been hard for him, being the older brother... and the man of the house since my Sancho died. He-he is just trying to be a man."
"He ain't doing a very good job of it neither. My Shamus told me he snuck into the Saloon a while back."
"Aii, please tell me that he did not drink."
"I-I wish I could Teresa. He sat in a corner with his back to the bar. Jane didn't know any better, so she served him three... no, four beers before Shamus knew Arnie was even thuir."
"How could..."
"He had the money, and nobody knew not to serve him. As soon as Shamus caught on, ye can believe he gave Arnie the boot and told Jane that she shouldn't serve him if he ever came back."
"Thank you... thank Shamus for that. He will not got to school anymore; he says that he does not need to. He gets odd jobs around town. I-I do not know what I am going to do with him."
Molly leaned over and gave Teresa the hug Molly knew she needed. "Ye'll do whatever ye need to, Teresa, the same as always, and don't ye be worrying. I've no doubt that something will work."
* * * * *
Wilma walked into the Saloon with Joe Ortlieb, their hands around each other's waists. "Thanks for walking me over here, Joe." Wilma's voice was low and full of promise.
"My pleasure," Joe said, smiling.
Wilma turned to face him. She put her hands on either side of his face and guided it down towards her own. "No, but it will be when we get back to La Parisienne." She tilted her head slightly and kissed him. They spent a time, lips locked, their hands exploring each other's body.
When she finally broke the kiss, she said. "Now, you be a good boy and wait for me at the bar. I wanna talk to Jessie... private like."
Jessie had walked over when she'd seen Wilma and Joe come in. "What do you want to talk about?" she asked her wayward sister.
"I guess that means I go wait," Joe said with a shrug. He kissed Wilma quickly on the mouth. "Don't take too long," he said, as he turned and walked over to the bar.
"Mind if we sit down?" Wilma asked. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled a chair out from a table and dropped down into it.
Jessie sat down across from her. "Why not? Can't see how you'd be tired, though, with all that time you spend in bed."
Wilma's hair was arranged in an elaborate upsweep. She patted it here and there to make sure that it was all still in place. "Little sister, if you ain't learned how much fun and how little rest a gal can have in a bed, then I'm truly sorry for you. I guess that deputy ain't doing as much for you as I'd been thinking."
"What are you talking about, Wilma?"
"I was wondering how serious he was about you and I didn't want you to get let down, so I decided to play with him a little bit. When he came by the House th'other night, I did my... best to get him t'take me upstairs." She smiled, almost leered, at Jessie. "And, believe me, there's a lot of men in this town'll tell just how good my best is."
"You did what?"
Wilma giggled. "Well, if you want the details... first I kissed him - mmm, he's real good at that, ain't he? Then I --"
Jessie leaned forward, her eyes bright with indignant fire. "Just what the hell did you think you was doing?"
"I told you, Jessie. I was doing my best t'get him up to my bed. I wanted to see what sort of a man he was. And I can tell you from kissing him; that Paul Grant, he is all man."
"You say you got all them men chasing after you. Why'd you set your sights on my... on Paul?" Jessie was beginning to get mad.
"Like I told him, he got you acting all different from the way you was, and I wanted to know how he done it. A man who can handle a wildcat like you that easily must have had a lot of practice at that sort of thing." She saw the way Jessie was glaring at her and so hurried on. "And I wanted to see if he was just playing a game with you. I didn't want you t'get hurt if he turned out to the sort of man who'd take up with any gal who gave him the 'come hither'."
"I see." Jessie was looking daggers at her sister. "You were just watching out for me. My dear, loyal big sister, you was ready t'sleep with Paul just t'protect me. That... that is just about the... purest grade of bullshit that I have ever heard. Why does every plan you come up with to help me always involve you climbing into bed with some feller?"
"It's because no one would take me seriously if I tried to get them to go sing with me in the choir."
"It's because you're a whore, that's why!"
Wilma stood up quickly. "You got no right to say that t'me, Jessie."
"I got every damned right. Who the hell asked you t'butt into my life like that?"
"You didn't have no problem with me butting into your life when you was in jail. Hellfire, you'd've hung if I hadn't butted in."
"Well, I didn't hang, did I? I thanked you for that time, but I don't need your help anymore. What I'm doing now is new t'me, and I don't need a crazy hooker making it even harder."
"Don't be too sure of that, little sister. I saved your butt more times'n I can count. Don't be so sure you won't need me t'do it again."
"I need your help, I'll ask. Till then, you can just... just... oh, hell. You can just take Joe back to your House and protect me from him for a while."
"I think I will. You can ask me for help anytime you need it, but you better have one hell of a good apology t'say first just t'get me to listen."
She turned away from Jessie and walked over to the bar. Joe was talking to Marty Hernandez. Wilma blew softly in his ear. "You ready, Joe, or would you rather stay and talk t'Marty?"
Marty grinned. "If he wants to stay, Wilma, I will be happy to take his place for whatever you had in mind."
"In a pig's eye." Joe laughed and tossed a dollar coin on the bar. "We'll go now, and when we get back to your place, I'll show you just how ready I am."
When the pair was gone Jessie cursed herself for getting too angry and talking too quickly. She hadn't given Wilma the chance to say exactly what Paul's reaction had been to her song and dance act.
* * * * *
Thursday, October 12, 1871
"I'll see that dime and raise you another," Cap said. "Say, Bridget, seeing as we're the ones left fighting for this pot, are you interested in a little side bet... just to make it a little more interesting?"
"I'm here to gamble," Bridget answered. "I'll see that dime and raise you fifteen." She tossed a quarter into the pot. "Now, what sort of a side bet did you have in mind?"
"Dinner?"
"Is this your way of asking me to have dinner with you?"
"Oh, I'm asking, all right, but that's not really what the bet's about."
"Will you two finish mit dis hand, already?" Hans Euler interrupted. "Me and Mort came to play, not to listen to the two of you talking all mushy." Mort Boyer, the other player, mumbled something in agreement.
"Sorry, Hans," Bridget said. "What is the side bet for then?"
"Call," Cap said. "You in, then, on it?"
"I'm in," Bridget said. She laid down her cards. "Can you beat three fives?"
"Not with these." Cap showed his hand, a pair of jacks. "I'll pick you up for dinner at Maggie's next Monday at six."
"Wait a minute," Bridget said, as she gathered in the pot. "What was the bet, if not whether or not we'd have dinner?" It wasn't like her, she realized, to suddenly get so addle-headed that she'd forget to find out what exactly what stakes were being offered.
Cap picked up the cards. "My deal, I think." Then he added, "The bet was just for who pays, of course. I lost, so I have that honor?" He began to shuffle. "Game is seven card stud; ante up."
Bridget tossed in a nickel, as did Hans and Red. "I think I just got set up to have dinner with you, win or lose."
"You did," Cap said, a satisfied look on his face. "I wasn't sure you'd fall for it. That was the real gamble." He began to deal the cards.
"And I'll be waiting here Monday to collect." Bridget smiled, pleased to discover that she wasn't the only serious gambler at the table.
* * * * *
Ozzie Pratt looked up from his menu. "Ah, Jane, shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate."
"Summer," Jane said. "It's October, Ozzie. Don't you know that?"
"Of course, I do, sweet Jane. I was just reciting a sonnet, a poet by the great William Shakespeare. Just as the master compares the beauty of his own 'Dark Lady' to the beauty of a summer day, so I would compare that same beauty to your own loveliness."
Jane laughed. "Ozzie, you have got yourself such a way with words."
"Perhaps, but what I say is true, every last word of it. True." He gestured to an empty chair at his table. "Won't you join me for supper?"
"I thought Roscoe Unger was having dinner with you."
"As does he, I fear, but you are a far more desirable dining companion. My young assistant will understand my choice, I am certain, and I shall find a way to make it up to him."
"Problem is, I can't. I got to be the waitress tonight."
"Couldn't Laura or, perhaps, Jessie take a turn? You could join me then?"
"Laura went home to have dinner with Arsenio. I ain't sure when she'll be back. Some nights, she takes a lot longer time than others."
Ozzie smiled. "Yes, newlyweds will sometime take longer to... ah, dine. What about Jessie, then?"
"No way." Jane shook her head. "I wouldn't ask her for a favor if my life depended on it."
"It would seem, then, that I am fated to dine with Roscoe." He took her hand and kissed it softly. "Perhaps another time. After all, 'thy eternal summer shall not fade; nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st.'"
Jane smiled again. "Thanks, Ozzie... I think. Now, do you want to order, or are you going to wait for Roscoe?"
* * * * *
Friday, October 13, 1871
Shamus walked over to where Maggie was sitting, taking a short break before she had to start working on supper. "I got something for ye in me office, Maggie."
"What is it, Shamus?" She rose to her feet. The pair of them started walking towards the storeroom that doubled as Shamus' office.
"Books. The account books I used the first week the restaurant was opened. I figured ye could use them to learn yuir bookkeeping."
"I-I am not sure that I am ready for that."
"Well, thuir's no time like the present to be starting, is there? Ye can use them books from the first week - take 'em home and read them at night after the wee ones are t'bed."
"Shamus, I-I can do the arithmetic... some, but I know nothing of how to read these books of yours."
"Ah, well, thiur's one more book I'll be giving ye, A uide to Business Arithmetic y Mr. H. Laurence Norman of the Harvard College in Boston, no less. It'll tell a smart lass like ye are everything ye'll be needing to know."
They reached the storeroom, and Shamus held the door for her. 'Ai, what am I getting into?' Maggie thought as she walked through.
* * * * *
Saturday, October 14, 1871
"Here you go, Molly." Laura handed the other woman the money for the drinks she'd just brought to the players at Bridget's poker game.
Molly took the cash and rang up the register. "So how's Arsenio taking it?" she asked as she put the cash in and closed the drawer.
"Taking what?" Laura asked.
"Yuir monthlies, o'course. This is the first time ye've had them since ye two got married. I know how that can... interfere with things." She winked mischievously.
"But I haven't... it isn't time yet, is it?"
"It surely is. Bridget mentioned it to me a little while ago; she says it makes it a wee bit harder to keep from doing her 'tells', ye know those little moves that can be hinting at what her cards are."
Laura shuddered. "I haven't... not even a sign that they were coming. Molly... am I all right? They don't just stop sometimes, do they?"
Maggie gave Laura an odd look, as if she were studying some kind of a bug under a magnifying glass. "Well, now, sometimes, as it happens, a woman's monthlies can stop. Worry or being sick or something big happening in her life, they can all do that to a woman."
"A big change?" Laura gave a massive sigh of relief. "What could be a bigger change than getting married? Yes... yes, that has to be it."
"If it is, yuir monthlies may just be coming late - ye'd best watch out for that. Or they may skip a month all together and come on ye worse, maybe, next time. Ye'd best be ready for that, too."
"I guess I'll have to. Who'd ever think that I'd start to worry when my monthlies didn't come?"
Molly nodded, covering her smile with one hand. "Who, indeed?"
* * * * *
Shamus signaled to Hiram King and the Happy Days Town Band played a short flourish that got the crowd's attention.
"Thank ye, everybody, for coming to this special dance. I'll try and make this quick, so the next time the band plays, they'll be playing something longer that ye all can be dancing to."
"By now, ye've all read of that terrible fire and what it done to Chicago, hundreds dead, thousands homeless, and a third of the city... Gone. But America, being the great country that she --" he stopped as the band unexpectedly played a few bars of "Columbia, Gem of the Ocean."
"As I was saying, towns all over is chipping in money and sending it to Chicago and General Sheridan - no music! - to General Sheridan who's heading up the relief. And what the rest of them towns can do, Eerie can do better. And with the help of the Ladies' Guild, that's just what we're gonna do here tonight."
"Get on with it, Shamus," someone yelled. "We came here to dance."
"And so ye will. Tonight, besides me usual lovelies, some of the guild ladies'll be here for ye to be dancing with. Thuir husbands get the first dance, o' course, but after that..."
"After that, it's every man for himself." Yelled another voice from the crowd of men.
"Aye, exactly. Now, let me introduce the ladies. First, the prettiest waiter girls in the west, Bridget... Jane... Jessie... Laura... and Maggie." The women were all waiting out of sight at the top of the stairs. As Shamus called their names, they walked down, gathering in a group at the left of the stairs."
"And now, just for tonight - unless any of them is looking for a job..." He winked at the crowd. "Phillipia Stone... Kaitlin O'Hanlan... Delores Ortega... Sylvia Rivera... And Amy Talbot." These women also walked down the stairs, standing in a group at the right. They were all in their best dresses, but they were also wearing the same starched white aprons as the others.
"Gentlemen," Hiram King said in a loud, clear voice, "take your partners for the first dance."
Five men stepped out of the crowd and walked over to their wives, but when the men tried to take their wives' hands, the women stepped back. "You need a ticket, same as everybody else, Dan," Amy Talbot said firmly. And loud enough for everyone to hear.
While the crowd laughed, Dan Talbot grinned back and fished in his pocket for the ticket. He handed it to Amy, who put it in an apron pocket. "You'll pay for that when we get home, Amy Talbot," Dan whispered taking her in his arms.
Amy smiled and leaned her head against his broad chest. "Promise?"
* * * * *
"Second dance'll start in a minute," Hiram King announced. "You husbands remember, the rules say you can't dance with your wives two dances in a row. Shamus'll be glad to sell you a drink, though. Half the money goes to charity, same as the dance tickets. You can dance with somebody else - I hear your wives all said you could - but if you're smart, you won't enjoy it."
The crowd laughed, and a fair number of men walked over to where the women were sitting. "Looks like it's my turn," Liam O'Hanlan said, handing a ticket to his sister-in-law.
"Liam, I didn't know you came to these dances," Kaitlin remarked, standing. She was a tall, slender woman with chestnut brown hair. A smattering of freckles still left on her face made her look younger than her thirty-two years.
"I normally don't." He took her in his arms. Liam was a just an inch taller, but with the husky build that came from carrying sacks of feed all day. "But this was a special occasion." He guided her out onto the dance floor.
* * * * *
"Looks like it's my turn," R.J. said, handing Bridget a dance ticket.
She put the ticket in her apron pocket. "Looks like." She paused a half beat. "I didn't think Shamus let you take that much time from the bar, even for charity."
Before he could answer, the music, a polka began. "I wanted to talk to you without a lot of other people getting in the way. I already set up a few rounds of drinks for when the music stops. If anyone comes over, Ramon can take care of them."
"Ramon?"
"Sure, he doesn't know any fancy drink recipes, but he's a salesman, after all. He can sell a man a beer as easy as he can sell him a pair of boots over at Silverman's store."
"Yes, but since when does he work for Shamus?"
"He doesn't, but he can help out once in a while for a free drink. He says it takes his mind off having to wait to dance with Maggie. He didn't even want to dance with one of the guild ladies for charity. He just handed Delores Ortega his ticket, when she came over and asked him."
Bridget sighed. "I know what you mean. He just sits there sometimes and stares at her looking sadder than a man has a right to."
"They'll work it out. They're both level-headed folks."
"Care to bet on it?"
R.J. shook his head. "I'll bet on a hand of cards, not on people."
"Or maybe you aren't that sure," she said, egging him on.
"Maybe... I did want to talk to you about a bet you made."
"What was that?" She had a feeling she already knew.
"Cap Lewis has been telling everybody how he got you to go with dinner with him. Is that true, that he bet you for who'd pay?"
"It is. You have a problem with it?"
"Only that it's not me you're having supper with." He looked at her closely. "You want to change that?"
"I don't welch on a bet. You know that."
"Fine. Let's cut to the chase then. You're having supper with him on... Monday, is it?"
Bridget nodded. "It's the first night that he can get back to town."
"Have supper with me... umm, Thursday."
Bridget saw that the rivalry between Cap and R.J. was getting fiercer, but..."Why not. I do like you, R.J., and if I passed up a free meal, I'd never be able to look another professional gambler in the eye again." She chuckled. "And that'd be a real disadvantage in any game."
* * * * *
"Now that was real good." Jessie all but purred, as she reluctantly broke her kiss with Paul. They had skipped a waltz and gone out into Molly's garden to take advantage of the darkness of the new moon.
"It surely was," Paul agreed. He pulled her towards him. "And I do believe that I'd like another. He kissed her again. As he did, his hands reached down and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. He waited a moment, in case she objected. When she didn't, he gently opened it and reached in to massage her breasts through the material of her chemise and corset. Jessie moaned softly and arched her back, pushing her breasts further into his hands.
When their lips finally parted, Jessie's breathing was shallow, "Ohh, my." Her whole body was tingling. Her nipples felt tight against the material of her corset. "You surely have a way of making a gal feel good, Paul Grant. I just wish we could --"
"So do I, Jess, but even with a new moon, it'd be too risky to..." he touched her sleeve. "... get more comfortable. With this charity dance, the place is twice as crowded as usual."
Jessie looked down at her lap. "Wouldn't... wouldn't us do any good if we could... do like you say. I got my... monthlies right now." She looked up at his face. How was he going to react to the news?
Paul studied her for a moment. "Well," he said, a wry smile on his lips. "We'll just have to figure out what else we can do."
"I got some ideas." Jessie ran a finger down his chest. "'Course, most of 'em come from when I was a man. Wilma probably knows a lot more about how a gal does such things." She began to unbutton his shirt.
"I don't want to talk about her." He leaned back against the building to let her work on his shirt.
"Maybe not, but I hear you talked to her."
Paul frowned. "What did you hear?"
"Wilma come over a couple days ago. She said that she done her best to get you into her bed."
"She surely did." Paul nodded. "And her best is pretty good."
"Then why didn't you?" Jessie felt like she had been dipped in ice. The arousal she'd been enjoying was heating to anger.
"Didn't want to. She was up to something, and I didn't want any part of it."
"She was testing you, she said. She told me she was doing it t'protect me, if you can believe that."
"I can."
"You can? You believe a cock n' bull story like that?"
"I don't think it was the only reason. She's been trying to 'play with me' - as she calls it, since the day after she drank the second dose of that damned potion. But it'd be just like her to tell herself that she was only doing it to protect her little sister."
"She always was doing that; it drove me clear up the wall sometimes."
"Well, don't you worry about her and me."
"And why is that?" Jessie had most of Paul's buttons undone. She slipped a hand inside, and ran her palm against his hairy chest.
"Because I already know which Hanks I want to 'play' with, and I'm doing that right now - as best as I can, anyway." He chuckled, pulled Jessie to him, and captured her mouth with his own.
* * * * *
Sunday, October 15, 1871
Rosalyn held the cup under her nose, savoring the heady aroma of coffee and cinnamon. She took a long drink and leaned back in her chair. "I do declare there is nothing so bracing as a hot cup of coffee in the morning."
"That's not what you said to Jerry Dominguez last night," Mae said, helping herself to a slice of toast from the stack in the center of the table. "You said --"
"I know precisely what I said," Rosalyn answered quickly. "Sometimes... most times, there's nothing better than a man to make a girl feel her very, very best, but, there are other times, especially first thing in the morning, when a cup of good, strong coffee comes in a very close second."
"'Specially when a gal's been having herself too much fun the whole night before." Wilma walked into the kitchen a bit unsteadily. "Gimme a cup of that coffee... please."
"You finally find the man who is too much for you, eh?" Beatriz asked wryly.
Daisy poured Wilma a cup of coffee. She took it gratefully and sat down. "That man ain't been born yet, Beatriz." She took a long drink, tilting her head back to feel it go down and sighing when she felt it warming her stomach. "Be fun to look for him, though." She took another sip.
Lady Cerise sat at the head of the table, finishing her own breakfast, while she listened quietly - as she often did - to her ladies talking. While the other women wore soft cotton robes over their "working clothes", Cerise was in a pale green dress, a napkin balanced on her lap.
"I am afraid that your noble search will be limited for a while," Cerise said. "I have been given to understand that Monsieur Slocum is making one last - how do you say it? - cattle drive before the weather grows too cold for such things. He and his men will be leaving at the end of the week."
"Dang!" Wilma said. "That'll surely quiet this place down for --"
Before she could continue, they all heard a dog's bark from under the table near where Cerise was sitting. "BonBon, ma petite, what do you want?"
The pup cocked his head for an instant, then stood up on his hind legs. He barked again and took two steps forward, his forepaws waving in front of him.
"Oh, how sweet," Rosalyn said.
"Always he is the little beggar." Beatriz laughed and clapped her hands.
"Bravo, ma cheri," Cerise said. There was a plate of bacon on the table. Cerise tossed a slice to the pup. BonBon caught it in his teeth and ran off to enjoy it in his basket in a corner of the kitchen.
"Those cowboys aren't the only ones who'll be away," Rosalyn said. "Clyde Ritter told me last night that his wife was dragging him off to visit her family in Illinois again. They'll be gone for about six weeks."
"That'll put a crimp in your style," Wilma said, almost sounding sympathetic.
"Perhaps," Cerise said, "he can arrange that his presence is required for some emergency at his place of business, and he can return earlier."
Rosalyn shook her head. "I don't think so. That would make two emergencies at the livery stable in two visits? That's enough to get any wife, even his, at least a tiny bit suspicious."
"At least you only got one man going away," Wilma said. "Slocum takes thirty or more of his hands with him on them drives."
"Thirty or forty," Beatriz said in mock amazement. "And they are all your men? That is most amazing."
Wilma stood and put her hands on her hips, posing. "Not when you consider my competition, it ain't."
"Yes," Rosalyn said softly. "You look so much more bovine than the rest of us. How could those cattlemen not prefer a cow like you?"
"Cow? Why you..." She grabbed her cup. With a twist of the wrist, she tossed the coffee at Roslyn, hitting her in the face and splashing on her corset and robe.
"You bitch," Rosyln shreiked. "This is my new robe." She lunged at Wilma who barely managed to dodge her attacker. They circled each other looking for an opening.
Madam Cerise quickly moved between them. "That is enough," she said firmly. "Rosalyn, you are finished with your breakfast."
"No, I'm not. I want another --"
"Non, you are finished." Cerise replied. "You can go upstairs to your room by yourself, or I will ask Herve to help you." She turned to Wilma, fire in her eyes. "You have five minutes to eat breakfast, then you will also go upstairs. As will you, Mae and Beatriz, if you do not wipe those smiles from your pretty lips. I do not expect you to be loving sisters to each other, but I do expect that such insults will not pass between you." All four women nodded.
"It is now a bit after 10," Cerise continued. "Rosalyn, Wilma, you have until 1 of the clock to think of what I have said and to decide how you each - yes, each of you - will apologize the one to the other."
* * * * *
Jane pushed the kitchen door open with her back and walked onto the saloon. She walked slowly to the bar, being careful of the tray full of clean glasses she was carrying. Saturday was the Saloon's busiest night, and she had a dozen more trays to bring in.
She was about halfway there, when Sam Braddock stepped in front of her. "I'll just take that, Jane." He reached out for the tray.
"I can manage it," Jane said stubbornly.
"Nonsense. A pretty gal like you needs a big, strong man like me to take care of you."
"I'm strong enough. I can carry it."
"That ain't the point. You shouldn't have to carry something like that. And you won't..." He lifted the tray away from her. "... not while I'm around to do it for you."
Jane smiled. "And Molly ain't around to stop you. You know how she don't like anybody doing my work for me. You don't want to get her - and Shamus - mad at you, do you?"
"No, I don't." He set the tray down on the bar. "But I figure that you're worth it. You got any more of them glasses t'bring in?"
* * * * *
Monday, October 16, 1871
Maggie glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall. "Ernesto! It is almost 8:30. Hurry and finish your breakfast or you will be late for school."
"Si, Mama." Ernesto took a last drink of milk and stood up from the bench he was sitting on. "Oh, I have this for you." His schoolbooks were in a small sack on the table. He reached and took out his McGuffey's First Reader. Maggie could see a folded sheet of paper sticking out of the book. "Miss Osbourne said that I should give you this." He pulled the paper from the book.
"Then why did you not give it to me on Friday?" She took the sheet from him. Nancy Osbourne had written a note in her fine, very readable teacher's hand.
"Dear Parent."
"As you know, the Mexican holiday, La Noche de Los Muerte, the Day of the
Dead, is November 2nd. My students and I will be celebrating with a
Party at the school again this year. May I count on you to help with the
refreshments by making some kind of baked goods or other sweet? (I am
making a lemonade punch.) There are 34 students in the school, though
you needn't make more than enough to feed about 10."
"Please send a note in with your child on Monday, saying if you can help."
"Thank you."
"Your Child's Teacher, Nancy Osbourne"
Maggie shook her head. "Ai, you had to wait until now to give me this."
She heard a giggle. Lupe was happy to see her older brother in trouble. At four, she was too young to go to the school. When Lupe saw her mother frowning at her, she quickly hid her smile by taking a bite of cornbread.
Ernesto glared at Lupe for a moment, changing his expression to one of purest innocence when he looked back at Maggie. "I... I sort of... forgot to, Mama. Please tell Miss Osbourne that you will help. I like her, and I want her and the other children you see just how wonderful a cook you are."
"I am sure that you do." Maggie thought a moment. "Tell Miss Osbourne that I will make pan de muertos for the party."
"The round breads with sugar?" Lupe asked. "I love those."
"These are for school," Ernesto said, teasing her. "A baby like you cannot go to the party."
"I am not a baby!" Lupe yelled.
Maggie frowned. "Then do not act like one, Lupe. And you, Ernesto, do not tease her. I will make some round ones for you, Lupe, but for the school, something fancy... rabbits. Yes, rabbit shaped breads that taste of the anise."
Lupe smacked her lips. "Oooh, can I have some of those, too."
"Si, of course," Maggie said with a chuckle. Then she took another look at the clock. "Ernesto, now you and I are both late." She quickly scribbled "pan de muerto... with anise" on the back of the note and handed it to Ernesto. "Run - and do not forget to give that back to your teacher."
Ernesto pushed the note and his reader into the small sack that already held his numbers book and the small tin bucket with his lunch. "I won't forget, Mama. Goodbye." He ran for the door. As he opened it, he called back, "and goodbye to you, too, baby sister." He was out the door before Lupe could answer.
* * * * *
Cap was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. "Good evening, Bridget. You look even prettier than usual."
"Thanks, Cap." She felt her face flush. She'd left her Eaton jacket up in her room. The top button of her dress was opened. Her hair was down from the more elaborate way she normally wore it and hung loose in soft waves around her shoulders. "I... ah... I didn't feel like being dressed so formally for dinner."
"Whatever the reason, I like it." He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"
Bridget took his arm and let him lead her in a roundabout path to the tables that served as Maggie's Restaurant. 'He's showing me off,' she thought, as they walked, and chuckled to herself at the notion. It felt odd, though, especially when Cap made a point of walking her slowly past the section of the bar where R.J. was working.
"Mr. Lewis... Miss Kelly." Shamus was doing the seating for the restaurant. He greeted them with a smile and a wink when they came over to him. "How nice to be seeing ye both this fine evening."
Cap played along with the game of their being in a fancy restaurant. "Very well, thank you, Shamus. Table for two please." Shamus nodded and led them to a table. Cap pulled out a chair for Bridget, pushing it in once she had sat down. Then he walked around and sat in the chair opposite her.
Shamus handed them menus. "Jane'll be here in a few minutes t'be taking yuir orders." He hurried off to greet Dwight Albertson, the manager of the Wells Fargo Bank. Albertson was a regular, eating at Maggie's almost every night.
They looked at the menu for a while. "Decide what you want?" Cap asked, looking up from his own menu.
Bridget nodded. "That roast herbed chicken. I've been smelling it the last two hours... with... umm... peas and pearl onions."
Cap sniffed the air. "It does smell good, but... I haven't had trout in donkey's years." He turned to Jane, who had just come to their table. "Is that trout fresh?"
"It surely is," Jane said. "I had some for m'own supper. It's caught yesterday in the Gila River and shipped in ice. Most of it's on its way to Prescott, but we got managed to get some."
"That for me, then," Cap told her. "Bridget'll have the chicken, and we'll both have the peas and onions." He waited while she wrote that down, then added. "And bring that bottle of white wine that I had Shamus save for me... also chilled, please."
"Wine?" Bridget said. She'd been surprised at his ordering for her, but hadn't said anything until now. "Don't you think wine is a bit much?"
"Just bring it, Jane," Cap said. Jane nodded and headed for the kitchen. "What's the matter, Bridget?" He grinned. "After all, I'm paying."
"Yeah," Bridget said. "That was kind of a fast shuffle you gave me the other night. What if you'd won that hand?"
"Then I'd have said that the bet was for the winner to pay. Either way, we'd be here having dinner together. It was a bet I couldn't lose."
"Kind of an expensive bet, though."
He smiled again. "Worth every penny." Somehow, his smile made her feel warm all over.
"Next time, I'll buy."
Cap's smile got bigger. "Why, Miss Kelly," he said coyly, "are you inviting me to have supper with you again?"
"I... I guess I... yes. Yes, I am."
"I accept your most gracious invitation, but a gentleman always pays when he dines with a lady."
"Cap, you can call yourself a gentleman if you want, but I'm no lady. We're... we're just two friends having dinner, and next time, it's my turn to pay."
"You most certainly are a lady, Bridget." He took her hand and tried to kiss it, but she pulled it away quickly. He shrugged and seemed to accept the setback. "All right, you can pay... if you're sure that you're doing well enough at that game you run to be able to afford it."
Now it was her turn to smile. "I am. I figured that I needed to take in between $10 and $15 a day to pay Shamus and your uncle each month. Most days, I take in closer to $20, sometimes a good bit more. I figure I can waste a dollar or two buying supper for you, especially since part of what I already pay Shamus is for meals. I'm only going to have to pay the extra for yours."
"You make it sound like buying dinner for me is a downright bargain. Maybe I should let you do it more often."
"So much for 'a gentleman always pays.' Maybe you're no more a gentleman than I'm a lady."
"You're the one who wanted to pay my way, as I recall. Seeing as you're rolling in cash, maybe I will let you treat me to dinner. I'm just not sure when that'll be. Uncle Abner managed to pick up a last minute contract for a couple hundred head to be delivered over to Fort Yuma. We leave Friday."
"Shamus won't be very happy to hear that. Things get a lot quieter in here when your uncle takes his men out on a drive."
"How about you?"
Bridget shrugged. "Enough of my regular players are townsfolk or work on other ranches. I'll get by till the men that work for your uncle straggle back."
"'The men'? What about me? I just said that I'm going on the drive, too. In fact, I think that Uncle Abner's planning to ride back early and let me be in charge part of the way. He wants to see how I handle things."
"Well, congratulations. Or are you scared about that? It'd be the first time you ran a drive."
"I am, but that wasn't the question I was asking."
Bridget's mouth suddenly went desert dry. "What... what is the question you're asking, Cap?"
"I'll be gone for over a week." He reached out and took her hand. "I'm asking if you're going to miss me?"
"Cap, I..." Bridget was surprised; all of a sudden her heart was beating like the wings of a panicky bird. What could she say, when she wasn't sure of the answer?
"Here you go," Jane interrupted, taking that moment to bring their meals. "That's the chicken for you, Bridget, and the fish for you, Cap." She put the plates down in front of them.
"Here's that wine, too." She took two glasses out of her apron pocket. "Do you want me t'just pour some and leave the bottle here for you?"
"No," Cap said gently. "The way it's supposed to be done is that you give me some to sample. If I taste it and say it's good, you pour a full glass for Bridget and then one for me."
"Whoo-wee," Jane said. "Ain't you the fancy one."
Cap grinned. "I do have my moments, don't I?" Jane opened the bottle and poured just enough into Cap's glass to fill it about a quarter of the way. Cap sniffed at the wine, then slowly drank. "Hmmm, that is good. Now fill the glasses like I said."
Jane did. "Enjoy your suppers," she said as she hurried off to another table.
"As I was saying..." Cap began. He stopped when he saw the expression on Bridget's face and the way her hand was trembling as she took a small sip of the wine. "... I'm sure looking forward to that trout." He sliced off a small piece and ate it. "Delicious. How's your chicken?"
Bridget managed to cut a piece of the meat and put it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, grateful for the time to think.
"I'm sorry, Bridget. I guess that really wasn't a fair question to spring on you just now."
"Damn straight, it wasn't. Cap, I... I will miss you, but it'll be the way I'd miss any friend who happened to be going away for a while." She looked down at her plate, not wanting to meet his eyes.
"I guess it's a good thing that you and me're just two friends having dinner together." He cut himself another piece of fish.
Bridget waited a moment, watching Cap out of the corner of her eye. When he didn't say anything more, she started on her own dinner again.
* * * * *
Jane came by just as they were finishing. "You want some dessert - or coffee, maybe?"
"Bridget?" Cap looked at his companion for an answer.
She shook her head. "I've had enough. If I eat more, I'd be sleepy, and that's no way to run a poker game. You have more if you want."
"Nothing for me either," Cap said. "I came in for some supplies, too. Uncle Abner knew about our dinner, but he expects me back before it gets too late. What do I owe you, then, Jane?"
Jane took a small pad out of her apron pocket. "Three n'a quarter for the meals, counting that wine."
Cap reached into a pocket and handed Jane a half-eagle. "Keep the change."
Jane tried to bite the coin, stopping at the last moment. "Force of habit," she said, with a twist of a grin. "Thanks, Cap." She pocketed the coin and headed over to another table.
Bridget frowned. "I was sort of hoping you'd stay around for a while - to... ah, to play a few hands of poker."
"I'd like to, Bridget, I really would, but I did promise Uncle Abner." He stood up and offered her his arm. "At least, I can walk you over to your table. It looks like there's somebody waiting to play."
Bridget glanced over towards the table Shamus reserved for her game. Liam O'Hanlan was sitting in one of the chairs. Liam and his brother, Patrick, ran the Feed and Grain. He was an occasional player in Bridget's game, rather than what she thought of as a "regular." He nodded when he saw her look his way.
"One other player doesn't make for much of a game," Bridget said, as she took Cap's arm. "He's going to have to wait just a bit longer, anyway. I want to get my jacket from my room. You'll have to settle for walking me to the stairs."
"Got to wear the uniform," Cap said, wryly. Because Liam O'Hanlan was waiting, now joined by Red Tully and Sam Braddock, he led her directly towards the stairs.
"Thanks for the dinner, Cap," she said as they reached the stairs. She let go of his arm. "And, yes... I will miss you."
"Then here's something to remember me by." He gently took her head in his hands. Then he leaned down to her. Their lips touched. She made a surprised sound way down back in her throat as his tongue darted between her teeth to play with hers. She started to push him away, and immediately regretted it. Her arms rose, as if of their own will, and wrapped around him, as she raised her body to press against his.
When Cap obligingly let go and stepped back, she sighed. "I-I really shouldn't have let you do that. I told you that I'm not ready for such things."
Cap nodded, resigned. "That's what you told me at supper. Just now, you told me something different." He leaned down again and gently kissed her forehead, and was glad that she didn't react so skittishly this time. "Good night, Bridget. We'll talk about it when I get back." He left the Saloon without another word.
Bridget stood for a moment, watching him leave. Then she suddenly remembered, "The game!" She rushed upstairs to get her jacket. She'd have made better time, though, if she hadn't felt so weak in the knees.
Her perplexed smile lasted until she had lost the first two hands.
* * * * *
Tuesday, October 17, 1871
Shamus looked around the saloon. It was early afternoon. The place was quiet, almost empty. Jane was on waitress duty, standing near him at the bar. He tapped her on the shoulder. "Why don't ye go get yuirself something to eat from the Free Lunch?" Jane nodded and walked over.
She was looking over the offerings: coleslaw, salt crackers, and that beef stew with the Mexican peppers and spices that Maggie made so often. It was good stuff, but it made a person awfully thirsty.
"Looks purty good, don't it?"
Jane turned. Davy Kitchner was standing beside her, a plate in his hand. "Davy, where'd you come from?"
"Colorado, same as you did, Jane, back when you was Jake."
"I remember. We spent two years digging for silver that wasn't there."
"Then you and Toby decided t'head down here and look for gold. I come down about two weeks later. Remember that cold spring we spent shivering in them hills before we got cabins built?"
Jane shivered at the memory. "Hard t'believe it gets so cold up there, when it's so hot down in the lowlands." She put some crackers on a plate and spooned some of the stew on top of them.
"You... ah, going back up there... up to your claims after you serve your time?"
"I sure plan to. That's why I had Milt put that thing in the paper saying they was still mine."
Davy took her arm. "Let's go sit over here." They walked over to an empty table and sat down. "How you gonna work it... the way you are now, I mean?"
"I can do it," Jane said, taking a forkful. "I'm strong; Laura and me is the strongest of all the women."
"Is she gonna be working up there with you? It took you and Toby t'work them claims before."
"There... there really ain't that... no, it... it did take the two of us. I'm gonna need help, ain't I?"
"A-yup, and you better give lots a thought t'who you get that help from. Sam Braddock's a city boy, so's Red and Ozzie. Don't none of them know hard rock mining the way you do... or I do." He waved to Laura who had eaten and was on duty. "You think about that, while I get us a couple of beers t'go with this here stew of Maggie's."
* * * * *
Tucson Citizen - Eerie, Arizona Edition - October 17, 1871
"Eerie Citizenry Comes to the Aid of Chicago" by Oswyn Pratt
The most unlikely alliance of the Eerie Ladies' Guild and its saloon
Owners has raised over $500 for the relief of the tragic victims of the
Great Chicago Fire though the agency of a number of special events held
this last Saturday.
At the Eerie Saloon, five members of the Ladies' Guild: Mesdames
Phillipia Stone, Kaitlin O'Hanlon, Delores Ortega, Sylvia Rivera, and
Amy Talbot joined Shamus O'Toole's own lovely waiter girls: Laura Caulder,
Jessie Hanks, Bridget Kelly, Maggie Lopez, and Jane Steinmetz, as dance
partners. Half of the profits from the sale of dance tickets and drinks
went to the relief fund. At the Lone Star Saloon, Sam Duggan arranged for
half of every pot from a marathon poker tournament went to the same fund.
Jorge Muá±ez, the winner, graciously donated all but $20 of his final pot to
the fund. The house's share of all bets on a boxing match held at the
Silver Nugget Saloon were also donated. The match was won by Monk Dworkin,
who knocked out Esteban Sandoval in the 42nd round. Sizable donations were
also made by the other drinking parlors in the town.
Mrs. Cecelia Ritter, President of the Ladies' Guild, said that a total of
$521.87 was raised. Since she and her family will be going to Springfield,
Illinois in a few days to visit relatives, she intends to deliver a
certified check for that amount personally to Civil War hero, General Philip
Sheridan, who is leading the relief efforts. She said that the amount is
considerable for a town the size of Eerie, and we can all be very proud.
* * * * *
"Well, now, hi, Milt. What can I get you this afternoon?"
Milt Quinlan looked up from the notes he was reading. "Afternoon, Jessie. Is Jane around?"
"She's out in the kitchen helping Maggie - trying to, anyways. You want her?"
"I... umm, I'd like to... ah, see her, yes."
"I'll go tell her. Can I get you something to drink in the meantime?"
"Beer, please, and... umm, bring one for Jane, as well." He put a silver dollar on the table.
Jessie pushed the coin back towards him. "You put that money away. This here's my treat."
"May I ask why?"
"You don't come in here much, Milt, so I never got the chance t'thank you for what you done at my trial."
"There's no need for that. I assure you that your sister paid me quite adequately for my services in your behalf."
"That was Wilma. This is me. For today, you can have anything you want for free - just my way of saying thanks."
"I suppose that it would be ungracious of me not to accept." He pocketed the coin. "With an attitude like that, though, I can't help but wish that you worked at the bank instead of here at Shamus'."
Jessie shook her head. "I could never work in a bank. There's just be too much temptation for me t'return to my wicked, wicked ways." She winked at him and laughed.
"Yes, and Paul Grant would never approve of anything like that."
"P-Paul? What's he got t'do with anything.?" Jessie stopped smiling. Did everybody know what she and Paul had done?
Milt gauged her reaction. 'You shouldn't have teased her about Paul,' he scolded himself. 'They probably think no one has noticed how they act around each other.' He smiled and decided to be diplomatic. "I could... umm, see at the trial that you and he had become... ah, close... friends - yes, friends - on your way back to Eerie. I didn't think that you would want to... ah, disappoint a... friend."
"No. No, I wouldn't." She gave a sigh of relief and relaxed. "Not a-a good friend like Paul." She waited to see if Milt would say anything more. He didn't. "Let me go get them beers," she said, "and Jane." She turned and walked quickly towards the bar.
Milt went back to the notes while he waited. They were for a relatively simple will that he was drawing up for a miner. The man hadn't hit a strike, but he'd almost been killed in a cave-in. He was taking the incident as a reminder of his mortality.
Milt had just finished putting the miner's thoughts about the custody of his mule into solid, legal English, when he heard Jane's nervous voice. "Is-is there some kind of problem with my claim?"
He looked up. Jane was standing by the table, a cook's apron over her blouse and skirt. She was holding a tray with two beers.
"I thought Jessie..."
Jane put the beers on the table and sat down. "I didn't want her serving me. She said you already paid. Is that true, or was she trying to get you in trouble, too?"
"She... ahh..." Milt didn't think Jane would enjoy knowing that Jessie was paying for her beer. "I... umm... I have to see Shamus about something... about a-a deed he asked me to check out. I'll pay him for the drinks when I talk to him."
"But you had to talk to me first." She braced herself again for the bad news. "What's wrong at my claim?"
"Nothing... nothing," he said firmly. "I just want to see... to see how you were doing. My men still ride out to your claims every couple of days, and they haven't reported a thing." He paused as a thought hit him. "Is there something specific they should be watching for?"
Jane tensed.
'She's still hiding something,' Milt thought. A lot of clients hid things from their lawyers. Once in a while, it got them into trouble, maybe even trouble the lawyer couldn't get them out of. Clients being secretive were a part of the profession, and Milt generally didn't worry about it until there was trouble. For some reason, though, it bothered him that Jane was doing it.
"Those men of yours," Jane asked. "They ever go into the cabins or... or go look in them mines me and Toby h-had going?"
She was fishing for something. There was something up there, probably at her old claim, but what? "No. I had them board up the cabins and the mine entrances. In fact, there are copies of that notice about your claims nailed to the doors of both cabins, nailed to the mine entrances, too." He waited a moment, watching her body relax. "Why, Jane? What's up there that you're so worried about?"
"Nothing!" She said the word almost too fast. "Ain't... ain't nothing at all. Least off nothing that's anybody else's business but mine."
"Jane, I'm your lawyer."
"So. All that means is you stand up for me in court or write up things t'put in the paper so's I can keep my claims."
"In your case, that means I'm supposed to watch out for your best interests. I really can't do that if you hide something important from me."
"Don't you worry about it, lawyer man. It'll be all right."
Milt took her hand. "Jane, I do worry about it... and about you. Are-are you sure that do don't want to tell me anything else?"
"I already told you no. Why do you keep asking me?"
Milt shrugged. "Sometimes I wonder that myself."
* * * * *
Carmen Whitney leaned back in her rocker and put down the sock and darning needles she was using. "I cannot work. I am worried about Ramon."
Josiah "Whit" Whitney looked up from his newspaper. "What do you mean, Carmen?"
"He has been like a man half-dead since Margarita said she did not want him to court her no more."
"I've noticed. I went in to Aaron's store to get a new shirt, and he kept trying to sell me sheets."
"I wish I could do something."
Whit shook his head. "Don't worry so much. It'll work out in time."
"'In time!' In time, your sons will be old men with long, white beards."
"I don't think it'll take quite that long," Whit said with a laugh. "From what Shamus tells me, she's just caught up in making a go of her restaurant. After all, with those kids of hers to support --"
"Business, always business gets in the way." She stopped for a moment. "If only she could see Ramon away from the restaurant. Yes, then she would see what she is missing."
Whit stroked his chin. "Maybe so, but if she's working all the time - and she is - I don't see how that could happen."
"One night, perhaps, she could let someone else cook the dinner. She could... she could come here for dinner."
"And Ramon would just happen to be here, too." He smiled at his wife's plotting, but then he decided, "No, it wouldn't work."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because she'd have to close the restaurant for the night, and that's something she just wouldn't do."
"If she could get someone else to help her, she would not have to close. She would just... leave early." She thought for a moment. "Jane. She helped at Laura's wedding, so Margarita could dance with Ramon, no less. And last Sunday, when she was here for breakfast after Mass, Margarita said that Jane helps her often in the kitchen."
Whit nodded. "I remember her saying that. You could ask Laura to help, too."
"No, I want to invite her, her and Arsenio, for dinner as well."
"Why? That'll complicate things, won't it?"
"No. I want them because Laura was a man, just as Margarita was, and now, she is married to Arsenio and very happy. I want Margarita to see that such happiness is possible."
"Problem is, Laura didn't have children to take care of nor a business to run. That can make a real difference."
Carmen threw the sock at him. "Why do you have to be so logical always?"
"Somebody in this family has to be."
"Si, any logical man would give up a family fortune in Maine to be a barber out here."
"I had my reasons." Whit came over and took her hand in his. "Staying here in Eerie - with you - just seemed to be the logical thing to do." He gently kissed her fingers.
"Then I can ask Margarita... and the others for dinner?"
Whit surrendered to the inevitable. "Go ahead. Who am I do deny Maggie the same logical choice?"
* * * * *
Wednesday, October 18, 1871
Maggie was working on a tray of sardines for the Free Lunch, when she heard a knock on the kitchen door. "Come in, whoever it is."
"Hola, Margarita," Carmen said, as she came through the door.
"Hola. What brings you to my kitchen, Carmen?"
Carmen adjusted her yellow cotton shawl around her shoulders. "You. I feel guilty that you are cooking for me every Sunday."
"I enjoy cooking. Besides, it is little enough to repay you for taking Lupe and Ernesto every Saturday night."
"That is not very much to do. They are no trouble, and Jose loves playing with them, especially Lupe." She paused a beat. "No, I want to do something special to say thank you."
Maggie was curious. "What did you have in mind?"
"You cook for me, so I want to cook for you. Please come to my house for dinner next week."
"That is very sweet, but I have a restaurant to run. How can I get away for dinner? I will not close down."
"How much of the work that you do is done at dinnertime?"
"What do you mean?"
"You do much of the cooking in the afternoon, no? You could still do that."
"Si, but someone has to finish the meal once it is ordered."
"Last Sunday, when I asked how the restaurant was doing, you said that it was easier now because you had Jane to help you. Is that not so?"
"I did, but I... you mean let her be in charge. I-I could not. The whole time I would worry. She does not know enough."
"You open at 4. I will make dinner for 6:30. You can stay for a while to watch that everything will be all right. Come... you come at 6."
"It might work." She shook her head. "But Jane... I do not know. Perhaps we could do it another time instead of at night.
"We?" Was Margarita thinking of Ramon? If so, the battle was half won.
"Si, Ernesto, Lupe, and me."
Carmen put up her hands. "No, no. This is for you. I have already asked Mrs. Lonnigan to watch Felipe and Jose. She can watch your children, also."
"I-I do not know."
"Yes, you do. A night out will be a good change for you."
"I will think about it. If Jane can do the work, I... I would like to come, but I --."
Carmen cut her off. "Bueno. You talk to her, see if she can do what you ask, and give me an answer by... will Friday be enough time?"
"Si, I think so. I will tell you if it is not."
"I am sure that all will be fine. Now you have work to do, and I must go." She leaned over and kissed Maggie lightly on the cheek. "Goodbye, Margarita."
Maggie smiled. "Goodbye, Carmen." As she watched Carmen leave, Maggie thought of Ramon. She'd wanted to ask Carmen how he was, but she knew that Carmen would tell him if she did. 'That would only encourage him,' she thought. 'The children... the business, I must think of them first.'
* * * * *
"Penny for your thoughts, Maggie."
"Shamus!" Maggie jumped at the sound if her name. "I did not hear you come in."
"I noticed. From the way that pot's going..." He pointed towards the stove. "... I don't think ye've been hearing - or seeing much of anything."
Maggie grabbed two potholders and ran to the stove, where a large pot was boiling over. She moved the pot to a cooler section of the large stove before turning back to face Shamus. "I think that we will be having mashed potatoes tonight, not boiled."
"I don't think anyone will mind." He waited a moment, then continued. "What is it that got ye thinking so hard?"
"Supper. Carmen Whitney invited me to supper at her house next week."
"Well now, ain't that nice of her. Ye could stand with a night off, ye've been working so hard."
"But how can I Shamus? I cannot close the restaurant... Not even the way Carmen says I could."
"Oh, and what did she say?"
"That I should do the work all afternoon and leave Jane in charge when I go." She snorted. "Jane... that is so... so wrong."
Shamus thought a moment, then nodded. "I don't know. It might work."
"Or it might not. I cannot go. I would spend the whole evening worrying. What sort of a guest would I be?"
"Not a very good one, that's truly so, but maybe... maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Have ye talked to Jane yet? She may not even want to do it."
Maggie shook her head. "I will not talk to her, unless I think it could work."
"Maybe if ye... practice. Aye, that's the answer, practice."
"Practice? I do not understand."
"Ye could be having what they call a 'trial run.' Some night before Carmen's party, ye do everything like ye were going t'be away that night. Only ye don't go. Ye sit in the corner and watch to see if Jane can manage things."
"Si, si." Maggie brightened. "If she can do the work, then I can go."
"Aye, and if she can't, then ye're right there. Ye can jump back in and see that thuir's no harm done."
Maggie nodded. "It... it would work. I will talk to Jane this very day." She smiled. 'Before I lose the courage,' she thought to herself
"Aye, and if she says 'yes,' ye can do it tomorrow."
* * * * *
Thursday, October 19, 1871
Red Tully looked around the room. There was no sign of his rivals. He'd heard they were each making a point of catching Jane alone, when the others weren't around and pressing their own cases. 'My turn, now,' he thought as he sauntered into the saloon.
He sat down at a table and waved for Jane to come over.
"How you today, Red?" Jane asked. "What can I get for you today?"
"Two beers." He tossed her a silver dollar. "For a starter."
"For a starter? You must be pretty thirsty to order two."
Red smiled, and used his foot to move an empty chair away from the table. "Second one's for you, Jane. If you'll join me."
"Two beers coming up," Jane said. All of the women had instructions to let people buy them beers. Since Shamus gave them a drink with barely enough alcohol for the smell of beer, there was no chance of getting drunk on it.
She was back almost at once with the beers. She put one down in front of Red, then sat down opposite him and took a long drink from the other. "Ahh," she said. "Now that was good. Thanks, Red."
"My pleasure, Jane." He glanced at her breasts and the way they'd moved when she sighed.
"Now what you wanna talk about?"
"What'd'ya mean?"
"I figured you didn't just buy me a drink 'cause you thought I was thirsty."
"I was just wondering how you was doing. Ain't a friend got the right t'ask something like that?"
"I suppose. I'm fine - I guess. I just been wondering what I'm gonna to when I get outta here."
"Aw, a sweet little gal like you don't need to worry 'bout things like that."
"I don't? Sure I do."
"No you don't. You got me, your old friend, Red, to do things like that for you." He took a drink and grinned at her. "That's what a friend like me... a man like me is for."
"I... I don't know."
"You just think about it a little. You'll see. You just trust me, and everything'll turn out just fine."
* * * * *
Maggie took out the watch she kept in her apron pocket. It was 5:58. "Close enough," she said nervously. She fixed herself dinner, pouring the dark mole sauce over a chicken breast and adding a serving of serving of green beans. 'I hope I can eat this.' She took a breath and muttered a silent prayer.
"Are you ready, Jane?" she finally asked.
Jane was carving thin slices of ham and setting them on a plate. Maggie had to repeat the question before Jane answered. "I don't... you sure you wanna do this? You really think I can work this place by m'self?"
"I do if you do." The fact that Jane was as nervous as she was somehow reassured Maggie. "This is your last chance to say no."
"I-I'm ready... I guess," Jane said. She poured a bit of the meat juices over the ham. Her hand shook just a little. "You go sit and eat with your young 'uns.'" She pointed with a nod of her head to the far end of the worktable where Ernesto and Lupe sat eating their meals.
"The kitchen is in your hands, then." She paused a half beat. "Good luck." She carried her plate over and joined her children.
"To us both," Jane whispered under her breath. She put a serving of peas and carrots on the plate with the ham and put it on a tray near the door. Laura would be in for it in just a minute. Jane looked at the orders on the table to see what was next.
* * * * *
"I fold," Joe Kelton said with a frown. He and Bridget had been fighting over the pot, watching the others build it up then drop out. He hated losing it, but he couldn't match her last raise. "Whatever you got better beat my two ladies."
Bridget put her hand down. "Just a pair of fours, Joe... and one more to keep 'em company. You put up a good fight." She smiled and raked in the pile of chips. "Now this next hand --"
"The next hand will have to wait," R.J. interrupted. "You promised to have dinner with me at 6 this evening. It's almost a quarter after."
Bridget turned to look at R.J. He looked different. Instead of just the shirtsleeves he normally worked in, he was wearing a dark blue jacket she'd never seen before, a string tie at his throat. 'Mmm, not bad,' she thought appreciatively. 'Not bad at all.'
She looked back at the men around the table. They were all "regulars", men who played in her game at least twice week, and she wanted to keep them playing. "Do you gentlemen mind if we... if I take a little dinner break, just now?"
"Go ahead, Bridget," Carl Osbourne said. "There's more than enough time tonight for you to win all our money."
"You don't lose that often." She smiled and made a dismissive gesture. She hoped he was joking. If folks ever got an idea of how good she really was, they'd never play poker with her.
"You're right, Bridget," Carl said. "I only lose when I'm using cards." He laughed and the others joined in.
"Have a nice supper... the both of you," Mort Boyer added. "We'll be here when you get back." The others mumbled in agreement.
"Thank you, gentlemen," Bridget said. She stood and took R.J.'s arm. R.J. took her cash box by the handle with his other hand. He led her over to the restaurant tables, taking the exact same route that Cap had. 'He was watching,' Bridget thought. Some part of her warmed at the realization.
Shamus was waiting for them. "Mr. Rossi... and Miz Kelly, how nice to be seeing ye this evening."
"C'mon, Shamus," R.J. said. "You saw me not ten minutes ago, when I told you I was taking my dinner break."
"Aye, it wasn't that long ago that me barman, R.J., was talking to me. Ye're Mr. Rossi, me customer. Besides, R.J. wasn't with this fine lady, Miz Kelly, when he talked to me, now was he?"
R.J. grinned. "No, I guess he wasn't, and a lady like Bridget makes a world of difference, doesn't she?"
"Aye, she surely does."
Bridget smiled, feeling happy, if a little embarrassed at the compliments. "Flatterers," she said, as she pinched R.J.'s arm just hard enough to get a wince out of him.
"Not if it's true," R.J. said. They followed Shamus to a table and let him seat them both. R.J. put the cash box on the floor next to his chair.
He handed them each a menu. "Laura'll be here in a wee bit t'be taking yuir orders." He almost bowed. "Enjoy yuirselves." Then as he walked away, he added under his breath, "and each other."
"After watching you play that last hand, I can see why you're doing so well. You're good, Bridget, damned good."
"Thanks, R.J. Coming from somebody like you that knows the game, that's a real compliment."
"You're welcome, but I'm no great guns at it like you are."
She cocked an eyebrow. "Is that so... or are you setting me up for something later? Some night when you sit in on my game?"
"No, it's gospel." He made a "king's X" cross on his chest with one finger. "Oh, I've played a game or two, but I never had the ambition to work at it, to get as good as Brett - or you."
"Where'd you meet him anyway?"
"Up in Colorado. He was teaching some of the miners a few painful things about the laws of chance, and I was tending bar... same as here. How about you?"
"I sat in on a three-day game with him down in Texarkana. Matter of fact, I was the big winner after him. I just about broke even. He won... oh, about $1700."
R.J. whistled in surprise. "That's some game."
"A lot higher stakes than I see around here. That's for sure."
"So why don't you go chasing after stakes like that? You're good enough." He reached across the table and took her hand in his. "Or do you have some reason for staying around here?"
Bridget looked him square in the eye. "I'm not ready to go out and try to pretend to be something I'm not, twenty-four hours a day. But what if I was to say, 'Yes, I'm only staying here because of Cap'?"
"Then I wouldn't enjoy our supper tonight near as much as I hope to." He let go of her hand. "Do you feel that way?"
"I don't think I'm ready to feel that way about either of you - or any other man, yet." She smiled, a tired little smile. "You understand?"
"I suppose I do." He smiled back. "But I reserve the right to keep hoping that you will be ready for such feelings one day."
"Thank you." Bridget sighed. Deep down inside, a part of her was wondering, 'Is it possible?'
* * * * *
"Mama!"
Maggie looked where Lupe was pointing. The mole sauce was starting to boil over. She put a finger to her lips. "Shhh!" She hoped Jane hadn't heard. The trial wouldn't work if she got hints.
Jane hadn't noticed. She was looking at the latest order Laura had just brought in. "Two - oh, shit!" She saw the sauce bubbling over. She ran to the stove, grabbing a large potholder. She draped it around the pot and moved the pot quickly onto a trivet next to the stove.
"Is it..." Maggie bit her lip. "No, do not tell me; I am not here. Just do what you think needs to be done."
Jane nodded. She put down the potholder and took a spoon to the sauce. "It didn't scorch, thank heaven." She added a bit of water to the sauce and kept stirring. After a minute or so, she tasted the mix. "Seems okay," she said, as if to thin air.
She took two clean plates from a tray on the worktable and set them down. There were a half dozen split chicken breasts on a rack in the oven. Jane used a long wire fork to get one down on each plate. She poured a bit of the sauce over the breasts and added a large spoonful of vegetables to both plates.
"There," she said with a deep sigh. After she put the plates over where Laura could get them, she put the saucepot back on the stove. She placed it farther away from the fire bin, though. Now, the heat would keep the sauce at no more than a safe simmer.
Back at the far end of the table, Maggie let out an even deeper sigh of relief. With some help from Shamus, Carmen's loco idea might just work.
* * * * *
"Some more coffee?" Laura asked.
R.J. shook his head. "Any more, and I'll slosh when I walk. Do you want any more, Bridget?"
"No, thanks." She looked over towards her table. Carl and Joe were still there, playing cards by themselves. Carl looked back at her and made a gesture, as if to say, "You coming back?"
Bridget nodded. "Time to get back to work." She stood up.
R.J. leaned over, picked up the cash box, and then rose to his feet. "Bridget." He offered her his arm. "I'll settle up the bill when I get back to the bar."
Joe and Carl stood as Bridget and R.J. reached her table. '"Mort just went to the... umm, the necessary," Carl said. "He'll be right back."
"Thank you, then, R.J., for a... lovely dinner," she said, perhaps putting too much emphasis on the word "lovely." She reached out her hand, ready to shake his.
R.J. smiled and took her hand. "You're right, Bridget. We'll shake hands. I wouldn't want to take advantage of our friendship by doing anything like... oh, the hell with it."
Before Bridget could react, he pulled her to him. Their lips met. She instantly steeled herself with a fierce determination not to spook like she had when Cap had surprised her. As with Cap, her arms went around him, and her body pressed against him. The kiss grew deeper. Their hands began to rove over each other's bodies in response to their mutual need.
Finally, they broke the kiss. Bridget's face felt warm, almost hot, and an odd tingle was spreading through her body. "N-no, th-that would just spoil things." She reluctantly stepped back from him, and sat down.
"Can't have that." R.J. handed her the cash box. "See you later."
Carl quickly sat down and gathered in the cards the men had been using. "Let's get this game started while she's still got other things on her mind." He winked. "That way, we got us half a chance of winning."
* * * * *
Friday, October 20, 1871
Laura spooned some of Maggie's meat stew with chili peppers onto a plate. She added a slice of cornbread and a pickle. She took the plate in one hand, her glass of lemonade in the other, and walked over to the table where Jessie was sitting. "Mind if I join you?"
"Seems t'be enough empty chairs," Jessie said. She was working on her own selection from the Free Lunch.
"Thanks." Laura put down her food and sat down across from Jessie. "I've been meaning to ask, how in the blamed hell did Paul catch you so easily? After the head start you got, I thought we'd seen the last of you."
Jessie let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sniff. "I would have made it clear to Mexico, if I didn't run into those dagblasted Commancheros. I got tied up with them until Paul and his posse had us surrounded. I'd never let a lawman catch me otherwise, unless it was my own idea!" That didn't sound quite right, so Jessie hastily added, "And it sure wasn't my idea. It was just bad luck, the same kind of luck that got me mixed up with this crazy town in the first place."
"You and me both," Laura said, taking a sip of her lemonade.
* * * * *
Ernesto sat quietly in a corner of Silverman's, working on problems from his numbers book. Even when things weren't busy, Zeyde Silverman - he still wasn't quite used to the word - wouldn't just let him sit and watch. "Time," Zeyde told, "is too precious to be wasted."
Finally, he finished the last of the homework problems Miss Osbourne had given him and put down his pencil. He looked around. Zeyde was with a customer.
Uncle Ramon wasn't.
Ernesto climbed down from his stool and walked over. "I finished my homework, Uncle Ramon." He handed Ramon his worksheet.
"Did you." Ramon looked at the paper, twenty simple addition problems. "Yes... yes... yes... ." His eyes ran across the page. "Bueno... very good; not a single mistake. You are a good student."
"It is not so hard if I take my time and check the work like you showed me."
"That is the point. You take the time and you check yourself and you will do it right." He tousled Ernesto's hair. "You remember that because there is much more arithmetic for you to learn. You take your time and check the work, and you will do well with all of it."
"Who will do well?" Aaron asked. He had finished with the customer and come over to join the conversation.
"I will," Ernesto said proudly, holding up the paper. "Not one mistake, Zayde, not in twenty problems."
"A scholar... a genius we got here," Aaron said. "Okay, Mr. Scholar, you find the answers so good, you think maybe you can find a sugar cookie or two under the counter over by the cash register?"
"I will go look." Ernesto hurried over to the counter. "I found them," he said less than a minute later, just before he bit into one.
Ramon shook his head. "You will spoil him," he said, only half serious.
"I'm his zayde, his grandfather, ain't I supposed to spoil him? Aaron laughed at his joke. "You know how I learned my letters, Ramon? I learned them the way every little boy in the shtetl - the village I grew up in - learned them. My momma made honey cookies in the shapes of the letters. When I learned a letter, I got to eat the cookie for that letter. Learning should be sweet, Ramon, a joy, not a job."
Ramon smiled. "I agree, Aaron, but if you spoil his appetite for supper, his mama will not be so sweet."
* * * * *
Saturday, October 21, 1871
Laura took two corners of the folded sheet from Jessie and walked backwards around to the far side of the bed they were making. "I'm glad to see that you and Jane are getting on better," she said as they lowered the sheet onto the unmade bed.
"What're you saying?" Jessie asked with a snort. "She still insults me whenever she gets the chance. 'Course with Shamus and Molly watching her the way they are, she don't get too many chances."
"I know, but you don't let it get under your skin the way it did." She straightened the sheet. "And you don't insult her back."
"I... uh, I don't feel like it no more. She's so dumb a good insult is wasted on her, anyway." She straightened her side of the bed sheet, then picked up a blanket and tossed a corner of it to Laura.
Laura caught the blanket, and the two women stretched it out and laid it over the sheet. "You don't want to insult her? Well, well, I guess Paul's an even better influence on you than I thought he was."
"Paul! What are you talking about?" Jessie had been tucking the ends of the sheet and blanket under the straw-filled mattress. Now she stood straight and glared at Laura. "Him n'me's just... friends. Where do you go making anything more outta it?"
"Because I saw you kiss him after your trial."
"That don't mean nothing. I was just... happy. Yeah, I was happy that I wasn't gonna hang."
"You kissed him again at a table in the saloon a few days later."
"Still don't mean nothing."
"And, Jessie, I saw the two of you sneak out through the kitchen last Saturday during that charity dance. Did you and Paul enjoy sparking in Molly's garden?"
"Oh, hell," Jessie sighed, admitting defeat. "You... you ain't gonna tell nobody are you?"
"Not if you don't want me to. But why? It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I... Yes, it is. I don't want folks thinking that I followed him back to Eerie like some moony-eyed little gal traipsing after her big, strong man." Jessie put her hands together over her heart. She pouted and batted her eyes at Laura she was like the heroine in some dime novel.
Laura laughed heartily. "All right, Jessie, if you say that it wasn't like it looks to everybody, then I believe you."
Jessie put her hands down and joined in the laughter. "It wasn't, I swear."
"So he was the one who decided that he wanted you." She sighed and shook her head. "Just like Arsenio and me. You know, the first time I saw that man, I tried to shoot him. If he hadn't kept after me like a bloodhound, I wouldn't have given him a second thought. I'm sure glad I did. I do like the way things turned out."
"Yeah, but look what Paul's got himself into. He's a deputy, a lawman, and he likes being one. I'm... I'm in jail, an outlaw with a record in four states and a sister who's... who's even worse."
"If I know how men think, and I do, I'm pretty sure that he isn't thinking about 'Mad Dog' Jesse Hanks when he looks at you. He wants you as you are. Hell, I got problems worse than yours! Like having the town idiot who once tried to rape me for an identical twin"
"She can't try that no more, can she.?" Jessie giggled. "And it turns out she ain't a bad cook. That takes some kind of brains."
"Hmmm, I suppose. Is that why you aren't giving her a hard time, because she can cook?"
"Not hardly. And it still does bother me some when she says I'm no better than Wilma. I know I didn't come back to Eerie 'cause I was so man-hungry I'd follow anything in pants, even to jail. And I surely don't act that way..." she giggled again. "... except, maybe with Paul."
"Then why don't you go at it with Jane, then, like you used to?"
"You promise you won't tell?"
Laura shook her head and made a "King's X."
Jessie looked down at her boots. "To, uh, to tell the truth, I feel... sorry for her." She pointed a finger at Laura. "Remember, you said you wouldn't tell."
"I remember. I just want to know... why?"
"You see those men sniffing around her: Ozzie, Red, Sam, and Davy?"
"Yeah, what about them. There's nothing wrong with men being... interested. You sure don't mind Paul 'sniffing around' you."
Jessie smiled uneasily. "No, I don't, but I know why he's doing it, and I don't think they're doing it for the same reason."
"Why then?"
"I don't know. Sam ain't too bad, just got a pair of hands that're way too friendly sometimes when he dances with a gal. Davy... well, he's the same sort that Jane was when she was Jake - that she still is, come t'think on it, not quite so smart as he might be. Red and Ozzie, though, I don't know as I'd trust either of them as far as I could throw 'em. And we know that ain't very far."
"Maybe so, and I'm not saying that I disagree, but Jane says they're her friends. What can we... what can you do about it?"
"I don't know, but I wish I did. I think Jane's been hiding something about that claim of hers - you see how she gets when anybody asks her about it. I think those men are after it."
"What's it to you? Jane hates your guts, and you know it. Hell, the old Jesse would've been after whatever she's got up at her claim himself. And here you are acting like a mother hen with a fox after one of her chicks."
Jessie chuckled. "When I was little, a lot of big people, that had no right to, pushed me around. I didn't like it, and I learned t'push back hard. Real hard. I proved t'myself out on the trail that I still can... if I have to."
"But what does that --"
"Laura, I can push back. Some people can't, and - Lord help me - sometimes I get the feeling I gotta do it for them." She rubbed her side, down low where the scar was. "I got shot taking care of one of them hopeless lambs, a woman named Piety Tyler. Now, it looks like I got another... name of Jane Steinmetz. I can't be watching out for her and cussing at her at the same time."
Laura smiled. "I don't know about Jane, but you're gonna have to take care of the both of us if Molly comes up here, and we don't have all these beds made."
"You got that right," Jessie said, putting the pillow down on the bed. "And thanks for listening, by the way."
"I just happened to be the one you were talking to."
"No, I... I don't think I coulda talked to anybody else about men... about Paul the way you'n I was talking, not even Molly. I guess it's cause you was a man like I was, and now, you're... you're a married woman."
"If you say so. Anyway, if... if you do need to talk to somebody again, I'll be here to listen."
* * * * *
"I see you brought a helper tonight, Tomas," Hiram King said. The leader of the Happy Days Town Band was setting up the chairs for the group.
Tomas Rivera nodded. "Put down the case, son," he said to the boy who had come in with him. "You know my son, Tomasito, Hiram. I thought that I would bring him with me tonight."
"Hola, Mr. King," the boy said, as he put his father's clarinet case on one of the chairs. He was ten-year old version of his father, short and stocky, with straight back hair. He also had a bandage wrapped around his left hand.
"Hello, Tomasito." Hiram pointed to the boy's hand. "What happened there?"
The boy looked embarrassed. "That's why I brought him," his father said. "His mother is furious at what he did."
"But, Papa," the boy said. "In Destiny n the Range, emo Wilson and Hunts Buffalo did the same thing, and they --"
"It was a story," Tomas interrupted, "just a foolish story, nothing more." Now the father looked embarrassed. "My son and the O'Hanlon boy - you know, from the Feed and Grain - they read in one of those da... one of those dime novels how two men become blood brothers. Each makes a cut on the palm of his hand. Then they shake hands and let the blood mix and to seal the pact."
"Let me guess," Hiram said. They did the same thing." Both Riveras nodded. "That wasn't too smart, son. There's muscles and such in your hand that might not heal. You could've done yourselves real harm."
"That is just what my Sylvia said," Tomas answered. "Only she said it over and over... and much louder. Doc Upshaw said Tomasito's hand is not hurt too bad, but I wanted to give Sylvia time to calm down." "Can't say as I blame you... or her," Hiram said. "Well, Tomasito, you might as well go get yourself a chair. It looks like you're gonna be part of the band for tonight's show."
* * * * *
"I must say, Jane, you're getting a lot better," Sam Braddock said.
"What'd'you mean," Jane said. They were dancing, a lively mazurka.
"Used to be when you danced a mazurka, I could see you moving your lips, keeping count with the music. You don't do that no more."
Jane smiled, feeling proud of herself. "I guess I got t'where I don't need to." She stopped dancing and frowned. "Damn, there I go losing count."
"It's not an easy dance." He put his hand more firmly around her waist. "Let's start now, 1-2-and-3..." They began to move again to the music.
"How'd you learn so much about dancing?" Jane asked, once they were back in step with the other dancers.
"When I was a boy back in Columbus, my folks sent me to the Jonas Marshall Academy. The school had a dance for the students twice a semester. We all had to learn to dance."
"You sure learned good."
"Nothing like dancing with a beautiful woman to make a man want to do his best."
Jane felt embarrassed and pleased at the same time. "Now why do you go and say things like that? I ain't no woman."
"Because they're true. You are a beautiful woman, even if you don't want to admit it, and a gal like you - she makes a fella feel like he wants to say nice things about her... do things for her... take care of her."
"I don't know what's more confusing, Sam, the steps in this here dance or the things you're saying."
Sam chuckled. "Either way, Jane, you can count on me t'help you."
* * * * *
Sunday, October 22, 1871
"Sift some of the flour onto your hands, Lupe," Maggie said. "Then the dough will not stick them."
"Si, Mama." Lupe did as Maggie had said. Then she pinched a wad of dough from the large ball sitting in a blue mixing bowl on the worktable in Shamus' kitchen. She rolled it in her hands. You are right; this is much better." She showed Maggie the ball of dough in her hands.
Maggie nodded. "Add a bit more dough to what you have. The rolls should all be the same size." She showed Lupe one she had just finished.
"Si, Mama." Lupe took more dough and worked it into the ball between her palms. "Is this better?" The ball was almost exactly the same size as the one Maggie had just made.
"Perfect. Put it down on the baking sheet with the others."
Lupe put the dough on the greased metal sheet. A dozen other dough balls already took up almost half the sheet. "Mama, can I ask you a question?"
"About the rolls we are making? Yes, but keep working. We have many more to make for tonight's meal."
Lupe took another wad of dough. "No, Mama. I wanted to ask about the Day of the Dead."
"Lupe, that is not for another week and more. If we baked the pan de muertos now, they would be stale long before then."
"Not the bread," Lupe said - becoming very serious. "About the day. Mama, we are so far from ho - from Mexico. How can we be with Mama... Mama Lupe when she is buried there, and we are here in Eerie?"
"You know that we cannot go back there - not now, anyway, don't you? Ernesto has school, and I have this restaurant to run. Eerie is our home now." It was the first time that Maggie had said it, but as she did, she suddenly realized that it was true. Eerie was her home.
"I know, Mama, and I like it here, especially being with you. But my real..."
"Let us call her 'Mama Lupe' from now on, just like you said."
"Si, Mama. I will do that, but I still need to know what we will do. Back ho... back in the village, Aunt Juana and Uncle Luis took me and Ernesto to her grave every year. They showed us her picture and told stories about her."
Maggie frowned. "I miss her, too, Lupe, and I still love her just as you do. I do not have the answer, but I will think very hard until I do."
"So will I, Mama. So will I."
* * * * *
Jane walked over to Laura, who was sitting on a stool by the bar. "Can I talk to you for a bit, Laura?"
"I don't see why not," Laura said, standing up. "The place is almost empty. I was just thinking about asking Shamus to let me go home."
"Yeah, Sunday never was a very busy night, and with half of Mr. Slocum's men away on the drive..."
"Don't I know it! The only one making any money tonight is Bridget." Laura took a breath. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I-I'm confused 'bout something."
'You're confused about almost everything,' Laura thought. No, that wasn't really fair. "About what?" she asked.
"Men. Ozzie and Red and Davy and Sam are acting crazy around me. Ozzie's spouting poetry and Red and Sam is telling me how I should let them do everything for me. Davy's the only one acting close t'normal, and all he ever talks about is how we was both miners. I just don't know what I'm gonna do about them."
Laura smiled. "You were a man, Jane. You should remember why a man acts that way around a woman."
"Oh, I know that. They's sweet talking me, so's I'll like them. They want... well, you knows what they want as well as I do."
"I think so." Laura was more than a little suspicious of the men, but she wanted to hear what Jane thought.
"Ain't nothing to think about. They want..." she giggled nervously, "... they wants t'get into my drawers." Her face turned a bright red.
'So that's what I look like when I blush,' Laura thought. Aloud, she said, "Seems only fair. As I recall you wanted to get into mine."
"Yeah, and look what happened to me." Jane gestured at her body.
"I'm looking. Do you want any of them to... to do what you said?"
"No! No. I-I know I'm a gal, b-but I ain't ready for... for nothing like that."
"Then just tell any of them that asks you that you aren't ready."
"That's just it. They ain't asked. They don't try t'kiss me or hold me or nothing - not that I wants 'em to, o'course. They just keep up talking that sweet talk all the time."
Laura decided to drop a hint. "Maybe there's something else they want." She waited to see how Jane reacted.
"They don't know about - I-I mean, there ain't nothing else... nothing else they could want..." Her voice trailed off as she glanced around to see if anyone else was looking.
'There surely is,' Laura thought, 'but you won't tell me - or anybody else - what it is. Not now, anyway.' She gently put a hand on Jane's arm to calm her down. "Sure there is," she lied. "They want to be your friends."
"Thanks, Laura." Jane's body grew less tense. "I guess I just needed somebody to talk to."
"Glad to be here for you," Laura said. She sat back on the stool. 'What you need is a guardian angel or two. You're a walking target for those men - or anybody else that decides to go after whatever it is you're hiding.'
* * * * *
Monday, October 23, 1871
Maggie heard Lupe's shout from the kitchen as she hurried down the stairs. "Mama, there are books all over the table."
"Si, Lupe. They belong to Shamus. He is letting me use them." She carefully stacked the books and papers at the far end of the table.
"What do you need them for?" Ernesto asked. "You are not in school."
"I am trying to learn something for the restaurant," Maggie said.
"You are such a good cook, Mama," Lupe said. "What do you need to learn?"
"This looks like one of the numbers books from school," Ernesto said, opening the top book in the pile. "What is a debit?"
Maggie took the book from him. "That is what I am trying to learn. These books tell about how to run a business."
"How?" Ernesto asked.
Maggie sighed. "I am trying to learn how, but it is not easy for me."
"You should ask Uncle Ramon for help," Lupe said brightly. "He is very smart."
"I will think about it," Maggie said. She remembered that Ramon had said that he worked with Aaron Silverman to keep the records for the store. "Maybe I will ask him."
"You should do it, Mama," Lupe said.
"Si," Ernesto said, "but, first, you should make us breakfast."
* * * * *
Milt Quinlan put down his beer and waved to Judge Humphreys, when the man walked into the Saloon. "Over here, Your Honor." As the Judge walked over, Milt signaled for Jessie, who was on waitress duty.
"You ain't finished with that beer already, Milt?" Jessie asked.
"No, but please see what the Judge wants, oh... and ask Shamus to come over if you would, please. Tell him to bring something for himself, too. On me."
"You're very generous today, Milt," the Judge said, sitting down across from the lawyer. "What're you up to?"
"Nothing, Your Honor," Milt said. "Nothing illegal or unethical at any rate."
"In that case, I'll have a beer," the Judge said. Jessie nodded and hurried off to the bar. "Going to tell me now?"
"I'd rather wait for Shamus if you don't mind," Milt said. "And the Sheriff."
Humphreys chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "Now, you've got me curious."
"Me, too." The men looked up to see Sheriff Dan Talbot standing in front of them. "Sorry I'm late, gents."
"No problem," Milt said. "Judge Humphreys just got here himself." He paused a beat. "And here comes Shamus with your drink, Judge... and one of his own. You want anything, Dan?"
Dan shook his head. "I don't drink on duty as a general rule."
"Ye don't drink that much off duty neither," Shamus said wryly. He put a beer down in front of the Judge, then sat, still holding the other beer in his hand. He took a quick sip. "Are we all here now, Milt, or are we waiting for somebody else, that ye ain't told us about?"
Milt laughed. "No, this is it. I'm sorry to be so mysterious, gentleman, but I need your help on something."
"If we can," Dan said, and the others agreed.
"What is it?" the Judge asked.
Milt took another sip of his own beer. "You all know how Jane asked me to watch her claim for her?" The men nodded. "Well, she's asked me a few times to let her go up there with my men."
"And ye always said no," Shamus said. "Considering what happened when Jessie went up t'Toby's place, I'll not be blaming ye for it."
Milt took one last drink and put down the empty glass. "I'd like to take her up there tomorrow."
"Are ye crazy, man," Shamus said, almost spilling his beer. "Did ye not just hear what I said?"
"You are up to something." the Judge said. "Spill it."
"I don't think I'm that out of line to want to take her up there. I'll be with her, so will Jerry Domingez and Mort Boyer. Sheriff, you're welcome to come along yourself or send your deputy. That should be more than enough to guard one lone woman."
"It should," Dan said. "I just don't see why we need to do it."
"We don't need to," Milt said, "and there isn't much in the way of justification in the Law on the matter."
"Then why do it?" the Judge asked.
The words spilled out of Milt. "Because Jane... it's just the way she keeps asking and asking. She won't tell me a damn thing, but I can tell how much it means to her. I want... I mean... after all, isn't it a lawyer's job to help his client get what she wants?"
"It is," the Judge said, "but this is well beyond what you usually do for your clients, isn't it, Milt?"
"Aye, lad," Shamus said with a grin on his face. "Ye're taking the case... personal like. Besides, I don't see what all the fuss is about. If ye really need t'be knowing Jane's secret, I could just order her to tell you."
Milt's eyes narrowed. "You even try it, and I'll swear out a complaint for your arrest. You've no right to do anything of the sort to her."
"The devil I don't," Shamus glared back at the lawyer. "I'm her jailer after all. That gives me the right."
"Take it easy, the pair of you," Judge Humphreys said firmly. "I'd have to hear Milt's arguments for the specifics, but I suspect he's correct. Even a prisoner has some rights."
"Ha!" Milt said triumphantly.
"But, Milt," the Judge continued, "I'd like to point out that Shamus is probably as curious as the rest of us about what Jane's hiding, and - unless I'm very wrong - he has not used the power of his potion to find out."
"O'course, I haven't," Shamus said stubbornly, "and I wouldn't - not for meself. But if it was important t'ye, and it would be helping Jane, then I could do it."
"Now that we've established that you've both got Jane's best interests at heart," the Judge said, "shall we get back to the matter at hand?"
Milt stood and reached across the table. "I'm sorry, Shamus. I guess you just struck a nerve."
"No harm done, Milt." Shamus stood and shook Milt's hand. "After all, ye was just trying to protect yuir... client."
"That's better," the Judge said. "I'd say that Jane can go. Dan, do you think you or Paul need to go along?"
Dan shrugged. "Not if Shamus will --"
"I ain't spending a day out in them mountains," Shamus jumped in. "I got a business to run."
"I wasn't saying that you had t'go, Shamus," Dan said. "Jane would obey either of us - or Molly, for that matter, but she's more used to listening to you."
Shamus nodded in agreement. "Aye, she is, and what of it?"
"I've been thinking about how Jessie managed to escape," Dan said. "We told her and the others that they couldn't leave town, but that was all. When Jessie got taken to Toby's cabin, she was outside of town. The order not to leave was - what do you call those things that don't matter, Milt?"
"Moot," Milt said, a smile forming on his face. "I see. The order that she couldn't leave didn't apply, and there was nothing to make her come back."
"Right," Dan said. "So just before she leaves the Saloon, Shamus orders her to come back here - to the saloon - by the end of the day, and he tells her that it's an order. I don't see any way she can get around that."
"Dan," Judge Humphreys said, "that is some of the devious, most underhanded bit of twisted logic I have ever heard." He laughed. "You sure you aren't a lawyer?"
* * * * *
Tuesday, October 24, 1871
"Hey, washerwoman!"
Arnie Diaz stopped. He hesitated, shook his head, and began walking again. He stopped a second time, when something hard - a pebble probably - bounced off the back of his head. "He spun around. "Watch it, Pablo."
"I thought that'd get your attention." Pablo Escobar stood about ten feet away, another pebble in his hand. He was as tall as Arnie, but, where Arnie was lanky, Pablo was more muscular. "What's the matter, Diaz; you don't know your name no more?"
"Go away, Pablito. I got better things to do than to waste my time talking to you."
"Like what? Your mama run outta bleach for them lacy drawers of yours?"
"What're you so worried about my drawers for? You wanna suck what's in 'em?"
"Me? I hear you'll suck mine - or anybody else's for six bits."
"Why you... oh, the hell with it. Why don't you just go play with yourself. Like I said, "I got better things to do than to waste my time talking to you."
"Yeah, I hear you're going after my job."
"Your job, like hell. Ritter's looking to hire - what'd that paper he put up say? - oh, yeah, somebody 'strong and dependable' to work in his livery stable. That sure ain't you."
"Ain't you, you mean. He wants a boy that knows how to work with livery, reins and halters and such, not with somebody's silk unmentionables." He gestured as if waving a handkerchief. "So goodbye, washerwoman. I'm gonna go see about my new job." He pretended to blow Arnie a kiss.
"You son of a bitch!" Arnie launched himself at Pablo. The two boys grappled and fell to the ground. They rolled around a few times, then both scrambled to their feet.
They stood facing each other, waiting. Pablo suddenly threw a punch, hitting Arnie in the stomach. The other boy sent a roundhouse right at Pablo's jaw. It connected, and Arnie threw another. Pablo dodged and took a step backwards. Then he charged forwards, sending two good blows to Arnie's ribs. Arnie countered with three short, quick jabs to Pablo's head.
BLAMM!
The two fighters froze at the sound of the gunshot.
"I thought I told you boys no fighting," Dan Talbot said firmly.
Both youth pointed to the other. "He started it, Sheriff."
"And I'm finishing it," Dan said. "Get on home, both of you. I don't want to see either of you on the street until at least tomorrow."
"But, Sheriff," Arnie said, sounding a desperate. "I was just going to see Mr. Ritter about a job."
"That'll have to wait till tomorrow," Dan said. "You wouldn't make a very good impression looking like that anyway."
Arnie looked down at himself. He was covered with dust, and his best shirt was ripped. "Shit."
"Ha," Pablo said smugly.
"You don't look much better," Dan noted.
Pablo was just as dirty, and his nose was bleeding. "That job'll be gone by tomorrow."
"Don't seem so bad not getting that job," Arnie said wryly, "if Pablito here don't neither."
"You'll be laughing through busted teeth, Diaz," Pablo said. "When I --"
"You won't do anything but go home - the both of you," Dan interrupted. "And the next time I catch you two fighting, you'll both get to cool your heels in jail for a while - whoever started it." He fixed them both with a look like a rattler looking at a pair of field mice. "You boys understand?" They both nodded. "Then get the hell home. Now!"
* * * * *
Carmen opened the door almost as soon as Maggie knocked. "Margarita, Hola! And to you also, Ernesto and Lupe."
"Hola, Carmen," Maggie said, stepping into Carmen's front hall. "Thank you for inviting us."
"It was only fair," Carmen said, "after all the cooking you've done for me." She looked at Maggie and raised an eyebrow. "Is that a new dress? It looks lovely on you." Maggie was wearing a dark blue dress trimmed with white lace.
"Mama got it for tonight," Lupe chimed in. "And she got me one just like it." The girl turned slowly to show her own outfit, which was the same shade of blue.
"Two lovely dresses," Carmen said with an admiring smile. "And what about you, Ernesto?"
The boy snorted in disgust. "I got this shirt... and the tie as well." He fidgeted with his string tie as he spoke.
"Well, I think you all look very nice," another voice said from behind Carmen.
"Laura," Maggie said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"Helping me in the kitchen - or she was," Carmen scolded. "I wanted this evening to be a party, so I invited Laura and Arsenio."
"First time out for Arsenio and me since we got married," Laura said. "Whit was our best man, if you remember."
"I do," Maggie said, "and now that I am here, you must let me help, too."
"No," Carmen said stubbornly. "The reason I invited you was so you would have an evening off from the kitchen. If you must do something, you can take Lupe and Ernesto out to the garden. Mrs. Lonnigan is already out there with Jose and Felipe. The children will have their own party there."
"Keep 'em out of our hair," Laura said, "and they won't get bored with our grown-up talk."
"Race you," Ernesto yelled. Before Lupe could react, he was across the room and at the double doors that lead out into the garden. Lupe was about to follow, but Maggie grabbed her arm. "In that dress, you will walk like the lady you are." She took Lupe's hand and followed after Ernesto.
"They get on so well," Carmen said, "Maggie's little ones and my Jose, as if they had always played together from when they were babies. I wonder if, someday, Lupe and Jose..."
Laura laughed. "Work on one match at a time, Carmen."
* * * * *
Ramon was sitting on a garden bench watching his infant nephew, Felipe, sleeping in his playpen. He heard the sound of feet running towards him. "Uncle Ramon," Ernesto said. "I didn't know you were here."
Hola, Ernesto," Ramon said. "Is your mama... ah, hola, Margarita." His eyes looked at her figure, displayed so fetchingly in her new dress. Ernesto and Lupe ran over to join Jose, who was playing with a wooden hoop a short distance away.
Maggie sighed. "Ramon, I should have expected that you would be here."
"Carmen invited you, too." It was a statement, rather than a question. "I promise, I did not know." He stood up. "But I cannot say that I am sorry you came tonight. That is a muy pretty dress."
"Ramon, you know that nothing can come of this. I... I have the children... my business."
"I know. This was my sister's idea not mine. I do not like your reasons for why we cannot be... more than friends, but I will respect them." He looked around. "Mrs. Lonnigan went to get a blanket for Felipe. When she comes back, I will leave."
"You... you do not have to do that. We are both Carmen's guests. You do not need to leave on my account."
Mrs. Lonnigan walked over. "Good evening, Miss Lopez." She put a small folded blanket down in a corner of the playpen. "Thank you for watching Felipe while I was gone, Mr. deAguilar."
"It wasn't hard," Ramon said. "He's been sleeping the whole time."
"Yes, but some men won't even do that." She sat down on the bench. "I see your children are playing with Jose, Miss Lopez."
"Please, call me, Maggie."
The older woman smiled. "Very well... Maggie. I have a table set up near the kitchen entrance for when the children get hungry. You're welcome to stay for a while; this is a lovely garden. Or, you can go back in and just come out and check on your little ones from time to time, if you like."
"It is nice." Maggie looked around. The garden was large, with several places to sit along the well-trimmed paths. All of them were big enough for Ramon to join her. Did she want to be alone with him out here with the soft breezes and the scent of flowers? "I think I will go inside. I can check on my two later."
"I should go back in, as well," Ramon said.
They both started walking down the path back to the house together. Ramon was careful to match Maggie's stride. Somehow, without her realizing it, her hand slipped into his. Ramon didn't say anything. When Maggie did realize what had happened, she slowly pulled it away.
* * * * *
"I expected you women would be in the kitchen," Whit said, walking into that room. Arsenio was with him.
Carmen put the lid back on a pot of fideos, Mexican noodles, slowly cooking in a chili-flavored broth on the stove. "I did not hear you boys come in."
"Where's Laura?" Arsenio asked, looking around. "I thought Maggie and she'd be helping with the cooking."
"I am not allowed to cook tonight," Maggie said wryly, coming into the room. "So Laura and I are setting the table."
"Did I hear... Arsenio!" Laura ran over to her new husband, who took her into his arms. They kissed, ignoring, for the moment, the people around them.
Carmen looked at the pair for a moment. "Hmm, I wish someone else I knew would kiss like that."
"I can't," Whit said. "I ain't married to Laura." He dodged the spoon Carmen swung at him. "But I do kiss like this." He grabbed Carmen's wrist and pulled her to him. Her arms went around his neck, and they kissed as deeply as the newlyweds.
Maggie looked at Ramon. What was he thinking? What was she thinking. He took a step towards her, his arms opened, then stopped. She caught herself wanting to step towards him, but just stood there, uncertain of what to do. "Ramon... I..."
Ramon smiled and slowly lowered his arms. "While they are... busy, why do I not help you set the table?"
* * * * *
Arsenio sprinkled a bit more chopped cilantro over his noodles. "This is delicious, Carmen. What's it called again?"
"Fideo con chorizo y chipotle," Carmen said. "It means noodles with sausage meat and chipotle peppers. I am glad you like it."
Laura chuckled. "Like it. Spicy hot as it is, he's shoveling that in like there's no tomorrow. You better give me the recipe, or he'll be over here every night for more." Arsenio's mouth was full, but he cheerfully nodded his head in agreement.
"I would like your recipe also," Maggie said. "It is too fancy for the restaurant, I think, but maybe for at home."
"Where'd you learn it, anyway?" Laura asked.
"From my Grandmother Elena, when I was a little girl," Carmen said, a sad look on her face. "She is dead now some fourteen years."
"Well, it's delicious," Laura said. "You do her proud."
Carmen smiled and nodded her head slightly, accepting the compliment. "Thank, you. I will tell her you said so."
"Tell her?" Laura raised an eyebrow. "I-I'm sorry, but didn't you just say that she... umm, died?"
"She did," Ramon said, "but next week is Los Dias de Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. We believe that the spirits of our dead relatives return to visit on November 2, All Souls Day."
"It's sort of like All Hallow's Eve, what we call 'Halloween' back in New England," Whit explained, "only a lot more festive. They do fancy decorations in the graveyards, cook their loved ones favorite foods, and stay up all night celebrating. They believe that their dead loved ones come back and join in the fun."
"Why is it two days later?" Laura asked.
"It... it isn't," Whit said slowly. "All Hallow's Eve is the night before All Saints Day, November 1st. On that day, we remember the... the passing..." He looked away. Laura saw that Carmen was crying.
"The passing of children," Ramon finished, his voice almost without emotion.
Whit stood and took Carmen in his arms. Ramon gently put a hand on Whit's shoulder.
"Oh, Carmen... Whit, I'm so sorry I said anything," Laura said, realizing what her words had done. Maggie was looking wistfully towards the door to the garden, where her own children were playing.
"Her... her name was Elena, also," Carmen said, wiping her eyes. "She would be two if... if the sickness had not taken her when she was four months old."
Whit took Carmen's hand and softly kissed her on the cheek. "And next week, she'll be with us again - just for that day, and we'll remember the joy she gave us for the short time we had her."
"Carmen, I... I am so very sorry," Maggie said. She stood also and walked over to stand by her hostess.
Carmen took Maggie's hand. "Thank you, Margarita. I know that you have had your own sorrows. Your wife..." She let the words trail off.
"Si, at least your family is here. You can go to their graves... be with them. My... my Lupe is buried over a hundred miles from here."
"Oh, my," Carmen said. "And you cannot go... the restaurant... and Ernesto has school. What are you going to do?"
"You are welcome to share our celebration," Ramon said. "If Carmen does not mind, of course." Carmen smiled and nodded in agreement.
Maggie shook her head. "They... they are... your family is not mine, Ramon. I would feel like an... an intruder."
"Nonsense," Carmen said. "You are... you are like family." She sat down and motioned for everyone else to do the same.
"No, I... perhaps next year," Maggie said. "I have just regained my own family, and I think we should be alone... together."
"Then what will you do?" Arsenio asked.
"My Lupe always had a good sense of direction," Maggie said, trying to smile. "I have been thinking about just what I would do. I will make our house the most festive that I can, cook the foods she liked the best. Perhaps she will find her way to us."
"I am sure that she will," Ramon said, a slight smile on his face. "How could she not find someone who still loves her so much?"
* * * * *
"Lupe, we are home," Ernesto said. "Wake up."
"Shh, let her sleep." Ramon had carried the girl in his arms all the way from the Whitney's house to her mother's front stoop. Now he held her as Maggie unlocked her door.
"Uhh," Lupe said, her voice heavy. "I-I'm awake." She squirmed, and Ramon set her down.
Maggie opened the door. "To bed then. I will be up in a moment."
The two children walked into the house. "Goodnight, Uncle Ramon," Ernesto called from inside. Lupe mumbled something that might have been "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, then, also," Maggie said, still standing next to him. She looked at him as if unsure what to do.
"And goodnight to you, Margarita," Ramon said, "and thank you."
"For what? I was not very good company tonight. And when we started talking about Los Dias de Los Muertos..."
"Thank you, Margarita, for your smile, your bravery, and your love... of family, and for letting me, at least, be your friend." He bowed low and took her hand, as he spoke. As he finished, he raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed it, looking deeply into her eyes as he did.
"And goodnight." He straightened up and walked away.
"G-goodnight, Ramon," Maggie whispered. She stood at the doorway for a moment until her legs were steady enough to let her walk into the house.
* * * * *
Wednesday, October 25, 1871
"Whoa, up, horse." Milt pulled on the reins, so that the wagon stopped by the door of the crudely built cabin. He turned as Jane began to rise from her seat next to him. "You stay there," he said quickly. She sat down, startled. He jumped down and ran around the horse, pausing just long enough to tie the reins to a tree.
Jane was standing by the time he reached her. "I can get down from m'own wagon, Milt. I done it for years."
"You never did it in a dress before." He took her hand and helped her down before she could think of an answer.
"Why'd we even had to take the wagon?" Jane complained. "I can ride; I can ride as good as them two." She pointed to Mort Boyer and Jerry Domingez, Milt's two hirelings. The men had ridden up with Jane and Milt and were still on their own horses a few yards away. Milt signaled for them to dismount.
Milt sighed. "Jane, I've told you - and more than once - that, after what happened with Jessie, there was no chance that the Judge would allow you ride out of town on a horse. You should be thankful that he allowed you to come up here at all."
"I know. I know," Jane said. "And I am thankful, Milt. Even with that thing you put in the paper, I been half outta my head with worry about the... worrying about my claim." She looked around. "Seems like you and your men been taking care of things pretty good."
"Is there anything in particular you'd like to see?" Milt asked.
"M'mine... umm, and the... uh, the cabin over there," Jane said, pointing as she spoke. "Oh, yeah, and the shed I used for a barn, too."
"In other words, everything," Milt said reluctantly. "All right, then. Where would you like to start?"
"The mine." Jane started walked determinedly towards an opening in the side of a low hill about twenty feet away. Milt hurried after her. As he did, he signaled for his men to follow.
The mine entrance was a set of graying wooden timbers that formed a post-and-lintel about six feet high. A new set of boards had been nailed across them to seal the opening. A sheet of paper was nailed to the boards. When she came close enough, Jane saw that the sheet was a copy of the notice Milt had put in the newspaper for her.
Jane walked right up to the boarded over entrance. "Can I go in - just for a minute or two?"
"Hear that, Jerry?" Mort Boyer said with a laugh. "You n'me spend a hour boarding up this here mine, and now Jane wants us to open it, so's she can go in for a minute."
"It does not seem like something worthwhile to do," Jerry said with a broad smile. "Not worthwhile at all." He joined Mort in laughing.
"That'll be enough of that, you two," Milt said curtly to his men. "No, Jane, you can't go in."
"Why not?" Jane whined. "It's my claim."
Milt gently pulled at the fabric of her sleeve. "First of all, because you're not dressed for it. Second, because, Mort's correct - a bit crude, but correct. It would be a waste of time to pull down those boards, just so you can walk in a few feet --"
"A few feet?" Jane pouted and stamped her foot.
"I wouldn't allow you to go in any further, especially without a lantern." Milt smiled at her very feminine tantrum. "But that's moot, since the boards won't be coming off. I won't waste the time... unless, of course, you give me a good reason to do so."
Jane thought for a moment, then pouted again. "You're just being mean."
"No," Milt said, "practical. Now... what would you like to see next?"
* * * * *
"Might I join you gentlemen?" Ozzie Pratt slid into a chair without waiting for an answer from the others around the table in the Saloon.
"How you doing, Ozzie," Red Tully asked.
"Passing well, thank you," Ozzie replied. "My young assistant, Roscoe, has learned enough that I decided to leave my print shop and indulge myself in a mid-afternoon libation."
"How grand for you." Sam Braddock had imitated Ozzie's tone of voice. "How're you two doing with Jane?"
"No better than yourself, alas," Ozzie said with a sigh. "She seems impervious to my obvious charms, at least."
"At least," Red said. "And I ain't doing any better."
Before anyone could say anything else, Jane walked over to their table. "Well now, if it isn't three of my favorite men. What brings you in here today?"
"We came to drink," Ozzie said, "of the warmth of your smile."
Jane giggled. "Ozzie, you are the only man I know who can bow sitting down."
"If I wax poetic," Ozzie continued, "it is because I am inspired by --"
Sam cut Ozzie off. "How you doing today, Jane?"
"Yeah, you look even prettier than usual," Red added.
"Ah, you boys are just saying that," Jane said. Then she giggled. "'Course that don't mean you gotta stop saying it."
"Then I won't," Red said with a grin. "Jane, you are as pretty as a moon-faced calf."
"That's sweet of you y'say, Red." Jane leaned over and kissed Red on the cheek. Red and the others looked surprised; this was the first time any of them had seen Jane kiss a man. "Now, what'll you boys have t'drink?" she asked.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes... and I'll not ask for wine," Ozzie quoted, "but three fingers of whiskey would do nicely, thank you."
"Beer for me, pretty lady," Red said, grinning.
"Same for me, too," Sam answered, "and, if you're thirsty, one for you - on me, if course."
Jane smiled at the offer. "Thanks, Sam. I'll be right back with your... with our drinks." She headed for the bar, while the three men watched the sway of her hips as she walked.
"Well, that was smart," Red said angrily, "asking her to join us."
"I like Jane," Sam said. "What's wrong with her having a drink with us?"
"Nothing, dear boy," Ozzie answered, "nothing. Your invitation was inspired."
"What do you mean?" Sam asked.
"Have either of you convinced the lovely Miss Steinmetz to ally her fortunes with your own?" Ozzie asked. Sam and Red shook their heads.
"Nor have I," Ozzie admitted.
"She still don't see that she can't go back up there and work them claims of hers by herself," Red said.
"Agreed," Ozzie said. "But, perhaps, the three of us working in concert can make her realize that very fact."
Red nodded. "Okay, but, remember, we work together. We wanna get her t'see that she's gotta have somebody with her when she goes back up to her claims. Nobody says which one if us it should be."
The others nodded. "Just remember, once she decides to take somebody, it's every man for himself. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Sam and Ozzie said in unison.
"You boys talking about me?" Jane was back, carrying a tray of drinks. She put beers down in front of Sam and Red and handed Ozzie his whiskey. Then she put the tray down by an empty chair and sat down. She took a last beer from the tray and took a sip.
"Matter of fact, Jane, we are," Red answered. "We's worried about you."
"Now why're you worried about me?" Jane asked. "I'm doing fine."
"Indeed, you are, now," Ozzie said, looking at her admiringly. "But, in a few short weeks, you will be returning to your claims. A beautiful woman, alone in the wilderness, trying to do backbreaking physical labor, why should we not be worried about you?"
"You saying I oughtta give up m'claims, Ozzie?" Jane asked. "Stay here in town, maybe?"
"No!" Ozzie all but shouted. "No, they are yours by right and - I am given to understand - most valuable. You should not relinquish them." The other men hurriedly agreed, and Ozzie continued, "We are merely saying that you will need assistance in your endeavors, a partner - a male partner to... to, ah, share your... labors."
Jane took another drink of her beer, the "near beer" that Shamus allowed any of his staff to drink when they were on duty. "You may be right, Ozzie." She looked around the table. "But who could I get t'help me?"
"A claim like you got outta be worked. I'd be honored to..." Sam began, pausing when Red grabbed his arm. "That is, any of us'd be honored and happy t'help you."
"We would indeed," Ozzie said.
"Likewise," Red added.
"You'd do that?" Jane asked, her eyes wide. "Give up your jobs and all t'come help me?"
"In a minute," Sam said.
"I-I'll have to think about it," Jane said, "but thank you." She paused a moment. "And Davy Kitchner... I could ask him, too, him being a miner and all. He was already talking about my claims, and what I was going t'do." She waited, watching their reactions.
"He would," Red grumbled.
"How very astute of him," Ozzie said.
Jane finished her drink. "Well, I gotta get back to work. Any of you three want another drink?" All three shook their heads. "Then I'd appreciate it if you'd pay for what I brought." The men handed her the money, each offering to pay for her drink as well as his own.
"Sam asked me this time," Jane finally said, "so he pays." She winked at Sam, then smiled at Ozzie and Red. "Next time, one of you two can buy me a drink."
"Count on it," Red said.
"I will," Jane said softly in an encouraging tone, as she stood up. "And thanks to all of you for giving me something t'think about."
* * * * *
Jane watched the three men until, one by one, they finished their drinks and left. Each saw her and waved as he left the saloon. She waved back and smiled at all three.
As Sam, the last of the three walked out of the saloon, Jessie came over to where Jane was standing. "Did it work?"
"Like a charm," Jane smirked. She took a comb from her apron pocket and combed her hair over to the side, shifting the part as she did. "They never suspected that I wasn't really Jane."
"I told you my plan'd work," Jessie said smugly.
Laura - for that's who she really was - put the comb back and took out her wedding ring. With a sigh of satisfaction, she slid it onto her finger. "Now, I'm back to being me."
"Not till you change that name ribbon on your blouse," Jessie teased. "Then you can tell me what all you found out."
* * * * *
Thursday, October 26, 1871
Mae reached over and speared another breakfast sausage. As she did, she saw Wilma walk into the kitchen. "Well, well, look what the cat dragged in."
"Si," Beatriz said. "What was you doing, Wilma, that you just now come down for the breakfast?"
"And where is that gentleman you spent the night with?" Rosalyn asked. "He's not trying to get his money back for poor service, is he?" She took a sip of coffee.
"Right now, Jimmy, that's Mr. H. James Kellogg, t'the rest o' you, is settling up with Herve and the Lady for last night. He... ah... got a little rambunctious while we was playing, and he... ah... busted my bed."
For a moment, Rosalyn looked like she was going to spray her mouthful of coffee across the room. "He did what?"
"Broke my bed." Wilma smiled, like a cat that had stolen a bucket of cream. "We was talking... the way some men'll do... after, and he starts saying about how my mattress reminded him of the feather bed he had when he was a kid. 'Course, he said it was a whole lot more fun t'be in bed with me than with his brother."
"If it wasn't," Mae said wryly, "I don't know if we'd be more worried about you or about your Mr. Kellogg."
Wilma ignored the insult. "Anyway, he says him and his brother'd run into their bedroom and make a jump for the bed from across the room, pretending like they could fly."
"Little boys, they will do things like that," Beatriz said.
"They're all little boys," Rosalyn said, disapprovingly.
"Some, though," Mae said, "ain't so little, not where it matters."
"Jimmy surely ain't," Wilma said. "That man has got him a tool... anyways, when he tells me that story, I pictured him doing it now, as a grown man, and I giggled. He takes that the wrong way and climbs outta bed. He walks back, almost to m'door, and says for me to get clear."
"Did you?" Beatriz asked.
"No, I was ready for more fun. I spread my legs and told him t'aim for my pussy." She giggled again. "That surely got to him. If he'd've gotten much bigger, he would've tripped over it. He starts running. I stayed on that bed, but I got outta his way. Well, he jumps, and it does almost look like he was flying."
"What happened," Beatriz asked, caught up in Wilma's story.
"He lands face down right next t'me. In fact, he managed to get one arm around my waist, kinda pinning me to the bed. I let out a squeal. Then... so did the bed. There was a crash, and the two front legs collapsed."
"My lands," Rosalyn said, fanning herself with a napkin. "Was he... were either of you hurt?"
"Hell no. We just kinda slid off onto the floor. I asked him if he was hurt or anything. He rolls over onto his back and says I should check for m'self."
"Did you?" Rosalyn asked.
"I decided to have some fun with him for scaring me. I told him he looked hurt down there. He was kinda worried for a minute till I told him that I was gonna kiss it and make it all better."
"You do it, too, didn't you." Beatriz said. It was as much an accusation as a question.
"I surely did," Wilma said. "He was bigger n'harder than I'd ever seen him before, and I wasn't gonna miss the chance. We... ah... played for quite a while after that. He stayed the night, and we played some more this morning."
"I bet you did," Mae said.
"Even in a broken bed." Rosalyn frowned and shook her head. "Some women just have no sense of propriety at all."
"There don't seem t'be much call for it in our profession," Wilma said.
"Perhaps, if one is a common streetwalker," Rosalyn said. "But I don't see any of us carrying a mat under our arms for 'playing' quick in some alleyway." She looked directly at Wilma. "Although I've heard that our most recent arrival certainly acted that way before she joined us here at _La_ _Parisienne_."
Wilma stood up and glared across the table at Rosalyn. "Are you saying I'm no better than one of them street women? That... that's an insult."
"Yes," Rosalyn said, smoothly. "Fortunately, none of them are here to take offense at the comparison."
"You bitch!" Wilma launched herself at Rosalyn. The other woman tried to dodge, but Wilma caught her. The two fell to the floor and rolled around, yelling insults at each other.
Rosalyn arched her fingers like claws; the long, painted nails of her right hand were only a few inches from Wilma's face. Wilma grabbed her wrist and strained to push the hand away. As she did, Rosalyn began to move her left hand in closer to take its place.
Sploosh! A bucket of soapy water hit the pair, distracting them. "What the hell --" Wilma shouted.
Before she could say another word, she was hit in the face with the business end of a mop. "Stop that! Ya'll stop that right now." Daisy swung the mop into Rosalyn's face, as she spoke. "The both of yah."
Rosalyn sat up. "How dare you! You get that filthy thing away from me this instant, Daisy."
Daisy just chuckled. "I don't work for you, Miz Rosalyn Owens. I works for Lady Cerise, just the same as you does, and the Lady'd be downright unhappy, if you two was t'hurt one another."
"I have never..." Rosalyn scrambled to feet.
"Sure you have, Rosalyn," Mae said, wryly. "That's why you work here. Now why don't you... the both of you go upstairs and get into some dry clothes."
"This isn't the end of it, Wilma," Rosalyn said, storming out of the room.
"It surely is," Daisy yelled after her. "Unless'n you wants the Lady mad at yah, too."
Wilma looked down at her wet clothes. "I better change, too. Damn, I was hoping t'say goodbye to Jimmy before he left." She started to leave, then stopped and turned back. "I'd have had her in a minute or so, but thanks, for the help, Daisy."
"Looked that way t'me, too," Daisy said with a wink. "You's welcome, but I didn't do it for you; I done it for the Lady."
* * * * *
Laura pushed open the kitchen door with her back. She walked over to the sink and put the last tray of dirty dishes down next to it. "So... how'd the trip up to your claims go?"
"Not too good," Jane said. She used a washrag on a beer stein, then dipped the stein in the rinse water and set it on a half-filled drying rack. "Milt wouldn't let me go into m'mine to check... that the, umm, rafters - yeah, that the rafters was still holding."
"Why wouldn't he?"
Jane pouted. "Oh, he had him all sorts of reasons: it was too dangerous, I was wearing a dress, he didn't wanna take the boards down."
"Boards?"
"Yeah, he had them two men of his board up the mine entrance, and he didn't want 'em to take the boards away, so's I could go in."
"Those sounds like good reasons to me."
"They ain't. I been mining more'n ten years. I knows how to act when I'm inside a mountain, especially if I dug the hole. Besides, all I wanted to do was to... ah, t'check them rafters."
"Maybe, but it sounds like Milt was just looking out for you. Did you do anything else while you were out there?"
"Yeah, he let me go into m'cabin - 'course, I had the key. Nothing'd been touched, not even that bottle of scotch whiskey, I had out that night when... ummm, when you was out there." Jane fidgeted uncomfortably and couldn't meet Laura's eyes.
"I remember." Laura said through clenched teeth. "Let's not talk any more about that night, okay?"
"Uh, yeah. I-I guess I shouldn't've said anything about it."
"No, you shouldn't have." Laura frowned. Why was she trying to help the man who tried to do... what Jake had tried to do? Because this wasn't Jake. It was Jane, and she was an innocent who needed Laura's help. "Anything else happen?"
"Nah. We ate lunch - that was a good idea you had about packing some food. Then we headed back t'town."
"Actually, packing lunch was Jessie's idea."
Now Jane frowned. "Jessie's? Well..." she shrugged. "It was a good idea anyway."
"And it wasn't the only one," Laura said hesitantly.
"What d'you mean?"
"Yesterday - while you were up at your claim - I pretended to be you all day." Laura decided to wait and see how Jane reacted before saying that this had been Jessie's idea, as well.
"Now why in the hell did you do that?"
"So I could see how Red, Ozzie, Davy, and Sam acted around you, and, maybe, find out why they acted that way."
"It ain't right t'be spying on my friends like that."
Laura shook her head. "I can't say anything about Davy; I didn't see him the whole time. I'm not sure the others are your friends, though."
"'Course they... why d'you say they ain't?"
"They were talking about how hard it was going to be for me - for you - to be up at that claim by yourself."
"I know that. They's just worried about me is all."
"Maybe, but when I said that I - you - could give up the claim and stay in town, they all said that I shouldn't. That , that I had a valuable claim, and I had o go back up into the mountains to work it. They just said one of them should go along."
"See," Jane said in triumph. "They're m'friends. They know what I want, and they want to help me out."
"Maybe, Jane. Or, maybe - just maybe - they're more concerned about your claim or something else you have up there."
"They don't know a... no, they're saying that because they's my friends."
Laura shrugged. "You may be right, but do me - do yourself a favor and, at least, think about what I said, okay?"
"I don't think there's anything t'what you said, but... you are my big sister. I'll think about it."
* * * * *
Friday, October 27, 1871
"Ramon."
Ramon turned at the sound of his name. "Maggie, hola. What brings you to the store on this beautiful, beautiful day?" He looked around quickly. There was no sign of Ernesto.
Ramon had heard the bell tolling that school was out. Ernesto would be coming to the store very soon, and Ramon knew that the boy didn't want his mother to catch him spending all his time there after school.
"I... I wanted to ask... oh, it is silly. I am sorry to bother you." Maggie fidgeted with her hands, as if trying to decide what to do.
"Maggie, we are... friends. If you have something you want to ask me, just ask, I will listen."
"I... Shamus, he wants me to... to learn about how he keeps the accounts for the restaurant. I have never been too good with the numbers."
"Then this is just the man to help you." Aaron had been standing near Ramon. Now he suddenly pushed the younger man towards Maggie. "Aren't you, Ramon?"
"I do not know how much help I can be. Aaron is the one who keeps the books."
"And you don't help? Then who was it that spent two hours with me just the other night working on my accounts payable?"
Ramon looked at Maggie. "Are you sure you want my help? Maybe Aaron --"
"Aaron is too tired at the end of the day," Aaron said. "She asked you... she wants you. Go ahead."
"Please, Ramon," Maggie asked. "I do not think that I can learn this without help."
"Very well, I will do it. When do you want to start?"
"Come by Monday about 9. I will have Lupe and Ernesto in bed by then."
"Very well, I will be there."
Maggie looked at her watch. "I must go. I must start cooking supper for the restaurant. Everything is rushed, and Ernesto will be home from school soon. I like to see him before he goes out to play. Thank you, Ramon."
"Good bye, Maggie," Ramon said, smiling. "I will see you at the dance tomorrow." He watched her leave the store, then sank down in a chair with a groan. "I must be loco. I am no teacher."
"As they say, even a man who can't tie a cat's tail can be a melamed... a teacher. You do know bookkeeping; you've been helping me with the accounts since I hired you." He paused. "And I know you'll take your time and do a good job."
"How can you know that?"
"How, he asks. Ramon, you'll do a good job because you're a smart man. That's why you'll take your time, too."
"I'll take my time because I am smart?"
"How often does Maggie ask you over to her house anymore?"
"You know she does not. She is not interested in being courted, just in doing what she thinks is best for her children."
"And now - for her children - she wants you to come over and help her learn to keep books for her restaurant. The longer it takes you to teach her..."
"The more times I will have to come over... to be with her." Ramon completed the thought happily. "And you say that I am a smart man. Thank you, Aaron."
"You're welcome. Now please don't smile so much. It makes some customers nervous."
* * * * *
Saturday, October 28, 1871
Sam Braddock took his beer from R.J. and walked over to where Jane was standing. "Howdy, Jane. You think any on what we were talking about on Wednesday."
"I wasn't here Wednesday," Jane said. "Milt Quinlan took me up to my claim."
"Sure you was. You had a drink with Ozzie, Red, and me."
Jane shook her head. "That wasn't me. Laura took it into her head t'pretend to be me all day."
"Now why'd she do a fool thing like that?"
"She - don't you be mad at her now - but she don't trust you boys, and she wanted t'spy on you."
"Did she say that she found out anything... not that there's anything for her to find out, of course."
"'Course not. She said you all sounded like you cared more about the... about my claim than about me." She pouted. "But that ain't true... is it?"
Sam shook his head. "No, she just misunderstood. We talked about your claim... both your claims because we know how important they are to you. That's all." He decided to forge ahead. "We know how hard it'll be working those claims, and we wanted you to know that we were willing to help."
"I thought it was something like that."
"You gonna do anything about it, her fooling us like she did?"
"Naw, I figger she was just trying to be a big sister t'me. I can't be mad at that, now can I?" When Sam shook his head, she said. "I already told Red, though, and I'm gonna tell Ozzie and Davy when I see them."
"That sounds fair, I guess."
"You gotta promise me something, though." She waited a beat. "Red already promised when I told him."
"What? What do you want us to promise?"
"You, all three - no, all four - of ya, promise not t'say anything to Laura about what she done. You do that, and I'll promise t'think about taking one of you boys up there with me, like you was talking about. We got a deal?" She offered Sam her hand.
"Deal." Sam took her hand and shook it, quite happy at how well what had looked like a disaster a few minutes before had turned out.
"Besides, the joke's on her anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"'Cause she didn't do her play acting for Davy, and he's the one I'm thinking of asking t'come back with me."
Sam heard the disaster bells ringing now. "He's... why... how... how'd you come t-to pick... him? I-I thought you... you liked me?"
"Oh, I ain't picked him fer sure." She looked down, not wanting to face him. "I do like you, Sam... and Ozzie and Red, too, but... well, he's the only one knows how t'work a mine."
Sam relaxed just a bit. "So, it ain't a done deal, yet. I still got a chance."
"I-I guess, but..."
"No buts, Jane. I promised you something, you promise me you'll think some more about who's the best one for you to take, okay?"
"You promised me, so I guess I can promise you."
"That's all I'm asking." Sam smiled. As soon as he could, he'd tell the others what Jane had said about Davy. If they put their heads together, so they could surely work out a way to make her change her mind and pick one of them instead.
* * * * *
Sunday, October 29, 1871
"My Lord, four aces and a king! I never saw a hand that good."
Bridget spun around in her chair. "Cap Lewis, you stop that. You're ruining my game."
"I'm sorry," Cap said, even though his grin said that he wasn't. "I just got back from the drive - haven't even been home yet - and I wanted to see you."
"How about we take a break?" Mort Boyer rose to his feet. The other players, Natty Ryland, Milo Nash, and Stu Gallagher, all muttered in agreement and stood.
"I gotta go to the necessary anyway," Milo said. He started towards the kitchen, where the saloon's back door was.
Bridget smiled. "Thank you, gentlemen. The game will resume as soon as I find out what Mr ewis has to talk to me about." She paused a beat. "And we'll just call this round - which did not, I assure you, include the hand he mentioned - a misdeal." The other players nodded and headed toward the bar.
Cap spun an empty chair around and sat down. Leaning over the back of the chair, he grinned and said, "Damn, you look pretty. A hell of a lot prettier than the south side of those steers I've had to look at for the past few weeks, that's for sure. You smell a lot nicer, too."
"Thank you for that lofty compliment," Bridget said, trying to stay angry. "You shouldn't have shouted out like that, Cap. This isn't a game to me; it's how I earn my living."
He nodded. "I know... and I'm sorry." He pointed to the men at the bar. "Your players didn't seem to mind too much, though."
She glared at him. "That isn't the point." Did he have to grin like that? she asked herself. It made it damned hard to stay mad. "Okay... just promise me that you won't do it again."
"I promise." He made a "King's X" over his heart. "And I am sorry. I just had to see you. I know Uncle Abner. When I get home, he's going to want a full report on the drive. Then, with one thing or another, I won't get a chance to come into town until Tuesday."
"What's so special about Tuesday?"
"You don't remember?" He waited. When it was clear that she didn't he continued. "You're rent's due, m'lass. Pay up or it's out onto the streets with you." He gestured dramatically and stroked an imagined mustache like the villain in a melodrama he was pretending to be.
Now Bridget looked totally confused.
"Sorry again," Cap said, grinning. "I couldn't resist. "Your loan payment to my uncle, a quarter of your winnings, is due at the end of every month, remember? Which for this month is Tuesday. I'm supposed to get it from you."
Bridget's hand flew to her mouth. "The loan... I did forget. And here I've been keeping track every night - I got a little book I keep right here in my cash box. If you want to see it... ."
"No need." Cap took her hand. "I trust you."
She relaxed - and didn't pull her hand away from his. "So, when will you be in for the money?"
"How about six o'clock. You can give me the money while we have dinner together. My treat."
"You don't have to do that."
"You mean you're not going to give me a real chance to apologize for busting up your game like I did?"
Now Bridget smiled. "I think you did that just to get me to go out to dinner with you again."
"Well... maybe I did have that as an ulterior motive." He glanced over towards the bar. Mort, Natty, and Stu were all there watching him. "Looks like your players are ready to start up again."
He stood up. "I don't want to hug you and get trail dust all over that pretty dress, so this'll have to do." He took her head in his two hands and tilted it up to meet his lips. For all its courtliness, his kiss was full of passion and need.
Bridget felt a heat flow through her body. She shivered slightly and arched her back, pushing her face closer to his. Her nipples felt tight as they pushed against her camisole, and there was a feeling of need down there, in the region of her lap.
After a time, Cap had to break the kiss, which wasn't until he had left her nearly breathless. "Tuesday can't come quick enough," he said and kissed her gently on the forehead. "See you then." He was out the door before Bridget could draw enough breath to answer.
* * * * *
Paul Grant walked down the sidewalk on his regular evening rounds. As he passed each door, he checked to see that it was locked. He looked in windows, too, for any light or sign of movement.
He crossed the street. The full moon was bright enough to cast his shadow ahead of him. It seemed to be pointing towards the alley. There was something on the ground a few feet back from the street, something the size of a man.
He ran over and knelt down besides the... yeah, it was a man's body. The moonlight let him see that it was Davy Kitchner. Paul's fingers found a pulse at the man's neck. "Thank Heavens," he whispered.
Paul lifted Davy's head and slapped his face three times. "Davy, wake up." The unconscious man moaned once, but his eyes stayed shut. "Best get you to where the Doc can take a look."
The Eerie Saloon was next to the alley. Somebody - Joe Kramer - was coming out the door. "Joe," Paul called to him. "C'mere."
"Yeah," Joe said, turning towards Paul. "Hey, Paul, what do you..." He saw Davy's body. "What the... who the hell is that?"
"Davy Kitchner; I just found him. He's hurt. Give me a hand, will you?"
The two men lifted Davy and carried him towards the Saloon. "There's something pinned to his shirt," Davy said, as they walked through the doorway.
"I saw it," Paul told him. "There'll be time to look at it, when we set him down someplace."
Conversations stopped as they carried Davy in. Shamus had been near the door. And he ran over, shouting orders. "Put them two tables t'gether, so they can set him down. And you..." he pointed to Liam O'Hanlon, "... go get Doc Upshaw."
The two tables were quickly pushed together. R.J. hurried over with a bar towel for under Davy's head. He stepped back, and Paul and Joe gently lowered Davy onto the tables. "Shouldn't we do something?" someone asked.
"Best t'be waiting for the doctor," Shamus answered.
Jane had been across the room taking someone a beer. Now she pushed her way through the crowd. "Davy! No... not you, too." She sank down in a chair, sobbing miserably.
Laura hurried to her. "He's not dead, Jane. Honest."
"He... he's not?"
"No, he's not. You can see for yourself."
"Uh huhn." Jane nodded her head nervously and stood up slowly. Laura took her hand and began walking her towards the tables.
At that moment, Davy suddenly moaned and opened his eyes. "Oooh! Where am I?"
"Davy," Jane yelled. She ran over to the table. "You're all right... just like Laura said you was."
"'Course I am," Davy said, sounding weaker than he wanted to. "Now help me get up." He held out a shaky hand to her.
Jessie reached over and took his hand instead. "Better just lay there till the Doc comes and has a look at you."
Jane's eyebrows furrowed. "You leave him alone."
"She's right, Jane," Laura said. "We don't know how hurt he really is."
"You think so?" Jane pouted, not wanting to admit that Jessie might be right.
"I do," Laura said. Shamus, Paul, and several others muttered agreement.
"Oh, all right." She pulled a chair over and sat down next to the tables. "But he better come soon."
"I don't mind waiting," Davy said, smiling broadly. "Now that I knows how much you cares for me, Jane."
"Well, o'course I cares about you," Jane said. "Ain't you the oldest friend I got around here?"
Davy's smile faded a bit. "Yeah, that's true. We been friends for - what - three, four years now."
"Four," Jane said. "We met up t'Hangnose Ridge in Colorado, when Fatty Burke found that vein and treated everybody to a two-day drunk."
"I remember." Davy nodded his head, then winced at the pain. "I think my head hurts more right now than when I woke up from that drunk."
"Do you remember what happened tonight?" Paul asked.
"Pretty much," Davy said. "I been up at my claim the last week; thought I found me some color in the rock." Color meant a vein of gold or silver.
"Did ye?" Shamus asked.
Davy looked even more pained. "No, dammit, it was pyrite or something. I rode into town tonight t'see Jane and drown m'sorrows."
"What happened?"
"Hell, if I know. I was tying m'mule, Lucille, at the end of the hitching post, when I hears somebody behind me. Things went black before I could turn around and see what or who it was. Next thing I knows, I'm on this here table."
"Don't suppose ye had something pinned t'yuir shirt, did ye?" Shamus asked.
Davy raised his head and looked down at his chest. "What are you - ouch!" He lowered his head carefully. "What the hell is that?"
"Let's just see." Paul reached over and unpinned a folded square of rough, pale yellow paper. "Simple and to the point. It says, 'STAY AWAY FROM JANE' in block letters. I can't recognize the handwriting at all."
"Let me see it. I know what most of the men in this town call handwriting." Shamus took the paper and studied at it for a couple of minutes. "And this ain't none o'them." He frowned. "How about I nail it up on the wall here in me Saloon... offer a reward to anybody that can be telling us whose writing it is?"
Paul shook his head. "I think the Sheriff'll want to hold onto it, Shamus, but I'll tell him what you offered."
"All right, where's my patient?" Doc Upshaw's voice called out from the door.
"Over here," Shamus answered, waving his arm.
The Doc hurried over. His hair was uncombed, and he was wearing a nightshirt tucked into his pants. "What happened?" He set his doctor's bag down on the table next door to Davy.
"Somebody hit him on the head," Paul said. "I found him laying in the alley and brought him in here."
Doc opened his bag. "You hurt anyplace, Davy - besides your head, I mean?" He took out a small mirror with two leather straps and used them to tie the mirror to his forehead.
"No - yow!" Davy had tried to shake his head. "M'head hurts more'n enough."
Doc Upshaw leaned over and gently moved his fingers across his patient's scalp. He stopped when Davy yelped in pain, then continued for a bit more, while Davy tried not to wince. "No blood, I'm happy to say, but you'll have a nice goose egg there by morning. Now, try to sit up."
"I'll try," Davy said. He did, slowly, with help from the Doc and R.J.
Upshaw leaned in, looking closely into each of Davy's eyes. The mirror focused the light from Shamus' chandeliers into each eye in turn. "Okay," he said moving back a few inches.
He raised a finger on his right hand and held it up in front of Davy's right eye. "Close your left eye and follow my finger with just the right one."
Davy did as he was told. The Doc moved his hand to the left and right, then up and down. "Now," the Doc said, "we'll do it with your left eye."
"Am I okay, Doc," Davy asked nervously when they were done.
Doc Upshaw untied the mirror and put it back in his bag. "You seem to be, but I can't be entirely certain until morning. I'd like to put you up in one of the beds in my office. I can check you in a few hours and again in the morning."
"I-I don't know," Davy said.
"Go on, lad," Shamus said. "Ye'll have a nice lie-in on a real feather bed. That's got to be better than what ye got waiting back in yuir cabin. And in the morning, I'll be sending Jane over with some breakfast - if it's all right with the good doctor."
Davy grinned. "A feather bed and breakfast with Jane? A man'd be a fool to say no t'that, and my mama didn't raise no fools.
* * * * *
Monday, October 30, 1871
"Enough," Maggie said, almost in despair. "My head is swimming with debits and receipts and accounts payable."
Ramon nodded, trying hard not to smile. "Perhaps, we have done enough for tonight. We have been working for..." He looked at his pocket watch. "... over two hours. It is almost 11:30."
"And you have been most patient with me, Ramon."
"It has been my pleasure. When shall I come by for another lesson?"
"Not tomorrow, please. My poor brain needs time to recover from tonight's lesson." She thought for a moment. "Wednesday. Yes, Wednesday; can you come by at the same time on Wednesday?"
"I can... and I will."
"It is late, I know, but would you like something - coffee, perhaps, or a piece of cake - before you leave?"
"I am fine, thank you. I do not need anything."
"Are you sure? I feel that I should give you something, repay you in some way for all the time you spent tonight trying to knock 'ledgers' and such into my poor head."
Ramon took Maggie's hand in his. "Getting to spend this time with you... helping you, that is payment enough."
"Ramon, you know what I have said about..." She tensed, but - he was happy to see - she didn't pull her hand away.
"Margarita," he said wryly, "cannot a man take pleasure in simply helping a friend. We are still friends, at least, are we not?"
She smiled, perhaps a little sadly, and slid her hand free from his. "Yes, we... we are... friends."
Ramon stood and took her hand again. "Then I shall be here - as you wish - on Wednesday." He raised it slowly to his lips, fixing her eyes with is own. He kissed the back of her hand, lingering for a few seconds. Then he blew a gentle puff of air, so that she felt his warm breath on her moist skin.
"Goodnight, Margarita. Sweet dreams." He released her hand, bowed slightly, and headed towards the door.
"G-good night." Maggie sat there, trembling as warmth flowed through her body. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest.
Her dreams that night were sweet. And disturbing. And filled with Ramon.
* * * * *
"Keep it running," Ozzie Pratt shouted over the clanking of the printing press. "I'm going back for more paper."
Roscoe Unger, his assistant, nodded; there was no sense trying to talk over the noise. They were working on the "boilerplate" edition of the Tucson itizen, weekly paper that Ozzie published. The Citizen sent him the master printing plate of its front and back page, and he filled in the inside pages with local news and advertising.
Ozzie came back into the print room without any paper.
"Shut that thing off," he yelled, "and fetch the Sheriff."
Roscoe stopped the press. "What's the matter?" he asked as it came to a halt.
"Some miscreant has cast a stone through the back window, and with a note affixed to it, no less."
"What'd it say?"
"We shall all discover its message once you have returned with Sheriff Talbot. Now go." Roscoe ran out the front door, returning quickly with the Sheriff.
"Show me what happened," Sheriff Dan Talbot asked.
Ozzie led him through the door to the back room. "I use this space mostly for storage," he explained. An oil lamp hung on the wall by the door they had just come through.
Dan looked around. High shelves ran along the walls on both sides. They were filled with reams of paper, printing supplies, and various finished products. One shelf held some wrapped parcels waiting to be picked up.
There was a desk against the back wall beneath a large window. Ozzie's back door was just to the right off the desk. The window had four frames, and most of the glass was missing from one of these.
A few feet from the desk, a rock lay on the floor, surrounded by the missing glass.
"I've no idea when this deplorable incident occurred," Ozzie said. "Our press is - to put it mildly - quite clamorous. We had no chance to hear the sound of the breaking glass over its din."
Dan knelt down and picked up the rock. A folded, yellow sheet of paper was tied to it with a piece of white string. "Looks like the same kind of paper as yesterday," Dan said. He cut the string with a penknife and unfolded the paper. "Yep, it says 'Stay away from Jane', same as Davy's note."
Ozzie frowned. "It would seem that we have need to expand our report of that attack upon Davy Kitchner. Apparently, the miscreant has further mischief in mind."
"Looks that way." Dan's eyes roamed over the reams of paper on the shelves. "You recognize the paper this note is written on?"
"Sure do," Roscoe said. "We sell a lot of it."
"I fear that it is a most common stock," Ozzie added, taking the paper from Dan. "You'll find samples of it throughout the town. You, yourself, have purchased some of it, as I recall."
Dan shrugged. "So much for that idea. How about the writing?"
"Printed block letters," Ozzie said. "A singularly good way to disguise one's hand, I fear."
"I don't think I know it either," Roscoe said, handing the note back to Dan, who folded it and stuck it in a pocket.
"I'll take a look outside to see if there's any tracks," Dan said. "Should be able to see something with that full moon out. I'll be back to check again by daylight, just to be sure. You think of anything else, you can tell me then." The others nodded. Dan tried the door, and the knob turned easily. "You really should lock this, you know."
"I shall do so now." Ozzie took a key from his pocket. "Normally, I wait until we close for the night and go upstairs." Ozzie had a small apartment above his shop. Roscoe boarded in a spare bedroom.
"Better get that window fixed too." Dan walked through the door, closing it behind him.
"I shall talk to Sam Braddock on the morrow," Ozzie said as he locked the door. Sam was a carpenter and glazier.
Ozzie and Roscoe watched Dan walking around, using the light from inside, as well as the full moon. "Can't see anything in this hardpan," he said to them through the broken window, finally. "Maybe in the morning. Goodnight." He waved once and left.
"It is indeed fortunate that we do the boilerplate side first," Ozzie said with a sigh. "While you finish that, Roscoe, I shall re-write the tale of Davy's attack to include this new mishap. I may even be able to start resetting the type before you have completed your assignment."
* * * * *
Tuesday, October 31, 1871
Cap wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "Now that was a delicious supper. I swear Maggie's cooking just gets better and better."
"The fact that I'm paying for it must make it taste even better," Bridget said.
"You're paying?" Cap asked. "When did I ever agree to that?"
"Last time we had supper you did," Bridget said with a self-satisfied smile. "Don't you remember?"
Cap shook his head. "I did, didn't I?" He chuckled. "I suppose I can manage the strain of having the prettiest gal in town buy me supper."
"Oh, my, how he suffers," Bridget said, smiling. She took a sip of her after-dinner coffee.
"You know what they say, 'it's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.' I guess I'm lucky enough to be that somebody." He looked up. "Speaking of which..."
Jessie stepped up to the table. "Do either of you want anything else?" Bridget and Cap both shook their heads. "In that case, here's the bill." She handed Cap a small slip of paper.
Cap took it, then handed it to Bridget. "Here you go... if you still want it."
"I do." Bridget took the check from him.
"You're buying him dinner?" Jessie asked in a shocked tone.
Bridget nodded. "I am, and you'd best be quiet about it, Jess. I haven't decided on the size of your tip yet."
"No, ma'am." Jessie put a finger to her lips as if silencing herself.
"Three fifty," Bridget said. "With a food tip, that'd be... oh, let's just say, five." She reached into her small purse and took out a half eagle. "Here you are, Jess." She flipped the coin to Jessie, who caught it easily.
"Thanks, Bridget," she said. She almost curtseyed before she left.
"That's a pretty big tip," Cap said.
Bridget shrugged. "No more than you gave Jane last time. Guess I am just showing off a little. I am glad to see that you don't mind having a woman paying your way," Bridget said, with a smile. "How do you feel about taking even more money from one?"
"What do you mean?" Cap asked. "Oh, yeah, Uncle Abner's money. Well, now, I'm not so much taking money from you as I am taking it to him."
"That's true enough." Bridget put her purse down on the table and pulled out a small brown ledger. "I kept a record of how much I won every night; it comes to $391.04. You want to see the records?"
Cap put his hand on hers. "You know that's not necessary, Bridget. I... trust you... completely."
Bridget's face flushed. "I hope your uncle does, too. By my figuring, his share is $97.76." She pulled out a smaller piece of paper. "I have a bank draft here for that amount." She handed the draft to Cap.
"Thanks, Bridget," Cap said. "You'll have Uncle Abner paid off in no time at this rate." He took the draft and put it into an inside pocket of his jacket.
"And, seeing as you've been giving me things all evening," Cap said. "I've got something for you." His hand had still been inside his jacket. When he took it out, he was holding a small box wrapped in blue tissue paper.
"You shouldn't have, Cap." She looked at the box, trying to decide if she would take it.
"Yes, I should have. In fact, I had to, when I saw what color they were."
"Color?" Bridget's curiosity was too strong. She quickly unwrapped the box. Inside, resting on a small square of cotton were a pair of sea-green, teardrop-shaped..."Earrings, oh, they're... they're beautiful."
"Of course, they are. They're the same color as your eyes."
"My eyes? But how did you remember what color my eyes are?"
"How could I forget?" Cap smiled. "Now put them on. I want to see how you look in them."
"All right." Bridget took off the small pearl earrings she was wearing. Earrings were something Molly and Rachel had talked her into wearing just a few days before Cap had left on the cattle drive. She replaced them with the new ones. Then turned her head, posing so Cap could see how they looked.
Cap made a "click" of approval with his tongue. "Best money I ever spent. Those lucky earrings look just great on you."
"Lucky? Why are they lucky?"
Now Cap grinned. "'Cause they're going to spend their days so close to you. That's about as lucky as I can think of."
Bridget smiled shyly and looked down at the table. Lordy, the man had a way with words.
* * * * *
"Oh, Marty, honey, that... that feels so good." Wilma sighed as Marty Hernandez sucked greedily at her left breast. Marty was using his right hand to knead her right breast, one finger playing gently with her nipple. His left hand matched the motion of the right, but it was teasing her crotch through her lacy silk drawers.
Wilma was reciprocating, using her fingers to excite Marty's manhood through the fabric of his own cotton drawers.
"Help! No... Help me!" The screams were loud enough to come through the thick walls and solid wooden door of Wilma's room.
"What the hell?" Wilma quickly moved her hand away from Marty's crotch and sat up in the bed. The screams came again. "I'm afraid this'll have t'wait, she said. She touched Marty's crotch for a moment, then reluctantly twisted her body and climbed out of bed.
"You got your pistol?" she asked, all business now.
Marty stood up, looking confused. "Yeah." He pointed to a chair. His holstered pistol, a Colt Peacemaker, was on it, half covered by his pants. "Why you asking?"
"'Cause I need it." Wilma wrapped a thin, violet robe around herself. She retrieved the Colt and stuck it in a pocket of the robe. She ran out of the room, Marty following as best he could. Running while putting on his pants was not one of his better skills.
Another scream. "Rosalyn," Wilma said. "I mighta known." She hurried to another door, two down from her own. She knocked sharply on the door. "You all okay in there?"
"Go away!" The voice through the door was low and gravelly, male and angry.
"Plea..." Rosalyn called out again, but something her cut off.
"That'll shut you up, bitch." The man's voice again. "Ain't nobody gonna help you now."
Wilma tried the door. It was locked, something that usually wasn't done at La Parisienne. The hell with it," she spat. She pulled the pistol and fired at the lock. Wood splintered, and the door opened a crack.
Marty pushed it the rest of the way open and looked in. "What the..."
Rosalyn was nude, tied spread-eagled to the four posts of her bed with lengths of rope. A tall, heavyset man stood near the bed. He was wearing a gray union suit, shirt and drawers together as one garment, and holding a lit cigar in one hand.
A string of four or five small burns ran across Rosalyn's breasts. A cloth, probably a handkerchief, was stuffed in her mouth.
"Get away from her," Wilma said through clenched teeth. "Now!" She raised the pistol and pointed it at the man's chest. She cocked the hammer of the Colt.
"Wilma," Marty yelled. "You can't shoot an unarmed man.
The man laughed. "That little piece of fluff ain't gonna shoot anybody. Are you, darlin'?" He spoke the last firmly, as if giving a command.
Wilma's expression changed. She smiled. Her hand slowly lowered, and she let the pistol drop to the floor. "No... no, I ain't," she said, her voice almost a purr. "There's a lot better things a gal can do with a man."
Still smiling, she started walking towards him, her arms outstretched. When she came close enough, she wrapped them around his neck. She lifted her head as if waiting for a kiss.
"That's right, darlin'," the man said. "Lots o'things a sweet gal like you can do for a man." He leaned down to kiss her.
"Only, you ain't no man," Wilma yelled. Before the man could react, she kneed him as hard as she could in the groin.
The man grunted like a wounded bear and fell to the ground. He lay there, groaning in pain and clutching at his privates.
Marty recovered his pistol and pointed it at the other man. "Don't try anything, friend. I got you covered."
"Good work, Marty," Wilma said wryly. She began working on the rope holding Rosalyn's left wrist.
"I hear a... merde!" Herve Navetier, Madam Cerise's enforcer, came into the room. He was holding a pistol that was larger and much meaner looking than Marty's. "What 'as 'appened?"
"That bastard couldn't tell the difference between Rosalyn's tits and an ashtray," Wilma said in disgust, pointing at the man on the floor.
"I see," Herve said. There were voices behind them. "Daisy," he said, recognizing one but not turning around, "go and get the physician... and the sheriff, as well."
Wilma had both of Rosalyn's arms freed now. While the injured woman untied her own legs, Wilma used the ropes to tie the man's wrists.
"Thank you, Monsieur Hernandez, for rescuing our dear Rosalyn." Madame Cerise swept into the room.
"Wilma did it," Marty said. "Biggest thing I did was give her my pistol." He winked at Wilma. "I didn't think she'd put it to such good use."
"Indeed," Madam Cerise said, cocking an eyebrow. "Indeed." She looked at Wilma, then at the man she had stopped, a gentleman traveler - or so he had claimed - named Verne Oliver.
* * * * *
Wednesday, November 1, 1871
Nancy Osbourne looked around her classroom. She was the only teacher at Eerie Public School, a short brunette in her late 20s.
"Ysabel, Nancy called out, "how are you and the littler ones doing?"
Ysabel Diaz, a tall, willowy girl of 13, looked up at her teacher from the back of the room. Ysabel wanted to be a teacher herself someday, and she often helped Nancy with the younger children. "Show Miss Osbourne how good we are doing, children. She looked to her left and right, to the children in grades 1, 2, and 3 sitting on either side of her.
"This good, Miss Osbourne," Becky Yingling, a blonde second grader, said. "One... two..." She waved her hand as she counted.
"Three!" A dozen voices, all of the children in the first three grades, shouted. They stood up, holding almost twenty feet of white, black, and orange paper rings formed into a single chain.
"Very good, children." Nancy said, clapping her hands. "And very good to you, too, Ysabel."
The young girl smiled shyly. "Thank you, Miss Osbourne." She nodded and sat down.
Nancy looked around the room. There were lengths of the same sort of paper chain on every desk. "I think that you've all done an excellent job. We must have almost a hundred feet of chain all together. It will look very festive hanging on the walls for tomorrow's party."
"Miss Osbourne." A tall, slender brunette raised her hand from a chair in the front row, the eighth grade seats.
Nancy managed not to sigh. "Yes, Hermione."
The brunette, Hermione Ritter, stood, very sure of herself. "Miss Osbourne, do we have to just hang the chains along the walls?"
"Do you have another suggestion," Nancy asked, knowing that she would.Hermione continued. " When our parents took Winthrop, Clyde, Jr., and me to Chicago last year at Christmas, we saw streamers in the lobby of our hotel that stretched from the chandeliers to the walls. Could we do it like that?"
"Yes, let's do it Hermione's way," a shorter, dark-haired girl sitting next to Hermione blurted out. "It sounds every so much prettier."
"Thank you, Eulalie," Nancy said, "but you must remember to raise your hand and wait to be called upon."
"I'm sorry, Miss Osbourne," Eulalie Mackechnie, said. She looked embarrassed for a moment. Then she saw Hermione smile and nod her head. Eulalie smiled back and sat down.
Now Nancy frowned. Much as she hated to think it, Hermione's little toady was right. Streamers would look nicer. Well, the important thing was for the children to enjoy themselves. "Very well," she said. "I think we have enough chain." She smiled. "We don't have a chandelier, though." She waited for the children's laughter and enjoyed it when it came.
"But we do have that center rafter." Nancy pointed at a thick piece of lumber that stretched across the middle of the room. "We can run the chains from the center of the rafter to the four corners of the room."
Nancy reached into a drawer in her desk and took out a large metal key. "Yully Stone, would you please fetch the ladder from the tool shed?"
"Aw, we don't need a ladder," Yully said. He was a tall, muscular boy of thirteen with a shock of sandy brown hair. He stood up and ran towards the center of the room. At the last moment, he leapt upward and grabbed onto the rafter with one hand. His other hand darted up and caught the beam. He began pulling himself up onto it. "I'll just sit up here, and you can toss the chain to me to attach it."
Nancy slapped the top of her desk loudly to get his attention. "Ulysses Stone, you will get down from there. Immediately."
"But, Miss Osbourne." Yully turned and saw the look on her face. "Yes, Miss Osbourne." He dropped to the floor. "I was just trying to help."
"I know that, Yully," Nancy said gently. The boy wasn't bad, just showing off a bit. "But you might have fallen. Why don't you just get the ladder? Then, you can help and be safe."
She tossed him the key. He caught it one-handed. "Yes, ma'am." He turned and walked towards the door.
"He is so strong," Hermione said with a sigh. "And so impetuous." Several of the older girls giggled. Eulalie among them until she saw Hermione's frown.
'Good thing he's also obedient,' Nancy thought. The boy had just gone through a growth spurt that left him a full head taller than her. He could have been a major disruption instead of one of her better students. It was just that he hadn't quite gotten used to his new size. He hadn't learned his limits and, at times, could be clumsy, hardly the sort she wanted to be walking ceiling rafters.
* * * * *
The door opened on Ramon's third knock. "Hola, Ernesto," he said in surprise. "What are you doing up so late? Do you not have school tomorrow?"
"Si, Uncle Ramon," the boy answered, "but Mama is letting me and Lupe stay up late to make decorations for tomorrow night."
"Would you like to see?" Lupe had joined her brother at the door.
"Of course, I would." Ramon nodded and followed the two children into the parlor. As he did, he saw that Ernesto was in a starched, white night shirt, and that Lupe wore a long, blue nightgown.
The pair had been sitting on pillows at a low table near the couch. The table was piled with black and white paper chains and bright yellow and blue tissue paper flowers. Ernesto saw Ramon looking. "Miss Osbourne showed us how to make paper chains in school," he said proudly.
"And Mama showed me how to make the paper marigolds," Lupe added, just as proudly. "Yellow and blue were Mama Lupe's favorite colors. We will get real ones for the vase tomorrow."
She pointed to a high table set against a wall in front of a large piece of blue sheeting with white stars pinned to it. A picture of Maggie - 'No, Maggie had never worn her hair like that,' Ramon thought - a picture of the children's real mother, Guadalupe Rosario de Lopez, sat on the table in a silvered frame. A tall, empty vase stood between the picture and the wall. A blue porcelain bowl was set in front of the picture, with a small figure that Ramon recognized as Our Lady of Guadelupe on either side of it. Two long, white candles in tall white enameled holders flanked the picture, with several smaller, white candles surrounding each one.
"Very nice," Ramon said. "I will leave you to your work then. The sooner you finish, the more sleep you get." He paused a beat. "Is your Mama in the kitchen?"
"Where else?" Ernesto shrugged.
"Where else, indeed," Ramon said. He turned and walked to the kitchen. He'd been smelling something baking since he had entered the house. The odors of cinnamon and anise grew stronger as he walked towards the kitchen.
Maggie was taking something out of the stove as he walked in. He stood quietly, not wanting to startle her. She turned and set a baking sheet full of small figures down on her worktable. Then she looked up and saw him. "Ramon, how long have you been here?"
"Not very long," he replied. "Ernesto and Lupe were showing me their work in the parlor. You look ready for tomorrow night."
"Not yet I am not." She tilted the tray, the figures, a dozen loaves that looked like shiny brown rabbits, slid off the sheet and onto a second one. "I promised Ernesto's teacher that I would bake pan de muerto's for the party at his school, enough for the teacher and..." she sighed, "... thirty-four students. And then, I must make more for the three of us for tomorrow night. I am sorry, but I will not be able to take a bookkeeping lesson tonight."
"That is all right," Ramon said. "I just came to tell you that I am busy anyway, and cannot give a lesson." He walked over to her.
"Busy? I do not understand."
Ramon took off his jacket and put it over a chair. "Yes, there is a lady who has much too much cooking to do it by herself." He took her hand, ignoring the flour and butter smeared on it. "I will be helping her tonight until she is done." He looked around the kitchen. "Now where is another apron?"
* * * * *
Thursday, November 2, 1871
Jane had already started morning cleanup, sweeping out the room under Molly's watchful eye, when Laura came rushing into the Saloon. "I-I'm sorry I'm so late, Shamus."
Shamus was just finishing his breakfast. He looked at the clock and frowned. "Ye should be, m'girl. It's almost 10. Ye were supposed to be here at nine." Then he took a better look at Laura. "Are ye all right, Laura? Ye're white as a sheet."
"Lemme get you some coffee," Jane said. She leaned her broom against a table and started for the kitchen.
"No, coffee," Laura said sharply. "Please." She waved her hand in refusal.
Molly pulled out a chair from a nearby table. "Why don't ye sit down here and tell us what's the matter?"
Laura walked over and sat down. "I... I'll be okay in a moment. It just... the thought of coffee." She shook her head. "I just can seem to hold anything down this morning. I thought I was better, but when I came in here... and smelled those breakfast smells, I..." She clutched at her stomach.
Molly raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. And did this come on ye all of a sudden, like this morning?"
"N-no," Laura said, looking up. "I've felt like this the last few days... couldn't eat much of anything, especially breakfast. It just seems worse today. I... maybe I better go home before I give you all whatever I've got."
"I don't think thuir's much chance o'that," Molly said, an odd smile on her face. "I do think that I'll be taking ye over to the Doc's, though - if ye don't mind, Love," she added for Shamus.
"Take her," Shamus said. "She's no good t'me, sick as she is, and ye'll spend the whole day worrying, if ye don't get some help for her."
"Thank ye, Love," Molly said, taking her arm. "Do you think ye can walk by yuirself?" she asked Laura. "Or do ye need Jane and me t'be helping ye, too?"
Laura slowly came to her feet. "I... I can make it." She took two steps towards the door, stopped, and clenched her stomach again. "And I... no offense, Shamus, but the... the sooner I get away from the smells in here, the better."
* * * * *
About forty minutes later, she was sitting on Dr. Upshaw's examining table, buttoning her blouse. "Well, what do you think, Doc?" she asked, standing up.
The Doc looked up from some notes he'd been reading. "I think it's a good thing I gave you that full work-up a few days after you... umm, changed."
"What do ye mean?" Molly asked. Upshaw never examined a woman without a second woman in the room. It protected both the patient's reputation and his own.
"From that earlier examination, I know that Laura's... reproductive system was completely indistinguishable from that of a... of any other woman's."
"And now it isn't?" Laura asked nervously. "Is that what you're saying?"
"No, Laura," Doc said, "but please sit down before I say anything else."
Laura sat back down on the examination table. "Okay, Doc. Give me the worse. Am... am I dying?"
"No, no," Upshaw said with his best reassuring smile, "just the opposite."
"The opposite?" Laura shook her head.
"Mrs. Caulder... Laura," Doc said. "You're not leaving this world. You're bringing a new life into it." When she still didn't seem to understand, he added. "Laura... you're pregnant."
"I'm what?" She asked that question as if she really hadn't grasped the impact of his words.
"Pregnant... about six weeks, I'd say. Must have happened right around your wedding day."
"By all the blessed saints in Heaven," Molly said, taking Laura's hand and squeezing hard.
"Are you joking, Doc?" Laura asked, a note of disbelief in her voice. Her stare was wide-eyed and intense.
Doc held up his fingers as if checking a list. "You never had your last monthly... 'visitor', as some ladies like to call it, right?" Laura nodded, and Upshaw bent one finger down. "And they've been regular before that, right?"
Laura nodded again.
"And the other ladies," Molly said. "Bridget and Maggie and Jessie - once she come back - thuir monthlies all come right on time."
"I expect they would," Upshaw said and lowered a second finger. "And now you're having nausea in the morning, especially triggered by the smell of food."
Laura frowned and glanced off into the corner. "The last three mornings, anyway."
"And you told me that you've been more tired than usual." He lowered another finger.
"Yeah," Laura agreed, "mostly from getting up every couple hours during the night to go to the necessary."
Doc lowered yet another finger. "The clincher is the examination I just gave you." He continued. "There are certain physical changes to a woman's... umm, internal organs that become visible about the sixth week of pregnancy. Your body had all those changes. Congratulations... momma."
Laura slumped back on the examination table. "Aww... shit!"
* * * * *
Molly stormed into the Saloon, all but dragging Laura by the arm.
"Hullo, ladies," Shamus greeted them. "How'd it go at --"
"Later," Molly quickly interrupted.
"Shamus," Laura said desperately, dragging her feet to slow Molly down, "can you talk some sense into her? She dragged me all the way back here from the Doc's."
"It's ye that need to be talking sense to," Molly said angrily. "Ye been talking crazy-like since Doc Upshaw said ye was pregnant." Her grip tightened on Laura's arm, and she started for the stairs. "Now come along with ye."
Jane has been standing only a few feet away by the bar. "Sh-shamus, did Molly just say what I think she said?"
"Aye, Jane, she did," He pursed his chin and smiled. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, she said that Laura's gonna t'be having a wee babe."
"I-I'm gonna be an auntie," Jane said happily. "I'm gonna be an auntie."
* * * * *
Molly pushed open the door to the pair of rooms that she and Shamus called home. She walked in, still pulling Laura, and slammed the door shut behind her. "Sit down," she ordered. "We got us some privacy now, and we can talk."
"What the hell's the matter with you, Molly?" Laura all but screamed at the other woman. "Dragging me out of Doc Upshaw's office and all the way back here. Then... then you have to go and tell Shamus that I'm pregnant, to boot."
"Ye are pregnant, Laura. Why shouldn't himself be knowing about it?"
"Because I... I... because, that's all. The whole damned world doesn't need to know my problems."
"Now, how can such a blessed thing as a baby be any sort of a problem?"
"Because... because I don't want to be pregnant. I don't want to have a baby. There, now you know; are you satisfied?"
"What? Ye're joking. Ye must be."
"Oh, come off it, Molly. I can't be the first... woman... you ever knew who didn't want to get pregnant."
"Aye, and there's been many reasons for 'em not to be wanting a baby: no money t'be caring for it, no love in a marriage - or no marriage at all, or too many babies already." She shook her head. "But none of them reasons fits you and Arsenio. Money's not a real problem, him being the only blacksmith in town, and I never did see any two people more in love than the --"
"Let me ask you a question," Laura interrupted her. "Where's yours?"
"Where's my... what are ye asking?" Molly's voice sounded suddenly cautious.
"You've been carrying on and on about the joys of children, Molly, only as far as I can see, you and Shamus never had any. In the two months and more I've been in Eerie, I've never met any kids of yours, or seen pictures, or even heard you or Shamus talk about them. So before you say another word about my baby, Molly O'Toole, you better tell me where your children are."
Molly's expression turned to sudden rage. She slapped Laura's face. Hard. "Get... out... of... here," she said through clenched teeth. "Ye can go downstairs. Ye can go home. Ye... ye can go to hell for all I care. Just go!"
* * * * *
Shamus saw Laura hurrying down the stairs and walked over to her. "Did I hear me Molly right, Laura?" he asked with a big smile on his face. "Are ye truly going to be having a baby?"
"Huh?" Laura wasn't sure just what he was saying. "Oh, uh, yeah." She rubbed her cheek. "Yeah, I'm... like you said." Then she added angrily, "and that wife of yours is crazy."
"Now why would ye be saying that?"
"She drags me all the way up to your rooms and starts telling me just how wonderful it is to be pregnant. It isn't, not always."
"And?" Shamus frowned; he didn't like the way Laura seemed to be heading.
"And..." Laura was too angry to notice the change in his expression. "And when I asked her where your babies were, if it was so wonderful, and she hauls off and hits me for no damned reason."
Shamus's faced darkened, his words came clipped and cold. "I understand it now. Laura, ye're..." he struggled with himself. "Ye'll be taking the rest of the day off, starting right now."
"What? Why are you getting your dander up now? You're as crazy as --"
"Don't ye be saying another word, Laura, or we'll the both of us be sorry." Shamus turned towards the bar. "R.J., I told Mrs. Caulder to be going home for the day. Please see that she does just that."
"Okay, Shamus," R.J. said, looking puzzled. When he saw Laura looking at him just as confused as he felt, he just shrugged, not sure what to say.
"Thank ye, R.J.," Shamus said. "I'll be going upstairs now to be with Molly."
"You going to be long?" R.J. asked.
Shamus sighed as he started up the stairs. "Probably, R.J., probably."
* * * * *
Jessie set the tray of clean glassware down on the bar as carefully as she could. "Damn, that's heavy. Where the hell is everybody?"
"Shamus and Molly are upstairs," R.J. said. "I think they'll be up there for a while."
"What for?" Jessie asked. "It ain't like them t'spend time upstairs in the middle of the day. Molly ain't sick is she?" She looked around. "And where's Laura anyway?"
"Molly's not sick," R.J. said. "She's just upset about something. Shamus'll tell us about it when he comes down - if he thinks we need to know."
"What about Laura?" Jessie asked. "Why ain't she here?"
"Shamus sent her home just before he went upstairs," R.J. said.
Jessie scowled. "What? And leave me with all the work? I got a good mind t'go over and drag her back here."
"I think Laura's in a mood to beat your butt all the way back here." R.J. couldn't help smiling at the image. "Even preg..." Damn, he hadn't meant to say anything until he could talk to Shamus or Molly about it.
"Preg... ?" Jessie's eyes widened in surprise. "Pregnant! Are you saying that Laura's pregnant?"
Jane nodded, glad to fill in the story. "That's what Molly told us when they come back from seeing the Doc."
"Shit!" Jessie's surprise changed to fear. "I didn't think we... I mean when... how did it hap... are you sure that's what she said, R.J.?"
R.J. shrugged. "Near as I could tell it is. They were arguing, walked past here in a - don't go up there, Jessie." R.J. shouted at the woman as she hurried towards the steps. "I don't think Molly or Shamus'd be ready to see you up there, and you really don't want to get them mad at you, do you?"
"No... no, I don't," Jessie said with a sigh. "I'm already mad enough at myself; I don't need two people piling on." She sat down on the second step from the bottom and shook her head.
* * * * *
"Arsenio," R.J. greeted the man, "just what brings you in here in the middle of the afternoon?"
"Hi, R.J.," Arsenio answered. "Laura wasn't feeling too good this morning. I came in to see how she was doing." He looked around the room. "Where is she?"
R.J. found a spot on the top of the bar that seemed to require his immediate and full attention. "She... umm, that is to say --"
"She ain't here," Jane interrupted. "Shamus sent here home."
R.J. groaned and rolled his eyes. 'Trouble,' he thought. 'Big trouble.'
"Home?" Arsenio asked. "What's the matter? Is it serious?"
"Sure is," Jane said happily. "There ain't nothing more serious to a gal than having a baby."
Arsenio's jaw dropped, and his eyes grew wide as saucers. "A... a baby? Laura? Are... are you sure, Jane? Ab-absolutely sure?"
"Uh huhn," Jane said, nodding her head. "Molly told me when they come back from Doc Upshaw's office."
"Yee-ah-hoo!" Arsenio yelled at the top of his lungs. He grabbed Jane and kissed her on the forehead. Conversations stopped, as everyone in the bar turned to look in his direction.
Arsenio looked around; there were about a dozen people in the room, not counting, Jane, R.J., and himself. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his coin purse. He found a $10 gold eagle coin and tossed it to R.J. "Round of drinks for everybody, R.J. - on me. My wife's having a baby!"
The free drinks - and the good news about Laura - were greeted by cheers and shouts of "congratulations."
R.J. put a hand on his friend's arm. "Arsenio, before this goes any further, I think you--"
The blacksmith was too happy to notice the barman's concern. "I think you better get busy." He pointed at the crowd of men converging on the bar. "Have one yourself when you get the chance."
"Arsenio..." R.J. wanted to warn his friend.
"Talk to you later," Arsenio said. "I've got to get home. This news'll be even sweeter when I hear it from Laura." He grinned as he turned to leave. "I just hope I can act surprised."
R.J. shook his head, remembering Laura's frame of mind when Shamus sent her home. "Arsenio... looking surprised is going to be the least of your worries."
* * * * *
"Good afternoon, Margarita," Ramon said, walking in through the open door into her hallway. He sniffed the air, smelling the copal resin incense. "I see you have already started your celebration. May I join you for a while before I ride out to the cemetery?"
"Why not? Shamus let me leave early. Jane is in charge again tonight." Maggie smiled and gestured towards the parlor. "The children are in there." She turned and walked towards the other room. Ramon turned to the door and put his extended finger to his lips. Then he turned back and followed Maggie into the parlor.
The paper chains that Ernesto and Lupe had made were draped along the edge of the table. Silvers sparkles representing stars were scattered across the sheet on the wall. The blue bowl in front of the picture frame was now filled to overflowing with calabaza en tacha, candied pumpkin. A bottle of atole, a thick corn liquor, and a brightly painted wooden goblet stood next to the bowl. A pitcher of water sat on the other side of the bowl, with a second wooden goblet next to it.
Lupe and Ernesto were sitting on the couch looking at a photo album. "We have a guest," Maggie said softly.
"Uncle Ramon!" Lupe jumped down from the chair and ran over to him. "Did you come to spend Dia de Los Muertos with us?"
Ernesto put down the album and walked over to the pair, trying to look grown up. "Hola, Uncle."
Ramon shook his head. "I have my own family to see tonight, Lupe. I just came for a short visit."
"Any visit is welcome," Maggie said. "Can I offer you one of the round pan de muertos you made last night? We won't eat the 'rabbits' until..."
"Until Mama Lupe has some," Ernesto finished the thought.
Ramon smiled. "A round one would be nice - though a 'rabbit' would be better. I have wondered what they taste like." He winked. "Your mama would not let me eat any of them last night, either."
"I needed them for Ernesto's school," Maggie said pretending to scold, "but you can have one of the extras tomorrow. I will save it for you as a 'thank you' for all your help."
"It was my pleasure." He looked at his watch. "I must go soon. You seem to have almost everything in hand."
"Almost?" Maggie asked. "what do you mean, 'almost'?"
"Has anyone blessed this shrine of yours?" Ramon pointed to the table.
"No," Maggie said. "No one has. I did not have time to ask."
"That is why I asked for you." Ramon clapped his hand. "Padre, you can come in now."
A short, balding man in a priest's cassock walked into the room. His round face was formed into a warm smile. "Good evening, Margarita, Ernesto, Lupe."
"Fa-father de Castro," Maggie said in surprise, crossing herself. "What... what are you doing here?"
"A friend of yours..." the priest nodded towards Ramon, "... thought that you might want me to come by and bless the shrine of she who was your beloved wife and the mother of your two children." He made the sign of the cross. Maggie and Ramon knelt down on one knee and the children bowed their heads."
"Gracias, Ramon," Maggie whispered, her eyes glistening. "Mucho gracias."
"This is also my pleasure," Ramon whispered back.
* * * * *
Arsenio burst into his house. "Laura... Laura, where are you?"
"In here... laying down." Her voice came from the bedroom. Arsenio hurried in. She was in bed, atop the covers, still dressed except for her shoes. "What're you doing home?"
"I was just at the... R.J. said Shamus sent... I, uh... I ran right over."She frowned. "What for?"
"What for? Aren't you... ?" His voice trailed off in confusion.
'Damn,' she thought, 'somebody - R.J., damn his eyes - told him. Well, let him guess for a while till I know what I think about it.' Aloud she asked, "Aren't I what? I'm in bed 'cause my stomach still hurts. Shamus... Shamus said I could go home." That, at least, was true - sort of.
Arsenio looked confused. "That's all? He sent you home because your stomach was bothering you?"
"If there was anything more," she decided to brazen it out, "wouldn't I tell you?"
Arsenio stood in the doorway. She was hiding something, even if it wasn't a baby. "I would have thought so," he said softly, turning away from the door. "Can I get you some water or something?"
"What... water? Umm, yes, thanks." Laura was too busy staring at her stomach and didn't notice his slumped shoulders as he walked away.
When Arsenio joined her in bed much later that evening, he was hoping to get her into a more relaxed and - he hoped - more talkative frame of mind. "Wanna cuddle a little? I'll rub your belly, if you'd like."
"I'm, uhh... it's just settling down, and I don't want to risk getting it worked up again."
"How about we just cuddle?" He raised his arm, opening a space for her to snuggle against him.
She raised herself a little and moved away - away! - from him. "I'm... I'm kind of tired, Arsenio. Maybe... maybe tomorrow."
"Maybe... ?" He leaned over and blew out the candle on his bed table. When he settled back down, he saw that she was curled up like a ball, her back to him.
* * * * *
Friday, November 3, 1871
Laura took a deep breath, braced herself, and walked into the Saloon. 'At least I don't smell Maggie's cooking,' she thought. She had enough on her mind to tie her stomach in knots. R.J. and Shamus were behind the bar. 'Nothing ventured..." She shrugged and walked over to them. "Morning, R.J. Shamus."
"Good morning, Laura," R.J. said, giving her what she hoped was a smile of encouragement. "Feeling better this morning?"
"A little," Laura replied. "The Doc said nibbling on crackers now and then would help some. It surely did this morning."
"I'll be telling Maggie t'make sure that we have some on hand during the day," Shamus said, "over t'the Free Lunch table."
"Thanks, Shamus," Laura said. Maybe things weren't as bad as she'd expected.
"I don't need me people getting sick on me, Mrs. Caulder," Shamus said. "Ye'd best go get yuir apron on. Ye can keep some crackers in yuir pocket, too." No, things were worse than she'd expected.
"Shamus," she said. "I --"
"I ain't paying ye t'gab. Get yuir apron on. There's dishes and such from the restaurant that needs washing. Go in the kitchen and get started."
Laura decided that it would be better not to argue. She nodded and began walking towards the door to the kitchen.
"And I'll be thanking ye not to say anything to me Molly when she comes downstairs," Shamus called after her. "She's having a bit of a lie down this morning, and I'll not have ye upsetting her again."
"I upset her?" Laura muttered under her breath. "Not by half." Much worse than she expected, and she wondered how long she could keep her temper.
* * * * *
"That's it, BonBon," Wilma said merrily, "get the rope... get the rope." She sat in a chair in the parlor of La Parisienne, legs splayed wide apart. She was in her "working clothes", violet corset with matching stockings, and silky white drawers. Her hand was tight around the knot of one end of a thick length of rope, the other end of which was in the pup's mouth. BonBon pulled and tugged at the rope, growling playfully.
Herve Navetier watched silently from the doorway. 'Incroyable,' he thought. 'She is like a little child playing there with a pet. Yet, but a few days ago, this woman defeats a cochon twice her size without a pause.' Well, she was hardly the first oddity he had seen since he left the small Breton fishing village where he was born, and, especially, since he came to Amerique.
"Wilma," he said softly, "may I speak with you?"
Wilma looked up. "What... oh, sure, Herve." She let go of the rope. BonBon waited a moment for her to pick it up. When she didn't, he gave a disappointed "Yip!" and ran off. Herve walked into the room and sat down on a chair opposite Wilma. She looked at his broad shoulders and wavy brown hair and sighed. Cerise had been very specific. This man was off limits, Cerise's "private stock", and trespassing would not be tolerated.
'Forbidden fruit was always my favorite,' she thought, 'but I owe Cerise.'
"I wanted to thank you for what you did for Rosalyn," he said ignoring her stare, "rescuing her when I did not."
"I just happened to be closer... just two doors away, in fact."
"Indeed, and with a... companion. Still you acted, even though you and Rosalyn are hardly... close."
"Close? She's had a bur in her britches about me since I come here."
"I would hope not; not with what Cerise pays for those britches." He smiled. "If she does not like you, nor you her, why did you..."
"Why'd I go storming in there and do what I done?" She shrugged. "'Cause she's part of the - I don't know - the gang. You don't have to like the people in your gang, but you gotta stick by 'em, or you don't get the job done. Besides, when I saw what that bastard was doing to her... nobody's got the right t'do something like that."
"They say that you did worse when you were..." His voice trailed off.
"... when I was a man." She completed the thought. "No, not to a helpless woman, or a man neither, not tied up like that I didn't."
Herve didn't look convinced, but he let the matter go. "We have gotten far off the mark, as you Americans say. Why is not important. You did what I did not."
"Herve, you were downstairs, like you're supposed to be. You came running soon as you heard the noise, and you come with that cannon you keep in your holster drawn and ready. You got nothing t'be ashamed of."
"I am not ashamed, just... unsettled."
"Don't be. It wasn't me who hauled him off to the Sheriff... or sent Daisy t'bring the Doc on the run. You done that."
"Oui, I did. Rosalyn will be fine - and hardly without a scar, thankfully - and that cochon is already on his way to the penitentiary for two years."
"Woulda been better if Judge Humphreys made him take that potion of Shamus', give him his own tits t'play with."
"I agree, but the Judge gave him a choice, and he chose jail." Herve smiled. "You are a good woman, Wilma Hanks, not to make me feel guilty."
Wilma took his large hand and pressed it against her breast, sighing at the erotic feel of it there. "Thanks, Herve, and someday, if Cerise lets us, you'll get to see just how good I am."
* * * * *
"Hi, Laura, R.J. told me you was back. How're you feeling."
Laura turned to see Jane leaning against the kitchen worktable. "Good morning, Jane. Not too bad, I guess."
"Not too bad? You should be feeling great; you're gonna be a mamma."
"Don't say that," Laura snapped.
"What are you so mad about? Babies is happy news, ain't they?"
"I haven't decided yet if I want to be happy about this baby."
"Well, you oughta be. I know I am, and I'm just gonna be its aunt." She took a breath. "What's Arsenio think about it?"
"He doesn't know. I... I didn't tell him yet."
"You don't have to." Jane grinned, happy to have helped. "I, uhh, sorta told him already."
"You didn't!"
"I surely did. He come in here yesterday afternoon looking for you, worrying about you being sick and all, and I gave him the good news."
"How'd he take it?"
"I never saw a happier man. He let out a whoop that filled the room and tossed R.J. a gold eagle. 'Drinks for everybody,' he says, 'my wife's having a baby.' Then he ran outta the place looking for you."
"No wonder he..." Laura gritted her teeth. "Thanks, Jane; thanks for nothing." She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of what she was going to say to Arsenio when she went home. Nothing came to her. She sighed and tried to change the subject. "So, did I miss anything else yesterday?"
"Just that we was real, real busy."
"Why? It's the middle of the week. Not many people come in on a Thursday."
"No, but we didn't have a whole lotta help for the ones that did. You was gone, and Molly took sick or something. She spent the whole day up in her room, and Shamus was up there almost as much as she was."
She paused, then brought up the awkward subject: "I think he's mad at you about something?"
"That, I already know." Laura snapped at Jane.
"Well, don't take it out on me. I don't know why everybody's so mad right now. I feel like I'm walking around on a tray of raw eggs."
"Yeah," Laura said wryly, "and babies is such happy news."
* * * * *
Jessie balanced the tray on the doorknob and gently knocked. "Molly, can I come in? Shamus sent me up with your lunch."
"Come in, Jessie." Molly's voice was clear even through the door.
Jessie carefully opened the door and walked through. Molly was sitting in a plushly upholstered dark green wing chair. Her head rested against a small, matching pillow held by straps around the "wings" that projected on either side of the headrest. She wore a green and yellow-checkered dress that was opened in the front like a robe.
Molly put down her issue of Harper's Bazaar, as Jessie kicked the door closed. "Where's me Shamus?" she asked.
'Shoot,' Jessie thought, 'almost 1 o'clock, and she's still in a nightgown and robe. Something is surely bothering her.' Aloud, she answered. "The Eulers just showed up with a load of beer for the weekend. Shamus said he'd be up soon as he finished with them. He didn't want you t'wait." She looked around. "Where should I put this?"
"Over there." Molly pointed to a low table by the sofa. "Shamus and me can sit there and be having our meal together."
Jessie put the tray down on the table. She turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. "Molly, can I... oh, never mind. I... I, uh, don't want to bother you right now."
Molly shifted over to the couch and patted the space next to her. "Sit down, Jessie; it's all right. Sure'n, it'll be a nice change to be thinking about somebody else's worries for a while."
"You... you got to promise me you won't tell nobody - and I mean nobody, not even Shamus - what I tell you."
Molly regarded Jessie curiously as the younger woman sat nervously on the couch. Jessie kept glancing at the door as if expecting the barman to walk in that instant.
"Well, now, there's few secrets I've kept from himself through the years." Molly said. "How about if I promise that I won't be telling him unless I have to, unless it's something that I think he needs to know?"
"I-I guess that'll have to do." Jessie took a deep breath. "It's... it's about Paul, Paul Grant, the deputy sheriff. He's the one that brought me back when I ran away."
Molly nodded. "The lad ye're sweet on."
"No... yes. Does everybody in town know about me and Paul?"
"Not many, I'm thinking. Ye kissed him right after yuir trial, but that was weeks ago, and the two of ye have been pretty good at hiding things since then." She waited a moment, watching Jessie's face. "'Course, now thuir ain't much that goes on in this here Saloon that I don't know about, like that bench out in me yard and the use some people put it to."
"And I thought we was so careful."
"You thought wrong; at least as far as I was concerned. But what's yuir problem? He's as smitten with ye as ye are with him."
Jessie smiled at that. "I hope so. It's just that - you promise not t'tell?"
"I already did, didn't I, but if it'll make you feel better..." Molly made the sign of the "king's X" over her heart. "Now what is it that ye're so scared about telling?"
"The day I came back t'Eerie, the night before my trial, the Judge said I had to be in jail, you remember?"
"Sure'n I do. Wasn't I was thuir when it happened?"
Jessie nodded. "I... I spent that night in jail, but I... I wasn't in a cell." She could feel her cheeks redden. "I, uhhh, I was... I was in Paul's bed... with him."
The older woman considered Jessie's confession, then smiled. "That's the best way t'be in bed..." Molly took her hand. "... with a man ye love."
"Love... no, I... I was sure I was gonna be hung. I just wanted... wanted t'see what it was like... as a woman... to be with a man."
"Jessie, look me in the eye and tell me that ye wouldn't do it again if ye got the chance... Or have ye been doing it, and I was too blind t'see."
"That... that's my problem. We ain't done it again, and, till yesterday, I wanted to. I really wanted to, and so did he?"
"And what happened yesterday?"
"Laura got pregnant. I mean, I found out she was pregnant. Molly, I know where babies come from. Paul and I was doing it the night after Laura got married. Now she's pregnant, and I'm scared t'death that I am, too."
Molly chuckled. "Jessie, if a woman got pregnant every time she was with a man, thuir'd be... ha, thuir'd be even more children then thuir are in the world. Ye was a man and an 'experienced' one, I'd wager." Jessie nodded, her face almost crimson.
"Well, then," Molly continued, "and did each women ye were with get pregnant - I'll answer for ye - no, they didn't."
"Why not... not that I'd have wanted them to."
Molly shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think the doctors do either for all thuir fancy talk - and don't ye be telling Hiram Upshaw I said that. I do know one thing, though. Am I right that ye had yuir monthlies a couple of weeks ago, just like always?"
"Yeah, same lousy experience as always."
"Now don't ye be saying nasty things about 'the blessing', m'girl."
"Blessing? How can that be a blessing?"
"Because if it comes, it means ye ain't pregnant. I told ye all that the day ye all had yuir first one, but I'll be guessing ye was too worried about the pain and the mess t'remember."
"I guess I didn't... but I remember it now." Jessie smiled, suddenly feeling a hundred pounds lighter.
"Good, cause now ye've got something else to be thinking about. Are ye gonna want to be with Paul again?"
"'Course I am. We figure that we really won't have a chance till my time's up, but that's only..." Her smile became a nervous grin. "... a week from today."
"If ye'll be sleeping with Paul... and ye don't want to get pregnant --"
"I don't; I really don't... don't want to get pregnant, that is. I do want to be with Paul."
"Then ye'd better spend the time finding out how t'keep that from happening."
"How? Please, what can I do?"
"I can tell ye what I... heard was done back before I married Shamus, but that was..." She mumbled a number. "... years ago. Thuir's better ways now, I'm thinking. The Doc can probably tell ye some, but..."
"But? But what?"
"Ye may not want t'be asking her, but yuir sister, what with the 'business' she's in, can probably tell ye more."
Jessie made a sour face. "I ain't sure I want to ask Wilma about something like that."
"Then, m'lass, ye'd best be very, very careful... or be going without."
* * * * *
Arsenio took a deep drink of lemonade and looked across the table at Laura. She was absent-mindedly picking at the baked chicken she'd made for their dinner. "Stomach still bothering you?" he asked cautiously.
"What?" She looked up, having not really heard what he said.
"I said... I was wondering if anything new was going on - at the Saloon or anyplace else - that you knew of."
She looked down at her plate again. "No, uhh... nothing."
'Last chance,' Arsenio thought to himself. 'Well, nothing ventured... ' He sighed. "Laura... I know. Jane told me yesterday that you... you were... pregnant."
"I know, damn it. She had no right to tell you."
"It's true then."
She glared at him. "What do you mean? I thought you said that you knew."
"I know it now. If you weren't pregnant, you'd have denied it, said Jane was lying, or that she'd made a mistake. Instead, you get mad at her for telling me."
"Like I said, she had no business telling you."
"She didn't? Don't I have a right to know?" He swallowed. "Or isn't it mine?"
"Of course it's yours." She gave a bitter laugh. "I haven't been with anybody else. Hell, I didn't even want to be with a man - even you - until that night we..." Her voice trailed off.
He smiled now. "I remember that night - and the next - after we were married. And a lot of other nights - some mornings and afternoons, too." He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.
"Damn, it, Laura, what's the matter with you?"
"I'm pregnant! That's what's the matter."
"And I'm the father - only you didn't want to tell me about it."
"No, I... I didn't." There was anger in her voice, but he thought he could hear regret as well.
"Why, for heaven's sake? A baby is --"
"Something that I don't want to talk about." She pushed away from the table and stood up. "I... I have to get back to work."
"Laura, wait; we need to talk about this."
"No," she said firmly. "I need to get back to the Saloon, and you need to get started on the dishes." She hurried out the door before he could answer.
Laura stayed late at the Saloon that night, taking over the sweeping from Jessie as an excuse. "What the hell am I going to say to him?" she whispered to herself as she finally walked home.
As always, there was a candle burning low in the sitting room, when she opened the door. "Shit," she hissed through clenched teeth. Arsenio was already sound asleep, feet up, shoes and pants off, head on a pillow. On the couch.
* * * * *
Saturday, November 4, 1871
"Mrs. Caulder," Molly yelled down to Laura from the top of the stairs, "could ye be hurrying up here, we've rental rooms that need cleaning up and beds that need changing."
"I'm coming as quick as I can, Molly." Laura struggled up the stairs carrying the basket of clean linen, a broom, a scrub brush, and an empty bucket.
"That's Mrs. O'Toole, me girl."
"Oh, come on, Molly," Laura said as she reached the second floor. She put down the basket and the other things to make it easier to talk. "Since when have we had to be on such formal terms?"
"I let me friends call me by me given name. After the way ye acted, I don't know that ye fall into that category any more."
"Molly, look, I don't know what I did that got you so upset, but I'm sorry, honest I am."
Molly studied her for a moment. "Ye've got a good heart, Laura Caulder; I'll give ye that. It's yuir head - and yuir mouth - that get ye in trouble. I'll gladly accept yuir apology... as soon as ye're knowing what it is ye're apologizing for."
* * * * *
Whit was rinsing out a stack of shaving mugs, when he heard the bell over his door. "Sorry, I'm about ready to close," he said, anxious to get home.
"Can you spare a little time, at least, for a shave and some talk?" a familiar voice asked.
"Arsenio?" Whit turned to see his friend settle down in the barber chair. "I suppose I can... for you. Just let me get the door." He locked the front door and turned the small sign that hung from a cross bar, so the word "Closed" faced the street.
Walking back to the chair, he studied Arsenio's face. "I think you need the talk more than the shave, old friend." The blacksmith's shaving mug was white porcelain, with a gold trim, and Arsenio's name over a golden anvil. Whit took it from among the mugs on one shelf and added some shaving soap that he began to work into a lather.
"That's the truth," Arsenio said. "I wanted to wait till you were alone, so we could talk freely. If Carmen yells, you be sure to tell her it was my fault."
"I don't think she'll yell - not much, anyway. She knows how busy I can get on a Saturday." He began to spread lather on Arsenio's face. "Now what's your problem?"
"Laura." Arsenio let out a heavy sigh. "She's... she's pregnant."
"Well, now, congratulations." Whit put the edge of a straight razor against Arsenio's cheek, and began to scrape off lather and hair. "When did she tell you the good news?" He shook some lather - and hair - from the razor, giving Arsenio time to answer.
"That's just it. She didn't tell me." He sighed again. "Jane did."
"Jane spoiled the surprise, and Laura got mad. Is that your problem?" Whit kept shaving Arsenio as he talked.
"I only wish it was. Laura didn't want to tell me. I waited almost two days for her to say anything. Finally, I just gave up and told her that I knew."
"Two days. What happened when you told her?"
"She got all mad - said she didn't want to talk about it. She carried on like she thought it was something awful."
"What did you do?"
"I tried to get her to talk."
"Would she?"
"Not hardly. She said that she had to get back to work and stormed out."
"Lift your chin." Arsenio did, and Whit slid the razor carefully against the left side of his throat. "Women get that way sometimes, not want to talk about something that's bothering them. The best thing to do is to be patient, don't push and wait till she does want to talk."
"I suppose... only... only, having a baby is something that has to be talked about, talked about a lot. Eleanor and I..." He paused, remembering. "We talked about it a lot. She was sick for so long - that's why we came out here, so she could get better, and we could get started on the family we both wanted. Towards the end, she..." His voice broke. "She apologized - actually apologized - not for dying, for... for not leaving a child behind to... to remember her by."
Arsenio closed his eyes and sat very still for a while, thinking, while Whit finished doing his throat. Whit stood motionless beside his friend. Finally, Whit finished. Arsenio opened his eyes and began to speak again. "Now, Laura's... Laura's going to - to have a baby, and she acts like it's the most horrible thing in the world."
"Maybe not horrible so much as unexpected. Remember, she's pretty new to all this."
"Being married you mean? Yeah, I guess her getting pregnant as soon as we were married is kind of rushing things."
Whit smiled and shook his head. "Arsenio, you must be as thick in the head as that iron you work. Three months ago, Laura was a man. You think he - whatever the hell his name was - ever expected to be having somebody's baby?"
"M-maybe not, but Laura, she knew when she married me --" Arsenio paused again. The razor was against his upper lip now.
"She knew she was in love with you - still is, I expect."
"You couldn't prove it by the way she's acting right now."
Whit used a towel to wipe a last bit of lather from Arsenio's side burns. Then he stopped back to survey his work. "Done. You want some bay rum?"
Arsenio nodded. Whit poured some of that liquid on his hands and began to pat it onto his friend's face. "Right now? Her head's tossed like a leaf in a nor'easter right now. She's pregnant, something she never dreamed she'd be in a million years. She needs time to get used to the idea of it. Like I said, be patient and don't push at it. She'll come around."
"You... you think so?"
"I know so." He surely hoped he did.
"I'll try it, and I hope you're right." He stood up from the chair.
"I am. By the way, you owe me four bits for the shave - plus a handsome tip for my words of sage advice."
* * * * *
"I do believe that this dance is mine." Paul handed Jessie his ticket. She stepped into his arms just as the band began playing a lively mazurka.
As they danced, Jessie saw that Paul was guiding them away from the main part of the crowd. "What... what are you doing?" she whispered.
"It's 9:50." Paul tilted his head for an instant, as if he were pointing at the clock on the wall. "Hiram and the band always take a break at 10. You can set your watch by them. I figured that, if we left now, we could get an early start on that bench out in Molly's garden."
Jessie felt herself warm to the idea, literally. Then she remembered. "Paul, I..." She stopped in mid-step, pulling Paul off balance.
"What's the matter, Jess?"
"Laura, she's... she's gonna have a baby." She started dancing again, though she stayed more or less in place. They were far enough from the band now to be able to talk over the music without having to yell.
Paul nodded. "Yeah, I heard. Ain't it something?"
"They got married the day before we come back to Eerie. They was on their honeymoon the night we... you know."
"I'm not sure what you're saying."
"It coulda been me. I... I mighta got preg-pregnant, too."
Paul took a step back and looked down carefully at her stomach. "You... you aren't, are you?"
"Nope. Molly told me a gal don't have her monthlies when she's pregnant, and I had mine since that night."
"You told Molly about... us?"
"I did. She promised not t'tell anyone, and I... I trust her."
Paul thought about that. "Then I suppose I do, too - not that I have a lot of choice in the matter." He waited a beat. "I wish you'd come talk to me about it, though."
"About being pregnant, how come?"
"'Cause a man has to know if a woman's having his baby. He has to do right by her, if he's any sort of a real man."
"Well, I ain't pregnant, so you don't have t'worry about it."
"Jess, having a baby with you wouldn't be a worry. It'd be a pure joy."
Jessie smiled. He felt a warm flush run through her body, felt her nipples tighten into little buds. Lord, he knew how to get to - No!
Paul saw her smile fade into fear. "What's the matter?"
"I-I don't want to have a baby, yours or anybody else's. Okay, I'm... I'm starting t'like being a girl - thanks t'you, mostly - but a baby, I ain't even near to being ready for that." Her voice was getting shrill.
"Can we talk about this someplace else - someplace outside, maybe?"
"No, Paul. We go outside - out to that garden - and we ain't gonna talk. You and I both know that."
"We 'ain't gonna' do anything that would get you pregnant, either, and you know that."
"I know it. And I know what we would do, and how much I'd enjoy doing such things - and, believe me, I do enjoy them." She smiled. "But doing them makes me wanna do other things, things that surely could get me pregnant. And even the idea of that happening scares the living hell outta me."
"So what do we do now?"
"For now, we stay in here and finish this dance. I enjoy being in your arms like this, only, in here, with the music going and all these people, ain't nothing can happen."
Paul shrugged and took her into his arms again. As they began moving to the music, he whispered, "I like dancing with you, too, Jess, but I hope you can figure out some way around your worries, so we can have some of that other kind of fun, too."
* * * * *
Teaser: The adventures of the ladies of the Eerie Saloon continue. A mystery is revealed. Laura tries to adjust to her new condition. And two more transformations occur.
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change - Autumn
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson (c)2005
Part 2 - November
Sunday, November 5, 1871
Milt Quinlan walked directly to the bar. "Good afternoon, Shamus. Do you mind if I talk to Jane for a few minutes?"
"I don't see why not," Shamus said. "We isn't exactly swamped with customers right now. Sit yuirself down someplace, and I'll be sending her over to ye."
Now Milt looked around the bar. "I'll be over there." He pointed to an empty table near the wall. There was no one sitting anywhere nearby. "Oh, and have her bring a beer for me and something for herself." He put a silver dollar on the bar and walked away without waiting for change.
Jane came over almost as soon as he sat down. She put two beers on the table and took a seat across from Milt. "What's the matter?" She asked nervously.
"And good afternoon to you, Jane," Milt answered. He took a quick drink. There's nothing wrong, actually."
Jane looked dubious. "Then what're you doing here?"
"To... ah, tell the truth, I was planning on coming in to see you today - to see how you were doing, anyway, but, now, I've got what may be some good news."
"May be? What sort of 'good news' you talking about?"
"Ned Handy came to see me yesterday. He says his old claim is played out, and he wants to buy yours instead of having to start over from scratch. He offered me... you $250 cash for each of your claims, lock, stock, and barrel - except for your personal effects, of course."
"Personal effects? What's that?"
"Clothes, family pictures, anything like that you have in your cabin. He'd get everything else, even whatever mining tools you have."
"No."
"No? Are you sure? That's $500, most of the claims around here haven't given up anywhere near that in the entire time that they've been worked."
"There's a lot more'n... no, I'm keeping my claim... claims."
"But how are you going to work them? Not to belabor the obvious, but you're a woman now."
Jane stiffened. "Yeah, but I'm a strong woman, ask anybody. I may not be as strong as I was, but I'm strong enough."
"Perhaps, but there's things out there that a beautiful - that a woman up there alone has to worry about that a man doesn't."
"I ain't gonna be alone out there. I'm gonna ask somebody - Davy Kitchner, probably - to come out there with me."
"Davy? Are you certain that he'll want to go with you? I heard about the attack on him a few days ago - and what was on the note they found on him."
"Yeah, but he's been up at his own claim since then, and ain't nobody bothered him any. He'll come if I ask. He's my friend. Besides, his own claim ain't showed much color lately. Hey... you think Ned'd like t'buy Davy's claim instead?"
"I don't know. I'll suggest it to him when I give him your answer." He took a drink. "You are certain that you don't want to sell?"
"I am. I wanna get back out there soon as I can."
"I'd much prefer it if you were to stay here in town - for your own safety, of course."
Jane took the last sip of her beer. "Thanks, Milt. It's good t'know that my lawyer's still looking out for me." She saw that Shamus was waving to her. When he saw her look his way, he pointed to the clock. "Shoot, I gotta go. It's getting on towards suppertime, and it's my turn to wait the tables for Maggie tonight." She stood up. "There ain't anything else, is there?"
"No," Milt said, shaking his head slowly. "Nothing else."
* * * * *
Arsenio looked up from his copy of Frank Leslie's Weekly at the sound of the door opening. "You're home early."
"Not too busy at the bar," Laura said, giving him a tired smile. "Shamus is still mad at me, I guess. He said he was tired of looking at me just sitting around, and sent me home."
Arsenio put down the paper. "That's where he and I are different. I could never get tired of looking at you."
"Thank you for that." Laura came over and kissed him on the forehead before sitting down on the couch.
Arsenio frowned. "What I do get tired of is trying to understand --"
"Arsenio, please, I don't want to talk about the baby."
"Okay, can we talk about talking about the baby?"
"What do you mean?"
"Can we talk about why you're so upset?"
"I-I'm not sure I want to do that, either."
"Laura, please. You're my wife, and something very important is bothering you. What kind of a husband would I be, if I didn't want to help you deal with it?"
"It's... it's hard to explain."
"Try... try the best you can. I'll just listen for now. Take as long as you want."
Laura closed her eyes and thought for a while. "Did you ever wonder who... who I look like?"
"I suppose. Shamus told me once that you all looked like the woman each of you thought was the prettiest you ever saw." He gave her a wink. "That's the one thing that you - the man you were - Jake Steinmetz and I ever agreed on. You surely are the prettiest woman I ever saw."
"Thank you for that, whether it's true or not." She took a breath, letting it out slowly. "Her name was Gertrude... Trudy Muller. Her father worked at Steubens' Feed and Grain. I met her when I went to work there after my daddy died. I was 14, she was 13, but we knew we were meant to be together."
"What happened?"
"My family happened. Mama was sick all the time. Somebody had to take care of my sisters. When I was 17, I told Trudy that we couldn't get married while I had to take care of them. She wasn't very happy about it, but she said that she understood. We were young, and she could wait."
"But she couldn't, could she?"
"Elizabeth got married a year later, Theo's a good man, but they couldn't take in the others. Neither could Joe, Annabel's husband, after they got hitched. By that time, Trudy was 19. She came to me one day at the store and said that Fred Hanson had asked her to marry him and go homestead in Nebraska. She said that she'd rather go there with me."
"And you couldn't leave."
"No... I-I wanted to, wanted to with all my heart, but..." She buried her face in her hands.
Arsenio finished for her. "You couldn't, not with your mother sick and three sisters left to take care of."
"I asked her to marry me and stay there with me in Indiana. She... She was smart enough to say no. A wife can't be the second fiddle in the band."
"Laura, I-I'm sorry for what happened, but I don't see --"
"No, I guess you don't. Arsenio, all I had ever wanted was to marry Trudy, and she wanted to marry me. But we couldn't because I had too many people depending on me. So she went off to Nebraska with Fred. I swore that day that, as soon as I was free of mama and the girls, I was going to get out of there. I was gonna go out west and live my own life. Have some adventures and not depend on anybody or have anybody depend on me - not for anything real - until I was good and ready."
"What about me? Seems to me that a man and wife depend on each other for everything."
"Didn't you tell me once that the first thing you liked me for was the way I took care of myself and didn't blame anybody for changing into a girl?"
"Well, it was the first thing after the way you looked in that dress Molly put you in." He saw the look in her eyes. "Okay, it was the first important thing. There was a spirit in there that I wanted to know." He took her hand. "And I've never been disappointed in the knowing."
Laura tried to smile at the compliment. "You're a good man, Arsenio Caulder, and a strong man, too. You don't want a wife hanging on you."
'Not unless we're in bed together,' Arsenio thought, but he was smart enough not to say it. Instead he said, "No, I don't."
"I could see that. I still can. But now, now I'm going to have a baby, the... the most helpless thing in the world. How can I not be tied down by it? Can I work at the Saloon, let alone learn to be a blacksmith --?"
"Blacksmith? Is that what you're worried about, that I won't teach you to work iron? First, you almost killed yourself - and me - trying to prove I should teach you. Now... now... this. You don't want to have my baby, because, then, I won't teach you to be a blacksmith?"
"Well, you won't, will you?"
"Not while you're pregnant I won't. It's too big a risk." He paused a beat. "Maybe... maybe when the baby's come. When it's older, and you don't have to spend so much time with it."
"How long do I wait this time because somebody needs me? How long, Arsenio, two years... five... ten?"
Aresnio scratched his head. "I don't rightly know how long. I never had a young-un before."
Laura rose from her couch. "Well, I don't know either. Until I know, how can I say that I can stand waiting around again for someone else? If a life of my own isn't going to start now, when is it going to start? When I'm too old to care?" Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door against his belatedly forming words.
* * * * *
Laura came back into the setting room about two hours later. "I... are you coming to bed?"
"Thought I'd be more comfortable out here." He was already stretched out on the couch, shoes off and pants draped over a chair. "Goodnight." He leaned over and blew out the lamp he'd been reading by.
* * * * *
Monday, November 6, 1871
Jessie looked through the half-opened doorway into Shamus' office. "Shamus..." She knocked on the doorframe. "Shamus, R.J. said you wanted me for something."
"That I did," Shamus said. He was sitting on a plain wooden chair behind his desk, two boards laid atop two empty stacks of liquor boxes. "Come in and sit yuirself down."
He waited for her to find a place on a short stack of boxes before he continued. "Yuir sentence is up in a few days, ye know."
"Know? I been counting the hours."
"And have ye also been thinking of what ye was going to be doing afterwards?"
"No, I... I really haven't. Planning never was my strong suit."
"Except when ye're planning trouble for someone else, then ye're a marvel at it, like when ye almost got them men t'be wrecking me saloon."
Jessie grinned in spite of herself. "Well... there is that."
"Aye, thuir is - or thuir was." He looked at her closely, like a bug under a reading glass.
She didn't like it. "What do you mean, was?"
"T'tell the truth, Jessie, I don't think ye're quite the same lass ye was back then."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning ye've changed, and for the better, I'm thinking. Thuir's a job here at me saloon for ye for as long as ye want it."
She wanted to laugh. "Me, stay here as a waitress, like Laura? How d'you know I don't want to get on a horse and put as many miles between me and the town as I can?"
Shamus had seen Jessie and Paul kiss at the trial, and he'd noticed the way they seemed to be acting towards one another. 'Don't want t'say anything about it,' he thought. 'It'd only spook the lass.' All he said was, "I don't know what ye want. That's why I asked ye. I'm thinking, though, that thuir's reasons ye'd want t'be staying, and if ye do, ye'll need a job and a place t'stay. That's what I'm offering ye."
"How much time do I have t'decide?"
"We - the Sheriff and me - will be setting ye free on Friday. After that, the town stops paying for yuir room n'board. 'Course, now, 'tis thrown in, if ye was working for me. Let's say ye should make up yuir mind before then, okay?"
"I... I guess. Thanks, Shamus." She stood to leave, and he went back to the records he'd been working on.
Jessie walked out of the storeroom and sat down at an empty table. "Stay here and be the waitress that Wilma teased me about," she whispered to herself. "Or I find something else t'do, be with Paul or... give him up and leave town." She counted out the four days till Friday. "Shit, Shamus, you sure gave me a lot t'do and not enough time t'do it in."
* * * * *
Tuesday, November 7, 1871
Shamus lay still in his bed, listening to Molly's soft snoring. He wanted to roll over and look at her. 'No,' he thought, 'it took long enough for her to drop off. I'll not risk waking her.'
Instead, he let his mind drift back across the years.
* * * * *
"Is she all right, Doc?" Shamus O'Toole, 24-year old assistant barman, stood up as Doc Waldman closed the door to the operating room behind him. Waldman, a tall, dignified man with a walrus mustache, was one of the founders of the San Francisco Merchants and Miners Hospital.
The doctor sighed. Sometimes this was harder than the actual surgery. "She lost a lot of blood, Shamus, but I think she'll be fine... in time." He took a breath. "I... she lost the baby. I'm very sorry."
"Thank ye, Doc. The important thing is that she'll live. We're... we're young. We've time yet to be having a family."
Doc Waldman shook his head. "I'm sorry, Shamus. After what she went through, the damage to her body, I... I don't think she... she can have any more children."
Shamus sank down into a chair. "Does she know?"
"She's still asleep. I'll tell her later, when she's had some time to rest."
"She has to know, doc, but promise me one thing... please."
"What's that?"
"Promise that ye'll not be telling her without me being there. This... this is news that we - the two of us - have t'be sharing from the first."
* * * * *
Shamus kissed Molly on the cheek. "Let's be going t'bed, Molly."
"It's early yet, Shamus," Molly said, looking up from her knitting, a wool hat for the cool San Francisco nights. "There's no need for us to be going to sleep yet."
Shamus gave her a comic leer. "Now, did I say anything about sleeping?"
"How can ye be thinking about anything like that?" Molly's eyes filled with tears.
"It-It's been three months since... since then. The doc said ye'd be healed by now. Is there something wrong, something ye've not been telling me?"
"Everything... everything's wrong. I lost our baby, and I can't be having another." She sobbed. "I'm less than a real woman. How can ye pretend that ye still want me... like this? How can ye even bear t'be living with me?"
Shamus pulled a chair around and sat down facing her. "How can I... Are ye daft, Molly? How can ye be thinking so little of me? No, how can ye be thinking so little of yuirself?"
"What? How can I not, after what happened?"
"Molly, I didn't marry ye just t'be going t'bed with ye or t'be having children with ye. I married ye because I had to."
She let out a bitter laugh. "Had to? Was ye thinking I was pregnant when ye asked me? Ye know we didn't do nothing like that before our wedding night."
"I know, Molly, and that ain't what I'm talking about. I married ye because I had to, because the thought of not being married to ye, of not spending the rest of me life with ye was more than me heart could bear." He wiped a single tear off her cheek. "I loved ye then, Molly Katherine Shaunnesy O'Toole, I love ye just as much this very minute, and I'll be loving ye the same for as long as the good Lord lets us be together in this world - and I'll love ye in the world beyond."
"Hoost, I've never heard such a load of blarney in me life."
"Well, get used to it, Molly, love, 'cause ye'll be hearing it every day from now on till ye know that it's true."
* * * * *
Shamus shook his head. 'She finally did come to believe it, thank the good Lord, but the hurt was still there. And Laura - I never saw Molly happier than when she was being the 'mother of the bride' t'her. Then Laura has to remind her of what happened all them years ago.'
* * * * *
Loud catcalls rang through the saloon.
"Well, lookie who's here."
"Hi, there, Wilma."
"Hey, Wilma, I didn't recognize you with your clothes on." That last was Joe Ortlieb.
Wilma turned towards him. "Why don't you come over later, and you can see me dressed the way you're used to."
"Buy you a drink, Wilma?" Fred Nolan asked.
Wilma blew him a kiss. "Why thank you, Fred, honey. I'd be ever so grateful for one. But it'll have t'be later. Right now, I wanna see my sister."
"She's up in her room," Shamus said, walking over from the bar. "Ye know the way."
Wilma slid a finger along Shamus' cheek. "Shamus, if there's one thing I know, it's how t'go upstairs." She walked over and began climbing the stairs. The sway of her hips was an open invitation to every man present.
In case anyone didn't get her hint, Wilma stopped about two-thirds of the way up and looked down into the room. Most of the men were staring up at her hungrily. She smiled, her eyes half closed, the fingers of one hand suggestively brushing against her ample bosom, and let out a deep, meaningful sigh.
* * * * *
Jessie was sitting at the table in her room, brushing her hair. "I'm a girl. I'm a girl. A few days more, and I ain't never gonna do this again. I'm a girl."
"Well, if that don't bring back some bad memories," Wilma said from the doorway.
Jessie put down the brush. "Wilma! I wasn't sure you was gonna come."
"Now, that's something ain't nobody ever doubts - aw hell, let me be serious here for a minute. I may still be mad at you, Jess, but we's family. You send word you need me, and here I am."
"I can see that, and I'm sorry we've had that bad blood between us. As far as I'm concerned, it's done and over."
"Fine by me. Next time, don't be so danged pig-headed." Wilma laughed and slapped Jessie on her back. "Say, when I came in, I heard you saying that your time was almost done. You want me t'ask the Lady about a job for you?"
"No! You know what I..." Jessie sighed. "Look, Wilma, let's call a truce. I won't say what I think about you working there, and you won't keep asking me to." She put out her hand. "Deal?"
Wilma shook hands with her. "All right, but I still say that you're making a mistake. I can't think of a better way --"
"Wilma, please."
"All right, all right, what did you wanna see me about, anyway?"
"It's... it's about Paul, me and Paul, that is."
"I knew it. I seen the way you two kissed at your trial. I chased after him for a while, myself, but I never caught him. If I couldn't get him, I'm glad you did." She stopped talking and looked closely at Jessie. "So, how is he?"
"What d'you mean, Wilma? He's a good man, I guess. Is that what you're asking?"
"That ain't what I mean, and you know it. How is he in bed? He's got nice, big hands; is he big all over? Is he gentle, or does he like t'play rough at it?"
"Wilma!" Jessie's face flushed. Did Wilma know? Was she guessing? Or was she just playing games?
"Come t'think of it, how'd you like it? It's a whole lot different from doing it as a man." She giggled. "A whole lot better, too, ain't it?"
"I... Wilma, please. That ain't why I asked you t'come over here."
"Oh, come on, Jess. You don't mean t'say that you wasted all them nights you two was on the trail, do you?"
The way she asked reminded Jessie of a trick Paul had mentioned. "Well... we kissed some, and, yes, I liked it, but that was all we done the whole way back here."
"I got a feeling you ain't telling me everything." She waited a moment before speaking again. "What all you n'him been doing since you came back t'work for Shamus?"
"Not as much as I'd like," Jessie admitted. "Not as much as I'd like," Jessie admitted. "Mostly we's just kissing and petting during the dances on Saturday."
"That old bench behind the saloon?" Wilma laughed. "Hellfire, we should have Shamus put on sign on that thing, 'Reserved for the Hanks Sisters.'"
Jessie nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed. Wilma laughed again and continued. "You know, that bench is wide enough - you and Paul could do more'n sit on it if you had the notion."
"That don't sound very comfortable."
"If you want comfortable --"
"Comfortable is nice - I mean, it sounds nice."
Wilma looked at her closely, one dubious eyebrow raised. "You sure all you two done was kiss?"
"That's what I told you, ain't it?"
"It is, but... let's just say that I ain't completely convinced." She paused a beat. "But, hell, you didn't ask me over t'compare notes on men. What do you want?"
Jessie swallowed. "I... Maybe I didn't do anything more n'kiss Paul, but that don't mean I don't want to do more."
"Good for you, Jessie. What's stopping you?"
"Laura... Her being pregnant, I mean. I... I want to be with Paul, but I don't want to have a baby like she's gonna."
"Yeah, I heard about that. It ain't exactly the sort of adventure old Leroy Meehan was looking for when he joined up to ride with us last summer, is it?"
"Ain't none of us got what we expected when we rode into this town."
"Yeah, but I sure ain't complaining." She giggled and slid her hands along her body. "I like the way things turned out."
"I think Laura did, too - till she got pregnant."
"And the thing of it is, there's so many ways to keep that from happening."
Jessie's ears perked up. "What sort of ways?"
"Well, there's... just why do you want to know, little sister?"
"I..." Jessie looked at the ground. "Do I have to say it?"
"No, Jess, but now we're even, 'cause now you know just how much a woman can need to be with a man - even if she ain't took two swigs of Shamus' potion."
"That was a dirty trick, Wilma.
"Yes, yes, it was. Now what do you want to know?"
* * * * *
"Hey, Sheriff," Red Tully said. "You find out anything more about who beat up on Davy and Ozzie?"
"No, Red," Dan answered. "You got any ideas about that?"
"Why you asking me?"
"I hear things, Red. You and Sam Braddock have been chasing after Jane the same as Davy and Ozzie. Seems to me that either of you boys would be happy to see them give up."
"I wouldn't mind them dropping out, Sheriff, but they're my friends. I wouldn't hurt either of them for the world."
"That's pretty much what Sam said." Dan chuckled. "You know, Sam's the only one to profit from all this."
"What? Are you saying Sam did it?"
"No... I don't know who did it, but Ozzie had to pay Sam $2 for putting in a new window."
"That ain't bad," Red said with a laugh. "Scaring a man, and then getting him to pay you for doing it."
* * * * *
Wednesday, November 8, 1871
Sam Duggan took a breath to fortify himself and walked into the enemy camp, the Eerie Saloon. "Howdy, everybody," he called out cheerfully. "How y'all doing?"
"A hell of a lot better that they'd be doing in yuir establishment," Shamus replied as he hurried over to confront the owner of the Lone Star Saloon. "What're ye going here, Sam? Nobody over t'the Lone Star t'be keeping ye company?"
Sam smiled. "Actually, we're doing a land office business, Shamus. In fact, I'm looking to hire more help. I came over to see if Jessie Hanks might be interested in working for me."
"Jessie. Why ye dirty..."
Sam smiled even more broadly. He enjoyed watching Shamus sputter. "That's right, Shamus. I know her sentence is up on Friday, and I thought she might like a... change of scenery."
"And ye came over t'be offering her a job right under me very nose." Shamus' face was red with anger. "I oughta bust ye one."
Sam shrugged. "To tell the truth, I'd just as soon not be seen in your place, Shamus. People might think my standards were dropping. Still, you don't exactly let her roam free around town."
"She's in jail," Shamus answered. "She's not supposed to 'roam free' now, is she?"
Jessie had come over when she first heard Shamus blurt out her name. "How about if I get a say in what I can and can't be doing?"
"My very thought," Sam said, bowing low. "This place..." He waved his arm through the air. "...has been your jail. You ran away once, rather than come back to it. I came to offer you a place to run to... once your sentence is up on Friday, of course."
Jessie turned to Shamus. "You gonna let me hear what he has t'say?"
"I'll not be stopping ye," Shamus shook his head, "much as I'd like to. Ye got the right t'be hearing whatever he has t'say." He glared at Sam. "Just don't ye be too long in the saying of it. I've customers for her t'be taking of."
Sam looked around. "Not that many from what I can see. Now, if you'll excuse us..." He waived his hand dismissively. "...this is a private conversation."
* * * * *
"All right, Rosalyn," Doc Upshaw said, "raise your arms." They were in Lady Cerise's office at La Parisienne. Rosalyn lifted her arms, putting both hands on top of her head. Upshaw reached behind her and began to unroll the bandaging wrapped around her breasts.
"Well, Doc," Rosalyn asked, "am... am I... scarred?"
Lady Cerise was standing a few feet away. "'Ave patience, mon rose blanc, the docteur, 'e is not finished."
"I am now," the Doc said, taking away the bandage. He looked closely at Rosalyn's breasts. "Still a bit of reddening..." He touched a small blotch of darker pink on her left breast.
"Oww!" Rosalyn winced and moved away from his hand.
Doc continued. "...and tenderness, but I very much doubt that there will be any permanent marking. You should be able to return to work in a day or two." He took a small jar out of his doctor's bag to replace the one she'd emptied. "A day if you keep applying this cream... or get your clients to do it."
"I may just do that." Rosalyn smiled at the thought.
Doc Upshaw nodded. "Well, whoever does it, they should just apply it lightly and only on the five area that were burned."
"I will take the salve," Lady Cerise said, "and, as before, I will be the one to apply it. You..." She looked hard at Rosalyn. "...will wait two more days to resume your duties - just to make certain that you are once more at the standards of my house."
"Two days?" Rosalyn whined, then she saw the determined expression on Cerise's face. "Oh, all right, two days."
"It's a good thing Wilma stopped things when she did," the Doc said. "A minute or so more, and those burns would have left a line of permanent scars."
Rosalyn sighed. "Now what'd you have to say her name for? You went and ruined my good mood."
"Rosalyn!" Cerise frowned. "Such ingratitude, it is most unbecoming."
"She didn't have to help you, after all," Doc Upshaw said. "You should be thanking her."
"Yeah," Rosalyn said, pouting, "I should. That's what so galling, having to say 'thanks' to a common little trollop like her."
* * * * *
"So, Jessie," Laura asked, "you gonna take that job, Sam Duggan offered?" Laura, Jessie, and Jane were upstairs taking a break and getting ready for the evening crowd.
Jessie put down her brush. "I don't know... I might. He made me a pretty good offer."
"Oh, come on, Jessie," Laura said. "You wouldn't do that to Shamus."
"I might," Jessie said. "And you can, too, the both of you. Sam told me that the both of you was welcome to come work for him."
Jane laughed. "Don't mean nothing to me. I'm going back to my claim as soon as my time's up."
"How 'bout you, Laura," Jessie asked. "I know you ain't getting on too well with Shamus - or Molly - these days. Can't think of a better way t'spit in a man's eye than t'go work for his rival."
Laura nodded. "We aren't getting on just now, but that doesn't mean I want things to stay that way. I... I owe the both of them too much to want to mess things up by leaving this job." She thought for a moment. "Besides, Sam may not want to hire a... a pregnant waitress."
"Suit yourself," Jessie said, with a shrug.
"Then you are gonna leave?" Jane asked.
"I ain't decided yet," Jessie answered. "When I do, I'll tell you."
* * * * *
Thursday, November 9, 1871
"Oh, Lordy, that feels good," Jessie sighed as she lowered herself into the tub of hot, scented water.
Jane was in a second, nearby tub. "Ahh, tell me about it."
"We ain't all that busy right now," Molly said, as she sat on a chair nearby watching them. "Ye can be soaking yuirselves for a while if ye want." She waited a moment, then added, "Ye know how Shamus and I like t'be pampering our girls when we can."
Jessie laughed. "Save it, Molly. Jane's going back t'work her claims, and it's gonna take more'n a bath to keep me working for Shamus."
"What will it take?" Jane asked without thinking.
Molly looked at them both. "That's what I'd like t'be knowing, too."
"Make that three, Molly," Jessie said, "'cause I ain't near to deciding yet." She eased herself down further into the water, so only her neck and head were above the surface. "I do appreciate the bath, though."
"I'm glad ye like it, Jessie," Molly said. "Why don't ye use the time to make up yuir mind. After all, ye'll be free tomorrow." Jessie shrugged and leaned back against the folded towel that she was using as a headrest.
"Why ain't Laura here with us?" Jane asked.
Jessie shook her head. Just how dumb was Jane? Laura and Molly had been doing their level best to avoid each other the last few days. "Maybe Shamus wanted her to stay there in case he got busy," She offered as an excuse.
"Aye... umm, that's - that's just it," Molly stammered. She turned to Jessie and mouthed the words, "Thank you."
Jane smiled and leaned back in the tub. "Yeah, that must be why." She was almost a head taller than Jessie; her shoulders and the tops of her breasts also stayed above water, her nipples popping up from just below the surface.
'If Jessie's gonna think about what she's gonna do,' Jane thought, 'then so am I.' She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the towel/headrest.
'Shamus says my time's up on Monday,' Jane thought, 'so Sam'n me can - wait a minute, I ain't going with Sam Braddock. I was gonna go with Davy; he's the one that knows mining, and that's what I need in a... a partner. Ain't it? 'Course, now, Sam could come visit - yeah, that'd be real nice.'
Jane didn't notice that her left hand had slipped down into the water and was ever so gently caressing her breast.
'Sam, he's so strong, and he's... he's a carpenter. I bet he could show me things, things about building braces and such.' In her mind's eye, she saw Sam Braddock, naked to the waist, his body glistening with sweat, hammering boards together.
'Hmmm, and Red, he's pretty good with his hands, too, I'll bet. Him being a cowboy and all, he must know a lot of tr-tricks about ropes and how to live out on the range - mmm, and that smile of his.'
Jane's other hand was in the water now. Her fingers slid down across her stomach, moving still lower.
'And... and Ozzie, don't want t'forget about him. He told me one time that he built that press of his himself. Be nice to have a... a man out there that knows about machines. And them long... thin... f-fingers of his and the way he-he can make me feel when he... he uses them f-fancy... words.'
Her hand was at her groin, now. One finger moved along her nether lips, teasing them with a gentle pressure. Her other hand was kneading her breast, playing with the nipple with a finger. Her breathing was shallow, panting, as she felt herself caught up in the sensations that were racing through her body. They were building inside her, lifting her towards something that she suddenly realized she wanted desperately.
"Oh... oh... Milt!" She moaned. Milt? She sat up in surprise just as Molly dumped the bucket of cold water over her and her moan became a scream of shock.
* * * * *
Molly was sitting at a table taking her dinner break, when Jessie came over. "Can I talk to you for a minute, Molly?"
"Aye, sit down if ye like." She gestured towards the chairs around the table.
Jessie chose one opposite Molly and sat down. "I-I wanted to tell you that I've decided t'stay here - not to take that job Sam Duggan offered me."
"I'm glad to be hearing it. What did himself have to say when ye told him?"
"I ain't told Shamus, yet. I-I wanted to tell you first."
"And why would that be?"
"'Cause you're the reason I'm staying."
"Me? Now what in the name of all that's holy have I got t'do with anything?"
"Shamus has been square - square enough - with me, at least by his standards. I respect him some for that, I guess, but - I gotta tell you - it'd be fun t'spit in his eye, t'watch his face when I told him I was going over to the Lone Star."
"But ye ain't going over there - or are ye?"
"I'm not. Shamus is my boss, and I never got on all that well with any boss, with anybody telling me what to do, not even Will sometimes."
"Ain't I been telling ye what ye was supposed to be doing, just the same as himself?"
"Yeah, but you been sticking up for me, too, even when you didn't have to. Paul told me how you forced your way into that inquest, so there'd be somebody there on my side."
Molly nodded, remembering, and Jessie continued. "And when I needed advice about what to do about Paul, you was the one I went to."
"Aye, all of ye - except Wilma - come t'me for advice one time or another."
"The kicker was in the baths this afternoon. Jane asked about Laura. I could see that you didn't want to answer 'cause of that - 'cause of whatever bad blood there is between you two right now. Anyway, if it was almost anybody else, I'd have sit back and enjoyed watching them squirm. Instead --"
"Instead, ye came up with an answer, so I wouldn't be having to. I can see that, but I don't see where all this is going."
"Where it's going is simple. I can quit a boss anytime, but I ain't one to walk out on family." She took a breath. "And somehow, Molly, you got t'be family."
* * * * *
Laura put down the copy of Harper's Bazaar she was reading and looked at the clock on the nightstand beside her. "11:10, this is getting silly."
She climbed out of bed and over to the partly opened bedroom door. Arsenio was on the couch, his feet up and shoes off, reading a book. "Are you coming to bed any time soon?" she asked.
He looked up from his book. "I am in bed," he said sourly.
"You're just being stubborn."
He gave her an angry look. "Who's being stubborn?"
"All right, we both are, I guess. But I miss you. Come to bed. Please."
"What about all that business about the baby? You over that?"
"Over... mmm, no, I'm not - I'm not ready to talk about it, either, but I also don't think it's fair for you to be stuck out on that couch."
"And you miss me. I heard you say that, too."
Laura felt her face redden. "Yes, I do miss you."
Arsenio smiled broadly and closed the book. "Well, if you put it that way." He stood up and turned out the oil lamp he'd been reading by. His pants were off, draped over a nearby chair.
As he walked towards the bedroom, Laura saw a tenting in his drawers. A shiver of pleasure ran through her. It had been a long time.
'No,' she thought. 'Much as I'd like to, that was how I got in this mess, and until he understands...'
Her thoughts were interrupted. Arsenio stopped next to her in the doorway and ran a finger gently along her cheek. "You coming to bed?" he asked softly.
"Arsenio, I'm serious."
"Hmm, so am I." He worked at the top button of her nightgown, just above her breasts. Once it was opened, he reached inside to caress one breast.
The sensation was not what Laura expected, and it wasn't entirely pleasant. "Ohh," she said, taking a step back.
"What's the matter?"
"My breast. When you... touched it..."
"You don't want me to touch you, is that what you're saying?"
"No... It-it hurt."
"Maybe I should just go back to the couch."
"No... please... please stay."
"Sounds like something else you can't decide about."
"I have decided. A man deserves to sleep in his own bed."
"With his own wife?"
"Yes."
"But without touching you?"
Laura couldn't meet his eyes. "Yes... for now, anyway."
"Doesn't sound like much fun, but... have it your own way." He climbed into the bed and slid across, almost slipping off the other side. He curled over on his side so that his back was to Laura. "Good night."
Laura climbed in and pulled the blanket over them both. She was just able to contain her tears. "Good... good night."
* * * * *
Friday, November 10, 1871
Shamus looked up at the wall clock. It was 1 PM. 'So where the devil is everyone?' he thought.
"Sorry if I'm late." Judge Humphreys walked in as if on cue.
The Sheriff was right behind him. "You aren't late - neither am I." He looked around. "Where's Jessie."
"She'll be here in just a minute." Shamus took out his borrowed boson's whistle and blew three shrill notes. "Still on loan from Cap Lewis, and, if I say so meself, I'm playing it better than ever."
Jessie and Jane came running in from the kitchen. "Lord, I hate it when you blow that thing, Shamus," Jessie said. "I was taking a pot off the stove, and I almost scalded m'self setting it down so fast."
"Sorry, Jessie. Ye don't have t'come running lickety split no more when ye hear me whistle." He paused a moment. "But ye still do, Jane. Come t'be thinking of it, ye go back in the kitchen now t'help Maggie. This isn't any of yuir concern."
Jane pouted. "But I want to stay." Still, she couldn't disobey and started walking for the kitchen even as she protested.
"You should have waited for me, Shamus," the Judge said.
"Ye're right, Yuir Honor. Please to be beginning the ceremony."
The Judge nodded. "Jessica Hanks, whereas, you have served and completed a sentence commensurate with your previous illegal activities - including the additional time adjudged due to you for your attempt at flight, I do declare that you are hereby free of any and all additional legal obligations to the Township of Eerie or the Territory of Arizona for those actions. Congratulations."
"Now say that in English, Judge," Jessie said, looking confused.
Shamus laughed. "Ye're time's up, me lass. Ye're a free woman...almost."
"I am? What a minute, what do you mean almost?"
Shamus looked straight at her. "Bark like a dog." He waited until she had barked a few times before telling her to stop.
"That was a dirty trick, Shamus." Jessie flared at the barman. "I got half a mind to --"
"Aye, sometimes, ye do, but now ye know what I mean. Ye ain't free of me potion yet. Truth t' tell, ye never really will be." He took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. "But this should help."
He began to read. "Ye can leave me saloon anytime ye want and go anyplace ye please. Ye can fight people, too - except, ye can't do nothing to the Judge or the Sheriff or Molly or me for turning ye into a girl."
"Don't trust me much, do you?"
"Let's just say, I'm being careful. I said the same t'Wilma and the others when I set them free."
"That's what he said, all right." Wilma stood by the door. She wore an emerald green dress that looked a size too small and Jessie could already smell her perfume. "Sorry, I'm late."
"What're ye doing here, Wilma?" Shamus asked.
Wilma smiled. "I came to see my little sister get free. You got a problem with that, Shamus?"
"I don't if Jessie don't," Shamus told her.
Jessie shrugged. "It's fine with me as long as she don't start off on how I should go work with her at that cathouse of hers."
"I think you're making a mistake, Jess, but 'tick a lock,' as they say." Wilma made a gesture as if turning a small key in her closed lips.
"Let's get on with it, then," Jessie said.
"All right," Shamus said. He read from the paper. "Jessie, I order that ye won't obey any order I give ye unless I'm first saying, 'I, Shamus O'Toole, owner of the Eerie Saloon, do hereby order you to obey this command.' Did ye hear that?"
When Jessie nodded, the Sheriff took a paper from his own shirt pocket. "And, Jessie, "I also order that, from now on, you will obey no order from me unless I start it with the words, 'I, Dan Talbot, the Sheriff of Eerie, do hereby order you to obey this command.' Did you hear what I just said?"
"I heard," Jessie said. "Am I free now?"
"Hop on one foot and quack like a duck," Shamus said.
Jessie just looked at him a moment, then she smiled. "I guess I am."
"Congratulations, Jess," Wilma said and slapped her on the back. "Now - if you don't mind my asking - what are you going to do?"
"I never thought I'd say it, let alone do it," Jessie said, but I'm gonna go on working for Shamus."
Wilma laughed. "And you said I was stubborn."
* * * * *
Jessie tiptoed into the Sheriff's office and closed the door gently behind her. "Hello, Paul," she whispered.
Paul looked up from the papers he was reading. "Jessie, I didn't hear you come in. He stood up and quickly walked over from behind the desk. "What brings you over here?"
"My sentence is up," Jessie said with an odd smile, "and I wanted to come see you. I got something for you, Paul Grant."
"Oh, do you now?" Paul grinned. Was there was enough time for what he hoped she had in mind.
"I do." She slapped his face as hard as she could. "That's for lying to me about what a second dose of potion would do."
Paul stood for a moment, rubbing his sore cheek. "Jessie, I..."
"And this is for what we done that first night back... and for what we're gonna do again soon as my monthlies is over." She stepped forward and put her arms around his neck. She pulled close to him and kissed him with all the passion he could have hoped for.
Paul returned the kiss. 'Once a mustang, always a mustang,' he thought. She wasn't fully broken in yet, but she was his, and he was damned glad of it.
* * * * *
"Can I ask you something, Laura?" Jane asked. The two women were setting the tables for "Maggie's Place." The restaurant was due to open in less than an hour.
"I guess," Laura answered, "as long as you keep working while we talk."
"You know, Shamus said my sentence is up on Monday."
"I know. Are you still going to try your hand at mining again?"
"I sure am, but that's what I wanted t'ask you about."
"I don't know anything about mining?"
"No, but you know people... men, especially, better than I do."
"Seems to me, you were a man a lot longer than I was."
"I mean how to... how to handle men... as a woman, I mean."
"I don't think I get what you're saying, Jane."
"I keep having these thoughts... about men... about how I should pick Red or Sam or Ozzie to... to be with up there at my claim instead of Davy."
Laura nodded. "And not because they'd be more help than him working that claim, I expect."
"Uh huhn. I even was thinking about Milt Quinlan when I was... was taking my bath a couple days ago."
"Milt?"
"And he made me feel all funny inside, just like the others did."
"And you liked the way it felt, didn't you?"
"Yeah, but it was scary, too. I never felt like that before. What's it mean?"
"It means you're starting to think more like a girl now."
"Like a girl. You mean... I-I'm not ready to... to be a girl. What am I gonna do, Laura?"
"So...you don't want to...to be with any of them - the way a woman would be with a man, right?"
"No, no I don't."
"And you didn't get those sort of feelings about Davy, did you?"
"Davy..." She laughed. "He's my friend, that's all."
"Then I'd say that he's definitely the one you should be asking to go with you. The last thing you need is to be alone on a mountaintop with a man that makes you feel funny inside. It could complicate your life."
As Laura herself had found out too late.
* * * * *
Saturday, November 11, 1871
"This one's a waltz, gents," Hiram King announced. "Get yourself a partner and get to dancing."
Cap led Bridget out onto the floor. "I've been meaning to tell you how pleased Uncle Abner was with the money you paid towards your grubstake."
"Why?" Bridget asked sourly. "Didn't he expect me to pay?"
"Just the opposite. He didn't expect you to be making such a big payment each month. He said it just proved what a good investment he made."
"Who said it wasn't?"
"Nobody; Uncle Abner just likes to brag sometimes about how good a businessman he is. I think he's trying to show me how to be one."
"I'm just glad he was willing to put up that grubstake. I'd have hated to have to keep working for Shamus as a dealer."
"Like I said, you impressed Uncle Abner. He liked it that you were willing to stand by your guns when you caught him dealing seconds."
"I'm just glad that it turned out to be a trick. I don't know when I was more scared."
"But you still did it. I'm proud of you for that." He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead as they danced. "And after all that money you gave him, I think he's decided that you may not be a gold digger, either."
"A gold digger, well, I like that."
"Uncle Abner's a fairly wealthy man, and I'm his only heir. You can't blame him for being careful. I know you love me for myself and not my money." Cap grinned like a cat in a creamery.
"I never said that I loved you."
"No, but you never said that you didn't."
* * * * *
"You decide who you were taking with you, Jane?" Sam Braddock asked as they moved across the floor.
"I have," Jane answered, "but I ain't telling - not now anyway."
"'Cause it isn't me?"
"I want to tell all of you at the same time. You and Red are the only two here."
"So when will you tell us?"
"Red asked me the same thing. I'll tell the five of you tomorrow. Be here 'bout noon for my answer."
"Five? I thought it was just Ozzie, Davy, Red, and me. Who's my new competition?"
"Milt, Milt Quinlan. He's... he's my lawyer, and he wants t'know, too."
"You sure he's just your lawyer?"
"I... what do you mean, Sam?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Just a crazy thought - nah, not Milt."
* * * * *
"I've been wondering when you'd get around to dancing with me," Laura said to Arsenio, as she put his ticket in her apron pocket. "Usually, we dance the first dance together."
Arsenio took her in his arms and they began to move to the rhythm of the polka the band was playing. "I'm surprised you're dancing at all, the way you said you didn't want to be touched the other night."
"I said that I didn't want my... my breasts touched." She blushed. "And you're the only man I ever let touch them."
"Well, I'm glad for that, at least. Even if I don't know why I can't touch them just now."
"They feel too damned tender. Doc says its because they're getting ready to - to make milk."
"The baby again."
"Yes, the baby. Now do you understand why I'm so upset about being pregnant?"
"I understand that you're feeling uncomfortable from what's happening to your body. I just don't understand why you're mad at me because we're having a baby."
"I'm having a baby. You just had the fun of getting me pregnant." She saw him looking at her reprovingly. "All right, I... I enjoyed it, too," she admitted, "but I'm the one going through all this, and I'm the one who's going to have to take care of it after it's born."
"I-I can help some, I guess, but that's what a woman does, isn't it - take care of her baby?"
"Yeah, she's tied down to it... to her house and her kid with no life of her - oh, the hell with it. You gave me your ticket. Just shut up and dance."
* * * * *
Sunday, November 12, 1871
Shamus walked over to the table where Laura and Jane were eating lunch. He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Ye're a popular lady, Jane," he said. "Red, Sam, and Davy have been asking when the Judge'd be setting ye free." He pointed across the room to a table where the three men were sitting. They saw him and waved back.
"They's just being my friends, that's all," Jane said, feeling a little embarrassed at the attention from so many handsome... so many men.
"I think it's a wee bit more than that," Laura said. "You told me that you were finally going to say who you wanted to take back up to your claim, as soon as you were free.
Jane smiled at the thought of being able to go back to her claim. "Well, there is that." She looked around. "Trouble is, they ain't all here yet."
"No, but ye ain't a free woman yet, neither," Shamus said. "Say, there's Milt Quinlan coming in. Did ye invite him to yuir little shindig, too?"
"I did," Jane answered. "I... uhh, wanted him to know, him being my... ahh, lawyer and... umm, all."
Milt saw Jane and started to walk over. "She ain't ready for ye, yet, Milt," Shamus said. "Why don't ye take a seat over thuir." He pointed to the table with the other men. Milt nodded, but he walked to over to the bar. He ordered a beer from R.J. and sat down on a nearby barstool.
At that moment, Judge Humphreys entered the Saloon, followed closely by Ozzie Pratt. They both came over to where Shamus and the women were sitting. The Judge looked at his pocket watch. "I know it's not quite one o'clock, but I intend to start. Horace Styron decided that the church elders had to meet today at 1:30 to vote on getting new hymnals."
"Why not," Shamus said, an odd expression on his face. "Ladies first, after all."
The Judge frowned. "I'm afraid that I don't follow you, Shamus."
"'Tis easy, Your Honor. First the her... Jane; then the hymns." He grinned broadly at his own joke.
The Judge groaned. "It's a good thing we're not in my court, Shamus. I'd have to fine you for contempt for that one. As it is... Jane, please rise."
"Yessir." Jane stood up. Red, Davy, and Sam started to walk over until the Judge shook his head. Ozzie shrugged and joined them at their table. Milt raised his stein to the Judge and took a sip.
Laura stood up. "Since I don't seem to have an invitation to this party, I think I'll get back to work." She took Jane's hand for a moment. "But before I go, Jane, let me be the first to say, congratulations on being set free." She headed over to the bar, only to be stopped by Doc Upshaw. Shamus saw her nod and led him to a table well away from anyone else.
"And let me be the second to say congrats." Jessie had been walking nearby, carrying a tray of drinks. "Say, Shamus, Jane here's your last prisoner. Looks like you'll have t'go back to watering drinks to make a profit."
Shamus frowned. "I never watered a drink in me life, Jessie Hanks, and ye know it."
"No, I don't, Shamus," Jessie said. "I ain't worked here forever. It just seems like it sometimes."
Shamus laughed. "Ye ain't worked here half the time ye have been here. Now get them drinks over to Bridget and her players." Jessie gave him an overly-polite smile and hurried off.
"If we're done with the interruptions, I'd like to continue," the Judge said. "I'll make this simple. Jane, you've served your time for kidnapping Laura, and you're free to go."
"Thanks, Judge," Jane said. "Now I can go talk to --"
"Ye'll be talking to nobody," Shamus interrupted. "Not till ye're free of me magic potion."
Jane tried to answer, but all that came out were soft squeaking sounds. She pointed to her throat, a terrified look on her face.
"Sorry, Jane," Shamus said. "Like I told ye, ye ain't free of me potion yet. Ye can talk again, but I'll be asking ye not to - not too much anyway - till I'm done."
Jane sighed in relief. "Thanks, Shamus. I'll be quiet."
Shamus took a sheet of paper out of his vest pocket, unfolded it, and began to read. "First of all, ye can come and go from me Saloon here whenever ye want to."
"Second, ye can fight with people again - except ye can't be doing anything t'hurt Molly or me or Dan or the Judge for turning ye into a woman."
Jane looked hurt. "Shamus, you know that I'd never do anything like that."
"I don't think ye would, Jane, but I wanted t'be sure of it. Now, hush for the important part. I order that you not obey any command I give ye unless I first say that I, Shamus O'Toole, owner of the Eerie Saloon, order ye to be obeying this command."
He handed the paper to Molly, who had just come to the table. "And I'm saying to ye that ye'll not obey any order I give ye unless I first tell ye, 'I, Molly O'Toole, wife of Shamus O'Toole, order that ye obey this command.'"
She offered the paper to Dan, who shook his head. "I think I know it by now. Jane, I order that you'll not obey any command I give you unless I first say that I, Dan Talbot, Sheriff of Eerie, Arizona, order that you obey this command."
"Am I done now?" Jane asked impatiently.
"Don't talk," Molly said quickly and firmly.
"Why not?" Jane asked. "Hey, I... I can talk; I can talk. I don't have to do what you say any more."
Molly smiled. "No, Jane, ye don't. Now ye can go talk to them gentlemen friends of yuirs."
* * * * *
Laura felt someone's hand on her arm. "May I speak to you for a moment?" It was Doc Upshaw.
"Sure, Doc," she said. "What's the problem?"
"In private, please."
Laura looked around, then she pointed to a table against the far wall. No one was sitting anywhere near it, and most people were watching Shamus and Jane, anyway. "Is that okay, Doc?"
"It'll do, I suppose." They walked over. Upshaw pulled out a chair and motioned for Laura to sit. When she did, he gently pushed her closer to the table before taking a seat opposite her.
He reached over and took her hand. "Have you changed your mind about the baby?"
"No... no, I-I haven't. I... I hate being pregnant."
"An attitude like that, isn't doing you - or the baby - a bit of good. In fact, it's probably hurting you both. I'm not happy about saying this, but... . if you want... I've got... I can prescribe something that... that would... get rid of it."
Laura shuddered. "Get rid of it? An... abortion. No... I..."
"I'm afraid those are your choices, have an abortion or go to term and have the baby."
Laura was quiet and pensive for a moment. "Can I... can I have some time to... to think about it? This is a big decision."
"The biggest. Take the time to be certain. It'll be a decision that you and Arsenio --"
Laura's hand shot to her mouth. "Arsenio... oh, my Lord."
"Just let me know when you decide, either way."
"How... how long do I have?" Laura blinked, her eyes becoming inflamed and dewy.
"Take as much time as you need, but, remember, the sooner it's done, the easier it will be." He stood up. "If you have any questions, be sure to come see me." He turned and left.
"I... I will." Laura sat there for a good five minutes, just staring into space, before she was able to get back to work.
* * * * *
The Judge checked his pocket watch again. "Now that we've completed this business, I've got to get to that bloody meeting." He glanced over at the Free Lunch table.
"There's sliced ham and some rolls over there, Yuir Honor," Shamus said. "Why don't ye fix yuirself something to be taking with ye?"
"My very thought," the Judge said. "If I may, I'll just borrow one of those napkins to wrap it in." Shamus nodded. Judge Humphreys turned and walked over to begin building himself a sandwich.
Shamus stood up and looked around. "I'd best be getting back to work meself. Jane, I know ye got all them fellas waiting t'talk to ye, but please don't be taking too long doing it. People are starting t'come in, and I'll be needing ye real soon now."
"I won't be long, Shamus," Jane said. She waited a moment, looking around. The five men were watching her, so she just motioned for them all to come over to join her.
The man sat down around the table. Ozzie was the first to speak. "So, Jane, my dear, have you determined who the fortunate swain is?"
"What... what's a 'swain', Ozzie? I ain't never heard --"
Sam "translated" for her. "He wants to know who you're going to take back up to your claim."
"Ohh," Jane said. "Thanks Sam." She squirmed a little in her chair. "I... I want you all t'know that I thought about this a... a whole lot. I-I likes all of you, and I w-wouldn't mind... umm, spending time with any of you."
"Thank you, Jane," Red said. "I figure you know that I - we all of us - feel the same about you."
"This is all well and good," Davy said impatiently, "but we're all on tenderhooks, Jane. Who'd you pick?"
"You, Davy." Jane looked down at the table, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. "I ain't going up there on no Sunday school picnic. I'm going back up t'work my claims. I'll need somebody there with me who knows what working a mine is like."
Ozzie frowned. "But surely, Jane, any of us could rapidly acquire such skills. You have them at present, and I'd warrant that you could teach them to any of us." He took her hand. "I, for one, would be a most attentive pupil."
"That'd take me a while." Jane gently pulled her hand free of his. "What'd we do up there in the meantime?"
Red all but leered. "I don't know about Ozzie, I can think of a whole lot of things we could do." He barely noticed Milt glaring at him.
"I-it ain't like that." Jane was blushing now. "I'm just looking for somebody t'help me work my claims."
Davy frowned. "Is that all I'm gonna be, a helper, a hired man? I don't know as that's very fair."
"I hadn't thought of that," Jane said, "but I ain't sure if I'm ready t'take on another partner. I mean, we's friends and all, Davy, but partners... that's a whole different kettle of fish."
Milt coughed for attention. "If... if you like, Jane, I-I could... umm, draw up a partnership agreement for you. You could take it up there with you. The both of you could sign it after a few days, if... when you and Davy decide that you want to be partners."
"Ain't we gonna need a witness for that?" Jane asked. "When Toby and me decided to be partners 'n' share our claims, Lucian Stone over t'the assay office said he had to sign the papers, too."
"You do need a witness." Milt's face reddened. "To... ah, tell the truth, I... umm, was going to ride up to your claim in a few days - just to see how things were doing, of course." He took a breath. "You could sign it then, and I'd be the witness. I could take it back to town with me and file it with Lucian the next day."
"That'd be just fine," Jane said. "You bring that paper around here tomorrow morning. I told Shamus that I'd work for him all day today. I figured that Davy'd need some time to bring everything from his old claim."
Milt nodded. "Fine. In the meantime, may I buy you - all of you, of course - a drink to celebrate Jane's freedom and to wish her well with her claims."
* * * * *
Maggie used her afternoon break to walk over to the bathhouse. Carmen was sitting on the porch, drinking a glass of lemonade. Felipe, her eight-month old son, was sleeping in a playpen next to her. "Hola, Carmen."
"Margarita, hola. Would you like a lemonade?" Carmen reached for a pitcher.
"I am afraid I do not have time. I must get back to finish cooking the supper." She looked around. "Where is Jose?"
"Playing in the barbershop. Whit likes to spend time with the boy."
Maggie nodded. "It's good for the father and the son."
"Why do you ask about him?"
"Thursday is Ernesto's birthday. I am having a small party for him, mostly a few friends from school, but I wanted to invite José as well."
"When will the party be? You have a restaurant to cook for."
" Sá, but I will cook most of the food early. Laura and Molly will watch it while I have the party. The party will just be from 4 to 5. Then I will take the children back to work with me, as I always do."
"That is not long for a party... but these are young children. They should enjoy it. I am sure that José will be glad to come. Thank you for inviting him."
"Why not? He is family... almost. I-I mean, he and Lupe spend so much time at your house."
"I know what you mean." Carmen smiled wryly.
Maggie ignored her. "Bueno. Now, I must get back. Adios."
"Adios."
* * * * *
Monday, November 13, 1871
Jane sat in her wagon, the one she'd owned when she was Jake, drumming her fingers on the wooden seat. "You gonna be much longer, Davy?"
"Now, don't you fret, Jane," Davy said. He was strapping the last of his belongings down in the back of the wagon. He'd already tied the reins of his mule, Lucille, to a ring in the back of the wagon. "Besides, you know we ain't going no place till that Milt shows up with them papers."
"I know. I just want t'be ready when he does come."
Davy sighed theatrically. "Just can't wait t'be alone with me there on the trail, can you?"
"I... what... no, it ain't like that. We're... we're just burning daylight. I want to be up at the claim and settled in before dark."
Sam Braddock came around the corner. "He's just funning you, Jane." He was holding one hand behind his back.
"What you doing here, Sam?" Davy asked.
Sam brought his hand out from behind his back. "I just came to say goodbye and to give Jane... and you these flowers." He offered them to Jane.
"Now ain't that sweet," Davy said archly. "Sam brought me flowers."
"I'll take them," Jane said. She took the bouquet from Sam and put them on her lap. "They'll look nice in the cabin. Thanks."
"You're welcome, Jane." He smiled at her. "You sure you're gonna be all right up there?"
"We'll be fine," Davy answered firmly.
Sam ignored him and looked at Jane. "Just asking. A man's got a right to be worried about his friend... friends, ain't he?"
"I-we'll be fine." Jane felt flush. Were they really fighting over her? "It's... nice to be worrying about me. You're welcome to ride up with us if you want."
Sam shook his head. "Wish I could, but I'm supposed to see Dwight Albertson today to talk about a business loan. No reason I shouldn't get rich, too."
"Well, you can ride up 'n' visit me... us anytime you want," Jane said. "Ain't that right, Davy?"
Davy just snorted at her invitation.
"I may just do that," Sam said.
Davy frowned. "Goody."
They all stood quiet for a moment, looking at each other and feeling awkward. Then Jane suddenly stood up and pointed. "Here comes Milt."
"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, Jane." He smiled, trying to catch his breath.
"Well," Jane answered. "I was beginning t'wonder if you forgot us."
Milt shook his head. "I wouldn't forget you, Jane - you either, Davy. I... uhh, I know just how important these papers..." He took a thin, brown envelop from a jacket pocket. "...are to you."
"I'll put 'em in m'duffle, where they'll be safe." Davy walked over to Milt and took the envelope. He opened a large canvass bag that was strapped down in the back if the wagon, put the envelop inside, and closed it again. "Now can we go?" he asked.
"I guess," Jane answered. "Thanks, Milt."
The lawyer smiled up at her. "You... you both just be careful. Be sure to look over those papers, too. I'll be up there on Thursday. You and Davy can sign them then... if you want."
Davy climbed up onto the wagon and sat down next to Jane. "We'll do that." He looked back once, just to check the wagon, and flicked the reins. "Gee-up."
The wagon began to pull away from where Milt was standing. "So long till Thursday, Milt." Jane waved as she and Davy started off.
* * * * *
Bridget reached across the table and tapped Laura on the shoulder. "You all right? You look like your mind's a thousand miles away from here."
Laura blinked and stared at Bridget as if the female cardsharp had just appeared in front of her by magic. In fact, they'd both taken a lunch break at the same time, and they'd been at the table together for several minutes.
"No," Laura said, fixing her jaw firmly. "I'm not all right; I'm pregnant. Or hadn't you heard?"
"Oh, I heard. I was here playing poker when Arsenio announced it to the world and bought everybody in the place a drink to celebrate. Thing is, you weren't acting this squirrelly about it till yesterday. She thought a moment. "Just since you had that talk with Doc Upshaw, and don't tell me you two didn't talk. I saw him come in. Just what did he say to set you off so bad?"
"Nothing he didn't say nothing." She took a long sip of the fake beer in her glass.
Bridget looked at her for a moment. "Bullshit. He said something. You know it, and I know it."
"He - oh, hell, if you must know, he asked if I really want the baby."
"And..."
Laura looked at the stein she'd been drinking from. "Why couldn't this stuff be real beer, just this once? He... he said that... if I wanted - really wanted - he... he could give me something to... to get rid of... it."
"What? An abortion?"
"Yes, dammit, and not so loud." Laura looked around quickly. No one was sitting anywhere near them. The saloon was, in fact, nearly empty, and no one seemed to be reacting to what Bridget had just said.
"What did you tell him?"
"That I didn't know if I wanted to do that, either. I-I still don't know what I want."
Bridget raised an eyebrow. "But you're thinking about it, aren't you?"
"Yes, Lord help me, I am."
"Have you talked to anybody else - Molly or anybody - about it? I know that you haven't talked to Arsenio."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I haven't heard the explosion. I don't think that he'd like the idea one little bit."
Laura's eyes filled with tears. "I-I know. He'd hate it - and he'd... he'd hate me for doing it."
"Here." Bridget pulled a white silk handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to Laura. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't joke about something like this."
"No, you're... you're right. He would explode. Doing something like that could..." The words caught in her throat. "... could destroy our marriage. The... the horrible part is, even knowing that and loving Arsenio like I do, p-part of me still... still wants to do it."
* * * * *
Davy walked into the cabin, his duffle balanced on his shoulder. He carefully put the bag on the floor next to the bed and sat down. "Not bad," he said, patting the mattress. "It's a bit narrow, but we won't need us that much room." He winked at Jane, who was rigging a line to hang her dresses on.
"No, Davy." Jane shook her head. "You ain't sleeping with me."
Davy's expression sank. "But I-I thought..."
"Davy, I didn't bring you up here for that. I never said that I did."
"But we's partners," he countered, "or we's gonna be soon as you and me sign them papers."
"Partners in a claim. That's all?" He looked at her, a sad smile on his face. "You don't wanna; not even just a little bit?"
"Maybe someday... with the right man, but - I'm sorry - but I don't think of you like that."
"No, you just think of me as some dumb hired hand, somebody you can lead 'round by his johnson." He stood up and started walking towards the cabin door.
"No... please, Davy. I... I think of you as a friend, a man I can trust. Please... don't be mad at me."
"I got every right t'be mad. Maybe you never said it, but you sure as hell made it sound like whoever you picked got the mine... and you."
"I didn't mean to... honest. In fact, that... that's part of why I picked you."
"And what do you mean by that missy?"
"I didn't want a man up here that'd make me feel - well - 'girly' about him."
"And I... don't." He looked hard at her, trying to keep his poker face. "That's a fine howdy do, ain't it." He took a breath. "Just for the record, like, who does? No... no, don't tell me."
Jane tried to smile. "I... I wanted you up here 'cause you're my best, my oldest friend, now that Toby's gone. You... you ain't gonna back out on me now, are you?" Fear crept into her voice. She knew she couldn't work the mine alone. If Davy left, she could always ask somebody else for help, but she knew that whomever she asked, would expect more of her than just half her claim.
"I should... but I won't. We's been friends too long for me t'go back on my word. I'll stay - for a while anyway." He picked up his duffle and walked over to the other side of the cabin. "I'll just set up a bedroll over here for tonight. I'll rig me something better tomorrow, something soft that'll keep the cold of the ground away from me."
Jane sighed with relief. Davy had every right to leave, and he was going to stay. "Thank you, Davy."
"You're welcome." Davy turned away to work on his bedding. He didn't want to see how she looked - how her chest heaved - when she sighed like that.
* * * * *
Sam Braddock took another sip of his beer. "Wonder if Jane and Davy got up to her claim all right."
"And why wouldn't they?" Shamus asked from behind the bar. "They've probably been up thuir for hours."
"It ain't that bad a haul," Mort Boyer said. "They're probably bedding down for the night by now."
Sam nodded. "Probably... damn, that Davy is one lucky man."
"I just hope they stay lucky," Jessie said, setting a tray with empty glasses down on the bar. She transferred the glassware to a deeper tray to be carried into the kitchen when full.
"What do you mean, Jessie?" Milt asked.
Jessie pointed to the open door. "Take a look outside. There's a new moon tonight. If I was a dirty, backstabbing no-account - which I ain't of course..." She winked at Shamus. "...tonight's the night to get the drop on 'em. Davy don't know his way about the place yet."
"No," Sam said, "but Jane does."
"Aye, she does," Shamus added, "but she ain't used to being out thuir as a gal, now is she?"
Jessie nodded. "No, she ain't. Yes, sir, tonight's the best night if anybody wanted to do anything... permanent."
Milt tossed back his drink. "I think I'm going to take a little ride."
"Ye're going up to the mine?" asked Shamus. "Why, just because thuir's no moon out? Would you be doing that for every client, Milt, me boy?
"Any client that... needed my help," he said unevenly.
"You ain't going alone," Sam said, finishing his own beer. "I'll be right there with you."
"Paul Grant's off-duty tonight," Shamus said, looking straight at Jessie. "Ye might want t'be asking him to go riding out with ye."
"Good idea," Sam said. "I'll go get him."
Jessie took Shamus' hint. "He won't be the only one." She ran for the stairs. "I'll be changed in a minute, Shamus. Don't you dare let them go without me."
"I won't," Shamus shouted after her. Then he noticed that Laura was also walking towards the stairs. "And where do ye think ye're going, Mrs. Caulder?"
Laura stopped. "Shamus, I spent two months treating Jane like I was her sister. Why should I stop now? I'm going, too."
"No, ye ain't. Maggie's home, putting her wee ones to bed, no doubt. Ye ain't gonna ride off and leave me short handed."
"But, Shamus..." Laura looked at his expression. He was still mad at her; he'd just called her 'Mrs. Caulder.' There was no point to get him any madder. "All right, Shamus, I'll... I'll stay, but if there's any trouble that I could have helped out with --"
"Then I'll just have to live with it." Shamus pulled out the tray of dirty glassware. "In the meantime, take these into the kitchen."
Laura took the tray and left the room. R.J. walked over to Shamus just as the door closed behind her. "You know, Shamus, we aren't really that busy. You and I could have covered for her."
"Aye, we could have," Shamus answered. "But I'll not let a pregnant woman go riding off into the night hell-bent for leather. I may be mad at Laura for teasing me Molly about not being able t'be having children, but I surely ain't that angry."
* * * * *
Tuesday, November 14, 1871
Davy was nearer, so the pounding on the cabin door woke him first. "Just a damn minute," he yelled, as he climbed out of his bedroll and stood up.
"What... who is it?" Jane reached over and turned the wick on the oil lamp on her bed stand. The flame sprang to life, lighting up the room.
"Danged if I know." Davy walked over and opened the door. "Ozzie? What the hell are you doing here at this hour?"
Ozzie Pratt walked in and closed the door behind him. "I came to give Jane an opportunity to correct her earlier misjudgment in choosing you as her partner."
"You're crazy." Davy took a step towards him.
Ozzie drew a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at Davy. "I think not, Davy, and I'll thank you to step back."
"What do you think you're doing, Ozzie?" Jane was getting out of bed.
Ozzie glanced over at her. "You look most fetching in that nightgown, Jane, a topic I hope to return to anon. In the meantime, would you be so good as to fetch those papers that Milt Quinlan so obligingly prepared for you?"
"The papers?" She looked around the cabin. "I don't know where --"
"I am in no mood to banter with you," Ozzie said, baring his teeth in anger. "Find them... and be quick about it."
"They's in my duffle," Davy said, pointing to his bedroll. "I was using the bag for a pillow."
"And what else might be in there?" Ozzie pointed with his pistol. "The both of you sit on that bed, while I search for the papers." He waited until they were both on the bed. "Hmmm, still too close. Go sit on the other side of the bed, facing away from me."
As soon as they had changed positions, Ozzie opened the duffle and began to root through it. "Shirt... drawers... a boot." He threw the items over his shoulder. "What's this? A Bowie knife, if I'm not mistaken. Too bad I wouldn't let you do the looking, isn't it, Davy? Too bad for you, you ignorant - ahah, here it is." He pulled out the envelope Milt had prepared.
"You got them papers," Jane asked. "Now what happens?"
Ozzie laughed. "Why that should be obvious even to you, my dear. I shall enter the names - yours and mine, of course - for the partnership. Then we shall both sign. Davy, you get to sign, as well - as the witness. Then, Davy, I shall thank you to wait outside, while Jane and I... consummate our new relationship."
"Consummate?" Jane asked. "What's that mean?"
Davy "translated" for her. "He means he figures to go to bed with you to clinch the deal."
"No way, Ozzie." Jane shook her head. "You ain't getting me or my claim."
"Damn straight," Davy added. "You make us sign, and soon's we get back t'Eerie, we'll just tell everybody what you done. Then you see how good them papers is."
Jane laughed. "Them papers won't be worth spit."
Ozzie walked around the bed so that he was facing the pair. "Is that your final answer, then?" They nodded. "Too bad, Davy, because I have no compunctions against killing you - you're a waste of space anyway. You, Jane, on the other hand..." He leered down at her. "...killing you would be a most definite shame."
"Then don't," Davy suggested. You just ride outta here, and we'll forget the whole danged thing ever happened."
Ozzie shook his head. "I very much doubt that you would... and it will make a most excellent story."
"Story?" Jane asked.
"Heroic editor discovers ghastly double murder." Ozzie spread his arms wide, as if having a vision. "Yes, the story of how I rode up here - because I was worried about you, Jane - and discovered you both..." He gave a theatrical sob. "...foully murdered, the tragic victim of some unknown gunman. The cabin was ransacked - I shall do that afterwards. I hurried back to town and raised a posse, but, alas, there was no sign to be found of your assailant. Yes... it will be a magnificent story - romance, pathos... mystery. It should sell out an extra edition, at least."
Jane gave a snort. "And you think they'll believe that?"
"Why not?" Ozzie asked. "I threw a rock through my window and sent Roscoe for the sheriff. Talbot is still chasing shadows looking for the miscreant. What's one more red herring across his path, more or less?" He raised the pistol. "And now... goodbye, Davy. Perhaps after she sees you die, the lovely Jane will prove more amenable to my offer."
"Like hell," Davy said. He jumped up from the bed and grappled with Ozzie. "Run, Jane, run!"
Jane ran for the cabin door. As she reached it, she heard the pistol fire. "Davie!"
"Run, dammit!" he groaned.
She could hear the pain in his voice. She yanked the door open and hurried out into the moonless night. She hadn't taken more than two steps when someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her around the side of the cabin. Jane was too surprised to put up any fight.
"It's friends, shut up," a familiar voice whispered.
Jane looked over her shoulder. She was being held by Sam Braddock, while Jessie stood next to her. "What the --"
"I told you to hush up," Jessie whispered, putting her hand over her friend's mouth. "Understand?" When Jane nodded, Jessie took her hand away and let go. "Now you just watch."
The three of them looked carefully around the corner.
Ozzie came out, pistol in hand, and looking around frantically. "Hiding won't help you, Jane. You're only prolonging the inevitable."
"I don't think so." Milt stepped out from the other side of the cabin.
"Qu-Quinlan," Ozzie sputtered. "Wha-what are you d-doing here?"
"This." Before Ozzie could react, Milt let loose with a roundhouse right that connected loudly with Ozzie's jaw. Ozzie's head jerked to the left. He groaned and collapsed to the ground unconscious.
Paul Grant stepped out of the shadows and kicked the pistol away. Then he knelt down and handcuffed Ozzie. "Where'd you learn to throw a punch like that, Milt?"
"College," the lawyer answered. "I was inter-fraternity boxing champion my last two years at Rutgers." He looked around. "Sam, go check on Davy."
Sam hurried into the cabin only to come back a moment later. "Davy's alive, but he's got a bullet in his leg. We can put a bandage on it for now, but we'd better get him back to town, so Doc Upshaw can take a look at it."
"Fine," Milt said. "I'll hitch up the wagon. Sam, you go back inside to help Davy; pack some of his belongings, too. He may need to be in town for a while."
Milt walked over to where Jane and Jessie were standing. "Are you all right, Jane? If that bastard hurt you..."
"I'm fine, Milt, just fine... thanks to you." Jane looked down, suddenly feeling a little shy.
Milt gently took her chin in his hand and raised her face, so she was looking straight at him. "You'd best go in and pack, too. I don't want you alone up here while Davy's in town recuperating."
"And just what business of yours where I am?" She wasn't sure what she was feeling, just now.
Milt smiled. "I'll show you what business it is." He pulled her to him and raised her head again. Then he kissed her full on the mouth. Jane opened her mouth in surprise and felt his tongue move in between her lips. A warmth spread through her body, while her arms, as if of their own accord, went up around his neck.
* * * * *
Judge Humphreys walked into Doc Upshaw's office. "Good morning, Edith. Is Hiram about?"
Edith Lonnigan looked up at the Judge. "He's back in the ward with Davy Kitchner, Your Honor." A four-bed infirmary was a part of Dr. Upshaw's office. "I'll get him for you." She stood up from her desk.
"That's hardly necessary. I know the way."
"I'm sure that you do, sir, but he shouldn't be disturbed when he's with a patient. Please have a seat." She looked at him firmly, waiting for him to sit.
The Judge took a chair against the wall. "Oh, very well. Would you ask him if he could spare just a just a moment to see me? It's important."
"I'm sure you think it is." She walked through the curtain at the back of the waiting room.
She was back a minute or so with the doctor. "What can I do for you today, Parnassas?" He was wiping his hands in a towel. There was some blood on the front of his white physician's coat.
"I came to ask about Davy Kitchner, Hiram. I'd like him to be able to testify at Ozzie Pratt's trial. Is he up to it?"
The Doc frowned. "Not today, he isn't. He lost a lot of blood and got shaken up a bit on the way back from the mountains. Of course, he'd probably have lost more in the time it would've taken me to ride up there, so I suppose it evens out. But that's not the worst of it. That bullet stirred up an old wound from the war. I'm concerned that he might be permanently crippled."
"When will he be able to come to court?"
"I got the bullet out easily enough, and he's resting. Jane's been in and out all day; Milt practically had to drag her away from Davy's bed, so she could get some sleep. In answer to your question, I'd say he should be up to appearing in court by tomorrow morning. Hold the trial after lunch, that'll give him a bit more time to get some of his strength back."
"With a bit of help, of course," Mrs. Lonnigan said.
The Judge smiled. "With you there helping him, Edith, I have no doubt that he'll be just fine."
* * * * *
Milt took another sip of lemonade. He and Jane were having a late lunch in the yard behind the Saloon. "Are you sure that you want to go back up to your claim again?"
"Yep," Jane answered. "Just as soon as Davy's up to the trip, Friday, Saturday at the latest, Doc says."
Milt shook his head. "I don't like the idea. It-it's dangerous."
"Shouldn't be so bad, 'especially with Ozzie in jail."
"I agree about Ozzie, but he's not the only man who'll have his eye on you... and on that rich claim of yours."
"I guess," Jane sighed. "Sometimes, I think I should just bring it into town, like I wanted."
"Bring it? Jane, what are you talking about?"
Jane looked around nervously. There was no one in sight. "You gotta promise you won't tell nobody."
"Jane, what the..." He saw the serious look on her face. "All right, all right. I promise."
Jane leaned in close and kept her voice low. "'Bout six months ago, me and Toby went into the woods to cut some timber for bracing. There'd been a mudslide at the base of one hill, spring rains, I guess. Anyways, half-sticking out of the mud, we found us the bones of somebody's old mule. We didn't think nothing of it, till I saw this here chain around its neck. There was a bag at the end of that chain. It was beginning to fall apart, but it was full of nuggets, four, maybe five pounds of... gold."
"Gold? You found gold around the neck of a mule's skeleton? That..." He shook his head in disbelief. "Even for Eerie, that's unbelievable."
"Maybe so, but that's what we found. That bag was just about gone. I wrapped my shirt around it and brung it back t'my cabin. Once we was sure what we had, I wanted t'take some into town, cash it out, and go on a spree."
"Why didn't you? It certainly would've been something to celebrate."
"Toby, he says no, says if we do, people'll find out how we found it. They'd have been all over the, mountains looking for more. Like as not, they'd find the rest and we'd be left with nothing."
"What did you do?"
"We hid it, back in the mine. We spent the next week or more looking 'round that hill... and a hundred feet in every directions. Didn't find a danged ounce. I was ready to give up, when Toby, he had him an idea."
Milt looked at her suspiciously. "What sort of an idea?"
"We could work our mines and keep looking for more of that mule's gold, but we was running low on supplies. Toby says we should cash in a few nuggets and tell folks we found some color in the rock. That's what we done."
"You still looking?"
"Naw, we give up after about a month. We used that gold, though, so's we didn't have t'work so hard for the money t'live on. Still figured it was a sign, and someday, we'd find that big vein."
"Is there much left?"
"Most of it." Now she looked suspiciously at him. "Why?"
"Because that gold's probably more money that anybody's found in this part of the territory. You should cash it in and invest it. Keep working your claim if you must... if you want, but let that money work for you, too."
"What else could I do 'round here except work that claim of mine?"
Milt took her hand in his. "I have a few ideas on that?"
"Thanks, Milt," Jane smiled... and didn't take her hand away. "I... I like you, too, like you a lot, but I ain't ready for anything... permanent."
"I guess I was rushing you. I'm sorry. I very much want you to stay in town, but - stay or not - I do think that it'd be a lot better if you brought that gold into town. If you like, Mort, Jerry, and I can ride out with you, give you an escort to the assay office."
* * * * *
Jessie was standing near the bar when Paul came in. She started to smile until she saw the expression on his face. "What's the matter?" She asked.
"I'm afraid that I've got some bad news, Jess," Paul told her. "I just found out that the Judge won't be holding Ozzie's trial till tomorrow."
"So he gets to stew in jail one more day. It serves him right for what he tried to do. How is it a problem?"
"You remember what we had planned for tonight?"
Jessie nodded, her face turning a lovely shade of pink. "I figure t'be over there about 11 o'clock."
"You know, you'll have to walk right past Ozzie's cell to get to my room. And you'll be walking past him again when you leave... in the morning." He waited a moment, while she thought about that, then added the topper. "And the walls inside the jail are kind of... thin."
The pink in Jessie's face turned to an angry red. "Aww, shit!"
"I don't like it any more than you do, but I didn't think you'd want to be a public show, either. We'll just have to wait one more night."
"Oh, sure, unless you have to take him off to prison." Jessie moved closer to Paul. She reached up and put a hand on his cheek. "I don't wanna wait too long, Paul."
Paul took her hand in his. "Neither do I, Jess. Dan Talbot's a fair man, though. I took that S.O.B., Verne Oliver, to prison after his trial, so he says it's his turn to make the trip." He chuckled. "Besides, I expect the Judge'll give Ozzie the choice of prison or drinking Shamus' potion. If Ozzie takes the potion, she'll be sleeping over here at the saloon."
* * * * *
Wednesday, November 15, 1871
Laura got Shamus to let her go over to the Talbots' house during the morning. When no one answered her knock, she walked around the side of the house. Amy Talbot was sitting on the back steps, shucking peas from her garden patch into a brass pot on her lap. Jimmy, her toddler son, was on the grass nearby sitting on a blanket and playing with a small wooden horse.
"Well, if this doesn't look cozy," Laura said, making herself known.
Amy looked up. "Laura, hello. What brings you out here in the middle of the day?"
"I-I wanted to talk to you... if you don't mind."
Amy shook her head. "Heavens, no. It's nice to have some company - some adult company out here during the day." She made a gesture at the wide step. "Sit... please."
"Thanks." Laura sat down beside the other woman. "Can I help with the peas?"
"Certainly." Amy put the pot on the step between them. "They're in that basket behind you." She waited while Laura took a handful of peapods on her lap. "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"
Laura took a peapod in her hand and began working at it. "You... you heard I'm pregnant?"
"I did. Congratulations."
"I... I'm not sure I... oh, hell, Amy, I'm scared."
"I don't blame you. Having a baby can be a scary time for any woman, even if most of us grow up expecting to have them. You've only been a woman for a short time, and I'm sure that you never planned on such a thing when you were a boy."
"That's for sure. I only got used to the idea of being a woman - a wife - a little while ago, though I do admit that there's some things I like about being a wife." Laura blushed at what she'd just been thinking.
"Yes," Any said, sighing softly. "There are things to like." Now she blushed, too, and both women giggled.
Laura's expression suddenly turned serious. "But having this..." She touched her stomach gently. "...growing inside me and the thought of having to spend all my days taking care of it once it's born. I... I never figured on all that, and I'm just... just not sure that I-I want to go through with it."
"You don't mean..." Amy let her words drop off; she didn't even want to think about what Laura had suggested.
"I do. I mean, I-I might. I... hell, I'm nowhere near deciding yet. And before I do decide, I wanted to... I need to find out what it's like - being pregnant, having a baby, and taking care of it."
"And you came out to ask me. I'm flattered."
"You're my friend, Amy, my first real female friend. You were even my matron of honor. Who else would I ask?"
Amy thought for a moment. "Well, you could ask Carmen Whitney. In fact, I think that you should talk to her and get a second woman's opinion. In the meantime, you're here; ask your questions."
"Thanks. I think I will ask Carmen, too. I guess my first question is what's it like being pregnant? I know I'm gonna get real big, but is that all there is to it?"
Now Amy looked serious. "Is that all? First off, get ready to say goodbye to your feet. In a few months time, you won't be seeing much of them. You'll get to wear the ugliest clothes, and you'll feel like you've got a watermelon strapped to your stomach. You'll feel the weight of it pushing against your insides, too."
"Oh, my," Laura said wryly. "That certainly sounds like fun."
"It isn't. You'll feel tired all the time from carrying the extra weight around and forget about sitting down or standing up with any sort of ease. You won't get much sleep, either. You'll be up half the night - half the day, too - going to the necessary. And then, when the baby starts to kick --"
"Kick? You mean while it's still inside me?"
Amy nodded. "Oh, my, yes. It happens around the fifth month. Even Arsenio'll be able to feel it. But that's hardly the end of it. Your feet will swell... so will your... umm, breasts, and your back will ache. You've had morning sickness, right?" Laura nodded. "Get used to it. The nausea can come and go through the whole nine months. You'll find you're a lot more emotional, too. I cried one time because the grass was so green."
"The grass? Lord in Heaven, why would any woman ever want to go through all that?"
"I don't know about any woman, but I know why I did it. Love."
"Love? For the baby?"
"Well, him, too." She glanced over at Jimmy. The baby smiled and waved his arms at her for a moment before he picked up his horse and began playing with it again. "Much more important, my love for Dan and his love for me. A baby - I don't know why - but a baby makes it real. Jimmy shows that Dan and I love each other enough to want to bring a child into the world as a sign of that love and to be together long enough to raise him up right. I guess it sounds silly --"
"No, no, it doesn't."
"I hope not, because that's how I felt... how I still feel about it." She looked at Laura. "I remember; it was in my eighth month. I was big as a house, and I felt bone tired and sore and ugly as sin. Dan came over to where I was sitting and put his hand on my stomach. He said, 'Thank you; thank you so very much,' and he kissed me on the cheek. That's when I understood, and I knew that it was more than worth it."
* * * * *
The Judge pounded his gavel to stop the noise. "All right, Davy, please continue your testimony... that means go on with your story."
"I knows what it means, Judge," Davy said, sitting back in his wheelchair. "So then Ozzie says he's gonna shoot me 'n Jane - only he's gonna have his way with Jane before he shoots her. Well, I couldn't let him do that t'her... not to a lady, so I jumps up and grabs for his pistol."
"And what did Jane do?" Judge Humphreys asked.
"When I jumped up, I yelled for her t'run, and that's what she done. She yelled my name when that bastard...'scuse me, when Ozzie shot me, but I yelled for her to keep going. I was on the floor then 'cause of that bullet in m'leg. Ozzie cursed and says he'd come back t' finish me off and runs off after Jane."
He took a breath. "Next thing I know, Sam Braddock comes in and says that they caught him."
The Judge looked at Ozzie, who was acting as his own lawyer. "Mr. Pratt, do you have any questions for this witness?"
"Yes, Your Honor." Ozzie stood and straightened his jacket. "Davy, when you leapt up to attack me, did I deliberately fire at you?"
"Nope, I was too quick for you, I guess. I grabbed ahold of your arm and tried to take that thing away from you. We got t'rassling and it..." He shrugged. "...just sorta went off."
"Thank you. And before I ran off after Jane, what did I say to you? My exact words, please, if you remember them."
"You said you was gonna be back t'take care of me later. Only you didn't 'cause they got you, you dirty --"
"Ah, yes. I believe that my exact words were that I'd 'come back' to take care of you.' Now couldn't that mean that, after I made certain that Jane was all right, I was planning to return and tend to your accidental wound?"
Davy looked like he'd eaten something sour. "I... I suppose... if it was somebody else said it, but we both know that ain't what you meant."
"No, Davy, we don't know that." Ozzie was smiling now. "And neither does the jury." He turned and started back to his chair. "No more questions for this witness. He may step down now."
* * * * *
Lady Cerise leaned back in her padded chair. "And did you discover how did this fight started?"
"Oui," Herve said. "Beatriz needed Daisy for something, but Daisy was busy helping with Wilma with her new gown - she has too many gowns, that one."
Cerise shrugged. "She pays for them herself, and it is free advertising when she wears them around town... but continue."
"Beatriz grew impatient with waiting. She looked sharply at Wilma and the gown and said that it was a waste to - need I repeat what she is supposed to have said?"
"Please do. I wish to know all of the details. Besides..." She smiled wryly. "...Beatriz is sometimes very creative with her insults, trá¨s amusant."
Herve nodded. "Indeed, Cerise. Beatriz said that it was a waste to wrap a dead fish in a silk napkin when... when yesterday's newspaper would do just as well."
"Creative, yes," Cerise said, shaking her head, "but diplomatic... no. A dead fish - not many of our patrons would ever think of Wilma in such a way - for which I thank the Lord. How did she react?"
"She answered that if anyone in the room smelled like a dead fish it was Beatriz."
Cerise smiled for such a moment. "Very good, especially considering Beatriz's great love of perfumes. And then?"
"Beatriz said that she at least she smelled like a real woman and not some cheap magic trick. Wilma told her to take that back. Beatriz refused. Wilma tried to lunge at her, but Daisy grabbed Wilma by the waist. Beatriz laughed, and Wilma twisted free. They would have surely gone each at the other if I had not heard the yelling and stepped in between them."
"At least it was not Rosalyn this time." Cerise looked tired.
"As you pointed out to Rosalyn after their last 'bout', she owes her unscarred body... and, thus, her employment to Wilma. She does not like this fact, but she is beginning to accept it."
* * * * *
"Do you have a verdict?" the Judge asked.
Angel Montiero, the jury foreman stood up slowly. "Sá, we do, Your Honor. We find him guilty of everything: hitting Davy in the head, threatening to kill the two of them, and shooting Davy. We even find him guilty of throwing that stone through his own window, but we decided that he already paid for that, the two dollars he gave Sam to fix it." He sat down as the room broke into laughter.
"All right, that's enough," Humphreys was chuckling himself as he gaveled for order. "Oswald Pratt, you have been found guilty of two separate charges of assault and battery, two charges of kidnapping, and one charge of vandalism. At the request of the jury, the vandalism charge is waived. For the others, I sentence you to..." The Judge made a mental calculation. "...seven years of hard labor at the territorial prison."
Ozzie sank down in his chair. "Seven... years." He buried his head in his hands.
"As an alternative, you may choose to take a dose of Shamus O'Toole's well-known potion and spend three months at the Eerie, Arizona Special Offenders' Facility. Which do you choose?"
Ozzie looked up. "I'll not give you... give any of you the satisfaction of seeing me parade about, reduced to the status of... a woman. Prison, even seven years of it, seems a far more desirable alternative." He paused. "May I make one small request, however?"
"You can ask," the Judge told him. "Whether the Court agrees is an entirely different matter."
"Of course, Your Honor. I can hardly operate my business from prison, and Your Honor has not confiscated it - so far as I can tell."
"I haven't. What do you want to do with it?"
Ozzie looked around, then pointed. "Roscoe Unger, my apprentice, is standing over there..." He pointed into the crowd. "...covering my trial for the paper - come here, Roscoe. I'd like to ask that a partnership agreement be drawn up. He will run the print shop in my absence, banking a share of the profits for my eventual use."
Roscoe made his way over to Ozzie. "I don't know, sir. Am I ready...do you really think I can run the store...and the paper, too?"
"Not as well as I could, not by a half," Ozzie said, "but you'll do well enough, I should think."
"Well, then, I'll do it." Roscoe said, grinning broadly. He pumped Ozzie's hand. "And thank you for your faith in me, sir."
Ozzie pulled his hand free. "I am not showing my faith in you, boy. I am taking the best of several poor alternatives." He looked over at the Judge. "Will you allow me the time to have the papers drawn up?"
"I don't see that it will be a problem. Milt, do you want to do the honors?"
Milt had been sitting with Jane. He let go of her hand and stood up. He was smiling broadly. "Glad to, Your Honor. In fact, if Mr. Pratt doesn't mind, I happen to have a set of partnership papers on hand. I'll just cross out the words 'gold mine' and write in 'print shop.' Would you..." Milt saw Ozzie glaring at him. "No, I suppose I should draw up a new set of papers. Mr. Pratt may have some bad memories associated with the others."
* * * * *
Laura walked down the path to the bathhouse, the gravel of the pathway crunching under her feet. Carmen looked up at the sound. "Laura, good afternoon. I am afraid that you'll have to wait to use the bathhouse. There are some men in there now."
"That's all right," Laura answered. "I didn't come for a bath - much as I would enjoy a quiet soak right now - I wanted to talk to you a bit, if I may."
"Of course, but, please, sit down." Carmen pointed to an overstuffed chair a foot or two away.
"Thanks." Laura settled down in the chair. "Ahh, feels good."
"So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"My being pregnant."
"You are afraid, no?" When she saw Laura nod, Carmen asked, "What is it that you are the most afraid of?"
"To tell the truth, I think I'm most afraid of what happens after the pregnancy," Laura said softly.
"After? You mean, when the baby comes. Do not worry, I will be glad to teach you how to care for a little one. And I am certain that Amy Talbot and Molly O'Toole will be glad to help you also."
Laura felt her eyes fill with tears. "I... I don't know about Molly. We're sort of on the outs right now. But I'm not afraid of not knowing how to take care of the baby. I... I'm afraid of having to... of that being all I'm gonna be able to do from now on."
"Why do you say that?"
"I told you about my past, how I had to take care of my mother and my sisters all those years. I'm scared that it's going to happen again, that any plans I might've had, anything I wanted to do, gets set aside because I've got a kid to take care of."
"You mean like me?" Carmen asked wryly.
"Well...all right. You help Whit some with his bathhouse, but still..."
Carmen shook her head. "I do not help Whit with his bathhouse. I run my bathhouse. The business is mine."
"Y-yours?"
"Sá, the building belongs to us both, but the bathhouse business is mine, just as the barbershop is his."
"But how do you manage...with the baby and all?"
"Felipe spends his day with me. He is asleep just over there in the shade." She pointed to a shaded part of the porch. Laura looked. The baby was asleep in a playpen just as Carmen has said. "José is big enough now to help. He is inside being the towel boy."
"He... he is?"
"Sá, before that he played outside, but Laura, why are you so surprised that I can run my own business? Your... friend, Margarita, she runs her restaurant, does she not? She also has two little ones to take care of."
"Yes, she... she does... run her business, I mean, but she gets a lot of help from Shamus."
"And I get help from Whit, but that does not mean that I could not do it without his help. If a woman wants to, really wants to, she can run a business as good as a man. Even if she has children."
"You think so? You think I could...?"
"I do not know what you would want to do, but you are strong and smart, and - if you do need help - you have a good man in Arsenio."
'If I still have him,' Laura thought.
* * * * *
"Don't move a muscle, deputy. I got you covered." A very familiar voice told Paul Grant.
"Jessie, what...?" The smile on Paul's face vanished when he saw that Jessie was standing just inside the doorway to the Sheriff's Office pointing something at him. He recognized it in a minute as the carved wooden pistol Ernesto played with.
Paul smiled and stood up slowly. As he did, he raised his hands above his head. "Just what did you have in mind, Jess?"
"This here's a kidnapping, deputy. Get moving." She pointed towards the back of the jail.
Paul turned and walked slowly in the direction she had pointed. Ahead of him was the door to the storeroom that he used as his bedroom. "In there," Jessie ordered firmly.
Once they were both inside, Jessie locked the door behind her. "Now that I got you here, I figure I better check you t'make sure you ain't got no hidden weapons on you. Take off your shirt."
"Yes, ma'am." Paul unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it on the chair. He wasn't wearing anything underneath. "See any weapons?"
"No, but you better keep on going. Take off them pants, too."
Paul kicked off his boots. He unbuttoned his pants and let them fall to the floor. "Well?" he asked as he stepped out of them.
"You sure got something hidden in there," Jessie said as she looked at the growing bulge in his drawers.
"That's right," Paul said with a grin, "and now I've got the drop on you." He knelt quickly and pulled a toy pistol of his own from his pants pocket.
"Oh, my," Jessie answered. She raised her hands, dropping the toy on the floor.
"Now I better check you. Take off that blouse."
Jessie slowly unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall to the floor behind her.
"Seems to me, this calls for a hands on search." Paul stepped over and began to caress Jessie's breast through the fabric of her chemise. His other hand reached behind to work at the buttons on her corset.
"Better let me do that." Jessie took a step back and undid her corset. She let it fall to the floorboards. With one quick movement, she had her chemise off as well. "Should I keep going?" She teased. She was nude from the waist upward. Her face was flushed, and Paul could see her nipples pointing out at him, begging to be touched.
Paul nodded. Jessie smiled, running her tongue across her upper lip. She fiddled with some buttons at her waist, and, a moment later, her skirt fell from her hips. "Almost like two peas in a pod," she said. "We ain't got nothing but our drawers on."
Pail closed the distance between them. "We've still got a few differences, I'm happy to say." He pulled her to him and kissed her. His chest hair tickled her nipples. She moaned softly, and he used that moment to invade her mouth, his tongue making it his. Her arms snaked around his neck, urging him to continue. As the kiss deepened, they used their hands to explore the contours of each other's body.
When they finally broke the kiss, he lifted her and gently put her down on the bed. "Let me help you with your shoes," he said. He reached down to unbutton them and pull them off.
As he did, she untied the ribbon at the waist of her silk drawers. She lifted herself and slid them down past her hips. "You can help me with these, too."
Paul gently moved her drawers down her legs and off her feet. He never noticed where he tossed them. Jessie was lying all but naked, spread out like a feast before him. He could see the desire in her eyes, but he decided to tease her a bit as she had teased him.
He leaned over and gently blew a puff of air on the blonde curls that covered her nethermost self. Jessie gasped in surprise. Paul moved in closer and blew another puff of air. He could smell the scent of her arousal. He moved his head in and began to use his tongue on her.
He could hear her gasping, moaning, barely able to speak. When he found her clitoris and began to play with that, she grabbed his hair tightly in her fingers. He ignored the pain and kept working until her felt her muscles tighten. Her hips bucked. She was screaming his name now and actually pulling out some of his hair.
He stopped when she collapsed down onto the bed and let go of his hair. He looked up at her face. Her eyes were half closed, and she was smiling.
The smile got even bigger, when Paul stepped out of his own drawers and climbed onto the bed next to her. "Ready for more?" he asked as he rolled over and onto her. His elbows and knees kept most of his weight off of her, but she was trapped beneath him.
Jessie hardly seemed to mind. Her hand moved down until it found his manhood. "I think I found that weapon of yours. It's so pretty that I want to gift wrap it - just like some Christmas present." She pointed to her reticule, the small purse she carried. "Would you please get me that?"
When Paul handed it to her, she took out one of the "English riding coats", the condoms that Wilma had given her. "Remember, she said looking up at Paul, "you promised."
"That I did," Paul said, "Do your worst."
She smiled up at him as she slipped it on. "I was hoping we would both be doing our best." She used the bright green ribbon attached to the base of it to fasten it tightly around him. "There, just like a Christmas present, and I knows just the place t'hide it," she said, her voice almost a purr. She guided him into her.
He kissed her as he began a slow, teasing motion with his hips. She moaned a soft, "Yes!" as the motion became more and more insistent. Her legs rose up around his waist as the movement of her hip pelvis matched his.
Her arms flailed at his back, then reached down to grab at the bed sheet beneath her. By now they were both moving hard. Suddenly, Paul stopped as he felt his essence spurt into her body. His orgasm ignited hers. Jessie broke the kiss and screamed. Her back arched as her arms clawed at his back as he pumped into her.
After a time, the sensations lessened. Jessie collapsed down onto the bed. Paul felt himself soften. They were both panting hard. "Best kidnapping I ever done," Jessie managed to say.
"Couldn't agree more." Paul kissed her softly. His hands caressed her body. He felt himself slip out of her. They kissed and cuddled for a while. Paul reached down and carefully removed the condom, wiping himself with a cloth afterwards.
Then Jessie yawned. "It's been a long, hard day, for me," she said happily, "but I'm ready for some sleep."
"Same here." Paul pulled the blanket over them both and snuggled up close, spooning his body behind hers. "And, with any luck, it'll be long and hard for you again before you leave in the morning." He raised his arm up and laid it down gently over her body, running a fingernail across the upper swell of her breast.
"It better be," Jessie said. "G'night.
* * * * *
Thursday, November 16, 1871
Lucian Stone used a tweezers to put the final weights in the balance scale. "That's 61.38 ounces, Miss Steinmetz. U.S. standard is $20.65 per ounce, so the government will pay you..." His long, thin fingers slid the round markers along across his abacus. "...$1,267.50. That's probably about as large a payout as I've made since I set up this office."
"I's rich; I's rich!" Jane started doing a jig across the floor of the assay office.
Milt stopped her by putting a hand on each shoulder. "Not really. But you've got a start at being rich... if you do as I suggested."
"Can't I spend any of it?" Jane pouted. "Just t'have m'self a little fun."
Milt scratched his chin. "I suppose. You're certainly entitled. Besides, you have some debts that should be settled." He turned to Stone. "Give her the $67.50 in cash, and give me a draft for the rest - made out in her name, of course."
"Of course," Lucian said. He opened a ledger and began to make an entry.
"1:20." Milt was looking at the clock on the office wall. "We're right on schedule for our meeting with Dwight Albertson.
"Mr. Albertson?" Jane asked. "Why are we going to see him?"
"I'm a lawyer, not a financier," Milt answered. "Dwight will use that check Lucian is writing to set up an investment portfolio for you. If the economy is half as good as he says it is, that money should double in the next five years."
"Double?" Jane's eyes were wide as saucers. "I am gonna be rich."
* * * * *
Maggie pushed the back door open with her hip and walked out onto the porch. The shortbread and plates were on the table already. She put down the two pitchers of lemonade next to them and looked in the backyard.
Ernesto was playing some sort of tag with his first grade classmates, Lupe, and José Whitney. He wore a paper crown to show that it was his birthday, and the party was for him.
At the moment, Inez Ortega was it. She made a sudden lunge for Abe Scudder. "I got you, Abe," she yelled.
"Did not," the boy said stopping about five feet away from her.
"Did so, you cheater."
"Who you calling a cheater?"
Maggie clapped her hands to get their attention. "Is this nice, to argue like that? It is just a game, after all."
"Perhaps they should be playing something else."
Maggie turned at the sound of the voice. Ramon was walking into the yard carrying a large package wrapped in white paper.
"Is that for me, Uncle Ramon?" Ernesto asked running over to the man.
"Sá, I thought that mi compadre, Ernesto, deserved something special for his birthday."
"What is it? Can I see it now?" the boy grabbed at the package.
"Ernesto," Maggie scolded. "Do not grab like that; you will break the present."
Ramon smiled. "Actually, this present is made to be broken." He set it down on a porch step and tore off the paper to reveal a small papier-má¢ché donkey painted yellow, pink, and red. A coil of rope was attached at one end to a ring in the donkey's saddle.
"A piá±ata!" Ernesto said excitedly.
Ramon pointed to José and Lupe. "Go around the side of the house. There is a long pole with a yellow ribbon on it and a short, thick stick painted red. Bring them back here."
"Sá, Uncle Ramon!" the children yelled and ran off.
Maggie walked over and sat down next to Ramon on the step. "This is very sweet of you, Ramon."
"It is my pleasure, Margarita. Ernesto is a good boy. He deserves a treat of his birthday."
"Yes, he does, but you did not have to be the one to give it to him."
Ramon gently took her hand. "Why not? He is my friend. A man does things for his... friend." He waited a beat. "Especially when that friend is the son of another... good friend. Who could say anything was wrong about that?"
Maggie's skin felt warm where Ramon touched her. "Who indeed?"
* * * * *
"How you feeling, Davy?" Jane asked as she walked into Doc Upshaw's infirmary.
Davy was sitting up in bed, eating dinner off a tray. "Jane, where you been? Time was, you'd have been in and outta here two, three times today." He winked at Milt, who'd walked in with Jane. "What you been up to with my Jane, Mr. Quinlan?"
"Not much of anything." Milt winked back. "She spent most of the afternoon over at Shamus', helping out in the kitchen."
"What you been cooking up in that kitchen, Jane?" Davy looked at the watery stew he'd been eating. "And next time, could you bring some of whatever it is over here for me?"
"Maggie needed some help, that's all." Jane said. "Today was her boy Ernesto's birthday, and she wanted t'give him and some of his friends a party after school. Molly and Jessie was gonna watch the kitchen, so she could, but that'd leave the saloon short-handed. I babysat that kitchen for her a couple o'times, so I said I'd do it."
Davy took another forkful of stew. "That was right nice of you." He sighed. "And it'll be good to be up on that mountain with somebody who knows her way around a kitchen. I can't cook worth a damn."
"Has the Doc said when you can leave?" Milt asked.
Davy nodded. "Yep, he says another day or so. I figure me n'Jane can head out Saturday morning."
"I... I ain't going," Jane blurted out. "I talked t'Shamus, and he's gonna give me my old job back."
"You put her up t'this, Quinlan." Davy glared at Milt. "I know y'did."
Milt raised his hands, as if to defend himself. "I'll admit that I'm happy to hear that Jane's staying in town, but this is as much news to me as it is to you, Davy."
"Why you doing this, Jane?" Davy asked. "I thought all you wanted was t'get backup to your claims."
Jane couldn't meet his eyes. "So did I. Then I got t'thinking. Last time I went up there, well, you know what happened. I almost got... we both almost got killed. You got shot, and I... well, I started to wonder if it was worth it."
"Sure it is."
"No, Davy, it ain't, not for me, not any more. I think I'll be happier in town."
"With him." Davy glared at Milt.
"I'll... I'll admit that's part of it, but even so, I... I just don't want t'be a miner no more."
"So, you're gonna leave me high n'dry. You knows I sold my old claim to Ned Handy."
"That's why I'm gonna give you my claim. It... it seems only fair after you got shot trying t'protect me."
Davy scowled. Then he looked thoughtful for a moment. "Fair? Well, missy I ain't taking it."
"Don't be so proud, Davy," Milt said. "From what Jane's told me, there's a fair chance of gold in that mine."
"I ain't taking it. Our deal was partners. You don't want t'work that claim with me, fine, I gets a bigger piece, but the only way I'll take that claim is as your partner."
"You sure you know what you're doing, Davy?" Milt asked.
Davy nodded. "No, but a man does dumb stuff like this all the time for... for a friend, don't he?"
* * * * *
Mrs. Lonnigan came in for Davy's tray about ten minutes after Milt and Jane had left. "Well, you may not like my stew," she said to him, "but I see that you still managed to finish it."
Mrs. Lonnigan was a small, precise woman in her mid to late 40s. Her hair was brown with just a touch of gray, and she had an open, caring face. A widow, she was both Doc Upshaw's nurse and his office staff, keeping his medical and financial records.
"It weren't that bad, ma'am, but - no disrespect - Maggie Lopez is a better cook than you are, and anything Jane might bring me woulda been cooked by her."
"Miss Lopez is a better cook than almost any other woman in town - including myself, I daresay."
"Glad you take it that way, but - since we's talking - ain't it impolite for you t'be listening in on what people are saying in private?"
Mrs. Lonnigan drew herself to her full height. "I am a nurse, Mr. Kitchner. I do not eavesdrop on anyone's conversation. I do, however, monitor the condition of my patients. If they happen to be talking at the time, well, that certainly is not my fault."
"And how much did you hear, besides what I said about the food?"
"I... I heard you refuse to accept the gift of Miss Steinmetz's claim, very gallant of you, I must say. Especially..." She stopped, putting her hand in front of her mouth.
"Especially what?"
"May I be frank?"
"Y'mean, be honest with me? I wouldn't o'asked if I didn't want an honest answer."
"Very well, then. You were the successful suitor for her hand... and her claim. You even risked your life for her, taking the bullet that almost cost you a leg."
"And..."
"And you seem so... so nonplussed when she so quickly transferred her affections to Mr. Quinlan. I will admit that he played a prominent role in Mr. Pratt's comeuppance, but still..."
"Why ain't I mad that she's all lovey-dovey with Milt instead of me? First off, Jane didn't 'transfer' nothing. She must've been in here a dozen times just checking up on me." The woman started to say something, but Davy cut her off. "Second, she never felt that way 'bout me. She told me so right off, even if it took a while t'sink in. She picked me 'cause we was old friends and 'cause I knew more about mining than all them others put together."
"But she's such a beautiful young woman. Surely there was some attraction."
"There was, and I would have said 'Yes' in a minute if she'd offered. Only, she didn't offer, and I ain't a man who tries t'take what ain't been offered."
"Yet you risked your life for her."
"Like I said, we's old friends, good friends, and we have been for years. A man won't risk his life for a friend like that... well, I ain't sure I want t'know him."
"I... I think I understand." She put a hand on his forehead, then she lifted his blanket and touched his leg next to the bandage the doctor had put on his wound. "No temperature. No sign of infection or inflammation in your limb, either. I've watched you exercising your leg during the day as well. I think the doctor will release you tomorrow, and you'll be ready to go back to the mountains Saturday."
"That's good news. I ain't been outta this bed, 'cept when the Doc let me go to Ozzie's trial. And I had to go t'that in one of them wheelchairs." He paused a half beat. "There's one more thing, I'd like t'say, though."
"And that is?"
"I know how purty Jane is, but she's half my age. My tastes run more to the... more mature woman, like yourself. In fact, if I got enough money left after I pay the Doc, I'd like t'take you out to supper before I head up to my claim."
Mrs. Lonnigan tried very hard not to blush. "That's hardly necessary - and you don't have to worry about your bill. Mr. Pratt is paying it."
"Ozzie?" Davy chuckled. "Now that's funny. First he pays for breaking his own window, and now he pays for shooting me."
"To be more precise, Mr. Unger is paying the bill in Mr. Pratt's name."
"Then I got more'n enough to treat you to that supper, and it is necessary - to me anyhow. C'mon, have supper with me, Mrs. Lonni... say, what is your first name?"
"Edith," she said shyly.
Davy considered it for a moment. "Edith, now that's a right purty name. Suits you, too."
"Thank you... Davy, and I would be most pleased to have supper with you tomorrow evening."
* * * * *
"Mama, Mama, Junior and Hiram are fighting again!"
Laura spun around at the shouts of the child who'd just run into her cabin. She saw a young girl, about six, with long blonde braids. "My goodness. Where are they, Belinda?" It seemed natural that she knew the girl's name.
"Out in the yard. You better hurry." Belinda turned and ran back out the door.
Laura looked down. She was wearing a green dress that she'd never seen before and a frilly white apron. She wiped her wet - how did they get wet? - hands. Her belly swelled out, and why shouldn't it? She was seven months pregnant with her fifth - her fifth? - child.
That didn't seem right, but she didn't have time to think about it. She was outside now. Two boys were rolling around in the dirt, punching one another. "Boys, boys, you stop that now." She clapped her hands, trying to get their attention.
They ignored her. "What... what do I do now?" She couldn't think. She had to do something, but what should she... what could she do? "Why can't I think of anything?" She asked herself out loud. She could feel the tears filling her eyes. "Please, please stop."
"Blam. Blam. Blam." The little girl, Belinda, was standing next to her. She was banging on a pot with a large metal spoon. "Mama told you to stop," she yelled at the pair.
The two boys stopped. The taller one, a long, lanky redheaded boy of ten, rolled off his smaller, but stockier, brown-haired brother. "What's the matter, Belinda?" Then he saw Laura. "Oh, ummm, hello, Mama."
"Why were you and Hiram fighting?" Laura asked, uncertain how she knew that these were her children.
The smaller boy scrambled to his feet. "We was fighting 'cause we was fighting. It's just... Boys do that, Mama. You wouldn't understand 'bout such things."
"Y-yes, I would," Laura said. "I was a... a girl once." Why had she said that? Hadn't she been a boy, Leroy Meehan? It seemed so long ago.
"That's nice, Mama," the taller boy said, "but we got us man stuff to do." The boys ran off laughing - laughing at her - before Laura could say another word.
Laura felt confused, helpless. She looked over at Belinda. The child was looking up at her, a sad, almost disgusted expression on her face. "I'm a girl, too," Belinda said, "but I hope I never grows up to be such a sorrowful, helpless, sissy female like you, Mama."
* * * * *
"Nooo!" Laura sat up in bed with a start.
Arsenio was next to her, awakened by her scream. "Wha... what's the matter, Laura?" He sat up and put his arms around her.
"A dream," Laura said, trembling. "It was just a bad dream."
Arsenio stroked her hair and began to rock back and forth gently. "Whatever that dream was, it must have been a beaut." The arguments they'd been having were forgotten for the moment; she needed him now. He held her till she stopped trembling, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. When her breathing was steady, they both lay back down. His arms were still around her.
Laura was asleep soon after that. Arsenio stayed awake for a while, just watching her sleep.
* * * * *
Friday, November 17, 1871
Dan followed the sound of the singing into the alley.
Arnie Diaz was sitting on a stack of crates outside Ortega's grocery store, leaning back against the wall of the building. He was holding a bottle of liquor and trying to sing. "From this valley they sa-ay you are go-oing!"
"Ouch." Dan whispered, wincing at the boy's second sour note. Aloud he said. "Evening, Arnie. How you doing, tonight?"
The boy stopped singing. "Oh, he-hello, Sheriff." He tried to sit up straight. "I... I am... uhh, fine. How-how are you?"
"A lot more sober than you are, I think."
"I ain't drunk." Arnie tried to sound serious. He spoiled the effect by grinning as he said it.
There was a rake leaning against the wall. Dan turned it upside down and used the pole to draw a line in the sandy soil. "Then let's see you walk this line."
"Sh-sure." He stood up slowly, putting his hand on the crates to steady himself. Then he took a step and began to walk along the line. He had only gone two steps before his leg wobbled and he veered wide. He tried to get back on the line and overstepped it in the other direction.
"Thing keeps moving," he said, sounding very annoyed. Then he giggled. "Best come with me, Arnie. You can sleep it off in a cell."
Arnie shook his head. "I ain't drunk, and I ain't going."
"Yes, you are." Dan reached for the boy's arm.
Arnie pulled it away and threw a punch that Dan dodged easily.
"Thanks, Arnie," Dan said. He threw a sharp right that caught the boy in the jaw. Arnie crumbled without a word. "You just made this a lot easier." Dan caught him as he fell and threw him over a shoulder. Dan groaned as he stood up and started walking towards the jail. "Damn, the kid's heavier than I thought he was."
* * * * *
Saturday, November 18, 1871
"Hey, Davy," Jane said, "you ready t'go?"
Davy finished checking the hitches of horse to wagon before he turned to answer. "I am. This here's your last chance, Jane. You can still come with me if y'wants to."
"Thanks, but no thanks." Jane shook her head. "I'm better off here in town."
Davy shrugged. "Your choice. 'Course, that don't mean you can't come out now n'then for a visit." He smiled. "It is still one-quarter your claim."
"I know, and I promise, I will try t'get out there when I can."
"Why don't you bring Milt with you? He's a nice fella, and that'll make you come out more often."
"Now why would his coming along make me visit more often?"
Davy winked. "'Cause you'll have all that time alone together on the way up and the way back."
"Oohh, you..." Jane felt herself blush. "You go up there and make us both rich."
Davy winked and kissed her on the cheek. "That's the whole idea, ain't it?"
* * * * *
Laura sat on a barstool. "R.J., have you seen Molly?"
"Mrs. O'Toole is upstairs, Mrs. Caulder," R.J. said with a slight smile.
Laura sighed. "I am so tired of that 'Mrs. Caulder' bullshit. I wish she and Shamus would stop already."
"You can hardly blame them for being mad after what you said to Molly."
"What? What the hell did I say?"
R.J. looked at her closely. "You really don't know, do you?"
"No, and I wish I did. I... I miss having Molly to talk to."
"Then you better hope she accepts your apology." He poured Laura a beer - a real beer. She grabbed it and took a long drink.
"For what?" Laura all but shouted in exasperation.
"What were you talking about when Molly got mad?"
"Molly was ragging on me about my... my baby. I lost my temper and said if she liked babies so much, where was all the babies she'd had with Shamus? Near as I know they don't have any kids."
R.J. sighed and shook his head. "You ever figure that may not have been their choice?"
"You saying they tried, and Molly never could get pregnant?"
R.J.'s expression darkened. "The way I heard it - and don't you ever tell Molly or Shamus I told you - Molly lost a baby somehow, and she couldn't have no more."
"And I..." Laura's bit her lip. "I rubbed her nose in it, didn't I?" R.J. nodded. "Shit, no wonder she hates me. If I'd been Shamus, I would've fired me."
"Which just proves that he's smarter than you are... as if there was ever any real question."
Laura took another swig of her beer. "I might as well start looking for a another job. They'll never forgive me."
"Seems to me they already have - or they're going to. They're just waiting for you to apologize. You can't hate a person forever for spouting off at the mouth. Besides, Molly was probably hoping to help out with your baby. She probably still is."
Laura drank the last of her beer. "Yeah, but how do I apologize for something like that?"
"I don't know, but you better figure it out quick." He pointed to the stairs. "She's coming down."
Her mind racing, Laura hurried over to the steps. "M-Molly, I-I..."
"What is it, Mrs. Caulder?" Molly said coolly.
Laura felt a tear slide down her cheek. "I... I don't know... don't know what I can say." She sniffled and hurried away.
Molly walked over to the bar. "Now, what in the name of St. Patrick was that all about, R.J.?" asked.
"I think Laura was trying to apologize," R.J. answered.
"Was she now? Well, ye can just tell her that if she can say all the words proper-like, I may be willing to listen."
* * * * *
Sunday, November 19, 1871
A sudden noise woke Laura. It was still dark, and she snuggled down to try to go back to sleep. Snuggled? She looked around. Her head was resting on Arsenio's shoulder, while his arm wrapped around her waist.
She turned her head to look at his face. He was asleep. She could hear his steady breathing, feel it, too, in the slow rise and fall of his chest. Even so, he was smiling. Damn, he had a nice smile.
Laura remembered the night before and that stupid dream. They were still quarreling about the baby, but he hadn't hesitated to comfort her after she woke up screaming. She smiled at the memory.
She yawned, too, and tried not to make a sound that might wake Arsenio. She was always tired Saturday night from all the dancing she had to do. That reminded her of something else. She remembered what Arsenio had said when she asked, not too long after their wedding, if he minded her dancing with other men.
"I don't mind," he'd said, "I know with all my heart and soul that you'll be coming back here after that dance. Back to our house... and back to my... to our bed. When a man knows that, he doesn't worry about anything else."
'He didn't mind,' she thought. 'He didn't mind anything, as long as he knew I loved him.' Her eyes went wide. 'But the way I've been acting... He must wonder if I still do.' Her eyes glistened with tears, as she turned her head and lightly kissed his cheek.
Arsenio didn't wake up, but he shifted in his sleep. His arm tightened around Laura's waist, pulling her even closer to him.
Laura closed her eyes and sighed. She was going to have to find a way to tell him that she still loved him. She didn't know how, but she would give it a lot of thought in the morning.
In the meantime, it just felt good to be in his arms. She felt warm, safe, protected. Loved. She was smiling as she slowly slipped back to sleep.
* * * * *
Father de Castro looked out at his congregation. "Before we conclude this morning's service, I have a few announcements. The season of the birth of our Lord will be upon us in a very short time. As in the past, we will hold the posada processions for the nine nights before Navidad. The last night's posada will end here at the church with a night of festivities, followed by a special late mass."
"I have posted the list of the homes to be visited on the other nights by the door. Next to that is the list of the children who will have special parts in each night's posada. Remember, we try to choose new children each year, and there is no shame in not being chosen. I also expect that the children who are chosen will remember that they are to take part in a holy observation. They - and their parents - should be humble, as our Lord was humble, and not act with false pride, which is surely a sin.
"Also, we shall need volunteers, adult and children, to decorate the church for the final night's posada and to make the faroles, the paper lanterns, we will need each night. I also ask the many fine cooks of the congregation..." Maggie was not the only woman who thought that he looked directly at her at this point. "...to help with the making of the baskets of colaciones, sweets for the party."
* * * * *
Maggie ran her finger down the list. "Carmen, you and Whit host the posada on the 19th. Congratulations."
"I am not sure that congratulations are in order," Carmen said. "I was picked once before, and I know that it is a lot of work."
"Sá," Maggie agreed, but this time you will have me to help you with the cooking."
"That will be a great help. Did they pick your house, also?"
"No, thank Heavens." She crossed herself quickly. "But, on the 22nd, Ernesto and Lupe will both be part of the procession. Lupe will be the angel and Ernesto will be part of the chorus of children."
Carmen nodded. "Father DeCastro often picks brothers and sisters to march on the same day. He says that it can keep the peace in a family."
* * * * *
Monday, November 20, 1871
"Well, ye're in early this morning, Mrs. Caulder," Shamus said as Laura walked over to where he, Molly, and Jane were just finishing breakfast.
"I... uhh, wanted to talk to Molly and you, if I could," Laura explained nervously.
Shamus shrugged. "I don't see why not."
"Alone... please." Laura looked directly at Jane.
"Jane," Molly said, "why don't ye go get a tray t'bus these here dirty dishes with?"
Jane stood, pouting. "All right; all right, and see if I don't take my time coming back with it, neither." She bustled off without waiting for any reply.
"Sit then, Mrs. Caulder..." Shamus gestured towards an empty chair. "...and say what ye need t'be saying."
Laura shook her head. "I-I think I... I'd rather stand." She took a breath. "Molly, a-a few days ago, I said some things - some terrible, thoughtless things - to you. I hurt you a whole lot, and I-I'm so very, very sorry for what I said." Her eyes were filling with tears. "I... I only ho-hope that you can f-find it in... in your... Oh, Lord." She broke down and began to sob.
Molly jumped up and took her in her arms. "I'm sorry; I'm so sorry," Laura said over and over.
"I know," Molly said, rocking her back and forth gently, her own eyes filling with tears. "I know, Laura, child, and I forgive ye."
* * * * *
Tomas Rivera and Elmer O'Hanlan were sitting on a log at the edge of the schoolyard eating lunch. "What'd you got for desert?" Elmer asked, holding up an apple."
"A slice of - hey, what is that?" Tomas pointed to a movement in the tall grass nearby.
Elmer stood up slowly. "Shhh, I see it." He moved forward a step at a time. Tomas followed, the pair of them being as quiet as possible.
"One... two... now!" Tomas' hand shot down into the grass. When he pulled it out a moment later, he was holding some eighteen inches of squirming reptile.
"Whoo-wee," Elmer whistled. "That is one bodacious garter snake. What are you gonna do with it?"
Tomas considered for a moment. "I cannot keep it. My mama hates snakes."
"Mine, too," Elmer said. "We've got to let it go." He smiled suddenly, a mischievous smile, as an idea came to him. "But before we do..."
* * * * *
Nancy Osbourne waited while the last of her students settled back into their seats after lunch. She clapped her hands twice to get their attention, then began. "Please get out your readers. Ysabel, would you go back and work with the younger --?"
"Aaaahhh! Snake! Snake! Snake!" Hermione Ritter was standing several feet back from her open desk, pointing at it. A large garter snake was slithering back and forth inside the desk, trying to find a way out and down to the floor.
Penelope Stone and Eulalie Mackechnie looked where Hermione was pointed. They both jumped back from their own desks, and Eulalie began screaming along with her.
Yully Stone walked over and grabbed for the snake. He got it on the second try and held it up in the air. "Aw, he... heck, Hermione, it's just an old garter snake. It won't hurt you."
"Don't you bring that horrid thing anywhere near me, Ulysses Stone," she yelled at him.
Miss Osbourne clapped her hands again for attention. "As interesting as that reptile might be," she said in a firm voice, "I think that it serves no useful purpose in this classroom. Yully, please take it out to the far side of the schoolyard and release it."
"Yes, ma'am," Yully said. "And I'll stay out to make sure it doesn't come back this way."
The teacher gave him a bemused smile. "Good try, but I'll expect you back here as soon as you've released the animal." She paused a beat. "Two minutes at the most."
"Yes, ma'am," Yully answered, as he walked to the door. The other students made a wide path for him.
"Now," Miss Osbourne said, "if you all will sit down, we can get back to our reading. All of you except Tomas Rivera and Elmer O'Hanlan, that is."
"Why us?" Elmer asked, trying to look hurt.
"Because you two sat there laughing to beat the band, while those poor girls were scared within an inch of their lives." She looked directly at the two boys, her eyebrows furrowed in anger. "Do you want to confess now or later?"
Tomas sighed. "Now, I guess, teacher." Elmer nodded in agreement.
Nancy looked at the notes on her desk. "You're both in the Fourth Reader. Turn to page... 58. I want five copies of that list of spelling words on my desk the first thing tomorrow morning from each of you."
"But there are fifty words on that list," Tomas protested.
"Do you want me to make it ten copies, Tomas?"
* * * * *
Laura walked to the bar after restocking the liquor at Bridget's poker game. No one else seemed to need a drink at the moment, so she sat down on a stool near where Shamus was standing.
"So, Laura," Shamus asked, "are ye still so upset about being pregnant?"
Laura nodded. "I... I am." She decided in that moment not to tell either him or Molly that she had been thinking about getting rid of the baby. It would just stir things up again between her and them.
"Do ye remember what ye promised Arsenio on yuir wedding day?"
"My vows? Yes, of course, I remember them."
"So ye remember - what was it - 'For better, or for worse, for richer, for poorer, for in sickness and in health.' Did ye mean all of them words when ye promised them?"
"Did I? Of course, I meant them. I'm a woman of my word, Shamus. You know that."
"Well, now, don't ye think that having babies was a part o'them vows?"
"I... I suppose. When I took them, I wanted to be a woman - Arsenio's woman. I just wasn't thinking of something like... this." She very gently patted her stomach. Did it seem a bit thicker? She wasn't sure.
Molly chose that moment to join them. "Now ye got t'be thinking about it," Molly said, "but think about this, too. Them vows mean that ye got a fine man like your Arsenio to be sharing that baby with. Ye're as lucky in that as I am with me own Shamus." She took Shamus' hand in her own and kissed him gently on the cheek.
"Ye think about what me Molly said," Shamus added. "Ye and Arsenio love each other. Yuir love made that baby o'yours, and it'll give ye the strength for whatever ye'll need after it gets here."
* * * * *
Tuesday, November 21, 1871
Laura took her arm off of her eyes and looked up at the bedroom ceiling for, maybe, the hundredth time. "Arrrgh!" She said in frustration. She twisted around and punched at her pillow. Satisfied finally, she just laid back and stared at Arsenio.
Who, she discovered, was staring back at her.
"I'm sorry if I woke you."
"It's all right," he said gently. "Can't you get any sleep?"
"I've been thinking about... about the baby," she admitted.
"Naturally." Arsenio frowned, bracing himself for another argument. Laura gently put her hand on his.
"Yes. If it's a boy, I want to name him Arsenio after you." She tried to smile. It felt good to tell him at last.
"What? You mean --"
Laura smiled and shyly nodded her head. "Yes, there's still a lot of things that scare me about being pregnant and having a baby, but, if I can share that baby with you, it'll be worth it." She was smiling, her eyes filing with tears of relief that she had made her decision.
"You can. You can." Arsenio was grinning from ear to ear. "And if it's a girl, we'll call her Laura, after you."
Laura shook her head. "No, I... I kind of like the name... Eleanor."
"You... you don't have to do that."
"Yes, I do. I think that... from what you've told me about her, she deserves to be remembered."
Arsenio leaned over and kissed her forehead. At the same time, he reached out and pulled her to him. Her body felt so good against his. Their lips met and they kissed and fondled each other as if trying to make up for all that lost time while they'd been quarreling.
* * * * *
Paul Grant stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Sheriff's Office. He looked around and up and down the street. It was early morning. The street was deserted except for some men down at the Wells Fargo a block away who were busily loading some freight.
"Looks like the coast is clear," he whispered, turning his head towards the partially opened door.
Jessie Hanks walked quickly out onto the sidewalk beside him. Her head was down, as if to hide her face. "Thanks... for everything. I'd better be getting back over to the saloon before they all wake up."
"Not quite yet," Paul said. He studied the streets for a moment. Then he put his hands on both sides of Jessie's face and tilted her head upward. Their lips met in a kiss. Jessie's arms moved upwards and around his neck. The kiss grew more intense as she pushed her body against his.
Finally, they had to break the kiss. "Now you can go." Paul was smiling broadly.
"Do I have to?" Jessie's cheeks were flushed, her voice a little breathy.
"I'm afraid you do, much as I hate to say so."
Jessie sighed and looked around. Then, without a glance back at her lover, she hurried across the street.
* * * * *
"Would ye be liking some more coffee with yuir lunch, Laura?" Molly asked. Laura nodded and the older woman refilled her cup, then sat down at the table across from her. "Can I be asking ye a question?"
"Ask away." Laura took a sip of the coffee.
"Ye been smiling like a cat in a creamery since ye come in this morning, and I've been wondering what it is that ye're so happy about."
"I took the advice you and Shamus gave me - and thanks so much for it. I've decided that I do want this baby. I told Arsenio that, and we... umm, made up last night."
Molly gave her a wink. "Ohh, 'made up', did ye?"
"Uh huhn," her smile grew even broader, even as her cheeks reddened. "A couple of times." She closed her eyes for a moment, lost in pleasant memory. When she opened them, she looked straight at Molly. "If I answered your question, can I ask you one?"
"I don't see why not."
"You know how to knit, don't you?"
"Ye've seen me doing it, haven't you? Why do ye ask?"
Laura smiled mischievously and took another drink of coffee. "Because I can't. Knitting was always 'girl's work' to me, and I never wanted to learn how to do it when I was growing up. Now I need to learn how, or to find somebody who can do the knitting for me."
"And why is that, and why should I be the one t'be doing it, if ye don't mind me asking?"
"I don't mind. A baby needs blankets, booties, all sorts of things, and I'm asking you because I know that you wouldn't want your grandchild to go without just because his - or her - mother didn't know how to make them."
* * * * *
Wednesday, November 22, 1871
"Are ye here t'be seeing Maggie?" Shamus asked Ramon, when he saw the man standing at his bar.
"I am afraid so," Ramon answered. "I was supposed to go over to her house and help her with her bookkeeping tonight, but I cannot. There is some sort of confusion in Aaron's files with one of our suppliers, and we will be working on it for a few hours."
Shamus patted him on the shoulder. "Well, lad, thuir'll be other nights. You know the way back."
"I do." Ramon nodded. "Good evening, Shamus." He turned and walked back to the kitchen.
Maggie was slowly pouring chopped vegetables into a steaming pot of yellowish water. She smiled when she saw him, but didn't stop. "Hola, Ramon. I will be with you in a moment."
"I will wait," he said. He sat down on a stool and looked around. Ernesto and Lupe were sitting at a table at the far side of the kitchen eating dinner. They both waved when they saw him, but didn't stop eating. He did see Lupe whisper something to her brother, and their conversation became very animated.
Jane was sitting at a workspace near where he was sitting. "Hey, there Ramon," she said. "I's making rolls for with supper. Maggie showed me how."
"You seem to be very good at it," Ramon said. It was true. The baking pan was almost full of smooth, round balls of bread dough.
"I think she is almost as good at baking as I am," Maggie said, finally coming over.
"Thanks, Maggie. I had me a good teacher." Jane put a last ball in the pan and walked it over to the oven.
"Now," Maggie said, pushing a stray curl of hair back from her forehead. "What brings you into my kitchen. You cannot be that hungry, or are you?"
"I am hungry, especially after smelling the food in here, but that is not why I came. I have to work on the shipping records with Aaron tonight, so I cannot help you with your studies."
Maggie's smile faded a little. She wouldn't admit it, but she enjoyed the time they were spending together while she tried to learn bookkeeping. And he was helping her learn, too.
"I understand," she said. "Perhaps tomorrow night instead."
"Perhaps... if we can straighten out Aaron's account with the Everington Company." He stood up. They were very close, maybe too close. "I... I will let you know."
"Yes, please." She blinked. This was silly. Then she stepped back. "I will see you tomorrow."
"Sá." Ramon was about to go, when he heard Lupe call his name. He smiled and walked over to where she and Ernesto were sitting. "What can I do for you, little one?"
"I need some help," Lupe said, nervously. "Father deCastro picked me to be the angel one night of the posada."
"I know," Ramon said, "and I think you will make a wonderful angel." He smiled and winked at her. "Even if you do not always act the part."
Lupe giggled. "I need wings. I talked to Constanza Diaz. She was an angel last year, and she said that each angel must have a pair of wings on the back of her dress."
"Did you tell your mama this?"
"I did. Mama is a real good cook, but she cannot sew too good, especially something as fancy as wings."
Ramon nodded gravely. "Even real angels have trouble sewing their wings." He thought about the problem while Lupe giggled at his joke. "I think I have a couple of ideas. Some wire and wrapping paper and, yes, a bit of tinsel - yes, I think... I think I may just have something that would work."
"I knew; I just knew I could count on you, Uncle Ramon." Lupe threw her arms around him in a hug and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you; thank you."
Ramon kissed her brightly on the forehead. "It will be my pleasure, little one."
* * * * *
Thursday, November 23, 1871
"Wilma," Daisy said, "you got a letter."
Wilma looked up from the magazine she was reading, a two-month old issue of Sporting News. "Then bring it over." She put the News down and took the letter from Daisy. "It's from Phil Trumbell, that yahoo what tried to kill me."
"Ooh." Daisy rolled her eyes. "And now you two is writing letters. What's it say?"
"Hold your horses there, Daisy. Who says I gotta read it to you anyway?"
"Aww, you's no fun, Wilma."
"That ain't what all the boys say." Wilma smiled. She saw Daisy's pouting expression. "Oh, all right. Let me just get it open."
Daisy took a letter opener from the pocket of her apron. "Try this."
"I think I been ambushed." Wilma chuckled. She used the opener and took out the letter, unfolded it and began to read.
"My dear Wilma - 'dear', ain't that nice - My dear Wilma, your letter was a real surprise. Here I am serving this long, hard prison sentence for trying to shoot you, and, all of a sudden, I gets your letter. I read what you wrote, smelled that perfume, and some things got longer and harder. Mmm, I bet they did." She slowly ran her tongue across her upper lip.
"Keep reading."
"Where was I - oh, yeah - longer and harder, 'specially when I seen them lip prints on the paper. I can't wait till I get out next summer and see them lips of yours in person and in action."
"I bet he can't," Daisy said. "Looks like you got yo'self a new beau, Wilma. Either that, or he jess itching ta get his hands 'round that purdy, white throat o'yours."
Wilma cocked an eyebrow. "You think so, eh?" She looked at the letter. "And there's more yet. He says he met up with Verne Oliver."
"Really?"
"Uh huhn, and Verne - Phil says - is none to happy to be in prison. He says you wasn't playing fair, Wilma, standing there in the all together like that till you attacked him. Let me tell you, you can ambush me like that any time you want."
"Verne's the reason for this letter, by the way. I wasn't gonna write till he told me what you done to him and why you done it. I got no truck with a man that'd do that to a woman, and old Verne, he ain't smiling not too good right now with them teeth missing."
"After I thought about what you done - and how purty you musta looked doing it, it was hard not to write and say so. Come to think of it, it's still hard now that I did write. You and me can do something about that next summer."
"I got to go now, Wilma. It's time for the weekly delousing. I never liked it before, but right now, I feel the need for a cold spray of water on me. I'll be thinking of you, Wilma, and of what Verne was lucky enough to see. You write me back soon, and it's signed Your Ex-Enemy, Phil Trumbell."
"Mmm mmm, that man can write a letter. You gonna answer him or you gonna let him hang?"
Wilma licked her lip again. "Sounds to me like he's already hung real nice... and that's the best way for a man to be." She walked over and sat down at the small desk in the corner. "Never knew writing back n'forth t'somebody could be so much fun."
* * * * *
Saturday, November 25, 1871
Tomas Rivera threw the rubber ball at the wall of the Wells Fargo loading dock. It bounced high and Elmer O'Hanlan had to scramble to catch it. "Good one, Tomas," he yelled and threw it backhand at the wall for Tomas to catch.
"You boys get outta there," Matt Royce hollered, just as Tomas caught the ball. "We got a wagon coming in to pick up some freight."
The loading dock extended about a foot out beyond the top of the wall. The boys ducked into that space. Then they quickly moved under the wheels of the wagon when it backed in. "All right, then," Royce said in an annoyed voice. "You two just stay there and try to stay out of trouble."
Royce scowled and went back inside to bring out the crate, a new stove for a miner's cabin. It was heavy and, even with the hand truck, he and his helper, Zack Mitchem, had to set it down on the dock several times.
The hand truck's squeaky wheels and the "thump" of the crate on the loading dock seemed to scare the horses. "Hold still, you nags, just hold still," Tony Giambetti, the miner driving the borrowed team, kept saying. The team reared and whinnied. The wagon moved a few inched forward or back each time. The two boys huddled together, trying to avoid the wheels.
Royce and Mitchem finally lowered the crate down onto the back of the wagon. The added weight pulled at the nervous horses. They whinnied again and moved forward suddenly.
The unbalanced crate fell off the back of the wagon. The two men heard the boys scream as the crate crashed down onto them.
* * * * *
"Seniori O'Hanlan, there's been an accident." Tony Giambetti was yelling as he ran into O'Hanlan's Feed and Grain. "Your son..."
Patrick O'Hanlan was writing up an order. "What's Elmer gone and done now?" He asked in an exasperated voice.
"He got hisself hurt real bad over to the Wells Fargo," Giambetti said. "You better come, come right now."
O'Hanlan put down his pad. "He'd better be hurt bad enough to get out of the whipping he's going to get. I'll have to go see what happened. Liam, will finish up taking your order, Mr. Carver."
"Fine with me," the farmer said. "Hope your boy's not hurt too bad."
"Thanks." O'Hanlan looked around. His younger brother, Liam, was bringing a sack of oats out of the back room. "Liam," he yelled. "I have to go out. That fool son of mine's making trouble at the Wells Fargo office, hurt himself or something. Take care of Mr. Carver, and, when you get a chance, tell Kaitlin." He didn't wait for his brother to respond before he ran for the door.
* * * * *
Doc Upshaw had done what he could to make Elmer comfortable for the moment. Now he was just finishing a makeshift splint for the other boy. "That should hold you, Tomas, till we get back to my office, and I can put some plaster on your arm for a cast." The boy was lying down in the back of the wagon.
"O-okay, Doc," Tomas said. He was sweating and in some pain. "Is Elmer going to be all right?"
The Doc tried to smile. "The jury's still out on Elmer, but I'm sure he'll be fine. Right now, I want you over at my office." He looked up at Tomas' father, who was driving the wagon. "You drive slowly, now. Your boy doesn't need any shaking up. Tell Mrs. Lonnigan to fix up a bed for Tomas and to mix the plaster for a cast. I'll be over there as soon as I can, but she can probably set the cast near as well as I can."
"Sá, Doctor." The boy's father nodded and flicked the reins. The horses moved slowly away.
The doctor tuned his attention back to Elmer. The boy was on the ground, a blanket placed under him. His eyes were shut from the pain, and tears were running down his cheeks. "I heard what you said, Doc. Am... am I gonna... die?" He coughed twice, and spit up a bit of blood.
"And spoil my record?" Upshaw said, putting on his best smile. How the hell do you tell a ten-year old that he was dying of a punctured lung, and that there was nothing either of them could do about it?
The doctor reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle. "Right now, I think you could do with a little less pain." He opened the bottle and knelt down next to the boy. "Here, you took a good swallow of this."
Elmer opened his mouth. The Doc let him take what had to be an adult dose of cherry syrup and laudanum. "That ain't bad." Elmer licked his lips.
"You behave yourself, and I'll let you have some more later." Upshaw stood up.
Patrick O'Hanlan came running over. "What's this I hear about my boy being hurt, and why the hell is he still in the middle of the street like that?"
"May I talk to you in private, Mr. O'Hanlan... Pat?" Upshaw said as gently, but as firmly, as he could.
"If the street's good enough for Elmer, it's good enough for me. What's going on here?"
"Keep your voice down. Please. Elmer's where he is because he's too hurt to move. I just gave him some painkiller. When it kicks in, we can move him."
"Hurt? What's the matter with him?"
"He and the Riviera boy were playing under a wagon while a crate was being loaded. The horses moved, and the crate fell on them. Tomas Riviera got his arm broken in two places. Elmer... I'm afraid that the crate broke some ribs, and it seems to have pushed one of them into his lung. He's been coughing up blood. I don't believe that he'll --"
"Are you saying my boy's dying?"
"O'Hanlan, shut up!"
"Dying!" Elmer had been listening. "Am I dying?" He began to cry. "I don't want to die, Papa."
"You aren't gonna die," O'Hanlan said. "The Doc here won't let you." He looked daggers at the physician, as if blaming him for his son's predicament.
Doc shook his head. "Elmer, nothing's going to happen to you that isn't G-d's will."
* * * * *
Zack Mitchem ran into the Eerie Saloon and straight to where Shamus was tending bar. "Shamus, do you have any of that potion of yours handy?"
"Aye." Shamus looked at the tall man suspiciously. "And what would ye be needing it for? Ain't nobody gets the potion for any reason unless the Judge says so."
Zack shook his head. "It ain't like that. You said how that potion of yours cured a crippled dog back when you was in that Injun camp. You wasn't just funnin' us, was you?"
"I meant what I said." Shamus realized what Zack was asking. "Who's hurt and how bad?"
"A kid, a little kid. I... we dropped a crate on him. The Doc just told his pa that he's dying. I heard him say it. I... I don't wanna watch some kid die 'cause I was clumsy. Shamus... please."
"I ain't sure this'll be of any use," Shamus said. He pulled a key chain from his pocket and began to go through the keys. "But it won't be for the lack of trying. The Wells Fargo loading dock, right?" Zack nodded and hurried out the door. Shamus found a key and knelt behind the bar. After a moment, he stood up again. He was holding a small bottle filled with a greenish liquid. "R.J., watch the bar."
"Good luck," R.J. yelled as Shamus hurried after Zack.
* * * * *
Zack ran over to where the doctor was standing, still arguing with O'Hanlan. A woman, the boy's mother, he guessed, was on the ground next to the boy. "Shamus is coming," Zach panted, half out of breath.
"What's he going to do?" O'Hanlan asked, anger in his voice. "Get somebody drunk - or were you and Royce here drunk already?"
"I don't... we don't drink on the job," Zack said, his guilt giving way to his own anger. "He's bringing that potion of his for your boy."
"What good will that do?" O'Hanlan asked incredulously. "Why should my son be a girl when he dies?"
"Maybe he won't have to die," the Doc said, suddenly understanding Zack's idea. "Maybe... just maybe, when he changes... he... she won't have broken ribs and a punctured lung any more. Yes..." He nodded his head in approval. "...it just might work."
Kaitlin O'Hanlan looked up from where she was kneeling and holding her son's hand. "Do you... do you really think so, doctor?"
"I honestly don't know, Kaitlin. Magic potions weren't in the curriculum when I went to medical school. I do know that nothing that I did learn there is of any real help right now."
"Then we'll try this," Kaitlin said. "I'd sell my soul not to lose my son."
"I don't wanna die, Ma," Elmer said weakly, "but I sure don't want to be no girl neither."
"Elmer, I..." Kaitlin looked up at her husband. "Patrick, say something."
Patrick thought for a moment. "You don't mean that, son. Bad as it is, being a girl has got to be better than being dead."
"I won't drink it." The boy groaned and gritted his teeth. A thin trail of bloody saliva ran from the corner of his mouth.
"Yes, you will," his father answered.
"How you gonna make me?" He waited a half beat. "You gonna whup me?"
Patrick had an idea. "I'll drink some first. If I do that, will you drink it?"
"You promise?" Elmer's eyes were wide.
"You just heard me say it." He hoped the boy wouldn't notice that he really hadn't promised. Kaitlin did notice. She nodded at him.
Shamus picked that moment to arrive. He'd walked, rather than run, to avoid the risk of dropping the potion. "Here I am. I can't promise that it'll be doing what ye want it t'do."
"Anything's worth a try," O'Hanlan said. "Is there..." He sighed. "Is there enough for two doses?" If there wasn't, he wouldn't have to fake drinking the weird brew.
"Is somebody else hurt?" Shamus looked at the bottle. "Seeing as one dose is for the boy, I'm thinking that there's enough for a second."
"It's... it's for me," O'Hanlan said. "The only way Elmer would agree to drink it was if I took some, too."
"Are ye sure ye want to be doing that?" Shamus asked.
O'Hanlan winked out of his left eye, the one Elmer couldn't see. "If it'll save my son, I am." He held out his hand.
Shamus handed him the bottle. "Take about half a mouthful."
O'Hanlan opened the bottle and knelt down. He raised the bottle to his lips and let a bit of the liquid flow in, being very careful not to swallow - or to look like he hadn't. The liquid had a cool, metallic taste and was quite tart. 'Like real medicine,' he thought. He handed the bottle to Shamus. The longer he held the potion in his mouth, the hotter and more prickly it felt.
"Yuir father's a brave man," Shamus said. He held the bottle so Elmer could see. "He drank his share. Now ye drink yuirs."
Shamus looked at Kaitlin. "Mrs. O'Hanlan, I know it sounds as crazy as anything ye ever heard, but in a few minutes, I'll be asking ye to be giving yuir husband and yuir son new, female names. I'll explain it to ye later, but it's very important." Kaitlin looked dubious, but she nodded in agreement.
Elmer took the bottle and emptied it into his mouth. "Yuck," he said, making a face. That stuff tastes --" He suddenly let loose a hacking cough and brought up a large gob of saliva and blood. The boy panicked and grabbed his father's arm. "Pa!"
"Elmer!" O'Hanlan yelped in surprise. Then, while he was distracted, the harsh taste of the potion made him start choking. A look of panic crossed his face. "Good Lord, I swallowed the stuff!"
"Swallowed." The boy's eyes grew wide in realization. "You... you tricked me, Pa. You wasn't gonna drink it. You was gonna let me turn into a girl and not you."
"Elmer, you were being stubborn." The hurt look in his son's eyes made him want to explain. "I wa-wasn't trying to h-hurt y-you. I-I was tr-trying t-to save... to s-save y-your - Arrgh!" He clutched his stomach and began to shake.
"H-hurts!" Elmer shouted. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes tightly to try and fend off the pain.
His mother suddenly knelt down besides him. "Elmer, take my hand. Squeeze that pain into me, just like when you were little." The boy nodded and opened his right hand. His mother put her hand on his, and his fingers closed around it. His knuckles turned white as he squeezed, and Kaitlin O'Hanlan gritted her teeth against the pain she was feeling.
O'Hanlan groaned and fell to his hands and knees on the ground next to his son. He looked down and saw his shirtsleeves sliding down over his hands. His fingers seemed so much smaller. "No... no..." He shook his head not believing what was happening to him and hating the way his voice was getting higher and higher.
"All right now," Shamus said, "the change is happening --"
"Damn, I'll say it is," Matt Royce said. "Look at that."
"Shush, now," Shamus said. "Don't nobody be talking, nobody 'cept ye, Mrs. O'Hanlan. When they open thuir eyes and look up, ye tell 'em thuir new names. From then on, they'll have to do what ye tell 'em. Ye can use that to be helping them into thuir new lives. Do ye understand?"
"I... I think so," Kaitlin said nervously. She looked at her son and husband. "The changes are just so incredible." At that moment, the pair opened their eyes wide and looked around as if searching for something. "Now?"
Shamus nodded and mouthed the word "Yes."
Kaitlin took a breath. "Elmer... Patrick, can you hear me?" The two turned their heads to look and her and nodded, their eyes wide. "Good. From now on, Elmer, you have a new name. You're name is Emma. Patrick, you're Patri - no, I don't like that. Patrick, your name is Trisha now. Those are the only names you'll answer to - or call each other."
She was about to say more, when the pair suddenly blinked. "Is it over?" Trisha asked. She looked at her son - her daughter now. "Emma, how... how do you feel?"
Emma sat up. "I..." She carefully touched her ribs, then her face burst into a look of pure wonder. "I feel... it - it don't hurt no more. But..." Her hands moved up slowly to touch her new breasts. There was enough to strain the buttons on her shirt, and Kaitlin found herself thinking that it was a good thing she'd made Elmer wear something under his shirt that morning.
Emma was a younger version of her mother, slender with long, brown hair and face full of freckles. 'But Elmer is ten,' Kaitlin thought. 'I didn't have breasts like Emma's until I was... twelve or, maybe, thirteen. She seems taller. Did that potion make her older somehow?'
What was more disturbing to Kaitlin was the way Patrick - no, think of him as Trisha - the way Trisha looked. Kaitlin had expected Patrick to become her twin the way Maggie Lopez was said to be the twin of her male self's late wife.
Instead, Trisha was a short, very pretty blonde woman with wide hips and an oversized bosom, someone Kaitlin had never seen before. She'd known her husband for over twelve years, and she wanted to know just where he had met this... this hussy that he had become.
* * * * *
Doc adjusted the weights attached to Tomas' arm, so that it was raised a foot above the bed. "That should do it," he said finally. "As I expected, Mrs. Lonnigan did an excellent job with Tomas' cast and setting him up here in the bed.
"How long will Tomasito have to stay here?" his father asked.
"Three days, I think, just to make sure that there are no complications," Doc said. "Then he can go home. The cast stays on for about six weeks."
"Will Tomas' arm heal back to its old self again?" his father asked.
Upshaw smiled. "A healthy boy his age? In six months time, he probably won't even remember which arm was broken."
When can he go back to the school?" Sylvia Riviera asked. "I do not want him to miss his lessons."
"Keep him home for a week," Doc Upshaw told her. I'll check on him then, and see if he can go back. The main thing is the next few hours and how quickly he gets used to the cast. Can you stay with him tonight?"
Sylvia shook her head. "The other children, who will stay with them if I stay here? Can I bring them here?"
"You stay home with the children," Tomas' father, said. "I will stay with Tomasito tonight."
"It is Saturday," Sylvia said. "Hiram is expecting you to play in the band for the saloon dance."
"Tonight, he will be disappointed. I will be here with Tomasito. Hiram will not mind much, I hope." Tomas tried not to sound nervous as he said it.
* * * * *
Kaitlin opened the door to her bedroom. "All right, get in there, the both of you." She walked in after Emma and Trisha and closed the door behind them. "Now, take off your shoes, pants, and shirts."
"Wait a minute," Trisha said. "Just what have you got in mind? I demand to know."
"You'll find out soon enough," Kaitlin said firmly. "Do it."
"This is ridi..." Trisha stopped arguing, as her fingers began to up unbutton her shirt. She tried to stop, but they had a mind of her own. "Damn." She finished with the shirt and, as always, tossed it onto the floor. Then she sat on the bed. She tried not to notice the weight of her new breasts as she leaned forward to undo her shoes.
Emma was fumbling with the buttons of her own shirt. The cotton of her union suit was rough against her new... breasts. Unconsciously, she began to scratch at her chest.
"Stop that, Emma," Kaitlin scolded. "A young lady never touches herself like that."
"I ain't no lady," Emma said. "My britches are making me itch something fierce."
"You may not be a lady yet, but it's my job now to teach you to behave like one. If that material bothers you, then undo the top two or three buttons, so it doesn't lie so much against your skin."
"Yes'm." Emma did what her mother had suggested.
In a few moments, the two new females were standing in front of Kaitlin wearing only their gray, men's union suits. Emma was six inches taller than Elmer had been. Elmer's drawers had come down almost to his ankles; now they stopped just below her knees. Her sleeves barely went past her elbows.
'She's about 13, now,' Kaitlin told herself. 'I remember having a growth spurt just before my 13th birthday.' Judging from the way the suit hung, a bit tight at the breast and hips and loose at the waist, her new daughter had the blossoming figure of a young teen.
If Emma's figure was blossoming, Trisha's was a full bouquet. 'Good thing she's so much shorter and thinner than Patrick was, Kaitlin thought,' looking at her husband's new form. 'Otherwise, she'd have popped all the buttons on that top.'
Trisha was only a few inches taller than her daughter now, 5 foot 5 to Patrick's 5 foot 9. She had lost Patrick's muscular build, the result of lifting and carrying sacks of feed all day long. The union suit hung on her like a tent. Even so, Kaitlin could see that Trisha's breasts were two melons, with large nipples that pushed out the fabric of her garment. Her hips were broad and womanly, her buttocks, the classic female teardrop.
Kaitlin opened the large cedar chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out two chemises and two pair of lacy drawers. "These won't fit either of you very well," she said as she handed each of them a set, "but they'll do till we can get to Silverman's tomorrow."
"I ain't wearing these." Emma held her new clothes at arm's length.
Trisha shook her head. "Neither am I." She pulled at the baggy union suit she was wearing. "This'll do just fine."
"You'll undress now," Kaitlin ordered, "and there'll be no complaints from either of you until you're dressed in what I just gave you to wear."
Trisha tried to complain but found herself unable to speak. She glanced over at Emma, who was moving her lips without making a sound. While they tried to speak, their hands were busy with their buttons.
A union suit was a one-piece garment that buttoned down to the waist. Trisha undid the buttons and pulled the garment off her shoulders. She let it go, and it fell to the floor. She stepped out of it, totally naked.
Embarrassed, she quickly stepped into the drawers and pulled them up and around her hips and waist. "Where's the buttons?" she asked.
"There aren't any," Kaitlin told her. "You use that ribbon..." She pointed at a blue ribbon at the waist of the garment. "...as a drawstring; pull it tight, then tie it in a bow."
While Trish fastened her drawers, Kaitlin helped Emma out of her union suit. It was tight on her taller body, she and needed the help. In a short time, both of the new females were in their new frillies.
"I feel like a damn fool," Trisha said.
"Can we change clothes now?" Emma pleaded.
Kaitlin shook her head. "No, you'll keep those clothes on. I don't want you to ever wear men's underthings again. Emma, you can go back to your own room now. I want to talk to your... to Trisha."
"Okay, Ma," Emma said hurrying out the door and shutting it behind her. 'Even if I can't take these things off,' she thought, 'I can still put some of my old clothes on over them.'
As soon as Emma left, Kaitlin turned to face Trisha. "Who is she, Trisha? Who's this woman that you think is more beautiful than I am?"
"What do you mean?" Trish asked nervously.
"The potion. It changes a man into the image of whomever he thinks is the prettiest woman he's ever seen. Emma looks like I did at 13 --"
"But Elmer was only 10. How'd Emma get three years older?"
"Don't try to change the subject. You don't look like I ever did, and I want to know who it is that you do look like." She handed him a hand mirror.
"Oh, hell," she tried not to look Kaitlin in the eye. "Do-do you remember those cards I used to collect, the ones that come with the chewing tobacco?"
"The ones you promised to throw away years ago?" She was glaring at him now.
"I did. But this one - she was my favorite. I can't help but remember my favorite, can I?"
Kaitlin frowned. "I suppose not. Do you remember who she is... was?"
"Her name was Norma... Norma Jeane... Barker... no, Baker. She worked at some big saloon or private club out in California."
"And you think she's prettier than I am? No, don't bother answering. It's..." She smiled in spite of herself. "It's as obvious as the new nose on your face."
"Can I say something in my defense?"
"You can try."
"Yes, she's prettier than you are - don't interrupt, but she was only a picture, and you were real. And I threw away that picture when you asked me to."
"I'm still mad at you Trisha, but that was a better defense than I expected." She sighed. "We'll talk more about this later. Right now, we have to find a dress for you to wear. Then you and Emma can help me with dinner."
* * * * *
Shamus was fuming. "A fine thing, Tomas not being able to play at the last minute."
"Try and understand," Hiram King said. "His boy's arm got broken in the same accident that almost killed Elmer O'Hanlan. He needs to be with his son."
"Aye, Love," Molly added. "After all, thuir's some things in this world is more important than money."
"Ye're talking blasphemy, Molly, me girl," Shamus said with a smile. "And if what ye're saying wasn't true..." He winked at her. "...I'd be very, very mad at ye."
"Then you don't mind?" Hiram asked, smiling in relief.
"Mind, of course I mind," Shamus said, "but I understand." He waited a half-beat. "What I'm wondering is what we do about it?"
Hiram looked at his pocket watch. "It's almost 7. People will be coming in soon. I don't know another musician I can get to fill in on clarionet for Tomas."
Jessie had heard the arguing and walked over. "Does it have to be clarionet?"
"What do ye mean, Jessie?" Shamus asked, looking at her suspiciously.
"I can play the guitar," Jessie said. "I'm no great shakes at it, but I can carry a tune... more or less."
"Where'd ye learn to play guitar, Jess?" Molly asked.
Jessie smiled. "Back when I was... umm, living in N'Orleans. I had t'find something t'do when I wasn't... umm, doing other... stuff." She felt her cheeks flush.
"How ye learned ain't half so important as how well ye learned," Shamus imterrupted. "I've got a guitar in me office that somebody left instead of the cash he owed me. Let's us go see."
* * * * *
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed 9. "Bedtime, Emma," Kaitlin said.
"Bedtime?" Emma protested, "but it's only 9."
"Yes, but you must admit that you've had a very long day today."
"But I..." Emma yawned. "I ain't sleepy."
"That yawn says otherwise, Emma," Trisha said. "Mind your mother and go to sleep."
"But..." Emma said, yawning again.
"Go..." Trisha yawned back at her. "Damn."
Kaitlin looked at them. "I think Emma's not the only one who needs to get some sleep."
"I... I guess so." Trisha scratched her head.
"The both of you come with me," Kaitlin said, walking towards her bedroom. The two new females had no choice but to follow. When she reached the bedroom, Kaitlin went into her cedar chest again. This time, she brought out two starched white nightgowns. "You'll wear these tonight." She tossed a frilly, white gown to Emma.
"I was gonna wear my old nightshirt," Emma said.
Kaitlin looked at her daughter, standing there in a flannel shirt that was too short - and a bit too tight across her breasts - and a pair of long work pants that now barely reached halfway from her knees to her ankles.
"You will wear this nightgown," Kaitlin said firmly. "And all you'll wear with it will be your new drawers. Understand?"
"But, Ma..." Emma said. She wanted to argue, but it seemed like there was a voice in her head telling her not to. "I... I understand."
"Good, now kiss your... kiss Trisha and me goodnight and go to bed." She was going to have to figure out what to call Trisha. She hardly looked like Emma's father. Then Kaitlin had a second, more disturbing thought. 'She doesn't look much like my husband, either.'
Emma gave them both a small peck on the cheek, much as Elmer had done. Then, shoulders hunched over as if in defeat, she picked up the nightgown and walked to her bedroom. "Goodnight, Ma... Trisha."
"You surely told her," Trisha said after Emma had left. Then she yawned again.
"I think you need to go to bed, as well." She handed Trisha the second nightgown.
"Now wait a minute. Liam is supposed to be coming over. I'm not --"
"Yes, you are, Trisha, sauce for the goose, as you always used to tell me. Oh, and you only wear your new drawers with it, just the same as Emma."
Trisha's hands were untying her apron before she realized it. All she wore was the camisole and drawers. She wanted to protest, but somehow she just couldn't. Muttering under her breath, she picked up the nightgown and started walking towards their bedroom.
"And if your brother does come over," Kaitlin called after Trisha, "I'll tell him to come back in the morning."
* * * * *
"Damn," Jessie cursed softly. "Another wrong note. I don't know why I'm even up here."
"Neither do I," Natty Ryland whispered. "Except that we needed somebody to fill in for Tomas and give the band some extra meat."
"Meat? I'm playing more like sawdust than steak."
"The folks don't mind too much," Hiram said, joining in. "They came to dance, not to listen to us... thank heavens."
Jessie looked out at the dancers. Mostly, they were smiling and enjoying themselves. Still, they were only a small part of the crowd. The others had to listen while they waited their chance to dance with one of the women. They didn't seem too happy with the music.
"The only time anybody ever wanted to listen me make music was that night that Shamus had me sing in my unmentionables."
"Why don't you do that now?" Hiram asked.
Jessie shook her head. "If you think... I ain't taking off my clothes up here."
"No, no, sing," Hiram said. "Natty, you know 'The Man on the Flying Trapeze', don't you? That's a waltz, more or less." Natty nodded. "Fine, we'll do that one next, and Jessie'll sing it. Anything's better than for her to keep playing that fool guitar that you can barely hear over the other instruments."
Ten minutes later, the band was getting ready for the next dance.
"What're you gonna play now?" somebody yelled. Cries of "Waltz" and "Polka" rang out. A few people even asked for the more complicated "Mazurka."
Hiram raised his hands to quiet them. "Folks, we got a surprise for you. Our next tune is gonna be 'The Man on the Flying Trapeze', with Miss Jessie Hanks singing the words while Natty and I play."
There was a smattering of applause. Hiram gave the beat; then he and Natty played a short lead in.
"He flies through the air with the greatest of ease," Jessie began. She'd almost forgotten how pretty Sarah Fuller's voice - her voice sounded. She kept singing, enjoying herself and the song.
Most people on the floor kept on dancing, but a few stopped to listen to Jessie sing.
* * * * *
Sunday, November 26, 1871
"Here." Kaitlin handed Trisha a pair of her drawers. "Put these on."
Trisha stepped into the drawers and began pulling them up past her hips. She had a much better figure than Kaitlin, and the fit was tight.
"I don't see why I gave to wear these girly things," Trisha protested. "I'm just going to put a pair of my old pants and a work shirt on over them."
"You'll wear these because I told you to wear them - and because you're a woman now, and you should wear woman's clothing. Besides, Emma and you will be in dresses before we're finished at Silverman's."
"Dresses." Trisha groaned. Kaitlin let her and Emma complain, but the damned voices in her head still made them do what she told them. Trisha hated it.
Kaitlin waited until Trisha tied off the ribbon that gathered the drawers at her waist. "Be careful with this," she said as she handed Trisha a chemise. "It'll probably be a little tight in the... ummm, chest."
"Around my tits, you mean." Trisha put her arms through the sleeves of the garment and gathered it around her. The buttons were loose enough near the waist, but they grew tighter as her fingers moved upward.
Kaitlin frowned at the word. "Your breasts. You're a lady, now; you should call them 'your breasts.' It's much more proper."
"I don't want to call them my anything." She sighed and felt the material strain against her... breasts.
The chemise was buttoned. 'She really should wear a corset with that,' Kaitlin thought, 'but all of mine are too small for her.' It felt strange to think of her husband as being better endowed than she was. She shrugged and picked a second set of drawers and chemise out of her cedar chest.
"I'm going in to get Emma dressed now. You can put whatever you want on over what you're wearing. Just remember that we're all going over to Silverman's after breakfast to get you proper clothes." With that she turned and walked out of their bedroom.
"Proper clothes," Trisha mocked her wife's tone. She pulled a gray work shirt out of a dresser drawer and started to put it on. She had to stop and roll the up sleeves; they came down past her fingertips. The bottom of the shirt reached down almost half the distance to her knees. "Damn," she muttered, as she began to button the shirt. It was as tight over her breasts as the chemise had been. She left it on, but undid the top three buttons.
She was looking for her pants when she heard an insistent knocking at the front door. "Kaitlin," she yelled, "there's somebody at the door."
"I'm... we're busy," came her wife's voice from Emma's room. "You get it."
Trisha shook her head. "I'm not... oh, hell." There was no point arguing; she was already out of her bedroom and walking towards the door. Kaitlin had told her to do something, and she didn't have a choice.
The pounding at the door grew louder. "Who is it?" Trisha asked, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.
"Kaitlin, is that you?" a voice on the other side of the door asked.
Trisha knew her brother's voice at once and threw the door opened. "Liam, I'm glad you're here. C'mon in."
"Do I know you, ma'am?" Liam looked suspicious, as if he was preparing himself for an answer that he didn't want to hear. A pretty - no, a very pretty - young woman he'd never seen before was calling him by his first name. She was practically undressed, but didn't seem at all embarrassed for him to see her like that.
Trisha cocked an eyebrow. "I'd have thought everybody in town would have heard what happened by now. You've known me all your life, Liam. I'm Trisha - that is, I'm Trisha now, but I used to be..." She paused. Could she say her old name? "...I was your brother, Patrick."
"The hell you say."
"The hell I do say. And don't make me stand here in an open door. Get inside." Liam obliged; no sense in letting anyone else see her dressed the way she was - especially if she was Patrick.
"Listen - Trisha - Pat... I did hear that something had happened, and I came over last night to find out. But Kaitlin said that you two were asleep, and I should come back in the morning. This is still awfully hard to believe."
"Maybe you'll believe that it's me if I tell you about how, when I was 12 and you were 10, we snuck up on where Mary Elizabeth Donahue and Bridget O'Hern and some other girls was swimming in the Mauntauk Bay. We sat down next to where they'd put their clothes and waited, quiet as mice, for them to come out of the water."
Liam smiled. "I remember. The next day, Bridget's big brother, Mickey, came around looking for us, and the only reason he didn't beat the living daylights out of the both of us was because you told him what Mary Elizabeth looked like in her - holy shit, you are Patrick! I wasn't sure that the fellows weren't just putting me on. And even if I thought I might actually find a woman here, I sure didn't expect to find such a... sorry, Pat."
"Whatever this was, it isn't a put-on," Trisha said with a grumble. "Part of that damned magic is I got to call myself by my new name. Emma used to be Emma... Elmer."
"And what does Kaitlin think about all this?"
"The names were her damn idea. Something in the potion makes us do whatever she tells us. I don't know what's eating her. You'd think a wife and mother would show a little sympathy for such a disaster for our family."
"What else is she telling you to do?"
Never mind that now. My main worry is what I look like."
Well, you don't look ugly; that's for sure. What's the problem?"
"The potion turns you into the prettiest woman you ever saw. Kaitlin expected me to look like her."
"You surely don't. Who do you look like?"
"Norma... somebody... from those picture cards I used to collect. She was my favorite."
"Used to collect - oh, yeah, I remember. You threw them away when Kaitlin found out about them."
"Yeah, and now I look like one of the pictures, and she isn't happy about it, not at all."
"No small wonder there. Can you do anything about it?"
"I doubt it. I remember when - what's her name - when Wilma Hanks drank more of the potion. I sure as hell don't want to turn into that kind of woman."
"I don't blame you." He paused a moment. "What're you gonna do... now that you're a woman, I mean?"
"Damned if I know. I feel like six kinds of fool for getting suckered into drinking that potion."
"From what I hear, you didn't have a choice - I mean, you had to do something to save Elmer."
"Yeah, but it didn't have to be that. Everything happened so fast. As soon as I got there, the doctor tells me Elmer's dying. Next thing I know, up rushes O'Toole. 'Give this to your boy,' he says, 'it'll save his life.' But Elmer won't drink it. Everything happened so fast I didn't have the time to think."
"And now, you're stuck."
"Like a damned fly in amber."
"What happens next?"
"Silverman's opens in a little while. Kaitlin's taking me and Emma over there for clothes. Monday, Emma will go to school, and I'll be back at the store working with you, same as always."
"Not quite the same... Trisha."
"Close enough, even if I can't answer to my real name any more; Kaitlin is being real stubborn about that." She took a breath, straining the button just below her breasts. "So, tell me, what all happened at the store after I left."
Liam began telling her about the day before. Saturdays were usually the busiest for them, and he'd had to get Mateo, the more experienced of the two men who worked for them, to wait on customers. "He didn't do too badly, either," Liam admitted.
"Just so we don't have to give him a raise for it," Trisha said. "He'll be back in the storerooms on Monday shoveling oats and hay." As they talked, she relaxed. She leaned back in her chair, sitting naturally as any man would, her legs wide apart.
Liam tried to keep looking at her face. 'One of the prettiest women I ever saw is sitting across from me, practically exposing herself,' he thought grimly, 'and it's my older brother.'
"Patrick, I've got to go get ready to open, and you've... you've got to get dressed."
"Call her 'Trisha' now," Kaitlin said coming down the stairs. "She doesn't answer to Patrick any more."
Liam turned to her and smiled. "Good morning, Kaitlin. He... she told me." For the moment, Liam couldn't think of anything to say about this bizarre situation.
"Trisha!" Kaitlin did notice - something else. "What are you doing sitting in a chair like that and half-naked as well. Go upstairs and get dressed. Now!" Trisha stood quickly and bolted up the stairs.
Liam tried not to smile. He wasn't so sure that this was a good time to be family. "I just came to see how my brother and my nephew were - how is... is it Emma, now?"
"I'm fine, Uncle Liam. Considering..." a voice from the top of the stairs said.
Kaitlin stepped aside. "Come down here so he can see you, Emma."
"Yes, ma." Emma walked down the steps until she was standing next to her mother. She wore some of Elmer's clothes. The pants stopped a good six inches above her ankles, and her sleeves ended inches away from her wrists.
"She looks just like you," Liam said in amazement. "She's very pretty."
"And why shouldn't she be?" Kaitlin asked. "She is my daughter." From her tone, Liam guessed that the less said about whom Trisha looked like, the better.
"She is, indeed," agreed Liam, "and I understand that you're all going to see about some clothes for her... and Trisha. Myself, I've got a feed and grain store to open, so I'd best be going."
"Wouldn't you like something to eat before you go? You're welcome to join us for breakfast."
"Ate already, same as always," Liam said, shaking his head. He had always opened the store on Sundays, while Patrick and his family had gone to church. "I'll see you all later." He nodded a goodbye and left.
* * * * *
"Wherever is Patrick O'Hanlan," Lavinia Mackechnie whispered, pointing to the empty seat in the front of the room. "Services will be starting any minute now, and he's the only empty seat."
As always, Nancy Osbourne's desk had been converted to the church altar for Sunday services. Behind the desk and on either side, against the back wall, were the seats of the seven elders, the members of the church board and that of the Reverend Doctor Thaddeus Yingling, the Methodist minister.
Cecelia Ritter sat on Lavinia's right. Their children sat on either side. As usual, despite their best efforts that morning, neither of the women had been able to get their husbands to attend, rather than open their stores on the Sabbath morning.
"Didn't you hear, my dear?" Cecilia answered in a low voice. "There was some sort of accident at the Wells Fargo yesterday. "Mr. O'Hanlan and his son were changed into women."
"Not that foul potion that... that Mick barman brews? Whatever would possess them to drink it?"
"My Clyde said that the boy was badly hurt. Doctor Upshaw couldn't help him. It was either drink the potion or die." She paused, a small smile on her lips. "I think it serves the little brat right after what he and that Mexican brat did to my Hermione, scaring her like that with the snake."
"Oh, my, yes. My poor Eulalie cried for hours from fright. She said it was a rattlesnake." She shook her head, remembering the scene Eulalie had made. "But why would Mr. O'Hanlan drink that horrid concoction?"
"Clyde wasn't sure. He thought it was the only way the boy would take a drink."
Lavinia sniffed, as if at a bad smell. "A most foolish thing to do. Why not just force the boy to drink? Some men are so... softheaded about such things. A good whipping, and that boy would have been begging for a drink."
"I certainly agree. The man had no business running against my Clyde for board member-at-large, and I'll never understand how he won. Well, he's..." She snickered under her breath. "...she's certainly not the winner this day. She's not even here, not her nor Kaitlin nor their precious Elmer."
"They were probably too embarrassed to come." She stopped for a moment. "We'll talk more about this later. Dr. Yingling is about to start the service."
* * * * *
Kaitlin held the door to Silverman's open for Trisha and Emma. "Come on, now," she said to them. "If there's anything to be embarrassed about, it's the clothes you're wearing now." Unable to disobey, the other two walked in, their heads bowed low as if to hide their faces.
Rachel was over to them in a moment. "Hello, Kaitlin. And this must be... what are their names now?"
"Does everyone in town know about us?" Trisha asked, a sour look on her face."
"Probably not," Rachel said, "but they will soon enough. As they say, it's easier to hear a secret than to keep it." She looked at the two transformees. "Nu, so what are your names now? A Patrick and an Elmer you don't look like no more."
"This is Trisha... and this is Emma." She pointed to each one as she said their new names.
"Pretty names for pretty ladies," Rachel said. "And I've got so many things to make them look more pretty, if they really want to, she added politely." She looked at the pair, then at Kaitlin. "So which one should we start with?"
"Start with Emma," Trisha said. "I can wait."
Kaitlin shrugged. "Why not? Trisha, you stay here and behave yourself. Emma, you come with me to a changing room, so you can get out of those clothes." She took Emma's hand and began walking with her and Rachel towards the privacy of one of the two small changing rooms in the back of the store.
Once the three of them were in the changing room, Rachel slid the curtain across the doorway shut.
"Emma, take off those silly shirt and pants," Kaitlin said firmly. "And no arguments."
Emma frowned, but the voice in her head wouldn't let her say a word. Her fingers moved quickly over the buttons of her shirt.
"I see you already got her in a chemise," Rachel said. "It don't fit too well, though."
"It's one of mine," Kaitlin said. "They're both wearing chemises and drawers of mine. I couldn't bear the idea of them in men's underclothes."
Rachel shrugged. "A person wears what they wear. Take off those high-water pants of yours, Emma, and I'll start measuring you for sizes." Emma sat down on a stool and pulled off her britches. When she stood back up, Rachel looked at her closely. "Your Elmer was, what, 10? Emma looks to be... mmm, older."
"He was 10," Kaitlin said, "and she's about 13, I'd guess, and I don't have the vaguest idea why or how it happened?"
Rachel shrugged. "Maybe after we finish, it wouldn't hurt you should ask Doctor Upshaw about it."
"I think I will," Kaitlin said, but first, I need to get her into some suitable clothing, no matter how old she is."
"And clothes I got. Let's see what size she is." Rachel pulled a pin out of a rolled up cloth tape measure and began. In a few minutes, she had the figures she needed. Emma was 62 inches tall. A fair increase on Elmer's 56. Her high bust, above the breasts, was 27 inches; her bust, right over the very sensitive nipples - Emma had squirmed from the feel of the tape measure - was 28. Her waist was 23 inches, and her hips 28.
"Such a pretty little thing," Rachel said, looking at the numbers. "Like your mama you look; you should only grow to be half as good a lady."
"Don't wanna," Emma muttered, as she rebuttoned her borrowed chemise. "I don't wanna be no girl."
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you got a whole lot of choice in the matter. Besides, you should just be grateful to be alive, keina ora." Kaitlin called in Trisha next, and Rachel took her measurements. Trisha had shrunk from a lanky 73 inches tall to a height of only 65 inches. Her high bust was 36 inches, while her bust was 40. Her waist was only 23 inches, with 35-inch hips. 'Such a figure,' Rachel thought, 'any more zoftig, and I'd have to special order her corset.'
She looked at the numbers again for the pair. "Let's start by getting you both some underclothes that fit better."
"Why don't we try to save a little time, Rachel?" Kaitlin suggested. "You take Emma in one room, and I'll help Trisha in the other."
"Why not," Rachel answered. "Six of one, half a dozen of the other."
* * * * *
"Ow! Not so tight!" Trisha complained.
Kaitlin ignored her transformed husband's protests and gave another tug at the laces of Trisha's corset. "That should do it," she finally said, tying the laces. "Can you breath comfortably?"
"Just barely." Trisha's voice did sound a bit strained.
Kaitlin looked at Trisha for a moment, then said, "You're fine. You're just not used to wearing such a thing." She patted Trisha's hand. "It must feel very strange to you."
"I'll say it does," Trisha answered. "I feel like somebody's giving me an old-fashioned bear hug, and my... my breasts feel like... I don't know what... like something's got a hold of them."
Kaitlin looked at her again with a critical eye. "For the size they are, you'll need a corset's support."
"I... I suppose." Trisha looked down at her lush figure. Her breasts - Kaitlin had told her not to call them "tits" - seemed almost ready to spill out of the corset. 'Damned potion,' she thought bitterly. 'I'll never get used to this.'
"Well, you look fine," Kaitlin said as she picked up a pale yellow petticoat from among the clothes piled on the small table nearby. "Step into this." She bent over and held it in front of Trisha.
Trisha frowned at the thought of donning still more "girly" clothes, but she couldn't disobey. She stepped into the petticoat and stood still as Kaitlin pulled it up past her hips and used the attached green ribbons to pull it tight around her waist, then tied the ribbons into a bow to hold it in place.
Kaitlin had brought in three blouses and skirts on hangers. She took down a long, sky-blue blouse with dark blue trim at the collar and cuffs. "Rachel didn't have any dresses that would fit your... figure, but she did have a lot of very nice matching outfits. This set is perfect for your coloring and hair." She handed the blouse to Trisha. "Try this, dear."
* * * * *
"Nu," Rachel said, knocking on the wall just outside of Trisha's changing room. "How you doing in there?"
Kaitlin pulled the curtain aside just enough to show her face. "Just finishing up. How about you?"
"Mine is also ready. Let's see how they look."
"Let's." Kaitlin pulled the curtain aside. "Trisha, out you go."
Trisha walked through the doorway. "I feel like a damned... Emma? Is that you?" Her eyes were wide at how feminine her new daughter looked.
"H-hi, Trisha." Emma stood a few feet away. She was wearing a kelly green dress with lighter green trim on the cuffs and on a ruffle at the neck. The dress stopped just above her shoes. Her hair was tied in matching ponytails with ribbons the same green as her dress. "You look nice."
"Thanks, I guess." Trisha's stomach tightened. She knew exactly how she looked. Her outfit was hardly the revealing tights the woman on the tobacco card had worn, but her new figure - the one she shared with the woman on the card - would look very attractive in almost anything. The dark blue blouse and matching skirt weren't tight, but they didn't need to be to show off her pillowy breasts, small waist, and full hips.
Trisha frowned and looked at Emma, who seemed equally unsettled. Seeing themselves in these clothes that fit so well was like changing into women all over again. "You hate this as much as I do, Emma?" When Emma quickly nodded in agreement, Trisha turned to Kaitlin. "Okay, you've proved your point, Kaitlin. Now let's get some men's clothes that'll fit us."
"Whatever for?" Kaitlin said. "You're female now; this is the sort of clothes you'll wear."
Trisha put her hands on her hips. It was an old gesture of Patrick's for when he wanted to stress what he was saying. "Stop fooling around, Kaitlin. If you want Emma to dress like that, fine, make her a laughingstock at school. I've got a business to run and I can't go work there dressed like this."
"Laughingstock?" Emma said. "I ain't wearing a dress any longer than I have to."
"Go sit down, the both of you." Kaitlin pointed to a bench against the wall nearby. Neither of the two new females wanted to sit, but the voices from the potion gave them no choice.
"Let's get one thing straight," she continued. "The pair of you are female now, and, as long as I have anything to say about it --"
"Anything," Trisha grumbled. "Thanks to that potion, you've got far too much to say about it."
Kaitlin smiled, a happy cat playing with two mice. "That's right, I do, don't I? And I say that you might as well give up on the idea of wearing anything other than the sort of clothes you have on right now."
"Excuse me," Rachel said gently. "You got a lot of say, but a wise word is better than harsh sentence."
Kaitlin thought for a moment. "I... you may be right, Rachel." She took a breath and looked at Emma and Trisha. "I know that you don't like having to wear these clothes, but you'll never look right in men's clothes now. I'm just trying to do this for your own good."
"That doesn't make it any better," Trisha changed. "Can I at least change now, so I can go to the store in men's clothes?"
Kaitlin shook her head. "I don't think you'll go in today."
"What?" Trisha's face was beet read with anger. "That's my store - our bread and butter. I have to go in."
"No, you don't," Trisha relied. "From what I heard this morning, Liam seems to be handling things, especially with... with Mateo's help. You... the both of you will stay around the house today and get used to wearing those clothes, so you'll be comfortable in dresses when you go to work and to school in them tomorrow."
"That's ridiculous," Trisha said.
"Ma, I wanted to go see Tomas. Can I do that, at least?" Emma asked.
"You'll stay home today, the both of you. Tomas probably needs rest right now more than he needs visitors; you can go tomorrow after school. And, ridiculous or not, it's what I think is the best for you both."
* * * * *
Kaitlin glanced over to the kitchen table, where Emma was reading after supper. "It's time for bed. You have school in the morning."
"Yes, Ma," Emma said. She closed her dime novel and stood up from the table. "G'night."
"Aren't you going to give me a goodnight kiss?" Kaitlin asked.
Trisha looked over from where she was sitting. "Might as well, Emma. She'll just order you to, whether you want to or not."
"I guess so." Emma shrugged and walked back over to her mother. "G'night, Ma." She gave Kaitlin a half-hearted kiss on the cheek and headed off to bed.
Kaitlin waited until Emma was out of the room. "That wasn't very nice, Trisha, talking about me like that."
"You don't like it, you can always make me stop... warden."
"Warden? I don't understand."
"You've been using that power the potion gives you over Emma and me, just like Shamus used it over the Hanks gang. Wear these clothes. Behave. Do the supper dishes. Well, I don't like it. We aren't criminals; we're your husband and your son. We deserve better treatment."
"So do I," she said angrily, not wanting to admit that, maybe, Trisha was right.
* * * * *
Monday, November 27, 1871
Nancy Osbourne walked out onto the top step outside the schoolhouse and began to ring her bell. Her students stopped their playing in the early morning sunlight and hurried inside. The Ybaá±es twins, just arrived on horseback from their family farm, closed the stable gate behind them and ran to join the others.
Most mornings, the classroom would have been filled with the sounds of books and papers being taken out and the ends of schoolyard conversations. Today, there was something new.
"Who's she?" Steve Yingling whispered to Yully Stone. He pointed to a slender brunette about their own age, who was sitting just a few feet away at what had been an empty desk in the front row, the row where the eighth graders sat. She was wearing a dark green dress, her hands in her lap. She would glance around the room, then turn away and look down at her desk if she saw anyone looking back at her.
"I don't know," Yully answered in a whisper. "I never saw her before. She must be new hereabouts."
Steve studied the pretty young girl. "Well, she's more'n welcome," he said with a sigh. "Especially if she's not a giggler or a teacher's pet like Hermione or Eulalie."
"That's the truth," Yully agreed.
Miss Osbourne walked to the front of the room. She stood near the new girl and clapped her hands for attention. "A few of you may have heard of the accident at the Wells Fargo office on Saturday - Please put your hand down, Hermione; I wasn't asking." She took a breath, then started again.
"Tomas Rivera's arm was badly broken. Tomas will be out of school for the week, and, when he returns, he'll have a cast for several weeks more. Tomas' parents asked me to tell any of his friends who might wish to visit that they're welcome to do so, but not until Thursday or Friday."
"Your classmate, Elmer O'Hanlan was hurt much worse than Tomas, I'm afraid. In fact, he might well have died."
Yully Stone was sitting close enough to the new girl to hear her mumble what sounded to him like, "Wish he had."
'Well, that's a fine thing,' Yully thought, 'and about someone she probably never met and doesn't know from Adam. Maybe there is something worse than how "Whiney Hermione" acts.'
Miss Osboune had stopped when she heard whatever the girl had said. "You know that you don't mean that, Emma."
The girl half nodded, as if to say that she did.
"But Elmer didn't die," the teacher continued. "He was given some of the same potion that was used on the Hanks gang last summer. I'm sure that many of you remember when that happened. The potion healed all of Elmer's injuries, I'm very happy to report. It also - please stand up, Emma dear." The girl stood. "It also transformed him into this young lady, your new classmate, Emma O'Hanlan."
Most of the students gasped in surprised. A few let out words of disbelief, and Nancy Osbourne thought she heard a few words of profanity. "If you've all quite finished... Emma, since you're already standing, would you please take the turn of holding the flag this morning, while the class sings 'Columbia, Gem of the Ocean'?"
* * * * *
"Well, now," Stan Becker asked cheerfully, "what's a gal as pretty as you doing behind that counter?" Stan was a burly man in his mid 40s, the owner of farm to the south of town.
Trisha O'Hanlan sighed at the question. "Morning, Mr. Becker. You may not believe it, but I'm... I was Patrick O'Hanlan." She stood up, brushing her skirt in a feminine gesture that Kaitlin had taught her.
"The hell you say? What happened?"
"You remember that stuff Shamus O'Toole mixed up?" When Becker nodded, Trisha continued. "Well, to make a long story short, I accidentally swallowed some of it."
Becker gave a hearty horselaugh. "I guess you did, O'Hanlan, and you sure as hell look all the better for it."
"Thanks... I suppose. By the way, I... uh, go by Trisha now."
Becker put his hand on his chin and looked at Trisha, running his eyes up and down her lush figure. "Suits you. Suits you down to the ground."
"Can we get to whatever business brought you in here?" Becker's stares were making her very uncomfortable.
Becker laughed again. "All right, but it won't be near as much fun. I come for some of that alfalfa mixture I been giving my horses."
Trisha came out from behind the counter and led Becker over to a waist-high stack of the mixture in large burlap bags. "We just got some in last week. Two 50-pound bags for $10."
"Sounds good to me."
"Fine. You take one, and I'll get the other." Trisha waited for Becker. The farmer grabbed the top bag on the pile and hoisted it up on his shoulder in one smooth motion.
Trisha grabbed a second bag and pulled. It barely moved. She yanked hard this time. The bag slid off the stack and fell to the floor almost pulling her down with it.
"That's all right, Trisha. I'll come back for it." He gave her butt a quick pat and started walking back to the counter. Mumbling under her breath, Trisha grabbed the sack of alfalfa with both hands and began to slowly drag it along the floor towards the counter.
She'd gotten about halfway when Becker came back. "I said that I'd take care of that, little lady." He reached down and picked up the sack with one arm. "Pretty gal like you could hurt yourself with such a heavy load." He threw the sack up onto his shoulder. Then, without warning, he slid his hand around her waist and started to walk her back to the counter.
"Thank you, but no thank you," she said pulling herself free. 'Damn him and his sense of humor,' she thought. By the time they reached the counter, she was trying to think of a way to charge him extra for the embarrassment she was feeling.
* * * * *
Recess.
Hector Ybaá±ez stood under the tree near the schoolhouse door holding a large, rawhide-covered ball under his arm. Yully Stone stood next to him, and most of the other boys were gathered around the pair. "Okay," Hector said, "me and Yully is the captains this week. Get in line, so we can pick teams and get started."
The other boys quickly formed into two rows. Clyde Ritter, Junior, was in the second row. "Elmer... Emma O'Hanlan," he said to the girl standing next to him, "you get out of this here line right now."
"Yeah, girls can't play ball," Stephan Yingling said.
Emma stood firm. "I played last week; scored a goal, too." The boys played a free-form game of getting the ball past agreed-upon goals at either end of the schoolyard by throwing, kicking, or carrying it. Games lasted from Monday to Friday, with most teams scoring less than five goals in a game.
"You was a boy last week," Jorge Ybaá±ez argued.
"So," Emma said, "I'm still me, and I say I can play."
"You know," Clyde said, suddenly smiling at something. "Maybe we should give her a chance."
"You crazy?" Tommy Carson asked.
"Nope," Clyde said. "Emma here says she can still do what Elmer could do. I say, let's give her a chance to prove it." He winked at Tommy Carson, who nodded back at him.
"If I do," Emma said cautiously, "you promise I can play?" Clyde normally wasn't such a good scout about things.
"Oh... uhh, we promise." Clyde and Tommy both made a "king's X" over their hearts.
"What you think she oughtta do to prove it, Clyde?" Hector asked.
Clyde answered quickly. "Elmer was real good at walking on his hands. I've never seen a girl do that. Emma, you walk on your hands from here to..." He pointed to the tree, a few feet away. "...over there - without falling, of course - and you can play."
"Easy as pie," Emma said. "I can walk twice that far on my hands." She put her arms out, elbows bent and palms flat, and fell forward. When her hands touched the ground, she arched her back and straightened her arms. She stood still got a moment to be sure of her balance, then lifted one arm and set it down again. She repeated the process, moving forward towards the tree.
She'd only gone a few feet before she heard the boys laughing. They were laughing at her, but why? She walking as well on her hands as Elmer had ever done?
"Whoo wee, them sure are pretty drawers Emma's wearing," Clyde said.
"Nice petticoat, too," Jorge added.
As she reached the tree, Emma realized what had happened. When she'd stood on her hands, her dress and petticoat had fallen down, reaching almost to her shoulders. She'd been showing off her female drawers for all the world to see.
And her so-called friends had tricked her into doing it.
"You lousy..." Emma sprang to her feet and ran towards Clyde, her hands balled into two fists.
Clyde jumped back. "Now, now, Emma. A sweet thing like you shouldn't be fighting. You don't want to get them pretty unmentionables you just showed us all dirty, do you?" He grinned as he dodged Emma's blows. The boys formed a circle around them. Most of them were laughing at Emma.
She swung again, and, this time, her jab connected with Clyde's jaw. His head jerked sideways from the impact, and he fell in a heap.
"What are you doing, you horrid, horrid girl?" Hermione Ritter broke through the circle. "First you expose your underclothes to all these boys, then you strike my poor brother and injure him for no good reason. I," she said menacingly, "am telling Miss Osbourne." She turned and headed for the school building, while Eulalie Mackechnie scurried to catch up with her.
* * * * *
"Roscoe," Trisha said to the tall, slender man who'd just entered her store, "is it time for me to buy another advertisement in your paper?" O'Hanlan's Feed & Grain bought space in every issue of the boilerplate weekly newspaper Roscoe printed.
Roscoe walked over to where Trisha was standing behind the counter. "Mr. O'Hanlan?" He stared at her for a moment, his eyes running up and down her figure. "I heard what happened, but this... this is amazing. More than that..." He took a pencil and notepad from a jacket pocket. "...it's news. May I... would you mind answering a few questions... for the paper?"
"Paper? You... you ain't gonna print... I don't want you telling the whole world what happened to me."
Roscoe shook his head. "The whole world? No. If a real newspaperman like Mr. Varrick ain't gonna tell the world about Shamus O'Toole's potion, then I ain't either." He smiled at the look of relief on her face.
"But the folks here in Eerie, they already know about that potion. It won't hurt to tell them about what it did to you."
"What's the point? You knew about it; everybody in town probably does by now."
Roscoe cocked a dubious eyebrow. "You get trampled by a horse? Is that why you took the potion?" When she said no, he explained. "I heard you did. Somebody else said it was your brother, Liam, who took the potion, not you. I want to print the truth of what happened."
"And that'll end all the fake stories and the gossip?"
Roscoe smiled. "Most of it. There's always a few people that... well, that like the gossip more than the truth. Still, it's always better for folks to see the truth. Even if they don't want to believe it."
Trisha laughed - damn! It sounded too close to a giggle - at that. She'd had her doubts when Roscoe took over the business from Ozzie Pratt. Maybe this boy had something on the ball after all. "All right, all right. What do you want to know?"
* * * * *
R.J. knocked on the half-opened door to Shamus's office. "Somebody here to see you, Shamus, a Mrs. O'Hanlan."
"Send her in then," Shamus said, putting down the bills he'd been going through. He stood as Kaitlin walked in. "Good afternoon, Mrs. O'Hanlan."
"Kaitlin... please," she told him.
"Kaitlin, then." He pointed to the chair in the corner. "Why don't ye sit down and tell me what I can be doing for ye."
Kaitlin nodded a 'thanks' and sat. "I'd like to ask you some questions about the... umm, potion you gave to my husband and son."
"I didn't exactly give it to yuir husband, but that's neither here nor thuir. What would ye like t'know?"
"The potion makes them obey me, just as you said --"
"Aye, like I told ye, thuir's a wee bit o'time right after they change when thuir minds fix on whoever tells them something. They'll be obeying that person forever. Giving them new names was a good way t'be doing it."
"That's all well and good, but I want to release them, so they don't have to obey me anymore. Can I, and how do I do it?"
"Ye can't... not completely, but thuir's a way - I'll be writing the words down for ye t'say - so it gets t'be very hard for you t'give them orders." He stopped looking at the dubious expression on her face. "It's what I done when I 'freed' the others, the Hanks gang and Jake... Jane Steinmetz, and it does work - sort of. Nothing else we tried came even close."
"I... I suppose it will have to do." She took a breath. "May I... may I ask you one more question?"
"Ask as many as ye want. I'm just happy that me potion was able to save yuir son's life."
"I'm not sure that he'd agree with you just now, but he's the one I wanted to ask about. Elmer was 10... Emma... Emma looks like she's 13. How... why did that happen?"
Shamus scratched his head. "To be honest... I really don't know. I never... I've only given me potion to grown-up people before. Some of the fellows who took it got younger, but none of them got older." He thought for a moment. "Does she - excuse me for asking, but does she have... have a girl's... figure?"
"She does... as much of one as a 13-year old could have. Why? Does that mean something?"
"It might? Ye've heard what a second drink of me potion does... what it did to Wilma Hanks?"
Kaitlin's eyebrows furrowed. "You're not thinking of giving Emma another dose? You wouldn't?"
"No, no, no." Shamus waved his hands in front of him as if to wipe away the idea. "Me potion has something t'do with female... with how women... act with men, if ye don't mind me language."
"Not in this case. Please go on."
"Thank ye. The potion has t'do with... with ye know what, so it had t'make yuir Emma old enough to... well, to be starting the changes that make a child into a woman." He shrugged. "'Course, now I'm just guessing here. Does it make any sense t'ye?"
"It makes sense as anything else. Maybe - I don't know - maybe I should ask Dr. Upshaw to examine her."
"Ye may want t'be doing that anyway. I saw how bad Elmer was hurt. It might not be the worst idea to ask the Doc t'be making sure that yuir Emma's all healed up."
"I think you may be right." She looked at the small watch pinned to her skirt. "But it's getting late, and I've taken up enough of your time. If you'd be kind enough to write down those words you said would free Trisha and Emma, I'll be on my way."
* * * * *
Kaitlin took a sip of coffee. "I've... I've been thinking about what you said Sunday night, Trisha, about the potion, I mean."
"And..." Trisha looked at her closely.
"I'm not saying that I did anything wrong, but I'd like to offer you - and Emma, of course, a deal."
Emma was about to take a forkful of pie. "What sort of a deal, Ma?" she asked.
"I'll free you from the potion - Mr. O'Toole... Shamus told me how. We'd... I'd just keep the part about your new names."
"Let's do it, then. Let's do it," Emma said, almost giddy at the chance to be back into boy's clothing.
Trisha shrugged, pretending that it wasn't so important. "Oh... all right." She offered Kaitlin her hand. "Deal."
"Fine." Kaitlin shook Trisha's hand, then Emma's. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Trisha... Emma," she began to read in a firm voice, "from now on, you will only be compelled to obey me when I first say that 'I, Kaitlin McNeil O'Hanlan do hereby command you to obey.' There, that should do it."
"It had better," Trisha said.
Kaitlin frowned, sorry at having made the offer. "Oh, go soak your head."
Trisha braced herself for a moment. Nothing happened. "No," she said happily. "I don't believe that I will."
"Thanks, Ma." Emma, at least, smiled at Kaitlin.
* * * * *
Tuesday, November 28, 1871
"Clyde Ritter!"
Every head in the schoolyard turned at the yell. Emma O'Hanlan stood at one end of the schoolyard. She wore boy's clothes today, a long-sleeved shirt that showed three inches of arm above her wrist and a pair of pants that only came about half of the way from her knees to her ankles.
Clyde Ritter smiled and leaned against the stable fence. "Right here, Emma."
"You made me a laughing stock yesterday, and now you're gonna pay for it." Emma stormed over.
A crowd of children formed around the pair. Waiting for Miss Osbourne to open the school wasn't going to be boring today.
Clyde laughed. "Who's gonna make me? You? Is that why you got on them dumb clothes?"
"Damn right, I'm gonna, and what I wear is no business of yours."
"Aww, the little girl wants to dress up like she was still a boy. I bet you got those lacy frillies of yours on under them pants?"
"You take that back!"
"The hell I will, Emma."
Emma growled low in her throat and swung a mean right at Clyde. He dodged, and Emma just missed his head. Clyde threw a punch of his own that Emma blocked with her arm. The two grappled and fell to the ground. They rolled in the dry, brown grass, throwing punches and cursing at each other.
"Stop that! Stop that!" Hermione Ritter yelled. "You stop fighting with my brother, you horrid girl." Eulalie Mackechnie joined her in yelling at Emma.
"You wanna help me stop this, Stephan?" Yully Stone asked Stephan Yingling.
Stephan shook his head. "This is too much fun t'watch. I think Emma's winning."
"She is, but I see Miss Osbourne's carriage coming over the hill, and you know how she feels about fighting; no recess for two days at least and extra homework besides."
Stephan nodded. "Clyde deserves it."
"Yeah, but Emma doesn't. C'mon. I'll take her; you get Clyde."
The two boys pushed their way through the crowd. Clyde was on his back, with Emma on top of him. Yully snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her away. "Hey, let go of me," she yelled. She swung her arms and tried to twist around, but Yully held on.
As soon as Emma was off him, Clyde jumped up. When he tried to take a swing at Emma, Stephan grabbed his arm. "That ain't nice, Clyde. Fight's over; Miss Osbourne's coming."
By this time, Nancy Osbourne's carriage was in the schoolyard. She pulled it up at the edge of the crowd of her students. "What exactly is going on here?"
"Emma started --" Hermione said.
"We was all just welcoming Emma to class," Clyde interrupted her. Hermione didn't reply. Her parents had warned her about getting her brother in trouble, though everyone else was fair game.
Nancy looked at the group, especially the dirt on Clyde and Emma. "You seem have gotten overly exuberant in your welcome, Clyde. The two of you go wash up. Yully, please tie up my horse. The rest of you..." She pulled the key to the schoolhouse out of her reticule. "...I think we'll just start lessons a bit early today. I want all of you inside... now."
* * * * *
"Can I join ye, Jessie?."
Jessie looked up from her lunch. Shamus was standing across the table from her, a plate of Maggie's hot and spicy stew in one hand, a large glass of lemonade in the other. She gestured at the chair next to him. "Sit."
"Thank ye, lass. I been wanting to be talking to ye the last day or so."
Jessie took a forkful of the stew. "What about?"
"What ye done last Saturday at the dance."
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. The singing was Hiram's idea. I guess I'm not as good as I thought I was on the guitar. It must be that the gals in New Orleans were just trying to get on my good side when they bragged up my strumming."
"It ain't the guitar I want t'be talking to ye about, Jessie. 'Tis yuir singing. Ye've a lovely voice; it was so lovely that it cost me a bit of money."
"My singing? What exactly do you mean, Shamus? I didn't see anybody covering their ears and leaving."
"I make me money at the dance by selling drinks and selling tickets to the men that want to be dancing with ye."
"I know. What's the problem?"
"They wasn't dancing, not as many of 'em. Hell, they wasn't even drinking as much as they usually do. They was just standing there and listening t'ye sing."
"I guess that means I don't get to sing any more." She said it as a joke, but as she did, she thought about how much fun she'd had singing.
"The hell it does. What I'm wanting t'ask ye, is would ye like t'be working for me as a singer?"
"What? My singing cost you money, so you want me to sing some more. That's crazy, even for you."
"Crazy? Aye, it is, crazy like a fox. Ye'll not be singing on Saturday when I hold the dances. Ye'd sing on other nights, with the men paying t'come in and listen."
Jessie raised an eyebrow. "If they're gonna pay you to listen, what are you gonna pay me to sing?"
"Ye'll do it then?"
"I... I'll think about it, but you're gonna have t'make it worth my while."
"That seems fair enough. What do ye say to $5 a night?"
"Nothing. That wage ain't big enough to talk to strangers. You pay the band what... about $9. I'll take $10."
"I'm doing this t'make money, Jessie, not to lose it. I'll pay ye $6."
"I ain't even sure I want t'do this at all, but I know I won't do it for less than $9."
"Split the difference, $7.50."
"All right, $7.50 - for starting out at least - but I'm still not sure that I'm interested, even for that much."
"I'm thinking ye do. If ye wasn't ye wouldn't have given me such a hard time on the haggle we just had. Still, I won't force ye. Ye think about it some more before ye say yes."
* * * * *
"Miss O'Hanlan... excuse me, Miss O'Hanlan..." Roscoe Unger knocked on the counter twice. "Miss O'Hanlan." Trisha kept staring at the far wall of the Feed & Grain, lost in thought. Roscoe knocked again.
Trisha finally noticed and looked at him. "Yes, may I help you? Oh, hello, Roscoe. What brings you in today?" She sounded spiritless and depressed..
"I put out the boilerplate... the local edition of the Tucson Citizen, with the story about you. I... uhh, thought you might want to see it."
Trisha looked at him suspiciously. "And to what do I owe this personal service?" She was very tired of men flirting with her.
"I... I'm still learning how to write for the paper, so I go back and talk to the people I write articles about to see what they think about what I wrote. I think it helps me do better work." He handed her a copy of the paper. "Would you mind? The article is on the back page."
She took the paper, turned it around, and read.
Tucson Citizen - Eerie, Arizona Edition - November 28, 1871
"Potion Saves One Life and Changes Another" by Roscoe Unger
The magical potion brewed by Mr. Shamus O'Toole and used to such good
Effect last July against the Will Hanks Gang was used again last
Saturday to save the life of a seriously injured young boy.
Elmer O'Hanlan and Tomas Rivera, both aged 10, were playing under the
loading dock at the Wells Fargo Office, when a stove being loaded onto
a wagon fell upon them. The wagon was driven by one Anthony Giambetti,
who explained that the horses were skittish from the noises made while
the stove was being moved from the Wells Fargo storeroom to the wagon.
The Rivera boy suffered a broken arm and is currently recuperating at
home. Young master O'Hanlan suffered far worse injuries. According to
Dr. Hiram Upshaw, Elmer O'Hanlan suffered broken ribs and a ruptured
lung. "He wouldn't have lasted the day," Dr. Upshaw told your reporter.
Happily, the boy was saved from an early death by the administration of
a dose of O'Toole's potion. As with the Hanks Gang, the potion changed
him into a female, but a HEALTHY female, who no longer suffered any ill
effects from the near-fatal accident.
Elmer O'Hanlan, who is now known as Emma, was reluctant to save her life
by drinking the miraculous potion. As a means of persuading his son to
do so, Patrick O'Hanlan courageously pretended to drink some himself.
Unfortunately, he was unable to keep from swallowing, and was also
transformed. O'Hanlan, Senior, is now using the name Trisha. She
continues to work at the Feed & Grain store, which she operates with her
brother, Liam.
This paper congratulates them both on Emma's escape from the Grim Reaper.
* * * * *
"Well," Roscoe asked, looking eagerly at Trisha as she finished reading. "What do you think?"
Trisha frowned. "It makes me sound like a damned fool for swallowing that stuff by accident."
"But I called you 'courageous.' Besides, that's what you told me happened."
"Yeah, and I'm sorry I did. It was bad enough my doing it, but now me and the whole damned town gets to read just how stupid I was."
* * * * *
Wednesday, November 29, 1871
"My team," Hector Ybaá±ez yelled, "Over here. We got the ball." He raised the ball above his head and a group of boys quickly formed around him.
One of those boys was Clyde Ritter, Jr. "Miss Osbourne kept me outta yesterday's game. How 'bout if I take the ball out?"
"Hey," Emma interrupted, "who's side am I on?"
Clyde glared at her, his hands on his hips. "We settled that already, Emma. You ain't on anybody's side; you're a girl."
"I was boy enough to beat the tar out of you yesterday, Clyde," Emma said firmly. The boys began to mill around. Was there going to be another fight?
"We don't need no girl in boy's britches ruining our game," somebody yelled. More than few boys laughed. Emma curled her fingers into fists.
"Hold it." Yully Stone spoke loudly to be heard above the noise. "Seems t'me that Emma's got a right to play."
"You taking her side?" Clyde asked sarcastically. "You must be desperate."
"I think Yully's sweet on her," Jorge Ybaá±ez said with a laugh.
"Ain't neither," Yully answered. "I just wanna get this settled so we can play some ball and not spend another whole recess arguing. Now, Clyde, didn't you tell Emma that she could play if she could walk ten feet on her hands, from over there..." He pointed, then moved his hand and pointed again. "...to by that tree."
Clyde blinked in surprise at the question. "Yeah, but..."
"And most of you agreed with him when he said it," Yully continued.
"Well... yeah," Tommy Carson said, "but we was just going along with the trick Clyde was gonna play on her." Several other boys mumbled in agreement.
"I don't know why you all went along, and I don't care," Yully said firmly. "The point is that you all did go along. She walked them ten feet - and a couple more --"
"Yeah," Clyde said with a chuckle. "And it was quite a show." Now there was loud laughter.
"She walked it." Yully's voice had a sharp edge to it now. "I say she can play."
"Okay, okay, she can play," Hector said finally. "But she's on your team."
Yully nodded. "Let's just get going before it's time to go back in."
Hector handed the ball to Clyde. Clyde passed it to Tommy and the game began. A minute later, Emma was running near Yully as they chased the ball across the yard. "Thanks, Yully," she said.
Yully kept his eye on the ball, rather than turn to face her. "Like I said, I just wanted to get this settled. By the way, you mess up, and I'll kick you out of the game myself."
* * * * *
"Patrick, is that really you?" Rupert Warrick bellowed as he walked over to Trisha. Rupe, as everybody called him, owned the local lumberyard. He was a short, heavy-set man with a mop of curly black hair and a face as squat and square as his body. Trisha sighed. "Yeah, Rupe, it's me, only I go by Trisha now."
"I read that story 'bout you in the paper, but I had t'see it for m'self."
"Well, you've seen it. Go ahead and laugh."
"Laugh? Now why should I do that?"
"Look at me, at what I did to myself." Trisha made a sweeping gesture with her arm. "The whole town's laughing at me. Why shouldn't you laugh?"
"Don't really see the point. Maybe you ain't the smartest man t'come down the pike. I mean... drinking that brew of O'Toole's..." He shook his head. "But, hell, man... gal... whatever, you done it t'save your boy's life --"
"Emma's not my boy anymore."
"No, she ain't, but lemme ask you... which would you rather be, still a man and the father of a dead son, or what the two of you are now, both alive but the both of you women?"
"You know, Rupe, I must've asked myself that a hundred times since it happened, and, Lord help, I still don't know the answer."
* * * * *
"Disgraceful," Hermione Ritter said. "That Emma O'Hanlan is just disgraceful." She took a quick bite of her fried chicken lunch, as if to emphasize her words.
Eulalie McKeckney happily continued the thought for her friend. "Indeed, she is. Yesterday, she cheerfully shows off her new unmentionables, and, today, she wears those horrid clothes and actually joins the boys in that stupid game they play during recess."
"Never mind that," Hermione jumped back in. "Two days in a row, she's seen fit to attack my poor, innocent brother."
Penny Stone, Yully's younger sister, a tall, athletic looking girl, rolled her eyes at the word "innocent". She remembered a few experiences of her own involving Clyde Ritter, Jr., all of them unsavory. "Beat him both times, too."
"Only because he wasn't expecting such a vicious, unprovoked attack." She bristled at Penny. "My poor, helpless brother, to be set upon like that."
Penny bit her lip. "Helpless? I wouldn't go quite that far." Penny saw Ysabel Diaz nod in agreement.
"My point is," Hermione said, trying to regain her usual control of the conversation, "Emma O'Hanlan is a hopeless tomboy."
"Perhaps she does not know how to behave otherwise," Ysabel said. "After all, she has only been a girl for a few days. She needs help to learn how to be one."
"Well, I certainly have no have know intention of teaching her such things," Hermione answered. "Not after the way she acted when she was Elmer."
Eulalie shuddered. "Oh, yes. Why, I still have nightmares about that rattlesnake."
"It was just a harmless garter snake, Lallie," Penny said, "and you know it. Didn't you tell us all how you had to help your pappa get one out from under your henhouse last summer?" She grinned. "I think you...and you, too, Hermione, were just playing at being 'damsels in distress' to get some attention from my brother."
"Was not," Eulalie said, trying not to blush. "I...all right, I know what a garter snake is. I...I just never expected to see one curled up in a desk here in school. I was startled."
Ysabel snickered. "So was the snake, I think."
"Whatever happened that day," Hermione said firmly, "I see no reason for any of us to associate with that... that person."
* * * * *
Shamus hurried over to Arnie Diaz as soon as the boy entered the Saloon. "What're ye doing in here, boyo? I've told ye more'n once that I won't serve ye."
Arnie glared back at the barman. "I'm not here for your rotgut. I'm looking for Bridget Kelly."
"Ye are, are ye?" Shamus looked over to where Bridget was just settling back into her chair after taking a mid-afternoon break. "Miss Kelly, thuir's a gentleman here t'see ye."
Bridget looked over, assuming that Shamus had found someone interested in some poker. She tried to hide her disappointment when she saw Arnie. 'No way, I'm taking some kid's pocket money,' she thought.
"Hola, Miss Kelly," Arnie said as he walked over to her. "When you were at Silverman's just now, you left these." He reached into a pocket and pulled out two small, green baubles.
Bridget's hands flew to the sides of her head. "My earrings!" It was the pair that Cap had given to her. "I was looking at some new ones that Rachel just got in, and I took mine off. I'm still not used to wearing these things..." She looked embarrassed. "And I must've forgotten them."
"You did," Arnie said, "and I brought 'em back to you."
"Ye be sure t'say we thanked Aaron for sending ye over with them," Shamus told him.
Arnie straightened - and stiffened - his back. "No one sent me, Mr. O'Toole. I saw that she had left them there, and I decided to bring them over to her."
"And you deserve a reward." Bridget reached into her cash box.
Arnie shook his head. He walked over and gently put the earrings on the table next to the cash box. "A man doesn't need a reward for doing what's right." He tried very hard to look taller and older and much more of a gallant.
"At least let me buy you something to drink," Bridget suggested. "It's such a hot day."
'Shamus can't refuse her,' Arnie thought. Aloud, he added, "I'd be happy and honored to have a drink with you."
He brightened until she ordered, "Two sarsaparillas, please, Shamus."
Shamus nodded and went to fetch the drinks, happy at the way Bridget had avoided a scene.
Bridget saw the disappointment on Arnie's face. "I hope you don't mind, ah... Mr. Diaz."
"I'm Arnoldo... Arnie, Miss Kelly." He bowed his head for a moment. "At your service."
"Very pleased to meet you, Arnie. I hope you don't mind my ordering sarsaparillas. I have a night of playing poker ahead of me, and I cannot afford to have my wits numbed, even a little, by alcohol."
Arnie bowed again. "I understand completely, Miss Kelly."
"Bridget... please."
"I understand completely...Bridget, and I'll be pleased to join you in whatever you want to drink."
* * * * *
Liam walked over to Trisha, who was struggling to lift a sack of oats off the floor. "Why don't I take that?"
"I... can... manage... it," she said through gritted teeth. She gave a hard pull and got the sack up even with her waist.
As she shifted it around, Liam noticed a small rip in the burlap sack. "There's a hole in the bag. It must have snagged on something while you were dragging it." He took hold of the bag. "Better let me take it."
"Let go," Trisha yelled. "I said I could handle it. I was helping pa in his store while you were still walking around in diapers."
There were a few whistles and catcalls from the customers at that. "Better let your brother handle it, darling," someone yelled. "A pretty little thing like you weren't made for doing such heavy work."
"You go to hell," Trisha answered. "You, too, Liam." She let go of the sack. Her brother hadn't expected that, and he had to struggle for a moment to keep it from falling.
Some oats fell out through the rip. Trisha looked down to see how bad the spill was. She saw a green ivory button on the floor near the oats. "Damn," she spat, looking down at her green flannel shirt. "That's the third day I've popped a button off a shirt." She was smaller and thinner, but her damned breasts still strained the material.
She picked up the button, pocketed it, and stormed back to the counter. Liam followed, holding the sack so as to keep any more oats from spilling.
* * * * *
"So," Paul said, wrapping his arm around Jessie's waist, "Anything interesting happen to you in the last few days?"
Jessie rested her hand on his and moved closer to him on the bed. "You mean besides what we just done?"
"Yes," he said with a chuckle, "though I don't know that I'd call what we did 'interesting'."
"Oh, you wouldn't." She jabbed him in the side with her elbow, although not very hard, "And just what would you call it?"
"Hmmm, exciting, pleasurable - very pleasurable, delicious... got me happier than a bear with a new honeycomb, as some of my old cowboy friends might say. I can keep going if you'd like me to."
"No, that's a pretty good answer, especially the 'delicious' part."
"Glad you like it." He paused a beat. "You are... delicious, I mean."
"Mmm, you too."
"You know, you still haven't answered my question." He ran a fingernail along the curve of her stomach. "A man gets suspicious when he doesn't get an answer to a question like that."
"If you gotta know..." She put her hand on his to stop him. She was ticklish there. "...Shamus asked me to sing for him."
"You mean like you did at the dance last Saturday?"
"Not exactly. Not at the dance, that's for sure. He said people was too busy listening me t'buy dance tickets or drinks."
"You always were a major distraction, Jess, at least to me."
She turned her head and kissed him on the shoulder. "Thank you, Paul. You are t'me, too. Shamus wants me t'sing by myself on another night. He's gonna sell tickets or something, and he says he'll pay me $7.50 t'do it."
"Not a bad deal, I suppose, for a one-time show."
"It won't be one time, not if the men like it."
"So, he wants to make a singer out of you, eh."
"You sound like you don't think I can do it."
'Careful,' Paul thought. "Oh, I'm sure you can do it. I've heard you sing, remember? 'Hush, little baby...' Fact is, you were singing for me just a few minutes ago." His hand reached up and started to play with her nipple.
"Mmm, that's nice. Are... are you trying to distract me?"
"I can stop if you want."
"You don't have to... mmm, stop, but... does it bother you for me t'sing in Shamus' saloon?"
"I'm not sure, Jess. I'll have to think about that a little. I do know one thing, though. If you really want to do it, I won't be able to stop you. Not even if I tied you to this bed."
"No... no, I guess you wouldn't. I wouldn't mind being tied to this here bed, though." Her hand slid down and around his maleness. He was more than ready to go again. "Not if you was tied here with me."
* * * * *
Thursday, November 30, 1871
Emma jumped into the air, waving her arms frantically. "Over here, over here. Throw it to me." No one from either team was near her, and she was only a few yards from the goal.
Tommy Carson ran towards her. He was on Hector's team, and he was ready to block any throw from Matt Yingling, who had the ball. Emma put down her hands and dodged quickly back and forth trying to put Tommy off stride.
Matt threw the ball. It flew in a high arc over Tommy's outstretched arm. Emma turned and put her hands out, ready to catch it. It was about to come down into her hands, when her feet seemed to get tangled. She let out a surprised yelp and fell to the ground.
The ball landed a few feet away. It bounced twice before Tommy caught it and started running towards the opposite end of the schoolyard.
Emma jumped to her feet, brushing some dirt off her shirt. She began to chase Tommy, who passed the ball to Hector. Emma turned and ran after him, as did most of both teams.
Yully came along side her as she ran. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Emma said, "just mad. I can run faster since... since I changed, but I got all clumsy since then, too. I'm sorry."
"You grew too fast is what happened," Yully said. "Last year, I grew six inches in about two months. I musta fell and skinned my knees twenty times till I got used to my new body."
"You think that's it?"
"Probably, just don't let it happen again if you can. We would've scored if you'd caught that ball."
* * * * *
Trisha looked up from the counter. Mateo, one of two men who worked in her storehouse, was across the room talking to a customer. Normally, the husky Mexican never came into the shop itself.
Liam was standing near her, talking to Blackie Easton. Trisha grabbed his arm. "What the hell is Mateo doing out here waiting on trade?"
"Later," Liam hissed. "I'm working on a big order for Abner Slocum."
"Just answer my question, damn it?" she said.
Liam frowned. "Excuse me, Blackie. This'll just take a moment." He turned to face Trisha. "Mateo's been out here working for over an hour. You were mooning around all that time, barely noticing the customers - or anything else. That's why I had him come out here."
"Send him back to shoveling grain. We don't need him out here."
"Yes, we do. Trisha, you got some kind of bug in your britches, and till you get over it, you're no damn good to me, to yourself, or to anybody else."
"This is my store, and I say he goes back into the storerooms."
"I thought we were partners in this business."
"We... we are," Trisha sputtered, "but I'm your big brother, and what I say goes."
Liam frowned again and shook his head. He put his hands on either side of her waist and, with no real effort, lifted her up and sat her on the counter. "Not any more, Trisha, not any more."
* * * * *
There was a knock on the door of the bedroom Tomas Rivera shared with his little brother, Pablo. Tomas looked up from his bed to see a girl a few years older than he was. "Are you looking for someone?" he asked. "My mamma is out back cooking supper."
"I can smell it," the girl said smiling shyly. "I always did like your mamma's cooking."
"Do I know you?" He had no idea who she was.
"You sure do." The girl took a step into the room and held out her right hand, palm towards him. "See."
He leaned forward for a better look. "See what?" Her hand was clean.
"Dang it!" The girl looked at her hand. "My scar musta got all healed up when I changed."
"Changed?" Realization hit Tomas. "Elmer?"
She smiled sadly. "I used t'be. I'm Emma now."
"My... my parents told me you had been changed, but this... this is...increáble... unbelievable." He looked closely at Emma. "What's it like?"
"It's hard t'say. I don't feel no different, but I am."
"You sure are. You look older, too, more like Hermione Ritter."
Emma made a face. "Do me a favor and don't say her name. She's at me all day in school, yapping like a little dog that wants t'take bite outta me. I don't know why I look older. My ma's taking me to the Doc's tomorrow. Maybe he'll know."
"Yeah, you even got... things on your chest like... like some older girl."
"I don't wanna talk about them neither. They feel real funny all the time. I hate it... them." She tried to change the subject. "When you gonna be able t'come back to school?"
"Mamma said I can go back Monday." He raised an arm to show the cast he wore. "But I gotta keep this thing on for another five-six weeks."
"Can you do anything at all with that arm?"
Tomas smiled. He was glad for the company of his best friend, however changed. "I can whup you at checkers, same as I always could."
"Says you. Where's your board?" She looked around the room.
Tomas pointed to a latched toy box in a corner. "In there, like always. You get it out and set it up here on the bed." He pulled himself up into a sitting position, making room on the bed. "And we'll see just who beats who."
* * * * *
Bridget dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "That was a very good supper. Thank you, Cap."
"Maggie's a fine cook." Cap said with a smile. "The supper was very good, but the company was superb."
Bridget nodded slightly to acknowledge the compliment. "My, aren't you the young gallant this evening."
"If I am, it's you that brings it out in me. You look lovely in that dress."
"Thank you. To tell the truth, I mostly think of outfits like this as 'working clothes,' what I wear to play poker in."
"Maybe so, but on you, the plainest cotton dress would look like a gown of purest silk."
She felt a blush rising in her cheeks. She was still getting used to Cap's new game of extravagant compliments. "You, Cap Lewis, are a liar, but a very charming one."
"At your service, ma'am."
"That reminds me," she reached for her purse. "I have this month's payment for your uncle right here."
"Trying to change the subject, are you?"
"I thought the point of this dinner was so I could give you his check."
"Bridget, I could've just walked in any time today and asked for that check, and you'd have given it to me. The point of this evening is so I can have my Thanksgiving day dinner with you, the prettiest gal in the territory. That gives me something to be truly thankful for."
"Just the same, you came in today, the end of the month, for the money due you, just as regular as my old army paymaster."
Cap laughed. "That's right, you were in the army, weren't you."
Bridget sat erect and gave him a sharp salute. "Corporal Brian G. Kelly, Texas State Militia and Army of the Confederate States of America... sir."
"Don't call me 'sir', I worked for a living." He returned her salute. "Bosun's mate Matthew Harriman Lewis, Confederate Navy." He thought a moment. "That's right, the Army's where you met Wilma...Will Hanks and joined his gang."
Bridget's expression darkened. "I met up with Will a long time before that," she said softly. "As for the Army, I'd... could we talk about something else, anything else? Please?"
"All right. Let's talk about what an idiot I am."
"Idiot? I don't understand."
"I must be an idiot. Here I am, having dinner with the prettiest gal I know, and I go and say something that gets her all upset." He reached across the table and took her hand in his. "I'm sorry, Bridget. Can you forgive me?" He gave her a sad little smile.
"I... I suppose. You really didn't know." She forced a smile. "You still don't."
Cap cocked an eyebrow. "Can you forgive me enough to go on a buggy ride on Sunday... maybe have a picnic lunch with me?"
"Cap!"
"There's that pretty smile I remembered. Does it mean that you will go on a picnic with me on Sunday?"
"Don't you ever take anything seriously?"
Cap stood up and leaned over the table. He was still holding her hand, and now he raised it to his lips and kissed it gently. "Yep. I take you and me very seriously."
* * * * *
Friday, December 1, 1871
Trisha looked around the store nervously and pulled at her ill-fitting clothes, the shirt that was too tight and the pants that were too long. "So how's business, Aaron?" She asked finally, trying to keep her mind off the reason why she was in his store, looking for shirts she could wear without popping their buttons every damned day.
Aaron looked at her and shrugged. "I keep busy. As they say, trade makes you rich in cash, but poor in leisure."
"Ain't that the truth. We just had to put on a second man to help us at the store."
"And now you lost one."
"What do you mean?" She asked sharply. "You think I can't do my job 'cause I'm a damned woman now?" It was a question she'd been afraid to ask herself.
Aaron smiled. "You said that; I didn't. If I didn't think a woman could work in a store, would I have mine Rachel in here every day?"
"No... I guess you wouldn't. But you sell clothes. You gotta have a women in here to take care of the ladies' trade. It's different in my line of work."
"What, you don't keep books, make sure you got good stock to sell? You don't try to give your customers good quality for their money, even while you try to make a bissel, make a little something, on each deal?"
"Damn right, I do. Say... what're you trying to pull?"
"Patrick --"
"Trisha. That damned potion won't let me answer to... to that other name."
"Trisha, then. You was a good man. I heard how you drank that stuff by accident to try to save your Elmer's life. The smartest thing it wasn't, but you were doing the best you could. You still got that same best in you, right?"
"I... I suppose. Even if I am... this." She gestured, moving her right hand in front of her, as if to draw attention to her new appearance.
"What you are, Trisha, is a mensch, a good, a real person. Whatever happens, you keep that in mind, and you'll be all right."
"Then you don't think my changing like this is a bad thing."
"Trisha, in my prayers, the ones I say each morning, there's one that goes, 'Bless You, O Lord, for not making me a woman.' Well, you, He made a woman - why is His business, but I figure, He's got to have something in mind for you."
* * * * *
Emma whimpered one last time as she felt Doc Upshaw gently slide the speculum out of her body. "Are... are you done?"
"I am," Doc told her. He stood up and put the instrument into a small pail labeled "Used" along with the speculum he'd used to examine Trisha. He took off his rubberized gloves and tossed them into the same pail. Then he opened the straps that held Emma's feet in the stirrups of his examination table. "You can get dressed now."
Emma all but jumped off of the table. "That was awful, Doc," she said, as she pulled on her drawers. Do ladies - real ladies like Ma - do they like having that done to 'em?"
"Not one bit," Kaitlin answered for the doctor, "but it's something that has to be done sometimes if a woman wants to stay healthy. You'll see."
Emma shook her head. "Not if I can help it. I don't want to ever go through that again." She stepped into her pants. They were no better than any other of Elmer's pants and only reached an inch or two below Emma's knees.
"Aren't you cold in those short pants?" Doc asked, looking at her while she worked the buttons on the front of her trousers.
"I am," Emma answered, "but Ma won't get longer ones. She says it's them or the dresses she got me last Sunday." Emma frowned at her mother.
"Mmm, must be hard on those bare legs, too," Doc said. "And it is getting a bit cooler now that December's almost here."
Kaitlin nodded. "After all that we spent on dresses, I won't buy longer pants, regardless of what anyone ays." She looked sharply at Trisha who was sitting in a corner of the examining room, lost in thought as she recovered from the experience of her own examination.
"I was thinking, though," Kaitlin continued, "that I might sew some scrap cloth onto the ends of her... of Elmer's pants. That would bring them out to their proper length. I might even do the same for a few of her shirts."
Emma was six inches taller than Elmer had been, much of it in her longer arms and legs. "Would you, mama. That... that would be great."
"While you're doing all of that sewing," Trisha suddenly said, "I've got some shirts that are missing buttons."
"Let's talk about that when we get home," Kaitlin said. "After all, we didn't come to see Dr. Upshaw, so we could talk about your wardrobes." She turned to the doctor, "Speaking of which, how are Trisha and Emma physically?"
"Normal... healthy... and female, Kaitlin," Doc answered. "There's no real differences between their... umm, anatomies and your own, not as far as I could determine at any rate. And Emma's body is at the proper stage of pubescent development for a girl of about thirteen... just as you said."
"But I'm only ten," Emma interrupted. "How did I get to be three years older?"
"The same way that you became a girl, Emma," Doc Upshaw said gently, "Shamus' potion. As to why, that theory of Shamus' that your mother told us about is as good as any and probably better than most."
"It sounds crazy to me," Trisha said. "She's older so her body can start getting ready for... for making babies... babies!" She shuddered at the thought. "Is that all the potion thinks we're good for?"
"It doesn't think," Doc corrected her. "At least, I don't think that it does. It just seems to follow some sort of crazy logic of its own."
"Well, I hate it." Trisha was angry now. "There's no logic to it. It just... just made a hash out of everything."
"It saved Emma's life," Kaitlin said in a soft voice. "We can be thankful for that anyway."
"Yes... yes, it did," Trisha replied, "but look at what it cost me - and her."
* * * * *
Jessie carefully laid her tray, heavy with five empty steins, down on the bar. R.J. started transferring the steins to a larger "bus" tray to be taken out to the kitchen for washing.
"Hey, Shamus," Jessie called to the older barman, who was standing a few feet away. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Shamus walked over. "Seems t'me you already are, Jessie, now what can I be doing for ye?"
"You still got that crazy notion in your head about me singing for you - for money, I mean?"
"I do, and I don't think it's such a crazy idea. And if ye're asking, neither do ye?"
"Okay, maybe it ain't so crazy, but I still ain't rightly sure how t'go about it."
"'Tis simple; ye get up on me stage and sing."
Jessie glanced quickly around the room. "What stage? You mean that little thing the band stands on for the Saturday dances?"
"Aye, that's all the stage I've ever needed." He studied her expression. "O'course, if ye're afraid..." He let his voice trail off.
"Afraid?" Her eyes narrowed. "It's just that... well, I never done anything like singing in front of folks before."
"Sure ye have. That time last summer when ye got all the men fighting, and I told ye t'be singing t'calm them down." He raised a finger as if counting. "And just the last Saturday..." He raised a second finger. "...when ye was playing with the band."
"Yeah, but that first time, I didn't have no choice. Your damned potion made me sing, and the second time... that... that was some kinda fluke was all."
"Fess up, Jess," R.J. said. "What's really bothering you?"
"Aye, what ain't ye telling us, lass?"
"I... I don't know if I'll be any good," she said softly. "I got my pride."
"And the great Jessie Hanks don't want t'be making no fool of herself." Shamus nodded. "I can understand that."
"How's this," R.J. suggested. "Why not do a trial run?"
"What d'you mean?" Jessie and Shamus asked together.
R.J. explained. "One night next week - Tuesday, say - Shamus sets up the stage without saying what it's for. Then... oh, maybe at nine when the place is fairly filled, he says he's got a surprise for the folks, and you go up and sing a few songs."
"Without charging them for it?" Shamus asked.
"Yeah, and probably without paying me anything for it, right?" Jessie made a sour face. "What's the point, R.J.?"
"Jess, you'll get to see what it's like doing a show up there on that stage, small as it is," R.J. explained, "And Shamus, you'll get an idea if she's any good."
"I see what ye mean," Shamus said, nodding in agreement. "It may be that we're deciding t'be forgetting the whole thing..."
"Or, we'll see just how good I am." Jessie completed the thought.
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Shamus said. "Is Tuesday all right with ye, Jessie?" He stuck out a hand.
Jessie shook it as firmly as she could. "Tuesday it is."
* * * * *
"Bit late to start sewing, isn't it?" Trisha asked.
Kaitlin was sitting by the kitchen table. She had been cutting a pattern for an addition to Emma's pants leg when Trisha had spoken. She frowned. "I've been at this for almost a half hour. I've been wondering when you would notice."
"I-I've had some other things on my mind this evening."
"Seems to me you've had those things on your mind for days now. What's the matter?"
"Nothing... really, nothing. What are you working on over there?"
"Emma's clothes. I said I was going to sew some extra cloth on her pants so they'd be long enough again."
"Are you going to do her shirts, too?"
"Of course."
"While you're doing that, could you do something about my shirts, too."
"Your shirts are more than long enough. You're rolling up the sleeves now."
"The sleeves aren't the problem. The buttons are." He hesitated a moment. "They... uhh, they keep popping off."
"With the... figure you have now, I'm not surprised."
"Then you'll sew them back on?"
"No. If I do, they'll just pop off again."
"Sew them on tighter; you can do that, can't you?"
"If I sew them on that tight, then the material of the shirt will just tear instead. We spent enough money on all those new clothes for the two of you; we shouldn't spend any more."
"We can take back all those girl's clothes. Emma and I don't want to wear them anyway."
"You should be wearing them instead creating of all this nonsense about wearing clothes that don't fit just because you wore them...before."
"It's not nonsense. These are my clothes." She made a gesture at the shirt and pants she was wearing. "Not those blouses and skirts you bought for me."
"I notice that you're wearing the underclothes I bought."
Trisha blushed. "I... I have to. My old union suit scratched too much, and my... my breasts don't feel right by the end of the day if I don't wear that damnable corset."
"Exactly."
"That corset is part of the problem, though, it makes my shirts even tighter."
"But you don't want to go without it. Well, the solution is obvious. Wear blouses. They're cut to allow for the corset."
"No. I'll not wear women's clothing."
"So you say." Kaitlin smiled. "But you're wearing a chemise, corset, and woman's drawers while you say it."
"That's all I'll wear."
"Then, Trisha, you had best learn how to darn on missing buttons because I will not do it for you." She watched Trisha sputter for a moment, then added the clincher. "Besides, it takes time to do a button right, and I'd rather spend what sewing time I have working on Emma's pants for the time being."
* * * * *
Saturday, December 2, 1871
Kaitlin opened her front door almost before the knocking stopped. "Nancy, Nancy Osbourne, please do come in."
"Thank you, Kaitlin," Nancy said, walking in. "We really didn't get a chance to talk when you brought Emma to school on Monday. Is she around now? There's a few things I'd like to discuss with you, if I could, and I'd rather she not overhear."
"Nothing serious, I hope. Emma went over to Tomas Rivera's house. She has chores, but I told her she could go visit for a while. Poor Tomas must hate being cooped in with that broken arm of his."
"I'm sure he does. He'll probably even be happy to come back to school on Monday, just for the change of place." She chuckled at her joke. "If your... your husband is here, you might want to ask him... her to come in. This concerns her... him as well."
"Trisha, that's what she's called now, is at the store. I'll pass on whatever we discuss when she comes home this evening." Kaitlin pointed to a comfortably overstuffed brown chair. "Now, why don't you sit down, and I'll get us both some coffee."
"Please don't bother."
"It's no bother at all. I've most of a pot left from breakfast."
A few minutes later, they were enjoying the coffee and some shortbread with marmalade. "How did Emma do in school this week?" Kaitlin asked, putting down her cup.
"Since her transformation, you mean." Nancy took a breath, then continued. "I don't see any change in her work, and that's... well, one of the things I wanted to talk to you about."
"What do you mean?"
"Elmer was ahead of grade level in arithmetic and at his grade level in reading. Emma is at the same point that Elmer was. That means she's below grade level in arithmetic and very much below grade level in reading."
"How can that be?"
"I assign students to a grade based on each child's age. Grade level is a measure of ability in a subject. Physically, your Emma is 13, that's eighth grade. Her arithmetic is at the sixth or seventh grade level, and her reading is at the fifth grade level. She may be able to catch up in time, but I'm not even sure that she has the time."
"How can she not have the time?"
"If she's on eighth grade, then she graduates at the end of the year."
"She... graduates?"
"She might. What sort of plans did you and your... umm, Trisha have for Elmer after he graduated?"
"We... we really hadn't thought about it that much; at least, I hadn't. We had years yet to plan. I...I suppose that Patrick would have wanted to bring him into the business. I thought...I knew he was doing well in arithmetic. I thought he might want to be an engineer or something else that took more education."
"That might not be possible now. If..." She sighed and took a sip of coffee. "If Emma is in the eighth grade. I can put her eighth or leave her in fifth."
"Leave her in fifth, then."
"If I do, it'll seem like she's been left back. If her body is thirteen, now, she'll be sixteen by the time she graduates. That's awfully old to still be in school. Some girls marry at sixteen."
"Marry... Emma? She's a boy."
"She was a boy. So was Laura Meehan last summer. She's not only married to Arsenio Caulder now, she's expecting a child."
Kaitlin gasped. "It... it doesn't seem... possible, does it?"
"It probably isn't... Emma getting married, I mean. Look, here's what I propose. I'll keep Emma listed as a fifth grade student for now. I can promote her any time that I - or you - think it's needful to do so. In the meantime, I would suggest that you get her some tutoring, so she moves up to a grade level closer to her physical age."
"Can you tutor her?"
"I can do some, but it might be better if I ask Ysabel Diaz to help her."
"Ysabel? Isn't she one of your students?"
"Yes, but she's my best helper with the younger children. She wants to be a teacher herself someday, and I think that she'll be a very good one."
"Do you think she'll want to help?"
"I think so, and she'll be helpful in more than just academic matters, I think. Frankly, many of the boys are teasing Emma, and as many of the girls are ostracizing her. Emma needs a friend, and she needs someone to teach her how to be a girl. I think that Ysabel can be both of those things."
"Then by all means, please ask her."
"I will." She spread some of the marmalade on a piece of shortbread and took a bite. "I'll send a note home with Emma on Monday telling what Ysabel said."
"That will be fine."
"I thought that you would agree, but I didn't want to do anything without talking it over with you first."
"I appreciate that. Can you stay and visit for a while?"
"I'd love to. There's not much for me to do today, and if I go back to the Carson's house, I'm sure that Mrs. Carson will have all manner of chores to foist on me."
Part of Nancy's pay was room and board at the home of one of her students, a common practice of the time. However, Zenobia Carson had never quite grasped the notion that the woman living in her spare bedroom was the town's employee and not her own indentured servant.
* * * * *
Cap was whistling when he walked into his uncle's study. "Tuck said to tell you that lunch is ready." Tuck was Abner Slocum's cook. A former cowboy at Slocum's ranch in Texas, he'd left half his right leg at Vicksburg.
"Whatever he's serving must be really special to make you so happy," Slocum said.
"It's not lunch, Uncle Abner, it's Bridget. She said she'd go on a picnic with me tomorrow."
"No wonder you're so happy. Where are you taking her?"
"To a small clearing I know of, about five minutes north of town."
Slocum cocked an eyebrow. "Why, Matthew, what exactly are you planning to do with the young lady?"
"Just talk, Uncle Abner. Sorry if that disappoints you."
"Actually, it doesn't. I'm glad to see that you're growing up."
"Thanks, but the credit isn't all mine. I don't think that Bridget would let me get away with anything." He paused. "Not that part of me doesn't want to."
"Can't blame you for that. She is a lovely, young woman."
"Why, Uncle Abner, at your age."
"I'm not that old, Matthew, and I'm not dead, either. But if you're not planning to have your evil way with her, what are you planning to do that you need to go so far out of town?"
"Talk... just talk." He looked at his uncle's expression. "All right, kiss some, too, if she'll let me. Mostly, I just want to be alone with her. We've always been at Shamus' place, part of the crowd. You can't really get to know a person in a crowd."
"No, you're right; you need time alone, time to talk about things that you might not want to say when you're in a crowd."
"You're right. About all I really know about her is what's happened since she came to Eerie. That and the fact that she was in the Confederate Army."
"She was what?"
"Back during the War, she and Wilma Hanks were in the Army together. She told me about it when I went to get her check the other day."
"Why'd she do that?"
"She didn't mean to. We were talking and she said that I was as regular about the money she owed as her old army paymaster."
"Interesting." Slocum seemed to be remembering something. "Always interesting what a woman will prattle about when she isn't thinking."
"Prattle?"
"Talk... ramble, you know what I mean." Slocum stood up and put his arm around Cap's shoulder. "Come on, let's go see what Tuck made for lunch before he gets mad and burns it on us."
* * * * *
"Water's boiling," Kaitlin said. Trisha walked over to the stove and put the oven mitts on her hands. Kaitlin already had on a pair. Each woman took a handle of the large copper pot. "On three. One... two... three... lift!"
Together they lifted the heavy pot from the cook stove and walked over to the tin washtub. They rested the pot on the edge for a moment, then emptied it into the nearly filled tub. They put the pot on the floor, rather than carry it back to the stove.
"Bath time," Kaitlin said. She took off the mitts and tossed them onto the nearby table. She untied the sash of her robe and shrugged it from her shoulders. She was naked beneath it. She stepped into the tub and sat down. "Would you hand me the soap, please."
Trisha had been working on the sash of her own robe. "Wait a minute. What are you doing in the tub? I always take the first bath."
"Tonight, I'm going first, thank you. If you hadn't taken so long, you might have gotten in first, but, as always lately, you were preoccupied. Just what is it that you're always thinking about lately?"
"Nothing." Trisha shook her head. "Nothing at all."
Kaitlin snorted. "Nothing... nothing, my great aunt Fanny."
"This is ridiculous. Why are you bringing this all up now?"
"Because Emma's up in her room right now with the door closed, so she can't hear us and because I'm tired of you going around like a sleepwalker all the time, not noticing half of what's going on around you." She paused a beat. "And Liam says you're the same way at the store. He said that the customers were asking him about it. A few of them got insulted; they thought you were deliberately ignoring them."
"And when exactly were you having this long discussion about me with Liam?"
"Don't try and change the subject. What's bothering you?" She waited.
Trisha handed her the bar of soap. "Here, go wash all these stupid questions right out of your head."
"If you won't tell me what's on your mind so much, can you at least explain what you meant yesterday when you said, 'look what it cost me'? You made it sound like it was Emma's fault that you were a woman."
"Isn't it?"
"No, it's yours for taking a mouthful of potion."
"I wasn't planning on swallowing it. I did it so she would drink some. It was the only thing I could think of to save her life."
"No, it was the first thing you could think of. And because you thought of it, it had to be the best plan. You didn't try to persuade her. You didn't ask me for help - I was there, too, you know. You just drank that foul brew."
"And look what happened."
"Yes, look what happened. Your child didn't die. Can't you at least be happy with that?"
"Didn't he? Oh. Of course, I'm glad that Emma's alive. It's just... he's... we're... this." She made a sweeping gesture at her body. "So different... so much less than we... oh, hell. Take your damned bath and try to finish before the water gets cold."
Trisha stormed over to the couch and sat down next to a copy of Sporting Times. She picked it up and noisily began to turn the pages.
* * * * *
Milt handed Jane a ticket and led her out onto the dance floor. "Glad t'see you for a change, Milt," she teased. "What made you decide to come tonight?"
"Would you believe me if I said that I came to hear Jessie Hanks sing? I'm told she has a quite lovely voice."
"Maybe," Jane said, pouting. "Only, she ain't gonna sing tonight. Some time next week, Shamus says."
"Or maybe I came to try my hand at Bridget's poker table. I was a pretty good player in college."
"Bridget don't run her game on Saturdays; you knows that. She says nobody can concentrate with all the noise of the dance."
"Yes... I do know that." The music started, a waltz. Milt took Jane in his arms and they began to step about the floor.
"So why did you come?"
"The only possible reason left, to be with the prettiest girl in town." He pulled her closer to him.
Jane kissed him gently on the cheek. "Good answer."
* * * * *
Teaser:
The adventures of the ladies of the Eerie Saloon continue. Jessie tries something new, Trisha fights for her rightful place, and Maggie discovers a rival for Ramon's affections.
* * * * *
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change - Autumn
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson (c)2005
Part 3 - December
Sunday, December 3, 1871
Trisha stopped a few feet from the entrance to the schoolhouse. The building was filling with people come for Sunday worship.
"What's the matter, dear?" Kaitlin asked.
Trisha sighed. "I'm just not sure about wearing these women's clothes to church." After much arguing, Kaitlin had managed to convince Trisha that her poorly fitting men's clothes were not appropriate for Sunday services. Trisha was in a navy blouse and skirt, her long, blonde hair tucked under a matching cap.
"I know it was a bad idea," Emma said, self-consciously touching her kelly green dress. "Can we go home and change outta these duds?"
Kaitlin shook her head. "No, we'd miss the service." She glanced down at her own dark brown dress, almost the same color as her hair. "Besides, it's bad enough that you two insist on wearing men's clothing all week. I'll not be disgraced by having everyone see you looking silly in such clothes here in church on the Sabbath."
"I suppose... since we're already here." Trisha started forward, not wanting to continue a fight she felt she'd already lost.
A few people noted them as they walked in. One or two nodded their heads in greeting. A tall, ruddy-faced man that Trisha didn't recognize leered at her until she glared back at him. Penelope Stone, Yully's mother, and Lavinia Mackechnie stopped in mid-conversation to say hello to Kaitlin. Tommy Carson pointed at Emma and laughed behind his hand.
No one spoke to Trisha, although several people pointed at her. When Stan Becker tried to take a step towards Trisha, his wife firmly put her hand on his arm and shook her head.
They stopped near the front of the room. "We'll sit here," Kaitlin said, pointing to an empty bench. "You go up with the other elders." She squeezed Trisha's hand. Neither of them was comfortable with any more intimate physical contact than that since Trisha's transformation.
"Enjoy the service," Trisha told Kaitlin and Emma. She waited while they began sliding down in the row, then turned and walked to the front of the room. As she reached Nancy Osboune's desk, now redone as the altar, she noticed that something was different. "Where's my chair?"
Judge Humphreys stood and took a step towards Trisha. "There's been a... question raised about you, Patrick... excuse me, Trisha."
"Purest grade bull - excuse me, Rev. Yingling," Rupe Warrick broke in, "fertilizer, if you ask me."
Horace Styron, President of the Board of Elders rose to his feet. "The elders of this church are men. She..." He pointed dramatically at Trisha. "...is hardly that. I say that, by her change, she had forfeited the office." Styron was a stocky man with thinning gray hair.
"That's the point, Trisha," the Judge said. "Until this is resolved --"
"Until this is resolved, I'm a member of the board," Trisha said angrily. "Now get my damned --"
"There, you see," Styron said. "Emotional, just like any other woman."
"I'd say she has a right to be angry," Rupe said.
"Damn right, I do," Trisha added.
"But not a right to blaspheme in my church." Reverend Thaddeus Yingling rose slowly to his feet, his expression stern. He was a tall, well-built man with a shaggy mass of curly gray hair framing a long, angular face. His voice was deep and measured. "I may not agree with the impromptu decision, but I will not have it argued in this place and, worse, on the Sabbath. 'Blessed be the peacemakers,' the Book says. Trisha, I ask you to be a peacemaker now, and to take a seat this day with your family."
"We'll get this all sorted out at the board meeting on Wednesday, Trisha," Rupe said. "You'll see."
Trisha made a face. "I'll do it, Rev. Yingling, since it's you that asked, but..." she looked sharply at Styron. "...this will be settled on Wednesday." Without another word, she turned and marched back to where Kaitlin and Emma has sat watching the incident. As she took her place besides Kaitlin, she could hear whispering from throughout the room.
* * * * *
Dolores Ybaá±ez looked at the late afternoon crowd that filled the plaza below the Church of Guadalupe Hidalgo, several miles northeast of Mexico City. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people were lined up to enter the basilica and hear the mass being said almost continuously on this Sunday, just ten days before the national day of prayer to the Lady.
"Be careful," a man's voice called out from near the ground.
Dolores looked down to see that she had almost walked into an elderly man. He was walking on his knees in a dirty white cotton shirt and matching pants. His hair was gone, his skin the tawny leather that skin becomes after a lifetime of work in the sun. "I am sorry, seá±or."
"You should be," the man said angrily. Then he looked up at her closely and smiled.
Dolores was a tall, willowy woman in her early twenties. She wore a yellow blouse low over her shoulders and a long green skirt. A matching green scarf fluttered loosely around her neck. Her dark, straight hair hung halfway down her back. "Have you come far?" she asked, trying to make conversation.
"Over a hundred kilometers," the man said proudly, "and all of it on my knees. The crops... this year was not a good harvest, and I have come to ask la Virgencita for help for my family and my village on her day."
Dolores nodded, understanding. "I have also come to ask her help."
In 1531, the Virgin Mary had appeared to a poor Indian there at Tepeyac. She'd appeared, not as the classic European woman, but with the coloring and costume of a Mexican peasant. In the years since, the site had been venerated, and the Lady of Guadelupe, as she was known, had become the patron saint of Mexico. Throughout the year, but especially on her holy day, December 12, pilgrims came from throughout Mexico - even from the lands that were now a part of the United States - to ask for her help.
"A pretty, young maiden like yourself," the man said, "I am sure that she will help you."
"I hope so, but it is not me that needs her help?"
"Who then... your lover, perhaps?" The man teased her gently.
Dolores blushed and shook her head. "My... my cousin, Arnoldo. His mother writes to me that he is very troubled. I thought that a cross or a pilgrim's medallion, blessed here at the Church of Our Lady, would help him to find his way in the world."
"That is easy; talk to him... over there." The man pointed to a small covered table near the edge of the plaza. A tall man, perhaps as old as she was and wearing the tunic of a novice, sat on a chair behind the table eating an empanada, a pastry crust filled with chopped meat, salsa, and spices. "The holy brothers of the basilica blessed such things in the Lady's name and sell them here in the plaza."
Dolores looked about. Yes, she could see three... no, four other tables in various spots. 'And "Brother Empanada" over there is closest,' she thought. She thanked the kneeling pilgrim and walked over to the table. 'I just hope the cost is not too high.'
* * * * *
Trisha kept silent throughout the service. She could see the elders talking among themselves. 'Talking about me,' she thought. And why did Rev. Yingling seem to be scowling every time Trisha looked at him?
"Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing how upset they got you," Kaitlin told Trisha as they started back to their house after the services.
Trisha put a finger to her lips. "Tic-a-lock." It was the last thing she said the rest of the way home and all the way up to the bedroom. Then..."Do you believe them," Trisha stormed as she fidgeted with the buttons on her blouse. "Without so much as a by your leave, they decide that I'm off the board." She pulled off the blouse and threw it onto the bed.
"No they didn't," Kaitlin said. She picked up Trisha's blouse and hung it on a hanger in their closet. "They said that there was a question raised - at least, that's what you told me."
"That's what they said," Trisha replied with a grumble.
"Then you go to the board meeting on Wednesday and answer it." Kaitlin had hung up her own "church" dress. She was putting on an older frock, one more suited for housekeeping. "That should solve everything."
"Will it?" Trisha scowled. "Somebody had to ask that question - Clyde Ritter or one of his friends, most likely. Horace Styron's the president, and he and Clyde are as thick as thieves. I answer one question, they'll just find another to ask." She stepped out of her dress and let it fall to the floor. She sat on the bed and began to unbutton her shoe.
"Perhaps they will, but there's nothing you can do about it now."
"There's not much I can do anything about." Trisha looked down at herself. "Not like this. I..." She shook her head. "I ruined myself for sure when I took that damned drink." She closed her eyes and sighed. She looked ready to cry. "What the hell ever possessed me to do it?"
"You were trying to save your son's life, for Heaven's sake. What you did might not have been the wisest way to do that, but no one can fault your motives."
"My motives... no, I guess they can't." She pulled off the shoe and began working on the other. "But my plans, they can certainly put those off track."
"What do you mean?"
"The church, for one thing. Dwight Albright and I were talking about starting up a building fund - yes, I know it saves money to use the schoolhouse, but it's cramped in there. We can't use it much on weeknights, and we've no place for the Sunday school that the parents want, or for that office Rev. Yingling keeps hinting about." She took off the other shoe and stood up.
"Those are fine ideas. I don't see the --"
"Kaitlin, I ran for the board to push those ideas. If I get thrown out, so do they. Dwight's a banker. Anytime he talks about saving or investing money, there's people that say he's only interested in the extra business, not what's best for the church." Trisha took a pair of brown workpants out of the closet and stepped into them.
"Do you have to wear those?" Kaitlin asked. "Look at the way they look, how they pool at your ankles."
"You going to shorten them?" Trisha looked sharply at Kaitlin, who shook her head, "No". Trisha shrugged. "Then I'll just roll them up like I've been doing."
"I think it's a shame. You looked so pretty in that outfit you were wearing."
"I don't want to look pretty," Trisha said through gritted teeth. "When people look at me, they shouldn't be seeing a pretty girl. They should be seeing a... a person of substance, somebody that they'd listen to. Somebody that they'd respect. Not..."
"They respect you."
"Oh, yes, throwing me off the board certainly showed respect." She took a yellow cotton shirt out of a dresser drawer and put it on.
"I'm sure that will all be straightened out on Wednesday."
"Will it?" Trisha began to carefully button the shirt. Patrick had been a slender man. His shirt hung straight down from shoulder to waist. There was little room for Trisha's ample bosom. "My own brother doesn't even respect me any more. A couple days ago, Liam..." She made a broad gesture. "Oh, hell." The button that was even with her breasts had just broken loose.
Kaitlin shook her head. "I'm not sewing that either."
"I can't wear shirts with missing buttons, especially one that shows my... corset."
"Well, then, until you can sew on a button, I'd suggest that you put on one of those new blouses we bought you."
"Oh, yes, wearing a blouse is sure to get their respect.
* * * * *
Bridget was sitting with Cap on a red and white checkered blanket. They were in a clearing about a half-hour north of town, at the foot of the Superstition Mountains. She put the remnants of a fried chicken leg down on her plate and wiped her hands in a white muslin napkin. "My compliments to your Mr. Tuck. That was some of the best chicken I've ever had."
"I'll tell him you said so," Cap said. He leaned back against a log. "Would you like some more wine?" He lifted a bottle from an ice-filled cooler.
"No, as much as I hate to say it." Bridget waved a hand over her almost empty glass. "I'll need my wits about me when I get back to town. There's always a few folks looking to play some poker, and I'm not about to close up my game."
"We don't have to go back right away." He grinned. "We don't have to go back at all today."
"Are you kidnapping me, sir?" She looked into his eyes daringly, a tight little smile on her lips.
"Not unless you want me to."
"Hmm, maybe another time. Right now, I'd like to sit back and enjoy this lovely day."
"It is a nice one. It's hard to believe it's December. It's still warm down here in the lowlands."
"I know. Davy Kitchner came down from his claim last night. He said that there was already snow at his mine."
Cap shivered. "And he's welcome to it. Is he going to winter up there?"
"He said he hadn't decided."
"He will soon - or the snow'll decide for him and trap him in up there."
"I suppose. I'd just as soon not think about it. I'd rather enjoy the sun down here." She leaned back next to him. "That was a delicious lunch. I almost feel guilty not having brought anything."
"Now what do you mean by that?"
"Cap, you brought the horse, the cart, the food, and the wine. Even this blanket is yours."
"Maybe so, but you brought the one essential thing I needed to make this picnic a success."
"What? What did I bring?"
"You brought you." Cap put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him.
Bridget reached up and lightly touched his cheek. Her mouth opened slightly as their lips met and she felt his tongue dart in to play with hers. It surprised her to be on the receiving end of such an intimate kiss - she'd kissed more than one woman that way when she'd been Brian - but she didn't startle so much that Cap could notice. She could feel his body against hers. His other arm was around her waist. Her breasts were pressed against the muscles of his chest, and she could smell the tang of the bay rum he'd slapped on after his shave.
A warmth moved through her body that had nothing to do with the mid-afternoon sunlight. She felt a sense of longing, surrender, and deep pleasure that almost made her ache.
After a time, they had to break the kiss. "That was nice." It was more of a sigh than spoken words.
"It surely was," Cap answered softly.
Her rather dazed expression turned to a sly and avid smile. "Could... could we do it again?"
"Weren't you saying something about having to get back to town for a poker game?" He was teasing now.
Bridget pouted and moved her head back towards his. "Maybe we could stay... just for a little while."
"Long as you want." Cap pulled her close. "We can stay as long as you want."
* * * * *
Monday, December 4, 1871
Trisha hurried across the empty street to the Feed and Grain. As usual, Liam was already at work inside. That was easy for him; he lived in a small apartment above the store. The business wasn't officially open for another half hour.
She slipped inside. Liam looked up when he heard the sound of the door closing behind her. He looked at her for a moment, a wry smile on his face.
"All right, all right, say it already." She stared back at him.
Liam obliged. "That's a very pretty blouse you got on, Trisha. How come you're wearing it?"
"I've popped a button or two on every shirt I own. Kaitlin says she won't sew on new ones. She's got some sort of crazy notion about getting me into women's clothes. It was either wear a blouse or put on a shirt that showed... more than I wanted to."
"You've already been doing that, giving a show every time you popped one of those buttons."
"You mean --"
"Most folks tried not to look - at least, not too long. Mateo chewed out Luis for staring."
"That bastard. I'll fire his ass right now."
"No, you won't. You can't fire a man for looking at a pretty woman, especially when she's walking around giving a show to anybody that cares to look."
"Why didn't you say anything, tell me everybody was looking at me like that?"
"I did, a couple of times, in fact. Both times, you just mumbled something and kept right on with what you was doing." He paused for a moment. "What's the matter with you anyway?"
"What's the matter with me? I got turned into a damned woman, and I don't like it. What the hell do you think is the matter with me?"
"What I think is that it's time you started getting over it. You can't spend the rest of your life trying to pretend it never happened."
"Why shouldn't I? What does it matter to anybody how I act?"
Liam pursed his chin. "You know, you're right. Why there's even people that are happy you're acting the way you are."
"Happy? Why the hell should I be making anyone happy?"
"Why shouldn't Horace Styron and Clyde Ritter be happy? They thought that they were stuck with you as one of the elders till the next election - maybe longer. The way you've been acting lately, making a spectacle of yourself, you've practically handed Clyde your office on a silver platter."
"Figures you'd have heard about that." Trisha seemed to sink down into herself. "What the hell can I do? Maybe I should just give up and let him be on the board."
"Well, now, I don't know about Trisha. A fool woman like her just might do just that."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence."
"On the other hand, my brother, Patrick, he'd fight like those East River rats we used to kill for the bounty, just to keep his seat."
"Maybe he would, but I... Everything just seems to be slipping through my fingers. I want to fight, but I don't know that I can."
"The board meeting's Wednesday night, Trisha. You've got three days to decide."
* * * * *
The older students in the class were working on a story from McGuffey's Fourth Eclectic Reader.
"The dishonest merchant was now very much frightened. What was to be done? The mill would not stop grinding; and at last the ship was overloaded, and down it went, making a great whirlpool where it sank. The ship soon went to pieces; but the mill stands on the bottom of the sea, and keeps grinding out 'salt, salt, nothing but salt!' That is the reason, say the peasants of Denmark and Norway, why the sea is salt." Phoebe McLeod finished her portion and sat down.
"Very good, Phoebe," Nancy Osbourne said. She looked at the small clock on a corner of her desk. "I believe that's enough for today. Please put your readers away. After recess, we'll --"
Several students started for the door.
Nancy clapped her hands for attention. "Recess will start once everyone has put their books away and not one moment before." The impatient students walked back to their seats. Students fidgeted, waiting till all the readers were inside the desks. "Now, you may go." Nancy said, setting off a rush for the door.
Tomas Rivera sat and watched his classmates hurry out. Emma was as eager as any of the others, but she stopped, then walked over to his desk. "Why're you still sitting there?" she asked him.
"My arm." He looked down at it. It was still in the plaster cast and hung low in the yellow, red, and green sling he wore around his neck. "Everybody was in a hurry. I did not want to get bumped as they ran out."
Emma looked at him thoughtfully. "Then I guess you won't be playing ball with us neither, will you?"
"Not for a while. I cannot run as fast with the cast on my arm. It hurts if someone bumps or pushes me. And I cannot throw or catch the ball very well with just one hand." He sighed. "I will sit on the steps and watch you all play."
Emma nodded. "See you later then." She started towards the door, then stopped and looked back at Tomas, who was slowly walking towards the door. Outside, she could hear Stephan Yingling and Bertram McLeod, the captains this week, yelling for the boys to get into a line, so they could choose up teams.
She took another step forward, then stopped and looked at a small wooden crate in the corner near the door. The game ball was usually stored there, but it was already out in the yard. All that was left were some toys and games that that the students used on days when the weather kept them inside during recess.
"You know," Emma said, walking over to the box, "you beat me too darn easy when we played checkers on Saturday." She took a checkerboard and a box of men from the crate. "I-I think I want a rematch - if you ain't afraid o'course."
Tomas blinked. "You... do not want to play ball with the others? You told me how hard you had to fight to get in the game last week."
"Yeah, and I won that fight once. I can win it again if I have to." She held out her hand, so Tomas could see the palm. "Just 'cause the scar ain't there no more don't mean we ain't still blood brothers."
* * * * *
"Ain't that just like a girl," Clyde Ritter jeered as he caught the ball. He pointed at the school steps. "Emma makes such a fuss about playing ball with us last week, and now she just sits and plays checkers with Tomas Rivera."
Stephan Yingling glanced over. "She's been friends with him for quite a while. Seems to me, she's just being loyal, keeping him company 'cause he can't play ball with that busted arm of his." Stephan shot out his hand and knocked the ball out of Clyde's grasp. He grabbed it on the first bounce and passed it to his teammate, Yully Stone, a few feet away. "Can't fault somebody for being loyal to a friend"
* * * * *
Frank Carson looked up when the bell over his door rang. "Yes, sir, Mr. Slocum. What can I do for you this fine day?"
"I need a telegram sent," Abner told the man. The rancher reached into a shirt pocket for a folded piece of paper. "And I don't need anyone else knowing about it - or about the answer, when I get one."
"Confidentiality's part of the service," the telegrapher assured him. He took the paper and began counting. "Twenty-two... twenty-three words. That's be... a dollar thirty."
"Add 'Regards to you, Opal, and children,' if you would."
"Twenty-nine words; a dollar sixty. Who's it going to?"
"Issachar Bailey; Office of Veterans Affairs; Texas Department of Military Affairs; 317 Fifth Street; Austin, Texas." He said the address slowly, so Carson could write it down on as he said it.
"That's another two bits, sir. It's a long address."
Abner put a two-dollar gold piece on the counter. "Keep the change, and remember, confidentiality."
"Not a word, Mr. Slocum, not a word."
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 5, 1871
"C'mon," Emma said, "you gotta jump me, or I take your man."
Tomas sighed and moved his red checker to jump Emma's black one. "All right, do your worst." He took the black piece from the board.
"Glad to." Emma jumped over the checker that Tomas had just moved, then shifted and jumped a second red man, landing in the far row of the board. "King me."
Tomas placed the checker he'd just taken atop Emma's man. He shook his head and looked carefully at the board. He had three pieces left to Emma's seven, and one of hers was now a king, which could move either forward or backward. 'Now what do I do?' he though ruefully.
"Excuse me," a female voice said. "May I join you?" Emma and Tomas looked up from the checkerboard. Ysabel Diaz was standing a foot or two from the schoolhouse steps where they were sitting.
Tomas gestured at a step, glad for the distraction from the game he was losing. "Have a seat."
Thank you." Ysabel gathered her dress behind her and sat down. "I'm sorry to interrupt your game, but I was wondering about those pants of yours, Emma."
Emma made a face. "I got taller when I... ah, changed, and all my pants were too short. Mama said she'd fix 'em, sew on some extra cloth. She fixed 'em all right."
Emma looked down at her legs. Her brown pants only came down to mid-calf. Kaitlin had sewn on a band of bright calico that reached to Emma's ankles.
"Looks just like a little dress," Ysabel noted, "the way the cloth flares out like that, especially with that... petticoat sticking out at the bottom."
"It ain't a petticoat," Emma said. "Just a strip at lace at the bottom that looks like one."
"Your momma has a good sense of humor," Tomas said.
Emma shook her head. "My ma has a rotten sense of humor. She done this to every pair of pants I own."
"What are you going to do about it?" Ysabel asked.
"Wear 'em, I guess." Emma said. "I tried cutting the cloth off the first pair she gave, and she yelled to beat the band, took away my mumbly peg knife, too." She sighed. "I think she's gonna do the same thing to my shirts."
"Dresses and petticoats on your shirts?" Tomas chuckled.
"I hope not," Emma said, grimacing. "No, I figure she'll put on cuffs and such, like Ysabel has on her dress there." She pointed at Ysabel's sleeves, which ended in a blue lace cuff.
"You know why she's doing it, don't you?" Ysabel asked.
"I think she's trying to get me used to wearing girly stuff." Emma said.
"You are a girl," Ysabel said. "No matter how much you don't want to admit it."
"I know what I am," Emma said stubbornly. "But that don't mean I gotta start dressing and acting like one, does it?"
"Not if you don't want to," Tomas said firmly, trying to support his friend.
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to - not as far as I'm concerned," Ysabel said. "But if you do want help with anything about being a girl - even just to talk about it, I'll be happy to help you."
"Why you saying that?" Tomas looked at Ysabel suspiciously.
"Because I have been watching Emma. It was very brave, the way she fought to play with the boys. I don't know that I would be as brave." She turned to face Emma. "But to stay that brave, Emma, a person needs friends --"
"She got a friend," Tomas interrupted. "She's got me."
Ysabel nodded. "And you're a fine friend to her, Tomas. I don't want to take your place. I want to stand there with you, helping her to learn how to be the person she is now." She offered her hand.
"Well..." Tomas shrugged and shook her hand. "...I guess you know more about being a girl than I do."
"I'll shake your hand, too, Ysabel" Emma said with a smile. "Just in case either of you wants to include me in this conversation. I figure right now I need all the friends I can get." Besides, Emma thought, she truly admired the way Ysabel had stood there smiling when Hermione and Eulalie found that garter snake in the desk.
* * * * *
"Are ye ready, Jessie?" Shamus asked. "It's almost time for ye to start."
Jessie was sitting quietly, more quietly than usual, in a corner near the door to the kitchen. "I... is it time?" She looked up at the big wall clock and fidgeted with her hands. "I... I guess I'm... ready."
"Are ye sure that ye want to be doing this? Thuir's not many as knows ye're going to sing for me. We could just -"
"...call it off?" She shook her head. She was as nervous as an old bull in fly season, more nervous than when she'd robbed that stagecoach, but... "I ain't never backed away from nothing in my whole life, and I ain't starting now." She stood up and untied her apron, almost surprised at how steady her hands were. She dropped it onto her chair. "You go introduce me."
Shamus walked over and stepped onto the small portable stage that was normally set up only for the band during the Saturday dances. He clapped his hands several times for attention. When that didn't work, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out with a loud, harsh whistle.
"What's up, Shamus?" Roy Fitzmartin asked.
"It ain't free drinks," someone answered. "That's for sure."
Shamus let the laughter go on for a bit before he motioned for quiet. "No, it ain't," he said, "but it's almost as good. As a lot of ye know, Jessie Hanks was doing some singing at the dance here last Saturday. More'n a few of ye was asking me of she was gonna be doing it again." He paused for the effect. "Well, she is and... right now." He gestured over to where Jessie was standing. "So let's be bringing her on with a big hand, gents... Miss Jessie Hanks."
Jessie walked out to a mixed round of applause. Some people just didn't appreciate having their drinking interrupted.
"My thanks t'all of you that was clapping, and I hope I change the minds of those of you that wasn't." She waited for a reaction that didn't come. "To... ah, tell the truth, I'm a little nervous about singing by myself for all of you folks."
"Not with your clothes on, anyway." Roy Fitzmartin remembered the fight Jessie had caused last summer, the one that almost wrecked the bar. Shamus had made her strip down to her camisole and drawers and sing for the men. Fitzmartin had been there. He'd gotten knocked out by a thrown spittoon. Now he saw a chance to get a little back from Jessie for causing the fight.
More than a few men laughed at his joke.
Jessie tried to go along with it. "Shamus ain't paying me enough t'sing like that again."
"How much do you want?" Someone else yelled.
"More'n you all have," she answered.
"Here's a start." Fitzmartin tossed a quarter at the stage. "C'mon, boys, let's see how much it takes." A few more coins landed near Jessie.
Jessie stamped her foot. "You stop that, stop it right now."
"Hear that, boys?" Fitzmartin yelled. "We can stop now. Guess it don't cost that much to get Jessie Hanks out of her dress after all."
Jessie picked up a few of the coins and threw them back at the crowd. "You can all go to hell!"
"Jessie!" Shamus' voice rang out. "Why don't ye just ignore these here yahoos and be singing something for them that want t'hear ye."
"Uh... okay, Shamus, I-I thought that I'd start with 'The Man on the Flying Trapeze' like I did on Saturday, just for luck."
"Don't ye be telling me, lass," Shamus said. "Tell them."
Jessie nodded. "Like I just said... 'Oh, once I was happy, but now I'm forlorn.'" Her voice rang out loudly, if just a little shaky at first.
The room was fairly quiet, although bits of conversations could be heard here and there in the room. Jane was on duty as waitress. Someone at table motioned for her to come over for their drink order. She glanced toward Shamus. He motioned for her to go, but he also put a finger to his lips as if to say, "do it quietly."
Jessie kept singing. She rocked back and forth slightly as she sang, her arms hanging loose at her sides. When she got to the second chorus, a few of the men joined it. That threw her off stride for a moment, but she caught up with them. When they joined in again for the third chorus, she waved her hands as if leading them. Somebody laughed, and the voices mostly followed her for the rest of the song.
There was a good round of applause at the end of the song, but some of it was for the men who'd joined in, rather than for her. She sang "Bluetail Fly" next, and the applause wasn't quite as loud.
"Try singing something different," Shamus whispered to her.'I'd rather try singing somewhere else,' Jessie thought. It reminded her of the one time she had sung somewhere else, the Tylers' ranch. Why not that song? She took a breath and began. "Hush, little baby, don't say a word."
"What the hell is that?" Fitzmartin taunted.
Paul Grant had just come in from making his rounds as deputy sheriff. "It's a song," he called out in a commanding voice, "and a good one, if you'll be quiet and let her sing it." He winked at Jessie and took a seat at the nearest table.
"Thanks, Paul," Jessie said, smiling at him before she picked up the song. "Mamma's gonna buy you a mockingbird."
There was more conversation during the song. One man stood and walked out. Jessie took the hint. She finished the song with a flourish and added, "Thanks for listening, folks. I hope you enjoyed it, and I wish you a good evening." She bowed low and stepped down off the stage to more mixed applause.
"It will be now that you're finished," Fitzmartin bellowed.
"That does it, you dirty son of a bitch." Jessie's hands balled into fists, as she started towards the man.
Paul was suddenly in front of her. When she tried to step around him, he moved again to block her. "Be a lady, Jess."
"You try anything, Jessie," Fitzmartin said, "and I'll have Paul there arrest you for assault." He chuckled. "We can already charge you with disturbing the peace. I got a room full of witnesses."
"That's more than enough, Fitzmartin," Paul said, "or I'll be taking you in for starting a fight." He turned back to Jessie. "Now let me buy you a drink to get the taste of Roy there out of our mouths."
"If I throw it in his face, will you buy me another?" Jessie found that she liked Paul defending her, though she'd been used to handling her own problems her whole life.
Pail shook his head. "No, but while you drink it, you can sit and listen to me tell you how much I enjoyed your singing."
Jessie smiled, but she was thinking about making one last try to get at Fitzmartin, when Red Tully came over. "Nice singing, Jessie. Could you do 'Camptown Races' next time? I always liked that tune."
"Uh... sure, Red." Jessie let out a sigh, her anger deflected now by Red's compliment. "All right, Paul. You can buy me that drink."
Paul took her hand. "Fine, and we can talk for a while before I have to go back on duty." As he led her towards the bar, he whispered, "And we'll... talk some more later... in private, okay?"
Jessie felt her cheeks warm. "Sounds good t'me. After what I just went through, I could use some good... talking."
* * * * *
Jessie looked out onto the quiet street. The quarter moon hung low, not giving much light. The street was empty, as far as she could tell. She turned back to the closed door and knocked three times
The door opened a crack. "Jess?" Paul whispered. "C'mon in." He opened the door just wide enough for her to slip in, then closed it quickly behind her. They looked at each for a moment, then Paul took her in his arms and kissed her fully and deeply.
Jessie moaned softly and pressed in closer to him. Her arms went up around his neck, and she opened her mouth to let in his tongue to play with hers. As they kissed, she closed her eyes and thrilled to the feelings he aroused in her.
"Now that was real nice," Paul said, as they finally broke the kiss.
Jessie sighed. "Glad I did something right tonight. I sure as hell messed things up at the Saloon."
"I enjoyed it."
"You come in when I was almost done. You didn't have to suffer through all of it like the others."
"Aw, Jess, you weren't that bad."
"I musta been. That bunch made me feel about as welcome as a wet dog at church social."
"Okay, so a couple of them razzed you. Fitzmartin's been after you since last summer."
"It ain't just him, the polecat. I... nobody was listening t'me. I've gotten more attention singing to a herd of cows."
"Who'd you ever work for as a cowboy?"
Jessie grinned. "I never said I was working... or whose cattle I was singing to." Then her smile faded. "And stop trying to change the subject. I got no more claim on being a singer than a bullfrog does."
"You've got a fine singing voice, and we both know it, Jess."
"Fat lotta good it'll do me. Shamus ain't gonna let me get up there a second time and drive more of his customers away."
"He'll let you if you ask him nice. I think he wants you to be a success, just like Bridget and Maggie already are."
"Maybe so, but they knew what they was doing. T'tell the truth for a change, I'm about as sure of what I'm doing as kitten on a cattle drive."
"That's because you need a teacher to show you what to do."
"A singing teacher? Where the hell am I gonna find me one of them?"
"You're singing's fine, Jess, just like I keep telling you. But a girl has to be tough if she's going to sing to a barroom full of whisky-soaked men. You're tough enough to do just about anything. What you need is somebody that knows how to get the folks' attention, so they'll sit there and listen to you." He thought for a moment. "If Shamus gives you a second chance, and I'm pretty sure he will, you need to go ask Wilma for some help."
"Wilma? Now why the hell should I ask her? She's got a voice that'd drive a coyote t'kill himself. At least, she did when she was Will. That's how folks could tell we were brothers, same good looks 'n the same rotten voices, like two gut-gored buffaloes."
"Because when you're singing at the Saloon, you're singing for men, Jess, and Wilma knows a lot more about getting a man's attention than you do."
Jessie's hand moved down to gently stroke Paul's manhood through his pants. "I know a few things."
"You surely do, but, unless you're gonna do that to every man in the room, you might want to talk to Wilma."
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 6, 1871
"Jessie," Shamus said softly, "can ye be coming into me office for a bit?"
"Umm... sure, Shamus." Jessie put down the tray of dirty glasses she was carrying and followed him to the storeroom that doubled as his office.
Shamus sat down behind his makeshift desk. "Shut the door if ye would and have a seat." He motioned for her to sit in the chair near the desk. As soon as she had, he continued. "Ye didn't do all that well last night, did ye?"
"No," Jessie nodded in agreement. "I still got some things t'work on."
"Aye, that's for sure." He shook his head. "Ye was like a dead fish out there."
"Thanks... thanks a whole lot. I thought you liked the way I sang."
"Ye've got a sweet voice, Jessie. That's why I asked ye t'be singing for me in the first place, but thuir's more t'being a singer than having a sweet voice. It's them other things ye need t'be working on before ye sing again."
"Ye'll let me have another crack at it, then?"
"Are ye sure want one? Ye were pretty shaky last night - before and after ye was singing."
Jessie knew she had to be careful. If she let on that she was so eager to take another try at singing, she'd end up doing it for table scraps. "I'm game for another go. I ain't gonna let FitzMartin and them others stampede me."
"Ain't ye?"
"Damn right. They had no call t'be yelling them things at me."
"A man's got a right t'his opinion - and t'be shouting it out if he wants to."
"Yeah, but it ain't mannerly."
"Oh, and ye've always been an expert on what was mannerly, ain't ye."
"Are you trying to get my goat, too, Shamus?"
Shamus smiled. "Maybe a little. Heckling ye like they done is a risk anybody takes when they get up to sing or dance or whatever in front of folks. You must have been in enough saloons to know that. If ye can't take that risk, then ye got no business being up there."
"I... no... I can take it. Hellfire, I've had men shoot at me. Having somebody - what'd you call it; heckle? - having somebody heckle me ain't near as bad."
"No, no it ain't. And ye can 'shoot' back at them if ye want. Throw the joke they made back in thuir faces; like ye tried t'do last night, when Roy spoke of ye singing in yuir unmentionables."
"I remember. I said that you weren't paying me enough t'do that. But that didn't stop 'em. They just threw some money at me."
"Aye, and ye lost yuir temper. What ye should have done was said something like, 'And ye ain't paying me enough, either', or tossed them coins back and told them to be throwing gold eagles."
"Yeah, like they'd do that."
"O'course they wouldn't, but, when they didn't, ye could've said how they was so scruffy they looked like they'd never even seen a gold eagle, and that they never would."
"I-I think I se what you mean, sass them back. I can do that."
"Ye've sassed me often enough, so I know ye've got it in ye.
Jessie grinned. "Sassing you's good practice."
"Well, ye can save yuir practicing for when ye're up on that stage of mine." He paused a moment. "And don't ye be thinking that sassing a heckler is all there is to it."
"Okay, then, what else is there?"
"Once ye've got them t'stop heckling ye, ye've got t'make them want t'be listening to ye."
"How do I do that?"
Shamus shrugged. "I don't know. It's different for everyone, something they got to figure out for themselves."
"Not me." Jessie tried not to sound smug.
Shamus eyed her skeptically. "And since when do ye know how t'be doing it. Ye surely didn't have no idea how to be about it last night."
"I don't know how, but I know who. I'm gonna ask Wilma for some help on that score."
Shamus thought about what she'd said, then laughed. "Now that just might work. Only be sure that all she teaches ye is how to be making the men want to listen to ye."
* * * * *
"What the hell are you doing here, O'Hanlan? - excuse me, Miss O'Hanlan." Horace Styron arrived at the schoolhouse an hour early for the church board meeting, only to find that someone had gotten there even earlier.
Trisha looked up from the step she was sitting on. "Waiting for you, Horace. As board president, you're the one with the key to the place."
"You planning to make trouble for the board at the meeting?" He dismounted and led his horse into the corral.
"I'm on the board, Horace. Why should I make trouble for myself?"
"You're a woman; you can't be on the board any more." He closed the corral gate and walked towards the school building.
"The hell I can't." Trisha stood up angrily. "And who are you to say that I can't?"
Styron pulled out a key ring that was attached to his vest by a small metal chain. "I'm board president, that's who I am," he said with a smile as he found the key to the schoolhouse and unlocked the door. "After you - what is it you're calling yourself now, oh, yes, after you, Trisha." He pushed the door open.
"Why thank you, Horace." Trisha's voice was like silk. "And I see just the seat I want, too."
The desks had been pushed against the walls, leaving just the benches. Nancy Osbourne's desk was pushed back as well and replaced with a long table that had seven chairs set up behind it.
Trisha walked towards the front of the room, humming "Columbia, Gem of the Ocean." She slowed once or twice, as if to sit, but kept walking. She reached the front of the room and, with a wry smile, took a seat at the table.
* * * * *
Styron knocked twice on the table with a small gavel. "I hereby call this meeting of the board to order. Rev. Yingling, would you please get things off to the proper start with a prayer?"
"Gladly." Yingling stood slowly, gesturing with his arms for the others to stand as well. When everyone was on their feet, he lowered his head and began. The Reverend wasn't a member of the board, but his opinion was often sought and usually followed. His prayer, as usual, was short, a plea for wisdom in the board's deliberations, that ended with, "...in Jesus' name, amen."
"Amen," the crowd answered and sat down.
"Before we start," Styron said, "I'd like to say that I'm glad to see so many folks at this meeting. I hope a few of you will stay around for awhile, and, maybe, we can even talk some of you into serve on one of our committees."
There were more than twenty-five people in the room, far more than usually came to a board meeting. A few even laughed at Styron's joke.
Parnasses Humphreys was a board member and now he raised a hand. "Mr. President, I move that we suspend the normal order of business."
"Now, what does that mean, Judge?" Styron asked, scratching his head.
"Horace," the Judge explained, "most of these people came to see what we're going to do about Trisha, nee Patrick O'Hanlan. I just moved that we skip everything else for the moment and get right to that."
"Und I second," Willie Gotefreund said, raising a hand. Willie, a slender man with close-cropped blond hair and a matching walrus mustache, owned a small ranch east of town. He was a board member at large and chairman of the social activities committee.
Styron shrugged. "Why not? Might as well get it settled. All in favor..." All six board members raised their hands. Styron raised his, as well. "Just to make it unanimous." He looked around. "Now who wants to speak first?"
"She's a woman," Clyde Ritter yelled from the audience. "The church bylaws say men only."
"Perhaps they do," the Judge said calmly, "but perhaps they don't." He looked out into the crowd. "Is Milt Quinlan... ah, there he is. Come up here, Milt." The Judge motioned for Milt to join him. "I asked Milt, as the church's lawyer, to take a look at what the bylaws said on that very point."
"Him," Clyde sputtered. "He's keeping company with --"
Milt had been walking towards the table. He stopped and looked directly at Clyde. "My personal life is my own business, Mr. Ritter, and I will thank you to keep your nose out of it... unless you want said nose reshaped, that is."
Ritter was about to answer. Then he saw the look on Milt's face. He glared at Milt, but he sat down and let the younger man pass.
"As the Judge said," Milt continued once he had reached the front of the room, "I examined the church bylaws. Article Five, Section Three says that, 'any man elected to an office of the board shall serve a term of one year.'"
"Hah," Clyde said. "There, see, a woman can't serve on the board."
"No," Milt said. "As the rule now stands, a woman can't be elected to the board. Miss O'Hanlan was a man when she was elected. There's nothing to say that a man has to stay a man to remain on the board."
"Sounds like a lawyer's trick to me," Styron grumbled.
"Perhaps," the Judge said with a chuckle, "but that's what the bylaws say."
"No one ever figured that something like this would happen," Styron said. "How could they?"
"They couldn't," the Judge told him. "No law can ever handle every circumstance. That's why we have to keep writing new ones."
Styron looked at the other board members. "Are the rest of you gonna accept this mumbo jumbo?"
"I am," Rupe Warrick said. "Seems t'me, Horace, you're a mite too anxious to get Trisha off the board and put your own man in."
"And your actions smack a little of 'mumbo jumbo', too," Dwight Albertson added.
"All right, all right." Styron threw up his hands. "Is there any way to get somebody off the board?"
Milt picked up his recitation. "Article Eight, Section Two says that a board member can be removed for 'malfeasance in office' or upon conviction of a crime. I don't think that applies; being a woman is hardly malfeasance and it certainly isn't a crime. Article Eight, Section Four says a board member can resign for personal reasons, but I don't think that Miss O'Hanlan came here to resign."
"So... nothing applies?" Styron could hardly keep the disappointment from his voice.
"Well..." Milt said sourly. "The church membership can be polled on the fitness of a board member to continue to serve... Article Eight, Section Five."
"How do we do that?" Clyde asked quickly.
Milt sighed. "Five members have to make a motion in writing. The board then calls a vote, which must be held no less than two weeks from the date the motion is presented to the board."
"Thank you, Milt," Styron said. "I think we'll just move on to other business, then."
"Hey, wait a minute," Trisha said. "This isn't settled yet."
The Judge touched her gently on the arm. "No, but it will be in a minute." He pointed to Ritter, who was furiously writing something on a piece of paper. "Milt, if such a motion is made, what's the status of the board member involved?"
"Let me check." Milt looked at his folded copy of the bylaws. "He... or she is still in office' there's no suspension. He... umm, she still does her job and still votes at board meetings."
Ritter ran over to the table. "Horace, Mr. President, I've got a motion here that says Trisha O'Hanlan should get booted off the board." He handed Styron the paper.
"Signed by four... five members, just like the bylaws say," Styron said, counting the signatures at the bottom. "All right, I accept this. The election --"
"Ha," Ritter said. "She's a woman; she can't run for election. Case closed."
"This isn't an election," Milt answered. "It's a referendum, and she certainly can be involved in it."
Styron frowned. "Whatever it is, it'll be held here, in the schoolhouse, two weeks from tonight." He looked at Jubal Cates, Secretary. "Jubal, you set it up with the teacher."
"I will." Jubal Cates was a surveyor, tanned and muscular from the time he spent working outdoors. "I'll talk to her tomorrow."
Roscoe Unger stood up. "And I'll put a notice about it in next week's paper. It'll be standing room only in here."
"Whatever," Styron said, not happy about the delay. "Can we get on to other business now?"
* * * * *
Trisha stood by the school corral, watching people riding off and savoring her victory over Styron and Ritter. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder and spun around.
"A word with you, Trisha." It was Rev. Yingling.
"Any time," Trisha answered. "What would you like to talk about?"
"About what happened this night, and what will happen here in two weeks."
"The vote? Certainly. I hope I can count on your support in this."
"I will not say whom I shall support. As minister, I should stay neutral in matters related to the board."
Trisha looked at Yingling. "But..."
"Yes, I do I have a 'but', as you so inelegantly say."
"But you don't think a woman should serve..."
"I have seen women on boards at other churches. All of us may serve our Lord in different ways, and I will not speak against a woman on the board. I would ask though that you serve as a woman."
"What do you mean, Reverend?"
"It is written that a man should not dress as a woman, nor a woman as a man." Yingling snorted. "Yet, look at you, a woman's blouse and a man's pants. It is not right... Trisha."
"Are you saying that I should... should wear a dress?"
"I am saying that you should wear what it is fit that you wear."
"I... uhh... a feed and grain's no place for a man wearing a skirt. They'll just get in the way."
"And the board of my church is no place for a woman wearing pants. It just isn't the way."
* * * * *
Thursday, December 7, 1871
Jessie followed the tall man from the front door of La Parisienne. He stopped at the closed parlor door and knocked twice. "Wilma, you have a caller."
"It's a mite early in the day," Wilma said, as she slid the door open, "but bring him on in." Her expression changed from eagerness to surprise. "Well... Jessie, now what brings you over here?"
"I... I came to... to ask you for help, Wilma." Jessie bit her lip nervously. "Maybe... maybe it was a mistake."
Wilma put her hand on her sister's shoulder. "No mistake about it, Jess. Your mistake is waitressing over at the Saloon. We'll get you outta that dowdy dress and fixed up into some pretty unmentionables and... why - hellfire - you're gonna be almost as popular with the menfolk as I am."
Wilma wore a tight lavender corset that more than displayed her ample breasts, with a border of matching ruffled lace that just barely covered her nipples. Besides that, she wore a pair of ivory-colored silk drawers trimmed in white lace and stockings the same color as her corset. Her black hair was a mass of curls that hung down around her shoulders and trailed on down her bared back.
Jessie hated to admit it, but, in comparison, she felt like a winter sparrow in the pale yellow blouse and brown skirt she was wearing. Still... "I didn't come here for that kind of help." She took a step back.
Wilma frowned. "Still think you're too good to work in a place like this, eh? You must really like slaving for old Shamus, toting drinks to drunks and cleaning up after them."
"I thought we had a deal," Jessie said with a sigh. "I don't badmouth what you do with your life, if you do the same for me, okay?"
"Can I still tease you about it... just a little." Wilma's eyes flashed with mischief.
Jessie grinned. "Like I could ever stop you? We got us a deal?" She offered her hand.
Wilma took it and shook it hard. "Deal." She paused a beat. "All right, then, what do you need help with?"
"My singing. Last night, I did a show over at the Saloon --"
"How bad were you?"
"Who says I was bad?"
"Jess, if you was any good, you wouldn't have come over here asking for my advice, would you?"
The air seemed to flow out of Jessie, and she sank down into a chair. "I stank like a sheepherder's socks."
"Can't be your voice." Wilma scratched her head. "You sing sweet as a lark in the spring. What... what was you wearing when you was singing?"
"Pretty much the same as now, a blouse and skirt. I... uhh, took my apron off before I started, though."
Wilma nodded. "And put it back on right afterwards, I bet."
"Of course, I put it back on. I was on duty that might, and there was drinks to serve."
"And maybe that's why they treated you more like a waitress than a singer. Come t'think of it, what'd you sing?"
"I sang 'Man on the Flying Trapeze', 'Bluetail Fly', and 'Hush Little Baby'."
"Okay, then, show me how you sung that first song. Do it just like you done it the other night."
"Umm, okay... oh, once I was happy...." Jessie sang softly, but with the same inflection and tone as she had Tuesday night. Her arms were at her sides, and, after a short while, she began the same nervous rocking movement. "When I got to the second chorus," she interrupted herself, "a few of the men joined in, and I played like I was leading them." She started waving her arms in tune with the music, as she sang the chorus."
"Now what the hell is she doing?" Daisy's voice rang down from the stairs. She had stopped about halfway down from the second floor, carrying a basket of dirty linens.
"Hush up," Wilma answered.
"She don't sing too good, do she?" Daisy said.
Jessie stopped singing. "What do you know? You ain't no singer."
"Neither're you, missy," Daisy told her. "You may got a good voice, but you'se could be a wooden Indian outside a cigar store the way you just stand there. Saints alive, gal, haven't you ever seen a good saloon singer liven up a room?"
"I think Daisy's right, Jess," Wilma said. "If you just stand there like you don't care about what you're singing, why should anybody else?"
"I... I care. I like that song. I was just nervous and didn't know what to do with my arms." Jessie wasn't sure what else to say.
"Why?" Daisy asked. "Why you like it?"
Jessie shrugged. "I don't know. I... it's... nice enough, I guess."
"Oh, that surely says something," Wilma said.
"What's it matter why I wanna sing it?" Jessie began to feel like it was two to one against her.
Wilma thought for a moment. "Why? 'Cause if you don't give a damn about the song, why the hell should anybody else?"
"I think I see what you're saying," Jessie admitted, "but 'Man on the Flying Trapeze' don't really mean that much t'me?"
"Then don't you be singing it." Daisy said. "Sing a song that do mean something to you... if they's one that does."
"Yeah," Wilma asked. "Is there a song like that?"
Jessie thought for a bit. "Well, there's 'Lorena' that song that was so popular during the War."
"I knows that one," Daisy said and began to sing. "The years creep slowly by, Lorena, the snow is on the grass again."
"That's the one," Jessie said, smiling, "but I can't sing it, 'Lorena' is a man's song, singing for his lost love."
"Can't a gal have a lost love?" Daisy countered. "I'se heard songs 'bout things like that all the time."
Wilma nodded. "You could sing... 'my darling' instead of 'Lorena'. It fits the music." She began to sing "...creep slowly by, my darling, the snow is on the grass again."
"Only sing it, sing it sad, gal," Daisy added. "Sing it like you really does miss that lost man o'yours."
Jessie nodded and began to sing, trying to sound unhappy. She worked at it for over an hour. Daisy set down her basket and helped. The tall man, Jessie found that his name was Herve, came in to listen for a while. He was smiling when he left.
A tall, Mexican woman, Wilma called her Beatriz, came downstairs with a heavyset man who was tucking in his shirt as they walked down. The pair of them stood listening for several minutes. "Thank you very much for the song, Miss," he said with a slight bow before Beatriz led him away.
Beatriz came back a few minutes later. "Diego wanted to know if the song was extra," she said with a smile. "The Lady said it was just part of the service. After he left, she said for you to keep up the good work... and to come see her of you were ever looking for a place to sing." She winked and headed down to the kitchen for coffee.
"You working here now, Jessie?" Ira Fulton, a regular at Shamus', asked her a short while later. Jessie blushed so fiercely that Wilma began to laugh.
Beatriz appeared at the doorway. "I thought that I was your lady love, Ira." She pouted, somehow looking sad and sexually eager at the same time.
Ira swallowed hard. "You is... you surely is, Beatriz, darlin'. I-I was just... just curious, that's all."
"Let us go upstairs then," Beatriz purred, "and I will try to satisfy your... curiosity." She took his hand, as they walked to the stairs.
"So this is your sister." Wilma stopped laughing as both she and Jessie turned to face the speaker, a short, very pretty blonde. "Aren't you going to introduce me, Wilma?"
Jessie could see that there was little love lost between the two soiled doves. "Oh, sure," Wilma said. "Rosalyn, this here's my sister, Jessie. Jessie, this is Rosalyn, the gal I told you about a while back."
"Only good things, I trust." Rosalyn didn't offer to shake Jessie's hand.
"All Wilma told me was how she saved your hide from that man that was trying t'burn you."
Rosalyn's hand moved up as if to shield her ample bosom from sight. Jessie's eyes followed. She couldn't see any scar or burn mark in the firm, round, milky white flesh above Rosalyn's lime corset.
Rosalyn's eyes narrowed. "She told you that, did she?"
"I did," Wilma said, "and as a matter of fact, I wanted t'talk to you about that and about you doing a favor for Jessie here."
"And why should I want to do any sort of a favor for her?" Rosayln asked coldly.
"Rosalyn," Wilma began, "you never liked me, and it galls you no end that I saved you from being scarred, and that, now, you owe me. Well, this is your chance t'pay up. Jessie's gonna be singing over to the Eerie Saloon, and you're gonna loan her one of your dresses - that dark red one, I think, it'll go with her hair."
"Let her wear one of your own damn dresses," Rosalyn spat.
Wilma shook her head. "She's too small for my stuff, but she's just right for yours. You got so many real nice clothes... just like a lady should have. Be a sport, let her borrow that one outfit... just t'get me off your back."
"Wilma, I got --" Jessie began to interrupt.
"...nowhere the taste in clothes that Rosalyn here does," Wilma finished for her sister. "C'mon, Rosalyn, what do you say?"
"And this'll make us even?" the other woman asked cautiously.
"Even as two rows of corn," Wilma said, smiling that the deal was done.
* * * * *
Shamus came over to meet Jessie as she soon as she walked into the Saloon. "And just where were ye for the better part of this afternoon, Miss Hanks, and what sort of mischief was ye getting into?"
"You never was my pa, Shamus, and ye ain't my keeper no more."
"No, but I'm yuir employer, and I got a right t'be expecting ye here when I'm paying ye good money for it."
"If you gotta know, I went over t'Wilma's; just like you told me to."
"Like I told ye... and just when did I say that ye should be wasting yuir - no, wasting me time over at that cathouse?"
"You said I should get help with my singing, remember, and I told you that I was gonna ask Wilma for that help."
Shamus gave her a critical look. "And she helped ye, did she?"
"She did, a whole lot, I think." She waited a moment. "And, if you don't mind, I'll be heading back over there for an hour or so the next couple o'three days, so's I can work on a few more things about my act before I sing again next Tuesday."
"If I let you sing, you mean."
Jessie smiled. "You'll let me, if only t'see if I know what I'm doing... and I do."
"Ye're that sure of yuirself, are ye? Ye think that I'll give ye another chance, and that Fitzmartin and them others'll let ye sing."
"You're damned right I am." She almost glared at Shamus. "I'll make them - and you - forget all about the other night. You just watch'n see if I don't. What you've got to worry about is that if you don't offer me enough afterwards, I'll take my talent elsewhere." After all, Cerise had just offered her a job; not that she'd ever really want to sing in a bawdy house.
Shamus smiled, admiring her determination. "Well, if ye're that certain, then who am I t'be standing in yuir way? Ye'll get that chance, but it's gonna be yuir last, so ye'd best be making it a good one."
"I will, Shamus, and thanks."
"If ye want t'be thanking me, go put on an apron and get busy waiting on me thirsty customers."
* * * * *
"I'm home," Trisha yelled as she came in the front door. She walked on through to the kitchen.
Kaitlin was busy at the stove. "Welcome home, dear. How was your day?"
Trisha kissed her on the cheek and sat down at the table. "Not too bad. Where's Emma?"
"In her room doing homework before the light fades. You can call her when supper's ready."
"I will. How was your day?"
"Nothing fancy. We're having roast chicken and parsnips, by the way. How was your... " She turned to glance at her transformed husband. "Trisha, I told you not to sit like that."
"What? Oh, sorry." Trisha had been sitting with her legs wide apart, stretching the fabric of the green skirt she was wearing.
"I hope that you didn't sit like that at work."
"No chance of that, not the way everyone was staring. I was right to wear the skirt, though. Clyde Ritter came by mid morning - to check on his weekly order, he said. He always sends somebody else to do that."
"And did he come by?"
"Reverend Yingling? Twice, once not long after Clyde left and again late in the afternoon. The second time, he said that he was pleased that I had listened to him."
"It's a good thing that you did. I like the reverend, but sometimes I think he acts like the Good Book was addressed to him by name."
"He's a stickler, all right, but he's a good man. He wouldn't come out and endorse me - at least he said he wanted to be neutral, but I think that it would've been a different story, if I hadn't decided to wear this skirt..." She picked up a bit of the fabric in her hand. "...today. I... I guess I'll be in skirts from now through the vote." He sighed at the thought.
Kaitlin turned back to her parsnips, just boiling on the stove, so Trisha wouldn't see the smile on her face.
* * * * *
Friday, December 8, 1871
Shamus stood silently behind the bar, watching Arnie Diaz walking towards him. The boy had been in almost every day. "Well, ye're coming in honest these days instead of hiding like ye done that time before, but I'll still not be serving ye any alcohol no matter how often ye come in."
"I don't want your beer, Mr. O'Toole, not today, not ever." Arnie looked him square in the face, then he grinned. "If sarsaparillas' good enough for Bridget... Miss Kelly, then it's all I care to drink.
He turned and looked over at the table where Bridget was playing poker. She saw him looking at her, and nodded a greeting before getting back to the game.
Arnie turned back to the bar, his face wreathed in a broad grin. Shamus put the non-alcoholic drink down in front of him and he took a quick sip. It wasn't the beer he really wanted, but... "Yes, sir..." He took another sip. "...whatever she wants to drink is more than good enough for me."
* * * * *
With only the waning crescent moon for light, Maggie didn't see that someone was sitting there on her front step until she and the children were almost to it. "Ramon, I... did I forget that were you coming here tonight?"
Ramon shook his head. "No, no, this is a surprise visit. Besides, I am not here to see you. I came to see Lupe."
"Me?" Lupe's face broke into a bright smile. "You came to see me, Uncle Ramon."
"Sá," Ramon stood up. He took a large package from the shadows next to the step. "I have brought you the wings you asked me for."
Ernesto scratched his head. "What do you want wings for, Lupe? Are you going to try to fly away?"
"Ernesto!" Lupe said. "I need wings for the posada parade. Not everybody gets to march with the burro like you do. Some of us have to be angels."
"That was not a very angelic thing to say to your brother," Maggie cautioned. "Perhaps I should ask Ramon to take the wings back until you deserve them."
"He started it!" Lupe whined.
Maggie answered her. "And I am ending it. Now. Let us go inside and see these wings that Uncle Ramon made for you." She took the key from her purse and unlocked the door.
"Allow me." Ramon lit a match by running it against the wall. He used it to light the oil lamp Maggie kept on a small shelf near the door.
Maggie lit a long taper from the lamp and used it to light the lamps in the main room. "Come in and show us these wings."
Ramon came in carrying his package under his arm. It was oddly shaped, about two feet long, and wrapped in tissue paper. He sat down and began to untie the string that was holding the paper in place. When he was done, he spread the paper out on the table.
The package had held a pale blue vest that looked to be Lupe's size and two long, curved pieces of wire. The wires were covered with a net of gauze and tissue paper that made them look like the wings of a large bird. Strands of tinsel were laced through the netting.
"They are wings," Lupe said with delight, "muy beautiful wings. How... how do I wear them?"
Ramon smiled back at her. "You put on the vest and button it tight." He turned the vest around. Two narrow tubes ran down the back just a few inches apart. "The wing wires go in here. There is a small hole at the end of each wire that you tie down with the cords there at the bottoms of the tubes." He pointed to the leather cords.
"Can I try it now? Can I?" Lupe could barely contain herself.
"That is why I brought it over." Ramon handed her the vest. "Go ahead."
Lupe quickly put on the vest. "It feels so soft... and I have a skirt the same color, my best skirt, too."
"I know," Ramon told her. "I picked the fabric to match it. Button it and turn around, so I can put in the wings." Lupe did as she was told. "Now hold still," Ramon said. He slid in the wing wires and tied them off.
"Are they in? Are they in?" Lupe asked.
"Try to walk... slowly at first," Ramon told her.
Lupe took a deep breath. Then she stepped forward. The wings moved slightly. As she began to walk around the room, they picked up the rhythm of her steps.
"They're flapping!" Ernesto said in surprise.
Ramon chuckled. "Sá, they are. Do you like them?"
"Oh, yes!" Lupe ran over and hugged Ramon tightly, almost knocking him over.
"Be careful," Maggie said. "Do not hug poor Ramon so hard."
Ramon laughed. "I am fine, Margarita. A hug from a pretty seá±orita cannot hurt me." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "You are more than welcome to try it yourself if you do not believe me."
* * * * *
Saturday, December 9, 1871
Wilma heard music coming from inside Lady Cerise's office, the Lady's kalliope music box. The box used interchangeable metal disks, sounding like a set of bells was playing the melody. Wilma listened to the music swelling towards a crescendo as she opened the door. "You wanted to --"
"Shh!" Cerise hissed. She waved her arms as if conducting the music, as it ended in a series of short notes.
"That's pretty," Wilma said. "What is it?"
"L'opera Guiliame Tell," Cerise answered, "the story an archer who lived many years ago in Europe told with music and singing. The part what you have just heard was Tell and his bowmen going off to the battle."
"It sure didn't sound like no men with bows and arrows t'me. It sounded like... like a man on a horse, a big, strong horse, riding real fast, like he was in a race or chasing somebody."
Cerise shrugged. "Perhaps... mmm, perhaps it does, but I do not think that anyone else would ever hear it that way. It most definitely is not what Maestro Rossini had in mind when he wrote his overture."
"Maybe not. Anyway, Herve said you wanted to see me about something, and I don't expect it was t'talk about music."
"Non, ma petite, it was not. Close the door, s'il vous plait."
Wilma shut the door behind her and sat down. "All right, then, what's up?"
"You have done very well here, Wilma. Your gentlemen... and I have been most satisfied with you."
"Thank ya, Cerise." Wilma smiled a happy smile that was almost a leer. "It's easy t'do a good job, when you love the work."
"Which you most assuredly do, but that is not all that I am talking about."
"What do you mean?"
"I know of your past and the sort of... man you were. When you came to work here, I, naturellement, worried very much about how you would fit in with my other ladies."
"Seems t'me, fitting in's something the gentlemen do." She giggled at her pun until she saw Cerise's scowl.
"Perhaps, but what you have done is... impressive. You managed in a short time to become friends with most of the people here at La Parisienne; that is something that is not easy for the new person in any situation. Then, you jump in fearlessly to protect the one member of this house who is not your friend. That, ma petite, says much about you, and all that it says is good."
Wilma looked down at the floor suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed. "Shucks, Cerise, it really wasn't that big a deal."
"Yes, yes it was, but what my Herve tells me you did yesterday, that is - as you say - a bigger deal."
"What I did yesterday?" Wilma looked confused.
Mai oui, yesterday you talked Rosalyn into helping your sister. And in the process you convinced her to like - well, at least, not to dislike you so much. That... that is what I truly call impressive."
"I... thanks, I guess."
"Do not guess, Wilma, know; know that I see the way you have with people, and I want to use that gift."
Wilma raised an eyebrow. "No offense, but I don't like people saying they wanna use me."
"No, no, not like that. I wish to make you my... mm, my assistant, to have you help me to run my establishment."
"Me? You want to make me your second? What're the others, Beatriz and Mae and Rosalyn - especially Rosalyn - gonna say t'that? They ain't gonna like it when the new gal gets made their boss."
"First, I am their employer, you will only be assisting me. Second, part of your job will be to make them like it. If you cannot, then it may be that I have chosen the wrong girl."
"Can I think about it?"
"Certainement. I would be disappointed if you did not ask. Is... umm, a week time enough?"
"More'n enough. I'll let you know by next Saturday at the latest."
"And I will be most anxious to hear your answer."
Wilma started to leave, then she added. "Whatever, I finally do decide, Cerise, I just wanna say that I'm right proud that you asked me."
* * * * *
"So, tell me, Davy" Edith Lonnigan asked, "are you going to be staying up at your mine for the winter?" They were sitting at a table at Maggie's place waiting for their dinner.
"Davy Kitchner shook his head. He'd grown a beard, but the mass of brown-gray hair was neatly trimmed. "Not likely. It's already December. Them that're going to stay at their claims all winter are already holed in."
"You were up there all last winter? What made you change your mind this year?"
"Last two winters was pretty mild; they didn't have more'n five feet o'snow between 'em."
"Yes, but you're old enough to know how much things can change from one winter to the next. If there was a bad storm, you could be trapped for days - weeks, perhaps - do you have enough supplies in the event such a storm hits?"
Davy gently put his hand on her. "Don't you worry 'bout me, Edith. I got more'n enough food cached away. I been doing this for a few years, y'know."
"I suppose you have. You must think that I'm just an old biddy worrying about you like that."
"You ain't nothing of the sort, and I like you worrying about me. Fact is, the reason I ain't staying up on that mountain is 'cause I like hearing you worrying about me, and I didn't wanna go a whole winter without the pleasure o' your company."
* * * * *
"Hello there, young lady. If I give you this ticket, I get to dance with you. Ain't that right?" Arsenio winked and handed Laura a ticket.
She put it in her apron pocket. "Yes, handsome stranger, that is how it works." She smiled and stepped into his arms. "You're an odd duck tonight; what's on your mind?"
"I was just thinking how pretty you look." The band started playing, a waltz, and they began to move to the music. "It's true what they say about how a pregnant woman sort of glows."
"Flattery like that will get you anywhere."
"It already has." He lightly touched her stomach.
"Mmm, I remember." She put her hand on his for a moment, then moved it back to his shoulder.
He moved his arm, putting it behind her back and pulling her closer. "I wonder how much longer I'll be able to hold you this close before 'Junior' gets in the way? You got any ideas about that?"
"None. I'm as new to this as you are; newer, really." She bit her lip. "And still plenty scared. I think the next thing I've got to do is get me some new clothes."
Arsenio grinned. "Seems just like the sort of thing a woman'd say no matter what was going on."
"Well, thank you very much. You were the one who started talking about how 'Junior' was going to make my middle bigger. Don't you think I'll need new clothes for that?"
"I guess. You... ah, want me to go with you?"
"If you want to... just don't hold your breath waiting. Rachel Silverman's gone to San Francisco to see her new grandbaby, and she made me promise not to go shopping for - what'd she call 'em - 'maternity clothes' till she gets back."
"Didn't she think you could do it without her?"
"Hell, no. Remember our wedding, Rachel was 'mother of the bride' same as Molly was. She wants to have the fun of picking out the clothes, and I'm one 'daughter' who doesn't want to disappoint her." She sighed. "I just hope I don't start getting too big too soon."
"Why's that?"
She laid her head on his chest. "'Cause it's so nice being in your arms like this."
* * * * *
"I think this is my dance," R.J. said, handing Bridget a ticket.
"I thought that you couldn't leave the bar to dance." She put the ticket into the pocket of her apron.
"I can if it's important, and I decided that getting at least one dance with you tonight is important."
Bridget raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?" The band began playing a polka and they stepped off into the dance.
"Because I can't very well ask you to have supper with me Monday night while I'm standing behind that bar there, can I?"
"Are you asking me out to supper?"
"That's what it sounded like to me. Would you like to - have supper with me, I mean."
"Why not? You're a good friend; why shouldn't I have dinner with you?"
"Is that why you went on that picnic with Cap; because he's a friend, too?"
"I... R.J., you're both my friends. I wish you'd get that through your heads."
"Just asking," R.J. said, spinning her to the beat of the music. But in his thoughts, he added, 'and we both want to be more, and I think we both wish you'd get that through your head.'
* * * * *
Sunday, December 10, 1871
Father deCastro looked out at his congregation. "Before the final prayers, a few announcements. First, I am most happy to report how well the preparations are going for the posada celebrations. I am told that this year, the party here at the church on the eve of the Navidad will be among the best ever held. If the many, happy faces I see working on the food and the decorations are any sign, then I know that this is true. This is most surely the true Christian spirit."
"And in that same spirit, many of you are helping those who will be the host of posada parties in their own homes. This is the spirit of the comunidad, the communal sharing that our Lord spoke of and of the spirit of our Lady of Guadalupe, whose feast day is this Tuesday. There will be a special Mass said in her honor at 6 PM, and I am sure that I will see many of you here at that time.
"Finally, let me say a word about the posada marches themselves. Last year, there was much confusion with the children. It is good that there are so many blessed young ones in our town, but it is not as easy as one would wish to control so many happy, eager, young souls. I am asking this year that at least one parent march with each child this year for the full length of the procession. I will not ask in advance who will come with each child, only that one parent be there at 4 in the afternoon when the children assemble here at the church to begin."
* * * * *
"Before our next hymn," Rev. Yingling said in his deep voice," Horace Styron, President of the Board of Elders, has asked to make an announcement." He stepped away from the altar and motioned for Horace to come over.
Styron, rose from his chair, which was off to the right and next to Rev. Yingling's, and walked to where the minister had stood. As he walked, he took a folded sheet of paper from a jacket pocket.
"Thank you, Reverend," he said, nodding to Yingling. He unfolded the paper and began to read. "As many of you already know, Patrick O'Hanlan drank a dose of that potion Shamus O'Toole makes, and he was turned into a woman. In the opinion of many - including myself - Trisha O'Hanlan, as she is now known, is no longer eligible to be a member of your board of elders. She is only sitting here amongst us..." He gestured to the chair at the far left where Trisha was sitting. "...until she is formally removed by a vote of the congregation at a special meeting here at the --" He stopped as Trisha stepped up next to him.
Trisha had stood up as soon as Styron had said, "including myself." She walked up to Horace and grabbed the paper away from him. "Nobody said you could make a speech about it, Horace."
"I have the right as President," Horace said firmly.
Trisha raised a fist. "I got a right, too. You wanna try it?" She saw the look on Yingling's face and lowered her fist. Then she turned to face the congregation.
"Folks, I got changed like this trying to save my son's life, and now Horace and a few of his cronies want to use it as an excuse to kick me off the Board you all elected me too last September. It's like they wanted to punish me for trying to save Elmer. Milt Quinlan says they gotta ask you what you think about that before they can do it. I say I still got a right to the job you - not them - you gave me.
"The vote's a week away, on Wednesday, the 20th, right here, starting at 7 PM. And I hope you'll all come and tell these... folks what you think." She turned and smiled sweet as honey at Styron, who was glaring at her. "There y'are, Horace. Your announcement's made, and we can get back to what we came here to do, praying to our Maker."
* * * * *
Maggie didn't say a word all the long walk home. Finally, Ernesto asked her. "Mama, what is the matter?" They were alone, since Ramon had to be at Silverman's as soon as church let out.
"Nothing... nothing at all," Maggie answered. She glanced over at Lupe, who was walking a bit ahead, then turned away. '4PM,' she thought. 'How can I leave the restaurant that early? There is too much to be done that Jane could ever begin to do. And if I cannot be there, will Fr. deCastro let Lupe march?'
* * * * *
Monday, December 11, 1871
Emma sat down on the top step next to Tomas and began setting up the checkerboard. "You want red or black?" she asked as she set another piece down.
Tomas watched her for a moment before answering. She was talking to him, but she kept glancing over to where the boys were lining to choose sides for the ball game.
"Go play ball," he finally said.
Emma blinked in surprise. "What? C'mon, red or black?"
"You are a good friend to me, Emma, and I would not be your friend if I kept you from the ball game."
"Tomas, it's... it's okay; I don't mind," she answered halfheartedly.
"No it isn't," Ysabel answered for Tomas. She'd been standing in the doorway while the two had talked. "You know that you want to go play with the... with the other boys." When Emma started to respond, she added. "Besides, after I watch you two play all last week, I want to learn how to play checkers."
"So?" Emma looked at her not quite understanding.
Ysabel smiled. "So... how can I learn if you and Tomas are playing. If you go play ball..." She tilted her head towards the boys. "...he can teach me."
"Well... I suppose, if you really... really want to learn... It... it wouldn't be fair for me to keep playing."
Ysabel nodded quickly. "No... no, it wouldn't."
"Ve... get going," Tomas said with a big grin on his face. As he watched, Emma jumped to her feet and ran over to the boys.
* * * * *
"Well, looky who's back," Tommy Carson said with a laugh, when Emma walked to the end of the line of boys waiting to be chosen by one or the other captain.
Clyde Ritter just sneered. "What makes you think you can play... Emma?" A few other boys muttered in agreement.
"You got some reason why she can't, Clyde?" Stephan Yingling asked. He and Jorge Ybaá±ez were the captains for the week by virtue of winning a penny-pitching contest in the schoolyard that morning.
Clyde looked over to Jorge, who just shrugged. "She did good enough when she played the week before last."
"But she's a girl," Clyde whined.
"A girl that whupped you," Yully Stone observed. "If she ain't good enough to play, maybe you ain't neither."
Clyde glared at Yully then at Emma. "We'll see who whups who, once the game gets going."
"Fine," Stephan said, looking at the entire group of boys. "Since Clyde talks like he wants Emma to play, let's get started. Yully..." He pointed at the tall boy. "... you're on my team."
* * * * *
R.J. stepped up to the poker table. "Any idea how soon you might be ready, Bridget?"
"Soon as this hand is over," Bridget answered without looking up from the table. "I believe it's your play, now, Enoch."
Enoch Ryland ran his hand through his brown curls. He sighed and laid his cards down on the table. "I don't think that a pair of nines are going to be worth a damn; I'm out."
He leaned back in his chair to watch the fight between Bridget and Joe Ortlieb. Mort Boyer, the fourth player, had folded in the previous round of betting.
"Well, then I guess it's just you'm me," Joe said. "I'll see your quarter, Bridget, and raise you another quarter." He put four bits down in the pot in the center of the table.
Bridget cocked an eyebrow. "That and two bits more." She casually tossed in her own money and looked over at Joe.
"Call." Joe matched her bet. "Can you beat three sixes?" He laid down his cards for her to see.
"Not with three fours," Bridget said. Joe started reaching for the pot, when she added. "Of course, with them and these two tens, it's a whole different matter." She showed him the full house she held.
Joe tried to smile. "Thought I had you that time."
"Maybe the next hand... which will be after I take some time to have dinner." She raked the pot into the cash box she kept with her at the table. Her cards and the box of chips followed. She closed the box and stood up. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."
The three men nodded and stood. "Enjoy your supper," Mort said.
"I intend to," Bridget said. She turned to face R.J. for the first time. "Well, now, don't you look nice."
R.J. was wearing a dark blue jacket and matching string tie. His hair was combed and tied in a long ponytail by a thin blue band, and Bridget could smell the bay rum on his freshly shaved face. "So do you." He smiled at her.
Bridget brushed down the front of her dark green dress. She wore a matching Eton jacket, with a pale green handkerchief carefully arranged in the pocket. Her hair was formed into a long ponytail by a piece of dark green cord.
"Shall we?" He offered her his arm. She took it, picking up her cash box as they walked away from the table.
Bridget glanced ahead towards the tables that served as "Maggie's Place." Every one was filled with diners. "Looks like we're in for a wait," she said with a tone of regret.
"Not likely," R.J. told her. He guided her towards the door to Shamus' storeroom.
"Are we eating in here?" she asked as he opened the door.
R.J. shook his head. "Shortcut." They walked into the room. "You can leave that in here." He shut the door behind her and locked it.
Bridget set the cash box down on Shamus' desk and followed T.J. to the double-locked back door. "It's been a warm day for this time of year, so I thought that we'd eat outside." He unlocked the door and held it open for her. "After you, please."
Bridget bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement and walked out into the yard beyond. A few feet in front of her stood a table set for two. Poles were driven into the ground at the four corners of the table. Blue paper lanterns, each with a lit candle inside, hung from rope strung between the poles.
Jessie had been sitting in one of the chairs next to the table. She stood as soon as Bridget walked through the doorway. "'Bout time you... " She stopped at the sound of R.J. clearing his throat rather theatrically. "...excuse me. Good evening, I'm Jessie, your waitress for tonight. Is this table all right?"
"It's fine, Jessie," R.J. answered. He led Bridget to the table and pulled out a chair. Bridget sat down, and R.J. pushed her chair in. Then he took the other seat, across from her.
Jessie handed them each a menu. "I'll just give both you a minute or three to look those over." She walked over and sat on a bench some feet away.
"However did you manage all this?" Bridget asked in amazement. "I never noticed anything going on."
R.J. grinned, happy to have surprised her. "Shamus owed me a couple of favors that I called in. Setting things up was easy. When you're playing your sort of serious poker, you wouldn't notice an Indian attack - at least, not as long as the massacre was in the next room."
Bridget was looking at her menu. "That much noise would interfere with the betting." She gave R.J. a quick smile. "I'm sure I'd notice it by the second raise."
Nothing was said after that, while the pair perused their menus. After a couple of minutes, R.J. raised his arm and motioned for Jessie to come over. "The lady will have the beef brisket, sweet corn and..." He looked over at Bridget. "...peas?"
"Uhh... Yes," Bridget answered, a surprised look on her face. It didn't feel right, somehow, to have R.J. order for her, even if he'd pretty much ordered what she liked most. Maybe what really surprised her was the fact that he knew her well enough to correctly second-guess her on the type of meal she most wanted.
R.J. turned back to Jessie. "And I'll have the meatloaf, a baked potato with sour cream, and... I'll also have peas." He handed Jessie his menu, then reached over to take Bridget's and hand it to Jessie, as well. "Oh, and bring that bottle of wine I asked Shamus to set aside for me."
Bridget shook her head. "No wine for me please, R.J. I've got a game to run the rest of the evening. I can't be getting drunk at dinner."
"I'm not asking you to drink the whole bottle, Bridget," R.J. said. "Just have a little with the meal. It's a good, fruity red wine that'll compliment the meat we'll be eating." He turned to Jessie. "Bring the wine now, please."
"Right away," Jessie said and hurried off towards the door to the kitchen.
"You sure know a lot about food and wine, even for a bartender."
"My papa had a restaurant back in Philly. I grew up working there."
"How did you come to be out here in the middle of nowhere?
R.J. shrugged. "I wanted to see some of the world before I settled down. Besides, my older brother, Agostino... Gus, wanted to run the place, and it just wasn't big enough for two bosses."
"You could've always gotten your own place."
"I suppose... if I'd wanted to, but it turned out that there was something more important that I had to do."
"What was that? The War?"
R.J. leaned forward and took her hand. "I had to be here... to meet you."
"Now you're making fun of me." Bridget felt her face warm. She was smiling now, and it hadn't occurred to her to pull her hand away from his.
He shook his head. "I've never been more serious. Don't you believe in fate?" They heard a door slam. "And here's the wine. We can toast the fate that brought us here tonight."
Jessie walked over and set the bottle down in front of R.J. She put a glass in front of each of them and tried to hand R.J. a corkscrew.
"No, no," R.J. waved he hand away. "You open the wine." He paused a beat. "You can use a corkscrew, can't you?"
Jessie smiled, recalling pleasant memories. "I've seen it done once or twice. She pushed the pointed metal into the bottle's cork stopper and turned the handle until it was even with the top of the cork. When she pulled, the cork came out with a loud "pop".
"Now..." R.J. held up his glass. "...pour a little in here." He waited until the glass held about two inches of liquid. "That's enough." He moved his hand over the glass.
Jessie looked puzzled. "Now do I pour some for Bridget?"
"That's what we're about to find out." R.J. held the glass up so that the light from one of the lanterns shone through it. "Good color and... no cork. Very good work, Jessie."
R.J. swirled the glass, watching the wine move along the sides. Then, he held it up to his nose.
"You gonna smell it?" Jessie said in surprise. "You gone loco, R.J.?"
R.J. shook his head and smiled. "Just a quick check." He sniffed. "Yes... this has a fine bouquet." He tilted the glass and took a long sip, sloshing it back and forth in his mouth before swallowing. "And an even better taste."
"You can fill Bridget's glass, now, please, Jessie, then fill mine."
Bridget held up her glass for Jessie. "What was all that about?" If he wanted to show off about wine, she'd decided to let him.
"Just showing off a bit," R.J. told her. "A gentleman always samples the wine before he allows it to be served to a lady. Gus and I were waiters as soon as we were old enough. Some of papa's very knowledgeable customers taught us both how to judge wine."
Jessie had filled both glasses. She set the bottle down. "I'll be back in a while with your suppers." She turned and headed back to the kitchen.
"It's very good," Bridget said, taking a sip. "And thank you for that little show you just did."
R.J. nodded in reply. "You're very welcome, but it wasn't a show. A lady should be pampered like that."
"I'm not a lady. You said so yourself, the night we... umm, the night I paid off that bet we made."
"I'm very pleased that you remembered that night, but you are a lady, Bridget. And, like any real lady, you know when you don't have to act like one." He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.
"Aren't you going to swirl my hand and sniff at it first?"
R.J. kissed her hand again. "I already know the quality of your kisses, Bridget, and I have every hope of getting reacquainted with their flavor."
"Oh, do you now?" Bridget raised an eyebrow.
R.J. moved to her side. "Yes... I do." He gently pulled Bridget to her feet. "You have some sort of problem with it?" He put his hand under her chin, tilting her head to look up at him.
"Well..." Bridget found herself staring into his dark brown eyes. What was it Wilma had said once? "A gal could get lost in those eyes."
As their lips met, Bridget decided that getting lost like that - just for a little while, of course, she told herself - wouldn't be such a bad thing. Then she closed her eyes and just concentrated on the kiss.
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 12, 1871
Liam O'Hanlan walked over to the store counter where Trisha was sitting and put a folded newspaper down in front of her. "Trisha, I... uhh... I think you oughta see this." He unfolded the paper.
"What exactly am I looking for?" Trisha asked, picking up the paper.
"Page 3, in with the ads at the bottom of the page, the spot where Clyde Ritter puts an ad every week."
Trisha made a face. "He got some new horses to tell lies about?" She scanned down the page. "Why that lousy son of a --"
"Ah, ah, that isn't very ladylike." Liam barely hid his smile.
Trisha crumbled the paper and threw it to the floor. "Screw 'ladylike'. Did you see what that thing said?"
"'Course I did. Why else do you think I showed it to you?" He picked up the paper and carefully unfolded it. "The question is, what are we going to do about it?"
She looked at him carefully. "We?"
"Trisha, I'm your brother. Of course, I'm on your side. Besides, I don't like the game Ritter and Styron and the rest are trying to play." Liam looked down at the paper and read the offending text again.
Big Meeting! Fried Chicken Luncheon!
This Sunday at the Eerie Methodist Church
Right After the Service!
Horace Styron and the Board of Elders of the Eerie Methodist Church invite the entire congregation to a short meeting to discuss the problem Trisha O'Hanlan has caused by her refusal to abide by the rules and to resign from the Board of Elders.
Everyone is invited to stay after the meeting for a fried chicken luncheon being prepared by the Women's Social Committee, Mrs. Cecelia Ritter, President. A small donation will be requested for the luncheon.
* * * * *
Just before 8 PM, R.J. fetched a guitar out of the storeroom. He carried it over to the small, makeshift stage and set it down so it was leaning against the chair he'd put there several hours before.
"I'll say one thing for Jessie Hanks," Roy FitzMartin hooted. "She's got guts, trying t'sing for us again after that goose egg she laid last week." Several other men joined him in the laugh.Red Tully didn't. "Why don't you give her a chance, 'stead of ragging on her?"
"'Cause I'se having too much fun t'stop."
"Maybe so, but Jessie, ain't."
Roy gave a rude laugh. "Why, Red, I do believe you're sweet on her."
Before Red could answer, Shamus hopped up onto the stage and clapped his hands for quiet. "Gents... customers, here she is again t'be entertaining ye --"
"Or to die trying," Roy shouted.
Shamus looked sharply at the heckler. "Quiet, now, and give a listen to our own, 'the Lark of Eerie, Arizona'... Jessie Hanks." He started applauding, and most of the others in the crowded room joined in, as he quickly stepped off the stage.
Everyone, even FitzMartin and his friends, looked expectantly to the stage. When Jessie hadn't appeared after a minute or so, he let out another horse laugh. "She must've finally figured out just how bad she --"
"The years creep slowly by, my darling,
The snow is on the grass again."
The words drifted down slowly from the second floor.
Everyone looked up. Jessie stood at top of the stairs there in a tight little dress with an ox blood skirt and a bright right top. She wore white silk elbow-length gloves and rested one hand on the banister.
"The sun's low down the sky, my darling;
The frost gleams where the flow'rs have been."
Jessie started slowly down the steps. Her hand slid along the banister as she descended. The long slit in the side of her dress gave quick flashes of her black silk stockings. Her voice was high and clear, but with a note of sadness.
Aside from Jessie, there wasn't another sound in the room. When FitzMartin stood up to yell something, a hand on each shoulder forced him back into his seat.
"We loved each other then, my darling,
More than we ever dared to tell.
And what we might have been, my darling,
Had but our loving prospered well --"
Many of the men in the room had fought in the War. The "rebs" knew the song as "Lorena", the sweetheart song, sung over their campfires for much of those four years. The "feds", those who'd fought on the Union side, knew it as the song they heard from distant camps, from men on the march, and from prisoners. It meant sadness, and sacrifice, and lost loves to them all.
"Yes, these were words of thine, my darling,
They burn within my memory yet.
They touched some tender chords, my darling,
Which thrill and tremble with regret.
'Twas not my woman's heart that spoke;
My heart was always true to thee:
A duty, stern and pressing,
Broke the tie which linked your soul to me."
Jessie reached the foot of the stairs. She stopped and glanced around the room. Every eye was one her. Bridget leaned back in her chair and gave a mock salute. The poker game had stopped while she and her players listened. Shamus at the bar gave her a smile and a "thumbs up" as she started walking towards the stage.
"There is a Future! O, thank G-d!
Of life, this is so small a part!
'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod,
But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart."
She reached the stage as the song was coming to an end. She sat down just as she came to the last line. Jessie looked upward, raising one hand plaintively as she sang "there, up there", then she sang the last few words and looked downward towards the floor, her hands on her lap.
The room exploded in applause. Several men fired their pistols. A dozen coins and more landed on the stage at her feet. "More," the crowd yelled.
Jessie waited till the noise had settled, then looked up, a great smile on her face. "You really want more?" she teased.
The crowd roared that it did. Jessie picked up the guitar and strummed a chord. "All right then. This next song is dedicated to Roy FitzMartin, who was so sure about me last time." She strummed another chord, then began.
"Hush, Little Baby, don't say a word."
Her voice was loud, clear, and happy.
And it was almost drowned out by the laughter.
"I get your point," FitzMartin yelled. He held his hands up as if in surrender.
Jessie nodded. She finished the song, then moved right on to "a request from an old friend, 'Camptown Races'." She sang a couple more Stephan Foster songs, finishing up with "I Dream of Jeanie" - she changed it to - "Jimmy With the Light Brown Hair", so she could sing it from a woman's point of view.
"But them's all eastern songs," she said, resting the guitar on her lap for a moment. "I'd like to close with a song about folks moving on west." She strummed a chord and began.
"Oh don't you remember sweet Betsy from Pike,
Who crossed the wide prairie with her lover Ike."
She sang the long version of the song, encouraging the crowd to join her in the chorus,
"Singing dang fol dee dido, singing dang fol dee day."
The men listened in good spirits until she got to the last verse.
"Long Ike and Sweet Betsy got married, of course,
But Ike, getting jealous, obtained a divorce.
While Betsy, well satisfied, said with a shout..."
Then everyone joined in with Jessie and just roared the final line.
"Goodbye, you big lummox, I'm glad you backed out!"
The room was filled with laughter and a thunderous applause; even FitzMartin clapped. Jessie stood and bowed low, showing a good bit of creamy breast in her low cut red gown. More coins tinkled at her feet.
That just started the applause going again. A number of men rushed up to the stage, blocking her way off it. Paul pushed his way through and offered his hand. "Let me help you, Jessie."
"Thank you, Paul." She smiled, took his hand, and stepped down.
While she let the crowd surge in around her, she saw Shamus picking up the coins and putting them into his bowler hat. "We'll be divvying these up later," the barman said, with a happy wink.
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 13, 1871
"Hey, here comes 'Little Miss Patches'," Hermione Ritter called out, pointing at Emma, who was just walking up to the schoolhouse steps. A few others looked and laughed.
Emma stopped and glared at Hermione. "You talking to me?"
"Well, I'm sure I don't know who else I would be talking to." Hermione sneered. "You're the only one who's dressed so stupidly."
Emma wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a checkered blue and gray flannel shirt. As with all of Elmer's clothes, Kaitlin had sewn on very feminine extensions. A doll-sized, pale blue pleated skirt, with a small strip of white lace at the bottom that looked like a petticoat, covered the space between her pants cuff and her shoes. A frilly pink tube of soft muslin reached from mid arm to her wrist.
"You look like one of them... one of those patchwork quilts my mother has on our beds, bits and pieces of cloth that don't mean nothing." Hermione laughed. "One can't even tell if you're a boy or a girl."
"Maybe she doesn't know herself," Eulalie Mackechnie suggested, chuckling under her breath,
"You take that back, Hermione Ritter; you, too, Eulalie." Emma's hands balled into fists. "You take that back right now."
Eulalie stepped back. "She... she wants to hit me. I-I said she thought she... she was still a boy." She turned and ran into the schoolhouse.
"You stay away from me, you... you... patchwork ruffian." Hermione took a step back away from Emma.
"Not till you apologize," Emma said taking a step towards her.
Clyde was suddenly between the two girls. "You got a problem with something?"
"Your sister," Emma told him. "She keeps calling me 'Patchwork'?"
"'Course she does," Clyde answered. "That's all you are." He let out a laugh. "My pa says you and your pappa is - if she still is your pappa - are just bits of fluff that look funny and don't mean nothing." He laughed again.
"You stinkin..." Emma's hands balled into fists again.
"What you gonna do, Emma?" Clyde said sarcastically. "You gonna hit me with your purse?" When Emma took a step towards him, he added, "You best be careful, girlie. Starting a fight with me ain't gonna help your... your Trisha none." Clyde made a face as he said the name. "...ain't gonna help her at all next week when the grown-ups vote."
Emma raised her arm and was about to step forward, when Tomas grabbed her arm. "Do not do it. He is right; I am afraid. You would beat him, but it could do your papa no good."
"Maybe not, but it'd do me a whole lotta good t'stomp him."
"And what would you tell your papa when she finds out?"
Emma sighed and lowered her arm. "I..." She pulled her arm loose from Tomas and walked away.
"Yellow!" Clyde called after her. "What's the matter, Patchwork; you afraid you'll get them clothes of yours dirty?"
"I don't see what she's worried about," Hermione added triumphantly. "Anything that happened to an outfit like that would be an improvement."
Emma stomped into the school, the laughter ringing in her ears.
* * * * *
"Now that was a good breakfast," Shamus said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He looked across the table. "Jessie, might I be speaking with ye for a wee bit?"
Jessie had been enjoying a last cup of coffee. "Sure, Shamus, what d'you want to talk about?"
"I'm thinking that ye already know, but let's be taking the conversation into me office if ye don't mind." He stood up, still looking at her.
Jessie took one final sip and stood up. "All right, then; lead the way."
Shamus turned and walked over to the storeroom that doubled as his office, with Jessie following close behind.
When they were both inside the room, he took a seat behind his desk. "Close the door, if ye please, and have a seat." He motioned to the chair near his desk.
"Thanks, Shamus." She pushed the door shut and sat down. "This is about my singing, ain't it?" She looked at him intensely.
Shamus smiled. "It is. Ye did well last night - much, much better than ye did that first time ye sang."
"Thanks. I get better with practice, I guess."
"And with yuir sister coaching ye, I'm thinking."
Jessie shrugged. "No point in denying it. She was one big help."
"It wasn't her dress ye was wearing, though. Ye're a lot smaller than she is." He glanced down at her chest for just a moment. "Most places, anyway."
"You watch yerself, Shamus," Jessie teased, "or I'll tell Molly on you."
"I'm just stating a fact... and asking a question. Ye didn't charge that dress t'me over t'Silverman's, did ye?"
She shook her head. "Nope. Borrowed it from... from one of the other gals at La Parisienne. I got to return it in a day or two."
"Well, that's one bill I don't have t'be paying." He faked a sigh of relief. "But thuir'll be others like it."
"What do you mean?"
"Ye do want t'be singing here for me, don't ye?"
"'Course I do. But what's that got to do with Rosalyn's dress."
"Part of the reason ye were such a big hit last night - a small part, I'll grant, but a part of it - was the way ye looked. Ye gonna pay for dresses like that out of what I'll be paying ye?"
"I am, but I figured - after how well it went last night - you'd be paying me more than the $7.50 a night we agreed on."
"Are ye now? Ye that ready t'go back on yuir word t'me? We agreed on $7.50 a day, didn't we?"
"Yeah, but like you said, I done real good last night. I figure I can ask for more money."
"Ye can ask for more, Jessie, but we shook hands on $7.50. Ye did get more, though." He leaned over and took a rolled up kerchief out of a box behind him. Jessie heard the clink of coins when he set it down on the desk.
"This here's the money them boys tossed onto the stage. I couldn't find ye last night to be giving it to ye."
"I... I was lying down for a while." Jessie felt her face flush. She and Paul had gone back to his room to celebrate her success the best way they could think of.
Shamus raised an eyebrow. "Ye weren't upstairs; I sent Jane up t'check on ye. Still I suppose ye could have been resting someplace else." He wouldn't ask where - or with whom - though he thought that he knew the answer to both questions. He hadn't seen much of Paul that evening either.
"Thanks, Shamus. How much is in there, do you think?"
"Let's be finding out." He untied the kerchief and let the ends fall onto the desk. He began to sort the coins with one finger. "Twenty-five... fifty..." He continued for a while before announcing, "All told, it comes to $5.72."
"Almost as much as you're paying me... not bad."
She reached for the kerchief, but Shamus put a hand over it. "We ain't settled on how we split yuir tips. For that matter, we ain't settled on what I'm paying ye. Let's do that first, if ye don't mind."
"I suppose that we did shake on $7.50." She paused and saw Shamus nod. "And I do owe you something for giving me a second chance after I done so bad the first time I sung." She spat on her palm and stuck out a hand. "7.50 it is."
Shamus spat on his own palm and shook her hand. "Done. Now, most places, the split on tips is 50-50. That sound fair to ye?"
"I suppose... 75-25'd be better, but I'll take a 50-50 split." She shook his hand a second time.
"Good, but I'll be letting ye have all of this first night's tips."
"Thanks, but why're you being so generous all of a sudden?"
"It ain't generosity; it's an investment. Ye take that money over t'Silverman's and get yuirself another dress like ye wore last night."
"I don't think they got anything like that at Silverman's."
"Then ye'd best be talking to the Rylands and see if they can't be making ye one like it."
"The Rylands? They make suits for men."
"They make clothes. They've done dresses for other women, I'm told, and they can make something for ye. Ye just be watching out for Enoch Ryland, Natty's brother."
Jessie laughed. "I know about Enoch from the dances. His hands... wander some, but I think I can take care of myself, especially now that I ain't got that damn potion of yours t'hold me back."
"I'm sure ye can. Is there anything else, anything ye need t'talk about, or are we done here?"
Jessie thought for a moment. "Two things."
"Two!" Shamus looked at her suspiciously. "One ain't enough?"
She shook her head. "Nope, but hear me out before you get on your high horse."
"All right. I asked the question, so I suppose I should be listening to the answer. What do ye want?"
"First off, it takes a long time to get all gussied up like that. I want off on the nights I sing, say... from 5 o'clock on. That'll gimme time to eat, rest up, and get ready." She thought for a moment. "And, ya know, we never did on how many nights a week I was gonna sing, did we?"
"No, we didn't. I just told ye to be getting a fancy dress, so it only seems fair t'give ye the time to get fixed up right in it. If I give ye that time, how many nights will ye give me?"
"That's the other thing I wanted to talk about. I was thinking two, Tuesday and... Thursday?"
"Ye got yourself a deal, Jessie. Two nights it is." They shook hands a final time. Jessie gathered the coins and retied the kerchief.
* * * * *
The teasing of Emma continued at recess. A boy was always running near her, chanting, "Patchwork... patchwork." He yelled the word at odd moments, distracting her. She missed a couple of passes and even managed to trip over her "skirt".
Stephan Yingling took her aside as they were all coming back inside at the end of recess. "They were giving you a pretty hard time today," he said.
"They surely was."
"And it got to you. I never seen you play worse."
"I'll do better tomorrow."
"I hope so, 'cause I've got no place on my team for a player who keeps messing up the way you did today." He walked past the stunned girl and into the classroom.
* * * * *
"Uncle Ramon," Ernesto said, as he opened his front door, "have you come to help, too?"
Ramon stepped through the open doorway. "Help with what?" He mentally answered his own question when he saw that the boy was wearing an oversized apron. "Why does your momma need so much help with her baking?"
"Because his momma does not seem to be able to say 'No' to anyone." Maggie walked in from the kitchen. She was also wearing an apron, only hers had flour and sugar spilled onto it. She had a small flour smudge on her cheek, too.
Ramon smiled. "You have said it often enough to me, Margarita. Perhaps I should ask my question again."
"Ramon, please." Maggie's expression darkened, and she looked down to the floor, feeling tired and disappointed. Dreading what he might say, she added, "Lupe... Ernesto, please go and check on the batter in the kitchen."
After the two children had left, Ramon gently cupped her chin and raised her face, so that she was looking directly at him. "And my question is, how can I help you? Did Miss Osbourn talk you into making more cookies for her class?"
"No, I told Carmen that I would help her with food for the posada party at her house. She told Seá±ora Rivera, who also asked me to help because her son liked what I baked for Miss Osbourne so much. Then some one told Seá±ora Velasquez, and she also asked me to help, and..." She sighed. "I am baking for five parties, including the one at the church."
"I hope that you do not have to buy all the materials yourself."
Maggie shook her head. "Oh, no. Carmen just said to give her the bill. Seá±ora Rivera and Seá±ora Velasquez gave me what they thought I would spend. I am paying for what I cook for the church, but I could never ask the church for money." She quickly crossed herself.
"I understand," Ramon said, "But to be baking so early. Won't everything go stale by next week?"
"Tonight I am baking chorreadas, hard cookies that will keep for days and days. Monday, I will bake two or three other kinds of pan dulce for Carmen's party on Tuesday, and the one at the Velasquez' house on Wednesday. And for another party at the school. Thursday, I will bake for the other two, the house party on Friday and the one at the church on Sunday."
"Thursday? Is that not the night that Lupe and Ernesto are supposed to march?"
"Madre de Dios, it is! How can I march with them, when I need the whole night to bake?"
"You must pick one or the other."
"And to who do I refuse? Lupe or Father deCastro?"
Ramon saw the concern in her eyes. "You are always the one for living up to your obligations." He took a breath. "Who will you disappoint? Neither. You stay home and bake. I will take care of Lupe and Ernesto at the posada. Father deCastro is an old friend. I am sure that he will accept me being there in your place."
"And you don't mind doing this? Marching with all those children."
"I made Lupe's wings. I wanted to be there to see how they looked. Besides, a man does such things for a woman he..." He saw her body tense. "...for a woman who is such a good friend." He waited a moment. "Now, do you have another apron? I always wanted to learn how to make chorreadas."
* * * * *
Thursday, December 14, 1871
Kaitlin looked over at the table. Emma was sitting quietly, working on her arithmetic homework. "Would you mind taking a break, dear?"
"No, ma'am," She put down her pencil and shifted in her chair to read the clock on the mantle piece, "but isn't it a little early to set the table for supper?"
"It is. In fact, I'd like you to help me make that supper."
"Cook! Ma, I... I got homework to do."
"I know, and you'll have more than enough time to do it after supper. Right now, though, you'll help me cook. You need to learn --"
"I don't wanna learn how to cook." She frowned and crossed her arms.
Kaitlin was tempted to tell Emma how feminine she looked, especially the way she was holding her arms just below her budding breasts. No, it wasn't the point she wanted to make. "This isn't a 'girlie thing', as you and Trisha have been so quick to say."
Both of the new females had used the term any time they thought that Kaitlin was trying to get them to act in a female manner. It was also, they had found, a way to sometimes get out of the new chores she had given them.
"It surely is. Women cook, not men."
"Men don't cook? Then tell me, Emma, when have you ever heard of a woman on a cattle drive or up in the mountains with the miners? For that matter, how many women ride with the Army out on the range patrolling against Indians?"
"Uhh... none, I guess." She cautiously lowered her arms.
Kaitlin handed her an apron, a plain, white muslin one - no sense starting her off again. "Fine, then; put this on, and we'll get started. Trust me, there's no shame in being able to cook. Why, I'll bet there'll be a day when you'll be happy for what you're about to learn."
* * * * *
"And here's a fifth card to you, Mr. Hersh, Fred, Carl, Mr. Parnell." Bridget dealt a card to each man as she named them. "And one to me."
Parnell, a ruddy-faced man in brown work clothes picked up his cards. "Please, Bridget, Mr. Parnell is my father. Call me Quint." He looked at his cards for a moment, arranging them in his hand as he did.
While he did, everyone tossed their dime ante into the center of the table.
"No, thank you... Mr arnell," Bridget answered. "This is an honest game, and you and Mr. Hersh won't be playing it any longer."
Hersh, a tall, nattily dressed man, raised an eyebrow. "Is there some problem, Miss Kelly?"
"Aw, she's just mad 'cause you and me is the big winners tonight." Parnell said, then laughed. "Don't you worry none - Bridget, was it? - don't you worry none, Bridget. Your luck'll change." He reached over and gently patted her arm.
Bridget pulled her arm away. "Luck's got very little to do with it. The pair of you are working together. You flash each other your hands, then bet the stronger one. I think you've been whipsawing, too, to fatten the purses."
"Nobody calls me a thief." Hersh pushed back his chair and stood up. "Least of all some little bit of fluff like you."
Now Carl Osbourne stood up. "That's my friend you're insulting, mister."
Parnell just sat and smiled. "Fellas, c'mon, this here's just a friendly, little game. Miss Bridget is a little confused; that's all. Still, if she's thinking that way, why Mr. Hersh'n I will just take our money and go." He reached over for the stack of coins in front of his place at the table.
"You two most certainly will go," Bridget said, putting her hand atop the pile of coins, "but your money will stay here, Mr. Hersh's money, too. You both've been cheating all night, and most of it belongs to the others at the table."
Parnell drew his pistol and pointed it at her. "The hell it will. We earned that money and we're taking it. Bill, get the cash. All of it."
"Sure, boss." Hersh nodded. He grabbed Bridget's cash box and shoveled all the money on the table, including the other men's stakes, into it. "Thanks for the donation folks," he said as he closed the cash box and drew his own pistol from a coat pocket.
"You're too pretty to kill," Parnell said, studying Bridget, "but maybe a bullet in that hand of yours'll teach you t'keep your - Yoww!"
He dropped his pistol and stared at the knife sticking in his own arm. A red stain was growing in the cloth around it.
"Nobody move, or I'll shoot her myself," Hersh said, pointing his pistol at Bridget.
"No, you won't." Arnie Diaz threw himself onto the gambler and wrestled the taller man to the ground, pinning his hand - and the pistol - under his body.
Men ran over to the table. Shamus had been in the storeroom, and he had to push his way through the crowd to where Carl Osbourne and Fred Norman were holding Parnell in a chair.. "I heard a scream. What sort of mischief is going on in me saloon?"
"Them men was cheating Miss Bridget," Arnie answered. He was sitting on Hersh, who was sprawled out face down on the floor, holding the man's arm tightly behind his back. "When she called them on it, that one pulled a pistol. He got hit with a knife, and I jumped this one before he could shoot her."
"Somebody..." Shamus looked around. "...Red, go get the Sheriff." Red Tully nodded and ran for the door.
"Better get the Doc, too." R.J. said. He braced Parnell's arm with his left hand and pulled out his knife in a firm, steady motion. He wiped it clean with a napkin from the table and put it in a sheath hanging from his belt. Then he used a second napkin to fashion a crude tourniquet to slow the man's bleeding.
"I will go for the doctor," Hans Euler replied.
"Tell him to meet us at the jail," said R.J., still glaring at his victim. "I want this jasper to be nice and healthy for his trial."
* * * * *
"Here's something t'be settling yuir nerves, Bridget." Molly smiled and handed her a shot of rum. "I know it always works for me."
Bridget was still sitting in her chair. She took the drink and tossed it down. Then she closed her eyes and concentrated on the warmth growing in her stomach.
"And just how often do you get robbed at gunpoint, Molly?" R.J. asked pointedly as he sat down next to Bridget. "You did just fine," he told the lady gambler, "and we're all proud of you." He took her hand and held it firmly.
"Of course, we are," Shamus added. "But tell me, Bridget. Them men was pretty good at what they was doing. How did ye come to catch them at it?"
Bridget allowed herself a slight smile. "Jessie... that is, I got suspicious while she was singing."
"What do ye mean?" Molly asked.
"After she sang 'Oh, Suzanna', Hersh tossed her a quarter from his winnings."
"Why would that make you suspicious?" Carl asked.
"Because Parnell frowned at him, and he looked back at Parnell like he'd done something wrong. It happened real fast. Everybody else was watching Jessie, but I caught it. The only reason for Parnell to frown and Hersh to look guilty about spending his own money was if they were working together and pooling their stakes. After that, it was just a question of watching them till I saw how they were doing it." She sighed. "I didn't think that things would get out of hand like they did."
"Tis a good thing R.J. was here," Molly said. "Arnie, too. I always knew ye were a good boy, Arnie."
Arnie blushed at the compliment. "It wasn't much. I just couldn't let them hurt Bridget."
"It most surely was something," Shamus said, "and it just might be I was wrong about ye."
Might be?" Arnie said.
Shamus snorted. "I probably was. Is that any better?"
"A little." Arnie smiled. "But just a little."
"Well, I'm very glad he was there." Bridget took his hand in her free hand. "Thank you, Arnie. Thank you very, very much." She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it gently. Arnie's face got several shades redder.
"Don't I get a thanks, too?" R.J. teased.
"Of course, you do," Bridget said. She raised her other hand, the one he was holding. When it was close enough, she kissed his hand, as well.
R.J. smiled. "To tell the truth, I was hoping for a lot more than that."
"R.J.!" Molly said. "Shame on ye."
"Shame on you, Molly. What I was hoping for," R.J. said, winking at Molly, "was that Bridget would have supper with me tomorrow... out in the yard, like we did the other night."
Bridget considered for a moment. "That... that would be... nice."
She glanced over at Arnie, who looked like his dog had just died. She knew about the crush he had on her. Bridget also knew that he had very little money. 'I'll have to find a way to thank him that won't hurt his pride,' she told herself.
* * * * *
Friday, December 15, 1871
Molly carefully put a final glass into the tray. Satisfied that it was as full as she could manage, she took a breath and lifted it from the bar. She was halfway to the kitchen when Shamus saw her.
"Ye needn't be doing that heavy work, me Love," he told her. "We got the help t'do it." He took the tray from her. "And I'll take this one in meself."
"Aye, we got help, Shamus," she answered, willingly handed him the tray, "but not as much as we had. Wilma's long gone. Bridget has her card game, and Maggie works in the kitchen, now, when she ain't at home with her wee ones."
"We've still got enough help."
"Do we? Ye just gave Jessie two nights off t'be singing for the crowd."
"She wasn't that much help with the heavy lifting anyways."
"No, she wasn't, but she could do other things, so somebody else was freed t'do the heavy work."
"I see where ye're going. That leaves us Jane and Laura. Jane works as much for Maggie as she does for us, and Laura's... well, we may not want her to be doing any heavy work in a little while."
Molly smiled. "We're back t'what we had. The two of us sharing the work between us." She gently touched his arm. "Not that I ever minded sharing things with you."
"Nor me with you." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "But it has been nice having somebody else t'help with things." He laughed. "Maybe one of them two sharps'll decide t'take me potion instead of going to prison."
"Maybe... and maybe not. Are ye sure ye even want the Judge to make them the offer? They don't know about yuir potion, and maybe it'd be better to leave things that way."
"Let sleeping dogs lie? Aye, it might. Let me think about that."
"While ye're think about it," Molly said with a laugh, "ye'd best be getting them glasses into the kitchen."
* * * * *
"That's surely a lot of cabbage," Arsenio said. He was leaning against a chair watching Laura. She was working on the third cabbage. The shredded remains of the first two were in a heap on the kitchen table. The fourth was besides the pile, waiting its turn along with two onions and a small bunch of carrots.
She stopped chopping. "I... uhh... didn't hear you come in, Arsenio. I'm... uhh... I'm making cole slaw."
"That's what it looks like, all right." He chuckled. "A whole lot of cole slaw."
She looked a little hurt. "Don't you like cole slaw?"
"Not that much, I don't." He sighed. "I guess I should've expected it, though. I've heard about how some pregnant woman'll get cravings for the strangest things. I'll just be glad if they don't get any stranger than this."
Laura looked down at her stomach. It was still sometimes hard for her to believe that there was a new life growing inside her. "Cravings? Yeah, I guess that could be it." She gently rubbed her belly.
"In that case," Arsenio said, "you just go ahead and make all the cole slaw you want." He pulled her close and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
* * * * *
Shamus walked over to Bridget's table. She was alone, playing what she called "Maverick Solitaire", trying to arrange twenty-five cards dealt at random into five good poker hands.
"If ye put that three of clubs and the five of hearts with them three cards over there..." he pointed to other cards a few inches away, "...ye'll have one of them - whacha-call-it - straights."
Bridget looked up at him. "I know, but I don't really like these fancy new hands, straights and flushes. A full house or four of a kind is plenty good enough for me."
"Do ye allow them in yuir game - when ye're playing for money, I mean?"
"I do, if most of the other players ask for it." She shrugged. "Better to play a game I don't like than not to play at all."
Shamus chuckled. "I know what ye mean, and I'd be guessing that ye're good enough to take thuir money either way." He pulled out a chair and sat down.
"I can, but it doesn't quite seem like real poker with those new hands."
"I suppose it doesn't, but I don't think that poker hands is what ye wanted t'be talking t'me about. What can I do for ye?"
"I wanted to ask you about Arnie."
"Him? I'll admit he came in real handy last night, but I still got some doubts about the lad. Besides, I gave his mum me word that I wouldn't let him touch a drop of what she called 'devil's brew' in me saloon."
"How about letting him touch an empty glass? Or, at least, a broom?"
"What are ye asking, Bridget?"
"How about giving him a job? I heard you and Molly talking about how you were getting shorthanded around here."
"He's not pretty enough t'be serving drinks in me place."
Bridget laughed at that. "No, but how pretty does he have to be to carry dirty glasses back into the kitchen... or to wash them for that matter?"
"Ye... ye got a point. Let me think on it a bit."
"Then you'll really ask him?"
"I'll think about it, and - since ye'll be making an old man out of me with yuir pestering if I don't - I'll tell ye me decision either way as soon as I know it meself."
* * * * *
Bridget took a sip of wine and put the glass down on the table. She and R.J. were back in the garden having dinner. "So tell me, R.J.," she asked, "where exactly did you learn how to throw a knife like that?"
"Are you sure you want to know such a dark secret?" he teased.
Bridget smiled. "I didn't think you could have a secret that dark?"
"Ahh, but are you willing to risk finding out?" He raised an eyebrow, trying to look menacing.
She felt fixed to the table by his stare. "I... I'll r-risk it."
"Fine then; let it be on your head." Then he broke into a smile. "My papa fought the Austrians back in Italy. He... ah, used a knife sometimes. When mama told him that... that Gus was on the way, they ran off to America and opened the restaurant. He taught Gus and me both all about knives. Gus wasn't very good at it, but I... ah, I was."
"Well, I'm certainly glad that you kept in practice."
He looked down at the table. "I didn't. Until a few months ago, I hadn't thrown a knife in years."
"What made you take it back up?"
"You did." He took her hand in his.
"I did? How?"
"I never saw a gambler that didn't get in deep trouble every once in while. I didn't think you were going to be an exception, and that scattergun Shamus has under the bar wouldn't have worked in the spot you were in yesterday."
She looked at her purse. It was on the table near her other hand, the one he wasn't holding. "I have a pistol, a derringer, in my purse. I was about to get it out when you threw that knife."
"With them both watching you? I don't think you would have made it. You needed my protection."
"Your what?"
"My protection." He raised the eyebrow again. "That's what a man does. He protects the... he protects his friends."
"Especially me?"
"Any woman that needs his help. That's what a man does." He lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it.
Bridget leaned back in her chair, emotions racing, not sure what she was feeling or what she should say in answer.
* * * * *
Saturday, December 16, 1871
Finny Pike sat down at a table and took a sip from his beer. "Nice dance," he said, trying to start a conversation.
Angel Montiero took the bait. "Be nicer if we were out there dancing, no."
"Ain't that the truth," Finny said. "Could be worse, I guess."
"Si, we could be riding line with Cap Lewis, taking extra supplies to the men who will be spending the winter in those cabins, watching his uncle's herd."
Finny shivered at the thought. "There's probably six inches of snow up there already. Being here, nice and warm with the beer and the women is one helluva a lot better." He sighed. "Too bad there ain't a few more women here, though."
"You could always drink that stuff Shamus has and become one yourself."
"And dance with the likes of you? No... way... in... hell." He looked around. "At least some folks bring their own gals." He pointed at a couple dancing nearby. "Why don't you go cut in on him?"
"The Sheriff? I do not care to anger any man who can jail me if he wants to. You go cut in on him."
"When pigs fly," Finny said. "I wonder what he's doing here, though. Him and his wife don't come to these dances too often."
"Who knows?"
Finny took a green kerchief from pocket. "You wanna put this on your arm 'n dance with me?"
"You are kidding, amigo?" Angel laughed. "This dance is almost over. I am going to try and dance with Jane next time. I will have no chance, if I am out on the dance floor with you, when the music stops. There will already be too many men around her with the same idea."
* * * * *
"Seá±orita Bridget, may I have this dance with you?"
Bridget looked up from where she was sitting. There was too much noise for her game, so she was back dancing as a favor to Shamus. "Arnie? What are you doing here?"
"Asking you to dance with me." He showed her the ticket in his hand.
She stood up. "I know that. It's just that I don't think that I've ever seen you at one of these dances before." She took the ticket, putting it in the pocket of her starched, white apron.
"Before... I didn't have the money before, and I... I was not sure that Shamus would let me dance, even if I did." He grinned. "Tonight, I know he'll let me dance." He led her out onto the dance floor.
"How'd you know that he'd let you tonight?" she asked.
Once they were among the other couples, he took her right hand in his. Then, he stood there, looking at his other hand and at her and trying to figure out where to put it. Bridget gently took the hand and put it on her waist.
"First, because I'm a hero... just ask anybody." He grinned again. The music, a waltz, began.
"And why else." Bridget was getting curious.
"'Cause Shamus offered me a job. If I can work here, I figure that I can dance here, too."
Now Bridget smiled. "I knew you'd take that job. I knew it as soon as I --"
"So that's it! You told Shamus to offer it to me." He stopped dancing and looked at her angrily. "I don't need anybody's charity."
This was male pride, something Bridget knew a lot about. "It wasn't charity, and it wasn't my idea," she began carefully.
"I don't need Shamus' charity neither."
Arnie, please. It... it wasn't charity. I heard Shamus and Molly talking about how they might hire somebody because they don't have as much help as they used to. All I did was tell Shamus that you should be the one he hires."
"Sounds like charity to me." He frowned. "Much as I like you, I still don't need you helping me."
Bridget thought quickly. "Arnie, please... If I was trying to help anybody, I was trying to help me."
"Help you?" He snorted. "How does me working for Shamus help you?"
"You should know that better than anybody," Bridget told him. "What happened yesterday could happen - probably will happen - again." She thought about that for a moment. It probably would happen. Few men would have stood up to Brian; he had looked like he could handle himself in a fight. Now it was different. Too many people assumed a woman was easy to frighten or intimidate. "And when it does," she continued, "I figure that it won't hurt to have a friend around that I know I can count on."
She smiled and put his hand back at her waist. "I can count on you, can't I?"
His grin was back, broader than ever. "Damned right, you can."
* * * * *
Sunday, December 17, 1871
Horace Styron was just tying up his wagon when Clyde Ritter rode up to the stable.
"You're here early today, Horace," Ritter said, climbing down from his horse.
"So're you," Styron replied. "Where's your wife and kids?"
"Around the back of the school with the other women frying chicken - at least Cecelia and Hermione are. You know my Cecelia; it don't get done right unless she's there t'make sure. Winthrop's inside with Clyde, Junior, making sure the boy don't get dirty."
The two men started walking towards the schoolhouse-church. "We don't want nothing to go wrong here today, do we?"
"This chicken fry was a good idea, Clyde. Feed the folks, make a speech or two, and Trisha's as good as off the Board."
"And good riddance to her, I say."
Styron laughed. "I wonder if she's even going to come to church this morning."
"If she does, she can skip the services and fry up some chicken - same as the other women." By now, they were at the steps.
The door suddenly opened in front of them. "Me... cook?" Trisha said. "I'm afraid I can't do that; not today." She was standing in the doorway wearing a pale blue dress. Her blonde hair hung loosely around her shoulders, catching the morning light. "I'll be sitting up in front along with you and the other elders... where I belong."
The two men stared. She had a yellow ribbon pinned prominently to the dress. In large, dark blue letters, the words, "Keep O'Hanlon" were printed on it in a fine hand.
"See you inside." Trisha smiled slyly at the two dumbfounded men, turned, and walked back into the church.
* * * * *
"Well, now," a smiling Arsenio Caulder said to Styron and Ritter a few minutes later, "and what are you two unrepentant sinners doing here, outside the church?" He'd walked around from the far side of the schoolhouse. He wore a brown suit, his jacket draped over his arm.
Ritter smiled back at the joke and extended his hand. "I might ask you the same, Arsenio. Seems like the only time I ever seen you in church was Christmas and Easter and not always then."
"You know it is," Arsenio said, shaking the man's hand. "Things change when you get married. Laura joined the Ladies's Social Committee. She's over helping with the cooking."
"The ladies can always use another pair of hands," Styron said. "You're both more than welcome." Arsenio certainly was. As a member of the town council, he was a powerful potential ally.
Arsenio laughed and kept talking. "She made a ton of cole slaw at home the other day, and we brought it all over here for the party... thank the Lord."
"You don't like cole slaw?" Styron asked.
Arsenio shook his head. "Not when she's made enough to fill a bath tub."
"You'll eat it, but you won't swim in it?" Ritter laughed at his own joke.
"Not if I can help, I won't." Arsenio looked at his pocket watch. "I think I'll go inside, get me a good seat."
Styron nodded. "They're all good seats in the Lord's House. See you inside."
"I'm sure you will." Arsenio put on his jacket. He had a ribbon just like the one Trisha had been wearing pinned to the front. He smiled and walked past the pair and up the steps to the door.
* * * * *
"I wish you could have seen Cecelia Ritter's expression when you three drove up," Phillipia Stone told Kaitlin. "She looked like she'd swallowed a frog." Phillipia was a tall, athletic woman, whose curly, jet-black hair hinted at her mother's Greek origin.
Kaitlin smiled. "I can imagine." She finished sectioning another chicken and put the pieces on a tray. "She probably never expected us to come to church today, not with this chicken fry her husband planned, and she must have had kittens when Laura showed up handing out these ribbons."
"Take this over to Laura... Mrs. Caulder, please, Emma." She handed her daughter the tray, which was now covered with chicken pieces. Emma nodded and carried the tray to the next table, where Laura and Amy Talbot stood waiting.
Kaitlin and Phillipia both wore "Keep O'Hanlon" ribbons on their aprons. So did Emma, Laura, and Amy.
"Thank you, Emma." Laura took the tray from Emma and began dunking the pieces one at a time into a large bowl of buttermilk. She handed each piece to Emma, who was standing next to her now. The girl rolled the piece in flour and gave it to Amy, who put it in a wire rack. When she'd filled a rack, Amy carefully lowered it into a large, very hot pot of bubbling oil. There were already five racks in the pot, perhaps with room for three more. About a dozen pieces of freshly fried chicken were draining on a spread of old newspaper.
Laura glanced over at Kaitlin and Phillipia. "What're your mama and Mrs. Stone laughing about?" she asked Emma.
"These ribbons," Emma answered. "How'd you think up the idea, anyway?"
"I saw people wearing campaign ribbons and such for every election back in Indiana. We wear ribbons at the Saloon, too, mostly so folks can tell my sister, Jane, and me apart. When your Uncle Liam told me what was going on, I asked Molly - she's the one who makes them - to make a bunch up for me to help your... to help Trisha stay on the board.
"I wouldn't have thought of them," Laura continued, "if your... if Trisha hadn't come over to the Saloon and asked for some help. I guess she figured that folks who were used to somebody being changed like she was would want to help. What they're saying about her, they're saying about us, too"
"It was good of you to lend a hand help," Kaitlin said. "It was good of Miss Kelly."
"You can call her Bridget," Laura told the other woman. "Everybody does."
Kaitlin restarted. "It was good of Bridget, then, and of Mr. O'Toole - or should I call him Shamus - to contribute the money for the extra ingredients." She took a breath. "And of your husband to offer to pitch in."
"Just try and stop him once he thought Ritter was insulting me." Laura beamed with pride. "And Arsenio brought in Whit and the sheriff." She turned back to Emma. "We all heard Trisha needed some help, and we wanted to give it."
"Well, I'm glad you did. Clyde, Junior, and his friends've been telling me all about how Trisha was gonna get throwed off the Board. If... when she don't, I'll have me the last laugh."
"I don't believe Cecelia is very happy," Amy said. "She didn't even want to work with us after we pinned the ribbons on." She pointed to a group working some feet away, Cecelia Ritter, Lavinia Mackechnie, and several other women were busily making their own fried chicken. As Amy pointed, Cecelia Ritter glared back at her. Amy shook her head. "That woman; she isn't happy unless everybody's doing things the way she wants." She chuckled. "Well, we'll just set up our own table - right next to theirs - for the chicken and for that cole slaw you made, Laura, and we'll just see whose food gets eaten faster."
"I don't know about the chicken," Laura said, "but I expect that my cole slaw's going to be gone pretty quick."
Amy cocked an eyebrow. "I must say, I admire your confidence."
"Confidence doesn't have as much to do with it as the beer I made it with. Molly gave me the recipe, and Shamus gave me the beer. If I do say so myself, it turned out pretty good."
* * * * *
"What're we gonna do about them damn ribbons," Styron muttered. He and Ritter were standing under a tree close enough to the door to watch people enter, but not close enough to be overheard.
Ritter sighed. "I don't think it's that big a problem. Besides Arsenio, there's only been two-three men, tops, wearing them."
"Yeah, but one was the Sheriff and the other was Whit Whitney."
"Whit hardly ever comes to church; what with that greaser wife of his... last time was Easter, and he didn't stay the whole service."
"Still, that's two-thirds of the town council; probably all three of them are against us. That sheeney Silverman and his wife are damned friendly with O'Toole and his ladies." Styron sighed. "It's gonna be a lot harder fight than I thought it was."
Ritter scratched his head for a moment. "I wonder... have you heard Rev. Yingling say anything about how he felt?"
"No, come t'think of it, but he don't like to get mixed up in the Board's fights."
"Maybe, just maybe, we could get him interested in this fight, interested and on our side."
They nodded in agreement and walked over to the steps. Rev. Yingling stood smiling, shaking the hands of his congregation as they filed past him into the church. "Finished your little talk, gentlemen?" he asked as they approached. His warm ministerial smile was still on his lips.
"Not quite, Reverend," Styron said. "We was just wondering where you stand on this business with Trisha O'Hanlon."
"That is a matter for the board and the congregation to decide," Rev. Yingling answered. "I have no wish to take sides."
"But this is a moral issue, and the congregation needs your guidance," Ritter said.
Yingling raised an eyebrow. "Moral?"
"Indeed," Styron told him. "That the potion of O'Toole's is evil. It's not natural for a man to change into women."
Yingling considered the statement. "No, it isn't natural, but lives were saved. How many would have died the day that the Hanks gang rode into town if not for that potion? Could anything else have saved Elmer O'Hanlon?"
"No," Ritter answered, "but what about when Wilma Hanks took that second dose? We all know what she became. Where was the good in that?"
"And what about Trisha?" Styron added. "There was no reason for her to change."
Yingling nodded. "No, there wasn't. Her change was an accident. Would you have a man leave the Board because he lost his arm or his leg in an accident?"
"Accident or not, it happened," Styron said, "and she lost a lot more than her arm or leg. It's... it's just not the natural order of things for a woman to be on the board, to have dominance over men? The Bible says so."
"Our Lord, Jesus, put much faith in women," Yingling said.
"Yes," Styron replied, "but he didn't make them disciples?"
"No, he didn't," Yingling answered. "The disciples were priests, and, no, a woman cannot be a priest. But you elders aren't priests, either; you're the caretakers of the church, and a woman can be a caretaker."
Ritter frowned. "Then you're taking Tisha's side."
"I take no one's side," Yingling said. "I only pray that the congregation has the wisdom to do what is right - what is G-d's will."
"Well, we can't ask for more than that," Ritter said, smiling wryly. "His will be done." He nodded to the minister and walked away, almost dragging Styron with him.
Styron glared at him, when they stopped about ten feet away. "Why'd you cave in to him like that?"
"Because he was getting mad," Ritter explained, "I can tell. Much more of our arguing, and he'd have come out for Trisha just to spite us."
* * * * *
With a loud "Amen", the choir finished the hymn and quickly, quietly took their seats. Rev. Yingling stood and looked out at his congregation. "Horace Styron wanted to make a short announcement, but you all know Horace and his short announcements." He stopped and waited for the laughter to end.
"So, in the interest of time... and because I can smell that fried chicken, too, I'll just remind you that there'll be a picnic out in the yard after church today. You're all invited, of course. It'll cost a small donation to help pay for the food and a bit of your time listening to some speeches. I hope that you'll come anyway." The Reverend glanced quickly over at Styron and Ritter. Both men were trying very hard to look like they were smiling, when they really didn't want to.
"And now," he continued, "if you'll all turn to page 205 in your hymnals..."
* * * * *
"Well, folks," Rupert Warrick began. Rupe was Vice President of the Board. Since Horace Styron was going to speak, he got to do the introductions. "You had the good - all that delicious food that the ladies cooked up. Now, you gotta take the bad - the speeches. It's just gonna be Horace and Trisha, so the pair of you come up here now."
He stepped off the stump he'd been standing on just as Styron and Trisha walked up to him. "Only fair way to see who goes first," he said, pulling a half dollar from his pocket. "Trisha, why don't you call?" He flipped the coin high into the air and took a step back.
"Heads!" Trisha yelled. She watched the coin spin, then took a breath and let it fall to the ground.
Styron looked down. "Tails!" He let Trisha and Rupe look at the coin. "I'll go first, thank you."
"Go ahead," Trisha answered. She walked over and sat down at a nearby picnic table.
Styron smiled, confident in his ability to persuade. "Any of you men want a woman to hold sway over you?" A few people laughed at the suggestion in his question, particularly the men long married. A few others, led by Clyde Ritter, yelled "No!" Styron kept on talking in that line. "I've got nothing against Trisha O'Hanlon; I'm sure that she's a fine young woman. But that's the problem. You didn't elect 'a fine young woman'; you elected a man, Pat O'Hanlon. He ain't here any more, and I say that means that he ain't on the board any more."
"The board's there to make the tough choices, and the board needs - this congregation needs the sort of tough-minded men who can listen to the facts and make them choices. Not some woman who's toughest choice is whether she wears the green dress or the blue one." He pointed at Trisha, who was wearing the very fashionable, pale blue dress Kaitlin had persuaded her to don that morning.
Styron talked for about five minutes more, citing Scripture - not always correctly - to argue that it was wrong for a woman to be in any position of responsibility. There were more than a few catcalls, some of them from women, but there was also more than a smattering of applause, when he ended with, "That's what I think, folks. You all be sure to come back this Wednesday to vote and show what you think."
"Now it's Trisha's turn," Rupe called out. Styron stepped back and bowed very low and very theatrically as she walked to the stump.
"That's right, folks," Trisha said. "You all come on Wednesday to vote, especially all you women. Horace may not think a woman can be on the Board, but he can't do nothing about that fact that you can vote on who does serve." It was true; the Bylaws let all members aged 18 or older, man or woman, vote.
"I don't see why he doesn't think a woman can make a tough decision. Women do it every day. And I don't just mean the ones like Minnie Haldeman, who owns the dairy, or Jo Beth Smith at her Triple S ranch. I mean every woman that runs her house and raises her kids. This is the West. A woman has to be tough just to survive out here.
"Now, Horace - and some others - say I lost the right to be on the Board 'cause I changed. I don't quite see why, unless it was because I was dumb enough to drink that potion in the first place." She smiled. "Doing something dumb doesn't mean a man can't be on the Board. If it did, that speech Horace just gave ought to get him kicked off." She paused, enjoying the congregation's laugh.
"I admit it was a dumb thing to do, but I was desperate. My boy, Elmer, was dying. Is there a father here that wouldn't do whatever dumb, desperate thing came into his head to save his son's life? Is there a mother here who wouldn't be just as dumb and just as desperate to save her child? I don't think so.
"I saved Elmer, even if it meant he got turned into Emma, and I got turned into... into this." She made a broad gesture with her arm. "And now Horace says that cause that happened, I shouldn't be on the Board. He wants to punish me for saving my child. I say that's wrong." There was a look of anger and determination on her face now. "I say I can do the job as good as ever. And I hope that you'll all come out and agree with me on Wednesday."
She started to step back, then stopped. "Oh, yeah, and if you want to show that you agree with me, then come see me or Kaitlin or Laura Caulder or... or any of the folks you see wearing these ribbons and get yourself one."
* * * * *
Monday, December 18, 1871
"Morning, Enoch," Jessie said as she walked into the Ryland brothers' tailor shop. "Is my dress ready?"
Enoch Ryland was behind the counter. He smiled slightly and shook his head. "Not by a good bit, Jessie."
"Then why'd you tell me to come by for it today?"
"I think you misunderstood me. I told you to come in this morning for a fitting. You have to try it on, to make sure that it fits right, before I can finish it." He took a breath. "It's just the same as for a man's suit."
"I never had a man's suit made special for me like you're doing with this dress. I'd just buy me one off the rack." In her mind she added, 'or just take it.'
"It's different for custom-made - man's or woman's wear. You pay the extra money, and I take the extra care." He stepped out from behind the counter. "I asked you to come in this morning, so I could be certain to have it ready for you in time for your show tomorrow night."
Jessie looked around the store. "Where is it anyways?"
"In back, hanging up waiting for you." He offered her his arm. "Let me show you the way." Jessie took his arm, and he led her through a curtained doorway into the back of the store.
Enoch's brother, Natty, was sitting at a sewing machine, working on the seam of a man's frock coat. It never failed to amaze people how much alike the two men were. The only difference between them was Enoch's mustache. They shared the same stocky build, the same brown curls and round face. And the same long, supple fingers that were moving the fabric effortlessly past the whirring needle. "'Morning, Jessie," Natty said, not looking up from his work.
"Morning, Natty," Jessie answered.
"Would you mind going out front, while I'm doing Jessie's fitting?" Enoch asked.
Natty nodded. "Just let me finish this seam." He worked the foot pedal even faster, sliding the fabric like a skater across a frozen lake. "There," he said, taking the coat out of the machine and cutting the thread with a small knife.
"Nice seeing you, Jessie," he said as he stood up. Without another word, he walked through the curtains into the front room.
"Well, he ain't talking much today, is he?" Jessie said, feeling a little insulted.
Enoch smiled. "Natty? No, he just doesn't like there to be no one out front for very long. When you get that dress on, we'll go out and show him how you look. You just watch how much he talks then."
He led Jessie over to a pair of curtained-in fitting rooms. The dress was on a hanger between the two curtains. It was a long gown, a rich blue fabric with a metallic finish. "It... it's beautiful," Jessie said.
"And you will make it even more so." Enoch took down the garment and handed it to her. "You can go in either room and change. Oh, and don't forget to take your camisole off. That dress is cut too low for you to wear anything under it besides your corset."
Jessie smiled. "I know; I'll get more tips that way. B'sides, I ain't wearing a camisole. I figured it'd save time." She took the hanger and walked into the room on the left, sliding the curtain shut behind her.
In a few moments, she was in just her corset, and drawers. She put the dress that she'd worn on a hanger and hung it on a hook next to the new one.
"So beautiful," a voice behind her said.
Jessie turned quickly. "Enoch! I... I ain't ready yet."
"That's all right." Enoch leaned back against a wall and crossed his arms. His eyes trailed up and down Jessie's body. "I can wait."
"You can get the hell out."
"Jessie... Jessie, I'm a professional tailor and dressmaker. All I'm concerned about is getting the dress to fit as well as possible. If you were..."
"If I was what?"
"A woman, one who's had clothes made for her before, would know that it helps for me to watch you... umm, dressed like you are now. That way I get a better idea of your body and how it moves. That lets me better allow for such movement in the finished dress."
Jessie raised an eyebrow. "All you want is to... study me, so's I'll look better in that dress?"
"Believe me, Jessie. All I want is to know your body... for the dress."
"Well, I... I guess that makes sense." She paused while she considered the notion for a moment. She didn't want to look like some poor, ignorant soul just off the farm. "Okay. I'm sorry if I snapped."
"Perfectly all right. You just put that dress on - carefully; there are a few pins in it yet - and we'll get started."
Jessie nodded and turned away from Enoch. She felt embarrassed and avoided looking at the tailor.
"Let me help you with that," Enoch said as she stepped into the dress and began to pull it towards her waist.
Before she could answer, he stepped behind her, so close that she could feel his body against her own. He reached around and put his hands over hers and tugged at the fabric along with her. He was leaning down over her, and she felt his warm breath on her neck.
The gown was tight around Jessie's hips. Enoch seemed to be helping, but at the same time, Jessie felt his hands slid across her buttocks. She shivered at the sensation.
"I suppose that was a surprise, Jessie," Enoch said confidently. "But it's the easiest way to get the dress over your hips. After all, we can't put too much strain on the fabric until the last seams are set."
She nodded in agreement. "No, I guess not." Once the dress was past her waist, Jessie put her arms through the twin shoulder straps and pulled it the rest of the way up.
"Let me see how it lies," Enoch said. He smoothed the front. In the process, he managed to slide his fingers across her crotch and to squeeze her upper thigh.
Jessie bit her lip and kept silent. Finally, she asked, "Could you help with the buttons back there?"
"First, let's be certain that it's on you right. There's not much holding it up." Enoch's nimble fingers moved across Jessie's shoulders. They "walked" down her front, pulling here and there at the fabric. A hand moved under the dress and began to gently caress, almost squeeze, her right breast.
Jessie shivered again as she felt a finger playing with her nipple. 'How do women put up with this every time they need a dress?' she wondered to herself. 'It don't seem worth it.'
"The fit seems almost perfect," Enoch said, withdrawing his hand. "I'll check it again once you're buttoned up." He began to fasten the back of her dress. His head moved down, and she felt his breath on her skin.
Then he moved closer and kissed a spot on the side of her neck.
"What the hell was that?" Jessie spun around to face him.
"I... uhhh... the-the strap - yes, that's it - the strap --"
"Bullshit!" Jessie yelled, "Natty, you get your ass back here."
Natty Rylands came running to the back of the store. "Is something the matter, Jessie?" His glance kept shifting from her to his brother.
"I trust you, Natty - at least you never give me cause not to. When a woman's getting a dress fitted, is the man doing the fitting supposed to see her in her unmentionables? And does he keep... touching her in all sorts of places while she's puttin' on the dress?"
"Aw, hell, Enoch." Natty looked at his brother and scowled. "You said you wouldn't do that anymore."
"Do what?" Jessie asked.
Natty sighed. "Enoch likes to play a... trick on some of our more... innocent female customers."
"Let me guess. He touches 'em in places where a lady ain't supposed t'be touched and tells 'em it's just t'make the dress fit better."
"Right in one." Enoch grinned. "Shall we continue?"
Jessie's jaw dropped. "You want me to let you keep going?"
Enoch shrugged. "Well, you know the game now, so I won't do it any more..." He looked at her and leered. "...unless you want me to. It can be a lot of fun if the woman...helps. And a lot of them do want to help." He leered at her as if expecting her to tell him that she might be the kind that wanted to play.
"Why you lousy son of a --" Jessie eyes darted around the fitting room for something - anything - big or nasty enough to do the sort of damage she wanted to do to the man.
Natty stepped between her and his brother. "Jessie, he's - we're both very sorry. I'll be glad to take over for Enoch." When she still looked too angry, he added, "and, of course, we'll just take...half off the price of the dress." Natty cringed at the loss he'd just offered.
"And he'll apologize," Jessie continued, "and he won't do it no more."
Natty glared at Enoch. "He'll apologize - won't you, Enoch?"
"I will. I do. I..." He suddenly looked as if he'd sucked a lemon. "...I apologize."
"And you better not do it any more neither." Jessie said. "'Cause if I hear that you did, I'm talking to Shamus and the Sheriff." She looked him in the eye angrily, her eyes no more than narrow slits. "That happens, you may wind up with your own tits and pussy t'play with."
* * * * *
"So it is true."
Arnie Diaz looked up from the sink full of dirty glassware. Pablo Escobar was standing in the half-opened doorway that led to Shamus' yard. He leaned against the doorframe, smiling, his arms crossed in front of him.
"What do you want, Pablo?"
"Nothing much," the other boy answered. "I heard you got a job here washing dishes." He took a step towards Arnie. "It ain't much, but I guess it is a step up from washing their dirty underwear, like your mama."
"You leave my mother out of it, Pablo."
"Sure, sure. After all, there's no shame in a woman doing woman's work. It's only when a man - or a boy - starts doing it --"
"There's no shame in doing an honest day's work."
"No shame," Pablo answered, "but no great honor either."
"What do you know about honor? You spend your days helping Clyde Ritter sell them broken-down nags of his for a lot more money than they're worth."
Pablo shrugged. "That's business, something you'll never know - not cleaning out Shamus' spittoons, you won't. Or do you have to work your way up to cleaning spittoons?"
"Anything's better than shoveling shit for Clyde Ritter."
"Oh, yeah?" Pablo took another two steps towards Arnie. His hands were balled into fists.
Arnie stepped away from the sink. "Yeah!" His body tensed, waiting for the other boy's attack.
"What the hell's going on me kitchen." Molly's voice boomed out from the direction of the barroom door. She closed the door behind her and walked over to the pair.
"We... we was just talking, Seá±ora O'Toole," Pablo answered.
Maggie looked suspiciously at the two boys. "Aye, and I'm the Queen of the May." She took a breath. "Arnie, we don't pay ye t'be talking to people. We pay ye t'wash beer steins - so get to it."
"Yes, ma'am." Arnie stepped back to the sink.
"And ye, me boyo," Molly pointed at Pablo, "we don't pay ye at all, so I'll be thanking ye to leave."
Pablo sneered. "Just like you, Arnie, hiding behind a woman's skirts."
"It don't look t'me like he's hiding behind anything. He's doing his job - which is more than I can say for ye... whoever ye are."
"Pablo," Arnie told her, enjoying the situation. "Pablo Escobar"
"Pablo," Molly finished. "Now get out of here before I throw ye out."
Pablo flared at the pair of them. "I'm going. I'm going, but this ain't the end of it, Diaz, not by a long shot."
* * * * *
Paul Grant looked up when he heard the door to the Sheriff's Office open. "Afternoon, Jessie," he said with a broad smile when he saw who'd walked in.
"Hey, Paul." She glanced around nervously.
"We're alone, Jess." Paul told her.
Jessie bit her lip. "I know, but people can... come in. I'd just as soon nobody heard what I got to say."
"We can go in back, if that's what you want." When she nodded, he stood up from the desk. "Put that 'Out' sign on the door and lock it. No sense having people coming in and surprising us." He pointed to a small wooden sign dangling from a cord on a hook next to the door.
Jessie opened the door and quickly hung the sign on the outside. Paul and the Sheriff used it mostly when they left the office to walk around the town and keep an eye on things. "Done," she said softly, closing and locking the door behind her.
"Now what's your problem," Paul asked.
"I went over to the Ryland's store this morning - you know how they's making me a new gown for when I sing."
"I know. I'm looking forward to seeing you wear it."
"Well, I went over and... and Enoch... he..." She felt her face redden. Her eyes stung. 'Damn,' she thought. 'I hate it when I cry like some helpless gal.'
Paul walked over and took her hand. "Are you all right?"
"Yes... no... I... I guess I just need to talk t'you."
"And in private, like you asked." He took her arm now and led her back to the storeroom he used as his living quarters. Paul sat on the bed and motioned for her to sit in the overstuffed chair in the corner of the room.
She shook her head. "I... I think that I'd rather stand. I'm... I'm just too dang mad at Enoch t'sit still while I talk about him."
"Didn't he make the dress like he said he would." Paul doubted that the cause of Jessie's anger was anything that simple.
"Not make the dress right!" she exploded. "The dirty SOB! That was what he kept saying he was trying to do." She shook her head. "I shouldn't have listened to Natty. I... I should have gotten one of them tailor's scissors and cut Enoch's pecker off!"
Paul stepped close and put an arm around her. "It's all right, Jess; it's all right." He could feel her tremble with rage. "Take a deep breath and calm down."
It took two or three breaths. "I'm sorry," she finally said. "I don't know if I'm madder at Enoch for what he done, or at myself for getting talked into letting him do it." She sighed. "The old Jesse Hanks wouldn't have let him get away with anything like that."
"Enoch wouldn't have wanted to do anything like what I think you're talking about to the old Jesse Hanks." He tried very hard not to smile.
"No... I guess he wouldn't have." She chuckled - just a little, and her body relaxed for the first time in hours. "Even if he wanted to... he wouldn't have dared."
"Do you want to talk about it - tell me what Enoch tried to do to the new Jessie Hanks?"
Jessie stepped away from him and looked down at the floor. Her anger was giving way to another, a different, emotion. She bit her lip nervously as she considered her answer. "No," she said, looking up and smiling shyly, "but - if you got the time - I'll... I'll show you what he done."
"Well... I suppose..." Paul grinned. "Purely in the interests of justice, you understand."
Jessie grinned back. "Interests of justice... of course." She looked quickly around the room. "He give me the new dress and told me to go into the fitting room and change."
She pointed, tracing a line across the center of the room. "This side's the fitting room. I went in..." She made a gesture as if closing a curtain. "...and took of my dress - this dress."
Paul nodded.
Jessie began undoing the buttons on the dress. She slid it off her shoulders, and lowered it down past her waist. "The new dress is too low cut on top for a camisole, so I didn't wear one t'day." She stepped out of the garment and carefully draped it over the chair.
Paul took a breath. All she wore above the waist was a sea-green corset that clung tightly to her curves. Her milky-white breasts were well displayed. A row of lace ruffles at the top rose just high enough at the top to hide her nipples.
"Before I could get that other dress on, Enoch came in. I said he shouldn't be seeing me like this, but he says it's all right. He said if I was a real woman, I'd know that he needs to see how my body moves in my unmentionables so he can fit the dress better."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound right."
"I didn't think so either, but I didn't know. He sounded so sure of what he was saying that I went along. Hell, he had me dead t'rights. I wasn't a gal till last summer. What did I know about how they got their dresses made?"
"So what'd you do then?"
"Like I said, I went along with him. I stretched..." Her arms rose gracefully above her head. "...and I bended and I... walked. I even danced a little bit." Jessie repeated each action as she said it, showing off her body in an erotic display. One moment, her corset strained to contain her full breasts; the next, her drawers were pulled taut against her teardrop buttocks. All the time, her body swayed as if to some unheard music.
Paul watched intently, feeling himself growing harder.
Jessie suddenly stopped, her back to Paul. "When I started to put that new dress on..." She looked back over her shoulder at him. "...he come right up behind me. He said it was to help me get the dress on."
Paul hesitated. "Was it?"
"You just come here," Jessie chided him, "and I'll show you what sort of help he wanted t'give me."
Paul stood up and walked up behind her. Their bodies were close, less than a foot apart. "Now what?"
"He leaned over and kinda breathed on my neck."
Paul moved a half-step closer. He pursed his lips and blew a stream of warm, moist breath at the nape of her neck. "Like that?"
"Uh... uh-huhn." Jessie shivered and moved closer yet. She bent over and pressed her buttocks against his crotch. She shivered again when she felt his maleness against her.
Then she took a step forward and bent down, so that her hands were at her ankles. "When I pulled it up past my knees, he started in touching m'butt. He said it was t'help me get the dress up to my waist without getting stuck on any..." She stopped and looked up at Paul. "Go ahead. It's okay."
Paul reached down and gently ran a finger along her right buttock. When she nodded, he moved the other hand down and began to squeeze her cheeks, massaging them with his hands.
"Yeah... yeah." Jessie's breath caught. "That... that's good; r-real good."
She pretended to slide the dress past her waist, and on upwards. Imaginary straps went over her shoulders. "When I got the dress on, he put his hand here..." She took his right hand in hers and placed it on her breast.
"...And did something like this, I'd guess." Paul ran a fingernail along her breast. He moved slowly down until his finger was slipping under the top of her corset to play with her nipple. It was stiff, pushing its way out to meet him. He tweaked it once in greeting, then twisted it gently between two fingers. He waited a moment then brought his other hand around to do the same to her other breast.
Jessie moaned softly, almost like a purr, and rested her head on his left arm. "Mmmm, that's a lot better than what Enoch done."
"What'd Enoch do next?" Paul leaned in and whispered in her ear.
Jessie's hand reached up and stroked his cheek. "He kissed me... right on the neck 'bout where you breathed on me."
"And what did you do?" There was surprise - and not a little anger - in Paul's voice now.
Jessie spun around. "I yelled for Natty t'come in, and we made Enoch explain himself. Natty told me that it wasn't the first time Enoch had pulled something like that on a customer."
"Why didn't anybody report it?"
Jessie shrugged. "For one thing, Natty said they'd gimme that dress for half off by way of an apology,"
"From what you told me about that dress," Paul said with a wry smile, "it's already got half off... and I can't wait to see you in it." He thought for a moment. "You said 'one thing'; what was the other?"
"Enoch said it was 'cause a lot of the gals like what he was doing."
"But not you."
Jessie leered at him. "Oh, I liked it... some. I just liked it a lot more when it was you that was doing it."
"Well, that's certainly good to hear."
"Yes, Enoch was hoping that I'd do something like this when he kissed me." She put her hands on either side of his face and pulled him down to her. Their lips met. She glided her arms down around his neck.
Paul's hands moved around to grasp her firm buttocks. He pushed himself closer to her.
Jessie moaned and opened her mouth slightly. Paul's tongue slid into her mouth and played with hers. He felt her body pressing against him.
After a while, they reluctantly broke the kiss. "What... umm... what else would Enoch have wanted you to do to him?" Paul asked her.
Jessie's eyes gleamed. Her face was flushed, and she had an eager smile on her lips. "I... I think that me being... like this, and him... you... still have all your clothes on... you... he'd have wanted me to... t'undress him some." She reached up and began to unbutton his shirt.
Paul's hands went down to his belt. He was about to undo it, when Jessie's hand covered his. "No, you... you let me do it. Just... just like you wanted."
"All right, Jess." His hands dropped to his sides. "If that's what you... if that's what you tink I want."
She smiled dreamily, caught up in this game she was playing. "Ain't it? I can stop if you don't like it."
"A man'd be a fool not to like it. You go right on ahead."
She nodded and went back to his shirt. She had it off almost at once and tossed it onto the floor. Then she began to pull at the red union suit top he was wearing underneath. "And I'd be a fool not to want to run my fingers through that mat of hair you got on your chest."
Paul cooperated and his undershirt joined his shirt. He reached for her corset, but she slapped his hand away.
"You just wait. I ain't done with what I'm doing yet."
"Am I supposed to just stand here buck naked in this cold draft all day?" he asked in exasperation.
Jessie chuckled. "You ain't gonna stand - believe me on that. I got plans for you - especially one certain part." Her fingers stroked his member through the tightly stretched fabric of his jeans. "And it's standing up tall and proud right now."
"Can't imagine wh." Paul pulled her close and kissed her again.
She waited a moment, enjoying the kiss, then pushed him away. "If you keep distracting me like that, all we're gonna get t'do is kiss." Her hands fumbled with his belt for a moment before she opened it. She undid the buttons on his pants and yanked.
Paul's pants slid down, stopping just above his knees. He was about to bend down to get them the rest of the way off, when Jessie knelt down. "'Course, there's all kinds of kissing." She giggled and kissed his member through the material of his red union suit drawers. "Mmmm, more'n ready."
"Not if you keep doing that." Paul stepped back and began pistoning his legs up and down to get off his boots.
Jessie stood watching him. "Hup... two... three... four," she said with a laugh, matching the words to his movements.
Paul's left leg lifted out of his boot. The right leg did the same a few moments later. "That's better," he said, stepping out of his jeans. "Now..." His gaze ran up and down her body. "My turn now." "Your turn at what?"
"Undressing you." His fingers began working the small hooks at the front of her corset.
"Hey, wait a minute here."
"Shhh... I'm busy." He leaned over, and, as he opened each hook, he moved the corset aside and kissed the exposed flesh. Jessie shivered as the kisses moved down from her cleavage to the flat of her stomach. When her navel was exposed, Paul let his tongue swirl inside it. She moaned, and Paul could smell the musky, sweet scent of her arousal.
Paul undid the last hook and slid the open corset away from her. He tossed it onto the pile of clothes and began to work at the small, green bow that held her drawers in place.
"St... stand up," Jessie said in a husky voice. "I... I'll d-do yours, while... while you d-do mine."
Paul stopped long enough to stand up.
Jessie's fingers moved to the knot at his own waist, while he resumed working on hers. There was a good bit of fumbling as each managed to get in the other's way. It happened that they got both bows undone at the same time.
"One... two... three!" Paul said firmly. At three, both yanked. A moment later, their drawers were puddled at their feet.
Jessie smiled, then looked very serious. "B'fore we go any further..." Her voice trailed off, as her eyes drifted to a drawer in the cabinet next to the bed.
Paul turned and looked at the same drawer.
"You promised." Her eyebrows furrowed. "Every time."
Paul nodded. "Yes, I did, and... if a tailor got us in here today, I guess it's only fair that I wear a coat in his honor." He reached into the drawer and took out a small, pink object.
"I'll do the honors." Jessie took an English riding coat, one of the condoms she'd gotten from Wilma. She knelt down and slid it onto Paul. When it was on him, she used a thin, blue ribbon to tie it in place. "There... nice and tight."
Paul helped her to her feet. "So are you." He kissed her quickly on the lips.
"Then let's get to it!" Jessie jumped into Paul's arms. Her arms were tight around his neck. She kissed him deeply. Her legs rose, wrapping themselves around his waist.
Paul put one arm around her waist to give her extra support. He used the other to guide his member to the cleft between her legs. Jessie's eyes opened wide as she felt him slide into her.
He turned quickly, so that her back was pressed against the wall. Then he began to move, slowly, teasingly in and out of her. Jessie broke the kiss. She moaned and panted. Her head moved, almost wobbled, back and forth. "Yes... yes... oh, ye-YEEESSSSSS!"
Her ragged movements set him off. He growled deep in his throat, as he felt himself pumping into her.
Paul staggered backwards, and he fell backwards onto the bed. Jessie was atop him. He lay there as she regained control of her body.
"Now that was different." She said it in a breathy voice, a satisfied smile on her face. "Fun, too."
"It was that." He felt his erection soften as it slipped out of her. She slid off him and onto the bed next to him. He used a finger to move a lock of her hair that was drenched with sweat and clinging to her cheek. "Here's a little more on account." He leaned over and kissed her, as his arm moved around her.
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 19, 1871
Jessie used the small bronze cherub to knock on the door of La Parisienne. A slot opened in the door. "Mam'selle Jessie," a deep male voice said. "One moment please." The slot closed, with the door opening almost immediately.
"Bonjour." It was Herve Navetier, Lady Cerise's man. At six-two, he towered more than a foot over Jessie, as she walked past him into the reception room. "Your sister has a... visitor as the moment. He closed the door behind her. "May I, perhaps, be of some service?"
Jessie's eyes ran up and down the man. She noted his dark, curly hair, broad shoulders, and a shirt that was half-unbuttoned to show a mat of hair almost as thick as that on his head. She was devoted to Paul Grant, but that didn't mean that she couldn't look - or that she didn't now appreciate what she saw when she did look.
"Mmm, I just bet you could be of service, but I'm here to see Rosalyn - if she don't have a 'visitor' that is." Jessie shifted the package she carried under her arm. It was large, carefully wrapped in white paper, and tied with string.
"I believe that she is available - at the moment. She is in the parlor with Mae and some gentlemen. Shall I bring her to you?"
Jessie shook her head. "That's all right, Herve. I know the way." She walked past him towards the open door to the parlor.
Rosalyn and Mae were sitting on a couch, surrounded by four men, two in suits, the other two in work clothes. The two women wore only corsets, silken white drawers, and stockings. Rosalyn's corset was a deep red, Mae's was lavender. They were sharing a stereopticon, a kind of hand viewer that converted two-dimensional cardboard slides into an apparently three-dimensional image.
"The Lady just got these in from France," Mae said. She was a tall, voluptuous woman with long, auburn hair. She raised the viewer to her eyes and one of the men put in one of the new slides. "Oh, my," she said with a gasp. "I didn't think a man and woman could be so..." she giggled. "...flexible."
The man who'd just inserted the slide spoke. "Mae, darlin', I'd wager that you could be just as flexible - with the right partner." He put his hand on hers. "And if you'd care to go someplace more... private. I'd be more'n happy to find out."
"Sounds like a fine idea," Mae said, handing the stereopticon to Rosalyn. As she did, she noticed Jessie standing in the doorway. "Your sister's upstairs, Jessie."
The others turned to look at Jessie. She could read the appreciative stares from the men. She also saw Rosalyn take the hand of the man sitting next to her on the couch. "What say we go to examine our own flexibility, Francis?" She put the viewer down on a nearby table. "Jessie can keep your friends here company while she waits for Wilma."
"Actually," Jessie said, "I come t'see you, Rosalyn." She held up her package. "I brung your dress back."
"Why is it wrapped up like that?" Rosalyn asked suspiciously. She picked up a small, ivory-colored enamel bell and rang it twice. "If it's damaged..."
"It ain't damaged," Jessie answered. "Miz Diaz, the Mex who does the laundry for the Saloon, just brought it back wrapped up this way."
A very pretty black woman in a dark blue dress with a white apron came in through a side door. "Y'all rang for me?"
Rosalyn held up the bell. "I did, Daisy. Miss Hanks is returning the dress I loaned her. Please take it down to the washroom and put it on a hanger."
"Yes'm." Daisy took the dress from Jessie and left through the same door, closing it behind her.
"It was good of you to have the dress cleaned before returning it." Rosalyn was trying to be gracious.
Jessie shrugged. "Just doing what Wilma told me I should."
"Wilma." Rosalyn's eyes widened. "She told you to have it cleaned?"
Jessie nodded. "She did. She said that you set great store in them dresses. Since you was good enough t'let me borrow one, she said it was only right t'get it all cleaned and pressed before I brung it back."
* * * * *
Josiah "Whit" Whitney stood just outside his front door looking up the street towards the Church. "I don't know why I gotta keep watch," he muttered. "This ain't my Christmas custom."
"No, it is your wife's custom." Carmen had been close enough to hear. "Unless you want to come inside and help with putting the food out or with hanging the decorations."
Whit smiled. "Now that I think on it, I guess keeping watch is sort of up my line."
"Just so you remember that it is a group of children you are keeping watch for, not that white whale your Uncle Herman keeps ranting about."
"Aw, Carmen, it's been almost a year since he came through, and he is - wait a minute." He took another look. "I see them. They're just coming to the Diaz place. You better be ready, Love."
"I am." Carmen came to the door. She wore a long, blue dress trimmed in green and yellow. She carried Felippe, now almost a year old, in her arms. Their older boy, Jose, stood next to her, pulling at the tie his mother had made him wear.
Laura and Arsinio stepped up behind them. "You were explaining what this is all about," Laura reminded Carmen. "You better hurry if you're gonna finish before that crowd gets here."
"That crowd is Joseph and Mary and angels and shepherds all on the way to Bethlehem for the baby Jesus to be born." Carmen explained; she pronounced the name "hay-soos".
"Only they can't find a place to stay," Whit added. "They stop at a house - there they are at the Diaz place - and sing a song asking if they can come in. They all sing Joseph's part."
"Sá, but the people in the house," Carmen continued, "they all sing the part of the person whose house it is, and he says no. Then they come to our house. They sing who they are and ask to come in." She paused for effect. "And we invite them in."
Whit finished for her. "And that is when the party begins."
"I'm glad that you invited us," Laura said. "It's surely a different way to celebrate Christmas than what we're used to."
Carmen looked at Laura, her eyes trailing down to the bulge just becoming visible below her stomach. "Maybe in a few years it will be your little one in that crowd."
"I don't know," Laura said. "It's not my custom either, but it sounds like a good one. Who knows?"
Ramon walked in from the kitchen. "There is always hope." He looked out the open door. "They're starting to move again. I can see a few people coming out of the Diaz' house and joining the crowd."
As they watched from the doorway, the crowd came down the street, gathering a few feet from their door. The children in the crowd carried lit candles. Gracia Lopez was costumed in a white dress as the angel. Enrique Diaz was Joseph, leading a burro with a clay figure representing Mary perched on its back.
When they reached Whit and Carmen's house, about a third of the crowd, mostly adults, split off to stand by the door. Father deCastro stepped forward and led the group still in the street in song.
"In the name of Heaven, I beg you for lodging.
She cannot walk, my beloved wife."
Ramon led the response in his fine tenor voice. The others in the house and those standing near the door joined in.
"This is not an inn, so keep going.
I cannot open; you may be a rogue."
The crowd answered.
"We are worn out coming from Nazareth.
I am a carpenter, Joseph by name."
The back and forth continued for several more verses, until Ramon and the others finally sang.
"Are you Joseph? Your wife is Mary?
Enter pilgrims; I did not recognize you."
Whit and Arsenio opened the doors wide as the crowd filed in, singing.
"May G-d repay, gentle folk, your charity.
And thus Heaven heap happiness upon you."
They continued through the double doors and out into the garden. Carmen had set up tables with food and drink. At the far end of the garden, a piá±ata swung from a long, angled pole.
A woman paused for a moment as she walked in. "Hola, Ramon." She smiled and continued into the house. Ramon couldn't help following her with his eyes. She was a tall, willowy woman about his age. She wore a gray skirt and a navy blouse that showed off her figure nicely. "It has been such a long time."
"Who is that?" Ramon asked Whit. He pointed to the woman who was now passing through the double doors into the garden.
Whit shrugged. "I don't know her." He chuckled, "but then I don't know half the people here. Maybe Carmen does."
The whole crowd was now inside. Whit and Ramon closed the front doors. Whit went towards the kitchen to see what Carmen needed him to do next. Ramon decided to head out into the garden.
The woman was standing near the door. "We meet again.' She held a glass of ponche, sweetened fruit punch, in each hand. "I thought that you might be thirsty." She offered him a glass.
"Thank you." He took the glass and sipped. Yes, this was the ponche with the piquete, the "sting" of a bit of rum.
The woman smiled mysteriously. "You don't remember me, do you?"
"I... ah, you are..." He gave up with a wry smile. "No, I am sorry, but I do not." He nervously took another sip of the ponche.
The woman nodded. "You always did love ponche. I remember at my quincea ±os, when we managed to get some with piquete." She chuckled at Ramon's confusion. "We sat on the back steps and drank it down quickly, before we got --"
"Dolores?" Ramon's eyes went wide with recognition. "Is it you?" The woman smiled at her name. "When did you get back... where are you staying... are you staying long?"
The woman laughed softly at his garbled questions. "Yes... yes, it is me, Dolores Ybaá±ez. I am staying with my cousin, Teresa Diaz, and her family. As to how long I am staying. I have not decided yet." She looked him in the eye. "Do you have any suggestions?"
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 20, 1871
Dan Talbot was making his afternoon rounds, when Tommy Carson caught up with him. "Telegram, Sheriff."
"Thanks, Tommy." Dan took the telegram and handed the boy a nickel. He started to open the envelope, when he noticed... "What're you still hanging around here for?"
Tommy shrugged. "Curious, I guess. Last time you got a telegram, the Hanks gang came t'town. I wanna know who's coming this time."
"If it's anybody you need to know about, I'll be sure to tell you. Now git!" Dan walked towards the telegraph office, a couple of blocks away. He waited until the boy was about a half block off before he finally opened the telegram and began to read.
* * * * *
The Eerie Saloon was mostly empty when Talbot walked in. It was mid-afternoon on a working day, and only the most dedicated barflies were present. He walked over to the table where Laura was sitting. "Afternoon, Laura. How are you doing these days?"
"A little tired," Laura answered, looking up at him. "You must remember how it is from when Amy was pregnant."
He nodded. "I remember."
"Can I get you something?" She started to stand.
He shook his head. "No, please. In fact, is there anything I can get you while we're waiting?"
"Waiting?"
"Yes. I... I got a telegram that... Let's wait till Arsenio gets here. This concerns him, too. I sent word for him to meet us here."
"Now you've got me curious... and a little scared. What is it?"
"Let me get you something from the bar. I'll tell you when... There he is." Dan waved his arm. "Arsenio! Over here."
The smith smiled and walked over. "Hi, Laura." He kissed her on the cheek and sat down next to her. "What's the problem, Dan?"
The Sheriff took an envelope from his pocket and sat down. "I got this today." He handed Arsenio the telegram.
Arsenio opened it. He and Laura read the message, while Dan went to the bar for their drinks.
"December 20, 1871 - Uniontown, Indiana
To: Dan Talbot, Sheriff; Eerie, Arizona Territory.
Thanks for information on brother-in-law, Leroy Meehan's, death. Wife and I arrive Eerie six weeks to take body home for final burial. Please make any necessary arrangements. Will reimburse reasonable expenses. Theo Taft."
"Shit," Laura said when she'd finished. "Now what do we do?"
"What do you mean 'we', ma'am?" Arsenio asked calmly. He smiled till he saw the look on her face. "Just kidding... honest." He squeezed her hand. "Whatever happens, Laura, we're in this together."
Just then, Dan came back from the bar. He'd brought a beer for Arsenio and lemonade for Laura. "I'd say your first step might be to talk to the Judge or Milt Quinlan."
"Good idea," Laura said. She looked around. "But Milt and Jane rode up to Jane's claim this morning. They won't be back till tonight. I haven't seen the Judge around for a while, either."
"The Judge is in Prescott," Dan told her. "He'll be back tonight, but he's got that meeting at his church. I wouldn't expect him around here till some time tomorrow."
"And that's when we'll talk to him," Arsenio said.
* * * * *
"Anybody got any corrections to the minutes?" Horace Styron asked. The schoolhouse was once again serving as the church meeting room. Horace and the other members of the Board of Elders, including Trisha, were sitting at a long table where Nancy Osbourne normally sat.
They waited a few moments to see if anyone had anything to add or change. When no one did, Rupe Warrick raised his hand. "Move t'approve 'em as read."
"Second," Dwight Albertson said quickly.
Horace looked out into the crowd seared before him. "All in favor." The room was a sea of raised hands. "Opposed." Three or four hands were raised.
"Motion passes, and thanks again to our Secretary, Jubal Cates." Jubal, a muscular man with a short beard, nodded and sat down.
"Now before we..." Horace stopped as Milt Quinlan rose to his feet. "Yeah, Milt?"
Milt looked quickly at Horace. "Move to, ahh... to suspend the normal order of business and go directly to the question of Trisha O'Hanlan."
"What the hell does that mean?" somebody yelled.
Horace sighed. "Explain it to them again, Milt."
Milt was sitting near the front. He turned to face the people behind him. "Normally, there's some other things we'd get to before we vote on Trisha, committee reports and such. The problem is that some of those things might need a board vote. I just moved that we skip ahead of all that and go straight to the vote to see if she stays on the Board."
"Sounds fair and proper to me," Judge Humphreys said. "Second."
"All in favor?" Horace asked. Every hand in the room seemed to be raised. When he asked for "nays", not a single hand was raised.
"I abstain," another voice yelled from the back of the room. "Just to be a son of a bitch." That brought a short burst of laughter.
Horace laughed along with the rest. "All right, then. We've a whole bunch of 'ayes', no 'nays', and one 'son of a bitch'." There was a second burst of laughter.
"Motion passes," Horace said when the laughter stopped. "We're talking about Trisha not being on the board anymore. Who wants to go first?"
Trisha, sitting at the end of the table, raised a hand but didn't wait to be recognized. "Excuse me, Horace, but --"
"Now, Trisha," Horace interrupted. He spoke in a gentle voice, as if to a child. "You gave a speech on Sunday. You can't just jump up and talk again. You should know that."
"I know it," Trisha answered, ignoring the insulting tone. "And I know that you gave a speech on Sunday, too. From what you just said, it sounds like you're trying to give another one."
"I am running the meeting, you know - or you should know."
Rupe took the hint. "Maybe you shouldn't be running it, Horace, seeing as you're one of the ones made the motion to kick Trisha off the Board." He turned to Milt. "Ain't that right?"
"Well," Milt replied, getting to his feet. "When the one presiding at a meeting makes a motion, the usual way of it is for him to let somebody else take over while the meeting considers that motion."
"Thanks, Rupe," the Judge said. "I was about to point that out myself. You'll have to give Rupe the gavel, Horace."
"Only seems fair," Dwight Albertson added.
Horace frowned. He hadn't counted on this. "All right, all right." He handed the gavel to Rupe. "You want to take my chair, too?" he asked sourly.
"Nah, this one's fine," Rupe told him. "Like Horace said, who's first?"
Several hands shot up. "Hmm, ladies first," Rupe said. "The chair recognizes Cecelia Ritter."
"Thank you, Rupert." Cecelia stood and took a breath. "Speaking as the chairwoman of the Ladies' Social Committee -"
"No, you aren't." Phillipia Stone jumped up. "The Committee never talked about Trisha - except how much help she was at the chicken fry. We have no official position. In fact..." she waved a "Keep O'Hanlan" ribbon. "...a lot of us think she should stay on the Board."
"But... but... I'm the chairwoman," Cecelia sputtered.
Amy Talbot rose to her feet. "If you think that being chairwoman gives you the right to set policy without consulting the rest of us, Cecelia Ritter, you won't be chairwoman for very much longer."
"Well, I..." Cecelia glared at Trisha, her face beet red from anger. "Do you... do you see what you've done, Miss O'Hanlan. You... you're an evil, evil woman, a corrupting influence, and you have no business being on the Board." She sat down quickly.
Amy looked around the room. "I... I seem to have the floor, Rupert. May I continue?"
"I don't think I could stop you, Amy," Rupe said, "and I'm not sure that I want to try." He waited a moment. "Go ahead."
Amy smiled at him. "Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, there may be a reason for removing Trisha O'Hanlan from the Board, but I don't know what it is. She's the same hard worker for the church that we elected last fall. We all saw that on Sunday, the way she pitched in to help clean up. A lot of people, if you ask them to work, they'll say they can't, that they haven't got the time. Trisha's somebody who wants to work for the church so hard that she's fighting to keep from being turned away. That's the sort of dedication that we need on the Board, and I say that we should keep her there."
"Sure, she worked on Sunday," Clyde Ritter said, once he'd been recognized. "She cleaned up the place, just like any other woman. If she's so all-fired eager to help, my Cecelia'll be glad to find something for her on the Social Committee. Let her be a 'helpmate' like it says in the Good Book, but leave the man's work - like the Board - to men."
Liam raised his hand. "Anybody says Trisha can't do a man's job is welcome to come over and watch her at our store. Sure, she ain't as strong as she used to be, but what does that prove? Rupe and Jubal are probably a lot stronger than Dwight Albertson and the Judge. I don't remember anything about having to lift weights to be on the Board. It's strong minds the Board needs, not strong backs, and Trisha's mind is as strong as it ever was."
Joel Keenan was next. "Stand up please, Trisha." When she did, he asked her to turn around slowly, then sit down. "Ain't she pretty, folks? Sweet young gal like that is just the sort you want to go sparking with, or take to a dance. Maybe you'd even want t'take her home t'meet your parents, maybe settle down, and have a couple a kids.
"All well and good," Joel continued. "But we don't elect the Board of Elders t'look pretty and sweet and young and marriageable. We elects them to advise us, t'give us their wisdom, and t'represent our church to the rest of the town. Trisha don't look like she could advise us on much except what dress to wear, and the only place I can think of for her t'represent us is at a church social. Let's say thanks and goodbye to Patrick O'Hanlan and find us somebody that can do his job proper."
Several more people spoke, mostly just repeating what had already been said. Finally, Rupe looked out at the crowd. "Anybody got anything new t'say either way?" The hands that were up went down. Rupe waited, but no one else raised a hand.
"Fine," he continued. "Let's do this serpentine. Everybody in favor of the motion that Trisha O'Hanlan be removed from the Board, stand up." A good many stood, including Horace and Willie Gotefreund at the table.
Clyde Ritter was standing in the first row. "Okay, Clyde," Rupe said. "We'll start with you. Say '1' and sit down. Cecelia, you say '2' and sit. We go on like that from person to person till we get a final count. Does everybody understand?"
"This is hardly the first time we've done this," Cecelia said angrily.
"Just making sure," Rupe answered. "Okay, Clyde, start."
The final count was 27 ayes. Horace was smiling up until the nay vote went higher, with a number of people still standing.
"The final vote," Rupe repeated for the record, "is 27 ayes, 41 nays, and the same damn son of a bitch as before abstaining. Trisha, it looks like you keep your seat on the Board."
"And it's a damn sight prettier seat than anybody else on the Board has," the self-proclaimed son of a bitch called out.
* * * * *
Thursday, December 21, 1871
"On the twelfth day of Christmas," Nancy Osbourne and Inez Ortega sang, "my true love gave to me... twelve drummers drumming." Inez was the youngest child in the school, having turned six only two days before the term started that September.
Nancy pointed to Zenobia McLeod. "Eleven pipers piping," the fourth grader sang out. Zenobia pointed to her big brother, Bert.
"Aw, Nobbie," Bert whined. "Ten lords a-lea-PING..." His voice cracked at the last note. It had been cracking much too often for his taste the last few weeks. Bert pointed to Hector Stone.
Hector Stone didn't realize that he'd been picked until Constanza Diaz nudged him with her elbow and whispered, "Nine... ladies... dancing."
"Nine daisies lamping," Hector said, pointing quickly to Ruth Yingling.
Ruth giggled at Hector's mistake before she sang her line correctly. The game continued until the entire class joined second grader Luis Gonzales in singing, "and a partridge in a pear tree."
"Very good," Nancy said smiling at their efforts. "Shall we sing another carol, or is it time for the food you all brought for the party?"
It was an easy choice for the hungry children. "Food!"
"I agree," Nancy said. "It all looks and smells delicious." She clapped her hands. "Now form a line by grade... youngest first."
The food was spread out on two long tables against the west wall of the room. Bread, sliced meat, and some devilled eggs were on the first table. Punchbowls filled with iced herb tea and lemonade and several trays of cookies and cakes were on the second. A stack of wooden plates and a stack of cups were together in one corner of each table. The children lined up as Nancy directed. She waited a moment until everyone was in line. "Fine, Inez," she said to the young girl who had sung with her, "you may start."
* * * * *
Ysabel Diaz watched Emma walking to the back of the line. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Why are you limping like that?"
"My feet're all swoll up," Emma told her. "I barely got my shoes this morning."
"Maybe you are just growing."
Emma shrugged. "I don't know. I feel tired, and my..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "...my blouse feels kinda tight, too."
"I think I know what it is, but I can't be sure."
"What do you think it is?"
"I'm not sure. Don't tell anybody - except Miss Osbourne and then only if you have to. Your momma can explain it all to you tonight."
"Why are you being so mysterious, Ysabel?"
"Because... oh, it's just hard to explain. Ask your momma tonight."
Emma agreed, not seeing any real alternative.
* * * * *
"I say, Trisha, might I have a word with you?" Trisha looked up from her reading to see Reverend Yingling facing her across the counter.
"I... I'm sorry, Reverend. What can I do for you?"
Yingling looked at her closely. "Are you all right, Trisha? You were staring at that magazine as if you were entranced."
"I..." She glanced down. She'd been reading that same page in the McCormick's farm equipment catalog for... she didn't know for how long. "I'm all right... just... out of sorts... can't seem to keep my mind on anything today. I-I don't know why."
"I can come back if you would prefer..."
She shook her head. "No... no, you took the trouble to come here. The least I can do is talk to you about whatever you came for."
"If you're sure." He gave her a moment to respond. Then he pulled up a stool and sat down. "The first thing I wanted to do is to congratulate you on keeping your place on the Board. I'm glad that you won."
Trisha raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Thanks, but it would have been an easier win if you'd come out for me."
"I've told you - and others - that I didn't want to take a stand. I don't believe it's useful to take a stand in a Board disagreement. After all, I still have to work with whichever side wins." He paused. "I especially don't want to take sides in a purely political issue like this one."
"Political my Aunt Hortense."
"Yes, political. For all his high talk, I believe that Horace Styron's primary motive was to get you, his political rival, removed from the Board."
"If you couldn't get involved, what was all that talk about me wearing dresses?"
"I truly considered that a moral issue."
"What? How can what I wear be a moral issue?"
Yingling frowned. "Deuteronomy 22:5 The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth into a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garments: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy G-d."
"Do you have the whole Bible memorized, Reverend? Seems to me that there verse came to mind awful fast."
"In this town - with O'Toole's potion - it is a verse worth remembering."
"Oh, is it? Well, you might want to think about this: I say I'm really a man, so the abomination would be to wear women's clothes."
"And yet, you wore - you still wear... woman's garments."
"Part of that is your doing. You threatened me - hardly the actions of a man of peace, to my thinking - if I didn't wear a dress. Besides, my... my old clothes don't fit very well, and Kaitlin won't cut them to fit." She took a breath. "What d you say to that, Reverend Yingling?"
The man held up his hands. "I say that I did not come here to fight you, Trisha. I seem to have upset you, and I'd like to apologize and change the subject."
"Afraid you're losing? - oh, he... heck, I'm sorry. I just seem to be on edge today. Apology accepted. What else did you want to talk about?"
Yingling looked around. Except for the two of them, the store was empty. Liam had headed for the storeroom when Yingling came in, so Trisha and the reverend could talk in private. "If you don't mind my asking, I was wondering how you and Kaitlin are getting along these days?"
"What do you mean?" Trisha eyed him with suspicion.
The Reverend's face colored slightly. "I was wondering about... well, ahhh... you... you are hardly the man Kaitlin married."
"We're... I-I don't know." Trisha fell her anger rise, even as she felt her eyes starting to burn. "Damn it to hell, I don't know." She sniffled. "What'd you have to go and bring that up for?"
"I-I just thought that you - you and Kaitlin both - might need help. If you did, I... I just wanted to you to know that I was offering."
"So when there's something in it for you, you will help."
"In it for me? What could possibly be in it for me?"
Trisha by now felt tears tickling the corner of her eyes. "Go... just go, dang it. When I figure out what's got me running off like a damned rabid coon hound, I-I'll talk to you then, okay?"
"I'll go." He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and put it on the counter. "Here, maybe this will be of some help for the time being." He made a motion as if tipping a hat and started for the door. "Please keep my offer in mind."
* * * * *
Nancy Osbourne reached for her cup of lemonade. 'Empty,' she thought. 'And those devilled eggs the Ortega children brought are spicier than I expected.'
She stood and walked towards the two long tables where the refreshments were set up. The walls she passed were covered with pictures of Christmas being celebrated in different countries. It was an old teachers' trick. There was a map of each country and a picture of its flag next to each picture, making each set a small geography lesson.
The decorations were more than pictures on the walls and the tables. Nancy had made wreaths in the English style. One hung on the front door of the school, the other was on the front of her desk. The Ybaá±ez children had brought in four poinsettias, la flores de nochebuena, flowers of the Holy Night, the Mexican children called them, in clay pots. Two pots sat on each window ledge on the sunny side of the room.
Next to the picture of a Greek Christmas hung a small metal triangle and a clay drum. The Stone children had brought these in, gifts from their Greek grandmother to their mother when she was a girl. Ruth Yingling's wooden shoe, filled with hay and sugar cubes, was next to the Dutch Christmas, and there was a tray of bannock cakes that Mrs. McLeod had sent in.
There was a small pine tree at the center of the table with the drinks and deserts. It was covered with paper rings and had a few small candles on some of its branches. The Christmas tree had become popular in Britain and America since Queen Victoria's German husband had introduced the custom a generation earlier.
Nancy stopped to admire the nacimiento, the Mexican nativity scene, at the center of the table with the meat and bread. "It is pretty, isn't it, Miss Osbourne?" Tomas Rivera asked her.
"Yes, it is," Nancy said truthfully. "It just looks more like a cave than a stable, though."
"It is a cave. My pappa says that the innkeeper used a cave for his animals, and that is where he put Joseph and Mary."
Nancy pointed to a dark clay figure hiding behind a tiny tree outside the cave. "Is that one of the kings? It doesn't look like a shepherd."
"Oh, no," Tomas said, trying not to laugh. "That is the Evil One, Satan. He watches, but he cannot get close to what is going on inside the cave."
"Satan at Christmas, that's certainly different."
"Sá, but it is just as true as the rest of the tale."
* * * * *
"And I know," said Bob, "I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it."
"No, never, father!" they all cried again.
Nancy Obourne read on from the night of the Ghost of Christmas Future in Dickens' story.
Emma felt her eyes filling with tears. She lowered her head and hoped no one noticed. 'It's just a dang story,' she told herself, 'and one I've heard before. Why am I so ready to bawl like some little baby? What the Sam Hill is happening to me?'
* * * * *
"Let's go get some cookies before the spelling bee starts," Ysabel suggested. Emma nodded and followed her friend. Her feet still hurt, though, and she fell behind.
Most of their classmates were finishing up a second helping of dessert. A few had gone out to use the necessary, not wanting to leave while Miss Osbourne read the story.
Suddenly Yully Stone was standing in front of her. "Ah... umm, hi. You... ahh, having a good time."
"I guess." Emma was confused. Why was he so nervous just talking about this, the school Christmas party?
Yully shifted nervously and looked around. "It's kind fun learning how they celebrate all around the world."
"Ah, yeah. I liked what you said about Christmas in Greece."
"My gramma's from there. She told me - told all us kids - all about it." He looked around again. "I kind of like the way they celebrate in England, though."
"You mean the tree and the wreaths?"
"No," he pointed upwards. "I mean that."
Emma looked up. Miss Osboune had managed to get a friend back east to send her a few sprigs of mistletoe. One was hanging from the rafter a few feet above Emma.
Before Emma could react, Yully put his arms on her shoulders as if to steady her. Then he leaned in and kissed her lips.
Emma jerked her head back in surprise. Then she stopped. She felt a rush of warmth through her body. There was a sort of a vague tingling in her chest and down... down there between her legs. She froze, uncertain what to do.
"Why the Sam Hill did he do that?" she demanded. Emma's mind was whirling. 'Change the subject and quick before he tries it again.' Aloud, she asked, "You... ah, think anybody saw us?"
Yully made a face. "Fraid so." He pointed off to the side. Eulalie Mackecknie was staring at them, her eyes wide with surprise.
* * * * *
The boys versus girls spelling bee was the traditional end of the Christmas party. The winning side got the reward of a smaller set of assignments over the holiday break.
They were down to five girls and three boys. "Hermione," Nancy said, "your word is treachery. It means --"
"I know what it means," Hermione interrupted. "Treachery. T... R... E-as in Emma... A... C... H... E... R... Y. Treachery."
"Correct," Nancy said. "Though I do not approve of insults. Another example of such behavior, and you will have lines to write over the vacation." She turned to the boys. "Bertram McLeod, your word is 'librarian'. One who works as an assistant to the patrons of a library."
The contest continued. Bert misspelled his word and was out. Penelope Stone and Jorge Ybaá±es both spelled their words correctly.
Now it was Emma's turn. Nancy gave her the word, "maturity".
"Maturity," Emma said. She knew the word, but, all of a sudden, she felt tired, flustered. "M... A... ummm, C-H... U... R... I... T... Y. Maturity."
Nancy shook her head. "I'm sorry, Emma, but it's m-a-t-u-r-i-t-y. Please stand down."
"Such an easy word," Hermione whispered as Emma walked past her on the way back to her seat. "But I guess that you have to have it to be able to spell it." She spoke just loud enough for Emma to hear.
* * * * *
The Judge came in about for a drink about 2:30. Laura hurried home to get Arsenio, while Shamus made small talk to make certain that he didn't leave.
"All right," the Judge said when he saw the pair come in the door and over to his table. "What's so all-fired serious?"
Arsenio handed him the telegram. "This. I think we got a problem, Your Honor."
"Let's find out." The Judge motioned for Arsenio and Laura to sit down while he read. His face grew more and more grave. When he finished, he closed his eyes in thought.
"Well?" Laura blurted out.
The Judge nodded. "It's a problem, all right, and not just for you, Laura."
"For the two of us," Arsenio corrected him, taking Laura's hand in his. "This is our problem."
"It's also mine and Hiram's; Shamus', too, and Dan's and... let's just say there's more than enough of us to share the thing."
Laura was confused. "What do you mean? I'm the one who's supposed to be dead."
"And Hiram Upshaw is the doctor who supposedly pronounced you dead. Shamus and Dan gave you the potion, and I gave you a new identity. Oh, and don't forget Nick Varrick, he reported it all." He sighed and looked at Laura. "But that's all really moot unless your sister and brother-in-law make an issue of it." He waited a moment. "Will they?"
"I... I don't know. Elizabeth never was good at being surprised --"
Arsenio chuckled in spite of himself. "And finding out that her dead outlaw brother is now her live and pregnant sister will surely be a surprise. What about her husband - what'd you say his name was?"
"Theo... Theo Taft. He's a bookkeeper."
Shamus had joined them while the Judge was reading the telegram. He groaned. "And one o'them 'every i dotted; every t crossed' sort of laddies, I'll wager."
"I... I'm afraid so." She bit her upper lip and looked nervously about, ready to bolt.
Arsenio raised her hand to his lips, and gently kissed it. "I guess we've got two choices," he said without letting go of her hand. "Either we tell them the truth, or we come up with one bodacious lie." He laughed. "I don't suppose we could find a body to pass off as Leroy's."
"That would solve everything," the Judge said. "We do that, and we'll all be in the penitentiary by the time Laura's sister gets here."
"Sounds like a 'bodacious lie' ain't an option," Shamus said.
"No," Arsenio said. "It still is. I just hope that we have enough time to think of one."
* * * * *
Kaitlin spooned lima beans onto a plate next to the stew and handed it to Emma. "And how was school today?"
"Uh, okay," Emma answered with a shrug. She took a forkful of stew.
Trisha looked up from her own meal. "Wasn't today your school's Christmas party? How did that go?"
"Okay." Emma had spoken quietly, almost without emotion.
Kaitlin tried another tack. "Did the other children like those cookies I baked?"
"Mmhmm." Emma nodded once and took another forkful of stew.
"Blast it," Trisha snapped. "Answer your mother when she's talking to you."
"The cookies were fine!" Emma snapped back. "The party was fine! I'm fine!" She threw down her napkin and stood up. "May I be excused? Without waiting for permission, she turned and ran from the table and up the stairs. Seconds later, Trisha and Kaitlin heard her door slam shut.
"What the hell was that all about?" Trisha asked, sounding annoyed.
"What did you have get so sharp with her like that for?" Kaitlin replied. "Couldn't you see that something was bothering her?"
"That's no... oh, hell, I'm sorry, Kaitlin," Trisha said with a sigh. "I've been spouting off at the least little thing all day." She sighed again. "I guess it's from my shoes getting tight on me all of a sudden." She took a breath. "And my... my corset, too... up top, I, uhh, mean."
Kaitlin seemed lost in thought for a short time. "I wonder... I'll wager that Emma's feeling just the same way."
"Do you want me to go talk to her?"
"No, she'll still be mad at you." She stood up. "You take your shoes off and rest your feet. I'll see her."
* * * * *
As Kaitlin neared Emma's room, she thought that she heard sobbing. She stopped at the door and knocked.
"Go 'way!" came a voice from inside.
Kaitlin knocked again. "Please," she whispered. "I'm not going to yell."
"P-promise?"
"Cross my heart."
"Oh... oh, come in then."
Kaitlin walked in. Emma was sitting on her bed, crying. "Is it that bad?" Kaitlin asked.
"I-I'm sorry, Ma. I don't know what's happening to me today. It scares me."
Kaitlin nodded and sat down next to Emma on the bed. "It scared me the first time it happened."
"What? This... this happened to you, Ma?"
Her mother smiled. "Let me run down the list: you're on pins and needles, ready to yell or cry at the drop of a hat." She ticked off each item on a finger, as she said it. "Your... breasts feel, well, tender; they may have swollen up a little, too. Your hands or feet may have swollen some as well. You feel tired, distracted." She paused a beat. "Did I get it right?"
"Right down the line. What... what is it, Ma? What's happening to me?"
Kaitlin stood up. "The same thing that's happening to Trisha, I expect; that's why she yelled at you. Let's go downstairs, so I can explain it to you both at the same time." When she saw Emma hesitate, she added, "I don't think she's going to yell - except maybe at me."
"O-Okay." Emma sniffled and stood up. She slowly followed her mother back down the stairs.
* * * * *
Trisha was still sitting at the table. She had both shoes off and was rubbing her left foot. "'Bout time. You ready to --"
"Shush," Kaitlin said firmly. "The both of you just sit there and listen."
Emma sat down. She and Trisha were looking uncomfortably at each other.
"This better be good," Trisha warned.
"Oh, it's good," Kaitlin answered, "but I don't think that you - either of you - are going to like it." She took a breath and began. "Trisha, we've been married twelve years, right?"
"Twelve years, yeah, what does that have to do --"
"Twelve years, so you know that sometimes - about once... once a month or so - I get... out of sorts."
"Yeah, moody, kind of --" Trisha's eyes opened wide. "Shit! Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"I'm afraid I am." Kaitlin put her hand on Trisha's. "You're showing all the signs, from the quick temper to the sore feet."
"What!" Emma interrupted. "What are you talking about? What ain't you telling me?"
Kaitlin looked at Trisha. "The... 'father and son' talk is your job... was your job, Trisha. Did you do it yet?"
"No, and I won't to do it now." Trisha fixed her jaw stubbornly. "Besides, I think that what Emma and me need to hear about is more in your line."
"All right," Kaitlin said. "Emma, do you know where babies come from?"
Emma nodded, not sure of the connection. "Uh-hunh. They grow in a momma's belly, then they come out her belly button when they're ready." She swallowed hard. "I... I ain't gonna have a baby, am I." She looked ready to panic.
"No, no, dear." Kaitlin put her other hand on her daughter's and smiled. She'd have to have that talk with Emma - and soon. "What's happening to you right now... and what's going to happen shows that you aren't having a baby."
"You know what... what went away... down there between your legs," Trisha asked, "when you changed, I mean, and what you've got down there now." She paused while Emma nodded nervously, then she continued. "Down there... that's where the baby comes out when it's born."
"How... how does the baby get inside the momma t'begin with?" Emma asked in a small voice.
"That is a story for another time," Kaitlin said. "What you need to know tonight is that, if she isn't gonna have a baby, a woman has... we call them our monthlies."
"Is that what's happening? My feet swelling up and all is my monthlies?"
Kaitlin shook her head. "No, your feet hurting and you getting mad like that is because your body is getting ready for your monthlies, same for Trisha."
"What's gonna happen - and it'll happen to us in a day or so - is a whole lot worse." Trisha made a sour face.
"Worse?" The panic was still in Emma's voice. "What could be worse than what happened... what's happening to us right now?"
Kaitlin tried to reassure them both. "I won't say that it's worse. It's... well, unpleasant... a bit messy, too. To be honest, I hadn't realized it was going to happen to you. Let me get some things, I'll... you'll need, and I'll explain it all to you both tomorrow night. Is that all right?"
"Uh humh." Trisha was looking at Emma, rather oddly. "What do you mean 'what happened', Emma? Did something happen to you? Something in school today?"
"No! Nothing happened... nothing happened." Emma looked down at the table, not wanting to meet the eyes of her parents.
"Would you like to try that again?" Trisha asked impatiently.
"I told you --"
"Yes, now tell me the truth." The pair were glaring at each other again.
"Nothing happened. Nothing... happened."
Kaitlin gently put her hand on Emma's arm. "It's all right. You don't have to tell us."
"Don't you baby her," Trisha said angrily. "Tell us what happened."
"I... I got... kissed." Emma's voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, and almost without any emotion. "Yully Stone... kissed me."
Trisha exploded. "That bastard! That... that nancyboy! Who the hell does he... I'll... I'll kill him."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," Kaitlin said firmly. "Emma, what happened... exactly?"
Emma looked up at her mother. "Miss Osburne hung up some of that - what do they call it - mistletoe that somebody sent her from Pennsylvania. She told us about it, how folks'll kiss --"
"I know the custom," Kaitlin interrupted. "What about it?"
"Miss Osbourne was getting ready t'start the spelling bee. Me'n some of the other kids went over to the food table t'get some cookies and such t'eat between turns. Yully Stone come over. We talked about the decorations some. Then he... he put his hands on my shoulder, to steady me, I guess. I didn't know wh-what he was doing, so I let'em stay there. And... and he... he leans in and k-kisses me, kisses me right on... on my mouth."
Kaitlin had an odd smile on her face until she saw how scared Emma still was. The smile vanished.
"You slugged him then," Trisha said eagerly. "Let him have it in the chops for doing something like that to you, right?"
"No, I..." Emma saw Trisha's angry expression. "Yes, 'm. I slugged him."
Kaitlin raised an eyebrow. "You hit him? Is that what really happened?"
"Of course, it's what happened," Trisha said proudly. "What else could happen?"
Mother and daughter's eyes met. "Emma... what else could happen?"
"It... I felt kinda... I-I was so mixed up; I d-didn't know what... what I was doing."
"Emma," Trisha asked, desperate not to hear what she somehow knew was about to be said, "what else could happen?"
"I think she's going to say that she didn't feel like hitting him." Kaitlin said it almost matter-of-factly. Emma nodded up and down quickly a few times then looked back at the tabletop.
Trish shook her head. "No! My son did not let another boy kiss him."
"Your son wouldn't," Kaitlin said, standing her ground. "But your daughter seems to have done just that." She took a short breath. "It wasn't really her fault, though."
"Not my fault, Ma?"
Kaitlin nodded. "For one thing, he took you by surprise. For another, a woman's monthlies - and you are a woman now, Emma - her monthlies can make a woman more... more... umm, receptive, you might say... more interested in a man's attentions to her."
"Makes her horny," Trisha muttered under her breath.
"What's that mean, Trisha?" Emma asked.
Kaitlin shot Trisha an angry look. "Never you mind what it means, young lady. The important thing is that what happened wasn't your fault. You have no need to feel guilty because no one blames you for how you acted."
"Yes they do," Emma said. "Hermione Ritter blames me. Eulalie Mckecknie saw us, and she told Hermione. Hermione got nasty about it twice during the spelling bee."
"No doubt," Kaitlin said, trying not to smile. "Cecelia Ritter's been boasting for weeks about how her daughter had the Stone boy all locked up. Looks like she was wrong."
Trisha did smile. "I'm none too happy about any of this, but somehow, the Ritters getting the short end of the stick on something makes it feel a little bit better."
* * * * *
Friday, December 22, 1871
Trisha sat back in her office chair. What was it Kaitlin had said? "More receptive to a man's attentions." It had certainly happened to Emma. She'd actually kissed that boy. 'And if it happened to her,' Trisha thought, 'will it happen to me?' She closed her eyes and lowered her head, as if trying to escape even thinking such a thing.
"Trisha... Trisha, are you awake." Liam stepped up behind his sister and put his hand lightly on her shoulder.
Trisha's head lifted, but she didn't turn to face him. "I'm all right... just thinking, that's all." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
"I suppose that's better'n yesterday. You went around all day ready to bite somebody's head off."
"I-I wasn't really that bad, was I?"
"You surely were. You let into Mateo for not sweeping the floor fast enough. What was the matter with you, anyway?"
"Same thing that's the matter with me today, to tell the truth."
"Well, you're surely handling it better than you did yesterday."
"Am I?" She turned around in her chair. Now Liam could see that her eyes were dewy.
"What's the matter? Are you all right?"
She laughed - or tried to; it seemed to catch in her throat. "I'm fine; healthy as a horse... as a mare, ac-according to Kaitlin." The tears had grown heavy enough to start running down her cheeks. "That's... that's what's the matter." She began to sob.
Liam took her in his arms. He rocked her back and forth, stroking her head and making soft, crooning noises, as if trying as best he could to comfort his distraught little sister.
* * * * *
A goodly crowd was already gathered in front of the church by the time Ramon arrived with Lupe and Ernesto. "I hope we are not too late," Ramon said to Father deCastro.
"No, certainly not," the priest replied. "I have only just sent Juan to get Rosaria, my burro." He looked down at Lupe who wore a white linen blouse and a long blue skirt. "Are you ready to be the angel?"
Lupe nodded happily. "Si, my wings are all ready for me." She pointed to a package under Ramon's arm. Ramon knelt down and opened the package. He handed Lupe the vest, which she quickly put on and buttoned.
"Now turn around," Ramon told her. When Lupe did, he took a wire and paper wing and carefully slid the wire down a tube in the back of the costume. He did the same for the other wing and tied them both with thin leather straps attached to the vest.
Father deCastro smiled. "Very impressive, Ramon. Lupe, you look just like a cherubs in a painting."
"Do you really think so, Padre?" Lupe asked. She turned slowly so both men - and everyone else could see how she looked.
"How soon do we start the march?" Ernesto asked impatiently.
"Very soon," the priest answered. He pointed to Juan, the church caretaker, who had just brought a burro from its small stable behind the church. The burro was covered with brightly colored ribbons. A large rag doll in a simple blue gown was strapped to the saddle, the representation of Mary.
DeCastro looked at the burro, then back at Ernesto. "Do you think that you can lead this burro today, Ernesto?"
"Me, Padre?" The boy was grinning. "Sá, sá. I can lead it all the way to the true Bethlehem."
DeCastro laughed at the answer. I think the few blocks to the Fernandez house will be far enough for today."
* * * * *
"Can I have some more cobbler?" Emma asked.
"May I have some more cobbler," Trisha corrected her.
"Are you correcting Emma or asking for yourself," Kaitlin teased.
Trisha thought for a moment. "Both. I never could resist your cherry cobbler."
"In that case," Kaitlin answered, smiling at the compliment, "you both may have another piece." She spooned some onto each of their plates. "After dinner, though, I want to talk to the both of you. Trisha, you go upstairs and get ready, while Emma does the dishes.
Emma frowned. Washing the dishes after dinner had been a chore of Elmer's, too, and she didn't like it any more now that she was Emma.
"Upstairs and get ready," Trisha asked. "What do you mean?"
"I'm certain that you both remember what I said last night," Kaitlin replied. When Trisha and Emma both nodded, she continued. "After the dishes are done, I'll tell you two more about a woman's monthlies and how we handle them - how you will deal with them - than you ever expected, or wanted, to know."
"And..." Trisha asked suspiciously.
"And," Kaitlin told her, matching stubborn for stubborn, "when I do tell you, I want us all to be upstairs and for you and Emma to be in just your camisole and drawers."
Emma almost dropped her forkful of cobbler. "You-you're joshing us, ain't you?"
"Do I sound like I'm joshing?" Kaitlin took a forkful of her own cobbler.
* * * * *
Ramon leaned against the back wall of the house and watched the children playing in the yard. That night's host, Miguel Fernandez, had hung a piá±ata from a tree, and the children were taking turns swinging at the clay pot with a long pole.
"Dale!" some children shouted at the young boy whose turn it was, "Hit it!" Other children yelled "Phoenix" or "Santa Fe", telling the boy to swing to the west (left) or east (right). The pi ±ata was decorated to look like a seven-pointed star to represent the Star of Bethlehem.
The boy swung again. He hit one of the points, almost knocking it off. The piá±ata spun wildly, but it didn't break. It must have been the boy's last try. He took off his blindfold and handed it and the pole to a tall girl who was standing nearby.
"How many years ago was that us over there?" Dolores had come up beside him.
Ramon smiled at the memory. "It doesn't seem like as many as it is." He took a breath. "Two of those little ones are the children of people we played with."
"No?" she said in surprise. "Which ones?"
Ramon pointed. "That boy in the green shirt sitting under the tree, his mother is... was Inez Rivera."
"Inez always did like... children." Her voice was soft. "The way you are watching them, is one of them yours?"
Ramon shook his head. "No, I am not married. Two of the children, the little girl who was the angel today, and the boy who led the burro, I... I know their mother."
"Ah, and you two are..." her voice trailed off.
"Friends... only friends, that's all." He didn't seem happy with his answer.
Dolores rallied. "As we are friends... good friends, too, I think."
"We are." He wasn't sure what else to say.
She touched his arm gently. "Miguel just mixed up a batch of ponce, his special ponce with the tequila piquete. Why do we not go and have a toast to our friendship?"
"Why not?" Ramon shrugged. He took her hand and let her lead him away. He just glanced back for an instant when he heard a solid "Thunk!" and a child's voice yelling, "Hit! A good hit!"
He didn't see the piá±ata shatter, spilling candy and fruit. Most of the child ran forward, eager to grab their share. Some of the younger children couldn't make their way into the throng. Miguel Fernandez was standing nearby. He came over and handed each a small bag of the same sweets.
Ramon also didn't see Ernesto and Lupe, standing where they had been before the piá±ata burst and watching a lady that they had never seen before walking Uncle Ramon back into the house.
* * * * *
Trisha walked into her bedroom, all but slamming the door behind her. "Do I sound like I'm joshing?" she muttered, imitating Kaitlin. "Do I sound like I'm joshing? I'm going crazy. My son is kissing boys, and she says it's natural."
She began to unbutton her blouse, stopping to look down at her breasts. "Damn, I think they are bigger." The buttons at the level of her breasts were pulled tight. She moved carefully. "I popped enough buttons on my shirts; I'm not gonna pop these, too."
"There." She took off the blouse and tossed it onto a chair. As she did, she noticed the bottle of Irish whiskey perched atop the armoire, where Kaitlin - and now she - kept her dresses. The bottle (and the two glasses that were up there with it) had been for Patrick and Kaitlin's "private celebrations."
"Now that's an idea," she said as she reached for the bottle. "I could surely use a drink now." She managed to get it down, but she was too short to even touch - let alone get a hold of - either of the glasses. "The hell with it; I just need this." She pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a long drink.
The whiskey burned a bit, but she just stood and let its liquid warmth move down to settle in her belly. "Ahh,' she sighed, setting the bottle down on the table. "Damn, that's good."
"Skirt first, then another drink." She unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She stepped out of it, picked it up, and tossed it onto the chair, covering her blouse. "Now another drink."
She took another swig of whiskey and put the bottle back down. She felt a little unsteady but ignored it. "Corset, too." She unbuttoned the garment, which was soon resting atop the skirt and blouse.
"Feels good to be outta all that." She absentmindedly began to scratch her ribs. As she did, her palm slid across her left breast. It was... interesting. She shifted her hand, so that she was caressing her breast. By accident, her thumb brushed against her nipple. "Oh, Lord." She shivered, surprised at the intensity of the sensation.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. "Damn, that feels good." She was using both hands now, sliding them into her camisole to cup and caress her breasts. Her eyes were closed. She saw herself as Patrick again, making love to... "Oh... Kaitlin, you... you feel so good."
Trisha's breathing grew heavy. She could feel her nipples stiffen beneath her fingers. She leaned back, her head almost resting on her left shoulder. Her breasts felt warm, almost hot. It was a wonderful sensation, and it seemed to be flowing like honey through her body. "K-Kaitlin... I... oh!... Kait-Kaitlin!"
One hand moved down from her breast. It was following that flow of pleasure to the furnace between her legs. A hand slipped down into her drawers. She drew a nail up along the lip on one side of her slit, then down the other. She felt weak; her bones were melting from the heat in her breasts and at her crotch. She collapsed backwards onto the bed. "Kait... Kai... K... K... uhh... uhhh."
Her whole body trembled. One - no, two fingers slid into her. It was a penetration that she'd never wanted, but, at this moment, she needed it more than she had ever needed anything. All she could do was moan. A finger found that small nub inside and began to pluck it like a banjo.
Her legs moved together. Her hand was trapped. She had to keep moving that finger against herself. It seemed as if that hand - and the part of her that it was touching - were the only things in the universe. She was dripping with sweat, and her hips jerked in time with the motion of that finger. Something, some glorious thing, was building inside her, taking her higher and higher, growing like one of those carnival balloons.
Then it burst. A blast of pleasure, like a wind racing off a forest fire, flew through every part of her. She shook from the force of it, her eyes flung open wide as if in surprise. "Ah... ohhhhhh!"
She was still on the bed, her feet on the floor, and her legs so very wide apart. The last waves of sensation washed over her. Then, it was like she was sliding down into a cool lake. She could breath again. Her hand came out of her drawers, fingers wet with her own fluids, and slid across her stomach. Her camisole was pushed up out of the way, coming down to just below her breasts. Her other hand still was caressing her breasts.
Suddenly, her mental image shifted. She was herself, Trisha, on her back, her legs spread, and looking up into the face of... "Ohhh," she said without thinking, "ohh... P-Patrick... that... that was wonderful."
"What the hell?" An angry voice came from the doorway. "What've you been doing up here?" Kaitlin asked.
Trisha raised her head. From the look on her face, Kaitlin knew exactly what Trisha had been doing.
And she didn't like it, not one little bit.
* * * * *
Maggie opened the door on the second knock.
"I believe that these belong to you." Ramon stood on her doorstep holding Ernesto's hand. He was holding Lupe "piggyback" style. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted sideways atop his, sound asleep.
Maggie held the door open wide. "They are; bring them in. I was beginning to wonder where you were."
"Miguel had fireworks set up in his yard. They wanted to stay to watch."
The talking woke Lupe. "They were so pretty, Mama, like flowers in the sky."
"Flowers in the sky," Maggie said. "What a pretty way to say it. My daughter is a poet, Ramon."
Lupe giggled at the compliment. She tapped Ramon on the shoulder. "Please put me down, Uncle Ramon."
"Anything for you, my little poet." He lowered his arms and Lupe slid gently down to the ground.
"Sá, but a sleepy poet," Maggie added. "And a sleepy brother, too, I think. Say thank you and goodnight, and then up to bed."
Ernesto stood ramrod straight. "Good night, Uncle Ramon. Thank you for taking us to the podesta." He reached out and shook Ramon's hand.
"And a good night to you, seá±or." Ramon chuckled and patted the boy gently on the back. It was as close to a hug as Ernesto would allow.
Lupe did allow hugs, and she gave him one now. "I had so much fun. Thank you, Uncle Ramon."
"It was fun for me, too." Ramon hugged her back. Maybe it would give Maggie some ideas. "But now, your mama wants to put you to bed, so I will say goodnight." He bowed low.
Maggie acknowledged the bow with a tilt of her head; no hug from her this night. "Good night to you, as well, Ramon, and thank you for all your help."
"For you, Margarita - and the children, of course - any time." He smiled and left, closing the door behind him.
Maggie looked down at the pair. "You..." she pointed to Ernesto, "off to bed. I will be up soon to hear your prayers."
"Sá, Mamma." Ernesto nodded and ran up the stairs.
Lupe was next. "Turn around, so I can get those wings off you."
"You... you are not going to throw them away, are you?" She turned around slowly, as if to protect the paper wings.
Maggie knelt down. "They are much too pretty. I thought maybe... maybe we could hang them on your wall. Then, when you see them, they will remind you to act more like an angel."
"That is silly, but thank you." Lupe yawned. "I had so much fun at the party."
"I hope that you and Ernesto were no trouble for Ramon."
She shook her head. "Oh, no. Mostly we just played with the other children. Sometimes, we saw Uncle Ramon watching us."
"Good, I'm glad he took some time to enjoy himself."
"Oh, he did. He and the lady had a lot of fun."
Maggie looked up from the knot she was working on. "What lady? Who was she?"
"I don't know, Mamma, and Ernesto said that he didn't know her either."
"Maybe I know her. What... what does she look like?"
"She is young and very pretty. She wore a yellow dress with ruffles on it, and she had long hair; it went way down her back." Lupe took a breath. "Do you know her, Mamma?"
"No," Maggie said, an odd expression on her face, "but I think that I want to."
* * * * *
Saturday, December 23, 1871
Kaitlin was sitting on the side of Emma's bed when the girl woke up. "Ma, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, dear. I was wondering how you felt this morning."
Emma sat up. "I - ow! My... my... it started t'hurt some during the night." She reached down and rubbed her stomach. "Is... is this what you told us about yesterday?"
"It is? Do you have the pouch I gave you?"
"I do." It's right over there." She pointed to the top of her dresser. A long, rectangular strip of cloth with cloth strap at each corner was hanging there, half on, half off.
"Seems to me, that should be someplace else, shouldn't it?"
"Do I gotta, Ma?"
"Yes, you gotta. I want that on you and I mean now."
Emma made a sour face. "Yes, ma." She climbed out of bed and took off her nightgown. There was no sign of any blood yet. She draped the cloth between her legs and quickly tied it off.
"Very good," Kaitlin said. She reached into an apron pocket and pulled out a roll of white cloth. "Put this in. I want you to be ready."
"Yes'm." Emma put the cloth into the pouch. "It feels kinds weird, but not... too bad."
"Good," Kaitlin said. "Get dressed now and go downstairs. You can set the table, while you wait for Trisha and me to come down."
"Is she wearing one of these things, too?"
"Not yet," Kaitlin admitted, "but she will be soon enough. Hurry now, no dawdling." She was out the door while Emma was still getting into her drawers.
* * * * *
Kaitlin found Trisha sitting in a chair staring at her pouch like it was some sort of dead animal she'd just found in her dresser. "I suppose that I have to wear this." She held it up by one strap.
"After last night, I'm not sure I care... Oh, hell, yes, yes, you do. You'll wear it unless you want to be a smelly mess for the next few days." She waited a moment. "I just had Emma put on hers."
"And I have to be in mine, then, even if I --"
"Right now, Trisha, I don't care what you want or think or whatever. You'll put that pouch on, and you'll do it right now or so help me..."
"All right, all right." Trisha stood up and took off her own nightgown. In a few minutes, she was tying the last two straps together over her left hip.
Kaitlin handed her a roll of cloth, and she very carefully placed it in the pouch. "Feels awful strange," she said.
"Probably still tender from that workout you gave it last night." Kaitlin frowned. "Just what did you think you were doing?"
"Kaitlin, come on, I-I was drunk half out of my head. I... I didn't know what I was doing. It just... just felt so..." Her voice trailed off. Her breathing was a little husky.
"...so good?" Kaitlin finished the thought. "Made you want to do it over again, didn't it?"
Trisha blushed. "Y-yes." She said it in a soft voice, barely loud enough to be heard.
"So, it was all right for you to be doing it, then, and I shouldn't be mad?"
"Yes... no... no, you shouldn't be mad."
"And is it all right for Emma to do it, then? She's got the same... features down that there that you do, and she's having her monthlies now, just like you."
"Emma? Hell, no, it wouldn't be right. She's... she's just a kid."
"And you're a grown-up, so it's all right for you to be playing with yourself like some common whore."
"I... damn it, Kaitlin, I couldn't help myself."
"Just like she couldn't help herself when that Stone boy kissed her."
"It-it's not the same thing."
"Oh, yes, it is. It is exactly the same thing. You've both got new bodies - new feelings - you never had before, and you're both having a hard time learning how to live with them."
"A damnably hard time." She looked at Kaitlin. "How do you... how does any woman deal with them?"
Kaitlin smiled. It was the first time Trisha had even come close to calling herself a woman. "You begin," she stated firmly, "by not letting them make an animal out of yourself the way you did last night. I won't stand for it if you do, either of you."
"No, ma'am. What else do I need to know?" Trisha sounded like she really meant it, like she really wanted to know.
"You respect yourself - and you expect that same respect from others. I think Emma did that yesterday with the boy. And with that Ritter girl."
"You make it sound kind of easy."
"It isn't, believe me it isn't." She looked Trisha in the eye, and it's going to get a lot harder the next few days. That, m'girl, is what you're wearing your pouch for. Now get dressed and come help me with breakfast."
Old habits died hard in Trisha. "Make breakfast, that's women's work."
"So it is, and if there's any qualification for being one to do women's work that you don't meet right now, I don't know what it is." She gave Trisha's bare rump a slap that was only partly playful. "Now get moving."
* * * * *
"Dance, Jessie?" a voice asked.
Jessie looked up to see Enoch Ryland standing there, smiling, and offering her a dance ticket.
"You got your damned nerve, Enoch."
"Never said I didn't." He offered the ticket again. "You gonna dance with me?"
Jessie frowned, but she took the ticket. "You try anything funny, and you'll be searching the room for your balls."
"If you're that eager to play with my balls, I'll be happy to talk about it later. Right now, I came to apologize."
"You apologized on Monday." The band started a polka, and they moved out onto the floor.
"I apologized on Monday because you were screaming like a banshee and waving a shears not two feet from my crotch. I want to apologize now because I was wrong."
"So you admit what you done was wrong?"
"No, I apologize because my judgment was wrong. There are many women who enjoy my games. I thought you were one of them, and, sadly, you aren't."
"That's not much of an apology."
"Jessie, you threatened my physical manhood with a shears and got yourself a gown at a big financial loss to my brother and me. That's as much of an apology as you're going to get."
* * * * *
Ramon smiled as he and Maggie moved to the music. "I always enjoy dancing with you. Margarita, but I think I enjoy it most when we dance to a waltz."
"What about her, Ramon?" Maggie asked, trying to keep in her anger. "What kind of dances do you like to dance with her?"
"With her? Who... oh, you must mean Dolores. Who told... how did you happen to hear about her?"
"I want to know why I didn't hear about her from you? Who is this Dolores, Ramon?"
"Dolores Ybaá±ez, a friend... a childhood friend and nothing more. Her family moved to near Mexico City years ago. She came back up to visit for Navidad, for Christmas. She wanted to see as many of her friends as she could, so she... she went out on all the posadas... yes, all of them. I saw her briefly at Whit and Carmen's and again last night at the Fernandez' house. We talked some... about when we were children, that - that is all."
Maggie raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Is it?"
"Margarita, take a close look around. Who is it that I am here dancing with?"
Maggie smiled wryly. "That is very true." She rested her head on his chest, but she didn't sound totally convinced. He just hoped that she didn't notice the slightly guilty look on his face.
* * * * *
Sunday, December 24, 1871
"Time to close, I think." Aaron Silverman locked the front door to his store and turned around the small sign posted on the door, so that the "Closed" side faced outwards.
Ramon looked at the clock on the wall behind the cash register. "Aaron, it is not yet 5:30. Why are you closing so early?"
"You see any customers come in here - any at all - for the past hour?" He swept his arm out to the empty store. "As they say, 'Time flies faster than the light at sunset', too precious to waste keeping this store open when nobody's coming in to shop." He paused a moment. "Besides, there is some sort of a party at your church tonight, no? A - what do you call it - a pastooda?"
Ramon chuckled at the mispronunciation. "A posada, Aaron," he pronounced the word slowly for his friend and employer, "a party to celebrate the birth --"
"So go... celebrate. Me, I'm going upstairs to celebrate that mine Rachel is back from San Francisco. Like a teapot, she is, too, bubbling over with stories about our new grandson, Avram."
"I could stay a while... get things ready for tomorrow."
"We're closed tomorrow, and you know it." He looked close at his employee and his friend. "What's the matter that you don't want to go to a party?"
"Dolores --"
Aaron raised an eyebrow "Dolores? Not Margarita?"
"Dolores and Margarita, then. Dolores' full name is Dolores Ybaá±ez, since you must know. We grew up together, and... I guess everyone expected that we would marry when we were old enough. Then, about a month after her quinceaá±os - you know, the celebration when a girl turns 15."
Aaron nodded. The store sold dresses and decorations for two or three such celebrations each year.
"Anyway," Ramon continued, "about a month after her quinceaá±os, she and her family moved to Mexico City. Now, she is back - just for a visit, she says - but it seems as if she wants to continue as we were."
"And you, do you want things to continue as they were?"
Ramon sighed. "I do not know. Dolores is pushing very hard. She is a muy... a most beautiful woman... and an old friend besides."
"And Maggie... Margarita?"
"Aaron, you know how I feel about her. And I think - no, I am certain that she feels the same about me, but she will not do anything about her feelings. Her children must come first, she says, and nothing and no one can interfere." He took a breath. "And Dolores comes, and she has feelings, also, feeling that she wants to act on, and I... I wonder..."
Aaron nodded as if suddenly understanding. "And they'll both be there tonight, at the... the posada won't they?"
"Sá. There have been posadas all week, but the one tonight at the church is the biggest. There will be food and dancing, games and songs, silly plays and fireworks. And it will all lead up to the Misa de Gallo, the Rooster's Mass, at midnight."
"Well, Ramon, as the sages say, 'trade may make a man a king, but it robs him of his leisure.' I'll not tell you to stay for a while and work on Christmas Eve, but I'm going upstairs. If you were to think of something that had to be done after I left - who's to stay that you couldn't stay for a while to take care of it." He started for the door that led to the steps to his apartment above the store.
"Thank you, Aaron, and Felice Na... and congratulations again on your new grandson."
Aaron chuckled. "Don't be so quick with the mazel toivs, the congratulations. Remember, there's always lots of things to say congratulations about with a new baby. You work for me, so you'll have to say it over and over... and sound sincere each time."
"I am sure that I will mean it each time."
"So am I, Ramon; you're a mensch, good man. Just one thing, though. Don't stay too late. The sages also say that putting off a decision, not making it, is also a way of making it."
* * * * *
Four-year old Josiah Whitney III, Jose to his mother, had run ahead with his friends, Lupe and Ernesto. Now he hurried back to where his parents were walking into the church courtyard, carrying his baby brother, Felipe. "Mama, Papa, they have empanadas... panaderias, too. Can we have some?"
"I... suppose," Carmen said, shifting Felipe in her arms. "Go run back and get in line for us."
The boy nodded and turned back. "Lupe and Ernesto are already in line for us."
"You sure this won't spoil their supper?" Whit Whitney asked his wife.
Carmen shook her head. "Their real supper - and ours - will not be until after the Mass. Let them have something now to tide us over. Just be sure that they have tamales with corn atole filling or meat empanadas, instead of fruit empanadas or sweet pan breads. You and I can eat now, as well, or we can wait for Margarita and Ramon to join us."
"Are they coming together?"
"Heavens, no. Seá±or Silverman closes his store about 7. Margarita serves food at her restaurant until 8, and she will probably be busy tonight. I would guess that she will not join us until almost 9, hours from now."
* * * * *
Satan made a mystical gesture. "Greymalkin, come forth."
There was a puff of smoke, and an attractive female demon stepped forth. "What dost thou wish of me, Oh, King of Liars?"
"Soon comes the Angel to tell these fool shepherds of the Holy Birth. I would not have them hear such tidings. Better that they should seek a ram gone astray than their Savior." He laughed. "And it falls to you to lead that ram astray."
Now the female laughed. Her laugh was low and full of sexual promise. "Leading rams astray is what I do best." The demon, Lucinda Gomez in a long black dress and with blackface and wooden horns, reached behind her back and pulled out a long, white wig that looked like a fleece. She put it over her head. "Baaa!" Hips swaying invitingly, she walked offstage behind the makeshift curtain.
Satan, who was really Edmundo Riaz in black pants and shirt, his face blackened and wearing faked horns and tail, laughed a practiced wicked laugh. "And what male, on two legs or four, could ever resist the likes of you, my Greymalkin?"
"The same play every year," Dolores said.
Ramon turned in surprise. "Ho-hola, Dolores. I did not see you standing there."
"I was walking around - looking for you, I might add. When I saw you watching the pastorela, the shepherd's play, I came over." She put her arm around his. "You always did like this play even if it is the same, exact play that we saw as children."
"But it is funny," he protested. "The way the shepherds flail around looking for the lost ram..."
"The humor of little boys."
"But the ram and Greymalkin."
"That is the humor of little boys who think they are grown men. The way --"
"Shh," he cut her off. "It is starting again."
Gaspar Gomez, Lucinda's husband, played the ram. He wore whiteface except for the blackened tip of his nose, a fleecy vest, and an over-elongated pair of wooden horns that were an unspoken pun. He was lounging on a rock, eating a large, sugar crystal flower when Lucinda appeared from stage left.
They had been performing the scene for some twenty years and knew how to get the most laughs from each line, each stage direction. Even Dolores chuckled - quickly covering her mouth - when Lucinda kissed Gaspar's cheek. He pretended to blush and pulled a small, hidden string that made his horns stand straight up instead of pointing out to the sides. After that, his face was an eager smirk as he happily followed her off stage.
The rest of the play was predictable. The Angel was upset that the shepherds were too worried about the lost ram to listen to his news. After admonishing them with what were actually a colorful string of Biblical quotes, he helped them find the ram. Satan and Greymalkin were dealt with. The Angel defeated Satan after a short, if fierce, battle with wooden swords. Greymalkin did her sensual best to convince the shepherds to let her stay until a long, black hook pulled her offstage. The shepherds then drove their wayward ram back to the herd with their staffs.
One of the staffs was special. The "business end" was actually two boards connected by a hinge. When the shepherd swung his staff and hit the ram's, Gaspar's backside, the two pieces came together with a loud "smack". Gaspar yelped and jumped into the air, grabbing for his rump as if in terrible pain each time the slapstick - as it was called - hit.
The Angel gave his news to the shepherds, and they decided to seek the Child. After a bit of consideration and some very earthy reminiscences about Graymalkin, the ram decided to go with them. Arm in arm in arm, the two shepherds and their ram set off towards Bethlehem, as a silvered star rose on a string in the east.
The crowd applauded and a few tossed pennies at the actors.
"Do you want to stay for the next play?" Ramon asked.
Dolores thought for a moment. "Mmmm, I think that I would rather walk around with you - if you do not mind, of course."
"No, no, that sounds like a fine idea."
She took his hand as they started walking. "It's nice to be back here, to see the old church and my friends and all after so many years. Everything is exactly as I remembered it."
"Everything?"
"Well, certain people have gotten taller... and more handsome, I think."
"And others are even more gracious... and lovely."
"One other thing has changed." Her face broke into an impish grin.
"What is that?"
"Father deCastro will let us drink the ponche that has the piquette, the sting, now." She gave a quiet laugh. "We will not have to try to sneak some the way we used to."
"It is just as well. We never did fool him. Now that we can drink the piquette, we should take advantage of the privilege. Shall we try to find some?" He offered his arm. She took it and let herself be led into the crowd.
* * * * *
"Who wants sparklers?" Maggie asked cheerfully. She had come up quietly behind Ernesto, Jose, and Lupe, who were watching a pastorela about a man who tricked two shepherds into giving him their prize ram. Even now, the ram was begging to be returned to his "true, sweet masters". Gaspar was overplaying his lines and getting howls of laughter for his trouble.
The children spun around. "I do, I do."
"Do not hold them too close to your faces," Maggie said. She lit the long sticks on a nearby torch and handed one to each child. "Now, do we stay and watch the end of the play or do you show me all of the sights?"
"The play," Lupe said with a giggle. "It is so silly." The two boys wanted to walk around.
Maggie gently took her daughter's hand. "This is not the last play, and, if we walk, we have a better chance of finding your Uncle Ramon, no?"
"I suppose," Lupe said with a sigh, giving in. "I do want to see everything that is here." Maggie nodded. "Jose, you are welcome to come with us."
"Of course he is," Ernesto answered, ever the "man of the house." He took the younger boy's hand, and they set off with Maggie.
* * * * *
Ramon and Dolores were standing at the fence surrounding the nacimiento, the live nativity scene set up near near the edge of the church courtyard. The fence was to keep the livestock that were a part of the nativity, a cow, three sheep, a burro with a saddle, and a pig, from straying.
"Who is Mary this year," Dolores asked. "She looks familiar."
"She should," Ramon told her. "That is Inez Gonzales and her little girl."
"Inez... the ram's little daughter? She is a year younger than I... than us."
"Sá, she performs, too, but this year, she has a quieter part to play."
Just then, Ramon saw a familiar face - four familiar faces coming towards the nativity, Maggie, her children, and his older nephew. 'The moment of truth,' he thought to himself. 'Be brave, Ramon. You can only die once." He swallowed then answered himself. 'Too bad it will not be tonight.'
He gently took Dolores' hand. "Dolores," he began, "I have enjoyed our time here tonight."
She looked up at him and smiled. "Yes, Ramon, as have I."
"But I am afraid that it must end. I... I promised to meet someone... to spend the posada with... with her, and I see her coming just now. So I must say goodbye to you." He took a breath. "I am sorry."
Dolores tried to hide her disappointment. Men didn't like a woman who was jealous. "I am sorry, too, Ramon, but you did promise. Will you also promise to see me again sometime?"
"I will." This seemed too easy, but he wasn't going to ask questions just now. He kissed her hand and slowly released it.
Dolores watched him walk away from her. He circled the crowd and came up from the other side of the nacimiento. A tall woman in a pale blue dress met him. She had three small children with her, but she seemed to have the fresh look of a young maiden, rather than the haggard look so many mothers had.
Ramon kissed her hand, too. Then he hugged the little girl and the smaller of the two boys. He shook the other boy's hand before he led them all away towards a booth selling panaderáas.
"This will not be as easy as I had hoped," Dolores whispered to herself.
* * * * *
Arnie Diaz walked over to a pair of familiar faces. "Seá±or Shamus, Seá±ora Molly, what are you doing here?"
"Same as ye are," Shamus answered, "looking at all the pretty girls - only I already got meself the prettiest of the lot." He winked and gave Molly a quick peck on the cheek.
Molly dimpled. "Och, such blarney. We come for the Midnight Mass, Arnie."
"Ye come for the Mass," Shamus argued. "I come t'be with ye." He looked around at the activities in the church courtyard. "I can't never get used to the way they celebrate like this before the Mass. It ain't exactly the way we did things back in the Auld Country."
"The Mass is the same," Molly countered. "That's what's important. And besides, when did ye ever object to people having thuirselves a good time?"
"When they ain't having it at me saloon. Half our regulars must be here. That's why we could be letting ye leave so early, Arnie." He looked serious for a moment, then smiled, "Still, I ain't never seen no bar so full of life on Xmas Eve as this. I left R.J. t'handle them what's over thuir, and took part of the night off with me best gal."
"Then stop taking up this boy's time, and be showing yuir 'best gal' around," Molly teased. She took Shamus' arm and led him away.
Arnie stood for a moment and watched them. He smiled at the thought that two people who seemed ancient to him were still still teasing and flirting with each other like couples his own age.
"Even here, you play up to those gringos," a voice behind him said.
He spun around. "Pedro... what do you want?"
"To have a good time here at the posada," the other boy said. "I was having one, then you showed up and gave a foul smell to the air."
Arnie stiffed as his hands balled into fists. "May I should help you on your way, then."
"Fine," Pedro said, "We cannot fight here in the courtyard. Where...?"
"Beyond the gate, near the stable. No one will bother us there."
"That is because I will bother you here." Father deCastro stepped between them. "To speak of fighting here on the holy ground of a church and tonight... this night of love and joy, with only an hour or so to the Misa de Gallo, the Rooster Mass, at midnight."
Pedro pointed a finger at Arnie. "He started it, Padre."
"Me?" Arnie raised a fist. "I was just standing here and you --"
"I don't care how it started; it is over," the priest said firmly. "There will be no fighting tonight. Is that clear?"
"Sá, Padre," the pair said, almost in unison.
"Do you both promise that... promise by the Holy Mother, by our Lady of Guadalupe?" Both youths nodded. "Fine. Whatever else you two hotheads are, I know that you will keep such a promise. Now go, enjoy the posada, and I had better see the two of you at Mass." The short priest hurried off.
Arnie looked daggers at Pedro. "I will keep my promise; will you?"
The other nodded. "Of course. We will not fight... tonight."
"No, not tonight."
* * * * *
Monday, December 25, 1871
"Emma," Kaitlin called up to her daughter. "You have company." Emma walked out of her bedroom and looked over the railing. "Ysabel! Hi... and Merry Christmas. C'mon up."
"Hola," Ysabel said as she climbing the stairs. "And Merry Christmas to you, as well."
Moments later, they were in Emma's bedroom. Emma sat on the bed, giving her visor the only chair.
Ysabel looked around. The room was painted a light brown and sparsely decorated. The bed was covered by a deeper brown blanket that had the words "U.S. Army" lettered on it in yellow. The window curtains were the same color as the blanket. A cow's skull, horns and all, hung on the wall above a low, dark brown dresser. The only things on top of the dresser were an enameled pitcher and bowl and a man's brush and comb set. A small mirror in a plain brass frame was nailed to the wall to the right of the dresser. A red and yellow paper kite hung from the ceiling near the opposite wall, its long paper tail pinned along that wall. There were some toys, a ball, a set of lead soldiers, and a checkerboard on a set of shelves. The lower shelves held some books and a few neatly folded blouses.
Three dresses and a couple more blouses were on hangers on a wooden clothes rack along the wall with the door. Two sets of the boy's shirts and pants that Kaitlin had added feminine flourishes to were also on hangers. 'Except for the clothes,' Ysobel thought, 'this is still Elmer's room.' Aloud, she asked, "How is your Christmas?"
"Not too bad," Emma answered. "Ma and Trisha gimme girl presents." She looked like she'd just sucked raw lemon. "A new dress and a broach. I think Ma did the shopping, and Trisha just went along with what Ma got. Ma said she might have t'take me into Silverman's soon for a corset 'cause I'm starting t'... t'show." She looked down at the small bumps of her new breasts and frowned again.
"Uncle Liam, he got me a book on Napolean and his wars." Her voice lowered to a near whisper. "He got me a new penknife, too. He had t'wait and give it to me when Ma wasn't looking. She wasn't too keen on me having a knife even when I was..." Her voice trailed off.
Ysobel jumped into the silence. "I got a blouse from Mama and a box of handkerchiefs from my brothers and sisters. My cousin, Dolores, came up from Mexico City to visit, and she gave me these earrings... See." She pulled back her hair to show a pair of dangling turquoise earrings.
"Real pretty," Emma told her. "They look good on you, too."
"I think you got the best present."
"The knife? Yeah, it's got a mother of pearl case and a spring action blade. You wanna see it." She started to get up.
Ysobel shook her head. "Not the knife, Emma. The best present you got was the kiss from Yully Stone."
Emma's face reddened. "I... I don't want t'talk about it."
"You don't? Madre de Dios, if... if Stephan Yingling had kissed me, I would want to shout it from the rooftops."
"Stephen? You like him?"
"Sá," she sighed, "but what can come of it? His father is the padre at your church, and I am just a poor Mexican girl... and a Catholic, at that."
"You're my friend, Ysobel, and I don't want to hear you talking like that. Nobody can know what's gonna happen in their lives." She looked down at herself. "I'm surely proof of that."
"Sá, you are. Yully Stone kissed you."
"That wasn't what I --"
"What was it like?" Ysobel leaned forwards, her eyes wide with curiosity.
"What do you mean? You saw it." She thought of Hermione and frowned. "All sorts of people saw it."
Ysobel shook her head. "No, no, Emma. How did it feel? I read some of the dime novels my brother buys. In Death at Commanche Pass, the school teacher, Miss Rose, feels 'a heat like a prairie fire' when Sheriff John Slaughter kisses her. And in Brock Cody and the Highland County War, Ernestine 'trembled and felt her limbs go weak' when Brock Cody kissed her. Tell me, then, how did you feel when Yully kissed you?"
"Embarrassed. I ain't no dumb girl for him to kiss."
Now Ysobel frowned. "You say 'dumb girl' just the way Clyde Ritter and the other boys said it, when they would not let you play ball with them."
"I... I didn't mean nothing like that. I just meant that I wasn't no girl, and I didn't want Yully to kiss me."
"May not, but you enjoyed the kiss. I saw that, too."
"I... I didn't know what I was doing. My - Ma calls 'em my 'monthlies' - they was coming. She says I was crazy and didn't know what I was doing."
As she spoke, Emma realized that she was beginning to feel the same vague tingling in her body that she had felt when Yully kissed her. "I-I don't wanna talk about it any more."
"But --"
"Ysobel, please. I just... I don't wanna..."
Ysobel saw the panicked look on Emma's face. "All right, then. We will talk of something else, of Christmas, maybe." She put her hand on Emma's arm. "But if you ever do want to talk about such other things, I will be there to listen."
* * * * *
Cerise raised her wineglass and tapped it gently with her fork. "Attention, attention, s'il vous plait." The crowd around the table quieted. "I wish to make a toast, so, if you would all fill your glasses." She waited while the group complied; then, she began again.
"Mes amis, my friends, we are gathered together here on this day of hope and joy. Working with you this past year has been a joy, and I hope that we shall be together in that same joy for the next year. And so, to you all: to Beatriz, Mae, Rosalyn, and Wilma, my delights; to Daisy who takes care of us all, and to her husband, Jonas, who takes care of our lovely home; and to mon coeur, my love, Herve, who takes such good care of me; to you all I wish a Joyeux Noá¨l, a Merry Christmas, and a most Happy New Year."
They all clinked glasses with Cerise and proceeded to drink some of her most expensive wine.
Now Jonas stood and refilled his glass. He was a tall, thin black in his early 30s, looking a bit uncomfortable in the suit he wore instead of his usual overalls. He might tend bar on occasion, but working with his hands was his true joy in life. That, and his wife, whose hand he held, even as he began to speak.
"My Lady," he began. "I thinks I speaks for us all when I wish you the same. You is the prettiest boss me and Daisy ever worked for, and the best thing o'all is that your prettiness ain't skin deep like the saying goes. No, ma'am, in you that prettiness, it done go all the way down to your soul." He raised his glass. "I say, here's to the Lady, and may her year be filled with all them good things she deserves."
"To the Lady," everyone echoed, drinking deeply.
Cerise wiped a tear from her eye. "Jonas, all of you, thank you so much. I am truly blessed in you, my friends and in the vie douce, the sweet life, that we all enjoy. And..." she took another sip of her wine. "...with that in mind, I want to make an announcement. Life is too sweet not to be enjoyed. There have been times this past year, when so much was happening that I did not have the time to share in that enjoyment. I have decided that this should not be."
Mae was the first to speak. "What exactly are you saying, Cerise?"
"You are not leaving us?" Beatriz asked.
Cerise shook her head and laughed. "Non, non. I am not leaving. Since I wish to share the fun, I have decided to share the work. Wilma, please to stand."
"Sure, Cerise." Wilma stood up slowly, bracing herself for what would follow.
"From now on," Cerise said, "Wilma is my... assistant. She will still have her gentleman - as if I could stop her - but now some of the duties of managing La Parisienne shall be hers. And so, a toast to mon brave, my brave Wilma, who does not know what she is getting herself into."
Cerise looked around the table. Herve, Daisy, and Jonas had joined in the toast. So had Mae. Beatriz and Rosalyn were just staring at Wilma.
"You may sit down now, Wilma," Cerise finished. She waited while Wilma did just that. "Daisy, while some people remember to close their mouths, would you be so kind as to bring in those lovely strawberry crepes that you made for the dessert?"
* * * * *
Edith Lonnigan took a last sip of wine. "My, I don't know when I've had a more pleasant Christmas day."
Davy Kitchner smiled back at her. "Same here. It must be the company."
"Thank you, Davy," Edith said. I am so glad that you decided to spend the winter here in town."
"Well, now, I may have to go back up... just for a while, mind you. The law says I lose my claim if I don't work it some now and then, and I can't stop just 'cause there's snow on the ground."
"You wouldn't have to be up there for very long, would you?"
"Prob'ly not. It'd depend on the weather. O' course, if I found me that rich vein I been looking for... well, I'd want to stay for a while to work it."
"Then I hope that you don't find it," she said firmly. Then she smiled. "At least, not until the spring."
"You know, you could always ride up there with me. There's room for two in that cabin." He gave her a sly wink.
"Oh, I-I couldn't. It would leave Hiram - Dr. Upshaw - in the lurch. He depends on me so."
"Hiram, eh? I shouldn't be jealous of the Doc, now, should I?"
Edith's face flushed. "I'll have you know that my relationship with the doctor is purely professional; thank you very much. I'm his nurse. I help in his practice, and I work in his office... keeping his records and such. That Mr. Kitchner is the some total of it."
"Well, I am truly glad to hear that. I like the Doc too much t'want to do him in." Davy slid his finger across his throat. Then he gave a laugh to show that he was just teasing.
"He's a fine man and an excellent doctor. I'm proud to be working with him. Besides, right now there are several pregnant women in town. I'm a trained midwife, so I do much of the work on such cases."
"I always knew how important you was to me, Edith. I'm right proud to hear you're important to everybody else." He paused a beat. "But I will miss you whenever I do go back up to my claim."
"As I shall miss you."
"So let's enjoy ourselves while we's still together." Davy leaned over and kissed her bare nipple.
Edith smiled in expectation. Her hand reached down under the coverlet and found his manhood. 'Hard again,' she though happily. 'For a man his age, he certainly recovers quickly.
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 26, 1871
"Good morning, Miss O'Hanlan... Mr. O'Hanlan," Roscoe Unger said as he walked up to the counter at the Feed and Grain. "And a Merry Christmas to you both."
Liam nodded. "It's a day late for that, Roscoe, but thanks, and a Happy New Year to you. What brings you over here this morning?"
"I asked him to come over," Trisha answered. "I wanted to put a special ad in next week's paper."
Liam raised an eyebrow. "Special ad? We having a sale or anything you forgot to tell me about?"
"No," she said. "I... I thought it'd be nice... be a good idea to use our regular ad space to wish everybody a Happy New Year."
"Wish everybody... Why, for Heaven's sale?"
"If you'd like to talk about this, I can come back," Roscoe said cautiously.
Trisha gave Liam a hard look. "I don't think that we need to talk about it. We never have before."
"I think I'm entitled to an answer, though," Liam said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Fine," Trisha shot back. "People all year gave us their trade, even when there was the... question at the church. What's wrong with saying, 'Thanks', and hoping that they'll do the same next year?"
Liam thought for a moment. "Not a thing, I suppose. I just would've liked to know about the idea in advance, that's all."
"It's a good idea," Roscoe said, trying to spread oil on troubled waters. "In fact, I was coming over here anyway to do the same thing."
"How's that?" Liam asked.
"A drummer gave me the idea when he came through last month," Roscoe began. "Of course, he gave me the idea to make a sale, but I thought it was a good one."
Roscoe had come in with a brown leather valise. He hefted it onto the counter and opened the clasp. "These are for you."
He opened it wide and pulled out two small packages wrapped in white paper. "Trisha." He handed her the one with a pink bow. "And Liam." The second package had a blue bow.
"Ooh, what is it?" Trisha asked, pulling at the pink ribbon.
"Yeah," Liam said, "What's in here?"
"Mr. O'Hanlan, yours is a bottle of bay rum," Roscoe told him, "And yours is rose-scented toilet water, Miss O'Hanlan. It's my way of saying, 'Thanks and Happy New Year' to all my customers for standing by me when I took over the paper - and the print shop - from Mr. Pratt."
Trisha had unwrapped her present, being careful not to tear the paper it was in. She opened the bottle and took a sniff. "Smells nice. Thanks, Roscoe."
"I think that drummer saw you coming, Roscoe," Liam said. "This must've set you back plenty."
Roscoe shrugged. "Not as much as you may think. I bought fifty some bottles and got a pretty good deal. Besides, as far as I can tell, the business is doing all right. People could've cut back on their ads - cut back their paper orders, too - when Mr. Pratt left things to me. Almost nobody did. They had faith in me, and I want to thank them for it."
"I'm not saying it's a bad idea, Roscoe," Liam said, "and I do thank you for it. I just hope he didn't charge you too much."
"He didn't, at least, not as far as I can tell." He pushed the valise almost closed. "Well, I have other stops to make. Do you want that special ad after all, Trisha?"
Trisha looked at Liam, who nodded. "From now on, I just want to know when you're going to do something like this, okay."
"Why?"
"'Cause I'm supposed to be your partner in this business, and I... I figure I should be pulling my weight more."
"I suppose you have a point," Trisha said, still a little suspicious. "Okay, Roscoe." She reached under the desk for a folded sheet of paper. "Here's the advertisement I want."
Roscoe took the paper and opened it. "Hmm, around the border, you want, 'We'll take a cup of kindness yet, for days of Auld Lange Syne...' That's a song, isn't it?"
"Actuually," Trisha told him, "It's from a poem by a Scotsman named Robert Burns. It's about remembering good friends."
Roscoe read on. "And the main body of the ad is 'O'Hanlan's Feed and Grain thanks its customers for their patronage and wishes them a healthy and prosperous new year.' Is that right?"
Liam laughed, "That's it, live long and prosper? Well, I suppose that it won't do any harm."
"Might even do some good," Trisha added.
Roscoe refolded the paper. "It's as good as any other copy - that's what we call any material we're going to use - for next week's paper. In fact, it's better than most." He put the paper in the valise and closed the clasp. "Well, like I said, I have to be going." He nodded a "Goodbye" to them both, said, "Happy New Year" and left.
* * * * *
"'Bout time you came by."
Arnie had been walking back to the Saloon after super at his mother's house. He was still savoring her stew in his belly. Now, he turned at the words. "Pedro, what do you want?"
"I want to beat the shit out of you, Diaz," Pedro said, stepping out of the shadows. "The Padre may have stopped us the other night, but he ain't around now to save you."
"I don't need his help... not with the likes of you."
"Big words; let's jut see if you got anything to back them up." He swung at Arnie.
Arnie dodged and jabbed at Pedro's stomach. He hit, then jabbed again, but Pedro shifted out of his way. Pedro got in a couple of quick, painful shots at Arnie's ribs, but when he closed, Arnie countered with a blow to the head.
Pedro staggered back. Then he growled low in his throat and charged. The two teens grappled for a bit. Arnie tried to break the lock of Pedro's arms. He lost his balance and fell to the ground, dragging his opponent along with him.
They rolled around in the dirt, trading blows until they heard a deep, commanding voice. "I thought I told you two I didn't want any more fights."
The two quickly moved apart. "Sheriff," Arnie said. "He... he started it."
Dan shook his head. "And I expect he'll say that you started it. To tell the truth, I don't care who started it. I'm finishing it. Get up."
He waited while the two rose to their feet and began to dust themselves off. "I've had it with the pair of you. I think, maybe, you need a little time to cool your heels... and your heads. So I'll give you some and the place to cool them." He drew his pistol and pointed. "Head for the jail, boys. You two'll be my guests for the night."
"But, Sheriff..." Arnie said, "My job... Shamus is expecting me..."
"Maybe so," Dan replied, "but he won't be seeing you till tomorrow. I'll give him your regards when I go by there later." He motioned with the pistol. "Now get moving."
* * * * *
Jessie sat on a chair on Shamus' small makeshift stage, her guitar in her lap. "I got time for a request or two. Anybody got one?"
"Play a Christmas song," someone yelled.
Jessie smiled. "Christmas was yesterday, 'case any of you ain't heard."
"Still can't help thinking about it," someone else yelled. "Out here in the desert, ya can't help remember back east and them snowy white Christmases, the ones we used t'know before we was dumb enough to come out here."
She picked up the guitar. "All right, all right. Matter o' fact, Hans Euler's been teaching me this one song he learned back in Austria. Hans, I'm gonna sing part of it in German like you taught me. That'll be for you, then I'll do it in English for all these yahoos here." She looked out into the crowd and saw Hans nod.
"Stille nacht," she began, strumming the guitar softly in accompaniment. "Heilige nacht."
She finished the German verse, then switched to English, "Silent night..." By the end of the verse, many of the men had joined in, and when she finished the last, "Sleep in heavenly peace", the money almost rained down on her.
* * * * *
Shamus was sitting at a table with Molly and listening to Jessie sing.
"She's got a real pretty voice," someone said.
Shamus looked up to see Sheriff Dan Talbot standing near him. "Aye, that she does. That she surely does."
"This is a whole lot better than when she was starting fights," Talbot added.
"That was a different Jessie t'my thinking," Molly answered. "She's changed." Molly didn't add how much the sheriff's deputy, Paul Grant, had played a part in that change.
Talbot nodded. "Very much a change for the better." He took a breath. "I'm just glad everything's so nice and quiet. It makes my job that much easier."
"Which it ain't always, is it?" Molly guessed that he was leading someplace.
"No, and I'm afraid that I made your jobs a little harder tonight." He shifted, feeling a bit uncomfortable in the telling. "I caught Arnie Diaz and Pedro Escobar fighting in the street again."
Arnie wasn't hurt, was he?" Shamus asked.
Dan shook his head. "Neither of 'em is much the worse for wear, but I've warned them about this before - more than once. They'll be spending the night in jail, I'm afraid."
"Don't be fretting yuirself," Shamus told him. "Ye was only doing yuir job. The one that's got to be worrying is Arnie." The concern on his face gave way to a scowl.
Molly put her hand on her husband's arm. "Ye ain't gonna be firing him, are ye, Love? The boy was doing so well."
"I know." He patted her hand. "I ain't about t'be spitting the lad out, but I am gonna chew on him some when he comes in tomorrow morning." He lifted her hand and kissed it gently before setting it down. "Now, if ye'll both excuse me, I need t'be talking some business with Jessie now that she's finishing up with her singing." He stood up and walked towards the makeshift stage.
* * * * *
Jessie was sitting on the stage, scooping the money into a small basket, she'd borrowed, when Shamus came up to her. "That's quite a haul ye got there."
"We got there," she reminded him. "Half this is yours... unless you wanna give me a late Christmas present."
Shamus shook his head. "No, Jessie lass, I'll be more'n happy t'be taking me share. What I wanted to talk about was giving ye a chance to be earning more of the same." He paused a moment. "In a bit more private spot than this, if ye don't mind."
"Fine by me," she answered. They walked over to a table by the wall. No one was sitting with easy earshot. "Just what sort of a chance, Shamus?" Jessie began cautiously.
"This Sunday is New Year's eve, ye know, and I'll be throwing a big party here in me saloon to celebrate."
"I know, you already put up signs: food, dancing - which means me, Jane, Bridget, Maggie, and Laura, I suppose - and other entertainment. Is that the band, or you got other things planned?"
"The band and I got other things planned - you for one. I thought ye could be singing a couple of times - plus again at midnight, o'course."
"Sing and dance," she said sarcastically. "My, I'm gonna be busy, ain't I." She looked him straight in the eye. "How much you paying for this, Shamus?"
"Paying? Ye get yuir salary, don't ye? And tips, too, as I recall."
"My salary - what we agreed on - don't cover nothing like this. I figure I'm entitled to a little bit more money."
Shamus nodded. "Aye, I suppose ye are, too. I just wanted to see how ye'd ask. I'm figuring... oh, an extra $5."
"Our deal is $7.50 a night, why should I do an extra night for less?"
"Ye'll already be there, dancing with the men. I figure what I pay ye for that should count for some of it."
Jessie shrugged. "Then I won't dance, and you can pay the full $7.50."
"Why ye cheating..." he sputtered, then made a face. "All right, $7.50, plus what ye get for being one of the waiter girls, dancing with me customers. Is that enough or would ye be liking some of me blood, too?"
Jessie laughed. "Tempting as it is, I'll pass on your blood. Maybe another time, though." She grinned and offered her hand. "We got us a deal, Shamus."
"Done and done," Shamus said. He spit in his hand, then shook hers. "And I thank ye for one of the best haggles I've had in a while."
"Same here." She stood up, brushing the front of her dress.
"I'm just sorry if I'm spoiling any plans ye and Paul may have had."
She almost dropped the basket with the money. "Paul? What... what d'you mean?"
"Jessie, Jessie, I hope ye wasn't thinking that nobody knew that Paul and ye been... let's just say, been keeping company. There's afternoons ye sneak away, and nights yuir bed ain't slept in. If that ain't enough, I've seen the way ye act anytime Paul comes in. Ye might have been careful enough t'be fooling a lot of people, but Shamus O'Toole ain't one of them... and neither is me Molly, I'm thinking."
Jessie shook her head. "Oh Lord." She stopped to take a breath. "Molly knows, I... uhh, talked to her about it. I... you think many other people do?"
Shamus thought for a moment. "Jane does. She's seen ye coming in more'n once in the morning. Laura may, too, 'cause of ye leaving her and Jane in the lurch when ye was supposed to be working. Getting me t'be giving ye time off on days when ye sing was a good idea, though."
"Now that you know, you ain't gonna make trouble about it, are ye?"
Shamus shrugged, "Long as ye give me the work I'm paying ye for, what do I care what ye're doing on yuir own time?" His eyebrows narrowed. "I'll be thanking ye, though, t'stop sneaking over on them days when ye are working for me."
"I'll stop, Shamus. I... promise." She hugged him impulsively, "And thanks."
Shamus pulled free. "Ye stop that right now, Jessie. If Molly sees ye hugging me like that, I'll be the one in trouble."
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 27, 1871
Arnie Diaz glanced nervously at the clock as he walked into the Saloon. '11 o'clock,' he thought, 'at least I ain't late this morning.'
"Well, now, good evening to ye, Arnie."
Arnie turned and saw Shamus standing near the door. He didn't look happy. "Uhhh... evening, Mr. O'Toole?"
"Aye, when I let ye go home for supper last night, I expected ye back that evening, not the next morning."
"Mr. O'Toole... the Sheriff... he --"
"I know what he done, Arnie. He came in last night and told me." Shamus shook his head. "I'm disappointed in ye, lad."
"It wasn't my fault. I was on my way back here and Pedro started in on me."
"And ye had to give in t'his teasing, didn't ye? They was holding a pistol to yuir head, so ye had to fight, wasn't they?"
"N-no, Mr. O'Toole; it... it wasn't like that."
"I know it wasn't, lad. That's why I'm disappointed, because we both know that ye could have walked away."
Arnie sighed. "Mr. O'Toole, you don't know what you're asking. Pedro... him and me have hated each other since..." He shrugged. "...since we was kids."
"And ye can go right on hating each other for I care, except when it interferes with yuir working for me. Then, either it stops..." He made a gesture as if cutting a rope. "...or ye stop... stop working for me, that is."
"That ain't fair."
"Arnie, yuir whole argument with me was that I didn't treat ye like you was grown up. Well, now I am. Ye can prove that ye are or that ye aren't. I ain't decided which, but I'll be watching ye to see which it is." Shamus took a breath. "O'course, you can always give up on yuirself and quit right now."
Arnie gave Shamus a hard look. "I ain't no quitter, Mr. O'Toole, and I'm staying here to prove it." He walked past Shamus and towards the kitchen to start work.
"I hope ye are, me lad," Shamus whispered to himself, "and nothing would make me happier to see ye prove that very thing." He sighed. "But ye'll have a hard time of it, I'm thinking."
* * * * *
Emma looked at the section of hillside one more time. "We're agreed, then; this is the spot?" The hillside was a gentle slope covered with low brush.
Tomas nodded. "Sá, we can start work next week as soon as the doctor takes this darned cast off my arm." He absentmindedly scratched his arm at the edge of the cast.
"I figure we can dig out the hillside in a couple of days. Then two, maybe three, more to build the fort and entrance tunnel, and a couple more to bury it, especially putting some of that brush back."
"Better figure more time. Remember, we start back at school next Tuesday. And we got to figure the time to bring in the table and chairs before we finish the fort. That'll take some time, too."
"We can't take too long. Somebody else'll find the thing." She thought for a bit. "Maybe we should let a few more boys in on the project."
"Maybe... who you got in mind?"
She didn't have to think. "Yully Stone... for one."
"Why him?"
"Why not? He's strong, more'n strong enough, and I figure that I owe him for sticking up for me when I wanted to play ball after I... y'know."
"I know, and I agree about bringing him in. But is that why you want to ask him?" He took a breath and waited for Emma to answer.
Emma's face flushed. Was there another reason? She didn't want to think about it, but why had Yully's name come into her head so fast? "Why else would I want to ask him?"
"Why indeed?" Tomas answered. "Okay, who else should we ask?"
* * * * *
Rachel Silverman looked up at the sound of the bell over the front door to her store. "Nu, Laura, I was wondering when you was coming in."
"Hello, yourself," Laura answered walking over to the counter. "How was your trip?" Aaron was back at his desk in a corner, working on a ledger. He looked up just long enough to nod hello. Ramon was talking to a man Laura didn't know over near the men's wear shelves.
Rachel made a face. "The trip, all those days on that verkochteh stagecoach, pfeeh, don't ask." Then she smiled. "Of course, if you want to ask about mine angel, my new grandson Avram. Him, I'll be glad to talk about." She stood out and came out from behind the counter. "But let's go look at some clothes while I tell you all about him." She took Laura by the arm and led her away.
"A treasure he is," Rachel continued, as they walked, "and so much like his papa, my Shmulie, he looks, the same round face and green eyes. He even has blonde hair, like Shmulie did when he was little - he had a curl of it when he was born. He was born two days before I got there, but when they let me in to see him, he looked up and smiled at me - such a happy baby, kine ahora.
"And by the time I left, sleeping through the night, he was, except for one feeding, of course. When you have your own little one..." She gently patted Laura's stomach. "...you'll see how important that can be."
"I-I guess," Laura said uncertainly. Babies don't sleep through the night? She thought sleep was pretty much all they did. And she'd have to get up and feed it. She shook her head. Arsenio could do that; she'd sleep.
Rachel chuckled. "But enough of my kvelling, my boasting. You, we need to get some clothes for." She reached into a drawer and pulled out a large white corset. "Let's start with this."
"I've already got three or four corsets."
"Yes, but you shouldn't be wearing them much longer. The last thing you need to wear when you got a baby growing in your belly is something that don't give it room to grow. Now, this..." She held it up. "...first off, it's for a woman with more belly than you got now. Already that's good. What's better is that it don't have any ribbing, not whale bone, not steel. Maybe it won't hold you in quite as tight, but that stretch is better for you... and for the baby."
Laura looked at the corset, not sure what to think. "What are those patches on the front up top?"
"These?" Rachel reached down to the rubbery lozenge shape on the front of one cup. "These is for when you nurse the baby." She pushed the lozenge aside to reveal a small hole. "The nipple goes through here, so you doesn't have to take it off."
Laura's eyes went wide. "Nurse... my... my baby." Her face was full of uncertainty.
"Of course, nurse. Ain't your breasts feeling sore by now from getting ready to make milk?"
"I... yes, but I... I guess I hadn't really thought about it." She took a breath to brace herself. "Wh-what's it like... to nurse a baby, I mean?"
Rachel smiled gently. "Such a wonderful feeling, like the love was going right from you into your little one. To tell the truth, it's as good as when someone else is... is at them."
Laura flushed a bright red, and Rachel laughed heartily. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. The love between you and Arsenio is why you're in here like this right now. What you do to share it between you is nobody's business, especially some old yente storekeeper like me."
"O-okay, I guess I'll take the corset. Am I gonna need anything else?"
"Are you gonna... Like mine Aaron says, some women is all long hair and short sense, or are you just gonna walk around town in your drawers and this new corset?" She guided Laura to a rack near the dresses that held what looked like dresses opened at the front. "These..." She pointed. "...are wrappers."
"They look like robes. Can I wear them outside?" The wrappers were bright colors or checks. A few had wide print trim the length of the front edges.
"Most women don't; they wear them at home. Except..." she stretched out the word to at least three syllables in her husband's singsong style of speech. "Ex-ce-ept, when she's pregnant. Then she wears them around town, sometimes with a pretty petticoat to show in front from the waist down."
"I don't know." Laura studied the garments. "They're kind of fancy."
"So not for every day, then. You're still working at them dances Shamus has, ain't you? You could wear them then. Maybe wear them sometimes in the evening, like on nights when Jessie's singing, so she ain't the only one in fancy-shmancy clothes."
"And what do I wear at other times?
"Can you sew, clothes and like that?"
"I can sew some, a button maybe, or patch a pair of jeans. I never did any dressmaking, if that's what you mean."
"You think maybe you could rip out a seam?"
"Like to make a pair of pants longer?" She shrugged. "I guess."
Rachel gently ran a finger along the front of Laura's fitted top. "These thin seams is called 'darts.' They're why that dress you got on shows off your figure so nice the way it does."
"Yeah, and..."
"And? And if you rip them out - real careful so you can sew them back in - your dress gets a whole lot looser... a few inches it'll add at your stomach, more up top by your breasts." She held up a small, pink sheers. "This is what you use to cut the dart. I'll show you how when we're finished."
"What else will I need?"
"Some ribbon for your drawers and your camisoles, and that should do it."
"Why ribbons? What do I do with them?"
"All them pretty unmentionables gets held in place with ribbons. You just make them longer, and you can wear things looser. Then... unless you get too fat from the baby, you can wear what you got now. And if you do get too fat, you just come back here, and larger sizes I'll sell you." She chuckled at her own joke. "Now which of the wrappers is you gonna buy? Two or three, maybe, you should get, and - for you - they're on sale today."
* * * * *
Rosalyn met Wilma on the stairs. "Just what do you think you're doing, Wilma?"
"What do you mean, Rosalyn?"
"I can understand why the Lady hired you. I mean, it's better to have somebody as... eager as you working for her than have her as competition, giving it away for free, but how the hell did you fool her into making you her number one girl?"
"I didn't 'fool' her into nothing. She come to me with the idea - surprised the hell outta me when she did."
"I doubt that very much. You may look like sweetness and light, but I'd say you're the same vicious criminal who rode into town last summer. You did something --"
'I saved you from being scarred,' Wilma thought, but she didn't say it. "I just wanted to fit in..." she giggled, and tried to make a joke "...or, maybe I should say, all them nice men wanted to fit in... into me, that is. You ain't just jealous of me 'cause all them men been picking me instead of you, are ya?"
"Ha! Jealous because a few men prefer a common slut like you."
"More'n a few by my count, but that ain't what put the burr up your drawers, is it now?"
"No, no it isn't. Somehow you managed to have the Lady to name you as her second. If anybody were to have that position, it is by rights mine."
"You may think so, Rosalyn. Hell, I may think so - not that I do - but we don't count. It's what the Lady thinks that counts, and she says I get it."
"But will you keep it? There, Wilma, is the rub, as they say."
"The rub? You know somebody wants t'rub me bring him on."
"No, but I know someone who thinks that you have no right to be the Lady's assistant, and she... I have every intention of proving it."
"I don't think so, Rosalyn, but I reckon it's your right t'try." She offered her hand. "Good luck."
Rosalyn snorted. "As if I'd shake your hand." She walked past Wilma and up the stairs.
* * * * *
Thursday, December 28, 1871
Cap Lewis took another long drag of his cigar. 'Nothing better after a good meal,' he thought, 'except maybe some brandy... and we've got that inside.' He heard a board squeak, and turned to see his uncle coming out onto the porch. "'Evening, Uncle Abner."
"Good evening, Matthew," Abner Slocum said. "Fine supper, wasn't it?"
"It was. Whatever you're paying Tuck, it isn't enough by half."
"Quiet; he may hear you." Slocum pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket and bit off a bit from one end. He ran a match along the porch railing and lit his cigar with it. He took long drag before speaking again.
"Matthew," Slocum began, "how much money do you think that Kelly woman has in the bank?"
Cap grinned. "I don't know how things were back in your day, Uncle Abner, but these days, a gentleman doesn't ask a lady he's courting how much money she has."
"Point taken. Make a guess, then. You go into town often enough to play poker with her - you think she has enough to pay off what she still owes me?"
"I'd be very much surprised if she did. After all, most of her games are a quarter raise limit." He thought for a moment. "Besides, a big chunk of whatever she has would be reserved to pay what Shamus charges her each month for the table."
Slocum pursed his chin. "Hmmm, I wouldn't really want to put her out of business - regardless of what I may think of her just now."
"What you think...? Uncle Abner, I thought that you liked Bridget."
The older man frowned. He had liked her, but now... "I admire the woman's skills as a card player - that's what I invested in. It's her character that I have doubts about."
"Her character? Why, I'll be more than happy to vouch for her."
The older man chuckled. "You, my boy, are thinking with your johnson."
"Maybe so, but I do trust her." He paused a beat. "So did you, otherwise you wouldn't have grubstaked her. Why are you changing your mind now?"
"I'm not saying that I am. I... I just think that I might be happier if there were some faster way for that woman to pay off her remaining debt to me."
"You could always forgive what she still owed. If she does as well this month as she did in the past two - and I don't know why she wouldn't - you'll have gotten back your $250, plus a bit more."
"No, thank you. I see no reason to let her off the hook. Besides, when I make a deal, I expect to get my full return from it. She can pay back the full $500, and then, well, it may be that neither of us need to have any more dealings with her."
Slocum took a drag on his cigar and let out a long trail of smoke as if to emphasize his point. Then, before a surprised Cap could say anything, he walked back into the ranch house.
* * * * *
'Am I ready?' Dolores stopped at the door and made a quick self-inspection. Her hair was combed and brushed till it shown. She was wearing her second-best dress - she would wear the best one for Ramon if her plan worked. This one was pale blue with a wide skirt that fit more than well enough to show off her figure and still let her be a lady. And, yes, she could smell the scent of wild flowers from the cologne she had used.
She was ready. Dolores took a deep breath to calm herself, smiled in anticipation, and walked into Silverman's General Store.
Ramon was sitting behind a counter. He looked up at the sound of the bell over the door. When he saw who it was, his face broke into a broad smile. 'So handsome,' Dolores thought.
He quickly stood up and walked over to her. "Hola, Dolores. What brings you here today?"
"You." She gave him her best pout. "You have not come to see me since the posada on Sunday. I thought that I might need a new dress to get your attention."
Ramon looked embarrassed. "You do not need a new dress for that, although..." ever the salesman, "...we have several here that you would make look even lovelier."
"If I have your attention, then why do I not have your company?"
"What do you mean?"
"At the church, you promised to spend some time with me, but this is the first time we have been together since then."
"Dolores, you are a visitor here; you do not have to work. I... I have a job. How much time could I have had since Sunday?"
"Do you work here until midnight every day?"
"No. Aaron closes about 7 most evenings."
"Bueno, then I will meet you here tomorrow night at 7. You can take me to dinner, and we can talk."
"I... uhh, all right, dinner." Just then, the bell over the door rang again. They both turned and saw several men come in. "Dolores," Ramon stammered. "I... Aaron is at lunch. I... I have customers."
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I will go then. I will see you tomorrow night." Her voice was low and full of promise. "I hear that there is a very good restaurant in one of the saloons. I think that it should be fun."
Ramon stood for a moment watching her walk past the men and out the door. Then he realized what she had asked. "At a saloon... ai, Margarita's!" He sighed. "No, Dolores, I so not think that it will be fun... at least, not for me."
* * * * *
Kaitlin looked up at the clock on her mantle. 'Almost 10,' she thought. 'Emma should be asleep by now. She carefully put her needles down into the yarn basket being careful with the glove she was knitting. Trisha was sitting across from her, lost in the new issue of Farmer's ome Journal.
"Trisha," Kaitlin said softly, "can we talk a bit?"
Trisha laid down her magazine. "What? Oh... what do you want to talk about?"
"You... and what you were doing the other night."
"Are you still mad about that?" She sighed loudly. "I told you, I was drunk. I didn't know what I was doing. It doesn't mean anything."
"I'm not mad - not too mad, anyway, but I do think that we need to talk about it. I waited till tonight to give us both time to calm down."
"But it doesn't mean anything, Kaitlin. I was upset at what Emma had done, and my monthlies were coming. I saw that liquor, and I... I just had a bit too much of it. That's all."
"I seem to recall more than one occasion over the years when Patrick was upset and drank a little too much. I can't remember a single time when he did anything like that."
Trisha frowned. "To tell the truth, there were times when I was Patrick that I got drunk and... and horny. The thing was, you were always there with me. We - you remember the time I got stuck with something like $500 worth of extra feed stock. I thought I was ruined. Then Abner Slocum came in and all but bought me out."
"I remember. You brought home a big bottle of scotch. We drank, and we toasted Abner till that bottle was empty. Then we..." She stopped, her face bright red.
Trisha nodded, smiling at the memory. "We sure did. We --" The memory was a very vivid one. Patrick would have felt himself harden. He probably would have gotten up and taken Kaitlin to their room to re-enact that evening.
Trisha felt the same arousal, but she felt it as a warmth in her breasts and a crinkling of her nipples. She felt a warmth down between her legs, as well. "Damn!" She looked down at her body in disgust.
"Feeling something, are we?" Kaitlin studied Trisha's expression. "Sort of like what you felt the other night?"
"Y-yes." Her voice was an embarrassed whisper.
"Do you want to... take care of it the way you did the other night?"
Trisha shook her head. Giving in to the female impulse was the last thing she wanted to do. "Can you h-help me?"
"That would be sinful, to have relations with another woman."
"It's sinful for a wife to refuse her husband."
"Are you sure that I'm what you want? When I came in that other night, you were calling Patrick's name, not mine. It was like you wanted to be Patrick's wife."
"No, that can't be. I remember, when... when I started, I was pretending that I was Patrick again, and that it was your body I was touching."
"Maybe that's how you started, but it isn't how you ended. Do you think, maybe, you're starting to think like a woman?"
"No... no, it can't be. I can't be thinking that way." The idea that she might be scared her more than she would admit - not even to herself.
"I'll tell you what, Trisha. If you'll think about the idea that you may be changing, I'll think about doing what you just asked me to do. That is, if you still want me to be the one doing it."
"Think about... for how long?"
"Let's say... a week. We'll talk about this again next week. Agreed?" She offered Trisha her hand.
"Umm... agreed." They shook hands, the both of them nervous about what they had just agreed to.
* * * * *
Friday, December 29, 1871
Amy Talbot walked slowly into the Sheriff's Office. Her husband, the sheriff, was at the wall nearest to his desk tacking up some newly arrived wanted posters. "Dan," she said softly.
"Amy," Dan put the posters and hammer down on his desk and walked over to her. "What brings you and Jimmy to town this afternoon?" Jimmy, their year-old son was half sleeping in his mother's arms, his head resting on her shoulder. He lifted it at the sound of his father's voice.
"I was just at the doctor's, and I... wanted to stop by and talk."
"The Doc's! Are you all right? Is Jimmy?" He looked quickly from one to the other. "What did you --"
Amy smiled shyly at her husband's concern. "I'm fine, honestly, and so is he. Would you like to hold him for a bit?"
"Ah..." Talbot glanced quickly at the door. "Can I give him back to you quick if anybody comes in?" Much as he enjoyed holding his son, doing so hardly made him look like the gimlet-eyed shootist he wanted people to see when they looked at him. If folks saw him like that, it made his job much easier.
She nodded and tried not to smile at his discomfort. "Oh, of course." She gently lifted Jimmy and handed the boy to his father.
Jimmy squirmed and made a soft mewling noise. "Shhh!" Dan whispered, rocking the boy gently. He laid Jimmy on his right shoulder - his star was on the left side, over his heart. Jimmy stuck his thumb in his mouth and settled in.
"You do that very well," Amy told him. "You should do it more often."
"I might - at home, of course. Trouble is, working all day and half the night, I don't have much of a chance. By the time I get home, Jimmy's already in his crib for the night."
"I think your chances will be improving."
"Improving? How can they improve?"
Amy could barely meet his eyes. "Because... because you'll have his little brother or sister to hold."
"His little... Amy... are you saying you're... you're..."
"The word is pregnant, Dan," Amy said. "And, yes, yes, I am." She took a breath to brace herself. "You... you don't mind, do you?"
Dan's face broke into a broad grin. "Mind?" he said with a loud and rowdy laugh. "Do I look like I mind?" He kept one arm around Jimmy, but he used the other to pull her in close. "I... Thank you, Amelia Reid Talbot. Thank you for being my wife. I love you very, very much."
"And I love you, Dan." They stared at each other just long enough to close in for a kiss.
* * * * *
Jane bustled into the kitchen. "Maggie, Maggie, Ramon's here."
"Is he?" Maggie put down the spoon she was using to stir a pan of gravy. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked to the door Jane had just come through. It didn't open.
Lupe and Ernesto were sitting at the end of the work table eating. They both looked up. "Can we go see Uncle Ramon?" Lupe asked.
"Not till you have finished your supper," Maggie answered.
She had a lot of work to do on the meals, but maybe she could take a moment or two - just to greet a family friend. "Is he coming in, or did he want me to come out?" she asked Jane.
"I don't know if he wanted any of them things," Jane told her. "He and that lady sat at one of the tables. He ordered supper for the two of them: steak with mashed taters and peas for him and chicken pie for her."
Maggie stared at Jane for a moment, not believing what she'd heard. She turned and walked slowly towards the door Jane had just come through. She opened it just a crack and looked out.
The four tables that made up "Maggie's Place" were arranged so they could be seen from the kitchen. That way, she could check and see how people were enjoying their meals. Ramon was sitting at the second table with a slender young woman in a long, very flattering, green dress. Her hair was long, disappearing behind her.
There was a flower, a courting flower, in her hair.
Maggie gasped and let the door close.
* * * * *
"Arnie, go get them empties from the poker table." Shamus pointed to the table where Bridget was running her game.
Arnie hurried over with the half-filled tray of dirty dishes. "Thank you," Bridget said, as he circled around, clearing the table.
"My pleasure, Bridget," he answered. He glanced down at her cards and smiled. He wouldn't say anything, even to her, but her three queens beat anything else at the table. 'She probably knows,' he thought.
He stopped at two other tables on the way back to the bar. His tray was almost full. Shamus added a few more glasses, then looked sharply at him. "Well, what are ye waiting for? Get that glassware back t'the kitchen and bring out a tray of clean ones. And be quick about it. I ain't paying ye t'be lollygagging around, and thuir's still the time from Tuesday ye need t'be making up for."
"Yes, Shamus," Arnie mumbled, muttering to himself, as he picked up the tray. He hardly wanted to be reminded of having spent Tuesday night in jail. 'Damn Pedro and damn Shamus, too.' He wasn't sure who he was madder at just then.
Jane was at the sink, working on the pots from the restaurant when he came in. "Put them over there." She pointed to the worktable by tilting her head in that direction. "I'll get to 'em soon as I can." Then she added, "and don't go making no mess."
'Even the women tell me what I am doing wrong,' he thought. He looked around the kitchen as he set the tray down. Jane at the sink had her back to him, as she scrubbed one of the frying pans. Maggie was busy getting her two little ones packed up to go home.
He looked down into the tray. Yes, a couple of the glasses were almost full. "I need something to get through this night," he whispered to himself. He grabbed one of the glasses and downed the contents in one quick gulp. It tasted pretty good, and he could feel its warmth in his belly.
No one had noticed, but he wasn't going to chance a second drink. Besides, Shamus was waiting to yell at him again, and the longer he took, the worse it would be. 'At least, I finally managed to get a drink in here,' he thought. He picked up a tray of clean glasses and walked towards the door back out to the bar.
* * * * *
"Mama, why wouldn't you take us out to see Uncle Ramon?" Lupe asked the question for the third time as they neared their house.
Worn down, Maggie finally answered. "Because I was busy. I had people to cook dinner for."
"I could have taken her out," Ernesto suggested. "I wanted to see Uncle Ramon, too."
"He did not want to be bothered," Maggie muttered. "He was with someone."
"Who? Who?" Lupe was even more curious now.
"I do not know her. I do not want to know her," Maggie snapped at her daughter. "Talk about something else or just be quiet."
Lupe looked as if she had been struck. "Mama... What is wrong?" Ernesto looked just as hurt.
Maggie looked down at her children. 'Madre de Dios,' she thought, 'I-I was ready to h-hit Lupe.' Aloud, she whispered, "Lupe... Ernesto, I-I am so sorry."
She knelt down and took Lupe in her arms. Then she opened them wide and motioned for her son to come over. For once, the boy didn't feel too grown up and he let her hug him as well. When he looked at her, he saw tears running down her face.
"Ramon,' Maggie thought, as she pulled her children close, 'Why did you do this to me?'
* * * * *
Saturday, December 30, 1871
"Damn," Laura muttered, as she watched her chemise slide down onto her body.
Arsenio looked at her from where he was standing, buttoning his shirt. "What's the matter?"
"The baby." She ran her hand over the slight bulge of her stomach. "Pretty soon, I'm going to be too big for these nice clothes. It's hard enough learning how to be a woman, dammit. Now I got to learn how to be a fat woman."
"I always said you were too big for your britches." He walked up behind her and kissed her cheek. "That was one of the things I first loved about you."
"I'm serious, Arsenio. I'm going to be huge. I remember how Mama got with my youngest two sisters. My clothes... my corset. My breasts are getting ready to make milk. They're going to be heavier, and I'll need that special fat corset Rachel had me buy to support them. And I'll still be waddling around with breasts big as melons and twice as heavy."
"Well... as your husband, supporting your breasts is something that I'm always happy to help with." He reached around and cupped her breasts in his hands. As he did, his thumbs moved to gently stroke her nipples.
"Ah... aaah... Arsenio, y-you st-sto-ooh-stop that." Her eyes were wide with surprise at how sensitive her breasts were. Her whole body felt the warmth of sudden, strong arousal. She moaned and pressed her body against his.
Arsenio felt her nipples tighten between his fingers. He felt himself grow hard, too, as she rubbed her ass against his crotch. "What's --"
Laura spun around and stopped his question with a kiss. Her arms were around his neck, pulling his head to hers, as if in desperation. He could feel her tongue darting into his mouth to play with his and he began to kiss her back. Their hands began to roam hungrily across each other's bodies.
Eventually, Arsenio broke the kiss. "What's got into you, Laura?"
"Nothing yet, damn it." She began pulling at the strings on his drawers. "It's just... I... I need you. I can't explain it any better than that."
Arsenio looked at her closely. 'She hasn't been like this since our honeymoon.' Whatever it was, he quickly decided that it would be easier to take her and then to figure out what was going on. "If you need me, I'm right here. A man'd be a damn fool to refuse what you're offering, and my mama and papa didn't raise no fools."
"Just shut up and do it."
"Anything you say, ma'am." He let her work on his drawers while he lifted her chemise. She stopped for a moment as he slid it off, then got back to work.
Laura's nipples stuck out like two small chisel points. Arsenio leaned down and sucked one. It was hard as a chisel point, too, but he could feel Laura shiver as he sucked.
Arsenio felt cool air on his legs. 'She must've finally got that knot out,' he thought. Still not bothering to look, he reached down for her drawers and touched bare flesh. 'She got hers off quick enough.' He thought. "All right then," he said, straightening up.
She fell back onto the bed, her legs spread. "Do it... please."
He climbed onto the bed and on top of her. "You are so beautiful." He kissed her forehead, her nose, and on to her mouth.
One of her arms circled up around his neck. She reached down with the other and took hold of his manhood. She guided him into her. She was wet, ready for him. He slid in easily.
Arsenio pushed in with his hips. She broke the kiss and moaned, arching her head backwards. Arsenio pulled back, and she lifted her hips to keep him in her. He pushed down, starting a rhythm. She matched him. They almost seemed to be a single being.
He could hear her calling his name, urging him on between her moans of pleasure. As it was, he could barely answer. He felt the pressure building in him until finally, with a loud grunt, he spurted into her.
Laura screamed and began to claw at his back. She kept moving, trying to get every bit of energy out of him.
He felt himself grow soft. He slipped out of her and fell back onto the bed. She was still thrashing. He slid an arm under her and pulled her closer. "You were wonderful," he said, stroking her arms, her stomach.
She grew still. She was breathing more evenly now. Her body was drenched with sweat. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered.
"My pleasure."
Laura giggled. "Not all of it. Not by a long shot." She felt more in control, more herself now.
"My share was more than enough," he answered, relieved that she seemed to be all right.
"You... you think this had anything to do with that damned potion?" She spat out the last two words. "I... Just now I acted the way W-Wilma did when... when she got her s-second dose."
"I don't know. Maybe we should talk to the doc before we talk to Shamus."
"M-maybe." Now she did sound scared.
He stroked her cheek. "We can worry about it later. For now, I'm just going to chalk it up to time well spent with the woman I love." He kissed her again.
"With the woman who loves you." She kissed him back and gave a small sigh of relief before her body relaxed and she fell asleep.
Arsenio decided to let her have the nap. 'She'll be working hard enough at the dance tonight,' he thought. Besides, he liked just laying there next to her.
* * * * *
'Arnoldo was right,' Dolores thought almost as soon as she walked into the Eerie Saloon. 'This is a muy lively place.'
The Happy Days Town Band had finished not long after she had come in. Now, as she watched, many of the dancers were milling around the bar getting drinks.
A small group of women walked over and took seats along one wall. The woman she had seen with Ramon at the church was one of them. Dolores frowned. She was pretty, too, just as Dolores had thought when she had first laid eyes on her, and Ramon was standing there with her. Those two others were they - she looked closely - sá, they were twins, also very pretty.
"'Scuse me, ma'am," a voice broke her train of thought. A tall, heavyset man with reddish hair had stepped into her line of sight.
"Si, seá±or?" She wasn't certain what to say.
The man held up a small stub of paper. "Here's m'ticket." He pressed the paper into her hand. "Let's you and me dance."
"Ticket?" She looked down at the paper in her hand. "I do not..."
The man shook his head. "You must be new. Trust my luck to pick a new gal. Hell, Shamus must've es-plained it to ya. I gives you m'ticket, and you 'n' me dance."
"Oh, si." Dolores nodded, finally understanding. She had heard of such places, such women who danced for money. This man thought that she was such a woman. 'Why not?' she thought. 'This man is reasonably polite and not that unhandsome. It might be... interesting.'
She put the ticket in a pocket in her dress and stepped next to the man. They waited together for the band to start playing again.
* * * * *
"Bridget," Cap asked as they moved across Shamus' dance floor, "did something happen recently between you and my uncle?"
Bridget shook her head. "No... Come to think of it, we haven't really talked in a while. Usually, when he comes in for a drink, he walks over to say 'hello'. Sometimes he stays a while and watches. I've invited him to sit in, but I guess the stakes are too low."
"I think it's more a case that one of the other players might be one of his hands. He wouldn't want a man to feel uncomfortable because he's playing against his boss."
"I think you may be right about that, but he could've still come over to watch."
"You've seen him, then?"
"About a week ago. I happened to look over towards the bar. He was talking to R.J. about something. I waved, but I-I guess he didn't see me, or he was short on time, or something." Her expression darkened. "Did he say something about me? Is that why you're asking?"
"He did, but I'm not sure just what he meant."
"Could you try and find out? I like your uncle, and I'm surely beholding to him for grubstaking me like he did."
"I'll try. I'm kind of curious about it myself. I warn you, though, Uncle Abner can be very good at keeping secrets when he wants to be."
"Please do try. I don't want to be on the outs with him."
Cap gave her a smile that was just sort of a leer. "And tell me, little girl, just what will you give me if I do find out what's bothering him?"
"That will be my secret," she leered right back at him, "but I do believe that you'll like it."
* * * * *
Shamus made his way over to Dolores and her partner, Milo Nash, just as the music was ending. "Might I be talking to ye for a wee bit, Lass?"
"Sá, seá±or... Shamus?" She tried not make it sound too much like a question.
Milo slapped Shamus on the back. "Great new waiter girl, ya got there, Shamus, a grand addition to your staff."
"Thank ye, Milo," Shamus replied. "But if ye'd be excusing us..."
The other man nodded. "I'll just go get me a beer." He pointed at Dolores. "And I'll be looking for another dance with you later." He smiled and started towards the bar.
"We're busy, so I'll have t'be quick. Like Milo said, I'm Shamus... Shamus O'Toole, the owner of this establishment, and ye are...?"
"Dolores Ybaá±ez, I am cousin to Arnoldo Diaz and visiting here for a while. He told me about the Saturday dances where he works, and I thought that it would be amusing to attend one."
"Ye did more than 'attend', Dolores. I saw ye take Milo's ticket."
"I did not wish to embarrass him." She smiled and took the ticket from her pocket. "Besides, I like to dance."
She started to hand Shamus the ticket, but he drew his hand back. "How long will ye be staying on this here visit?"
"A few weeks." She gave a shrug. "Perhaps longer."
Shamus glanced quickly towards the long line at the bar. "I'll be making this quick, if y don't mind. Ye can keep that ticket and any more the men give ye for dancing or that they use t'be buying ye a drink. If ye do, I'll trade 'em for half of what they cost - fifty cents - and ye'll be me new waiter girl every Saturday for the rest of yuir visit. Oh, and tomorrow, too. It being New Year's Eve. I'll be having another dance then."
"And all I would be doing is to dance with the men... and let them buy me drinks between the dances?"
"Aye. The drinks'll be near beer, though. It looks and smells real enough, but ye could drown in the stuff before it got ye drunk." He looked over at the bar again. Molly caught his eye and motioned for him to hurry over.
"Look, I've got t'be going over t'tend bar. Are ye interested?"
"Can I think about it, maybe overnight?"
Shamus rolled his eyes. "All right, all right. Me offer's good till 3 PM tomorrow - both offers. I'll pay ye for tonight's tickets whether ye take the job or not. Is that enough time?"
"Sá, and thank you, seá±or." She smiled and watched the man all but run towards the bar through the crowd of thirsty men. 'It might be fun to work here,' she thought to herself. 'It must be an honorable place; cousin Teresa has no problem with Arnoldo working here.'
She decided to go sit by those twins. Already a number of men were lined up to dance with them or one of the other women. Perhaps she could even talk to her... her rival for Ramon. Finding out about the woman would be a bonus for taking the job.
"Dolores." Ramon suddenly stepped in front of her. "What are you doing here?" He wasn't smiling.
She smiled anyway. "Dancing. Arnoldo, my cousin, told me of the place. I like it. The owner - Shamus - he just offered me a job here."
"He did what? I... Are you going to take it?"
"I may. It would be a chance to see you, to dance with you, and to meet other people."
Ramon thought he knew what other people - what other person - she meant. "I don't think you would like it. Why don't you let me take you home?"
"I will if you will dance with me first. One dance, and I will - what do the gringos say - I will go quietly."
"Very well then." He took her hand and tried to lead her off, closer to the dance floor and farther from Maggie."
She stood firm. "First the ticket, Ramon."
"What?"
"Shamus said that he would pay me for the tickets I get tonight, even if I do not accept his job offer." She held out her hand. "So... if you want to dance, please give me a ticket."
"If I want to..." Ramon muttered under his breath. He tore a ticket loose from the ones in his shirt pocket and handed it to her.
She stuffed it in her skirt pocket. "Thank you. I suppose that if I take the job, Shamus will give me an apron... just like all the other women. Won't that be nice, Ramon?"
"Lovely." The band struck up a mazurka, and he led her onto the floor.
* * * * *
There was a knock on Lady Cerese's office door. "My Lady, may I come in?" a familiar voice called from outside.
"Certainement, Wilma," Cerese answered, putting down the book she'd been reading.
Wilma walked in. She pointed to a chair and, when Cerese nodded, sat dowm. She wore a pale lilac robe over a dark red corset and silky white drawers. Her stockings matched her corset. "Mae said you wanted to see me. I come as soon as Jamie McGraw 'n me was done."
"Oui, I did wish to see you. Perhaps I am just being cautious, but I wished to know how the preparations for tomorrow's party are progressing."
Wilma grinned. "Checking up on me, are you?"
"This is the first assignment I have given you as my assistant. One cannot help but worry in such a situation."
"Don't rightly blame you, I guess. This is my first time doing it." She chuckled. "Now there's a line I don't say too often."
Cerise chuckled deep in her throat. "Non, I suppose that you don't, but inexperience, as they say, is a condition that is easily cured."
"And there's so much fun in the learning - but to get back t'what you was asking, I think things is moving right along."
"Details, Wilma." Cerese clapped her hands together twice. "Details, s'il vous plait."
"Daisy's washed all our best clothes - even Jonas', so we'll all look real good." She ticked each item off on her fingers as she said it. "They been cleaning the place extra good the last two days, and they'll finish it all up tomorrow morning. Jonas is gonna tend bar; he'll set that up in the afternoon. The Euler boys promised t'drop off two extra barrels of their best by noon."
"Excellent, but won't we have problems with any afternoon callers getting underfoot, while all this is going on tomorrow?"
"Underfoot ain't where I want my men. They's never more 'n a couple or three men here in the afternoon, so I figured we could close. Beatriz, Mae, Rosalyn, and me is going over to Carmen Whitney's bathhouse. I reserved it for 1 PM. If you wants, you and Daisy can join us."
Cerese nodded. "Tres bon, very good. Is there anything more?"
"When Daisy done our clothes, she did the linen, too. We're gonna set up a table with a fine cloth and real plates and glasses and cloth napkins for a - watcha-call-it - a buffet. We'll have chicken and roast beef, bread and rolls, sliced fruit, and some of your fine wine. It'll be like the 'Free Lunch' at Shamus', but with class."
"Incroyable!" Cerese sat back in her chair. "You have done all that in just the two days, since I gave you the charge to handle the New Year's Party?"
Wilma almost looked embarrassed. "It wasn't that much, really, especially with Daisy and Jonas helping."
"Have any of the others - has Rosalyn - offered to help you?"
"Not really. I don't want to push; they'll come around in time. 'Course, if anybody offers - even just a little - I surely won't say no."
* * * * *
"So, you came back." Maggie's words to Ramon were measured, as if she was trying to control herself.
Ramon shrugged. "I am here, no?"
"Sá, you are here. I thought that would not be coming back."
"Margarita, all I did was to walk a friend home."
"You use that word, 'friend', too easily, I think."
"Some people have told me that all they want to be is my 'friend', even if I might --"
"I have heard this speech before." She looked down at the ticket in his hand. "I suppose that you want to dance with me."
"That, Margarita, is why I came back."
"Another very pretty speech." She took his ticket and put it in her apron pocket. "I will dance with you, but you will forgive me if I do not feel like very much talking."
* * * * *
"Paul, why do you keep looking at that clock?" Jessie asked as they waltzed across the dance floor.
"I'm sorry, Jessie. I go on duty at 11, and I promised Dan that I wouldn't be late. He's a lot more anxious to get home now that Amy is expecting again."
Jessie pouted. "It ain't fair that we get t'spend less time together 'cause him and Amy is gonna have another kid."
"I agree. To tell the truth, Dan agrees."
"Oh, yeah, and what's he gonna do about it?"
"There's a meeting of the town council coming up in early January. He's going to ask for permission to hire a second deputy."
"You think they'll let him. His wife being pregnant don't seem like the best reason for hiring somebody."
"It isn't, but he'd been thinking about it for a while. In a lot of towns this size, the sheriff has four or five deputies. Eerie isn't Tombstone or Dodge, but there's enough going on to justify one more person."
"So Amy being pregnant is just icing on the cake?"
"Not entirely. Dan wanted to think about it some more. Amy just sped things up. She'll probably help, too. Arsenio will probably vote for it because of Laura, and Aaron Silverman's kind of softhearted about kids. Whit hates to spend the town's money, but with two small kids of his own, he knows how distracting a pregnancy can be."
Jessie nodded, agreeing with the logic. "Dan got any idea who he wants t'hire?"
"Tor Johansson."
"He's a miner, ain't he, him and his brothers?"
"He was a miner. He's given up on it and he's looking for other work. He's big, and he knows how to use his fists and a pistol."
"Sounds perfect... 'cept for one thing. Where's he gonna sleep?"
Paul chuckled. "Not with me; that space is reserved, I'm happy to say. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. When Tor came down from his brother's mine, he took over a shack at the edge of town, the one that Zack Barrows left behind when he moved on last month."
"Well, I'm surely glad that there'll still be room for me in that bed of yours." She stepped in and rubbed up against him.
"There will be - always, and if the bed gets smaller, we'll just snuggle in even closer."
"Sounds good t'me." She said it in a voice that was full of promise. "You gonna be on duty tomorrow night?"
"I am, but I'm hoping to get the early shift, so I can be here at midnight."
Jessie looked up at him, a mischievous smile on her lips. "You better be, Mr. Deputy Sheriff Paul Grant. 'Cause if you ain't, I'm gonna find me somebody else t'give my real special New Year's kiss to."
* * * * *
Sunday, December 31, 1871
Dolores walked into the Saloon just before noon.
"Greetings, lass," Shamus said, coming out from behind the bar to greet her. "Have ye decided about the job?"
Dolores nodded. "Sá, I think that it would be fun."
"Well, then, we'll just have t'be making sure that it is."
"I have always found that being paid was fun."
Shamus cocked an eyebrow. "It is. What do ye say t'... $1.50 a night, half of the money from the tickets ye collect or that men use t'be buying ye drinks, and any tips the men give ye?"
"I say that it seems muy generous, and I say thank you... jefe... boss."
"Shamus'll do nicely, Dolores... Ye're name is Dolores, right?"
"Sá, Dolores Ybaá±ez."
"Good, and now that we both know who we are, let me be introducing ye t'the people ye'll be working with here." He gallantly took her arm and led her to the bar. "This big galloot is R.J. Rossi, me assistant barman, and a better one ye'll never find. R.J., this is Dolores Yba ±ez, come to work her for a while at the dances."
R.J. looked up from the bottles he was stacking under the bar. "Hi, Dolores. Welcome to the Eerie Saloon."
"Thank you, R.J., I am very happy to meet you." Her eyes roamed over his tall, muscular form. 'This job has all manner of possibilities,' she thought.
Shamus pointed to a group of people over at a table, a woman dealing cards to four men. "That's Bridget over there. It looks like she's just starting a hand of poker, and I'll not be bothering her." He looked around. There weren't many others in the bar. "So, let's just be going to the kitchen."
He led her through the door into the kitchen. "Free Lunch" wasn't out yet, so Molly was having herself a quick bite, while Jane and Maggie hurried to fill the trays with food to put out.
"That pretty lass dining over there is me own lovely wife, Molly." Molly turned and looked up at the sound of her name. "Molly, this is Dolores, the lass I was telling ye about."
Molly swallowed quickly. "Welcome, Dolores. Ye have any questions or any problems, ye be sure t'be bringing 'em to me, okay?"
"I-I will, thank you. Molly."
"Ye might as well bring'em to her," Shamus said with a chuckle. "Me Molly'll know about the problem before anybody else, anyway, and she'll be after me t'fix it, soon enough."
Maggie hadn't seem the pair come into her kitchen. She looked up when she heard voices. Shamus was standing there with... her. Maggie stood, her mouth open wide, blinking to fight back the tears she felt coming.
"And that tall lass standing there like she's froze to the spot is Margarita - Maggie, t'all of us. She fixes up the 'Free Lunch' for me customers and runs the restaurant we have here every evening. Maggie, this is me new waiter girl, Dolores."
"Hola." Dolores watched Maggie's reaction. 'Like the bull in the ring who doesn't even where the picador is waiting,' Dolores thought. 'Interesting.'
Maggie blinked again. "H-hola." She looked from Shamus to Dolores, then back to Shamus.
"By the way, Maggie," Shamus added as the thought struck him, "the other day, ye was asking if I'd let ye sneak out for a bit around 11;45, so ye could ring in the New Year's with yuir children. I told ye 'no', when ye asked, but, with Dolores, I'll let ye leave for the night at 11:30 or thereabouts. How's that?"
"Th-thank you, Shamus." Maggie tried hard to smile. She couldn't.
Jane stepped forwards before anything else could be said. "Since nobody seems t'be interested in introducing me, I'll do it m'self. I'm Jane, Maggie's helper."
"And I am Dolores. You are one of the twins who work here, no?"
"Twins... oh, you mean my sister, Laura, and me. We's more than twins. I'm the spit 'n' image of her thanks to --"
"A most benevolent Lord," Molly quickly interrupted.
Shamus rolled his eyes. 'Or one with a frightful sense of humor." He paused a beat and gave Jane a nasty look that Dolores couldn't see. "Now that ye've met the folks in the kitchen, let's us go see if Bridget's won enough of those gents' money t'be willing to stop playing poker and talk to us.
He took her arm again and led her from the kitchen as quickly as he could without seeming to be rushing her.
* * * * *
Molly waited almost a full minute after Shamus left the room with Dolores - just to make sure the woman was out of earshot.
"Are ye daft, Jane?" she exploded. "T'be talking that way to a woman ye just met?"
Jane looked confused. "What's the matter with how I talk?"
"What's the matter?" Molly looked skyward as if for help. "Good Lord, ye was about t'be telling Dolores about me Shamus' potion. Don't ye know how dangerous that could be?"
"D-dangerous? Now how can it be dangerous? Everybody hereabouts knows --"
"Everybody don't know. She don't know about it. And we don't know her or what she'd do if she did find out."
"But what could she do that'd be so bad?"
"What could she do? She could tell people, outsiders, all sorts of outsiders. Before ye could be saying 'Jack Robinson' she could have this here town fulla gawkers in t'look at the freaks like ye and Laura, and me other girls. Worse yet, it'd be full of schemers out t'be getting some of the potion to use for thuir own nasty purposes, people with morals that'd make Ozzie Pratt look like a church altar boy."
Jane turned white. "No!"
"Aye, and worse." Molly was determined to scare Jane into obedience. "The Governor or the Army might decide that they should be the ones in control of the potion, and not me own Shamus."
"But he'd never give it to them - would he?"
Molly shook her head. "It might not be his choice. Thuir's ways of convincing a man t'do what ye want him t'do. Thuir nasty, but that might not stop the Army, say, from doing 'em."
"No, no, they can't hurt Shamus like that." Her eyes glistened with tears.
"They might, they just might, if somebody was t'be telling them about the potion.
"I won't; I won't. I swear I won't." She sank down into a chair.
Maggie had been watching silently from near the worktable. "That is enough, Molly. She will not talk."
"No, no, I won't," Jane said softly.
Maggie helped her to her feet. "I know you will not. The trays are ready. Why do you not take it out and set up the 'Free Lunch' for me?"
Jane nodded and hurried out with the trays of food that she and Maggie had been working on when Shamus and Dolores had come into the kitchen.
"It is not bad enough what you and Shamus do to me. No, you have to scare poor Jane half out of the few wits she has." Her brows furrowed in anger.
"What we done to you?" Molly saw Maggie's angry expression. "Maggie, let's tell Jane that she's in charge of the kitchen for a wee bit and go up to my room."
"And why should I do that?"
"Because ye're more in need of a talking to than Jane was just now. It may take a while t'be straightening things out, and I'm think that some of what needs t'be said may not be things anybody else needs t'be hearing."
* * * * *
"You're bluffing, Sam," Bridget said confidently. "I'll see your quarter and raise another."
"'Fraid not." Sam Braddock smiled and put a last quarter in the pot. "One... two... three...nines... and a pair of fives." He laid the cards on the table as he named them. "Can you beat that full house of mine?"
Bridget shook her head. "Nope, I've got two and two, queens and sixes. I didn't think you got that third nine."
"It came to me in a dream." He laughed and raked in the pot.
Bridget noticed Cap walking slowly towards the table. He smiled when their eyes met. "If you gentlemen don't mind," she said, "I've some business to conduct with Cap Lewis, who's come in just now, and he may be joining the game afterwards."
She looked sternly at Sam. "Whether he does or not, we'll just see how long that dream of yours lasts." Then she grinned, eager to see if his win had been luck or skill.
"Some dreams last forever," Sam answered with a grin of his own.
"Spoken like half a millionaire," she replied.
Sam looked puzzled. "Half a millionaire?"
"Yes," she said with a laugh. "You don't have the million, but you surely have the air."
Bridget stood, prompting the men to do the same. "We'll just stay here and get in some much needed practice till you get back," Joe Osbourn told her.
Cap had take a seat a couple tables away. He stood as Bridget walked over, carrying her cashbox. He sat back down when she did.
"Good afternoon, Cap."
"Same to you, Bridget. You look very nice today. Is that a new dress?"
Bridget smiled; her sky blue dress was new. "I have to wear something formal every day for the game. I thought it was time for a new outfit." Somehow, she was pleased that he noticed, more pleased that he seemed to like what he saw.
"You must be doing well, then. Uncle Abner'll be happy to hear that. Me, I'm just enjoying the chance to spend a little time with you, especially when you look so pretty. In that dress, with your hair like that, you're like sunrise on a clear spring morning."
Bridget felt her cheeks warm. "Th-thank you, Cap." To get her mind back to where it was supposed to be, she opened the cashbox and took out her ledger. "I had a pretty good month, took in just over $400. Would you like to check the numbers?" She slid the ledger across the table.
Cap reached out, but he took her hand, not the book. "I trust you, Bridget, maybe sometimes more than you trust yourself."
"L-let me get your... your uncle's check, then." Her face was nearly crimson, and her body - oh, Lordy, how she could feel herself tremble, feel the warmth spread down to her nipples. And further down in her privates. She took longer than she needed to in finding the envelop with Slocum's check. That meant she didn't have to look him in the eye for the time she need to regain control.
She couldn't take forever, though. "Here's your uncle's check. My total for the month was $404.12, so his share is $101.03." She handed him the envelop.
"Not bad, not bad at all. That makes about $320 you've given him. You should be home free in a couple more months." He put the envelop in the inside pocket of his jacket. "Now, as I was saying --" He smiled gently at her.
She didn't want him to start. "Is your uncle still mad at me?"
"I'm afraid so. I got the oddest answer when I tried to pin him down on it."
Bridget sensed trouble, but she suspected that she couldn't avoid it. "What did he say?"
"He said it wasn't anything Bridget Kelly did. He liked her well enough. He said it was something the old you, Brian Kelly, did... back in Texas during the War."
Bridget felt like she'd been dipped in ice water. "D-during the War. Cap, did you... you didn't tell your uncle what I said about... about being in... the Army, did you?"
"Come to think of it, I did. It stuck me as a funny story, a lady as pretty as you knowing enough about Army life to compare me to an Army paymaster."
"Did you tell anyone else?" Her face had gone from crimson to ash.
Cap shook his head. "Just Uncle Abner."
"That," Bridget said, with a deep sigh, seems to have been more than enough."
* * * * *
"All right, then," Molly said, as she and Maggie walked into the two room "apartment" she and Shamus had on the floor above the Saloon. "Sit yuirself down, Maggie, and we'll talk."
While Maggie clumped over to the sofa and begrudgingly sat down, Molly settled herself into her favorite wing chair.
"I do not see what we have to talk about," Maggie grumbled.
"Ye don't, eh? For starters, ye can be telling me why ye think Shamus and I betrayed ye."
"Why should I?"
"Because I'll keep asking till ye do, and Maggie, ye're up against a woman that can out-stubborn a cat if she has to."
Maggie only crossed her arms and looked sullenly at Mollie.
"I'm warning ye," Molly said, ignoring the way Maggie was looking at her. "Me brother, Timothy, used t'call me 'Muley' when we was little."
Maggie had to smile at that. "That is not fair, to make me laugh."
"Ye already said that I'm treating ye unfairly. What I'm waiting t'hear is why ye think I am."
"You... you hired her - Dolores - to be one of the waiter girls."
"And how is that a betrayal, I'd like t'know? We ain't firing you, not none of ye, to be making room for her, are we? No, we ain't. Thuir's more'n enough men want t'be buying them tickets, so they can dance with the lot of ye. Ye'll lose no money because she's here."
"I know that, but --"
"In fact, didn't me Shamus say that ye could be leaving early tonight, so's ye could be with them darlings of yuirs at midnight?" Maggie nodded, her eyes glistening. "So then how, in the name of all the blessed Saints, is that a betrayal?"
"Because it is her. She will be here every night that there is dancing. And... and Ramon can c-come, and he... he can... dance w-with her... and... and not... not with... me." Maggie put her face down in her hands and began to sob."
Molly hurried to her, pulling out a handkerchief from her apron. "Here, here, now. It can't really be that bad?"
"Sá, it can. He - he walked with h-her at the posada. He br-brought her to dinner at... at the restaurant - at my restaurant! Now... now he d-dances with her."
"He danced with you, too, and more than once, as I recall."
"But still he dances with her - and now he can do it again and again because you... you and Shamus, you hired her, so he can dance with her."
"Now, hold on a minute, Maggie. We hired her so anybody that wanted could be dancing with her. That's why we hired ye and Laura, and the others, so any man that could put together the price of a ticket could be dancing with ye."
"But --"
"Let me finish, if ye please. Ramon's a free man, ain't he? Ye've no claim on him, have ye?"
"No... but I... he..." Maggie didn't know how to answer.
"In point of fact, Maggie, ye've been pushing him away, haven't ye; saying how ye only want t'be friends with him?"
"But my business, and the house, and Lupe and Ernesto. How can I take care of all of them and still let myself be courted as he wishes?"
"That m'girl is what ye've got t'be figuring out for yuirself. Ramon wants ye as much as ye want him. That's as plain as the nose on yuir face."
Maggie wiped her eyes and tried to smile. Ramon wanted her.
"And he's been a patient man," Molly continued. "Maybe more patient that ye deserve, I'm thinking."
"He does not seem so patient now."
"No, no he doesn't. Now, he's got himself another choice. He still wants ye - that's still pretty clear t'me - but now, thuir's Dolores t'be thinking about. And Dolores is thinking about him, too, from what ye said."
"So... so what am I to do?"
"Ye've got some thinking of yuir own t'be doing." She counted off on her fingers. "One, ye let things go on as they are. Ye take care of yuir own business and hope that Ramon'll still be willing t'settle for being yuir friend."
"Two, ye give him up. Ye smile and push him over t'Dolores."
"No! No, I do not want to do that." Maggie stared at her, appalled at the suggestion.
"Then, three... ye fight for him. Ye're as pretty as Dolores - maybe more so. Let loose of yuir business a wee bit and be a woman for him. Be approachable, let him know that ye want him. For a starter, put that - what did ye call it - that 'courting flower' back in yuir hair."
"I-I do not know. I want so much to make a good life for Ernesto and Lupe, to be a good mother for them."
"But ye want Ramon, too, don't ye." Molly watched her nod sadly. "Then ye'd better be deciding which is more - no, forget that - they're both important to ye. What ye need to decide is how to balance the two."
"Balance... like a tightrope across one of the canyons back home?"
"Aye, and ye'll have t'be watching yuir every step. But ye know what?" Maggie shook her head ruefully, and Molly continued. "T'my way of thinking, ye've every chance in the world of making it across to the other side, where happiness is waiting for ye."
Maggie's eyes glistened again. The two women embraced, tears running down both their faces, but they were both smiling.
* * * * *
Wilma walked quickly from her room to the top of the stairs. She looked carefully down into the parlor. No men were waiting; La Parisienne wasn't due to open for another half hour. She wrapped her lilac robe about herself and hurried down, instead of using the seductive glide she used when men were there to watch her.
Cerise had put her in charge of the buffet and drinks for the New Year's Eve Party that La Parisienne as throwing, and she wanted it to be spectacular. She'd had two large tables set up next to each other in the parlor by the door to the kitchen and covered them with the House's best linen tablecloth.
Stacks of plates, silver, and napkins were at one end. Next to them, sat a flat tray with a display of fruits, apples, oranges, and peaches, whole and sliced, and a large cluster of grapes. A large fan of smoked oysters stayed cool in a pan filled with ice. Next to it, two chafing dishes kept a mass of sliced roast beef and a tray filled with pieces of roast chicken warm. A tray covered with rolls, bread, and tins of mustard and horseradish was placed next to the two dishes. A tray of small cakes waited near the end of the table. At the end of it all was a large pan where a dozen bottles of wine were chilling in ice.
Jonas, wearing his suit and tie, was setting up the portable bar a few feet away. He had bottles of scotch, rye, bourbon, and the necessary ingredients for various mixed drinks at the ready.
Wilma walked over to admire the buffet. She saw the problem almost immediately, and quickly rang the bell at the back of the table. "Daisy," she said when the other woman came in from the kitchen, "these ain't the wines I asked for."
"But they's all on your list, Wilma." She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her apron pocket and handed it to Wilma.
Wilma opened the paper and glanced at the list. "Hell, this ain't my list; it ain't even my handwriting. The Lady said to put out the good wines. This stuff here on the table is some of the cheapest stuff we got."
"I thought it was funny, you changing your mind like that, but Miz Rosalyn, she says --"
Wilma frowned. "I'll just bet that she had a lot t'say, and none of it was to my good." She looked over at the clock. "And there ain't time t'switch the stuff."
"I'se sorry, Wilma. I truly is."
"It ain't your fault, Daisy. I just gotta figure - wait a minute. Daisy, go fetch the biggest punch bowl we got and a ladle and a mixing spoon, a big one. Jonas, you move the wine to make room for it."
"Here's the punch bowl," Daisy said, returning quickly.
Wilma nodded appreciatively. "That looks like it'll hold three or four gallons, easy. Set it down there, Daisy and dump about a quarter of that ice into it. Jonas, you got any kind of fruit at the bar?"
"Yes'm," he answered. "Lemons and limes, oh, and some cherries for the drinks."
"Great," Wilma told him. "Cut a couple of the lemons and limes into thin slices and squeeze the juice out of another two and dump it all in the punch bowl. Put in a few cherries, too."
"Yes'm. I thinks I knows what you's making." He looked at his wife. "Daisy, open about five bottles of wine and pour 'em out in the ice. Then toss in a few of them sliced oranges and peaches."
Daisy looked over at Wilma, who nodded. Then she did as Jonas asked. He added the fruit and juice from the bar to the wine, while Wilma stirred in some bourbon. She ladled some of the mixture into a cup and took a sip. "Perfect," she said, smiling with satisfaction.
"What is perfect?" Cerise asked, coming down the steps. She was wearing an elegant, lime green gown, her hair in a carefully concocted upsweep. Herve walked next to her. He wore a sea green frock coat with matching pants and his best ruffled silk shirt.
"This is, my Lady." Wilma filled a second cup and handed it to her employer. "Try it for yourself."
Cerise looked at the cup for a moment. "I believe that I shall." She shrugged and took a sip. "Bon, tres bon - very good. I did not know that you were familiar with sangria, Wilma."
"I got t'know it and like it when I was... living in New Orleans. They made it often enough that I learned the recipe. I... uh, thought that it'd be more fun than just wine for the party. And it turned out that Jonas, he knew how t'make it - maybe even better than how I remembered."
"A good idea whoever made it." Cerise thought for a moment. "And cheap... less expensive than the wines I had expected. Bon, Wilma, you have done well with this."
Wilma smiled, a nasty thought coming to mind. "Thanks, my Lady. I'll be sure t'tell Rosalyn ya said so."
"Rosalyn?" Cerise asked.
Wilma grinned. "Yes, Cerise. Y'see, it was something Rosalyn done that give me the idea for the sangria."
* * * * *
"Did you get a chance to talk to the Doc today?" Arsenio asked, while he and Laura were dancing. "About yesterday I mean?"
Laura shook her head. "No, but I'm not sure he's the one I should ask."
"Why not? He's you're doctor, isn't he?"
"Of course, he is, but this... this is the sort of question I think a woman would know more about. I thought I'd ask Molly, or, maybe Edith Lonnigan."
"Hmm, I suppose. I'd say ask Molly first. She sees herself as your mother, and she'd be hurt if you didn't ask her."
"I'll do that. I think I'd have asked her already, except things were so hectic here today." It would be better to ask Molly, especially the way she'd hurt her so recently.
"Ask tomorrow, then, while everybody's recovering from tonight's party." He waited a beat. "Have you had those same... feelings since yesterday?"
"No, but if I do, you'll be the first one besides me to know about it." Her voice had a low purr in it.
Arsenio pulled her closer, so that her body pressed against his. She felt the hardness of his chest against her bosom, and a second, very pleasant hardness farther down "You know where to find me."
"And you know that I'll come looking."
* * * * *
Maggie knocked a second time at the front door.
This time someone must have heard. There was a muffled voice from the other side. Moments later, the door opened.
"Maggie," Whit Whitney said cheerfully. "I thought that you weren't going to be able to come over tonight. C'mon in."
Maggie stepped inside. "We... Shamus hired... he said I could leave at 11:30." She smiled wryly. "He even said that I do not have to come back until it is time to make the 'Free Lunch' tomorrow."
"Well, you're more'n welcome. You can even stay the night if you like. That way you don't have the struggle of getting two sleepy kids home. We'll just fix up another cot in the room they're already sleeping in."
"I do not wish to be any trouble."
"You are no trouble at all," Carmen stepped in next to her husband. "You are a good friend. Please, stay."
Maggie nodded. "All right, I will sleep over." She glanced around. "Are the little ones asleep? I thought that they could stay up for midnight."
"They tried," Carmen replied, "but they got tired. We promised that we would wake them up in time for the celebrating at midnight."
"Your Ernesto was so determined to stay awake," Whit added. "We left him curled up on the couch where he finally dozed off."
"Sá, he is like that," Maggie said. "Is it time to wake them yet?"
Whit looked at his pocket watch. "We've got close to a half hour till midnight. Let's let 'em sleep a while longer."
"Sá," Carmen said, "an in the meantime we can show Margarita the kalliope you bought."
"A kalliope," Maggie asked, "what is that?"
"We will show you." Carmen took Maggie's hand and led her out into the garden. A large, odd-looking wooden box sat on a table near the door. A pile of brass disks, with patterns of holes on each disk, sat on the table next to it.
"This is a kalliope." Whit lifted the lid of the box. Another metal disk rested on top of it. "It's like a music box except the melodies are on these disks, so you can change it."
There was a large crank on the side of the box. Whit turned it several times, then moved a lever on top. The disk began to rotate slowly, and the familiar notes of "The Blue Danube" came forth.
Maggie was delighted. "It sounds like little bells."
"So it does." Whit turned to Carmen. "Care to try it out?" Carmen nodded and stepped into his arms. A moment later, they were waltzing around the garden.
Maggie watched them dancing. She sighed and sat down in a chair next to the table.
"Shall we join them?" a voice asked.
Maggie looked up. "R-Ramon?"
"I have a ticket if I need one." He reached into a pocket and took out one of the tickets that Shamus sold.
Maggie stared up at him. She remembered what Molly had said about Ramon. He seemed to want her now. She wasn't certain that she agreed with what the older woman had said, but she was willing to take a chance this one time.
"You will not need a ticket," she said, slowly rising to her feet. She stepped up close and took his hand.
"Then we shall dance." He put his arm around her waist, and they began to move out to the music.
Maggie felt a pleasant warmth run through her body, as Ramon held her. She sighed, happy for the moment, and rested her head on his chest.
Twenty minutes later, they were all sitting around the dining room table. Even Felipe, a week shy of his first birthday, sat in his high chair next to his father. Carmen sat on his other side, carefully crushing grapes in a small bowl.
"Now, remember," Ramon said, "you eat one grape at each peal of the bell. If you do, you'll have a sweet year."
"Really?" Lupe asked.
"That is what the legends tell," Ramon told her. He broke stalks of grapes from a large cluster on a plate in front of him, and handed the stalks to Lupe and Ernesto. Whit was doing the same for Carmen and Jose.
"And where are my grapes?" Maggie asked, feeling left out.
Ramon winked. "I thought that I would feed them to you."
"That is silly," Lupe said with a laugh. "Then how could you eat your own grapes?"
"For your mama," Ramon answered, "it would be worth the risk."
"Thank you, Ramon, but I can not let you risk a bad year on my account," Maggie said. She broke a large stalk from the cluster of grapes and put it down in front of her.
* * * * *
"Okay, folks," Hiram King said, motioning for the rest of the band to stop playing. "It'll be midnight in a few seconds." There wasn't a sound in the saloon as all eyes turned to watch the minute hand on Shamus' big clock move to the 12.
"Happy New Year!" they all yelled. A few men fired pistols. Arnie and Jane came out of the kitchen banging pots with wooden spoons.
A number of couples took advantage of the noise, the confusion, and the custom to embrace and share their first kiss of 1872. Milt Quinlan gently took the pot out of Jane's hand. "But it's New Year's, and I wanna --" Milt leaned in and kissed her before she could say another word. The spoon she'd been beating the pot with slipped from her other hand as her arms wrapped around him.
R.J. had been dancing with Bridget when Hiram spoke up. He stopped and took her head in his hands. "Happy New Year, Bridget," he said softly, pulling her close and kissing her. Her arms wrapped around him as she felt her whole body warm to the kiss.
Cap had moved in close while R.J. and Bridget kissed, and was waiting for the kiss to end. "Bridget," he said as it did. She turned to face him. "My turn, now." He pulled her close and did his best to beat R.J. in both duration and passion. Bridget responded as well to him as she had to R.J., moaning softly and pressing her body against his.
Arnie grabbed somebody's drink and downed it before its owner or anyone else could object. Feeling satisfied with himself, he quickly had another. After that, he climbed up on the bandstand with the "Happy Days Town Band." While they played the rest of the song, he banged his pot in time with the music and shouted, "Happy New Year" over and over again.
* * * * *
"And a Happy New Year t'all our readers," Molly said cheerfully, "Even if we are a wee bit early." She and Shamus had been another of those couples, sharing a long kiss was something they seldom did - in public.
"Aye," Shamus added. "Chris and Ellie've been working on this story for... well, for longer than they've liked. Even so, they ain't taking a rest neither, not them."
Molly raised an eyebrow. "I should say not - not them two. Right now, even as ye're reading this, no doubt, they'll be working out the plot of the next part of the story."
"Thuir's the big poker game, and Laura's sister, and Wilma, and the painter. Och, that painter." Shamus counted things out on his fingers. "Whoost, that's a lot of story t'be telling, and that's not the half of it."
"And telling it they will, but, right now, they want t'know what ye think of the tale so far." Molly looked out at the audience of readers.
"So ye all be sure to be posting a comment of what ye think." Shamus said.
"Tell 'em now, and, if ye have a good notion about what happens - or should be happening next - tell 'em about it. They might even be using some of what ye say in thuir story." Molly smiled, happy to have gotten in the last word.
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change - Autumn Part 3: December - pp. 227-363 page 137 of 363
Part 3: December - pp. 227-363 page 227 of 363
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change -- Winter
By Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson (c) 2010
Part 1 -- January
Monday, January 1, 1872
"Happy New Year, Mama," Ernesto and Lupe yelled, running into the room.
Maggie sat up with a start. "Not-not so loud, Ernesto." She tried to
shake her head, but stopped. The way her head hurt, she was afraid that
she'd shake something loose inside -- or maybe she already had.
"Please." She closed her eyes tightly against the brightness of the
morning.
"We are sorry, Mama," Lupe said in a whisper. "Are you sick like Uncle
Whit?"
Maggie opened one eye and looked around, remembering. She was in the
guest bedroom at Carmen and Whit's house. She was in her camisole, and
drawers; she could see her dress, petticoat, and corset draped over a
chair. A lightweight blanket had been thrown over her. "Sick? I am --
just a little -- but I am sure that it will pass."
"I have some medicine here that will help," a woman's voice said softly.
Maggie looked up to see Carmen standing a few feet away, a cup of coffee
in her hand. "Why don't you children go play out in the garden with
Jose?"
Ernesto nodded. "See you later, mama," he said, running from the room.
"Happy New Year, again, Mama," Lupe called as she ran after her brother.
Maggie stood up, grabbed for the coffee, and took a long drink. "Ahhh."
It was hot and black and _very_ strong. "Bless you, Carmen."
"If you want it, there is still some breakfast in the dining room,
Margarita."
"Still? How late is it?"
Carmen smiled. "About eleven. The children have been up for hours.
Whit is just eating."
"And Ramon?" She took another long drink of coffee.
"He is not down yet." She winked. "You could always go and wake him."
"Carmen! What are you saying?"
"That you need to try harder. Be... approachable."
Maggie looked down at herself. "How 'approachable', Carmen? Should I
go to him like this?" She made a broad sweep with her hand as if to
point out what little she was wearing.
"If you wish," Carmen smiled, "and Ramon would be happy to see you that
way, a little surprised, I think, but very happy."
"But it would not be right. We are not..."
"No, but you want to be; don't you?"
"I do." Maggie felt a vague warmth run through her body at the thought
of being with Ramon.
"So does Dolores. It comes down to which of you want him more."
"No, it comes down to which one _he_ wants."
"Then you have to show him that you are the one he wants." She smiled.
"You, better than anyone, should know that is how a man thinks."
* * * * *
"Good afternoon, Seá±or Shamus," Arnie said. "And to you, too, Seá±ora
Molly."
Shamus looked up from behind the bar. "And a good afternoon to ye,
Arnie, but just what are ye doing here?"
"I work here... don't I?" He looked nervously at the clock. "It is
12:30, so I'm not late. That is when you have me come in, so I can bus
the plates from the free lunch."
Molly smiled at the boy. "Ye're not in trouble, Arnie. Me Shamus meant
that it's so quiet today that ye didn't need t'be coming in."
"The seá±or didn't say not to come in. I have a job here, so I have to
come in to work unless he says not to. Isn't that what a man does?"
"It is, lad," Shamus replied, "and ye're a good boy t'be thinking that
way." He looked around. "There's not much need of yuir services just
now, but tis glad I am that ye're on the job."
"Why don't ye go make some work for yuirself," Molly added. "Go over
and dirty up a plate with some of the lunch that's out there. Then
we'll see what else there is for ye t'be doing."
"I'll do that, Seá±ora Molly. It smells very good."
"It is, Arnie," Shamus said, "even if it's just reheated leftovers from
last night. I remembered t'be telling Maggie that she could come in
late today, even if I forgot to tell ye the same." He made a motion
with his hands. "Go on over, then; have something t'eat and see if I'm
not right."
* * * * *
"What do you think, Mother?"
Cecelia Ritter studied her daughter's appearance. They were in
Hermione's room, laying out her clothes for the next day. "It's
certainly a lovely dress, Hermione, and you look lovely in it. I do
think that it's a bit fancy to wear to school, though."
"Perhaps, but I... I wanted to make a good impression."
"On whom?" her mother teased. "Miss Osbourne already knows what a fine
young lady you are."
"On... oh, Mother, on Yully Stone. You know that."
"I do, indeed, Hermione. I just wanted to hear you say it."
"I... I am saying it, mother. I will not let that _freak_, Emma, get
away with kissing him the way she did."
"I should hope not. The nerve of her, trying to steal the boy's
affections like that, and her not even a real girl."
"I know, mama, but I'll show her."
"The one you have to show is that Stone boy; you let him see what a
prize you are, and that Emma won't stand a chance."
"I will, mama. I will."
* * * * *
Beatriz walked down to the first floor of _La Parisienne_ arm in arm
with Sebastian Ortega, a tall, muscular young man with slicked-back
hair. "Thank you for a wonderful time," she told him in Spanish.
"It is I who should be thanking you, Beatriz." He took her in his arms
and gave her a long kiss.
She sighed as they finally broke the kiss. "Perhaps we should go back
upstairs."
"If only we could," he told her. "Still... here is something to
remember me by." He pulled a gold eagle from his pocket and tenderly
tucked it into her corset between her breasts.
Beatriz smiled and gently ran one finger down the length of the bulge in
his pants. "Mmm, and I have so _very much_ to remember."
"Until next time." He bowed low and walked towards the door, a broad
smile on his face.
Beatriz moved the coin slightly. It would be safe, there in her corset,
until she could give it to Lady Cerise. It was payment -- and a
generous tip -- for her services. She looked around, then walked into
the parlor.
Rosalyn was alone, sitting on one of the couches reading an issue of
_Godey's_ _Lady's_ _Book_. 'Looking at the new fashions, no doubt,'
Beatriz thought. Aloud, she asked, "Where is everybody?"
"The Lady and Herve are in her rooms doing... something," Rosalyn
answered, putting down the magazine. "Daisy's downstairs fixing supper;
Jonas is helping her. Wilma and Mae are upstairs with gentlemen." She
looked straight at Beatriz. "Do you wish to talk about... things?"
Beatriz nodded. "It did not work out so well, did it, your idea about
the party last night?"
"Not hardly. I heard Cerise telling Wilma how clever she was about that
punch she made and what a good job she did putting things together on
such short notice."
Beatriz shrugged. "It _was_ a good party."
Rosalyn glared back at her. "Don't you go soft on me now, Beatriz. You
yourself said that you didn't think that Hanks bitch deserves to be the
Lady's second any more than I do."
"I do not care about her job. I just hate that she is being rewarded
for stealing the men who would come to see me." She hesitated, then
added, "or you or Mae."
"Whatever. We are agreed that she has to be put in her place. Our
first plan may not have worked out the way we wanted it to, but I've got
a few other ideas. One of them should do the trick."
* * * * *
Tuesday, January 2, 1872
"Okay," Yully Stone said. "Let's get started." He pulled out his
pocketknife and, in one move, opened it and threw it into the ground
next to the schoolhouse. "There's your mark." He pulled out the knife
and smoothed the hole it had left down to a small point.
Bert McLeod, the Ybaá±ez twins, and Stephan Yingling lined up and, in
turn, each pitched a penny towards the wall just above Yully's mark.
The coins bounced off the wall and landed around the hole. The boys
repeated this three more times.
Yully studied the coins. "You're farthest, Stephan. You're out." Bert
and both the twins had coins closer to the hole.
"Guess, so." Stephan picked up his coins.
This was how the captains of the two ball teams were determined each
week. Only the boys in the top two grades were eligible. Yully had
been the winning captain the week before Christmas break, so he didn't
play. "Fair's fair, after all," Yully would have said, "and this way
everybody gets a chance."
The remaining three boys repeated the contest. Hector Ybaá±ez was
eliminated this round. "You 'n'me, Jorge," Bert called out, his voice
breaking just a little on the other boy's name. "This week, it's you
'n'me."
"Me 'n' you," Jorge answered. "Winner and loser."
Bert chuckled. "We'll just see who's who on Friday... loser."
Emma had been standing with the boys watching to see who won. 'Jorge's
not too happy about my playing,' she thought, with a shrug, 'but Bert
was on Yully's team with me last game. He should be okay.'
The two new captains ran off in different directions, plotting strategy
with a few friends before Miss Osbourne called them inside. The other
boys scattered to get in some play.
"Can I... umm, talk to you a minute, Emma." Yully had walked over to
where Emma was standing.
"I... ah... I guess so," Emma replied, not certain what to say. She'd
been dreading this, the first time she and Yully talked after they...
kissed.
"I-I wanted to apologize for what I... for what happened at the
Christmas party when I... when... when 'you know what' happened."
"Apologize?" Emma looked at Yully trying to understand what he was
saying.
"Yeah. A couple of the others -- and I ain't saying who -- had started
in to tease me about letting you play on my team. They said I didn't
know if you was a boy or a girl."
"I said that you looked like a girl, but you played good as a boy. Long
as you played that good, I didn't care what you was."
Emma looked at him. She wasn't sure whether she was relieved or
disappointed. "You... you didn't care."
"I let you play, didn't I?" he continued. "So... one of 'em said that
if I didn't care you was a girl, I should treat you like one, instead of
like a boy. Then another one said I should treat you like you was my...
girlfriend and give you a kiss. They all laughed and dared me to do it;
said I was a chicken if I wouldn't." He took a breath. "Well, I
couldn't let them say that, could I?"
Emma shook her head. "No, I-I guess you couldn't." Why wasn't she
happier? It was just a dare, a prank, no worse than what she and Tomas
had done with that snake that they'd put in Hermione's desk.
"That's why I done it." He tried a smile. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed
you or anything, and I sure didn't mean for Hermione to get mad at you
like she done."
"But she did, and she's probably gonna still be mad about it."
He sighed. "I know, and I'm sorry. I don't know what t'do about that."
"Maybe you should kiss her -- just to make it even." She chuckled at
the sour expression on his face. "No, I didn't mean that. We'll have
to see what happens." She shrugged. "In the meantime, Tomas Rivera and
I wanted to talk to you and Stephan Yingling about something."
Before either of them could say another word, they heard Miss Osbourne
ringing the bell. "Inside, children, no dawdling, just because it's
your first day back from vacation."
"We'll talk about it later, okay?" Yully said as they both ran for the
door.
* * * * *
Jessie walked over to a table where Arnie was gathering up glasses to
take into the kitchen. "You still wanna learn how t'shoot?"
"Si," he answered quickly. "If you will teach me."
"I decided I better, or you'll go off 'n' try t'learn by yourself, and
_that_ never works." She grinned. "Many a boy your age ends up with a
hole in his foot."
"When can we start?"
"You don't come in here till after noon. How 'bout at 11, but we're
gonna have t'do it outside of town. You know a good spot?"
"There is a place, a field, just past the town line on the way to the
hill you Anglos call Chiracauah Mesa. Can we start tomorrow?"
"Nope, tomorrow, you're gonna bring whatever pistol you're gonna use in
for me t'look at. I ain't gonna teach you nothing unless I first check
out the weapon you wanna use."
* * * * *
"Fives and sixes, do you have your lunches?" Nancy Osbourne asked. She
excused the children at midday by grade, youngest first, to avoid a
bunching up when they stopped to get their meals.
"Yes'm," Tommy Carson answered.
"Yes, Miss Osbourne," Miriam Scudder corrected him.
Nancy continued. "Fine, then sevens and eights may go." She reached in
a drawer for her own food, while the oldest of her students ran for the
shelves by the door, where their dinner pails were.
Hermione Ritter waited for Yully by the door, stepping in the way as he
approached. "Hello, Yully," she said warmly. "A belated happy new
year."
"Umm, thanks, Hermione." Yully frowned as Hector walked behind her,
paused, and pretended to be kissing someone. Hector grinned at Yully
and headed out the door.
She didn't notice. "Did you have a nice Christmas?"
"I suppose," he shrugged, then, just to be polite, asked, "Did you?"
"Oh, my, yes. My parents gave me this dress." She turned slowly to
show the pale yellow dress to him. "Do you like it?"
"It's nice enough, I guess." He looked around. They were the only
students still in the room. Their teacher was eating at her desk.
"Look, Hermione, I gotta go. I'm -- the fellows and I -- we're working
on some stuff."
He hurried around her and all but ran out the door. "See you later," he
called back to her over her shoulder. "And that _is_ a nice dress."
"He liked my dress," Hermione sighed happily. She picked up her own
lunch pail and walked out onto the schoolhouse porch.
Eulalie McKecknie, Penny Stone, and Ysabel Diaz were sitting together at
one of the picnic benches. Hermione joined them, then looked around as
she sat down.
"Looking for my brother?" Penny asked her. "He's over there with most
of the older boys." She pointed to a nearby bench.
Hermione looked over. The boys were laughing and talking. Judging from
their gestures, they were talking about that silly game they all played
at recess. She smiled, laughing to herself about how foolish it was to
get so concerned about what was just a schoolyard game.
Just then Bert McLeod shifted on the bench as he talked about something
with the others. Hermione's jaw dropped as she now saw Emma sitting
there, laughing along with her teammates.
Just like one of the boys.
* * * * *
Molly saw Mrs. Lonnigan walk into the saloon and hurried over. "Edith,
now what're ye doing in here this fine day?"
"And a good afternoon to you, Molly," Edith replied, "and how are you?"
"Fit as a fiddle, as they say, but ye still didn't answer me question."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I came by to see Laura Caulder. She asked me to be her
midwife, you know, and I thought that I might check up on her today."
"She's upstairs doing a bit of cleaning. Why don't I take ye to her?"
"Yes, that would be fine." Edith looked at Molly's anxious face. "It's
just a simple check-up. I'll be giving her one a month for the next few
months. You're welcome to stay, if Laura doesn't mind."
"If ye're sure..." The two women headed for the stairs, walking past a
table Arnie Diaz was clearing. "When ye get a chance, Arnie," Molly
told him, "please tell me Shamus that I'll be upstairs with Mrs.
Lonnigan here t'be talking with Laura. We'll be down directly." Arnie
nodded, and Molly hurried over to the stairs where Edith was waiting.
Arnie watched the pair of them head up the stairs. He got back to work,
putting a pair of empty beer steins in a large tray. Someone had left a
dime under one of the glasses. He put it in a pocket until he could give
it to Shamus.
* * * * *
Ramon was arranging a display of men's shirts on a counter when he heard
the bell over the store door jingle. "May I help -- Dolores, what
brings you in here today?"
"To see you, of course." She gave him her best smile. "You should wear
that blue shirt when you come over on Saturday." She pointed to one of
the display shirts.
"Saturday? I am afraid I don't understand."
"Oh, come, now. The Ramon de Aguilar that I remember counted the hours
until Dia de los Reyes Magos, the Day of the Magical Kings."
Ramon laughed, remembering. "He was a greedy little boy, that Ramon.
He could hardy wait for the Christmas presents he was going to get that
day."
"He was not greedy. He was a sweet boy, and he always shared his
presents with his friends."
"Not always, and my friends did not always share their presents with me.
I remember when I was nine, and a certain girl would not even show me
her presents."
"I did not think that he... you would want to play with my new doll.
You never liked to play games with me and my dolls." She paused a
moment. "In fact, I came to see if this has changed."
"I fear that I am still not very good at pretend parties with dolls."
"How are you at real parties, ones with real people and real food?" She
smiled as if thinking of a joke.
"Much better." He smiled back at her. "You should try me some time."
"I will... on Saturday. I came to invite you to the Dia de los Reyes
Magos party that my cousin, Teresa, is having Saturday afternoon."
Ramon thought quickly. Had Maggie mentioned any party to him? Had
Ernesto or Lupe? No, not that he recalled, but if Dolores was just
asking, they might have as well. "Can I think about it? Saturday...
Saturday is our busiest day, and --"
"And the party is at five. The sign on the door says that this store is
only open to six. You can come over when it closes." She decided to
bait the hook further. "Do not worry about presents, either. You are
my guest; they will not be expected... except, perhaps, one from that
greedy little boy to his childhood friend, the one with the doll."
Ramon felt trapped, but he had to laugh. "I will _try_ to be there.
Sometimes, Seá±or Silverman has work for me after the store closes."
"But that greedy little boy will not want to stay at his work." She
kissed a finger and touched it to his lips. "I will tell Teresa to
expect you. If you do not come, she... she will put too much starch in
those shirts she washes for you." She winked and left the store,
stopping only to look back once and say, "Goodbye, Ramon," in a low,
husky voice.
* * * * *
Laura tried not to move while Mrs. Lonnigan ran her hand along the small
bulge at her waist. The two women were in her old room. Laura was in
her drawers; her blouse, skirt, corset, and camisole were on one of the
beds. Molly was sitting on the chair watching the examination.
"Everything seems fine, Laura," Edith Lonnigan said calmly, trying to
reassure her nervous patient. "You don't seem to be putting on too much
weight. Are you having any problems, especially anything new?"
Laura looked a bit embarrassed. "Just that it seems to take forever
when I... uhh, sit on the necessary."
"A little constipation's to be expected. Try drinking more liquids --
water, not beer or anything else with alcohol."
"All right, not that I drank that much beer anyway." Laura sighed.
"First Shamus won't serve me anything 'cause I'm working for him. Now
you tell it isn't good for my baby. I think that this whole thing is
just a plot to keep me sober."
"There's nothing wrong with an occasional glass of wine, dear," Edith
told her, "but I've never thought that there was anything served by
heavy drink."
Molly laughed. "'Cept that serving heavy drink is how Laura's earning
the money t'be paying ye."
"I didn't mean to insult you, Molly," the midwife said quickly. "And
I'm hardly one of those Daughters of Temperance ladies from back East.
I know that a lot of the men around here live very hard lives. They
need -- some of them do -- something to help them get through the day.
With a woman, particularly a _pregnant_ woman, it's an entirely
different matter."
"And if the... pregnant woman used to be a man shouldn't she be entitled
to a little something?" Laura asked.
"Just that occasional glass, dear," Edith said. "Just that."
Molly nodded in agreement. "Aye, the 'little something' ye should be
thinking of is the one that's growing inside ye."
"I can see that I won't be getting much of anything had to drink then,"
Laura told them. "Not if it'd be bad for..." she gently patted her
stomach. "Is there anything else I should be doing?"
Edith walked over and picked up Laura's corset. "I was glad to see that
you're not closing the bottom two buttons on this. Has it gotten that
tight?"
"Not yet, but Rachel Silverman told me not to do the buttons. She made
me buy a couple of bigger sized corsets for later, too."
"I know the sort she sold you. You will need the support for your
breasts, so keep wearing a corset, but be sure to give the baby the
space inside you that it needs." She paused a moment. "Speaking of
which, you should start sleeping on your left side. We really aren't
certain why, but it seems to be better for both you and the baby."
"How do I stay on my left side when I'm asleep?"
"Tuck some pillows behind you. Put one between your legs as well."
"That doesn't sound very comfortable."
Molly chuckled. "'Tis only fitting, Laura. 'Twas something hard
between yuir legs that got ye this way. Now, something soft down thuir
will help that wee one that's coming."
"Molly!" Laura said. Then she chuckled, too. So did Mrs. Lonnigan.
"This examination is _clearly_ over," the midwife said wryly, regaining
her composure. "You can get dressed now."
Molly handed Laura her camisole. "Anything else we... she should be
doing?"
"Try some raw fruit and vegetables for that constipation. I'll be back
for your next check-up in about a month, but _please_ if anything seems
wrong, please come see me at _once_."
"She will," Molly promised quite firmly before Laura could answer.
"Can she... Can _I_ ask you one last question?" Laura asked softly.
"While you're both here?"
"Of course," the midwife told her. Molly nodded as well. "Is something
else bothering you?"
Laura fidgeted as she spoke. "Uh... yeah, sort of. The... uhh, other
day, Arsenio touched me... my breast, and I got so... so hot, it was
like I--I was Wilma that day she took that second drink of potion. I
wasn't myself till... till after we..."
"Till after ye made love with yuir husband," Molly finished the thought.
"I ain't sure that's what I'd be calling a problem."
"Molly." Laura replied, "I almost _raped_ Arsenio. I never... _never_
acted like that before, not even on my honeymoon." She looked over at
Edith. "Is something wrong with me? Is the potion doing something?"
Edith patted her hand reassuringly. "I'm not an expert on Shamus'
potion, of course, but I have heard of such a thing happening to other
mothers-to be. You see, you're expecting --"
"I hadn't noticed!" Laura interrupted.
Mrs. Lonnigan ignored her retort. "You are, and because of it, your
body is working very hard to get you ready for that baby. Sometimes,
that can make it overly sensitive, easily... aroused. There's nothing
to be concerned about. It won't happen every time, and it will lessen
as the baby comes closer, I should think."
"But what do I do in the meantime?"
"Enjoy it," Edith and Molly said almost in unison. All three women
laughed.
Edith continued. "To be serious for a moment, it is normal, and, as
much as you and Arsenio love each other, there's certainly nothing wrong
with what you're doing."
"Thanks, Edith. I'll be sure to tell Arsenio what you said." She
smiled, both in relief and at the thought of how she was going to tell
him.
Edith seemed to understand. "I'm sure you will." She paused a beat.
"I'll be going now. Oh... and let me know when the baby quickens...
begins to move, that is."
Laura froze, her eyes wide and her smile gone. "Move? It-it's gonna...
inside... inside me?"
"Yes, dear, in the next three weeks or so. Don't be alarmed. You can
even let your husband put his hand on your stomach, so he can feel it.
The father should be able to share in a pregnancy, I think."
Laura looked down at herself, almost expecting the baby to move that
very moment. When nothing happened, she slowly slid her palm along the
small bulge. "Oh, Lord," she said, and it sounded very much like a
prayer for help.
* * * * *
Wednesday, January 3, 1872
"You be sure to hold that arm steady, Tomas," Doc Upshaw said, reaching
for his saw. "Seá±or Rivera, you help him."
Tomas Rivera, Senior, put his hands on both sides of his son's cast to
brace it. "You can look away if you want, Tomasito."
The boy shook his head. "No, Papa, I want to watch. I saw the cast get
put it on, and I want to see it taken off." His arm was stretched out
on the examination table, his fingers grasping the edge of the table.
"Can I, Dr. Upshaw?" He looked at the doc, his eyes wide.
"If you want to," Doc replied. "Just be careful not to flinch." He put
the saw blade against the edge of the cast and began to carefully draw
it back and forth. He moved slowly, watching as it bit into the
plaster.
Tomas and his father kept still as the doctor worked. He cut about two-
thirds of the way through the cast, moving down its length. He stopped
every so often to check his progress.
"You shouldn't tax that arm much for a day or so," Doc warned them at
one point. "It -- and you -- need to get used to it being free of this
cast."
"Can I play ball?" Tomasito asked. "At school, we -- the boys -- play a
game every day during recess. Can I get into the game tomorrow?"
Doc Upshaw thought for a moment. "I'd say that you had best wait until
Friday, or, better yet, next week. Besides, you probably couldn't get
into the game before then."
"Probably not." The boy frowned. "Whoever's side I got on this week,
the other side would yell about it."
"It will not hurt you to wait," his father told him. "And your mama
will be happy to see you come home from school with clean clothes for a
few more days."
Tomas laughed at his father's joke. His mother did scold him sometimes
when he came home after playing too hard and getting his clothes dirty.
"She may be happy, but I won't be."
"All boy and a yard wide." Upshaw patted the boy's head. He put down
his saw and used a scissors to cut away the remaining plaster. Grasping
the edges of the cast with both hands, he pulled it apart. "You can
take your arm out now."
Tomas pulled out his arm and held it up, wiggling his fingers. "It
looks so pale, so thin." He moved it around. "Is it going to be like
that from now on?"
"It's thin from lack of exercise, Tomas," Doc answered. "And it's pale
because it's been out of the light for six weeks. It'll be back to
normal in no time; you wait and see if it isn't."
"It'll also be a tad sensitive for a short time," Doc added, putting a
small dish of soapy water on the table. "Hold it over this dish."
The boy did as he was told. Doc took a washcloth, dipped it in the
water, and used it on his arm. Tomas yelped in surprise at the sudden
pain.
"It doesn't hurt that much, does it?" Doc Upshaw asked.
Tomasito shook his head. "Not really. I just didn't expect it to hurt
at all."
"Sometimes, a little pain can be a good thing; it reminds you not to
overdo." He gently dried the arm. "You can take your son home now,
Seá±or Rivera. He seems fine, but you be sure to bring him in if he
still has any pain tomorrow."
"Thank you, Doctor." Tomas Rivera happily shook the man's hand. His son
did the same thing a moment later, smiling at both the doctor and his
father.
* * * * *
"Here is my father's pistol," Arnie said proudly, showing Jessie the
weapon, still wrapped in a thick, white cloth.
Jessie unwrapped the firearm and examined it closely. "This Colt must
be ten year's old. You got ammo for it?"
"I do." He pulled a small wooden box from his pocket.
She slid the box into her apron. "I'll look at it later. Right now, I
can tell you that this thing ain't ready for lessons. It needs a good
cleaning. There's a lotta rust on it, too, but nothing that a good soak
in some mineral oil can't handle."
"How long will all that take?"
Jessie had to smile at his eagerness. "It'll be ready t'use come Friday
morning. I'll meet you then, and we'll get started."
* * * * *
"Anyone home?" Ramon asked as he came through the door and into the
kitchen of the Saloon.
"Uncle Ramon," Ernesto and Lupe called out, almost in unison. They both
started to get up from the table where they were having their supper.
Maggie was on them at once. "Sit back down, the two of you, and finish
eating." She turned and smiled warmly at Ramon. "You are welcome to
join them... us, if you wish, Ramon." She nervously pushed back an
errant curl from her forehead. "If you want to, I mean."
"Thank you, I will." He took the narrow space between the children, who
shifted their plates to make room. "The food smells wonderful -- as
always."
Jane looked up from the vegetables she was chopping. "Why don't you
take your dinner break now, Maggie? Then y'all can eat together."
"But the stew," Maggie protested. "It needs watching."
Jane looked at her and shook her head. "It's just that meat stew with
them hot peppers and spices. You taught me how t'make that weeks ago.
I can watch it just fine." Under her breath she added, "you go over
there and sit down with the man."
"Matchmaker," Maggie whispered, trying not to smile.
"Damn right," Jane whispered back. "I'm tired of seeing you moping
around."
Maggie filled two bowls with stew and brought them and two large chunks
of bread to the table. She set one of each down in front of Ramon and
the other opposite him. She fetched them both glasses of lemonade and
silverware.
"What brings you here, Ramon?" she asked, sitting down. Then she
quickly added, "not that I am not glad to see you."
Ramon raised an eyebrow. "Rachel was over here this afternoon to talk
to Molly, and she told me that you wanted to see me." Was his
employer's wife mistaken, or was she also playing matchmaker?
"Oh, sá," Maggie replied, as if remembering. "I was so busy that I
could not come over myself to ask you."
"Ask me? Ask me what?"
"To come to the Dia de los Reyes Magos party," Ernesto blurted out.
Maggie glared at her son. "Ernesto! Finish your supper and do not
interrupt again." She took a breath, and her scowl became a smile. "As
Ernesto said, I am having a small party at 2 PM on Saturday in honor of
the Three Kings on their holy day. It will just be Carmen and Whit and
their two, this noisy one..." She ruffled Ernesto's hair. "... and his
sister, Laura and Arsenio -- Carmen told him about the party, and they
asked if they could come -- and me. And you, of course, if... if you
can come."
Ramon sometimes sat in at Bridget's poker games. He hoped his best
poker face was good enough. 'All that planning,' he thought, 'and she
asks me the day after I have accepted the invitation from Dolores.
Should I have waited?' He paused a moment, not liking the idea of
having to choose between Maggie and Dolores.
Aloud he answered, "I wish I could, but Saturday afternoons are the
busiest times at the store."
"You could at least ask Aaron. He has let you take time off before.
You would not have to be away long, not if you did not wish to be." She
tried to keep the regret out of her voice.
Lupe put a hand on Ramon's arm. "Please come, Uncle Ramon. Please."
"Yes, do come," Ernest said, trying to sound grown-up. "I am sure that
Zayde will let you if you ask him." Ernesto had spent enough time
visiting Ramon at the store that Aaron Silverman had told the boy to
refer to him by the Yiddish word for grandfather.
Ramon sighed. Aaron had reluctantly agreed to let Ramon leave early to
go to Dolores' party. 'It would not be fair to ask for more time,'
Ramon thought, 'and I have already promised Dolores that I would be at
her party.' He shook his head. "I-I cannot. We are just too busy."
"You will not even ask?" Maggie gave it one last try.
"No." He said the word softly and with regret.
* * * * *
"You mind if I sit down here for a minute?" Laura asked Bridget. The
gambler was sitting alone, playing "Maverick solitaire" and waiting for
a game.
Bridget pointed to an empty chair. "Take a load off. Say, you want me
to teach you how to play this?"
"No thanks." She carefully lowered herself into the chair. "I never
was much for poker." Laura smiled as she leaned back and lifted her
feet up onto the seat of an adjacent chair. "Damn, that feels good."
"I can imagine."
Before either of them could say another word, Jessie walked over. She
spun a chair around and sat down. "Can I talk t'you two?"
"Can we stop you?" Laura asked, her lips curling in amusement.
Jessie shook her head. "No, you can't." She chuckled. "Besides, this
is kind of important." She leaned in close and continued in a low
voice. "Do either of you know what happened to our guns, the ones we
had when we rode into town?"
"You know," Bridget answered, "I never thought about them, not after
we... changed. I wonder why that is."
Laura shrugged. "Me neither. If I ever stopped to think about them,
I'd have guessed that the sheriff was keeping them until after our
sentence was up. But by the time it was up, I had so much else on my
mind that it never occurred to me to ask."
The redhead's voice dripped with sarcasm. "It was about the same with
me. It wasn't as if I was planning to go back on the dodge in a shape
like this. Why do you want to know about them now?"
"'Cause Arnie asked me t'teach him how t'shoot," Jessie replied. "And I
promised I would. I'll need a pistol of m'own for that."
Bridget's expression soured. "Damn, when I asked him to take a job
here, I told him it was because I wanted him to protect me. I never
thought he'd take me so literally."
"It ain't you," Jessie countered. "Least ways, that ain't what he told
me. He said he wanted it so people'd respect him - that and t'protect
his family."
"Whatever he gave as a reason, be careful with him," Bridget cautioned.
"He's got a lot of pride. Boys his age usually do, but he's a lot more
sensitive about things than I remember being." She sighed. "I just
hope he's not planning anything crazy to earn that respect."
Laura looked thoughtful for a moment. "When are you giving him his
first lesson?"
"Friday morning," Jessie answered. "I gotta clean the pistol he wants
t'use."
"You mind if I come along? He's the oldest of a bunch of kids, with no
father. I went through that after my pa went off to the war. Maybe I
can talk to him some about what that means."
The singer shrugged. "Don't see why not. Besides, seems t'me you
wasn't too shabby a shot youself, _Leroy_."
* * * * *
"Is there any other business?" Horace Styron looked at the other
members of the church board sitting around the teacher's desk in the
schoolhouse. When no one answered, he looked out at the small crowd of
church members sitting around the room. A few were wedged into the
children's desks. The rest were on benches that were set up for the
meeting.
He looked at Rev. Yingling, sitting at his own chair at the desk. "Did
you have anything to add, Reverend?" The minister shook his head.
"Anyone else have anything that they want to bring up?" he asked the
members.
"Let's just go home," a voice called.
Clyde Ritter rose to his feet. "I've got something." Someone groaned,
but Clyde continued. "I just wanted to ask the clean-up crew to do a
better job after the meeting. Last month, my Clyde Junior brought home
a couple of cigar stubs that he'd found, and I had to throw them out."
"Why don't you stay and help, Clyde," another voice called out. "Maybe
you'll find one or two you can keep." The room exploded with laughter.
Ritter spun around trying to figure out who had insulted him.
Styron hammered his chairman's gavel and called for order. "I think
that's enough of that." He banged the gavel one last time. "Meeting
adjourned." Then he stood up and walked over to where Ritter was still
standing, a sour look on the man's face.
Jubal Cates, the board secretary, gathered up his notes from the meeting
and walked over to join them. "Calm down, Clyde. Harry was just joking
around. You know how he is."
"Yeah, he's a damned fool," Ritter answered. "But we need his vote now
and then, so I'll just ignore his so-called wit."
Rupe Warrick was sitting between Trisha and Judge Humphreys. Dwight
Albertson sat on the other side of the Judge. "Good meeting," Rupe
said, shaking their hands. "Glad we got all that nonsense 'bout you
settled, Trisha."
Albertson, the board treasurer, mumbled something in agreement with Rupe
and put the church ledgers back into the case he'd brought them in. His
monthly report went in as well.
"So am I," Trisha said, gathering up her notes from the meeting.
"Tonight's meeting went pretty well. Even Horace didn't give me a hard
time -- well, no more than usual, but I think that the February meeting
can be a better one."
The Judge raised an eyebrow. "Just what did you have in mind, Trisha?"
"Why don't you all come over to my house, say, about 7 o'clock a week
from today, and we can talk about it."
"Sounds sneaky," Warrick said with a soft chuckle.
She nodded, smiling slightly. "Who, me? I just wanted to discuss some
matters without Horace or Jubal or Willie interrupting." Willie
Gotefreund, the last member of the board, had missed the meeting.
"Making trouble, same as always," Rupe said with a chuckle. "I knew
there was a reason I voted to keep you on the board."
* * * * *
Thursday, January 4, 1872
Tomas and Emma were eating their lunches alone at one of the farther
picnic tables. Yully Stone and Stephan Yingling looked around for a
moment, then walked over to join them.
"The other day, you said you got something to show me and Stephan,"
Yully said, throwing a leg over a bench on one side of the table. "What
is it?"
Stephan Yingling sat down next to him, and both boys opened their lunch
pails. "It better be good." Stephan took out a ham sandwich and began
eating.
"It is." Emma took a rolled-up magazine out of her own pail. She pulled
at the green lace ribbon tying it until the knot gave and handed it to
Yully. "Take a look; page 34."
Yully unrolled the magazine. It was printed on cheap pulp stock with a
garishly colored cover. "_Boys_ _of_ _America_, I didn't know you got
it." The magazine was aimed at boys aged 8-15 or so, with stories and
project ideas.
"My Uncle Liam got me a subscription for my birthday," Emma told him.
"Go on, look at page 34."
Yully and Stephan turned to that page and began reading, while Tomas and
Emma finished their lunch. The two older boys were getting more and
more excited.
The article was about an underground fort built in a space dug out of
the side of a hill and then reburied. Properly done, the article
promised, someone could walk within a few feet and never know it was
there.
"You think you can do it?" Stephan asked.
"I don't see why not," Yully said. "I just want to know why you two are
showing this to us."
Emma shrugged. "We weren't going to show it to anybody, not at first,
but Tomas and me decided that we couldn't do it, not by ourselves
anyway. it'd take too long and everybody'd find out about it."
"We already have a place picked out," Tomas added, "on the side of a
hill about ten minutes from here."
"I figure that the four of us could do most of the work in a weekend,"
Emma said.
"Maybe..." Yully looked interested. "What do you say, Stephan?"
"I say, where're we gonna get the lumber?"
"We got it already," Emma said. "Me and Tomas was taking it from empty
shacks here'n there before... before the... accident. It's all stored
in a corner of my folks' barn just waiting for us. We got us a bucket
of nails, too."
"Then I say, I'm in," Stephan told them.
"Okay, then," Yully said. "We'll take a look at this spot you and Tomas
picked out after school today. Unless we decide -- we _all_ decide to
find someplace else, we'll meet at Emma's 'bout 9 Saturday morning and
get started."
"We will have to start much later on Sunday," Tomas said. "My papa will
make me go to church, and your papa..." He looked at Stephan. "I am
sure that you _have_ to go."
Emma thought for a moment. "Is 1 PM good for everybody? That'll give
us all time t'eat lunch and change."
Yully and Tomas nodded. Stephan just shrugged. "My pa don't like me
doing any work on the Lord's Day." He took a breath. "So I don't think
I'll tell him."
The four spit in their palms and shook hands. They spent the rest of
the lunch break making plans.
* * * * *
"Hey, Shamus," Jessie said, "can I talk t'you for a minute?" When he
nodded and started to walk over to where she was standing, she added,
"in private."
Shamus cocked an eyebrow. "In private, is it now? Well, me office is
right over there. Lead the way." He came out from behind the bar and
followed her to his office, closing the door once they were both inside,
and sitting down behind his makeshift desk. "Now then, what is it ye
need t'be talking to me about in private?"
"My pistol, the one I had when we all rode into eerie, where is it?
Come to think of it, where's my horse and the clothes I was wearing?"
Shamus chuckled. "I wondered if ye - any of ye - would ever be asking
me that question." He looked at her for a moment. "T'be telling the
truth, Jessie, ye're wearing yuir pistol right now."
"Wearing it?" She looked down at her hips out of old habit. "I ain't
wearing no gunbelt."
"I never said ye was." He chuckled again. "But ye are wearing a dress
me Molly bought ye while ye was a... a guest o'the town, ye might say.
Are ye thinking that the town o'Eerie bought ye and the others yuir
clothes with its own money? No, we sold yuir pistol, sold yuir horse
and yuir clothes, too, and we used the money t'be buying the clothes all
of ye wore."
"I paid good money for that horse -- for the saddle and bridle, too,
_and_ for the gun. What right've you got t'sell 'em?"
"What right did ye have t'be riding in t'town t'kill the sheriff? Ye
all needed clothes t'be wearing and food for yuir bellies. That stuff
paid for it. Besides, we didn't spend all of it."
"What did you do with what was left, throw a party?"
"No, Jessie, we gave it back t'ye. It was part of the money I gave each
of ye when yuir sentences was done."
"I don't like it, but I... I suppose that was fair enough."
"Well, thank ye for that. Now, would ye mind yelling me why ye was
asking about that weapon of yuirs in the first place?"
"Arnie. He--he wants me to teach him how to shoot. I need a firearm to
do that right."
"Why does he want to learn something like that, and what makes ye think
ye should be teaching him?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"I don't suppose me saying that I don't like it'd be enough of a reason
tt'be stoppiung ye, would it?"
"Not by half. Look, Shamus, the kid's in a hurry to grow up. He's
gonna try to do it on his own, if I don't help him. But if I do, I can
try to make him know what he's letting himself in for if he ever picks
up a firearm t'use on somebody. Ain't that better than hoping he
figures it out for himslef?"
Shamus thought for a moment. "Maybe... but not by much. Ye just be
careful what ye're doing t'that boy."
* * * * *
Kaitlin was sitting on the couch, darning one of Emma's stockings, when
Trisha came up behind her. "It's Thursday," she said. Trisha leaned
over and softly kissed Kaitlin's neck. "You did promise, you know."
"Yes, I know." Kaitlin squirmed at the kiss. "But all I promised was to
_talk_ about it. _You_ promised to think about whether you still...
_thought_ like a man."
Trisha nodded. "I have thought about it, Kaitlin. I may look like a
woman, but I'm still -- "
"Look like? My Lord, Trisha, you _are_ a woman. You've even had
monthlies. "
"I'm still only a woman on the outside." She tapped her head with a
finger. "In here -- where it counts -- I'm still a man."
"Are... are you so sure? You're so very much a woman on the outside?"
"Try me." Trisha kissed her neck again. "I want you as much as I ever
did."
"But... I-I'm not sure that I want you. I-I never even thought about...
about _being_ with a woman before last week."
"You have thought about it, though, didn't you? You promised that you
would."
Kaitlin looked embarrassed. "I-I have. You were my husband --"
"I _am_ your husband. That hasn't changed."
"Hasn't it? To tell the truth, I don't really don't know if it has."
Kaitlin paused a moment. "But I do know that I still love you just as I
ever did. If you really... really want me to do... what you _say_ you
want me to do, then I-I'm willing to try it -- this one time, at least."
Trisha smiled. "Then, let's get to it."
"No, it's... it's early. Emma --" Trisha tried to kiss her a third
time, but Kaitlin shifted away. "Please don't kiss me again. Emma will
hear if we... do anything right now."
Trisha put her hand on her wife's shoulder. "It's well after 8 o'clock.
We'll tell her to go -- to shut her door and read or just go to bed. If
we shut ours, too, she shouldn't hear anything." Trisha began to gently
massage Kaitlin's shoulders. "We've done it that way before, you know."
"Yes, but... but I always worried that Elmer might be listening. Now,
she's Emma, and she's still learning to be a woman herself."
Trisha continued the massage. She was kneading Kaitlin's shoulders,
working out the tired feeling. "You did say just now that you would,
Kaitlin. There'll be solid wall and two locked doors. She can't
possibly hear anything."
"Mmmm." Kaitlin sighed, enjoying the relaxing feeling of Trisha's
fingers on her muscles. "I... I suppose we could." She sighed again.
"If we were quiet." She stood up slowly.
Trisha stopped the massage and took Kaitlin's hand. "We will be."
* * * * *
"See that quarter," Calvin Snyder said, looking very serious, "and raise
you another."
Bridget pretended to be studying her cards, while she studied the man.
Snyder claimed to be a drummer, in town to sell hardware to some
storekeepers and tradesman, but he handled his cards like a man who did
it for a living.
Still... "Right back at you." She pushed another two quarters into the
pot.
Arnie was watching from the back of the crowd that had gathered around
the poker table. Bridget and Snyder had been dueling for each hand.
She was the winner so far, but not by very much. 'This is getting
good,' he thought.
"Arnie," Shamus gently put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm not
paying ye t'be watching Bridget play poker, am I?"
Arnie looked over his shoulder at the barman. "Just a little bit
longer, Seá±or Shamus, till the end of this hand."
"And then one more... and one more. I'm sorry, lad, but ye can't be
standing around that table all night."
Before Arnie could answer, Bridget called. They were using the newer
"eastern" rules. Snyder had a flush, the ten, seven, six, four, and two
of clubs, but Bridget had full house, nines and threes. She raked in
her winnings to the applause of the crowd, including Arnie.
"Fine, then," Shamus said sternly. "That hand is over, so I'll tell ye
again t'be getting back t'work. There's glasses all around the room
that need t'be cleared."
"All right, all right, I'm going." Arnie walked slowly over to the
table where he'd left a tray partly full of used glassware. There was a
pair of almost empty beer steins on the table with it. He put them into
the tray and went on to the next table.
Arnie worked his way slowly around the room, straining his ears as he
did, to try to listen to the poker game. Judging from the groans he
heard, Bridget lost the next hand. He started to move back towards her
table; there _were_ some empty glasses on the nearby tables.
When he did, though, he saw Shamus looking at him. The barman shook his
head and pointed back in the opposite direction. Arnie gave him a sour
look, but he did turn around and walk the other way.
"Finally," he said, looking down at the tray two tables later. It was
about as full as he could get it without serious risk of something
falling out. With a sigh, he headed through the door and into the
kitchen.
He set the tray down next to the sink and looked around. No one else
was in the room. "Good," he said with an angry nod of his head. There
were three steins in the tray that still had some beer in them. On an
impulse, he poured it all into one on them, and looked around again.
Satisfied that he was alone, he quickly downed the beer.
It was only later that he thought of the smell on his breath.
Fortunately, no one seemed to notice, but he knew that he'd have to be
careful if... when he tried the trick of drinking from the "empties"
again.
* * * * *
Trisha locked the bedroom door. "If Emma does come to see what we're
doing, she'll have to knock."
"Now what... what do we do?" Kaitlin was standing by the bed, trying
not to look at it.
Trisha stood on a stool to reach up above the armoire. She managed to
pull down one of the bottles and the glasses from their place atop it.
"Maybe this will give us some ideas."
"The Madeira." Kaitlin sounded a bit surprised. It was their best
wine, a gift from Liam on their tenth anniversary and still unopened
years later. "It should, indeed." She giggled, sounding more than a
bit nervous.
Trisha opened the bottle and poured them each a glass. "I wanted things
to go well." She raised her glass. "To new beginnings."
"New, indeed." Kaitlin raised her own glass and lightly touched it to
Trisha's. She took a sip. The wine was delicious, full-bodied and
fruity. She felt its warmth as it settled in her stomach and closed her
eyes to better enjoy the sensation.
Kaitlin opened them again at the sound of a rustle of cloth. Trisha had
stepped in close to her. Trisha wore shoes with a two-inch heel, while
Kaitlin was in comfortable slippers. That made them about the same
height. Trisha put her hands on either side of Kaitlin's head to steady
it. "Maybe this will be a better start." She leaned forward and kissed
her wife full on the mouth.
Kaitlin opened her mouth in surprise. She could taste the wine on
Trisha's breath. She felt Trisha's tongue slip between her lips,
searching for her own. 'Pretend she's still Patrick,' she thought.
Kaitlin closed her eyes. Trisha kissed her deeply, just as Patrick had.
She remembered her husband and all the times they'd made love in this
very room. She pictured his strong, male body in her mind, and she felt
her nipples tighten. There was an emptiness down between her legs now,
and an eagerness for him to fill it.
Kaitlin reached down and touched the soft cotton of Trisha's dress,
feeling the stiff petticoat under it. She felt something else, too,
Trisha's lush breasts brushing up against her own. Kaitlin opened her
eyes and pushed the other woman away. "This isn't going to work."
"It will if you let it," Trisha replied. Without waiting for an answer,
she reached over and began to work the buttons on Kaitlin's dress.
"Let's get... more comfortable."
It seemed reasonable. 'I'll have to take this thing off sometime,'
Kaitlin thought. She started unbuttoning Trisha's blouse. They both
finished at about the same time. Trisha slid her arms out and tossed
the blouse onto the chair.
"I'll have to take off my petticoat before I get out of this dress,"
Kaitlin said. She reached down under her dress and yanked at the bow
that held the petticoat in place around her hips. It slid to the floor
with a soft rustling sound. Kaitlin stepped out of it. She picked it
up and placed it over her dressing table.
Trisha copied Kaitlin's actions, except that she just tossed the garment
on the floor over her blouse. She still had Patrick's smirk, and she
showed it as she unbuttoned her skirt, which joined her other clothes a
moment later. Kaitlin took off her dress and put it with her petticoat.
The two women faced each other in only camisole, corset, and drawers.
"Pretty as the day I married you," Trisha said, "or maybe that night."
There was a leer in Trisha's voice now as she eyed Kaitlin. "Let's try
that kiss again."
Before Kaitlin could protest, Trisha stepped over and gave her another
kiss. She squirmed, and Trisha shifted position. Her mouth left a trail
of kisses and small bites, as it moved across Kaitlin's face, first on
the lips, then the cheek and jaw line before moving on to her neck. She
finished at the base of Kaitlin's throat, at that spot where each kiss
sent a small wave of pleasure through the other woman's body.
At the same time, Trisha's arm reached around her wife. She grasped
Kaitlin's firm, rounded buttocks and began to gently knead them. The
result was another wave of pleasure. Kaitlin moaned and her head lolled
backwards, her eyes half closed.
Then the old phrase, "sauce for the goose" suddenly came into Kaitlin's
mind. Or was it "do unto others"? She leaned her head forward and
began to kiss Trisha on the neck. She felt the other woman tremble at
the new sensation. Kaitlin continued the onslaught. Her hands reached
up to caress Trisha's breasts through the fabric of her corset.
"Oh, Lord." Trisha gasped in surprise at the intensity of what she was
now feeling. She was distracted now and stopped her massage of
Kaitlin's body.
Finding herself in charge, Kaitlin pressed on. One hand continued to
caress Trisha's breast. The other moved away to be replaced a moment
later by Kaitlin's lips. The taller woman left a trail of kisses across
the other's breast, with an occasional love bite.
Trisha trembled as Kaitlin did to her what Patrick had so often done to
Kaitlin.
At the same time, the finger of Kaitlin's other hand moved slowly down
the front of Trisha's corset. With the skill born of years of practice,
she opened hook after hook.
The corset fell open. Trisha felt it slide free from her body. Before
she could think about where it went, she felt Kaitlin's hands cupping
her breasts, felt the roughness of Kaitlin's palms against her erect
nipples.
"Let me show you what it's like for a woman." Kaitlin's voice was husky
with arousal.
Trisha shook her head. "No... no... I'm not... I-I want to make love to
you like... like Pa-Patrick did." She began to undo the hooks on
Kaitlin's corset. Her hands were shaky, but she managed.
The corset dropped to the ground. Trisha's fingers pulled at the bow at
the neckline of Kaitlin's camisole. The ribbons came apart, and Trisha
slid the camisole down, exposing one -- no, both -- of Kaitlin's firm,
rounded breasts. Without warning, Trisha lowered her head and began to
suck on a nipple. She rolled her tongue around Kaitlin's sensitive
flesh, sucked again, then gave a gentle love bite.
"Ooooh!" Now, Kaitlin trembled, as little jolts of pleasure ran through
her body. 'I could get used to this,' she thought. Then, she realized,
'No! I-I mustn't get used to it. A... a woman shouldn't do this to
another woman. Not... not even if they used to be man and wife;
_especially_ if they used to be man and wife.'
That was what she'd finally decided on during a week of heavy thought,
and she tried hard to concentrate on her decision, not on what Trisha
was doing to her. It was not easy.
'She... she still thinks she's a man, still my... husband,' Kaitlin told
herself. 'I have to show her that she's _not_ a man.' An odd look of
determination mixed with the lustful expression on Kaitlin's face. She
began to pluck at Trisha's nipples like a banjo player.
Trisha stopped her sucking. She was distracted by what Kaitlin was
doing, by the warm ripples of pleasure that ran through her and most
_certainly_ went directly to her groin. 'It-It's so... oh! d-different
from wh-when I was a man,' she told herself.
Kaitlin took Trisha's head in her hands and raised it upwards.
"What..." Trisha said just as Kaitlin kissed her. Kaitlin's tongue
invaded her mouth, teasing her tongue. Trisha moaned and wrapped her
arms around her wife, pulling their bodies close together. She felt
Kaitlin's fingers exploring her body, and she seemed to tingle with
delight wherever they touched.
Suddenly, Trisha let her arms fall away. She took a step back. "I-I
think we're ready to go on." Trisha felt oddly uncertain now, and she
looked down. Almost of their own will, her fingers were undoing the
buttons of her camisole. When she had finished, she looked up. Kaitlin
had undone her own camisole and was just now sliding it off her
shoulders.
"Yes," Kaitlin said, trying to sound confident. "So we are." She
looked closely at Trisha, whose own camisole was open, revealing the
curves of her breasts and the soft, inviting slope of her stomach. Her
face was flush from Kaitlin's stare as much as from her own arousal.
'So much for my manly, oh, so experienced Patrick,' Kaitlin told
herself. 'Trisha's acting like... like a virgin, like she's making love
for the very first time.' Feeling even more in charge, Kaitlin took her
former husband's hand, and led her to their bed.
* * * * *
Jessie sat on a barstool looking at Shamus' big clock. 'Just a little
longer,' she told herself.
"You may've got off to a bum start, Jessie," Blackie Easton said, taking
the stool next to her, "but you turned out t'be one helluva good
singer."
She smiled at the compliment. "Thanks, Blackie, I'm glad you enjoyed
the show."
"I did; I surely did." He took a breath. "Say, can I buy you a beer or
something? You must be thirsty after all that singing you done."
Before Jessie could answer, Angel Montiero sat down on her other side.
"I would be proud to buy you a beer also, Jessie. You are like the a
sweet, trilling songbird."
"Thanks, boys." She nodded at R.J., who poured her some of Shamus' fake
beer. She didn't like the stuff any more than she ever had, but she
wanted her head clear for later.
'Whenever later comes,' she thought taking a drink. She glanced up at
the clock again, hoping neither man noticed.
They didn't. They were busy telling Jessie how much they'd enjoyed her
singing and talking about songs that they liked.
"You do not know 'La Paloma de la Montaá±a', Jessie? 'The Mountain Dove'
you call it in English." Angel asked, mentioning an old Mexican tune.
She shook her head. "Then I teach it to you." He started to sing in a
rather good tenor voice.
Jessie sighed and let her eyes trail up to the clock. 'Dang,' she
thought, trying to keep her disappointment from showing. 'I can't head
over t'be with Paul right after I sing; people'd notice. But when I
wait around for a while something like this most always happens. Be
nice if I could just sneak him in upstairs, but then where'd Jane
sleep?'
* * * * *
Friday, January 5, 1872
"Good morning."
Kaitlin slowly opened her eyes at the sound of Trisha's voice. She was
in bed, her head resting, almost from force of habit, on Trisha's
shoulder. They were both nude beneath the blanket.
'It's silly that I still sleep like this,' Kaitlin said to herself,
'seeing as I'm bigger than Trisha now.' She glanced down at Trisha's
breasts for a moment. 'Well, I'm _taller_, anyway' she corrected
herself and smiled. Aloud she just answered, "Good morning."
Kaitlin looked to the opened window and back at the alarm clock ticking
on the nightstand. "It's barely 6:30, still almost dark. Why'd you
wake me up so early?"
Trisha's arm snaked around Kaitlin's waist. "I thought we might have us
a little more of what we had last night." She turned her head slightly
and kissed Kaitlin on the cheek.
To Kaitlin, Trisha sounded too much the way Patrick had.
"You mean some of this?" Kaitlin' hand snaked down past Trisha's belly
to the patch of blonde below. She ran a nail along the lips of Trisha's
feminine slit.
"Oh... oh... yes." Trisha's voice was high and breathy. Kaitlin could
feel the other woman shiver.
"Or maybe this?" Kaitlin suddenly plunged a finger into the moistened
slit. At the same time, another finger found the small nub at the top
of the opening and began to rub.
Trisha moaned and her legs spread wide apart. Kaitlin used two fingers
now, moving them in and out. After a moment or two, Trisha's hips began
to move in a rhythm that matched her partner's hand.
Trisha tried to reach up, to touch Kaitlin and pleasure her as she
herself was being pleasured. But the sensations that her wife was
arousing were overwhelming. Then Kaitlin shifted her body, trapping the
new woman's left arm beneath it.
Kaitlin began to suck on Trisha's nipple again. Something like a train-
yard switch closed in Trisha's body. Jolts of sexual energy sped back
and forth between Trisha's breasts and her groin. She moaned, and her
hips began to buck. Her body shivered and shook.
"Yes, yes," Trisha cried as the energy exploded like a blast of dynamite
through her body. "Yeesss!" she screamed and collapsed on the bed,
gasping for breath, a sublime warmth filling her.
Kaitlin leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek. "I thought
you'd like that." She began to caress Trisha's body.
"You... you were right," Trisha replied, catching her breath.
"Yes," Kaitlin said dryly, "most women do. I know that I always did."
She stopped her caresses and climbed quickly out of bed. "Now hurry. We
have to get cleaned up. I've got breakfast to make, and you've got to
get Emma ready for school and get yourself ready for work."
* * * * *
"Let's sit here," Hermione said, taking a seat at one of the picnic
tables outside the school. "It has a lovely view of the meadow." She
was sitting backwards, so she could lean back against the table.
"The meadow?" Eulalie Mckecknie giggled and sat down beside her. "Yes,
I suppose the meadow is nice... too." It was, but the view also
included the open area where the boys were playing ball.
One of the Ybaá±ez twins -- nobody could ever tell them apart -- had the
ball. He suddenly kicked it up into the air, towards his brother. The
other twin was running towards the elm tree that the boys used as a
goal-line marker. Bert McLeod came out of nowhere, jumped up, and
caught it. He pivoted as he landed and ran flat out towards the other
end of the playing field.
Eulalie squealed in delight and clapped her hands. "Wonderful catch,
Bert."
"I didn't know you were sweet on Bert, Lallie," Hermione said, using the
other girl's nickname.
Lallie nodded once. "I am... sort of. My daddy says Bert's going
places. His daddy already talked to mine about getting him a job as
page in the legislature after we finish school next year." Her father
operated a freight service and had a contract with the territorial
government that sometimes brought him to Prescott, where he had
befriended several legislators.
"So he'll be a page. What's so wonderful about that?"
"It means he's gonna be somebody important someday, a judge, or a
legislator himself, maybe even the governor. I don't want to be the
wife of some farmer or storekeeper." She said the words like they were
hanging offences. "I want to be important. Your mama is always going
on about how she's 'first among the women of the community', and that's
what _I_ want to be when I grow up." She held her head up trying to
look important.
"And maybe you will be," Hermione told her. "But I'm sure that Yully
will be important, too... in his own way. I just want a husband who's
strong, and handsome, and..." She giggled. "...who'll do what I tell him
to."
"The first thing you have to tell him is to stop kissing Emma."
"Oh, I'm not worried about her any more."
"You're not? Why? After all, he did kiss her."
"Maybe so, but that was some kind of fluke, I think. Clyde told me that
Yully just did it on a dare. I didn't believe him at first, but I've
been watching them all week."
"And? What did you see, what... what?"
"I've seen them play ball together at recess and sit together with the
other boys and talk about it at lunch. That's all. For all the
attention Yully Stone pays to Emma O'Hanlan, she might as well still be
Elmer." Hermione smiled. "Besides Yully told _me_ on Tuesday that he
liked my dress."
"So you don't think there's anything going on between them?"
"Just that stupid ball they pass back and forth." She shook her head.
"No, I'm not going to waste time worrying about her. I'll spend it
getting Yully to notice me."
"I hope you're right." Lallie sounded unsure. At that moment, Bert
passed the ball to Yully. The taller boy caught it and ran for the
stump that marked the other goal line. He crossed it just as the bell
sounded that recess was over.
Bert and his teammates jumped up and down, cheering and waving their
arms. From the way they -- and the other team -- were acting, there was
only one conclusion.
"Bert won!" Lallie cheered. "Bert -- his team won!"
Several of the other girls ran out to congratulate the winners. Eulalie
joined them, heading towards Bert.
Ysabel and Tomas ran out towards Emma, who was talking to Yully and
Stephan about something. Tomas joined the conversation, while Ysabel
fell in quietly next to Stephan.
* * * * *
Arnie was whistling as he walked down the dirt path that led from Eerie
to Chiracauah Mesa. The path curved around a low hill and opened out
into a meadow. Ahead of him, sitting on a fallen tree, were Jessie
Hanks and...
"Seá±ora Laura, what... what are you doing here?"
Laura rose, brushing her dress as she did. "I heard Jessie was giving
you lessons, and I asked if I could come along." She cocked an eyebrow.
"You don't mind, do you?"
"I suppose," he answered cautiously. "Do you want to learn how to fire
a pistola, too?"
Laura smiled. Arnie saw that she was holding his father's weapon in her
right hand. "I... I think I already know how." She turned to Jessie,
who was still sitting. "ready... go!"
Jessie tossed something, three bottles, far into the air. Laura raised
the Colt and fired in one smooth motion. A bottle shattered. She fired
twice more, and the other two bottles were blown apart.
"You were slow on that last one," Jessie scolded, rising to her feet.
Laura nodded. "I haven't fired a gun in almost six months. I guess I'm
a little out of practice."
"Just as well; seems t'me, Arsenio was the last one you took a shot at."
Jessie smiled. "Well, Arnie, can she shoot?"
The boy laughed, then bowed to Laura. "I only hope that I can shoot as
well someday."
"You will." Laura flipped the pistol around, so that she was holding it
by the barrel. "Here." She handed it to him.
He took the gun and looked at it closely. "There are no shells."
"I just put in the three I fired," Laura told him. "Today, we want to
teach you how to clean and load it."
"I just want to learn how to shoot the thing."
"Why?" Jessie asked.
"I told you, to be respected as a man."
"Guns don't get you respect," Laura answered, "not real respect."
"To protect my family, then; I am the man of the house. I have to
protect them."
"That's not what a 'man of the house' does - not all of it, anyway,"
Laura said. "Trust me, I know."
"What do you know?" He was getting irritated with the delay and the
unimportant details of gun care.
"Arnie," Laura began as she sat down on the fallen tree. "I was just
like you. My pa rode off to war in 1861. All of a sudden, I was the
man of the house with an ailing ma and five little sisters t'take care
of." She took a breath. "That's what the man of the house does. It
takes a lot more than a firearm to protect 'em. You gotta watch out for
the mistakes they make as much as for anybody out to hurt them. A man
of the house - a big brother, he helps his family with whatever problems
they got, takes care of 'em, helps them get what they want and what they
need to be better than they would be without his help. You understand
that?"
"I think so." He hadn't bargained for a lecture, just shooting lessons,
but she did seem to be making sense.
Jessie smiled. "Seems t'me that doing stuff like that takes a lot of
patience and care, just like you gotta give that Colt of yours. You
ready t'learn how t'do that?"
Arnie nodded. "I am - if you are ready to teach me."
"I am." Jessie took the box of bullets out of the pocket of her apron.
'"That's a Colt repeating pistol you've got. It fires six shots before
you need to reload. First, you pull the hammer half back." She did so
with her left hand. "that makes the cylinder move... you see it?"
Arnie nodded. "Then what, the bullet goes in?"
"This old piece don't use bullets. You put the powder and ball in
separate." Arnie watched as Jessie continued her lesson.
Laura watched, too, wondering if the boy had taken her words to heart.
'Learning how to be a man is at least as important to him,' she thought
to herself, 'as learning how to fire that Colt.'
* * * * *
"Children," Teresa Diaz scolded. "Do not eat so fast. You will not
enjoy your supper."
"Arnoldo is hurrying," her younger son, Enrique, protested. Since there
were no "Anglos" around, the family was speaking their native Spanish.
Arnoldo, Arnie Diaz, looked up from his meal. "Arnoldo has to get back
to work; do you, small one?" His eight-year old brother shook his head.
"Sá," Teresa continued. "Seá±or O'Toole is a good man to let you come
home every night for dinner."
Arnie's face soured. "He says that it is cheaper than feeding me
himself. He also watches the clock and yells if I am five minutes late
coming back. And he watches me and yells if I do anything he does not
like."
"He is not that bad," Dolores answered.
Arnie shook his head. "Cousin, you only work for him one night a week
for the dance. Try working for him every day, cleaning tables, carrying
dirty glasses into the kitchen, and washing them. All while he watches,
ready to pounce like a cat on a mouse."
"I never thought of you as a mouse, Arnoldo," Constanza, the younger of
his sisters, teased him. "As a rat maybe --"
"Constanza Diaz," Teresa said sternly, "apologize to your brother."
"But Mama."
"Apologize, and right now, or it may be that the Three Kings will not
leave any presents for you tomorrow." Mexican tradition held that the
Three Wise Men of the Nativity story brought presents to children on
Epiphany, January 6. Presents were often left in the children's shoes.
"That is why _they_ are hurrying with dinner," Ysabel told her mother.
"Enrique and Constanza want to put out their shoes for the Three Kings."
"And you don't?" Constanza asked her. "I saw the letter you wrote to
King Melchior asking him for a new blouse and some hair ribbons."
"Clothes?" Enrique was scandalized. "You asked him for clothes. I
asked him for a good present, a pocket knife like the big boys have."
Teresa frowned. "I am not sure that you are ready for a knife."
"I am," Enrique answered her confidently. "I'll put out some extra
water and hay for their horses, and they will surely give me such a
knife."
Arnie laughed. "Even if you put cookies out for them, they may still
agree with Mama." He took a quick drink of lemonade. "I have to go.
Like I said, Shamus gets mad if I am late."
"Do you have time for a present?" Dolores asked him.
"Presents on Dia de los Reyes are for children, Dolores, and --
regardless of how Shamus treats me sometimes -- I am not a child."
"And I am not a wise man," she replied, "even after all the leagues I
traveled to be here." She took a small package from a pocket of the
apron she was wearing.
Arnie took the package and began to tear off the paper. "What is it?"
"A medallion blessed by the Brothers at the Church of Our Lady of
Guadalupe in Mexico City. It has her picture on it."
The package was unwrapped now. Arnie looked at the small metallic
object. "It is very pretty, but why?"
"It is said that such medallions bring luck. They give a man patience
and lead him to his destiny. You were so angry just now, I thought that
I would not wait until tomorrow to leave it in _your_ shoe."
* * * * *
Trisha gave one final wipe to the dish she was washing and set in the
drying rack. Before she started on another, she glanced over at the
couch. 'Damn,' she thought, 'Emma's still there.'
Emma looked up from the issue of _Boys_ _of_ _America_ she was reading.
"Did you want something, Trisha?"
"No, Emma," Trisha answered. "I just happened to look your way." She
picked up a dish and began to wipe off the grease from dinner. "I wish
Liam had never bought her that magazine," she whispered.
Kaitlin heard her. "It may not be as appropriate as it was, but we can
hardly take the magazine away from her."
"Maybe not," Trisha replied, "but couldn't we tell her to take it up to
her room. Then we could go up to our room and --"
"We could not," Kaitlin said firmly. "I wouldn't do something like that
with Elmer and Patrick, and I'm not about to do it with Emma and Trisha.
It... It would be like... _flaunting_ our behavior before the child."
Trisha sighed. "No, I guess we can't."
* * * * *
Saturday, January 6, 1872
Wrapping her robe around herself, Dolores walked out of the bedroom she
was sharing with her cousins, Ysabel and Constanza Diaz, and into the
main room of the house. The girl's mother, Teresa, was already making
her rounds, dropping off clean clothes and picking up dirty things to be
laundered.
"Look what I got," Constanza said. She held up a cloth doll in a bright
blue dress with yellow and green trim.
Dolores looked at the doll. "Muy pretty. And what is her name?"
"Juanita." Constanza smiled and gave the doll a hug.
Enrique came over to Dolores. He was holding a small leather
container. "Dolores, Dolores, look what the Kings brought me."
"Not so loud," Dolores whispered. "You will wake up your brother. He
was working late last night."
A second door opened. "Too late for that." Arnie walked out of the
room he shared with Enrique, scratching his head. "All right,
pipsqueak, what did you get?"
"This." The boy opened the case and a small pocketknife slid out and
onto the palm of his hand.
Arnie grabbed the knife away. He opened the blade and tossed the knife
into the air. "Good balance," he said approvingly as he caught it.
"Give it back." Enrique grabbed for the knife. Arnie dodged out of his
way.
Dolores shook her head. "Do not be so upset, Enrique. Arnoldo is just
being a good brother and testing the knife. Aren't you, Arnoldo?"
"Maybe." Arnie didn't want to say either way.
"Testing?" Enrique asked.
"Sá," Dolores said. "A good brother, when his little brother gets a
knife, wants to test it out, to make sure that it is safe... safe for
when he... teaches his little brother how to use it."
Enrique's eyes grew wide. "Is that what he is going to do, Dolores?"
"Of course," she answered confidently. "A father or a big brother,
whoever is the man of the house, takes care of the little brother and
teaches him what he should know."
Arnie thought for a moment, remembering Laura's words and matching them
to what Dolores was saying. Then, with a proud smile, he folded the
blade back into the knife and carefully handed it back. "She is right,
Enrique. I am the man of the house, and it is my job to teach you such
things."
He looked over at Dolores and gave her a quick wink. She smiled and
winked back at him. "Indeed, the man of the house."
The pair turned to Ysabel, who had been sitting quietly at the table.
"And you, sister," Arnie asked, "what treasure did the Kings leave for
you?"
"Hair ribbons, just like I asked for." Ysabel turned her head. Her
hair was tied into a long ponytail by a bronze-colored ribbon that
Dolores had never seen before. She held up another, this one turquoise,
in her hand. "And this beautiful blouse." She put down the ribbon and
showed them a pale blue blouse with a darker blue ruffled collar.
Dolores studied the items -- and the look on Ysabel's face. "They are
very, very pretty. I am certain that he will be impressed."
"He?"
Ysabel tried to sound innocent. "I do not know what you mean."
Constanza giggled. "She means Stephan Yingling. You _know_ you got a
crush on him." The two boys chuckled along with Constanza.
"I do not!" Ysabel said quickly.
Dolores stood up and put a hand on her cousin's shoulder. "Let us get
dressed, so we can make breakfast for everyone."
"Very well." Ysabel glared at her younger sister and brother. "I
suppose that _children_ do have to eat." She started towards her
bedroom door.
Dolores was right behind her. As she closed the door after herself, she
added, "And while we get dressed -- in private -- you can tell me more
about this boy that you do not have a crush on."
* * * *
"Wish we didn't have to be so careful with this brush," Stephan Yingling
complained. "It'd be a lot easier if we could just take an axe to it."
He was slowly digging down to expose the roots of some burro brush at
the side of the hill.
"We're gonna use that one to hide the door," Emma told him. "It's thick
enough that nobody'll ever see that there's anything behind it."
"That's why we gotta be careful with the sod, too," Yully Stone chimed
in. "Once we got the fort built and buried, we'll put the sod back and
nobody'll ever know there's an underground fortress beneath it."
Yully went back to cutting the sod into squares about a yard on each
side. When he was done with a section, Tomas and Emma loosened the last
of the dirt, pulled each piece out and stacked them nearby.
* * * * *
"Daisy," Rosalyn asked, walking into the kitchen, "do we have any
liniment?" She kneaded her left shoulder as she spoke.
The black woman thought for a moment. "Yes'm, I keeps it in the
pantry."
"Would you get it for me please? I fear that Clyde Ritter and I...
overdid things somewhat." She put her hand in the small of her back and
stretched, moaning slightly as she did.
Daisy laughed. "You always was an eager one, Miss Rosalyn. I'll go
fetch it." She hurried into the walk-in pantry, returning almost at
once with a large green bottle. "You wants I should rub it on you?"
"No, but thank you," Rosalyn told her. "I, ah... ache in several
places. I intend to go upstairs, apply the liniment where it's needed,
and lie down for a bit. There doesn't seem to be anything happening at
the moment; is there?"
Daisy shook her head in agreement. "No, ma'am, there ain't. The Lady
is in her office listening to that fancy music box of hers. My Jonas is
down in the basement with Herve putting away some liquor that one of Mr.
Mackecknie's mule skinners brung over, and the other ladies is all
upstairs."
"All of them? I didn't think we were that busy this early in the day."
"Miss Mae's the only one still got a gentleman. Miss Beatriz is
sleeping in, I thinks." She remembered something. "Oh, and Miss
Wilma's over visiting her sister." She paused a moment. "You sure you
don't need me t'help with that liniment?"
Rosalyn smiled sweetly. "No, Daisy. I'm quite sure that I can get it
exactly where it needs to go."
* * * * *
"Another tamale, anyone?" Carmen held up the plate. There were only
three left of the pile she had brought to the table.
Laura shook her head. "Not me. Mrs. Lonnigan says it's too easy for me
to overeat... especially when the food is this good." Everyone else
seemed to agree.
"Can I have some more of the chocolate?" Carmen's older son, Jose,
asked. She poured him another glass, then refilled the glasses for
Ernesto and Lupe.
"Do you need help?" Maggie asked.
Carmen shook her head. "No, I'll just get the rosca." She stood up and
started for the kitchen.
"My favorite part of the feast," Whit said. "It's a lovely custom --
and a good excuse for a very fine dessert."
Carmen turned. "As if you need an excuse." She hurried to the kitchen
and returned moments later with a large plate covered with a cloth.
"Before we cut the rosca, does anyone remember the 'Song of the Three
Kings'?"
"I do," Whit said. "You and Ramon... ummm, you worked long and hard
teaching it to me." He stood and began to sing in a gravelly tenor
voice.
"The Wise Men are coming.
The Wise Men are coming,
On their way to Bethlehem.
Ole, ole, Holy Land and ole.
The Holy Land can be seen..."
Carmen, Maggie, and the children joined in. As she sang, Maggie
couldn't help glancing over at the empty chair where Ramon _should_ have
been sitting. 'A man must work,' she thought. 'At least I will see him
at the dance tonight.'
"Carrying lots of toys
Carrying lots of toys
For the children in Bethlehem
Ole, ole, Holy Land and ole.
The Holy Land can be seen..."
As soon as the song ended, Carmen pulled the cloth away. The rosca was
a cake in the shape of a ring, covered with strips of candied fruit and
dusted with powdered sugar.
"Very nice," Arsenio said. "Just like you described it, Whit."
Whit nodded. "I thought that you and Laura would enjoy the party;
that's why Carmen and I invited you."
"Besides," Carmen added, "you and Maggie are... sisters of a sort, and
it is good to be with family on a day like this."
Maggie looked at Laura's expanded waist. "You can have such a party
yourself, when your little one is old enough."
"I-I suppose," Laura answered. "So how do we do this?"
Carmen picked up a silver cake knife. "Each of us cuts a piece of the
rosca, the ring. A small clay model of the baby Jesus is baked inside
it. Whoever cuts that piece wins -- sort of."
"Sort of is right," Whit said with a laugh. "Whoever finds the baby has
to throw a party on February 2nd, Candlemas, for everyone who's at this
party." He took the knife from Carmen. "Well, here goes nothing." He
cut a slice and transferred it to his own plate.
"Do you have it?" Laura asked.
Whit shrugged. "Sometimes you can't tell till you start eating. We'll
hold off till everybody cuts themselves a slice."
"I am next." Carmen took the knife from her husband and cut a wedge from
it. Then she and Jose both held the knife while he cut his piece. Jose
was four, the same age as Lupe. Maggie did the same for Ernesto and
Lupe before she cut her own piece of cake. Finally, Laura and Arsenio
each cut themselves a slice. Felipe, Carmen and Whit's infant son, got
some of his mother's cake.
"Can we cut a slice for Uncle Ramon?" Lupe asked.
"We will save him one," Carmen told her.
"If he is not here," Maggie added, trying to keep the disappointment out
of her voice, "he cannot be looking for the baby."
"There's still a lot of that... rosca left." Laura tried to change the
subject. "What if that baby is still in where we didn't cut?"
"Then we try again," Carmen said. "Delivering a baby can take time."
She chuckled. "You may find that out for yourself in a few months."
Laura laughed nervously. "Just so the Doc doesn't have to use a knife
t'get it out. Can we start eating now?"
"Si," Carmen said, taking a forkful of her own cake.
Everyone was quiet until Ernesto suddenly jumped up. "I found it; I
found it." Everyone looked. An enamel figure of an infant was half
exposed in the cake on the boy's plate.
* * * * *
"Hey there, Herve," Wilma said as she walked through the door and into
_La_ _Parisienne_. "How they hanging?"
Herve chuckled, used to the sexual banter between himself and Cerise's
ladies. "Large and proud, as always. Did you have a good visit with
your sister?"
"I did. Anything going on over here?"
"Oui. I believe that there is a gentleman in the parlor who has been
eagerly awaiting your return."
"I do love it when they're eager. You tell him that I'm here, and I'll
be down t'see him in half a tick. I want to get myself ready for him."
She hurried past Herve towards the steps.
* * * *
Emma put another board atop the stack on her old wagon. "I think we're
going to have to make another couple trips." She and Yully had gone
back to her family's barn for another load of lumber. The hill was dug
away, and the two of them, plus Stephan Yingling and Tomas Rivera, were
building the frame of what would be their underground fort.
"Maybe this'll help." Yully held a long coil of rope he'd spotted in a
corner of the barn. "We can use it to tie on more lumber."
"Maybe even a piece of the furniture or two." Emma said. "We need to
have the pieces inside the fort before we finish the walls. We'd never
get them through the tunnel."
"I know. That thing's coming along pretty good. We dug out the side of
the hill quicker'n I thought we would." He stood and flexed his arms a
bit. "Hard work, too." He and Stephan Yingling had done most of the
digging.
Emma stopped and looked at him, at the way his shirt stretched tight
over the muscles of his arms and chest. She felt an odd, but somehow
pleasant tingle run through her. 'Must be getting tired,' she thought.
She went back to work, loading lumber onto the wagon, but she couldn't
resist glancing at Yully every now and then.
* * * * *
Wilma had worn a scarf against the slight chill. She tossed it onto her
dresser. Her reticule went in the bottom drawer. She did a quick
inspection in the full-length mirror near her bed. 'Perfect,' she
thought, turning this way and that. No stains or dirt on her dress and
the "warpaint" on her face wasn't smudged.
She sat on the bed and opened the top drawer of her night table. She
took out a small box and set it down next to her. The box held six
brown, doughy-looking spheres, each about the size of a walnut. These
were pessaries, vaginal suppositories that Wilma and the other ladies
used along with condoms to keep from getting pregnant.
"What the?" She crinkled her nose at the odd smell when she opened the
box. Some of the spheres looked... off. She picked one up using two
fingers like tongs and brought it to her nose. "Liniment?" she said,
raising an eyebrow.
She held the sphere in her palm for a moment. Her skin warmed in
reaction to the chemical on the pessary. "If I'd put this in..." she
shivered at the thought of what the liniment would have done to her
"working parts."
The sphere went back in the box. 'Thank Heavens I don't keep all my
eggs in one basket,' Wilma thought, as she put the box back in the bed
table.
Daisy usually made a dozen pessaries at a time for each lady. Wilma
kept half in the box by her bed. The others were in a second box in the
same dresser drawer that she'd put her reticule in. She quickly checked
these. Yes, whoever it was -- hell, it had to be Rosalyn -- that had
ruined the first six hadn't gotten to these others.
"Wouldn't do t'mess with Rosalyn right now when there's so many folks
about," Wilma said to herself. "Besides I'm as 'eager' for some fun as
that gent waiting for me downstairs." She laughed. "Be a lot quieter
on Sunday. I'll see to Rosalyn then." She clenched her fists. "Maybe
I'll even let her try out one them pessaries she made for me -- if she's
still conscious."
* * * * *
Ramon turned nervously to Dolores. "Do they have to stare at me... at
us like that?" They were on the sofa at her cousin's house. Teresa
Diaz and Ysabel were putting the finishing touches on the dinner table,
while her two youngest children sat watching Ramon and Dolores.
"Courage," Dolores whispered. "It won't be much longer." In a louder
voice, she added, "So, Constanza, Enrique, why don't you show Seá±or de
Aguilar what the Kings brought you?"
Constanza slid off her chair. She had been playing with a doll and she
cradled it in her arms as she walked towards the sofa. "Her name is
Juanita. She's just a baby."
"And a very pretty baby she is, too," Dolores told her. "Do you take
care of her like your mama takes... took care of you when you were
little?"
The girl smiled. "Oh, yes. I dress her and I tell her stories and I am
even going to let her sleep in my bed with me -- if she behaves."
"I am sure that she will," Ramon said. "She seems like a very well
behaved little one." He glanced over at Enrique for a moment before
asking Constanza. "And what did your brothers and your sister get?"
Enrique made a face. "Ysabel got clothes. She _asked_ for them."
"Girl's do that sometimes." Ramon had to smile at the boy's
mortification over his sister's presents. "They want to look pretty
like your cousin, Dolores..." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
"...or your mama."
"Thank you, Ramon," Teresa called over from across the room. "Enrique,
tell him what you got?"
Enrique grinned and reached into a pocket. "I got this knife." He
pulled it out. "Isn't she a beauty?"
"Just remember, Enrique, you are not to play with that thing in the
house."
The boy shook his head. "I won't, mama. I promised Arnoldo that I
wouldn't even open it again until he is there to teach me how to use
it."
"Oh really?" Teresa asked, sounding a little dubious.
Arnie came in from the back room with an extra chair. "He promised me,
and I will be sure that he keeps his word." He grinned at Dolores.
"That is what big brothers do, or so I am told."
"It is, indeed," Ramon answered. "My own brother taught me how to use a
knife when I was about Enrique's age."
Teresa turned towards Ramon. "How is Gregorio? I have not seen him in
ages."
"He keeps very busy at the old ranchero over on the other side of the
Hassayampa River. I have not seen him since early last summer. He does
write me, though, so I know that he is well."
"The next time you write him, please tell him that I said, 'hello,'
would you?"
Ramon nodded. "I will be glad to."
"Thank you." Teresa went over to check the oven. "In the meantime, the
tamales are ready, so everyone come to the table."
* * * * *
"Great Heavens, Emma, what have you been up to?" Kaitlin stared at her
daughter. "You're.... You're filthy."
Emma looked down at herself and smiled. That was the sort of question
Elmer had often gotten. It was nice to hear it again. "Me and Tomas
was just playing."
"The two of you play all the time. You haven't gotten this dirty
since... since I don't remember when." Kaitlin made it a point not to
talk about the accident when she didn't have to.
Emma gave her a self-satisfied nod. "Yeah, but this is the first
weekend that we could really have us some real fun. Doc Upshaw took his
cast off on Wednesday."
"So you two decided to celebrate by digging to China. Well, get
upstairs and take those clothes off. Put a robe on, too. You can take
a long bath after dinner tonight. You'll need one to scrub away the top
layers of soil on you."
Emma headed for the stairs. "Yes'm."
"At least she wore pants and an old shirt of Elmer's instead of one of
her new dresses," Trisha noted.
Kaitlin's face soured. "Small blessing that. I was hoping that she was
finished with such things."
"We seem to have a tomboy on our hands," Trisha said with a proud smile.
"Don't be getting so happy, Trisha. This ends any ideas _you_ might
have had for this evening. It'll take a long bath to get that child's
body clean and a longer one, I expect, to get the last of the dirt out
of her hair. I'll have to be helping her, especially with the hair.
After that, and my own bath, it will be too late for anything but
sleep."
* * * * *
Enrique looked down at the slice of the rosca he'd just cut. "No sign
of the infant," he said, happily.
Teresa disagreed. "Do not be so sure. Sometimes the infant is not
found until you start to eat your slice."
"It's not in my slice," Enrique said confidently. "Here, Stanzi, it's
your turn." He handed the knife to his sister.
Constanza took the knife and began to cut a piece. 'I hope I don't find
it,' she thought, but even as she did, she felt something resisting the
knife.
"I found it," she shouted. "Oh, but how can I throw a party?" She
looked at the others at the table.
Arnie looked at her. "Hurry up, Constanza."
"What?" She looked at her older brother wondering why he was teasing
her now.
Arnie frowned. "I said, hurry up." When she didn't move, he carefully
took the cake knife from her hands. "If you won't finish cutting our
piece of cake, then I will."
"Our piece?" She looked at him and blinked.
Arnie smiled back at her. "Sure, we're going to share this piece.
'Course that means you'll have to let me help with the Candlemas party."
He shrugged. "I guess that's just something that a big brother has to
do."
* * * * *
"We are here," Dolores said, as she walked into the Saloon with Ramon.
"And right on time for the dance, too. Thank you for walking me over."
"After the fine time I had at your cousin's house, I should be thanking
you," Ramon told her.
Dolores put her hand on his cheek. "Why don't we thank each other?"
She put a hand on each side of his face and pulled him towards her. The
kiss was deep and full of passion.
And it lasted just long enough for Maggie, who was looking out from the
kitchen, watching for Ramon to arrive, to see them kiss.
* * * * *
Sunday, January 7, 1872
"More, anyone?" Carmen asked.
Ramon reached for the serving plate. "I will have more of the eggs and
sausage. They are delicious, Margarita."
"I am so glad that you like them," Maggie said coldly.
Ramon gave her an odd look. "What do you mean?"
"I had thought that you preferred _Dolores'_ cooking to mine," Maggie
told him. "That certainly was true yesterday."
"Is that it?" Ramon said with a sigh. "Is that why you would not talk
to me, even when we danced together last night, because I did not come
to your party for the Dia de los Reyes Magos?"
"I am not mad that you did not come to _my_ party," Maggie answered.
"I-I am mad that you... you lied and went to _hers_."
"And now he is at _ours_," Carmen interrupted. "This is supposed to be
a nice family desayuno, a meal we can all enjoy together after church.
I will not have such fighting in front of my children, and, Margarita,
you should not behave this way in front of yours."
Maggie glanced over at Ernesto. He quickly looked down at his plate
and took another forkful of eggs. Lupe stared back at her mother, eyes
wide and worried. Maggie blinked, and her cheeks flushed pink.
"Excuse me." She rose without explanation and walked stiffly into
Carmen's kitchen.
"Margarita." Ramon stood up and started after her.
Carmen took him by the wrist. "Ramon, stop."
"Carmen!" He tried to step around her, but she dug in her heels and
held him fast.
She shook her head. "No, brother. Right now, you are the last one
that Margarita needs to talk to." She pointed back at the table. "Go
back and have those eggs that you liked -- that _she_ cooked for you.
I will talk to her."
Ramon was about to answer when he felt a hand, Whit's hand, on his
shoulder. "I think she just may be right, Ramon. Let be for now."
"I... very well," Ramon sighed. "Eating those eggs and sausage seems
to be the only thing that I can do right this morning."
* * * * *
Yully reached into the pouch tied to his belt. Empty. "I need some
more nails, somebody," he yelled to the others working with him on the
fort.
"You'll have to get them yourself," Emma answered. "We're all busy,
too." She and Tomas were carrying a chest of drawers into the wooden
framework of the fort. The drawers themselves were still in the wagon.
They would go in next.
"I can't help either," Stephan Yingling chimed in. He pulled a nail
from his own pouch and began to hammer it in, attaching a long
horizontal board to the framework.
"Where are the nails?" a new voice asked. Everyone turned to see...
"Ysabel," Tomas said in surprise. "What're you doing here?"
Emma stared at her friend. "Yeah, how'd... how'd you know about what
we was doing?"
"I was there when you told those two..." Ysabel pointed at Stephen and
Yully. "...about it, and showed them the pictures, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, you were, weren't you," Yully said. "We just didn't think
you was interested. Besides, if you were, where was you yesterday
instead of helping us?"
"I got stuck at home," she answered quickly. "We were having a party
for the Dia de los Reyes Magos -- a holiday for us. I had to stay
there and help with the cooking and the cleaning."
"But I'm here now," she added, "and I want to help. Where are those
nails Yully wanted?"
Emma pointed as she and Tomas set the chest down inside the framework.
"Over there by my wagon."
"Say," Stephan asked, "do you know how to use a hammer'n nails?"
Ysabel hesitated a moment. "Some. I haven't done it in a while,
though."
"Let's just see how well you remember." Stephan walked over towards
the wagon. "Toss me your pouch, Yully." The other boy untied his
pouch and threw it straight to him.
When Stephan reached the wagon, he refilled Yully's pouch and his own
from a large bag of nails resting against one wheel. "C'mon, Ysabel."
He turned and walked back to where he'd been working. Ysabel hurried
behind him.
"Here." He handed her a nail and his hammer. Then he pointed to the
board he'd been working on. Yully, Emma, and Tomas came over to watch.
The board hung down, attached to the framework at one end by a single
nail. Ysabel walked the length of the board, lifting it as she did.
When she reached the other end, the board was horizontal, with its end
flush against the framework.
She propped the board with one arm and held the nail between her
fingers. She tapped it a half dozen times before she took her hand
away. The nail stayed in the board. It stuck straight out. She
braced the board with one hand and swung the hammer. It took more
strokes than it would have taken Yully or Stephan, but the head of the
nail was soon flush with the surface of the board. And the board was
firmly attached to the framework.
Stephan inspected her work closely. "Looks like we got us another
carpenter." He patted Ysabel on the back. She blushed and managed not
to giggle. The others also took a moment to congratulate her. Then
they all got back to work.
* * * * *
Carmen walked into the kitchen carrying a tray full of dirty dishes,
cups, and silverware. "Are you feeling any better, Margarita?"
"Not really," Maggie answered. She was standing at the sink, scraping
a small bit of burnt sausage out of a frying pan. "Are the children --
"
"Your children are playing outside with my Jose," Carmen told her.
"Felipe is in his playpen, and Whit is... upstairs."
"And Ramon?" Maggie asked, hesitation in her voice.
"Also upstairs. He and Whit are playing chess in Ramon's rooms."
Ramon lived in what had been the guesthouse when the property had
belonged to his and Carmen's parents.
Maggie looked towards the ceiling for a moment. "Why don't they play
down here as they usually do? Was Ramon in that much of a hurry to get
away from me?"
"It was Whit's idea. He thought that you needed time to let your anger
cool."
"Do you think my anger is not justified? I asked him to come to a
party, and he... he..." Her voice broke.
Carmen finished the thought. "He goes to Dolores' party instead. Your
anger is not unjustified, but it _is_ misplaced. Dolores did ask him
first, and he could only take the time from work to go to one party."
"Why are you defending him?"
"Because, no matter how foolishly he may be acting, he is still my
brother. And besides," Carmen took a breath, "the fault is partly
yours."
"Mine! How is it my fault?"
"It is your fault that the poor man is so confused. Look what you said
to him. I like you, Ramon. Help me with my problems, Ramon. Court
me, Ramon." She raised a finger as if ticking off each item. "And
then you say, do not court me, Ramon. I must put my children first,
Ramon. Just be my friend, Ramon. No wonder he is confused."
"But... Dolores."
"'But Dolores', indeed. _She_ does not confuse him. They were children
together. She went away, but now she is back. She is pretty. She
flatters him and tells him that she wants to be with him. She does not
push him away or say that others come first. Why should he not be
attracted to her?"
"Then you think she has won?"
"If I did, Margarita, I would not be in here talking to you like this.
You lost the 'Battle of the Three Kings' -- maybe, but, as my Whit
says, you have not lost the war."
"What do you mean?"
"How do you think Ramon feels right now?"
"Guilty -- I hope -- for what he did."
"Si, and do you think Dolores wants him to feel guilty?" Maggie shook
her head, and Carmen continued. "That is right; she wants him to feel
happy. When you were a man, who was better, a woman who wanted you to
feel guilty or one who wanted you to feel happy?"
"The one that wanted me to be happy, of course."
"Then be that woman. Apologize to --"
Maggie stiffened. "I will _not_ apologize. Is it my fault that he
went to Dolores' party?"
"No, but it is your fault that you got mad at him."
"I had every right to be mad."
"Perhaps, but where did it get you? Try saying this, 'Oh, Ramon, I am
so sorry. I did not mean to get mad at you, but I was _so_
disappointed." Carmen pouted and put on an exaggeratedly sad
expression.
Maggie rolled her eyes and laughed. "You think that something as silly
as that will work on him?"
"Margarita, when you were Miguel and your Lupe pouted like that while
you were arguing, what happened?"
Maggie smiled, remembering, then laughed again. "I forgave her, of
course. Sometimes a man has no choice."
"Si, and Ramon will have no more choice than Miguel ever did."
* * * * *
"You interested, Mae?" Joe Ortlieb asked, standing up.
Mae stood quickly and took Joe's arm. "With you, Joe? Always." She
gave him a peck on the cheek and giggled softly.
"Then let's get to it." Joe grinned and led her towards the steps.
Rosalyn and Wilma watched them go. Now the two women were alone in the
parlor at _La_ _Parisienne_. Wilma leaned back and stretched like a
cat, giving a silent yawn. Rosalyn reached under a chair and pulled
out a copy of the latest issue of _Goodey's_ _Ladies_ _Book_. Lady
Cerise encouraged her ladies to keep up on the affairs of the world, so
long as they didn't read when men were about.
Rosalyn turned pages until she found the article she'd been looking at.
She settled back in her chair and began where she'd left off.
"You mind putting that down for a minute, Rosalyn," Wilma asked. "I
been wanting to talk with you."
Rosalyn didn't look up. "You're welcome to talk, but I have no
intention of listening to anything you might have to say."
"You'll listen to this." A note of anger crept into Wilma's voice. "I
want to talk to you about that liniment you --"
"I'm sure that you had a real _hot_ time with it," Rosalyn interrupted,
a nasty smile on her face. "You and whatever man was unfortunate
enough to be with you." She went back to her reading.
Wilma grabbed the magazine from her hands. As she did, the cover tore,
so that Rosalyn was still holding it. "My journal," Rosalyn yelled,
almost jumping to her feet. "How dare you?"
"How dare _I_?" Wilma answered. She grabbed the torn cover from
Rosalyn's hand and crumpled it into a small ball. "You try anything
else with me, bitch, and this..." She shoved the wad of paper in
Rosalyn's face. "And this'll be you."
Rosalyn sneered. "You wouldn't dare, you peasant slut."
The two women glared at each other. Their fingers arched like claws,
as if each were ready to attack.
"Hey, we gonna see us a cat fight?" a voice from the doorway asked.
The two women turned quickly. "Why if it isn't Mr. Phineas Pike and
Mr. Clay Falk." Rosalyn's voice turned low and seductive. "Is that
what you two boys want?"
"If I'm gonna wrestle with anybody..." Wilma's voice was just as
sexually inviting, "...I'd rather it was with one of you two handsome
fellahs."
Clay walked over and put an arm around Wilma's waist. "Well, now,
that's just what I had in mind when I came in."
"Same here." Finny walked over and took Rosalyn in his arms. She
moved in close and kissed him.
As the two couples walked towards the stairs, Wilma shifted arms, so
she was next to Rosalyn. She leaned in close and whispered, just loud
enough for the other woman to hear. "You just remember what I said,
bitch."
* * * * *
Martha Yingling heard someone at her kitchen door. "Who is -- good
heavens, Stephan, you're filthy."
All five, Emma, Yully, Stephan, Ysabel, and Tomas, had finished the
fort late in the afternoon. In their haste to bury it, they had been
sloppy, and all five had gone home _very_ dirty.
Stephan grinned in satisfaction at his mother. "Yes'm, I guess I am."
"Well, you're not coming into my clean kitchen like that." Martha
blocked the doorway. She was a rather plump woman, although only an
inch or two taller than her son. "Ruth," she called to her oldest
daughter.
Ruth Yingling was getting a serving bowl for the peas cooking on the
stove. "Yes, Mama?"
"Go get a spare blanket and a towel from the closet and hurry."
"Yes, Mama," Ruth said, running off.
Martha gave Stephen a closer look and clucked her tongue. "Just look
at you. You're wearing a pound of topsoil at least. Get undressed."
"Ma, out here on the porch?" The boy looked around. The porch was
closed in on three sides, and it was after dark. Still, someone
_might_ see him.
"Start with you shirt and your shoes," his mother told him. "You can
take off the pants when Ruth comes back with a blanket. In the
meantime, you fill that wash basin from the pump." She pointed to a
large metal basin hanging from a hook on one wall. "I'll bring some
soap for you. Be sure to wash your hands and face and neck. Oh, yes,
and do your hair, too. Stay out here till you're clean."
"What about supper?"
"What about it? You'll not be eating covered with all that dirt. Now
get started."
"Yes'm," Stephan said. He sighed and began unbuttoning his shirt.
A few minutes later, he was sitting at the edge of the porch untying
his left shoe. His shirt and undershirt were in a pile nearby. He
stopped when he heard the kitchen door slam behind him.
"Put the blanket and towel down anywhere, Ruth." He pulled off his
shoe and sock.
"Stand up, boy," a firm male voice ordered. "Now."
Stephan sprang to his feet. "Pa, yes, sir."
Reverend Thaddeus Yingling stared at his son. The boy's face and neck
looked like a blackamoor's. His hands and arms were black opera gloves
that stretched halfway to his elbows.
"My boy," the Reverend finally said, "if cleanliness is next to
godliness, then you are a world away from our Lord." He handed Stephan
a bar of yellow lye soap then continued. "How did you manage to get so
dirty?"
"I-I was playing with some of my friends."
"Playing what, dig to China?" He draped the blanket over Stephan's
shoulders, covering him down to his ankles. "Get out of those pants
while you're talking."
Stephan unbuttoned his pants. They fell to the floor and he quickly
stepped out of them. "We was just... playing. You know... playing
around like guys'll do."
"Judging from your clothes, I'm fairly certain that you and your
friends were digging." He began to work the pump handle. A stream of
water filled the basin. "I trust that you were not looking for gold,
not on the Sabbath."
The boy put his arms under the pump to wet them. He wet the soap in
the basin and began to work up a lather on his hands and arms. He
recognized his father's tone. It would be best for him to tell the
truth, but, somehow, he knew that he shouldn't. "No, sir. We... Uhh,
we cleared some land in the woods and, uhh, built us a fort. Today...
Today, we played at attacking and defending it. That... that's how I
got so dirty."
"A fort." Yingling stroked his beard in thought. "And whose idea was
it to build such a thing?"
"Do I have to say, Pa?" He rinsed his arms in the basin, whose water
was now quite black.
"No, but if you don't want to have to stand while you eat supper, you
will _tell_ me, and you will do so _immediately_."
"Emma, Pa, Emma O'Hanlan. She's the one that used to be a boy, and she
--"
"I know who she is."
By now, Stephan's limbs were clean. He dunked his head under the pump,
then started rubbing the soap into his wet hair. "She gets that
magazine, _Boys_ _of_ _America_, and it told how to do it."
"And she talked you into helping her with this foolish notion."
"It ain't foolish, Pa. It really ain't."
"Isn't, Stephan. Saying 'ain't' paints a man as unworthy of Grace."
"It _isn't_ foolish. Yully and me... and _I_ --"
"So, the Stone boy was involved as well. Who else?"
"Ah... umm, Tomas Rivera and... and Ysabel Diaz."
"I see. Well, I'm sure that none of them will escape some punishment
from their parents if they come home as filthy as you did." He stopped
and looked at Stephan. "You're lathered enough, I think. Come here
under the pump and let me rinse you off."
When Stephan put his head under the pump, his father worked the handle
again. The boy shivered as the cold water ran down from his hair.
"Clean enough," Yingling told the boy. "Dry off and get in the house.
You may leave those soiled clothes out here for now."
"You may eat supper in the blanket," Yingling continued. "It would be
cold by the time you got dressed."
"Thank you, Pa," Stephan said.
"Don't be so quick to thank me. You worked, you did hard manual labor
on the Sabbath, our Lord's day of rest. You shall balance that out
with some hard _mental_ labor. I'll expect a translation of another
ten arguments from Cicero's 'Treatise on Friendship' by Wednesday
evening." He pronounced the name as the Romans had, "Kick-ero."
Stephan wrapped the blanket around himself and sighed. "Yes, Pa." He
walked into the house, shoulders slumped. His younger brothers didn't
say anything, but his mother had to stop his sisters from giggling at
the way he looked.
Yingling tossed the water from the washbasin out into his yard, rinsed
it under the pump, and hung it back on its hook. "A fort," he muttered
softly, so no one inside could hear. "More military nonsense. That
boy is going to be a minister like his father, and no boy-turned-girl
is going to stop that from happening even if her... even if Trisha
O'Hanlan _is_ a member of the church board."
* * * * *
Monday, January 8, 1872
The early morning light filled the bedroom.
Laura was half sleep. 'Damned pillow,' she thought as she shifted
position. After a week, she still wasn't used to sleeping on her side
with a pillow between her legs.
"Mmmmf." Arsenio mumbled in his sleep. He was behind her, spooning
her. His left arm was draped over her, just below her breasts. She
could feel his breath on her shoulder.
She shifted again, and it woke him. "You all right, Laura?"
"Just trying to get comfortable," she answered.
He moved closer. "You just lean back against me." He lifted his head
to glance at the alarm clock on her nightstand. "It's early yet; you
can go back to sleep for a bit."
"If _I_ can." She sighed softly.
"What's the matter?"
"I... I'm scared. That -- what'd Molly call it? -- morning sickness
was bad enough. Now it feels like there's a ball inside my belly, and
it's getting bigger."
Arsenio's hand slid down to her stomach and along the small bulge.
"Feels nice."
"St-stop that." Laura shivered, fearing the extreme arousal his touch
sometimes caused in her. There was none of _that_, but she did feel
her nipples grow tight.
"Well, it does feel nice to me. There's nothing to worry about. It's
natural for a woman to show that she's pregnant."
"I know, but being pregnant is so... different from _anything_ I ever
expected to be. Mrs. Lonnigan's been a lot of help -- so has Molly --
telling me what's happening and what's... what's going to happen, but
last week, she -- Mrs. Lonnigan -- she... she said..." Her voice
trailed off.
Arsenio took her hand in his. "That the baby was going to start moving
inside you. That's what you're still scared about, isn't it?"
"She... Mrs. Lonnigan said I'd-I'd feel it."
"Did she say that it would be a bad thing if you did?"
"N-No, she acted like it was... normal."
"Then it is. It must just be a sign that the baby's growing the way
it's supposed to."
"Yeah, but... moving, and inside me. What am I going to do? Does
it... hurt?" Her body tensed, as if she were about to run.
"Don't think about what _you're_ going to do." He gently kissed her
shoulder. "Think about what _we're_ going to do."
"What _we're_ going to do?"
"Yep. 'Cause whatever happens when the baby starts moving, I'll be
there with you. You remember what Molly said when we asked her about
it?"
Laura nodded nervously. "Uh huhn. She said it was natural; the baby's
way of introducing itself to its mother."
"To its _parents_ is what she said. I'll be able to feel it almost as
soon as you will, especially if I'm holding you close." He kissed her
again. "As if I needed another reason to hold you close."
Laura put her hand over his. "You're a sweet man, Arsenio Caulder."
"Yes, I am," he joked. Then he moved even closer. "In the meantime,
if you'd like to feel something else moving inside you..." Laura felt
something hard press against her buttocks.
"Mmmm, I suppose that might be good practice."
* * * * *
The five of them met at lunch.
"Now that the fort's finished," Yully asked, "what're we gonna do with
it?"
Emma shook her head. "It ain't finished, not quite. We gotta make
sure that all that sod got put back right. It was dark by the time we
had it all laid down, and we couldn't tell if we done it right."
"We can check it out after school today," Tomas said.
Stephan shook his head. "Not me, sorry."
"What's the matter?" Yully asked.
"My folks hit the roof when I came home yesterday," Stephan complained.
"I had to all but take a bath before they'd let me in the house."
"A bath," Ysabel giggled, "right out there on your porch for everyone
to see."
Stephan shook his head. "Not a bath, but I did have to strip down to
my... uhh, union suit and wash off at the pump; even had to wash my
hair."
"You was the one that wanted us to put all that sod back in the dark,"
Yully reminded him.
Emma completed the thought. "And tripped over a piece and rolled down
the hill."
"I know," Stephan sighed, "and I'm surely paying for it. My pa says I
got to do three pages of Cicero for him by tomorrow night."
"Who or what the dickens is Cicero?" Yully asked.
"Some old Roman fellah," Stephan answered. "Pa's been teaching me
Latin, so I can go away to some finishing school like Junior did."
Thaddeus Yingling, Jr., Stephan's older brother, had been away at a
Methodist school in Ohio since early September.
"He wants to send you away," Ysabel gasped. "Oh, how dreadful." The
others nodded in agreement.
"He wants Junior and me to be preachers like him and Uncle Obediah and
grampa. Probably wants the same for Matt and Sam. Junior may want to,
but I ain't sure I do."
"I hope you don't go anywhere," Ysabel said. "Unless you want to, of
course," she added quickly.
Stephan shrugged and kept talking. "Like I said, I ain't sure what I
want to do, but there's other things that some extra learning can help
with. Anyways, I'm far enough along that Pa gives me translations to
do for practice. I started on this Cicero piece, 'On Friendship' just
after New Year's. Usually, Pa lets me set my own pace, do two or three
pages a week. For punishment, he said I gotta do the next three pages
by tomorrow night. That's why I can't go with you; I gotta go home and
work on that translation."
"That sounds like a good reason to me." Yully put an arm around his
friend's shoulder. "You can help out when you get that Cicero fellah
done."
"You just have to keep from getting so dirty that your papa gives you
more to do," Tomas added.
"One thing," Emma said, sounding very serious. "You gotta -- we _all_
gotta promise to keep the fort a secret."
Tomas looked puzzled. "Why? Why can't we tell anybody or even show it
off if we want to?"
"We can... in time," Emma said, "but we gotta be careful for now.
There's them that would want to wreck it or to take it away from us."
"Who would do that?" Tomas asked.
Yully made a face. "The Ritters, for one. Clyde'd love to have a
place like that for himself."
"Si," Ysabel said, looking over at to the table some distance away
where Clyde and a few of his cronies were having lunch. "Clyde is very
much the sort of thing that comes slinking out from a hole in the
ground."
Yully continued. "And 'Whiney Hermione' couldn't wait to tell Miss
Osbourne or our folks if she knew about it. She'd probably make it
sound like it was dangerous, too."
"It ain't dangerous," Emma protested. "We built extra supports into
the framework of the room and the tunnel, just like the magazine said
to."
"She wouldn't care," Stephan said. "It ain't -- isn't -- the sort of
thing that she would do, so, to her, it _has_ to be bad. She'd try to
make the all the adults think so, too. If she did, they'd close it up
-- maybe even punish us all for building it."
Emma looked at the others. "You know, I've been thinking that we need
a name for the fort."
"So?" Yully asked.
"So," Emma answered. "How about we call it 'Fort Secret'? Secret by
name and secret by nature." She put out her arm, palm down, a few
inches above the table.
One by one, the others, Yully, Stephen, Ysabel, and Tomas, put their
hands on hers. When all five hands were stacked together, they all
softly repeated, "Fort Secret, secret by name and secret by nature."
* * * * *
The jangle of the bell over the door brought Kirby Pinter back from the
Jules Verne novel he was reading. "Looks like the Baltimore Gun Club
will have to wait," he said, closing the book. "Can I help you ma'am?"
"Yeah, I'm Jessie Hanks, and I --"
"Oh, yes, Miss Hanks. I've heard you sing over at Mr. O'Toole's
saloon. You're quite good." He stuck out a hand. "I'm Kirby Pinter,
by the way, and I'm very pleased to meet you."
Jessie shook his hand. "Thanks. You got any songbooks in here?"
Pinter smiled, happy to show off his wares. "You've come to the right
place. I've all manner of books, new and used, and I'm sure that I
have a few songbooks."
He stood up from the stool he'd been sitting on. He was a short man,
only a few inches taller than Jessie, in his 30s with thinning brown
hair. He had a round face partially hidden by a burnsides, a mustache
that arched across his cheeks and merged into his sideburns. "Please
follow me."
"I need one with the words _and_ the music."
"New material for your act, I expect. I believe that I've got a couple
of books that might be what you're looking for."
Pinter's store was small, with tall bookcases along all the walls.
Papers tacked to each shelve told the sort of books it held. Four long
tables, also piled high with books, took up most of the floor space.
He led Jessie past the tables to a bookcase with one section labeled
"Arts and Music."
"Here we are," he said. He moved things around on a shelf, so that
three books were standing upright at one end. "Any of these should do.
I'll just leave you to them. Please let me know if you need any more
help." He nodded and walked back to the counter.
Jessie looked at the books. The first, _Anglican_ _Hymns_, was of
little use. The second, a book of children's songs and games, did have
a couple of songs she might use. The third one looked promising.
"_Songs_ _of_ _the_ _Ozark_ _Hills_ _and_ _Other_ _Popular_ _American_
_Music_," she read aloud. She took the book from the shelf and opened
it. "There's a whole section of Stephan Foster songs in here, and
'Yankee Doodle', and a bunch of other tunes I already know, but
here's... I don't know that one or that one either." She read down the
table of contents. "Hell, there's more'n enough in here."
She turned to the first unknown song. "Nice," she said, considering
the words. "Music sounds good." She hummed the first few notes.
Reading music was a skill she'd picked up over the years.
Jessie closed the book and walked over to Pinter with it under her arm.
"How much?"
"The price is written inside." He took the book and showed her where
he'd penciled in the price. "This is two dollars." When he saw her
frown, he corrected himself. "But, since I look forward to hearing you
singing some of these tunes, is a dollar all right?"
Jessie smiled, and opened her reticule for the money. "More'n all
right, and the first one I sing'll be for you."
* * * * *
Tuesday, January 9, 1872
Ernesto looked up from his Reader. He'd been reviewing the spelling
words from one of the stories, sitting behind the counter at
Silverman's. "Zayde," he asked Aaron Silverman, who was standing at
the nearby cash register, "is it quiet enough in the shop so I can ask
Uncle Ramon a question?"
"Look around," the shopkeeper told him, "does it seem busy to you?"
Ernesto shook his head. "No, the only customer in the store is a lady,
and Bubbie Rachel is helping her."
"So, is that quiet enough for you?" Aaron asked. The boy shrugged, and
Aaron added, "Go. Ask."
"Thank you, Zayde." Ernesto jumped down from his stool. "I will be
right back."
Aaron chuckled, as he watched the boy walk over to Ramon, his back
stiff as a soldier's. "Like an almond that boy is, so much in a hurry
to blossom, as the sages say."
"Uncle Ramon," Ernesto asked, "can I talk to you?"
Ramon turned and smiled at the boy. "Certainly, Ernesto, what do you
want to talk about?"
"The Dia de los Reyes."
"Oh, si. What did the three kings give you?"
"A pair of fighting tops; you set them going and see which one knocks
the other over."
"I had a set like that years ago. Maybe, I will come over and try them
out with you."
Ernesto brightened. "Do you mean it? You do not come over as much as
you used to."
"I know... and I am sorry. Is that what you wanted to talk to me
about, that I did not come to your mama's party?"
"Sort of. On Dia de la Reyes... when we cut the rosca... _I_ was the
one who found the Baby Jesus."
"You did? Well, good for you."
"Thank you, but maybe it is not so good. I found the rosca, so I have
to give the party for everyone on Candlemas Day."
Ramon smiled at the boy's seriousness and tousled his hair. "Is that
really a problem? I am certain that your mama does not expect you to
do that."
"But I _want_ to do it. I am the man of the house, and she _should_
expect me to do it."
"I see." Ramon nodded, beginning to see the boy's problem.
"And I _can_ do it." Ernesto took a deep breath. "If you will help
me."
"Me? Why do you not just ask your mama for help?"
"Because that would be the same as saying that I cannot do it.
Besides," he continued. "If I am the man, shouldn't I ask another man
for help?" He looked up at Ramon, eyes wide with hope. "Please, Uncle
Ramon. Please."
Ramon smiled gently and tousled the boy's hair again. "All right,
seá±or. I will be honored to help you."
* * * * *
Abner Slocum settled back in his chair and took a long sup of after-
dinner brandy. "Matthew, didn't you say something about going into
town tomorrow?"
"Yes, Uncle Abner," Cap answered. "I'm riding in about mid day.
There's some supplies Tuck asked me to pick up. I'll have dinner with
Bridget and ride back up afterwards with Arsenio Caulder."
"Is it that time already? Seems like only a couple of weeks ago that
he was up here shoeing horses."
"No, sir, three months, just like you and he agreed. Besides the
horses that need shoeing, there're some tools that need fixing: an ax
that needs a new edge, a broken branding iron, and such."
"I'm surprised he's willing to come up the night before, what with his
wife expecting."
"True, but with these short January days and what all we have for him
to do, he'd probably wind up staying the night if he rode up first
thing in the morning."
"You're probably right." Slocum paused a moment. "Still, that's not
the reason I asked in the first place." He paused again. "I'd be
happier if you would cancel your dinner with Miss Kelly and head
straight out here with Arsenio."
"Uncle Abner, you've been saying things like that for days now. What
turned you against Bridget? I've asked and asked, and you keep putting
me off."
"Until today, all I had were my suspicions."
"What changed today?"
"I got this." He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. He
looked at it, then handed it to Cap.
Cap read the address. "Texas Board of Military Affairs, Official
Document -- you asked your friend, Issachar Bailey, for Bridget's war
record, didn't you?"
"I did."
"What gave you the right to do that?"
"The fact that I invested a goodly sum of money in her, as well as
giving her the weight of my own good name by doing so."
"You knew who she was when you grubstaked her. Why do this now?"
"I knew that she'd been an outlaw, yes, but I had thought that her
actions since she came to Eerie had redeemed her."
"They have." He held up the letter. "Whatever's in here is ancient
history."
"The War Between the States is still very much with us, thank you. Ask
Tuck about his lost leg if you think that it isn't. And cowardice
under fire, fomenting mutiny, and the theft of military supplies during
wartime are not so easily redeemable."
"If any of those charges are true."
"Those papers in your hand say that they are. Look at them."
"Uncle Abner, I was in the navy for almost five years, and I know that
the truth and what gets written up as the truth in military records can
be poles apart."
"Not in something like this." He shook his head. "You're thinking
with your Johnson, Matthew."
"_Especially_ in something like this. And even if I am, I won't believe
any of it until I hear Bridget's side of things."
* * * * *
'Now or never,' Trisha thought. She moved over a few inches in the bed
and ran a finger along Kaitlin's hip. "You awake?"
Kaitlin shifted. "I am now, Trisha. What do you want?"
"I was just, uhh... wondering; it's the middle of the night, and Emma's
a sound sleeper. I thought maybe we could, ummm, do... like we did the
other night." Trisha's hand moved, and she began to gently rub
Kaitlin's hip.
The rubbing felt good, very good. It was a trick that Patrick had used
more than once to initiate a session of lovemaking. She sighed softly,
remembering some of those nights. "So, you woke me up because you want
to do... it."
"I did, and I do." Trisha leaned over and kissed the back of Kaitlin's
neck.
Kaitlin shivered from the kiss. "Mmm, you do seem to need it just now,
don't you?"
"I said I do." She kissed Kaitlin's neck again.
"Didn't you say -- and more than once, I might add -- that women didn't
need _it_ the way men do?"
"Are you starting that again? I'm still a man, Kaitlin, even if I do
have this damned woman's body."
Kaitlin stiffened for just a moment. 'Damned? We'll just see about
that.' She twisted around in the bed so that she was facing Trisha.
"Shall we get to it, then?" Without another word, she took Trisha's
head in her hands and pulled it to her own. Their lips met in a
passionate kiss. Trisha's arms rose of their own accord and wrapped
themselves around Kaitlin's neck.
When they finally, reluctantly, broke the kiss, Trisha was smiling.
"That was nice."
"It was, indeed, and it'll get nicer, but first..." Kaitlin sat up and
began to unbutton Trisha's nightgown. Trisha watched for a moment,
then she sat up and did the same to Kaitlin.
The nightgowns were identical, white cotton trimmed with lace, with
buttons down the front. When Kaitlin had unbuttoned Trisha's down to
her waist, she stopped and pushed Trisha's hands away from her own
nightgown.
"What?" Trisha asked, uncertain of what Kaitlin was doing. "Why do you
want me to stop?"
"So I can do this." Kaitlin slid the nightgown off Trisha's shoulders
and down to her elbows. Kaitlin leaned forward and began to suckle at
Trisha's right breast, lapping at it like a kitten. At the same time,
she began to massage Trisha's left breast, rubbing her finger against
the nipple.
Trisha tried to reach for Kaitlin, but her nightgown effectively pinned
her arms. "Let me get this... ohhh!" Trisha trembled as Kaitlin
playfully nipped her breast.
Kaitlin pushed with her right arm, and Trisha fell back onto the bed.
Kaitlin smiled; she was using all of the tricks that Patrick had used
on her, and she found that she enjoyed being in charge. Best of all,
she was getting Trisha to behave like the woman that she felt Trisha
had to become if she was ever going to have a normal life.
And to Kaitlin, a normal life was the best foundation for Trisha to
build a happy life on.
She moved slowly downward, kissing and biting Trisha's breasts and on
down to her belly. Her left hand never left Trisha's breast. When she
reached the new woman's navel, her tongue swirled in. Kaitlin felt
Trisha's trembling and heard her moan.
Trisha felt the warmth spreading through her body, the need growing in
her. She tried to move, but Kaitlin's weight pushed her down. Her
arms were still tangled in the nightgown. 'Can't get out of... oooh!
...this d-damned n-night -- oohh! -- gown,' she thought. The
delicious hunger Kaitlin was creating in her was a terrible -- a
wonderful! -- distraction.
Kaitlin's hand moved down. She ran a finger through the blonde curls
at the entrance to Trisha's slit. She heard a moan and smelled the
familiar scent of female arousal. "Want me to keep going?"
"Y-yes," Trisha gasped, her breath shallow.
"Then ask me for it -- ask nice." She moved her finger along the slit,
this time using her nail to add to the sensation.
"P-Please..."
"Say... 'Pretty Please', Trisha."
Trisha moved her hips, trying to keep the contact with Kaitlin's
finger. "Pl... please, Kaitlin, pr-pretty please, g-give me s-s...
give me s-sex."
"That's my girl," Kaitlin said. She quickly stuck two fingers into
Trisha, who moaned in delight. Kaitlin began an in-and-out motion that
Trisha soon matched with her hips.
Trisha moaned, her head back and her eyes half-closed. "Y-yes!" she
gasped and arched her back.
Kaitlin felt her own nipples grow taut. She felt the need in her own
groin. Her free hand rose to fondle her breast, and she let out a
small gasp. She wanted to satisfy her own needs, but she kept her
fingers inside Trisha.
Kaitlin's hand moved downward from her breast to her own nether
opening. She slid a finger in; she was wet herself and more than
ready. In a moment, both her hands were moving in tandem, each
exciting a different woman's innermost self.
Trisha's hands trembled, and she clawed at the sheet beneath her. A
moment later, her eyes opened wide, and she cried out in delight as
pleasure raced like a locomotive throughout her body.
Kaitlin's own orgasm hit her at almost the same time. She screamed and
collapsed on top of Trisha.
"Ohh, my," Kaitlin said when she could speak again. "I certainly
enjoyed that. Did you?"
"Y-yes," Trisha answered, still a little breathless.
Kaitlin helped Trisha free herself from the nightgown. The two lay
back down on the bed. This time, Kaitlin maneuvered it so that
Trisha's head was resting on _her_ shoulder. She reached down and
caressed Trisha's breasts. "A woman needs a bit of attention...
after," she explained.
"Should I do it to you, too?" Trisha asked, feeling a sort of happy
warmth spreading through her.
"No, Trisha, just let me do you."
After a while, the caresses stopped as Kaitlin drifted back off to
sleep, a satisfied smile on her face.
'Damn, she got me again.' Trisha thought back on what had just
happened. 'Got me acting just like some horny woman. Next time, I
won't ask. I'll just start in on her, and by the time she knows what's
going on, she'll be the one squealing and squirming.'
That seemed like the perfect answer. Trisha giggled in satisfaction
and let sleep take her.
* * * * *
Wednesday, January 10, 1872
Daisy knocked lightly on the doorframe of Lady Cerise's office.
"They's a man here f'you, Miss Wilma."
"There's a lot of men for me, Daisy," Wilma answered, looking up. She
was sitting at Cerise's desk, studying the account books. "Who is it?"
"Mr. H. James Kellogg, he says. He asked 'special' for you."
Wilma smiled slyly. "He did, did he?" She stood up. "Well, pleasure
before business I always say." She was already in her "work clothes",
off-white silk camisole and drawers and a blue-violet corset.
"Ain't he the one that broke your bed the last time he was hereabouts?"
Daisy asked.
Wilma nodded. "He just got a little... enthusiastic. You know how men
can be."
"I surely does." Daisy laughed. "'Course, you gots a lot more
experience than I does in that quarter."
"And I surely enjoyed getting all that experience," Wilma told her, as
they reached the door.
As they walked out of the room, Wilma almost bumped into Rosalyn.
"Watch where you're walking, peasant," Rosalyn shouted. "You almost
made me spill my tea."
"You just enjoy that there tea," Wilma told the blonde. "Me, I got a
gentleman caller to enjoy." She hurried past, a smug smile on her
face.
"I'm sure I will." Rosalyn stood in the hall watching Wilma and Daisy
going into the parlor.
Beatriz came out of the kitchen and joined Rosalyn. "You got something
in mind, chica?"
"I do, indeed." Rosalyn stepped into the office, closing the door
behind her. "You stay there and keep lookout."
Wilma had left the account books open on Cerise's desk. Rosalyn took a
sip of tea and walked over. The most recent book was in the center.
Rosalyn put the saucer for her tea down next to the book and carefully
poured a little of the tea into it. She put the cup onto the saucer
for a moment, then moved it onto the page. When she lifted the cup to
put it back in the saucer, she saw that it left a wet circle on the
page.
She repeated this three more times, leaving the cup balanced on the
page. "Perfect," she whispered. The tea was staining the paper and
making the ink blur and run.
"Poor Wilma," she said, clicking her tongue. "To be so careless with
the Lady's financial records."
She walked to the door. "Is the coast clear?" she whispered.
"Clear as it is ever going to be," Beatriz answered opening the door.
"You done in there?"
Beatriz chuckled. "Yes, and so is Wilma."
* * * * *
Arnie walked over to the now-empty table and carefully set down the
half-full tray. It was early in the afternoon, and the men at that
table had lingered over the food they took from Shamus' Free Lunch.
"They left some," he whispered as he carefully set three the three
steins into the tray. "Left some money, too, seems like."
He pocketed the two nickels and moved on to the next table. As he made
his rounds, collecting glasses, plates, and silverware, he was careful
not to put anything in or on the steins from the first table.
Customers had left money at a couple of other tables, mainly to pay for
their drinks. Arnie pocketed all of it.
He stopped at the bar on his way to the kitchen. "Drink money," he
told R.J. and reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of coins.
R.J. tallied the money. "Yeah, that's pretty much what they owed." He
rang the money up and put it into the cash register.
"I think Maggie and Jane are having their lunch right now. Have you
had anything yet?"
"Some... a sandwich."
"Well, have something else if you want it. Then best get started on
those glasses."
Arnie picked up the tray. "I will."
Maggie and Jane were eating down at the far end of the kitchen
worktable when Arnie came in. They nodded hello and went back to their
meal. He put the tray down on the counter, standing so his back was to
them.
Most of the glasses went directly into the sink. He left the steins
for last, pouring the beer from two of them into the third. When he'd
finished, it was well over half full. He'd found a fourth one with
some beer left in it at another table, and he added that as well.
Arnie glanced quickly over at the two women, who didn't seem to notice.
He turned back and quickly drank the beer. The now empty steins went
into the sink. 'Well,' he thought to himself, 'R.J. did say I should
have something else.'
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small pack of sen-sen. He
opened it, and popped one into his mouth. He'd always liked the
licorice-flavored candy, but never more than now. It was a fine breath
freshener, easily covering the scent of alcohol.
The pack went back into his pocket. He used a pot to transfer hot
water from the reservoir built in the stove into the sink and used the
pump to fill the second sink with rinse water. Rolling up his sleeves,
he began to wash the glassware.
* * * * *
Wilma came down the stairs arm in arm with a tall, muscular looking man
in a brown frock coat. "You sure you gotta go, Jimmy?" She ran her
fingers across his chest.
Jimmy, H. James Kellogg, took her hand in his and raised it to his
lips. "I'm afraid so, Wilma. I have to catch the stage to El Paso, if
I'm going to close that land deal. Don't you worry that pretty little
head of yours, though. I'll be back this way in a few weeks, and we'll
have more than enough time." He took a gold eagle from his pocket and
handed it to her. "Consider this payment for today and a down payment
for the next time."
Wilma put her hands on either side of his face. She pulled him close
and kissed him deeply and passionately. When they finally broke apart,
she gave him a satisfied smile and said, "And you can consider _that_ a
return on your investment."
"And an incentive to return." Kellogg kissed her again. He bowed to
Wilma and then to Lady Cerise, who was standing nearby. "Ladies," he
said and headed out the door, a smile on his face.
Lady Cerise waited until Kellogg had gone before she turned to Wilma.
"Now zat you have had your fun, I wish to talk to you, Wilma."
"Sure thing, Cerise." She handed Kellogg's gold eagle to Cerise.
"What can I do for you?"
"It is what you have already done. Come with me." She grabbed Wilma
by the arm and began walking towards the office. "Now!"
"Hey, what put the bee in your bonnet?" Wilma asked as she was dragged
along.
By now they were in the office. "'What put zhe bee?' -- look. See
what you have done to my accounts." Cerise pointed at the pile of
books that were still opened on the desk.
"I don't see what the problem is?" Wilma asked, looking at the books.
Cerise grabbed the teacup from the book it was on. "You don't? You do
not see what your tea has done to zhis book? _Incroyable_. Read where
it has ruined the page."
"_My_ tea?" Wilma said. "But I... I wasn't drinking no tea, and I sure
as hell know better than to leave something like hot tea there on your
books."
"I thought that you knew better. Now... now, I am not so sure." She
sighed. "Perhaps, I was... presumptuous. It may be zhat you are not
ready for to be my assistant."
"Wait a minute here, Cerise. You say that's tea in there?"
"Mai ouis." She raised the cup and took a whiff "Zhe chamomile tea."
"When'd you ever see me drink that stuff, Cerise? I always been a
coffee man -- coffee gal; just ask anybody."
"Zhen who did zhis. And why?"
Wilma knew the answer at once. "Rosalyn. When me'n Daisy was heading
to see Jimmy Kellogg, she was coming outta the kitchen holding a cup of
something -- of tea, she said it was tea."
Cerise nodded. "Perhaps. She _is_ fond of chamomile tea."
Wilma glared at Cerise. "Good thing, too. When I get finished with
her, she ain't gonna be in no condition t'eat solid food for a while."
"You will do nothing of the sort," Cerise said firmly. "Rosalyn can
hardly be of use to this house if you break her jaw or destroy her
smile that so many men pay so much for."
"But she..."
"You will do nothing to harm her -- or Beatriz who was no doubt her
accomplice."
"Then you know --"
"I know zhat they have always been jealous of you. Making you my
assistant has surely not improved their opinions."
"Then why can't I just lay into them? When I was running a gang, they
knew that the surest way of getting their asses beat was to cross me."
"I am sure of zhat, but you are not 'running' zhis House, I am, and I
do not want any of my ladies to look like they got -- as you say,
'their asses beat.' I make my money by selling those asses. And the
rest of them -- and of you."
"Then what can I do to make them stop, if I can't beat on 'em?"
"Wilma, I made you my second because I thought zhat you knew zhe answer
to such questions." She put a hand under Wilma's chin. "Please do not
prove me wrong."
* * * * *
Bridget took a sip of wine to chase down the last piece of grilled Gila
trout. 'No time like now', she thought and took a deep breath. Aloud,
she asked, "Have you found out why your uncle's been so dead set
against me lately?"
"Ummnn." Cap hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of Maggie's beef stew with
chili peppers. "Just... just a second." He took a quick swig of his
own wine. "I-I'm afraid that I have. Uncle Abner has an old friend
who works for the Texas Bureau of Military Affairs back in Austin."
Bridget's expression grew dark. "Military... you got hold of my
record, didn't you?"
"No -- that is, _I_ didn't. Uncle Abner, he did it."
"You had no right. Those are supposed to be private."
"Not to somebody like Issachar -- Issachar Bailey, that's Uncle Abner's
friend. He works there. Besides..." he gave a sheepish smile. "There
isn't any Confederate government anymore. I don't think it's against
the law or anything."
Bridget ignored his attempt at humor. "If it isn't, then it should be.
You and your uncle have no right to go sneaking around in my past."
Cap held up his hand, palm out. "Hold on there. I didn't go 'sneaking
around' anywhere. Uncle Abner did. And if he'd mentioned it to me
beforehand, I'd have told him not to do it."
"You'd have told him." She spat the words. "If you hadn't 'told him'
about my being in the Army, dammit, he wouldn't have gone looking in
the first place."
Cap's face reddened. "Yeah," he said with a sigh. "I-I guess that was
my fault. I'm sorry. I thought it would improve his opinion of you."
He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.
"Now what happens?" she asked, sounding scared as well as mad. "You
gonna blab it to the paper?"
He shook his head. "Bridget, I'm not going to 'blab it' to anyone.
And I don't think that Uncle Abner will either."
"Yeah, sure." She looked straight at him. "Why?"
"Uncle Abner won't because he doesn't want to queer your game -- at
least not until you've paid back what you owe him."
"So, bad as he thinks I am, it's not the principle of the thing, it's
the money."
"A little of both, I think. Uncle Abner prides himself on getting the
most return he can from any investment. After that, well, he knows
that you make your living on that game. Ruining it would be a nasty
thing to do to a lady, even one he personally disp... disliked. Uncle
Abner considers of himself as a gentleman, so he --"
"A gentleman!" Bridget snorted. "I don't think that he even knows the
meaning of the word." She glared at him. "And I'm not sure that you
do either."
"Wait a minute, Bridget. I... I didn't have anything to do with what
Uncle Abner did. I don't like it any more than you do."
"Then why are you defending him?"
"I'm not. I said I would have stopped him. What more could I have
done?"
Bridget closed her eyes for a moment then stood up. As she turned to
walk away from the table, she spoke in a small, quiet voice. "You
could have said that you don't believe it."
* * * * *
"Looks like I'm late," Rupert Warrick said, stepping into the O'Hanlan
house. "Sorry."
Trisha shook her head. "You're not late, Rupe. Dwight and the Judge
got here early."
"We had dinner together at 'Maggie's Place'," the Judge said by way of
explanation, "and walked over here afterwards." He and Dwight
Albertson were sitting at the kitchen table. Kaitlin and Emma were
standing at the sink, doing the dishes.
Trisha walked over to the table with Rupe. "Have a seat. There's
coffee if you'd like some." She pointed to a large, blue enameled
coffeepot sitting on a trivet and surrounded by cups.
"Maybe later," Rupe answered, as he sat down. "What's this all about,
Trisha?"
She sat down herself and looked at the three men. "A new church. I
wanted to work up to it slowly, but after that vote I got last month, I
figgered it was time to strike while the iron was hot."
"While you can bask in that vote of confidence, eh," the Judge said
with a sarcastic snort. "Sounds like a good idea."
"Maybe," Rupe said, "but it's an awful big pig in a poke. Folks are
gonna have a lotta question they'll want answered before they vote
t'build a whole new church."
Dwight frowned. "We'd have to draw up plans; that takes time. It
costs money, too."
"I thought you'd all be in favor," Trisha said, sounding a little hurt.
"Especially you, Dwight. It'd be your bank the money was in while we
built the church. You'd get to handle the mortgage we'd probably have
to take out, too."
"I'm not saying no," Dwight replied. "None of us are. It's -- well, a
chicken and egg kind of thing; plans first or vote first."
"There has to be some way to crack that egg," Trisha said. "Do we have
_any_ money now we could use to hire somebody to draw up some sort of
plans?"
"A little," Dwight said with a shrug. "There's the 'Building and
Maintenance' account. We use that to help pay the upkeep on the
school." He paused a beat. "But I think it would take a vote to use
it on something like plans for a new building."
Trisha pouted. "So we're back where we started."
"I don't think the Town Council would be very happy to think that we
wanted out of our agreement to share the school," the Judge told the
others. "Don't forget, Arsenio Caulder's on the council, and he's
become a fairly active member of the church lately."
Dwight thought a moment. "Maybe we could just make improvements in the
school building. We could get what we want with less money, and the
school would benefit, too."
"Just what _do_ we want?" Rupe asked.
Trisha ticked off the items. "An office for Rev. Yingling; a real
altar, so we don't have to use the teacher's desk --"
"Some more comfortable benches," Rupe interrupted. "Those school
benches are small. Kinda hard, too."
"They are that," the Judge replied, "even if we don't have to sit on
them. At least, not while we're elders."
Dwight nodded. "Get some real chairs for the board -- and the
Reverend, too, then."
"And a room we could use for a Sunday school," Trisha added.
Kaitlin had been listening as the men talked. "A real kitchen would be
nice, too. We had to set up fire pits for that fried chicken lunch we
had."
"Add that to the wish list, then," the Judge said.
"Wish list?" Trisha asked. "You talk like it won't happen, Judge."
The Judge shrugged. "Perhaps it will, but it'll take time. We can't
really go off half-cocked on something like this."
"We could make some kind of a start," Trisha asked, "couldn't we? We
gotta, before that -- what'd you call it, Judge, that 'vote of
confidence' is gone."
Dwight scratched his chin. "We could start by setting up a more formal
building fund, money set aside to pay for something after we decide
what that something is." He looked at the others. "We could vote to do
_that_ at next month's meeting."
"It'd be a start," Rupe added. "Saying we was going to have the money
would make people be more willing to do something with it."
"It would help more if there _was_ some money in that fund," Dwight
said. "There's not a lot in the 'building and maintenance' account,
and it's pretty much all spoken for."
"Why not vote to hold some sort of fund raiser t'get things off to a
flying start?" Rupe asked.
Everyone agreed. "That'd make people feel more committed to the idea,"
the Judge said, "but what sort of a fund raiser?"
"A dance," Kaitlin suggested. "I think that's something most of the
women in the church would enjoy. Clyde Ritter, for instance; he might
not like the idea of the building fund, but I know for a fact that
Cecelia Ritter loves to dance."
Trisha smiled proudly at Kailtlin. "That would certainly blunt the
opposition. All right, gents, at the February meeting we vote to
establish the Building Fund and to start it off with a dance at the end
of the month. That should give us time to plan the thing out and sell
the tickets."
"Especially with the ever-efficient Kaitlin O'Hanlan as chairwoman of
the dance committee," the Judge added. "She can start planning it
right now."
Kaitlin looked surprised. "I wasn't saying that I'd volunteer for
something like that."
"If you don't -- if we don't have a candidate," the Judge continued,
"Cecelia will wind up with the job. We surely don't want that."
* * * * *
Thursday, January 11, 1872
Milt Quinlan knocked on the half-opened back door to the Eerie Saloon's
kitchen. "May I come in?"
"Milt?" Jane called from inside. "Sure, c'mon in."
He pulled the door wide and walked into the kitchen. "Thank you.
Hello, Jane... Maggie."
"Hola, Milt," Maggie greeted him. "What brings you here?"
"I... ah, came to see Jane," he told her. "On business, of course.
Dwight Albertson, asked me to have her sign some papers." He took a
fat envelope out of his jacket.
Jane had been dredging pieces of chicken in herbed flour. She put down
the piece she was holding and wiped her hands on her apron. "What're
they for?"
"You're buying more stock, I think -- or maybe selling some. I'm not
sure. All Dwight said was that it was a good deal and would make you a
lot more money." He handed her the envelope.
"Fine with me." Jane took the papers from the envelope and laid them on
the worktable. She opened a drawer and pulled out a pen and a bottle
of ink. She uncorked the ink and stuck in the pen. Then she carefully
signed the papers.
She put the pen and ink away and handed the papers back to Milt. "Here
ya go, Milt."
"Thank you, Jane." Milt took hold of the hand that she was holding the
papers in. "I... ah... umm." He stared at her, trying to speak.
Jane looked up at his face and smiled. Her hand, the one he was
holding, felt warm. She felt her nipples tightening, and there was a
warm, pleasant tingling down at her crotch. "Y-yes, Milt," she managed
somehow to say.
"I... ah... I'd... ummm... better get these papers back to Dwight." He
felt relieved to have found words, no matter what they were. "Once be-
begun, ha-half done, they say."
He let go of Jane's hand and put the papers back in his jacket pocket.
"See you later, Jane... you... ah, you, too, Maggie." With that, he
turned and walked briskly out the door.
Jane watched him go, and, as the door closed behind him, she finally
spoke. "Damn!"
* * * * *
"Bye, Sam." Wilma waved as her latest "gentleman" left _La_
_Parisienne_. With a satisfied smile on her face, she walked into the
parlor.
No men were around, so Rosalyn and Beatriz were sitting on one of the
couches in the room having a late afternoon snack.
"Wilma," Rosalyn greeted her with feigned politeness, "Do have some of
this lovely chamomile tea." She lifted her own cup. "It's so very
good, and there's nothing in here you can ruin."
Wilma's hands balled into fists. "_I_ can ruin? Listen, you little
bitch, the Lady's on to you and your little tricks, same as me. And if
you try anything, I'm gonna beat the living --"
"No," Beatriz interrupted. "You are not going to beat anything out of
anyone, Wilma, and you know it."
Wilma turned her glare on the Mexican woman. "I don't know anything of
the sort."
"Si, you do," Beatriz answered smugly. "You know that the Lady won't
let you hurt either of us."
She tried to bluff. "Says who?" .
"Says me," Beatriz told her.
"Says the both of us," Rosalyn chimed in. "As far as the Lady is
concerned, the only reason for Beatriz or myself to be in bed during
the day is because we're with some handsome gentleman; not because you
put us there."
Wilma gritted her teeth. They knew. Frustrated, she turned to leave.
As she walked out of the parlor and down the hall towards the kitchen,
she heard Rosalyn's voice calling after her, "Are you sure you don't
want any tea, Wilma?"
* * * * *
Bridget stared at her cards. "See your dime and raise another." She
tossed two coins into the pot.
"I _called_, Bridget," Carl Osbourne said softly.
She shook her head as if trying to clear it. "Sorry." She put down her
hand. "Umm... three eights."
"Dang," Carl Osbourne said. "I thought I had you." He showed his own
cards, two pair, jacks and threes.
Joe Kramer laughed. "She don't even know what's going on and she still
wins the hand."
"Yeah, Bridget, are you okay?" Carl Osbourne asked. "You been playing
like you was half asleep."
She blinked, as if to hold back tears. "I-I'm sorry. It's just been
one of those days." She sighed and regained some control. "One of
those _lousy_ days..."
R.J. was suddenly standing at the table next to her. "I think the lady
needs a break, if you boys don't mind." He put a hand on her shoulder.
"What?" She looked up. "R. J.?"
He smiled down at her. "You're taking your dinner break. Come on."
Bridget shook her head. "But the game..."
"You go have supper," Joe Kramer told her. "We'll be here when you get
back." The others at the table agreed.
"There, you see? It's all right if you take a break." R.J. gently
helped her to her feet and led her over to one of the tables that
served as Maggie's restaurant. It was the far table, a bit removed
from the others to give them some privacy.
R.J. pulled out a chair. "Sit. Please." When she did, he pushed the
chair in closer to the table and took his own place opposite her.
Jane came over and handed them both menus. R.J. waited until she left
before he spoke again. "Now, what is it that's got you so upset?"
"Can... can we order first?" she asked.
R.J. nodded, and they looked at their menus in silence until Jane came
back for their orders. "Now don't go saying you want to wait until the
food comes," R.J. told her. "I'll only keep asking you." He reached
across and took her hand in his. "Please...tell me what's bothering
you."
"Nothing. Nothing's bothering me. I-I just got a little distracted
during that last hand."
"More than a little distracted, if you can't see the difference between
a call and a raise. I heard what Carl Osbourne said. You've been
going around all day like your head was a hundred miles away."
"I-I'm sorry. I can't... it's not important; really it isn't."
"I think it is, or you wouldn't be so upset."
Before he could say more, he saw Jane coming from the kitchen. "But
here comes our meal. You eat a little, and we'll talk some more."
Jane set down the food and left. R.J. ate some of his baked chicken,
while he watched Bridget do no more than pick at hers.
"You're really not doing Maggie's cooking justice," he finally said.
Then he decided to take a chance. "You did much better when you were
having supper with Cap last night."
She dropped her fork. "Cap! What did he tell you about last night?"
"Not a thing. I haven't seen him since your dinner ended so abruptly.
I understand that he and Arsenio Caulder rode back to his uncle's place
right after that." R.J. took Bridget's hand again. "What is it that
you don't want him to have told me?"
"Nothing. Please... please don't ask any more questions, R.J."
"Bridget, I'd be lying if I didn't say that I don't mind you and Cap
having problems. But not if it's going to get you this upset. Please,
is there anything, anything at all, I can do to help?"
Bridget smiled and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "You already did."
"I did? What did I do?"
"You didn't ask what I did wrong. You just offered to help."
* * * * *
"Unger, ye lying paltroon, what're ye doing in me saloon?"
Roscoe sighed and looked at Shamus. "We've gone over this before, Mr.
O'Toole. The _Citizen_ sends me the paper on a copper sheet. I can't
make changes."
"Then ye don't have t'be printing it, printing them damned lies."
Molly put her hand over her husband's. "He does, Love. 'Tis his job
t'be telling folks what's going on in the world." She sighed. "No
matter how ugly it is."
"To tell you the truth, sir, I agree with you," Roscoe told him. "The
_Citizen_ is using the story to whip up the crowd against the Apache,
but I couldn't edit the story even if it wasn't on a boilerplate. The
contract I have with them says no changes."
"But it says them bastards killed a band of bloodthirsty savages."
Shamus' face was almost purple. "They... they was women mostly... and
little children that got killed at Camp Grant."
"Aye, Love," Molly answered, trying to calm him. "But the men that did
it ain't running free; they're on trial for what they done. Justice
will be done, you wait and see if it ain't."
The barman looked grim. "It will be -- one way or the other." He
glanced down under the counter. "I've got more'n enough potion t'be
making sure of it."
* * * * *
Friday, January 12, 1872
Something wonderful was happening to Kaitlin. She lay there half-
asleep enjoying the sensations of a hand on her breasts, of kisses and
gentle love bites on her neck.
She moved her head, angling it slightly to encourage whomever was
kissing her. Her actions wakened her. "Mmmm, Patrick." Her voice was
a gentle purr.
Not Patrick, she suddenly realized. "Trisha!" She opened her eyes.
Trisha smiled -- no, leered -- down at her. "You just lay there and
enjoy, Sugar Dumpling." It was one of Patrick's pet names for Kaitlin.
Kaitlin's first impulse was to do just that. Trisha was making her
body feel _very_ good. But could she let Trisha act this way, act like
the man she no long was?
No.
In the end, it wouldn't be good for Trisha.
"T-Trisha," Kaitlin said, her breath coming in short gasps. "Pl-
please, stop."
"Aren't you enjoying it?" Trisha asked, sarcastically. She leaned
down and kissed her mate's neck again. Then she began to move slowly,
leaving a trail of kisses and bites as she moved towards Kaitlin's
breast. "Maybe this will be better."
Kaitlin suddenly realized that her nightgown was unbuttoned down past
her breasts. This wasn't a spur of the moment thing on Trisha's part.
"I said, 'Stop', Trisha."
"You sure about that?" Trisha leaned down and ran her tongue over
Kaitlin's nipple. "Now I know how much you always must have liked
this."
Kaitlin shivered in spite of herself. "You asked for this," she said
firmly. "I, Kaitlin McNeil O'Hanlan, do hereby command you to obey,
and I order you to stop touching me --"
"No!" Trisha screamed. She pulled herself away from Kaitlin, unable to
continue. "Please."
"Stop touching me and go to sleep," Kaitlin completed the command.
"Right now!"
"Kaitlin... please." Trisha yawned once and collapsed back onto the
bed. In a moment, she was snoring.
Kaitlin buttoned her nightgown back up. "Oh, Trisha. What _am_ I
going to do with you?" She shook her head and lay back down.
* * * * *
Teresa Diaz was making the last of her Friday rounds, delivering clean
laundry to her customers and picking up their dirty clothes and linens
to be washed and mended. She never expected to see --
"Arnoldo, what are you doing out this way?"
The boy stopped walking and turned to face his mother. "H-Hola," he
greeted her nervously. As he spoke, he shifted the boxes he was
carrying, from his left arm, the one nearest her, to the right. "I...I
am just...just taking a walk."
"A walk? A walk while you have boxes to take somewhere?" Teresa
studied her son, giving him that look that made him feel like he was
still three years old. "Then what are you -- Madre de Dios..." She
crossed herself as she realized what he was trying to hide. "That is
your father's pistol. What are you doing with it?"
"I am learning how to use it," he replied proudly, bracing himself for
her reaction.
"But why? You are yet just a boy. You do --"
"I am a _man_, Mama...Mother. It is my right to learn to shoot. And
my duty."
"Your duty? What are you saying?"
"Papa promised me that he would show me how to use his pistol when I
was old enough. I am 16 now; that is old enough, even if..." His
voice softened for a moment. "...Even is he is not here to teach me."
"No," she sighed. "He is not. There are many things he is not here to
do."
"Then I will do them for him -- in his name. When he left that day --
to join the others against the Apache -- he told me that I was the man
of the house, and that it was my job to take care of you and Isabel and
Constanza and Enrique until he came back."
He looked straight at her as he spoke, and Teresa was struck by how
much his expression was the mirror of her Luis' face when he was at his
most stubborn.
"Who is going to teach you?" Her question conveyed surrender, but only
for the time being.
He tried not to smile in his victory. "Jessie Hanks, from the saloon,
said that she will teach me. Laura -- Seá±ora Caulder -- is helping.
They were both men, and they are still good shots."
She frowned. What did she know about these women, except that they had
both come to Eerie as banditos? True enough, she did the laundry for
Laura Caulder, who seemed to be a gracious lady. And she knew of
Jessie -- a little -- through Molly O'Toole. Molly had always spoken
very fondly of the singing girl. 'I will trust them, for the time
being,' she decided. 'But I will watch Arnoldo and pray that he does
not get into trouble.'
* * * * *
"Can I see Wilma?" Bridget asked Herve as she walked through the door
at _La_ _Parisienne_.
She'd no sooner asked than Wilma came out of the parlor. "'Course you
can, Bridget. C'mon in."
"In private?" Bridget glanced into the room. Rosalyn was sitting in a
chair. When she saw Bridget, she looked up from her magazine, smiled
smugly, and went back to her reading.
Herve gestured towards the stairs. "Oui. Why do you not take her up
to your room, Wilma?"
"All right." She chuckled and added, "Congratulations, Bridget."
The redheaded gambler looked confused. "Congratulations?"
"Yep," Wilma explained. "You're the first one ever got t'be alone with
me in my room without paying for the privilege." She paused a moment.
"That is what you're doing, isn't it... _Brian_?"
Bridget blushed as she followed her friend up the stairs.
She blushed again when they walked past a closed door. A muffled pair
of voices, male and female, could be heard from the other side.
Once they were in her room, Wilma shut the door firmly behind them.
"Have a seat," she said pointing to a straight-back black maple chair
in the corner. "I'll take the bed." She laughed again. "But then I
always do."
"The chair is fine." Bridget sat, fidgeting with her hands.
Wilma flopped down on the edge of the bed. "Now what's so blamed
important that you had t'drag me up here to tell me in private?" She
raised an eyebrow and studied Bridget closely. "You ain't pregnant,
are you?"
"Wilma!" Bridget's face was scarlet. "How could you think...? I've-
I've never even... _ever_."
"Relax, relax. I was just teasing. Though I gotta say that, if you
haven't, it's a damned waste of two good-looking men." She sighed.
"What is your problem, then?"
"Sometimes, I'm sorry I didn't just shoot that bastard, Forry Stafford,
when I had the chance. They wouldn't have done much worse t'me --
t'the both of us -- than what _did_ happen."
"Are you crazy? They'd've hung the two of us from the nearest tree!"
"Probably, but I'd've still had the pleasure of giving him what he
deserved."
"Well, you didn't, and I didn't either, and we both _know_ what
happened. That record Slocum got is probably from the court martial."
"Which is all Forry's side of things." Wilma frowned. "What I wanna
know is what're you gonna do about it?"
"Me?"
"You. Them ain't my records Slocum's sent for. And if he wanted to
look down on me, well, he's got plenty of reasons to do that without
needing my army records. The way I see it, you got two choices."
Wilma raised two fingers. "First off, you make a deal with Slocum;
you'll stop keeping company with Cap or pay him double what you owe --
or whatever else he wants, if he don't tell nobody about that record."
She lowered one finger and left her middle finger up.
Bridget frowned. "What's my other choice?"
"You tell Slocum t'go to hell. Cap, too, if he stands by his uncle.
Then get yourself ready to be treated like a mangy coyote by all the
fine people of this town, while your business goes to hell. Shamus
probably couldn't even keep you on as a waitress after that." Now she
folded the second finger, her point being made.
Bridget sighed. "Some choice."
* * * * *
'Arm straight...line up the sights...' Arnie went through the steps
Jessie had shown him. '...And..._squeeze_.' He slowly tightened his
finger around the trigger until --
"Bam!" His arm jerked back from the recoil. He quickly used his thumb
to pull back the hammer and fired again. He kept going until all six
chambers of his Colt were empty.
He stared down at the crude target nailed to a tree about twenty yards
away. "How did I do this time?"
"Not too bad." Jessie walked down to the target. "You hit the target
three times, and one shot even got in scoring range."
Laura was sitting on a nearby stump. "You need to remember to hold
your breath while you aim and shoot. When you breath, your arm moves."
"Holding the gun handle too tight'll make your hand shake, too," Jessie
observed.
"And relax," Laura added, "don't tense up, expecting the kick. If you
do, you'll be wincing at the same time that you pull the trigger, and
that will spoil your aim."
Arnie shook his head. "So much to remember."
"Ain't as easy as you thought, is it?" Jessie asked.
"A gun is a tool, Arnie," Laura advised. "Shooting is an art. You
have to practice to be able to use the tools, just like any other
craftsman."
Jessie was looking at her pocket watch. "We still got some time. You
wanna reload and try again?"
He nodded and sat down next to the box he kept his pistol in. 'I am
using up the shot too quick,' he thought. 'I will need more very
soon.' He shrugged and began to pour powder into one of the pistol
chambers.
After all the chambers had powder, he put a soft lead pellet into one.
The ramrod forced it in, creating an airtight seal on the powder. The
charges went in the back, against the firing nipples.
"You're getting faster at reloading," Jessie told him as he stood up.
"Let's see how much you remember about firing without being told."
* * * * *
Shamus knocked at the bedroom door. "Jessie, what are ye doing in
there?"
"Just a minute, Shamus!" Jessie called.
He knocked again. "Can I be coming in to talk t'ye?"
"Sure, c'mon in." She laid her guitar down on the table next to her
new songbook.
He did. "What the devil are ye doing up here playing that gee-tar,
when I've work for ye t'be doing downstairs?"
"Practicing a new song."
"What's the matter with the ones ye been singing?"
"Everybody's heard them."
"Aye, and they like 'em, judging by the money they been throwing at
ye."
"They won't, not if I keep singing them over and over. I bought this
book..." she pointed at the book, which was propped up on the table, so
she could read it. "...with a bunch'a new songs. Thing is, it takes
time t'learn 'em."
"I expect it does. Are ye asking me t'be giving ye that time?"
"If I ask, will you lemme have the time?"
"That'd depend on how much time ye ask for. Ye already work a lot less
than Jane does, and ye already took off an hour this morning -- and
right before it was time t'be putting out the free lunch, I might add -
- t'be teaching Arnie how t'shoot."
Jessie thought for a moment. "Ummm... a half hour a day... that sound
like too much to you?"
"It does, but I'll be giving to ye. Only ye'll be taking it when I
tell ye, in the middle of the afternoon when things're slow."
She shrugged. "It ain't the best deal, but I'll take it." She offered
her hand to him.
He shook it firmly. "Fine, but ye won't be taking it till tomorrow.
Right now ain't the middle of the afternoon; it's after five. I need
ye downstairs to be waiting the tables, so get a move on."
* * * * *
Saturday, January 13, 1872
"Is there a Mr. O'Hanlan here?" A tall, barrel-chested man called from
the doorway of the Feed & Grain. "I got a delivery for him."
Tricia looked up at the sound of her name. "Right here," she said,
raising her hand. "What've you got?"
"I'm from Mckechnie Freight." The man walked over. "I got me a wagon
fulla timothy fresh in from California by boat by way of Arizona City.
Where's Mr. O'Hanlan?"
"Right here." She stood up. "That is... umm, I can sign for it."
The man looked at her closely, his eyes lingering at her breasts. "You
may be able to sign for it, pretty lady, but you's the furthest thing
from a _mister_ I ever seen." He set the freight voucher down on the
counter. "I'm Rhys Godwyn, and I'd be proud t'take ye out for a drink
after we's finished here."
"I... uhh." Trisha looked down, unable to meet the man's eyes. Her
body felt warm, and she found Godwyn's attention somehow _interesting_.
"I... I'm Trisha, and I-I _really_ couldn't... not _now_. I've got
work to do."
Her brother was suddenly standing next to her. "I'm Liam O'Hanlan.
I'll take that voucher, Mr. Godwyn, and I'll thank you to go around
back and get one of my men to help you unload your wagon."
"Just a minute, Mr. O'Hanlan," Godwyn replied. "I ain't done talking
t'Miss Trisha here."
Liam picked up a pen from the inkwell on the counter and signed the
voucher. "Yes, you are, sir. And the lady's spoken for... married in
fact."
"Well, now why didn't she say something?" The drover took the voucher
back from Liam. "I ain't one t'poach somebody else's woman." He
turned and walked out.
Liam looked at Trisha. "Yes, Trisha, why didn't you say anything?"
Why hadn't she? "I-I don't know. I-I was going to. He-he just took
me by surprise." She wasn't sure she believed what she was saying.
Why hadn't she done something, said something, to fend off Godwyn's
interest in keeping company with her?
Liam started walking towards the door. "I think I'll go out and make
sure we got all the timothy we ordered, and that it didn't start to rot
on the way here."
"O-Okay, Liam," she called after him. "And... and thanks."
* * * * *
"I'll get the lock," Tomas said. He knelt down next to a bush that was
growing near the side of a hill. The bush hid a 3-foot square wooden
frame that seemed built into the slope. The frame held a padlocked
door. Door and frame were painted a dull gray-brown color to match the
earth around it. The lock hung low, almost hidden by the grass.
Emma handed Tomas a small brass key. He unlocked the door and pulled
it open. "Here's the key, Emma." He handed it back to her and started
to put the lock back on the ring.
"Best take the lock in with us," Yully told him. "Somebody finds it,
they could lock us all inside."
Emma put the lock in her apron pocket along with the key. "We can put
a latch on the inside. Then we can lock ourselves in."
"Good idea," Yully said. "Let me get that light, and we can go in."
As the largest of the group, he was going in first to try out the
tunnel, carrying an old miner's lantern. He lit the candle inside and
put it down on the floor of the tunnel behind the door. He knelt and
moved into the passageway pushing the lantern ahead of him.
"Who's next?" Emma asked.
Stephan looked around. "Seems t'me, this whole thing was your idea,
Emma. You go next." The others quickly agreed.
"Okay, then." She shrugged and climbed in. Yully was in the fort, but
he'd left the lantern at the far end of the tunnel. It was enough
light to see by, but not much more than that. She waited a moment for
her eyes to adjust and started forward.
Or tried to.
"Dang!" She muttered in an angry voice. "How d'you crawl in one of
these dresses?" Her long dress was pinned by her own knees, held
tightly enough that she couldn't move forward.
"You should've worn pants," Stephan called from outside. "Like you did
last week."
She shook her head. "I didn't think I'd need 'em anymore." She lifted
her left leg and pulled the dress free from under her knee. "I just
thought I'd wear something different the first time we met inside,
that's all."
"You stop it, Stephan," Ysabel ordered. "Emma's proud of the job we
all did. She's entitled to celebrate it a little." She leaned down by
the doorframe. "Pull your dress way up in front," she told Emma,
"almost to your waist; then crawl through as quick as you can."
Emma did as Ysabel told her. She moved as fast as she could. The
flooring felt hard against her knees, especially with just her drawers
for protection. "Thanks, Ysabel," she called behind her.
"Let me give you a hand." Yully was standing by the far end of the
tunnel, waiting for her. She let the dress fall, so that she was
properly covered, and took his hand.
"Thanks, Yully," she said and let him help her to her feet.
"You're welcome, Emma." He looked at her closely. "Best remember in
the future to wear pants." He suddenly looked embarrassed and let go
of her hand. "That is a nice dress, though."
She smiled at the unexpected compliment. "Glad you like it."
"I'm just glad that you got through the tunnel all right," Ysabel said
as she came out of the passage.
Emma brushed the front of her dress. "You got in here a lot faster'n I
did."
Ysabel smiled. "I've been wearing a dress a lot longer than you have.
You'll get the hang of it."
"Never fails," Stephan said as he climbed out of the tunnel. "Get two
girls together, and they start talking about their clothes." He gave
them a wink and stepped out of the way.
Tomas was right behind him.
"If we're all here, let's get started." Yully hung the lantern from a
hook in the ceiling.
Fort Secret, as they'd decided to call the underground structure, was a
6 by 8 wooden box, a bit over 6 feet high. The only furnishings were
an unpainted trestle table surrounded by five mismatched chairs and a
chest of three drawers against the far wall. The lantern hung directly
over the table. A metal grate about a foot away was at the bottom of
the chimney that brought in fresh air through a narrow copper pipe.
The top of the pipe had a screened shield to keep both rain and small
animals out. It was hidden in a patch of brush on the side of the
hill.
The five took seats around the table. "This place needs more light,"
Tomas said squinting.
"Yeah," Emma answered, "but candles cost money."
Stephan shrugged. "What doesn't? But you got the money for all the
wood and nails we used t'build this place. Can't you get a little more
for candles?"
"Tomas and I got the wood and nails and all this furniture from a
couple of empty shacks," Emma told him. "One got wrecked when a tree
branch fell on it in that storm last summer. The other, I don't know
what happened, but nobody lived there. It took days for Tomas'n me to
pry the wood apart and get it to my folks' barn."
"It wouldn't be fair to ask Emma to pay for everything, anyways," Yully
said. "If each of us kicks in... umm, a nickel a week, we'd have more
than enough."
Ysabel shook her head. "That is a lot of money."
"How about ten cents a month?" Stephan asked her. "Can you manage
that?"
Ysabel thought for a moment. "Si, I can."
Emma looked at her friends. "Me, too. How 'bout the rest of you?
Yully? Stephan? Tomas?" Each one nodded when she called his name.
"Then it's settled."
"Who keeps the money till we need it?" Yully asked. "For that matter,
who keeps the key to this place?"
"The head of the club keeps the key." Stephan said. "The treasurer
keeps the money."
Emma looked surprised. "Are we a club?"
"Sounds like it t'me," Yully said. He looked around. "So who's gonna
be umm, president?"
Tomas shook his head. "This is a fort. The head of it is the
commander."
"Commander, then," Yully said. "Who's it gonna be?"
"Seems t'me there's only one choice... _Commander_ Stone," Stephan
answered quickly. "All in favor say 'Aye'."
Ysabel looked at Emma for a moment and said, "Aye."
"Aye... I guess." Yully shrugged.
"That ain't fair," Tomas said. "This was all Emma's idea. She should
be commander."
"Maybe... maybe she should." Yully wanted to be commander, but he
wanted to be fair, too, especially to Emma.
Emma shook her head. "That's okay. Yully's been captain of the ball
team a lotta times; he'll do a better job than me."
"Yeah, but you'll make a great treasurer and _assistant_ commander."
Yully replied. "All in favor."
Three other voices all shouted, "Aye."
* * * * *
"Hola, Laura," Teresa greeted her, as she walked into the kitchen.
"Your laundry is over there with Margarita's." She pointed to a pair
of packages wrapped in brown paper and set off in a corner of the
table.
Laura nodded. "What do I owe you?"
"It is $2.95; that includes the mending and sewing you asked for."
Before Laura could get her coin purse out of her apron, Jessie walked
into the kitchen. "Jane said somebody wanted to see me."
"I do," Teresa answered her. "I wanted to talk to you and to Laura."
Jessie raised an eyebrow. "What about?"
"My Arnoldo," the laundrywoman answered. "He tells me that you are
teaching him how to shoot."
"We are," Laura answered. "Well, Jessie is; I'm sort of helping."
Teresa frowned. "Why...Why do you teach him such a thing?"
"'Cause he asked me to," Jessie said. "He asked me to back around
Christmas. I didn't see no harm in it...No real harm anyway."
"No harm; to teach a _boy_ to use a pistola?"
"He ain't a boy, Teresa," Jessie told her gently. "He's 16; I was a
man off on my own when I was his age."
Laura put her hand on the older woman's shoulder. "He _is_ old enough,
Teresa, _and_ he already had that gun. Isn't it better he learn from
somebody -- somebody who can tell him how to handle it _and_ how to
handle himself -- instead of going off on his own to figure it out?
You can't watch him all the time, and when a lad wants something so
powerfully, he's going to go and get it."
"It would be better if he never learned." Teresa fought back her
tears.
Jessie shook her head. "Out here, a man needs t'know how to use a
weapon. But he has to know that having one and knowing how to use it
don't make him a man. Being a man is a big part of what me and Laura
is trying t'teach him."
"A big part," Laura added.
"I-I am just afraid that he will do something foolish, that he will go
after the apache that killed Luis, this father."
Jessie gave a low chuckle. "A man who goes after Apaches, by himself
and with just a pistol, is the worst kinda fool. I don't teach gunplay
to no fools. If he starts acting like one -- and you tell me if he
does when I ain't around -- the lessons stop. That's a promise,
Teresa."
"I only pray that you will not have to keep it," Teresa answered,
trying hard to smile back.
* * * * *
"You have learned this mazurka dance very well, Dolores," Ramon told
his partner.
She smiled back at him. "I've danced it a few times back it in Mexico
City, Ramon. I would love to show you the city sometime."
"Perhaps someday Aaron will send me to there on business, and you will
have the chance."
"I hope so. You are a good dancer."
He grinned at the compliment. "I am a man of many, many talents."
"No doubt." She looked up at him, smiling like a cat in a creamery.
"And you must show me all of them."
"Perhaps I will."
"Would you care to show me something on Tuesday night?"
"That would depend. Why Tuesday?"
"That one." Dolores pointed at Jessie, who was dancing nearby with Milo
Nash. "I hear that she sings, here in the Saloon, on Tuesday and
Thursday nights."
"She does. Jessie has a very good voice."
"Then I would like to hear it. Will you take me?"
The request took Ramon by surprise, and he almost stopped dancing. 'I
do not see Maggie until Wednesday for the bookkeeping lessons.' Ramon
thought to himself. 'Most nights, she takes Ernesto and Lupe home
about 7:30.' The odds seemed good.
"I would be honored to do so," he told Dolores. "Jessie's first show
is at 8 o'clock. I will pick you up at Teresa's at 7:30."
* * * * *
Sunday, January 14, 1872
"Amy... Amy."
Amy Talbot turned in the aisle of the church at the sound of her name.
Laura was hurrying towards her amidst the crowd of people leaving at
the end of the service. "Good morning, Laura, and how are you this
fine Sunday?"
"Pretty good," Laura answered, "considering. Can we talk a moment?"
She slipped back into a pew.
Amy nodded and stepped into the pew and out of the line of people. Her
twenty-month old son, Jimmy, was holding her hand. He followed his
mother in and climbed up onto a seat. "What did you want to talk
about?" Amy asked.
"What else, the baby." She gently touched her stomach. "It's starting
to get big." She frowned slightly. "Uncomfortable, too."
Amy smiled and looked down at her own body. "I remember." Just over two
months pregnant, she hadn't begun to show yet. She glanced down
quickly at Jimmy, who was playing happily with a stuffed horse that his
mother had brought with them to church.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. You've been through this
before. You know what's going to happen to you. I... I don't."
"Scary, isn't it?"
"You got that right. I talk to Arsenio about it, but..." She trailed
off, not sure how to continue. "It... he... he tries to help, and he
does have a way of making me feel better for a while."
Amy smiled knowingly. "Mmm, I'm sure he does."
"Amy!" Laura blushed, then giggled. "Well, I admit _that_ does help,
but I still feel like I need to talk to somebody who knows what I'm
going through and how scary it is for me."
Amy thought about how she'd felt when she'd been carrying Jimmy. "To
tell the truth, it's still a little scary for me, too. Every pregnancy
is different. You should ask Carmen about that. She's had _three_
children, you know."
"I do. She told me about that... the one that... that died." Laura
shivered, as if trying to shake the possibility out of her mind. "You
and her are both my friends -- I hope."
"We are. I know I am, and I'm sure that she is, as well." Amy held
Laura's hand in her own. She had come to respect Laura for her courage
in the face of what must seem very strange to her.
"She is, and I do talk to her sometimes, but you, you're going through
it right now, the same as me. That's -- I don't know -- it makes you
seem closer."
"Like two ships caught in the same storm at sea."
"Sort of." Laura bit nervously at her lower lip. "I was wondering...
are you using Mrs. Lonnigan as your midwife?"
"I am. Doctor Upshaw is a most competent man, but I prefer a midwife,
unless there's a problem -- Heaven's forbid. Edith works with the
Doctor; he'll jump in if need be, but as they say, a man has no more
business delivering babies than a woman has to be a sea captain."
"I'm using her, too. I was wondering, can I... can I sit in on your
next exam with her... or have you sit in on mine? Then the three of us
could..." she paused, still unsure of herself. "...share. We could
talk about what was going on and like that. If you don't mind, of
course."
"Actually, the two of us sharing an appointment sounds like a good
idea. It would be nice to have another woman to talk to about all
this." She thought for a moment and looked around. "If Edith doesn't
mind; I didn't see her here in church today."
"She sometimes sleeps in on Sunday," Laura told her, not adding that
Davy Kitchner was likely sleeping in with her. 'Her business, not
mine,' she thought.
Amy shrugged. "Well, I'll ask her about it later."
* * * * *
"Daisy," Beatriz asked, walking into the kitchen, "have you seen my
bracelet, the turquoise one?"
Daisy looked up from the sink full of lunch dishes. "Ain't it in your
jewel box like always?"
"No; I looked there for it, and it was gone." She sighed. "Sebastian
Ortega gave it to me. He is coming here today, and I wanted to wear it
for him."
"I'll help you look for it soon's I'se finished with these dishes."
She looked at Beatriz. "Don't suppose you wants t'help me with 'em,
does you?"
"Like this?" Beatriz gestured at her body. She was dressed for
callers, wearing white satin drawers, a dark blue corset, and matching
blue stockings. Her hair was combed until it shined, and it flowed
down about her shoulders.
Daisy shrugged. "I guess not. You gots any idea where that bracelet
might'a got to?"
"I have looked every place it might be," she answered stubbornly. "You
do not think someone took it, do you?"
"Well, you sure got 'nuff men going in 'n' outta your room."
"Si, but when the men come to my room, they are after other things
besides bracelets." She posed, her hands on her hips. "And those
things, I am happy to give them."
"More'n happy, I'd say." Daisy said with a laugh. "I gots me a basket
of clean clothes t'take upstairs once I'se done with these here dishes.
I'll look round your room in case you missed something."
Beatriz bit her lip. "Could... could you look in the other rooms, as
well?"
"You thinks you lost it in one of the other ladies' bedrooms?"
"Let us just say, that I think it may be in someone else's room. How
it got there -- _that_ is another story."
* * * * *
Tomas got ambitious. One of the two miniature wheelbarrows was sitting
near the top of the pile of jackstraw pieces, seemingly in the clear.
He guided his wire hook under the crossbar and began lifting the small
wooden item.
It looked good, an easy 20 points. But at the last moment, the wheel
touched a second piece, one with a shape like a banner at the end. The
banner piece slid a fraction of an inch. "Dang!" Tomas spat.
"Your turn, Emma," Ysabel said. The other girl didn't seem to hear.
"Emma, Emma," Ysabel repeated. "It is your turn now."
Yully put his hand on her shoulder. "You all right, Emma?"
"What?" Emma blinked and looked at him. "What did you say?"
"Just that it's your turn."
She shook her head. "No, it isn't. It's Tomas' turn."
"I just went," Tomas told her. "Didn't get anything." He handed her
the small dowel with the wire hook at the end. "You go now."
Emma gathered all the pieces in her hand and tapped them against the
table until the ends were even. She raised her hand about three inches
above the table and opened her fingers. The wooden pieces fell,
landing in a jumbled pile.
She managed to free three pieces, a hoe, a maul, and a battleaxe, one
at a time and without disturbing any other piece. On her fourth try --
a banner, ironically -- a square jackstraw also moved.
"My turn now." Stephan began to gather up the remaining pieces.
Ysabel tapped Emma on the shoulder. "Can we talk now that your turn's
over?"
"I... I guess," Emma replied. "What about?"
"You. What's bothering you? You mind is like you're off in the clouds
someplace."
Emma made a sour face. "Nothing. I'm... I'm fine."
"And I'm the Governor," Ysabel answered. "Please, Emma, I want to
help. What's the matter?"
"You're gonna keep pestering me till I tell, ain't you?"
"Of course, what else are friends for?"
Emma sighed. "Okay, it's my... it's Ma and... Trisha, they're fighting
again."
"Do you know what about?"
"Not a clue. They was acting kind of weird the last couple weeks,
whispering around me and locking their bedroom door like they was
hiding something."
Yully had come over to listen. "My folks do that sometimes. Pop says
they're doing what he calls 'grown-up stuff.' He says I'll learn about
it soon enough, and I shouldn't to worry when they act that way."
"That's what Pa used to say, but they stopped acting like that after
he... uhh... after Trisha came. They started up again about a week
ago, and I didn't think nothing of it." Emma sighed. "But they had
some kind of a fight a couple days ago. Trisha called Ma all kinds of
names, and Ma said she'd do worse than what she done -- whatever it was
-- if Trisha tried whatever she done."
Stephan pulled a ladder-shaped piece free and looked up. "My folks
fight all the time. Pa even throws Scripture, quotes words from the
Book, at her sometimes."
"What's your mama do?" Ysabel asked.
Stephan grinned. "Ma teaches the lady's Bible study. She throws 'em
right back. But they don't yell for long... not too long, anyway, and
they get all mushy when they make up."
"My mama and papa are like that, too," Tomas added. "All parents are.
There is nothing to worry about, Emma."
"Ain't nobody's parents like my ma and Trisha," Emma told them. "Not
the way Trisha got changed and all."
"They are still grown-ups," Ysabel said. "Grown-ups are all the same.
You will see; everything will be fine. Just wait."
Emma shrugged. "I'll wait. There's not much else I can do." She
managed a little smile. "In the mean time, whose turn is it?"
* * * * *
Wilma knocked on the door to Lady Cerise's office. "Entrez," came her
voice from inside.
"You wanted t'see me 'bout something, Cerise," Wilma said as she walked
in. It was more of a question than a statement.
Cerise motioned for her to close the door. "Oui, Wilma. Sit please."
"This sounds serious." Lady Cerise was at her desk. Wilma took a
chair opposite her.
The Lady nodded. "It is. Beatriz lost her turquoise bracelet, the one
Sebastian Ortega gave her for Noel... Christmas." She took a breath.
"Daisy found it. In your bedroom, it was hidden in your lingerie
drawer."
"My room? You... you don't think I took it, do you?"
"No." She frowned. "I am certain that Beatriz hid it there herself.
It seems that she also does not like the idea that I want to make you
my second."
"Want to, Cerise? I thought I already was? You sound like you're
changing your mind about it."
"I have not changed my mind -- but I may." She sighed. "Wilma, this
is hardly the first time that Beatriz or Rosalyn have tried to throw
the shoe... have tried to sabotage you."
Now Wilma sighed. "Tell me 'bout it." A thought occurred to her.
"Say... did Daisy give Beatriz her bracelet back?"
"No." The Lady opened a drawer and took out the bracelet, putting it
on her desk. "I thought that _you_ should return it."
"Return it? I'd like to shove it right up her --"
"No." The other woman's voice was firm. "I have told you that I will
not allow violence against either of them. If you do not understand
that..." Her voice trailed off.
"I understand. I said that 'I'd like to', not that I was going to."
"What are you going to do, _mon_ _petit_?"
"I'm gonna give it back t'her, o'course, but I'm gonna make her sweat a
little when I do -- it is okay if I make her sweat, ain't it?"
"It is." Cerise smiled. "Perhaps it will even make her learn, and you
as well."
"What d'you mean, Cerise?"
"I mean that this business between you, Rosalyn, and Beatriz is
becoming tiresome -- and disruptive as well. I cannot allow that in my
House."
"Then tell 'em t'stop."
Cerise shook her head and looked sternly at Wilma. "That is _your_ job
as my second. I need to see that you can exercise authority in a way
that brings results without resorting to violence. You need to act
soon, to make it so. Otherwise -- I am sorry -- but it will no longer
_be_ your job."
* * * * *
Bridget studied the cards on the table in front of her, five hands of
five cards each. "Do I put those four 7s together," she asked herself,
"or should I save them for something else?"
"What are you doing, Bridget?" Arnie had come up behind her.
She looked up from the table. "Just a little solitaire to kill some
time; there don't seem to be many players about just now."
"Will you teach it to me?" He pulled out a chair, spun it around, and
sat down, leaning his elbows over the back.
"I don't know." She looked around. "Shamus doesn't pay you to play
cards. I don't want to get you in trouble." There was no sign of the
barman about, but he might come back any time.
"He's in his office," Arnie said." He pointed to the door near the
bar. "There don't seem to be many customers round here just now, so
he's doing inventory."
"Sunday afternoons are always quiet," Bridget told him. "Okay, then,
I'll teach you." She gathered up the cards along with the rest of the
deck and gave them a quick shuffle. "I call this game 'Maverick
Solitaire' after the man I learned it from. She gave an ironic smile,
remembering what a flamboyant ladies' man he had been. How would he
regard her now, especially if he didn't know that she was Brian Kelly?
"You deal out five poker hands, face up." As she spoke, she dealt the
cards. "Then, you try to re-arrange the cards into five _fighting_
hands."
"Fighting hands?"
"Five hands good enough that a skilled player would have a strong
chance to win with, two pair or better."
"I see... I think."
"Okay." She shifted over one chair. "There're your five hands. Show
me what you can make out of them."
Arnie moved around to her old seat. "Can I use straights and flushes?"
"Go ahead. Just don't start thinking that it'll make the game any
easier."
Now Arnie studied the cards. "Hey, here's one." He moved five of the
cards together, a queen-high straight. "And another." He combined
four 7s and a jack. "And another, yet; full house, 4s and aces."
"You still need two more."
He stared at the cards. "There's hardly nothing left, two pairs -- one
more hand -- and a bunch of single cards."
"You sure?" She waited while he kept looking at the cards.
Finally he shrugged in defeat. "I give up. It can't be done with
these cards."
"May I try?" When he nodded and mumbled a "yes", she began moving
cards. The straight and the hand with four 7s disappeared, but when
she was finished, there were five "fighting hands", the lowest held a
pair of jacks and a pair of 6s.
Arnie shook his head. "Well, I'll be danged. There was five good
hands there."
"This game's a lot like life." Bridget smiled, as she gathered the
cards back into a deck.
"How d'you mean, Bridget?"
"If you first think a little about what you're doing, you can do pretty
well with whatever cards you're dealt. If you just know how to look at
things the right way, you can see opportunities that other people will
miss."
Arnie made a sour face. "Now you sound like my ma."
"Sorry," she said, pretending to show some regret. "I won't do it
again." She gave the cards a quick, professional shuffle and put them
down on the table in front of Arnie. "Here, you want to try again?"
"Can I? I didn't do too good last time."
"Sure you can. After all, you're just learning." She watched as he
picked up the cards and began to deal the five hands. 'And about more
than just a card game, I hope,' she added to herself.
* * * * *
Wilma waited in the hall until she saw Beatriz and Sebastian Ortega
coming out of the parlor. They were walking hand-in-hand towards the
stairs.
She smiled and walked towards them. "'Scuze me, Beatriz, but you left
this..." she held up the bracelet. "...in my room. You gotta be more
careful; it could get lost."
"May I see that?" Sebastian took the bracelet from Wilma and looked at
it closely. "This is the bracelet I gave you, Beatriz. Does it mean
so little to you that you can just leave it lying about?" He let go of
her hand.
Beatriz shook her head. "No, I... I didn't just leave there. I...
I..."
"Now don't you be getting mad at her, Sebastian," Wilma said. "It
ain't really her fault."
The man raised an eyebrow. "It isn't? This is an expensive bracelet,
Wilma, turquoise set in burnished copper. I wonder now if it is maybe
_too_ expensive for her."
"What!" Beatriz glared at Wilma. She turned to Sebastian. "No...
please."
Wilma interrupted. "See, it's like this, Sebastian. Beatriz, she just
loves that there bracelet. She brung it in t'show me, and we got to
talking. She couldn't stop saying how much she liked you and what a
good man you are. When a gal starts talking about a man like that, she
gets..." Wilma giggled and fanned herself with her hand. "...
lightheaded." She said the word in a seductive purr.
"Is that what happened?" Sebastian looked sternly at Beatriz.
She nodded quickly. "Si, si; just as Wilma said."
"Then here is your bracelet." He put it gently back on her wrist. "Do
not lose it again."
Wilma took a half step towards him. "There you go, Sebastian. I knew
you was too big a man to get mad over something silly like that." Her
hand suddenly moved down to brush against his erection. "Oh, my, you
surely _are_ a big man, ain't you." She giggled, but she didn't take
her hand way.
Sebastian smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."
"If you will excuse us." Beatriz glared at Wilma and pushed her hand
away. "We were on our way upstairs when you so _rudely_ interrupted."
Her voice turned seductive. "Weren't we, Sebastian?"
"Oh, ahh... yes." He nodded once towards Wilma and put an arm around
Beatriz' waist. "Yes, yes, we were."
* * * * *
Monday, January 15, 1872
Someone was touching Kaitlin's breast; the sensation of it woke her
almost at once.
It was dark. She could hardly see the time on the clock by her side of
the bed, but she could _feel_ Tricia's body spooned up against her own,
feel Trisha's fingers on her breast.
"Trisha, stop that!" she hissed. When there was no answer, she jabbed
her elbow backwards into Trisha's ribs.
That worked. "Wh-what's the matter?" Trisha asked in a sleepy voice.
"Your hand," Kaitlin told her. "It's on my breast, and I don't like it
there."
The hand moved down to around Kaitlin's waist. "Is that better?"
"Yes, thank you."
"You're welcome." Trisha waited a moment. She shifted slightly and
kissed Kaitlin's shoulder.
"Now what are you doing, Trisha?"
"Well, I thought maybe... I mean, we... uhh... we are awake. I
thought, maybe we could..." Her voice trailed off as she kissed
Kaitlin's shoulder again.
"No! And please don't ask me again, not tonight, anyway."
"But, Kait--"
The other woman cut her off. "Trisha, it's the middle of the night.
I'm tired, and I am most definitely _not_ in the mood." She thought of
something and added, "And don't go trying anything while I'm asleep --
remember, I can make you stop. _And_ I can make you go sleep in
another bed if you keep trying."
"Can I keep my arm around you, at least?"
Kaitlin sighed. It was nice, a reminder of earlier, much happier
times, but... "That depends on _where_ you keep it when it's around
me."
* * * * *
Wilma was sitting back in her chair in the kitchen, enjoying a late
breakfast when Beatriz stormed in. "What did you think you was doing
last night?" the Mexican demanded.
Wilma just smiled like a cat at the cream pitcher and dabbed at a bit
of sausage gravy with a slice of toast. "Didn't you like it, Beatriz?
Sebastian certainly seemed to be enjoying our little conversation."
"You stay away from him."
"Oh, I will... probably. I don't see what you're so upset about. All
I did was return your bracelet. You know the one you _accidentally_
left in my room."
"In a pig's eye. You were all over Sebastian."
"I was just playing with him a little." She chuckled then turned
serious. "I was just playing with you a little, too."
"With... with me?"
"Yep, just like you and Roselyn been playing with me lately. I thought
I'd give you back a little o' your own." She glared at Beatriz. "I
can play them games, too. You keep it up, and you'll both be getting
it back." She stood up and started to walk out of the kitchen. At the
doorway, she turned back and added, "In spades."
* * * * *
"Sheriff Talbot?" The speaker was Tor Johansson, a tall, muscular man
with mass of dark blonde hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail that
reached down past his shoulders.
Dan looked up from the latest issue of _Police_ _Gazette_. "Tor, come
on in. How are you doing?"
"Not too bad. Sam Braddock, he say you vant to see me. Dhere is
problem?"
Dan stood up and pointed to a chair. "No, no, sit down. I just wanted
to talk to you for a bit." He paused a beat. "You still do want that
job as a deputy, don't you?"
"Yah, sure I do."
"Good, the town council meets in a couple days, and I'll be asking them
for permission to hire you."
"Permission? I thought you vas da sheriff. A sheriff vorks for da
county; he don't need some town's permission to be hiring deputies."
Dan leaned back in his chair. "Normally, he... I wouldn't; not if I
was _just_ the sheriff. I'm also the town marshal, and, as marshal, I
do have to ask the town council before I take on another deputy."
"Sheriff unt marshal, how dis can be?"
"When they split Maricopa County -- where we are -- off from Yavapi
County about a year and a half ago, I was just the marshal. Ben
Farrell, the county sheriff over in Phoenix, needed an under-sheriff
for this part of the county. Nobody really wanted the job -- nobody
that Farrell trusted, that is. Judge Humphreys fixed it so I could be
under-sheriff _and_ marshal for a while till they could find somebody
else."
"A year unt a half is more dan 'a vhile'. I t'ink."
"Tell me about it. The problem is, Ben likes the way I do the job, so
he's in no hurry to find anybody else. You take the job; you'll be my
deputy for both jobs. You still interested?"
The big man shrugged. "Don't see vhy not. Is still a goot job."
"Glad to hear it. You got anything else you want to ask?"
Tor shook his head.
"Good, because I've got a couple of questions, the sort the council is
likely to ask on Wednesday. I figure I'll ask now and see what sort of
answers you got. That okay with you?"
"Be practice for Vednesday, ask avay."
"Okay, first question is, where'd you learn to shoot so good?"
"In da army. I vas a soldier in da Second Minnesota regulars in da
Var. Dey taught us t'shoot mit pistol unt rifle."
"You have any trouble in the Army, they bring you up on charges or
anything?"
"No, sir. Dey giff me a medal for the goot conduct and another for
fighting so hard at some place called South Mountain. I got dem in a
box in my shack if you vant t'see dem."
"No, but you might bring them with to the council meeting. You have
any trouble with the law since the War? I'm sorry to be asking, but
they will, so I will."
"Ja, I know, for da job, you gotta ask. No, sir, I been in no trouble.
I just been minding mine own business unt trying t'get rich from
digging in the ground mit mine brudder."
"Why'd you quit mining?"
"Same reason ve qvit farming back in da old country. Ve do all dat
vork, unt nothing come up from the ground. My brudder still got hope.
Me, I vanted to try something else."
"There's a lot of other jobs to be had, safer ones than the law."
"Ja, maybe, but after digging in da ground for t'ree years, I vant
something vhere I be with people, maybe do dem some goot, instead of
just vorking for myself like I vas doing." He stopped and smiled. "I
answer goot, no?" He stuck out an oversized hand.
"Good enough for me." Dan shook the hand. It was half again as big as
his own, hard and callused from years of mining. "We'll see what the
town council says on Wednesday."
* * * * *
Bridget was taking her dinner break when Cap walked over to the table.
"What do you want?" she asked angrily.
"To talk." He gave her his best smile. "May I join you?"
She frowned. "If I say no, you'll probably sit down anyway."
"Probably." He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. "Just
shows how much I want to talk to you."
"You're sitting, you may as well talk."
"Thank you. First off, I've read the records Uncle Abner got from
Texas."
"So now you know the awful truth about me, don't you?"
"No, I know what the records say. The story sounds like something Will
Hanks... Wilma might've done, but it... it doesn't sound like you." He
reached for her hand.
"It isn't me." She pulled it back, out of his reach. "For that
matter, it isn't Wilma, either."
"What is, Bridget? What's your version of what happened back there at
the Battle of Adobe Wells?"
"My version? Do you think this is some kind of tall tale, where
everybody has a different way of telling some made-up story?"
As they spoke, Cap tried to read her body language. He couldn't. She
was too good at hiding her reactions, just as she was when she played
poker.
"Now you're putting words in my mouth, Bridget. I never said you made
up a story."
"Yes, you said it just now."
"Bridget, that report says that you and Will... Wilma did some terrible
things back then. Obviously, _something_ happened or there wouldn't
_be_ a report, would there?"
"No... something did happened, but the truth barely got discussed at
that court martial they gave us. And it never got into the official
report."
"What was it -- and is there any way that you can prove what you say?"
"How about I just give you my word that I'm telling you the truth? Or
isn't that good enough for you, Mr. Lewis?"
"It is, but I'm not the one that you have to convince. Uncle Abner --"
"Can go to hell. And so can you, if you need his permission to believe
what I tell you."
Cap shook his head. "Bridget, this has gone wrong six ways to Sunday.
I want to... I _do_ believe you."
"You do? What do you believe, if I haven't told you anything?"
"I believe what you _have_ told me, that the record Uncle Abner has
isn't the whole... the _real_ story."
"That's a start. Come back when you're ready -- no, when you and your
uncle are ready to listen to the real story."
"I'm ready to listen right now."
"Maybe you are, but I'm not ready to tell it, not without your uncle
here listening along with you." She picked up her fork and began
eating again, as if Cap wasn't even there.
A moment later, he wasn't.
* * * * *
Tuesday, January 16, 1872
"Wilma, a word with you if I may."
Wilma looked up from Lady Cerise's ledger book. Rosalyn was standing
in the doorway, her arms crossed beneath her breasts.
"Sure, Roslyn." She paused a beat. "Long as you ain't bringing me no
cup of tea."
"No," Rosalyn said, ignoring the comment. "I just wanted to talk to
you about Beatriz. She told me how you tried to take Sebastian Ortega
away from her with that lie about her bracelet."
"I did nothing of the sort, and she knows it. The only lie I told was
to cover for _her_ about how that bracelet got in my room. I was just
trying t'teach her a lesson for what she tried t'do t'me."
Rosalyn raised an eyebrow. "Just teach her a lesson?"
"Yep, and it's one you might want t'learn, too."
"I have no intentions of learning anything from you, and neither does
Beatriz. Besides, who are you to presume to teach _me_ anything?"
Wilma raised a fist. "I'll be glad t'show you just who I am."
"Ah, but you won't. I know Cerise. Touch me, and you'll be doing
exactly what I want."
"Which is?"
"Getting rid of you. You don't deserve to be Lady Cerise's second."
"Says you, Rosalyn."
"Yes, says me... and Beatriz. I'll be honest, our intention is to
continue harassing you until you give up and resign. However, if you
strike me... well, you know how the Lady feels. Her women have to be
perfect. If you hurt me -- or Beatriz -- bruise either of us, even
just a little bit, you can forget about being her second. Why she
might..." Rosalyn chuckled, "...she might even come to her senses and
throw you out of here."
* * * * *
"Someone to see you, dear," Martha Yingling told her husband.
Rev. Yingling put down the concordance he was reading. "Give me a
minute, then send them in." He stood up and walked around his desk.
There was not much space in the small room he used as an office. He
moved a stack of books from the only other chair to the top of the
bookcase. He gave the chair a quick swipe with his kerchief and sat
back down behind the desk.
"Reverend?" Trisha said. She stood in the doorway, clutching her
reticule, not sure if she could enter.
Yingling stood up and motioned to the chair. "Trisha... please come
in, sit down. What can I do for you?"
"It's... it's what I... what some of us on the Board want to do for
you... for the church." She adjusted her skirt and sat down. "I... I
wanted to talk to you about something we're planning for the... for the
next meting."
The man leaned back in his chair. "You were only just reconfirmed as a
member of the Board, and already you're starting new projects. Isn't
that a bit... presumptuous?"
"Like you said, Reverend, I just got reconfirmed. The congregation
decided that they wanted me on the Board. I figure that makes this the
best time to get something done."
"And what do you propose to do... exactly."
"You remember, before the election last fall, I told you that I wanted
to build us a better church if I got on the Board."
"I remember. I thought that you were speaking figuratively. Most
people seem satisfied with the arrangement we have with the school."
"I'm not satisfied, and I don't believe that you are either."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I think that you'd like a real office, with a bigger desk and
shelves for all your books."
"It would be nice, I suppose, but hardly necessary."
"Maybe not, but it's not the only thing we were thinking of."
"We? Who all were doing this thinking?"
"Me, of course, the Judge, Rupe Warrick, and Dwight Albright. We met
at my place about a week ago."
"Might I assume that Horace Styron, Jubal Cates, and Willie Gotefreund
were not invited?"
"You may, indeed." She seemed to stifle a giggle.
"And what exactly did you plan -- or should I just ask how soon before
the construction starts?"
"We didn't get that far. You're right. A lot of people like the deal
we have, and two members of the town council, Arsenio Caulder and Whit
Whitney, belong to the church."
"What are you planning to do then?"
"We're going to start a church improvement fund. We'll raise the
money, while people think about what they want to do. With luck --"
"With the Lord's help," Yingling interrupted. "Most assuredly, with
our Lord's help."
"With the Lord's help," Trisha continued, "when they decide what they
do want, we'll have the money for it."
"And how do you plan to get this money?"
"To tell the truth, we only came up with the _beginning_ of a plan.
We're gonna move to start the fund at the next meeting and..." her face
lit up as she continued, "...we're going to start off starting off by
holding a dance the end of February."
"A dance." The reverend's eyebrow raised skyward. "And who thought of
that?"
"My... Kaitlin did. I wasn't sure at first, but it does seem like a
good idea, now; doesn't it?"
"I suppose it does." He paused a beat. "And this will all happen at
the next meeting of the church board?"
"It will. We didn't want to call a special meeting or anything."
Again, she seemed almost ready to giggle. "Not so soon after the last
one, and not for a dance of all things."
"No, I can see that."
"I'm glad that you understand. Can I ask... you don't have any
objections to this, do you? I'd hate to call things off, but if you
don't approve..." She let the thought trail off.
"There are many things that the church could use, Trisha, and all of
them take money. This seems to be as good a way as any to raise it.
Even if it doesn't go to building me an office, there are -- I'm
certain -- any number of things that we are much more in need of."
"Probably. We just thought that we'd like you to have one."
"I appreciate the thought, but it isn't really necessary."
"Why don't we let the congregation decide that -- once we have the
money, of course?" She stood up, and so did he. "I'd like to ask one
thing, though."
"And what is that?"
"Like you said, Horace wasn't there at my house. I felt like I should
tell you, but I... I'd kind of hope that you don't feel like you have
to tell him."
"You know that I don't enjoy playing politics with the Board."
"I do -- believe me, I do. I'm not asking that you take sides. Horace
will do that quick enough. If he doesn't know, he can't ask you.
He'll find out anyway. It just won't come from you." She put out a
hand. "Okay?"
Yingling took her hand in his. It was still amazed him how small and
delicate Patrick O'Hanlan's large, rough hands had become. "I won't
tell, but I won't deny it either, if Horace asks."
"Fair enough, Reverend. Fair enough."
* * * * *
Someone knocked on the door. "Just a minute," Teresa Diaz answered.
She wiped her hands on her apron and walked from the sink full of
dishes to the front door.
"Buenos noches, Teresa," Ramon said when she opened the door. "Is
Dolores ready?"
Teresa shook her head. "Not quite. Constanza, go tell your cousin
that Seá±or de Aguilar is here."
"Si, Mama." The young girl was doing her numbers. She put down the
pencil and climbed off the stool she was sitting on. She walked over
to a bedroom door and opened it a few inches. "Dolores, he is here."
"Please ask him to wait," came a voice from the bedroom. It was loud
enough for everyone to hear.
Teresa motioned to a nearby chair. "Have a seat, Ramon. I'm sure that
she will be out very soon."
"Thank you, Teresa." As he sat down, Ramon took a watch from his
jacket pocket.
Teresa raised an eyebrow. "Are you late for something?"
"Dolores asked me to take her to hear Jessie Hanks sing," Ramon told
her. "Jessie's first show begins at 8, about twenty minutes from now."
"You have more than enough time. It is barely a five minute walk from
here to Seá±or O'Toole's saloon, close enough that my Arnoldo can come
home from working there to eat supper with us."
Ramon nodded. "I know. I was just checking the time." He smiled
sheepishly and put the watch away. "A bad habit, I am sorry."
"Such things happen." Teresa nodded in agreement. "If you will excuse
me, Ramon, I have a sink full of dinner dishes to wash."
Ramon watched her walk back to the sink. He wouldn't, he _couldn't_,
say that he was actually concerned about Maggie. She usually took Lupe
and Ernesto home about 7:30, but sometimes she stayed a bit later.
He'd prefer not to walk in with Dolores on his arm if Maggie was still
there.
'Even if Jessie or Jane tells Margarita we were there -- and they
probably will,' he thought, 'it is better than for her to actually see
us.'
At that moment, as if on cue, the bedroom door opened and Dolores swept
into the room. She wore a dark brown dress with pale yellow trim at
the cuffs and collar. The dress hugged her figure, showing off her
slender waist and firm breasts without being vulgar. Her hair was
pinned up, with a sprig of flowers the same color as the trim tucked in
above her left ear, a courting flower.
"I am so sorry that I kept you waiting, Ramon," she said softly.
Ramon stood up and stared at her, a smile forming on his lips. "To see
you like this, Dolores, was well worth the wait."
* * * * *
Jessie waited for the applause to die down. "Thank you, folks. It's
been grand singing for you tonight."
"Give us another one," someone yelled.
"Betsy From Pike," said another man. A few others called for specific
songs.
Jessie beamed at the crowd. "How 'bout I sing you a new one?"
"Don't wanna hear a new one; sing 'Suzanna'."
"Aw, and I worked so hard learning this one." She made a pretty pout.
"Let her sing it." There were more supportive shouts until she picked
up the guitar and began,
"Arise, arise, Collee, says he.
` Arise an' come with me.
` An' to the land of Ireland go
` An' married there we'll be."
"She then took all her father's gold
` Likewise her mother's fee,
` She took two steeds from out their stalls
` Where they stood thirty by three."
The song told how they rode to the coast, where the man revealed his
true plans.
"There's six king's daughters in this sea,
` An' you the seventh shall be."
"But first take off that costly ring
` An' give it unto me
` 'Twould be shame for that costly ring
` To be moldering in the sea,"
But the best of plans, as they say...
"As he stood for to look around,
` To view the grass an' trees,
` She picked him up right manfully..."
Jessie flashed a wicked smile.
"An' _throwed_ him in the sea."
There was a collective laugh. Jessie continued singing how the maiden
cursed her murderous beau before she rode home.
"She then put back her father's gold,
` Likewise her mother's fee
` She put the steeds back in the stalls
` Where they stood thirty by three."
And when the noise she makes awakens her father, the girl's pet parrot
covers for her sneaking about.
"The old gray cat come to my cage
` An' tried to weary me.
` An' I called Collee up to drive
` The old gray cat away."
"An' I called Collee up to drive
` The old gray cat away."
Jessie finished the song with a flourish and stood listening to the
clapping, the catcalls, and the sound of coins hitting the small stage
she was standing on.
What she didn't see was Shamus scowling at her from behind the bar.
* * * * *
Wednesday, January 17, 1872
"When ye've finished yuir breakfast, Jessie," Shamus said, sitting down
across from her. "I'd like t'be talking to ye."
Jessie took a sip of coffee to wash down the last of her toast. "Sure,
Shamus; I'm just finishing. What d'you want to talk about?"
"Something I'd rather be discussing in private if ye don't mind."
Molly walked over. She sat down next to her husband and put her hand
on his arm. "Thuir's nobody about but the three of us, Shamus. Why
not be talking now instead of making the lass wait and worry?"
"She's got what t'be worrying about, Molly Love. Ye well know how much
songs like that upsets me just now."
"I know, Shamus, and I know why," Molly answered. "But she don't, and
ye won't be telling her, I'm thinking. But, for me, at least try t'be
keeping yuir temper while ye're talking."
"For you, Molly, I'll try." He put his hand on hers and smiled. "And
I'll just hold on t'ye as a way t'help keep me from losing me temper."
Shamus turned to face Jessie. "Lass, what was ye thinking t'be sing
that new song ye sang last night?"
"You mean 'Collee's Ride'? Most of the folks loved it. What's the
matter?"
"That song's about lying and deceit and... and murder. 'Six king's
daughters drown in the sea, and the seventh t'follow; except she drowns
him that meant to do it, instead." He scowled. "That ain't the sort
of song I want t'hear in me saloon."
"But they _liked_ it," Jessie argued. Her was voice almost a whine.
"I made over seven bucks last night in tips. That's a lot more'n I
usually do."
"Jessie, dear," Molly said quickly, cutting off whatever her husband
was about to say, "a saloon's supposed t'be a happy place, a place men
come to enjoy themselves. They can't do that if ye're singing such sad
songs at them."
"What about Lorena?" Jessie argued. "That's a song about somebody that
died."
"No," Molly answered. "It's about a love that lasts forever and the
joy the singer feels knowing that they'll be together again in the life
to come."
Jessie tried another tack. "What about them that comes in to drink so
they can forget about life and what it done to them?"
"If they're drinking t'forget," Shamus said angrily, "then they don't
need ye t'be singing songs that remind them."
"But..." Jessie tried to think of another argument she could use. "But
there's always been songs about murder. They're nothing new. In my
book there's an old one called "Edward...."
"No buts," Shamus said firmly. "I don't want ye t'be singing that song
again." He paused for effect. "Understand?"
"She understands, Love," Molly said.
Shamus stood up. "Good." He walked away without another word,
"No, she don't," Jessie said softly. "Molly what's biting his ass so
damn bad that he came down on me like that?"
Molly sighed. "That damnable trial down in Tucson, it's truly wearing
on him. Please, Jessie, could ye be giving himself a little slack."
"I... I suppose," Jessie said. She was still mad, but the sorrowful
look on Molly's face kept her from arguing. For now.
* * * * *
"Hey, Milt," Jane called as Milt came into the Saloon. "Where you been
keeping yourself?"
"Uh... Good afternoon, Jane," Milt answered, feeling embarrassed. It
had been a while since he'd been in the saloon. "How are you today?"
"Busy, too _dang_ busy, in fact."
"I didn't think Shamus got this busy so early in the day."
"He don't, not usually, but Laura was feeling kinda tired. Shamus said
she could go upstairs and lay down. She's been up there for a while; I
think she fell asleep."
"She must be tired, to fall asleep in the middle of the day."
Jane nodded. "A baby'll do that, I guess. She's my sister, and I want
her t'have a good, healthy one. But I do miss her when there's a lotta
folks in here wanting drinks, and I gotta take care of 'em by myself."
"It's good of you to be concerned about her, Jane. I'm sure she
appreciates it, and that she'll be back down here soon."
"She better be. Jessie was around, too, but she went off someplace.
Looks like I'm the only one left t'wait on folks. So if you got
something for me to read or sign or anything, it'll have to wait." She
hurried off to get an order from the bar.
"Yeah, Miltie," Matt Royce said. "You'll haveta cool your heels for a
while, maybe do something useful for a change."
Milt ignored the man. "Actually, I was looking for Mort Boyer or Jerry
Domingez." He looked around for the men. "I need some papers taken to
Phoenix."
"Mort was in here 'bout an hour ago, but he left. I ain't seen Jerry
all day," Fred Norman said.
"Maybe he's off doing some real work," Royce chided. "You should try
it some time; it ain't nothing t'be afeared of."
"I do my share and more, Royce," Milt replied. "What's it to you?"
"I don't know about that. Seems to me, you spend most of your time
these days, sucking up to Jane. It must be nice t'work for the richest
woman in town. Even nicer when she likes you, or is all that sucking
up you do the reason she likes you?"
Milt's expression soured. "I'd better go find Mort or Jerry. Those
papers have to get filed." He turned and left.
Jane looked back over from the bar just in time to see Milt walk out
the door. "Now where is he...?" Her voice trailed off. She sighed.
"And couldn't he even take the time t'say goodbye t'me?"
* * * * *
"I think that answers my questions," Aaron Silverman said. "Thank you,
Mr. Johansson." He turned to Whit, who was acting as chairman of the
Town Council. "Now we vote."
"Hold on," Joe Kramer called out. "I still got some questions."
"We usually don't allow questions from the floor," Whit said patiently.
Kramer stood up. "I got some anyway. For a start, why do we need to
hire another man for anyway?"
"Out of order." Whit hammered his gavel on the tabletop.
Dan Talbot slowly stood up. "Mr. Chairman, even if it was out of
order, I'd like to answer that question anyway."
"Sets a precedent," Whit replied, shaking his head. "We don't want
t'be doing something like that."
"Better we should answer, Whit," Aaron told him. "Unanswered
questions, as the Sages say, are like a swarm of angry bees buzzing
about a man's head."
Whit shrugged. "All right, Dan... Sheriff, answer the question."
"Whit... Mr. Whitney just called me 'sheriff.' That there's part of
the reason," Dan began. "I'm the town marshal for Eerie, _and_ I'm the
under-sheriff for eastern Maricopa County. That means I've got to be
outta town on a regular basis. Right now, when I'm doing that, Paul
Grant gets to be marshal all by himself. That's not fair to Paul _or_
to the town."
"That ain't been a problem so far," another man yelled.
Dan shook his head. "Yes... yes, it has. Most folks just didn't
notice 'cause Paul does such a good job." He waited a beat. "The
thing is, it's getting worse. There's more n'more men working claims
up in the mountains and more n'more men working on the ranches
hereabout."
"And more people in the town, now, too," Arsenio Caulder, the third
Councilman, added. "Not to mention that Dan's got a little more on his
mind now with a baby coming."
"Why should the town pay for his baby?" Kramer asked.
Dan glared at the heckler. "Nobody's paying for that but me, and, if
having a baby on the way does anything, it makes me work harder.
Arsenio -- Mr. Councilman Caulder there -- will be finding that out for
himself soon enough. I want to make sure that Eerie's a good, safe
place for my new little one _and_ for my wife and my boy, Jimmy."
Now Aaron stood. "It seems to me that hiring another sheriff or deputy
or whatever is a good thing. It means that the town's growing. Just
like I might want to hire another clerk for all the new business --
_kayn_ _ahora_ -- I got coming to my store. Besides, Dan says Mr.
Johansson is going to be deputy marshal _and_ deputy sheriff. That
means that the county is going to pay half his salary." He winked at
the crowd. "By me, that's a bargain we shouldn't let pass. I say,
'Yes' to hiring him." He sat down quickly.
"So do I," Arsenio added.
Whit pounded his gavel. "Same here; vote's unanimous. You're hired,
Tor. Congratulations."
* * * * *
Paul folded his pants and laid them over the chair in his room. "I
liked that new song you sang last night, the one about the Irish girl."
"You mean 'Collee's Ride?' I'm glad you liked it," Jessie said, as she
stepped out of her dress.
"Uh huhn, it gave me an idea." He grinned and turned towards her.
Jessie posed for him in her camisole and drawers, the same wicked smile
on her face as when she sang the song. "And what exactly was that, Mr.
Grant?"
"To throw you into the sea, Miss Hanks. I wanted to do that as soon as
I heard you sing about it. A song like that gives a man ideas."
"I think Shamus would agree with you. But we'll have to ride quite a
ways from Eerie before we get t'the sea."
Paul shrugged. "Maybe I can't throw you into a seabed out here in the
desert, Jess..." He stepped towards her, still grinning. "...But I've
another, a much better kind of bed right here, that I can throw you
into."
Without saying another word, he swooped down on her. He picked her up
in his arms before she could react and tossed her onto the bed.
Jessie landed with a squeal of surprise, but before she could climb off
or even voice a protest, Paul landed next to her. "I thought I'd throw
myself in, too," he explained. "It seemed only fair."
"Well, now that you got me on this here sea bed, what're you going t'do
with me?"
"Same as I did that night I fetched you out of that flash flood, take
off all your clothes and rub your body all over till you get warm."
"Mmm, that may take a while, but you're more'n welcome to try."
Jessie's arms reached out and pulled him towards her.
"I'll certainly do my best," he managed to reply before their lips met
in a long, torrid kiss.
* * * * *
Thursday, January 18, 1872
Dolores sat back on her bed and read the letter again.
"Hola, Dolores."
"You have been gone from the City for so long that I
am writing to see how you are and what you are doing."
"There is so much excitement here. All I hear people
Talking about is their plans for Carnival. I am
having a new dress made, dark green with silver lace
brocade. Luis is taking me to the dances. I think
that he is getting serious about me. I am not
ready to marry -- I am a butterfly like you -- but
he is so _very_ insistent."
"And persuasive, too. When he kisses me, my toes
curl, and when we -- but a _maiden_ should not say
such things, even in a letter."
"Oh, but his kisses, they are _so_ good."
"Are you coming back in time for Carnival? In your
last letter, you said you were seeing someone, an
old friend. If you and he have gotten serious about
each other, you should bring him back with you.
I am sure that he would want to leave a flea trap
like Eerie for Mexico City, especially to be with you."
"Even if you are not serious, you should bring him.
If only to make Ximon more sorry than ever that he
agreed to what his parents arranged with the Guzmans.
I just _know_ he is marrying Elvira for her money.
She is not the beauty you are, and we both know what
a _bitch_ she can be."
"Should I cross out that last paragraph?"
"No, I want you to get mad, mad enough to stop feeling
sorry for yourself and come home. Especially if you
bring home a handsome souvenir like this Ramon you
told me about."
"Or has _he_ made you stop feeling sorry for yourself?"
"Please write soon and tell everything to"
"Your friend,
` Perdita Moralez"
Dolores folded the letter and put it back on the small table next to
her bed. She had things to think about and plans to make.
* * * * *
"Well, boy," Horace Styron asked, "you find what you're looking for?"
The man was beginning to sound impatient.
Arnie pointed to a tray inside the glass cabinet. "Si... yes, there,
the box on the far left."
"For the navy pistol?" When Arnie nodded, Styron took a small brass key
from his vest pocket and unlocked the cabinet. He opened the door and
picked up the box. "Box of six hundred cartridges..." He flipped the
box over. "...that'll be $8.25."
Arnie's eyes went wide. "So much?" It was more than he made in a week,
even counting his share of the tips, and he turned most of what did he
earn over to his mother. "I-I do not... can I pay you some of it now
and the rest later?"
"I don't give credit, boy, not to new customers, anyway. You got the
$8.25, you get the shot, otherwise..." He let his voice trail off.
Arnie shook his head. "Not today; I-I am sorry."
"You best start saving up your pennies, then." The merchant frowned
and replaced the box in the cabinet. As he locked the door, he added,
"When you get enough, you come back, and I'll sell 'em to you." He
chuckled. "Or you could ask your ma and pa to give them to you for
your birthday."
The boy bristled at the insult. "I will get the money, seá±or. I will
be back for the cartridges, and _sooner_ than you expect, you will
see." He turned and stormed out of the hardware store.
'I just have to figure out _how_ I will get it,' he thought, as he
started down the street.
* * * * *
Amy took a firm hold of Jimmy's hand. "I have to go into here, dear.
Hold my hand, and don't talk to anyone unless I say that you may."
When the boy nodded in agreement, she opened the door and walked into
Doc Upshaw's office.
Edith Lonnigan was working at a desk near some file cabinets to her
right. To her left was the waiting area, a set of chairs scattered
along two walls. The place was nearly empty. A farmer Amy didn't know
sat in the corner, his arm in a cast.
Amy gave Jimmy his toy horse and told him to sit down on one of the
chairs. The boy walked over and climbed up onto one a few feet away
from the man. He settled in it and began to play with the toy.
"Amelia," Mrs. Lonnigan said, looking up from whatever she was working
on, "and little Jimmy. How are you both today?"
"Very well, thank you, Edith," Amy replied. "And you?"
"Doing well enough. I do hope Jimmy isn't sick."
Amy shook her head. "Goodness, no, I came to talk to you about my...
condition."
"Is something wrong? Are you in any sort of pain?" The older woman
was purely a professional now.
"I'm fine. Still a bit queasy in the morning, but that's all. It's,
well, I was talking to Laura Caulder the other day. She... uhh... she
asked if I was your patient, too. I told her I was, and she asked if
we could have our check-ups together. I said I'd ask you if we could."
Edith smiled. "I think it's a grand notion. The poor dear is
terrified. This being pregnant is something she never expected in her
wildest dreams. I think that it would do her a world of good to have a
friend to share it with."
"That's what I thought, too. Laura is a strong person, but being a
woman is so new to her, even now. And to be _pregnant_, no less."
"It's good of you to want to help, Amelia, and I'll be happy to
cooperate."
"I was flattered that she asked me. Besides, to tell the truth, I'm a
little afraid, too."
"There's no shame in that. Childbearing is not the easiest thing a
woman ever has to do." Edith looked down at a calendar. "I'm seeing
Laura the first Tuesday of the month right now, early in the afternoon.
That would be the 6th of February. Is that all right with you,
Amelia?"
"I believe so. Does she come here to the doctor's office?"
"No, I walk over to the Saloon. Mr. O'Toole lets us use one of his
upstairs rooms. Is that agreeable to you?"
"It is. I'll tell Laura, and we'll both see you in about three weeks,
then."
* * * * *
"Here, lad, let me get that door for ye."
Shamus held the door to the kitchen opened while Arnie walked through
holding a heavy tray full of glassware. "Thank you, Shamus," Arnie
said as the door closed behind him.
Arnie walked slowly over to the sunk and set the tray down on the
counter. He looked around quickly. He was alone. "Bueno," he
whispered.
Two glasses were almost full. They were propped against the side of
the tray, held in place by several other glasses. He carefully lifted
one out and checked it again. There was no sign of dirt, cigarette
butts or food. "Still has some of its head left." He leaned back
against the sink and slowly drained the glass.
"Very nice." He put the glass down into the sink. He could feel the
alcohol flow down into his belly, feel it warm him from the inside. "I
believe I'll have another." He lifted out a larger beer stein and
began to drink.
"Put that down, Arnie." Shamus' voice echoed through the kitchen.
"Now!"
Arnie almost dropped the glass. "Seá±or Shamus, I... I did not hear you
come in."
"Ten years I lived with the Cheyenne," Shamus told him. "I can still
move as quiet as any of them if I'm wanting to." He glared at the boy.
"And what did ye think ye was doing?"
"I... I was bringing in the glasses like you told me to."
"I told ye t'be bringing them in to be washed, Arnie, not so's ye could
be drinking in the privacy of me kitchen."
"I only did it this one time... Honest."
"Ye mean, I only caught ye this one time. I been smelling sen-sen on
yuir breath for a good while now. I was hoping I was wrong, but I
wasn't." He took a breath. "It stops now, Arnoldo."
"Seá±or?"
"It stops now. Ye'll be drinking no more from the glasses ye bring
into me kitchen or any other time so long as ye're here working for me.
D'ye understand?"
"I... I understand."
"Ye'd better. If I catch ye drinking again I'll be given serious
thought t'whether I want ye in here at all, let alone as me employee."
With that, Shamus turned and walked away without another word.
Arnie watched him go. "I'll think about this later. For now..." He
picked up the stein and looked at it for a moment. Then he smiled
grimly and poured the beer that was still in it down into the sink.
* * * * *
Jessie finished "Betsy from Pike" with a guitar flourish; her daily
practice sessions were paying off. Most of her audience had sung along
with her at the end. "Thanks," she said happily, as the audience
applauded, and a few of them tossed money.
"Hey, Jessie," somebody yelled. "Sing that song you done the other
night, the one about the girl and the parrot."
Jessie winched. It was the song Shamus hated for some reason.
"You mean 'Collee's Ride'? Nah, you don't want t'hear that old thing.
How about I sing --"
"Collee's Ride" another voice yelled. A few others joined in.
"How about I sing 'Lorena' for you?" she asked hopefully. She liked
the other song, but she _had_ promised Molly. Sort of.
"I think she just wants to be coaxed." A coin came out of nowhere and
landed at her feet. Two more followed from other parts of the room.
Jessie glanced over towards the bar. Shamus was watching her, an angry
expression on his face. Molly stood next to him, whispering something.
Her hand was on his arm.
"Are you sure?" Jessie asked. "There was them that didn't like that
song."
"Who cares?" The crowd was getting restless. A few were clapping
their hands or pounding a stein on a table. They were chanting
"Collee... Collee."
Jessie shrugged and looked over at Shamus as if to say, "I tried." He
glared back at her and turned away to pour someone a beer.
She picked up her guitar and began to play.
* * * * *
Friday, January 19, 1872
Arsenio woke up and rolled over, still under the covers. "Mmm, good
morning, Laura." He stopped when he saw the look on her face.
"What?" She was sitting up, her eyes wide with fear, staring at the
far wall. "What did you say?"
"Never mind that." He leaned over and took her hand in his. "What's
the matter?"
"I... I don't know. I felt... I feel odd, all fluttery like, down by
my stomach."
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it's like a gas bubble or something, uncomfortable but not...
painful."
He raised an eyebrow at her hesitation. "What's wrong?"
"It's... the... whatever it is, it's down by where the baby is? I...
I'm... what am I going to do?" He could see her eyes beginning to
tear.
Arsenio threw the covers back. "You're going to stay right there and
try not to worry. I'll be back with Doc Upshaw as soon as I can."
"Do... do you think it's that serious?"
"Damned if I know, but if it's got you scared, that makes it serious as
far as I'm concerned." He tucked his nightshirt into his pants and
pulled on his shoes without putting on socks.
Laura started to get out of bed. "Do you want me to come along?"
"I want you to stay put. I'll be back soon enough." He finished tying
his shoe and stood up. "You just relax." When he saw her climb back
under the covers, he leaned over and gently kissed her on the forehead.
"Don't worry, Laura, and... I love you."
She smiled up at him. "Oh, I never worry about that."
* * * * *
Shamus stopped Jessie as she was coming down the stairs. "Ye couldn't
resist, could ye, Jessie?"
"Shamus, is this about last night?"
"Of course, 'tis about last night. I told ye not t'be singing that
song."
"You were there. You know I tried not to."
"Aye, ye _tried_. Trying and doing, them's two very different things."
"Come on, Shamus. They were yelling, pounding their glasses. What'd
you want me to do?"
"Sing something else -- _anything_ else. They'd've settled down if
ye'd started t'be singing some other song."
She thought about that for a moment. "Maybe they would have -- or
maybe not. I don't know. But what's so damn bad about 'Collee's Ride'
anyway? Nobody else gets mad when I sing it."
"_I_ get mad, and that's more than enough."
She still wanted to argue. "I still don't see what the problem is."
"Oh, ye don't, do ye." He glared at her, trying not to lose his
temper. "Well, there's only two things ye _need_ t'be seeing, Miss
Jessie Hanks." He raised a hand, the index and middle finger pointing
at her. "First, I'm yuir employer." He lowered one finger. "And,
second, while I am, ye'll not be singing that song again."
Shamus lowered the other finger and walked past her up the stairs.
* * * * *
Doc Upshaw carefully moved his stethoscope from one point to another on
Laura's abdomen. "Take a deep breath and hold it."
Laura nodded and inhaled sharply. At the same time, she felt Arsenio
squeeze her hand. "It's okay, Laura," he whispered. "I'm here."
"Shhh," Mrs. Lonnigan hissed at him. The four of them were crammed
into the bedroom. Laura was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her
nightgown was unbuttoned to make the examination easier.
Doc stood up and let the stethoscope fall to his side. "It's just what
I thought. You can get dressed now, Laura."
"Am I all right, Doc," Laura asked nervously. "Is the baby all right?
I... I didn't lose it, d-did I?" She was trembling.
Arsenio moved closer and put his arm around her. "Yes, Doc. Is she --
and the baby -- are they all right?" he asked.
"She's fine." Doc smiled. "And so is the baby." He took off the
gloves he had worn for the examination and put them in his bag.
"Edith, you told her about the baby quickening, didn't you?"
Mrs. Lonnigan snorted. "Of course, I did, Doctor." She turned to
Laura and Arsenio. "Don't you remember, dear? I told you at your last
appointment that the baby was going to start moving very soon."
"You... mean that's... that's what I'm feeling..." Laura looked down
and gently put her hand on her swollen stomach. "...the baby?"
"That's exactly what he's saying," Mrs. Lonnigan told her. "The...
_your_ baby is far enough along that it's begun to move."
"And it's supposed to do that?" Arsenio asked.
Doc chuckled and put his hand on the other man's shoulder. "That's
exactly what it's supposed to be doing, Arsenio."
"Ohh!" Laura's eyes went wide. "It's moving again. I... I think I
can feel it when I put my hand on my stomach."
"It might be a little early for that," Doc said, "but you'll be able to
soon enough."
"Indeed, the baby will start kicking soon," Mrs. Lonnigan added. "Then
you'll both be able to feel it."
"Both of us?" Laura asked uncertainly. "How?"
Mrs. Lonnigan smiled. "Well, you have to be close... hugging, perhaps,
but you two don't seem to have any problem with that."
* * * * *
"Is something wrong, Trisha?" Liam asked.
Trisha looked over at her brother from behind the counter where she was
sitting. "What? Oh, uhh... no, I'm... I'm fine."
"So you say, but you've been fidgeting all afternoon. Are you sure
you're all right?"
"I'm just feeling... ah... a little out of sorts," she admitted, "but
it's nothing serious... really."
Even as she said it, Trisha hoped it was true. Her shoes were pinching
her feet, and her corset felt tight around her breasts, as if it had
shrunk. When she'd gone into the office to try and adjust her corset
in private, her breasts had seemed... bigger.
'More tender, too,' she remembered. 'It had felt so good to touch --
no, Trisha,' she chided herself. "Don't be thinking like that. Think
about your work -- your work, damn it!"
She closed her eyes and slowly counted to ten. It helped. Some.
'Maybe tonight,' she thought, 'I can get Kaitlin to help me.'
Trisha had just been thinking about asking Kaitlin for advice.
Somehow, though, the picture of the two of them on the bed in just
their chemises had popped into her mind. She shook her head, trying to
shake away the image like a wet dog shaking itself dry.
It didn't work. The image faded, but it kept coming back, now and
then, for the rest of the day. And whenever she saw it in the back of
her mind, Trisha fidgeted even more.
* * * * *
Jessie walked past Herve and into the parlor of _La Parisienne_.
"Hey, Jess," Wilma said cheerfully. "What brings you over here this
afternoon?"
Jessie's face soured. "I needed to get out of Shamus' for a while, so
I decided to come over 'n see you." She looked around the room.
Besides Wilma, Mae, and Roselyn were there in the parlor. So were
about half a dozen men.
"I ain't interrupting anything, am I?" Jessie asked. A couple of the
men were looking at her in a way that was making her feel...
uncomfortable.
"No, little darling," one of the men said, patting the sofa next to
where he was sitting. "You're more'n welcome. Come on in and join the
party."
Wilma glowered at the man for a moment. She stood up and walked over
to Jessie. "What's the problem with Shamus?"
"I sang a song the other night, and he didn't like it. He liked it
even less when I sang it again yesterday."
"If he hated it so much," Wilma asked, "why'd you sing it the second
time? You _trying_ to make him mad at you?" She laughed and added,
"Not that it don't sound like a fun idea."
"I didn't plan to -- I sorta... promised Molly I wouldn't -- but the
folks last night, they kept yelling for me t'sing it. I finally did,
and I got some nice tips. They throwed good money the first time I
sung it, too."
Wilma thought about that. "Seems t'me the money's all the reason you
need. Shamus is always saying he's a businessman; he should understand
that."
"I suppose. You know I never was one t'turn down an honest dollar."
"You never had no trouble going for the dishonest ones, neither." They
both laughed at that.
"'Scuse me, little lady," the man on the couch interrupted. "Instead
of talking, why don't you let us all hear this song of yours that
causing all your trouble?" A few of the others agreed.
"Seems fair." Jessie cleared her throat and took a breath.
She was about to start, when Wilma put a hand on her arm. "Wait a
minute, Jess. Gents, my sister's a professional; she gets _paid_ for
singing."
"You saying we gotta pay her, Wilma?" the man asked wryly. Wilma
nodded. "So," he continued, "she don't give it away for nothing any
more'n you do." He laughed heartily, and the other men joined in.
Roselyn snickered at Wilma's embarrassment.
Wilma put her hand on her hip and batted her eyes at the man. "I never
heard you -- any of you boys -- complain about what you got for your
money, Otis."
"Point taken, Wilma." He reached into his pocket and took out a silver
half-dollar. "And if that pretty sister of yours is half as good at
what she does, it'll be worth the money t'hear her." He tossed the
coin to Jessie, who caught it on the fly.
"Okay, then." She smiled and began to sing "Collee's Ride."
After a few lines, the men were smiling and nodding their heads in time
with the song. When she repeated the last verse, ending the song, they
broke into a round of applause. Three of the other men tossed coins at
Jessie.
"Sing us another one," Otis said. "A happier one this time."
Jessie thought for a moment. This was a new situation, and that seemed
to call for a new song. "Well, there's this song I been learning. How
'bout I try it out on you?"
"Do it," said another of the men, a tall lanky fellow she'd heard
somebody call Nate.
She looked at Wilma, who nodded back at her, and she began.
"When the dance hall girls kick high,
` They never ask the how or why.
` When joy is lost, they merely sigh;
` The tune of love is not a lie."
"Miss Amanda Walford-Biddy,
` She's the toast of Kansas City.
` A. has boyfriends, one-two-three;
` She'll have twenty, wait and see."
It was a merry tune, and the men in the room were soon clapping along.
And tossing coins when the song ended.
"Tres bien," Cerise called out, leading the applause. "Tres bien."
"My Lady," Wilma said. "I didn't know you were listening. You don't
mind Jessie singing here, do you?"
Cerise shook her head. "Not in the least, Wilma." She turned to
Jessie. "I heard you speak of the troubles you have with Monsieur
Shamus. If they continue, you are more than welcome to come here to
sing your songs."
"I always knew you'd wind up working here, Jess." Wilma laughed and
slapped Jessie back.
Jessie wasn't sure she liked the sound of _that_. "I'm hoping that
Shamus and me can still work things out, Lady Cerise, but thanks for
the offer."
"Just a thought," Cerise said. "Mayhaps you could sing here in the
afternoon and over there at night."
"Maybe I can," Jessie said. "We'll be busy tomorrow setting up for the
dance. Lemme come back Sunday, and we'll see how it works."
"Bien, Sunday it is," Cerise said, nodding in approval at the
suggestion.
* * * * *
R.J. took a sip of wine. "I see that you taught Arnie that game of
Brett's."
"You mean 'Maverick Solitaire'?" Bridget said, cutting a slice of her
roast beef. "Yes, I did. Jessie and Laura have been giving him
lessons on how to shoot a gun. I thought a few lessons on thinking
before he did something risky would be a good idea."
"Besides," she continued, "he gets bored when there isn't work for him,
and you know what they say about idle hands."
"I do indeed. Just the same, it was a good-hearted thing to do."
"He jumped in when those men were ready to shoot me. I owe him."
"I seem to recall having something to do with that, myself."
Bridget gently touched his arm. "I remember, and I thank you again for
that help, but you're a grown man, R.J. He's still a boy. He can be
rash, and I worry about him, especially if he might have a pistol on
hand."
"And I've noticed you trying to keep an eye on him, too. You've been
watching him while he's working, watching like a mother hen."
She smiled, feeling a bit embarrassed at the comparison. "I guess I do
-- and why exactly are you watching me, R.J. Rossi?"
"I'm old-fashioned, I guess. I like to look at my friends, now and
then." He took her hand in his. "One friend in particular; do you
mind?"
"Not really, I suppose. Can you do me a favor and keep an eye on
Arnie, too?"
"If you want, but it won't be near as much fun as watching you." He
grinned, then turned serious. "Do you really think he needs watching?"
"I don't know. When he first started working at the saloon, he did
pretty well, but now..."
"Have you tried talking to him? He'll surely listen to you. He likes
you -- which shows he's got good taste, if not good sense."
She felt her cheeks warm at the compliment. "He doesn't listen -- not
to me, at least. His cousin, Dolores, he listens more to her."
"Then I'd say you should talk to her." He smiled again. "But right
now, I'm glad that you're talking to me." He gently lifted her hand to
his lips and kissed it softly.
* * * * *
Kaitlin stood watching Trisha changing into her bedclothes. She was
already in her nightgown, while Trisha was still fumbling with the
hooks of her corset. "Is something bothering you, Trisha?"
Trisha frowned and looked down at her body. "It's my... my breasts.
There's something wrong with them?"
"Do they hurt?"
"No, they seem a little bigger somehow, more tender, too."
Kaitlin nodded. She thought she knew what the problem was. "Tender?"
she prompted.
"Yes, when I touch them... like this..." She slid a finger across her
left breast, just above the lace trim of her corset. "I -- ooh! -- I
feel it so much more than usual."
"That sometimes happens to a woman." Kaitlin counted in her head.
Yes, she was right; Trisha's monthlies were due in a day or so.
"I think it's, maybe, because we haven't..." Trisha glanced towards
their bed. "...haven't... umm, you know... in so long."
Kaitlin gave her a wry smile. "Are you asking what I think you're
asking?"
"Uh huhn." Trisha still had a hand on her left breast, one finger
dipping down under the corset lace, touching her nipple. "Could we...
please." Her voice was breathy and a bit uneven. She moved to undo
the rest of the corset hooks. She finished and let the garment drop to
the floor. "Please."
Kaitlin looked at the woman, now standing before her in only her
camisole and drawers. "I do believe that your breasts _have_ gotten a
bit larger, Trisha." They had, and Kaitlin could see that Trisha's
nipples were erect and pushing out the thin, soft muslin of her
camisole.
"They have," Trisha said. "And they feel so good... so _very_ good."
She took a step towards Kaitlin. "Let... let me show you." She
grabbed Kaitlin's right hand and pressed it against her breast.
Kaitlin pulled her hand away from Trisha's breast as if from a hot
stove. "Trisha! Stop that."
"But..." The shorter woman put her arms around Kaitlin's neck and
moved in close so that their bodies were touching, their breasts
rubbing against each other. "I thought you liked it."
Kaitlin began to feel her own arousal. Should she give in? 'No,' she
thought. 'Better that Trisha spends the night feeling like she does
now. She'll never be more aware of her female body and its needs.'
She pushed Trisha away. "Not tonight," she stated firmly.
"No?" Trisha pouted prettily. "Why... why not?"
Kaitlin took a step back. "Because I said so; now get your nightie
on."
"Aww." Trisha pulled off the camisole. But, instead of taking up her
nightgown, she raised her hands to her breasts. "I... I need to --"
"_You_ need to sleep someplace else tonight. So I, Kaitlin McNeil
O'Hanlan, do hereby command you to obey, and I order you to get your
nightie on and go downstairs to sleep."
"That's not fair," Trisha complained. She didn't want to, but the
voice in her head made her pull the nightgown over her head and let it
fall down over her body towards the floor.
Kaitlin shrugged. "Maybe it isn't, but let's go. Now."
"Don't want to," Trisha protested, but even as she did, she walked over
to the door. She sighed and walked out of the bedroom and towards the
stairs. Kaitlin followed behind her with a pillow and blanket.
Patrick had slept on the sofa before when he and Kaitlin were fighting
over something. Now it was Trisha's turn.
And, as had happened before, the noise of her parents walking passed
her half-opened door, woke Emma. She lay in bed quietly, listening to
them argue.
* * * * *
Saturday, January 20, 1872
"G'morning, father," Stephan Yingling and his brothers and sisters
greeted their father when he came into the kitchen. The Reverend liked
to sleep in on Saturday mornings, since he had to be up so early on
Sundays.
"Good morning, children," the Reverend answered, greeting his family.
"A pleasant good morning to you all." He sat down at the head of the
table and whispered a short prayer of grace.
"And to you, dear." Martha Yingling had come over. She kissed her
husband on the cheek and poured him a cup of coffee. "How would you
like your eggs?"
"Hard scrambled, I think." Yingling added a cube of sugar to the
coffee. He stirred it twice and took a sip. "So tell me, Stephan," he
asked. "Have you given any thought to what you want for your birthday?
It's but a few weeks away."
The boy took a bite of his own scrambled eggs. "Yes, sir, I have. I
was looking in the wish book... in the toy section. They had these
sets of tin soldiers --" The reverend frowned slightly. The "wish
book", the oversized winter edition of the Sears and Roebuck Company
mail order catalog, included a well-illustrated section of children's
toys.
"Soldiers?" His father answered slowly. "Is that what you want?"
"Yes, sir. They had this one set --"
Now his mother interrupted. "Is there anything else you'd like, dear?
Your grandfather and your uncle and aunts will want to send presents,
too, I'm sure."
"There was a bunch of different sets," the boy said eagerly. "If I got
enough of 'em I could do real battles."
"Surely there are other presents you'd like," Mrs. Yingling asked,
trying to lead him in a different, safer direction. "Clothes, perhaps,
or a book?"
Stephan made a face. "Clothes! No, thank you. There were a couple
books I saw, though, history books."
"Excellent," she replied. "After breakfast, you can show them to me."
The "wish book" also offered a small library of available books. If
she could just get him to point to one or two Thaddeus would approve
of.
"Now enough talk of birthdays." She brought over the pan and dumped
three scrambled eggs onto her husband's plate. "Finish your
breakfasts, the both of you." And to herself, she added, 'in peaceful
silence... please.'
* * * * *
"Fold that blanket please, Trisha," Kaitlin asked.
"Do I get to take it upstairs," Trisha said sourly, "or am I sleeping
down here again tonight?"
"That depends. Should I expect a repeat of last night?"
Trisha shook her head. "No, I don't feel as... eager as I did last
night. I don't know if I should be upset or relieved?"
"Do you understand any of what happened to you yesterday?"
"I understand that you refused me again. I'm your husband, blast it.
I have certain rights --"
"At the moment, _husband_," Kaitlin told her coolly, "your rights
include the right to wear a pouch again. The reason you were so
'eager' last night is that your monthlies are about to start."
"Shit!" The thought of her monthlies stole all the wind from Trisha's
sails. She sighed and began to fold the blanket.
"You might as well take that blanket upstairs," Kaitlin added. "I
don't expect to have any problems with you for the next four nights."
Trisha stiffened. "Oh, you'll have trouble with me, Kaitlin. I can
still argue with you, even if that's all I can do."
"In that case, Trisha, leave the blanket -- and the pillow -- down
here. It will save you the trip upstairs to fetch them tonight."
"I'll sleep in my own bed, thank you."
"You'll sleep down here as long as you think like that." Kaitlin
crossed her arms in front of her and glared at Trisha. "I can make it
an order, or you can keep your dignity and do it of your own pigheaded
free will."
* * * * *
Dolores gently tapped her knife against the side of her glass. "I do
not mean to interrupt, but I have an announcement to make."
"What is it?" Teresa asked.
"I have had a wonderful visit here with you all," she told them, "but
it is time for me to be going home."
"Do you _have_ to leave?" Constanza asked sadly.
"Yeah, do you have to?" Enrique repeated his older sister's question.
"Please stay," Arnie insisted, "for a little while at least."
Dolores shook her head. "I have already paid for my ticket. I will
leave on Monday, the 29th."
"I... we will all miss you, Dolores," Teresa said. "It has been a
pleasure to have you here, and you've been so much of a help." She
didn't add that much of that help had been in dealing with Arnoldo.
"It had been _my_ pleasure, cousin," Dolores answered. "Seeing you
all, seeing how much my young cousins have grown." She looked at
Arnie. "And seeing how my cousin, Arnoldo, has grown into the man of
the house."
Arnie looked at her and then at Teresa. "Mama, we must throw her a
going away party, the biggest one ever."
"That... that is not necessary, Arnoldo," Dolores told him. "And it
would be so much work for your mother."
"I will help," Arnie said. "We will all help." He looked at his
sisters and his younger brother. "Won't we?" The children also
agreed. "There, you see, Dolores. It is decided. We will do such a
good job that Mama will not have to lift a finger."
Teresa raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and who will cook the food for this
fiesta you want to have for Dolores?"
"Well," Arnie replied, "that much of a finger I will let you lift." He
grinned at his own joke.
"Oh, thank you," Teresa said sarcastically. "I will try to help and
not get in your way." She wasn't going to show it, but she was proud
of how he was trying to be the one in charge. 'Thank you, Dolores,'
she said to herself. 'For this, thank you.'
* * * * *
"That is surely a lot of drink, Cerise." Wilma put down her pen and
closed the inventory book. She'd spent the best part of an hour
entering the latest delivery of wine and hard liquor.
Her employer shrugged. "For a house this size and in such a place as
Eerie, perhaps. When I worked for Madame Gabriella in Savannah -- ah,
but that is a story for another time. Just now, I wish a story, as it
were, from you."
"From me?" Wilma scratched her heard for a moment. "I guess. What
kind of a story d'you want t'hear?"
"I wish to hear that you have settled the matter between yourself,
Rosalyn, and Beatriz. Can you tell me that story?"
Wilma sighed. "'Fraid not, unless you wanna hear a fairy tale. Things
ain't at all settled between us -- not yet, anyway."
"They must be settled -- and soon. Beatriz' last attempt to discredit
you involved a patron of this house. He was displeased. I will _not_
lose business because of this fight between the three of you."
"If you'd let me whup them -- even just one of them -- that'd put an
end to it."
"No, I will not have one of my... staff injured -- not in any way that
a patron might see."
Wilma smiled wryly at that. "And they do see everything, don't they?"
She chuckled. "That's what they pay for."
"Ma oui, and they will not pay -- I will not ask them to pay -- for
less than the best."
"You got me then," Wilma admitted. "I'd probably have t'do some damage
t'break their spirits enough to stop bothering me."
"We understand each other, then," the other woman said. "I do not wish
their spirits -- or anything else -- broken." She thought for a
moment, as if remembering something she disliked remembering.
"Besides, if you hurt them, but you do _not_ break their spirits,
things could become truly worse."
"I can take care of myself, Cerise. Don't you worry none about that."
"I most assuredly shall worry. That is a part of my job. And do not
be so certain. You can be... distracted, after all."
Wilma smiled, thinking of how she was so easily and so often distracted
by men. "Well, there are times when I got other... things on my mind."
"To be sure. And at such times, _things_ can happen. There are... I
know of stories where one girl settled an argument with another...
permanently."
Wilma's expression soured. "Cerise, if you'll warn me 'bout _that_,
why won't you let me deal with Rosalyn and Beatriz the way I want?"
"Because you will deal with them the way that _I_ want. You have two
choices."
"And they are?"
"This matter will be settled to my satisfaction -- _my_ satisfaction --
by... let us say, by the end of the month."
"Or..."
"Or, as much as it pains me to say this, you will no longer be my
second in this house."
* * * * *
Dolores leaned her head on Ramon's shoulder as they danced to the waltz
the band was playing. "Mmm, I think that I will miss these dances most
of all."
"Miss," Ramon asked. "Won't you be coming to the dances any more?"
"After next week, I won't be able to," she told him. "I am going home.
I have a ticket for the stage a week this Monday."
"Why are you leaving? I thought that you liked... like Eerie."
"There are many things about Eerie that I do like, one thing in
particular." She smiled up at him. "But I am homesick. Besides,
Carnival is coming, and I want to be there. The Carnival fiesta in
Mexico City is something truly amazing to see."
"So I have heard. Maybe someday --"
Dolores stopped moving and stepped back so that they were facing each
other, still holding hands. "Why 'someday', Ramon? Come with me."
"What? I... my job at Aaron's... and where would I stay? I have no
family in Mexico City."
"You could stay at my... at my parents' hacienda on the outskirts of
the city. We have quite a large place with many rooms, many
_bedrooms_." She said the last word in a low purr.
"I... I will have to think about it."
"Of course. It is not an easy decision." She stepped in close and put
her arms around him. As they began to dance, Ramon could feel her
pressing her body against his. "And this," she whispered, "is just my
way of helping you make that decision."
* * * * *
Sunday, January 21, 1872
"Hola, Arnoldo, nice suit."
Arnie and his family were outside the church, starting home for their
noon meal. Arnie stopped when he heard his name.
"Isn't that Pablo Escobar?" Teresa Diaz asked, pointing to the boy
standing some ten feet away.
Arnie made a face. "Si, it is Pablo."
"You may stay here and talk to him," Teresa told her son, "but do not
be long. Seá±or O'Toole expects you at noon, and I want you to eat
something first."
"Why don't I just go home with the rest of you. If I want to talk to
Pablo, I can do that another time."
"Arnoldo, I know that the two of you do not get along. Today, it seems
that Pablo is trying to be polite."
"There is no shame in trying to make peace, Arnoldo," Dolores added.
"If nothing good comes from it, you still will be the man who tried."
That convinced him. "Very well, Dolores... Mama." He shrugged and
walked over to Pablo. "Hola."
"That is a nice suit you wore to church today, Arnoldo. Is it new?"
Arnie shook his head. "You know this suit. I've had it for almost a
year."
"I know it. It is a shame that Seá±or O'Toole does not pay you enough
to buy some decent clothes. This suit..." He turned around slowly.
"_is_ new. It is good to work for someone like Seá±or Ritter, who pays a
man properly for good work."
"If he pays for _good_ work, then why would he be paying you?"
"Ha! I suppose the boy who scrubs spittoons knows about a man's work."
The two youths glared at each other. They balled their fists,
circling, looking for an opening.
A stern voice stopped them. "In the very yard of our Lord's house, on
His day, is this the way you act?"
"Padre," Arnie said. "He started it."
Father de Castro shook his head. "You two have been fighting for so
long that I do not believe either of you know remember what you are
really fighting over."
"But he insulted me," Arnie argued. "I came over because I thought he
wanted to talk, and he insulted me."
"That is a lie," Pablo yelled.
"Truth or lie, that is enough," de Castro said. "Just go home and
think about what you want to do with your lives, and if you will let
this hatred between you sour those lives."
Pablo laughed. "Let him go running home to his mama, Padre. Me, I
have a man's job to do." By way of apology, he added, "But I, at
least, will think of what you said."
"I will go, Padre, because it is you that asks." Arnie turned to glare
at Pablo. "But this is not over. I am the better man, and I will
prove it."
* * * * *
Rachel gently put her hand on Ramon's arm. "So tell me, Ramon, what's
the matter with you?"
"Rachel." Ramon blinked and looked up at her. "I... I did not see you
standing there."
"If it's me you're asking, you ain't seen much of anything since you
came in today. Not the way you been looking up at the ceiling."
"I am sorry. I have been thinking about something."
"Something serious, I'm sure. So, _nu_, what is it all ready?" She
took a breath. "And don't you say it's just nothing. From such
nothings, a world can be built, as the Sages say."
He laughed. "I never could fool you, Rachel." He sighed. "It is
Dolores, Dolores Ybaá±ez. She is my problem."
"Seems to me that this Dolores has been a problem for you -- and for
mine Maggie -- for a while now. Something is changed, maybe, to get
you so _verklempt_... so upset."
"She's leaving Eerie. She told me last night that she's going home
next Monday."
"And it bothers you that she's leaving?" She looked at him closely.
He nodded. "It is more than that, Rachel. She... she asked me to go
with her."
"And..." Rachel raised a questioning eyebrow.
"And..." His voice trailed off, and he shook his head again. "I do
not know. _That_ is what I have been thinking about all day."
* * * * *
"Once Amy gets a man to keep
` She'll be alone when not asleep.
` But until that day her life's her own;
` Her wedding gown is still unsewn."
"Whenever dance hall girls kick high,
` They never ask the how and why.
` When love goes wrong, they hardly cry;
` The tune of love is not a lie."
Jessie finished the song with a flourish and bowed low to a round of
applause as a few more coins joined the ones already at her feet.
"Thank you, gents," she said to the crowd gathered in the parlor of
_La_ _Parisienne_. "Glad you liked my act."
Most of the men were standing, though a few sat on chairs or the long
sofa. Mae and Wilma were sitting on the laps of two of them.
As Jessie bowed, the man whose lap Mae was on whispered something in
her ear. "That's a grand idea, Ralphie," she answered and stood up.
She took Ralphie's hand as he got to his feet. "Nice show, Jessie,"
she added. "You, too, Rosalyn."
"Thank you so much," Rosalyn replied. She played the piano, and Lady
Cerise had told her to accompany Jessie. She tried to smile as she
watched Mae lead Ralphie towards the stairs. 'Beatriz is upstairs for
the second time,' she thought, 'and Wilma's been up and down with her
gentleman, while I have to sit here and listen to her sister's
howling.'
"You done with the show, then, Jessie?" a tall, bearded man asked.
Jessie was kneeling down to pick up the money the men had thrown. "I
am, Max."
"In that case," Max ventured, "how 'bout me and you go upstairs, and
you can sing something just for me."
Shamus' canary, as some called her, shook her head. "Sorry, Max, but
the only singing I do here is downstairs."
"The hell you do." He took a step towards her. "A gal who works in a
place like this --"
"I ain't the singer my sister is," Wilma said, stepping in front of
him, "but I got _other_ talents you might wanna try out."
Max's eyes ranged up and down Wilma's form. Her hair was down around
her shoulders, and she was wearing a lavender corset that exposed most
of her pillowy breasts and a silky white pair of drawers that clung to
her wide hips and teardrop ass. "You'll do, darling," he said, "and
then some." He took Wilma's hand as his lust overcame his anger.
Another man walked over to stand besides Rosalyn. "I want to see what
else this pretty lady can do with them clever hands of hers."
"You would be surprised, sir," she answered in a sultry voice, "and
very much pleased." She reached over and ran a finger over the bulge
at his crotch. "Mmm, lovely. As my friend, Blanche Dubois, used to
say, _I_ have always delighted in the hardness of strangers."
Cerise walked over to Jessie, who was putting the money the men had
tossed at her into her reticule. "And I have always delighted in
whatever my guests have delighted in, Jessie. Here is the money we
agreed upon." She handed Jessie a five dollar silver piece. "And I
would be more than delighted to continue paying, were you to sing for
my guests in a regular basis."
Jessie put the coin in with the others. "And _I'd_ be delighted t'take
the money, Cerise, but... can I think about it for a little bit more?"
"Oui, cherie, but do not take too long."
* * * * *
Maggie was browning the cubes of meat for the stew she was making, when
she heard the kitchen door slam. "Hello," she called, turning to see
who had come from the yard.
"Mama, mama, say it is not so." Lupe ran over and wrapped her arms
around her mother.
Maggie put down the fork she was using to turn the meat and looked
down. "Lupe... why are you crying?"
"Uncle... Uncle Ramon." the girl was sobbing, the words coming out one
at a time. "He-he... is... going... away!"
She reached down and gently hugged her daughter. "Now who told you
that?"
"He... he... did. I-I went over to... to ask why he did not go to
church with us." She let out a sob, then continued. "He was t-talking
with Bubbe Rachel. I stood quiet and waited. And... and I heard him
say he... was -- that lady, Dolores. She is going home, and he... he
is going to... to... to go with her."
Lupe hugged Maggie tightly. Tears streamed down her daughter's cheeks,
and she was crying too hard to continue talking.
"Now what's ailing you, little one?" Jane had just come in from the
bar.
Maggie picked up her daughter. "Jane, please take over for me. I am
making that spicy stew with the chilis. You know the recipe, I think."
"I do." Jane went over to the stove. She used Maggie's fork to begin
to turn the meat.
"Bueno," Maggie told the other woman. "I am taking Lupe upstairs to
lie down for a bit. I will return as soon as I can."
Lupe rested her head on Maggie's shoulder. "Are you going to talk to
Uncle Ramon, mama?"
"Yes," Maggie told her. "But not right now, Lupe. You are too upset
to leave alone for very long, and I have to make the meals for the
restaurant."
"But Uncle Ramon..." Lupe's voice trailed off. She was still
sniffling.
"I do not think that he is leaving today," Maggie said. "I will talk
to him and find out what is going on. I promise." It was as much a
promise to herself as to Lupe.
* * * * *
Monday, January 22, 1872
Jessie was sweeping the floor near the front of the saloon, when Laura
came in. "Morning, Laura," she greeted the other woman.
"Hi, Jessie," Laura answered. "This is handy. I wanted to talk to
you."
"What about?"
"Arnie's lessons. I don't think I can help out with them anymore."
"Why not?"
"The baby." She gently touched her stomach.
Jessie looked worried. "Ain't nothing wrong, I hope."
"No... it's nothing like that." She smiled, grateful for her friend's
concern. "Last Friday, the baby started moving. I could feel it...
feel it moving inside me."
"What's that got to do with Arnie?"
"Not Arnie - not exactly. But every time he fired his pistol, the baby
moved - jumped, almost. I think the baby heard the noise, and - maybe
- got scared by it." She rubbed her stomach, the bulge that marked her
pregnancy. "I can't exactly tell it not to be scared, so I figured
that it'd be better if I wasn't there when he's practicing."
Jessie chuckled. "You're probably right." She lightly placed her hand
next to Laura's. "You behave yourself for now, little one, and don't
give your mamma no trouble. You do that, and, when you get old enough,
I'll teach _you_ how t'shoot."
"Thanks for the offer," Laura replied, "but I sort of plan to do that
myself." She smiled at Jessie again and added, "But you're welcome to
help."
* * * * *
"Hola, Ramon," Maggie said softly as she walked into the Silverman's
store.
Ramon was restocking a display of shirts. He turned at the sound of
her voice and smiled. "Margarita... what brings you over here?"
"I-I heard that you were l-leaving Eerie, and I... I came to say
goodbye."
His smile faded. "Who told you that I was leaving?"
"Lupe heard you telling Rachel about it yesterday." Maggie felt a
spark of hope. "Did she not understand something she heard you say?"
Ramon shrugged. "Only in part." He looked around. It was mid-
morning, and Rachel Silverman was waiting on the only customer in the
store. Aaron was sitting near the register reading. "Can we talk in
private?" Ramon asked.
"Where?"
"We can go in the back of the store. Would that be all right?"
Maggie nodded. She followed him through a curtained doorway into the
storeroom. He turned a corner and stopped next to a high set of
shelves filled with boxes.
"What did you mean 'in part', Ramon?"
"Dolores Ybaá±ez is going back to Mexico City next Monday. She --
Margarita, she asked me to come with her."
Maggie's eyes went wide. "Are you going?"
"I-I have not decided. It is a big step. I have --" He paused for a
beat and seemed to be considering something. "Margarita..." he began
again, "... how would you feel if I... if I did go with her?"
It was an unexpected question. "I... I would miss you very much. You-
-you are a... a good friend."
Ramon gave her a wry look. "A good friend? Yes, and, perhaps, more
than just a friend." On a sudden impulse, he pulled her to him. Then
he paused, his lips above hers, just long enough for her to push him
away if she wanted to. When her only reaction was a surprised widening
of her eyes, he kissed her, deeply.
A pleasant warm feeling ran through Maggie's body. Before she realized
it, her arms were around his neck and she was returning his kiss with
an urgency that surprised her. 'He will stay,' she thought with
boundless relief. 'Wait until I tell Lupe and Ernesto.'
Lupe and Ernesto -- the thought of them drove the passion from her.
With a gasp that was almost a sob, she lowered her arms and pushed
Ramon -- no, she pushed _herself_ away. "I cannot do this," she said,
shaking her head.
"Margarita." Ramon reached for her, but she twisted away from him. He
sighed. "I do not understand your changeable ways. Tell me
truthfully, what is it that you cannot do?"
Eyes filling with tears, she seemed to struggle to find the words that
would not come. But, a moment later, still silent, she turned and ran
from the store.
* * * * *
Reverend Thaddeus Yingling walked around his desk to greet the two
parishioners coming into his small office. "Trisha, how good to see
you again. And Kaitlin, as well. How can I help you two la..." He
stopped as Trisha's expression changed. "...you two on this Monday?"
"You can sit down for a start," Trisha told him, smiling again. Both
she and Kaitlin sat down. Trisha waited until the man was sitting
behind his desk to begin. "A while back, you came into the store and
asked how Kaitlin and I were getting on. Do you remember?"
"Indeed. I offered my services if you were having any problems because
of your... because of what happened." He put his fingers together,
forming a small tent with his hands. "May I assume that you've come
here today to take me up on that offer?"
"You may," Trisha replied. "Kaitlin's been making a lot of trouble
where there shouldn't be any."
"_I'm_ making trouble!" Kaitlin glared at Trisha. "You're the one who
keeps forcing me to --"
"A husband shouldn't have to force his wife." Trisha looked straight
at Yingling. "You tell her that, Reverend. I've got my -- what do you
call them... conjugal -- I've got my conjugal rights."
Yingling looked askance at her, but he quickly regained the calm face
he customarily used when a parishioner threw some unpleasant news his
way. "Trisha, are you saying that you want to have... _relations_ with
Kaitlin?"
"I am." Trisha nodded. "Doesn't the Good Book say that a man should
cleave to his wife?"
"Matthew 19:3," Yingling answered her. "It also says that maid shall
not lie with maid."
"But I've got... needs," Trisha protested, "the same as I always had."
She giggled. "Well, maybe not the _same_, but damned -- excuse me,
Reverend -- darned close. Kaitlin's my wife. It's her duty to --"
"Duty!" Kaitlin spat. "It's not supposed to be a _duty_, Trisha.
'Rejoice in the wife of your youth.' That's in the Bible, too. Isn't
it, Reverend?"
"It is; Proverbs, chapter 5, verses 18 and 19." Yingling wasn't
certain how to proceed. "The Bible says many things, Kaitlin. And all
of them are intended to guide us to do our Lord's will."
Trisha shook her head. "I don't know what got into you, Kaitlin. When
I first asked you..." She stopped and looked at Yingling as if studying
him. "Can I trust you, Reverend Yingling, trust that you won't tell
anyone else what we say to you?"
Yingling seemed to be studying the pair in return. "Have you ever
heard of my telling anyone what I was told in confidence?" When
Kaitlin and Trisha both said no, he continued. "I am here as the
representative of our Savior, to give aid and solace in His name. I
would betray Him, as well as the two of you, were I to reveal what I am
told in secret, and _that_ I will _never_ do."
"That's more than good enough for me," Trisha said. "When I first..."
She paused and looked over at Kaitlin.
"_Now_ you're having second thoughts?" Kaitlin said angrily. "You
dragged me over here, and the good reverend has promised not to say
anything. Go ahead and tell the man what you think is so important."
Trisha frowned. "All right, then. When I first asked Kaitlin to
have... relations with me, she said that she wanted to think about it a
while. I gave her --"
"You gave me!" Kaitlin interrupted. "I think not. I asked you for a
week to think about it, and you agreed. And reluctantly, I might add."
"Whatever," Trisha continued. "When that week was over, you seemed
more than happy to go along with the idea. We went at each other
pretty good for more than a few times. And it felt _real_ good."
Trisha's face reddened. "Then, all of a sudden, she _won't_ do it
anymore."
"Do it?" Yingling asked, not certain that he wanted to hear the answer.
"Yeah," Trisha answered. "I'd start out kissing her, touching her
where she likes to be touched, but she makes me stop -- that potion I
took, it makes me obey her. That ain't right. A wife's supposed to be
-- what's the word... submit, yeah, a wife's got to submit to her
husband, not the other way around." She looked at the minister, trying
to gauge his reaction. When she couldn't, she continued. "She
wouldn't let me touch her, even when she was touching _me_, touching my
--"
"Th-that's enough," Yingling quickly interrupted. "I get the idea."
Trisha pressed on. "But now she won't even do that. A couple of days
back, I really needed --"
"I said that is enough!" Yingling interrupted her again, using his
best preacher's voice. Trisha stopped, and both women looked at him.
"It is just as well that Kaitlin has stopped... stopped being a part of
what you described."
"What are you saying, Reverend?" Kaitlin asked, sounding a little
hesitant.
"Kaitlin, you and Trisha are both valued members of my congregation.
I've enjoyed working with you on various projects as well as being your
spiritual advisor." The man's voice turned harsh. "But, _as_ your
spiritual advisor, I tell you that what you and Trisha have described
to me just now must come to an end now and forever. It is unnatural,
evil."
Trisha looked shocked. "Evil? Don't you think you're being a little
hasty, Reverend?"
"Hasty, why do you say that?" He sounded surprised to be questioned.
"It seems to me that you're jumping the gun on this," Trisha said
carefully, not wanting to insult the man. "You're giving an answer
without really taking the time to think it through."
Yingling sighed. "I doubt that I shall change my opinion, but I will
agree to take more time to consider the matter -- for your sakes and
for the sake of the friendship that I believe we have shared. Please
come back Friday afternoon at... ah, is 2 PM all right?"
"Two, it is." Trisha stood and offered the man her hand. "We'll see
you then."
Yingling shook the offered hand. "Fine, and I'll give you both my
_thought-out_ opinion."
* * * * *
Arnie backed through the door into the kitchen, holding a heavy tray of
glassware. The room seemed empty. "Anybody here?" he asked
cautiously.
"Just me," Jane answered him. She was kneeling down, feeding the fire
in the wood stove. Her back was to him. "Maggie's in the pantry,
getting some more carrots."
Arnie nodded. He carried the tray the rest of the way to the sink and
set it carefully on the counter. Most of the glasses were empty and
went directly into the sink, but someone had left almost two fingers of
whiskey in one glass.
He looked around quickly. Jane was still working the fire. 'Better
hurry,' he thought. He took the glass and downed the liquor in one
quick gulp. The now-empty glass went into the sink.
Before he took another glass out of the tray, Arnie reached into his
pocket for a small, unmarked tin. He opened it and popped a sen-sen
into his mouth. He tasted the sweetness of the candy, a "breath
perfume" the manufacturer called it, in his mouth, even as he felt the
warmth of the whiskey settling in his stomach. It was a pleasant
combination.
At that same moment, Maggie walked in carrying several large bunches of
carrots. 'I took that sen-sen just in time,' Arnie thought. 'Must be
my lucky day.'
He was smiling when he came out of the kitchen a short time later with
a second tray, this one full of clean glasses. He walked behind the
bar and set the tray down under the counter.
R.J. watched him closely. "You look a little unsteady there, Arnie."
"Seá±or?" What was R.J. talking about?
"Unsteady, like you were having trouble walking... or you were drunk."
The barman leaned close and sniffed. "I don't smell anything, but that
doesn't mean there isn't something to smell."
Arnie laughed. He'd fooled the man. "There is nothing there, R.J."
"I hope not, 'cause I heard Shamus warn you. He's not in the best of
moods right now, and I'd advise you not to cross him."
"Aaah," Arnie said, trying to sound blasé. "He ain't gonna find
nothing,"
"Like I said, I hope not." R.J. shrugged. "By the way, the folks at a
couple of those tables you bussed owed money. You pick it up?"
Arnie reached into his pocket and pulled out several coins. "Here you
go. I think we even got a tip or two."
R.J. put the money on the counter and sorted it into two piles. "We
did." R.J. put most of the coins in the register, but a few went into
the "Tips Jar" Shamus kept behind the bar. Tips were split between
R.J., the women, and Arnie, with Shamus taking only a share as
bartender.
"I better go back and wash those glasses," Arnie said. R.J. nodded and
started to sort the glassware.
Arnie started back towards the kitchen. He was trying not to laugh.
"Fooled him about drinking _and_ managed to keep twenty-seven cents
from the tips," he whispered to himself. "This _is_ my lucky day."
* * * * *
Tuesday, January 23, 1872
It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and Miss Osboune was allowing her
students to eat their lunches outside. Emma, Ysabel, and Tomas took
their usual places at one of the tables farthest from the schoolhouse.
Tomas was the first to take the lid off his lunch pail. "I got tamales
again and... coricos." He held up three of the yellow, ring-shaped
cornmeal cookies. "Anybody want to trade?"
"I got tamales, too, and some dried apple slices," Ysabel said.
Emma took out a sandwich, a thick cut of roast beef between two slices
of home-baked bread. "Trade you each half of this for a tamale, okay?"
"Done," Tomas replied. Ysabel nodded as well. Both placed a tamale on
the lid of Emma's pail, which served as her plate.
Emma glanced around. "Is anybody looking?" When her friends shook
their heads, "No", Emma twisted around on the bench, so that her right
leg was resting on it. She leaned over and pulled her mumbly-peg knife
from her high-button shoe.
She opened the knife blade and used it to cut the sandwich neatly in
half. She wiped the blade clean with her napkin, folded it into its
sheath, and slid it back down into her shoe.
"You oughta just wear pants, Emma," Tomas said, as he took his piece of
chicken. "Then you wouldn't have to hide it in your shoe like that.
You could just keep it in your pocket."
"I'd probably have to hide it anyway," Emma answered. "Ma was real
angry at Uncle Liam when she found out he give it to me."
"Why didn't she just take it then?" Ysabel asked, taking a bite of
chicken.
"She did, but Trisha gave it back. She said a boy my age had every
right to have a knife like that."
"Ma said I wasn't a boy, but she agreed to let me keep it, as long as I
kept it in my room. She checked my pockets when I wore pants. I left
it in my room or hid it in my shoe, same as I do now. Since I'm
wearing dresses, she figures I can't be carrying it."
"Is that why you stopped wearing pants," Ysabel asked, "so you could
sneak out with that knife?"
Emma shook her head. "Nope. I got tired of being called 'Patches.' I
know Hermione and Clyde started it to tease me, but it was getting to
be a nickname. Last week, when we was playing ball, and I had it, Bert
yells, 'Toss it to me, Patches.' That was the last straw, my own
teammate calling me that."
"Did it work?" Tomas asked, "or is he still calling you that?"
"Not since the next day when I came to school in that yellow dress of
mine," Emma replied. "The one with the lace at the cuffs." She
finished the first tamale and wiped the corners of her mouth, copying a
quick gesture Ysabel had made moments before. "I'd've thought I'd get
more teasing if I came in a dress instead of pants, not the other way
around. It doesn't make a lick of sense."
* * * * *
Someone once asked Molly O'Toole, "Why does Shamus mostly curse in that
funny talk of his?"
"That's Cheyenne, he's talking," Molly explained. "They raised him, ye
know. As for why himself cusses in it, well, that's me doing. I'm not
one for using profanity; I heard too much of it as a lass from me
father and me brothers. So, when we was first married, I asked him if
he'd stop."
"And he stopped?"
"Whust, no. He said it weren't natural for a man t'not be cussing,
said it was part of what made a man a man. 'When a dog can't bite the
one that's hurting it, it whimpers,' he says t'me, 'but when a man
can't strike back, he can still curse.' Now, what could I be saying
t'that?"
"You must've said something, to make him change."
"I did," Molly said with a satisfied chuckle. "I told him how his
cussing was bad for business. He had such a talent for it, says I,
that a man that's feeling the need t'be cussing some while he drank
wouldn't come in t'our place for fear of being outcussed by himself
behind the bar."
"And that worked?"
"O'course it did. He's a man of business, me Shamus. Besides, he
found that he got just as much satisfaction -- which is half the joy of
cussing, ain't it? -- doing it in the Cheyenne. Not one man in a
hundred knows what he's saying, especially here, where there ain't no
Cheyenne about, so they don't care what he says." She laughed. "And
neither do I."
* * * * *
Shamus was keeping his promise. For more than an hour, he'd been going
strong in Cheyenne on the results of the Fort Grant trial. He was
calling down the wrath of the spirits that his Cheyenne stepfather
worshipped and the Trinity and saints of his own Roman Catholic
heritage down upon William Orry, the judge and jury, and the Papagos
Indian tribe. In between calls for vengeance, he prayed for the souls
of 100 Aravaipas Apache, all but 8 of them women or children.
The victims had been repeatedly shot or had their brains beaten out of
them, many of them in their sleep. Some of the women were raped before
they died. Bodies were mutilated. Thankfully, some 30 children had
survived, but they were the prisoners of the Papagos.
The perpetrators of this evil were 48 Mexicans, 8 Anglos, and 94
Papagos, all led by Bill Orry, former mayor of Tucson.
"That Orry bastard calls it a 'memorable and glorious morning', may he
rot in hell." Shamus was speaking Cheyenne as he quoted from the
newspaper next to him on the bar. "Some lying judge tells the jury
it's all right for folks t'be defending themselves if the Army won't,
and it takes them misbegotten vermin all of 19 minutes t'be letting
Orry and them other sons o'the devil go free."
Molly stood near him. When he downed another whiskey -- she'd lost
count how many, she finally spoke up. "Are ye sure ye should be
drinking like that so early in the day, Love?"
"And why shouldn't I?" Shamus answered her in English. "This here is a
'memorable and glorious morning', ain't it?"
She shook her head sadly. "No, it ain't, I'm sorry t'be saying." She
took his hand. "Shamus, Love, for me, please go and have yuirself a
bit of a lie-down."
"Gotta stay." His voice was shaky, his words slurred. "I-I got me a
saloon t'be running."
"There ain't that many here just now. It's early, and, besides, R.J.'s
here t'be helping me if there is a crowd."
"R.J., aye, he's a good man, R.J."
The taller man had held back, standing some distance away to give Molly
and Shamus some privacy. Now he stepped over at the mention of his
name. "Let me give you a hand up to your room, Shamus."
"I can... can m-manage by meself, R.J," Shamus told him. "The People -
- that's what the Cheyenne called themselves -- they taught me how t'be
walking, silent as a shadow."
R.J. put Shamus' arm over his shoulder. "Really? Can you show me how
you do that on the way up to your room?"
"All r-right," Shamus agreed. "Ye start like this..." He took an
unsteady step and, with the sort of dignity that only a very drunken
man can ever assume, let R.J. lead him upstairs.
* * * * *
Ramon took a second, longer sip. "This is an excellent madeira,
Sebastian."
"I thought you'd like it," Sebastian Ortega replied. "We have several
cases of it at the store, if you'd like to buy some more." Sebastian's
family ran the only grocery in Eerie, stocked mostly with produce from
the land-grant ranch they still controlled and had converted to
farming.
The two men were in Ramon's sitting room, part of the old guesthouse
attached to Carmen and Whit's home. Carmen and Ramon had inherited the
town house from their parents. Carmen and Whit had taken the main
house, and Ramon had moved into the attached guesthouse.
Ramon chuckled. "Ever the storekeeper."
"And you are not, over at Silverman's?"
"I try. To tell the truth, I enjoy working there more than I probably
would have enjoyed being a rancher like my brother."
"I wish you were more like your brother. I know that he will buy some
of this madeira. In fact, he already has."
"My brother can afford 50-year old wine far better than I can."
"Not a case, perhaps, but you can buy a bottle or two, surely."
"Perhaps, for now, I will enjoy this gift bottle you brought."
"I thought that it might make things easier," Sebastian said, pouring
himself a glass. "You sounded most troubled when you asked me to drop
by tonight. What is it, money or women?" He hesitated a moment, then
smiled wryly. "From what you just said about this madeira, your
finances are the same as ever, terrible. It must be women."
Ramon chuckled. "It is. Dolores... she is leaving for home next
Monday."
"Ah, and you don't want her to go, is that it?"
"No, she asked me to go with her."
"Poor Ramon, a beautiful woman wants him to run away with her. I
should have such trouble, my friend."
"I... do not... I am not certain that I-I want to go with her." He
took a breath. "Margarita..."
Sebastian finished the thought. "Wants you to stay? Or is it that you
want to stay with her?"
"That's the problem. I-I don't know what... _who_ I want."
"They are both muy attractive woman. I would not mind having either of
them --"
"Sebastian, Margarita is not that sort of woman."
"I meant as a sweetheart." He raised an eyebrow. "Is Dolores _that_
sort of woman? Ramon... having you been holding out on me?"
"I have not... _we_ have not. Not yet anyway, but Dolores has all but
promised that we will if I go back to Mexico City with her."
"I can see how you would want to avoid having to suffer such a thing."
"I am hardly inexperienced in such matters, Sebastian. It is just
that, for so long, it has been Margarita that I have... wanted."
"Leaving town with another woman would certainly not help your chances
with her, would they?"
"No, and now you see my problem."
"Actually, I see two problems," Sebastian told his friend.
"Two?"
Sebastian reached over and topped off the wine in Ramon's glass. "Si,
the problem with your decision, and the problem that the madeira in
this bottle is not enough to help you decide what to decide."
* * * * *
"Just remember what I told ye," Shamus said gruffly. "Don't be singing
_that_ song."
Jessie glared back at him. "I know what you said." She waved him
away. "You just go downstairs and introduce me."
Shamus grumbled something under his breath. He walked downstairs and
over to the small stage. "All right, folks; all right." He clapped
his hands to get the crowd's attention. When things were quiet, he
continued. "As the owner of the Eerie Saloon --"
"And a damned Injun lover," someone shouted.
Shamus eyes narrowed to thin slits. He looked around to see who might
have yelled. When he couldn't, he counted to ten and took a breath.
"I'm proud t'be presenting -- even if some of ye don't deserve it --
the pride of Eerie, Jessie Hanks." He began to clap his hands, and
most of the crowd soon followed.
"The years creep slowly by, my darling..."
Jessie started down the steps. She finished the song, standing on
stage, to a hearty round of applause. She bowed and moved on to "Betsy
from Pike."
As the second round of applause died down, somebody yelled, "Sing
'Collee's Ride' next." A few other voices agreed.
"Aw, you don't really want me t'sing that one, do you?" Jessie said,
trying to smile.
"I think she wants to be coaxed," someone yelled.
Others chimed in. "Sing it, Jessie."
"C'mon."
"Collee's Ride... Collee's Ride."
Jessie looked over at Shamus, standing over at the bar. He frowned,
shook his head slowly, and mouthed the word, "No".
"You sure?" Jessie asked, still looking at the barman. The crowd
thought that she was talking to them and began to applaud.
Shamus glared at her and nodded once, firmly. He was sure.
Jessie picked up her guitar, still not certain what to do. She saw
Molly come over and stand next to her husband. Without saying a word,
she took his hand in her own. Her face was a mask of sadness.
"I know how much you all like 'Collee's Ride', but I just learned me
another song. I like it better, and I'm gonna sing that one instead,
whether you like it or not." She frowned for a moment, as if
challenging them to protest. Then she winked and began to sing.
"When the dance hall girls kick high..."
There were a few protests, but the crowd settled down. By the end of
the song, they were clapping along. And more than a few tossed coins,
when she finished.
"I think you like that one, too," Jessie said, bowing. She glanced
over at Shamus and Molly. His expression didn't change, but Molly
nodded slightly and mouthed the words, "Thank you."
* * * * *
Maggie turned down the wick. The lamp dimmed so that the hall was
almost dark. Satisfied, she stepped through her bedroom door...
...into a room she did not know.
It was larger than her bedroom, but with no windows. A fire blazed in
a six-foot high hearth that took up much of one wall, the only light in
the room. A high-backed chair stood near the fireplace and turned away
from her. There was a bed in the center of the room, wider than her
own, with the covers pulled back and a sloping cloth canopy above it.
She sniffed the air; cinnamon, one of her favorite scents. The floor
was covered with a thick rug; fur of some sort; she could feel it
between her toes.
Between her toes? She had been wearing slippers.
Maggie looked down. Yes, she was barefoot. More than that, her dress
and apron were gone. She wore a pale blue silk chemise and matching
drawers, both trimmed in white lace. The chemise was sheer enough that
she could see her dark nipples press against the material. When had
she bought such a garment? For that matter, when -- and why -- had she
put it on?
A figure rose from the chair and turned to face her. It was a dark
silhouette against the flame. "Margarita?"
"Ramon," she gasped in surprise. "What is happening?"
"What do _you_ want to happen?" He moved towards her.
Maggie realized that he wore only a pair of gray, cotton drawers. As
never before, she appreciated his broad shoulders, his well-muscled
arms and chest, his narrow waist.
The bulge in his drawers.
Her nipples crinkled and grew tight. There was a warm, somehow
pleasing ache between her legs.
His arms went around her and pulled her close. Her breasts were
pressed against his firm chest. His bulge was pressed against her
groin. "Ramon," she whispered, "this is not right."
"Do you really care?" he answered. He took her head in his hands then
and steadied her as they kissed.
She moaned softly as their lips met. Her mouth opened slightly. His
tongue slipped in and began to tangle with hers. She trembled at the
sensations running through her body.
An instant later -- though she didn't know how it came to be -- they
were on the bed, still kissing. Her chemise, she realized, was gone.
Ramon broke the kiss and smiled at her. "Do not be afraid, Margarita.
Everything that happens is what _you_ wish to happen."
Astonished, she began to shake her head and mutter, "No...noooo..."
He stilled her protests by kissing her again, softly, on the lips,
before moving his head lower. He left a trail of kisses down past her
chin, on her throat, and on down to her chest. He kissed one breast,
then the other. He switched between them, alternating kisses, with his
rough tongue, and with gentle love bites.
Maggie arched her back, pushing her breasts to his mouth. She trembled
again, nearly lost in the pleasure.
Her hand snaked down of its own will, and her fingers took hold of his
member. Madre de Dios, he was naked! She felt him throb as she
carefully guided him into -- she was naked, too! -- into _her_.
Maggie's eyes went wide with surprise as he slid inside her. She
hadn't known how wet she was -- or how much she wanted him. She almost
purred as he filled her. It was like...
A blessing, a healing.
Ramon shifted his body and began to pump in and out of her. It was as
if she had become Lupe, and Ramon was Miguel. She started to move her
hips to match him, and the sensations became even more intense. She
wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Her hands
clawed at his back.
Waves of sexual heat spread from her groin like a spill of warm syrup
to every part of her. Her fingertips, her hair, even, tingled. The
pleasure grew deeper and warmer, and pushed against her like she were a
dam. At long last, the dam broke and flowed across her like a flood.
Maggie gasped.
She screamed.
She woke up.
Maggie was in her own bed. Alone. Her left hand was on her breast,
under her nightgown, a nipple between the finger and thumb of her left
hand. Her right hand -- no! -- it was flat against her crotch, rubbing
against her most intimate place through the thin material of her
drawers.
She pulled her hands back as if from a hot stove. She cast off the
covers and clambered quickly out of bed. A bowl and a pitcher of water
sat on her dresser for washing herself in the morning. She splashed a
handful of water in her face, shivering at how cold it felt.
"This has never -- never! -- happened before," she whispered.: "Oh,
Ramon, why did you have to kiss me like that, and why -- Madre de Dios
-- why did I kiss you back?"
She sank back onto the bed, her head in her hands. And she began to
cry.
* * * * *
Wednesday, January 24, 1872
Tommy Carson knocked on the half-opened door. "Telegram, Sheriff."
"He's not here right now, son," Paul Grant called out. "Will I do?"
The boy looked at the envelope he was carrying. "It says, 'Sheriff
Talbot' on it, but I don't think my pa'll mind if I give it to you,
sir." He handed Paul the telegram and stood quietly watching while the
deputy read. "Is it something important?" he finally asked.
"Yep." Paul tossed the boy a penny. "Here, you go. Thanks."
Timmy caught the coin. "Thank you, sir," he yelled as he ran out the
door.
"Heading straight for the penny candies at Silverman's, I'll bet," Paul
said with a chuckle.
Paul picked up his hat and headed for the door himself. "Might as well
deliver it; things are quiet enough just now."
The telegram was addressed to "Dan Talbot, Sheriff of Eerie, Arizona,"
but it really belonged to Laura. It was late afternoon, and she was
probably at the Saloon working.
"I'll just take it over to Laura and head back," he said to himself.
"Of course, if I _happen_ to run into Jessie while I'm there..." His
smile grew broader. If it things were as quiet at there as they were
in the office, there might be time for Jessie and him to do a bit of
talking -- or whatever.
* * * * *
Ramon turned at the sound of the bell at the door of the Silverman's
store. "Hola, Dolores."
"Hola, Ramon. Have you decided?"
"De... decided?"
"Si, are you coming with me to Mexico City?" She walked over to him.
She was wearing the green dress he liked, and he could smell the
familiar rose scent of her perfume. "It will make the trip back go so
much faster." Her voice was low, soft and sultry, full of sexual
promise.
"And when we get to Mexico City, Ramon, we will have so... so much
_fun_, won't we?" She stood close, her hand on his arm.
"I sup... Dolores, please, I-I have not yet decided if I want... if I
_can_ go with you."
She pouted prettily. "Oh, but you must decide, and soon. The stage
leaves Monday, and you will need time to pack."
"I know that." He decided that it wasn't fair to keep her waiting.
"Dolores, have dinner with me tomorrow night, the restaurant, at 6:30.
I-I promise that I will have my answer then."
She smiled. "And I know that it will be the right answer." She kissed
him, quickly, but with feeling.
"Just a hint to help you decide," she told him as she broke the kiss.
She smiled and left the store.
Ramon watched her go. Then he turned to see Aaron, Rachel, and the
customers who had been in the store all staring expectantly at him.
"Th-thank you for your interest, Miss Ybaá±ez," he said from habit of
waiting on trade. A moment later, he had the good sense to blush as
everyone laughed.
Aaron came over to Ramon a few minutes after Dolores left. "I saw
you... ah, you was talking to that young lady just now."
"_Everyone_ saw me. I will be teased about what happened for days."
"The easiest misfortunes to bear are somebody else's." Aaron shrugged.
"So tell me, have you decided yet?"
Ramon shook his head. "No, but I told her that I would give her my
decision tomorrow night. That will _force_ me to decide."
"That's a good idea. As the sages say, it's easier to hit the target
once you decide what the target is."
"I'm taking her to Margarita's restaurant. I'll tell her there."
"To Maggie's restaurant -- _veys_ _mer_. Whatever you decide, that's a
brave thing to do. Good luck, _kayn_ _ahora_."
"Thank you, Aaron."
"Don't be so quick to thank me. Luck, you'll need." He stopped for a
moment. "I don't want I should influence your decision, but, if you do
decide to stay, there's something you and I, we should maybe talk
about."
"What is that, Aaron?"
"Pheh, when you decide, _then_ I'll tell you. Maybe. In the meantime,
while you're trying to make this big decision of yours, do you think
you could find _ein_ _bissel_... a little time to wait on the
customers?"
* * * * *
"And what are ye so happy about?" Molly asked Arnie. The boy was
whistling as he stowed a tray of clean glasses under the bar.
Arnie looked up and all but grinned. "Didn't you read the paper today,
Seá±ora O'Toole? Those men down in Tucson, the ones who killed all them
Apaches, the jury set 'em all free."
"And ye're happy about that? A hundred souls murdered in thuir beds,
and that makes ye happy?"
"Not people... Apache." He spat the word.
Molly was surprised. Arnie had never shown that kind of strong
feelings before, except for that feud he had with Pablo. "Arnie, lad,
most of them was women and children. Some of 'em was wee babes."
"Like my brother, Enrique, was a baby when the Apache killed our
father. I say good for the men who done it. I-I hope they go out and
kill 100 more... 200... a thousand."
Molly stiffened, trying not to show her own anger. "Arnie, I'll not be
telling any soul what t'be thinking, but don't ye say that -- or
anything like that again -- not where me Shamus or I can be hearing
it."
* * * * *
"Can I talk to you for a minute, Jessie... Miss Hanks."
Jessie was standing on the boardwalk in front of the Saloon, getting a
breath of air. She looked to see a tall man staring down at her. "I
suppose. What d'you wanna talk about, Sam?"
"I'm pleased that you remember me," the man said, a broad smile on his
face, "what with everything that's been going on over here."
"Sure, I remember you, Sam. You run the Lone Star Saloon. You offered
me a job as a waitress as while back."
"That's right. You turned me down, said you just wanted to work here
for Shamus."
"That I did. Why're you over here bringing it up now?"
"'Cause I hear you ain't just working for Shamus these days. A couple
of my customers was talking how you was singing over at Lady Cerise's
place on Sunday. They said you was pretty good."
Jessie smiled. "They did, huh? Well, whoever they was, you tell 'em
thanks for me."
"Why don't you come over and thank 'em yourself?"
"What d'you mean? Are they over at your place?"
"Not right now," Sam explained. "What I mean is, you come work for me,
sing at my place, and I'll point 'em out t'you the next time they come
in."
Jessie smiled. "I'll take that as a complement, Sam, but I got me a
job singing for Shamus."
"I know, buy I figure if you was happy working for Shamus, you wouldn't
be working at Cerise's place, too. Well, you can keep on working for
her days, so long as you're singing in the Lone Star at night."
"I... I do like working for Shamus."
"Maybe, but you'll like working for me more. I'm as good a boss as he
ever was, and I'll pay you a dollar a day more'n he does -- however
much that is. You can pick your own music, too. I heard there was
some song he wouldn't let you sing." He took a breath. "I don't know
what it was, or what Shamus has against it, but you can sing it at my
place."
"I won't say 'yes', Sam, but I won't say 'no', neither -- not right
now. I'll think about it some and let you know in a few days. That
okay?"
"Since I don't got a choice, it is. I'll talk to you later." He
smiled and walked away. He was whistling happily as he sauntered off.
The prospect of putting one over on Shamus was a pleasant one. The
prospect of stealing his star attraction and, he suspected, a
guaranteed moneymaker, was even more pleasant. Besides, the men were
flocking into O'Toole's every damn night to see the prettiest girls in
town. And the prospect of having one of them at his place instead of
Shamus' saloon appealed to him, as well.
* * * * *
Laura heard the sound of Arsenio's hammering. As she walked towards
the smithy, she watched him working metal, enjoying the sight of the
firm muscles of his broad, tanned back moving as he worked, shirtless,
at the forge. "Mmmm, nice," she whispered, hugging herself.
But that wasn't why she was there. "Arsenio... ARSENIO!" She had to
yell to be heard over the noise.
Arsenio stopped, cocking an ear. "Somebody there?" he asked turning.
"Me." Laura stepped towards him.
He smiled broadly and carefully put down the hammer. He laid the iron
bar he'd been working on back in the fire and walked towards her.
"Laura... what brings you over here this time of day?"
"This." She handed him the telegram. "We've got company on the way."
He read a few lines and looked up. "Your sister and her husband are
coming. We know that."
"Look closer. We knew they would be coming _someday_. Theo sent that
letter from St. Louis between trains. This says that they'll be here a
week tomorrow, eight days from now. Eight days, and they'll be looking
for _my_ grave."
Arsenio took a step and put his arms around her. "And I'm very happy
to say that they won't find it."
"Arsenio, what are we going to do? How can I tell Elizabeth that _I'm_
her brother Leroy?"
"I wish I knew. We'll have to tell them something. They're coming out
her for your... for Leroy's body."
"Maybe... maybe the Judge could just refuse to let them dig... me up."
"I don't know. If there was some sort of law against it, the Judge
would've told 'em right away by telegram, wouldn't he, not wait till
they came all the way out here."
"I don't know... would it hurt to ask the Judge if he could tell them
no?"
"I suppose not. We'll go ask him when we're done."
Laura looked up at Arsenio. "Done?" She asked, not certain what he
meant.
"Well, I was just thinking that... since you _are_ here..." He lifted
her chin with his hand, lowered his head, and kissed her.
Laura put her arms up around his neck and pressed her body against his.
When they finally broke the kissed, she sighed. "They're not going to
be here for a week, after all. I suppose we do have _some_ time."
* * * * *
Ramon was waiting on the boardwalk outside of Silverman's, when Ernesto
walked past on his way to Maggie's kitchen after school. "Ernesto," he
called after the boy.
Ernest kept walking.
"Wait." Ramon came over. His long stride let him catch up with the
boy easily. "I have not seen you in a while," he said, taking
Ernesto's hand in his. "Why have you not come over to the store this
week?"
"Why should I?" Ernesto shot back.
"Well," Ramon began, "you always told me that you were coming over so
that you could have a talk with a _hermano_... a man." He tried to
smile.
"A _man_ keeps his word." The boy spat the words angrily. "Did you
not promise that you would help me with the Candlemas party?"
"Si, I did."
"But you will not. You are going away. You will be long gone by the
time Candlemas comes."
"Ernesto, I... please let me explain."
"I do not want to hear more lies." He pulled his hand free from
Ramon's. "I do not want to talk to you at all."
Ernesto kicked Ramon in the shin and ran off. "Liar!" he yelled back
as he ran.
Ramon watched the boy dart into the alley next to the saloon before he
turned and limped back to the store.
* * * * *
Cap slid a quarter to the pile of coins on the table. "I call. What
do you two have?"
"Two pair." Hans Euler laid down his cards. "Tens and fours."
Bridget smiled sympathetically. "Sorry, Hans, we were playing new
rules, you'll remember."
"Ja, I do," Hans answered. "Mr. Leighten here asked us to, und nobody
said no."
He glanced at Leighten, a tall, leather goods drummer visiting some of
the merchants in town. The man had dropped out of the hand after the
first round of betting. "You got something dat beats me mit dem new
rules, Bridget?"
"As a matter of fact, I have," she replied. "A straight, the eight,
nine, ten, jack, and queen." As she spoke, she put down each card in
turn.
"Those new rules _are_ interesting," Cap said, "but they still don't
beat a good, old-fashioned full house..." He showed his cards.
"...sevens and threes."
Euler shook his head and laughed. "Looks like you beat us both, Cap."
"Congratulations, Mr. Lewis," Bridget said coldly. "If you gentlemen
don't mind, it's almost seven. We've been playing for over an hour,
and I find myself growing hungry. I wonder if we might stop for some
dinner and resume play in thirty minutes?"
"I've just come into a small bit of money, Bridget," Cap said as he
scooped in the poker pot. "May I buy you supper?"
Bridget frowned. "My meals are included in my arrangement with Shamus.
There's no need --"
"Yes, there is a need, Bridget," Cap answered, "_I_ very much need to
talk with you. In private."
"But do I need to talk with you, sir?"
"Please." Cap's voice was low and very sad.
Bridget just managed not to smile. "Oh, all right. You may join me."
"Thank you, Bridget, I knew you couldn't resist that puppy dog look of
mine. No woman has since I used it on my mama when I was a boy."
"You are incorrigible, Cap... Mr. Lewis." She lost her resolve and
smiled at his joke.
"Maybe, Miss Kelly, but it still got me the chance to have supper with
you." He took her arm and led her to one of the restaurant tables.
Neither spoke until Laura, the waitress that evening, had taken their
orders.
"Now, what was so important?" Bridget asked brusquely.
"Getting back in your good graces. I can't think of anything more
important." He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. "I want
to apologize, Bridget."
"I shouldn't have doubted you," he continued. "Uncle Abner kept
insisting that the facts in that report he got had to be true."
"And you believed them."
"No, I told him that there had to be more than that." He smiled. "He
said I was thinking with my John... letting my affection for you
overcome my reason."
"I know how influential Mr. Johnson can be. I knew him myself once,
remember?" She looked at him closely, trying to find his tells, to
read what his body language was saying. "Are you saying he was right?"
"Bridget, I hurt you, and you have every right to doubt me. If my mind
was overruled, it was my _heart_ that was doing it. I knew that there
was more to the sto... to what happened, because I can't believe what
the report said about you. Please tell me the rest of it."
"That's all very well, but I'm not sure that I'm ready to say what did
happen. Especially when the man that I need to convince isn't ready to
listen."
"Please don't hold me responsible for my uncle. I can't control what
he thinks any more than _he_ can control what _I_ think."
"Cap, I almost think that I can forgive you, but your uncle can't
forgive me, and until he's willing to listen -- well, we can be
friends, I suppose, but things won't be the way they were."
He reached for her hand again, and this time she didn't draw it back.
He picked it up and gently kissed her palm. "Bridget, I'll work on
Uncle Abner, I promise I will. For now, I'm just happy that you're
calling me 'Cap' again."
* * * * *
Thursday, January 25, 1872
"So this is how the 'Songbird of Eerie, Arizona' spends her time."
Jessie spun around from the bed she was making. "Wilma, what brings
you over here? Something going on I don't know about?"
"Just visiting m'sister," Wilma replied. "You come over t'see me the
last few times, and I figured it was my turn t'come over here."
"I'm glad you came. I'll be done here in a minute, and we can have
some lunch."
Wilma pulled a chair over and sat down. "I'll wait."
"Be done sooner if you'd help."
"I don't help _gals_ in beds, Jessie," Wilma said with a sly grin, "not
even you."
"You never were much help, not even when you was stuck working here."
"Maybe that's 'cause I wanted more outta my life than making beds and
cleaning spittoons for Shamus."
"I got more than that. You said it yourself; I'm the 'Songbird of
Eerie, Arizona', ain't I?"
"That songbird's still in a cage if you're still working for Shamus.
Once you serve your time, you don't hang around the jail."
"It's been a long time since I thought of this place as a jail. I
don't mind the work -- not too much, and it was Shamus, after all, that
got me t'be a singer. You got something against Shamus? You still mad
about that potion of his?"
The brunette swept a wisp of hair back behind her ear, like a cat
grooming itself. "Not hardly. Taking the second dose of that potion
was the best thing that ever happened to me, and _that_ was my idea."
"Feeling charitable, Wilma?"
Jessie's sister smiled wickedly. "Not a bit. He tried to stop me from
drinking that second dose. No, I'm just saying that Shamus helped you,
maybe, by making a singer outta you, but you worked here long enough
t'say 'Thank you.' Now that everybody knows how good a singer you are,
you're gonna get other offers. Hell, Cerise'll be happy t'have you
sing over at her place as much as you want."
"She ain't the only one," Jessie admitted. "The other day, Sam Duggan
asked if I wanted t'come and sing for him at the Lone Star."
"When d'you start? What'd Shamus say when you quit?"
"I... I ain't quit yet."
"Hell's bells, do it now, Jess. I wanna watch his face when you tell
him."
"Wilma, I-I don't know if I'm gonna quit. I like working here.
Molly's got t'be... family. Hell, Shamus is even kinda family. I-I'd
-- well, I'd feel bad quitting." She sighed. "I ain't sure what
t'do."
"Sounds t'me like you're getting to like the life the potion gave you,
_little_ _sister_."
Jessie scowled. "Better the potion than a bullet in the gut, and
that's where we was all heading. You know it's true. We got off easy,
maybe."
"I guess that Paul Grant is pretty easy to take, but I still can't get
my head around the idea of mean-as-hell Jesse Hanks spooning with a
lawman."
Jessie gritted her teeth. "If you can't give any useful advice about
my real problem, maybe we should just go and get that mouth of yours
stuffed full of grub instead of sass."
"Oh, that. Well, I'd say you got two choices. You can take them other
jobs and be done with Shamus -- and have the fun of sticking it to him
when you do, or you can use them other jobs to drive a deal with him,
one that's more on _your_ terms."
Jessie shrugged thoughtfully, impressed with Wilma's insight. "You
just may be right, I'll have to think about it. I gotta admit, I did
enjoy singing at Cerise's. I think the men that was listening enjoyed
it, too. Hell, even that gal, Rosalyn, enjoyed it. I could see her
sitting there and smiling while she played that piano."
"That's 'cause she got to sit there and act like the lady she likes
t'tell everybody she is. Rosalyn loves t'play at being the lady she
used to be, instead of what she is now."
"Yeah," Jessie said with a laugh, "and her friend, Beatriz, just loves
t'play_. She went upstairs twice while I was singing."
Wilma laughed with her. "She does enjoy playing. She must like it
near as much as I --" She suddenly stopped talking and stared ahead at
the wall.
"What's the matter, Wilma?" Jessie asked nervously.
Wilma smiled, her lips curling up cruelly. "Nothing, little sister,
and thank you. You just give me the start of an idea that's gonna save
my job."
* * * * *
"Arnie," Shamus called from behind the bar. "Bring that tray over
here. I got some more dirty glasses ye can be taking back t'be
washed."
Arnie walked over and put a half-filled tray down on the bar. "Okay,
Shamus, here y'go."
While Shamus piled glasses into the tray, Arnie reached down into the
pocket of his apron. He pulled out a small handful of change. Leaning
over the bar, he put it down on the counter. "That's from tables 3, 5,
and 8."
"I know, lad." Shamus divided the coins into three piles, payment for
the drinks at each table, and put them into the register. A few coins
remained, and these went into the "tips jar" behind the bar.
Arnie carefully picked up the tray, which was now full almost to
overflowing. "I better get these to the sink," he said. He stepped
back, away from the bar, and carried the tray into the kitchen.
"Anybody here?" Arnie looked around as he set the tray down. He was
alone. He took a couple of empty steins out of the tray and reached
for a glass, still filled with whiskey. The taller steins had hidden
the whiskey in the smaller glass.
"Before ye take that drink, lad, I'll be asking ye t'be for the change
ye left in yuir apron."
Arnie spun around. "Sh-Shamus, I didn't hear you come in."
"I told ye, lad," Shamus explained, "Ten years and more, I lived with
the Cheyenne, and I can walk just as quiet as any of 'em." He held out
his hand. "Now give me the rest of the money, what ye held back just
now."
"You set me up, didn't you, you damned Injun lover," the boy muttered
under his breath.
"What did ye just say?"
"I said that I didn't keep any of that money."
"Oh, really?" Shamus' hand shot into the apron pocket before Arnie
could stop it. "What's this, them?" Shamus brought out his hand and
showed Arnie the three dimes he'd found pushed into a corner of the
pocket.
"I-I thought I'd gotten all the money out." He tried to lie, even as
his anger grew. "I guess I was wrong."
"Ye knew them coins was there. Ye left 'em there, and don't be lying
and say that ye didn't."
"You calling me a liar, Squaw Man?" He was caught, but he was too mad
to care. It wasn't stealing if it was for a good cause... wasn't it?
And getting the shot he needed _was_ a good cause.
"Don't push me, Arnie. The tips've been light the past few days. I
watched, and I finally caught ye at it."
"All right, you caught me. What're you gonna do, scalp me?"
"No," Shamus answered, his face red with anger. "I'm gonna fire yuir
insolent ass. Get outta here. Now."
"You don't have to tell me twice. I can barely take the Injun-loving
smell of the place." Arnie glared at Shamus for a moment, then walked
out through the back door.
* * * * *
Emma came over as Ysabel was packing her books at the end of the school
day. "Hey, Ysabel, you wanna go over t'the fort and play some cards or
something?"
"I got chores at home, Emma. You know that. Maybe on Saturday, we can
all play there."
Emma sighed. "Oh, okay. Maybe Tomas..." She looked around just in
time to see the boy run out the door. "Dang!"
"What's the matter?" Ysabel put a hand on the other girl's shoulder.
"You don't sound too happy."
"I... I just hate going home. These days, all my folk seem t'do is
fight."
"Is your father --"
"Trisha. She's Trisha now. When we first changed, Ma told me all I
could call her was Trisha, and that potion I took -- that's still what
I have t'call her."
"She must hate that. You must hate that."
"I don't think either of us liked it at first. Now I'm used to it,
just like I got used to being called Emma."
"I never thought about that. I've called you Emma from the first day
you came to school." She thought for a moment. "But... well, Elmer
was just a boy in the class. He and I weren't friends like we are
now."
"No, I... I guess we weren't," she waited half a beat. "So, _friend_
are you sure we can't to over to the fort today?"
"I wish we could, but Mama expects me to come home and help with the
housework after school. Are you that afraid to go home to your parents
arguing?"
"They won't be arguing. Trisha don't get home from the store till
almost six. But they do argue so much that Ma... well, she's grumpy
all the time, on a hair trigger. It seems like anything I say or do
sets her off."
"Can you hide from her or does she make you stay where she can watch
you do chores when you get home?"
"I wouldn't call it hiding; she don't mind if I go upstairs and study
or do my homework till suppertime." She sighed again.
"What's the matter? It gets you outta your Ma's hair, and you get you
homework done, too."
"It just seems... I don't know. Maybe I'm doing it too much. I... I
don't like being in my room. I'm..." She shrugged. "...tired of it, I
guess."
"Maybe you need a change."
Emma looked down at herself and laughed. "I've had more'n enough
change in my life, thank you."
"No, silly. I mean your room. When did you fix it up the way it is
now?"
"There wasn't one time. I found that skull I got on my wall about a
year ago."
"Then you're due." Ysabel nodded her head once, very firmly, for
emphasis. "Instead of going to the fort Saturday morning, I'll come
over, and we can fix up your room real pretty."
"Pretty? Why does it have to be pretty? I'm still a boy... sorta."
"I meant that like nice... pleasant, that's all."
"Oh, okay, I suppose we can do that."
Ysabel suddenly hugged Emma. "Wonderful. This'll be so much fun. I
don't have a room I can decorate at home. I share with my sister and,
now, my cousin. I love them and all, but the place isn't... mine."
"My room ain't yours either." Emma laughed and broke free. "But you
come over Saturday, and we'll see what we can do with it."
* * * * *
"Shamus, can I talk to you for a minute?" Bridget asked.
Shamus sighed and walked closer to where she was standing at the bar.
"I been wondering when ye'd come over, Bridget. I'm truly sorry for
what happened."
"What did happen? I saw you follow Arnie into the kitchen, then you
come storming out of here, and I haven't seen him since."
Shamus frowned and shook his head. "He was stealing, keeping some of
the money he picked up when he bussed them tables. When I told him
that I'd seen him do it, he lied t'me and tried t'be weaseling out of
it. I threw him out the back, the same as I'd be doing to any other
trash."
"I-I can't believe it. Are you sure there wasn't some mistake?"
"I'm sure. I won't be having no thief working for me. Especially not
one that..." He let his voice trail off.
Bridget gave Shamus a curious look. "That what?"
"That -- never ye mind what. He's fired, and that's the end of it."
The barman turned and walked back to where he'd been working.
Bridget returned to her table to wait for a game. "Maybe it is," she
whispered to herself, "but maybe it isn't." She could see how angry
Shamus was, but, to her, he sounded a little sad, as well.
* * * * *
Dolores took a sip of wine to steady her nerves. "You are not going
with me; are you, Ramon?"
Ramon studied her face. "How did you know?"
"You have been quiet all through the meal, hardly the manner of a man
planning to run away with his... lady."
He took her hand in his. "Dolores, I am sorry. You are a beautiful
woman --"
"Just not beautiful enough," she finished the thought looking down at
the tablecloth.
Ramon heard the sadness in her voice. "Beautiful enough for any man
who was not a fool or blind or... or in love with someone else."
"Margarita?"
"Si, Margarita. I spent the last few days thinking about my choices,
you or her. I did almost nothing else." He shrugged. "Aaron
Silverman was very cross at how little attention I paid to our
customers this week."
"I am sorry if I got you in trouble."
"I told him that I first had to pay attention to _my_ life." He paused
a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. "Dolores, if I went to
Mexico City with you, we would... there would be much we would enjoy,
wouldn't we?"
She smiled at the thought. "Si, there is so much to enjoy at
Carnival."
"At Carnival," he said gravely, "but Carnival does not last forever.
Life comes back on Ash Wednesday. What do we do then?"
"A silly question. We go to church, of course, and the padre will mark
our foreheads."
"And after that?"
Dolores shrugged. "Home for breakfast. Why do you ask about such
things?"
"Because I want to know. After breakfast, do we go see the sights?"
"Why not? It is a beautiful city, after all."
"I am not a rich man, Dolores. How do I pay my way in this 'beautiful
city' of yours?"
"You are my guest. I will pay."
"And what would you think, in time, of a man who depended on you to pay
his way?"
"It would not be forever. You could find some sort of work."
"I do not have the money to start a business. I would have to start
over as a clerk in some other man's store, a man who does not know me,
where the hours are long, and the pay is very low. I would still not
have the money then -- or the time -- to be with you."
"I could ask my father to find you a place in his business."
"And he might -- he probably would. Your father is a good man as I
remember him, but what sort of a place would he find for someone whose
only recommendation was that he was your friend?" He took her hand.
"Or am I more than a friend?"
For the first time since this conversation began, Dolores smiled.
"More than a friend. You must know that."
"So, who would you be asking your father to hire... your lover?" He
shook his head. "No, he would not be happy with that. But he would be
most eager to employ your fiancé or your... husband."
Dolores' lips pursed gravely and she shook her head. "I... No, I am
not ready for that. Someday, perhaps, but for now, I am young and
free, and I want to enjoy myself for a while before I settle down and
become some man's wife."
"Yet you ask me to come with you to Mexico City, to give up my life
here to be with you. How -- _why_ should I do such a thing unless you
plan for us to be together, to marry, perhaps to even have children
someday?"
"I do not know. I had not thought about it." Was he right? Had she
implied that she wanted to spend her life with him? Why _had_ she
courted his attention so fiercely? Had it only been a game on her
part? Was she only trying to forget the man who had abandoned her, the
man she had truly wanted?
"You are a beautiful, charming, caring woman, Dolores, and I would
enjoy spending Carnival with you."
"Thank you, for that at least."
"But," he continued, "you did not ask me about Carnival. You asked me
to think about so much more, to think about the rest of my life. But
now you tell me that you are not truly ready for me to ask the question
that would give it all meaning."
"And you, I think, do not want ask to it."
"I would not ask you to do something that you are not ready to do, that
you do not _want_ to do."
She felt somehow relieved. This wasn't a rejection; it was a release -
- from a trap that he had not set for her, but which she had set for
herself. "But you would ask it of Margarita, would you not?"
"I would." He glanced over towards the door to the kitchen. "I
believe that the time is coming when she will want to be asked."
Dolores sighed. Something told her that it was all true. She had not
won the game -- in part because she hadn't known, truly, what the
stakes were. "It has been great fun spending time with you, Ramon,"
she said, finally. "But there is no one with whom I want to share the
settled life that you seem to be ready for. I thank you for our time
together, and I hope that we can still be friends."
"Dolores, we have been friends for as long as I can remember. Why
should that stop now?"
"Why, indeed? And as your friend, Ramon de Aguilar, I tell you to stop
talking to me, and to go back and tell Margarita how much you love
her." When she saw him still sitting across from her, she made a
motion with her hands. "Go, Ramon, go."
Ramon stood up. "Thank you, Dolores." He kissed her hand and started
towards the kitchen until...
"One moment, old friend," she called after him. "You invited me to
dinner. Have you forgotten that?"
"No," he said uncertainly.
"Then you should remember that _you_ are the one who pays for our
meal."
* * * * *
The five men walked into the Saloon laughing. Three of them staked out
a table near the stage where Jessie would be singing. The other two,
Blackie Easton and Joe Ortleib, continued on to the bar. "Bottle of
whiskey, Shamus," Joe said, "the good stuff." He put a five dollar
gold half-eagle on the counter.
"And five glasses," Blackie added. "And I expect we'll want us another
bottle when that first one's empty."
Shamus handed over a bottle and took the coin. "Seems like ye boys is
celebrating something. What's the happy occasion?"
"That trial down in Tucson," Blackie answered. "The jury did what it
was supposed to and set them all free."
"Hell," Joe said, "there wouldn't've even been a damned trial if
General Grant hadn't put his nose into it. Took 'em long enough t'let
them fellas off."
Shamus's smile disappeared. "Ye're talking about the Camp Grant trial,
ain't ye?" Both men nodded. "That was women and children that was
killed. I don't see that it's worth celebrating that thuir murderers
got off scot-free."
"You ever seen what Injuns do to a man they catch out on the range,
Shamus?" Blackie asked. "I have. Mr. Slocum lost more'n one hand to
them devils."
"There's been times we had to ride herd in pairs," Joe added, "even at
night, t'keep 'em from getting the jump on us."
"Aye," Shamus answered, "I've heard them stories, but these was just
woman and children, most of 'em asleep and not bothering a soul."
"I see a rattler in the grass, I ain't gonna wait till he strikes
t'shoot it," Blackie's voice was angry. "I ain't gonna check t'see how
old it is or if it's a boy or a girl. I'm gonna do what I need t'do
and -- blamm! -- it's goodbye rattler."
Shamus clenched the bottle he was still holding. "Blamm! Why ye
lousy, stinking, no good --"
R.J. hurried over. "I'll finish this, Shamus." He gently took the
bottle from his boss's hand and gave it to Blackie. "I... I think
Molly was looking for you." Shamus muttered something under his breath
and walked away. "Shamus is a little upset just now," he told the two
men. It was an explanation, not an apology.
Blackie left with the bottle. Joe stayed while R.J. put five glasses
in a tray. "Y'know, R.J., I always liked Shamus; I thought he was good
man, and he runs a square place here," Joe said slowly. "His having
the ladies here for dancing don't hurt neither."
R.J. studied the man. "What's your point, Joe?"
"Me and the others'll come t'hear Jessie sing tonight, and we'll stay
for that, but it just might be... well, not to make too fine a point of
it, this Saloon ain't the only place in town a man can buy himself a
drink."
* * * * *
Maggie was taking a break to have dinner with Lupe and Ernesto, when
she heard a door slam. "Ramon, what are you doing here?"
"I-I came to see you," he said. "To talk to you."
"You have nothing to say to us, you... you _liar!_" Ernesto spat the
words.
"Ernesto, hush," Maggie ordered. "Behave yourself." She turned to
him. "What do you have to say to me, Ramon?" She braced herself for a
"Goodbye."
"I... ah, I was having dinner with Dolores --"
Was he going to rub it in her face? She decided not to give him the
satisfaction of seeing how upset she was. "I know," she interrupted.
"Laura told me when she came in with your orders. Did you enjoy your
meal?"
"It was fine, delicious as always."
"And Dolores, did she enjoy her supper?"
"As far as I could tell. Maggie, listen to me."
She ignored his protest. "I am glad she liked it. My skills are
hardly up to the standards of the restaurants of Mexico City. When you
get there..." She ached to say the words. "...you will see how fine
the food --"
Now he interrupted. "Margarita, will you be quiet a moment?" He put
his hands on her arm, just below the shoulder. "I want you to listen
to me, listen carefully." He almost sounded mad until, at the end, he
added, "Please."
Maggie made a determined effort to stem her rush of emotion. "Y-yes,
Ramon." She looked up into his face and saw him begin to smile.
"I am not going to Mexico City, Margarita. When I told Dolores, she
said to come in here and tell you."
"Oh, she did, did she? And _why_ are you not going?"
"Three reasons. First," he raised a finger, "Aaron told me that there
was something that he wanted to talk to me about if I decided not to
go. I think that I am going to get a raise, maybe a big one."
"A raise, congratulations." Was he staying just for the promise of
money? That hardly sounded like Ramon, or had she been wrong about
him?
"Gracias. Second, as Ernesto rather forcibly reminded me..." He
reached down and rubbed his leg. "...I promised to help him with the
Candlemas party."
Maggie looked past Ramon to where her son was sitting. The boy smiled
a very guilty smile and hurriedly resumed eating his supper. "We will
talk of _how_ you reminded him when we get home, Ernesto." She looked
at Ramon again.
"And the third reason, what was it?"
"Something that I think is _muy_ important, if only I can convince you
of it."
She cocked a dubious eyebrow. "What can be so important?"
"This." He pulled her towards him and used his left hand to lift her
chin, tilting her head back. Their lips met in a kiss.
She gasped in surprise and staggered back. The half-remembered dream
rushed back to her. In it, Ramon had said, "Everything that happens is
what _you_ wish to happen." Was _this_ what she had wanted?
Then she heard noise and looked back. Ernesto and Lupe were clapping
and yelling. "Yes, Mama, yes. Kiss him again."
Ernesto and Lupe! What must they be thinking of her?
Maggie closed her eyes and sighed. "Ramon, we-we cannot, we must
not... not _do_ this." She held him away from her, reluctantly, oh, so
very reluctantly. "In front of the children, it... it is not...
proper."
"We can go out and play, Mama," Ernesto suggested.
"Si," Ramon agreed. "That is a wonderful idea, children."
Maggie looked up at Ramon, her eyes now glistening with tears.
"Ramon... please..."
"As you wish, Margarita." Ramon stepped back. He took her hand and
raised it to his lips, gently kissing it. "If you say that it is not
proper, then I shall go. But I will be back sometime soon and make it
proper."
He bowed low, then turned and walked briskly out of the kitchen.
* * * * *
Friday, January 26, 1872
Molly was alone behind the bar when Laura came in. "Good morning,
Molly. Is Shamus around?"
"Morning, Laura. He's off on an errand just now. Is thuir something I
might be helping ye with?"
Laura nodded. "I need a room."
"Och, there's not trouble between ye and Arsenio again is thuir?"
"No, no, things are fine. It's for my sister, Elizabeth, and her
husband. They're coming to Eerie. According to the telegram they
sent, they'll be here in about a week."
"Ah, that'll be nice, seeing family and all."
"I... I don't think so; not in this case, anyway. They read that story
Nick Varrick wrote about the big shootout between Dan Talbot and the
Hanks gang. They're... They're coming for me... For my.... Oh, hell,
Molly, they're coming for Leroy Meehan's body. They want to take it
home and bury it in the family plot back in Indiana."
Molly covered her mouth and tried _very_ hard not to laugh. "Now
_that_ might be a wee bit of a problem."
"Molly! This is serious. How can I tell them that _I'm_ Leroy, that
I'm married to Arsenio, that I'm..." she took a breath. "...that I'm
pregnant?"
"I don't know, dear, but I'm sure that ye and Arsenio will think of
something."
"Arsenio?"
"Aye. Ye're his wife. That's his baby ye're carrying. And ain't them
his new in-laws? He loves ye, and that makes this his problem as much
as it is yuirs. That's what marriage is about. Ye've a week t'be
figuring it out, and me and Shamus'll be helping, too." She took a pad
and pencil from her apron pocket. "In the meantime, I'll just be
fixing up that room way in the back. 'Tis the farthest from the noise
of the saloon." She made some notes and put the pad away.
"Did I hear you talking about family coming, Laura?" Jane had come out
of the kitchen while Laura and Molly were talking. She was carrying a
large tray of dishes and silverware for the "free lunch."
"Little pitchers have big ears, Jane. Ye've better things t'be doing
than listening in on conversations that don't concern ye. And if ye
haven't, I'll be glad t'give ye something to be doing."
Jane looked mad. "Not concern me? Molly, Laura's family is _my_
family. We're sisters, ain't we?"
"No, Jane," Laura said. She took a deep breath and shook her head.
"We just look alike." She then realized, dismally, that her
resemblance to Jane was one more impossible thing that she'd have to
explain to Elizabeth.
"We is so sisters," Jane countered. "You said so lotsa times." She
did a little dance step over to the free lunch table and began setting
things out from the tray.
"I didn't have much family when I was Jake," she continued. "Now I got
Laura and Arsenio for a sister and a brother-in-law, and I'm gonna be
an aunt. And now you say I got even more family, and they're coming to
meet me. Yippee!"
Molly put her hand gently on Laura's arm. "We'll think of something
for this, too, Laura. Don't ye worry."
* * * * *
Arnie stormed into the saloon and over to Jessie. "Where were you?" He
demanded.
"What d'you mean, Arnie?" She asked. "I been here working all day?"
He glared at her. "It's Friday. I waited over an hour for you to show
up for my lesson."
"Well, it ain't like you had anyplace else t'go... seeing as you ain't
working here no more."
His eyes grew wide in surprise. "No... I am not. Shamus... he and
I... did not... agree..." His voice trailed off.
"That right. You thought it was all right t'steal from him, and he
didn't." Her eyes grew angry. "And I agree with him. I ain't
teaching no crook."
"Pretty fancy words from Jesse Hanks the bank robber and cattle thief."
"Maybe I was all that, but I told you back in December that I don't
hold with backstabbers that steal from their own gangs."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"You steal from your boss, from the people you work with, it says I
can't trust you. A gun in the hand of a man with no sense of honor is
a bad mix. Till I know you're the sort who can be trusted to stand by
his own kind, I sure as hell ain't teaching you how t'handle a colt."
"But --"
"No buts, no _nothing_, not till you show me that you're a better man
than the one you acted like yesterday." She looked around. "And now -
unless you're planning to apologize to him - you better get your sorry
ass outta here."
"I am honorable. You will see - you will _both_ see how wrong you are
about me." He turned and stomped out of the saloon.
Jessie watched him go. "I hope so, kid. I really hope so."
* * * * *
Martha Yingling knocked on the open door of her husband's study. "The
O'Hanlans are here to see you, dear."
"Thank you, Martha, dear." The Reverend rose from his chair. As he
did, he heard the grandfather clock in the parlor chime twice. "And
right on time, too. Please show them in."
Martha turned to face Kaitlin and Trisha, who were waiting in the
parlor. "He'll see you now." As the couple walked past, she asked,
"Would you like some tea while you're here?"
"I... don't think so," Trisha told her. "This ain't exactly a social
call."
"Thank you, though, Martha," Kaitlin added.
"That will be all, thank you, Martha," Yingling said firmly. "Please
close the door behind you."
Martha took the hint. "Perhaps another time." She smiled and left,
closing the door.
"Well, what'd you find?" Trisha sat down quickly, motioning for
Kaitlin to sit next to her.
Yingling went back behind his desk. "Before I start, Trisha, may I say
again how much I value you and Kaitlin, both as friends and as members
of my congregation."
"We've always thought highly of you, Dr. Yingling," Kaitlin said.
"And I don't believe that will change, whatever you tell us today."
"That goes for me, too, Reverend," Trisha said, "You're a good man.
Kaitlin's been worried the last few days about what you were gonna say,
but I'm not. I just know you're gonna tell us that there's nothing
wrong with what we've been doing."
Yingling shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not the way of it, Trisha.
As your spiritual advisor, I must tell you that what you have described
to me must come to an end, now and forever." The man's voice turned
harsh. "It is unnatural, evil."
Trisha looked shocked. "Evil? How can what goes on between a man and
his wife be evil?"
"First Romans says it is." He picked up an opened bible from his desk
and read. "Chapter 1, verse 26. 'Their women exchanged natural
intercourse for unnatural.' Paul calls it 'degrading passions' and
'shameless acts.' And it says of those who do such things... 'those
without natural affection are worthy of death.' Would you argue with
him?"
"But..." Trisha shook her head. "...we're married, Kaitlin and me.
How can our love be unnatural?" She thought a moment. "It seems to me
that you're still jumping the gun on this."
"It may be that you two are... not married. 'Man and woman, he made
them.' You are not man and woman anymore."
"The hell we aren't," Trisha said angrily. "I may be stuck in this
woman's body, but inside -- where it counts -- I'm still a man."
"Perhaps you do still have the soul of a man, Trisha, but marriage is
for the body, not the soul. It is the Lord's way of making the sinful
urges of our bodies into a force that can serve His holy purpose."
"That's what I'm saying. Kaitlin and I, we have urges, sure, but we
can satisfy those urges with each other because we're still married."
"The Lord's first commandment was 'be fruitful and multiply.' The
animal urges you talk about are to procreate, to produce children to
serve the Lord. Can two women produce a child between them?"
Kaitlin shook her head. "No. No, they can't." She spoke with an air
of sadness.
"Kaitlin! Do you know what you're saying?"
"I... I'm afraid that I do, Trisha. I'm saying that -- maybe -- we
aren't married anymore."
"No! He's wrong. Yingling is wrong; he has to be. You're my wife,
and you always will be. Like Dr. Norquist said when he married us back
east. 'What the Lord has joined together, let no man tear asunder.'
No man, not ever."
"Perhaps it was G-d's Will that you drank that potion," Yingling
answered. "Male and female He made you, but, when you drank it,
Trisha, _you_ became female, and two females can _not_ be man and
wife."
"I think I knew that from the first day," Kaitlin said softly, her eyes
filling with tears. "I... I just didn't want to admit it, not... not
even to myself." She buried her head in her hands and began to cry.
Trisha hugged Kaitlin, trying to comfort her. "See what you did,
Reverend."
"All that I did was try to help you face the truth about yourselves. I
am so very sorry that it is such an unhappy truth." He reached into
his pocket and offered Trisha a handkerchief.
Trisha snatched it out of his hand and gave it to Kaitlin. "Face the
truth, the man says. I'm not sure that I --"
"No, Trisha," Kaitlin suddenly said. "Please don't say anything that
you may regret." She wiped her eyes. "Th-thank you, Dr. Yingling, for
your help, but I... I believe that we should go now."
"But..." Trisha was too surprised at Kaitlin to respond.
Yingling nodded. "Perhaps you're right, Kaitlin. I am most truly
sorry about what I had to say and at how it upset you. I do hope that
you both will come to speak to me about it again, once you have had
time to consider all the implications of it."
"We will, Reverend, but for now, good day." Kaitlin took a deep breath
and stood up. "Come, Trisha." She took Trisha's hand and started for
the door. At the last minute, she looked back at the Reverend and
added, "And please thank Martha, again, for her hospitality."
* * * * *
"What'll it be today, Milt?" Whit Whitney asked, as Milt Quinlan
settled back in the barber chair.
Milt rubbed his cheek. "Shave, I think, and a haircut."
"Done." Whit laid a barber's cloth over Milt and tied it behind the
man's neck. "I'll have you looking real nice for the dance tomorrow at
Shamus'."
"I suppose," Milt said, not sounding very happy at the prospect.
Whit picked up a comb and began working on Milt's hair. "Here now,
what's the matter?"
"It's Jane... no, it isn't her; it's me."
Whit had the scissors, now. "You two have a fight or something?"
"No, it's her money, that gold she brought down from her claim."
"What about it? You told me that you made her put it in the bank;
sensible thing to do, if you ask me." He paused a moment. "She's not
mad at you about that, I hope?"
"She's not mad at me about anything as far as I know, and I'm not mad
at her either, before you ask." He sighed again, then he held still as
Whit moved to trim the hair near his left ear.
"Milt, there's nobody else here, so why don't you tell me what's really
troubling you. Barbers are like bartenders, you know, we're here to
listen to people. The only difference is, we barbers apply the alcohol
externally."
"I suppose I have to tell someone, but you have to promise not to
laugh."
"I promise. You don't want that in writing, do you?"
"No," Milt said with a chuckle. "I'd only have to charge you to draw
up the papers. The problem is, I'm... well, I'm afraid of Jane."
"Afraid? You saved her life, Milt. Why would she want to hurt you?"
"No, no. Sometimes I-I'm... afraid of being seen with Jane. I'm
afraid of people saying that I'm some kind of... that I'm just after
her money."
"Nobody's going to say anything of the sort -- hold still; I'd hate to
have you leave here with only one ear."
"Matt Royce and Fred Norman already have. I was in the saloon...
getting her signature on something for Dwight Albertson, and they
starting in on me about it. I-I was so embarrassed that I all but ran
out of there after she signed the paperwork."
"You let those two fools run you off like that?"
"I know that it wasn't the smartest thing I ever did. I... panicked."
"Panicked? The man who stood up to Ozzie Pratt's pistol with nothing
more than his fists panicked when a couple of barflies ragged him.
That's a tad hard to believe."
"Maybe, but it's true. I worked hard to become a lawyer, and I've
worked harder since - especially since I came out west -- trying to
build a professional reputation. I didn't realize how sensitive I'd
gotten about that reputation until Royce started in on me. That was
what I panicked about."
"So you care more for your reputation than you do for Jane?" Whit made
a clicking sound of disapproval. "I wouldn't have thought it of you,
Milt."
"I wouldn't have thought it of me, either, and it bothers the hell out
of me that it might be true."
"Might be true?"
"I care a lot about Jane, and I think she cares for me, too."
"Then keep thinking about her, and don't let it bother you. If
somebody says something, you just consider who he is and if his
opinion's worth caring about." Whit had been working as they talked.
He put down his scissors and turned the chair around, so Milt was
facing the mirror on the wall behind the worktable. "In the meantime,
what do you think about this haircut?"
Milt sat up and looked at his reflection, turning his head to see how
he looked from each side. "Good job -- good advice, too."
"Thanks." Whit turned the chair and tilted it back. "Thanks. You
want a hot towel before I shave you?"
"Just the shave, I think."
Whit took Milt's shaving mug, black enamel with a scale of justice and
Milt's name in gold on the side, down from the shelf. "Fine, you just
lean back then." He poured in some shaving soap and began to work up a
lather. "And don't forget about my good advice, when you're figuring
how much to tip me for the haircut and shave."
* * * * *
Dolores was sitting on the porch reading, when she looked up and saw...
"Arnoldo, what are you doing home in the middle of the afternoon.
Should you not be at Seá±or Shamus' saloon?"
"I don't work there no more, Dolores," Arnie explained.
She frowned perplexedly. "What happened? Why did you quit?"
"I... I didn't quit. He... fired me."
Dolores closed her book and put it in the table next to her. "What
happened, Arnoldo? I thought that he liked you."
"So did I, Dolores. He found some money in my apron, money I didn't
turn in."
She put her hand in front of her mouth, fingers spread wide. "Oh, no.
Arnoldo, did you steal from him?"
"I... it was just three dimes. They got caught down in the apron seam,
and I didn't get them when I took out the other money. Th-that was
all."
"Shamus is a good man. I am sure that if you explain -- apologize --
to him, he will take you back."
"That Injun-loving bastard, I will never apologize to him."
"You did not call him that, I hope."
"I did. Apaches killed my father. Who is he to defend them, to be
sorry that men were not punished for killing them?"
"Madre de Dios, that trial in Tucson. You knew how upset he was about
that, and you still talked that way to him?"
"I did. I am happy that they went free. _That_ was why he fired me,
not because I took that money."
"So, you did steal it?"
"What if I did?"
"Arnoldo, how can you say such a thing? Think how hard your mother has
to work for thirty centavos."
"If the Apaches hadn't killed Papa, she wouldn't have to."
"And you think that makes it right, Arnoldo? Stealing from Shamus will
not bring your father back."
"But..." He was stung by her disappointment and anger.
"Your mother will not be proud to know that you were fired for
stealing. And your brother, your sisters, is this what you want them
to think being the man of the house is about?"
He hadn't thought of that. "No, but what can I do? I will not
apologize to Shamus."
"Why not?" She pointed a finger at him. "You are a proud boy,
Arnoldo. Think about what you did and how it will affect the people
you love. Maybe, if you do, you will see how much differently you must
act to be a proud _man_."
* * * * *
Liam O'Hanlan looked across the dinner table at his sister. "Okay,
Trisha, it's later."
"What are you talking about, Liam?" Trisha asked.
"You've been mad about something since you came back to the store from
the Reverend's place this afternoon," Liam explained. "And every time
I asked about it, you growled and said, 'Later.' Well... it's later,
and I want to know."
"And I don't want to tell you." Trisha pouted and crossed her arms in
front of her. "So it looks like you're stuck."
"Oh, go ahead and tell him," Kaitlin said. She and Emma were doing the
dishes. She dried her hands on her apron and walked over to the table.
As she sat down, she saw that her daughter had followed her. "Emma,
you go back over and finish the dishes. You can set them in the rack
to dry."
"Do I have to, Ma?" Emma whined.
"You do." Kaitlin pointed towards the sink. "Get going." After a
moment, she added, "As long as you keep working, you can listen to the
conversation."
Emma's hopeful look shifted into resignation. "Yes, Ma." She walked
back over to the sink and picked up a dish.
Now Kaitlin looked at Trisha, the same stern expression on her face.
"Well, tell him."
"If you're in such a hurry for him to know our personal business,"
Trisha said, "you_ tell him."
"All right, I will." Kaitlin took a breath. "Trisha kept insisting on
her... _rights_ as my husband, rights that I didn't think _she_ was
entitled to."
"You thought so those first few times when --"
"You confused me those first few times, Trisha, but I decided that it
wasn't right."
"But it was right when you did it to me?"
Liam shook his head. "I'm not sure that I want to hear any more of
this."
"Suffer, little brother," Trisha shot back at the embarrassed man.
"You asked for it. Besides, she won't even do _that_ anymore. I went
over to see the Reverend, to get him to tell Kaitlin that she should...
cooperate."
"And did he?"
"Just the opposite," Kaitlin answered. "He said that what Trisha
wanted to with me do was the worst kind of sin, and we should never,
ever, do it again."
Liam gave her an odd look. "I guess he didn't buy Trisha's saying that
it was a husband's right."
Trisha laughed bitterly. "Buy it? The good reverend said I had no
such right because Kaitlin and I weren't married anymore."
They heard a crash and looked over to see Emma kneeling down to pick up
the pieces of a broken dish. She had a scared look on her face. "You-
you and Ma ain't married no more?"
Kaitlin ran over to Emma and pulled her to her feet. The girl threw
her arms around her mother, trembling. "Now look what you did,
Trisha," Kaitlin scolded. "You've no call to be scaring Emma like
that."
"Me? I didn't do anything." She glared at them both. "Emma, let go
of your mother. You're acting like a child."
Emma shook her head and held her mother even tighter. "She's acting
like a fearful young girl," Kaitlin shot back, "which she is, because
of what you said."
"Well, I won't have it." Trisha banged her fist on the table. "First,
Yingling, then you and Emma. Doesn't anyone understand all the trouble
I'm having?"
Liam put his hand on Trisha's shoulder. "Seems to me, you're the one
who doesn't understand, Trisha."
"What, you, too, Liam? Are you taking her side against me, too?"
Liam shook his head. "I'm doing what _you_ should be doing. You're so
eager to have your 'rights' as Kaitlin's husband that you forgot about
the responsibilities, standing with her at hard times -- and believe
me, she's having one danged hard time right now."
"And now you know more about being her husband than I do."
"Maybe I do -- right now." Liam had an odd, embarrassed look on his
face.
"And _right now_, pigs are flying home all over the territory." Trisha
stamped her foot. "Well, to hell with you, Liam, and... and to hell
with Yingling... and O'Toole and his damned potion... and... and...
everybody!" Trisha glared at them all and started for the stairs.
"I'm going to bed -- _my_ bed, thank you very much, and _you_ can sleep
on the sofa tonight, Mrs. O'Hanlan!"
* * * * *
Saturday, January 27, 1872
"I think you missed a spot," Ysabel said.
Emma was sitting on the floor while she painted her dresser. She
stopped and looked up at her friend. "What do you mean?"
"Over on the left side, there..." Ysabel pointed. "...you missed a big
spot just below the hole for the top drawer."
Emma looked closely at her dresser. Most of it was now a cheery canary
yellow, instead of the dark brown it had been. However, there was a
thin patch of brown where Ysabel had said. "Dang, you're right. I
don't know what I'm thinking of, to have missed that."
"Some boy, maybe." She giggled when she said it.
"Am not." Emma said quickly, a little too quickly, she thought to
herself afterwards. "Well... to tell the truth, I am."
"Ha, I knew it!"
"Not like that. I'm a boy myself -- inside, I am, anyway. I was gonna
say, I was thinking of Tomas. He come over t'play, like he always
done, and we chased him away."
"We did not chase him. We... _you_ asked him to stay and help. He was
the one that decided that he didn't want to."
"I know. He said that spending the day fixing my room was silly, that
it was girl's stuff and not for him." Emma paused a beat. "Is it... I
mean, am I acting like a girl, doing something like this?"
Ysabel shook her head. "You are acting like a... person, one who wants
a place to hide out because her parents are acting loco... crazy... all
mixed up. That is what you told me, anyway."
"It's true, too. Last night, Mama and Trisha were yelling about if
they was still married. How can they not be married?"
"I don't know, but it seems to me that you don't need to be a part of
that yelling. And if you're going to be spending a lot of time hiding
away from them here in your room, it makes sense to me that your room
should be a place where you want to spend all that time." She stood
back to look at the new curtains she had just hung. "And now it is."
It was mid afternoon. The room had a different look after several
hours of work. Kaitlin had helped, when she found out what Emma was
doing, but the pair had done most of the re-decorating themselves.
"It's my room," Emma had said, "and I'll fix it as I want."
The new curtains were the same color as Emma was painting her dresser.
Both matched the quilt now covering her bed. Two lace ribbons were
hung on the wall besides them, so that the curtains could be tied back
to let in the sun. A long strip of yellow cloth trimmed with the same
lace framed the top of the window. A pair of ruffled pillows lay
together at the head of the bed.
"Yellow is a nice, bright color," Ysabel had suggested when she'd gone
shopping for the room with Emma and Kaitlin that morning. It also was
feminine without being so obvious that Emma would get obstinate, as
Ysabel knew she might have, if pink had been the suggested color. Mr.
Silverman had given them a good bargain on everything once he heard
what it was for.
The low table that Emma used as a desk was also painted yellow. The
paint was drying now, the desk, back in its place. A small vase filled
with dried summer flowers sat in a corner on a small, embroidered
cloth. There were similar vases of dried flowers on the bed table and
the window ledge, all supplied by her mother.
Ysabel had wanted to get rid of the skull that still hung on the wall.
Emma had flatly refused. She had let Ysabel tie yellow bows onto both
horns. The ribbons trailed down a foot or so from each horn. Emma had
said that the bows looked silly, but hadn't taken them down.
What Ysabel wasn't saying, except to herself, was, 'It has become a
room any girl would be happy to live in.'
* * * * *
Whit Whitney stood for a moment in the Saloon door and looked around.
When he saw Shamus at one end of the bar, he quickly walked over to the
barman.
"Hello, Whit," Shamus greeted him. "I ain't seen ye in here in
donkey's years. What're ye drinking?"
"I... ah, didn't come in here for a drink, Shamus."
"Just like I go over t'yuir shop to _not_ get me hair cut," Shamus
teased. Then he saw the serious look on the other man's face. "All
right, then. What did ye come in for, if it weren't t'be having a
drink?"
Whit took a breath. He straightened his stance and began. "Mr.
O'Toole, may my family and I call upon you, Mrs. O'Toole, and Miss
Margarita Sanchez --"
"Of course, ye may, Whit. What's all this silliness about?"
"Let me finish, Shamus. I promised Carmen and Ramon I'd say this
speech the way they made me learn it." Shamus nodded, and the man
continued. "You and Molly and Miss Margarita Sanchez tomorrow at 2 PM
at your home? We wish to discuss a matter of some importance."
"And how long did it take ye t'be learning that pretty speech?"
Whit shrugged. "An hour, maybe. Ramon insisted that I have it
perfect." He made a sour face. "And Carmen backed him up every time I
tried to beg off. When she gets that look in her eyes..." He
shivered. "...and I thought winters in Maine were cold."
"Aye," Shamus agreed. "It ain't easy t'be refusing yuir wife when she
truly wants something." He laughed. "Not if ye love 'em."
"Something we both know personally, I think." He paused a beat. "So,
Shamus, can we come over tomorrow afternoon?"
"Molly and me ain't got a home, but we have a nice couple o'rooms
upstairs. We'll be happy t'be welcoming ye thuir at 2 on Sunday."
"We'll be there, then. Carmen said she got somebody to watch the
children."
"Then Molly, Maggie, and me'll be waiting for ye."
"Are you that sure you can speak for Maggie?"
Shamus raised an eyebrow. "I am -- if ye're talking about what I think
ye are."
"I probably am, but I'm not supposed to say anything." He started to
go, then stopped. "One last thing, Shamus."
"And what'd that be?"
"I didn't come in here for a drink, but after all that, I believe I
need one." He put a silver dollar on the bar. "Beer, if you please,
and draw one for yourself."
* * * * *
Teresa Diaz stood in the doorway watching her cousin packing. "I still
cannot believe that you are going."
"I would not be packing if I were staying," Dolores replied with a weak
attempt at a smile. She took a pile of neatly folded undergarments
from a drawer and put them carefully into a large carpetbag.
"Si, and I wish that you _were_ staying."
"I will be back again one day." She reached for more clothing. "You
could always come to Mexico City for a visit, you know."
"Oh, of course. I can just leave my business and travel all that way
any time I want to." Teresa's voice was full of sarcasm.
"Perhaps not, but I will visit again, I promise."
"How easy you say that."
"What do you mean?"
"You talk like everything was fine, like Arnoldo... Arnoldo..." Teresa
tried hard not to sound angry.
"I am sure that everything will work out."
"How? I do not know what to say to him. He-he is so mad about losing
the job, and I-I cannot... h-help him." Her eyes began to fill with
tears.
Dolores walked over and hugged her cousin. "You are his mother. You
will find the words."
"I-I never have before. I talk and talk, but he says he is a grown
man, and he does not listen to me."
"I am sure that things are not as bad as you say."
"No, they are worse. You, Dolores, he listened to you."
"He was being polite to a guest in your house, that was all."
"No, he listened. He listened because you knew what to say, and I
didn't."
Dolores tried to smile. "I said the same things you did. Maybe I said
them a little differently, but --"
"No, you can talk to him -- you _must_ talk to him, find out what
happened and make him go back. Tell him to apologize to Seá±or O'Toole,
to ask -- to beg -- for his job back."
"Arnoldo is _muy_ proud. He will not beg."
"He will if you tell him to." Teresa clutched at her cousin. "You
must. He... he sounds so angry, I am afraid for what he might do. And
now, he... he has been... practicing with Luis'...pistola."
"I will talk to him, but I am leaving Monday. I may not be able to
persuade him by then."
"Then stay, at least, until you _can_ persuade him. Please, stay and
help my Arnoldo."
"Teresa, I... the Carnival, Mexico City, I have --"
"What do you have? What is there in Mexico City that is more important
to you than what happens to your cousin, Arnoldo, here in Eerie?"
* * * * *
R.J. was setting the stage up for the dance when he saw Blackie Easton
and Joe Ortleib walk into the Saloon. He stood up and walked over to
greet them. "I hope you boys aren't here to make trouble."
"Make trouble?" Blackie answered. "It's men like President Grant and
that pissant Quaker, Colyer, he put in charge of Injun Affairs that
make the trouble, coddling them red bastards."
R.J. shook his head. "If you're going to talk like that, you might as
well leave now and save us the trouble of throwing you out."
Joe held his hands up as if in surrender. "Whoa, whoa, R.J. We'll
behave. Won't we, Blackie?"
"We will," Blackie conceded. "At least for tonight, we will."
R.J. raised a dubious eyebrow. "No insults? No picking a fight with
Shamus?"
"No, sir," Joe said. "None of that tonight."
"Why the sudden change, and what do you mean it's for tonight?" R.J.
looked at the pair of them.
"It's like this," Blackie began, "we start telling Shamus how wrong he
is about them Injuns, he's likely to throw us out of here, just like
you said."
R.J. nodded. "And I'd be helping him."
"I didn't think you was no Injun lover, R.J.," Joe said.
"I believe in backing up my boss, Joe," R.J. told him. "You still
haven't said why you're going to be on such good behavior tonight."
Joe laughed. "It's simple. Regardless of what we think of Shamus, we
care about them pretty ladies that'll be here for the dance."
"Yeah," Blackie said. "It wouldn't be right t'deprive them of our
presence just because the man they're working for is a pig-headed,
Injun loving fool."
* * * * *
Milt stepped in front of Jane. "May I have this dance?"
"You sure you wanna be seen with me, Milt?" Jane asked sourly. Still,
she took his ticket and tucked it into her apron pocket.
"Of course I do." He took her hand and led her out onto the dance
floor.
"You got a funny way of showing it," she said as they took up their
position and waited for the music to start. "You hardly come around
here any more, and, when you do, you only talk t'me to order a beer or
get me to sign something."
Before he could answer, the music began, a waltz. Jane continued as
they danced. "Are you mad at me for something?"
"No, you--you've done nothing to anger me." All of his resolve about
telling her about what the trouble really was seemed to melt away. She
was so full of doubt. He was suddenly afraid that hearing the truth
would hurt her too deeply.
"Then... then you're ashamed t'be seen with me. Is that it?" She
spoke softly, afraid to hear his answer.
Milt almost stopped in surprise. "Ashamed? Now why would I be ashamed
of you?"
"'Cause you're a lawyer -- college trained and all -- and, me, I never
got past fourth grade."
"So what? I doubt that many of the men in here had much more education
than you. Look at Shamus; he was raised by the Cheyenne, and probably
never had a day of school in his life."
"Then what is the matter with me?"
"Nothing. It's... it's hard to explain."
"'Cause I'm too dumb to understand?"
"No, it's because... because _I'm_ too dumb, too dumb to be able to
explain it, even to myself."
"Now, I really don't understand. You're a lawyer. Only a judge can be
smarter."
"You don't have to understand, Jane. I do. When I figure things out
well enough to put them into words, I'll tell you. I promise."
"And just what am I suppose t'do in the meantime?"
"You just have to be yourself and let me hold you close while we
dance."
Jane smiled and put her head on his chest. "I can do that, I guess."
* * * * *
Sunday, January 28, 1872
"I gotta tell you, little missy, you are one fine singer." The speaker
was a tall, dapper-looking man in a dark blue frock coat.
Jessie dimpled. "Thanks, and, please, call me Jessie."
"All right... Jessie, and I'm Randolph... Randy, to you. And Randy
_for_ you," he added with a wink. "You are as pretty as an ace-high
straight."
"Well, now, thanks for that, too." Her smile grew even broader. She
liked being told she was pretty, even if it wasn't Paul doing the
telling.
"Yes, sir, damned beautiful. What do you say we go upstairs, and you
can show me just how beautiful."
"I'm sorry, Randy... Randolph, but all I do for Lady Cerise is sing in
her parlor."
"A woman as pretty as you, in a place like this, and all you do is
sing?" He raised an eyebrow. "Surely, that can't be true." He looked
at her closely. "Or do they just charge more for something as special
as you?"
Herve stepped between them. Randolph was tall, but Herve was just as
tall and much more muscled. "Ma'm'selle Jessie told you, sir. She is
here to sing -- and _only_ to sing."
Randy took a step back. "Which she, ah, does very well. I just
thought... _hoped_ that there was more, that just she had to be coaxed,
perhaps. That was all. I meant no harm."
"Except for the last part," Jessie told him with a forced smile, "I
took what you said as a compliment." She wanted to keep things
friendly, so Cerise wouldn't lose any business on her account.
The man grinned back nervously. "I'll just take my leave of you then."
He hurried over to talk to Mae. She smiled at something he said and
led him out of the parlor and towards the stairs.
"This is getting to be a habit with you," Cerise said, joining Jessie
and Herve. "Last week, it was Max and today Randolph. I hope it has
not put you off the idea of singing at my establishment."
Jessie shook her head. "No, but I didn't expect I'd get propositioned
so often. I'm just glad that Herve came over when he did."
"It was my pleasure to rescue such a fair damosel," Herve replied,
bowing low with a broad sweep of his arm.
"Thanks, Herve, but I didn't really need rescuing. If Randy there
_had_ tried anything..." she smiled mischievously, "...what I'd'a done
with my knee would've put _him_ off."
* * * * *
Whit Whitney took a sip of his drink and leaned back in his chair.
"This is really good scotch, Shamus." He grinned. "Better than what
you serve downstairs, I think."
"I have a bottle of it down in me bar, and I'll be serving it t'any man
willing t'pay me what it's worth."
Carmen was sitting on Whit's left in the parlor of the two-room
apartment that Shamus and Molly kept on the second floor of the Saloon.
"Shall we get down to business finally?" she asked, shifting the cloth
bag on her lap.
"Please." Ramon was on Whit's right. Shamus, Molly, and Maggie sat
across from them.
"All right then." Whit took a final sip. "Normally, Ramon's parents
and his godfather would handle this, but, well, his parents're dead,
and, these days, Juan Ortega's too old and sick to leave his house.
That leaves it to Carmen and me to ask."
Molly took Maggie's hand in hers. "And what would ye be asking, Mr.
Whitney?" She felt Maggie's hand clench as soon as she said it.
"They call it a 'peticiá³n de mano', a request for a lady's hand," Whit
told her, "and, normally, Ramon and Maggie wouldn't be here, but --"
Ramon interrupted. "But I wanted to be here, to be the one to ask."
He looked across at Maggie. "Seá±or and Seá±ora O'Toole... Margarita,
will you give me the greatest gift any man can ever receive, the hand
of the woman he loves in marriage?"
"Ramon, I..." She looked rattled. "You know that I cannot --"
Molly jabbed Shamus in the ribs. "Very well said, Ramon," Shamus
quickly interrupted. "Now, as I understand it, the girl's parents --
which'd be Molly and me in this case -- are the ones who answer the
boy's family -- which would be ye, Whit and Carmen. Ain't that right,
Maggie?"
"Si," she answered, "but I..."
"We answer for ye, Maggie dear," Molly interrupted this time. "'Tis
our answer that counts, so be a darling and leave it to us." She gave
Maggie's hand a gentle squeeze. "Trust us, dear."
Maggie sighed. "I do, but..."
"We'll talk about it later." Molly gave a reassuring smile and patted
Maggie's hand before she turned to face the others. "Carmen told
Shamus and me how this petition thing works, and we've given some
thought about how t'best be answering the question." She tilted her
head towards Shamus for a moment.
"We'll talk about what ye asked," Shamus continued, "aye, we'll be
thinking long and hard on it, and we'll be giving ye yuir answer a week
from today, if that's all right with ye?"
Whit stood and reached out. "That's fine." He took Shamus hand and
shook it. "We'll be back then for your answer."
"His answer?" Maggie said, sounding almost angry. "Custom or not,
should _I_ not be the one to answer?"
Carmen smiled. "Only if it is the right answer. In the meantime..."
she opened the bag. "...custom calls for a _sabucan_... a gift of food
and drink to celebrate that our peticiá³n is so well received."
"Uncle Juan -- our godfather -- could not be here, but he sent this
bottle of madeira, and I brought _rosas_, a bouquet for the... bride."
As she spoke, Carmen took the bottle and a stack of flower-shaped
pastry swirls sparkling with pink sugar out of the bag and laid them
out on the table. She smiled and handed out the rosas, while Shamus
opened the bottle and poured everyone a drink.
Maggie sat quietly, not knowing what to do or say. Or what she
_wanted_ to do or say.
* * * * *
"Cream and sugar, Phillipia?" Kaitlin asked.
"Just sugar please." Phillipia Stone was Yully's mother, a slender
woman whose olive skin and curly black hair proudly showed her Greek
ancestry. She waited while Kaitlin added the sugar and passed her the
cup. "I've spoken to several women -- discretely, of course -- and
they've agreed to bake for the dance."
"Wonderful, Phillipia." Kaitlin had put two spoons of sugar in a
second cup and was handing it to Trisha.
"Could I have some milk, too, please," Trisha asked.
Kaitlin added the milk to Trisha's tea, while she continued her
conversation with Mrs. Stone. "And will you be making those little
layered honey cakes of yours?" She passed the cup to Trisha.
"My baklava? Of course," Phillipia said. "And you'll make the mint
tea?"
"Yes," Kaitlin answered. "And Martha Yingling will bring the big
punchbowl and the glasses and plates that belongs to the church.
They're all kept at her house." She took a sip of her own tea. "I
also spoke to Nancy Osbourne about decorations. She'll have the school
children make paper chains and paper lanterns as a craft project."
"She'll need a lot of paper for that," Trisha said thoughtfully. "It
really isn't fair to ask the school to pay for it. I'll... I'll talk
to Roscoe Unger about donating some when he comes in to see about my
store's advertisement for next week's paper."
"You should ask him to give us space in the paper to promote the
dance," Phillipia suggested.
Trisha nodded. "That's a good idea; I will." She thought a moment.
"I'm sure he will. He's a nice... a good man, and the church gives him
a lot of business."
"It certainly sounds like we're ready," Kaitlin said. "All we need is
for the board to approve the whole idea of holding a dance."
"They... _we_ will," Trisha replied. "That is, I think we will. We've
got the votes."
Phillipia nodded. "My papa used to say, 'don't sell the fish until the
boats come in.' It sounds better in Greek, but you get the idea." She
sipped her tea. "Do you think Mr. Styron knows what we're trying to
do?"
"No." Trisha shook her head. "If he did, I'd have heard of it --
probably from him directly. Still... there's still more than a week
left until the meeting."
"Can he do anything?" Phillipia asked, "If the votes are there, I
mean."
"He could try," Trisha replied. "Rupert, the Judge, and Dwight all
said that they liked the idea, but..."
"But what?" Kaitlin asked.
Trisha continued. "But if enough people raise an objection at the
meeting, any one of them _could_ change his vote."
"Then it's your job to see that they don't," Kaitlin said, a determined
look in her eye.
"Yes, ma'am," Trisha answered quickly.
* * * * *
Maggie watched Shamus walk Ramon, Carmen, and Whit down from the
apartment. She and Molly were left to clean up and put things away.
"Why did you not let me answer when Ramon proposed?" she asked Molly.
Molly looked at her carefully. "And what answer would ye be giving
him?"
"I..." she sighed. "I do not know."
"And that's why we didn't let ye answer, 'cause ye don't know." She
waited a half-beat. "Don't ye want to marry him?"
"I... I love him, and I so very much want to be with him."
"Aye, only thuir's a 'but' ain't there?"
She looked at Molly, her eyes beginning to glisten. "But... but I
promised Lupe, my Lupe, that I would take care of our children. I... I
cannot put my happiness ahead... ahead of that promise."
"Maggie, dear, ye've been saying that t'poor Ramon for months. Ye've
been caught, caught like that dog in the manger, between love and
duty."
"And I still am."
"Then ye couldn't be answering him today, could ye?"
"I couldn't," she admitted, choking on the words. "And it will be the
same next week, when he comes back for his answer, the one you and
Shamus promised him." She stared down at the floor, unable to look her
friend in the face.
Molly gently lifted Maggie's chin with her hand. "No it won't, Maggie,
dear," she said smiling. "We've got us a week, me, ye, and Shamus,
t'be figuring out a way for ye to give Ramon the _right_ answer. We'll
find that way, ye'll see."
* * * * *
"And where the devil have ye been?"
Jessie ignored Shamus while she tied on her apron. "Where I said I was
going, over t'see Wilma. What's the matter with that?"
"She did say she'd be going over there, Love," Molly added, trying to
keep things calm. "And it wasn't like we was so busy this afternoon."
"That ain't the point, Molly," Shamus answered stubbornly. "We're
never busy on Sunday afternoon. What I'm wondering is, was she
visiting with her sister or was she singing for all them men over there
at Lady Cerise's?"
Jessie glared at him. "I'm not saying that's what I did, Shamus, but
what if it was? You don't have me singing in here on Sundays, so why
can't I sing over there if I want to?"
"If she pays ye to, ye mean. Sam Braddock was in here an hour or so
ago, and he was telling me how ye was singing there, singing 'Collee's
Ride', too. The song I told ye not t'be singing."
"You pay me for singing in here two days a week -- three, if you count
the times I sing at the dance on Saturday. That's all. You never said
I couldn't sing nowhere else." She took a breath. "And _I_ decide
what I sing. I don't sing 'Collee's Ride' in here because Molly asked
me not to, _not_ because of anything you said."
Shamus looked over at his wife. "Molly? Because _she_ asked ye..."
"I was just trying t'keep the peace, Love," Molly told him. "I
couldn't stand t'see the way it hurt ye t'be hearing that song." She
put her hand on his shoulder. "Please don't be mad."
Shamus reached up and put his hand over hers. "I'm not mad, Love. Not
at ye, anyhow. But this one..."
"Look, Shamus. I wasn't here this afternoon, so don't pay me for it.
As far as what I did do, that's my business. It ain't like we got a
contract. We shook hands on my singing for you two nights a week, and
that's the end of it."
Shamus let out a deep sigh. "It is for now, Jessie. It is for now.
Go wait on me customers."
* * * * *
Teresa Diaz looked over at the couch where Arnie was stretched out.
"Arnoldo, are you asleep?" It was after 10, and her younger children
were all in bed.
"No, Mama." He turned his head to face her. "Just thinking." He
paused a beat. "Dolores is leaving tomorrow. I thought that, after we
see her off, I would go look for another job."
"What about your old job? Maybe Seá±or Shamus would give it back to you
if you asked him."
Arnie sat up quickly. "No! I will not ask that old bas -- that old
man for my job."
"But you always said that he was a good jefe."
"A good boss would not have fired me like he did, for no reason."
"But you _stole_ from him, Arnoldo. You told me so yourself."
"One time, Mama, one time, and it was only thirty cents."
"If it was only the one time -- only a mistake -- then he will forgive
you. You must ask him."
"You mean I must _beg_ him. I _will_ _not_ beg some Apache-loving son
of a bitch -- yes, son of a bitch -- for a job."
"But... but who will hire you if they find out that Seá±or Shamus fired
you? He is a man of importance in this town."
"I'm a man of importance, too. You just don't see it."
"What I see is a boy, a boy trying hard -- maybe too hard -- to be a
man."
"Then you see nothing." He stood up. "And we have nothing to talk
about." He turned and walked towards the front door.
"Arnoldo!" Teresa started after him. He ignored her and kept walking,
slamming the door hard behind him. She shuddered at the sound as if
struck and sank down into a chair. "Arnoldo!" she moaned. "Why do you
have to be so much like your papa?"
Dolores had heard everything through the half-opened door of the room
she shared with her cousins. She was beside Teresa almost at once, her
arms around her. "He just lost his temper," she told the grieving
woman. "He will be back, and you two will be able to talk it out."
"Si," Teresa answered, "he will be back, but I will be no better at
talking to him than I was just now. He would talk to you, but you...
you will not be here to help me." She put her head on Dolores'
shoulder and began to cry.
* * * * *
Monday, January 29, 1872
"You awake, Jessie?"
Jessie opened one eye. "Jane, it ain't morning yet. Go back to
sleep."
"I can't. I been trying and trying." She sounded mad about something.
"What's the matter?"
"Milt. I-I can't figure him out. Sometimes, he acts like he really
likes me. And sometimes... sometimes it's like he can't stand t'be
around me."
"Did you ask him why?"
"I did. He said he couldn't explain it t'me. You think it's 'cause
I'm... I'm too dumb?"
'Don't answer that,' Jessie told herself. Aloud, she asked, "Did he
say you was dumb?"
"He... he said he couldn't figure it out for himself, but that don't
make no sense t'me. What d'you think?"
"I-I don't know." Jessie yawned. "It took me a long while t'figure
Paul out."
"Well, you musta got him figured out now. You two are together so
much." Jane giggled. "'Specially at night."
"Jane!"
"It's true, ain't it? Fact is, I can't see why you spend any nights
over here."
Jessie felt her body warm at the thought of being with Paul every
night. But she couldn't. "Paul says -- and I agree with him, I guess
-- that there room of his over t'the jail is like a fishbowl." She
sighed. "It'd be too much if I was t'move in with him."
"He could move in here. There's lotsa room."
"Sure, and put on a show for you every night? Go to sleep, Jane."
"I can't. I still don't know what t'do about Milt."
"I'll tell you what; you think about what I'm gonna do about Paul for a
while, and I'll think about you and Milt. How's that?"
"You will? You promise?"
Jessie stifled another yawn. "I promise."
"G'night, then." Jessie heard Jane shifting on her bed. She lay
still, there in the darkened room, until they both were asleep.
* * * * *
Teresa stirred the eggs in the skillet. "Constanza," she called to her
younger daughter, "please go tell Dolores that breakfast is almost
ready."
"She is not here, Mama," Constanza answered, putting the dishes in
place on the table. "She went someplace early this morning."
Teresa looked over at the door. Dolores' luggage, two large
carpetbags, was still waiting there. "Do you know where she went?"
Dolores had said nothing while they had talked the night before.
'Of course,' she added to herself, 'I was so busy worrying about
Arnoldo last night that I --.' Her eyes started to fill with tears.
'No, I will not get upset this morning. Let Dolores see me smile when
she leaves.' She wiped her eyes quickly, hoping her children would not
notice.
Ysabel was pouring milk for everyone. "Maybe she went to say goodbye
to Seá±or de Aguilar," she suggested, giggling at the thought of how
they might be saying their goodbyes.
"She had better get back here soon from wherever she is," Teresa said.
She took the scrambled eggs off the heat and folded in a mixture of
onions, tomatoes, and shredded beef she had cooked earlier. Setting
the skillet down, she continued, "Otherwise, she will not have time to
eat before Arnoldo and I take her to the stage."
"Can we go with you, Mama?" Enrique asked, "or do we have to say
goodbye here and go to school?"
Teresa thought for a moment. "I think that you can be late this one
time, but you will say short goodbyes and run to the school as soon as
the stage leaves." She walked around the table spooning portions of
the egg and meat mixture onto everyone's plates, including some for her
missing cousin.
"Something smells very good," Dolores said, choosing that moment to
come in.
"I made machaca con huevos," Teresa told her. "I wanted you to have a
good meal before you left." Food at the stations along most stage
routes was notoriously bad. "You had best hurry, though."
Dolores sat down at her place and took a forkful. "I have plenty of
time. I am not going -- not today, at least. I was just at the depot
turning in my ticket."
The younger children cheered, and Ysabel gave Dolores a hug. "I am so
glad you are staying."
"As am I," Teresa said, "but I have to ask why?" Teresa felt
embarrassed. She knew that she needed help, but was Dolores staying
out of pity?
Dolores looked at the children and shook her head. "For now, let us
only say that I decided last night that staying here in Eerie might be
just as exciting in its own way as Carnival back home."
"Last night... you mean when I..." Teresa's cheeks felt warm. It _was_
pity.
Dolores hugged Ysabel back and reached out to gently put her hand on
Teresa's arm. "I mean that I decided that I love my cousins -- _all_
of my cousins -- here in Eerie too much to leave yet. I will spend
Carnival right here."
She looked over at Arnie's empty chair. He had eaten earlier, not
wanting to be around his mother. It was a feeling she reluctantly
shared. At the moment, he was out back getting Teresa's small laundry
wagon ready to carry Dolores' luggage to the stage. "I am sure,"
Dolores added, "that there will be some interesting fireworks
hereabout."
* * * * *
"Ramon," Aaron called from behind the counter, making a broad motion
with his arm. "Come over and join us for some lunch."
"Why?" Ramon answered. "I do not mean to be rude," he added quickly,
"but do you not always say that we should not all eat at the same time,
so there will always be someone to wait on any customers that come in?"
Aaron chuckled. "Ma nistana ha-yom hazeh? Sorry, that was a joke,
sort of. It means 'why is this day different from every other day?'
That's something we say as part of the seder, the special meal we have
for our Passover holiday."
"And I'm sure he has at least four questions," Rachel interrupted her
husband. Without any explanation of what she'd just said, she
continued, "Please come join us, Ramon. And if it bothers you so much,
you can turn the sign on the door around, and we'll be closed. It's
quiet now," she said with a shrug, "closed for ten or twenty minutes--
feh! -- what can it hurt?"
"In that case, I will be happy to join you." Ramon walked over to the
door and reversed the sign before taking a seat at the small worktable
they had set up for the meal. "Especially for some of Rachel's
brisket." He put two slices of meat on a slice of the bread.
Rachel handed him a small jar filled with a very pungent, grayish-brown
paste. "Try some of this horseradish on it, but not too much. It's
strong."
"I know." Ramon used a knife to spread some of the paste -- as strong
as any chili paste he'd ever eaten -- on the second slice of bread. He
topped off the sandwich with a slice of lettuce, added the bread, and
took a bite. "Delicious," he said truthfully. Then he turned to face
Aaron. "What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?"
"Always to the point," Aaron said, laughing. "When Fortune calls, as
the Sages say, get her a chair quick. Since you ask, I'll tell you.
Better yet, I'll ask you. Ramon, how would you like to be a partner in
the store -- one third share each to me, Rachel, and you?"
Ramon's eyes went wide. "Partner? I had thought, perhaps, a raise,
but this... I am very flattered, Aaron.... Rachel, but should it not be
your sons that are your partners?"
"You mean like Michael Goldwasser -- excuse me, keineh horah,
_Goldwater_ -- and his boys over in Phoenix?" Aaron said, a sarcastic
tone in his voice. "Being partners with my sons would be nice, but do
you see them standing around here anywhere? Shmulie, my oldest, is a
rabbi in San Francisco, working with Rabbi Belinski, the chief rabbi of
the city, no less. Yitzchak, my other boy, has his own store -- and
it's doing well, he tells me -- up in Denver. And my daughter, Tuva,
her husband works in San Francisco, too, for the Port."
"Don't be so hard on Moische," Rachel scolded. "Not after he and Tuva
gave us that pretty granddaughter two years ago."
"I'm not mad, Racheliebe," Aaron said, taking her hand in his. "I'm
just saying they aren't here to be partners with."
"And so you are stuck with me," Ramon said wryly.
Aaron shook his head. "Stuck? Gottenu, no. _Lucky_ is what I am with
you. You're a good boy, a real mench, as we say, and a hard worker.
I'll be proud to have you as my partner." He held out his right hand.
"If you'll take my offer?"
"I will be proud to your partner, Aaron, my friend." He shook the
older man's hand. "And yours, as well, Rachel."
"A handshake is good," Aaron told him, "but where there's room for a
question, something is wrong. I'll have Milt Quinlan draw up papers to
make everything kosher. We can sign by Shabbos."
Rachel smiled contentedly. "Now that we've settled that, Ramon, try
one of these pickles."
* * * * *
Cerise looked up from her paperwork at the sound of the knock on the
office door. "Entre vous, come in."
"Morning, Cerise," Wilma said, stepping into the office and closing the
door behind her. "How you doing today?"
"Bien, mon brave, and you?"
"Just dandy." Wilma grinned. "I think I got an answer t'what I should
do about Rosalyn and Beatriz."
"Tres bien; what is it that you are going to do?"
"Nothing. _You're_ gonna do it."
Cerise frowned. "I 'ave told you, Wilma, that it is you that must
solve this problem if you are to truly be my second."
"And I have. Lemme ask you something, what you do t'them two for
getting tea over all those ledgers of yours?"
"I... I scolded them for their impertinence, of course. What else
would you have me do?"
"Seems t'me they oughta be put t'work replacing what they ruined.
Then... long as they're working on them books anyway, they can enter
all the expenses since."
"It will take them hours to do all of that. They will..." Celeste's
lips curled into a wry smile. She nodded in approval. "I see what you
mean, and... I think that it will work." She gave a deep, hearty
laugh. "And they will work."
Wilma joined the laughter. "I thought you'd like it."
"I do; I very much do like it. Brava." She clapped her hands in a
brief applause. "I shall call them in this very afternoon."
"Exactly. They wouldn't do it if I asked, but they'll have to do it
for you." She thought for a moment. "But I'd wait till Wednesday
t'have them do it."
"Why? There will not be that many more bills to enter by Wednesday."
"No, but I just remembered that Beatriz said Sebastian Ortega's coming
over here Wednesday afternoon." She pretended to look sad. "Be a real
shame if she was too busy doing the work in here, and he went and
picked somebody else t'be with."
* * * * *
"Be careful as you bone the fish," Maggie warned Jane. "We could not
get as much of the fresh Gila trout as I would have liked."
"I done this before," Jane answered. "Mr. Mckechnie's wagon's've
brought 'em up more'n once."
Before Maggie could reply, Ramon burst into the room, a broad smile on
his face. "Margarita, I have news."
"Ramon, what is it that is so important?"
He rushed over to Maggie. "Wonderful, wonderful news. I-I had to come
over and tell you. Aaron, just now he... he offered to make me a
partner in the store."
"An equal partner in his business? That is good news."
Jane slapped him on the back. "Yeah, congratulations, Ramon."
"Actually, Aaron, Rachel, and I will all be partners," he continued.
"They asked me to sit with them for lunch. He made me the offer, and
I... I said yes. Milt Quinlan will write something legal, and we will
all sign."
"I am proud of you, Ramon," Maggie told him. "What did Whit and Carmen
say when you told them?"
"I have not told them yet." He took a step closer. "You -- oh, and
Jane -- you are the first ones to know."
"Me?" Maggie felt a warm tingling run through her.
"Who else would I want to share this news with?" He nudged up close to
her, very close.
"Ramon, I have fish all over me. " She tried to push him away with an
elbow that was reasonably clean.
He took hold of her waist and held firm. "Something to remember you
by," he said with a smile and kissed her. Maggie shifted from pushing
him away to encircling his neck. Their bodies flush, they held their
embrace until breathless.
And time and Jane and the fish all went away for a while, lost in the
depths of the couple's feelings, like a school of fish lost in the
depths of the ocean.
Ramon reluctantly broke the kiss. He drew in a deep breath, stepped
back and brushed some bits of fish and skin from his shirt. "Not your
best perfume, but a memorable one." He looked at his pocket watch. "I
must go. I promised my... partners that I would not be gone too long."
"And a promise is a promise," Maggie said with a sigh. "I should know.
Goodbye then."
Ramon turned to go, but then he glanced at his shirt and brushed
another small scrap of fish away. "What is this that you are cooking?"
"Grilled trout with salsa verde," Maggie answered. "That and fried
chicken will be the menu tonight."
"May I join you then for dinner -- with Ernesto and Lupe, of course --
I want to tell them the good news, too." He paused a beat. "I will
get a bottle of wine from Shamus, and we can all toast my becoming a
partner."
"You are welcome, of course." She tried not to seem _too_ happy at the
prospect of dinner with him. "But what about Carmen and Whit. Should
you not tell them?"
"I will, and I will drink a toast with them, also. Whit has a very
good wine cellar." He took her hand. "And on Sunday -- I have every
hope that -- we will be drinking a toast to another, and much better
partnership."
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Maggie trembled,
but before she could answer, could say anything, he released her hand,
bowed low, and was gone.
* * * * *
Tuesday, January 30, 1872
Dolores was writing a letter, to explain to her friend, Perdita
Moralez, why she would not be coming home for carnival. Arnie watched
her for a bit, then sat down across from her at the table.
"While Mama is out delivering laundry, I wanted to thank you for
staying for a while longer. You made her very happy."
She put down her pen. "You are welcome. I enjoyed my visit, and I
decided that it would be more fun to spend carnival here with all of
you than to go back to Mexico City. I _know_ what the festival is like
there."
"Just the same, it was good of you to do it for her."
"You are a good... son, Arnoldo, to care so much for your mother's
happiness."
"What sort of a son would I be if I did not think of my mother?"
"What sort of son would you be if you thought even more of your
mother?"
"What do you mean?"
"She is very worried about you."
"I know. I am trying to find a new job."
"And I am sure that you will." She studied his face for a moment, then
added, "but your job is not the only thing that worries your mother."
He tensed. "What do you mean?"
"Your papa's pistolas, are you still trying to learn how to use them?"
"No, I..." he looked down at the table top. "I decided to stop for a
while. I will use the time to..." His mind raced. "...to find a
job."
"That sounds like a good idea. Have you told your mother this?"
"No." He sensed a trap.
"Then do so. Better yet, give her the pistolas to hold while you are
not using them." She put her hand on his. "do it for me... and her.
Show us that she does not need to worry, that you are the _man_ I know
you to be."
He thought for a moment. 'Jessie will not give me lessons, and I have
no money for bullets. Why not let Mama think I am doing it for her?'
He nodded. "Very well, I will do it. I will give them to Mama as soon
as she comes home."
"Maravilloso!" She came around to his side of the table and hugged him
tightly. 'And I will talk to the people at the saloon. Maybe I can
help you to get your old job back.'
* * * * *
Rev. Yingling stood up as Trisha walked into his study. "And how are
you today, Trisha?" he asked as she sat down opposite him at his desk.
"Hopeful, Reverend," she answered, as he took his seat.
"Hope is a truly blessed state. Are your plans for a building fund
progressing that well?"
"I think they are, but that isn't what I'm hopeful about right now."
"And what is it that you are so hopeful about?"
"I'm hopeful that I can get you to change your mind on what you said
about Kaitlin and me."
Yingling shook his head. "I fear that is not possible, Trisha."
"But --"
"Please let me finish. When we first talked last week, you asked me to
think about what your relationship with Kaitlin was and what it ought
to be. I did. For three straight days, I thought of almost nothing
else. I had to rush to finish last Sunday's sermon."
"It didn't seem rushed to me. You talked about repentance and trying
to follow G-d's Will."
"I'm glad you were listening."
"I always listen to your sermons, Reverend."
"Really, tell me, just as a guess, how many times I've spoken on the
subject of repentance in the past year?"
"I... I never kept count... umm, a dozen times, at least."
"And how many times would you say I've spoken on understanding our
Lord's Will or on following his Laws?"
"Are you saying that this..." She gestured at her body. "...is His
Will?"
"Who can say what is or isn't His Will? That isn't my point."
"What is your point, then?"
"Have you ever heard me change my position on repentance... or on any
other topic I've spoken of in my sermons? Even when such a change
might seem warranted because of something that was happening to a
member of my congregation?" He stared directly at Trisha, as if daring
her to answer.
"No... no, I-I haven't."
"Then why... how can you expect me to change my mind on this? I am
sorry to say it, but say it I must. Your marriage to Kaitlin ended the
moment that your body changed. Woman cannot be married to woman,
_that_ is Holy Writ."
"I wasted my time -- and my hopes, then." She sighed. "You can't --
or won't help me."
"I most certainly can help, Trisha. I can help you -- you and Kaitlin,
both -- to find solace in our Lord and to come to terms with what has
happened to you." He gently placed his hand on hers. "Please let me
try to help the two of you in this, help you to find the peace that
lies in His Love."
Yingling's hand on hers bothered Trisha. She pulled hers away and
shook her head. "Someday, maybe, Reverend. Today, all I feel is hate,
a hate for what Shamus' potion did to me."
"I am of several minds on Mr. O'Toole's potion, but I remind you that
it did save your son's life."
"No, it ended it. Based on what you said before, it ended mine as
well. Patrick and Elmer O'Hanlan are dead and gone. What happens to
what's left, to Trisha and Emma O'Hanlan, remains to be seen."
"All things are in the Lord's hands. Pray with me. Ask Him for His
Blessings and Mercy."
"Not today, I think." She stood up. "I do thank you for your time,
though."
* * * * *
"Can I talk to ye for a bit, Maggie?" Molly asked, walking into the
kitchen.
Jane answered first. "Sure you can, Molly. We was just taking a break
before starting on tonight's supper."
"I was talking t'Maggie, Jane," Molly said patiently, "and I'd like
t'be talking to her alone if ye don't mind?"
"Can't I stay? I'll be quiet." Jane sat down at the worktable. "I'll
just sit here and not say a word."
Maggie put a hand on her helper's shoulder. "Please, Jane. I know
that you want to stay, but this is something... something just between
Molly and me."
"Oh, all right." Jane frowned but she did stand up. "I'll go sit out
front and hope that Milt'll come in t'see me."
"I hope that he will," Maggie said, "I truly do. And thank you."
Jane was almost to the door. She stopped and turned around. "Don't
thank me, Maggie. You owe me one for this, and don't you think I ain't
gonna collect." She winked and walked through the door and into the
saloon.
"She's a good girl," Molly said, watching the door close behind Jane,
"but sometimes..." She let the words trail off.
Maggie poured Molly a cup of coffee. "I do not think she knows how
important this is." She poured herself a cup and sat down. "Have you
thought of anything?"
"Aye, dear. I've thought of a question." She added sugar to the cup
and stirred. "What exactly was it that ye promised that wife of
yuirs?"
"I..." Maggie looked surprised. "I promised what I said, that I would
take care of Ernesto and Lupe."
"D'ye remember yuir exact words when ye made the promise?"
"Remember?" she sighed. "I remember it too well. Lupe... my wife, had
a hard time giving birth to L... to our daughter. We thought that she
was getting better, but a few months later, she woke up in pain and
with a terrible fever. There was no doctor, just Father Telles and the
midwife." Maggie stopped and closed her eyes.
"It's all right, Maggie." Molly gently laid her hand on Maggie's right
arm. "It's all right. Ye don't have to be telling me."
Maggie's left elbow was on the table, her arm bent and her hand
covering her eyes. "Si, I-I do. They did all that they could, but it
was... it was not enough. Even I knew it, though I did not want to
admit it, even to myself."
"Late in the afternoon, Lupe asked to see the children. My sister,
Juana, was taking care of them, and Mother Gracia, the midwife, went
for them. Then Lupe asked Father Telles to let us be alone. My... my
heart beat so hard that it hurt. I feared that she was saying goodbye
to me."
Molly could feel the tears in her own eyes. "And was she?" Molly
asked softly.
"She was, in her way. 'Miguel, mi corazá³n' -- my heart, she called me.
'You must promise me something.' I said that I would promise anything.
I would have. I would have sold my soul if it would have made her
well."
Maggie continued. "She tried to sit up, but she could not. I shifted
some pillows behind her. 'Thank you,' she said. 'You have always been
so good... so good..." Maggie sobbed, holding her head in her hands.
Molly hurried around the table and took the younger woman in her arms.
She began a gentle rocking motion, trying to calm Maggie, as she might
try to calm a suffering daughter.
It seemed to work. Maggie' voice grew steadier. "I am... better," she
finally said. "Thank you."
"D'ye think ye can be telling the rest of it?"
Maggie nodded. "Lupe was saying, 'you have always been so good to me,
Miguel. You must promise to me that you will take care of our
children, mi corazá³n.' We will take care of them together, I said. I
knew it was a lie, but I could not say the truth."
"Lupe shook her head. She smiled and kissed my hand. 'We both
know...' she stopped. She could not say the truth any more than I
could. 'Just promise, mi corazá³n, promise that you will care for them
as we would have if we... I were there to care for them with you."
"I closed my eyes, so that she would not see the tears. I will
promise, I said, but you will be there with me, you will see."
"Before she could argue, there was a knock on the door. Mother Gracia
was back. 'Good,' Lupe said, 'I know that you will keep that promise.'
Then she called for Mother Gracia to bring the babies in. She... _we_
played with them for a while. She even nursed Lupe one last time. Then
she said that she was feeling tired."
"Mother Gracia took the babies back to Juana's. Lupe asked for Father
Telles. We prayed together, the three of us, for some hours. I could
hear Lupe's voice getting weaker. At last, she... she asked the padre
for the last rites. He gave them to her. She thanked him and took my
hand. 'Mi corazon,' she said, 'remember your promise.' I said that I
would."
Maggie began to cry again, and Molly held her. "Lupe and I... we held
hands like... like the lovers we were. I-I held her until... until she
slipped away to the world be-beyond." Maggie's voice fell away into a
moan and she laid her head against Molly. She didn't try to speak
again; she was sobbing too hard.
"So that's the size of it," Molly whispered. She held Maggie in her
arms, even as tears ran down her own cheeks.
* * * * *
Horace Styron calmly watched Dwight Albertson as the older man re-read
the loan application. "Everything in order, Dwight?"
"It is. Are you certain that you want to borrow this much?" He set
the form down on his desk.
"I am. I need those funds to restock for the spring. Between the
miners coming down from the mountains to get supplies and the farmers
looking to put in their crops, I have to have a bit of everything in my
store."
Albertson signed and carefully blotted both copies. "And you will."
He handed the papers to Styron, who also signed them.
"And your bank'll get the payments, same as we do it every year." He
folded his copy and slipped it into a pocket in his suit.
"Can't argue with success." Albertson put the bank's copy in a folder.
He paused, trying to change the subject. It was never good to let a
customer dwell on a loan. "You ready for the church board meeting next
week?"
"I am. It'll be nice to have a quiet meeting, even if it's with...
Trisha still on the board."
Albertson fidgeted with his pen. "A... ah, quiet meeting, yeah,
that... that'll be nice."
"What's going on, Dwight?" Styron asked, sensing trouble.
"Nothing, nothing."
"Dwight, you just approved a $7500 loan without batting an eye, but you
start twitching like a scared little boy when I mention the board
meeting." He stood and leaned over the desk. "What aren't you telling
me?"
"The... uh, budget. I was just thinking that we have to start working
on next year's budget."
"No, you weren't. You never worried about the budget before. This is
something else. This is... Trisha! Yes, it has to be." He looked at
the banker and knew that he'd guessed right. "All right, Dwight, what
is that bitch up to now?"
* * * * *
"Mind if I join ye, Jessie."
Jessie was sitting at a table, nursing a fake beer, and killing time
until her next show by sorting the money her audience had tossed at her
earlier that evening. She gestured at the chair opposite her. "Sit
yourself down, Shamus."
"Thank ye." He pulled out the chair and settled down into it. "That
was a good set of songs ye was singing t'night. The men enjoyed it,
too, judging from all them coins ye got there."
She shrugged. "It ain't bad, but I'd've gotten more if you'd've let me
sing 'Collee's Ride.' They keep asking for it; you heard 'em tonight."
"I heard. I also heard the clapping -- just as loud, it was t'me
thinking -- when ye sang that 'Jimmy with the Light Brown Hair'
instead."
"Maybe they's clapping as loud, but they ain't throwing as much money
as they do when I sing 'Collee's Ride.' Are you offering t'make up the
difference?"
"No -- 'cause ye can't be proving t'me that there _is_ a difference."
"They want to hear 'Collee's Ride', and they're getting tired as a
tomcat walking in the mud of me not singing it."
"Aye, and I'm getting just as tired of arguing with ye about it."
"Then let me sing it."
"All right, then. Ye can sing it in yuir room upstairs or when ye're
doing chores. Ye can sing it when ye go walking with Paul Grant -- or
whatever else it is the two of ye is doing. Ye can sing it wherever
else ye want t'be singing that blasted song, but ye'll _not_ be singing
it on me stage as part of any show ye do for me. Understand?"
Jessie's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I understand, Shamus; I really do."
* * * * *
Wednesday, January 31, 1872
Sam Duggan was sweeping the boardwalk in front of his saloon. He could
have had one of the help do it, but it was a chance to, as he said, "To
get a look-see at what's going on in the world."
"Mr. Duggan..."
He turned to see... "Jessie Hanks, what brings you over to the Long
Branch? Good news, I hope."
"Can we go inside?" Jessie looked around nervously. "I ain't got much
time, and I'd just as soon we wasn't seen."
Duggan pushed aside the swinging door to the saloon and gestured for
Jessie to go in. "After you then." She walked through, and he
followed her inside.
"I told Shamus I was going out to get some air," she told him. "Is
your offer still good?"
"Sure is. When can you come over here?"
"Now, I ain't quitting Shamus -- not yet anyways, but I don't sing for
him every night."
Duggan frowned. "So... you'll sing for him some nights, and me other
nights. Is that how it works?"
"For now, anyway -- _if_ I like working for you. How 'bout I try it
on Friday, and see what happens?" She offered her hand. "Okay?"
"No, but if it's the best I can get..." He shook her hand. "...I'll
take it."
"We got a deal then. And, by the way, Shamus pays me $7.50 a night, so
that'll be $8.50 from you." She smiled. "A dollar more a night _was_
your offer."
* * * * *
'Wish I could practice some card tricks,' Bridget thought as she
shuffled the deck. 'Just to do something different with my time.' She
sighed, feeling out of sorts. 'Yeah, girl,' she told herself, 'and if
any of your regular players see you doing them, they might get to
wondering if you're doing sleights like that _during_ a game. And then
it's _goodbye_ players.' She sighed again, and began dealing out the
five hands for yet another hand of Maverick solitaire.
She looked around. "Maybe I can get R.J. to play a game with me. We
could make another bet and --"
A finger gently tapped her on the shoulder. "May I speak with you,
Bridget?" A moment later, Dolores stepped around into view.
"Sure, sit down," Bridget said, glad for anything to break the long
afternoon monotony. She gathered up the cards while Dolores took a
seat at the table. As she did, she looked carefully at the other
woman. 'Her tells say she's nervous about something,' she noticed.
"I thought you'd gone home a couple of days ago," Bridget continued,
trying to make Dolores feel more comfortable. "I guess I heard wrong."
Dolores shook her head. "No, I... I was going home. I changed my mind
at the last minute. Teresa -- my cousin -- needed my help." She took
a breath. "And I need yours."
"I'm not promising, but... what do you need?" The two women had
occasionally talked on the Saturday nights when Dolores had worked as
one of Shamus' waiter girls. They weren't exactly friends, but Bridget
liked the tall Mexican. She admired loyalty, too, and that seemed to
be why Dolores had stayed.
"Teresa -- and I -- we are worried about her son, Arnoldo --"
"Arnie, the boy who worked here?" She saw Dolores nod. "I saw you
talking to him, now and then, but I didn't know you two were related."
"Si, Teresa's mother and my mother were sisters."
"What can I do for you two, then?"
"You know what happened to Arnoldo?"
"He and Shamus had a big fight. Shamus caught him drinking, I think,
and he called Shamus some nasty names --"
"He stole some money from Seá±or Shamus, also."
Bridget raised an eyebrow. "No wonder Shamus fired him." She hoped
that very few people knew the truth. Arnie would be disgraced.
"Si, but now... can he hire Arnoldo again? Arnoldo is not really a bad
boy; he is a boy straining hard to be a man. So hard that he does
foolish things."
"I don't know. Shamus was awful mad, and us Irish are a stubborn
bunch."
"I understand, but Shamus... the boy looked up to him. Arnoldo is
angry that he was fired, angry at himself, I think, but he won't admit
it."
Dolores took a breath and continued. "I thought... if he could get his
job back..." she let the words trail off.
"And you want me to talk Shamus into hiring Arnie again after what
happened?"
"His mother is so afraid that he will come to harm if he does not
settle down. You would be saving his life as far as she was
concerned." She looked straight at Bridget. "Just as he once saved
yours, or so I understand."
Bridget's expression soured. "_That_ was low, but you made your point.
Arnie's too young to get his life ruined for one dumb mistake." She
knew about such things from her own life.
And he _had_ jumped on Bill Hersh, when Hersh and Parnell tried to rob
her at gunpoint. She owed him, she had to admit, and she set great
store in paying such debts. "I'm in, Dolores. Heaven knows for what,
but I'm in. I think you'd better ante up some more into this game,
though."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll work on Shamus, and I think I can get Molly to help, but three of
a kind beat a pair any day. Long as you're staying around, why don't
you ask Shamus for a job, too?"
"Dancing with the men? I had thought about that. It was...
interesting."
Bridget shook her head. "No, I mean full time, waiting tables during
the week. Shamus is shorthanded with Jessie's singing and Jane
spending so much time in the kitchen. That's why he hired Arnie to
begin with."
"Then why should he hire both me and Arnoldo?"
"Because he's going to get more shorthanded as Laura gets closer to
having her baby." She let her voice drop down to a whisper. "And
because, even if he won't admit it, I think Shamus is sorry he had to
fire the boy."
There was sense in what Bridget was suggesting. Teresa hadn't said
anything, but Dolores could guess how much it her cost to feed another
mouth. Teresa wouldn't take charity, but she would accept being paid
room and board, and this job would give her the money to do that.
"I... I will think about what you have said."
"And I'll think about what you have asked." She glanced towards the
kitchen for an instant. "Just make sure that the only boy you're
trying to help is Arnie. Maggie's my friend, and I won't help you get
Ramon away from her."
Dolores sighed. "You do not need to worry. Ramon made it very clear.
He still would like to be my friend, but he _wants_ Margarita."
* * * * *
"January 23, 1872," Beatriz said in a tired voice. "Euler Brothers
Brewery... one barrel of dark beer, $23."
"Dark beer, $23," Rosalyn repeated the information, as she wrote it in
a column in a dark green ledger book. The two women were alone in
Cerise's office, sitting at her desk, which was piled high with ledgers
and bills.
"Same date and name," Beatriz continued. "Barrel of ale, also $23."
"Ale, $23." They heard a cough from the door and looked over to see...
"Daisy," Rosalyn scolded. "How long have you been standing there,
spying on us?"
"Spying?" Daisy answered, indignant at the thought -- even if it was
true. "Well, I like that. You two's been in here all afternoon, and I
was just thinking I'd bring you in some tea." She turned and picked up
a tea tray that she has set on the chair in the hall.
Rosalyn sighed and put her pen back in the inkwell. "I... I'm sorry,
Daisy. A break for tea would be lovely. Thank you." She saw the maid
walking straight for the desk and quickly pointed to a small table in
the corner. "Set the tray over there, if you please." She tried to
make it sound like an order.
Daisy smiled innocently and did as asked. "There you goes, Miz
Rosalyn. Don't blame you none for being careful. If anybody'd know
what this tea could do t'them papers, it'd be you and Miz Beatriz."
"How long have we been at this?" Beatriz kneaded the muscles on the
back of her neck. She turned and looked at the small brass clock on
the corner of Cerise's desk. "Madre de Dios! It is almost 5.
Sebastian Ortega will be here --"
Daisy chuckled. "That gentleman, he been here for a while. Miz Mae
tole him you was busy in here. She give him your best." She giggled.
"Then they went upstairs, and she give him _her_ best. They was still
up there when I came in with this here tea." She waited while her
words sank in. "Oh, and Miz Rosalyn, that Mr. Ritter that come here
sometimes..."
"Yes, what about him?" Rosalyn tried not to sound anxious.
"He and Miz Wilma, they's upstairs, too."
"That little bitch," Rosalyn hissed. "Who told her she could just step
in and take the attentions of one of my gentlemen?"
"Lady Cerise done that," Daisy told her. "She says she knows how long
it was gonna take you and Miz Beatriz t'get that there work done, and
she wasn't gonna close her doors just 'cause you two was busy."
"Thank G-d, then, that we are almost done," Rosalyn answered.
"You ain't done; you'se just finishing up for now. That's what the
Lady tole me."
"What!" Beatriz protested. "You do not mean that she planned for us to
do this work from now on, do you?"
Daisy nodded. "No, ma'am. She planned for Miz Wilma t'do it, but she
says that if'n you and Miz Beatriz was gonna be messing up Miz Wilma's
work, then the pair of you could take it over from now on." She
chuckled heartily. "And when Miz Wilma, she heard that, she says that
she'll be glad t'take over doing whatever..." She chuckled again.
"...or _who_ever you been doing."
* * * * *
Dwight Albertson walked slowly into O'Hanlan Feed & Grain. "Good
afternoon, Liam. Is... is Trisha around?"
"She's in the office, just now," Liam told the banker. "Working on the
books, as a matter of fact." He cupped a hand to his mouth and called
towards the half-closed door. "Trisha, you've got company."
Trisha came out a moment later, a lead pencil tucked into her hair
above her left ear. "Dwight, what brings you over here?"
"Bad news," he said, not meeting her eyes. "Horace Styron was at my
bank yesterday for some business. Afterwards, we... uh, we got to
talking about the board meeting next week. I-I guess I got nervous,
and he -- he spotted it."
"How much did you tell him, Dwight?" Liam asked.
"What makes you think I said anything?" Albertson tried to sound
indignant.
Trisha scowled. "Because you wouldn't be over here hemming and hawing
if you hadn't."
"I-I'm sorry." The banker took a handkerchief from his pocket and
began wiping his brow. "He took me by surprise when he started talking
about the board out of the blue like he did. I-I reacted before I had
time to think about what I was saying."
"You're the president of the bank," Liam told him. "It shouldn't be
that easy to take you by surprise."
"It isn't. He... all right, he did. I admit it. He caught me off
guard. We'd just... he came in to take out a big loan -- he does it
every year, so he can get a cash discount when he orders all the
hardware and equipment for spring. We'd just signed the paperwork.
You... ah, give a man all that money -- I won't say how much; it's his
business -- you give it to him; you're in a frame of mind to trust
him."
Liam shrugged. "Much as I hate to say it, that makes a certain amount
of sense."
"No, it doesn't." Trisha glared. "You shouldn't be spouting off like
that. It's irresponsible. It's foolish. It's likely to --"
"And it's done," Liam cut in. "Let's find out how bad things are." He
looked at Albright. "What did you tell him, Dwight? Give me -- us --
every detail."
"He was saying how much he was looking forward to a quiet meeting,
even..." He looked at Trisha nervously. "...Even if Trisha still was
on the board."
"What!" Trisha yelped. "Why that dirty son of a bitch. What'd you say
to that, Dwight?"
"I'm afraid that was when I gave the game away. I don't expect the
meeting to be quiet, not when you spring that building fund idea on
him. I... I started stammering. I do that sometimes."
"You do still support the idea, don't you?" Trisha looked Albright
squarely in the eye.
He nodded. "I do." He took a breath. "And I didn't tell him too
much. Honest, I didn't."
"How much did you tell him?" she asked suspiciously.
"I said that you had some... some new ideas about the budget and...
about fundraising. You were going to bring them up at the meeting, so
they could be a part of the new budget."
Liam cocked a wary eyebrow, as Albright continued. "No, honest. I
said that I was working with you on the financial part -- that was how
I knew you had something planned. He tried, tried hard, to get me to
say more, but I told him that I didn't know all the details, and he'd
have to ask you about them."
He put his hands on the lapels of his coat and tried to strike a pose.
"I admit that I may have slipped up -- a little. But now that I think
about it, I think that I recovered rather well, don't you?"
"Not really," Liam said, a wry look on his face. "But the damage
doesn't seem too bad." He shrugged. "We can handle it."
* * * * *
Molly set a tray with an empty pitcher and three almost empty glasses
down on the bar. "Here ye go, Love," she told Shamus. "These is from
table three..." She took a five dollar gold half-eagle from a pocket.
"...and this here's what they owe us for it."
"Thanks, Molly." Shamus put the glasses and pitcher in a tray sitting
on the counter behind the bar. The coin went into the register. "I'm
sorry ye had t'be doing the heavy lifting again."
"They wasn't that heavy, though I'd be glad t'be seeing Arnie busing
the tables again."
"I'm afraid that won't be happening. He shouldn't've been talking like
he was, drinking on the job, and stealing from me, too. He didn't give
me much of a choice, now did he?"
Molly shook her head. "No, he didn't, but I'm thinking that maybe ye
went too far."
"Maybe I did, but there ain't no going back now." He waited a beat.
"If ye're going to be trying to help somebody just now, ye might t'be
working on solving Maggie's problem."
"I have been thinking about that, but I ain't come up with anything."
"Seems t'me Maggie's problem is Maggie. She made a promise, that's for
sure, but I ain't never seen a promise that couldn't be... 'finessed',
as they say."
"Shamus! This ain't no poker bet Maggie has t'be paying off. This is
a deathbed promise t'her wife."
"I know that, Love. She swore that she'd take care of those two
youngsters, and she's bound and determined t'be keeping that promise."
He gave a sympathetic sigh. "They'll get the care she promised, even
if it she has t'be throwing away her own happiness t'do it."
"I know, and what bothers me the most is that I'm sure there's a way
out for her. I can feel it as sure as I'm standing here. I just can't
see it yet."
Shamus gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "I know, Love, and I know, sure
as I'm standing here besides ye, that ye'll keep looking till ye find
it."
* * * * *
Bridget looked up from her cards and saw Cap walking towards her table.
"See your dime and raise another," she told Stu Gallagher, the only one
still in the game with her. As an afterthought, she added, "We'll deal
you in next hand, Cap."
Gallagher scowled. "Fold." He laid his cards on the table, but when
Bridget reached for the pot, he shook his head. "Not till I see what
you beat me with."
"Six... seven... eight... nine..." She put the cards face up. "Jack."
She smiled sweetly and raked in the money.
Gallagher turned over his own cards. "Two pair, the best hand I drew
all night, and she bluffs me out of the pot." He smiled in defeat and
shook his head.
"She surely did." Fred Norman said, as he gathered in the cards.
Bridget gave the three men at her table a smile. "That's the way the
game's played, gentlemen. Of course, there's always the next hand."
She motioned towards Cap, who was still standing. "There's room at the
table, Cap. Sit yourself down."
"Thanks." Cap sat down. "Before we start, could I take care of some
business?" The others agreed. "It's the end of the month, and I came
for my uncle's money." He held out his hand towards Bridget. "Could I
have it now, please?"
Her smile looked strained. "Don't you trust me, Mr. Lewis?"
"With my life, Bridget." He tried to smile but saw that it was wasted
on her. "I just thought that I'd take care of it now. I have to leave
--"
"Don't let me stop you."
He ignored her tone. "I have to leave by ten. I thought that I'd get
the business out of the way now, so I could have the pleasure of
playing... playing _cards_ with you."
"I think you and your uncle are playing with me more than enough." She
opened the tray she kept her cards and chips in and took out an
envelope. "But never let it be said that I welshed on a debt." She
put in on the table in front of Cap.
"I have my account book here, too," she added. "In case you didn't
trust my word that this is the amount your uncle is due."
He took the check without looking at it and put it in his shirt pocket.
"I've never looked at your records before, and I don't intend to start
now."
"You sure a woman with my past can be trusted?"
"I trust you. I always have." He tried smiling at her again.
Norman shuffled the cards. "Can we just play some poker? You two can
fight this out on your own time."
Enoch Ryland put a hand on Bridget's arm and gently squeezed. "I trust
you, too, Bridget."
"But can she trust you, Enoch?" Norman handed the cards to Enoch. He
cut the deck and handed it back.
Norman began dealing. "Game is seven card elimination. Everybody ante
up."
* * * * *
"So you're going to do it?" Paul asked. "You're going to sing at the
Long Branch."
"I said I was, didn't I?" Jessie answered.
They were sitting in the Sheriff's Office, Paul behind the desk and
Jessie across from him. Tor Johansson, the new deputy, was on patrol,
and he wasn't due to check in for at least an hour.
Paul shook his head. "Shamus isn't going to be very happy about it."
"That's part of what makes it so much fun. T'tell the truth,
though..." She grinned mischievously. "...he told me I could --
sorta."
"He didn't?" It was more of a question than a statement.
Jessie sat up straight in her chair and gave her head a sort of a
shake. "He did. 'Ye can sing it in yuir room upstairs or when ye're
doing chores,' he says." She had lowered the pitch of her voice so it
was closer to Shamus's tenor and was doing a passing imitation of his
Irish brogue. "Ye can sing it when ye go walking with Paul Grant -- or
whatever else it is the two of ye is doing."
"I shoulda socked him one for that." She smiled and continued. "Ye
can sing it wherever else ye want t'be singing that blasted song, but
ye'll _not_ be singing it on me stage as part of any show ye do for
me."
"Maybe he did say that. It sounds like him. But I don't think that
your doing it in Duggan's place is quite what he had in mind."
Jessie cocked an eyebrow and gave him a wry smile. "You trying t'talk
me out of it, Mr. Grant?"
"No, ma'am!" Paul held up his hands in mock surrender. "I don't spit
into the wind. I know better than to try and talk you out of
anything."
Jessie suddenly stood up. "Good, 'cause I'd hate t'have you spoil what
I got planned for tonight." She picked up her reticule, a large one
that seemed to be stuffed with something. "You gimme 'bout fifteen
minutes, then come knock twice on your door, okay?" She started
towards the storage room that was Paul's -- and sometimes her --
bedroom.
"What're you up to now, Jess?"
"Fifteen minutes. You'll find out then." She gave a wink and
disappeared into the storeroom, closing the door behind her.
Paul spent the next quarter hour looking at the clock. Finally, the
time was up. He went over and knocked on the storeroom door. He
knocked twice, just as she had said. "You ready, Jess?"
"On-tray," a voice from inside called. "Kawm inn."
He did. "Why're you talking so -- _holy_ _shit!_"
Jessie stood before him in a blood red corset that lifted her breasts
so that they seemed even larger and white silk drawers that hugged her
lush hips. Her left hand was on her hip, her right knee bent. Her
hair was piled high in some elaborate hairdo that framed her face, with
a single, long curl hanging down over her forehead. She wore a dark
red lipstick and had a small, heart-shaped beauty mark on her right
cheek. Her smile hinted at mischief and lechery.
"Very nice, Jess. Very nice, indeed." As Paul came closer, he caught
the strong scent of lilacs. The room had a pink tinge from the red
kerchief she'd draped over his lantern.
She shook her head. "No, no, m'syur. Ah emm Giselle, zee finest --
'ow you say -- zee finest whore in zee Ahri-zoona Terra-toory. You
have paid zee moonie, and Ah emm yours for zee night."
"A whore?" He shrugged, a bit surprised but willing to go along with
her game. "Why not? But do you have to talk like that?"
She gave a pretty pout. "M'syur, Ah emm zee _Fronch_ whore."
"How about, if we're pretending you're a whore, we pretend you're
talking with that funny accent, okay?"
"But zis is 'ow Giselle tawk."
In for a penny, in for a pound. "I _paid_ for you, Giselle," he said
firmly. "I'll tell you how to talk."
"But I wanted..." She pouted, caught in her own game. "Oh, all right,
_m'syur_." She wouldn't use the accent, but he hadn't said anything
about the occasional word. She could still pretend.
"Good." He pulled her to him. "Besides, I have better things for that
mouth of yours to do than argue with me." He steadied her head with
his hands and, before she could say another word, kissed her. Jessie
let out a soft moan and pressed her body against his. Her arms went
around him, palms against his muscled back. Her lips parted, and her
tongue met his, then slipped backwards, inviting his to follow into her
mouth.
The kiss continued, feeding on their mutual need. Their hands freely
exploring each other's bodies. Finally, for lack of air, they had to
separate. "Mmm," Jessie said, "m'syur is a danged good kisser."
"You aren't too bad either, Je... Giselle. Now what've you got in
mind."
She smiled and licked her upper lip. "Whatever m'syur wants. Maybe...
this." She began to unbutton his shirt. When she finished, she pulled
it out from his pants and slipped it off him. He hadn't worn anything
under the shirt, and she paused for a moment to run her fingers through
his thick chest hair.
Paul reached for her, but she stepped back. "No, I'm your whore
t'night, bought'n paid for. Lemme do the work."
"Who am I to refuse an offer like that?" He stood still while she
undid the buttons on his pants and, with on quick yank, pulled them
down past his knees.
He'd loosened the laces on his boots while he waited for her to get
ready. Jessie knelt down and held each one in turn as he stepped out
of boot and pants leg at the same time.
She looked up. Paul was in only his own gray muslin drawers. His
erection was tenting those drawers only a few inches away from her
face. "Oh, oh my," she said. She ran her finger down the bulge and
heard Paul gasp. She grinned, her face growing warm, and took it in
her hand. She could feel it pulsing through the material. She
remembered another bit of French. "Ooh-la-la-la, it sure is big."
"Once I get these drawers off, you can kiss it... if you want,
Giselle."
She looked up at him in surprise, but she didn't take her hand away.
"What? K-kiss it? Put my lips right on it?"
"You never have before, but I figured... if you _were_ Giselle, you
might even want to do... even more than kiss it."
"You don't mean..."
"Not if you don't want to."
Jessie remembered the women of the brothel in New Orleans. A whore
there would be willing -- would be _more_ than willing -- to give Paul
the sort of oral pleasuring he seemed to be asking her for. Could she?
She stood up. "I... I don't wanna play this game no more."
"I didn't say that you had to, Giselle. I asked if you wanted to." He
could see how serious she had become.
"And I don't. This here's just a game. I'm pretending; I ain't no
real whore."
"I never said you were -- never thought it neither. This is your
game."
"I-I just... the last two times I sang over to Cerise's House, somebody
thought I was a whore and wanted t'bed me. I had t'tell 'em I wasn't."
"Of course, you aren't."
"Damned straight, but it got me... wondering -- wondering what it'd be
like if I was. I thought I'd find out t'night, play that I was... here
with you."
"Jess -- I'll call you that instead of Giselle, okay?" He waited until
she nodded agreement. "You're no whore, and you never were. You're a
mustang, my mustang."
She cocked an eyebrow. "And how is being a horse is better'n being a
whore?"
He put up his hands as if to ward off an attack. "No, no. I meant
that you're like a mustang, wild and free, beautiful and full of
spirit."
When she smiled, he pulled her to him. "And I'll play any game you
want, with any rules you want, if it'll get you into my arms. And my
bed."
She looked into his eyes for a moment, and they kissed, a short kiss,
but one full of passion. "Then help me outta this corset," she said
when it ended, "and I'll _be_ your mustang."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. I'll be your mustang, and you can do just like they
do in all them dime novels." She giggled. "You can ride me into the
sunset."
* * * * *
Thursday, February 1, 1872
"Here they come! Here they come!" Jane pointed at the stage couch
heading for the boardwalk in front of the Wells Fargo depot where she
was standing with Laura and Arsenio.
"Calm down, Jane" Laura ordered. "Remember, Elizabeth and Theo don't
know you. They don't know me, for that matter, and I'm -- I was --
Elizabeth's brother."
"They'll know me soon enough," Jane answered. "We's family now."
Arsenio was standing next to Laura. He reached over and took her hand,
giving it a reassuring squeeze. "They'll know us _all_ soon enough --
Lord help them, and us."
The stage came to a halt at the edge of the platform. "This here's
Eerie!" the driver, a burly, red-haired man called out. "They'll be a
30-minute wait while I unload a couple of you folks and we change
horses."
Even as he spoke, Pablo Escobar and a thin black man began to unhitch
the horses. Both Pablo and Caesar, the black man, wore vests with the
words "Ritter's Livery" painted on the back.
The passenger door nearest the platform opened, and a tall man in a
rumpled, gray suit came out, blinking his eyes at the sunlight. The
leather window curtain was down to keep the dust out. It worked, but
it made the inside dark, stuffy, and very hot. "Do you need help,
Elizabeth?" he asked someone still inside.
"I can manage, Theo." A woman stepped out. Her dress showed days of
being worn inside the stagecoach, and some of her mouse-brown hair had
been shaken loose by the ride from the tight bun she wore it in. She
stretched and took a couple of tentative steps to uncramp her legs.
Then she took notice of Theo. "Don't just stand there. See to our
bags. I'll talk to that sheriff, _if_ he ever gets here." The man
mumbled something and walked back to where a clerk for the stage line
was opening the rear boot to unload their luggage.
Laura stood a few feet away. Arsenio could feel her nervousness. He
let go of her hand and gave her a gentle push. "Arsenio," she said in
surprise, as she stumbled forward. She saw her sister staring at her.
"W-Welcome to Eerie, Elizabeth."
"Do I know - Trudy! Trudy Muller, what are you doing in this G-d
forsaken place?" Elizabeth asked.
Laura could see the confusion in her sister's face. "I-I'm not Trudy;
I'm Laura... Laura Caulder, but you do know me. It... it's kind of
hard to explain."
Jane stepped forward. "I'm Jane. Laura's m'sister. You are, too."
She took another step, arms opened wide to hug Elizabeth, but Arsenio
grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
"Twins? _My_ sister? What is going on here?" Elizabeth demanded,
stepping back in case Jane tried to hug her again. "Where is that
Sheriff Talbot we wrote to?"
"I... uhh, I asked the Sheriff to let me meet you. I'll explain it all
later. I promise." Laura tried to smile. "Right now, let's get you
to the room we've arranged for you."
Arsenio walked over to Theo, who was surrounded by a trunk and three
smaller bags. "I'm Arsenio Caulder, Laura's husband. Let me help you
with those bags... Theo, isn't it?"
"It is." He looked at Arsenio's broad shoulders. "Can you give me a
hand with the trunk?"
"I've got it." The smith grabbed the leatherbound Jenny Lind trunk
with one hand and hefted it onto his shoulder. "Jane, come and get one
of these bags." As he spoke, he reached down and picked up a smaller
valise with his other hand.
"Coming." Jane took the other two bags. "That leaves none for you...
Theo. I expect you'd rather take m'sister Elizabeth's hand anyway."
She giggled, happy to be helping her new family. "We'll have you two
over t'the saloon in no time."
"Saloon?" Elizabeth asked indignantly. "Why should we go to a saloon?"
"That's where you'll be staying," Laura told her. "There's no hotel in
town, but Shamus -- he owns the saloon -- rents out rooms on the second
floor. He's fixed up one for you, way in the back, nice and quiet."
Elizabeth looked from one of the women to the other. She _knew_ that
Trudy was the Muller's only daughter, yet these two, whoever they were,
were identical twins. "It's still a saloon. You say you're family.
Couldn't we stay with you?"
"Jane works in the saloon; she lives there herself," Arsenio answered,
walking over. "And I'm afraid that we only have one bedroom... one bed
at our house."
"Which you might be gracious enough to yield to guests... out of town
family, so you claim." This was the final straw. How could women who
worked in a saloon, let alone this... Jane who actually _lived_ there,
possibly be any kin of hers?
Arsenio raised an eyebrow. "Laura and I are expecting our first child.
The bed is reserved for her."
"Perhaps I could share it with her, and you and Theo could sleep
elsewhere." Elizabeth wouldn't give up.
Arsenio shook his head. "I suspect that the two of you would be better
served in your own room." The prospect of having in-laws was much less
appealing now that he was actually meeting them.
"Give you a chance t'get... reacquainted." Jane giggled again at the
notion. "You two must be looking forward t'having some time _alone_
after them five days on a stage."
"Well, I never!" Elizabeth answered, glaring at Jane.
"Then y'should. Y'are married, after all." Jane turned and starting
walking towards the saloon. The others scrambled after her, Laura and
Arsenio trying hard not to laugh.
* * * * *
"That'll do it, Trisha. This ad will be in the next two issues of the
paper." Roscoe Unger put the order form in his briefcase. "Tell Liam
I'll see him next time I come in." Liam was making a delivery to one
of the nearby ranches.
"Can you keep a secret, Roscoe?"
"That's not a fair question to ask a man who runs a newspaper. It's my
job _not_ to keep secrets." He looked at her expression and sighed.
"What's the secret?"
"Remember when I ran for the church board? I said I wanted to build a
better church." She saw him nod. "At next week's Board meeting, I'm
gonna make a motion to set up a building fund to do just that."
"Are you sure you want to do that? A lot of people like the
arrangement the church has with the school. They may not want to build
a separate building."
"I never said we were gonna build one. I'm saying we can have better
than we have now; maybe a library or an office for the reverend, or a
kitchen."
"And you're telling me this, but you don't want it in the paper?"
"I... I was just hoping you could wait till after the meeting. We
haven't worked out all the details."
"I'll wait... _if_ can I can an interview with you to find out those
details." He offered his hand.
"Thanks." She shook hands. "One detail we... uh, have worked out...
we want to kick off the fund with... uhh, with a dance."
"A dance? When?"
"Some time around the end of the month. That's why I'm telling you.
Can you help us get the word out in your paper."
"That's what it's there for. I'll mention it in the story. And, if
you buy those larger ads we were talking about, I'll give you free
space to advertise it." He thought for a moment. "I'll give you a
real good deal for printing the tickets and whatever posters you want,
too."
"Fair enough. I wanted to ask another favor, though."
"Well, I normally don't go to dances," he smiled wryly, "but I'll be
happy to be your escort."
Trisha shook her head. "Thanks, but, uhh... no thanks." The offer
sounded... interesting. 'Don't think about such things,' she chided
herself. Then, aloud, she added, "I just wanted to ask if you'd
donate some colored paper to the school. The kids will be making
decorations: paper lanterns, chains, and such."
"Fair enough, if I can get a sign up at the dance thanking me for all
this help I'm giving."
"If it's not too big a sign."
"It won't be. You really seem to have this thing in hand."
"I hope so. The Board hasn't voted yet, and I'm afraid that Horace
Styron knows what we're up to. He's gonna try to get people roused up
against us."
"Why don't you do some of the same?"
"I-I don't want make too big a personal deal out of it. If people see
it just as a fight between Horace and me, they won't take it serious."
Roscoe thought for a moment. "There is one way you could do it. Write
a letter to the paper -- you're pretty good with words -- about how the
church needs to fix up the schoolhouse, so it'll serve both the church
and the kids better. Don't mention the fund you want to set up or any
real details. Write like you're somebody else, somebody who doesn't
know what Trisha O'Hanlan's planning. Sign a made-up name, too."
"I... that's a great idea. I'll get that letter to you by tomorrow."
She took a step towards him, arms outstretched. At the last moment,
she stuck one arm forward and vigorously shook his hand.
* * * * *
"Uncle Ramon!" Ernesto greeted Ramon at the kitchen door. "You came."
Ramon smiled and stepped into Maggie's kitchen. "Of course I did. A
man keeps his word. Especially..." He made a show of rubbing his leg.
"... when he is so strongly reminded of it."
"I... Uncle Ramon, I am sorry." The boy looked down at the floor,
rather than look Ramon in the eye.
Maggie looked up from her worktable, where she was chopping onions.
"Sorry enough not to do it again, I hope."
"Never, I promise."
"And I am sure that you will try your best to keep that promise."
Ramon tousled the boy's hair. "So I will forgive you." He turned to
look at Maggie. "And a very good evening to you, Margarita. And to
you, as well, Lupe."
Lupe was sitting near her mother. She was tearing apart cornhusks,
separating the individual leaves. "And Inez, too." She stopped for a
moment and held up her doll.
"Of course." Ramon bowed. "Forgive me, Inez. I did not see you
there."
"She is a good baby," Lupe said, "always nice and quiet."
Ernesto made a face. "She is a _doll_. It is foolish to pretend that
she is a real baby."
"Mama," Lupe whined.
"Ernesto, what have I told you about teasing your sister?" Maggie
sounded angry.
"But, Mama, she is," Ernesto protested.
Ramon tried to change the subject. "So how many tamales are we making
for the party tomorrow?" He took off his jacket and draped it over the
back of a chair. Maggie handed him a plain, blue apron. He put it
over his head and tied the straps around his waist.
"Let me see." She counted on her fingers. "Four adults, Carmen, Whit,
you and me, each get three; that is twelve. Lupe and Ernesto and Jose,
get two --"
"Don't forget Inez, Mama," Lupe interrupted.
"She is a doll," Ernesto said loudly.
"Mama!" Lupe was sniffling.
Ramon spoke before Maggie could. "Lupe, be calm. I am sure that your
mama thought that you would feed Inez, just like your Aunt Carmen will
feed her baby, my nephew, Felipe." He looked at Maggie and winked.
"Is that not right? Margarita?"
"Si," Maggie answered. "I... I did not count Inez or Felipe."
"Naturally," Ramon told her, "they _are_ babies, after all." He turned
to look at Ernesto. "I know it can be hard, my young friend, but if
you _are_ the man of the house, you must take care of the women, not
tease them."
Lupe stuck out her tongue. "So there."
"And you, Lupe, must be worthy of his protection," Ramon added.
"Is that how it was with you and Aunt Carmen?" Ernesto asked, his eyes
wide with curiosity.
Ramon smiled. "To tell the truth, _my_ big brother, Gregario, looked
after Carmen and me." He paused a beat. "But he always told me that I
should look after Carmen when he was not around." His voice grew
serious. "Do you think that you can do that?"
"I can try," Ernesto said seriously. "If Lupe behaves." He smiled.
"And Inez, too."
"I am sure that they both will." He tousled the boy's hair again and
winked at Maggie. "Now, let us get back to the important matter of
making tamales."
* * * * *
"Have you talked to Rev, Yingling, yet?" Kaitlin asked. She and Trisha
were in their room getting ready to go to bed.
"I have," Trisha answered, "but how'd you know? I never said that I
was going back to see him again." She hung her blouse on a hanger.
"Because I know you, my dear. You never were good at taking 'No' for
an answer." Kaitlin unbuckled the wrap she was wearing, a sort of mix
of robe and housedress, and draped it over a chair. "So what did he
say?"
"The... the same as he did before." She sat down on the edge of the
bed and sighed. "We aren't... we aren't married any more. We haven't
been since the day Emma and I changed."
Kaitlin sat down next to Trisha and put her arm around the other woman.
"I-I'm sorry. I truly am."
"It's my fault. If I hadn't drunk that potion..." Her voice trailed
off.
"If you hadn't pretended to drink that potion, Elmer wouldn't have
either. Our son would be dead. It wasn't your fault that it made you
choke, and you accidentally swallowed it."
"I know, but... look at what we are now, what it's done to our lives."
"We're together, the three of us. Emma seems to be getting used to her
new life. I... I just hope that you can, too."
"I lost more than Emma did." She took Kaitlin's hand in hers. "I lost
you."
"No, you haven't. We're still together, good friends, sisters,
almost." She leaned over and softly kissed Trisha's cheek.
"I never wanted to be your _sister_, Kaitlin." Trisha turned to face
her wife. "I wanted to be your _husband_... and your lover."
"Please, don't start that again."
"Can we hug, at least? Sisters do hug."
Kaitlin raised an eyebrow. "Just a hug?"
"Just a hug."
"All right, a hug." The two women moved close and put their arms
around each other. Even sitting, Trisha was shorter than Kaitlin. She
rested her head on the taller woman's shoulder and closed her eyes.
"We can do this for as long as you want," Kaitlin told her, "but then
we need to talk."
"Talk about what?" Trisha tried to move, but Kaitlin's arms held her
tight.
"Rev. Yingling says that we aren't married any more. That's fine for
him, but what's true in the eyes of the Lord isn't always true in the
eyes of everybody else." She tilted her head down and kissed Trisha on
the forehead, as she might a small child. "I think that we need to
talk to a lawyer."
* * * * *
Friday, February 2, 1872
Laura walked through the saloon to the table where Elizabeth and Theo
were waiting. Theo was reading the Eerie edition of the _Tucson_
_Citizen_, while Elizabeth was finishing a cup of breakfast coffee.
"Morning," she greeted the couple.
"About time you got here," Elizabeth said. "When we told Mrs. O'Toole
that we were going to go over to see Sheriff Talbot, she insisted that
we wait for you. For some reason, she seemed to think that he had put
you in charge of dealing with us. She all but threatened to tie us to
these chairs until we promised to wait for you." She took another sip
of coffee. "Can you tell me why she should be so insistent?"
Theo closed the paper. "Mrs. Caulder claims to be your sister.
Perhaps --"
"She is no sister of mine," Elizabeth interrupted.
Laura shook her head. "I see you're still the same 'snapping turtle
Lizzie' you always were."
"Who told you about that horrible name?" Elizabeth glowered at her.
"You _must_ be Trudy Muller. What are you doing in this G-d forsaken
place? For that matter, where's Fred Hanson, and why is that Mr.
Caulder claiming to be your husband instead of Fred?"
"I'm not Trudy," Laura answered, "and Arsenio -- _is_ my husband."
"Then what's your connection with my late brother -- rest his soul?"
She looked closely at Laura, her eyes moving slowly down from Laura's
face to her stomach. "Mr. Caulder said that you were... with child.
Is... is it my... my brother's child?"
"Elizabeth," Theo scolded, "that's a very personal thing to be asking
someone we only just met."
"My brother is dead, Theo," Elizabeth replied angrily. "He may have
died a desperate criminal, but he was still my brother. If this woman
is carrying all that remains of Leroy Meehan, then I have every right
in the world to know it."
Laura sighed. There was no way to avoid the truth now. "Leroy isn't
dead, Elizabeth, not really, and this baby... it is his... in a way."
"I knew it!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "I knew that story Mr. Varrick wrote
wasn't true. It sounded too much like those foolish dime novels that
Leroy was always reading." She looked around. "Where is he? Is he in
jail? Is that why Mrs. O'Toole insisted we wait until you arrived?"
"He... he's not in jail," Laura told her. "He... he's right here in
front of you. I-I'm -- I was -- I still am, sort of..."
"Get on with it, woman," Elizabeth insisted. "What are you trying to
say?"
"Or trying not to say," Theo added wryly.
Laura braced herself. "I-I'm your brother, Elizabeth, _I_ am Leroy
Meehan."
Elizabeth looked at the young matron with incredulity. "That is the
most absurd nonsense I have ever heard," she said. "How could you
possibly be Leroy?"
"Part of the story Nick Varrick wrote was true. When we rode into
town, we did fall into a trap. Shamus..." She pointed at the barman,
who was busily setting up for the day's business some feet away.
"...slipped us some of a potion he makes -- it's some of mix of Indian
and Irish magic, he says -- and it turned us all into women."
For a moment Elizabeth stared, as if she hadn't really heard. "What
kind of joke is this?" she finally asked. "It is very foolish, young
woman -- Trudy -- Laura -- whatever you're calling yourself."
"I can't explain it much better than that. It's magic. Shamus thinks
that because Trudy was always so much on my mind the spell made me take
her shape."
Elizabeth's sneer was dismissive and derisive. "And I suppose that...
that monster, Will Hanks, who led you all to ruin is the public school
teacher, now. And does she sing lead soprano in the church choir,
too?"
Laura had to laugh at that. "Not hardly, she... uh, Wilma -- that's
her name, now -- works over at the local... ummm, the local 'den of
iniquity', you might say. Her sister, Jessie, was one of the gang,
too, and now she sings here at the saloon."
Elizabeth frowned. "You can hold a straight face, I'll grant you
that."
"I'll prove it." She turned her head and yelled, "Shamus..."
Shamus turned his head at the sound of his name and came over to the
table. "Ye called me, Laura?"
"I did," she replied. "Do you have any more of your potion handy? I
want to use it on a stray dog or something to prove to Elizabeth that
it works."
"Och, I was afraid ye'd be asking for that. I don't have any just now.
I used the last of what I had with the O'Hanlans, and I didn't think
t'be making more for when yuir family came. I can be brewing up a new
batch, o' course, but I won't have it ready till Monday."
"Well isn't that convenient?" Elizabeth smirked. "The same day as the
stage back to Utah. I suppose it won't be ready until after the stage
leaves."
"I thought you could make up a batch overnight." Laura was confused
and a little exasperated.
Shamus shrugged. "I can, _if_ I've the time it takes t'be working on
it. Ye know how busy we are on the Saturday, with the dance and all.
I'd not have the time to do it proper." He shook his head. "No, I'll
have t'be starting it Sunday."
He looked over at Elizabeth, "and ye'll have t'be waiting for the
Thursday stage, if ye're so all fired stubborn that ye need to see the
potion work t'be believing what ye've been told." Then the barkeeper
put on his best professional smile. "We have a nice friendly town
here, Mrs. Taft. I think ye'll enjoy your stay."
* * * * *
Beatriz took a sip of breakfast coffee and leaned back in her chair.
"Rosalyn, do you think Daisy knew what she was talking about?" The two
women were alone in the kitchen, enjoying a late breakfast.
"She's rather smart -- for a darkie," Rosalyn answered. "And I
wouldn't be surprised if Lady Cerise confided in her about what she has
planned."
"I hope that you are wrong." She shook her head. "I do not want to
spend my time working on Cerise's ledgers. Sebastian -- and all my
other men, they will find someone else, Mae... perhaps even..." She
shuddered for dramatic effect. "...Wilma. I like the men, I like
being with them, having them touch me... having them in me. Mmm, and I
like the presents that they give me."
"You'll get no presents from any man for keeping the Lady's books. You
can count on that." Rosalyn sopped up the last of her fried egg with a
biscuit and took a bite. Then she added, "And Cerise is more than
welcome to those ledgers of hers."
"You did not like doing that work anymore than I did, I think."
"Of course, I didn't. I am an aristocrat -- F.F.V., in point of fact,
in a direct line from Lord Colin and Lady Viola Wessex of Jamestown --
and I was not put on this Earth to be a... a _bookkeeper_." She all
but spat the word.
"A bookkeeper, si, that is what you are, that is what we both are, if
she keeps us at that work." She sighed. "I wish you had not spilled
the tea on the records Wilma was working on."
"Me? I don't seem to recall you doing anything to stop me; quite the
opposite, in fact."
"But it was your loco idea, and I wish we had not done it."
"Are you saying that you actually _want_ that... that troll, that
changeling, Wilma, to be Lady Cerise's second?"
"If it means that _she_ is the one copying records into ledgers when
the men come, and _we_ are the ones waiting to greet them, then maybe -
- just maybe -- I do." She smiled wickedly. "A puta like Wilma will
hate it absolutemente while all the rest of us are having a good time."
Rosalyn frowned. "I'll not say that I agree with you, Beatriz, but
menial work like that is more suited to someone of her class than it is
to one such as myself."
"Or you," she quickly added.
* * * * *
Elizabeth walked into the Sheriff's office, with Theo right behind her.
"Which of you is Sheriff Talbot?" she asked the two men inside.
"Is him." Tor Johansson pointed at Dan. "I am der deputy."
"Please to meet you," Theo said, extending his hand. "We're --"
"I am Elizabeth Meehan Taft. This is my husband, Theo. I've come to
see about taking my late brother, Leroy's body, back to Indiana for a
proper burial."
"I don't believe that's possible, Mrs. Taft," Dan said.
"And why is that?" Elizabeth asked indignantly. "I have every right as
his next of kin." She put her reticule down on the sheriff's desk and
began looking through the contents. "I have some papers here from my
lawyers testifying to that fact."
Tor laughed. "It ain't possible 'cause he ain't dead, missus. He
ain't a 'he' no more, neither."
"I beg your pardon," Elizabeth said.
"Laura was supposed to tell you herself, Mrs. Taft."
"All Mrs. Caulder told me was some fool joke that Leroy and the whole
Hanks gang was turned into women."
Dan grimaced uncomfortably. "She was telling you the truth, ma'am.
Leroy -- the whole gang, in fact -- got turned into women by a potion
Shamus -- he owns the Eerie Saloon -- that Shamus made. Leroy is Laura
Meehan -- Laura Caulder, now. She's married to Arsenio Caulder, and
they're expecting a baby in a few months."
"Is the whole town participating in this ludicrous hoax?"
Theo took a step forward. "I've met this Laura Caulder, Sheriff. Are
you saying that that preposterous story she told Elizabeth and me is
true?"
"If she told you that she was Leroy Meehan, Mr. Taft, then yes, that's
just what I'm saying. I know hard it is to believe what must sound to
you like some sort of a cock 'n' bull story, but that's the simple
truth of it."
Elizabeth snorted and drew herself up to her full height. "I don't
know what sort of game you're playing, but I will not be lied to." She
glared at the two men and turned to leave. "Come, Theo." She left
without another word.
"Uhh, nice meeting you," Theo said before he hurried after her.
Tor shook his head. "Dat, Sheriff, is one stubborn voman."
* * * * *
"Maggie," Shamus called from the doorway between the kitchen and the
bar, "could ye be coming out here for a wee bit?"
"Si, Shamus," she answered. "Just give me a minute." She made a few
quick cuts with her knife, and the chicken was divided into pieces.
"I will be back as soon as I can," she told Jane. "You do the other
chickens while I am gone." Jane nodded and began slicing the drumstick
off one bird.
Maggie walked towards the door, wiping her hands on her apron. "What
did you want to see me about?" she asked Shamus when she reached him at
the door.
"Well, to tell ye the honest truth, it ain't me that wants t'be seeing
ye -- not directly, anyway." He turned and pointed to where a lone
figure sat at a table near the wall.
"Dolores!" Maggie all but spat the name. "What is she doing here? I
thought that she went back to her precious Mexico City."
"Either she didn't, or somebody's gone and moved me saloon south of the
border." He smiled at his own joke. "Go over, and I'm sure that
she'll be telling ye all about it."
"Why? Why should I talk to her?"
"Because it's me that's asking ye to, yuir partner and yuir friend,
Shamus O'Toole." He looked at her very seriously, then added,
"Please."
Maggie looked back at him, then over at Dolores. "Only... _only_
because you said 'please' will I do this." She glanced quickly at the
clock on the wall. "And not for very long; I have to get back to my
kitchen."
Head straight and back very stiff, she walked over to the table.
"Shamus said that you wanted to see me," she said as she sat down
across from the other woman.
Dolores studied her for a moment before speaking. "Actually, it was
Seá±or O'Toole who wanted me to talk to you. I asked him for a job, and
he said that I had to get your permission."
"Me, why did he say that?"
"He-he knows about Ramon... how we were rivals --"
Maggie raised an eyebrow. "Were rivals or _are_ rivals?"
"I will not deny that I am attracted to Ramon. He is a handsome man."
She stopped and looked at Maggie's reaction. "But he wants things that
I am not ready to give, a home, a family, a... a wife." She shook her
head. "No, I am not ready to give up my freedom for a man -- for _any_
man."
She took a breath, then continued. "You... you are what he wants...
what he _always_ wanted. And I want him to have you, even if you do
not believe that I do." She smiled wryly.
"I would believe you more if you were on the stage back to your home,
not standing here asking for a job." She glowered at Dolores. "Why are
you still here? The truth! Why?"
"The truth?" She sighed. "Perhaps it is the only way. Very well, I
am not ready to make a new family, but I am part of _a_ family, one
that needs my help. I stayed to give it."
"A very noble story... if it is true."
"Arnoldo Diaz, the boy that worked here, he is my cousin. I was -- I
am -- staying at his house."
Maggie nodded, remembering. "Si, Shamus caught him drinking...
stealing. He denied it, and he called Shamus some terrible names."
"He is my cousin. His father was killed by the Apache, and his mother
has had nothing but trouble from him ever since. He wants so hard to
prove that he is a man, so he can go after them and avenge his father's
death."
"I heard him tell Shamus once how much he hated Indians. That, I
think, was part of why Shamus fired him." She paused a moment, "But
what has this to do with you?"
"His mother cannot cope with such anger from one fast becoming a grown
man. She thinks of him as her little boy, and she is afraid of what
would happen if he rode out after those Apache." She smiled. "I had
two older brothers, and I know about the demons that drive a boy his
age. Teresa, his mother, begged me to stay so I could help him calm
down, maybe even get him to try and get his job back here."
"And you think you will have an easier time if you are already working
here yourself."
Dolores shrugged her shoulders. "Si, also I do not wish to impose on
my cousin's charity any longer. With a job, I can pay my own way.
Besides, Arnoldo has one friend here already." She pointed to Bridget,
who was in the middle of a game at her corner table well across the
room from the two of them. "It may be that the two of us can get Seá±or
O'Toole to take him back."
Maggie was quiet and thoughtful for a moment, as if wanting to believe
the other woman's side of the story, but not being quite sure. Finally
she seemed to come to a decision: "There can be three of us." Maggie
put her hand on Dolores' arm. "You are a good person -- if you have
really stayed to help Arnoldo. If you are telling the truth, we have
no problem. I will not stand in your way."
"Thank you. Teresa has had a hard time trying to raise four children
alone. She is a good mother, one of the best, but takes more than one
person to really do the job well."
"You are hardly their father."
"No, and I will not try to be, but I can be a second voice, a second
adult for them to look to."
Maggie smiled. "Just so long as you look to them and not to a certain
store clerk that we both know..." She let her words trail off.
"Why should I bother, when you are the one _he_ looks to?"
* * * * *
"Does anyone want any more champurrado?" Teresa asked, walking over to
the stove. A pot filled with what looked like dark brown porridge was
simmering over a very low flame.
Enrique raised his hand. "I do, and can I have some extra piloncillo in
it?"
"Si." Teresa brought the pot to the table and poured some of the
chocolate and corn-based drink into his cup and into several others.
She put the pot on a trivit on the table and took a small, dark
triangle from her apron. "Here is your piloncillo." She crumbled the
cone of sugar in her hand and let it fall into the boy's drink.
"Anyone else?"
Ysabel took a sip of her chapurrado. "Mama, can we play the candle
game now?"
"I will set them up," Arnie said. He walked over to a cupboard and
brought three candlesticks, each with a candle, red, blue, or green,
back to the table. "Who goes first?" He set the candlesticks down and
held up a long white strip of cloth.
"Me, me!" Ysabel waved her arm eagerly
"Dolores is our guest," Arnie told his sister. "Maybe she should go
first."
Dolores shook her head. "The game was Ysabel's idea. Let her go
first." Then she added, "but you are a good man for offering,
Arnoldo."
Teresa quickly followed Dolores' lead. "Si, very good of you,
Arnoldo." She tied the blindfold over Ysabel's eyes, while Arnie lit
the candles. He stepped away.
Teresa slowly turned Ysabel around one time and pointed her towards the
table. "There, now try to blow one of the candles out."
Ysabel took a step forward and leaned towards the candles. She puffed
heavily. "Try again," Arnie said.
It took two more tries before she actually blew out of the flames. The
family cheered and she yanked off the blindfold. "Which one did I
get?" Then she saw. "Blue," she whined. "I do not want to travel. I
wanted red... for romance."
"You are too young for romance," Teresa told her.
Arnie gave her a gentle jab in the shoulder. "Maybe next year." He
took the blindfold. "Your turn, Dolores." He offered it to her.
"Why do you not go next, Arnoldo?" She pushed it away.
Arnie gave her a wry look. "Me? Why should I --?"
"Why not you?" Teresa answered.
"Let one of the younger ones go next, if Dolores does not want it."
"Oh, go ahead, Arnoldo," Ysabel said. "After all, _you_ are old enough
for romance." She giggled. The other children voiced their agreement.
He shrugged. "If you truly want." He tied on the blindfold. "Someone
light the blue one again."
"I will get it." Dolores lit the candle while Teresa slowly turned her
son once around and pointed him towards the table. When he stopped,
perhaps a foot from the table, Dolores quickly shifted the red and blue
candlesticks out of reach.
Arnie puffed twice. On the second try, the flame on the green candle
flickered and went out. Dolores hurriedly moved the other two
candlesticks back.
"Green!" Arnie took of the blindfold. "Money. This must mean that I
will get a good new job very soon."
"Perhaps it means that you will get your old job back," Dolores said.
"I do not want my old job back," Arnie answered. "I would rather not
have a job than go back to work for O'Toole."
"You would rather stay home than do honest work," Ysabel scolded.
"That does not sound very grown up."
"How would you know, _little_ _girl_?" He shot back.
Teresa clapped her hands. "I will not have such arguing. This is a
holy day."
"You are a proud man, Arnoldo," Dolores said. "So is Seá±or Shamus.
Why do we not just keep an open mind? If you ask... if he asks..."
She clicked her tongue. "We will see what the _future_ asks. Is that
all right?"
"It is with me," Constanza answered. "Now blindfold me, so we I can
see my future next."
* * * * *
Sam Duggan put two fingers in his mouth and let loose a loud, high-
pitched whistle that brought every conversation in the room to a halt.
Once he was sure that everyone was looking at him, he bowed slightly
and began. "Gents, once again, the Long Branch has spared no expense
to bring you the finest entertainment to be had in the territory."
"What'cha get this time, Sam," someone yelled, "a dancing bear?" The
remark brought a howl of laughter.
Sam shook his head. "She ain't dancing, and -- more's the pity -- she
ain't bare. I've managed to get -- and at great expense, I might add -
-"
"Price of drinks is going up again, boys."
Another shout, "You can only charge so much for water, Sam," and more
laughter.
"As I was saying," Duggan pressed on, "at great expense, the Long
Branch is proud 'n' happy to present Eerie's own golden thrush, Miss
Jessie Hanks." He raised his arm and pointed with an outstretched hand
to the top of the stairs.
Jessie nodded, acknowledging the applause, and started down. "I'd like
t'start with a song I ain't sung for a while." She paused a moment,
watching the crowd's reactions and began singing.
" Arise, arise, Collee, says he.
` Arise an' come with me.
` An' to the land of Ireland go
` An' married there we'll be."
* * * * *
"Do you think it's true?" Theo asked. He took off his shirt and draped
it over a chair.
Elizabeth shook her head. "That ridiculous story about Mrs. Caulder
being Leroy? I most certainly do not. How could a grown man suddenly
turn into a woman?" She stepped out of her dress and carefully placed
it on a wooden hanger.
"I don't know," Theo said cautiously. "I don't know. If it were just
her saying it, or even just her and her husband, or even just them and
that Jane character --"
"Jane! I don't even want to _pretend_ that woman is my sister. She
was prattling on like some overeager puppy the whole time, insinuating
things about you and I as if it were any of her concern."
Theo walked over to his wife. "I agree about Jane, but it _has_ been a
long time." He put his arms around her waist and kissed her softly on
the neck.
"Theo, please." Elizabeth twisted away from him. "I-I'm too upset.
Besides, someone might hear us."
"We're at the far end of the hall from the steps and behind a solid,
wooden door." Theo argued. "I can't hear them downstairs, can you?"
He waited for her to shake her head before he continued. "If I -- if
_we_ -- can't hear _them_, then how can _they_ hear _us_?"
"I don't know, through the wall or the floor perhaps. I just feel
so... so uncomfortable here. We're living in a saloon, for heaven's
sake, as if we were vulgar... people of the street, while everyone lies
to us. How can I possibly be in the mood for what you're asking of
me?"
She took a breath. "And why is all this happening? Because I tried to
do my Christian duty to a brother who ran away from his duties and died
a disgrace to his entire family, that's why."
"_If_ he is dead." Theo sat on the edge of the bed and took off his
shoes. "Wouldn't it be a good thing if they _were_ telling the truth,
if Mrs. Caulder were Leroy? At least he'd be alive and well."
"Don't tell me that you believe what they've been saying? I thought
that you had some sense, at least."
Theo shrugged. "The sheriff backs up their story, Elizabeth. So did
that Judge Humphreys. If a judge says --"
"If he really is a judge. He came to see us in the saloon, you'll
remember. We never went to any courthouse."
"They don't have a courthouse here. The man said that he does some of
his business in an office. He uses a saloon if he needs more room."
"Oh, I've no doubt that he uses a saloon -- and quite often I suspect,
but I doubt that it's in the cause of justice."
"We're getting away from the subject. If you won't believe a sheriff
or a judge, who would you believe?"
"A minister," she answered at once. "A man of G-d wouldn't lie to me."
She waited a beat. "If there is one, a real one, in this horrible
place."
"We'll go look for one, 'a real one', the first thing in the morning."
"Fine, the sooner we find out the truth about whatever happened to
Leroy -- to his body, the sooner we can go back home to civilization."
She sighed and undid the hooks of her corset, setting it down on the
same chair as Theo's shirt.
All she wore was her chemise and her drawers. As Theo watched, she
pulled the pin that held her mouse-brown hair in a bun. It came free
and fell down around her shoulders. He reached over and ran a finger
along the length of her arm. "In the meantime..." He let his voice
trail off.
"Nothing doing," she said firmly. "It's late, and we have a big day
tomorrow." She pulled back the cover and climbed into bed.
Theo sighed. "Very well, goodnight." He walked over to the dresser
and turned down the wick in the oil lamp.
* * * * *
Saturday, February 3, 1872
Maggie rolled over and looked at the alarm clock by her bed. "3:17,"
she whispered, "six minutes later than the last time I looked." She
sighed and closed her eyes. "Why cannot I not get to sleep?"
"The promise," she answered her own question. "I promised Lupe that I
would care for our children. I must keep that promise even... even if
it means I cannot be with Ramon. I must be a good mother..."
"Good mother." Where else had she heard those words? Who had --
Dolores? What was it she said? "She was talking about Teresa Diaz.
She is a good mother, Dolores said, but she could not give her children
all the care, all the help they needed, to grow up right."
Maggie shook her head when she thought of Arnoldo. "Just like my
Ernesto." She shivered. Was Ernesto going to grow to be the troubled
boy that Arnoldo was?
"No, not with Ramon around. He and Ernesto are so good together. He
will help..." She stopped. What was it that Lupe -- the children's
mother -- had made her promise so long ago?
She could hear the words, hear Lupe's voice, weak with the sickness
that would take her that very day. "Miguel, mi corazá³n, promise that
you will care for them as we would have if we... I were there to care
for them with you."
Maggie's eyes went wide as she realized what Lupe had _really_ meant.
"She could not bear to say it, but she meant that I should find someone
else, someone who would care for them with me, just... just as she
had." Tears ran down Maggie's cheeks as she shivered, only partially
from the cold, and hugged herself. "And I... I have."
She rolled onto her side, smiling and still clutching the pillow.
"Ramon" was the last word she said before she lapsed into a deep,
untroubled sleep.
* * * * *
Jessie opened the door of the Sheriff's Office and started out onto the
boardwalk outside.
"Don't forget this," Paul called from inside.
Jessie turned. "My reticule." She took the large handbag from him.
"Thanks, I wouldn't want t'be leaving my stuff behind."
"But it's such a lovely behind." He gave her rear an affectionate pat.
"Giselle."
She shivered, remembering how they had played the "whore game" again
the night before, this time to a much happier conclusion. "M'syur!"
She giggled. "Ah muzz go now, but Ah weel return."
"You better." He pulled her close for a brief kiss, but their shared
desire made it last longer than he had intended.
Finally, with a sigh, she broke away. "I gotta go back t'Shamus',
Paul." She ran out the door and across the street to the Saloon. It
wasn't quite 7 AM yet, and the street was empty.
The doors to the Eerie Saloon were closed, locked overnight, but Molly
had given her a spare key. She used it and slipped inside.
"I see ye decided t'come back." Shamus was sitting at a table near the
door. A pot of steaming coffee rested on a trivet in front of him.
"'Course I came back. I live here don't I?"
"Aye, and ye work here -- at least ye used to."
"Used to?" What was he saying?
"Last night, Friday night, one o'me busiest nights, ye wasn't working
here. Ye was over at the Long Branch singing for Sam Duggan. And
singing that 'Collee' song no less."
Jessie decided to attack. "Well, you said I could."
"I... I said nothing of the sort, and ye know it."
"What I _know_ is that you said you didn't want me t'sing that song for
you. You also said I could sing it wherever or whenever I wanted. And
last night I wanted to sing it at the Long Branch."
"Ye're twisting me words, Jessie."
"Maybe, and maybe I'm thinking of taking Sam's offer to go work for
him."
Shamus scowled. "Are ye now?"
"I am... I guess. I could work for the both of you, sing one night
here, one night there."
"Ye can't be serving two masters, so ye'd best be thinking long and
hard about what ye're doing." He yawned. "In the meantime, go
upstairs and change. Ye might even want t'be getting an hour or two of
sleep."
She yawned back. "Maybe I'd better."
"Aye, we've a full day of work here, and there's the dance t'night."
He studied her expression. "At least there is for them that work
here."
"I work here, Shamus, for now at least, I do." She walked past him.
"G'night."
He watched her walk towards the stairs. "Good _morning_, and try not
t'be waking Jane. _She_ was working last night, while ye was off
singing."
* * * * *
Liam could hear the pounding in his room above the Feed & Grain. He
hurried down tucking his shirt into his trousers as he ran. He got to
the door and quickly unlocked it. "What do you want this early,
Horace?"
"Your sister." Horace Styron stepped impatiently into the store.
"Where is she?" He looked around, expecting Trisha to be there.
Liam closed the door behind the man. He left the "Closed" sign on the
door, to the annoyance of several men waiting outside. 'They didn't
stop Horace,' he told himself. 'Let them wait.'
In the meantime, he still had Horace to deal with. "She'll be along
directly. I'm the only one here. What are you in such a hurry to see
her about? This is our busiest day; yours, too, come to think of it."
"That just says how important this is. If I can take the time, why
can't she?"
As if on cue, Trisha walked through the front door. She closed it
quickly before anyone else could follow. "I'll decide what -- and who
I take the time for, thank you, Horace."
The man turned to face her. "What are you plotting for the next board
meeting?"
"I'm not _plotting_ anything," Trisha said smugly. "Who says that I
was?"
"Dwight Albright," Horace answered. "I got him started talking about
it, but I couldn't get anything specific out of him."
She smiled. "You'll find out the specifics next Wednesday, the same
time as everybody else."
"I'll find them out now, by thunder!" He took a step towards her.
Trisha instinctively took a step back. She was suddenly aware of how
much larger -- and stronger -- than her Horace Styron was. "I-I don't
have to tell you anything, not if I don't want to. And I don't." She
stamped her foot for emphasis.
"Don't you play games with me, Trisha. I won't stand for it."
"Well, you'll just have to -- so there."
"You little bitch, I oughta --" He raised his arm, hand open as if to
strike.
"The hell you will." Before Trisha or Styron could react, Liam grabbed
Horace's arm and twisted it behind him. At the same time, his other
arm went around the man, pulling him back.
"Lemme go." Styron twisted, but couldn't get free. "I'll sic the
sheriff on you."
"Go ahead," Liam warned him. "When Dan Talbot hears how you burst in
here and threatened to hit my little sister, he's likely to throw _you_
in jail."
"You lousy... lemme go!" Styron kept struggling.
"Certainly," Liam said. "Trisha, open the door." She did. Liam
steered the man over and pushed him through. Styron stumbled out and
fell into the dirt. He growled at the crowd that gathered around him,
laughing at his expense. Then, without a word, he stood up and stormed
away.
"You okay?" Liam asked Trisha. He had closed the door. "I can wait a
bit for you to recover before I open."
"I-I'm fine -- except, what'd you mean 'little sister'? I'm three
years older than you."
Liam stepped over and put his hands around her waist. Without another
word, he effortlessly picked her up and sat her down on the counter.
"Oh, I don't know; it just seemed appropriate at the time."
* * * * *
Theo knocked on the frame of the half-opened door. "May we come in?"
"Yes, of course." Yingling stood up from behind his desk and walked
over to the door to greet his visitors. "Welcome to town. I am Dr.
Thaddeus Yingling, minister of the Methodist Church of Eerie." He
offered his hand.
Theo shook it. "Thank you. I'm Theodore... Theo Taft, and this is my
wife, Elizabeth."
"I am very pleased to meet you both." He shook Elizabeth's hand as
well before he went back to his chair. "Please..." he pointed to the
chairs by the desk. "...do have a seat." He waited while they both
sat down. "Now then, I understand that you are in need of some aid.
How may I be of help to you?"
"You can tell us the truth," Elizabeth answered. "What do you know
about the death of my brother, Leroy Meehan?"
Yingling thought for a moment. "I'm sorry to hear of your loss -- may
I call you Elizabeth?" She nodded, and he continued. "The name rings
a bell, Elizabeth, but I fear that I can't place it. Was he also new
to town?"
"According to the lie everyone keeps telling us, he rode into Eerie
back in July with Will Hanks."
"Leroy?" Yingling made the connection. "Yes, of course. But I feel I
am under some restraint. I really don't know how freely I should let
myself speak on this matter. May I inquire about the 'lie' that you
have just referred to?"
"The lie that everyone is telling me -- that Caulder woman, the saloon
keeper, the judge and even the sheriff -- is that Leroy turned into a
woman because of some magic spell!"
"Ah, so you have met Laura. I can confirm what she told you. Your
brother isn't dead, Elizabeth. They -- the sheriff with the permission
of the judge, I understand -- tricked him and the entire gang onto
drinking a potion prepared by Shamus O'Toole. It... aah... changed
him, changed him -- _her_ for the better, I should say, into a woman.
I see her and her husband in my church almost every Sunday, and I look
forward to christening their firstborn sometime this summer."
Elizabeth started again. " Everyone is saying the same thing you are.
I find it hard to believe. How can a man change into a woman?"
"I'm sure that I don't know. It... umm, happened in O'Toole's saloon,
a place where I am not likely to be found."
"It would have to be witchcraft," she insisted. "Black magic."
Yingling shrugged. "Perhaps, or a miracle, who can say? I've barely
met any of the others who changed that day." In fact, the brief
conversation he'd had with Jessie Hanks on the night before Christmas
had been something of a strain for both of them.
"That day? You make it sound like that wasn't the only time people
have been changed. How can such a thing happen? Why don't the
authorities stop this crazed man?"
"In one case, it was 'the authorities' -- Judge Parnassas C. Humphreys,
a good man and an elder of my church, I might add -- who ordered the
change as a sentence for crime. In another circumstance -- well, I'd
rather not talk about that. It involved a family, members of my
congregation."
Elizabeth pointed a finger at the reverend. "You sound as if you
approve of this potion and what it does."
"Actually, I'm of two minds on that. Giving it to the Hanks gang saved
the town from their evil -- robbery and probably even murder. Another
time, an innocent life was saved. Still, not all of the members of the
gang are as doing as well as Laura Caulder, and I know for certain fact
that the family I mentioned are having a difficult time of it."
"Sounds like it's good _and_ evil," Theo said, a wry smile on his face.
Elizabeth glared back at her husband. "Theo! You're taking like you
actually believe this silliness!" she challenged.
"Dearest, Rev. Yingling is a man of the cloth."
Elizabeth replied with a "Hummpt!"
"There is both good and evil in many things, Theo," Yingling replied.
"In the case of O'Toole's potion, I am still trying to decide which is
the predominant. I've heard that one of the Hanks gang tried to escape
from confinement last fall. Before she was re-captured, she ended up
saving a mother and child from Mexican bandits. Truly, the Lord works
in mysterious ways."
Elizabeth looked uncertain. "What you would have me believe then is
that the story is true, that Laura Caulder is my brother, as she
claims?"
"Yes, your brother, Leroy Meehan, is now Mrs. Laura Caulder, a happily
married woman expecting her first child."
In the quiet that followed, Theo and Elizabeth looked uncertainly at
one another.
* * * * *
Molly walked slowly over to where Maggie was standing, watching the
band set up. Maggie wore the white blouse, white ruffled apron, and
black skirt that were the uniform for the dance, but she also had a
yellow flower, a courting flower tucked neatly into her hair. "Good
evening, Molly," she said when she saw the older woman coming towards
her.
"And t'yuirself as well," Molly answered. "Ye look real nice t'night."
"So do you, Molly."
"I just hope ye'll be thinking as well of me after I tell ye the news I
got."
"News? What is the matter?"
Molly sighed and shook her head. "Maggie, darling, Shamus and me been
thinking all week, and between us, we can't think of any way t'be
getting around that promise ye made. I... 'Tis truly sorry I am."
"There is no need to be sorry." Maggie smiled at her friend. "I have
been thinking, also. The promise is not what I believed it to be.
Tomorrow --"
"Yes, what about tomorrow?" While the women had been talking, Ramon
had come over and was now standing behind them.
"Ye shouldn't be sneaking up on a poor woman like that, Ramon," Molly
scolded.
Ramon tried to look sorry. He failed. "I did not mean to scare you,
Molly. I am just anxious for the answer. When I saw the two of you
talking..."
"You will have the answer tomorrow, Seá±or de Aguilar, as was agreed
on," Maggie said sternly.
"Very well, then," Ramon answered. Now he did look sorry. "I will
wait."
Maggie smiled, suddenly shy. "But perhaps, I can give you a clue."
She carefully took the flower and moved it over to the other side of
her head, just above her ear. It was a sign that a woman no longer
wished to be courted, that she was "taken."
"Margarita, do you mean...?" Ramon just stared at her.
"It seems you need another clue." Maggie walked over to Ramon. She
put her hands on the side of his head and pulled it gently down towards
her own. Their lips met in a kiss that was full of love and future
promise.
* * * * *
To be Continued
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change -- Winter
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson
Part 2 -- February
Sunday, February 4, 1872
Theo, Elizabeth, Laura, and Arsenio moved into one of the empty rows of chairs set up in the school for the Sunday worship service. They picked up the hymnals that were placed on two of the seats and sat down.
Elizabeth tugged on Laura's sleeve. "Who is that young woman up there in front," she whispered, pointing to the group seated on either side of the altar, "and what is she doing sitting there with -- those _are_ your church elders, aren't they?"
"They're the board, all right," Laura answered. "And Trisha -- Trisha O'Hanlan, there -- is one of them."
Her sister made a face. "But she's so young. How could she be an elder?"
"She wasn't that young when she was elected to the board," Laura explained. "She wasn't a she, either. Miss O'Hanlan also got a taste of Shamus' special brew."
"Great Heavens, does the man give it away to anyone that asks?"
Laura shook her head. "Not hardly. The way I heard it, her boy, Elmer, got hurt real bad. He was dying, and Doc Upshaw couldn't do anything about it. Then somebody got the idea of trying Shamus' potion. Only, Elmer said he'd rather die than be a girl."
"Why that impertinent little snip. How dare he say something like that?"
Theo patted his wife's hand. "He's only a young boy, my dear. He'll grow out of it, I'm sure."
"He _was_ a young boy." Laura started again. "Anyway, Trisha -- she was Patrick then -- Patrick told Elmer that he'd drink the stuff if Elmer would."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't he just hold the boy's nose or whatever one does when a child won't take his medicine? That's what I would have done."
"Not everyone has your insight in raising children," Laura said sarcastically.
Elizabeth missed her sister's tone. "More's the pity. I assume that you'll tell me next that they both drank it."
"Actually, Trisha was just going to pretend to drink it. Only she accidentally swallowed some and..." Laura made a sweeping gesture towards the front of the room. "...there she is."
"Excuse me, ladies," Arsenio said, cutting in. "I think the service is about to start."
"Sorry," Laura whispered, just as Reverend Yingling rose to announce the first hymn.
* * * * *
"Would you and Theo like to meet Trisha?" Laura asked Elizabeth as they were leaving the schoolhouse.
Elizabeth shook her head. "I don't believe that's truly necessary. I've no doubt that she'll just tell me the same story that everyone else has."
"You believe it, then, Elizabeth?" Theo asked.
Elizabeth frowned. "I still have some doubts. It is a rather hard story to believe, after all. Still, 'if a dozen people tell you it's raining, go get your umbrella', as my father used to say."
"That was Pa, all right." Laura smiled at the memory.
Elizabeth frowned, pretending not to hear. "After hearing it from your Reverend Yingling -- and he is a fine minister, by the way. His sermon this morning was as good as any I've ever heard. After hearing the story from him yesterday, I'm inclined to believe that it's true. That, somehow, you are my brother, Leroy."
Laura started to give her sister a hug, but the other woman took a step back. "I _am_ Leroy, Elizabeth," Laura said. "You'll see the final proof tomorrow, when Shamus has that new batch of potion ready."
* * * * *
"Good afternoon, Seá±or and Seá±ora O'Toole," Dolores said, walking over to where the pair were seated, finishing their lunch.
Shamus clambered to his feet. "And t'ye, Dolores, but if ye'll be working for me, I'll be asking ye t'be calling me Shamus, if ye please."
"And I'm Molly," his wife added.
Dolores bowed her head slightly. "Si, Shamus and Molly then, and I thank you, _Shamus_, for letting me start so late in the day."
"I'm hardly the most observant son of Mother Church," Shamus said. He gently placed his hand on Molly's shoulder. "Me darling wife here takes care of that for us both." Molly smiled and put her hand over his.
"But I'll not stop a lass who is observant -- not on Sunday, anyway," Shamus continued. "So long as ye work hard when ye _are_ here, ye can go to the early Mass and even be having the Sunday meal with yuir family."
"I still thank you." She looked around. "And where do I start this hard work?"
"Ye'll find an apron for yuirself in the kitchen," Shamus told her. "After ye put it on, ye can bring a tray of clean glasses over to R.J. at the bar. Thuir's already a few customers about. Ye see what they want t'be drinking, then ye get that from R.J. and take it over t'them. If ye have any questions, ye just ask him."
Dolores curtsied. "Si, Seá±... Shamus."
"We ain't that formal, lass," the barman said with a laugh. "Around here, ye just show yuir respect by working hard and acting square t'me, t'Molly, t'them others that work here, and, most important, t'me customers." He gave another laugh. "O'course, that curtsy ye made was nice -- for a one time thing. Now off t'the kitchen with ye."
* * * * *
Wilma stuck her head into Lady Cerise's office. "You wanted to see me, Cerise?" Her employer's message sounded serious to Wilma. Was she in some kind of trouble?
"Come in, Wilma." Cerise waited until Wilma had stepped into the room. "I did not wish to see you; these two did." She pointed to her couch against the far wall.
Wilma turned. "Rosalyn and Beatriz; what d'you want?"
"We, uhh, wanted to say that, uhh..." Rosalyn frowned and her voice trailed off.
Beatriz tried. "We want to say that we will accept you as the Lady's assistant."
"And..." Cerise prompted the pair.
"And we're, ahhh, sorry about what happened before," Rosalyn added, still frowning.
Wilma smiled. "I don't know if you're sorry 'bout what you done or sorry that it didn't work, but -- what the hell -- an apology's an apology." She stuck out her hand. "And I'll take yours, if..."
"If what?" Rosalyn raised an eyebrow.
Wilma's smile grew even wider. "If we're at an end t'the fighting between us."
"We are." Rosalyn said the words as if they tasted of vinegar, but she shook Wilma's hand.
Beatriz nodded. "Si, me too." She didn't sound any happier than Rosalyn had.
"Good," Wilma said, shaking Beatriz's hand in turn. "Then we can get back the important stuff."
"And what is that, Wilma?" Cerise asked, pleased to see the matter resolved and her choice vindicated.
Wilma's smile grew into a full grin. "Why being with men and having fun, o'course." She let out a laugh. "Or is that saying the same thing twice?"
* * * * *
Molly put down her teacup. "So tell me more about this 'petishyun de man-o', Carmen." The three couples, Shamus and Molly, Whit and Carmen, and Ramon and Maggie were in the O'Toole's parlor.
"The 'peticiá³n de mano' has four parts, four meetings," Carmen began. "The first part was last week when Ramon asked for Margarita's hand. Today, we talk about reasons why you should agree. Next week, if all goes well, we talk about the _muhul_, the bride gift. The last is a public meeting where you formally accept the proposal by accepting the bride gift."
Shamus cocked an eyebrow. "And do we have to be going through all that nonsense?"
"To us, Seá±or Shamus, it is not 'nonsense,'" Carmen answered, her voice stiff. "It is the way that such things are done."
"Please, Shamus," Maggie said softly. "This is the only way I know. This... this is how I-I did it when I was... courting Lupe."
Shamus took Maggie's hand in his own. "All right, Maggie. If that's how ye want it, that's how we'll be doing it." He turned to Ramon. "Why should we let ye be marrying with Maggie, Ramon?"
Ramon stood up. "First, the formal answer: because I am Ramon Luis Simon Francesco de Aguilar, an aristocrat. My great-great grandfather, Alonzo de Aguilar, was a conquistador who was granted 200,000 hectares -- almost 800 square miles -- of this territory by Charles III of Spain in 1785."
"Aye," Molly answered, "but ye don't seem t'be having much o'that land now, do ye? What're _yuir_ prospects?" To an Irish nationalist like her, land and titles given by a far-away king meant very little, at least little that was good.
"Much of the grant was stolen by the gringos, as happened to many of us. My family is a part of the suit in the American courts to get it back. What _is_ ours... is Carmen's house, which was built by our great-grandfather in 1787, and the lands where our older brother, Gregorio, raises cattle, far to the west of here."
Ramon took a breath. "My own prospects are that Aaron and Rachel Silverman have just made me the partner in their store. You know how well that store does, Shamus. From all the clothes you bought when Maggie and the others were... in your care, you were our best customer."
"Those are all good reasons," Shamus said with a nod. "And Molly and me know the sort of good man ye are." He chuckled. "Which ye're too modest to be telling us, it seems. Is there anything else ye want t'say?"
"Ramon," Maggie burst in when Ramon didn't answer. "You did not say that you loved me."
He looked shocked. "Of course, I do, Margarita. I love you with all my heart -- so much that I ache to think of it -- and I want so very much for you to be my wife."
Maggie smiled and stepped closer to him. "That is muy good to hear because I love you also, and I cannot think of anything I want more than to have you as my husband."
Their eyes met, and they slipped into each other's arms. Ramon lowered his head and kissed her. She raised her arms up around his neck and returned the kiss.
The other two couples watched the pair kissing. Shamus put his arm around Molly. Whit took Carmen's hand and gently raised it to his lips.
"And _that's_ surely the best reason of all," Molly said with a laugh. "I'm thinking that this part of the 'petishyun' is over."
* * * * *
"Here you go." Kaitlin placed a large cup of coffee down where Trisha was sitting at the kitchen table, going over some bills from the Feed and Grain. She walked over and sat down opposite her former husband.
Trisha added a spoon of sugar to the cup. "Thanks," she said and took a sip. She frowned and added more sugar. "Better," she said, taking another sip. Lately, she'd been finding that she liked her coffee sweeter. Sometimes, she even added milk.
She was about to go back to bills, when she saw the expression on Kaitlin's face. "You want to talk to me about something, don't you?"
"I do. Have you thought any more about what I said, about a... a divorce?" It was after 10 PM, and Emma was surely asleep. Still, Kaitlin kept her voice low.
Trisha sighed. "I have," she said sadly. "And I hate the idea."
"So do I." She reached her hand across the table. "But..."
Trisha nodded and took Kaitlin's hand in her own. "I know. I still don't agree with Rev. Yingling, but he'll never change his mind. And he can make a lot of trouble for me -- for all of us -- if he wants to."
"Then our marriage is over," Kaitlin said it with a sense of dread.
"As far as Yingling's concerned, it's been over for months. Like you said, though, we need to make it official..." She sighed again. "A divorce."
"So we go see the Judge tomorrow?"
"I'd like us to talk to Milt Quinlan first, to see what the law says. But could we wait until the end of the week, until the Board meets, to actually go see the Judge?"
"Is that more important?" She sounded -- she _was_ hurt.
"No, but... this is a small town, Kaitlin. The word'll get out when do we talk to the judge -- you know it will. And it could -- I _know_ it would distract me. It could affect how the Board votes, too." Trisha gave Kaitlin's hand a gentle squeeze. "Please..."
Kaitlin squeezed back. "I... you're right. I know how important that vote is, and I mean to everyone, not just to you. We'll see Milt Monday or Tuesday and the Judge... after."
"Thank you, Kaitlin; thank you very much."
"Can-can we talk about what happens when we... when we get the divorce."
"You stay here, of course. I'll not turn Emma -- or you -- out."
"Where will you go?"
"Liam lives in a room above the store. I-I guess I can fix another up for myself."
"But... but this is your house, too. Do you want to stay?"
"Do you want me to stay? I can sleep on the couch, I guess."
"You can sleep right where you've always slept. That bed is more than big enough. I slept in a smaller bed with my sisters before I got married." She paused a moment. "But you have to promise: no more funny business, no grabbing or touching or anything like that."
"I promise," Trisha said. "If I'm not your husband, I --" She stopped for a moment. "I guess I'm already coming to terms with not being your husband. It..." She shrugged her shoulders. "...somehow, the last few days, being... being intimate with you... it doesn't seem as important to me as it was."
* * * * *
Monday, February 5, 1872
"Is this potion of yours ready, Mr. O'Toole?" Elizabeth asked, walking over to where Shamus stood behind the bar. "Or have you found some other way to stretch this farce out?"
Theo hurried over to the bar where his wife was standing. "I'm sure you, ah... understand, Mr. O'Toole... Shamus. Elizabeth is just anxious to have the matter resolved."
"Oh, I understand. Theo. I understand better than ye know, I'm thinking. And, yes, Mrs. Tate. It is ready." He reached down under the bar and brought out a glass bottle filled with an odd, green- colored liquid. "Here it is."
"That's all there is?" Elizabeth did nothing to hide her disdain. "No flourish of trumpets? You don't put on wizard robes or anything? Just pull some bottle off a shelf."
"I didn't think it needed anything more," Shamus answered, beginning to get angry. "I could go get me _bath_robe, if ye really think it's needed."
Elizabeth shook her head. "No, just get on with it."
"Theo, would ye be good enough t'be getting the pup I need. He's tied up in the yard. Just go to the kitchen..." Shamus pointed to the kitchen door. "...and ask Jane or Maggie for him." The man nodded and headed towards the door.
"While we're waiting, might I see this so-called magic elixir of yours?" Elizabeth asked.
"O'course." Shamus handed her the bottle. "Just be careful with it."
She unscrewed the top and took a whiff. "Smells like absinth, an unusual drink but hardly magical."
"And when would a proper lady like yuirself ever meet up with absinth?" Now it was Shamus' turn to be sarcastic.
"I, ah... not that it's any of your business, Mr. O'Toole, but I had a small taste of it when Theo and I went to Chicago for our honeymoon." She lifted the bottle and held it so that light from the open doorway shone through it. "Yes, from its look and its smell, I should very much judge this to be no more than absinth."
"I'll be telling ye again: Be careful with that bottle, lass."
Elizabeth set the bottle down on bar, but she didn't let go of it. Instead she stood on tiptoe and tried to lean over the bar. "What were you planning, Mr. O'Toole, some magician's trick to substitute a female dog you have hidden back there for the male one you sent my husband to fetch?"
"Ye just wait and see if it's true magic or not."
"And I suppose you'll tell me next that if I drank it, I'd turn into a man."
Shamus laughed. "Ye're already too much like a man t'me thinking, but, no, the potion won't do that."
Elizabeth stepped back from the bar and out of Shamus' immediate reach. "Then let's just see what it _will_ do -- besides giving me an upset stomach the way that _other_ absinth did in Chicago."
"Don't do it, lass," Shamus yelled. He hurried to come around from behind the bar.
She hesitated a moment when she saw Theo coming back towards her, carrying a small, spotted brown and white dog, then she said, "Watch this, Theo." She raised the bottle to her lips and drank.
"Elizabeth!" Elizabeth was staggering slightly, as if the draft had been a powerful one. Theo dropped the dog and ran over. He gripped his wife's upper arms to support her.
"I'm fine." She giggled, not quite knowing why she did so. She felt an unusual warmth, the absinth, no doubt, spreading through her from her stomach.
Theo's eyes widened. "Your... your hair, Elizabeth. It's getting darker."
"What?" A dizziness washed over her. "Oh... oh, my." She closed her eyes and sank down onto a barstool.
* * * * *
Elizabeth found herself back in Chicago, back in that little hotel room. It was her wedding night, and Theo -- and she and Theo were doing what a couple did on their wedding night.
This time she wasn't afraid, as she had been then. She gloried in the sensations of Theo's lips on hers, of his hands touching her body, touching her in places that her mother had told her to never touch herself. Then, she felt him inside her. It hurt -- just for a moment -- but the pain faded quickly. It was replaced by something, an energy, an exquisite pleasure like she had never felt before and that she never wanted to end. The pleasure grew; it flowed across her like the blessed rain after a long drought, better and better and better still, until there was no Theo, no Elizabeth, just a joining, a moving, and... and an _explosion_ of purest joy.
She was in their own house, in her... in _their_ bed. Theo was with her. They were naked -- _gloriously_ naked. She could feel his body against hers, his manhood _in_ her. Time, after time, it happened, and, time after time, she felt the incredible pleasure of the act. She wanted it. She _needed_ it. The need was a hunger that had to be sated.
She... she was dressed. She was back in that saloon with that sneaky, Irishman, and someone, someone who had that wonderful... _maleness_ that she craved, was holding her.
* * * * *
Elizabeth opened her eyes. Theo was holding her, a strong male hand on each shoulder. "Are you all right, Elizabeth? I was afraid --"
"I'm fine," she said, her voice softer, almost a purr. One hand shot down and cupped Theo's crotch. "Mmmm, and so are you."
"Elizabeth!" Theo's eyes were twice normal size, and surprise raised the pitch in his voice.
Elizabeth smiled, but she didn't move her hand. "Let's go upstairs and see just how... fine we both are." She put her other arm around his neck and pulled him down to her. Their lips met in a kiss.
Theo broke the kiss. "What in the world has gotten in to you, Elizabeth?"
She pouted. "Nothing yet, but I have every hope." She squeezed his crotch again, and he felt himself getting stiff. "Mmm, yes, every hope, indeed," she added.
"Ye might as well be taking her upstairs, Theo." He could hear Shamus behind him. "I've seen this before. It's me potion at work, and there's nothing for ye to do but enjoy it."
* * * * *
Jane came into the kitchen from the yard, her arms piled high with packages wrapped in green paper. "Where you want I should put this stuff?" she asked Molly.
"Those are the sheets and tablecloths for the saloon, Jane," Molly answered. "Ye can be taking them straight upstairs to the store room." She took a sip of coffee. "And bring down that sack of dirty things that're by the store room door."
"Sure thing, Molly." Jane used her back to open the door into the saloon and walked through the room, towards the stairs.
Teresa Diaz had come in behind Jane with a small stack of her own, some in blue and some in yellow paper. "Is that your dog tied to the bench, Seá±ora Molly?"
"Aye," Molly told her. "Himself needed it t'be showing his potion t' somebody. Turns out he don't, but I'm thinking we may keep the little fellow anyway. That's why I tied him up outside again." She pointed to the table she was sitting at. "Ye can sit that laundry o'mine right here, so I can be taking it up t'me room."
The laundress set the packages down. "The blue ones are yours; the yellow ones belong to Margarita. The bills are pinned to the packages. You can both pay me when I come again on Friday."
"That'll be fine. Can ye stay for a cup of coffee, or do ye have t'be about yuir business?"
Teresa smoothed her skirt and sat down, while Molly poured her a cup. "I was hoping that you would ask. There is something I would like to talk to you about."
"And that is?" Molly handed her the cup and poured one for herself.
Teresa took a sip of coffee to steel her nerves. "My son, Arnoldo. I know he did wrong, but I... can you... would you help him get his job back?"
"You know what he done, don't ye? And what he said t'me Shamus."
Teresa turned away from Molly's gaze. "I... I know, and I am truly sorry. My Arnoldo is young... and stubborn. Sometimes he does things without truly thinking about what may happen."
Molly reached out and put her hand on Teresa's. "Except for the part about being 'young', ye just described me Shamus." She laughed. "Yuir Arnie, at least, has a chance t'be growning out of it with the proper help, and I'll be more'n happy t'be part of that help."
"And so'll me darling Shamus," she added, "once I'm working on him for a wee little while."
* * * * *
Theo fumbled with the key to the room he and Elizabeth were using. "Elizabeth, please," he told her.
"Mmmm, hurry, Theo, hurry," she whined. She was pressed against his back, her arms around him.
One arm caressed his shirt; the other... "Aye," Molly told her. "Himself needed it t'be showing his potion t' somebody. "Stop that." Her other hand had wormed its way down the front of his trousers. She ran a finger down the bulge in his drawers, tickling his member through the cloth with her nail.
"Nice," she said, her voice husky with lust, "nice... and big... and, mmmmm, getting bigger." She giggled.
The key turned in the lock. "At last." There was honest relief in his voice. She stepped inside quickly, almost dragging him in with her, and closed the door behind them.
* * * * *
Bridget walked downstairs and over to the bar, where R.J. was setting up glasses. "G'morning, R.J.," she greeted him, "how you doing today?"
"I'm doing better since you came down, thank you," he answered, looking her over. "Is that a new blouse? You look very nice; it brings out the green of your eyes."
"Flatterer." Nevertheless, she enjoyed his compliment.
"Just telling the truth. And what're you up to today?"
"Right now, I'm going into the kitchen to get some breakfast."
"Must be nice to be able to sleep in."
"It is." She gave him a sly smile. "I need my sleep, if I'm going to be at my best for playing poker till 2 every night, don't I?"
"I suppose." He paused a beat. "You want me to go get you some coffee or anything?"
"Thanks, but I thought I'd talk with Maggie for a bit before I set up my game and she starts making lunch." She gave a demure little smile. "You know... girl stuff."
R.J. raised a doubtful eyebrow. "Girl stuff?" He shrugged. "If you say so."
"I do. Say, can I bring you anything from the kitchen?"
"Just your company." He winked. "Go... have a good breakfast. Or is it lunch by now?"
"It's lunch, and I will." She winked back and headed for the kitchen.
* * * * *
"How long do I have to stand like this?" Laura asked. She was standing in her old bedroom on the second floor of the Saloon, wearing only her unbuttoned camisole, her drawers, shoes, and stockings.
Edith Lonnigan wrote something in a notebook. "I'm almost finished. Your weight looks about right for a woman as far along as you are." She put the notebook down and began searching for something in the oversized reticule-basket she had carried. "Congratulations by the way."
"For what?" Amy Talbot asked. Amy was wearing as little at Laura. She sat on one of the beds, waiting for her own monthly examination.
"From what Laura told me" Edith explained, "she's in her twentieth week, halfway through."
Laura kneaded the small of her back. "I wish I was all the way through it. My back's been hurting something fierce lately, and I've been having the worst heartburn." She groaned. "I don't know how women handle it."
"We do -- _you_ do -- because you have to, I'm afraid," Edith told her.
"Try a hot water bottle for your stomach." Amy suggested.
Edith nodded. "Yes, that will work. Don't stand up too long, if you can avoid it. In fact, you should rest whenever you can, so you don't overwork yourself."
"I'll try," Laura said. "Shamus is pretty good about letting me take breaks." Her eyes suddenly grew wide. "Ooh, the baby just kicked. It's been doing more of that, too."
"And it will do even more of that from now on," Edith explained. "You do have one advantage; it can hear sound now."
"It-it can?" Laura looked down at her gravid belly. "How is that an advantage?"
"You can talk to it," Amy said. "When I was carrying Jimmy, I sang to him. The song quieted him down. In fact, it still does."
Laura considered the idea. "Sing... I'll try that."
"You should; it soothes the baby and gets it used to your voice." Edith looked up at her patient. "I noticed that you're using a looser corset now."
Laura shrugged. "It's more comfortable. I don't seem to have a waist any more, but I need it for my... for on top." The weight she'd gained had made her waistline vanish. "Arsenio says the baby's getting big enough to hug now." She told the other women. "And he hugs it -- and me -- as often as he can." She giggled when she said it.
"As long as he doesn't hug you too tightly," Edith told her. "It can be very... therapeutic."
"That, it can." Laura giggled again, and the other women joined her.
"Let me tell you what to expect this next month, dear," Edith continued. "I've warned you about overworking. The baby's taking a lot of your energy. You'll find that your breathing gets heavier sometimes, and you'll perspire more."
"That's where that silliness about how we 'glow' when we're pregnant comes from," Amy interrupted. "You may get red spots on your face and arms, too, but they go away pretty quick."
"They do, indeed," Edith agreed. "The bad news is that the baby will be moving almost all the time; the good news is that your morning sickness should go away. You might get some leg cramps to go with that backache. Stand straight. Force your toes up, towards your face, and press down on your legs. You'll very likely find that your skin gets dry." She kept rummaging in the reticule. "I have some lotion for you in here. Just smooth it in -- better yet, ask your husband to do the rubbing."
"Mmm, now that sounds like it might be fun," Laura replied.
Mrs. Lonnigan pulled a stethoscope from her basket. "Finally!" She held it up like a trophy. "Now hold still, dear. This may feel a bit cool." She set the two end-pieces in her ears.
"_May_ feel cold," Laura squeaked when the midwife put the diaphragm against her abdomen and slowly moved it back and forth.
After a while, she stopped. "Here." She quickly took the end-pieces out and handed them to Laura. While the mother-to-be inserted them in her own ears, Edith was carefully held the diaphragm in place.
"I-I hear something." Laura's eyes grew wide. "Dub-dub... dub-dub. Is it..."
Edith beamed at her patient. "Yes, Laura, my dear. _That_ is your baby's heart beating."
"I... I never dreamed..." The words stuck in her throat, but her wide smile and the tears glistening in her eyes said all that needed to be said.
* * * * *
Tuesday, February 6, 1872
'By Thunder, that feels good.' Theo was awakened by a wave of pleasure that was spreading through his body. His second thought was, 'I'm naked; Elizabeth will --'
No, he decided, Elizabeth would _not_ have the fit she might normally have to find him naked in bed beside her. In fact, it was her hand gently stroking his male member that was causing those _very_ pleasurable sensations. "G-good morning, Elizabeth," he said, smiling uncertainly.
She smiled back. "Good morning. I was wondering how long it would take to wake you up."
"Now you know, and may I say that you're a wonderful alarm clock." She took her hand away. "Why did you stop?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, but now that you're awake and so... mmmm... so hard, we can... _do_ it again." There was a passion, almost a hunger, in her voice.
"Elizabeth, you mean that after yesterday -- and last night..."
"That was yesterday and last night. It's today, and I _need_ it now, too." She threw the covers back. She wore no more than he did.
"Elizabeth, you're..." He stared at her body. Her breasts seemed firmer and a little larger, perhaps, than he remembered. Her hair, on her head and... down _there_, was a rich, dark chestnut color, not the dull, mouse brown it had been.
She laid her body across him. "Yes, I am." He felt her soft flesh on his. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her nipples hard as pen points. She reached down, and her fingers encircled his hardness again. "Please..."
"I-I don't know." He'd daydreamed, now and then, about his wife acting the wanton -- what man hadn't? But this; it wasn't really her. It was as if she was inebriated, or, worse, as if she'd been drugged. He'd heard about women drugged into white slavery. Was that happening to Elizabeth? And by his actions with her, was he helping the process?
She pouted. "This is what _I_ know." She shifted her body, so that she was straddling him, her groin against his. She lifted her hips and guided him into her. "Ohhh, yesss!" Her voice was a sensual purr.
Theo felt her warm, wet flesh surround his maleness. She was moving her hips, now, and her tightness almost felt like another hand. His own hips began to move in reaction.
"Yes! Yes!" Her words matched her -- their actions, for they were moving in unison. He gave in to the moment and began to thrust into her.
"Yesss!" Elizabeth screamed again. She arched her back as her head rolled back onto her shoulders, her eyes wide. Then she gasped and collapsed down onto him. "That was so good," she gasped. Her voice was husky. "And, oh, my, you're still hard." She rolled off him and lay back on the bed. Her legs spread wide, exposing -- no, _offering_ her innermost self for his pleasure.
'She's an animal in heat, not my Elizabeth,' Theo thought. 'She needs help, not... not intercourse, and it's my duty to get it for her.' Reluctantly, he rose from the bed and wiped his privates with the towel on the dresser.
"Theo, what... what are you doing?" Now it was Elizabeth who sounded confused. "I... I need you."
"You need _help_," he said firmly. He climbed into his pants and buttoned up the front. He pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders and grabbed for his shirt and shoes. "I'm going to get you some."
"Theo... please." She had a desperate look in her eyes. "Stay here." She cupped her breasts. "You can play with these -- play all you want. You always liked that."
He turned away, not wanting to see the... _slut_ his wife had become. "I'll be back as soon as I can." Without another word, he walked to the door and pulled it open.
"Theo... please... stay here with me." He could hear the need in her voice. When he started through the door, she tried something else. "Theodore Emanuel Taft, don't you dare leave me."
He shook his head. "I-I have to." The next moment, he was through the door, closing it behind himself.
As he started down the hall, he could still hear her for a short while. "Please... Theo, please..."
* * * * *
Carmen looked at the letter on her writing desk.
` "Dear Gregorio,"
` "I have the most wonderful news."
` "Ramon has been courting a widow, Margarita Sanchez,
` who is newly come to town. Two Sundays ago, we began a
` 'peticiá³n de mano' for her hand. Last Sunday, she said
` yes. We meet again this Sunday to talk about the
` _muhul_, and I expect her family to accept the Sunday
` after that."
` "Margarita is a wonderful woman, and I am certain that
` you will be as happy as I to welcome her to our family.
` Do you think that you would be able to come to the party
` that we are going to have on February 18 when she and
` her family formally accept the 'peticiá³n'? Please write
` and let me know. I will make up a room for you in the
` guesthouse."
` "Your loving sister,
` Carmen"
"Perfect," she said with a satisfied nod. "I will take it to be mailed when I take the children for a walk after lunch."
* * * * *
Dr. Hiram Upshaw shook his head. "I'm sorry, but my answer is no. I've asked Shamus a number of times about the potion, and he keeps saying that there is no antidote."
He was sitting with Theo in his examination room. Theo had barged into his outer office and all but begged with Mrs. Lonnigan to see the doctor.
"Then Elizabeth will be like... like she is now forever?" Theo looked horrified. "My poor, poor wife."
"I don't believe she will." Doc paused in thought for a moment. "You know the history of the potion, don't you: how it was administered to the Hanks Gang, your, ah... sister-in-law included, when they rode into town to kill the Sheriff."
"I didn't completely accept the story, not even with all those people telling it, but if that potion can do what it did to Elizabeth..." Theo's voice trailed off.
"It can, and it did. You've probably met Bridget and Maggie and Jessie at the Saloon." He waited for Theo's nod. "They were all part of the gang."
"They were all changed? But none of them seem as... _intent_ as Elizabeth. For that matter, neither is Laura... Leroy, I suppose."
"They only had the one dose of the potion -- as men, and it transformed them into females. Only the leader, Will -- Wilma, now -- took a second dose as a woman." He smiled, still amused by the irony of Wilma's actions. "She thought that it would change her back into a man."
"She's the one that works at -- is that what happened? She chose that... place after she drank the second dose?"
"Exactly. Will Hanks was mad at the whole world and as mean an S.O.B. -- excuse my language -- as you'll ever meet. A lot of that stayed when she became Wilma. She was very easy on the eye, but was two hands full of trouble. Until that second dose."
"Then what happened?"
"For about four days, she'd bed any man that asked -- and she made them all _want_ to ask. After that, well, she wasn't quite as..." He shrugged. "...quite as frantic. Oh, she's still more than willing; she does work in a sporting house, after all. Some of the old Wilma has come back, though. She rescued another... woman from being badly burned by a... patron of the place. Kicked him in his privates, she did. And Lady Cerise -- she owns the place -- is making Wilma her assistant because of the leadership Wilma's shown."
"You seem to know a great deal about this place," Theo said, a bit of sarcasm in his voice.
Upshaw snorted at the comment. "I'm not a patron, if that's what you mean. I treated the woman Wilma rescued. Cerise also has me check the ladies for certain _problems_ every month."
"I apologize if I offended you, Doctor." Theo offered the physician his hand. "And I thank you for the hope you've given me about my wife's... condition. I just have to figure out a way to help Elizabeth get through these next few days, it would seem."
"My advice to you would be to... _humor_ her." He shook Theo's hand. "You're married. Think of it as a second honeymoon."
"That's more easily said than done," Theo answered. "I-I'll admit that I'd like to. I-I just feel that it isn't right; that I'm taking advantage of her while she... she isn't in her right mind."
The doctor grimaced and looked like he was about to give Theo a warning, but he voiced not a word. There are things that not even a doctor dares to tell a married man concerning the possible actions of an unsatisfied wife.
* * * * *
"We have received and are printing the following letter because we believe that it will be of interest to you, the readers of the Eerie edition of the _Tucson_ _Citizen_."
` "Dear Editor:"
` "The arrangement between the town council board and the
` Methodist Church for the use of the school building for
` worship services has served the people of Eerie well
` for some time."
` "But we are a growing town, and we need to consider the
` future. Can the building be expanded to meet future
` needs, both as a school and a church? Should the
` arrangement continue, or should the church be seeking a
` site of its own?"
` "These are questions that cannot be answered quickly.
` They deserve long and deliberate thought, and I am
` certain that they will receive it."
`
` "But when the decisions are made, we should be ready to
` start the work, whatever it is."
` "That takes money, and we can't wait until the decisions
` are made to start collecting it. I hope that the
` readers of this letter will consider how much money we
` will need -- whatever we choose to do -- and how we can
` begin to collect that money, and I mean right now."
` (signed) "Miss Prudence Aforethought"
"While this paper normally remains neutral on such questions, we must concur with Miss Aforethought's sentiments."
Horace Styron looked at the newspaper one last time before he cursed and crumbled it into a ball that he tossed to the wastepaper basket by his desk. "Miss Prudence Aforethought, my old maid aunt!" he cursed between clenched teeth. "I know your mischief when I see it, Trisha."
* * * * *
Shamus met Theo at the Saloon doors. "Are ye all right, Theo lad? Ye was running out o'here like all the demons of Hell was chasing ye."
"I was... Elizabeth... she needed help. I went to talk to your Dr. Upshaw about her... condition."
"Then ye know that there's nothing t'be done. The worst of it -- ye might say -- t'will be over in a few days, but I'm thinking that she'll be... changed for ever and ever."
Theo nodded. "I know that. I-I'm just not certain what to do about it."
"Maybe ye don't know what t'be doing," Shamus said wryly, pointing inside, "but yuir wife seems t'be having a few ideas."
Theo strained to look. Elizabeth stood near the bar, talking to a man in a gray work shirt and denim jeans. She was wearing her best dark blue dress, the one she'd brought to wear at Leroy's funeral service. It was unbuttoned low enough to show the lace at the top of her corset and a generous bit of her breasts. Her now chestnut hair was unpinned and hung down in thick waves around her shoulders.
When she saw Theo looking at her, Elizabeth smiled and slowly wrapped her arms around the man's neck. The man took her invitation and leaned in to kiss her.
"If you'll excuse me, Mr. O'Toole," Theo said rather formally. Without a glance back at the barman, he walked briskly over to the couple.
Theo tapped the man on the shoulder. "I'll thank you to please stopping kissing my wife." There was no response. "Excuse me, sir. Ex... cuse... me. That's my wife you're kissing."
The couple broke the kiss. Elizabeth's eyes were half-closed. Her face was flushed, and she was breathing rather heavily. "Mmmm, hello, Theo." She giggled.
"You want something, mister?" the workman asked.
"Yes," Theo answered. "That's my wife, and I want you to stop kissing her."
The man looked at Theo closely. "Maybe I don't want to. Maybe _she_ don't want me to." He put his arm around Elizabeth's waist. She giggled again and nodded. Then she moved closer to the man and stroked his chest.
"See there? She does want me." He pulled Elizabeth to him and kissed her hungrily. Her arms went up and around his neck again. His arms were around her waist. Then his hands moved down and cupped her butt. She moaned and kissed him harder, rubbing herself against him.
Theo's hands balled into fists, without his even realizing it. "Get the hell away from my wife."
He pushed at the man, who broke the kiss and stepped back, away from Elizabeth. "You better go find another _wife_, friend. This gal's with me."
"The hell she is."
"The hell she ain't." The man threw a punch.
Theo blocked it with his right arm. His left fist plowed hard into the man's solar plexus. The man let out a "whoompf" and fell backwards to the floor unable to breathe.
"Don't get up," Theo said, looming over the other man, "unless you want more of the same." The man gasped for air and shook his head.
Theo looked at his wife. "Is _that_ what you want, Elizabeth?" He pointed at the man on the floor. "To let a stranger maul you like that; to let him kiss you... have his way with you?"
"Yes," her eyes were wild. "I want it. I... I _need_ it, and you won't give it to me. If I can't get it from you, I'll get it from whomever I can." She leered and looked around the barroom. "From as _many_ men as I can."
Theo's anger turned, at that moment, to lust. "No, you'll get it from me and _only_ me." He grabbed her by the waist and hefted her up over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Without pausing, he started towards the stairs.
Elizabeth cursed and pounded at his back. Slowly, though, the anger in her eyes turned to surprise, then lust as Theo began to climb the stairs. "Mmm, save some of that energy, Theo, honey," she purred. "You'll need it."
* * * * *
"Are we late?" Trisha asked as she and Kaitlin walked into Milt Quinlan's office." He gestured to the chairs next to his desk. "Please, sit down."
"Trisha -- _we_ didn't want to be seen hurrying to your office," Kaitlin said by way of explanation. She smoothed her dress and sat.
Trisha did the same. "I, uhh... want this to be kept quiet. You won't say anything to anybody, will you?"
"Everything said between a lawyer and his clients is strictly confidential. Don't worry." He picked up a pencil and notepad. "Now, what, exactly _are_ we keeping confidential?'
"We want -- no, we _don't_ want a divorce." Trisha began. "Reverend Yingling says we aren't married any more because of that damned potion I drank. I think that's a pile of --"
"We need to know where we stand legally," Kaitlin interrupted. "Are we still married? Do we _need_ to get a... a divorce? And if we do, how- -how do we get one?"
Milt nodded and made a couple of quick notes. "The good reverend knows his theology, I should think. If he says that you two aren't married in the eyes of the church, you most likely aren't. As far as civil law is concerned..." He shrugged. "I don't know. I want to take a look at the statutes involved before I say how the law defines "marriage." The thing is that you _were_ married. If you aren't now, a judge will have to sign the decree that says so."
He paused. "The good news -- if _anything_ in this is good news -- is that, in Arizona, it's the county judges who grant divorces. Around here, that's Judge Humphreys, and he certainly knows about the potion. You won't have to explain _why_ two women need a divorce."
"Then we can get a divorce?" Trisha didn't sound happy. "If we have to, I mean."
"You can," Milt told her. "I can have the petition for dissolution of the marriage -- that starts the process -- ready tomorrow, Thursday at the latest."
"Could we say... Thursday or Friday at the earliest?" Trisha said. "I trust you to keep things quiet, Milt, but when the Judge gets into it, people are gonna find out. I'd just as soon that didn't happen until things get settled at the Board meeting tomorrow night."
Milt agreed. "I understand completely... Miss Aforethought."
"You know, huh," Trisha said. "What do you think of the idea?"
"That's also confidential." He looked at his notes. "Incidentally, I'd suggest that you start thinking about your assets and how you want to split them up. That's part of the final paperwork, I'm afraid. So is who'll have custody of Emma."
Trisha looked overwhelmed. "All my money -- and Emma, too. I-I hadn't really given much thought to things like that."
"Divorces are all about money and children," Milt told her, "things people care about. That's why we lawyers get involved."
* * * * *
"I shall take that pawn," Reverend Yingling announced. He moved his black pawn to take Aaron's white one. With a smile, he turned over the small hourglass next to his side of the chessboard. "Well?"
Aaron studied the board a moment. "Ahah." He moved his bishop even with the pawn and turned over a second hourglass near his own side of the board.
Yingling considered the board. After a short time, he moved his queen to the same row. "Can I ask you something, Aaron?" He overturned his hourglass.
"Ask already." Aaron shrugged. "I'm still going to win."
"Or not," Yingling said. "What do you know of that potion of Mr. O'Toole's?"
"I know it works. Upstairs I was with mine Rachel when they gave it to them Hanks outlaws last summer. Them ladies've been wearing clothes from mine store ever since. As they say, you have a rose, you gild it."
"That's all very well and good, but what I want to know --"
Aaron moved his king out of the black queen's line of attack. "What you want to know is how to beat a better player. And _that_ I won't tell you so easy, Thad." He inverted his hourglass.
"That remains to be seen." He took a breath and studied the board. "About the potion, it seems to work on the mind as well as the body. Have you noticed that?"
"A blind man would have noticed. It just seems to take a lot longer, though, and it works different on each of them. At first, they hated it, wearing those nice clothes -- like clothes from mine store was so horrible to wear. Then, later on, they came in and fussed just like every other lady customer." He chuckled. "I guess they got to know what good clothes I got."
"Now if you only had a few good chess moves." Yingling moved a pawn out two squares and reversed his hourglass."
"They also buy their new clothes from me."
"Yes, well, they are both having a bad time of it at the moment. I thought that if I knew more about the potion, I might better be able to counsel them."
Aaron used his bishop to take the pawn the reverend had just moved. "So you want to help them," he asked, as he shifted his hourglass. "Ahh, that's what _He_ put us here for, to help each other."
"Yes, that's all I want, just now," Yingling answered. "To be of help."
* * * * *
Wednesday, February 7, 1872
Blushing furiously, Laura walked briskly down the stairs, though the saloon, and into the kitchen. She was carrying the tray she'd taken up the night before with dinner for Elizabeth and Theo.
Molly hurried into the kitchen to check on her. "Are ye all right, Laura?"
"I-I am," Laura replied. She was trying to scrape a dish into the garbage can near the sink, but her hands were shaking.
"Ye're face is red as a beet. What happened?"
Jane was washing the breakfast dishes. "She took a breakfast tray upstairs; said they was probably too... busy t'come down." She giggled. "Next thing I know she was back in here. You come in right after her."
"The tray was on the floor outside the door," Laura began. "I put the new one down next to it. I-I was about to p-pick the old one up, when Elizabeth screamed... something." Her face got even redder. "I pushed the door open -- it wasn't locked. They were... were in... bed. Naked. Her legs were over... over his shoulders, and he... he was..." Her voice trailed off.
"I can see how that would embarrass ye," Molly said softly.
Laura shook her head. "Not... not embarrassed." She chewed on her upper lip. "I... Ohh, Arsenio." She said his name as a sort of soft moan. Now, she _was_ embarrassed. She hated how her pregnancy got her worked up like this sometimes. She turned her head away and looked down at the floor.
"Ye know what I'm thinking, Laura?" Molly gently lifted Laura's chin until she was looking in the younger woman's eyes.
Laura shook her head. "N-no?"
"'Tis early in the day, I'm thinking, but a woman in yuir... _condition_ needs t'be lying down. Ye go on home and tell that husband of yuirs I said he should be putting ye t'bed." She winked.
Laura brightened. "I'll do that. Thanks, Molly." She rushed for the door without even taking off her apron.
"Just be sure ye're back in time t'be helping Maggie with the dinner rush," Molly called after her.
"Me Shamus said that they'd be up there for a few days," Molly said looking to the ceiling. "I'll have t'be telling them t'be locking thuir door from now on."
"You think Laura'll feel good enough to come back today?" Jane asked.
Molly chuckled. "Aye, Jane. I'm thinking that Laura'll be feeling real good in just a wee, little while. And once that's over and done with, she'll be back here."
* * * * *
Tommy Carson spun left and threw the ball to Jorge Ybaá±es, captain of the "red" team. Jorge caught it and ran towards the tree that marked the goal line. He looked to be in the clear. The only one who was close was...
"Emma," Yully, the "blue" captain, shouted, "stop him! Somebody... anybody stop him."
Emma managed to get in front of Jorge. "Hold up," she ordered, her feet planted, her arms stretched out to block him.
"Get outta my way, _girl_." He moved left, but Emma moved to match him. He could hear shouts. The others were getting closer.
At that moment, Emma looked off to her right. "Ha!" Jorge jeered and ran to her left.
"Ha, yourself." Emma turned suddenly and punched under the ball under his arm. It popped free and she grabbed for it. In one smooth movement, she took hold of the ball, shifted her weight, and threw it over Jorge's head. "Yully," she yelled as she threw.
Yully snared the ball, spun, and ran for the other end of the field, the other goal.
"Dang it, Emma," Jorge complained as he turned to chase after the others.
Emma stood for an instant and watched the play. Yully ran, shifting to avoid being trapped by the other team. He was penned in near the goal. He passed the ball to his younger brother, Hector, who ran it in to score.
"Girl, huhn?" Emma smiled with satisfaction and ran to join the others.
* * * * *
Jessie stared at the sheet of paper she had been writing something on. She moved her lips silently, as if she were reading something aloud. When she finished, she was smiling. "Hey, Jane," she called, "c'mere."
"You want something?" Jane asked, wiping her hands on her apron when she got to Jessie's table.
"You still looking for help with Milt?"
"Uh huhn. He's still blowing hot and cold with me. You got any idea what I should do?"
"Yeah, you tell him t'come to my show here tomorrow night."
Jane just looked at her. "I-I don't understand. What good'll that do?"
"I ain't sure m'self," Jessie admitted, "but you just tell him, okay?"
"Uhh, okay, I reckon."
"Good," Jessie told her, then she smiled again. "And since you asked, how 'bout bringing me a beer?"
* * * * *
Arnie walked into the house. "Hola," he greeted his mother in Spanish. "Will supper be ready soon? I am starved."
"In a half hour or so," Teresa answered. "I am making stew." She stirred the large pot, then blew on the spoon and took a taste. "How are you doing at finding a new job?"
Arnie shook his head and sat down at the table. "Not too good. Many people know that I worked at the saloon. They ask why I am looking for something else."
"And you tell them what?" She took a breath. "Are you admitting that he fired you?"
"Mama, I am not the foolish boy you think I am. I say that Shamus and I did not get along, and that is why he let me go."
"So you lie. Is that why no one else will hire you?"
Arnie slammed the table. "I do not lie! He wanted to fire me because I hate the Apaches, not because of anything _I_ did."
"You say that as if you did not do anything wrong, Arnoldo. You _stole_ from the man. Do you think that was right?"
"No, I suppose that it _was_ wrong -- even once."
'Or more than once,' Teresa thought, but all she said was, "If it was wrong, if he _knew_ that he was in the wrong, would not a man apologize?"
"I... I suppose. He... a man _might_ apologize -- if he knew that he was wrong." He took a breath. "But Shamus is a man, and _he_ did not apologize to me."
Teresa smiled. "Then here is your chance to show him that _you_ are a man, that you are a bigger man, perhaps, than he is. Apologize to him. Then you can give him the chance to apologize to you by giving you your job back."
"Mama, you are so full of..." His words trailed off when he saw the look on her face. "I will not _promise_, but I _will_ think about what you say."
* * * * *
"That concludes Old Business," Horace Styron said, his voice on edge. "Is there any -- as if I didn't know -- _New_ Business?"
Trisha's hand shot up. "Me... Me... I have some."
"Any _serious_ New Business, I mean," Styron continued, "before we get to Trisha's nonsense?"
"It ain't fair to talk about the lady's motion before she's even made it," Rupe Warrick scolded. "Give her a chance to talk." A few people in the crowd shouted their agreement.
Styron held up his hands in mock surrender. "All right, all right. What's this wonderful idea of yours, _Miss_ O'Hanlan?"
"I read that letter in the paper," Trisha began, "the one signed Pru--"
"The one signed... that letter had your fingerprints all over it, O'Hanlan." Styron snorted. "Prudence Aforethought -- hah! If you had either of those virtues, it'd be _Patrick_ talking now."
"You lousy..." Trisha tried to slap Styron's face, but he pulled back, out of the way.
"Just like a woman," Styron said with a laugh.
The Judge spoke firmly. "I don't blame her one bit, Horace. That was a low blow." He looked around. "Go ahead, Trisha, you were saying."
"Thanks, Judge." Trisha took a breath. "I'm not saying if I wrote that letter, but I will say that it makes sense. We need more space and something better to sit on. The only good thing about those hard benches is that they make the meetings go faster. Nobody wants to sit on them any long than they have to." She stopped while people laughed at her joke. "It'd be nice to have more than one room... to have a kitchen... a lot of things. And they all take money."
"So I move that we start getting that money together. I move that we start a building fund --"
"Ve got a building fund already," Willie Gotefreund interrupted.
Trisha shook her head. "We've got a fund to help pay for the upkeep on this place. I'm saying we need to set up a fund to pay for... for whatever we decide: we could add to what's here or we could build someplace new. We could start now, so when we do decide what we want, we'll have the money for it."
"I'll second that." Dwight Albertson's hand shot up.
Trisha stood up. "Now, as I was saying --"
"You made your motion," Styron interrupted. "Now we debate it. Lemme hear somebody that doesn't like the idea."
"We got a good deal here with the school," Jubal Cates said. "If we start saving up money, people're gonna think we're planning to break it. They may break it first -- or start charging us more for our end of things."
Arsenio stood up and raised his hand. "Can I speak to that?"
"This is a board matter, Arsenio," Styron answered. "We'll answer questions from members later if you don't mind."
"Seems to me, we should let him talk, Horace," the Judge said. "He _is_ a member of the town council -- that's who we have the arrangement to use this building with -- _and_ a member of this church."
Arsenio nodded. "And I think Trisha has a good idea. Right now, all that we're talking about is saving some money. There's nothing wrong with that. It'll take time to put enough money together to do much of anything -- _and_ take time to plan what to do with it. If the church decides to build here, the school -- the whole town'll benefit. If the church wants to get its own site, then..." He shrugged. "...we'll work something out. The one thing I don't see is the council trying to stop you."
"Maybe you won't," Clyde Ritter cut in, "_if_ you're still on the council, but you're only one vote. Whit Whitney goes to that Mex church with his wife, and that sheeny Silverman doesn't go to any church."
Whit's voice came from the back of the room. "We're here tonight, Ritter, and I'll thank you to be more respectful towards Aaron and me." Anger made his Maine accent come through stronger than usual.
"This meeting is for church members only," Styron declared. "You weren't invited, Whitney."
"_I_ invited them," Arsenio answered. "Seeing as this involved the school and the arrangement we have for it. Speaking for the town council, we'll be happy to work with the church board on this."
"Can we get back to the question on the floor?" the Judge asked.
Styron banged his gavel once on the desktop. "Yes, and taking the discussion from Arsenio Caulder as a speech for, does anybody else -- anybody on the board, that is -- want to speak against?"
"I vanna know vot it's gonna cost us up front. Do the dues go up to get the money?" Willie's Gotefriend's question started murmurs from the crowd.
Trisha raised her hand. "May I answer that?" Without waiting for Styron, she began. "Any raise in dues gets voted on by the whole membership, so you folks can relax. I don't think we have to raise them, though. We got time; we can let people kick in when they got a little to spare. In the meantime -- I was going to wait till the first thing passed, but I thought we could prime the pump with a fundraiser, a... a dance."
A number of people started talking. The majority -- especially the women, from the sound of it -- liked the idea. Styron had to pound his gavel three times to quiet things down. "Folks, the question is do we set up a fund, not do we have a dance?"
"Call the question," the Judge said quickly.
"Second," Trisha added. "All in favor?"
"I'm running this meeting." Styron glared at Trisha. "All in favor of calling the question?" Trisha, Rupe Warrick, Albertson, and the Judge raised the hand. "Opposed?" Styron asked, raising his own hand. Jubal and Willie joined him.
A moment later, Trisha's motion passed by the same 4-3 vote. If it were possible, Horace Styron glared even more harshly.
"We won!" Trisha's shout was almost a squeal. "Now about the dance..."
"Wait a minute," Styron protested. "Who's gonna manage this money?"
Dwight Albertson stood up. "That'd be me, the treasurer, but I think I'm going to want some help. Anybody interested, talk to Horace or me. We'll announce who'll be on the... the building fund committee at church on Sunday. That all right with you, Horace?"
Styron nodded, seeing an opportunity. "Fine, and we can talk about the dance next month."
"Why wait?" Trisha asked. "I move that we hold a dance -- as a fundraiser -- on... on Saturday, March 2."
"Second," Jubal Cates said, " but I'm only seconding it, so we can vote it down. There isn't enough time."
Kaitlin stood up. "There certainly is, Mr. Cates."
"Really?" Jubal replied. "And what makes you say that, Mrs. O'Hanlan?"
"Ladies of the dance refreshment committee, please stand up," Kaitlin called out. Six women rose to their feet, including Phillipia Stone, Jubal Cates' wife, Naomi, and...
"Martha, you as well?" Rev. Yingling asked his wife. He sounded almost amused.
Martha smiled. "I'll be bringing that spiced lemonade you like so much, Thad, dear."
"Thank you ladies," Kaitlin continued. "Would you please sit, and would the members of the dance decorations committee please stand?"
The six women sat. Nancy Osbourne, who had been taking minutes, stood up. "The children will be helping," she told the Board. Trisha, and three other women also stood.
So did Roscoe Unger. "My store is donating the paper for those decorations. There'll be a free advertisement in every issue of the paper, and maybe a story or two."
"All in favor?" Styron asked reluctantly, knowing what would happen.
Trisha, Rupe, Dwight, and Judge Humphreys raised their hands. "Jubal..." Naomi Cates called out stiffly. Her husband looked around nervously as he slowly raised his hand.
"Welcome aboard, Jubal," Trisha said with a giggle. "And thanks, Naomi."
* * * * *
R.J. looked around the Saloon. "Kind of empty tonight, isn't it?"
"'Tis only a Wednesday," Shamus answered, wiping the top of the bar a few feet away. "Not one of our busier nights."
"You know what the problem is, don't you?"
"I suppose ye'll be telling me what it is."
"Jessie's singing over at the Long Branch, and some of our less than loyal customers went over there to listen."
"Aye, but she'll be back here singing tomorrow night." He didn't sound very encouraged.
"And will all our customers come back? Sam Duggan's going to do all he can to keep that from happening."
"Then maybe we'll be doing the same for whatever o'his 'less than loyal customers' what come over here t'be hearing Jessie."
"There's an easier way, you know --"
"I know," Shamus said through gritted teeth, "and don't ye be thinking I don't."
"I'm sure you do, Shamus. I just hope that you get a chance to offer her the sort of deal she'll take before Sam does."
* * * * *
Thursday, February 8, 1872
Teresa Diaz knocked on the half-opened door to the Sheriff's Office. "Is-is anyone here?"
"I am, ma'am," a voice said. "Please come on in."
Teresa did as the voice told her. "I am looking for the Sheriff. Is he here?"
"Sorry. Der Sheriff is oudt making his roundts. I am Tor Johansson, der deputy. Can I help you mit something?"
"Si, I am Teresa Diaz. My son, Arnoldo, did not come home last night. I am afraid --"
Tor stopped her. "Is he about 16, tall und shkinny?"
"Si, that is him. Is he hurt?"
"No, yust angry. Der Sheriff arrested him unt... Pablo... ya, Pablo Escobar for fighting in der street. Dey do it before, unt he varned dem aboudt it. So dis time he arrested dem."
"He-he was not hurt, was he?"
"No, mam. Him unt Pablo just spendt der night here -- in separate cells, so dey don't fight no more."
"Is he -- please -- say there will be no... no trial for my Arnoldo."
"Oh, no, no trial," Tor gently told here. "Der Sheriff yust wanted to scare dem, so maybe dey behave."
"When does he get free?"
Tor looked up at the wall clock. "Vell, der Sheriff say dey stay to 10 dis morning, but I tink I can let you take him home now." He reached over and took a ring with several keys from a hook on the wall. "Come mit me."
The cells were against the back wall of the building. She frowned to see Pablo in the first cell. He greeted her frown with an angry flare. Then, in the third of the three cells, she saw... "Arnoldo?"
The boy turned to face her. "Mama, what... what are you doing here?"
"I came looking for you," she said, still nervous. "Are you hurt?"
"Ain't that sweet," Pablo taunted. "Your mama come looking for her little boy." He laughed. "Did I hurt you, sonny?"
Arnie sprang at the cell bars closest to Pablo. "Not as much as I'm gonna hurt you, bastard."
"Arnoldo, stop that," Teresa ordered.
"You listen to your mama, Arnoldo," Pablo told him. Arnie reached through the bars, but the cell between the pair was too wide. He just clawed at the air. "Ooh," Pablo said with the laugh. "Big, bad Arnoldo wants to hurt me."
"I am letting dis one oudt." Tor opened Arnie's cell. "You keep making trouble, Pablo, you can stay in dere der rest of der day."
"No," Pablo told him. "I ain't like him; I got a job... with Mr. Ritter."
Arnie walked out of the cell. "Not if you're stuck in there, Pablo. I'll go tell Ritter why you won't be in today. Maybe I'll just take your job, too, when he offers it to me."
"You will do no such thing, Arnoldo," Teresa ordered. "I am tired of the bad blood between the two of you."
"You listen to your mama, _Arnoldo_. You go hide in her skirts." Pablo turned to Tor. "I'll behave, sir. I just want to get to my job." He took a breath. "He started it anyway."
"Und I vish it vas finished," Tor said. "You take your boy, Mrs. Diaz. This oder one, I'll let oudt at ten like der Sheriff tells me."
"Gracias, Deputy." Teresa put a protective arm around her son's waist and led him away. Pablo didn't say another word -- not with Tor standing by his cell, but Teresa and Arnie heard his laughter as they left.
* * * * *
"Is Wilma here?" Beatriz asked, walking into the parlor.
Cerise pointed upward. "She and Mae are with gentlemen at present."
"Good." Beatriz walked over and sat down next to her employer. "I wanted to talk to you about her."
"Nothing trivial, I hope," Rosalyn asked, looking up from her copy of the latest _Godey's_ _Lady's_ _Book_ magazine.
"Rosalyn," Cerise said sternly, "you promised to behave better regarding Wilma."
"I promised not to do anything more to cause trouble for her, and I won't. That doesn't mean that I have to talk sweet about her."
"No, it does not, but I _will_ ask that you do so when the gentlemen are present."
Rosalyn slowly traced a "King's X" over her left breast with her finger. "When there are men about, _they_ have my sole attention."
"I would hope so," Cerise said. "Now, Beatriz, why do you ask about Wilma?"
"I had an idea," Beatriz answered. "That, perhaps, the room needed..." She pointed to the picture of Cerise that hung on the wall in the parlor. The picture showed Cerise stretched out on her side on a couch, raised up on one elbow, her hair piled high on her head, wearing a blue violet corset and matching drawers, a welcoming smile on her face. "...a picture of your new second done by the same man, Ethan... Seá±or Thomas."
Cerise thought a moment. "A most interesting idea, Beatriz, and a most appropriate one. I will think about this. Please do not say anything to Wilma. I will tell her myself, if I decide to have a picture done." She looked behind the Mexican to where two men were standing in the doorway. "In the meantime, it would seem that you have company."
"And such handsome company," Rosalyn replied, slowly rising to her feet. "Do come in, gentlemen."
Cerise also stood up. "I will leave you then. Come, BonBon." She strode out of the room, the small, brown dog that was the pet of the house, scampering after her.
* * * * *
Trisha was writing up the monthly bills in the office of O'Hanlan's Food & Grain, when she heard a knock on the door. "Yes?"
"May I come in, Trisha?" It was Roscoe Unger.
"Sure, Roscoe," she answered. "You come over to talk about an ad?"
"No," he said, walking into the office, "I came for something else, but I'll be glad to talk about an ad, too."
"What did you come over for, then?"
"I wanted to... uhh, interview you -- about the building fund, I mean, and the dance, too, I guess." He paused a moment to take a pad and pencil from his pocket. "You did sort of promise, you know."
"I remember. You kept your word, so I'll keep mine." She leaned back in her chair. "What d'you want to know?"
"For a start, where'd you get the idea for having a building fund?"
"Hindsight," she replied, chuckling at her own joke. "Those benches they have in the school're hard." She shifted in her chair at the memory. "I thought we should have better, and that got me to thinking what else we could do to make the school more like a real church."
"What else _do_ you want to do?"
"A kitchen, maybe, so we don't have to use tents and fire pits for things like that chicken fry we had back in December. And I think that the reverend should have an office." She took a breath. "But it's not about what _I_ want."
"Isn't it? When you ran for the church board, you said you wanted to fix up the school, so it would work better as a church."
"Yes, and I got elected 'cause a lot of other people agreed with me. But we can take that time to decide what _all_ we want, while we get the money together. Then, when we _do_ decide, we'll have the money for whatever we decide on."
"What about the ones who voted against the fund, Horace Styron and the others?"
"I won't speak for Horace, even if he's always been awful ready to speak for --" She put he hand on his arm. "No, please don't write that. Horace'll have his say, same as everybody else, and the whole congregation'll vote on what we're gonna do. The board will make some recommendations, of course, but _everybody_ decides."
"And who handles the money in the meantime?"
"There shouldn't be too many people. Dwight Albertson, of course, since he's treasurer. He and Horace Styron will announce who all will be working with him on Sunday."
"Do you want to be one of them?"
"Not really. Maybe Arsenio Caulder, him being on the town council and all." A thought came to her. "How about you serving?"
"Not me." Roscoe shook his head. "I-I'm not too good at managing money. It's all I can do to keep the books for my business each month." He glanced at the pile of papers on the desk. "Not like you. It looks like you know just what you're doing."
"Well..." She smiled at what seemed like a compliment. "I've been at it a while."
"Practice makes perfect, eh." He wrote something on the pad. "To get back to the... uh, interview, why a dance to start the fund off?"
"Why not? I... A lot of people like to dance. Kaitlin -- my... my wife -- she gave me the idea. We were talking about all the money the town raised a while back for those folks that got burned out up in Chicago. She said we should use the same idea for the church."
"So you had the idea last fall?"
"I did, and when I thought about it again last month, it seemed even -- it still seemed like a good idea."
"Well, you certainly got things organized quick enough."
"To be honest, a lot of that was Kaitlin's doing. She knew whom to ask. I... I just sort of went along for the ride."
"You're going to the dance, though, aren't you?"
Trisha raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking me?" And if he was, what would she do about it?
"No... I-I was just wondering. The dance _was_ your idea, after all."
"It was. I'm going with Kaitlin, I guess. We'll need people to do refreshments and such."
"You think it'll be a success, then?"
"I hope so. After all, how often do folks get a chance to have fun and do good at the same time?"
Now Roscoe laughed. "Not often. Usually, they have to pick between the two."
* * * * *
Shamus took a step into the kitchen. "Dolores, Dwight Albertson's table is ready t'be ordering their dinners." He looked around, and saw his waitress standing by the sink.
"I will be there in a moment, Shamus." She wiped her hands on a towel and hurried past him into the saloon.
"I don't know what the problem be, Maggie," Shamus said unhappily. "I don't like t'be keeping the customers waiting, and that seems t'be happening more and more these last few days."
Jane was working at the stove. "That's an easy one, Shamus. We got busier, so things take longer t'get done."
"Aye," Shamus told her, "but why, I'm asking? Ain't we always been busy?"
"Si," Maggie answered, letting some anger seep into her voice. "Before there were more people to _do_ the work. The waitress just had to take the order and bring the food. Now, she has to bring back the dirty dishes, clean them off, and put them in the sink."
"She gotta wash'em, too, sometimes," Jane added.
"Ye're telling me I need t'be hiring somebody to do all that work, ain't ye?"
Maggie nodded. "It would be the best answer, no?"
"And, let me guess, ye've somebody in mind for the job, too."
Before Maggie could answer, Jane did it for her. "Arnie done it pretty good. Maybe he could --"
"No!" Shamus snapped. "After what he said -- and done -- he don't deserve another chance."
"Maybe he does, or maybe he does not," Maggie answered, "but do my -- and _your_ customers deserve to get bad service because _you_ do not think that he does?"
* * * * *
Jessie glanced quickly about the room, while the men applauded her last song. Jane was standing near the bar. When their eyes met, Jane nodded to her.
"You know," Jessie returned the nod and began, "most songs're about something that happened long, long ago in some place far, far away. T'night, I wanna sing you one 'bout something that happened right in Eerie just a few months back. Some of you already know the story. The rest of you... well, you'll know it by the end of my song."
She looked out -- yes, while she'd been talking, Jane had gone over to where Milt Quinlin was standing. Jessie strummed a chord on her guitar.
` "Milt, he went a-hunting, and he did ride, uh huh.
` Milt, he went a-hunting, and he did ride, uh huh.
` Milt, he went a-hunting, and he did ride,
` Sam, Paul, and Jessie at his side, uh huh."
` "Now, Ozzie Pratt was sneaky mean, uh huh.
` Now, Ozzie Pratt was sneaky mean, uh huh.
` Now, Ozzie Pratt was sneaky mean.
` Worst SOB I ever seen, uh huh."
Milt looked surprised when he heard his name and realized what the song was probably about. His surprised look became a smile, when he saw Jane standing next to him.
` "Oz pulled his gun on Davy and Jane, uh huh.
` Oz pulled his gun on Davy and Jane, uh huh.
` Oz pulled his gun on Davy and Jane,
` And said, 'you're giving me your claim', uh huh."
Milt and Jane were holding hands now. Jessie caught her eye and gave her a quick wink. Jane smiled back at her and snuggled against Milt.
` "Ozzie shot, and Davy fell, uh huh.
` Ozzie shot, and Davy fell, uh huh.
` Ozzie shot, and as he fell.
` Davy yelled, 'Jane, run like hell!', uh huh."
` "Ozzie followed, looking grim, uh huh.
` Ozzie followed, looking grim, uh huh.
` Ozzie followed, looking grim,
` But Milt was waiting there for him, uh huh."
` "Before Oz had a chance to run, uh huh.
` Before Oz had a chance to run, uh huh.
` Before Oz had a chance to run,
` Milt swung and knocked him out in one, uh huh."
` "So Milt rescued sweet Jane from harm, uh huh.
` So Milt rescued sweet Jane from harm, uh huh.
` So Milt rescued sweet Jane from harm,
` And then he took her in his arms, uh huh."
` "And this is how my story ends, uh huh.
` And this is how my story ends, uh huh.
` And this is how my story ends,
` Milt's kiss said they was more than friends, uh huh... uh huh...
` _uh_ _huh_."
"Kiss her again, Milt," somebody called out.
Milt realized that he had his arm around Jane's waist. She was holding his hand tightly, and the look on her face told him better than words that she was hoping he _would_ kiss her again.
He was about to do just that, when he heard the catcalls and laughter from the crowd. "Go on, Milt. Give her what for."
"Just like on the mountain," another man yelled.
He couldn't, not while people were looking at him, _laughing_ at him. "Jane, I-I'm so, so sorry." He raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed it.
He let go of the hand quickly, turned and glared at Jessie for a moment. Then, a look of anger mixed with embarrassment on his face, he stormed out. The laughter seemed to follow.
"Well that sure as hell didn't work," Jessie whispered. "Now what do I do?"
* * * * *
Friday, February 9, 1872
Jane was the first to see Theo and Elizabeth. "Well, 'bout time you two come down," she said with a giggle.
"And a good day to you, Jane," Theo answered. "Is Laura around anywhere?"
"She's in the kitchen helping Maggie." Jane pointed towards the door. "You want I should get her?"
"That would be nice," Elizabeth said, her voice soft and inviting. She wore a green dress that was only partially buttoned. Her hand went up to play casually with a small, emerald cameo that hung from a narrow chain around her neck, nestling in her very visible cleavage.
Jane ran off. When she came back, Laura was with her. The "twins" could be told apart by the colors of their blouses and the name ribbons each wore.
"I see you two finally decided to come down," Laura said. From what Shamus had told her, she had expected them downstairs today.
"Nobody brought up food today," Elizabeth said, pouting, "and we worked up a real, _real_ good appetite." She giggled at her joke.
Laura stifled a grin. "I'm sorry. Shamus said that Elizabeth --"
"Lizzie," Elizabeth interrupted. "I wanna be called Lizzie now." She giggled again. "Elizabeth is so... so..." She shook her head. "I don't like it anymore."
Theo chuckled and put his arm around his wife's waist. "She sort of insisted. She can be very, ummm, persuasive."
"I can; I can." Elizabeth -- Lizzie giggled again and rubbed her palm across Theo's chest. "There's all sorts of things I can do. Do you want to hear what they are?"
Laura shook her head. "Maybe later... Lizzie. Jane said you wanted me for something; what is it?"
"I-I wanted to apologize to you -- and Jane, too, I guess."
"Me?" Jane asked.
"Uh huhn," Lizzie told her. "I-I remember what an old sourpuss _Elizabeth_ was. If that stuff I drank can make her into me, then I guess it could make Leroy into Laura."
"And Jake -- I believe you said her name was Jake -- into Jane," Theo added. "We came west for a dead brother and, instead, we find ourselves with two live sisters."
"I like that much better," Lizzie said. She opened her arms. "Come give me a hug... sisters."
* * * * *
Bridget looked around. It was early afternoon, and the few men in the saloon were more interested in the free lunch -- or in the beer they were washing the free lunch down with -- than they were in playing poker. She stood up and walked over to where Shamus was standing behind the bar.
"R.J. just left on an errand," Shamus told her. "He said he'd be back in an hour or so."
"I know," she answered. "It was you that I wanted to talk to."
Shamus raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and what was it that ye wanted t'be talking to me about -- if I may ask?"
"It occurred to me that I never apologized for getting you to hire Arnie Diaz."
"Ye never 'got' me t'be doing anything, Bridget. I hired Arnie 'cause _I_ wanted t'be hiring the boy."
"Why was that? -- if you don't mind _my_ asking."
"I don't. First off, I was needing the help. T'be telling the truth, I could still use some help with the place." He sighed. "And it seemed t'me that he needed the help. He was a troubled lad, Arnie was."
"Then why'd you fire him?"
"Because stealing from me, he was. He threw some less than nice words in me face when I was catching him at it, too."
"I guess you weren't able to help him then."
"No, I wasn't. That's the true pity of it."
Bridget smiled wryly. "Shame you couldn't have another chance to try." She waited a moment. "Well, I'd best get back to my table. You never know when an opportunity is going to come along." She ran her hand along the top of the bar as she turned and walked away.
* * * * *
Milt looked over his notes and began. "State law defines marriage as 'a legal state entered into by a man and a woman', but when it talks about divorce, it uses the words 'couple', 'spouses', and 'spouse'. You will need a formal divorce, but the procedure should be the same for the two of you as for any other couple."
"And what is the procedure?" Kaitlin asked.
"One of you files a petition for dissolution of the marriage --" he began.
Kaitlin interrupted. "I'll do that."
"Fine. That makes you the petitioner, Kaitlin, and, Trisha, you'll be the respondent." Trisha slowly nodded her head in agreement, and he continued. "The grounds -- the reason for the divorce -- is that you, Kaitlin, believe that the marriage is irretrievably broken."
Trisha sighed. "Reverend Yingling certainly says it is. I -- oh, hell, I didn't want to start that argument again. What do I do?"
"There are a number of other papers that have to be filed along with Kaitlin's petition," Milt explained. "A request for an injunction so neither of you can leave town -- especially with Emma or do anything about community property or joint debts, for one, and a few other things. I'll help you with those. You both need to consider who Emma will live with, who gets your house and anything else you jointly own, and, Trisha, you'd best plan on paying support for Kaitlin and Emma."
"Happy day," Trisha said, more than a little sarcastic.
"I file the papers with Obie Johnson, the judge's clerk of courts. Trisha, he'll send a copy of things to you, and you have 20 days after you get them to reply."
"What do I say?" the blonde woman asked.
"Nothing," Milt told her. "We'll have everything worked out. When you don't reply, Kaitlin files an application to move things along, and you get 10 more days to respond -- which you won't. After that, Judge Humphreys signs the papers, and you two are... divorced."
"Sounds simple enough," Kaitlin said.
Milt nodded. "It will be, if we can work everything out. One thing, though, one of the other papers that I have to file with the petition is a notice to creditors that you two are divorcing. That'll be printed in the next issue of the paper, and the whole town will know what you're doing."
"Do... do you have to file that?" Trisha asked unhappily. "It could cause a lot of trouble for me -- and Kaitlin."
The man shrugged. "The law says I do. I'm sorry, Trisha."
"Not as sorry as I am," Trisha answered sadly, "and that notice is one of the least things I'm sorry about."
Kaitlin slid over in her chair and took Trisha's hand in her own. "Me, too, Trisha. Me, too."
* * * * *
"So, Mae," Beatriz said, as she walked into the parlor, "I see you got a letter."
Mae nodded. "From my cousin, Sophie, out in San Francisco. She sent this." Mae passed her a picture.
"Sara Josephine Marcus," Beatriz read the back, "on her 11th birthday." She looked at the picture. "She is a muy pretty girl. She gonna break hearts someday." She winked at Mae.
"Thanks, Beatriz." She took the picture and replaced it in the envelope. "I think I'll finish this later up in my room."
Rosalyn picked that moment to walk in. "Finish what?"
"I got a letter from my cousin," Mae told her. "You want to see the picture she sent of her daughter?"
Rosalyn shrugged. "Later, perhaps. Right now, I wanted to ask Beatriz something." She looked around. "Cerise and Wilma aren't about anywhere, are they?"
"They're in Cerise's office, going over bills or something," Mae told her.
Rosalyn smiled. "Better them than us, eh, Beatriz?"
"Si, and how. What did you want to ask me?"
"I wanted to know why you told Cerise to get that Mr. Thomas back here to paint Wilma's picture." She looked hard at Beatriz. "Isn't it a little early to start sucking up to the woman?"
Beatriz smiled. "It was not Wilma I wanted to 'suck up to', as you say. Ethan Thomas, he is muy, _muy_ wonderful in bed, in _my_ bed."
"Better than Sebastian Ortega?" Mae asked wryly.
"Mmm," Beatriz answered. "Sebastian is handsome, he is rich, he is... _big_, and he gives me such lovely presents, but, good as he is, he... he is not the man in the bedroom that Ethan Thomas is."
Rosalyn looked surprised. "You mean, you asked Cerise just so you could have another quick romp in the hay with the man."
"Who said anything about 'quick'?" Beatriz said smugly. "It took him four weeks to paint that picture of her." She sighed. "It is four _weeks_, and perhaps more, of such romps that I am thinking of."
Mae cocked an eyebrow. "That good, eh. If Cerise does get him back here, maybe _I'll_ have to give him a try." She saw Beatriz' expression turn to anger, her fingers curl and seem more like claws. "Or maybe not."
* * * * *
"Supper's ready," Kaitlin announced, putting a steaming bowl of stew on the table. "Come 'n get it."
Trisha and Liam had been sitting on the couch, talking business. They both stood up. "I'll call Emma down," Trisha said as she started towards the steps.
"Don't," Kaitlin told her. "She came home from school absolutely filthy. I've warned her too many times about that, so I sent her up to her room."
"Without supper?" Trisha asked. "That doesn't seem fair." Trisha took her seat.
Kaitlin shook her head. "I'll take a tray up to her later. I want her to think about what she did." Kaitlin sat down, and Liam pushed her chair gently in towards the table.
"What's to think about?" Trisha said. "It's just a little dirt. Boys get dirty."
"_Emma_ hasn't been a boy since November."
"Tomboys get dirty, too. You're building a mountain from a mole hill."
"The only mountain I see is the pile of Emma's dirty clothes. Today was the third time it happened this week, and she'll spend Saturday -- or a good part of Saturday -- doing laundry."
"She came home just as dirty just as often when she was Elmer, and I don't recall you getting this upset about it." Trisha took a breath. "I'm glad she's still acting like that."
"Elmer was a 10-year old boy," Kaitlin argued. "I expected him to grow out of it eventually."
"So will Emma... eventually. Just let her be."
Liam loudly cleared his throat. "I think I see Kaitlin's point, Trisha. Emma's a 13-year old girl now. She can't keep acting like Elmer, and we -- you and Kaitlin, especially -- shouldn't let her try."
"Well, I'm glad to see that at least one O'Hanlan has some sense." She poured him a glass of iced tea. "Always a pleasure when you come over for supper, Liam."
* * * * *
Saturday, February 10, 1872
` "Phil Trumbell
` Arizona Territorial Penitentiary
` Yuma, Arizona"
` "Dear Phil,"
` "I'm sorry, but there ain't no photographer hereabouts,
` so I can't send you them pictures of me like you asked
` for."
` "I probably wouldn't of been able to get 'em done,
` anyway. You wanted one of me naked, and when I get
` naked 'round a man, the last thing I want to do is just
` stand still and smile."
"Ain't that the truth," Wilma said with a giggle. "I like the smiling part, but I like having the fun that makes me smile more." She dipped her pen in the inkwell and began writing again.
` "Since I ain't got no picture to send you, I'll just
` tell you what I'm wearing. Then you can picture me for
` yourself."
` "I got on my best silk drawers. I put 'em on just for
` you. They's pure white with a satin finish. I love the
` way they feel, soft and cool like a gentle breath on my
` skin. Like your breath, when you get outta there and
` come visit me next summer."
` "I got on my favorite corset, too. It's all I got on, on
` top. It's sea green -- matches my eyes. It feels tight,
` like a man's arms, around me, and there ain't nothing
` that feels better than that. Except, maybe, the way it
` holds up my tits, cupping 'em like a man's big hands —
` like _your_ hands are gonna do. There's green lace at
` the top, and that tickles my nipples sometimes. It makes
` 'em stick out and get tight and crinkly-like, all ready
` for you to play with."
` "I brushed my hair just a little while ago. It's all
` shiny and full of curls, hanging down loose 'round my
` shoulders waiting for you to run your fingers
` through it."
` "I got on lipstick, too, bright red. It'll look real
` good on your mouth when I kiss you, or on your chest,
` or -- gee, now where else would you like me to put
` my lips?"
` "I gotta go now. You keep up your spirits, and
` everything else."
` "Wilma"
Wilma carefully lifted the paper and pressed her lips against it, leaving a perfect print. "That'll keep him hard for a while." She giggled and sprinkled some perfume on the paper before she folded it and put it in the envelope, ready to be mailed.
* * * * *
Shamus held the door while Jessie walked ahead of him into his office. Once he had joined her inside, he closed -- and locked -- the door behind him before he walked around the desk.
"All right, Shamus," Jessie asked as he sat down, "what's this all about?"
Shamus frowned. "Ye're still singing for Sam Duggan. I don't like ye doing that."
"Are we gonna have that fight again? You said I could sing where I wanted."
"I know what I said -- _exactly_ what I said, and I know how ye're --" He stopped and waved his hand in dismal. "Oh, t'hell with it. I didn't ask ye t'be coming in here so's we could fight again."
"Then, what did you ask me in here for?"
"T'be making ye a better offer. I want ye t'be singing _here_, just for me customers, two shows every night -- excepting for, umm, Wednesday's off... and Saturdays when we have the dance."
"How much you offering?" A haggle; this was going to be fun. "Sam pays me $8.50 a night. That'd be... umm, $60 a week."
Shamus turned beet red above his collar. "Sixty! Of all the... why not just be asking for me to sign me saloon over to ye?" He thought for a moment. "$30."
"Between you and Sam, I'm making more than that now. Fifty-five."
"Thirty-five... and ye'll just be singing. Ye won't have t'be waiting tables no more."
"I wasn't planning to. Fifty."
"Forty, and... and ye can be having that back room, the one Laura's kin is using, as soon as they leave. Ye'll have it all t'yuirself..." He leered. "...excepting when ye've got... company."
Jessie considered the offer. And the possibilities. "Throw in Maggie's cooking, and we got us a deal." She spit in her palm and held her arm out to him. "Done?"
"Done." Shamus spat in his own hand. He smiled and they shook hands. "Just one last thing."
"We already shook, Shamus."
"Och, thuir's no money involved. I just want ye t'promise that ye'll be telling me what the look was on Sam Duggan's face when ye tell him ye ain't gonna be singing for him no more."
* * * * *
Bridget moved the 9 of spades together with four other cards. "Done," she announced. "How about you?"
"Finished and waiting for you," R.J. answered. "What've you got?"
"Five good, fighting hands. The best one is a straight, 7 of clubs through to Jack of diamonds."
"Pretty good," R.J. said with a wry smile. "I've got a straight, too, but it only goes from 4 of spades to 8 of spades."
Bridget's own smile of victory soured. "They... they're all spades."
"Why so they are," R.J. said, acting surprised. "I guess I win after all." He waited a beat. "What was the bet again?"
"If I win, I get a kiss from you. And if you win..." She giggled. "...you get a kiss from me. Not much of a bet."
"Enough for me. I think I'll collect my winnings now." R.J. walked over and stood next to her.
Bridget got to her feet. "Okay." She leaned over to kiss his cheek. At the last second, R.J. shifted his stance. His arm went down around her waist, pulling her in close.
"Wait --" Bridget started. Her arms started to push him away, then slowly moved up and around his neck. Their lips met. She felt a warmth flow through her. She closed her eyes and pressed her body against his. The feeling grew stronger. She moaned softly.
His tongue slipped in to play with hers. His hands roamed about her body, awakening even more happy sensations, especially in her breasts and down... down in her loins.
R.J. broke the kiss. "Still think it wasn't much of a bet?"
"Maybe not," she said softly, "and maybe I didn't exactly lose."
* * * * *
"Ah," Shamus sighed, "there's nothing like a bit of a rest now that the work's done for tonight." He and Molly were taking a short break up in their small apartment on the second floor of the Saloon, before it was time for tonight's dance.
Molly took a mass of yellow yarn from a bag on the floor next to her chair. "Would ye mind helping me, Love?"
"Anytime." He held out his arms. Molly took one end of the yarn and began looping it around his hands.
"What're ye going t'be knitting?"
"Booties for the baby, little ones for when it's first born, then a few more in the same style but larger. That way, it'll be having the same booties the whole time it's a wee babe."
"That's me Molly, always thinking ahead."
Molly finished looping the yarn. She took the end of it and began forming it into a ball. "I been thinking about some other things, too, Shamus."
He raised an eyebrow. "And what, exactly, is it ye been thinking about?"
"Jessie. Ye was telling me about that offer ye made. If she takes it -- and I'm thinking she will --"
"She already has, Love. It'll be costing me a bit of money, but she's enough of a draw, that I expect t'be making it back. And a good bit more." He laughed, "and it'll be worth something just t'be thinking about the look on Sam Duggan's face when he finds out."
"Aye, Love, but I'm thinking how short of help we'll be, if she ain't waiting on the customers no more. Jane spends half the time in the kitchen cooking with Maggie, and Laura... she wants t'be working, but how much heavy work can she do as the baby gets closer? That leaves a lot of work t'be asking of Dolores."
"I know where ye're taking me, Molly," Shamus said slowly. "Ye're saying I should be hiring someone -- one particular someone, in fact. Arnie." He sighed. "Are ye all in it together?"
"All who?" Molly asked, as if totally unaware.
"Bridget apologizes for asking me to hire the lad. Then she says, I should give him another chance." He smiled. "Give meself another chance, too, she says."
He counted off on his fingers, as he spoke. "Dolores gets almost teary-eyed when she talks about how her family is doing, and Maggie and Jane -- even Jane -- are saying we need him to give the customers the service they should be getting."
"True," Molly said, "every last word of it." She tucked the end of the thread into the ball and secured it in the bag. "And what're ye going t'be doing about it, Mr. O'Toole?"
Shamus laughed and held up his hands. "Surrender in the face o'overwhelming odds, Love. It's against me best judgment -- and Arnie may not _want_ t'be coming back and working for me. He may even have found himself another job, but, come Monday, I'll be going over t'have a talk with the boy."
* * * * *
Milt was standing at the foot of the steps, when Jessie came down dressed for the dance. "Hey, Milt," she greeted him. "Jane's almost ready. She should be down in a minute or three."
"I didn't come here tonight to see Jane -- well, I _did_," Milt told her. "But right now, I want to see you."
"Me, well, now, I'm flattered. What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me what in the hell you had in mind singing that song about me the other night."
"You didn't like it?"
"I most certainly did not." He took a breath. "Jane asked me to come to your show. Did she put you up to it?"
Jessie shook her head. "Don't you go getting mad at her. It was all my idea. She didn't even know I wrote that song. If she had, she'd probably have asked me not to sing it."
"I wish she had. It was a damnably foolish thing to do."
"Seems t'me the only one acting foolish 'round here is you, Milt."
"What do you mean? I've done nothing wrong."
"You haven't? I was watching you 'n her. I think you was ready to kiss Jane when I finished."
"And if I was," he asked uncertainly, "what business is it of yours?"
"'Cause Jane's a friend of mine. You was thinking of it -- I know that much -- but you didn't. How come?"
"I-I didn't; leave it at that."
"You didn't 'cause a few rummies and barflies that ain't worth a pail o'warm spit put together started laughing at you. That's the truth of it."
"And if it is? -- and I'm not saying it is."
"'Course you ain't. You're a lawyer, and you won't point west at sundown if it won't help you. Well, let me tell you something, _Lawyer_ _Quinlan_. Them men was playing with your head. It's fun t'get a man riled up over nothing; I been doing it all my life."
"So I've heard."
Jessie grinned. "And it's true, every last word of it. But what _you_ gotta decide..." She poked her finger at his chest. "...is which is the game you want t'play: the game where they mess with your head or the game you _could_ be playing with Jane."
He looked like he was about to say something, but then scowled and glanced away.
Jessie smiled. "If it's anything like the games me and Paul play, it's a whole hell of a lot more fun." She winked and walked past him towards Shamus' office, where her guitar was waiting.
* * * * *
"Well now, that dress just looks better on you every time I see it."
Lizzie turned to look at the speaker. It was the same man she'd been flirting with on Tuesday, the man Theo had knocked down. "Thanks." She saw the lust in his eyes. A warmth grew in her, and she turned slowly to show off the dress, her blue one. "I'm glad you like it."
"I surely do, ma'm." The man nodded. "It just makes me wonder 'bout something?"
"It does? What?" Her hand fluttered to her bosum, drawing attention to it. At the same time, her lips curled in a mischievous grin, as if encouraging his leer.
"You look so pretty _in_ that dress that I can't help wondering how you'd look out of it."
Theo stepped up next to Lizzie. "That's something you'll never know, friend." He had gone to get drinks, but he'd come back quickly when he saw the man talking to Lizzie. He braced himself for trouble.
"Seems to me, that's up to the lady." The man stepped back, but no more than a foot or so.
Lizzie's eyes trailed down the man's form. "Mmm, nice."
If Theo thought that she lingered far too long at the man's crotch, he didn't say it.
"Very nice," Lizzie continued, "but I think Theo's is... nicer." She said the last word in a low, husky tone. "And he _is_ my husband." She stepped in close, her breasts poking against Theo's arm.
Theo put his arm around her waist. "I think that settles the matter, don't you?"
"I guess it does." The man smiled ruefully and walked away.
"That was interesting," Theo said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank you for choosing me, Lizzie."
She kissed his shoulder. "I know who I want." She giggled. "And _what_ I want. Do you think we have time to go upstairs for some _fun_ before the band comes back from their break?"
* * * * *
Sunday, February 11, 1872
Reverend Yingling stepped over to the altar. "Before we conclude, Horace Styron, the president of the board of elders, has asked to make an announcement." He turned and gestured towards Horace, who was sitting to the right of the altar, with Willie Gotefriend and Jubal Cates.
Horace stood up and walked over to stand next to Yingling. "At last Wednesday's board meeting, a motion was passed -- barely -- to create a fund for possible expansion of this building, _if_ we ever think that we want to."
Trisha was sitting to the left of the altar. She turned slightly in her chair and nudged Dwight Albertson with her elbow. "Why aren't you the one making this speech?" she whispered. "He's making us sound foolish."
"Because _he's_ board president," Dwight whispered back. "He didn't give me a choice."
Styron turned and looked directly at Trisha. "If I may continue," he said firmly.
Trisha knew she was caught. She gave him a slight smile and gestured for him to continue.
"As I was saying." Styron turned back to face the congregation. "If we _do_ need such a fund, then somebody will have to oversee any money we _might_ take in. Dwight Albertson is our treasurer, so he's the head of that committee."
"Might as well be him," someone yelled. "Money'll be in his bank, anyway." A number of people laughed.
"Yes, it will," Styron said, trying to keep control." And I'm sure that he'll do his usual excellent job with it." He nodded slightly towards Dwight. "I don't think that we'll need much of a committee besides Dwight, so I'm only naming two other people: Clyde Ritter and Patrick -- excuse me, my dear..." He nodded slightly to Trisha and smiled, a cat about to pounce on a mouse. "...and _Liam_ O'Hanlan."
* * * * *
"Uncle Ramon," Ernesto asked, pointing ahead, "who is that at your door?"
Ramon looked. A man was standing near the entrance to Whit and Carmen's house. Ramon grinned and broke into a run. "Gregorio!"
"Ramon!" The man took a few steps forward, then stood with his arms outstretched. When Ramon reached him, the two embraced, slapping each other on the back. The other man -- Gregorio -- was dressed in work clothes. He looked quite a bit like Ramon, except that he was a bit taller and more muscular in build.
Carmen was walking with Whit, Maggie, and the children. "That is Gregorio," she explained to Maggie. "He is Ramon's and my older brother." She took her son, Jose, by the hand and hurried towards the two men.
Gregorio saw her coming and swept her up in a bear hug. "Pigtails! Hola, little one," he said with a laugh.
"I do not wear pigtails any more, Gregorio, and you know it," Carmen said, breaking loose. "I am a married woman now, with children of my own."
The man laughed. "You will always be 'Pigtails' to me, little sister." He hugged her again, then looked down at Jose. "And who is this great, big boy?"
"I am Jose," the four-year old answered, "Uncle Gregorio, you know that."
"I thought it was you, Jose. You just grew so much since my last visit that I was not certain."
Whit was carrying his younger son, Felipe, when he reached the group. "Speaking of which, Gregorio, what brings you back this way?" The two men shook hands." Not that you aren't welcome, of course, but we weren't expecting you."
"I told him about Margarita," Carmen confessed. "I guess he came early to meet her."
Ramon put his arm around Maggie's waist and steered her towards the other man. "You can do that right now. Margarita Sanchez, this is my older brother, Gregorio de Aguilar. Gregorio, this is Margarita."
"I-I am pl-pleased to meet you, seá±or." She offered her hand to him.
He took her hand and gently raised it to his lips." As am I to meet you, seá±orita." He released her hand and turned to his brother. "But that is _all_ I am pleased about."
"What are you saying?" Ramon asked cautiously.
Gregorio's smile faded. "I am saying that I have just met this woman. I do not know her, and, until I do, I do not consent to your marrying her."
"I do not remember asking for your consent," Ramon replied stiffly.
"No, you did not, and, as the head of the family, it is my _right_ to be asked. And," he added ominously, "my right to refuse my consent, to refuse to provide you with the share of our family's wealth that you will need to _be_ properly betrothed."
"You would not," Ramon countered, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.
"I might," Gregorio said firmly. "I am not saying 'no'; I am saying '_wait_'. I can stay for a week." He turned to Maggie. "We will talk, seá±orita, and I will inquire into your character. Next Sunday, I will give Ramon -- give you both -- my answer, yes _or_ no."
Carmen glared at her brother. "Gregorio, how can you do such a thing?"
"How can I not? The honor of our family --"
"Honor?" Ramon spat the word. "There is nothing -- nothing! -- dishonorable here except the way that _you_ are acting."
Gregorio shook his head. "Then you do not understand the way of the world, my _little_ brother."
"I know enough." Ramon's hand formed into a fist. Gregario was glaring at his brother. Carmen let go off Jose's hand and braced herself, as if for a fight.
Maggie could see the two men glaring at each other 'like angry dogs,' she thought, 'teeth bared and ready to fight over which will rule the pack.' It was a horrible image. "No!" she shouted suddenly, surprising even herself. "Let... let him have the week."
Whit put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure, Maggie? My brother- in-law's one hard-headed man."
"No, I... I am not sure. But I... I will not have two brothers coming to blows over me." She looked back and forth at the three siblings and saw only anger. Her own face showed a mix of anger and deep sorrow.
Ramon took her hands in his and forced a smile. "You do not have to do this, Margarita. I love you, and I will marry you whatever my brother says."
"And I love you, Ramon, but if you defy him in this, it will cast a dark shadow over our happiness. For the sake of our future life together, I am willing to give him his week."
Gregorio half-bowed towards her, smirking. "And _that_, seá±orita, is a point in your favor."
"Gracias," Maggie said icily.
She kissed Ramon on the cheek. "Come, children," she told Ernesto and Lupe. "We must tell Grampa Shamus and Grandmother Molly that the Whitneys and Uncle Ramon will not be joining them this afternoon."
The children took her hands. "Goodbye," Lupe called back hesitantly over her shoulder as they walked away.
* * * * *
"Let me have your balls, boy." Pablo Escobar slapped a nickel down on the counter of the carnival booth where Arnie was working. Raquel Gonzales was with Pedro, and she giggled at what he had said.
Arnie wasn't as amused. "Are you sure?" he asked as he took the coin and put three carved wooden balls on the counter. "You never were that good at handling your own -- and I know how much you have tried."
"Keep your place, _boy_. I'm the one with the money to spend. You're the one working the booth." Pedro picked up one of the balls and prepared to throw." You just be ready to give Raquel the prize I win."
"A blue doll," Raquel said eagerly. "I want a blue one."
Pablo grinned at her. "Then you shall have one." He wound up and threw the ball at the pyramid of wooden cylinders carved to look like bottles and set up on a small table near the back wall. The ball hit one of them in the second tier. The pyramid wobbled slightly, but it didn't fall.
"You won't get one throwing like that," Arnie taunted.
Pablo muttered something under his breath and threw the next ball, then the third, all with no success." Again," he demanded, pulling a handful of change on the counter. "I've got money. I can pay." He glared at Arnie. "Not like some people."
Raquel stood silently waiting while Pablo threw six more balls. He managed to knock down two of the bottles, but the pyramid didn't fall. "Enough, Pablo," she finally told him. "There is so much more we can do here at the Carnival." She took his arm and murmured, "You do not have to prove anything to me."
"Very well," Pablo said. He pushed the remaining coins to the edge of the counter, then over it and into his hand. "Those bottles are probably nailed down, anyway. It is like the boy there, a cheat."
Arnie reached over and swept his arm against the pyramid, toppling it. "As you say, Pablo." He took a small blue doll from the bottom shelf of prizes and handed it to Raquel. "But it would be a shame to disappoint so lovely a lady because of your lack of skill."
"Gracias," she answered, hugging the doll and giving Arnie her best smile. Pablo took her arm and quickly led her away.
Arnie laughed. He picked up the bottles and began arranging them again, as the owner of the booth had shown him. It was a special way of stacking that made the pyramid far harder to knock over.
He laughed at how easily Pablo had been tricked, until he considered how much the doll he had given Raquel would eat into what he was going to be paid.
* * * * *
"A most excellent meal, Carmen." Gregorio took a final sip of wine and leaned back in his chair. "Even," he added sourly, "if the conversation was lacking."
Ramon glared back at him from across the table. "Conversation? Believe me, Gregorio, you do _not_ want me to say what I am thinking."
"Not if you are going to argue about what I said. That woman ---" Gregorio replied.
Ramon looked daggers at his brother. "That woman's _name_ is Margarita. She is the woman I love. The woman I intend to marry. How dare you treat her that way?"
"As the head of the family, I must protect our interests."
"Interests? You mean the ranch, don't you?"
"That is a part of it. Besides the ranch and this house, what else do we have, thanks to the gringos? I am just..." He sighed. "Ramon, I am just trying to protect you, even if you do not think that you need to be protected."
"From Margarita?" Ramon laughed sourly. "If I need protection from anyone, it is from you."
Gregorio shook his head and sighed. "Ramon... little brother, I am not forbidding your marriage to this... to Margarita. I am only saying that I want to know her better before I give you both my blessing." He tried a smile. "Can you not grant me that much?"
"Considering what has happened so far, I do not seem to have much of a choice." Ramon stood up. "I will talk to her and try to apologize for you."
"Tell her to think of it as a warning of what she gets by marrying you," Carmen teased. "She loves you enough that Gregorio should not matter, but she does deserve to know what an..." She looked closely at Gregorio. "..._idiota_ of an older brother we have."
Gregorio frowned. "That is not a nice thing to say to me, Carmen. I was only trying --"
"You are _very_ trying, Gregorio," Carmen said, cutting him short. "Go, Ramon. Whit and I will stay here and talk sense to this one." She stared icily at Gregorio. "And, maybe -- just for once -- he will listen."
* * * * *
Jane turned at the sound of the back door of the kitchen opening. "Hey, there," she said as Maggie walked in. Ernesto and Lupe were right behind her. "How're you all doing today."
"Did you have any trouble with the Free Lunch," Maggie said by way of an answer.
"No, I... ahh... everything went fine. I put out that spicy stew like you told me. But what --"
"Bueno. Where is Molly?"
"Upstairs, I guess. She wanted t'get ready for this afternoon." She looked closely at Maggie. "You gonna tell me what's bothering you?"
Maggie started for the door into the Saloon. "Later... maybe. Right now, I need to talk to talk to Molly." She stopped and pointed at her children. "You two stay here." Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked through the door.
* * * * *
Molly was in the 'sitting room' of the small apartment she and Shamus lived in. She was straightening a lace tablecloth. "Maggie," she said when she saw her come in through the open door. "Are ye ready for --" She stopped and looked at the other woman. "What are ye doing in them clothes?"
Maggie looked down at herself. The past Sundays, she'd kept on her good blue dress, the one she wore to church. Now, she had changed into an older brown dress, work clothes. "I... there will be no... no meeting this afternoon, Molly. Ramon and the Whitneys, they... they are not coming."
"They ain't? What's the matter, dear?" She walked quickly over to Maggie.
Maggie lowered her head. "Gregorio, Ramon's... Ramon's older brother. He-he wants us to wait, not to go ahead until he... approves of the marriage."
"That sounds like Gregario." Molly replied. "That lad is like one of them bulls in a china shop, making a mess of things every which way without even meaning to."
"You... you know him?"
"Aye. He comes t'town every so often t'be visiting Ramon and Carmen. Mostly, he runs a cattle ranch way over near Fort Yuma. I don't know why he come here right now."
"Carmen wrote him." Both women turned. Ramon stood in the doorway. "She thought he should know." He sighed. "She did not expect him to... interfere."
"In-interfere? Is that... that what y-you call it?" Maggie sputtered. "He-he says that he will stop us... _stop_ us from getting married if I do not meet his approval."
Molly looked horrified. "He didn't? Why that no good; how dare he say something like that? Who does he think he is?"
"He thinks that he is my older brother -- which he is." Ramon stepped over and took Maggie's hand in his. "He also thinks that he can stop me from marrying Margarita, and there is no way that he can do that." He lifted Maggie's hand and kissed it gently. "I love you far too much, Margarita, to let anyone stop me from being with you."
He laughed. "In fact, there is only one thing that I am afraid of."
"What... what is that, Ramon?" Maggie asked, her eyes glistening.
"I am afraid that -- once he finds out what a wonderful, incredible, adorable woman you are, Margarita -- I am afraid that _he_ will want to marry you."
"Ramon." She looked up at him and tried to smile.
Ramon took her in his arms. He used a lone finger to wipe a tear from her cheek. Then he put his hands on each side of her face. "But he cannot have you; he cannot love you as much as I do." He drew her close and kissed her, kissed her deeply.
Maggie let out a moan that was half relief and half desire. Her arms wrapped around him. Their bodies pressed together as a delicious warmth flowed through her body. Any doubt, any fear she might have had about Gregorio melted away, as Ramon's love enveloped her.
Molly smiled and tiptoed out of the room, but several minutes passed before Maggie and Ramon noticed that she was gone.
* * * * *
"Anybody home?" Jessie called out at the front door of the Sheriff's Office. She was coming through, her back to the door, holding a covered tray. "I got your supper here."
Paul hurried over from behind the desk. "I'll take that." He set the tray down on the desk. "And this." He wrapped his arms around her.
"You ain't _taking_ nothing." Her eyes glistened, all fire and anticipation. Her arms went up and around his neck, pulling his head down. She lifted her head up and kissed him.
Their bodies pressed together as they both concentrated on that kiss. When they both broke it, Jessie smiled. "Now that was nice. I'm sure gonna miss these little dinner visits."
"What do you mean?" Was she going away?
She gave him a mysterious smile. "Ya see, bringing food over t'the Sheriff's Office, that's the job o'one of Shamus' waitresses, not his _singer_."
"Singer? What do you mean, Jess?"
"I just made a new deal with Shamus. I'm gonna sing for him -- and just him -- every night. Except Saturday, when we all dance, of course. Thing is, that's _all_ I'm gonna do." She chuckled. "No more fetching drinks or sweeping floors, not for this gal."
"Sounds likes a pretty good deal."
"It gets even better. I get my own room, that big one in the back. I can stay up there 'n practice, try out new songs, during the day -- all day if I want -- without bothering nobody and nobody bothering me."
"When does this all start?"
"Tomorrow. Laura's sister and her husband leave on the morning stage. They're in my -- in that room now. I'll move in after they leave and start singing that night." She reached up and stroked his cheek. "You gonna come 'n' hear me?"
Paul shook his head. "I wish I could. Dan put us on extra shifts because of the carnival. Tor's over at the church grounds tonight, and I'll be there all tomorrow night. I have Tuesday off, though."
"Tuesday, then. I got a new song I wanna sing for you, something Nick Varrick sent me?"
"He did, did he? Do I have a rival?"
Jessie gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Nick's a good-looking man, but you got something I like more." She reached down and gently stroked the front of his pants. "He saw this song in some newspaper, and he thought that I might wanna use it."
"In that case, I'll look forward to hearing it."
"And I'll look forward to singing it for you." She gave him another kiss. "Y'know, there's one other nice thing about my new deal with Shamus. My new room's way in the back, nice 'n'private... with a feather bed big enough for two. We can do something about _that_ after my last show."
* * * * *
Bridget took out her pocket watch. "Cap, it's after 7. I have to get back to my game."
"Please stay," Cap said, taking hold of her hand. "It's been a good long while since we spent some time together."
"And who's fault is that?"
"Mine?"
She frowned. "Your uncle, your _damned_ uncle. Cap, if you don't see that, we might as well end this here and now."
"What I see is that you're hurting, and that I want to help." He tried a smile. "How about, just for a while, we forget about my uncle and the stupid thing he did." He pointed to a low stage near the far end of the churchyard. "Let's go see what Gaspar's up to?"
"Who?"
"Gaspar Gomez, he works for the Ortegas. Part of Carnival is they pick an "Ugly King", a kind of master of ceremonies, and he got picked. His job is to make fun of everybody and everything. It's a way of letting off steam before Lent."
"Kinda like Mardi Gras over in New Orleans."
"Exactly the same, according to..." He'd almost said his uncle's name. "...to people who've been to New Orleans."
They walked slowly over to the stage. Gaspar was dressed in a green, blue, and yellow morning coat with a pair of black and white striped pants. A plush gold and purple crown was tilted jauntily on his head. A few feet away from the crudely built wooden stage, a man-sized straw figure swayed back and forth. By the light of a low, nearby fire, Bridget could see something written across the straw man's chest.
"Vincent Colyer?" she asked, pointing at the figure. "Who the... heck is he?"
Cap laughed. "You spend too much time in that saloon, playing poker. He's President Grant's special agent for the Apache. The Mexicans around here don't like him very much."
"Why's that?"
"He's got Grant calling for a soft hand. The Apache've been killing Mexicans hereabouts for generations. And vice versa. There's no love lost between them."
As if to prove Cap's words, Gaspar began to yell. "You say we should treat those killers fair, don't you, Seá±or Colyer?" He laughed. "We want to do that, don't we, my people?" The crowd booed.
"Okay," Gaspar chuckled. "Maybe we don't." He paused for effect. "But we are all good Christians, so we treat them like it says in the Bible."
"It says in the Bible that if you give a man a fish, that's only one meal -- even if you fry it slow with tomatoes and chilis and..." He rolled his eyes and rubbed his stomach in a comic gesture that got the crowd laughing. "But if you teach a man to fish, he will have food for the rest of his life."
"Only, there ain't so many places to fish out where they live." He laughed. "I don't think they'd know what to do with a fish, anyway, do you?" The crowd yelled its agreement.
"But it does get cold out in those hills, as cold as them Apache's souls." He shivered and slapped his sides, as if trying to get warm. "I say, if you build a man a fire, he will be warm for a day." He picked up a pole with cloth wrapped at one end and thrust it into the fire. When he pulled it out a moment later, it was blazing from the oil soaked into the cloth.
"But if you set a man on fire..." He held the pole up for the crowd to see then touched it to the figure..."he will be warm for the rest of his life." The crowd cheered, as the figure burst into flames.
"You be sure to burn peaceably, Seá±or Colyer. After all, that's the way you want _us_ to act." The crowd cheered again, then laughed as Gaspar did a somersault back onto the stage.
Bridget shook her head and laughed. "I may still be a little mad at you, Cap, but you surely do know how to show a girl a hot old time."
* * * * *
Monday, February 12, 1872
"That should do it." Arsenio stacked the last of Theo and Elizabeth's carpet bags onto their trunk in the rear boot of the stagecoach. He stepped back as the coach line's clerk closed the boot.
Theo was standing with Lizzie next to the stagecoach's open door. "It was good meeting you, Arsenio. I'm proud to have you in the family." He offered his hand.
"Same to you, Theo." He grasped Theo's arm halfway to the elbow. Theo looked at it for a moment, then took Arsenio's arm the same way. The two men grinned at each other, as Arsenio added, "You two have a good trip."
The driver looked down from his high seat. "Best you all hurry up with your farewells and get aboard, folks." He looked at his watch a moment before putting it back in a vest pocket. "We'll be leaving in a couple minutes."
"I-I guess this is goodbye," Lizzie sniffled. She threw her arms around Laura. "I'll miss you, Laura."
Laura hugged her. "Me, too. Have you figured out what you're going to tell everybody back in Indiana about me?"
"Not really," Theo answered for his wife. "Maybe we'll just buy a coffin someplace, weigh it down, and bury it like we had planned."
Laura shook her head. "But then everybody back home will think I'm dead. I-I'm not sure I want that."
"I didn't think so. We'll tell most people that you died, and they wouldn't let us take the body. We'll swear your other sisters and their husbands to secrecy, though, and tell them the truth." He put his arm around his wife. "Lizzie'll be the proof of our story."
Laura gave him a wry smile. "Yes, I suppose that she will. I wish you could have told me before now. I've been worried. I wanted to talk to you about all that yesterday, but..."
"Yeah," Jane chimed in. "Seemed like you was busy upstairs packing the whole day."
Lizzie giggled. "We were busy, but it wasn't all packing." She reached over and took Theo's hand." Was it?"
"No... we, uhh... took some time to do that, too." Theo's face reddened, but that didn't stop him from taking her hand.
At that moment, Rev, Yingling walked over. "I am so glad that I got here before you left, Mr. and Mrs. Taft. I wanted to wish you a good trip." He paused a moment. "I trust you got a satisfactory answer to your questions, Mrs.Taft."
"Oh, I've been satisfied, Reverend." She leaned over and kissed her husband's cheek. "Theo's very good at that."
The Reverend stared at Lizzie. He realized that her hair was thicker and a much more striking shade that it had been a few days before. The top two buttons of her dress were undone now, and the way she acted... "I-I am glad. You seem more... more at ease than you were."
"A dose of the potion'll do that to a gal," Jane said quickly.
Laura shook her head. "Jane... you shouldn't say such things." She studied Yingling's face, trying to judge his reaction.
"I... I must be going." Yingling quickly shook Theo's hand and hurried off. "May the Lord favor you on your journey home." He turned and skittered off without a glance backward.
"What'd I say?" Jane asked.
Lizzie laughed and patted Jane on the back. "Goodbye, my new little sister." She turned to Laura. "This one..." she cocked her head towards Jane. "...will be more trouble than our sister, Rebecca, ever was."
"Probably," Laura admitted, "but she's got a good heart." She hugged Lizzie again. "I am gonna miss you."
Lizzie looked ready to cry. "Me, too. You just promise to let us know when that baby comes."
"We'd better get on board." Theo said. He also gave Laura a hug and a quick peck on the cheek.
Arsenio hugged Lizzie. "You two have a good trip."
"We won't," Lizzie said, "not till we get on the train up in Utah." She pouted. "There's no privacy on a stage. We won't be able to -- you know -- for _five_ whole days." She giggled. "What we did Sunday will have to last us all that time."
Theo gave her bottom a gentle smack. "Just get on board."
"Hope you enjoyed that, Theo," Lizzie told him," because you aren't getting near there again till we're in a private compartment on that train. Five whole days, I gotta be _Elizabeth_." She sighed and stepped into the coach.
Theo laughed. "It'll be good practice for when we get home. You can't be Lizzie there... except when we're alone." He followed her into the coach and took a seat next to her on backmost of the three benches.
Two others, a tall man in a frock coat and a short, heavyset man in work clothes, sat facing them on the front bench. "Can we go now?" the shorter man called up to the driver.
"Gee-yup!" the driver yelled, giving the reins a shake. The stage lurched on its steel bracing and pulled away.
* * * * *
Trisha looked around. It was mid-morning and the feed and grain was empty, except for her and... "Liam, why'd you ask to be on Dwight's committee?"
"I was wondering when you'd get around to asking that," Liam told her. "You spent all day yesterday glowering at me and pouting."
"I do not pout."
"The hell you don't." He pointed a finger. "You're doing it right now."
"Am not." She put her hands on her hips. "But if I am, I have every right to. Since when are you so eager to get involved in political things like Dwight's new committee?"
"Since always, little sister, you were just so puffed up with what _you_ were doing to notice."
"I'm noticing now."
"Yes, you are -- sometimes. I just figured that, since Styron wasn't going to give you a place on that committee --"
"And how could you know that?"
"How could you _not_ know that, little sister? He couldn't be on it; it's Dwight's to run, so he surely wouldn't put you on it."
"No, but he put Clyde Ritter on it. That man's been in his pocket for years."
"Yes, he has, and everybody knows it. Styron needed somebody to make it look... well, fair. That's where I came in."
"You? What have you ever done?"
"Not much of anything." Liam shrugged. "Just be your brother. That's all I'm being now, a brother looking after his little sister's interests, where she can't do it for herself."
He reached over and took Trisha's chin in his hand, lifting her head, so she was looking directly into his eyes. "Ain't that right?"
"I... I guess so." Her arguments fell away. He _was_ only trying to help, after all. "Just let me know before you do anything else like that, okay?"
* * * * *
Teresa Diaz looked at the figure standing in her open door. "Seá±or O'Toole, what brings you here?"
"This laundry for one thing," Shamus said, lifting a burlap bag. "Me Molly asked me t'be bringing it over with me."
Teresa took the bag and made some marks on a sheet of paper. "Tell her that I will bring it over on _el_ _Jueves_... Thursday." She pinned the sheet to the bag, then tore off a portion and handed it to him.
"I'll do that, Teresa, but them dirty clothes ain't the only reason I come over." He looked around. "Is Arnie here?"
"Arnoldo? He is getting dressed." She pointed to a closed door. "He... he has a job at the Carnival over at our church every night."
"D'ye think he'd mind talking to me?" When Teresa nervously shook her head, Shamus walked over and knocked on the door. "Arnie?"
The door opened a crack. The boy saw Shamus and glowered. "What do _you_ want, seá±or?"
"I'd like t'be talking to ye, if I might." He glanced back at Teresa. "In private, if ye don't mind."
"I suppose not." Arnie stepped back from the door, so Shamus could come in. He did, and closed the door behind himself.
"Thank ye, Arnie. I hear ye're working at the Carnival just now."
"Si, I am."
"I hope they know what a good worker they got in ye?"
"They do." He didn't bother to keep the disdain from his voice. "Just the same as you did."
Shamus sighed. "Aye, ye were a good worker. We just had some... problems between us, ye might say." He looked closely at Arnie. "Ye think that might happen if ye was working for me again?"
"I... I do not think so." The boy tensed for a trap.
Shamus chuckled. "Well, if ye're willing t'be giving me another chance, then I'm willing t'be giving ye one." He spat in his hand and offered it to Arnie." We got a deal?"
"I suppose I could give you another chance... since you asked so nicely." He spat in his own hand and shook hands with the barman.
"Fine, ye'll start on Wednesday. I wouldn't want t'be stealing such a good worker from the padre and his Carnival."
* * * * *
"They's a telegram for you, my Lady," Daisy said, walking into the parlor.
Cerise took the telegram from her and looked at the envelope. "Bon, I did not expect the reply so soon." She opened it and read. "Marvelous!"
"Whatever does it say?" Rosalyn asked.
The Lady pointed to a painting on the wall across from her. "That my portrait there will soon have company." The picture showed Cerise stretched out on her side on a couch, raised up on one elbow, her hair piled high on her head, wearing a blue violet corset and matching drawers, a welcoming smile on her face.
"As a way of showing her new role as my second," she continued, "I 'ave invited the artist, Monsieur Ethan Thomas, to come back to Eerie and do such a picture of our Wilma."
Wilma held up her hand, palm open and raised. "Just wait a minute here, Cerise. I don't remember you ever asking me if I wanted my picture painted."
"Per'aps that is because I did not ask. You are my second. Your picture should be there beside mine."
"Can I think about it?"
"Mai oui, Wilma. You can think about what you wish to wear in the picture, and 'ow you want Daisy to do your hair for it. You can even think about 'ow you wish to pose, although Ethan will have 'is own ideas on these things, of course."
"What if I don't want my picture done?"
"You can think about _'ow_ you want to pose, mon petit brave, not _if_ you want to pose," Cerise said firmly. "Ethan will be 'ere next week to begin the work, and I expect you to cooperate with him." She smiled. "But then, I 'ave _never_ known you to 'ave the trouble cooperating with a man."
Before Wilma could answer, the front bell rang. "Sounds like we got company," Mae said, trying to sound cheerful. "Let's _all_ give 'em a nice smile."
* * * * *
"I gotta tell my ma about these." Emma took another bite of the empanada she had just bought from one of the food booths.
"Why?" Tomas asked.
"'Cause they're such a good idea, little apple pies you can carry around with you and eat whenever you want."
"They're called empanadas. I'm sure my mama'd be glad to teach your mama how to make them, if she asked her to."
Emma ate the last of her empanada, while she considered the idea. "We might just do that." She pulled a small yellow kerchief out of her sleeve and began to dab at the corners of her mouth.
"We? You mean _you_ cook?"
Emma looked down and sighed. "Yeah. Ma says I-I gotta learn... now."
Before Tomas could answer, a bell rang out loudly. A man -- Emma recognized him as Gaspar Gomez -- was standing on a stage some yards away. He was dressed in an odd, multi-colored outfit and wearing some sort of gold crown, while he clanged a large brass bell with both hands.
"Seá±ors and seá±oritas," Gaspar called out, "for the next hour -- until 7 o'clock -- I order that the men must wear their ladies' hat and the women must wear their men's hats. Switch." He clapped his hands. "I, your king, command it."
All around them, Tomas and Emma saw men and women smiling and trading their headwear. Even the priest, Father de Castro, chuckled and borrowed the bonnet of an older woman he'd been talking to.
"What the heck's going on," Emma asked, her eyes wide.
"Seá±or Gomez is the Rey Feo, the Ugly King. He rules over the silliness of the Carnival, making jokes and giving funny orders like that one."
Emma shrugged. "It don't make no sense, but I'm surely glad you 'n'me didn't wear hats tonight."
"Me, too," Tomas agreed. He looked around. "Hey, come over here, I'll show you something." He took Emma's hand and dragged her to another booth. This one was selling eggs. Some were just painted fancy colors, with stripes or polka dots. Others were in decorated paper cones and painted to look like birds, animals, even people. "These are called cascará³nes," he told her.
"Caska-roh-nez," Emma said. "What d'you do with them?"
Tomas handed the vendor two pennies and took one, a blue egg with pink spots. "This," he told her. Then, before she could move, he broke it over her head. The shell cracked, showering Emma with pink and blue confetti.
"Tomas," she shrieked. "What'd you do that for?"
"That is what people do, break them over each other's heads." He handed the vendor another two cents. "You do one now."
Emma brushed confetti from her head and the front of her dress. "That is the _stupidest_... My hair, if there had been any egg left in that shell, and my-my dress. How could you?"
"It's a game, Emma, just a game. All that's in the shell is confetti."
"That's no excuse. You... it..." she sputtered on.
"Emma, it is nothing, and you're getting upset over it, just like you was some silly girl."
Emma glared at him. "You take that back." She looked like she was about to slapped him, but she thought better and just stormed away.
* * * * *
Tuesday, February 13, 1872
"LAURA!" Shamus howled, his voice booming through the saloon. "Get yuirself over here, and I mean _now_!"
Laura came running down the stairs, with Molly two paces behind. "What's the matter, Love?" the older woman asked.
"I, Shamus O'Toole, owner of the Eerie Saloon, do order ye, Laura --"
Now it was Molly who yelled. "Shamus, don't ye _dare_ be using that potion magic on her."
"Do ye know what she -- what her husband done behind me back?" He waved the copy of the _Tucson_ _Citizen_ like a flag.
Laura was furious. "No, and we won't know unless you tell us. What did my Arsenio do, and why are you threatening me about it?"
"Threatening?" Shamus' brows furrowed in anger. "I wasn't threatening ye. I just wanted t'be sure that it was the truth I'd be hearing when I asked ye about this here dance."
Molly glared at her husband. "Dance? Ye was gonna do that... use that potion magic on poor Laura because of some dance?"
"And sure'n don't I have the right..." His voice trailed off as his words sank in. His angry look changed to one of great sadness. "No, I-I haven't the right. 'Tis truly sorry I am, Laura." He took his wife's hand and gently kissed it. "And I'll be thanking ye, Molly Love, for giving me the time t'be seeing that."
Now it was Laura's turn to look unhappy. "It's the church dance that got you so worked up, isn't it?" She waited for Shamus to nod in agreement before she went on. "Arsenio told me about it last week. I was trying to find a way to break the news to you, so you wouldn't be so upset." She sighed. "I guess I should've tried harder."
"Would ye mind telling _me_ then?" Molly asked, sounding a bit angry with the pair of them.
Laura took a breath. "The Methodist church uses the schoolhouse for services, but it's not a real good fit. Last week at their monthly board meeting, they decide to raise some money to either fix the schoolhouse up or to get a place of their own. They'll figure out which later. Anyway, they also decided to start things off with a dance. It'll be in three weeks on March 2nd... a Saturday."
"Right up against our dance here," Molly said. "But Laura's only a member of that church, nothing more. Why was ye so mad at her and Arsenio?"
Shamus held up the newspaper. "Because -- let me be reading it to ye - 'Town council members Arsenio Caulder and Josiah Whitney were present at the meeting, since the council also functions as our local school board. Both endorsed the idea. They were, in fact, the first to buy tickets from Dwight Albright, the church treasurer.'"
He looked sharply at the women, as he put the paper down. "Now d'you see? Arsenio not only 'endorsed' that dance that'll be in competition with me own, but he's planning t'be stealing away one of me own waiter girls t'be taking her to that other dance of thuirs."
"Are you saying that you don't want me to go to that other dance with my husband?" Laura asked.
Shamus shook his head. "Let's just say that I'd like t'be talking to Arsenio about it before I decide if I'll be giving ye the night off."
* * * * *
Cerise stood in the parlor doorway. "Attention, ladies, we have guests." She stepped back and two men walked in.
"Sebastian!" Beatriz squealed happily. She jumped to her feet and ran over to Sebastian Ortega. She pressed her body against his and kissed his lips. "I have missed you."
He put his arm around her waist. "And I have missed you, little one."
"Hey there, Sebastian." Wilma stood up. "You gonna introduce me to your friend there." She took the classic pose: left hand on hip, right leg extended slightly.
"I am Gregorio de Aguilar, seá±orita," Gregorio answered, his eyes taking in her generous curves as revealed by the green corset and silky white drawers that were all she wore. "And you?"
Wilma smiled her best smile. "I'm Wilma Hanks, Gregorio, and I am _glad_ to meet you." She ran her tongue across her lip. "And now that we got the names done and over with, what say you 'n'me go upstairs and get better acquainted?"
"There is nothing I would enjoy more." He bowed low before he took her hand and let her lead him to the stairs.
* * * * *
"May I speak with you, Trisha?" Reverend Yingling asked. "In private."
"Can you wait a bit?" Trisha answered. "I'm helping this man with his order."
The Reverend nodded. "Certainly. I meant when you were finished with him."
"That's all right, ma'am," the man said. "My chickens can wait a few minutes for their feed."
Trisha looked around for Mateo. "I can get someone else to wait on you, if you'd like."
"I'd just as soon it was you, ma'am." The man's gaze roamed quickly over her figure. His attentions made her feel odd, though not _exactly_ uncomfortable.
Whatever Yingling wanted, Trisha decided that they couldn't talk about it with people around. "How about in my office, Reverend?" She started walking over before Yingling could answer. She waited till they were both in the smaller room, then shut the door behind him. "What's this about, Reverend?"
"I... uhh, saw the notice in today's paper, Trisha. You are divorcing Kaitlin?" He said it more as a question than a statement.
"After all you said, there wasn't much else I could do, was there?" She glared at the man. "_You_ say we ain't married anymore. I don't like it -- neither does Kaitlin -- but you, you're the expert on the Bible. I can't argue with the Good Book."
"You could. You did, in fact. I am glad that you have seen the truth of our Lord's Word."
"I saw what you _said_ was the truth of His Word, and it doesn't leave me a whole lot of ways to go."
"There is always the righteous path to walk. You have made that choice, and I am glad for you."
"I suppose I should say, "Thanks." The problem is --"
"Problem? How can there be a problem with taking the Way of our Lord?"
"Because what's so simple and true for you -- and for the Lord, I guess -- ain't as simple for everybody else. Kaitlin and me talked to Milt Quinlan. He said that we couldn't just stop being married. We had to get a divorce, do it legal. It's a lot of fuss and bother. It hurts, too, splitting things up and all."
"You are moving out of your house, then, or is Kaitlin?"
"Neither. I offered to, and she wouldn't hear of it. We're going to share the house and all, living together just like we were two sisters or something."
Yingling cocked an eyebrow. "And your... connubial desires, will they continue?"
"Even if they did, I can't expect Kaitlin to go along with them." She shrugged. "I don't know that I really feel the... need any more. I guess that goes with not being married."
"It is the Lord's way of easing your burden." He put a hand on her shoulder. "You are a good... person, Trisha, as are Kaitlin and Emma. If there is anything I can do; if any or all of you need someone to talk to, please call upon me."
"Last time we called on you was what got us started on this divorce business." She sighed, "but you meant well enough. If we need to talk, we all know where you live."
"Then I shall leave you to get back to that man with the hungry chickens." He touched the brim of his hat, as if to tip it. "Good day, Trisha."
* * * * *
Milt strode purposefully into the kitchen. "I'd like to talk to Jane for a moment, if I may."
"I'm right here, Milt," Jane replied, wiping her hands on her apron. "What'd'you wanna talk about?"
The man took a breath. "First of all, I'd like to apologize to you, Jane."
"Would you like us to leave?" Maggie asked, pointing to Dolores and herself.
"No," Milt answered, "I want you -- I want everyone -- to hear this." He took Jane's hand. "I've been acting like such an idiot the past weeks. I realize that, and I'm sorry, Jane, for how much I must have hurt you. "
Jane tried to smile. "I'd say I was maybe confused more than hurt."
"Whatever you felt," he went on, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to be laughed at, even by that pack of fools, and I let it keep me from being with you."
"You... you _do_ want to be with me." Jane was smiling now, her eyes glistening.
"I do. I don't know where it will lead, but I most assuredly want to find out."
Jane threw her arms around him. "So do I." She pressed close, and their lips met in a kiss.
"Just one thing," Milt said when they finally broke the kiss. "May I borrow Jane for a short while."
Maggie gave an approving nod. "I do not mind, if she does not."
"I don't mind one little bit," Jane answered, giggling.
Milt took her hand again and led her into the saloon. It was late enough in the day that a few men were gathering after work for drinks. Some of them noticed the couple.
"Hey, Milt," Fred Norman shouted, "you gonna kiss her now?"
Milt let go off Jane's hand and walked over to the man, who stood up as Milt walked over. "As a matter of fact, I am, Mr. Norman. Do you have a problem with that?" He spoke as if challenging the storekeeper to say something.
"N-no, sir, Mr. Quinlan," Norman replied quickly. "I-I was just asking." He sat down and stared his drink, not wanting to meet the lawyer's eyes.
Milt turned and walked away, without looking back. "I thought not." Jane was waiting near the kitchen door. "Well, Jane?" he asked her.
"Well what, Milt?"
He smiled and took her hand. "I just told these gentlemen that I was about to kiss you. You wouldn't want to make me out to be a liar, would you?"
"Not about that." She answered happily. He took her in his arms, and they kissed again.
If they heard the applause that broke out at that moment, they never gave any sign of it. And their kiss lasted far longer the applause, anyway.
* * * * *
Jessie pushed open the door, so Paul could see inside. "Well, what d'you think?"
"Not too bad." He bowed low and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "After you, Jess. It is _your_ new room."
She did a quick curtsy and walked in. Paul followed, closing the door behind him. "Thanks," she said when she heard it shut. Somehow, she was nervous about what people would think.
A kerosene lamp on a dresser by the door cast a low glow. She turned up the wick, filling the room with light.
Now Paul could see. The room was of a fair size, with light blue wallpaper that looked almost new, and a woven green rug covering most of the floor. A lace-curtained window on the far wall looked out onto the yard behind the saloon. There was a writing desk next to the window, so Jessie could look out while she worked. She could also turn the chair to make it face the serpentine-back sofa set against the left wall. A long, standing rack against the right wall was filled with hangers holding her dresses, skirts, and blouses. A small wooden figure, a toy soldier it looked like, stood in a place of honor on a tiny shelf near the rack, as if guarding the room.
"And this here's the bed." Jessie patted the overstuffed bed that stretched out from the far wall, filling much of the right side of the room. Spool-turned bedposts supported a green cloth canopy over a matching bedspread. As she had promised, it was more than big enough for them both. "Give you any ideas?"
"A few, but I think I got more from that song of yours." He walked over and began to undo the top buttons of her dress.
She was unbuttoning his shirt at the same time. "And which song was that?"
"Bucking Bronco, is that the one Nick sent you? I never heard it before."
"It is. It was in some paper he saw over in Nevada. Some gal named Maybelle Reid wrote it."
"It's nice." He hummed a few notes, then began to sing. "T'was a young maiden's heart, I'd... I'd have you all... all know." He stumbled trying to remember what followed.
Jessie sang the next line. "He won it by riding his bucking bronco."
"Exactly." He slipped the dress off her shoulders. She wriggled, slipping her arms out of the sleeves. It hung at her hips. He pushed at it, and it slid past them and on down to the floor.
Paul pulled her to him. Her arms encircled his neck as they kissed. His arms roamed down up and down her body. He reached below her waist, crushing her petticoat as he cupped her buttocks. She moaned as a jolt of pleasure raced to her breasts and groin.
She broke the kiss to untie the ribbon that held her petticoat. "What d'you mean, 'exactly', Paul?" The petticoat joined her dress on the floor. She opened the last button of his shirt and began working on the vest-like top of the union suit he was wearing under it.
"Well, see, I know this... mustang." He stopped unhooking her corset just long enough to stroke her hair. "She's a spirited gal, with strong legs, and a fine, old rump." He stroked that, too. "And tonight... if she's lucky -- or, maybe, if _I'm_ lucky, I'm going to be giving her a ride."He undid her corset and tossed it away.
Jessie smiled, standing before him now in just her chemise and drawers. "Mmm, let's just see how lucky we're both gonna get." She got his vest off and began working on his pants.
She yanked his pants down to his knees. His long, muslin drawers were tented in front. "I think I found my luck." She kissed her hand and reached down to caress him. "And it's bucking like a bronco, too," she said when his manhood twitched at her touch.
"Just eager to be rode," he told her. He managed to step out of his boots, then his pants and drawers. He stood naked before her now, his maleness looming -- that was the only word she could think of -- at her.
Jessie sat on the edge of the bed. "Then bring him over, and I'll put on his saddle." She reached into a drawer in the small cabinet next to the bed and retrieved "an English riding coat". Paul came close, and she slid the condom onto him, using a thin green ribbon to secure it.
"Giddyap," she said, standing up. Their bodies entwined as they kissed. Her arms still around him, Jessie fell back onto the bed, pulling him down with her. Pulling him down _on_ her.
Her chemise slid up above her waist. Her fingers grasped him and guided him into her. "Ohh, yes," she said happily. His arms were still around her. He rolled over on the bed, so that she was set atop him. He was still inside her, and now he began to thrust. "Yes! Yes!" she yelled, bucking just as she had promised.
* * * * *
"I believe I'd like to try my hand before the Carnival closes down." A ruddy-faced man with a short, bushy beard put a nickel down on the counter of Arnie's booth. "What do I got to do?"
Arnie had begun to pack up, but he took the coin and put three balls down where it had been. "You have three chances to knock down the bottles," he told the man. "If you do, you win a prize."
"Which probably ain't gonna happen, is it, Arnoldo?"
"It's been done. Go ahead, try."
"Not the way you've got them set up. I recognize the way it was done." He laughed, "even if you don't recognize me, do you?"
"No... no, I don't."
"Maybe I should get my partner, Bill. I think you'd know him." He laughed again. "You jump on top of a man, you'll remember him the next time you see him."
The card sharp that tried to rob Bridget, _now_ Arnie knew him. "Seá±or Parnell? Wh-why ain't you in jail?"
"Well, I'm sorry t'disappoint you, Arnoldo, but Bill and me served our time."
"You're not going to try cheating at poker again, are you?"
Parnell shook his head. "What we're trying our luck at is finding gold. We've got a claim we're working up in the Superstition Mountains. I came into town to get some supplies and decided to stay and enjoy this here Carnival."
"You are not mad at me... at anyone?"
"Tell the truth, it was kind of dumb, what happened. I don't blame you or that pretty lady poker player or anybody."
"That is good to hear."
"Yes, sir, I may just go into that saloon one of these days and buy that card lady a drink."
"Look for me, if you do. I start working there tomorrow when the Carnival is over."
"I may do that, Arnoldo. Yes, sir, I may just do that." He smiled, more the smile of a hunter stalking prey than the smile of a friend.
* * * * *
Wednesday, February 14, 1872
Jessie rolled over and looked at the clock on her bed table. "Dang!" she spat.
"Wha -- what's the matter, Jess?" Paul asked, only half-awake.
"It's only 8:50. My body still thinks I gotta get up early t'go work for Shamus."
"Don't you?"
"All I gotta do for Shamus these days is sing. I can come downstairs as late as I want in the morning."
"What about breakfast? Aren't you hungry?"
"Not really." She snuggled up against him. "You wanna help me work up an appetite?" She ran her hand across his chest, her fingers tangling in his curly chest hair.
"I've already got an appetite." His arm reached around her, bringing her even closer. "But it ain't for food."
He kissed her shoulder and leaned back against the pillows. "I've got to tell you, Jess. This is one sweet deal you fell into, especially this bed."
"Fell into? Well, I like that." She frowned until Paul began to run his finger across her breast. "Mmm, but I do like _that_, though."
She sighed. "It is a good deal -- I'll admit it. Room -- this bed..." she giggled. "...board -- whenever I do come downstairs, and besides that, Shamus pays me pretty good -- we haggled a while, and I got him to $40 a week."
"My Lord, Jess." Paul moved his hand away from her and sat up. "Dan Talbot only pays me $18 a week."
"Quit then." She sat up next to him, and ran her hand down his chest. "I'll pay you that much t'be my..." Her hand snaked further down to grasp his member"...mmm, my... my bedwarmer."
"That's not funny."
She reached over and turned his head towards hers. Their lips met in a kiss, deep and full of meaning. When she broke it, she was smiling. "I wasn't trying to be funny."
"Your offer was serious?"
"It was if you want it to be."
He slid his legs over the side of the bed. "I don't."
"What...? Paul, what's the matter?"
He was pulling on his drawers by now. "I have to go, now."
"But you said..." She reached out for him. "I-I don't understand."
"Neither do I." He quickly finished dressing and was out the door without another word.
* * * * *
Tomas was waiting for Emma just inside the door at the start of recess. "Waiting for your _girlfriend_," Bert McLeod had teased, as he walked past.
Emma tried to ignore him, but as she neared the door, he stepped in to block her way. "Can I talk to you... just for a minute?" he asked.
"No, I don't wanna talk to you. Now get --"
He tried a grin. "Even if it's so I can apologize?"
"Apologize? All right, you talk, and I'll listen."
"I didn't mean to call you a dumb girl, honest. I was just trying t'have some fun with that cascará³ne -- I played the same game with my brother and sister the night before, and they both just laughed and hit me with theirs. But when I done it t'you, you started yelling at me."
Emma regarded him with a tiny frown. She seemed to be watching his eyes intently, but didn't add anything to his comment.
He looked troubled. "I'm not saying you was right t'yell, mind you. I-I lost my temper, I guess, and called you... what I did." He took a breath. "Anyway, I didn't mean to, and I'm really sorry."
"You should be, you..." Emma stopped. Tomas was being too sweet for her to stay mad at him. "I-I guess I should be sorry, too, the way I was carrying on. I mean, my hair and my dress were okay, after all. I sorta lost my temper, too." She offered him her hand. "Friends?"
Tomas smiled and shook her hand. "Friends."
* * * * *
"Well, it this don't seem like old times, yes, sir, just like last summer."
Jessie turned at the sound of the voice. "Wilma, what the heck're you doing over here?"
"Came t'check up on my little sister." Wilma glanced over at the other person sitting at the table. "And another old friend, seeing as she's sitting there, free as you please. Hi, Bridget."
Bridget took a bite of toast. "Hello, Wilma."
"Ain't exactly like last summer," Jessie said. "If it was, we'd be doing some chore for Shamus right now, instead of sitting here having this late breakfast."
"That's the truth of it," Bridget said. "By the way, Wilma, do you want some coffee." She lifted a small steel pot off the trivet it was resting on.
Wilma shook her head. "No, thanks. I had some just before I come over." She laughed. "Too much, and I... slosh when I..." She chuckled. ",,,_move_."
Bridget ignored the bawdy comment. "Why did you come over... if you don't mind my asking?"
"I heard tell that Jessie started her new job as full time singer over here the other night. I was wondering how she liked it." She turned to face her sister. "How do you like it, Jessie?"
Jessie sighed contentedly. "Lemme tell you, being able t'sleep in and doing nothing but sing at night beats sweeping floors and cleaning spittoon seven ways to Sunday." She decided quickly not to say anything about Paul. That was sure to blow over. Instead, she said, "I get paid a whole lot more money, and I got my own room besides."
"Sounds like a good deal," Wilma answered. "Though I can't say much for sleeping alone." She giggled. "If that _is_ what you're doing." She leaned back and watched her sister blush.
"I hear you got a new job yourself, Wilma." Bridget jumped in and tried to change the subject. "How's it feel to be Lady Cerise's second?"
Jessie hadn't heard that it was official. "Who told you that?"
"Clay Falk," Bridget said, "he's one of my poker regulars."
"He's one of my... regulars, too." Wilma giggled. "That man surely does have a way about him." She decided to have some fun. "I knows you watch the other players' hand during a game. You ever notice what _long_ fingers he's got?"
What was she trying? Bridget thought. "I-I suppose I have."
"Mmmm, not like I have." She leaned back and smiled, her eyes half- closed in remembering. "When he puts them long fingers on my titties and starts --"
"Wilma... please," Bridget responded, more loudly than she had intended. She had tried to sound firm, but her voice had emerged strained and shaky. "If you keep on talking like that, I'll never be able to let him in my game again."
The other woman chuckled. "I'm sorry, Bridget; I couldn't resist. I-I guess I like talking about men almost as much as I like being with 'em."
She waited a minute, then continued. "You was asking 'bout how I like being the Lady's second, right?" Bridget nodded, her face still a bit flushed.
"Up t'this Monday, I liked it just fine."
"What happened on Monday?" Jessie asked.
"You both seen that picture of herself Cerise has hanging in the parlor." Jessie and Bridget both mumbled in agreement. "She told me Monday that she sent for the fella that painted it. She wants him t'do one of me."
Jessie shrugged. "So, what's wrong with that?"
"Yes," Bridget added, "I'd've thought you'd like the idea, being up on the wall, wearing next to nothing."
Wilma grinned. "Yeah, mostly I like it. My picture up there, getting 'em even more ready for what we're gonna be doing." Then she sighed. "But they's still a little bit of Will Hanks up here in m'head."
"I should've known," Bridget laughed. "It reminds you of a wanted poster. You always hated those things," she chuckled, "especially when you thought the reward wasn't high enough for a criminal of _your_ reputation. I guess that part of you who's still Will is such a stubborn old cuss, it'll take more than even two doses of Shamus potion to drown him."
"You got that right, old friend," Wilma replied. "Will just can't abide the idea of a picture of him... me... -- any sort of a picture -- stuck up on a wall for all the world to see."
* * * * *
Emma sat at her desk opening valentines. She'd gotten -- and given, at Miss Osbourne's instructions to the class -- one for each student in the top two grades. "Even one for 'Whiney Hermione'", she'd told her mother the night before, holding up a poorly cut out red paper heart.
Now she picked up the envelope that had "to Emma from Yully" written on it. (Miss Osbourne had made a lesson out of addressing envelopes by insisting that the students write in script, rather than print.) Emma's fingers fumbled a bit, or more than a bit, before she finally got it opened.
"What in the world?" There was no card or red paper heart inside, just some sort of picture card. She slid out a print of Andrew Russell's famous photograph, "East and West Shaking Hands", the driving of the Golden Spike two years before at Promontory, Utah that created the Transcontinental Railroad.
There was a handwritten note on the back. "I thought that this would be a better valentine for a girl who wants to be an engineer. Happy Valentine Day, Your Friend, Yully."
"What'd you get from Yully?" Ysabel whispered.
Emma showed her the picture. "This, ain't it grand?"
"Better than that red paper cherub you gave him."
"I know, and I think I'll do something about that, right now." Emma stood and walked over to where Yully was sitting, looking at his own stack of valentines." I came over t'thank you for that picture, Yully."
He looked up at her and grinned. "Glad you like it."
"I-I surely do." Emma felt her stomach fill with butterflies. On a sudden impulse, she leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks."
He blushed. "Y-you're welcome." He took her left hand and squeezed it quickly before letting go.
Emma walked back to her own place slowly. She was holding her left hand in her right, an odd smile on her face.
"I guess you thanked him proper," Ysabel told her. "Seems like a good idea." She walked over to Stephan Yingling and gave him the same sort of kiss. They talked for a moment before she came back and sat down next to Emma. "Yes, sir, that was a _very_ good idea."
If Miss Osbourne, busy listening to the second and third grades reading from their _McGuffey's_ _Readers_, saw what had happened, she didn't say anything about it, not then and not later.
Hermione Ritter, two spaces away from Emma, had witnessed both kisses, and, looking down at the crumpled paper heart in her fist, she was trying to decide just what she was going to do about it.
* * * * *
"Here ya go," Jane said. She laid four menus by the place mats on the table. "I'll be back in a bit t'take your orders." With that, she smiled and hurried off to where Shamus was waiting with the judge and two other men.
Liam stepped over to where Kaitlin was standing. "May I?" He pulled a chair away from the table.
"Thank you, Liam." Kaitlin sat, shifting as he pushed her chair in.
Trisha was on his other side. "May I?" he repeated to her.
"I can manage." She scowled and sat down, pulling the chair in. Emma had already taken her own seat. "I don't know why you were so anxious to bring us here, Liam?"
The man smiled, ignoring her expression. "Why, because today's Valentine Day, Trisha, and because it's _your_ birthday on Friday -- in case you forgot."
"Whatever the reason," Kaitlin broke in, "I, for one, am grateful for the gift of a night where I don't have to cook supper."
"I hope you'll think as much of my other gift, then." He took three thin boxes from the jacket of his frock coat. "I've one for each of you." The boxes were wrapped in white paper, with a thin red ribbon on each.
He looked at the top box. It had a small red "E" written on it. "This one's yours, Emma." He handed the box to his young niece.
"Ooh, what is it, Uncle Liam?" Emma asked.
Liam put the other boxes, which had a "K" and a "T" on them in front of the two women. "Open them and find out," he told them all.
The women took off the ribbons and unwrapped the boxes. Kaitlin gathered everything together, carefully folding the tissue paper, so as not to tear it, and put the wrappings in her reticule.
"A napkin?" Trisha said, opening her box. "I guess that's the right present for a restaurant." She took the square of material and placed it on her lap. "Kind of flimsy, though."
Kaitlin chuckled. "It's a lace handkerchief, silly, and a very lovely one. Thank you, Liam."
"I remembered you saying how much you admired that one in Silverman's window," he told her. "So I got one for you, and for Trisha and Emma, too."
"Well, they're lovely," Kaitlin replied. "Thank you again."
"Yeah, thanks, Uncle Liam." Emma began to stuff her handkerchief up the right sleeve of her blouse.
"Carefully, dear," her mother told her. "A pretty thing like that is better pinned to the blousing; it helps to show off one's dress."
"Like this?" Trisha asked, holding her gift next to her blouse.
"Yes," Kaitlin answered, "but it would look so much better on an elegant dress than on that 'workshirt' of a blouse you're wearing."
"I... I don't have a dress, elegant or otherwise." Trisha glanced down at her lush bosom and narrow waist. "Silverman, he... uhh, he doesn't much carry dresses that'd fit me."
She frowned as a thought occurred to her. "And I-I'll need a dress for the dance, won't I?"
Kaitlin nodded. "That dance was all your doing. You really should have something." She studied Trisha for a moment. "Maybe I could... you could buy a larger dress, one that would fit you... umm, on top, and I could... ahh... cut it down so it would fit your waist and such."
"I... can I think about that a little?" Trisha asked. "It's... ahh... a big decision to make." Then she added as an afterthought. "And a lot of work for you, Kaitlin, tailoring to fit me."
"Can you hold off on that decision for a bit?" Liam interrupted. "Jane's going to be back here pretty soon, and I don't know what any of you want for supper."
* * * * *
"Brother, I want to talk to you," Gregorio said. He and Ramon were in the main room on the first floor of Whit and Carmen's guesthouse. Ramon lived here, and Gregorio had taken one of the other bedrooms.
Ramon walked over to the small bar set up nearby. "I don't suppose that I can stop you." He poured himself a brandy -- Whit kept an excellent cellar. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I have been asking around town about the woman --" He saw Ramon's eyebrow's furrow. "Excuse me, about Margarita, and I have heard the strangest stories."
"What have you heard, and who have you heard it from?"
Gregorio walked over and poured his own brandy. "Very nice, very nice indeed." He took a second sip. "Who told me? I will not say. I gave my word, so it is a matter of honor to me."
"Honor?" Ramon chuckled. "You? I am surprised that you can even say the word these days."
"I will ignore that last," Gregorio said stiffly, "considering the state of mind that I find you in." He paused a moment. "When I asked people about your Margarita, several told me that she had been a bandito, a _male_ bandito, who came to Eerie to kill a man." He watched Ramon's reaction. "O'Toole, the man who owns the Shamrock, no, the Eerie Saloon, he did something and transformed the bandito into this woman that you wish to marry."
"Who told you such things?"
"Are they true?"
Ramon thought for a moment. Most of the people in town knew Maggie's story. After getting to know so well the nature of Margarita, he was not embarrassed by her origin. He vaguely regarded it as a miracle, but in fact he hardly ever thought about it. Besides, it could not be kept secret and no lie could change that. "It is true, but --"
"But! Have you gone completely mad, Ramon? She is a robber, a... a freak, a creature of black magic, perhaps, who can know? And you want to marry her?"
"I do." He put down his glass. "The Margarita Sanchez that I want to marry is not the Miguel Sanchez who rode into Eerie all those months ago."
"That is obvious. Miguel was a man who served time in prison. What's come over you, Ramon? Can't you see how mad this is?"
"Miguel was an _angry_ man, angry at the world. Margarita is a sweet, caring woman. I love and admire her so much. At first seemed like she had lost everything, but in just a few months she has made a whole new life for herself -- and her children."
"And she is those children's -- father?"
Ramon sighed. "Si."
"This is _muy_ strange, _hermano_. Only in the old stories of the villages are tales like this told. I admit that those I spoke to had only good words about her. But, still, she is _unnatural_, a... a changling. How could any normal man want a woman like that?"
Ramon smiled. "You tell me, my brother. How could _you_ want a woman like that?"
"Me? I could not want a woman like that, not in a million years."
"Not in a million years, Gregorio?" Ramon asked, knowingly. "Sebastian Ortega told me that the two of you went to _La_ _Parisienne_. Is that not so?"
"We did. What of it -- or would you have wanted to go with us?"
"I have no interest in such places, not since I met Margarita." He paused and looked sharply at his brother. "You did not find out everything there was to know about Margarita, it would seem."
"What are you talking about?"
"Margarita came to town as part of a gang. The leader came to kill the sheriff. She came with him to... to help her family. Shamus gave them _all_ the potion that changed them into women, but their leader, Will Hanks, took a second dose some weeks later."
Gregorio's eyes grew wide. "Will... _Will_ Hanks?"
"Si, she is Wilma now, the woman that you were with. Sebastian said that you called her 'the lively one', that you were most pleased with her." Ramon grinned with satisfaction. "Only, _she_ was a changling, too, Gregorio, the sort of woman that you said that you would not want in a million years."
Gregorio stared silently at his brother for a moment, then shakily sipped his glass of fresh brandy.
* * * * *
Thursday, February 15, 1872
Jessie walked over to the table where Arnie was standing, gathering up dirty glasses in a tray. "I see you're back here, working for Shamus again, Arnie."
"Si, Seá±orita Jessie," he answered, "and he tells me that you are now his singer and not a waitress anymore."
"You got that right." She grinned proudly. "You're talking to the 'Songbird of Eerie.' All I do now is _sing_ for m'supper."
"Then you must have a lot of free time now."
"Some... why?"
"If Seá±or Shamus hired me again, then he is not angry at me and if he is not mad, then you should not be either. You can start the lessons with my father's pistol again."
"I can, but I won't."
"Why not?"
"Shamus gave you your job back to see if he could trust you. You gotta prove yourself to him _and_ to me. You do that, and we'll see about them lessons."
"But..."
"No buts, Arnie, you gotta show me I can trust you first. You do that, and I'll be glad to teach you. Till then..." She looked at the tray on the table. "You got yourself all them dirty glasses t'wash."
* * * * *
"Oooh... yes..." Trisha moaned. She was sitting behind the counter at the Feed and Grain. Her left shoe was off and she was rubbing her foot.
Liam looked over at her. "You okay, Trisha?" he asked.
"Better," she answered. "My shoes are really starting to pinch, so I took one off. The other'll be off in a minute."
"What's the matter?"
"It's that damned 'woman thing' I told you about. And the day before my birthday, no less. Some present."
"Too bad you can't exchange it for something else you like more."
She had her other shoe off now, and was alternately rubbing both feet. "Maybe I just will."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll wait till next week -- till I'm done with my monthlies -- and then I'm gonna go and buy myself something, something real fancy."
"Are you now, and just what would that be?"
"Kaitlin was right. The dance _was_ my idea. I pushed it through, past Styron and all. Folks are gonna expect me to dress up fancy for it."
"I don't know as I'd go _that_ far."
"Well, they will, and I... I'm not gonna disappoint them." She smiled, caught up with the idea and feeling the extra emotional rush that were a part of her monthlies. "When I'm done with my... with everything, next week, I'm going over to the Rylands' tailor shop and see if they can make me a dress."
* * * * *
"So," R.J. asked, cutting himself a piece of the roast chicken he was having for supper at "Maggie's Place." "Did you and Cap have a good time at the carnival?"
Bridget froze in mid-chew. She took a quick sip of wine for cover. "I suppose. Why do you ask?"
"Because I wanted you to enjoy yourself, even if you were with Cap."
"You could've taken me again the next night, you know."
"Bridget, Eerie's not New Orleans, or even Philadelphia. You can see pretty much everything there is to see in one night."
"Seems to me that when a man go woman someplace together, the 'together' is more important than the 'someplace' they go."
"It is." He took her hand. "Especially when it's the right couple that's 'together.' I guess I've got kind of an odd view of Carnival, is all."
"What's the matter? Aren't you religious, or are you _too_ religious for all that carrying on?"
"I'd say that I'm about religious as you are. No, it's just that, well, I told you my folks ran a restaurant back in Philly, didn't I?"
"You did; what about it?"
"When I was growing up, Carnival was just a time when we were extra busy -- all those people coming to the place to celebrate -- and, after that, having to explain for forty days why most of the meat items were off the menu because of Lent."
"I bet you hated that."
"I did. People should've known better. We kept a couple of things, like spaghetti and meatballs, for special customers who weren't Catholic, but, otherwise, well... Lent _is_ Lent, after all."
"I, uh... suppose." She didn't know what else to say.
"Besides, much as I like walking around with you on my arm, I think I like the quiet times -- like this dinner -- a lot more. We can talk, and I... I don't feel like I have to share you with anybody." He smiled and gently squeezed her hand. "That's what 'together' is supposed to be."
* * * * *
Cecelia Ritter put the bowl of okra on the table just as Clyde Ritter, Junior, came back downstairs. "Where's your sister, Junior?"
"She won't come down, Ma," Junior answered with a shrug of his shoulders. "She locked her door, and when I knocked, she yelled for me to go away." He waited a moment, then added, "I think she's crying."
"Crying? I'd best go see what's the matter."
Her husband grabbed her arm. "You'd best finish setting out my dinner, first. Then you can see what's bothering the girl." He looked at Junior. "You help your ma, boy."
"You... you get the water," Cecelia told him, while she loaded a serving plate with fried chicken. As soon as that was on the table, she took a warming tray full of biscuits out of the oven. She got them on the table just as Junior set down a pitcher of water.
"Anything else?" she asked, glancing nervously at the stairs.
Clyde Senior picked up a chicken leg. "Go, already."
"I'll... we'll be down as quickly as we can." Cecelia hurried upstairs and knocked on Hermione's door.
After a moment, a voice from inside yelled, "I said, 'Go away, Junior', and I meant it."
"It's me, dear," Cecelia answered. "May I come in? Please."
"No, I don't want to talk to _anyone_."
"How about if I just listen?" She waited. Finally, she heard the sound of footsteps and the "click", as the door was unlocked.
Cecelia walked in. "Thank you, dear." Hermione was standing near the bed. Her eyes were red, and Cecelia could see wet tears on her cheeks. She sat down on the bed and pulled her daughter to her. They just hugged for a while before Cecelia asked her, "Now, why are you so upset?"
"Ye... yesterday. At-at scho-school..."
"School? Was someone rude to you? Did someone... did that monster O'Hanlan girl do something to you?"
Hermione shook her head. "The... the v-valen... t -tines." She put her head on her mother's shoulder and began to cry again.
"I looked through your books yesterday. You received some lovely valentines, even that pretty cupid from Yully Stone. Whatever is the problem?" She took a cloth kerchief from her sleeve and began to dab at Hermione's tears.
The girl closed her eyes and took a deep breath that seemed to calm her. "He gave Emma a picture of some trains. I-I don't know why. She liked it so much she... she _kissed_ him."
"The little hussy. What did Miss Osbourne do?"
"Nothing. I don't think she saw."
"And what did Yully do? Surely he didn't like being kissed by that little freak, did he?"
"Uh huhn. He-he smiled and held her hand."
"And your teacher did nothing?"
"She was in the back... with the little ones."
"I shall have to have words with Miss Osbourne. To allow such improper behavior in her classroom."
"Miss Osbourne didn't even come over when Ysabel --"
"Ysabel? Is she one of those Mex children they allow in the school?"
"Yes, Mama, Ysabel Diaz. Her and Emma got to be real good friends since Emma got turned into a girl. When Emma got back to her seat, she and Ysabel talked for a bit. Then Ysabel went over and kissed Stephan Yingling, just like Emma did to Yully Stone."
"That mackerel snapper Mex _kissed_ the reverend's boy? I think that things are definitely getting out of control at that school."
* * * * *
Ramon took a sip of wine. "Margarita, this stew is delicious." He was having dinner with her at her restaurant. Carmen, Whit, and Gregorio were with him.
"Si," Carmen added. "Will you give me the recipe... please?"
Maggie smiled. "I will be happy to, Carmen. Thank you."
"It is good, seá±orita." Gregorio wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "I wish that my cook had your skill."
"I will give you a copy of the recipe, also, if you wish," Maggie replied.
"My thanks," Gregorio said. "I believe that I do." He leaned back in his chair. "So tell me something about yourself."
Maggie raised an eyebrow. "Why do _you_ not tell me something about myself. I know that you have been asking questions all around the town."
"And you find it disagreeable, do you not? " Gregorio looked straight back at her. "Then let me ask you something?" He waited till she nodded her permission, then proceeded. "You have two children, seá±orita; is that not also true?"
What was he driving at? "I do... as you well know."
"And you are careful, I am certain, about the sort of children, the sort of adults, too, your Ernesto and... and your Lupe associate with, are you not?"
Maggie nodded, beginning to understand. "So you ask why am I so upset, since you are just doing the same thing, just being careful about who Ramon _associates_ with?"
"Exactly." Gregorio replied. "Why?"
"Because Ramon is not a child to be worried over, and because I would not have been so stern, so uncaring, about the feelings of my children _and_ of their friends, as you were with Ramon and I on Sunday." She sat upright, gathering her dignity around her like a robe. "You want to know about me. I am here. Ask."
Gregorio studied her expression. Ramon smiled proudly and took Maggie's hand in his. "Si, Gregorio," he told his brother. "Ask her what you will."
* * * * *
Laura stopped just outside the saloon. "Arsenio, I'm..." her voice trailed off.
"Scared?" He took her hand. "So am I... a little. We should have done this last night, you know."
"I-I know." She tried to smile. "As I recall, we came up with _something_ else to do last night. It didn't do anything for Shamus, but it certainly calmed my nerves."
"And mine." He sighed. "We have to do ask him eventually." He was still holding her hand. "So, take a deep breath 'cause here we go." She did, and they walked through the swinging doors.
Shamus was tending bar and saw them walk over to him. "Well now, I was wondering when ye'd be coming in, Arsenio."
"I'm here, Shamus, and before anything else, I want to tell you that I don't like anybody, even you, scaring my wife." He scowled at the barman.
Shamus scowled back at him. "And I don't like finding meself in competition with some church. How would ye be liking it if I was to set up another blacksmith shop here in Eerie?"
"Only Arsenio didn't have anything to do with the dance," Laura interrupted, "except to buy tickets."
Shamus still wasn't giving in. "And who's t'be saying that that wasn't bad enough? As far as scaring yuir wife, I do believe I apologized t'her for that. Ask her if I didn't."
"Yeah, she told me that," Arsenio admitted. "I just don't like that it happened at all. And buying those tickets was Whit's idea, by the way. He thought that some of the congregation might still not be sure that the council wasn't upset. Buying tickets showed that we weren't." He took a breath. "Laura and I don't have anything to do with planning the dance, either."
Shamus shrugged. "Then I don't suppose ye know what thuir planning t'be doing for music. I already was talking to Hiram King. Him 'n'his boys'll be playing for me that night."
"Kaitlin O'Hanlan's the one planning this thing," Laura broke in. "She told me at church on Sunday that she figured you had some arrangement with Hiram, so she wasn't even going to ask him."
"I knew she was a smart lass, when I met her back in October." Shamus replied. "No, November was when that boy o' hers and her husband drank me potion, wasn't it?"
Laura nodded. "It was November, all right." She waited a beat. "Anyway, she found another band, a miner named Frank Beard and his two partners. They haven't hit color yet, as the miners say, so they play for pocket money. Kaitlin said that they weren't all that bad."
"But we won't know whether they are or not," Arsenio interrupted, "unless Laura and I go, and you still haven't said if you'll give her the night off."
Laura tried to help. "We don't get that many married, church-going couples at our dances here. You know that, Shamus."
"I suppose I do," Shamus admitted. "And I'll not be such a cad as t'be keeping a husband from showing his wife a good time." He chuckled. "Besides, if I said no, ye'd be moping around here so bad that ye'd be throwing a wet blanket over me whole dance."
Laura broke into a smile. "So I can go?"
"Ye can go." He gave a hearty laugh. "I'll even be giving ye permission t'be having a good time."
* * * * *
Friday, February 16, 1872
"Excuse me... Miss Kelly, I'm sorry to interrupt. May I talk to you for a moment?"
Bridget looked up from her late breakfast, the advantage of being able to sleep in every morning after a long night of poker. "If you want a game, I'll be setting up in about thirty minutes." She raised an eyebrow, the man looked very familiar.
"Thank you, ma'am, but no thanks. After what happened last time, I've given up poker for a while."
Bridget suddenly recognized him. "Parnell, you dirty..." She grabbed at the knife she'd just used on the slice of ham Dolores had served her for breakfast. "This time I'm ready for you."
"Please, Miss Kelly, I'm not looking for trouble." He held up his hands, as if in surrender.
Bridget frowned. "What _are_ you looking for?" She lowered her arm, but she held onto the knife.
"A chance to apologize. Cheating like that was wrong -- dead wrong, and losing my temper when you caught me and trying to hurt you." He shook his head. "That was wrong... _and_ stupid. I spent two months in jail thinking about just how wrong it was."
"And..."
"And I came back here to apologize." He held out a hand and tried to smile. "If you'll let me."
She gave him a hard look. Bridget would rather draw to an inside straight than gamble on a card cheat claiming to show remorse. But to get rid of him, she was willing to put a nickel on what was a dubious proposition. If he didn't go away, it would be his draw, and what he asked for might show what his real game was. "Well, never let it be said I wouldn't give a man a second chance." She shook his hand and sat back down.
"And I appreciate that, ma'am. Thank you." He tipped his hat and quickly left.
She watched him go, never expecting it to be so easy. It probably wouldn't be. "Five will get you ten that he'll be back," she muttered to herself.
Dolores had come over with more coffee. "Who was that, Bridget?" She refilled the lady gambler's cup.
"You remember I told you about I caught two men cheating at cards a while back, and when I called them at it, one of them pulled a gun?"
"Si, R.J. and my cousin, Arnoldo, saved you."
"I wouldn't say 'saved' but they were a big help. Anyway, that was one of them. He just got out of jail for what he did, and he came all the way back here -- to apologize, he claimed."
"He did not threaten you?"
"No, he just told me how sorry he was."
"And you believed him?"
"I accepted his apology for what it was worth and said I'd give him another chance."
"You did not? I would not trust such a man."
"Neither would I. I'll give him another chance, all right, but I'll be watching to see what he does with it."
"Si, and I think that I will be watching, too. He may want to hurt Arnoldo, also, from what you told me."
* * * * *
"Hey, Maggie," Jane called out from the kitchen pantry. "They's somebody at the back door t'see you."
Maggie looked to the door. "Seá±or de Aguilar, what do you want now?"
"May I come in?" Gregorio asked.
Maggie frowned. "Why, do you have more questions for me?"
"No," Gregorio said, trying to smile. "I think asked you enough last night."
"You asked me _more_ than enough. If you have no questions, then what do you want? I do not feed strangers on the porch." She sighed. "Oh, just come in." She pushed the door open.
Gregorio walked through the door. "Gracias. I have not come to ask questions, but I would like to speak to your children."
"You would question my children, now?" She glanced over to the worktable, where Ernesto and Lupe were shelling peas. They were staring at Gregorio and whispering.
"Not question them, meet them. After all, if you marry Ramon, they also become a part of my family." He raised an eyebrow. "Or are you afraid to have me meet them for some reason?"
"I am proud of my children. Come." She led him to the worktable. "Ernesto... Lupe, this is Seá±or de Aguilar, your Uncle Ramon's brother. He would like to meet you."
"We don't want to meet him," Ernesto answered.
"Ernesto," Maggie scolded. "Do not be rude."
"Why not?" Ernesto said. "He was."
Now Lupe chimed in. "Si, we heard how he talked to you on Sunday."
"Even so," Maggie agreed, trying not to smile, "that does not mean that you must behave as badly as he did."
Gregorio bowed low towards Lupe. "Little one, I am sorry if I have offended you. But if I do not meet you, then how can I ever apologize?"
"Well..." Lupe said. "I suppose that I should give you a chance to say you are sorry." She returned his bow with a curtsy of her own. "Hola, Seá±or de Aguilar, I am Lupe Sanchez." She paused, her hands on her hips. "_Now_, you can tell me how sorry you are."
"I am _muy_ sorry, little one," he answered her. "And what about your brother? Are you mad at me as well, seá±or?"
Ernesto jumped off his chair. He ran over and kicked Gregorio in the shin. "Not anymore; now we are even." He stared at Gregorio, daring the man to react.
"So we are," Gregorio replied, sitting down and rubbing his leg. "Seá±orita... Margarita. You do not need my brother to defend you. Your son can take care of you by himself." He chuckled and looked closely at the boy.
"Will you shake my hand, if we are even?" He offered his hand to Ernesto.
Ernesto took his hand. "I will... if you will apologize to my mother..." He glanced over at Lupe. "...and my sister."
"Then I will." Gregorio looked up at Maggie. "I apologize, Margarita, to you and to your children." He smiled. "They do you credit."
* * * * *
Stephan Yingling knocked on the doorframe of his father's office. "You wanted to see me, Pa?"
"Yes, Stephan. Come in... and please shut the door behind you." The reverend waited until Stephan had done that. The boy stood near his father's desk, his hands behind his back. "I know that it's only February, but I wanted to discuss what you'll be doing after you graduate from Miss Osbourne's school in June."
"I expect that I'd be doing what I've did last summer: do chores... and keep up with my Latin, of course."
"You will be doing those things. I also expect you to begin studying some other subjects as well. I've written to Dr. Collier back in Ohio about what you will need to prepare in order to join your brother at the academy as soon as you turn 14. I just received his list of topics."
"Sir, do I have to?"
"Do you have to what?"
"Do I have to go to that school in Ohio?"
"That _school_ is one of the finest preparatory academies for those wishing to become Methodist ministers. Your grandfather was among its first graduates, and both your Uncle Obediah and I attended it."
"Sir, we've talked about this before. I-I don't want to be a minister." He quickly added. "I don't believe that I'm intended for such a high calling."
"Such humility is becoming -- so long as it is not a _false_ humility. Such things are not pleasing to our Lord." He frowned -- glared -- at his son. "And must be punished." He paused for effect. "Do you wish to be punished?"
"N-no, sir." Stephan took a half step back from the desk.
"Very good. You will be continuing with your Latin -- as you said, but you will begin to acquire Greek, as well. Also, since a minister must be able to bring our Lord's message to his congregation, you will be doing advanced work in grammar and rhetoric. And history and logic, to put issues into the proper context."
Stephan compared his father's list to another, one he kept hidden in a drawer in Fort Secret. "Very well, father," he sighed, not wanting to show his feelings." I shall do as you ask."
"I do not recall _asking_, Stephan. As your father, I _expect_ the obedience that is due a parent."
"May I go then, sir? I have homework to do." He left as soon as his father nodded his consent.
"Not as bad as I expected," he thought, as he walked to the room he shared with his younger brothers." Mathematics is the only one missing from his list, and Miss Osbourne'll help me with that, I think. With all those things Pa wants, math'll be just what I need for an appointment to West Point."
* * * * *
Paul walked into the Saloon and looked around.
It was late afternoon, and only a few men were drinking. Laura and Arnie were putting the cloths on the tables that were a part of the restaurant. A couple of men he didn't recognize -- drummers probably, based on the two sample cases resting next to an empty chair -- were playing poker with Bridget.
Everything was how he liked it, nice and quiet.
Except...
"Hey, Paul." Jessie stepped in front of him. Damn, he hadn't noticed her when he'd walked in. "How're ya doing?"
"Not too bad, Jess. How're you?"
She pouted. "Been kinda lonely the last couple days... and nights. Other'n that..." she shrugged"...not too bad."
"Jess, please. I don't want to talk about it; not yet, anyway."
"I do. What happened Wednesday?"
"You think about what you said. When you figure it out, _then_ we'll talk."
"When _I_ figure it out? You was the one who bolted."
"There's bolted, Jess, and there's being run off. You think about it." He stepped around her. "Right now, I'm on duty. I've got to talk to R.J. For a minute, then I head out to finish my rounds."
* * * * *
Saturday, February 17, 1872
Emma met Ysabel at the door. "C'mon up to my room. I got something t'show you." The Mexican girl came inside and followed Emma upstairs. "There it is." Emma pointed to a newly framed picture hanging above her desk.
"It sure is," Ysabel said. "Just like Yully gave it to you."
"That ain't why I put it up."
"No, you put it up 'cause you want to be an engineer someday." She paused a moment. "But the fact that Yully Stone gave it to you didn't hurt none, did it?"
"Well... maybe a little." Emma blushed, as she said it.
"More than 'a little', I think."
"Are you trying to get me to say I like Yully?"
"You kissed him, didn't you?" Ysabel said, giggling.
"Just like you kissed Stephan."
Ysabel hugged herself. "I did, didn't I." She giggled again. "It was _so_ nice. I felt warm and... and goosepimply all over."
"Me, too." Now Emma was giggling. "I wonder if we'll ever do it again."
"We will," Ysabel said stubbornly. "As sure... as sure as you're gonna be an engineer someday."
"I hope so," Emma said, "on both counts."
"You gonna do it today when we get over to Fort Secret?"
"I'd like to, but I don't wanna be kissing him every day." She brushed her hair back with what she hoped looked like a grown-up lady's gesture. Then she spoiled the effect with a giggle. "Let him wait and wonder. He'll appreciate it more when I _do_ kiss him."
* * * * *
Roscoe Unger looked up from his book at the sound of the bell over the door. He saw a chunky, prosperous-looking man in his fifties coming over to the counter. "Can I help you, sir?"
"You can if you're the man who puts out the newspaper," the older man replied.
Roscoe nodded. "I am, sir; Roscoe Unger at your service."
"Abner Slocum." The older man held out his hand, and Roscoe shook it. "I own the 'Triple A' cattle ranch about an hour east of here."
"I know who you are, Mr. Slocum. You have several subscriptions to my paper, but you usually send one of your hands in to pick them up. Is there some reason why you came in yourself today?" No problem, he hoped.
"I've a story for you, Roscoe -- may I call you Roscoe?"
"Certainly. What's the story?"
"You ever hear of Henry Clay Hooker? He has a big ranch over near the New Mexico border."
"I think most everybody's heard of Mr. Hooker. His Sierra Bonita Ranch is probably the biggest in the territory." Rosco paused a beat. "He's a rather... flamboyant gentleman, or so they say."
Slocum laughed. "That's a polite way of putting it."
"Opening his house as if it were a hotel, cutting deals with Cochise, the man's something of a legend."
"He is that. He's also something of a gambler. In fact, that's the story I have for you."
"Sir?"
"Tell you what; if I can call you Roscoe, how about if you call me Abner?"
"All right... Abner. What _is_ this story of yours?"
"That Henry's accepted my invitation to come to Eerie next month for a high stakes poker game, a _very_ high stakes game."
"How high stakes?"
"We'll be playing table stakes, with a $1,000 buy-in -- cash only up front. We'll play for twelve hours -- drinks and food'll be there when we want it -- then whoever's left cashes in."
"That _is_ a story. Who'll be playing?"
"I don't know, except for Henry and me. One of the reasons I'm telling you all this is to drum up some more players." He studied Roscoe's expression. "I assume that you'll be passing the story along to the, ah... real _Tucson_ _Citizen_."
"I will, sir... Abner. My contract with them says that I have to."
"Good. The game will be over at Shamus O'Toole's place -- you can get more details from him -- on March 16th."
"I will, thank you."
"Then there'll be something about this in Tuesday's paper?"
"Yes, and probably next week, too, when I get the boilerplate from Tucson."
"Fine, then. I'll look forward to it." He started to leave.
"One last thing, Abner. Can I interview Mr. Hooker and maybe the other players before and after the game?"
"I can't speak for anyone else, but you can talk to me."
* * * * *
"So, you work here as a dancer also."
Maggie looked up to see Gregorio standing in front of her. He was holding a ticket.
"Yes, I do." She stood and took it from him, putting it with the others in the pocket of her apron. "And I am certain that you already knew that I did."
The music started, a waltz, and they moved out onto the floor. "And would you still dance for money like this _if_ you and Ramon were married?"
"We have not talked about it, but I think that I would. I enjoy dancing."
"You do not think it shameful for a married woman to dance with any man who has the money to buy a ticket?"
Maggie looked about the room. "Do you see that woman, the blonde in the green dress dancing with the tall man in brown?" She pointed to Laura, who was dancing with Joe Ortlieb.
"I do. That is your... helper, Jane, is it not?"
Maggie smiled. He didn't know _that_ story, either. "No, that is her... sister, Laura. Jane is over there." She pointed to Jane, who was with Angel Montero. Jane wore a yellow dress.
"Twins... what of it?"
"Laura, the first one, is married -- expecting a baby, in fact. Her husband is..." she pointed to the bar "...talking to the R.J., the assistant to Shamus."
Gregorio looked shocked. "And he does not mind that his wife does such things?"
"He trusts Laura because he knows that she loves him." She looked straight into Gregorio's eyes. "Just as _I_ love Ramon."
"I know that you do, and that he loves you as well. That is not the problem."
"Then what is the problem... No, what is _your_ problem?"
"You are a fine woman, Seá±orita. I will admit that. Still, you are a peasant, and Ramon is..." He let the words trail off.
Maggie shook her head, a sour look on her face. "You, seá±or, need to face some unpleasant truths. No, our marriage will not be the joining of two noble families. It will be the wedding of a store clerk and a cook, for that is what we are."
"My brother is more than just a clerk in a store."
"And I am more than just a cook." She glared at him, proud of herself. "And our love for each other makes us even more together than we are by ourselves. I wish that you could see that."
Gregorio's expression changed. His anger seemed to change to a wry amusement. "Perhaps... Margarita, perhaps, I can."
* * * * *
"Tor," Jessie greeted Dan Talbot's other deputy, as he walked towards the ticket line. "What're you doing here? I thought you was on duty first shift tonight."
Tor smiled. "I vuss, but Paul, he say vould take der both shifdts tonight, if I vould --" He stopped realizing what he was about to say.
"If you would what?" she asked, sensing a problem.
"Nudhing... It vuss nudhing."
"Tor, you tell me what he said, or I'll... I'll tell Bridget you're sweet on her." Tor had once admitted liking the lady card master.
"You vouldn't."
She gave him a nasty smile. "I'll even say that you're so sweet you keep letting her win when you play poker with her."
"You vould, vouldn't you." He lowered his head in defeat. "Even if it's not true."
"In a country minute, and 'specially if it's not true."
Tor sighed. "All right, all right. He say he take both shifts, if I vould promise to take care of anyt'ing that happen in Shamus' Saloon. Dat vay, he vouldn't haff to come in vhen he vuss making his roundts."
"He did, did he? Why that..." She started for the door, her hands curled unto fists.
Molly had been close enough to hear. She rushed over and stepped in Jessie's path. "And whuir d'ye think ye're going, Jessie Hanks?"
"I'm going over t'have it out with that... with Paul. That dirty so- and-so worked out a deal with Tor, so he wouldn't have to come in here tonight."
"Aye, he's avoiding ye because of that fight the two of ye had."
"I told you; it wasn't no fight. He just up and walked out on me."
"Ye told me, alright. Ye _also_ told me that he was in here yesterday. He said that it was something that ye said t'him that got him all riled. And didn't he say that he didn't want t'be talking to ye until ye figured out what it was, and why it bothered him so?"
"He did."
"And have ye, figured it out, I mean?"
Jess looked down, not wanting to meet Molly's eyes. "No," she answered softly.
"Then ye'd be going over thuir thinking _ye_ was in the right and yelling at him that thinks _he's_ in the right. Knowing yuir tempers - - _both_ yuir tempers -- ye'd only be saying things that'd make yuir problem, whatever it is, even worse."
She lifted Jessie's chin so the two women were staring into each other's eyes. "Wouldn't ye?"
"I- I suppose. Yeah, _he_ probably would."
"Never ye mind who would and who wouldn't be saying them nasty things. Ye both would, I'm thinking. So I'm asking ye -- no, I'm _telling_ ye -- not t'be going over thuir."
"Stay here for the sake of... for the sake of what the two of ye had and for the sake of what ye both want t'be having again between ye again."
"I... oh, all right." She shrugged, the fight flowing out of her. "Thanks, I guess."
Molly gave her a hug. "I wasn't just doing it for ye, Jessie. If I know ye at all, ye'd have come back here in no mood for all the dancing that ye're supposed t'be doing here with all them men that came here for it tonight." She made an angry face. "Worse yet, ye'd have yelled yuirself so hoarse that ye'd be no good to me Shamus as a singer for days and days."
"You're probably right," Jessie smiled dryly.
Molly kissed the younger woman on the cheek. "Now ye go over thuir and try t'be smiling to them men. Paul and ye'll be back together in no time. Ye just see if ye're not."
* * * *
"What's the matter, Angel?" Laura asked. "Why'd you stop dancing?" The band was in the middle of a mazurka. She was wearing her new blue wrap, a sort of dressing gown that tied loosely in the front and showed her long yellow petticoat. It was more comfortable for dancing than her tight dress and corset.
Angel Montiero had a puzzled look on his face. "I do not know, Laura. That last turn, something... something, I do not know how to say it, something punched me in the stomach."
"You felt it, too, then?" Laura told him, smiling mysteriously.
"You know what it was, seá±ora?"
"You know how people have been saying that dancing with me was really dancing with two people?"
"Si, it is silly."
"Maybe it is, Angel, but your _second_ dance partner just kicked you in the belly." She laughed. "I guess he likes doing the mazurka as much as you do."
"Tell him not to kick so high when he does," Angel replied, "or ask him for a little warning next time."
"I've been asking him that ever since he started kicking. He's as stubborn as... as I am."
* * * * *
Sunday, February 18, 1872
Carmen knocked gently on the bedroom door, then opened it a crack. "Wake up, Margarita."
"What time is it?" Maggie stretched and sat up.
Carmen stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "Just after 8:30."
"8:30!" Maggie threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed. "Why did you let me sleep so late?"
"Because you needed it, working until after 2 last night for Shamus O'Toole."
"It is my job." She raised an eyebrow. "Besides, I work late every Saturday."
"So why did I let you sleep in today?" Carmen gave her a smile of satisfaction. "Because my brother, Gregorio, is not the easiest man to face the first thing in the morning."
Maggie crossed herself. "Madre de Dios, I almost forgot that he would be here."
"That is my point. He is not here." She chuckled. "He was never one for going to the church. That is why he did not meet us there last Sunday."
"Is he gone?" Please, Saints in Heaven, let him have gone home.
"Out, but not gone. He left a while ago for a ride around the town. He will most probably wind up at Sebastian Ortega's house. They gave been friends since they were as young as Ernesto. Sebastian also does not often go to the services on Sunday." She paused a moment for effect. "But before he left, he said that he would meet us at the O'Toole's home at two."
Maggie let out a sigh of relief. "I am safe until two, at least, but what will happen then?"
"Who can know? We can only pray for the best. In the meantime, you may be safe from Gregario, but Ramon is downstairs having breakfast -- yes, _I_ made breakfast this morning. We will be leaving for church in..." She looked at the small clock on the dresser. "...about thirty minutes. You are hardly ready to go anywhere with him." She look studied Maggie, who wore only her light, cotton nightdress and drawers. "At least, not to church."
* * * * *
"Be careful with the butter," Maggie warned. "Do not let it burn."
Jane gave the pot with the melting butter a quick stir. "Don't be so nervous. It ain't like I never melted butter before."
"I-I am sorry. This is so... I just want everything to be perfect."
"It will be." She put a hand on Maggie's arm for a moment. "Is the bread ready?"
"It should be." Jane stepped back from the stove, so Maggie could open the oven door.
"It is." Maggie used a pair of dishcloths to take a raised baking sheet full of toasted bread cubes from the oven. She turned and put it down on the worktable. "Pour out the butter over all the bread," Maggie told her.
Jane nodded and carefully drizzled the butter on the cubes. As soon as she had finished, Maggie sprinkled them with pine nuts and raisins. "Now the cheese."
"Halo, Margarita... Jane," Arnie interrupted, as Maggie reached for a small dish of grated cheese. "What are you making that smells so good?" He was carrying a tray of dirty glassware in from the saloon.
"Some kinda bread pudding," Jane answered. "For upstairs."
Maggie smiled. "Capirotada, it is called Jane, a treat for Lent."
"Ah, my favorite." Arnie put the tray down next to the sink. "Can I have a taste when it's ready?"
Maggie shook her head. "This is for... upstairs, Ramon and the rest of them."
"Me and you'll have whatever's left," Jane said cheerfully.
"But there will be nothing left if we do not finish making it." Maggie reached into the cooler and retrieved a glass jar filled with a reddish liquid.
Jane shook her head. "I still don't see how tomatoes and onions can be part of a dessert."
"Because they can." She unscrewed the jar. "They balance the pilocillo... the sugar, the cinnamon, and the anise. Now, pay attention, as I do this." She poured it over the bread.
Arnie watched the two women until he was sure that their attention was focused completely on the bread mixture. He stepped back over to sink and set the tray down on the counter. Some of the glasses in the tray still held liquid. He took a last look back at the cooks. They were still looking at the bread. "Cheers, ladies," he whispered and took a drink, then another.
That was enough to risk. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and walked back into the bar.
* * * * *
"What are you knitting, Molly?" Maggie asked. They were in Molly's sitting room, waiting with Shamus.
Molly looked up. "A blanket for Laura's baby." She smiled broadly. "She's saying I'm t'be its grandma. Ain't that --"
A knock on the door stopped Molly.
"Ramon..." Maggie jumped to her feet and started towards the door.
Shamus stood in her way. "I'll be getting the door, Maggie. Ye go sit down like the lady ye are." When she didn't, he added. "Now!"
"S-Si, Shamus." Maggie sat quickly on the couch.
Shamus walked over and opened the door. "Carmen... Ramon... Whit... and Gregorio, o'course." He stepped back, making a broad gesture of welcome with his arm. "Come in and have yuirselves a good sit down."
"Thank you, Seá±or O'Toole," Gregorio said. They all walked in, and Ramon hurried over to take a seat next to Maggie. She smiled shyly, as he took her hand in his.
Molly stood up, her knitting stowed in the basket next to her chair. "Would any of ye be caring for some tea?"
"Wait, a bit, Love" Shamus told her. "I'm thinking that we'll be needing an answer from Gregorio before we're offering these folks tea... or anything else."
"That ain't very hospitable," Molly answered.
"'Tis no more so than the way Gregorio pushed himself into things last week."
Maggie shook her head. "No, Shamus, please. Do not do this."
"You are right to be afraid, Margarita," Gregorio told her. He sounded annoyed.
Suddenly Maggie could not hold in the building tension. She glared at Gregorio. "Afraid? Of you?" She snorted. "I have had it with you... with your arrogance."
"Say whatever you have to say, Gregorio," Ramon was still holding Maggie's hand. "But say it to the both of us."
Gregorio sneered. "As you wish." He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "Ramon, I was very upset when I met this woman. It seemed to me that you were marrying a peasant, someone who was far, far beneath you." He stopped and looked directly at Maggie. "Then I discovered who... what she had been, and I was even more convinced that you should not marry her."
"Gregorio!" Carmen retorted, "you are wrong, so very wrong. Never have I seen you act so foolishly."
Gregorio frowned. "Carmen, how dare you say that to me, your brother?"
"How dare you say what you are saying to _your_ brother?" They stared fiercely at each other.
Ramon stepped between them. "Gregorio, I love Margarita, and I am marrying her. You are my brother, and I would like your blessing, but we will be married whether I get it or not."
"In that case, little brother, I have nothing more to say." He turned and walked through the still-opened door. At the last moment, he looked back and added, "for now." Then, the others watched him walk down the hall.
"Well, that went well," Whit said, forcing a smile.
Maggie held Ramon's hand in hers. "Did-did you mean what you said, Ramon, that you would marry me anyway?"
"Margarita." He could feel her trembling. "I never doubted that I would marry you. The only question was what Gregorio would think when I did."
She sighed. "He will not be very happy about it."
"He'll come around," Whit told her. "He hated the fact that his sweet, innocent little sister wanted to marry some damn fool gringo. Now here it is only a few years later, and he can almost tolerate me."
Carmen kissed her husband's cheek. "He does not see in you the qualities that I do."
"That's 'cause he don't bring 'em out the way that you do, Hon." Whit put an arm around his wife's waist and pulled her close.
Carmen laughed. "I have my ways. "Now if you will release me, Carida, we can start talking about the muhal... the bridal gift and the dowry."
* * * * *
Monday, February 19, 1872
Someone -- Emma suspected Hermione -- had brought a jump rope to school.
` "Emma and Yully
` Up in a tree,
` K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
` First comes Love,
` Then comes Marriage,
` Then comes _Yully_ with a baby carriage."
The girls' chant reached the side of the schoolhouse, where the boys were choosing captains for the week's ball game.
"Dang!" Yully flinched at the sound of his name. His penny fell the farthest from the target by more than a foot, his worst shot ever. He retrieved the pennies he'd used.
Hector Ybaá±es chuckled. "Looks like Bert and me is captains this week."
"You and Stephen best keep your minds off your girlfriends when we're playing." Bertram McLeod added, as he picked up his own pennies.
Yully tried not to show his anger. "They ain't our girlfriends."
"Then you won't care if Emma don't play," Hector said. Bert nodded in agreement.
"That ain't fair."
"See, she _is_ his girlfriend."
Stephen took a step towards Hector. "You're just mad 'cause she plays better than either of you."
"Does not!" Bert answered.
Stephen smiled. "Then prove it. Let her play, and we'll see who's the better player." Several other boys mumbled their accord
"All right; all right. She plays." Bert knew when he'd lost, but he wanted one last shot. "Yully's girlfriend plays."
* * * * *
Roscoe Unger waited until mid-morning before he went over to O'Hanlan's Feed and Grain. "Is Trisha -- Miss O'Hanlan -- around?" he asked a stocky Mexican who was unloading a crate of seed packets, arranging the packets into a display.
"In the office," Mateo told him, pointing to the door.
Roscoe walked over and knocked on the doorframe. "Trisha?"
"Come in, whoever it is," she answered from inside. "Oh, hello, Roscoe," she said when she saw him. "What can I do for you?"
He stepped in, not quite closing the door behind him. "I'm getting ready for tomorrow's issue of the paper. You hadn't given me that ad for the dance that you promised."
"Can't you just do one up yourself?"
Roscoe shook his head, looking embarrassed. "I... I'm not very good at writing ads. There was one I did, I... I don't want to think about it."
"What happened?"
"Mr. Silverman was having a sale on men's shirts. I sold him a half page ad." He made a broad gesture. "It read, 'Big Shirt Sale' in 18- point type."
"What's wrong with that?"
"When I ran off a proof copy -- that's the last thing you do before the big run of the paper -- I discovered that I'd... I'd left out the 'R'." He chuckled nervously.
Trisha thought for a moment, then she began to giggle. "Yes, I can see how that would be a problem, but..." She thought for a moment. "It didn't mean that the advertisement itself was bad."
"No, but it got me thinking. Silverman's having a big shirt sale, and 'Big Shirt Sale' is the best I can come up with. You could've done ten times better I'll bet."
"No, I couldn't." But even as she said it, a phrase, "Don't move, Gents; Silverman's got you covered", came to her mind.
"Sure you could." He smiled.
Trisha caught herself smiling back. "Well, I _was_ working on something for the dance." She took a sheet of paper out of the drawer and handed it to him.
"It's a house... no, a school. The school, but with its roof blown off. Oh, I get it. 'Raise the roof to help us raise the roof.' That's a nice play on words." He handed it back to her. "See, I said you were good at writing these things."
Trisha felt... something... pleasant run through her. "Thanks. I guess we'll use this for our ad."
* * * * *
"I wish to speak to the Reverend." Cecelia Ritter announced, as she stepped through the door and into the parlor of the Yingling house.
Martha Yingling looked up from her dusting. "He's in the kitchen. I'll --"
"Rather late for breakfast, I should think," Cecelia chided.
The Reverend walked in carrying two glasses. "It is indeed, Cecelia." He handed a glass to Martha. "I was just getting some lemonade. Would you care for a glass?"
"I've no time for lemonade," Mrs. Ritter sputtered. "Neither do you... considering."
Yingling's smile faded. "Considering what?" He gestured towards an open door. "Shall we go into my study?"
"We might as well stay right here." Cecelia smiled now that she was more in control of the situation. "What I have to say concerns you, too, Martha."
Martha raised an eyebrow. "Me? What are you talking about, Cecelia?"
"May I?" Mrs. Ritter sat down without waiting for permission. The Yinglings sat down opposite her on the settee and waited for her to continue.
She took a breath and began. "Your boy, Stephan. Last week -- Valentine's Day, it was -- he kissed a young girl."
Martha shook her head. "Are you certain of that? Our Stephan would never do something like that."
"I have no reason to doubt my Hermione. She saw the whole thing. He kissed one of those Mex brats we let go to the school." She groped for the name. "Diaz... yes, Ysabel Diaz."
Yingling's expression clouded. "I shall talk to the boy. Such behavior is totally uncalled for."
"I agree." Cecelia pressed her point. "Though, from what Hermione told me, it isn't entirely his fault -- or the Diaz girl's, either."
Martha took her husband's hand, bracing for even worse news -- or gossip. "Who's fault is it, then?"
"Emma O'Hanlan, that girl who used to be a boy; she's been throwing herself shamelessly at Phillipia Stone's boy, Ulysses. Hermione told me that Emma kissed him first. Then... then, she made the Diaz girl go over and flirt with your Stephan."
Martha tried very hard not to smile. 'Hermione's no better than her mother,' she thought. 'Cecelia's trying to make trouble because Yully Stone likes Emma.'
"I shall talk to my son." The Reverend stood up quickly. He didn't sound very happy. He took Cecelia's hand, gently pulling her to her feet. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention."
Cecelia looked flustered. "You... you're welcome."
"I am always glad to speak with a concerned parishioner." He was guiding her to the door. "Good day, then." He opened the front door, smiling politely.
Not knowing what else to do, Mrs. Ritter went out onto the porch. "Good day, Reverend... Martha." The reverend nodded and closed the door without a word.
"You handled her very well, my dear." Martha handed her husband his glass.
Yingling took a quick sip. "Practice, Martha, long years of practice." He took another sip. "I will have to talk to Stephan, though. He's been acting very oddly lately. If he did kiss the girl, it shows me just how badly things have turned."
* * * * *
Arsenio walked into the saloon just as Jane was bringing out a tray of sliced turkey for the Free Lunch. Laura and Dolores were standing next to the table waiting to get their midday meal.
"Arsenio," Laura greeted him. "What brings you over here?" She set down her plate and kissed him on the cheek.
Arsenio smiled and kissed her back. "That kiss was reason enough, but I came over to give you this telegram we just got." He handed her a Western Union envelope with her name written on it.
"Now, who..." She tore it open and read. "It's from Theo. He wanted to let me know that they got to Salt Lake City all right."
Arsenio raised an eyebrow. "It took a week to get there?"
"No..." Laura's face reddened. "Today was the first chance he got to send it. Lizzie want to... umm... make up for lost time on the stagecoach."
Arsenio chuckled. "Other than that, what's he say?"
"Staying over another day," Laura skimmed the telegram. "Waiting for an eastbound train -- I hope they're getting a sleeper." She giggled. "He says I should take care on myself... and the baby"
Arsenio put his arm around her. "I'll make sure of that."
"Oh, and he says to say hi to his new sister, Jane." She folded the telegram and put it in her apron pocket. "That's about it."
"What does he mean, 'new sister'?" Dolores asked. "You have been sisters all your lives."
"No, we ain't," Jane said cheerfully. "Till I took that potion last summer, I was --"
"Jane!" Laura and Arsenio both yelled. "Be quiet."
She looked at the pair of them. "Wha... what'd I say?"
"You started to say something about some kind of a potion," Dolores replied slowly. "Something that your _sister_ did not want you to say."
Jane looked nervously at Laura who gave her a harsh look in return. "Then I guess I better not say it," Jane replied.
"No, you shouldn't," Arsenio added. "Besides, it's time to eat, not talk. "
Laura sighed and took an extra slice of turkey for the sandwich she was building. This wasn't going to be the quiet lunch she'd been hoping for.
* * * * *
` "Go dig my grave both wide an' deep,
` Place a marble stone at my head an' feet,
` An' on my breast place a turtle dove
` To show the world I died of love."
Jessie stretched out the last note of her song. There was some applause as she finished, but not as much as she'd gotten used to.
Nobody threw coins.
She decided to make the best of it. "All right, then, anybody got a request?"
"I ain't got a request," Molly called out from where she was standing by the bar. "But I got me a question."
Jessie looked around. No one else spoke. "What's your question, Molly? Is it about a song?"
"In a way, aye, it is." She took a breath. "So far t'night, ye sang 'Red River Valley' and this last song."
"That's right. What's your question?"
Molly pressed on. "Last night, ye sang 'Lorena' and 'Jeannie -- Jimmy with the Light Brown Hair'."
"So?"
"So? By all the blessed Saints, Jessie," Molly asked, "don't ye know any _happy_ songs anymore?"
* * * * *
Tuesday, February 20, 1872
Shamus was taking a break, reading the paper and having a cup of coffee. "You seem in good mood this morning, Shamus," R.J. observed. "You get to the piece about the big poker game, yet?"
"I was just reading it now," Shamus answered. "One thousand dollar t'be buying in, twelve hours of table stakes poker; it sounds t'be a game they'll be talking about around here for years and years."
R.J. gave a wry smile. "It does at that. Too bad it'll cut into the profits from that night's dance. A lot of our regulars are going to be watching to see who wins."
"Och, didn't I tell ye, R.J.? Thuir won't be a dance that night. Abner Slocum's paying t'be using me saloon for the game."
"Then we're really going to lose money." R.J cocked an eyebrow. "You don't seem very upset about it. When you heard about the church dance, you were --"
"That dance cost me money. I'm expecting t'be _making_ a tidy sum from this here poker game."
"Abner is paying that much for a table?"
"More'n just the table. Abner's paying Maggie and me t'be having the kitchen open in case any of them high rollers gets hungry, not t'be mentioning that he's picking up thuir bar tabs."
"That still won't make up for all the men who'd pay at a dance."
"And they'll still be paying. I won't be _closing_ me saloon, just roping off a space for them big shots t'be playing. All them others -- and I expect thuir'll be a _lot_ of 'em -- can stand around and watch the game."
R,J, laughed. "And watching a poker game can be thirsty work."
"Aye, lad," Shamus said happily, "it surely can."
* * * * *
Father de Castro stopped sweeping when he saw Ramon and Maggie walk into the church. "Welcome, my children. What brings you here?" He noted their nervousness and the way they were holding hands. "Some good news, I should say."
"Si, Padre," Ramon answered. "Margarita and I... I asked her to marry me, and she said, 'Yes.' We are going to be married."
"That is good news, very good news," the priest said. "My congratulations to you both."
"Thank you, Padre. We came to ask... when she formally accepts my proposal this Sunday, can we do it here at the church?"
"Of course. I can think of nothing that would please me more -- except to officiate at your wedding. When will that joyous event be? You cannot be married during Lent, of course."
Maggie smiled shyly. "We thought... the Sunday after Easter."
"A good time." De Castro told her. "And we can do the betrothal ceremony right after Mass on Sunday; you can give Margarita her bridal gift out in the garden by the side of the church."
Maggie smiled and looked at Ramon, "That would be perfect."
"Any day that you agree to become my wife _is_ perfect." He smiled and took her hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it before letting go.
The priest nodded. "And who will be here to bear witness on this 'perfect' day of yours?"
My sister, Carmen, and her husband, will represent my family," Ramon answered. "And Sebastian Ortega will stand in for my godfather."
Maggie hesitated. "My children, of course. My sister and brother-in- law back in Mexico do not know that I am a woman. Molly and Shamus acted as my family during Ramon's peticion de mano."
"It is fitting that they be with us on Sunday," Ramon told her. "Molly is very much of a mother to you, and Shamus; did he not call himself the 'father of the bride' at Laura's wedding?"
"Then they should be here, as well," Father de Castro said. "To make it _three_ miracles."
"Three?" Maggie said. "I do not understand."
"The first, the greatest is the love that the two of you feel for each other. Such a love is truly a miracle and a blessing from our Lord. As to the others, I have always thought that it would take a miracle to get Shamus O'Toole _or_ Sebastian Ortega to come to the Sunday mass."
* * * * *
Stephan Yingling knocked on the doorframe to his father's office. "Mother said that you wanted to see me, sir."
"Yes, I did." He put down his pen. "Please shut the door behind you and take a seat. He waited while the boy did as he was told. "I heard a disturbing report about you yesterday. It seems that you have been acting in a lasciv... an improper manner towards one of your classmates."
"I'm afraid that I don't understand."
"Did you or did you not kiss one of the young ladies in your class?"
Stephan blushed. "Oh, that. Actually, Ysabel... umm, she kissed me." He rubbed his cheek. "I was too surprised to do anything."
"But you wanted to kiss her, didn't you?"
"She's a pretty girl, sir. You told me about girls and the birds and the bees when we had that... talk last year. I like Ysabel -- as a friend. I wouldn't do anything to disrespect her."
"I should hope not. If any word of your actions should reach Dr. Collier at the academy..." And Cecelia Ritter was just the sort of woman to do something like that. "...it could hinder your admission."
"Wouldn't want that." Stephan tried to keep the irony out of his voice.
He failed; the Reverend heard it all too well. "You _will_ be going to the academy, Stephan, and on to the seminary after that. My mind is set regarding your career."
"Even if my mind isn't... sir?"
"It will be. You will follow your brother and myself into the ministry and lifelong service to our Lord. _That_ is irrevocable fact." He paused for a moment. "What translation are you working on, now?"
"Just finishing up Cicero."
"I think that you'll do something of Terence next, 'Brothers', I think, and I'll expect five pages a week."
"That's... that's quite a lot."
"It will keep your mind occupied, which is as important in your increased fluency in Latin and rhetoric. I would like to keep you away from the young lady in question -- and her intemperate friend, Emma. But that is not possible without taking you out of school, which I will not do. You will, however, have nothing more to so with her than what your class work requires of you."
"Sir, I don't think that you're being fair."
"No sinner ever knows how just his punishment truly is." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "You may go now. We both have work that we must attend to."
"Sir, please..."
"Go, Stephan." Yingling picked up his pen and resumed work. He didn't even look up at his son as he worked.
The boy sighed and left.
* * * * *
"Here are the plates, Jane." Dolores put a stack of dishes on the table Jane was setting up for the evening's dinner crowd.
Jane took one from the stack and put it down between the knife and fork that were already on the table. "How come you brought these out instead of Arnie?"
"I wanted to talk to you." She looked around quickly. "About what you started to say yesterday."
Jane frowned and swallowed hard. "Laura said I shouldn't talk about that."
"You do not have to tell her we talked about it. She is at home now, having dinner with her husband." Dolores didn't add that she had deliberately waited until that evening when she knew that Laura wouldn't be there to stop Jane from talking.
"What do you want to know for?"
"Because ever since I came to Eerie, I have had the feeling that there is some sort of secret in this saloon. People are careful about what they say whenever they see me. They at once start to talk about something else. Something happened here that people do not trust me to know about. Or are they trying to protect me from something that could hurt me if I found out about it?"
"It ain't you, Dolores, but if the wrong person found out the secret, he could spread it around, and that'd hurt other people. Molly's told me more'n once how bad it could be."
Dolores was quiet for a moment, wondering how many people were involved in whatever had happened. "Molly does not seem like the sort of person who would deceive a friend for no reason. What could be so bad that it would hurt many people?" She asked haltingly, "Was someone -- killed?"
"Oh, tarnation, no. The potion stopped folks from being killed."
"Is it a medicine then, something that saves people's lives?"
"I don't know that it saves lives so much as changes 'em."
"Changes lives, what do you mean? I vow on the virgin's tears that I will not say anything that could hurt anyone. If my friends here trust me so little, maybe I should find another job."
Jane touched Dolores' hand. "No, for Pete's sake, don't do that. Me 'n' you is friends, and I'd miss you if you wasn't around!"
Dolores sighed. "I do not want to go, unless I have to. Just tell me, what is so important about this medicine you took? Were you so sick or hurt that you had to take it?"
Dolores could see that her questions were causing a struggle inside Jane. Finally the other young woman said, "It does save people's lives sometimes, but in a funny way."
"Jane, dulcita, you are not making very much sense. If this medicine did not help you, why did you take it?"
The blonde shook her head. "The Judge said I had t'take it for what I done."
"The Judge said? How did a judge become involved? What did you do?"
Jane looked down at the floorboards. "If I told you, you might not want to be friends no more."
Dolores smiled encouragingly. "That cannot be, Jane. Everyone you know must already know what happened, and they still want to be your friends. Why do you suppose that I would be any different?"
"It'll sound like a tall tale. It takes a little getting used to."
The senorita stroked Jane's cheek with her fingers. "Coming to Los Estados Unidos I have to get used to new things all the time. Did you hurt someone, querida? Is that what you are afraid to have anyone know?"
"I reckon I did hurt somebody -- a little. I -- me and Toby -- we took Jessie and Laura up to our claims up in the mountains. We didn't mean no harm; we thought they was sweet on us."
Dolores took a step back. "You and this Toby, you were the sort of women that... that like other women?"
Jane arched her neck indignantly. "Hellfire no. We was men." She flexed her arm as if making a muscle. "_Real_ men, if you knows what I mean, even if Toby 'n' me was both pushing 50."
Dolores stared into her friend's face, amazed. "I think you have having a burla... a joke with me," she finally said.
"I'm saying that it was the potion that changed me. Didn't you ever read about things like that happening in stories?"
The brunette felt at a loss for words. She knew that Jane had a childlike nature and might easily go off into flights of fancy. But this was much worse than she had suspected. "Are you talking about magic? I hope not, because there is no such thing."
"Maybe not in most places," Jane replied firmly, "but there's more 'n a little magic right here in Eerie."
Dolores sighed again. 'Is that the secret?' she thought, 'that Jane is a little loca, and her friends do not want others to find out how badly off she is?' Deciding to get the whole story out of her companion, Dolores asked, "Did Toby take this magic potion, also?"
Jane shook her head. "No, he... he died. They said it was a accident." She shrugged. "Maybe it was."
"And you say that this medicine -- this potion, it changed you into a woman, into Laura's sister? Increáble... unbelievable."
"The magic makes you look like the prettiest gal you ever seen. I was sweet on Laura, and 'cause of that, I looked so much like her, once I took that potion, that she said we was twins."
Now it was Dolores' turn to shake her head. "It just is not possible. Jane, carida, is it not more likely that you have just dreamed all this? What do you say to your friends when they tell you it is not true?"
"That's just it. They all know that it _is_ true. You can ask anybody. You can even tell 'em I told you."
* * * * *
"Did you see that advertisement for the dance in today's paper?" Kaitlin asked, taking a bite of the fried chicken she'd made for that night's supper.
Trisha tried not to smile. "Was it any good?"
"It was an excellent piece of work. The 'hens' were all talking about it at Ortega's market this afternoon."
"The ladies liked it, did they?"
"They did. Naomi Cates told me her husband, Jubal, even admitted that _he_ thought it was good."
Trisha chuckled. "And him one of Horace's men." She ate a forkful of beans, then continued. "Anyway. I'm glad you liked it. Seeing as _I_ wrote it."
"You?"
"Why not me. I always enjoyed writing the advertisements for the Feed and Grain. Besides, this dance is real important to me. I need it to be a big success."
"I'm sure it will be."
"Truth to tell, you're doing more work on it than I am, organizing all those committees and such."
"Thank you for noticing, but it was, still, your idea to raise the money with a dance."
"It was." She took a breath. "That's why I decided to take your advice and get a dress."
"Wonderful. We can go to Silverman's tomorrow."
"I... ahh, with all that work you're doing, I didn't want you to have to work on a dress for me, too."
"Alter it, you mean, so it would fit your b... so it would fit you better."
"Uh huhn. I'm going to go over to Rylands' and see if they can fix me one in time."
"Be careful when you go there, Trisha. I've heard stories about Enoch Ryland."
"Stories, what kind of stories?"
"Some of the ladies say he can get a bit too... familiar... with his hands, I mean."
"Not with me he won't." She smirked, sure of her ability to handle herself, even in her new form.
Kaitlin nodded gravely. "Oh, of course not. He knows your background. He wouldn't dare."
* * * * *
Wednesday, February 21, 1872
"Here's yuir lunch, Paul," Molly said, carrying the tray into the Sheriff's office."
Paul cleared room for it on the desk. "How come you brought it, Molly? Usually one of the waitresses brings it over."
"Aye, but t'day it's me that brought it, and brought a question with it, I did."
"I thought so." He made a sour face. "All right, ask your question. Or should I ask it for you?'
"Ask... if ye're so sure that ye know what I'd be asking?"
"Jessie. You want to know what the problem is between her and me. Am I right?"
"Aye. And now that ye've asked the question, why don't ye be answering it?"
"It-it's hard to explain. Let's just say that I couldn't be what she wouldn't be herself."
"Well that's clear... clear as mud. Just what in the name of all the Blessed Saints are ye talking about?"
"Look, Molly. I know that you're trying to help, and I appreciate it. You just pass what I said on to Jess. You may not understand what I'm saying --"
"Ye're danged right I don't."
"No, but she will. At least, I hope she will."
"And if she does?"
"Then we can talk. With a little luck we can settle the whole thing."
"And what if she don't understand -- or she don't _want_ t'be understanding?"
"Then..." He took a deep breath. "...we'll both be the worst for it."
* * * * *
"Find anything?" Enoch pushed back the curtain and stepped into the fitting room.
Trisha held up the album she'd been looking through. Each page had a color picture of a woman in a gown. The price and possible variations in color, trim, and length and shape of the sleeve were listed. "This one; it's the prettiest dress I've ever seen."
"May I have a look?" He stepped around and looked over her shoulder. The dress was gold-colored, with dark gold trim. It was sleeveless, with a low neckline that would show off her bosom to good effect. The bodice was tight before it flowed out into a full skirting. The matching overskirt split into two, long apron-like overskirts, front and back, tied together with three large bows on each side.
Trisha didn't know why -- and her own feelings surprised her -- but if she had to wear a fancy dress in public, this is the sort of dress she wanted to wear.
Enoch nodded in agreement. 'This is just the sort of dress a frivolous, flirt of a girl might wear,' he thought. 'You may have started out as Patrick O'Hanlon, but I'd say more than your body has changed. Let's just see how much like sweet, _horny_ Wilma Hanks you are now.'
"A very good choice," he continued aloud. "I'd suggest you do your hair the way the woman in the picture has hers." He touched the back of her head, then gently ran a finger down the length of her neck. "Long ringlets trailing down to your shoulders."
"Do you -- ooh -- think so?" She shivered at the sensations his stroking finger sent through her.
He noticed. And smiled. "I do. I warn you, though, that dress'll cost about $75. Do you want to spend that much?"
"$75. That... that's a lot of money."
"You could always, well, go to Silverman's," he said without any real conviction. "Aaron does have a lot of dresses."
"Yes, but, with my... shape..." Her small hands made a gesture, as if to point out her lush bosom, narrow waist, and broad hips. "His dresses... they just don't fit me right."
She paused in thought, looking at the picture again. "This dress here, it's so pretty... and it would be my first _real_ dress. The whole idea of a dance was mine. I _have_ to look my best." She nodded her head once, quickly. Her mind was made up. "Yes, _that's_ my dress."
"Fine, then. Please take off your blouse and skirt... your corset and petticoat, too."
Her eyes widened in surprise, and her hand rose again, fingers wide, to just above her bosom. "What? Why?"
"So I can take the measurements I need to sew that gown." Then he cocked his head to one side and said, "there's no need to be apprehensive; it stands to reason that you wouldn't be used to dress fittings."
Trisha didn't care for the idea that she might be acting more timidly than an ordinary woman. "That makes sense... I guess." She stood up slowly and began to unbutton her blouse. As she did, she glanced over and saw Enoch watching her. Despite her determination to remain calm, his expression made her... uneasy.
"O-out," she said softly, almost a whisper, adding, "please. I-I'll call you when I'm r-ready."
The tailor nodded. "I'll be just outside." He walked through the curtain, the album under his arm, and closed the curtain behind him.
Trisha took off her blouse. A wooden clothes rack stood against one wall, with a number of hangers dangling on the crossbar. She hung the blouse on one and started on her skirt.
Her skirt -- and her petticoat -- were soon placed on two other hangers. Her corset took a while longer. "Too damn many hooks," she muttered, as she draped the garment over the crossbar.
She closed her eyes for a moment, readying herself. "Y-you can come back in now."
Enoch walked in carrying a cloth measuring tape and a small notepad. He looked at her and smiled broadly. "Let's start at the top with that pretty neck of yours."
"You know best. Like you said, I never got measured for a dress before. Only a suit, and that was for my confirmation when I was 14."
"It's very much the same for a dress. Now hold still." He laid the end of the tape on the side of her neck, holding it there with a finger, while he carefully wrapped it around her with his other hand. It reached the starting point. He let it go and made a note on the pad. "Now, that didn't hurt, did it?" he asked.
"No... not really."
"Not really. You mean, it hurt a little? Well, let me fix that." He stepped in close behind her and, to her surprise, kissed her softly at the place where he had held the tape. Trisha's eyes opened wide in surprise.
"What? Why did you do that?"
"I didn't mean to startle you. Umm... raise your right arm straight out from your shoulder and hold it there."
Bemused, she did as he asked. He put the end of the tape at the midpoint between her shoulder blades and ran it out, flat against her, to the shoulder. He stopped for a moment to look at the tape, then he continued on, stopping when he reached her elbow.
He was standing _very_ close. Trisha could feel his breath on her bare skin, especially where the skin was still moistened from his kiss. When he took the tape away, he kissed her shoulder, just above the neckline of her camisole and nearest to where he had held the tape. He kissed her again at the other spot.
"Do -- do you kiss every woman you fit a dress for?" she asked stumblingly.
"No, of course not," he replied with an admiring smile. "Only the special ones like you. Now, raise your other arm, please," he told her, not waiting for her to say anything more. He started the tape in the small of her back, brought it around under her left arm, across her front just above her breasts, and back around under the right arm to where it began.
As he had reached it around her, he had slid his fingertip against the fabric of her camisole and across her breasts. She felt a pleasant warmth grow in her body and, distracted by it, she let him continue.
"A little lower this time," he said. He let go of the end of the tape and kissed her neck again. It seemed that this kiss lasted a bit longer.
When he brought the tape under her arm, he placed it on her breasts, right atop her nipples. He used his free hand to check the placement, leaning over her shoulder, blowing a puff of warm breath on the moist spots on the base of her neck.
She felt his body against hers. His hand was on her breasts, his fingers playing with her nipples. She could feel them stiffen at his touch as he maneuvered the tape.
"Mmm," Enoch said, "You smell very nice, Trisha. That rose scent suits you." He kissed her neck again.
The warmth flowed though her. "Oooh," she sighed and let her head roll backward. "Th-thank yooou." He brought the tape under her right arm and moved his head to look at the number.
Then, all of a sudden, he was kissing her neck, her shoulder again. Both hands were upon her breasts now, caressing them, kneading them, and playing with her nipples. She shivered at the sensations that she was feeling, a warm flush that took her voice away.
Her bedroom sessions with Kaitlin had shown Trisha the physical delights of having a female body. Kaitlin had ended their intimacy weeks before, and Rev. Yingling's pronouncement that the two women were no longer married had sabotaged any chance of their starting ever again. Now, Enoch's hands and mouth were reminding her of what she had been missing and how much she wanted, no, how much she _needed_ to feel once again what her former wife had caused her to experience.
'This is just what Kaitlin warned me about,' she told herself, 'but it feels so...' She shivered as Enoch rubbed a rough fingertip over her right nipple and gave a gasp that resolved into a soft moan. 'Besides, what harm can a little touching do?'
"Moving down..." he took his hands from her breasts and came around in front of her. "Measure your waist next." He knelt down and looped the tape around her. After he had written the number in his pad, he reached over and lifted the bottom of her camisole, exposing her flat stomach.
"What are you... oh... ohh!" Enoch's tongue flicked in and out of her navel. Trisha moaned again and swayed slightly, unsteady on her feet. It felt so incredibly intimate. Kaitlin had never done anything like this to her, and Trisha's mind reeled at the warm shivers that ran through her body.
He stood up and put his arms around her waist. Up against her, he felt like a mountain of strength. Was that how Patrick had made Kaitlin feel? Her eyes were dazed and only half-opened. She looked up at Enoch and tried to speak. He silenced her by nibbling her lips.
Trisha straightened with a lurch, her body instinctively stretching itself, as if to prolong the intense feelings she was experiencing. Her hands trembled, then, as if of their own accord, her arms rose up to circle around him.
He was acting even better -- worse -- than Kaitlin had warned her about. Trisha was sure that she could make him stop, but wasn't quite so sure that she wanted him to. Not quite yet, anyway. She had up to now thought that it would feel awful to be touched in such a way by a male. But....
"_That_ was real nice," Enoch said when he broke the kiss. "We can get back to it after I finish with this." He smiled and held up the cloth tape. She nodded, her voice stolen away by the sudden intensity of what she realized was her arousal.
He placed the tape a couple inches down from her waist and ran it around behind her. A finger ran along her hip as he moved the tape around. He managed somehow to give a gentle squeeze to each buttock as well. Trisha leaned her head on her left shoulder as each squeeze sent a tingling through her body, and made her breath come in panting gasps.
He noted the measurement in the pad with the others, then he put one end of the tape at her navel. He ran it down to the floor. "Waist to ground," he explained. As he moved the tape slowly down her leg, he slid a fingernail along her skin. She trembled as the sensations flowed through her, especially since, they all seemed to converge at her groin.
"I hope that didn't hurt." He moved the tape away. "But if it did..." He kissed her navel again, flicking his tongue in and out.
Her knees were going weak. She put her hands on his shoulders -- his broad, masculine shoulders -- to steady herself.
"Inseam last," he told her. "Please stand with your feet apart."
She complied, not thinking about why he needed to measure the inseam for a dress. She was curious... ready... _eager_ for whatever he would do next.
Enoch started the tape at the bottom of her right shoe and ran it upward. Again, his fingernail slid against her skin as he moved his hand, and, again, she trembled.
She trembled more when he reached her crotch. He took a quick look at the tape, and, when he dropped it, his hand remained. She felt his fingers through the soft muslin of her drawers, as they caressed the entrance to her feminine core. She gasped, savoring this new and rare experience.
"May I?" he asked. She looked down. His fingers held the ribbons that pulled her drawers tight at her waist.
Undress her? She was about to say, "No", when he ran a fingernail down one side of her feminine slit and up the other. "Y-y-yes!" she hissed the word without thinking, then added, "Ooh, pl-please."
He yanked at the bow before she could change her mind. It came undone, and her drawers fell in a heap around her ankles.
Enoch leaned in and kissed her navel again. At the same time, his fingertip slowly -- oh, so slowly -- stroked her nether lips. His touch was flint on steel, setting off dozens of sparks of pleasure that shot through her body. How could a man make her feel this way? It seemed so wrong, but it felt so right....
She closed her eyes to shut out the world -- and there was nothing in the darkness except those sparks like a sprinkle of stardust a trail of stars leading the way to the womenhood she was now, oh, so ready, so eager to accept.
He kissed her navel one last time. Then the kisses moved down her flesh, moving an inch at a time towards her crotch. He mixed the kisses with gentle bites and his lapping tongue. Lordy, he was so much better at this than Kaitlin. Trisha was quivering, barely able to stand, when he finally reached her soft patch of curls there between her legs.
But he didn't kiss it. Instead, he blew a puff of air, then another, at it. The curls fluttered in his breeze, exciting her more than she could have imagined. He moved closer, and she felt his tongue dart into her, exploring the tender tissue inside, as she gave a shudder and a small cry.
Her eyes suddenly went wide. His tongue had found its target. She felt it brush against her small nub of flesh. She was moist and warm down there. It was a rapturous warmth, that built and built and built, until sizzling pinwheels of energy spun through every part of her body.
All at once, it was like he had pulled her trigger. Her hands flailed at his head. Her body shook and spasmed. She heard a woman's voice -- her own -- shrieking. Her legs gave way. The last thing she knew was her fall into darkness.
* * * * *
Emma hurried, wanting to be outside the school, waiting when Hermione came out. "I wanna talk t'you, Hermione Ritter."
"Well, I certainly don't wish to talk to you." She tried to ignore the other girl.
Emma grabbed her arm. "No, you'd rather talk behind my back."
"You leave her alone, you horrid girl," Eulalie McKecknie scolded.
"This ain't your business, Lallie," Emma answered. "Go away."
"No," Eulalie said, trying to sound brave. "You go away... Patches." It was the insult from months before, back when Emma was still wearing boy's clothing.
Hermione pulled her arm free and stepped next to her friend. "Yes, _Patches_, go home." She took a breath. "Nobody wants you here."
"I do." Ysabel Diaz stepped in next to Emma.
"You would," Hermione taunted. "You're as bad as she is."
Penelope Stone was suddenly standing next to Ysabel. "What about me, Hermione? I'm Emma's friend, too."
"Even after she went and kissed your brother?" Hermione taunted. "I thought you Stones were proper people."
"That's what this is all about, ain't it?" Emma asked. "It's all 'cause Yully likes me more'n he likes you."
"If it is, you can both stop." Yully stood a few feet away, a scowl on his face. "Last thing I need is a couple of silly girls fighting over me."
Emma turned and stood blinking at him. None of the girls' taunts had stung worse than Yully's words. "But... but I thought," she stammered. "I thought you liked me."
Yully shook his head. "I do. I like you just the same way that I liked you when you were Elmer, as a _friend_."
"Th-that's all?" Emma asked, keeping her voice as steady as she could.
Yully smiled. "I admit that I admired how hard you worked to keep playing ball, but then..." His smile became a grin. "...I always thought Elmer was a stubborn cuss."
"You like me in a different way, though; don't you, Yully?" Hermione smiled in triumph.
Stephan Yingling now stepped up cautiously and listened from couple steps away. "Not that much, Hermione," Yully answered without looking at any of the girls. "Not that much at all. Let's go, Stephan." The boys began walking and never looked back until they were out of the schoolyard.
* * * * *
Trisha's eyes fluttered open. "Mmmm," she said, delighting in the feeling of warm honey flowing though every part of her body.
"Awake at last." Enoch sounded rather smug.
She looked up at him. She was lying on a bed, she realized. She stretched, feeling the cool sheet against her... her _bare_ skin. "What!" She was wide-awake, now, looking down at herself. She wore her camisole, but it was unbuttoned and pulled back to expose her pillowy breasts and her still erect nipples. All she had on below her waist were her green and black-stripped stockings. "How... how did I..."
"You fainted. I thought that you'd be more comfortable in a bed than on the floor. You weren't out for very long," he explained, a grin on his face. "My room's right next to the fitting rooms." He paused a moment. "Now that you're awake, we can continue." He slid a finger across a breast, tickling her.
"Continue; with measuring me for the dress, you mean?" He couldn't mean anything else, could he? She felt vulnerable in a way she never had before. At the same time, what he'd done... what he was _doing_ to her left her weak as a kitten, unable to even shift her body away from him.
If she had wanted to.
"I have all the numbers that I need for the dress," he told her. "It'll be ready for a fitting in about a week." He looked down at her breasts. "But I know how _happy_ getting a new party dress makes you. Now it's your turn to make _me_ happy."
He took her hand and moved it towards him. She touched something, something long and hard and _very_ male.
Trisha looked over at him. Enoch was naked below the waist, and his maleness pointed back up at her. She -- her eyes went wide -- she was holding it. "No!" She pulled her hand away as if from a live snake.
He bent over and tried to kiss her. When she turned away from him, he kissed her cheek, her jaw line, on down her neck to her shoulder. Kisses mixed with tiny love nips. The next thing she knew, he was sucking her nipple, rolling his tongue over it, and gently biting. What little resistance she possessed melted away like ice in July, overwhelmed by passions he was arousing in her.
He still held her one hand, but his other was playing with her breast, kneading its soft flesh, tweaking the nipple. A heat grew. His touch simultaneously kindled heat in her breasts and down between her legs. She writhed and moaned as a tide of exquisite pleasure washed through her.
It struck her that she was being unfaithful to Kaitlin, but she dismissed that thought almost at once. Kaitlin was a woman, like her - _like_ _her_! - she luxuriated in the thought, wrapping it around her like a blanket. Enoch was a _man, a man who was doing wondrous, _carnal_ things to her.
He moved her hand, and, of their own will, her fingers curled back around his firmness.
He glided his hand down her flesh and ran a finger across her nether curls. "You're ready, more than ready, Trisha. Such a lovely name; everything about you is lovely."
She was so lost in the fires building in her body that she didn't realize what he was saying until he joined her on the bed, and her grip on him fell away. He gently moved her legs apart -- she didn't resist -- and took his place in between them.
Her lower lips parted, and she felt him slide into her -- such a strange new sensation. She gasped at a sudden tearing, but the pain was washed away by the thrilling sense of being filled where instinct told her she should be filled. He was full in now, deep enough that she could feel the touch of his balls against her flesh. Was this what a woman felt, what Patrick had made Kaitlan feel? She began to wonder, but Enoch's irresistible energy was giving her no time to think.
"Ahhh," she moaned as he moved, first out, and then in, and back out again. Being treated this way was startling, but she savored the pleasure of it all. His stroking was like the piston of a train, irresistibly building a pressure inside her.
"Yes... yes," the words came out in a hiss. Her hands, desperate with need, clawed at his back. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer, making everything so much more intense.
She felt wicked, as if she were tasting the Forbidden Fruit, gaining knowledge that she, as Patrick, was never meant to know. She had never dreamed of wanting this, to be taken by a man. Now, it seemed impossible to desire anything else. All she knew was that he _was_ taking her. The world shrank down to just his cock and the wonders, the mysteries that he was causing her to know.
Then, she... _burst_!
Her voice rose in a steam whistle shriek, and her body spasmed, unable to hold in all the excitement of mind and body that that was boiling within her. This time, she fought hard not to faint. This was far, far, too good for her to leave it behind in darkness.
Enoch wasn't finished. He kept up that incredible, masterful movement. She wouldn't have imagined it, not in this world, but he was exciting her to an even higher pitch. It was like he was working sorcery upon her, and she screamed out again in wordless delight.
In the midst of it, she heard him groan. He tensed and spurted within her. She felt a fierce, joyous rush, like a tumble down a heated waterfall, as they collapsed together on the bed.
While Trisha lay there, trying to remember how to breathe, he slid off of her, slid out of her. He pulled her to him and gently kissed her forehead. She could feel his arms around her as the pleasure of what had happened to her settled into a happy glow, and she could barely hold back from laughing.
He kissed her again and stood up. "I think I can see my way clear to knock that dress down to $50." He said it with a chuckle and then added, "When you get up, there's a basin of water and a towel over on the dresser. Your clothes are there, too."
"You're... you're leaving?" That thought alarmed her somehow.
He nodded. "I have to get back to my business. So do you, I suspect."
"The store... Liam..." She scrambled to her feet. Something damp ran down her thigh, and she felt her cheeks warm in embarrassment. She stepped over to the washbasin and picked up the terrycloth towel. "What can I tell him?"
He was already in his drawers. "I'm sure you'll think of something." He stepped into his pants and pulled them up, adjusting his suspenders. "I wouldn't advise the truth, though." He sat down on the bed and pulled on a pair of boots. "Brothers tend to think of their sisters as children, and you're anything but that."
"I, uhh, agree." She moistened a corner of the towel and used it to dab at her leg, then further up.
"Good girl." He stood and kissed her on the cheek. "Don't forget, come in a week from today for the fitting. Maybe we can find the time..." He let the rest of the sentence lapse, as he gave a gentle squeeze to her breast. "Till then, goodbye."
He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
* * * * *
Things weren't busy for the moment in the saloon. Dolores sat down on a barstool to catch her breath. After a moment, she heard, "A penny for your thoughts, Dolores."
Dolores turned on the stool at the sound of her name. "A penny? What do you mean, R.J.?"
"Just an expression. You've just been too quiet the last couple days," R.J. explained. "I was wondering if something was bothering you."
"I did not think that you had noticed," she answered. "I did not think that you ever noticed anything -- except Bridget."
"I watch pretty much everything that goes on in here. It's part of a barman's job, to watch and not be noticed doing it. I look out for any hint of trouble and keep it from getting out of hand." He gave her a sheepish grin. "Of course, I might have an extra reason or two for keeping track of Bridget."
"Si, I suppose that you might."
"You still haven't answered my question. Why've you been so quiet?"
"That foolish, foolish story that Jane told me. I keep turning it over and over in my mind, trying to understand, but even after two days, I cannot."
"What story?"
"How could anyone with an ounce of sense believe that she was once a man."
R.J. chuckled. "Did Jane say that Laura was once a man, too?"
"Dios mio, no! She at least spared me that much nonsense."
The barman looked at her intently, wondering whether she could be trusted. He thought she could be, but, regardless, she was going to find out about the potion ladies sooner or later, working here herself. Surely the people whom she lived with knew about them, too.
"Well, you can believe it. I saw them both get changed. Laura was a wiry man, not too tall, with dark brown hair. He looked a lot like Laura's sister, the one that came visiting a couple of weeks ago."
Dolores regarded him suspiciously. "And Jane, I suppose that she... he... whatever... was his twin."
"Not hardly, and they weren't kin, either. Jake was a lot older -- nearly 50, I think. He was tall and real skinny, with a gray beard and long, gray hair."
"And how is it that Seá±or Shamus has the power to turn these two very different men into twin girls?"
R.J. shrugged. "Shamus says his potion is a mix of old Irish magic and something he learned from the Indians -- he was raised by the Cheyenne, by the way. He won't tell anybody anything more about it." He thought for a moment. "And it wasn't just Laura and Jane, y'know."
"It was not?"
"Jessie and Maggie and, well, Bridget. They all were men."
Dolores shook her head in disbelief. "Maggie... Margarita was a man? It cannot be." Were people trying to have a strange joke with her, or had she actually lost Ramon to a man? Even now that she had accepted the loss, that she had _given_ him to Margarita, this was too much.
"R.J., mi amigo, you are carrying a bad joke too far."
"It's true." He pointed to the door to the kitchen. "She's in there. Go ask."
"I... I need time before I can do that, time to... to think."
"Wish I could give it to you, Dolores, but three men just sat down over at one of the tables. You better go see what they want t'drink."
* * * * *
"And just what d'ye think ye're doing there, Arnie?"
The boy started, he carefully put the glass back in the tray and turned to face, "Seá±or Shamus, I-I did not hear you come in."
"Ye wasn't supposed to." Shamus sighed. "Seems t'me we've had this conversation before, ain't we?"
"Wh-what do you mean?"
"Drinking, lad. Ye was gonna drink the whiskey left in that there glass, wasn't ye?"
Caught, he tried to brazen it out. "I... no, I-I was not."
"Then why are ye holding it like ye was?" When I gave ye back yuir job, ye promised not t'be drinking."
"Any _you_ promised to trust me. I am keeping my promise. Are you keeping yours?"
"Well, now, I guess I'll have t'be trying harder then, won't I?" Shamus stepped over and took the glass from the tray. In one smooth motion, he held it over the sink and poured the whisky down the drain. "And ye'll have t'_keep_ trying, too."
* * * * *
"Mmm," Trisha moaned softly, as she unbuttoned her blouse. Her breasts were still a bit tender from Enoch's attentions that afternoon.
Kaitlin was standing a few feet away, the pair of them getting ready for bed. "Did you say something, Trisha?"
"No... no, I was just... thinking."
"About this afternoon? I imagine it was an interesting experience."
"Oh, yes, yes, it was."
"I know that I always enjoyed it --"
"You did?" Did Kaitlin know what had happened? Had _she_... and Enoch? Trisha couldn't believe it, but then, Trisha could barely believe what she had herself done.
"Of course, what woman doesn't?"
"And you... you don't mind?" She tossed her blouse onto a chair and began to untie the bow that held on her petticoat.
"Well, I was a little sorry that I couldn't go along, but I didn't want you to be nervous your first time."
"But you don't mind that I-I --"
"Went shopping for a dress without me?" Kaitlin shook her head. "Of course not. Now, you did get taken care of, didn't you?"
Trisha smiled, partly from relief that Kaitlin hadn't been unfaithful to her, and partly from the sexual glow she still felt. "I certainly did." Then Trisha noticed the odd look on Kaitlan's face. They had been married long enough for her to know that it meant that her wife -- her ex-wife -- was trying to work to up asking an indelicate question. "Do you have something on your mind, Kaitlin?"
"I was just curious if Enoch -- if he tried to get fresh with you."
Trish managed to keep her expression absolutely still. "As a matter of fact, he did, and I let him know in no uncertain terms how I felt."
"What d-did he try?"
"He -- ah, he touched my neck and suggested I wear my hair in ringlets. It was just the silly sort of stuff you would expect from a man with a roving eye -- and roving hands." Trisha giggled and hoped at once that Kaitlin thought that the giggle was from the joke she had just made and not how her body felt.
"I'm surprised he had the nerve to be so forward."
"Well, I think he and I understand one another now." She had drawn herself up into a firm stance, the same way that Patrick had done whenever he had gotten his own way. She'd rather hang herself than admit to Kaitlin that Enoch was the one who had gotten his own way. But what she truly wanted to understand -- _needed_ to understand -- was the way that she had felt. How the experience _still_ made her feel.
'Everything is so damned different,' she told herself, 'since Emma and I changed.' She suddenly felt guilty. She had a daughter now, and she would never have wanted Emma -- when she got a little older -- to let things get out of hand the way she had done. All those Yingling sermons about temptation, they were all so true!
"Good," Kaitlin replied firmly. "Are you going to tell me about the dress, or are you going to surprise me?"
Trisha glanced past Kaitlin and into the mirror behind her. She saw a young and fetching blonde posing in her camisole and drawers, a sight that would make any man hard -- as Trisha well knew. Her mood shifted again, and she giggled at that thought. "Kaitlin, I think I'm even going to surprise me."
* * * * *
Thursday, February 22, 1872
"Dolores," Teresa called out as took the breakfast dishes over to the sink. "If you do not hurry, you will be late for work. Arnoldo has already left."
Dolores came out of the bedroom. "I am ready. I just waited to talk to you after everyone else had left."
"Why?" Teresa saw the troubled look on her cousin's face. "Dolores, what is the matter?"
"I... I am not sure." She took a breath, feeling silly that she was perhaps falling for a ridiculous jest, then blurted out, "People at the saloon have told me that Margarita Sanchez used to be...a man. "
Teresa frowned. "I was wondering when you would find out."
Dolores' brow furrowed with incredulity. "Then, it-it was not just a silly story?"
Her kinswoman took a deep breath and replied firmly. "No, it is true."
"Teresa! I blamed the people at the saloon for keeping secrets from me. But how could you --" Suddenly Dolores paused. Could it be that Teresa had become part of the joke? That seemed impossible. It was so unlike her to join with others merely to perplex a family member.
"People do not like places were there are curses and magic," her cousin continued. "People do not speak of it to outsiders, so that they will not carry away bad tales. When you became friends with those women at the saloon, I thought one of them would tell you. It is, after all, their secret to keep."
"One of them did tell me, but I couldn't believe it. I did not even believe it when R.J. confirmed that it was true. If this impossible thing happened, why did it happen? Seá±or Shamus does not seem like a wicked man. You would not let Arnoldo work there if he did terrible things to people."
"He is not wicked. Some very bad men rode into town; they came to kill and to rob. Only Seá±or Shamus gave them his potion and changed them into women. I suppose that it is hard to be both a woman and a bandito, so they had to stop being banditos. The only one who still causes trouble is Wilma, but it is a different kind of trouble."
The name Wilma didn't ring a chime with Dolores just then, but R.J. had said that Margarita and others whom she knew had been changed, without explaining why. "Margarita is a killer?"
"Perhaps _he_ was, the man she had been. The potion changes them inside, I think. You work with Jane and Laura, are they killers? Is Bridget, who helped Arnoldo get his job back? Jessie was a killer, we know. But she, too, seems to be a different sort of person now."
"Dios mio!" She shook her head. "It is just so hard to believe that such a thing could be so."
"Hard or not hard, it is true. Ask one of the others about it when you get to work, if you still do not believe."
"No. That... it would just make things worse."
"How do you mean 'worse'?"
"You know why I came for this visit. The _real_ reason, I mean."
"Si, that boy down in Mexico City. He is marrying another woman, and you could not --"
"No, I could not be there to see it. I came back here for a visit, and who do I meet, Ramon deAguilar, my first boyfriend."
"You flirted with Ramon, very hard, you flirted, but, in the end, you told him that you were not ready to marry him, did you not?"
"I did, and I still do not want to marry any man that I know." She stopped for a moment. Was she still interested in Ramon? No, she wasn't, but there was still a problem.
"But whether I did or did not, it is _muy_ hard to accept that I-I lost him to a man."
"You should take it as a compliment."
"A compliment; how?"
Ramon is very attractive. More than one of the local girls has tried to catch him. _You_ almost did. I could tell that he was interested in you."
"But Margarita -- a man -- still won his heart."
"That is right. It took magic to create the woman who could best you and win Ramon. You should be proud."
Dolores laughed. "Proud? I do not think so. But I will think about what you have said. Thank you." She hugged Teresa distractedly. "And now, I must leave for work or I _will_ be late," and hurried out the door. Teresa looked after her and noticed that at the point in the street where Dolores should have been able to see the Eerie Saloon, she slowed almost to a pause, before continuing on again, with what seemed like determination.
* * * * *
"What are you smirking at, Mex?" Hermione pointed a finger at Tomas, who was sitting back against the school building, eating lunch.
Tomas took a bite of cheese taco. "If you must know, I am smirking at you. Yully put you in your place yesterday."
"What Yully Stone did or did not say to me is none of your concern."
"Oh, yes. Yully is my friend. So is Emma."
"That's right. You and Elmer were thick as thieves before, weren't you?"
"We still are. Emma and I are blood brothers."
"If you and Emma are still on such good terms, then why are you eating alone over here, while Emma is sitting with Ysabel Diaz and Penny Stone."
"I could sit with them if I wanted to."
"If they'd let you, you mean." Now it was her turn to smirk. "I don't think that you and Emma are nearly as close these days."
"I am, too. Yully and Emma and me're all part of..." He forced himself to stop. Hermione was the last person he wanted to know about Fort Secret.
"Part of what, Tomas?"
"Nothing. We're just good friends, that's all."
Hermione gave a derisive snort. "Maybe you think you are, but I'd say you better check with Yully and Emma on that." She smiled and went over to eat lunch with Eulalie.
* * * * *
Daisy walked quickly into the parlor. "He's here m'lady. Herve just fetched him from the stage."
"Bon, and is Herve bringing in the luggage?" Cerise asked, standing up.
A tall, well-muscled man in a dark brown suit and matching vest walked in. "Just my overnight bag, Lady Cerise, and my sketchpad, of course. We left the rest of it at the stage depot for now."
"A wise idea." Cerise extended her hand. The man stepped forward, took it in his own and kissed it. "My good friend, Dwight Albertson," she continued, "has selected several houses for you to choose from as a studio."
Wilma walked over and stood next to the Lady. "Ain't you gonna introduce us to this handsome gentleman?"
"I am sorry, Wilma. The rest of my staff remembers Monsieur Thomas from his last visit. Evan Thomas..." The madame gestured towards Wilma "...this is Wilma Hanks, the one you will be painting. And Wilma..." Now, she gestured towards the man. "...this is Evan, the man I brought here to paint your portrait."
The man stepped forward and reached for Wilma's hand. "Enchanted, Miss Hanks." He took it and raised it to his lips. Wilma noticed that he looked at her face, as he did, and not at her hand. He had deep, piercing brown eyes that seemed to look right though her. She could feel her nipples crinkling and getting hard as he kissed the back of her hand.
"Same here... Evan." She said his name as a purr. "Do you have to go look at them houses right away? Maybe you could stay here, so's you and me could get... acquainted."
Lady Cerise shook her head. "There will be time enough for that while you are posing for him, mon petite. Right now, we should go and meet Dwight at his bank."
"I fear that I must agree, Miss Hanks. If I am going to look at houses, I want to see them in good light, to better pick the room I'll use as my studio." He bowed. "Ladies, my compliments."
The Lady took his arm in her left hand. "I... _we_ shall be back..." She shrugged. "...when we are back." Herve took her other arm, and the three of them strolled out the door.
'Mmm,' Wilma said to herself, 'maybe posing for that picture won't be as much of a chore as I thought.'
* * * * *
"Laura, may I talk to you a moment before you take that tray out for the Free Lunch?" Maggie asked.
Laura put the tray back on the table and sat down. "Sure, Maggie, what do you want to talk t'me about?"
"My... my wedding," the cook answered. "I, that is, Ramon and I, we... uh, wondered if you... you and Arsenio would be a part of it."
"You mean like be the brides maid and best man?"
"Oh, no. We do not have such things in our wedding customs. We wanted you to be the _madrina_ and _padrino_, the -- what is the word -- the 'godparents' of the wedding. You would help Ramon and me to get ready, give us advice, and it would be Arsenio instead who walked with me down the aisle."
"Instead -- oh, you mean like Shamus being the father of the bride at my wedding. I'm flattered, Maggie, but I've got to ask you, why us?"
"The madrina and padrino are always a married couple who are good friends of the bride and groom, good friends, but not family. I only know four married couples here in Eerie: Shamus and Molly, the Silvermans, Whit and Carmen, and you and Arsenio." She counted them off on her fingers as she spoke. "Shamus and Molly are the 'parents' of the bride', and Carmen is Ramon's sister."
"That lets them out, I guess." She picked up a pickled carrot slice from a dish on the tray and took a bite. She was eating pickles a lot lately, and Shamus had teased her about how much it hurt his profits. "When are you going to ask the Silvermans? "
"I already did. Rachel Silverman said to ask you. "
"Now why'd she go and do that? She'd be a lot better at giving advice than me. She's been married a lot longer than I have."
"Si, but..." Maggie looked down at her feet. "She said that she was always a woman. You and I, we were men once. You know what it is like for a man to become a wife and a... a..."
"A mother?" Laura asked and looked at her friend. When Maggie nodded, she gently touched her swollen stomach. "I guess I do know that, and, real soon, I hope, you will too."
Maggie's face grew red. As much as she yearned to be with Ramon, the idea that she could become pregnant, just as Laura had, was one she was still wrestling with. The possibility thrilled and terrified her, both at once. It was like she would have to face a whole new type of magic, which -- like the first -- would change her life forever.
Laura smiled to see her friend blush. "I'll have to check with Arsenio, but I think he'll say yes. I'll... we'll be proud to be your -- whatever you called it."
* * * * *
"Good afternoon, Trisha... Liam."
Trisha turned at the sound of her name. "Roscoe, what're you doing in here?" Her voice softened. "Not that I'm not glad to see you.
"I asked him to come over," Liam explained. "I told you the other day -- don't you remember -- that I wanted to have a sale on chicken feed. We got such a bargain that it'd be wrong not to pass it on to out customers." He looked directly at Trisha. "I _thought_ you'd agreed."
Trisha blinked, trying to hide her confusion. "The chicken feed? Y- yes, I-I remember... I guess."
"Good," Liam continued. "Roscoe, I asked you over to see what sort of a deal we could make on an advertisement in your paper, maybe something the next size up from our usual one."
Roscoe thought for a moment. "All right. You have a standing account for that eighth of a page ad you normally run, with a good discount already. I could up it to a quarter page with the same sort of discount. It'd cost you... two dollars more for the same sort of ad, more if you want something extra in the way of type or a picture."
"No, just words. The price sounds good; I'll take it." The two men shook hands. Liam took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to the other man.
"I wanna see it." Trisha said, pouting. "It is my store, too, you know."
Liam nodded. "I know. This just seemed like a good idea. Do you mind?"
"I-I guess not. Can I see that paper, please?" She tried to smile.
Roscoe handed her the paper. "Here you are."
"Thank you." She opened the paper and read it to herself. "This is too fancy, I think. Instead of 'O'Hanlon's Feed and Grain is pleased to offer its customers...' and all the rest, just say... umm, 'Samuels Brothers' Chicken Feed and Supplements; all the quality at..." She looked at the paper again. "...twenty percent off the price. This week only at O'Hanlon's Feed and Grain'?"
"I'd say you should use her version, Liam. It is simpler, and I can fit it in a larger typeface, so it'll stand out even better on the page."
Liam shrugged. "All right, use hers."
"Thank you, brother." Trisha smiled demurely.
Roscoe wrote her wording down on the paper. "See, Trisha, I told you that you were good at writing advertisements. I could never be that creative."
"Sure you could," Trisha told him. "You've been creative lots of times, I'll bet."
"Ha, name one," the newsman snorted.
"Well..." she answered, thinking. "Okay, how about that idea of thanking folks that advertised in your paper with Christmas gifts. I just _love_ that rosewater you gave me. I use it every day." She leaned in close to him. "Can you smell it?"
"Yes, I... ahh, I think I can."
She sniffed the air. "Mmm, good," she said in a husky voice. "And I like that scent that you're wearing, too."
"Can I a-ask you something, Trisha?"
"Ask away; anything that you want?" She felt a tingle run through her. Having this effect on a man was fun, even if she could see Liam scowling at her.
"Are-are you going to do a new advertisement for the church dance or g- go with the one I ran this week?" Roscoe asked nervously.
She frowned at his changing the subject. "Go-go with this week's. I don't care."
"Fine. I'd best get back to my store, then." He turned and walked rather quickly toward the door.
"And what the devil was that all about, Trisha?" Liam asked after the other man had left.
Trisha gave him her best innocent smile. "What do you mean?"
"The way you were acting just now, like some flirty, little girl."
"Flirty... no, but I... I am a girl, I've just, well, I've decided to admit it to myself and act more the way people expect me to act."
"About time, I'd say, but you don't have to go overboard like you did with Roscoe, trying to get him to sniff at you like an eager puppy. You could get into real trouble if you acted that way with somebody who wasn't a gentleman."
She giggled. "Weelll, maybe I did go a _little_ overboard." What she didn't admit was that what she'd done with Roscoe had been fun. 'Something else to try and figure out,' she thought.
"A little overboard? You headfirst dove off the Hoboken Ferry, and you're swimming for the open water." He sighed. "Look, Trisha, I know you're a woman. Try and show me that you're a lady, okay?"
She pouted and tried to look contrite. "Yes, big brother."
Trisha realized that she had begun to actually think of herself as being younger than Liam, and physically she was. The thought of getting all those years of life back made her feel like humming.
* * * * *
"So," Arsenio asked, "you think we should do it?"
Laura snuggled up against him. "Mmmm, I certainly hope so."
"I'm not talking about _that_." He kissed the nape of her neck. "I meant helping out Maggie and Ramon. This..." He kissed her again and gently cupped her breast through the soft cotton of her nightgown. "...I _know_ we're gonna do."
"We surely are. And I, uhh... sort of promised Maggie that we'd stand up for her and Ramon at their wedding."
"Then I guess we _have_ to do it. You setting such a store on keeping your word and all."
"You're sure you don't mind? Maggie says it makes us some kind of family with them."
"That figures." He laughed. "Seems like I'm getting new family every which way these days: first Jane's your twin sister, then I meet Theo and Lizzie, and now I'm going to be Maggie and Ramon's godfather. Of course..." He laid his hand down on her belly. "...this is the best way."
She put her hand on his. "It's not the easiest way, I know that for sure." She sighed. "I just hope that I can do right by Maggie. She's become a good friend, and I was flattered when she asked."
"You, Laura Meehan Caulder, are the most wonderful wife a man could have, and she'd have been foolish not to ask. I just hope I can do as well at helping Ramon."
Laura's fingers wrapped around Arsenio's manhood. "You're a grand husband. Now why don't you shift over and show me again just how grand?"
* * * * *
Friday, February 23, 1872
"Morning, Daisy... Lady Cerise," Wilma said cheerfully, as she walked into the kitchen.
Daisy was at the stove. "G'morning, Wilma. We got turkey hash for breakfast. You wants some?"
"Sounds good. Lemme just get some coffee into me." She sat down at the table and poured herself a cup. "Ohh, I needed that," she said after a long sip.
Daisy put a plate of the hash down in front of her. "You prob'ly need this, too. Dig in."
"Thanks." Wilma took a forkful. "That is good." She ate another forkful. "Say, Cerise, how'd it go with that painter fella yesterday?"
"Very well, I think," Cerise began. "He chose a house some three blocks from here. The Carlton house. The Carltons will be away at the capitol for a while, while Monsieur Carlton is working for the territory. The main room has a large window that faces to the south. He says it will make a fine studio. We signed the papers with Dwight. He will move in, set up the studio today. You may begin the posing on Monday."
"Monday? How come I gotta wait so long to start?"
"Because the weekend is when we are the busiest; you know that. I need you here, ma petit, both as my second _and_ as one of my ladies. You would not want to disappoint your many admirers."
Wilma grinned. "I ain't never disappointed a man -- not since I started working here, anyways." She paused. "I did wanna talk to the painter a little. He leave yet?"
"Leave," Daisy said with a laugh. "Him and Beatriz ain't even come downstairs yet."
"Beatriz?" Wilma scowled. "What's he doing with her? I thought he was here just for me."
"He is here to paint you, Wilma," Cerise said firmly. "Who he chooses to spend his free time with is his own business."
"His business... The only thing he's here t'do is to paint a picture of me."
"No, that is why _I_ want him here. He is free to seek other commissions, paint other pictures. I hope he does, in fact. Since I brought him to town and paid for his studio, I get 15 percent of what he earns from anyone else."
"Well, that's a fine howdy do. What am I, bait?"
"You are his primary subject, naturellement... naturally. You are also..." She took a breath. "You are acting like a very spoiled little girl. Why?"
Wilma took a breath. "I-I don't know. I guess I just don't like him hitting it off with Beatriz instead 'o me."
"They did not just 'hit it off', as you say. They became... close when he was here two years ago to paint _my_ portrait." She reached over and gently stoked Wilma's hair. "You are a most beautiful, most giving young woman, Wilma. I am sure that the two of you will also 'hit it off' when you begin the posing."
Wilma cocked an eyebrow, a determined look on her face. "Damned right we will."
* * * * *
Dwight Albertson leaned back in his overstuffed office chair. "Now then, Miss Kelly, you said that you wanted to talk to me about a loan. What amount did you have in mind?"
"You can call me Bridget, Dwight." Bridget tried for her best poker face to hide her nervousness. "You've sat in on my game often enough."
"True, too true, but I like to keep things on a more formal basis here at the bank."
"Then I guess I'll have to call you Mr. Albertson, won't I?" She waited for the man to nod. When he did, she continued. "All right then, _Mr._ _Albertson_. I'd like to borrow $1,000."
"That's quite a bit of money. What sort of collateral do you have?"
"Collateral? I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Assets -- money or other things of value -- that the bank can claim if you don't pay us back what we loan you. If we _do_ make the loan."
"I've got..." She glanced down at her bankbook. "...a bit over $500 in my account here, that and my clothes and a couple pieces of jewelry. I-I think that's about it."
"That's less than half of what you need for collateral."
"Less than half? I only asked for $1,000."
"Yes, but the bank would charge interest on your loan, of course." He paused a moment. "By the way, how long would the loan be for?"
"I, ahh, I need the money to buy into Abner Slocum's big poker game next month, the one that the paper wrote about. I figure that I'd pay the money back the next day from my winnings."
"And in the event that you don't win, then what happens to the bank's money? That's why I asked about collateral in the first place. After all, banks usually don't make loans on something as risky as a poker game."
"Sometimes they do. I heard a story -- it happened 20 or 30 years ago -- back before they used straights and flushes and such in the game. A player found himself holding four aces and a king. Only, he didn't have enough to cover the last call. He asked for time -- the rules then said a player had 24 hours to cover a bet -- and headed for the local bank."
She took a breath. "Well, the first man at the bank says they won't loan money for a poker hand 'cause it's too risky -- just like you did. But the head of the bank, he knew poker. He took one look at the player's hand and said the bank'd give him as much as he wanted. The player took what he needed and ran back to the game. He came back a while later and paid the bank back every penny, plus interest -- just like _I'm_ going to do."
Albertson shook his head. "I've heard that story, too, Miss Kelly. The difference is that the banker _knew_ the man was going to win. Nothing could beat that hand. I don't know that you'll win. Abner -- Mr. Slocum has told me that there'd be some very good players in that game of his."
"What else did he tell you?" No poker face now, she was glaring at the banker. "Did he tell you not to give me a loan if I asked for one?"
"Miss Kelly, you asked for a loan. I've every right to use whatever information I can get to assess the risks of the loan you're asking for. As far as any other discussions I may have had with Mr. Slocum, I would no more reveal them to you than I would discuss this conversation with him."
"Meaning he probably did." She stood up. "Well, thank you very much for nothing, Dwight. You're still welcome in my game, but I'll definitely be playing to win. I intend to get the money for that game somehow, and, given my choice, _now_, I'd just as soon win it from you."
* * * * *
Quint Parnell and Bill Hersh pushed the swinging doors aside and walked into the Saloon. They headed straight for an isolated table against one wall and sat down. Both were frowning angrily.
"What can I get you gents?" Jane asked when she came to their table a short while later.
Parnell pulled a five-dollar half-eagle out of a pocket and tossed it to her. "Whisky. Bring the bottle."
"Yes, sir." She hurried off, returning quickly with the bottle and two glasses. "Here ya go."
Parnell poured himself a double. "Fine, you can leave it here." He poured some for the other man and looked up. Jane was still there. "Leave us here, too. Get lost."
"Ain't you the friendly one!" Jane glared at him and walked away.
Both men drank their whiskey in one gulp. "Well, what'd'you think, Bill?" Pernell asked as he refilled their glasses.
"That assay office's gonna be tougher than I thought," Hersh replied. "A guard at the door has to unlock it, so we can get inside. Stone's behind barred windows as tight as any bank. He takes the gold through a grillwork, and has to unlock another door if he wants us to come back." He sighed. "I didn't see nobody else, but that door to the back room looks like a bank vault."
"I agree. I don't think we can get at the gold there." He shook his head. "Not the two of us."
"We gonna give up then? There's nobody around here we can trust well enough to bring in on the job."
Parnell glanced around. He saw Arnie walking from table to table putting empty glasses and bottles into a tray. "Maybe there's somebody we _don't_ trust that we can get."
"Him?" Hersh pointed at the boy. "That's the bastard that jumped me. You wanna bring him in on this job?"
"If we can." Parnell chuckled. "Can you think of anybody better to get stuck holding the bag in case anything goes wrong?"
"Not a soul. And if we do get away, well, just because he rides up into the mountains with us don't mean he's gonna stay with us, stay alive even, for very long."
"Damn straight. That gold'll split a lot better two ways than three."
* * * * *
"Can I have a glass of sasparilla, Molly?" Jessie asked.
Molly nodded and began to fill the glass. "How's yuir new song coming, Jessie?"
"Not too well. I can't keep my mind on it."
"Something else bothering ye?" She put the glass on the bar in front of the singer.
"You know it is. I can't get what Paul told you outta my head. What the hell did he mean something he couldn't be something that I wouldn't be?"
"I don't know -- but I ain't the one that needs t'be knowing. Ye are."
"Something I wouldn't be? Well, now, up till me 'n him got so cozy..." she blushed. "I wouldn't've been a girl if I had my choice."
"Aye, but ye _was_ a girl, wasn't ye, and I'll bet good money that ye never asked Paul Grant t'be one."
"No, I'm -- I'm very happy he's a man. I just wish he wanted t'be _my_ man again."
"I'll bet more good money that he wants it, too. He's just mad about something ye said t'him, that's all."
"Yeah, but what the hell _did_ I say?"
"What were ye talking about?"
"What a good deal I got from Shamus... from you and Shamus. I'm making more money than -- shit, you don' think that's the problem, that I'm making more than him?"
"It don't sound like it. Ye didn't ask him t'be asking for a job here, did ye?"
"No, I said I'd..." Her voice trailed off. "I said I'd pay him." She raised her glance to meet Molly's face with a stare of realization. "That -- that could be it, can't it?"
"Ye mean he don't like taking money from a woman?"
"Not like that he don't." She took a long drink. "I gotta go see him."
Molly shook her head. "He ain't around here right now. The Sheriff told me yesterday that Paul's out riding patrol; out t'the ranches east o'here, then up t'the mountains. He won't be back till tomorrow."
"Saturday then. If he don't come in here, I'll go over to the Sheriff's Office and talk to him." She took another drink.
Molly leaned over and whispered. "Talk to him here if ye can, lass. That bed o'yuirs has t'be a lot more comfortable than whatever he's got over in the jailhouse."
* * * * *
Kaitlin poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. "I ran into Dwight Albertson today."
"You did?" Trisha looked up from the account book she was working on. It was late, and Emma was in bed.
Kaitlin nodded. "I was running some errands. He said to tell you that we're doing well on tickets."
"Tickets? Oh, you mean for the dance. I thought we were just going to sell them at the door."
"I did, too, but that article in the paper said that Dwight sold tickets to Arsenio Caulder and Whit Whitney. He said that people have been coming into the bank to buy them. He has Milo Nash selling them at his window."
"Is Milo coming?" Patrick had known the chief teller from the church.
"Dwight didn't say, but I expect that Milo will be there. He's always been a good supporter of the church."
"He's not married. I wonder if there'll be a lot of single men at the dance."
"Probably. Most of the men in town aren't married; there aren't near enough women out here."
That notion pleased Trisha somehow. "I-I guess, so. They'll be wanting to dance with the few unattached women that come."
"I have no doubt of that. Our dance will be a good bit more respectable than the one at Mr. O'Toole's saloon."
"I-I'm one of those unattached woman, now, 'cause of the divorce, aren't I?" The thought had just occurred to her.
Kaitlin looked up, as surprised at the fact as was Trisha. "Yes, I guess you are." She chuckled. "And so. It would seem, am I."
"Those men, I... you think they might want to dance with me."
"Probably. You're... to be honest, you're a very attractive woman."
"And I'll have that new dress, too. But... I don't know how to dance, as woman I mean."
"It's not that hard, really," Kaitlin answered. "You weren't too bad a dancer as a man."
"Thanks, I tried." She smiled; it was a sad little smile. "I did it mostly to please you."
"I know, and I..." She sighed. "I loved you for that."
"Could you... could you show me how a woman dances... with a man? I-I want to be able to do it, in case I do get asked." She wanted a last chance to hold Kaitlin in her arms, but a part of her seemed to accept the idea of dancing with a man.
A part of her _wanted_ to dance with a man... with men.
* * * * *
Saturday, February 24, 1872
A tall, well-dressed man no one recognized strode over to where Shamus was standing behind the bar. "Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. O'Toole?"
"I am," the barman answered, "but me friends call me Shamus." He extended his hand in greeting.
The other man shook hands. "Very well, then, Shamus. My name is Ethan Thomas, and _my_ friends call me Ethan. I've been hired by Lady Cerise to do a portrait of Wilma Hanks, her new assistant. However, while I'm in town, I'm free to take on other commissions. Miss Hanks suggested that you might be interested in me also doing a portrait of her sister." He looked around. "Is she about? Might I talk to her?"
"She's over there..." Shamus pointed to a table halfway across the room. "...having a cup of coffee with me wife, Molly." He smiled. "Me Molly's the pretty one on the left."
Evan nodded. "Lovely woman; might you be interested in a portrait of her, too, or, perhaps the pair of you together?"
Shamus' brow knitted thoughtfully. "I might. What'd it be costing me, then?"
"That would depend on the size of the portrait, the number of subjects, and the amount of detail. I could do a fine one of her -- or you -- say, 3 foot by 5 foot..." He held up his hands to show the size. '...for, oh,... $75. Or one that size of the pair of you for $100."
"I'll have t'be thinking about it. In the meantime, let's be going over to see what Jessie has to say about ye doing her picture." Shamus came out from behind the bar and walked with the painter over to where the two women were sitting.
"Molly... Jessie..." He pointed to each woman as he said their names. "...This here be Mr. Evan Thomas. He's a painter, and he wanted to know if I'd be willing t'have him do a portrait of Jessie --"
Evan interrupted. "Or a mural. I could paint her picture right there on your wall. I did some work of that sort at the Nugget in Denver and out in California. The cost would depend on the size, of course."
"I-I ain't sure I want m'picture up on the wall for all the world t'see," Jessie said. "Truth t'tell, I ain't too sure Wilma does either."
Shamus shook his head. "What Wilma wants or don't want is up t'her and Lady Cerise, not you or me, Jessie."
"Do I get a say in having my picture done?" she asked.
Ye most surely do," he replied. "'Cept for... well, ye know what, I ain't never had much of a chance of getting ye to do something ye didn't want t'be doing. But to have a good picture of ye for the men to be looking at when ye're not to be seen yuirself might just encourage them to dally around long enough to be seeing a show. It'd be more money for ye and more money for me. "
"Can I have some time t'think about it? Till... Monday, say?"
Shamus smiled generously. "I'm thinking that I can give ye that much time. Monday at six, then?"
"Monday at six." Jessie nodded in agreement.
"I shall be back Monday evening then for my answer," Evan said. He'd been amused at the banter between Shamus and Jessie. He was also surprised at how little resemblance there was between Jessie and her sister.
"Ye're welcome t'be coming back sooner than that," Shamus told him. "I got drink and food here. We got us a pretty good restaurant in the evenings, and thuir'll be a dance here this very night. In fact, ye can be dancing with Jessie; maybe talk her into doing that picture."
Evan considered the idea. "I may just do that. In the meantime, shall we discuss that portrait of your charming wife and yourself?"
* * * * *
The "garrison" of Fort Secret, as they thought of themselves, always met at a lone pine tree about 30 yards from the entrance to the fort. "That way," as Yully suggested when they first built the fort, "we don't give it away t'anybody that sees us standing around waiting for everybody t'show up."
This Saturday, Ysabel and Tomas were the first to arrive. Emma joined them a few minutes later. It took a while before Stephan and Yully came running up to join the group.
"Sorry we're late," Stephan told them. "My pa wouldn't let me leave until he read the last of the Cicero I had to translate." He pronounced it "Kick-ero."
"Are you done with that now?" Tomas asked.
Stephan made a face. "I'm done with the Cicero. Now, I got this whole play by Terrance, _Brothers_, it's called, that I gotta translate."
"That is terrible," Ysabel said.
Yully put an arm on Stephan's shoulder. "That's what I said, but we'll stick by him. That's what friends do."
"What do you know about sticking by your friends, Yully Stone?" Emma asked angrily. "After the way you acted the other day."
The boy looked confused. "The way I... what do you mean?"
"The way you treated her on Wednesday," Ysabel explained.
Emma continued for herself. "You called me a 'silly girl', no better than Hermione. Then you said you didn't like _me_, just the... the _boy_ I used to be." She sniffled and looked away as if angry, but mostly afraid that tears might come.
"You hurt her bad, Yully." Tomas stepped over to stand next to Emma.
The older boy looked away. "Yeah, I-I-guess I did." He took a breath. "I-I'm sorry, Emma. I-I was trying to get Hermione t'stop bothering me. You seen how she does it, acting like she was my girlfriend and all. I said them things to get her off my back, that's all."
"Do you want me 'off your back', too?" Emma asked, not sure she wanted him to answer her.
Yully shook his head. "I ain't ready for a girlfriend, but if there was a girl I want for a _friend_, it's you, Emma." He glanced around. "You, too, Ysabel, I, uhh... I guess."
"Friends, then." Emma swallowed the lump in her throat and offered her hand.
Yully shook hands with her. "Friends."
Everyone started for the hidden door to the fort. Yully and Emma didn't seem to notice that they still held hands until they were about halfway there. They stopped, looked down, and, without a word, pulled their hands apart.
* * * * *
"Here y'are, gents... Bridget." Laura put the beers down on the table being careful not to spill anything on the cards, the chips, or the money.
Bridget reached for her beer, a near beer actually. There were some good players at the table, and she wanted to keep her head. "Thanks, Laura."
"Can I bring you gents anything else?" the barmaid asked.
One of the men, a mustachioed stranger who said he was making his way to Denver, answered. "Yeah, pretty lady, you can bring me some luck." Without another word, he reached over and rubbed his hand across her gravid belly.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Laura demanded angrily. "Get your hands off me."
"Aw, now, everybody knows that rubbing a lady who's... expecting brings a man luck. He looked at her face and her breasts. "Seems to me all the luck went to the man that got you that way."
Laura smiled sweetly. "Well, Mr..."
"Pryce, Ian Pryce."
"Well, _Ian_..." She all but purred the name. "You got to rub my belly. How about you stand up, so I can rub yours."
"Anytime." He stood so as to push his stomach forward.
"Thanks." Laura moved her hand toward him. Then, at the last moment, she pulled her arm back, her fingers closing into a fist. She let loose a jab that plowed into Pryce's gut.
The man's eyes bulged. He gave a cry and sank back into his chair. "Don't you _ever_ touch me -- or any other woman -- like that again," she ordered.
"Y-yes... ma'am," he said gasping for breath.
Bridget giggled. "That wasn't exactly the sort of rub he had in mind, Laura."
"Maybe not, but it surely made me feel good."
"The thing is, I've seem you let other men rub your belly for luck," Bridget asked. "Why not him?"
"Because they were men I knew, like Sam Braddock a few nights ago, and because they asked me first."
"Seems like there's still a little bit of Leroy in you."
"Just a little, but I'm mostly Laura these days." She rubbed her own belly. "Especially down here."
* * * * *
Maggie hurried into the Saloon carrying a cloth bag of groceries. "Is Jessie downstairs?"
"I'm right here," Jessie said. "What's the problem?"
"There is no problem," Maggie answered. "I just thought that you might want to know that Deputy Paul just rode into town." She took a quick step backwards as Jessie ran past her and out the door.
Paul was sitting on his pony, Ash, watching two other men, miners from the look of their clothes, helping a third down from his horse. The man's hands were tied.
"Just take him inside, fellas," Paul told the others, when he saw Jessie running towards him. "I'll be there in a minute." He dismounted and waited for her to reach him. "Hi, Jessie, di --"
Before he could finish, she threw himself into his arms and kissed him hard. When they finally broke the kiss -- far too soon, he thought, but a man has to breathe now and again -- he said, "Well, that certainly does tell me you missed me. You got anything you wanna say?"
"Yeah," she tried to smile. "I'm six different kinds of idiot, asking you t'be my... my fancy man, especially when I made such a big deal outta never wanting t'work over at Cerise's cathouse." She looked down, not sure if she could meet his glance.
Paul put a hand under her chin and gently raised it until she was looking straight at him. "I'd say no more than _four_ kinds of idiot - - five at the most -- but they're all _my_ idiot, and I wouldn't have it any other way." He stroked her cheek with a finger.
"Maybe... maybe we could go back up to my room and, uhh... pick up where we left off." She put her hand on his.
"I wish we could -- I truly do -- but I just brought in a prisoner. A couple of the men he robbed up at their mines came in with me. He was trying to steal equipment, maybe even file a couple false claims. It'll take a couple hours to do all the paperwork, get everything sorted out and ready for the Judge."
"A couple hours. By then, I'll have to be getting ready for the dance tonight. There won't be time for us to..."
"Jess, there'll always be time for that. In this case, though, it'll have to be Sunday morning.
"Mmm." Her voice was husky with anticipation. "I always did like sleeping in on a Sunday morning."
"So do I. Especially when we won't be sleeping."
* * * * *
Bridget watched Cap walk over. "You come here to laugh at me, Cap Lewis?"
"No," he answered, smiling -- or was it a jeering grin? --at her. "I came over to dance with you." He held up a ticket for the next dance.
She scowled. "I don't know if I want to take that after what your uncle did to me."
"What did he do?"
"He told Dwight Albright not to give me a loan so I could get into that big poker game he's running."
"I figured that you'd want to play, but... can you _prove_ Uncle Abner told Albertson not to give you the money you need?"
"Not--not for sure, but that's _got_ to be the reason."
"Maybe. Or maybe -- I hate to say this, but maybe Albertson just didn't think you had enough collateral --"
"Collateral! That's the word he used." She glared at him. "You're in cahoots with your uncle on this, aren't you?"
"I'm not. Please believe that. I know the word from because I've suffered through enough meetings where that was all he and Uncle Abner talked about."
"I'll give you the benefit of doubt -- for now." She finally took his ticket, putting it in her apron pocket. "The music's starting, and I have to dance with somebody." She stepped into his outstretched arms, as the waltz began.
She felt some of her anger melt away as they danced. It felt so good to be in his arms. For a while, she just let him lead her across the floor.
But the suspicion, the anger, was still there.
"Tell me about these meetings you 'suffer through.' Were you at the one where your uncle told Albertson not to make that loan?"
"No, in fact, I doubt that he ever did."
"Are you defending him?" She stopped.
Cap shook his head. "No, it does sound like him -- a little. But he wouldn't have to tell Albertson not to give you that money. We're -- my uncle is probably the bank's biggest account. All Uncle Abner would have to say is that he hoped you couldn't get in the game. Albertson'd say 'no' to you in a Yankee minute, if he thought it'd make my uncle happy."
"And we wouldn't want Uncle Abner to be unhappy, would we?"
"It's not the best thing to do."
"Well, then let's us not do it either." Bridget's eyes flashed in anger as she stepped away from Cap and walked back to sit down and wait for the next dance.
And another partner.
* * * * *
Sunday, February 25, 1872
As soon as Mass ended, the congregation hurried out to the courtyard beside the church. Two long tables had been set up beside the fountain. At the first, R.J. Rossi and Jane Steinmetz were pouring sparkling red liquid from bottles into a pair of large crystal bowls. Arnie Diaz was arranging rows of glasses near them. Trays of yellow cake were already set at both ends, and a crowd was forming, eager for a taste.
More people gathered around the other table. Ramon stood by the left end, trying to smile. Standing with him were Sebastian Ortega and Arsenio Caulder. Whit and Carmen were there as well, the representatives of Ramon's family. Carmen held her year-old son, Felipe, in her arms. The older boy, Jose, held his father's hand.
Maggie was at the other end of the table with Lupe and Ernesto. Lupe was smiling and holding something half-hidden in her hands, while her brother fidgeted with his collar. Shamus and Molly, acting as Maggie's family, stood nearby. Shamus was looking over at the preparations, while Molly held Maggie's left hand. Laura Caulder stood next to Maggie on her right.
Ramon and Maggie kept sneaking glances at each other.
Father de Castro took his place standing at the center of the second table. "Shall we begin?" He nodded towards Whit.
Whit took a step forwards. "Margarita Sanchez. Standing in, as I am, as the head of the de Aguilar family, I ask your family again, what do you say to Ramon de Aguilar's peticion de mano?"
Shamus was acting as Maggie's father. In a way, he _was_ her father. "Well now, I'll have t'be asking her. Maggie, do you --"
"I accept it." Maggie beamed with joy. "I accept it with all my heart." She thought of Gregorio and his objections. 'I will save those things for tomorrow,' she told herself. 'Today is for happiness.'
Shamus repeated her answer. "She accepts."
"With all her heart," Lupe added happily. She handed Maggie the small, green cloth drawstring bag that she'd been holding.
Maggie cradled the bag in her hands, as she walked to the center of the table. She stopped in front of the priest. Ramon walked out to join her, and they stood, facing each other.
"And I give you this cross as a token of my pledge." She took a small silver cross inscribed with the image of the Lady of Guadalupe from the bag. "And of my love." The cross was on a chain. Ramon bent at the waist, and Maggie looped the chain over his head. As she let the chain fall onto his neck and shoulders, she leaned forward and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.
Ramon straightened up. "As I give you this, your muhul, with all of _my_ love." He made a slight gesture with his left hand, the signal for Sebastian and Whit to bring forth the muhul, his wedding gift to Maggie.
The two men moved a step apart to reveal a two-foot wooden chest with brass fittings. Each picked a handle and carried the chest forward, setting it on the table beside Ramon. He unlocked it with a brass key that he then placed in Maggie's hand.
Sebastian pulled back the lid of the chest. "Two silver rings with turquoise gemstones." He lifted out a small jewelry box, opened it, and held it up for all to see. After a moment, he set it down on the table.
"Five yards --" Whit began.
Sebastian interrupted. "_Vara_, not yards. That is how the cloth is measured." A vara was an old Spanish measurement, about 33 inches.
"Sorry," Whit apologized. "Five _vara_ of blue cotton cloth and another five vara of white satin, with buttons and lace trim to match each." The two bundles of cloth joined the jewelry box on the table, the satin atop the cotton. The smaller bundles of lace and buttons were placed next to the fabric.
Carmen joined the men. "Two hair ribbons and a handkerchief, all of silk." She displayed the items for the crowd before they, too, went on the table. The ribbons were the same blue color as the cloth. The handkerchief was a lighter shade of blue.
"There are other, smaller gifts, as well," Ramon continued, "but _this_ is the most important." He took a length of thin, double- looped gold chain from the chest and handed it to Father de Castro.
The priest held one end of the chain and passed the rest of it behind's Ramon back. Ramon took the chain with his right hand, letting it play out around his waist. He handed the end to Maggie, who was still facing him. She took the chain in her left hand and passed it behind her back to the father.
"You have promised yourselves to each other," De Castro said, taking the end of the chain from Maggie, "here in this holy place, before your friends and family and in the presence of Our Lord." He pulled gently at the chain, shortening the circle around Maggie and Ramon and forcing them to take a step closer together.
"The chain that binds you now is a symbol of the love that brought the two of you together and that will keep you together for the rest of your days. May those days be many and filled with all of the joy that you feel here today. In nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritu Sancti..." He crossed himself as he spoke the Latin, as did Maggie and Ramon. "I declare that you, Ramon de Aguilar and Margarita Sanchez, are betrothed."
The crowd began to applaud.
Ramon cradled Maggie's head in his hands. He gently turned her face upward and leaned in. Their lips met in a kiss. Maggie sighed as a warm, happy feeling flowed through her body. Her arms reached around Ramon, and she returned the kiss with all the passion and promise that she could in public and in a churchyard. 'With all my heart,' she told herself, as she was lost in the kiss.
"While they are... preoccupied," Father de Castro began. He stopped for the laugh he had expected, then continued. "They have asked me to announce that the wedding will be here -- of course -- on the 31st of March, the Sunday after Easter. They have also named Arsenio and Laura Caulder as their padrino and madrino." Laura and Arsenio walked out to stand beside the priest.
He looked closely at the pair, who were still kissing. "Now, let us see what Seá±or O'Toole and his people have prepared for us to celebrate this joyous occasion. We will toast Ramon and Maggie whenever they are ready to join us."
* * * * *
"One final announcement," Reverend Yingling continued. "I have been asked to remind you again that the dance, which is intended to commence our project of raising money for our new building fund, will be held here next Saturday night. I am certain that the wives of the other married men in his congregation have been as diligent in reminding their husbands as my own dear Martha has been in reminding me." He looked down at Martha Yingling who was staring up at him from her seat, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.
He smiled at her and continued quickly. "And I am equally sure that, like me, the rest of you have been waiting eagerly for the event." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two tickets. "I purchased my tickets weeks ago. If any of you have not purchased yours, Dwight Albertson and other members of the board are still selling them at their respective places of business. Tickets will also be available at the door. I look forward to seeing many of you there, enjoying an evening of frivolity towards the good end of supporting our congregation."
* * * * *
Dolores stood by the low wall in the front of the church. People were gathering around Ramon and Maggie, congratulating them. 'I should go over,' she told herself. 'But I cannot.' She felt a tear at the corner of one eye.
"Here you go, Dolores," a voice said.
She turned. "R.J."
"The same." He was standing besides her, holding a drink in each hand. "I thought you might want something." He handed her a glass. "I don't know if you're ready to go over and talk to them." He pointed to the couple with the hand that still held some of the punch. "But I thought that you might be able to toast their future happiness from over here."
She managed a small, sad smile. "Yes... I think I can do that."
"Good." He clinked her glass with his own. "You, know, you're much prettier when you smile." He winked. "Just don't tell Bridget I said that."
* * * * *
"Well now," Wilma said, looking up from the magazine she had been looking through. "Look what the cat done drugged in. G'morning, Bridget."
"Good morning, yourself." Bridget smiled and sat down in a chair near Wilma.
The contrast between the two women, the only ones in the parlor at _Le_ _Parisienne_, went beyond Wilma's rich Creole coloring and Bridget's bright red hair and pale complexion. Wilma was wearing what she called her "working clothes", a lavender corset, silky white drawers, and matching stockings, all intended to draw attention to her lush curves. Bridget was in a dark green, floor-length dress with pale green lace at the collar and cuffs. Her own figure was apparent but understated.
"What brings you over here?" Wilma asked. "I ain't seen you in -- what is it? -- a couple of weeks, at least."
"I'm sorry about that. I like to sleep in most mornings, seeing as I have to be at my table, ready to play poker, from noon till when Shamus closes. Today, Maggie and Ramon got betrothed over at their church, so I went to that."
"How was it? I thought 'bout going, but churches 'n' me..." She shook her head. "...we just don't get along."
"It was a nice ceremony. They traded gifts, and the priest blessed them. Shamus and Molly set up food for after. I stayed for a drink, then took a chance and came over here."
"Took a chance? Well, I like that."
"C'mon, Wilma, more than once when I've come over, you were..." Her voice trailed off as she glanced towards the ceiling.
Wilma frowned. "You ain't gonna start giving me a hard time 'bout working here, are you?"
"It's not exactly the way I'd have expected Will Hanks to end up."
"The hell it ain't. You know how much fun I had when we was hold up at that cat house over in New Orleans." She paused a moment. "Come t'think on it, you wasn't too unhappy about the accommodations there, neither."
"Poker -- and sex -- whenever I wanted; how could I be unhappy with that? Let's just say that I never thought you'd be _working_ in a place like this."
Wilma gave a sleek, feline stretch, a smile on her face. "I ain't working here, Bridget; I'm playing -- at least, it seems like that most of the time."
"Besides," she continued, "ain't you got even better than what you had back there in N'Orleans? You're running your own game, and you got R.J. and Cap on hand whenever you feel like playing something other'n poker."
"Wilma!" Bridget felt an embarrassed flush in her face. "I've done nothing of the sort."
Wilma cocked an eyebrow in surprise. "Still nothing? Not with either of 'em?"
"N-no." Bridget shook her head nervously. "Never."
"Hell's bells, gal, have you even kissed 'em?"
Bridget chewed her lower lip. "Umm... yeah. I-I've kissed both of them -- and more than once, if you really must know."
"I'm glad you ain't letting those two go _totally_ to waste. I won't ask you just how far you let that kissing get. It probably ain't near far enough." She looked closely at Bridget. "You do _like_ kissing 'em, don't you?"
"Uh... uh huhn," Bridget admitted, shifting uneasily to avoid Wilma's gaze. She had been surprised of late at how very much she did like kissing both men.
"Next time you're alone with one of 'em -- Cap or R.J. -- you take his hand and put it right here -- on your tit." Wilma took her friend's hand and placed it on her own breast.
Bridget pulled her hand away, as if from a rattler. "Wilma!"
"Don't worry." Wilma giggled. "I'm not trying to get you into bed - leastwise not with me! Besides, it feels a lot better when a man does it to you than when you do it to another gal." Now, she grinned. "You let R.J. do it. He's got them nice _big_ hands."
Bridget felt her face warm again. This time, her body felt warm, too. Her tits -- bosom! 'A lady says bosom, or even just chest,' she thought -- tingled, and her nipples felt stiff. There was a tingling down in her crotch, too.
"Can we change the subject?" the redhead pleaded. "Are you still having problems being Lady Cerise's second?"
"No, I told you 'bout how I settled things with Rosalyn and Beatriz. They still ain't too happy about me getting the job -- 'cept when I gotta do some work for the Lady, and I can't be around to play with any men." She pouted for a moment. "Truth t'tell, I don't like that too much neither." She leaned forward and whispered. "'Course, some of that time it's just for show. Me 'n the Lady sit around for an hour and just chew the fat to keep them other two happy. Then there's that painter fellah."
"Painter?" Then she remembered. "Oh, yeah; he came into the Saloon the other day and asked about doing a painting of Jessie."
Wilma laughed. "Won't that be a kick? The Lady brought him to town t'do one of me. Me 'n Jess getting our pictures up on the wall again, it'll be just like old times."
"Maybe. I'm not sure that Jessie'll do it." She shrugged. "I don't think I would."
"Would what, pretty lady?" a voice asked from the door. The women turned to see a tall man in an ill-fitting suit standing in the doorway. "I'm Jack Reilly, by the way."
Wilma rose from the chair in a sensuous motion. "I'm Wilma, and I am so very pleased to meet you... Jack." She glanced over at Bridget. "This is, Bridget, a friend of mine, and what she was going t'do was to say, 'Goodbye.' Wasn't it, Bridget?"
"Oh, uhhh, yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Reilly. I'll see you later, Wilma. Have a good day." She stood up, trying not to show her disappointment.
Wilma took the man's arm. "Oh, I'm very sure _we_ will." Her voice was low and husky, full of promise. "You remember what I said, now, Bridget."
"I'll think about it." Without looking back, she walked quickly out of the parlor. 'And I'll be back to talk to you about the poker game in a day or two,' she added to herself, 'and when I do, I won't let you distract me like you did today.'
* * * * *
Jessie was awakened by the delicious sensations flowing through her body. Paul was behind her, kissing the side of her neck, while his one hand reached over her shoulder to play with her nipple. "Mmm, you are the best damned alarm clock I ever had," she told him.
"Thanks. Much as I enjoy just being here in bed with you, I thought that you might want to get downstairs before Maggie stopped making breakfast."
Jessie glanced over at the small clock ticking away on her bed table. "It's well after 10. I figure she stopped more'n an hour ago t'go to church, same as always on Sunday. 'Cept today, her and Ramon is getting hitched -- promising t'get hitched, anyway. Molly and Laura and Jane were gonna go over with her. There ain't no breakfast t'be had. Come t'think of it, Shamus told me he wasn't gonna open the place down till they all get back."
"So why aren't you over there, too -- not that I mind."
"'Cause I told Maggie I wanted to spend the morning making up with you." Jessie giggled. "She said she understood. 'Course, she blushed a little when she said it."
"I guess I'm stuck up here with you, then." Paul started playing with her nipple again.
Jessie shifted, so she was facing him. "Is mon-suer sorry t'be alone weeth Giselle?" She pouted prettily.
"How could any man be sorry to be in a spot like this... Giselle?" He gently kissed her on the lips, then set a trail of kisses down her cheek, her neck, and on to her breasts. He ran his rough tongue across her rounded flesh before he began to suckle.
Jessie shivered from the sparks of sexual fire shooting through her, especially down from her breasts to her groin. She began to feel very warm down there, and wet, and... empty. "Oh... oh... mon-suer iz so very good weeth h-his tongue." She knew how bad her fake accent was and used it only enough to suggest the "Fronch 'ore" she was pretending to be.
"Let me show you just how good," Paul told her, a mischievous grin on his face.
His head slipped below the blanket. Jessie felt his lips moving down her bare skin towards her stomach. She moaned as his tongue darted in and out of her navel. She reached down, wanting to hold his head there a while longer.
But he moved his head away before her hands could reach him. He kept kissing her, moving ever closer to her nether curls. Kisses alternated with teasing nips on her aroused flesh.
She was ready, more than ready to succumb, but when she tried to speak, to tell him of her needs, all that she could manage was to softly moan, "P-Paauul."
His tongue moved slowly, _agonizingly_ slow, until it reached her clitoris. It slathered the tiny nub. Then it began to pluck at it the way Natty Ryland sometimes plucked the strings on his fiddle.
Jessie's world exploded in a burst of exquisite joy. She arched her back, which only pushed her groin closer to Paul's mouth. She yowled and let her head fall back. Her fingers clutched at the blanket, as she rode her orgasm the way a rafter rides wild water.
After too short a time, it was over. She felt herself calming, like a horse after a long ride. But that was only until his tongue began its magic again. It was like a man working a pump handle -- up and down and... and up and -- ohh! -- Up and... UP! The second time was even stronger than the first. It seemed like she even felt it in her eyelashes. She screamed and bucked, and her legs squeezed together to hold his head in place.
The incredible sensations began to settle into a blissful afterglow. She found that she was able talk again. "Mmmm," she said in a breathy whisper, "mon-suer... Paul, that was... was..." Her voice failed as he began yet again. The only thing her mind could focus on was that wondrous tongue and... and the way he was continuing to suck on her clit.
He was trying to make her come again, the devil! Her passion built even faster this time. When the orgasm burst upon her, it raced through her like a prairie fire. She felt, as if from a distance, her body writhing on the bed, heard her voice screaming in delight.
The prairie fire settled down, eventually, to blissful embers. Jessie was sprawled on the bed, a sated grin on her lips. She felt as if all her bones had melted in the heat of her pleasuring, and she didn't care one little bit if they ever grew back.
"That mon-suer was the most wonderful..." she gushed, at last. "I feel as happy as a pup with two tails. I don't..." She fell back into character, "Giselle, she does not know how to thank the mon-seur for what he just done."
Paul's head came out from under the blanket. As he settled back down, he gently reached over and kissed her forehead. "Sure you know, Giselle; sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander, as they say."
Still dazed, she didn't quite understand. "Ahh - what?"
"Your turn. You do it now - please."
She blinked. "You mean you want me to... to --" Was that why he'd done what he done, to fix things so that she couldn't say 'no' without feeling like a skunk? 'He ain't exactly being fair,' she thought.
"I mean, I'm asking -- and just _asking_ -- for you to use that sweet mouth of yours on me like I just did to you." He gave her a self- satisfied grin of his own. "You certainly can't say that you didn't like it, not the way you were yelling."
Jessie smiled wryly. "No, I gotta admit, I did like it. A little." She certainly had liked it. Did that mean that she owed him the same? It was a little like being given a gift, and then being asked to pay for it.
"You liked it only a little? Then let's see how you like _this_." He pulled her to him and kissed her.
There was an added flavor to this kiss, though, sweet and salty at the same time. 'I'm tasting m'self,' she realized.
"That help you decide?" Paul asked when they broke the kiss.
It hasn't tasted bad like she'd expected, but Jessie still wasn't sure. Fair was fair and, to her surprise, part of her thought she ought to ante up, but part of her didn't even want to think about it. This was the sort of thing had always seemed to separate the whores from the decent women in her mind. "Uhh... can I stop if I-I, uhh... don't like doing it?"
"I promise." He reluctantly raised his hand as if being sworn in. "You can stop if you don't like it."
"And you won't ask me again?"
"I won't ask you again about it." His hand was still up. "I promise that, too."
The second promise was the clincher. If he was going to be like that, it was only fair that she at least _try_. "How do we do it, then?"
"Like this, maybe." He propped the pillows against the headboard, shifted, and leaned back against them. He was almost sitting up. "I want to watch you," he explained, as he tossed the blanket aside.
Jessie had seen -- and enjoyed -- his manhood many times. Now it was pointing up toward her, erect in anticipation. "This is so different from the way I've usually done things," she whispered, still unsure.
He just smiled, not wanting to scare her off with an ill-chosen word.
'Well... sooner begun, sooner done,' she told herself. She'd try, if only to settle accounts, but she didn't expect to enjoy the act. She intended to quit as soon as she could without having him feel that she was cheating him.
She rose up on her hands and knees, looming over him. As she leaned forward, trying to decide just how to start, her long hair fell down from her shoulders and brushed across his groin. She saw his member twitch at the sensation.
'Like he was ticklish,' she thought. 'Maybe I _can_ have a little fun before I decide t'quit.' She moved her head, so that her hair swept back and forth over his manhood.
He gasped. "Jessie, what _are_ you doing down there?"
"This." She kissed the tip of his manhood. She'd kissed it before, but always while he still had his drawers on. This time, he was naked. His flesh was warm to her touch, and he smelled of their lovemaking.
She suddenly felt a twinge of panic, but it was too soon to quit. She wanted to give the experience a decent chance , to do it to him as long as he had done it to her. That would be fair. Afterwards she could tell him that it just wasn't right for her.
When she was still a man, Jessie, Will, and Brian had spent almost a month hiding out from the law in a brothel in New Orleans. Jesse had been in such places before, but that one was the fanciest house he'd ever spent any time in. The robbery loot had made it possible. She remembered what her male self had liked those whores to do to him. Now, she was going to use those memories as a guide.
"And this." She carefully took his balls in her hand. He shivered at her touch, but he didn't try to move away. She squirmed in close. The musky smell got even stronger, but it was pleasant... almost.
Her tongue, curved between her lips, ran over his jewels. There was that salty-sweet taste -- 'the taste of sex', she decided -- even as she heard his voice catch in his throat.
"She hadn't expected to like the taste of his skin, but even her first, uncertain efforts had made her shiver, like tiny fireworks were going off under her own skin.
Jessie took one testicle into her mouth, sweeping her tongue over it as she did. Paul moaned again. She let it out of her mouth, glistening with saliva, and shifted to take in the other.
She could hear him groan and see his member twitching. It seemed enormous. Was it still getting bigger? It certainly was getting _redder_, almost purple, from the urgency of his need. The larger it grew, the more intimated she felt. Giselle, her fantasy self, was braver than her about this sort of thing. Thinking like she _was_ Giselle gave her courage enough to continue.
Her mouth opened, letting the testicle slip free. She paused, listening to his breathing. It began to sound a little more regular, as he fell back from the brink.
"Oh, Jess," he said, trying to catch his breath, "that was incredible."
"If I stopped now, you'd think you'd been gypped," she answered playfully. "Sauce for the gander, remember?"
"I - I surely would," he murmured through his grin.
Her mind was racing, remembering . That Cajun gal back in New Orleans, Yvette, what would _she_ do next? Jesse must've been with her a dozen times -- maybe more. Guided by that experience, she took his member and gently stroked it up and down with her hand.
"J-Jess." Her partner took a quick breath, as the intensity of what he was feeling rose.
Jessie giggled, watching him shiver, feeling his firmness in her hand. She kissed the tip again, then ran her tongue along it, covering it with saliva. When she got back to the tip, she licked a droplet of his nectar that had formed. She felt him tense in her hand and eased off.
Paul lay there, breathing hard. "Whoa, J-Jessie. That... uhh... that was so... uuuhh... so damned... good. I n-never... uuhh... thought you'd..." His voice trailed off.
"Do this?" Placing herself deeply into the role of Giselle, she took him into her mouth. She had expected to feel demeaned pleasing a man this way, but the reality, it turned out, was quite the opposite. She felt a surprising degree of control - control enough to bring her stronger companion to the brink again and again. Her tongue moved along his length, and she could feel him twitch in reaction.
He managed to reach down. His fingers twisted among her curls, grabbing her head and holding it there. If Jessie's mouth hadn't been so full, she would have gasped. As inexperienced as she was, she knew what was coming - and with Paul holding her in place, she wasn't going to miss it.
Paul's member pulsed once, twice, then it spurted, flooding her mouth.
Jessie took it bravely and somehow she didn't choke. The taste was -- she couldn't really describe it, but it... wasn't _too _ bad. She surprised herself by not gagging. She swallowed, just like Yvette used to swallow. She swallowed almost all of it; just a few drops slipped out the corner of her mouth.
After a time, he stopped, let go of her head and rested back. She felt him soften and relaxed her jaws to let him slip out. For a moment she didn't know what to do next, but she had reached this point with Yvette more than once. Carefully, she took him in her hand again and, to his great joy, licked him clean. Satisfied, almost proud, she lay down beside him. "So, mon-seur," she asked with a giggle, "did you like it?"
* * * * *
"A beer... _boy_," Pablo said with a sneer. He pulled a Liberty half- dollar from his pocket and casually flipped it onto the table in front of Arnie. The betrothal ceremony had been over for almost an hour, but people were still milling about, congratulating the happy couple and enjoying Shamus' punch and the cakes Molly, Jane, and Laura had baked.
Arnie ignored the coin. "This is a party. We have no beer." He used a ladle to fill a glass from the punch bowl. "Besides, I think that this is more your drink, anyway." He reached across the table to hand the drink to his rival.
"Who are you to say what a man like me drinks?" He took the glass anyway and drank deeply. "Sugar water." He spat the drink on the tablecloth.
Arnie laughed. "I was not speaking of what a _man_ drinks; I was talking about you. This is the punch for the children."
"And that's me best tablecloth, I'll have ye know," Molly said. Her hand snaked out to grab the coin. "The drinks is free, lad, t'celebrate Maggie and Ramon's betrothing, but I'll be thanking ye for paying for the cleaning of the cloth."
Pablo protested. "That ain't fair, Seá±ora."
"Well... if ye're going to go hungry tonight..."
"I've got the money, more'n he has by a long shot." He sneered. "Keep the coin. Give it to the _boy_, there for all I care. It's probably more than he makes in a week."
Arnie took the bait. "I make plenty. Give him back his money, Seá±ora Molly. I do not need it." He glared at Pablo, ready to leap over the table.
"Maybe ye do and maybe ye don't, Arnie, but he gave that money t'be paying for a drink. That makes it mine and Shamus', and I already told the both of ye that I'd be using it t'be paying for the washing of these tablecloths." She smiled at Arnie and pocketed the coin.
Pablo smiled scornfully. "You see, Arnoldo, the coin belongs to her. _You_ belong to her, her good little lapdog. It was worth the money to see this." He turned and walked away.
"Bastardo." Arnie muttered under his breath, as he watched Pablo disappear into the crowd. He did earn more than fifty cents a week, but not a great deal more, and it truly galled him to have Pablo remind him of the fact.
* * * * *
Monday, February 26, 1872
Bert McLeod used a twig to measure the distances between the stick they were using as a marker and two of the pennies. "Stephan and Jorge are closest. Jorge beats Yully by a quarter inch or so," he announced.
"Looks like Stephan and me're the captains," Jorge Ybaá±es said, cheerfully. Jorge's twin brother, Hector, and Bert had been captains the week before and weren't eligible to try again.
Stephan looked at the crowd of boys. "My penny was closest, so I pick first." He pointed "Yully."
"I'll go with my brother." Jorge told the others. "It'll be good t'be on the same side this week."
"Bert," Stephan said, "you're pretty fast. You get over here."
The chosen boys lined up behind their captains. "In that case..." Jorge thought for a moment. "Emma, you're on my team this week."
"Me?" Emma answered, not a little surprised. "I didn't think you even liked my playing ball."
"I ain't sure how I feel about girls playing," Hector told her. "But you're good enough that -- if we gotta let you play -- I want you on my team."
* * * * *
Ethan Thomas opened the door at the second knock. "Good morning, Wilma," he greeted her cheerfully. "Welcome to my studio. Please, do come in."
"Thank you, Mr. Thomas." She walked in, smiling, deliberately brushing her body against him as she did. She was wearing a lavender dress, the top three buttons open to give a clear view of her cleavage. The way he reacted would give her an idea about the sort of approach to take with him. Wilma, like Will before her, liked to have the upper hand.
He closed the door and turned to face her. "Ethan... please. After all, we'll be working together for some time on your painting."
"Mmm, I hope that won't be _all_ we'll be doing together." She was watching for his reaction. She got one, just a flash of one, but she couldn't quite read it before he beckoned her to follow her and turned toward his working space.
Instead of following him, Wilma walked around slowly, exploring. There was a faint smell that she recognized as turpentine that got stronger as she passed by a work table covered with tubes of paint, small jars of colored powders and larger one labeled "linseed oil." A gray pot filled with brushes was next to a can of turpentine. Next to the can was a flat, oddly shaped piece of wood. She picked it up for a closer look. "What's this... Ethan?"
"A pallet." He carefully took it from her and set it back on the table. "I use it to hold the colors while I paint."
"Really?" Wilma took his hand. "I never been in a painter's workshop before. I am _so_ looking forward to this."
"Shall we get started then? I'll be painting you upstairs if you don't mind." She was studying his eyes as he spoke. His talk was all business, but the intensity behind his appreciating glance interested her.
Wilma was still holding his hand in hers. "I thought this here was where you worked, -- not that I mind going upstairs with you. I do my best... _work_ upstairs over at Cerise's." She smiled and, again, watched for a reaction.
Ethan returned the smile smoothly. "I paint by natural light -- daylight -- as much as I am able. That requires the curtains to be open. I can't really do that in this room, not for _your_ painting. People would be walking by on the street outside, and they would, of course, look in. You... ah, you won't exactly be dressed for that."
Wilma giggled. "You think it'd bother me t'have people see me in my unmentionables? Why Ethan, that's what I do for a living. That's how men _want_ t'see me." She looked up at him, her eyes wide, lips pouting. "Wouldn't you wanna see me that way, Ethan?"
The man gave a shrug. "If people can look in and see you, they'll gather at the window and block my precious light. The _women_ won't care to look or, at any rate, they will say that they don't care to. In any event, they most certainly won't want their men to look. They'll demand that I close the curtains, and, if -- no, _when_ I am forced to do that -- I lose my light and then we'll have to move upstairs anyway." He pointed towards the ceiling. "On the second floor, no one will be able to look in, problem solved, q.e.d."
Wilma stroked his cheek with one hand. "Ain't you the clever one, though?" She let go of his hand. "I'll just go upstairs and get ready. You can come up with me and watch me strip outta these clothes, or you can wait down here till I'm done." She winked. "Or you can help. Your choice."
"Actually, I had not intended to have you pose today. We haven't even discussed your wardrobe as yet."
"Then why'd you have me come over here?" She looked confused for a moment, then smiled broadly. "Or do you something else in mind for us t'do today?"
"Wilma, lest this go any further, you should know that I never have relations with the women I'm painting. I asked Cerise to send you over this morning, so I could observe your skin tones, especially your face, in natural light. Also, I wanted to discuss the pose you'd take, perhaps make a few rough sketches of possible poses."
"That's all?" She barely managed to hide her disappointment.
"I'm afraid that it is. I apologize if this spoils whatever... plans... you might have had."
Instead of pouting she smiled. She was intrigued by his declaration that he never had relations with the women he painted. Wilma took that as a challenge.
* * * * *
Hector Ybaá±es took a bite from the beef empanada his mother had packed for his lunch. "What was you doing telling Emma she played so good?" He and his brother were sitting together alone under a tree a few feet from the school building. "You keep doing that, and all the girls'll want t'play."
"She really ain't that bad, you know," Jorge replied. "Besides, most of the girls'll never want t'mess up their pretty dresses." He made a very feminine gesture.
Hector laughed. "You're right about that." He chuckled. "I can just see 'Whiny Hermione' running around like that after a ball."
"Or Lallie Mckecknie," Jorge added. Then he thought for a moment. "Yullie's sister, Penny, though, she'd probably be a better player than Emma."
"She might. That still don't mean we gotta make her want to try."
"No, I don't want a bunch of girls getting in the way. We'd get into trouble if one of them skinned her knee."
"Then why'd you tell Emma she was so good? Why'd you pick her for your team?"
"'Cause Stephan picked Yully for his team. In case you didn't notice them two like each other."
"What about it?"
"Yully's probably the best player in school. You think he's gonna enjoy playing against his girlfriend? You think she's gonna like playing against him for that matter? It'll throw 'em both off their game."
"I see." Hector grinned. "This week'll be an easy win for sure."
* * * * *
` "Long Ike and Sweet Betsy got married, of course,
` But Ike, getting jealous, obtained a divorce,
` While Betsy, well satisfied, said with a shout,
` 'Goodbye, you big lummox, I'm glad you backed out!'"
Most of the men in the Saloon joined Jessie in the last line. They broke into applause when they were finished, and more than a few tossed coins at her.
"Thanks, boys." Jessie stood up and bowed low. "That's the end of this show, but I'll be singing again in a couple hours. You're welcome t'hang around till then, and I know Shamus'll be more 'n happy t'sell you a beer or three while you wait."
That brought a laugh from the crowd. Some were already at the bar, and more headed that way. Jessie stayed by the stool, talking to Mort Boyer and Milo Nash for a while before she came to the bar.
Shamus had a beer ready for her. "Oh, I need this." She took a long drink.
"Have ye decided, Jessie lass?" Shamus asked. "About the painting, I mean."
"I still ain't sure, Shamus. Maybe... you think that painter man'd give me some more time t'think about it?"
The "painter man," Ethan Thomas, was sitting a few feet away, finishing his own beer. "If you need the time, I should be happy to give it to you, but might I show you something first?"
"I suppose." She cocked an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Ethan pulled a tablet from one pocket of his frock coat and flipped it open. "It was premature, perhaps, but I made a few sketches while you were singing, to get some idea of how to have you pose... should you agree, of course." He paused and handed her the tablet.
"That's me, ain't it," she said in a surprised voice. His sketch showed a woman -- showed _her_ -- sitting on her stool, guitar in hand. Next to the picture, he'd written a few notes about her dress and hair, as well as drawn stick figures to represent some different poses.
"Keep going," he told her. "I did a few detail sketches, too."
Jessie looked. "My hands," she said, flipping the page to one that held several stick figure drawings, and a more detailed close-up of Jessie's hands on the guitar strings. The next page was an oval, a head with lines for the eyes and mouth and the hair up or down. "You done all this while I was singing tonight?"
"I'm a quick study. I thought that these might help to persuade you."
"What do you think, Shamus?" she asked the man looking over her shoulder. "After all, you'd be paying for it."
"I think that if we hung a picture of you over the bar, dressed all plushy and holding yuir guitar, a lot of the men who'd be just passing through wouldn't pass through so quickly."
Jessie smiled. "I'm tempted, painter man."
"Ethan, if you please," he said quickly, "Ethan Thomas." He offered his and.
"Go ahead, lassy. What harm can it do?" urged Shamus.
Jessie nodded resignedly. "All right, _Ethan_, I'll let you paint me."
She accepted his hand and pumped it two or three times before letting it go.
* * * * *
Milt Quinlan glanced down at the papers on his desk for a moment before he spoke. "Trisha, the final item we have to discuss is your business."
"What about it?" she asked nervously. "I already agreed to give Kaitlin money each month for her and Emma."
"Yes, but as your wife, she has a stake in your store. If you died today -- heaven forbid -- it'd be hers automatically as your widow."
"Only half of it; my brother, Liam, is my partner. He owns the other half."
"Exactly," Milt continued, "if something happened to you after the divorce, the store would most likely go to him. The law would make some provision for Emma, as your child, but Kaitlin would have no claim."
Tricia winced, as if in pain. "It's bad enough that we have to talk about the divorce. N-now, you're going on about me d-dying."
Kaitlin reached over and took Trisha's hand. "No one's talking about you dying. Milt is just trying to explain things."
"That's right, Trisha. The law says that all your assets have to be considered, and you did tell me that Kaitlin put some cash into your business."
Trisha nodded. "She got some money from her pa, but we--we paid him back years ago."
"Nonetheless," Milt told her, "she did put money in."
She sniffled. "So now I have to give her half of my share of the business. That doesn't seem very fair. Liam'll own most of it, then."
"I don't want a lot," Kaitlin said. "How does... umm, twenty percent sound?"
Trisha looked relieved. "Not as good as ten percent, but Milt _is_ right, I guess. You should have a share. Liam and I can give you that much, and we'll each have a forty percent share."
* * * * *
"A pitcher of beer, please, Shamus." Laura tossed a gold half-eagle coin on the counter. "Fred Norman just won a big pot, and he decided to celebrate and buy a round for the table."
"Bridget'll have that money back in no time, I'm thinking. Still, she likes her players... happy, so she don't mind losing a hand now and then." He got a glass pitcher out from under the bar, checked to make sure that it was clean, and began to fill it from the tap.
While she stood waiting for him to fill the pitcher, Laura noticed that the man sitting two barstools down was staring at her. "Can I help you with something, mister?" she asked warily.
Ethan blinked, surprised to have been caught. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"
"And if I am? I don't see it any reason for you to be concerned about it."
"I am sorry." He held out his hand. "I am Ethan Thomas, Mrs..."
Laura decided to be friendly. "Caulder, Mrs. Laura Caulder."
"Charmed. I did not mean to stare, but I saw you here no more than ten minutes ago, and you showed no sign of your..." He looked down at her gravid stomach. "...ahh, current condition."
Laura laughed. "That's because it wasn't me. You saw my... my sister, Jane." She looked around the room for a moment, then pointed. "There she is, talking to Red Tully and Norm Osbourne."
"Amazing how much the pair of you look alike."
"Almost magic, ye might say." Shamus gave Laura a wink, as he carefully set the pitcher on a tray. "Be easier t'be lifting that heavy thing if ye use both hands."
Laura picked up the tray. Before she could walk away, Ethan asked, "Please come back if you would and bring your sister, as well. I'd like to discuss a proposal with you." Laura looked back at him curiously, then nodded and started towards Bridget's table.
She was back quickly with Jane in tow.
"Thank you, Mrs. Caulder," Ethan stood as they approached. "I am Ethan Thomas," he told Jane, who, in return, introduced herself as Laura's twin. "And I am most pleased to meet you, Jane. I asked your sister to bring you over because I wanted to discuss something with you."
"What you got in mind, Ethan?" Jane said, sitting down on a stool, giving Laura an excuse to sit down next to her.
"I am a painter, Jane, a portrait artist mostly, although I have done a number of landscapes -- one can't help it out here in the western expanses. But I digress. Lady Cerise, who you may know, has paid me to come to this place to produce a portrait of her associate, Wilma Hanks. Our agreement allows me to seek other work, as well. In fact, your employer has just commissioned me to do a likeness of Miss Jessie Hanks."
Both women nodded, but their expressions told him that they still didn't grasp what this conversation was about.
"Allow me to get to the point, I have long thought of doing a portrait of 'The Three Fates', the women that Greek mythology claims control the circumstances of every man's life. Some of those myths describe them as a... uhh, maiden, a mother, and an older woman. One reason that I have not done the work is due, to a large part, to the unavailability of suitable models."
"When Laura -- may I call you Laura? -- pointed Jane out to me, I realized that the problem had been solved."
"Laura's fine," she replied, "but there's only the two of us?"
"That should not be a problem -- ah, yes, I can see the ribbon on your blouse, now. Either of you can pose for the third woman. I need only 'age' her as I paint." He took the tablet from his pocket again and made a quick sketch, more of a line drawing, actually. "I see the older woman, the 'wise woman', if you will, seated on a throne, and flanked by the maiden and the mother."
Laura considered the image. "I see what you mean. Each one has different hair, different clothes, but it'd be the same face, right?" Ethan nodded. "How long do you think this would take?"
"Assuming an hour a day for each of you -- I don't expect Mr. O'Toole to allow more than that -- I should say... six weeks at the most."
"Let's do it, Laura," Jane said. "It sounds like fun. I ain't never had nobody paint my picture before."
Shamus cut in. "And who'd be paying ye for this great work of art?"
"I won't expect you to pay, sir. You'll be contributing enough by allowing the ladies to pose. In fact, if you're still interested in commissioning me do a portrait of your lovely wife -- or the pair of you -- I'll happily consider dropping my price should you allow the ladies to pose for me."
"I'll be happy t'be dickering with ye over the price, Ethan," Shamus told him, "_if_ I decide t'have ye do that picture of me Molly. But I'll leave it to Laura and Jane to decide if they want t'be posing for ye."
"Yes, yes," Jane said happily. "I wanna do it."
Laura was far less certain. "And _I_ want to think about it. Do you mind if I give you my answer in a couple of days?"
"I'd just as soon know sooner, Mrs. Caulder, but I can understand your reticence. After all, you'll make a better model if you're happy about posing. Shall we say Wednesday evening? I can come over after dinner."
"Why don't ye come over here _for_ dinner," Shamus suggested. "They have a good bill of fare over at Cerise's place -- so I've heard -- but we've a fine restaurant here, too. And Maggie's cooking is a treat that no man who passes this way should be denying himself."
* * * * *
Tuesday, February 27, 1872
"What's the matter, Laura?" Arsenio asked.
Laura shifted in their bed, so she could face him. "What do you mean?"
"You've been tossing around, slamming your pillow like you were trying to settle down for the night, and I've heard you moaning and mumbling under your breath about something. I'd like to know what's bothering you."
"Jane... sort of."
"Now what'd she do?"
"It's not really her. A man came into the Saloon tonight, a painter. He's staying at _La_ _Parisienne_, doing a picture of Wilma of all things. And Shamus is going to have him do a picture of Jessie, too."
"Sounds simple enough. What does it have to do with Jane -- or you?"
"He saw the two of us. Shamus told him we were twins."
"And...?"
"And now he wants to do _our_ picture. We'd be the 'Three Fates', something out of the Greek legends. Jane and me would take turn posing for the third Fate."
"I can see wanting a painting of you -- I would -- but why the two of you, and why as these Greek Fates?"
"He said that, in some of the stories, one of them is a young girl, and another is a... umm, mother."
"So when he sees a pair of pretty twins, one of them pregnant, I can see where he'd get the idea. But who's gonna pay for it, not Shamus?"
Laura caught the look in his eye. "No, and neither are you, Arsenio. I'm not sure I want a picture done of me, especially not now, when I'm like big this."
"Big _and_ beautiful." He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "Maybe he won't find anybody to pay, and you'll be off the hook."
"He might do it anyway, 'on spec' he called it. He'd paint it and ship it back east to be sold."
"Is he any good? Would it sell?"
"I'm no judge. He made some sketches to show Jane and me how he'd want us to pose. I thought they looked pretty good."
"Any picture of you would."
"I want to pose, and I _don't_ want to pose. What should I do?"
"I don't know. And if I did, I wouldn't tell you."
"Well, thank you very much."
"Laura, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, especially now." He reached down and gently touched her extended belly. "And I'd be proud to have everybody else see just how beautiful you are."
Now it was her turn. "And..."
"And it would be you that they'd be looking at. If you aren't comfortable with the idea of your picture being looked at, then I don't want you to do it. You think about it some more. I'll be here to talk to you about it whenever you want. And _whatever_ you decide, I'll back you up."
Laura slid in close to him. "I'm just glad that you're here for me right now." Her hand reached down to touch his erect member inside his drawers. "But I don't think we'll talk." She kissed him hard. He returned the kiss, and they were soon too happily busy to talk for a while.
* * * * *
Liam looked around. The store was empty, as it often was mid-morning. "So, Trisha," he said, turning to her, "how'd it go yesterday when you and Kaitlin met with Milt Quinlan?"
"Not too bad, I guess." She shrugged and made a sour face. "I put her name on the deed to the house -- I'll still be living there after we divorce. I'll keep giving her money each month to run the place and for her and Emma." She sighed. "I gave her a check, too, so she could set up her own bank account instead of using the one we shared."
"Sounds like you've got everything in order then."
Trisha chewed her lip a bit. "Umm, not quite. She... she wants a share in the store, too."
"Sounds fair. She did put in some of the money we used to set up the business."
"I'm so glad that you agreed." She sighed in relief. "I thought we'd give her twenty percent. That'd leave forty percent for each of us."
Liam gave Trisha a sharp look. "You expect me to give her part of my share?"
"Of course. Milt's drawing up the papers. He said that they'd be ready to sign Thursday or Friday."
"Why should I give her anything? I'm not the one divorcing her."
"Because I said so, Liam," she answered firmly, her hands balled up on her hips. "Why should you own half the store, when I have to give part of my half to Kaitlin?"
"That's not going to work, Trisha." Liam crossed his arms in front of him. "I probably would have gone along in deference to my big brother, Patrick -- I usually did, but I'm _not_ going give away a big chunk of my share of the business just because my little sister, Trisha, tells me to."
Trisha made a long face. "Now you're just being mean."
"No, practical, one of us has to be." He thought for a bit. "The last time I looked at the books, the Feed and Grain was worth about... $5500, more or less. That about right?"
"Figure in stock on hand and accounts receivable, I'd say closer to $6,000," she answered warily. "Are you asking me to pay you for your share?"
"Of course, I am. Ten percent of $5,500 is... $550, but you are my little sister, so I'll let you have the share for half, just $275. Do you think you can afford that?"
"If... if I have to, but it-it isn't fair. It just isn't fair."
Liam shook his head. "No, it's business." To himself he added, 'and it's just what Patrick would do if things were the other way around.'
Trisha gave a deep sigh. "All right, _brother_." She spat the last word. "I'll pay. I'll tell Milt to say in the paperwork that I'm paying for your share."
* * * * *
` "My Sweet Gregorio,”
` “I been meaning t'write you for a while, now. I was sure
` unhappy that you left town without stopping in to say,
` 'Goodbye' to me.”
` “I like goodbyes. Especially the _long_ ones where
` there's time for us to snuggle while we rest up for the
` next go-'round.”
` “You was so much fun to be with; I just _know_ you can do
` great goodbyes. I can feel it in my bones, and in a few
` other places of mine that you said _you_ enjoyed feeling
` when we was together. You know the ones I mean, and, if
` you don't, you come by here, and I'll show them to you again.”
` “Sebastian Ortega said you was gonna be back this way in a
` couple of weeks. I hope you'll stop by and say, 'Hello.'
` I'm even better at helloes than I am at goodbyes.”
` “You say, 'Hello.' And I'll say, 'Hello.' Then we'll go
` upstairs, and we won't say much of anything 'cause we'll
` have better things to do with our mouths. And our hands.
` And all them other fun parts that we got that fit
` together so nice. Then, later on, we get to say more
` than 'Hello.'”
` “We get to say, 'Good morning.'”
` “So don't you keep me waiting, you big, darling man.”
` “Your loving, _eager_,
` Wilma"
Wilma put down the pen. "Is this what you wanted, Sebastian?" She handed him the letter.
"I am certain that it will be." He examined the letter, stopping twice to consider a particular sentence. "It is excellent," he told her finally. "More than I had hoped. I am hard from reading it, and the letter is not even written to me."
Wilma's eyes stared at his crotch. "Mmm, you surely are," she purred. "Why don't you 'n' me go upstairs and do something about that?"
"_I_ will attend to him." Beatriz had been standing nearby. She walked over and took his hand. "You just finish with that letter he had you write."
Sebastian nodded, looking sheepish and handed back the letter. "Do as you said you would, mark it with your lipstick and your perfume. When Gregiorio sees it, I want him to want you as much --"
"As much as Sebastian here wants me," Beatriz interrupted. "Don't you, Sebastian?" Her hand snaked down, and she ran a finger over the bulge in his pants.
Sebastian put his arm around her waist and pulled him to her. "But, of course, Beatriz, just as _you_ want me." He leaned down to kiss her, but he managed a wink at Wilma as he did.
"Then why don't you two head upstairs," Wilma said, slipping back into her role as the Lady's second. "You're getting t'be a damned distraction." She smiled and watched them head out the parlor and towards the stairs. "That Sebastian's one slick hombre." She pressed the letter to her lips, leaving a bright red cupid's bow when she took it away.
"If Gregorio's half the man he was in my bed, this'll bring him back for more." She put the letter in an envelope and sprinkled on some perfume from a bottle sitting on the writing desk. "Mmmm, that'll be _soo_ nice." She closed her eyes a moment, remembering just how much she'd enjoyed her time with the man. "And if he still wants me -- and he will -- then he can't be saying it's wrong for Ramon t'want Maggie."
* * * * *
"My little sister, Trisha."
Liam's words echoed over and over in her head all morning until she finally decided, 'If that's what he wants, that's what he'll get.'
"So long, Mike," she told one customer, a farmer with a small spread east of town. "I'll be looking for you at the dance on Saturday."
He looked surprised and not a little flustered. "Umm... ahh... likewise."
"My little sister, Trisha."
"Have you bought a ticket to the church dance yet?" she asked Isaiah Logan a while later when he came in for his weekly feed order.
Isaiah shook his head. "No, ma'am. I haven't."
"Oh, but you should," she answered, pouting prettily.
"Aw, who'd want to dance with an old stick-in-the mud like me?"
"But there's lots of girls who'd want to dance with a nice man like you." She gave him a shy smile. "I know I would."
"In that case, where do I get one of them tickets?"
Trisha took a small green box out from under the counter. "Right here. They're two dollars each." She smiled at him again. "They're worth it."
"I bet they are." He fished two silver dollars out of his pocket and tossed them on the counter. When she tore a ticket off the roll and handed it to him, he added, "And we'll just see _how_ worthwhile this one is on Saturday."
Trisha watched Logan walk out of the store with a jaunty step. Her brother was fixing a display, glowering at her. "Perfect," she told herself and giggled. "I get to annoy Liam _and_ have some fun besides."
"My little sister, Trisha."
Liam was talking to Sebastian Ortega late in the day, when a tall, barrel-chested man walked into the Feed and Grain. "'Scuse me, Mr. O'Hanlan," he interrupted, holding out a clipboard. "I'm from Mckecknie's Freight Service, and I got that shipment of seeds you ordered."
"I'll take care of this," Trisha said, stepping over to the man. "After all, _I_ was the one who ordered the seeds." She looked up at the man. "Shall we go check the order... Rhys, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes it is ma'am, Rhys Godwyn." The man beamed. "And I am surely pleased that you remembered me." He followed her out the door. Once they were outside, she looked back. Liam was glaring at her, but he was discussing a big order for the Ortega farm, so he had to stay put. "Shall we?" She offered Rhys her arm.
"I don't know that it'd be proper," he replied. "You being married and all. A man can get in a lotta trouble taking the arm of some other man's wife."
Trisha tried a shy smile. "My brother was just trying to protect me when he told you I was married. I assure you that there is no man in my life -- except for my brother, of course."
"Well, now, I am even more glad t'hear that." He took her arm and led her over to his wagon. He smiled back at her, as they walked. Then his eyes drifted down to her breasts, pushing out the front of her starched, green blouse.
"Maybe -- after we unload this..." He pointed to the three large crates with "O'Hanlan Feed and Grain" printed on large labels on their sides. "...me and you can go someplace, have a drink, 'n' get to know each other better."
The invitation sent a delicious shiver through Trisha's body. "That would be nice, but I... I have to stay at the store till closing time. Then I'm expected straight home to help with supper." She gently touched his hand. "I... I am sorry."
"So am I... Trisha. Me and Zeb -- he's my swamper -- we got to be on the road tonight. We're taking a big load t'Prescott, and we won't be back this way till Saturday."
"Oh, but that would be perfect. There's a church dance Saturday -- I'm selling tickets here at the store. You can come and we could... get to know each other there." She wasn't sure why she was encouraging his attentions, but she couldn't see any reason not to.
'Besides,' she thought, 'it's sure to annoy Liam.'
* * * * *
"Good evening, Jane." Milt put his arm around her waist and kissed her gently on the cheek. "Are you on waitress duty tonight?"
She returned his kiss. Her hand was atop his, resting on her hip. "Matter of fact, Dolores is the waitress tonight. Why?"
"I just thought it would be pleasant to have dinner with you this evening. If you don't mind, of course."
"Mind? 'Course not. I was hoping you'd come in. I got something t'tell you." She looked around. "Shamus is over talking to Otto Euler. Lemme go see if I can take my supper break now." Otto was Hans Euler's brother and his partner in the town's only brewery.
Ten minutes later, Jane and Milt were seated at one of Maggie's tables. Milt waited until Dolores had taken their orders before he asked Jane, "Now then, what did you want to tell me?"
"I'm gonna have my picture painted, me and Laura together."
"Painted?" When Jane nodded cheerily, he continued, "How did that happen?"
"Lady Cerise, she hired this painter, Ethan Thomas, his name is, t'paint a picture of Wilma Hanks. While he's in town, he's hiring out t'do other pictures. He's doing one of Jessie -- maybe one of Molly, too; Shamus ain't decided for sure, and he'd be the one paying for the both of 'em."
"Would he pay for one of you and Laura, also?"
"No, that's the funny thing. He saw Laura 'n' me, saw we was twins, and he asked if he could do a picture of us. He didn't say nothing about who'd pay for it. He did say something 'bout doing it for a speck, whatever that is."
Milt tried not to smile. "_On_ _spec_... speculation. That means he'd paint it now and try to sell it later. He must have something special in mind, if he's willing to take a risk like that." He saw her expression wilt. "Of course, any picture of you would be special. At least, it would be to me."
"Why thank you, Milt, but I know what you meant. It did sound like it'd be fun, though." She brightened. "Maybe _I'll_ buy it. I got all that money just sitting in the bank, after all."
"It isn't 'just sitting', Jane. Dwight Albright's investing it, using your money to make you even more money. From what he's told me, he's doing rather well, and his investments are a lot safer than buying a painting you wouldn't be able to re-sell for a profit anytime soon."
"Maybe I don't wanna re-sell it. Maybe I just want a picture of me 'n' Laura t'hang in my room upstairs. What'd be wrong with that?"
"Nothing really, I suppose. I just think that you'd do better to keep your money in the bank and let Dwight decide how to use it."
"You gonna keep trying t'talk me out of paying for that painting?" She frowned and crossed her arms in front of herself.
"I'd like to." He looked at her expression. "But I've got a feeling that it wouldn't do much good, would it?"
Jane almost smiled. "Nope. I ain't decided yet if I wanna buy it, but I'm just stubborn enough that you telling me not to might just make me go ahead and pay for that there picture just to show you up."
* * * * *
"I do not think that man likes you, R.J.," Dolores said. She was sitting at the bar waiting for someone to signal that he wanted to order a drink.
R.J. looked around. "Which man is that?"
"Him." She pointed at a ruddy-faced man in a green work shirt. "He has been sitting there -- how do you say it -- nursing his drink, but every so often, he looks over at you. When he does, he looks very angry."
The barman shrugged. "I suppose he's still mad from when I stuck my knife in his arm."
"What?" She looked shocked and stood up as if to move away from him.
"I guess Arnie didn't tell you the story."
"Arnoldo? What did he have to do with it?"
"He was... let me start at the beginning. The man's name is Parnell. He and his partner, Hersh, were cheating in Bridget's poker game. She caught them at it, and he pulled a gun. He was going to shoot her when I... ahh, distracted him with my knife." He stood back, so she could see the knife in a dark, leather scabbard at his belt.
Then he continued. "Hersh was ready to draw his own pistol, when Arnie knocked him down and sat on him till the sheriff got here."
Dolores gasped. "Arnoldo... he jumped a man with a pistola?"
"He did. Of course, he's always had a thing for Bridget."
"Si, but he is still a hero."
R.J. nodded. "True enough. That's part of the reason why Shamus hired him back. He figured Arnie had earned a second chance."
"He is a good man, Shamus O'Toole. But how is it that Parnell and Hersh are not in jail for what they did?"
"They were. They each got six weeks for pulling their guns and threatening people. Unfortunately, it's not against the law to cheat at poker. They came back here after their time in the county lock-up. They tell everybody that they're trying their hands at prospecting. Bridget won't let them back in her game, of course, but Shamus, like I said, he believes in second chances, so we let them drink here."
"Do you think that they are honest?"
"I haven't seen them try anything, but they do spend a lot more time here in town than most of the men looking for color in the rock. Shamus and I are watching them, just in case."
Dolores looked over at Parnell. He wasn't looking at her or R.J., now. He was watching at Arnie, who was busy cleaning up a table at the far side of the room. He wasn't frowning at the moment, but he did seem interested in her cousin. 'Perhaps I shall keep an eye on him as well,' she thought to herself.
* * * * *
Wednesday, February 28, 1872
"Are ye all right, Laura?" Molly asked.
Laura grimaced. "No. No I'm not. My feet, my legs haven't hurt like this..." She carefully rubbed her left leg. "...since I had my first monthlies. The cramps are -- ahh! -- horrible." She winced.
"They are, and there ain't a lot ye can do for it 'cause it's yuir own body that's doing it, getting ready for that wee babe that's coming."
"What _can_ I do?"
"Well, for them cramps in yuir leg, ye can try forcing your toes back toward your face and pushing down on the knee to straighten your leg."
Laura sat down and tried what Molly suggested. "It feels better, a little better anyway. Thanks."
"Keep doing that thing with yuir leg, it takes time t'be working."
"I'll keep at it, then." She thought for a moment. "And I'll ask Emily Lonnigan when Amy and I see her next week if she has any more ideas."
"If them cramps keep bothering ye, then ye shouldn't be waiting. Emily'll be glad t'be talking to ye any time ye want. Ye be sure t'remember that."
"I will."
* * * * *
"Well, now," Wilma greeted Bridget, as the redhead walked into the parlor at _La_ _Parisienne_. "Two visits in a week. T'what do I owe this honor?"
Bridget sat nervously on the couch across from her old friend. "I... uhh, I need a favor."
"We been friends... partners since we was boys back at the Orphans' Home. You've done me more 'n' a few good turns since then. What do ya want?"
"M-money."
"Hell's bells, Bridget, _everybody_ wants money. How much d'you need, and what d'you need it for?"
"There's gonna be a poker game in town in a couple of weeks, and I want in."
"Ain't that game you run enough for you?"
"This is a _big_ game, Wilma. Big time gamblers playing for _big_ stakes. There's a $1,000 buy-in and table stakes." She looked down at the floor. "I-I don't have near that much."
"And you thought I did." Wilma chuckled. "I guess you decided me being a whore ain't too bad, after all. Not if you think I make that kinda money."
"Do you want me to say that I approve of what you do? You never needed my approval before."
"No, I didn't then, and I don't now. If you don't like it, you can..."
Bridget shrugged. "I don't particularly like it, but I figure it's your life. We all got a new hand when we drank that potion, and you surely got a couple of wild cards when you took that second drink. If this is how you want to play what life dealt you, then ante up and good luck."
"Spoke like the gambler you always was." Wilma studied her friend's face. "You want this game a lot, don't you?"
"I want to get in that game so bad I can taste it. The bank won't give me the money. I thought... I hoped you could."
Wilma shook her head. "I don't know as I can. I got..." She closed her eyes and did some mental figuring. "..._maybe_ $100."
"That's all?"
"Most of what I earn goes t'pay Lady Cerise. I do get tips -- men do enjoy _special_ service." She giggled and gave Bridget a lascivious look. "Cerise gets half of that, too, and I spend a lot of what's left on clothes." She sighed. "I enjoy dressing in silks and satins from the skin out, 'specially the silky unmentionables that feel _so_ good against my skin. Mmm, I like having men take 'em off me, too."
She stopped for a moment. "You get Cap or R.J. t'show you how nice it can be t'have a man undress you, yet?"
Bridget's face went red as her hair. "N-no," she whispered. It was a question she didn't want to think about.
"You try it, and you'll see just how much fun it is." Wilma chuckled again. "But t'get back t'what I was saying, all them clothes, dresses _and_ my unmentionables is expensive. You're welcome t'what I got, though, if it'll help."
"It'd still leave me a few hundred short. I may -- _may_ -- take you up on the offer, but I think I'll keep looking."
"Just so's you make sure all that looking don't keep you from coming over here now and then."
* * * * *
Molly filled one of the steins with beer and handed it to Milt. "Ye look sorely troubled, lad. Do ye want t'be talking about it?"
The lawyer looked around. "Where's Jane?"
"This time of day, she's out helping Maggie with the free lunch. D'ye want me t'be getting her for ye?"
He shook his head. "No. She's the problem."
"Did the two of ye have a fight about something?"
"Not yet. Molly, I'm worried about her."
"And why is that now?"
"She told me about that painting this Thomas fellow wants to do of her and Laura. She said that she might buy it; that spending some of her money on that painting was better than just letting it sit in the bank."
"That's right. I'm so used t'be thinking of her as just a girl that works for Shamus and me, that I forgot about that money she has."
"I don't believe she thinks much about it either, at least I hope she doesn't."
Molly cocked an eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"Jane's a sweet, wonderful girl, but she's... well, she's an innocent. Right now, Dwight Albright's investing her money -- and doing pretty well from what he's told me. But how long would that money stay in his bank, how long would she even have it, if she starts spending it all on whatever fool notion popped into her head?"
"Aye, but it is her money, ye know."
"I know. And I know that she has a right to spend it any way she wants. I'm just afraid that she'll squander it, and if she does, she'll... I don't want her to feel the hurt of knowing what she had and knowing that she lost it through her own foolishness."
She gave him a sly smile. "Ye know, there is one way ye can protect her from doing just that."
"What? What could I possibly do?"
"Ye could marry the girl and take her fortune as yuir own."
"Marry her for her money, isn't that sort of what Ozzie Pratt tried to do?" He looked down at the counter. "I do hope to marry her someday, but I don't want her money to be any part of the reason, not even if it's a good reason."
"Aye, and I expect the two of ye will be marrying one fine day. For now, what say that the two of us just keep a weather eye on Jane, so she don't do nothing foolish?"
"Frankly, I was hoping you might say that. We just can't be too heavy handed about it. She said that she might buy that painting just because I told her not to."
"Maybe I'll be talking to her then. There ain't an Irishman -- or Irish _woman_ for that matter -- that don't have at least a bit of the blarney about her."
* * * * *
"Have you decided yet?" Ethan Thomas asked.
Wilma looked at the two sketches again. One showed her in silky unmentionables sitting on the edge of a bed. She was smiling mischievously. The fingers of one hand encircled a long, wooden bedpost; the other hand was extended in a gesture inviting the viewer to join her. In the other picture, she was stretched out languidly on the bed, nude, the same enticing smile on her face, her hand extended in the same gesture.
"You say that the Lady's seen both of these?" She answered the question with one of her own.
He nodded. "Indeed, she has. She approved either one, saying that the final decision should be yours."
"I-I don't know. Maybe if I went upstairs 'n' looked around where I'm gonna be posing, it'd help me choose."
"Go ahead. I'll give you some time alone before I join you."
"Thanks... Ethan." She said his name softly as she rose from the chair and walked to the stairs. She deliberately passed close enough that her body brushed against him, though neither spoke. She expected him to watch, and her hip-swaying walk was a siren call to sex.
Ethan seemed to be ignoring her as she climbed the stairs. 'I've prepared a canvas upstairs should she make her choice and be ready to pose -- rather than anything else,' he told himself. 'I should have a palate ready, as well.' He began selecting tubes of pigment from a set of racks in the worktable.
"Oh, Ethan..." Wilma's voice drifted down from the second floor of his studio no more than five minutes later. "Could you come up here?"
He stuffed the tubes into the pockets of his painter's smock. "Be right there," he answered. Then, taking palate in hand, he strode to the steps.
"I take it you decided on the pose you prefer," he told her when he reached the second floor.
Wilma was lying on the bed in the second pose he had shown her. She was gloriously nude, her smile one of lecherous delight. "Give you any ideas?" she asked in a low, husky voice.
"It does." He gave her a wry smile. "I shall need more umber in order to match your skin tones."
"That's all?" She pouted prettily.
"As I told you previously, I do not choose to engage in any... indecorous behavior with my subjects while I am doing their portraits. I find that it has a detrimental effect upon my work."
"You sure?" She climbed out of bed and walked sensuously towards him. She stopped _very_ close, put her arms around his neck, and drew him down. She checked the expression in his eyes for exasperation, didn't see any, and so gave him a passionate kiss.
Ethan's arms snaked around her. He pulled her body even closer, and returned the kiss.
When they finally came up for air, Wilma smiled seductively. "That change your mind?"
"It was, indeed, satisfying, Wilma, but my original position still stands."
Wilma's fingers found and brushed against the erection in his trousers. "Hmmm, that ain't all that's standing."
"Perhaps it isn't, but how I deal with that reaction of my body to your kiss will not, I assure you, involve the sort of activity you are proposing."
"You sure 'bout that?" She began to run her fingers along the bulge in his pants.
She thought she saw a flicker of a smile, but his words were stern. "I am. Now, you can return to the bed --"
"Yes, sir." She scampered back to the bed, climbed on, and slid over. "C'mon in." She smiled and patted the space she'd left.
"...Return to the bed and _pose_, or you can leave, and I tell Cerise that you are not cooperating with me."
Wilma looked as if he'd slapped her. No one had _ever_ refused what she was so clearly offering this... this _despicable_ little man. Well, so be it. This painting would take a long time, but Will Hanks had once watched a bank, one he'd wanted to rob, for six weeks before he made off with a good haul. She could bide her time. "Y-yes... Ethan," she replied, using the unsteady tones of a weak woman that some men liked. She then settled back into position as he walked over to the easel that was waiting nearby.
* * * * *
"That's a rather odd game you're playing, Miss Kelly."
Bridget put down the cards she was holding for an early afternoon hand of Maverick solitaire. "Not as odd as the one you're playing, Mr. Slocum." She looked up at him, the angles of her mouth turned down in anger. "What do you want?"
"I have a business proposition for you."
"After what you found out -- or _think_ you found out about me, I'm surprised that you'd offer me anything."
"Based on what I've read of your history, there's any number of things I wouldn't offer you. However, I need a dealer for that big game I'm running in a couple of weeks. You know poker and are scrupulously honest about how it should be played -- a surprise in some ways, but I know it to be fact."
"Those are the only _facts_ you do know about me." She looked down at the cards on the table. "I know about that game of yours. I've been trying to put the money together, so I could get in."
"_That_ is most unlikely."
"I can imagine. You've been working hard, you and your friends, to keep me out of it, haven't you?"
"I admit to nothing of the sort. However, I am offering you a chance -- the only chance you're likely to get -- to be a part of it. As the dealer, you wouldn't play of course, but you would be there at the table."
"I think that you're enjoying this."
"Why, yes, I believe that I am." He chuckled. "The game isn't until the 16th. Please let me know as soon as you decide." He paused a moment. "Good day, Miss Kelly."
* * * * *
Clyde Ritter stopped at a wooden door halfway down the alley. He knocked three times, stopped briefly, then knocked twice more. The door opened a crack. "Mister Ritter, suh?" a soft female voice asked. When she saw for certain who it was, Daisy opened the door wider, and Ritter slipped inside.
"Mr. Styron's in the private dining room," the black maid said, as she quickly closed the door behind him. "I'll go tell Mae and Wilma you's here."
Ritter looked at his pocket watch. "Could you give us about ten minutes? I have some business to talk to Horace about first."
"Business b'fore pleasure, as they say."
He sighed for dramatic effect. "I'm afraid so," he answered and walked over to a nearby door. "Hello, Horace," he said as he entered the other room.
"Evening, Clyde." Horace Styron was sitting at the large oak table, set for two couples, that was the centerpiece of the room. A cooler at one end held a magnum of red wine. "I see that Cecilia set you free for the evening. What sort of lie did you tell her?"
Ritter grinned. "None. I told her that I was meeting you for dinner, and that we'd be discussing church business. I just didn't say _where_ we'd be meeting or who else might be there."
"Very good, and may she never find out."
"Amen to that." Ritter grew serious. "So tell me, how's the sale of dance tickets going at your store?"
"Too damned well. As soon as that kid Unger put the story in the paper, people were asking about them. I didn't even have to put up a sign. How about you?"
"The same. The only good thing was that I got some extra business out of it. My three rental rigs are all taken. Men want to bring their wives or lady friends to the dance in something fancier than their old farm wagon."
"I'm so glad for you," Styron replied coldly. "I think we're up against the sad fact that this dance is going to be a big success."
"I know. And I know who's going to get the credit. _Trisha_." He recited the name with a simpering voice and an expression that looked as if he'd just swallowed lemon juice straight. "People are going to love her, and they'll love whatever fool idea she comes up with next."
"Yeah, instead of thinking the way _we_ want them to." He shook his head in disgust.
"So what are we going to do about it?"
"We're going to go to that dance and act like we're enjoying ourselves. We're also going to keep our eyes open for anything that goes wrong. You talk to your wife. Have her and her busybody friends keep an eye out, too. She doesn't like Trisha any more than we do. In the meantime--"
There was a knock on the door. It opened a bit, and Mae looked in on them. "You boys ready for us yet?"
"Mae," Styron greeted her, "I am always ready for you. Come on in."
Ritter watched the woman glide into the room. She hurried over to Styron and kissed him on the cheek. 'Where's Wilma?' he asked himself.
"Guess who?" A pair of soft hands slipped in front of Ritter's eyes. He could feel her body pressed against him from behind.
His hands reached back and did some exploring. "These tits are a lot bigger than my wife's," he answered tentatively. "Firmer, too, and Cecilia _never_ smelled so good." He spun around. "Hello, Wilma."
"Hello, Clyde, honey." Her arms were still stretched around him. They closed around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss.
* * * * *
Martha Yingling stood up from the table. "Ruth, will you take care of the lights, while I fetch desert?"
"Yes, mama," Ruth answered with all the solemnity an 11-year old could muster. While her mother went into the kitchen, she turned down the wick on the large oil lamp at the center of the table, plunging the room into near-darkness.
"Taa dahh!" Martha sang out, as she came back into the room. She was pushing a small serving cart. On top if the cart was a large cake with 14 lit candles.
Thaddeus Yingling's rich baritone voice filled the room.
` "For he's a jolly good fellow;
` For he's a jolly good fellow;
` For he's a jolly good fellow..."
The rest of the family joined in on the chorus.
` "And so say all of us;
` And so say all of us;
` And so say all of us;”
` “For he's a jolly good feh-hehl-low;
` And so say... all of us."
"Happy birthday, my son," Yingling finished. "Make a wish, and blow out the candles."
Stephan Yingling stood up and leaned over the cake. 'Tin soldiers,' he thought stubbornly, 'a whole bunch of tin soldiers.' He took a deep breath and blew at the 14 candles on his cake. He circled around, trying to get them all, and the last one flickered out with his last gasp of breath.
"Very good," the reverend said, applauding along with the rest of them. "Would you like your presents now, or do you want to have the cake first?"
Stephan gave a happy laugh. "Could I do some of each?"
"I don't see why not." Martha cut a slice, transferred it onto a plate, and set it down in front of her son. "Thaddeus, hand him one of the presents, please."
Stephan took a forkful of cake. "Mmmm, carrot cake, my favorite." He took a present from his father and began tearing at the paper. "It's... it's a book."
"Yes," his father told him. "Your grandfather Brampton sets great store by Tyler's _A_ _History_ _of_ _the_ _Methodist_ _Church_. I told him how well your studies were going, and he was pleased to send you a copy."
Stephan tried to hide his disappointment. This was hardly the sort of present that he had hoped for.
Neither were the other presents. His mother's parents had sent clothes, something no boy would want, and her sister, his Aunt Eugenia, had sent a pen and pencil set which wasn't much better.
"This is from your Uncle Obediah." His father handed him another present.
He gave it a gently shake as he took it. A rattle! Was this the box with the toy soldiers he'd asked for so many times? No, it was, "A medal?" He asked, staring at the thin brass disk.
The reverend nodded. "A pilgrim's medallion; Obediah purchased it during his trip to the Holy Land last year. I believe there is also... yes, _A_ _Guide_ _to_ _Homiletics_. I told him that I wanted you to begin a study of rhetoric this year. That book is an excellent introduction."
"Thank you so much, Father." Stephan's voice was flat.
His mother glanced over at him. "Goodness, dear, you've hardly touched your cake, and I made it just the way you liked it."
"It's very good, mother. I just... I don't seem to be as hungry as I thought I was."
* * * * *
Thursday, February 29, 1872
Arsenio and Laura were just finishing breakfast, when they heard someone knocking on the side door, the one that lead to Arsenio's smithy.
"I'll get it," he said, standing up. "It's probably someone looking for me, anyway." He walked over and opened the door. "Milt, what're you doing here so early?"
Milt looked past him into the room. "Is Laura about? I wondering if I might speak with her before she left for Shamus'."
"I'm over here," Laura called from the table. "Come on in. Can I get you some coffee or anything before we start?" She began to stand up.
The lawyer shook his head. "No, thank you, I'm fine. Please... please, sit down." He gestured to an empty chair at the table. "May I?"
"Sit," Arsenio told him, coming around the table to sit down next to his wife. "Now, what's so important that it can't wait till Laura gets to the saloon?"
Milt turned the chair around and sat down, leaning his arms over the back. "The problem is that Jane will be at the saloon, too. I don't want her to hear what I'm about to ask." He looked at Laura. "Have you decided if you're going to pose for Ethan Thomas?"
"I-I'm not sure. I know Jane wants to. She keeps talking about how much fun it'll be."
"Yes, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," Milt replied.
Arsenio leaned back in his chair. "So that's why you came, to talk my wife into posing 'cause it would make Jane happy."
"To be frank, _I'd_ be happier if she _didn't_ want to pose." He took a breath. "The thing is, Jane's stubborn, and I can't talk her out of it."
"She's always been that way. Come to think of it..." Laura chuckled. "...that's how she got to be Jane in the first place, not listening to Shamus, when she was Jake."
"I remember," the lawyer answered, "but, also, she's always been something of an... innocent. That's a risky combination when someone like Thomas is involved. You know the sort of thing that people say about itinerant artists."
"I'm afraid that I can't be much help as a chaperone. Once we have the poses settled, Shamus wants each of us to go over by herself. That way he won't be too short-handed at the saloon."
"Yes, but she told me that the plan was for her to go over first, in the morning, so she'd be back in time to help Maggie with lunch. If you turn up right after her, there would be little opportunity for them to get... involved in anything."
"I suppose not. Is that all you wanted?"
"In point of fact, I came over to ask you to help make sure Jane doesn't go and waste her money buying that painting. But if he does anything to harm her..." Milt's expression darkened and he clenched his hands into fists. He looked down at himself and laughed.
"What's so funny?" Laura asked quickly.
"I thought that I'd just been worrying that he would talk her into spending her money foolishly, and now I realize that I don't want him to... to..."
"You feel that strongly about her?" Arsenio asked. The other man nodded, looking embarrassed.
Laura gently put her hand on Milt's shoulder. "Well, you don't have to worry because I'll be posing with her. It's the least I can do to protect my..." She sighed. "...foolish, innocent, little sister. Especially when the man asking is the man who loves her."
* * * * *
Arnie used his back to open the kitchen door out to the saloon's yard. "I think I hate this more than I do cleaning the spittoons," he muttered. He looked down at the large tin pail, whose handle he was holding with both hands, and stepped carefully out into the yard.
It was a swill bucket, a pail kept under the drain of the sink to catch dirty water and kitchen waste. One of Arnie's duties was to empty it as needed into a grass-filled hole at the far end of the yard. The greasy, gray water it held had a sour smell, and he moved slowly to keep any of the liquid from splashing onto his shoes or his pants.
"Having fun?" Pablo Escobar was leaning against the low back fence of the yard, near the garbage pit.
Arnie looked daggers at him. "More fun than you'll ever have shoveling horse shit for Mr. Ritter."
"Yeah, but at least he pays me fair wage for it, not the pennies you get from Shamus. And he trusts me, too."
"The hell he does."
"The hell he doesn't. He left early for some meeting last night, and he put me in charge of closing up the store."
"He must've been really in a hurry to do a fool thing like that."
Pablo put his hand on the fence rail and leapt over. There wasn't any reason to cross the fence unless he wanted to fight, so Arnie braced, ready to throw the swill onto the other boy. "Come any closer, Pablo, and you'll stink even more 'n' usual."
"Arnoldo," Molly called from the house, "dump that swill where it belongs and get back here." She looked over at Pablo. "And ye, _boy_, vaminos... be off with ye now!"
Pablo laughed. "I'm going. 'Bucket boy' can go hide under your skirts for now." He bowed low and headed off, chortling as he went.
* * * * *
Tommy Carson had the ball tucked under his arm. He was running as fast as he could for the tree that marked the goal line for Hector Ybaá±ez' team. He dodged past Clyde Ritter who tried to knock it free, only to see Stephan Yingling standing in his way.
"I'm free! I'm free!" Emma shouted, waving her hands. Tommy remembered that were both on the same team this week. She was the only one he could see that _was_ clear. He passed her the ball and moved to try and block Stephan.
Emma caught the ball and started her run for the tree. Now it was Bert McLeod blocking her. She moved left, then right, but each time, he matched her. His arms were stretched to block another pass.
She moved left again. When he matched her this time, she shifted her body as if she were going right. Bert matched the move he thought she was making.
Instead, she took a half-step back and darted left, running past him. He turned to chase her, but she was too fast. She passed the tree just as he caught up with her. "Dang it!" he muttered.
"That puts us up 3 to 1," Emma shouted happily, as she handed him the ball.
Bert stood by the tree. All the other players, Emma included formed a half circle facing him from the playing field.
Yully was standing a few feet away, but when she tried to move closer, he moved away. She glanced over at his face. He was frowning. 'He- he's mad at me for scoring that point against his team,' she thought.
Before she could try to decide what to do, Bert made a quick fake, as if to toss the ball to Clyde Ritter, then shot it quickly to Stephan.
The game was afoot.
* * * * *
"'Morning, Mr. Lewis," Joel Keenan greeted Cap just outside the Wells Fargo office. "Haven't seen you in town for a while."
Cap nodded. "I haven't been in town for over a week. My uncle's been keeping everybody busy out at the ranch."
"So how'd you manage to get in today?" Keenan grinned. "You playing hookey?"
"Actually, I came in town to run some errands. I'll be heading back out late tonight."
The other man shrugged. "Just as well."
"Excuse me. But what do you mean 'just as well'?"
"N-nothing, nothing at all."
"I very much doubt that. Why don't you just tell me the truth?" Cap too a step closer. He was taller than Keenan by several inches and much more muscular.
"All right, all right. I-I made a bet -- $5 -- that Miss Bridget would... would wind up with R.J., n-not with you. The less time you spend with her..." His explanation trailed off in embarrassment.
"I didn't know you were so interested in making bets, Keenan. Can I offer you a sporting wager?"
Keenan glanced at the other man suspiciously. "I-I suppose. What is it?"
"A simple enough thing." He held up his right hand, balled into a fist, his thumb raised. "Am I left handed or right handed?"
"Now how would I know that?"
"Well, then, let he give you a hint." He wiggled his right thumb. When Kennan turned to get a closer look at it, he hit him in the chin with a quick left hook. Kennan staggered, and Cap followed with a right jab that left him sprawled on the sidewalk.
As Cap stepped over the man, he looked down and warned. "Don't you _ever_ make a bet like that again."
* * * * *
"This is where you want the hem, right?" Enoch Ryland asked. When Trisha nodded, he used a piece of tailor's chalk to mark the new hemline.
Trisha watched nervously. "Will you be able to get all this done in time?"
Enoch rose to his feet. "There's really not that much to do: raise the hem a half inch and move the buttons. It should be ready for you to pick up by noon tomorrow."
"You just be sure to sew those buttons on tight. I... uhh, popped enough buttons on my old shirts." She looked down self-consciously at her ample breasts. "I don't want anything like that to happen to this pretty, new dress."
"I'll keep this in mind. If there's nothing else, you can take the dress off."
Trisha smiled shyly. "You gonna stay and watch?"
"Would you mind if I did?"
"That-that'd kind of depend on what happens _after_ I take the dress off." She began to undo the buttons, ten pearl buttons, a darker shade of gold than the dress itself. They ran down from her high collar to her waist, calling attention to her lush breasts.
Enoch smiled as he watched. "What would you like to happen?"
'What would I like?' she asked herself.
She missed the intimacy she had shared for so long with Kaitlin, and, even more, she felt the new craving for the physical delights of womanhood that Kaitlin had awakened in her. 'I don't love Enoch,' she thought. 'I don't even _like_ him very much, but ooohh...' She shuddered at the memory. '...what he did to my body.'
"I-I'd like to feel the way you made me feel last week," she answered both Enoch and herself.
Enoch moved closer. "Happy to oblige." He pulled her to him and kissed her. When they broke the kiss, he carefully pushed the dress back off her shoulders. She slipped her arms out of the sleeves and wrapped them about hm, pulling him to her for another kiss. She felt her breasts press against his chest, and a tingly warmth raced through her body.
After a time, he told her, "Lift your arms, please." She complied, and he carefully lifted the dress up and over her head. He placed it on a hanger, closing the top two buttons to keep it in place. The hanger, he hooked over the long rack against the wall.
"Now then..." he turned back to Trisha, only to see her stepping daintily out of her petticoat.
She smiled shyly and looked away from his eyes. "I thought I'd move things along a bit." She fastened the petticoat to a hanger and stepped closer to him so she could re-position it on the rack.
"I'm certainly moved." He kissed her again on the mouth, then shifted and began to kiss her at the base of the neck.
She shivered and closed her eyes, concentrating on the feelings his kisses were stirring in her body. "Ohhh, yes!"
He continued kissing her, but now his hands moved down to work on the buttons of her corset. It was off moments later, and he started to undo her camisole. He shifted his head, and kissed the skin exposed as the garment was opened.
Once the camisole was undone, he gently slid it off her shoulders. She was naked to the waist, wearing only her drawers, stockings, and shoes. Her breasts, two enticing half-globes, stood out on her chest, firm, nipples erect and almost as long as Enoch's little finger above the top joint.
He stared at them for a moment, then abruptly took her right breast in his mouth and began to lap at her nipple with his tongue. Trisha's squeak of surprise became a soft moan of delight. She took his head in her hands to hold it in place.
His left hand played with her other breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and finger. At the same time, his other hand reached down to cup her nether mound. His fingers moved back and forth to create exquisite flares of sexual fire.
"B-bed," Trisha gasped. "Pl-please." Her legs felt too weak to support her, and the cravings Enoch was arousing in her demanded satisfaction.
He smiled cannily and stood straight. "Of course. You just lean on me." He put his arm around her, his hand resting low on hip. She rested her head on his shoulder, her arm snaked around his neck. As they walked to his bedroom, a small walled-in space next to the fitting room they were in, he carefully kneaded her butt with his hand. She made a soft, almost purring noise, and he could feel her tremble with need.
* * * * *
Reverend Thaddeus Yingling stared at the draft of his Sunday sermon again. "There has to be a better way to say that," he muttered and scratched out the line he'd just written. Before he could think of anything else, he heard a knock on the open door. "What is it?" he called, setting his pen back in the inkwell on his desk.
"Father, may I come in?" Stephan asked. When his father motioned for him to do so, the boy hurried in and shut the door quickly behind him. "Can I talk to you about something?"
"I was hoping you would, son. I noticed that something was bothering you at your birthday celebration last night. Are you having problems at school?"
"N-no, sir." He took a breath to brace himself. "May I be frank?"
"By all means, please."
"My problem is here... at home. Those books I got --"
"Yes, a fine set of books. They'll be most useful in preparing you to join your brother at the seminary."
"That's my problem, father. I don't want to go to the seminary. I don't want to be a minister."
"Of course you do. You have the calling."
"No, I don't. You and Uncle Obediah do... and grandfather. Junior probably has it, too, but I-I _don't_."
"I say that you do. You'll admit it as well, once you get past this childish obstinacy you're showing me now."
"I can't... I _won't_ admit to something that is not true."
Yingling jumped to his feat. "Are you calling your father a liar?" His eyes blazed with anger at what he saw as his son's accusation and obstinacy. "I say that you do; all of the men of this family do. You brother is even now studying for the ministry. In a year, you will join him, as Matthew and Samuel will join you both in the fullness of time. You will accept this role that our Lord has selected for you, and you will say no more against it."
"Father, please..."
"This discussion is at an end, Stephan. Go to your room -- _now_ -- and consider how to best overcome this error that has come into your thinking." He pointed dramatically at the door to his study.
Stephan sighed and lowered his head. He turned and slowly walked from the room. "I'll be thinking," he whispered once he was alone in the hall, "but it ain't gonna be about how I can become a minister."
* * * * *
Bridget looked up from her dinner to see Cap walking towards her. "What do you want?" she asked coldly.
"I was going to ask if I could join you for dinner," he answered, trying to smile, "but after a welcome like that..."
Bridget scowled at him. "What do you expect? You can just go back and tell your uncle that I haven't decided yet."
"Decided what?" He pointed to an empty chair. "May I?"
She nodded and gestured at the same chair. When he sat down, she continued. "Your uncle stopped by yesterday and offered me the job of dealer for that big game he's running."
"And that's what you still want to think about, right?"
"No," she said angrily, "I _don't_ want to think about it. I want to be _playing_ poker, not watching somebody else play." She sighed. "But being dealer might be my only option."
"I guess that means you still don't have the money to buy in."
"Not even close, and I think your uncle knows it. That offer is his way of rubbing salt in my wounds."
"I hate to say it, but that does sound like Uncle Abner." He studied her face for a moment. "And, for what it's worth, I don't like it either. I've told him and told him that he's wrong about you. Not only doesn't he listen, but he goes and pulls something nasty like that. I've a good mind to --"
"Don't; please don't. If I can't put the money together to get into that game, I _may_ want to be dealer." She gave him a sad smile. "It's not much, but it's something." She put her hand down on the table. "And thank you."
Cap took her hand in his. "It's not much, but it's something." He waited for her reaction. "How much do you have by the way?"
"If I take everything -- and I mean _everything_ -- out of the bank," she sighed again, "I've got about half. If I lose that, I'm out of business."
"I don't think that you'd lose -- not that badly, anyway." He waited a beat. "Speaking of money, though -- _and_ my uncle -- today's the end of the month. Do you have the money you owe him for February?"
"Is that why you came looking for me, to get you uncle's money?" She moved her hand away from his.
Cap reached to take it back. "No, that was the excuse that I gave to Uncle Abner, so he wouldn't mind my coming to see you."
"And we wouldn't want to upset dear Uncle Abner, would we?"
"Not if it can be avoided. He is my family, Bridget, my only real family. He bailed me out of a very bad situation a few years ago and took me on as a junior partner of sorts on his ranch. I owe him... big."
"I can understand that, I suppose."
"Besides, I want him in a good mood when I talk to him about you. I still think I can convince him that those records aren't the whole truth -- not by a long shot." He took a breath. "Is that a good enough reason?"
She smiled in spite of herself. "Better than most, I guess."
"Good. Now, what sort of a month did you have?"
"Not too bad. I won $318 even... All that talk about the big poker game threw me off some. That means $79.50 for your uncle." She pulled back the chair next to her and opened the cash box she had put on the seat. "Here's the check."
He took the check, folded it without looking at it, and put it in his shirt pocket. "At the rate you're going, you're going to have Uncle Abner paid off pretty soon."
"I know. Next month should do it, in fact. After that, you won't have to waste your time coming in to see me for his money every month."
"Seeing you, Bridget, isn't a waste of time; it's the highpoint of my week."
"You, sir, are a flatterer." She smiled in spite of herself.
He took her hand again. "No, Bridget, I only speak the truth. To you _and_ to my uncle."
* * * * *
Friday, March 1, 1872
Quint Parnell looked down at the sketch one more time and smiled. "I think I've got this thing figured out."
"Let's see." Bill Hersh came over and sat down across the table from his partner.
"We ride into town and hook up with that Mex kid that jumped you --"
"Why's he gonna come; you figure that out?"
"'Cause I hurt my arm and can't carry anything heavy -- I'll wear a sling t'make it look real -- we hire him ahead of time t'help us."
"You gonna hide a pistol in that sling?"
"Hell, no. There's no way t'hide it there except with a whole mess of bandages wrapped around it. You'll have your pistol -- we'll say you carried it to protect the ore we're bringing in, but you'll give it to the guard." He laughed. "Mine'll be in the saddlebag under some of the rocks we're bringing in."
"And what happens?"
"I pull the pistol from the saddlebag and tell the kid to get yours from the guard -- just like we planned, I'll say. If he says no, I yell that he's chickening out and you'll get the pistol."
"That'll work, but that kid's probably so stupid, he'll go along with what you tell him." Both men laughed. They'd get the money from the assay office and that kid that helped stop them at the saloon would get blamed for being part of the gang.
"Now if we could just figure out a way to get that damned barman what stuck his knife in my arm," Parnell added.
* * * * *
Ethan Thomas led Laura and Jane up the stairs. "And this, ladies, is my studio," he told them with an expansive gesture.
"Why is it on the second floor?" Jane asked.
The painter smiled. "I need windows without curtains for the light to paint by. On the first floor, people would stop and gawk. They would distract, perhaps embarrass, my model. That doesn't happen with an upstairs studio." He looked closely at Jane. "Do you understand?"
"I do," Laura answered, and Jane agreed.
The two women looked around. Most of the second floor was a single room. A bank of windows on the south side flooded the room with light. Sheets hung from the opposite wall formed backdrops. There was a jumble of chairs and boxes, large and small, near a door in the eastern wall. An old brass bed covered with a single sheet stood near the center of the room. A large canvas was set up on an easel next to the bed. A second easel leaned against a sturdy-looking, high-backed wooden chair a few feet away. A second canvas was set on the chair. A small worktable covered with tubes of paint, a jar of brushes, and other things that neither woman recognized was set against the fourth wall.
Ethan walked over to the chair. He began to set up the easel a few feet in front of it, trying different placements. "While I'm setting my equipment up, would you please remove your dresses and corsets?"
"Sure," Jane said, working on the top button of her blouse.
Laura just looked shocked. "No -- Jane stop," she ordered her companion and then scowled at Ethan, saying. "You never said anything about taking our clothes off. Or were you just planning to _surprise_ us?"
"I am sorry," the artist apologized confidently. "I have, I assure you, no salacious intent. The, ah, cut of modern female costume is too rigid and simply does not match the flowing lines of the Grecian toga. Your chemises are a much closer approximation of what I wish to capture in this painting. I can more easily work from them as a basis for the garments my Fates will wear."
Laura hesitated, wanting to be fair. "Could we wear robes over our dresses?"
"Too bulky." He thought for a moment. "Would you consider wearing robes over your chemises?"
Jane chimed in. "Say, 'yes', Laura... please."
"I-I suppose we could try it," Laura said uncertainly.
* * * * *
Miss Osbourne walked out onto the schoolhouse steps and began ringing her bell. "Recess is over, children. Time to come inside for your lessons."
"We win!" Jorge Ybaá±ez shouted triumphantly, "3-1."
Stephan Yingling, captain of the losing team, walked over to shake Jorge's hand. "Yeah, but we almost had you a couple of times."
"More'n a couple," the other boy admitted. 'And your mind was 1,000 miles away from here today,' he thought, but Stephan was a friend, so he didn't say it. Both grinned and started for the schoolhouse.
Yully was standing midfield. He'd been ready to pass the ball to Bert McLeod when Miss Osbourne rang her bell. He looked around. "Here, Emma." He tossed her the ball. "You scored the winning goal yesterday. You take in the ball."
"I thought you was mad at me for scoring that goal." She caught the sphere one-handed and tucked it under her arm. She sounded surprised at his offer.
"Heck, no," he replied. "First day you wanted to be in the game, I said you'd probably play as good as Elmer ever done. You getting that goal just proves how right I was. You done me -- you done _yourself_ proud."
Emma felt the warmth of a blush flow across her face. He wasn't mad; he was proud of her! She wanted to sing and dance and -- oh, my! -- and give Yully a big hug, just to feel her body pressed against his.
Instead, she gave him a quick, nervous laugh. "Thanks, and you just wait till next week's game. I'm gonna do even better."
* * * * *
"You gonna finish that beer, Bridget?" Arnie pointed to an almost empty glass.
Bridget looked up from her game of Maverick solitaire. "Do you want to finish it, Arnie? Shamus and R.J. are in the office, and Molly's upstairs. You could drink it here instead of sneaking it in the kitchen."
He raised his chin defensively. "I don't do that."
"Yes, you do. I've seen you sneaking drinks out here when you thought nobody was watching. I'd be one hell of a poor card player if I couldn't see what's going on in the corner of my eye. I expect you drink more when you take glasses into the kitchen."
"I'd never do anything like that."
"Sure you would." She watched his expression change. 'He should _never_ play poker,' she thought. 'I can read him like a book.'
Aloud she continued, "And you're taking more than beer."
"How can you say something like that? I-I thought you was my friend."
"I am your friend, and I admit that I owe you something for jumping Hersh when he tried to pull his pistol on me. It's because I don't want to see you get into trouble that I'm talking to you and not Shamus. I saw you take money from one of the tables, Arnie."
"It's part of my job. When I get the glasses at a table, I bring any money that the people left over t'Shamus or R.J."
"I saw what you did yesterday. You put most of the money from one table into one pocket, and that's what you gave to Shamus. But you put a couple more coins into another pocket, and I didn't see you turn that over to him."
"You gonna Shamus and get me fired again?"
"Not this time. I want you to promise me that it won't happen again. If I see you try anything like that, I go straight to Shamus."
Arnie raised his hand. "I promise."
Bridget smiled gravely and drained the last of her beer. "It's for your own good, Arnie. I know about what cheating and lying does to a man. It starts out with the little things, things that don't seem to matter, but pretty soon the things you start doing aren't small anymore and you realize that you've become the sort of person that you never wanted to be." She was studying his face while she spoke; the boy had reacted by swallowing hard and his face was grim. "That's all I have to say." She held out the glass. "You can take this into the kitchen."
Arnie put the empty glass into the tray he was using and headed to another table.
Bridget hoped that his promise was that he wouldn't drink or steal money again, and _not_ a promise that he wouldn't let her catch him doing those things.
* * * * *
Yully looked across the picnic table where he and his friends were eating. "What's the matter, Stephan? You ain't hardly ate any of your lunch. You upset about losing this week's game?"
"Si," Tomas added. "Do not worry about it. Next week, the game will be different, with different captains --"
Stephan shook his head. "I ain't gonna be here next week." He took a breath. "I'm running away."
"You serious?" Yully asked, not wanting to believe what he had heard.
Stephan nodded. "I am. Last night was the last straw."
"What happened?" Ysabel asked.
"You all know that Wednesday was my birthday, right?" The others murmured agreement. They were planning a small party at Fort Secret on Saturday.
He continued. "I asked Ma and Pa -- I asked them _both_ and more'n once -- for toy soldiers from that sheet some store in Chicago sent out."
"Did you get them?" Emma was the one asking this time.
Stephan gave an angry laugh. "Did I get them? Of course not, I got a pilgrim's medal and a book on Church history and one on homilies. _That's_ what I got. Pa's decided that I'm gonna be a minister whether I want to be one or not. He won't listen to anything I say."
"What are you going to do," Ysabel asked. "Where will you go?"
"I-I ain't sure. Fort Grant or Fort Reno, I guess. They're the nearest Army posts. I can get a job till I'm old enough to sign up. I won't be an officer, like I want, but I'll be away from here, away from Pa and his fool ideas."
"A-away," Ysabel said, sounding panicky. "No, you cannot go away."
"She's right," Yully chimed in. "You know your pa'd come after you, and the Army ain't gonna help you when he does."
"Maybe... maybe I'll just run. And keep running till he gives up or till I'm old enough to join the Army on my own."
"And... and never come back here?" Ysabel looked ready to cry.
Emma had an idea. "Seems t'me what you gotta do is show your pa how serious you are, how much you _don't_ wanna be a preacher. You can do that without running away."
"How?" Stephan asked her. "I've talked to him till I'm blue in the face."
"I didn't say 'talk to him'; I said 'show him.' Make him _think_ you ran away."
"Where would he go?" Tomas wondered. "Our parents would make him go back as soon as they found out where he was hiding."
"Suppose he wasn't at anybody else's house," Emma told them. "Suppose he was at _our_ house, Fort Secret?"
"Stay at the Fort?" Yully said thoughtfully. "Yeah, yeah, it would work. You could sleep there, Stephan -- I'll bring a blanket and pillow. We can bring food for a few days."
"We were bringing food for a party anyway," Ysabel said. "And we have some spare candles at my house."
"I'll sneak out tonight," Stephan said finally. "I'll leave a note like I was really running off and hide out in the woods till morning."
Yully reached under his shirt and took out a cord that was tied around his neck. There was a small brass key on the thick string. "You hide out in the fort. We'll come by in the morning with the things you'll need, blankets, food, and like that." He handed the key to his friend.
"One thing more you'll need," Tomas said, smiling. "I will bring a chamber pot. You cannot leave the fort for _anything_ until your papa gives up."
The others laughed and shook hands.
* * * * *
Trisha read the paper one more time.
"In return for the receipt of $275 from Trisha (nee Patrick) O'Hanlan, and upon the transfer of a ten percent share of the ownership of O'Hanlan Feed and Grain from the aforesaid Trisha to Kaitlin O'Hanlan, I, Liam O'Hanlan, do agree to transfer an equal share of the ownership of O'Hanlan Feed and Grain to the same Kaitlin O'Hanlan."
She looked more than a little confused. "What the hell does all this mean? I thought I was just buying part of Liam's share of the store."
"You're paying for the share," Milt explained, "but you won't own it. The share goes directly from him to Kaitlin as soon as you give her part of your share."
Trisha pouted. "Why does it have to be so complicated?"
"It's not that I don't trust you, little sister. I just don't see as I want you to have a sixty percent share to my forty percent, even for a little while."
* * * * *
Stephan lay in bed, listening to the ticking of the clock on the dresser and his brothers' breathing. Their breathing was the same as it had been for 10 minutes -- 10 so _very_ long minutes -- deep and steady. Sleeping.
"Now or never," he whispered to himself, throwing back his covers. He climbed out of bed and rearranged his pillows. With the blanket and bedspread draped back over them, it looked as if someone was sleeping there.
Satisfied, he pulled off his nightshirt. He had worn his union suit and jeans underneath. He opened a drawer, moving slowly to make as little noise as possible. He transferred his spare union suit, two shirts, and two pair of socks to his bed, tossing them onto his nightshirt. He added another pair of jeans from a second drawer. The clothes were rolled up into a bundle, which he tucked under his arm.
He picked up his shoes and the shirt he'd worn the day before with his other hand and slipped out the door. He didn't put on the shirt or shoes until he was sitting on the back steps.
With only the light of the quarter moon to guide him, it took Stephan a good 15 minutes to reach Fort Secret. He reached under his shirt for the loop with the key. It turned easily in the lock. He crawled through the open door and found the cup with the candle just inside.
"Dang!" he cursed, fumbling with the matches before he got one lit. He lit the candle and closed the door behind him. He slid open the small panel in the door and reached through to replace the lock. Once it was latched, he turned and crawled down the tunnel, pulling his clothing bundle with him.
The clubhouse had a wooden floor with an old latch hook rug tucked under the table. Stephan lit the oil lamp, turning the wick down low. He blew out the candle, moved the table, and lay down on the rug. His bundle made a good pillow and he was soon asleep.
* * * * *
Saturday, March 2, 1872
"G'morning, Mama... Papa," Matthew Yingling said, walking into the kitchen, the first child downstairs. "What's for breakfast, Mama?"
Martha Yingling gave the batter a final stir. "Pancakes, dear. How soon will your brothers be down?" She poured a large spoonful of the batter onto the greased griddle.
"Sam's almost dressed. I don't know where Stephan is."
"What do you mean?" She poured a second spoonful into the pan.
"He was gone when Sam 'n' I woke up."
Ruth Yingling walked in at that moment. "Who's gone, Mamma?"
"No one," Rev. Yingling took a quick sip of his coffee.
Martha looked at him nervously. "What do you mean, Thaddeus?"
"The boy had doubts about his vocation. I told him to spend some time thinking about it. He has obviously decided to do just that. He is sitting in the woods or walking about the town or wherever he can best contemplate the matter."
"Are you sure?" Martha asked. "Shouldn't we look for him... just to be certain that he is safe?"
Yingling took another sip of coffee. "The boy is just now coming to accept his destined role as a minister of our Lord, and, I am certain, the Lord shall protect such a servant." He leaned back in his chair. "And, now that the matter is settled, what about those pancakes you mentioned?"
* * * * *
"May I speak with you for a moment, Trisha?" Milt Quinlan asked.
Trisha glanced quickly around the crowded Feed and Grain. "We're kind of busy right now, Milt."
"I only need a few minutes -- but it should be in private."
"Private?" She called over to her brother, standing at the register, ringing up a sale. "Liam, Milt and I are going into the office to talk some business." When Liam nodded, she led the lawyer to the office, closing the door behind them.
"Now," she asked him. "What's this all about?"
"Yesterday was the end of the twenty days you had to respond to Kaitlin's petition for a divorce."
"I-I didn't respond. _You_ told me not to."
"I know. You did exactly right. Now... what happens next is that, on Monday, I shall file a petition asking that the Judge expedite acting on Kaitlin's first petition. That means that he will act as soon as he can."
Trisha sighed. "And what do _I_ do?"
"The same that you have been doing -- nothing. This part will take 10 days. The Judge will finalize things a few days later."
"I-I hate this. You know that, don't you?" she asked sorrowfully.
"I know, and I'm sorry, very sorry, for what you're going through." He reached out, hesitated for a moment, then gently patted her on the shoulder much as he would do to comfort a small child.
"Thanks, Milt." Trisha gave him a wane smile and tilted her head, so that it rested on his hand.
* * * * *
Emma knelt down and unlocked the door. She opened it just a crack and peered into the darkness. "Stephan?" she called cautiously. "You in there?"
"Yep," came his voice from down the tunnel. When Emma opened the door further and climbed through, she could see the flicker of light far ahead.
Yully set the small, wooden crate he'd carried down on the tunnel floor. "Here we come." He climbed into the tunnel and began crawling forward, pushing the crate ahead of him.
"Are you hungry?" Ysabel followed Yully through the door. She was carrying an overstuffed muslin bag. Emma and Tomas followed, with Tomas closing and locking the door behind them.
Stephan was sitting at the table, which he'd pushed back into place over the rug. The oil lamp they used was burning brightly atop the chest of drawers. "With the lamp over there," he told them, pointing, "there's more room on the table for unpacking and sorting stuff."
"I brought extra oil, wicks, and matches," Yully said, unpacking the crate. "And some tins of beef, a can opener, and two big canteens of water."
Ysabel opened her sack. "Here are two blankets and some pins so you can make a sleeping bag." She gave a nervous giggle. "Oh, and a pillow."
"My uncle gave me this book on Napoleon," Emma told him, taking the book from the sack she'd brought. "I figured it was something you'd like t'read, and it'll help pass the time when we ain't here. I brought some apples, too, and a loaf of my ma's bread."
Tomas also had a sack. "My mama made a big batch of empanadas. I brought some with me -- and some cheese, too." He looked at his friends. "And I brought the most important thing." He put his sack in the table and carefully removed a blue and white enameled chamber pot wrapped in an old piece of muslin.
"That settles it, Stephan," Yully said with a chuckle. "This may just be a hole in the ground you're hiding in, but while you got that chamber pot, you'll be sitting pretty."
* * * * *
"Trisha," Kaitlin asked, "Are you all right?" The two women were in their bedroom, preparing for the dance.
Trisha blinked, as if waking up, and looked over at her wife. "What do you mean?"
"You've been working on that same button for a good five minutes."
"I-I have?"
"You have. What's bothering you? As far as I've heard, the dance looks to be a great success."
"It... it isn't the dance that I'm thinking about. I saw Milt Quinlan today. He said that the time for me to respond to your... your divorce petition was over."
"I-I see." Kaitlan nodded.
"He'll be filing something on Monday, something that asks the Judge to speed things up. We'll..." Trisha's voice cracked. "We'll be... _divorced_ in two weeks." She closed her eyes and turned away.
Kaitlin hurried over and threw her arms around Trisha. "I know; I know. I-I hate it, too." She rocked the smaller woman as if she were a child.
"I-I'm sorry," Trisha said a few minutes later.
Kaitlin let her arms dropped. "There's nothing to apologize for. I feel like crying about it, too, sometimes." She picked up one of the new lace handkerchiefs and began to dab at Trisha's eyes. "You just beat me to it."
"So what do we do now?"
"We put on our pretty dresses, and we go to that dance _you_ organized. And when we get there, we try our best to enjoy ourselves."
"But how?"
"What happens tomorrow or the next day or two weeks from now is going to happen. Tonight, a lot of people are going to enjoy themselves _and_ help the church because of what you did, Trisha O'Hanlan. You owe it to yourself and to me and to all of them to enjoy it with them."
* * * * *
Martha Yingling looked at the clock on her kitchen wall. "It's almost 6 PM, Thad. It will be dark in half an hour, and there's no sign of Stephan. Are you so sure that he -- "
"I am," the reverend answered quickly. "I admit that the boy is taking longer than I had thought, but I am as certain of his safety as I am of the decision I know he will make."
She sighed and tried not to betray her concern. "If-if you say so, dear."
"I do. Now, how soon will dinner be ready? We must be getting dressed soon. It would not do for the minister to be late to the church dance."
* * * * *
The schoolyard was decorated for a dance. Paper lanterns and torches on long poles lit the area. Chains of multi-colored paper were strung between them. More paper chains stretched between the windows of the schoolhouse and in front of the tables that were set up as refreshment stands along the front of the building. A three-man band, fiddle, guitar, and drum, were setting up on a small stage set along the side of the schoolhouse. More paper chains were hung along the front and sides of the stage.
Liam pulled the Feed & Grain delivery wagon up among the other horses, wagons, and buggies at the far end of the yard. "Let me give you ladies a hand," he said as he jumped from his seat and hurried around to the other side.
"Don't bother." Trisha told him, jumping down by herself.
Kaitlin kept her seat. "_I_ could use some help." She held out her hand.
"My pleasure." Liam stepped in towards the wagon. Kaitlin stood and placed her hands on his shoulders. He put his hands at her waist and slowly lowered her to the ground.
A final chain of paper rings separated the stable area from the rest of the schoolyard. Milo Nash sat at a table next to the one opening. A roll of tickets and a cash box were set on the table. "Tickets?" he asked when the threesome reached him.
"Right here." Liam handed him his own ticket.
Kaitlin gave him the tickets Trisha had bought for the two of them. "We'd best hurry," she said, pointing towards the stage. "It looks like the music's about to start."
The guitarist, a tall man wearing a green-gray wool cap, stepped forward. "Howdy folks," he greeted the crowd. "I'm Billy Gibbons. This here's Dusty Hall..." The fiddler nodded. "and Frank Beard." The drummer waved. "We're gonna be playing the music for you tonight, and we hope you like it."
"Which one is Mr. _Beard_?" Kaitlin asked with a laugh.
Liam caught the joke. "The man who doesn't have one." Gibbons and Hall both had beards that reached down to their chests, while Frank Beard wore only a sandy-colored mustache. Just then the band struck up a sprightly waltz. Liam turned to Kaitlin. "Shall we?"
"Let's." Kaitlin gave him her hand, and he led her out to where several other couples were already dancing.
* * * * *
Phillipia Stone danced down along the right side of the line of the seven other couples while her husband, Lucian, danced down along the left. They joined hands when they met and took their places at the end of the line. "First couple, now," Billy Gibbons shouted. Laura and Arsenio joined hands and danced down between the two lines, taking their places behind Phillipia and Lucian.
"Chassez all," Billy yelled. The couples joined hands and danced four steps forward then four more back. "Salute your partners." The men bowed, and the ladies curtsied. "And we're done." The Virginia Reel was at an end. The musicians stopped, as the dancers broke into a round of applause.
Trisha and Mike Schmidt were the fifth couple in line. He was a tall, lanky man with a small farm south of town, one of the men Trisha had flirted with to get them to buy a ticket to the dance and to annoy Liam. "That was fun," Trisha told him, "but I'm rather worn out." She fanned herself with her hand.
"May I get you a drink?" Mike asked. She agreed, and he led her to a nearby chair. "Wait here. I'll be right back." She sat down as he hurried off.
Schmidt was back quickly with a cup in each hand. "Martha Yingling's spiced lemonade," he told her handing her one of the cups.
"Thank you." She took a sip. 'A bit more than lemonade,' she thought to herself. 'I can taste the alcohol somebody put in.' She thought about it for a minute, finally deciding, 'after the day I've had, I need a bit more than just lemonade." With that, she smiled and finished her drink.
* * * * *
Mike Schmidt had just gone for more lemonade -- 'Probably be spiked, too,' Trisha thought -- when the band began a waltz. She stood near the dancers, swaying with the music while she waited for him to get back.
"I came to get my money's worth," Isaiah Logan said, walking over to where she was standing. "You wanna dance?"
She was about to say that she was waiting for someone when she saw Kaitlin and Liam watching her while they danced. 'I'll show her,' Trisha thought. She smiled coyly at Isaiah. "I'd love to." She took his left hand, as he put his right around her waist, and they moved in among the other dancers.
* * * * *
"And just are you smiling about so smugly?" Martha Yingling asked her husband. They were dancing a brisk mazurka.
Yingling pointed with a nod of his head. "The O'Hanlon's. It would seem that they are adjusting to their situation better than I had hoped. "Kaitlin is dancing with her former brother-in-law, and Trisha... I have seen her dancing with several different men."
"And this is good?"
"In days past, I have seen them both looking sadly at each other, heard them bemoaning the fate that they suffered from that barman's potion. They have not accepted my offer of counseling... yet, but it would seem that they are even now accepting that fate and moving beyond their old lives. Trisha is an attractive young woman now, and all her partners are members of the congregation. Why should she not dance with such gentlemen?"
* * * * *
Liam turned to Kaitlin as the band started another polka. "Care to?"
"Oh, Liam," she answered, "you've danced every dance with me since we got here. You really don't have to. You go can dance with other women."
He smiled confidently and took her hand in his. "What other women?"
* * * * *
Rhys Godwyn handed Trisha a cup of fruit punch, the other drink at the dance besides Martha Yingling's spiced lemonade. "Here you go, little lady."
"Thanks." She took a cautious sip. While she couldn't taste the alcohol in the punch, she could feel its warmth in her stomach.
And in her head. She stood up slowly. "I-I think I'd like to walk around a bit before we dance again. You don't mind, do you?" She sounded tipsy.
"Not if I can join you." He offered her his arm.
She took it, and they began walking along the paper chain "fence" near the side of the schoolyard. George Sturges, another of Dwight Albertson's bank tellers, was sitting at the table by the entrance. He used a wooden stamp to make an ink print on the backs of their hands, explaining that, "it's so we know you already paid."
They walked through the entrance and along the path to where the horses and wagons were tied, her hand on his arm. About halfway there, Rhys stopped. "Let's go over this way," he said, pointing to the woods at the edge of the schoolyard. "It's more private."
"What do we need privacy for?" Trisha asked.
Rhys looked around. "This... for starters." Satisfied that no one was watching, he cupped her head in his hands and raised it towards him. He was a tall man and had to bend down, even so.
He pulled her closer to him, their lips meeting in a kiss. Trisha felt her heart beating faster, as a delicious warmth spread through her. She sighed and stepped into the kiss, hoping to make it last as long as she could.
"Maybe for a... a little while," She answered, when they did break the kiss. She smiled shyly and let him lead her into the woods.
About thirty yards in, they found a fallen tree. Rhys used a red handkerchief to brush off any dirt, and they both sat down. There was some light from the torches at the dance, but they couldn't see -- or be seen -- by any of the dancers.
"Now, where were we?" He put his arms around her, and they kissed again.
Again, the exquisite warmth coursed through her. 'This is what I need,' she thought. 'No thinking about _anything_, not Kaitlin or the business or the church board, just -- ooh! -- just the pleasure of being touched, of feeling the way I _want_ to feel.'
She snuggled in closer to the man, turning her body to face him, as her arms wrapped around him. Her breasts were pressed against his broad chest, as his arms encircled him. Her nipples crinkled and grew stiff. They, her entire body, cried out for his touch.
As if reading her thoughts, he reached out to caress her breasts. "You're not going to get anywhere with all my clothes on," she told him, with a giggle.
"Well, now, let's just do something 'bout that." He began to work on her top button.
She playfully slapped his hand. "No, you'll tear my dress." She sensed a flush run across her face, but she resisted the momentary qualm. "I-I'll do it." She began to undo the pearl buttons, while he did his best to distract her by nibbling at her neck.
As she opened the buttons, the dress slipped down her shoulders. He leaned in and began to kiss and to nip at the newly bared skin. Each touch of his lips sent sparks through her, especially to her breasts and to that special place between her legs. She squirmed, feeling warm and just a little damp down there.
As the last button came undone, the dress slid off her left shoulder, dragging that part of her camisole with it. "Ohh, my goodness," she said with a giggle. "My dress."
"Looks better like that." He kissed her shoulder, then moved slowly back towards her neck. At the same time, he pushed the dress and camisole from her other shoulder. "Better still."
With the camisole down, the tops of Trisha's pillowy breasts could be seen above the lace trim of her corset. Rhys' fingers spider walked across them, sending tingles down her spine.
Two of his fingers moved down into the cup of her corset. They found her hardened nipple and began to move back and forth, twisting and tweaking it. The sensations were overwhelming. Her head went back, as a low moan came from her lips. Her legs slowly moved apart, as if in anticipation.
He kissed her neck again, low where it met her shoulders. With his left hand, he continued playing with her nipple. His right hand reached down to stroke her right leg.
Even through her dress and petticoat she felt his hand on her leg, her thigh. Each stroke was like the priming of a pump. She was warmer -- and wetter -- there in her crotch, as his hand moved closer, and a need began to grow in her.
He began kissing his way down from her neck. When he reached her breast, his lips became more insistent, sucking at her flesh. He sat up for a moment, smiling at the love bite, a small, purplish bruise on her milky, white skin. 'My brand,' he told himself.
She didn't notice. His hand was so close to her groin now. She could barely stand the urges growing in her. Her legs, of their own mind, came together to trap his hand.
He smiled, wiggling his fingers against her thigh. "Like you said, I could do this a lot better if you didn't have all them clothes in the way."
"T-Take off my dress... out here?"
He gave her a leer. "Well, you could always just take your drawers off." By now, his hand had reached the cleft between her legs. He pressed against it with his finger, sending delicious shivers through her.
"Ah -- oohh! -- okay." She giggled and stood up, turning away from him. Her hand groped beneath her dress until she found the bow for her drawers. She pulled at one of the ribbons and felt the knot come undone. Her drawers loosened and slid down to pool at her ankles.
Trisha stepped out of the garment, stepping back so that she could pick them up. As she bent over, Rhys flipped her overdress, then her dress and petticoat up. Something very large and very warm and very, very _male_ pressed against her bare bottom from behind.
His arms came around her waist. He kissed the nape of her neck, sending luscious tremors through her. "Yessss," she hissed.
The blonde shivered and spread her legs. She bent forward and braced her arms on the fallen log they had been sitting on. She felt his cock -- his _glorious_, _magical_ cock slip between her legs and into her well-lubricated cleft.
He began to move, pumping in and out greedily. And she gloried in it, moving with him, letting the pure sexual delight stoke in her like a furnace fire until it consumed her in a fiery blast. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. Her body shook. In that moment, she heard him grunt and felt him spurt into her.
Her body trembled, and she collapsed over the log. As she fell, he stumbled back trying to keep his balance, and his now flaccid tool was freed. "Oh, now that was real nice," he said as he reached for his handkerchief and began to clean himself. "We gotta do it again some time."
"Again?" She fumbled for her new silk hankie, one of the set Liam had given her a few weeks before, to deal with her own flow.
He nodded. "Of course, again. I, truth to tell, am worn out for now. Besides, they're gonna be wondering where we are." He stuffed the kerchief in his pocket, and walked over to her.
Before she knew it, he was kissing her again. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she responded, her body clearly wanting more of the pleasure it had just known. "Do we have to?" she asked, when they broke the kiss.
"I think we'd better." He gently lifted her camisole back onto her left shoulder.
She pouted and did the same with the other sleeve. "Oh, all right." She stepped back into her drawers, pulled them up, and -- grinning to herself -- re-tied the bow. The petticoat and dress slipped back down around her, as her fingers began doing her buttons.
He tucked himself back into his own union suit drawers, and then waited till she finished. Then, they walked back hand in hand. As they strolled, she found herself looking up at his face and smiling.
* * * * *
The band was playing a quadrille, as Trisha and Rhys walked up to the gate. After Sturges checked and let them through, they stood and watched. They were still holding hands.
Cecelia Ritter was dancing with her husband. "What's the matter?" he asked, when she suddenly stopped.
"Remember saying that I should watch that Trisha O'Hanlan to see how she acted at the dance tonight?"
"I do? Have you seen anything I should know?"
"I see something. I see Miss O'Hanlan standing over there..." She pointed quickly. "...holding hands with that -- that drover that works for Mckecknie Freight."
"That doesn't seem so bad."
"It does if you consider that I haven't seen her about for a time." She gave a self-satisfied smile. "You don't suppose she was... off somewhere with him doing... doing who knows what."
Clyde smiled back. "I might. I might suppose that very thing."
* * * * *
(To Be Concluded)
Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change -- Winter
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson
Part 3 -- March
Sunday, March 3, 1872
Trisha pulled her nightgown off over her head and tossed it onto the bed before quickly stepping into her drawers. Church services began in about 90 minutes, and she wanted to get there early, to bask in the praise for the dance the night before. As she reached for her camisole, she looked over to see how Kaitlin was doing.
"Trisha," Kaitlin said loudly, pointing, "what the devil is that on your chest?"
Trisha looked down at herself. "What? I don't see anything."
"Don't play that game with me. There, on your left... breast."
"It-it's just a bruise."
"You know very well what it is. You gave me more than one love bite when you were Patrick. What I want to know is how it got... who did it?"
"Last night, Rhys Godwyn, he... he kissed me."
"He did more than that, I'd say.” Kaitlin looked closely at the discoloration. She stepped over to Trisha and touched the shorter woman's breast about three inches above the bruise. "Your neckline only came down to here. You must have -- oh, Trisha, you-you didn't take your dress off, did you?"
"No, it was too cool to do that.” She blushed. "I-I just unbuttoned it.” Should she tell what else had happened, what she and Rhys had done? "D-down to my waist... almost."
"Whatever possessed you to do that?"
"I... Liam's been teasing me about being his 'little sister', so I've been flirting with men -- just to annoy him, of course. And I-I danced with some of them, and they -- and Rhys gave me spiked drinks. Then when he... kissed me, it felt so good that I --"
"Acted very foolishly.” Kaitlin pointed a scolding finger. "I don't know what we're going to do."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that a couple of months ago, you didn't want to admit that you _were_ a woman. Now, you're acting like a silly, young flirt, letting men kiss you -- and do a good _more_ deal than kiss you, judging from that mark. Is that the sort of woman you've decided to be? More important, is that the sort of woman you think Emma should be?"
"Emma?" Trisha paled at the thought. "But she's just a girl."
"She'd old enough to have already kissed a boy; last Christmas, remember? That was a one-time thing -- I hope, but it may not be, not if she follows the example _you're_ setting. Do you want that?"
Trisha shook her head. "No, you-you're right, Kaitlin. I-I'll do better. For Emma _and_ for myself."
* * * * *
"Thaddeus, please... please wake up," Martha Yingling called, shaking her husband.
The reverend sat up. "What... what is it, my dear?” He yawned, stretched his arms, and shook his head to scatter the last bit of sleep.
"I-I just checked the boys' room. Stephan wasn't there. His bed... it wasn't slept in."
"I'm sure that he's fine. Why, I wouldn't be surprised to find him downstairs having something to eat."
"He isn't; I looked. I looked all through the house.” She sobbed once. "Wha-What if he's hurt somewhere, maybe even..." Her voice trailed off, not wanting to even think what she had almost said.
Yingling took her hand in his, patting it, as he spoke, to comfort her. "Now, now, Martha," he said calmly. "I'm certain that he's all right."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I trust in the Lord.” He looked sternly into her worried eyes. "Just as _you_ must trust in me."
"Still... couldn't you -- in church today -- couldn't you ask the congregation to... be on the lookout for him, maybe even to form a --"
"I shall do no such thing. It would say that I have no faith in our Savior. Worse, it would say that I cannot control my own son. A congregation must believe, believe with all their hearts, in their shepherd. If they do not, how can he ever hope to lead them along the Lord's path?"
"But Stephan?"
"Is fine, Martha.” He rose, still holding her hand. "Pray with me now. Pray that he will overcome his stubborn denial of the Lord's will. Pray, perhaps, that we will see him at the church.” He shook his head. "No, I... _he_ would not want the congregation to see him after he had spent the night in the woods. Pray, and I have no doubt that he will be waiting for us here when we return home after the service."
Martha bowed her head so that her brow was resting on his chest. "I will.” She closed her eyes in prayer, mostly for her missing son, but also that her husband wouldn't notice her tears, her _doubting_ tears, running down her face and onto his nightshirt.
* * * * *
From her own seat near the door -- the better to watch everyone else -- Cecelia Ritter watched Trisha, Kaitlin, and Emma walking into the schoolroom. Trisha stood by the aisle while the other two took their usual seats. Then she walked to the front to join the other members of the Board.
"Will you look at that?" Cecelia whispered to Lavinia Mackecknie. "Bold as brass, that Trisha O'Hanlan."
Lavinia raised an eyebrow. "I know what you mean, my dear. Last night she was cavorting -- dancing and who knows what else -- with a dozen men, at least, and this morning, she walks in looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth."
"Oh, she did more than just dance, if you ask me," Cecelia continued. "I do believe that she went off somewhere with one of those men, that man -- a Mr. Godwyn, I think his name is. I saw the two of them walking back from where Dwight Albertson had set up the gate.” She paused for effect. "And they were holding hands."
Mrs. Mackecknie looked thoughtful. "This Mr. Godwyn, was he a... a tall, barrel-chested man with curly black hair?"
"Yes, yes, I believe he was. Do you know him?"
"I do; I do indeed. He drives a wagon for my husband's freight company, a very common, very coarse fellow.” She frowned at her memory of the man.
"Merciful Heavens, you don't suppose that she...” Cecelia managed to look both shocked and, somehow, pleased at the same time.
Lavinia clicked her tongue. "Disgraceful, just disgraceful. And Kaitlin is hardly any better. She spent the whole time dancing with her brother-in-law. Her brother-in-law, no less."
"It's not as though she had a _husband_ to dance with, and the brother does look very much the way Trisha _used_ _to_."
"Even so, she is still a married woman -- of sorts -- and with a young daughter, no less. She really shouldn't be throwing herself at the man -- any man.” She glanced towards the front of the room and saw the reverend standing up and walking over to the makeshift altar. "We'll have to talk about this later, Cecelia. Services are about to start."
* * * * *
Reverend Yingling looked out over his congregation. "Before we conclude this morning's service, I find that there is an announcement I must make.” He saw his wife smile hopefully, and he gave a quick shake of his head, telling her, 'not _that_ announcement, not about Stephan.'
Martha Yingling's smile faded, and she sank back in her seat without a visible protest.
"A few weeks ago," the reverend continued, "a member of our Board proposed that this congregation sponsor a dance as a way of starting the collection of money for possible improvements to our church. There were many, and I will admit to having been one of them, who had doubts that such a dance was possible in the short time they suggested."
"I am happy -- most happy -- to say now that I, that all those doubters were wrong. Like the Widow of Zarephath, who fed Elijah during the famine, the ladies of this congregation produced their own miracles of food and, also, of decorations and music and everything else necessary -- most especially, their own charming selves -- to have made last night's dance such a delight."
"I will not ask Dwight Albertson whether or not we -- the church -- made a profit for I am most certain that we did."
Albertson raised a hand, and Yingling motioned for him to interrupt. "I agree that we made money, and I'll have the exact figures for the next Board meeting."
"Thank you, Dwight," the reverend continued. "I know that we also profited by coming together on this project as well as by the enjoyment of sharing an evening together. And so, I will ask Dwight and all of the ladies -- and gentlemen -- of this congregation who made last night possible to stand."
Trisha and Dwight stood up from their chairs as members of the Board. Then Kaitlin and the members of the Food and Decoration Committees stood. "You, too, children," Nancy Osbourne called out to those of her students who had come to the services that morning. "After all, you made all those decorations."
"Milo, stand up... You, too, George," Albertson added, explaining. "These men are the ones who sold tickets and watched the gate."
Yingling nodded. "And now, let us thank them all with a round of applause.” He began to clap, and the rest of the congregation, including many of those who were standing, joined in.
Horace Styron and the other Board members were cheering as much as anyone else in the room. 'No one can say that the reverend didn't thank Trisha,' Styron told himself, 'but he didn't give her any special credit, either.'
* * * * *
Monday, March 4, 1872
Nancy Osbourne looked down at her attendance sheet then up at her class. "Ruth... Matthew Yingling, can either of you tell me where your brother, Stephan, is this morning?"
Ruth, as the older of the two, stood up. "Miss Osbourne, Mama said to tell you that Stephan wouldn't be in today.” She blinked, trying very hard not to cry. "And for a few more days... maybe."
"I do hope that he's not sick." Nancy said, marking an "A" for absent next to Stephan's name.
Matthew answered for his sister and himself. "So do we, Miss Osbourne. So do we."
* * * * *
"You just stand like you did yesterday, Jane.” Ethan Thomas was at his easel, watching Jane pose in a robe over her camisole and drawers.
She shifted her position, moving closer to the left of the chair. "Like this?” She lifted her right hand atop the back of the chair and angled her body slightly.
"Yes, raise your left arm... yes, just like that. Perfect; hold still please.” He began painting.
"How long do I gotta stand like this?"
"The whole time today and for most of the future sessions. Since I am working on your figure, just now, rather than your face, you may speak to me so long as you hold the pose."
"What should I talk about?"
"I don't know.” He thought for a moment. "Why don't you tell me how you and your sister came to Eerie?"
"I didn't come t'Eerie with Laura. I didn't even know her back then."
"I fail to understand. How is it that you could not know your sister?"
"We wasn't sisters back then. We was...” She stopped, remembering the warnings she'd gotten about telling people the truth. "You know already 'bout Shamus potion, don't you?"
'Potion?' he thought, then shrugged, curious for what had to be a good story. "Oh, yes, he... ahh, he told me about it himself."
"Good, 'cause I ain't supposed t'talk about it to folks that don't know. Me 'n Toby Hess was up near Flagstaff, looking for gold and finding rock. We heard that they was digging gold up in chunks over in the Superstition Mountains.” She smiled ironically. "They're always digging it up in chunks... _over_ _there_. We came down here and filed a couple of claims about an hour's hard ride north of here."
"I should think that gold prospecting would have been difficult work for a pair of young ladies such as yourself."
"I thought you knew 'bout the potion. We was _men_. It was hard; that's why I ain't doing it now, but we was up there the better part of a year."
He looked askance. Had he heard her correctly -- that she had been a _man_ in the recent past? What she was telling him _couldn't_ be true, but he had grown familiar with the peculiar way that Jane talked. She had expressed her incredible statement in a way that led him to think that she herself believed it to be true. "If that's the case, how did you and Laura come to be sisters?"
"Me 'n Toby come into town t'exchange... for supplies.” She wasn't going to tell him about the gold they'd found. "And we seen a sign that Shamus had a bunch of pretty gals at his place, and there was gonna be a dance.” She giggled. "Them girls sure was pretty, and I thought Laura was the prettiest of the whole lot."
"So you and Toby..."
"Toby, he liked Jessie as much as I liked Laura. Only Shamus got mad at us and wouldn't let us see 'em. Toby said that we should take 'em up t'our claims for a while. Toby took Jessie to the cabin we had on one claim -- we'd work each claim for a few days, then switch off -- and I took Laura to the other one."
She suddenly frowned and shifted her body.
"Jane, please... your arms back as they were.” Ethan watched her take the pose again. "You were saying..."
"Sorry, I don't like remembering what happened next. Jessie 'n Toby had some kinda fight. She k-killed him, but a jury said it was a accident. The posse that came after Laura and Jessie brought me back for a trial. _That_ jury said I was guilty. The Judge, he told me, I could go t'prison for years 'n years _or_ I could drink the potion."
"I drunk it.” She shrugged. "And here I am."
"And how did that make Laura your sister?"
"That there potion changes a man so he looks just like the prettiest gal he ever seen. For me, that was Laura. After I drank the stuff, I was her spit 'n image. That sort of made us sisters, didn't it?"
"And how did Laura feel about you, a man, being changed into her sister?"
"It didn't bother her none. After all, she used t'be a man herself."
Ethan lurched. "What?"
Jane frowned at him. "I thought Shamus told you all 'bout the potion."
"No -- no, he didn't.” He tried to keep the disbelief out of his voice. "Not in any detail. He didn't mention...who exactly was changed. He was respecting their privacy, I suppose."
"Ya see, Will Hanks and his gang road into town t'kill the sheriff. Shamus give 'em all his potion, and the Judge made 'em work in the saloon."
His fist clenched around his brush. "Will... Will Hanks? You mean Wilma...?"
"Yep, in fact, she got two doses of potion and wound up working over at Lady Cerise's cat house. Two doses make a man too much of a woman, I reckon."
"And the others in the gang, what happened to them?"
"They's still all working for Shamus. You already know about Laura. Jessie -- she's Wilma's sister -- she sings, Bridget runs her poker game, and I work with Maggie in the kitchen."
"Those... those women were all men -- outlaws?"
"They was. They ain't no more.” She giggled. "Laura's even gonna have a baby in June."
Ethan shook his head. "That's quite a story."
Jane pouted. "You don't think it's true, do you?"
"I-I'll be honest, Jane, I'm not certain that I do. I -- ah -- half thought that Shamus was just having a joke with me when he mentioned the potion.” He paused for a moment, resolving to investigate further. "For whatever it might be worth, a part of me hopes that it is true. The world can always use more women as beautiful as yourself."
* * * * *
Stephan Yingling looked hopefully at his friends. "I gotta ask one of you t'do me a favor."
"What do you need?" Ysabel asked.
"You remember that note I was gonna leave for my folks?” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from a book on the table where they were all sitting, inside the hill in Fort Secret. "I stuck it in that book and brought it with me by accident. I-I just found it today."
"No wonder Ruth and Matthew were acting so scared today in school," Emma realized. "Your folks don't have any notion of what happened to you."
"They gotta think you're hurt -- maybe dead even," Yully added. He reached for the note. "I'll take it over to 'em."
Ysabel looked hurt. "Why you?"
"'Cause I'm gonna say that he give it t'me -- if anybody asks. I'm the one he's most likely to trust, us being best friends and all."
"What're you gonna say?” Stephan asked. "They're gonna have all kinda questions, especially my Pa."
Yully thought for a moment. "I'm gonna say that you give it to me in school... Friday, but you -- you asked me t'wait a while before I gave it to them. _And_ I'll say that I don't know where you are."
"You just be careful," Stephan warned. "Pa's awful good about getting the truth outta people."
"Don't you worry none, Stephan. I'll promise you right now; I ain't gonna tell your pa a thing -- my pa neither."
* * * * *
"Oooh, that feels good!” Laura leaned back on her elbows on the bed. She and Amy Talbot were in Laura's old bedroom in the Saloon for their monthly pregnancy check-up. Both women wore only their opened camisoles and drawers, and Edith Lonnigan, their midwife, was gently rubbing a creamy white lotion onto Laura's gravid belly.
Edith smiled as she continued. "I would imagine so. I'll give you the bottle, and you can do it every day or so."
"Better yet," Amy Talbot added, "have Arsenio do it.” She winked.
Edith cocked her head as if considering the idea. "Just make certain that he does a thorough job and doesn't get... distracted. This lotion doesn't just help with your dry and itchy skin. If you use it for the rest of your pregnancy, it will reduce any stretch marks you might get."
"Str-stretch marks?” Laura looked down nervously at her stomach.
Amy nodded. "Your body's stretching to make room for the baby. That can leave marks on your stomach or legs to show how it stretched.” She pointed at a slightly darker line across her own stomach. "I used that same lotion, and it helped me.” She giggled. "Dan helped, and we only got a _little_ distracted."
"Did you both have a good time at the dance?" Mrs. Lonnigan asked, trying to change the subject.
Amy smiled. "I know I did. Dan's a good dancer, but we don't get many chances to go out. Paul and Tor took over for the whole evening, so he could stay with me.” She sighed. "I just got tired a bit quicker than I'd have liked, so we couldn't dance very much."
"I'm used to dancing -- working here for Shamus every week, like I do," Laura added. "It was just nice to be able to dance every dance with Arsenio instead of taking tickets and trading partners every dance.” She looked at the midwife. "How about you, Edith? I know I saw you there with Davy Kitchner."
Now Edith smiled. "Yes, Davy came down from his claim early Saturday afternoon, so he could take me. He's not a bad dancer, either."
"I hope he wasn't too tired when he rode all that way back into the mountains after the dance," Laura teased.
Edith refused to take the bait. "No, he found a place to stay the night here in town -- and we'll say no more on _that_ subject; thank you very much."
"Of course not." Laura bit her tongue. "I'm just glad that you both enjoyed yourselves Saturday night.” She didn't giggle, but Amy did. When Edith joined her, all three women gave in to a hearty laugh.
The older woman shook her head. "Now that we've all had such a good chuckle, I think this session is over, and you both can get dressed. Laura... Amelia, your weights seem fine. Laura, you can expect to be gaining about a pound a week for the time being. Amy, about half that for you."
"We'll see you next month then," Laura replied, buttoning her camisole. Amy mumbled something in agreement.
Edith screwed the cap back on the lotion bottle and set it down on the table next to Laura's reticule. "Unless either of you have any questions -- or problems, heaven forbid. Then you come see me _at_ _once_."
* * * * *
Herve walked into the parlor. "Mr. Thomas, my Lady," he announced.
"Ethan," Lady Cerise said, rising from her chair. "What brings you here this lovely evening, business... or pleasure?"
The painter kissed her hand. "Good evening, Cerise. Both, first, I came to report that I am making suitable progress on the painting of Miss Hanks, and that I am in the process of securing a pair of new commissions with the Ortega family. They wish me to do a portrait of a daughter for her 15th birthday and another of the family patriarch in celebration of his 70th birthday."
"I have the... acquaintance of several of the men in that family. They are extravagant, but they demand -- and reward -- quality."
He chuckled. "And they shall receive nothing less. As to my second reason for being here," he looked around the room. Mae, Beatriz, and Wilma were watching his conversation with Cerise. "My Lady," he continued, "part of our agreement was that I might avail myself of your... flowers. I should like to do so this evening, if I may."
"But of course. My ladies are at your disposal."
"I am an artist, Cerise. I do not 'dispose' of such beauty; I luxuriate in it.”
The three women sat up and posed, all offering themselves to this handsome, cultured man. 'Finally,' Wilma told herself.
"My dear..." He stepped over to Beatriz and offered her his hand. "...would you do me the honor of joining me in an evening of mutual, sensual delight."
Beatriz stood and took his hand in hers. "That would be my pleasure, Ethan," she answered.
"_Our_ pleasure," Ethan corrected her, and they began walking towards the stairs.
Wilma watched them in amazement. 'He... he picked Beatriz.'
Ethan could almost feel the heat of Wilma Hanks' eyes burning into the side of his face. He glanced back at the beautiful young woman, who was sitting there wearing black lace. Seeing his favorite model again, feeling his desire for her rise, made it doubly hard to give credence to Jane's wild story.
Wilma smiled. She was mistaking the meaning of the intense look he was giving her. She thought that if she could whisk the painter away from Beatriz when they were actually at the foot of the steps, what a sweet twist of the knife that would be.
"Good evening, Wilma," Ethan said, as he and Beatriz passed by her chair. "You really should not stare at people with your mouth so open. It is most uncomely."
Beatriz giggled and rested her head on his shoulder. "Si, most uncomely.”
* * * * *
"And up ten cents.” Liam O'Hanlan tossed a coin onto the small pile already on the table.
Joe Kramer raised a curious eyebrow. "I'll see that dime and raise another.” He added the coins to the pot. "That was sure some dance over at the schoolhouse on Saturday," he said by way of conversation.
"That it was," Mort Boyer added. He had folded in the last round and was waiting for a new hand. "You must've enjoyed it, Liam. I seen you dance every dance with that pretty sister-in-law o'yours."
Liam frowned. "What about it? Kaitlin likes to dance."
"There was a lot of other women there that liked t'dance. Why wasn't you dancing with any of them?"
"Mostly, because those women were dancing with the men who brought them, their husbands or their beaus. You know as well as I that men around here outnumber women three or four to one."
Bridget tossed a quarter on the table. "Raise fifteen cents.” She studied Liam's face. "Let me guess; your sister-in-law came with _her_ husband. Only, Kaitlin couldn't exactly dance with Trisha, could she?” She looked sharply at the men as if daring them to comment on the potion both she and Trisha had taken, or on the changes it had caused.
"No, she couldn't," Kramer replied. "Trisha was dancing, though. With men, and it seemed t'me like she was dancing every dance, too.” She'd even danced once with him, though he wasn't about to say that.
Fred Norman shook his head. "Not every dance.” He laughed. "I seen her and that muleskinner... Godwyn come walking back from someplace 'bout an hour before the dance ended. I don't know where they was -- or what they was doing -- but they was holding hands and grinning t'beat the band."
Liam looked daggers at the man. "What're you saying, Fred?"
"I think..." Bridget gently put her hand on Liam's arm. "...that he's saying he wants this pot, and he's willing to try and get you off your game if that'll help him win it.” She turned to Fred. "Isn't that right?"
"You... ahh, caught me, Bridget. Sure, Liam, that's-that's all I'm trying to do."
* * * * *
"My dear," Ethan said, kissing Beatriz's cheek, "might I ask you something?” They were in her bed, recovering from a most pleasurable romp just minutes before.
Beatriz sighed, almost a purr, delighting in the warm glow of recent sex. "After what we have just done -- and will do again, I hope....” Her hand reached down. He wasn't recovered yet, but he was getting there. "After that, you can ask me anything."
"Thank you.” His hand stroked her right breast, pausing a moment to play with her nipple. "I, too, have every expectation of savoring another moment of sensual bliss with you this night. Before that, however, I have a question for you. I have heard a most... unlikely tale regarding your... associate, Miss Hanks --” His question trailed off. After seeing Wilma in the flesh again, he felt foolish bringing up the subject. He had to be careful not to let on to Beatriz what it was that he heard from Jane. He didn't want all the girls at Lady Cerise's laughing at him.
Beatriz' mood soured at once. "Wilma? What did you hear?” Nothing good, she hoped.
"A truly bizarre story about how she -- and her sister -- came to this town.” Beatriz didn't like Wilma, he knew, and she was likely to reveal everything scandalous that she might know about her. At the same time, he hardly considered Jane the most reliable of sources.
But the woman's reply was oddly cautious. "They came," she began, "from a bottle in Shamus O'Toole's saloon, they came."
He affected to smile. "What, you mean like a djinn from one of those tales of THE THOUSAND AND ONE ARABIAN NIGHTS?"
"No, it was not gin. If you have heard that Shamus O'Toole is some sort of a brujo -- a witch -- you should believe it. They were men -- brothers -- Will and Jesse Hanks. They came to Eerie to kill the sheriff, but a potion O'Toole gave them changed them into women."
Ethan blinked in astonishment. Jane and Beatriz couldn't possibly be cooperating on a hoax. And if they weren't, what they were saying might possibly be true. "Amazing," he muttered.
He wasn't sure why, but it all seemed sexually intriguing somehow. From what he knew about the girls at Shamus' saloon, they were not shy, although certainly not as sexually bold as Wilma. He found himself wondering what sex with one of these "potion women" would be like.
"Is there _anything_ else you wish to me to tell you about her?" Beatriz asked.
He could hear the anger in her voice and felt her body moving away from him. "It was merely idle curiosity," he replied quickly. "How could I possibly be interested in any other woman when I am here with you?"
He pulled her back to him and kissed her -- very hard on the mouth -- while he ran a rough fingertip over her nipple. She felt his manhood against her thigh, and it was more than ready.
They didn't talk again for some time, and when they did, it was most pointedly _not_ about Wilma.
But that didn't mean that Ethan wasn't thinking -- and thinking most intently -- about the sultry brunette who had such an interesting past.
* * * * *
Yully climbed up the tree trunk until he was about twenty feet from the ground. He stepped out onto a thick branch and began to inch his way towards the nearby house, his house. A smaller branch extended out from the trunk a few feet above the one he stood on, and he used that smaller branch as a sort of handrail.
By the dim light of the lamp on his dresser, he could see that the window was half-opened, as he'd left it. When he reached the side of the house, he pushed it up. He stepped up from the branch to the windowsill then down into his bedroom.
He was lowering the window back into place, when he heard a voice behind him. "'Bout time you got back," his brother Agamemnon, "Aggie", whispered, sitting up in his own bed.
"Yeah," his other brother, Nestor, added from his bed. "Where've you been?"
Yully whirled around as they spoke. The three boys were alone. "You tell Ma and Pa I went out?"
"Nope," Aggie replied, "but we will if you don't tell us what's going on."
Yully sat down on his bed and untied his shoes. "I-I can't. I promised Stephan Yingling I wouldn't tell.” He pulled off the shoes and quietly set them down beside the bed.
"When'd you see him?” Nestor asked. "Matt told Miss Osbourne this morning that he was home sick."
Yully shrugged. "It's complicated, and I can't tell you any more.” When he saw their faces, he added. "I promised -- look, if I say I'll ask him if I can tell you, will you both promise not t'tell Ma or Pa I went out -- or anything else?"
The two other boys leaned over and whispered between their beds. Yully used the time to slide his suspenders from his shoulders and wriggle out of his pants. He'd worn his nightshirt underneath.
"Okay," Aggie finally said, "but we'd better get more than a 'I can't tell you' for an answer, or we will tell."
* * * * *
Tuesday, March 5, 1872
"Mamma, Mamma!" Rachel Yingling burst into her parents' bedroom. "Look what _I_ found."
Her twin sister, Rebecca was right behind her. "What _we_ found. It's a letter from Stephan."
"Bring it here," their father ordered, sitting up. He glanced over at the mahogany clock ticking away on the bed stand. It was almost 7 AM. The twins were usually the first two up in the morning and were supposed to go downstairs to set the table for breakfast.
Martha took the paper from the girls and handed it to her husband. "What does it say? Where is he? Is... is he all right?"
"In a moment, we shall both know.” Yingling opened the paper and began reading aloud.
"Mother," the reverend looked over at his wife. "Please, _please_ do not worry about me. I am fine, safe and sound."
Martha let loose a heavy sigh. "Thank the lord. But where --"
Yingling continued reading.
` "Father, you told me to take more time to think about
` becoming a minister. I _have_ thought about it, and
` I don't want to be one. How about _you_ thinking
` about me becoming a soldier because that's what _I_
` want to be."
The reverend frowned, but he continued reading.
` "You think about that for a while, and I'll be home in
` a few days to talk to you about it.
` "I love you both.
` Stephan."
Yingling crumpled the note in his hand. "Where did you find this?"
"It was on the floor by the front door," Rebecca answered. "I... we went downstairs, and it was just lying there."
Rachel smiled. "So _I_ brung it up."
"_Brought_ it up," Martha Yingling corrected, hugging her daughters. "Thank you -- the both of you.” She sighed with relief, but didn't let go. "He's alive and safe and... and he must be close by, to be leaving notes like this."
The reverend snorted. "Safe for the moment -- thank the Lord -- but he will not be so safe when I get my hands on him."
"Thad," Martha gasped, "what are you saying?"
He held up the crumpled paper. "Didn't you hear? To question me -- to question his predestined role as a minister -- to issue ultimatums. I will not tolerate such actions, Martha. He has gone too far."
'Just so he comes back,' Martha thought. 'Please.'
* * * * *
"Mr. Dwight Albertson, the church's treasurer, would not reveal the exact amount, saying that he wished to first make it known at the Wednesday night meeting of the church board.” It was early afternoon, and Trisha was reading the article on the dance in the newspaper, while the store was empty of customers. "He did say," she continued, "that, between the sale of tickets and of refreshments, the profit was a respectable one."
She put the paper down and looked across at Liam, who was finishing a late lunch. "You hear that, a 'respectable' profit. Sounds like that dance idea worked out just fine."
"For some people, anyway," Liam answered sourly.
"What's the matter with you? I thought you enjoyed yourself."
"I did. I just didn't enjoy getting raked over the coals about it at the poker game last night."
"What do you mean? Who was giving you a hard time?"
"Almost everybody. Some folks noticed that Kaitlin and I danced every dance."
Trisha's eyes widened. _She_ hadn't noticed. "Every dance? Why?"
"Because she loves to dance, but she can't go off with every man who asks her. She's a married woman. Not like --” He looked hard at Trisha. "But it's perfectly respectable for her to dance with me. At least I thought it was."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes, she's a good dancer, as I'm sure you remember. And, after the hard time she's had since... lately, it was nice to see that pretty smile of hers again.”
"That 'pretty smile' line sounds like you're taking more than a brotherly interest in Kaitlin."
"Maybe I am. That's what they kept saying at the game last night, anyway."
"Is it true?"
"Is it true that you went off into the woods with -- what's his name -- with Rhys Godwyn?"
"Who says I did?"
"Right now, _I'm_ saying it. Did you?"
"We just walked around a little bit.” She was hardly ready to tell anyone what _had_ happened.
"Is that _all_ you did? I'm told you were holding hands and smiling when you came back. That sounds like more than walking to me."
"You're just trying to change the subject. What -- _exactly_ -- is your interest in my wife?"
"What _exactly_ is your interest in Rhys Godwyn?"
"Nothing... I... we walked.” She glared at her brother. "Just like I'm doing, _right_ _now_.” Without another word, she turned and left the store.
* * * * *
"Hey, Arnie, c'mere," Quint Parnell gestured to the boy.
Arnie walked over to where Parnell was sitting, nursing a beer. He set the tray of dirty glasses he was carrying down on the table. "What can I do for you, Mr. Parnell?"
"Quint... please, and sit. I feel like I still owe you something for all that ruckus me 'n Bill Hersh caused."
The boy spun a chair around and sat down, leaning his arms over the back of it. "I'd say that if you two owe anybody, you owe Bridget. She was the one you tried to rob."
"You're right, and I am gonna pay her too. The thing is, though, I sort of need your help t'do it?"
"My help? What do you mean?"
"We found some color up at our mine -- not a lot, but it's a start. We're bringing in some ore tomorrow so the assay office can tell us how rich that color is."
"Congratulations, but why do you need my help?"
"We... ah, had a few drinks to celebrate, and my fool of a partner, Bill, broke his damn arm. He can ride well enough, but he ain't worth spit for carrying a saddlebag of ore... or using a pistol if there's any trouble."
"Trouble? Why don't you just talk to the Sheriff?"
"You never know who you can trust, and this is as close to being rich as we ever got. We're more'n a little on edge about this. Besides, having a Sheriff for a helper is kinda, well, showy."
He took a drink of beer before continuing. "What we was thinking was to meet up with you here, then walk with the horses to the assay office. You'd help us get the saddlebags with the ore inside and wait while we cash it in."
"I work for Seá±or O'Toole. He won't like me skipping out to help you."
"It won't take that long.” He chuckled. "Be a man about it. Besides, there's a ten dollar gold piece in it for you."
"Ten dollars?"
"When we cash in the ore. Plus, we're gonna come back here and give Bridget enough money to buy herself a pretty new dress. You think that'll square it with her?"
Arnie smiled. "It should.” He liked the idea of helping Bridget get a new dress. And that ten dollars would more than pay for that shot for his colt, which gave him an idea. "I… ah, I have a pistol. Do you want me to bring it with me?"
"A pistol.” Parnell considered the idea, then frowned. "No, I don't want it to look like we needed an armed guard. That'd be as showy as if we had the sheriff coming with us. I think we'll be fine with this.” He patted his own holstered revolver. "But thanks for the offer… Arnoldo. I knew you was the right one to help us."
"Okay... Quint.” He reached across the table to shake the other man's hand. "You got yourself a helper.”
* * * * *
"Norma... Norma Jeane.” Trisha heard a man's voice, but she ignored it and kept walking towards her house.
The man suddenly stepped in front of her. "What's the matter, Norma Jeane? Didn't you hear me?"
"I..." Trisha looked closely at the stranger... the _handsome_ stranger. "Do I know you?"
"I'm Ethan... Ethan Thomas. We met out in San Francisco last year. Johnny Hyde had me paint your portrait for the Silver Fox Salon.”
Trisha shook her head. "I'm not her."
"Of course, you are. What are doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Are you in some sort of trouble?"
"I told you; I'm not this Norma Jeane person you know. I just look like her."
"No one could look that much like...” He remembered the story Jane and Beatriz had told him the day before. Before their night was over, Beatriz had mentioned a father and son who had gotten a taste of Shamus' potion accidentally. Beatriz had spitefully said that she had heard that the father now looked like a blond hussy who should be working at a place like Cerise's. 'Maybe she wasn't crazy, after all,' he thought.
He watched the blonde's face as he asked, "Are you one of those 'potion women' I've heard about?"
Trisha blinked, surprised that this stranger should know about the town's most important secret. Her first instinct was to deny it, but what was the point? "Yes," she said, sounding a little sad. "Yes, I am. Now, if you'll excuse me...” She started to walk past him.
Everywhere he turned, unrelated people confirmed that Jane's mad story was true! "Wait. I-I'd like to talk to you, if I may.” He had wanted to learn more about this strange phenomenon, but as soon as the words were out, he realized that he wanted to do more than just talk. This woman was as beautiful as Norma Jeane, and, as a former male, she would know far more about how to pleasure a man than any born woman ever could. He was sure of that.
"I've no time for idle gawkers, thank you very much.” She started walking.
"Do you have time to see a portrait of the woman you resemble? I made a smaller copy of that one I mentioned -- because... because she was the most beautiful subject I had ever painted. I have it over at my studio."
Trisha stopped and looked back. She hadn't seen a picture of Norma Jeane, the _real_ Norma Jeane, since Kaitlin had asked Patrick to throw away the cigar card all those years ago. And she was curious. She took another look at the stranger. He was impeccably dressed, clean-shaven, well spoken, and intelligent-seeming. Perhaps he was a true gentleman. "All right," she said hesitantly, then walked back to where he was standing. "If it's not too far."
* * * * *
"Did you get my note to my parents okay?" Stephan asked as soon as Yully stood up inside Fort Secret.
The other boy nodded. "I slipped it under your front door last night, but there's a problem. Nestor and Aggie were waiting for me when I got back to my room -- I used that tree by my window t'get out, so my folks wouldn't catch me so late."
"Did they snitch on you?” Emma had just come in from the tunnel.
Yully shook his head. "Nope -- not yet, anyway. I told 'em it was a secret, that I'd promised Stephan that I wouldn't tell nobody."
"You shouldn't have used my name."
The other boy shrugged. "What choice did I have? I didn't tell 'em anything else, but I promised that I'd ask you -- all of you, but they don't know that -- what else I _could_ say? They want something, or they _will_ snitch."
By now, Ysabel and Tomas were inside as well. "You gonna tell 'em about the Fort?" the boy asked.
"I'd like to," Yully answered. "I've been feeling kinds guilty about them not knowing."
Stephan looked thoughtful. "I'd like to tell Matt, too, but Pa hates for us to keep secrets from him. I'd be afraid he'd try to weasel it out of him or me."
"Maybe when this is over," Ysabel said, "we can talk about who else we want to tell. For now, let's keep it a secret -- if we can."
Emma had an idea. "For now, why don't you just tell your brothers that Stephan's had a fight with his pa and run away for a while. You can't say where he is 'cause... 'cause he didn't tell you where he was going."
"But I _know_ where he is," Yully protested.
Stephan laughed. "Yeah, but _I_ didn't tell you. Emma did. She's the one that said I should hole up in here."
"That just might work.” Yully considered the notion. "It is the truth... sort of. I was gonna tell 'em you gave me that note _before_ you left, anyway, if I need to.” He beamed. "Yeah, that's... that's the ticket."
* * * * *
Trisha took another sip of the madeira, her second glass. "You're staring at me again, Ethan.” She smiled, still feeling a bit shy, as she said it, even with the relaxing warmth of the liquor spreading through her.
"Am I?” He chuckled. "I am sorry. It's just that I cannot get over the apparent resemblance between Norma Jeane and yourself."
"Our 'apparent resemblance'?” She looked over at the portrait, which was propped against a chair a few feet from where she and Ethan were sitting in his second floor studio. "_I_ think we're identical. That's what the potion does."
"It's difficult to be _absolutely_ certain. I can see the match your facial features readily enough, but Norma Jeane's costume leaves no secrets about her body, while your own form is all but concealed beneath those clothes."
Norma Jeane Baker, the woman in the painting, the woman the potion had transformed Patrick O'Hanlan into the twin of, wore a violet-colored corset, a pair of white silk drawers that barely stretched below her hips, and long, violet stockings. A bright red garter, trimmed with small roses, circled the stocking on her right leg at mid-thigh.
Trisha was in a cornflower blue, floor-length skirt, with a petticoat beneath, and a matching blouse trimmed with darker blue lace at her high collar and her cuffs. Under the blouse, she wore both camisole and corset.
"That sounds like an attempt to get me out of my clothes.” Her eyebrow went up, half in curiosity, half in amusement. And -- just maybe -- another half in sexual interest.
"Only to better ascertain the degree of similarity between the two of you. I am, after all, a portraitist, a trained student of the human form."
She giggled. "Somehow, I doubt that."
"I assure you," he made a king's X, crossing a finger over his heart. "My sole interest is to better understand the remarkable similarity between yourself and Norma Jeane Baker.”
She considered his words -- and took another sip of madeira, finishing it -- before speaking. "If that's all..." she stood up, swaying just a little from the alcohol. "...I suppose that I can cooperate. I'm a little... curious about that myself."
"As am I."
She began to unbutton her blouse, then noticed him watching her -- watching _so_ very closely. "Please... don't look," she asked, her face a rosy blush.
"As you wish, Trisha.” He folded his arms across his chest and turned his back to her.
Trisha undid her blouse and draped it over the back of the chair she'd been sitting on. She glanced over and smiled to see that he was still looking away. Her hands fumbled a bit as they undid the three buttons that held her skirt tight to her waist. She pulled at the skirt, loosening it, so that it slid down easily over her hips. Stepping out of it, she laid it over her blouse. A few moments later, her petticoat joined the pile of clothing.
"I-I'm... ready.” Her unease was obvious in her voice. Her hands fidgeted at her sides. She wore a dark blue corset over a white camisole, white drawers, and striped blue and yellow stockings.
Ethan turned around. He studied her for a bit, then beamed. "You are easily as beautiful as Norma Jeane.” He walked towards her, then circled around behind her. "I do wonder, though, at how far the resemblance extends."
"What do you mean?” She could almost feel his eyes on her body.
"For example, do you react as she would when I do this?” He suddenly kissed the side of her neck.
Trisha whimpered, her entire body reacting to the delightful tremor that ran though it. Before she could think, Ethan spun her around. "Or this.” He pulled her to him and pressed his lips to hers.
She raised her arms to push him away. Her hands pressed against his chest -- his broad, masculine chest -- then they moved away as her arms reached out to encircled him. Her nipples tightened at the touch of his body against her own. She moaned, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding into her mouth, playing with hers.
At the same time, his hands reached down to firmly grasp her buttocks. He kneaded them, and it was like the stoking of a fire in her loins. The need, the hunger in her, grew stronger, and her arms tightened around him. 'I-I shouldn't d-do this,' she thought, but the urgency that his hands and his kiss were building in her drove away any thought of stopping.
The kiss ended. She gazed at him through half-closed eyes and sighed.
"Exactly the same," he told her, a grin on his lips. "Shall we continue?”
She smiled weakly, any reluctance she might have had overcome by her arousal. "Y-yes.” Her arms moved down, her fingers worked at the hooks of her corset. She looked down, not wanting to see his eyes. The corset slipped from her nervous fingers and fell to the floor.
"So _very_ lovely," he said and leaned in to kiss her forehead.
She squirmed at the compliment -- and the kiss.
He moved closer and began unbuttoning her camisole. In what seemed like a moment, it was undone. His hands moved the two halves apart, baring her breasts.
He leaned in and took a hard, raspberry nipple into his mouth. His tongue ran across it, and the rough texture on her skin was almost more than she could bear. Her body quivered at the intensity of the sensations. The craving in her grew even stronger. Her loins were warm -- no, _hot_ -- and wet and, oh, so empty. Her knees could no longer support her.
He lifted her in his arm as she fell and carried her to a nearby bed. 'As easy as lifting a sack of feed,' she thought and giggled.
After he set her down, he laid a trail of kisses from between her breasts down to her navel. When his tongue swirled into it, she gave a surprised, "Eeep!"
He slid his feet almost effortlessly out of his boots. "Be with you in a minute," he told her, as he undid the buttons of his trousers. They fell to the ground, and he stepped out of them as well.
Trisha's eyes widened at the size of the bulge in his drawers. And a quake of anticipation in her privates made her feel even more ready. She rubbed her legs together, trying to answer her need.
'I don't care what Jane and Beatriz said,' Ethan told himself. 'How could she ever have been male? She's one of the most physically responsive women I've ever encountered.' He opened the top three buttons of his linen shirt and yanked it off over his head, even more eager for what was about to happen.
His broad chest was a mass of curls, the same dark brown as his mustache and beard. Trisha beamed at him. She giggled again and reached down to play with the bow of her drawers. After her encounters with Enoch and Rhys, she was able to admit to herself how the beauty of a male body could draw her in.
His hands went to his own drawers. He tugged at one end of the cord that held them on. It released his loosened garment, and they slid down his legs. His male tool sprang out to attention at the vision of loveliness before him.
She gasped at the size of him, but the sight made her feel her own need all the more. She quickly had her own drawers off, lying on the floor beside the bed. "I-I'm ready," she told him. On impulse, she tried to pose as she thought Norma Jeane would.
He climbed onto the bed and over her. His legs were between hers, and his arms were bent to support his weight.
"Have you done this before?" he asked her.
"What kind of question is that?" she asked, offended by the idea that he might think she was easy.
Her evasive reply had given him all the answer he needed. Ethan moved down and eased himself into her moist slit.
"Mmmm," she sighed, as he entered her. He let her savor his hugeness for a brief moment, and then began to thrust, filling her, the sensations overwhelming her. Her arms circled around him, drawing him closer. Her legs wrapped around his waist, trapping him. She applied force, trying to pull as much of him inside her as possible.
Trisha's head rolled back, her eyes closed, as wave after wave of pleasure swept over her. "Yes... yes," she gasped. A last great surge coursed through her, lifting her up, up, up until it shattered into fragments of exquisite delight.
"YES!" she screamed as her body writhed.
He wasn't done. He shifted, so that his legs were under hers, and pulled them both into a sitting position. She was on his lap now, his maleness still within her. He kissed her deeply as he resumed his back and forth movement.
She accepted him hesitantly, her body tense, until she could contain herself no more and gasped, breaking the kiss. Trisha stared at him with half-closed eyes. Her hips moved to match him. The world shrank down, so that all she knew was the pleasure of their joining. At last, the building intensity of it could no longer be contained within her. She clawed at his back as her body exploded again with rapture.
He shuddered and let loose a small groan. His essence shot into her, setting her off a third time. They held still in their joint ecstasy for an instant. Then he released her, and they both sank down onto the bed.
"That... that was _nice_," Trisha said at last. She could feel him soften. His manhood shrank down and slid out of her. She twisted her body so that she was next to him and gently kissed his shoulder. "Thank you."
Her kissed her back. "You are more than welcome. And may I say that, while your resemblance to Norma Jeane is very strong, much of what you just did, what we just shared, _Trisha_, was your own delectable self."
"You -- you were with Norma Jeane?"
He smiled. "A gentleman never tells."
"Just tell me," she coaxed, her eyes sly with near laughter, "which of us is better?"
"Let me just say that each of you was --"
"Bam! Bam!"
They both jumped at the sound of the heavy knock at the front door. "Stay here," Ethan said. He climbed out of the bed and reached for a clean cloth from a stack on a nearby worktable. He wiped his loins hurriedly before stepping into his pants. He pulled them up, buttoned them quickly, and sat back down to put on his shoes.
Instead of his shirt, he grabbed for a nearby, paint-spattered tunic and donned it as he scrambled down the stairs. "I'm coming," he yelled in answer.
'And I'd better be _going_,' Trisha told herself, as she watched him run. "I told Kaitlin I'd behave, and two days later, here I am... _not_ behaving.” She sighed and promised herself to do "much, much better.” She looked around and saw a pitcher of water and a few more clean cloths on the worktable. She went over to it and began to tidy herself up.
* * * * *
Ethan opened the door. "May I help you?"
"I would hope so.” A woman in a dark green dress, her graying, brownish hair done in a tight bun, walked past him into the room. "My name is Ritter, Mrs. Cecelia Ritter. Are you the painter... Thomas, yes, Mr. Thomas? Are you him?"
Ethan bowed. "I am he, Mrs. Ritter. How may I be of service?"
"I was thinking of a painting, a family painting, my husband and myself -- with our children, perhaps, if that wouldn't be too expensive."
Ethan heard a sound from upstairs. He saw Mrs. Ritter tense and look up, and he recognized the curiosity in her expression. "Mrs. Ritter... Cecelia, if I may," he said quickly, flashing her his most charming smile. "I should be delighted to discuss your commissioning a portrait of yourself and your family. However, I have a... subject upstairs whose time to pose is limited. May I have the honor and pleasure of calling upon you at your home at some time later this afternoon?"
"I have some errands to run.” She tried to hide her interest in whoever was posing -- if that's what they were doing. "My address is 29 Maple Street. That's left out your door, right at the corner, and left again at the next corner.” She gestured as she spoke. "We're the fourth house on the right, the one with the green shutters. Would 4 PM be all right?”
"It would, indeed.” He bowed and took her hand. "Until 4.” He gently kissed her hand and, while she was too flustered to object, led her back to the still opened door. "Good day... Cecelia."
The matron giggled at the sound of her name and walked away. She stopped twice to look back over her shoulder and giggled again.
* * * * *
Trisha was waiting near the top of the stairs, buttoning her blouse. "I assume from your clothing that we will not be continuing," Ethan said unhappily.
"I don't think so.” She stepped over and gently kissed his cheek. "You're a sweet man, Ethan, and I... it was something I needed, but we're not gonna be 'continuing' today or... ever, I think."
He slowly ran a finger along her cheek. "'Ever' is a very long time."
"No," she answered, trying to ignore the very real attraction she felt -- _and_ the desire he was so expertly stirring in her. "I have resp-responsibilities... and... and a family.” In desperation, she added, "please."
He took his hand away. "Very well. Though I shall reserve the right to hope that you will change your mind."
"Thank you." She gave a deep sigh of relief.
They walked down, hand in hand. She stood off to the side, while he looked outside. "The coast, as they say, is clear," he told her.
He tried to kiss her again as she walked past him. "Thank you, but, no thank you," she answered, dodging his attempt and scurrying out the door.
* * * * *
Wednesday, March 6, 1872
"Emma!" Tommy Carson yelled and threw the ball in a high arc. She caught it on the run and ran toward the goal, a tree some 30 feet away.
There were only two boys from the other team in front of her, Jorge Ybaá±es and Bert McLeod. Jorge ran straight at her. She waited until he was close, then shifted to his left and circled past him. 'Now, where's Bert?' she thought.
She found out the hard way, when Bert grabbed her by the waist. Jorge was on her a moment later, pulling at her right arm, the one holding the ball. She tried to twist free, but two other boys were trying for the ball now. Their legs tangled as they struggled, and the five of them fell to the ground.
Hands scrambled for the ball. Emma tried to tuck it under her. If she still had it when they all finally stood up, her team would still have it, and they'd be _so_ _much_ closer to the goal.
Then a hand reached for something else.
She felt someone's fingers touch her breast. And it was no accident. The fingers were moving, cupping her breast through the material of her dress and camisole. A warm, pleasant feeling ran through her. She gasped in surprise.
And almost let go of the ball.
"Stop that!" she screamed. "Stop that right now!"
The hand -- whose ever hand it was -- pulled away. The other hands stopped reaching for the ball. She felt the boys shift off her and stand up. Hector Ybaá±es, her own team's captain, helped her to her feet. She was still holding the ball.
"What'd you yell like that for?" Hector asked.
Emma flushed. "I... I, uhh, got tired of rolling around in the dirt," she answered quickly. She was hardly about to give the real reason. "Nobody else was gonna stop 'em, so I did."
"There's still time left," Tommy Carson said. "Let's get moving.” The two teams formed a circle around Emma. She faked a toss to Yully, then passed the ball to Hector. He ran for the goal, with both teams in pursuit.
She glanced down quickly at her chest as she ran. 'Better talk to Ma about this tonight,' she told herself.
* * * * *
"You ask.” Matthew Yingling pushed his sister, Ruth, the last step over to where Yully, Emma, Ysabel, and Tomas were eating lunch.
Yully looked up from his turkey sandwich. "One of you better ask fast," he told the pair. "There ain't much time left till class starts again."
"We been telling everybody that Stephan's home sick." Ruth fidgeted with her hands as she spoke. "He ain't, but I think you already knew that, you being his best friend.”
Yully tried to look surprised. "He ain't sick? That's news to me."
"Nobody's supposed t'know.” Matthew replied. "My Pa's furious. He's been calling down the wrath of G-d on him for running away. Ma's real frightened."
Ruth's eyes glistened. "We all are. If you know anything, anything at all, please, please tell."
Yully shook his head. "I-I can't help you. I-I'm sorry."
Tomas was sitting across from Yully. "What is your papa cursing Stephan for? That does not sound like the good priest everyone says your father is.”
"What's it to you, Tomas?" the Yingling boy asked. "He ain't your 'priest', and Stephan _is_ our brother."
"He's also _our_ friend," Ysabel chimed in. Emma nodded in agreement. She'd been oddly quiet all through lunch.
Ruth's jaw dropped. "You know; you _all_ know where he is, don't you?"
"I never said that," Ysabel answered quickly.
Matthew looked angry. "What's the matter? Did all of you promise him not to tell anybody where he was?"
"Who says we promised him anything?" Ysabel said just as quickly as before.
"I don't care who did or didn't promise what," Matthew said, trying not to lose his temper. "I just want to know where my brother is."
"And that he's all right," Ruth added.
Yully sighed. "I don't think he wants to be found just yet -- wherever he is. He's real mad about your Pa trying to make him be a preacher."
"I'm not sure that I wanna be one, either," Matthew admitted, "but I _know_ that I wouldn't wanna scare Ma like he's doing. Seems like she's crying all the time.” Ruth agreed, looking almost ready to cry herself.
Ysabel took Ruth's hand. "I do not think that he likes scaring your mama, either, but he thinks that your papa did not give him a choice."
"You're not saying anything, then.” Ruth shook her head. "Not any of you, are you?”
"I just told you," Yully stood up, gathering the remains of his lunch back into his pail, "I -- none of us -- can help you."
* * * * *
Arnie was gathering up dishes left by customers who'd been at the Free Lunch when he saw Quint Parnell walk in. He waved, and the older man walked over. "You ready to go?" the man asked.
"Sure am.” Arnie set the tray of dirty dishes down on the nearest table. He untied his apron and draped it over the tray.
Dolores was taking a beer over to one of the player's in Bridget's poker game. "Tell Shamus I'll be back as soon as I can," Arnie called to her.
"Where are you going?" she asked, but her cousin and Parnell were already walking out the door.
* * * * *
Bill Hersh was mounted on a dappled mare at the hitching post outside the Saloon. His right arm was in an improvised sling, and an overstuffed saddlebag was tied to his horse's saddle. "Hello, kid," he said by way of greeting.
"Let's go.” Parnell untied the reins of a brown horse from the hitching post. "You 'n me'll walk," he told Arnie. The boy fell in next to him, while Hersh, still on horseback, followed.
Arnie frowned. Was this all that they needed him for? To walk with them a couple hundred feet? He'd have thought that they'd need him more up in the foothills, where outlaws might lurk. The "work" was not worth more than a dollar. Would they really pay him ten?
* * * * *
The assay office was two blocks down, past the freight office and the bank. Parnell tied his horse to the post. Hersh tossed him the reins, and he tied the other man's horse, as well.
Hersh dismounted awkwardly. He stood next to his horse, while Parnell removed the saddlebag. "Want me to hold that?" Arnie asked.
"I got it," Hersh said, and Parnell handed him the bag.
Arnie shrugged. "Then I'll get the door. He walked over and opened the office door, holding it as the two men walked it.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?” Egbert Fields stood just inside the doorway. He was a heavyset, white-haired man wearing a brown jacket with the small badge that identified him as a guard. The jacket was open, so his twin pistols could be clearly seen.
Fields looked closely at the three men as they walked in. "Your weapons, please."
Parnell had the only pistol. He handed it to Fields handle first, and the guard set it down on a chair behind him.
The office looked like a bank lobby. It was mostly empty, except for a few sturdy chairs. At the back, a closed-in area was set up like a teller's cage, with a solid, oak door at the side, and bars from the ceiling down to the top of the desk. Lucian Stone was sitting on a high stool behind the desk, waiting.
Parnell shook his head. "We got it.” He walked over to Lucian. "We found some color in our claim, and we came in so you could tell us just how good it was."
"How much do you have for me to test?" Lucian began setting up a scale.
Parnell pulled a small bag from his pocket. "This for a start.” He tossed it up in the air, but when he caught it, the bag fell apart. Pebbles scattered across the floor, attracting everyone's eyes.
Except for Hersh. His right arm snaked out of the sling and into the saddlebag. He came out with a pistol that he pushed against Field's side. "Hold it right there," he told the guard.
"Get his pistol, Arnie," Parnell ordered. "And give it to me."
Arnie stared at the men. "I... What are you doing, Mr. Parnell?"
"I'm... _We're_ robbing this place, just like we all planned," the other answered. "You ain't getting cold feet now, are you?"
The boy shook his head. "I'm not a part of this."
"You are now." Hersh laughed. "Now get the man's pistol like Quint told you."
Arnie obeyed, not knowing what else to do. "Sorry," he said, as he took the weapon from the guard and handed it to Parnell. “Mentiroso…liar!” he shouted at the man. "You told me my pistol would be 'showy'. If I had it now, I'd…I'd show you… I'd stop this right now.”
“Shut up, you little bastard," Parnell ordered. "You...” He pointed the revolver at Lucian. "...give me all the money."
Lucian reached for his wallet. "The money in that safe," Parnell ordered, pointing at the large safe built into the wall behind the assay desk.
"There's no money in there. I write checks for the gold I get, and men take them over to the bank to get cashed.” He chuckled. "There's no gold in there, either. I shipped out the last ore I collected to the Denver Mint on the Monday stage. Nobody's brought in any ore since then."
Hersh went read in the face. "What! You're lying."
"I'd let you check the safe if we had the time," Lucian answered, "but I hit the alarm to call the Sheriff as soon as you drew that firearm. He should be here any time now."
Hersh growled. "You son of a bitch!” He fired at Lucian, who ducked down behind the wall.
"There's a steel plate in this wall," Lucian told them. They heard a loud "click" behind them. "And I just locked the door. You might as well sit down and wait for Dan Talbot to get here.”
Fields saw how distracted the men were and grabbed for Hersh's pistol. The pair struggled, but Fields eventually pulled it free. "Drop it," he ordered Parnell. The would-be thief made a face and tossed his own weapon to the floor. "Just sit yourselves down, gents," the guard ordered. "Those chairs are a lot more comfortable than the cell you're all headed for."
"They-they tricked me," Arnie said ruefully. "I was just trying to…” He glared at Parnell and Hersh and took a seat a few feet away from the pair. "If I'd had my pistol --"
Lucian stood up. "Save your story for the Sheriff, son.” He brushed some dust from his pants. "And the trial."
* * * * *
"How do I look, Martha?" Reverend Yingling asked, walking out of his study.
His wife looked at him for a moment before breaking into a smile. "Handsome... as always. Except... let me fix your tie.” She walked over and began working on the knot of his necktie. "Thad, I-I was thinking."
"Yes, my dear?"
She worked on his tie as she talked. "Now that we know that Stephan is hiding somewhere nearby, couldn't you..."
"Ask for help at the Board meeting tonight? We have been through this, Martha, and more than once. I will not be embarrassed in front of my congregation, especially by a son with the temerity to give me an ultimatum.” He shook his head angrily. "No, I will not do it.”
"Hold still. And that's not what I'm saying. If he's nearby, he may be with some of his friends. I thought that you should talk to Ulysses Stone; he and Stephan are best friends. Perhaps he can tell us something.” She finished with his tie and stepped back. "Done."
"An interesting notion, ask the Stone boy. I'd have to tell his parents -- his father, at least -- but, yes, I like the idea. I... we shall both go over there tomorrow.” He looked at his pocket watch. "But now, I've a meeting to get to."
He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Martha."
* * * * *
"Can I talk to you, Mama?" Emma wiped the last of the dinner dishes and put it in the drying rack next to the sink.
Kaitlin closed the door on the cold box. "What is it, Emma? You've been on edge about something all evening.” She glanced around. "Something that you didn't want to talk to Trisha about, I think."
"No, ma'am. I remember the way she acted last time, at Christmas, when I... when Yully... kissed me."
"Did he kiss you again?" her mother asked. 'And what did you think about it this time?' she deliberately _didn't_ ask that second question.
"It wasn't Yully. I-I don't know who it was that... that touched me.” She looked down, ashamed at what had happened.
"Touched you?” Kaitlin took her daughter in her arms. "Tell me, from the start, what happened."
"We-we were playing ball. I was in the clear, and Tommy Carson threw it to me. And...” Slowly, in fits and starts, Emma told her mother what had happened. "I felt... a-a hand on... on my left...” She gently touched herself.
Kaitlin pretended not to notice. "What did you do?"
"I yelled for him -- whoever it was -- to stop.” She sighed. "And he did.” She chuckled nervously. "I guess the rest figgered I meant stop fighting for the ball 'cause that stopped, too."
"And what did you think about being... touched?"
"It... I don't know. It felt kinda good, but I -- _no_, I didn't like it.” She seemed to have just decided.
"You could always stop playing ball with the boys, then they wouldn't be --"
"Stop? No, not after fighting so hard to get t'play."
"Then I'm afraid that it will happen again.” She thought for a moment. "Take off your dress."
"Mama?” What did _that_ have to do with anything? "This ain't what I was wearing."
"I know. That dress was filthy from your... from the game. Please just take this one off."
Emma shrugged and unbuttoned the dress before pulling it off over her head.
Kaitlin looked at her daughter for a moment. Emma wasn't wearing her corset. She seldom did, except when she was having her monthlies, and her breasts were more sensitive.
"The petticoat, too," Kaitlin ordered. Emma obeyed and soon stood before her mother in just her camisole and drawers. "Now, arms out from your sides and turn around once, slowly," Kaitlin told her.
As her daughter did what she was told to, Kaitlin studied Emma's figure. Her camisole had grown tighter across her chest than it had been when she had... changed, and her nipples were clearly visible now pushing out the material. Emma's hips looked a bit wider, as well, and her drawers didn't stretch quite as far down her leg.
"You, my girl, are blossoming," she told Emma. "Getting to be more of a girl," she explained. "I think it's time to visit Silverman's to see about some new under things.” She waited a moment before adding, "And I also think that it's time for you to get your first full-time corset."
"Full-time?" Emma whined. "I don't need to wear no corset full-time."
"Yes, you do, Emma. You're big enough now -- on top -- to need the support."
* * * * *
"Next item of Old Business," Horace Styron began, "is the report on last Saturday's dance.” He waited a beat. "Well, we had one, and I think most of you were there. You all have a good time?"
Joel Keenan stood up. "Quit the yapping, Horace. How'd we make out, Dwight?"
"Pretty good," Dwight Albertson answered, reading from a ledger. "We sold 73 tickets, that's $146 income. We made another $33.50 selling refreshments. Total expenses were $12.42, and most of that was for the band."
He put down the book. "Thanks again to the gracious ladies, who donated all that delicious food and to Roscoe Unger, who not only gave the dance all that free advertising in his paper, but who also gave us the materials for decorations.” He rose and began to clap his hands, and the rest of those in the room soon joined in.
"That gives us a profit of $167.08," he concluded when the applause had ended, "a very auspicious start to the Building Fund."
"Or whatever we use it for," Styron added, taking control of the meeting again. He waited to see if anyone -- especially Trisha -- responded. When no one did, he asked, "Is there any other Old Business?"
Judge Humphreys looked around. "There doesn't seem to be, not for now, at least."
"Then on to New Business," Horace waited a moment, then continued. "I've received a petition signed by the necessary five members of the congregation...” He glanced over at Clyde Ritter and took an envelope from inside his jacket. "...calling for the removal of Trisha O'Hanlan --"
Trisha leapt to her feet. "What the... the heck are you trying to pull, Horace?” She grabbed for the envelope. "Let me see that."
"I will.” He waved the envelope just out of her reach. "As soon as you sit down. This petition calls for your removal based on your scandalous behavior at the dance."
"What 'scandalous behavior' are you talking about?"
"You know very well, Trisha. Don't make me repeat it in the presence of the Reverend and the ladies here at the meeting.” Horace smiled triumphantly.
Milt Quinlan raised a hand. "Excuse me, Horace. I'm not familiar with any improper behavior on Trisha's part, but I am familiar with the church bylaws."
"Then you know that the members have the right to ask the members to vote to kick somebody off the board. Everybody in this room know that; we voted on Trisha here in January."
"That is correct. Article Eight, Section Five, of the bylaws allows the members to be polled on the fitness of a Board member. _However_, Article Eight, Section Six, says that there can't be a second polling on that same Board member for six months. We didn't want any one faction playing political games, trying something like this month after month after month."
"Six months? That doesn't seem fair."
The Judge stared at Styron. "You thought it was fair two years ago when you introduced this bylaw. If the petitioners want, they can re-introduce their motion at the May meeting. I say move on."
"Agreed," Rupert Warrick interrupted. "It's getting late, Horace. Is there anything else to talk about, or can we all go home?"
* * * * *
Thursday, March 7, 1872
"So there ye are."
Arnie spin around and looked through the bars of his cell. "Seá±or Shamus!"
"Aye," Shamus said. "When folks came in, jabbering about the robbery or murder or whatever happened at the assay office, I was hoping that ye wasn't a part of it.” He shook his head. "But ye was."
"Me Molly went over t'be seeing yuir mother last night. She was worried sick with grief and trying t'work up the courage to be coming over t'see the Sheriff. Molly told her I'd come do it for her, but I waited till now, so ye'd have more time t'be thinking about the mess ye got yuirself into."
Shamus leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I never been so disappointed in someone in me whole life. What happened yesterday?"
"Parnell, the man that --"
"I know, that tried t'cheat at Bridget's poker game. Ye was one of the ones that stopped him and his partner.” He sighed and shook his head. "And yesterday, ye was helping the pair of them rob the assay office."
"No! They -- they tricked me."
"Why was ye there with them in the first place?"
"Parnell, he said that the other one -- Hersh -- his arm was broken. They needed help to get some ore --"
"And ye believed that story?"
"I-I did not think. Parnell offered to pay me ten dollars."
"And why didn't ye tell him that ye had a job? If ye _had_ t'be working for him, why didn't ye ask me if ye could be going off with him for a wee bit?"
"I did not think --"
"No, lad, ye didn't. Ye thought that ye knew better, just like ye been thinking that ye could be stealing drinks when I told ye not to."
"I have not...” Arnie looked away from Shamus. "Not since you caught me."
"That's hardly a good excuse, Arnie. I talked to Milt Quinlan after me Molly came back from yuir house. He said that he thought he could show that ye wasn't a part of thuir scheme. Especially with what Lucian Stone said about ye wishing for yuir gun, so ye could be stopping them two."
"Th-thank you, Shamus."
"Ye're welcome, Arnie, but ye should know that it's the last help ye'll be getting from me."
"Seá±or?"
"The trial'll be held in the Saloon. Come see me when it's over, so we can be settling up.” Shamus paused a beat. "I've tried and tried to give you a good chance, but it ain't working. And neither are ye -- at least, not for me anymore."
* * * * *
"Hola, Carmen," Ramon said, walking up to where she was sitting by the entrance to the bathhouse. "Can I talk to you for a bit?"
Carmen put down her darning. "Si, no one is in the baths just now. What is so important to bring you over this time of day?"
"This.” He held up an envelope. "We -- you and I -- just got a letter from Gregorio.” He opened the envelope, took out a folded sheet of paper, and began to read.
` "To my dear brother and sister, greetings.
` Abner Slocum has invited me to participate in a very
` high stakes poker game in Eerie on Saturday, the 16th,
` and I have accepted. I will arrive on Thursday and
` leave on Monday."
Carmen cocked an eyebrow. "It must be a _very_ big game if he is riding all the way here to play."
"It is. It costs $1,000 to buy a place at the table.” He continued reading.
` "I trust that you have gotten over this foolishness
` about that Sanchez woman, Ramon. If not, I wish to
` speak to you about it again."
Ramon scowled. "Foolishness."
"Our brother is the fool, Ramon. We both know that.” She smiled. "We have known it for years, you and I."
He read on.
` "According to Abner's invitation, she will be working
` the entire game, 24 hours, to provide food whenever
` a player wishes something. Is this what you want,
` Ramon, a drudge who will not even stay home to care
` for her own children? You are a de Aguilar and your
` wife -- when you _do_ marry -- should be above
` such things."
"Above such things?" Ramon was angry now. "Who does he think he is to say that about Margarita?"
"I thought we had settled that," Carmen answered. "He is a fool, and we will do our best to make him realize that when he arrives on the 14th.” She paused a moment. "And if he does not, then he will not get invited to your wedding."
* * * * *
"You move the ten of clubs over there," R.J. pointed to one of the set of cards on the table in front of Bridget, "you'll have a queen-high straight."
Bridget looked up at him. "What... oh, thanks, R.J."
"What's the matter, Bridget? It isn't like you to miss something that easy."
She frowned. "That damn poker game. I'm still trying to decide if I want to take Slocum's offer."
"That one's almost as easy as the ten of clubs. You should take it and be the dealer for him."
"Why do you say that?” She sounded more annoyed than curious.
"First off, and I hate to say it, you don't have the money to buy in."
"No -- damn it! -- I don't.” She made a sour face. "I-I tried everything -- everything I was willing to do, anyway, and I couldn't raise the $1,000 Slocum's asking."
"Then being dealer is the best way to watch the game. You'll actually be at the table. You can even talk to the players -- some.” He waited a beat. "You've been saying for weeks how much you wanted to meet Henry Clay Hooker."
"I still do. It took real guts to do what he did with Cochise, not to mention the stories about that ranch of his.” She sighed. "It just won't be the same as playing against him.”
"I suppose it's not, but does that matter?"
"Damn right it does. I enjoy playing poker with my regulars, but to measure my skill against people like Hooker, that's something any professional player'd give his eyeteeth for, especially for these stakes.”
"Is that how you think of yourself, as a professional poker player?"
"It's what I am.” She studied R.J.'s face. "What do you think of me as?"
"As a woman, of course, a beautiful woman who's supporting herself, for now, by her skill at cards."
"For now?"
"Well... yes. You're gonna settle down and get married eventually -- to me, I have every hope."
She looked at him. This was the first time that the word "marriage" had crossed his lips.
"And..." she asked slowly.
"And a man expects his wife to _be_ his wife. He supports her, not the other way around."
"Thank you for clarifying that, R.J.” She tried to keep the anger out of her voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to the game. If I'm going to support myself -- for now, at least -- with my skill at cards, then I'd best work on honing those skills."
Bridget moved the ten of clubs, but she put it with two other tens and a pair of threes to form a full house.
* * * * *
"Ma... Pa, the preacher's here," Agamemnon "Aggie" Stone yelled from near the front door.
Phillipia Stone bustled out of the kitchen and into the parlor. "Aggie, how many times have I told you not to yell like that?” She opened the door for them. "Reverend... and Martha, do come in."
"Thank you," Martha replied as she and her husband walked past Phillipia and into the parlor.
Phillipia gestured towards a green horsehair settee. "Please, sit down. Can I get you some coffee or lemonade?"
"No, thank you," Yingling replied, taking a seat. "May we speak to your son, Ulysses?"
Lucian Stone walked in, putting on his jacket as he did. "Yully's upstairs, doing homework.” He looked at his youngest son. "Speaking of which, young man, didn't Miss Osbourne give you some homework, too?"
The boy nodded his head. "Yes, sir, spelling words and some fractions."
"Then you had best get upstairs to do it. And you can tell your brother to come down when you do."
Aggie walked slowly towards the steps. "Yes, sir," he muttered.
"While we're waiting," Lucian said, "what exactly do you need to see Yully for?"
Yingling fidgeted a moment. "My-my son, Stephan, threw a... spiteful fit a few days ago when we were discussing his future. He ran away and is hiding somewhere. I've no doubt that he will come to his senses, admit his error, and return. However, Martha...” He took his wife's hand in his own. "Well, you know how mothers worry. It occurred to me that your Ulysses is Stephan's best friend and might have some idea where the boy might be."
"I didn't know Stephan was missing," Lucian replied. "I'd be glad to help you look for him; I don't think there's a father in town who wouldn't help."
The reverend shook his head. "I am here to offer help to my flock, not to seek theirs -- especially not because of some foolishness on the part of my son.” He paused and looked over at Martha. "The important thing is that we find out where he is."
"I'm sure that Yully will tell us when we ask," Phillipia said.
Yingling glowered. "Ask? He is your son; his obedience should be complete and immediate."
"If you don't mind my saying so," Lucian said softly, "that doesn't exactly seem to be the way it is with you and Stephan just now."
The reverend's voice was calm, as if brooking no possible opposition. "A minor aberration that I intend to address when he returns.” He took a breath. "Let me speak to your boy. Perhaps, I may find the way to... persuade him."
"You wanted to see me, Pa?” Yully chose that moment to come into the parlor. He tried to hide his concern when he saw the Reverend.
Lucian put his arm on his son's shoulder. "The Reverend has a few questions for you, Yully. I want you to answer him."
"Where is my son, Ulysses Stone?" the minister demanded.
"I-I can't say, sir," Yully told him nervously. "I'm... I'm very sorry."
The reverend pointed an angry finger at him. "Why are you lying to me, boy?" he stormed, "Don't you know that you are putting your soul into eternal jeopardy by denying the truth of this matter to a minister of our Lord."
"Don't you think you're coming on a little strong, Reverend?" Lucian told the other man.
Martha's eyes glistened, as she spoke. "Please, Yully, tell us. I... _we_ need to know where Stephan is."
"Do I _have_ to answer, Pa?” The boy sounded unsure. "I... I sorta promised."
"Yes, by Thunder, _answer_," Yingling ordered.
Lucian spoke slowly in response. "He asked _me_, Reverend.” He turned to his son. "Yes, Ulysses, I'm afraid that you do, whatever you may have promised your friend, Stephan."
"Please," Martha added. "I need him to be home... safe."
Yully hesitated. "Can I think about it a little... overnight maybe?"
"Overnight!" the cleric thundered. "Tell us now. What is your problem?"
Phillipia took her son's hand. "The problem is that he's caught between breaking a promise to his best friend and obeying his parents."
"Obedience... obedience is always the answer.” Yingling shrugged. "The choice is a simple one."
Lucian shook his head. "The choice is always a simple one when somebody else has to make it.” Lucian pulled out his pocket watch. "It's almost 8 PM. Perhaps we _should_ give the boy the time he's asked for and wait until tomorrow."
"What purpose on earth would that serve?" the reverend asked sternly.
"Well, I don't know. Maybe there's _someone_ he has to talk to first.” Lucian's eyes tilted upward, an expectant look on his face.
Yingling stared frowningly at the boy, but he saw the reason in Lucian's advice. "We will wait," he said, glowering at Yully, "but I will expect you to answer _all_ my questions.” He paused a moment. "And no lies."
Yully shook his head. "N-no, sir."
"We will return at..." the reverend decided to be gracious. "...9. That will give Phillipia time to get the other children off to school."
Yully thought quickly. 'But not time for me t'warn Stephen -- or the others. I sure won't get a chance to sneak out tonight.' He took a breath and asked. "I-I'm not gonna have much of a chance t'think about it tonight -- not if I have to sleep. Can you... wait till after school?"
"Impossible!" Yingling argued. "What do you have to think about? Between right and wrong there is no choice."
Martha was horrified. "Why must we wait? Can't we talk to you in the morning... please?"
"Martha, I understand your concerns.” Lucian glanced at the minister and his wife, then at Yully. There was more to this on both sides than he could guess. "But I suspect that this will take some time, and I'd just as soon that the boy not miss a day at school."
"We'll head home then," Yingling said, stifling his anger, "but we'll be back about 4, as you ask.” He took Martha's hand and led her to the door. "Good night to you both. And to you as well, Ulysses."
* * * * *
Ethan swirled his snifter and took a long sip of peach brandy. "Are you familiar with a Mrs. Cecelia Ritter?" he asked Cerise. The two of them were sitting in her office.
"I know the woman. She is disagreeable... argumentative, but most susceptible to flattery -- especially about herself."
He chuckled. "I noticed.” He took another sip. "She is also interested in art, or so she says. Mrs. Ritter has asked that I create a portrait of her and her husband."
"You do not believe that her interest is genuine?"
He shrugged. "Genuine or not, she is paying, so I will do the painting."
"You are as much a whore as any of my ladies," she said with a low, sultry chuckle.
"When did I ever say that I wasn't? I just wonder how much of her interest is in my painting and how much is in my subjects, my other subjects, that is?”
"She is an influence in this town, mon ami. Be careful.” Cerise sipped her own brandy. "And keep me appraised of what happens."
"I shall.” He finished the last of his brandy and stood up. "And now, if you will excuse me, the night is young, and your ladies are lovely.” He bowed his head and turned to leave
Cerise nodded with a bemused smile. "But, of course."
Wilma was waiting as he walked out into the hallway. "Well, hi, there, Ethan," Wilma said brightly. "Daisy said you was here.” She glanced at the door behind him. "You and Cerise talking about me?"
"No, there were other matters for us to discuss."
"You couldn't prove it by me. We ain't talked no how while I been posing for you this week. You keep looking at me like you're thinking 'bout something, but you never say what.” She leaned in close and ran her hand across her chest.
"You're here now, though.” She kissed his cheek. "We got all night, so there'll be time for talking, too."
He could smell her perfume, and he felt himself grow harder. Sex with Trisha had been outstanding, and Wilma was much more experienced in the arts of pleasing a man. Still, he wanted her on _his_terms. He had decided that the one of them who could wait the longest would be the winner in the end.
"Yes, I do have all night," he answered, "but I rather doubt that I will be taking time away from Beatriz to speak with you."
* * * * *
"I hear that you had some trouble at the meeting last night," Kaitlin said, buttoning her nightgown.
Trisha arched her eyebrow. "Who told you that?"
"I was at the market today. Lavinia Mckecknie and Cecelia Ritter were talking about forcing you off the board. Cecelia was saying how Milt Quinlan got you out of trouble for now on some sort of technicality, but they'd be ready in May. Ready for what?"
"You remember that petition Ritter and Styron filed last December to get me off the board?"
Kaitlin nodded. "They wanted the congregation to vote on whether or not you should stay on the board after you turned into a woman. You won that vote. How can they bring it up again?"
"They filed a new petition, one that says I shouldn't stay on the Board because of how I acted at the dance."
"At the dance?” Kaitlin looked daggers at Trisha. "What _did_ you do?"
"I... I danced with a lot of different men. I drank some punch that had alcohol in it. And I let Rhys Godwin -- well, you saw what I let him do.” She still wasn't going to admit everything, not even to Kaitlin.
"Cecelia and Lavinia saw something, too, it seems.” She shook her head. "I warned you about that."
"I didn't do anything more than walk around holding Rhys' hand."
"Which, evidently, was enough to start rumors, and rumors are all some people need to believe the worst about you."
"You're right," Trisha admitted ruefully. "It was enough to give them the excuse to write up that petition."
"So when is the meeting to vote on it?"
"Not for a while. Milt told them that the bylaws say that a second petition like that can't be filed for six months after the first. That's what they meant by waiting till May. That'll be six months."
"And they'll have all that time to spread the rumors, to make you seem even worse than you are."
"What do you mean 'worse'? What did I do that was so bad?"
"What did you do? You bared your breasts to a man -- a man you hardly knew -- and let him leave a love bite on one of them.” She closed her eyes and sighed. "That's not something any _respectable_ woman would do."
Trisha looked down, not wanting to meet Kaitlin's eyes. "So what can I do about it? I don't want to quit the board, and I, especially, don't want Styron to get me kicked off it."
"What _we_ do is act as if all the rumors are the lies that they _should_ be."
"That they _are_!"
"Perhaps they are, but that won't stop them from being repeated, repeated until everyone in town has heard them.” She took a breath. "Until _Emma_ hears them."
"Emma... no, I don't want her to get hurt."
"You should have thought about that before you did... whatever you did with Godwin. All we can do now is pretend that it didn't happen _and_ make sure that it never happens again. Agreed?"
"Agreed... never again. I promise."
"Let's just hope that's a promise you can keep."
* * * * *
Friday, March 8, 1872
"Stephan's pa came by my house last night," Yully announced at lunch. He waited to see the reactions of his friends.
Ysabel frowned. "Ruth -- or Matthew -- we should have known one of them'd say something to their pa."
"He said it was his idea," Yully told them. "He asked 'cause he knew Stephan and me was best friends."
"You didn't tell 'em where he was, did you?" Emma asked.
Yully shook his head. "I didn't -- not then, but I'm gonna have to. The reverend was yelling at me t'beat the band. My Ma and Pa stood up for me, but they wanted me to tell."
"But you did not," Tomas said. "Good."
Yully sighed. "I asked for some time to think it over, but, when they come over today at 4, I'm not gonna have a choice."
"But if you tell, that's the end of Fort Secret.” Emma sounded frantic. "The reverend won't let it be after Stephan hid there. They'll burn it up or dig it out or something."
Ysabel had a thought. "Maybe there is a choice. What if Stephan was not hiding there when you talked to his parents?"
"Where would he go?" Emma asked. "How could he stay hidden?"
Ysabel smiled slyly. "He could go to Yully's house. If his father comes and pulls him from the Fort, like a rabbit from his hole, then the father wins."
"But if he shows up at Yully's," Emma finished the thought, "like it was the plan all along, then he wins -- or it's a draw, at least. Yeah, I like it!"
Yully smiled. "So do I. I'll go home after school and wait for 'em to show up. You three run like the dickens over to the Fort. Tell him the plan and help him to get packed up and over to my place by 4."
When the others agreed, Yully added, "and make sure he gets there by himself. Him and me're already in trouble, but they don't know -- they're not for sure, anyway -- that any of you had anything t'do with it."
* * * * *
Shamus followed Jane into the kitchen. "What is it ye wanted --” He saw Teresa Diaz standing by the worktable, which was piled high with paper-wrapped bundles. "Now, I know what ye wanted. Good afternoon, Teresa."
"Good afternoon, Seá±or Shamus," the woman answered hesitantly.
Maggie took Jane's and walked towards the door. "We will leave you two alone to talk."
"How come?" Jane asked, as she let the cook lead her away.
"I will explain -- outside."
Shamus pointed to a chair. "Please, sit down, Teresa."
"No, I... I want to stand," she replied, then shook her head. "No, I will sit. I will... I will get down on my knees and beg. Please... please, give my Arnoldo another chance."
"I gave him another chance when I took him back. And I gave him still more chances since then. But after what happened at the assay office...."
"But the jury said that he was not guilty -- that those two men lie to him. Then they lie about him, pretended that he was part of their gang."
"Aye, and who was it but meself that hired Milt Quinlan to be helping him?
"Then you know that he is a good boy."
"He is. But he'll never be a good _man_ till he learns t'be thinking about what he does and about the consequences that can come if he's acting wrong.” He sighed, not liking what he was going to say. "Arnie lies. I caught him stealing from me, drinks _and_ money. I know he didn't plan to rob Lucian Stone. I also know that he didn't think out what they was asking him t'do, and he left me in the lurch when he went off with them men."
"You are not going to give Arnoldo another chance then?” She tried to hold back the tears.
"If he can show me that he's changed, that I can be trusting him, I'll be happy t'be hiring him back. Till then..." he voice trailed off. "I'm sorry."
"So am I.” She forced herself to stand. "Thank you, at least, for listening.” Head down, she walked slowly out the kitchen door.
* * * * *
Teresa walked out into the yard behind the Saloon. She took the handle of the cart she used for deliveries and, eyes full of tears, pulled it to the alley that led back to the street.
She was still crying softly when she stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk that ran along the storefronts. As she dragged her cart onto it, one of the rear wheels wedged into a crack between two boards. "Maldita sea! (Damn it!)," she cursed, yanking at the cart handle. "Aflá³jate, rueda estáºpida! (Come loose, you stupid wheel!") She was almost glad to have something else to focus her anger on besides her Arnoldo.
The wheel came free, catching her by surprise. She wasn't braced and stumbled back into the street.
Directly into the path of a freight wagon.
The driver reined in his horses as quickly as he could and threw the brake. He jumped down from his seat and saw that she was still breathing. "Thank the good Lord for that," he said, wiping his brow. Then he saw the unnatural angle of her right arm and right leg. "Shit!" he muttered, "they's broken for sure.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and began to yell for somebody to fetch Doc Upshaw.
* * * * *
Lucian Stone was waiting on the porch when Yully arrived home. "I thought you might want some... support when you talk to the Reverend," he explained.
"Ain't folks gonna be mad that you closed the assay office?" Yully asked.
The man shook his head. "Maybe, but after what happened Wednesday, I think they'll understand.” He took a breath. "The important thing is that _you_ understand. Are you ready to tell the Yinglings where their son is?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"I know that it's hard, that you promised him you wouldn't tell, but you saw how unhappy his mother was.” He frowned. "And how mad his father was."
"He _was_ mad, wasn't he?"
"He was worried about his boy. He just had his own way of showing it.” Lucian put his arm around his son's shoulders. "Whatever you think, he is Stephan's father. You promised to tell him where his son is, and I expect you to keep that promise."
"I-I didn't promise. I said I'd think about it."
"And have you?"
"I have."
"You'd better have decided because here they come.” He pointed, and Yully turned to see the reverend and his wife walking towards him.
Yingling hurried over to where Yully was standing. "Have you decided to end this foolishness and tell me where Stephan is?” He had asked his question even before his wife reached them.
"Yes...” Yully looked scared for a moment, then suddenly smiled. "Yes, sir, I have.” He pointed behind them. "He's right over there."
The man looked daggers at Yully. "What sort of trick are trying now?"
"I don't think he's trying anything, Reverend," Lucian answered. "Look behind you."
The other man turned. Stephan was walking towards them, carrying his school bag and the bundle of his clothes. "Hi, Pa... Ma."
"Stephan!” Martha ran over and fell to her knees, hugging her son. "Thank Heavens, you're back.” She kissed his cheek and pulled him even closer. Tears ran down her face and onto the boy's shirt. "I was so worried."
Stephan looked embarrassed. "Ma, I'm fine. Please. Lemme go.” He squirmed in his mother's arms.
"Indeed, let him go, Martha," Yingling ordered. "We have much to discuss when we get home, young man."
Martha clutched her son to her. "Yes, you do, but not today. Today, he goes home, gets some food into him, and goes to bed."
"Very well," the man agreed. "Rest today, my son. You will have need of all your energy tomorrow when we discuss your actions... and your punishment."
* * * * *
Maggie smiled to see Ramon coming into her kitchen. "What brings you here, this evening?" she asked, her voice low.
"This, for a start.” He stepped over and took her in his arms. She reached her arms around him, and their lips met in a tender kiss. Lupe giggled, while Ernesto just looked away. Jane made a point of stirring the sauce that was bubbling away on the stove.
When they finally broke the kiss, Ramon took her hand. "I'm afraid that I have some news about my brother, Gregorio."
"Is he still against the wedding?"
"He is. He will be coming in next Thursday to be a part of that poker game Abner Slocum is running. While he is here for the game, he plans to talk me out of marrying you.”
"He-he does?"
He saw the look on her face and chuckled. "Do not worry, my Love. He has a better chance of talking the sun out of rising in the East."
"That much?” She smiled and gently stoked her hand against his face.
Ramon put his hand over hers. "In the meantime, I will be talking to him _into_ accepting our marriage. He can be happy for us, or... or he does not get to kiss the bride at the ceremony."
"And that would be a terrible thing."
"Gregorio may have a different opinion, but I think that not being able to kiss you would, indeed, be a very terrible thing.” He held her face in his hands. "And I do not plan to wait until our wedding day to do so again.” Their lips met in another kiss, while Jane made sure that nothing else in the kitchen overheated.
* * * * *
Dr. Hiram Upshaw walked out of the small infirmary that was a part of his office. Mrs. Lonnigan was just behind him. As his nurse, she had helped with the treatment. Also, for the sake of propriety, he wouldn't tend to a female patient without a second woman present.
"How is Mama?" Arnie asked as soon as he saw the doctor. He'd been sitting in the waiting room with Dolores, his sisters, and his younger brother.
Upshaw gave a wane smile. "She's sleeping now, thanks to the laudanum I gave her for the pain. I'm afraid that she'll need to stay here for five or six days, maybe a week. She's badly bruised and has suffered fractures in both her right arm and right leg. They'll be in a cast for six weeks, at least, so she'll need a lot of help at home."
"She will have it," Dolores replied. "I will talk to Shamus, but I am certain that he will give me the time off. He is a good man, and he will understand."
The doctor nodded. "Yes, he is, and if he doesn't understand, I'm quite sure that Molly will explain it to him."
"No," Arnie said suddenly, "I will take care of the house."
Dolores gave a bitter laugh. "You? If you knew how to take care of _anything_, you would still have a job, and Teresa would be out delivering laundry."
"I said that _I_ would do it.” Arnie stiffened in anger. "I am the man of the house, and you are just a guest."
Dolores glared back at him. "No, you are the _boy_ of the house. Your mother asked me to stay because --” She glanced uneasily at the doctor and nurse. "Well, that is family business. For now, run along while I take the _other_ children home."
"You cannot talk like that to me, Dolores."
"I just did, and I will do so again when you need it. Now, go."
Upshaw stepped between them. "I'm going to ask you all to leave before your shouting wakes up my patient. Take these children home, please, Dolores. If you -- any of you -- want to see Teresa, you can come back around 6."
"I... we will," Dolores answered, "and I will bring supper and nightwear for her."
Arnie made a sour face. "She will bring. She will bring. You think you can take care of everything, don't you -- cousin?"
Dolores refused to say anything more until they were alone on the boardwalk. Then she turned indignantly on the boy. "Your mother pleaded with me to stay in Eerie longer because she could not talk any sense into you. She hoped that I could do better. It seems I have fared no better with you than she did, but when it comes to caring for a household and tending to the injured, I think I can take care of things better than you, Arnoldo. Of course, you can help if you wish to."
He staggered back a step, struck by what she had revealed, but her harsh words only made his own anger redouble. "No, I do not believe that I do.” He turned and stormed across the street.
* * * * *
"Good evening, Kaitlin," Liam said, walking into the house. "Trisha... and you, too, Emma."
Emma was setting the table, "Hi, Uncle Liam.” She studied him for a moment. "What've you got behind your back?"
"Very good, Emma.” He moved his arm to reveal a small bouquet of flowers. "These are for your mama."
Kaitlin walked over to Liam. "And just why did you bring me flowers this particular Friday?"
"Partly because I should bring something to thank you for dinner.” He handed her the flowers. "And partly to thank you for the delightful time I had at the dance last Saturday."
Trisha had been sitting at the table, reading a magazine. She rose and walked over. "And did you bring me or Emma flowers, too?" she asked sourly.
"Now what sort of a man brings flowers to his sister... or his niece," Liam replied, "except on their birthdays?"
Trisha wasn't satisfied. "What sort of a man brings flowers to his brother's wife, except on _her_ birthday?"
"Well, much as I know you hate to be reminded of it, you and Kaitlin won't be married for much longer."
"You still haven't answered my question, Liam.”
"No, I haven't. I'm the sort of man who brings a lady flowers to thank her for the good time he had dancing with her -- and who hopes to do so again."
Kaitlin looked at the expressions on the pair. "Enough about the flowers, please. I'll take them as thanks for dinner, if you don't mind, Liam. Speaking of which, I believe it's all but ready. Why don't you help Trisha to her seat at the dinner table, while Emma and I fetch the food?"
"Certainly.” Liam offered Trisha his arm. She made a point of refusing, but she did let him help her with her chair.
Kaitlin watched them, as she transferred the baked chicken from the cooking tray to a serving plate. 'Dinner's going to be a chore tonight,' she warned herself.
* * * * *
Saturday, March 9, 1872
Jane walked back in from the kitchen to rejoin the others, who were cleaning up after the Saloon had closed for the night. "There's somebody sleeping on that bench in the yard. I seen him when I was coming back from the necessary."
"We can't be having our customers sleeping it off in the yard," Shamus said. "I'll be sending the lout home.” He started for the kitchen.
Molly put a hand on his arm. "I'll go, Love. The poor man may not have a place t'be going home to."
Molly walked through the kitchen and out into the yard. The bench was set back and couldn't be seen from the back steps. She rounded the corner and found... "Arnie, what are ye doing out here this time of night?"
"Seá±ora Molly.” Arnie sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
"Why aren't ye home, lad?"
"I... I cannot go home after what I did to my mother. Dolores speaks to me as if I am worth nothing, and the little ones must be angry with me, too.” He looked away from the woman. "Seá±or Shamus was right to fire me. I-I just had nowhere else to go. I am thinking of leaving Eerie forever.” He stood up slowly. "I will find another place to sleep if you wish."
"Aye, ye'll find another place. Ye'll go inside, and after ye've had a good night's sleep, we'll see what we can do about setting things right between you and yuir family.” She took his arm and led him into the building.
* * * * *
Arnie batted at his pillow. "I still cannot sleep," he said in disgust. He'd refused the bed Molly had offered and was sleeping on an improvised bedroll on the floor near the bar. He sat up and shook his head.
It had been a mistake to stay in the barroom. All those bottles on the shelves tempted him. In his state of mind, he could think of only two things, his injured mother and the liquor that would deaden the thoughts that tortured his conscience.
"Maybe... yes, a drink to help me sleep.” He threw back his blanket and started to stand. Just as he got to his feet, the image of his mother lying unconscious on the street came to him.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No... No! Mama is hurt -- she almost died because of me... because I-I drank and I stole... from Shamus and... worse -- almost. I cannot -- no, I _will_ _not_ take a drink now.” He climbed back into his bedroll, feeling surprisingly proud of himself.
But sleep didn't come. A half hour, an hour later, he didn't know how long, he was still awake. "There must be _something_," he told himself.
Twice more he thought about taking -- stealing -- a drink. He couldn't. His mother's face contorted in pain, Molly's sad eyes when she found him in her yard this very evening, even Dolores' anger, he saw them all in his mind, and he just couldn't take a drink.
But try as he might to sleep, he kept hearing Dolores' cruel words, telling him that he was nothing but trouble and that his mother had needed her to stay and help with him. Now he knew what a low opinion his cousin had held of him all this time, and how little his own mother had trusted him.
Then another memory came to him, a cowboy, a man he did not know, just back from a drive and drinking far too much. The man's voice grew loud, too loud. He grabbed at Jane, and she'd almost dropped the beer she was taking to someone. He made comments that disrupted Bridget's poker game. He ignored Shamus' warnings to behave.
Finally, Shamus offered him a free beer, "if ye'll be sitting down quietly whilst ye drink it," the barman had asked. The man happily agreed. He drank about half in one long gulp. Then he gave a sad smile and fell forward, snoring softly.
"Thank ye, Michael Finn," Shamus had said. When Arnie asked what he meant, he explained, "Michael Finn? 'Tis the name for a little something I put in his drink. Makes a man sleep like a wee babe, it does.” He'd held up a small bottle that he kept under the bar.
The man woke up in a jail cell and was fined $5 for his rowdy behavior.
"That is what I need," he whispered, "something to make me 'sleep like a wee babe.' I think Shamus would not mind if I had some of that.”
Molly had left him a small lamp in case he had to find the necessary during the night. It was under a chair a few feet from his bedroll. He reached over and turned up the wick, making the lamp burn much brighter. Then he stood up and carried it with him behind the bar.
Arnie spent a few minutes moving liquor bottles -- and resisting the temptation to drink -- before he found the smaller bottle of "Michael Finn.” The bottle didn't look exactly as he remembered; he'd forgotten about the chain connecting the metal top to the bottle, but what else could it be?
He poured a bit of the greenish liquid into a glass and added some soda water. He even put a dime on the bar to pay for it. Then he walked back to his bedroll. He turned the wick down and stowed the lantern, sat down on the bedroll, and drank. It had an odd, metallic taste.
He expected to be asleep almost at once, but nothing happened. "Was I wrong?" he wondered. "But if it was not 'Michael Finn', wh-what w-was it?” He felt a sharp pain run through him and realized what else it might have been. "No... no! Not poison.” He yanked out the blessed cross Dolores had given him and stared at the figure on it. "Virgencita... Lady of Guadeloupe, pl-please do... do not l-let me have... have t-taken poison -- AAARRRRGH!” His words ended with a loud scream of pain that echoed through the empty room.
He collapsed down onto the bedroll, too weak to move, every muscle aching. As he lay there, his clothes seemed to be growing -- no, he realized; he was getting smaller. He could feel a weight on his chest, and something was tickling his ears and the back of his neck.
As he fought the pain, he began to feel dizzy, distracted. Something, something he needed to know, was missing. He stared straight ahead, as if waiting for someone -- for the Lady of Guadeloupe, perhaps, or, please, no! the Angel of Death -- to tell him what to do.
* * * * *
Arnie blinked and shook his head. "I-I am alive! Gracias... Gracias, Virgencita.” He started at the odd sound of his voice and remembered. He looked down at his body. His shirt was far to big; his hands were lost in the sleeves, but he could see the way _something_ was pushing out the front.
He managed to grab the shirt fabric and pulled it away from him. When he looked down the opening at his collar, he could see two breasts, round and perky, the nipples extended from the excitement of his -- of _her_ transformation.
"No, Madonna, please, no.” Her hand reached down to her crotch. Nothing! The fabric, loose as it was, lay flat. There was nothing in the space between her legs, where her maleness had been. "A girl.” Horrified tears filled her eyes. "I... I am a girl."
She screamed in abject despair.
* * * * *
"What the hell was that?" Shamus asked, sitting up in bed.
Molly was out of bed at the sound of the scream. "Arnie!” She threw on her robe and started for the door. Shamus was right behind her, his nightshirt flapping.
Shamus and Molly came running down the stairs, looking around for Arnie. They stopped a few feet away from someone on the floor and stared.
A pretty, young girl, her dark hair down around her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face, stared up at them. From the girl's place on the bed roll and her clothes, Molly at once guessed what had happened. "Oh, Arnie, what in heavens name have ye done t'yuirself?" Molly cried.
"Me potion?” Shamus looked over to the bar for a moment before turning back to face the girl. Arnie had left the bottle in plain site; no hiding this drink. "Now why in the name of all the saints did ye take me potion?"
Tears ran down Arnie's cheeks. "I-I wanted... I could not sleep. I did not... not know...” Her voice broke into sobs.
"Shamus! What were ye thinking of, keeping that dangerous stuff here in the barroom? I told ye t'be putting that foul brew away upstairs where it'd be safe."
The barman shook his weary head and slumped into a stool. "Thuir was so little left of the batch I brewed up for Laura's sister, and I wanted it t'be handy in case of another emergency like the O'Hanlon's.” He gave a tired sigh. "I never thought anybody'd be searching under me bar for it."
Molly shook her head in exasperation. She then knelt down next to the newly minted girl and took her into her arms. She rocked the sobbing young woman back and forth, patting her head and cooing, as if to a small child. After a bit, she glanced over at Shamus. "Ye might as well go back t'bed, Love. I'm thinking that I'll be here for a good long while."
* * * * *
Jane all but dragged Dolores into the Saloon. "Please," she protested. "I have so much to do, the house, the business. I do not have time to talk to Shamus and Molly."
"Molly says otherwise," Jane told her. "She says you _need_ to talk to her this morning.” She pointed to the stairs. "She's up in their rooms. Now get going."
Dolores shrugged and started for the stairs. "I will go, but only so I can get this -- whatever it is -- over with.” She walked up to the second floor, then down the hall to the door to Shamus and Molly's small apartment. "Hello," she called, knocking on the pine panel.
"Dolores," Molly said, opening the door. "Come on in. How are ye this morning, and how's Teresa? Have ye seen her yet today?"
"Si, I was over at the doctor's when Jane found me. She is sleeping mostly, thanks to the pain medicine he gave her. He told me that she had a good night, and there do not seem to be any problems."
"Any _more_ problems, ye mean.” Molly had an odd smile on her face. "And how are things at home?"
"Very hectic. The children are doing well enough, but I do not know how Teresa ran her business. Arnoldo did, but we... he got very stubborn. We... quarreled, and I have not seen him since yesterday. I-I need him, or there will be trouble. If we cannot serve her customers, we will have no money except what I earn here. And I will have to quit. Without Arnoldo to help, all my time for many weeks must go to caring for Teresa and the younger children."
"Ye're willing t'be giving him another chance, then?"
"What happened is in the past. I... Teresa, we need him."
"Ye'd best be sitting down, then."
Dolores slowly took a seat on the settee. "Is this about Arnoldo? Is he all right? Did something happen to him? He-he did not do something..."
"He did.” Dolores turned at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. A pretty girl of about 16 walked in from the bedroom. She wore an oversized man's shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a pair of men's workpants pulled in tight at her waist and with the overlong cuffs rolled up past her ankles. "_I_ did. H-Hola, Cousin.” Arnie was trying to be brave, but it was hard, very hard.
"Cousin -- ah?” Dolores stared at the girl. There was nothing in her face that she recognized. Then she remembered where she was, and all those stories about what had happened at the Eerie Saloon. "Arnoldo? What... the potion?”
The girl nodded sadly. “Si, the potion; I…” Her voice trailed off.
She sat there open-mouthed, trying to find words to speak. "Why... How did you come to drink it?”
"It was a mistake!" Arnie insisted. "I thought it was something to help me sleep.” She looked embarrassed -- disgusted -- at what she had done. "I felt so bad about what I did to Mama."
Dolores lifted a hand to her forehead and sighed. "What you did was foolish, but -- Dios Mio -- Arnoldo, what is going to become of you?” She glanced at Molly and Shamus, her eyes still full of amazement. "Seá±or Shamus... Seá±ora Molly... Is there anything...?"
Molly could only shake her head. Shamus shrugged contritely. "I'm right sorry for what this'll do t'yuir family, Dolores. I first mixed up that potion when I was a wee lad, and I've never been able t'be figuring out how t'make one that works in the other direction."
Arnie's face was a grimace of pain. "People will laugh. They will think I deserve it for what I did, and for what happened to Mama."
Dolores sat quietly, drawing in deep breaths to steady herself. "This may have some meaning, but I do not know what that meaning is. You did badly, Arnoldo, and something bad has happened to you in return. Are you sick or in pain?"
"No. I felt weak at first, but now that has passed."
"Are you going to come home?"
Dismay crossed the girl's lovely features. "I do not think I can bear to let people see me this way. Maybe we could pretend I am a cousin from another pueblo, and that Arnie has run away."
"That is foolish, Arnoldo. Some people will laugh, perhaps, but some will feel sorry. Others will respect you, if they see that you are brave. You must come home as soon as possible and help me with the younger children and the business. If we lose our livelihood we shall have to shame our family name by taking charity."
The younger female seemed to think about that as she stared down at the rug, not wanting to meet her kinswoman's eyes.
Dolores stepped forward and took her cousin's hand.
"Everything has been made harder now. I-I am sorry," Arnie said slowly.
Dolores shook her head. "We both were very upset before, you and I, because we both love Teresa. Now come, you can apologize to her, but, first, we must get you into some decent clothes."
Arnie looked at her in horror, wondering what she might mean by that.
* * * * *
"If you've quite finished with your breakfast, Stephan," Thaddeus Yingling told his son, you will join me in my study."
Stephan sighed and took a last bite of his toast. "Yes, sir.” He stood up and followed his father out of the kitchen and into the study.
"Close the door.” Yingling sat down behind his desk.
Stephen shut the door and went to sit opposite the reverend. "I did not give you permission to sit," the man told him. Stephen stood erect, mentally bracing himself.
"Now, boy, explain yourself. How dare you defy me, running off like that?"
"Sir, I don't want to defy you."
"Then you have decided to accept my will and become a minister. Good. If you have come to see the error of your ways, then the events of the past week have almost been worth it."
"No, sir. I... why do I _have_ to be a minister?"
"Because you are my son. All the Yingling men are ministers. It is the role our Lord has prepared for us."
"But... sir, I've thought... I've prayed for a sign, something to show me that I had the calling. I got... I got nothing, except that I was more and more sure that it _wasn't_ what I wanted to be... what I was _supposed_ to be."
"You still have this foolish notion that you should be a soldier?"
"It-it ain't a foolish notion. It's what I want."
"It is not what I want."
"You got what you want. You're a minister and a good one. Why can't I want to be something else?"
"Because I you are destined to follow in my footsteps."
"Sir, while I was... gone, did you even consider that I might do something else with my life?"
"Why should I?"
"Because that was why I was gone. I wanted to show you how serious I was."
"Serious? I do not believe that you were thinking of anything but your own selfish wants?"
"I thought about that Terrence you set for me. I-I finished the translation.” The book is up in my room. Shall I go get it?"
"Later.” Yingling stood up. "Just now you will receive the punishment that you so richly deserve for your actions.” As he walked around the desk, Stephan saw the dark leather strap in his hands. The boy trembled and began to unbutton his pants.
* * * * *
Dolores walked into the main room of the Diaz house. Constanza was doing the breakfast dishes, while Enrique was sitting at a table sorting a pile of clothing into several smaller piles. "Where is Ysabel?" Dolores asked.
"Out in the yard, hanging up clothes," Enrique replied. Then he noticed a girl peeking in from the front door. "Who is that?"
Dolores took the stranger by the arm and pulled her into the room. "Go call your sister, first."
"Okay.” The boy ran to the back door and yelled out into the yard.
Moments later, Ysabel came in. "Hola, Dolores," she said. "How is Mama?"
"Your mother is fine -- so the doctor says. She is still sleeping, but we can go see her in the afternoon.” She took a breath. "All five of us."
"Five?" Ysabel asked. "Will Arnoldo come, too? Do you know where he is?"
The girl by the door sighed and looked down at the floor. "I-I am right here, Sister."
"Arnoldo?" the three youngsters said the name as one. They looked back and forth between the newcomer and Dolores.
"It was the potion, Shamus' damned potion," Arnie explained. "I thought it was something else, and I-I drank it. It -- now look at me.” She averted her face and held her arms out as if to display her new body.
Ysabel's eyes grew wide. "Like... like Emma. You are a girl now. Forever?"
Arnie nodded. "Si, just like your friend. Forever.” She collapsed down into a chair and began to cry. "For-forever."
"Do not cry," Ysabel said quickly. She hurried over to hug her new sister. "We still love you."
Dolores joined her, as did Constanza and Enrique. They all hugged and whispered words of encouragement to Arnoldo.
"And we will help you to get along," Dolores told her, finally, "just as you will help us."
Arnie looked up at them. "Help you? What can I do?"
"The laundry business," her cousin answered. "You know it so much better than the others, and you can do the picking up and delivery of the clothes. Your mama will be in the doctor's ward for a week, and it will be many more weeks before she can walk all around town."
Arnie wiped at her eyes. "I don't want to go out where I can be seen. Can you not do all that?"
"Me?" Dolores asked incredulously. "I will be taking care of the house, Arnoldo, and tending to your mother -- something that _I_ know how to do.” She smiled. "Besides, I am still working for Shamus. If you do the laundry work, I will not even have to ask for time off. But I must ask Shamus to let me work at times that shall permit me to be with the children when you cannot be.”
Arnie made a face. "Si, we will need all the money we can get to pay for Mama's bills.” She sighed. "I will do what I must."
"I know you will," Dolores said with a nod, "because the Diaz family produces hard-working, brave men."
Then Enrique suddenly asked, "Hey, does this mean that _I_ am now the man of the house?"
* * * * *
Jessie was sitting at a corner table, trying to work out the chords to a new song. She heard a noise and looked up to see Ramon.
"Excuse me, Jessie," he said, "but you just got a letter.” Silverman's store did double duty as Eerie's municipal post office.
Jessie reached for the letter. "Thanks, Ramon, but you didn't have to bring it over yourself.”
"Things are not too busy at the store just now, so I thought I...” He looked around hopefully.
Jessie smiled. "She's in the kitchen with Jane, working on today's 'Free Lunch' about now.” The singer watched him hurry off to see Maggie.
"Now, who'd be writing me...” She looked at the letter. "Hanna Tyler, we'll I'll be... I wonder what she wants.” She opened the envelope and began to read.
` "Jessie,
` Gil Parker and me are getting married on Sunday,
` June 16, and you better be here for it. You did
` promise, after all. Well, you _sort_ _of_ promised.
` Mama says you can come a day or two early to help with
` wedding -- or just visit -- if you like.
` You can be my maid of honor, too, if you want. (Or
` matron of honor, if you and that handsome Mr. Grant
` did something _permanent_.) What I'd really love,
` though, is for you to sing. Do you know 'Here Comes
` the Bride' from something called LOHENGRIN? It'd be
` so wonderful if you sang that during the ceremony.
` Please say that you'll come -- please, _please_, PLEASE!
` All my Love
` (except what I have for Gil, or course),
` Hanna”
Jessie folded the letter and used it to mark the page in her songbook. "Three or four days on the trail each way just to go to a one-day wedding," she thought aloud. "That's a lot of pay I wouldn't be earning, too. Of course, that'd mean three or four _nights_ on the trail each way with Paul. Mmmm, that'd surely make the trip worthwhile.” She couldn't forget that it had been the trip back from Hanna's home, as Paul's prisoner, that had made all the difference between them.
* * * * *
Emma unbuttoned her blouse and hung it on a nearby hook on the dressing room wall. All she wore underneath was her camisole. She nervously undid its buttons and hung it over her blouse. "R-ready, I guess."
Well..." Rachel said, studying the young girl. "Taller, she isn't, but on top, maybe.” The older woman took the tape measure off her shoulders and draped it around Emma just above her breasts.
She looked at the tape, then at a small notebook. "Same as last time, 27 inches.” Now, she draped it, so that it went across Emma's breasts, right over the nipples.
"That tickles," Emma squirmed.
Kaitlin looked over from the stool she was sitting on. "You just hold still till Mrs. Silverman is finished.” Emma nodded and tried not to move.
"You were right," Rachel told Kaitlin. "Twenty-eight, she was, now... just a smidgen under 29. Big enough, I think."
Kaitlin nodded in agreement. "I think so, too. A new corset -- no, two, so she can switch off, and both with removable pads."
"Switch off?" Emma asked. "What do you mean, Ma?"
"What I mean, Emma, that you _need_ to be wearing a corset every day from now on. You're getting too... too big now not to."
"Aww, Ma... not every day.” Emma whined, as she slipped back into her camisole.
"You make it sound like it's a bad thing, you're growing up so pretty, just like your mama," Rachel told her. "And we got such nice ones, and in all sorts of colors for you to pick from."
Emma crossed her arms in front. "Who cares what I wear?"
"Yully might care," her mother answered. "You'll look... and feel prettier in a new, better-fitting corset.” She smiled. "Boys notice that."
Emma gave a shy smile and looked away. "He... they do?” She felt a warmth rush across her face. Yes, they did. When she was still Elmer, she had heard how the older boys sometimes talked about how the older girls, Ysabel, Penny, even Lallie and Hermione, looked. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt... just to see at what you have."
* * * * *
Sunday, March 10, 1872
“I will not do it,” Arnie insisted. “I would not wear woman’s clothes yesterday, and I will not do it today.”
Dolores folded her arms and scowled at her newly transformed cousin. “Si, Arnoldo, you will.” They were alone in Teresa’s room. Arnie had spent the night there, rather than sleep in her old room with her brother -- or with Dolores and her sisters.
“Why should I?” Arnie frowned back.
“Because, today we are going to visit your mother -- which you _also_ would not do yesterday. _Then_ we are going to Mass to pray for her. Do you not want to pray for your mother?”
“Of course, I do.” The anger flowed out of her, and she looked down at the floor. Then her defiance rallied. “But I can pray for her from right here.”
“Si,” Dolores conceded reluctantly, “but she still wants to see you.” She paused a beat. “Not only that, but I think that she wants to forgive her _idiota_ of a son for what he did.”
Arnie started. “Her son? Then she does not know what happened to me?”
“No, that is something for _you_ to tell her.”
The younger girl sighed. “You are right, it is. But must I tell her so soon?”
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes,” she whispered, then quickly added, “but not for me. She... how will... she... how can she take the terrible news so soon after being hurt?”
“Your mama is a strong woman. And she will want to know.”
“Because she is so sick, and because what has happened, will be such a great shock, I must _not_ show myself to her in a dress. I must make myself look as much like the son she knew as possible, until she has had time to accept what has changed. After she has, I will do what I must to make her feel better.” Then the girl’s look became stern again. “What Mama most needs is not for you to say.”
Dolores frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are right. But I know without Teresa saying it, she would not want you to go to church looking so strange.”
“No,” Arnie began. “But I will not go to church today. I am not ready to be seen like this in so public a place.”
“Arnie!”
“Mother used to complain how little Papa went to Mass. Are you saying my father is not in Heaven because he could not go to church every Sunday?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then after you and the children have returned from services, we shall go to see mother.”
Dolores shook her head. Considering Arnoldo’s state of mind, it would be a mistake to provoke a family row at this time. Everyone was under too great a strain. For her unfortunate cousin’s own good, she needed to be guided out of her state of shame and grief as quickly as possible, but Dolores knew that she could not drive the boy -- the girl -- into a calm acceptance of G-d’s will with a harangue.
* * * * *
Jessie sat quietly in bed next to Paul, while he read Hanna’s letter. “Can we go?” she asked as soon as he was finished. “Can we?”
“You’re talking about taking off almost two weeks. That’s a lot of time. A lot of money, too. I don’t think Shamus’ll pay you for not being here to sing. I _know_ Dan won’t pay me if I take that much time off.”
Jessie pouted. “Well, if you don’t think I’m worth it...” She let the words trail off.
“I never said that. We certainly enjoyed ourselves coming back here from the Tyler’s -- that last night anyway.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “And I’ve got a feeling --” He stopped abruptly as her hand stroked his thigh. “A _very_ _good_ feeling -- that we’d enjoy ourselves even more on this trip.”
“I think I can _guarantee_ that we would.” Her voice was a sultry purr.
“Well, then... you ask Shamus about going, and I’ll talk to Dan, and we’ll see what they say. Okay?”
“Fine by me. Let’s just wait a while before we do.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And what do you think we should do while we wait?”
“Oh, I got an idea or two.” She giggled and ran a finger along the length of his cock. “Seems like you got a idea, too, a real _big_ idea.” She giggled again. “I like it when you get _ideas_ like that.”
* * * * *
Dolores peeked through the half-opened door to Doc Upshaw’s small infirmary. “Teresa,” she whispered, “are you awake?”
“Dolores,” came the answer, almost like a moan, “is that you?”
The younger woman walked in, “Si, how are you feeling today?”
Teresa’s head was propped up on a pillow. Both the top and bottom ends of her bed were raised. Her right arm and right leg were in casts, elevated even higher by a system of weights and pulleys. “Not too bad... lonely. Are the children here with you?”
“The doctor said that you were not ready for so many visitors all at once. I will bring the others by later, one at a time, but first...” She stopped, not certain what to say next.
“First? Who -- what is first? What is wrong, Dolores?” Her voice, still weak, became strangled. Teresa recovered her breath and asked, “What are you not telling me?”
Arnie closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath before stepping into the room. “She is not telling you about me... Mama.”
“Mama?” Teresa stared at the stranger for a moment. Then her eyes widened. “You!”
“Yes, Mama.”
Teresa cringed, though her casts and suspension hardly allowed her to move at all.
“Santa Maria!” the injured woman exclaimed.
Dolores’ expression changed, too, and she turned in surprise to take a good look at her cousin.
Arnie didn’t notice, but shook her head vigorously at her mother’s reaction. “No, Mama. It is me, Arnie, your…son. It was the…potion.”
“Wha...?” Her eyes widened, as she realized who this stranger was. “Arnoldo?” The girl nodded. “No, it cannot be.” Teresa tried to shake her head, but her sore neck made her wince with pain. “The Judge, he--he said that you would not be punished.”
Arnie looked away, not able to meet her mother’s eyes. “He did not punish me. I-I did this to myself. By mistake,” she quickly added.
“Why? What would make you…” Her voice wavered. “...do _that_?”
“I-I was... ashamed. I ran away. Seá±ora Molly let me sleep in the bar. But I...I could not sleep. I-I took something that -- that I thought would help, would _make_ me sleep.” She gave a wry chuckle. “It did not help. No, it... the potion changed me into... _this_.” She gestured at herself with one hand, looking down, unable to meet her mother’s eyes.
Teresa reached out with her left arm. “Oh, Arnoldo!” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Mama!” Arnie staggered to the bed and knelt down beside it. Now she, too, was crying.
Teresa stroked her son’s -- her new daughter’s -- head. “You will see. It will... _we_ will be all right. The face you have been given. It must be a…very good sign.”
Arnie looked up, red-eyed and confused.
“W-What about my face?”
“Dulcito,” said Dolores from behind her, “you have the face and form of Our Lady of Guadalupe from that medallion I gave you."
Arnie made the sign of the cross. “Dios mio!”
* * * * *
Jessie and Paul walked down the steps to the saloon arm in arm. “I’ll see you later,” he told her.
“You better,” Jessie said, moving in closer to him. “And here’s something t’make sure of it.” She put her arms around him and kissed him deeply.
Paul pulled her even closer, and she felt her body pressing against his. When they finally parted, he smiled and said, “Count on it -- if that’s what I can expect.” He kissed her again, on the forehead this time, and headed towards the exit.
Jessie stood, watching him until he passed through the swinging doors. She sighed and walked over to take a seat at the bar.
“A good morning to ye, Jessie,” Shamus greeted her. “What’s left of it. Jane should be bringing out the Free Lunch in a just wee bit.”
“Thanks, Shamus. I did sort of... uh, work up an appetite.” Jessie felt her cheeks warm in a blush, as she spoke. “While I’m waiting, can I ask you something?”
“I don’t see why not -- unless ye’re asking for a raise.”
“The opposite -- sort of. I was wondering about taking some time off.”
“And might I be asking why ye need it?”
Jessie took Hanna’s letter out of the small pocket in her gray skirt. “I told you about them folks I met when I-I... ran off.”
“When ye tried t’escape, ye mean. Aye, some farmers, the... the Tylers, ye said. Ye saved the mother’s life, as I recall.”
“I did. And I got to know them pretty good. The daughter -- Hanna -- she’s getting married in June. Here’s her letter.” She handed it to him. “She wants me t’come. In fact, she wants me _t’sing_ at the wedding.”
Shamus skimmed over the letter. “Ye and that ‘handsome Mr. Grant’, I see. How long do the two of ye figure t’be gone?”
“Four days each way, and a couple more for the wedding, about a week and a half, I’d say, two weeks on the outside.”
Shamus’ expression soured. “I don’t like ye being away that long, and I’m thinking that Dan Talbot ain’t gonna be happy about Paul going.” He took a breath, watching her reaction. “But then, I’m also thinking of the grand time we’ll be having here the night ye come back. Besides, me Molly’d probably read me the riot act if I was t’be saying no.” He slammed the top of the bar. “All right, ye can go. In fact, I’ll even be giving ye a bottle of whisky for toasting the happy couple.”
“Thanks, Shamus.” She reached across the bar and hugged him.
Shamus broke free. “We’ll be having none of that or Molly’ll _really_ be reading me the riot act.”
* * * * *
Trisha studied the vase of flowers on the table. “I think these are ready to be thrown away.” She pulled the flowers from the vase and started towards the garbage can near the sink.
“What are you doing, Trisha?” Kaitlin asked. “Those flowers aren’t wilted yet.”
Trisha’s expression soured. “They didn’t look so good to me.”
“They didn’t look good to you the day Liam brought them, did they?”
“No... no, they didn’t. What right has he got to be giving flowers to my wife?”
“He was just being polite, that’s all.” She sighed. “Besides, we really aren’t man and wife any more, are we?”
“I-I still like to think that we are.”
“Do you? Were you thinking of me when you let that man maul you at the dance last week?”
“That was... I-I was drunk. I told you that.”
“And I believed you. I still do, but you can’t be jealous of Liam’s attentions towards me --”
“Who says I can’t?”
“I do. Trisha, we aren’t... what we used to be. Men are paying attention to you, too, even if you don’t like it.”
Trisha looked down at the floor, unable to meet Kaitlin’s eyes. Lord help her, she did like men’s attentions, especially when those attentions turned physical. She could hardly tell Kaitlin that. She still had trouble believing it herself.
“I know, but it seems so -- no, I don’t like it.”
“Maybe you don’t, but you’ve got to accept your new... _our_ new lives.”
“I’ll try, but I-I just can’t, not this fast, and, certainly I can’t accept Liam bringing you flowers for no reason.”
* * * * *
Monday, March 11, 1872
Yully ran over to where Emma was standing. She was leaning over, her hands braced on her legs, panting. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m... fine... thanks...” She straightened up. “Just a... little out of... breath.” She took a gulp of air. “Bert’s gotten... faster. I must’ve chased him... ha-halfway down the field and back before I-I knocked the ball away.”
Yully looked at her closely. She looked -- he wasn’t sure -- different somehow, but it was a _nice_ difference. “I guess so,” he told her, “but Jorge’s got the ball now, so let’s go.” He took one last look at Emma before running towards Jorge Ybaá±ez, the captain of the team he and Emma were on this week. A _very_ nice difference.
‘He _noticed_!’ Emma thought. She smiled as she chased after Yully. ‘That’s worth not being able to breath -- and besides, I can always loosen my new corset for the game tomorrow.'
* * * * *
Arnie pulled the laundry cart through the grass to the back door of the Gomez house. She looked through the stack of bundled clothes and found the four for Lucinda Gomez. Balancing carefully with the bundles, she stepped onto the porch and knocked on the back door.
“Si, who is there?” Lucinda stared through the window at the young woman on her porch.
Arnie wore her old, boy’s clothes, a brown shirt with rolled-up sleeves, so her hands were free, and jeans that had to be tied at the waist to keep from slipping far down on her now wider hips. “Your laundry, Seá±ora Gomez... from Teresa Diaz.”
“Where is Teresa, and who are you?” Lucinda asked, standing in the open doorway.
“Ma -- uh... she was hurt, a broken arm and leg. I am helping out until she is better.”
“Hurt, eh?” Lucinda frowned. “No doubt her no-good son, Arnoldo, had something to do with that. People do talk.”
Arnie wanted to argue, but -- she knew in her heart -- it _had_ been her fault. “In a way...”
“Well, at least, she has you -- whoever you are -- to help. What do I owe her for my laundry?”
Arnie looked at her order sheet. “Three dollars even, seá±ora.”
The older woman counted out the money and handed it to Arnie, who handed her the bundles in exchange. “Gracias, seá±ora.”
“And this is to be cleaned.” She stepped back into the house for a moment before returning with a burlap sack stuffed with clothes. “Can you have these back on Friday?”
Arnie put the sack in her cart. “Si, they will be done and back to you when you ask.” She wrote “Lucinda Gomez” and “Friday” on a tag and pinned it to the sack.
“Gracias, and please tell Teresa that I hope she is better very, very soon.”
Arnie nodded. “I will.” She turned and started walking towards the next house on her list.
“Oh, seá±orita,” Lucidna Gomez suddenly called.
“Yes, seá±ora?”
“Why are you dressed that way?” She smiled. “Certimente, it cannot be because you have no clean clothes at home.”
“No, seá±ora,” Arnie replied with a forced grin, but didn’t say anything more.
The girl continued on her way. The Gomez house had been her fourth stop. Each customer had paid for their laundry, and _each_ had given her more clothes to be cleaned. ‘And none of them guessed who I was,’ she recalled with relief as she drew the cart along, down the street behind her.
* * * * *
“So, Stephan,” Yully asked, taking a bite of his sandwich, “How’d your folks take t’you hiding out for a week?”
Stephan looked at his friends sitting around the table and sighed. “Ma kept crying and hugging me. She went on and on ‘bout how scared she was and how much she missed me and how glad she was that I came back.”
“And your pa, how’d he take it?”
Stephan grimaced, as if in pain. “He wupped the tar out of me Saturday morning. I couldn’t sit down without it hurting till supper last night.”
“How terrible.” Ysabel was sitting next to Stephan. She gently put her hand on his arm.
“He’s more set than ever on me being a preacher.” Stephan took a breath. “And he all but ordered me not to be friends with Yully any more. If he knew how you all helped me, he’d probably have pulled me outta school.”
Yully chuckled. “That’d be a reason _to_ tell him.”
“And be home with him all day? _No_, thank you.”
“What are you gonna do?” Emma asked. “You ain’t gonna give in and _be_ a preacher, are you?”
“Not if I can help it. I’ll... I’ll think of something.” He tried to smile. “Or maybe one of you’ll think of something for me.”
Ysabel sighed. “I hope so, but do not count on me -- not for now, anyway.”
“Si,” Tomas said. “My Mama heard about your Mama getting hurt. She wanted me to ask if she could do anything to help out. I want to help, too, if I can.”
Yully nodded. “We all do.”
“Just ask,” Stephan added. He patted her hand.
The girl smiled, her eyes glistening. “Th-thank you. It -- so much has happened to me -- to my family.”
“Yeah, my Pa told us ‘bout how those men tricked your brother into helping them try to rob his office. Arnoldo’s lucky that he isn’t in jail with them.”
Ysabel looked down at the table. “Maybe... maybe she is not so lucky.”
“She?” Emma echoed.
Ysabel looked up, dismayed at her slip of the tongue. After a moment’s hesitation, she opened her lips to make denial, but nothing came out of them.
“You don’t mean she drank that stuff — ?”.
“I should not talk about it. Arnoldo would not like it.”
“What happened?” asked Tomas.
“It is a Diaz family matter,” Ysabel answered. “It is not for me to say.”
“Ysabel,” Emma began slowly, “do you _really_ mean that Arnie is a…she?”
“I….” Ysabel began, then seemed to shrink into herself. “Si, she drank the same _stuff_ that you drank, Emma.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?” asked Yully.
Ysabel grimaced and answered slowly. “The potion. He thought it was something else. It was dark. He was worried and sleepy, I think, and could not see the bottle clearly. He -- it... it is complicated, but, yes, he is now a girl.”
“What’s he -- she -- gonna do?” Yully asked.
“He--_She_ is going to run Mama’s laundry business till Mama is well again. After that…” She shrugged. “I do not know.”
“I…I guess she’s not going to be turning back again. We know that much.”
“Stephan!” exclaimed Emma.
“Sorry.”
Ysabel’s expression soured. “No... she will not turn back. Right now, she is just -- mira, I did not mean to tell you about her. Can you -- all of you -- promise not to tell anybody else about this? Please?”
“‘Course, you can,” Yully replied. He raised his right hand. “We promise... Don’t we...” He stared down the others, who all quickly raised their hands. “...We _all_ promise not to say anything about what happened to Arnie.”
The rest of the group all repeated Yully’s words. “Till Ysabel says we can,” he added.
“Till Ysabel says we can.” No one spoke after that. While they ate their lunch, they were all thinking, especially Stephan.
* * * * *
“This seat taken?” Cap asked.
The players at the table all looked to Bridget. “Take a chair,” she answered coldly. “We’ll deal you in for the next hand.”
“Thanks.” He sat down to watch the hand in play.
Joe Kramer bet a quarter. Jerry Domingez matched that and added twenty-five cents more. Bridget folded. Stu Gallagher was already out. Joe and Jerry fought over the pot for another round before Jerry won it with three 7s.
“Five card stud,” Stu Gallagher announced, gathering up the cards. “Ante up, everybody. You, too, Cap.” He shuffled the deck. Everyone, Cap included, put in a dime and Stu began to deal.
A few rounds later, Cap won a hand with just a pair of 8s, successfully bluffing Bridget, who held two pair, 9s over 4s. “Typical,” she muttered, pushing the pot to him.
“Can I ask you to do something for me, Bridget?” Cap asked.
Bridget frowned. “What?”
“Call it, heads or tails.” He suddenly flipped a quarter into the air.
Taken by surprise, Bridget blurted out, “H-Heads.” The coin landed, showing a full-figured, seated Liberty.
“Heads it is,” Cap announced. “You win. I have to buy you dinner tomorrow night.”
“What? We never had any such bet.”
“Then why’d you call out ‘heads’ like you did?” He grinned. “You aren’t going to make a welcher out of me, are you?”
“But --”
“Oh, go ahead and say yes,” Joe told her, “so we can get back to the game.” The other players nodded in agreement.
Bridget sighed. “All right, _Mr._ _Lewis_, but may I say that you are the most exasperating man I have ever known.”
“Thank you,” Cap answered with a nod of his head. He grinned, adding a quick wink. “I try.”
* * * * *
Nestor Stone unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over a chair. “Stephan Yingling was in school today.”
“What about it?” his older brother, Yully, asked, wriggling into his nightshirt.
Their younger brother, Aggie, chimed in. “You ask him about that big secret of yours? You said you would.”
“I... uh, no,” Yully stammered. “I... ah, I didn’t get a chance to. I-I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“You better,” Nestor said firmly, “or we tell Ma and Pa you been using that tree t’sneak outta here at night.”
Yully frowned. “I said I will, and I will. But it’s a _big_ secret, and he may wanna think about it for a day or two.” He didn’t like the idea of telling the others that they might have to give up the secret of their underground fort.
“Thursday,” Nestor answered. “You got till Thursday night.”
And Aggie completed the thought. “Or Friday morning, we tell.”
“Thursday,” Yully agreed, hoping that the others would go along.
* * * * *
Tuesday, March 12, 1872
“Jessie?” Evan called from his studio as he heard someone on the stairs.
Jessie reached the top step and looked over to where he was sitting, eating something. “The same, and ready to pose.”
“You must excuse me,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “My last session went a bit long, and I wanted to have some lunch before our session.” Jessie saw the remnants of a chicken leg and an apple on his plate, as he stood up.
Jessie shrugged and walked over to the chair she was sitting in for her portrait. “That’s all right. I’ve had t’rush more’n one meal in my life.”
“May I at least offer you a glass of this Madeira by way of an apology? I was quite surprised to find such a fine vintage at Ortega’s store. It is an excellent year.”
“A bit early in the day for drinking, ain’t it?”
Ethan looked closely at Jessie. It was almost too much to believe that this delicious little blonde had ever been the vicious _male_ criminal she was purported to have been. Still, after Trisha, he was convinced. And curious about what bedding this one would be like.
“One doesn’t _drink_ Madeira. One sips it, allows it to... linger on the tongue, to flow down to the stomach like a gentle caress, and to feel the exquisite warmth it conveys throughout the body.” He spoke softly, trying to describe something more than the partaking of a fine liquor.
“Ahh... thanks, but no thanks. I’m just here t’get my picture painted.” She didn’t think he was just talking about wine.
“And it shall be painted, Jessie.” He smiled oddly at her. “You shall receive my finest... attention.” He gestured with his right hand towards a nearby chair. “Now, please sit down and pick up your guitar.”
Jessie smoothed her dress, the tight blue one that she often performed in. It was cut too low for a chemise and displayed the whiteness of her shoulders and the rounded tops of her breasts. She took her seat and picked up her guitar, as if to play.
“No, no,” Ethan said, shaking his head. “Your hands, you were holding them differently during the last session.”
She moved her hands. “Like this?”
“No, more like... let me show you.” He came around behind her. “You held the hand a bit lower, more... between your legs. That allowed for a better view of your enticing bosom. And your hands...” He reached around to move her hands. As he did, he moved forward.
Jessie felt the warmth of his body pressed against hers. She shivered as his breath flowed across her bare skin.
Just as Enoch Ryland’s breath had done.
“That’s it!” She stood up abruptly.
Ethan was truly surprised. “Jessie, what... whatever is the matter?”
“What’s the matter? Ethan, you been trying t’get into my drawers since the first time I came over here. Mostly it was little jokes, and I could let ‘em pass. But today... today, you’re going too far.”
He decided on a tactical -- a tactful -- retreat for the moment. “I fear that you have misunderstood me, Jessie. You are, indeed, a beautiful woman, but I was merely trying to compliment you with a bit of harmless flirtation.” He gave her his most charming smile. The hunt was clearly ended this day, but it might yet be _properly_ concluded. These “potion girls” were a treat worth pursuing.
“Maybe you think they’re harmless, but I don’t,” Jessie continued. “I got a man, Paul Grant, the deputy sheriff -- yeah, the _deputy_ _sheriff_ -- and I get all the... compliments I need from him.”
He’d seen the deputy, a formidable-looking former cowhand. It was a threat worth considering. “Then he is a most fortunate gentleman.”
She smiled tightly. “He is, and I’m lucky t’have him.” She waited a beat. “All I’m here for is so you can do a picture of me for Shamus. You try anything -- _anything_ -- and that’s over. I’ll tell Shamus he can forget about his picture, and I’ll tell him why. That’ll probably kill the picture you’re doing of Laura and Jane, too.”
“No, I’ll... I’ll behave.” No sex, no matter how good _or_ how unique, was worth the loss of a commission. And “The Fates” painting, he’d wanted to do it for years. “I promise.”
“You better. ‘Cause I’d tell Paul, too. Then there won’t be no more problems. He’ll shoot your damned pecker off.”
Ethan used a yardstick as a prop -- and stood several feet away -- to show Jessie how to hold her hands. He managed to work on the portrait, but only on background. He found it hard to paint living detail when his hands were shaking so much.
* * * * *
“We got a problem,” Yully announced. As usual, the five friends were eating lunch together at a picnic table on the school grounds. “My brothers wanna know where Stephan was hiding. If I don’t tell them, they’ll tell my folks about my sneaking out last week.”
Stephan looked alarmed. “And you’d have t’tell them why -- and where. Last thing we need is for grown-ups to find out about the Fort.” He paused a beat. “Maybe we don’t have to tell ‘em the truth about where I was hiding. We could say I was hiding in -- I don’t know -- in some abandoned cabin or something. “
“That might work.” Tomas said. “There are more than enough empty cabins around here.”
Yully shook his head. “I don’t like the idea of lying to them. What if they want to see the cabin?”
“Can’t we just pick one and say that was it?” Emma asked.
Yully Shrugged. “Problem with that is, those cabin’s are out in the open. Wouldn’t somebody have seen Stephan and asked what he was doing there?”
“Maybe your brothers won’t think of that.” Emma said.
“Can’t be sure they won’t,” Yully answered sarcastically. “My brothers ain’t as dumb as they look, and they’d be sure t’tell my folks if they thought I’d lied to ‘em.”
Stephan looked like he’d just sucked a lemon. “You’re right, I think we have to tell them the truth, just to be safe.”
“Says the minister’s son,” Emma replied. “But even if we do, can we trust your brothers not to tell?”
“I think we can,” Yully replied, “Nestor, at least. Aggie’s kind of little yet.”
Emma thought for a moment. “How about we make it worth their while to keep quiet; how about, we let them join the club?”
Yully chuckled. “Oh, sure. Is there anybody else you wanna tell?”
“How about your sister?” Emma suggested. “I’d kind of like Penny to know, maybe even have her join up with us, too.”
“Si,” Ysabel said. “It would be nice to have another girl in the club, especially if we are going to let in more boys.”
Stephan groaned. “Anybody else any of you want?”
“Maybe your brother or sister, Stephan,” Yully suggested.
The other boy shook his head. “Matt’s too young. He’d be sure to tell Pa. And Ruth’d be even worse. She can’t keep a secret about anything.”
“If we’re gonna bring in more girls,” Emma said, “how about Ysabel’s sister, Constanza?”
The other lass sighed. “No, she... she is too young, I think.”
“She is _my_ age, Ysabel,” Tomas objected. “Do you think _I_ am too young?”
Ysabel held up her hands in surrender. “No, of course not. I-I am just not sure that she can keep a secret.” She took a breath, then quickly added, “Like Ruth Yingling.”
“Let’s just say nobody younger than Tomas or Constanza,” Stephan suggested.
Yully considered the idea. “That’d let in Nestor, he’s Tomas’ age -- and Penny -- but not Aggie. Lemme think about that.”
“How long till your brothers snitch on you?” Emma asked.
Yully sighed. “I gotta tell ‘em by Thursday night.”
“Okay,” Emma declared. “We’ll _all_ think about ‘em, about everybody we said, and we’ll vote at lunch on Thursday.”
“Done!” Stephan answered cheerfully, glad that things seemed resolved, and the others agreed.
* * * * *
“Must we do this?” Clyde Ritter asked, using a full-length wall mirror to tie his tie.
Cecelia Ritter gave her husband an angry look. “Yes, you must. You’re a pillar of this community, Clyde, successful merchant, civic leader, and soon-to-be member of the church board.”
The couple was in a side parlor off from Ethan Thomas’ second floor studio. He’d cleared it out for use as a changing room for his subjects. Only two chairs, the mirror, and an armoire, used to store clothes worn while posing, remained.
“Once we get Trisha O’Hanlan kicked off it, that is.” He slipped on his suit jacket.
She nodded. “Yes, and that happy day should come in May, just about the time this Thomas fellow finishes our portrait. We can have it hung as part of the celebration.” She stood up and bushed the front of her dress. “How do I look?”
“Uh... good, I suppose.” He posed near the mirror. “How about me?”
She studied him, looking for any flaws in his appearance. “Your tie isn’t centered, and that cowlick in your hair is still there.”
“How about now?” He shifted the knot on the tie. That done, he licked his palm and used it to push down his hair in the back. “Okay?”
“It’ll have to do.” She hustled out the door, with her husband close behind.
Ethan was waiting, standing next to an easel a few feet from the window. “Please have a seat, Mrs. Ritter.” He pointed to a heavy wooden chair nearby.
“Cecilia... please.” She walked over, smoothed he dress behind her, and sat in the chair.
Ethan smiled. “Cecelia.” He paused a beat. “And you, Mr. Ritter -- I know, you said to call you, Clyde -- Clyde, would you stand please behind her?”
“Directly behind her or to the side?” Clyde asked.
The painter shrugged. “Whichever way you think is best. This is _your_ portrait, after all.” As he spoke, he casually ran his finger across the bridge of his nose.
“The right then,” the other man replied. He took his place behind and just to the right of the chair. “And should I put my hand on her shoulder?” He raised his hand and ran a finger across his own nose before setting it gently on his wife’s shoulder.
Cecelia smiled and touched his hand with her own. “Is this all right?”
“It’s quite lovely,” Ethan answered, “but a rather awkward pose. It hides your figure and distracts somewhat from your face. Moreover, I believe that it would be uncomfortable for you to hold it there for as long as would be needed for the portrait. Might I suggest that you hold your hands together on your lap?”
She lowered her hand. “I suppose that would do.” She placed her hands as Ethan had directed.
Her husband smiled. “The very picture -- as they say -- of a dutiful wife.” His smile was more in response to the recognition that had passed between the two men than in posing with his wife. He hardly wanted Ethan to give any sign that they had met before. As patrons of _La_ _Parisienne_.
* * * * *
Dolores looked around. It was late afternoon, and the saloon was almost empty. Even Bridget was gone. She was upstairs, changing for the evening _and_ for dinner with Cap. “No one is thirsty just now,” she told herself and sat down on a stool.
“How’s Arnie taking to being a girl?” R.J. asked from behind the bar.
She sighed. “Not too well.”
R.J. nodded. "I’ve seen it all before. But I also saw Jessie giving Shamus a hug a couple days ago, just as sweet and natural as can be. And she used to be a man a lot rougher and tougher than poor Arnie ever was. She was teaching Arnie how to shoot, a while back. Maybe she can help her learn how to be a girl."
“Arnie has moved into Teresa’s bedroom. She says that she will not sleep with her sisters and me, and I will not let her sleep in the room with her brother.” She sighed. “I do not know what she will do when Teresa is well enough to come home from the doctor’s.”
R.J. considered the problem for a moment. “Why not let her stay where she is?”
“Sleep with her mother?”
“Teresa’s gonna need help for a while, what with a busted arm and leg. You’re over here -- part time, at least. Arnie’s the natural one to do it.”
“What do you mean ‘the natural one’?”
“A mother gets laid up, who’s the one that helps out? The oldest daughter, that’s who.”
“But Arnie is not... oh, _yes_, she is the oldest daughter now, isn’t she?”
“She surely is -- now. And maybe, just maybe, taking care of Teresa’ll get her used to the idea that she _is_ a girl. Like I said, I’ve seen it all before, and getting used to the idea is the best thing for her, believe me.”
“But would she do it?”
“I’ll bet she would, especially if you remind her that she’s the reason Teresa needs her help in the first place.”
“Si, she admits that the accident was her fault. I will tell her that taking care of Teresa would be the best way for her to apologize.”
“She’ll want to do that, I think, and helping Teresa may teach her something about what’s expected of a girl.”
“A wonderful idea.” She impulsively leaned across the bar and kissed R.J. on the cheek. “Thank you.”
His face reddened. “You’re -- you’re more than welcome.” He looked around quickly. “And you’re welcome to thank me like that anytime you like. Just don’t let Bridget see you do it.”
* * * * *
Cap walked over to Bridget’s table. “You ready?” he asked her.
“Don’t I look ready?” she answered sourly. It was early. Her daytime game had broken up about a half-hour before, and none of her evening regulars had come in yet.
Cap watched her slowly rise to her feet. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, the roll of hair tied with two lacy, green ribbons. He smiled to see that she was wearing the earrings he had given her. Her dress was the same green as her hair ribbons, trimmed with lace at the bodice and cuffs. It was cut tight to accent her generous bosom and her narrow waist.
“You look beautiful,” he told her, “as always.” He offered her his hand. She stood up but didn’t take it. They walked through Shamus’ office into the yard.
Laura was waiting by the table. “Good evening, I’m your waitress tonight.” She put the menus down on their plates. “I’ll just give you a few minutes to decide,” she told them and quickly left.
Cap helped Bridget into her chair, then took his own across from her.
“Okay, Cap,” Bridget said, “you got me here. Now, what’d you want to talk about?”
“Look, Bridget, you have every right in the world to be mad at my uncle -- truth to tell, I’m mad at him, too, for the way he’s acted towards you. I’ve told him and told him how wrong he is, but he’s as stubborn as --”
“As I am? Don’t you think I’ve got a right to be stubborn after the way he’s acted?”
“Yes, and I was going to say that he’s as stubborn as _ever_.” He sighed. “Can you _please_ give me a chance to say what I want?”
“All right, what’s so important that you had to trick me into having dinner with you tonight?”
“This.” He pulled a small booklet from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it onto her plate.
She looked at it closely. “Your bankbook? I-I don’t understand.”
“Do you still want to play in my uncle’s game on Saturday?”
“You know I do. Only, I don’t have the -- wait a minute, Cap. We talked about this a long time ago. If I wouldn’t take a loan from you to open my own game, I’m sure as hell not taking a _bigger_ loan to get into that game your uncle’s running.”
Laura gave a warning “cough” as she walked towards them. “You two ready to order?”
“Hide it,” Cap whispered, gesturing towards the bankbook. Bridget nodded and slipped it onto her lap and out of sight.
Cap ordered for them both, baked chicken in a spicy sauce and mixed vegetables. He also asked for the bottle of wine that he’d had Shamus put aside. Laura wrote it down, took their menus, and left for the kitchen.
As soon as Laura was out of sight, Bridget handed the bankbook back to Cap. “So, thank you very much, sir, but no, thank you.”
“You took money from my uncle -- a grubstake -- to start your game. That’s exactly what I’m offering you now, a grubstake.”
“What do you mean?”
“A partnership; _I_ supply the cash to get you into the game, and _you_ supply the skill to win us a lot more cash -- especially my uncle’s, I hope.” He grinned when he mentioned his uncle. “And we’ll split the winnings 50-50.”
“Right, 50-50, plus I have to pay back my stake to you.”
“No, I’ll take that back as a part of my split.”
“Why? Why are you offering me a deal like this? How do I know that you and your uncle aren’t up to something?”
“My uncle be hanged,” he countered, letting the anger seep into his voice for just a moment before he continued. “Bridget, I, Cap -- Matthew... Matthew Harriman Lewis -- I... trust you...” He reached over and took her hand in his. “...very _very_ much. I know how much this game means to you, and I want you to play. Please believe that.”
He grinned again, though he didn’t let go of her hand. “_And_ I trust your skill enough to _know_ that, if you _could_ get into the game, you’d be a big winner.”
Bridget sighed. It seemed as if a great load had just fallen from her shoulders, even if she didn’t know exactly why. “Let me think about your offer for a day or so. _Please_. This is such a generous offer, and I --”
“Take a day. Take all the time you want, up till the game starts on Saturday, anyway.”
She smiled, almost in spite of herself. ‘Either he’s telling the truth,’ she told herself, ‘or he’s gotten a lot better at bluffing.’ Maybe she should accept the offer, going along but watching for any traps Abner Slocum might set in her path. In the meantime, Cap needed some sort of answer.
“Thank you, Cap,” she answered, "whichever way I decide. You’re a good man -- and a good friend -- and I’m sorry to have been so out of sorts with you for so long.”
“You were angry, and rightly so.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, smiling when she didn’t pull it away. “I’m just glad that you aren’t angry any more, at least, not at me.”
He had a nice smile, and she hoped, wistfully, that what he was telling her _was_ true.
* * * * *
Wednesday, March 13, 1872
Ethan studied the play of light on the curves of Jane’s body. ‘Lovely,’ he thought, applying a bit of darker red to shade one portion of her arm. “You told me about being transformed into a woman, Jane, but you never stated how you felt about _being_ a woman.”
Jane grimaced and blinked. “I-I didn’t like it, not at first. After I served my time for kidnapping Laura, I went back up to my claim with Davy -- Davy Kitchner as my new partner. Him and me was dead sure that we was gonna find that color in the rock.”
“Davy Kitchner? Then, he was your first... friend?”
“First? No, him ‘n Toby ‘n me was friends up in Colo...” her voice trailed off as she realized what Ethan meant. “Oh, oh, no. It-it wasn’t like that. In fact, I made him my partner ‘cause he _didn’t_ make me feel all girly.”
“But something occurred up there -- at your claim, I mean.”
“Oh, yeah, Ozzie Pratt come up t’try ‘n steal my claim. He was gonna shoot me ‘n Davy unless I signed half over t’him. He wanted me as part of the deal, too. Davy grabbed his gun and told me t’run.” Her expression soured. “Ozzie shot him in the leg and come after me.”
“Astounding. Might I assume that you somehow eluded this Mr. Pratt?”
“Sorta. Milt Quinlan was worried about for me. He come up with some other folks, and they was waiting outside. When I run out, they pulled me away, and, when Ozzie come out, Milt...” She giggled. “...he decked Ozzie with one punch.”
Ethan tried to hide his surprise. “One punch?”
“Uh huh. Then he tells me he don’t want me t’stay up on that mountain, and, when I asked him why, he...” She gave him a dreamy smile. “...kissed me. He’s a _good_ kisser.” She sighed. “And _that’s_ when I decided that I liked being a gal... if I could be Milt’s gal.”
Ethan had noticed Quinlan talking with Jane at the Saloon, but he’d never given much thought to the type of relationship that they might have. The man obviously had feelings for Jane, and, more important, he was both capable and willing to commit violence in her behalf.
“That’s quite a story.” Ethan wasn’t afraid of a fight, but he wasn’t about to go looking for one. ‘There are other fish in the sea,’ he told himself, ‘and more than a few are easily landed. Scratch the lovely Jane from the list.’
After Jane had left, he considered his other possibilities for sexual liaison. “Those ‘potion girls’ are a special treat,” he thought aloud, “a local delicacy that cries out to be savored.” He chuckled wryly to himself. “Too bad so many of them are already on someone else’s plate. Jessie has that deputy she threatened me with, and Jane dotes on her lawyer.”
“Who were the others?” he reflected. “Oh, yes, Bridget -- like a luscious, strawberry meringue. Unhappily, that barman -- R.J. -- is always hovering about, trying for a taste. I don’t believe he’s partaken of the wench, as yet, but they both know that he’s well ahead of me in line.”
The mention of food made him contemplate … “Maggie. What was it Omar Khyam said about how similar are the delights of the feast table and the bed? No matter, the sweet tamale is one of those ‘all business’ types. And so is that sturdy young man she is engaged to -- engaged _with_, quite likely, and she would be unwilling to consider a brief assignation with another.”
“Now Trisha, she was hardly ‘all business’ and, despite her denials, a woman happily bedded once is likely to be willing to be bedded again.” He chuckled again. “Except I don’t even know her last name, let alone where I might find her. I can hardly go looking for her, but if I do encounter her, I shall most certainly endeavor to take advantage of the opportunity for another coupling.”
He sighed. “Which brings me back to Wilma -- wanton, willing Wilma. Ah, but she wants sex on _her_ terms, and that will hardly do. A little more curing time, like a sweet Easter ham, is needed, and she will be a feast well worth waiting for.”
“If only Laura weren’t with child... _and_ husband,” he considered as a final notion, “a threesome with identical twins like her and Jane might almost be worth all the risks.”
* * * * *
“What’s the damage?” Mike Schmidt asked.
Trisha looked at the order slip she’d filled out. “Two fifty-pound bags of timothy and a bottle of the sorghum treatment.” She hit the register for each item, as she spoke. “That’ll be...” She hit the total key. “$11.35.”
The man handed her a $20 double eagle. When she gave him his change, she added, “Thanks for your business, and you have a good day.”
“You, too.” He hefted one of the sacks over his shoulder and headed for the door.
Milt Quinlan had been standing near the counter. “May I speak to you for a moment, Trisha?”
“Sure, Milt. What can I do for you?”
“I came in to remind you about Friday.”
“Friday? What’s...?” Her eyes widened, and her expression changed from a storekeeper’s friendliness to one of total dismay. “Oh... yeah, the -- the... divorce.” She spoke softly, as if not wanting to hear herself say the word. “That’s when the time’s up, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid that it is.” He gently put his hand on her arm. “Can you and Kaitlin be at the Judge’s chambers -- his office, that is -- at 4 PM?”
“Could... could we make it... earlier? The store can get awful... awful...” She felt her eyes fill with tears. She shook her head, fighting down what she was feeling. The end of her marriage had always been _sometime_ off in the future. Now it was coming in just a few days.
She tried to continue. “...awful b-busy late on Fridays, the-the weekend, you kn-know.” She sighed. “Be-besides, I’d... I’d j-just as soon get it... get it d-done and...” She took a deep breath. “...done and over with.”
“I understand. Is 11 AM better?” When she nodded, he continued. “Fine. I’ll meet you there.” He paused a beat. “And Trisha...”
“Yes?”
“I’m very sorry.” He handed her his handkerchief.
She dabbed at her eyes. “That makes three of us.”
* * * * *
“Don’t you go taking the last of that chicken.”
Jessie set her fork down next to the meat tray on the “Free Lunch” table and turned around. “Wilma, what’re you doing here?”
“I could say that I come in here t’see you, little sister, but, truth to tell, I just finished a session posing for Ethan, and I thought I’d stop by and have some of Maggie’s cooking for lunch.” She stabbed a couple of slices of the chicken with a fork and moved them onto her own plate. “I gotta admit, I worked up an appetite posing.”
“Mmm,” Jessie said wryly, “I’ll just bet you did.” She giggled. “I’ll bet you n’him both did.”
Wilma cocked an eyebrow. “What’re you saying, Jess?”
“He was trying real hard t’get into my pants -- at least till I threatened t’sic Paul on him. I just figured he done the same t’you, and we both know that you ain’t one t’say, ‘no’ to doing such things.”
Wilma forced herself not to react. ‘Jessie, too, that dirty, no-good...’ She managed a happy smile. “Well, you figured right, Jess.” She decided to bluff. “You want details?”
“N-no, thanks.” Jessie blushed. “How you been... otherwise?”
“Happy.” She _was_ happy -- if only because Jessie had changed the subject.
* * * * *
Red Tully walked into the Saloon and over to the table where Bridget and R.J. were finishing lunch.
“Hey, Red,” R.J. said. “What brings you in here this time of day?”
Bridget took a quick sip of lemonade to clear her mouth. “If you’re looking for a poker game, I’ll be ready to play in about five minutes.”
“Not exactly,” the wrangler replied. “I come into town to pick up some gear Mr. Slocum ordered from Styron’s hardware. When he told me to come get it, he said I should check with you about that poker game on Saturday. You gonna be his dealer, like he asked?”
Bridget took another, longer sip, stalling for time. “I, ah... I haven’t decided yet. Tell him... tell him, I’m sorry, and I’ll give him my answer, umm... tomorrow. I-I promise.”
“I’ll tell him.” Red said with a shrug, “but he ain’t gonna be too happy about having t’wait.” He glanced over to the bar.
Shamus was on duty. He looked back at Red and raised an empty beer stein, as if asking a question.
“Might as well take advantage,” Red nodded back. “See you,” he told the pair. He turned and started walking. Shamus was putting the now-full stein down on the bar by the time Red reached it.
R.J. watched Red for a moment, then turned back to Bridget. “Why didn’t you just tell him you were going to be the dealer instead of making him wait one more day?”
“After all the grief Abner Slocum’s given me, he can wait one more day,” Bridget answered. “Besides, I haven’t decided for sure that I will be his dealer.”
“Of course, you will. Why’re you even thinking about it?”
“Because I...” She had decided not to tell him about Cap’s offer. “...I may want to do something else.”
R.J. shook his head. “Just like a woman. What else could you want to do? If you aren’t the dealer, you aren’t going to take the night off and go to bed early. You’ll still be down here watching the game.”
“I’d like to be down here _playing_ in the game.”
“Too bad, but you can’t. It’s kind of a shame.”
“Well, thank you, at least, for that.”
“You’re welcome. I’m really sorry you can’t. It might’ve helped.”
“Helped? Helped what?”
“Helped get the idea of being a professional poker player out of your system. You play in a game like that -- even if you don’t win — and you’ve got nothing left to prove.” He grinned. “You can settle down with a certain assistant barman of my acquaintance.”
“Or not,” she said firmly, putting on her best poker face. “On the meantime, I think I’ll set up my game now.” She rose and walked slowly over to the southeast-corner table she used for poker.
R.J. watched her leave. ‘Still upset about not being able to play,’ he thought. ‘I don’t blame her, but I do like the little extra... _something_ it puts into her walk when she’s angry.’
* * * * *
Liam glanced over to the counter. Trisha sat behind it, gazing down at the floor, looking miserable, as she had since she’d talked to Milt Quinlan. ‘Gotta do something about her,’ he thought. He considered the situation for a moment, then spoke. “Trisha, we aren’t too busy right now. Why don’t you head over to Wells Fargo to check on that shipment of seed catalogs, we’ve been expecting?”
“Wha... catalogs?” Slowly, she realized what he was asking. “Oh, ahhh... sure. I’ll... I’ll go check.” She stood up and walked out the door and onto the wooden sidewalk.
She’d gone perhaps fifty yards, head down, as if counting boards, when she heard a voice in front of her. “Why, a very good afternoon to you, Miss O’Hanlan.”
“Who?” She looked up to see the broad smile of Ethan Thomas. A small shiver ran through her, her body remembering what they had done the last time they were together. “G-Good afternoon, Eth... Mr. Thomas.”
“It certainly is now. I was just making my way to purchase some turpentine at Styron’s hardware. Would you care to accompany me? After that errand, we could adjourn back to my studio to resume that delightful conversation we were having the other day.” He smiled and offered her his arm.
It wasn’t _conversation_ he was offering. She felt a tremble of anticipation. Her nipples grew tight against the soft muslin of her camisole. ‘Sex would be _so_ nice,’ she thought. ‘To feel good... happy for even just a little while; to not have to think about Kaitlin and the divorce, it’s just what -- _he’s_ just what I --’
Then she remembered.
“No! No, thank you, Mr. Thomas. I’m on an errand for my own business --”
“Oh, and what business is that? Perhaps I could call on you there at the end of the day. We could have a bit of dinner, perhaps, then adjourn to my studio for a lengthier… _discussion_.”
The warmth, the tingling in her breasts was matched by a warmth -- and an emptiness -- between her legs. “Say, ‘yes’, her body urged. ‘Kaitlin will never know.’ She answered herself at once, even if she did hate the answer she had to give. ‘Maybe Kaitlin won’t, but _I_ will.’
“I’m afraid not, Ethan. I promised... I promised many things.” Including the promise she had made to Kaitlin that she would behave. For Emma’s sake as much as her own. And there was the small matter of keeping her chair on the church board.
He smiled. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps, but I think not.” She hurried off, head-down again. As she walked, she tried not to think of his smile. Or his manly chest, covered with short brown curls, and how those curls had felt against her bare skin. Or the way his throbbing manhood had --
‘No, Trisha,’ she scolded herself, ‘don’t you _dare_ think about that.’
She walked so fast that she also missed seeing Cecelia Ritter, who had watched the exchange from inside the door of Ortega’s grocery. “That seemed polite enough,” Cecelia whispered softly, “but Mr. Thomas is such a handsome man. I wonder where he knows her from?”
* * * * *
Thursday, March 14, 1872
“Okay,” Yully said, trying to sound official. “Now that we ate, it’s time t’consider the new recruits for Fort Secret.”
Emma raised a confused eyebrow. “Recruits?”
“Si,” Ysabel answered. “It’s Thursday, we’re gonna decide who we tell about the Fort.”
The other girl nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. I-I guess I got other things on my mind?”
“Something wrong?” Yully asked.
“Nothing you can help with.” Emma sighed. “Nothing _I_ can help with. Let’s... let’s just decide about the Fort.”
Ysabel gently put her hand on Emma’s arm. “Are you sure?”
“It’s... it’s my folks -- I-I can’t explain it more than that.”
“If you ever do want to talk about it,” Ysabel told her,” I am here.”
“We all are,” Tomas added.
Emma tried to smile. “Thanks. That does help.” She took a breath. “But we’d better get going on those names before lunch break is over. Who’s first?”
“Let’s do all of Yully’s,” Stephan said. “They’re most of the names, anyway.”
Yully frowned. “If it bothers you, Stephan, that Nestor, Aggie, and Penny are all possibilities, we could put up Ruth and Matthew.”
“I wish,” Stephan answered. “I wish. But I still think Matthew’s too young, and I _know_ that Pa would worm the secret outta Ruth in no time flat.”
Tomas stiffened. “Just so you do not think that I am also ‘too young’.”
“I... _We_ trust you, Tomas,” Yully said, “and I think we can trust Nestor --”
“And my sister, Constanza,” Ysabel added.
“Her, too,” Yully continued. “But I go along with Stephan that we shouldn’t let in anybody younger than you.”
“What about your brother, Aggie?” Emma asked. “You said he’d tell your folks if you didn’t let him in.”
Yully shook his head. “I think I can handle Aggie, especially with Nestor helping.”
“And Penny,” Ysabel declared. “She can help, too.”
Yully laughed. “And Penny.” He considered what they’d been saying. “Sounds t’me like it’s settled. We got three new members, Nestor, Penny, and Constanza. Everybody agree?” The others nodded.
“Let’s do it,” Emma said. “I don’t think we can get many more into the Fort at one time, anyway.”
“I think I’ll tell Aggie that.” Yully said. “It’s as good a reason as any for having an age limit.”
“You tell them what you want,” Ysabel replied. “I will tell that to Constanza, as well.”
Miss Osbourne chose that moment to step out onto the schoolhouse steps and ring the bell to signal the start of afternoon classes.
“Just in time,” Stephan said, packing away his lunch pail, “and Saturday morning, we’ll bring the three of ‘em to the Fort.”
* * * * *
A lone horseman rode up to the hitching post in front of Abner Slocum’s ranch house. Before he could dismount, two hounds raced towards him from the porch, barking as they ran. They stopped a few feet from the man’s horse, but continued to bark. “Shhh,” the man whispered to his horse, leaning down to pat its shoulder.
“Blue... Smokey, stop that!” Cap Lewis yelled, hurrying down the steps. “This man’s a friend.” He walked over and shook the rider’s hand. “Welcome to the Triple A Ranch, Colonel Hooker.”
The hounds backed off, and the man slowly dismounted. “Thanks, uhh, Cap, isn’t it?” The younger man nodded, and the older man looked about. “Is Abner around anyplace?”
“Right here, Colonel.” Slocum walked out to greet his guest. “Glad you could make it.”
Hooker laughed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Poker games with stakes like that don’t come down the pike every day.” He was a tall, muscular man with dark brown hair, graying around his ears; a square jaw; and high forehead.
“No, they surely don’t,” Slocum replied. He turned to Cap. “Matthew, would you please put the Colonel’s horse in a stall? Tell whoever’s in the barn to brush it down and make sure it’s got fresh fodder and plenty of water.”
Cap looked around, then pointed to man standing near the barn. “Couldn’t Carl do it, Uncle? I was about to head into town for you.”
“That errand?” When Cap nodded, Slocum called out to his employee. “Carl, could you come over here?”
The man hurried over. “What’s up, Mr. Slocom?”
“Carl, this is Colonel Henry C. Hooker, who you may have heard of. Colonel, this is Carl Osbourne, one of my best hands.” The rancher waited while the two men shook hands before he continued. “Carl, would you please take the Colonel’s horse over to the barn and see that he’s taken care of, _well_ taken care of?”
The cowboy took the reins from the Colonel’s hand. “Yes, sir. I’ll make sure that he gets brushed down; I’ll see he gets some oats and fresh water, too.”
“That’ll be fine. Thank you, Carl.” Hooker unclipped his saddlebags and threw them over his shoulder.
The ranch hand studied his boss’ face. “When I’m done, I’d like t’come back and talk to Mr. Hooker… if I can.” Glancing toward the visitor, he said, “I _have_ heard a lot about you, Colonel, and I’d like to hear more, if I get the chance.” He touched his hat and started for the barn, the horse walking slowly after him.
“Don’t you have enough chores to keep you busy, Carl?”
The cowhand grinned back over his shoulder. “Aw, now, Mr. Slocum, sir, you wouldn’t want t’deny ‘one of your best hands’ the chance to talk to a man like Colonel Hooker, would you?”
“No, I suppose I wouldn’t,” Slocum answered, chuckling. “I would like those chores done, though.”
Carl nodded. “And they will be. How ‘bout I come over after dinner t’talk.”
“That’s fine with me, if Abner here doesn’t mind,” Hooker answered.
Slocum shrugged. “It’s nice to be asked about something. You can come over then if you want. Right now, the first of those chores you’re trying to avoid is caring to the colonel’s horse. Why don’t you get started with that?”
“Right away.” Carl took the reins and led the mount towards the barn. “Just like the ‘best hand’ you said I am.”
Cap’s own horse was at the hitching post. He unhitched it and mounted quickly. “Now that you’ve settled things with Carl, I’m heading out, too. I’ll see you both in a bit.”
“See you later, then,” Slocum replied. Cap rode off, and his uncle turned to his guest. “Shall we head into the house?”
“Beats standing out here in the sun,” the Colonel answered. “Do I have time to clean up some before dinner?”
“You do -- more than enough time for a nice long soak, if you want,” Slocum answered. “I’ll take you upstairs right now.” The two men walked towards the house. The dogs, now quiet, trailed after them.
Slocum picked up the thread of the conversation. “I knew you couldn’t pass up my invitation, not after I sent the details of the game.”
“I always was a gambler, Abner.” He chuckled. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I got the money to buy my Sierra Bonita Ranch?”
“Can’t say that you have. You win it in some poker game, maybe?”
“Nothing that easy. I wrangled 500 turkeys -- a-yep, I said _turkeys_ -- across the Sierras from California to Carson City, me and a drover named Philo Webster.”
“Turkeys,” Abner let out a horselaugh. “Now that’s a story _I_ want to hear.”
“You will, but it’ll cost you. A bath first, to get rid of this trail dust, then you can ply me with some of that Madeira you mentioned in your letter.”
* * * * *
“Okay,” Ysabel asked, “What is the next problem?”
Emma read from her 8th grade math book, “Raymond is packing boxes for shipping. He can pack a large box in 10 minutes and a small box in 4 minutes. He needs to pack 10 large boxes and 20 small boxes. If 2.5 hours remain before closing time, will Raymond have time to finish the work before closing time if he works without stopping?”
“So,” Ysabel questioned her, “what do we need to know?”
“We gotta figure out how long it’ll take him to pack those boxes, right?”
“Si, start with the large boxes.”
“Okay, for the 10 large boxes it’s 10 times 10 minutes, 100 minutes.”
“And for the small boxes?”
“Those small boxes’ll take 20 times 4 minutes. That’s 80 minutes. And 100 plus 80 is 180 minutes, 3 hours.” Emma thought for a moment. “He can’t do it in time. _Now_ I understand.”
Ysabel looked at the small clock ticking over on a corner of her dresser. “I think we have time to do one more problem before supper.” Ysabel was invited to join Emma, Trisha, and Kaitlin for dinner, a reward for helping her friend catch up in mathematics. “But,” she said slowly, “we can study after the meal. I would rather take the time now to see your new corset.”
“My corset? I didn’t think you noticed I was wearing a corset.”
“I did.” She giggled. “More important, I think Yully noticed, too.”
“Now why should I care -- do you really think he did?”
“I think all the boys did, the older ones, at least. They’ve been gawking at you all week.”
Now Emma giggled. “Well, I do kinda have better posture in it.” She began to unbutton her blouse.
“It’s not your _posture_ the boys are looking at.” Both girls giggled now.
“Just so Yully’s one of them that’re looking.” Emma had finished with her buttons. She unbuttoned her blouse, pulled it out from her skirt, and set it carefully on her bed. Her corset was canary yellow, almost the same color as the ribbons she wore on the ends of her two hair braids.
Ysabel considered for a moment, while Emma posed, trying to look grown up. “Very pretty. It looks good on you.”
“Thanks. It was you that got me wearing yellow so much. I got another one just like it in pink. Ma don’t want me t’be wearing the same corset to school every day.”
“My Mama is the same way.” Ysabel studied her friend’s expression. “Do you mind wearing such garments?”
“I-I wasn’t too happy about it, but Ma said I needed one... for my...” She looked down at her breasts. “Then she reminded me about what the boys’d think and, well, it seemed like a good idea.”
“Si, I do not mind wearing mine so much, either; not when I see Stephan looking at me.” She giggled, and Emma joined in. They were still giggling and talking about the boys when Kaitlin called them down for supper.
* * * * *
“You’re going to have to teach me that Maverick solitaire game one of these days,” Cap told Bridget.
Bridget looked up from the cards spread across her table. “I can teach it to you now, if you like.” She glanced around the room -- just to be sure. “There doesn’t seem to be anybody here looking to play poker.”
“Later, maybe,” he said. “Right now, I’m looking for an answer.”
“An answer? What’s the question?”
“Two questions, actually, but only one answer between them. Whose offer are you taking for the game on Saturday, mine or Uncle Abner’s?”
She put on her best poker face. “Whose... mmm... I think... maybe...” She had to smile, seeing the confused look on his face. “Yours.” She offered him her hand. “Shall we shake on it?”
“If you like.” He shook her hand, then grinned, “but I’d rather seal our agreement with a kiss.” He was still holding her hand.
She smiled back. “Let’s keep things on a business basis for right now.”
“I mean business.” He leered at her for a moment, then raised her hand to his lips.
Bridget felt a warm, happy tingle run through her as he kissed it. “I’m sure you do.”
“I’ll prove that I do if you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night.” Before she could answer, he added, “By the way, how much money do you need?”
His abrupt change of subject startled her. “How... how much?”
“Yes, can you afford to put in anything towards that $1,000, or would you like me to loan you...” He hurried to correct himself. “...to _grubstake_ you for the full amount?”
“I-I can put in $250 -- more if I really need to.”
He shook his head. “No, whatever you’re comfortable with.” He took a quick look at his pocket watch. “Now that I have your answer, I have to get back to the ranch.”
“You’d best hurry then.” She looked over to Shamus’ wall clock. It was 3:27.
“I can’t go yet; not till you say if you’ll have supper with me tomorrow.” He winked.
She couldn’t help smiling. “Yes... now get going already!” She watched him leave and kept her smile until he was through the swinging doors of the Saloon.
* * * * *
Nestor Stone shifted his chair around, so he was facing his brother, Yully. “It’s Thursday night.”
“It’s still more like Thursday afternoon,” Yully answered, putting down his pencil. “But I know what I promised.”
Agamemnon Stone, their younger brother “Aggie,” turned his own chair around. “So... you gonna tell us where you went?”
“I am,” Yully said, “but I wanna tell Penny, too. Aggie, would you go get her?”
“Why should I? She don’t know nothing ‘bout what happened.”
Yully leaned back in his chair. “She’s _gonna_ know.”
“Go get her, Aggie,” Nestor told the other boy. “And make sure Ma ‘n’ Pa don’t hear you.”
Aggie rose to his feet. “I’ll go, but this better be good.” He hurried out the door, returning quickly with their sister.
“What’s going on?” Penny asked.
Yully stood and leaned back against his desk. “B’fore I say anything, I want you all t’promise not to tell anybody what I do say.”
“Anybody?” the girl asked. “Even Ma and Pa?”
“_Especially_ Ma ‘n’ Pa -- no grown-ups.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You promise -- cross your hearts and hope t’die?”
The three siblings looked at each other. “We promise,” Nestor said. Aggie and Penny agreed. They all raised their right hands. “Cross our hearts...” they each traced an “X” over their hearts with a finger. “...and hope t’die.”
“Good,” Yully told them. He stepped over to the open window. “Penny, ‘bout a week ago, I snuck out this window at night to see Stephan Yingling, while he was hiding out from his folks. Aggie and Nestor caught me coming back in, and I had t’promise I’d explain what I was doing.”
Penny raised her hand. “How’d you get down from the window?”
“See them branches?” Yully pointed out the window to the tall tree nearby. “The lower one’ll hold my weight, and I can use the other one like a hand rail.”
The girl considered what he’d said. “I see, that’ll get you to the tree. From there to the ground is easy.”
“T’heck with the tree,” Aggie said impatiently. “Where’d you go?”
Yully sighed, knowing what was ahead for him. “To the -- me and Stephan and -- and some others built ourselves a secret... clubhouse in the woods west of here. That’s where Stephan hid out all them days.”
“Can we see it?” Aggie asked eagerly. “Better yet, can we join the club?”
“Well... see the thing is... we -- the club -- got a rule. There ain’t a lotta room in the... uhh, clubhouse, so y’gotta be in fifth grade or older t’join.” He sighed again. “Penny ‘n’ Nestor can join, but you can’t. Not yet, anyway.”
“That ain’t fair!” the boy yelled. “I’ll... I’ll tell. You see if I don’t.”
Penny shook her head. “You did promise, Aggie. You can’t go back on your word just ‘cause you didn’t get your way.”
“Look, you tell, and the grown-ups’re gonna break up the club. They’ll prob’bly wreck the clubhouse, too. Then it won’t be around when you _are_ old enough.”
“But that’s two whole years!”
Their sister counted off on her fingers. “It’s March; school’s over in a couple months. You’ve only got... June... July... August... 18 months, a year and a half, till you’re in fifth grade.” She smiled. “Unless Miss Osbourne holds you back a year. You aren’t doing too good in arithmetic or history.”
“I got a “B” on my last history quiz,” the boy said defensively.
“Good for you,” Penny said, “and Yully and me’ll _help_ you keep up your grades in both subjects -- if you keep your promise.”
Aggie knew when he was licked. “All right, all right, I won’t tell. For now, anyway.”
* * * * *
“You ready for tomorrow?” Trisha asked nervously. The two were alone in the parlor. Emma was upstairs reading.
Kaitlin looked up from the sock she was darning. “Not really.” She gave a wistful sigh. “Are you?”
“It-it’s all happening so fast.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s happening... what’s going to happen. None of it.”
“We move on, I guess.”
The former husband frowned. “Seems to me like you already have... with my own brother, no less.”
“I might say the same thing about you and... and... whoever it was that you bared your breasts for at the dance.”
“I told you; I was drunk.”
“You’ve used that excuse before.”
“I _was_ drunk. And -- whatever I did -- it won’t happen again.”
“It had better not. I don’t mind you disgracing yourself. If you act like a trollop, you deserve whatever happens, but I will _not_ have you disgracing our daughter.”
“I said that I wouldn’t.” She pointed an accusatory figure. “Can you say the same about you and Liam?”
“I-I can.” Kaitlin felt tears forming in her eyes. “Oh, Trisha, this... this is our last night as...” She shrugged. “...as whatever we are now. Do we have to fight about such things?”
“It’s just that tomorrow we go in and sign some paper and our marriage is... gone. I hate that. I’ve lost you, Kaitlin, and that’s really more than I can bear.”
“We’ll just have to bear it together, whatever comes.” She stood and the two rushed together. They hugged each other, tears running down their cheeks, hugging like the sisters they had become.
* * * * *
“Sorry I’m late, Uncle Abner,” Cap said, bustling into the dining room. “‘Evening, Colonel.”
Slocum looked up from his dinner. “We’ve only just started, Matthew. Have a seat.” He waited for his nephew to sit down. “What did she say?”
“She won’t be dealer. Sorry, Uncle.”
“I think she decided days ago and kept me waiting, so I’d have a hard time finding someone else.” He took a sip of wine. “Damn!”
Hooker had sat quietly, watching the exchange. “Problem, Abner?”
“There’s a woman in town -- she runs the poker game at one of the saloons, and I asked her to be dealer for the game on Saturday. She _finally_ got around to telling Matthew here that she wasn’t going to take the job.” He snorted. “I might have known she’d pull something like this.”
Cap was serving himself some roast. “That’s hardly fair, Uncle. She has a right not to want the job, and she knows that you don’t like her.”
“That’s hardly the point,” Slocum argued. “She should have said yes or no a week ago -- or more. Who am I going to get at the last minute? I need a dealer, and I can’t ask just anybody to do it. It has to be someone reputable -- and someone who knows how to play poker, reasonably well, at least.”
Cap thought for a moment. “How about Carl Osbourne? He’s one of Bridget’s regular players, and, to hear him tell it, he’s not too bad.”
“Carl is the man who took care of your horse, this afternoon, Colonel,” Slocum explained. “The one who wanted to talk to you.”
The Colonel frowned. “I remember him. I’m sure he’s a fine man, Abner, but I don’t care for the idea that the dealer in this game be the employee of one of the players. I don’t think the other players would like it, either. Son…” he asked Cap. “…can you suggest somebody a bit more… independent?”
Cap pursed his chin “Dwight Albertson, then? He’s the president of the bank, and he’s been out here to play poker more than once. And happily taken Uncle Abner’s money when he could.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Slocum replied. “Colonel, would you object to my banker being the dealer?”
The Colonel laughed. “He’s my banker, too, actually. I had my own bank wire him a letter of credit. I wasn’t about to _carry_ all that money with me on the ride over here.” He pursed his chin for a moment. “I’d say he’ll do fine.”
“Great,” Cap said, “I’ll ride into town tomorrow myself and ask him.”
* * * * *
Friday, March 15, 1872
Obie Wynn looked up from his paperwork when he heard the outer door to the office open. “G’morning, ladies.”
“Morning, anyway,” Kaitlin replied. “We’re the O’Hanlans. Milt Quinlan is supposed to be meeting us here.” She looked around. The three of them were the only ones in the room.
Obie nodded, standing up. “He’s already here, Missus O’Hanlan... Miz O’Hanlan.” He was a short man, pale with a mop of dull, brown hair. The only notable thing about him was his thick Kentucky accent. “Him ‘n’ the Judge are waiting for ya in chambers -- that’s the Judge’s office.” He picked up a folder and tucked it under his arm. “Y’all follow me, please.”
“Yer Honor,” he called, knocking on a door in the wall behind them. “The O’Hanlans’re here.” He opened the door and walked through. Kaitlin and Trisha scurried in after him.
The Judge was sitting behind a large, wooden desk. Milt was seated in a nearby chair. Both men got to their feet as the women entered.
“Hello, ladies,” the Judge greeted them. “I won’t say, ‘Good day,’ because that hardly applies.” He motioned towards a couch set back against the wall. “Please do have a seat.”
“Thanks, Judge,” Trisha said, trying to keep her voice even. She and Kaitlin both took a place on the couch. Trisha was wearing a dark navy-colored blouse and matching skirt. Kaitlin was in a black dress. Mourning clothes.
Obie handed the Judge his folder. “The extra copies you wanted.” That done, he walked over to lean against a high, wooden bookcase filled with volumes labeled “Arizona Territorial Code.”
“Very well,” the Judge said, opening the folder and began. “Trisha, you have not responded to Kaitlin’s charge of incompatibility within the allotted time. She has, therefore, had Milt file a request for an expedited decision. Before I grant that request, is there _anything_, anything at all, that you would like to say on your own behalf or on behalf of your marriage?”
Trisha looked down at the floor. “N-No, Your Hon-Honor,” she said in a soft voice that was almost a whisper. “I guess there’s... there’s nothing as in-incompatible as two... two women being m-married.” She gave a deep sigh. “Let’s -- uhhh -- let’s j-just get it over... over with.” Her voice broke, as she tried very hard not to cry.
“‘Twere best it were done quickly,” Milt responded, then he added. “Macbeth, Act I, scene 7.”
The Judge agreed with the sentiment. “Yes,” he continued, looking at another paper. “The assets seem fairly divided. Have you paid Liam for his share of your business, Trisha?”
“She has,” Kaitlin answered. “Liam asked me to give you this.” She took a folded paper from her reticule and handed it to the Judge.
“Paid in full, and it confirms the transfer.” The Judge set the paper down on his desk. “Joint custody for your daughter, and I see that you’ll still both be living in your house.”
Trisha looked up. “K-Kaitlin’s house. I’m giving -- she can have it, her and Emma deserve a good place to live.”
“That’s quite commendable, Trisha.” The Judge dipped his pen in the inkwell on his desk. “Since everything seems settled, I hereby declare that the marriage between Trisha -- nee Patrick -- O’Hanlan and Kaitlin McNeil O’Hanlan is hereby annulled and held void, and that they are divorced.” He signed and dated three sheets of paper. “Milt, will you sign as witness?”
Milt took the quill from the Judge and quickly signed the three copies of the order. “That does it.” He carefully blotted the papers and handed them to Obie.
The clerk took a notary’s seal from his pocket and clamped it down on each sheet. “I’ll keep this one,” he told the women. “These other two are yours.” He handed one copy to each woman.
“It’s _done_ then?” Kaitlin asked.
Milt shrugged. “I’m sorry to say that it is, and may I be the first to offer my condolences.”
* * * * *
Wilma stretched her body, her sensuous movements pushing aside the sheet that was partly covering her middle.
“Please, Wilma” Ethan scolded. “We’ve only a bit of time remaining in this session.”
She pouted. “I am sorry, Ethan. I just got tired of just staying still. It ain’t exactly what I’m used to doing in bed.”
“Am I now supposed to ask what it is that you do... do in bed?”
“Mmm, you could ask, _or_ you could just come over here and let me _show_ you.”
“Wilma, you are -- so I’ve been told -- a most willing and most talented bedmate.”
“You got that right, and I’m more than willing t’show you my talents.”
“I expect that you are. I also expect that you are of the opinion that coitus, the act of physical love, is the most sensual, the most intimate experience that a man and a woman may share.”
“You’re damned right it is, especially when _I’m_ one of the ones doing it.”
“No, I’m afraid you’re in error on that point.”
“You know something better? If you do... show me.” She spoke the last two words, slowly and in her most sultry tones.
“I most certainly know something more intimate, and I have been endeavoring to show it to you -- I _was_ doing so -- when you moved.”
“Painting? You mean painting me is more intimate than... than...”
“Indeed.” He waited a moment before continuing. “Now would you please resume your pose, so we might do... might share more of the experience before your time for this session ends?”
* * * * *
Carmen was sitting on the porch of the bathhouse, reading a book, while Felipe napped in his crib. “Excuse me, Seá±ora,” a voice behind her said, “I am looking for my sister. She is a scrawny little girl in pigtails.”
Carmen stood up and spun around. “I was never scrawny, Gregorio.” She laughed and gave her brother a hug.
“Yes, you were, but you grew out of it.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You even grew out of wearing those silly pigtails... eventually”
“They were _not_ silly, but such things are for young girls, not a married women with two children.”
Gregorio looked around. “Speaking of your sons, where is Jose?”
“In the barber shop.”
“Spending time with his father, bueno. The ties of our family continue to grow strong -- as it should be.”
“Thank you.” She looked at the pocket watch tied to her apron. “Have you had lunch yet? I can go home with you and make something.”
“I already stowed my bag at the house. I just came by to tell you that I had arrived. I will be meeting... friends. I will have something to eat with them, I expect.”
Carmen nodded. The friends were probably the women at _La_ _Parisienne_. That was his business, so long as he said nothing in front of her son. “Will we see you for supper, then?”
“Probably... yes. It will be good to have a quiet meal with _family_ the night before the card game. And -- afterwards -- Ramon and I can have a talk.”
“Gregorio, must you?”
“We will just talk. But if I _do_ change his mind, then so much the better.”
* * * * *
Bridget was sitting at her poker table, finishing up the smoked fish from the “Free Lunch” table, when she heard a voice behind her.
“I thought you’d still be eating,” Cap said, stepping into her line of sight. “May I join you?” He held a plate with a small pickle and a few slices of leftover chicken in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.
She made a gesture towards the chair opposite her. “Be my guest.”
“Thanks.” He set the food down on the table and took a seat. “I have something for you, and I didn’t want to wait until tonight.” He looked around the room. Satisfied that no one was watching, he pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. “Be careful; don’t let anybody see this.”
She moved the envelope next to her plate and opened it without lifting it off the table. “Cap,” she said in amazement, “I thought we would go over to the bank together to get the money.”
“What, and spoil the surprise?”
“Surprise? I don’t understand.”
“If we went over together, somebody -- if not Dwight Albertson, himself -- would tell Uncle Abner ahead of time. This way, we get to see the look on his face when you sit down, ready to play.”
Bridget chuckled and quickly transferred the envelope into the cash box on the chair next to her. “That will be something to see, won’t it?”
“It surely will.” He grinned mischievously.
She reached over and put her hand on his. “Thanks, Cap. Thanks so _very_ much.”
“You’re more than welcome, Bridget, and I look forward to thanking _you_ on Sunday, when there’s a whole lot more in there.”
* * * * *
Wilma froze in place as someone stepped behind her and quickly placed his hands over her eyes. “Guess who.”
“Ethan... Geraldo... Jimmy... Sebastian…” She shivered as the man leaned over and gently kissed the side of her neck. “Mmm...” She moved back to press herself against his body. “You gonna say who you are, so I can kiss you back?”
The hands moved away. “I was just saying, ‘hello’, my lively one. You wrote to me about how good you were with helloes.”
“Gregorio!” Wilma spun around. “Sebastian said...” She stopped, not wanting to say that Sebastian Ortega had inspired the letter she’d written.
Gregorio frowned. “What did Sebastian say?”
“He--he said that he told you who I... I used t’be, him and Ramon. I wrote t’remind you how much fun we had, so’s you wouldn’t be thinking about such things.” Sebastian had admitted telling Gregorio the truth, but Wilma hadn’t worried about it. Until now, that is.
The tall man stepped back to look at her. She was wearing a sea green corset that lifted her breasts, making them look even larger. Besides that, her silky white drawers clung to her lush hips and rounded thighs. If she had ever been the dangerous, _male_ criminal she had admitted to having been, there was no sign of that hombre in the sensual, wanton female that stood before him. He smiled, even as he felt himself harden.
“Whatever you were, you are my lively one, now. I fear that I cannot accept your invitation for the night of pleasure you promised --”
She pouted. “You can’t?”
“I am in town to play in that poker game you may have heard about.”
“I heard, but that game don’t start until noon tomorrow.”
“Hardly enough time to recover from such a night with you.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “But I do intend to spend my afternoon here... with you.”
“Well, then, let’s get upstairs, Gregorio, and I’ll show you some better places for you t`kiss.”
“To kiss? Yes, that will be a good... start.”
* * * * *
“An excellent meal, Martha.” Rev. Yingling pushed himself back from the table. “Stephan, please follow me to my office.”
Stephan looked up from his brown betty dessert. “Sir, it’s my turn to clear the table.”
“Change with...” He thought for a moment. “...Ruth for tonight. I’m sure she won’t mind. Will you, daughter?”
Ruth startled. “Uhh, no, father. I-I’ll be glad to do it.”
“Fine.” He dismissed his daughter without another word. “Come, Stephan. Now.”
The boy put his fork down in the half-finished, dark apple pudding. ‘So much for dessert,’ he thought. He stood up and followed his father out of the kitchen.
“How are you coming with the translation of Virgil’s fourth Eclogue?” Yingling asked, once they were in his study, and he was seated behind his desk.
“Almost finished, sir.”
“And what do you think of it?”
Stephan shrugged. “It’s nice enough, I suppose... all the references to Roman myths.”
“You do not see the Christian themes, the birth of the boy who will usher in a new age. That is a most obvious prophecy of our Lord, Jesus.”
“I suppose.”
“One does not ‘suppose,’ Yingling stated with a rumbling resonance, ‘you _know_. A minister knows what is the truth, and uses that knowledge to lead his flock to that truth.”
“Sir... please. I’ll do the translations, but I-I really don’t want to be --”
The reverend stood up and leaned his weight forward upon his desktop. “You will _be_ a minister. I have seen it ordained, and you must stop denying your future.” He rose to his feet and pointed a finger at the boy. “It is a most grievous sin to deny the word of our Lord.” He had thundered the words in the deep, bass voice he used for his best “Fire and Brimstone” sermons.
Stephan blanched and took a step back. “Father, please, I --”
“You what? Do you accept the fate our blessed Savior has planned for you? Because if you do not...” He let his voice trail off to let the boy consider for himself the alternative, in this world and the next, to obeying Holy Will.
The boy took a breath and straightened up. “No, sir. I don’t... I don’t believe that I was made to be a minister, and that it would be a sin to be forced to be what I’m not.”
“Very pretty words, boy. You’ve a gift for rhetoric, it seems. Which only proves my point. You will be what I say you will be, and there is nothing you can do to prevent your ordination.”
“Yes... yes, there is, sir. Here in Eerie, there is something I can do.” He braced himself for what he was about to say. “I-I can take that potion Mr. O’Toole makes, the stuff he gave to Emma. A girl can’t be no minister.”
Yingling sat back down and shook his head, as if Stephan were a much younger child whom he had observed being naughty. “Don’t talk foolishly, boy. You say you want to be a soldier, so I know that you do not hold your manhood _that_ cheaply.”
“No, sir, but I want my freedom, too. If I gotta give up the one for the other, I-I will.” He studied the incredulous look on his father’s face. “But I don’t wanna do it, sir.” He sighed. “Please don’t make me.”
The two stared at each other, neither saying a word. Finally, the youth spoke. “I-I’m gonna go now, sir, and help Ruth and Ma clean up after dinner.” When the reverend didn’t answer, Stephan quietly left for the kitchen.
* * * * *
“You know, Gregorio,” Ramon began, “Margarita and I are getting married in two weeks, the Sunday after Easter.” The two brothers were sitting in the main room of Whit and Carmen’s guesthouse.
Gregorio took a sip of after-dinner brandy. “Si, I know.” He didn’t sound pleased at the prospect.
“Will you be there?”
“Do you _want_ me to be there?”
“You are my brother. Of course, I do... if you are there to share the happiness of that day.”
“And if I do not share that happiness, if I think that you should not be marrying this... this person, do you still want me there?”
“Her name is Margarita. I love her, and I _am_ marrying her. Why can you not accept that?”
“Why can _you_ not accept that she is not worthy of marrying you?”
“Worthy? Margarita is a beautiful, caring woman. She has survived terrible things, and she has become a better person, a better woman, for it. I only hope that _I_ am worthy of her.”
“You are a de Aguilar, a blueblood, while she is a peasant -- a changling peasant, no less. Of course, you are worthy.”
“I do not care about her bloodline, or her past. I care about her, the woman she is now, a proud, confident, loving woman, and I intend to make that woman my wife.”
“You should care. You have a responsibility to yourself and to your family as a de Aguilar. You -- and your wife -- must live up to that responsibility.”
“That--that is ridiculous. This is the United States, and it is 1872. We do not live in the Spain of El Cid, and we should not behave as if we did.”
“There is still --”
“There is the love that Margarita and I share. That is what concerns me -- all that concerns me. And, if this _were_ the Spain of our ancestors, Margarita would be more than worthy to be the Lady of the Manor.”
“That is not true, and you know it.”
“I know _her_, and I know what she is capable of. And I know that, in two weeks, she will be my wife. You can be there to watch, to share the day with the family you think so much of, or you can stay away. But I swear to you, my brother, swear on the graves of our mother and father, that we will be married.”
* * * * *
Saturday, March 16, 1872
“Are we there yet?” Nestor Stone whined. He was walking down a wooded trail just outside of town, following his older brother, Yully, and his sister, Penny.
Yully slowed and looked back at Nestor. “That’s the third time you asked. I’ll tell you and Penny both when we’re there, okay?” As he spoke, Yully glanced back along the trail. If their younger brother, Aggie, was following them, the boy was better at tracking and hiding than Yully gave him credit for.
They walked on a few more minutes before stopping by the side of a hill. “_Now_, we’re there.” He sat down, just off the trail, by some brush. “We just gotta wait for the others.”
“Not too long, I hope.” Penny looked for a clean spot before sitting down beside him.
Nestor looked around. “If we’re ‘there’, then where’s the clubhouse you told us about?”
“Real close,” Yully told him. “See if you can find it.”
The younger boy scanned the landscape closely. “On top of the hill?”
“Nope,” Yully answered. “You wanna guess, Penny?”
She shook her head. “That’s where I was gonna guess. I’ll wait.”
“I won’t,” Nestor said stubbornly. “I’m gonna climb up and take a look.” Without waiting for a response, he started climbing the hill.
Penny stood up. “Don’t climb too far. Looks like somebody’s coming.” She pointed down the way they had come. “It’s Stephan.” She turned to her brother. “You gonna tell us now?”
“He ain’t the only one we’re waiting for.” Yully pointed in the other direction. Emma O’Hanlan and Ysabel Diaz were walking their way. Ysabel waved, as she came closer.
“Is that Constanza Diaz and Tomas Rivera with them?” Penny asked. “Are they new members, too?”
“Constanza is,” Yully said. “Tomas is a member already.”
The others came over to where Yully was sitting. “Everybody ready?” Emma asked.
“Before we do anything else,” Yully began. “Penny, Nestor, and Constanza, you gotta promise t’never tell anybody else what we’re gonna show you.” He rose to his feet. “You three raise your right hands.”
Nestor frowned. “We already done this on Thursday.”
“You promised _me_ in Thursday,” Yully replied. “Now the three of you are gonna promise all of us.”
“All for one; one for all,” Emma added, “like in that Musketeers book Miss Osbourne read to us.”
Nestor raised his hand. “I’ll swear t’that. Am I a member now?”
“Not quite, but you others gotta swear, too.” Stephan waited for the two girls to swear never to tell. When they had, he nodded to Yully. “I guess we can show ‘em now.”
Yully reached down his collar and pulled out a loop of cord with a small brass key. He leaned back behind the bush he was sitting near. The others couldn’t see what he was doing, but they heard the click of a lock opening. When the boy sat erect, they could see a door opening into the side of the hill.
“Well, I’ll be a... a danged red Injun chief,” Nestor swore.
Yully took a candle out from behind the door and lit it. “Here, Tomas,” he called, tossing the boy the lock. Then he knelt down and crawled into the opening. “Nestor, you follow me,” he called back from inside the hill.
“I-I’m coming.” The younger boy looked nervous for a moment before he started into the tunnel.
Stephan went in after the boy. “Don’t stop. I’m next.”
“Penny, you and Constanza go in next,” Emma said. “Hike up your skirts some, when you go in. You’re gonna have to crawl, and it’ll be easier that way. Ysabel and I’ll be right behind you.”
Halfway up the tunnel, Constanza heard a lock click. “Wh-what was that?” she asked in a quivering whisper.
“Tomas locked us in,” Emma explained. “It’s safer that way. The lock’s on this side of the door, so don’t worry.”
Constanza crawled forward. “Oh, my,” she exclaimed as she came into a large room. Penny and Nestor were already standing, looking about the place.
“Welcome t’Fort Secret,” Yully said proudly, taking a seat at the head of the table. “I told you we was close to it.” He chuckled and winked at Nestor.
* * * * *
“Now remember,” Maggie said, as she walked towards Carmen’s house with Ernesto and Lupe, “you two will behave yourself, and I will see you tomorrow afternoon.”
Her children answered in unison. “Yes, Mama.”
“Can’t we spend the day in the kitchen at Grampa Shamus’s with you?” Lupe asked.
“Si,” Ernesto added, “we will behave.”
Maggie shook her head. “I know that you will -- for Aunt Carmen. I will be too busy all the rest of the day and through the night to watch you, and I will not have the time to bring you over here.” They reached the door, and she knocked.
“Margarita,” Carmen said, opening the door, “and Lupe and Ernesto, too, welcome. Come in.” She stepped back as they ran past her into the house.
Carmen pointed towards the garden. “Felipe is that way,” she called.
“Thank you, Aunt Carmen,” Ernesto shouted back over his shoulder. Then he added, “Hey, what are _you_ doing here?”
Maggie hurried in to see her son confronting Gregorio. “I might ask you that, seá±or,” the man answered. “This is my home... my sister’s home, now.”
“The ‘seá±or’ and his sister will be spending the weekend here,” Maggie answered, “while I am working at restaurant, serving you and the others playing poker.” She turned to Ernesto. “You and Lupe go find Felipe.”
“Si, mama,” her children said as they ran off.
Gregorio nodded. “So you will be serving me at the game. That is most fitting.”
“I will be serving food to all the players. That is my business.” She took a breath. “Just as herding cattle is your business.”
“Business, si, a servant’s business, and hardly the proper role for the wife of my brother.”
“Ramon has no problem with my business.”
“My brother is a boy who does not realize what he is doing. I still have hopes of correcting that.”
“Your brother is a man, a _fine_ man. I love him very much. I wish that you could see that, but I think that _you_ are the one who is still the spoiled little boy. Well, try to behave yourself, _boy_, and if you do, I will feed you.” She turned and walked away.
Carmen met her at the door. “Do not let him bother you, Margarita. Ramon loves you far to much to ever listen to our idiota older brother.”
“I hope so,” Maggie told her. “And thank you.” She hurried out. She had to be at the restaurant. Besides, if she was nervous about what Gregorio had said, she was not about to let him see it.
* * * * *
Bridget stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked about the room. The game wasn’t due to start for a couple of hours yet, and already the Saloon was filling up. A dozen men, or more, were sitting at tables or standing at the bar, drinking some but, mostly, talking. Abner Slocum was sitting with a tall, dark-haired man she’d never seen before at a table marked “Players Only.” Cap, she also noticed, was sitting at the next table talking to the stranger.
She took a deep breath, saying, “Here goes nothing.” Feeling as ready as she’d ever be, she strode over to the table. The conversations stopped, and she could feel every eye in the place following her as she walked.
“Miss Kelly,” Slocum said in greeting as both men came to their feet. Cap also rose, giving her a smile and a wink.
Slocum did the introductions. “Miss Bridget Kelly, may I introduce Col. Henry Clay Hooker, a man you may have heard of. Colonel, this is Miss Kelly, who runs the poker game at this saloon. I had asked her to serve as dealer for our game, but, for some reason, she has declined.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Kelly.” Hooker gave her a genial smile and offered her his hand. “I’m sorry that you won’t be a part of the game.”
Slocum gave her a sour look. “If you’ve changed your mind, it’s too late. I’ve asked Dwight Albertson to be dealer. He agreed, and I have no intention of replacing him.”
“Oh, I’ve no problem with Dwight being dealer,” Bridget replied, “and, thank you, Colonel, I will be a part of the game.”
She opened her reticule and pulled out a thick bundle of money. “I believe the buy-in is $1,000, Mr. Slocum.” She handed him the cash. “You can count it -- _if_ you don’t trust me.” The smile on her face would have melted butter.
Hooker’s eyes darted from Bridget to Slocum’s face, now contorted in a nasty glare. “I do believe,” he said wryly, “ that this game just got a whole lot more interesting.”
* * * * *
A heavyset, prosperous-looking man walked into the Saloon. His eyes darted around the room. He smiled and walked over to the “Players Only” table. After shaking hands with Slocum, he took a seat across from Hooker.
“Jessie, would ye be going over t’get Cap for me?” Shamus asked.
Jessie had been sitting by the bar, waiting for the game to start. “Sure, Shamus.” She stood and went over to Cap, whispering in his ear. Both returned to the bar a moment later.
“What do you want, Shamus?” Cap said.
“The man who just came in -- who is he?”
“He’s one of the players -- name’s Sam Hughes. He deals in grain and beef down in Tucson.”
“I thought so. That ain’t all the man deals in.” Shamus mumbled something more. Cap and Jessie recognized it as Cheyenne, the language the barman used for profanity. “D’ye think yuir uncle’d mind much if I threw that...” He cursed again. “...outta me Saloon?”
Jessie gasped. “Are you crazy, Shamus? Slocum’d leave, too, and he’d take his precious poker game with him. You want all these people to do their drinking at some other saloon? It ain’t like you t’want to throw all that business away.”
“Aye, it’d be a whole lotta money I’d be losing,” the Irishman agreed, “but ye know, it’d almost -- _almost_ -- be worth it.”
Molly had seen the look on her husband’s face and hurried over. “What’s the matter, Love? Ye look like ye’d seen a ghost.”
“That’s the problem, Molly. It ain’t a ghost. He’s still alive and well, more’s the pity -- and the shame of it.” He pointed at the new man. “That thuir’s Sam Hughes, the man whut supplied the rifles for the...” He spat on the sawdust floor. “...the killing of all them people at Camp Grant.”
“And he’s one of the players in my uncle’s game,” Cap added with disgust. “Shamus and the rest of you -- the rest of _us_ -- have to be polite to him.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Shamus’s face suddenly broke into an almost gleeful smile. “Och, I’ll be polite. I’ll be giving him some of me _special_ stock.” He knelt down and reached under the bar.
The others heard the clink of bottles, as he searched for something. After a couple minutes, he stood. “Damn! Hell and damnation.” He continued in very angry Cheyenne.
“What’s the matter, Love?” Molly gently put her hand on his arm.
Shamus has a sour look on his face. “Arnie, he -- she -- drank the last of me potion. I was gonna brew some more. I’ve decided it’d be good t’be having some in case of emergencies, like that O’Hanlan boy.”
“Ye can always be making more. There’s no one hurt and needing it now.”
“Aye, but it takes a day, and I have t’be watching while it cooks. Hughes’ll be long gone before I can make some for him.”
Cap looked alarmed. “You wouldn’t.”
“Ye always was saying t’me that ye wouldn’t be giving any t’a body unless the Judge told ye to.” Molly was as appalled as Cap now. “Or if they was badly hurt.”
Shamus nodded. “Aye, but _I’m_ hurting bad just now, and them women and children him and his friends killed, they’re beyond hurting. And a judge, a jury and a jury, no less, said that it was all right what he done, that he shouldn’t be punished for it.” He looked daggers at Hughes.
“And ye’d be judge and jury by yuirself, wouldn’t ye?”
“Only you don’t have that potion of yours, do you?” Jessie was surprised. This was a side of the man she never seen. It was also a touchy subject for her, because it reminded her that Shamus had once made her a target of his potion. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. “Shamus, did you ever use that potion on someone just because you hated him?”
The barman ignored her question for a moment and stared at the floor, anger mixed with disgust at his missed opportunity. “I never hated anybody that much, but if I had it now -- och -- there’d be no more Sam Hughes.” He let out a nasty chuckle. “But, after two doses of me potion, thuir’d be another carpet girl selling her wares cheap in the alleys of Tucson. Aye, it’d be no more than the black-hearted...” He spoke a word in Cheyenne. “...deserves, and them poor women and children might be resting a wee bit easier in the afterlife.”
“He deserves it,” Molly told him, putting her arm around him, “and he’ll surely pay for what he done -- in this life or the next. But ain’t ye always said that ye’re a barman, not a judge?” Shamus nodded, and she went on. “Then ye’ll be serving the man, the same as anyone else. The same as them fools that came in here t’gloat about the Camp Grant jury letting them killers go free a few months back. Ye’ll take his money, not his manhood, and let the good Lord up in Heaven see to that evil man’s fate.”
Shamus managed a very small smile. “That’s why I love ye, Molly, me darling. Ye’re not only the prettiest lass I ever laid me eyes on, ye’re the finest soul I ever found in this here world.” He kissed her hand.
“True, every last word of it.” Molly laughed and pecked his cheek.
* * * * *
“I’ll see your $40 and raise you another $40.” Bridget tossed the chips onto the pile.
Hughes shook his head and put his cards face down on the table. “Too rich for me. I’m out.”
“It is to me, then.” Gregorio glanced down at his cards. His eyes shifted, and he studied Bridget’s expression. She caught him looking and gave him back a nasty smile.
He sighed and set down his cards. “All I have is two pairs, queens and 7s. The pot is yours, seá±orita.”
“Why thanks, Gregorio.” Bridget smiled. “That’s very nice of you, seeing as all _I_ have is this pair of 9s.” She showed him her hand, then raked in the chips.
Gregorio laughed in spite of himself. “A pair of 9s! My congratulations on a _muy_ good bluff.” His eyes narrowed. “I see that I will have to be watching your play more closely from now on.”
“Same here,” Hughes said, leering at Bridget, as he gathered in the cards for the next hand. “Not that the little lady isn’t worth watching all by herself.”
* * * * *
“You know something better than sex?” she had asked.
“I do, and I’m doing it right now,” he had replied.
The exchange between Ethan Thomas and herself kept echoing through Wilma’s thoughts.
‘What the hell could be better’n sex?’ she asked herself. ‘And _painting_, how can that be what he was talking about?’ She shook her head.
‘How can he even know what’s better? We ain’t even been together -- or is painting that much --?’
“Wilma!” Cerise interrupted. “We have gentlemen callers, and you sit there as if your mind were a thousand miles away.”
Wilma blinked. She was in the parlor at _La_ _Parisienne_ with Rosalyn and Mae, in her “working clothes,” and two men, drummers from the look of them, were staring at her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, forming her mouth into a pout. “I was _so_ lonely, and I was thinking about how much I _needed_ some company, some handsome fellas like yourselves.”
The men smiled. “Likewise, missy.” The taller of the pair offered her his hand. “I’m Leander Trent.”
“Wilma Hanks.” She took it and rose slowly, sensuously, to her feet. “And I am so very happy to meet you, Leander.”
They started for the steps, with Mae and the other man just behind them. ‘I’ll just give Leander my full attention for a while,’ Wilma told herself, ‘and think about Ethan later.’
* * * * *
“That’s $60 to you, Abner,” Hooker said, tossing his chips on the table.
Slocum looked at his cards, a flush, the 3, 4, 8, 10, and queen of clubs, one damned good hand. Then he looked down at his chips. He was low, too low on chips to cover the raise. Or to do much more than ante up the next round. He looked at his cards again and shook his head in disgruntlement.
“Need some help, Mr. Slocum?” Bridget had folded after the first raise. She didn’t have anything, and Slocum and Hooker were clearly fighting for the hand. But she did have chips, lots of them.
He looked over at her. “What exactly do you have in mind, Miss Kelly? This is a table stakes game.”
“That’s right, and these chips are _my_ table stakes. You want to borrow some of them -- just for this one hand, of course?”
“And, if I do, what do you expect in return?”
“You’ve been mad at me for some time now. I loan you the money, you listen to what _really_ happened at Adobe Wells.”
“You want to stop the game to tell me some sort of story?”
“No, I want you to listen -- after the game -- to the truth of what happened that day -- during and _after_ the battle.”
“Hell, Abner,” Hooker interrupted, “either take her loan or fold. I came here to play poker, not to listen to the two of you wrangle over something that happened back during the Civil War.”
Slocum frowned. “Very well, I’ll take the chips -- and we’ll see what happens after the game.”
“He’ll see that raise, Col. Hooker.” Bridget smiled and pushed a stack of chips across the table to Slocum.
* * * * *
Sunday, March 17, 1872
Dwight Albertson glanced up at the clock as he raked in the cards for the next hand. "It's seven minutes till noon, gentlemen, which is when this game is supposed to end. Do you want to stop now, or are you all in for one more hand?"
"Best ask Miz Kelly,” Sam Hughes said with an angry snort. "Seems like she's got most of the chips."
Bridget smiled. About half of the chips in the game were stacked in front of her. "I'm willing to play if you gentlemen are up for it."
"I most certainly am _up_ for it, Miz Kelly," Hughes answered, "but we can talk about _that_ after the game." It was the sort of lecherous comment he'd been making -- and Bridget had been ignoring -- all night long.
Gregorio looked daggers at the man. "Seá±or Hughes, show some respect." He thought for a moment. "I do not have as many chips as Seá±orita Kelly..." He gestured at the much smaller stack in from of him, "...but I will play one more hand." He picked up a $10 chip, the ante, and tossed it onto the table. Slocum and Hooker added their own chips to the pot.
"Then we play." The crowd, gathered to watch the end of the high-stakes game, broke into a round of applause. Albertson gathered the cards into a deck, shuffled twice, and offered it to Bridget for the cut.
She decided to show off for once. She lifted the deck in the fingers of her left hand, forming a sort of cup. Half the cards slid down into that cup, standing on their sides. A simple manipulation and the top half of the deck fell down in front of them. "Here you are, Dwight." She was almost grinning as she handed the cards, now properly cut, back to the banker-turned-dealer.
"Nicely done, Miss Kelly,” he responded. "Thank you for the... Ah, entertainment." He shuffled the deck one last time and dealt cards to the five players.
Bridget and Hughes anted up, and the game began. Gregorio and Hooker both checked. "Bet $20," Slocum said. Hughes passed, tossing down his cards.
Bridget looked at her hand, a pair of 9s, a pair of jacks, and a king, not a bad hand, but not a great one, either. She was about to raise Slocum another $10, when she saw him playing with his chips, his "tell" for a good hand. "I'll just see that." She decided to wait and see what the draw got her. "For now."
Gregorio and Hooker called. Gregorio took two cards; Hooker, three. Slocum kept his hand. Bridget took only took one. And got a third 9.
"Your bet, Gregorio,” she said.
"Never throw the good money after the bad," Gregorio grumbled, his Mexican accent stronger than usual as he tossed down his cards.
"Fifty dollars,” Hooker said. "Just to keep things interesting."
"By all means, let's keep things interesting,” Slocum said. "Your fifty and... Fifty more, I think."
Bridget hesitated. She was clearly the winner for the night. Should she fight for the hand or let one of them have it? 'Give in on the last hand?' she scolded herself. 'Hell no!' "See that,” she said with a chuckle and added, "And raise another hundred." She tossed out the chips.
"Damnation!" Slocum frowned before he matched her bet.
Hooker put down the necessary chips without a word. "Call." He showed his cards, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10. "A real pretty straight, ain't it? What've you two got?"
"Full house,” Slocum answered cheerily. "7s over 3s. Beat that, Miss Kelly, if you can."
Bridget pouted and laid down her cards one by one. "All I've is jack... Jack... 9... 9... And -- oh, my! Another 9." She broke into a grin. "I do believe a 9-high full boat does beat your 7-high one, Mr. Slocum." Her smile was even broader as she raked in the last pot of the game.
* * * * *
The crowd in the churchyard parted to let Teresa's wheelchair through. Arnie pushed her forward, so she could get a better view.
The branches used in church that morning as part of the Palm Sunday mass had been stacked in a heap. Father de Castro sprinkled a bit of oil over them before applying the torch. The crowd cheered as the fronds burst into flame.
"Can you see all right, Mama?" Arnie asked. It was still a bit cool, and she shifted the shawl over her mother's shoulders. "Are you comfortable there?"
Teresa reached up to touch her daughter's hand with her own. "I am fine, Arnoldo. Thank you for helping me to be here today."
Pablo had been watching the pair. He'd grown up in the pueblo that had become Eerie when the gringos came. He knew almost everyone -- almost all of the Mexicans, at least -- but he had no idea whom the appealing young woman hovering around Teresa Diaz like a bee around a blossom was.
'A sister to their cousin, Dolores?' he thought. 'No, Dolores is from Mexico City. Someone coming from there to help Seá±ora Diaz would still be traveling.'
He was standing close enough to hear parts of the exchange. Mama? Arnoldo? How could that be possible? Then again, this was Eerie, where that barman, O'Toole, had the potion. O'Toole was the man Arnoldo worked for; he was the man who had given that potion to the outlaws. Pablo looked around. Ramon de Aguilar was standing with that pretty fiancée of his -- the restaurant owner who had been one of those outlaws. Father de Castro had done the third reading of the banns announcing their upcoming marriage during the Mass. Arnoldo was nowhere to be seen, but this seá±orita was. 'Yes, it just might be possible,' he thought, 'and I know just how to test it.'
"Arnoldo,” he said in a clear voice. "Arnoldo Diaz, look over here."
The girl turned towards him. "What do you want, _Pablito_?" Then she realized what she had done. "You bastard!" Her hands curled into fists, as she stepped forward.
"Stop!" The priest's firm tones rang out. "Stop this right now." He hurried over from where he had been watching the fire. "You,” he pointed to Pablo, "go home. You have caused enough trouble this day."
When the boy hesitated, Father de Castro pointed to the gate. "_Now_, Pablo." There was anger in his voice. The boy lowered his head and walked slowly towards the gate.
But, as he walked, Pablo began to chuckle softly. Behind him, people in the crowd were whispering to one another. Some were staring and pointing at Arnie. "That'll teach him,” he muttered to himself. "I may have gotten chased out, but now everybody knows what happened to him. He'll _never_ live it down."
"Are you truly Arnoldo Diaz?" the friar asked Arnie in a much gentler voice, studying the young girl's face.
Arnie sighed and lowered his head in embarrassment. "Si, Padre."
"Will you stay and help me collect the ashes for next year?" de Castro asked. "Then you and your family and I can talk."
The ashes from the burning palm branches were saved for use in the next year's Ash Wednesday service. It was an honor to be asked to assist. The priest's acceptance was a clear message to the crowd.
"Si... Si, Padre," Arnie replied, as a feeling of relief washed over her. "I will be most happy to help you."
* * * * *
"Ready to cash in, gents... Miss Kelly?" Dwight Albertson asked. "I had Shamus bring me the cash box." He hefted a large, padlocked, metal box onto the table. With more ceremony than was necessary, he produced the key from his shirt pocket and opened the box. "If you'll just line up one at a time and give me your chips."
Sam Hughes glared at Bridget. "Why don't you pay off the men? Then _she_..." He almost growled the word. "...can just take what's left." He shook his head. "Never shoulda let the bitch --"
"That is enough, seá±or." Gregorio's firm voice cut the other man off. "You have been rude and disrespectful to the seá±orita throughout the game. You are also a very bad poker player. She -- on the other hand -- is a lady, one you will apologize to. _Inmediatamente_ -- now!"
Hughes looked at the other men. "You gonna let him talk to me like that?"
"He ain't saying anything, I ain't been thinking myself," Col. Hooker answered. Slocum agreed.
The angry man tossed his chips at Albertson, who quickly gathered them up. "Cash me out then. It'll be a long time before I come back to this one-horse, garbage heap of a town _or_ play poker with any of you."
"Ye're not coming back?" Shamus was still standing next to Dwight, and he couldn't resist the insult. "Now that'd be the best news I heard this whole long night."
The banker counted out Hughes' money. "250... 260... $270." He'd lost over $700 from his $1,000 buy-in, most of it to Bridget.
"Thank you, _Mr._ Slocum; thank you _all_ for a lovely time." Hughes snatched the money from Dwight's hand and stormed out.
Hooker was next in line. While Albertson totaled his chips, Bridget walked over to Gregorio. "Thank you for standing up for me like that,” she told him, speaking softly.
"You are one of the best poker players I have ever seen -- and a most charming lady. You did not deserve such uncivil behavior." He gave a quick bow and smiled at her.
She smiled back. "Thank you for the compliment on my skill, Gregorio, but I'm not a lady."
"You most certainly are."
"No, I'm not. At least, I wasn't born a lady." She looked straight in his eye, as she spoke. "I'm a potion girl, just like my friend and _your_ future sister-in-law, Margarita Sanchez."
* * * * *
Father de Castro held the door to his office, while Arnie carefully guided Teresa's wheelchair into the room. She positioned her mother to face the desk and took a chair next to her. Dolores, Ysabel, Constanza, and Enrique followed them into the room and sat down on other chairs behind them.
"Thank you for your help, Arnoldo," the priest said, closing the door. He took his seat behind his desk. He opened a drawer and put away the sack of ashes. Then he sat up and looked closely at Arnie. "Now, tell me, what happened?"
Arnie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "You saw, Padre. He called me by name, and I -- like a fool -- answered him. Now he -- now _everyone_ --"
"No, no." The man raised his hand to stop her. "What I meant was how did you become a girl? I know that the Jefe -- Judge Humphreys -- did not order it. I was there, at your... trial."
Arnie looked as if she had just drunk vinegar. In a soft, embarrassed voice, she told the story: her guilt for causing her mother's accident; the fight with Dolores; and how she had run away, only to find refuge with Molly at the Saloon. "My shame... I-I could not sleep, and when I tried to find something to help..." She choked on the words. "...I found the potion instead."
"And it changed you." He finished the story for her.
Now Dolores spoke up. "The irony is who she changed into." She pointed at Arnie. "Show him."
"It is foolish." Arnie hesitated. Then, when Dolores and her mother both insisted, she reluctantly took the medallion out from beneath her dress. She lifted the cord over her shoulders and handed it to Father de Castro. "They say that I look like _her_."
"From the Church of Guadalupe Hidalgo," the priest said, examining the medallion. "I have seen them before." He held it up, glancing back and forth from the image to Arnie.
Finally, he handed it back to its owner. "You are right, Dolores... Teresa. The resemblance is remarkable. I believe that it is a sign."
"A sign?" Arnie laughed. "Of what, that I do not deserve to be a man? No, this is a punishment for my sins."
The priest shook his head. "No, Arnoldo,” he said in a gentle tone. "I believe that it is a sign. The Virgincita has interceded for you. Because of her, our Lord has granted you a second chance."
* * * * *
Slocum hadn't "won" much more than Hughes. Bridget waited while Albertson cashed out his chips, $390. "Mr. Slocum,” she said softly, "would you care to come over to my table and talk while the others are cashing out. That way, you and the Colonel can get back to your ranch that much the quicker."
"Want to gloat over your winnings, Miss Kelly?" the rancher replied. "You did remarkably well, though that little demonstration you gave before the last hand makes me wonder how much _skill_ had to do with your success."
Bridget frowned. Doing that one-handed cut had been a mistake, but there was no way to take it back. "I was just showing off a bit,” she answered. "I played this game honestly, like I always do." She tried to get things back on course. "I just wanted to have that little talk you agreed to."
"Young woman, I doubt that there is anything you can say that I would have any interest in hearing."
Cap was close enough to hear. "Uncle, Abner,” he bristled. "You promised her that you'd listen to her side of what happened at Adobe Wells."
"I have no need to hear whatever lies she might have concocted."
"That's not fair. You gave your word to her."
"Matthew, _you_ need to stop thinking with your Johnson." He stood up. "I see that Henry has cashed out. We'll talk about this at the house."
"No, we'll stay here, and you'll listen to her."
"No, I most definitely will not." He started for the door but stopped when he realized that Cap wasn't walking with him. "I'm leaving, Matthew."
"Good day, then. _I'm_ staying here..." He stepped next to Bridget. "...waiting for _you_ to keep your word."
"Don't hold your breath." Slocum turned and stormed out the door. Colonel Hooker hurried out behind him.
Cap tried to smile. "I won't." He looked at Bridget. "He's a stubborn man, you know."
Bridget kissed him gently on the cheek. "I think it runs in the family, but thank you."
"You're more than welcome." He scratched his head. "But now I need a place to stay until Uncle Abner comes to his senses."
Shamus smiled. "I'll be more than happy t'be renting ye a room, Cap. In fact, I've one available just down the hall from Bridget's."
"That'll do nicely Shamus." He winked at Bridget. "I've been wanting to sleep next to her for some time now."
Bridget felt a strong blush run across her face. Her breast tingled, the nipples stiffening against the soft muslin of her camisole, and she felt a pleasant warmth down between her legs. "Cap!" she said, looking shocked.
What shocked her most was how intriguing the idea of sleeping next to Cap Lewis _without_ a wall between them seemed.
* * * * *
Monday, March 18, 1872
Gregorio sat up from tying his shoes. Wilma was standing by her dresser, cleaning herself with water from a small basin. He smiled at the sight of the nude woman, gently gliding the damp cloth across her breasts and down the curve of her stomach. It rekindled the memory of what the two of them had done during the night. Several times.
"Wilma,” he said, carefully framing his words, "do you know Bridget... Bridget Kelly, the woman I was playing poker with?"
Wilma chuckled. "Do I know Bridget? Hellfire, I've known her for years, since we was in the Orphans' Home together, back in Texas."
"When you were a boy?"
"Yeah, you know 'bout that, do you?" She sounded concerned. She dipped the cloth in the basin and carefully wiped at her privates.
"I do."
"Well, you must not mind; least ways, it didn't seem t'bother you none last night." Wilma sighed and added, "Or this morning." She put the cloth down in the basin and began to pat herself dry with a towel.
"Whatever you may have been, you are my 'lively one', now, and _all_ woman."
"Mmm, and you're _all_ man. Shame you can't stay a while and show me again just how much of a man."
He stepped over to her and kissed the side of her neck. "A shame, indeed, but I must return to my ranch." He kissed her again on the neck and felt her shiver. "But I will be back to see you again."
"You better." She pressed herself against him, so that the curve of her bare ass pressed against his groin. "And bring _that_ with you." She reached back and brushed her hand against the erection tenting his pants.
He reached around and slid a finger across her female slit. "I will. If _this_ is waiting for me."
She trembled at his touch. "It will be."
"Good." He waited a beat. "Let me ask one other thing, though. When you and Bridget were at that home in Texas, was she... Was she Bridget?"
Wilma went to her pile of clothes. "Nope, Brian... Brian Geoffrey Kelly, that was _his_ name back then. He got to be Bridget the same time -- same way I got to be Wilma." She looked at his expression as she stepped into her drawers. "That don't make a difference, does it -- 'bout us, I mean."
"As I have said, you are my 'lively one', Wilma." He kissed her hand. "And you always will be, but about other things, _other_ _people_, yes, it may just make a difference."
He still held her hand. "I will wait until you are dressed. Then we will walk down together. We will walk _slowly_ so that you can be with me, just that much longer, before I take my leave."
* * * * *
Martina Lopez came out the backdoor of her house as Arnie pulled the laundry wagon up to her porch. "Hola, Seá±ora Lopez," Arnie greeted her.
"Buenos dias." The woman studied the girl's appearance. "Are you _really_ Arnoldo Diaz?"
Arnie looked down at the ground. It was the third time she'd been asked. "Si, I am... him."
"_Adjetivo... And now you are a pretty young woman." She chuckled. "Even in that grubby men's clothing."
"What is wrong with my clothes?"
"You are dressed like a man. You even walk like one."
"I _am_ a man." She glanced down at her body, then tapped her forehead with her finger. "In here, at least."
The seá±ora gave her a knowing look. "Oh, si, just like Margarita Sanchez is still a man, though her _fiancée_ thinks otherwise."
"That is her, not me." Arnie knew just how much of a woman Maggie had become. 'Such a thing could _never_ happen to me.' She pushed the thought from her mind.
Martina shrugged. "Perhaps. Who can know what will come to pass? It is just hard to believe -- even after I hear you say it -- that you are Arnoldo. You do not look at all like him."
“That is part of the magic. The new…woman, she… she does not look like the man she was." She had decided not to tell _anyone_ that she looked like the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
"Just so you do not act like the boy you were!"
"I will not act like a woman."
"Then act like a _man_, if you can. Just so you learn from what has happened, and you do not act like the foolish boy that you were."
The words stung. "Let me act like a delivery man, then." Arnie pulled a large package, tied with green string from the pile in the wagon. "Here is your laundry. You owe my mama..." She glanced at the package. "...two dollars, forty-five cents."
The woman took a small purse from a pocket in her purse and counted out the money. "Wait a moment," she said, as she traded the money for her laundry and stepped back through her door. "I have some more."
She returned with a bag stuffed with clothes.
Arnie wrote her name on a slip of paper and pinned it to the bag. "Thank you, seá±ora." She handed part of the slip to Martina and put the bag in the wagon.
The word were still echoing in her head, 'foolish boy', as she headed for the next house.
* * * * *
Cap knocked hard on the door. "Bridget..." He knocked again. "Bridget, are you all right?"
"Cap? Is that you?" Her voice sounded drowsy. "What's the matter?"
He tried the doorknob. Locked. "It's almost 1 o'clock. Are you coming down for lunch?"
"One o'clock!" The door swung opened. "I _never_ sleep that late."
Cap smiled and drank in the sight before him. Bridget stood in the doorway, wearing only her drawers and camisole, the top three buttons opened, showing the tops of her breasts. Her hair was undone, and flowed down around her shoulders.
"You... Ah, must still be tired from all the poker you played yesterday." He watched her yawn, sensuously stretching her body and arms like a cat. "You barely napped after the big game before you were downstairs again playing cards."
"The game." She rubbed her eyes, still only half awake, still forgetting how she was dressed. "I know we split the winnings, but I never _really_ thanked you for that 'grubstake' of yours."
Cap looked at her. There was something that he wasn't used to in her expression. Was it that look in her eyes -- shy, but somehow eager? Or was it in the odd curl at the ends of her mouth that made it so beautiful?
"Y-You thanked me in your own way," Cap stammered after a moment's hesitation.
"Maybe I…I just need…to thank you… again."
Cap felt his heart beating in his chest. Now those eyes of hers definitely _did_ become shy, but the shyness seemed to be mixed with edginess. It was like she wanted something, but wasn't sure what she wanted. Unexpectedly, perhaps for her, too, she stepped closer. Cap sucked in a breath of surprise.
She had come up very close, but still had not touched him. "D-Don't you _want_ to dress?" he finally asked, with her standing with her nose only inches from his and gazing intently into his face.
At the question, Bridget glanced down at herself. She realized that she had never before been so undressed in front of any man except Doc Upshaw. Her cheeks colored and slightly puckered. Cap had always liked the way they did that when she was thinking hard.
"Do you…really want me to dress, or do you want…to talk some first?" Did she _want_ to get dressed? Why did she _like_ the way things were, where she was, the way she looked?
Cap hesitated again, but not because he needed to think about the answer. "No….I mean, I'd like to talk, but don't…do anything you don't want to do."
She smiled. He was giving her the permission that she hadn't known she had wanted to hear.
The smile on the love bow of her lips became larger and more firmly set. She lifted her arms and slid them like silk ribbons around his neck. Cap smiled, his eyes telling her, "This is right, Bridget. This feels is _so_ right."
She kept looking into those hazel irises of his, trying to find doubt in him, trying to find anything at all that she could use to frighten herself away, -- anything at all to keep her from being honest with this man. Nothing that she could use was to be found; everything written into Cap's face welcomed her, encouraged her. She shivered. His glance had the intensity of a prospector who had been looking for color all his days… and finally discovered it, there, in front of him.
Bridget gritted her teeth, as if she was about to make a broad jump between two cliffs. All at once, her hold on his neck became a strong one. Her face came in close, and she kissed him so quickly that he lurched in surprise.
But Cap, as he lurched, grasped her warm flanks just as firmly as she was holding on to him. He recovered from his start swiftly; he had wanted this for too long to be daunted now. He drew her into a close embrace without breaking the kiss. In fact, Cap made the kiss harder, much hungrier. Bridget gave a little wince, as if it were too hard, too hungry.
But she didn't draw back; instead she moaned in pleasure. The gambler felt the tip of his tongue trying to find a way between her lips. She was taken aback -- not because she didn't want to let it in, but because she instinctively knew that she must act quickly, or else it would be frightened away.
Mother Nature, not any plan of the rational mind, caused Bridget to relax her lips and part her teeth, allowing his tongue to slip in and tickle hers. Then, as she pressed her body flush against Cap, the rub of his clothing on her bare skin reminded her, again, of how little she was wearing and of what might happen. "I'm... I'm sorry." She broke the kiss and stepped back into her room.
"And here I thought you were a gambler," Cap teased.
She looked up. A challenge. How was it that Cap could always speak to her in her own language, like no one else could? It was one of those things -- those endearing things -- about him that… That what? Made her feel what?
Oh, what a mighty leap she would have to make if she were to say that word. And if she did say it, could she ever again find her way back to her own side, to the other side of the abyss that once had made her feel safe? Would the thing she found on the far side terrify her? Or, by making the leap, would she have committed herself to remain on that other side, sharing it with him, come what may? Was she brave enough, was she even physically able, to whisper that huge and impossible word, even into the secrecy of her own mind?"
"Maybe I…should be." She squared her shoulders and took his hand in hers. Not sure of what else to do, she placed it on her right breast.
For Cap, it was like walking across a woolen rug and touching a lamp. His little smile widened. He saw her "raise" by gently kneading the breast that she had so kindly offered him. Then he raised the ante, repeating the action with his other hand on her left breast.
Bridget's senses reeled as the exquisite feelings flowed from his fingers into her breasts and on to almost every part of her body. The warmth, the longing that Cap was arousing in her, overrode the caution that she had always shown, before, when her clear mind and hard will had held all the high cards.
And now the object of that longing stood before her. She raised -- she _had_ _to_ raise, by reaching out and unbuttoning his shirt. It made her feel like she was in the middle of her leap, over the bottomless chasm.
Cap paused just long enough in the massaging of her breasts to slip first one arm then the other out of the shirt. It dangled down from his waist.
Excitement pricked his hair roots. This was quite a poker hand. Cap raised again. His fingers moved to the buttons of her camisole, opening each, one by one, with a sort of dramatic flourish. Bridget giggled, remembering Wilma's words. It did feel good to have a man undress her.
But not in the hall. She set her hand on his, holding it against her bosom, and took another step backwards into her room. When he followed her in, she told him, "Close the door."
"Done." He kicked the door shut behind him. As it closed, he leaned forward, lightly grasped her by an upper arm, and kissed her left breast, leaning in, to take the nipple into his mouth. He suckled at it, and Bridget trembled from the intensity of his carnal aggression.
'Am I a woman?' she asked herself. 'Am I now really a woman?'
'And what does it mean to be a woman?'
As if of its own will, her finger ran along the front of his trousers, finding a reassurance, somehow, in the firmness -- and the size -- of his manhood. Her hands worked the buttons, opening his pants, and yanked them down past his hips. When she released them, they settled to the floor.
Bridget stared at his erection, tenting his drawers. She whimpered and closed her eyes, surrendering to the -- the what? -- the _need_ that was growing in her, filling her to bursting.
Cap knelt and yanked off his shoes. He pulled Bridget to him and pressed his lips against her navel. He blew a puff of air into it, making a flatulent noise. She giggled and squirmed against him. He began kissing his way down her belly, taking small nips now and then. He could hear her moan and smelled the sweetness of her arousal.
"Ooooh... Ohh... Caaaap." Bridget swayed, unsteady on her legs. He stood, taking her in his arms. They kissed again, as he carried her to the bed.
'Don't think logically about this,' Bridget whispered to herself. 'Let it happen; let it come naturally. Be good for him.'
She looked up at him from the bed, a dazed smile on her face and her arms raised, bidding him to come to her. A sense of relief and elation and desire, all three together, rushed through her. She'd been unsure for so long: Cap? R.J.? Neither? Now she knew. Cap had supported her, loved her, even against his uncle and benefactor. She wanted to share her life -- and her body -- with him. The future was too hard to see. She would let whatever was meant to happen, happen.
He untied the knot on her drawers and managed to slide them down below her hips. He moved them further down her legs, caressing the flesh within them as he did. Her body _thrummed_ excitedly at his touch.
Bridget, trembling, blinked into the intensity of his face. This was so strange; it should warn her to stop, but…
He climbed up onto the bed and positioned himself between her legs. His drawers were off. She was getting wet. Her body understood what it must do and she realized that it was ready for him. He gently guided his member into her.
She yipped as he entered her. There was a moment of pain, of tearing, then he penetrated her, very deeply. He gave her several seconds to get used to the sensation, and then began to thrust. Bridget gasped at his first, hesitant moves, which soon became an onslaught. Her hips, her body, were passive things for the first minute, and then they began to move to match him. The friction warmed her inside, like a desert sun dawning on a cold desert morning.
This wasn’t like making love when she was a man, but her body knew what to do, and it _gloried_ in the doing.
As her dazzlement eased, she sensed something stirring deep within her. No sooner had it shown itself than it was out of control. No, it was in control of _her_. Higher and higher and higher it rose, stronger and stronger and stronger was its power over -- not just her will, but over her every instinct. It peaked. It was a power suffusing her, and now it pulled her trigger. She screamed in ecstasy, her hips arching, and she clutched him as if famished for his body.
He stopped for a moment, holding her firmly as she writhed in orgasm. Cap was still hard; he knew he could keep on pleasing her. He shifted, raising her legs up over his shoulders, and drove into her again.
"What... Cap... Ohh..." Anything else she might have said was silenced by her moans of bliss. She was dazed, lost, and she never wanted this moment to end.
But end it did. He suddenly froze, then howled as his juices spurted into her. She experienced it with a cry of disbelief -- the disbelief that her sensation-filled body was welcoming it. Then they both sank down onto the bed exhausted.
When they had caught their breaths, she kissed him, tiny pecks all over his face. He caressed her body, listening to her breathing change from excited pants of a woman in rapture, to the even steadiness of the afterglow. He took her head in his hands and kissed her hard on the lips. She responded, and again wrapped him in her arms.
When they finally broke the kiss, he grinned at her. "I guess we've worked up enough of an appetite to go down to for lunch now."
Her eyes were dewy; she could only stare into his face with a weary, sated smile.
* * * * *
"What are ye doing in here, boy?" Shamus stormed over to the young boy who'd just come into his Saloon.
Stephan Yingling looked up at the angry man. "Please, sir, are... Are you Mr. O'Toole?"
"Aye, I'm Shamus O'Toole. Now who are ye, and what's a wee lad like ye doing here? Ye must know that I won't be serving ye anything t'drink."
"I know that, sir. I just -- I wanted to ask about that magic potion of yours."
"Me potion? What concern is it of yuirs?"
"A friend of mine, Emma -- she used to be Elmer -- she took it last year."
Shamus looked closely at the boy. "And ye've got feelings for her, I'm thinking."
"Feelings... No, not-not like that. She's a friend, that's all. Besides, she likes Yully Stone, I think."
"What are ye asking then?"
Before the boy could answer, Laura came bustling over. "Stephan... Stephan Yingling, what are you doing in here?"
"Mrs. Caulder, I-I didn't think that you'd --"
Shamus scowled. "Yingling? Is the reverend yuir father?"
"He is," Laura answered. "Stephan, I think you'd best leave."
"Y-Yes'm." The boy hurried out through the swinging doors.
Shamus looked at Laura. "Ye and Arsino belong to that church. Do ye have any idea what the preacher's boy was doing in me saloon?"
"None." She shrugged. "Maybe he was just curious about the place."
"Curious about something, I'm thinking. I wonder if he'll be coming back. I surely don't need any grief from that father o'his."
* * * * *
Bridget took a bite of fried chicken. "Cap, I want to thank you again for treating me to this supper." They were sitting at one of Maggie's tables, speaking softly, so no one could hear their conversation.
"And I want to thank you again for treating _me_ this afternoon." He smiled.
She looked down at her plate. "I-I want to talk to you about that."
"What's the matter?"
"I hadn't planned... I didn't want... Oh, hell, I don't know how to say this without hurting you."
"You weren't ready, were you?"
She shook her head. "No... No, I wasn't. I like you very much -- maybe even love you." She stopped, realizing again that she _did_ love him. "But I -- no, I wasn't ready for... for what happened." She sniffled and sounded ready to cry. "I'm so sorry."
To Bridget, Brian — her male self -- seemed so far away, and she needed, more than ever, his steady hand to guide her. Why couldn't she just be physically a woman, and not have to feel the way they did? The emotions that were churning inside her were so assertive, so turbulent.
She fought, she fought so hard, to ignore them, to be detached and logical, like she managed to be at the card table.
But these emotions were like the rush of warm floodwater, an irresistible force that managed to over-roll everything. Brian's clear thinking couldn't reach her lips through such turmoil. Everything came out the wrong way. Here she was, saying words to Cap that might make him think that she was putting all the blame on him.
Cap was talking. She struggled to give him her attention.
"I'm sorry, too," he was saying. The young rancher took her hand in his own. "Sorry that I rushed you into something you didn't want."
She looked up at him, her eyes glistening. "That's the problem, I-I did want it, sort of. I'm just not ready for what it means."
"I wanted it, too. I'd like to do it again, but, if you're not ready, then... Then we wait until you are."
"Do you mean that?"
"Bridget, I want you -- I _love_ you, but it won't work unless you want me, too. Until you do..." He sighed theatrically. "...I'll just have to wait. And hope and pray and worry and dream and --"
She couldn't help but giggle. "All right, all right. I get the idea."
"There's that beautiful smile that'll make all that hoping and praying worth waiting for." He paused a beat. "Now eat your supper. I'm not as rich as you are that I can afford to waste the cost of a meal."
* * * * *
Tuesday, March 19, 1872
Wilma shifted on the bed where she was posing. "Mmmm, Ethan," she purred, "Can I ask you a question?"
"As long as you return to the pose, you may."
She shifted back into position, stretching out invitingly on the sheet, her nude body displayed for him to paint. "I been thinking about what you said last week, about how _painting_ me was better than _having_ me right here, right now on this bed."
"Yes, I did say that. What we're doing right now _is_ more intimate."
"Not for me it ain't." She frowned. "I know you like having sex. You 'n Beatriz been at it since that first night you come to the House."
"I'm not painting a picture of Beatriz."
"And you ain't taking me to bed. How about if she and I switch off? You paint her for a while and have your _fun_ with me."
"You're not listening, Wilma. I am having fun with you. Having you here, as my model, is far more pleasurable for me than any mere carnal romp might be."
"Not for me, it ain't."
"Patience, my dear Miss Hanks, and it will be."
* * * * *
Cap looked across the table to Bridget who was still moving cards. "What's your best hand?"
"Four of a kind," she said, moving a last card into place. "Nines." She showed him the five poker hands she'd arranged as part of their double Maverick solitaire game. The highest hand had four 9s and the 6 of hearts.
Cap nodded in appreciation. "Not bad, not bad at all, but this one's better." He turned one of his five hands around and grinned. "Straight flush, 3 to 7 of diamonds."
"Damnation!" She pouted. "You're getting too good at this game."
"There're a _lot_ of games I'm good at."
She wasn't ready for this sort of suggestive talk. "Cap... Please."
"Well, I am, checkers... Cribbage... Twenty-one... Craps. Uncle Abner -- you should excuse the name -- even taught me how to play chess."
Bridget giggled. "Oooh, you!"
"'Scuse me, Seá±or Lewis..." Angel Montiero had walked up to the table. "...can I talk to you for a moment?"
Bridget stood up. "I'll just leave you men to talk."
"No," Cap said, "you can stay. This won't take very long." He turned to the cowhand. "My uncle sent you, didn't he?"
"Si -- yes, sir." Angel held his hat in his hands, and now he fidgeted with it, as he spoke. "He sent me into town for the paper and for some supplies he ordered. But he also said that I should ask you when you were coming back to the ranch."
Cap's expression soured. "You tell him I want to know when _he's_ coming here to have that talk with Bridget like he promised."
"Please, I-I do not want to get in the middle of you two." He began to crumple his hat.
Cap put his hand on the other man's shoulder. "It's all right, Angel. You just tell him what I said. He's too mad at me to get angry at you for repeating what I said."
"Yes," Bridget added. "Besides, you'll just be giving him Cap's answer."
The Mexican nodded. "Very well, I will tell him what you said." He started to leave.
"Hold it, Angel," Cap told him. "_I've_ got a question for you before you go -- two questions, actually."
"Two, seá±or?"
"Yes, the first is, how has my uncle been acting the last couple days?"
"He is angry... _muy_ angry -- at you, I suppose. He does not say so, but everyone knows this. He is like a bull in a pen, snorting and stomping his hoof at anyone who comes close." He took a breath. "What is your second question?"
"An easier one, I think. Can I buy you a beer before you head back?"
* * * * *
Martha Yingling burst into her husband's office. "Thad, I-I must talk with you. Stephan..." Her voice trailed off as she tried to hold back her tears.
"Martha, what... Is it?" He stood and hurried to her side, taking her in his arms.
"I-I was at Ortega's market. I wanted to get some... Some nice chicken for supper. I was at the meat counter, and I heard Lavinia Mackechnie behind me. She was talking to another woman, talking loudly so everyone could hear what she was saying."
"And what _exactly_ was she saying."
"That she saw Stephan -- our Stephan -- going into that-that place, the saloon, O'Toole's place."
Yingling remembered his son's threat. "What! Not O'Toole's. He-he couldn't."
"She said that she stayed to watch -- she's just the sort that would stay to watch, and he was in there for a good ten or fifteen minutes. I-I couldn't believe my ears."
"Nor I. Did you challenge her words?"
"I suppose that I should have, but I-I couldn't. I rushed straight back here -- didn't even take the time to buy the bird. I'll have to-to go back for it."
"First things first." He glanced at his pocket watch. "Stephan should be home from school by now. Let us go find him and ascertain the truth of Lavinia's claims."
She sobbed. "I did; I went straight up to his room." She sobbed. "He didn't... He _wouldn't_ deny a word of it. And... And when I asked him why he would do such a thing, he-he said that I should ask you. Why...? Why should I -- what is going on that he should say that? And in such a _cold_, angry voice? Thad, please, please tell me what is going on between the two of you."
"It will be all right, Martha." He fumbled in his pocket for a moment till he found his handkerchief. He used it to carefully dab at his wife's eyes. "You need not worry yourself. I know the problem, and I shall make _very_ certain that nothing seriously comes of it."
* * * * *
"Damn!" Trisha threw the newspaper down to the ground. "Damn all it to Hell!"
Kaitlin looked up from her sewing. "What's the matter?" She glanced upstairs. Emma's door was closed, so her daughter -- who was in her room studying with her friend Ysabel -- wasn't likely to have heard the profanity.
"The paper, Roscoe printed that we just got divorced."
"Didn't he have to? I mean, with the other legal announcements?"
"I-I suppose. It's just... Seeing it there in black and white..." She closed her eyes, a pained look on her face.
Kaitlin put down the blouse she was working on and walked over to where Trisha was sitting. "I know." She put her hand on Trisha's shoulder. "I don't like it either."
"I-I hate this... Hate being a woman." She sighed. "I just hate it."
"Hate it or love it, you'll be one for the rest of your life. You'll... _we'll_ just have to live with it." She waited a beat. "You don't seem to hate _everything_ about being a woman?"
"What do you mean?"
"You seem to enjoy the attention of men. You enjoyed one man's attention enough to let him mark your body."
"I told you -- more than once -- I was _drunk_." She frowned. "And you don't seem to have any problems with Liam's attentions to you."
"Should I have a problem?"
"Damned right you should you're my..." Her voice trailed off as she stared down at the floor.
"You're wife? No, Trisha, I'm not; not anymore." She put a hand on the other woman's shoulder. "We're... Friends, sisters, almost, but that's _all_ we are; all we can ever be."
"And I'm supposed to be happy that Liam is -- is... courting you?"
"Am I supposed to be happy that you're walking off into the night with strange men to do who-knows-what?"
Trisha reached up and put her hand over Kaitlin's. "I guess -- maybe -- neither of us is supposed to be happy."
* * * * *
Yingling moved his black knight out onto the board. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, Aaron?"
"Ask," Aaron Silverman replied, as he studied the chessboard. "You're going to lose, so you might as well get something out of tonight's game."
The reverend ignored the comment about the game. "You're a member of the town council, aren't you?"
"You know I am. Didn't you help me get there?" He moved his own knight out and turned over the small hourglass they used to time their moves.
"You make it sound like I campaigned for you. I never did that."
"What you did do was almost as good. You got up the Sunday before the election and said that you saw nothing wrong in voting for a man of -- what was it? -- oh, yeah, of my 'religious persuasion.' More than one person told me that you saying that was what got them to vote for me."
"If I trust you not to cheat at chess, I trust you enough to let you on the council." He shifted his queen back two spaces. "I fear, though, that you're not going to win this game as easily as you won that election." He turned the hourglass.
Aaron studied the board. "We'll see soon enough who's gonna win, but, nu, what do you want to know about the council?"
"I was just wondering what sort of agreement Mr. O'Toole has with you as regards that potion of his?"
"Relationship... What a fancy-shmancy word you're saying. It's his to do with what he wants. The town council, we don't get involved." He looked closely at the reverend. "You asked me a question, so I'll ask you one. Why do you want to know about it all of a sudden?"
"It just occurred to me that people might require a temperate hand in control of something that powerful."
"I don't know from 'temperate.' Shamus is a mensch; people trust him." He advanced a pawn one square, and overturned the hourglass. "There."
Yingling made a face. "I'm not certain that he _can_ be trusted, considering the sort of business that he's in, preying on human weakness." He paused a moment. "And there have been accidents, the O'Hanlans and that Mexican boy I just heard about."
"Emma O'Hanlan was no accident. Dead she'd have been without that potion. And, from what I heard, it was Trisha's own idea to take some. We got a saying, 'what's on a fool's mind is on his tongue', and that's exactly what happened to Trisha. You can't blame it on Shamus."
"Perhaps not, but it was his carelessness that let that Mexican boy get a hold of the potion just a short while ago." He moved his knight to defend the black queen. "Your move."
"Arnie Diaz... Yes, my Rachel told me about him just the other day. With everything else that happened to that family..." He made a sympathetic click of his tongue. "It's like they say, if things don't get better, they may get worse."
"They seem to have done so in that case. What's more, I have reason to believe that another person, a woman, took a dose of the potion."
"A woman -- oy! What happened to her?"
"My knowledge of that case is rather vague. I do know that, when she left Eerie, she appeared much changed in character from the woman she had been when she arrived. Moreover, I was told by a reasonably valid source that is was because she had ingested some of Mr. O'Toole's brew."
"_That_ I didn't know about." He moved his own knight to the square next to the black one and turned the timer over.
"Yes, and from what I had observed previously of the lady in question, I very much doubt that she took the potion deliberately and with O'Toole's tacit approval. That potion has been used five times: on the Hanks gang, on Miss Steinmetz..." As he listed each times, Yingling stuck out a finger. "...on the O'Hanlon's, on Mrs. -- on the lady I mentioned, and on the Diaz boy. Three of those five times, someone took it by accident. That hardly speaks well of O'Toole's ability to safeguard that concoction of his."
"You're talking like you already got a better idea."
"As a matter of fact, I have two good ideas. Here's the first." He moved his queen, so that it was next to the knight. "The other is that the council should appoint a small group to watch over the potion in a safer..." He turned over the hourglass. "...more ethical manner."
"More _ethical_; I don't suppose you have any suggestions for _who_ should be on this group of yours."
Yingling grinned. "Well... Now that you mention it."
* * * * *
Wednesday, March 20, 1872
"Damn, that stew of Maggie's sure smells good," Laura muttered.
Jane set the fresh pot of stewed meat with chili peppers down on the "Free Lunch" Table. "It is good; I had me some in the kitchen. You just go help yourself. I'll be bringing out some fresh cornbread t'go with it in a minute."
"I can have some of the bread and, maybe, some sliced cheese, but that stew's much too spicy for me. I'll have indigestion -- heartburn, too, probably -- if I eat it."
"It never bothered you before. I seen you eat it lot's of times."
Laura gently rubbed her rounded belly. "It doesn't bother me, but it does bother him -- or her. Mrs. Lonnigan says it's normal for somebody as far as along as me." She sighed and sat down. "I'll just have to wait until the baby comes to have some."
"Well, since you're eating for two, why don't I just go get something that you and the little one can both enjoy?" She bustled off to the kitchen, coming back with the cornbread and a few slices of ham leftover from the previous night's dinner.
* * * * *
"Here she comes," Hermione told Lallie. It was recess, and they were standing at the foot of the schoolhouse steps, blocking the way.
Emma hurried down, anxious to get over to the ball game. "'Scuse me,” she said trying to get by.
"No," Hermione replied matter-of-factly. "There's no excuse for you, Emma O'Hanlan."
Emma turned to face Hermione. "What're you saying, Hermione?"
"She said that there's no excuse for somebody like you." Lallie repeated the insult. "You say that you're still a boy, but you dress like a girl... Right down to your... _undergarments_."
Emma glowered at the girl. "My corset, you mean, don't you?"
"And you play with the boys," Hermione picked up the refrain. "Running around, chasing them, touching them, and letting them _touch_ you, touch you in places where a boy shouldn't touch a girl."
Lallie chimed in. "You're no better than your... Trisha."
"And my papa's getting her kicked off the church board for what she done at the dance," Hermione jeered.
Emma raised her arm, threatening the other girls. "You take that back"
"Why? It's true, isn't it?" Hermione stood firm. "The pair of you are just common --"
Without thinking, Emma slapped Hermione's face. "Liar!"
"How dare you?" Hermione rubbed her cheek.
Emma looked daggers at her. "I'm glad I did it. I'll do it again if you keep talking like that."
"Witch!" Hermione reached out to grab Emma.
Emma braced, then pulled at Hermione's arm. The two girls grappled back and forth. Hermione stumbled and pulled them both to the ground. The two girls rolled on the ground as a crowd gathered around them.
"Watching them two is more fun than playing ball," Clyde chuckled.
Yully was about to agree when he saw Miss Osbourne walk out onto the porch. "Yeah, but it looks like it's over. And so is recess, at least for your sister and Emma."
* * * * *
"May I speak with you a moment, Horace?" Reverend Yingling stood at the counter of Styron's Hardware and Mining Equipment Store.
Styron glanced around the premises. The only customers were a pair of miners who one of his clerks was waiting on. "Certainly, Reverend; can we speak out here, or do you want to go into my office?"
"I would prefer the privacy of your office, if you don't mind."
"Of course not." Styron led the other man to his office, shutting the door firmly once they were both inside. "Now then, what can I do for you?"
"That potion, the one Shamus O'Toole gave to Patrick O'Hanlan, what do you think of it?"
"I can't say as I like it. Sure, it saved us from the Hanks gang, but it seems to me that it's caused nothing of trouble since then."
"And how much of that trouble would you say is because O'Toole is the one in charge of it?"
"It's hard to say. Seems to me that something so powerful shouldn't be in the hands of a Mick bartender."
"And why, precisely, do you say that?"
"The man's not responsible. Hell, as like as not, he's drunk himself. And the Irish are a wild people. It's only a matter of time before he uses that potion of his out of spite."
"I believe that he already has."
"Why do you say that?"
"A few weeks ago, a Mrs. Elizabeth Taft, the sister of Laura Caulder, came to town to retrieve the body of her brother -- the man that Mrs. Caulder had been before imbibing a dose of O'Toole's foul brew. I spoke to her when she first came to town, and she impressed me as a good, Christian woman."
Yingling shook his head and sighed before continuing. "I encountered her again just as she and her husband were leaving on the stage to Utah. She appeared to have become almost as libertine in her habits as that Wilma Hanks woman is reputed to be. That other woman, the one who looks like Mrs. Caulder, blurted out that Mrs. Taft had taken -- or _been_ _given_ -- a dose of the potion."
"What are you saying?"
"I cannot help but wonder how she came to take it. Was it accidental or was she asking questions that O'Toole didn't want to answer, and so he gave her some of that potion to quiet her inquiries. Perhaps she didn't realize that she was drinking it, or he even _forced_ her to drink it."
"That's a serious charge to make, Reverend."
"I am serious. I cannot prove that O'Toole did what I'm saying he did, but I do think that he _could_ do it. And I consider such a situation to be untenable."
"We can't stop him from making the stuff."
"Perhaps not, but I feel that, if he does make any more of it, he should not retain control of it any longer than necessary. Others must be appointed to that task."
"Who should be then, the town council?"
"No, those men are far too friendly towards Mr. O'Toole. Besides the potion is a moral issue, not a political one."
"Moral -- as in 'church', I expect -- _our_ church, naturally. We can't trust them Mex mackerel-snappers." He chuckled and put out his hand. "Okay, Reverend, you can count me in on whatever you've got in mind."
Yingling shook Styron's hand and smiled a very satisfied grin. "I thought I might."
* * * * *
"Good afternoon. Miss Sanchez." Enoch Ryland greeted Maggie with a broad smile, when she walked into his tailor shop. "Are you here for the fitting for your wedding gown?"
His smile narrowed when Laura and Carmen followed her through the door. "We are," Laura answered.
"There's no reason for all of you to be here for the fitting, is there?" he asked. By way of explanation, he added, "There's not a lot of room in the back of the store."
"Laura is my madrone, my wedding godmother," Maggie answered. "It is her job to help me with the wedding, and Carmen -- she will be my sister-in-law, so when she asked to come along --"
Carmen shrugged. "I couldn't wait until Maggie's wedding to see the gown."
'Bad enough they were all here for the measuring,' Ryland thought sourly, a bland smile still on his face. 'Get any of them alone, and we could have some real fun. The three of them together, and all I can do is fit the damned dress.' Aloud he said, "Well, then, let's go back and see how it fits."
He led them to the back of the store. "The dress is in there." He pointed to the curtained-off dressing room. "Let me know when you're ready... Or if you need any help with it."
"I'm sure we can manage between the three of us," Laura told him, following the other two behind the curtain.
The dress was on a hanger placed on a rack with several other items. It was in the empire style, sleeveless with a low bodice and tight down to the waist, where it flowed out into a full skirt. As was the custom, it was made from the white silk and the lace trim Ramon had given Maggie at their betrothal ceremony. "It... It is beautiful," Maggie said, staring at the gown.
"It surely is," Laura agreed.
Carmen nodded. "Almost as pretty as the bride herself. Ramon will love seeing you in it on your wedding day."
"Almost as much as he'll love seeing you out of it on your wedding night," Laura said with a giggle.
Maggie blushed. "Laura!" She was carefully unbuttoning her dress. "To say something like that." She slid it off her shoulders and wriggled out of it.
"You tell me you aren't thinking of such things -- not even a little," Laura teased, "and I'll stop."
Carmen picked up Maggie's dress and draped it over a chair. "Besides, it is natural for a bride to think of her life with her husband-to-be."
"Si," Maggie said. "I-I am thinking of such things -- just a little." Her face, her entire body felt warm as a pleasant tingle ran through her.
Laura took the gown off its hanger and held it up. "Lift your arms,” she told Maggie. Maggie raised her arms; Laura, and Carmen helped her into it. Once her arms and head were visible, they let it slip down onto her. It bunched up at her waist, and they maneuvered it down over her petticoat.
"Está¡ maravilloso... So beautiful," Carmen gushed.
Laura agreed. "We're ready for the fitting, and with the three of us here, Maggie's gown is the only thing Enoch'll be able to work on."
* * * * *
Kaitlin was peeling potatoes for supper, when Emma came in. "Hello, dear, how was school today?"
"Not too good," Emma all but whispered. "Miz Osbourne gimme a note for you to sign." She handed her mother a folded sheet of paper.
Kaitlin opened the note and read it quickly. "Emma! Why ever were you fighting with Hermione Ritter?"
"Hermione started it."
"Perhaps she did, but that isn't the question I asked you, is it?"
"N-no, ma'am." She took a breath. "Hermione... She said... She said Trisha and me weren't no good."
"What did she mean that you were 'no good'?"
"She-she said that I liked boys too much, that I liked 'em to... to touch_ me, touch me in places where boys ain't supposed t'touch girls." She spoke fast, blurting the words. "I-I don't let boys touch me like that, mama, honest I don't."
Kaitlin reflected back over the last few months, since Elmer had taken the potion to save his life by becoming Emma. 'So _many_ changes,' she thought. Aloud, she asked. "Do you like boys?"
Emma blushed. "Yes," she giggled. "I do. I just don't want 'em pawing at me like I was some kinda animal."
"And that's just the proper attitude for a young lady to have." Kaitlin waited to see if Emma would react to being called a "young lady.''
Emma didn't react at all. "Yes'm," she answered and continued with the story. "Hermione said the same about Trisha -- Mama, did Trisha do something wrong at the church dance?"
"She did dance with some of the men." The woman sighed. She'd been expecting that Emma would hear the gossip. Trust Cecelia Ritter's daughter to be the one who would inform her daughter. "And she... walked a bit with one of them -- holding hands. That's all."
At least, it was she would tell Emma. A young girl had no reason to know about things like love bites, let alone that her transformed father had gotten one. "That's _all_ Trisha did."
"That don't sound too bad," Emma considered what she'd just heard. "That can't kick her off the church board for something like that, can they? Hermione said they would"
"They're going to try." She smiled and took Emma's hand, "but I don't think that they will." She waited a beat. "Of course, _now_ they have one more thing to use against her."
"What's that, Mama?"
Kaitlin looked sternly at Emma. "Her daughter gets into fights."
"Oh -- ooh, Mama, what've I done?"
"You let Hermione Ritter goad you into a fight. You can't be hitting her." She winked. "No matter how much she may deserve it."
Emma traced a "king's X" over her heart. "I won't fight with Hermione no more. No matter how much she _does_ deserve it."
* * * * *
Thursday, March 21, 1872
Arnie used her back to push open Teresa's bedroom door. "Wake up, Mama. Breakfast is re -- Mama, what are you doing?"
"I-I am getting out of th-this bed." Teresa Diaz was half-standing, pulling herself to her feet using her good left arm and the bedpost. "I have a house -- and children -- and a _business_ -- to take care of."
It was what she'd been repeating since the day she came home. "Mama," Arnie answered, hurriedly setting down the breakfast tray on the dresser. "The doctor said that you must rest this week."
"Bah! What does he know?"
"He knows that your arm and leg are broken -- and that they will not heal if you do not rest."
"But if I rest, then who will take care of the house and all of you? Who will run my business, so we can pay the _learned_ doctor's bill?"
"Dolores is helping with the house and the little ones. _I_ will see to the laundry business -- I have been working at it since the day after... the day you were hurt." 'The day I changed,' but she wouldn't say that.
"You? You who would not work before?" She stopped to consider her thoughts. "For a few days, _maybe_, but can you run my business for six weeks?"
"I can. I have to, don't I?" She looked away from Teresa and straightened her back. "It is only right that I take over the business, so your bones have time to heal. That is what a man... a _son_ does for his mother."
She regarded her new daughter intently. Arnie was trying _so_ hard to help. It would be hurtful to remind her that she wasn't always expected to do as a man does -- not anymore. She carefully lowered herself back into the bed. "Very well, I will wait -- for a while, at least, before I go back to work."
* * * * *
"G'morning, Maggie," Jane greeted the other woman who had just walked into the kitchen. "How you feeling today?"
Maggie pulled out a chair and sat down. "Anxious; my wedding gets closer and closer. Can we talk for a few minutes before we start with the cooking?"
"Sure." Jane pulled out a second chair. "What d'you wanna talk about?"
"My wedding, of course, and the restaurant."
"Of course, it being only 'bout ten days till you get hitched. I bet you're planning some real special food for the party."
"I-I am, but that is not what I want to talk to you about."
"It ain't?"
"No... Not now, anyway." She took a breath. "You know that Ramon and I are going on a honeymoon. We will be..." She felt herself blush. "...away for three days."
"And three nights." Jane giggled. "Sure, I know that."
"But there is a problem. I cannot afford to close down the restaurant for three days... And three nights."
"I didn't think of that. What're you gonna do? You ain't gonna call off the honeymoon are you?"
"No, I plan -- I _hope_ to leave someone else in charge, someone I trust who can run the place for me."
"You ask Molly t'do it yet? You think Shamus'll mind that she ain't working for him for them three days?"
"I am not asking Molly. I am asking you."
"Me? But I... I -- "
"You know my recipes, and you are a good cook, Jane, and maybe even a better baker than I am,"
Jane shook her head, "Ain't nobody better 'n you."
"Then as good as me. Will you do it?"
"But I don't know how -- you're always saying that there's more t'running the restaurant than cooking, stuff like buying the food and planning the meals. I don't know none of that."
"You know some of it, I think, and -- if you say yes -- I can teach you enough to take care of things. It is only for three days, after all."
"You sure I can do it?"
"Si, I do. And Molly will help, I have already asked; so will Laura... And Dolores, too."
"I-I still don't know if I can do it."
"If you will not do it, if you will not even try, then I cannot go away with Ramon. You do not want me to disappoint him, do you?"
"Maggie, I don't think you're ever gonna disappoint Ramon." She sighed and steadied herself as if she were about to step in front of a firing squad. "All right," she finally said, "I-I'll do it. It'll be my wedding present to you, I guess."
* * * * *
Carl Osbourne walked into the saloon. He stood just inside the doors and looked around. Cap was sitting with Bridget at her table. He stood up when he saw Osbourne come in and hurried over to the man.
"You came from my uncle, I expect," Cap said by way of greeting. "What's he say this time?"
The tall cowhand shifted uncomfortably. "He wants to know when you're coming home. He said -- these're _his_ words -- you should 'have the little trollop and be done with her.' I'm sorry, Cap, but that's what he said."
"That sounds like him," Cap said with a wry laugh. "He can get awful stuffy when he's angry. Besides, I know that your sister, the school marm's, the word-wrangler in your family. You limit yourself to wrangling my uncle's cattle."
"That's the truth of it. I never was interested in book learning like she was." He took a breath. "So, you ready to go home?"
"Aren't you going to ask if I've had the 'little trollop', Carl?"
"First off, Bridget ain't a trollop; she's a lady. Second, that's your business not mine." He chuckled. "And third, if I did ask, you'd probably kick my ass for asking."
Now Cap laughed. "Right on all three." He put a friendly arm across the other's shoulder. "Now, before I send you back to Uncle Abner with the bad news that I'm staying put till _he_ comes in, let me buy you a beer to make the ride back a bit more pleasant."
* * * * *
"Well, now, little lady," Rhys Godwyn greeted Trisha with a warm smile. "I was hoping I'd find you here."
Trisha caught herself smiling back. "Mr. Godwyn... Rhys, what're you doing here?"
"I got a crate for you'n your brother," he answered. "Maybe, after I get it stowed, you'n me can go someplace and pick up where we left off at that dance."
Liam came over to the freighter. "Pick up what, Mr. Godwyn? What, _exactly_, have you been doing with my sister?"
"Seems t'me that's b'tween me'n your sister." Godwyn looked daggers at Liam.
Liam glared back at him. "Not always. Sometimes she needs me to protect her interests."
"Please." Trisha stepped in between the two men. "We danced together, then we took a walk, and he... He _kissed_ me." She looked quickly at Rhys and back at her brother. "That's-that's _all_ that happened... That's all, I-I promise."
Godwyn nodded. "Sure... Sure, that's all we did." He grinned. "I was just hoping we could do... What we done there at that dance again -- kiss, I mean."
"_Whatever_ the two of you did," Liam sounded doubtful, "it was enough for people to start gossiping. For now, sir, why don't you just bring in the crate?"
The freighter looked relieved. "Sure... Sure, Mr. O'Hanlan. And after that..."
"After that..." Trisha replied. "After that, you... You can go on to your next delivery." She wanted to go with Rhys; her body certainly did, anyhow, based on the way it was tingling in anticipation. But Liam had reminded her of the political trouble she was in, thanks to Cecelia Ritter's talk about her and Rhys.
'The very last thing I need,' she told herself ruefully, 'is to be seen with that tall... handsome... so _very_ male freighter.'
* * * * *
"Milt, Milt," Jane called out happily as she hurried over to him near the swinging doors of the saloon. "Guess what happened t'me."
He pulled her to him and gave her a gentle kiss. "Something good, I would say," he said, breaking the kiss, "judging from how excited you are."
"Bridget's going on a honeymoon."
"People usually do after they get married. She didn't ask you to go along with her, did she?"
"You're teasing me." She gave his wrist an affectionate slap. "I'm staying right here -- I'm gonna be running the restaurant while she's gone. I get to plan the meals, do the cooking... _everything_."
"Well, congratulations, then. I'll be sure to come over for supper and to see how you're doing." He suddenly frowned. "There's just one thing, though."
"What's that?"
"If you're going to be running the restaurant, then you'll be too busy to have dinner with me."
"Sure, I will. You can come out t'the kitchen and eat with me there; just like Ernesto and Lupe eat with Maggie every night." She blushed and looked down shyly. "It's more... private out there."
* * * * *
"What's troubling ye, R.J.?" Shamus asked, walking over to his assistant's place behind the bar.
R.J. pointed across the saloon to Bridget's poker table. Bridget and Cap were sitting there, playing that odd kind of solitaire they both knew. Cap must have just said something to her because Shamus saw her laugh and playfully slap the man's arm.
"I've lost her, Shamus," the other barman said in a cheerless voice.
Shamus put his hand lightly on R.J.'s shoulder. "Ye never really had her, did ye now?"
"No... No, I guess I didn't. But I thought -- I hoped that I did."
"Aye, lad. But ye didn't. And now that ye've heard yuirself say it, ye know 'tis true, and ye can start t'be getting over the hurt ye're feeling about it."
R.J. sighed in resignation. "I know it's true, Shamus. I just don't _like_ _ knowing that it's true."
"Aye, and ye probably never will, not entirely. But, in time, ye'll accept it, being the good man that ye are. Ye may even come t'be happy for them, someday."
"Maybe." He managed the beginning of a smile. "But I don't think it'll be a someday any day soon."
* * * * *
Friday, March 22, 1872
Rhys Godwyn stepped up to the counter. "I hear you got something for me, Trisha."
"I surely do," Trisha answered softly. "Come with me, please." She rose from her stool and walked towards the office. As she walked, she caught herself putting an extra sway into her hips. She knew that he was watching, and she hoped that he liked what he saw.
He did. He was smiling broadly as they entered the office. "Now,” he said, closing the door behind them, "show me what you got."
"Mmm, certainly." Why was she acting like such a flirt? She turned around to face him. "What the --?"
Rhys was leaning against the door. His shirt and pants had vanished. He wore only a gray pair of drawers, drawers that were tenting at the crotch.
"Oh... Oh, my." Trisha's eyes were drawn to that tenting like a moth to a flame. A delicious shiver ran through her. She felt her nipples tighten and push out against the stiff muslin lining of her -- no, her corset lining felt softer, more like... Satin.
She looked down. Her blouse and skirt had gone to wherever Rhys' clothing went. So had her camisole and petticoat! All she wore was a satiny violet corset, a pair of silky white drawers that hardly reached below her hips, and violet stockings. A bright red garter, trimmed with small roses, rode high up on her thigh. These were most definitely _not_ what she'd been wearing.
But they seemed right, somehow.
Without thinking, she posed for him, right hand on her hip, right leg slightly forward. "Do you like what you see, honey?" Her voice was low and sultry, full of sexual promise.
"Li'l darling,” he replied, leering at her, "you are most surely worth what I paid for you."
She shook her head. Paid for her? She was suddenly aware of her surroundings. This wasn't the office of O'Hanlan Feed & Grain. The walls were covered with a blue velvet wallpaper that looked purple in the red light -- red light?
She glanced back over her shoulder. The office furniture, desk, chairs, file cabinet were gone. In their place was a four-poster feather bed, its blanket pulled back. The office windows were gone. The only illumination was from a lamp on a nearby table. Someone had thrown a red silk handkerchief over it, tinting the light a bright scarlet.
Trisha realized that she was in a bedroom, a _cathouse_ bedroom. She remembered that she had wanted to do this, but couldn't remember exactly when or how she had taken the job.
The newest cathouse girl in Eerie, Arizona smiled as she saw how her outfit was exciting Rhys.
"I... I want you," she told him huskily. "Want you in me... Right now." She took a step forward into his embrace, let him pull her close, to kiss her savagely. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the exquisite warmth building inside her and hungrily rubbing her loins against him.
Like the whore she was.
He touched her half-bare breasts, and she smiled at the pleasure that his touch bought her. What a beautiful word that was when applied to herself, "whore."
"Nooo!" Trisha sat up and blinked her eyes. She was in bed, her own bed, with -- with Kaitlin, thank Heaven! -- no man anywhere in sight.
Kaitlin was looking at her. "Trisha, what's the matter?"
"A dream," she answered, catching her breath. "A _horrible_ dream." She was trembling, cold with sweat and fear. And the worst part of it was remembering how vivid it had been, how much she had enjoyed what she had been doing and how much her body had _wanted_ what had seemed about to happen.
The two women settled down again. Kaitlin was soon making sleeping sounds. Trisha wanted to get back to sleep to, at first to help her forget the dream, but before she drifted off, she realized that the dream might come back, perhaps at the point where it had left off.
* * * * *
"And I think we're done for today." Ethan Thomas set his brush and pallet down on a table near where he'd been standing.
Cecelia Ritter took a breath and relaxed in her chair. "At last. I never realized how hard it is just to keep in one pose for a time."
"Perhaps you'll remember that the next time you discipline one of the children for not sitting still,” her husband said.
She stood up. "_That_ is an entirely different matter." She paused a moment before asking Ethan, "Do you mind if I walk around a bit to get the stiffness out?"
"Go right ahead," the artist answered, "the both of you. I'm told that it can be a help in restoring one's circulation after a sitting."
The couple began to stroll about the studio, looking at the paintings set on several other easels. "Why do you have two -- no, three -- Laura Caulders in this painting?" Cecelia wondered.
"Ah, my 'Three Fates'." Ethan leaned back against the table, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "That is a painting I have wished to do for some time. It's from the Greek myths, you know, the three sisters who are supposed to control our fates. I wanted to have the three aspects, vir -- innocent, mother, and wise woman, resemble one another. That would be problematic with only one model. When I met Mrs. Caulder and her sister, I knew I had a means to do it properly."
Mrs. Ritter made a face. "I suppose... If one wishes that sort of a painting." She made a sour face as she examined the portrait of Jessie. "You seem to be spending a great deal of time painting those... women from Mr. O'Toole's saloon."
"He does, indeed." Clyde Ritter was looking under the cloth Ethan had used to cover the painting of Wilma. He saw his wife glancing his way and quickly dropped the cover. "Shameless." He shook his head and made a disapproving noise. "Totally shameless." He turned away and started walking, hoping Cecelia wouldn't notice the smile on his face -- or the bulge in his trousers.
Ethan walked over and turned the easel, so that the covered portrait faced the wall. "I am but a humble artisan working on commission. It is not for me to judge my subjects, only to capture their likeness with my skill."
"You do it pretty good," Clyde observed. "Is this Benita Ortega?" He pointed at the painting of a young Mexican girl in a long white dress.
The artist nodded. "It is. Her... quinceanos, her fifteenth birthday celebration, is in Late April, and I have been commissioned to do her portrait. I am also doing a portrait of her grandfather."
"Really." The other man glanced around the studio. "I don't see any picture here of old Juan Ortega."
"My venerable subject is rather infirm. I must travel to his home to capture his likeness."
Cecelia looked surprised. "That's rather a long way out of town, isn't it?"
"It is indeed, but he is an interesting subject. The body is frail, but his mind is quite sharp." And the payment for his trouble was _very_ good, but he wasn't about to tell the Ritters anything of that sort.
Now Cecelia was curious. "How is the old gentleman? Who's caring for him? Does it look like he's still running things out there, or has his family pushed him aside?"
"My dear Cecelia, I fear that all I know regarding Juan Ortega and his family is that they have commissioned my skills as an artist to paint his portrait."
Her husband looked at his pocket watch. "It's getting late, Cecelia. I have to get back to the store, and I'm sure that Mr. Thomas has other people coming in to pose."
"I do, alas." He bowed low. "If not, we might continue this delightful conversation." He was too skilled at flattery for either of them to hear his sarcasm.
"Why don't you come over for dinner tonight?" Cecelia offered brightly. Then she shook her head. "No... There's no time for tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps."
"I fear that I have other commitments for the next few days." Ethan tried to look disappointed. She was a meddling nuisance, but she and her husband were paying well for his efforts. Besides, a woman with her heft probably was a good cook. "Perhaps, next week?"
"Yes -- yes," she said eagerly. "Monday... At 6 PM, is that all right?"
"It is, indeed." He offered her his arm. "Now, may I accompany you to the door." To himself, he added, 'and _out_.'
* * * * *
"Where have you been?" Dolores asked as Arnie pushed the laundry wagon into the house.
Arnie was surprised by her briskness. "I was working -- the laundry." She made a sweeping gesture towards the cart.
"You should have been home sooner. Church starts soon, and you are not dressed."
"I-I thought to wear these clothes, maybe... maybe with a jacket."
"No, Arnoldo. To go to church, especially on Holy Friday, you will wear a dress."
The younger girl raised her pretty chin. "I will not!"
"You most certainly will. You will be pushing your mother's wheelchair in the processional. Everyone will be there, and you will not disgrace her -- or yourself -- by wearing _those_ clothes."
"You wore a dress before,” she continued. “Why do you make such a fuss about it this time?"
"I wore it then for Mama's sake, but it was the worst experience of my life. Thanks to Pablo, everyone was staring at me!"
"Arnoldo." Teresa's voice came from the half-opened door to her bedroom, stopping their quarrel. "Can you come in here and help me?"
Arnie sighed and looked over at the door. "Si, Mama." She turned back to face Dolores. "We will finish this later."
"I am afraid that I need help getting dressed," Teresa told Arnie as the latter entered the bedroom. The older woman was sitting on her bed, when Arnie walked in. She wore a dark green skirt, flared out by the petticoat beneath, her camisole, and a green corset. Her blouse was on the seat of her wheelchair.
She looked closely at her daughter. "As do you, it would seem."
"You want me to wear a dress, too, don't you?"
"I do. First, though, help me with the blouse."
Arnie picked up the blouse. She held it up behind Teresa, so the woman could slide her left arm into it. Then she shifted around to Teresa's right. She unbuttoned the end of the loose sleeve.
The two worked together, gently sliding Teresa's arm out of the sling. Teresa held her broken arm while Arnie carefully slid the sleeve over her plaster cast. She moved the blouse up her mother's arm until she had it on. They then retied the sling around her lower arm.
"Done," Arnie told her, while she buttoned the front of the blouse.
Teresa looked down at herself for a moment. "Thank you, Arnoldo. Now you must hurry into your own dress."
"Do I have to?"
"You do. Arnoldo, I know that this must be hard, that your pride is so much like your father's. But people will stare longer and more often at you if you do not look neat and carry your fate with dignity. You do not want them to do that, do you?"
Arnie knew she'd lost the argument. If it was a matter of family dignity, it was hard to refuse. "Si, Mama. For _you_, I..." She sighed and began unbuttoning her shirt. "...I will wear a dress."
She took off the shirt and tossed it onto a chair. After an argument with Teresa the first day, she'd taken to wearing a camisole and corset underneath. She sat down on the bed next to Teresa and pulled off her boots. Then she stood and wriggled out of her jeans.
"Where is the dress?" she asked, looking around. Arnie also wore a pair of woman's drawers. She wouldn't admit to her mother -- or to herself -- how much better the softer fabric felt against her more sensitive skin.
Teresa had put away all of her male underclothes, for the day when Enrique grew into them. The drawers and the camisole weren't so bad, but she still absolutely hated wearing a corset. It was a thing for women!
"On the chair," Teresa replied, "but you are not ready for it yet. The petticoat goes on first."
"_Mama_!"
"The dress will not fit well without one. It is too loose. You don't want those people to stare, do you?"
Arnie's face soured. "I suppose that I will have to treat church differently than most other places."
"You do." Teresa watched her daughter step into the petticoat and pull it up to her waist. 'Arnoldo looks _so_ pretty,' she thought. 'I must help her to see that. The time will come that she will be grateful that the Virgin saw fit to bless her with her own heavenly image.'
Arnie buttoned the garment tightly at her waist. "Now, can I put on the… dress?"
"You may. Remember to slip it on over your head, as I showed you." The girl did as her mother directed. The dress, a dark indigo color, slid down her arms and onto her body. It was large on her -- it belonged to Teresa, after all -- but it fit well enough. There was no disputing the attractiveness of the young girl who was wearing it.
Teresa nodded her approval. "Bueno, now help me into the wheelchair, so we can get to church in time."
* * * * *
"You ready to lock up?" Liam asked, looking around the store.
Trisha shrugged and started walking towards the door. "I am. It's been a long day." When she reached it, she turned the sign in the window around, so that the word "Closed" faced the street.
"Hold up," her brother said, hurrying to her side.
"Where're you going in such a hurry?"
"With you. It's Friday, remember. I'm having dinner at your place, same as every other Friday." He waited a moment. "I just have to stop off at Ortega's first."
"How come?"
"I wanted to pick up some flowers... to thank Kaitlin for supper."
"I hope that's what they're for. The way you keep bringing her stuff, it almost looks like you're courting her."
Liam gave her an odd smile. "Who says I'm not?"
* * * * *
"Thank you for coming to church with me, R.J." Dolores and the barman were on their way back to the Saloon.
R.J. Touched the brim of his hat, as if to tip it. "My pleasure, ma'am," he said wryly. "I was thinking about heading over -- I don't get there too often, and we'll be pretty busy this weekend. Besides, you looked kind of like you could use the company."
"Thank you; I-I did need company."
"Well, you certainly had it in the church tonight. I don't know when I've seen a processional line so long."
"That is the custom on Viernes Santo... Holy Friday; that and the Altar de Delores --"
"An altar just for you, what's that about?"
"It means the altar of sorrow." She sighed and looked down at the street. "That is what my name means... Sorrow. It is a fitting name."
"Now why do you say that?"
"I came back to Eerie to forget my sorrow because Ximon... Down in Mexico City, he married somebody else. Then..." Her voice broke. "...then I see Ramon, my first love, only he-he --"
"Is gonna marry Maggie. I'm sorry, Dolores." He patted her hand.
"You are not without your own sorrows, are you? I have been watching Bridget; she and Cap..." She didn't finish the sentence.
They stood there for a moment, just staring at each other. "Maybe... Maybe," R.J. said softly, "we can share each other's sorrow." He put his hands on each side of her face to steady her. Slowly, he moved closer until their lips met.
* * * * *
Saturday, March 23, 1872
Abner Slocum stomped over to the table where Bridget and Cap were sitting, playing cards. "Have you come to your senses, yet, Matthew, or are you still thinking with your Johnson?"
"Hello, Uncle," Cap replied calmly. "Have _you_ come to keep your promise to Bridget?"
The rancher looked daggers at Bridget. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a while, Miss Kelly? Perhaps my nephew will be more willing to see reason without your presence."
"She might as well stay," Cap said. "I'm not going anyplace until you hear her out."
If it were possible, Slocum looked even madder. "Does she really mean so much to you, Matthew?" he asked,
Cap nodded. "She does, Uncle Abner. And you _did_ promise."
"And you, Miss Kelly, now that you've turned my nephew against me, are you going to use him to force me to keep that promise?"
Bridget shook her head. "No, Mr. Slocum, I'm not. I've decided that I don't care to."
"You admit that the story is true, then?"
"I admit nothing of the sort. It isn't true, but even if it were, why bother, since you're too mean-spirited to care what I say?" She took Cap's hand. "And as for your nephew, if anything's turned him against you, it's your own narrow-minded behavior."
Slocum studied her expression. "You're wrong about me, Miss Kelly... Bridget. I'd like to think that I'm a fair-minded man. I just don't think you can say anything that could ever justify your behavior during the war." He pulled a chair out and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go ahead, tell me the story you've been so all-fired up about. A lot of people try to weasel out of the things that they've done in the past. I’ve heard it all. But I’ll listen to what you have to say. I want, more than you know, to be able to believe that I've been wrong about you."
"And if I can't, maybe it might make a real difference if you'd just admit to what the truth is and make me believe you're sorry for it. You're one hell of a poker player, Miss Kelly, but if you're bluffing on this one, I'll know it."
* * * * *
Wednesday, July 30, 1862
"Any sign of the blue bellies, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Forry Stafford asked the man standing before him. Stafford was a slender man with a mass of curly, light brown hair and a narrow mustache perched between his upper lip and slightly reddened nose.
Sergeant Will Hanks shook his head. "Yes, sir. They're coming up fast. The main body's about a mile off." The sergeant was a taller, solidly built soldier with black hair and a square-jawed, sullen face.
"That close?" Stafford stepped forward, so that he was standing at the top of the low hill that he and his men were hidden behind. "Let's see if I can spot them." He lifted his binoculars up to his eyes.
"You shouldn't do that, sir," Corporal Brian Kelly warned. Kelly was as tall as the sergeant, a barrel-chested man with reddish-brown hair and a ruddy complexion.
"And why not?" the lieutenant snapped back.
"'Cause, even if they're too far off to see you standing up there against the sky, they're still gonna spot the glint of them binoculars," Hanks explained. "Some of 'em are pretty good shots, and, if any of 'em _are_ close enough, they're sure t'go for a target like that."
"What!" The officer practically jumped down behind the hill. It took a moment for him to wipe the look of fear from his face. “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Sergeant. I had no intention of staying up there long enough to be seen, let enough long enough for some blue-bellied Yankee to take a shot at me.”
"Sorry, sir." Hanks kept a straight face, though he could see his friend, who was standing off to the side of the officer, biting his lip to keep from laughing. To himself, he added, 'Losing you'd be no great loss, an improvement, even, but if they knew where you was, they'd figure me and the boys was out here with you.'
"Well... Try not to let it happen again." Stafford leaned in close as he spoke, and the sergeant could smell the whiskey on his breath.
"No, sir." Hanks took a half step back. "We'd better go take our places with the men." Both soldiers saluted.
"With your permission," Kelly added.
"Yes... Yes, you go ahead. I'll stay here for now and, ah... observe."
"Very good, sir," Will replied stiffly. The pair turned and walked down the hill.
"Damn rotten deal, if you ask me," Kelly spat once they were far enough away. "He's up there _observing_, nice and safe out of the line of fire, while we get to stop a whole column of blue bellies."
"Not the _whole_ column. They move in pieces, so there ain't more people at a spring than it has water for." He gave a sour laugh. "You ever hear how they tamed the first longhorn cattle?"
The corporal wiped the sweat from his forehead. "What's that got t'do with anything?"
"Them steers was too dangerous t'handle. They kept 'em away from water for three or four days. After that, they was easy to rope and brand."
"And we're supposed to do that to all those feds? It's hot enough, but I still think the lieutenant ain't the only one that's been drinking if they're going to use our platoon to stop a whole company of Billy Yanks."
"We're supposed t'try. Like you always say, we ante up and play the cards we get."
"Let's just hope we don't fold _all_ our cards." He took a breath. "Good luck, Will,"
"Same t'you." The two men toasted each other with from their canteens and took a quick drink of water. Because they knew they were going into deadly action again, they shook hands, grasping each other by the forearm like the brothers they almost were, before they separated. "Now get moving; I'll see you after this is all over."
"I hope so."
Kelly headed off to the right, while Hanks moved left, each to his own section of men, half of the platoon that Stafford commanded.
* * * * *
Will Hanks crouched behind the cover of the hilltop watching a band of five "Billy Yanks" walking down the trail below, towards the spring at Adobe Wells. "That's it, boys," he whispered, "you just keep coming."
"What's going on, Sergeant?" came a voice from behind him, a loud voice.
Hanks spun around. Stafford had decided to join his men after all. "Sir, please be quiet. They'll hear you."
"Hear me? What's the matter with you? Why aren't you shooting at them?"
"We don't want to do that yet, Lieutenant."
"The hell we don't." Stafford drew his sword. "Both sections," he shouted, "fire... Fire at will." Then he blew the "open fire" signal on his whistle to make certain the other section of men heard him.
Caleb Harris was crouched next to Hanks. "What d'we do, Sarge?"
"Don't ask him, private," the lieutenant stormed. "_I_ gave an order, and I expect it to be obeyed."
Shots rang out from both sides of the ridge. Three of the five soldiers on the trail below ran, one holding his arm as he ran. The other two lay dead. Hank's platoon kept firing until the survivors were out of sight.
"Good work, men," Stafford gloated.
Hanks shook his head. "Not really, _sir_. We should've let 'em pass."
"Let them get to the water? We were ordered to stop those men."
"We was ordered to stop the whole column. Them men was skirmishers sent ahead to draw fire. Now the blue bellies know where we are. They can probably make a good guess how many of us're here."
"Let them come. We drove them off once; we can do it again." The officer pulled a silvered flask from his jacket pocket. "Here's to the finest platoon in the Confederate Army." He raised the flask in salute and took a long drink from it.
Nothing happened for a few minutes. Then the rebel unit saw the skirmishers coming back, this time in strength. They stopped just out of range of the Confederate rifles, forming up into two lines across the road.
"Wha... What are they d-doing?" Stafford's voice was heavy with alcohol.
The sergeant frowned. "They're waiting for some --"
"Blam, blam!" These shots came from out behind them.
"What?" Stafford shook his head, trying to clear it. "How... Who..."
Hanks cocked his head and listened for a moment. "They're coming from the west; trying to trap us here." He heard other shots, farther off, from across the ridge. "Flanking both sections, I think."
"The trail, head for it now!" Stafford began running.
Hanks chased after him. "Stop it, you danged fool. You're running right for them skirmishers."
"No, we gotta..." The lieutenant looked confused. "Draw up into a circle, men -- no, turn and fire on -- no... We're... We're trapped."
"The hell we are." The sergeant looked back to his men. "We can move back along the line of the hill. Then we --"
The other man straightened up as best he could. "I-I'm in charge here, Hanks. _I'll_ give the orders. You... You j-just shut up and do what I tell you, just like your no-good pappy did back home."
"Now get a white handkerchief..." He blinked as if staring into the sun. "...and make a flag, so we can surrender." With a heavy sigh, he added. "I hear they treat captured officers fairly well."
"Sorry, _sir_, but you're in no condition t'be giving any orders." Without warning, Will left fly a right cross to Stafford's chin. The blow caught the lieutenant by surprise, and he crumpled to the ground.
Hanks sighed. "Let's see if I can get us outta this with our skins in one piece." He searched the unconscious man until he found his whistle. He sounded the signal for a retreat, then hefted the man over one shoulder. "Best t'take you with us -- even if you are a waste of space. There's just too many witnesses to just leave you here for the Johnny Yanks t’find the way I'd like to."
"Which way, Sarge?" The men were clustered around him. He pointed the way and headed back along the ridge, the way they had come, blowing the whistle twice on the way to give Brian Kelly directions to lead his own detachment.
* * * * *
Will Hanks watched the men in their platoon stagger past him into camp. Both sections had made it back with minimal casualties. "Good work, boys," he lied. "Rest up; you've earned it." That part was true. He'd managed to keep them calm, and they'd all gotten away clean.
"Can't believe we slipped the noose," Brian Kelly said, walking over. "How'd that fool Stafford ever get to be an officer?"
Hanks spat. "His daddy bought it for him, just like he's been doing for Forry's whole worthless life."
"He's not too bad when he's sober. You or me can usually talk him into doing the right thing, so he doesn't go off half-cocked and get us all killed, but when he's got a snootful..." The corporal's voice trailed off.
"Maybe it's time we did something about that." He'd set the unconscious officer down when they'd reached the camp. Now he headed for the man's tent.
Kelly walked along with him. "What've you got in mind, Will?"
"Man can't get drunk, if he ain't got nothing t'drink." He stopped outside the large wall tent that Stafford shared with Willard Maitland, the first lieutenant of their company.
The tent flaps were down. Hanks knocked on the tent pole. "Sir, are you in there?" When no one answered, the two men slipped into the tent. Stafford's name was on a chest at the foot of the bunk on the right.
"Hunt around for liquor bottles. I'll check this." He knelt down by the trunk. It was locked, but he used his penknife to open the lock. There was nothing in the top compartment, but when he raised it out, he found, "Whiskey... Three bottles." He lifted one out. "Good stuff, too, Tennessee store-bought."
He still had his knapsack, and he stuffed the bottles inside. "You find anything?"
"Fourth bottle," Kelly answered, "half-full. The rest's probably in his flask -- or his belly." He held the bottle up for Hanks to see.
"Let's take it and get going. The quartermaster's not due with supplies for a couple of weeks. He'll be sober for that long, at least."
They heard the tent flap move and turned around. "What are you men doing?" Lieutenant Maitland was standing just inside the tent. His pistol was drawn and pointed at the pair.
"Stealing from me." Forry stepped into the tent. "It wasn't bad enough that they almost got all of us killed when the two of them panicked and disobeyed my orders. The enemy attacked us without warning and with overwhelming force, and I barely got us out alive." He drew his own Colt pistol. "No thanks to these two, thieves... drunkards, the pair of them."
"That's a damned lie!" Hanks took a step forward.
Maitland shook his head. "Take another step, Sergeant, and you'll save the captain the trouble of a courts marshal."
"You men have had it," Stafford said, a triumphant sneer curling his lips. "If anyone had been killed, I'd be asking for the death sentence for you both. As it is, the least you can expect is a dishonorable discharge. More likely, you'll spend some time in prison." He gave a nasty laugh. "You should be used to that, Hanks. It can’t be much worse than that orphanage my pa stuck you in."
* * * * *
Saturday, March 23, 1872
"And that's what happened." Bridget sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Almost every man in the platoon backed up our version of the facts. The problem was that they were -- we all were -- a ragtag batch of enlisted men. Stafford was an officer. So were his father and grandfather. Hell, it turned out that his daddy went to school with our regimental commander."
Cap took her hand in his. "Wasn't there any evidence for your side?"
"They knew Stafford drank, drank a lot, but so did some of the other officers. It all boiled down to his word -- his and two suck-ups that he'd promised our stripes to -- against Will's word and mine." She sighed again. "They gave _him_ the benefit of the doubt. They probably thought they were doing us a favor when they didn't hang us outright. "
Slocum frowned. "There was no mention of anyone testifying for you in the records I was sent, just what Stafford and those others, the two privates and the lieutenant said."
"That's no surprise. Nobody likes to walk into trouble, and Will and I were seen as a couple of troublemakers. We got the boot, dishonorable discharge in a big ceremony. They made it sound like _we_ were the only reason the Yankees got through to Fort Carson. That didn't make us very popular with the troops -- except for the ones who’d been with us --_or_ with the locals. We barely got out of there with our skins in one piece."
She closed her eyes and looked down at the table. "Will said the hell with it. If they were gonna treat us like scum, then he'd act like scum. I didn't feel like arguing with him about it. An angry mob'll show you who your friends are, especially when the local sheriff's part of the mob. The only reason I'm here to talk about it is that Will and I were watching each other's back when that mob came looking for us."
Jessie had seen Slocum come in, and she'd been listening from a distance. Now she stepped up to the table. "That's pretty much the way Will... Wilma tells it. I can repeat what she told me or, if you want, I can go get her t'tell it herself."
"Don't bother, Miss Hanks," Slocum cut her off.
Cap glared at his uncle. "After all that, you still don't believe her?"
"What's the point? I admit it's possible." He sighed. "I know that some army officers are damned fussy about taking care of their own kind, and the enlisted men be damned. One thing I can say about you, Bridget, is that I've never caught you being dishonorable. That's something that counts in your favor."
"And --?" Bridget asked slowly, trying not to sound too hopeful.
"And I'll have to try out these new boots for a while and see if they pinch. We'll talk again later."
* * * * *
"Away with you, Father of Lies!" Father de Castro cried out, raising his arm. The bronze cross in his right hand glistened, reflecting the light of the bonfires.
Miguel Fernandez used a long, thin candle to light the fuse and hurriedly stepped away. The flame sputtered along the fuse, up the side of the platform to the red figure positioned on it. With a loud "Bam!" the paper mache Satan exploded into a mass of colored fire to the cheers of the crowd gathered in the churchyard.
"Marvelosa," Teresa cheered from her wheelchair. Ysabel and Constanza stood next to her, pointing at the colors and making approving noises.
Enrique clapped his hands. "Which one is next, which one is next?"
"The Seven Mortal Sins, I think." Teresa pointed to a set of smaller figures grouped together. As if to agree, the first of them, a very fat man representing Gluttony, suddenly sprang into flames, the others followed, a few seconds apart, each bursting into a different shade.
As the next figure, a demon dressed as an Apache, went off, Arnie leaned down. "Are you all right, Mama?" She spoke loudly, to be heard over the cheers of the crowd.
"Si,” she replied, "but a little thirsty. If you would not mind..."
"Lemonade for everyone." Arnie headed for a table near the church door, where some women were selling refreshments. She asked for six drinks, putting a half-dollar on the table. Sylvia Rivera arranged the cups in a small tray. "And your change," she said and put two dimes in the tray.
Arnie picked up the tray. "Gracias." She turned and started back. She'd gone about ten feet when Pablo Escobar stepped in front of her.
"Going somewhere, Arnol_da_?" he jeered.
"What do you want, Pablito?"
"We saw you struggling with that _heavy_ tray, we and thought we should help you." Juan Ybaá±ez and Fernando Hidalgo pushed in next to him. Juan was a short, stocky boy, while Fernando was taller, with a scraggly first beard.
"I'm fine." She tried to step around them, but one of the boys moved to block her.
Juan grabbed for the tray. "Do not be so ungrateful, little girl."
"I am sure that she appreciates our help," Pablo said. "After all, she is only a weak... little... girl." He laughed. "Aren't you, Arnolda?"
Fernando leered. "But such a pretty one -- eh, muchacha?"
"You flatter her, 'Nando," Pablo told him. "Still, I am sure that she just _loves_ having three _men_ like us paying her such attention."
Juan held the tray tightly. "Maybe she will want to reward us for our help." He raised an eyebrow. "With a kiss, maybe."
"Si, a kiss... A kiss." The three boys chanted. "Kiss me, puta."
Arnie let go of the tray, not caring what happened to it. "Go away, you sons of bitches!"
"You would be the bitch," Pablo mocked her. "Now, about that kiss..."
Arnie's right hand closed into a tight fist. She swung at him. He dodged, catching her arm and pulling her close. "Mustn't hit." He reached around with his other hand and groped her ass.
"What is going on here?" Father de Castro stood only a few feet away, his hands on his hips, and a scowl on his face.
Pablo stepped back. "N-nothing, Padre."
"Nothing, indeed." The priest looked at Juan who was still holding the tray. "Give that back to Arnoldo."
The boy hurriedly complied. "Here, Arnol_dita_. We were just playing a game. You-you know that."
"A nice game, you-you..." She couldn't call him what she wanted, not with the padre standing there.
De Castro looked at the four of them. "Not as nice as it might have been. Arnol_do_, you take those drinks to your family. The boys will stay with me." He glared at the trio. "They have just volunteered to clean up the churchyard after the fireworks. Haven't you, boys?"
"Si,” the three answered unhappily. The yard had to be spotless for the Easter morning service. They would be working for hours.
* * * * *
Bridget studied the hand Stu Gallagher had just dealt her. ‘Not too bad,’ she decided. ‘3 of clubs, 5 and 7 of diamonds, 8 of clubs, and 8 of hearts; it has _some_ possibilities.’ Aloud, she said, “Check’ and watched the other players react as the game unfolded.
“Me, too,” Fred Nolan said, leaning back in his chair.
Cap was next. “In for a quarter.” He smiled and winked at Bridget as he tossed the coin onto the table. It wasn’t one of his tells. It was…
‘The way he smiled when we…’ she realized. A warmth run through her. Her nipples crinkled and pushed against her camisole. The warm feeling seemed to settle down into her loins, and she felt a soft, joyful tingle of anticipation.
Gallagher glanced down at his cards. “I’ll just see that.” He slid a quarter out onto the table from the small pile of coins in front of him. “How many cards d’you want, Bridget?’
“One… three… two cards. No… yes… two.” She threw down the 3 and the 5.
Stu chuckled. “You sure?” When she nodded, he dealt the cards.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, picking up the cards Stu dealt her, the 5 and 9 of spades. “Fold,” she said a moment later.
Cap won the hand with a bluff and a pair of 6s. “I should’ve stayed in,” Bridget said regretfully. If she couldn't block out the distraction she felt from just seeing Cap smile at her, she might as well call it a night. But how to do that?
She thought back to her time as brian at _The _Ginger_ House_, the New Orleans brothel Brian, Will, and Jesse had lived in for over a month. Brian and, sometimes, Will had played poker with the ladies of the House between sessions in their beds. One girl, Yvette, liked to tease both the men, rubbing her cards suggestively across her body and moaning, pretending arousal.
To herself, she added. ‘If I could shut out Yvette’s antics, I can do the same with Cap. And I’d better, or I can never play poker with him again.’ She gathered in the cards and began shuffling. “Let’s try another round of five card draw.”
* * * * *
Sunday, March 24, 1872
“Let us pray,” Reverend Yingling, said, continuing with his Easter Sunday sermon, “that, on this glorious Easter morning, we, too, can find a new birth in the salvation of His own Resurrection. For, to share in the re-birth of our Lord is to be changed into a being of light and joy. Such change is the very hope -- the _only_ hope for our immortal souls.”
“And yet, not all change is for the good, and we must be aware also of the danger of change, of those who would offer what they claim is change for the good. For while it may seem that the change they offer is for the good -- over time, we may find that it is not, that they, themselves, are not the agent of the good that they claim to be.”
“And if this is so -- it may be for the best that we take control of that change _and_ of that which is the proximate agent of that change. It is but a tool, neither good nor ill, just a tool. And whether that tool is a force for good or ill will be determined by who it is that wields the tool.”
“We must become the masters of such tools, as we must strive to become masters of ourselves to better know the way of our Lord and to follow in his path.”
“And let us say, ‘Amen.’”
* * * * *
Cap walked over to Bridget’s table. “I’m ready to go.”
“I-I know,” she answered. She’d been playing Maverick solitaire, hoping it would keep her mind off _other_ matters. Now she looked up at him. “You -- you can’t stay here forever.”
He sat down next to her. “No, I can’t, much as I’d like to.”
“I’m just glad that you worked things out with your uncle.”
“Bridget, _you_ worked things out with my uncle. You told him the truth about Adobe Wells, and I think he believes you. He’s willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, at least.”
“That’s something, anyway. I didn’t like him being mad at me. I’m beholden to him for loaning me the money to run my game.” She sighed. “I’m beholden to you, too, for getting him to listen.”
Cap took her hand. “My pleasure… and _I’m_ beholden and a lot more to you, too, for… for certain things.”
“Please, Cap, I-I’d rather we didn’t talk about _that_.”
“I know.” He glanced over at the clock on the wall. “There’s just one last thing I have to do before I head back to the ranch.” He rose to his feet.
“What?” She stood up to say goodbye.
“This.” He pulled her to him. He felt her small lurch of resistance, before she quieted. He looked down into her eyes, so close to his. She didn't smile, but her arms rose up around his shoulders. Bridget was staring at him, unsure of what was going to happen next -- of what she _wanted_ to happen next. Their faces slowly drew closer and closer until their lips met.
She felt his embrace tighten about her, drawing her even closer. She sighed, parting her lips to invite his tongue in. Her eyes closed, as she luxuriated in the warmth flowing through her, the pleasure of his body pressed against hers. His tongue slid in to play with hers, even as she felt him harden -- down there -- as something else sought entrance to her body.
No, she couldn’t do _that_, even though she wanted so much to be with him. She sighed, passion and surrender mixed with regret, and held on to the kiss as long as she could.
“Now that was something to keep me happy all the way home.” Cap grinned, as they finally broke the kiss.
Bridget was finally smiling, too. “And there’ll be another one waiting for you when you come back.”
“In that case, I’ll be back as soon as I can get away.” He kissed her cheek. “See you real soon.” He tipped his hat and slowly walked towards the exit.
“You better.” She stood there, just smiling, until he went through the swinging doors.
* * * * *
“Oh, what a glorious day,” Teresa said as Arnie pushed her wheelchair into her house.
Enrique ran in after them. “Si, Mama. I love pumpkin empanadas.” He licked a small bit of filling off his fingers.
“Is that all Domingo de Gloria means to you?” Ysabel scolded. “Pumpkin empanadas?”
Enrique glared at his sister. “All it means to you is that dress you are wearing.”
“Stop it, the both of you,” Teresa ordered. “I like pumpkin empanandas, too, Ysabel, _and_ I like wearing my prettiest dress. What we must remember is why the empanadas are there and why we are all wearing our best clothes -- to celebrate the rebirth of our Lord on this day, that by his death He redeemed us all. I want you both to remember that.”
The two children nodded, speaking softly, “Si, Mama.”
“Good.” Teresa smiled. “We will change our clothes, then Dolores and I will make something to eat. After all those empanadas -- pumpkin _and_ meat -- at the church, you all should not be very hungry.” She thought for a moment. “And I do not think we need to do much work the rest of the afternoon. We can just relax and enjoy the day.”
Ysabel frowned. “Do we have to change, Mama? I like this dress, and I do not get to wear it very often.”
“You just want to show it off for _Stephan_,” Enrique teased.
Ysabel’s frown became a scowl. “I do not.”
“Do, too.”
Teresa broke in. “Stop it, the both of you, and go change.”
Ysabel pouted and started for her room. “Yes, Mama.” Teresa watched her. It was sweet that her oldest daughter had her first crush. But with an Anglo, a _Protestant_ Anglo, the son of the minister, no less, that could be serious trouble.
“Good,” Arnie said. “I hate my dress. I want to put some pants on.”
Now Dolores spoke up. “You wear pants when you are doing the deliveries, Arnold. Since you will not be doing that, why do you not just change into another dress or, maybe, a skirt and blouse?”
“Because I hate those clothes,” Arnie spat the words. “I do not want to wear them. They just make things worse.”
Dolores raised an eyebrow. “How are they worse?”
“You were at the church yesterday. You heard Pablo and the others, heard how they talked to me.”
“They said nothing today.”
“That is because Father de Castro warned them not to. I saw him talking to them as we came to the church this morning. He stopped them today because he was there. He will not always be there. If I dress like a girl —”
“You are a girl.”
“No, I _look_ like a girl. Inside...” She tapped her finger against the side of her head. “…Inside, I am a boy. I wear my pants to show that, and to show that I want to be treated like a boy. If I wear dresses, it tells Pablo… and Juan… and Fernando… and everybody else that I want to be treated like a girl.” She stood stubbornly, hands balled into fists. “I will not do that.”
Dolores winced at his display of emotion. “But, Arnoldo, what you do not see is --”
“I see everything, and I see it more clearly than -- than anyone else.” Arnie started walking for the bedroom she shared with Teresa. “I’m going to get out of this _estulto_ dress and into a pair of pants -- _boy’s_ pants -- and a shirt.”
* * * * *
“Wilma!” Bridget called out from her poker table. “Over here.”
Wilma walked over slowly, swinging her hips and smiling, putting on a show for the men in the room. “I hear you won a whole bunch of money the other day,” she said, as she sat down opposite her old friend. “I came t’see if it was true.”
“You must be real curious,” Bridget answered wryly. “It only took you a week to walk over here to find out.”
“I also heard that Cap Lewis was staying here -- some kinda fight with his uncle, and I figured you two wouldn’t want t’be disturbed.”
“How very kind. To answer your question, I was the big winner in Slocum’s game, about $2,700 --”
Wilma whistled. “Now _that’s_ high stakes poker. Where’d you get the money from t’buy in?”
“Cap, he… he grubstaked me.”
Wilma giggled. “I’ll just bet he did.”
“Wilma! He _loaned_ me the money, and I gave him half my winnings. That’s all it was.”
“If that’s _all_ it was, Bridget Kelly, then I’m… I’m sorry for you.”
“Wilma, can’t you ever think of anything but men?”
“Ain’t nothing else worth thinking about. If you had half the sense G-d gave a moose, you ‘n’ Cap woulda done something about it while he was staying here.” She looked closely at the gambler. “Or did ya, and you just ain’t telling me?”
“And if I… we did?”
“If?” She looked intently into Bridget's face and laughed. “Oh, you done it, gal. I can tell. You got the eyes of a woman in love. Or is that a bitch in heat? How was he? Go on, tell me, you wicked woman! What’d you think of it? Come on, I want details.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Bridget squirmed under Wilma’s insistent stare. “Well, almost nothing.”
“I knew it. I knew it. Tell me. Was it part of the deal you cut with him?”
Bridget now met her companion's stare indignantly. “Wilma, even you should know better than that! We did do it one time and, yes… yes, I _loved_ it, and _that’s_ all I’m going to say on the subject.”
“Like hell. When’re you and Cap gonna _get_ _together_ again?”
“He’ll be in on Sunday. He always comes in on the end of the month to get my payment to his uncle.”
“That ain’t all he’ll be wanting.” She chuckled heartily.
Bridget sighed. “Maybe so, but all he’ll get is Slocum’s money. I-I’m not ready for a… a…”
“Lover? Why the hell not, ‘specially when you love him, too?”
“For one thing, I’d never be able to play poker with him.”
“Bridget, you ain’t just crazy for poker, you’re just _plain_ crazy.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
* * * * *
Trisha sighed and snuggled back in her chair. “There’s nothing like a nice, quiet afternoon at home.”
“I’m enjoying it, too,” Kaitlin said. “There hasn’t been much quiet in our lives lately. Has there?”
“Not much. Today was nice, though. I didn’t even mind having Liam over for that ham you made.”
“Why should you mind Liam coming over? He is your brother, after all.”
“He didn’t come over here as my brother. He came over to see you.”
“Don’t be absurd. He came to see all of us, to share Easter with his family.”
“Kaitlin, we both know that he’s courting you. I think even Emma knows. She kept watching the pair of you all through the meal.”
“Were you watching us, too?”
“As a matter of fact, I was, and I didn’t like what I saw. He was flirting with you all through dinner, and you… you were flirting back, curling your hair around your finger, giggling. It was terrible.”
“It’s terrible that a man is paying attention to me? Well, I like that.”
“I know you do, but I-I don’t. You shouldn’t… shouldn’t… you shouldn’t act like that in front of Emma. She’s an impressionable young girl.”
“You’ve hardly been setting a good example.”
“Don’t change the subject. Are you going to stop encouraging Liam’s attentions?”
“I don’t believe I will. He’s a very attractive man, just the type I like, the type I _used_ to be married to.”
“That’s not fair!”
“This whole thing isn’t fair. If I had my choice, I’d still be married _to_ _Patrick_, but that isn’t possible, is it? We’re both _unmarried_ women, now, and attractive ones at that.” She patted her hair. “Men notice that. Yes, I’m sorry for what happened to you -- to us -- but I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life mourning for what we had.”
“So you are going to encourage Liam.”
“I’m going to move forward with my life. Slowly and behaving properly. Liam is your brother and Emma’s uncle. He’ll always be a part of our lives -- of _my_ life. He seems to want to change what part he plays, and, frankly, I’m flattered by his attentions. Beyond that… we’ll see.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t get a vote. When you were courting me, my sister, Ida, didn’t think much of you.”
“She didn’t?”
“No, she didn’t. And, just think, if I’d listened to her, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
* * * * *
Monday, March 25, 1872
Jessie walked over to Bridget’s poker table and sat down. “That surely was one bodacious kiss goodbye, you ‘n’ Cap shared yesterday.”
“I-I didn’t think anyone noticed.” Bridget felt the warmth of a blush flow through her cheeks. “There weren’t many people around.”
Maybe not, but them that were they, they -- _we_ was watching.” Jessie looked closely at her friend while she spoke. It was fun teasing somebody else, rather than being teased. “‘Specially, R.J.,” she added.
“I-I… how’d he take it?”
“I don’t think he was too happy about it. He knowed it was finally settled, and that you chose Cap instead o’him.”
Bridget looked down at the table. “Yes… yes, I did.” She gave a deep sigh. “I just hope I didn’t hurt him too much.”
“He’s hurting all right, but I think he’ll get over it.” She waited a moment for effect. “Dolores is helping him.”
“Dolores… and R.J.? I hadn’t noticed those two getting close.”
“You ain’t been noticing much of anything the last few days. Even your poker game’s fallen off some.” Jessie chuckled. “You ‘n’ Cap musta really gone to it.”
“Jessie! You’re talking foolishness!”
“It ain’t foolish -- not if you do it right.” She giggled. “And with the right man.”
“I don’t know _what_ you’re implying.”
“Sure, you do. You just don’t want to admit it. Say… you got enough protection? I can get you some British riding coats for you from Wilma if you want. Better yet, you can ask her yourself.”
“P-protection?” Her eyes went wide. “British… British coats, I… no, no, we didn’t…” Her voice trailed off before she realized what she had just admitted to Jessie.
“You didn’t? Lordy, Bridget, you’re more of a gambler than I took you for.” She giggled again. “Or do you _wanna_ have Cap’s baby.”
“His… his baby?” The lady card smith shook her head frantically. “I -- no, no I don’t.” She turned her eyes upward. “Please, _please_, no.”
“Seems t’me, you better have a long talk with Molly -- and pretty soon, too. It ain't good, having something important like that on your mind. You’ll be counting every last one of the days till your monthlies come -- _if_ they come.” Jessie put her hand gently on Bridget’s shoulder. “And I’ll get some of them riding coats from Wilma for when you ‘n’ Cap have another go. If you ain’t pregnant, there’s no sense in taking any more chances.”
* * * * *
Maggie led Jane over to the butcher’s counter in Ortega’s Market. “Buenos dáas, Seá±or Ruiz,” she greeted him. Ruiz was a portly man with a round face hiding behind an oversized handlebar mustache. He wore a large, white apron over a matching, long smock.
“Buenos dáas, Seá±orita Sanchez,” he said, “what can I do for you this morning?”
Maggie pulled Jane up to the counter. “You know that I am getting married this Sunday, don’t you?”
“I can hardly help you with that,” he said with a chuckle, “but I will be in church to see it happen and to wish you well.”
Maggie continued. "Thank you. This is Jane Steinmetz; she will be running my restaurant, while I am on my honeymoon."
“I cannot help you with _that_, either.” He laughed. “But I can show you these chickens; I butchered them myself this morning.” He pointed to a long tray of chickens atop a layer of ice. A second tray of chicken parts was set next to them, all under a glass cover to keep in the cold.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “This morning? Some maybe, but not all, I think.”
“Indeed, all of them, this very morning.”
Maggie turned to Jane. “All right, Jane. Jorge has shown you all this chicken, what do you do?”
“Since nobody’s gonna order a whole chicken, I look at the parts. I was thinking… chicken mole, people like that. I need breasts for that. I buy the whole breasts and cut ‘em myself; it’s cheaper that way. Am I right?”
Maggie tried not to show what she thought. “Do you think you are right?”
“I _am_ right,” Jane said decisively. “Mr. Ruiz, you slide back that glass so’s I can get a better look at them chicken breasts.”
Ruiz did as she asked. She turned several pieces over to look at the color of the meat, even lifting a couple of pieces to check for an odor. “That one’s been here a while,” she noted, putting one piece back.
“On my word, they all are fresh.” Ruiz argued.
Jane shook her head. “You like it so much, you keep it.” She pointed at other pieces. I’ll take this one… and this… and…”
“Si, si, Seá±orita Steinmetz.” The man took the selected pieces, six in all, and wrapped them in a piece of white butcher paper. “These are good choices, you made.”
Jane smiled. “I know, but thanks.”
“She is sure of herself, this one,” he told Maggie.
Jane nodded. “I gotta be. Look who I gotta please.” She pointed to Maggie. “Now what do you got in the way of chuck steak?”
* * * * *
“Hi. Bridget,” Milo Nash called out from his teller’s window. “What brings you into the bank today?”
Bridget smiled back at him. “Money, the same as everybody else.” She glanced about. “Is Dwight Albertson around?”
“Just a minute, and I’ll go get him.” Milo slid a wooden “Closed” sign across his window, and walked back to a closed office door. “Mr. Albertson,” he said as he knocked. “Somebody’s here to see you.”
The door opened almost at once. “Who is it?” He glanced over Milo's shoulder. “Bridget… Miss Kelly, please do come in.” The teller started back to his window. Albertson stepped back from the door, opening it wide for her.
“'Bridget’s' fine.” She walked in, letting him close it behind her. “Seems t’me that sitting across the poker table from somebody for twenty-four hours is good enough reason for us to call each other by our first names.”
He walked around behind his desk, while she took a chair opposite him. “Bridget, it is then.” He sat down. “Now, what can I do for you today, _Bridget_?”
“I wanted to talk to you about all the money I won in that game.”
“I suspected that was the reason.” He smiled his best banker’s smile. “I hope that you’re not planning to move it.”
“Matter of fact, I am --- oh, don’t worry, Dwight, I don’t want to move it out of your bank. I just thought that I could do more with it than just let it sit there till I want to spend it.”
“You can, indeed.” He paused a beat. “You… ah, you know about the investment program I’ve set up for Jane Steinmetz, don’t you?”
“A little. I hear Jane complain sometimes about not having the money at hand, but Milt always tells her that you’re using it to make her rich.”
“I’m certainly trying to -- and I’ll be happy to try to do the same for you, _if_ you’re interested.”
“That’s what I came here for.” She reached into her reticule and fished out her bankbook. “Let’s see… with what I won so far this month, and after I paid Cap Lewis his share, I’ve got -- oh, my -- I’ve got just over $2,200 in my account.” She beamed in amazement, just realizing how much she had won.
“And how much of that are we talking about?”
“Mmm,” she considered her situation. “I need some for my game and to pay Shamus -- and I plan to pay off the last of what I owe Abner Slocum. I’d say… $1,000… no, $1,500. Is that enough?”
“More than enough.” He opened a drawer and took out a folder. “May I see your bankbook? I’ll need your account number.”
She handed him her bankbook. He took a form from the folder and copied her name and her bank number into the proper spaces. “Do you want the Saloon listed as your address?” She nodded. He added the Saloon’s name and address; then wrote in a few more numbers and handed it to her, along with her bankbook. “Read this carefully and sign it -- if it’s all right with you, that is.”
“It is,” she told him after a quick read -- she’d played enough poker with the banker to trust him. She signed it and handed it back. “Now you get busy, Dwight, and make me rich.”
* * * * *
“You mind if I take a break and have some lunch?” Liam asked.
Trisha looked around. “Nobody’s around right now to wait on; go ahead.”
“Thanks.” He took his lunch pail out from under the counter. “You want to join me?”
“I’ll wait, just in case somebody does come in.”
“Okay.” He took the lid off the pail and pulled out a thick sandwich wrapped in paper. “I made a sandwich from some of that leftover ham Kaitlin gave me yesterday.” He took a bite. “Mmm, that woman can surely cook.”
“I’m so glad that you like her cooking,” Trisha said coldly. “Is that why you were so attentive to her yesterday, for her cooking?”
“That’s one reason, one of many.”
“Such as?”
“Trisha, you know her better than anyone -- you should anyway. She’s a fine figure of a woman, sweet, kind, a real lady.”
“Not if she’s letting you sniff around her so soon after we got that damned divorce.”
“And what were you letting Rhys Godwyn do to you _before_ you got that divorce?”
“Nothing… nothing!”
“Cecilia Ritter seems to think you did something. So do enough other people that you may get thrown off the church board. There goes your building fund and all your other plans. Why don’t you think about _that_ some, and stop worrying about my courting Kaitlin.”
“You admit it, then. You are courting her.”
“I’ll admit it, if you’ll admit to whatever you and Godwyn were doing.” He paused for a moment. “Hell, let’s just call a truce for now, at least for long enough for me to eat lunch in peace?”
* * * * *
“Mmm,” Laura purred, “that feels nice.”
Arsenio smiled as he rubbed the ointment onto her belly. “Glad to be of service, ma’am.” His smile shifted to a leer. “Anything else I can do for you while I’m down this way?”
“I think you’ve done enough,” she answered sliding a finger along her gravid belly. “But thanks for the offer.” She’d lifted her nightgown to give him access to her stomach and thighs. Now she let it slide down over her. “Oh, Lord, I must look horrible.”
“I think you look wonderful.”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for that lie, but I know otherwise.” She looked down at herself. “I must’ve put on twenty pounds. I’m… I’m big as a house.”
“And twice as beautiful. Now get to bed. You -- the _two_ of you -- need your sleep.”
“As if I _can_ sleep, with this watermelon resting on my bladder. I’ll be up and down five times before morning.”
“_That’s_ why you sleep on the side closest to the privy.”
“Very funny. I probably won’t get much sleep anyway.”
“Is something the matter?”
“A lot of things; I worry about the baby, how much weight I’m putting on…” She sighed. “…Maggie’s wedding.”
“What are you worried about Maggie’s wedding for?”
“We’re -- you and me -- we’re the… the godparents or something.”
“From what Ramon’s been telling me, all that means is that we’re part of the ceremony, like we did when they got -- what’d they call it -- betrothed a few weeks ago.”
“That’s right. Maggie said we have to stand with them for the ceremony… up there, in front of everybody.”
“So?”
“So, I’m a house… a whale… a _mountain_. I look like hell, and, in a week, I have to stand there and let half the people in this town stare at me and…” Her voice trailed off. “…and laugh at me.”
“First of all, they’re going to be staring at Maggie. That’s part of the job of being the bride. The only one staring at you will be me, and I _know_ how beautiful you are.”
“But I don’t have anything to wear.” She stared down at the floor, not certain how that sounded. “Nothing good enough to wear to a wedding at least.”
“If that isn’t just like a — tomorrow, you and I are going over to Silverman’s and buy you the prettiest wrap Rachel has.” He put his hand under her chin. “I like the way you look in those wraps you wear.”
“You do?”
“I do, especially when you’re taking them off. It’s like unwrapping a Christmas present, and having you, Laura Meehan Caulder, as my wife -— and as the mother-to-be of my child -- is the best present any man could ever have.”
Laura blinked back her tears, as her lips curled into a smile. “You, Arsenio Caulder, are a damned liar, and I do so love you for it.”
They didn’t speak after that. The kiss they shared said everything that they needed to say.
* * * * *
Tuesday, March 26, 1872
“You know, Lallie,” Hermione said snidely, walking towards the schoolhouse at the end of recess, “sometimes I wonder if Emma O’Hanlan really _is_ a girl.”
Lallie took her cue. “I know what you mean. She has to use that corset to give herself any sort of a figure.” Both girls were deliberately speaking loud enough that Emma, who was coming in from playing ball, could hear.
“I think she overdoes it with that corset, but it does make the boys look. I suppose she -- or is it _he_ likes that.”
“It must be that potion. Look at how common her _father_ dresses now.”
“My mother says the woman has given up on staying on the church board. She’s just dressing to attract a man… or two.”
Emma grabbed Hermione by the arm. “You can stop talking like that right now, Hermione.”
“You saw,” Hermione screamed, pulling her arm away. “You all saw it. Emma hit me, and for no reason, no reason at all.”
Penny Stone stepped forward. “We all saw… and heard. I’d say that Emma was acting more like a lady than the pair of you, trying to stir things up, talking the way you were.”
“How dare you?” the Ritter girl asked indignantly, glaring at Penny.
Penny glared back. “‘Cause Emma’s my friend, a good friend, and I’ve had it with you and Lallie talking like that about her. And _I_ might not be so much of a lady.” She grabbed for Hermione’s arm, but the other girl dodged and hurried into the school. Lallie ran in just after her.
“You wouldn’t really hurt Hermione ‘cause of me?” Emma asked.
Penny smiled. “Probably not, but she doesn’t have to know that.” She laughed. Ysabel had rushed over when she saw the trouble begin, and the three girls linked arms and walked into the schoolhouse.
* * * * *
“From time to time, this paper receives letters of comment. We are printing the following letter not because we agree with it, but because we believe that it will be of interest to you, the readers of the Eerie edition of the _Tucson_ _Citizen_.”
“Dear Editor:”
“A powerful agent, one capable of totally transforming the destiny
of a human being, is under the sole control of Shamus O’Toole.
While some may hold Mr. O’Toole in high regard, he is hardly a
man of blameless reputation, nor is he an elected official who
has been entrusted with the great power of that agent by the
will of the people. He is the owner and operator of a saloon,
an establishment that exists to cater to human weakness:
alcohol, gambling, and lascivious behavior.”
“This situation must not be allowed to continue. Mr. O’Toole
must cease the creation of any more of that agent, and any
existing stock must be given over to more responsible hands.
It must be under the control of those whom the people of Eerie
deem worth of the great trust that the possession of this
agent demands.”
(signed) Isaias
* * * * *
Arnie looked down the sidewalk ahead of her. Ritter’s Livery Stables, where Pablo Escobar worked, was just ahead. Should she cross the street just to avoid him? ‘The hell with that,’ she thought. ‘Let _him_ stay inside to avoid me.’
Still, there was no point tempting fate, and she _did_ have a wagon full of laundry to deliver. She walked faster, pulling the wagon behind her, as she walked past Ritter’s.
“For shame, Arnol_da_,” a voice called out behind her.
Arnie turned to see Pablo step out onto the wooden sidewalk. “Go away, Pablito,” she answered. Then she swore under her breath, as Fernando Hidalgo joined Pablo.
“But why?” Pablo answered smoothly. “I was just meant that it is a shame for such a pretty girl to dress as a boy. Isn’t that right, Fernando?”
The other boy agreed. “Si, in those baggy clothes, I cannot see those big tetas of hers.” He laughed and cupped his hands in front of his chest. “They just beg to be seen… and touched.” He closed and opened his fingers, as if squeezing.
“Or that waist of hers, so narrow,” Pablo continued. “It makes a man -- a _real_ man -- want to put his arm around it, to pull her close, so he can kiss those sweet, full lips of hers.”
Arnie glared at the pair. “You both can go to hell,” she spat. “Real men…? Ha, not you, Pablito. Not you either, ‘Nando, you can barely grow a beard.”
“I want to see your beard,” Pablo answered. “The one down there.” He pointed down, below her waist. “I want to see it, to… taste it… and to grab on to that big ass of your and…” He leered and pumped his hips forward and back.
“There you two are.” Clyde Ritter came out of his business. He looked at the two boys, then at Arnie. “Ain’t you got better things to do than flirt with my help, Missie?” He pointed down the street. “Go on, get outta here.” He took a breath. “And the two of you get back to work.”
The boys hurried back into the store. Ritter following them before Arnie could answer. She growled in frustration and started walking again.
* * * * *
“How’s it coming, Ethan?” Jane asked, leaning forward in her chair.
The painter frowned. “Please sit back, Jane, and hold your head up.” When she did as told, he continued. “Thank you.” He worked on the piece for a moment before his reply. “In answer to your question, _it_ is going relatively well. You -- the young you -- will be completed shortly, and I am far along on completing the initial work, at least, on you, the elder.”
“The ‘old’ me? What do you mean?”
“There are three figures in this painting: a young girl that is whom you have been posing for, a pregnant woman --”
“That’d be Laura. Who’s gonna be the other one?”
“You are -- just now. _That_ is why you are sitting in the chair rather than standing beside it, as you had been doing.”
“That’s right, but I still don’t get why.”
“The third figure is the ‘wise woman’, she is the older and wiser aspect.”
“You mean you’re painting me as a old lady?”
“As an _older_ woman, matronly, rather. How does the song go -- ‘silver stands among the gold’. A more dignified expression -- please hold your hands still -- and hairstyle, that sort of thing.”
“Can I see? I wanna see it.”
Ethan sighed. “I suppose it is the only way I can get you to remain still for the remainder of the session. Very well, come over, but only a quick look.” He stepped back when she walked over.
“Can’t tell too much, it’s mostly just a outline. Is it really gonna look like me -- like I will when I’m older ‘n’ Molly?”
“As much as the other two figures look like you and Laura do now.”
“That one sure does look like me. The other one -- Laura’s belly is just about that big.” She shrugged. “I guess it will.”
“I’m so glad that you agree. Now would you please take your seat again?”
Jane walked back to the chair and sat down, positioning her hands as he had directed. “What’re you gonna do with that painting when it’s done?”
“I intend to ship it back east. I have a number of works in storage at the Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia. When I return, I -- a few friends of mine -- will sponsor me in a showing of those works. With any luck, it will be purchased by someone for a suitable sum of money.”
“How much money?”
“Quite a bit, I should think. My work has been very well received in the past.”
“Maybe I’ll buy it, save you all that time and trouble.”
“I hardly think that you would have the resources.”
“I got money, more money than you think. I ain’t sure yet, but maybe, just maybe, I _will_ buy it.”
* * * * *
“How’s the work coming?” Cap asked Red Tully.
Red and Joe Ortlieb were working on a section of corral fencing. “Not too bad,” Red told him. “We should be finished in a day or so.”
“No sense in hurrying,” Joe added.
Red winked at Joe. “I don’t know. Mr. Lewis here might _want_ us t’hurry.”
“Why do you say that, Red?” Cap asked.
Now Red shrugged. “Well, now, we heard Mr. Slocum say he wanted you to catch up on the work you missed. If I had somebody like Bridget waiting for me in town, I’d sure be hurrying t’get back to her.”
“You got that right,” Joe added. “I’ll bet you two found lot’s ways t’kill time while you was living at the Saloon.”
Red chuckled. “Living, eating, and _sleeping_ at the Saloon.”
“Are you implying something?” Cap squared his shoulders and took a step forward.
Joe gave way. “No, sir, we was just kidding ‘round some. That’s all.”
“I wasn’t kidding,” Red answered. “If I had somebody as pretty as Bridget Kelly, I sure as hell wouldn’t be wasting my time talking to two saddle bums like Joe and me any more than I had to.”
Cap frowned. He didn’t want to take on the two of them at once, no matter how angry he was. Besides, he knew how his uncle felt about him fighting with the help. “You got one thing right, Red. I’ve got a lot better things to do than talk to you two ‘saddle bums.’ Now get busy on that damned fence.”
Cap stormed off. He didn’t know what made him madder: the fact that the men were teasing him about Bridget or the fact that they were right about how much he wanted to see her again.
* * * * *
Sebastian Ortega poured himself a brandy and sank back in his chair. “So, Ramon,” he asked, “are you enjoying your last few days of freedom before your wedding?”
“Enjoying?” Ramon replied, “Not so much enjoying as anticipating… _counting_ the days until my wedding.”
Sebastian leaned forward and swirled the brandy, watching it coat the sides of his glass. “Spoken like a man hopelessly in love.” He laughed and brought the snifter close, so as to savor the bouquet.
“And if I am, what is so wrong with that?”
“Nothing, my friend; I suppose that I am even happy for you.”
“Thank you for that overwhelming endorsement.”
“I said that I was happy for you. I just hope you will have time once in a while to have an old friend over here to talk — and share some of your brandy, of course.”
“You will always be welcome,” Ramon said, reaching for his own brandy. “It just won’t be here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Margarita loves her house, and it is much better suited for a family than this place, so we will be living there.”
“But this is your home. You grew up here, so did you father… and his father.”
“And his father, too. I know. But this building is the guesthouse. I grew up in the main building, Carmen’s home, hers and Whit’s and their children. My home is with my wife and her -- _our_ children. That is not here.”
“Are you certain that you want to give this place up?”
“I am not giving it up, and I am moving to a better place, to my life with Margarita. You will always be welcome.” He laughed. “And I am taking at least some of my brandy with me, so you will be able to drink it, just as you are doing now.”
* * * * *
Wednesday, March 27, 1872
Arnie lifted the first two packages of clean laundry up onto the Ritters’ raised back porch. She picked up the third and climbed the flight of stairs to the deck. She carefully stepped in front of the two packages on the floor and knocked on the back door.
“Just a minute,” a female voice called from inside. Then it added, “Please see who that is, dear.”
The door opened. “Well… hello.” A tall, burly dark-haired young man greeted Arnie, even as his eyes roamed up and down her body. “I knew that coming home for lunch today was a good idea, but I never thought that it would be _this_ good.”
“Laundry for Seá±ora Ritter.” Arnie tried to smile. She’d known -- and disliked -- Winthorp Ritter since they were in school together, but she certainly didn’t want him to recognize her, not as she was now.
The boy kept smiling and stepped aside, still holding the door so she could enter. “Bring it in,” he told her, adding, “please,” almost at once.
“Si, seá±or.” Arnie walked in and set her package down on the kitchen table. She could almost feel Winthorp’s eyes on her, especially when she went back for the second package, bending at the waist to pick it up.
She set the package next to the first and turned to go for the last one, only to see the boy standing in the doorway holding it. “I wanted to give you a hand,” he told her smoothly.
“Which package is which?” Cecelia Ritter asked, walking over from the sink. “Do you know?”
“They are numbered,” Arnie answered. “Number one is men’s clothes… and boys. Number two is ladies’ clothes and the tablecloth you gave us. Number three is sheets, pillowcases, and towels.”
The boy leered at her. “I’ll bet you’re particularly good with sheets.” His leer faded when he saw his mother’s expression sour.
“We do good work with all the laundry.” She deliberately ignored his suggestive remark, looking at the bill that was pinned to package three. “You owe us $6.88.”
Mrs. Ritter frowned. “My coin purse is in the parlor. Do you have any money, Winthorp?”
“Certainly, Mother.” He took a $10 gold eagle coin from his pocket and placed it in Arnie’s outstretched hand. “My _pleasure_.” He slid a finger across her palm, sending shivers up her arm.
Arnie pulled her hand away and glanced around, more anxious than ever to leave. “Do you have anything to be cleaned?” she asked as she counted out the change.
“Right there.” Cecelia pointed to a large muslin bag set next to a chair. “I’d like to have it back on Saturday.”
The girl took a tag from her shirt pocket. She wrote, “Ritter -- Saturday” on the tag and pinned it to the bag. “Thank you, seá±ora.”
“Let me get the door for you,” Winthorp said, opening it wide.
Arnie put the bag up over her shoulder and started out the door. “Saturday… gracias.”
“You’re entirely welcome,” Winthorp answered. As she walked past him, he spoke again, in a softer voice this time. “And may I say, _Arnoldo_, that Mr. O’Toole’s potion has made a vast improvement in you.”
Her eyes went wide. He knew! Hell, _everybody_ knew; why not Winthorp, damn him? Before she could say anything, he chuckled and patted her rump. “A _vast_ improvement.” He gave a hearty laugh and closed the door after her.
* * * * *
“Penny for your thoughts, Dolores,” R.J. said, walking over to the barstool she was sitting on.
Dolores turned. “What did you say?”
“I asked what you were thinking about. You’ve been sitting there for quite a while just sort of staring into space.”
“To tell the truth, I was thinking about many things.”
“Like what?”
“Arnoldo, for one thing.”
“Yeah, how’s he -- excuse me -- she doing? I saw Molly talking to her the other day.” He gave a soft laugh. “I see she’s still wearing pants.”
“Si, she refuses to wear dresses, even when Teresa and I argue with her, except for wearing them to church. She spends most of the time working for the laundry, delivering and picking up clothes. That is probably what she was doing when you saw her. The rest of the time, she helps to take care of Teresa.”
“How _is_ Teresa?”
“She is getting better, but it will still be weeks before she can start doing the deliveries again.”
“Then what happens to Arnie? She won’t have anything to do?”
“I do not know.” She sighed. “I wish she could get her job here back.”
R.J. thought for a moment. “Maybe she can. Bring her around once Teresa’s on her feet. I’ll talk to Shamus.”
“You are a good friend to her, R.J., thank you.”
“I’m not just doing it for Arnie.”
“You are not.”
“Nope, you’ve been moping around since he got fired, and I don’t like that.” He reached over and lifted her chin with his hand. “I’d much rather see that pretty smile of yours.”
“Really?”
“Yep, I rather see those lips of yours curled up in a smile.” He paused a moment. “‘Course, there’s something more I like about your lips.”
“What is that?”
“This.” He moved in close and kissed her. His kiss was gentle at first, but it grew in intensity, especially when she started to kiss him back.
* * * * *
Molly walked over to Bridget’s table and pulled out a chair. “Do ye mind if I take a seat here for a while?”
“Help yourself,” Bridget said, gesturing at the chair.
The older woman seated herself and then reached down and pulled a large, straw basket up onto her lap. “Could ye be helping me a bit with me knitting?”
“I-I guess. What can I do?”
“Hold yuir hands out in front of ye, about a foot apart and palms facing… aye, that’s fine. Now ye just hold still like that.” Molly took a ball of thick yellow yarn out of the basket and began wrapping it around Bridget’s hands.
Molly worked with the yarn for several minutes before asking, “Now then, Bridget, what is it that’s been bothering ye so much these last few days?”
“Nothing… nothing really.” She looked down at the yarn and frowned. “Nothing worth you trapping me like this, anyways.”
“I’m thinking thuir is… _and_ I’m thinking that it has something t’do with ye and Cap Lewis.” She studied Bridget’s expression for a moment before she continued. “And ye might as well be telling me. Ye may be a lot better with the cards than I am, but I’m the most stubborn woman ye ever met, and we _both_ know it.”
“And if I don’t want to tell you anything?”
“Then we’ll be seeing how well ye play poker with that thuir yarn draped around yuir hands.” She sighed. “I know it ain’t exactly chains I just wrapped ye in, but I also know that thuir’s something just as heavy as chains weighing on yuir mind, Bridget. Why don’t ye be telling me what it is? Maybe I can help.”
Bridget shook her head. “You can’t help me; nobody can. Hell, I don’t even know if I _need_ help.”
“What are ye saying?”
“I-I’m… Cap and me… when he was staying here, we…” Her voice trailed off, and she stared down at the table.
“Ye was in bed with him, wasn’t ye?” She gently patted Bridget on the head. “Ye two love each other; thuir’s no shame in what ye did.”
“No, but there may be a… I-I… we didn’t use any protection. I may be… pregnant.” That last word had come out in the tiniest of whispers.
“Aye, but ye may not be neither. Ye won’t be knowing for…” Molly counted out the days in her head. “…about a week and a half, when yuir monthlies is due. I’ll not be telling ye not to worry. Ye will; ye’re only human. But I will be telling ye that, if ye are going t’be having a baby, ye ain’t in it alone. I’ll be thuir for ye.”
Looking not into the older woman's eyes, but at the yarn, Bridget said in a very low voice, “Thanks, Molly. I sort of knew I could count on you.”
“Ye _both_ can be counting on me.”
“Both?”
“Aye, ye’ll be telling Cap the next time ye see him -- ye better, or I will. He’s a good man -- as if I’m telling ye anything ye don’t know -- and I’ve no doubt that he’ll be standing with ye, whatever happens.”
* * * * *
Kirby Pinter looked up from at the sound of the bell over his door. “Afternoon, Jessie. What can I do for you?”
“I need t’find a song,” she answered. “You ever hear tell of one called 'Here Comes the Bride' from something -- an opera, I think it is -- called LOHENGRIN?”
“I’ve heard of it, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have a copy.”
“Damn, a… a friend of mine is getting married, and she asked me t’sing it at her wedding.”
“Nothing like cutting it close. Maggie’s getting married this Sunday. I do wish I could help you, but…” His voice trailed off, as he held up his hands and shrugged.
“It ain’t Maggie. It’s somebody from… from outta town.” She wasn’t about to admit how she’d met Hanna Tyler when she was trying to escape Eerie all those months ago.
Kirby didn’t ask. “In that case, if you’ve got some time, I may be able to help, after all.” When Jessie nodded, he went on. “An old friend of mine has a bookstore in St. Louis. I could send him a letter, ask if he can find a copy. You need the words _and_ the music, right?”
“Yeah, both, that’d be great, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll get the letter out on tomorrow’s stage. If he can find the book -- and I’m pretty sure that he can -- he can send it here with the bill.”
“Just so’s it ain’t too dear. I’m not rich, ya’ know.”
The bookseller chuckled. “I’ll tell him that, too. You should have the song inside of a month… six weeks at most.”
“That’ll be great, thanks.”
“You really want to thank me, you be sure to sing ‘Old Dog Tray’ the next time I come in for your show. It’s my favorite song.”
“Kirby, you get me that song in time, and you’ll be one of _my_ favorites, too, and I’ll be more’n happy t’sing ‘Tray’ for you.”
* * * * *
“More roast beef, Ethan?” Cecelia Ritter asked. “Or sweet potatoes, or succotash?” Ethan Thomas had joined the Ritters and was sitting with them at their dining room table.
Thomas leaned back in his chair and held up a hand. “No, please. That second serving was more than enough.”
“I’m so glad that you liked it. I do hope that you have room for some of my cherry cobbler.”
“Cherry… well, I suppose I could find _some_ room.”
Cecelia stood up and walked into the kitchen. She came back in carrying the cobbler. “Here we are.” She set the dessert on a sideboard and began putting slices into separate dishes.
“You were telling us about some of the other paintings you were working on,” Clyde, Senior, prompted his guest.
“Ah, yes. In addition to yourselves, the Ortega family has commissioned portraits of Juan Ortega, the head of that family, and his granddaughter, Benita. Mr. Lyman, the tobacconist, asked for a portrait for his shop. He wishes to be painted as if he were a cigar store Indian, an amusing and rather original notion. I initially journeyed here to Eerie at the behest of Madam…”
Ethan stopped. ‘There are two children at the table,’ he thought, ‘and the older son was perhaps sixteen. My hosts would hardly appreciate my discussing Cerise and her ladies.’ He took a different tack. “Is there any particular work you wished to ask about?”
“Well,” Cecelia began, handing him a bowl filled with the cobbler. “I saw a picture of Mrs. O’Toole, from the…” She made a sour face. “…saloon. I really don’t know the woman. What is she like?”
Ethan had seen Cecelia prowl through his studio, studying all the works in progress. “Molly? She is a charming woman, quite vivacious, and with a good, if slightly bawdy sense of humor.”
“Indeed, does she talk much while she poses?”
“I suspect that, for her, talking and breathing are very much of the same order. However she doesn’t prattle as some woman do — not yourself, of course, Cecelia.”
Clyde’s eyes went upward for an instant in reaction. Then he rejoined the conversation. “Does she talk much about her husband... ah, Shamus, or what sort of things happen in that saloon of theirs?”
‘And _that_,’ the painter told himself, ‘is the true reason for my invitation and this sumptuous — by their standards, at least — meal.’
“So far as I am able to discern,” he began, “Molly is very much in love with Mr. O’Toole, and he, apparently, reciprocates. She’s described him as hiding a very tender heart beneath a somewhat stern exterior. I was particularly amused by her tale that, having been raised for a time by the Cheyenne, he uses their language for profanity.”
“That’s all?” Mr. Ritter asked.
“She’s told me a few stories about things that have happened in her husband’s establishment, but I should say that these reflect more upon the persons involved than the O’Tooles.”
He took a forkful of dessert. “Delicious… as good as any I’ve had in all my travels. My compliments, Cecelia.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” she gushed. “But I’m sure you’ve had better dessert than my humble efforts.”
He grabbed her comment and ran with it. “Well, there was a dark chocolate and cherry cake I had in Denver, perhaps a year ago, Black Forest cake, I believed they called it. There was some sort of celebration going on, and I had been summoned…”
He continued to talk about his time in Denver, despite the Ritters best efforts to derail him, to get him talking about the O’Tooles and some of his other current subjects, until it was time to leave.
* * * * *
“Coffee, gentlemen… Trisha?” Kaitlin asked.
Trisha shook her head. “I’m fine, just now. Why don’t you leave the pot?” The Judge and Milt Quinlan agreed.
“Very well.” Kaitlin set the blue enameled coffee pot down on a wooden trivet. The cups, spoons, and sugar bowl were beside it on the table. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“You’re welcome to stay if you’d like,” Judge Humphreys told her.
Kaitlin smiled. “Thank you, Your Honor, but I have work to do upstairs.” She took off her apron, draping it over a chair, and headed for the steps.
“I appreciate your coming, Milt,” the Judge began. “I know that you don’t like to get involved in church politics.”
“As the parliamentarian, I really shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be impartial.” He chuckled. “On the other hand, as a human being, I can’t help but have a point of view.”
Judge Humphreys laughed. “Spoken like a lawyer. Speaking as a human being, what do you think Trisha’s chances are of staying on the board?”
“Oh, she’s off the Board,” Milt said calmly. “It’s just a question of when.”
Trisha stiffened. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Quinlan.”
“I’m sorry to be so blunt, Trisha. I think you’re being railroaded with this vote in May. I think you’ll win, and I hope you do. The problem is that there’s another vote in September, the annual Board election.”
The Judge nodded. “Of course, I’m up for re-election, too.” He stopped for a moment. “I see your point, Milt. Trisha can’t run, can she?”
“I’m afraid, not,” the lawyer answered. “The by-laws say only men can be elected to the Board.”
Trisha pouted. “But I won the vote to stay on the Board; why can’t I run in September?”
“Because, to do that, you’d have to get the by-laws changed,” Humphreys explained. “That’s a lot harder.”
Milt’s face soured. “It takes two months. You make a motion at one meeting and vote on it at the next. I don’t think you could get away with starting on that until after the vote in May. That would mean the final vote would be in July, at the earliest.”
“And a July vote would be very close to the election,” Trisha agreed sadly. “It would be hard.”
The Judge poured himself a coffee. “The May vote will tell, I think. Some people may not vote to expel you because you’ve only got a few months to serve. Nothing much happens during the summer; they might figure you wouldn’t have a chance to do any harm.”
“Maybe I could show that I’m doing _good_, that I deserve to be on the Board,” she suggested. “A lotta people’d think that it was only fair that I get a chance to run again.”
Humphreys took a sip of coffee and considered her point. “That’s probably a good idea. I don’t know about holding another dance; that would remind people of what happened — what Cecelia is _saying_ happened. Besides, you don’t want to come off as a one-trick pony. Let’s see if we can come up with something else, something we can be ready with as soon as that May vote is over.”
* * * * *
Thursday, March 28, 1872
Rory Halpert knocked on the half-opened door to his employer’s office. “Excuse me, Mr. Stafford, but there’s a Mr. Dunne here to see you.”
“Dunne?” Forry Stafford looked up from that day’s issue of the Austin _Democratic_ _Statesman_. “The name’s not familiar. Did he say what he wanted?”
Halpert shook his head. “No, sir. All he told me was that he was from the Office of Veterans’ Affairs. He came to see you about a week after you left for Europe. Whatever he wants must be important. He’s come in several times while you were away.”
“Send him in.” Stafford dismissed the clerk with a wave of his hand. He didn’t know what the man wanted, but looked forward to the diversion from actually having to work at his father’s business dealings.
A thin, balding man limped into the office. “Mr. Stafford?” he asked in a high, reedy voice. “I’m Phileas Dunne.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Dunne, and tell me what brings you here.”
The man carefully closed the door before he took a chair. “I… uh, I’m a record clerk in the State Office of Veterans’ Affairs.”
“One of those ‘red tape boys’, then.”
Dunne gave a weak chuckle. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid I am. Anyway, last December, Mr. Bailey -- he’s my boss, the head of the office -- he asked me to look up the record of a Brian Geoffrey Kelly. It took me a while to find Mr. Kelly’s records. You have no idea of the complex filing system that the department —”
“I’m sure this is all very interesting, Mr. Dunne, but please get back to Kelly and Mr. Bailey, if you would.”
“I-I’m sorry, sir. I tend to get sidetracked when I’m telling a story. It’s a bad habit. My mother says--”
“_Brian_ _Kelly_, Mr. Dunne.”
“Oh… oh, yes. Mr. Bailey said that we had a request for the military record of Mr. Kelly. He asked me to prepare a summary report. I asked whom the report was for; it can make a difference on what gets mentioned. He just told me to include everything, and that, when I was done, I should mail it to somebody out in the Arizona Territory. I thought _that_ was rather odd, but he’s the boss, and I’m just a poor…” He emphasized the word “poor”. “…state employee. I do what I’m told.”
“And you finished this report _and_ mailed it out.”
“Yes, sir. Like I said, I’m just a _poor_ state employee.”
Stafford could almost see the man sticking out his hand, and he wondered what this was going to cost him. “But what did you come to tell me, exactly?”
“It's just this, sir. You were Mr. Kelly's -- Corporal Kelly’s commanding officer. You brought the charges against him and a Sergeant Hanks, and they both said that _you_ were guilty of cowardly behavior and being drunk on duty.” He gave Forry a none-too-subtle smile. “The military commission accepted your word… of course, but I thought that you should know that someone was asking about a matter you were _involved_ in.”
“I appreciate your concern.” Stafford stood, and the other man did the same. “And I’d like to reward such concern.” He took his wallet from an inside pocket of his jacket, took out a $50 bill, and handed it to the clerk.
“I… ah, thank you, Mr. Stafford, but I was kind of hoping for a more _gracious_ sign of your appreciation. That trial was a serious matter, and I’m just a --”
“Just a poor state employee, yes, I know. Would another $50 be enough?”
“Make it $200 in all, sir, and I’ll be so overwhelmed by your gratitude, I’d be leaving a copy of my report -- and the address I sent the report to -- right here on your desk.”
Stafford frowned but handed him the money. “And there’ll be no more said to anyone on this?”
“Not a word.”
* * * * *
Laura and Carmen stood at the door of Maggie’s house, both holding covered wooden boxes. Carmen was fumbling for a key and finally set her box down and began to rummage through her reticule.
“How’d you get the key to Maggie’s place?” Laura asked, as Carmen opened her friend’s door.
Carmen picked up the box she’d been carrying and stepped through the doorway. “I’ve had it for months. Margarita gave it to me, in case I ever need to get something for Ernesto or Lupe when I am watching them on Saturday nights.”
“Good thing, too; I don’t think we could’ve gotten it from her without giving everything away.” Laura followed her into the house. “This is supposed to be a surprise, right?”
“Si, can you manage that box all right, Laura?”
“No problem.” Laura set her own box down on a chair. “So what do we do, now that we’re in?”
“First, we put the candles and flowers by the Santo.” Carmen pointed to a table against one wall of the parlor. A carved wooden crucifix hung on the wall above. The only thing on the table itself was a colored picture of a peasant woman set in a tooled wooden frame.
Laura pointed at the picture. “Who’s that?”
“The Virgin of Guadalupe, the mother of Christ. The picture shows her as she appeared many years ago on the hill of Tepeyac near Mexico City.” Carmen set down her box and took out two silver candlesticks. She put one on each side of the picture.
“I've seen that face before, I think,” said Laura. Then she shrugged. “Those are beautiful candlesticks.”
“Gracias, they are a wedding gift of sorts. My great-grandfather had them made for my great-grandmother as an anniversary present.” Carmen took a long pair of white candles from the box and carefully set one in each candlestick.
She stepped back and looked at the table. “Perfect; now for the flowers.” She picked one last item, a low silver and turquoise bowl, from the box and set it down in front of the picture.
“Here’s the flowers.” Laura opened her own box, took out a package of flowers, roses with ferns, and tied with a length of twine. She handed the flowers to Carmen.
Carmen untied the flowers and began to arrange them in the bowl. “While I do this, why do you not put out the other things?”
“That sounds like a plan.” Laura took out a few doves cut from colored paper and began walking around the room, setting them down. The doves came in pairs, pink and pale blue, with Maggie and Ramon’s names written on them in a gold-colored ink. She placed them on the table, on the tops of chairs, and on the mantelpiece. Other pairs went on the post at the foot of the stairs and atop the hall mirror.
There was a long chain of pink, blue, and white paper rings in the box. Laura wound it between the rails of the banister that led up to the second floor. She set another pair of doves at the top of the stairs, and hung a few more on pictures hanging on the walls. The last few pairs were scattered around Maggie’s bedroom, with one pair tied high up on each of the four posts of her bed.
“All done,” Laura announced as she walked back into the living room. She sat down to watch Carmen finish with the flowers. “It’s pretty, but ain’t it kind of early to do all this decorating?”
Carmen kept working while she answered. “The custom is to do it some days, sometimes even weeks, before the wedding. Besides, these will help put Margarita in a wedding mood.”
“Have you seen the way she’s been smiling all week? She’s already in the mood, and then some.”
Carmen giggled. “I have seen her, and you are right.” She glanced down into the box Laura had brought. “There are still a few doves left. Do you want some for your house?”
“My house, why would I want them?”
“As I said before, to put Margarita in a wedding mood. After all, she will be spending the night before the wedding with you and Arsenio, remember?”
“I remember. Nobody told us that was a part of what being the padrino and madrina meant.”
“If you knew, would you have backed out?”
“No, I just didn’t think there was that much to it.”
* * * * *
Milt walked over to the table where Jane was sitting, waiting to see if anyone wanted a drink. “Hello, Jane.” He kissed her gently on the cheek before sitting down next to her. “What’ve you been up to today?”
“Not much.” She kissed him back. “I was just sitting here thinking ‘bout that painting of Laura and me.”
Milt nodded. “The painting, when do I get to see it?”
“Pretty soon, it’s almost done. But don’t you worry ‘bout that. You may get to see a lot of it.”
“Really? I thought you said Mr. Thomas was shipping it east. Did somebody in town decide to buy it?”
“Somebody might.” She giggled. “Me.”
‘Damnation,’ he thought. ‘She’s still thinking about buying that painting.’ Aloud, he asked, “Are you sure? From what I understand, his work is fairly expensive.”
“I got money — lots of it — over at the bank. I’ll just get some from Dwight Albertson.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Leave your money with Dwight. He told me you’re doing fairly well.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why’re you talking t’Dwight about _my_ money?”
“Do you remember those papers you signed last week? Dwight was buying shares of railroad stock for you. He needed an affidavit — that was one of the papers -- so he asked me to write one up for you. I asked him how well your investments were doing.”
“You still worried I ain’t gonna have the money t’pay you?”
“Of course not, I was just concerned about how you were doing.”
“You must not think I got the brains t’manage my own money.” She studied his face. “You’re the only one who thinks like that. Maggie trusts me enough t’ask me t’run her place while she’s on her honeymoon. She trusts me with her business, but you… you don’t think I can run m’own.” She stood up. “Maybe you should just mind _your_ business.”
Milt stared, uncertain what to say. “I-I didn’t mean anything.”
“Yes… yes, you did. You’re smarter than me, _Mr._ Quinlan. I know it. That’s why you’re my lawyer. Maybe that’s all you are t’me.”
She turned her back to him and walked away before he could answer.
* * * * *
“He ain’t here, Bridget,” Sam Braddock said.
Bridget realized that she’d been looking around the room instead of paying attention to the poker game she was playing. “Who — what do you mean, Sam?”
“Cap’s still out at his uncle’s ranch,” Jerry Domingez answered her.
Bridget felt a flush run across her cheeks. “He is… I mean, so what if he is?” She smiled at the men around the table. “I like the company I’m in right now.”
“Of course, you do,” Stu Gallagher told her. “And we like being here with you. We all just know that, if you weren’t playing poker, you’d probably prefer to be with him than with any of us.”
She smiled. “Possibly, but right now, I’m playing poker. I’m-I’m sorry if I was distracted for a moment this one time.”
“More like once or twice a night,” Sam replied, “every night this week, but we don’t mind.”
Sam laughed. “Hell no, the way some of us play poker, it’s the only chance we got to win a hand.”
* * * * *
“Identical,” Ethan said, an appreciative tone in his voice. “You are just the same as she.”
Trisha blinked. She was in his studio. The portrait of Norma Jean was only a few feet away. She glanced down at herself. She was standing there in the same pose as the woman in the portrait, one leg slightly forward, her hand resting on her hip. “Oh, my Lord,” she gasped.
And she was dressed as Norma Jean was, a satiny violet corset, short — much too short — white drawers, and matching violet stockings. A blood red garter circled her bare, right thigh.
“You _are_ Norma Jean,” he said smoothly, “come to life _and_ to my arms.” He pulled her to him. His arms encircled her, and he pressed his lips hard against hers.
Trisha tried to banish the warmth that surged through her. Her nipples grew stiff, pushing against the lining of her corset. A fire grew in her loins. Despite herself, she rubbed her body against his… his nakedness. ‘Submit,’ her body told her. ‘You want this; you _need_ this.”
“Let her be,” a firm, male voice ordered from behind her.
Ethan’s hold on her tightened. “Like hell! She’s mine. Her body is mine. That’s how she wants to be.”
“No!” Trisha somehow managed to push him away. “I’m — I’m my own woman.”
The painter stumbled back, and — suddenly — he was gone.
“That’s right, Trisha,” the voice said. “You’re your own woman; which is to say, you’re _my_ woman.”
She turned to see… “P-Patrick?” Her male self, Patrick O’Hanlan, stood before her, just as she remembered, in his Sunday best, brown suit.
“I’m the one you want, Trisha, the one you’ve always wanted.” She blinked. When she focused again, he was still there. Only now, he was wearing the work shirt and pants he usually wore at the store. “The very first time you pleasured yourself as a woman, it was my name you called.”
She shook her head in confusion. “This-this isn’t possible.”
“Anything’s possible,” he answered with a laugh, “in a dream.”
“Then, this isn’t real.”
“It’s as real as you want. You’re real. I’m real. This…” He was naked! He lifted his member, his long… thick… erect… pulsing… member in one hand. “…this is _very_ real. If you want it to be.”
“I-I do.”
"I wanted you so much when I first saw you on that cigar card. And, at last, here you are, with me. I thought I could guess what kind of girl you were just from the way you posed and dressed. Every fiber of knew that you'd turn out to be exactly the kind of girl that you are."
She gasped. She… _they_ were now on a bed. He was atop her, and she could feel him sliding into her warm, wet, and very empty cleft.
Every part of her seemed to be aglow, filling her with a rapture unlike anything she had known as a man. Her arms flailed about before he grabbed her wrists, forcing them back, down along the sides of the bed.
She moaned and writhed with sheer pleasure as he kept thrusting into her. She was a leaf caught in one of those tornado storms they had in Kansas, his every movement lifting her higher and higher towards the clouds, with no control, no sense of _anything_ -- except for his manhood plunging in and out of her.
Then, the dam broke. She was flooded with the blissful wave of intense sensation that washed away whatever mooring in the real world she still possessed.
She screamed, opening her eyes wide. Her wild motions set him off, and she felt him spurting into her.
The next thing she knew, he was leaning down and kissing her hard on the mouth. She tried to move her arms up and around him, but he was still holding her wrists.
Then, as she watched, he seemed to fade. He was sinking down into her body, becoming a part of her. ‘I’ll be here for you,’ she heard his voice in her mind, ‘a part of you, now and forever.’
The lush feelings he’d aroused in her settled down to, becoming like the feel of warmed honey in her veins. She smiled and drifted off as the dream faded away.
* * * * *
Friday, March 29, 1872
Arnie pulled the laundry wagon up to the front door of the white one-story house. The Ellsworth house had been vacant for some time, but now she could see that someone had moved in.
She took a breath and knocked. A slender, brown-haired woman in a gray dress opened the door. “Yes, may I help you?”
“Hello, ma’am, and welcome to Eerie,” Arnie said, trying to smile. “My name is Arnie Diaz. My family has a laundry business, and I thought that you might be interested.”
The women stepped back, allowing Arnie to walk through. “Yes, I had heard that there was a laundry in town. Do come in… Annie, was it?”
“Si… yes, ma’am.” Arnie didn’t want to correct the woman. It might start a line of questions that she really didn’t want to answer. “Here is our price list.” She handed the other woman the paper.
“Thank you. My name is Mrs. Spaulding.” She looked at the sheet. “These prices seem fair, but price isn’t everything. I’d… My late husband, the Captain, always said to look before I leapt. “I’ll just get some few things for you to clean. If I like your work, well, the three of us wear a lot of clothes. She pointed to a nearby chair. “Please… sit down, and I’ll be right back.” She bustled off before Arnie had a chance to sit.
Arnie looked around. She was in a large day room that was both parlor and kitchen, the two separated by a dining table with four chairs. A long horsehair sofa and three matching chairs were clustered near a fireplace along one wall. Mrs. Spaulding had disappeared through a door at the far end of the room.
“Mother, did I hear someone come in?” A second door in the far wall opened. A tall young man backed into the room, pulling something. A wheelchair. When he turned, Arnie saw that a girl about her own age was sitting in it, a blanket covering her legs. “Oh, hello,” the man said with slight surprise.
Arnie nodded. “Hello.”
“I suppose introductions are in order,” the man replied. He walked towards Arnie, pushing the chair before him. “I’m Hedley Spaulding, and this is my sister, Clara. I expect that you’ve already met our mother.”
“I’m Arnie Diaz. My family does laundry, and I --”
The young man grinned. “I’ll have to get my clothes dirty more often, if it’ll bring you over to get them.”
“Stop that, Hedley,” the girl chided. “I do hope you will come over, Arnie. Since I got sick, I can't go out very much; you're the first girl my own age that I've met in Eerie. It would be so nice to have someone to talk to.” She gave a slight cough into a lace handkerchief and sighed.
“Not that she was much of a gadabout before,” Hedley teased. “Say, is that how a lot of girls dress this far West?”
Arnie wasn’t sure how she should answer. “I-I do not know. Some.”
“I read about a girl like that in a magazine,” said Clara. “She pretended to be a man and joined the army during the war….”
“Ah, Annie, I see you’ve met my children.” Mrs. Spaulding came into the room. She was holding a small cloth sack.
Clara smiled shyly. “Please say you’ll come back to visit… Annie.”
“Of course, she’ll be back,” Mrs. Spaulding answered. “She’ll be bringing back these clothes once they’re clean. The two of you can visit while I inspect her work.” She paused a beat. “Can you have them back on Tuesday?”
Arnie took a small label from her pocket and wrote “Spaulding -- Tuesday” on it before pinning it to the sack. “I will have them back then, and I am sure that you will be happy with how clean we shall make them.”
“Clara has had a hard time of it lately. It would be wonderful if you and -- and her -- became friends,” said Hedley, his bright eyes boldly engaging Arnie's. The latter squirmed imperceptibly and tried to smile.
* * * * *
Nancy Osbourne stood at her desk and picked up a small stack of papers. “Children, I have the results for the arithmetic tests that you all took on Wednesday.” She walked over to the first row of seats and began to hand out the tests. “Most of you did very well, I’m happy to say.”
“Emma,” she said when she came to the girl’s desk. “I’d like to talk to you about your test after class.”
Hermione Ritter raised her hand. “Did Emma fail, Miss Osbourne?”
“As a matter of fact, Hermione, Emma did much better than you did.” The teacher handed Hermione her own results. “And why I wish to talk to Emma is none of your concern.”
* * * * *
Colonel Jack Stafford closed the folder and tossed it down onto his desk. “This could be trouble, Forry. What do you think this -- what was the man’s name again?”
Stafford was an older version of his son. The curly brown hair had grayed, and it started much higher on his forehead. And while his hairline had moved back, his stomach, softened by years of easy living, had grown noticeably larger.
“Slocum… Abner Slocum,” Forry Stafford answered. “He’s a rancher out in some god-forsaken part of the Arizona Territory. I don’t know what he wants the information about Kelly for; neither did Dunne.”
“Ah, yes, the opportunistic Mr. Dunne. If he deals with other requests the way he did this one, I suspect that he won’t be ‘a poor state employee’ very long.”
“Not necessarily, sir. When he left the office, I suggested that he celebrate our transaction at Madame Timsons’ establishment. I even offered to let him mention my name there.”
“I’m sure that he did. Desiree’s house is far above what he’s probably used to.”
“Yes, _unfortunately_, he seems to have gotten into some sort of fight as he was leaving. He was severely beaten and robbed.” Forry gave a scornful laugh. “He’s expected to be in the hospital for some time.”
“Terrible… terrible.” Stafford, senior, said sounding almost sympathetic. “You get your money back?”
“About $150 of it. He’d spent some, and I had to pay the men who beat him.”
“That’s not too bad. So, what are you going to do about this Slocum?”
“I thought that I’d better go out and see what the man’s interest is in Corporal Brian Kelly. What happened with Kelly and Hanks in ’62 was a can of worms I never want to see opened again.”
“Don’t go off half-cocked and do anything foolish. Don’t go alone, either. This Slocum will have allies, the hands at his ranch, at least.”
“I’m not planning to. I’m taking Leeland Saunders and Dell Cooper with me. They testified for me at the court martial, so they’ve got as much to lose as I do, if Slocum makes any trouble.”
“Saunders is out at the ranch,” Forry continued. “I expect him here in a couple of days. We’ll leave then and take the stagecoach out to a town near Slocum’s ranch.”
“You know anything about this Slocum, anything you can use?”
“I asked some men I know, Larry Page and Sergey Brin, Jimmy Wales and Larry Sanger, about him. The four of them have contacts all over the west; seems like, between them, they know about everybody and everything. Even so, there wasn’t much. Slocum’s from Arkansas. He raised cattle for the Confederate Army; moved to Arizona after the War. He’s got a fair-sized spread out there, sells to the Army and the Indian Agency. The nearest stagecoach station to his ranch is a town called -- are you ready for this? -- Eerie.”
“Not the strangest name I ever heard. There’s a place up in California gold country called Sally’s Tits.”
Forry laughed. “I’d rather be going to Sally’s Tits than to someplace called Eerie, but I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“No, you don’t, but I’m sure that you’ll find somebody’s tits of interest out there. Have a good trip, son.” He rose and offered the younger man his hand. “And watch yourself, this Slocum sounds like he might amount to something out on his home ground. He'd have to, to get Bailey over at the Veteran's Office to do him a favor.”
“Thank you, sir.” He shook his father’s hand firmly. It was as close to a display of affection as the two ever showed. “And don’t you worry; no man can argue with a bullet, if it comes down to that.”
* * * * *
“Hey, Laura,” Jane said, trying to sound cheerful, “what d’you think of that painting you ‘n’ me is posing for.”
Laura thought for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s been… interesting, I guess. Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking ‘bout that painting and what’s gonna happen when it’s finished.”
“Ethan said he was shipping it east. We’ll probably never see it again.” She sighed. “It might have been fun to take the baby…” She patted her belly. “…and say, ‘there you are, inside of Mommy.’ But that can’t ever happen.”
“Maybe it will. Maybe… maybe it’ll stay right here in Eerie.”
“Jane, you’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?” This was what Milt had been worrying about all those weeks ago. ‘Looks like a job for big sister Laura,’ she told herself.
“If you mean, am I gonna buy it myself, yeah, I think I am.”
“Can you afford it? Maggie doesn’t pay you a lot.”
“I don’t need her pay. I got money in the bank, lots of money. I’ll just take some of that.”
“Are you sure, Jane? I mean, isn’t it better to keep that money in the bank and let Dwight invest it?”
“It’s my money. Why can’t I use some of it t’buy something I want?”
“Are you sure that you want it that much? I’ve never known you to be that interested in art.”
“Now you’re saying I’m too dumb t’buy it.” She looked angry.
Laura knew from experience just how stubborn Jane could get. “No, I’m just saying that it’s a lot of money, and you should take your time to be _sure_, absolutely sure, before you do anything.”
“That’s my big sister,” Jane answered, “always looking out for me. Not like some people I could mention.”
“Who?” Laura asked. She could think of only two possibilities, Milt or Shamus — no, three. She might have asked Maggie.
“I ain’t saying, but I will do like you say ‘n’ take my time before I buy the thing.”
* * * * *
“Do you want me to stay with you?” Ysabel asked. The school day had ended, and most of the class was hurrying out.
Emma shook her head. “Thanks, but if you stay in here, it’ll give Hermione a reason t’stay.”
“I will wait for you outside then.” Ysabel picked up her books and her lunch pail and started for the door.
Hermione was sitting at her desk, pretending to be busy packing her books. When Ysabel passed by, she whispered to Hermione, “Miss Osbourne said it was ‘none of your concern’, Hermione. Go home.”
“Says you,” Hermione whispered back. She looked towards Miss Osbourne, hoping for permission to remain.
Instead, the teacher met her eyes and pointed to the door. Hermione pouted, but she picked up her books and followed Ysabel out.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” Emma asked nervously, not waiting until she saw Hermione leave.
Miss Osbourne smiled, wanting to put the girl at ease. “There’s nothing wrong, Emma. You’ve been doing very well the last few months. Your reading is almost at eighth grade level, and your arithmetic, as the test I handed back to day showed, is above eighth grade. If you wish, you may graduate with Ysabel Diaz, Yully, Stone, and the other eighth graders this June.”
“But-but I’m in fifth grade.”
“Elmer was in fifth grade -- and doing rather well. When you… changed, you became older. And thanks to hard work -- and with Ysabel Diaz’ help -- you caught up with your new grade level. You can be very proud.”
“What happens if I graduate?”
“What do you want to happen? What do you want to be when you grow -- when you’re an adult?”
“I want to be an engineer.”
“I don’t believe that any railroad would hire a woman to drive one of their trains.”
“Not that kind of engineer. I want to _plan_ railroads -- where the tracks go, build roads, that sort of thing.”
“I believe that they call that ‘civil engineering’, but I don’t know if a woman could get hired to do it.” She saw the disappointment on Emma’s face and suddenly had an idea. “I do think that surveying would probably be a very good skill for a would-be civil engineer to have.”
“Yeah, I guess it would. Why?”
“Because Jubal Cates, who is a surveyor, asked me if I could recommend one of my eighth graders or a recent graduate to work for him.”
“I know him. He’s on the church board with Trisha.”
“If you were going to graduate, you could try for that job. If you liked the work, and he liked you, you might even become his apprentice. How does that sound?”
“Like I better talk to my folks about graduating -- _and_ about getting that job from Mr. Cates.” Emma laughed, adding to herself. ‘And won’t Hermione just _hate_ that.’
* * * * *
Saturday, March 30, 1872
“Looks like you got company,” Joe Kramer said, pointing to the swinging doors of the Saloon. Cap Lewis was standing there, looking over at Bridget, a broad smile on his face, and a saddlebag draped over his shoulder.
Bridget glanced down at her cards. Damn, she had a good fighting hand, two pair, queens over nines. She sighed. “I fold, gentlemen.” She set her cards on the table and stood up. Trying not to walk _too_ fast, she hurried over to Cap.
“Hey, Bri--” Cap stopped talking as Bridget pressed her lips to his. Her arms reached up around his shoulders, while his wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. She moaned, and his tongue snaked into her mouth to tangle with hers.
Finally, they had to break the kiss. Bridget smiled, enjoying the tingling feeling it had roused in her body. “So… um, what brings you in here?”
“You answered that question already,” Cap answered, touching her lips with his fingertip. “Besides, Maggie and Ramon invited me to the wedding, _and_ it’s the end of the month, so I came for Uncle Abner’s money.”
He had to mention Abner Slocum. Damn, it spoiled the mood. “The money isn’t due till tomorrow.”
“I know, but I expect to be too busy celebrating with you tomorrow to collect it.”
“I hadn’t expected you in till tomorrow. I have your check up in my room. I’ll go get it.”
“You head on up. I want to see if I can rent a room for the night.” He kissed her again.
“I… We talked about that, Cap. Much as I want to — and I do — I can’t, not yet anyway. Please try to understand.” She glanced away, not wanting to look him in the eye.
“I’ll try, but it’ll be har -- well, it won’t be easy.” He took her chin in his hand and gently raised her head so she was looking at him. “You better keep kissing me like you just did, so I keep trying.”
“I can do that.”
And she did.
* * * * *
Kaitlin looked across the table at her daughter. “How did your talk with Miss Osbourne go, Emma?”
“My… my talk? Ma, how’d you know we talked?”
Her mother gave her a sly smile. “Because she talked to me first; I just… Trisha and I just wanted to give you a little time to think about it before _we_ talked.” She waited a moment before she added. “We’re both very proud of how well you’ve done in school.”
“So,” Trisha added, “what do you say? Are you ready to graduate?”
Emma looked down at the table, uncertain of how she felt. “I-I think so. I guess so… if Miss Osbourne thinks I am.”
“Do you think you are?” Kaitlin asked. “It’s a big step.”
“I… yes, I am. I guess.” Emma felt her stomach churn.
Trisha slapped her daughter on the back. “Great. You can start working in the store on weekends now, and when school ends, you’ll be ready to come in full time.”
“Do-do I have to work in the Feed and Grain?”
Trisha looked surprised. “Of course, what else would you do?”
“I was kind of thinking… Miss Osbourne said Mr. Cates was looking to train somebody up as a surveyor. I’d sorta like t’try that.”
“A surveyor? Where did you get that idea?”
“When I was Elmer, I wanted to be an engineer, to plan bridges and roads and like that. Only they don’t have lady engineers. They do — at least, I think they do — have lady surveyors. That’d be almost as good.”
Trisha pouted. “You sound like you have it all planned out, you and Nancy Osbourne.”
“No, ma’am,” Emma answered. “But I never said I wanted to work in the store. I’ve been saying I wanted to be an engineer for a long time.”
Trisha frowned. “Little boys say all sorts of fool things. There’s nothing wrong with running a store. The Feed and Grain put a roof over your head and clothes on your back all your life.”
“I ain’t saying there’s anything wrong with it — not for you and Uncle Liam. I just don’t think it’s what I want t’do with my life.”
“You’re too young to be deciding what you want to do with your life.”
Kaitlin stepped in. “She was old enough when you thought she was going to work in the store. Agreeing with you isn’t always a sign of maturity.”
“That isn’t fair.” Trisha sighed. “I-I just always thought that she’d be working with me.”
Kaitlin nodded. “And she still may be. We don’t know for a fact that Jubal Cates will hire her.” She took the other woman’s hand in her own. “But we do owe it to her to let her try. Okay… for me.”
Trisha nodded reluctantly. “For you.”
* * * * *
“I don’t know why I had t’close the restaurant tonight,” Shamus grumbled.
Molly came over to tie his tie. “It ain’t closed, Love, ‘tis sold out, Sebastian and Whit and Carmen hired it for a private party... for Maggie and Ramon.”
“I still don’t understand why they want t’be holding the big party the night _before_ the wedding when every _civilized_ person knows that the party should be coming _afterwards_.”
“Not everybody, I’m thinking. Sebastian told me that the Mexican custom is t’be giving the bride’s family — which is us — a feast the night before the wedding. And that’s what they’re doing here, even if it is the bride that cooked the food.” She finished the knot and stepped back. “Ah, ‘tis a good-looking man I’m married to.”
“Not half as good-looking as the beauty that married me.” His arms went around her, pulling her close, kissing her deeply. She closed her eyes to better savor the moment, as her right arm went up around his shoulder.
When they finally broke the kiss, she smiled, her face flushed. “Ye’ve quite a way about ye, Shamus O’Toole.”
“There’s more where that came from, Molly, Love, and we’ll have t’be doing something about it this night, I’m thinking.” He laughed. “But now we’d best be going down t’supper.”
“Aye, ye old goat, but only because I know that the whole lot of ‘em is waiting for us downstairs.”
* * * * *
“Good evening, Jane.” Milt smiled hopefully as he spoke.
She looked down to see the ticket in his hand. “Oh, so now you wanna dance with me.” She frowned at him. “You think I’m smart enough?”
“Jane, I never said that you weren’t smart.”
“The hell you didn’t. You worried for quite a while ‘bout being seen with a dummy like me.”
“Jane, please, it wasn’t about you. I-I was embarrassed by Jessie singing that song about me. That’s all it was; I give you my word.”
“Your word. You’re a lawyer ‘n’ real good with _your_ _words_, ain’t you?”
“Are you saying that you don’t believe me?”
“I’m saying I ain’t sure about you. Oh, hell, I don’t gotta trust you t’dance with you. Gimme the damned ticket, and let’s get it over with.”
* * * * *
Ramon leaned back and took a sip of madiera. “So, Gregorio, are you going to try one last time to stop me from marrying Margarita tomorrow?”
“No,” the other man answered. “I am convinced that it is a suitable match.” He puffed on his cigar, a smug look on his face.
Ramon gave his brother a satisfied grin. “Finally; what did Margarita finally do to convince you?”
“Nothing; it was her former fellow bandito, Bridget, who convinced me.”
“Bridget? How did she do that?”
“By the way she acted at the poker game. I never doubted that she was a lady. She has a way about her that demands respect. And I wasn't just reacting to her beauty, though I can hardly deny I appreciate that, as well. No, the woman has the bearing of a Grandee.”
Ramon chuckled. “Si, that is Bridget.”
“When she told me that she was also a potion girl, I was astounded. And I realized that if this woman — this lady — was such a person, then I understood that your Margarita could be one as well.”
Ramon chuckled. “It's good that Margarita is a potion girl. It has taken your mind off the fact that she is not from one of the great families.”
Gregorio shook his head. “Our first great ancestor was a groom in the stables of Juan Bautista de Anza before he became a conquistador under de Anza. Margarita at least works with clean hands. She runs a café and I am thinking that she may make a good match for a shopkeeper.”
Ramon struggled against scowling; his brother had turned his own argument back against him. It had always rankled Gregorio that his younger brother hadn't chosen to play his “proper role”, a ranchero working their family’s land.
“Anyway,” the older De Aguilar continued, “every day I am learning that this is a land where shopkeepers thrive more than hidalgos. It is not like it was in our father's day.”
“Gregorio…” Ramon began uncertainly, but his companion gave him no chance to speak.
“And I can very plainly see that I have already lost my argument. If I do not make peace with Margarita, the family will go on with her and without me. There is no satisfaction in fomenting such a quarrel. I therefore will seek no dispute with Margarita from this day forward, not unless I discover that she has used my brother ill.”
Ramon gave an uncertain smile. “I am inclined to believe you, my brother,” he replied in slow measure, “and I am overjoyed that you feel that way.”
“I do, and I will tell Margarita the same in the morning.”
“After all the grief and worry you put her through, I think that you must use more than words to tell her.”
Gregario took a long drag from his cigar. “Ah, women — What did Cervantes say? — ‘They always make too much of what is little.’ Very well, what do you have in mind?”
* * * * *
“And this is the bedroom,” Laura said, opening the door. “You and I will be sleeping in here, while Arsenio takes the couch.”
Maggie walked into the room. “I am sorry to chase him out onto the couch for tonight.”
“It’s not the first time he’s slept there.” Laura followed her in and shut the door behind them. “He doesn’t mind… not too much anyway. Besides,” she said with a giggle, “I’ll make it up to him tomorrow night.”
“Laura!” Maggie looked down, feeling embarrassed. Her fingers trembled as she began to unbutton her blouse.
“You won’t be doing anything different tomorrow night from what I’ll be doing, sleeping with my husband. Only I don’t know how much sleep you — either of us — will be getting.”
“I am not sure that I want to think of such things.”
“That’s bull, Maggie, and we both know it. You’ve been thinking about it since you two got together, maybe even before that. C’mon, fess up.”
Now it was Maggie who giggled. “All right, I admit it. I cannot help but wonder what it will be like to have… relations with a man.”
“Speaking from experience…” Laura sighed, a smile on her lips and her eyes half-closed from the memories. “…it’s wonderful, as good as it was when I was a man — maybe even better.”
“But what it is like… what do I do?”
“You want details like that, maybe you should be spending the night with Wilma instead of me. Do what comes natural, what feels right -- and, believe me, it’ll feel _real_ right. You try and please him, _and_ you help him try and please you.”
“It sounds so hard… hard to do, I mean.”
Laura giggled again. “Maggie, I know where you're coming from. Don’t worry, though. The way you and Ramon love each other, that’ll be the easiest part of being married.”
“The easy part? What is the hard part?”
“The hard part is the everyday stuff in between the fun times in bed. When Carmen told me that you were supposed to spend the night before your wedding with your madrina and padrino — me and Arsenio — so we could give you advice about being married, I tried to figure out something I could tell you, especially with you having been married before.”
The two women had been undressing as they spoke. Maggie’s eyes grew wide when Laura unbuttoned her camisole revealing her swollen stomach, but she didn’t say anything.
“And did you?” the bride-to-be asked, slipping into her nightgown.
“I did. I told you how to have the most fun in bed already. Like I said, that’s the easy part. The hard part is what you do every day. Marriage is about being there for each other.” Laura donned her own nightgown.
“You're going to have quarrels; lots of them. It can't be helped. Two people can't think the same about everything, every day. But when you quarrel, don't get mean and spiteful. Don't treat your mate like your enemy. He isn't. And then there's something you should never do, even though it's the first thing you'll think about.”
“What is that?”
“You should know. You were married.”
“I learned much in marriage, but I don't know which of a thousand things I know that you are talking about.”
“I mean, don't try to get one up on your husband in a quarrel by shutting him out of the bedroom. When you're angry, you most need love and comfort. Leave the anger in the other parts of the house. When you hurt someone who loves you, you hurt yourself, too.”
Maggie sighed. “Si. There were nights that Lupe would brace a chair against the bedroom door to keep me out. Once it was a quarrel over something as silly as the family goat.”
Her companion nodded. “Maybe having been a husband yourself will make you a better wife. Your husband’s your partner, your best friend, as well as your lover. You work just as hard as you can at the first two. You be there for him, and he’ll be there for you, loving and sweet.” She paused a beat. “And hard when you want him to be.”
“Why do you keep making jokes about having sex?”
“‘Cause having fun with sex — and marriage in general -- is the best way to do it. You remember that, too.”
* * * * *
Sunday, March 31, 1872
Arsenio knocked on the bedroom door. “The carriage is here, ladies.”
“We’ll be right out,” Laura called from inside. A moment later, the door opened, and Laura walked through. She wore a dark blue wrap trimmed with a light blue edging. Her petticoat, the same light blue as the edging, was clearly visible through the opening at the front of her wrap.
Arsenio whistled. “Laura, you are beyond a doubt the prettiest --”
Maggie came in. “Is my veil on right?” Her long, white satin gown hugged her voluptuous figure. She was fidgeting with a thin silver crown attached to a long, lacy veil that flowed out along her back almost reaching her waist. In front, it came down to just below her eyes.
Laura took Arsenio’s arm. “You were saying?”
“The prettiest _married_ woman in town,” he told her with a smile, offering his right arm to her.
Laura chuckled. “Good answer.” She took his right arm, and Maggie took the other.
“Ah, me,” Arsenio teased, “here I am stuck with the two prettiest women in the territory. Life is sweet.”
Laura leaned in and kissed his cheek. “So are you. Shall we go?”
“Si,” Maggie replied. “This is one time I do not want to be even a little bit late.”
They walked out into the street in front of the house. A black landau carriage, the finest in Ritter’s livery, was waiting for them. Ramon stood next to it, holding the door.
“That’s kind of a funny shirt Ramon’s wearing,” Laura said. “Why isn’t he in a suit, and what’re those things on it?” The shirt was white linen, with four buttoned pockets and two vertical rows of pleats. A duck was embroidered in red, blue, and silver thread on each pocket.
Maggie smiled. “That is a guayabera, a wedding shirt. It is the traditional shirt for a man to wear. The ducks on the pockets are symbols of a happy marriage.” She sighed. “And he looks so handsome in it.”
“Good morning, Margarita, you look lovely.” Ramon stepped forward to take her hand.
She blushed and gave him a shy smile, as he helped her up the step and into the carriage. Arsenio assisted Laura, then climbed in himself. The landau had facing seats. Ramon got in and sat down next to Maggie facing forward, with Laura and Arsenio opposite them.
“What is _he_ doing here?” Maggie’s expression soured. She had just noticed that Gregorio was the driver.
He turned around. “And why should I not be here? My little brother is getting married today.”
“A marriage you did all that you could to prevent?” she answered sourly.
“And failed… which was the will of the Lord.” He crossed himself.
Maggie's suspicious eyes were on him, but she made no reply.
“All my life,” he continued, “I have tried to look out for Ramon, to keep him out of trouble. I have always wanted only the best for him.” He took a breath. “I have come, very late, to see that _you_, Margarita, are what he needs most. You are a woman of spirit, a lady of the first water, and a kind, loving, and forgiving — I hope — soul.”
He saw the doubt that still continued in Maggie's eyes and he knew that he must do more yet to charm her.
Gregorio jumped down from the carriage and knelt, one knee down on the ground. “Margarita Sanchez, will you do me the deep and abiding honor of becoming my sister-in-law?”
“Why are you doing this?” Maggie asked, trying to find the trap he must be setting.
Ramon leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Because he has agreed to our marriage, but I told him that he must be gracious to you if he wants us both to forgive him for the way he acted.”
“Yes, then,” Maggie said resignedly, “if his words are sincere, my forgiveness will be sincere also.” She felt Ramon’s arm around her waist, pulling her close. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
Gregorio stood up and wiped the dust from his pants. “Have I abased myself enough, brother?”
“No, but it was a good start,” Ramon said with a laugh. “Now get up here and drive us to the church.”
* * * * *
The ceremony took place on the church lawn. Maggie and Ramon stood together before Father de Castro. Lupe was to the left of Maggie, wearing a white dress in the same pattern as her mother and holding a bouquet of blue and white flowers. Ernesto was on Ramon’s right. His shirt was a match for Ramon’s. He held the blue satin pillow with the two silver and turquoise rings that Ramon had given to Maggie at their betrothal.
“The coins, please,” the priest said.
Arsenio stood behind Ramon. He stepped forward and handed de Castro a small brass box in the shape of a carriage, even to four attached wheels. “Right here.”
“Thank you.” The padre opened the box and made the sign of the cross over the thirteen gold coins inside.
Ramon took the box and poured the coins into Maggie's cupped hands, placing the box on top. “These, a symbol of all my worldly goods, I pass on to you.”
“I accept them,” Maggie said, “as a sign of your trust and your love.” She carefully replaced the coins in the box and handed it back to Arsenio.
Ramon took the rings from Ernesto and handed one to Maggie. She put it on his finger, and he put the other on hers.
“Stand still now,” Laura whispered. She took a long rope of braided flowers and arranged it in a figure eight around the bride and groom’s necks.
De Castro held up a large wooden cross. First Ramon, then Maggie kissed it. The priest made the sign of a cross over the pair and declared. “I now declare that Ramon and Maggie are man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Ramon cupped Maggie’s head in his hands and touched his lips to hers. She sighed and returned the kiss. A small band of Mexican musicians began to play a sprightly version of “The Wedding March”, but the newly married couple was far too busy to listen.
* * * * *
“First dance, everyone,” Gregorio yelled. The crowd formed a heart around Ramon and Maggie, as the band began a sprightly tune.
Maggie smiled. “It seems that we are always dancing.”
Ramon's eyes shone. “The best times in my life have always been — and always will be — when you are in my arms.”
* * * * *
“Can you believe all this spicy food?” Laura asked Arsenio. “The rice, the beans, even the chicken tortillas are all as hot as anything Maggie ever cooked.”
Arsenio shrugged. “It’s good, though, and that — what’d they call it — sangria helps cool the mouth.”
“Just don’t drink too much. I’ll need you to walk me home.”
“You getting drunk?”
“I don’t dare, not with the baby. I can’t even eat too much because of the spices.”
“Then watch out for the wedding cake. Jane told me it’s a fruitcake soaked in rum.”
“No wonder everybody’s so happy at a Mexican wedding, what with all the alcohol.”
“They’re happy because weddings are a happy thing.” He kissed her cheek. “Mine certainly was.”
She kissed him back. “Mmm, so was mine.”
* * * * *
“Well, Molly, Love,” Shamus said with an air of satisfaction, “we’ve come to the end of yet another part of the tale.”
Molly smiled back at her husband. “Aye, and quite a full part it was, too, with all them new people and so many things happening.”
“A few things got finished and more got started. ‘Tis no wonder it takes so long for Ellie and Chris t’be spinning their yarn.”
“And now they get thuir reward. They get t’be seeing what all them readers think of thuir work. At least, I hope they do. Getting feedback from the readers, that’s the only sort of pay they get for all thuir hard work on these stories.”
“And they’ve more work ahead o’them, what with all that happens in the next part. With that poltroon Forry Stafford coming t’town, and what that--that… _minister_ does.” Shamus said “minister” as if it were an insult. “‘Tis dark times, they’ll be writing about.”
“Aye, but happy times, too, like Laura’s baby, and… and don’t ye be starting t’tell spoilers, Shamus O’Toole,” Molly scolded.
“Mollie, Love, I’ve far better things t’be doing then spoiling the story.” He kissed her cheek. “And why don’t ye and me be doing it, while the readers finish thuir reading and write all them comments t’Ellie and Chris.”
With a final wink to the readers, Shamus took Molly by the hand and led her up to their room.
The End — For Now
Tales of the Eerie Saloon: The Portrait
By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson © 2015
This story is dedicated to our fan, Angelvan15, for giving us the idea. Chris did the picture while we were writing “Winter”, when Ethan began doing the painting..
From The Arizona Citizen Star
(Serving Arizonans Since 1870)
“Lost Portrait Restored”
May 12, 2015
The staff of the Arizona Historical Museum announced today that they had completed the restoration of a recently discovered work by renowned nineteenth century portraitist, Ethan Thomas.
Thomas is known to have traveled in the southwestern U.S. for several years in the early 1870s. During this time, he created a number of his best known works, including “The Three Fates”, which currently hangs in the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Research into markings found on the back of the canvas has determined that the untitled painting portrays Wilma Hanks, a famous and infamous demimonde and, later, madam of the period. The portrait had been in a private collection until 1934, when it was donated on the condition that the donor remains unnamed. It has been suggested that the donor’s ancestor may have been a business associate of Wilma Hanks. Restoration was financed, in part, by a grant from the Josiah Whitney Foundation. Ancestors of the Whitney family lived in the same part of Arizona as Ms. Hanks in the 1870s, and they may also have known the woman.
The portrait of Miss Hanks will hang in the Quinlan Gallery of Art, with a formal, public unveiling scheduled for Friday, May 15.
“Portrait of Wilma”
By Ethan Thomas
Attachment | Size |
---|---|
This is the portrait, and it should be at the bottom of the page, below the title. | 35.53 KB |
Tales of the Eerie Saloon -- The Toy Soldier
An Eerie Christmas
By Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson
Author's note: Almost four years ago, when Ellie and I completed "Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change -- Autumn", it seemed unfortunate that scant attention was given to how most of our favorite characters spent their Christmas Eve in Eerie, Arizona. That so little was said about them was understandable, since the flow of the narrative was not the best place to develop material that fitted into none of the established subplots. But the authors eventually worked out an action line that could be written as a (more or less) stand-alone short story. It fills in the Christmas experiences of several of the Eerie characters who were previously mentioned not at all. Should we be surprised to find out that, for some of them, that night turned out to be less than quiet?
--- Christopher Leeson
Sunday, December 24, 1871
Gazing up at the ridge north of Eerie, Arizona, Jessie Hanks remembered the not-so-old story that she had heard. People said that a band of Apaches had strung themselves out along its summit back when Eerie was being built, just to find out what the white men were doing on the flats below. They'd just stood there, staring down from their pony backs for a little while before they veered away. But their brief inspection had been enough to give the flat-topped highland its name -- Chiricahua Mesa. No could say with authority that the scouts had really been Chiricahuas -- or even if they'd even been part of any tribe of Apaches -- but it was a safe guess.
At that moment, Jessie stood in the shadows behind the Eerie Saloon. The place had once been her prison but, by now, had become her home. Even in the brief time she had been standing outside, the sky had darkened. She could now see only a few stars sandwiched between the cloud cover, thick enough to hide what was a nearly full moon, and the black mass of the mesa.
These were the shortest days of the year. Usually, the whole settlement was as dark as a lobo's cave at night. Sundown came early in December, and folks in Eerie never wasted much of their scant money on kerosene. But this was Christmas Eve, and, out by the Catholic Church, a well-lit holiday carnival was going on. The young blonde wasn't much for church going, though, and, anyway, she wasn't Catholic.
Jessie had come outside after her first show to try and get her thoughts in order. When she was a little boy, living miles from the nearest neighbor, she had gotten used to playing alone, until she'd almost come to prefer it. Now she was a woman in the blush of her youth, but retiring into privacy every once in a while still helped to settle her occasional restless moods.
The saloon singer shivered. A change was in the air, and the breeze had swung around, to come from down the slopes of the Superstition Mountains. Jessie was wearing a sleeveless dress designed to catch a man's eye -- low-necked and bare-shouldered -- not to keep a body warm.
Jessie Hanks frowned thoughtfully. This was her first winter in Eerie, and she didn't know what to expect. People had told her that it was about the warmest part of the state, the elevation being rather low, despite the mineral-rich mountains rising to the north. So far, the days -- and nights -- had, indeed, been agreeably mild, though the actual pace of life here had hardly seemed calm. In fact, her last few months of settled life had turned out to be almost as unpredictable as had her days as a long-riding outlaw.
And a man.
On the morning that she'd walked away from the sun-scorched farm where she'd been brought up, Jessie hadn't intended to live by robbery. But once she -- then a he, an inexperienced boy making his way on his own -- had started solving his problems by breaking the law, she didn't have much choice about the way she would have to live after that. Over a dozen years, Jessie had seen many outlaw companions go down before thundering guns and, in her gut, she didn't believe that anyone had a charmed life. Maybe she'd gotten used to living fast and hard only because she was expecting her candle to go out at any second.
Things had changed so suddenly.
For the first time since she was 16, Jessie Hanks didn't expect to have another posse in her future. That future was going to be very different from her past. That was for certain, but how different would it be? That was something she sometimes felt she'd like to know. Even so, actually thinking about it made her uneasy.
She wasn't sure why, but Christmas was a time for thinking about where she was going -- and where she had come from. Lately, it seemed like she was always dwelling on bygone days, and she hated doing it. The past was like a clutching fist that wouldn't let her go. She'd been struggling with that iron grip for the whole of her life, and when she couldn't break its hold, it made her damned mad.
Mad enough to kill sometimes.
Jessie had few illusions about what she had been and what she still might be beneath the surface. Back home, the preacher had always warned, "As ye sow, so shall ye reap." What if the reaping that lay in store for Jessie Hanks shaped up to be ugly? Wasn't she better off not knowing her fate? Maybe the smartest thing would be to just let the bull gore her from behind. The best that could be said for the man who rode whistling into the bead of a bounty hunter was that he didn't have to tire himself with a lot of fretting before he cashed out.
The door opened behind her. The lamplight from the saloon kitchen made a long, dim rectangle that engulfed her, and sent her attenuated silhouette forward, across the grass towards the back fence. She would have preferred to be left alone for a little longer, but no such luck. Because all the patrons could pass through the kitchen on their way to the outhouse, she could expect to see almost anybody when she turned around. She glanced back to see Arnie Diaz, the saloon's clean-up boy.
"Seá±orita Jessie," he said. His Mexican accent was very slight, probably because the boy had attended Eerie's public school. "I saw you go out. I thought you might need your shawl."
He held the knitted garment in his hand, but he was looking up at the overcast. "Some of the stockmen inside say that it smells like snow is in the air. But it will surely not fall in town. I was very small when I last saw a few flakes float to the streets. It might snow in the mountains, though."
With a nod and a wan smile, Jessie accepted the shawl, an early Christmas gift from Molly. "Yeah, well, I saw plenty of snow in my time. Will and me, we were up in the Texas panhandle just before Sheriff Talbot caught him, moving cattle that weren't ours t'begin with. We got surprised by a damned blizzard and spent a good chunk of the time stuck in a cabin with hip-deep snowdrifts outside." She draped the warm garment over her bare shoulders; it felt good.
"The people from the north are always saying that they miss the snows of Christmas, but Christmas does not make my people think of snow. And the place where the first Christmas began, it was a desert just like this one."
"There was never much snow in the part of Texas I grew up in, neither," the girl replied. "But when that blue norther came down 'cross El Plano Estacado, it got as cold as the North Pole ever was. The men who get catched out on the range sometimes get brought home in the back of somebody's farm wagon, as stiff as post oaks."
The boy nodded. "That sometimes happens to travelers and prospectors who try to cross the Superstitions in winter weather, too." He regarded the dark sierra. "I think the weather will be bad up there tonight."
"Snow, they think?"
"We shall see. But all the talk about snow has got me to thinking. When I was in school, the teacher, Senorita Osbourne, read us a special story just before class was let out for the holiday." The boy winced. "She reads such things to the little muchachos, I mean."
"You're surely too old for them storybooks now," Jessie replied amusedly. "Was this here yarn about Christmas?"
"Si. It was about a family that was cold, hungry, and in trouble. According to the story, if the first snow of the year falls on Christmas day, it is a kind of magic snow that is sent from the angels themselves. And it makes miracles happen."
Jessie laughed, almost snorted. "I already got my belly full of magic right here in Eerie, and I didn't have t'wait for a snowfall in the desert to get hit with both barrels."
Arnie's answering laugh was careful. He was unsure, as most folks were, just how sensitive Jessie and the Hanks gang were about the magic of Eerie, the magical drink that had changed five hard men into five young women.
Jessie wasn't particularly sensitive. Usually she just shrugged off references to the strange business of Shamus' potion. It _had_ happened and everybody knew it. She wasn't big and strong enough to make folks pretend otherwise. Jessie Hanks usually didn't get her back up over what was just careless talk, not unless some fool was deliberately trying to get a rise out of her. If he did, she knew more than enough ways to put the incident behind her.
The singer glanced at the sky again, this time looking for signs of storm. After a moment, she realized that Arnie had not withdrawn into the kitchen.
"Seá±orita Jessie," he finally said.
"Yep, what?"
"I... I wanted to ask you something."
"And what might that be?" She hoped he wasn't going to say he wanted to stroll with her, or even to see her socially. He was just a kid.
Anyway, Jessie was intensely involved with Deputy Paul Grant, and had been ever since he had caught her down on the Mexican border and had brought her back for trial. When completely in his power, he had treated her just like a real woman, and he wasn't mocking her when he did it. She'd come to realize that it was the way he had been seeing her all along. The days spent alone with a man so different from the outlaws she'd been used to had helped her look at herself in a new way, too. By the time they had gotten back to Eerie, she didn't mind at all being treated the way a man treats a woman, at least not by Paul.
"All the folks say that you were about the best in the West with a gun."
This statement wasn't exactly what Jessie had been expecting. "I suppose," she replied awkwardly. "I shot a few folks and didn't get shot too often in return. But an inch here or an inch there, and I'd be dead right now. If you're interested in shooting, I have t'tell you that a man who uses a gun doesn't last long, not unless he's lucky."
"A man who uses a gun lasts longest if he knows how to use it."
Jessie drew in a breath in and let it out audibly. "Yep, I'd guess an hombre of your experience would know all about that."
"I read a lot," Arnie explained defensively.
"Read what? Penny dreadfuls? They're all a lot of horse apples. I don't know if Bill Hickok or any of them other gunfighters did any of the things that those books say they did, but I'd lay you odds that they didn't."
The boy got to the point. "You knew how to make people respect you."
"Because I didn't talk while I et?" she asked facetiously.
"Because you never took any _basura_ from them."
She smiled ironically. "Those days are all run out. _These_ days I'm taking plenty of _basura_, as you call it. Did you ever try to haggle with Shamus over getting paid a fair wage?"
"People respect a man who knows how to use a gun."
She thought Arnie was beginning to sound exasperated because of her sarcasm. Whatever the lad was edging up to, he seemed to be all mighty serious about it. "Who d'ya want t'plug, Arnie? The sheriff? Shamus? Or is it that boy you're always fistfighting with at school -- Pablo?"
The youth lifted his chin archly. "I don't want to shoot anyone. I would just like to learn how to use a gun so that people will _know_ that I can use it."
"Use it for what, Arnie?"
"To, ah, to protect the town," he suggested lamely.
Jessie crossed her arms. "All right, since your intentions are so noble, let's start your lessons right now. The first thing you need to learn about the six-gun is that you never draw it unless you're gonna pull the trigger "
He looked at her quizzically, wondering if she was going to give him serious advice.
"And the first time you do use it on another man, you'll probably have to hightail it into the cactus to keep out of the hands of the sheriff. A fella with a killing on his tally can't ever go home again. Did you ever think about that? How would you feel if your family had to struggle to get along 'cause you couldn't be there for them when they needed you? Would they respect you 'cause you wouldn't take any _basura_ from some saddle tramp, or would they think instead that you ruined your life?"
"And what kind of life would you have on the dodge, with no place to call home and no friend to trust? Hell, I had to worry more about the owlhoots riding beside me than the law in the last town back. There were nights when I wouldn't let anyone know where I was spreading my roll, on the chance that I'd get my throat cut in my sleep for some old quarrel, or my share of the last take."
"I wouldn't be an outlaw!" Arnie protested. "I could be a lawman."
The girl shook her head. "I didn't start out to be an outlaw neither. I left my pa's farm walking, but that wasn't getting' me anywhere. I needed a horse so I could go find my brother, and so I stole one. That was a hanging offense. I was an outlaw at the age of 16, after only a couple days on my own. After that, I did a lot worse -- at first because I was plum scared, and later on because I wanted some respect. I also wanted two pennies that I could rub together, after growing up so dirt poor that even the dirt couldn't respect my pa and me. But that filly of respect is a wild bronco, Arnie. Very few hombres who get up on her back can ride her to the gate, and when they get throwed off, they're never sure what pile of manure they'll land in. Most men don't even know they've done anything too awful bad until they see a poster with their face and name on it."
"So you won't teach me how to use a gun?"
Jessie shrugged. "I won't say that I won't. We haven't talked much before this, so I don't really know where you're coming from. But I'm not about to turn some mother's son into a gun slick till I know for sure that he's on the up and up. This country already has enough gunfighters and outlaws. But if you really want to be a lawman, or a prison guard, or a shotgun rider, or something respectable like that, it would be different."
"A lawman like Paul Grant?"
She scowled at the sarcastic tone he'd used. She was ready to fly off the handle if the boy said anything smart-mouthed about her lover. "All I can say is that I'd teach a man like Paul how t'knock clothespins off a line any day. I know he'd use the fast moves I taught him t'shoot the right targets for the right reasons. But I'm pretty durn sure that a man like him wouldn't have to ask a body for any such thing."
"Because he is too proud to learn from a woman?"
Jessie's mouth pursed tight. This talk of theirs was definitely getting edgy. But Jessie's temper held. Arnie was only a kid, and he didn't know better. "No," she said, "it's because Paul'd already know how to use a pistol well enough t'do the job he needs t'do, _and_ he wouldn't need to show off with a lot of flashy tricks t'be respected."
"Arnie, you gotta understand it's the man behind the gun that makes all the difference." She looked into his sulky face, to see if her words were sinking in. "Paul's got a lot t'be proud about," she said after a moment. "When you've got friends who can say that about you, too, you'll have plenty t'be proud of yourself."
Arnie Diaz shrugged and turned back into the open doorway.
"Thanks for the shawl, Arnie," she called after him. "We'll have t'talk again sometime soon."
* * * * *
If the boy's answering mutter had actually meant anything, Jessie wasn't able to decipher it. But, a minute after he was gone, the singer decided to get back to work.
The coolness and purity of the outside air now gave way to the smoky warmth of the barroom's wood stove and the scent of whisky. Jessie glanced at the clock on the wall. She'd agreed to do a special show for Shamus because of the holiday, and she been working hard all day. At the sight of her, some of the men waved and called her name.
"I've gotten my breath back," she told her audience. "Anybody got another song they wanna hear?"
Joe Ortlieb called out, "Sing 'I Saw Three Ships', Jessie." A few others shouted in agreement.
Jessie frowned, and her answer came back slowly. "I-I don't know that one."
"Aw, sure you do," Joe answered. "It goes... 'I saw three ships come sailing by on Christmas Day...'" He stopped, expecting her to continue.
"Hey," the blonde said, "I've been boning up on Christmas songs all week long, and I don't remember no ship in any of them. Has anybody else got a song?" Her eyes darted around the room.
Stu Gallagher came to her rescue. "How about you sing that one Hans Euler taught you, that 'Silent Night' song?"
When a couple of others called for the same carol, Jessie let out a sigh of relief. "Yesirree, that a beauty. I never heard a better, in fact." She began, "Silent night, holy night..."
* * * * *
Jessie stopped her song suddenly when a tall, red-haired man came running into the saloon. "Is the town doc here?" he asked anxiously. The excited stranger was bundled up for cold weather and looked like he'd gotten his fair portion of it. "They told me over at the other saloon that he was."
"I'm Dr. Upshaw," responded a middle-aged man in a brown suit. He got to his feet. "What seems to be the problem?"
"My name's Sig Zimmer. I was coming in from my claim for supplies. I... uhh, I stopped on the mountain trail to take a... anyway, I found a man, just off the road. He looked pretty sick."
Doc grabbed his medical bag and headed towards the prospector. "I hope you didn't leave him out on the trail with the temperature going down like it is."
"Nope. I slung him over the back of my horse and got to town quick as I could. He's right outside."
Doc looked back towards the bar. "Shamus, you mind if we bring the man in here? It'll be faster than taking him back to my office."
"Go right ahead," the barman answered. "Somebody be putting them two tables together..." He pointed to a pair of narrow rectangular tables near the wall, the tables for the restaurant. "...so they can lay that poor man out on 'em for the doc t'be examining."
A few minutes later, the patient was on the tables. He was of medium build. His hair and beard were mostly brown, but streaked here and there with gray. His clothes, a green plaid work shirt and blue jeans, were dirty and badly ripped. His breathing was labored. He seemed conscious, but not quite aware of what was going on around him. Upshaw touched his face; it was hot with fever. The physician slipped off the rags of his shirt and opened the front buttons on his red flannel long johns. He looked closely at the bruises on the man's chest and arms.
"He's taken a fall, probably from horseback," Upshaw said. "But I think there's more than that wrong with him."
Jessie had gotten a brief glance at the man when they'd carried him by her. It had astonished her to see that face, and she had hung back at first, unable to believe her own eyes. Recovering from surprise, the singer tried to wedge herself in between the bigger and stronger men of the crowd to get a better look, but it was no go. Patrons who would gladly have stepped aside for the attractive singer with a tip of the hat were so intent that they didn't even notice her. "Dammit!" she swore under her breath.
* * * * *
Bridget Kelly had been watching from her rented poker table. Finally she put her cards down. "What say we call a halt for a little while?" The other players barely heard her suggestion, all of them being fixated on what the doctor was doing.
"Sounds like a plan," Ed Nolan replied to the stylish redhead, carefully putting his cards face down alongside his chips and standing up. The others followed suit and drifted over to the crowd that had already clustered around the makeshift examining table.
Bridget signaled the clean-up boy. "Arnie," she called out, "could you come here, please?"
The boy hastened over, still carrying a tray full of empty glassware. "What can I do for you, Bridget?"
"I-I hate to ask, but would you mind watching the table -- the cards and the cash -- for just a while? I'll give you a quarter when I come back."
The boy glanced at the crowd. "I wanted to see what was going on, but -- for you, Bridget -- I will stand guard." He set the tray down on the table and slid into one of the chairs. "But you tell Shamus you asked me to, okay?"
"I will." She gave him a wink and hurried off.
Arnie watched her leave, then looked down at the table. The betting was in the second round. He couldn't light-finger anything from the pot; it would be noticed. So would anything he took from the stake at each man's place. The drinks were another matter. There were three glasses of beer and another glass held two fingers of whiskey. All of it was there for the sampling, with the players too busy elsewhere to notice. He just had to be careful; Shamus had already forbidden him to drink even so much as a sip of beer while he was in his saloon, not even if he was able to pay for it.
* * * * *
Hiram Upshaw sighed as he re-packed his stethoscope into his medical bag.
"So, what's the verdict on yuir patient?" Shamus asked.
The doctor shook his head. "Too early to be certain. Like I said, he probably took a fall. That didn't help things, but I think his real problem is pneumonia. He probably slipped from his horse when he didn't have the strength left to sit up straight. Being out in the mountains at this time of year just worsened his condition. There's not a great deal..." then he trailed off, concerned that the patient, despite all appearances, might actually understand his words. "At the moment," he picked up again, "rest and warmth is about the best thing for him. If he can swallow anything, he ought to receive plenty of broth."
Shamus gave the doctor a knowing nod led him away from the patient. Neither of them gave much notice to Jessie, who immediately slipped in close to the ailing stranger when their withdrawal left an opening. She stood over the man, staring with an incredulous expression.
"It's very bad then, eh Doctor?" said Shamus.
"Fever, congestion of the lungs, it's bad. Sometimes, pneumonia comes on out of nowhere; sometimes it takes over when some other sickness has put a man down. Serious wounds also seem to bring on the disease. I saw it take a terrible toll in the army. You know how Stonewall Jackson died?"
"Some sniper on his own side shot him, I heard."
Upshaw frowned thoughtfully. "It was more than one soldier shooting. A jumpy officer on night picket duty ordered his line to fire into the dark when he heard a few hoof beats coming out of the woods. But the bullet that hit Jackson only made the amputation of his arm necessary. Many a man lost a limb in that war. General Hood lost both an arm and a leg, but he was still fit enough to lead an army into Tennessee in '64. But pneumonia struck Jackson and he didn't last long, strong man though he might have been. There's not a lot we can do for that fellow over there, except give him what food and drink he's able to take, and keep him covered up. His own body will have to win this fight."
Shamus glanced over at the crowd thoughtfully, noticing Jessie's bright blue dress amid the mostly male cluster, but he didn't think anything of it. "The man looks plumb worn out," the Irishman said. "If I were the betting type...."
"With this sort of infection...well, I just don't know."
"One thing I can say, he's picked one hell of a night to die on," Shamus O'Toole remarked.
"Maybe we should place our hopes on what night it is. A miracle happened a couple thousand years ago on this night, and that fellow needs a miracle here and now. _If_ he makes it through past dawn, the odds will start to shift in his favor."
Just then Molly joined the two men, her face in a thoughtful cast. Upshaw acknowledged the lady with a nod. She nodded in return, and then conveyed a concerned look to Shamus.
"Can he be moved?" her husband asked the physician. "He ain't exactly the sort of Christmas decoration I'd be wanting in me saloon." He realized how callous that sounded, and added, "Unless he really needs t'be staying where he is."
"Shamus!" Molly rebuked him sharply.
Upshaw might have smiled had the emergency not been so dire. With a grimace he said, "I'm glad to see that you're taking the Christmas story to heart, Shamus. You needn't worry where he'll stay tonight. I plan to ask a few of your patrons to help me get him over to the ward I have in my office. He'll need to be looked after by someone, though." He looked at his pocket watch. "I hate to get Edith Lonnigan out of bed..."
He didn't add that Edith was probably sharing that bed with Davy Kitchner. The miner had come down from his claim just that afternoon, to take Christmas with his lady friend. Upshaw had seen Davy leave with his nurse/receptionist when he closed his practice at sundown.
"I suppose that leaves it to me," the doctor said without much enthusiasm. "I was up most of last night delivering the Kelsey's baby."
Molly shook her head. "No, Hiram, ye need to share yuir burdens. Take him upstairs," she said gravely. "I'll be watching him for ye."
Shamus looked surprised. "But Molly, love, what about the late Mass? Ye've been talking about us going to it all day. Maggie just left to get ready."
"We can't be like that selfish priest in the Good Samaritan story, Shamus. He thought his affairs were too all-fired holy for him to stop and help a wounded man by the road."
Shamus gazed theatrically at the ceiling. "Maybe it's a test that Someone has put before us," he replied with a sigh.
"I'll watch him for you," broke in a voice both melodious and strong. Jessie had come up behind the barkeeper's wife. "Molly, you and Shamus go to that there Mass of yours. Doc, maybe you can tell me what I need t'know t'best look after the hombre."
Molly turned toward the younger woman, looking surprised. Shamus appeared to be both relieved and _annoyed_. "What have ye got t'do with any of this, Jess?" the Irishman asked. "And who'll be taking care of me customers while yuir playing angel of mercy upstairs?"
"I-I..." Jessie was trying hard to concoct an answer. She wasn't quite sure why she thought she had to be so secretive about her motives. All she knew was that, if that old man was going to die soon, she didn't want her connection to him to be known. If he lived, well, that was a touchy subject. Things would become decidedly awkward if he decided to hang around Eerie.
Anyway, if she said too much, Shamus and his wife would make a big fuss, and neither of them would go to church. Worse, they would have their own ideas about how she should behave, and she thought that how she behaved was her own business. Maybe it would have been for the best to have kept quiet, stayed in the background, and let things take their course. But she had acted impulsively, as she had so often done, because she guessed that the sick man would not last out the night. If he did die, and she wasn't there for him, what would she think of herself on Christmas morning?
Molly was studying the singer's face curiously. She liked Jessie, at least she had after those first bad days. Excitement followed the girl around, like bees following a wedding bouquet. Jessie kept the saloon lively. But the willingness to tend to the needy had never appeared to be one of her strong suits.
Nonetheless, the older woman sensed urgency in the singer's request; something was riding her back and it hadn't been there an hour before. Molly could also see, behind the young woman's eyes, a barely concealed desperation. 'Landsakes,' she thought. What was affecting her so?
While Molly was trying to read her mind, Jessie managed to say, "There ain't that many here tonight, Shamus, and some of them'll be going to the Mass, too. I can help you and Molly out in a better way than by singing. The band can still play Christmas tunes. Maybe folks will have even more fun singing along with them."
"Jess," Shamus began, "do ye think ye might be the best...?"
"Please..." Molly said, putting on a brave smile. "I think it's a very nice offer. Maybe Jessie is being moved by the spirit of the night. Let her tend to the man if she cares to. Do it for me."
Shamus laughed and kissed his wife on the nose. "Ye ain't playing fair when ye ask that way, Molly love."
He looked closely at Jessie. "All right, lass, but Laura's with her husband tonight, and I've promised t'let Arnie go early. Jane has t'be closing up the kitchen while Maggie's at church with her little ones. Ye'll have t'be coming down t'be helping R.J. now and then while we're away." Molly gave a quick cough. "If he needs ye, that is," Shamus added hastily.
* * * *
A couple of patrons, with Molly leading them, carried the sick man up the stairs to put him to bed in a room generally rented to stage travelers, and then they withdrew. Molly stayed behind long enough to help Jessie pull off the stranger's cracked boots and his dirty trousers. Molly threw a patchwork quilt over his still-as-death frame and told Jessie where she might fetch a thick Navaho blanket that would keep him warmer still.
When Jessie came back with the bedspread, Molly pointed to the small, flat-topped chamber stove. "Put in some wood and stoke up a good fire, Jess." With the night getting colder, the sick man would need more warmth. Jessie would appreciate it, too, since she had left her shawl on the row of hooks in the kitchen. The younger woman set herself to the task, eager to satisfy Molly and have her gone. In minutes, the two women began to feel the heat spreading out through the room.
"I've asked Jane to be putting some soup on," Molly remarked. "Don't ye be trying t'force feed him before he wakes ---"
"I know, Molly. I won't choke 'im to death."
The older woman nodded and took one last glance at the sick man. His eyes were closed in the heavy slumber of sickness and his breathing seemed all but imperceptible. "Jessie," she said, "he might start coughing and spitting up bloody spume. There's some rags in the hamper in the kitchen. I'll have Jane or Arnie bring them up. Ye can be using them to keep him clean."
"I'll do what I can," she promised.
Molly remained for just a moment longer, trying to think of more advice to give. She didn't succeed and so whispered goodbye as she hurried to the door. There wasn't much time left for her and Shamus to change and reach the church so they could enjoy the posada before the Mass began.
Now alone, Jessie stood staring down at the patient's face. "What are you doing out here, old man?" she asked him, not expecting an answer. "Have you shown up on my doorstep just to cash in your chips? Dammit! I thought I was rid of you years ago. Now what? Am I going t'be stuck going over to the churchyard regular like, t'put flowers on your grave? Cuss it! I'm not the flowers type."
Suddenly the man opened his eyes and looked around.
He had seemed so out of this world a moment before that Jessie was surprised. "Are you feeling stronger?" the blonde asked, worried that he might had heard her accusing words. Well, he couldn't make much of them, no matter what. There was no way he could recognize her.
"Wh-where am I?" The man's voice was weak, strained.
"Eerie... Eerie, Arizona," Jessie informed him. "They found you on the trail and brung you into town."
"I'm in a town? Aren't you...an angel?"
She smiled scornfully. The old man hadn't lost his Alabama accent, not even after decades in Texas. The drawl came out in every word he uttered. "You 'spect to be seeing angels, codger?" she asked. "Don't be so sure. And I don't think I could get into His heavenly host unless I started dressing like a church lady." She touched the azure fabric and warm flesh at her neckline.
The man was actually trying to smile. "You're plum purdy, Miss. If -- If you ain't one of the angels, you're a sight finer than any girl I ever seed, outside of...." His voice trailed off as he struggled for breath.
She cringed at the compliment, considering who this man was. "Yeah, I know, 'outside of a cathouse.'"
"I was gonna say 'outside of my Livy.'" He gave her a quiet, concerned glance. "Are you bothered by the way you look, missy? You shouldn't be."
She was taken off guard by his words of concern, spoken, as he would assume, to a stranger. Did her appearance bother her? Jessie wasn't sure. Better to change the subject. "Where you from, and what in hell are you doing in Eerie?"
"I -- I was looking for -- for my... sons."
The worst possible answer. She turned away, unable to meet his pain-filled eyes.
"I don't have much...time..." he said almost inaudibly, before coughing his breath away. When Jessie looked back at him, he was already asleep.
Jessie shook her head. "Of all the gin mills, in all the towns, in all the world, what twisted fate brought you into this one? And on Christmas Eve, no less." She shook her head. "Old man, what in the Lord's name am I going to do with you?"
* * * * *
The man just kept sleeping. The young woman watching over him, meanwhile, sat next to the stove, in a plain wood chair with a flat, oval back and round seat. Her thoughts were troubling, and she soon found she needed to get away for a few minutes. Jessie went to the door and out into the hall. The band was taking a break, but someone must have gotten hold of her guitar. She could hear Christmas music and rough voices raised in song. Over the balcony rail, she could see the floor of the barroom. Hans Euler was the one making the music. R.J. looked up at her, cocking his head as if to ask, "Everything all right?"
She shrugged in reply, and that seemed to satisfy him. Molly and Shamus were just leaving through the batwing doors, wearing their church-going attire. Just then Jane Steinmetz came into sight from the direction of the kitchen, carrying a clay pitcher, a tin cup, and a small pile of laundered rags on a tray. Jessie realized that the tall, strong looking woman was coming her way.
Jessie went to the head of the stairs, waiting for Jane to climb up. The latter stopped a couple steps short of the landing. "The soup will be hot soon, Jessie," the other woman said. "In the meantime, this is for the man. My ma used to make me drink as much water as I could hold when I had the croup, so maybe it'll help."
"Thanks, Jane," she said and accepted the tray.
"Do you need any help -- with anything?" the larger woman asked.
"Nope, he mostly just sleeps."
"Should we wake him to drink the soup, or should I keep in on low heat until you tell me he's ready for it?"
Jessie thought for a moment. "Bring it up when it's ready. The sooner we get it into him, the more good it'll do."
Jane said, "Okay, Jessie," and went back down the stairs while the singer carried the tray into the room.
She was somewhat startled to see the wayfarer sitting up, his head braced against the pillow. "Could I have something t'drink, missy?"
"You're in good luck," Jessie said. "I just brung you a pitcher of water." She set it down on the nightstand and filled the cup full. When she offered it to him, his hand was shaking so much that she was afraid that he'd spill it over the bedclothes.
With her help, he got it to his lips and drank deeply. Some of the water ran through his beard and dripped onto his union suit.
"We'll have some soup ready for you real soon," Jessie told him.
"That's nice," he said with a sigh. "Say, what's your name anyway?"
Something told Jessie not to lie, not at a time like this, but she lied anyway.
"Giselle," she answered quickly.
"I heard two ladies talking outside. One of them said the name 'Jessie' twice. Who's Jessie?"
The girl broke eye contact. Trust Jane to mess up a person's best-laid plans. "My real name is Jessica," she said. "Giselle is the name that I use when I sing in the saloon."
"And -- and they call you Jessie?" he asked, his breathing still slow and difficult.
"My close friends do. Most people call me Giselle," she lied.
"May I call you, Jessie? I think it fits you jes' fine. And I like the name. My woman, she named our first boy William after her father. I named the other one Jesse, 'cause I _jes'_ liked the name." He chuckled at his own pun, but the laugh turned to a cough.
"Sure. I don't care."
"My name is -- Frank H-Hanks," he wheezed.
Jessie nodded, still avoiding his glance. "Pleased t'meet you, Mr. Hanks."
He held up his trembling hand for her to shake. She swallowed hard and took it. The hand was surprisingly cold and thinner than the hand she had held so long ago.
"Call me, Frank, please, you being my nurse, and all." He took another sip from the tin cup, holding it with both hands. "Say, you ever hear anything about m'sons, Will and Jesse Hanks?"
Jessie held herself steady. "Wh-what d'you mean... Frank? How could I have heard anything about them two, living way out here?"
"A friend of mine back in Texas -- that's where I'm from -- he showed me something in the Austin paper. It said my boys went 'n' got themselves killed in a town called Eerie in Arizona."
Jessie steeled her best poker face. "Yeah, I... I knew about that. It happened last summer. I didn't want t'tell you, in case you hoped they was still alive. You come all this way to visit their graves?" That would be difficult. There were no graves.
Frank put the glass down on the nightstand, or tried to. His hand shook so much that the girl took the cup from him. "I-I came to... to say goodbye to 'em," he said. "I had to come now, 'cause I don't have a lot of time left."
Jessie forced a smile. "Maybe you'll get better. You're already seem stronger than you were when they carried you in."
He shook his head, and this small gesture seemed to take great effort. "It ain't just this sickness that's on me, missy. The doctor in Austin told me I got tumors." He tapped his chest with his index finger. "Here, in m'lungs."
"Oh -- I'm sorry. I guess you must have been pretty close to your boys, to come all the way out here." Jessie had to hear what he'd say to that.
"We were close once, 'cause we had nobody else. But the boys hated the life they was living back home, they hated being so poor, and they hated having no hope. And they hated me for not being able t'give them something better."
'That's a pretty selfish way to put it,' Jessie thought sourly. 'We knew you didn't have anything to give us, but we was just kids. It was up to you to teach us how to be men. Instead you showed us that when the chips were down, you was a coward who wouldn't be there for us.'
Aloud she asked, "Was you a bad father?" She bit her tongue for blurting that out.
He drew in and released a ragged breath. "I suppose I was." She could hear the wheeze as he forced out the words. "I tried to do right by them, but the times were so hard. After I was alone, I spent the years wondering how I could have handled things better. I couldn't stop 'em from taking Will off to the Orphans' Home. Jesse up 'n' left when he turned 16, cussing at me till he was out of earshot. But he was right t'leave. That land couldn't support us. It wasn't mine anyway -- a rich neighbor stole it years before. I only wished that I could have gone with the lad. We mighta hooked up with Will and made a better life for the three of us someplace else... If I'd been the right sort of father, they would have wanted us all t'be together."
The old man gave a slight moan and clutched at his chest until his breath came back. "I lost my chance. Since then I wanted to find either one of 'em and tell 'em I was sorry. But all I heard 'bout the pair of 'em was old stories in the newspapers."
"They -- They moved around so much. A -- a robbery here, a killing there. They'd both become outlaws, and folks said they was about the worst in th'West. I know that if their ma had lived, she would have brung 'em up better. They would have known from her that good people don't take what ain't theirs."
He fell quiet for a moment, his expression so full of misery that it made Jessie cringe. "I gave up sharecroppin' after Jesse left," he said at last. "I barely got along as a hired hand on another man's spread. When my strength left me, I cooked chuck for cowboys working the range. I wasn't even any good at that."
"I knew it could never be, but I wanted more than anything for me and my boys to be together again. I missed my chance when Will was in the New Mexico prison. That's when I found out that I really was a coward. I wanted to go to him, and put all the anger behind us. But I just couldn't bring m'self t'face him until he was already out."
'No, you never wanted to hear anything we tried to say to you,' Jessie thought. She had wanted to get her father patched up enough to tell him how he had ruined his boys' lives. But she hadn't been thinking clearly. She hadn't remembered how pathetic he had always been. Bawling out this old wreck of a man would be like kicking a sick dog. When a dog reaches the end of his rope, you just bury him. That's all you can do.
"Can we talk later?" Frank Hanks said all of a sudden. " I-I'm feeling... tired."
"I'll be here," Jessie told him. She returned to her chair and let the man drift off. "He's hurting, he's dying," she said silently to herself. "I don't want to make the end any worse for him. I just have t'figure out what I do want."
Just then there was a tap on the door. "Can I come in?" She recognized the voice.
"Sure, Arnie," Jessie answered. "Just be quiet."
The sixteen-year-old opened the door and slipped light-footedly inside. Jessie went over to meet him.
"What is it, kid?" she asked in a hush.
"Before Molly would let me go to church," the boy explained, "she wanted me to check to see if you needed anything." He glanced at the figure on the bed and made the sign of a cross. "Damn. He looks like he's dead already."
Jessie looked over her shoulder. Her father didn't look as bad in her eyes as he did to Arnie, apparently. "He was talking with me only a few minutes ago. He just fell back to sleep."
"Are you sure he's ever going to wake up?" the boy asked.
"That ain't for me t'say," she replied with a sigh.
"Who is he?"
Jessie paused and reaffirmed to herself that she couldn't tell the truth. "Just some stranger. You ain't still mad about that business of gun training, are you?" she followed up quickly.
"I forgot to tell you that the main reason I wanted to shoot is so I can protect my mother and my brother and sisters."
'Did it take him this long t'come up with of that excuse?' she thought skeptically. "That's a mighty fine purpose," she told him. "Treat your ma and the little ones like a boy your age should, and maybe you can be trusted to learn to handle a gun."
"I hope you mean that."
"What I mean depends more on you than on me. Anyway, thanks for coming up, but I don't need nothing just now. Jane has promised to lend a hand, and she'll be bringing up some soup for the old man in a little while."
"He doesn't look so old, just used up."
"He's getting on in years. He looks even older than he really is."
Arnie frowned slightly, but nodded. "Then... adios."
"Wait," Jessie added. "I do need one thing."
"Yes, Miss Jessie?"
"I could use some company."
His young brow furrowed. "I cannot stay for very long, Senorita."
"No, I mean some _particular_ company. Could you make a side trip over to _La_ _Parisienne_ on the way to church?"
"The cathouse?" he asked in an embarrassed voice. "Go _there_ on my way to church? Why?"
"I ain't asking you t'go spend any time inside, Arnie. Just tell whoever answers the door that I need Wilma t'come over here as soon as she can, okay? You tell 'em it's real, real important, and it can't wait."
"I-I will tell them." He chuckled nervously. "But when I get to church, I don't think that I will tell Molly -- or my mama -- where you had me to go." He tapped his forehead, as if tipping the hat he wasn't wearing, and turned around to leave. Distracted by thoughts of the cathouse, he almost collided with someone as he hurried out into the hall.
"Oops!" said Bridget. The dish and spoon on her tray rattled and the soup sloshed slightly.
"So sorry!" the boy exclaimed.
"Easy there, Bridget," Jessie said. "You could ruin that fancy green suit of yours if you soak it in stew."
"Senorita," the boy was babbling, "I did not see you. I would --"
"I know, Arnie," the redhead said. "It's all right. Now, don't you have to meet your brother and sisters at the church?"
"Si, that is so. If you've stained your suit, you should take it to my mother. She is the best laundress in the whole territory."
"Thank you. If necessary, I'll do just that."
"Go on, Arnie," Jessie put in. "You need to get into a suit yourself, and you've got a little job to do along the way."
"Si, si. I will." Then he carefully stepped around Bridget and hurried down the stairs.
"He's sweet on you, you know," Jessie said with a teasing smile. "But all he manages to do is get into your way."
Bridget stood in the doorway, watching the youth hurry downstairs, across the barroom and into the street. "So it seems. I keep trying to understand him by remembering what I thought and felt when I was a boy his age. But all I can remember is that whatever crazy thing I did, I was always dead serious about it."
"Come on in," the blonde said. She removed the water tray from the nightstand and set it down on the dresser. Bridget stepped into the room and put her tray into the vacated space.
Then she stared down at the sleeping stranger and frowned gravely. "How is he doing?"
"He was talking a few minutes ago, but he keeps falling asleep."
"Did he tell you who he is?"
"He said his name was Franklin." She let it pass whether that was a first or last name. "He came into these parts looking for kin."
"What are their names?"
Jessie shrugged. "Nobody I ever heard of." She changed the subject abruptly. "What are you doing with the soup? What happened to Jane?"
"She's fine. I asked her to let me bring it up."
"Yeah? Why aren't you running your game?"
"The players all drifted away after our friend here showed up."
"Sorry."
Bridget shook her head. "I'm not sorry. I need a break. Don't get me wrong; I like to play poker. It's the best way I know to make a living. But it's the same thing day and night. It gets hard, sometimes. Only, I can't afford to stop, not even for a few days."
"If you didn't gamble, what could you do?" Jessie asked. "Go back to serving beer?"
"Not hardly. I just wish I could sing as well as you."
"Did you ever think about dancing? You know, I've seen those legs of yours."
Bridget looked like she was about to laugh. "The can-can? I never thought about that. But I'm trying to get my self-respect back, not kick it away. The trouble is, other than poker, I don't know what else I'm good for. Did you ever notice that the work usually done by women isn't all that appealing?"
"The work for men isn't all that appealing, neither. I s'pose that's why I did so little of it. When I was a kid I had t'work for weeks on a crop that died for lack of water, or the grasshoppers et it before we could. I guess that put an end to my appreciation for hard work."
Both smiled. Then Jessie glanced at the man in the bed, and her smile faded.
"I wish that Christmas really could make a difference," Bridget said suddenly. "The ladies at the Orphans' Home always talked Christmas up big. Even now, on Christmas Eve, I always get the feeling that something important is about to happen. But then Christmas day arrives, and it's just like every other day, except for more drinking and more eating than usual. Do you know what I envy?"
"I can think of a couple things."
Bridget smiled. "I envy the people who can spend a day like Christmas with their family."
"I don't know about that," Jessie replied with consideration. "There's a lot of old anger that can come out of the cupboard when a family gets together."
The redhead nodded soberly. "That's too bad, but I know it's true. I see so many people who should know better wallowing in the memory of old hurts."
"You never said much about your own family, Bridget. I get the idea that you were in that home because you really were an orphan. You weren't put there as a prisoner, like Will was. Where did your folks come from before Texas?"
Instead of answering, Bridget said, "You never say much either. Will told me a little when we got older, mostly when he was drunk and cussing like a trooper. He thought your father was -- Sorry, I guess that's not a good topic for conversation."
"Will told you he was a yellow dog coward, I suppose. I heard him say that plenty of times myself, and that it would just about size things up."
Bridget shook her head. "That's hard to imagine. How could a coward produce two cussed mean boys like you and Will?"
Jessie shrugged. "I guess we took after our ma. Pa always said she was feisty. I hardly remember her, except when she lay dying. Pa didn't drink much before that; afterwards he guzzled his own 'shine, whenever he could get the fixings to make it. He was a crying drunk."
"Do you think he got along all right after you left?" Bridget asked.
The singer frowned. "I don't know how he could have, but I'm sure he did." Jessie wanted to step away from this topic. "By the way, I sent word for Wilma t'come on over."
Bridget's brow creased. "She'll never come. Christmas Eve is a big affair at Lady Cerise's, or so I hear. The last time I saw Wilma, she was going on and on about some sort of dinner party Cerise was throwing for them that work there. Only very special customers will be allowed to join in. Will always loved a big shindig, but, as Wilma, she ain't likely to start breaking heads and tearing up the furniture. You'll have to go join the party yourself, if you want to spend some holiday time with your sis." Bridget cast another glance at the sick man. "But I understand how you can't."
"Who are you going t'spend your Christmas with?" Jessie asked.
Bridget sat down in the empty chair. "Isn't it funny. On the day when you most want to be with your friends, that's the day they're all certain to be tied up. R.J. will have to run the show while Molly and Shamus keep company with their close friends in town. Cap won't be in. Slocum and him are partying with their stockmen's association over at one of the more distant ranches. Wilma is going to be too busy with an all-day Christmas party to give much time to someone like me who won't pay her for it. Besides, I'm not comfortable hanging around a house of ill repute for too long."
Jessie grinned. "There was a time you were pretty partial to cathouses."
"You should talk! I remember you moving into Yvette's room back in New Orleans."
"I remember, too," said Jessie. "It isn't all that easy to forget what that gal could do. Or what she was willing to do. But you'd better look t'your opportunities, Bridget. Cap is gonna be rich someday."
"How far we've come that we can even be joshing one another about something like that! Can you imagine us out on the range, using our running iron on rustled calves by the light of a campfire and talking about marrying for money?"
"Yes, we've both come a long way from that range, my girl."
"Well, if you're interested, I don't care how much money Cap will get someday. I wouldn't put up with him for a second if money were the only good thing about him. And, hell, maybe I'll get rich first. But if you're so interested in other people's gentlemen friends, why isn't Paul keeping you warm tonight?"
"Because he's the second man on the totem pole. He has to mind the prisoners while Sheriff Dan is spending time with his wife and kid. He had to agree to work most of tomorrow, too. It's a shame how these family men load things on the backs of bachelors, just because they don't have anybody."
"Maybe that's what the Lord made lonely men for," Bridget conjectured.
"I was going t'go over to the jail and take Paul some Christmas cheer after the saloon closed tonight, but I don't know how I'll be able to now. I 'spect I'll be seeing him when the sheriff takes things over for a couple hours in the morning. Dan can't mind the office for long, though; there'll be a big Christmas dinner waiting for him back home, along with plenty of guests."
"It sounds like Paul hardly has a life of his own anymore," observed the redhead.
"It seems that way. But he told me that the town council might be letting the Sheriff hire another deputy in a week or so. That'll help Paul out a lot."
"What's Paul's plans, long term, I mean? To take over the marshal's job when Dan moves on?"
"Hard to say. I don't even know my own plans. This is the last place I should want to stay, but this town has a way of putting its hooks into a body. What about you? Is it Cap or R.J. who's keeping you here?"
"Not exactly. They make a difference, sure, but they're not the whole deal."
"Yeah?"
Bridget regarded the sleeping man again. "Maybe our talk is disturbing our guest."
"Him? He's dead to the world. If he doesn't wake up himself in a few minutes, I'm gonna give him a good shaking. The soup'll get cold if he waits much longer to eat it."
"You're one hell of a nurse, Jessie."
"I ain't cut out for it, I'm afraid. But don't try to buck off my question. What keeps you in Eerie? Couldn't you gamble about as well in San Francisco as here?"
"Are you so eager to get rid of me?"
"Hell, no, I ain't. It's just that I'd feel like a freak if I was the only gal left in these parts who'd drunk that potion."
"But you wouldn't be. Laura, Wilma, and Maggie have all put down roots here. And Jane never talks about leaving. Anyway, I think she's interested in that lawyer, Milt. Unless I miss my guess, he reciprocates."
"Re---? You always was better at them big words than I was."
"There wasn't much to do at the home, so I read a lot. To understand authors like Sir Walter Scott, I had to check the dictionary more times than I could count."
"Yeah, sometimes I find big words in them songs I have t'learn and have t'go to the dictionary myself to figger 'em out. But, tarnation, Bridget, you dance around questions like a can-can girl. What keeps you here in Eerie?"
"Can-can girl again? Why are you so interested in getting me into a can-can line?"
"So I can whistle and hoot, what do you think? But stop playing that game of yours an' answer a simple question. What's keeping you in Eerie?"
"Why is so important to know?"
"Because something tells me that I should stay put in this guldurned town myself, and I keep thinking that I must be crazy."
"Why crazy?"
"Because here the people know all about me. I still can't help thinking that some of them are laughing at me up their sleeve at what happened to Jesse Hanks, the quick-draw artist."
"Maybe they're not. People can get used to strange things pretty quick. And there are so few women of marriageable age in these parts. Most men we meet see us as possibilities for courtship, even given our checkered pasts."
"Bridget, I swear that if you don't stop putting my questions off with questions of your own, I'm going to shoot you."
Bridget sighed. "Well, to tell the truth, I'm a lot like you. I can't help wondering whether people think that I'm strange. I can stand being a woman, but I can't stand being a freak. I've thought long and hard about going to some bigger town and starting a whole new life, making up some nice, conventional story about my past."
Jessie was grinning again.
"What?" Bridget asked, reaching her hands out in exasperation.
"I was just thinking of that old saying, the one about the outlaw that got out of town so fast he forgot to take his real name with him."
"Now who's changing the subject?"
"Okay. Why haven't you pulled up stakes so far?"
"It's like I told R.J. I've got friends here -- not too many close ones, but friends. They know who I am, and they act like it doesn't matter. Out there in the world, I'd be living a lie, and I'd start every new friendship by lying to a person about who I am and where I came from. Eerie is a small place, though, and maybe it'll start feeling too small someday. Then it _will_ be time to move on."
"The way I hear it, Eerie might fold up real quick like. It happens to a lot of towns that depend on placer gold or silver. Gold nuggets, or dust rich enough to pan for, just run out too damned quickly. Paul was saying that what Eerie needs is for somebody to hit a mother load and sell out to some big mining company. That will mean a lot of new people coming in, and a lot of new businesses starting up to sell to them."
Bridget shook her head thoughtfully. "I'm not so sure that something like that wouldn't ruin what's good about this town. If Eerie gets big, if a lot of outsiders move in, strangers are going to find out about us. We all might get our names in _Harper's_ as a bunch of freaks. We'd get no peace, and we'd have no dignity. Then we'd have to head out to parts unknown and begin again."
Jessie regarded her. "Now _that's_ cheery talk for Christmas, Bridget."
"Well, maybe we're just talking too much. That old man needs to be fed. We either have to get him awake now, or I'll have to take the soup back down to the kitchen to keep it warm."
Jessie sighed and leaned over her father to shake him awake. He grunted, but wouldn't come out of an extremely heavy slumber.
"Don't, Jessie," said Bridget. "Weren't not doctors. Sleep might be better for an ailing man than some beef broth and carrots. I'll just go put it back on the fire."
"No need," the singer said. "I can set it down on this here stove. That'll keep the stuff warm."
"Well, I suppose so. Anyway, I promised to give R.J. a hand while you're busy. That should take some of the pressure off you."
Jessie's brows went up. This was an unexpected boon. "Thanks, Bridget. You're a pard."
The gambler stood up, nodded amiably, and took her leave.
* * * * *
The old man abruptly coughed up some ugly matter and shifted on the bed. Jessie went to him and wiped the stuff up into a rag, checking for blood in his spume, just like the Doc told her to. "Nothing there, thank the Lord." Her words startled her. "Now why the hell am I talking like I'm happy that old bastard ain't ready t'die yet?"
Frank Hank's eyes flickered open. "You still here, Jessie?"
"Yeah. You were sleeping like the dead a minute ago. It seems like you don't wake up 'less you're damned sight determined to." Jessie, though, remembered the old days when her pa used to snap awake if he heard so much as a worm crawling on a granite boulder outside. That peculiarity let him do the one good thing he accomplished during the war for Texas. A squad of Mexican raiders had tried to sneak up on his bivouacked company, and her Pa had given the alarm in time.
"You talk like a Texas girl. Are you?"
"I reckon I am. From near... Ft. Worth."
"That's real nice. There's good people back home. Folks came to Texas knowing that they'd have to fight for it, and they did." He became pensive for a moment. "You mind if I ask you something, missy?"
"Umm, that depends on the question."
"It's sad, what happened 'tween me and my boys. I feel better when I'm around a family that's close. Can I ask you how you get on with your ma 'n' pa?"
Jessie stepped back, put off balance by the question. How could she answer? She made a snap decision not to tell the truth. "Not... not as well as I'd've liked to," she said. "I-I ain't seen 'em for a while. I suppose they don't think I turned out too well, working in a saloon and all."
"I bet you miss 'em, though. I don't expect my boys ever gave me a second thought." He shook his head sadly. "Not after the way I let 'em down."
"What'd you do?" She braced herself for the answer. She'd always thought that he'd been too yellow to have any idea how a decent man should have behaved.
"For starters, I didn't give 'em much of a life," the man said. "After the War -- the War for Texas Independence, that is -- they promised us soldiers good land t'farm. I went back home and sold most of what I owned and borrowed some more t'get back out there and set up a homestead with Livy -- er -- that was my wife, Olivia. We wound up stuck with a piece of desert. We found out soon enough that it was only good for growing dust and cactus, but, by then, we had a baby on the way. That was William."
"What'd you do?"
"I tried harder. My old army commander had property near us. Capt. Stafford, he got some good land and had money t'lend. I borrowed a little for better equipment and seeds. They helped some, but the money I made never seemed t'cover more than the interest on my loan. We struggled on for three more years, then Livy... she gave me another boy. I thought that getting such a fine lad meant that our luck was gonna change. Both boys had hot tempers, though, so I knew they was brothers to the bone."
"Then..." Frank shook his head. "Our luck changed all right. It got worse. A year or so after our Jesse came, Livy got sick with the ague. The doc had medicine, and it did _some_ good, but it cost a lot."
"Stafford offered t'help. He give me some papers t'sign. He said it was a loan. I can read a newspaper some, but what he gave me had this strange lawyer language on every page. I'd've needed a lawyer myself to make any sense of it. I couldn't afford a lawyer and, anyhow, I liked to take men at their word, so I signed."
The old man gave a whiney laugh. "I signed away my farm. All of a sudden, I was sharecropping what used t'be my own land. The worst thing was, I think the captain wanted to own _me_, not the land. The land was worthless, even for grazing. But if'n he controlled the land, he controlled me 'n my family."
Her pa had never talked about the days when he had been a freeholder. He had been too ashamed, Jessie now supposed. But he also never explained things, never admitted to how trapped he must have felt. "Couldn't you do anything to fight it? Stafford used trickery, didn't he?"
Frank gave a feeble sigh. "How can you fight the biggest man in the county? Stafford owned the judge, more or less. I owed him just about everything but the shirt on my back. If I ever so much as opened my mouth, the captain would have put me, my wife, and the boys on the road. How could I hire a lawyer for a years-long fight with no money even for food and shelter?" He actually winced from the ache of remembering. "The money gave out a couple years later, and Stafford told me I wasn't worth any more." He closed his eyes, as if in pain. "Then... Livy died."
Jessie shivered, forced to recall her mother's death. Jesse and Frank Hanks never had much to share, but they had shared that. She wanted to reach out, to take her father in her arms and comfort him, but she couldn't. All she could manage was to tell him, "I-I am so, so sorry." She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder.
"You're a sweet gal, Jessie. You're jes' the kind of daughter any man would be lucky to have. An' there's nothing wrong with your work. Singing is nice." He reached up and patted her hand. At his touch, she felt goose bumps run along her arm, but she refused to move it away.
"I went numb after Livy went away," the old man struggled on. "You kick a dog once, and he'll snarl, maybe even bite you. You keep on kicking him, kicking him harder and harder, and, after a while, he'll just hide under the porch when he sees you comin.'" He sighed again. "I was a dog hiding under the porch when my family needed a man."
With so many of the ghosts of the past rising, Jessie bit her lip. What she now realized was that she had been hurting so much back in those days that she never stopped to think how much her father, and even Will, were hurting, too. Neither of them talked about their pain, so she hadn't either. She'd kept it corked up, like a moth in a bitters bottle, but even if you put it in a cabinet, the bottle and the moth will still be there. The difference was that the moth would soon die if trapped; the pain never did.
Suddenly Jessie heard a low moan. She saw Frank turn his face into the pillow. He seemed about to pass out but kept murmuring. "Now my boys...they're in Eerie..."
'Damn!' she thought. 'He's so weak. I shoulda tried t'give him some of that soup when he was conscious. Some "ministering angel" I am!'
There came another rap at the door. Jessie cursed under her breath. Who was it this time? "Come in!" she said loudly. She didn't suppose that one little yell could wake the sleeper.
* * * *
From the weight of the footfalls on the balcony, she had expected to see the bartender R.J., but man who moved in through the half-open door was about the last person she wanted to confront at a time like this.
"Miss... Hanks," the visitor said in low voice, but in just two words he conveyed a sentiment that she didn't care for. Despite his formidable stature, the Reverend Thaddeus Yingling stepped lightly toward the foot of the bed, as if he was used to tiptoeing around sleeping people. That was a trait both of parsons and burglars, Jessie thought. Also of fathers. He was a big, sturdy man with a mass of gray curls jiggling as he walked.
Taking off his hat had messed up his hair, and he hadn't tried to swipe it back off his forehead yet. His face was long, angular, and customarily stern. By reputation, he was a good preacher, but he was also a man who lived in certitude, and would dig in his heels if someone else had a differing opinion.
She stood up straight, in respect of his dignity. "What brings you here, Parson?" the singer asked.
"Can't you imagine, young lady? I was told that one of the doctor's patients was on the threshold of --" He noticed the man on the bed and didn't complete his sentence.
"Who's the da --, I mean, who went to fetch you?"
"That would be Mr. Nolan. Mr. O'Toole ought to have sent for me at once, but the Lord saw to it that word reached me nonetheless."
Jessie knew that blabbermouth Nolan. She'd even danced him with now and then at the Saturday night dances. "I should have guessed," she replied. "A man who plays such G-d-awful poker should keep his mind on his cards, so he wouldn't be putting so much of his hard-earned money back into circulation."
Yingling's expression hardened. He looked like he was going to rebuke her, but gave up the effort. No doubt he thought his eloquence would have been wasted on Eerie's most notorious saloon girl, a former gun slick and robber. Instead, he regarded the sleeping man. "I believe Mr. Nolan was right. It would seem that this unfortunate is not far from passing on into the presence of our Lord."
"I don't know about that. He was talking about his home back in Texas not more than two minutes before you came in," Jessie informed him.
"I've seen that phenomenon many times," the minister said. "Just before the sufferer departs, he rallies and speaks lucidly to those who are with him. I believe it is the Heavenly Father's way of allowing a sufferer to say goodbye to his nearest and dearest. I came to help the unfortunate man to make peace with his Maker before it's too late. Would you object if I tried to wake him?"
"He's taken to sleeping right heavily," Jessie said. "But I won't kick you in the leg if you try to roust him." The sooner the preacher said his piece to the man, the sooner he'd leave.
He shook his head and put his hat down at the foot of the bed. Leaning above the sleeper's left ear, he said in a medium voice, "Sir!" He repeated the word louder when the patient stirred not at all. Disappointed, the minister glanced back toward Jessie. "Has he given a name?"
"Franklin. That's all I know."
"Mr. Franklin!" Yingling pronounced with booming resonance.
But his near-shout had no effect.
Not to be daunted, Yingling touched his middle and index finger to Frank Hanks' shoulder and poked him, at first tentatively, and then harder. It elicited no response.
"Oh, stand back," Jessie said impatiently as she wedged herself between the minister and the bed. At the touch of her shoulder, Yingling stepped back, as if he thought she were smeared with horse manure. Jessie didn't notice his reaction and gave her father a series of determined shakes.
The blonde gave up after about ten seconds.
"He'll wake when he's good and ready, and not before, I'm afeared."
"Miss Hanks, will you be so kind as to not jostle me like that?" Yingling requested sternly.
"Why? Did I scuff your boot?"
"My wife has an unusually acute sense of smell."
Jessie bridled. "My pa used to talk about 'parson's manners.' You ain't got 'em, Sir. What kind of gentleman would say a thing like that to a human being? I'll have you know I take a bath when I need one. I happen to fancy feeling clean."
Yingling sighed. "I was only saying that your perfume is very powerful and very ... florid."
"I see. The thing is, you don't want your missus to know where you've been. Nobody is keeping you here, Parson, not if you've got Christmas doings to attend to."
He looked down at her like a schoolmaster chiding a failed student. "How familiar are you with Christmas 'doings,' Miss Hanks? How long has it been since you attended Christmas services -- or any sort of Christian services?"
It was a cheeky question, but something about his tone told her that he expected an answer.
"I don't know. I never considered Christmas the best time to go to church. That was when me an' my brother hunkered down in some saloon to get drunk an'...." She trailed off.
"And seek the affections of ladies? Ladies of questionable propriety?" the minister finished for her.
The singer flared. "Why are you so interested? Maybe you even think it's funny what happened to Wilma and me."
"What happened to you was the will of the Lord, and you should contemplate its deeper meaning. And, if I may say it, there is nothing about you and your sister that I find the least bit amusing."
"Is that so? You're starting to grate on me, too, Parson. What is it about you that makes me think of that there Pharisee in the Book, the one who was so full of himself that he thanked the Lord for not making him a poor bum."
"Actually, Miss Hanks, the proud and foolish Pharisee thanked the Almighty for not making him a tax collector for the Romans. There are jobs that only persons of bad character will accept."
"And I s'pose you don't cotton much to people who work in saloons or cathouses?"
"I had hoped that you were only working here because you were a lost soul and did not know where else to go, not because you enjoyed it. As for your poor sister, I have heard that a second drink of that bartender's potion drove her mad, and so she is not fully responsible for her choices."
Jessie balled her fists. This Thaddeus Yingling had a way that made a soul want to punch him. "If I was such a lost soul in your mind, why didn't you come on over an try to save me? You wouldn't even set foot into a saloon unless somebody was dying inside. All you do is look down you nose at people like me. Yeah, Reverend, I work in a saloon, but there are worst jobs." Then she caught herself. "And don't you go bad-mouthing Wilma neither. What's she's doing ain't so nice, and I wouldn't do it myself. But I'd say she took a step toward heaven the day she found something she liked better than robbing and killing."
"Not a large step, I'm afraid. Harlotry is the worst sin a woman can commit, short of murder," observed Yingling.
"Is that so? Didn't Jesus Christ Hisself protect the hooker Mary Magdalene from the townsfolk? In fact, He was right neighborly with murderers and robbers, too. He pardoned the thieves alongside Him on the crosses, or do I recollect wrongly?"
"No, that is approximately true. But Saint Luke says that He pardoned just one of the thieves, the one who had repented. The other only cursed at Him in his anguish and misery, and he was not forgiven. The pardon that comes through grace to an evil-doer must be built upon a foundation of repentance."
"I'd agree. But maybe more people would bring their repenting to you, Parson, if you didn't make them feel afraid t'do so."
"Why should anyone be afraid of me?"
"'Cuz you're too proud to go where the Lord Hisself went every day. You let people know when you think that they're not worth a barrel of shucks. Do you figger they don't catch on that if one of them ever owned up to being even worse than you s'posed, it would be like waving red flannels in front of an angry bull?"
All Yingling said in reply was, "People come to me because they desire guidance in finding their way, and I try to open their eyes."
"I suspect all you do is nag them into seeing things your way. And if people ain't persuaded, you show them the door, don't you?"
The minister shook his head. "When I see a soul so hopelessly lost as you, Miss Hanks, it hurts me. Experience tells me that the path you follow is its own punishment."
"It hurts you, does it? And what do you s'pose is this terrible path that I follow? If some people do their best to give men a place to rest and a reason to smile, I don't see why it hurts you or the Lord in Heaven at all. What makes you so good at picking out who the saints and the sinners are? Shucks, I recall that even saints sometimes got on the dim side of the Lord. Didn't St. Peter hisself deny he knew Mr. Jesus Christ three times in one day --" Jessie broke off very abruptly.
Yingling saw the change in the young woman. He wondered whether the Lord's truth had suddenly dawned on her. "Miss Hanks," he said, more warmly than before, "why are you here in this sickroom instead of working downstairs? May one dare to hope that it is because your better nature has called you act as the good Samaritan on behalf of a nameless stranger?"
Jessie turned away and went to stare out the window, but all she saw was her own reflected face. "Nameless stranger," he had said. Three times tonight she had denied knowing Mr. Franklin Hanks, her own father. "I know him not," she had said, if in words less fancy.
"Miss Hanks?"
She swallowed hard. Damn! She felt cool beads of water in the inner corners of both her eyes. The next things she knew, the reverend was standing by her side.
"I've made you cry; I'm sorry."
Jessie looked him straight in the eye. "I don't ever cry!" she declared.
"Of course. But let me say that I do not believe that this is the right time to rebuke you. Tonight you are doing something that is praiseworthy. Think about how fine it feels to perform Christian charity. And consider how this night -- the most blessed of all nights -- has allowed your better angels to emerge."
She chuckled ruefully. "Well, I only hope they don't go too far. I figger that I still have a use for them."
He smiled at her little joke. "Well, Sister Jessica, I came to help this man, and it's high time that I performed my services."
He went to the bedside and lowered his head to the sleeper's chest, so that his ear was just above the man's heart. Yingling frowned, as if he could detect no life in the mortal vessel. He sighed then and, straightening up, appeared to steel himself for the work ahead.
From his pocket, the reverend took a small book of prayer, and then he crossed to the stove to pick up the chair. This he set next to the nightstand. Sitting down, he found his page and began to read:
"O Almighty G-d, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons, we humbly commend the soul of this thy servant, our dear _brother_, into thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Savior. We most humbly beseech thee, that it may be precious in thy sight. Wash it, we pray thee, in the blood of that immaculate Lamb, that was slain to take away the sins of the world; that whatsoever defilements it may have contracted in the midst of this miserable and erring world, through the lusts of the flesh, or the wiles of Satan. Being purged and done away, it may then be presented pure and without spot before thee. Teach us who survive, in this and in other like daily spectacles of mortality, to see how frail and uncertain our own condition is. And so to number our days, that we may seriously apply our hearts to that holy and heavenly wisdom; whilst we live here, which may in the end bring us to life everlasting; through the merits of Jesus Christ, thine only Son, our Lord. Amen."
He continued his vigil afterwards, clenching his hands in prayer, but these prayers were whispered in very low tones, and Jessie couldn't make them out. As infuriating as Thaddeus Yingling was as a human being, he probably knew his stuff as a preacher. She hoped that he could actually do some good for her father's soul on its way out of the world.
A few minutes later, Yingling lowered his hands and turned in Jessie's direction. "Do you wish me to stay for a while and help bear your burden as well, Miss Hanks?"
She didn't have to think about that one. "No, you don't have to. Not if you've gone and done everything you can for him. Like you say, he's my burden."
He studied at her through narrowed eyes. "Do you know this man?" the minister asked. "Is this a person whom you... hurt... before, when you were an outlaw?"
She swore in silence. Yingling was smarter than he seemed. She didn't dare say more and get herself deeper into the muck. She didn't want to deny her father again, so instead she said nothing.
"I see," Yingling said. He stood up and recovered his hat from the wrinkled quilt. "Jessica, if ever you should need someone to talk to, you will not find my door closed to you, though -- being not as good as our Savior -- I might not always find my way to yours."
"Yeah, Preacher, I understand," she replied, breaking her silence. "But it's getting late. Maybe you ought to see to your kids before they have to go to bed." She smiled. "I bet they're as excited as they can be about what presents they're going to find on Christmas morning."
"I know they are. This is a night when we are blessed to be with those who are so much the best part of our lives. Good night, Miss Hanks. May you find the gift that will give you the most joy on Christmas morning, also."
She didn't glance after him as the door opened and his footsteps faded on the stairs.
******
Jessie had gone back to stand above her father. "I hope he did you some good, Pa. I should have thought of calling for him myself, though, if there were two preachers in town, I probably would have sent for the other one."
"Well, Pa, I'm not much good at praying. I never put much stock in it when I saw that for all the praying we done, nothing much came out of the sky except dust and trouble. I've robbed and I've killed. The best I can say now is that I sing to drinkers and gamblers. I don't know if I can ever go where Ma has already gone, but after all the trouble you had, Pa, I hope you get there. I know that she'll want t'see you, though I ain't exactly sure why. I'm sorry I didn't know her for as long as you did. But maybe knowing her longer only made it harder for you to lose her."
He just kept sleeping, or was he dead? "If I can't help you to Heaven with a really good prayer, Pa, maybe I can set you on your way with that favorite Christmas song of yours." She swallowed down the lump in her throat, wiped her eyes and her nose, and began:
` "I saw three ships come sailing in
` On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
` I saw three ships come sailing in
` On Christmas Day in the morning.
` "And what was in those ships all three,
` On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day?
` And what was in those ships all three,
` On Christmas Day in the morning?
` "The Virgin Mary and Christ were there,
` On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
` The Virgin Mary and Christ were there,
` On Christmas Day in the morning.
` "Pray, wither sailed those ships all three,
` On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
` Pray, wither sailed those ships all three,
` On Christmas Day in the morning?
` "O they sailed into Bethlehem,
` On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
` O they sailed into Bethlehem,
` On Christmas Day in the morning.
` "And all the bells on earth shall ring,
` On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
` And all the bells on earth shall ring,
` On Christmas Day in the morning.
` "And all the Angels in Heaven shall sing,
` On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
` And all the Angels in Heaven shall sing,
` On Christmas Day in the morning.
` "And all the souls on earth shall sing,
` On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
` And all the souls on earth shall sing,
` On Christmas Day in the morning.
` "Then let us all rejoice again,
` On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
` Then let us all rejoice again,
` On Christmas Day in the morning."
With the song finished, she paused for breath. Her father was still asleep, but not sleeping comfortably. He kept tossing and turning, moaning as he moved. His respiration was short and had a rasp to it, but at least he was showing more life than he had before she had sung to him. Jessie wondered if some miracle would happen in the end and he was going to pull through.
It sure seemed unlikely.
'He's gotta wake up one more time," she told herself. "He come here 'cause of that story 'bout me and Will getting shot. What the hell am I gonna tell him? Will I have t'lie to him and say that his kids are dead, that he's all alone in the world? But, dammit, he's too sick t'understand about Wilma an' me. He'd just argue that I was trying to make a fool of him, and he doesn't have breath enough left t'do that.'
"I wish I could tell you the truth, Pa, even if it made you laugh at me. You could have your revenge for them last words I says t'ya when I stalked off all them years ago. I called you a damned milksop and let you know that I hated you for it."
"Ain't that a joke on me?" she laughed sadly. "I told him he wasn't no kind of a real man, the way he kept acting." She looked down at her body, the way her dress was tailored to show off her nubile curves, and to display the cleavage that fixed men's eyes. "Whatever he was, he was a lot more of a man than I am now."
She shook her head. "I ain't gonna tell him who I am, no sir. There's no way I'd let him have the last laugh on me."
But then she remembered that she might be losing him in a minute, or an hour. Would giving the man who had once been the center of her life something to laugh about on this terrible night be so bad? The trouble was, that kind of laugh would be a mean laugh that might undo some of the good work that the preacher had tried to do. But did the parson really know anything about getting people up to heaven? Should she ask him about helping her fix up her own life on Earth, so that she could finally get to know her ma? She didn't think so. 'I always solved my own problems before,' Jessie told herself. 'I'll fix this one, too.'
"W-Water," the man said.
********
"Ohhh, thank ya, missy, for the drink," Frank said, handing the girl the empty glass. "I wanna thank ya, too, for letting me prattle on the way I did before. You're quite a gal, Jessie."
Jessie tried to smile. "I just figured ya needed t'get a few things off your chest."
"Shoulda said something years ago." He made a sour face. "Shoulda told my boys all about them important things back then, instead of bending your pretty ears now."
Jessie shook her head. "I-I don't mind. You keep talking, if you want." She slipped into the chair that Yingling had set by the bed. There was no easy way to ask the next question. "I've been wondering. What happened after... after your wife..." She couldn't say the word. After so many years, she still felt the ache of that unbearable day.
"I barely saw my boys after that, at least not in the daytime. They had to work the land as best they could. Stafford decided I was to be like one of his black slaves. Anytime he needed something done, he'd come over and tell me t'do it. I told him I needed t'work m'own land, but he just laughed. '_My_ land, you mean. You work it for me. You do what I say, and I'll count your time as payment, same as I do the crops you bring in.' I didn't trust him, but I didn't have no choice."
"I tried t'make it up to my boys. When I could, I'd take 'em with me. And I saved up scrap wood from some of them jobs. I could whittle pretty good, so I carved some toys for them, a bird whistle for little Jesse and a set of toy soldiers for 'em both."
He smiled wistfully. "Jesse played that thing all the time. He sounded awful. But he loved music, and every time there was music playing, he wanted to hear it. That's why I tried to take him into town during the Fourth of July celebrations whenever Stafford left me the day free. Jess used to sing along with the patriotic songs, sometimes he even made up his own words to 'em." He gave a hoarse laugh. "That lad had jes' about the worst singing voice I ever heerd."
Jessie's mind drifted back to twenty years earlier. She'd forgotten about that whistle, even though she'd kept it even after she left home in bad temper. She had finally lost it years later, when a posse came in the night, and she had to run to her horse, leaving everything behind.
"Doing hard work like that ain't being a bad father," she had to admit.
"The pity is, them toy soldiers just made matters worse. Ya see, Stafford had a boy of his own, Forry. The kid was a mean bugger, bad as his pa. He liked to pick on the younger kids, do all sorts of bad things. He steered clear of thems that had big brothers; they gave it right back to the little bast -- 'scuse my language, to Forry."
"Sounds like he deserved it." Damned right he did; that and more!
"I thought so, but his pa didn't. He had one of those big brothers, a boy of 16, put in jail for a week, just as a warning. He put the word out that a week in jail was the least he'd be doing after that. That boy had just scared Forry, made him apologize to the little girl he'd hit. Stafford said that any roughneck that actually _hurt_ his precious son would wind up in the Orphan's Home. Stafford gave a lot of money t'politicians, and he always got his way."
"Forry walked around like he was king of the world after that. He told people they should call him _Mr._ Stafford, like his pa, and damned if the captain didn't back him up."
"He came round one day while I was working on a pump Stafford used t'fetch water from the river. Will and Jesse was there, playing with them toy soldiers. I heard yelling and came running out t'see what was wrong."
"Will was a lot younger'n Forry, but he was beating the hell out of him. Jesse was climbing out of the river wet as a rat. I yelled for them t'stop and asked what was going on. Forry gave me some cock'n bull story that had to be a lie. Then he says how his father'd be only too happy to put my boy away before he killed somebody."
"Them two was all the family I had, all that was left of Livy. I kissed that little bastard's -- forgive me for saying that."
"There's nothing to forgive. He _was_ a bastard."
"That he was -- still is, matter of fact, but I kissed his ass like it was pure gold. I gave him them toy soldiers, too, when I saw that he wanted 'em. I'd have done anything t'keep him from setting his pa after my boys."
"I ain't never saw hurt like I saw in Jesse and Will's eyes that day. I tried t'explain, but they wouldn't hear of it. They both hated me from that day on, and I don't know as I could blame 'em for it."
"A couple weeks later, Forry ran into Will by the livery stable in town. He was dumb enough to tease Will about them toy soldiers, and it cost him a tooth. Everybody said that Forry started the fight, but Stafford had Will put in jail overnight, an' sent to the Orphans' Home with one of the deputies the next day."
Jessie's hands formed into fists. "Little bastard." All these years, and she still hated the Staffords for what they had done to Will.
Her father laughed. "He got his, though. They caught him trying to take a knife from the general store a couple weeks later. Stafford gave Riley, the man that owned the store, enough money so he wouldn't press charges. Everybody was happy -- 'cept Forry, when he found out that everybody was whispering that he was a thief. He guessed that Riley had been running him down to people. That explains what happened next."
"A couple nights later, the store catched fire. They got it in time, but they found proof that it was Forry that started the blaze -- one of them toy soldiers he stole from my boys was lying there+,+ by where the fire'd started. His name was mud in the countryside from then on." He began to laugh again until the laughter turned to a wracking cough. "Served him -- cough -- right, too."
Jessie poured more water into the glass and held it out to her father. After a few moments, he managed to stop coughing. He wiped his mouth on the rag and took a drink.
"Thanks, gal," he finally said. "Forry didn't want them soldiers after that. He set fire t'all the ones at his house. I asked the marshal for the one they found at the store. He knew how Forry'd gotten them, so he handed it over. It was the only favor that man ever did me."
"I figured I'd wait a while before I gave Jesse that last toy soldier, let him have a chance t'get over being so mad at me." He shook his head sadly. "Only he never did. I got afraid that if he ever saw the soldier, it would just open the old wound."
"He all but cursed at me the day he turned 16 and stomped off t'find his brother. That was 'bout a year before the War of Succession. I heard that he went first to Austin and stole a horse. I thanked the Lord that he'd been decent enough not t'steal one from any of our close-in neighbors."
"He jes' wanted to hook up with Will. He knew that Will had joined with the Rangers when he got outta the Home. Will never so much as sent us a letter, but Jess swore he'd track 'im down. I heard he got into the Rangers, hisself, but he didn't like it much and hightailed it out after a little while."
"I kept that soldier anyway. In fact..." He fumbled under the low collar of his union suit. "...I got it right here." He took out a dark brown leather cord that looped around his neck. Jessie marveled that she hadn't noticed the rude necklace before.
Something was attached to the cord, and he held it as carefully as if it were the key to a strongbox. He looked at it intensely for a moment, then handed it to Jessie. As if in a daze, Jessie's hand went out. Then she drew it back abruptly. "Go ahead," the old man said, "take a look."
The young woman could barely keep her hand from shaking as she received it. She recognized the toy immediately.
"That's...the last survivor...of the soldiers...I carved," Frank Hanks said. Jessie looked up. His voice had begun to fade.
Jessie hesitated to try to make him say more. 'He needs to rest,' she thought, 'but I gotta get him talking again soon. I-I gotta _know_.'
She placed the toy upon her father's chest and stood up. "Listen, old timer, I've had some soup keeping warm all this time. I'll scoop some into your water cup. That'll make it easier for you to drink."
While spooning the cup half-full at the stove, she asked over her shoulder, "Why'd you carry that soldier around all these years, anyway? What was you gonna do with it?" When he didn't answer, she turned about and brought the vessel to him, it's its side dripping slightly. But the man's face was slack and his breathing very slight. He was asleep again. Would he wake up this time?
"You poor old coot. You just ain't long for this world, are ya? If you came here hoping t'be buried next to your boys, you're in for a letdown. Will and I ain't dead yet, and we might not even die and be buried hereabouts after you're gone."
She set the cup down on the nightstand, on top of one of the rags. "You gotta come 'round again, Pa. I have to know why you carried that toy soldier with you for almost a dozen years."
Suddenly the sleeping man startled awake as if struck. His eyes were suddenly fever-bright, and almost wild. "Jesse! Jesse! I can hear you!"
"Yes, Pa, I'm here." She winced at her slip, but was it such a bad mistake? What harm could it do now?
His had shot out with surprising quickness and took her wrist. "Thank the Lord, Jesse. I couldn't die without seeing my best child again."
She startled. He was in delirium. He was staring right up into her face, seeing her not as she was, but as the prodigal son who had given up on him more than a decade before.
"I came to find you, Jesse, you and your brother, both. I had t'ask you two t'forgive me. I wanted to bring this soldier back to you." He took the cord from around his neck and pushed it into her captured hand. "It's jes' about the only decent thing I was ever able to give you, boy, and the only thing I was able to keep for your legacy." Frank Hanks shook his head. "It ain't much for a whole life lived, Jess, but if you understand that it means I love you, maybe you'll think kindly on it -- and on me."
He was out of his head, Jessie knew; it didn't matter what she said to him now. She took his arm with her free hand and gave it a squeeze. "I hear you -- Pa." She blinked her eyes, trying to hold back the tears she felt rising. "It means a lot t'me. It means _everything_ t'me. And I want you t'know that now I understand what happened better. I forgive you, and when Will comes, I know he'll forgive you, too."
It felt so fine to be able to talk to him without the pretense of being someone else, even if he didn't understand a word she was saying. "It was wrong to call you names, just because you didn't act like the father I dreamed of having. A boy thinks that his pa can do anything, can make anything right. He thinks his pa can protect him from all the coyotes that come in the night, all the monsters that want to eat him up."
"Will 'n me didn't stop to think that you were only a man. A few years and a little more muscle don't make a pa much different than his young'uns. He's afraid of his own coyotes, his own monsters. I don't hate you, Pa. I hate the people who made you less of a man than you wanted to be for us."
Frank Hanks smiled the awful smile of the very sick. "It's nice of ya t'say so, Jesse. I knew you was a good boy. Hearing you say you don't hate me no more makes it all better." His eyes were closed, but he kept talking, though the strength of his voice started to fall again. "I'd be happy in my grave just knowing I have a family."
He sighed, and Jessie heard the spume gurgling deep in his chest. "Right now, I think I'd jes' like t'rest some more. Thank you for forgiving me. That's all I wanted ever since the day you hiked away. I can finally have peace." He was soon asleep again, but his breathing had never sounded so labored.
"I _do_ forgive ya, Pa," Jessie whispered. "It was an awful life in Texas, but you tried to make the best of things, the way you saw 'em...."
Her eyes opened wide.
Was it her imagination, or had the old man's slack lips altered into a smile at the instant that she had said what she had been keeping locked up in her heart?
But he was giving no other sign that he was hearing her, so after a few minutes Jessie stood up and put the toy soldier on the nightstand, behind the cup. Then she dragged the chair over to the stove. Feeling an awful weight lifted, but yet being very tired, she sat down and leaned against the back. Before she realized it, sleep had overtaken her.
* * * * *
Something woke Jessie up. She glanced over at the small clock, ticking away on the bedroom door. It was almost two.
Then there was another knock, and she realized that it had been that which had roused her. "Come in," she answered sleepily.
Wilma opened the door and walked in. Her hair was messed, and she was wearing a green wrap, a sort of cross between a robe and a dress. The wrap was opened in front. Normally, a woman wore an underskirt or a fancy petticoat under such a garment. Wilma was in her "working clothes", a lavender corset and silky white drawers. She looked like she had crossed over in a hurry, though she'd been sent for before nine o' clock.
"What's so danged important?" the striking brunette asked. "I had t'hurry a man out of my bed so I could come over t'see you. And the wind..." She shivered and pulled the wrap around her. "Seemed like it kept getting colder the whole time I was walking over here."
Forgetting all admonishments, Jessie pointed towards the bed. "It's him. Somebody found him on the trail and brought him in."
Wilma took a good look, then shrugged. "So?"
"So? Don't you see who it is?"
Wilma looked again and then shook her head. "I don't know as I ever seen him before. Who is he?"
"Who --? It's Pa, can't you tell that?"
The brunette looked at her sister incredulously. "You're crazy, Jess, or you've been dreaming in that chair. Wake up and really look at him."
Jessie did look. The man in the bed wore the same clothes, but he was years younger than Frank Hanks, a solidly built man with reddish brown hair. She moved in a daze to the bedside and sought for signs of life in the stranger. He wasn't breathing.
She touched his cool flesh, searching for a pulse in the big vein on the side of his neck. Nothing. "He's dead, but... I-I swear, Pa was in that bed before. I recognized him as soon as they brought him in. Molly helped me put him to bed. If she was here, she'd tell ya."
"She _is_ here," said Wilma. "Her and Shamus and Jane're downstairs closing up for the night. You want me t'get her?"
When Jessie nodded, Wilma walked to the door and shouted down, "Hey, Molly, could you come here for a minute?"
Jessie heard rapid footfalls on the steps. "What are ye doing yelling like that?" Molly asked as she walked in a moment later. "Ye'll be waking that poor man."
"Ain't nothing gonna wake him," Wilma told her. "He's dead." Behind her, Jessie nodded in agreement.
Molly crossed herself. "The poor soul. I'll be sending Jane over t'fetch the Doc and Stu Gallagher." Gallagher was the town undertaker.
"Before ya go, Molly," Jessie interrupted, "take a look at him. Is this the same man they brought in?"
Molly stared at the man, frowned, and then placed Jessie under a close gaze. "Of course, 'tis the same man. The very one. Why the devil are ye even asking?" She cocked an eyebrow. "Are ye playing some game with me, Jessie?"
"No, I..." Jessie rubbed her eyes and looked at the man... the body... again. It was still a stranger and not her pa. "I -- ah, I just woke up. You wouldn't believe what I dreamed."
Molly regarded her curiously. She could see that something was troubling Jessie. "I have t'be going back down t'help me Shamus," she said reluctantly. "That must have been some awful dream. Would ye be staying with yuir sister till the Doc comes, Wilma?" The latter nodded in consent, and the older woman bustled out the door.
Wilma sat down on the window ledge. "Now what the hell was you talking about, Jess? Why'd you think this tramp was Pa?"
Jessie pressed a knuckle to her lips. Her glance betrayed her utter bafflement. "He looked just like him. I-I swear he did. We talked. He knew all 'bout us, too. Our farm and how bad that land was, Captain Stafford and Forry, 'bout Ma... dying like she done, even about them toy soldiers he carved."
Wilma rolled her eyes. "Don't you see? He didn't tell you nothing 'cept what you already knew. You wasn't only seeing things, Jess, you was hearing things."
Jessie took another disbelieving look at the man on the bed. "M-Maybe." What else could explain it? A ghost? 'I ain't never seen anything I supposed was a ghost,' she thought.
She sighed and shook her head wearily. "I guess I've been thinking 'bout Pa some lately. This always was his favorite time of year. Then, tonight, Joe Ortlieb asked me t'sing 'I Saw Three Kings' during my show."
Wilma nodded. "That always was the carol Pa liked best. I can see how it might set you off."
Jessie went back to the chair and sank into it. "Maybe it could. D'you think?"
"Yeah, that's just what I think."
"But he told me about those bad times from the way he saw them, how so much of it wasn't really his fault. How could a dream make so much sense?"
"Maybe you've been trying to think of some good reasons why he acted the way he did, and tonight you imagined he was speaking those same ideas right back at you."
"I just don't know," Jessie said with a forlorn sigh. Her memories were so intense. "Do you remember that last Christmas when we were all together, the one when he made those toy soldiers for us?"
All of a sudden, Jessie remembered something. "Wait a minute, Wilma, I know how to prove whether I was dreaming or not."
Wilma sat up straighter. "How?"
Without answering, Jessie went to the nightstand and searched behind the cup of cold soup. Wilma saw her expression of relief and vindication as she snatched up something small attached to a looped cord. Jessie displayed her prize for Wilma to see, her hand trembling so strongly that the object practically jumped off her palm.
"Look, Wilma. Do you see this, or am I still imagining things?"
The cathouse girl pushed herself away from the window and came closer. "Say, that looks a mite familiar," she admitted.
"It's one of the toy soldiers that Pa carved for us, Wilma. He really was here!"
Wilma scowled. "Well, I'll be damned if it doesn't look just like... nah, it can't be." She shook her head emphatically. "It just can't be. It's nothing but some kid's toy. It stands to reason that if anybody -- anybody at all -- carved a soldier it would have to look something like that."
"No! It is one of Pa's. I-I'd swear it is. I recognized it the second he showed it to me. Remember how Forry took all our other soldiers? I found this one the grass, where we was playing Alamo. I kept it hidden, so that skunk wouldn't take this one, too. But when I heard a couple days later that Forry had gotten into trouble at Riley's general store, I sneaked into town and set the place on fire. Then I left the Pa's soldier there, where someone could find it, so they'd think that Forry had started that fire to get revenge on Riley!"
"Yeah, I remember you telling me. I always thought it was a dodge almost worthy of me," Wilma said with an admiring smile.
"But right here in this room Pa told me that the sheriff handed it over to him, and he kept it, hoping he would see us again t'give it back to us. And he did, tonight. He called me his boy, and he handed it to me."
"But that wasn't Pa!" Wilma insisted. "Even you can see that now."
"But, for a while, he looked like Pa and talked like Pa. And he gave me this soldier. Here it _is_ . Only, don't ask me how it got here. Everything seemed to be making sense, up until you came in."
"Now I like that! I'm here by your invite, when I'd much rather be in a warm bed." Wilma took the toy soldier from Jessie for a closer look. After a moment, she handed it back with a shrug.
"You must be dizzy, Jessie. Are you trying to say that you've just had one of those Christmas miracles that Ma used t'tell us about?"
Jessie pushed the hair out of her eyes and turned away to face the window. Wilma's sarcasm exasperated her. Her sister hadn't been there, hadn't seen and spoken to him, and now she refused to believe.
Then Jessie gave a long sigh. She wasn't sure that she believed it herself.
Wilma, when she spoke again, used a softer tone. "You need a good night's sleep, Jessie. Maybe things will look a lot different in the morning."
"M-maybe," the blonde muttered. She was beginning to find it impossible to think with the agility that this situation called for. She was _so_ tired.
"Sure, they will," Wilma told her confidently.
Before Jessie could say anything, they heard someone coming up the stairs. "Jessie, it's me, Doc Upshaw."
"C'mon in," Wilma answered. "You got here fast," she complimented.
Doc walked in. His shirttail was out and his shoes were untied. It took less than five minutes for him to examine the man and pronounce him dead from pneumonia and exposure. He had just finished when the undertaker entered, accompanied by R.J. and Shamus.
"Maybe he won't have to lie under a blank tombstone," said R.J.
"What'd'ya mean?" asked Jessie.
"One of the men who saw him downstairs thought he recognized him. He finally remembered that the man's name was Johnny Eckland. Says the fellow came in just a few days ago to start looking for silver. He showed up at Horace Styron's hardware store to buy supplies. A damned reckless thing, if you ask me, to go up in those hills with no shelter set up, what with the weather getting touchy and all."
"If that's his name, it'll carve as good as any," Gallagher adjudged.
Upshaw agreed. Shamus, R.J., and Gallagher carted the man down to the undertaker's wagon. With a tip of his hat, the doc said, "Ladies," in the way of a farewell, and followed after the other men. The girls watched him go before they said anything more.
Then Wilma took Jessie by her bare arm. "A man died of something in that bed," she said. "Let's get outta here."
Jessie, still holding the toy soldier, followed her sister to the room she shared with Jane. Wilma closed the door behind them. Jane was still downstairs helping to lock up the saloon.
"I could sleep for a week," Jessie said and really looked like she could.
"You do that. I got me a bed of my own t'get back to." Wilma had announced this with a sly smile.
Jessie put the toy soldier down on her bed table. "Wilma..." she said slowly.
"Wha?"
Jessie looked at her sister with a strange intensity, and then, without another word, she stepped up close and took Wilma in a hug. "Whatever it was that happened here tonight," she whispered, "Pa is dead. I feel it in my gut. Us two is all that each other has got left."
"Speak for ---" Wilma began, but let her witticism trail off as she joined in the hug. When she spoke again, her tone had changed. "Yeah, I guess you're right, Jess. We been guarding each other's back through hell and high water, on and off, for better than ten years. I guess we'll keep right on doing that. Nothing's changed tonight, kid." She let go of Jessie and stepped back. "Merry Christmas, Little Sister."
"And merry Christmas to you, too, Big Sister," Jessie said with a wistful grin. "Well, I gotta get out of this rig or in a few minutes I'll be sleeping in it. If I tore it, it would cost me a lot t'get fixed." She reached behind her back to undo the buttons of her blue silk dress. In her fatigue, her fingers were clumsy.
"Let me help with that," Wilma offered. "I've not only had a lot more practice than you getting out of women's clothes," she quipped while performing the courtesy, "but -- back when I was a man -- I had more practice getting women out of their clothes, too."
"The hell you did!" protested Jessie.
"Sure I have. We both had the itch, but I'm older than you, and I had more time for scratching."
"At least my gals were willing," Jessie joked in return.
"Don't spread that rumor around, or it'll ruin your reputation as a bad'un."
The blonde let out a weary moan. "I'll be dreaming of ghosts all night, I'm afraid," Jessie said when the last button was open. She held the unsupported fabric up in front of her. Her legs felt like Indian rubber. Stifling yawns, the girl pealed the garment down to her ankles and stepped out of it. She was now wearing only a low-cut corset, silk stockings, and a pair of white drawers.
"You sure are a pretty one, I'll grant you that," Wilma said, giving her sister's hand a quick squeeze. "You'll see, Jess. It'll all make sense in the morning. I'll come over around about noon. That'll give me time to get back for the house party we're throwing. We'll have one of Maggie's lunches, and I'll pass along the present I found for you." Then she added, "You better have something ready for me, too, or else I'll get sore." Then she nodded farewell and headed for the door.
After Wilma was gone, Jessie drifted to the window, her mind crowded with puzzle pieces that just didn't fit together. 'Maybe Pa came because he had a present for us, too,' she told herself. 'I'd like to think that he had.'
The young woman lingered in front of the glass panes long enough to see Wilma walking briskly on the street below, back toward Lady Cerise's. It was then, as her gaze was drawn to the saloon lantern across the street, that she realized that it was snowing -- and that it had been snowing for some while -- maybe the whole time Wilma had been with her.
"Well, I'll be damned," the blonde murmured. "Snow in Eerie, and on Christmas. That will make it a day that the town will remember for a long time to come. If only bells were ringing it would be perfect, but, oh, well...."
Jessie looked back into the room and to the clean bed that beckoned her. "I think you're right, Wilma," she said to herself. "Everything will make more sense in the morning, more sense than ever could sink into your hard skull." She removed her corset and slipped her long, muslin nightgown over her head.
On impulse, Jessie reached down to the bed table and took the toy soldier from it. It was a simple thing, but it brought back so many memories -- and not many of them were good. But it made her think about family, and that part seemed to fill her with an unaccustomed warmth and satisfaction. "Thank you, Pa," she whispered. "You knew what this meant, and now I know, too. Thank you for caring enough to bring it to me."
She paused to examine the intricate detail of the wooden figure before setting it back down. What a good whittler her father had been. How had he ever found time to carve so many of these soldiers? Why would a man so loaded down with trouble every day of his life even want to do such a thing for a couple of scruffy boys who were always giving him trouble and sass?
She thought she knew and whispered into the darkness above the saloon across the street, "Thank you for loving us, Pa. And Merry Christmas, wherever you are."
Author's Note, continued: We like to think that Christmas is a time when Heaven casts an especially interested eye on the doings of mortals. There's an old tradition in England of ghosts and spirits running loose at Xmas and of telling stories about them doing so. Dickens' tale of Ebenezer Scrooge is the most famous of the genre. So we replayed the Eerie Christmas of 1871, this time seeing it from the point of view of one those at the very heart of events -- Jessie Hanks.
Think of it as a holiday card from Ellie and me.
--- Christopher Leeson
The End
Candy Cane Story
By Ellie Dauber © 2023
I wrote this on the FictionMania Message Board in response to a request by Hidden1 for a story about a man whose penis becomes a candy cane.
Hope you like it.
* * * * *
Joe Dixon was a 16-year-old boy who just got his first blow job from a VERY drunk girl he didn't know at a Christmas party. Now he was obsessed. Every time he looked at a girl, he pictured her lips around his penis, giving him pleasure.
A girl a few years older than him, noticed him staring at her in a mall. She went over to him -- he's alone, he creeped out all his friends -- and asked what's going on, why is he staring at her and at other girls. As she asked, she made some sort of gesture and said, "Veritas!"
Joe found that he can't help but tell the truth. The witch, for that's what this girl is, laughed and cast a spell. "Be careful what you wish for," she warned and vanished.
Joe felt an odd tingling, then a stiffness in his penis. He hurried to a nearby restroom and checked himself out in one of the stalls. His penis had become a candy cane. It still looked like his penis, but now it was made of hard sugar candy, white with thin red stripes.
Joe zipped up and left the stall. A man in his forties was washing his hands. Suddenly the man turned and in an emotionless voice said, "I must suck you." He dropped down on his knees in front of Joe, yanked down Joe's pants, and sucked at the candy cane.
Joe was astounded and disgusted, but he couldn't move. He felt great pleasure throughout his body, though, and very quickly came in the man's mouth. The man stood up and blinked his eyes. He saw Joe standing there with his zipper down and called him a pervert. Joe ran.
But he didn't run far. As he passed a women's accessories store, a salesgirl suddenly seemed to stiffen. She repeated what the man in the bathroom said. She pulled Joe into the store and gave him a blowjob in the back room. As soon as she finished. She blinked and yelled at Joe for being in an "Employees Only" part of the store.
This happened to Joe a number of time as he tried to leave the mall. Shoppers, employees, even a female security guard, all have their way with him. Joe was confused and scared. He noticed that his hair was getting longer, his body smaller, and his hips wider. After being sucked off by a man at a "Toys for Tots" booth next to the mall entrance, his chest began to itch. He was growing breasts.
Thinking about it, he realized that every time he got a blow job he became just a little bit more feminine. After he got one from a female shopper who had parked her car near his, he found that his Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt was now a pastel green, fuzzy woman's sweater.
He parked on the street in front of his parent's apartment. A girl walking her dog, an Amazon delivery man, and an elderly female neighbor picking up her mail all sucked him off before he could get into the lobby and to the elevator.
By now, Joe could feel the bra holding his C-cup breasts. His hands were smaller, with slender fingers covered with a pretty -- why did he think that? -- dark pink nail polish. His jeans had a girl's cut to them, showing off his long, graceful legs and a full, round behind.
As the elevator doors began to close, he felt that he was safe. His parents were out of town, and he should have time to try to figure things out.
But just before the doors closed, a hand snakes between them. The passenger safeguard opened the door. And Matt Parker, a college student living in the building, darted into the elevator. The door closed. "Just made it," Matt said. Then he turned and looked at Joe. "I have to have you," he added.
Matt pulled Joe to him and kissed him... hard. Joe moaned, and Matt's tongue slipped into Joe's mouth. Joe felt a warmth through his entire body. He felt new sensations, his nipples growing stiff against the silk of his new bra, and a wetness in his groin.
They both exit the elevator on Matt's floor. Matt's door was only a few feet away. They hurried to it, holding hands.
Matt's apartment was a small studio apartment, one room, a kitchen and a bathroom. Once they were inside and the door was closed, he yanks down Joe's jeans and, carefully pulled down Joe's silk panty.
"As if you weren't sweet enough," he said, looking at the candy cane. When he touched it, it fell into Joe's lowered panties. It was only about half the size it had been and much thinner, the result of all the "attention" it had received.
Joe's new vagina was revealed. Matt's very skilled tongue lapped at it, bringing on Joe's -- now Joni's -- first female orgasm.
They made love twice before slipping off to sleep in Matt's bed. When they woke up, Joni went to her pile of GIRL'S clothing. She discovered a purse with ID for her new female life. Next to it was an ordinary candy cane, about half eaten. "I believe this is your," Matt said, handing it to Joni.
She sighed and looked at the confection, then at Matt who smiled back at her. "It WAS," she told him. "It most certainly was." She smiled and took Matt's penis in her hand. "But I think I found something better to lick."
The Chinese Secret
by Ellie Dauber © 2003
August 14, 1998
Dr. Xaochien stood on the control platform watching the men marching into the stadium. They marched in rows of ten, heads held high, the cream of the army of the People's Republic of China. Row followed row followed row, until almost 40,000 men stood below him on the field.
Amazingly, these men, from the lowest private to the senior officers, were stark naked. Only identification tags, "dog tags" the hated Americans called them, identified each soldier. Each tag listed the wearer's name, rank, and specialization. These were not ordinary soldiers. They were specialists in covert operations, sabotage, espionage, assassination, guerilla warfare.
Xaochien heard footsteps. Major General Lipyang had joined him on the platform. The general was a hero of the revolution, his crisply starched uniform bearing ribbons from campaigns that dated back to the War for the Liberation of Korea. His steel-gray hair and craggy features made him the sort of "general from central casting" Xaochien had seen in movies when he had been studying medicine in London all those years ago.
"Is the device ready?" Lipyang asked.
"It is, General. The radiation generator units have been placed to sweep the field in all four dir--"
"I did not ask for a technical briefing, Doctor. I asked if the device was ready to effect the transformations."
"I... I am sorry, General. The machine is like my child, and you know how a parent loves to brag."
"I do, and that is why I will ask one more time before I have you replaced by someone who will answer my question."
Xaochien stiffened. He didn't need or want to know where he might be taken away to. "I apologize, General. The device is ready. Power is at maximum. The men have received the preparatory injections. I will begin the process as soon as you say."
"Thank you, Doctor." The General smiled. For a moment, Xaochien imagined that the General's teeth had all been filed to points. It was a silly idea, but, somehow, he didn't want to look too closely to make sure that it was only his imagination.
There was a microphone on a stand at the front of the platform. The General walked to it. As soon as they saw him, without requiring a command, the men on the field all snapped to attention.
The General nodded, acknowledging the respect he had just been shown. "Soldiers, you are about to begin a long term assignment. You will not see your families again for perhaps twenty years. You will not see your country again for that same time. Do not fear for your families, for your country will protect them and care for them. And do not fear for your country, for, when you return to it, it will be the predominant -- no, the only -- power in the world. It will be the master of the world.
"Our enemies, those who would destroy us, will, themselves, be destroyed. And that will be your doing. That will be the result of what we begin here today."
"In the next few minutes, strange things will happen to you. You will be changed beyond your imaginings. You will be so changed, in fact, that you will lose yourselves. You will fear this as it happens, but you will not be overcome by that fear. You are the finest soldiers our nation possesses, and you are trained to go beyond such fear. I have no doubt of this, and I salute you for the courage that you will show this day as well as on that future day when you find yourselves again and truly begin your glorious mission."
The General's heels snapped together, and his arm rose in perfect, practiced salute. "For the glory of the Revolution and of our nation." He lowered his arm, and stepped back from the microphone.
"Doctor, as I understand your device, it takes thirty seconds to begin its effect once it is activated. Is that correct?"
"Yes, General."
"And once the device has been activated, it cannot be stopped until some five minutes have passed?"
"Yes, General; it is a result of the need for certain components to be... shall I continue with the explanation?"
"No, I just wanted to be certain. Activate the device."
"Yes, General." Xaochien flicked several switches on a control panel. The digital indicators on the panel shifted slowly upward from zero to 100 percent. An odd, high pitched humming was heard from various places all along the borders of the field. Yellow bands of energy formed. They swelled and moved like living things, joining together into a ring that swelled to cover the entire field.
A few of the men, very few the General noticed proudly, flinched. He was even prouder that not a single man broke ranks and ran. It was just as well; there were marksmen outside the field to stop the escape of any man who did run.
"The effect will begin in about ten seconds," Xaochien said.
"Just enough time," the General said. Before Xaochien could move, the General leapt off the platform and ran onto the field. "See you in twenty years, Doctor," he yelled, as he ran out to join his command.
Xaochien didn't know what to do. How could he explain the loss of the General to the rest of the High Command? There was no way to stop the transformation. Cutting power to the device would create a surge overload that would kill him and every other person on the field. He shuddered as the energy field grew more solid, as if becoming a yellow tin roof, and shutting off his view of what was happening to the men below.
Still, he did not need to see the transformation to know it.
The men could not move. Neural impulses from their brains to their voluntary muscles were blocked. They could breathe, their hearts continued to beat, their organs to function, but that was all.
Now the men were growing smaller, thinner. Their prized muscle tone was lost to them. They probably looked like teens by now. Even the General was growing younger. His hair was no doubt black again; the wrinkles earned from his long life in the military, smoothing out.
The men were sweating now, feeling the pain of bone loss, as their skeletons reduced in size and the tendons shifted and flowed to keep their connections with the smaller bones.
The men were even younger by now. Except for the tops of their heads and eyebrows, there was no trace of hair. They were now going back through puberty, the hormone levels of their bodies shrinking even as those bodies did.
By now, some of the men were no doubt feeling great fear. No man could look at his own shrinking body, but he could see those around him. It did not matter, certainly not to Xaochien. No man could run; none could even cry out. The field kept them immobile throughout the transformation.
“The average physical age of the men was now about eight,” Xaochien thought. "Now the true transformation begins."
Within the field, the men -- the boys... the little boys -- felt odd sensations at their groins. Many fought the paralysis of the field to look down, but it was no use.
Which was just as well.
If they could have watched, the little boys would have been horrified.
Their male organs were small now, as was to be expected of small children, but, now their penises shrank even faster down to less than an inch in size. Their scrotal sacks emptied, as their immature testicles moved up into their bodies to begin a transformation to ovaries. Future sperm production would now be given over to the creation of eggs.
Other organs rearranged. The flesh of the scrotum tightened to become two lips, as a small indentation appeared between them. By the time the former soldiers were physically reduced to the age of three, their penises had sunken into the new opening to become clitorises. The soldiers were now female down to the very genetic level.
Yet, had anyone been able to see them, there would have been little sign of surprise or shock, even though such facial gestures were possible under the effects of the device. Brain cells were affected by the device as well, as was the capability to acquire and use information. Simply put, the soldiers were slowly losing any awareness of ever having been adults.
The effect continued for a few moments more. Then, as if by magic, the yellow barrier disappeared. What met the eye were 40,000 babies, all healthy and all no more than six months old. A few began to cry, others managed to lift themselves enough to start crawling. Near the front of the mass of naked infants, a single child sat fighting to free herself from the uniform of an adult, a uniform it no longer understood.
A cadre of nurses and aides wheeled carts out onto the field and began to collect the young ones. They would be taken to more than four score hospitals around the nation where they would be cared for while they waited. In the next five years, their nation would gain a great deal of hard currency from the payments U.S. citizens would make to adopt them. The transformation device was used at a much lower level to keep them young enough to be the babies that Americans wanted to adopt.
* * * * *
June 19, 2016
Cindy Fuller looked down at what she had just written in her diary. The pretty college freshman had gotten home for summer break the week before. She was glad now that she hadn't told her parents about the odd dreams she'd been having. The psychologist at school had said not to worry. It was common for adopted children to dream about their biologic parents, especially as they reached adulthood and were more able to seek them out.
Cindy's adopted parents had changed her first name to that of a recently deceased aunt as a way of making her more a part of their family. That happened to a lot of Chinese adoptees. Cindy had grown up answering to her new name. She'd had little interest in her native country. She was raised to be an American, and she was proud to think of herself as one.
It had been a shock a few weeks before to suddenly dream of herself as an adult in some sort of uniform in a place with what she somehow knew were Chinese ideograms on the walls. It was more of a shock when, a few nights later, she found that she could read them.
Now she understood why.
Dear Diary,
The dreams came together last night. I know what they mean and who I really am.
What's more, I know the mission of my men and myself. I grew up the second time here in America, and I understand it in ways that I could never know as a member of the General Staff back in China. I know its strengths and its weaknesses, and I now remember enough of my military skills to know how to make the most of those weaknesses.
My forces, the 40,000 under my command, are scattered across this nation.
No doubt they remember as I do.
The signals to mobilize -- to begin what we were sent here to do -- are easily communicated.
We can do it, do what we were sent here to do. We could weaken this nation so greatly that it would fall helplessly into the control of Mother China.
Yet, there is a flaw, a fatal flaw in the plan.
We grew up here the second time. I grew up here the second time, and I find that I have grown to love my new life in so many ways that I never loved my old one. I am content, happy to be Cindy Fuller. I would much rather be her, a pretty, young woman, than be General Lipyang.
I like dressing up in soft, clinging clothes, putting on makeup, shopping. I prefer to be the feminine creation that Xaochien's device and all of my experiences in this country have made of me. Wearing pinafores, playing with dollies, giggling with my girlfriends while we listened to CDs of boys bands, these things more than balance the hard years of military life that shaped the man I was. He is as dead as if Xaochien's device had killed him.
Besides, if I try to destroy the country, I won't have time to go to the lake with Jeff Reynolds this weekend. "Playing house" with that hunky stud of mine will be a lot more fun.
* * * * *
An article in the June 15, 2003, Philadelphia Inquirer said that over 33,000 Chinese babies had been adopted by Americans and brought to the U.S. Most of these babies are girls. The officialexplanation is that Chinese culture values boys much higher than girls, and these female babies were ones whose parents might otherwise have abandoned them to die.
Now you know the real reason.
And the reason why their insidious plan won't work.
Having gotten some nice comments -- and thank you those who did comment -- on my Arabian Nights tale, "Rebel Chieftain", I decided to post a tale of another knight, Sir Ansolm, this time, as told by a medieval jongleur (jester).
A quick caution: this story contains an "on-camera" rape.
The Dark and Stormy Knight
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2001
The fires burned low in the Great Hall. Here and there, a lord thought about taking that last sliver of roast, or a lady considered the taste of a sweetmeat or a piece of marzipan. But, no, the feast had been elaborate, and there was no one in the hall who was still unsated.
The Baron rose from his place at the high table, and his voice rang through the Hall. "Elgion, Elgion, my jongleur, give us a tale to fill the time. It is too early for bed, yet there is none, I think, who feels like dancing after this most lavish of feasts.
Elgion uncurled his long legs and rose from his place on the steps beside the high table. "Indeed, my Lord Baron. This feast of Master Jassom will happily weight us all down for several days." He puffed out his cheeks and did a mime as if he had a most monstrous of bellies on his spindly frame. When the laughter of this jest had died down, he ran his fingers through his great thatch of straw-colored hair. "Now what tale to tell? This one." He made a face so that he looked to be an old woman. "Or that." Now he howled like one of the Baron's hounds. "I have it. On this winter night, there can be no other."
He bowed low, first to the Baron and his Lady and then to the others in the Hall. "My Lord Baron and Lady Baroness, Father Timson, my noble lords and ladies, I give you the tale of Sir Ansolm."
* * * * *
Sir Ansolm was a fierce knight, well trained and most skillful in the arts of a warrior. Yet, while he knew the ways of a knight: how to fight, to ride, to shoot; he did not know -- and did not care to know -- their true meaning: honor, humility, the protection of those who could not protect themselves.
He fought not to test his skills against a worthy foe or for some noble cause. No, he fought for the pleasure of a wolf, to devour, to destroy his foe in body and in mind. And he fought for the prizes that could be taken when there was none left to stop him.
In his life, Sir Ansolm made many enemies. Yet none could put an end to his evil ways. For Ansolm was not only a fighter of great prowess. He was also the eldest son, and, so, the heir of might Lord. He had the power that his family name commanded as well as his own strength to fight for him. Even his own liege lord, the King could do nothing, for this was a time of disorder, and the King needed the power that Ansolm and his family brought with them.
Winter had come to the land, covering forest and farmhouse and field in its great white cloak. The King sent messengers throughout his realm. He was holding Court at his castle in the West at Twelfth Night. All the great houses were to send their leaders that enmities might be resolved and the kingdom be united for the war that seemed likely in the spring.
Ansolm's father, Baron Sir Malcolm, was, perforce, invited. He rode off to attend with Ansolm's younger brother, Rickhardt, and his finest retainers. Reason was found that Sir Ansolm stay behind. The King, after all, desired that the Court be a time and place of peace.
Man plans, but Fate laughs. As they neared the castle, Sir Malcolm took a chill. The chill became a fever with a great hacking cough. Ansolm's father retired to his rooms to be nursed by the King's own chirurgeon. If his family's voice were to be heard in the King's Court, it must be Sir Ansolm, as the oldest son, who spoke as that voice. Against his better judgment, the King sent for Sir Ansolm.
Sir Ansolm arrived in great humor. He full well knew that he was not wanted, that the King had been forced to not only send for him, but to honor him for the coming. He thought that he had the license to act as he willed at the gathering.
Sir Ansolm was rude, and he was arrogant. He strode the King's halls as if they were his own. And behind his back, plots were laid and knives were sharpened.
In the end, Sir Ansolm betrayed himself into his enemies' hands.
* * * * *
Lady Bertreise was the daughter of a house as noble as Sir Ansolm's own. Yet, where he was dark of feature and spirit, Bertreise was fair of face. Her form was slender as a reed, and she moved with a grace like that of the swans in the King's moat. As fair the outer form, more fair was her spirit and her soul. She was kind to all, ever cheerful, and devoted to her family and her friends.
Sir Ansolm saw her the first night, and he knew that he had to have her. It was not love that touched his heart, though. It was an animal lust that regarded the lady as no more than the servant or the peasant woman. She was a pretty toy to be used for his pleasure and abandoned without a thought.
He tried, it must be said, to woo her in a manner befitting of their station. But the Lady Bertreise had heard much of Sir Ansolm, and none of it was to his merit. She did her best to avoid him, and, when she could not, she made it most clear by her words and actions that she would have naught to do with the man.
On the third night, the King gave a ball for his guests. By chance, Sir Ansolm and Lady Bertreise were matched for a bransle. He held her hand tightly, too tightly. He smiled, but his eyes looked down at her bosom beneath her silken dress and not at her face. When the dance ended, he did not release her hand. "Another dance, my Lady?" He smiled, but it seemed more of a leer.
"I think not, Sir Ansolm." Lady Berteise smiled, but her teeth were clenched. "If I may have my hand back, now."
"Who are you to refuse me?"
"I am Lady Bertreise de Trovel, daughter of Baron Sir Nicholan de Trovel, and I will not be treated as some man's property, especially when that man is a cur and a brigand like you."
Sir Ansolm reached for his knife. He stopped when he looked round the hall. A full dozen men stood ready to meet any challenge he might make, hoping that he would draw live steel, break the King's peace, and give them the right to slay him where he stood. And at their head stood Sir Kay, Bertreise's brother and the King's Champion at sword and shield.
"Bah!" Sir Ansolm dropped Bertreise's hand and stormed from the room. He was not a man to run from a fight, but he knew enough to fight when the advantage was his and not his enemies’. There was time enough before the Court was at an end.
* * * * *
To say that Sir Ansolm was the height of courtesy for the remainder of the Court would be to say a lie. Yet he was quieter than most had ever seen him. He seemed almost chastised, though he was seen to glare at Sir Kay when he thought none were looking. His manner towards Lady Bertreise was cold yet respectful. He watched her, too, at times with a look that a hungry man might give a hot meal.
There were no revels the last night. Most retired early for they planned to leave at first light. Home and hearths were long days of travel away. More so, for the days are short in mid-January. Only a few of the great Lords attended the King. Sir Malcolm, his health restored, was among them. Sir Ansolm was warned to be on his best behavior and left in his chambers.
Had he obeyed his father and remained there, I would have no tale.
Sir Ansolm waited, passing his time with some of the King's wine. While he waited, a servant of his house spied. After a time, that servant knocked at his door. The King and the great Lords were in council and would there remain for some time. Most of the rest of the guests were themselves abed, and, yes, the Lady Bertreise was alone in her chambers not far away.
Sir Ansolm wrapped himself in a fur robe. He lit a candle from the fire in his hearth and made straight away for the rooms of Lady Bertreise. He knocked on her door and spoke in a small voice as a maid might do. Bertreise thought it was, indeed, her maidservant, whom she had sent on an errand. She opened the door but a crack and saw Sir Ansolm. She tried to slam the door in his face, but what was the strength of a young girl against the might of a trained warrior?
He was in her room in a moment and locked the door behind him. He smiled as he looked upon Lady Bertreise. Her blonde hair was undone and hung down far below her shoulders. Her gown was replaced by a light chemise that more than hinted at the form beneath it. She read the lust in his eyes and backed away until she was trapped against the side of her bed.
Sir Ansolm moved to her side. He took her two wrists in his one large hand and held them above her head. With his other hand, he grabbed the collar of her chemise and yanked, ripping it away from her body. He smiled at what was revealed beneath. Then he shrugged off his own robe. He was as naked as she, and she felt his erect maleness press against her thigh.
Lady Bertreise screamed and kicked at that maleness. Sir Ansolm dodged and used her movements to force her legs apart, to force her back onto the bed. She screamed again, but he cut her off by forcing his lips against hers, sticking his tongue into her mouth.
Bertreise felt a hand on her breast. She felt him moving up between her legs, and then she felt him enter her. He pulled his head away from hers, and she screamed again and again. She had been a virgin, and she was not ready for such an experience. Sir Ansolm's brutishness drove any pleasure she might have felt far from her mind or her body.
There was a noise at the door, a hammering. Sir Ansolm, in the midst of ravishing his prize did not notice, but Bertreise did. The door crashed open. Sir Kay, Sir Nicholan, even Sir Malcolm rushed in and pulled Sir Ansolm from Bertreise, even as he screamed and howled that he must be allowed to continue.
The King convened a closed Court to mete justice. Only Sir Malcolm, Sir Nicholan, and their children were present of all of the nobles in the castle. Lady Bertreise, attended by the King’s own chirurgeon, came in, still shaken, but carrying herself proudly for she had done nothing wrong. Indeed, she had shown great courage in her own defense.
Sir Ansolm was tied to a chair. His eyes were wild. He demanded to be released. It was his right, he claimed, to continue ravishing Lady Bertreise, and he demanded justice against those who had stopped him. Even against his own father and brother.
Sir Malcolm sadly shook his head. "My son is mad, Sire. I offer no defense, save that it was my love that might have spoiled him so. If there is a way that he may be shown mercy and allowed to live, I ask that it be done. If not, then I will not say 'Nay' to the justice he deserves."
Then Hrolant, the King's chirurgeon and sage, rose slowly to his feet. "Your Majesty, my Lords, there must, perforce, be justice in all things, but there is an innocent here whose fate must needs be addressed."
"My daughter will see the justice that Sir Ansolm has called down upon his head," Sir Nicholan said.
"Not your daughter, my Lord Baron, but your grandchild. I have examined Lady Bertreise, and she is this night pregnant by Sir Ansolm's deed." There was an uproar in the hall, and Hrolant allowed it for a few moments before he continued. "I do not like this any more than the rest of you, but it happened. It is a fact, and the question is how you will deal with this fact."
"Let the two of them be wed."
Lady Bertreise glared at the men. "Is that your answer? He ravaged me like an animal. And now, because his vile seed is within me, his punishment is that I am to be his wife. I would sooner use his dagger to cut out my own womb and the thing that grows within."
Hrolant took her hand gently, in his own. "There will be no need for that, my child. If the King, your brother, and Sir Malcolm are willing, there is another way."
"What other way, and why is my permission needed?" Sir Kay was suspicious. His sister was pregnant by this arrogant animal. "Why not simply kill him?"
"To kill him is to leave your sister the mother of a child whose father died in disgrace. What future would she have? What future would her child, your own blood, have in this world?"
"So what would you do with Ansolm and with my grandchild?" Baron Nicholan's curiosity was getting the better of his anger.
"If Ansolm were a woman, he could bear and raise the child. And if he -- if she -- were married to Sir Kay, then it would still be your grandchild." Hrolant seemed taller and more filled with power than any, save the King, had ever seen him before.
Sir Kay laughed. "Ansolm as a woman would be a fate he deserved, but do I deserve to be married to the harridan he would most surely become?"
Hrolant laughed. "Of a certainty not, but she would not be the shrew that you fear. As I create her new body and use my magicks to move the infant to her new womb, I can re-shape her soul so that it more closely resembles your own gentle sister. You would have a most kind and loving wife."
Sir Malcolm put a hand on Kay's shoulder. "I do not like the bad blood that now stands between our houses thanks to my mad son. There is no means, no normal means, by which this blood may be set aside except the shedding of more blood. Hrolant's wild idea has merit for how can bad blood exist when two great houses marry?"
The King nodded in agreement. "I will have need of both your houses in the spring. What you decide will have a force felt throughout this kingdom."
Sir Kay looked over at Ansolm who was just beginning to understand what was happening. "Then let it be done. Rid this land of Sir Ansolm and bring me my... bride."
Sir Malcolm and Sir Rickhardt, Sir Nicholan, even the King agreed. "Let it be done."
Ansolm screamed and tried to break free from his bonds, but the knots were well-tied; the rope was new, and it held. Hrolant left the chamber for a few moments, to return in a long blue robe embroidered with odd symbols in green and yellow silk. He carried a large box that he set down and unlocked with a key on a chain from around his neck.
He took out a small pink gemstone, wrapped it in white silk, and tied it to Ansolm's wrist. He mixed several powders with a small bit of wine to form a paste, and this he spread in an odd pattern across Ansolm's bare chest. Ansolm shivered at the old sage's touch. He tried to move, but found that he could not. Something seemed to rob him of his will. He no longer struggled but sat quietly as the man went about his strange work.
At last, Hrolant seemed finished. "The charms and potions are laid. It is now time to evoke them, to fill them with the power to do their work." He stood and began to mutter in a strange language. These were all learned men as well as skilled knights, churchgoing men as well. And, in their youth, both Sir Malcolm and Sir Nicholan had traveled to the Holy Land with the King's father. Yet, none of them recognized more than a few words of what Hrolant said.
There was a glow of power around the old man, a sort of Saint Elmo's fire as one might see on a summer’s night. He made a final gesture, spat a last few words, and pointed at Ansolm. The glow leapt from Hrolant to the symbols on Ansolm's chest. They began to glow, a glow that spread out to cover his entire body.
Ansolm's eyes went wide. His mouth opened as if to speak, but he made no sound. Then the change began.
Ansolm shrank until the ropes hung loose around him, though he made no effort to escape. His muscles faded away as his body grew slimmer. His face grew narrower, his nose smaller. His dark hair grew out, down past his ears, past his shoulders until it hung loose halfway down his back. Ansolm managed to whimper, and they heard his voice grow higher and higher.
His body was no longer that of a fighter. There was a smoothness, a softness to it now, as muscles were replaced by feminine curves. Lady Bertreise reached over and modestly closed Ansolm's robe over the breasts that were growing out from his chest. His legs were still exposed, and the men noticed them develop a most delightful and feminine curve. Suddenly his eyes went wide, and his entire body shivered. A single "Yeep!" escaped her lips.
Hrolant leaned over and tightened the robe around Ansolm's now narrow waist. He lifted one part of the robe and peered within, just a bit below that waist. "It is done. _She_ is done." He lowered the robe, leaving no doubt as to what was now gone from between Ansolm's legs.
"Now for the second part of this great spell." Hrolant mixed a few more powders together and painted a small new design on Ansolm's stomach. Then he bowed low to Lady Bertreise. She seemed to understand. She stood and modestly opened her robe. The other men, even the King, looked away. Hrolant painted a similar design to Ansolm’s onto the Lady’s stomach and had her close her robe.
He gently touched Lady Bertreise's robe just above her stomach. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he raised that hand from her, moved over, and laid it on the stomach of the transformed Sir Ansolm. He said a few more words in that most strange tongue.
Lady Bertreise felt an odd tingling in her body. She looked down and saw a glow appear at the place that Hrolant had touched. The glow formed into a small sphere no bigger than a man's hand. It rose from her, floated through the air, and sank into Ansolm. He seemed as unmoved as before, still trapped and unable to react because of Hrolant's magicks.
"Your betrothed now carries the child, Sir Kay." Hrolant placed his hands on the two sides of Ansolm's head. "Now for the hardest part. It is far easier to re-shape a body than to re-make a soul." He stood in that way for several minutes, looking only over at Lady Bertreise. There was no evil in his manner. It reminded Rickhardt of a painter once summoned to his father's castle to create a portrait of his mother, a woman whose memories he still cherished long years after her death from a fever.
"Done!" Hrolant dropped his arms to his side and took a breath. He looked as if he had done a hard day's physical labor.
Ansolm shook his head -- her head -- as if waking from a dream. She looked around at the men staring at her. Then she saw Lady Bertreise and began to cry. "My Lady, my... sister, I have done you a most horrible evil. I do not deserve it, but, please, I pray you, can you try to find it in your heart to someday forgive me for what I have done."
Lady Bertreise was confused. There was none of Ansolm's male anger in the voice that spoke to her. Instead, it was the voice of a young maid, high, but soft in tone, anxious, almost desperate to be forgiven for his crimes. "Ansolm..."
The new woman shook her head. "No, please, no. Sir Ansolm is still within me. All of his memories are there, but they are the memories of another. I am Lady Annys now, and, if your brother will still have me, I shall this day be his wife and your sister." She looked down as if ashamed. "If not, I shall stay only long enough to bear the child I now carry. Then I will leave the child and be gone, never to trouble any of you again." She looked as if she were on the verge of tears.
Then a great magick touched Sir Kay. Not the magick of Hrolant, though, but a magick that passes between men and women who are truly blessed by its presence. He gently took Ansolm's -- Annys' -- hand in his own. "Leave, Annys? No, you will stay with me as my Lady and my wife, the binder of our family's wounds, and the bearer of the future we shall all have together in friendship." He knelt and kissed her most gently on the cheek. "And in love."
* * * * *
Elgion looked around the Hall. Many were still listening to him, but, here and there, a head was nodding, fighting sleep. "And so, to use an ending many have used before me, 'They lived happily ever after.' I thank you for your kind attention, my lords and ladies, and I wish you all a night of the sweetest of dreams."
Baron Kay looked over at his wife. Baroness Annys was lifting up their younger son, Malcolm, who slept at his place at the high table. "Did you enjoy the tale, my Love?"
The Baroness smiled. "I was truly a thing of evil before your love cured me."
"Not my love, but old Hrolant's magicks."
"No, Kay. Hrolant's magicks gave me the form and the soul of a woman. You showed me the wonder, the joy, and the love that these could offer me." She handed Malcolm to his father, kissing him as she did so.
Elgion came over carrying the older boy, Bertram, on his back like a pony. Aunt Bertreise was also his godmother, and she sometimes teased the boy that he was really hers and only "on loan" to his parents.
Elgion bowed low. "If your Graces wish, gladly will I put these lads to bed. You, it would seem, have much to... discuss."
Baron Kay laughed and handed his son to Elgion. "You, my jongleur, are as wise in your way as your father, Hrolant, is in his." The Baron took his wife's hand, kissed her sweetly on the cheek, and led her off to their bed.
Elgion smiled. "And, as I said before, 'They lived happily ever after.'"
The End
When the people revolt, a dictator and his son use magic to escape to new lives; not the ones they wanted, but the ones that they deserved.
The Dictator
By Ellie Dauber
©, 1999
When the people revolt, a dictator and his son use magic to escape to new lives; not the ones they wanted, but the ones that they deserve.
Firing could be heard at the gates of the Palace Royale.
Fernando Diego Cadiz y Silvero, President for Life of Costa Verde, looked up from the papers he was working on. There would be no time to finish. Some fifteen million pesos that he had hoped to transfer to the Swiss account would remain in his nation's treasury.
‘Well,’ he thought, ‘let the people, those ungrateful bastards, have it. Esteban and I will still have more than enough to comfort and cushion us in exile.’ All that remained was to escape to enjoy it. And Esteban was working on that.
"Father, the helicopter is here." Esteban Cadiz y Silvero, Fernando's son and his Treasury Minister came into the room. The two men regarded each other. Both were tall, muscular men. Esteban's hair and small mustache were jet black, as befit a man still in his mid-thirties. He wore a dark gray business suit, impeccably tailored. He had a dark brown leather briefcase filled with bearer bonds under his arm. A colonel in their nation's air force stood behind him in a flight suit holding a suitcase.
Fernando was in his late 50s. His hair had turned to a deep slate grate and his hairline was receding. He compensated for this with a full beard. As always, he wore the dress uniform of an army general. It was a self-promotion from the day when he and a group of his fellow captains had executed his predecessor and seized the government.
A few of those captains had remained in the government with him. Some had fled overseas, and the rest slept the sleep of honored martyrs. Many of the last had suffered their honored "martyrdom" shortly after disagreeing with Fernando.
Fernando stood. He brushed the papers to the floor. "I'm ready, my son. Let us leave this damned place." He picked up a scrap of paper and laid it on the table. Then he took one last swallow from the whiskey bottle on the table. He poured the rest over the papers on the floor. He picked up the scrap from the table, lit it with his lighter, and tossed it with the rest on the floor. The fire would keep the new government from realizing its financial loss for several weeks.
The three men ran from the room, the pilot in the lead. The helicopter was in the garden outside. They climbed in. The copter took off within minutes. As it climbed over the roofs of the palace, Fernando could see the enemy troops running across the courtyard towards his offices. They could see the smoke from the office window as easily as he could. Then one of them saw the copter. He yelled something and some of the crowd stopped running and fire at the helicopter.
‘Let them shoot,’ Fernando thought. Most of their weapons were small arms and unlikely to be able to do anything to the aircraft. A few might, but they were high up and moving fast. In moments, the palace was far behind.
*****
The helicopter landed in a field near a small farmhouse. The farm was ostensibly owned by an elderly man in the nearby village. In reality, Esteban had bought the farm a year ago. The purchase was shown in the local records as an inheritance that had left the old man with enough money to live in the village and rent the farm out. The "tenant" was a servant of Esteban's sent to work the farm when the rebels had taken the country's eastern province. Fernando had stayed alive and in power for over twenty years by always preparing an escape for himself from any possibly dangerous situation.
A car was waiting. It was an undistinguished old Chevy that was in a much better condition that the bad paint job and dent in one side would let anyone guess. There was a map of the area in the glove compartment and two changes of clothes on the seat, but nobody else was nearby. Esteban's servant had received a coded message some hours before. He was spending the day in the village on the orders of a master he had never met but who had paid him a very large retainer every month.
Fernando and Esteban changed clothes, putting on worn brown slacks and a pair of colorful work shirts. Straw hats helped hide their too familiar features. Their old clothes were folded and stuffed under the seat of the helicopter. Fernando took a set of keys from the pocket of his uniform. He opened the trunk and tossed in his suitcase. He handed the briefcase Esteban had brought to the pilot.
The pilot, a slender man of average height, opened the case. He looked through it quickly, and he smiled a toothy grin. "Gracias, Senors. May your money, wherever it is, make your exile as happy as these bearer bonds will make mine." He closed the briefcase and climbed back into the helicopter. It took off moments later, flying east towards the ocean.
The helicopter must have been over a mile away, barely visible as a speck in the sky, when it vanished in a flash of blue flame. The briefcase had held a bomb as well as almost a hundred thousand dollars in U.S. bearer bonds. It was worth the loss to eliminate a witness to their escape. The two men were already in the car and drove off without a glance at the falling wreckage.
*****
Fernando drove for almost an hour along the narrow back roads. They passed through several small villages and were delayed on more than one instance by villagers celebrating the fall of "El Monstro", the former President. Fernando sat behind the wheel gritting his teeth at these delays. “How dare these fleas dance at the fall of a lion,” he grumbled. Well, he could hardly get out of the car and argue as much as he would have liked to. The whole country was looking for him. He was well rid of such people. Let them laugh. They were trapped in their squalor forever, and he and Esteban would soon be enjoying a well-financed exile in New York.
Eventually, the car came to a halt in front of a large, oddly-shaped group of buildings at the edge of the jungle. Three or four small wooden huts surrounded by a yellow pole fence. Fernando took a large envelop from the suitcase in the trunk. The men slowly advanced on the gate. A single eye could be seen watching through a small opening.
"You have brought the offering," a voice croaked. It was as much a statement as a question.
"We have it" Esteban said. “Is she ready for us?"
"She is always ready for her supplicants; for those with the respect for the old ways."
"We are such men," said Fernando.
Sign and countersign were given. The men heard a latch thrown open and a large bolt pushed back. The gate was pushed by slowly; just enough for the two men to enter. It closed behind them much more quickly.
Only when he had reset the bolt did the gatekeeper turn to speak to them again. He was a dried up husk of a man, no more than five feet tall, thin and almost hairless, wearing a loincloth that looked like a large diaper on a rather undernourished infant. Yet he had worked a gate that had to weigh several hundred pounds and was held in place by a lead bolt almost as long as he was tall and a good foot in radius.
"Come," the gatekeeper said. He motioned to a circular hut in the center of the yard. It looked like a child's pile of sticks held together with string. An acrid purplish smoke rose from a single chimney. Mother Juana was standing on the porch.
The gatekeeper led them to the house. He -- and they -- stopped just short of the single step. “These are the ones who seek your aid, Mother Juana."
"Very good, Herve. Go back to your duty." The gatekeeper nodded and walked back to sit on a small wooden stool near the gate.
Fernando looked at Mother Juana, wondering if the tales that he had heard since his boyhood were all true. She looked as if she had been old even back when he was that boy, playing in the dirty streets of the village not that many miles from here. She was no taller than the gatekeeper, but heavier, almost fat. Her hair was thin and stringy, and one eye had a gray empty look to it. She wore a garish yellow, red, and green peasant dress that hung straight down from her shoulders to her shoeless feet.
He realized suddenly that he was staring. And she was staring back at him. "You do not think that Mother Juana can help you, do you Senor Presidente? You or your brat of a son."
"No, I --" He was in a position that he did not like, he needed someone else more than they needed him. "It is just that I have never met you, Mother Juana, though I have heard of you since I was a boy."
Esteban tried to help. "It is always hard to meet a legend, Mother Juana."
She smiled. "Well said, boy. You always were your father's ‘Little Gallant', were you not?" Both men looked at her in surprise.
"My mother," Esteban said.
"Yes, she called you that as a boy. Long ago before the cancer took her." She smiled a toothless grin at his surprise. "Oh, I know many things about you, boy, and about your father. More than that poor pilot did, certainly."
"And you will still -- you will help us," Fernando asked.
"I help those who ask and do not judge why. That is for They Who Wait, those gods who will judge us when we are dead." Both men crossed themselves from habit. She ignored what another might have thought of as sacrilege against her own gods. "Come with me. All is waiting for you." She turned and walked into the hut.
The men followed. The inside of the hut seemed somehow much larger than the outside. Its floors were tiled. The walls were sturdy and well lit by torches. Piles of large pillows took the place of chairs, though there was a few chairs against the walls. A small altar laden with dark sculpted figures stood in one corner. There were a number of boxes and cupboard against another wall. In the center was a fire pit within a brick circle. A small pot hung from a steel hook over the fire. Something was simmering within it.
Mother Juana turned and faced the two men. "My money, if you please." She put out her hand towards Fernando.
He drew back. "Now so fast, Mother Juana. How do I know that this potion of yours will work as you promised?"
"How do you say such things? I am Mother Juana."
"You are woman who wants to be paid for what she has not yet delivered."
"Have a care, Senor. You are not here as the President, but as a man in great danger, seeking to escape with his life."
They stared at one another for a moment, each taking the other's measure. Then Fernando laughed and handed her the envelope. "Mother Juana, you are all that I have heard about you and more."
Mother Juana took the envelop and shook it out onto the rug near her. She stirred the money, a half million U.S. dollars worth of stocks and bonds with a long stick as if looking for scorpion. "You are all I have heard and less, but the money is here. We shall proceed."
She took the pot down with a pair of silvered tongs, setting it on a steel plate. She filled two metallic looking cups with water from a goatskin sack, then carefully poured a small amount of the potion into each cup. The water hissed and bubbled, only partly from the heat. She handed a cup to each man.
Both hesitated. "Drink," she ordered. "It must be drunk while it is still hot or it will not work." When neither drank, she added, "You have paid me for one dose each. If you let them cool and another dose is needed, another payment will be asked."
Fernando and Esteban looked at each other, grimaced, and took the drink in two quick swallows. It wasn't as hot as they had thought, but it tasted far worse than either had expected. They held their jaws tightly, fighting the urge to retch as they felt it slowly slide down into their stomachs.
They felt a warmth grow in their stomachs. The urge to throw up passed. Then the warmth seemed to spread out from their bellies in every direction throughout their bodies. The warmth was followed by a tingling sensation that felt almost pleasant.
The changes began a moment later. Fernando felt himself grow taller. His hands lost their manicured smoothness, taking on the rough look of a field hand. His bare arms became tanned and more muscular. Then it seemed that he was shrinking, and he looked down. No, he was just developing a more bowlegged stance. He felt his face and discovered that his beard was gone, leaving only a thick mustache above his lip.
Esteban saw himself growing thinner, almost lanky, though with a layer of muscle that suggested a life of heavy labor. His legs, no his entire body, seemed to grow a bit smaller, and his mustache disappeared completely.
The two men looked at each other. It was still obvious that they were related, but there was no trace of either Fernando Diego Cadiz y Silvero or his son. Nor was there any chance that these two men were father and son. Fernando looked like a man in his late twenties, while Esteban was, for all appearances, barely eighteen.
Mother Juana held up a small hand mirror. "Incredible," Esteban said. "I am a boy again."
"And I," Fernando said, rubbing his bare chin in disbelief, "am your older brother. My statement stands proved, Mother Juana, you are far more than people say that you are."
"I thank you, Senor, but you had best be on your way to wherever you are bound."
"One question," Esteban said. “Are we to stay like this, or do we ever regain our true forms?"
"You do not like what you have become, Senor?"
"I am young, I am strong, and I am not the man that those fools are looking for. All this is true, but I would like to see my true face in the mirror once again."
"As would I," Fernando said. "But we cannot come back to this place; not even to this country ever again."
"And you will not have to." She handed each man a small medallion on a chain. Three years ago, the U.S. Vice President had visited Costa Verde. Esteban, as Treasury Minister, had issued a memorial medallion with the crossed flags on the U.S. and Costa Verde on one side and the Statue of Liberty on the other. They were still a common item that could be bound almost anywhere in their country.
"So," Fernando asked.
"So," Mother Juana replied. "Look closely at the medallion."
Fernando did. A number of letters on both sides were scratched. Different letters were scratched on each one. "What is this nonsense?" Esteban asked.
"It is a message; a message in the Old Language to my sister in New York. It starts on the front of your medallion, Senor Presidente, then onto the back and on to your son's medallion in the same way. Put an ad in The New York Times classified section; those words plus your phone number. She will see it, and she will call. Your money has paid for the antidote."
"And that's all?"
"That is all. Now, you must leave."
"Your sister?” Esteban interrupted. “How will she know that we are coming, that she must look for our message?"
"We do not talk. We have not spoken one to the other for years. She reads the ads every day. It is a hobby for her. She says that it helps her with her English."
"Then you are not needed," Fernando said. He had taken off his hat earlier. Now he pulled a small pistol from the concealed holster. Two quick shots and Mother Juana fell to the floor. Esteban ran to the door. The gatekeeper had heard the shot and was running for the house.
"Father," Esteban called. Fernando tossed him the pistol. Esteban took quick aim and fired. The first shot slowed the man. He stopped as the second shot hit him. Then he staggered forward for a few steps and fell to the ground.
Fernando stooped down and pushed the pile of stocks back into the envelope. He turned and bowed towards the body. "Thank you, Mother Juana. Our escape will be your last and greatest bit of magic."
The two men ran to the gate. It took the two of them several minutes to work the giant bolt loose, and they stopped more than once to stare in amazement at the gamekeeper's wizened body. Finally, it sprang open. They used a pole to wedge open the gate. In a moment, they were back in the car, heading down the road towards the coast.
*****
They had been gone for less than five minutes when Mother Juana sat up. She brushed the spent bullets off her rapidly healing body and stood up. It took but a few minutes more to heal Herve, her gatekeeper.
"You were right, my old friend," she said. "They are men without honor."
He took her hand in his two and smiled. "I knew that they could be trusted not to be trusted. That is why I offered our help. Men like them often escape their just punishment. They have come and paid us for theirs."
"Men, indeed, but not for long." Mother Juana smiled and offered him a cup filled with the potion that she had brought with her into the yard. She drank a second dose herself.
In moments, they regained the forms that they had worn for almost 150 years. Mother Juana grew taller as her body thinned. She became a vibrant brunette of thirty. Her lush breast and wide hips strained at the fabric of her dress. Her long feminine legs were revealed as the hem rose up from her shins to her knees. Her hair thickened and turned a dark brown that was almost black as it grew back down to her waist in curly waves.
Herve gained over a foot in height as his body fleshed out, muscle forming on muscle. He was over 6 feet tall with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His loincloth, the only clothing he wore, strained to contain his restored manhood.
The two embraced and went into the hut to celebrate their victory against two much hated men. "A pity that they got to take the money," Herve told her.
"It will return to the people, my friend, have no fear of that," Mother Juana answered. "And there are other riches to life." She kissed him, and they went into the hut to prepare the next phase of their people's vengeance.
*****
Fernando and Esteban sped down the twisting back road as fast as they dared. They were nearing the town of San Miguel, about an hour from the coast at the rate they were driving. "The link onto the main road should be around here somewhere," Fernando said, slowing the car. "See if you can find it on the map."
Esteban looked up from where he had been dozing. There was a man ahead of them standing by the side of the road. "Why not ask that peasant, my fath -- my brother?" They both laughed at the joke.
Fernando stopped the car next to the man. He was standing half hidden in shadow. As the car pulled up, he stepped forward so they could see him. They recognized his wizened form and toothless grin almost at once. The gatekeeper! The wounds from Esteban's two shots were still fresh on his ancient body.
Fernando pushed the gas pedal to the floor and the car sped off, its tires spraying mud behind. "It -- it can't be," Esteban gasped. "We killed them."
"As if your bullets could kill such as we." Both men turned and saw Mother Juana's ancient form sitting in the seat behind them. Fernando pulled over and stopped the car. He and Esteban tried to flee the car, but found that neither lock nor window worked. They were trapped.
"I will do nothing; you have brought this upon yourselves."
"What do you mean," Esteban asked.
"The potion is not done with you. There was a second drug that had to be taken. You did not because you shot us and fled before I could tell you of it. Now you shall change in other ways, and those forms will be the ones that you will wear until you see my sister in New York."
"You do not to intend to kill us, then?" Fernando asked.
"Perhaps I should. You intended to kill me. But I promised you an escape to new lives. I will not let such as you force Mother Juana to break her agreement. Go! Go to your new lives, though they will be nothing like what you had expected." She disappeared Cheshire Cat style, her smile staying long after the rest of her was gone.
The car started again of its own accord and sped down the road. Fernando tried to steer or hit the brake. Esteban grabbed the wheel as well to try and regain control. Nothing happened. The car drove on, taking the curves and twists as smoothly as any human driver might have managed. Fernando released the wheel and watched the car taking each turn. He had no need to keep his hands on the wheel, and so he leaned back in the seat to watch the countryside go past.
Then the two men felt the tingling warmth that marked the transformations spread out through their bodies. They felt their hair grow long, trailing down past their necks. Their bodies lost their muscular appearance as a layer of fat formed beneath their skin and smoothed out their angular forms. The calluses faded from their hands as their fingers grew longer and more supple.
They felt a pressure in their chest and hips. Their shirts felt tight against their chests. The shirts were pushed out, buttons straining, then popping, as they both grew large, feminine breasts. Esteban lifted his and stared at them in wonder. Then he began to fondle them, oblivious to the other changes in his body. He moaned at the strange feelings, his voice growing higher and softer each moment, becoming a woman's voice.
Fernando felt a tightness, as his waist constricted to a narrow 25 inches. He pushed his fingers down into his pants. He was relieved to find his male equipment still there, but it tingled at his touch. He grasped at his penis, only to feel it shrink out of his hand. He tightened his grip. It was shrinking so fast now that it actually seemed to be pulled out of his hand.
He felt his scrotal sack. It was smaller, too, and the skin seemed to be getting tight, pulling up into his crotch. He felt for his testes. He felt only one, and in a moment, it disappeared as well, rising up into his body. The sack continued to shrink, separating to become the lips of his rapidly forming vagina. Fernando groped about, trying to find the last remnant of his penis. He felt his finger enter a warm, moist slit and fell back in the seat in horror. He was a woman.
Father and son looked at one another. Fernando was a tall, voluptuous woman with breasts like two melons, a narrow waist, and hips wide enough to carry any number of babies. Her lips were full and lustrous even without lipstick, and her lashed long and curled.
Esteban was much smaller and of a slighter build. His eyes were large with thick lashes, and his lips pouty. Except for his 36B breasts, which seemed large against his tiny body, he looked more like a girl of 14 than the woman of 18 he had become.
At that moment, the car began to slow. There was a turn in the road ahead, but this time there was no invisible force to guide the car. It drove straight ahead and crashed into a stone fence.
Esteban was knocked forward. He hit his head against the dashboard and lost consciousness. Fernando threw himself sideways across the seat at the last instance and was knocked to the floor by the impact.
Fernando climbed back up onto the seat. There was the beginning of a large bruise on his forehead. A small cut above Esteban’s right eye was bleeding slightly. His breathing and pulse seemed regular, but Fernando expected that he would need a doctor.
They had seen no other traffic in either direction on this back road. Fernando got out and looked at the front of the car. It was stove in from the force of the accident. There was no chance of it moving again without major work.
Fernando vaguely remembered that passing a sign saying that there was some sort of government outpost a kilometer or two ahead on the road. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to ignore the feel of the material against his sensitive breasts. There was no chance that he would be recognized for who he truly was. He picked up his hat from the seat as a shield against the afternoon sun and began walking.
*****
The walk was longer than Fernando had expected, almost five kilometers. He was tired and drenched with sweat when he saw the sign for the fire watch station. There were similar stations all through this province, high towers manned by a staff of four men who spent a year on duty watching for any sign of fire.
Fernando had first established them as a legitimate effort to deal with the too frequent forest fires in the province. But he had allowed them to become cushy assignments for lazy militia members or anybody else who had the influence to get a job that involved little work for reasonably good pay. They were sparsely furnished, but there would be food, water, a place to rest, and a telephone to call for the nearest doctor.
It also had four lonely men, three in the station and the fourth up in the hilltop watchtower at any time.
*****
Manuel Ortega was sitting on the porch wondering for the thousandth time why he had signed up for the fire watch. The money was good enough for a poor peasant like him, but the prospect of another eight months stuck at the station, with very little to do and the same three other faces to look at was beginning to get to him.
He heard a voice and looked up from the sports magazine he'd been pretending to read. A woman, a beautiful woman, was coming up the path. She was tall and young. Her shirt was open almost to the waist revealing a pair of very interesting breasts. The rest of her looked as promising, but it was hard to tell in the rough peasant clothes she wore.
She ran the rest of the way to the porch, collapsing in a chair in the welcome shade. "Car," she panted, accident... five kilo north... son-sister hurt... please... call." Manuel stood, watching those lovely breasts rise and fall as she gasped out her message. She wore no brassiere, and he longed to fondle her prominent nipples. But duty called. He ran into the house and phoned the doctor in a village a couple of kilometers north of the accident. They even had a small hospital there if this angel's son or sister needed it.
Carlos and Tomaso had been in the house playing cards. They were about to ask why he had hurried with the phone call, when Fernando walked in. He had caught his breath and now just wanted some water and a ride back to the car. Both men stared at this wonder, a beautiful woman there in front of them. Her face was flushed from the walk, her shirt was open nearly to her waist showing much of the curve of her breasts. They felt themselves harden just as Manuel had.
"I just wanted --" Fernando had wanted to ask for some water. But now he felt a strange warmth spread through his new body. He felt his nipples erect, growing hard as two little rocks as they pushed against his shirt. There was a warmth and a wetness in his crotch, as if he had spilled coffee there, and a sudden growing feeling of emptiness down there, as well.
The same invisible presence that had driven the car seemed to take over his body. He smiled, and his body shifted to a more feminine posture. He walked over to Manuel, a sensuous walk with hips and butt swaying. "I wanted to thank you for helping me." He lifted his arms up around Manuel's shoulders and kissed him deeply.
Fernando was horrified and tried to stop. He couldn't. His body, his very feminine body, was in control. He felt Manuel's arms close around him, pulling him close. His breasts were crushed against Manuel's chest, and he felt Manuel's maleness pushing at his groin. He wanted to push this man way, to run. Instead, he heard himself moan and felt himself rubbing against the man's loins exciting him further.
Manuel broke the kiss and looked at this strange woman not believing his luck. "Is this a joke? How much do you want to thank me?"
‘I want nothing,’ Fernando thought. ‘Let me go, you peasant.’ But he found that he could not say such things. Against his will, his hand reached down to touch Manuel's penis, as it strained against his pants. Fernando ran a finger along the length of it, feeling it twitch in response. He heard himself giggle, “Oh, very, very much."
Even while his mind screamed for him to stop, he took Manuel's hand and led him past the other two men towards what had to be their bedroom. "Then I will thank your two handsome friends." As he closed the door behind them, Fernando looked back smiling and added, “They can play cards to see who I get to thank first."
*****
Esteban sat propped up in his hospital bed. He had been there for five days recovering from the accident. There was a single stitch in his forehead, and it was still a little tender, but otherwise he felt fine.
Or as fine as a thirty-five year old man who has been changed into a teenage sex kitten could feel. Every male in the hospital had been in to see him. And several of the women as well. The doctors and technicians had examined or tested him. The rest had just leered. A few, including one older doctor, had pointed out that since he was already in a bed....
Esteban shuddered at the thought and pulled his bed jacket around him. The jacket was on loan from a sympathetic nurse, one who was herself only too familiar with the attitudes of the staff towards pretty female patients. It was pale blue trimmed in darker blue lace at the neck and cuffs, very pretty and very feminine.
There was a knock at his door. "May we come in, Esperanza?" It was Dr. Alverez, a kindly man in his late fifties. He was one of the few who had not treated Esteban -- who had called herself Esperanza when they brought her in -- as a patient and not a sex object.
"Yes, please," Esteban told him.
Alverez entered. He was tall and thin with the long supple fingers of the surgeon that he was. He primped a little as he entered, pushing back the few wisps of gray hair that were all he had left atop his head. "My dear Esperanza, you are too healthy to keep in this place any longer, so I am forced to release you in spite of the wishes of most of the staff. There remains, I am afraid, only one question."
"What is that, Doctor," Esteban asked. ‘Free,’ he thought. ‘Free to find Father and escape this place. Free to get my manhood back.’
"How will you pay?" A short, rather fat man about Esteban's real age had entered. He wore a white suit that was too small for him and a pair of thick glasses that fell down low on his hooked nose. The effect would have been sinister if it weren't so funny. Esteban thought he looked familiar, but he wasn't sure.
"This," Dr. Alverez announced, is Senor Hidalgo, the owner of this hospital and almost everything else in this part of the province." He sounded embarrassed at having to make the introduction.
"Enough pleasantries” Hidalgo snapped. “Young woman, your bill is 1273 pesos. You had no money when you came to us, no sign of family or friends. We cannot even claim your automobile, since it was so badly wrecked. How will you pay?"
"I -- I cannot, senor. I must throw myself on your mercy. Perhaps I can work it off here?" Esteban did not like the idea, but agreeing to work at the hospital seemed like the only way to get out of the role of patient. ‘These people are peasants,’ he thought, ‘even Hidalgo. It should be easy to sneak away.
"Oh, you shall work it off, but not here at the hospital,” the man spoke in a formal tone. “I, hereby, invoke the Public Debtors' Law. I will pay your bill, and you will be indentured to me for a period of at least one year."
The Debtor's Law! Esteban had written the law himself. It was a re-working of an old law from the colonial days that he and his father had used many times. Pay off a man's debt, and he becomes your servant, no, your slave until a court decides that he has worked off the debt.
Fernando appointed the courts. More than one of their political enemies had disappeared into the mines or the jungle after Fernando or Esteban used public funds to buy up all of their debts. It was as effective as jailing a man, and harder for those meddlesome fools at places like Amnesty International to prove.
"Very well," Esteban said. "I agree."
"I do not remember asking you. It is already done. Come, doctor. We will wait outside while my newest 'employee' dresses."
"Esperanza," Dr. Alverez apologized, “I am truly sorry." He lowered his head and followed Hidalgo out the door.
Esteban took off the bed jacket and laid it on a chair. Lucinda, its owner, was on duty this shift and could reclaim it any time. She had been kind for no reason, and Esteban felt a strange need not to betray her.
He took his clothes from a drawer. Despite his new, smaller size, his undershorts were tight going over his broad hips. He found that he had the same problem with his pants and had to tie the belt in a knot to keep them from sliding down from his narrow waist. He put on the work shirt but only buttoned it part of the way. He did not want the rough cloth rubbing against his bare nipples. Yet, when he saw how much of his breasts the shirt showed, he buttoned it to the collar. He put on his sandals, readjusting the laces for his now tiny feet, and opened the door.
"I am ready," he said.
Dr. Alvarez was strangely quiet as he walked down the hall with Esteban and Hidalgo. As the pair left the hospital, he stood in the door and waved. "Goodbye, Esperanza, and good luck."
Hidalgo turned and sneered. "Not goodbye, fool. You can visit her anytime. Anytime you have the money."
A horrible realization came to Esteban. Hidalgo! Miguel Hidalgo was known in the capital as the owner of the best brothel in the province. And he had just bought Esteban.
Esteban panicked looking for a place to run. Hidalgo noticed. "Ah, my dear Esmeralda, so you have heard of me. If you try to run, I will have to send Reymundo after you."
"Reymundo?"
Hidalgo snapped his fingers, and a giant stepped out of the shadows. "This is Reymundo." The man was almost seven foot tall without an ounce of fat. He wore black slacks and a torn black muscle shirt. His arm just above the wrist was almost as thick as Esteban's leg at the thigh. Yet he moved as silently as a ghost.
Esteban smiled weakly. "He -- hello, Reymundo." The giant looked down at the transformed man and smiled, the smile of a fox looking at a rabbit. Esteban took the only course that seemed safe. He cowered in as close to Hidalgo as he possibly could.
"You see, Reymundo. She is more than willing to cooperate once the truth is explained to her."
The hospital stood on one side of the village's main square. At the opposite side was a large masonry building that looked like it might once have been a bank. Reymundo opened the door, and Esteban and Hidalgo went inside.
They were in a small anteroom with a cloakroom and attendant on one side, an ornate wooden desk on the other. A rather elegantly dressed older woman sat behind the desk. She wore a black, off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. Her silver blonde hair hung down to her shoulders, and her make-up was both elegant and understated. She looked up from a book as they entered. "Is this the one you spoke of, Senor Hidalgo?"
"Yes," Hidalgo replied. "Is everything in readiness as I directed?"
"Of course," she said, standing up. "All of the interested parties are inside. They have been here for almost an hour eating and drinking. No our best, of course, since it is free, but good enough to loosen their wallets."
"Excellent." He took Esteban's arm and gave it to the woman. "Prepare her. You have thirty minutes."
The woman looked Esteban up and down with a professional eye. "Not a great deal of time, but she has potential. I shall do my best."
"And you shall have thirty minutes to do it in." He turned to Esteban. "Go with Sofia. If you misbehave, Reymundo will be in to discipline you."
Sofia took Esteban's wrist and lead him through a narrow door in a corner. “What was all that about," he asked as they walked through the door.
"My dear, you are unique, a beautiful twenty year old virgin. Oh, do not deny it. Most of the doctors at the hospital work for Hidalgo. He and I have seen most of your medical record. But to get back to the point, Hidalgo owns you, and he owns your virginity. Except that he is auctioning that off in a half hour to the highest bidder."
"What! But he can't? I -- I won't."
"He can, and you will. Some of the wealthiest men in Costa Verde are waiting to bid. They've seen your picture and read the records. It should be quite exciting. You should be flattered."
"I'm not." Esteban tried desperately to find a way to escape. They had walked up a narrow stairway and were now walking down a hall, all without windows. The only way out was the way they had come, and Reymundo was at the end of that route.
Sofia opened a door and they walked into what looked like an actor's dressing room. It was well lit with a row of large make-up tables and chairs along one wall. Two other walls were lined with racks that held a wide variety of exotic female costumes.
"Take off those clothes," Sofia ordered. Esteban hesitated. In these clothes, he might pretend to be just another peasant. In any of those revealing outfits, well it would be only two obvious what he was. Sofia glared at him a moment, then slapped his face. "I said take them off. My dear, I am not as nice as I appear to be."
Esteban was stunned by the sudden blow. He meekly stepped out of the sandals. He unbuttoned the shirt and laid it over a chair, then undid his belt and pulled both pants and undershorts down past his hips. He let go of the material, and they fell around his ankles. He lowered his head, embarrassed at what he was doing.
Sofia smiled. "A little shy, too; how charming." She looked at him a moment. "I have just the thing." She walked over to one rack and pulled out a hanger with a swirl of pink lace hanging down from it. She handed Esteban the hanger. "Here. This will suit you perfectly, but don't put it on just yet."
It was a pink babydoll nightie, cut low in front with a frilled pink ruffle at the neckline and puffy short sleeves. It looked shorted than the shirt that Esteban had been wearing. It was sheer enough to see the matching panty that hung beneath it on the hanger.
Sofia rummaged through a drawer in one of the make-up tables. "Ah, the very thing." She pulled out a garter belt in almost the same shade of pink as the nightie and a pair of stockings. "Put these on first, then the nightie."
‘Is she serious?’ Esteban thought. Sofia read his hesitation and raised her hand in a threatening gesture. "I can hit you again, my dear, or I can call for Reymundo. He would be delighted to see you again. Especially dressed as you are now."
It was a threat that Esteban was hardly ready to face. He laid the nightie over a chair, took the garter belt, and wrapped it around his narrow waist, fastening the three clasps in front. Then he sat in one of the chairs and unrolled the stockings. He balled one up and put it over his toes as he had seen any number of women do in the past. The thought that, now, he was the woman, now chilled him, but there was no way to escape.
Esteban carefully pulled the stocking up his leg. He was grateful for his short nails. He could only imagine Sofia's reaction if he got a snag or run in the stocking. He attached the stocking to the front garter from the belt. Then he repeated the entire process with the other stocking. He stood and twisted at the waist to attach the rear garters.
He could feel the material like a spider web against his skin. The garters were pulled tight against his thigh. The stockings were low and the garters long, revealing a length of creamy thigh and framing his female groin. Esteban took the panty off the hanger and stepped into them. As he pulled them up his legs and onto his hips, he was troubled by the sudden thought that he hoped he looked pretty in these new clothes.
Pretty! That was the last thing he wanted. He had suffered such thoughts on occasion in the hospital, but he had told himself that it was just the drugs. The thoughts always passed. But he was not on any drug now, though he might wish, in a short while, that he were. In the hospital it had been easy to distract himself. Now he was in a brothel and about to be sold as some man's sexual partner. Such feminine thoughts would be far harder to lose. This was not a good thing.
He felt the panty's elastic at his waist, felt the material lay flat against his female mound. And he felt Sofia's eyes staring at him. "Hurry," she commanded. "Do not think for a moment that Hidalgo enjoys being kept waiting." Esteban took the nightie of the hanger and lifted it up over his head. He put his arms into the sleeves and let it slide down his body. The material was soft and silky. It seemed to caress his skin as it slid into place.
"Sit," Sofia directed, "but do not touch anything. I will do your make-up after I finish your hair." Esteban sat in chair and pulled it in next to one of the tables. Sofia leaned over and turned on the lights on the mirror behind the table. She picked up a brush and began working on his hair.
Sofia brushed and combed the hair, parting it in the middle into two long strands. "You have lovely hair," she said. "I wish that there was time to braid it, but Hidalgo would have a fit. These will have to do." She took two lengths of pink ribbon and tied his hair into twin ponytails with ornate bows. Narrower ribbons were tied in small bows at the end.
"Now the face," she sat sitting on the edge of the make-up table. "Purse your lips." Esteban did and tasted an oily sweetness as she applied something. A second coat of something else went over the first. She patted some kind of powder to his cheeks, and then had him close his eyes. He felt a tug at his lashes. A moment later, her fingers were gently rubbing something on his eyelids. He was about to open his eyes when he felt a tug at his eyebrows. Then several more tugs as Sofia pulled out a few hairs.
"You're ready," her voice said. "Open those pretty eyes and look at yourself."
Esteban looked, and his jaw dropped. He saw a pretty -- a very pretty girl of perhaps fifteen. Her lips were a shiny pink and very full. Her cheekbones were high. Her eyes were much bigger than he remembered his ever being and surrounded by a subtle shading that seemed to suggest both innocence and mystery. He was ashamed to be seen this way, but something, something deep within him, was pleased at his beauty.
"Now stand and see the whole effect." As if in a trance, Esteban stood. There was a mirror running the length of the wall behind the make-up tables. Esteban had tried not to look at himself before. Now he looked. If his face was that of a girl in her early teens, his body was most assuredly that of a woman. It was displayed in a nightie that concealed nothing, not his large rounded breasts, nor his narrow waist, nor the full, womanly curve of his hips. The stockings called attention to the delightful length of his shapely legs and the feminine mound at her groin. It was a body that begged for sex and promised much to whomever gave it to her.
If Esteban had been a man and had seen such a woman, he would have been ready in an instant to bed her. He was still aroused by the beauty, but that arousal showed itself in a hardening and extension of his nipples and a pleasant warmth in his groin. He realized that he was turning himself on, but he could not help himself. He smiled at the sensations flooding his new body.
Sofia nodded and smiled. "Ah, how beautiful, my dear." She reached out and pinched Esteban's nipple. He moaned softly at the pleasant shock from her touch. "And how ready. It is time to go, now." She opened another door, but then stopped.
"I forgot the shoes. What an old woman I am." There was a stack of boxes next to one of the racks. She pulled out a box and handed it to him. "Do not be surprised, my dear. Not all of the examinations in the hospital were for medical reasons. We know all your sizes."
Esteban opened the box. Inside, was a pair of woman's pumps with a narrow two inch heel. He shook his head. "I -- I am not used to such shoes. Please do not be mad, Sofia, but I have never worn heels; not once in my life."
"Peasants!" Sofia sighed. "Well, I do not have the time to teach you now." She handed him another box. These held sandals with a wide, one-inch heel. "These will have to do." He put them on and took a step. They felt strange, but he could manage. They weren't that different from the heeled boots that he had worn for riding his horse.
"Good," Sofia said. "But now we are almost late." She took his hand and lead him down another hall and down a second flight of stairs. There was door at the bottom. They went through it. Hidalgo was waiting inside. He smiled broadly and looked Esteban over.
"My dear Sofia, you have outdone yourself. She will bring an excellent price, probably even higher than I had expected."
"Thank you, Senor. Shall I make the announcement?"
When Hidalgo nodded, Sofia stepped through a curtain that hung along the entire length of one wall. There was a murmur of voices from the other side. "Welcome, gentlemen," Her voice came back through the curtain. "I thank you all for coming to this afternoon's little auction."
"Start already," came a yell. Esteban could hear other voices yelling for Sofia to start.
"Very well, gentlemen.," said Sofia. "I am sure that your eagerness will be reflected in your bids. So let us begin by showing what you will be bidding on."
The curtains parted. Esteban stood transfixed. He was standing on a stage. He looked out from the darkness onto a room filled with chairs where perhaps two dozen men sat. Wealthy men, some of whom he recognized from his life as Finance Minister. He felt a sudden push from behind and stumbled forward through the opening in the curtain. A spotlight hit him, and he instinctively put up an arm to shield his eyes.
"Muy Buena… Lovely", the crowd was most appreciative.
Esteban felt unable to move, as if he were pinned by the light. He could hear the men making all manner of lewd comments about his new body. Several boasted of what they intended to do to it when they had won the auction. He was terrified. Then, to his horror, he felt a warmth growing in his breasts and his groin. It seemed to gather strength and flow out to every portion of his body. He shuddered for a moment at its intensity and found that he had lost control of his body.
He smiled and lowered his hand from before his eyes. One knee bent and his hips tilted, the classic female stance. Then he began to walk, strutting from one side of the stage to the other and back. It was a sexy walk, his hips cocking and re-cocking, his ass swaying with each step. Then back to the center of the stage, where is hands moved up to begin caressing his breasts. The men hooted and applauded.
"The auction begins, gentleman," Hidalgo said from a low podium that seemed to appear in a corner of the stage. "This virgin --"
He was interrupted by catcalls from the audience. "Virgin," someone yelled. "Only an experienced woman knows how to arouse a man like that."
"Gentlemen," Hidalgo said. "Have I ever lied to you?" When several voices yelled, “Yes!", Hidalgo told them, “Yes, but you have all seen the report from Dr. Alverez, and you know that he doesn't lie. He says that this woman is a virgin."
"Ask her!" somebody yelled and the crowd picked up the shout. "Ask her!"
Hidalgo walked over to where Esteban was standing. He held a hand mike in front of Esteban. "My dear, these men wish to know if you are a virgin."
Esteban found himself smiling. "I am," he said, but I don't want to be." Esteban was horrified at what he was saying and at the high, throaty, voice that he was speaking in. "Please, please someone release me from that terrible innocence." He leaned over and kissed the microphone, then ran his tongue across the top of it. The sound over the speakers was not unlike that of a large cat purring.
"I will be so grateful to the man who helps me lose my virginity." Esteban stepped back from the mike and cupped his breasts with his hands, sending jolts of sexual energy through his body. He wanted to stop this. He begged any angel or saint that would hear him to stop this, but his body continued to rebel against him. A hand snaked down to caress his groin, rubbing at the lips of his vagina. He felt himself growing hot and wet.
The bidding began at 1,000 pesos and rose quickly. The bidders' ranks did not thin until it was over 10,000 pesos. Eventually, the winner was Raul Vargas with a bid of 37,500 pesos. Vargas was a political crony of his father's regime, one of the sergeants who had helped Fernando seize power.
Vargas had used his influence to buy up a number of small businesses, which he wove together into an industrial cartel that controlled a large portion of the national economy. The regime had changed, but Vargas obviously still had enough connections to feel safe. He was a small man about five years younger than his father, with beady eyes and only a narrow fringe of graying hair around his ears.
He ran down from his seat and jumped up onto the stage. He walked over to Esteban and grabbed him, pulling him close. Then he kissed Esteban on the mouth, hard, passionately. Esteban responded. He opened his mouth to receive Vargas' tongue and pressed himself up against Vargas' body.
‘No, please, no!’ Esteban's mind screamed, even as his hand reached down into Vargas' pants. He found Vargas' penis and massaged it, feeling it lengthen and grow hard within his fingers. ‘I don't want to do this,’ Esteban thought. ‘I cannot be doing this.’ Then another voice within him added, ‘Not with such an ugly man, not with one with such a tiny penis.’
Esteban's nipples were hard, begging to be caressed. He felt a yielding hunger growing in his groin. It was a need that he had never known, and it demanded his attention. He kept fighting, but his body was acting on its own. He broke the kiss and took Vargas' hand. "Shall we go somewhere, my lover, so I can give you what you just bought?"
Vargas grinned and looked at Hidalgo. "The price included the use of my facilities," Hidalgo replied. “Sofia will take you to the 'bridal suite.' There is champagne cooling, should you want it."
Esteban's body tingled -- no, throbbed with anticipation. He grabbed the mike from Hidalgo. "And when we are done, and I am no longer a virgin, I will be back to thank as many as possible of you for wanting to help." ‘Oh, my Lord,’ Esteban thought. ‘I cannot be saying such things.’ But his body was still as control, as he was led away by Vargas. It threw kisses to the crowd and shouted, “To thank you in the best way that I can."
*****
Fernando was awake, lying next to Tomaso in the small storeroom that had been fitted out as a second bedroom. He thought back on the last few days. He? That hardly fit anymore. ‘I am a woman now,’ he thought. ‘Fernando Diego Cadiz y Silvero is gone; only Felice remains.’
Felice. The name meant “happiness", but the first days at the station had been a nightmare. One of the men had only to look at her, and her body took control. She acted the part of the seductress no matter how hard she tried to figh it.
Then the erotic spell was gone. But Felice discovered that she had become physically addicted to her new lovers. It began as an itch in her groin or a tingling in her breasts. It grew stronger as she tried to ignore it. Finally, she could think of nothing else but the hunger of her body. She would find herself moaning, stroking her body, begging attention from the men. And when they responded -- one or, sometimes, more than one of them -- she would be unable to resist whatever they demanded.
She had exhausted Tomaso the night before, having sex with him for over an hour before he fell asleep. He was still snoring peacefully, while she lay next to him. Her body was itself asleep, making no demands on her.
There was a small clock on a shelf near the makeshift bed. It was almost 10 AM. The feelings would begin again by noon, and by mid-afternoon, she would be an animal in heat. The only uncertainty was which man -- which men -- would take her.
An escape was impossible. She could read the map on the wall in the main room. There were only small villages for several hours travel. She had no money, no clothes beyond the man's garb that she had been wearing. (Mostly, she just walked around the station wearing a shirt and sandals.) And she had the hunger in her body.
The men were crude, but they protected her. There was no way to even guess what would happen to her in any of those villages. No, staying here, being the station whore seemed somehow better. ‘Someday,’ she thought, ‘someday, I will be able to escape.’
*****
Esperanza moaned. The feeling was becoming too strong to resist. She had locked herself in the bedroom after the last man, praying as she always did, that she could control herself. Then it began again. She felt her nipples begin to tingle. She tried to ignore the sensation, but it grew stronger.
She took a shower, as cold as she could stand, in the small bathroom. Then she sat in a chair letting her body slowly dry. A towel would just have awakened the feelings again. But they had come back anyway, just taken longer. They were stronger than before, and, now, they had spread to her groin. The hunger was growing, growing faster than she could hope to control it.
She sighed and went over to the dresser in the corner. She took a white bustier and matching thong panty and garter belt from one drawer. She held the bustier in her two hands and leaned forward into it, fastening it behind her. The garter belt went on next, followed by the panty. It barely covered her genitals. She could wear it now, since a client" had shaved her public hair the day before.
She pulled two stockings expertly up her legs, fastening them to the garters. Then she stepped into a pair of white shoes with three inch spiked heels. Esperanza was used to walking in them now. She unlocked the door and walked slowly down to the parlor, hips and ass swinging suggestively as she walked.
The hunger grew stronger as she walked. ‘Soon,’ she told her body. She had never had to wait very long before someone selected her as partner. The hunger would soon be satisfied for a while, and she could be a person instead of a rutting animal.
Escape was not possible at present. Hidalgo was too powerful in this place. But she had time. She would watch and wait, and someday find some way to freedom.
*****
Felice and Esperanza could not know -- would never know that they were bonded to their new lives by one last part of Mother Juana's spell. The spell would make it seem that life at the station or at Hidalgo's brothel were the best place for them to be. It would even build the false hope that by staying in these places they might someday escape.
Eventually, the addiction to sex would fade into the normal drives of two young, sexually active women. By that time, the two would not only have accepted their new lives, they would discover, to their horror, that they preferred their new lives.
Esperanza would spend her life at the brothel, becoming a servant when she was too old to work “upstairs." Felice would remain and the station, greeting and serving each new team of forest watchers in their turn. First as Felice, the station whore, and then as Mother Felice, cook and housekeeper.
Fernando Diego Cadiz y Silvero had used his mind to take control of his people and to force them to serve him in luxury for many years. Now Fernando and his son and ally, Esteban, were gone. In their place were Felice and Esperanza, who were ruled by their bodies and who would spend as many years serving the most basic needs of the men of the province.
It was, Mother Juana thought, the sort of new lives the two men deserved.
The End
The First Known Case of Biker Virus
By Ellie Dauber © 2016
The first known case of Biker Virus was reported to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) in April 2014.
Daniel Scolby, a 28-year old tech specialist for a Best Buy store in Fayetteville, PA, was visiting friends in Boca Raton, FL. He awoke one morning complaining of muscle spasms in his arms and legs. About thirty minutes later, his hair began a spurt of rapid hair growth, reaching shoulder length in a matter of minutes. Within an hour, he had undergone a complete male to female transformation.
However, Scolby was not the small, submissive, voluptuous female that usually results from infection by the Bimbo Virus. He was somewhat taller, with a lean, athletic body, albeit with 38-D breasts. She ripped off her clothing and proceeded to force her astonished friend to engage in a sex act with her, one in which she maintained a dominant role.
After the sex, she agreed to accompany her friend/lover to a physician's office. However, she forced him to stop en route to buy clothing, a rather scanty lace bra and panty set and a pair of white leather pants and a matching halter top.
The doctor's findings showed her to be female. A swab of her gums taken that day and later subjected to genetic testing, revealed her DNA to be XX. When the doctor attempted to perform a gynecologic exam, she punched him in his solar plexus, grabbed his wallet, and fled. In the parking lot outside the doctor's office, she hot-wired a motorcycle and drove off at high speed. Scolby, it should be noted, had no known previous experience with motorcycles, as rider or mechanic.
Scolby now calls herself "Snakeskin." She is living with Jack "Hammer" Pollard, leader of a local biker gang, Satan's Wrath. She usually rides with the gang, and she has resisted any attempts to change her back.
Since Scolby, 184 other cases of Biker Virus have been reported. The symptomology suggests that it is a mutant strain of the Bimbo Virus, and, as with the Bimbo Virus, there is no cure. Victims become tall, physically aggressive young women (18-27) with high libidos, particularly for bondage and dominance sex. The name reflects the fact that, of the 185 known cases, 179 of the new women have joined biker gangs, most often as active participants in the gang's violent and criminal behavior.
* * * * *
Author's Note: This story was inspired by a hyperboard discussion on FictionMania a while back, a thread called "Bike Fever." I forget what the topic was about, but the title gave me the idea for this quick gargoyle. For those who don't know, a gargoyle is what I call a short story written as a break from a longer piece, in this case, the second Jessie Hanks adventure.
Since hyperboard messages now vanish after twenty-eight days, I'm posting it as a story. Let me know what you think of the tale. I'll call it an Open Universe if others want to use it, but PLEASE, no excessive violence. Humor, in fact, is preferred.
When Phil McNierney agreed to be a guinea pig for Andy Hoffmann’s new serum, he didn't know what the serum, a little hypnosis, and his own mind would get him into. Still they were best friends, and didn’t Phil trust Andy?
The Fishing Trip
By Ellie Dauber © 1999
"You know, people only use fifteen percent of their brain capacity," Andy said.
"Speak for yourself, Andy," Phil replied.
"No, I'm serious." We can test for brain activity with EEGs, positron emission systems, and the like; never seems to be more than about fifteen percent. It's like there's blocks to keep us from using more."
"So?"
"So! Phil, you're a fairly smart guy; partner in that big law firm within a couple years."
"Junior partner."
"Even so, that's pretty good from what you tell me. That's with only fifteen percent of your brain working. Imagine if you were able to work with your entire brain capacity."
"Ha! I'd rule the world." He laughed good naturedly at the joke, and Andy joined him.
The two men were an odd pair. Andy was Dr. Andrew Hoffmann, M.D., Ph.D., professor of psychology at Whitmere University. He was a tall, slender man with thinning sandy color hair worn long. He was dressed, as usual, in a sweater over a work shirt and tie and a pair of faded jeans. His hands were in constant, expressive motion as he spoke.
Phil was Philip J. McNierney, junior partner at Chase, Allen, and Rice, one of the most prestigious law firms in the city. He was a handsome man of average height, wearing a three piece suit and tie that made him look as if a GQ ad had come to life. His wavy black hair was cut in the short, conservative style favored by his firm's managing partner.
The two men had met in high school and surprised themselves as much as everyone else by becoming best friends, even though they came from entirely different backgrounds. Andy's father worked on the docks and his mother waited tables. Phil's father had turned the small manufacturing company he had inherited into a multi-million dollar corporation with interests across the U.S. Both boys were top students, though, and among the best athletes in their school.
But even when they had been rivals for the same sports trophy, the same academic honor, even for the same girl, they had never let it interfere with their friendship. Phil had once joked that they even competed to see who had the best explanation for why they remained friends. Both men claimed to have come up with the answer that they usually gave, "Being able to compete against him makes me look good."
They even had a joke worked out. If they were together when someone asked, one of them (they kept track and took turns) would give the answer. Then they would say "Besides, I usually win." in perfect unison and glare at each other until somebody got the joke.
Now they were in The Legal Eagle, a bar near Phil's office to celebrate. Phil had just won a major civil case with a settlement of close to $20 million the day before. Andy's research grant was being renewed for another two years at a substantial increase in funding.
"Tell me again what this big grant of yours is for,” Phil said.
"Okay, if we didn't need all that extra capacity for something, I don't think we'd have it. I'm trying to find out what we do use it for."
"Makes sense; but if you can't track it with any of those fancy gadgets, how do you even know that it's being used?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. I have a hunch that it gets used -- some of it, at least -- at the subconscious level."
"Doing what?"
"Running all those things we need to keep living but never think about; keeping our hearts beating, remembering to breathe, stuff like that. I think I can use this new drug that I've been working on to tell it to do something else."
"Make somebody's heart stop beating or make them forget to breathe? The Law takes a dim view of that, Andy."
"No, look -- suppose I could give my stuff to somebody who lost his hand in an accident and tell him that it was going to grow back. His brain believes it, and it tells the stump to grow a new hand. Would that be useful?"
"Your stuff can do that? Tell me, you did incorporate last year, didn't you?"
"C'mon, you did the papers. In fact, I think you're one of the officers in the corporation, you, my Dad, and me."
"I know. I just wanted to remember how it happened that I got to be so rich so young."
"You're not rich yet. I haven't proved that it works yet. All my test subjects to date have been animals. I can show that it doesn't do any harm, and that it seems to activate some sections of the brain that we've never seen working before. But you can't tell a wounded dog to grow a paw back. You can, but it won't understand."
"So you need a human subject?"
"Yeah, and the paperwork to get approval for human experimentation is frightening. The application must be a good thousand pages, and it needs to be done in quintuplicate. It'll take me the rest of this grant period just to get the thing filled out and approved."
"What if somebody filed a waiver stating that they were fully aware of all the risks, taking full responsibility on themselves, and absolving you or the university of any possible blame or fault?"
"Maybe, if it was absolutely airtight -- wait a minute, what exactly are you saying?"
"I'll take the stuff."
"No way am I going to do that! You're crazy."
"No, I'm perfectly sane. I'll toss in a statement to that effect from the psychiatrist my firm keeps on retainer. Look, you need a human subject. Despite everything you may have heard about lawyers, we are human. And I trust you. More to the point, I trust your judgement. If you think it'll work, then I do, too. And, if I'm willing to get filthy rich from the profits off this drug, then I should be willing to take some of the risk to prove that it works."
"I need a test subject, but I don't want to risk my best friend. Look, we were supposed to go away for that two week fishing trip next month; that lodge your firm owns on Lake Cody. There's a pretty good hospital, Frazier General, about ten minutes from there. They can transfer to the University Medical Center, if we need that. I'll bring the drug, plus some equipment up with me. If you're still willing, we'll do it. I'll do it."
"Fine. I'll start on the paperwork tomorrow. Drop a copy of that federal application off at my office. I'll probably want to crib some language."
"Don't get too caught up in this. I want you to spend some of the time thinking about what you're getting yourself into."
*****
A rather nervous grad student brought the application to firm the next afternoon. "Dr. Hoffmann asked me to drop this off," he said fidgeting back and forth in Phil's office, feeling out of place in the rich surroundings. "He said to tell you he couldn't get out of some faculty meeting, and you should call him after you read it."
Phil took the papers and gave the student $10 for his trouble. The kid looked like he could use it. After a quick read, Phil could see that the forms were as bad as Andy had said they were. "I never saw a government form that didn't take six paragraphs to say what it could say in one," he thought.
Still, it did ask -- and answer -- a lot of very specific questions about possible risks the subjects would face -- he would face; safeguards that would be in place; ways of finding out as early as possible if anything had gone wrong; and what might be done about it. Andy was right. It was serious reading and a lot to think about.
*****
Andy came by Phil's office the next day with another form. "More reading?" Phil asked.
"Not much, just a standard medical release form from Doug Reilly. By the way, you have an appointment with him the day after tomorrow. Your secretary set it up."
"Why, and what do you need the form for?" Doug Reilly had been doctor to both men since he'd taken over his father's practice, when the pair were in high school.
"If I'm going to change your body, I need baseline data, need to know what I'm changing it from. This form gets me access to all your records, so I can chart your health for the last couple years. Also, I need to know if there's anything that the drug might react to -- or with. Maybe even find something else that I want to change."
"There's nothing wrong with me that needs fixing. If there was, Doc Reilly would have told me as soon as he found it."
"Sometimes you don't worry a patient. A man with, say, a high risk for cancer doesn't have cancer. A doctor will just note the higher risk and check the indicators from time to time to see if anything's happened."
"Okay, but do I understand that you don't know yet what you're going to do to me?"
"I could make it simple. Cut off a few fingers, or even a hand, and tell it to grow back. But I'm not certain that the drug will work. If it didn't, well, I've known you too long to start calling you "Lefty".
"Gee, thanks."
"No, I'm looking for a change that's showy enough to be dramatic, but shouldn't be a problem if the stuff doesn't work. By the way, can I get a spare key to the lodge? I want to take some equipment up there, set up part of a lab in one of the rooms so I can monitor and record what happens if it does work."
"We are going to have time to fish, aren't we?"
"We better. But I'll need time each day to do some tests. Relax, you get to just sit there while I do a 'poke and probe'. Then you can read, nap, drink. Whatever you want. I'll be the one stuck in the lab doing the analysis."
"Better you than me, pal." He signed the form and handed it back to Phil.
"By the way, you can pull out of this, no questions asked and no blame given, up to the moment I inject. You do understand that, don't you?"
"Crystal clear, Dr. Frankenstein. I understand the risks and am -- at this moment -- ready to take them. Now get going. My partners won't let me go, if I don't finish my notes on this appeal."
*****
A week later, Phil's "beemer" pulled up on the gravel drive next to the lodge. Andy was already there, unloading his fishing gear from the back of his old station wagon. It looked like an old clunker, but it was a classic. The two friends had spent the summer between their junior and senior years of college restoring the car.
Phil carried his own suitcases into the lodge, and then came back out for his fishing gear. The lodge was an old stone farmhouse and barn with a beautiful view of the lake. Phil's firm had gotten it a few years before as part of a settlement. The previous owner had restored it as an investment, but it had gotten tangled up in the inheritance battle when he died unexpectedly. The firm used it as a retreat twice a year for planning sessions. The rest of the time, it was available to some favored clients and to members of the firm -- including senior clerical staff -- on a basis that was part "first come, first served" and part "rank hath its privileges". Phil got it for two weeks by bringing in a settlement that netted the firm almost eight million dollars in fees and expenses.
The caretaker worked a farm about ten minutes away. His wife doubled as cook if needed. They were a pleasant couple in their sixties. The husband wasn't a bad fishing guide, and, if the wife's cooking wasn't inspired, it was good basic farm food: tasty and filling. Andy had suggested that neither one should be around. They really didn't want anybody to know what they really would be doing. But Mrs. Casey had stocked the refrigerator and fixed up two of the six bedrooms in the lodge before she'd left.
"So what's the plan?" Phil asked once both men were unpacked. "Can we get some fishing in, or do we go straight to the 'Twilight Zone' stuff?"
Andy looked at his watch. "It's about 6 PM. Too late for fishing, really. I thought we'd nuke some pizza for supper. I could do some quick tests and then give you the stuff."
"Just your average afternoon in the country. Why do you need more tests?"
"Baseline readings. Nothing fancy: blood pressure, heart rate, and a urine sample. Did you bring the forms?"
"Here they are. I signed them and had them notarized them at my office before I left."
"So your office knows what you're up to, then?"
"No. All they know is that I drew up some papers and had them notarized after I signed them. Relax; the notary didn't get a chance to read them. She just saw me sign. It's standard procedure on really confidential cases, so Mary, our notary, is used to it. Here." He handed a sealed envelope to Andy, who put it in his jacket pocket.
*****
They cooked and ate the pizza in silence, washing it down with a couple of sodas. Andy didn't want any alcohol in Phil's system. He also didn’t want to talk because he was afraid of giving away his plans to his friend. Phil was nervous about what was going to happen.
"Okay," Andy said, handing him a small plastic vial. "Strip down to your shorts and fill this up for me while I set up the equipment."
"Equipment?"
"Yeah, some medical monitoring gear and a video camera. I want a working record of whatever happens. The monitor works with these tiny radio-sensors that stick to your skin. You'll hardly know they're attached. The camera gives me a visual record. It also can pick up my voice, so I can talk while I'm shooting -- get a 'play-by-play' if you want."
"Makes sense." Phil carried his bags -- and the vial -- up to his room. A few minutes later, he was in the bathroom listening to the water run and thinking of Niagara Falls."
Andy was just finishing a quick test of the camera, when Phil came back downstairs, in his boxers and carrying a capped vial full of amber liquid. Andy had moved a couple chairs to set up a "stage" area in front of one darkly paneled wall. The monitor was plugged in next to the CD player with a tray holding what looked like nine black peas on a white cloth next to it. There was a small jar of salve next to the tray.
Andy wrote something on a white label and attached it to the vial. He put the vial in slotted hole within a small plastic carrying case. Then he walked into a small storage room just off the main room. He'd set this up as a lab the day before with the help of a couple of grad students. He put the sample case in a small mini-fridge that was sitting in a corner.
When he returned, he had his medical bag with him. He did the usual "insurance exam" procedures: took Phil's blood pressure, listened to his heart, shined a light in his eyes and ears, and banged Phil's knee with a rubber hammer. After each procedure, he made notes on a yellow tablet.
"Drop your shorts, friend," Andy finally said.
"Then do I turn my head and cough?"
"It's a thought. Later maybe; right now I want to attach the sensors."
"Attach what and to where?"
Andy held up one of the little "peas" and the jar of salve. "These," he said, "are the sensors. The goop in this jar holds them to your skin. It's a little oily, but it's a lot better than the pins we used to use. Here tell me how this feels."
Andy took the "pea", smeared some of the salve on it, and tucked it gently to the side of Phil's neck. It stayed in place when he took his hand away. It felt a little oily, but that sensation went away in a minute or two. Phil stretched and twisted his neck. The "pea" stayed in place, but he could barely feel it.
"Seems okay, I guess," Phil said. "Where are you going to stick those things, anyway?"
"One on each side of your neck -- the carotid arteries; one at the top center of your forehead; one in each armpit; two one your chest, one for your heart, one for your breathing; and one by the femoral artery -- right here --in each leg." As he had spoken, Andy had attached the "peas" at each point he mentioned. Then he entered some codes on a small keypad attached to the monitor. "The little buggers are color coded. I just told the machine where each one was so I can better understand the data."
"When do you take them off?"
"That stuff hardens into a permanent seal. Don't panic. I've got a solvent in the lab that'll melt the stuff without leaving a mark. In the meantime, they send an automatic set of readings to the monitor system for thirty seconds every hour."
Andy took a small bottle of greenish liquid and a fresh syringe from his bag. "Last chance to back out."
"No, let's do it."
Are you ready for the shot, then?"
"I guess. Do you stick me in the arm, or do I get to drop my shorts?"
"The arm is fine. I'll stick it in a vein so it gets moving faster. Here, let me turn on the camera." He flipped a switch. The camera was perched on a tripod and focused on the spot where Phil was standing.
Andy stepped in front of the camera for a moment. "I am Andrew Hoffmann of Whitmere University. The date is May 4, 1999; 6:35 PM. I am about to administer 30 ccs of drug BR-397 to this test subject. Based on his weight, age, and medical history this should be sufficient to create the desired psychological and neurological effects."
Phil stopped Andy just as he was about to administer the drug. "Just a moment, doctor." He looked straight at the camera and said, "I am Philip J. McNierney of this City. I want to state for the record that I am doing this of my own free will, having been fully appraised of the risks. I absolve Dr. Andrew Hoffmann, Whitmere University, and any other affected parties of any blame or responsibility for the results." Then he turned to Andy and added, "Once a lawyer, always a lawyer."
Andy tied a thin piece of rubber around Phil's arm and told him to make a fist. A quick dab of antiseptic, a pinch as the needle went in, and it was over. Andy brought over a folding chair and had Phil sit down.
"How long does this stuff take to work?"
"I should see something in about five minutes. You may feel a little dizzy." The two men made small talk, mostly about going fishing the next day. Phil was bragging about a new lure he'd bought, when he suddenly shook his head.
"I think your stuff is getting to me."
Andy looked deeply into Phil's eyes. They were visibly dilated. "Time to begin," he said. He pulled a small light on a chain from his pocket and began twirling it before Phil's eyes while he spoke in a low tone. In a moment, the man was in a deep hypnotic state.
Andy got a glass of water from the nearby table. Turning to the camera, he said, "This is ordinary water from the kitchen tap. I'm going to use it as a cue to the brain control functions being tested."
He turned to face Phil. "Phil can you hear me? Nod if you can." Phil nodded. "Phil, I'm now going to give you a second drug. You can just drink this one because it's so powerful. Here, take the glass." He handed Phil the glass, and Phil drank the water almost immediately.
"Now listen closely, Phil. What you just drank is a very powerful bio-genetic drug. Even now it's penetrating every cell of your body, getting into your DNA. In a very little while, your body is going to begin to change. You're going to change your sex. You're going to become a woman."
Phil's expression changed. He looked terrified and began to shake his head "No". Andy had expected this. He put his hand on Phil's shoulder. "You will relax. You will not try to fight these changes, even though you don't want to be a woman. You trust me, and you know that I can reverse the change once it's over. You will accept the fact that you're changing because you know that I can change you back."
Phil grew calmer as Andy spoke. He slumped back in the chair and seemed to relax. But Andy could still see the fear in his friend's eyes, and he wondered if he hadn't gone too far. His reasons for saying what he had said still seemed good. Besides, there was no way he could take back what he's said and done.
He waited a time and, eventually, Phil did calm down. He sat motionless in the chair, staring off into space. Andy decided to bring him out of it."
"Can you hear me, Phil," he said. When Phil nodded his head, Andy continued. "I'm going to start counting down from 10 to 1. As I do, you'll begin to wake up. You'll feel fine, but with no conscious memory of being in the trance or of what was said to you. The potion, though, will continue to work on your body in the way I've described."
"When I tell you to go to bed, you'll become very sleepy. You'll go straight up to bed and have a sound night's sleep. In the morning, you'll wake up naturally and feel very good. Okay, 10, you're beginning to wake up; 9, your eyelids feel less heavy..."
Andy counted slowly down to 1, repeating his suggestions as he did. Phil's eyes slowly opened. He shook his head and looked at Andy. "Did it work? Did I go under okay?"
"You did fine. Look at the clock. You were out for almost an hour."
"Then you did it. Hey, I never asked. What did you tell my body to do? Do I get a sixth finger, or am I going to grow horns?"
"Why don't you just go to bed now? We'll talk about it in the morning. I want you to have a good night's sleep."
Phil yawned. He had to admit that he was suddenly very tired. He said goodnight and headed up to his bedroom. He was asleep in five minutes and didn't wake up until after 9 AM the next morning.
Andy stayed up a while listening to CDs. His conscious was bothering him about what he had done. He'd been so caught up in the excitement of getting a human subject to test the drug on that, maybe, he hadn't given as much thought as he should have to what he was going to do to that subject.
The drug needed a dramatic result that couldn't be easily faked, and changing Phil's sex had seemed to be the perfect choice. But, dammit, Phil was his best friend. Phil trusted him, and this was certainly not what he'd expected. Andy just hoped that Phil would eventually forgive him.
*****
Andy had been up for over an hour by the time Phil came down. He would have liked to get in some early morning fishing, but he didn't want to go alone, and he didn't want to wake Phil. If the drug was working, it would draw off the body's energy. Phil would need all the sleep he could get.
Phil came staggering downstairs, still a little groggy from sleep.
Andy poured him some coffee. (They normally took turns cooking on their fishing trips.) He noticed that Phil's arm looked a little thinner as the man took the coffee cup, and -- good grief! -- his arm was hairless. He watched Phil drink the coffee. His arms, his whole body did look a bit thinner. Phil had slept in just his t-shirt and shorts. His body hair, which had been fairly thick, was just about gone. Only a fine down remained. His facial hair was just about gone as well except for his eyebrows. The hair atop his head seemed a little longer, though, as if he'd gone about six weeks without a haircut.
Phil saw Andy looking at him. "What?" he said.
"I was just about to ask what you wanted for breakfast. How are you feeling this morning?"
"Toast and eggs -- hard scramble, please. I'm still tired, even if I did sleep almost twelve hours. If your stuff doesn't work, maybe you can sell it as a sleep aid." Andy handed him three slices of toast, previously made and waiting. Phil buttered a slice and took a bite. "So, you didn't tell me last night. What did you tell my brain to do to me?"
Andy was at the stove working on Phil's eggs. "Finish your breakfast first. There'll be plenty of time to talk later."
"Yes, Mother. I've got to tell you, though. You're getting me very curious. Can we talk about fishing, at least?"
"Yeah, why don't you tell me about this miracle lure that's going to empty the lake of bass?"
Phil repeated what he'd said about the lure, embellishing his story with a couple of successes from a solo trip about two weeks before to a river both men knew. That turned the talk to the subject of different sites and a comparison of fishing rivers and lakes. By the time they began arguing over the best places to fish there at Lake Cody, Phil had finished his eggs.
"Good breakfast," he said carrying his dirty plate to the dishwasher. "It'll be hours before I'm ready to make, let alone eat, lunch. Now, what's going to happen to me from your damned drug?"
"Let's go sit in the living room," Andy said. They both knew he was stalling. Much longer and Phil was going to get nervous. Not that he'd be happy when he was told.
When the two were seated, Andy said, "There's no way to soften it, so I won't try. I had you drink a glass of water, and told you that it was a second drug. One that was going to turn you into a woman."
"What! Why you son of a bitch. Is this your idea of a joke?"
"No. Now think for a minute. The effect had to be dramatic and hard to fake. And I couldn't go for anything silly like those horns you mentioned last night. Can you think of anything that fits that better than a sex change? Unless, you wanted me to cut off a finger, and then tell it to grow back."
Phil sat and thought about what Andy had said. Rational thinking and knowing how people -- how juries -- reacted to different kinds of evidence was a big part of what he did for a living. Finally, he asked in as calm a voice as he could manage, "If it works, can you change me back?"
"As far as I can tell, yes. We couldn't create any physical changes from the drug in our animal tests, but they were as physiologically susceptible to it the fifth time we administered it as they were the first time. It should work on you a second time."
"Is it working? Can you tell yet?"
"Yes, it is. Look at your arms and chest. That mat of hair you used to brag about is just about gone. You don't need a shave either."
Phil looked at his arms, and his eyes widened in surprise. He rubbed his chin. "No shaving. Well, that, at least, is a bright spot." Then he absentmindedly scratched his chest. "I guess that's why my chest's been feeling funny all morning. I'm not used to feeling the shirt against bare skin."
"It may be something else," Andy said. "Take off your shirt."
Phil pulled his shirt off over his head. Andy saw that he had not only lost most of his body hair but was actually a bit thinner. His nipples, though, were bigger. They were the size of pencil erasers, and the aureoles around them had gotten darker. Andy gently touched one with a finger tip.
"Hey," Phil yelled, pulling away. "Those things are tender."
"Tits generally are."
"Tits! I can't have tits. I'm a guy."
"I'm not too sure any more. Tenderness like that is typical for a young girl whose breasts are starting to grow."
"So, I -- I am turning into a woman?"
"Yeah, come on over to the camera. I want to get this on film." Phil walked over and stood where he had the night before. Andy started the camera and began to talk.
"Subject at -- at about roughly 14 hours, 30 minutes after administering of the drug and the subsequent hypnotic suggestion. There is a degradation of muscle mass and a loss of almost all body hair. There is -- hold still for a close-up -- tenderness and a darkening of the nipples comparable with a young female at the onset of puberty." He clicked off the mike. "Now, drop your shorts."
"What!"
"Drop them. I want to see if anything's happened down -- well, down there." Phil pulled his shorts down past his hips -- did they seem a little wider? -- and let them fall to the floor. He stood still for the camera, but he was looking down, trying to see if there was any change.
Andy panned the camera down. Since he didn't want to give any hint of what he was going to do, he hadn't taken any measurements of Phil's genitals. It seemed now that he hadn't needed to; the difference would be obvious on the video. Last night, Phil had the sexual equipment of a grown man. Now they were much smaller. They looked like they belonged on a ten year old, and they were nested in the only visible hair on Phil's body, a triangular patch growing in the familiar -- and female -- pattern of an inverted triangle.
Phil spoke again into the small microphone attached to the camera. "A simple visual comparison of the subject's genitals reveals an obvious reduction in size. They are now the size of those more properly found on a pre-pubescent male. Moreover, pubic hair has assumed a female growth pattern. Following this recording session, we will determine if the subject is still able to ejaculate." He clicked off the camera.
"What! Are you asking me to jack off for you? Or do you want to do give me a hand job, doctor?"
"You can do yourself, thank you, but ten bucks says you can't."
"You're on!" Phil reached down and pulled up his shorts.
"Wait a minute, and drop the shorts again. I'm not done yet." When Phil was again ready, Andy turned the mike back on. "Overall changes to the frame are quite apparent, as well. Measurements will be taken for comparison with the original."
He clicked off the mike. "Turn around once, so I can get a record of how you look from behind," Andy said. When Phil did, Andy said, "Nice butt; thanks."
"Thank you, kind sir. What did you mean by 'comparison with the original'?"
"I talked to somebody at Mantero's, where you get your suits made. I showed him that release you signed, and he gave me your measurements. Tailors keep records, so a customer won't have to be checked every time he orders a pair of pants."
Andy quickly took Phil's new measurements, hips, waist, and chest, width of shoulders, circumference of upper arm and upper leg, and instep. Then he handed Phil another empty vial. "Here; you've got half an hour to jack off. Fill this, and then get dressed, so we can go fishing."
*****
Phil came back downstairs about forty minutes later with a disgusted look on his face. He was wearing an old sweat shirt and pair of jeans that looked a little baggy on him. He handed Andy the vial. It had about a quarter of an inch of clear fluid inside.
"You and your damned drug. First, I could barely hold on; I'd gotten so small. Then, I went through every fantasy I have and most of my real experiences before I even got this much. And now I get to pay you ten bucks for the privilege."
"No, I'll pay. I didn't even think you get this much." Andy made some notes on another label, stuck it on the vial, and then placed the vial in the holder in the lab fridge. "For changes on the level we're seeing, your whole endocrine system has to have accepted the suggestion. This is absolutely incredible."
"You'll excuse me if I don't join in the celebration."
"You should. You're going to be as rich as I will. Richer, considering how much money you've already got."
"What? Oh, of course. I've proven that the damned stuff works."
"Not yet, you haven't. But what we've seen so far is a pretty good start. If you make anywhere near to a complete transition to female, we'll have indisputable proof. Proof that can get me all the funding I need to fully develop the stuff. This is one major breakthrough."
"How complete a 'transition'? I'm not going to grow a -- a vagina am I? Can I?"
"I honestly don't know. The structures of the male and female reproductive systems are very similar, despite the obvious visual differences. I told your mind that you were going to become female. You're a big boy; you know how boys and girls are different. We'll just see what happens."
"Swell. Let's go fishing. I need something to take my mind off this." Andy insisted on taking another blood sample first, and Phil still had to pack them a lunch, but they eventually did get out to the lake to fish.
*****
By the time the two returned from fishing that evening, the changes were even more visible. Phil's face had become somewhat thinner, and his cheekbones seemed to have lifted higher on his face. His hair was well down over his ears, and he could feel it against his neck when he moved his head. His hands were thinner and more delicate, with long tapering fingers. Two small lumps pushed out from beneath his sweat shirt, and his pants seemed definitely tighter around the hips.
They'd talked quietly until mid afternoon, when Phil's voice had cracked. He glowered at Andy for several minutes and refused to say anything that wasn't absolutely necessary for over an hour. Now, he was talking again, but his voice, formally, a rich baritone, was well into the alto range.
"Well," Andy said, holding up the string of fish the two men had caught. "How about these for supper?"
"Sounds good. Do you mind if I lay down while you fix them? I've been feeling tired all day." It was only too true. Phil was as good a fisherman as Andy was, but most of the fish on the line were Andy's.
"No, go ahead. I'm not surprised that you're tired. Your body is using a lot of energy to fuel the changes. After dinner, I'd like to take some more readings. Take some blood, too."
"Swell. I was wondering what I'd do this evening to keep busy." He yawned and turned for the stairs. See you later." He waved over his shoulder and headed up to his bedroom.
*****
Two hours later, they had finished dinner and were back in the living room. Andy had Phil roll up his sleeve and took a blood sample. "Why don't you strip down to your shorts while I put this away?"
Phil did. His body was slender and feminine. His chest now sported a pair of A-cup breasts. His waist was a bit higher and much narrower. His hips and butt swelled outward above a pair of long delicately curved legs. He had always been considered a good looking man, and now he was well on his way to becoming a very beautiful woman.
Andy was surprised at the extent of the changes in his friend. His first impulse was to make a joke. But Andy realized how upset Phil must be with what was happening to him. He put on his best professional persona and walked over to the camera.
"Okay," Andy said. "I'm ready. Drop your shorts so we can get started."
"Now there's a straight line." Phil bent down, conscious of the new weight on his chest. He yanked his shorts down passed his hips. Don't look, he thought trying hard not to even glance at his groin. You don't want to see how little they've gotten.
Andy looked at his watch and started the camera, speaking into the attached microphone as soon as it was ready. It is now about twenty-five hours since subject was injected with the drum. Female characteristics are noticeable. Breasts have begun to develop, and his waist and hips now conform to the aesthetic standards for that sex.
Now he focused the camera for another close-up of Phil's groin. "There is further shrinkage of the subject's genitals. The penis now appears to be the size of a five-year old's, and the scrotal sack seems even smaller. There is no obvious evidence of testicles within them."
He clicked off the mike again and walked over to Phil, squatting down next to him. "Now don't move. This shouldn't hurt, but it will feel strange." He placed his hand under Phil's genitals and gently lifted them up, so they were more visible to the camera. "Don't talk either. The mike's back on."
"The scrotal sack, as can be seen, is smaller in relationship to the size of the penis. Testicles are still present, but they appear to be withdrawing into the subject's body. Ejaculation and even tumescence would seem unlikely."
Andy looked closely at Phil's penis for a minute, before he lifted it to show the underside to the camera. "The urethra also appears to be migrating downward. Considering the arrangement of the female analogs that the subject's body is acquiring, this is to be expected." He shut off the mike and gently released Phil's genitals."
"What was all that double talk just now," Phil asked.
"Your peehole isn't at the end of your prick any more. It's moved about halfway down on the underside. You'll have to sit down to urinate for a while."
"What! Oh, I get it. If I'm going to be a girl, then my prick becomes a clitoris, and the urine comes out someplace else."
"Exactly." He shut off the camera. He took the same set of physical measurements that he'd taken in the morning. He also checked Phil's new breasts which were almost an A-cup. Once he had entered the new data, he put the notebook down and said, "Now get dressed, while I get a fresh syringe. Time to feed the vampire."
As Phil got dressed, he noticed that even his feet were changing, getting smaller. He had a little trouble getting his jeans passed his wider hips, and he had to use the very last loop on his belt. Even so, his pants were loose at the waist. His nipples weren't as tender as they had been that morning, but the coarse material of his cotton undershirt wasn't exactly comfortable when it rubbed against them.
Andy took another blood sample. When he came back from putting it in the store room/lab refrigerator, Phil said, "It's a good thing I won't be a girl very long."
"Why do you say that?"
"My clothes; I haven't a thing to wear." He laughed at the joke and at the stunned expression on Andy's face. "Seriously, though. The way I'm changing, my clothes aren't likely to fit me. I could barely get my pants on, and I'll need to put on two pairs of socks tomorrow, or I'll walk right out of my shoes."
"I'm sorry, Phil. I'll need you to stay a girl for at least two days. Now don't get upset. I need to make sure that the changes have stabilized and that the original dose of the drug has washed completely out of your body before I give you another one."
"Terrific. Are you this slow at giving the details out to all of your test subjects?"
"Can I get by if I say that you never asked? Look, two days to change, two as a girl, and two to change back. We'll have a whole week to fish afterwards. And you get to relax those two days as a girl, while I get to do lab work. I'll probably have to do more from the samples that I take while you're changing back."
"Okay, I'm convinced. You're suffering, too. But I'm still going to need stuff to wear while I'm a girl. I can't walk around naked. I'm not that kind of girl." He started to laugh, but it became a high pitched and very feminine giggle. He stopped in surprise and embarrassment. "Or maybe I am." Then he laughed again, and Andy joined him.
"Okay, okay. My best guess is that the change should be just about finished by tomorrow afternoon. We'll drive over to Easterbridge Mall and get you some appropriate clothes. My treat."
"Oh, goody! Shopping," Phil said mimicking the stereotypical female response. Then he yawned. "Damn, I'm sleepy again, and it's barely 9 PM. See you in the morning."
*****
Andy was up well ahead of Phil again the next morning, even though he'd stayed up several hours after his friend went to bed. He had wanted to make certain that he had all the equipment that he'd intended to bring, and he wanted to plan out the specific tests he wanted to do.
He was sitting at the work table testing a circuit, when he heard a noise behind him. He turned to look. Phil was standing in the doorway wearing only a t-shirt and shorts. Or, rather, the person Phil had become.
The figure in the doorway gave no hint of ever having been male. His hair hung down almost to his shoulders. His eyes seemed bigger; his lashes certainly were. His lips were full and pouty. His figure was a series of female curves: large breasts that tented out the t-shirt, lifting it high to reveal his flat stomach and narrow waist. The shorts were tight against a wide pair of hips, and his legs were long and slender. They'd look fabulous in heels, he thought.
"I think I'm done, now." Phil said. He was a soprano now, his voice high and clear, though not high enough to sound childish. "I went to the can when I got up. The equipment's all girl as far as I can tell."
Andy swallowed, feeling his own penis stiffen. Phil was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, and Andy didn't want to embarrass either of them by showing the sexual attraction that he was feeling. "Let's check you out then," he said.
As he followed Phil into the living room, Andy noted that Phil's walk had also become much more feminine. Part of that would have been the changes to his body, but Andy suspected that part of it might also be psychological.
Andy also noticed the delightful curves of Phil's reshaped ass as it moved beneath his shorts while he walked. Phil sat in the chair, waiting while Andy readied the camera. Andy saw that he had sat in a feminine manner, one leg crossed over the other above the knee. Andy decided that he'd ask about these new behaviors once he had the new pictures.
"Okay, I'm ready to start. Please take off your clothes." Both of them noticed the "please", but neither said anything. Phil smiled a small smile. Andy told himself that it was the natural reaction to an attractive woman.
Phil stood up and pulled the t-shirt off slowly over his head, not wanting to accidentally injure his new breasts. They were lovely: perfectly formed pale melons with dark nipples in the middle of areolas the size of half dollars, a C-cup at least. He pulled the shorts past his wide hips and simply let them fall to the ground. Then he stood naked in the classic feminine pose, one knee slightly bent, his left hand resting on his hip.
"Well, what do you think?" Phil asked. "Am I a girl?"
"Look like one to me. Now be quiet, while I do the narration." Andy looked at his watch and clicked on the mike. "At roughly thirty-five hours since the injection, the transformation appears to be complete. The subject, as is readily apparent, now exhibits all of the secondary sexual characteristics of a female. There is also some apparent change in motor behavior, which will be discussed on audio tapes."
Andy zoomed the camera in on Phil's breasts. He clicked off the mike. "I'm going to have to touch you in some places. It's necessary as part of the exam. Try not to squirm, please."
He turned the mike back on and walked over to Phil continuing to talk. "The nipples are well formed." He touched Phil's breast in several places, gently pushing with his fingers. Then he rubbed the nipple with a finger. Phil shivered slightly but tried not to move. Andy noticed that the nipple seemed to react, moving just a bit. Growing more erect, he wondered. He also noticed that his touch had raised tiny goose bumps in Phil's skin.
"THERE appear to be no nodes or malformations within the breast tissue. The nipples also appear normal, albeit still sensitive to the touch." He clicked off the mike and went back to the camera. "Now spread your legs. I want to do a quick genital exam."
"Not unless you buy me dinner first."
"Cute. Just be glad that I don't have a set of stirrups and a speculum. Now, legs apart; here comes Mr. Camera." He took the camera carefully off its tripod and walked over to where Phil was sitting. Phil glowered at him for a moment, and then he moved his knees wide apart.
Andy moved in close. This time, he put on a pair of rubber gloves before he actually touched Phil. It was all there, labia, vagina, even a hymen. "Believe it or not," Andy said. "You're a virgin."
"And I'm going to stay one, thank you. So watch those hands!"
"You sure?" Andy smiled and gently touched Phil's clitoris, then rubbed it slowly back and forth.
Phil's eyes grew wide. His head tilted back, his mouth open. His breathing began to get heavy. Then he suddenly realized what was happening and pushed Andy away. "You bastard!" he yelled. "If you did that to one of your other patients, you'd lose your license."
"I'm sorry, man -- uh, Phil. I only meant it as a joke. I hadn't expected near as strong a reaction. You seem to be a lot more sensitive than most women down There. I think it's because the structures are newly reformed. Anyway, you're right it was totally unfair and unprofessional. I sincerely apologize. Am I forgiven?"
"I'll think about it. Just finish the damned exam and let me get dressed."
"Okay." Andy finished describing Phil's new, totally female genitals. He had him stand and quickly took another set of measurements. He let Phil hold the tape when he measured Phil's breasts. Phil was a 38-C, actually almost a D-cup.
Phil put his t-shirt and shorts back on and sat down, while Andy took the blood sample. When Andy came back from putting the sample away, Phil said, "So what am I going to wear? My clothes don't exactly fit any more."
"I told you, we'll go shopping. Did you bring a sweat suit?"
"Yeah, for that mini-gym in the basement."
"Okay, that should do to get us to the mall. Put on two pairs of sox, like you said yesterday."
"What about sizes? I can't very well ask a salesgirl what size I am."
"I've got that figured. Here." He tossed Phil a mail-order catalog. The order form had a conversion chart next to it. They compared Phil's new measurements to the woman's size chart and soon had a complete list of his new sizes.
"Okay," Andy said, "let's go get dressed."
*****
Fifteen minutes later, the two were in Andy's car. He wore a pair of jeans, a Whitmere sweat shirt, and a pair of sneakers. Phil wore an anonymous gray sweat shirt, but he'd discovered to his chagrin that he'd brought gym shorts, rather than sweat pants. They were loose at the waist but rather tight against his wide hips and round butt. They also showed his slender legs off to their best advantage.
As a courtesy to its guests, the lodge stocked some gym outfits and swim suits in an upstairs closet. There were no long pants among the male gym clothes, and Phil had refused to wear any of the women's spandex. But he had found a pair of low sandals that fit fairly well, and he was wearing those.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question," Andy said while he drove.
"No, go ahead."
"I've noticed that you're moving in a more feminine manner this morning, the way you walk and how you sat in the chair, for instance. Are you doing it consciously?"
"Some. But it seems natural to me. It's like, well, sometimes I have to think about it to act in a feminine way, and sometimes, I have to think about it to act like a man."
"I guess your mind decided that my suggestion to turn into a woman included your behavior as well as your anatomy."
"Suggestion! That's a helluva way to describe it. You owe me big for this."
"Ask me about it six months from now when we're both millionaires, and I'm a Nobel Laureate."
"You sure that will happen?"
"Pretty sure. If I can turn you into a woman, growing a new limb on an amputee should be easy. What I'm wondering is if I can tell somebody that his cancer is going away or that his kidneys work again. Tell them and have that happen."
"You figure out how to do that, and you'll deserve all the money they're going to throw at you." Phil saw the mall just ahead. "Hey, we're here."
Phil pulled into the mall. It was early enough that there was still good parking. Andy found a spot near the Sears, and the two went in. Andy held the doors as Phil, smiling, walked through. Andy caught himself looking at Phil's long slender legs and watching his ass sway as he walked. Stop that, he thought to himself. He may look like a girl, but there's a man inside that body, your oldest friend. You don't want to screw things -- oh, hell, why had he thought 'screw' -- you don't want to mess things up by getting crazy with him.
Andy handed Phil the list of his new sizes. Phil looked at the list. Andy had put a list under it on the sheet: 3 pair bra and panties, 3 blouses, 3 pairs of women's jeans, 3 pair socks, sneakers, nightgown. "Why three," he said. I thought that I was only going to have to be a girl for two days. You pulling a fast one?"
"No, I figured that you'd need some of it for the transition day back. Plus, you might want a change of clothes during the day. I'm paying for it, so don't worry about it. Just don't go crazy and buy the most expensive stuff you can find. I'm a poor academic, not a rich lawyer."
"We'll both be rich, when the word gets out on your stuff. But I do promise. Don't worry; you'll be there to watch me shop."
"The heck I will. Have you ever gone into a ladies' wear department with any of your women friends?" By now, the pair was at the edge of what Phil had always thought of as 'No Man's Land', the women's clothing department.
"No, but I'm not a -- oh, hell, I guess I am. Okay, coward, where will you be while I'm buying out the store?"
"Looking at the fishing gear, of course." He pointed to a large clock on the wall nearby. There were a number of them all over the store. "It's 10:15. I'll meet you back here in an hour."
*****
Andy almost didn't get back in time. There was a demonstration of a new composite pole that he stayed to watch. At the last minute, he looked at his watch and hurried away to meet Phil.
Phil was waiting, but it was a much different Phil. Andy watched in amazement as he walked towards him, smiling and hips swaying. His sweats were in a bag, and he was decked out in a pair of light blue designer jeans that hugged every delicious curve and a matching cotton top with scalloped sleeves and a neckline that was cut low enough in front to show quite a bit of rounded bosom. His hair was tied in a ponytail with a pale blue scarf that seemed like a flag in his long silky black hair.
Phil flashed Andy a smile, and Andy noticed that Phil was wearing lipstick, too. "There you are, cousin," Phil said. "Hurry up. I've been waiting for you to pay for all this stuff." Then he whispered, "Just play along, Andy."
Phil took Andy by the hand and led him to a nearby counter piled high with boxes. A woman clerk, a plump, rather pleasant looking woman in her forties was standing behind it. "Here's my cousin, at last. Pay the nice lady for my stuff, please." Andy handed his credit card to the clerk, while Phil kept talking, "I was so worried when the airline lost all my luggage. It was sweet of you, Cousin Andy, to offer to buy me this new stuff. I promise I'll pay you back when I get home."
Andy signed for the clothes. He took two bags and Phil took the other, and they walked towards the exit. "What was all that 'cousin' stuff back there?"
"Sorry about that. I needed some sort of explanation why you were buying my clothes, and I wasn't gonna say you were my boyfriend."
"So you had to gush at me like that. I felt like an idiot."
Phil giggled. "I didn't like it either, but it was the easiest way to tell you my -- you should excuse the expression -- cover story. I had to get her to trust me, so I could change out of those sweats." She stopped. "You haven't told me how I look." She stepped back and posed, arms raised and one knee bent.
"Very nice. You look very nice. But I'm beginning to wonder just how much your mind's been affected by this?"
"I don't know, and I'd worry about it, too, but I'm confident that you can change me back." Andy remembered that part of his suggestion had also been that Phil would trust him. He hoped the trust was justified.
"In the meantime," Phil continued, "something else is affecting me."
"What --what's the matter?"
"I'm hungry. We never did have breakfast, and that pizza smells pretty good. How about an early lunch, Cousin Andy?"
Andy groaned a little at the joke, but they went in. It was still a bit early, and the place was mostly empty. They took a booth in the corner for privacy. There were menus on the table, and they looked at them for a minute or two. A waitress, a tall, thin brunette who looked like she might still be in high school came over. "Are you ready to order," she said to Andy.
"Yes, thanks," Andy said. "We'll have a medium pizza, half extra cheese, half ground beef; two sodas each, one now, one when you bring the food. Coke for me and a diet coke for the lady." Only then did he turn to Phil. "That okay with you?"
Phil was so surprised he could only nod his head. The meal was what they probably would have ordered, but Andy hadn't bothered to ask. He'd just taken the lead, as if they were a couple on a date. What surprised Phil even more was that he'd gone along with it, and that it had felt comfortable to do so.
Phil realized that his trust in Andy wasn't natural, though he wasn't sure exactly what it was. Whatever it was, it was very strong, maybe too strong. Any worrisome thought went away as soon as he thought of Andy. Phil actually found himself feeling better being around Andy, seeking him for just that reason. He didn't like it. But even as Phil thought about it, he realized that Andy was there with him. He felt his concerns fading away. Why worry when Andy had told him that he could fix things?
The waitress brought the cokes. Phil realized that his mouth was very dry and took a long drink. He licked his lips, tasting the lipstick he had bought on an impulse.
"What's the matter, um, say, what do I call you?"
"How about we stick with 'Phil'? Anybody asks, we can say it's short for ‘Phyllis’."
"Okay. What's the matter, um, Phil?"
"The whole change is getting me down. You messed with my head, I think, as much as you messed with my body. But I can't seem to get worried about it. I'm a lawyer. Worrying about -- planning for -- the possibilities of a situation is what I do."
"I'm sorry. I told you not to worry about what was going to happen. I didn't want your conscious and your unconscious minds fighting each other. Is it really that big a deal?"
"I'm not sure. Every time I begin to think about what's happened to me, I seem to think of you and get distracted. It just bothers me. That's all."
"You seem to be adjusting well enough. I'd say just go with the flow and use this as a chance to see how the other half lives. I'll be giving you the injection to change back tomorrow night, so whatever happens, it'll only be for the next day or so."
"Then we go fishing?"
"Then we go fishing."
The waitress brought the pizza, and they stopped talking for a few minutes. Normally, each would have eaten half the pie, but Phil discovered that his stomach had changed along with everything else. A slice and a half and he couldn't eat any more. Andy only had eaten a couple of slices, too, not wanting to pig out when Phil couldn't.
"Don't worry about it," Andy said. He had the extra slices put in a 'doggy bag', and they headed out to the car. On the way back, he asked, "so, what are you going to be doing this afternoon?"
"What do you mean?"
"I have to go play 'mad scientist' and start the analysis of those samples I took. Some of the tests I want to do take hours to set up and run."
"Gee, I don't know. I still feel a little tired, so I may take a nap. Then maybe some fishing; get a leg up on you in trying out my new fishing gear."
"Okay, just remember that your upper arm strength is only about thirty percent of normal. You'll have a harder time pulling in big ones or even smaller ones that put up a fight."
"I hadn't thought of that. Maybe I'll just read. I spend so much work time reading legal documents that I don't get a chance to read for pleasure much anymore."
"Whatever. I'll set a timer in the lab, so I remember to come out to fix dinner. Hey, here we are."
Andy headed for the small lab that he'd set up, and Phil went upstairs. He napped for about an hour, sleeping in his new clothes. When he woke up, he felt more like doing something active than reading. There was an indoor pool set in what had been the barn. It was connected to the house by a tunnel in the basement, so it could be gotten to in the colder weather.
Phil took one of the women's swim suits from the storage closet, a shimmering green one piece that looked like it would fit. He couldn't help admire himself in the bedroom mirror once he'd changed. The suit was cut high to show leg. It did. Phil's were long and had just the right curve. The suit itself hugged him narrow waist and wide hips. It was a little small in the chest. Not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to push his breasts up, making them look even bigger. As he posed in the mirror, he felt his nipples tingling. Phil realized that he was still male enough mentally to get turned on by his new body, even if the physical reaction was a female one.
Phil walked over to the barn through the tunnel, since it was a little cool to go outside in just a swim suit. The pool was heated by a timer that the caretaker had turned on the day before the two friends had arrived. Phil found a white swim cap and put it on. Then he dove in. He swam laps for about forty minutes. His arms weren't as strong, but his body seemed lighter. It was an even enough swap for a man who normally tried to swim at least once a week.
He climbed out and found robes and towels in the lockers by the pool. He put on one of the robes and wrapped a towel in a turban over his wet hair. Somebody had left a Tom Clancy novel on a previous visit, and it was on a shelf in the same locker. Phil liked Clancy, and this was one he hadn't read yet. He curled up on a deck chair and read for a good part of the afternoon. Just before 5 PM, he stopped and swam another set of laps, partly to work the kinks out and partly to try to work up more of an appetite for the supper he knew Andy was fixing.
Coming back up from the basement Phil could smell dinner cooking. Both he and Andy had learned to cook while they were in college, but Andy was the better of the two. Phil's mouth began to water at the smells. He decided to stay downstairs and read till supper was ready. He sat on the couch and continued reading Clancy.
Supper was almost ready, so Andy went in to set the table. He saw Phil on the couch. "Hey, lazybones," he said. "How about helping out by setting the table? We're having baked chicken and veggies. Get some beer out, too." He went back into the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
Phil put the book down and got dishes, napkins, and silverware from a sideboard. The table was set a few minutes later. She took four cans of beer from the refrigerator, putting in a fresh six-pack for later. He brought the cans in to the table. "Ready when you are, Andy," he called.
Andy came in a few minutes later carrying a dish full of chicken. He then brought in vegetables while Phil carried in the salad. They sat down and began serving themselves.
"Why so fancy," Phil asked. "I half expected you to heat up the pizza from lunch; or maybe make a couple burgers."
"I don't know. I haven't cooked in a while, so I thought I'd do something more than just 'nuke' a quick meal in the microwave." Andy knew that Phil was something of a gourmet, and he thought Phil deserved some extra effort for what he was going through. But sitting there watching, it was hard to remember that this gorgeous woman sitting across from him was his old friend. Her voice, her mannerisms seemed to be totally female.
After the meal, they went into the living room, taking more beer in with them. The house had cable and they channel surfed looking for a good movie. They settled on an old movie about Paul Newman as a broken down lawyer. Phil had seen it before. He had enjoyed the court room scenes and the way the actors gotten the life of a lawyer fairly right. But this time, though, he found himself noticing the love story a lot more.
What he didn't notice was the way he and Andy were gradually moving closer together on the couch. By the middle of the movie, Phil was leaning against Andy's chest, and he had his arm around Phil. Towards the end, when Newman's case seems lost, and he discovers that the woman he's been attracted to works for the opposing lawyer, Phil found himself sniffling.
Andy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and daubed at Phil's eyes. It's okay, man. You know how the movie ends. Without thinking, he leaned over slightly and touched Phil's cheek. Phil turned his head. They were only inches apart. New feminine instincts took over. Phil's arm reached up to pull Andy's head closer, and they kissed.
Phil felt his nipples beginning to tingle. He'd never realized Andy was such a good kisser.
Andy! He was kissing Andy!
Phil broke the kiss and leapt from the couch. "What -- what's the matter," Andy said.
"What's the matter? We were kissing. And you were enjoying it, you perverted SOB"
"I guess I was. Dammit, Phil. I know you're a man. But right now, you're a girl, a damned attractive one who gave in to the movie and the mood and the beer for a minute. Don't let it spook you."
"Don't let it '_spook_' me." But even as Phil said it, he felt the hypnotic suggestion beginning to take effect. Sure, it was scary to be reacting as a woman, but Andy said that it was okay. He trusted Andy, trusted him completely. "I'm -- I'm okay. But I think that I need to go up to bed now. I'll see you in the morning." He turned and tried to calmly walk to the stairs, when every instinct was telling him to run.
******
Andy turned off the TV. Damn! He hadn't meant to do that. What he said about the beer was as true for him as it was for Phil. He just hoped that he hadn't destroyed the friendship between the two of them.
And why did Phil have to be such an attractive woman?
Upstairs, Phil had slammed the door behind him and thrown himself on the bed. He was crying again. What was happening to him? Even now he was acting like a female, and he didn't like it. He was used to being in more control of himself. It was the beer, but it was him, too. He and Andy had been friends for almost half their lives, but this change -- it added a whole new dimension to the friendship. And it was a dimension that part of him, at least, was curious to explore.
He wiped his eyes and decided to get ready for bed. Besides, the swim suit was beginning to feel a little clammy. He peeled it off and hung it over the shower rod in the bathroom. Turning around, he caught a glimpse of himself in the large mirror above the sink.
It was the first time that he'd really seen himself since the change. Lord, but he was beautiful. He saw breasts, firm and high, well more than a handful with nipples that begged to be touched; a narrow waist that flared out to a pair of hips that were made for bearing babies; and long slender legs with just the right amount of curve. He turned and looked back over his shoulder at the mirror. The ass wasn't bad either.
The face, well, he looked a lot like his cute cousin, Joanie, only -- he hated to even think it -- a lot prettier. His eyes had never been that big, had they? And his lips, what was with that pout?
He stopped staring and walked back into the bedroom, conscious of the extra weight on his chest and the way his hips swayed as he walked. Do women get this turned on every time they walk, he thought. No, they must get used to it in time.
He sat on the bed and absentmindedly touched his left nipple. A jolt of pleasure shot through his body. He touched it again, this time deliberately. He had years of experience at arousing women, and he applied it to his own body. He cupped his breasts, running a nail along the sensitive flesh, tweaking at the nipples.
The sensations were incredible. His head tilted back, his mouth open but unable to speak. He wanted more. One hand had left his breast, and he felt his fingers sliding gently along his labia. One finger slipped within to find his clitoris, while another moved in to his vagina. He began to move his hand back and forth.
Phil fell back onto the bed, no longer able to sit upright. His head rocked back and forth, and he began to moan. Pleasure was shooting out from his breasts and his groin to every part of his body. His hips began to move, matching the movements of his hand. His groin felt very warm and very, very wet.
The feelings grew stronger and stronger. He was frantic. Suddenly a great bolt of sexual energy exploded throughout his body. Surprised by its intensity, he stopped moving and just enjoyed the thrill of his first female orgasm.
As the edge of pleasure began to fade, the remnants of his masculine ego asserted itself. He forced himself to stop, even though his body was crying out for more. As a sort of compromise, he gently massaged his breasts, carefully avoiding the nipples. It was like the "cool-down" exercises at the end of a heavy workout.
Satisfied now, he thought, groaning at the inadvertent pun. You've just proven beyond a reasonable doubt that you are a woman. Or maybe you'd like to go downstairs and rape Andy. He shook his head. Part of him actually liked the idea. Andy was probably a gentle and patient lover. He certainly was a good kisser.
No! Phil caught himself just as he began to play with his nipples again. He jumped from the bed and ran into the bathroom. He turned on the shower, setting it for cold water and stepped in.
It helped. Some.
A few minutes later, Phil was in bed wearing the long flannel nightgown he'd bought that afternoon and a pair of panties. His responses were definitely those of a woman, but as long as he limited himself to himself, it was harmless. He'd always loved Andy like a brother, but now he was starting to think of him in a very different way. Still, he trusted Andy. He wouldn't betray their friendship, and he was too ethical to take advantage of a research subject. Phil's last thought before he fell asleep was that he was due to get another shot and start changing back the next evening. He smiled and dozed off.
*****
Phil woke up about nine. It was raining fairly steadily, so it looked like fishing was out for the day. Besides, he'd come to go fishing with his old buddy, Andy, not to fish alone. Andy had said that he expected to spend the day in that lab of his, doing more analysis of the samples he'd taken and the telemetry data from those little "peas".
Phil wondered if they were still attached. He took off the nightgown and checked. Yes, they were there, hardly noticeable like little Band-Aids. He went in the bathroom and washed up.
Now to get dressed, he thought. He hadn't bothered to put his new clothes away, just left everything in boxes or bags on the dresser. He took out a matching bra and panty set, pink with a pink lace trim full of tiny flowers. He stepped into the panties and pulled them up around his hips. It was amazing how good the material felt against his skin. It was soft and cool, very different from the feel of the cotton shorts he usually wore.
He put the bra on backwards. He looked down past his breasts to hook the strap. Then he carefully twisted it around and inched it up until the cups were just below his breasts. He maneuvered his arms through the bra straps, and, as he moved the straps up onto his shoulders, the cups lifted up and around his breasts. A couple of minor and adjustments, and the bra was in place. The material felt as good against his skin as the panties had below, and there was a sense of relief from the support that they gave to his breasts.
He thought about trying a pair of panty hose. The clerk had seemed insistent, and there was no good reason that he could think of for the woman he was pretending to be not to buy a pair. He'd bought two pair, along with the socks he actually planned to wear. Now he was feeling a little adventurous.
He took an egg-shaped container from the bag and cracked it open. He'd watched enough women getting dressed to know roughly how to put them on. He put one foot in being careful not to snag it on his toe nails. Then he slowly pulled it part way up his leg. He repeated the process with the other leg, then inched them slowly the rest of the way up to his hips. He stood and pulled the top up to his waist.
His legs felt slightly constricted by the material, but he got used to that in a moment. He found that he could barely feel it when he stood still. But when he moved, he felt a soft caress the length of both legs. It wasn't sexual, but it was sensual. He liked it and decided that it had been a good idea to wear the hose.
Phil put on a pair of pink jeans -- no skirts for him. There was a long series of tiny electric tingles as the jeans slid past the hose. These jeans weren't like the sort he'd normally worn. Not just the color. They were cut to his new figure, cut tight on his lush hips and much narrower in the waist. They were also tight enough to show off his legs to good advantage.
He pulled a matching short sleeve sweater blouse from another bag and put it on. He still wasn't used to the buttons being on the "wrong" side. He decided to leave the top two buttons open, revealing a bit of breast. It'll blow Andy's mind, he thought and giggled. The giggle started him a little. He brushed his hair and went down to breakfast.
Andy was waiting for him downstairs. "Good morning, sleepy head," he said. I've been up for over an hour, so I already had breakfast and started working. I left the stuff out for you."
Andy had decided not to mention the incident the night before unless Phil did. He was, frankly, very embarrassed to have taken advantage of his old friend. "There's coffee, too, but first, I'd like to take another blood sample."
"What a great way to start the day," Phil said. "Is that all?"
"Have you noticed any physical changes since yesterday? You don't seem any different, but you're dressed, and I can't tell."
"No, and the clothes that I bought -- you bought -- yesterday still fit." Phil noticed that Andy was looking at him carefully, having come to the same conclusion. He also noticed that Andy was making a deliberate effort not to look at the way his breasts were displayed by the open buttons on the blouse.
"Okay, just blood then. In that shirt, you don't have to roll up your sleeve." He had Phil sit down and drew another blood sample. When he was done, he handed Phil a glass of orange juice. Phil drank it while Andy cleaned up his equipment, putting the used needle in a red disposal box. "See you for lunch," he said and went into the lab.
Phil scrambled himself an egg. He finished the juice, and then had the egg and some coffee. Normally, he ate more, but he'd discovered yesterday that it took less to fill him. Smaller stomach, I guess, he thought. He rinsed the dirty dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Then he went into the living room and found his book. He spent the rest of the morning reading how Jack Ryan saved the world this time.
*****
Andy came out of his lab about 12:30. They finished off the leftover pizza, washing it down with soda. Mostly they made small talk; Andy was in what Phil called his "mad scientist" mode, totally caught up in his work. The conversation did drift into fishing at one point, and the two upped their standing bet on who would catch the most fish over the course of the trip. Joking over the riches they were expecting from Andy's drug, they raised the $10 bet to $100 per day of fishing plus $500 for the whole trip.
After lunch, Andy went back into the lab, promising to be out for dinner. Phil had finished the Clancy book just before lunch. There were some other books in the house, even a few law journals, but he didn't feel like reading. He didn't want to swim either.
Phil was thinking about Andy. He hadn't mentioned what had happened the night before. He was obviously attracted to Phil's new body and just as obviously embarrassed about it. He's feeling guilty about it, Phil thought, and I'm going to have some fun at his expense; maybe get him back a little for doing this to me.
Phil had bought a small purse the day before. Again, there was no way to explain why a woman, who claimed to have lost all of her clothes, wouldn't want to buy one. He put his wallet in it and headed out to his car.
He was at the mall in twenty minutes.
*****
Andy came out of the lab at about 5 PM. There was no sign of Phil. He did find a note, though. "Supper's on me tonight. Dress nice and we'll hit Tony Harris'." Tony Harris's was a steak house over near the Easterbridge Mall. They were known for the quality of the food and served up three or four pretty good micro-brewed beers, as well. Andy and Phil had been planning to eat there at least once during the trip, probably on the last night. Now, for some reason, they'd be hitting it a little earlier than he'd figured.
Andy decided to humor Phil. He went upstairs to shower and change. He hadn't brought a suit, but he had clean shirts and jeans in his room. And he always kept one "emergency" tie in a pocket in his suitcase. He was just coming down the stairs when he heard somebody coming through the door.
"That you, Phil," he said.
"Yeah," said a voice behind him. "You look nice."
He turned, and his jaw dropped in surprise. It was Phil, but he was wearing a sleeveless navy dress cut low in front to show lots of creamy bosom and short enough to show quite a bit of leg. He had dark gray hose on those legs and was perched on two or three in heels. He had a bracelet on one wrist and earrings dangled down from his ears -- did he get them pierced? His make-up was flawless: ripe red lips, blusher, mascara, and shadow that made his eyes seem larger.
"What," Andy said, "What did you do to yourself? Are you okay?"
"I feel great. Don't I look okay?" She spun around slowly, raising the skirt to show even more leg. Andy thought he even got a quick glimpse of thigh above the top of stockings. Stockings?
"You look great, but how -- why'd you do it? I thought you hated being turned into a woman."
"I figured that you'd be turning back soon, so I might as well see what it was really like. As to how I did it; well, there's a pretty good sized mall over there at Easterbridge, and the P.J.' on my credit card can stand for Phyllis Joan' as easily as Phillip John'."
"What was it like?"
"It was weird. I'll admit that, but the look on your face when you saw me standing there was worth it." Phil giggled. "Damn, I hate it when I do that. It just --"
"Sounds so feminine?" Andy said, trying to get back at his friend.
"Yeah," Phil sighed and shrugged. When he did, his breasts rose in a display that Andy couldn't help but enjoy watching.
Andy smiled. Phil might just be playing dress-up as a gag, but he couldn't realize how feminine his body language had become. Tonight could be very interesting.
*****
They got to the restaurant about 6. It was fairly empty as might be expected on a Monday. The maá®tre d' seated them at a table, handed each a menu, and hurried off. A tall man in his forties came by a few minutes later. "Hello," he said, "I'm Jack, your waiter. Would you like anything to drink while you're deciding what to order?"
"A bottle of house red," Andy said. The waiter nodded and went to get the wine.
"Why wine," Phil asked. "I thought we'd get a pitcher of Brady's Malt." The malt was a dark micro-brewed beer that both had tried and enjoyed on previous visits to the restaurant.
"Please," Andy said. "Brady's is good for a couple of guys on a fishing trip. I'm here with a beautiful lady, and wine is so much more romantic." He grinned, almost leered, at Phil for a moment.
"Okay, I guess I deserved that. Besides, if this is a date, you're paying, and there's a lot of good, expensive stuff on this menu." He picked up the menu as if trying to figure out what would be the most expensive meal to order.
The waiter came back with the wine. He poured a little for Andy to taste, and, when Andy drank and nodded, he filled both glasses. "Are you ready to order, now?"
"Yes," Phil said.
But before he could order, Andy interrupted. "Salad, Russian dressing on the side for her, blue cheese for me; chateaubriand for two -- medium; baked potatoes, sour cream on both." This time, he didn't even ask Phil. He just ordered and handed the waiter his menu. Then he took the menu from Phil's hands and gave it to the waiter as well. Dismissed, the man left to place the order.
"Well, that was nice," Phil said. "I can order for myself, you know."
"You said that you wanted expensive. We've eaten here enough that I know what you like, so I just did what the man expected and ordered for us both."
"Yeah, but a gentleman at least asks a lady if she likes what he's ordered?"
"A gentleman asks a what?" Andy was grinning broadly now. Gotcha, he thought. Now we're even for the clothes.
"Oh, hell," Phil said. "I wasn't thinking. This whole thing is really getting to me. I'll be glad to get that shot and change back."
"Okay. I'm sorry. Look, let's just enjoy the meal." He lifted his glass. "Here's to Phil and Andy, two guys who're going to catch a lot of fish over the next week and a half."
Phil clinked his glass with Andy's, and both drank some of their wine. In a few minutes, they were lost in talk of where were the most likely spots out on the lake near the house and what lures or bait to use. They chatted like the old friends they were, pausing occasionally to drink more wine.
The waiter brought their salads. He was a little surprised to hear such a pretty woman talking so knowledgeably about fishing, but he just shrugged as he walked away. Lots of women fished these days. His wife was almost as good at it as he was.
Talk continued through the salad, not stopping when the waiter brought the steak. Much as it galled Phil to admit it, Andy had ordered pretty well. The steak was perfect. It cut like butter and all but melted in his mouth. The two friends kept talking, eating, and drinking. About halfway through the meal, they finished the bottle of wine. The waiter noticed and brought a second bottle.
By the end of the meal, both Phil and Andy were beginning to feel the wine. Phil had tried to keep pace with Andy, forgetting that his body might have a smaller capacity. He was only too aware of his smaller stomach when he wasn't able to finish the steak. He giggled a little when he asked the waiter for a "doggy bag" to take home the meat and about half his potato.
"You'll be changing back by lunchtime tomorrow," Andy said. "That will hardly make a complete lunch."
"But it's so good," Phil said. "Maybe I'll wait till after lunch to get that shot. Then I can have my steak -- and eat it, too." He giggled again at the joke.
"I thought you were in a hurry to turn back."
"I am, silly." Phil started, surprised at how feminine that statement was. "I am, but I'm also definitely beginning to feel the wine, and I'm not sure you can be hypnotized while I'm drunk. I'm willing to wait till morning to make sure that the stuff works."
"You may be right about the wine. To tell the truth, I'm feeling it a little, too. Okay, we'll wait till morning."
"Can you drive us home okay?"
"Yeah; I'm not as think as you drunk I am. Oh, don't look at me like that. I was joking. There shouldn't be much traffic on the road. I'll drive slowly, and we should be fine."
"Just the same, let's both have a cup of coffee with desert."
The waiter came back with the "doggy bag" and their desert orders. Both ordered a cup of coffee, "strong and black". While they were waiting, a young man in a sheriff's uniform came over to the table.
"Excuse me," he said. "I'm Deputy Ron Taylor. Are you the folks staying at the Hendricks' Lodge?"
"No, we're just down the road from it at the old Riley house,” Andy said. "A -- um -- a friend of mine is a partner at the law firm that owns it. I'm Andy Hoffmann, and this is Phil-iss McNierney"
"Pleased to meet you. I wanted to warn you. We've had some break-ins in a few of the houses near that end of the lake. A little robbery, a little vandalism. Nobody's been hurt, yet, though. Just make sure that you lock your doors and turn on any alarm system you may have."
"Thank you, Deputy Taylor," Phil said.
The deputy gave the pair a good professional appraisal. "Are you folks sure you can get home all right? Be a shame to see a nice couple like you in an accident, or to have to pull you in for drunk driving. I'll be glad to give you a lift. I can even give you a taxi pass, so it won't cost you anything to come back here for your car tomorrow."
Drunk or not, Andy knew better than to argue with a policeman. Especially one who knew that he was about to try something that was both dangerous and illegal. "Thank you, Deputy. We're not quite ready to go. Can I buy you a cup of coffee while you wait for us to finish?"
"No, that's all right. Mr. Harris, the owner here, is on the town council. We eat here free when we're on duty. Thank you, though. I'll just be over at the counter."
The deputy walked away to finish his burger. The waiter came a few moments later with the coffee. "Good thing you agreed," he said. "Ron lost a buddy to a drunk driver a couple years ago, and he can come down hard on one. I've known him to follow somebody for miles; pull them over and write a citation. He'll still take them home, rather than put them in jail. But there's a $100 fine for drunk driving, and you can get your license pulled."
"To tell the truth, I'm a little relieved," Phil said. "I know I'm too drunk to try and drive. I trust Andy, but he's had more than me. He is bigger, though." Phil giggled at that, knowing the sexual connotation the statement had. "I wasn't quite sure that he could manage to get us back to the house."
The waiter left, and Andy gave Phil a nasty look. "'He is bigger'. You are definitely drunk, my friend."
"I know, and it feels good. Drink your coffee, and let's get going. We can't keep the good deputy waiting all night."
They drank the coffee slowly, savoring its richness. Every so often, Andy would look over to where the deputy was sitting. Phil asked for the check when the waiter came back with a pot offering refills. The waiter looked at Andy. "Give it to her. She's a liberated woman of the '90s." The waiter refilled the cups and took Phil's credit card.
The deputy was just finishing when the waiter brought back the receipt for Phil to sign. Phil signed, remembering to write "P.J.", rather than "Phillip J. McNierney" and adding a good tip for the waiter. Andy finished the last of his coffee. They were standing by the table when the deputy reached them. "You two ready to go," he asked.
Phil and Andy got up and started for the door. Andy noticed that Phil seemed to be weaving more than a little. The wine had definitely been too much for him in his new body. He was feeling it a bit, too. He'd enjoyed the meal, but he had a feeling that tomorrow's hangover was not going to be nearly as much fun.
When they got outside, the officer led them to his patrol car. "You folks will have to ride in back. Don't worry, I won't lock the door." He opened the door, and Phil got in. He slid over on the seat, and Andy joined him. The officer shut the door and got in the driver's seat. "So, what brings you two up here to the Lake?"
"Fish. We were due some time off, and we've been fishing together since we were kids. I've heard the fishing's pretty good around here, so I wangled the use of the house, and here we are."
"If you say so," the deputy said. Phil recognized the tone of voice. He could almost hear the man's thoughts. Good looking guy, pretty girl, and all they came to do was fish? Right. He decided to have a little fun with the deputy and with Andy.
"Well, that's not all," Phil said. He snuggled up close to Andy and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He giggled watching his friend's reaction and decided to go just a little further. "No, definitely not all. Is it, lover?" He turned suddenly in the seat and put an arm up and around Andy's head. Then he kissed Andy full on the lips.
Andy's mouth opened in surprise, and Phil stuck his tongue in just a little. It felt nice, surprisingly nice. He could feel his nipples getting taut in his bra. His crotch felt warm and wet and just a little empty.
"Phil -- Phyllis, please. Not here in front of the deputy." Andy broke away. He pushed Phil back and moved as far away as he could in the limited space of the back seat.
Phil giggled. "I'm sorry, Andy. I was just showing the nice deputy what he expected to see."
"Don't need to give me a show, ma'am," the deputy said. "I'm not here to judge. I just want to get you folks home in one piece. What you do once you get there is your business."
"You're right, and I'm sorry," Phil said. "It was the wine, not me. Andy and I are just friends." Somehow he felt sorry saying it. He'd enjoyed the kiss. Phil saw Andy trying to adjust his pants without being obvious about it. He must have enjoyed it at least a little, too. Phil smiled at that thought, feeling his nipples beginning to tingle again.
The deputy dropped them at the door and drove off. They went in, switching the house alarm to external mode. Phil stopped at the bottom of the steps. "Andy, I'm feeling a little too wobbly. Could you help me up to my room?"
"Okay, but no tricks."
"No tricks. I promise. Now, please give me a hand. If I don't get some help, I'm gonna have to sleep down here."
Andy came over and put his arm around Phil's narrow waist. He grabbed the railing with his other hand. "Just lean on me and step when I step." He went up one step. Phil stepped with him. Andy continued slowly up the stairs. He tried very hard not to notice how nice Phil's body felt against him; how good he smelled.
Phil was having very similar thoughts. The sensations in his breast and groin were back, made stronger by the wine he had drunk.
They reached the top and walked down to Phil's bedroom. Phil started to open the door. Then he turned and put his arms around Andy's neck. He pulled Andy's head down and kissed him. Hard. Andy opened his mouth in surprise, and Phil's tongue snaked in. He pressed himself up close. Andy felt Phil's breasts pressing against him; felt Phil rubbing against his groin. Despite his best efforts to resist, Andy kissed Phil back and felt himself growing hard.
No! Andy thought. This is wrong. He pushed Phil away. "You promised. No tricks."
Phil smiled demurely. "That wasn't a trick. It was a treat." Phil reached down and caressed Andy's groin. "And you seemed to enjoy it." Phil grabbed Andy by his belt and led him into the room. "Let's see what other treats we can think of."
Phil shut the door behind them, turned, and kissed Andy again. Then he broke the kiss and loosed Andy's tie. He pulled it off over Andy's head and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Phil, do -- do you know what you're doing?"
"Gee, I hope so, lover." Phil's voice was low and husky. "Why, am I doing it wrong?" She stopped and kissed him again. "Don't you like it?"
"Yeah, but -- but you're a guy."
"Do I look like a guy?" Phil said. He stepped back and reached behind himself with both hands. His arms moved up and down his back. He brought them back around and dropped them to his sides. His dress fell down past his hips to form a pool of silk at his feet. He bent one knee slightly and put a hand on his hip, the classic female position.
Andy's jaw dropped. Phil was wearing a violet demi-bra that pushed his pillowy breasts up and out. His panties were the same shade. They were cut high and trimmed with white lace and clung to his narrow waist and wide hips. His pale gray stockings were held up by a matching garter belt that pulled them tight on his delicately curved legs and showed plenty of creamy thigh. "I said, ‘do I look like a guy?’"
Andy's penis came to immediate attention. It felt like he could drive nails with it. Into steel girders. "Uh -- uh, no, but tomorrow --"
"Will be tomorrow." Phil stepped out of the pool that was his dress and walked back to Andy. It was a stripper's walk, hips cocking with each step. He took Andy's head in his hands and kissed him again. This time Andy kissed him back.
Phil finished unbuttoning Andy's shirt and pulled it off. Then he bent down and loosened Andy's belt. He undid the pants and pulled them down to Andy's ankles. Phil found himself staring straight at the very large bulge in Andy's shorts. On impulse, he leaned forward and kissed it through the fabric. It pulsed at the touch.
Andy reached down and pulled Phil up. They kissed again, and Andy's hands reached behind Phil to undo his bra. It slid off, and he tossed it away. His arms pulled Phil close. Andy felt Phil's nipples, hard as his own erection, as his breasts squashed up against Andy's own hairy chest.
Phil felt his nipples tingling. His groin was hot and wet and empty. When his body touched Andy or Andy touched him, he felt jolts of pleasure shoot through his body. It was a wonderful new world of sensation.
But in the back of his mind he could hear the voice of Philip J. McNierney. It was a very male voice, and it was screaming for him to stop. Push him away, the voice said. Push him out. Then, lock the door and stay in until he comes to give you the shot in the morning.
But there was another voice, his own female voice. No, it said. You trust Andy. You love him. You always have. This is just a different way of showing him that love. And there was a third voice -- if it could be called a voice. His body, his, oh, so female body, was screaming, too. Screaming a need to feel Andy touching him; kissing him; to feel Andy within him. Stop thinking, it said. Do! Just do!
Phil tried to resolve the voices. But Andy was licking at his one breast, tickling the nipple with his tongue. His fingers matched the motions of his tongue on the other nipple, tweaking it. The jolts of pleasure drowned out everything but the third voice. Phil moaned and threw his head back. His knees grew weak.
Phil felt his knees begin to buckle. As he sank backward, he felt himself being lifted up. Andy carried him over to the unmade bed and gently laid him down on it. A few moments later, Phil felt Andy lie down beside him on the bed and begin to suckle at his other breast.
Phil's hand reached down. Andy had taken off his shorts. Phil's fingered circled around Andy's prick. It jumped slightly at his touch. It felt hard and warm to the touch. Phil rubbed it gently feeling it pulse slightly as he did. Somehow he felt that was reassuring. It wanted him just as he wanted it.
Now Andy's hand moved down. His finger found the folds of Phil's sexual lips beneath the thin fabric of the panties. A finger traced their shape. It was Phil's turn to tremble as the panties became moist to the touch. Andy's hand reached into the panties and caressed Phil's labia directly. Two fingers snaked inside and began moving in and out. Phil moaned again. His hips began to move in rhythm with Andy's fingers.
Suddenly Phil's grasp on Andy's penis tightened. "Now," he said. "Put it in me now."
Andy stopped the motion and pulled out his hand. He grasped the top of Phil's panties and began pulling them down. Phil lifted his ass of the bed to help. Once the panties were off, Andy moved over on top of Phil, supporting his weight with his arms and legs. Phil was still holding Andy's penis. He gently guided it to his crotch. He released it as he felt it brushing against his labia, pushing them apart.
Phil felt the penis enter him. It was something he had never felt -- never expected to feel. He had always been the one entering. It was his hardness going into the softness of the woman. But now that yielding softness was his. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong, but how could anything that felt this good be wrong?
His arms went around Andy, pulling him towards him. His hips rose and fell matching Andy's motion. His legs lifted up and wrapped themselves around Andy's hips.
Andy could feel Phil's stockings against hips. He felt Phil's spiked heels on his butt, spurring him to pump harder. Their levels of pleasure rose as more and more sexual energy shot out from their loins to every part of their bodies.
In the end, they climaxed together. Phil could feel Andy's sperm shoot into him. He screamed in delight and raked his nails across Andy's back. Andy stopped moving, and Phil felt the hardness of Andy's penis soften and shrink within him. He felt more of Andy's weight pressing down on him. Not enough to hurt, though, but more like a thick blanket shielding him.
Andy kissed Phil gently on the mouth. He lifted one arm and began to caress Phil's body. Phil sighed as the jolts of sexual energy settled down into the warm afterglow of sex. He smiled and kissed Phil, little pecks on his lips and cheeks.
Andy rolled over and off Phil. His penis came out of Phil's vagina with an almost audible pop. They both sighed; still savoring the pleasure that each had given to and gotten from the other. Andy put his arm out across the pillows. Phil rested his head on it and snuggled up against Andy's side. Andy reached over and pulled the covers over the pair of them. In a few minutes they were both asleep.
*****
The sunlight streaming through the open window woke Andy. He glanced at the bedside clock. Almost 10 AM. Well, he thought, between the wine and the -- um -- extracurriculars, he shouldn't be surprised at sleeping so late. He looked down. Phil was still lying against him, her head resting on his chest.
"Her" head? This was Phil McNierney, one of his oldest friends. They'd played basketball together; gotten drunk together; chased women together. But now -- now, they had had sex together. What the hell was going to happen to their friendship now? Would things be the same after Phil changed back?
Phil's head turned to look at him. "Finally awake, sleepyhead."
"I guess so. Look about last night, I'm sorry --"
"Ummm, I'm not. It was great."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it, but don't forget, you're due to get your shot today to change back."
"Do I have to? I'd like to stay this way a little longer." Phil's hand reached down, and Andy felt a finger run down the length of his penis. "Is there anything I can do to talk you into giving me some more time?"
Andy felt himself beginning to get hard again. "Stop that, Phil. What's going on here? I thought you were in such a hurry to change back."
"Well, now, I'm not. Let's just say that last night I found a good reason for wanting to stay female a while longer."
"But --"
"Look, Andy. Let's just get serious for a moment. You need my consent to give me the shot, and you know that you can't hypnotize an unwilling subject. Well, I'm withholding my consent for the moment. Accept the fact. Okay?"
"Okay, but I'm not sure that I like it."
"Maybe this will help." Phil rolled over on top of him, sitting on his stomach. She -- there was no way to think of him as a "he" -- took his head in her hands and kissed him. He felt her breasts pressed against his chest. He felt himself grow hard. His penis rose up to touch her rounded ass as he gave in to the inevitable of what was about to happen.
She felt it, too. She lifted herself up on her knees and grasped his penis. "Well, you're certainly ready," she said with a throaty giggle. She gently lowered herself down onto the penis. He felt her nether lips part, felt the warm wetness of her vagina. She was ready, too. Very ready.
He raised his hips suddenly, pushing himself up and into her further. Her eyes opened wide with delight. She moaned and pushed back. In a moment they were matching each other, rhythm for rhythm. She leaned back and his arms reached up, his hands began to massage her breasts.
Phil wasn't sure that she had wanted to have sex again with Andy when she started flirting with him. (Phil had decided to think of herself as a "she" until changing back.) She was just teasing him. She knew how much she'd enjoyed the sex last night, and she wanted to think about things before she let herself be changed back. This had seemed to be the only way to convince him. But both their bodies had reacted so very fast, and things just happened.
Not that she wasn't enjoying it; she was. It was wonderful feeling him inside her. A woman's orgasm wasn't just different than a man’s; she was beginning to think it was better. It certainly was longer. No sudden spurt and it was over. No, each peak lead to another peak and then another. And even when it was over, the long slide back down was such a warm, pleasant experience.
She felt Andy pulse within her. He screamed and his hips and butt froze in mid air for a moment before sinking back down onto the bed. She leaned forward and gave him a long kiss on the mouth. Then she moved her head down, arching her back as she kissed his face, his chin, down to his chest.
She didn't want to go any lower. She would have to shift her body to do that. Andy felt softer and smaller within her, and she wanted to keep him within her as long as she could. Any movement, and he might slip out. She stopped kissing his and leaned forward again. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat.
She sighed, feeling her body slowly calm down, even as his did. "Well, Andy, are you convinced that it might be a good idea for me to stay female a while longer?"
"That's not a fair argument."
"I'm a lawyer. We don't play fair. We play to win."
"Well, you have. No shot till you're willing to change back. Agreed?"
"Agreed. There's just one thing."
"What now?"
"Well, much as I like staying here -- you make a great mattress -- there are a lot of fish in that lake. Let's go see how many we can take out."
"Do we have to? You make a great blanket."
"Yes; if only because we made a bet. You're ahead after the first day. Are you afraid to give me a chance to catch up?"
"Argument taken, but I think I want to shower first. Care to join me?" He was smiling, almost leering.
"It's tempting, but I'll pass -- this time." She gave him the same leer back and reluctantly climbed off. She did need a shower, though, and she'd have to figure out how to clean herself. She could feel something wet sliding down her leg. A horrible thought came to her. They'd had unprotected sex twice. She wasn't worried about disease, but could she get pregnant?
"Andy," she said hesitantly. "Um, this, um, this body is a totally working female body. Is there any chance of it getting, well, of it getting pregnant?"
"I don’t think so. I'll do a pregnancy test, if you want. But I figure that your body changed into a female one at the equivalent of the start of its cycle, as if you'd just finished menstruating. You shouldn't ovulate for over a week." He sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. As he rose, he gave her butt a friendly slap. "Now get dressed you lusty wench, and I'll show you the proper way to catch fish."
"Who'll show whom?"
"Okay, we'll see. Oh, and I'm going to want to take another blood sample, so don't eat anything if you get downstairs first."
"Why?"
"I want to keep a constant baseline of your body chemistry until you change back. Don't worry. It won't take long."
*****
They were on the lake less than forty minutes later. They spent most of the day in silence, listening to tapes on their IPods. This time Phil had a much better day than Andy. She was feeling relaxed and fairly confident in her decision to stay female for a while. He was trying to figure out just what he had done to his best friend and how he could fix it.
About 4:30 they headed back in. It was a little early, but it had been a long day for them. Andy tied the boat to the dock, while Phil unloaded their gear. Then he jumped out and extended his hand. Phil grabbed it and pulled herself up and onto the dock. Andy was amazed again at how much lighter she was as a female.
Phil took the poles and headed back towards the house. Andy grabbed the line and the tackle boxes and started after her. It was a pleasure to be following her. He watched her ass sway in the tight jeans she was wearing. Andy felt himself getting hard. Damn, he thought, not again.
Phil stopped and turned to see if he was following. She saw the look of embarrassment on his face. Her eyes glanced down his body, stopping at the bulge in his jeans. She dropped the poles and walked slowly towards him. She had a wicked smile on her face, and she was doing that "bump and grind" walk of hers.
She stopped directly in front of him. One hand reached down and her finger traced the bulge of his penis through his pants. "Andy, you know the nicest things to say to a girl." Then she grabbed his head in his hands and pulled him to her. Their mouths met in a long passionate kiss, their tongues darting back and forth playing with each other.
Eventually they pulled apart. Andy looked around quickly for a comfortable place. The side of the hill was gravel and low grass. It might have worked with a blanket, but they had none. Besides, it was only early May, and still a little cold to be taking your clothes off outside. No matter how good the reason was.
Phil must have been thinking the same thoughts. "There's a nice warm house just up the hill. It has a thick carpet and wide couches, and a whole bunch of beds for us to choose from." She picked up the poles and headed back for the house. Andy followed.
The problem was that he had time to think about what he was planning to do. That was still Phil inside that body. Eventually, the original, the male Phil would be back, and they'd have to face everything that had happened. How do two heterosexual men stay friends after they've made love as a man and woman? He decided to add to the problem by doing anything more.
Again, Phil could tell what was going on just by looking at Andy's face. She pouted and went into the kitchen to fix supper. He went upstairs and took a very long and very cold shower.
*****
By the time Andy came down, dinner was ready. He sat down at the table, and Phil put a plate of roast fish in front of him. She served herself and sat down to eat without saying a word. He tried a few feints to get a reaction out of her, talking about the day's fishing, old friends, anything he could think of. Nothing worked.
Finally he just blurted it out. "Look, Phil, I'm sorry. You're a damned attractive woman, sexy as hell. And because of who you are, you know more about pleasing a man than any other woman could."
"So why did you refuse me? I know you like them hot and willing. That's what I've been playing at."
"Because of who you are, or, rather, who you were, and who you will be. Phil McNierney, my best friend. A guy I've known over half my life."
"So? I'm still Phil McNierney."
"No, you're not. He's gone away, and there's this hot babe trying to take his place. When he comes back, I'm going to have to explain to him how I behaved with that babe. And if he doesn't like what I did, even if it's as much the babe's fault as my own, I may lose my best friend." He stopped for a minute and looked directly at Phil. "Now do you understand?"
"I -- I think I do." She was trying to hold back the tears as she spoke. "I didn't realize what I -- what I was doing. Oh, Andy, I'm so, so sorry." The tears began to flow. She jumped from the table and ran upstairs. He heard the door of her room slam behind her.
"I hope so, old buddy," Andy said in relief. "I sure hope so."
*****
There was a knock on Andy's door the next morning. He threw a robe on over his pajamas and opened the door. Phil was standing there in a woman's robe -- from the courtesy storage closet, Andy guessed -- looking down shyly. "May I come in?"
"I guess." He motioned for her to sit in a chair and sat in another himself. No sense asking for trouble by sitting on the bed with her, he thought. "How are you doing this morning?"
"Okay. Look, I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. I didn't realize that you felt that it was putting our friendship in jeopardy."
"I know, and I'm sorry that I had to put it so bluntly. If it makes you feel any better, it wasn't all one sided. I was a more than willing participant and thoroughly enjoyed our, um, times together."
"You did?" She was smiling now.
Andy saw where that line of conversation might lead, his bed. "Yeah, that was part of the problem. I was enjoying it too much, and I was afraid that I was screwing up our friendship. Literally as well as figuratively."
Phil stopped smiling. She had been thinking about the bed, too. "Well, I think I've got a solution. I want to stay female, to never change back."
"What! Are you out of your mind?"
"No. I -- I love you Andy. I always have, but now I've fallen in love with you. I want to be with you."
"And what do you do when the vacation's over? How are they going to act at your firm when you come walking in wearing a woman's suit, heels, and stockings and tell them that you got in touch with your female side?"
She giggled at the thought, and then began to laugh. "Vic Chase would have kittens."
It was sexy the way her whole body seemed to shake when she laughed, her breasts moving under her robe. Do not go there, Andy warned himself. "And then they'd let you just pick up your caseload and get to work?"
"Probably not. They'd think it was some sort of trick and not let me into my office. Even after I proved who I was -- and I could, unless my fingerprints have changed --"
"They haven't. At least, I can't think any reason why they should have. We can check if you want."
"That's okay. There's other ways to prove it if they have. Anyway, they'd make me keep a very low profile for a while. Probably give a lot of my work to somebody else till people had time to adjust."
"And that wouldn't bother you? You once told me that half the fun of getting up in the morning was knowing that you were going to go in to the office and -- what did you say -- oh, yeah, to go in and 'wrestle with the law.' What happens to that, Ms. McNierney?"
"There's other ways to do law. Other ways to wrestle, too." She looked at him hopefully, trying for a smile, maybe even to change the tone of this conversation a little. It didn't work.
"Okay, I'll miss that some. I admit it. But corporate law's been getting a little dry, lately. I've been thinking about cutting down my caseload for a while and doing some writing. The most fun that I ever had with the law was when I was on the law journal while I was in school."
"But will it be enough?"
"It would be if I was with you." She stood and began to undo her robe. Andy wasn't sure what, if anything, was under it.
"No, Phil. That's not a fair argument." He scowled, and she stopped tugging at the knot in the robe's sash. "Look, if you want to stay a woman for a while long, okay. But think about it."
"Let me make you an offer. Based on how long it took you to change, the last night to give you the shot and have you turn back before the end of our stay here is a week from today. If you can give me a good reason to let you stay a woman, then you will. And we'll see what happens to our relationship. Otherwise, you take the shot and turn back. Agreed?"
She thought about it for a moment. There really wasn't any other way. Besides, there was always the chance that she could get him to admit how he felt about her. That would be the best argument. "Okay." She paused a moment and watched him relax a bit. She began undoing her robe. "Now that we've settled the matter...."
"No, Phil. Not till the matter's really settled."
Damn! She turned and walked out of the room. As she walked towards the door, she undid the robe. She stopped at the doorway and turned her head back to look where he was sitting. "Andy." He looked up. She dropped the robe and let it fall to the ground. She had worn nothing underneath. She posed for a moment. "Your loss." Then she walked out the door with as sexy a strut as she could manage.
She was about halfway back to her room when something hit her in the back of the head. She turned and looked down. The robe, bunched up in a ball lay at her feet. Andy's door was shut. Gotcha!
*****
Andy was waiting for her when Phil came downstairs. She was dressed in a pair of light blue jeans that hugged every curve and one of her male work shirts. The shirt was knotted at her midriff; the top two buttons were undone to show lots of breast. She smiled at him until she noticed the syringe on the table next to him.
"No! You promised. We had a deal." She turned to run upstairs.
"I know, and I intend to honor it." He held up the syringe. "I want your blood," he said in his best Dracula voice.
"I'm sorry. I forgot about that baseline thingie of yours."
"'Baseline thingie', now there's a term I haven't heard since med school." He took a sample and headed for the lab. "Your breakfast's on the table. If you're going to be a girl for another week, I want to reconfigure some of the equipment for a longer test. How about we do lunch at the mall again; maybe take in a movie. I'll have cab drive me over to Tom Harris' to pick up my car. You may want to do a little shopping, too. I don't think you've got a week worth of girl's clothes."
"Oh, thank you, Andy. You're too sweet." She pretended to blow him a kiss. "Have fun in the lab."
"Wait a minute what time do we meet, and where?"
"How about the food court at Easterbridge Mall, at 1? That'll give me time to do some serious shopping, and you can finish up whatever you need to finish up."
"Done. See you later." He disappeared into the lab. Phil grabbed the purse from where she'd left it earlier and walked out to her car.
*****
Andy walked into the mall about 12:50. The food court was on the second floor, and he got it with a couple minutes to spare. There was no sign of Phil. He glanced around. He started to make some kind of "just like a woman" comment to himself, when he remembered what a lousy sense of time, the male Phil had. He decided to wait ten minutes and then, if she hadn't come, see about having her paged.
About five minutes later, Andy thought he heard his name. He turned to see a gorgeous woman walking towards him. Her walk was half strut, half stalk and sexy as hell. Andy stopped looking for Phil. Like most of the other men and not a few of the women in the area, he just watched her walk towards him.
Her black hair was a mass of ringlets that framed her face. She was smiling at him, her lips a dark vibrant red. Her eyes were perfect, long thick lashes and a smoky gray eye shadow that made them seem even bigger than they were.
Her dress was a navy silk confection that hugged her curves. It was cut low enough to show lots of creamy breast. The dress was short, reaching no more than half the distance from hips to knee. It swung freely as she walked, revealing the feminine curve of her leg and even an occasional flash of thigh. Her shoes were the same color as her dress with a three inch heel.
She kept walking towards him. Then, as she got close, he thought that he recognized her. "Phil?" She smiled and ran to him. She put her arms around him and kissed him. He could smell perfume, rich and exotic. He put his arms up around her neck. One arm brushed against an earring.
The effect was total female, and he reacted to her. He kissed her back, pulling her close. He felt her breasts pushing against his chest. His penis was growing hard.
The crowd broke into applause. Phil and Andy both realized that they were the center of attention and pushed apart in embarrassment. Phil took Andy by the hand, and they ducked into the crowd that had gathered around them. Looking back, Andy saw Phil bowing and throwing kisses to the appreciative crowd.
"What got into you, Phil?"
"The works. I decided that if I'm going to be a girl, I'm going to be a girl! How'd I do?"
"On a scale of one to ten, I'd give you, oh, maybe a six -- ouch! Why'd you kick me? I was going to say a sixteen. Sixteen, honest."
"That's better, and I'm sorry that I kicked you." She looked around. "Hey, that crowd's pretty much stopped staring at us. How about we get some lunch?"
They went to two different counters and returned to their table. Andy had a grilled chicken sandwich, fries, and a coke. Phil brought back a tossed salad and diet coke. "To quote the old joke," she said. "If I don't watch my figure, nobody else will."
"They will when you look like that."
"Thank you, kind sir." She leaned over and kissed his forehead. "How'd it go in the lab this morning, Dr. Frankenstein?"
"Pretty well. The PC's reprogrammed. The analyzer is set for additional samples -- it's doing this morning's blood work right now. From what I've looked at from the past samples, your body's well within healthy female parameters. You'll also be glad to know that there're also no signs that you're anywhere near ovulating."
"Then it's okay to have sex?" She smiled at him hopefully and batted her eyelashes.
"Not with me it isn't, so stop racing your engine and eat your lunch."
"Pooh!" She giggled and took a bite of salad. "Can't blame a girl for trying, can you?"
"I guess not, but I'd really like you to stop trying." Her face darkened, so he tried to change the subject. "What do you want to do after we eat?"
"You mentioned a movie, but I'd kind of like to do some more shopping. I spent the whole morning working on this outfit and how I'd look in it."
"Don't get your hopes up, but I'll be the first to admit that it was time well spent."
"Thank you, again. I'll take it as a general compliment. Do you want to come along, or are you going to chicken out and head back to the house?"
"Might as well stay here. The equipment runs just as well without me. And I can't fish unless you're there to compete. I intend to win our bet fair and square." They finished with their lunches. They tossed the trash in a bin near their table and headed out into the mall.
Their first stop was a Jean King. Phil bought three more pair of jeans. She tried on one pair, coming out to ask Andy what he thought. The jeans were a pale green, cut tight to show off the wearer's curves. It certainly worked. Andy thought they almost looked painted on. Phil also bought a pair of cut-offs cut so high that the clerk advised her to make sure her panties didn't show when she wore it. Phil winked at Andy and said that she might just not wear panties under them.
They stopped at the storage locker where Phil had stashed the clothes that she'd worn to the mall. The new purchases joined the others, and they headed to the next store.
Andy began shaking his head as soon as he saw where they were going. "No way, Phil," he said. "I am not going into a Victoria's Secret."
"What's the matter, old buddy? Chicken? Just think of me in all that sexy underwear." Phil saw Andy scowl. "Okay, just think of all those other women in that sexy underwear. Hey, if I'm going to be a girl for a week, I'll need more than just three bra and panty sets. I might as well see what the good stuff feels like."
"What about that little bra, panty, and garter set you had on the other night. Wasn't that good stuff?"
"How sweet; you remembered. I got them at Sears along with the dress that first day. You weren't paying attention to what all I bought that day. I got the salesgirl to pick them out for me, so everything would match. I told her I wanted to impress my boyfriend."
"Okay, but do I still have to go in?"
"Yes!" She pulled him into the store. Andy tried to look at ease. He couldn't. There were too many things to stare at. He decided that the best bet was to just watch Phil.
That only worked for a while. Phil came over carrying a wad of black material. "What do you think of this," she said. It was one of those 'merry widows', two almost transparent brassiere cups with a drape of cloth that came down almost to the waist. Four garters trimmed with black roses dangled down below. "And it comes with a matching thong panty, too."
She held it up in front of her. It was easy to imagine her wearing it. He sighed a little at the mental image. Then he shook his head. "That, Phil was unfair. I'm going to go look at the fishing gear." He started to walk out of the store.
She dropped the garment on a counter and ran after him. "Andy, I'm sorry. I was just kidding."
"Like hell. I told you, no matter how attractive you are, I don't want to do anything like what you're suggesting unless and until the matter of your gender is decided."
"All right, and I am sorry. I guess I'm only just realizing how serious you are about this. How about we do our own shopping and meet back at the food court about six for supper? My treat."
"Okay," he said smiling lamely. After all, it wasn't entirely her fault. He'd been the one who told his friend to become a woman. "But then that movie I promised. My treat. Deal?"
"Deal. I'll even let you pick the movie." They shook hands and separated. Phil went back in to Victoria's Secret and promptly bought the 'merry widow'. Just in case, she thought.
*****
They met at the food court, and then walked over to the pizza place where they had eaten a few days before. Phil was hungry from an afternoon of shopping and managed three slices this time. They took their packages out and locked them in the trunks of their cars. Phil had about six boxes and bags of clothes, enough for a month, Andy thought. He's bought a new tackle and a couple shirts, so there was room for what couldn't fit in Phil's 'beemer'. Then they headed back in towards the movieplex.
"How about SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE?" Phil said. "It won all those Oscars, and I've been too busy to see it."
The prospect of sitting in the dark watching a romantic movie with Phil was not one Andy wanted to face. It would be too easy for her to start something. Too easy for him to forget and let her start something.
"Have you seen SAVING PRIVATE RYAN? It won a bunch of Oscars, too."
"No, but....." Phil let her voice trail off. She looked very disappointed. "I wanted to see Shakespeare with you."
"I think I know what you wanted, but you did say that you'd let me pick the movie. I thought you were a man of your word."
She flinched at the word "man", but she had promised. "Okay, Private Ryan, and I'll buy the munchies."
The movie was as good as everybody said, and they were soon both lost in the plot. Phil took Andy's hand at one point. She held it for much of the rest of the movie, squeezing it once in a while when the action got fierce. At the end of the movie, she leaned her head against his shoulder. He thought he could hear her crying a little, but he'd been affected, too. It was a powerful movie.
"That's one advantage of being female," Phil said as they walked back to their cars. "I get to cry about things like that."
*****
As they got near the house, Andy saw a lot of flashing lights ahead of him over the hill. He stepped on the gas, leaving Phil's car behind. Something was very wrong.
The house was a smoldering ruin. The flashing lights were from the two fire trucks and the police cars parked nearby. He pulled up next to one of the police cars, recognizing Taylor, the cop that had driven him home the day before. "What happened?"
"Mr. Hoffmann? Yes, it is you. We don't know. The alarm came in about 4:30. The firemen did the best they could, but the house went up pretty fast. These old ones often do. I hope you didn't have anything really valuable in there. It's just about a total loss."
‘Nothing much,’ Andy thought. ‘Just about $60,000 worth of medical equipment that I’m going to have to explain to the university, as well as all of my medical samples. Thank heavens, I backed up my notes on disk and put the copies in my trunk. Even so, about six months of work is gone.’
Phil had driven up by now. She parked her car and ran over. One of the other sheriffs tried to stop her, thinking she was just a gawker. "It's okay,” Deputy Taylor said. "She's with him."
Phil looked in horror at the ruins. Her partners were going to blame her for this. Life had just gotten even more difficult.
Taylor looked at the two of them. His voice dropped a notch. "I hate to ask this, but was there anybody else in the house with you. We, um, we found a body."
"Can we see it," Phil asked. An idea suddenly came to her.
The deputy led them over to an ambulance. There was a body covered with a sheet on a gurney next to it. He drew back the sheet. "We found him in a room with some electrical equipment. Best as we can tell without an investigation, that's where the fire started. We think he was trying to put it out when something exploded."
Phil gasped and began to cry. "It -- it's my cousin, Phil. The house belongs to his law firm. Andy and I went to the mall for the day, but he wanted to fish. Oh, Phil. If only we'd been there to help." She collapsed in tears over the body.
Andy just stared. Phil had once told him that half of the skill of a good lawyer was acting. Phil was certainly a good lawyer. He could hardly contradict her -- at least right now -- without stirring up more trouble than they were already in. He put his arm around her and lead her gently back to her car. He left her sitting on the seat, still sobbing, and went back to talk to Deputy Taylor.
"Do you know where the township office is, Mr. Hoffmann?"
"I think so. Over on Meecham Road, isn't it?"
"That's right, sir. Can you and the lady come in some time tomorrow? We'll need her to sign the death certificate as the deceased cousin."
"Um, okay." Andy hoped he could come up with a solution to this before they got into more trouble. "Is there a motel or something nearby? We're going to need a place to sleep tonight."
"You're welcome to my spare room, Dr. Hoffmann." It was Ira Casey, the caretaker, come over from where he'd been examining the ruins. He was afraid that he'd just lost a very good job and trying for any 'brownie points' he could get.
Andy decided to help. Whatever had happened probably wasn't Casey's fault. From the sound of it, something had gone wrong with his equipment. "Thank you, Mr. Casey," he said. "But I'm with, um, there's somebody, um, do you have two rooms?"
"Please, call me Ira. No, I'm afraid not. My wife can fix up our old sofa in the back room. I've slept there more than once in forty-odd years of married life."
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Casey -- Ira." It was Phil, come back over from her car. She hugged Andy's arm. "Andy was just trying to protect my reputation. We can share that room you offered."
Casey looked at Phil. "Do I know you, ma'am?"
"No, but you knew my cousin -- my late cousin, Phil McNierney. He described me to you more than once. When I saw Andy talking to you, I recognized you from his description."
"Mr. McNierney. Oh, dear, that wasn't him, was it? Fine man, good fisherman, too. I enjoyed talking with him when he came up here. I'm very sorry for your loss, ma'am."
Phil took his hand. "Thank you, Ira." She turned to Andy. "If we're not needed for anything, I'd like to go lie down."
They both looked at Deputy Taylor. "No, you can go. Just remember to come in tomorrow to sign the papers."
"Okay, but I think I'd better ride with Andy. I'm a little preoccupied to be following somebody down a road I don't know."
"I guess I'd better go, too, Ron," Ira said to the deputy. "Don't want these people showing up on my doorstep unannounced. Ethel'd have a fit."
"If you want, Ira, I'll have somebody call her for you. She can have that spare room of yours ready by the time you get home with these folks." The deputy reached into his squad car for the radio.
"That'd be right nice of you, Ron. She knows about the fire -- saw the flames from the house before I did. You just tell her we got company for the night, and I'll give her the whole story when I get there."
The deputy nodded and began talking into the hand mike. Ira turned to Andy. "My truck's over there. You and the lady can just follow me. We'll be at my house in about ten minutes"
"Can you wait just a minute, Ira," Phil asked. "I've got some clothes in the trunk of my car, and I'd like to take them with me."
"Sure, ma'am; lucky thing for you. Any clothes in that house are just ashes now, and my wife, well, you and her aren't exactly the same size." He was being diplomatic. Ethel Casey was only about five foot tall, but she easily outweighed Phil by thirty or forty pounds.
Phil and Andy transferred the packages from the back of Phil's car to Andy's wagon. They signaled Ira, who had been waiting in his car. He started the engine as they got in, and both cars were soon heading down the back road to the Casey farm.
"What was all that 'Cousin Phil' stuff back at the house," Andy asked as he drove.
"I couldn't very well tell them the truth, could I?"
"Yeah, but who was that guy? Did you recognize him?"
"I don't think so. Taylor said that there'd been some break-ins. It was probably him. He poked around your equipment, maybe tried to take it apart, and something went wrong."
"You're probably right. I can't think of any other reason anybody would be in the house. But why not tell them that? Why claim he was you?"
"He might as well do something useful. He's my reason."
"What do you mean?"
"You said that if I could come up with a good reason for not changing back, you'd agree not to give me the shot. Right?"
"Right, but what reason does that dead crook give you?"
"Dead crook? Let's have some respect for the late Philip J. McNierney, prominent attorney at law."
"What!"
"That's my reason. I certainly can't go back to being Mr. McNierney if he's legally dead. Can I?"
"No, but you -- he -- Phil won't legally dead until you sign those papers tomorrow. And it still won't be legal, since you aren't really his -- your cousin."
"Does the late, great, Phil McNierney have any closer member of his family than me? If you want, you can think of me as his twin sister. We were both born to the same parents at the same time, after all."
"But you are Phil McNierney!"
"Yes, but you aren't going to tell them that, are you?" She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
"Let me think about it, okay? We're here." He turned off the road they were on and followed Casey up a narrow pebble driveway to a farmhouse. Mrs. Casey was standing in the doorway.
She came over and gave Phil a hug as they got out of the car. "You poor dear, losing your cousin like that. It's a good thing you had your friend here to take care of you."
Andy went around to the back of the car and began unloading the packages. Phil started back to help, but Mrs. Casey stopped her. "You let the men do that, dear. Ira, you help him with those things." She put her arm around Phil's waist and led her away from the car. You come into the house with me and have a nice cup of tea."
Andy and Ira took the packages. Ira led him into the farmhouse and up to a room on the second floor. It was a small room decorated in a rather feminine manner with ruffled curtains and a powder blue comforter on the oversized bed. They put the packages down on a dressing table near the bed. It was decorated in a ruffled pattern that matched the curtains.
"This is my daughter, Hannah's, room," Ira said. "She don't use it much these days seeing as she's in the Army over in Europe someplace. Just made sergeant, in fact. There's a bathroom through that door by the table where we put that stuff from your car. There's a closet over there," he pointed to a door near the bed, "where you can hang stuff."
"Thanks, say, um, all these clothes are, um, Ms. McNierney's. You wouldn't have a spare robe or some pajamas for me would you." Ira was about his size, if a fair bit heavier. His clothes wouldn't fit Andy that well, but they'd be better than none at all.
"You let me see what I can drum up. I think I've got me some PJs near your size. A present Hannah sent me last Christmas, but she got the size wrong. Been meaning to send them back to her, but you're welcome to them." He left to go get the pajamas.
There was a knock behind him. Andy turned. Phil was standing in the doorway. She looked a little tired. "Mrs. Casey -- Ethel -- wanted to know if we wanted anything to eat. I told her we were pretty tired after everything that had happened and just wanted to hit the sack. That okay with you?"
"Yeah, truth to tell, I am kind of tired. Are you okay?"
"A little tired. Does it really bother you -- I mean, what I said back at the house, does it bother you?" She looked small and helpless, and Andy felt himself wanting to take her in his arms, to comfort her.
"Let me think about it a while." He stopped, seeing Ira come to the door.
"Sorry to interrupt,” Ira said. He handed Andy a thick red box tied in with a gold and purple cord. "These are the PJs I mentioned. There's a robe in there, too. They should fit."
"Thanks, Ira."
"No problem. Keep 'em if you like." He patted his large belly. "They don't fit me, and they aren't likely to any time soon. Besides, I'm sure that Hannah would want me to offer them to a guest. She learned hospitality from the best, her Mom."
He saw the expression on Phil's face and felt the tension in the room. "Well, you two look like you got something to talk about. Ethel said you was going to bed anyway, so I'll just wish you a 'Good Night'." He left before either of them could answer, pulling the door shut behind him.
"He's a sweet old man," Phil said. "They both are."
"Yeah, I hope he doesn't get into any trouble because of the fire."
"I doubt that he will. The firm had the place fully insured. I heard Mike Rice -- he's the firm's managing partner, remember -- say that he was planning some major renovations this fall. This fire'll pay for rebuilding, probably with some money left over."
"But," she continued, "we still need to get things settled. How long do you want to think about it? I'm supposed to go in to sign those papers tomorrow. And what do we say to the Caseys?"
"I'd like a week, a month maybe, but I'll have to settle for overnight."
"Can I offer a bribe to influence your decision?"
"You do, and I'll go sleep on the couch."
"Not that. You should know that you're the chief beneficiary in Phil McNierney's will."
"What! Why me?"
"Why not you? My Dad's a lot richer than I am. Mom's dead. I've no really close relatives, not even my new 'cousin' Phyllis. There's some charitable contributions, a few bequests to some other friends -- Jack Dalton, Ted Slawitzki, and a couple of things to cut down on inheritance taxes and make life easier for Mike Rice. He's the executor. But the rest of the money goes to you. I said you should use some for your research; let you stop having to chase grants all the time."
"They're not going to think I killed you for the money, are they?"
"I thought you didn't watch that much bad TV. There're over a dozen salesclerks that can put us both in the mall since yesterday at lunchtime. Taylor said the fire didn't start till late afternoon. Any good coroner can find the time of death, even for somebody burned as badly as 'Phil', whoever he really was."
"You're probably right. This has not been one of my best days." He yawned. "Let's get ready for bed." He saw her smile. "To sleep. I'll go change in the bathroom. You change out here. Knock on the door when you're ready."
He took the box and went into the bathroom shutting the door behind him. He opened the box and took out a pair of gray pajamas. A red, yellow and green plaid robe was folded under them. He put the box on the counter by the sink and stripped off his clothes. He folded them carefully. They were all he had to wear till he could get to the mall.
He put on the pajama bottoms. They were a little large, but not too bad a fit. He washed up and put on the top. There were two toothbrushes, still in their plastic, near the sink. He brushed his teeth and sat down on the toilet to wait for Phil's knock. Ethel Casey was a very good hostess. There were a couple of recent magazines on a wide window ledge next to the toilet.
He tried to figure out just what he was going to do. Phil really couldn't explain who she was. The dead man was a thief and who knew what else and wasn't likely to be missed. Still, somebody might miss him. Besides, Phil was asking him to lie on a formal death certificate. That was something that Andy, as a doctor, took very seriously. And was he really ready to let her give up her old life? It all came back to that. He'd probably be up all night thinking about what to do.
Phil knocked on the bathroom door. "You fall in," she called from the bedroom. Andy stood up and opened the door.
The room was dark except for a ring of candles burning near the bed. Phil stood by the bed looking down shyly. She was wearing a babydoll nightie -- when the hell had she bought that? The panty was cut high, showing miles of leg and accenting her lush hips. The top was sleeveless and cut very low to show lots of breast. It was so sheer that he could see her nipples through the material.
"I thought maybe I could offer you that other bribe. Please don't be mad." In a very low voice she added, "I really do love you, Andy."
Andy sighed and took her in his arms, giving in to the inevitable. He knew what he was going to do in the morning, but he also knew that he'd probably still be awake for quite a while yet.
The End
Author's note: The idea that the human mind only uses 10 or 15 percent of its capacity is a disproven myth. I used it because it made the story possible, NOT because I believe in it. I don't.
You can read an article from Scientific American debunking it at
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=people-only...
The Mexican Magician
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2015
A Mexican magician claimed that he could disappear on the count of three.
“Uno!,” he exclaimed, waving his magic wand, "Dos!" And, suddenly, he vanished in a puff of smoke.
Gone without a tres.
The Portrait: Frame II
by Ellie Dauber
This story is a follow-up to “The Portrait”, but I’ve tried to keep it as self-contained (and consistent) as possible. Both stories are part of a series that also includes "Valentine Gift" and "Shakedown", all of which tell of the very magical Uncle Stavros.
*****
Dear Mr. Norman:
Stavros get your letter about the noise. Stavros sorry that nice lady, Miss Gray, not like Stavros’ music, but Miss Gray gone. She married now. Live with husband out in country.
Now that her apartment empty, Stavros play music again. Maybe next tenant have better taste.
Please not to bother me again.
Stavros Stanipopoulis
John Norman looked at the letter one last time before he put it into Stavros’ file. According to the file, this was the fourth time that somebody had complained about Stavros and then moved out of the building.
He sighed. Stavros’ apartment was rent controlled at a figure far below the current market rate for that part of town. If he could get the old coot out, he could triple the rent easily. The trouble was, nothing ever stuck. He’d get a complaint letter and send the first warning letter that the law required. But before anything further happened, the other tenant left. If nothing was substantiated, he couldn’t get rid of the old man.
If he could get the man out, it would be a feather in his cap. Maybe it would even be enough to convince his father to let him take over the business. John was 31 with degrees in both law and business, and his father acted like he was still a high school kid coming in on weekends to help out.
There were enough other businesses that his father owned, even if this real estate firm were the largest. John wished that the old man would play with one or two of those and give the real estate operation to him. Of course, that would only be for a while. John expected to “help” his father relax by slowly but surely take over the entire operation. What the hell, his father was almost 60. It was time he retired and passed the business on to his only son.
‘Yeah,’ John thought. ‘Let me just move in and take over the whole damn thing....Hey, that wasn’t a bad idea. If I moved into that apartment, I could spy on this Stavros. Catch him at something and wait around long enough to throw him out.’
*****
John checked out the empty apartment the next day. ‘Not bad,’ he thought as he drove back to the office. ‘Three big rooms with a small but workable kitchen and a good view of the nearby park from the front room. The bathroom was also small, but it was newly tiled and had one of those big clawfoot bathtubs that you could practically do laps in. It’s almost as nice as my own place near the office. If Stavros’ place next door is as nice, I should be able to get $1500 month easy for it once I get him out.’ It was an easy bet. The two apartments on each floor were mirrors of each other.
*****
He moved in the following Saturday, paying a couple guys from his father’s maintenance crew to do the actual lifting and carrying. The work was done by five. It was a warm, sunny day, and John decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. It seemed like a nice enough place. Could use some work, though. Maybe convert a couple of these buildings into condos. He noticed that one old brownstone was for sale, and he made a note in the pad he always carried to check out the price on Monday.
He was quite hungry by the time he got back near his new apartment. He noticed that there was a pizza place at the corner, Via Rosa, about three houses away. He hadn’t had a chance to shop, so he decided to try it for supper. The place smelled pretty good as he came near the door.
It smelt even better inside. It was obviously a neighborhood hang-out: two booths, a few tables and a bar. There were a lot of pictures on the walls, and John recognized a few of the buildings from his walk. It was early for the Saturday night revelers, just a couple in one booth and a family (husband, wife, and three kids) in another having supper. The two or three men at the bar watched him walk in, then they went back to their own conversation.
John took a seat at one of the tables. The waitress, a motherly looking woman in her fifties, came over and handed him a menu. “You must be new around here. I’m Annie, and I know just about everybody in this neighborhood.”
“Hi, Annie. I’m John. I just moved into 308 Hawthorn.” He decided to be friendly. Maybe he could find out a little about this Stavros character. Maybe even something he could use against the man. “What’s good tonight?”
Annie smiled. “Just about everything on the menu, John. Though, I wouldn’t really want to try the clams, if you know what I mean.”
He handed her the menu back. “How about I just go with a medium pizza, extra cheese and sausage, and a pitcher of Bud.”
“Sounds good. I’ll bring you the pitcher now.” She looked around for a minute. “Say, have you met any of your neighbors yet?”
“No, why?”
Annie pointed to a tall man in his early twenties over at the bar. “That there’s Rich Kelso. He lives on the second floor of your building. Want me get him over here?”
“Sure, why not.”
Annie nodded and walked over the kitchen, posting John’s order. Then she went to the bar. While she waited for the pitcher of beer, she talked to Kelso. This was working out better than John had hoped. This kid lived on the floor below. He might be a potential ally, saving John a lot of time and effort. He might also be a friend of Stavros, so John decided to be careful in sounding him out for information.
Kelso followed Annie back to the table carrying his own full beer glass. He stuck out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Rich, Rich Kelso. So you’re the one who moved into Dorine’s apartment.”
Yeah,” said John shaking the offered hand. “I’m John Norman. I just moved in to the third floor at 308 Hawthorn. I hear we’re neighbors there. Tell me about the place.”
Rich pulled out a chair and sat down. Annie put the pitcher on the table with an empty glass beside it and hurried off to get an order. “It’s not a bad place,” Rich began. “Folks in it are fairly friendly. The Monahans, they’ve lived there for almost forty years, have one of the apartments on the first floor. Mrs. Monahan, Mary, thinks she’s mother to the world -- or at least to the building -- but she’s got a good heart, and her beef stew is an absolute wonder. And if you ever have a question on baseball, ask Mr. Monahan, Bill to just about everybody. But make sure that you’ve got at least an hour free for the answer. He says he’s retired, and he can take as long as he wants to answer.”
“Ted Paulson lives in the other apartment on the first floor. He teaches math over at Grant Junior High and plays with computers on the weekend. Ron and Angie Potts have an apartment on two. He sells insurance, but we forgive him. She’s a secretary someplace, or she will be for about four more months. She’s pregnant with their first kid, and they’re both real excited about it. I’ve got the other apartment on two. I’m an engineering student over at City College. Chemical engineering, I don’t fix stereos or cars, so don’t ask. You know who you are. Stavros has the other apartment on your floor. He’s got a long Hungarian name that most people just garble. He’s a weird old bird, but not a bad guy.”
“What’s he do for a living?”
“I don’t know. He looks old enough to be retired with all that white hair of his, but he doesn’t act old. He’s got money from something, though. He likes to hang around the place and play his music all day long, weird gypsy music, too. My Mom’s a music teacher. I grew up with all sorts of music playing all the time, so it doesn’t bother me.”
“But it bothers other people?”
“Well, Dorine -- she had your apartment up to last week -- didn’t like it that much, but she got married and moved out. Come to think of it, a couple of the other folks who had that apartment before her complained, too; Fred Lasky, Sue Ann Traynor, but they each moved out fairly quickly. All for something other than Stavros’ music. I guess folks get used to it after a while.”
Just then Annie brought John’s pizza. It was larger than he had expected, and he invited Rich to join him. John didn’t want to dwell too much on Stavros and risk word of his interest getting back to the man, so he changed the subject. He had gone to City College for two years and still followed the teams, so he asked about the basketball squad. Rich turned out to be an avid fan of college b-ball, and the two men spent a couple hours talking about City’s team and the rest of the League it played in. Before John walked back to his apartment, he had agreed to meet Rich the next morning for a game of handball at a court not far from the apartment.
As he came up the last steps to his apartment, John saw someone already on the floor. “Hello,” he said deciding to be friendly. “Are you my new neighbor?”
The man turned around. “I Stavros. I already here, so you my new neighbor.” He paused to chuckle at his own joke. John looked at him closely. He was average height and dressed in simple work clothes. He had the thick mass of white curls that Rich had mentioned, but the rest of the face was young, unlined. It was impossible to guess his age. His eyebrows were the same bushy white froth, but his eyes -- his eyes were dark brown, almost black, and somehow menacing.
John kept smiling. “I guess you’re right. I’m John. I just moved in today. Would you like to come in for a drink?”
“Thank you, John, but Stavros have long day. Just want to relax; listen to music from Old Country. Maybe… maybe another day, we have drink.” He turned and pulled out his key. Without another word, he went into his apartment. John heard a latch click from inside the door.
John went into his own apartment. He got a beer from the fridge and turned on the TV. He’d arranged for Cable before he moved in, so it was already installed. STARGATE SG-1was just starting on one of the cable movie chnnels, so John sat down to watch.
His comfort lasted about five minutes.
It started with a violin low pitched and slow. The musician toyed with a few notes, then a tambourine and clarinet (maybe?) joined in. A moment later, he heard a whole bunch of other instruments and a few voices. The music itself wasn’t bad; some sort of gypsy tune like Rich had said. But it was loud. Very loud. Feel the vibrations in the beer can loud.
John went over and knocked on Stavros’ door. Somehow the old man heard him over the music and came to the door. “Could you turn that down some?” John shouted as soon as the door opened.
“No!” Stavros’ said and started to shut the door.
John got his foot in place blocking the door. “Look,” he said, “I’m not asking you to turn it off; just turn it down a little, so I can listen to my TV.”
“Stavros like music loud. He here first. Go to other room to watch your television.”
“It’s hooked up in the living room.”
“That not Stavros’ fault. Music stay as is.”
“So you’re not willing to compromise at all?”
“Why? This Stavros’ house. Can play music as loud as he want.”
“Not as of Monday, it won’t be. Mr. Stanipopoulis, I’m John Norman. I manage Mid City Reality, the company that owns this property, and I moved in here specifically to check out complaints that we’ve had about you.”
“Who complain?”
“Ms. Gray, for one.”
“Gray? Oh, yah, him. Stavros fix. She gone.”
“That was why I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt. The people who complained all moved away shortly thereafter. But I can see now that you are a problem. Enjoy your music, Mr. Stanipopoulis. I’ll be putting through the eviction paperwork on Monday.”
Stavros’ eyes narrowed. “Only if you still can,” he said and slammed the door behind him.
The music actually did get a little softer as John walked back across the hall and into his own apartment. Damn! He had wanted to be fair, but the music was so loud, and Stavros was totally unwilling to be reasonable. ‘The hell with it,’ he thought. ‘I’ll put the papers through Monday. The old coot’s out by the end of the week. And I can post a major rent increase on his place. Neighborhood like this, it should be easy to rent both places.’
John watched some more TV, turning the set up load enough to hear over the music. Then he went off to bed. It was somewhat quieter in the bedroom, especially with the door shut, and he managed to get to sleep without too much tossing about.
*****
John got up about 8 the next morning, dressed and headed down to meet Rich for the handball match. As he left his apartment, he ran into a small crowd of people heading into Stavros’. They were all older types, a number with the same curly white hair that Stavros had. ‘Cousins’ Club,’ John thought. A woman gave him a rather angry look and said something to Stavros in a language John didn’t recognize.
“Yah,” Stavros answered sourly. “That him.”
John didn’t want to do or say anything that Stavros could use to fight an eviction. “Good morning, Mr. Stanipopoulis. Can we talk later about your music when I come back this afternoon?” He would let Stavros think there was a last chance to apologize, hoping that the old coot wouldn’t. Either way, he still planned to start the eviction proceedings. That would teach him a lesson about who he was dealing with.
“Feh,” Stavros said. “It be settled soon enough.” He motioned with his arm for the others to head into the apartment.
John noticed that Stavros was wearing some kind of weird green bathrobe embroidered with gold and silver symbols. Several other people were wearing clothes in the same color. ‘Native costumes,’ John guessed.
*****
Rich Kelso was waiting in his apartment. “I hear you and Stavros met,” he said by way of a greeting. He grabbed his gloves, and they started down the steps.
“Yeah, but not in the best of circumstances. I think he’s mad at me.”
“Probably is. He’s a stubborn old cuss.”
“Well, he’s got a bunch of friends in to plot with.”
“I know. I heard people outside and opened the door to see if it was you. It’s some kind of group that gets together at his place once in a while. I think it’s some kind of religious thing. I can hear some kind of chanting sometimes. I don’t recognize the language.”
“Hungarian Reformed Druid,” John said, and they both laughed at his joke, though Rick seemed a little embarrassed at doing so.
The handball courts were just ahead, a fenced-in area in a small park about two blocks from their building. John did a quick cost/benefit in his head. If he were building in the neighborhood, would it be better to put something on the site or to leave it alone and let it add to the value of nearby properties as a neighborhood amenity. He decided that he’d probably build on the site and felt a small twinge of guilt about it. But business was business, and if he wanted to take over from his old man, that was the only way to think.
There were three separate courts in the area. Two were in use, but the third was free. Both of the players in the second court recognized Rich and greeted him warmly. He introduced John, and the four men talked for a few minutes.
Then the others went back to their game, and John and Rich started in the third court. They decided to play best of three; loser buying lunch. Both spent the first game sizing each other up. John played a conservative game, but he had been at it a lot longer than Rich. He managed to win by two points. In the second game, Rich began taking advantage of his youth and speed. He made some reckless shots and lost a couple points for it, but he came back quickly. Rich took the second game by the same two points. They moved into the third game dead even. Rich’s strategy started to pay off. John was tiring a little, since he wasn’t used to such an energetic opponent. He lost the game by six points.
“Looks like lunch is on you, old timer,” Rich said.
“Okay, sonny, but watch out for next time. I think spotted a flaw in your game towards the end.”
“That wasn’t a flaw. That was pity. I knew I had you, so I went easy.”
The argument continued all the way back to the Via Rosa for lunch. John sprang for another pizza and a pitcher of beer. He was beginning to like Rich. The kid reminded him of Mark Pringle, his old college roommate. Mark was out on the West Coast now, teaching history at some college. They still kept in touch, but he and Mark hadn’t been in the same room in about three years.
Rich had the same sort of friendly puppy attitude that Mark did. You couldn’t help but like him, kind of like everybody’s kid brother. He was fairly good looking (so far as John could judge another man’s looks), and probably didn’t do bad with the women either.
“So, what do you think of your new neighborhood,” Rich asked.
“It’s a nice place. I’m sorry I’m not staying.” It was the truth.
“What! You just moved in.”
“Look, Rich. I moved in to check out Stavros. I -- my family -- owns Mid City Realty, the company that owns your building. We’ve gotten some complaints about Stavros, and I moved in to check things out.”
“Damn, you tricked me.”
“About what? All you did was play handball and eat two meals with me. You’re a good joe, and not a bad ball player. Don’t feel that you did anything wrong. You didn’t.”
“Yeah, but it feels like I did. I guess Stavros played right into your hands. I could hear the music booming last night. Come to think of it, I heard your TV going pretty loud, too.”
“Yeah, but only in self-defense.”
“Can’t you take that into account?”
“Look, I gave him a chance. When the music started playing, I went over and asked him to turn it down. He refused. He said that he could play it as loud as he liked, and I should go to the back of the apartment if it bothered me. That’s just the thing that those other tenants complained about.”
“I guess so, but he’s an old guy and set in his way. I don’t know how long he’s lived here. I think Bill Monahan once told me that he was there when they moved in. A guy lives in a place that long, he begins to think like he owns it.”
“He doesn’t. I, well, my family does. I understand, but is it fair to the other tenants? Is it fair to my company? We keep having people move out to get away from him. It costs money to find a new tenant, and we lose more when an apartment is empty.”
“So it comes down to money?”
“It comes down to fair, though money’s a big part of fair.”
Rich didn’t say anything. He finished his slice of pizza, took a swig from his beer, and stood up.
“Where you going,” John asked.
“I don’t feel quite as hungry anymore,” Rich said.
“C’mon. You’re that upset about some cranky old guy with an attitude?”
“I know. It’s silly, but Stavros never did anything to me. I kind of like the guy.”
“Sit down and finish. You’re a good kid, and I’m a rat. I admit it. But it’s just business.”
“I don’t know.” He hesitated and sat back down.
John tried to change the subject. “You play a damn good game of ball. I’ll be moving out in a day or two. When am I going to get a chance to get even for this morning?”
“Let me think about it. I’m not sure I like the way you get even. Give me your card, businessman, and I’ll call if I feel like another game.”
John didn’t try talking anymore. The two men finished lunch and headed back to the building. John tried to start a conversation once or twice without success. It was beginning to annoy him. He liked this kid, but he was damned if he’d cut Stavros a break. The last thing he needed was for his father to catch him doing something that stupid.
When they got to the second floor, Rich said, “Give me your card. I’ll see what happens with Stavros and how I feel about it. If I decide you’re a human being and not a bean counter, I’ll call you about that rematch.”
John took a business card from his wallet and handed it to Rich. “And if I decide that you’re a human being and not a damn bleeding heart pain in the ass, I’ll take that call.”
Rich took the card and went into his apartment without saying another word. John frowned and headed up to his own apartment. There was a thin crate of some sort leaning against his door. A note taped on the side said, “Mr. Norman: This settle everything.” It was signed “Stavros.”
Curious, John took the crate inside with him and opened it. The crate held a picture of some sort in an elaborate old wooden frame. When he took it out, he could see that it was a picture of him standing in front of the building in a sport shirt and a pair of jeans. It was a damn good picture, almost photographic quality.
John had taken a few art classes in college. He’d thought about minoring in it until he decided to go for the business/law double major. A picture like this took days, maybe weeks, to produce. How the devil had Stavros gotten it done so quickly? There could be money in this. Maybe even enough to let the old man stay. No, on second thought, something that could produce pictures this good and this quickly was worth a lot of money.
Maybe that was what Stavros meant in the note. Was he was willing to trade the secret for the right to stay where he was? John was more than willing to go along. This process could be worth ten, a hundred times more valuable than one lousy apartment. He decided to let Stavros stew a while before he went over. A little time to worry about being thrown out, and Stavros would be more than willing to trade on John’s terms. He left the painting near the door, got a beer, and sat down to watch some TV.
After about an hour, he got up to get another beer. As he walked towards the kitchen, he detoured over to look at the painting. It looked different somehow. Was there a problem? Did the thing fade after a while? If so, Stavros could forget about any deal.
No, the quality seemed to be the same, but the picture had changed. He looked about ten years older, with a few wrinkles on his face and a little gray in his dark brown hair. He looked a little taller, too. When he first looked at the painting, he could see all of one of the windows that his image was standing in front of. Now, his head covered the bottom half of the window.
John stared at the painting for a moment wondering what had happened. Then he suddenly looked at his hands. He was still wearing the lightweight jacket that he’d put on after the game. Only now the jacket sleeve came down to the base of his thumb. He looked down and himself and saw that his pants were pooled at his ankles. They felt a lot looser at his waist than they had when he put them on that morning.
He hurried into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He was a good six inches smaller than he had been that morning. He looked younger, too; more like a kid still in college than a man in his early thirties. Damn! His hair was longer, too. Now it came down over his ears. This was crazy.
He pulled his belt in a couple of notches and walked back to look at the painting again. Sure enough, John saw that his image in the painting now sported a shorter haircut. Whatever happened in the painting happened in reverse in real life. It was like that story he’d read in college, “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”
“Hell,” John thought. “Dorian Gray, no, Dorine Gray was the name of the last tenant.” Had Stavros done something to her, and that was why she moved out?” John didn’t know, but he decided that he didn’t want to find out. He’d leave the painting outside Stavros’ apartment and get as far away from this building as possible.
But when he tried the door, he discovered that it wouldn’t open. He tried several times, even using his key once. Nothing worked. Neither would the window by the fire escape. Or the phone. He threw a book at the window and watched it bounce off. It made sense in a way. “If the painting shows me outside, then when it starts to work on me, I have to stay inside.”
John got himself another beer. He was still thirsty, and there wasn’t anything stronger in the apartment. He tried to watch the movie, but found that he couldn’t concentrate. He didn’t notice anything changing. May he was done. “No,” he suddenly seemed to know. “I have to check in the painting to see the changes happen.”
John checked the painting again, not sure what he wanted to see. The image now seemed more muscular, with a squarer jaw. He looked at his hands. They were smaller now, and when he felt his arms and legs through his ill-fitting clothes, they seemed thinner. His hair was even shorter in the picture, almost a razor cut. When he moved his head, he could feel hair brushing against the back of his neck, almost down to his shoulders.
When he started walking to look at his face in the bathroom mirror, he stepped out of his sneakers. His feet were smaller just like his hands. The face in the mirror looked different. His jaw was rounder and his cheekbones seemed higher. His nose seemed a little smaller as well. The eyebrows in the painting must have become bushier because his own were trimmed back to narrow arcs.
John closed his eyes and shuddered. At first, he’d thought that the painting was just making him younger somehow. But the face in the mirror wasn’t the way he’d looked at, say, 19. It was the way his cousin, Anna, had looked at that age. He was being changed into a girl.
John ran back and tried the door again, but it wouldn’t open. He didn’t have any tools for cutting through it. After all, who kept an ax in their apartment? He put his sneakers back on, tying them as tight as possible. But when he kicked the window several times, all he got was a sore foot.
He picked up the painting and threw it at the window. If it didn’t break the glass, maybe the painting itself would be damaged, and the spell broken. Nothing was broken. The painting bounced off the window as it they were both made of rubber and landed on the floor at his feet.
The phone rang.
John ran over and grabbed it. Whoever it was could bring help. He’d even talk to somebody asking for money.
“Stavros hear you trying to get away,” came the voice over the phone. “You not get out. You just change so you not bother Stavros again.”
“Stavros, please stop this,” John said. “We can work something out, if you’ll just change me back.”
“Stavros talk to you when changes done. Not before.” Then the line went dead.
John listened to the dial tone for a bit, then slowly hung up the phone. He was trapped and being changed into a female by some crazy old man. It couldn’t be happening, but it was. He felt himself beginning to cry. ‘Just like a girl,’ he thought. Then the alcohol and the fear and the fatigue of the morning’s games all caught up with him at once, and he nodded his head and dozed off.
*****
It was after six when John woke up. He shook the last of the sleep from his body. Was it a dream? No. He could feel his long hair brushing against the back of his neck. His arms were much thinner, and his bare feet stuck out of a pair of pants that had to be rolled up several times, so he wouldn’t steep on the cuffs when he walked.
With a feeling of resignation, he walked over to the painting. The rule seemed to be that he had to see the change there first before he could notice it on his own body. It was still on the floor near the window. He seemed to have gotten even muscular. The material of the shirt looked stretched against his broad chest, and his pants seemed a size to small around his legs.
Something was pushing against his real shirt. While he’d slept, two breasts had formed on his chest. They looked small, not more than a B-cup, but the women in his family never were very big on top. They had great legs and butts, though, and he suspected that he now did as well. He didn’t have the guts to drop his slacks and look, but his waist seemed much narrower than before. His slacks would have fallen off as he walked, except that the tightened belt couldn’t get past his wide hips.
He stuck a hand down and felt his butt. It was nice and round, soft but firm. He remembered that line from some story he’d read about how the Lord made women’s asses the way He did because sometimes they leave us, and this way it was nice to watch them go. But why did it have to be his butt?
As long as he was feeling around, he felt for his “equipment”. Everything was still there, but it was a lot smaller. He penis felt like it was only a couple of inches long, and his balls were the size of marbles. His scrotal sack and shrunk down to accommodate the things and seemed to be more attached to his groin, rather than just hang down. Everything seemed just as sensitive to the touch as ever, but when he rubbed his finger along the scrotal sack, he began to get a tingling feeling in his chest as well. John realized that it was his now feminine nipples reacting to the stimulation
Frustrated with his situation, he decided to try to take his mind off what was happening to him by fixing some supper. It was a good thing that he’d had some food delivered to the apartment from the local market, since he couldn’t call for take-out. He pulled a TV dinner from the freezer and nuked it in the microwave. It was ready in about ten minutes, and John took the dinner and another beer and sat down to watch SIXTY MINUTES, one of his favorite shows.
Only tonight it wasn’t. The damn spell must be working on his mind, too. He found that he wasn’t as interested in the story on a major Midwest polluter as he normally would have been. As a rule, he tended to side with the polluter who was just trying to make a buck or get rid of some excess red tape. Now he felt himself getting mad at the guy. But even so, he wasn’t getting as caught up in the report as he would have in the past.
The next story, a feature about a Renoir exhibit in Chicago fascinated him, though. Sure he liked art, but never this much. Was his mind turning feminine? No, lots of women he knew weren’t that much into art. It had to be more specific, but he couldn’t figure out just what.
He finished the TV dinner while he watched. It normally took more than a dinner to fill him up; he usually had bread on the side and sometimes a second desert. Tonight, though, he was stuffed. In fact, he left some of the meat and didn’t quite finish the cobbler. He took the container out to the garbage can in the kitchen during the closing credits and went over to look at the painting again.
There didn’t seem to be any change. No, he looked again. The pants were tighter than before. There was a noticeable bulge at the crotch. John’s hand shot down into his pants. He knew what he’d find. Or not find. Yes, they were gone. In the midst of a thatch of soft curls, his fingers found a moist slit surrounded by two sensitive folds of skin. A finger slipped in. He found his lost penis, now converted into the nub of a clitoris. He pulled his hand out in horror.
There was a knock on the door.
“It’s stuck,” he called. Maybe whoever this was could force it open, and he -- John still thought of himself that way, despite the evidence -- could escape.
“Not to me is not,” came the voice. Stavros! The door opened, and the man came in.
“Change me back,” John shouted.
“No!” Stavros looked John up and down as if inspecting his handiwork.
“Can’t we make some sort of deal? I’ll sign a lifetime lease. You can live here forever.”
“Stavros already got that. He live here till Stavros want to leave. Not before.”
“Money. I’m rich. How much to get my old body back.”
“Stavros not need your money. Your old body gone anyway.”
“What?”
“The body you got now is the body you was born with. At least that what everybody else think.”
“Impossible.”
“Ha!” He walked over to the table and picked up the phone. “Phone works now. Call somebody, anybody you want. They tell you that you was always girl. You was born girl.” He looked John straight in the eye and his voice lowered menacingly. “And you gonna die a girl.”
“No! Change me back. I can’t live like this.”
“You got no choice, but don’t worry. You gonna like it.”
“What?”
“You see. Here.” Stavros tossed John a book, The Impressionists as a Rebellion. It seemed familiar to John, though he’d never heard of it before. “Sit and read,” Stavros said. “Everything work itself out.”
John felt compelled to sit in the chair. He opened the book, seemingly at random, and began reading. Somehow he seemed to know what points the author had been making. He felt dizzy, and the room slowly faded away.
*****
“Hey, Joan, you going to be reading the rest of the night?”
John -- no, Joan – Norman looked up from her book. Rich Kelso was standing near the hallway to the bedroom dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. The apartment looked different. She looked out the window and could tell from the view that she was now on the second floor. She looked at her wristwatch, a slender woman’s watch. It was almost 11.
“I’m sorry, Hon,” she found herself saying. “Radburn’s about due for one of her infamous pop quizzes, and this is one Art History major who doesn’t intend to get caught by surprise. Especially not by the head of her department.” She blinked her eyes for a moment as the spell re-wrote her memories to match her new existence.
“Yeah, but so late? What’ll happen if you miss a couple questions?”
“First, my grade point average will drop.”
“So, you’re not on a scholarship or anything.”
Then, my Dad finds out about it. We both know that the only thing that annoys him as much as our living together is my being an Art History major. He’ll start ranting about my switching to Business or even $ gag! $ Pre-Law. Hell, If I was a boy, there wouldn’t even be a question. I’d have had to be a Business major.”
Rich walked over and slowly ran a finger along the nape of her neck. “Gee,” he said, “It’s a good thing that you’re not a boy.”
“Stop that! I’ve got studying to do.”
Rich kept stroking. His hand moved down towards Joan’s breast.
Joan stood up and grabbed Rich’s head in her hands. She pulled him towards her and kissed him. Hard! He opened his mouth in surprise and felt her tongue dart in rubbing against his own. Damn, she was a good kisser.
Joan broke the kiss and pushed him away. She smiled and sat down at the table. “That’ll hold you for a while. Unless, of course, you can’t wait and decide to hold your own.” She giggled at the joke and the effect that she knew she was having on him. “You give me an hour more at the books, and I’ll… I’ll give you an hour at me.”
Rich grinned. “Best offer I’ve had all day. I’ll be back for you in --” He looked at his watch. “Fifty-nine minutes and thirty eight seconds.” He turned and headed for the bedroom.”
“Well, tick, tick, tick,” Joan said before she returned to her studying.
*****
Stavros put away the scrying bowl. He just wanted to be left alone; to enjoy his life in peace. He wasn’t vindictive, but he hated to be disturbed. This one would be happier in his, no, her, new life, and Rich had deserved a reward for defending him.
The End
The Professor and the Bimbo
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2001
Gordo and Steve come up with a drastic idea to get Professor Mattachek to improve Gordo's grade. Maybe it's a little too drastic..
* * * * *
"Yo, Gordo, the grades are in," Steve Lambert said, knocking on the open door of the room he shared with his frat brother.
Gordon "Gordo" Barrenstein had his back to the door. He was sitting on a stool doing biceps curls with a set of weights taking his timing from the heavy rock music coming through his stereo headphones. Gordo was 6' 2, with a muscular body that got him the fullback spot on the Tait College football team. His handsome face and curly blonde hair had gotten him into the dreams -- and the panties -- of many of the girls on campus.
Steve walked over and turned off Gordo's CD player. "Gordo, I got your midterm grades. Steve was as tall as Gordo, but slender, his build was more of a runner than a weightlifter.
Gordo set down his weights and took off his headphones. "Yeah, how'd you get them so damned fast?"
"I lifted them and made a copy when Dean Kinney sent them over to the Coach. Use of the office xerox is one of the perks of being assistant team manager." He paused for effect. "You're in trouble, man."
"What? I got Cs in most of my classes; I think I even got a B-minus on my paper for Traynor's poli-sci class."
"Make that a C-plus from Traynor."
"Damn! I paid good money for that term paper. Still, a C average is all I need to keep my eligibility."
"Yeah, but you got a 57 on Mattachek's mid-term. That brings your overall average down to a D."
"Shit, man, there's no way she'll change my grade. She hates me. She hates all guys."
"Well, you're gonna have to do something, or you can't play on Saturday."
"Hell, this sounds like one of those stupid late-show movies you're always watching. 'Gee, wilikers, if I don't play in the big game, then Emma Sue won't go to the homecoming dance with me.' That sort of shit."
"Hey, I like those old movies. There's always the innocent good girl and the sexy bad girl to fight over the big football hero."
"You would. Half the time, the bad girl winds up with the hero's best friend, which would be you, I guess."
"I know, but they're funny, too. All those old cliches, like the pep rally, or the dumb blonde who says, 'Oh, Professor, I'll do anything for a better grade.'" Steve spoke the last bit in a comic falsetto, his hands making comic, effeminate gestures. "Hey, you know, that might work though."
"What might work?"
"If you propositioned Mattachek."
"That ugly old bitch? No way."
"Hey, you know any other way of getting your grade changed? I hear that scout from the Rams is going to be at the game again this week."
"Yeah, but I don't think she even likes guys. I hear she's a dyke."
"Nah, she doesn't dress 'butch' enough to be a dyke."
"But I never saw her with any guy, never heard any campus gossip like that about her either."
"She's just a dumpy little woman in her... forties, I guess. She's got no face, no figure, and no fashion sense. You never saw or heard about her going with any one because no one wanted her."
"Okay, let's say that's true. Then what?"
"Then what? What do you think will happen when my buddy, Gordo -- 'Berrenstein, the Love Machine' -- goes up to her after class, kisses her full on the mouth, rubs her tits, maybe, and says he'll do anything she wants to get a passing grade?"
"'Passing grade,' my ass. For extra credit work like that, I'm figuring an A." He jumped off the bed. "Let's go. I think she's got office hours today. I'd rather do it in her office than out in public where somebody could actually see me with her."
Gordo checked his handouts from Mattachek's course. "She's got office hours today from 3 to 5 PM. He quickly swapped his WWF T-shirt for a relatively clean white shirt and grabbed a tie. "C'mon," he said, "grabbing Steve's arm. Let's get going."
They hurried out the door. Mattachek's office was about 10 minutes away.
* * * * *
"Why do I have to be here?" Steve complained as they walked down the hall. "I'm not the one who's going to be sleeping with her."
"No, man, you're a witness, my insurance in case she tries to back out. That's why I had you bring your camera."
"So, do I get to watch?"
"No, you get to stay in the hallway here and listen. When I call, you come in and take some photos."
"Just so she doesn't break my camera with that ugly bod of hers."
"Hey, you just gotta photograph her. I'm the one who'll be screwing her." He patted his crotch and laughed. "'Little Gordo' will never forgive me for what I'm gonna be doing to him." He looked at the names on the doors as they passed. "Hey, here we are."
Gordo knocked on the office door.
"Come in," came a pleasant alto voice from inside.
Gordo went in. Professor Mattachek was sitting at a desk covered with papers and two large open books. Her grayish black hair was drawn up in a bun, and she didn't seem to be wearing any make-up. "Mr. Berrenstein. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?"
Gordo walked quickly to stand next to her. As he came around the desk, she stood. She was a chunky woman, wearing a shapeless black dress with a high collar. The dress was a bit tight above the waist, accenting her large, somewhat sagging breasts.
Gordo grabbed her and pulled her to him. He kissed her on the lips. When her mouth opened in surprise, he stuck his tongue inside. He felt her arms go up around his neck. She kissed him back. She was a surprisingly good kisser, and he felt himself get hard. Good, that would help.
He broke the kiss, and gave her his best smile. "It's what I can do for you, Professor Mattachek," he said. He took her hand and pushed it against his pants. She could feel his erection. "I'll do anything for a good grade."
Mattachek smiled and ran her tongue against her upper lip. "Anything?" she asked in a voice grown a little husky. She still hadn't taken her hand from his groin. In fact, Gordo could feel her fingers rubbing against "Little Gordo."
"Anything at all, Professor. You name it." He cocked an eyebrow and leered.
"Oh, and I thought this was going to be another boring afternoon." Mattachek made some sort of gesture with her other hand and said a few words in a language that Gordo had never heard before.
There was a flash of light. Gordo felt himself fall for a moment. He looked around. Mattachek's office was gone.
They were standing in the center of a large room. It seemed more like a tent, the walls were a purplish silk that seemed to ripple as if being blown by a gentle wind. There was a rack of odd-looking clothing, mostly sparkling metallic robes, along one wall. Nearby was a dark brown wooden cabinet about as tall as he was, its doors covered with ornate sculpture. Against another wall was a large bed covered with a pale pink bedspread and several matching pillows.
"What the... ." Gordo said. "Where the hell are we?"
"I thought we might want something a little more comfortable than a hard desk top," Mattachek said. "This is my... bedroom."
"Yeah, but how did we get here?"
Mattachek smiled. It was the smile of a large cat looking at a small mouse. "Magic, Mr. Berrenstein. Pure magic."
"There ain't no such thing."
"Oh, Mr. Berrenstein, this is so much magic... . oh, but we should get started." She began to undo the buttons on her dress.
"Yeah, I guess." Gordo tried to psych himself up for what he had to do. 'Pussy is still pussy,' he thought, 'no matter what the broad looks like.'
Mattachek frowned. "You don't like the way I look, so you, Mr. Berrenstein." She reached up and pulled a pin from her hair. "Maybe you'll like me better when I let my hair down."
Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, changing to jet-black and growing fuller. Her face... her body seemed to deflate as she shed almost thirty pounds. Her cheekbones raised and her lips seemed fuller, too. She looked to be in her 20s. She had lipstick on, now, mascara and eyeshadow as well.
Her dress grew tighter as she grew thinner, hugging her new curves. Her breasts became firm, though -- Gordo was happy to see -- they didn't get any smaller. The woman standing in front of him still looked a bit like Mattachek, but she also looked a lot like one of the "Girls from the Southeast Conference" in the Playboy pictorial he'd been reading the day before.
"Is that better?" she asked, her voice a sultry purr that brought "Little Gordo" even more to attention.
"Much," he said with a broad smile on his face. He wasn't sure how she had changed, but he was hardly going to complain.
Mattachek unbuttoned her dress almost to the waist. Gordo saw that she was wearing a lavender bra that was almost transparent except for some swirling lace that seemed to hide her nipples. She shrugged the dress off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She wore matching panties, almost transparent except for a small gusset that barely was wide enough to cover her pussy. The straps from the matching garter belt held up a pair of smoky gray stockings. Gordo hadn't seen -- hadn't cared what sort of shoes she had worn before. Now, as she stepped out of the dress, he saw black stilettos with a four-inch heel.
"But you aren't ready," she said. She pouted and walked over to him. He could smell perfume, an odd scent that seemed to suit her. She smiled and loosened his necktie.
"Just watch how fast I can be ready," he said. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it apart, ripping all the buttons, but who cared. He kicked off his shoes. Then he loosened his belt. He grabbed his pants and yanked them down past his hips. They fell to the ground, and he stepped out of them. He stood for just a moment in undershirt, boxers, and socks. Then he pulled her to him and kissed her again. She was as responsive as before.
"Very nice," she said, "but you're still not quite ready." She reached down and grabbed his boxers, pulling them down to his knees. "Why don't you get out of those and go sit on the edge of the bed." She licked her upper lip again. "Then the real fun can start."
Gordo kicked off his boxers and walked over to sit on the bed. Mattachek came over and knelt down in front of him. "Before we start, I think we should get a little less formal," she said. "My first name is Elysse."
"That's a very pretty name," Gordo said truthfully. "My first name is Gordon, but everybody calls me 'Gordo.'"
"'Gordo,' I like that -- for now at least." She gently messaged his testicles. Then she ran a fingernail along the underside of "Little Gordo." Gordon shivered and leaned back a little, bracing himself with his arms.
He felt Elysse run her tongue down the length of his penis, licking the underside, the top, tapping the end of her tongue against his peehole. "Little Gordo" twitched in anticipation, growing as hard as Gordo had ever felt him. He moaned slightly and closed his eyes.
He felt her lips on him, as his penis slid inside her mouth. She pumped her mouth up and down his length, while she continued to lick him.
Then things began to change. It still felt so very good, but somehow her tongue seemed to be getting bigger. He was still erect, but the pressure to cum in her mouth seemed to be fading. Elysse's mouth slid slowly down "Little Gordo," then stopped almost touching his groin.
Elysse's tongue seemed to be moving in a different way. It wasn't messaging him as much as it seemed to be flicking his penis up and down. How had her tongue, her mouth, gotten so large.
He felt sensations building in his groin. They were incredibly pleasant -- he was moaning and trembling -- but they were different from anything he had ever felt before. His arms grew weak, and he fell backwards onto the bed. As he did, the sensations shot through his body.
Gordo felt a warmth, a tingling, in his chest. Not knowing why, almost by instinct, he reached up with both hands and touched his nipples. They felt bigger, somehow, and erect, almost like little penises. He began to run them between his fingers. For some reason, that increased the sensations he felt.
Elysse's tongue was now flicking his penis like a banjo pick. He felt as if it was flat against his groin. The pleasure level was incredible. He rolled his head back and forth wondering, if only for a moment, why something seemed to be pulling at his hair. He could feel the pleasure in "Little Gordo," but he couldn't quite feel his balls any more. His nipples seemed to be rising, as if something was growing on his chest. He spread his fingers. Whatever it was on his chest felt soft but firm, and it felt so good to be rubbing them.
Now "Little Gordo" seemed to sink down into his groin. He felt Elysse's tongue push something apart and follow it; follow it into his body. He was still going crazy with sensations he couldn't understand. His hips began to buck, and his whole body shivered.
Then he felt something, an intense rush of warmth, of pleasure shot out from his groin to his chest then spread out through his entire body. He arched his back off the bed. Somewhere, far away, but at the same time, very close, he heard a woman scream in pleasure.
It was him!
He opened his eyes and looked down. His hands were cupping a pair of women's breasts that had grown out of his chest. 'C-, maybe even a D-cup,' he thought. He lifted his head and looked down. He looked past the breasts, past a narrow waist and wide hips, to see Elysse still lapping at his new pussy.
She was good. He felt the pressure, the pleasure, build in his body. It broke, shooting to every nerve. Gordo screamed again in the joy of what he realized was his second female orgasm. He collapsed back onto the bed panting.
"What did you do to me," he gasped, trying to catch his breath.
"That should be obvious even to you, Gordo," Elysse said. "Or should we call you something more feminine now? How about 'Geri'; that's about as close as I can come to your old name."
"But why? What did I ever do to you?"
"You insulted the intelligence of myself and every other female on this campus; propositioning me to change a grade."
"But it was Steve Lambert's idea. Why didn't you change him?"
"Because you were so willing, so eager to carry it out, and so sure that it would work. I've been watching you in my class and around campus. You're a crude, sexist pig. You're not stupid, but you only seem to be able to think with your pecker. Well, you'll have to find something else to think with, 'Geri.' It's gone now. For good."
"For good!" You... you don't mean you're going to leave me like this. You'll never get away with it. I'll tell. I'll tell everybody."
"And they'll think that you're crazy. As far as anyone else is concerned -- the school, your parents, even your slimy friend who was waiting in the hall with a camera -- you have always been the woman that you now appear to be."
"No! Please, please change me back. I don't want to be a girl."
"You don't? Why you seemed to be enjoying it so much." She smiled and stood up. "Maybe you just didn't enjoy your partner." She made a gesture and said a few other words in that same strange language. Geri saw a small lump appear under Elysse's panties. As she watched, it grew bigger until a penis at least 10 inches long strained against the delicate material.
A hand -- a large male hand -- reached down and pulled the panty away. "That's better," said a deep baritone voice. Geri looked up and saw that Elysse had changed into a man. She had a build very much like the one Gordo had. Her make-up was gone, and her face looked much more rugged.
"I call myself 'Elliot', now. Do you like the look?"
"No, Geri said quickly. But she felt a tingling in her nipples and a warm in her groin. She felt something else there, too, an... emptiness. She felt compelled to look at Elliot's groin, to watch his penis stiffen. It... it was what she needed.
"Yes," she sighed. Her voice was husky with lust. "I... like... I need... need you in me. Please... fuck me."
Elliot picked her up. He carried her around and tossed her fully onto the bed. She lay flat on her back and spread her legs far apart. Elliot climbed on top of her, resting most of his weight on his own arms and legs. He kissed her passionately, and then left a trail of kisses down her chin, her neck, to her breast. He sucked on the nipple for a moment, sending jolts of pleasure through her body. She moaned. "Please, do it now."
Geri felt something press against her groin. She shifted slightly and felt him slide into her, parting her nether lips. There was a quick, sharp pain as her hymen ruptured, but the pleasure, the pleasure flowed after it. She felt him push in deep, then slide almost out of her before pushing in again.
The sensations were unbelievable. He was splitting her, and she wanted, she prayed for it to happen. Her hands, small and delicate now, clawed at Elliot's back. Her shapely legs closed around his hips, trapping him inside her. She felt the flood of pleasure as an orgasm flowed through her. Was it over? No, he kept pumping inside her. The pleasure grew again, and a second orgasm shot through her body. She moaned, she screamed. She wasn't sure what she was saying. She wasn't sure if she was still ableto talk.
Then she felt him stiffen. He froze. Geri felt a flood of liquid shoot out of him as he screamed his own orgasm. The sensations set her off a third time and they came together.
Afterwards, she felt his penis shrink, become flaccid, and slide out of her. Still he hugged her close, caressing her breasts. It was almost as good as sex itself. No, it was a different part of sex, just as important and -- she decided -- just as pleasurable in its own way.
'Mattachek certainly fucked me over,' she thought. She giggled at the thought. It felt good, and she giggled again. Her voice was higher now, almost childlike. She found that she liked the way it sounded.
She heard Elliot snore, and she gently untangled herself from him. There was a pitcher of water, a bowl, and a towel, on a small table near the bed. Odd that she hadn't noticed them before. She used them to cleanse herself. The water was scented, a pretty floral scent that lingered on her body.
She was curious now. On a hunch, she opened one of the doors to the closet. It was mirrored on the back, the mirror actually being built into the door.
She was smaller, no more than 5' 2" or so. Her body was slender with just enough curves. Her hips were wide and her waist very narrow. Her breasts were only a C-cup, but they looked much bigger on her small, new body.
Her face looked like her mother's, with high cheekbones and a pert little nose. She had large blue eyes. Her hair was a mass of pale blonde curls that reached down to her shoulders. The effect was one of childish innocence. Combined with the curves of her body, she looked incredibly sexy. Geri liked the look and giggled again. "I seem to be doing that a lot," she said, though the thought didn't disturb her." She touched her breast. It tingled, still sensitive from her sexual activity of a few minutes before.
"And you will." Elliot was awake now, sitting up on the bed. "You were acting like the typical bimbo when you propositioned me, so you get to keep acting like one in your new life."
"New life? You mean that you were serious about not changing me back?"
"The only transformation will be mine." Elliot made a complicated gesture. In a moment, Professor Mattachek, as female and as unattractive as she had been when Gordo walked into her office, was standing across from Geri.
A moment later, they were back in the office. Geri panicked. She was naked. She instinctively covered her breasts with one hand, her groin with the other.
And felt cloth.
She looked down. She was wearing a pink Tait T-shirt and a pair of cut-off blue jeans. She could feel a bra supporting her breasts. Her feet were in a pair of pink running shoes. It was a nice outfit, and she knew that she looked good in it. Steve always... where had that thought come from? It didn't matter. She knew that she'd been changed, but she didn't really care anymore. She liked who she was now. Steve did, too. She giggled at the thought.
"You should know that the grade on your midterm is a 78. In this reality, you actually studied."
"Thank you, Professor," Geri said as she left.
Steve was still waiting outside. "What happened?"
"I got a 78 on her exam. I can still be part of the game on Saturday."
"Of course you can," Steve said hugging her. "The cheerleader squad wouldn't be the same without its captain. Let's go out and have dinner to celebrate."
Geri kissed him. "I thought we could go back to your room. I'm sure that we can celebrate there."
The End.
The Tale of The Rebel Chieftain
By Ellie Dauber (c) 1999
In a land far off to the East and in a long-ago time, there lived a ruler, a Sultan named Amahl. As rulers may be judged, he was hardly the best. Yet, it must be admitted that he was also far from the worst. He was a fair man, who tried as best he might to be a good and just leader of his people. And, for the most part, his people understood this and respected him.
Jafar did not.
Jafar was the chief of a small band of bedouin nomads who traveled the sands at the northern edge of Amahl's lands. Such a life may make a man hard. It had done so to Jafar. Because of some imagined wrong, Jafar scorned Amahl's leadership. He did all that he could to hinder the Sultan: raiding villages, stealing tax moneys, spreading lies, and causing all manner of dissention.
Amahl tried to reason with Jafar, to determine the cause for his actions. Jafar refused to even speak to the emissaries of Amahl. He ordered them away and told them not to try again. If Amahl sent others to speak to him, Jafar warned, then they and their heads would return to the capital on different days.
This was more than Amahl could accept. Thereafter, he did all that he could to capture Jafar. But, alas, the troops that Amahl sent were visitors to the northern sands from the city in the south. To Jafar and his men, those cruel sands were home. They knew of a thousand places where a band of men might safely hide. It was said that there were even times when Amahl's men rode directly past the place where Jafar and his men were hiding, coming so close that Jafar might count the hairs of a man's beard. Yet Jafar could not be found.
In desperation, Amahl consulted the wise men of his land. He also spoke to the men who were learned of magic -- both white and black. And he formed a plan.
A proclamation went out to all corners of the realm, but most especially to the villages and oasis of the northern sands. Amahl had tired of Jafar's anger. He wished to meet with him in person to make peace. Amahl swore by Allah, may His name be ever praised, that he wished to only meet in peace with Jafar at the Oasis of the Date Palms halfway between the city and the northern sand. Amahl's proclamation said that he hoped to see if they might resolve whatever complaints Jafar had. He also said in that same swearing that Jafar could bring some of his men, if he wished, and that, at the end of their meeting, Jafar would be free to leave, to go wherever he wished. Amahl also said that he was doing this because he was a reasonable man, a man of peace. If Jafar did not come, then all would know that the problem between them was Jafar's fault, and that Jafar was a fool or a coward who did not want peace in the land.
Jafar was many things, but he was not a fool. He let it be known that on a given date he would meet Amahl at the Oasis. He would bring five of his best men, and he challenged the Sultan to bring no more of his own soldiers. They would meet there and see what might be said.
The Sultan announced that he was most pleased with Jafar's answer and praised the man's wisdom and piety. A work party set out the same day from the city to construct a suitable pavilion for the meeting. Fifty men and more, the finest craftsmen of every sort, labored to build the small palace where the leaders would meet.
Jafar's men watched this work from hiding. More than once, they entered the Oasis under the cover of night to inspect the work. They found no secret traps nor hidden rooms. Every craftsman was watched, and each proved to be a master of his trade and not a hidden spy or soldier. At last, when the workmen left, Jafar's men counted them. Every man who had come from the city to build the palace left and returned to the city.
Amahl knew that Jafar was not a fool. He had expected his work men to be watched and counted. The palace was as it appeared for he had ordered no secret traps or places of concealment. He even waited three days after the workmen returned to the city before he left. This was to give Jafar's men all the time that they might wish to further search the building and its grounds. Amahl knew that they would find nothing amiss.
When Amahl finally did leave his city, it was with much pomp, a long procession of servants and slaves, several elephants laden with gifts for Jafar and his people, even a closed palanquin with Amahl's wife, Sindara, and some of her own female servants. The women were, of course, unseen. The men who went with Amahl were not. He wished them to be seen. Most were either young boys or elderly men, none of whom even a drunken man might mistake for a soldier. As Amahl promised, only five men of his personal guard rode in the procession to the north.
When the procession arrived at the Oasis, Amahl bade it wait. He rode alone to the pavilion and leapt from his camel. "Are you here, Jafar?" he called. "I will wait here alone for one hour. If you do not come, then I will know that you do not really wish peace. I will return to the city and tell that truth to the entire realm. So come and meet with me, Jafar. Come down and talk, or be branded as a man who would rather kill than let the land be at peace."
There was a clatter of hooves. Jafar and his men rode down from a hill at the far end of the Oasis. As promised, he rode with only five men, but one could see armor beneath their robes. Swords, long and curved, hung from their belts and glistened in the Sun. Each man carried a bow over his shoulder and wore a quiver full of arrows. As they rode, the men's eyes searched right and left, looking for anything that might be a sign of trap or ambush.
When they neared the place where Amahl stood, only Jafar rode the last few feet and dismounted. Amahl walked to him, slowly so as not to seem in any way a threat. "My brother," Amahl said, "I offer you my hand in friendship, and I ask to show you and your men the hospitality of this Oasis."
Jafar was suspicious, but he tradition demanded that the greeting be returned. "If your hand is truly given in friendship," he said, "then I gladly offer mine in return." The two men shook hands. They smiled, but when they were done, each counted to make certain that he had all of his fingers.
"Come, my new brother," Amahl said. "My servants await with food and music. All that can bring a man joy. Have your men join you, and let us all go into this pavilion. We have, I think, much to talk about, and it is hot here in the Sun."
Jafar gave a single gesture. His men rode over to where he stood. "Dismount." He ordered.
The men did so. They then followed him as he walked into the shaded pavilion.
Amahl and his men were waiting inside. Jafar's men drew their swords and formed a circle around him. Amahl raised his hands so that all could see that he carried no weapon. Arms still raised, he walked into the center of the circle of men.
"You need not fear my men," Amahl laughed. " As ruler of this land, I am due a guard. That is all. We will keep our word and draw no weapon against you. Now, come join our feast"
Amahl walked over to a ring of pillows around a large, low brass table. He sat down and called for music. The strumming of several instruments could be heard from a corner of the room. Jafar and his men looked, but saw only a group of rather old men playing the music.
"Please, Jafar, join me." Amahl patted the pillow beside him. "And you men, Jafar's and mine, seat yourself as you will about the table."
Jafar joined Amahl at the head of the table. The warriors sat down, Jafar's on one side, Amahl's on the other. Each group watched the other for any sign of attack.
Amahl clapped his hands together. "Food!" he yelled. "Food for my honored guests." At this, a small door opened and three old men wearing the aprons of cooks entered. Each carried a large bowl of a different kind of sweetmeat. The bowls were laid upon the table near to Jafar's men, and the three cooks returned to the kitchen.
No one reached for any of the food. "Do you think now to poison us?" Jafar asked.
Amahl looked as if he might cry. "You still doubt me, friend Jafar?" He clapped again. "Sindara, come forth."
The men all looked about expectantly. Sindara was Amahl's most favored wife and said to be among the most beautiful of all women. There was a rustle of silk and the faint sound of tinkling bells. Jafar's men looked, and they saw that the tales of Sindara's beauty were not lies. A vision had entered. Sindara was dressed in fine brocaded green silk pantaloons. She wore a matching vest that could only make her figure more desirable by the way that it clung to her. Her skin was like almond milk, her hair long black rivers of curls. Her waist was narrow as a reed, but both her breasts and her hips swelled out in ample curves. She wore a light green veil over her lower face, but one could see that her eyes were of that same shimmering green. Bells hung from a low belt about her waist, so that there was a soft jingling sound as she strode into the room. She stopped and bowed low as she came near Amahl.
"You have called me, my husband?" Her voice was low, soft, and it promised much.
Amahl sighed. "Alas, my wife, our guests do not trust me. I ask that you and your maidens taste some of this food, so that our guests will not fear to eat."
"As my husband commands, my maidens and I shall obey." Jafar and his men then noted that there were several women who had come in with Sindara. Each was lovely in her own way. This one had the dark skin and eyes of a Nubian; another was fair with skin whiter than Sindara's and hair the color of spun gold. The women sat themselves among Jafar's men, while Sindara sat between her husband and Jafar. Each woman reached into one of the bowls. She took a sweetmeat at random, and, smiling, ate it. Then another was eaten.
"Now, are you satisfied, Jafar?"
"I will say that I am wrong about the food."
"My husband," Sindara said, "let my maidens and I stay. Our guests are still suspicious. Perhaps a smiling maiden feeding these men will make them feel more comfortable at this feast."
"Behold, Jafar," Amahl said, "my Sindara is as wise as she is beautiful. Do you mind if she and her ladies stay to attend to you and your men?"
Jafar looked across the table at his men. All were still suspicious, but how could a beautiful, smiling woman be a threat? "Very well," he said.
"I fear that you are still suspicious, Jafar. Let me send away my men." Amahl rose and clapped his hand. "My guardsmen, our guests are still suspicious. Since I know that I have nothing to fear from such noble guests, I do not feel so great a need of you. Go into the kitchen, and tell Da'ud, the Cook, that he is to feed you the next portion of the meal out there. By the time that you are finished, our guests should be more receptive, and you can rejoin us."
The guardsmen looked nervous. One was about to speak, when Amahl glared at him, "Would you have me dishonored before my guests? Go all of you and do as I have said!" The guardsmen rose without a word and left hurriedly.
The men all looked at Amahl who sank down into the cushions. He turned to Sindara. "My wife, I thank you for your words which flowed like oil on troubled waters. Pray, attend to the needs of Jafar as your maidens are attending to his men."
"As my husband commands," Sindara said. She took a large piece of sweetmeat from the nearest bowl and offered it to Jafar. Around the table, her maidens did likewise for Jafar's men. The musicians played softly, the maidens smiled and flirted with the men, and in very little time, the food was consumed. No one seemed to notice that Amahl did not eat.
Jafar turned to Amahl. "The tales of your kitchen are as hard to believe as those about the beauty of your wife. Yet, now I see that both are true. Perhaps, I have mistrusted you, Amahl."
Amahl only smiled. "Or perhaps not, Jafar."
Jafar sensed a trap, but he suddenly felt very weak. He tried to stand, but fell back into the cushions. "So there was poison, Amahl." Jafar tried to draw his sword, but his arm trembled, and his strength failed him. As he lay on the cushions, he looked to his men about the table. He could see that his men now all were suffering as he was. "Were you so eager to kill me that you would kill your wife as well?"
"My wife is fine, Jafar. Look at her if you doubt me."
Jafar looked. Sindara seemed to shimmer as he stared due to the dizziness that he felt, but she seemed to be in no discomfort. "There are other ways to deal with an enemy than to kill him," she said. "Look at your men once again, Jafar."
Jafar looked. The men seemed to be shrinking, and their beards! Their beards and body hair was falling out, as was his own. They seemed to be growing younger. "Is this your doing, Amahl? To turn me and my men into beardless boys, too young to fight you?"
Amahl could not help but laugh. "Not beardless boys, Jafar. Women!"
Jafar looked down at his body. He was smaller and far more slender than he had been in years. He felts things twisting inside of his belly. One hand went to his groin. Nothing! Or almost nothing, for he could feel his manhood shrink away even as he grasped for it. His other hand went to his chest. He could feel something here that had never been there before, two mounds growing, pushing out against his now oversized armor.
"No, no," he moaned. He shook his head, as if to try to wake from dream. But he did not awaken, and he could hear his voice growing higher and softer as he moaned.
It was the same for his men.
"Your food was cooked with water from the Well of the Enchanted Bride," Amahl explained. "Any who drinks from that well falls under its spell. Man or woman, whatever their age, the victim becomes a beauteous maiden. He, or now she, I should say, will fall in love with the first man who kisses her, and, thereafter, her only thoughts will be to please that man. The potion only works once upon any person, and its effects cannot be reversed."
"Know, she who was Jafar, that Sindara took her dose of the potion alone with me before we left the city. It made but a little change in her appearance, for she has always been among the loveliest of women." Amahl paused to smile at his wife, recalling the joy of that night together with her.
"Others among my guardsmen are the husbands to my wife's maidservants. They, too, gave their wives some of the water in private the night before we left to journey here." Amahl clapped his hands twice. The door opened. Sindara and the maidens left, and Amahl's guardsmen entered. "These guardsmen are at present unmarried, but your transformed brigands will soon remedy that."
"No, this cannot be!" Jafar shook his head in horror. He had been almost bald, but now he felt his scalp tickle as long strands of his hair grew out and down to brush against the back of his neck and across his shoulders. His voice was high and sweet.
Hussain, the strongest of Jafar's men, managed to stand. His armor fell to the ground, stripping him to the waist. Hussain had been a mass of muscles over than six feet tall. Now he was more than a foot shorter, slender as a young boy but with two pillowy breasts and lush hips that swelled out from a waist almost narrow enough that a man could put his hands around it. Hussain raised his slender hands before his -- no, her face -- stared at them a moment in disbelief and began to cry.
Amahl drew very close. "The potion transforms the mind as well as the body, Jafar. A man would have grown enraged at such a trap being laid for him. A woman would simply fear for her fate. I leave it to you as to how you and your troop are reacting." Jafar realized that he was still trembling. (Jafar still thought of himself as a "he".) The transformation was ended, but Jafar knew with all his being that something -- something important -- was yet to happen.
Amahl drew even closer. "The Law of the Prophet, may Allah's name be ever praised, hold that a man may have more than one wife if he can afford the cost. As I am Sultan, I can easily afford the cost of yet another wife. I can even pay the dowries for my guardsmen's new wives." He motioned towards those who had been Jafar's men. "My guardsmen, choose your wives from among these lovely new women."
Jafar watched in horror. His men were surrounded. Some were still so weak from their transformation that they could not even stand. Others were entangled in fallen clothing and armor. A guardsman advanced and took each new woman by the hand, standing or kneeling besides her. Jafar saw one guardsman, a tall fellow with the darkened skin of a desert nomad, take Hussain's hand. He/she tried to pull it free but could not. The guardsman pulled Hussain around and kissed that unfortunate. Hussain struggled for a moment, pounding at the guardsman's back with her free arm. Then she stopped and put her arm about the guardsman's neck. She swayed sensuously against his body, pushing her breasts into his hairy chest and grinding her groin against him like a cat in heat. The guardsman broke free of the kiss. He picked up the smiling Hussain in his arms and carried her out of the room, while she giggled and nibbled at his ear.
Jafar saw the same thing happening to all his men, each was selected and kissed by a guardsmen. All fought at first, then all surrendered eagerly to their new status as brides. Each new couple leaving to consummate their marriage. Jafar then saw that he was alone in the room with Amahl. He suddenly realized how close Amahl was standing and that Amahl was holding both his arms. "Now, my new wife-to-be, it is your turn." Jafar tried to pull free, but Amahl was far too strong now. He held both of Jafar's wrists within one hand and was pulling Jafar's head to his own with the other.
Jafar tried to concentrate, to focus his hatred on Amahl. Rage burned within his transformed body.
Then his lips touched Amahl's. His skin tingled. He felt his nipples grow hard. The rage became another kind of fire. It started in his groin but spread quickly through his body. It was a hunger, now. A hunger that only the man whose lips he was kissing -- no, that was wrong -- whose lips SHE was kissing could satisfy. She moaned and opened her mouth, allowing Amahl's tongue to enter and tease her own. Jafar felt something else, Amahl's erect member, pushing against her. It felt good, and she rubbed herself against his loins in anticipation.
Deep within her was the male Jafar, screaming in anger at this betrayal, but his voice was growing faint, drowning beneath the onrushing flood of womanhood. Jafar broke her kiss with Amahl. She looked about the room and smiled. It was empty save for Amahl and herself, for the others had all retired to their own chambers. She was alone with her man. Jafar smiled as she wriggled free of the now useless man's clothing and armor. She lay down slowly, sensuously upon the pillows of the long-forgotten feast. "You have won, Amahl. I ask only that you be gentle in your final conquest."
And it is thus recorded in the Book of History that the Sultan Amahl sought the Rebel Jafar in the wilderness. And he wrestled with Jafar, winning a great victory. The Rebel was never heard of again from that time. Yet the Sultan did return with a greater prize than a rebellious chieftain. For he returned with a young and beautiful wife who gave him five children, whom some say were sons and some say were daughters. But that, ah, that is another story.
Want to comment but don't want to open an account?
Anyone can log in as Guest Reader -- password topshelf to leave a comment.
The Ticket
by Ellie Dauber © 1999
Author’s Note: This story introduces a continuing character of mine, the White Witch Elizabeth Lange. Yes, this is an old story of mine, but in light of recent news events, I thought that it was appropriate to post it. I’m also adding a small bit from a second Elizabeth Lange story, in which she discusses the fate of the transformee in this story.
* * * * *
Elsbeth Lange drove quickly down the two lane road. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun hung low over the mountains. She hadn't seen another car in almost an hour, and it felt like she was the only person in the world.
She loved the long, empty roads out here in Nevada. That was why she'd moved here from New England. It gave her a chance to be alone, to think, and to sense the lines of force that flowed out from the ancient centers of power. She brushed back her long white-blonde hair and smiled, enjoying the Celtic music on her car's CD and the mood of the afternoon.
She was about fifteen miles outside of Reno coming into the city on a back road from her home in the mountains, when she heard the siren. She glanced up at her mirror and saw the flashing lights of a police car. Damn!" she thought. She looked down at the speedometer. “67.” She almost always set the cruise control a mile or two over the limit. Cops never bothered people in that narrow zone. Maybe he just wanted her to get out of his way.
She slowed and pulled over to the side of the road to let the police cruiser pass. When the other car followed, she came to a stop and turned off the engine. While the officer noted her serial number, she reached into the purse beside her on the seat. Her license, registration, and insurance were all together in the ID pocket. Elsbeth pulled them out and waited for him to come to her car.
She didn't have to wait long. unbeknownst to her, the officer kept a citation pad open on the seat beside him in his patrol car. He had the basic information written before she'd pulled to a stop. The only question was whether he'd hand it to the driver or tear it up for favors given: most gave cash; but a few, especially young women, “worked it out” in other ways.
Stan Kowalczak worked hard at looking like the perfect highway patrolman. Six foot tall, well tanned, and square of jaw, he worked out regularly, including running ten miles a week. He slowly got out of the car and put on his “Smokey's” cap and mirrored sunglasses. Then he looked around to check for any other traffic and approached the car.
He smiled when he saw that driver was a woman, and a damned attractive one. He guessed her age at late twenties, maybe early thirties. Her hair was long, draped over one shoulder and almost reaching the seat. She wore a white cotton peasant blouse that held a truly impressive pair of breasts (at least 38s, he guessed) and a long denim skirt.
‘Definitely a class act,’ he thought. ‘This should be fun. At a minimum, I get to throw a scare into her and get some cash. At best, well, it wouldn't be the first time he got some broad frightened enough to give him a little “service” by the side of the road.’
Elsbeth reached out to hand the officer her license. He studiously ignored it. “Ma'am, do you know how fast you were going?"
“Officer? My speedometer said 67, when I saw you."
“Yes, ma'am. And that's above the legal limit. What were you trying to do? Couldn't you handle this car properly?"
“Officer, I accidentally set my cruise control two miles over the limit. Two miles. You're making it sound like I was driving like some kind of maniac."
“You were exceeding the legal limit and driving in an apparently reckless manner."
“Reckless? How can you say that?"
“I say that because that's what I saw. Are you trying to make things worse by arguing with me?"
“No, I'm just trying to understand why you're saying these things. You're blowing a minor speeding ticket far out of proportion."
“Ma'am, please step out of the car."
“What? Why?"
“Your behavior since I pulled you over suggests that you might be driving under the influence of alcohol -- or possibly something stronger." He paused a moment to let the words sink in. ‘Now please step out of the car."
“This is ridiculous. You pull me over for going two miles above the limit on an empty road; you haven't even looked at my license; and now you're talking like I'm either drunk or high. Perhaps, you'd like to check the car for drugs."
“Why thank you, ma'am. I hadn't thought of that. Now get out the car."
Elsbeth opened the door and stepped out. She saw the cop staring at her long legs as she did. They were well-tanned, so she hadn't worn stockings in the afternoon heat. Still, her two inch heels displayed them to very good effect.
Kowalczak motioned for her to turn. Face the car, and assume the position, please." When she did, he patted her down. He took his time feeling her 38-C breasts, and she was very glad that she'd decided to wear a bra that morning. He also got very familiar as his hands moved down past her hips and down each leg.
“If you're quite done, may I turn around?"
“I don't know; maybe a cavity search. Or maybe, maybe we can go back to the privacy and cool of my car, and you can explain your side of the story." He reached out and ran one finger down her cheek. Under the right circumstances, I can be very forgiving."
“That did it," Elsbeth said. She spun around, taking Kowalczak by surprise. Before he could do anything, she made a strange gesture with her hands at the cop. His eyes glazed over, and he stood erect, as if at attention. “Tell me," she asked. “Did you write up my ticket, yet?"
“Yes, it's still on the pad in my pouch." He voice was low and without any trace of emotion.
“Then what was all this fuss about?"
“Pussy. You get a woman nervous enough, you can get her to spread her legs or suck your cock. And when you don't give her the ticket or arrest her, she thinks you've done her the favor."
“And you get away with this?"
“Who'll tell? I don't have a partner. I only do it when the road's not too busy; so there's no witnesses. And the stupid bitch isn't going to tell. Hell, she probably enjoyed it."
“Enjoyed being scared to death by some jerk, pervert cop."
“Sure. What else is a woman good for?" Kowalczak was starting to sweat. Some part of him, deep down, was aware of what he was saying. Well, it was too late for him to do anything about it.
Elsbeth smiled and got back in the car. She sat there for a moment, taking in power from the lines of force in the mountains around her. Confident that she was ready, she muttered several sentences in druidic Celtic. A ball of green energy, pure Earth Mother magic, formed in her hand. She watched as it floated into the air and out of her car. It grew bigger and engulfed the officer before being absorbed into his body, seemingly without a trace.
Kowalczak shook his head as he recovered from the trance. He reached in the car and took Elsbeth's license and other materials. He only looked at it a moment. He didn't notice that his hand was slimmer and his fingers longer. He copied her name and address onto the ticket, then handed the license and all back.
“Ma'am, you were going two miles over the limit. It's not much, but I'm giving you this citation as a warning. Please be more careful." He took his ticket pad from its pouch on his belt. With his short sleeved uniform, Elsbeth could see that his arms were considerably less muscular and completely hairless. He tore off the ticket and handed it to her. It was less of a reach, since he was now six inches shorter.
Elsbeth watched him walk back to the patrol car. As he walked, there was more and more of a feminine sway to his hips. His figure became more and more curvy below the female cut of his -- no, by now it was her -- uniform.
Officer Stella Kowalczak started her car and drove slowly down the road. Elsbeth followed. She wanted to watch the last effects of the spell, even at a distance.
She knew what was happening, even if she couldn't see it.
Kowalczak's boots softened, taking a less military fit and grew a three inch heel. The crisply starched pants fused together and moved up her legs, exposing long curvy legs covered by the dark gray panty hose that her stocks had become. The pants, now an electric blue skirt, stopped well above her knees and clung to her hips and ass as if they were painted on.
All the equipment on her belt disappeared as it changed color to match her skirt. The short sleeves on her shirt also disappeared as it transformed into a semi-transparent white lycra blouse with a low neckline that exposed much of her new 40-DD breasts. A little bit of the lace from the bra that fought to contain those breasts also peeked out the top of the blouse.
Stella took off her trooper hat even as it changed into a frothy woman's summer bonnet, beribboned and trimmed with white lace. A turquoise bracelet sprouted at her wrist, and matching earrings dangled from her pierced ears. Her hair hung free, reaching down past her shoulders in golden curls. Her face twitched slightly as lipstick and other make-up materialized.
Finally, the spell reached out to take the patrol car. Elsbeth watched the roof panel, with its flashing lights and siren, disappear. The car shrank and changed color, becoming a small silver sports car.
Elsbeth looked down at the seat beside her. Reality had changed. In this new world, Officer Kowalczak had never existed. Neither had the speeding ticket that faded to nothingness on the seat.
Inside her own car, Stella looked at the thin woman's watch on her wrist. Four o'clock. Plenty of time to get back before her first show that night. She felt a tingling in her nipples and her groin. She loved being a showgirl, getting dressed up in pretty costumes and parading her beautiful body in front of hundreds of men each night. It was almost as much fun and felt almost as sexually satisfying as getting laid, which she also managed to do almost every night.
A strange thought came to her mind. There was something else that she was supposed to be doing. In the back of her head, she seemed to hear the words “Preserve and Protect". But she dismissed the feeling with a shake of her pretty head. What could she have to do besides get up on a stage and look sexy or spread her legs for whatever guy she was interested in at the moment?
After all," she thought, what else is a pretty girl like me good for?"
* * * * *
Epilog
Later that day, Elsbeth had dinner with her husband, Michael Two Knives. This was their two-year anniversary. Daniel was on-call that evening at a local hotel, so he couldn't come home to celebrate. But he did have the run of the hotel. They planned on a quiet supper, maybe a show, and then a lively, at-length re-consummation of their marital vows. All, hopefully, not interrupted by any sort of medical emergency.
So far, things had gone well. The meal was excellent, steak, potatoes, and an excellent wine for two. Elsbeth told Daniel about the policeman. "He must have really gotten you upset," Daniel said. "You seldom can summon the power to actually warp reality."
"I really hadn't meant to. I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Make him act like the sort of bimbo he thought women were. But I could tell that I'd gone beyond that even as I cast the spell."
"Is it permanent?"
"The changes are, more so than the reality shift, anyway. In a few hours, the police will notice that they've got a missing trooper on their hands, and Stella won't be employed as a showgirl any more. She'll probably even remember who she used to be."
"Will she remember that it was you that changed her?"
"No, I don't think so. And she'll be compelled to continue to act like a bimbo. She'll be working as a showgirl or a waitress in no time; maybe doing a little hooking on the side. And all the time wondering what happened to her, and why she can't stop acting the way she is."
"Forever?"
"No. It should wear off in about a month. I sort of wish I could hear the explanation that Stan Kowalczak gives when he shows up at the station house the first day."
*****
A final word: I'm not posting this as a general condemnation of the police. I've known a number of policemen in my life; my father employed some part-time as drivers in his store, and a man working on a degree in criminal justice, so he could become a policeman, was a good friend when I was in college.
I don't believe that all police officers are monsters. I know that they aren't. But I also know that all police officers are human beings, and some human beings are definite sons of bitches. The problem comes when one of those sons of bitches gets and abuses the authority of a police officer. It's a hard problem to solve, but it's one that we must solve if we're going to live up to the promise of America.
by Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
This new story of Eerie, Arizona concerns one of its untold tales. It carries us back to December, 1871, to a month that has been already visited in the second novel, “Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Autumn” and in the short story “Eerie Saloon -- Toy Soldier.” Let's assume that, behind the scenes, something else was happening that we did not at that time choose to reveal, something that will now be the subject of this novella.
Here begins our adventure, featuring some old characters, some new characters, and some bits of rip-roaring action. It's about outlaws, and robbery, and lost treasure. It's a new pretty girl, and...oh, that would be telling. Read on and see!
The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
by Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
This new story of Eerie, Arizona concerns one of its untold tales. It carries us back to December, 1871, to a month that has been already visited in the second novel, “Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change – Autumn” and in the short story “Eerie Saloon -- Toy Soldier.” Let's assume that, behind the scenes, something else was happening that we did not at that time choose to reveal, something that will now be the subject of this novella.
Here begins our adventure, featuring some old characters, some new characters, and some bits of rip-roaring action. It's about outlaws, and robbery, and lost treasure. It's about anew pretty girl, and...oh, that would be telling. Read on and see!
*****
Prologue
Wednesday, December 13, 1871
A bullet ricocheted off the canyon wall as the stage slowly climbed the upgrade. The company guard grabbed for his rifle, but fumbled the weapon and it fell down across his feet. The driver beside him cringed, glancing about for robbers.
Someone's shout echoed between the canyon walls: “Throw down that smoke pole, codger, or you won't like what happens next.”
The flustered guard took the rifle by the barrel, but then looked hesitant about what to do next. “Throw it down,” the highwayman repeated. “I won't be asking three times.” The rifleman resignedly took the barrel of the Henry rifle between two fingers and tossed it away. He had deliberately aimed for a roadside bush, to keep it from breaking on the rocky grade.
“That's better,” the bandit said, stepping into the open. Three others emerged from different hiding places. They were masked with colored bandanas, but had the build of young men. “Driver, toss away your hog leg, too," the first robber told the guard, "and if any of you passengers are toting, dump what y'got out the windows.”
“Don't try anything fancy, folks,” another of the desperadoes grumbled. His bandanna was read and his voice came across as even younger than the other outlaw's. “Hand over the strongbox and the key.”
“The key!” scoffed the guard. “Sonny, that key'll be waiting fer this shipment at the bank in Phoenix. Company policy.”
The red-masked holdup man pointed a Remington at him. “Don't call me Sonny!” he warned. Just then, the wind swept his hat back, so that it hung over his back by its stampede strap. His hair was fair and looked like it needed a good washing.
“All right, old man,” the guard answered back. “Don't get yourself in a lather. We've been authorized to hand over any payload, if a highwayman asks fer it politely. The box is in the boot. Don't shoot me if I go back and get it out fer ye.”
“You do that,” the grumbling bandit responded.
“Wait a minute,” said a woman through the coach window. “You sound just like Thorn Caldwell. You even got his hair. That's your farm a couple miles down the hill, boy. What would your aunt think?”
The stickup man glared at her old face, his pistol raised, but not aimed. “Damn you!”
“Settle down, gentlemen," the guard interjected. "No reason to get your lather up. Ye'r about to get rich, so yah got to be mad about? He climbed down to the natural pavement and went to the rear-end boot. It looked to be strongly reinforced for carrying the weight of gold shipments. The company man inserted the key and turned it, unlatching the boot's protective plates. Once they were pushed aside, the robbers could see the coveted strongbox.
"Now step away," the lead badman ordered. When the guard gave back, two of the holdup men, the pair who had not said a word so far, went to take the loot. The bigger one tried to lift the chest and exclaimed, “Shoot! The damned thing must weigh a lot more than a hundred pounds!”
There was silence for a moment, then the lead badman yelled, “Anybody bring a crowbar?”
The canyon fell silent, and then the smaller of the two quiet bandit said, “Hell, no.” The remaining outlaws just stood where they were, looking out of sorts.
“We can't carry anything so heavy on a horse's back,” said the apparent leader.
“Let me have a crack at it,” said Myron Thornton Caldwell -- “Thorn” Caldwell. The other highwaymen backed aside, allowing Thorn to square off with the box. He cocked his shooting iron.
“Easy there, lads,” the guard said. “It ain't a cinch to blow off a strongbox lock. That case is solid iron. Bullets bounce.”
“Don't call us lads, either!” snarled the gang leader.
Caldwell aimed his barrel about a foot from the padlock. Before anyone could yell, “No!” he pulled the trigger. The blast rocked the canyon and made pebbles fall.
“Hey!” yelled the biggest bandit as the shell whistled past his ear.
“You're an idiot!” growled the leader, pacing forward. “Stand back and let me try.”
The young shooter bridled, but grudgingly gave back a step.
The bandit chief took a careful bead and pulled his trigger. The cliffs, for a third, time echoed.
“Yahhh!” Thorn Caldwell howled.
For a few seconds, everyone stared at the boy curled up on the ground, groaning.
“Keeee-rist!” an outlaw exclaimed.
Blood was flowing between Caldwell's fingers where he clutched the wound. Everyone -- outlaws, company men, and passengers -- continued to look on mutely. Most knew that belly wounds soon turn poisonous. During the war, gut-shot soldiers had commonly been left to die behind the surgeons' tent while the doctors worked to save men with less fatal wounds.
“Ike!” one of the gang shouted. “We have to...”
“Shad-up!” Ike snapped. He pointed at the ground with his gunbarrel. “Pick up those pistols.” Turning, he bared his teeth at the people inside the coach. “You men, get out and clear away the barricade. When the road is open, you can all get on your way. Move it! We don't have all day.”
Everyone, except the lady, exited the stage. Watched by three outlaws, the company men and passengers took apart the obstruction of wood and stone. The work took only about fifteen minutes to complete. Then one bandit held a gun on the onlookers while the other quiet bandits dragged the box out of the boot and set it down on the stony grade.
“Now jump back into your seats and get the hell out of here!” Ike ordered.
“Maybe we should send Thorn with them,” put in the scrawniest of the outlaws. “They can take him to a doc.”
“Just let me do the thinking!” Ike told him bluntly.
Five minutes later, the stagecoach was bouncing down on the roadbed, in a hurry to be away.
The bandit Ike stood in place, pondering what to do. He looked over his shoulder, at a small canyon that branched off the defile. Holstering his revolver, he told the unwounded men, “Carry the box up into that gorge. We'll hide it and come back later, when the excitement's died down. Next time, we'll bring proper tools.”
“What about Thorn?” the scrawny bandit asked.
Ike scowled. “Leave him to me.”
The big robber and the skinny one took up the load together, one at each handle, and carried it into the offshoot canyon. Ike brought the gang's four horses out of hiding and tied them to a sickly mesquite tree that was growing out of a crack in the rock wall. Then he regarded the wounded boy, still thinking hard.
“Damn you, Thorn, you've made yourself into a problem that we didn't need. We can't take you with us and move out with the kind of speed we need. If a posse takes you, you'll get talkative. You owe it to your friends to die quick-like and be done with it.”
“Go to blazes,” the wounded robber moaned.
Ike rested his hand on his gun-grip, frowning. “That's a selfish attitude. If you're still alive by the time we've gotten the gold hidden, you'll be a problem that'll need fixing.”
That said, he followed after the other two.
Thorn cringed, toughing out what were the tortures of Hell. By the time the scuffling of the robber's boots died away, he had grasped the situation. As soon as Ike came back, he was going to put him down, like a nag with a broken leg. Seething mad, the young outlaw struggled, despite his searing pain, to get up.
Somewhat to his own surprise, Thorn found he could walk some. He shuffled toward his tethered horse and managed to clamber up into its saddle. The youth was under no illusion that his new “friends” didn't give a hot damn whether he lived or died, and they'd be money ahead if it were the latter. Thorn couldn't let his plans and dreams end like this, all because of some stupid mistake that wasn't even his own. If this were any place else other than the familiar canyon that lay only a couple miles from his own home, he wouldn't have stood a chance. As it was, if he could reach the farm, he could get some help. Luckily, the youth didn't feel half so close to dying as Ike seemed to be hoping.
Riding down out of the hills, each bump inflicting shots of pain, he felt like he was living some awful dream. If he hadn't been only half-unconscious, the agony would have been unbearable.
The first darkness was closing in on Riley Canyon Road by the time he reached the plain below. He kept on following the trace toward Eerie, Arizona, barely lucid. Somehow, his bay was staying with the road, carrying him in the direction that he wanted to go. He didn't try urging it to speed, afraid that he couldn't hold on if the ride got any rougher.
At last, he spied the uneven shingles of his family's farmhouse. Thorn suddenly felt younger than his years. He didn't want to face his aunt in so sorry a condition, and he wanted even less to have a one-on-one with the town sheriff. Dan Talbot would remember the horse that he'd stolen from his neighbor, Tally Singer. That was a hanging offense under the law, even if stage robbery was not.
By this point, though, the young bandit would have gladly accepted a jail-house bunk if it meant getting off his horse's back. The mid-December wind was chilling him to the bone. His teeth chattered; his breathing came in shivery snatches. By the time the rider heard a shout from the farmhouse, he didn't have breath enough for an answering hail. Pain was draining away his strength like water from a leaky canteen. Was someone running his way? He couldn't focus.
The hard ground slammed into his shoulder. The wounded youth never felt it.
***
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 1
The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
by Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
Chapter 1
Wednesday, December 13, 1871 continued
Irene Fanning made the whip snap over the horse's back, wincing at what the bounce of the vehicle must have been doing to Myron's injuries. She was hurrying the buggy down Riley Canyon Road with as much hast as she dared. Though only twenty-four, it had taken all of her strength to hoist him into the carriage behind the driver's seat. Since then, covered by a woolen blanket, he had been alarmingly quiet. If she couldn't reach Hiram Upshaw's office in time, her nephew didn't have a hope. The doctor had been an army surgeon; if anyone in Eerie could save a badly wounded boy, Upshaw could.
At that moment, the buckboard was rattling past the familiar wooden sign painted with the words “Eerie Arizona – Welcome, Friend.” The first of the town's lamp-lit houses were now to be seen. She dreaded to think what might happen over the next few hours. Myron was a horse thief whom the law would be ready to arrest the moment that they learned he was back.
The widow Fanning slowed her buckboard when it entered the town proper. Eerie wasn't large, and in just a minute they were halfway through it. She pulled up behind the doctor's office, where she hoped there would be fewer prying eyes. It was after regular hours, but Doc Upshaw lived in the rear section. She was whispering prayers that she'd find him at home.
Irene drew up and braked. She wrenched her ankle springing to earth, but didn't stop before she was pounding on the back door. Though she was striking the panels as hard as she could, she didn't shout. She didn't dare attract attention.
“Hold on, hold on, I'm coming,” sounded a resonant but muffled voice.
A few seconds later, the door swung open. The man looked questioningly into the face of the young woman. “Mrs. Fanning? You look a sight,” Doctor Upshaw remarked. “What's the trouble?”
“M-My nephew. He's been shot!” Breathless, the farm woman had to rest her shoulder against the door post for support. Hiram helped her inside, to a chair beside the door.
“Thorn?” he muttered. “Shot? Where is he?”
“In – in the buckboard.”
The doctor spied the one-horse vehicle through the window. In the back of it was what looked like a body covered by a blanket.
“Don't tell anyone he's here!” Irene said. “He broke the law.”
The words were hardly spoken before the Hiram Upshaw was outside, closing in on the buckboard. Almost covered by a quilt was a boy's face. He'd seen that sort of face many times before near many a battlefield. Drawing the blanket lower, he saw the blood, looking like a spill of warm tar in the fading twilight. It looked like he had a gut-shot wound in the abdomen, which was always bad. Upshaw called for the widow's assistance and together they moved the boy inside. The doctor had lost hundreds of patients in the Civil War, but had fought for the life of every last one of them. He didn't know any other way to do his job.
Moving a belly-wounded man, the surgeon knew, could kill him right quickly, but every second counted. He was already guessing that the case was hopeless, but with a horrified family member looking on, he couldn't let himself think like that.
The doctor and the widow took Thorn Caldwell down a central hall that connected his living and his work areas, and then into a room furnished with three infirmary beds. As they eased him down on the sheets of one cot, the sufferer cried out, which at least informed Upshaw that the boy was not so far gone that he couldn't feel pain. Fortunately, his blood loss observed inside the buckboard hadn't given evidence of a full-blown hemorrhage. But if his bowels were leaking into his bloodstream it would poison him in a day or less. Maybe much less.
Hiram banished the boy's aunt to the waiting room and then lighted a whale oil lamp, which he placed on the night stand by Thorn's bed. A brief examination told him that the bullet would be still lodged inside the youth's body, making a bad situation worse. He wiped his hands on a towel and rejoined Mrs. Fanning. “Whether I take out the shell or not, I don't think the poor boy will make it... ” he trailed off.
The surgeon felt rather than saw the widow blanching in the gloom. “He's too young,” she said.
Upshaw shook his head. “In a better world than this one, he would be too young to die. But during the war I saw hundreds of boys like him pass on from even less serious wounds.”
“Lordy, lordy,” the woman moaned.
“We'll have to keep him warm and reduce the pain with laudanum, until...
Irene groaned and covered her face.
The doctor surprised himself when he blurted, “There may be one way to save his life... ”
The widow looked up hopefully. “If you can save him, do it!”
He was immediately sorry that he had spoken. Death was an everyday thing. But was the cure that he was about to suggest… ethical? He’d lately felt like reading through the few articles he had on medical ethics. He still wasn’t completely sure what was right in a case like this. “I'm not sure you would like saving your boy’s life in the way that we'd have to do it.”
"Do you mean he's be...paralyzed?"
"No, I don't mean that."
Mrs. Fanning looked urgently into his face. “Then I don't care about the cost! You can have the cattle. Even the whole farm.”
Upshaw shook his head. “It's not the cost. The medicine...is a strange one...does things that might horrify you. I'm not sure that Thorn himself wouldn't prefer to die instead.”
“What kind of medicine is it?”
“Indian medicine man medicine. Magic. Maybe magic. Probably.”
Irene drew back. “Magic?” Then her eyes opened wide. “You're thinking of doing what Shamus O'Toole did to save that O'Hanlan boy when his body was broken?”
Upshaw turned away. “Yes. I guess you know, then, what we'd have to do.”
Irene wheeled away, her mind reeling. “I don't know what I should do,” Irene answered back.
“You might talk to Sheriff Talbot. He handled that whole strange business with the Hanks gang. Otherwise, I suggest you pray.”
Hiram Upshaw returned to his patient. From a shelf, he took a brown-glass bottle of laudanum, unstopped it, and put the open neck to the stricken boy's lips. The cinnamon, added to subdue the drug's bitterness, wafted pungently. After setting the vial aside, the physician used his scissors to cut away the dirty and bloody shirt that was pasted to his patient. That done, he cleaned the wound with alcohol and stuffed the bullet hole with gauze.
'Inoperable,' he was thinking. Whatever Mrs. Fanning decided, under no circumstances would it be his hand that administered the bewitching draft. That potion had always filled him with many ethical questions. But what was the right thing to do? Did he have the right to say no if -- when -- she asked for it? The War had driven God out of the hearts of many of his fellow doctors, but that hadn't happened to Hiram Upshaw. He had seen miracles – many of them -- during those four awful years, and even later. Maybe Shamus’ potion was just the latest miracle to come along.
The office had grown as silent as the tomb. He looked into the drawing room and realized that he was alone.
#
The coal-oil lamp he was reading hung by a black chain from the beam above. Sheriff Dan Talbot was deep into Castle Dangerous by Sir Walter Scott. There wasn't much else for a man to do at so quiet an hour. His deputy, Paul Grant, was due in at ten. Dan smiled. Right now Paul would be over at the Eerie Saloon, where his lady love worked.
Talbot glanced up when pounding hooves stopped in front of the jail-house. A moment later, the door flew open. Dan swung his heels off the desk and turned in his swivel chair. The lawman knew his excited visitor on sight. It was Harv Durst, a cowpuncher from Abner Slocum's ranch.
“Sheriff!” he exclaimed.
Talbot set aside the book and stood up. “A problem, Harv?”
The cowboy's head bobbed up and down. “Big problem. Stage robbery!”
The sheriff gritted his teeth. The transport company often took on nuggets and dust from the assay office. But it had been a long while since a stage robbery had occurred near Eerie.
“Where?”
“Riley Canyon Road, up in the gap,” replied the young man.
“Anyone hurt?” Dan asked.
“One bandit got shot. Old lady Deeters thought it was Thorn Caldwell.”
Talbot scowled. “Who shot him?”
“A ricochet off the strongbox, the guard said. “The bandits let the stage go free, leaving Thorn just lying there on the road. They kept the chest. The stage men flagged me down when I rode abreast of them. They was going on to Phoenix to alert the authorities.”
The sheriff scowled. He knew Thorn Caldwell – a quick-tempered kid with a chip on his shoulder, some seventeen or eighteen years of age by now. He was a suspect in some thieving, too. Once Dan had had to go out to the farm to reprimand the lad for reckless gun-play. Not too long after that, Caldwell had disappeared, run away. A neighbor had accused him of stealing one of his horses. That had been back in January, and the boy hadn't shown his face in Eerie since.
“What are you going to do, Sheriff?” Durst asked. “I'll join the posse if you're starting one.”
Dan took a deep breath. “First, I'm going to send out alerts. All the towns along the telegraph line have to be put on the lookout. Tell, me, Harv, how many long riders were there?”
“The stage people saw four, including Thorn. They thought they were all young pups.”
“If they took Caldwell with them, that might slow them down,” Talbot mused out loud. Dan decided to leave organizing the posse to Paul. He'd have all night to do it. Then Dan would lead it out himself, after a night's sleep.
“Lad, hang around town until the emergency bell rings in the morning, if you want to hunt bandits. We'll set out at first light. Get yourself a little rest before then, if you can.”
“Sure enough, Sheriff,” Durst said. The young man swung away and hurried out into the street.
Dan Talbot had just started putting on his guns when there was a tapping at the door. He yelled over his shoulder, “It's not locked.”
A woman stepped in and he recognized the widow Irene Fanning, Thorn Caldwell's aunt. This couldn't be a coincidence.
“Mrs. Fanning. Did you hear about your nephew?”
She blinked, amazed at how swiftly terrible news could travel. “That he's hurt?”
“That he's robbed a stage!”
“He robbed...?”
Talbot frowned. “You didn't know?”
“I know he's been shot!”
The peace officer nodded. “A rider came in. He said the stage was relieved of a strongbox up in Stagecoach Gap.”
She looked pained. “He came to the farm badly wounded, about an hour ago.”
“How is he?”
“He's with the doctor. Doc Upshaw says that he's... he's probably... lost.”
Talbot sighed. “I'm sorry, ma'am.”
“He says that the... the potion might save him, like it did the O'Hanlan boy.”
Dan sent her a hard look. “I see.”
“Dr. Upshaw told me to ask you what we should do?”
“Ma'am,” he said, “do you know what that potion does to a person? A lot of men would rather die than take it.”
Irene's anguish was writ large. “Maybe it isn't as bad as him dying.”
The tall man shrugged. “Are you sure? Is he able to speak for himself?”
“He's lying like dead. He can't talk,” Irene explained.
Dan nodded. “I can't make that decision for another person. I think you should talk to Judge Humphreys. He's the one who orders up the potion for outlaws if they get convicted.”
She looked despairing. “Will he let Myron have it?”
The sheriff shook his head. “I can't say.”
“I just --” Mrs. Fanning began, but couldn't find the words she needed.
“We've got get a move on, ma'am. While you and the Judge talk, I need to get to the telegraph, so the robbers won't get away.” As courteously as he could, he led the farm woman outside.
#
Judge Humphrey's lamps were lit. Sheriff Talbot banged on the door and, when it opened, the portly jurist stood regarding him, looking like he was already braced to hear news concerning some new trouble.
“Dan?” Parnassus C. Humphreys asked. “What's the emergency?” He stepped aside to let his visitors enter.
Talbot let Mrs. Fanning hurry inside while he stood where he was, facing the Judge. “The Prescott to Phoenix Stage has been robbed,” he said.
Humphreys frowned. “My word!” he said. “Do we know who did it?”
Dan nodded. “It was Thorn Caldwell, along with three other kids. Caldwell is with the doctor now. Wounded.”
“Thornton Caldwell?” the Judge muttered. Only now did it dawn on him why Dan had brought along the woman, one whom he knew from church. “Your nephew?” he asked, looking back at her.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “He's dying.”
Humphreys rubbed his thin hair. “I regret to hear that.”
“Your Honor,” said the lawman, “she's got something to consult with you about. I'll abide with your decision, whatever it is. But, right now, I have to send out the warning that there are thieves on the road. If you're going over to the saloon, let Paul know that he has to form up a posse.”
“The saloon?” the Judge echoed.
“Mrs. Fanning will explain.” Talbot tipped his hat and withdrew.
“How can I be of assistance, my dear?” Parnassus C. Humphreys asked Irene Fanning.
She hurriedly explained.
The Judge pursed his lips thoughtfully. “If that's what you want, it might be fate's judgment on how to handle this affair. If a boy with Thorn's record for trouble-making was ever found guilty of stage robbery in my court, I'd be sorely tempted to give him the potion, even if it were only a first offense. It may be that justice is about to be served, with no trial required.”
“Thank you, Your Honor, I think,” Thorn's aunt replied bemusedly. “But one thing... ” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“I'm not sure that giving him the potion is the Christian thing to do.”
Humphreys' brow wrinkled. “I'm not sure either. Mostly, I've been letting it happen because I don't like hanging outlaws.”
Irene shook her head. “Myron always tried to grow up too quickly and he grew up angry. But if he takes the potion and and lives changed, it's important that no one knows about it. It would drive him out of his mind if everyone were laughing at him.”
The Judge nodded. “I dare say you could be right about that. I assure you, Madame, no one will find out such a thing from me. But if you really want to carry this idea out, we have to hurry over and see Shamus. He's the only one who can prepare the potion.”
#
There were few lights along the benighted street. Many shops were full dark, though the several drinking establishments along the way remained lit. Reaching the Eerie Saloon, they stepped through the batwing doors.
At once, Humphreys scanned the crowd. “I don't see Shamus. We'll ask the bartender where he's at.”
A dark-haired man in a deep-blue silk vest and a white shirt stood behind the counter serving customers from brown bottles. He glanced up as the pair neared. “What's your flavor tonight, Judge?”
“No time for that, R. J. This lady and I have urgent business with Shamus.”
R.J. Rossi looked across to the stairs. “He's in his rooms; go on up.”
Humphreys led Mrs. Fanning to the upper floor. The Judge rapped urgently on the O'Toole's apartment door and it very quickly opened.
“Land sake! Judge!” said Molly O'Toole. “What a surprise!”
“Parnassus,” muttered Shamus, her husband, stepping out of the bedroom. He was a tall, sturdy red-haired man in his early forties, sporting a trimmed mustache. “Ye’re always welcome, yuir Honor, but m'Irish instincts tell me that this must be a wee bit more than a social call.”
“Indeed it is, and we must settle the issue swiftly. A life is at stake. This lady and I should speak to you in confidence, Shamus. Perhaps, if Molly doesn't mind...”
Shamus grinned. “We can be starting out with a secret, but I can't promise that such a stubborn woman as me Molly won't wheedle it out of me before ye can find yuir way back to the street.”
“Oh!” said Molly in exasperation, “How you go on, Shamus! Find out what the Judge wants. Didn't ye hear someone is dying? Let me tend to the crowd below while ye're busy.”
Shamus nodded. With a few quick steps, Mrs. O'Toole was out the door.
“Who's life is at stake, if ye don't mind me asking?” the Irishman inquired.
“Have you heard the name Thorn Caldwell?”
Shamus grimaced. “The young hellion who was always in trouble -- the horse thief? Is he back?”
“He robbed a stage along the canyon road.”
Shamus made a hmmm sound. “‘Tis sorry I am to hear that. But ain’t that a job for the Sheriff?”
Humphrey sighed. “It's damnably complex. From what Dan and this lady have told me, her nephew, Caldwell, is with Doc Upshaw. He's been shot and isn't expected to make it.”
Shamus regarded Mrs. Fanning with a nod of sympathy. “I'm grieved to be hearing that, Ma'am.” Then he regarded the jurist. “Are ye hoping I can save the pup?” he asked with a suspicious lilt.
“It seems that it's the boy's only chance. Do you have any of the... medicine prepared?”
Shamus pursed his lips. “I've been keeping a small supply on hand, ready to go, ever since Elmer O'Hanlan had his accident.”
Humphreys cocked his head. “What do you think about doing that? Was it something you regret?”
The barkeeper shrugged. “I don't regret saving a kid's life. But I ain’t happy ‘bout his father swallowing the stuff by accident.”
“Thorn is with the doc. There may not be much time.”
“Is the boy worth saving?” O'Toole stopped abruptly when he saw the reaction on Mrs. Fannings' face.
The jurist sighed. “Do you regret how the Hanks gang turned out? It seems to me that you treat them as if they were your own daughters. Tell me if you think that there's any one of God's creatures who is absolutely not worth saving?”
Their host looked away thoughtfully. “I figure I've met a few of that kind, mostly in San Francisco.” He then shifted toward Mrs. Fanning. “Are ye sure about this?”
“I don't know. Are the... potion girls miserable?” she asked.
The Irishman shrugged. “They have thuir good days and thuir bad, like everyone else.”
“Then you say the potion doesn't make all that much difference?” Irene asked hopefully.
Shamus became grave. “It makes a wee bit of difference in the sort of life they're living now. Do ye realize how hard this is going to be for Thorn, even if he heals up as fit as a fiddle?”
“I don't think there are any good choices left for him. Horse thieves hang, stage robbers go to prison. I owe it to my sister -- his mother -- to save him if I can.”
“What you do tonight is going to be changing the lives of the both of you. Just don't be blaming me if you give yourself a hard row to hoe for years to come.”
“I won't, I promise.”
The taverner crossed to the wall rack and drew down a woolen coat of red and black plaid.
“Another thing, Shamus, my friend,” added the Judge. “I'd like you to get Molly or R.J. to spread the word that Dan needs to have a posse put together. The sheriff wants to take it out at dawn. Is Paul Grant here?”
O'Toole squinted thoughtfully. “He'll probably be down on the floor, talking to Jessie whenever she has a minute to spare for him.”
“Good. Pass on Dan's instructions to go ring the fire bell and form up the volunteers..”
“What's the posse for?”
“Caldwell wasn't alone. There are still three desperadoes on the dodge,” Humphreys replied.
“I hear what ye’re saying,” Shamus said.
#
“Doctor, how is he?!” Irene Fanning asked urgently from the waiting room.
Upshaw looked up. “He spoke a few words, but he's senseless again. I doubt he knows where he is.” To the men with Irene, he asked, “What all have you decided?” Shamus and the Judge looked at one another, but let the lady give the answer.
“Can you wake him?” Irene asked. “Then I can ask him what he wants.”
The physician exhaled with a whistling sound. “I'm afraid that no talking is going to be possible. What do you want to do, Mrs. Fanning?”
Now that Irene actually had the means to save her nephew, the faithful words seemed to catch in her throat.
“Under the law,” began Judge Humphreys, “Thorn is a minor, and you are his legal guardian, Madam. The course of his care in a life and death emergency is legally yours to decide. Our Dr. Upshaw will be able to use his own discretion about what happens in his office, if you happen to ask Shamus to use... a controversial treatment.”
The widow stared at the ashen-faced boy. “He'll hate me. But if an outlaw dies unrepentant, he'll goes to Hell, doesn't he?”
“Here's what I know,” suggested the physician. “Potion or no potion, he won't last more than a few hours if I don't take out that bullet. But abdominal surgery may actually shorten his time. If he doesn't live through the extraction that I have to do immediately, you won't have any decision to make.”
Irene nodded. “While you take out the bullet, I...I have to pray.” She hurried away to the doctor's waiting room, where she sank to her knees and cupped her hands.
Upshaw now faced the two men, both of whom he knew well. “I need to do this in my operating room. Help me carry the lad there.”
#
Under the lamps of his surgery room, Upshaw operated on Myron Thornton Caldwell for about a half hour. While the others continued to wait, he stitched the incision. When the physician called Shamus and Humphreys to come in, his expression told them just how bad the situation was.
“Well?” the latter finally asked.
“I have to have the lady's final consent, or else there is nothing more anyone can do. Anyone except the Lord, that is.”
“I'll go get her,” volunteered the jurist. He hurried from the surgery. When the barkeeper turned to follow him, the doctor whispered, "I need to talk to you."
Shamus stepped closer. “What is it?” he inquired in a low tone.
“If the lad wasn't a minor, I'd prefer to let the Lord's will be done. I vowed not to do any patient harm, but is saving a life by changing a patient's sex doing harm? My medical ethics books have no answer for that one. My best course is to respect what the boy's next of kin decides.”
“It's all ye can do,” nodded Shamus.
“How many souls have received the potion so far?” Upshaw suddenly asked.
The barkeeper's expression pinched. “Eight. Here in Eerie, I mean.”
Doc frowned. “Yes, I recall that there was also a Cheyenne warrior.”
Shamus squirmed slightly. “Ay, I told ye about him… her... last summer.”
“How did that one turn out, in the long run, I mean?”
The Irishman shuffled uneasily. “About as good as a person who drank two doses could have turned out. She made a life for herself working in a cat house. Then, the last I heard, she married one o’her customers and made a better kind o'life with him.”
The surgeon sighed. “As a man of medicine, I've learned to accept death as part of the natural order. Sometimes I still wonder whether we have any right to preserve a life without a patient's 'by your leave'. I've gone along with saving soldiers whom I knew would be legless, blind, disfigured, paralyzed...”
Shamus smiled wanly. “When I have me doubts, I always think about Laura with Arsenio, and Paul with Jessie. Without me potion, thuir lives’d be a whole lot different from what they are today. I think taking a drink o’me potion’s like having surgery. It hurts like hell for a while, but healing makes things better, and a person can take things in stride after that.”
Upshaw glanced away, his expression uncertain. Just then, there came footfalls from without. Shamus peered toward the adjacent room and saw the Judge and the farm widow at the door.
The surgeon came to meet them. “What will it be, Mrs. Fanning?” he asked. “I don't think we have a second to waste.”
“Doctor,” she began, “I think He has heard my prayers. It was like I was hearing His voice.” The surgeon searched her face; it looked somehow inspired. “I wept and I prayed; then suddenly His purpose came to me.”
“What purpose?” the doctor asked.
“'He wants to save Myron. He said, ''male and female he created them,'” she quoted.
“And so you believe that we should use the potion to save his life?” Upshaw inquired carefully.
“Yes. Words can mislead, but what He has put into my heart tells me that there is no doubt about His intentions.”
“Are you sure?” the physician pressed.
“Lord help me, Doctor. Whatever happens tonight shall be God's will. Please save my nephew's life. He will watch out for Myron in his time of trial; that He has promised.”
The surgeon resignedly nodded and shifted toward the Irishman. “If this is God's will, let Him bring the boy around long enough to be able to swallow the draft. I'd appreciate it if someone other than myself holds the glass.”
Shamus muttered an agreement and reached into his coat pocket, to draw out a vial containing a couple ounces of greenish-colored liquid. “I have it, Doc. I'll need a cup or glass with a little water in it.”
Upshaw glanced toward the others. “Judge, would you take Mrs. Fanning to the other room? What happens next might be too upsetting for her.”
Without a word, Humphrey escorted the young woman away.
#
“I'm first going to try to bring him around with smelling salts,” explained Hiram Upshaw. He uncorked a small brown bottle. Shamus took a place next to him, holding a tin cup of water liberally laced with potion. He had deliberately made the dosage strong, on the chance that the lad was too weak to take in very much of it.
Upshaw was passing the ammonia fumes of the salts under Thorn Caldwell's nose. Nothing. It began to seem that he would never again awaken in this lifetime, when, of a sudden, the lad's shoulders lurched and his eyes popped open.
“Boy,” said the doctor, “do you know where you are?”
Thorn just stared at the physician for a moment, before going into a fit of coughing. Upshaw, believing that the outlaw didn't have much time left, stepped aside for Shamus. Shamus drew in a deep breath and eased the cup toward Thorn's lips. “This here is medicine, me bucko,” he said. “Drink what you can; it will make you feel a lot better.”
Thorn still didn't seem to understand, but closed his lips around the rim of the cup when he felt it. Shamus now tried to push the mug between the boy's teeth, but Thorn turned his face away.
"Maybe I should try," said Irene Fanning. "He knows my voice."
Shamus glanced up. The widow had returned and was standing at the threshold. "I thought I should be here for him."
"Aye," replied the Irishman. He passed the glass to Irene when she approached within reach.
"Myron? Do you understand me? I'm your Aunt Irene."
The boy gave no reaction. When she repeated her words, his head slightly stirred.
“Myron. Those outlaws shot you. But you'll be all right if you take this medicine.”
Her nephew blinked; his glance glassy and unfocused. Irene kept coaxing. “I'll hold the cup up to your mouth, darling, and I want you to sip as much of the medicine as you possibly can. It'll be good for you.”
The men watched intently. Doc still wished that he was certain about the ethics of what they were doing. But he had seen too much death from sickness and war. He had played host to Mr. Death many times, but never learned to like his company. If this happened, though, would he ever see the same sort of smiles on Myron's face that he had already seen on the lips of Laura, Jessie, Bridget, and Maggie? At the moment, he was only an observer, and that was all he cared to be.
Shamus, beside him, gave a relieved sigh to see that Thorn was able to drink. In fact, the boy seemed extremely thirsty. Just then, the Judge touched Shamus' arm. “If it works, who’s going to be giving her… orders?”
“I don't know,” the barkeeper admitted. “But I don’t think it should be meself.”
Humphreys frowned thoughtfully. “He's gotten into a hell of a pickle not listening to his aunt. You can fix that.”
“Aye. But shouldn’t there be somebody else besides the lady?”
The jurist shrugged.
“I suggest ye, Judge. Ye’re used to deciding important things for people. It might be that the widow can't always be available.”
Humphreys sighed. “Very well.”
The Irishman looked like he had another idea. “I'd also suggest that me Molly be party to it, too.”
“Molly, but not yourself?”
Shamus shook his head. “The Mrs. Fanning will be needing advice... on some very ‘girlie’ matters. Molly knows better than I do what t’be expecting from a potion gal.”
“You make sense. Would Molly want to get involved?”
“She's a hard one t’be guessing about.”
“Then I'll tell Molly that it was my idea,” Humphreys offered.
The taverner seemed satisfied.
The doctor called, “Shamus!”
The two men saw Caldwell's body shuddering. The Irishman came up quickly. Thorn's sandy brown hair was growing out at a miraculous rate and getting a little darker. His strong arms were looking willowy. In moments, the figure on the operating table had become lightly-built and lithe. The bandages over his wound loosened and shifted as he transformed. The alarming convulsions lasted only seconds longer. When they passed, the patient was left flat on his – on her – back, gasping for breath.
Doc reached over and removed the loosened bandaging from what was now blood-smeared white skin. “Well, I’ll be,” he muttered. “There’s no sign of the wounds. I'll take those stitches out after she's rested a bit.” In the interest of modesty, he threw a sheet over Myron’s chest. Just then, her gasping stopped and she settled into a trance-like slumber.
Shamus realized, somberly, that this was the moment to act. He leaned in and shook the girl's shoulder with two fingers. She responded with a bleary stare.
“’Tis another part of the magic,” he said to Irene. “Ye need t’be telling him – her – who she’ll obey from now on.”
“Obey? I-I don’t understand.”
“The potion’ll make her obey whoever ye tell her to obey. Doing what she's told’ll help her t’adjust to being a gal. Just say yuir name and the Judge’s, oh, and me wife's, too. Molly O’Toole. Just tell her, and it’ll stick.”
The young widow blinked. “Amazing.”
“Doc, give him – her -- another whiff of those smelling salts.”
The physician complied. The girl reacted with a cry; her eyes widely opened in alarm.
“Myron, listen to me,” the woman said. “From now on, you will obey any order I give you. And you’ll obey any order from a Mrs. Molly O’Toole or from Judge Humphreys. Tell me if you understand what I've just told you.”
“I-I understand,” the new girl muttered, her voice a tight whisper.
Shamus came to stand beside the woman. “Yuir new niece is going t’be needing a name, too. Do ye have one, Mrs. Fanning?”
The woman seemed overwhelmed. “I-I…” A thought came to her, like a whisper from an angel. “My sister dreamed she was going to have a little girl when she was carrying Myron. She'd picked out a name, Myra, after our mother. But when she got a boy instead, she baptized him Myron.”
“A workable plan,” adjudged Humphreys. “She'll be Miss Myra Caldwell.”
Mrs. Fanning's pondered that. “No, she can't be a Caldwell. But... but wait a minute; maybe I can say that she's the daughter of my late brother, Amos. The real girl is living back East with her mother and grandparents. But we can give out that she's alone in the world, and that I'm her only living relative. That would make her Myra Olcott. Better still, Abigail Myra Olcott. Amos' girl is named Abigail.”
Shamus nodded in approval. “Ye’d best be telling her then, and be quick about it. The magic won’t be lasting much longer.”
“Very well,’ Irene replied. “Myron – or Thornton – is not your name any more. From now on, your name is Abigail Myra Olcott, but you’ll answer mostly to Myra. Do you understand me?”
There was a look of bemusement on Myra’s face as she whispered, “Y-Yes, Aunt Irene.” She seemed to relax after that and snuggled down on the operating table, closing her eyes. In moments, the girl was asleep, exhausted from all that she had gone through.
Shamus nodded. “All right, Myra it is. But whatever name, yuir... niece... uses, she's going to need some rest.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Doc, shouldn't ye make ready your infirmary?”
Upshaw answered with a throaty “Yes.”
“Mrs. Fanning,” he continued, “do you still want the girl's identity to be kept secret for now?”
Irene nodded. “I do. Myron can't stand to be laughed at. When angry, he does things that he shouldn't.”
“Well,” replied the doctor, “we'll all do the best we can. She... Myra... can rest in one of my infirmary beds until she's fit to go home. She'll need girl's clothes, so no one sees her dressed like a boy. A little thing like that in a town like Eerie can let the cat out of the bag.”
“What will we say about Thorn disappearing?” asked the doctor.
“It's for the best that no one be told that Thorn ever came back after the robbery at all,” said Humphreys. He glanced to Irene. “A boy who's unaccounted for and a new girl showing up in his home at the same time could make people wonder. Let's hope that the story about her being your niece keeps people who are too smart for their own good from making any easy guesses.”
Humphreys rubbed his chin. “And, Shamus, if Molly has any ideas how to help Mrs. Fanning, it would be a good thing for them to chat.”
The barkeeper scratched his head. “I'm thinking that Molly should be getting Myra some clothes over at the Silverman’s right promptly in the morning.”
“Fine,” replied the Judge. “Fortunately, the girl is too old for school, so she won't need to be enrolled. It's for the best that she gets settled down away from view before having much to do with people.”
Shamus stepped closer to Irene. “I think the best thing’d be for ye to go easy on her at first. Let the filly have her head out at the farm as long as she don't behave badly. It is hard to be telling ye more. For a while, we won't really know what to expect.”
“How do you mean?"
The Irishman was remembering the amount of strongly-mixed potion that the boy had gulped down. “I've seen a few potion girls in me time. As the weeks pass, she'll start t’be acting differently, more like a girl. Me wife can explain it a whole lot better than I could.”
Irene shook her head. “The Lord has given me a bewildering task. But He answered my prayers, so I will not let myself fail.”
“It won't be easy for you or for... Myra,” said the Judge. “But, don't coddle her. She brought these troubles down on her own head, and we're only trying to do right by her.”
Then he added, “I'll be sending Deputy Grant out to your place. He'll have some serious questions for Myra, such as who exactly helped her with the robbery, and where they've hidden the gold.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2
The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
by Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
Chapter 2
December 13, 1871
Irene Fanning slept fitfully on her cot. When slumber fled and left her lying awake for a long while, she sat up. It was still dark inside the infirmary. She walked on tiptoes to Myra's bed and gazed down at the patient, seeing her face only faintly in the dim lamplight.
“Oh, Myra,” she whispered. “Did I do the right thing?” Boys are so proud of being boys, she knew. Myron – Myra – was going to be devastated at what had happened. She cupped her hands and whispered a prayer for her nephew… her new niece.
The sleeper didn't awaken. The first trace of a gray dawning drew Irene to the window, and she lifted its shade. The dawn was about to arrive on a day that would be like no other. She went into the deserted waiting room, hoping that some solitude would help her think.
Doctor Upshaw had already removed Myra's stitches, satisfied that the patient's sleep was more or less a natural one. Later, Irene had heard him rise and go out. The woman sighed. So much of what had happened the night before seemed like a dream. Myron a robber? Myron near to death? Myron a… girl?
Dream? It was a nightmare.
Irene began to feel hunger, having missed supper the night before. A brief inspection of the doctor's outer office discovered no food, but in a corner of the infirmary stood a stoneware water cooler. She filled the tin cup next to it and drank.
Minimally refreshed, the farm woman thought about checking in on Myra again. 'Oh, My Lord,' she instantly realized, ‘I’m thinking of Myron as Myra.' She shook her head. How could she change such a set pattern of thinking so swiftly? It reminded her of how people reacted to the first heavy fall of snow on autumn ground. One day, the green grass could look entirely natural; the next day all was blanketed in white. The mind accepted the radical change as normal. She sighed. 'I only hope that… Myra can get used to her own changes just as quickly.’
Like Alice through the looking glass, she felt like she had been suddenly forced into a world where the impossible was an everyday occurrence. But, really, didn't everyday life amount to one forced change after another? Irene remembered that terrible letter from the War Department. As a young wife, she had shared so little time with her husband before he had been called away, only to die of camp fever in Tennessee. Left an impoverished widow, without any nearby family to assist her, she had had to sell the heavily mortgaged little house that they had purchased together. For months afterwards, she had lived in a rooming house, barely scraping by doing work as a cleaning lady. How lonely, how empty were those days. Her brother, Amos, had died in his prime; deceased, too, were her parents and grandparents. She was closest to her sister Addie and her husband, Edgar, far away in Arizona. Amos' wife and daughter lived in New Jersey, but she and her sister in law had failed to become close, and Irene had hardly gotten to know her young niece.
Nights in her little rented room were the saddest and she had sought solace in prayer. Usually, she asked God to make her life less lonely. But if one could say that her prayers were answered, that answer had come in a terrible way. Both her sister and brother-in-law had suddenly taken sick and died, leaving behind a small farm and a twelve year old son, Myron Thornton Caldwell. Providing that boy with someone to depend on suddenly became the central focus of her life. As soon as she could raise train and stage fare, mostly through the generosity of people at the local church, she set out for the frontier.
At first, Myron had been a moody boy, still shocked by his family tragedy. He seldom smiled and rarely spoke more than a couple words at a time. But soon his manner started to change – and for the worse. He seemed perpetually angry, disdainful of everything and everyone around him.
Myron had become increasing truant from school. There had been fights with other boys – a great many fights – and then came the petty crime and Irene's repeated embarrassments at apologizing to the sheriff. The boy oftentimes went off by himself, roaming the hills all the way up to Stagecoach Gap. He tended to disappear whenever there were major chores to be done and Irene found that the work of the farm was just too much for one woman alone.
Talking, and even scolding, did no good, so she had started to hire local boys as day laborers. Myron, instead of standing aside, had picked fights with these youngsters and few stayed for long. George Severin had been the only youth who refused to back down.
One day, when he was sixteen, her nephew crossed over to the pasture of Tally Singer, the neighbor whom he liked least, and rode off on one of the man's horses. His action had disgraced both their names. People had started acting standoffish around her. Following long months of awkwardness, things settled down somewhat, but Irene's renewed friendships no longer felt as easy and spontaneous as they had once been.
For the past year, the widow had wondered where her sister's son had run off to, and what he was doing. It worried her that the boy who had such a knack for finding trouble might be getting into more serious trouble than he could handle on his own. Now, as abruptly as a thunderclap, the world had changed again.
Myron a girl? ‘What does that mean?’ she wondered. ‘What sort of lives are the two of us going to be living from this moment on?’
She went back into the infirmary and stared down at the pretty, even features of the sleeping maiden. “Myra” looked about Myron's age, but there was nothing else familiar about her. She bore no resemblance to any member of the Olcott or Caldwell families. Myron, very clearly, had changed amazingly on the outside. Would there be any changes on the inside? ‘Will she still act like Myron, still want to spend so much time alone, and yet be so aggressive and abrasive?’
Another thought. ‘Did this happen by chance, or does the Lord have a plan?' It was said He knew everything about every person's life, past, present, and future, not only from the moment of their births, but even from the day of Creation. Did all these sorrows mean that He was guiding her family's fate? To what end was He guiding it?
Irene glanced back at the window. It was now bright enough outside to let her see the nearest line of foothills. 'Why hasn’t the doctor come back to check on Myra?' she wondered. She remembered, too, that her horse had stood hitched behind the office all night, untended. That was no way to treat a valuable animal. 'If Myra and I have to stay in town much longer,' she thought, 'I’ll have to take the carriage over to the Ritter Livery Stable.'
Mrs. Fanning heard a door slamming and voices issuing from the waiting room. “Hello,” she said to the unseen visitors, stepping out into the short hall.
“In here,” Upshaw called.
Irene passed through the curtained arch and into the waiting room. The physician was standing near the door and with him was a young Mexican woman in a long green dress. She was carrying a tray with several covered dishes and a steaming coffee pot. “Good morning,” the farm woman addressed them with a wan smile.
“Irene,” Doc said, “this is Maggie Sanchez. She runs the restaurant here in town. I thought you and your… niece could use something to eat. How is she this morning?”
Mrs. Fanning recognized the name. Maggie Sanchez’s restaurant was in Shamus O’Toole’s saloon and Maggie was one of the potion-girl outlaws. Irene searched her features for any trace of maleness, but found none. “How do you do, Miss Sanchez? Myro… Myra’s still sleeping.” She glanced back at the doctor. “Is that normal?”
“I hope so,” he said, again turning his attention to Miss Sanchez. “Please put the food down on the table, Maggie. I'll go check on my patient.” He exited through the curtain.
The Mexican gave Irene a friendly nod and commenced setting up a breakfast for two. “Is your niece – Myra is it -- very ill?” she inquired, her English not heavily accented.
Mrs. Fanning answered uneasily. She had never made an effort to speak to any of the potion girls, except for a brief pleasantry to Trisha O'Hanlan now and then. “Yes, Myra; she fell quite ill last night. But the doctor says that she's out of danger.”
“That is good. You have a farm outside of town, is that right?”
“Yes.” Irene didn't know what more to add.
Maggie didn't press the conversation and soon finished her task. Just then, the doctor returned. “If there is nothing else, Señor,” she said, “I will be returning to my kitchen.”
“Thank you. I'll see that your dishes are returned.”
Maggie nodded and excused herself.
When she was gone, Upshaw said, “The... young lady... is still asleep. We'll let her rest until Mrs. O'Toole arrives.”
“Mrs. O'Toole?”
“Yes. As Shamus explained last night, she's getting some clothes for Myra. And I think that she'll have some useful advice for you, too; about what you can expect from the girl once you get her home, for instance.”
Irene nodded, not sure what to say. Her life had once been so simple – sad, but simple. Now, suddenly, she was living a life like a character out of Grimm's Fairy Tales.
“Try not to worry,” the physician urged. “We don't know a great deal about the potion. Not many people have taken it. They -- the subjects -- generally get their strength back almost at once, but in this case, Myron was badly injured. It might take more time with him.”
Irene could only return a nonplussed look.
“I think you need a good breakfast,” Upshaw recommended.
She crossed listlessly to the table. Maggie had provided plentiful hotcakes and bacon, along with sliced apples. It was intended for both her and Myra, so she took only her fair share. Dr. Upshaw used the time while she was occupied to make some notes pertaining to Myra in his medical records. “Do you think...” the woman finally asked from behind him, “that we've done the right thing?”
Upshaw looked up, his brows knitted. “That's a question I've often had to ask myself, even before I became a doctor. Is it ever wrong to save a life, even if it means a life of pain and helplessness? I don't know. With Myra, it will all depend on what she does with her new life, after she's had time to think things through.”
“She's going to be terribly shocked.”
“We should both pray for her. The other potion girls have done well for themselves. It’s hard to remember that they were once desperadoes. Maggie, the young lady who cooked your breakfast, has two children and a beau.”
“Children?”
“She's technically their father. Her boy and girl were brought up from Mexico by the gentleman that she's seeing.”
“She likes... men?”
He nodded uncomfortably. “I think that Molly O'Toole is the one to ask about that. She's been very close to most of the potion girls.”
“Is she close to Pat... to Trisha O'Hanlan, too?”
“No, not her; Molly is the matron for the prisoners. Miss O'Hanlan broke no law and never had to stay at the saloon. Do you know...did you know Mr. O'Hanlan?”
“I knew Mr. O’Hanlan, but only slightly. I bought supplies from his store, and spoke to him once or twice in church. I've seen Trisha since then, at the store and at services, and I still can't put my mind around it. Tell me, do any… of the ladies... leave town after their sentences are served – so that they can live a...more normal life?”
“They could,” he replied, “but none have, so far. I guess they feel that they have no lives left out there. They're making new lives here. I think they actually prefer to live in a place where they don't have to keep any secrets.”
“Is there any way to change them back?”
“No. The magic seems to be about as final as a hanging.”
“How do they feel about being changed?”
“It's not clear. I've mostly talked to them about their health. Jessie and Wilma Hanks had a couple of the worst outlaw reputations in this territory, but as they are now, I don't think they're bad people.”
“I've heard that Jessie killed a man and ran away."
"Yes, the deputy had to go out and bring her back," affirmed the doctor. "She was found innocent of murder."
"That's good. The only other one I've heard much about is Wilma,” Irene said.
“Just about everyone has heard of Wilma,” Dr. Upshaw observed wryly, but that was a topic that he wanted to leave right where it was.
#
A girl shrieked in the infirmary. Both man and woman hurried toward the sound.
Myra was sitting up, wild-eyed. The covers were on the floor, but she was wearing one of the doctor's shapeless gray gowns.
“What the hell! What the hell?” she was shouting.
“Easy, Myron,” Mrs. Fanning coaxed. “You'll be all right.”
“You're dreaming, young man,” Upshaw suggested. “Settle down, and you'll soon wake up.”
This advice surprised Irene, but it appeared to have a calming effect on the girl. Suddenly she looked more uncertain than horrified.
Myra settled down on the cot. She looked down at herself, touched herself, wondering how a dream could seem so real.
“Tarnation!” said a woman from behind them. “Such shouting! Thuir must be a new potion girl somewhere around the house.” Upshaw looked back and saw Molly O'Toole coming through the door. Her expression was both knowing and grave.
The taverner's wife was holding a wicker carryall by its handles. Mrs. Fanning had seen Molly before, from a distance. Friends had mostly advised her that all the saloon people were sorts someone should keep clear of. The Irishwoman was red-haired, handsome, and looked about the age that her older sister Addie would have been, had she had survived cholera.
“Molly,” the doctor said, indicating the young lady in bed, “this – this is Myra. Myra, this is Molly O’Toole, Shamus O’Toole’s wife.”
“Don't call me Myra!” the girl snarled.
Molly put her basket down on the floor and came closer. “Did ye just wake up, colleen?”
Myra reacted to the term “colleen” with a furious glare.
“Listen, Missy,” Molly continued. “We'll be getting right t’work. We're going t'talk, and ye’re not going t'be flying off the handle while we're doing it. Ye'll keep calm, and we'll be having ourselves a nice conversation.”
Myra blinked in surprise. The authoritative statement had fallen upon the girl with the feel of a skeleton's claw. The doctor had seen that sort of look before; Molly was one of the three that the girl was magically required to obey.
“For one thing, I think it's best to shoot straight w'potion girls. Ye’re not dreaming, honey pie. Ye’re wide awake. And ye’re a girl; ‘tis also me understanding that it's yuir own fault. After yuir tomfoolery of a robbery, ye’re durn lucky t'be so much as alive. Me husband, Shamus, saved yuir life with some special medicine that he's got. Some medicine is pretty rough on the person who takes it. The trouble with this medicine is that any boy who gets the cure turns into a girl.” She studied Myra for a moment. “And I'd say it's done a right fine job on ye.”
“I'd rather be dead than be like this!” Myra exclaimed, but it was not quite a shout. Something had kept her from shouting.
“I'm right sorry ye feel that way," Molly replied. "There's nothing to be done for the fact that ye'll be a lassie from now on. But the good part is that once ye’re all gussied up, ye'll be an eye-catcher, for sure.”
Myra leaped to her feet and grabbed at an empty pitcher. “Like Hell!”
“Stop!” declared Molly. The shout hit the girl like a January blast. She stood frozen in place.
“How did you do that?” Irene gasped.
Molly looked back. “It's part of the magic. Me Shamus had ye tell yuir niece to do whatever ye, me, and Judge Humphreys tells her to. And I'm not about to be letting a headstrong gal start throwing pitchers and hurting people.”
She folded her arms and took another hard look at the seventeen-year-old. “Ye really seem t'be a sour one, Missy, but so was the whole Hanks gang before ye. It was tough for them, and it'll be tough for ye, too. Just consider yuirself lucky that ye won't have to go to prison. Behave like a decent girl and ye won't get bossed around so much. And one other thing; don't try to hurt yuirself in any way. I'm telling ye now that ye just can't do it. We're all going to take good care o' ye and do the best we can to see that ye live a goody long time.”
Mrs. Fanning made a small sound of protest. “Aren't you being rather harsh?”
“Please trust me, ma’am,” the Irishwoman told her. “Taking precautions is better’n holding funerals. If we want this filly to be pulling the surrey without a lot of nonsense, ye'll have to keep her in tight traces, right up to the point when she stops fussing about the bit. Let her play on yuir sympathy, and she'll be moaning, complaining, and feeling sorry for herself till the cows come home.”
Irene's expression remained grievous, but she stood silent.
Molly once more addressed the maid, who was still clutching the pitcher. “Put that vessel down gently, gal. It ain’t nice t’be breaking things.” Myra obeyed with a dazed look on her face. “Now, in case ye didn't understand what ye was told before, yuir name is Myra. So, no more snapping at people who call ye that. Agreed, Myra?”
She said "Yes" through gritted teeth.
"Fine. Come sit back down on the cot, easy like. Ye'll only have t'listen; we won't be needing any of yuir sass-talk for a while. If I need ye t'say something, I'll let ye know. Understand?” Myra scowled, but there were voices in her head that, somehow, wouldn't let her speak.
Molly continued. “If ye understand, say that ye understand.”
Myra wanted to spew a tirade of obscenity, but only heard herself uttering, “I understand.”
“Good. Remember, politeness gets paid back with smiles.” The Irishwoman glanced at Mrs. Fanning and the doctor in turn, just in case either had anything to contribute. It didn't look like they did, so she continued her talk with Myra. “I'm going to sit down next to ye. Ye won't mind, will ye?”
“Yes, I will!” Myra growled.
“Yuir feelings are yer own, but I'll be doing pretty much what I please, thank ye very much. And don't ye try laying a hand on me, either.”
Molly took a seat. “Let me tell a little story, so ye understand just how things work. Me man, Shamus, and his family come over t’America back in the 1830s. They was crossing the plains when his da got sick. His ma was what they called a hedge witch back in the auld county, but she couldn’t do nothing t’save him. They was lost ‘n’ a spring snow storm up by the Platte. It was bad. They woulda died ‘cept they got rescued by a Cheyenne hunting party that took Shamus ‘n’ his ma back t’thuir camp. Living the tribal life seemed to be in her blood, and by winter, she was married t’their medicine man. He took a shine to Shamus, too, and adopted him.”
“When Shamus was still a lad, he got to working at putting them Injun and Irish magics together. His idea was to make up new spells of his own, but most of them turned out to be about as useful as a leaky bucket. When they did work, they mostly stirred up more harm than good. But he found one spell that neither his mother nor the red men ever heard of before, a potion that made the man who drank it turn into the fetchingest woman that'd ever crossed his path. He tried it out first on camp animals, and it always worked right well, but try as he might, he never could find any way t'be changing a female into a male. The Cheyenne didn't much care for that sort of magic, and the elders told the boy to leave well enough alone.
“A few years afterwards, Shamus decided that he wasn’t cut out t’be no Injun. He said goodbye to his ma and his Cheyenne family and headed off to a fort a few days away. He took a job in a saloon, and it turned out that he had a knack for tending bar. Later on, he wandered as far as San Francisco. Me and him met where he was tending bar, and where I was dancing on stage. We got married, but, in a year or so, we decided t'be leaving Frisco. After a wee bit of roving, we took a liking to Eerie and settled in. The town's been good to us ever since.”
“Then, last July, a band of outlaws came along, wanting some revenge on Sheriff Talbot. They wasn't gunned down, like we told to the papers. Instead them outlaws was given beers loaded with the same potion you just got. Things worked out fine, and since then the Judge has been giving lawbreakers the choice to either take a draft of the same stuff or go to territorial prison, if their crimes were really bad, like attempted murder or horse thieving.” She watched Myra for a reaction to that last mentioned crime. “Those that pick the potion spend two months as waitresses in our saloon, learning proper manners and honest work. Then they get let go.”
“Last month, we found out that the potion could also cure bad wounds. A little boy named Elmer was in an accident. He was dying. Shamus’s potion saved him, but he's called Emma now.”
“That brings us to yuir situation, Missy. Ye’d have died if the potion hadn't dragged ye back from the devil's gate. I imagine it will be taking a little while before ye start appreciating how lucky ye've been, but we're patient folk. My advice is t’buck up and be grateful just for being alive. Ye’re going on one hell of an adventure. Keep yuir head and take one step at a time and pretty soon ye'll learn to run.”
Myra's eyes flashed. She tried to say something, but wasn't able to.
“I reckon ye want to know what's going to t’be happening next. Ye're going home soon, and ye’re going to be yuir aunt’s responsibility. Ye just listen to her just like ye were still a wee tyke. If ye get too frisky and hard to handle, well, she's welcome to bring ye over to me Saloon. Thuir’ll be plenty of cooking and cleaning t'be keeping a lass yer age busy from sunup to sundown. For now, though, I want ye t’be taking the advice I'm giving ye.” Molly glanced up at Irene. “And, by the way, if yuir aunt don't care for anything that I'm saying, she can just tell ye to do something different. Do ye understand, Mrs. Fanning?”
“I… I suppose so.”
Molly looked back at the girl. “Before I say more, lassie, I want to ask if ye've stood toe to toe with a looking glass, since ye woke up so fetching pretty, I mean?” She pointed to an ornately framed mirror hanging on a nearby wall.
Myra felt compelled to answer. “No.”
“Ye might as well get that over with. Scoot yuirself over to that mirror and take a gander. Ye don't have to be shy about touching yuir new parts, neither, if ye have a hanker to. Thuir's only us ladies and the doctor who'll be watching.”
Myra couldn't resist. She walked over and confronted a reflected face that was framed with long auburn hair. It had blue eyes like reflections from a stormy sky. The lips were full and pouty. The reflection had teeth as white as pearls on a fancy necklace, with a very healthy and veryfemale frame. But what bothered her was the fact that this face looked familiar. Her gut told her that she wasn't imagining the resemblance.
“Ye’re as charming as a little red wagon,” Molly adjudged. “Do ye agree, sweetheart?”
“That's not me!” Myra declared.
Molly sighed. “It is now. How do ye feel about being that pretty little girl ye see in front of ye?”
Myra turned, glaring. “Like I want to kill somebody – maybe myself!”
“I was afraid ye'd feel that way. Come back and sit down.”
When Myra was again seated, Molly instructed her firmly, “Ye won't try t'kill yuirself or anybody else. Ye won't even try t’hurt them, except t'protect yuirself, or to protect someone who's with ye.
“Me Shamus tells me that ye don't want everyone knowing that ye used to be a boy. Was he wrong?”
Myra thought about that idea for the first time and then answered emphatically, “He's right!”
Molly nodded. “That makes things a little more complicated. It won't be such an easy secret for the keeping. If a new girl shows up out of nowhere talking like a boy, dressing like a boy, acting like a boy, people are going to be noticing. Just how long do ye think it'll be before someone guesses that ye're Myron Caldwell living at his old home place?
“Not long,” Myra reluctantly conceded.
“So what are ye going to do about it?”
The girl turned her face away. “I don't know.”
"Then put this in yuir pipe and smoke it, lassie. Ye say ye want people t'think yuir a regular sort of girl. If that's what ye want, ye'll have t'learn how a girl dresses, talks, and behaves. I reckon ye're unschooled in doing any of that, but yuir aunt can give ye a lot of good advice, advice ye should take.”
Then the red-headed woman glanced toward Irene. “Mrs. Fanning, what's Myra's full name?”
“It's... Abigail Myra Olcott.” She paused, and then added, “I'm going to tell people that she's my orphaned niece from back East.”
“Don't call me that name!” the girl exclaimed.
Molly again faced off with Myra. “Maybe I wasn't clear enough before. Ye'll answer to Abigail, or Myra, or anything else yuir aunt says you should, and ye won't get snippish about it. Now, tell me what you name is.”
The name fought its way through jaws that the girl tried to keep locked. “A-Abigail… Myra… O-Olcott.”
Molly nodded. “Miss Myra, there's a lot that ye'll have t’be getting used to, and lots of unfamiliar things ye'll have t’be doing from now on. A girl don’t get into fistfights, for one thing. Don't be hitting anybody or insulting anybody just for treating ye like a lassie. If ye don't like that barrel of pickles, maybe ye'd prefer that everybody finds out that ye used to be Thorn Caldwell? Ye might give some folks a good laugh, but, if ye ask me, it'd be an easier row to hoe in the long haul. Don't ye wish deep down that ye could just fess up about how things are, take the embarrassment, and then put the whole business behind ye?”
Myra's stare could have killed a flock of prairie chickens. “No!” she said emphatically.
Molly shook her head. “Then ye'd better work hard at figuring out how a decent young lady handles herself.”
At that point, the matron paused. “That's enough for now.” She looked toward Mrs. Fanning. “I think it's time t’be having a powwow about... certain subjects that, perhaps, yuir niece ain't quite ready to start fretting about.”
Irene nodded disconcertedly and then picked up the green robe that the doctor had provided. She held it out to Myra. “Myra, please put this on, and then go out into the other room and eat your breakfast. I'll join you after I've spoken to Mrs. O'Toole.”
The girl's teeth gritted at being called Myra by her aunt, but – still furious – she donned the robe and crossed into the next room on bare feet.
“She'll need a bath,” Molly said after the patient had gone, “but we shouldn't be raising a lot of questions over at the bath house. For now, the doc has a tub. And after ye get her home, see that she cleans up every day or two. It’ll help her get used t’her new body”
“How can I make her behave when you're not around?” Irene asked.
Molly looked doubtful. “Didn't Shamus explain it? Ye have just as much control over her as I do. Just tell the lassie what ye want her t’do. She'll feel obliged to do it, as long as ye make it clear that it's really an order. Don't be worrying too much. The gal'll be shaping up on her own soon enough, if she's like the girls over at the Saloon. When that happens, ye'll be dealing with a whole new set of issues, but everything happens in its own time. Meanwhile, ye’ll have t’be schooling her about a lot of girly things, like wearing dresses… and having monthlies. Just teach her what yuir ma taught ye.”
“What do you mean about there being other 'issues'?”
Molly sighed. “Don't be surprised when she starts acting all flustered-like – around boys, I mean. That sort of thing seems t'come natural with the potion.”
Astonishment transformed Irene's face. “Boys? She'll like boys, like the saloon outlaws do?”
“Don't fret about it,” advised the older woman. “’Tis for the best. Loving and being loved ain’t a bad thing. But there's many a slip between the cup and the lip. Myra is just at the age when a girl can go wrong.”
The widow's eyebrows went up. “Do you mean she might become a... a hussy?”
Molly met her glance intensely. “An ordinary girl is brought up t’be right sensible about the lads. Thorn never got that sort of teaching. What he got was an education from watching cows and bulls mate. If that niece of yuirs starts thinking about boys the way too many girls his – her – age do, she might run square into... consequences... ”
Irene felt a strong need to sit down.
#
Molly led Irene into the back rooms of Dr. Upshaw’s office, the part that served for his living quarters. There, in a cubical, was the physician's personal bathtub, a good one from back East, also used by his patients when they needed it. “I got clothes for the gal,” she told Irene, extracting a bag from her big carryall. “They ain’t much, just some old things from when Jessie Hanks started, umm… working for me and Shamus.”
“Won’t Miss Hanks mind?” Irene asked.
“Not likely. She's developed a liking for better stuff than this. And then thuir’s them frilly unmentionables for when… well, let’s just say when Paul Grant is talking to her in private.”
Mrs. Fanning returned a doubtful glance. “I think I understand.” Trying to conceal her discomfort, Irene went to check on the heating bathwater. An extra-large kettle sat on the stove, a thin trail of steam wafting from it. When she dipped the tip of her finger, it hurt but didn't scald. “Mrs. O'Toole, could you help me carry this hot water?!”
The saloon proprietress, using potholders, assisted her in carefully and slowly carrying the heated vessel to the bathtub. Bracing the pot on the edge of the fixture, they poured in its contents. Then ladies put more water on the heat and continued the process until the tub was half-filled.
At that point, Irene tested the bathwater to see if the tub had cooled it enough for comfortable bathing. It still felt too hot, so she added a kettle of cold water. That made it perfect. “Come back here, Myra!” she called.
The girl, who had long since finished breakfast, emerged from the reception area. Looking at the tub, she grimaced distastefully. Thorn had gotten over his bashfulness about being undressed in front of a woman, but this was so very different.
“Time to shuck off those clothes and lose that trail-dust,” said the Irishwoman.
Myra frowns to each of her tormentors.
“Why so shy?” Molly asked. “Ye ain’t got nothing that yuir aunt and me ain't seen ten thousand times. But since ye’re not used to having what ye have, Mrs. Fanning and me’ll be strolling outside to continue our chat while you wash yuirself down”
Irene stepped up to her niece with a fluffy white terrycloth towel and a small washcloth. The latter was wrapped around an oval bar of soap. “Ye be sure t’be washing yuirself all over,” Molly instructed the girl. “Every inch o’ye, and when ye’re done, dry yuirself well.” With that, the two ladies went out the back door to the porch behind the building and took their ease upon a white-painted bench suspended from chains.
After the women departed, Myra worked quickly, wanting to be done and covered up before they barged back in. She slipped out of her robe and peeled off her cotton gown, draping them both over a nearby chair. Then, using the same chair to support herself, she stepped into the tub and sank down to her knees. The water felt hot against her newly-sensitized skin.
Hurriedly, Myra used the slippery bar of soap to work up a lather on the washcloth. This she rubbed over her arms and torso. Upon touching her breasts, she gasped in surprise. Curiosity aroused, the girl persisted in stroking them, the sensation growing more intense. The feeling was not a bad one. Now she could imagine why Gilana moaned so much when Myron had…
“Oh, my Lord… Gilana!" she exclaimed, her eyes open wide. Molly O'Toole had said that any man who drank that damned potion would become the double of the “fetchingest” gal he'd ever known. The prettiest girl in Myron's acquaintance had been Gilana Hulbard, a young cancan dance in Yuma. Myra thought back to her reflected image in the mirror. “Shit, I look just like her!”
The bemused maiden leaned back against the end of the tub, remembering her last visit with Gilana. As the shock wore off, Myra grew curious about her present body, just because it looked so much like Gilana's. She remembered how beautiful the dancer had been, especially in bed. That thought inspired Myra to touch her breasts again, which contact caused her to shiver.
She continued caressing her fullness, but now more gently. In her mind’s eye, she became Myron again, and it was the cancan girl's breasts she – he -- was petting. 'Ooh… ooh, God!' The pleasure of it! How could it feel so good when it also felt so wrong to have breasts -- especially breasts so large that they would make men sit up and stare. But here they were, attached to her. It felt like she had, in a sense, stolen them, and the thought of ill-gotten gain always tickled a bandit's nature. This was appealing loot. She felt like a robber counting her ample lucre with no one watching.
A moment later, a curious hand -- as if it had a mind of its own -- slid down to that… place between her legs. With no intention to do so, she began stroking what Gilana had so many times encouraged Myron to stroke. Before, he had wondered why the girl had liked being touched there so much. Now Myra was finding out. Rubbing herself with the sudsy cloth brought forth sighs that she couldn't hold in. Myra, squirmed, wondering, 'Do all women’s bodies have feelings like these? Maybe that's why gals take so many baths.'
She kept the enjoyable stimulation going, luxuriating in the little jolts triggered by the friction. 'Oh, Lord, I could do this forever,' she thought.
No, she couldn't. Another voice in her mind was scolding her. Molly had said that she had to wash every inch of her body, and Myra couldn’t do that if she did noting but play with her new body parts. She shook her head, not wanting to heed what she was being told. But that voice was insistent, powerful. Slowly, reluctantly, she sat up and started to scrub her neck and behind her ears.
Following that, she lifted her left leg so that her ankle rested on the side of the tub. Her legs; that was something else Myron had admired about Gilana. When she danced, he couldn't take his eyes off them. She found that she liked running the soapy cloth over her thigh and calf. She was imagining that she was stroking the cancan girl's long, smooth left leg. And then the potion girl, shifting, took the adoration to her right leg. If she had had a mirror, she would have seen herself grin.
But, just then, the O'Toole woman and Aunt Irene came back into the room. “Ain’t ye done, yet?” Molly asked, a sly smile curling her lips.
“J-Just finishing,” Myra answered, her cheeks warming with embarrassment.
Irene picked up the towel she’d draped over a chair and handed it to the girl. “Stand up and dry yourself,” she said.
“Aye, but be careful,” Molly added. “Ye’d best t’be patting yuirself dry. Yuir skin’s a lot more tender than it used t’be.”
Myra rose and stepped out of the tub. Not liking being nude in plain sight, but trying not to show it, she swiftly carried out Molly's instructions.
"Done,” the girl said a few moments later. She tossed the towel to the floor and looked around. Spotting the robe, Myra picked it up and wrapped herself in it.
“Let's go back to the infirmary,” Molly suggested. When the three reached that destination, the Irishwoman held up a pair of light gray drawers with white lace trimming on the legs.
Myra scowled. “These’re girl’s drawers.”
Molly nodded. “Aye, and ye’re a girl. There's no changing that fact, so ye'll just have t'get used to the idea. Now…” her voice grew stern. “Put ‘em on and no guff about not wanting to.”
Myra tried to protest, but no words came out. She was glaring at Molly, even as she grudgingly stepped into the garment. With her hands trembling, she pulled them up and snugged them around her waist. She did notice that the material felt softer against her skin than Myron’s old cotton drawers had.
“Now tie ‘em so they won't slip down,” Molly said, “and then ye’ll be standing there – not talking – while I measure ye.”
Myra did as told. Molly took a rolled-up cloth tape measure, a pad, and pencil from her reticule. “Take notes o’what I’ll be telling ye,” she told Irene, handing her the pad.
“Very well,” the other woman responded bemusedly.
Molly walked over to the potion girl and began measuring. Myra was five-foot two, a full eight inches less than Myron’s five-ten. Her neck was a slender ten inches around. Shoulder width and arm length were all quickly taken.
“Just above the breasts, it reads… 32 inches,” Molly called out. Then she shifted the tape down, so that it circled bare breasts. The girl squirmed as her nipples were touched. “Hold still,” Molly scolded. A few seconds later she announced, “Tape across her bust… 35.”
The inseam length was measured, as were the girl's waist and hips, 30, 22, and 35, respectively. Finally, Molly had her sit down while she checked the length and width of one foot. “For shoes,” she explained.
“All right, Myra,” Irene said, “Mrs. O’Toole has finished with her measuring, so you can get dressed. As she spoke, she handed her niece a gray chemise that matched her drawers. Bands of lace trim ran down its front, and there was a small lace rose at the edge of the U-shaped collar.
The girl scowled as she inspected the garment. ‘Too damned girly,’ she was thinking as she tried hard to resist putting it on. But she found herself slipping her arms through the narrow straps and letting it slide down her body. The fabric felt cool and the weave tickled her… tits.
“Ye can be sitting down now,” Molly said, “and putting on yuir stockings.” She gave Myra a pair of yellow and green striped stockings. “Ye tie ‘em up above yuir knees, and then ye bring yuir drawers down over ‘em and tie those off there.”
The girl had to obey. She could guess how feminine she must look, and it bothered her, but the damned magic had her in its grip. When Myra was done, she stood up and saw Molly holding…
“A corset?” she groaned. Out of all the outlandish, girlish things being forced upon her, this was absolutely the worst. “Do – Do I gotta?”
“I'm afraid so,” Molly replied. “With yuir... figure, ye need the support.” The woman chuckled. “Or ye'll be jiggling for all t'see.”
In contrast, Irene's expression was sober. “She's right. Put it on, Myra.”
The girl took the garment and wrapped it around herself, as she'd seen Gilana do. Only now did she realize that the task was not a simple one. The corset had hooks in back, but because she needed her left hand to hold the thing up in front of herself, the other hand, working alone, couldn't get the hooks into the eyes. “How is this done?” she asked, her voice strained.
Irene stepped up and began closing the hooks. The resulting snug fit didn't take her breath away, as Myra had expected it to. As Myron she had heard men joking about silly women who tortured themselves with tight corsets just to keep from looking fat. The garment, now fastened, felt like it was hugging her, but not uncomfortably.
“This is the most important piece.” Irene held up a dark brown...
“A dress!” Myra sneered. “Ain't all this other stuff bad enough?” she asked, gesturing at her body. “I gotta wear a dress, too?
“What do ye expect, t’be going about in your unmentionables, like a lady of ill-repute?” asked Molly. “And don't think ye can dress like a boy anymore, neither. Ye, more than most girls, have t’be wearing dresses instead of britches, so people won't get the idea that there's something...different...about ye. Just put it on without ripping it.”
Myra sighed and slowly, carefully, stepped into the garment. Having pulled it up waist-high, she inserted her arms into the sleeves. Then, gathering the fabric to her shoulders, she worked herself inside it. “These buttons are on backwards,” she complained.
“Them buttons are on the other side from what you're used to,” Molly explained. “Just go slow; ye’ll be getting used to ‘em quick enough.” She set a pair of used shoes down at Myra's feet.
With the frock closed, the seventeen-year-old could look down and see how her corset made her breasts jut against the material of her dress. Her "figure" would probably be the first thing that anyone would notice when she stepped into a room, and she didn't care for that idea at all.
To put on the wooden-soled clogs that Molly had provided, she needed to sit down. 'At least these ain’t too girly,' Myra decided. They allowed her feet to slip right in; a strap closed with a buckle went back around each heel, holding them securely. “There,” she said, rising, “That's over with.”
“Sit back down,” Irene admonished. “You’re not done. Your hair…”
“Your hair is full o’knots,” interjected Molly. “Boys ignore their hair something fierce, and when it grows long it just gets worse.” She took a wire hairbrush from her apron pocket. Each bristle ended in a tiny bead. “Now try not t’be squirming. It’ll only be making the job more painful.”
The comb hit a snag immediately. “Ouch!”
The Irishwoman spent a full hour – or so it seemed to Myra – working through the morass of tangles. The process made her yelp more than once. When there was no other choice, a mat of hair had to be snipped off with scissors. But, finally, the torturer had finished the repugnant session and Myra’s lustrous red-brown tresses flowed unimpeded down past her shoulders.
“Now, Missy,” Molly said, “let's take a look at ye.”
Myra stood up, her fists clenched, her brows knitted, her lips pursed.
Mrs. Fanning and Molly appraised the result of their efforts. Myra looked so absolutely different from Myron that it was hard for Irene to believe that the two had ever been the same person. Local folks passing by the girl in the street would surely not see anything out of order. In fact, though plainly dressed, her new niece's prettiness would no doubt attract considerable attention. “What should we do next?” Irene asked Molly.
The Irishwoman motioned the widow to step into the next room with her. When they were alone, she advised, “I’d say ye should be getting her home, away from prying eyes. She looks like a fetching little lassie, but she ain't one yet. She'll be needing some private time t'get used to...to everything that's new. It’d be good t’be keeping her busy with chores, so she won't have idle time to be moping around so much.” The matron then added, “I shouldn't be wasting any time before taking the stage t’Phoenix. Somebody needs to be shopping for that young lady, away from local people who might start asking questions.”
“You're very kind, Mrs. O'Toole, but I don't know you. I would hardly expect so much charity even from my closest friends,” replied Irene.
Molly shook her head. “Call me Molly. And I’m glad to have -- and t’be -- a new friend. Ye got into this trouble without asking for it; the climb out of it will be steep for a while, for both ye and Myra. I'm willing t’be helping ye carry a bit o’the load. Anyway, I’ll be enjoying an excuse t’be going into the big town. Christmas is getting close and there're things a body just can't buy in Eerie. And if ye find yuirself needing more help later on, ye can just let me know.”
“I could use a… another friend,” the widow admitted.
“A person never has too many friends,” Molly agreed. The saloon woman then led the way back into the infirmary, where she started to gather in her belongings. Irene stepped up closer to ask an urgent question. “Molly?”
“Aye?”
“What should I tell people when they wonder where Myron is?”
The older woman frowned. “I don’t think ye should be saying a word. Most folks’ll figure that Myron died from that ricochet, and them outlaws hid the body. And even if a few believe he didn't die, they wouldn't be expecting him t’be paying a visit back home, not with the sheriff out t’arrest him.”
Irene, surprisingly, felt better. “I guess I should be grateful that none of that is true.”
“That's the spirit. There was times when I was absolutely at my wits' end about how t’be getting them potion girls to shape up, but the good Lord somehow led them and me through it. By the way, I've heard that the Paul Grant, the deputy, is coming out to yuir place in a day or two. Tell... yuir niece... to be upfront when she's talking t’him.”
“What is he going to ask?”
Molly smiled wanly. “The main things he’ll be after are getting the gold back and catching them other outlaws. He won't be interested in making things harder for Myra. She already got hit with the worst punishment Judge Humphreys was ever likely t'be handing out to someone her age.”
“She looks so angry,” Irene observed. “Could we tell her to feel happy?”
Molly shook her head. “The magic won't make a soul feel things that it don't really feel. Happiness can't be put into a person's head through the ears.”
She finished filling her carryall. “I'll come out to the farm right after me Phoenix visit. By then, ye'll probably have a laundry list o’ new questions. Until then, Mrs. Fanning....”
“You can call me Irene,” the farm widow said. “Can I pay you then for… whatever I owe you?”
Molly shrugged. “Ye can pay for the clothes, pay Doc for breakfast, too, I suppose. Thuir's no charge for any Christian help. We'll come up with a tally after I get back from Phoenix.”
“We will. Thank you so very much.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3
The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
Chapter 3
Myra rides out to the scene of the robbery and encounters two problems: a strongbox too heavy for her to lift and a neighbor boy too friendly for her to handle.
The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
Chapter 3
December 14, 1871
Mrs. Fanning brought the buckboard around, and Myra climbed aboard. Molly waved, calling out, “Lassie, let yuir aunt be taking ye home and don't make any fuss while she does it.” The girl frowned peevishly back at her. Irene waved, too, and then, facing forward, shook the reins to start the horse walking.
All during the ride back, Myra sat sullenly, not saying a word. The tension they both felt, Irene guessed, would quickly ignite an argument if she tried to force things. The widow, emotionally drained, didn't want to deal with that.
Before too long, there came into view the landmark hill that overlooked their stead. A quarter mile farther along, Irene drew the carriage up before the farmhouse and dismounted.
“Unhitch the horse and get it ready for night,” the aunt told her niece, wondering how well she would obey, now that Mrs. O'Toole wasn't with them.
Myra looked as though she was bracing for resistance, but that effort lasted only a moment. With a sour face, she climbed down in a careless, unladylike fashion and, grudgingly, started undoing the harness.
“What's the matter? Did Molly tell you not to speak?” Irene asked.
“Go to hell, bitch!”
The rebuke stung. Irene made reply, trying not to sound angry. “Maybe Mrs. O'Toole didn't tell you to be quiet, but I know she told you to be polite. People shouldn't be calling family members by wicked names. Remember that when you're speaking to me.”
It looked like Myra was going to shout something vile, but – as before – she seemed unable to complete the effort.
Irene gave a sigh. “This day must have been a nightmare for you, Myron. I didn't want this. I wouldn't have allowed it to happen, except to save your life. What's happened has happened; we're just going to have to deal with a bad harvest. When you finish your chores, you can rest. Come in for supper at the usual time.”
Then Mrs. Fanning went indoors. Irene could hardly put her mind around the idea of how much things had changed for the little farm. She, as much as Myra, needed time to overcome the shock. Only then would it be possible to sort things out. Despite all the emotion involved, there had to be some way for the two of them to live together and cooperate.
#
Once she had finished unhitching the horse and leading it into the coral, Abigail Myra Olcott needed to visit the outhouse. That lent additional insight into how much her life had altered. She emerged shaking her head. It was like she had died and was now living in somebody else's body. She felt too numb to fully connect with her the rage inside. At a loss to comprehend it all, Myra didn't have a clue as to what to do with the rest of her life.
She had tried so hard to get away from this homestead, a place of boredom, hard work, and woe. “But here I am again,” she muttered in disgust, “doing farm chores; living at the edge of nowhere, with nothing worthwhile to fill my time." Things had actually gotten worse from the days when she was a schoolboy.
The boy had never liked formal schooling, but some of the assignments in his McGuffey's Readers had excited his imagination. Those books had taught him about faraway places, told stories that made his family’s farm seem cramped and small. He had wanted to travel, visiting places like the ones he had read about. Now it seemed that, as Myra, she would never see any of those distant lands.
“Aunt Irene was afraid that I was going to go to hell. But what could be worse than being ordered to wear a dress? Or, worse, a corset! People would laugh if they ever knew the truth. And I wouldn't be able to beat someone up for doing it.”
Myra started to wonder, ‘Is staying alive a good thing? Is being alive all it’s cracked up to be? Animals live, ate, and died. Are people any better off? What was life all about anyway?" After what happened to Ma and Pa, she couldn't believe in either heaven or hell. If living had no purpose, then wasn't having fun the best way to spend one's time on earth? After all, sooner or later, everyone's light would go out like a spent candle. When a life lost any possibility for enjoyment, why prolong it?’
‘Out on the owlhoot trail,' she thought, 'There was always the risk of getting shot, or getting caught and going to prison.' But what had actually happened now seemed so much worse. ‘A dead outlaw might leave a rep for gunfighting behind. What would a farm girl leave behind?’
While wrestling with woe, Myra had been carrying out her chores. The horse's manger was filled with hay. The level in the animal trough seemed low, so the girl released the brake on the windmill and adjusted the blades to catch the wind. The fresh breeze started them spinning, and she soon heard water flowing. But it immediately became apparent that no water was coming into the trough. Myra quickly realized that the valve had been set for filling the cistern. She cranked the valve to divert the flow into the pipe that fed the trough. She had done these tasks many times before as a farm boy, too many times in fact.
While he was away, Myron had sometimes wondered how his aunt was faring. From the look of the farm, Irene had been keeping up with the work well enough. Plenty of hay had been put away for winter, and haying was a daunting job for one or two people to tackle. Irene couldn't have done so much by herself, so she must have kept on using hired men. The last of those that Myra knew about had been George Severin. She hoped that her aunt had switched from him to taking on different helpers over the last eleven months.
The potion girl clenched her fists as wrathful memories buoyed up. 'I was able to whip any buck my own age, all except Severin. I hate being ‘round kids I can’t bully." George had come every day did whatever Myron wouldn't. It was embarrassing to be made to look bad. She snorted. It hadn't been so bad that she wanted to take on doing all that extra work again. She paused a moment, remembering. Back then it was like someone else was the man of the house. George had made her feel like a lazy good-for-nothing and she couldn't stand remembering it.
'If I couldn't beat Severin to a pulp before, how well can I fight now?' she asked herself, drawing up her left sleeve. The willowy bicep that emerged from the gingham looked like it a stranger's. No wonder everything felt about twice as heavy as before. From now on, she realized, she probably wouldn't be a match for any male older than twelve.
Just then, Myra noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. She wheeled. It was her horse – her own horse -- the one that she had ridden from the robbery. The beast was pressed against the rails, looking at the water flowing inside the coral. That gave her an idea.
She opened the gate and approached the animal slowly, not wanting it to spook and run off. When she got close enough, she took the bridle and stroked its mane. It didn't mind being touched and allowed itself to be led into the corral. There was plenty of hay and water waiting there, and the equine seemed to accept its circumstances contentedly. The bay had seen plenty of livery stables and had often been tended by unfamiliar people, so there was nothing to alarm him.
While the horse drank and fed, the girl went back to finish her chores. When they were finished, Myra was freed from the compulsion to do keep working. She had been told to rest once she'd gotten her tasks done, but the girl had her own ideas about how to relax. Recapturing the freedom of the road was the thing that would make her feel good. She thought about going into the house to put on some of her old male clothes before riding off. But that would be risky. Irene wouldn't tolerate her skedaddling and any command to stay put would have to be obeyed.
But the auburn-haired maid was thinking about the loot -- what she hoped were thousands of dollars in gold ingots. Were they still hidden up in the gap? She had to act before her aunt caught on to her plan and spoiled things.
'There’s no telling how soon them bastards’ll come back,' she thought. 'If I was in their shoes, I’d get me some tools, and then laid low until the town posse got tired of looking for me.' But how many days would they stay away? The smart thing’d be for her to go after the gold as soon she could.
And there was another reason for speed. 'If any of them three polecats got caught, they'd spill their guts about where the treasure was. Then the Law’d dig it up and leave me poor as a church mouse, with no hope of bettering m’self.'
Gold was the last chance she had for a good life. Being a rich girl couldn't be as bad as being a poor one. When she was rich, she could dress like a male again in a big house of her own. She could go where she wanted, and shoot any bastard who told her that she couldn't.
Myra looked down at her dress. She definitely wanted to get out of female attire. She went to the buckboard and tore apart the bundle containing Myron's soiled garments. Yuck! The jeans stank, and not just from blood. Myron hadn't been able to control his bladder or his bowels after getting wounded. There was no way she would draw them on. The shirt, too, was a red-encrusted mess that Myra wouldn't have worn on a bet. The underclothes were even worse. The coat wasn't too bad, fortunately, and she slipped it on over her dress. Then she went into the barn and brought back a ragged, dusty old horse-blanket that looked like it had been hanging from a peg for years.
The sun still hung reasonably high. 'I can do my treasure hunting before dark,” she mused, 'and then head out across the prairie with a load of gold. It’ll be cold, ‘specially as it gets dark, but I already spent a peck of chilly nights out in the open. That old blanket’ll come in handy then. I’m gonna need food, though, and I don't want to run into Aunt Irene while I’m looking for food in the house.' She hurriedly searched the farm sheds, but it soon became obvious that there was nothing in them that a human could eat. Still, she did find some useful tools – - a hammer, a chisel, and a crowbar that could be toted by a horseman. Nothing else seemed either convenient or useful. She dumped what she had found in a saddlebag that was sitting on a shelf.
By now, the bay was done feeding. Myra led it out of the corral and tied on the saddlebag, When she climbed up into its saddle, she discovered her garments were too tight for sitting astride a horse. The girl hiked up her skirts to give her legs room enough, while still leaving them protected -- hopefully -- from the chill by her calf-length drawers and high stockings. She jabbed the beast's sides with her heels, and the beast moved off obligingly.
#
The trail to Stagecoach Gap climbed slightly along the way, but it didn't take Myra long to reach the robbery site. She gazed back at the farmhouse. Most of her memories of that place were bad ones. The stead had ceased to be a real home when her mother and father had died only a day apart. Aunt Irene had come to Eerie as soon as she could, but the loss of his parents had left a hole inside young Myron that Irene's companionship couldn't fill. It took more than someone mending his clothes and fixing his supper to put heat back into the cold ashes of a life that had gone out like a campfire.
During his year away from home, Myron had felt no guilt. His aunt had seemed to like the farm better than he did, so he had abandoned it to her. He had even left the farm’s horse behind, to make it easier for her to carry on. But doing that he had made himself a horse thief. The consequences of that mistake had taught him a lesson. A grown man should never let himself care about other people. Let others solve their own problems; a man always had enough problems of his own.
Myra tried very hard not to ask herself questions about living female. She couldn't imagine anything good ever coming her way again after the disaster of the potion – except for one thing.
The gold.
Myra came to the mouth the little side canyon and drew up. She'd been visiting Stagecoach Gap since the Caldwell family had come to the region, when Myron was about ten. The side canyon had no proper name, but the boy had called it Secret Canyon. The youngster had always looked at its narrow confines with eyes full of imagination, pretending to be one of those English lords who explored Africa's darkest corners. It was a place to fight wild tribes, tigers, and elephants.
Myra slid down from the saddle and removed the tools from the saddlebags. She tied the reins around the slim trunk of the nearest desert willow, so that the horse wouldn't wander off at the worst possible moment. Then she started up into the defile.
Climbing over the rocks was tricky while wearing slippery wooden-soled shoes. She paused to try to guess where Ike and the Freely brothers might have hidden a chest.
Ike, along with those damned fools, Jeb and Horace Freely, couldn't have done much to conceal the strongbox without picks and shovels. The canyon was only some three hundred feet long, with had no second exit. It was not easy to climb up to the rims on either side. The slopes of fallen rock ended well before they could reach the rim of the walls. Taking a heavy box out of Secret Canyon that way would have been impossible. It was hidden somewhere very near.
Since the three were all lazy sidewinders, they wouldn’t have taken time to do anything fancy or smart. The chest would be on or close to the floor of the canyon, hidden with nothing better than some rocks piled on top of it. Most probably, Ike would have looked for a natural dip or cavity to place it in, and then thrown in stones to conceal it. It had been years since Myron had last explored Secret Canyon, but Myra still knew the general layout. Really, there wasn't much to know.
The girl knew that at about a hundred feet in the flatness of the canyon bed gave. Ike and the Freely brothers would have had a hard time with the big rocks of the talus slopes, so they probably wouldn't have used them as a hiding place. She looked left and right, up and down, trying to remember a hidey-hole that the gang might have noticed during their quick survey. Now that spot would probably look like a low mound of loose stones. That would be the best sort of place to hide a strongbox.
She made a lot of educated guesses, checking possible hiding places by trial and error. As she moved rocks in her search, she was again reminded how much weaker her new body was. After about forty minutes of searching, her heart leaped. She had found what she was looking for! The stones at one location had looked different from the surrounding ones, as if they hadn't come together naturally. Moving the chunks of rock aside, she soon found the metal-reinforced edges of the missing strongbox. When it was mostly uncovered, she stood back, contemplating the box whose contents would make her ruined life worth something.
But this box also brought back evil memories. Ike's brainless shooting was responsible for the fix that she'd found herself in. That ricochet had turned her whole existence upside down. It was all Ike’s fault, but could the chest, even by half, hold enough to make up for the damage his reckless shooting had caused?
Myra took the tools that she'd brought with her. She worked hard at breaking the lock, and for a person who didn't care for hard physical labor, she applied herself furiously, with only short rest periods. She skinned her knuckles several times with the tools, but still kept at it, until both her hands were aching with bruises and burning with scrapes. The crowbar was a clumsy implement that kept slipping, while the hammer and chisel could make no certain progress, despite the din that they raised.
Her arms ached, and all that kneeling on rock had started her knees hurting. Myra began to doubt her ability to conquer the chest by herself. She sat back on a stone, searching her imagination for another plan. She was pressed for time. If the strongbox were left in place, the returning outlaws might take it away before she could come back. To prevent such a thing, it should be moved and hidden elsewhere, so the gang couldn’t find it; but easier said than done. It had taken two strong young men to lug the locked chest to its present hiding place. She was all alone and a lot less strong than any of the others. Frustration began to grip at her.
Her tools now seemed pathetic. It might take a sledgehammer and a mining bar to overcome those locks and reinforced hinges. She'd need a helper of considerable strength. A still better approach would be to use explosives. She knew that a lot of miners around Eerie handled blasting powder and dynamite. But how was she to get some? She could hardly walk into Styron’s hardware and buy a keg. Any way that she looked at it, she was stumped.
Myra went back to the idea of getting a sledgehammer. “Who do I know with muscles enough to help me? This is bandit loot, and most people wouldn’t want nothing to do with it.” Who did she know that wouldn't go running to the law, hoping for a reward? She regretted that she couldn't claim the reward for herself; the sheriff knew that she was one of the thieves. The stage company wouldn't look too keenly on that idea, neither.
'Who do I know? Myron didn't have many friends around Eerie.' She shrugged. “Or anywhere else, she guessed. Of the locals, her best choice was Lydon Kelsey. He'd talked a lot about finding gold in the mountains, but he was always been too work-shy to actually go looking for it.
But he was strong… and dishonest. The two of them had done some petty thieving together, too, before she'd ridden off. To a layabout like Kelsey, this could be the score of a lifetime.
'But Lydon wouldn't recognize me in the shape I got now,' she told herself. 'And I surely don't want to tell that loudmouth who I really was.' He'd spread word all over town, saying that Thorn Caldwell was the newest – what had that old woman called them? Oh, yeah – a potion gal. Everyone would come to give her the horse laugh.
But what if she pretended to be just an ordinary girl, new to the town? She could act like she wanted to cozy up to Kelsey, then give him some made-up story explaining how she knew about the strongbox. He'd go for it quick enough if there was a chance for gold. But there was a hatful of “catches.” What would she have to do ‘to cozy up’ to him, and could she do such things? Would he be honest enough to share the swag, or would he just shove her aside and take it all for himself?
'Would I have to be ready to shoot him as soon as the box was opened?' Myra wondered. And what about that order Old Lady O'Toole had given her about not hurting anyone? What would he do if she stood in front of him pointing a gun, unable to fire?
Myra just didn't know what that accursed magic left her capable of doing.
For now, she had no choice but to conceal the chest again, right where it was. Her hands, already sore, were even sorer by the time she'd gotten the box covered with rocks. She was bone tired, too.
Myra glanced at the sky. The sun could no longer be seen over the canyon rim. She knew that supper-time was not far off. The very idea of not getting home for the meal unsettled her more than it reasonably should have. Irene had wanted her back by supper. It was a command. To make the deadline, she needed to hurry.
Myra re-secured the tools in saddlebags, and swung herself up over the bay's back. Then she hastily started down Riley Canyon Road.
The girl kept the gelding moving at a canter. The anxiety about being tardy loomed larger and larger within her. She hated acting like a slave doing a master's bidding, but couldn't help herself.
Myra was about halfway home when she saw someone trotting up the dusky road on a mule. Myra preferred to avoid him, whoever he was, but her compulsion to beat the clock didn't give her any option other than to continue along by the shortest route.
“Whoa!” the rider said as she cantered close. “You have to be Myra, Miss Irene's niece!”
The girl reined in. The youth on the mule was no stranger. It was George Severin.
“Severin! I – I've got to go! Aunt Irene wants me back by supper!”
The youth frowned bemusedly, pleased that this pretty girl knew his name. “I know,” he said slowly. “She asked me to go looking for you. Whose horse is that, anyway? Your aunt said you came in by stage.”
Myra shrugged. “I don't know where it came from. It was grazing nearby, and we took it into the coral. I just felt like taking a ride.”
He continued to regard her curiously. “Be that as it may, you gotta get on home and protect you.”
"From what?" she asked scornfully.
He just shrugged.
“I was trying to get home when you started jawing at me.” She tapped her heels to get the horse moving again. But George didn't consider their conversation finished and quickly caught up with her.
“You don't need to come,” she said in annoyance.
“I don't mind. Say… Myra is a nice name. Your aunt should have told me that I was looking for the prettiest gal in the county. And that's saying something since we're in a mighty big county.”
Myra rode on, determined to say nothing.
“Where are you from?” he shouted from behind her.
“You ask too many questions, for a stranger,” she replied at last. The more she urged her horse to speed, the more determinedly George spurred his mule to keep up.
“We won't be strangers for long,” he said. “We're neighbors. I work for your aunt. That is, unless you're going to be taking on taking on all the chores that she can't handle.”
“I don't know anything about that,” Myra replied, refusing to look at him.
“Are you from the East?”
“Yes!”
“How do you like things -- this far West, I mean?”
Myra scowled. “So far, I haven't liked anything about it. And did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”
“Now and then,” George responded with a tolerant grin. “Say, did you hurt yourself? That blood on that coat of yours looks like it's not too old. It's a man’s coat, isn't it? Your uncle's?”
It took the girl a couple seconds to concoct an answer. “Yeah, my uncle's. Irene said she got a spot on it when she butchered a chicken.” Thankfully, the bruises on her hand were mostly hidden by the dim light and the coat’s overly long sleeves.
To her relief, George stopped trying to force a conversation, even while persistently keeping pace with her. When reached the corral, Myra told him, “If you still work here, you can get the horses ready for the night!”
She swung out of the saddle and dropped to earth, like one accustomed to riding. As she bustled toward the door, George called from after her: “I'll take your advice, since that's what I think Mrs. Fanning would want.”
#
Before Myra reached the door, Aunt Irene stepped outside, her arms crossed. “Where on earth have you been?” she demanded.
Her niece stopped abruptly. “I found my horse. My chores were done, and I felt like taking a ride.”
Irene glanced over Myra's shoulder and saw George. “We'll talk about this later, young lady.”
“Don't call...” Myra began, but Severin's voice interrupted her.
“Excuse me. I was wondering if you'd like me to unsaddle the new horse, ma'am.”
Mrs. Fanning had seen Myra ride in on the outlaw horse. Until now, she hadn't known what had happened to it. She also didn't know what her niece might have told George about the beast, so she just nodded. “Yes, please. Get it settled in for the night. And when you're done, come take supper with us.”
“Much obliged,” he remarked.
Irene watched the youth draw off and then said to Myra, “Come inside.”
The girl followed her aunt through the door and glanced around at the interior. It hadn't changed much. And it was still the last house on earth that she wanted to live in.
“Where did you go?” Irene asked, as Myra hung her coat on a hook near the door. The dress underneath was wrinkled some, but still holding up fairly well.
“Nowhere important. I came back on time, didn't I?”
“Yes, you did,” Irene began slowly. “So I’ll ask you again, where did you go? And this time you will answer me honestly.”
“Yes,” Myra responded, wincing as the compulsion toward obedience kicked in.
“I-I rode u-up to the stage… to Stagecoach G-Gap. I-I w-wanted to… to l-look… around.”
Her aunt nodded. “The crook returning to the scene of the crime, as they say?”
“Y-Yes, ma’am. I wa… wanted to just… to ride off and n-not come back.” It was the truth, but not the whole truth. And she hoped it would be enough.
Irene suddenly grabbed Myra’s left hand and examined it closely. “Judging from this hand, you did more than just ‘look around. Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?”
“No… No, I-I didn’t.” She was looking for – trying to get -- the loot, not the strongbox.
“So why did you come back?”
“You told me that I couldn't miss supper.” Told… ordered… it was all the same to Myra, thanks to that damned potion.
Aunt Irene regarded her sadly. “Why...? Why do you want to leave again so soon?”
The girl threw up her arms. “This isn't any kind of life that I want.”
“You went off and became an outlaw before. Was that better than the peace and safety you can enjoy in your own home?”
“The trail is better than anything that happens in this home!”
Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “I – I don't know what to say. I just don't understand you.”
“Well, who says you have to understand?”
“Do you want me to put anything on your hands?”
“They’re fine.” She rubbed them together. Most of the pain was gone. “Leave them along.”
The aunt sighed. “Sit down and eat your supper, then. But before you do, set a place for George.”
With a huff, Myra did as her aunt had told her. The only food on the table was some slices of canned oranges on a plate, a loaf of fresh bread, and a dish of churned butter. There was coffee in an enameled pot and a small pitcher of milk.
“There's hot food on the stove,” said her aunt. “Load up with whatever you like.”
Myra went to the steaming kettles filled with boiled beef, green beans, and mashed potatoes. Hungry, she shoveled large portions onto her plate.
“Mrs. Fanning!” called George from outside. “I'm finished with the horse.”
“Come in, boy,” Irene shouted back. “Have something to eat.”
“Don't mind if I do,” George replied upon entering. His eyes darted around the room and came to rest on Myra, who had gone back to her chair.
The boy paused to hang his broad-brimmed hat on a nail driven into the wall boards. “There's food on the stove,” said his hostess. “Help yourself and then draw up one of the chairs.” Following her advice, he filled a plate of his own and, a moment later, was seated opposite Myra.
The girl stubbornly concentrated on her supper, already impatient to leave the table.
“George,” said Irene, “I suppose that you young people have already introduced yourselves.”
“We have. I was pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Myra,” he said.
Irene spoke as though Myra were new to the area. “George's family lives about a mile from here on the other side of the ridge,” she explained. “He helps out as much as his folks can spare him.” When Myra said nothing, Mrs. Fanning added, “Be polite and say hello.”
“Hello,” said the girl in a flat tone.
Irene smiled tightly toward her hired help and asked, “Have you heard anything about the posse, George?”
The youth responded with a nod. “Mr. Singer dropped by with some news just before I left to come over here.”
The farm woman sighed. “He must have told you that my nephew, Thorn, was one of the robbers. That really upsets me.”
“They say that he was... shot,” the youth offered delicately.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Fanning. “At least that's what the rider told the sheriff.”
“Did the posse find… anything… up at the Gap?”
Irene winched. Of course, someone would have searched the Gap if there had been any chance that a wounded outlaw might be up there. “The men haven't returned yet,” she said. “But a rider was sent to look things over just as soon as the news came in. The talk is that there was... no trace. I'm terribly afraid for Myron.”
“You're a very brave woman,” George remarked. “I'm surprised that you're holding up so well, having gotten such terrible news.”
Irene glanced down. “I – I think I'm still quite stunned,” she stammered. “Deep down, I haven't really come to grips with the enormity of the tragedy.” Silently, she added, ‘or what I had to do to save Myron’s life.’
“It is very terrible.” The boy then glanced with interest toward Myra. “You were coming down from Stage Coach Gap,” he remarked. “What did you see up there?”
“Nothing but rock and mesquite,” the girl answered stiffly. “I actually didn't go too far. I... I don't even know where this gap of yours is.”
George smiled politely at her. “If a person follows the road to where it becomes rocky, he's in the Gap.”
Myra shifted uncomfortably. The nosy neighbor seemed to be watching her face rather closely.
“Mrs. Fanning,” George suddenly asked, “is Myra going to be staying here on the farm for a while?”
“I expect so,” affirmed Irene. “Her mother passed away a couple of months ago. She has no other close family.”
“That's good.” Then George caught himself. “I mean, I'm sorry to hear about your misfortune, Miss Myra. I only meant that it's always better to stay with kinfolk than with strangers.” Myra's expression remained cold, so the youth addressed her aunt. “Will you still need me for chores, ma'am, now that you have a healthy young lady to take up the slack?”
Irene considered that question thoughtfully. Finally, she said, “Myra has a few things to learn about homesteading, so, for the time being, you can keep on coming. Even if she takes to farming, well, there will aways be occasions when we'll be needing extra help. Bringing in next year's hay, for one thing.”
“I'll be glad to keep coming over,” George said as he reached for another piece of fruit. “I love these oranges, ma'am. Dad planted a few trees last spring.”
“We get our fruit, except for apples and plums, from Ortega's grocery in town. I tried planting some orange trees of our own a couple years back, but they all died.”
“I hope ours do better. But about work tomorrow...” began the boy.
“I think we'll hold off a couple days. Myra is going to need a little while to settle in.”
“She'll also be needing a warm coat. I noticed her wearing her uncle's jacket, instead of one of her own. Isn't it ever cold out East?”
Irene thought quickly. “She... lost her trunk when the stage went over a bump while crossing a fast stream. She'll need to replace a lot of things. A friend is going help her out by shopping for her in Phoenix.”
“Why go all the way to Phoenix?” George asked.
Irene paused. She wasn't used to lying, and she found it not an easy thing to do well. “The lady was going there anyway. It's almost Christmas. She says that prices and selections are much better in the bigger town.”
George smiled, “A lady from church?”
“No. Mrs. O'Toole.”
George blinked. “Molly O'Toole? How did you two happen to meet? She doesn't go to our church.”
“We both happened to be shopping in Ortega’s a couple weeks ago. She's very nice.”
“She seems to be,” he conceded with a nod.
Irene wanted to change the subject. “So you're visiting the saloons now, George?” She teased. “It seems only yesterday that you were just a little scamp.”
He grinned. “Ma says I still am, but Pa took me to get my first beer last month when I turned eighteen.”
Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “Men and their beer. It would take the fiery angel of Eden to keep them apart, I'm afraid.”
“Well, men and women have their different ways. Wouldn't you agree, Myra?”
The girl, frowning, replied, “I reckon they do.”
#
Myra felt relieved when Severin finally rode off.
“Myra, I've been thinking...” Irene began.
The girl spun. She couldn't tell her aunt not to call her that name, but it showed in her face.
Her aunt drew a deep breath, bracing for a quarrel. “How long would it take for someone like George, or maybe neighbor Singer, to guess who you really are if they overheard me calling you Myron or Thornton?”
“Humphh!” was the only response Myra gave. She had found that if Irene didn't frame a question like a command, she didn't have to answer it.
“If you aren't worried about people finding out, I'll be glad to call you Myron. Otherwise, it has to be Myra -- unless you prefer Abigail.”
“That's even worse than Myra. It sounds like some old granny's name.”
Irene smiled faintly. “Perhaps your cousin Abigail thinks so, too. She signs her cards 'Gail.' I suppose she thinks that it sounds more modern. Anyway, I'm glad you didn't say anything to offend George. You're almost the same age. You can be friends.”
“Humphh!” she repeated.
“If he likes you, I bet he can be persuaded to help with some of your harder chores.”
“I don't need any help from the likes of him!”
“I see. Well, it's about time we talk about more serious things. We can't have you riding off and never coming back. The bad things that befall a boy out in the world can be so much worse for a girl.” Myra looked indignant at hearing the word “girl,” but held her peace.
“I should have told you this before, but I'm telling you now. I want you to be home – and I mean here at the farm – by sundown every day, unless you've asked for and have received permission to stay out later. And don't try to sneak away at night, either. If you go outside after sunset, don't go any farther than you could stroll in five minutes, unless, like I've said, you've gotten permission.”
Myra's face hardened. “So I'm just a prisoner.”
“I'm sorry that you think so. You're walking a strange path, but you're better off than you would be in a real prison. If you had been caught by an Eerie posse, you might have received that same potion from the Judge as punishment. If that had happened, everyone would know that it was Myron Caldwell who was cooking, cleaning, and serving drinks as the newest potion girl at the saloon. But instead you were blessed. That concoction not only saved your life, it also disguised you. No one has to know what really happened to Myron.”
“Too many people already know!”
“Some people had to be told. I needed advice when the doctor found out he couldn't help you. They're good people, and I think they will be able to help you settle in without causing any suspicion. I won't tell anyone else, and I certainly hope that you don't accidentally let anyone know.”
Myra let out a frustrated sound.
“You're alive, and you're home,” Irene reminded her. “You now have a future. This property will be yours when you turn twenty-one. If you just help me manage it until you're an adult, you'll have a good nest egg by the time you take over.”
Myra shook her head. “Living like a peon isn't managing. I'd be better off inheriting a prize race horse instead of some dusty old homestead out here in the desert. Farmers work all their lives, and they still end up with nothing. Anyway, why should I believe that you'll turn over the land when I'm twenty-one?”
“Why shouldn't you believe me?”
“Because if people think Myron's dead, there's no one to inherit anything. And even if you hand back what should be mine already, you'll probably keep ordering me around like you're doing now.”
Irene sighed. “You can tell anyone you want that you're Myron. It's all up to you. But you have my word that the farm is yours when you come of age. When that happens, I'll respect your decision… whatever it is.”
The girl looked at her suspiciously. “Once I'm running the farm, where will you be?”
“If you don't want me to stay and help out, I'll get along somehow. The Lord provides.”
“I hope the Lord provides me with a buyer. I'll be ready to sell this place on my twenty-first birthday.”
Irene grew somber. “If you don't change your mind by then, I only hope that you will use the selling price wisely. Your attitude worries me. How are you going to support yourself once the money is all spent? You can't be an outlaw anymore. So how do you expect to be making a living? A person who owns land always amounts to something. You're so lucky that your father left the farm without any debt.”
Myra couldn't think of a good reply, even though she wasn't ready to accept her aunt's view of the world. And she certainly wasn’t in the mood for another reminder of her parents’ sudden death.
#
December 16, 1871
A couple days later, just after the midday meal, Irene heard a coach coming up the road past the farm. When she went to the door, she saw a small one-horse, canopied buggy kicking up dust. Judge Humphreys was driving and, behind him, a horseman followed. It was Paul Grant, the sheriff's deputy. The Judge had already turned off the road and passed through the open gate, the lawman following close behind.
Mrs. Fanning waited on the rock-slab step.
“Howdy, ma'am,” Paul called, dismounting.
“Has the sheriff caught the outlaws yet, Deputy?” she asked.
“Not that we know of,” her rangy visitor replied, stepping around his companion's vehicle. “Some of the posse's straggled back, but Sheriff Talbot is still out with most of the men.”
“How is... the young lady?” Judge Humphreys asked, carefully climbing down from his rig.
Irene grimaced. “She's doing about as well as one can expect.”
The jurist joined the other two. “No problems?”
“She's sour and sulky. I suppose I can't really blame her.”
Humphreys nodded. “We need to know more about the robbery. Paul here will ask the questions, and I'll make sure that your niece tells the truth.”
The woman shook her head. “I'm so sorry that a member of my family has to be involved in something as awful as this.”
“Boys will be...” began the judge, but then thought better of it.
“Come in. I'll find Myra.”
The two men followed the young woman into the house and made themselves at home in two of the four available chairs. Then their hostess went back outside, calling her niece's name.
A couple minutes later, the bright rectangle of the doorway was broken by Myra's silhouette, giving Paul got his first look at Eerie's newest potion girl. When she came closer, a suspicious set to her lips, “pretty” was the word that sprang into his mind. Every time Paul saw the effects of Shamus' concoction, it amazed him all the more. She looked Thorn's age, but that was where the resemblance ended. The gal's auburn hair gave off red sparkles where sunlight touched it; her form was lithe but ripe and blooming. Paul reckoned that Myra Olcott would soon be catching the notice of every young stallion with an eye for feminine beauty.
‘Dang,’ he thought, ‘she’s almost as pretty as my Jessie.’
Just then, Irene came back in from the yard and took one of the empty seats.
“Good day, Miss Olcott.” The judge stood up and pointed to the remaining chair. “We have a few questions for you. Please rake a seat.”
Myra remained standing, her face like stone. Irene had told her that the older man was one of the rattlesnakes who had played a part in in her transformation. She thought she recognized the bravo with him as a local cowboy, but now he was wearing a deputy badge. “How much does he know?” Myra asked the justice, making a gesture toward Paul.
Humphreys shrugged. “With the sheriff away, it was necessary to tell him the whole story.”
“Oh, fine! Why don't you just tell the whole damned town while you're at it?”
“I'd like you to sit down,” the old man informed her firmly.
Myra sat quickly. ‘Shit,’ she thought, ‘I gotta obey this galoot, too.”
Humphreys turned toward Paul. “Deputy Grant, the floor is yours.”
“Miss Olcott,” Paul began.
Myra refused to acknowledge the man.
“Miss Olcott,” the lawman repeated, “tell us about how the robbery came off.”
“Why, do you need some pointers from a professional?” mocked the auburn lass.
“Young lady,” interjected the judge, “answer Deputy Grant's question. Tell us about how the robbery occurred, and tell the truth.”
Again, those voices were forcing her to do as told. “We w-waited for…for the stage up in th-the Gap. We'd barri…c-caded the road. When... When they st-stopped, we made – uh! -- made them thr-throw down their g-g-guns and the guard… umm, he gave us the st-strong… b-box. We hadn't br-brought any t-tools, so Ike…Ike tried to shoot the…l-lock off. The bounce hit…hit me in the g-gut.”
She had paused. “And then?” coaxed Paul.
Myra felt like a damned fool, the way she was stuttering and stammering. 'Maybe,' she thought, 'I shouldn't fight against answering. I'm only protecting those bastards that shot me and would’ve left me for dead.' She decided to answer in a way that would nail the gang down good, but wouldn’t hurt her so much.
“Reply to the question, Miss,” Humphreys interjected sternly.
Myra sucked in a breath. “It hurt like h-hell. Ike just… just left me in the dirt. He told everyone to get out of the coach and c-clear away the barricade. When they did, he ordered them to head on out, a-away from Eerie.”
“Who is this Ike?” Paul inquired.
“Ike Bartram! He said he and his folks came to Arizona Territory just before the w-war ended. His pa had to hightail it from Missouri, 'cause he'd been working with guerrillas and the army was looking for people like him.”
“The other robbers?”
“Jeb and Horace Freely; they're from California, where they'd ended up w-wanted for rustling.”
“Where did you meet them?”
“Antelope Spring – at Whipple's Saloon.”
“Antelope Spring?”
“A new town – up near that Grand Canyon.”
“When was that?”
“Late October. From there we went toward Yuma. All that the three of them could ever talk about was getting an easy take. I-I told them about the Pr-Prescott-Tucson Stage here at Eerie.” She started to stammer again, unable to hide her role in planning the robbery.
“All right,” the deputy said. “You were hurt and on the ground. Then what happened?”
“Jeb and Horace lugged the chest back into that arroyo up there. Ike came my way and said that if I wasn't fit to ride, they couldn't afford to leave me for the law. He was afraid I'd… spill my guts.”
Paul chuckled. “It looks like he was right about that.”
Myra glared. “If I wasn't full of that potion crap, you'd see how much I'd be telling you!”
“Yeah, sure, I bet you're just as brave as Bill Hickok in the dime novels. What did Ike do then?”
“Like I said, he told me that if I was still alive after they finished with the gold, they'd have to do something about it.”
In the background, Irene gasped.
“Where did they hide it?” asked the lawman.
Myra snatched a sly thought out of thin air. ‘I can’t tell him that I know exactly where the gold was buried.’ She said, “I couldn't see where they went once they got inside the canyon. All I was thinking about was dodging away. I guess I wasn't as far gone as Ike supposed. I was hurting bad, but I was able to reach my horse and make it as far as the farm. Once I got to the yard, well, I don't remember anything, not until I woke up like... this.”
Paul frowned. “So, as far as you know, the gold might still be in the arroyo?”
‘Don’t answer!’ she warned herself. ‘But what can I tell him to put them off the track? If the Judge orders me to tell the whole truth, any hope of getting that box for myself would be done for.’ Aloud she replied, “Yeah, sure. Is there a reward for finding it?”
The deputy grinned with incredulity. “Not for you. How well do you know that little canyon?”
“I must’ve gone into it hundreds of times, back when I was a kid.”
Paul regarded the judge. “Why don't I go up there with Miss Olcott and see what we can find?”
Humphreys nodded. “That makes sense. I'll head back to town. If you find the strongbox, you'll be needing a wagon and a couple men to help bring it back. I'll get things ready.”
Grant nodded. “Right, Your Honor.” Then, rising, he extended a hand to helpt Myra to her feet. She sneered and got up under her own power.
“Young lady,” said Humphreys, “when you're out with Mr. Grant, you'll do what he tells you to, just like I was speaking to you myself.” He paused, trying to keep himself from being too easy on her, like he would have been if she had been an ordinary girl. “It looks like everything you went through to get your hands on that gold was for nothing,” he continued. “Some people can only learn the hard way that crime doesn't pay. I hope you're capable of learning at least that much.”
“Go to hell!” the farm girl snarled.
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4
Myra returns to the scene of the crime: once with Paul and once with the members of her old gang,
Revised 011223
The Treasure of Eerie -- Chapter 4
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
December 16, 1871, Continued
Myra was riding beside Paul on what he understood to be Thorn's outlaw bay. He still wasn't sure what to make of the new serum girl. Bandits couldn't be trusted, he knew, but the Judge had put her under orders and that should mean that she couldn't cause him much trouble while they were out together.
Myra rode silently beside the lawman, giving only short answers to whatever question he put to her. He knew enough about potion girls to feel some sympathy. There would be anger, mortification, and resentment inside her. That had been true about the Hanks gang, too, but they eventually got passed it. He was supposing that within a few weeks her disposition should be taking a turn for the better.
Almost before the deputy realized it, he and Myra had reached the steepening grade that led up into Stagecoach Gap. In a few minutes, they were riding between low cliffs. “Where's this Secret Canyon?” Grant asked his glum companion.
Unsmiling, Myra pointed. “In there.”
She was indicating a rock-wall cleft about ten feet wide. Paul had ridden though the Gap often enough, but without paying much attention to its unimportant details.
“We'll leave the horses here,” the deputy said. He and the girl both dismounted, though the latter did so without much enthusiasm. After their mounts had been tied to a couple of scrawny mesquites, Paul made for the arroyo, saying, “We'd better start searching. Daylight won't last much longer.”
Myra followed him the deep ravine that she knew so well. “You know this place,” Grant remarked over his shoulder. “Where's the best place to hide a strongbox?”
The girl thought it best to tell the lawman only those things that he could already see for himself or that he directly commanded her to tell. She decided to tell him the truth, even if it really hadn't been possible to actually do it.
“The box might not even be in the canyon.” She made a sweeping gesture toward the skyline of the cliffs. “If I were them, I'd have taken it up over the rim and hide it where no one goes.”
Paul shook his head. “I doubt it they'd go up there. They'd have a hard enough time climbing those sheer rocks, even without a heavy chest.” He spent a quiet moment surveying the canyon floor. “And they'd have know that they didn’t have much time to work before the stage would be sending back word about the robbery. No, the gang would have buried the loot quick-like and gotten the hell away just as soon as they could.”
Myra shook her head. “Look at the ground. It's rock and rubble. And they didn't even have a shovel.”
The man scratched his chin. “I'd guess that in a place like this, they'd have found a low spot and then piled rocks on top of it.”
“If you say so,” the auburn lass replied. She sure as hell wasn't going to tell him that his opinion was right no the mark.
Grant stepped ahead, checking around for any suspicious-looking rock mounds. Myra sat down on a flat-topped boulder, trying not to glance toward the spot where she had actually hidden the chest. She tried to think of some ruse that would allow her to keep the loot, but her mind was a blank. If he failed to find it now, he'd only go back and bring in more men to aid in the search. Without that gold, what did she have to look forward to? Chores and boredom?
“I think I've got it!” Grant yelled.
Myra felt a jolt as she looked and saw Paul moving rocks at exactly the right spot. It had happened! He was going to take away the wherewithal she depended on for a good life. What had all the discomfort and danger of the last several months been for? ‘Compared to her prospects now, she would have been better off punching cows as Myron for a miserable twenty-five dollars a month. Hell, she'd even prefer to be a farm boy instead of a farm girl!’
Myra got up, drifting toward Grant until she stood behind him, trying to look surprised and curious. On impulse, she used both her hands to pick up a stone to bust the deputy's skull. But though she lifted it as high as her head, Myra found herself unable to strike. The voices inside her head were yelling "No!" and they had her paralyzed. The stone fell out of her trembling grasp and the sound of it made Paul look over his shoulder and send her a quizzical expression. The girl looked away. It was sinking into her mind that she wasn't able to hurt anyone, not even to grab that huge haul of gold for herself.
“Well, this has turned out easier than I expected,” Paul Grant was saying. “We'll head back. I'll leave you off at the farm and I'll go get some help and a wagon. I'm going to need help transporting this thing.”
“Wait a minute,” Myra blurted. “You'd just leave it out in the open? Somebody might come along and poke his head into this canyon after we're gone.”
“It'll be dark soon,” said Paul.
“Darkness won't stop the bandits.” And she was telling the truth. If she couldn't have the loot, the stage company might as well get their shipment back. She didn't want Ike and the Freelys to start living high on the hog after cutting her out of her share. The very idea of her having to wear gingham, milk cows, and cut hay under the hot sun, while those three spent themselves silly in fancy hotels, saloons, and cat houses was too much to bear.
“Why do you care so much about saving the gold if you can't have it, Missy?” asked Paul.
She ignored the demeaning term “Missy;” it wasn't like she could beat him down and make him apologize. “I don't care who gets the gold if it isn't going to be me. But I'll get better treatment if I help out, won't I?”
“Who's treating you badly? You aren't a prisoner.”
“I mean I want my aunt to think better of me,” she lied. “I'm of a mind that you do something wrong, you ought to try and fix it. It's in the Good Book.”
“So, what are you suggesting?”
“That we hide the chest somewhere else. That'll flummox the outlaws.”
Paul thought that that made sense, but the two of them couldn't haul the box far. Even if they actually got it out of the canyon, they didn't have tools for burying it. Frowning, he removed more rocks to ascertain how the chest was made. It was well-made and reinforced with iron bands. The heavyweight handle on either end was wide enough for a man to grip with two hands; it would take hours to carry it to someplace outside the canyon. Then he got an idea.
“Help me get this chest unburied,” he said.
They set to work scattering the pile of rock fragments until the box was laid bare. The lawman tested its heft. Damn! It must have weighed more than a hundred pounds. He paused to think.
Finally, Paul brought up his horse, Ash, and tied the lasso around the two handles, and also around the body of the box. That way, all the stress wouldn't break the hand grips when the box was dragged. He quickly fixed the rope about the beast's chest, forming a breast collar.
“I'm going to put my back to it,” the deputy told the girl, “While you lead Ash along. If he balks, smack him with your hand.”
When Ash began drawing, every rock along the way snagged the chest by a corner or an edge, but with some muscle work every now and then they kept going. Dragging the chest, instead of carrying it, made it a bad idea to take it out of the canyon, Paul could tell. The sand and soil outside the canyon would show telltale skid marks. Hell, even some rocks could by scratched by the iron fixings. Instead, he chose a new hiding place within a few yards of the ravine's mouth -- a long depression, probably produced by centuries of rain flow. The two of them pushed their burden into it, and then covered it over with rocks, in a way similar to what the gang had originally done.
Because the light would be failing soon, Paul intended to be back with some helpers at dawn. In the meantime, to mark the spot, he placed two white quartz rocks to serve as a sighting line aimed at the point of concealment.
By that juncture, both were panting. “Whew,” the lawman sighed. “That turned into a chore. I hope it was worth doing.”
“Y-Yeah... ” replied his breathless companion.
As he got his wind back, Grant again sized up his unwilling companion. He knew it must be sticking in her craw to be saying goodbye to so much gold.
“You had a close shave, from what I hear, gal,” he remarked. “Most high-line riders don't last long, and you almost got cut short three days ago. If an outlaw's own gang don't back-shoot a feller, the court might string him up. The lucky ones can't hope for much better than a decade or so of cracking rocks inside some hog sty of a prison. The way things turned out, you'll have the chance to live free until you're about ninety.”
“I'd rather swing tomorrow than be an old woman!” she declared.
Paul sighed. This was a sour young lady, for sure. He decided to go mum. There was no sense provoking a yelling match with some hot-headed kid feeling sorry for herself.
After a little rest, the pair hid their traces of having been there as best they could. After they went by the farm, where Deputy Grant left Myra before pressing on toward town. The frustrated and dejected girl was left behind staring in the direction of the Gap and spitting mad that the gold that she had depended on to give herself a decent life was slipping away.
#
Supper consisted of cornmeal pudding, hoe cake, cooked cabbage, and chicken, which Myra ate in silence. In better spirits, she might have appreciated such a meal.
So far, the girl had been ignoring most of Mrs. Fanning's questions. Irene made one more attempt to have a conversation. “You haven't said what you and the deputy did with the treasure you found.”
“It's still up there.” Her tone was testy, sneering.
“Well, that's for the best, Myra. Stolen gold is dead man's gold. No good ever comes out of thievery. If you pray and repent, you can put this whole terrible year of being an outlaw behind you.”
“I prayed plenty for Ma and Pa when they got sick. Prayer doesn't do them any good.”
“Don't be so sure. Maybe the Lord let us save your life so He can put you on a whole new track to something better.”
She sniffed. “I never thought my life could get worse, but I was wrong. The miserable life I'm left with is a hundred times worse.”
“At least you're not alone anymore. I can look out for you.”
“I have to look out for myself because no one else will.”
Irene was incredulous. “That's not how things are.”
“Who says?”
“The Good Book.”
“Humphh!”
Mrs. Fanning sighed. “I do care about you, Myra. That's what family is all about. Maybe, deep inside, you care about me, too.”
The girl's expression remained bitter. “Did you do what you did to me because you cared so much?”
The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, that's exactly right. Did you want me to let you die instead?”
“It seems to me that I did die.”
Irene shook her head. “The only real treasure on Earth is a healthy life. If you have that, everything else is still possible. Maybe you only have to watch and listen to figure out what the Almighty's plan for you really is. It chills my blood how close you came to going to the Final Judgment without the chance to repent.”
“Nothing good has ever come my way. There's no reason to think anything ever will.”
Irene regarded her niece patiently. “Sometimes new opportunities come along. We just have to keep alert and grab at them before they pass us by.”
A knock sounded on the door. Myra, on guard, looked up. Irene lurched in startlement.
“Who can that be?” the latter said. “Mr. Grant shouldn't be back until morning.”
The farm woman went to the door and drew it open. A strong hand came out of the darkness and shoved her away. She staggered bck against a chair but managed not to fall.
Myra stared, as if the Devil himself had barged into the room. There, in the flicker of a draft-swept lantern, stood Ike Bartram.
#
The girl looked around for a weapon; there was nothing within arm's reach.
“Both of you sit down, and you won't get hurt,” the young outlaw said. Ike stood six-one, and was about twenty. His face could coax smiles from saloon women, but Myra remembered times when that same face had turned so cougar-mean that it could set even formidable men back on their heels.
And he wasn't alone. Two saddle tramps had pushed in behind him. The Freely brothers. Jeb, the younger, had a look that gave him a fighting chance to be elected village idiot, but Myra knew that he was actually a little smarter than his larger brother, Horace -- and not quite so nasty. Most people called the latter Freely “Horse.”
“What are..?” Myra began. But she clammed up fast. She couldn't let these good-for-nothings realize that she knew them.
“Are you here to rob us?” Irene asked.
Ike shrugged. “We can use those horses you got.”
“Well... that's all we have,” the farm woman protested. “There's hardly any money.”
The Freelys decided to move in closer, now that money had been mentioned.
“Where’s Thorn Cadwell?” the gang leader asked, not loudly, but his voice was rough and intimidating.
Irene blinked. “He's... He's not here. He... He hasn't been here since last winter.”
“Why do I think otherwise?” asked the badman. “Maybe it's because we recognize that horse and saddle of his in your corral.”
Myra spoke up; she knew how to lie better than her aunt did. “We never saw Thorn. Somebody came into town and told the sheriff about the robbery. They said that he was shot. Nobody's seen him since the robbery. The horse just wandered in.”
Ike snorted. “That polecat was fit enough to give us the slip. It seems to me that he'd go down to see his auntie, with that piece of lead in him, I mean.”
“What do you want with Thorn?” Irene blurted.
“We just need to ask him a few questions. Like, what did he tell the Law?” The desperado looked hard into Myra's eyes. “I don't buy it that he didn't come home. You gonna tell us the truth, Sweet Face?”
Myra hardly dared to offer any more clumsy lies to such a man. She decided that it would be safer to deal out half-truths. “Okay, you got it right. Thorn rode in three days ago, hurt bad... ”
The outlaw cut her off. “Hey! I know you! You're that Yuma saloon gal. Gilana. Thorn was sweet on you. I get it! You came out here to meet him and divvy up the gold.”
Myra's mind raced. This sudden twist wasn't necessarily a bad one. If Ike thought that she was Gilana, let him.
“You're... you're right again,” she responded haltingly. “Thorn said he was going to split off from your gang once he got his share. He asked me to meet him at his aunt's farm, and then we'd head out East. Did you really think that he'd rather hang with you sidewinders instead of me?”
The girl's admission seemed to make Ike think. “That god-damned fool! He was actually dumb enough to tell a woman about our plans.”
“I'd never betray him,” Myra said. “He showed up Wednesday afternoon, a bullet in his gut. He didn't have any gold with him.”
“I know he didn't leave with the gold! But he must have told somebody in town, and they went after it!” the outlaw shouted. “I'd also like to know how much he told the wrong people about his friends. Is that bastard still alive?”
Myra's mouth tensed grimly. “No. Irene and me put him into the buckboard and went into town for the doc to work on. He died on the operating table.” She tried to look sad.
“So who’d he tell about the gold? It was you, wasn't it?”
Irene raised her chin. “He talked to the sheriff, not with us.”
Ike drew his Colt up level with Myra's breast. “Is that right, Gila Monster?”
The maiden frowned. That was the disrespectful name which Ike had starting calling Gilana, once he'd figured out it was Thorn that she liked, not him. “All right,” the potion girl said, “I'll tell you what really happened.”
“About time,” rumbled Ike.
With a deep breath, Myra began weaving a story on the fly: “The sheriff came to the doc's place. He was a mean cuss and made Thorn tell where the strongbox was. The sheriff organized a posse to chase you varmints down, but he left the recovery of the chest to his deputy. It was the deputy who went up to get the gold. He had somebody along to help him. They found the strongbox real quick, because it was hardly hidden at all, they said. They took it back to town.”
“Oh, no they didn't,” Ike challenged. “We was watching with field glasses. We saw a girl and some cowpoke come out of the Gap empty-handed. Why’d they be there if the gold was already gone? That girl, by the way, was you.”
Hell! Who would ever have suspected that the gang would have been up there spying on them? “Well, you're too late!” she exclaimed. “The deputy should be back out this way any minute with a wagon and a bunch of men.”
“Not likely,” sneered Ike. “If he's a lawman, he' aint paid half enough to make him want to work on a cold night. He'll probably wait for morning. We've got time enough to take the gold out and get on the trail before then. Where’d you two stash that strongbox? I say it's still in the canyon.”
Ike was damned clever; he always had been. Myra chose her next words carefully. “It was too heavy for us to take far. We moved it just a little closer to the canyon mouth, and hid it under some rocks.”
“So you say. Maybe you're sending us on a wild goose chase to give the Law time enough to sweep back this way. You'll have to come along with us, Gila Monster. If you're not shooting square, you won't like your comeuppance!”
“Don't take her!” Irene exclaimed. “Take me!”
Ike scowled. “Did you see the gold hidden?”
“Y-Yes!”
“Don't listen to her!” Myra yelled, surprising herself. “She never left the farm. I'll go.”
Ike took Myra by the arm and yanked her to her feet. She tried to shake off his grip, but it was like iron.
The outlaw looked back over his shoulder. “We got no time to waste. Jeb, Horse, tie auntie here up. She'll keep until the law comes to let her loose.”
“Come on,” Ike told the potion girl, dragging her after him. But when Myra neared the open door, she started fighting back. Those damned voices in her head were telling her – yelling at her – that she couldn’t leave.
“What's the matter with you?” demanded the outlaw.
“I can't go very far from the house after dark. It's a rule.”
Ike laughed incredulously. “How did that potato-digging woman get you so buffaloed? Listen, Pretty Face, you'll go or... ” He glanced toward Irene. “I'll cut off the tip of your auntie's nose. It would be a shame.”
“A-au... Ma'am?” gasped Myra. “W-Would it be all right if I went out to the Gap with these... gentlemen?”
Irene looked perplexed, but then she realized what the problem was. “Yes, you can go. But come home as soon as you can do so safely.”
Myra nodded. These words of permission sounded like a gate opening in front of her.
Ten minutes later, the party of four was riding through the late-season darkness of Riley Canyon Road. The gang had stolen both of the farm's horses, and they also had a third animal in tow, a sorry looking critter. Myra guessed that it must have been bought on the cheap; no self-respecting horse thief would have bothered with such a specimen.
Instead of letting her ride any of the designated pack horses, Ike had jerked Myra up into the saddle in front of him. His arms controlled her but were still able to grasp the reins. Occasionally, he would drop his left hand to grope her belly, her breasts, and her thighs. It infuriated the girl, but the outlaws were pressed too hard to allow Ike time enough to do anything worse.
“Horse thieving is a hanging offense,” Myra reminded the man behind her.
“Some things are worth the risk,” he said. “Gold is one of those, for sure. But there are a few other prizes worth the chance of the draw, too.” Ike pinched her breast again; this time she poked him with her elbow.
He laughed. “You're a feisty little heifer, now ain't you?”
#
The four riders rode up to the mouth of Secret Canyon, where they swung down from their saddles. Ike lifted Myra by the waist and set her to the ground. “Keep your hands off me!” she yelled, pulling away from him.
The bandit gave a scornful laugh. “We don't have time to waste, Gila Monster. Show us the gold.”
“Go to hell!”
Quick as a rattler, Ike backhanded her cheek, hard enough to send her staggering.
Myra glared, her eyes wet with anger. Her fists balled, ready to sock him back, but she stopped herself. That wasn't a move that could end well -- even if Old Lady O'Toole magic would let her hit him. Ike's weakness, she knew, wasn't in his biceps, but in his ego. It was smarter to come across like a coward, to make him think that things were going his way. If that happened, maybe she could take him by surprise later on, with something more than a little punch.
“S-Sorry,” the potion girl stammered, rubbing her cheek.
“Not half so sorry as you'll be if you've been lying... .” the outlaw threatened, his fist raised.
“Yeah, I get the idea.” She grimly started into the canyon. “This way.”
The outlaws tied their horses and followed. By now, the twilight's fade was almost complete. They caught up to the girl, who was just standing there, looking around. “I – I can't see any landmarks,” she said. “We need some light.”
“Damn you,” Ike growled. He took Myra's shoulders and spun her to face him, but he didn't slap her again. “Get some wood,” he told the Freelys. “We'll build us a fire.”
Getting that done took her about fifteen minutes.
The smoky blaze they'd managed to kindle didn't amount too much, but it was better than nothing. Myra pointed an outstretched arm, saying, “It's somewhere around there. The lawman set out a couple of white rocks to point to it, but I still can't make them out in this light.”
Ike grunted and picked up a firebrand. With this crude torch in his left hand, he gripped Myra's wrist with his right and jerked her after him. He let the flames illuminate the ground as they walked it; Myra glimpsed the quartz stones, but pretended not to notice them and continued on. Ike grew impatient.
“You're stalling!”
“I'm not... but I think we've gone too far,” the potion girl protested.
He dragged her back toward the exit. “There's one of them!” Myra said reluctantly, expecting trouble if she created any more delay.
A couple minutes later, she “discovered” the other white stone.
“You know,” the bandit leader said, “if you're a smart gal, maybe you can get a cut of the gold for yourself.”
Myra reacted with a scowl. It wasn't that gold didn't arouse her enthusiasm, but that the potion girl didn’t like the tone that Ike had used. “What do you mean?”
“I've had my eye on you. Some dancing gals have cute faces, and some have amazing legs. You got both. You were way too much woman for Thorn! I don't think you even miss him. It's gold that brought you this far out, ain't it? Fine, I understand that. You should care about gold; you really could go places if you had enough of it. You ever seen San Francisco? Big town. Pretty things in those ladies' shops.”
Myra didn't give a damn about ladies' shops, but she got the idea of what she'd have to do to earn a share. “No thanks,” she said. “I'm not that kind of girl.”
Ike looked askance. “Since when? You're dressed up like a nice little milk maid, right now, but you sure ain't one.” Then the Missourian's tone turned serious. "Be poor if you want to. There's plenty more where you came from.” He glared at her, his teeth showing like some wild dog. “Now where's the gold?”
With a sigh, Myra sighted an imaginary line through the two white rocks and pointed. “That there's the place.”
The three young men went to the spot and started pitching stones left and right. Myra stood back, hoping for some chance to dodge away when they weren't looking. The important thing was not to get herself shot by lighting out too soon.
About five minutes passed. “Hot damn!” shouted Jeb. “I think I touched it!”
They started clearing away the rocks at an even faster rate. Pretty soon, they had the strongbox laid bare.
“Bring the tools,” Ike barked. Horace and his brother took torches, and then hurried away to get the implements.
They came back minutes later with a long pry bar, a couple chisels, a mallet, and a railroad spike hammer. Myra supposed that these tools must have been stashed behind the rocks of the Gap before the gang had descended upon the farm.
The brothers dropped the hardware on the ground and then, without much in the way of a plan, sorted the pieces out and started prying at the box.
The transport chest was sturdily made, with a latch consisting of a heavy hinge secured by a thick padlock. The three tried different ways to overpower the mechanism, but hammering at the lock only made a lot of noise. They fared no better with the box's back hinges, which were mostly concealed by the mode of construction. As for the prying bar, they couldn't find any purchase for it.
Finally, Ike ordered the brothers to settle down while he rethought things. He soon came up with new plan of attack, and they commenced a determined assault on the hinge of the latch with a cold chisel driven home with the railroad hammer. After twenty minutes of listening to the gang's grunting and cursing, Myra heard something break.
“Have we got it?” asked Ike.
“W-We sure do!” wheezed a tuckered-out Freely brother.
The metal lid of the box was thrown back, but they could see almost nothing of what lay within. Ike stirred up the fire with a chisel to brighten it and added more wood. Then he selected the largest brand as a torch and held this over the chest. Myra had already moved up close. The shipment was fully packed. Memories of her childhood came back. She had often fantasized about finding conquistador loot or pirate treasure. The sight of ingots and pouches made her crazy. She was standing next to a dream come true. Or as it a nightmare? She knew that she didn't have a chance in hell of benefiting from it.
The men, on the other hand, looked jubilant. “Yay, doggie!” exclaimed Horace, holding a bag of loot against his thick chest, as if it were a precious pet.
“Cut out that noise-making!” snarled Ike, holding a fistful of bills. “We've got to move fast. Fill the saddlebags. We'll keep out the paper and coins for ready cash. The final count can wait till we're west of here; when we find a place to hide the main haul. Once there's no more posses to worry about, we can come back there and gather it all in.”
Ike turned Myra's way. “As for you, missy, we'll tie you up like we did your aunt. If the coyotes don't make a meal of you, you'll keep for the deputy in the morning."
#
While the desperadoes packed the horses, Myra was left sitting on a flat stone on the opposite side of the canyon mouth, bound and foot, feeling sorry for herself. The way she saw things, it would have been better to never have gone for the gold at all, rather than come so close only to lose it. Her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the sound of furtive motion behind her. She gasped.
“Shhhh! Someone hissed. The girl glanced over her shoulder; it was too dark to see, but somebody was crouching there. She almost shouted to the bandits for help.
“Easy, it's me, Deputy Grant,” the voice said.
“They got the gold,” she whispered.
“I'm going to cut you loose, and then you need to head out that way,” Paul said, pointing down the road towards the farm. “Try to move quietly.”
“All right,” Myra replied breathily. Paul grasped her hands to steady them and then applied his knife to her rawhide bonds.
In a moment, her wrists were loose. “Move it,” said Paul. He led the girl away, into knee-deep sagebrush. “Myra, get behind these rocks and keep low,” he whispered. “I've got to stop these varmints from getting away.”
“Alone?”
“I'm not alone.”
Not alone?
She looked around. Under the feeble first-quarter moon, it was hard to make out much.
All at once, Grant let out an Apache war-whoop and started shooting into the air. Supporting fire came from somewhere nearby. Whoever was backing up the deputy was also bawling his own version of an Indian whoop.
“Injuns!” one of the unseen robbers yelled and the gang started firing wild shots. Myra realized that if the young owlhoots could be tricked into believing that an Indian war party was trying to corner them, they could be spooked into doing something stupid.
Then the gunfire died down on both sides.
“What's going on?” she whispered.
“Can't tell! They must have run back into the ravine. Follow me; keep your head down.” He led her farther on through the cold-blighted brush, behind a row of standing rocks where someone else was hiding. She couldn't make out much beyond an outline, except that the man looked big.
“How many shooters do you have, Deputy?” Myra asked.
“Just Tor Johannson, here,” Paul answered. “We stopped at your place and found your aunt tied up, so I sent his brother Knute back to town for more help.”
“A gunfight with outlaws is more tan I bargained for,” broke in a Swedish-accented voice. “You Fru Fanning's niece?”
Myra didn't like the question and didn't respond. “Yes, she is,” Grant answered for her.
“Did tey hurt you?” Tor asked.
“Not much.”
“Did tey find the gold?”
“They got it,” Myra replied icily. “You came for the strongbox, not me, didn't you?”
“For both you and the loot,” replied the deputy. “Your aunt would be feeling right bad if we lost you.”
“Vhat do we do now, Paul?” asked Tor.
The deputy drew a deep breath. “Well, I figure them polecats'll fight like fiends, as long as they still think they can get away with the gold. When they figure out that we aren't really Apaches, and that we've only got a couple guns between us, they'll make a rush for the horses. It'll be hard to pick them off in this dark.”
“We can have three guns!” exclaimed Myra.
“What?” asked Grant.
“I can handle a rifle or a six-shooter.”
The lawman stood quiet for a couple seconds and then said, “And I'm supposed to trust you with a gun?”
“What's wrong, Paul?” Tor asked. “She is a bad one?”
“It's a long story.”
“Aunt Irene ordered me to go back to the farm as soon as I could,” the girl spoke up. “If I shot you, what would that get me?”
“Well...” Paul considered. He knew how well Jessie Hanks could handle firearms. This gal probably learned what she needed to know about guns as a farm boy. He also knew how effective those orders given to a potion girl could be.
“Do you have my Winchester, Tor?”
“Yah. It is here!”
The lawman took the weapon from his volunteer and handed it to Myra. “You can earn a lot of respect with the town, if you play this square.”
She shrugged indifferently. “One question. If we catch 'em, will those bastards get the potion?”
“I don't know,” answered Paul. “It's up to the Judge.”
“I hope he'll give them a bellyful of it!”
“That business can wait. We got to move fast, 'cause those coyotes will be turning jackrabbit any minute. I need to drive off their horses. Then we need to keep them pinned down till the town posse shows up.”
“Vhat is the plan?” asked the Swede.
“I'll circle over to where the horses are tied. I aim to drive off the pack horses first, since the gold is worth more than any outlaw's hide. The mounts I'll cut loose second.”
“Just so none of the gang goes back to the farm,” Myra said.
“They won't do that,” Paul guessed. “You don't have any horses left to steal. They'll probably run up into the rocks and we'll have to hunt them down like skunk pigs. So, let's move. When you two hear my Apache yell, start shooting. The echoes ought to cover any sounds I'm making.”
“All right,” agreed Tor.
“Wait a minute,” Myra said. “How much ammo do we have?”
“Not much,” said Paul. “Take measured shots; it's too dark to see a target anyway. When you're out of shells, vamoose and lie low. They'll be more interested in hightailing it than looking for you two in the dark.”
Paul took off, moving as quickly as he could over unsure ground. Tor leaned against a boulder and assumed a firing position. Myra, familiar with the '66 Winchester, found a protected spot and levered a .44 Henry rimfire cartridge into the firing chamber. She then waited. There was nothing to see, but the potion girl could hear the tethered mounts shuffling, made uneasy by the earlier gunfire.
A moment later, Grant's whoop came; Tor started shooting, and Myra did likewise. She saw muzzle flashes and tried to fire at them, but something stopped her. She cursed. It was that damn order of Molly's not to hurt people! She decided to aim to one side, away from the horses, and found herself able to pull the trigger.
#
Paul Grant had crept in close to the outlaws' mounts before letting out his Indian yowl. These owlhoots were practically kids, he knew, but that didn't make the situation any less dangerous. Hot-headed pups with guns could come on wild and reckless, because they didn't know what in hell they were doing. Then, too, he didn't want to kill men so young. If there was a chance to take them alive, he'd prefer it.
At the sound of firing, Paul dashed for the beasts. The first one he touched started to buck, alarmed by his smell, but he managed to grasp its reins. In a flash, he had sliced it free of its tether with his well-stropped Bowie knife. Then the deputy gave the critter a hard slap to start it running.
“The Injun's are after the horses!” an outlaw bellowed.
Paul groped for another saddleless horse and found one. The gang members were shooting again, but the bullets weren't coming anywhere close. They were trying to scare him off, but they didn't want to wound their own animals. He got the second pack horse loose. “Git!” He shouted, punching the animal. It whinnied and scurried away
Running boots. The outlaws were rushing in. The lawman ducked away, firing a couple of shots in the robbers' direction. The three braved the danger and got in among the animals. Paul sighted what looked like a bandit's outline and leaped for it. The fight was wild. Grant's boots kept slipping on loose gravel, but the outlaw seemed to have better footing. Each was swinging his pistol like a bludgeon. A hard shove made Paul slip. The tumble made him lose hold of his shooting iron.
The incoming fire from Myra and Tor had stopped, maybe from a lack of bullets. The deputy struggled to rise and managed to find his gun. He could hear the bandits tearing loose their mounts' reins from the mesquite branches. Paul lurched after the escaping men and blundered into someone. The outlaw skinned his scalp with what felt like a gun barrel. The lawman sprang away, but fell down again.
Someone on horseback yelled, “Gitty-yep!” In the bandits' haste to get away, their beasts almost trampled Paul, who was barely able to roll out of the way. He got to his feet once more, ready to shoot. But there was no target to see; the bandits were hard-riding away. His play hadn't paid off. Any additional firing would be bullets wasted. Frustrated, he shouted, “Tor! Myra!”
The Swede came up in the dark. “Is you hurt?” he asked urgently.
“Not badly, I think.”
Paul heard Myra's footsteps off to one side and remembered the Winchester in her hands. “Give me that rifle,” he told the girl.
“Still afraid I'll shoot you?” she replied with a sneer.
“Could you blame me?”
“It's out of bullets anyway,” the girl declared, shoving the weapon at Paul.
He took it and said, “No use chasing them before dawn. Let's see if their animals are still around. I drove off a couple of 'em,” he said.
But none of the horses could be found amidst the trees. “The gang’ll probably try to catch up with one of the pack horses,” the deputy conjectured. “The gold on any one of the animals would amount to a decent haul for those boys. If they give us the slip.”
“Ve need torches,” advised Tor.
They took sticks from the outlaws' fire and searched after the horses. It took a half hour, but the Swede and Grant were able to locate both laden beasts. They were the tame kind and hadn't run too far. “I think they're both mine,” she told her companions. “The gang got away with their own nag.” She also confirmed that the saddlebags were full of metal.
“We'll lead the animals back to town and unpack them there,” said Paul. “Myra, you'll be dropped off at the farm. Tor, let's bring up our own mounts and head out.” The pair vanished in the dark.
The girl grudgingly got up on her bay's back. The loot that it carried was all that she could think about. At that moment, Myra tried – and filed -- to flick the reins, to make a break for the desert, but the voices in her head screamed their disapproval. “All right, all right, she finally said in despair. “I’ll go back to the danged farm.” As her mount started back down the trail to the farm, she realized that this moment represented the closest that she'd ever come to a life of ease. And that it was over.
Just then, the men returned on horseback.
“Why don't we keep a little of this stuff for ourselves?” Myra asked out loud, one last attempt at the riches. “Don't we deserve it?”
“The world doesn't work that way,” Paul replied with a small laugh. “And just hope that you never get the full measure of what... a girl like you... really deserves.”
“You got a pretty woice, Flicka,” Tor addressed Myra. “You as pretty as you sound?”
“Stuff it!” she told him.
Tor smacked his lips. “Tat gal got spice!”
“That she does,” agreed the lawman. “One of these days, some rough, tough hombre's going to toss a lasso around that filly, and she'll be a real handful to tame.”
“Idiots!” the girl exclaimed as she started out for home, not waiting for her unwelcome escorts.
END OF CHAPTER 4, CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5
The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 5
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
The final chapter – for now. George does chores. Tor returns the stolen horses. Female take notice.
The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 5
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber
December 17, 1871
Myra was sitting listlessly at the table, eating breakfast when she heard the hoof beats of the new posse. She walked over to the window and saw Paul Grant coming down the carriage path, followed by a tall, husky man leading the farm's two horses. Not surprising, the outlaws' saddlebags were no longer to be seen. The rest of the posse – three mounted men – remained at the edge of Riley Canyon Road.
Irene went outside to meet the deputy. The big man -- Tor, Myra remembered -- took the horses over to the corral and tied them to the rails. After what was only a brief conversation with her aunt, Grant and Tor mounted up and the five took off briskly down the road toward Stagecoach Gap.
Mrs. Fanning came back inside. “They didn't have time for chatting. the good Lord bless them-.- I was afraid that we'd lose those horses forever. It was good of the deputy to send them back today, rather than wait.”
“Yeah,” the girl replied grumpily. “If we had to wait, you'd had me out pulling the plow myself next spring.”
Irene almost replied, but decided that it would be of no use.
Instead, the young widow sent Myra out to do her chores. It bothered Irene that the girl, left to her druthers, would do no work at all. In that, she was still very much like Myron. ‘Why can't Myra learn from her two narrow escapes?’ She thought. ‘Why can't she make the right decisions without needing to be commanded by magic?’ She shook her head. What lad had ever done himself any good through aimless and neglectful behavior?
Her sister Addie, in her letters, had sometimes lamented that Myron seemed ill-suited to farming. “He’s too imaginative,” Addie wrote. “Too full of wanderlust, to accept being tied down, to doing the same chores over and over.” To Irene, it seemed that he actuallypreferred banditry to an ordinary life. Fortunately, Myra, being a girl now, couldn't follow in his old footsteps. But she still had Myron's restlessness inside her. Irene paused to pray for the Lord's help in making it all turn out well.
#
After the midday meal, Myra was sent out again, this time to chop kindling for the cook stove. She didn't care for the task, but realized that no wood meant no hot supper.
While the potion girl busied herself, a small carriage drew up. She recognized the visitor and gritted her teeth. Molly O'Toole got down from her rig and opened the luggage boot at the rear of the vehicle. Aunt Irene emerged from the house just then and welcomed the saloon operator. Myra, expecting the worst, continued chopping while the others began to unload.
Irene went inside first, carrying an armful of packages. “Are all these boxes for Myra?” she asked Molly as she set down her burden.
The Irish woman put her own share of the bundles onto the bed. “Aye, they do make quite a pile, don't they? They should be enough t’be getting Myra started. Women's clothes are more complicated than men’re used to, though. We'll have t’be acquainting her with thuir wearing, piece by piece.”
“Men are lucky. Their clothes are so much simpler. And not nearly so expensive.”
“But the beauty of thuir stuff can't be comparing t’ours,” Molly said, as they began opening the packages.
The first box that Irene undid contained a corset. She regarded its plain design. It was the type that women customarily wore under their everyday clothes. ‘Myra won't like wearing this one bit,’ she thought. Out loud, she said, “Men always think that corsets are silly.”
Molly smiled. “Men like corsets well enough on a pretty girl. Especially when the girl ain’t wearing much else. Most cancan outfits don't amount t’much more than corsets dressed up with feathers and lace frillery.”
Irene's tried not to blush. “That's right, you mentioned...” She trailed off.
“That I was a saloon dancer?” Molly didn't look embarrassed. “It's all right t’be talking about it. I am what I am. I was what I was. The fact is, I've liked t’dance ever since I was a wee little girl. 'Tis the Irish in me. Stage dancing was me first serious job outside the home.”
“What kind of a life is that, especially for a naïve girl on her own?”
The older woman shrugged. "Well, 'naïve' didn't exactly fit me, not even back then. Me family left the Auld Country in '48. There was lots of fever on the boat, and some of us got sick with it. Me ma and me little brother, Dermot, died b’fore we could get to a hospital in New York. The gold rush was just getting started, and Papa got caught up in the excitement and took us West in 1849. He met Fiona Bourke on the trail, and she helped him with us kids. By the time we reached San Francisco, they was already married.”
"It didn't seem right; I thought he should mourn longer. I coulda kept the house and looked after the younger ones meself. After a year of me locking horns with me stepmother over this and that, Papa set me up to marry a fellow Irishman named Michael O’Casey. I didn't love him, but we got on well enough, so I went along. Mostly, I just wanted to get away from home. Michael went off to the gold fields to get us a nest egg,” she sighed, “and I never heard from him again.”
"I was just eighteen. I'd lost me chance to marry, but I didn't want t’be staying home. I went down to the busy part of town, down by the harbor, and looked for a job. I coulda earned pennies at pot scrubbing or doing maid’s work, but I found a sign that said a saloon was looking for dancing girls. I'd heard people say that dancers made a lot of money. I knew me Papa and step-ma wouldn't care for it, but I had me own ideas.”
“When I told ‘em what I'd be doing, they tried to get me to quit, but I wouldn't. I just couldn't stand all thuir bossing anymore. Soon as I got me first pay, I took a little room in the same house as me folks. I might as well've moved a hundred miles away. They wouldn’t talk to me for months after that.”
Irene frowned, but didn't say anything.
“Me first day on the job, I met Shamus, who was tending at the bar. He got a little fresh the first time we spoke, but I put my foot down then and there, and his manners improved.”
“A dancer's life is a mix. Being outside of the home gave me a different picture of how things work. A gal gets out of life what she puts into it. The way she earns her bread isn't all that important -– so long as it's honest.”
Irene was still at a loss to reply. Then Molly unwrapped another corset. “Ah, here it is! The one you found is for around the house. This is the kind girls like to wear beneath a dress when they're going to a shindig.”
“It's pretty,” Irene agreed. The item displayed a great deal of embroidery and lace.
“I picked up a going-out dress for the young lady, too,” Molly remarked. She unwrapped a yellow cotton frock and held it up for Mrs. Fanning's approval. It had short sleeves, a tight waist, and white trim.
Irene next examined a winter coat, something that Myra very much needed, with colder days ahead. “These are wonderful. Thank you, Molly. But before Myra tries anything on, though, she'll need another bath. We ought to give her one right away. I've got a trough full of water warming in the sun. It won't have gotten too warm at this time of year, but there's a kettle of water I'm heating for the laundry. We can add it to the tub instead.”
“Good. Another sponge bath’d be enough, though, and I'll fix her hair afterwards, if ye want.”
The pair fetched an oval tub from the shed and placed it close to the fireplace, whose low flames Irene fed with some dry sticks and a couple small blocks of wood. The blaze quickly grew larger and gave off a lively crackle. Then they carried in buckets of trough water to fill the container to a little more than ankle depth. Finally, Irene dropped into it a lump of store-bought bath soap and also a sea sponge. It was now time to call Myra in. When the girl appeared, sullen and wary about what was in store for her, Irene told her to undress for bathing. The girl, unprepared for this event, reflexively protested. “I had a bath three days ago!”
“Don't be silly,” her aunt said. “You've been working up a sweat doing chores. If you're clean, the clothes you try on will stay clean.” Irene went to the cast-iron cook stove, where she used a pair of kitchen mitts to take a blackened kettle off the burner. She poured its steaming contents into the cooler water of the tub. “Now, get in, use the soap, and scrub yourself quick, before it cools too much.”
Myra was standing close to the receptacle, reluctant to take off her clothes. As Thorn, she had gotten over her bashfulness at being nude in front of a woman. As long as the woman undressed first. But this wasn't like that.
“Why so shy?” Molly asked. “Ye ain’t got nothing that yuir aunt and I ain’t seen ten thousand times. But since ye’re not used t'having what ye have, Irene and me'll be strolling outside for our chat. Wash yuir hair first, and use a decent amount of shampoo t’do it.”
Irene handed her niece a terry towel and a bottle of shampoo. “When you're done, dry yourself completely.”
With the women gone, Myra worked fast, wanting to be done and covered up before the two harpies came back. She slipped out of her shoes and peeled off her woolen socks, and then shed the apron. Following that, she squirmed out of her flannel dress.
This brought her down to her chemise, a garment that afforded her needed warmth for the season. Its removal left Myra chilly, standing there in no more than her knee-length drawers. With a glance toward the door, the potion girl completed her disrobing. Tentatively stepping into the tub, she found it a little cool, but bearable. An oval of white soap was floating next to her ankle, but she had been ordered to wash her hair before doing anything else.
Though the bathtub was scarcely wide enough, she knelt down in it and was able to dip her tresses. With eyes closed to keep the water out, she groped until she found the bottle of shampoo.
Myra dribbled some into her right palm and, with long strokes, spread it over her wet locks. With her hair so long, she had to use a larger portion of the shampoo than she had ever needed as a male. She wondered about cutting her hair to boy-length before Aunt Irene ordered her to keep it long.
Still hurrying, the potion girl wet her mane again and worked the soap through it. When it was well lathered, she hurriedly dunked her scalp and rinsed.
Myra straightened up and pressed the excess water from her hair with her towel. It made no sense to dry it too much, since she still had a lot of washing to do. Rescuing the body soap from the bath, Myra rubbed the slippery bar over her arms and torso. Next, she took the sponge and used it to work up some suds. She found that touching her breasts felt as good as it had three days earlier. “Now I know why Gilana would moan so when I petted her pair,” she mused. “Male breasts ain't near as tender to the touch.”
But the maiden's strongest reaction came when she worked the soft, wet sponge over her pubic area. She gasped, just like Gilana had done when touched between the legs. “Whoa,” Myra wondered. “Are all women's bodies like this?” The girl frowned. “If they are, then why do even the sluttiest of gals always put a man off until he first gives her whatever she wanted?” So many damned things about women made no blamed sense, at all.
Yet there was a lot about the sex that aroused a male's interest. Thorn had seen some of those cigar cards that showed women in scanty attire. He didn't have to see many of them before he realized that he wanted a flashy, exciting sort of girl, like Gilana, not any of the drabs that most men ended up marrying. “Yes, sir, having a doll baby on his arm is one of the easiest ways for a man to get respect. Folks figure that it takes quite a man to lasso an exciting woman.”
Myra rinsed off the lather and then carefully patted herself with the towel. She was mostly dry when she heard voices from outside. She wrapped the towel around her hips, which left her maidenly breasts in plain view. But her ample display just didn’t seem right, and she quickly re-positioned the wrap to conceal them.
Molly entered first and pursed her lips approvingly at what she saw. “Come on outta that tub and finish drying yuirself. Do yuir feet first,” she said, and began to rummage through the rows of open boxes on the table.
The barkeeper's wife selected a couple items and brought them over. Myra, having stepped out of the tub and dried herself, was standing there with the dank towel held up in front of her body. “Here, lassie, put on yuir drawers first. Then slip into this chemise.”
Myra had to obey. The saloon woman's crisp orders always made her scramble. The cautious way that Irene usually spoke left the new girl unsure, at times, whether she was being ordered or not. Molly O'Toole regarded the girl's movements as she dressed. “Ye’re looking right pretty already,” the saloon woman judged. She went back to the boxes and returned with the stylish corset, light blue muslin trimmed with lace and pearls.
Myra gritted her teeth. It was a thing that would have looked mighty fetching worn by Gilana, but the thought of putting on such a rig herself was enough to make her want to kill the bugger who'd made such a contraption.
“Usually corsets ain't so comfortable t’be sleeping in, so ye don't have to,” continued Molly. “But when ye’re up and about during the daytime, ye should be wearing one. It keeps a body looking trim and full-bosomed, something the boys like to see. And a fancy corset'll make ye feel all gussied up, even if the dress ye have on ain't a special one. Be careful though; some girls fix them too awful tight, and that can be punishing.”
“This sort here is for dress-up occasions,” Molly explained. “I also bought ye a couple plain ones for around the farm. Ye'll find out that corsets are a smidgen constricting sometimes, like if ye’re bending or crawling. Ye can loosen ‘em or even take ‘em off if ye get too uncomfortable, but otherwise keep yuir corset on. Going around without one just ain’t respectable.”
“Says you!” Myra snarled.
“Aye, says me,” replied Molly. “Besides everything else, a corset supports yuir back and makes it easy for ye t’be standing up straight. Slouching ain’t never attractive.”
“Why would I ever want to be attractive?” the girl challenged.
“Ye'll be figuring that out for yuirself, once ye get used to being a lassie.”
The red-haired woman turned Myra around, and then enveloped the girl's slim torso in the frilly, steel-boned garment. Molly needed a few minutes to lace the draw-cords. When finished, she tugged the strings firmly, and Myra felt the infernal piece snug up around her.
“Ye feels nice, don't ye? Since y'er not used to corsets, ye'll have to go easy at first. Ye should be wearing one for about two hours a day, until it remembers yuir shape, and ye can wear the thing without hurting+,+ from sunrise t’sunset. Since ye've got three of ‘em t’be breaking in, it'll be weeks before they'll all be fit for day-long wear.”
Next came Myra's new petticoat, looking like a lacy, starched skirt. Myra didn't like the weight of all that material. “It feels bulky,’ she complained. “And it sticks out so much it’ll probably knock something over whenever I walk too close. Petticoats, corsets? Why do women wear such dumb clothes?”
“Ye’re lucky that hoops aren't the fashion nowadays,” said Molly. “And I hope they never come back. The bustle is what all the high-toned ladies back east like wearing these days, but I didn’t get ye one of those. There probably won't be much call for their like around Eerie.”
“Irene, would ye be handing me the yellow dress?” the Irish woman requested. Myra glanced toward her aunt to see what was coming next. The fancy outfit Molly selected was clearly the type that girls wore to catch the eye in public. She disliked it at once.
Molly helped the scowling maiden put the frock on, and then adjusted the way it hung. “I don't see it will take very much alteration,” she adjudged. “How are ye with the needle, Mrs. Fanning?”
“I believe I can do the piece justice.”
“Please sit down, Myra,” Molly directed. “You'll be needing t’keep your hair looking neat.” The girl did as told and the town woman began to comb out her locks with long strokes.
Just then, there came a knock on the door. Irene, when she opened it, found George Severin on the other side, his straw hat held in his hands.
“Mrs. Fanning,” he said. “I heard the news from town. Did Myra get hurt any up at the Gap?”
Irene stepped aside. “Come in, and see for yourself. She's a very brave girl.”
Myra rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Being seen dressed this way, by the likes of George Severin especially, was almost as bad as being caught naked.
“Wellll now,” George drawled appreciatively, “that's a right fine new outfit. You look ready to take off for a square dance.”
“Fat chance!” came Myra's gruff reply. “What're you doing out here? Hoping to find out I was kilt?”
“Hardly that, gal,” he said. He pivoted toward Irene. “I wanted to ask, ma'am, if you'll be wanting me around tomorrow.” Then he glanced back at Myra. “After such a scare, I thought your niece might be having a fit of the vapors, and she'd be taking it easy for a while. I reckoned her chores would still need doing.”
The girl stood up stiffly. “I've rested enough. I got more wood to cut before supper.”
George grinned. “In that fancy new dress? You might tear it. I got an hour to spare. What would you ladies say if I finished the chopping while Myra keeps busy just staying pretty? No charge for the work.”
Irene blinked bemusedly. “Oh, we can't ask for favors, George, , especially not on a Sunday. We wouldn't want to take advantage of a boy who must have plenty of work to do at home.”
“Well, it seems to me that there's a kind of pay that I'd powerfully appreciate. I was wondering if Miss Myra might do me the kindness of keeping me company while I finish the chopping. That would be payment enough.”
“I don't think so,” the girl answered with a chilly tone.
The youth looked dejected. “To be honest, Miss Myra, I was mostly hoping to talk a little in private, so I could ask you about something.”
“The answer is no, whatever it is!”
“What did you wish to ask her?” inquired Irene.
George glanced down. “It's just that there's the Christmas dance coming up next Saturday, ma'am. The younger ladies hereabouts are all married, too young or too old for me, or they're being courted by someone. Your niece doesn't know many local people yet. I'd like very much to escort her to the festivities.”
“No! Absolutely not!” Myra declared.
Irene looked askance at Molly. She was thinking that it might be too early for Myra to be going to socials. The Irish woman, on the other hand, seemed to be considering it.
“Myra,” Mrs, Fanning said, “be polite. Go chat with George while he works. That isn't much to ask in exchange for all the help he's giving us.”
The girl's eyes flashed, but she had her orders. She started for the door in stockinged feet.
“Don't be so eager, Myra,” Molly cautioned. “Put on yuir new shoes first. And be careful ye don't get yuir fancy new dress dirty while ye’re outside,” she added.
The lass gave her a surely look while she donned her footwear. Molly stepped up behind her. “Let me tie your hair, so it doesn't get tangled in the breeze.” She used a red ribbon to create a bow that fixed Myra's lengthy tresses into a sleek ponytail. The girl hurried out, not wanting to see her reflection. With the sun shining in a clear sky, the day wasn't chilly, so she didn't bother putting on a coat.
Irene glanced at Molly. “Did you have some more advice for me?”
“Do ye mean about whether it’s too soon t’be sending Myra out among folks?”
“Yes. She's so embarrassed about people looking at her as a pretty girl.”
Molly rolled that question around in her mind. “When a young lass comes into town for the first time, most everyone’s going t’be interested in her. But if she stays a mystery for too long, people start t’be wondering who exactly she might be. If they guess right, Myra won't be happy. We need t’be hurrying her along a mite, to get her acting natural-like around people. Then folks won't have any call for becoming suspicious.”
“She might be so jumpy that she could make things worse,” cautioned Irene.
“She's tough-minded for her age. The dance ain’t for a week; so here's me advice: Take her into town for a wee bit of shopping tomorrow, or the day after. We'll both see how she handles herself out among folks. If she braves it out well enough, I think she might be doing right well at the party. Getting her off the farm as soon as possible might even be a good idea. We don't want t’be giving her time t’be settling into reclusive ways.”
“Are you sure?”
“To be telling the truth, I've never worked with a potion girl so young. There's Emma O'Hanlan that just changed last month, but upstanding folks like her parents keep their kids clear of us saloon people. I know how it was for the older potion girls, but it’s probably going t’be harder for Myra than it was for them. They didn't have to pretend to be normal among the hoity-toity kind. The saloon crowd gave ‘em allowance if they made a misstep now and then. Myra is bound and determined t'make people believe that she's a lassie like any other. It might be a harder trick for her to pull off than any of us know.”
#
Myra, seated uncomfortably on a crate, was staring down Riley Canyon Road. Behind her, George continued chopping wood, using rapid, powerful blows. Myra didn't want to be anywhere near the neighbor boy, but she had received her orders, and the spell held her fast.
The young workman finally paused to catch his breath. Though Myra faced away from him, he started talking. “The stage that brought you into town must have been the same one that got robbed right afterwards, when it moved up into the Gap. Ain't that right?” he asked.
Hearing yet another of George’s prying questions made the girl glower. She hadn't worked out every detail of her made-up story, and had to bluff through. She met him eye to eye, and said, “Yes.”
He shook his head. “It must have been awful, to hear about your cousin dying on the same day you came in.”
She shrugged. “Well, I've heard better news.”
“I've been wondering. Where did that new riding horse over yonder come from?”
Another hard question. “I don't know.”
“Didn't your aunt buy him?”
Myra pondered. She couldn't tell George the same story that she'd told the gang, about Thorn riding in on it. “It wandered in by itself, I guess. It was trying to get at the hay when Aunt Irene and me came in from town.”
“Did your aunt recognize the critter?”
“She told me never saw it before. The saddle neither.”
“If it was saddled, it must have strayed away from its rider. Do you think it could have been Myron's horse? It might easily have walked a couple miles from the Gap.”
“I haven't thought about that.” Myra realized that she had to be more careful with the lies she told.
George glanced at the corralled animal. “It's a fair-looking cayuse. It'd be nice if you and your aunt could hold on to it. I don't know about Mrs. Fanning, but you ride as smart as an Injun. How did you learn?”
Myra didn't like the way he'd asked that. He had the eye of a hunter tracking a coyote. “We kept horses back home,” she answered.
George suddenly changed the subject. “I've been wondering. If the stage men saw Myron shot, and if he was dead, what happened to him afterwards? Your aunt didn't mention that there'll be any funeral.”
She tossed a hand into the air. “Search me. The bandits must have hidden the body.”
“Could be. But you don't seem too broken up about your cousin not getting a proper burial.”
Myra changed her tone. “I – I feel sorry for Aunt Irene. But I never met Thorn. He never did so much as send us a card back East.”
“If you didn't really know Myron, when did you find out that he wanted people to call him Thorn? I've never heard your aunt speak that name in front of me.”
Damn him! “That – That's the name the judge and the deputy were using when they came to talk yesterday.”
“Judge Humphreys was out here? Why so?”
Blast it! Did he have to haggle over every word?
“The judge knows Aunt Irene. He wanted to let her know that Th – that Myron was suspected of robbery, and he also wanted to express his sympathies.”
“Was he already sure that Myron was dead, even with no body?”
“The stage people's message said that he was shot bad. The sheriff sent somebody up to look around, but there was no sign of anything. So everyone just assumes he’s dead. If he wasn't fit to ride off, he must have died, and his body was hidden.”
George's brows knitted. “It seems kind of odd that those outlaws rode out for three days, but then came back to Myron's house for no reason. Or was there a reason?”
Myra thought quickly. “They knew Myron lived close-in to the Gap, but that wasn't why they came. They said they needed some pack horses to carry off the gold that they'd hidden before.”
“So, if they only came for horses, why did they need to take you back up there with them?”
Myra was again tempted to tell George to go to hell, but held herself in check. “A couple hours before they showed up, I'd gone to the Gap with that Deputy Grant, to search around. We found the gold, and then Grant hid it in a different place, so the robbers wouldn't be able to find it if they happened to sneak back. But by the time we left the canyon, the gang was probably already hiding up there, watching us. They must have followed us, and they saw where I stopped. They barged in after dark to make me show them where the box was.”
“I thought you said they just came to steal a couple horses.”
“They did steal horses!” she replied sharply. “They would’ve come to get horses no matter what. After they saw Grant and me up at the Gap, they had two reasons to come here.”
George wasn't put off. “Another thing makes me wonder. Why on earth did you need to ride up to the Gap with the deputy? I figure he already knew where Stagecoach Gap was.”
Myra glanced away again, while she worked up an answer. “No reason. I just asked if I could go along, for the adventure. Buried treasure; that's exciting.”
Severin smiled. “You sound like an adventurous girl. I can't stand fraidy-cat females. I knew there was something about you that I liked.”
“Ehhh,” Myra said with a shrug. ‘He’s flirting with me,’ she told herself in disgust. ‘Just what I don’t need.’
“But here's what I don't get. How did anyone know there was buried gold?”
The girl's fists were clenched. This nosy neighbor was just begging for a slam to the jaw. Carefully, she said, “Nobody knew anything, but they suspected. Everybody knows how strong and heavy those stage company boxes are, and how the drivers don't carry the keys with them. The deputy and the judge were talking about how the outlaws might have needed to hide the gold close by, so they could come back later, with tools and pack horses.”
“I see. But how did the deputy find the chest so quickly? Wasn't it buried?”
Myra stood up to storm away, but, thanks to her aunt’s order, she couldn't move her feet. Sitting down again, she finally replied to his question. “Sure, it was buried under a pile of rocks. But the stupid outlaws left a corner of the box still showing.”
The youth again shook his head. “They surely do sound stupid.”
“I met them. Believe me; they're as dumb as they come. Why are you so interested?”
George shrugged. “There ain’t much excitement around Eerie. Anyhow, I figured a little conversation might help us get acquainted. I already know you've got spirit. My oldest sister, Rosedale, would still be shaking like a leaf if she'd gone through all that you did. If you think I’m asking too many questions, you can get even by asking me anything you want to ask.”
She sniffed. “Why should I be interested in anything that concerns you, Mr. Severin?”
“No reason; we're just passing time.”
“It seems like time isn't passing half as quickly as I'd like it to.”
“Whenever I'm busy, it just flies by. Did your aunt ever write and mention that she had someone helping her work the farm?”
“She never wrote.” Damn; that didn't sound likely. “Almost never; just a card now and then, like at Christmas. She never said much more than 'I hope you've been well' or 'Merry Christmas.'”
George nodded and resumed chopping for a few minutes. Then he took another break, drew a sip from his canteen, and said, “You mentioned you're from back East. Whereabouts?”
She raised her chin. “My aunt told me that I had to... that I should... chat with you, as annoying as you are. But she didn't say that I had to answer a thousand snoopy questions.”
The youth leaned the ax against the stack of cord wood. “Why won’t you let me know a little something about yourself? Are you some kind of outlaw on the dodge?” He smiled at the joke.
Myra felt a jolt, and quickly forced a laugh. “Do I look like an outlaw?”
“No, but... ” he paused. “No, you surely do not. By the way, why is it that you don't want to go with me to the Christmas dance next week? Do you have a fella already?”
“Stop the questions!”
“Okay, no more questions. What would you prefer to talk about?”
“I don't want to talk at all.”
George sat down on the woodpile. “So, you're a girl who doesn't like to talk too much? I didn't know that kind existed.” He grinned broadly. “Finding a sensible gal is like finding buried treasure. I definitely want to get to know you better, Miss Myra.”
“I've only known you for four days, and I already know everything I want to know about you. It's as plain as the sun in the sky that you can't stop jabbering like a parrot.”
“People say I grow on them.”
“Yeah, like a wart!”
He chuckled. “Yes, sirree, you're a girl full of ginger. The list of things I like about you is getting powerfully long.”
“Maybe so, but you bore me to tears!"
This reply only added to his mirth. “If you really don't like me being around, you can tell your aunt that you want to do all the chores by yourself. Is that what you're aiming for, Miss Back-East Girl?”
Myra frowned. “I can learn farming easily enough if I want to. For all I care, you can go off and annoy someone else.”
He gazed down at the cut wood he was sitting on. “The chopping you did earlier seems like decent work. You're already used to doing some of the chores, ain't you?”
She stood up again, rested her hands on her hips, and faced him boldly. “Some chores yes; some chores no. When are you going to stop jawing and start earning your pay?”
“I'm not getting paid in coin. Chatting with the pretty new girl in town is my pay; I said that straight-out to your aunt.”
“Hah! My aunt thinks I'm a kid. She's got no call to be deciding who my friends are going to be.”
“Don't you care for your aunt? I like her just fine.”
“You aren't the one she's always bossing around.”
“Of course I am. She pays me to do things for her.”
“If you think she's so nice, you should take her to the Christmas dance. Lord knows that no other man is going to bother with her.”
George made a click at the side of his mouth. “She's got a few years on me. I want to spend time with the sort of gal that I could get serious about.”
“That sure ain't my kind of... gal.”
“I hope that won't always be true. There's precious few young gals of the right sort out here. The two of us are about the same age, I reckon we go to the same church, and neither of us is seeing anybody. Maybe we're neighbors because Providence is working its magic.”
She suddenly looked mad as a volcano ready to blow.
He smiled again, to let her know that he'd only been funning.
Myra, still holding in her temper, said, “Providence is like a mule, if you ask me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because a mule is stupid and stubborn. All it's good for is kicking a man in the teeth when he least expects it!”
“You sound like you've been kicked lately. What happened?”
She gave that a few seconds’ thought, then answered carefully. “I lost both parents, or maybe you didn't get the word about that.”
The youth look abashed. “Pardon, Miss Myra. I plum forgot.”
“If that's the case, you should be working on your memory, and working on that wood pile. If you don't, there's no reason I should be out in the wind jawing with you.”
George seemed to accept that observation and set to work in earnest.
#
About an hour later, with light failing, the air was getting colder. Molly O'Toole climbed back into her carriage and set out for town, while Mrs. Fanning stood waving goodbye from the front door.
As the carriage turned onto the main road, Irene started toward the wood pile. George was putting the ax away for the night, and she called him over to speak to him about something. Myra didn't wait to listen. She no longer felt compelled to stay put, so she went back to the house. A minute or two later, she heard the farm boy riding off, and her aunt joined her indoors.
“Did you and George have a good talk?” Irene asked.
“No, we didn't. I don't care much for the fellow, but you told me I had to keep him company!”
“I suppose I did. Anyway, did you two discuss the Christmas party?”
“He talked about a lot of things. He almost talked my ears off.”
Irene nodded. “Young men often jabber when they happen to like a girl.”
“I know what boys do! And I especially know George Severin. If he hadn't been around so much when I was living here, I probably wouldn't have headed out as soon as I did.”
“You didn't like any of my helpers.”
“Good riddance to the lot of them!”
Irene changed the topic. “I asked George if he'd be willing to clean the hog pen as soon as he has time. If you don't care for having him hereabouts, would you be willing to take on that job yourself?”
The girl looked fit to be tied. “Hell, no! That work is too hard for...”
“For a girl?” Irene gave her niece a “Got you!” smile.
“I'm not a girl. The work is too hard, period. But what does it matter what I want? Go ahead and bust my back; cripple me.”
“You're so dramatic about everything!” Irene stated in exasperation. “Girls clean pig pens, and do even harder chores. I need help to work this piece of land. At least George is willing to pitch in while he earns a wage. We could save a parcel of money if you’d do more of the things that I've been paying him to do.”
Myra looked away, annoyed.
“By the way, Molly suggested that I should make it clearer when I'm... I'm telling you something that is really necessary.”
The girl turned. “When you're giving me an order, you mean.”
“That's not the way I'd like to put it. But this is my idea. For now, when I say something to you and call you 'my girl' when I say it, it means that I'm telling you something important, and that I want you to do what I say.”
“You're always bossing me around. You're not either one of my parents.”
Irene shook her head. “I loved your folks, too, Myra. Your mother was my sister, after all. What happened to them wasn't anyone's fault. Or are you only using them as an excuse to avoid necessary work?”
“I just want to have some time to do the things that I want to do."
“I don't like having to order you about like a servant, not at all. What do you want to do? To run off again and become a girl outlaw this time?”
“What's wrong with trying to better myself?”
“Better yourself with stolen money? Look what it's cost you already. Would you ever have considered robbing people if you knew that it might get you turned into a young lady?”
The girl threw up her hands. “My only mistake was coming home to the craziest town in the world. I don't see why a man should be criticized just for taking care of himself. As long as he doesn't get caught, anyway.”
“But you did get caught – caught by a strange fate that you truly did bring upon yourself. Every time you look into the mirror from now on, think about how different your life could have turned out if you'd only worked a little harder at being honest.”
Myra swung away again, her arms crossed.
Irene sighed. “You certainly don't seem in any mood to talk sense. Now, listen, my girl. Change out of your nice clothes, and take care that you don't dirty or tear them!”
The girl felt this new form of command taking a grip upon her. Teeth clenched in anger, Myra scooped up her pile of cast-off everyday clothing and stomped into the pantry, preferring to change out of sight.
Irene then went to finish supper. This new quarrel had gotten her thinking. Myra didn't like farm work, anymore than Myron had. Would she take to household tasks any better? Irene considered asking Myra for help with the evening’s meal. Then she shook her head. That would probably be pushing things too quickly. ‘Patience would be needed’ she told herself. ‘From what Molly says about these things -- from her own experience with those other potion girls, Myra will eventually start looking at life the way that most young ladies do.” It would be wisest to nudge her in the right direction bit by bit; not try to force things along too hard, especially when she was so likely to get her back up.
December 18, 1871
The next morning, George Severin returned for a full day's labor, game to take on the pig sty. It was a good thing he had had four younger brothers and sisters at home, all old enough to take over the chores while he was away. The youth set the manure cart in a convenient spot before he went into the pen, carrying the farm's four-tined manure fork. He wore his wet-weather boots. The mess at his feet was gummy, and the task called for a strong back like his.
Irene, at her front door, watched the hired man set up. Local folks generally liked George, she knew, and he wasn't known to misbehave – other than by pulling a few boyish pranks when younger. It was too bad that her niece couldn't put away her old grudges. Myron, she knew, hadn't found it easy to make friends – at least, not nearly as easily as he made enemies. He’d often complained that no one liked him, probably one reason why he had left home at just sixteen.
Irene was starting the noonday meal when someone rode in through the gate. Through the window, she saw it was the same big man who had been helping Paul Grant. The deputy and two others, including this man, had found her tied up in the kitchen and cut her loose. Grant’s companions had spoken with some sort of Scandinavian accent. Her present visitor was large, broad-shouldered, and looked very strong. She recalled that his eyes had been the color of shadowy blue ice.
The townsman was getting down from his horse when the farm woman stepped out to meet him. “Is there any news about the outlaws?” she asked.
“Some gude news,” he replied with a single, exaggerated nod. “That pack horse of deirs must have bolted loose when dey vere running and ve found it vit lots of gold in da saddle bags. Paul kept after da bandits vit two of da men, but he sent my bruder and me back to town vit the gold. They're slippery as seals, deese outlaws, and dey yoost may git avay.”
“If they do, I hope they never come back to Eerie!”
“How is Myra doing?”
“She's doing well. She's a brave girl.” Irene then frowned, embarrassed. “Excuse me, but I can't seem to recall your name.”
“Tor,” he said with a good-natured grin. “Tor Johannson.” He pronounced it “Yohannson.”
“You're from... Norway?”
“Sveden! I come over vit my bruders during da var and right off ve got drafted into da army. After a lot of bad stuff, it vas over, and ve vent gold-seeking. Ve came down to Eerie dis year. Ve've been finding gold enough to pay for our beer and beans, but not much more!”
“You speak very good English. Gracious! I don't think I could learn Swedish in a hundred years.”
“Tank you, Mrs. Fanning. You are very kind.”
“Did you come to tell us about the robbers?”
“Yes, and no. It's a funny ting. Out hunting outlaws, I kept tinking that it vas too bad dat you and me didn't get to speak a little more. I t’ought you vere... a handsome woman.”
“You flatter me, sir.”
“I am very sad dat your nephew vas killed.”
Irene regarded Tor. Obviously, the deputy had not shared the whole story with him.
“Paul said dat the boy vas shot by da outlaws,” he continued. “He said dey must’ve hid his body somevhere.” Then the man winced, realizing what he was saying. “I am sorry. I shouldn't be talking about anyting so awful.”
“Yes, it's very hard.”
.
“Vhat I came for vas to ask if you vould let me take you to da Christmas dance next veek. Please forgive me if you are already planning to go vit somebody else.”
This surprised the widow. She had almost no social life in Eerie. Now she now realized that she had kept making excuses to avoid socializing until the local men had stopped asking her.
“No, I wasn’t planning on going to the Christmas party. I haven't been invited to such things in a long time.”
“Dat is a shame; a lady like you!”
“I don't wish to be rude, Mr. Johannson, but I’ve heard bad stories about gold miners. Do we have any mutual friends who... who could vouch for your good character? Other than Deputy Grant, I mean?”
“Vell, I go to Styron's hardware store. Dey know me at da Lone Star Saloon and at da Eerie Saloon.” He looked abashed. “I know dat deese do not sound like very gude places to a church lady like yourself. I yoost to go to church a lot in Sveden, but not so much in America. My bruders and me spend our Sundays up in da hills.”
“Myra has said that you fought bravely to rescue her. I'm very grateful.”
“I did vat I had to. I'm sorry you don't troost prospectors, but I von't be one for long, I tink. Paul says dat da sheriff is tinking about hiring a new deputy... Say, Paul said you know Molly O'Toole. I know Molly, too, and her husband, Shamus. I think they vill tell you dat I am a gude person.”
She smiled, liking the way that Tor Johannson pronounced his long 'O's', as when he said O'Toole. “I did think about taking my niece to the Christmas party,” she said, not entirely truthfully. “We might meet one another there… on the dance floor, perhaps.”
He returned the smile. “Yes, it is very possible that ve may. I von't be vit anyone else.”
“I'm quite sure that I won't be, either... except Myra.” She made a sudden, daring decision. “Mr. Johannson, I am forgetting my manners. Myra and I owe you so much. Won’t you stay and join us for dinner?”
He beamed. “I vould be very pleased.”
Irene led him inside and showed him to a chair. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” she said.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Vell, dat is a good long bit to be yoost sitting around. Vould you mind if I helped out vit da farm chores till den?”
“Oh, Mr. Johannson. That's not at all necessary! You have done so much already. But -- if you really want to, maybe George, the boy outside, will have some suggestions.”
He excused himself and exited. Irene went outdoors herself, circling around to the west side of the house. The farm widow was testing Myra's willingness to do chores that didn't require hard muscles. The girl had been predictably resistant to the idea, but Irene had no choice but to be firm. She was hoping that such busy work would take the edge off her niece's brooding.
“Myra,” she said, “I've decided that it would be a good idea for us to attend the dance next week. I'll drive us there in our buggy. I expect George – and his family -- will also be coming. You won't have to speak to him if you don't wish to, though.”
The girl stopped scrubbing. “What do you want to go to that dance for?” she demanded. “You'll only be a wallflower, and I'll be miserable.”
“I'll fare well enough. This is a chance for both of us to make new friends. Anyway, I might even find someone willing to dance with me once or twice.” The thought, she considered, pleased her.
Myra frowned. “Who are you talking about?” Then she remembered the man who had ridden up to the house a few minutes before. “You're planning to see that… that foreigner, aren't you?” she accused.
“He's Swedish. Anyway, he helped you, didn't he? Wasn't he a good and brave man?”
The young lady looked peevish, but said nothing.
“Please answer, my girl. Wasn’t he?”
Myra felt obliged to reply. “I got no complaints, but it surely was irritating, listening to him mispronounce everything, all the time.”
Irene was not really listening. She was considering Myra's hair, liking the way that Molly had arranged it. ‘It had looked even nicer before Myra had slept on it.’ On impulse, she reached back and touched the tight bun that she had been wearing ever since she was widowed. That bun had grown to be so much a part of her that she hadn't even considered changing it. But now, for some reason, it no longer seemed that tomorrow always had to be exactly the same as the day before yesterday.
“Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” she said absently. “Mr. Johannson will be joining us. I'll call when things are ready.”
Myra was left where she stood, feeling infuriated. ‘Aunt Irene’s acting like a gooney bird,’ the maiden thought. 'And she’s gonna make me go to that tomfool dance and be a public spectacle!’
It was at moments like this one that she almost wished that that dumb yak Ike Bartram had shot her dead.
Almost.
The End… For Now
Thirteen Steps
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2001
A couple of archeology graduate students test their skills and knowledge in deciphering a lost language. What could possibly go wrong?
Thirteen Steps
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 2001
This is yet another of my older stories, a short-short story came from a line in Pamela’s story, "Charlotte's Niece", about letting the dream of a female self become real, while the male self faded away. Thanks again for the inspiration, Pamela.
As you see, it was also an experiment in storytelling.
* * * * *
"You really think this will do anything, Rick?" Andy Traygor sat at his desk looking up from a pile of books. "I doubt it. I don't believe in magic any more than you do." Rick Brant put down his pen. "But nobody's ever found a full description of a Cymmirdian prayer ritual, much less translated it."
"Yeah, but Swinsonn's work last year pretty much gave us a enough of a grammar and vocabulary to try. We were just lucky to find the tablets over at the museum."
"Now, if we got the translation right."
"We do, and we're not even going to have to finish our course work. They'll have to give us our Ph.D.s."
"Archeology grad students crack lost language. Film at 11."
"Let's see if we got it right first. Let me read it aloud." Rick picked up a long sheet of paper from his desk. It was covered with scribbles and notes, but there were clear lines of hand-written text at the bottom.
"Okay. What's this thing supposed to do, again?"
"If we've translated it right, it's supposed to grant the worshipper - me, I guess, his deepest wish." He looked down at the paper and began reading the text, starting with a long exhortation to a set of ancient godlike beings who had not been prayed to in over four millennia.
In some far of the nether realm an ancient something awoke. It heard Rick's voice. Before it returned to the Deathsleep, it chose, on sheerest whim, to grant the unbeliever his true wish.
Step 1:
Andy Tragor sat confidently in his chair listening to his roommate read the text they had worked so long to translate.
The girl was just an imaginary being, no more than a passing dream.
Step 2:
Andy felt a vague chill run through his body.
The air over the chair next to him began to shimmer.
Step 3:
Andy looked pale. He felt weak, as if he had just done a full day of hard, physical labor. He felt a little dizzy.
A pink column of air formed above the second chair then extended down to the floor on one side.
Step 4:
Andy seemed drawn, thinner. His mind began to fog. He could barely manage a coherent thought.
What looked like a line drawing of a girl formed on the pink column of air.
Step 5:
Andy seemed to lose color. His body, his clothing all faded, becoming grayer.
The image of the girl began to gain depth as it spread through and contained the air column.
Step 6:
Andy grew narrower, thinner, as if he were becoming two-dimensional.
The girl's form moved and began to grow more solid. It gained colors, brunette hair and a green sheath that might be a dress.
Step 7:
Andy Traygor looked at the girl in disbelief. She was a more solid form and looked almost like his younger sister.
Angie Traygor looked at the boy in disbelief. He seemed to be losing substance.
Step 8:
The boy was less solid looking now. The colors of his clothes and hair were becoming the same grayish pink as his body.
Angie Traygor was fully formed now. She felt blood circulating in her veins and arteries, air filling her lungs.
Step 9:
The boy's body was losing fine details, fingers grew together, then arms and legs merged into a single mass.
Angie Traygor shifted in the chair, moving her arm as well.
Step 10:
All color seemed to sink into the boy's form. He seemed like a line drawing on a container of pink fog.
Consciousness flowed into Angie Traygor's mind.
Step 11:
The details of the boy faded from the pink fog on the chair.
Angie gasped as the colored areas of her body became clothing and hair, distinct things from her body.
Step 12:
Color faded from the air column until it was just a shimmering above an empty chair.
Angie's mind was filled with the memories of an entire life.
Step 13:
The boy was just an imaginary being, no more than a passing dream.
Angie Traygor sat confidently in her chair listening to her lover read the text they had worked so long to translate.
"That's it," Rick said. He put the paper down on the desk beside him. "Did it sound okay while I was reading it, like a real translation I mean?"
"Yes, yes it did," Angie said. "We aced the translation, but I don't think the magic worked. At least, I don't see any change in anything. Do you?"
"No; I said there was no such thing as magic."
"You sound disappointed."
"It would have been nice." He paused in thought for a moment. "Hey, wait a minute. That spell was supposed to create the reader's most secret wish. Maybe my wish was to become a famous archeologist for translating the tablets."
Angie unbuttoned the top two buttons of her dress. She sat down slowly on the bed and leaned back sensuously until her head was on the pillows. "Isn't there anything else you might have wished for?" Her voice was heavy with meaning and invitation.
Rick tossed the paper towards his desk and began walking towards the bed. "Well, there was one thing."
The End.
Thorvald and Olaf Gundarson are sentenced to three years as outlaws by the medieval parliament of Iceland, and any man can kill they. They seek the help of a wizard, but the help they get is hardly what they expected.
Thorvald's Saga
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2001
Thorvald Gundarson looked skyward. His gray eyes narrowed when a strong breeze blew at his thick, black hair and beard. From the way the clouds were darkening, it would probably begin to snow within the hour. He turned in the saddle and looked at the man riding a few paces behind him. "What's the problem, Olaf? You're falling behind again."
"I'm sorry, Thorvald. My arm is still sore from the fight. Those two men were hard to best. Olaf Gundarson looked much like his older brother, but he was shorter, though much broader at the shoulders. Their father had always said that Thorvald got most of the brains, while Olaf got most of the muscle.
"There was a man on me, too, as you well know. He almost had me, until my knife found its way into his belly. By that time, you had one man down and were about to finish off the other."
"I know, but did you have to kill them both like that?"
"With what they heard -- what _you_ were fool enough to tell them -- yes! Do you like being an outlaw?"
"We've had no real trouble the last few months, and the Allthing did only vote us outlaws for three years."
"'No real trouble,' you say? What about those men -- or any of the others we've had to fight? Any man can kill us without any fear of punishment. Our family won't help us -- father wouldn't even recognize us as his kinsmen. We've had to beg -- or take -- what we needed to survive. It was hard enough in the Summer, but now, with the first snows coming, we'll have more than enough 'real trouble,' my brother."
Olaf winced from the force of Thorvald's words. "Ivar Herjolfson will help us; you'll see. I've heard that he hates the Allthing for letting in those Christian priests. People say that he's helped almost a dozen men escape the sentence of outlaw, even if nobody knows how he did it."
"I've heard those same stories, little brother, and if I weren't so desperate, I wouldn't give them a second thought." He sighed. "Only, I am that desperate. At the worst, maybe we cam talk the old man into sheltering us for the winter." Thorvald's fingers touched the hilt of his sword. He knew more than one way to get what he wanted.
* * * * *
The snow began soon after. The brothers rode quickly, not taking the time to talk. It wasn't just the fierce storm that Thorvald had feared, but the snow was still falling steadily when they finally saw a light ahead of them. "Is it Ivar's farm," Olaf asked.
"It must be -- unless we're very lost. His holding is the only one that I've ever heard of out this far beyond the mountain pass."
"And...and he'll take us in?" Olaf shivered, despite his heavy cloak. "He will take us in, won't he?"
"The law says that he must -- if only till this storm ends. The stories say that Ivar doesn't care much for the law, but what man would force a person -- even an outlaw -- to stay out in such weather?"
"If he is a man." This time it wasn't the cold that made Ivar shiver.
They rode towards the light. After a bit, they could see that it was a shielded torch set burning atop the gatehouse of a high wall, a farm holding. The holding was atop a hill, a fort that commanded the valley surrounding it.
The wind was picking up, now, swirling the snow around them. They hurried to the gate. "Hullo," Thorvald yelled. "We are two travelers who ask the boon of shelter from this storm." He pounded his gloved fist against the gate.
"I know who you are, Thorvald Gundarson, and why you and your brother have come here." The voice was deep and strong. There was the sound of sliding metal. Then the gate opened. A tall man, his hair and beard the same gray color as his fur cloak, stood in the open gateway. "Now hurry, the both of you, so we can all get out of this storm."
Thorvald and Olaf both dismounted and followed the man through the gate, leading their horses behind them. There was another sound of sliding metal. Thorvald turned. A great iron bar now held the gate shut. Yet they had seen no one standing with the old man, nor did any stand by the gate, now. Perhaps the stories _were_ true.
He turned back. Now a slight figure, wrapped in a thick cape and hood, did stand next to the old man. Thorvald looked, but the other man's features were well hidden by the hood. "This one will take your horses to be stabled and fed in my barn," the older man -- Ivar? -- said. The figure held out a gloved hand. First Olaf, then Thorvald handed him their reins. Without a word, the boy -- for he was hardly tall enough to be a man -- bowed and led the horses away.
Thorvald looked around. There were three buildings with the walls; a greathall, perhaps two stories high, was some ten paces ahead. Next to it was a windowless building, a storehouse probably, and work building. Next to that was the barn. The door opened as the boy led the horses to it, and he went in. Thorvald caught a glimpse of two other horses, and he could hear the lowing of cattle, too, protesting the draft from the opened door. Wizard or not, this was the holding of a _wealthy_ man.
"Are you going to stand there all night?" The older man's words broke though Thorvald's thoughts.
"No," Thorvald answered quickly. "It's just that...after being so long on the road, it's nice to be in a warm, sheltered place again."
"We're not half so warm -- or as sheltered as we will be inside," the man said. "Hurry along. I'm cold, even if you're not."
They hurried into the greathall. "It's amazing," Olaf said, looking around.
Torches placed along every wall lit a room that was large enough to seat thirty men or more. Brightly colored tapestries hung from the walls to help keep out the cold. There were also two firepits in the floor, and, at the far end, a stone fireplace large enough for -- for the whole ox that was slowly roasting on a spit within it.
The room was empty -- besides them -- except for two very pretty young women standing by the fireplace. One was slowly turning a crank that made the ox rotate within the fireplace. The other was basting it with a broad brush.
At that moment, a third woman came though a small door near the fireplace. She carried three drinking horns. As she came closer, Thorvald noticed that she was also very pretty. Her dark brown hair was tied in two braids that reached down past her ample bosom. With that hair -- and those dark eyes -- she could almost be the twin of -- no, he pushed the thought from his mind.
The older man -- he had to be Ivar -- took the drinking horns from the woman, who bowed low and hurried off. He handed one to each of the brothers. "Over here," he said, leading them to a large barrel resting on its side atop a nearby table. "Try this." He turned a tap. A pale golden liquid poured from the barrel filling his horn. "I put this up fifteen months ago." He shut the tap and took a long drink. "I think it turned out very well."
Thorvald filled his own horn and cautiously drank. It was mead, honey wine. "I agree with you," he said with a smile. "It's been a long time between drinks, and a much longer time, since I've had anything this good." He took another drink. "What did you flavor it with?"
"Strawberries," the man said. "They grow wild all around this valley, just as they did around your own holding...Thorvald Gundarson."
"How did you know?" Thorvald's hand went to the hilt of his sword. Olaf did the same.
The man smiled. "Stay your hand, Thorvald, Olaf. If I had wished to harm you, I had only to keep my gate closed. There is no other shelter nearby, and the storm will only grow worse during the night."
"Then you are..." Olaf's eyes were wide with fear.
"Ivar Herjolfson?" the man finished Olaf's question. "Yes, I am, and I offer you shelter here -- from the storm and from other things as well."
Before he could answer, Thorvald felt a gust of wind as the door opened and closed behind him. The boy who had put their horses in the barn -- Thorvald recognized the pattern of his cloak -- came in and stood beside Ivar.
"Put that cloak away and go help the others in the kitchen," Ivar said.
The figure nodded and pulled back the cloak's hood to reveal a mass of blonde curls surrounding a moon-shaped face with eyes the color of cornflowers. As she took of her cloak, Thorvald saw that the girl -- how could he have ever thought that she was a boy? -- was slender, but with well-rounded breasts that strained against the white blouse she wore. She smiled and bowed, then, Thorvald thought, she winked at him, before she curtsied and hurried off to the kitchen.
"You have lovely daughters," Olaf stammered. "Where is your wife that we can properly greet her?"
Ivar laughed. "I have no wife, Olaf, and these women are my...servants, not my children."
"What of your male servants?" Thorvald looked around the room, trying to guess where someone might hide -- or wait in ambush. Were arrows trained on him even as he stood talking to Ivar?
"I have no male servants, Thorvald," Ivar said, chuckling as if at some hidden joke. "You and Olaf may relax. I've already said that I have no desire to bring either of you to any harm."
"No men," Olaf said with some surprise, "but who does your heavy work, the plowing, the tending to the cattle, and such?"
Ivar smiled. "These same women that you have seen, and several others like them. Some of them are quite strong, and, of course, I am always here to help them in the work."
"And we can help them as well," Thorvald said, seeing an opening. "It is only right that we help our host for as long as we _are_ your guests here."
"Always to the point, eh, Thorvald," Ivar said with a laugh, slapping Thorvald on the back. "Have another mead; you need something to take the full chill out of your bones. We can talk more about your staying while we dine."
Thorvald shrugged. Ivar could only stall for so long, and the mead was very good. He poured himself a second drink and listened to his brother prattle on about the storm and how far they had ridden from their own settlement.
Once Olaf started to talk something about the Allthing and their trial. Thorvald was about to stop him, but -- to his surprise -- Ivar changed the subject. It was as if the older man already knew what they had done and wished to hear no more about it.
Before Thorvald could say another word, the kitchen door opened. The young woman who had brought out the drinking horns came out carrying a tray of bread. She put the bread and several small bowls at the table near the fireplace, curtsied, and went back into the kitchen.
"Food at last," Ivar said. "Come, bring your horns and join me."
As Thorvald and Olaf walked to the table, they could smell the aroma of freshly baked bread. It was still warm when they broke off large pieces and used their knives to smear them with the mixture of honey and butter that was in the small bowls. Thorvald ate slowly, still wary of traps, but Olaf cheerfully stuffed himself.
"Slowly, Olaf, slowly," Ivar said with a laugh. "There is far more than bread at my table." The door opened again, and the same brunette walked out, this time with another woman that they hadn't seen before. The two carried a steaming kettle of soup -- fish soup by the smell of it, thick and full of vegetables. Ivar tasted it, then nodded for it to be served to his two guests.
Thorvald sipped at the soup. It was exquisite, especially to someone who hadn't had a hot meal in almost a fortnight. "This is as fine a board as any I have ever been served, Ivar, but I can't enjoy it until I know how long my brother and I will be able to stay and share such bounty."
"Well spoken, very well spoken," Ivar said, slapping him on the back. "Very well, then. You and your brother are my...guests. You may stay as long as either of you wishes."
"But...but the Allthing," Olaf blurted. Realizing what he had said, he put his hands to his mouth as if trying to push the words back down his throat.
"Hang the Allthing!" Ivar spat on the ground. "Those weak fools should never have let in those damned Roman priests. Now half of them -- half the people here in Iceland -- have crosses on the backs of their Thor's hammers. They pray to that dead, pale godling of theirs as much as they do to Odin and the other, _true_ gods. Why should I worry about them _or_ what they think?"
Thorvald sighed in relief. "Well said, Ivar Herjolfson. Olaf and I will be proud to accept your hospitality."
Ivar looked at Thorvald strangely. "Proud? Yes, pride is very much a part of you, isn't it Thorvald. Well, life often teaches us new ways, doesn't it?"
"Umm, yes, I suppose it does." Thorvald puzzled for a moment, then shrugged and went back to the soup. The old man was playing with him. He didn't like it, but he would bear it -- for now.
As the men were finishing the soup, the women came out of the kitchen again and put down trays filled with slabs of roast meat and bowls of sliced turnips cooked in a spiced cheese sauce. While the men ate this, the women kept refilling their drinking horns with mead. Three other women, equally pretty to Thorvald's mind, came in with musical instruments and began to play. A fourth woman, dressed _most_ immodestly and with tiny cymbals on her fingers, danced to the odd melodies the others were plating. She swayed her body and moved her arms in a manner that was all but an invitation.
* * * * *
The sun streaming in through a window shutter woke Thorvald. He was in a bed -- a wonderfully soft bed -- under thick sleeping furs. He felt the fur against his skin. He was naked. Then he felt something else. He wasn't alone. His right hand was on a woman's breast. He moved it slightly, rubbing the nipple between two fingers.
"Mmm," came a woman's voice. "Don't do that unless..." A hand reached down, fingers curling around his manhood. "Well, it seems that you _are_ ready for more, my Lord."
Thorvald opened his eyes and turned in the direction of the voice. It was the blonde -- 'Gerda'; the name sprang into his head. She smiled, then leaned over and kissed him. Her tongue went into his half-opened mouth and played with his own. He felt himself stiffen. Gerda rolled over on top of him, sitting upright on his thighs. Her hand guided his manhood to her cleft. She was hot and more than ready for him.
"You just lie there, and I'll do the work this time, my Lord," she said, moving her hips against him. "Of course, if you'd like to play with my tits while I do, well, go right ahead."
Thorvald grinned and began to cup her breasts, his fingers rubbing and tweaking the nipples. Gerda moved her hips back and forth. She was tight. It almost felt as if there was a hand grasping at, pumping his manhood. She leaned back, her hands grabbing his ankles for support.
"Oh, yes," she moaned. "It feels so...so good, like...like be-before. It was...was ne-never like this when...when I...oh, uhh, uhh!" Her body stiffened, and she screamed a high pitched wail even as she began to spasm.
The scream, the movement, whatever it was, it was enough to set Thorvald off. He felt his own body stiffen as he pumped what felt like a gallon of his essence into Gerda.
Then, it was over. Thorvald felt his maleness begin to grow soft again. Gerda leaned forward, her breasts rubbing against his chest, and kissed him. Kissed him very hard. She slid off him and lay down on the furs. She shifted her body, so that her head rested on his chest. "You were wonderful," she said softly. "Please just hold me for a while."
Thorvald put his arm around her, his hand resting on her hip. She snuggled up against him. Ivar's words, "stay as long as either of you wishes", came back to him. It would be a _long_ stay if all the mornings were like this one. He smiled; then both he and Gerda drifted back to sleep.
* * * * *
"Well, you two certainly enjoyed yourself." Ivar's voice woke Thorvald. Gerda was still with him -- still nude, he felt her flesh against his -- though their bodies were somehow covered by the sleeping furs.
"Ivar...I...she...I'm." If the old man was angry, his offer of refuge would vanish like a May snowfall.
Ivar laughed at the stammering. "Don't be afraid, Thorvald. Gerda is my...servant. What she did with you -- both last night and this morning -- why, that is just a part of her...duties. Isn't it, Gerda?"
Gerda sat up at the sound of her name. "Yes, my Lord Ivar." Her voice sounded odd, without emotion.
"And so is tending to _my_ needs. Now, get downstairs and help the others clean the hall."
"Yes, my Lord Ivar." Again, there was no emotion in her voice. With no concern for modesty, she tossed back the furs and climbed out of bed. She grabbed her clothes on the run from where they had been tossed the night before and wriggled into her long tunic. A moment later, still barefoot, she was out the door.
"Then it doesn't matter to you what Gerda and I did?"
"No, though I was a bit surprised at your choice. I thought that you would bed Angmar."
"Angmar, which one is she?" Thorvald felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, an almost sure sign that he was in some kind of danger.
"She's the one that you thought looked so much like Sigurd Karlson's wife."
"How could you know what I thought." Then the realization hit Thorvald. "You know what I did, don't you?"
"Yes, Thorvald, I've known all along. You raped her, you and your brother, and left her for dead."
"She...she _was_ alive when we left her. I swear it! We paid the wergild, Olaf and I did, but we didn't kill her."
"Enough! I believe you. So did the Allthing -- eventually. That's why they only voted you outlaws for three years, rather than for life."
"Three years is more than long enough. Sigurg's tried to kill us a half dozen times, at least. The last was only a few days ago, and not very far from here."
"Indeed, Karlson is a very stubborn man, though after what you two did, it's no great wonder that he wants revenge."
"And you still offer us shelter -- offer me your woman. Why?"
"Why not just say that it's my way of taunting the Allthing." He paused and stroked his gray beard as if considering some great problem. "I offer you even more. You and your brother can be freed of the name 'outlaw' if you wish it."
"How...how is that possible?" Thorvald had wished for such of thing, but he had never believed that it could happen.
"In the same way that everything else you've seen here is possible. I pay the proper respect to the old, the true gods, Odin, Thor, and the rest. They repay me by granting me the power to...do such things. He paused. "Now, are you interested in having the sentence lifted -- or do you enjoy being an outlaw?"
"Of course not," Thorvald felt himself grow suspicious. "But, what will it cost me -- cost us, my brother and me? An outlaw has little in the way of wealth."
"There is a price for everything, for _almost_ everything, in this world. The price for this...service, though, is one that you can afford."
"In that case, how soon before you can do this magic for us?"
"How soon would you have me begin?"
"Begin what?" Olaf stood in the doorway, a tall redheaded woman that Thorvald didn't remember standing next to him, her hand in his. Both were wrapped in sleeping furs. There was no hint of clothes underneath.
"Ivar says that he can somehow undo our sentence," Thorvald said. "We wouldn't be outlaws any more."
"How...how could he do that?" Olaf asked.
"Magic," Ivar said. "A small gift from the true gods."
"Let me dress," Olaf said, "and we can begin."
* * * * *
In less than half an hour, they were standing in the greathall. There had been several women in the hall when they walked in, clearing up a mess that Thorvald did not remember from the night before. But as soon as they saw Ivar and the look on his face, they all curtsied and hurried out. Gerda and Olaf's redhead had gone with them.
"Stand on either side of the firepit," Ivar said, pointing. The two men positioned themselves near the stone ring in the floor. The fire had burned low, little more than coals remained.
"Can you do Olaf first," Thorvald said. Something in him grew cautious. This was a wonderful gift, and it was coming much too easy for him not to be suspicious. "I'm curious to see what you're going to do."
Ivar nodded. "Curious or suspicious, it makes no difference. I'll do as you ask, but...." He gestured with his hands. Thorvald tried to take a step and found that he couldn't move any part of his body except his head.
"What...what have you done to me?" Thorvald demanded.
"Nothing yet," a voice said. A tall, brown-haired man dressed in an expensive tunic was suddenly standing near Ivar.
"Sigurd!" Thorvald said. "Ivar...my good friend, how -- what -- is Sigurd Karlson doing here?"
"I've come to see justice done," Sigurd said. His smile was the smile of a wolf watching its prey.
"Come to kill us, while Ivar's magic keeps us from defending ourselves," Thorvald spat. "Ivar, I thought that you hated the Allthing and their justice. Why are you helping this man carry out their sentence."
"I'm no lover of the Allthing," Ivar said. "But I do believe in justice of my own sort. Especially when the one seeking justice is kinsman to me."
"Kinsman?" Thorvald's heart sank. "But if this was to be our fate, why did you send those other men after us, Sigurd?"
"To force you to come this way, to seek my cousin's help," Sigurd said. "I know you, Thorvald, you and your brother both. I knew that those men would never manage to kill you."
"So you and your cousin will kill us now." Thorvald said. "Where is the honor in killing a man who cannot make a move to defend himself, Ivar?"
"Oh, we won't kill you," Ivar said. "My magic will do as I promised. You will live, and you will no longer be outlaws."
"I...I don't understand," Thorvald said.
"But you will," Ivar said. "In fact, I'll even grant your request and change Olaf first, so you may watch." He made a number of odd gestures and murmered very low. Thorvald could hear only a few words. Mostly, Ivar seemed to be invoking Loki, the shapeshifter, and Freya, Odin's wife.
Thorvald heard a low moan and turned his head to look at Olaf.
His brother's beard seemed to be pulling back into his head, growing shorter until his chin was revealed. At the same time, the hair on Olaf's head grew longer, thicker, flowing in waves down past his shoulders.
Olaf grew smaller at the same time, shrinking a foot or more. He was thinner, too. The great muscles of his arms seemed to melt away, leaving them slender, curved. His hands grew smaller as well, losing some of their roughness, as his fingers grew out, longer and more slender than before.
Olaf was still moaning, but his voice seemed much higher now. Thorvald looked at his brother's face. Olaf's jaw was narrower and his cheekbones higher. His complexion was paler. His lips seemed larger, pouting, even as his nose, broken in more than one fight, shrank in size.
"No," Thorvald gasped. His brother now had the face and, it seemed, the body of a woman. Yes, it was a woman's body. Olaf's now oversized tunic shrank to fit him, revealing a set of feminine curves: narrow waist, wide hips, and -- by Thor's Thunder! -- large, well-rounded breasts. The tunic grew longer, becoming a woman's garment, even as Olaf's long hair twisted itself into a pair of braids that hung to just below his shoulders.
"Olaf, what has happened to you?" Thorvald said, not believing what he had seen.
The new maiden's eyes grew wide. She spoke, her voice almost without emotion. "I...I used to be Olaf, but he is...gone. I am...Ulli, now, a servant in all things to my master, my Lord Ivar." He...she ran over to Ivar and modestly kissed him on the cheek. Ivar put his arm around her, resting a hand low on her hip.
"There, Thorvald," Ivar said. "It is exactly as I promised. Olaf Gundarson, the outlaw, no longer exists, and the Allthing has never passed judgement on Ulli, my new maidservant." He laughed. "And now for you."
Ivar seemed to repeat the same combination of odd gestures and softly muttered words. Thorvald strained and pulled with his mind, but he was unable to move his body the slightest bit.
Then, he felt a tingling throughout his entire body. He felt his chin tickle as if something was happening to his beard. Then a...coolness on the newly exposed parts of his face as the tickling moved to his scalp.
Thorvald looked down at his hands, the only part of his body that he could see. He watched them shrink and grow more feminine looking until his sleeves came down over them as his body shrank. Then his tunic grew shorter, and he could see them again. But only for a moment until something grew out from his chest to block the view. Thorvald realized that it was his breasts.
He felt his manhood stiffen, the way it had for Gerda, perhaps an hour before. Then the feeling changed as it seemed to pass up into his body. 'No,' Thorvald thought sadly, 'into her body." Somehow, she seemed able to accept the change. It was over now, and she was just another of Ivar's servants.
Ivar! Not _Master_ Ivar. Thorvald's heart leaped. Something had gone wrong. Or gone right. She was not enslaved to Ivar. Sigurd would not....The thought stopped as she felt her body begin to tingle again. No, no, not Ivar. Sigurd was her master. She felt her breasts, her groin tingle as the name came to her mind. The name -- _his_ name.
The girl who had been Thorvald Gundarson ran over and knelt on the ground before her master. "My Lord, my master, Sigurd Karlson." It thrilled her to say the words aloud. "I am --" What was her name, the name that _he_ wished her to have? "I am Thordis, your slave. Please, I beg you to take me as your slave and to do with me as you will."
As she said it, Thordis knew that it was true. She felt a moistness, an emptiness between her legs and a hunger that only her Lord Sigurd would ever be able to satisfy.
Just then, a shutter rattled from the wind. "I think the storm begins again, my cousin," Ivar said. "Perhaps you should plan to stay a few more days."
"I will, Ivar, and thank you for...everything. My Brunna rests easier now."
"And you," Ivar asked, "do you rest easier?"
"I think so," Sigurd said. "I do know that no matter what drafts may come through your shutters, my bed tonight will be most warm."
The End
Postscript.
The Allthing is the Icelandic parliament, the oldest in Europe, going back roughly 1,000 years. They could vote a person an outlaw for a set time or for life. While a person was an outlaw, any could kill them and not be punished.
Wergild was a fine paid for killing another person. The amount varied with the social rank, gender, age, and, sometimes, occupation or trade of the victim.
Icelandic names, even today, take the form used in the story. By way of example, Karl Ragnarson had two children, Sigurd Karlson and his sister, Helga Karlsdaughter.
Vikings wore amulets in the shape of a small hammer as a religious token. When Christianity came to the island, some who converted "hedged their bets" and wore amulets with the Thor's Hammer on one side and a cross on the other. Some graves even had both symbols on them. A number of worshippers of the old, Norse gods considered this hypocritical at best.
Triple Play
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2004
Chemist Matt Bauer developed a drug that temporarily transformed any woman who took it into an insatiable nymphomaniac. Then, as it wore off, she forgot what happened. She didn't know what happened OR who had done it to her.
Matt and his two best friends use the drug for a game, bringing drugged women to Matt's apartment for a night of sexual "fun." Then, one night, Matt picked the wrong woman as his latest victim.
Triple Play
By Ellie Dauber
(c) 2004
Author's Note: If you ever wondered whether there was a point to posting comments to a story, this story is your answer. When I first posted it to the TG_Fiction List, it had a different ending. But, after reading and thinking about comments I got from from Jezzi, Steve Zink, and Ron Green, I re-worked it to the ending it has now.
Thanks for the help.
* * * * *
Matt Bauer saw his prey about twenty minutes after he took up position at the bar.
Last week's girl had been young, barely 20, some ex-prom queen who hardly knew her way around the missionary position. She hadn't given very good head, either.
Matt idly wondered if she remembered what they'd taught her. The drug neutralized the mechanism of short term memory transfer. He and the others would never be recognized by one of their victims. Skills, involved "muscle memory", so some of should remain. He sighed a little. He'd never know; the rules of the game said that prey was not to be contacted a second time.
This one, tonight's prey, didn't look like they'd need to teach her anything. She was older, in her thirties, maybe. She had a Meg Ryan sort of face, youthful and pixy-ish and surrounded by a mass of honey blonde spit curls. From the way she carried herself, this was a woman who was happy with her body and enjoyed her sexuality.
She had class, and a little money, too, judging from the cut of the navy business suit she was wearing. That made it more fun. The drug destroyed restraint. When it hit, the most inhibited woman would rip off her clothes. She'd do anything she could to arouse the men, stroking herself, caressing the man and begging to be fucked, like the slut she -- that every woman truly was.
"Well, time to get to it," he muttered to himself. He stood up from the barstool, picked up his beer, and walked over to the small table she was sitting at. "Excuse me," he said, flashing his best smile. "I noticed that you were sitting alone, and I wondered if I might join you."
It was the last hurdle. If she said, "No," or said that she was waiting for someone, he'd have wasted his time. He'd have to find a new prey.
She didn't. She looked up at him for a moment, as if sizing him up. That wasn't a problem. Matt knew that he wasn't bad looking: strong, slender figure that was only two pounds heavier than when he was in college, straight dark hair, killer smile. She must have thought so, too. She smiled and gestured at the empty chair opposite her.
"Thanks," he said as he sat down. "I'm Matt... Matt Bauer."
"Chloe Weaver. Nice to meet you, Matt."
"Likewise. Are you a local? I don't recall seeing you in here before, and I know that I'd have remembered you if I had." It was a slight twist on an old pick-up line.
"I don't get over to this part of town very often. There's a new gallery just opened near here, and I came over to check their collection."
"Are you an artist?"
"Not exactly. I'm a collector of sorts. They had some wonderful new pieces by a couple of artists whose work I follow, Vickie Wyman and Donato Giancolo."
Matt let her talk for a while, pretending to listen and nodding his head and saying, "Uh-huhn" as he thought necessary. Eventually, he did interrupt. "I'm going for another beer. May I get you one?"
"Boring you, am I?" She said it as a joke.
"No, never," he said. He wanted to say, "Of course you are," but that would never do for what he was planning." Instead, he gave her a well-practiced smile and added, "I'm kind of intrigued by those -- what'd you call them -- anthropomorphics you said Wyman did. I may check that gallery out myself." He waited a count. "Or you could join me there some time."
"Maybe." She seemed to like the idea. "For now, I'll settle for a Sam Adams Red."
He nodded and walked to the bar. He was back a few minutes later, a beer in each hand. "Here you go." He put one beer down in front of Chloe. The drug had dissolved by now. It mixed happily with alcohol, leaving no trace color, odor, or taste. Chloe took a sip even as he sat down. That was all the chance the drug needed.
Matt endured another five minutes of her "girly-babble." The woman was drifting off from that stupid art gallery and over to some kind of show at the local museum. He just kept smiling and nodding.
Then Chloe's eyes dilated.
It was the first sign that the drug was working on her. Her face suddenly flushed. "Oh... oh, my," she said, sounding slightly disoriented. "That beer seems to be hitting me rather harder than I expected."
"You're hungry," Matt said firmly. The drug heightened suggestibility. "You need something more than just the nachos they serve here."
Chloe stared at him, blinking her eyes. "Okay." The drug was definitely working now.
'This is going to be fun,' Matt thought. He stood and offered her his hand. "We'll go then."
She rose unsteadily to her feet. "Oopsie," she said with a giggle, her voice even higher. She took his arm and let him guide her out of the bar.
* * * * *
"Here we are." Matt fished around in his pocket until he found the apartment key. Chloe was holding his other arm tightly, as she pressed up against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
"Rest'rant?" She slurred more and more of her words every time she spoke.
Matt shook his head as he opened the door. "No, this is much, much better. You'll like this place."
"Hokay."
Two men were sitting on the couch. They stood as Matt lead the woman in. The taller one used a remote to turn off the basketball game they'd been watching. "You certainly took your time, Matthew. I was back with mine more than thirty minutes earlier, last week."
The man was tall and thin, with stylish razor cut blond hair. His green-gray suit was expensive and the latest Italian style. It made a sharp contrast with the denim work shirt and jeans the shorter man wore.
The shorter man scratched his head, running his fingers through his longer, brown hair. "Yeah, and we spent that extra time teaching the dumb slut what we wanted her to do." He looked carefully at Chloe and grinned. "We ain't gonna have to teach this one nothing. She was worth that extra time."
"Thank you for that, at least," Chloe said, suddenly straightening up. "But I very much doubt that this evening is going to be anything like what you three had planned."
"What the hell," the short man shouted. "Matt, she's not drugged."
"No, I'm not," Chloe said, not fully keeping the anger from her voice. She gestured at the three men. "But you are."
The men felt something hit their bodies. They suddenly felt very dizzy. Now, their eyes dilated, and they swayed. It was getting hard to keep their balance.
"Sit down." Chloe's voice was very firm. The two men sank back down onto the couch. Matt simply dropped to the floor. "Over with them," Chloe added.
"Hokay." Matt smiled vaguely. He stood up slowly and staggered over to join his friends.
Chloe idly fingered the broach on her jacket, a stylized silver spindle. "While we all wait for my sisters to arrive, why don't you tell me who you two are, and what the three of you have been up to?"
The taller man rose unsteadily to his feet. "I'm Jimmy... H. James Randolph, and I..." He giggled. "I wasn't doing nothing." He raised his right hand, palm held outward, "S'help me, G-d." He giggled again and lowered his hand before he sank back onto the couch.
"So, help you..." Chloe shook her head. "What about you?" she asked the other man. "Tell me, what you've been doing."
The man grinned. "We... we're just having a little ha-harmless fun with those pills Matt made."
Bauer sat up. "Don't say nothing, Pete. You'll spoil ev'rything."
"Quiet, Bauer." A slender woman in a black sheath dress appeared next to him and pushed him against the back of the couch. Her resemblance to Chloe was obvious despite her long, straight black hair.
Matt Bauer blinked at her. Then he grinned and made a motion across his lips as if working a zipper.
"You," the newly-arrived woman said, "Pete, is it? Keep talking."
Pete nodded. "Pete Edmonds, ma'am. Matt made these pills. They make a chick so horny, she'll do 'bout anything ya want her to." He grinned from past memories. "Then she falls asleep and forgets aaall about it."
"We take turns," the taller man... Randolph said. "Diff'rent one each week finds a girl and brings her back here for fun 'n' games."
"Fun!" the brunette spat the words. "You three bastards have a pretty nasty idea of fun." She made a scissors motion with two fingers. "Maybe we should just put an end to the three of you."
"Still as bloodthirsty as you ever were, Leslie." The speaker was a brunette in a pale green knit dress that did nothing to hide her lush finger.
The three men blinked in surprise at the sight of a third woman appearing out of thin air. "How'd you do that?" Pete asked.
"Magic," the brunette said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "What I'd like to know is why you three did what you did."
"They're men," Leslie Weaver said. "They haven't changed in three thousand years. You know that, Andrea."
"Some of them have learned better," Andrea said.
"Not these three," Leslie answered. "You..." she pointed at Pete. "What made you do such a thing to all those poor women?"
"Wh... why not?" Pete said. "Bitches just wanna find some guy they can sponge off of and wring everything they can outta him. They'll use their bods to... to get what they want."
"And just what could a woman want from you?" Chloe asked.
"Sue, Sue Wagner, she moved in with me almost a year ago, lets me work t'pay the rent and all. Then she says I got her pregnant. She ain't gonna get rid of it. She says I gotta marry her and spend the rest of my days spending my dough on her and the sprout."
"And you don't want to?" Andrea asked, already knowing the answer.
"Why should he?" Randolph asked. "Why buy a cow..."
"When milk is free," Matt completed the cliché.
"Go to sleep," Leslie said firmly to the men. Their eyes closed immediately. They fell against the back of the couch, snoring softly.
"After that line about the cow, I'm almost ready to go along with Leslie," Andrea said.
"I've got a better idea," Chloe smiled a predator's smile. "Andrea, take a quick look at their lifethreads, just give me the highlights." She gestured oddly at the men. "We'll let them sleep, while I rework the threads, and, when they wake up, it'll be to their worst nightmares."
* * * * *
[Matt's Lifethread: Matthew Bauer, Ph.D., a senior researcher and director of narco- and neuro-pharmaceutical research at Quinn Laboratories, author of some 50 published papers. Matt is proudest of his IQ of 178, thinking about it the way a bodybuilder might think of his muscles. He first used a crude form of the drug to discredit a female colleague who had charged him with sexual harassment.]
Mandi Bauer rolled over to look at her clock radio. "Wha... 6:30? I never get up that..." She shook her head. "What am I thinking? I always get up this early 'cause it takes so long to pick out the right outfit and get ready for work." She yawned and stretched, enjoying the feel of the silk sheets against her bare skin. She always slept in the nude -- even when she was alone in her bed.
Mandi climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. 'A shower first,' she thought. Her nipples crinkled at the thought of the variable pulse on her showerhead, her hand-held showerhead. "Mmm, I guess there's, like, enough time for a little fun before work."
* * * * *
[Pete's Lifethread: Pete Edmonds, salesman in Franz Sporting Goods Store. He's been dating Sue Weber on and off for almost two years, and he talked her into moving in with him about ten months ago. He's not sure the baby is his. He doesn't know if Sue's been exclusive, but he considers himself something of a ladies' man, and he knows that he hasn't been.]
Patty Edmonds Weber took a big sip of the mouthwash, swished it around, and spit it into the sink. She took a breath, feeling the nausea settling in her stomach.
"You okay, hon?" her husband, Stu asked from the bedroom.
She smiled a little. At least the vomit taste was gone. "I guess so. I think the morning sickness isn't hitting me quite as hard as it did at first." She gently rubbed her stomach, feeling the slight bulge of a three-month pregnancy under her flannel nightgown. "I just feel so... it's like I'm not supposed to be this way."
"Having second thoughts?"
"And third and fourth ones." She shook her head.
"While you're having all those thoughts, here's one thing for you to remember."
"What's that?" She took a step and suddenly felt wobbly. She grabbed onto the sink for balance.
Stu was beside her in an instant. "Here lean on me." He put an arm around her.
"Th-thanks. Now what was that thing I supposed to remember?"
"I just told you, 'lean on me.' That's my... our baby you're having. I love you for it, and I'll be there for you... for the both of you."
Patty felt confused and reassured at the same time and didn't know why. She did know that she was grateful. "Thank you, Stu... for everything." She put a hand on his arm. "I think I'm okay, now." She took a step then another and felt neither weak nor dizzy. "You can finish getting ready for work."
"Okay." He picked out a tie and put it around his neck under his shirt collar. "You want me to fix you any breakfast?"
Patty walked back into the bedroom. "Thanks, but I'll make something after you leave. Right now I just want to get back to bed for a bit, okay." She walked back over and climbed into bed.
Stu came over and kissed her on the forehead. "Okay, then, I'll see you tonight after work."
"Okay, I'll..." She suddenly remembered something. "I... I have a couple appointments this afternoon. I'll be home about six."
He sighed. "I'll be waiting for you, then, with take-out for supper. Is "the Colonel" okay?"
"Extra crispy for me, okay."
* * * * *
[James' lifethread: H. James Randolph, rising junior partner in the law firm of Haskell, Dornan, and Young, specializing in tax and civil law. He is the firm's chief political "player", proudly advising major clients on financial and political matters.]
The intercom on Jaimie Randolph's desk buzzed. "Yes, Mr. Dornan," she answered.
"Jaimie, come onto my office, please, and bring your pad."
Jaimie picked up a secretarial pad and two pens and headed for Dornan's office. Her boss, a stocky, well-dressed man in his late fifties, was sitting at the conference table in his office, talking to another man, a balding man about the same age and equally well-dressed. Both men stood as she entered.
"Jaimie," Dornan said, "this is John Simmonds of the Simmonds Investment Group.
"Mr. Simmonds," Jaimie said, making a mental note of the man's name and business for future reference. In the back of her mind, she had the feeling that she'd met him before. 'That's silly,' she thought. 'Not an important man like him.'
"Shall we get down to it?" Simmonds asked, sitting back down.
"By all means," Dornan said. "Jaimie, this is for a confidential file, but I'll want your notes to review by the close of business today."
"Yes, sir." Jaimie sat down at the corner of the conference table. She opened her pad and made a quick note about the date and time of the meeting, then waited for Mr. Dornan to begin.
Simmonds was planning a major new development, an office park at the edge of the city. He'd hired the firm to handle the legal aspects -- and the political ones. About an hour into the discussion, Jaimie thought that she heard Mr. Dornan misquote a section of the zoning codes that had to be considered. She coughed softly to get the men's attention.
"Yes, Jaimie?" Mr. Dornan asked.
'What am I thinking?' Jaimie panicked. 'I'm not even a paralegal; I don't know about that sort of stuff.' She stammered for a moment, then asked. "I... ah... just thought that if this... meeting was going to go on for a while, you or Mr. Simmonds might... want some... ahh... coffee."
"Coffee, John?" Dornan asked.
"I'm fine," Simmonds said curtly. "Unless your girl has any other interruptions, let's get back to work."
"S-Sorry," Jaimie said. 'Never do that again,' she told herself.
"As I was saying," Mr. Dornan said, returning to the topic.
* * * * *
Herb Zimmer's voice cut through the music coming over the shipping department's PA system. "Mandi... Mandi Bauer, please come to my office... now."
Mandi's in trouble; Mandi's in trouble," Karen Parker whispered in a singsong voice from the next workspace.
"Stop it, Karen." Mandi stood up. Then she remembered and turned back to her PC for a moment to save the file she was working on. She straightened her mini-skirt and headed for her boss's office. "What is it, Herb?" she asked from his opened doorway.
"Come in, Mandi, and close the door behind you." Herb was a pudgy man in his thirties sitting behind a heavily cluttered desk. When Mandi had shut the door, he looked up at her and asked. "Mandi, Do you remember where that shipment of trialobrin was supposed to go?"
"Oh, sure, to that distributor in Chicago... right?" She smiled, sure that she'd been able to remember.
"Then why does the paperwork have a Bridgeport, Connecticut, ZIP code?"
"It can't... can it?"
"It can... and it does." He turned his PC around, so she could see the screen. "You messed up the ZIP code again. We have a "last minute delivery" contract with those folks. If we're late, there's a $50,000 penalty clause."
"I... I'm s-sorry."
"Mandi, this is the third time this has happened since the beginning of the year. That's why I have to double-check your routing before the orders get sent out."
"I... the numbers... I just get, like, confused sometimes."
Zimmer sighed, running his fingers through his thinning brown hair. "But you can't be, not for this job." He sighed again. "Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn't just let you go?"
Mandi reached behind her and locked the office door. "'Cause there's, like, other stuff that I do real good." She walked over to his desk, her hips swaying sensually. Then she knelt down next to him. "Real, real good." She ran her tongue across her upper lip, as she began to unzip his pants.
* * * * *
"Hello, Patty," Dr, Richter said, coming into the examining room. "How have you been since I saw you last?"
Patty put down the magazine she'd been reading. "Not too bad, Doctor. My morning sickness is still a problem, but it doesn't seem to be as bad as it bad been." She took a breath. "I... ah... am a little concerned about my weight. I've been trying to be careful, but I... should I be gaining as fast as I am?"
"It depends on the pregnancy. By the way, is Mr. Weber --"
"Stu." It seemed odd for a moment when she said it, but how could that be?
"Is Stu here today?"
"Was he supposed to be? Is there is problem?"
"No, no, you must have forgotten. Today I'm bringing in the fetal monitor, so you can hear your baby's heartbeat."
'What's the matter with me?' Patty asked herself. 'I barely remembered my prenatal exam this morning, and I know I wanted to share this with Stu? Didn't I.'
"Don't be concerned, Patty," Dr. Richter said, reading her expression. "Pregnancy is a big distraction. If you'd like, we can hook a tape machine to the monitor, and you can play it for Stu at home tonight."
"Oh, would you do that?"
"Certainly." He pushed am intercom button on the wall phone. "Keisha, this is Dr. Richter in room 3. We're not quite ready for you yet. Would you please hook up a tape player to the fetal monitor for when you bring it in?"
A staticky "Yes, Doctor," came back over the phone.
"Now, let's get you up on the table and check everything out." Patty nodded. She talked over and slowly lay down on the low examination table. "Hold on," Richter said. He pushed a button on the side of the table, and it gently lifted upward about a foot. When it stopped, Richter raised two y-shaped bars up out of the base of the table and locked them in place.
Patty lifted her legs automatically, putting one in each stirrup. It seemed odd for a moment, though it was hardly her first gynecologic examination. 'I guess I just feel vulnerable like this,' she thought, 'but it's important to do for the baby.'
A moment later, she shivered as she felt the speculum sliding into her. 'Why can't that thing ever be warm?' She felt the doctor moving the speculum inside her and heard him muttering to himself as he did so. After a few minutes, he carefully removed it. His fingers gently pressed on her stomach.
"Everything's in order," he finally said in a cheery tone. "Now let's hear what the baby has to say on the subject. He took off his gloves and presses the intercom again. "You can come in now, Keisha."
A moment later, a tall black woman pushed an equipment cart into the room. "Hi, I'm Keisha. You ready to hear your baby?"
Patty smiled nervously. "As ready as I'll ever be."
Keisha put on rubber gloves and picked up a small tube of ointment. "Now don't you be nervous, Mrs. Web --"
"Patty."
"Don't be nervous, Patty. I've done this a hundred times, and you know what always happens?" Patty shook her head. "Some happy mama hears her little baby's heartbeat." She gave Patty's hand a reassuring squeeze and began to use the ointment to attach a set of tiny dots -- micro-sensors connected by wire to the monitor -- to Patty's stomach.
"Is the tape recorder hooked up?" Patty asked. "My husband --"
"He'll hear it all," Keisha said. "Starting..." She flipped a switch on the monitor. "...now."
The monitor hummed for a moment. Then the sound of a heartbeat filled the room. It was followed a few seconds later by a second heartbeat.
"There's an echo," Patty said with a nervous giggle. "It must be some sort of feedback, maybe from the tape player."
Keisha checked various settings and switches on the monitor and the tape player. She cut off first one heartbeat, then the other, before she brought them both back. "That's no echo, Mrs. Web -- Patty," she said, flashing a big smile. "That's twins."
* * * * *
Jaimie was working on a letter for one of the associates when her intercom buzzed. "Jaimie, would you come to my office, please?"
"On my way, Mr. Dornan," Jaimie said. She saved the letter as a WORD file, picked up her steno pad, and headed for his office.
Dornan was at his desk. "Close the door, Jaimie, and come sit down."
Jaimie did as he asked. As she sat down, she opened her steno pad. Dornan shook his head. "Do you remember what this is?" He handed her a file.
"It's my notes from the meeting you and Mr. Simmonds had today. Is there a problem with them?"
"Turn to page 6." He paused while she found the page. "What do you see there?"
"You changed that section about the zoning code. You... you corrected everything you said at the meeting."
"You knew I was wrong, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir, I did."
"Then why didn't you say something -- or even just pass me a note."
"I-I was going to. Remember when I coughed?"
"Yes, and as soon as I asked, you said that all you wanted was to get us some coffee. Why didn't you say something?"
"I was... I didn't think I should, not during a client meeting."
"What about telling me after the meeting, or making a comment when you type up your notes?"
"I-I'm just a secretary. It's not my place to correct you, sir."
"Not even when you know I'm wrong and that my error could create major problems for the firm or -- more importantly -- for our client."
"A secretary isn't --"
"A secretary should -- if she thinks it's important. Or didn't you think it was important?"
"Yes, sir; I knew it could create trouble."
Dornan sighed. "Jaimie, you're one of the secretaries who applied for the paralegal training program the firm is buying into. We're getting two slots, and, on the basis of seniority, one of them should be yours." He paused. "But it won't be."
Jaimie felt as if she'd been slapped. "Why not? If I do deserve it?"
"Because a paralegal has to be aggressive, a fighter for the lawyers she's working for and for their clients. You, Jaimie -- you're just too shy, too unsure of yourself for that sort of work. I'm very sorry."
Jaimie wanted to argue, to throw the words back in his face, but she... it just wouldn't be right.
Dornan sighed again. "Jaimie, I told you this way in the hopes that you'd disagree, but I guess that you just proved my point. Maybe you should see somebody; the firm does pay for counseling. There'll be two more openings in the program next year."
Jaimie shook her head, as she stood up. "What's the use." She tried not to cry as she walked back to her desk.
* * * * *
"Hey, babe, is this seat taken?"
Mandi looked up from her beer. The man was young -- cute, too. He was wearing a gray muscleman shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and six-pack abs. "Sorry," she heard herself say. "I-I'm, like, waiting for somebody." What was the matter with her?
"Lucky guy," the man said, with what Mandi thought was a very sexy grin, before he headed off towards a redhead at another table.
"This is, like, crazy," Mandi muttered to herself. "I don't even know why I, like, came to this bar. Why am I chasing off cute guys?"
Before Mandi could say another word, a slightly plump woman sat down across from her at the table. "Hi, am I late?"
"Late for what?" Mandi asked, "and, like, who are you?"
"Patty... Patty Weber, and you are?"
"If you don't know me, why are you, like, sitting here?"
"Miss, I don't even know why I came into this bar. I should be home with Stu -- my husband." She smiled shyly. "I just found out I'm having twins."
"Like, congrats. So why aren't you... at home, I mean?"
"I... I don't know. Something just sort of made me drive here instead. Then, when I walked in, I knew I just had to sit down here. I was hoping you could tell me why."
"I'm afraid not. I had to, like, come here, too, and sit at this table. I just had to. I don't know why." She offered her hand. "I'm Mandi Bauer, by the way."
"Patty Weber," the other woman said again, shaking Mandi's hand. "Glad to meet you… I guess."
Two other women came to the table. "I see everyone's here," the first woman, a blonde, said. "This is Jaimie Randolph." She pointed to the brunette, who smiled shyly. "Jaimie knew that she was supposed to come over and sit with you ladies, but she didn't know why, and she was too embarrassed to ask."
"H-Hi," Jaimie said, looking down at her shoes.
"Sit down, Jaimie," the blonde said firmly, taking a seat herself. "Sit!"
Jaimie quickly sat down. The blonde smiled and continued. "I suppose that you're wondering what's going on and why you're here. You may even be wondering who I am."
The other women nodded. "You, like, know it," Mandi said.
"I guess the easiest way would be to let you remember." The blonde made an odd gesture at the others, pointing to each in turn.
Mandi felt a cloud lift from her mind. She blinked a moment in recognition, then blurted out the answer. "You -- you're that broad I tried to --" She looked down at herself in horror, at her perky breasts and min-skirted legs. "What happened to me?" Then her eyes widened as she remembered how she'd acted all day. "I-I'm a bimbo, a cocksu --"
Chloe smiled. "Just leave it at bimbo, dear, and be grateful that none of the men in the room were able to hear you just now."
"Matt?" Pete asked, looking at Mandi, who nodded. "And you..." she pointed at Jaimie, "...are you... James?"
"I am," Jaimie said angrily. "You aren't the only one, Matt. I spent the whole day sucking up to Fred Dornan. Walking around like I was on eggshells; letting him and John Simmonds push me around at that meeting, just sitting there and taking notes instead of advising them like I should have. And then letting Dornan bully me about paralegal training. Paralegal, hell, I'm twice the lawyer that he is."
"Twice!" Patty joined in. She rubbed her stomach. "I hate that word. I'm having goddamned twins. And I was actually looking forward to staying home with the little monsters, too." She glared at Chloe. "Lady, I don't know how you did this to us, but it's over! You're changing us back, and I mean now!"
"Yeah," Mandi and Jaimie agreed.
"Happy to oblige." Chloe repeated her earlier gestures.
Mandi shook her head, feeling her intelligence fading. "No… please. This... this isn't what we meant."
Jaimie grabbed Chloe's arm. Chloe looked down at it, and Jaimie pulled her hands away as if she'd touched a hot stove. "Pl-please, ma'am. I-I don't want to be like this."
"Me either," Patty said, fighting back tears. She'd just been so emotional since she got pregnant.
"But you will," Chloe said. "When we re-worked your lifethreads, my sisters and I have arranged things so that you'll all remember who and what you were. The way you acted today was for 'shock value.' You can go with the flow and be that way forever. In time, you'd find that you've come to accept and eventually even like your new lives." She paused for effect. "But each of you has the potential to do much better with their lives if you truly wish to do so."
"But, like, why are you doing this to us?" Mandi asked. "Giving us these new lives and making us act the way we did, even if just for today?"
"New lives," Chloe said, a cruel smile curling her lips for just a moment. "But Mandi, Jaimie, Patty, you're all the way you've always been; ask anyone." She played for a moment with a silver broach on her jacket. "As to why I did it: first off, Mandi, that drug Matt created is too dangerous. Now, it never existed, and, I'm sorry to tell you, but you're no longer intelligent enough to ever be able to recreate the drug. That won't change, either."
Mandi looked stunned. "N-never?"
"Sorry, no, never." Chloe looked genuinely sorry.
"That's Matt," Patty interrupted. "What about us?"
"Frankly, the attitude that James and Pete had and the way they were using the drug just pissed me off. Still, you both have chances. Jaimie, if you get that counseling Mr. Dornan suggested, I guarantee that you'll be in the paralegal program. In time, you might even become a lawyer again."
"And, Patty, if you put your heart into it, you'll find that being a mother and guiding the lives of two children is far more satisfying than selling fishing tackle as Pete did."
"Do we have a choice?" Patty asked sorrowfully.
"Yes, you do," Chloe said. "You can try to make better lives for yourselves, or you can stay the pitiful types you were today. Think about that. Now, goodbye... oh, and congratulations on the twins, Patti." She made another gesture and, suddenly, she wasn't in the room any more.
"Like, now what?" Mandi asked.
"I want to go home and tell Stu the news." Patty suddenly realized something. "But I guess I can't tell him that he used to be Susie."
"Probably not," Jaimie said. "Maybe... maybe we could get together another time, if you want to, that is."
"Sounds okay," Mandi said. "How about here tomorrow at 5:30? We can, like, compare notes on our new lives."
"Let's make it a once-a-week thing," Jaimie said. "We meet – starting a week from today -- to give each other morale support on that self-improvement thing the lady mentioned."
"Sounds good. See you then," Patty said. "Right now, I've got a... a husband to give some good news to." She stood up. "Bye."
Mandi watched Patty walk to the door. Then she turned back to Jaimie. "How about you? You got, like, anyplace to go?"
"I-I don't think so." Jaimie said. She now lived in a small apartment, just her and a gray cat named Smoky Joe.
"Then, like, how about we get on with these new lives that woman stuck us with?"
"What do you mean?"
"Those two cute guys at the table by the bar are giving us the eye. How 'bout we go over and, like, see what sort of fun we can have with them."
"I-I couldn't," Jaimie said. She felt her cheeks warm. She didn't want to, but she found herself sneaking a look at the two men. Maybe there were some good things about this new life she was going to have to live.
* * * * *
"Not the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning." -- Winston Churchill
The Weaver sisters also appear in my story “Slow Justice.” They are the personification f the Fates of Greek mythology, and, yes, the way I represent them is somewhat based on The Professor’s “Ovid” stories. In the myths, the Fates were three sisters, Clotho (Chloe) spun the thread of a person’s life; Lachesis (Leslie) measured its length; and Atropos (Andrea) cut that thread, ending the life.
Uther
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2006
According to the legends of King Arthur, Merlin changed Uther Pendragon into a double for Duke Gorlois, so he could spend the night with Ygraine, the Duke’s wife. Ygraine and Gorlois had three daughters: Elaine, Morgause, and Morgan le Faye.
During their time together, Ygraine became pregnant with the child who was to become King Arthur. Uther’s men killed Gorlois that same night.
This is my TG version of what happened. No, the characters DON'T speak standard English. They are living in the sixth or seventh century, speaking two separate Germanic dialects that were distant ancestors of what we know as modern English.
Uther
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2006
“Merlin!” Uther Pendragon howled. He was High King of the Britons, seated in court in his throne room, and he was impatient. “Where are you, you fraud of a Welshman?”
An older man, dressed in brown robes like a mendicant friar, stepped out from the shadows and into the royal court. “I am here, my liege, as always.” In the candlelight, his robes could be seen to be made of silk, not a friar’s coarse wool.
“Have you an answer to the problem I set?” Uther drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne.
“Several, my liege.” the man many feared as a wizard glanced about the room. Some men turned to avoid his gaze. A few others made the sign of the Cross. “But is not this a matter to be spoken of in a more private place? Can you be at my chambers in an hour’s time?”
Uther slammed his fist. “I can be there now, by the Blessed Saints. To my mind, there is no matter more pressing.” He looked quickly at his chamberlain. “Or am I wrong?”
“N-no, my lord,” the chamberlain, an old man in a dark green robes stammered. “Other business can wait, if you so wish it.”
Merlin stroked his long, reddish brown beard. “To my mind, an hour would be better. Attend to your court, while I go to make ready.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and started for the doorway.
A burly young guard, dressed in the dark green tunic and brown britches that passed for the uniform of Uther’s army, stepped into the wizard’s path. “The High King has not dismissed you, wizard.”
“Are you that eager to be a frog, my foolish youngling?” Merlin asked the guard.
Uther laughed. “He may leave at his own will. He always does.” He watched the man move aside, then added. “An hour, Merlin; no more.”
“No more.” Merlin did not look back at his king. “And might I borrow this brave lad for a while?”
“The moat has more than enough frogs already,” Uther replied.
Now Merlin laughed. “He shall remain in human form, Uther.” He held up his hand as if taking an oath. “I do so swear.”
“Then take him.” He made a dismissive gesture at the guard. “Go with Merlin, boy, and do not fear.”
Merlin took the young guard’s arm. “I wouldn’t go that far, Uther.” The guard tried to pull free but could not. Merlin made a small gesture and led the suddenly submissive man from the room.
* * * * *
There was a sudden pounding on the thick oaken door. “Come in, Uther,” Merlin called out, lifting his eyes from the scroll he was reading. “But leave those guards of yours in the hall.” He rolled up the scroll and put it on the worktable with several others.
“How did you know that I brought guards?” Uther asked as he stepped through the doorway.
“You are a king in time of war -- a needless war, most certainly -- but still a war. It takes no great magic.”
Uther frowned. “Needless? How say you that? This man, Gorlois, is a traitor to his king. He has refused my will and taken up arms against me.”
“Gorlois is rightful Duke of Cornwall and a man to whom respect is due. He was your friend, your sword-brother, once. What he has refused, my liege, is to give up to you his own beloved wife, and the army that he raised was to keep you from taking her.”
Uther turned a bright red. “If any other man spoke to me like that, Merlin, I would feed his liver to the crows while he was still alive to watch them eat it.”
“If any other man could do what I have done for you in the past and will do for you and yours in the future, you would have done that to me long ago.” Merlin paused a moment to watch the king gnash his teeth. “Since I still live -- and in great comfort, I might add -- you have found no other such man. And I need not fear your threats this day.”
“As I well know, Merlin.” Uther answered, a bit of regret in his voice. “Now that we understand each other, have you found a way to get me Ygraine, Gorlois’ lady wife?”
Merlin gave him an odd smile. “What if I were to say that she was here... as I speak?”
“What?” Uther’s eyes raced across the room.
“Come forth, Ygraine,” Merlin called.
The door to a side chamber slid open. A slight figure entered. Man or woman, Uther could not say. The figure wore the uniform of his army, but it was the uniform of a much larger man. Sleeves ran down to cover the fingers of hands that struggled to hold up a pair of oversized britches that pooled on the ground and made walking slow. A hood, the sort normally worn under a battle helm covered the face, indeed the entire head.
“Show me your face,” Uther commanded.
The figure hesitated. “Do it,” Merlin added firmly.
Hands shot to the hood. As they did, the britches fell to the carpeted, stone floor. The tunic hung down almost to the knees. Below that, one could see an invitingly curved and very female pair of legs.
The hood was now pulled back to reveal a pale, moon-shaped face framed by a tangle of ink black curls. The woman’s gray eyes were large, with thick lashes above, her nose was aquiline, her lips full and inviting.
“Ygraine,” Uther whispered, stunned at the vision before him.
She shook her head. “No, m’lord, I ain’t.” Her voice was a soft contralto.
“What!” Uther bellowed.
“I be Wilf, me liege,” the woman explained, “a man of your guard. Ye said I should go with Merlin. I done that, and look what he done t’me.”
Merlin laughed and nodded. “This is the eager young guard who tried to stop me, Uther. I thought he could use a touch of humility.”
“You said you would not use magic on him,” Uther said.
Merlin shook his head. “I promised that he would stay in human form. She is most assuredly human.” He gestured at the transformed guard. “Take off your clothes and show your king just how human you are.”
The guard’s face looked as though she -- for she was female, indeed -- was straining against a great weight. Yet as she did, she stepped out of her boots to reveal a pair of small, female feet. She grasped the tunic and, as if without a thought, pulled it up and off over her head.
She was gloriously naked beneath. Curls black as night fell down to her round, firm breasts, a pair of peaches and cream colored pillows perfect for any man’s head. A fat nipple in a dark disk the size of a bezant, a Byzantine gold piece, peaked out at them through a curl, begging to be sucked. Her waist was narrow; Uther thought that he might enclose it with his two hands. Her hips were wide, made to bear an army of children. And in the center, there between her legs, lay a her cunny, covered with those same black curls. The sight of it drew Uther’s shaft erect and pulled him towards it like the North Star draws an iron compass.
“Ygraine,” Uther said again, “as I have too often dreamed her.”
“No, me lord, I be Wilf.” The naked maiden raised her arms as if in prayer. “Please, Merlin, gimme back me own shape. And gimme back me willie, too.”
Merlin shook his head and gestured. “Be as you would seem to be.”
“Yes, my lord.” Wilf’s manner changed. She smiled invitingly and began to step towards Uther. Her arms were still raised, and her hips swayed in feminine invitation. When she reached Uther, her arms wrapped around his neck and she kissed him most passionately.
Until Uther pushed her away.
“No,” the High King said. “It is Ygraine whose love... and whose body I seek. Not some magicked up imitation.” He took one last look at the maiden, who stood ready to kiss him again. “Change this one back to my guard.”
“On the morrow, he shall be back as he was,” Merlin replied.
“Why not now?” The woman, still bespelled, reached for Uther’s hand. He quickly moved it away from her and motioned for her to step back. She did, but she smiled seductively and began to slowly run a finger across her left breast.
Merlin took a small, brass disk from a pocket of his robe. “Because the magic that caused him to assume Ygraine’s form lies within in this medallion, my liege. It is a most powerful relic made I know not how many centuries ago on the African continent. Its magic will not work on him again for half of a day.”
“An odd magic.” Uther considered what he had heard. “Give her back her mind now, and let her be unmolested by anyone until she can regain her original form.”
“As you wish, my liege.” Merlin made another gesture.
The woman jumped away from Uther. “Th-thank ye, me lord,” she said as she hurriedly threw the tunic over her body.
“You may sleep in the chamber you were in before,” Merlin said dismissively. Then, in a wry voice, he added. “It locks from the inside.” The transformed guard bowed once. She grabbed for her other clothing and ran for the chamber. The door slammed, and both men heard the lock click into place.
Merlin winked. “She doesn’t know that I can open the lock from this side, though.” He sighed, then. “Alas, I am no longer one for such sport. She will be safe until I can use the medallion.”
“A very funny trick,” Uther said impatiently. “And I am no closer to Ygraine than I was before.”
“Not quite, my liege.” Merlin studied the other man. “If you will not settle for bedding a false Ygraine, would you accept the true Ygraine bedding a false Gorlois?”
“What mean you, wizard?”
“As it changed young Wilf into Ygraine, so the medallion could change you into Gorlois. Can a wife refuse her husband?”
Uther grinned. “She is a pious woman who would not refuse any carnal desire of a man she thought was her lawful, Christian husband.” He braced himself. “Can you do this, Merlin? Do it now, even as we speak.”
“I can, my liege.” He put the medallion back in his pocket. “The magic requires a piece of clothing from the person you wish to be transformed into. The Duchess Ygraine somehow left her glove when they visited you at Castle Pendragon in Westmoreland during the Christmas Peace. At the same time, the Duke seems to have misplaced a stocking.”
Uther laughed heartily. “How careless of them... and how useful. Very well, fetch that stocking and let me become Gorlois.”
“Towards what end, Uther?” Merlin asked. “Is Ygraine here -- or anywhere close to us? Of course not; you know as well as I that she is in Cornwall, some 5 days ride away.”
“Let me be Gorlois, then, and ride as him to Cornwall.”
“No, Uther, this I will not do.”
“What! You refuse me, your king.”
“Think, Uther. You are at war with Gorlois. Change now, and you will most surely find yourself captured, tortured, perhaps even killed by your own men. And they would only be obeying the orders that you, yourself, gave them.”
Uther slammed his fist down on the table. “Blast you, Merlin, must you be so infernally right all the time?”
“Yes, I must.” Merlin chuckled. “People seem to expect it of me.”
* * * * *
Uther reined his horse and pointed ahead. “Do you see that fortress there on that hill, Merlin?” They were on a ridge with the entire valley spread out before them. The fortress was on a steep hill that commanded the entire valley, as well as the section of the King’s Highway that passed through it.
“I see it, Uther, and I know what it is.” Merlin rode beside his king. There were soldiers with them, but none were close enough to hear the two men speak. “Gorlois’ castle; we are no more than 5 miles away.”
Uther nodded. “While Count Gorlois and his men face my army some forty miles to the south.” He held up his right arm and made a circle. “We will camp here this night on the side of the ridge those in the castle cannot see.”
The soldiers dismounted and began to set up the camp. “No fires and post sentries,” Uther cautioned them, still on horseback. “The enemy may be close at hand.”
Merlin climbed down. He stood in silence, watching the soldiers for a moment. Then he began pacing the edge of the small glade that Uther had chosen for the camp. As he walked, he wove an aversion charm that would protect those within from notice. Anyone or anything coming close to the glade would not wish to look in that direction. At the same time, those within would not wish to leave.
Uther waited until Merlin had almost finished. He dismounted and walked over to the mage. “Is the spell set?” he asked. Merlin gave a sight nod. Without stopping, he made a circular gesture towards the king with one hand.
“Almost finished, Uther,” he answered in a low voice. Uther was now “wrapped” within the spell. He could leave or return to the camp at will.
He could also invoke the aversion spell on his own person, so that people would look away from him as he stood near or he walked by. None of the men would notice his leaving the camp.
* * * * *
The sun was hanging low over the western horizon by the time Uther neared Gorlois’ castle/fortress. He guided his horse behind a stand of oak some 200 yards from the outer wall. These trees were the closest cover. Anything nearer that could hide a man -- be it rock, tree, or even tall grass -- had been removed to give the men on the castle wall a clear view in all directions.
Uther dismounted, wrapping his reins around a branch. He reached carefully into his saddlebag. The medallion was still there, rolled up inside the sleeve of a blue linen under-tunic. He’d worn the under-tunic to Merlin’s quarters just two days before and cut the sleeve off at Merlin’s direction. He’d concealed the medallion within the sleeve himself -- just to be certain.
He drew the medallion out of its hiding place and put the chain around his neck. The sleeve went back into the saddlebag. He did all this carefully being careful not to bring it anywhere near the medallion.
From the same saddlebag, he pulled out Gorlois’ lost stocking. He took a breath to steady his hand. “Courage, man,” he whispered to himself. “There is a risk, aye, but think of the prize and lay on.” He took another breath and wound the dark brown stocking about the medallion.
Nothing happened for a moment. Then he felt an odd sensation in the hand that still touched the stocking. Needles and pins, it was, the feeling a man felt when his arm “fell asleep.” The feeling ran up his arm, then flowed like a floodwater through his body.
Uther had no mirror. He looked down at his hands. He was a tall man with the ruddy skin and straight dark brown hair of his Celtic ancestors. Gorlois was shorter and a bit stocky. His fair skin and blond hair marked him as a Saxon.
As Uther watched, his skin grew lighter as did the thick, dark hair on his arms. His long fingers seemed to be shorter and a bit thicker now, and his tunic sleeves slid down to partly cover his wrists.
He seemed to shrink a few inches, and his belt was tighter at his waist. His jaw began to itch, and when he put a hand to it, he found a beard that had not been there before.
An old scar formed on the palm of his left hand. Gorlois had first shown it to him years before, when they were still friends. The whetstone had slipped while he was sharpening an ax blade. “It wasn’t a deep wound,” Gorlois had told him, “but me Mum fussed over it as if t’were a fatal blow.”
“The wound be mine now.” He was talking like Gorlois, another gift of the medallion. “His body be mine. And soon... soon Ygraine’ll be mine.”
Merlin had warned him not to allow the medallion out of his sight. “It has a bad habit of disappearing,” the old man warned. Uther lifted the chain from his shoulders. He put Gorlois’ stocking in his saddlebag, taking out his own blue sleeve.
He could touch the medallion now that he had changed. He wrapped the sleeve around it and hid the small bundle in a pouch looped onto his belt. A moment to adjust that belt for the differences between his own build and Gorlois’, and he was ready.
He mounted his horse and spurred it towards the castle. “The gate,” he yelled as he came close. “Open the gate. Uther’s men be right b’hind me.”
It was dusk, but there was enough light to see Uther’s -- Gorlois’ -- face. One soldier yelled a challenge. “Later,” Uther answered. “Just open thut damned gate a’fore I get an arrow in me back.”
The voice, the face, they were those of Count Gorlois. The soldiers hurried to unbar the gate, spreading the doors wide as he rode through, then closing and barring them behind him. Uther kept riding up the hill to the inner gate. Word passed down the row of men on the barricade wall to his right. The inner gate opened as he approached. He rode through it, not stopping until he was at the steps to the keep, the main building of Gorlois’ castle.
A servant took the reins, as Uther dismounted. “M’lord,” the man said in a confused voice. “We dint ‘spect... we heard you be miles from here warring with th’king.”
“Do it look like I’m miles from here?” Uther answered angrily. The less he talked to the servants, the less the chance that he could make a mistake and betray himself. “Where be m’wife?”
“In her rooms, I ‘spect, with your daughters. You wants I should get them?”
Uther shook his head. “Stay at your place, m’man. I’ll see to ‘em meself.” He turned and hurried up the stairway into the keep. He’d been to this castle many times, and he knew it well enough to find the way to the private chambers on the second floor.
* * * * *
Uther raised a hand but stopped. ‘What man knocks on the door of his own bedchamber?’ he thought. Instead, he raised the latch and walked in.
“How dare...” Ygraine had heard the door open and turned to scold was coming in unannounced. “Gorlois!” she shouted. She stood and ran to him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling his head down, and their lips met in a kiss.
Uther delighted in her passion as they kissed. Her mouth opened freely, and her tongue teased with his. Her body pressed tightly against him, as she ground herself against his member. He felt as big and as hard as one of those great rock slabs that Merlin had put up at Stonehenge.
His hands explored her body, reaching down finally to grasp at her teardrop buttocks, kneading them like loaves of bread until she moaned and pressed herself even closer.
“Poppa! Poppa!” A small voice broke the mood. A small hand tugged at his tunic. Uther looked down to see Elaine, Gorlois’ older daughter. She was... five, he remembered, a pudgy miniature of her mother, but with her father’s blond hair worn long in twin braids.
He wanted to strangle her for interrupting.
Instead, he chuckled and picked her up. “Hello, little one.” He kissed her cheek, then looked around. “And where is your sister?”
“Morgause is asleep in her crib.” Elaine pointed to a wooden crib in an alcove a few feet away. There was a child-sized bed next to it that had to be her own.
“As ye aught t’be m’darling,” Ygraine told the girl, going from temptress to mother.
Elaine pouted and hugged the man she thought was her father. “I wants t’stay up and talk w’Poppa.”
“He’ll be here in the morn,” Ygraine answered. “W-won’t ye, Gorlois?” There was a sadness in her voice.
For just a moment, Uther felt a pang of guilt. “P’haps.” He smiled at Ygraine. “For now, little one, why don’t it be I that’s putting ye t’bed?”
“Oh, yes, Poppa.” Elaine hugged him again.
Ygraine leaned in close and whispered in Uther’s other ear. “And when ye finish w’her, ye can put me t’bed.”
The temptress was back, but only for a moment. She leaned around Uther and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Sweet dreams, then, Elaine, and don’t ye be staying up t’talk with your Poppa.”
“Yes’m,” the girl replied. She twisted in Uther’s arms to kiss her mother good night.
Uther used his free hand to stroke the woman’s cheek. “I’ll be back soon’s I be tending t’this ‘un.”
Ygraine put her hand over his. “I’ll be waiting.”
Uther walked over to Elaine’s bed. The blanket was pulled back, and he simply set her down.
“G’night, Poppa,” she said, kissing his cheek. She sat down and put her feet under the blanket. Then she crossed herself and mumbled a short child’s prayer in memorized Latin. She squirmed down under the blanket.
Uther leaned down, pulled the blanket almost to her neck, and kissed her cheek gently. “And g’night t’ye, Elaine, m’darling.” If he took Ygraine from Gorlois, Elaine and her sister would come with her. This moment, that prospect seemed far from unpleasant.
He straightened up and looked briefly in the crib. The younger girl, Morgause, was about three, with her mother’s dark curls. She was sleeping peacefully, undisturbed by the noise and conversation that had followed his arrival.
“Now, if they both sleep peacefully through the night,” he whispered, thinking of the noise he and Ygraine might be making and rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
A curtain hung on one side of the front of the alcove. He pulled it across, separating the children’s sleep area from the rest of the chamber. Then he turned and faced... a vision.
Ygraine had been wearing a long undertunic of Lincoln green when he first saw her. It was gone now. She stood before him in a short, white linen chemise that hung down just past her hips. The ribbon at the neck was undone, and the neckline pulled wide, so that he could see the tops of her breasts. Her twin nipples were dark targets, almost visible beneath the thin material.
“I be ready for bed, too,” she said softly. Her smile was not the shy smile of an innocent maid, but the eager smile of a sexually experienced woman, one who relished the touch of a man’s hand on her body and feel of his prick in her cunny.
Uther’s grin matched hers. “So y’are, m’luv. So y’are.”
* * * * *
Count Gorlois dismounted at the edge of the woods. He took the reins and walked slowly out onto the “no-man’s-land” that surrounded his castle.
It was just dawn. The sun was a hint of brightness at the eastern horizon. The sky had moved from starry blackness to a medium gray with a smear of blue in the east.
Gorlois was almost halfway across when he was seen by the men on the wall. He heard a shout and saw an arrow fall about five feet in front of him. “Very good,” he said with some satisfaction. He raised his hands up over his head and began moving forward again very slowly.
It took the count several minutes to reach the gate. He continued walking slowly, and he kept watching the men on the gate for any sign of trouble. At the same time, he was waiting for the call of welcome when his face was finally recognized.
The call came when he was about forty feet away. “M’Lord Gorlois?” came a curious voice.
“Aye,” he answered. “‘Tis me.”
“What are ye doing... how did ye get back outside the wall, m’lord?”
“Are y’daft? I’ve not been inside th’walls for a fortnight.”
A familiar voice answered back. “M-m’lord, ye rode in last e’ening like all the demons o’Hell was after ye.”
Gorlois raised an eyebrow. “Like all the demons o’Hell?” The voice belonged to Corwin, a man he’d known since they were both boys barely old enough to practice battling with wooden swords. A man he knew to be a reliable guard and fierce defender of his Duke’s estates.
“Aye, m’lord,” Corwin told him. “Ye rode past us and up t’the keep. We hadn’t seen ye since. How’d ye get back outside there?”
Best not to raise an alarm. Yet. “Corwin, there be things about m’castle thut even a good friend like ye din’t learn grown up in it.” He mounted his horse. “Now open th’gates. I needs t’be getting back inside.”
* * * * *
The sound of the latch wakened Uther.
He was naked in a bed -- Ygraine’s bed; he smiled at that -- with his sword and dagger some feet away.
‘No, not totally unarmed,’ he thought. He whispered the phrase Merlin had taught him and invoked the aversion spell. Even asleep, Ygraine was affected and shifted herself away from him in the bed.
There were curtains built into the bed frame for warmth as well as privacy. They were drawn now. Uther crawled out from beneath the covers and down to the foot of the bed without disturbing them. He slid out on the far side from the door and out of sight of whomever had entered. Stealth mattered; no aversion spell could counter the curtains drawn back in plain view of another.
“Gorlois” he whispered recognizing the man at once in the dim morning light. He stepped out from behind the bed. The spell worked. Uther was on Gorlois’ right, and the man turned almost at once to the left.
That would end if he picked up a weapon and attacked. He could reach his sword with no trouble, but the thought of fighting a man of Gorlois’ skill while naked was not one that he relished. ‘Better use stealth,’ he told himself.
Gorlois had moved into the room. He was standing by the table Ygraine had been sitting at when Uther had entered, a table with a large pewter candlestick on it.
Uther padded over to the table, even as the spell conveniently made Gorlois turn his back to it. Uther raised the candlestick and struck Gorlois on the back of the head. The Duke moaned softly and crumbled to the floor.
Uther looked over to his weapons, there in a jumble on the floor with his clothes. Murder -- no, execution; he had named this man traitor -- would be easy. “But then what,” he whispered to himself. “Shall Ygraine wake to find her husband dead? Shall little Elaine?” He shivered and shook his head.
A better idea came to him. There were trunks of clothing stored against the south wall. He opened one and began to go through it.
He found what he was looking for in the second trunk, an infant’s gown. It was a pale green and embroidered with white flowers, suitable for a child -- a girl child -- no more than six month’s old. He put it on the floor beside his unconscious foe.
Next he pulled the sleeve with the medallion from his pouch. He held one end a few inches above the table. It unrolled and the medallion fell out. He used his dagger to pick it up by the chain. Being very careful not to touch the medallion itself, he draped the chain around Gorlois’ neck.
The medallion rested on Gorlois’ chest. Uther laid the gown down on it. Without waiting to watch the transformation, he stood up and began to dress.
By the time he was finished, Gorlois had dwindled down to the form of a maiden of no more than fourteen. Her face was moonshaped and pretty, much like his wife -- her mother, now. Uther could see small breasts under her tunic.
Uther sat down and watched. Gorlois shrank away, becoming smaller and smaller, younger and younger, until a baby girl lay on the floor, all but lost in the garb of a burly man. She had slipped from unconsciousness to sleep. He could hear gentle snoring.
He used his dagger to separate the tunic and the medallion. Then he removed the chain from around the child’s throat by hand, being as careful as before. He laid it on the sleeve from his tunic and used the dagger to wrap it. Only when there was no sign beyond a lump in the material did he pick up the sleeve and place it back in his pouch.
The baby Gorlois had become was still asleep. He lifted her gently and dressed her in the gown. “Farewell, old friend,” he said softly as he set her down in the crib next to Morgause and kissed her on the forehead. Surprised at his actions, he did the same to Elaine in her bed.
He sighed as he walked over to Ygraine’s bed. There could be no repeat of last night. ‘Best t’be gone when Ygraine finds her new ‘un,’ he thought.
His resolve faltered when he saw Ygraine, displayed in her full nude glory on the bed. He sighed again and kissed her full on the lips. She smiled, moaned softly as if in invitation, but she did not wake.
Uther closed the curtain and left her.
Less than half an hour later, he was back atop the ridge. He stopped and drew the medallion from his pouch. He put the chain around his neck and tied the sleeve around it. The tingling began as he tucked them under his tunic and spurred his horse onward. He was himself long before he reached his own camp.
* * * * *
Merlin was waiting. “It went well, my liege, your... umm, scouting mission.”
“More than well,” Uther answered, glad to have lost Gorlois’ Cornish accent. As before, there was no one but Merlin close enough to hear. “The night itself... Ygraine... the women is as... enthusiastic as she is beautiful.” He smiled. “Now that Gorlois is disposed of, I shall give her a respectable time to mourn and then... take her as wife.”
Merlin cocked an eyebrow. “Gorlois is gone, Uther? Even now your men seek him many miles away from here.”
“They lost him many miles from here,” Uther said, grinning. “He got away and returned home, probably with the same goal that I had, his wife’s bed.”
“What happened?”
“I surprised him -- your aversion spell is a wonderous weapon -- and knocked him out with a candlestick.”
“And killed a helpless man?”
Uther laughed heartily. “I have learned subtlety from you. Merlin. I used the medallion on him. The noble Duke now wears the form of an infant -- a girl infant -- no more than six months old.”
“Interesting.” Merlin stroked his beard. “An infant’s mind can hold far less knowledge than a grown man’s. I wonder if any of Gorlois’ memories remain in that tiny form.” He shrugged. “In any case, he -- she -- is not likely to be a problem to you or yours for many years, if ever.”
* * * * *
Ygraine rolled over, still half asleep. She reached out for her husband, only to find herself alone in her bed. She looked out from behind the curtain. “Gorlois,” she said, more a question than a statement.
There was no answer. With a sigh, she drew the curtain back and rose from her bed, wrapping a robe about her. The only hint that Gorlois had been there was a pile of some of his clothes on the floor.
She held back tears. She was a warrior’s wife. She would be grateful for the night before. Besides, some small voice in her mind, perhaps only a hope, told her that he had left more than memories, that she was carrying his child. She smiled at the thought and touched her flat belly for a moment.
“Best t’tend to the little ‘uns ye already have.” She told herself as she drew back the curtain and entered her daughter’s sleep alcove.
Elaine was still asleep. She was smiling, perhaps remembering her time with her father the night before. ‘Let her keep those happy memories of him,’ Ygraine told herself.
She looked at Morgause, who was also asleep. But there was -- Ygraine gasped and crossed herself -- there was second child, an infant twin of Morgause, asleep in the crib with her.
She lifted the baby and took it back to her own bed. The infant roused and began to make sucking noises. Without a thought, she put it to her own breast. It was tender from her play with Gorlois the night before, but the baby’s nursing was somehow soothing.
Morgause had been weaned for over a year. Ygraine’s breasts held no milk. Still, the child was satisfied for the time. She pulled a cord to summon one of her ladies in waiting, Nyuen. “She’d know who’d make a good wet-nurse,” she told herself.
The baby was naked beneath the tunic. Ygraine found a soft cloth that would serve as a diaper. “Ye be needing a name,” she said as she fixed it on her... her new daughter, there could be no other fate for the foundling. “You’re a fairy gift, no doubt, and me Morgause’s double. Mor... Morgan, aye, Morgan of the Fairies.” She used a copper broach to hold the cloth in place.
The baby smiled back at her. She picked it up and kissed it gently on the forehead. “Hullo t’ye, me new darling. Hullo t’Morgan le Faye.”
* * * * *
OR DID THE STORY HAPPEN LIKE THIS?
Uther awakened to the feeling of cold steel at his throat.
“Don’t ye move,” a voice hissed.
Uther recognized the voice at once. “Gorlois.” He looked up and saw the Duke glaring at him in the early morning light.
“Aye, Gorlois, and who be ye -- man or devil?”
Uther whispered the phrase Merlin had taught him to invoke the aversion spell. Gorlois began to react, turning his head away. But his hand -- and the dagger it held -- didn’t move. “Stop yur magic, devil. I don’t have t’see ye, to slit yur throat.”
Uther sighed and cancelled the spell.
The two men talking woke Ygraine. She looked over and saw her husband holding a dagger to the throat of... her husband. “What be this,” she asked, crossing herself hurriedly. “W-who be ye?”
“I be yur husband,” Uther answered quickly. A little confusion could only help his situation.
“Liar,” Gorlois spat. “I be yur husband, Ygraine, the man... the man whut bringed ye a red rose at Tintigal Castle so’s it could see whut real beauty be like.”
Ygraine sat up, a smile on her face. “Husband,” she said softly. Then she remembered Uther. “But who be this ‘un?”
“A devil, thinks I.” Gorlois glared at Uther. “And ‘un thut needs t’die for whut it done t’ye.”
“No,” Uther spoke quickly. “I-I be Uther, yuir king.”
Gorlois grinned. “Even more reason t’kill ye.” His dagger moved downward from Uther’s throat. “Or t’geld ye like the troublesome old bull ye are.” He paused a moment. “If ye really be Uther.”
“I be Uther,” Uther stammered. “Uther. The proof... the proof be in me pouch.” He pointed franticly to the pile of clothing on the floor a few feet away.
“Fetch it, Ygraine,” the Duke ordered.
The woman nodded and climbed out of bed, pausing just long enough to wrap a robe about her. She loosened the pouch from the belt and handed it unopened to her husband.
Gorlois dumped the contents of the pouch onto the bed. “A cloth w’ something inside. This is your proof?” He fumbled with the material until the chain fell out. He put it around his wrist. “So’s it won’t fall,” he explained. “Magic breaks easy.” He gave a hearty laugh.
A moment later, his hand touched the medallion inside the cloth. “‘Od’s blood,” he yelled in surprise as an odd jolt ram through him. “What in our Lord’s name be that?”
Uther gave a weary sigh. “That be the magic.” He pointed to the medallion now hanging from Gorlois’ wrist. The blue sleeve was still tangled around it. “It be tuning ye into me spit ‘n’ image... into Uther.”
“And pigs’ll be flying ‘round me, no doubt.” Gorlois laughed. “Now what do it really --” He looked down at his arm. His skin was darkening to Uther’s ruddier tones, even as his hair coarsened and turned from blond to black.
Uther watched the changes, proof that he hadn’t lied. “Now ye believe, don’t ye?”
“P’haps,” the Duke answered, “but I’ll not just let ye be a-sitting there waiting for the chance t’get free.” He turned to Ygraine. “Fetch over me stockings, the long winter ones.”
She went to a wooden trunk, opened it, and returned with several pairs of thick, long woolen stockings.
“Lay down on thut bed spread-eagle, ye devil,” Gorlois ordered holding his dagger just a few inches from Uther’s groin. When Uther obeyed, Gorlois had his wife tie Uther’s wrists to the two bedposts. He tested the knots. “More ‘n strong enough, m’darling. Now do his legs, m’darling.” Ygraine smiled and tied a stocking to each ankle, then tied the other end to the bottommost bedposts.
Uther glared at his captor. “Now what? Do ye mean t’kill me while I be trussed up like a chicken?”
“Nay, Uther.” Gorlois’ voice was almost exactly what Uther’s had been. “I don’t, even if be what ye deserve.” He looked down at the king and smiled, the smile of a cat playing with a captured mouse. “I do mean to be free of ye... of you, though.” He was losing his Cornish accent. “Ygraine, fetch a tunic for our naked guest.” He paused for effect. “One of Morgause’s tunics, from when she was a baby.”
“No!” Uther screamed and tried to pull his arm free. The knots held despite his struggles.
Gorlois nodded. “Yes... daughter.” He stroked his chin. His blond beard was gone, only his mustache remained, and it was now a dark brown, as his hair. He was a bit thinner, as well, and he took a moment to tighten his belt.
Ygraine walked over to him. “This be the first I’ve had t’welcome ye, husband.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him eagerly on the mouth. Gorlois responded just as eagerly. They Ignored Uther and spent a time enjoying their shard passion, their hands exploring each other’s body’s. She was naked beneath the robe, and her husband’s hands soon had her moaning softly and pressing her body against him. “Take me, husband,” Ygraine begged, her voice heavy with desire.
“Of course.” Gorlois was Uther’s twin now. He looked over at his prisoner. “The bed’s in use right now, but I think we can manage.”
He posed Ygraine at the foot of the bed, facing Uther, her arms braced on the bed frame. Gorlois stood behind her, kissing her neck and shoulder. His hands were on her breasts. The robe was open wide, and Uther could see everything.
“Enjoy the show,” Gorlois taunted Uther. Without another word, he moved his hips forward and took Ygraine from behind.
Uther strained at his bonds as he watched what seemed to be his own prick slide into the cunny of the woman he had lusted after for so long. He grew rock hard as he watched, and he feared that he would foul himself there on the bed. “Damn ye, Gorlois,” he spat the name as a curse.
The Duke ignored him. He was grunting, thrusting in and out of Ygraine, and her hips were matching him move for move. Her mouth was open, and she made a soft sort of moan with each stroke.
“Uhhhn!” Gorlois suddenly stopped, his eyes going wide, as his spurted into Ygraine. That set her off, and she howled in delight. Uther was disgusted and fascinated at the same time. The woman seemed to be taking more pleasure than she had with him the night before.
They stood, unmoving for a short time. “Thank you, my love,” Gorlois said, as his prick slid out of Ygraine. He kissed her gently on the side of the neck and began to gently caress her body.
“And thanks t’ye.” Ygraine murmured, her voice a sated purr. When Gorlois’ hand reached her stomach she put her own on top of it. “I don’t know how I know, but I be thinking that we just made a wee one t’gether.”
Gorlois’ laughed. “For once, I don’t hope that it looks like the father.” He looked sharply at Uther. “And speaking of fathers and their children, would you get that tunic I asked for, please?”
“Aye, husband.” Ygraine turned and kissed Gorlois on the cheek. She walked over to a set of trunks in a corner of the room, closing her robe as she did. She opened one trunk and took out a square of white cloth and an infant’s gown. It was pale green and embroidered with white flowers, suitable for a child -- a girl child -- no more than six month’s old.
She used the cloth to wipe at her cunny, then tossed it onto the table and took a second, clean one from the trunk.
At the same time, Gorlois untangled the medallion from the stocking and put it around Uther’s neck. That took a while, for Uther turned and squirmed, but he couldn’t escape. “Damn ye, Gorlois,” he cursed. “Damn ye and yurs f’ever.”
“Now is that any way for a girl to talk to her father?” Gorlois couldn’t resist the taunt. He took the tunic from Ygraine and wrapped it twice around the chain before draping it over the medallion.
Uther felt that tingle run through him as the magic began to work. He cursed and pulled at the stockings even as he began to grow smaller, younger, and more feminine. He looked down and saw his skin grow lighter and his body hair disappear. His prick shrank, disappearing into a thatch of what was now blond hair. In time, it sank down into the cunny that formed around it.
Uther was small enough now, that the stockings no longer held him... her. She pulled first one hand free, then the other. She tried to scramble off the bed, but Gorlois was ready. He laughed and grabbed her by the ankle, he forced her back down and held her there.
“Give up, Uther,” Gorlois ordered. “You’re a child now, a naked girl of six or so. Where can you go?”
Uther shook her head. She was getting dizzy, confused. “Can’t... think... I...” The three-year old on the bed looked up at two familiar faces. “M’ mind... m...” She began to cry as her memories fell away.
Ygraine waited until the little one stopped changing. She quickly fastened the cloth in place as a diaper, using a small copper broach to hold it. She raised the infant’s arms and slid the tunic down over her.
The baby had forgotten why it was crying. It reached for Ygraine and began to make sucking motions with its lips. “She be hungry, I thinks,” Ygraine said. She picked up the child, who moved its head and began to suckle... its mother.
“Me breasts be dry now,” Ygraine said, enjoying the feeling. “But me lady in waiting, Nyuen, she’d know who’d make a good wet-nurse.”
Gorlois watched his wife and -- he laughed to himself -- his new daughter. “What are you going to call her?”
“She be a gift of magic,” Ygraine answered, “and me Morgause’s double. Mor... Morgan, aye, Morgan of the Fairies.” She shifted the baby to her other breast. “Hullo t’ye, me new darling. Hullo t’Morgan le Faye.”
The new mother looked at her husband. “And how’re ye explain being here as Uther? Ye can’t be changing back for half a day.”
“But I am Uther.” The man chuckled. “No, my love, my brain’s not addled. Uther named Duke Gorlois an outlaw and traitor, and only Uther can undo that.” He looked at the baby. She had given up on trying to nurse and seemed to have fallen asleep. “But Uther -- the real Uther -- isn’t going to do that; she can’t. How much better it would be to settle it by my being Uther? And...” he looked at his wife. “...by taking the Duchess Ygraine to wife as my rightful spoils of war.” He leaned over and kissed Ygraine in the cheek.
Ygraine thought about his words for a short time. “How much better, indeed. Uther wanted me to be his wife; he wanted to give me children.” She looked down at the sleeping infant, her head resting on her new mother’s breast. “And so ye have, Uther -- Morgan -- but not hardly the way ye planned.”
She walked over to the crib and gently laid Morgan down next to her new sister. She hurriedly dressed herself and pulled a cord hanging from a nearby wall.
A few moments later, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called.
A young man stepped in. He wore a tabard, a sort of cloak marking him as Gorlois’ servant. “Yes, my lady.”
“This man comes t’me under a flag of truce.” She made a gesture, and Gorlois stepped out from behind a pillar.
The servant took a step back in horror. “My lady, this be --”
“I know who he be. He is here under a flag of truce. Ye’ll take him to his horse and see that he rides free from here unharmed.” She looked at the young man sternly. “Totally unharmed; do y’hear me?”
The servant bowed. “I hear.” He reached out a hand. “Come w’me, m’lord.”
“Thank you, boy,” Gorlois said, being careful not to name a servant he’d know for most of the young man’s life. He turned and bowed low to his wife. “I thank you, my lady, and I look forward to meeting you again in happier times.”
Ygraine winked at her disguised husband, turning her head so the other couldn’t see. “As do I, my lord.”
* * * * *
Gorlois stopped at the edge of the woods. “Uther used a spell that made me look away. Merlin gave him that spell, no doubt.” He turned slowly in the saddle. For some reason, he skipped over one small arc. “That way,” he said, spurring his horse towards it.
It took an effort, but he advanced as far into the woods as he could. The urge to turn the horse, to change direction grew stronger and stronger. When he could barely resist, he climbed down from the horse. He tied the reins to a tree so the horse wouldn’t bolt.
“Merlin,” he called. “Come to me, please, as I cannot come to you?”
The urge to run faded as the old wizard seemed to walk out of thin air. “There’s nothing wrong with my spell, Uther, why can’t you -- wait, you are not Uther.”
A wand appeared in Merlin’s hand, a wand that was pointed at Gorlois. “Who are you, and where is the king?”
“I am Uther,” Gorlois said. “At least, I am now. I was Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, and the one who was Uther, has been changed into my... into Gorlois’ infant daughter by the same magic that gave me his form.”
“Interesting.” Merlin stroked his beard. “An infant’s mind can hold far less knowledge than a grown man’s. I wonder if any of Uther’s memories remain in that tiny form.” He shrugged. “In any case, I can do nothing about it without that medallion.” He raised a hand, asking for the return of the magic item.
Gorlois, now Uther, laughed aloud. “Then you’ll do nothing. I tossed it off a cliff on the way back here. I’ve no idea where it is by now.”
“And it has a magic that keeps it from being found.” He lowered the wand and knelt. “In that case, welcome home, my liege.”
Gorlois/Uther raised an eyebrow. “You give in too easily, Merlin.”
“I accept the jest that fate and that medallion have played upon me -- no, upon all of Britain. You are a good man, Gor... Uther, and, with my guidance, you will likely reign as well as that other Uther.”
“Then, I, Uther, High King of the Britons, do accept your pledge of fealty, Merlin, as I will gladly accept your wisdom.” He bowed his head towards Merlin.
“And what of Duke Gorlois, my liege.”
Uther made a sad face. “Uther’s... my men were looking for him last night. Let it be known that they found the Duke, and that they exe -- no, that he died fighting bravely against overwhelming odds.”
“It shall be done, my liege, and those men shall be rewarded for what they did, as I shall instruct them to remember their deeds.” Merlin chuckled. “Silver coins do wonders at helping men to remember what we want them to.”
* * * * *
Uther married Ygraine some time later. They had no other children, save the one conceived that night, the boy they named Arthur.
Morgan le Faye grew up to be a sorceress. She hated Arthur and worked to destroy him and his works. Some versions of the story say that Arthur seduced her, conceiving Mordred, the man who ultimately killed him.
Whether the Morgan of THIS story hated the adult Arthur for seducing and abandoning her or because of vague memories of her former life is left to the reader.
Valentine Gift
by Ellie Dauber
© 2003
Attorney Rebecca Sutton normally didn’t like getting gifts from her staff. She didn’t like this one—until she put it on and couldn’t get it off.
This is the second “Stavros” story.
Valentine Gift
by Ellie Dauber
© 2003
Rebecca Sutton saw the package as soon as she walked into her office. It was right in the center of her desk, where she couldn’t miss it, a box two or three inches on each side, wrapped in red paper with a bright pink bow. There was a card underneath it, of course, with her name written on it in a florid style. She didn’t recognize the handwriting.
The card had a picture on the front of a rather pretty blonde in a skimpy sailor’s suit. “Happy Valentine’s Day To an ADMIRAbLe Woman...” the caption said. Inside, the card added “...From Your Crew.” It was signed, “Stefan Djanko.”
Sat down behind the desk and clicked on the intercom. “Marnie, tell Stefan Djanko to get his butt over to my office... now!” She clicked off the intercom without waiting for a reply.
She leaned back in her chair. Associates summoned to the office of one of the senior partners of Lockwood, Royce, and Sutton were usually very prompt.
Rebecca had never liked Valentine’s Day. She was tall and angular, rather than curvaceous. She’d also inherited her father’s rather prominent nose and square jaw. She had no delusions about her appearance, and no one—other than her parents—had ever given her any cause to have them.
Close to fifty, she had many acquaintances but few friends. She had worked hard at her career and at her hobbies. She was on the board of several civic groups and the incoming vice president of the Museum Association. As her late Aunt Rose would have said, she was a very successful old maid.
Now, this… Djanko had to get cute and send her a card. More than one associate had tried to butter her up for better assignments, his own office, whatever. None of them had tried this approach, the hint of sexual interest. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.
She tried to remember what this... Djanko looked like. The firm had well over a dozen associates, and he’d only been hired a few weeks before. She’d drawn him as one of her staff only because another associate had left to join a firm in her hometown.
There was a knock on the door. It opened slightly, and someone... Djanko looked in. “You... ah, wanted to see me, Ms. Sutton?”
“Yes, Mr. Djanko, please come in... and close the door behind you.”
He stepped in. He was tall, about as tall as her own six foot height. Not bad looking either, she had to admit, curly black hair, aquiline nose, and dark—very dark eyes. ‘Eastern European stock,’ she thought, ‘maybe even some gypsy blood judging from the name. Well, this is one gypsy who may just be moving his shingle to another store, if he can’t explain himself to my satisfaction.’
“I, uh, see that you found my present.” He pointed to the box.
“I did. And I found it most inappropriate. This card...” She held it up.
“Ma’am, Ms. Sutton. I apologize for the card. They really don’t make Valentine’s Day cards for one’s boss. I’ve been assigned to assist on a couple of your cases, Trafton v. deLeon and McMichaels v. Abbott, and I just wanted to say how much I enjoy working here and how much I admire your skill as a litigator.” He sighed. “I’m sorry if you found the card or my gift to be in any way offensive or suggestive.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow and stared at the man. If he was lying, he was very good at it—which was not a character flaw in a successful lawyer.
“Did you... did you get a chance to look at the locket?” Djanko asked, trying to restart the conversation.
“I haven’t even unwrapped the box, nor do I intend to.”
“I... I wish you would, ma’am. My great uncle Stavros—he’s the head of the family—he made it for you himself.”
“I really don’t think...”
“My family have been... craftsmen for seven generations. Uncle Stavros asked me how I liked being a lawyer. I told him that I had a job that I really liked, working here for you. I guess that I went a little overboard. Anyway, he showed up at my apartment a few days later with the locket.”
“You give to you boss lady, Uncle Stavros say.” Djanko was speaking in a low gravelly voice with a thick accent. “Then she like you whole bunches, and you have good job.” The accent was Eastern European, as she had guessed, but she had no idea where from exactly.
“And that’s all there is to it?”
“I tried to explain that it wouldn’t be proper for me to give it to you, but he insisted.” He shrugged his shoulders. “He’s the head of the family. I... I just couldn’t refuse.”
Rebecca nodded, remembering her Aunt Rose. “I had an aunt who was very much like that, so I suppose that I understand.” She picked up the box. “You just take this, and I’ll consider the entire matter to be settled.”
Djanko looked like she had just fired him—or was about to. “Umm, ah, ma’am, Ms. Sutton, I know that I’m asking a lot, but would you put it on—just for a minute. Then I can honestly tell Uncle Stavros that you did. You can give it right back, but I... ahh, I sort of promised.” He took a breath, bracing himself for the worst. “Please.”
“You had no right to promise your uncle such a thing.”
“I know, ma’am, I know, but Uncle Stavros... he’s got a knack for getting his way. I guess that he’s been running the family for so long that we’ve all gotten into the habit of doing whatever he says.”
‘This is getting ridiculous,’ Rebecca thought. ‘The easiest thing would be to throw him the hell out of here, but it would be bad for office morale.’ She began to work the ribbon off the box. “Very well, but just for a moment. Then I want you—and it—out of my sight.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
She took the paper off carefully, folding it out of old habit and putting it into a desk drawer. The locket was nested in some loose tissue paper—also pink. Rebecca lifted it out and examined it. It was very good work. The chain was a set of fine, silver gray links. The locket, itself, was small, about the size of a half-dollar coin and made from the same metal as the chain. It was round, with the raised image of a book on it. The book had the word “Juris” on it in a fine, gothic font.
“Your uncle does excellent work, Mr. Djanko. I’m truly sorry that I won’t be able to keep it.” She stood up, holding the locket by its chain.
“Thank you, Ms. Sutton. I’ll be sure to tell him how much you liked it.”
Rebecca’s fingers undid the clasp. She lifted the two ends of the chain, one in each hand, and closed the clasp again behind her neck. Her graying hair, done in a fashionable upsweep, was too short to get in her way.
She put her arms at her side and stood still for a moment. “There, Mr. Djanko, now you can—” She suddenly felt very dizzy. She leaned against the desk, using one hand to steady herself, and shook her head to try and clear it.
Her skin from the neck up felt warm, flushed. Her scalp itched. Her hair seemed to be growing; she could feel it tickling the back of her neck. The muscles in her face twitched and stretched, as if they were shifting position under her skin.
She looked over at Djanko. He was just standing there watching. He knew! He knew exactly what was happening to her. In a panic, she tried to remove the locket, but every time her fingers came close to it, her hands began to tremble and shake to the point that she couldn’t grasp it.
“Do you have a mirror, Ms. Sutton,” Djanko asked. “Perhaps a small one in your desk.”
Rebecca nodded. She kept a small hand mirror in a desk drawer to check her appearance before meetings. She pointed to the drawer with an unsteady hand. Djanko took out the mirror and held it up in front of her.
It wasn’t her face that looked back at her.
The woman in the mirror might have been her cousin; there was some family resemblance, especially in the green-gray color and the shape of her eyes. The rest was very different.
She was younger—much younger, in her late twenties, perhaps. Her cheekbones were higher and nose smaller, almost pert. Her jaw was more rounded. Rebecca turned her head slightly. This woman had straight brown hair that framed her face and hung down to her shoulders.
“What? How?” She gently touched her face, watching as the woman in the mirror did the same.
“I... uh, wasn’t entirely truthful with you, Rebecca. I said that Uncle Stavros and the rest of the family were craftsmen. We are... witchcraftsmen. That necklace is magic. It’s what’s changing you.”
“Ridiculous. There’s... there’s no such thing as magic.” Her hands went up to her throat again, but, once more, they began to tremble, so that she couldn’t possibly take off the locket.
“It won’t let you, Rebecca. No matter how hard or how many times you try.” He shook his head. “No, not until the magic is done.”
“You... you mean there’s more?” Why was he calling her by her first name? He was her subordinate, wasn’t he?
“Of course, there’s more, Rebecca, and it should start again about...” He looked at his watch. “...now.”
She felt the dizziness again. This time, though, the odd warmth was spreading through the rest of her body. The room seemed to get bigger. She looked over at Djan... at Stefan. She was shrinking; he was definitely taller than her now.
She looked down, wondering how she looked. Her clothes still seemed to fit. ‘Must be shrinking with me,’ she thought. The clothes were changing, but that was because her body was changing as well.
She felt her center of balance shifting as her waist narrowed and her hips grew wider. Her skirt altered to match her new body; she could feel the dark blue fabric moving as it did. The hem slid slowly upward as she watched, moving from mid-calf to just above her knees. Her no longer knobby knees; her legs were slimmer with a feminine curve they had lacked before. Her pantyhose had changed from flesh-tone to a darker color, and the fabric felt sheerer against her skin.
Now there was a tightness in her chest. Her nipples grew erect. They were more sensitive, as well, for the fabric of her cotton bra seemed rough against them. Then there was a... stretching; that was the only way she could think to describe it. Her blouse and jacket were pushed outward as her breasts grew. Rebecca stared in amazement, as they went from the A-cup they had been since before her fifteenth birthday to what had to be a full C-cup. She felt cloth sliding against them and realized that her bra was changing to fit them, just as her outer garments were. Yes, she could feel the support that they needed now.
“Not bad, not bad at all, Becky.” Stefan said. She looked up and saw him smiling in approval.
Rebecca... no, Becky felt her cheeks flush. Her nipples tingled. She wasn’t worried about the magic anymore. He liked the way she looked now.
“Too bad there isn’t a full-length mirror, so you can see how pretty you are.”
He thought she was pretty! “There is, actually.” She pointed to a corner section of her office wall. There’s a small kitchenette and a shower in there for when I have to work late. The door has a mirror on the back.
“Take a look, then.”
She took a step. It felt odd, off-balance. She looked down to discover that her low shoes now sported a two-inch heel. She carefully took a second step and found that she had no trouble walking in them. She’d seldom worn heels when she was taller. Now, she did. She walked easily, but with a sway to her hips that hadn’t been there before. She glanced behind her and was delighted to see him watching her, as she walked.
She opened the door and stared at the image. “I... I’m beautiful.” She was, and she hugged herself in delight.
“You could see yourself even better without that jacket.”
Her hands quickly worked the buttons on her dark blue suit jacket. She took it off and tossed it onto the counter. Her white silk blouse was still the same, though it strained now to contain her breasts. She put her hands on her hips and posed. Then she posed again, her hands behind her to make her breasts seem even larger.
“They’re very nice, aren’t they?” Stefan asked. “Your breasts, I mean.”
She giggled at the compliment. “Ooh, yes, they are.”
“You should take off your blouse, Becky. Then we... you could see them; you could even touch them.”
She smiled at the thought that he wanted to see her breasts, maybe even as much as she did. A nagging thought at the back of her mind said that it wasn’t right, but she ignored it. After all, this was Stefan.
She posed again, turning her body so she could see both him and her reflection. Then, ever so slowly, she undid one button after the other. As she neared the bottom of the blouse, she began to pull gently at the blouse. When she undid the last button, the blouse hung free of her skirt. It was open in the front, so that part of her bra and the curve of her breasts could be seen.
Stefan was smiling. He liked what he saw; she could tell. She slipped the blouse off her shoulders and let it slip slowly down her body revealing more and more of her.
Her reflection suddenly caught her eye. When she’d dressed in the morning, she had put on a plain, white cotton bra. Now she was wearing a pink confection of silk and lace, a demi-bra that lifted her breasts and made them seem even bigger. The bra itself was cut so low that it barely covered her erect nipples.
Becky couldn’t help herself. Her hands rose up to caress her breasts, kneading them between her fingers. The sensation was overwhelming, and she moaned very softly. A feeling, a warmth, a sexual energy built in her breasts. It flowed out along ever nerve path in her body, but it was the strongest down there, down in her crotch.
“C’mere, Becky, and give me a kiss.”
A kiss? Kiss him, Stefan, her subor... her... her lover? Of course, she would.
She ran over and threw her arms around his neck. She felt his arms around her, and it felt wonderful. Their lips met. Hers parted. His tongue entered dueling with hers. She pressed her body against his. She felt her breasts mashed against the front of his jacket. She rubbed her groin against the bulge she felt growing in his pants.
“That feels nice,” she said. “So nice and so... big.” Her hand reached down, and she ran a finger along the bulge, giggling as it twitched in reaction.
“Would you like to see it?”
“Oooh, could I?”
“Sure, Becky, go ahead.”
She dropped to her knees. Her face was level with his belt buckle. She opened the belt and unbuttoned his pants. Her fingers reached in, so she was holding both his pants and his shorts. With one quick yank, she pulled them both down past his knees and let go.
His erection pointed straight up at her. It was just a few inches from her mouth. She could smell his man scent, and it just made her more horny. His cock was long and thick, just the way... the way she liked it. Didn’t she? She looked up at him hungrily. “C-can I...?”
“Go right ahead… Kiki.”
Kiki leaned forward and kissed the tip of it. Her long, blonde curls fell down over her face, reaching down almost to her breasts. She ran her tongue along the length of it, then underneath to tickle that tender spot where the cock grew out from the balls. She licked them as well, taking them one at a time into her mouth and sucking gently. His scent was even stronger here, and that and the taste of his sweat made her even hotter.
Kiki... that couldn’t be her name... could it? Yes, of course, it was. She licked the drop of pre-cum off the tip of his cock. Then she took him into her mouth, sucking and massaging it with her tongue.
She was so, so incredibly hot. One hand went to her breast, reaching into her bra to play with her nipple. The other reached down past the waistband of her skirt, into her panties. Two fingers slid into her easily; she was wet and ready. She found her clit and began to play with it between her fingers.
Her body was trembling with sexual energy, but she kept on sucking. She felt his cock tremble, then let loose with a flood of warm, salty fluid. It was the bestest stuff she ever tasted, and she sucked harder, trying to swallow it all.
She sucked until his cock began to soften, and he pulled it out. “Kiki, that... that was excellent.”
“Thanks, Mr. Djanko.” Her voice was higher, softer, almost the voice of a child.
“Yes, clean me off, and then we’d better get back to work.”
She held his cock in her hand, carefully licking off the last of the cum. When he began to stiffen again, she tried to put it back into her mouth. If she got him hard again, maybe he would fuck her.
“We really don’t have time for that.” Djanko put his hand on hers, waiting until she released his manhood. Then he reached down and pulled up his shorts, then his pants. He pulled her to her feet. Even in her four-inch heels, she barely came up to his chin.
“Pooh,” she said, pouting her lips. “Can we do it later, Master?”
“Kiki,” he said firmly. “I’ve told you more than once. At the office, you call me ‘Mr. Djanko’, even when we’re alone.” He stopped for a moment to tuck in his shirt. “Now go get dressed. You’ve got typing to do.”
Kiki straightened her skirt. It was a pale blue mini that stopped well up in her thighs, and she pushed it down past the garters that held up her violet stockings. Her matching lycra blouse was in the closet where she’d left it. She put it on and buttoned all but the top two buttons, showing a good bit of her pillowy DD-cup breasts.
Djanko was already sitting behind his desk. As senior associate at Lockwood and Royce and a man well along on the partnership track, he rated his own office and a secretary of his own. Kiki wasn’t the best secretary in the office, not by a long shot, but she had other useful talents.
He watched her hips sway invitingly as she walked over to him. “Is there anything else I can do for you Mas... Mister Djanko, anything at all?” As she spoke, she leaned over, so he could get a good view. Her new silver locket, heart-shaped and with his picture inside, slid well down into the space between her breasts. It almost invited him to reach in for it.
“Ah, yes, Kiki. Let me speak to Rebecca for a moment.”
Kiki straightened up. Her eyes glazed over. “Yes, Master,” she said in a voice without any emotion.
“Rebecca, I want you to work up a strategy brief on Trafton v. deLeon. Detail exactly how the case should be handled and bring it in here on a floppy. Then erase every trace of it from your machine.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Very good. Now bring back Kiki.”
Kiki blinked. She giggled and kissed Djanko on the forehead.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“For this pretty gift.” She held up the locket. She looked younger now, barely twenty. “You tell your uncle that I think it’s cool, and I’m real, real, glad you gave it to me.”
“You’re very welcome, Kiki, but you’re not half as glad as I am.”
Vengeance
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2007
Author's note. The idea for this short came from a news story of an armed gunman at NASA (04/20/07). When I heard the news that the gunman and the male hostage were dead, but that the female survived, I thought... well, read the story, and you'll see what I thought. Then you might write a review and say what you thought.
Vengeance
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2007
The last thing I remember was the sound of the gunshot. I didn't even feel it hit me.
I was floating, surrounded by a whiteness so bright that I could even see it with my eyes closed. If I had really had eyes in that disembodied state.
Then -- suddenly -- I did have eyes. I felt flesh surround me, contain me, again, and it felt... wonderful.
I was sitting in a chair. My arms -- my arms -- tied behind my back. I was blindfolded and gagged, too. Jaime Velasquez had certainly known how to tie someone up.
He certainly had. I had to laugh when I thought that, gag or no gag.
I heard shouts from someplace. "Mr. Velasquez... Jaime... is everything all right in there?" When there was no answer, they called other names: Pete Langdon, Rosa deSantos. No one answered. We couldn't.
I heard the sound of wood shattering. Axes, maybe: who knew. Who cared? I leaned back in the chair and started to get used to my new body.
Moments later, I heard the same voice, very close, very... male. "It's all right, Ms. deSantos; we're the police. I'm Sgt. Mullen." He was untying my hands. As soon as they were free, I pulled off the blindfold.
I gasped through the gag. The sight of my body, my former body lying dead on the floor was a shock. My -- his, I had to remember to say his -- face had a look of surprise and fear. Why shouldn't it?
Did it hurt to die, I wondered. I found myself hoping that it did. I'd squeezed the trigger as the spell took effect. I hoped that Rosa's spirit had gotten into my body in time to feel the pain as it died.
Langdon, that Puerco, was dead, too. I'd shot him first, right between those beady eyes. I don't know which I enjoyed more: the look on his face when the bullet hit or the look on Rosa's when she saw her lover die. I smiled at the memory, then quickly changed that expression to one of fear. It wouldn't do for anyone to see Rosa deSantos smiling.
"Can you walk?" Mullen asked.
I got to my feet." I think so." I was six inches shorter, top heavy, and in heels. "Maybe you'd better help me," I said nervously.
He took my arm and started guiding me towards the door. We had to pass near my... Jaime's body. "Son of a BITCH!" I shouted, especially that last word -- the first two were pretense, and spat. Mullen didn't say a word, though I thought I heard him chuckle at my obviously feminine actions.
* * * * *
I got back to our apartment a couple of hours later. The people Rosa worked for had given her the rest of the week off with pay. The cops hadn't been very much of a hassle. I was a kidnapping victim, for G-d's sake. How could they be anything but helpful. A doctor checked me over quickly; no damage, of course. I'd been careful not to hurt the body I was going to occupy.
Mullen gave me his card, in case I needed to talk to him about the case. The way he acted, I think he was hoping I'd want to talk to him about other, personal things. I couldn't blame him. This body was hot, but I had no intention of having sex with anybody else until I saw Mama Luisa. She had promised she could change it into a male one.
Rosa hadn't changed the apartment much from the day she threw me out. There was a picture of her and Langdon at some amusement park, where our wedding picture had been. There were some male clothes I didn't recognize in the bedroom closet. They, and a few other things around the place that had to be his, would go in the trash or to Goodwill as soon as I had the chance.
I yawned. Well, it had certainly been one hell of a busy day. I walked back into the bedroom and began to unbutton my blouse. I tossed it on the bed and stepped out of my skirt.
The closet doors were mirrored. I could see myself, and it was a sight to behold. I walked -- no, I strutted -- over for a better look. It was worth the walk.
The reflection was of a tall, athletic-looking Latina with coppery colored skin and jet black hair that hung straight down just past her shoulders. She wore a dark blue demi-bra that went well with her skin tone and made her 36-C breasts look even bigger. She wore a matching blue panty, barely wider than a thong, and, under the panty, a garter belt that held up a pair of slate gray, very sheer stockings. Her legs looked perfect, with three-inch heels giving them just the right amount of feminine curves. Not man could ever resist a woman who looked like that.
Not even a man stuck in that very body.
I felt my nipples tighten. There was a warm, kind of empty feeling in my crotch. As always, Rosa knew how to dress to make a man horny.
I decided to do something about it. I slid my left hand under the bra and began to play with her nipple, tweaking and rubbing it. My G-d, that felt good! I did the same with the other breast, and it felt -- I felt -- even better. I kept it up for a while, enjoying the sensations running through me. Then, my right hand moved slowly, deliciously slowly, down, down, down to my crotch.
I found my slit. It was already moist, and ran my nail along the edge. "Oooooh." I was still a moaner, just like before. I slid in a finger, then another. I found my clit and began to play with it the way Rosa had always liked. I moaned again and stumbled backwards. My knees felt weak, my legs were wobbly.
I didn't stop, but I got to my bed and lay down, kicking off my shoes. Just in time, too. Something had been building, peaking in me. Without warning, it broke. An explosion of pleasure washed over me. My body rose off the bed as I screamed. "Yes! Yes, Pete, yes!"
I came back from that explosion into a comforting warmth like nothing I had felt before. My hand kept the motion going, and soon I felt the joy, the pleasure building in me again. The second orgasm was better than the first, and the third better still. Exhausted, I pulled my hand out of my tingling pussy and lay back on the bed.
My heart was beating so fast I could almost hear it. I was covered with sweat that plastered my clothes to my body. My hair was a tangle from my movements in the midst of orgasm. And I was smiling the biggest, most satisfied smile of my life.
I fell asleep that way.
I don't remember much of the dream I had. I was myself again, arguing with Rosa about something. There was no way to tell what; we argued about so many things. I grabbed her, forced her down on the bed, and began to have sex with her. To rape her.
To rape me.
That was when I woke up.
I looked at the clock radio. It was almost 9 AM. I'd slept through the night. My clothes were sticky, my body felt... dirty. The room smelled of sweat and sex. The sheet was wet, too, and it felt clammy against my skin.
I got out of bed and stripped. The air conditioner's breeze was cool on my skin, and I felt goose bumps all over. I decided to take a shower.
I had to turn down the force of the shower. It stung my tender skin. Pete must have used it last. He always let me shower first because it took me longer to dress.
Unless we showered together.
I jerked my head, suddenly awake. Where has that thought come from? I... Jaime ... I, dammit, always let Rosa shower first for just that reason. I was just confused. "Still sleepy," I whispered. I took a bar of soap from the shelf in the corner and began to lather.
Especially my breasts. It felt so good, so very good to run the soap across my slippery, wet skin, across my tight, tender nipples. Then slowly, very slowly, down my stomach -- stop at my navel, yes, yes, rub there. I'm an "innie". I put in my pinkie and played with it.
Then down, down, to my fur-covered slit. I drop the soap; I don't need it. Just my hand, as fingers touch the lips in welcome before they plunge in. In. And out. And in and out again and again. One hand kneads my breast, plucking at the nipple like a guitar, while one finger of the other does the same to my clitty.
I fall back against the shower wall, screaming my delight as the orgasm hits me. I sink down to the tile as my talented fingers bring me to the peak of a second one. I squeal and thrash as it hits me, not caring as my hair is soaked and the make-up I forgot to remove runs down my face.
Eventually, I stand up, turn off the water, and step out. The towels are big and pinks and fluffy. I dry myself carefully, not wanting to start things up again with my body.
I went automatically to the drawer where I... where Rosa kept her underthings. I picked a rather simple white cotton bra and matching panties. I felt a bit -- was disappointed the word? -- as I stepped into such a plain looking panty. It was the same when I put my arms through the straps of the bra and reached behind to do the hooks. As if it was a shame not to wear prettier underclothes.
Why was I thinking such thoughts? And how had I been able to put on the bra so easily?
Of course, it was easy. I had been wearing a bra for years. I remember how happy I was the day Mama took me to the store. My little titties were barely a AA-cup. "You are a woman now, my Rosalita," she had said. "A brassiere shows this to the world. Besides," she added with a chuckle, "if you are like the rest of the women in the family, you will need to wear such things soon enough."
I shivered. How had I remembered such a thing? That was Rosa's past. The memory should have died with her. I thought back to when I... when Jaime was that age. He was in the little league. I pictured his old team out on the field. I, of course, was in the stands cheering -- no! He was... I was playing second base.
I remembered being on the team, being Jaime, but I also remembered being in the stands, being Rosa. She was rooting for us, for... I never knew that she had a crush on my friend Rafi. Of course, I did. I... I gave him my virginity a week after my quinceañera party.
I whimpered. My memories as Jaime were still there, but so were Rosa's memories. And hers were getting stronger.
"Mama Luisa," I all but shouted the name. She was the bruja who gave me the spell to trade souls. She would know what was happening to me.
I threw on a t-shirt and jeans. Pulled on the jeans, actually; Rosa liked to wear them tight, to show off her body.
I was about to go out the door, when I happened to glance in the mirror. No, I couldn't go out looking like this, not for something so important.
I replaced the shirt with a bright yellow blouse with a not too low neckline and puffy sleeves that stopped a few inches above my wrist. With it, I wore a brown, knee-length, pleated skirt. I skipped the stockings, putting on bright yellow sandals with a one-inch heel.
Fine, now could I go?
No. I ran a brush through my hair. Lipstick and a quick spray of perfume completed the look. At least, they did when I added a pair of pearl earrings and Rosa's bracelet watch. All the time, I kept telling myself that I just wanted to pass, and all the time I knew that it was Rosa's memories that were making me do this.
* * * * *
Mama Luisa's Botanica was a small store on a quiet side street in the old neighborhood. As I drove there, the sights brought back other memories. When I passed my old school, I remembered the pigtails I had worn until I was teased by the boys for looking like such a baby. That store was where Mama bought me that first bra. I had my hair done at that beauty shop just last week. Rafi kissed me in the balcony of that movie theatre; he touched my breasts there, too, the first time I let a boy be that intimate. Then I remembered going there -- and making out -- with Jaime. I remembered all the time we spent together, but I was remembering it as Rosa lived it, not as Jaime had.
By the time I got to the Botanica, I had most of her memories. Mine were fading away. I had to hurry before they were gone.
The store was almost empty, just Mama Luisa wearing a long, green dress, sitting in an overstuffed gray chair drinking some tea. "I was wondering when you would arrive," she said in a thick accent.
"You've got to help me, Mama Luisa," I pleaded. "Rosa... the memories... your spell." I grabbed her by the shoulders and began to cry.
She spoke in a voice that was almost a purr. "The memories," she said, "and one last one to complete the spell."
I closed my eyes. I saw her standing there in the store. Her dress was blue and a different style. "You say that he wants to kill me," I heard myself… Rosa ask.
"He does, and I, I am sorry to say, have given him the means to do so, and to escape any legal punishment."
"Then what can I do?" I... Rosa, it was her memory.
Mama Luisa handed me a thin silver necklace with a small white porcelain rose. "You must wear this, wear it at all times, even when you sleep. It will turn my spell against him."
I took the necklace and put it on. One of Jaime's memories came to me. She had been wearing it yesterday when I broke into the store. My hand shot to my throat. I was still wearing it. I tried to yank it off, to open the clasp. It wouldn't budge.
Now I was remembering as Rosa. "How can I thank you, Mama Luisa?"
The old bruja smiled. "Just do not be mad at me for letting this happen. And do not worry. I will not allow any real harm to come to the daughter of my sister's daughter."
I felt dizzy. I trembled and closed my eyes. When I opened them, Jaime was gone. He had left my body forever. "Thank you again, Mama Luisa."
My great aunt gave me a warm smile. "It is over, then?"
"It is. Jaime is in whatever hell he deserves for what he tried to do." I crossed myself. "And Pete, my sweet, gentle Pete, rests a bit easier, I think."
* * * * *
Viral Hot Spot
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
A viral hot spot -- not Covid is found on a college campus; as reported by the CDC.
Viral Hot Spot
By Ellie Dauber © 2020
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) has confirmed the presence of a Bimbo Virus hotspot at Crayton University in Abadla, Texas.
The members of the Phi Delta Delta Fraternity had decided to report to the school two weeks prior to the start of Crayton fall semester classes. The students’ intent was to self-quarantine within the fraternity’s large chapter house. The house was in need of some minor repairs, and it was felt that the entre chapter membership could accomplish these with ease. The fact that several of the wealthier members of the fraternity has arranged a steady run of pizza and beer deliveries was also a factor in assuring full attendance by the members.
First to succumb to the virus was Andrew “Moose” Moskowitz, a 20-year old member of the Crayton Hawks wrestling squad. Moskowitz is reported to have complained about a stiffness in his muscles during the course of the afternoon of August 13. At dinner, he complained that there was no pizza with just pineapple on it. This was a topping he had never been to enjoy previously. “Too girly,” he described it.
Just after the meal, he began to giggle, his voice rising slowly from a deep base to a lilting soprano. He jumped up on the table and began to dance to a tune being played on another fraternity brother’s I-Pod. His hair grew down to his shoulders and lightened to a honey blonde. He began to strip to the music, complaining that his clothes didn’t seem to fit any more.
Jack Reyolds, a senior bio-sciences major, recorded what happened on his phone:
“Moose got smaller and smaller. It looked like he was wearing a tent. His jeans just slid down his legs. He giggled and stepped out of them – and his shoes. Damn! He had really great legs. He pulled his shirt off over his head. He had tits! Nice ones, and they were getting bigger and rounder while we watched. Somebody – Larry Carver -- yelled, ‘He’s a goddamned girl.’ Moose giggled and said, “Damn right!’ She yanked at her shorts and damn if she didn’t have a pussy. ‘And I’m horny, too.’ She jumped into Larry’s arms. He laughed and carried her off. They ran up to Larry’s room on the second floor and locked the door.”
A short time later, Carver discovered that he was changing as well. However, he was in the midst of an act of coitus with the previously transformed “Moose”. She would not let him leave until she was satisfied. By which time, Carver was completely transformed.
When they opened the door, the found a number of fraternity brothers clustered in the hall out of curiosity. They spoke with, kissed, and, in some cases, fondled their brethren. Other transformations soon followed. The new females were all locked in their rooms by other fraternity members wearing gloves and improvised face masks.
Some of the brothers tried to leave. Reynolds urged them to stay. He pointed that that, if they were already infected, it was too late to run, and they should not spread the virus across the campus. The other brothers, he said, had a duty to protect the school from their brothers and – considering how easy the new women were – their brothers from the school.
Reynolds contacted school authorities via email. Medical personnel arrived in BPEs (Bimbo Protective Equipment) to seal of the building. It was at this point that Reynolds shook his head and began to giggle. In minutes, he became a buxom redhead who could only say, sadly, that “Science is Hard” when asked about the recording of his – her – earlier observations.
Still, because of his quick action, the viral hot spot was limited to the twenty-three members of Phi Delta Delta fraternity. The transformed students are staying at the school now that they are no longer contagious. However, they are no longer referring to themselves as the Phi Delts fraternity, but as a sorority, the Phi-Double Ds.
This story was written in reaction to comments on the FictionMania Message Bord about the advisability of writing stories based on the Covid virus and the “New Norm” that we are all experiencing. It is based on the true report of a sorority house at the University of Oklahoma whch was declared a COVID hot spot when twenty-three of the sisters were found to be infected. I moved the story to a mythical college in Texas, because there are already a great number of stories about M2F sex changes in Oklahoma.
Zodiac Coin: Scorpio
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2006
Unprincipled legal gun for hire, Sam Ralston, is forced/brined to take on a charity case, a woman accused of threatening an urban drug lord who is one of Sam’s regular clients. The bribe is the Scorpio Coin, and Sam uses it in ways he never would have imagined. The result… read for yourself. The tale also contains the conclusion of the background tale of how the coins came to be.
Zodiac Coin: Scorpio
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2006
Between 2002 and 2005, a writer named JRD wrote a series of stories about the Zodiac Coins. The coins were created by an unspecified pantheon of gods over 4000 years ago. Each coin was linked to a different sign of the Zodiac. A coin could grant three wishes of limited extent (no wishing for something like “World Peace), with the wisher gradually taking on character traits associated with that Zodiacal sign. Also, by the end of the tale, someone – the wisher, a friend, lover significant other, whoever would become trapped as a sexy she-male.
JRD was a good writer and his (her?) ninety stories on FictionMania are worth reading. Unfortunately, JRD’s last story was “Zodiac Coin: Cancer”, the eleventh story in the series. I was asked to complete the series, and this story is the result. Let me know what you think.
* * * * *
2234 YEARS AGO...
The merchant knew high magic when he saw it and he was wise enough to know that it was more than he could deal with. He set off to the city to seek help, but was lost in a violent mountain storm and never seen again.
His family mourned him. They feared that they would be left destitute, until an old woman no one had ever seen stopped in the village. "Dig a new well," she urged them, pointing to a place in their field. When they did, they found a chest full of jewels that provided comfort for the rest of their days. "Payment," the old woman said and passed from their sight.
Those who knew of the coins all agreed that they must now be in the hands of the gods.
In the hands of the gods? No, because no god could bear the touch of the metal of these coins. A grand council was called. Time moves differently in the godrealm, but, even here, the council lasted far longer than any had expected. Or desired.
After long study, the god of all workers in metal finally declared that he could shift the magic within the metal so that it was focused on the symbol borne on that coin and harmless to the gods. Each coin would grant three wishes for its bearer, and those wishes would pass some attribute of the zodiacal symbol on to the wisher. Since the wishes would be linked to a positive attribute of the symbol, they could not be used to harm another.
The magic could be redirected, yes, but only by the combined power of all of the gods. Yet, as dangerous as the coins were to them all, the war god could not bear to destroy so strong and so subtle a weapon. His refusal meant that there was not enough power to redirect the magic of the coins.
There was enough power for other things.
The next morning, the war god awoke to discover that he was much changed. His body, a mass of muscles honed by centuries of combat was now smaller, rounded into feminine curves of bust, hip and leg. His rough military tunic was a sheer linen chemise, and his arms, so soft and white, no longer had the strength to lift a sword. All that remained of his true body were those parts that still let him call himself male.
As he tried to understand what had happened to him, his delicate ears were filled with the laughter of the other gods.
* * * * *
The jury foreman was a heavyset man in a brown jacket and a pair of jeans. He looked nervous when Judge Kaiser had him stand. Kaiser was a tall, barrel-chested man with piercing brown eyes and slate gray hair, a judge straight out of central casting.
"How does the jury find on the first count, burglary?" the judge asked
The foreman swallowed. "We... that is, the jury find Mr. Baldini... not guilty." He didn't look very happy. The judge went through the other four counts. The answer was the same.
"This jury having somehow found Emil Baldini not guilty of all counts," Kaiser finally said, "I have no choice but to declare this trial at an end." He looked like he was sucking a lemon. "Your client is free to go, Mr. Ralston and I would like to see you in my chambers in a half hour."
Sam Ralston looked at the judge in surprise. "Does this concern my client, Your Honor?" Ralston was a tall man, impeccably dressed in a light gray suit. Every blonde hair was in place, and he spoke in a pleasant baritone that radiated truthful authority.
"Only in the sense that his acquittal is the latest in a long list of very sorry accomplishments," the judge told him. "It is that list, rather than any single case on it, that I would like to discuss."
"In that case, I'll be happy to meet with you, Your Honor."
"Fine. There being no further business before this court, I declare it..." he pounded his gavel twice. "...adjourned." The judge rose, as did everyone else. He nodded to the crowd and left through a door just to the left of his bench.
* * * * *
"What the fuck was that all about," Emil Baldini asked his lawyer. They were alone in a small room reserved for lawyers and their clients that was down the hall from Criminal Court. Baldini was a short, wiry man with slicked back hair. "Why's he wanna with meet you?"
Sam shrugged. "I don't know, Emil, but he said that it didn't concern you. You're free to go, so why don't you? Just pay me first."
"You said an extra five grand if I got off, right?" When the lawyer nodded, Baldini took a thick envelop out of his jacket and handed it to Ralston. "You think you're so smart, don't you?"
Ralston nodded. "I do. And so do you, or you wouldn't have paid me so much to defend you against those charges." He lowered his voice to a whisper, though the room was soundproof. "And, since we both know you that you really did steal those jewels, it was a good thing that you did hire me, isn't it?"
"Damn straight. I guess putting up with a little lip from you is better than looking at ten to twenty years hard time."
"Fine. Now that we've settled how smart I am, I'll head to T.R.'s... to Judge Kaiser's chambers and see what he wants. Try to stay out of trouble for a while -- or, at least, don't get caught, okay." He turned and headed for the door before the other man could answer him.
* * * * *
"Thump-thump-a-thump-thump."
Without looking up from the paperwork on his desk at the sound of the knock, the Honorable Judge Theodore Roosevelt Kaiser called out, "Two bits... come in Sam."
"Hi, T.R.," Sam greeted the judge. Like his namesake, Judge Kaiser preferred his initials to "Ted" or "Teddy."
The chambers were small, but well furnished; shelves full of law books lined three walls. The fourth was a mostly single, large window with an excellent view of the city. The judge was behind an oversized oak desk with three comfortable looking chairs in front of it. Sam picked one and sat down. "What'd you want to see me about?"
Kaiser sighed and looked up at him. "I wanted to tell you how disappointed I am in you, Sam. When you joined my firm, just out of law school, you wanted to be the next Clarence Darrow, protecting the little people from oppressive laws. Now... now you're a hired gun, for sale to the worst scum in the city."
"Didn't you always say that every person was entitled to a defense? After all, Gideon v. U.S. found that --"
"I know what it found, and I still believe in it. But there's a difference between trying to keep folks out of jail for something they didn't do and working for crooks who'll pay you big money to help them get away with what they did do."
"The point, T.R., is that juries found them all 'not guilty.' That makes them innocent -- at least in the eyes of the law."
"It makes them 'not guilty.' We both know that there's a vast difference between the two."
"A half vast difference, anyway." Sam tried to make a joke. He and the judge weren't as close as they had been, but he still respected the man. That was why he hadn't objected to his being Emil's judge. Still, this line of conversation was making him uncomfortable. "Isn't there anything else we can talk about?"
T.R. sighed again. "Yes. Yes, there is. We were friends once, Sam. Maybe we still are. In light of that, I'd like to say a few things, to ask a favor..." He shrugged. "...and offer you a bribe to agree to it."
"I'm not agreeing to anything, mind you, but, for old time's sake, I'll listen."
"I sit on the state bar association's review board, and I happen to know that you're going to be brought up on ethics charges. One of the points being raised is that you haven't come anywhere close to the canon's recommended minimums on pro bono work."
Sam was furious. "Who says I'm not doing any pro bono?" He stopped. Had it really been that long since he'd taken a charity case?
"I won't tell you that. I'll just say that there was more than one name on the letter. I brought you in here today to give you an out."
"What do you mean, T.R.?"
"You're a damn fine lawyer, Sam. I know you well enough that I'd have to recuse myself if there was a hearing, so I'm trying to avoid that by asking you to take a pro bono case. After all, they can't say that you take such cases if you're in the middle of one." The judge smiled. "Especially one that you took before the question was formally raised."
Sam nodded. "Still the master of bending the law. We aren't as different as you make us out to be."
"Yes, we are. I'm doing this for your benefit, not my own."
"Have it your way. Now... about this bribe you mentioned?"
Kaiser reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick folder of papers. When he put it down, a large, old looking coin fell out and onto his desk. "That's your bribe."
"Doesn't look like it's worth much." He picked it up. "Too light to be gold." It was a metallic yellow color, about the size of a quarter, blank on one side with a very nice, embossed image of a scorpion set to strike or the other.
"It isn't, though I couldn't tell you what it is. I will tell you what it does. It grants wishes."
Sam made an odd face. "It does what?"
"It grants wishes; three wishes to be exact."
"Your Honor is kidding, right?"
"Never been more serious. And, no, I haven't used it myself. My... uh, father did. That's how I got the money for law school, among other things."
Sam nodded. His maternal grandfather had paid for his education, including law school. He caught himself wondering what the old man, whom he remembered as a strong believer in the letter of the law, would think of him now.
"It grants wishes," he said, returning to the conversation. "And you're just giving it to me?"
"I don't need it. I'm very happy with my life. A wish will only work on one or two persons, so I can't use it to end crime or cure cancer."
"Still sounds too good to be true."
"Well, there is one catch. You see that scorpion on it?" Sam nodded, and the judge continued. "In ancient Greece, the scorpion was the symbol of the vengeful seeker of justice and the protector of the innocent, the one who went after anybody who'd done them or anybody else wrong. As you use the wishes, you'll take on that role. You'll also find that you can't use the coin to make a wish that would harm someone."
"Shouldn't be a problem. I'm already making my living defending innocent people. I'll take the case. And the bribe." He put the coin in a jacket pocket.
"How you can call your current client list innocents with a straight face is something I truly cannot comprehend."
"The law says they're innocent, at least till a jury says otherwise." Sam answered him. "So what's this big case I'm taking?"
"Jorge Ruiz is a client of yours, isn't he?" Sam nodded. He'd kept Ruiz out of prison on drug charges several times. If rumors were true, the man controlled half the dealers in the city and was trying to get control of the other half. Sam never looked too closely at what his clients did.
The judge handed Sam the folder. The younger man opened it and began to look at the material.
"Your client is a Mrs. Alita Thompson," Kaiser told him. "She and her husband, Jamal, lived across the street from a drug house over in the Flats. They kept calling the cops, taking pictures of people, writing down license plates, that sort of thing. They got a lot of anonymous threats, garbage dumped on their lawn... minor harassment, mostly. They didn't stop. About a week ago, somebody did a drive-by. She was at church. Jamal was killed. She'd seen Ruiz at the place, acting like the big boss they say he is. She stormed into Ruiz' office with a pistol the day after the funeral yelling that she was going to blow him away."
"Let me guess. He called the cops and had them throw the book at her, trespass, attempted assault, attempted murder, and on and on."
"Concealed weapons charge, too... and she didn't have a permit."
"Mr. Ruiz is an honest businessman," Sam said without much conviction. "Maybe we can get him to drop the charges if she agrees to psychiatric --"
"That's the old Sam Ralston talking," T.R. replied firmly. "The new Sam Ralston is going to get those charges dropped or, better yet, get a jury to let her go."
Sam smiled wryly. "Do I get any points for making a good try?"
* * * * *
Sam recognized Alita Thompson from her picture in T.R.'s file. She was a short Black woman in her late fifties, her gray hair done up in a braid. Even in a prison uniform, she had a special air of dignity about her. It almost made the large uniformed man with her seem more like an escort or retainer, rather than the guard bringing a prisoner to him in the visitors' room of the city jail. She sat down and picked up the phone that allowed them to talk in spite of the thick pain of glass between them.
"Do I know you, sir?" she asked.
"Not yet, Ms. Thompson."
"Mrs. Thompson, thank you."
"Mrs. Thompson, then. My name is Sam Ralston. I'm your attorney."
She studied him for a moment. "They must pay you legal aid people a lot if you can dress like that."
"I don't work for legal aid. I'm in private practice. I took your case pro bono. That means 'for good', as a charity case, if you will."
"I don't like being charity, but I ain't got the money to hire a lawyer on my own. You must be a pretty good lawyer, if you can charge enough to be wearing a suit like that."
"I am, and I'll be working as hard to defend you as I would any other client. I want you to know that."
"Thank you, Mr. Ralston. I figures I can use all the help I can get."
Sam took out a legal pad. "Now, tell me what happened."
Mrs. Thompson told him about the drug house and what she and her husband had seen. The evidence was pretty good. They'd also seen Ruiz - - her description of him was dead on -- and they'd seen the other men defer to him. Then she told him about the threats, vandalism, phone calls in the middle of the night, and, finally, how she'd come back from church and...
"My Jamal, he was sitting on the porch. I thought he was sleeping, and I went to wake him. That's... that's when I seen the... the blood on his shirt, the one he-he put on clean that morning."
Her voice cracked, but she continued. "I got a phone call about a hour after I got back from the funeral. The voice said if I made any more trouble for them, I'd be seeing my Jamal again real soon."
"I was scared, more scared than I ever been, but I wanted them scared, too. I got out that pistol, the one Jamal brought back from 'Nam, and I went to see that devil, Ruiz."
"And he had you arrested." Sam interrupted her. He had a plan; he just had to trick -- to get her to go along.
"He did. I'm here in jail, now, and I may be for a long, long, time, but I'd do it again in a minute, if it'd stop him selling that poison."
"It won't, Mrs. Thompson. I'm sorry to tell you that. Even the pictures you took, did that stop them?"
"No, sir. The police, they come out and arrest the whole lot of them, but they was back the next day..." She sighed. "Doing the Devil's work again."
"So you didn't accomplish very much, even with all it cost you, did it?" He took a breath. "I think the best way to go in this case is your state of mind. You were... distraught over your husband's death, and somehow you fixated on Mr. Ruiz --"
"Fixated! That sinner, he... he runs that drug house; he had my Jamal killed. I just know it"
"Can you prove that, prove any of it?"
"No." Her voice was soft, low, and she was looking down at the floor, not at him.
"Then I think we have to say that you were too upset to know what you were doing. It's our best chance."
"To say I'm crazy."
"No, to say that you were upset. After all, you'd just lost your husband. It's... it's understandable. Mr. Ruiz may be willing to drop the charges. If not, well, I'm fairly certain that I can get a jury to go lightly -- maybe even acquit you."
"And Ruiz, what happens to him?"
"Nothing, I'm afraid. You were the one who threatened him, after all."
"So, I'm crazy and he's innocent. I'm not sure I likes that." She looked at him for a moment as if studying him. "I'm not sure I likes you neither, but you're my lawyer. I'll think about it."
* * * * *
"Samuel, my friend, what brings you to my office?" Jorge Ruiz rose and offered his manicured hand, as Sam walked into his office. Ruiz was a tall, muscular man in a dark blue silk shirt and olive tie. His hand- tailored jacket was draped over the back of his chair.
Sam shook Ruiz' hand and took a seat. "I hear you had some trouble last week, Jorge, a Mrs. Thompson."
"Si. That crazy woman came to my office -- to my office -- with a gun. She said that she was going to pop me, but mi hermano -- my man Carlos took the gun away." He laughed. "Then we called the police. She will be away for a long time for what she tried to do."
"Maybe not," Sam replied. "Not if she has a good lawyer."
"She does not have the money for a good lawyer."
"I know; she's asked legal aide for help."
"Even better. If those lawyers were worth anything, they have their own practices and not have to work for the city."
"Actually, some of them are fairly good lawyers, but the matter is moot anyway. I've taken her case as a pro bono. That means I'm doing it for free."
Ruiz stiffened. "What the hell are you doing? If you're trying to pull something on me, I'll..." He let the threat go unsaid.
"Actually, I'm trying to do something for you."
"For me? She is the one who is in trouble."
"Right, and you're just a poor businessman trying to make an honest living. Jorge, at a trial, she can tell them why she wanted you dead: the drug house, the threats, her husband's death. A jury that hears what she has to say might not only acquit her, it could indite you."
"And how are you going to keep that from happening?"
"I'm her lawyer. Her defense is what I say it is. This poor woman, so distraught over her husband's accidental death, somehow fixates on a local businessman. I don't know; maybe she thinks killing you will bring him back, the poor woman."
"Am I going to have to testify?"
"No, and you should keep away from the court, your men, too. Anybody asks, you tell them you... ah, sympathize with Mrs. Thompson, but you don't want to set her off again because it might hurt her case. In fact, I've let it slip to a few people that I'm defending her because you asked me to."
Ruiz let loose a hearty laugh. He put his hand on his heart and looked upward. "I am truly a saint."
"Then you understand what I'm doing? You don't have any problem with it?"
"No problem. You're looking after my interests in a fancy bit of CYA."
"Exactly."
"Fine, then, Samuel. You cover my ass." Ruiz' eyes narrowed to slits. "Get the bitch off. You just make damned sure she understands that I only let you do it because she is not worth the trouble of killing. Make sure, also, of one other thing."
"Sure, Jorge. What?"
Ruiz grinned, showing a line of gleaming white teeth. "You make sure she knows that if she ever makes trouble for my operation again -- let alone dares to personally threaten me -- I will make her wish that I had let them put her in jail." He chuckled. "Not that I could not have her popped in the joint if I wanted to."
"Ummm, sure, Jorge. I'll --"
A cell phone's ring interrupted. Jorge grabbed the phone from the charger on his desk. "Ruiz. Who -- si, si, mi hermano. Momento." He turned to Sam. "Anything else?"
Sam shook his head. "I'll leave you alone for the call." He stood and quickly walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him.
* * * * *
Sam stood in Ruiz' outer office, trying to catch his breath. "That man is creepy." He whispered to himself, feeling a bit guilty at all the help he'd been to Ruiz in the past. "Still, if it wasn't me, it would've been some other lawyer. For now, I think my best bet is to go along with him. I just hope I can convince Mrs. Thompson to go along, too. She is one stubborn lady. I wish I could hang around here without anybody getting suspicious till I could find some real evidence on Jorge, something that would convince her to keep a low --"
He stopped. He suddenly felt... dizzy... disoriented. He started to bring his hand to his forehead and stopped. He... he could see through his hand. "Great," he whispered, "I'm turning invisible. I'll be able to stand there and see where they hide the evidence."
In moments, his body was gone. He couldn't see himself. But he couldn't feel himself either. It was more like his body had evaporated. He was a wisp, a spirit. As he tried to understand what he had become, he felt himself being pulled off his feet and across the room towards the desk where Ruiz' secretary was working at her desktop.
He felt a sort of "thoomp", as if he fallen into something, something soft that flowed up and around him. His body shifted into a sitting position. Everything seemed... different, very different.
Sam looked down at himself. His suit jacket was gone, and his white shirt had become a low-cut pale yellow blouse, a blouse did little to hide the pair of C-cup breasts inside it. He wore a small silver cross on a chain long enough that dipped almost to his cleavage. His skin was darker, too, far past his usual deep tan. "What the --" His voice was higher now, a woman's voice with a slight trace of Spanish accent.
Sam felt shaky and shifted in the chair. As he did, the intercom on the desk buzzed. He somehow knew which button to press. "Si."
"Marissa." It was Jorge. "I am going out for a bit. Have Manuel bring the car around."
Sam -- no, Marissa -- pressed a second button and heard an auto dial. When a gruff voice answered, she repeated Ruiz' instructions. The voice mumbled something and hung up. She looked up to see Ruiz hurry past her desk.
Her desk? "That was my first wish," she realized. "I... I've become Marissa deLuna, Mr. Ruiz' secretary."
She looked down at herself again. Marissa had a good figure: large breasts, narrow waist and wide hips encased in a short brown skirt, and now it was hers. Her pantyhose covered legs were well curved. She crossed them, and the empty feeling at her crotch proved that she was totally female.
She reached into the bottom drawer of the desk, where she kept her purse -- how the hell had she known that? -- and pulled out a small compact. She looked in the mirror to see a Latina in her early twenties. Her dark skin, aquiline nose, and high cheekbones hinted at a Native American or two in her ancestry. She had a round face with full lips and long straight brown hair done up in a ponytail that reached well down her back. 'Not bad,' she thought.
'I'm not sure that I like being a woman,' she thought, 'even one as pretty as this, but it's the perfect way to get access to this office.' She chuckled to herself. 'I can really search this place and find the evidence I need to get Mrs. Thompson off by proving that she was right and that Jorge did have her husband killed.'
The thought struck her as odd. She had just wanted enough evidence to scare Mrs. Thompson into cooperating. Now she wanted to put the man away for what he'd done to her client. "The wish," she said aloud. "T.R. told me it would make some kind of avenging angeL out of me. I guess he was right about that."
She looked down at the pile of papers on her desk. She had some typing to do for Ruiz' legitimate businesses. Then she'd take a look at his files and see what sort of interesting stuff she could come up with.
* * * * *
The judge was sitting in a corner booth at the back of the pizzeria. Marissa walked over slowly, trying not to be noticed. In the four-inch heels and brown leather mini-dress she wore, that wasn't easy.
"You are Señor Kaiser?" she asked quietly. When T.R. nodded and politely stood up, she slipped into the booth opposite him.
"Now, just a minute young woman." He stepped out of the booth. There were people who would like nothing more than to get an incriminating picture of him. Was somebody trying to set him up?
"It is all right. I have a message from Señor Ralston." She was still getting used to her slight accent.
T.R. frowned. "He sends me an e-mail asking to meet him here like something out of a spy movie, and now he can't be bothered to show up." He sighed and sat back down. "Okay, what's the message?"
"The message is..." Marissa paused for a moment. This was it. "...hey, T.R. How're they hanging, you old codfish?"
"Codfish." It was a private nickname Sam had given him after a weekend of fishing about five years before. They were the only two who knew about it. The judge studied the young girl for a moment. "Sam, is that you in there?"
"I'm afraid so, T.R. That coin of yours really works."
"So it would seem. I never figured you for someone who wanted to... ah, change that way."
"I'm not. I wished I could hang around Ruiz' offices and search for evidence without anybody getting suspicious. The coin somehow stuck me in his secretary's body."
"Smart coin. Any luck?"
"Yeah, and it has been all bad. I haven't found anything, and the case comes up in a few days. I'm not sure how to proceed, and, worse, I am not sure how I can try the case looking like this."
"Hmm. I can help you with the latter. As I told you, I'm on the review board. I can get the documents... ummm, what name are you using?"
"I'm Marissa deLuna, now, but I don't think I should use that name in court. Ruiz may be snooping."
"I agree. How does... Maria... Maria deMoneda sound?"
"Maria of the coin?" She shrugged, not noticing that she had understood the Spanish the judge had used to make up the name. "Well, it fits."
"Fine, and now that we've settled that, how about I buy you lunch?"
"Why, Your Honor, are you trying to get fresh?"
* * * * *
Marissa looked at her watch. It was almost 9 PM. Her... Sam's office would be empty. It was better to leave a voicemail message on her office manager's phone than to call during the day and have to answer a lot of questions. The office manager, Elaine Vassle, would take care of everything that needed to be done.
Marissa picked up the small, white cordless phone and quickly dialed the number. She was sitting in the living room section of her -- of the real Marissa's -- efficiency apartment. The woman didn't seem to have much money, but she did have good taste. The place was nicely decorated in a welcoming but not overly feminine style that made her feel at home. She made a mental note to look up the real Marissa once she... he was back in his own body.
"Enough of that," she muttered, looking at Marissa's thin, woman's watch. The office answering machine finished its instructions. She pressed "1" for record, waited for the "beep", and began speaking.
"Hello, Elaine. My name is Maria deMoneda. I'm a friend of Sam's -- no, not that kind of a friend." She added the code phrase that would tell Elaine, that this message really was from Sam Ralston -- or someone he trusted. Considering some of the clients Sam had, it sometimes necessary to use such precautions. "Sam had some person business to take care of, so he'll be unavailable for a few days. He wasn't sure just how long. He asked me to handle the Thompson case for him. He said that he was leaving the rest of things in your competent hands. Bye."
She said the last in a low, breathy voice that dripped of sexual passion, then hung up. "That'll keep her guessing," she said with a chuckle.
* * * * *
Mrs. Thompson looked suspicious as she sat down opposite Marissa in the visitors' room. "Who're you?" the older woman asked. "They said my lawyer wanted to see me. You ain't him."
She wasn't Marissa, either. At least, she didn't look like Marissa. Her hair hung free about her shoulders, and her make-up was much downplayed from what she wore in Ruiz' office. She wore considerably less jewelry, as well, just small earrings and a single bracelet on her wrist. She also wore a woman's suit that made her look like the legal professional she was claiming to be.
"No, but I am your lawyer, Mrs. Thompson, that is, if you don't mind. I work with Mr. Ralston. My name is Maria deMoneda."
"Alita Thompson. You'll excuse me if I don't shake hands." She tapped a finger on the thick sheet of reinforced Plexiglas between them."
Marissa smiled at the woman's spirit. "Perfectly all right. He felt that he'd gotten off on the wrong foot with you."
"He got that right; saying that the best way to get me outta here was to say that I was crazy."
"Anyway, he asked if I'd take over the case. Actually, I think it's a good fallback position."
"So, you think I'm crazy, too?"
"No, I don't, and, for what it's worth, I agree with your opinion of Mr. Ruiz. I want to show how you and your husband were doing your civic duty, trying to get evidence on his drug trafficking. Then your husband was murdered, and the police didn't seem to be doing anything about it --"
"That's the truth. They still ain't doing much far as I knows."
Marissa continued. She knew that she wanted this new strategy because of the effects of her first wish, but she didn't care. It felt very right to be doing it. "Yes, ma'am. So when you got that threat, you were so angry and upset that you did something foolish. It was understandable and more than a little brave considering who you went up against, but it was foolish."
"So, now I'm a fool."
"No, Mrs. Thompson. You are a muy... a very brave woman. It was foolish, but it was justified. You should not be punished for it." She took a breath. "Ruiz, he is the one who should be punished... for the drugs and for what he did to your husband... and to you." She stopped before any more of the anger she was feeling could seep into her voice.
Mrs. Thompson smiled. "Now I really wish that glass wasn't there between us."
"Ma'am, why is that?"
"So I could hug you, girl, so I could hug you."
* * * * *
"Working hard, chica?"
Marissa spun around, not bothering to close the file drawer she'd been going through. It was late in the afternoon, Ruiz was out for the rest of the day, and the place was deserted. She should have been free to search his office for the evidence she wanted. Instead, she was being confronted by... "Señor Alvarez."
"Call me Carlos, chica." Carlos Alvarez was six feet three of solid muscle -- he'd been hired as an enforcer and worked his way up. His expensive suit couldn't hide that. "Mr. Ruiz asked me to pick up... something from his office. May I ask what you are looking for? He doesn't keep drugs here in the office, and the money's in the wall safe."
"I am his secretary, Señor." She let her accent get thick. Let him think she was just some dumb secretary. "I have papers to file."
The man walked over with an animal stride, like a tiger stalking his prey. "The boss is gone for the day. Why don't you and I go out for an early dinner." His finger slid along her jaw. "And after... I know we can find... something to do together."
"I... I am flattered, Señor, but did you not say that you had to bring something to Señor Ruiz?"
He looked down at her. Her blouse was low cut, showing a lot of her "coffee with cream" breasts. "I do not think that it will take too long." He ran a finger across her left breast. "Why don't I do that and come back for you?"
"I will not be here. I... I have things to do this evening." She did. She had been planning to work on Mrs. Thompson's case. "Besides, I do not like to stay out at night when I must be at work the next day."
"Alas. Perhaps... Friday. There is always a party to go to on Friday night, and you do not have to work on Saturday." He smiled, no, leered. "We... you can stay in bed all morning if you wish."
"Friday?" Could she finish the trial and change back by then?
"Si, you think about it, and I will ask again tomorrow." His expression changed. "For now, would you mind stepping out of the office?"
Marissa nodded, trying hard not to smile. "Gladly." She didn't know what made her happier, getting away from Alvarez or knowing that whatever it was she was looking for was in Ruiz' office.
She waited until the man left, then began searching in Ruiz' office again. She didn't find anything, though, and it was close to ten PM by the time, she had cleaned up all traces of her searching and left for the apartment she had somehow gained as part of her translation into Marissa's body.
* * * * *
Mrs. Thompson was waiting with a guard, when Marissa got off the elevator at the courthouse. "Good morning, Miss deMoneda," she greeted her lawyer.
"Good morning, Mrs. Thompson," Marissa answered. She looked at the older woman, who was now dressed in a slightly out of fashion black dress for her day in court. Her hands were trembling slightly, though she was trying hard to make them stop. "Would you like to go someplace with a little more private and sit down until we have to go into court?"
"Yes, if you please."
Marissa nodded at the guard, who followed the two women to a small conference room just down the hall from where they were standing. The guard opened the door and held it for them. "I'll just wait for you ladies out here," he told them.
"Thank you, Miss deMoneda," Mrs. Thompson said as the door closed behind them.
"Maria... please."
"Maria, then, and I'm Alita." Mrs. Thompson took a breath "I got to admit, I'm more than a little nervous about what could happen today."
"I'll admit that things could go badly, but..." Marissa smiled, "...I'll be doing my best to keep that from happening." She took Alita's hand. "It's scary, I know, but you've got to be brave... for Jamal, okay."
"I'll be brave. For Jamal and..." her voice grew soft. "...for Sammy."
Marissa cocked an eyebrow. "Sammy? Who's he?"
"I... I'd rather not say."
"Please, Alita. If it -- if he had anything to do with your actions, then I really need to know about it." She looked at the older woman's face. "And if he doesn't, then I won't mention him again. I promise."
"Since you promised; okay. Sammy's the reason me and Jamal... Sammy was my sister, Callie's youngest. He was a sweet little thing and smart as a whip. We... we all had such hopes for him till he got hisself hooked on that poison Ruiz sells. He dropped outta school, started doing things, awful things to get the money he needed."
"Crime? You mean he robbed, assaulted people... like that?"
"Worse. He... he sold hisself. Before long, he was working for some pimp, doing... things with whomever that sinful man told him to, women or... or men."
"Oh, Alita, I'm... I'm so sorry."
Eyes glistening with tears, the woman continued. "And that evil, evil man, the money Sammy was earning wasn't enough for him. Sammy was a small boy, skinny. That sinner made him take girlie pills, made him let his hair grow, even had a doctor do some things to him. Pretty soon, my poor Sammy, he looked just like a pretty girl -- 'cept where it counts."
"Is he still --"
"No, ma'am. The cops arrested him, and that Judge Kaiser, he had him put in a hospital. He's off the drugs, praise the Lord, but... but his mind ain't near what it was. He'll be in there for a long, long time. Worse yet, they ain't never gonna get him looking like a man again. That's why me and Jamal was trying to shut down that sinful place. If we can keep one child from going through that... that hell my Sammy did..."
The woman sobbed and buried her face in her hands. Maria reached quickly into her purse and pulled out a handkerchief, which she gave to Alita.
"I'll certainly try to help." Marissa felt the anger rising in her. She was going to get this woman free of the charges against her if it was the last -- no, the last thing she was going to do was to make Ruiz pay for what he and people like him had done.
* * * * *
The jury foreman was a slender man in a green work shirt and a tie that didn't quite match. "Your Honor," he began, "we're all real sorry for what happened to Mrs. Thompson, and we --"
"Please just give me your verdict, Mr. Einhardt," Judge Markovich interrupted.
Einhardt shifted nervously on his feet. "Sorry, Your Honor. We find her not guilty. What she done was more'n justified."
"Thank you, Mr. Einhardt." The Judge was about to turn back to Mrs. Thompson and Marissa, when he saw the foreman raise his hand. "Do you have a question about something, Mr. Einhardt?"
"Umm... yes, Your Honor. Seeing as what Ruiz... Mr. Ruiz done, can you charge him with anything?"
"Not really," Judge Markovich replied, "but if that's what the jury wishes, I can recommend to the District Attorney that he look deeper into the circumstances of what happened, especially regarding any connection to Jorge Ruiz."
"Damn right, that's what we want, Judge... uhh, sir." The man sat down. He looked a little embarrassed at his outburst, although he was being congratulated for it by some of the other jurors.
The Judge laughed. "I'll do as you direct, Mr. Einhardt." He turned now to face the defendant. "Mrs. Alita Thompson, this court wholeheartedly agrees with the jury in its findings and finds you 'not guilty.' I also concur with them in their sympathies over the loss of your husband. You are free to go." He hammered his gavel. "Case dismissed."
Alita Thompson's eyes glistened with tears. "Free?" She asked Marissa.
"As a bird." Marissa smiled back at her. Then her eyes went wide with surprise as the older woman hugged her tightly.
The prison guard who'd stayed in the courtroom came over. "Congratulations, Mrs. Thompson." He offered her his hand.
"Thank you, Mr. Geary," Mrs. Thompson said, happily shaking hands. "Thank you."
The man continued. "Then, if you'll follow me, I'll show you where you can pick up your release and then go get your personal stuff. After that, you can head straight home."
"I'll be glad to go with you, sir." She looked at Marissa. "Are you coming, too?"
Marissa glanced over to a corner of the courtroom where she'd seen Carlos Alvarez standing, glaring at her. "I'll try to catch up. I... uhh, think that man over there wants to talk to me." She pointed to Carlos.
"Your boyfriend, Maria?" Mrs. Thompson gave her a wink. "He's one serious looking man, ain't he?"
Geary looked at the two women. "Shall we go. Mrs. Thompson?" He swept the air with his arm. "I think they're getting ready for the next case."
"So they are." She started towards the doorway, with Geary following. Marissa followed as well, with Carlos hurrying to catch up.
He did just outside the courtroom, grabbing her by the arm. "Let's go someplace and talk, Marissa."
"I think you've mistaken me for someone else, señor." She adjusted the reading glasses she'd worn as part of a disguise. Her hair, make-up, and clothes were very different from what she wore as Marissa. Maybe she could still fool him.
"Nice try, Marissa," Carlos said, his eyes running down the length of her body, "but I'd recognize that prime figure of yours however you covered it."
Marissa sighed. "All right, Carlos. I am Marissa. What are you doing here, spying on me?" She decided to brazen it out.
"I came here for the Señor. He asked me to watch the trial, to see if that lawyer of his... Ralston was gonna keep the bitch that threatened him out of jail." He frowned. "Only Ralston wasn't her lawyer; you were."
"And now you're going to tell him."
Carlos smiled, the smile of a cat playing with a mouse. "I might..." He took off her glasses and ran a finger along her jaw line. "...or I might not. You were very persuasive in that courtroom." Now he ran the finger down the side of her neck. "Perhaps you might want to... persuade me not to tell him."
"You mean that if I am... nice to you, you won't tell Ruiz that I was Mrs. Thompson's lawyer." Marissa felt the anger rise and worked to keep it under her control.
"Well, now, that would depend on how nice you were, wouldn't it?" He cupped her breast and leaned in close as if to kiss her.
She moved away. "No... no it wouldn't. You'd use me however you please, then you'd run to Jorge like the lap dog you are. The two of you would probably laugh about what a sucker I was to believe that you'd let me go."
The man walked over with an animal stride, a tiger stalking his prey. "I think you're some kind of plant, maybe from the D.A.'s office, spying on the operation." He ran a finger across his throat. "And I know what to do with spies." His hand cupped her breast again. "But it'd be a real waste."
"Bastard!" Marissa slapped his face as hard as she could.
"You just made it harder on yourself, you dumb bimbo --"
Her anger got the worst of her. "Me. I... I wish you-you were the 'dumb bimbo' you thought I was, unable to think or talk about anything but getting laid."
Alvarez froze as the wish took effect. He shrank down over a foot, his muscular frame becoming slender, soft... feminine. His jacket, shirt, and pants all merged into a frothy white Lycra skirt, one that hugged her body and showed off her now sweetly curved legs. It was low cut, as well, stopping just above the nipples of her braless 36-DD breasts. She wobbled for a few seconds, as a pair of oxford shoes became a pair of woman's pumps, growing a four-inch heel.
Her skin lightened, as razor cut black hair exploded into a mass of strawberry blonde curls. Her face was heart-shaped, now, with big, blue eyes, a peaches and cream complexion, and bee-stung lips. She was becoming the classic blonde bimbo, every teenage boy's basic wet dream.
Her whole body tingled as the final change hit, and her penis and balls sank down into her body to become a vagina, a moist, engorged vagina.
"What the hell did you --" She grabbed at her throat. A menacing baritone was now a schoolgirl soprano, high and breathy. "I'm gonna... gonna... get..." She suddenly giggled as the mental changes took hold. "Like, hi, I'm Brandy. Where am I? Who're you?"
'The second wish,' Marissa thought. She remembered what she knew about Alvarez' reputation with woman, including a couple of sexual assault charges Sam had gotten him out of at Ruiz' behest. 'Looks like you finally got what you deserved, Carlos, and then some.' Aloud, she said, "I'm a friend, Brandy. Then, out of curiosity, she asked. "Do you know who you are?"
Brandy thought for a moment. 'I, like, I used to be a guy. I was even, like, proud of being a guy. Isn't that silly? I mean, like, who would want to be a guy, when he could, like, be a babe like me and dance and drink and have, like, guys fuck them all the time?" She giggled again and ran a finger across a barely hidden nipple.
She was safe. This bimbo wouldn't tell anyone anything; now to get her out of the way. "You won't get any of that here. This is the municipal courthouse."
Brandy looked around. "Then what am I doing here?" She pouted for a moment, then brightened. "I, like, know where there's lots and lots of... mmm, hunky, horny guys. Come with me -- what's your name again?"
"Marissa."
"Hi, I'm Brandy. Oh, I already said that, didn't I?" She giggled again. "Like, come with me, Marissa. It'll be fun. I'll share the hunks, and we'll both get, like, fucked real, real good."
"I've got a bit more work to do, Brandy. I'll meet you there."
"Okay. Like, bye." She turned and walked down the hall, her hips swaying in open invitation to any man.
Marissa stood watching Brandy leave. "I'll just have to be careful with wish 3," she told herself. "Now to find the evidence to nail that bastard." The desire for vengeance was stronger than ever. Even though Alita Thompson was free, Marissa felt the backlash from the second wish and wanted to punish Ruiz as much as the older woman probably did. "Punish him," she whispered. "I want his balls to tack up on my wall."
* * * * *
Marissa went back to her apartment. The trial was over. Was she going to get her own body back? She waited three or four hours and nothing happened. "If I'm going to be stuck as Marissa," she decided, "I want the satisfaction, at least, of putting Ruiz out of business." She changed her look back from Maria to Marissa and drove over to Ruiz' office.
It was well after dark, and the lights were off when she arrived. She used her key to let herself in and crept along the darkened hall to her office. The drape over the single, small window in the outer office was closed, so she turned on the light, when she walked in.
"Hola, Marissa." Ruiz was sitting at her desk. "I've been waiting for you."
"Señor Ruiz, why... what?" What was he doing there?
"Carlos used his cell phone to send me a picture of Mrs. Thompson's lawyer." He shook his head. "I almost didn't recognize you." He stood up, and Marissa saw the pistol he was holding. "Let's continue this in my office."
Marissa nodded and walked ahead of him into his larger office. He stepped around and sat down in his own chair. "Now, who are you, and who are you working for?"
"I am Marissa deLuna, Señor Ruiz, your secretary."
"Bullshit! Carlos thought you were out of the D.A.'s office, and I agree with him." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Where is Carlos, by the way? He said he was going to... talk to you after the trial. The only reason I decided to come back here and wait for you is because I didn't hear from him?"
"I did. We talked some, and... uhh, he decided that he wanted to go party someplace instead."
"That doesn't sound like Carlos?"
"He... uhh, isn't himself at the time." She smiled at her private joke.
"He better be back to normal when he comes in tomorrow, or he is so screwed."
"Oh, he will be." She tried not to laugh. Carlos... Brandy would probably enjoyed being "so screwed" by her old boss.
Her smile only made Ruiz that much angrier. "You, on the other hand, I will deal with as soon as you tell me what you want."
"To put you away," she hadn't meant to say it, but it was too late now.
"I'm sure that you do, but you'll need hard evidence for that, won't you?" He laughed. I'm sure that you've been looking for some here in the office. Have you found anything?" He raised the pistol and pointed it right at her head. "Well, have you?"
"No..." she said bitterly. "No, I haven't seen anything I could use."
"Of course, you haven't. Nobody has... unless I want them to see it."
"And you don't want me to see it, do you?"
"Matter of fact, I do." He grinned. It reminded her somehow of a shark. "I always believed in granting a condemned man -- or woman -- her last wish."
He picked up a small picture in a silvered frame that stood on his desk. "Nice picture, isn't it? I caught that marlin down in Baja about three years ago. It was a great trip, but the best thing about it was this." He pushed down on the hinge connecting the picture frame to its support leg.
The bottom of the frame slid down to reveal a rectangular strip that held a CD. "There it is," he chuckled now. "The complete record of my operations. I don't keep anything but a spreadsheet program and a calendar on my PC. I can be ready to download data off this thing in 30 seconds, and I can have this CD back in its case in less than half that time."
He pushed gently on the holder, and the CD slid quickly back into the frame. He put the picture back on his desk. "Now that I've granted your last request..." he pointed the pistol back at her. "...it's time for you to suffer for your curiosity."
Marissa glared at him. "No, it's time for you to suffer. I wish... I wish you would know suffering... like Mrs. Thompson's nephew, Sammy."
"That's very fu --" Ruiz froze, a look of horror on his face. He began to shrink. No, to grow younger. He passed from buffed, muscular adult to the wiry teen he had been. As he did, his clothes changed with him. His Armani suit became a sports team jacket and jeans; his silk shirt and tie, a gray T-shirt; and his hand tooled Italian shoes, a pair of cross-trainers. He looked about fifteen.
But the changes weren't over.
His hair grew out, down to his shoulders. His face narrowed and his nose shrank even as his lips became fuller. It was a girl's face now, heart-shaped and not really recognizable as Jorge Ruiz. His eyebrows thinned as mascara and eyeshadow, lipstick and blusher were magically applied. His hair hung down in twin ponytails.
His body changed, too. His fingers were longer, with half-inch polished nails. His shoulders narrowed. Small mounds pushed out the T-shirt, growing into a lush pair of 34-D breasts. His waist was narrower, too, though his hips swelled outward, and his butt took on a teardrop shape that begged to be stroked. Underneath his tight jeans, his legs developed a set of very feminine curves. Something else showed under his jeans. Ruiz' adult-sized penis was still there, and it seemed so much bigger with his smaller feminine body.
The sports jacket changed color again, becoming a pink angora sweater with a single button closed just below his breasts. His T-shirt was a sheerer, satiny material, that showed the lines of his push-up bra. The legs on his jeans moved upwards until he wore a pair of short-shorts, shorts that still revealed the lump of his erection, the one thing that hadn't changed. The curve of his legs now looked even better in the three-inch, stiletto needle thin heels the cross-trainers had become.
He could move again. His was trembling. "Oooh, oooh, wow." It was a low, very female and very sexy moan. A junkie's moan. The new she-male giggled, her mind lost on the drugs that were suddenly coursing through her. Then, as Marissa watched, the figure vanished.
Somehow, Marissa knew that she was on the street, another whore junky offering sex for the money for another fix. "She may get help in time," she said, "but I don't think that it'll be anytime soon."
Her grin was the smile of a lioness relishing a kill. "Third wish, and very satisfactory results."
She suddenly felt a yank. Her body seemed to be pulled out of some sort of sticky mass.
Sam Ralston looked down with satisfaction at his own body. Marissa deLuna was sitting in a chair beside him, snoring gently. "Thank you, Ms. deLuna, for your cooperation." He reached over and grabbed at the picture frame. "I'll just take this and be on my way to the District Attorney."
* * * * *
The others allowed the War God to stew for a day. His body betrayed him at every turn. His voice and mannerisms were those of a woman, a sexually aroused woman. His nipples ached, and the god of metalworkers could have used his priapic erection as a hammer.
There followed a night of erotic dreams, each filled with men who used him as they pleased, even as the goddesses and nymphs who had been his former sexual partners watched and laughed. The next morning, he begged the chief of the gods to restore him.
The godchief told him that only his cooperation in the turning of the coins would convince them to give him his old form. He cooperated, but he cursed the coins as he did, by passing his she-male form into their magic. The coins affected destiny, and the destiny of most of their future users would now involve beings -- the user or another close to him or her -- who would be or would assume the same sort of form that he had been made to bear.
After that, the coins were tossed back to man's world for the gods amusement.
* * * * *
Epilog
"Thump-thump-a-thump-thump."
T.R. Kaiser answered, adding, "Come in, Sam."
"Hey, T.R., how goes it?" They were once again on good terms.
"Fine, and you?"
"Got another one today. Jorge's files had information on his enemies, too. We're closing them down, just like we closed down his operation."
"So I've heard. They say that you're the new star of the District Attorney's Office. I hear that Ben Kaplan's planning to recommend you as his successor, when he retires next year."
"That's what he told me." He paused a moment. "I'm not sure that I want it, though."
"What do you mean? That coin made you -- what'd you call it -- 'a force of vengeance.' What better way to be that than as D.A.?"
"To tell the truth, the office has to make deals now and then, plea bargain. There's no... satisfaction in that."
"You're quitting then?"
"No, and I'll probably take up Ben on his offer to succeed him as D.A., but there's... well, other things that I want to try, too."
"Like what?"
"Hard to explain. I'm moving back into grampa's old house just outside the city. I just bought it from mom. There's nobody in it now, but an old family retainer. He's nominally listed as the caretaker, but, to tell the truth, the family just wants let him live there rent free for as long as he wanted."
"And you'll take care of him. That doesn't strike me as very vengeful."
"Actually, he's pretty spry for a man in his 90s, got his full mental capacity, as well. He'll probably go on forever." He sighed. "Just like grampa would have, if he hadn't been killed.
"Your grandfather was a fine man, flying a relief copter into that storm down in Peru." He hesitated a moment. "But I don't see the connection."
"Well, there's a bunch of stuff out there that belonged to grampa, and this man's agreed to teach me how to use it."
"Still doesn't seem like much."
"It may not be. Only time will tell." He pulled a folded paper out of his jacket. "For now, I can at least show you the deed."
T.R. looked at the document, a very standard bill of sale for an old manor house. The sale was between Samuel Bruce Ralston and his mother, Helena Wayne Ralston.
The End?